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Lies Our Parents Told Us

There is no shortage of stubborn fathers, and mine is definitely one of the classics. For my Dad, admitting a mistake or a false accusation is like swallowing a whole bottle of Cod Liver Oil.

Along with Dad's obstinate ways, I also had to deal with his constant frustration due to missing tools he cursed me for losing, even when I never touched them. If something was gone, broken, or out of control, I was the one who had to face his wrath. When he yelled, the whole house shook, and when he called my name in a fit of anger, I approached his domain with extreme caution.

His favorite chastising sayings were gems like, "You're USELESS," old standbys like "Jesus Christ," and the ever popular question, "Can't you do anything right?" However, it was not these signs of paternal rage that I feared most. No, it was that call I would get, that bellow from his giant lungs that pronounced my name in a way that could only mean I'd done something wrong, horribly wrong.

One dark night I was ripped from a deep slumber by such a mind-numbing yell.

He called me down from my room and forced me to stare at an apple that had been absolutely mauled by a writing instrument and replaced in the refrigerator for safekeeping by some young culprit. My two sisters stood in shocked fear as he asked me sternly if I had punctured the fruit so mercilessly.

"No, Dad, I didn't touch it," I stammered.

"Well, then who did!? Your sisters say they didn't do it, it must have been you!" He extended his arm and showed the cratered apple to me as if it would jog my memory and force me to recall my unforgivable act.

I was at a loss for words, for the apple he was thrusting my way had not been a victim of my senseless cruelty. It was one of my sisters for sure, and they were too scared to tell. I wasn't one to point fingers or make up stories to the tune of a burglar coming in and performing the intricate mutilation. I just stood there and pleaded, stupidly at that, "But, Dad, I didn't do it, I swear."

Then he spoke the words I would never forget: "Maryjane, go get the lie detector." The next thing I remember is crawling under the kitchen table to plug in the contraption my father had bought out of a police catalog somewhere, a simple hunk of machinery that he was convinced was supposed to be able to reach into your brain and prove that you were a no good, dishonest hooligan.

I was strapped to this pulsing set of wires and made to sit in a kitchen chair to await the flip of a switch that would seal my fate. My sister Maryjane stood by silently, right up to the moment my Dad was ready to turn the thing on. Then, just as I was about to deposit some solid waste in my pull-ups, Maryjane stepped forward.

"Dad, it was me," she confessed. I was saved, and he was... embarrassed? I couldn't believe it. My father stood before me in a state of total confusion.

He looked at her and then back at me, puzzled. I was absolved, and he apologized. I couldn't help smiling as I plodded off to bed. As I approached the steps to my room, I contemplated the thought of what might have been if that switch had been thrown. My smile disappeared as he berated my sister, and I felt sorry for her, even though she was one step away from letting me take the blame.

To this day, that is the only time my father's ever admitted he was wrong. I will always remember it as a defining moment in my life when my father shook off his stubborn tendencies and allowed himself to be humbled. It was a great day for my family, even for Maryjane who was the victim of his final tantrum.

We had seen our father admit a mistake, something many fathers never do,something sacred in the life of a boy who longs for one chance to vindicate himself from a supposed "lie." Although it is a day my Dad would love to forget, I remind him every now and then and smile, hoping one day I might get the chance to see something like that again. I know, fat chance, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed anyway.