"A truly effective political apology succeeds on two levels: ethically, by admitting moral wrongdoing and expressing regret, and socially, by making amends with the offended party."

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The Art of the Political Apology
From Bill to Monica and everyone in between, a guide to saying sorry

By Edwin Baattistella, May 7, 2014

Monica Lewinsky’s new tell-all article for Vanity Fair promises plenty of fodder for Clinton watchers, 90s nostalgics and all-around gossips. But what I find most remarkable is Lewinsky’s apology—or not-quite apology—for her liaison with Bill Clinton.“I, myself, deeply regret what happened between me and President Clinton,” she writes, according to excerpts from the article, which will be released in full on Thursday. “Let me say it again: I. Myself. Deeply. Regret. What. Happened.”

Of course, Lewinsky isn’t exactly apologizing. Setting aside for the moment whether, as a consenting adult, she has something to apologize for at all, it’s clear that in the snippets of her essay that are available so far, she regrets merely “what happened.” Her words in these lines are a classic example of the art of the political apology: often evasive, sometimes vague, truly remorseful just on occasion. So how can you tell the language of honest remorse from political lip service?

A truly effective political apology succeeds on two levels: ethically, by admitting moral wrongdoing and expressing regret, and socially, by making amends with the offended party. Apologies can fail on either count too, and key to the outcome is the language the apologizer uses. By this point, the passive-voice “mistakes were made” has become a parody of the political non-apology. But there’s a whole number of ways politicians can blunt their apologies by distancing themselves from an offense.

One is by using the conditional—an “if” clause. This short-circuits the apology process by placing the onus on the offended party to confirm that an offense actually took place. Think of Virginia Sen. George Allen’s apology to a young Indian-American videographer, S.R. Sidarth, during the 2006 Senate campaign. After referring to Sidarth, a volunteer for Allen’s opponent, Jim Webb, as “macaca,” Allen opted for a conditional apology, claiming that he did not consider the word derogatory. “I do apologize if he’s offended by that,” Allen said. It’s not a full apology; it’s verbal judo, with a passive-aggressive spin, subtly implicating Sidarth for taking offense. Allen’s apology did not satisfy his critics, including the Webb campaign, and the issue helped to derail Allen’s bid for reelection, which he narrowly lost.

Closely related to the conditional apology is the reliance on indefinite pronouns like “anyone” and “anything” to avoid naming the offense. In the 2008 presidential Democratic primary, after Sen. Joe Biden famously referred to Sen. Barack Obama as “the first sort of mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy,” Biden quickly apologized for the comment: “I deeply regret any offense my remark in the New York Observer might have caused anyone.” Despite his “deep” regret, Biden notably removed himself from the second half of his sentence, ascribing blame to his “remark” and the unspecified harm it mighthave caused toany number of unnamed offended people. Obama accepted the apology, apparently not wanting to explore the issue of race further at the time, but Biden’s comment and anything-but-specific apology surely made for an awkward start for the Obama-Biden joint ticket.

Carried to the extreme, reliance on indefinites ends up like this: “I’m apologizing for the conduct that it was alleged that I did, and I say I am sorry.” Those were actually the words of Sen. Bob Packwood responding in 1992 to accusations of sexual harassment. Even as he claimed he was taking responsibility for his behavior and he was sorry for it, Packwood refused to describe it or to acknowledge it had taken place. His embarrassingly vague apology was the first step in a long decline that led to his eventual resignation in the face of certain expulsion from the Senate.

Another evasive, yet in some ways opposite, strategy is hairsplitting—when someone apologizes for small part of an offense but leaves other, larger aspects unmentioned. In 1950, President Harry Truman wrote a private letter to a congressman saying the Marine Corps “propaganda machine”—its public relations efforts to gain a seat on the Joint Chiefs of Staff—was “almost equal to Stalin’s.” After the letter found its way into the Congressional record, Truman apologized to the Marine commandant at the time, writing, “I sincerely regret the unfortunate choice of language which I used in my letter of August 29 to Congressman [Gordon] McDonough concerning the Marine Corps.” Truman apologized for his metaphor but not for his position that the Marine Corps should continue to report to the Navy secretary. He made amends only by making a surprise visit to the Marine Corps League a few days later, when he reiterated, “When I make a mistake, I try to correct it. I try to make as few as possible.” He received a standing ovation.

In 2007 Jimmy Carter similarly issued a hairsplitting apology, for a sentence in one of his books suggesting that suicide bombing are a legitimate tactic in certain circumstances. (“It is imperative that the general Arab community and all significant Palestinian groups make it clear that they will end the suicide bombings and other acts of terrorism when international laws and the ultimate goals of the Roadmap for Peace are accepted by Israel,” he wrote.) “The sentence was worded in a completely improper and stupid way,” Carter later said in a speech at Brandeis University. “I apologize to you personally, to everyone here. … It was a mistake on my part.” But while Carter acknowledged the sentence’s faults, he stood by the book’s controversial description of Israeli policy as “apartheid,” saying he had used the word in his title “knowing that it would be provocative.” Carter’s narrow apology at Brandeis was not enough to appease many of his critics, who continued to regard his book as biased, and it was not until 2009 that he offered a broader (though indefinite-laced) apology for “any words or deeds of mine” that had stigmatized Israel.

Predicate choice is also a factor when politicians apologize. Do they say “apologize,”“regret” or “sorry”? Conveniently, the verb “apologize” literally performs the act of apologizing. In 1992, after the Marine color guard flew the Canadian flag upside down during the World Series between Atlanta and Toronto, President George H. W. Bush told a town hall meeting in Atlanta, “On behalf of all Americans, I simply wanted to apologize to the people of Canada.” Bush’s direct and honest language succeeded in conveying appropriate regrets to the direct targets of the offense, even if it was accidental. The words“regret” and “sorry,” however, are less direct, merely implying an apology by expressing a mental state (regret) or an emotional one (being sorry)—but without accepting responsibility. After John F. Kennedy sent federalized Mississippi National Guard troops to oversee the integration of the University of Mississippi, he said, “I deeply regret the fact that any action by the executive branch was necessary in this case.” Kennedy was not apologizing. He was explaining that, in his opinion, the circumstances made federal action necessary; he was actually reinforcing the merits of his decision. In 2001, after a Chinese fighter pilot collided with an American reconnaissance plane and was killed, Secretary of State Colin Powell explicitly distinguished the sentiment of being sorry from an acceptance of responsibility. “We’re sorry that that happened,” he said of the incident. “But it can’t be seen as an apology—accepting responsibility.”

Because they only imply apology, offering regrets or saying you are only sorry that something happened can be ways of not-quite apologizing. During the Monica Lewinsky scandal, President Bill Clinton offered vague regrets in his initial television apology (which actually didn’t use the word “apology” at all), conceding, “I misled people, including even my wife. I deeply regret that.” Although Clinton said he took “complete responsibility” for his actions, his lawyerly and impersonal style, insisting the scandal was a private matter, was criticized as “cavalier” and “cursory.” In time, Clinton came to use stronger languge. Speaking at a White House prayer breakfast in September 1998, he went as far as to say he had “sinned,” and he both asked forgiveness and personally named those he had hurt: “my family, also my friends, my staff, my Cabinet, Monica Lewinsky and her family, and the American people.” It was in this moment that Clinton took full responsibility for his actions. The clergy members at the prayer breakfast gave Clinton a standing ovation, and he was praised for his heartfelt contrition.

This brings us back to Monica Lewinsky’s “I, myself, deeply regret what happened between me and President Clinton.” Lewinsky’s choice of words conveys regret, but not apology or being sorry. The emphatic opening words—“I, myself, deeply”—also convey determination and reflection. But the phrase “what happened between me and President Clinton” is indefinite rather than specific. And the vagueness of her regret becomes even more apparent when the phrase is repeated: “Let me say it again: I. Myself. Deeply. Regret. What. Happened.” Lewinsky might be the subject of “what happened,” or the object, and it will be interesting to see which direction the rest of her essay goes.

Done well, the moral and social functions of apologies come through even for the unlikeliest of apologizers. In 1988, for instance, hard-edged Republican campaign manager Lee Atwater said of Democratic presidential hopeful Michael Dukakis that he “would strip the bark off the little bastard” and “make [paroled murderer] Willie Horton his running mate.” Three years later, dying of brain cancer, Atwater wrote a plain and honest public apology in Life magazine, saying, “I am sorry for both statements. The first for its naked cruelty and the second because it makes me sound racist, which I am not. … Mostly I am sorry for the way I thought of other people.” The apology was succinct, but Atwater named his offenses specifically and explained plainly why he regretted each. Dukakis accepted the apology.
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