Forgive me Mama, For I Have Lied
A Little White Lie Never Hurt Anyone
Right? Right.
I’ve been thinking about something a lot recently. You know how the world is a big, bad place and all that. And it’s never been bigger and badder than right now, with a mad virus, earthquakes, tsunamis, the works. People are even talking about the world ending, or at least of Florida as we know it (as reported by Reuben Salsa.) With all the deathly talk, I realized I’ve been holding on to a few secrets that I have to get out before it’s too late.
We’re all going to die someday, but if my time is soonish and there’s a remote chance of me going to heaven, then I want to do so with a clear conscience. I want to confess a few….lies, that I may have said overtime and have probably accrued me some points on the sin-score. I never intended to hurt anyone, then or now, but this is about me — I want to live happily after I die.
This is hard for me to do, so bear with me if I digress. I will eventually get to the point.
To Neighbor Aunty: Flat #32, Al Fadhel Building
Bahrain, Early 1990s
The first time I laid eyes on it, I couldn’t blink. It shone like a blue diamond under the bright lights of your showcase. Iridescent blue, elegant curves.…absolutely exquisite. I wanted the bird to be mine, so I could stare at it and let it float with me in the bath. Yes, I know glass would sink, but the little swan didn’t know that, did she?
So I took her.
While you were distracted by the Christmas party you were hosting, I swiftly swiped her off the shelf and placed her gently into my pocket; my Swanny Swan Swan. I was a little guilty, but I made up for it by telling you how delicious your desserts were. Come to think of it, I may have been a bit intoxicated with all the rum in your fruit cake. A 7-year old with alcohol is a match made in jail, I guess.
The next time you came home, I saw you staring at it. You may have just been looking at m̶y̶ the ugly artwork on the table beside it, but I felt the need to say something. I blurted out that it was a gift from my best friend for helping her with an answer on a test. You looked at me weirdly, eyes glistening, and I thought you were crying but turns out it was the spices in my mother’s Indian cooking.
I would be honored if you can forgive me for this pre-meditated innocence. I know you can — because I won’t tell anyone (the police) you gave children alcohol.
To my Mother: You have my whole heart, wine and all
Napa Valley, Summer 2017
It was a day so bright, I needed a cold glass of beer to cool my hot self down. But since we were at a vineyard, wine would have to do.
You didn’t know I drink, so I had to be smart about it.
Under the excuse of using the restroom, I went to the waitress and asked her to offer us free wine samples! that she could in reality bill us for. We love a good free anything so you didn’t mind.
When the wine came to the table, I grabbed a glass of red (?) and went bottoms-up on it. Sigh! Purring in satisfaction, I dreamily opened my eyes only to find you and Dad staring at me disapprovingly. Dad — because he wasn’t ready to share, and you — because a girl drinking was blasphemous!
I told you wine was simply fermented grape juice, and that I very, very occasionally drank some, and only in social situations like work parties, where it would be rude not to (cultural appropriation, I know.)
You see, it was a complete lie — not the grape part, that’s true — the other part. I’m not unproud of it, but I really started young. Blame it on Aunty from Flat #32, if you will.
Remember when we sisters used to get back home from a late-night movie and rush into our rooms to change, and when we came out we smelled suspiciously like kidnappers — of baby powder and strong perfume — all for going to bed?
If you had asked us the next morning, we wouldn’t have remembered, but let’s just say too many vodkas + a sweater are a match made in smelly hell.
I hope you can forgive me for this, Mama. I know you can — because I certainly won’t tell anyone (your sisters) the glass of pom juice you had for New Year’s last year was actually ______.
To my Partner: #TogetherForever
San Francisco, Fall 2015
We are perfect for each other in every way. Except for tattoos. It’s always tattoos that come in the way of our l̶u̶s̶t̶f̶u̶l̶ love-filled relationship. I love them, you hate them. But you love me more, right?
Which is why after ~1000 hours of me b̶e̶g̶g̶i̶n̶g̶ asking you nicely, you eventually agreed. I was elated! I couldn't h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶l̶o̶v̶e̶d̶ love you more even if I tried.
I spent days designing the perfect peace-love-dog paw (for rescue) tattoo for the perfect position (right below my left elbow) and found the perfect tattoo artist (watercolor hero!) at the perfect tattoo parlor.
It was all so…perfect!
The only problem was we agreed on a budget of $250. The artist was pretty good and charged $200/hour. I was certain a silly tattoo like mine was only going to be an hour’s worth, so when you asked me how much, I said $200, leaving out the per hour.
It turns out, I completely underestimated how brown skin could make colors like pink and yellow turn into, well, brown. After the initial pain-induced euphoria faded into numbness, I kind of half-dozed off, half-fainted from low sugar levels, and didn’t awaken until much later. At which point the artist, with a confused expression on his face (not good), was still scratching away at the purple splash by my elbow. Fuck me, isn’t this over yet?
When I got home much later, you asked me what the f̶u̶c̶k̶ blossoming flower took me so long. I mumbled “Why? You missed me or somethin’?” and possibly blew a few air-kisses, but I was too light-headed from the pain to really remember. You didn’t find it cute. You wanted to confirm how much I paid, and I maintained the $200 (“You’ll be proud I saved us $50!)
I just want to say now — apart from the fact that I really, really love you — the clock started at 12 noon and ended at 5 pm, plus tip. You do the math.
I hope you can forgive me for not telling you the entire truth. I know you can — because I won’t tell anyone (your Mom) you partied away the huge sum of money they gave you for a college event.
To my Dear Darling Dogs: Just remember we took you off the streets
Wherever we are, Everyday
Oh, where do I even begin with you two? Baby & Bam Bam — the heart and soul of our life.
Ever since we got you 8.5 and 6 years ago, you have consumed our entire life, like every.single.ounce of our energy, but who’s really measuring?! (We are.)
Where’s the lie then, you ask?
So, I’ll try to keep this short but here are a few:
- I only say you get treats so you finish eating. Treats are not food so no, you don’t get them every day. Thanks for being easily distracted.
- When you bark incessantly on your walks and I grit my teeth and tell you to “hurry up” in a sing-song happy voice, I’m actually thinking of different ways to load you both on a rocket and launch you into outer space never to get back again. Sometimes it’s more violent, but this is a humor piece so I’ll leave the morbid bits out.
- You know how we always tell you you’re our children and we’re your parents? The truth is: You’re adopted. Get over it.
- No, we’re not taking you on our next vacation
- Yes, you’re really adopted
- No, I can’t give you treats now
- Yes, Baby — Bam Bam is adopted too
- No, I can’t just stop typing and scratch your belly right now
- Yes —
Aargh!
I hope you can forgive me for these pure-hearted lies. I know you can — because I won’t tell anyone (you lick) you eat poop.
I leave you with introductions to some of my fellow liars:
Kristen Stark aka The Shy Liar | Smillew Rahcuef aka The Medium Liar | KiKi Walter aka The What’s-in-your-Bra Liar
To read more of my articles, consider subscribing to be an insider. And if you want more than more, join Medium using my referral link! Or you can buy me a coffee! (last option, I promise.)
Thank you, thank you!