You Taught Me to Never Lie

          You Taught Me to Never Lie

   “Where are you off to?”

    “Out!”

    That is the kind of answer I expect from him. His response to all questions is precise and to the point; it is in deciding which point, that the problem lies. 

    I believe that I had something to do with his decisiveness. I began reading to him before he was born. I’d heard it was supposed to enhance fetus development as well as the bond between the mother and child. I know I enjoyed it; whether he did, is a question only he can answer.  Given the fact his brain had not developed fully at that time, I doubt his answer would have been more than a guess.

    Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with guessing. As a matter of fact, I often delve into the realm of speculation when I’m bored. Defining, enlarging, exploiting various scenarios gives me a sense of what eternity must be like; never ending speculation interrupted only by the occasional intrusion of another seeking to fill a similar void in their life.

    I began an experiment when he was as yet able to speak. I read him stories, not fairytales, but stories from newspapers and magazines; I’m an editor and have become addicted to the possibility of finding a good story.

    There is something more compelling about the realities strewn throughout my life, than the contrived characters who are in my opinion predictable and stereotypical. I do not wish to demean authors who write in that genre, but I prefer a backdrop of reality.

    I began reading him news stories about tragedies, not because I wished to harden him to the realities inherent in life, but to hopefully instill a sense of inquisitiveness that requires looking beyond the headlines, looking at people and circumstances that make up a story that may impact your life.

    The main characters in the story are strangers and therefore relevant only in so far as I can relate to their experiences. If I am reading about someone combing the everglades in search of pythons, I can empathize with the danger it entails, but the reason that drives them to that pursuit leaves me empty. Whereas someone who is traumatized by a robbery, I can relate to. I have been in a store that has been robbed, and in a store in the process of being robbed; both experiences left an indelible mark on my spirit. 

    I have no way of knowing if reading to him, flavored no doubt by my own experiences, has given him any insight into how to react; what or what not to do in situations that demand calm and reasoned thought before taking decisive action, or inaction as the situation may dictate. 

    Some stories were difficult to read to him.  Knowing that something as seemingly insignificant as an inflexion in speech, a rise in pitch or volume, a change in tone, all contribute to a story. Without the human reaction to words and how they are interpreted and disseminated, you might as well be hawking an advertisement. I think of my exchanges with him as scenes in a play; I being the actor, he the audience. 

    In the beginning, I didn’t know what kind of reaction to expect from him. Often his expression and demeanor didn’t change, no matter the content or scope of the story; he appeared to be unmoved. At other times he’d smile and become animated; leaving me to wonder whether he enjoyed my rendition, or was simply hungry, bored, or perhaps both.

    As he grew older and his comprehension evolved, it became easier to determine if he was able to understand, if not all, some of what I was relaying to him. I would ask him questions about what I’d read, and to my surprise he not only understood the story, but had developed a totally different impression of the scene and characters than I had. 

    One particular article I remember well. A woman driving down a country road witnessed a head on collision involving a truck and a car. She described the scene, those involved, and the conclusion; police, ambulances, and the town’s patrolman, “all standing around the site as though waiting for a movie to begin.”  

    She’d perfectly described the reaction of the woman in the car and the man in the truck, but had neglected to add any personal insight or feelings, other than to use the word reckless in describing the person attempting to pass several vehicles before reaching the crest of the hill. 

    He didn’t respond to my criticism at first but remained silent; I assumed to process the information I provided and develop his own criteria for guilt and innocence, villain, or victim. When I’d finished reading the short article I asked him if he’d decided who should be held responsible given the meager evidence provided. 

    He indicated that there wasn’t enough description or background of either involved in the crash to determine the extenuating circumstances, which he inferred would aid in understanding why the event had occurred.

    He was right of course. I often hypothesis based on my experiences, eliminating the unknown particulars that give substance to an argument, either for or against. You could argue, and I did, that facts determine who not only bears responsibility, but tends to ignore the reasons the facts are what they are purported to be.

    Articles and stories both suffer from the same aliment. There is no conceivable way to incorporate everyone’s interest in the particulars of a story that would satisfy everyone. So what we do is improvise by throwing in assumed details and emotions that satisfy us, regardless of the recorded facts.

    He agreed and gave me an example. “Suppose the person passing on the hill was aware of the danger, but chose to over-ride his apprehension because of the consequences of him not challenging the rules which would allow him to reach his objective. 

    Was he callously hurrying for an inconsequential reason that would deem him irresponsible, or was his effort to beat the clock a calculated attempt to justify the danger, thus allowing him to circumvent the laws of the road for a cause he felt outweighed the risks involved. We will never know given the lack of details provided; all that remains is speculation.

    It is one thing to calculate a risk to yourself, but to endanger others because you circumvented required rules, no matter the reason, can’t be tolerated or we would be living in a state of chaos constantly.”

    He was correct. I agreed wholeheartedly. Details are subjective by nature. We see what confirms our beliefs, rather than what had occurred in this instance. Every story, whether contrived or factually accurate, has a hole in it that the reader is unknowingly asked to fill. It is, in my opinion, what makes a readers escape to another realm possible. We are not limited by the planets dictates, gravity etcetera, or our neighbors indignancies, but by what we interject into the story in an attempt to make it our own.

    Two people can read the same story and come away with totally different insights into the plot, characters, or even the setting. Making a story our own is what reading is all about. 

    I reached a point in my own story, supplemented by his, where I began to question whether I’d woven so many experiences into it that it no longer resembled a story, but a biography about someone I used to know, not myself. 

    I asked him if he had any thoughts on the subject.  At first he was reticent, but I persisted in hopes he would offer an opinion. 

    “When we read or hear a story, there is no recourse but to change it in a manner that suits our needs. If it does not, we move on to something that does. I feel that allows us a measure of understanding that is both relevant and necessary.  But we are then responsible for recognizing if the story remains true, from the viewpoint of the author or characters, and that its intent remains relevant to its purpose. If it does not, then we have gone too far in interpreting and rearranging the purpose, personalities, or plot to justify the reaction we have to it. Do you agree?”

    He remained noncommittal, not answering; his expression did not give any indication of how he felt. “My story I know, is half over, while yours is just begun;” my attempt to entice him to join my speculations on the fundamental makeup of stories.

    “Do you think that age plays a role in understanding what the author is attempting to implicate us in, or possibly point out to us?”

    I had begun to think I was rehearsing for a part in my own play; he seemed uninterested, detached if you will. But suddenly he reacted as though he had been rudely awakened by something unexpected; a rooster directing traffic on Amsterdam Avenue, or a dream so vivid that sweat droplets are visible on your forehead after you’ve awakened.

    “Mother, let me say this being that I shall not be released from your quest until I provide you with what you are obviously seeking. Either I agree or disagree with your assessment, in which case I will have to prosecute my case in order for you to relinquish your stake in the question.

    I look at stories differently than you do. I assume you know that. Because we view things differently, based on our experience, age, and an uncountable number of variables, our stories, although similar, will be unique to us. We can appreciate uniqueness because we have given each other permission to do so. In most cases others do not have the ability to arrange for a consultation with the author, unbeknownst to the author no doubt.

    Authors are at our mercy. What I find humorous, you may find distasteful or crude. What I find enlightening; you may find a doldrum experience you wish to avoid. We each have the ability to adapt a story to our needs, therefore, it is an acceptable pardon for us both. But we have no way of knowing for certain to what extent we will alter the story. Because we have the ability to rearrange facts and change the outcome of the story, we have made the story our own.

    But there is danger in that. Attempting to satisfy our own needs we inadvertently distort the truth, and the truth, if it to have validity, must remain loyal to the facts. Therefore we are not only making the story our own, but lying to ourselves in the process by distorting the truth.  

    You should know this instinctively having been an editor for over twenty-five years. Your interaction with authors must have seemed at times like a roller coaster ride through hell. I’m sure there are authors who do not accept criticism, or even suggestions in the manner they are intended. And I’m certain there are others who not only accept suggestions to better understand their audience, but also encourage viewpoints from different perspectives.

    It is the dichotomy between two extremes that make a story what it is. You taught me once to never tell a lie. Need I remind you of how you managed that feet?....I would think not. If you recall, you told me I would always be your child and you my mother. I asked you why that was important, and you responded, “because love has no boundaries; it is eternal and as infinite as the universe itself. We are separate but equal in that regard; intertwined in a way it is impossible to extricate yourself from.” Do you remember telling me that?

   Then I asked you why you were crying. You told me because you missed me, and although you still loved me, and I you, it would no longer be a relationship based on our shared experiences. I asked what you meant, and you told me that you recognized that I was no longer amongst the living, and you were.  We would no longer be able to share the similarities of life. “You have your… life, and I have mine,” you said.

    I have thought often about what you meant by life. The prevalent belief is that to have life, you must be born. But your words implied that life could also emerge from death. I was never sure what you meant by “no longer amongst the living.” And then you turn right around and tell me that, “you have your life and I have mine.”

    I have come to believe that experience is a more accurate term in the context of what we are discussing. Experience does not place parameters on life or death, but removes them. No matter how long or short our life is, our experiences do not end but change venues; assuming there is another setting that awaits us.    

    The news that I was no longer alive was not as devastating to me as it was to you, but then I’d suspected something had changed long before your acknowledgement. Nothing looked the same to me, I had no appetite, my chronic back pain had disappeared miraculously, and you no longer smiled… should I go on?”

    “Please.”

    “I realize how difficult it was for you to accept the obvious, but I don’t think until this very moment you had accepted that we now author two different stories based on our experiences. You could have continued to lie to me and to yourself, but that is not a possibility in that playbook of yours. You are able to digest a story, add an ingredient or two while respecting the intent, and accept the fact that although stories are similar, they are also necessarily different. I was hoping that you would come to the same conclusion as I; our stories are connected, but also remain explicitly our own. 

    I do not consider you at fault in any way for my death, nor should you. Accidents happen all the time; the problem is most people don’t appreciate the fact that accidents can happen to them. Once you have been the main character in your own story and have had to give that up because of circumstances beyond your control, we begin to reach into your library of personalities, scenes, and plots, and choose the one that best suits your time and place. 

    I watched you at the hospital, you, hoping above hope that I would recover. When it appeared I would not, you rearranged the story to better fit your needs. It is because of the editing you did, not only to your story but to mine, that you are in this chapter filled with renderings of stories that have ended, but no one has as yet bothered to tell the reader. 

    You taught me not to lie, “it accomplishes nothing,” you said. I am proud of you for acknowledging the truth.  Although I knew of my transformation long before you were ready to accept it, I’m pleased that you have. 

    It seems to me that we have no choice but to go on editing our own stories, for life and death is all that we have. If you decide to scrap the first draft and begin again, I wish you luck and happiness. I plan to hang on to my first story as a reminder of how truth, no matter how painful, can also be enlightening, and does become our saving grace; it forces us to unravel the differences between fact and fiction, which we all understand is a part of our lives, and must be kept just that, a part of our lives, not the entirety of them.”

    “Where you off to then?... sorry! I shouldn’t have asked. Your answer will only change the narrative of your story and mine, and I will no longer be able to speculate, which I admit I enjoy more than I should.  I also realize that much of the speculation we revel in is edited out by life itself.

    I will be fine, no need to be concerned. I will, as you suggest, begin chapter two. If you find the time I would enjoy hearing from you and finding out how your new story is progressing. Call it a premonition, but I know our stories will overlap periodically; after all, that is the purpose of stories and memories, is it not?”