We’re told to tell the truth from childhood on. When we reach adulthood, if we lie on applications or forms, there can be hell to pay. Lying to our mates can be cause for a split-up.
You and I, though, know we have to lie occasionally. That’s a pretty sofa. I thoroughly enjoyed your kid’s piano recital. I like your new boyfriend. Fibs like these are the grease on society’s axle.
Of late, we’re being told to tell people exactly what we think when they opine about, say, Donald Trump, vaccinations, the Israel-Hamas War, immigration, or any of a jillion controversial topics in the world today. We must do this, especially, they say (you know, they) when the opinion spouter says something racist or sexist or outs with some “fact” that experts or scientists (a separate subset of they) have long ago proven false.
When people throw some stuff my way — the Moon landing was faked, for example, or Pizzagate — my usual response is to say, Oh, is that so? or Huh, that’s something. I have no desire to quibble with someone who buys into horseshit. It’s not worth my time and energy. They aren’t going to change their minds.
For some unfathomable reason, though, I violated my own normal approach Saturday afternoon. It was at WFHB’s quarterly meeting. I was chatting with a fellow whose very first day as a DJ at the station was September 11, 2001. You know — that day. In fact, he found out about the events in New York City, Washington, DC, and the field in Pennsylvania as he drove in to the station for his air shift. He heard about it, natch, on his car radio.
I won’t specifically identify this fellow by name here because my aim isn’t to embarrass him or portray him as a loony.
We’d been having quite the pleasant little chat. And then, because I’m working on a book-length history of WFHB at this time and know of his anecdote, I brought up 9/11. We shook our heads. We told each other how terrible it all was. He even told me he had to take a few minutes to compose himself — he was crying — in the car before he came into the station.
I found that little nugget endearing. How many American males do you know who not only will readily admit to crying but that they’ve cried over the plight of strangers?
So far, so good. Honestly, my eyes watered, too, when it became clear that day that thousands, maybe even tens of thousands, might have lost their lives in the attacks. This fellow and I had something in common.
That is, until he dropped the bomb. 9/11, he told me, somberly, was a fix. My first reaction was to caution myself: Don’t do it!
I didn’t listen. Sometimes in life we just have the irresistible urge to do something stupid.
The right thing to do, of course, would have been to say, Oh, do you think so? or some such noncommittal salve.
But no. I had to say, “I’m not a conspiracy guy.”
He sort of winced. “Well, I am,” he said, his back stiffening. “How can an aluminum airplane crash through solid concrete at the Pentagon?”
I got hold of myself, and said nothing. I did the right thing, but one sentence too late.
Just like that, our conversation was finished.
Here we were, getting along like chums and then I had to open my big mouth. Give me credit, though. I didn’t tell him he was full of shit. I didn’t want a fight. I couched it in terms of myself, not him: I’m not a conspiracy guy.
He and I drifted away from each other. What a shame. I don’t know about him but I had no desire to adjudicate the issue then and there. Or ever, for that matter. I’m no structural engineer, so I’ll rely on the wisdom of most of the world’s experts in that field. They can argue with 9/11 Truthers if they want. Me? I’d rather have had a longer, nice pleasant conversation with a good fellow.
I should have lied. It’d have been the right thing to do, no matter what I’d been told all through my childhood.
I was reminded of this today when an incident came into my mind. It occurred in the late fall or early winter of 2001. We were all still displaying our American flags (remember that?) and walking around in a state of barely-controlled panic following the coordinated attack on this country by a gang of radical theocrats. I’d gone into a currency exchange on the southeast corner of LaSalle and Chicago avenues, just north of Chicago’s Loop, to cash a check. An aside: my Indiana friends might not know what a currency exchange is because this state doesn’t allow them. Known as poor people’s banks, they are private businesses where folks can cash paychecks, pay utility bills, get payday loans and license plates and their documents stamped by a notary public, among a ton of other services.
