Liars Not So Anonymous: Trump and My Mother

I know a thing or two about lying and liars. Not just because I taught for 35+ years and heard more than my fair share when it came to excuses for any number of behaviors. And not because I was a guidance counselor for 6+ years and occasionally had to confront a student about the disconnect between what they were saying and what they were doing.

No, my experience with lying came from my familial upbringing. My mother had, shall we say, a casual, occasionally nodding, acquaintance with the truth. You know, you pass someone on the street and they look sort of familiar, so you kind of nod? That was her approach to the truth. Never tell it if there’s a lie available.

Anecdote #1, typical. She wanted to know how much a house was selling for on her street. She called the relator listed on the sign, then launched into a long, totally fictitious, story about uncles and nieces looking for houses, all under an alias. My brother and I were frequently tasked with answering the phone and lying for her if it was someone she didn’t want to talk to. I think Caller ID might have freed us from this sinful habit.

And a habit it is, one that I unfortunately picked up and had a difficult time overcoming, although I pride myself on having done so. Anecdote #2, personal. My college roommate and I were hitchhiking to Buffalo to visit a high school friend and classmate of mine. It’s upstate New York in the winter, snowy, cold and unpleasant. My friend went to college in Buffalo, but a smaller school, not Buffalo University, which is what we put on our sign to indicate both that we were students and our destination. 

We got a ride pretty quickly, and the driver asked, reasonably, if we went to Buffalo University. I immediately channeled my mother and answered, “Yes.” The next hour and a half consisted of my making up stuff about a school I’d never been to and knew nothing about. When our ride dropped us off in Rochester, my roommate looked at me and said, “What the ¶¢∞ª was that about?” Shaking my head, I confessed, “I don’t know.” That was an early, painfully embarrassing, lesson, but for years it was one day at a time.

My mother was so compulsive in her lying that she started to believe her lies and thus became quite good at revisionist history, at least on a personal level. That, of course, begs the question, “Is it lying if the liar believes what (s)he is saying, even if the rest of the world knows the truth is something not only different but verifiably different?” I don’t have the answer to that, but it is why I have been loath to accuse the current president of lying, because I think he always believes what he’s saying, even if it’s completely different than what he said the day, or week, or month, or year before.

I don’t know if there’s a cure, exactly, but Step 1 on the program is admitting you have a problem. Other steps including admitting you were/are wrong and asking forgiveness. I’m less than optimistic that any of these steps are on the agenda of our current president.