When I was a kid, I told lies because I was afraid to tell the truth. A lie was often the only possible way out of the path of my mother’s anger, so I always tried it, even though it didn’t usually work and usually led to a more severe punishment.
I also felt profoundly guilty whenever I was accused of something, whether I had done it or not. When you feel guilty, you look guilty, so sometimes I got convicted and punished for things I hadn’t done on the strength of my guilty face alone. But the more common path to punishment was that I did the thing, got caught, lied, looked guilty, wasn’t believed, and got punished.
One day in Grade Three, my teacher, Mrs. Shields, told us to draw pictures of what our dads did at work. I told Mrs. Shields that I didn’t have a dad (which, back then, was highly unusual), and she said “Okay, then draw a picture of what your mom does at work.”
Most kids would probably have then drawn a picture of what their mom did at work. Not me. I figured this was my chance to finally meet my dad. I went home and told my mom that I had to draw a picture of what my dad did at work.
“Did you tell her you don’t have a dad?”
“Yes,” I said, “But she said I have to.”
Now the eight-year-old logic behind this lie went something like this. My mom was a teacher, so school was Very Important to her. If Mrs. Shields said I had to draw a picture of what my dad did at work, then my mom would have to let me meet him so he could tell me what he did at work. At the very least, she would have to tell me what he did at work, and then I’d at least know something about him. How could I possibly lose? It was brilliant.
What I hadn’t anticipated was that my mother would write a note for me to give to Mrs. Shields, which I obviously couldn’t give to her because it was based on a lie. So, after my mother left for work the next morning, I buried the note in the garden.
I hoped that would be the end of it, but after recess Mrs. Shields took me out into the hall and asked about the note.
“What note?” I asked, trying hard not to look guilty.
“Your mother called,” she said, “And said you have a note for me. About the drawings yesterday.”
I was well and truly trapped now between two authority figures with the truth on their side, and I couldn’t think of any possible way out except ANOTHER lie. And even though the pile of lies was getting deeper and less convincing by the moment, I couldn’t imagine telling the truth, because telling the truth would involve confessing to lying, and lying was pretty much the worst thing you could ever do, except maybe killing people.
So I stuck to my guns. I insisted there was no note. I denied everything: the note, the original lie, everything. I basically told my teacher that my mother was lying. And then, at the end of the day, I did it all in reverse with my mother. I denied not giving Mrs. Shields the note, and the whole conversation we had in the hallway. I knew my lies didn’t add up and nobody could possibly believe me. But I just didn’t know what else to do. The truth, by this point, was too far gone.
I don’t remember how this story ends. But I’m happy to report that my dad is part of my life now, and he’s a professional bridge player.
You don’t remember how the story ends? Lovely. Just lovely.
Anyway, you sound a lot like me when I was that age. After considering the circumstances, sometimes parents and teachers have to let things go. Why ruin a kid’s life? Nobody died.
I recall similar circumstances I put myself in when a child, and can’t for the life of me figure out why the truth was so much worse than the lie I told instead. My step-daughters do it, too, and it drives me insane, even though I know that not even they know why they lied.
Ah yes the lie, I don’t tell them as it is far to difficult to remember just what I said. How simple why did it take me to late adult hood to learn this? A bridge player for a Dad, as the kids say “way cool” Besides knitting that is my other passion…….Thanks for sharing I look forward to your posting.
As kids with some very rare exceptions we never got physically punished for anything except lying. Occasionally either parent would lose it and lash out but there was never an organized spanking etc unless for a lie.
As a result of this of course us 4 children split into 2 groups.
2 who can’t tell a convincing lie to save themselves and 2 exceptional liars almost good enough to be politicians.
I don’t want to say which half I’m in but honestly have you ever known me to lie to you.
I can completely relate to this as I have a Dad with a very bad temper and I was always trying to avoid getting in trouble.
But I think your story had a perfect ending.
And why should we believe any of this?
I love the fact that you LITERALLY tried to bury a lie. That’s hilarious.
I was a horrible liar as a child. I was caught with booze in a weird jar in my desk when I was like, 14, and I tried to tell my dad it was a special kind of adhesive for model airplanes. I didn’t know then what I know now about lying, RULE #1: The simpler, the better.
Being a good liar (isn’t that an oxymoron) is hard because you have be creative, keep track and have no guilt whatsoever. I know people like this. They live and work in Toronto. Probably why I moved.
I used to lie as a short cut. . . seems I was to blame for what my younger sibs did anyway (as in why wasn’t I watching them or why hadn’t I set a better example). So I used to just lie and say “I did IT”. I always hoped that I’d get caught in those lies and never did.
I can relate so much to your story. I think your Dad has a very cool job – but perhaps a hard picture to draw for a young child…all the cards and details.
Ah how compicated the life of a child. What a poor memory one must have to think of it otherwise.
[…] on February 15, 2010, at 9:27 am | Last week commenter Kim Bosch laughed about the fact that I literally buried a lie when I was eight years old, which reminded me of other lies I buried that year. Eight, apparently, […]
How sad you must have been as a child, longing to have and to know about your dad. I’m happy he’s in your life now. And, of course, smarter than all get-out. That makes sense.