Sorry!

I grew up in Portland, where apologizing is a mouth reflex. Upon the slightest inconvenience, we studder sorry or murmur my bad. Maybe we forget to hold the door open, or Subway runs out of pickles mid-our sandwich. Our new shoes are stomped on in a drunken crowd. We say sorry and choose the blame for ourselves. Are we so wretched to exist in the sphere of others? Are we an inconvenience?

I was set straight in this matter when paying homage to my Mother Land. I flew into Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania. A city of straight shooters, no “you first, no you.” I was staying in Old Town, among the cobble stones and fairy tale architecture. My hostel was a social hub for travelers, a refuge for the lost and found. I checked in, went out to lunch, and came back with a stomach full of potatoes. A handful of hostel dwellers were going to a music festival tonight, so I took an afternoon nap to sleep off the carbs and prep for the late-night festivities.

The venue was at a recently decommissioned penitentiary in the city center, off the Neris River. We felt the industrial beat of house music break from the prison walls and tickle our chest. The security was run by its hardened prison guards, who were happy to be dealing with a vastly more affluent customer base.  Shades covered dilated eyes, black polos blended in. Reminiscent of the industrial fringe of Brooklyn, a class of contradiction was contained in these walls built for poverty.

I lead a charge across the venue with a new local acquaintance and a couple boys from the hostel. I squirmed through the tight pulse of the crowd; deep Eastern European eyes stared at me in resentment for the disruption. I fell back into a Portland pattern and apologized to each set of eyes. “Sorry. Excuse me. I’m so sorry. Can I get by?”  I said, like a record that skips and will not press on. On the other side, my local acquaintance looked back and asked, “Why do you say sorry if you don’t mean it?” I had no answer.  

I will never apologize for my existence. Not to others, not to myself. It is a waste of breath and confidence. Of course, if I splash chili oil on a friend’s white shirt or drop my mother’s China, I will give my deepest apology and do what I can to help make things right. But I will never again cry wolf.