I hardly ever watch congressional hearings on TV anymore, and not for the reason you might think. (It’s not because they are really, really boring, and I have more interesting things to do, like watching paint dry.) No, the reason I don’t watch them is that, invariably, there comes a point during someone’s testimony when I am so reminded of watching my children trying to tell a convincing lie that I just turn off the TV in disgust. The way I see it is, if I wanted to watch someone stumble over their own tongues I would just ask my children who left the milk in the bathtub. As pathetic as that can be, it’s not, unfortunately, as pathetic as watching some of the people who testify before congress. Case in point: a witness who recently testified about how the women of America really, really need semi-automatic rifles for home protection.
To illustrate her point she told the story of a a brave young mother fending off a home invader armed only with her wits and her trusty gun. She seemed to know every shocking detail of this young woman’s harrowing story—right up until the moment when the congressman asked her if she knew if the mother in question had been armed with the assault rifle she was there to support. That’s when she grew fuzzy.
“I don’t know,” she said, suddenly shifty-eyed.
And that’s when I turned off the TV in disgust. I’d already seen that drama several times that day—I didn’t need to relive it on TV.
Why is it that children (and lobbyists, apparently) seem to think that “I don’t know” (or its cousin, “I don’t remember”) is any better than a straight up lie? If the woman testifying before congress had just said, “Yes, she was; and she was also carrying a phased plasma rifle in the 40 watt range,” it would still have been a lie, but at least it would have been a funny one. (I can just imagine the CNN fact checkers realizing they were looking up the gun from “The Terminator.”)
By the same token, when I ask my children a question that they clearly don’t want to answer, I think I would appreciate a creative lie much more than a bland “I don’t know.” When I ask “Why didn’t you finish your homework last night?” I would much prefer to hear a breathless, “Because the President called and I had to go out and save the world!” to a monotone “I don’t know.” I mean, they’re both lies, (we both know that the real answer is, “Because I wanted to get to the next level in Skyrim,”) but at least the creative lie gives me something to work with.
“Well, next time tell the President to call and check with me first.”
Part of the reason I hate the evasive answer so much is that it’s just plain insulting; it’s as if I were someone so unimportant that it’s not even worth their time bothering to come up with a decent lie. A good lie at least makes its victim feel worthy of the extra effort—makes them feel like they are considered a worthy adversary. A bad lie, or worse, a pathetic one, just makes you feel like you’re not even worth the time. It’s a double insult. (I once knew a woman who turned down a date with the words, “No thanks: I’m going to stay home and rinse out my comb tonight.” After all these years I finally understand how that guy felt.)
Still, I suppose that it’s some comfort knowing that they will always have plenty of job opportunities when they get older. Even if all those jobs do happen to be in and around congress.