Political Asylum — August 28, 2012, 5:25 pm

No Apology: Bad Book, Worse Premise

August 28, 3:37 p.m.

Tucked away in the RNC’s media swag bag, alongside a pack of complimentary CSX peppermint breath mints (“Feel that good, minty breath/ Like a freight train comin’…”) and a huge fashion shopper featuring a young faux-delegate male cover model designed to melt the heart of every Wide Stance Republican in town—is a copy of Mitt Romney’s campaign autobiography, No Apology: The Case for American Greatness.

Typical of its recent Republican kind, the volume is intellectually and grammatically (“British warships laid siege on Boston…”) sloppy, as well as pretentious, disingenuous, and self-referential. It is also filled with sneering personal insults aimed at the president of the United States. Moreover, Romney and his team have not bothered to update it since its 2010 publication date. In No Apology, the Obama administration still coddles Qaddafi and dangerously underestimates the threat posed by Osama bin Laden.

Here’s a sample passage, which starts with Romney’s long-discredited claim that only American winners in the Olympics put their hands over their hearts during the medal ceremonies: “I believe that we instinctively place our hand over hearts in memory of those who shed their blood for America. It is fitting that we do so during the playing of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ as that song—written during battle in the War of 1812—commemorates the sacrifice that won our liberty.”

We place our hands over our hearts “instinctively”? I learned to do that in grammar school—the same place I learned that we “won our liberty” not in the War of 1812, but the American Revolution of 1775–1783.

It’s the title of Romney’s book that says it all, though: No Apology. This is an obvious reference to the right-wing claim that President Obama has gone around the world “apologizing for America.” Romney repeats the claim without citing a single specific instance of such an apology, or even addressing the ludicrous prima facie claim that we, as the richest and most powerful nation on earth for over a century, would have nothing to apologize for.

The added irony is that we could very much use an “apology” from the Republican party for its actions the last time it held unchecked political power. To wit:

  • Lying our way into Iraq because of nonexistent “weapons of mass destruction”
  • Mishandling two wars into bloody quagmires
  • Presiding over the worst terrorist attack on U.S. soil in our history
  • Guantánamo Bay
  • Extraordinary rendition
  • The Patriot Act
  • Helping bring the world financial system to its knees
  • Wiping out the Clinton surplus and running up record budget deficits
  • Leaving millions of homeowners underwater
  • Deep-sixing the American economy
  • Deregulating every industry in sight
  • Doing nothing about global warming, except to hasten it

This is just a short list, mind you.

By most objective measures, the Bush Administration left this country all but prostrate—deep in debt, devoid of a functioning economy, and coping with the deaths and maimings of tens of thousands of young servicemen and women. Granted, they didn’t do all of this alone. Plenty of Democrats and independents helped, particularly with deregulation. But the last time Democrats screwed up on anything like this scale—Vietnam—the party spent the next few decades assessing what went wrong and trying hard not to make the same mistakes again. And yes, apologizing.

Some of this was useless handwringing. But a lot of it was a reflection of the process by which a mature person—or a political party composed of adults—assesses itself honestly, learns from its mistakes, and starts to grow again. The Republicans, by contrast, simply reassessed their message and rebranded their far-right wing as a protest movement. Tactically brilliant, perhaps, but nothing that could lead to an increase in self-knowledge, or to a change in our stunted and dysfunctional politics.

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

In the exam room, she perched on the table with her feet crossed at the ankles, her blond hair brushing the back of her pink hospital gown. “I don’t know what’s available for me here,” she told her doctor, Katherine Degen, who sat facing her on a stool. “I figured nothing.”

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The baby was due in November, when Ashley, who was a nurse, hoped to be enrolled in a graduate program to become a nurse practitioner. Getting pregnant as a teenager had forced her to put that dream on hold, but she had thought that she was finally ready; she had even submitted her application shortly before the March 15 deadline. For the first time in her adult life, Ashley felt as if her plans were coming together. Then she missed her period.

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

In the exam room, she perched on the table with her feet crossed at the ankles, her blond hair brushing the back of her pink hospital gown. “I don’t know what’s available for me here,” she told her doctor, Katherine Degen, who sat facing her on a stool. “I figured nothing.”

 Some names and identifying details have been changed. 

“Big, fat zero, unfortunately,” Degen said, making a 0 with her fingers. The last doctor who provided abortions in Rapid City retired in 1986, three years before Ashley was born.

The baby was due in November, when Ashley, who was a nurse, hoped to be enrolled in a graduate program to become a nurse practitioner. Getting pregnant as a teenager had forced her to put that dream on hold, but she had thought that she was finally ready; she had even submitted her application shortly before the March 15 deadline. For the first time in her adult life, Ashley felt as if her plans were coming together. Then she missed her period.

It would be too difficult to attend school as a single mother of two, Ashley knew. She had made an appointment for three weeks from now at the nearest abortion clinic, in Billings, Montana, 318 miles away. But just a week and a half ago, her husband had said he wanted to get back together and offered to raise the child as his own. Was it a sign that she was meant to continue the pregnancy? As a rule, Ashley approached her problems with resolve. She was capable and tough; she liked shooting guns and lifting weights. She kept track of her stats and checked off her goals as she achieved them one by one. Yet the dilemma before her had shaken her confidence. She leaned back and turned to watch the ultrasound screen. The black-and-white image danced. A sharp, fast thumping emerged from the machine. As Degen removed the wand, Ashley wiped the corner of her eye.

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"She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. 'Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.'"
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