What's in Your Pocket?

        I remember the first lie I ever told. I was five years old. I can still feel the weight of that lie in my pocket. The lie was yellow, rectangular-shaped, and wrapped in plastic. It was called Chiclets Chewing Gum. Chiclets were the expensive, sparkling white, candy-coated gum, shaped like teeth and reserved in my young mind for the upper echelon of society. 

        Chiclet-chewers were glamorous thin wealthy white women with straight blond hair, long legs and sparkling smiles. Chiclet-chewers snapped their gum with effortless confidence. They didn’t ask for attention, they demanded it, and damn, they got it. Chiclet-chewers were desirable. 

        Suffice it to say, I wasn’t a Chiclet-chewer, and I wasn’t desirable. I was an over-sized awkward kid from a blue collar Catholic family in New Jersey with frizzy hair who wore hand-me-down clothes, sucked her thumb and drove around with my mom in a gigantic, ugly as hell Dodge Ram Van. I wasn’t allowed to chew gum, or drink soda. I was boring. I was bland, and I deeply longed to be desirable. I wanted to be a Chiclet-chewer. I’d do anything for it. Even lie.

       

         Mom and I stood in the check-out line at Berlin’s Shop-Rite. Mom was chit-chatting with the cashier. I stood behind the over-stuffed cart.  Four loafs of wonder bread, three gallons of whole milk, four cartons of eggs, and enough peanut butter and jelly for the assembly-line of school lunches Mom made every morning.  Mom unloaded the items in the cart onto the counter. The cashier rung the items up, bagged them in brown bags. This was life in a small town, and I longed for something more.

        That’s when the yellow wrapping caught my eye. I glanced at Mom. I glanced at the cashier. I glanced behind me. No one was paying attention.  I glanced back at the Chiclets, a devious sense of wonder exploding in my imagination. 

        I didn’t see a pack of chewing gum. I saw an escape. A glorious escape from this mundane, small town, boring, going nowhere, stuck in the middle existence. I saw my drab brown eyes suddenly burst with luxurious hues of yellow and green. I saw a gorgeous, smooth ponytail swinging like a pendulum as I strut through the halls of kindergarten. I saw everything I wanted to be in that pack of gum. I saw myself desired.
The forbidden fruit hung at eye level. It was reachable, attainable. I looked around. Still, no one was watching. Mom was busy. The cashier was distracted. This was my moment. So I did it. My bold 5-year-old self actually did it. I grabbed the gum, and shoved it in my pocket. I gave it an extra squeeze to make sure it was real. Then, as the guilty often do, I helped mom load the brown bags back into the cart. We walked out of Shop-Rite, into the parking lot, and toward the Dodge Ram Van.
I remember that walk. The treasure felt heavy in my pocket. Not just the stolen goods, but there was something else there, something ickier, and heavier in my pocket. Something that hid itself between the hope of desirable-ness and the burgeoning guilt of my deed. That something else was shame. Why did I need to steal a pack of gum to feel desirable?
My palms started to sweat. My heart started to race. What have I done, I thought. We walked a few more paces before Mom stopped the cart behind our van. She opened the back door, then turned back to the cart. She picked up a brown bag of food, and as she did that she caught my pleading eyes. She hesitated, took a breath, and then put the bag back down in the cart. 

        Did she know, I thought. She didn’t have to say the words. I heard her thinking them - ‘I see the devils dancing in your eyes’. That was her phrase when she sensed we were telling fibs, or lying about something. I knew she could see little devils dancing in my pupils.
        Rachel, what is in your pocket, she asked. I paused. In shock. Do I tell her or not? I could still get away with it, I thought. Was I really ready to give up my chance at becoming a Chiclet-chewer?
Nothing, I said as I squeezed the plastic wrapping in my pocket tighter. She gave me a suspecting glance than turned back to shopping cart. I cracked under the weight of her wordless stare. I started sobbing my eyes out. I pulled my hand out of the pocket, opened my palm, and that’s when she saw the yellow wrapping. 

         She didn’t say anything. She didn’t scold me, or berate me. She kept loading the groceries into the car. When she finished, she took a deep breathe, turned to me and said, We need to go back inside and return it. 

        She didn’t say, you need to return it. Mom said we need to return it. I didn't understand the magic of words then, but I do now. We would walk back together. I’d take ownership of my act and she’d stand beside me. Together, we would reclaim my dignity. 
I remember the walk back through the parking lot. I remember my slumping, sagging shoulders of shame. I remember thinking how in the world am I going to admit what I’ve done. But I did it, I walked into the store, up to the cashier, and admitted my crime. The cashier looked at me, and then up at my mom. She nodded her head, and gestured for me to put the gum back where I had taken it. 

        I felt relief when I put the gum back on the shelf. I felt relief that I didn’t have to carry the lie anymore. I wasn't desirable. I was free. 

       

        Freedom is the gift that lives within the truth. Yet, all truth telling must begin with the lies we tell ourselves. The lies we tell ourselves to belong, to survive, to be desirable. We must own our lies before they own us. So as my mom asked me all those years ago, I’ll ask you:

Dear Reader, what’s in your pocket?

        We need to go back and reclaim it.