February 17, 2002

• I love Xanga.  Finding new sites and new writers with their own unique perspective on life is more fun than doing dishes (to my family's chagrin.)  I'll put up with a lot of stuff from the Xanga administrators just so long as I'm able to keep reading.

  
  

  Lyssa asks in her blog from last night, "What's the worst lie you ever told?"  I started to answer in her comment section then realized this is going to be long one.  (Like that ever stopped me from taking up space in YOUR comment sections. <blushes>)

  
  

  When I was a student at the University of Arkansas, I met Richard.  Most of the people on campus knew him or knew of him, but very few knew his name.  Everyone called him Skippy, and it was not a nice thing.  Richard was socially awkward, but had a brilliant mind.  He was the guy who set the curve in every class he took. 

  
  

  I never knew why the name Skippy.  But, I saw it everywhere.  It showed up in graffiti in the elevator, you heard it whispered - or spoken - in the cafeteria, and certain infantile persons would taunt him across the commons with it.

  
  

  I felt sorry for him.  He wasn't a bad person, he was just very awkward, and kind of sweet in a lost, bewildered way.  I made it a habit to speak to him when the opportunity arose, and I called him by his name.  I worked in the office of the dorm and spent quite a few evenings studying in between answering phone calls and putting out the daily mail.  My dorm was situated between the men's dorm and the cafeteria and most of the guys cut through our lobby so it was not uncommon to have dozens of people say "hi" to me and I would answer them on auto-pilot.

  
  

  On this particular occassion, Richard was walking through and saw me.  I don't remember what I was doing in the seconds before he stuck his head in the window and said "Hi, Terri."  I will never forget the next 3 seconds of my life.  Through the lens of memory, I see myself raise my head, still focused mentally on something else, and say, "Hi, Skippy."

  
  

  His head jerked from the slap.  He shook it back and forth slowly and backed away from the window.  I knew immediately what I had done, and couldn't think of any way to undo it.  I had lied.  All the time that I was "befriending" him, I was still thinking of him as Skippy, the pitiable. 

  
  

  He taught me the most valuable lesson I've ever learned about honesty.  Sometimes the worst lies you tell aren't verbal, they are in things you imply by your behavior.

  • 8:42 am
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