It's Total Disclosure Day!
Because I said so, that's why.
What seems like 100 years ago, I read “The King of Vermont,” a novel that examined the role of truth in politics. The book was something of an anti-Mr. Smith Goes to Washington tale, and I do not know why it wasn’t more popular in the late ‘80s, when I read it.
The part I remember most — the part about which I had long conversations with my brother, Tom — was that the protagonist, who is running for the state senate, does so with a campaign strategy he calls “Total Disclosure.” The candidate vows not to spin, obfuscate, or otherwise misrepresent the truth throughout his campaign. In fact, he won’t even wait until he’s asked a question. He will just volunteer everything — to the press, to would-be constituents, you name it.
Hilarity ensues, but I read the book at a time when I was thinking a lot about the importance of truth, and so was my brother. We were both going through rough patches, and because neither of us thought we could sustain complete honesty as long as a political campaign might run, we decided to shoot for 24 hours.
I don’t remember how long Tom made it, but the clock started ticking when I woke up at 7 a.m., and I made it all the way to 10 a.m. I don’t remember the lie I told that broke my three-hour streak. I do remember I was at work and it was an answer to an everyday question that didn’t require a lie but that’s what I did. I lied.
I have thought about the book so many times in the years since. I’m not in a particularly rough patch right now, but I have decided to tell the truth all day today. I will not volunteer information that’s unnecessary, but I will be rigorously honest, and I intend to make it past 10 a.m.
Feel free to join me. Don’t feel obligated to share the story of your attempt, though it is Total Disclosure Day and that would certainly be keeping the spirit of the day.
Oddly, I'm abnormally honest. My average for lies used to be about one a year, and now it's up to about two, I think. This is certainly a matter of temperament now, but began in a resolve when I was in seventh or eighth grades, when I was alarmed to realize that when I did storytelling framed as lie, people believed me. And gradually over the next few years, when I recognized the damage people around me did themselves by lying to themselves.
It's partly because I genuinely don't want to deceive people, often. And it's partly because I want to preserve a facial appearance of honesty that makes my lies successful, when I employ them.
(I had a little trouble when I began to study French in high school, and had to decide to boycott participation in example sentences that required me to assert untrue things. Learning French and not being a major pain in the arsenal won swiftly, happily.)
All that said, I have never thought that truth telling required total disclosure. Thank God.
It’s probably best and more complicated to start with the lies we tell ourselves.