It’s better to lie 7 – the election
(08.11.2022)
What’s happening with my sister? I haven’t heard from her in over six weeks! Of course I’ve been so busy myself, with getting the garden ready for winter, putting away all the summer things, bringing in the wood (and putting away the new wood I have ordered!), not to mention having had my sons and daughters, my nieces and nephews and my grandchildren all here off and on, that I didn’t in fact realize I hadn’t heard from Susan in so long, until today. When Charles was alive I had more help around the house. But now it’s non-stop from morning to night, whatever the season. Well, maybe between Christmas and New Year’s there’s a lull, but that’s about it.
And if the ordinary work wasn’t enough, there are always problems. Last month it was the dishwasher: it wouldn’t empty out, and there was a backlog of dirty water. I tried using drain cleaner, but that only turned the dirty water green. Finally I called a plumber and he found the problem in less than five minutes: a piece of broken glass was blocking the mechanism. £100, thank you very much. Then it was the car: battery dead, and when the garageman saw it he said that’s not all that’s worng with it. He presented me with an estimate for £1000 in repairs and an offer of £300 for the motor if I cared to sell it to him. Of course I chose the latter. I never use the car in town anyway; even if the bus lines aren’t too convenient, I can walk just about everywhere, including the train station. This week it’s the telephone—I mean the landline. Thank goodness the mobile phone still works so I could call the phone company. They’ve been working on the problem for three days and still haven’t solved it. And it’s been two weeks since the printer has been on the blink. Luckily I printed out my absentee ballot before that happened.
That reminds me: if I don’t get that ballot off today it won’t get there in time. Even now it’s touch and go. After I send off an email to my sister I’ll sit down with a cup of tea and fill it out. There, the email’s gone off, let’s see about the vote. Something of a pain voting for candidates in an American election when I now live in England; but it’s a patriotic duty and must be done. And I keep hearing that this mid-term election is crucial. No doubt it is to the rest of my family who still live over there, so let’s get on with it. Fill in all the little round holes with black ink, make sure you don’t make any extra marks or the ballot won’t be counted, that’s fine; easy this time, just vote for the Democrats all down the line. There, that’s done! I deserve another biscuit.
Oops, how clumsy! I’ve spilled my tea. All over the ballot, over both sheets, and the ink from the one has stained the other, with words that aren’t supposed to be there. Oh dear! They’ll never accept this ballot now, I’ll have to print it out again. Crumb, I can’t print it, the printer’s on the blink! Even if I could, it’s raining outside, and it’s ten blocks to the post office. And if the letter doesn’t get there by four o’clock it won’t go out today and then it’s sure to arrive after the deadline. Forget it, what’s one vote in the midst of 200 million? Throw out the ballot and have another cup of tea.
Oh, there’s a reply from my sister. She excuses her long silence. Well, I’ve been uncommunicative too. She says she’s been working day and night since mid-September, to get the vote out. That’s right, she’s always been very civic-minded, and I can imagine how tirelessly she has been at it. She asks if I’ve voted. Of course she does, she always does. And up until now I always have.
How can I admit I have not voted and no longer can? No, I can’t tell her, that’s all there is to it. I’m usually a stickler for truth, but in this precise situation I have no choice. This time, it’s better, far better, to lie.
Patrice's story
I was born in 1952. My mother was 20 when I was born. She had had three babies by then. The sister between my brother and I died shortly after birth from a heart condition. Many years later, when I had the capacity to think about my mother with compassion and maturity I realized that it was likely that by the time I was born she was depleted beyond imagination and still grieving from the loss of her second child, Bernadette.
My mother was in an unhappy and violent marriage, living an ocean away from her mother, and her culture. She was among my father’s family who did not approve of the marriage and, who, as a whole shunned both her and to some degree, us. The marriage, even after their attempts to fix what is so clearly broken, fell apart. And she fell in love. With the man who would become my step-father.
I was a dark haired, dark eyed, serious child. The product of two hazel eyed, light haired and light skinned parents. My brother had the white blonde hair and blue eyes of my mother’s side of the family. My birth heralded a new look. I was three by the time my parents separated for good. My biological father had hinted and, frankly stated that I couldn’t be his because I didn’t look like him. My mother in a monumental shift in reality supported this fiction to my father, and to me. It became the reason why my father was unkind to me, treated me differently than my brother, sent him gifts on my birthday, or threatened to leave me behind while he took my brother out for lunch, or to a baseball game. It was far easier for me to accept that my mother had been having an affair than it was for me to accept that my father simply disliked me.
The fiction lived for years and years – I can’t really remember when I knew that it was a lie, one my mother told because she longed for it to be true, and one I accepted because it made the discomfort of being my father’s daughter a little easier. But somewhere between childhood and angry adolescence I became aware that there was a great deal about me that was quite similar to my father. And that, if you took the time to look one generation back, to my father’s side of the family – those that survived – I was clearly their genetic outcome. My father’s brother, my uncle who is 94 years old now, says when he sees me, “It is like looking at my mother’s face”. It gives me pleasure because it gives him some peace.
A fractured relationship to the truth slides through my family’s history like a snake. Forked tongue speaking half truths, full lies, and embroidered events. All told, hand to god, as if documented in stone, until inconveniently uncovered by a truth teller, or anyone who was perplexed by mismatched facts and impossible realities.
There was a point in my own life where I decided that I would no longer lie. Nor would I let anyone believe that I believed the lies I was told. I became the truth teller in my family. It was a singularly unpopular stance. One that led my mother to suggest boarding school (we could not afford that), sending me to a kibbutz in Israel, or shipping me off to live with my bio-father (that’s a shady story for later).
My stance on not lying has softened somewhat since my teen years. I tell polite lies, “It’s a lovely party”, “No, I’ve never heard this story before”, “Yes, your child does have remarkable rhythm”. They have their purpose and if saying a polite lie saves someone from hurt feelings – or unnecessary misery I go for it. But I still find it a balancing act – that requires attention and compassion to myself and others.
Annemarie's story
The Cow's Lament: Is it better to lie
To lie or not to lie…that is the question.
Whether it is advantageous to stand
In this verdant field of grass and clover
To note the falling pressure and scowling sky
And so, by lying, preserve a patch that's dry?
Should we swipe a luscious bunch of grass
And watch scudding clouds begin to cover
A darkening sky, predicting rain, wet weather,
Stay standing to ruminate, to meditate on
Humans' behaviour to four-legged beasts.
Take a pause - is there respect
That makes a calamity of a whisking tail,
Flicking unwittingly 'cross the cowman's face,
And, so angered, he docks those hairy tools
Which, when we stand opposing one another,
Can flick the flies from our bovine eyes?
To stand, to ruminate and ponder
The pain of punctured ears, of metal tags
Numbered, lettered to classify each cow
When in times past we had proper names
Like Buttercup and Bessie, Daisy and Flame.
We were not attached to man's machines
But knew instead the hands of gentle milkmaids.
Now hikers cross our fields, view our curious faces;
When spooked we stare and stalk, then nudge,
And sometimes chase, surround, stampede
To keep you from our newborn calves.
And is it better to lie down to chew the cud,
And in reposing ease the rumbling rumen
And rest our weary legs, perchance to dream?
Yes , when cows lie down it’s no harbinger of rain,
Just a growling stomach, tired legs, an urge to sleep!
Jackie's story
It’s better to lie
She furtively glanced at me across the seat in the high speed train. I know because I was struggling to read one eye on my screen and one eye on the person opposite me. Spread before her were a packet of crisps, chocolate bars half eaten, a sandwich, French style filled with cream cheese and ham, gerkins and too ripe tomatoes that sqashed out of the bread and dripped down onto the train table;
Shall I go on …shortbreads and gum sweets and what was a little worrying a litre bottle of white wine
I, had a bottle of water, a few almons and walnut mix in my pocket. As I settled into a good book on my kindle, I was constantly interrupted by crisp crunching and packet opening, cringing every time her now greasy fingers touched our communal table and using the train seats to wipe with. Turning the pages of the free magazine and squashing bits of crumbs and crisps between the pages. Made a note not to look at that magazine even if I was bored. The wine was drunk out of the bottle as no cup or glass were visible. And as the train jerked on its track for a second caused her to dribble she then hiccuped for at least ten minutes ; a loud hic up with mouth open and no attempt to hide the sound. Like a bird who had swallowed a peanut.
Another 2.5 hours to go. The train was full, not a spare seat to move to and as other passengers were enjoying their packed lunch or café prepared meals fell asleep – my neighbour continued to crunch her way through her feast.
Then in one movement she looked up – greasy hair parted from her grey green eyes and I recognized her. She had put on a stack of weight. Not surprising seeing what she stuffed into her body.
Now, I remembered her clearly from Junior year in high school. Her straight brown hair always in a braid which the boys in our classes pulled relentlessly. I remember her cry as they teased her about her clothes. Long skirts, see through shirts with no bra, oxford shoes and short socks, hairy legs and dirty fingernails. So very different from the polished high school students in my top Californian high school. The girls were sleak haired, balerina shoed and shaved their legs, underarms and whatever other hairs they could remove from their bodies. The boys were impeccable and wore so much eau de cologne the school smelt like a perfume factory.
For some odd reason this girl (who I won’t name)– continually tried to befriend me. Phone calls, written notes in class and always came to sit next to me at the canteen. I couldn’t be rid of her. She stared at me with undying love, followed me around and even tried to take the same classes as me. It was embarrasing and at the time I didn’t understand the ways of the world. Then I changed schools and she was out of my life – until now.
I believe we know each other she suggested. Oh no, I replied, you must be mistaken. In some cases its better to lie.
Geraldine's story
IT’S BETTER TO LIE
When Rosaline put the phone down, she was shaking so much that she could hardly breathe, and sunk down into the nearest armchair.
This had been going on for such a long time without anyone noticing and she had thought it could have been for years and years, maybe for ever !
You could no longer see her lovley fair skinned face with her dark blue almond eyes, her circomflex accent eyebrows and her fine greek nose. Behind her hands, streams of tears were escaping hidden by her dark curly hair.
What was she going to do ? What would she tell her family : her great husband who loved her so dearly, her 2 boys and her young daughter who were the most important people in her life. Would she have to tell them the awful truth or would it be better to lie ?
Fifteen years ago, just after her daughter Jane was born, Rosaline went through a very hard postpartum depression : she loved her husband, James, her two boys were funny, lively and loving chaps. The household didn’t have any financial problems as James was running a well-known lawyer’s business. But, she just couldn’t put herself together, each morning and face the coming day. Everything looked grey, miserable and she was just unable to straighten her mind, feel positive and get on with it.
James was feeling very unsettled with the situation : how come his beloved wife looked so sad, felt so hopeless. She would spend days wandering around the house not knowing what to do with herself, suddenly bursting out into tears .
What could they do about it ? Should they ask for someone’s help ? After longly discussing the situation, Rosaline accepted Jame’s suggestion to finally go and see a Psychologist. They went together for the first meeting : there were loads of tears shed, sobbing, emotional feelings during the session and they finally agreed that Roseline should start a psychotherapy with Math O’Connor which could keep going for quite a while as they discovered a real huge bag of bones linked with Roseline’s childhood that needed to be delt with.
And that’s when Roseline started going to see Mister O’Connor weekly, every Thursday afternoon from 2 to 3 p.m. The first sessions were difficult and painful as they stirred up a lot of forgotten critical situations experienced while growing up. She would come home with red swollen eyes and a soaking wet handkerchief. Her children didn’t ask any questions but they most certainly felt something very strange was going on.
Little by little, as the months went by, they discussed undoing thousands of knots problem after problem, and things were getting straightened out. Roseline was feeling better : she was much happier, she would sometimes even be singing in the house when busy with certain chores and started drawing or painting exploring and exercising her creative talents. She started taping some of her pictures in her daughter’s room, then in some of the house’s corridors. Things were getting better.
When she thought she could do without Mister O’Connor’s help, she discussed the situation with him.
- Mr. O’Connor, I think I’m feeling better now and could try and drop the sessions with you ! What do you think ?
- Oh ! Roseline, it might be a bit early : I think you’re still a bit frail and there are still many things we should yet talk about. For instance, your relation with James.
They worked on the subject for another 10 weeks and Mr. O’Connor that we can call Math now, had a problem, a very big problem. He felt addicted to Roseline : he didn’t have to see her more than an hour a week, but he really couldn’t do without her during that particular hour.
So, when Roseline suggested again that she maybe could put an end to her therapy, he took both her 2 hands in his own, held them very tightly and just said : « It’s impossible, Roseline, I need you, I need your presence, maybe I even love you » !
-Oh my God ! Not you ! I’ve been resisting so long taking you in my arms and secretly dreaming of you, your body, your smell, touching you all over, but I love my husband so much !
- Well, we could give it a try ! Within the minute, they were both naked, rolling together on the couch, hands, tongues, sex all muddled together, small and louder screams coming from deep inside them, and after a hughe orgasm, they lay flat, sweating and panting ….
- Oh ! How fantastic. I’ve never had such pleasure in my life said Roseline, smiling and then laughing and laughing and laughing. Math held her tightly in his arms and very gently said :
« we could just swap our therapy sessions to…..well….to this new…..Heu…convention ? »
And so, ever since, Roseline and Math would have their Thursday 2 to 3 session and she would go home light, happy and fulfilled.
Till this terrible phone call :
« If you carry on with your Thursday Therapy, we shall make it public. And everybody will know it’s a sexual therapy… ».
Where did that come from, who was to know, was it someone bluffing ?
The rest of the day Roseline felt devastated, didn’t know who could help, how she could escape the scandal, and went to bed with James, feeling restless and maybe even feverish.
Next morning, it was a Monday, she called Math to tell him she would be cancelling their weekly meetings.
- « But you can’t do that, he exclaimed ». Not after fifteen years. We are both going to suffer like hell. By the way, why do you want to cancel ? Have you fallen in love with another man ?
- Oh no ! Said Roseline. I still love James very deeply and I don’t think I could cope without our Thursday afternoon sex therapy, but I’m being blackmailed, at least I got this strange call… and she told him all about it.
- - Don’t worry, he said. Nobody can know what goes on in my therapy cabinet. Professional secret. So, it’s better to lie, to deny and never change our position as to our behaviour !
- - OK. I’ll try and keep silent and zen about it all and we’ll discuss it next time we meet.
Which they did, the following Thursday that felt more like therapy than sex, and Math having told her he had received the same call and completely denied the facts they were accused of.
End of story. Lie is sometimes very efficient and ever since, every Thursday, the shutters close in Mr. O’Connor’s cabinet from 2 to 3.
