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# 2023-09-02 - To Be Honest by Michael Leviton
A friend recommended this book a few years ago and i finally got
around to checking it out from the local library. What a rivetting
read for me! I felt that i could identify with the author. One
major difference though is that i do not count witholding information
as dishonesty. Privacy is more of a survival mechanism in a world
full of hurt.
For me, honesty is more about having integrity with the words that i
do say or write. An even higher standard of honesty is related to
the Buddhist principle of right speech: using words with kind
intentions for the greater good and the welfare of all. This
transcends literal, surface-level honesty, which, like in the book,
can be weaponized to hurt others. Truths could be graphed on a scale
from relative to universal. The more relative, the less honest. The
more universal, the more transcendent.
As finite human beings, we are not capable of 100% complete honesty.
Philosophically, all of our honesty is mixed with deception. On the
flip side, all of our deceptions contain kernels of truth, if we can
be discerning enough to see them. So we can't really "be honest",
we can only be "more honest."
What follows are excerpts from the book that stood out to me.
Chapter 1: Most People
Dad's predictions were about "most people," never "all people." He
told me to dismiss those who make generalizations about "all people"
because nothing was true of everyone.
When I asked Dad how he read minds and told the future, he explained,
"Most people imitate whatever everyone else is doing. They follow a
script and recite lines we've heard hundreds of times, lines somebody
else wrote." When I asked why people didn't make up something new,
Dad replied, "They're afraid that if they really express themselves,
someone might not like them. They're incredibly scared of someone
not liking them." Dad would shake his head and say, "It's
ridiculous."
My parents would have argued that children are born truth-tellers,
that we revel in self-expression until parents, teachers, and friends
punish or shame our honesty away. There are studies that say [to the
contrary, that] kids start lying around age two unless you
specifically condition them not to.
"No one should expect you to read their minds," he [Dad] often told
me. "It's their responsibility to let you know what they want. And
you should always be allowed to ask. Guessing feelings is
presumptuous. Our emotions don't all work the same. I don't want
anyone assuming how I feel. They should ask and I'll tell them."
----
"Ho ho ho, Michael," Santa said... "What do you want for Christmas?"
I trained my eyes on him to scrutinize his reaction and said, "I'm
Jewish."
Santa's head fell back with a human-sounding laugh. Then, he leaned
in close and whispered, "Me too, kid. Me too!"
Santa and I cracked up together. There was nothing more fun than the
airing of a forbidden truth. This mall-Santa's frankness was my
personal Christmas miracle.
Chapter 2: My Miseducation
Dad would point at billboards we passed, inviting me to analyze how
each ad aimed to trick us into spending money. It was during this
game that he explained to me that stores priced everything at
ninety-nine cents to trick people into feeling they were spending
less. I asked Dad who would be stupid enough to fall for that. He
answered, "Most people."
Through these games, I learned in specific terms why school was
bullshit, the justice system was bullshit, success was bullshit,
coolness was bullshit, gender norms were bullshit, authority was
bullshit, white supremacy was bullshit, conventional romance and
friendship were bullshit.
I wanted to be like the ancient Greek Stoics Dad had told me about
who were as sensitive as anyone but strong enough to bear the full
weight of their feelings.
Dad answered casually, "In Judaism, you're allowed to think anything
you want. It's Catholics that believe thoughts can be sinful."
[What about the 10th commandment?]
I now understood that my teachers feared embarrassment more than they
feared being immoral. They were emotionally unprepared to be
questioned or exposed; that left them vulnerable, fragile.
# Chapter 4: Family Camp
Dad paused and got teary. "It's hard to describe," he said in a
voice muddled by crying. "It's the only place I know where you won't
be punished for being honest."
That was it. I was sold.
* * *
He introduced himself to me and immediately said that I didn't have
to remember his name. "You don't have to remember names here," he
said. "We don't care about politeness." I didn't believe him; a
week without politeness sounded too good to be true. As if to
illustrate, Dad told this man we'd rather not have him at our table.
The old man showed no sign of offense, said okay, and sat somewhere
else. This exchange between adults saying explicitly what they
wanted and accepting each other's boundaries was my vision of utopia.
The therapists at camp were referred to as "facilitators" and the
therapy was called "work."
In less than a week, I'd already watched a few dozen people do
therapy in front of me. Beyond that, the camp had a magical power to
transform every conversation into therapy.
Going to family therapy camp as a teenager had many unexpected side
effects. Afterward, I couldn't help viewing all strangers as vessels
of hidden pain and fear. I imagined what the world would look like
if pain glowed, if we could know on sight how much someone was
suffering. Some would be candle flames and others would look like
furnaces. Some would be blinding to behold.
When I returned to high school for junior year, everyone read as even
more shallow and fake than before.
Though I was having trouble appreciating anyone in my high school,
the teenagers in my drama class interested me the most. I felt an
affinity for artistic people because they tended to be more open to
discussing feelings, as if being expressive in one way encouraged a
person to be more open in others.
# Chapter 5: Open Mic
The phrase "human resources" struck me as refreshingly harsh, an
admission that they defined humans as mere cogs in a capitalist
scheme.
I brought up my favorite part of the children's novel and cartoon The
Last Unicorn. "The unicorn's horn is invisible to most people," I
told him. "Only magical people have the vision to tell the
difference between a unicorn and a regular horse. At one point, a
witch recognizes the unicorn and cages her in a traveling zoo. But
the zoo's audience isn't made up of magical people; they see only a
regular horse. So the witch attaches a fake horn next to the
unicorn's real horn. The crowds are awestruck by this fake horn,
which could have been fastened to any old horse. The fake horn
impresses them more than the real unicorn."
# Chapter 6: This Is Not Normal
I'd prided myself on only wearing one face. Not everyone was allowed
to exist that way. For most, switching personas wasn't a matter of
preference but of survival. Beyond that, my speaking one language
burdened everyone else with translating. Who knew how many had
ushered me away and smoothed things over without my noticing? I
watched Even mull over my comment, taking in that being my girlfriend
meant also being my translator.
Though she didn't comment on the Post-It notes, she did comment on
the lighting, that my mom used blinding energy-saving fluorescent
bulbs without shades or dimmers. "It's the least-flattering lighting
possible!"
"Hmmm," I said. "That would explain why I always found myself so
ugly."
While Eve was in another room on the phone with her sister, I told
Mom Eve's observation about the unflattering lights. "Huh," Mom
said. "That's funny. Well, I guess it's good that we see what we
really look like."
"But those bulbs make us look worse than we'd look anywhere else," I
insisted.
# Chapter 10: Forbidden Subjects
To kick my honesty habit, I'd need steps, probably more than twelve.
I started by listing subjects I'd no longer let myself discuss. The
first ones that came to mind were:
* Unpleasant truths
* My parents
* Eve
* Most people
* My opinions
* Family therapy camp
* My personality
It didn't occur to me that I could adjust my tone for my audience.
All I knew was that certain topics irked or unnerved. I figured it
was safest to outlaw them completely. I told myself that every time
a conversation went wrong, I'd add whatever topic ruined it to my
list of forbidden subjects.
I came up with dozens of other rules as well, all in the service of
the same overarching scheme: to learn to read people and give them
what they wanted. Instead of asking questions, I'd pick up hints.
Instead of expressing myself, I'd pander. I'd reverse the golden
rule and do unto others what THEY wanted me to do unto THEM. [The
platinum rule.]
Within a week, I'd banned everything I usually talked about.
After that, when a stranger approached me at the turntables, I'd
smile, invest my voice with warmth and enthusiasm, and suggest that
THEY should be the deejay. Each time, the person left happy. I'd
been mistakenly assuming these people cared about music. They only
wanted connection and validation. I had to keep reminding myself
that few meant the words they said. Even fewer knew consciously what
they wanted, why they did what they did. I made another rule:
Don't take seriously what people say. Their minds are chaos.
I spent the next few weeks small-talking with strangers. After a few
dozen of these conversations, I finally encountered someone who hated
it. "You're seriously asking me my favorite color?" she asked.
"What is this? Kindergarten?"
I cracked up, so excited that I'd found someone like-minded. "I
know!" I said. "I just started experimenting with small talk and
it's been blowing my mind. People really do want to talk about
things like favorite colors. You're the first person who's resisted
or even noticed that I was doing anything out of the ordinary!" The
stranger looked me up and down in disgust. I assured her, "I don't
want to talk about colors. Other people like it. I'm trying to make
other people happy."
The stranger glared at me. "You asked me my favorite color because
you assumed I was stupid."
"No," I replied. "Small talk isn't stupid! I used to think that
too, but I've realized that it's an alternate system of communication
just as legitimate as ours!" I was waving my hands in the air, so
excited to have someone to talk to about this.
Unmoved by my speech, she said, "If someone talks to you about their
favorite color, they're either just being polite or they're a vapid
idiot."
Her condescending expression and her voice's judgmental certainty
gave me a small sense, for just a moment, of what it might have felt
like for other people to meet me.
# Chapter 11: This Is Normal
So, I had a novel idea: I'd set this boundary in my own head, without
notifying her. I made another rule:
Continue setting boundaries, but keep them secret.
These rules ended my monthly falling-outs. Now, if i bought a friend
an expensive concert ticket and they canceled last minute, I'd write
and say I was feeling ill anyway, that I was just about to call and
cancel myself. The friend would never know I'd set a boundary. If
they noticed my not inviting them to things anymore, they'd have
plausible deniability, could tell themselves it had nothing to do
with them.
I made a new rule:
When someone is lying, there's a chance it's because they're going
through something personal that they're ashamed to admit. Instead of
getting angry, assume their motivations are sympathetic.
The less judgmental I appeared, the more people would confess. To
hear the truth, I had to deserve it.
* * *
I named this phenomenon "the rule of opposites."
I soon also found that the rule of opposites didn't only help me read
people; it allowed me to guess how I'd be read. Stating plainly how
I felt could ensure that I wouldn't be believed.
To communicate that I was upset, it was better to snap that I DIDN'T
care; this was how upset people usually behaved.
Sometimes to be believed, I had to lie.
I felt like I had fallen into a language-immersion program where I
couldn't speak without first translating my thought into a new
dialect.
* * *
Women usually rejected me with a method I called "the infinite
flake," in which they made and canceled dates with me until I got the
hint.
A merciful rejection had three requirements: clarity, closure, and an
unrelated excuse.
Thinking about my past apology issues gave me a solution: if I didn't
want to see someone after a first or second date, I could text an
unprompted apology. Then, she'd reject ME. I named this technique
"sorrying."
I tried sorrying a few people and it worked perfectly. No one
replied, which meant no one felt rejected. I believed I'd found my
most brilliant mutually beneficial lie until I told the jury.
"Your lies aren't normal anymore," they insisted. "You're
manipulating everybody. It's creepy."
"But they're mutually beneficial and victimless! I'm considering
other people's feelings and giving them what they want!"
Eventually, I stopped discussing my adventures in deception. Others
would appreciate my lies only if I never revealed them.
# Chapter 12: The Mercy of Censorship
Over time, I slowly let myself slip back more and more into honesty.
But, having experienced dishonesty for a while had softened me.
Honesty itself hadn't really been the problem. I'd just need to
empathize with whoever I was being honest with, to be honest not
automatically, but because I cared.
I still followed one rule:
Read whether a person wants honesty or not.
Id they preferred indirectness or small talk or positivity, I'd try
to give it to them. I'd only be honest with those who wanted it.
author: Leviton, Michael
detail: gopher://gopherpedia.com/0/Michael_Leviton
tags: book,biography,non-fiction
title: To Be Honest
book
biography
non-fiction
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