Truth Be Told

I wrote this about two years ago. I came across it, reread it, and actually liked it (it's not very often I enjoy reading my old writings). So I revised and revamped it, clarifying here, elaborating there. Let me know what you think.

This afternoon, whilst I was reading Dickens’s Great Expectations, Joshua, my eight-month-old son, prowling around the perimeters of the living room, was searching frantically for small, dangerous objects to ingest: a bit of tin foil, a red thumbtack, and even the letter C he had pried off an old keyboard. Mrs. Joe had once again accosted Pip “by the hand” when Joshua decided his carpet adventures were over. He pulled himself across the rug to where I was lazily reclining on the sofa. When he arrived, he let out a crude, babyish lament crying, “Father, why must you always neglect your posterity in your vain search of knowledge and wisdom? Put down that blasted book and tend to my needs.” Who could resist such a request? I let down my book and picked up my son. Joshua rested his cheek on my chest while I massaged the small of his back with the palm of my hand. His whimpers turned slowly into deep rhythmic pulls of air, the child asleep on my breast. We slept and dreamt on the couch while the afternoon drifted gently into evening, deepening our fraternal bond.

That was Wednesday, February 24, 2010. My story, however, may or may not be factually accurate. Often, I am criticized for stretching the truth, omitting crucial details, and frankly, telling lies. You, who have accused me of such, have a legitimate argument. Here’s what actually happened:

1. I wasn’t reading Dickens; I was reading Cristina Rossetti’s “Goblin Market”. Laura had just eaten the goblins’ forbidden fruit—a blatant metaphor for sex—when Joshua crawled over to me. However, I had read the first eleven chapters of Great Expectations the previous night.
2. There was no thumbtack: Joshua has never, in his eight months of existence, come across sharp stationeries.
3. Joshua didn’t actually speak; if you didn’t catch this, God bless you.
4. Finally, I didn’t fall asleep. I tried, but I couldn’t get comfortable.

So why did I do it? Why did I lie? In my mind, what I told was the truth. I wasn’t trying to give people an objective, historical account of my afternoon—I was trying to portray what I felt. Joshua didn’t say, “Why must you always neglect your posterity in your vain search of knowledge and wisdom.” But, in a way, he did. No, I didn’t fall asleep with him on my chest, but it was better than any dream I’ve ever dreamt. The factual “truths” didn’t matter, in this case. What did matter, then? The emotion? The experience? The dream? The truth? I’m not sure, exactly. But here’s something that does matter: on Wednesday, February 24, 2010, I experienced my most profound moment as a father.

Bald is Beautiful

Speaking about the resurrection that will freely come to all, Alma revealed, “The soul shall be restored to the body, and the body to the soul; yea, and every limb and joint shall be restored to its body; yea, even a hair of the head shall not be lost; but all things shall be restored to their proper and perfect frame.” As wonderful as it sounds, I have a small problem with the resurrection: I don’t want my hair back.

For over twenty years I tried to find a hair style that suited me. And for over twenty years, nothing worked. When I was young my mom thought the bowl cut was a good idea—I was just too young to protest. The slicked-over side-part wasn’t much of an improvement, either. Buzz cuts sometimes looked okay, but they made my ears look too big. Spiked hair, the staple of 90’s fashion, was terrible. I tried spiking the hair only in the front, but, unfortunately, because my hair line was already receding, that, too, was a disaster; I didn’t have much of a front to spike. My senior year in high school, I reverted back to the side-part, without the greasy gobs of gel, of course, for a natural, wavy look. I liked it but my friends made fun of me. My hair during my mission was a catastrophe. In college I cut my hair short, about an 1/8 of an inch long, and I was mostly satisfied. On a dare, I used a razor to shave my head completely. My naked cranium looked comical: my face was tan while my scalp white, a natural colorless helmet. But a few days in the sun solved that. Since then, I’ve always shaved my head. Once, when I wanted to see what I looked like with hair again, I let my locks grow out a quarter-inch; but my boss, who otherwise never spoke to me, told me it added five years to my face and to shave it before work the next day. Who would have guessed that when a balding man shaves his head, he looks better—and, believe it or not, less bald? Oh, the ironies of life.

So when that blessed morning comes, when every limb and joint will be restored to my body and every hair restored to my head, I will decline the latter. I’ll say, “Jesus, you can keep my hair—I look better without it.”

A Beard at BYU

(At the BYU library, it is 1:53 on a Friday afternoon. Several students, eager to tackle their assignments, enter the computer lab and sit down at various computer stations. BEARD occupies a computer, busily typing an inquiry project, a euphemism for a research paper. There is a constant sound of clicking keyboards. RANDON STUDENT enters the lab and takes a seat next to BEARD at a computer. RANDOM STUDENT is a tall, clean-shaven male wearing a collared Polo shirt, blue jeans, and running shoes.)

RANDON STUDENT: What’s up, Beard?
BEARD: (Guardedly.) Hey.
RANDOM STUDENT: I see you around campus all the time.
BEARD: Oh.

I wish people at BYU wouldn’t reduce my identity to my facial hair. There’s so much more to me. Like my bald head.

Joshisms

Concurring with Mommy: “Oh, yeah.”

“Daddy. Doing?” Inquiring what on earth his father is making for dinner.

Running around the house, dripping and exposed, after his bath, “Naked bum! Naked bum!”

Joshua: Touch, tomatoes?
Daddy: No.
Joshua: Touch, cheese?
Mommy: No, Josh.
Joshua: Touch, beans?
Daddy: Josh, we don’t touch the food on the table we don’t intend to eat.
Joshua: Touch, beans, please?

“Oh, oh, oh. Alligator coming,” as the reptilian taco sneaks into his mouth.

“Poke Jesus' eyes.”

“My do it!” anytime Mommy or Daddy benevolently offer their help.

Sipping Dr. Pepper for the first time, smiling widely, “Yummy. More.”