I grew up in Minnesota. We ate peppermint bon-bon ice cream instead of mint chocolate chip. We played Duck, Duck, Gray Duck instead of Duck, Duck, Goose. We also spent a lot of time saying "please," "that's ok," and "I'm sorry."

Minnesota Nice is actually a thing, complete with online survival tips and its own Wikipedia page, which states: "Minnesota Nice is the stereotypical behavior of people born and raised in Minnesota to be courteous, reserved, and mild-mannered." But there is a dark side to Minnesota Nice, and to the language of apologies. Author Garrison Keillor once explained the dialect of Minnesotans as containing "no confrontational verbs or statements of strong personal preference."

As a woman who is already prone to over-apologizing and self-marginalizing simply based on my gender identity in an overtly male-oriented society, adding a layer of Minnesota Nice has been, at times, suffocating. For me, it took giving birth to two sons to realize I needed to set a better example.

It took a (decidedly non-scientific) experiment, however, for me to begin changing. One day, I read an article about a woman who decided to stop moving out of the way when she walked down the sidewalk. Her sister explained: "Whenever men walk towards her, she doesn't move out of the way first. So far she has collided with 28 men."

When the man ran into me, he cursed and shot me an angry look. When the woman ran into me, she said, 'Oh! I'm sorry!'

Logically, I decided to shut down my computer and replicate the experiment on the not-so-busy sidewalks of South Denver, where I now live and work. I only passed a handful of people. Of that handful, only two of them ran into me when I didn't move. One was male. One was female. Both collisions hurt equally.

My numbers weren't great–in most circles, this would be considered a failed experiment, at best. However, I noticed something. When the man ran into me, he cursed and shot me an angry look. When the woman ran into me, she said, "Oh! I'm sorry!"

Experiment: Success. That apology was all I needed; I knew without a doubt that I would have said the same thing in her shoes.

I spent the next few weeks reading a glut of (still not entirely scientific) studies and articles. Articles about mansplaining, and man-spreading. Ones about women in business who feel compelled to use words like "just" and exclamation points to soften their emails. Assertions that women are judged more harshly than men in work settings when their language is deemed aggressive. Statistics about glass ceilings and lower wages for women. Facts not only about how few rape cases are successfully prosecuted–but about how many are never reported in the first place. I compiled information, anecdotes, passionate decries, and kernels of truth that I had long held deep inside me.

Then, I took action:

I stood up to a boss who once criticized me for not washing his dishes, and who I passively deferred to for several years following. When I stood my ground after a terse exchange in his office, I learned something. The sky didn't fall. The conversation ended quickly. And I was proud; I didn't care one bit how this might play out long-term.

When I stood my ground after a terse exchange in his office, I learned something. The sky didn't fall. The conversation ended quickly.

I consciously worked to delete every "just" and apologetic phrase from every email I sent out, not only professionally but to friends and relatives and once, even, to a contest submission for free tickets to the Angry Birds Movie premiere (I won the tickets, despite a failure to use the words "just," "that's okay," or "sorry" anywhere in the entry form).

I submitted my first works of creative nonfiction. One after another was accepted, and published. After three decades of convincing myself that I didn't have what it took to be a writer, I became one.

And I stood up to my husband who, while often a wonderful feminist, sometimes falls prey to our culture of misogyny:

"Don't I get a little credit for letting you sleep all day when you were sick?" He asked, after my bout of stomach flu.

I stared at him.

He continued, mumbling, "…I mean, just a little thank you or something?"

"Thank you for watching your own children?" I responded. Instead of softening, I added some dripping sarcasm.

Sheesh, he said.

I've learned to recognize that it is possible to be polite without being meek. To recognize the beauty of Minnesota Nice (who doesn't love waving to strangers in boats?) without being passive aggressive. And to recognize how I can teach my boys by finding my own strength.

Rebecca Swanson Rebecca Swanson lives in Colorado with her husband, two small boys and toothless dog.

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