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This column was recognized with a Los Angeles Press Club Award.
Got Closure?
Seeking forgiveness during a time of apology
I'm 18, I'm flipping through my yearbook, reading over the cursive
messages of my friends, "Stay sweet" and "Great sitting next to you in French" and
"Have a great summer."
On the next page, there are a few more notes advising me not to change,
to remember that night at the beach drinking wine coolers, to "keep in touch."
I have a couple days left of high school, but in my mind, I'm already gone. I
have no idea when I turn the next page that what's written there will keep me
from really leaving for several years.
Across two blank white pages is scrawled, "UR UGLY."
I snap the yearbook shut. I snap it shut with enough force to make a
whooshing sound. I wasn't sure - perhaps because the forensic humiliation team
was off-duty that day - but it looked like each letter had been written by a
different person.
I later found out who stole my yearbook and, with his crappy-hearted little
buddies, jabbed a ballpoint pen into my paper-thin self-esteem. If you think
they owe me an apology, "UR RIGHT."
That was many Yom Kippurs ago, and what do you know? I've never gotten
one. While I'm tempted to have you feel sad for that poor, innocent schoolgirl
who never got the apology she so richly deserved, I've done worse, way worse.
Well, Œtis the season to be sorry. Or, at least to think about what sorry
is, to whom we owe an apology, to whom we owe forgiveness and frankly, what
good is any of this repentance anyway?
Moses begged God's forgiveness for 40 days and 40 nights, Kobe Bryant's
going on at least that long plus a four million dollar sorry ring. We all have
our ways of expressing remorse, but what are we buying with our flowers,
phone calls and fine jewelry? Maybe the more observant among us are trying to be
"inscribed in the book of life," to obey strict Talmudic laws, but people like
me, we just want to feel okay about ourselves. We'd like our names erased from
the Book of Guilt.
And here's where I unearth the "buried lede." I said a big sorry this
year and it changed everything. I was dreading it, I was nauseous when I did it,
but it finally became obvious that I was carrying around guilt like a rock in
my pocket - my hands were still free but I couldn't quite get comfortable.
I had to do it; I had to call an ex-boyfriend and hope he'd be big about
my saying he was Š small. You know what I mean, down there.
If you're a male reader, or maybe just a member of the human race, you
are probably wincing. I still can't believe I did it. I know it's not murder or
adultery or stealing or any of the big biblical sins, but it's the most
personal kind of attack, a surgical strike designed to go right to a the core of a
man's sense of well-being and blow it to smithereens.
No one ends up dead, but it's this kind of cruel remark that erodes your
confidence until "UR IN THERAPY."
I could make excuses for why I said it - we were breaking up, I was
devastated and hadn't slept in days, he was so perfect there was no other target
but the one below the belt - but those don't matter. Beyond the fact that it
wasn't true, it was a bell you can't un-ring.
"Even if a man only spoke badly about another man, he must appease and
beseech until he is forgiven," said Maimonides, who may not have had this sort
of slight in mind, but you never know.
The 12th-century theologian also specified that the only person who can
grant forgiveness is the person who was wronged. There was no getting around
it, no asking to speak to the supervisor and going right to God. According to
Jewish law, I had to repent, had to mean it, had to swing at forgiveness at
least three times before giving up.
Years had passed since the day I broke up with that guy, the day I said
the bad thing. I talked to him on occasion, his birthday or mine. We made small
talk, but never about the "small" talk. I wondered if he even remembered.
In 12-step programs, there's a powerful concept very similar to the
Jewish High Holy Days and their focus on deliverance through atonement. In order to
stay sober, one has to "become willing to make amends." Because more of the
people I know practice the 12-steps than traditional Judaism, I'm more familiar
with their amends process. It's methodical, and like Judaism, the focus is
not on gaining God's forgiveness but on making it up to the person you harmed.
Both traditions suggest that the only real redemption comes from being faced
with the same situation again and doing it right the next time.
From the Babylonian Talmud: "How is one proved to be a true penitent?
Said Rabbi Judah: If the opportunity to commit the same sin presents itself on
two occasions, and he does not yield to it."
Well, the universe has been kind enough to provide me many an ugly break
up and I knew better than to go back to my original sin. By acting better, I
was making what 12-steppers would call "living amends." Still, in the parlance
of "recovery," I hadn't "cleaned my side of the street."
The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous gives some pointers I found useful,
suggesting "We should be sensible, tactful, considerate and humble without
being servile or scraping."I could do that. I made the call.
After some chit-chat, I slowly lowered my sorry. It went something like
this: "When we broke up, I said some very cruel, very personal things. I said
things that weren't true and for that I'm deeply sorry."
It was as if he'd been sitting by the phone for years just waiting to
hear that. He knew exactly what I meant. There was a pause.
"Yes," he said. "That really hurt. I'm glad you called. Thank you."
As guys do when faced with intense emotional situations - and when living
with their new girlfriends who are probably in the next room he hussled off
the phone right quick. And the deed was done. Or un-done.
I'm not being overly dramatic when I tell you I hung up that phone and
walked lighter, sat straighter, not weighted down by those rocks. And something
unexpected happened. I didn't miss that guy in the same deep down way I had
for so long, because partially, I was tethered to him by a past I couldn't put
away until I took it out for show and tell and made it right. I guess anything
that can keep an addict clean and a people together for thousands of years
must have some magic in it.
My guy accepted the apology with grace. But what about the yearbook guy?
Could I forgive someone who never repented?
To be honest, the yearbook guy is just one portrait in my Gallery of
Grudges, an easy example, because it's far away and time has blurred the anger. It
hangs next to "Evil Step-Mother in Repose," "Still Life of Guy Breaking into
My Childhood Home" and "Portrait of a Teacher Who Said I'd Never Amount to
Anything." What about them?
I took the question to a couple of rabbis.
"There is no obligation to forgive someone who has never apologized.
There is a benefit, however," said Temple Sinai's Rabbi David Wolpe. "Hatred
corrodes the soul, while not usually hurting the hated at all. It ties knots inside
of us, which can't really be unraveled by another's apology as much as by
our own willingness to let go."
Oh, that old "letting go" thing. So much easier said than done. Have you
noticed that spiritual teachers in almost every discipline won't let go of
telling us to let go? Dr. Phil practically has it tattooed on his tush.
Rabbi Steven Leder of Wilshire Boulevard Temple agreed, saying "Forgiving
relieves us of the burden of bitterness. It can help take the chip off our
shoulder and that is always a good thing."
Chips off the shoulder, rocks out of the pockets, I think I get it. Let
go and the heavy stuff lightens up. Life gets better. We act better.
Rabbi Leder hit me with perhaps the most persuasive quote I've heard all
year. From Shlomo Carlbach: "If I had two souls, I would devote one to hating.
But since I have only one soul, I do not want to waste it on hatred."
I should talk to rabbis more often.
As for letting go, that happened with yearbook guy when I put it into
perspective. Was it all about me? Was he just a second-string sadist coming off
the bench to impress his friends? Was he an angry kid with problems of his own?
More importantly, was I truly ugly? I was no cover model, but I was holding
my own. I can see that now. The question is, what was he holding? And is he
still holding it?
This is where Rabbi Leder dropped some more wisdom on me. He said, if
possible, we should let someone know that they've hurt us, giving them the chance
for repentance. If they repent, we forgive.
This seems fair. Fair, but at this moment, utterly impossible for me in
most cases. Not to mention the fact that there's probably a statute of
limitations on petty high school hurt feelings crimes. As for the other grudges, I'll
have to think about it. A soul is a terrible thing to waste.
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