The Lie

Note: This is another assignment given to my memoir class–if they so chose to do it. The idea comes from Leslie Leyland Fields’ book Your Story Matters (NavPress 2020)

“No, Mrs. Fleming, it wasn’t me. It was Donnie.”

“No, Mrs. Fleming, it wasn’t me.”

“Then who was it?”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Donnie. “I just know it wasn’t me.”

Wayne Township School, 1954. I was in second grade and scared to death of my teacher Mrs. Fleming. I had loved my first-grade teacher Miss Platt. She had a kind voice in which she would praise all of us for our reading and writing ability. Not Mrs. Fleming! She was big and loud and, to my little person, flamboyant in a way that just wasn’t acceptable.

In our small brick school, all we had done between first grade and second grade was to walk from the front corner of the building to the back corner of the building, and we had arrived at our new classroom, along with a new teacher—not just new to our class, but new to our school. I don’t know which was worse: my dislike of her or my fear of her. I just knew that I could not tell her the truth about who had thrown the paper wad.

My very first lie, told because of the fear of the consequences—a paddling for sure and perhaps a note to my parents. My school persona had already been formed: I was a good girl, a quiet girl, a smart girl, a girl to be trusted. How young we learn to save ourselves, even at the expense of others. Why couldn’t I have said, like Donnie did, that I didn’t do it and that I didn’t know who had done it. I don’t think I bore Donnie any ill will necessarily; it was just that he sat right behind me and, therefore, a logical assumption could be made that someone close to me threw the paper wad.

Why did I throw the paper wad to begin with? It wasn’t a spit wad, meant to cause a bit of pain for a classmate. That would have been totally off limits to me, a girl. Only boys did that kind of thing. No, it was just a simple paper wad, something that needed to go in the trashcan. Why didn’t I wait until a recess when I could get up and throw it in the trashcan that was halfway across the room? Where did I get the idea that I could even throw a paper wad that far? And how did I think I could evade detection?

The years have wiped all those reasons, silly as I’m sure they were, out of my mind. But I have never forgotten that lie nor its consequences. Donnie received the paddling and, more than likely, a note to his parents. Being a rather shy, quiet boy, he did not seem to know how to defend himself. Seated behind me, he surely knew that I had thrown the paper wad, but he did not reveal me as the culprit. Instead, he took the punishment. What graciousness in someone so young!

He and I went to school together for the next ten years, graduating together from the new town school where both of us, I presume, acquitted ourselves well. He played sports; I won academic awards. Our paths didn’t cross much; back in those days, schools tracked students, a practice that is illegal now. Of course, back then, officials didn’t say they were tracking: they were merely placing us in future career paths: mine was college prep; Donnie’s was not.

I never have told too many lies. I believe the second-grade lie was the first. I do remember another one from my childhood. I was playing nurse with my neighbor Linda. I was using a cactus spine for a needle to give her a shot. Obviously, the prick hurt, and Linda, crying, ran to my mother. Mother confronted me about what I had used. I did not tell the truth. Not only did I get a good scolding for whatever I had done, but the stern steely gray of my mother’s eyes pierced to my very soul. And I knew that that look was much more about lying than it was about the prick in Linda’s arm, which was quickly forgotten by all.

I remember quite well—in fact, too well—two very serious lies I have told in my adult years—one to save my skin and one to save another’s heart from breaking. Those lies deserve their own stories—if I’m ever ready to tell them. And I have at least one great story of a lie perpetrated upon me—a very serious lie about a very serious act, but one which has lost its pain as time passes.

Oh, but that first lie—never to be forgotten. I have never forgotten it or the circumstances or my wrongdoing. I never apologized to Donnie for the lie. In fact, while creating this small essay, I finally decided enough time had passed (66 years!) while the truth has gnawed at my insides and my guilt has not abated. I searched for Donnie’s name and location. My intention is to write a formal apology. He may not have any recollection of the event. If he doesn’t, I hope that he can take this silly little truth in stride, forgiving a very silly little girl who was too afraid to tell the truth.