I'm Sorry.

Is it that difficult?

few syllables

Estate war. What you got an aggy face for? We’re carrying eggs, it’s not just life that we claim’s raw. Taking advantage of the days without rain pour, we remain poor. So wait, pause, in case your, face falls foul to the product of foul we like to cage more - don’t be chicken…

Those lyrics open up the 2nd Rizzle Kicks album. Great album, shit album cover but that’s a whole other story. I was high. The lyrics are off a poem I wrote about my old estate in Neasden. We neighboured another estate. Similarly tall, similarly grey. Had more grass out the front but fewer secrets in the back. Wasn’t uncommon to cross contaminate. Over each other’s houses. Sitting on each other’s gates. And on one usual, miserable day - we had an egg fight.

Teams split by living location, obviously. Didn’t matter where you spent your time it was where you slept. I assumed my mum wouldn’t advocate for estate war so I asked her if I could have 50p for some chocolate. Little treat up at the off license. She obliged because I rarely had treats. We were 80% healthy. Vegetarian at the time. I lied to her though. I remember that feeling.

I went and armed myself. Six pack of eggs. I mustn’t have been much taller than a chicken. Certainly felt that way. Once it all kicked off I got caught instantly. Round the back of some beat up Vauxhall astra. Something like that. A moody Ford Fiesta. Alphabetic reg. Older kid had one hand held towards me to gauge distance. Other hand help up above his head, egg at the ready. Naturally, I closed my eyes and winced. A second passed. I heard the sound of an egg cracking and realised he’d just thrown it down near me on the pavement.

“You’re lucky.”

He said, before leaving me to search for another battle. One that was better contested. I was a kid, to be fair. He was a teenager at most. With a sense of honour arguably more apt than at least 70% of the world we live in right now.

I might have done the same. If I had caught him slipping. I might have spared him. Because my war was a lot more selective. I had one particular target in mind. A kid on the opposing side. A trickster. A peeve. A cheeky little fuck, if you will. This one kid had been snaking around us youngers offering to give shoulder or back massages. Kindness we wouldn’t yet know to question. We’d oblige. He’d then proceed to pour some kind of itching powder down the back of our t shirts and run off laughing. A fresh villain. No contest.

So imagine I’ve seen him. Towards the end of the war. Broken shells and tired lungs. Soldiers taking a moment to breathe. Or surrender on account of lost ammunition. I see the Itchy Guy. Stood by a car. Leant back onto it. Laughing and chilling. I’d been conservative with my eggs. I still had one ready. One silver bullet. I had a decent throw for a kid. I measured the distance and launched the missile into the air. Towards victory. Towards justice.

Unfortunately, Itchy Guy clocked the egg before it hit him and stepped to the side. This meant the egg hit the car. This meant the car now had egg on it. A communal ‘ooooh’ rang out. A nearby shop door swung open. Out came a woman who was clearly pissed off and clearly owned the car.

“Who the FUCK just threw an egg at my FUCKING CAR?!”

Without even realising I was in the inside of a human circle. That pre-fight choreography. I could have taken a step back but I was already taken aback. I knew I’d thrown the egg. Other people knew I’d done it. I just had to firm this whole encounter.

She had also acknowledged the shape of engagement. Locked eyes on me. I locked eyes with her. Felt as though she was the size of my estate. Smoke out the ears. I cleared my little throat. Out came a sound.

“Sorry.”

First, I remember silence. Then laughter. Everyone laughed. Everyone around me did. She didn’t though. The car owner. Instead, her ears stopped steaming. Kettle cooled. What might have been disgust turned to intrigue. She was no longer furious with me. The fact I’d said sorry got passed around like a Pokemon card. I was welcomed into her shifted demeanour and went about resolving the situation. For whatever reason, saying sorry was seen as a concession even back then. Not to her or to me. But the kids around us. Or maybe she had seen it as one before that point too, I don’t know.

All I know is that I hadn’t been raised that way. I was polite. Which included saying thank you and saying sorry. Exchanges that shift between cultures. And could mean a whole manner of things. But manners for me in that early part of my life were like currency.

~

Now I’m an adult and people are either allergic to apologising or addicted to it. Feels like there’s zero fucking in-between. I can confidently say, however, that I’m much more of a fan of the latter. In my mind, at least people who apologise profusely are willing on some level to engage in mutual verbal understanding. Instead of the opposite, which I find to be unspoken resistance. On account of not wanting to concede or something. I know some people regard apologising as a loss of some kind. Or a requirement of submission. Of course, it can be. In extremes. But most of the time I see it as recognition. And in my experience, when exchanged with people who have your best interests at heart, there’s often another sorry that comes the other way. It’s just that initial wall. The very understandable human, egoic friction.

At least, that’s what I’d imagine an adult approach to the word is. Certainly in intimate relationships. I can understand how we arrive at the wall. In other parts of my memory bank I can recall sorry being seen as an admission of guilt. A landing of blame. And sometimes people are literally made to apologise for things that they haven’t done. Another complexity. Everything in moderation. But then we grow up and have to learn to speak foreign nuance. We have to learn how to speak grey area. What do we gain from resistance? An obsession with our own perspective? Tailor made narratives where we ourselves are the only victim?

I recognise the stubbornness in myself. Especially if I feel as though I’ve been done wrong. Often I wish the sorries came quicker. From myself as well. Just because the feeling on the other side of them is so relieving. That loss of weight. Often that tension can be exhausting. Grudges can be exhausting. On the other side of an early DMT trip I found myself desperate to rid myself of unspoken irritation. I’ve said it before. Sometimes souls mutate in silence. In silence, our ideas of people can blend into our fears and become imaginary monsters.

Sometimes sorries are delivered poorly. Sometimes people say sorry but don’t act sorry. Some people act sorry but never say sorry and to be honest I find that annoying still but maybe the jury’s out on that one. Sometimes people say “I’m sorry you feel that way” and that’s the worst means nothing might as well have said ‘fuck you’. Whenever I hear myself say that, I know I’ve fucked up. Have to do better.

Too many sorries and it’s sorry for yourself. Not ideal. Sorry in spite of yourself isn’t the one. “Stop apologising” one boy said to me at football training when I was about 10. In that environment it’s about results not dwelling on errors. Still, it’s important to take accountability for those errors. And to make up for them in some way.

Specificity and sincerity.

“The effectiveness of an apology depends on its sincerity, the emotional tone in which it's delivered, and the individual's ability to understand and empathize with the other person's perspective.”

The best fucking apologies are specific. I can only pray that I’m a provider of them.

I’m going to add “saying sorry” to the list of things that we should be taught and reminded to do properly. “I’m sorry” is two syllables and can change everything. Shouldn’t have to feel so heavy and yet it does.

“Considered from a neuroscientific angle, apologies activate the prefrontal cortex — the area of the brain responsible for empathy, moral judgement, and social behavior. This activation facilitates understanding and forgiveness, ultimately reducing stress and promoting a sense of safety. In essence, apologies not only mend emotional wounds but also foster a neurochemical environment that is conducive to healing and overall mental health.”

I’m sorry to everyone that I haven’t said sorry to and I’m also sorry that I’ve not been more specific at first I guess this is just a general open hand energy that will come with detail at a later date big love very sorry.

I’m sorry for disappearing, by the way.