To Be Honest Read online

  When I told a friend about my strategy of telling strangers to be deejays, she told me how she’d conquered one of her own problems. Whenever a man asked what she did and she answered that she was a painter, the man would lecture her unpleasantly about painting. If she interjected or tried to leave, the man would become aggressive and insulting. After a long time experimenting with how to get out of listening to these men, she found that it only took one sentence: “How do you know so much about painting?” The man would puff with pride, say something vague, and strut away satisfied. I asked her if it bothered her to let these obnoxious guys feel like experts. She said, “It does, but it’s better than a confrontation or suffering through the conversation.”

  Alerted to the possibilities of giving people whatever interaction they wanted, I started to try it—not just to cut off aggravating interactions, but to make everyone happy.

  One of my children’s book writing students wrote a picture book about a mother who felt unappreciated. In the book, the mother’s kids didn’t say thank you when she drove them to school or made them lunch and didn’t notice how much work she put into planning their birthday parties. It wasn’t a big leap to intuit that she herself was a mother who felt unappreciated. Even the description of the mother in her book seemed intended as a depiction of herself. She’d turned in this manuscript for workshop, which meant the other twelve students had read it and we were all going to take turns giving comments in front of the class.

  As a teacher, I felt it was my responsibility to mention all she could potentially do with her concept. As written, her picture book for children was focused solely on the mother—the children barely appeared. And the book was more likely to shame kids than to entertain. I could imagine her making the concept more fun by cartoonishly exaggerating the mother’s self-sacrifice and her kids’ obliviousness. Or maybe she could focus it more on the kids by reversing the concept, writing about a self-sacrificing child whose mother never noticed or said thank you.

  Usually, giving notes on children’s books was fun for everyone, but I could feel how, in this case, she was likely to take criticism of the book as criticism of herself. Not only would I be telling her that the mother in the book wasn’t self-sacrificing enough, but also that she as author had made herself the hero instead of empowering children. It felt to me like the exact opposite of what she wanted to hear.

  With the class watching, I began my comments by saying that it was nice to read a book about such a great mother, that it was a tragedy so many mothers did so much for so little appreciation. My student beamed. I continued talking but she didn’t seem to listen. I’d already said the only thing she wanted to hear.

  Around this time, I heard a story about a young Russian in the 1800s who ended up with an opportunity to meet the writer Anton Chekhov for tea. This young man felt certain he’d make a fool of himself; he couldn’t imagine saying anything interesting enough to impress this famous genius. But once he was seated at a table with Chekhov, the young man found that everything coming out of his own mouth was brilliant. Chekhov laughed and gasped, barely speaking except to ask him more intrigued questions. The young man left that day amazed at how he’d underestimated himself. He took in Chekhov’s interest and spoke with a new freeness, a trust in the value of his voice.

  Decades later, long after Chekhov’s death, the formerly young man encountered someone else who had once drunk tea with Chekhov. He was excited to trade stories. The formerly young man retold the story he’d now told hundreds of times about the day he enthralled Chekhov. The other man smiled affectionately and explained that he’d heard this story before, that every time someone spoke of meeting Chekhov, the description was identical. In fact, the man said, his own vision of himself had been changed by those very same laughs and gasps. The formerly young man was shattered at the thought that Chekhov had only been polite, showing equal interest to everyone as if they were his children. The other man recognized his disappointment and reassured him that Chekhov had been an honest man. This was the magical effect of his curiosity and his admiration of humanity. He showed people how to fall in love with themselves.

  This story haunted me, plagued me with questions. Did Chekhov inspire them to become more moving and interesting than usual by inviting them to be their truest selves, like I’d always tried to do? Had Chekhov really been honest? Or did he just make people feel good about whoever they happened to be, interesting or not? Did Chekhov just reflect back to them their fantasy of who they longed to be? Chekhov couldn’t have loved everybody! If he helped people he disliked to love themselves, wasn’t that still a great service?

  Honest or not, I wanted to be more like Chekhov.

  The Profundity of Small Talk

  My list of forbidden subjects required me to seek new genres of conversation. I was willing to bore myself if it would spare others’ awkwardness. I was getting used to the once-foreign concept that if someone in an exchange was going to be uncomfortable, that person should be me. So I decided to attempt “small talk.”

  Years before, in a dentist’s office waiting room, I’d read a magazine interview with a movie star in which she said she liked introductory conversations to be “stupid.” She suggested starting out by discussing favorite colors. As bizarre as this sounded to me, I tried to keep an open mind. Other people found meaning in places I didn’t. I was curious what would happen if I went out for a night to my usual bar and, when introduced to someone new, tried discussing our favorite colors.

  Almost immediately upon arrival, a friend introduced me to a musician who seemed the worst possible subject for this experiment. I recognized her from photographs of her performances at fashion events and art galleries; she wore dark red lipstick and a black beret. My friend went to the bar for a drink, and she looked dismayed to be left alone with me. I felt certain that if I asked her favorite color she’d laugh at me or flee, but I still proceeded with the plan. I found it unexpectedly calming to go into this conversation without the intent to be interesting.

  She asked the standard question about what I did and I answered, “Lately, I’ve mostly been trying to find the right color to paint the bedroom in my new apartment.” This was true.

  “Oh yeah?” she said.

  “What’s your favorite color?” I asked her.

  To my surprise, she embraced the question, listing her favorites and how they’d changed over time. She showed no sign of condescension or boredom. “Your favorite color isn’t necessarily right for your walls,” she said, while I privately laughed at how well this deliberately stupid conversation was going. “What colors are you considering?”

  I had a story ready. “My favorite color is eggplant,” I said. “I kept going to paint stores but none had the right shade of purple. Eventually, I found an independent paint company that had a perfect match, but when I looked at the sample jar, I saw the label, and the color was named ‘Bachelor Pad Jazz.’”

  She laughed. “Oh no.”

  “I imagined this business meeting in a boardroom where they name colors, that someone in a suit gave his pitch.” I did an impression of a cigar-smoking executive. “‘I know the guy who wants this eggplant. He’s probably thirty years old, just broke up with his girlfriend, moved into a new apartment by himself, probably plays jazz piano at restaurants. He’s a total cliché. There are a million of this guy. Bachelor Pad Jazz! It’s gonna be a hit.’”

  The musician laughed and grinned, not even slightly put-off. I longed to tell her why I was talking about colors and what it meant to me, but I knew the truth would ruin it. The whole thing made me want to cry, but I kept it together.

  I tried this conversation about colors several more times that night. If anyone was just being nice while waiting for an excuse to escape, I couldn’t tell. As hard as it was for me to believe, they were charmed.

  I’d always thought conversation was for expressing myself or learning about someone else, an exchange of information. There was clearly a whole type of communication I
’d overlooked. I remembered the children in school who didn’t need to talk in order to play. I thought of when Max at family camp told me a person could be loved without saying anything to earn it. Some close friends just played video games in silence. Even some lovers didn’t speak to each other. I’d thought these people were just bores with nothing to say or, worse, afraid to speak. But I now saw they just communicated differently, showing affection in ways that had nothing to do with words.

  I spent the next few weeks small-talking with strangers. After a few dozen of these conversations, I finally encountered someone who hated it. “You’re seriously asking me my favorite color?” she asked. “What is this? Kindergarten?”

  I cracked up, so excited that I’d found someone like-minded. “I know!” I said. “I just started experimenting with small talk and it’s been blowing my mind. People really do want to talk about things like favorite colors. You’re the first person who’s resisted or even noticed that I was doing anything out of the ordinary!” The stranger looked me up and down in disgust. I assured her, “I don’t want to talk about colors. Other people like it. I’m trying it to make other people happy.”

  The stranger glared at me. “You asked me my favorite color because you assumed I was stupid.”

  “No,” I replied. “Small talk isn’t stupid! I used to think that too, but I’ve realized that it’s an alternate system of communication just as legitimate as ours!” I was waving my hands in the air, so excited to have someone to talk to about this.

  Unmoved by my speech, she said, “If someone talks to you about their favorite color, they’re either just being polite or they’re a vapid idiot.”

  Her condescending expression and her voice’s judgmental certainty gave me a small sense, for just a moment, of what it might have felt like for other people to meet me.

  * Because all lying felt equally insane, I couldn’t easily differentiate between what was normal or abnormal, reasonable or selfish, or truly immoral.

  Chapter 11

  This Is Normal

  Though I’d mostly acclimated to lying in many casual situations, I’d procrastinated applying my rules to dating. I couldn’t stomach the blatant immorality of wooing someone under false pretenses. The jury advised me to present myself in the best possible light at first, to wait a few months into a relationship before revealing any potentially off-putting information. I called that a bait-and-switch; they called it normal.

  I read some books and articles about dating; the alleged experts wrote as if it were assumed that no one would be loved for who they really were, that romance was no more than well-executed sleight of hand. I found “hard to get” hard to accept. One book recommended that I face my body away when talking to someone attractive to subtly express an alluring lack of interest. Another article claimed that I should look at the bridge of a woman’s nose instead of directly into eyes; that way, my eye contact would be steadier and sexier. Even if I managed to woo someone with tricks, I’d know she didn’t love me, that she loved my psychological manipulations.

  The idealized characters in movies and literature acted as if they’d read the same dating books. Jane Austen’s characters attracted each other with unavailability and insults, treated each other just as terribly as Wesley and Buttercup from The Princess Bride. Even the most charming characters from old movies—Astaire and Rogers, Hepburn and Grant, Belafonte and Dandridge, Stanwyck and Fonda—spoke indirectly and showed little of themselves. As much as it bothered me to admit it, even in my favorite stories, romance had rarely been about honesty.

  My first dishonest date was in August of 2011, about a year and a half into my research and experiments. I’d met Malaika at the restaurant where I now played piano. She wore loose, colorful clothes that felt “summery” and white gardenias pinned in her hair like Billie Holiday. I didn’t usually appeal to people who smiled constantly, but she sat down at the table closest to the piano and spent brunch having staring contests with me while I played. Her light brown eyes remained unblinking; she had more talent for staring contests than I had for anything. When I asked her out, my hands shook with nervousness. She grabbed my phone and typed the number herself.

  For our first date, I’d invited her to a musician friend’s concert. I arrived early to pick up the tickets and waited on the sidewalk outside, biting my nails and compulsively checking my watch. Soon, I spotted her waving to me from down the block. She glided directly into a hello hug. As we embraced, it took all my fortitude to hold back from announcing that this date was an experiment in deception. I noticed a pain in my gums and realized I’d been subconsciously clenching my teeth to keep my mouth shut.

  As my friend performed, Malaika and I danced, not saying anything. Things went so much better when I wasn’t talking. After the show, we got a drink at a wine bar next door so dark that our eyes had to adjust. Candles behind patterned glass cast calculated shadows. Malaika and I perched on stools at a high table. Her flirtatious smile felt to me as if it were saying, “I’ll enjoy this, but only if you don’t reveal who you really are.”

  I said as little as I could and stuck to asking questions. I didn’t mind this part because I wanted to know all about her and I loved her voice, half-whispered and half-laughing. She’d linger on certain words and syllables, pausing and letting her expressive face carry her meaning. Whenever I interjected, my graceless high-speed chatter reminded me of a stuttering machine gun. I’d once liked the way I spoke. My new attention to how I’d be perceived had already corroded the way I saw myself.

  Malaika told me about her job inventing paper craft projects for children. “I can talk about paper all day,” she said. She described the paper baubles and origami she’d folded herself, her desk drawers filled with paper samples. “My apartment is a world of paper,” she said. I was barely talking, but she didn’t look bored.

  As whiskey and her presence intoxicated me, I found it more and more challenging to follow my rules. An attractive woman was like truth serum.

  Malaika opened her mouth to speak and then hesitated. I wasn’t the only one deciding what to censor. She readied herself to say something risky. “This is my first time on a proper date,” she told me. She crossed her arms and a line of shadow fell over her eye. “I broke up with my boyfriend a few months ago. I haven’t had much experience being single.”

  Malaika’s mention of her recent breakup felt like permission to tell her about Eve, but I had a rule about this already:

  — Don’t take someone else’s openness as an invitation.

  She could bring up her ex but still judge me if I brought up mine. Malaika told me that in the past she’d only dated friends; she’d never gone out with a stranger.

  I’d put “dating” on my list of forbidden subjects for a reason. I flipped through potential strategies in my head for how to dodge this line of conversation. Malaika’s eyebrows constricted. “Are you okay?” she asked. “What are you thinking about?”

  I panicked. “Let’s not talk about this.”

  Malaika laughed. “Why not?”

  Still flustered, I answered, “I have a list of subjects I’m not supposed to talk about.”

  Malaika laughed, but then recognized I wasn’t joking and stopped laughing. I liked that she could tell I was serious. She rested her drink on the table and asked, “Who decides what subjects you’re supposed to talk about?”

  “It’s self-imposed,” I told her. “I wrote the list.”

  “Oh,” Malaika laughed, relieved. “It sounded like something from therapy.” My whole brain was something from therapy. “Okay,” she said, leaning in and smiling. “So you have a list of subjects you won’t let yourself talk about.”

  “And I add to it whenever a conversation goes wrong.”

  She laughed again. “What’s on this list?”

  “I shouldn’t tell you,” I said.

  She reprised our staring contest. “Yes, you should.” I kept in mind that when people believed they wanted to know my thoughts, they
were usually mistaken. “You want to tell me,” Malaika said.

  “I want to tell you all kinds of things I shouldn’t,” I replied, intentionally misleading her. I wanted to tell everyone things I shouldn’t, not just her. And the things I wanted to tell weren’t sexy or fun or romantic; they were off-putting. The flirtatious line only sounded flirtatious because of what it omitted.

  Malaika’s eyes lowered and lingered upon my lips. I wanted to ask her if this look meant I should touch or kiss her, but I’d come up with a rule about this too:

  — Don’t ask permission. People prefer to be read.

  I felt frustrated that I couldn’t just ask what she wanted, but I forced myself to trust my reading of the situation; I placed my unsteady hand on her bare leg.

  Malaika smirked. “Maybe the list of subjects you shouldn’t talk about is, itself, a subject you shouldn’t talk about.”

  I reminded myself that flirting often involved insincere criticisms. I noted her attentive eyes and open posture and mentally referenced another rule:

  — Trust facial expressions and body language more than words.

  Soon, we were making out across the table. I was distracted by thoughts of pulling away and telling her she’d been duped, that this date had been a sham, that I’d kept quiet so she would like me, and that this experiment had proven all my most dreaded hypotheses. But I didn’t pull away. The kissing stopped and I still didn’t say anything. Things went so much better when I wasn’t talking.

  At this point the jury had been listening to my observations and experiments for a year. Two of the jurors had been recently dumped by their boyfriends. Carmen coped by going out drinking every night, crying in public, lamenting her loneliness to strangers who she’d then have to reject when they tried to kiss her. Angie had overnight become a geyser that gushed brilliant break-up songs. They weren’t in a great place to be giving advice but that didn’t stop them.