To Be Honest Read online

* I’d never again look at a pile of mail without curiosity.

  * It didn’t occur to me that I should have this phone call in private, that I was forcing them to listen to something insane.

  Chapter 9

  The Polite Way To Say No Is to Say Yes

  My emotional state made teaching difficult. I warned my ukulele students that Eve and I had broken up. “So if we’re playing a love song, don’t be caught off guard if I start crying.”

  I’d recently found a part-time job teaching adults how to write children’s books. For a group workshop, a student had turned in a picture book about an octopus. The octopus sewed himself various disguises to trick others into being his friend. At the end, he met someone who loved him for the octopus he really was. As I gave my critique in front of the class, my voice kept cracking and I eventually just stopped talking to cry. “Sorry,” I told them. “I just broke up with my girlfriend so, at the moment, this book has personal meaning for me.” Some of the students seemed moved or concerned, others looked down at their desks in discomfort, others held back awkward laughter. I found it funny myself and said something like, “Doesn’t this feel like a scene from a cute romantic comedy? A children’s book author goes through a breakup and falls apart in class while discussing a picture book about a lonely octopus?” The class didn’t find this as funny as I did.

  I wasn’t talking to Dad much. When we did talk on the phone, the conversations weren’t about the manuscript or our relationship or even about my breakup. We talked about movies we’d seen recently or about politics. We resorted to small talk and avoidance, all that we’d once hated.

  Mom mostly wanted to talk about Eve. She was trying to be supportive, but she was pretty unhappy about it. “She still wants to be with you,” Mom would say. “You could go back to her.” Mom was open with me about how much she missed Eve. I told her I missed Eve too.

  Miriam, who was now twenty-three, had expected Eve to be part of her life in New York. She was the least sympathetic. “Eve’s definitely the best person you’ll ever go out with. Dumping her is just dumb. Like, who do you think you are to dump Eve?”

  Josh was the most detached and accepting. “It’s sad,” he said. “But these things happen.”

  Though this response was verbatim something I’d often said, I found it suddenly false. I wanted to tell him that great romances barely ever happened, that this was not normal.

  Because I’d never really been with anyone but Eve, I assumed I’d just go back to isolation, getting by on fantasy the way I had before I moved to New York. But I didn’t see anything to lose in asking out friends and acquaintances I found attractive. Family camp had taught me long ago that I should always ask for what I wanted, even if I’d likely receive a no. I saw dignity in asking and no shame in rejection; I’d been raised to expect it.

  I was pleasantly surprised that everyone I asked out said yes. I was then unpleasantly surprised when they each canceled, stood me up, or stopped replying. I assumed that I must have done something wrong to change their minds between the yes and the stand-up, a mistake in where I’d suggested they meet me or the way I’d phrased the invitation. I mentioned this to a friend and she was the one to break it to me that these women had said yes without meaning it. I considered myself well-trained in recognizing lies, but I clearly had blind spots.

  “Why would someone say yes when they mean no?” I asked. Before she could reply, I spewed out various incorrect theories: “Maybe they’re scared to say no because men in their pasts freaked out at rejection? Or maybe they find sadistic enjoyment in getting my hopes up just to dash them?”

  My friend suggested that most who gave me a false yes either generally shied away from confrontation or believed saying yes and canceling was more polite than saying no.

  This reminded me of when, as a child, my teachers would ask, “How would you feel if someone said that to you?” This was the wrong question. My feelings worked differently. I couldn’t understand others by asking myself how I’d feel. Because I had no trouble saying or receiving no, I’d overlooked that others would do anything to avoid it.

  Every once in a while, a woman who agreed to go out with me would show up, and usually it only took a few lines of conversation for her to regret it. Despite her obvious urgency to leave, she’d stay the minimum time politeness demanded. I tried to acknowledge what was happening and tell her she could leave if she wanted, but that only tortured my date further and never resulted in her leaving any earlier. I wasn’t sure why I was so immediately off-putting, and it occurred to me that the ones who knew, the experts on this subject, were sitting right across from me. I began asking the unfortunate women who I’d just put through bad dates what I’d done wrong. Yet again, I felt I had nothing to lose by asking; the date had already gone sour.*

  The first several times I stopped a date to ask for advice, the woman lied, claiming that she was having a great time. “Come on!” I’d laugh. “Isn’t it more awkward to deny it?” No matter how much I pushed for answers, they’d stick to the story we both knew to be false. Then, soon as they could, they’d make an excuse and get the hell out of there.

  Two months after my breakup, a friend directed a music video for my newest song called “You’re Somebody Even If Nobody Loves You.” On set, I noticed one of the crew members freely giving artistic suggestions to the stylist, choreographer, and director. Her notes were brilliant, and people listened to her because she was kind and charming. She managed to be both outspoken and liked. The director introduced us—her name was Connie. We only interacted for a few minutes, barely spoke to each other, but I sensed a mutual interest. From afar, I didn’t seem so bad. After the shoot, I looked her up and found that she kept a journal on her website that went on for pages, with personal stories and observations. I read far too much of it and then asked her out for coffee.

  Connie chose a coffee shop in SoHo, quiet and empty and lodge-like, with wood and taxidermy and ironic paintings of old white men in hunting outfits. She wore a black turtleneck and black suit pants. Connie’s bangs ended in a straight line, framing her expressive arching eyebrows and long eyelashes. I told her I’d read a lot of what she’d written. She clearly didn’t like my saying that, but I couldn’t be certain which part bothered her: my reading it or my telling her about it. I moved on to other subjects but could sense that she just wanted to get away, so I said, “Hey, Connie. Can I ask you some advice?”

  “Okay,” she said, curious about this change in tone. “About what?”

  “I was raised by unusual people,” I said.

  “Everybody thinks that,” she interrupted. “Everyone thinks they’re weird and their family is crazy.”

  “Some people are actually unusual.” Connie looked over my shoulder as if searching for any escape. “I only brought it up to say that I’m trying to be less unusual,” I told her. “I want to learn normal social life.”

  Connie laughed, attentive again. “Okay?”

  “This date obviously failed and I’m sure it was my fault,” I told her. Connie’s face plasticized into a grotesque smile intended to mask her embarrassment for me. Still, I persisted. “You’re exactly the kind of person I want to like me,” I told her. “So maybe you can tell me what I’m doing wrong.” Connie’s face was expressive enough that I could clearly read each step in her thinking. I watched her abandon her fake smile. She didn’t soften to comfort me like others had. She raised a judgmental eyebrow and scrutinized my face coldly, guessing whether I really wanted to hear what she had to say. “I’ve asked other women for advice like this,” I told her. “And they all lied or avoided the conversation.”

  Connie laughed. “Of course they did! What do you expect?”

  “But you seem honest. In your writing, at least.”

  Connie loosened and leaned forward again. Her fingertips perched on the table as if cradling stacks of poker chips. “Yeah,” she nodded. “I am honest.”

  “Great,” I said. “Then tell me your side of the story.
”

  Unlike the other dates I’d badgered, Connie smiled, enjoying this. “You said so many things you shouldn’t say on a date that I thought you were trying to manipulate me, playing games I hadn’t heard of. But then I realized you were just awkward.”

  “What did I say?” I asked.

  Connie went off listing inappropriate first-date subjects I’d broached, glowing like she’d never felt so free to trash someone.

  “You said you couldn’t imagine having another girlfriend because the one you just broke up with three months ago was the great romance of your life? That was the part I thought might be some kind of game to make me want you.”

  It had never occurred to me that my honesty could be misinterpreted as game-playing; that really bothered me. Her hands chopped at the air and fluttered around her head as the honesty spilled from her.

  “You told me you disliked most people and most people disliked you and you’d only learned to have friends when you moved to New York?”

  She paused, suddenly hesitant, but then shook it off.

  “And don’t tell someone about your fetish before you’ve even made out. It could be hot if you reveal it at the right time but otherwise, it’s creepy.”

  At my lack of freak-out, she became comfortable again.

  “You told me about your weird family camp cult? And you said you had money problems and you were afraid that the video shoot had made me think you were rich?”

  I tried to explain myself. “I just felt like you should know what you were getting into. Wouldn’t you rather know in advance …”

  Connie interrupted. “Do everyone a favor and just don’t.”

  “I was doing the right thing,” I insisted. “If I had herpes, wouldn’t you want me to warn you before we had sex?”

  Connie rolled her eyes so hard that she reminded me of Dad. “Obviously,” she said.

  “How early would you suggest I warn you?” I asked. “The first date? The second?”

  “I don’t know!” she said, exasperated. “If you have herpes, it’s complicated. Do you have herpes?”

  “No, I’m using herpes as a metaphor for my personality.”

  She laughed and waved her fingers in my face. “Don’t go on a date with me and list reasons why I shouldn’t like you. It’s idiotic. It’s self-centered. Like, you brought me somewhere and gave me this shitty experience.”

  “You think it’s okay to hide the bad things about myself so that someone will like me?” I asked. “To trick and mislead people? That isn’t right.”

  Connie wrapped herself in her own arms and blurted out, “If doing the right thing makes everyone hate you, what’s the point?”

  This struck me as a very good question.

  I leaned both elbows on the sewing machine table with Eve’s vase still on it, emptied months ago of its last dead hydrangeas, and played the Fear Game. It wasn’t as fun to play alone. Without Eve there to cut me off, my list of fears was too long. These troubled me most:

  — Now that I’d experienced being in love, I couldn’t be as happy alone

  — Ukulele lessons will dry up and I’ll have no other way to make a living

  — Eve is the only woman who would appreciate an honest boyfriend

  — I won’t be able to get along with a landlord enough to get another apartment

  — I’m oblivious and misguided and everything that feels right is, in fact, wrong

  Then I listed reasons to be less honest:

  — Eve, the wisest person I knew, and others I admired lived dishonestly

  — I wanted to be different from Dad

  — I’d make other people happy

  — If so many loved dishonesty, there had to be something to it I couldn’t see

  There was also a reason I didn’t have the insight to write down but that hid somewhere in my mind: if no one really knew me and no one let me know them, I’d never have to fall in love or feel loved, and I wouldn’t have to go through any more pain. So perhaps my truest reason for becoming dishonest wasn’t so uncommon.

  * My brain was having a hard time with the concept that I was supposed to spare these women the awkwardness.

  Part 3

  The Dishonest Days

  Chapter 10

  Forbidden Subjects

  To kick my honesty habit, I’d need steps, probably more than twelve. I started by listing subjects I’d no longer let myself discuss. The first ones that came to mind were:

  — Unpleasant truths

  — My parents —Eve

  — Most people

  — My opinions

  — Family therapy camp

  — My personality

  It didn’t occur to me that I could adjust my tone for my audience. All I knew was that certain topics irked or unnerved. I figured it was safest to outlaw them completely. I told myself that every time a conversation went wrong, I’d add whatever topic ruined it to my list of forbidden subjects.

  I came up with dozens of other rules as well, all in the service of the same overarching scheme: to learn to read people and give them what they wanted. Instead of asking questions, I’d pick up hints. Instead of expressing myself, I’d pander. I’d reverse the golden rule and do unto others what they wanted me to do unto them.

  When I decided to censor myself, I told everybody. It didn’t occur to me to keep my dishonesty-aspiration private. I hoped to get advice from friends savvier at social interaction. At a Christmas party in a friend’s crowded little apartment, I announced my plan to be less honest.

  Everyone around the coffee table laughed. “I’m not joking,” I said, gesturing madly. “My honesty has rendered life impossible.” I continued in all seriousness as everyone laughed, and my fingers tightened around my whiskey. They told me over and over that it was crazy to aspire to be a liar. Eventually, I cracked. “I’m only trying to be as dishonest as all of you.” At that line, no one laughed. I added “honesty” to my list of forbidden subjects.

  Within a week, I’d banned everything I usually talked about.

  For years, I’d been told that I misused words, swapping connotations, that what I called “honesty” was really “rudeness” and what I called “lying” was generally known as “politeness.” Because “rude” and “polite” had come up so often, I thought it might benefit me to read a bit about etiquette.

  At the time, I viewed etiquette as a web of arbitrary rules written by the powerful to maintain psychological control. Some rules shamed or exposed outsiders, such as complex table manners. Others discouraged dissent by defining boundary-drawing as “confrontational.” Exposing wrongdoing was “making a scene.” Calling out racism was worse manners than saying something racist. For me, etiquette was most insidious when presented as morality. Perhaps using the wrong fork wasn’t immoral, but eating before the whole table was seated would be compared to an act of violence, a “slap in the face.” I saw nothing moral about these rules that benefited some at the expense of many, that encouraged class-worship and conformity. To put it mildly, I went into my study of etiquette with some skepticism.

  As I studied some etiquette guides, I observed that they mostly served to collect and categorize lies. What if you don’t want to attend a party? There’s a lie for that. What if you feel hurt about something? This lie is most appropriate. What if you’ve betrayed someone and he confronts you? We’ve got the perfect lie for you! Of course, these books and articles never used the word “lie,” instead described acts of untruth and evasion with a litany of more positive words. But referring to lying as “grace” or “kindness” didn’t convince me. I skimmed the books, as well as advice columns, for any circumstances in which the authors advised the reader to behave in a manner that I could loosely interpret as honest. As far as I could tell, the etiquette experts regarded dishonesty as the salve to all ills, humanity’s finest invention.

  As much as I thought I knew about lying, I was unprepared for how complex it really was. I marveled at the countless purposes of different lie
s: lies intended to be understood as empty pleasantries; lies to stop or redirect a conversation; lies to prompt a specific response. The books explained so many of my last few decades’ worth of interactions. Among many other examples, I now knew why many on the phone had behaved strangely after they told me, “I know you have to go.” It turned out all along that I was supposed to repeat the line they’d given me and agree I had to go. Instead, I’d replied with confusion, saying I didn’t have to go, asking where they’d gotten that impression. I couldn’t imagine the uncountable hints I’d missed; my obliviousness overwhelmed me. I found most of it hilarious but also remained aware that there had been no humor in it for the people who had gone through the mortification and awkwardness of dealing with me.

  Though I’d learned a lot from the etiquette experts, I resented how they delineated any behavior on the sacred spectrum from polite to rude. I saw no reference to etiquette being subjective, a matter of personal taste. And yet, I noticed dozens of disagreements between the “experts.” How could one be expected to follow these rules if no one could even agree upon what they were? Was it a violation of space to say hello to a stranger in line beside you or was it unfriendly to not say hello. When was it uncomfortable to compliment and when was it insulting to refrain from complimenting? Was the whole world a series of no-win situations? When one encounters a rude person, should one draw his attention to his gaffes or respond with kind deflection to avoid embarrassing him? I couldn’t quiet my brain’s satirical rants. How had these fools come to be considered etiquette experts anyway? It seemed to me that claiming to be an etiquette expert, in itself, ought to be considered rude.

  I reminded myself that I was supposed to be learning, not quibbling. When I tried to take the worldview of the etiquette experts seriously, I recognized that their vision of humanity matched my family’s, but with one crucial difference: they regarded the offended and hurt with compassion. The etiquette experts didn’t see caring about what other people thought as a flaw or tragedy, but as an easy-to-accept reality. Perhaps this was a truth that the Levitons were unwilling to face. What the experts wanted to accommodate, my family had tried to satirize, fix, or escape.