I have given a lot of thought to truth
telling, not only from reading retired prison doctor and psychiatrist
Theodore Dalrymple's book Life at the Bottom, but also
from observing our wonky collective experience in the political arena
and our inability to sift through the swarm of fact and fantasy. Who
and what to believe when there is so much misinformation and
deliberate falsehoods? When we pretend that the Emperor has clothes?
I've also been interested in the philosophy and teachings of Jordan Peterson, the Canadian clinical psychologist and Toronto University professor who has been in the news over his controversial views on gender pronouns and freedom of speech, in particular, and the meaning of life, in general. Not only is Peterson well-versed on the depth psychology of Carl Jung, who he is presently familiarizing to a larger audience, but also the humanistic approach of Carl Rogers. Peterson also has an extensive knowledge of mythology, religion and history and, like Jung, has interwoven these philosophical elements into a cohesive tapestry the simplification of which any novice can comprehend and find beneficial.
One element of Peterson's teachings, which he prioritizes, emphasizes the importance, at the most basic level, of telling the truth. He asserts that twisting and manipulating truth to achieve some purpose, gain an upper hand, or manipulate an opponent, as opposed to being honest and truthful to oneself and others and letting 'the chips fall as they may,' has a tendency to 'warp the spirit.' Lying sends you off into the wrong direction and, eventually, will take you straight to 'hell.' Truth 'elevates your life and enriches it.' On the other hand, he advises us to pay attention to those who tell us the truth, to embrace the criticism in order to grow and to learn from it. We don't do anyone favors by lying to them, we don't advance their growth, and vice versa.
The levels of truth and their constituency is another discussion.What constitutes a lie? What if you believe everything you say? Does that make it true? Or is that your truth alone? Memory is inaccurate, as we have seen through various clinical experiments, which leads to deception. There are many components to what truth means, but what what I'm mostly concerned about is the provable, intractable truth - no question, no doubt, no ambiguity.
The understanding of truth has been a source of reflection for me for years since I grew up in a household of tricksters (as many probably did) who I observed telling lies almost every day. Amid who stole this and who broke that, the denials, my mother's adulterous relationship camouflaged as shopping excursions, and the ambiguity and lies about my father's mental health, I was confused as to what constituted the truth, or even reality itself. As a consequence, I spent many hours by the side of our house in my suburban confusion looking up at the sky to ask God 'what is the truth?' I had an epiphany about truth 10 years later in the Jacksonville City Jail, but as I look back on truth-telling and its consequences and implications, one person in my family rises above all the others, the greatest fabricator I've ever known - my brother Billy.
His lying and stealing started early, but when his excursions to collect illicit goods from all vicinities in the neighborhood began, he was fifteen years old. Skinny in stature and indifferent by nature, my brother was a person for whom popularity had bestowed greater traits of generosity and intelligence than were warranted. Acting with an impertinence and a sense of entitlement that only one immersed in total self-absorption can achieve, he sniffed with insouciance towards the male, sycophantic audience who dropped by every weekend to praise him, draping their legs over our plastic couch in the basement to watch him play his guitar, the sole object of his devoted attention. He was impartial at best.
On the weekend, his thick brown hair was combed straight down over his forehead to cover an angry rash of pimples but for school, his hair was shoveled back in the opposite direction and glued to his scalp with Brylcreem, with Clearasil being utilized to help camouflage the spots. He was a continual nose-picker.
At first, Billy's thievery consisted of inconsequential items lifted from an unsuspecting back yard or two, but it wasn't long before he was warehousing, cataloging, and marketing a stockpile of brand new goods lifted from the various department stores in the area and stashed in various secret compartments around the house. In content, they dwarfed the cheap, stolen items I brought home.
Cartons of cigarettes were lifted from Kresge's. His clever routine involved picking up a trolley outside, retrieving brown paper bags near the cashier, opening them in the trolley, strolling around the grocery store under the pretense of shopping, wandering back near the cashier where the cigarettes were stocked, then inconspicuously placing five cartons into each bag before pushing the trolley out the door to the parking lot. This was done for days in a row in order to fill the quotas for his cash customers, usually his deferential friends from school. When a cashier caught on to him and he had to ditch the trolley when she ran after him while he took off running, he laid off for a few months.
Morgan's Department Store provided the clothing. On entering, he walked around and appraised the men's sweaters and pants and the location of the sales clerks before slipping into the changing room with an armful of both decoyed and select articles. He flattened the goods under his sweater against his chest and left the changing room, placing the decoys back on the shelf. Nonchalantly, he rode the escalator down and exited the store. Of course, theft was easier in those days - no cameras, no inquisitive salesclerks, no security guards, no bells and whistles. The articles were brought home, counted, stored and then sold, price tags attached.
LaSalle Factory Outlet supplied all our music material. In order to steal records, the stacks and stacks that we finally accumulated, Billy wore pants that were a little looser and fastened with a wide belt. He walked to the store on the day records, the old 45s, were delivered, selected the ones he wanted, stacked them up, usually fifteen at a time because anything less would cause slippage, then, with the records tight against his waist, he would buy some little decoy item at the cash and leave.
Months later, with all the money he had earned from selling his stolen goods, including money that he had siphoned at two in the morning from the empty milk bottles from the apartment buildings at the top of our street, Billy bought a sky blue '65 Triumph Spitfire convertible which he parked in the garage. He sat in the bucket seats smoking cigarettes and listening to the radio and then on the weekends when he wasn't at some department store, or counting his money, he'd park it in the driveway to smoke cigarettes and listen to the radio. He never drove it anywhere; he had no license. He only washed and dried it and smoked in it and envisioned the day he would take it out on the highway.
One afternoon, I was out in the garage with Billy when my mother, holding a basket of laundry, leaned in to see what we were doing. She stood there for a few minutes staring at the car as Billy buffed it up with his clean rag. It was almost as though she was seeing it for the first time.
'What are you looking at?'
'Where did you get the money for that car?'
'What do you mean where did I get the money for the car,' Billy said.
'You heard me. Where did you get the money for that car?'
'My paper route. Whadda ya think?'
'Don't talk to me in that tone
of voice,' she hissed. 'I won't stand for that kind of nonsense in
this house.'
