To Tell the Truth

How do you tell the truth? How do I tell the truth? I’ve been working on this question a long time.

Francine Prose quotes Hemingway’s advice to writers: Begin with one true sentence. The problem with the advice Prose says is that Hemingway never explains what he means by true. That’s funny. I always knew what Hemingway meant about a true sentence, about writing the truth. It was at the unspoken heart of my decision not to become a writer. An English major in my senior year of college, one thing was certain: I was not prepared to tell the truth. There I was, approaching the graduation crossroads, deciding whether to apply to social work school or the Yale School of Drama, where I planned to concentrate on playwrighting and directing. I’d directed a couple of experimental one acts, and I’d directed a major production of The Importance of Being Earnest. A one-act play of mine had been performed. These were uncommon undergraduate accomplishments at Carleton.

I chose social work. I’ve had my stories, trotted out to explain or sometimes justify my choice. One was about the odds against “making it” in theater. Another had to do with doing good for others, in particular for the “lost and left behind.” But the bottom line was that I wasn’t prepared to tell the truth.  No way, no how. Hemingway was telling it straight although I hadn’t yet heard him say it. In fiction, you absolutely have to tell the truth. Some might see an oxymoron there. Not me.

I was hiding all the time, hoping no one would catch a real glimpse. I was scared. Dating scared me. Graduation, looming ahead, scared me. Would I starve to death without a dormitory cafeteria to feed me my three squares a day? I pictured myself eating Campbell’s pork and beans out of the can every night. I did manage to share that nightmare on a date with an Italian freshman. She thought she was being encouraging, sharing recipes for so many great things that I could make with pork and beans.

I’d grown up hiding, frightened, ashamed. I’d been a kid through the Red Scare of the 50’s, keeping the family politics secret. If I spilled the beans, would my parents be arrested and executed like the Rosenbergs? Ashamed of our atheism. Who would ever marry me? Most girls weren’t going to bring a Jew home. And the Jewish girls weren’t bringing an atheist home. “No, I haven’t been bar mitzvahed.” How would that fly?

No way I was going to tell the truth. Social work was a safer choice. Social workers – or so I thought at the time – don’t have to tell the truth. When the kids that you’re working with ask you if you’ve ever smoked pot or ever gotten laid, you don’t tell the truth. To answer their questions truthfully – I’d already learned this working at the ultimate, social work summer camp – is unprofessional. You don’t lie. You just don’t answer. I was already beginning to learn the professional tricks of evasion.

I look back on that turning point now – not with regret: social work did turn out to be a great choice for me; I did a lot of good for others and, despite some bumps on the career path, ended up making a good living – and wonder where I would have landed if I’d gone with my creative, artsy side. I had some wonderful role models who I’d met during the summers pointing me toward social work. No one ever encouraged me to become an artist.

My dad, my first hero, bailed on me in high school, not in the dramatic way of fathers who abandon their families. He was trying to be caring, to spare my feelings, when he told me to stop showing him the stories I was writing. His responses were so critical. He was trying to protect me from his negativity. But no one else encouraged me either. I didn’t get much guidance. I’d never even heard of a mentor. My freshman philosophy prof encouraged a career in the ministry. I had to tell him I was Jewish. No one ever suggested a career as a writer. Certainly, no one was helping me over the humps of my anxieties. “Every young writer worries about telling the truth. Most worry about making a living.”

No one ever said anything like that to me. I doubt that it would have helped. I wasn’t ready to tell the truth.

These days I’m getting closer to the truth. At least, I’m writing some stuff where Dee exercises her veto. What I’ve written might be true about me and honest, but the story involves other people. It will hurt others. Those blogs go in my “not for publication” file. Maybe someday I’ll turn them into fiction.

One of my Zen students asked the other day, “How do you speak from the heart?” It’s a great question. In the Zen Peacemakers, we’ve been working with Native American council practice for many years now. One of the traditional council instructions is “to speak from the heart.” How do you tell the truth?

My simplest answer: “Use ‘I’ statements.” Talk about yourself and your feelings and your experiences. Don’t offer commentary on my feelings, my experiences.

I’m inclined to go further: “Don’t say anything that you’ve ever said before.” I am trying to guide people away from shtick, the practiced routine, partly because I hate sitting through councils where one person after another, posing as a ‘deep’ person shares his shtick – I hate listening to shtick over coffee, too – but more because there is a high that comes from speaking truth, speaking from the heart which eludes one as long as one performs.

Sometimes, I up the ante: “Don’t say anything that you’re not afraid to say.” Do that and you’ll really come alive. I think that’s the way Hemingway would have said it.