Politeness or servitude? Rethinking 'thank you' and 'sorry' in everyday life

The other day, I found myself reflexively saying “thank you” to a friend for something incredibly small—something that hardly required acknowledgment. Her response made me pause and think: why do we feel the need to express gratitude or apology for every minor gesture? Are these phrases really about respect, or do they sometimes reinforce a subtle imbalance, a quiet servitude in everyday interactions? This realization led me to question the deeper dynamics behind words like “thank you” and “sorry”—and whether, in certain situations, they may serve to elevate others at our own expense.

In everyday conversations, expressions like "thank you" and "sorry" are deeply ingrained. We say "thank you" when someone holds the door, and "sorry" when we brush past someone in a crowded hallway. But have these phrases, meant to signify kindness and politeness, become symbols of something more complex—perhaps even a subtle form of servitude?

To understand this, consider how often you say "thank you" or "sorry" in situations where they aren’t strictly necessary. For instance, you apologize for taking a moment longer in line at the grocery store or thank a colleague profusely for something minor. In these moments, the words are not only polite but also reinforce a certain dynamic. The other person is subtly elevated; their minor act of convenience or forgiveness is acknowledged as if it’s an extraordinary favor. The act of expressing gratitude or apology becomes less about authentic respect and more about reinforcing their social position, leaving you in a state of perceived indebtedness.

Historically, phrases like "thank you" and "sorry" served as essential forms of etiquette to smooth social interactions and minimize conflict. In societies built on rigid hierarchies, such phrases functioned as a way for people in lower social ranks to show respect to those above them. A servant would express gratitude toward their master not merely to be polite but to reaffirm the master’s elevated status. Though society has largely shifted away from strict hierarchies, these words still carry a trace of this dynamic. When used in excess or in situations that don’t warrant it, they might suggest an unintentional servitude, reinforcing an imbalance of power between individuals.

Interestingly, studies have shown that people who frequently use self-deprecating language, including "thank you" and "sorry," may subconsciously feel that they need to earn their place or prove their worth in social interactions. This isn’t to say that politeness is inherently negative; rather, it’s about the context in which these words are used. When we apologize for trivial matters, we may inadvertently reinforce the notion that our actions are intrusive or inconvenient to others. Similarly, over-thanking can suggest that we see ourselves as the undeserving beneficiaries of someone else’s time or attention, reinforcing a subordinate role.

In relationships where one person frequently expects apologies or expressions of gratitude for minor matters, a subtle power dynamic can emerge. The person receiving the constant “thank you” or “sorry” begins to feel superior, as if the other person owes them something, even if only subconsciously. This dynamic can lead to a sense of entitlement on one side and servitude on the other, affecting the balance of respect in the relationship.

So, how can we shift our perspective? Perhaps it’s time to reclaim the power behind these phrases by using them with intention rather than habit. Expressing genuine gratitude and apologizing when truly necessary remain important. But when used too freely, these words risk reinforcing dynamics that benefit neither party. Instead of reflexively saying "thank you" or "sorry" for every small gesture, consider whether a nod, smile, or simple acknowledgment might be more appropriate.

When we begin to choose our words with care, we avoid reducing ourselves in the process. By seeing "thank you" and "sorry" as tools for genuine connection rather than servitude, we uphold a sense of equality and self-respect in every interaction.

In the end, words like "thank you" and "sorry" have a unique power to both elevate and diminish us, depending on how we choose to use them. By being mindful of when and why we use these phrases, we can foster relationships built on genuine respect rather than perceived indebtedness. Manners, after all, should be tools for mutual acknowledgment, not mechanisms that subtly place us beneath others. When we speak with intention, we not only honor others but also uphold our own sense of self-worth, transforming these words from habits of servitude into expressions of true connection.

After all, the only way we can expect others to value our words is when we first learn their value ourselves. And something of value should not be strewn around recklessly, no? It should be handed over carefully to only those, who we are sure, will respect and acknowledge its value, and in time, pass it around with equal care and affection.  

The price of discovery; balancing curiosity with caution

I recently found myself reading about some of history’s greatest scientific pioneers. I was initially drawn in by their groundbreaking discoveries—the theories that changed entire fields, the inventions that pushed humanity forward, the insights. It was fascinating, even inspiring, to realize just how much they contributed to science. 

But as I dug deeper, I was struck by another realization: many of these brilliant minds didn’t just take intellectual risks; they exposed themselves to personal dangers, sometimes with irreversible consequences. These weren’t just scientists—they were risk-takers, willing to sacrifice their health and safety for the sake of knowledge. This added layer made me appreciate their work even more, recognizing that behind many of the discoveries we take for granted are tales of courage, sacrifice, and, at times, personal tragedy.

One of these remarkable figures was Dr. Barry Marshall, who drank a broth containing Helicobacter pylori bacteria to prove its role in causing stomach ulcers.

This bold experiment led him to develop gastritis and an ulcer, but it ultimately changed how the medical world understood and treated the condition.

Similarly, Isaac Newton’s experiment with a bodkin—a sharp needle inserted behind his own eyeball—showed his unrelenting curiosity, even if it meant risking his vision to study light and color. Newton's actions, as unsettling as they might seem, revealed the lengths to which some scientists would go to understand nature’s secrets.

There were also others like Marie Curie (known for her groundbreaking research on radioactivity), and Werner Forssmann’s (known for his discovery in the field of cardiac catheterization), who at the cost of great personal risks and damage, contributed to our understanding of nuclear physics and cardiology. 

Reflecting on these stories, I cannot help but admire how much they sacrificed in order to shape our knowledge of science today. Their sheer dedication, perseverance and integrity towards their field is awe inspiring. 

However, it also makes me ponder on the thin line between curiosity and recklessness.

If our curiosity is satiated at the cost of personal risk, if progress can be made only at the cost of personal tragedy, is it really worth it? 

Today, we’re more aware of the dangers experimentation can bring. We also possess the tools to mitigate them. The pioneers of yesteryear were not equipped with that luxury. And yet, their thirst for knowledge, their passion for breakthroughs was far greater. Reading their stories has made me appreciate not just the knowledge they uncovered, but the courage it must have taken them to get there. 

However, as impressed by their outcomes as I am, their journeys also  remind me that progress doesn’t have to come at any cost; it can be both bold and safe, driven by both heart and wisdom. And in that perhaps lies the true spirit of discovery. 

I leave you all with a question -  

If your passion is directs you towards uncharted territory, and your caution holds you back, how far would you really venture? 

The museum of almosts

In the heart of a bustling city, hidden amidst the hustle and bustle, there stood a peculiar building known as "The Museum of Almosts." 

Its walls held stories of dreams that were almost realized, hopes that were almost fulfilled, and paths that were almost taken. 

People often visited the museum to reflect upon the roads they didn't traverse,  dream about the choices they could not make. And then a part of them would always stayed behind, turning into yet another artifact for the others who visited to witness and behold. 

Such was the museum of almosts. It was always almost there, and sometimes it wasn’t.  

Nobody had told Aanya about the museum. She was on her way to work when she spotted it one day. 

“Strange,” she thought. “I take this route every day but I don’t remember seeing this here.” 

As if magically, she found her feet drawn by an inexplicable force towards the building. She gazed up at its grand facade, its windows sparkling with the sunlight, as if inviting her to step inside and confront her own "almosts." 

She hesitated, unsure of what she might find within those walls. Was the summer heat causing her to have hallucinations, or was it the whispers of her own heart that had led her here? 

Aanya had always been pragmatic, never allowing herself the luxury of regrets. Life had forced her to make tough decisions, and she had forged ahead with determination. But lately, a sense of emptiness had seeped into her being. It gnawed at her, challenging the certainty of her chosen paths. She wondered if the relentless pursuit of her goals had left her with a void, a sense of longing for the roads not taken.

Growing up, Aanya had been a meticulous planner. Each year, she would fill her personal diary with carefully crafted to-do lists. From graduating in engineering by 23 to landing a job at a multinational company, her ambitions were neatly mapped out. Marriage, children, and even becoming the CEO of her own startup were all part of her grand plan.

She had almost achieved everything on her list, but now, a strange wistfulness washed over her. The goals she had  pursued suddenly felt incomplete, mere "almosts" on her journey. 

Standing before the museum, Aanya  wondered if there was more to life than just ticking off boxes. Summoning her courage, she stepped inside. 

The museum was a labyrinth of rooms, each filled with artifacts symbolizing the moments of almosts. It welcomed her with soft lighting and hushed murmurs. As she wandered through the exhibits, she noticed artifacts that spoke of unfulfilled aspirations and missed opportunities. 

Each display held a story, a tale of an almost that had remained just out of reach. Each spoke of the wisdom gained from near-misses, the lessons taught by the paths not taken. In one room, she saw a painting with brushstrokes that fell just short of perfection. In another, a collection of manuscripts waiting to be published.

As she explored, Aanya encountered others who, like her, were grappling with their own "almosts." Their stories echoed through the halls, mingling with a shared longing and a search for fulfillment.

However, amidst the poignant displays, she discovered a glimmer of hope. She realized that life was not about reaching a predefined destination or achieving all the goals on a list. It was, she understood, more about finding entirety and contentment in each of her "almosts."

Aanya stepped out of the museum with a newfound perspective. She would embrace the beauty of the unfinished, the magic of the journey itself. Instead of dwelling on what could have been, she would savor each step she had taken and every choice she had made.

On her way home, Aanya looked out of her car window. This time, the weather and the susurration of trees no longer carried nostalgia or regret. They whispered possibilities, reminding her to embrace the wonders of the present. They urged her to find joy in the journey of her own beautifully imperfect, ever-evolving life. 

Her happiness would no longer be defined by the checkboxes on her to-do list, she decided. She would find fulfillment in the entirety of her  almosts, while leaving room for the spontaneity of the unknown. She would cherish the beauty of the journey. 

As she turned to catch a final glimpse of the museum through the speeding car window, she saw it fading away in the sunlight.  

Its purpose had been served for now. 

©️ Priyanka Naik

Book review: ‘Ladies Tailor’ by Priya Hajela

First and foremost, I must apologise to the author and to Blogchatter for this excruciatingly late review. 

There is a backstory to this delay, which includes the book changing hands and travelling across continents ( from my home without my knowledge). But more on that later. Let’s skip to the more fascinating story, the one by Priya Hajela. 

Title: Ladies Tailor 

Author: Priya Hajela

Publisher: HarperCollins India

Pages: 304 pages 

Price: Rs 300 (paperback), Rs 223 (kindle edition) 

‘Ladies Tailor’ is a story about a man on a mission, traveling across enemy lines amidst the tumultuous aftermath of partition. Gurdev Singh (the protagonist) takes on the risky task of traveling to Pakistan in search of two embroidery artists who are needed to kick start his small joint-business of stitching ladies clothing with two of his refugee friends, Nirmal and Sangat Singh. 

The interesting motley of characters at the refuge camps and their individual stories reveal the dismal condition of those who were forced to travel east, the brutality of the ensuing riots, and other hard hitting facts that occurred post-partition; this with no obvious bias towards any particular religion or community. 

The author’s attention to detail stands out in the way the author has described impressive details of the times and the Sikh community, like the starched vs. unstarched turbans, how turbans were tied, how different people wore their beards, the neatly combed netted version vs. the bobby pin version, vs. the unkempt, loose version—-the language and imagery employed paint a picture that transport one into the story and makes it befitting for a motion picture. 

The pages are peppered with lump-in-the-throat moments like when Gurdev sees his parents houses burning, and later, when he and his wife and children walk to the very front of the kafila and woke up at sunrise to begin walking, when his wife, Simran, struggles in silence, in sickness, without uttering a single word to a preoccupied Gurdev, about the dismal condition in the rescue camps with a lack of adequate toilet facilities. However, ‘Ladies Tailor’ is not just about that. It is an adventurous cross border rescue mission story. It is a story about friendship and gratitude. About love against societal  stereotypes. About truth, gender equality, sacrifice. 

As the story progresses, different facets of Gurdev’s personality are brought to light, which make you hate and love him in equal measure. You despise him for being indifferent towards his wife, but you also feel sorry for the state of mind he is in. You are mad at him for not being evocative and expressive, but then you love him for his stoic nature, and never-say-die attitude, his gentlemanly silence to betrayal, heartbreak, and temptation. His mature reformation when Simran leaves him, kids in tow is admirable. Instead of being shattered or jaded by the shock of betrayal, Gurdev seeks to improve himself and gradually changes into a man who is more sensitive to the emotional needs of a woman. 

While Gurdev struggles with his internal demons alone, he is also kept company by the friendships he forges along the way.  Especially heartwarming among these is the friendship between him and Nirmal and Sangat, and his chemistry with Noor, a war widow who manages to steal his heart with her forthright and audacious nature. 

His camaraderie with the refugees, the subtle romance with Noor, the ribbing, and friendly teasing; all these provide a warm vibe to the story. Gurdev’s life gets interwoven with theirs and embarks on the rescue-mission, for business, for friendship. Which eventually helps him make peace with his own demons and have a second chance at life and love. 

The high and low moments of adventure and emotions qualified for a well spun narrative inspiring in the reader the hope of starting over, of overcoming  loss; both personal and professional, of breaking to pieces and still gathering the courage to come together once again. 

The only regret I had was a sudden surprise of an ending. I hadn't  seen it coming for the next 5-10 pages and bam! It was there. A little too abrupt for a neatky tied wrap with no definitive ending for the personal stories of the motley of characters that were fleshed out so well in the beginning and middle that I'd expected at least a mention at the end. But it got me wondering whether the author was planning on a sequel. 

If there is one, it would be something to look out for.  

Personal rating: 4 out of 5 

Shopping link: Check it out here. 

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This post is powered by Blogchatter Book Review Program. The views in this review are solely mine. 

#BlogchatterBlogHop: 'An impossible dilemma' (a poem)

If I were told to choose just one

A sheer case of 'all or none'

Between to read a book or to write

It would have been a terrible fight

How do you choose between body and soul

Between breath and air, dream and goal

Between passion and love, food and drink

Between how to feel and how to think

Both are linked in every way

'Yin and yang' as Jung would say

Read to write and write to read;

Books devoured, and stories freed

But still a choice if asked to make

For reading intent, for writing sake

An equal balance let there be;

an erudite writer's  identity!

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The above comic strip is a humorous attempt by yours truly to depict the ‘read or write’ dilemma by revisiting an ancient Greek myth. 

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This post is a part of Blogchatter Blog Hop Blog 3.

#BlogchatterBlogHop: 'The traveller' - a short story.

The last thing I remember was gazing into the abyss when I lost  control and slipped. By the time I regained consciousness, I found myself spiraling down a dark vertiginous tunnel, clueless of where I was heading.

When the vertigo finally stopped, I realised I had arrived at the end of the passage. It was marked by a door. On it was engraved the name, ‘Hawkins Research Institute’.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had reached the much rumoured about  research facility based in our town.  Located underground, the lab promised utmost confidentiality and was said to conduct brealthrough experiments of an undisclosed nature.

The adrenaline rush I felt was unimaginable. A big fat adventure lay waiting in front of me. Unraveling the mystery could change my life---I could become the hero of my town. All I had to do to do was choose a quiet opportune moment and sneak in.

Moments later, I was inside the facility. Under the dim light of a solitary bulb, I made my way to what seemed like the basement area.

 

In the centre of the space was a huge glass chamber, equipped with a single seat and a panel board with multiple levers and buttons. I went closer to have a better look. But before I could do that, I heard footsteps approaching.

Startled, I slouched behind an old and rusty file cabinet. My heart was beating at the speed of a stallion.

The footsteps stopped. The door opened. As the lights flew on, I noticed a middle-aged man in a white lab coat walk in.

He was bespectacled, had frazzled hair, and appeared preoccupied. I concluded he was one of the scientists working at the centre.

Without wasting any time, he made his way to the glass chamber. Quickly strapping himself to the seat, he proceeded to punch a few buttons and pull a few levers. The machine lit up, making a noise like an engine, but within seconds the sound and the lights both died down. The man sighed. A look of exasperation crossed his face, the tell tale signs of a failed experiment.

Just then, a tiny squeak fell on my ears. I looked in the direction of the source and my mouth let out a loud yelp almost involuntarily. A dirty black rat with fuzzy hair was nibbling on my toes.

Startled by my yelp, the astonished rodent scurried away, leaving me to face the co sequences of my folly. I was already thinking of excuses to give the scientist when I looked up to see him already pressing an alarm to inform security.

With the alarm buzzing continuously, and the mad scientist staring me down, I felt cornered. The security personnel would be here any minute.

Without thinking, I jumped into the chamber-machine.  The man had pulled the red lever, then the blue, or was it the green? I tried to recollect what I’d seen.

Just then, five burly uniformed guards  entered the room. They were carrying arms. The scientist  gestured towards me and they seemed to understand what to do. Aiming their rifle towards me, they asked me to surrender.

It was almost a threat. Possibilities of punishment in a science lab wreaked havoc in my mind. Exhumation, extermination, genetic mutation, a lifetime in coma…these people could turn me into a guinea pig if they wanted.

The door creaked. The panic in me surged. My hands trembled.

I pulled the first lever that came in hand. Red. Nothing happened.

I pulled the blue. Still nothing. The guards sniggered.

Panic stricken, my hands were dancing all over the machine panel.

Orange, purple, green; I pulled all the levers together. I punched multiple random buttons. 

Finally, the machine came to life.

The scientist’s mouth flew open. The guards did not know how to react. Neither did I.

Since then, I have been having strange experiences. I have witnessed events no mortal would ever have imagined. .

I have seen centuries old empires crumbling, witnessed the terrors of fascism, the drawbacks of capitalism. I have traveled a long way from the freedom struggle to dirty politics, from  communism to communalism, from the suffragette movement to the Me too movement.

I have cursed myself for being a helpless  spectator of acts of apartheid, untouchability, racism, classism, love jihad, jingoism, and bigotry.

I have witnessed genocides, space missile launches, breakthroughs in medicine, military warfare, nuclear explosions, and miraculous recoveries.

I guess this has become my way of life now, my identity. I’m a  time traveler with no idea where he will land up, or what he will experience next.

Unintentionally though, I eventually ended up being a lab rat for Hawkins afterall.  I wonder if there are more like me. I guess we will never know.

Time-traveling has  ruined me forever, but it has also made me believe…in endless possibilities, in hope. The universe, I have realised, is not easy to comprehend. It works in mysterious ways.

The only regret is that I cannot stay too long at one place to pass on this message. My time is brief and yet inexhaustibly infinite.

I am ageless.

 I am the universe. 

I am the God particle.

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This post is a part of Blogchatter Blog Hop.

#BlogchatterBlogHop: Message in a bottle (a short story)

Roxanne was strolling  languidly on the beach  when she noticed something glinting. At first she assumed it was flotsam. But curiosity drew her closer.

She scooped out the half-buried object from the golden yellow sands. It was a bottle. Inside it was a tiny roll of writing paper. Her mind began to race. 

Being an avid reader, her imagination quickly transported her to all those books she had read…about pirates and treasures; maybe this was a map. Or perhaps some lovelorn sailor had written to his beloved a confession before meeting his end jn the stormy water; a dismal end to a silent romance.

Roxanne unscrewed the cork of the bottle and recovered the paper. It was a note.

Dear reader,

This could have been a ticking bomb. Thank your stars It is not.

(Let this be a reminder never to touch something that has drifted from the sea, which I’m sure is where you imagined this to be  coming. But hah! Tough luck!)

We are a bunch of environmentalists on a mission; Project - ‘Message in a bottle’ (MIAB); an awareness project for reckless fools and romantic idiots.

You were going to throw this bottle back into the seaside, weren’t you? Maybe add a few lines of your own on the note it was carrying and set it asail for some dreamy eyed dingbat to find again? Six degrees of separation coming closer in such a glorious way binding strangers from different corners of the globe, right?

WRONG!

What is more likely to happen is this; the sea turtles and fish in the sea will choke on the cork or shards of the bottle broken from the current. And one tiny senseless act will become responsible for polluting our shores, destroying our aquatic life, and eventually damaging the entire ecosystem.

Sorry to burst your bubble, my friend. But life is no ‘Nicholas Spark’ novel. It is more of a Douglas Adams trilogy, where absurd things keep happening out of the blue and we need to constantly be on our feet in order to keep our planet from demolition.

So here is a friendly reminder. Stop polluting the earth with non-biodegradables. Go  natural instead. Conserve energy. Our forests and natural reservoirs need to be preserved.

And for heaven’s sake, please step out of your little Caribbean island pirate fantasy and stop flinging bottles into the sea, with or without notes in them.

Reduce, recycle, reuse (you know the drill). Now is the time to act.

Regards,

MIAB

(trying to save our planet, one step at a time)

P.S: Please insert the note in the bottle and place in found position.  

Project ‘MIAB’ is a  supervised project. Your response will be noted, and rest assured, the bottle will be duly disposed in a way that doesn’t harm our aquatic friends.

With nervous trepidation, Roxanne restored the note as directed. She knew what she had to do.

“Thank you, MIAB,” she whispered. “You have opened my eyes. I’m leaving the bottle behind, but will take your message forward.”

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This post is a part of Blogchatter Blog Hop.

#CauseAChatter: 'Cobalt Blue' - a movie on gender identity and some afterthoughts.

The month of June is commemorated as Pride Month, a month that is celebrated world wide, with LGBTQ+ friendly cities sporting rainbow parades and gay marches to ahow their solidarity towards an inclusive environment. 

On a similar sentiment, I got about watching  ‘Cobalt Blue’ on Netflix. Having read the novel a while ago, the onscreen adaptation had piqued my curiosity. 

For the uninitiated, ‘Cobalt blue’ is a movie adapted from the eponymous novel written by Sachin Kundalkar.

The movie is directed by the author himself, and was released on Netflix only in April this year. 

Starring Neelay Mehendale, Prateik Babbar, Anjali Sivaraman, Cobalt blue is a Bildungsroman story about Tanay and his tomboy sister Anuja, falling in love with the same man, their paying guest.

From the very outset, the film deals with the topics of gender identity, infatuation and heart break, ealt with in an utterly sensitive and poignant fashion.

There are instances when the chemistry between Tanay and his love interest remind you of ‘Call me by your name’, another famous book-to-film adaptation on the same topic.  

Interspersed with heart-tugging poetry penned by Tanay, the film offers a window into the minds of the LGBTQ+ community, that often goes ignored in a society like ours.

Prateik has played the role of a philandering artist to the T. Being a vagabond of sorts,  betrayal seems expected. However, the film is more about the aftermath, the response, rather than the heart break. 

Both siblings are fighting an internal battle of their own. However, Tanay’s struggle seems more painful, his grief more intense, since he, unlike Anuja, does not have the same privilege of expressing his feelings, even when in love. 

And that got me pondering on the hypocrisy of the society we live in, how it deems anyone who isn’t like the majority as a deviant. How it is inconsiderate towards the LGBTQ community, treating them as outcasts.

We often mistake  gender to be binary, often ignoring or overlooking those who are gender fluid or gender nonconforming, not realizing what turmoil we may be causing them. All this for no fault of theirs. They who are created by the same God, they who are as much a part of society as us. 

Cis and trans are two sides of the same coin, called human. Then why the bias! 

Honestly speaking, no matter how unbiased I claim to be, some scenes of the movie made me uncomfortable.  When Tanay and exchanged tender kisses, oil massages, and warm hugs,  which made me ask myself if I would be squirming as much if it was a man and woman playing a love scene on screen. Then why was I uncomfortable watching two consenting adult men do the same? 

When I got that mind block out of the way, I could watch the movie for what it was…a love story. 

As compared to the West, India still has a long way to go when it comes to inclusiveness. This bitter fact is brought out beautifully in the scene where a senior professor (played by Rajkumar Rao) breaks down and confesses that being gay feels criminal in this country. 

Truth be told, we may have managed to scrap off section 377 from the IPC, but we still need to scrap it off from our minds. Only then we will be able to hope for an inclusive environment. 

Talking on gender identity should be encouraged and not be treated as taboo.  Public and private establishments, cafes, restaurants, transport, etc should be as welcoming to trans folks as they are to cis individuals.  

“Tum hi batao, tay  kar lo, tum raasta  ho  ya  ho manzil...” 

These lines reflect the trepidation, the insecurity, the inhibition, not just when it comes to love but also about loving in a society that does not make one feel safe and welcome. 

The definition of love changes as the protagonists mature with age and experience, from ‘love is a habit’ to ‘love makes you stronger’. 

The fact that the professor’s advances are declined by Tanay is evident of the fact that gay love is no different from hetero-love and that one cannot share the same chemistry with everyone. 

Another poignant moment in the film that stayed with Mr long after it had passed was when Anuja asks her friend how long a relationship should survive for the world to consider it a ‘good’ relationship’. 

The delicate way in which the two siblings handle the heart break, the maturity that Tanay shows despite loving unconditionally, and the growing up that happens in the process, all send across a clear message...we may not always understand people and their choices, but that does not mean we cannot respect them. 

If a movie can show so much maturity, why can’t we? 

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This post is part of Blogchatter’s CauseAChatter.