I’ve never been very good at telling lies. I feel guilty and then I look guilty and then the game is up. Also, you have to remember who you told what, and that’s too much hard work. It’s far easier to tell the truth or excuse yourself and go cut up some carrots. However, there are some times when a boldfaced lie seems to be the best way to end a closed loop conversation. The first time I learned this was in Junior High. I had been raised among Yiddish speaking immigrants on my mother’s side who, when searching for a missing English word would wave their hands as a filler. On my father’s side there was only my father as an example, but he was raised in the Bronx. To the day of his death, he pronounced bottle as “bo-el.” You New Yorkers know what I mean. You never know you have an accent until someone asks you where you’re from, or pinpoints the block you were born on because of your speech pattern. In my case, all “th” sounds were replaced with “d” as in “De cat is trinking yur zoup.” Apparently, I had other speech defects that forced my classmates to hound me about where I was born. Echo Park was an insufficient answer. They’d ask, “No, before that.” Finally I sat them down in a circle and offered to let them in on my secret if they promised to never tell. They were agog with curiosity and swore eternal silence. I told them my parents were in Europe when WWII broke out. My mother was pregnant with me at the time. They managed to escape on a ship headed for American, but it was sunk by a German submarine torpedo, leaving the survivors floating on lifeboats. Fortunately, a British naval vessel returning to England rescued them. I was born aboard that ship. Therefore, I had dual citizenship: British and American, and my accent was the result of my parents’ Germanic Yiddish and the early English I learned at the refugee camp. It was a pretty good story, no? Everyone in the circle believed me without a moment’s hesitation and out of consideration for my rough start in life they left me alone and never brought up the subject of my accent again. It was not only my accent that forced me to lie. It seems I behaved oddly, or in a non-American fashion, whatever that means. Personally, I think it’s because I’m not originally from this planet. I’m from wherever Star Trek crew members grow up. Those are my people. The next lie was over chewing gum. My first husband and I were sitting in the car while a gas station attendant was washing our windshield. They used to do that in the old days. They pumped your gas, checked your tires, and washed your windshield while you either sat and argued with each other or went into the little store and bought soda, candy, and gum. I recall opening the pack of gum, offering a stick to my husband, and then offering a stick to the attendant, who was of some Middle Eastern extraction. He was dumbfounded. He asked “Where are you from? “Here,” I replied. “No, before here.” “Echo Park.” “No, I mean what country were you born in?” “Here, America.” He said this was not possible. Americans didn’t offer gum to gas station attendants, especially of Middle Eastern extraction. He refused to budge. To put him out of his misery, I shouted “Hungary!” Then he was happy and let us motor away. It was a lie, but my Grandfather was from Hungary, so…. Then there was the time my daughter returned from Europe and came immediately to pick me up from work to console me. My beloved favorite cat had been let out on her first exploratory jaunt outside, leaped over the fence before I could stop her, and was murdered by the dogs in the neighbor’s yard. I was crushed by the loss of my favorite cat, and needed my daughter’s wise counsel. She convinced me that there is such a thing as cat heaven. Also, sometimes your first mistake is your last mistake. This conversation took place at a Mexican restaurant. There she was, fresh off the boat, wearing clogs, dirndl skirt, white blouse, triangle scarf over her shoulders, her hair in braids. You know, Heidi. I was wearing one of my many homemade dresses that I considered suitable for work. (I have no fashion sense.) We both said thank you to the waiter every time he refilled our water glasses. Finally, he could stand it no longer and asked to know where we were from. “Here,” we said. “ He replied, “No, I mean before here.” “Echo Park.” “No, I mean where were you born?” Nothing we said could convince him until I blurted out “Poland! We are from Poland!” Then he went away a happy man, knowing he could spot foreigners when he saw them. It was a lie, but then again my mother was born in Poland, so …. I’ve also had to constantly lie about my hair color. In our family it was common to be born bald, grown some blonde tufts which turned red and then brown over time, just like Palomino horses only in reverse. When my hair turned dark, my relatives kept asking why I dyed my hair. They only stopped when I told them “Last week.” Once I really started dying my hair, red to start with, they left me alone because obviously I was a redhead. There was a day at work when I told a young co-worker I wasn’t really a redhead and wasn’t really Irish. He literally fell to his knees in dismay. To get him off the floor, I lied and told him he was right, I was just kidding, clearly I’m an Irish redhead. Now I’m a blonde. No one asks me what my real hair color is anymore because it’s obviously grey. However, I apparently still don’t look like I’m from here, only I’ve run out of locations to claim as home. Recently I was told by a Sephardic Persian lady that I look different. She asked where I was from. I didn’t lie to her. I just shrugged. Then she asked if I had people who helped me at home, if my children were nice to me, and ended by inviting me to her house where she would cook delicious food for me. Clearly she thought I was a misplaced Persian with the misfortune of having blonde hair and looking different. Maybe she’s right.