I gripped the arms of my chair tightly as the job counselor scrolled down the list on his computer. “I’ve got plenty of openings for someone with your experience, Sonya,” Jim Williams said. “How about office manager for a family physician?”
“No, thanks, I don’t want to work in the medical field again,” I said stiffly. Seventeen years scheduling surgeries in a medical center were enough. I didn’t want the pressure anymore, the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach every time I was handed a doctor’s written orders.
“Well, how about insurance?” said Jim. “Sonya, I’ve got a great open—”
“That won’t work, either,” I snapped. “I don’t want to work in an office at all.”
Jim looked up at me, startled. “I don’t understand, Sonya. These are good jobs and you’d be perfect for them. I thought you wanted help.”
This was a big mistake, I thought. Couldn’t I, just once, get through a day without having to lie? The lie?
I can’t remember exactly when I started living the lie. My family moved around a lot when I was growing up. What with all the new schools, new teachers, new textbooks, I fell behind. And I was too proud to let anyone know I was struggling. My parents, my teachers, everyone said I was smart. How could I disappoint them? God was the only one who knew my secret. I felt like it brought us closer.
By the third grade I had pretty much given up trying to learn how to read and started trying to hide the fact that all I knew were the simplest words. I was clever—maybe too clever. I’d say I forgot my glasses when I was called on to read aloud. I asked lots of questions about assignments, listening carefully to the teacher to figure out what the words I didn’t recognize meant. And I prayed. And prayed. I prayed God would help me find a way to pass an English test or fool a study partner. He never let me down. I was relieved when I finished school—even a little proud. I had worked hard and gotten by. And I had still kept my secret.
I didn’t realize then that was only the beginning, that I’d be in a job counselor’s office more than 20 years later, still trying to hide the truth. How could I explain to Jim that I’d never intended to work in an office at all? Not long-term anyway. A friend had told me about a receptionist job at the medical center. Answering phones. Greeting visitors. Each morning I made sure I looked perfectly pulled together—suit pressed, pumps polished, hair styled neatly. Is this the look of an illiterate? I don’t think so, I’d say to myself.
Seems no one else thought so either, because before I knew it they’d offered me a promotion to a position scheduling procedures. I couldn’t turn it down. I was a single mom, and I needed the money for my two boys, Derrick and Kevin.
At work I kept two things handy: a student dictionary I could use to find simple definitions of unfamiliar words and a blue folder with the names of medical procedures and my own explanations of what they were. Most of the time I could match a doctor’s orders to a term from my list and know what to do. I worked through lunch, stayed late even, to look things up. I wanted to make sure I had every word in those orders right.
Still, I would get stuck sometimes. That’s where Venita came in. She was my best friend at the office—my only friend, really. I kept most people at a distance so my secret would be safe. “I can’t believe the way these doctors scribble,” I’d say to Venita, passing her a memo. “Can you make that out?” She read me hundreds of memos, no questions asked.
Once after I’d asked her to explain a typewritten order, a vague uneasiness crept over me. Does she suspect? I wondered. “Sometimes I have difficulty understanding the medical terms,” I said, watching her carefully. She shrugged. “Yeah, don’t we all. Doctors speak a different language.” She didn’t know. I felt almost disappointed I hadn’t been found out. It was so tiring constantly looking over my shoulder, working late triple-checking everything I did.
But I had no choice. I had my sons Derrick and Kevin to think about. Besides, I didn’t want my boys to be ashamed of their mama.
Maybe Jim had kids too. Maybe he would understand if I told him how my secret kept growing, rustling around inside of me like a living thing. It became a monster, much worse than anything I made up in the bedtime stories I told my sons. One night after I tucked them in, my gaze lingered on the pile of books in the corner of their room. Derrick had just started fourth grade and I couldn’t help him with his homework anymore. What if your boys have to pretend for the rest of their lives too? the monster whispered.
That’s why I started sending Derrick to tutors. Same with Kevin once he hit fourth grade. I gave their book reports to friends and relatives to read over. “I’m too biased,” I’d say. I went to every parent-teacher conference and made my sons do their homework as soon as they got home. I did everything in my power to make sure they didn’t fall into the trap, the lies that I had.
Derrick called me at work late one afternoon. “All I have left is a 20-page short story. I’ll read it tonight, I promise. Please, Mom, can’t I play baseball with the guys just this once?” he asked.
“No, I want you to finish that story first.”
“It’s just reading, Mom. What’s the big deal?”
I drew in my breath sharply. “It’s a very big deal, young man. You read that story now!”
“Why do you always have to be so mean?” Derrick yelled, slamming down the phone.
I went to the ladies room so none of my coworkers would see me upset. I splashed water on my face, then stared into the mirror. There was the Sonya everyone knew. The one who politely asked waiters for recommendations to avoid having to decipher a menu, the one who listened to Scripture on tape but made excuses in Bible study—”Oh, you’d better let someone else do the reading this time,” I would say to my pastor week after week. But that wasn’t the real me. The real Sonya was anxious—no, terrified—of being unmasked.
Dear God, you know my heart, I prayed. Please help my sons understand why I push them so hard.
But how could they? I never told them my secret, even after they were old enough to move out on their own. Only God and I knew. I figured that was the way it would always be.
Then things changed at work. New managers came in, watching my every move. There were rumors the medical center would be closed. All too soon it was my last day on the job.
That night I tossed and turned in bed long after I’d finished listening to the week’s Bible reading on tape. I was 40 years old and starting over. New job, new place, new people to keep in the dark. God, give me strength.
That’s when it hit me what I was really praying for. The strength to keep lying, I thought, suddenly more ashamed than ever. How can I ask God to help me deceive people? All these years my secret had stood between me and everyone I cared about. Even God. Yes, I’d trusted him. But only with my secret, not with my true self.
I’m so sorry, God. I don’t want to lie anymore, I prayed.
But the job counselor forced me into a corner. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Jim asked. If only he knew. Lying my entire life was easy compared to trying to tell the truth even once.
He’ll laugh at you. He’ll throw you out of his office. “I just want to do something different,” I insisted. “How about truck driving…or welding?”
Jim stared at me. “I’m not sure you have the right experience for that,” he said. He pulled his chair close to mine. “Look, Sonya. I know it can be tough having to start at a new place from scratch. But…”
“What about a janitorial job then? I’ll be a janitor.” I couldn’t bear to look at him, to see the questions in his eyes. My pulse pounded in my ears. It’s going to be okay, I told myself. God would take care of me. He always had. And you always will, Lord. I know that now.
“Sonya, I just don’t understand. Anyone would love to hire you. Why won’t you even consider the jobs I’ve suggested?”
“Because I can’t read. That’s why.”
Silence. Jim’s eyebrows shot up. All those years of planning, rehearsing, covering up—and just like that, it was out. The moment I’d dreaded my entire life had come at last. Yet the only emotion that flooded through me was relief.
Finally Jim spoke. “Well, we’re going to have to do something about that.”
Would you believe me if I told you that at the age of 40 I finally learned how to read? Or that I told my sons the secret I’d worked so desperately to keep from them? Or that now in Bible study, when the pastor asks for someone to read aloud, I hold my hand up high? Well, you should, because though I can’t tell you exactly when it was I began living the lie, I can tell you exactly when I stopped. It was the moment I trusted myself completely to God’s care. And that’s the truth.
