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BY JENNIFER SILVERMAN
I was recently given some curious (and appreciated) feedback that my writing is “brutally honest,” which struck me as quite the head-scratcher.
Have I been unusually honest in my writing? And what exactly have I revealed that falls under the category of “brutal?”
I’m reminded of a scene at a farmer’s market some months ago.
My father and I were waiting in a very long line at a bakery stand, eyeing loaves of bread that looked almost too good to eat. As we finally approached the front of the line, two ladies stepped ahead of the customer before us.
I’d like to think I’m typically polite and appropriate, but when poked, the New Yorker in me emerges. I soon felt a surge of anger running through my veins.
Why people feel entitled to cut lines is totally beyond me.
To the surprise of my father, and frankly myself, I blurted out, “the line is back there”, pointing to a distance some two stands and twenty patrons away.
One of the line cutters played oblivious and responded, “Oh, there’s a line?” My reply was a somewhat hissed, “yes.”
As I stepped in front of them and reclaimed my rightful spot, I uttered a somewhat mannerly, “excuse me” and they finally relented - heading to the back of line.
What does this tale tell us about honesty?
Well, although my intention is not to shame the line-cutters of the world, I personally don’t believe that either of the ladies pursuing high-speed baked good acquisition failed to notice the lengthy line.
I can’t confirm their rationale for leapfrogging in front of people who patiently waited their turn, but I do reckon their feigned naiveite was dishonest.
Let’s examine social media as another mini case-study: When posters feel the need to update their followers on everything from a broken nail to burnt popcorn, they seem to be putting it all out there.
Conversely, idyllic photos of perfect families and dream vacations are certainly not always as they appear. I recall a quote courtesy of supermodel, Cindy Crawford from back in the day.
“Even I don’t wake up looking like Cindy Crawford.”
To me, this indicates that our representative - the person we present to the world, and for that matter, the person the world assumes us to be, isn’t always reality.
Looking back at the posts I’ve had the privilege of penning thus far, I’ve divulged that I’m divorced, dyslexic, terrible at macramé, a proponent of manners, a paranormal buff, a self-help book over-user, a collector of beautiful shoes, a devotee of classic TV, and a Whoopi Goldberg super-fan.
I suppose these confessions are honest, but they don’t seem all that revealing (quirky maybe, but not revealing).
In general, I would venture to say that dishonesty is a product of everything from attempts to avoid embarrassment to a means of feeling better. Often times, I’m sure it’s not pre-meditated, and unfolds with no malintent.
Maybe honesty emerges less so from what we do reveal, and more so from what we do not.
What I can say with certainty is that my writing journey has been very cathartic, and the introspection required has made me far more honest with myself.
Hopefully my attempt at “brutal honesty” will enable us to have some aha moments together – line cutters and all.
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