My parents were relentlessly committed to having perfect, obedient children. I do not fault their intentions; however, I often took issue with their approach. Ours was a tight ship: there was a clear chain of command, carefully delineated rules and responsibilities, and when “warranted”, stiff punishments. It was not a child’s place to think outside the box or to color beyond the lines. High on the list of crimes and misdemeanors was lying, cheating, and acting out in public. Punishment was immediate and decisive; it did not wait for the privacy of home.
It was a different era then, one where corporal punishment was widely practiced. Penalties could include humiliation, immobilization, and the ever popular ‘washing your mouth out with soap.’ Punishment wasn’t restricted to parents; teachers, clergy, babysitters, neighbors were all permitted to spank an unruly or disobedient child.
I am certain that all kids take issue with their parents’ parenting. I have been informed many times by my children what I am “allowed” and “not allowed” to do as a parent. My father used to tell us that he complained bitterly to his mother that she was a terrible parent; she simply told him to have his own kids and do a better job. Such was the impetus behind my father’s parental leadership. We kids would be the proof that he knew better.
I have always had long hair. As a young girl, my mother did not permit me to wear it loose or wild like my friends; it had to be secured in one of several approved hair styles. Most commonly, she pulled all of my hair to the crown of my head and tied it in a ponytail with a rubber band. Before reporting for hair duty each day, I was to wet my hair in the sink, making all the frizzy little ringlets around my hairline lay down flat. I remember the torture of those rubber bands; it was years before the world was graced with covered “pony-tail holders” or the soft stretchy bands we use now. I can still feel the way my face and skin pulled outward and upward, caught in a face lift by the unforgiving elastic.
One day before school, on a particularly humid day in South Florida, my mother was struggling to corral my curly tresses. Every time she brushed back, my hair bounced forward. Even with the tap water “glue” my hair would not behave. Suddenly, she spun me around and used the edge of her brush to push a bunch of little hairs down on my forehead. “What is this?” she demanded. I did not know what she was talking about. “You cut your hair, didn’t you?” she accused. I strained up on my toes to look in the mirror that stood above her dresser. There was a row of short downy hairs along my hairline. It seemed to me that they had always been there. I assured her that I had not cut my hair.
She turned to my father, who had been dressing for work. “Look at this!” she showed him. “She cut her hair!” I reiterated that I had not cut my hair. “Yes you did,” she insisted. “You just wanted bangs like all your friends, so you cut your hair.” I blinked at my image in the mirror. It didn’t look like bangs to me. Again, I insisted that I had not cut my hair.
Faced with what my parents believed was evidence to the contrary, my crime shifted from my unauthorized severing of a lock of hair to telling a lie. I was assailed with chapter and verse on lying. The problem with telling a lie, they explained, is that it makes you a liar. Once you are a liar, you can never be believed again—even if it is to protest that you are telling the truth. I implored them to believe that I was telling the truth—I had never cut my own hair.
Having already condemned me as a liar, my continued pleas of innocence only deepened my crime in their mind. I was standing there, with my hair undone, trying my best to end the situation so that I could get to school. Finally, I could bear no more. I looked up, whimpering, and said, “Fine. I cut it. Now can I go to school?”
If I thought copping a plea would end this, I was sadly mistaken. The trial then moved into the punishment phase. My father informed me that lying was the worst of all crimes, that it would require a special brand of punishment. Thus, when my beloved grandparents arrived from New York for their much anticipated holiday visit, I would be required to stand before them and proclaim myself a liar.
A few weeks later my grandparents were due to arrive. No one had mentioned the hair incident, so I was hopeful that all had been forgotten. They arrived with a flurry of excitement, laden with gifts and wrapped in the fabulous smell of winter woolens from up north. There were hugs and tears as I draped myself in their loving arms, happy for the joy their presence would ensure for the coming weeks. Suddenly, my father stopped the celebration and pointed his finger at me, suggesting in a most emphatic tone that I had something to say.
“No!” I whispered, barely able to utter a sound, my breath squeezed from my chest by fear. I could not believe the horror, my happiest moment dissolving into this pit of emptiness. My father had a compelling way of insisting that, yes, he meant what he said. I would not get out of this. The punishment would take place.
“No!” I said again, appealing to my grandparents for relief, hoping they would laugh it off and it would all be over. My father clasped his hands on my shoulders, holding me facing them so that I could not turn away. I cannot say for sure how long this scene played out, the father demonstrating his unbending will and the audience of family members playing along.
It took the longest time for me to get the words out. “ I . . . am . . . a . . .a . . . a . . . liar,” I finally whimpered. My grandparents exhibited shock—I was not able to discern whether it was feigned or not. My memories after that are expressions of disappointment from them, clouds of shame and emotional exhaustion for me. The repercussions seemed to last forever. Years later, if I said it was five o’clock, my brother would mock me, saying, “How can I believe you? You are a liar!”
Obviously this event weighs heavily in my childhood memories. My parents were so intent on teaching their ‘liar’ lesson that I forgot for many years to come that I had not actually cut my hair. I admit that,now as an adult, I have a zero tolerance policy for lying. I have tried to impress upon my kids that it is better to suffer the consequences of the truth than to resort to a lying cover up. In fact, I have often refrained from harsh punishment of poor choices--which are often punishments in themselves--in order to encourage open and honest dialog with my children.
Thirty-five years later, I became the mother of a second grader—a beautiful girl with long curly ringlets. Now, it was the school that insisted that her hair be tied up for safety reasons. One day, somewhat uncharacteristically, she decided that she wanted a big ponytail up high on her head rather than her usual long braid. I started to gather her long locks when suddenly, I was struck with that sensation of déjà vu. The memories of the short hairs incident that had lay dormant for decades came flooding back, reminding me once again of the shame and humiliation that surrounded my forced pronouncement.
Suddenly, I was pulled from my recollections by my daughter. “Ew, Mommy—look!” she said. She was bending over toward the mirror, trying to flatten out a row of tiny hairs that congregated along her hairline. “I can’t make them go up! What should I do?”
I dropped the brush and wrapped my arms lovingly around my daughter, squeezing her extra tight. She never knew why I could not speak or why my eyes filled with tears. How could she understand that she had just touched me as no one ever had? How could she comprehend the power of her innocent observation to set me free—vindicating me once and for all from a moment of childhood shame?
“Oh, how cute,” I said. “Little baby hairs, just like mine.”
Tomorrow's blog: Whose Beer Is It Anyway?
Powerful and touching.
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