How I learned to stop worrying and embrace lying

As I try to live a good life in my adult years, I often think back to the day I learned the lesson of a morally correct lie from my father. I’m certain it was not the lesson he wanted to teach me at that time, but in my impressionable youth, that's exactly what he did.

I grew up in the old days as a good Catholic. This was before all the scandal, before saying you were Catholic immediately drew titters and questions about “were you an altar boy?”. Yes, in fact, I was an altar boy. And no, the vaguest hint of abuse was never around at any time whatsoever. I recall my priest as a literal wise old man. He defined venerable for me in my head, as he personified it. He could speak multiple languages, spout off facts about practically any topic, but in all of that, he was a humble, serving man. So yes, I was a Catholic, but what it was to me was a basis of a solid moral core.

My parents were the typical very religious parents one might expect of that age. Over time I would come to find that that too had mellowed with them, but in that day and age we lived the literal 10 Commandments, attended all the church functions, working or downright running our church events. Confession was the recital you see in the movies, “Forgive me father for I have sinned. I have broken the second commandment three times since my last confession, I disrespected my mother once, and I got jealous that the other kids at lunch got to buy a hot meal and I had to bring a PB&J from home.”

I guess that would be why, when I became a young teenager, I innocently thought being honest would always serve me well. I still do to this day, some times to my detriment, but I’d rather have that any day than the alternative. Adages like “the truth shall set you free” rang true to me. Concepts like white lies, need to know basis, or downright being dishonest to protect another hadn't found a home in my brain yet.

My family and I lived further out of town on a large plot of land. Our road was a dirt road, and it was an offshoot from the main named “Farm to Market Road”. You can guess what end of that I was on. Seeing friends was a rarity because it usually meant a parent would have to leave the other six kids behind to drive me to somewhere. If I really wanted, I could take a five mile bike ride through winding hills, but at that point I would end up arriving tired and sweaty and not really in a state to do much of anything.

It was with this literal innocence of youth that I got my drivers permit, and suddenly had the freedom of being able to drive myself. The family had a very old, run down car that was passed down child to child as we were learning to drive, but I loved it. I actually could begin to form friendships beyond just the regular school day. It was liberating, but at the same time, it didn’t change the core me. I still brought with me that sense of doing good, being honest and true.  

I recall more than once pulling over to the side of the road behind someone broken down and hopping out to help some woman change her tire, push someone out of a ditch, or offer a jump start. Of course you refuse payment and just continue on your way. I think about that now when I drive past someone broken down and there is a little stab of pain in my heart. That pain springs from the adult understanding that me pulling in behind a woman and jumping in there and taking a tire iron out of her hands might very well frighten her far more than help.  

I did catch myself once in recent years. This same situation had occurred. I was driving somewhere with my brother. We saw a woman and her teenage daughter on the side of the road with the proverbial flat tire. A quick glance to him and a nod, and I swerved over to pull in behind them. We were in a hurry so we jumped out and I think we asked if they needed help. They had a sort of deer in the headlights look so we just dove in, working well together, and had it fixed, old tire in the trunk and car back on the ground in minutes. The whole time the mother was sort of standing off to the side with her child, wordlessly.  

My brother and I finally stand up and look over to them, she is sort of fumbling for words, her purse, and just looking all around uncomfortable. We were suffused with the happiness of a simple problem in our adult lives that we could just fix. It's so rare now that things that are that easy and eminently solvable that I know I was just smiling and nodding. We waved them off, hopped in our car and left.

It was about a mile or two further down the road that the simple joy had worn off and I looked aside at my brother and began to muse. “You know, I wonder if we should have done that? I wonder if she was frightened of two big guys jumping out of their car like that and approaching her with such confidence and bluster.” I suddenly felt a little sad about all of that. I had just acted on instinct and didn’t think of any other way to be. He agreed with my entire sentiment as I watched that same light slowly drain out of his eyes as he made the same realization. The realization that people now view newness with fear more than hope. I’m still glad I did it, but now when I pass a broken down vehicle I glance and if I see a phone in that person's hand I just drive on, remembering that sad thought.

I tie that entire awakening to what it means to be an adult back to one formative experience in my life, where I learned the lesson that sometimes as an adult, apparently it can be the right thing to lie to a person, and in doing so you are protecting them.

To the crux of the matter, I had finally been invited into ‘town’ to my first party with friends. It was to be the standard party of that age, “My parents are out of town and my older brother bought us alcohol!” I had a few sips of it before then on occation, but had no burning desire to become stupid, like I saw alcohol did to people. I told them I would be there, instantly building a little bit of that hugely valuable street cred with my peers. Now the only thing to do was to just get permission to take the car from my parents.

With that youthful exuberance, I wandered into the living room where my dad rested after his typically hard day at work in his La-Z-Boy. “Dad, can I have the car to go meet up with some friends at a party Friday night?”. As usual, the question was met with an abnormally long silence. I would have to stand there quietly obsequious, and await either some obscure question, a proclamation, or hopefully that sought after simple grunt of assent. I didn’t think it should take long this time. I was clear and concise. I had taken the car out plenty of times to meet people. My eyes were appropriately downturned and I was fully respectful of my elders, as it should be.  

It was then in the next few sentences my mind, morals, and worldview would forever change. Dad, not looking up from the tv just said “Will there be alcohol there?” “Yes”, I exclaimed, “but it's no big deal. I have no desire to drink at all and never would anyway if I am driving.” I honestly thought that was a reasonable thing and should be just acknowledged and we would move on, and I would get the keys. “Then no” he said, not even with finality, just in a matter of fact, flat voice.  

I was puzzled. I wasn’t planning on doing anything wrong. I was honest. I was being what I knew was good at the time. What I didn’t understand was the rigid inflexibility of my parents' age and upbringing. To them there were no variances, they felt morally right in their strict application of right and wrong. You have to think that sort of thinking might have been how the inquisition came about, but perhaps that is stretching this concept a bit too far.

“But... I was being honest. I answered you truthfully, and I won’t be doing anything wrong. I just want to get to see friends.”

“There is alcohol there, so the answer is no.” 

“So what you are saying here - no, what you are teaching me here is it would be better if I had lied to you. Is that really the thing you want me to take away from this?” I persisted.

When no answer or acknowledgement was forthcoming, I defiantly said “Ok, thank you, I have learned that lesson loud and clear. I shouldn’t be honest to you as it will only punish me.” and stormed off.  

I know this doesn’t seem like a real conversation but it most certainly was. As I came to find out in my later years my older siblings used to love watching me interact with my parents because I was so late in developing that adult filter. I hadn't learned that hard lesson of holding my tongue, of lying, either through omission or directly. You have to understand your audience.

I won’t lie to you now (really!), that feeling broke my heart back then. It took a long time for me to ponder it all and learn the full lesson. I realize now it was actually unfair of me to put that burden on my father. I should have known his mind, and known I forced him to answer the way he did. He was a reasonable man, and a very smart man. He would have fully known what the party really meant. He knew me, and I think in his way he trusted me. He actually trusted me to behave morally while there, but more importantly he trusted me to lie to him and say “no”, so that could allow him to trust me and say yes.  

I broke an unspoken bond of trust with him by being truthful. That is why he silently, stoically bore my childish condemnation of his parenting skills. I wish I could go back and tell him I see now, and I am sorry I did that to him. Only now with my well worn eyes do I see how deeply I cut him in that moment with my thoughtless words. I’m certain I caused him volumes more pain in that one singular action than I could have ever felt about missing one party.  

We never talked enough, or even much at all before he passed away. It was just our way. We would frequently spend days together doing work around the house with barely an audible word between us. I feel our unspoken words though as epic novels scrolling through my brain. His actions spoke to me in such a deeper fashion than our words could have ever done. I hope he felt that too. While we didn’t say things out loud, we both held those countless hours of silent conversation in our minds together, and it is that I treasure. My father had instilled so much into my being with his simple, silent ways, and I can never thank him enough.