The art of apology
by Stewart Sallo (letters@boulderweekly.com)

As a veteran of two marriages spanning more than 16 years (and counting, as number two seems to be taking), I've learned a lot about apologizing. In fact, I would venture to say that I've become something of an expert at it — a future "Hall of Famer" even (now if I could only get $4.5 million a month for what is arguably a more useful skill than that possessed by my fellow future Hall of Famer, Roger Clemens).

My colleagues in the internationally recognized "Apology Artists Association" understand that the key element in an apology is sincerity. Indeed, the ubiquitous disingenuous apology is really no apology at all. I learned this at a very young age, when I was forced to make a "shotgun apology" with my mother's finger on the trigger. (We interrupt this column to wish my mom — and all mothers out there — a Happy Mother's Day.)

I was 11 years old and had just entered junior high school (there were no "middle schools" back in those days). On this particular day, I was involved in a typical, and rather innocuous, altercation in the school hallway with my classmate, Mike Held. Now, despite the temptation to go fictional with the details of this boyhood dispute, I will, instead, acknowledge that I can't recall the exact details. However, memory does serve to the extent that I can report that there was neither blood spilled nor ambulances called. It was a classic "boys will be boys" affair, with no clear winner or loser, and neither participant significantly worse for wear.

Nevertheless, it was immediately evident at the conclusion of my daily walk home from the bus stop that my customary visit to the fridge would be delayed. The view as I entered the kitchen through the back door said it all: my mother on the kitchen phone with that telltale "you're in big trouble, mister" look on her face. (Did I mention that I love my mom a lot and wish her a Happy Mother's Day?)

I quickly learned that Mrs. Held was on the other end of the line, and that a two-mom judge and jury team had convicted me on two counts: hurting little Mikey Held's fragile feelings and causing my mother the embarrassment of being the recipient of an over-protective mother's rant. My sentence: I was to apologize to Mrs. Held immediately. I was outraged at the injustice of being deprived of due process, but figured the clearest path to my post-school day milk and cookies was to close my eyes and tear off this particular bandage in one quick and decisive motion. I would apologize, but they couldn't make me mean it.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Held," I said in a slightly angry voice, but not so angry as to invalidate the apology and expand the punishment. There, it was over. But clearly not forgotten.

It all came back to me last week in the aftermath of our annual Best of Boulder edition, when I was called upon — not once, but twice — to display my skill in the art of apology. I can't conceive of a business that offers more opportunity to make mistakes than the newspaper business. Literally every published article, photograph, ad, headline and listing is a golden opportunity to screw up. Frankly, I am in awe of the staff here at the Weekly for the high standards of quality control we strive for and, in general, meet week in and week out.

However, on the week of April 26, we committed two doozies. The first was our failure to print the write-up for the category of "Best Hydroponic Store." The winners at Boulder Hydroponic and Organic Center were understandably upset. Drawing upon my years of experience in making apologies, I placed my tail firmly between my legs and called Christine Hubbard, the general manager at BHOC, to have a chat. By the end of a spirited conversation that progressed steadily from the cool reception I received to being downright jovial, Christine and I had not only agreed on a remedial plan but had decided that the whole incident was a "blessing in disguise," as it had resulted in our making such a nice connection. One down and one to go.

The second one wasn't quite as easy. In the category of Best Kids Clothing, the write-up did, indeed, appear. I wish it hadn't. Among the multifarious opportunities to err in the newspaper biz, committing a felony of poor judgement is probably the worst, and the least forgivable. Such was the case in this instance, and as I dialed the number for this year's winner, Rocky Mountain Kids, I wasn't sure I had enough tails or legs to put them between to make sufficient amends.

In a sincere but miserably failed effort at jocularity — the likes of which surely spawned the phrase in the stand-up comedy business, "cue the band" — our non-parental writer had referred to kids as ugly, loud, smelly, poor eaters and not having much going for them. Rocky Mountain Kids owner Connie Allen was not amused, and when I reached her by phone I knew that the pinnacle of my career as a professional apologist had been reached.

While I will leave the details of our conversation between the two of us, I will share that in the final analysis — and to her credit much more than mine — Connie accepted my apology. But I want to take this opportunity to make it clear that Rocky Mountain Kids had nothing to do with what was printed in Boulder Weekly under their name. Further, I want to extend my apology to anyone who was offended by this breach of judgement.

Contrary to my disingenuous seventh-grade apology, my expressions of remorse were overflowing with sincerity in both of these regrettable cases, and I am truly grateful for the forgiveness that was offered in kind. It is my intention in sharing these stories to inspire others to engage more generously in apology, forgiveness and reconciliation. I will conclude with the words of Nobel Peace Prize winner and lifelong civil rights activist Bishop Desmond Tutu.

"Forgiveness and reconciliation are not just ethereal, spiritual, other-worldly activities. They have to do with the real world. They are realpolitik, because in a very real sense, without forgiveness, there is no future."

Respond to: letters@boulderweekly.com.