I've a vivid memory of my 5th grade English teacher admonishing me for using profanity in the title of my first semester essay, "Who The Hell Cares What I Did On My Summer Vacation?". As Miss Thomas was dutifully lecturing me on the proper etiquette of essay writing, I found myself thoughtfully examining the intricately teased swirl of hair coifed atop her head. I was faintly aware that she was talking because her mouth was moving, but mesmerized by the sheer height of this jet black mound, my attention was dangerously divided. The last thing I remember before being marched down the hall to the principle's office was hearing her shrill indignant plea, "Well, young lady, what do have to say for yourself?". And as uncensored as the assignment's title, the words just came spilling out, "Miss Thomas, do you use Aqua Net?"

 
This story is just one of many illustrating my life-long battle with being severely Nice Impaired. The day my Sunday school teacher exclaimed, "Nice girls don't say such things!", just because I told her (with innocent certainty) that, "Jesus does NOT control the mind of my dog, Pixie"... I never had much to do with Nice again.

 
I saw Nice come spewing out sideways more than I care to remember, and it was a confusing and ugly sight. I saw my mother wear her June Clever smile as she hid inside a loveless marriage - all beautiful and shiny on the outside, suffering and self-loathing on the inside. I saw my father walk to the bus stop every morning with a spring in his step that was proof to the neighbors that nothing was wrong at home. I saw my younger sister cower behind the kitchen door during one of my mother's voiceless rages, I saw my older sister sit in quiet detachment as she slowly went insane. And when that pivotal day came, the summer before 5th grade, when my mother walked out and never came back, something profoundly important was imprinted on me: "Nice" just doesn't get a girl anywhere.

At a very tender age, I witnessed reasonably sane Big People slip into the abyss of never-ending pretending; an entire culture that rarely told the truth. It just wasn't Nice. Because the truth might hurt somebody's feelings ... because they may not invite you back ... because the truth could make you cry ... because the truth could cause your world to disintegrate into a hundred gillion pieces. Like mine did. But it wasn't Truth that vaporized my world, it was all that energy it took hiding from it.
 

Frankly, I am highly suspicious of Nice. We are a nation of polite liars and it is a sickness of epidemic proportions. We are sold cars that promise social status, pills that ensure cast iron erections and cosmetics that promise our forty year old cheeks will be as smooth as baby's bottoms. And with the cosmetic industry grossing over seven billion dollars last year, apparently... we believe it. From the co-conspired greed of ponzi schemes and AIG, to the fallen status of our nation's educators and crippled health care system ... we turn our heads and look the other way. We lie to one another; we lie to ourselves, all the while pretending the house isn't burning down.