Confessions of a Fibber Fox

Are you an honest person? Most people bristle at the mere question because any answer besides the affirmative is indicting. Yet, America is often characterized as a “post-truth nation,” where culturally and politically, emotional appeals outweigh objective facts. Is our country reverting to childish impulses?

I’ve been watching my elementary-age granddaughters mature from blatantly opportunistic prevaricators to conscientious truth-tellers. Recently, I boasted, “I can hear the mice talking outside.” Unimpressed, they scolded me as a “Fibber Fox” and demanded that I tread the straight and narrow. It seems that six-year-old sensitivities to dishonesty may be outpacing those of their elders. What gives?

Several recent studies indicate that parental lying exacts a substantial price from their offspring. Parents who exaggerate to their children (“You’ll never get any taller if you don’t eat your spinach.”) or untruthfully threaten them (“I’ll leave you in the store if you don’t come with me right now.”) raise progeny that will return the lies in adolescence and adulthood.  Furthermore, adults who had been raised by these truth-bending parents expressed social challenges, selfishness, and higher levels of guilt, shame, and anxiety: a rather unappetizing cocktail.

I don’t detect my daughter and son-in-law lying to my granddaughters, and I was quite honest with my children as well. When Kristen was away on a middle school band trip, we were forced to euthanize the family cat. When Kristen called that evening and asked directly about Domino, we told her the truth—only to be chided by the band director, who resented dealing with my daughter’s tears. I regret nothing about this transaction.

I remember my own parents being frank with me, exerting no great efforts at shaming or sugar-coating. I was no paragon of integrity as a child, but my sins generally consisted of careful omissions rather than spinning duplicitous yarns. I was not above delivering a falsehood if the stakes were high enough. Mother contends that I squinted my eyes in an odd fashion when prevaricating, so I displayed a striking “tell” on my imagined poker face, fooling only myself.

My aging self finds little reason to lie about anything important. Still, I quite easily offer an insincere social compliment if trapped by a plea such as, “Does this dress make me look fat?” I’m loath to quibble about minor dissatisfactions in commercial interactions, especially if the offender occupies a much lower rung on the social status ladder, such as a restaurant server or retail clerk. I even scrupulously complete my income tax returns, a habit many regard as downright un-American.

My ultimate fear is lying to myself. It is so very easy to grant higher motives than I deserve and lower penalties for transgressions. I can congratulate myself for giving alms even as I dodge a struggling traveler on my path to Jericho. I identify with Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure, “It was quite impossible to ask to be delivered from temptation when your heart’s desire was to be tempted unto seventy times seven.” Gaining an unaltered reflection of that man in my mirror may be the hardest truth I ever discover because my internal Fibber Fox is so adept at deception.

So, how does my country return to foundational veracity? Perhaps the real test of honesty begins not with politicians, pundits, or even parents, but with each of us peering into our own mirrors. A society that shrugs at “little lies” eventually risks losing its grip on big truths, and the consequences ripple far beyond the family dinner table. If children can hold us accountable with the blunt candor of a six-year-old, then maybe they’re reminding us of something essential—that truth, while often uncomfortable, is the only foundation for trust. And without anchors of honesty and trust, every family and nation is at the mercy of ever-changing winds and unpredictable tides. Elastic or optional truth is an oxymoron. I honestly believe that we can be better than this.