I screwed up.

Of all sentences in the language, this little one may be hardest to voice. The words stick like fishbones in the throat. No sooner said, we retract them, issue “clarifications,” in corporate-speak. We mistake acknowledgement for incrimination, error for sin. We reelected as supreme leader someone incapable of speaking these words. He has never screwed up – not once – everything he’s ever done is “perfect,” a favorite adjective, and to suggest otherwise is to declare war, may the best man win (for the best man always wins – victory proves righteousness – remorse is for losers).

That Henry finds such thinking loony-tunes will not surprise you. Dogs never screw up, because they never compare their actions to their intentions and rue the discrepancy. They resemble the Nameless One in their insuperable innocence. Whatever is is, neither right nor wrong, better or worse, just how things are. Humans think like this in the bassinet. Experience is unclouded by the subjunctive – what might or ought to have been. A toe is a toe, a poop a poop, this is how I am, what does sorry mean? Henry is never sorry – miffed when his schemes misfire, but hey, try something else.

Early, the insidious concept of failure takes root in the human brain. We disappoint – fearsome verb! We dread losing love. The less loving the parent, the less likely their children will admit to a mistake, for then they would be in hell, condemned, alone and lonely to the end of time. As a boy I was perfect – blameless – in my parents’ sight – a repugnant “angel” – while in secret a reprobate, scoundrel, traitor to my tribe – but what they didn’t know would never hurt them. I guess my dad was satisfied, though he never said so – not a word of praise, not one, in the sixteen years we cohabited earth. Jane’s tired of me repeating this, but I can’t help it, it’s what made me me. Terror of screwing up made me two – the person I showed and the one I hid – praiseworthy bullshitter and forthright criminal – ever at odds. Both, I think, are speaking to you now, though it’s hard to be sure.

Saying “I screwed up” can be agonizing, but what a relief when you manage it. It took me to my middle years to admit I was always screwing up – because I was always trying stuff – and error is the only way to learn. (Writing, if you’re in earnest, is non-stop screwing up.) The higher you aspire, the more wretched your result. This is what makes existence an adventure.

How long will it take Americans to admit, in reelecting the Nameless One, we screwed up? The daily avalanche of evidence only gradually convinces us. Why, we ask aghast, haven’t his approval ratings cratered! No need to recite his vile violations – you know – we all know – we sense, too, that our bonehead mistake may doom civilization – yet stubborn pride prevents us from confronting the awful truth.

Long ago, in my newspaper days, a high school student threatened to kill herself by jumping off a conspicuous bridge. Crowds gathered, enthralled and appalled by the drama, as cops and counselors tried to coax her off the ledge. Our photographer snapped pictures. No one could believe what was happening. No one knew what to do. No one could look away.

Disaster, in this case, was averted. The poor girl was talked down – she may be living still. Will America, we wonder, survive our flirtation with extinction? Will the world? Will we find the guts to save ourselves by admitting we screwed up?