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Speaking the truth is hard; defending it is even harder

By Ingrid McCleary

Call me Ishmael. Or call me sensitive and overemotional if you want; I won't make waves, because you're entitled to your opinion. But call me a liar, and I'll ride over you faster than a tsunami after an earthquake.

A few years back, my sister and I were sharing a slot machine in Reno. It was giving us a reasonable return, but it also wasn't registering our coins. We'd rap the front of the machine, finally give up and insert another dollar. After the fourth time, however, we felt cheated and called for service.

We explained this had happened with various quarter machines on the premises, and we'd let those slide but we're talking dollars here. It didn't matter to him. He simply said, "No, these machines are new. They don't get stuck." We begged to differ, stating that it had gotten stuck four times in the last 20 minutes. He said, "I don't believe you."

Ex-cuse me? Even putting all the customer relations issues aside, how dare he! OK, he didn't know me from Eve; perhaps there are players who'd lie just to get a couple extra bucks, but I'm not one of them. My indignation sent him scurrying.

I remember my indignation, but I also remember pitying him. This adult had grown to believe that people were fundamentally liars. Guilty until proven innocent. Call that cynical or jaded. I call it wrong.

Here's another example: Soon after the Loma Prieta earthquake, I got in a fender-bender right outside Cumberland School. I'd looked both ways and begun my right turn when my daughter said, "Stop, Mom, I can't get my seat belt on right." I stopped. As soon as she gave the OK signal, I took off again, without checking my left again. A car going 20 miles per hour slammed into the front left of my car. No one was hurt, and I apologized profusely to the other driver.

I called my insurance agent when I arrived home and gave him the details, admitting the accident was my fault. Two days later, I received a call from the insurance company. They asked me if I'd called them about the accident. They asked me if I'd said it was my fault. Yes to both. "Why?" I asked. "Because we've never had anyone call in an accident and admit it was their fault. We thought the other driver had called, pretending to be you. That's happened quite a few times."

I hung up, shaking my head. How sad! Another instance in which the type of business they're in leads them to contact people who lie to evade responsibility.

Now, I'm not a saint, but I try to exude truth. My children are absorbent sponges, and it's my duty to have them soak up as much good as they can. I tell my son, "Be a man of your word." I tell my daughter, "Your word is your honor." I tell my youngest, "Lies always hurt you more in the end."

Of course, as children, they test these theories. And they discover that the consequences of lying are far greater than if they'd spoken the truth.

Speaking the truth is hard. Defending it may be even harder. Especially for children. I asked my son the other day, "Why didn't you go up to the teacher and explain your side?" His response? "Because I didn't think he'd believe me." The fear of this authority figure not taking him at his word was enough to keep him from trying. But he's only 12 and just beginning to navigate these deeper waters. So I took up the oars for him and called his teacher at Sunnyvale Middle School.

And we both discovered the teacher was an honorable man, ready to accept Casey's truth when it was backed up by a mother's conviction. We fought the good fight together, and we prevailed. Not all stories have such happy endings.

This one did. And I call that good.

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This article appeared in the Sunnyvale Sun, November 19, 1997.
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