Feb. 2, 2006

One week at MC . . . without lying

By AMY BITELY
arb001@marietta.edu

In the United States, we get used to accusing the government of all sorts of heinous activities--for example, spying on decent, hardworking citizens who happen to be making overseas calls. The government has also been accused of shady dealings with aliens, with slightly less justification; I would imagine that any government in the employ of forces from outer space could at least find a better alternative to fossil fuels. The most frequent accusation leveled against the government, though, is that politicians lie like Persian rugs.

This is a pretty serious accusation, of course. After all, ordinary people never lie. To prove that point, I decided to go an entire week without lying and make those horrible politicians feel guilty. I decided to show that being morally upright is still possible, and what’s more, that the truth is the best course.
I didn’t even make it through Day one. The part that frightens me a little is that I can no longer remember the first lie I told in my so-called week without lying. I can’t even remember the last lie. Somewhere from one Sunday to the next, I must have lied several dozen times, telling people that I was all right when I wasn’t or that I had liked something when I hadn’t.

After a week of really considering why I lie and when I lie, I’ve slowly but surely come to realize that I am as horrible as any politician. True, I never told anyone that I was a world-class sky-diver or that I had been to Japan, but neither do most politicians--or, for that matter, most ordinary people. The “little white lie” is a far more common creature than the Great White Whopper, and that makes it more dangerous. I didn’t consider whether to tell the less-than-pleasing truth or the easy lie; years of training had already made the decision for me.

That’s the appeal of the lie: it’s easier. It’s just easier to tell a friend that you are all right than to have that friend worry about how you are worried about your grades; it’s easier to tell a friend that you love her elaborately bad hairdo than to explain to her how she’ll have to spend another hour deconstructing the monstrosity--possibly with the help of a wrecking ball. When we lie, we are acknowledging that we just do not want to expend the time, effort, and emotion required to deal with the truth.

That’s also the biggest problem with lies. When we tell the easy lie, we don’t solve the problem that it covers. True, it’s difficult to tell a friend that she looks like a train wreck waiting to happen, but it will be far more difficult to console her when she returns from her first confrontation with a mirror. It’s also easier to explain that we’re all right when we’re feeling terrible, but far harder to deal with the cold, twisting feeling of being alone against our own problems.

Perhaps it’s easier for a politician to lie--it's certainly so much easier for normal people that we do it instinctively. But it also causes more harm than good.

Now that I understand why politicians lie, I’m going to go spy on my neighbors and make deals with aliens. I’ll let you know when I’ve got something better than overpriced gas to fuel our cars.