Perception is reality

President Ezra Taft Benson often told the following story:

“One day in the middle of an important examination in high school, the point of my lead pencil broke. In those days, we used pocket knives to sharpen our pencils. I had forgotten my penknife, and turned to ask a neighbor for his. The teacher saw this; he accused me of cheating. When I tried to explain, he gave me a tongue-lashing for lying; worse, he forbade me to play on the basketball team in the upcoming big game.

“I could see that the more I protested the angrier he seemed to become. But, again and again, I stubbornly told what had happened. Even when the coach pleaded my cause, the teacher refused to budge. The disgrace was almost more than I could bear. Then, just minutes before the game, he had a change of heart, and I was permitted to play. But there was no joy in it. We lost the game; and though that hurt, by far the deeper pain was being branded a cheat and a liar.

“Looking back, I know that lesson was God-sent. Character is shaped in just such crucibles.

“My parents believed me; they were understanding and encouraging. Supported by them, Uncle Serge’s lessons in courage, and a clear conscience, I began to realize that when you are at peace with your Maker you can, if not ignore human criticism, at least rise above it.

“And I learned something else—the importance of avoiding even the appearance of evil. Though I was innocent, circumstance made me look guilty. Since this could so easily be true in many of life’s situations, I made a resolution to keep even the appearance of my actions above question, as far as possible. And it struck me, too, that if this injustice happened to me, it could happen to others, and I must not judge their actions simply on appearances”
　
This made me think of a personal experience I had:

A few years ago, while soldiering in the U.S. Army, I was assigned to an operation in the middle-of-no-where-Alaska. About 50 soldiers and I were working on a joint-command task force initiative that required about 6 weeks worth of effort from our group.

One evening, after our work for the day had been completed, a dozen of us felt hungry and began to look around for places to eat. Since we were in an extremely rural area of the state, the closest place to eat was located about 20 miles away through dense forest along unpaved roads. We had to use one of our two and a half ton, six-wheeled, “cattle trucks” to navigate the off-road route.

We found the small restaurant and entered; the solders with me cheered. I sighed. The place was 100 percent bar that happened to serve a couple offerings of hot sandwich and snacks to soak up whatever patrons drank. I was the only person in our group that didn’t drink alcohol and was immediately dubbed “designated driver“.

As we found a place to sit, I soaked up the scene around me. The entire establishment was not much bigger than an average house. The inside was one great room that had a bar and kitchen along one side and several round tables covering the rest of the floor. Each table seated eight people--but of course our group found a way to seat all twelve; we were used to being cozy in tight spaces--it’s the life of any soldier throughout history I would assume. The side opposite of the long bar appeared to be one huge paned window. On the other two walls hung assortments of taxidermied animal trophies: moose, deer, elk, goats, several types of duck, pheasants and enough variety of fish to be recognized as the largest dry aquarium with-in a thousand mile radius.

In one corner between the entrance and the bar hung a large brass ship’s bell. A plaque beneath it displayed a humorous poem whose message warned that the ringer of the bell had to buy a round of drinks for everyone patronizing the bar.

One soldier thought the poem to be a joke and went to ring the bell. Before he was able to, a mammoth, mountain-man-like figure dressed in flannel and overalls bellowed a warning that ringing the bell would cost him nearly a thousand dollars worth of whiskey. The soldier responded with a tough pretense and made a comment under his breath, but ended up returning to our group before pulling the clapper and rope.
Most of us were knee-deep in mud and needed a bath, but everyone else in the bar was in the same shape, so we fit right in. Though most of us wore some type of military fatigue or camouflaged outfit, more often than not, the local patrons had similar boots and clothing; we blended in well and were mostly ignored.
After a round of sandwiches and beer (I drank soda), more food arrived and everyone began to tell stories about home or other military assignments that made good half-truth, braggart tales. As was the norm, somewhere between ninety minutes and two hours of drinks and stories, some one bragged a little too much about this or that and ended up having his manliness challenged.

“If you’re such a tough guy, go ring that bell.”

“(bleep) off”

“Go ring it! You’re such a (bleeping bleep)”

It only took a few more challenges before the pinned down solder swore under his breath and walked over to the corner with the bell.

“(bleep) it!” His hand grabbed the rope and shook the clapper.

The quiet hum of conversation that floated above everyone’s head died. All heads turned to the ring from the corner. One patron gasped audibly while the rest roared a cheer.

The grizzly, flannelled, mountain-man suddenly bellowed toward the bar, “tequila for everyone!” The room erupted in cheers and the staff behind the bar and on the floor busied themselves pouring shot after shot after shot until they drained every tequila bottle under the bar.

Amid the noise and improvised party, several solders at our table stood up, congratulated the bell ringer and emptied their pockets of all the cash they carried. Collectively, there was enough to buy the house another round so another solder ran over to the bell and gave it a hearty ring.

Pandemonium ensued.

I sat in my seat and watched the whole event with a smile. Bar floors, I had learned, have personalities as individual as the rest of us. Watching this bar go from bored to glee entertained me.

While sitting, a waitress appeared with a tray containing 30 shot-glasses full of whatever alcohol the bar had left. With a smile, she bent over and placed the tray on my lap. Without thinking, I reached for the tray and held it--mostly to avoid spillage (that’s considered alcohol abuse according to bar lingo). One of my fellow soldiers howled and screamed when he saw me sitting with a lap full of shots. He quickly pointed at me and began to yell “Drink! Drink! Drink!”

Another chimed in and another. Before I could comprehend what had happened, the whole populous of the bar pointed at me and chanted “Drink! Drink! Drink!…”

At that exact moment, through the front entrance of the bar, entered two men from my home town. When not on military duty, I worked with the two of them at a local middle school. They were school teachers and I was a sign language interpreter. One of the two was LDS and knew that I was devout in my LDS lifestyle. I later found out that they had decided to enjoy a week of Alaska’s fishing and just happened to be in the same area looking for a bite to eat.

While the bar chanted for me to drink--thousands of miles away from our homes--fate timed their entry. The three of us locked stares. I stared in horror. They stared in disgust.

To the chagrin of the crowd, I did not drink and placed the tray on a nearby table. After a couple communal moans, everyone returned to their own business of food and friends. I rose to find the two men from my home town, but never had the opportunity to talk with them. I don’t know if they took food orders to go, or if they simply left, but I never had an opportunity to plead my innocence.

After dinner waned, we left. As the only sober member of our group, the drive was lonely. Others laughed, swore, told more stories or tried to sleep. I quietly drove and contemplated the image of disgust I had seen. I saw it all night long.

We arrived back to our area of operation and I found my cot; however, I couldn’t find any rest. Most of the night, I felt a drowning sensation of guilt and even imagined hearing a “tsk, tsk” from time to time while I tried to sleep. Morning didn’t come soon enough.

Over time, the guilty feeling and memory of that night softened.

Several weeks later, I returned home and another school session started. This year though, the staff treated me differently than they ever had before. Those whom I had little to do with previously, congratulated me on “partying my summer away,” while others that I often associated with purposefully invented schemes and excuses to not talk with me or even make much eye contact.

At first I was confused. Then I remembered the night that two of this school’s teachers saw me supposedly whooping it up in Alaska with a bunch of soldiers and drunk riff-raff. Again, I sought them out to plead my innocence, but the picture in their mind weighed like stone and my version was just a feather.

Since you cant move a rock with a feather, their story stuck and I carried the burdensome reputation of a guy that partied till sunrise.

Though unfair, as President Benson and I have learned, perception is reality.