When my brothers and I were little and we’d argue, my mamma would usually have us work it out ourselves. If we couldn’t, we’d bring the injustice to our beneficent, definitive adjudicator and her judgment was routinely the same: listen to each other, say sorry, then kiss and make up. Yes, kiss. It’s thorny having to kiss someone if you aren’t really sorry.
Apologies: we need them, not because we’re coming from a prideful place, or we want someone to grovel or feel shame, or because we’re blaming, but as an assurance that our hurt is understood, acknowledged and thereby create a lessened chance for repetition.
Saying, “I’m sorry,” doesn’t have to mean you agree; but it does mean you recognize the other’s wound as valid. This should be mandatory in raising children if you want to develop their empathetic side. Having empathy for another’s suffering is essential to a functioning society. Just observe the “compassionate” side of many conservatives to see what self-righteousness spawns.
Someone said to me recently that you can’t ask for an apology because when s/he gives you one it won’t be real. Huh? That would just be passive aggressive agreeing, and how sad is that? If it’s not sincere, it’s not an apology, is it? And does he really think most of us over the age of six can’t tell the difference? [see i’m sorry my apology sounds insincere, I’ll try to make it more convincing next time]
Asking for what you need is key to getting it.
If you request an apology, an understanding of your hurt, and your friend/family member refuses to give you one, then the message you’ll be getting is that “being right” is more important than resolution, more important than you. Who wants a relationship with a person that doesn’t care about your feelings, no matter who they are? Life is hard enough without others who won’t speak straight or act like adults when in conflict, instead practicing smug contention.
When I was five, I rushed in the back door, my hard plastic headband—you know the ones with those sharp spikes inside—snapped in half dangling from my little fingers and burst out half sobbing, “You’re wrong, Mom! It’s not fair! It’s not FAIR!” My mamma’s first instinct was always to meet me and my emotions first, only later, when I was calmer, coaching me on my presentation.
“Mary hit me on my head, broke my favorite red headband,” I said holding the two pieces out, “and it hurt. And because you said to put myself in the other person’s place I couldn’t hit her back,” I shout-wept. “IT’S NOT FAIR!”
My mamma held me as I cried, said that I’d done well but, she was sad to tell me, life isn’t fair. I remember my response vividly as I moved back to stare at the blurry image of her through my tears, “Well, it should be.”
I still feel like that. I’ve stated that when I die, I want my ashes buried, then crowned with a wide-winged gravestone that will read: IT’S THE PRINCIPLE OF THE THING.