The Quantum Mechanics of Apologies

“Never ruin an apology with an excuse.” ― Benjamin Franklin

One of the hardest debts we ever have to square away can be an apology. Consider this an open payment toward crawling, ever so slightly, out of the red.

The reason it can’t be formally deposited at the Bank of Humility is achingly simple: I don’t know who I owe it to. Not by name, anyway. Nonetheless, someone specific out there is overdue for an apology, and this is as good a time as any to tender payment. Because this person - someone I only knew briefly many years ago, and even then only in passing – also deserves the respect of being addressed by name, I’m giving her one here and hoping that an apology by any other name will still be as valid.

Her name here is Zeena, and she was a day camp counselor from my youth who bubbled up in memory recently. And she has a story that’s worth sharing.

"LITTLE BESSIE"

Like Mother, Like Son

When I was maybe eight or nine years old, I was given the nickname "Little Bessie" after my mother, because it was widely acknowledged amongst our extended family that I looked and acted so much like her. Since few little boys want to be that directly associated with their mothers, I hated the name, which meant it stuck for quite some time. I clearly remember the annoyance I felt at being addressed as "Little Bessie", which seemed like an insult to my burgeoning sense of masculinity. By comparison, a few times I'd also been referred to as "Little Floyd" after my father, which I also never cared for, but that one never really stuck. It never felt as genuine, as a compliment or an insult, and instead always seemed obligatory.

Regardless, it wasn't as demoralizing as "Little Bessie" which I had no retort for, because it was so true in every way possible. If you knew my mother, and you watched me for five minutes at any point while growing up, you knew I was her son without question. I looked like her, and acted - and reacted - like her. I smiled and laughed like her. I had her temper. I had her disposition. I fostered the same types of relationships.

Little Bessie was indeed a chip off the block, which became something of a chip on my shoulder.