Blameless

Recent news items have me thinking about blame, pointing the finger, and taking responsibility for one’s actions. No one likes to stand alone on the docket. All those accusing eyes focused on one’s shame. It helps considerably to share the culpability.

I remember the first time I blamed someone else for a transgression on my part. We were at my Aunt Mary’s and my sister and I were amusing ourselves in the parlor while Mom and Aunt Mary visited in the kitchen. We decided (I’m sure it was my sister’s decision) to play our version of “Statues”. One of us would spin round and round until the other said, “Stop”, then the spinner had to assume a pose to be identified by the other player.

The next time it was my turn to pose my sister just let me keep spinning until I was dizzy. Unfortunately, I careened into an end table sending a porcelain statue crashing to the floor. Aunt Mary and Mom came running and Mom gave me a good swat on my bottom. I immediately started sobbing out that it was Diana’s fault because she made me dizzy. It eased my pain to see her get a swat on the bottom as well.

My next victim was my oldest brother. His favorite after school snack was a thick slice of Italian bread liberally covered with margarine. This was hard for me to understand. To me bread was something I was forced to eat at every meal to the tune of, “bite of meat, bite of bread.”

One day my brother answered a call of nature in the midst of his snack preparation, leaving that enticing slice of bread lying on the counter. This was my chance to find out what was so special about this serving of bread. One swift snatch and I was out the door with the contraband. It was definitely the most delicious slice of bread I had ever eaten.

Of course, he told Mom, who had trouble believing I would steal something she usually had to force me to eat. When confronted, I self-righteously said Bud had carelessly left the bread on the counter for the flies to eat and I had salvaged it. I was doing everyone a favor by foiling the flies. Mother gave me a look but then she gave him one, too. That was good enough for me.

Later on in school I was once chastised for writing on my desk. I was quick to point out that I was not the first who had done that. I had had trouble finding a bare spot on which to write my initials. Everyone did it. I was simply following a time-honored tradition.

These explanations always came tripping easily off my tongue. It’s not like I was trying to absolve myself of all responsibility; I just wanted to share the blame. I’d probably fit right in with the current administration.