I lie to my mother because of ketchup.
Heinz first inspired me to be dishonest at Texas Roadhouse when I was five. Hunger and evidently an adventurous spirit led me to order the “Lil’ Dillo Sirloin Bites” with mashed potatoes.
As I stared at my plate under the din of Tim McGraw, I concluded that the cream glob of potatoes was plain. In an attempt to combat the monotony of dinner, I doused the starch in the tomato-based condiment.
Content with the results, I commenced to eat the crimson mush. However, as a fork shoveled up the next bite, a gasp shattered McGraw’s chorus.
“Lauren, that’s disgustin’,” my mother’s Southern drawl reverberated across the restaurant (understandably startling patrons) as her zealous hands snatched my plate.
“That isn’t the right way to eat that.”
I sat, shocked that there was an “incorrect” way to eat mashed potatoes. Though this anecdote is humorous, at the time I was overcome by anger. I couldn’t understand why it was acceptable to eat ketchup with french fries, but not mashed potatoes. My mother’s judgment was inconsistent to me. Despite obvious cooking methods, the only dissimilarity between the two dishes was appearance.
Years later I experienced the Texas Roadhouse “condiment catastrophe” once again, though this time the event involved people rather than starches.
My 10-year-old self (obviously too mature for the kids’ menu) selected the “Chicken Critters.” Five chicken critters in, a gasp once again shattered the chorus.
“That just isn’t right,” my mother’s Southern drawl was now a whisper as she directed her attention toward two women holding hands in a nearby booth.
“Love is between a man and a woman.”
Memories of the potato experience flashed through my head. The same anger overcame me. I couldn’t understand why it was acceptable for a man and a woman to hold hands in public, but not for two people of the same gender to do so. My mother’s judgment was once again inconsistent.
Despite obvious differences, the only dissimilarity between the couples was appearance.
Then I wasn’t knowledgeable of the social injustices associated with homosexuality. However, I began to understand the topic through becoming president of my school’s Falcon Alliance and volunteering with a LGTBQ support organization.
My mother doesn’t know of the fundraising poetry slams I have organized or of my time spent mentoring those struggling with bullying. Time spent after school is dedicated to another organization and LGBTQ meetings are “trips to the mall.”
If I weren’t dishonest, she would take away opportunities to make change that I view as necessary. These aren’t deceitful actions, I simply know that if I cannot convince her that potatoes are potatoes no matter how they are served, I cannot convince her that a relationship is a relationship, no matter the genders involved. Perhaps I can gradually change the minds of others.
Texas Roadhouse taught me there is no “wrong” way to love others (or eat potatoes for that matter). Thus, I lie to my mother because of ketchup.
By Lauren Stepp
