I’ve got a thing about lying. I can’t abide a liar. And neither can my friend, Roxanne Jones, who is on the blog today with a guest post all about the untruth. Here’s To Tell the Truth: this is why I hate lying.
If I’m intolerant of anything, it’s bullshit, and I came by my bias the hard way. My mother, the person I’d once trusted most in my life, lied to me for 26 years about who my father was.
See, I was the result of a drunken one-night stand mom had with a casual acquaintance home on leave from the Merchant Marine. Ashamed, she didn’t tell him that their shtupping had gotten her pregnant. Instead, she conceived a lie, blaming her predicament on an unscrupulous young man—the scion of a wealthy family on Long Island where she worked as an au pair—who claimed he wanted to marry her but reneged when he knocked her up. This story made her the hapless victim in an era when nice girls didn’t get laid before marriage, much less get pregnant.
So I grew up believing my snooty but nameless father had rejected mom and me. On the plus side, this belief fueled an I’ll-show-him attitude that motivated me to be the perfect kid, earn straight As and never get into trouble. I fantasized that someday I’d confront him, he’d be blown away by all my accomplishments and lament how he’d missed out on being part of my life. Take that, you dick. And BTW, where’s my inheritance?
On the flip side, I was tremendously insecure, especially with members of the READ MORE HERE