I’m a really, really good liar. Seriously, I am. When I was growing up, I learned at home how to do it right, even though the same person who taught me how to do it so well would punish me for lying to him.
From a very early age, I learned to answer the phone when my father was dodging certain phone calls. I was coached in exactly what to say to which people, completely without regard to the truth, of course. I was frequently told casually of which lies had been told so I could be sure to back up one of my father’s deceptions if it came up in conversation.
For instance, we were one time on the way to visit my father’s boss when he told me to say that my foot was fine if I was asked about it. He had needed an excuse to leave work one day, so he claimed that I had been injured by having a lawnmower blade hit my foot. (He had read a tiny news item about it happening to another boy, so he just transferred the story to me when it was convenient.) Things such as this were common for me.
As I said, though, lying to him was strictly forbidden. If I was caught doing it — and I was, from time to time — I was severely punished.
My father’s death was proof that unhappiness quickly kills a man
For rest of my life, I’ll constantly re-interpret mother I didn’t know
If voting really changed anything, governments would make it illegal
Can I talk myself into not wanting great things I fear I’ll never have?
I wasn’t ready for another dog, but Lucy needed a ‘forever home’
Tradeoffs about values leave me feeling like ‘double-minded man’
Lennon had ‘wrong ambitions,’ but became cultural icon anyway
VIDEO: Yes, I’m still going to talk to you about the end of the world
Continued collapse of competence points toward decline of a culture