Samuel Longhorne Clemens, aka Mark Twain, wrote The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, The Adventures of Hukleberry Finn, and The Prince and The Pauper, among other works. He also is attributed to have used the phrase, “There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics“. He wasn’t the first to say it, though. That credit, as far as I can tell, goes to a man by the name of Leonard H. Courtney who used it in an article he wrote in 1895.
First, statistics. Let’s be honest: There are math people and there are people for whom math brings on a type of catatonic state. I don’t know about you, but I have no affection for statistics. When I took graduate statistics, I broke out in a sweat just doing the homework. I 
missed an A by 1 point, and, no, the professor didn’t see any reason to change my grade despite my hard work. Because – statistics. He did not grade on a curve and his life was black and white. He wasn’t like the ones alluded to in the above quote. He didn’t dilly dally with numbers. But plenty of people do. Let’s walk down that inviting path for a minute.
A study cited by reporter Wesley Lowery in a 2016 Washington Post article is an example of how statistics can be used to lie – Wesley, not the study. His writing is guilty of flaws that misled readers. “Lowery wrote that ‘black Americans are 2.5 times as likely as white Americans to be shot and killed by police officers’.” He neglected to include the part of the study that notes “Police are 42% less likely to use lethal force when arresting blacks than when when arresting whites, and 59% less likely to use lethal force when arresting blacks for serious violent crimes than when arresting whites for the same crimes.”¹
Or take, for instance the passionate concern about the environment to the degree California now restricts the use of plastic straws, and San Francisco bans them outright.² With the disgust of our country voiced from both within and without, I’m thinking we produce A LOT of pollution. Until you understand that as far as ocean pollution is concerned, China produces 8.8 million metric tons. So I’m looking . . . 3.2? Nope. 1.8? Nope. 1? Nope. Keep going to the bottom of the list. There it is! The USA is guilty of 0.3. “Tell me again how America is guilty of destroying the environment.”³ Those who use partial statistics are guilty of more than pollution.
Speaking of which, there are all sorts of ways to deceive. Yes, we are now at the part of the quote dealing with lies. Why, there are some organizaitons that belie the truth by just using a nice-sounding name. “Liddle Kidz Foundation Global uses the power of touch to reach the world’s most vulnerable children with experiences of appropriate nurturing touch that they often lack.”4 Isn’t that nice? Except when you realize that they welcome volunteers from a wide net of sources and look at pictures on their material that don’t appear reassuring at all. Congressman Schiff might know something about it since, though it claims an address in Vancouver, its 818 area code number is in his California jurisdiction. Someone should ask him when he’s done giving what is now being called a “dramatized version” of a phone call before the House Intelligence Committee.
Gossip, i.e. second-hand (at best) information about which we have no first-hand knowledge might be considered lying, but it’s tempting, isn’t it? Some people are starting to call it whistle-blowing now, but that’s a disservice to real whistle blowers with real alarms to sound, not those who simply don’t like someone or his politics. I’ll let you travel that path without me for now.
Teaching is a noble undertaking, but when it’s misused to lead students down a path littered with innuendo, it’s nobility takes a wrong turn, a turn that distorts the truth. Stanford University put out an excellent article: “In seeking to understand the current history wars, we might go so far as to say that they have become politics by other means. American history has been afflicted by presentism, examining our past with 21st century sensibilities and standards.” “We live in a time when we seem to engage in every possible approach to history except to learn from it. We seek to erase it, cover it over, topple it down, rewrite it, apologize for it, skip it—but not to put it out there to learn from it.” 5
We’re wading, dear readers, into a dark slough of untruth, the depth of which is bound
to drown us. We are, admittedly, living in a time where it’s difficult to discern what’s true and what isn’t. But it is our responsibility to try. And when someone lies once, then again and again and shows no signs of stopping, we need to do the stopping. We need to stop listening to the lies. Who’s guilty? The one who speaks a lie? The one who writes a lie? The one who pays for a lie? Or the one who believes a lie? This is your mother speaking: Stop being lazy and research a thing or two from a source other than your favorite.
While I detest profanity, I am a lover of the truth; and there are actions and words that are – truthfully – damned. When we continue to align ourselves with someone who believes not in the rule of law or justice, but that revenge is a right and says whatever it takes to topple their perceived enemy, truth be damned, we’re treading on dangerous ground.
If you’re normal, you’ve probably repeated something that you later discovered was false. If you’re good, you corrected it if possible. If you’ve lived a life of deception and wish oh wish oh wish you could fix it, you can repent; not that it undoes the damage you’ve caused, but it does express regret and can even bring forgiveness. But if you lie and repeat others’ lies and do so with a hard heart and without remorse, that, you poor soul, is a damned lie, and be warned – hell’s fire is even more firey than your tongue.
Sources: 1 justfactsdaily.com /new-york-times-spreads-falsehood-that-motivated-murders-of-police/; 2 Eater.com Wall Street Journal and @conservativefun; 4 Whitewatertruth.com, February 19, 2018 by Sandy Whitewater, investigative journalist; 5 Hoover Institution Journal, hoover.org. How Not To Teach American History by David Davenport, Gordon Lloyd. Tue, 9/17/19. Davenport is a research fellow at the Hoover Institution. Lloyd is a senior fellow at the Ashbrook Center and Dockson Professor Emeritus at the Pepperdine School of Public Policy.; Images: Unsplash.com, -mark-solarski-0R1ci4Rb9jU-; -andrew-neel-a_K7R1kugUE-; -jorgen-hendriksen-uCPQi2dxKAQ-
Two hours later, I’d not only made a fresh pot, but was more awake than I’d been since my mani-pedi. I’d shown the Sergeant the pictures from my phone, I’d told him everything I’d told McBrennain, and more. I’d even told him how glorious the stranger had been. John D. was a very attentive listener, and I couldn’t seem to stop talking. The coffee didn’t help.
Detective McBrennain showed his badge and stepped across the threshold. I invited him to sit at the kitchen table, made coffee (my policy was no decaf, but he looked like someone who preferred the dark of night to the light of day anyway), and told him my story. I told him about the car, the man with glorious gray eyes, and seeing the same car on a Facebook post of a missing car. I told him the car must have been given a paint job, otherwise – and here I held up my beautifully manicured nails – it had been white. I told him I recognized the car by a triangle of tiny dings on the door handle.
Then he punched in some numbers, tapped once or twice, and tapped again. Handing me my phone, he jumped into the car and started a purring engine. A perfect triangle of tiny dings on the passenger side door handle caught my eye as he pulled into the light afternoon traffic.
hungry. So we sauntered over (I know, what a word; but I believe it matched the extravagance of walking over the threshold of a place using French in its name, don’t you?) to Sissy’s Diner and ordered soup. Again, I know. But we’d just had manicures. What did you expect us to do? Break a nail carving steak? We considered sandwiches, of course; but by the time we would’ve handled the greasy fries that came with them, again, why take chances? And it wasn’t like we ordered chicken broth. We had the clam chowder Sissy’s was famous for. Plus handling a spoon gave each of us an excuse to glance at our newly polished fingertips: Pink Delish for my friend and Why Wine for me.
As we chatted on our way out the door of Sissy’s, I noticed a car just a few parking spaces down that exactly matched my mani-pedi color. What are the odds? We decided to walk (done with the sauntering now that we’d had clam chowder) over and take a hand selfie by the car. I mean, the color match was so unlikely – in our minds, at least – that it deserved a photo.
only read about. We might consider a newspaper article or item on the nightly news about a soldier who died, though we can’t recall where or when in the next minute. Some citizens have a personal connection to a father or mother, 
grandfather, uncle or great someone or other whose medal is in someone’s attic.
As time passes,you admire crafts made by hands of someone who is urging their soldier home stitch by stitch, project by project. Maybe you let someone know love is sent their way when they are lonely or worried. You commend every promotion. You read questions about locations of military bases. What are they like? How dangerous is it? You are privy to close calls and near misses. You hear about news of deployment and visceral sickness and worry so heavy it makes it hard to do ordinary things that need doing. Pride and fear become inextricably linked, and heaven is inundated with desperate prayers from all corners of the country at all hours.
vehicle accident. They were killed in Afghanistan or Iraq or someplace whose name we know, with a few facts we can repeat, but not much else. You recognize a name. A face. And there it is.
whose mother you talked with and whose visits home you celebrated. This soldier is a member of those admired by good people, but personally known by few. And this soldier deserves not just a minute on a day of remembering. He or she merits some time of reflection on his life and dreams, quirky sense of humor, tender letters home, anxious waiting, and desire to do a good thing. This soldier deserves a country’s honor.
I carried out a few suitcases and whatever other few things I had to bring, and stashed them all in a friend’s car. I was leaving for college during a time when my residence had one phone that hung on a hallway wall. There were no emails nor texts, and long distance costs were by the call and by the minute. Kids who went to college didn’t have much contact with their parents other than letters and holidays. As we pulled away, I could see my mom in the rearview mirror. She stood in the driveway and watched us until we were out of sight.
A candle is burning somewhere tonight. It burns to signify a prayer. Or penance. Or the presence of Christ.