What's black and white and red all over?

In the 5th grade, I told a lie to my teacher.

Well, maybe not a lie. But I definitely "withheld the truth." It was indoor recess and I was playing with one of my best friends Jonathan. We were playing who-can-make-it-on-the-desk-first. The opponents? Him vs. the nifty teacher's pointer I held in my hand. We laughed and we dueled until his butt met my stick in a way that is not as dirty as it sounds. The pointer cracked, and we both froze. "It's cool, don't worry, I'll just put it back like it's still together and she'll never notice." I ran to the chalkboard, carefully lay the pointer down and arranged it to look whole.

Naturally, when Ms. Whatshername returned and went to use it, she only picked up one half. Glaring at the class, she demanded a confession. This was her favorite pointer, she said. Her 5th grade class from 12 years ago gifted it to her, she said. My heart wrung with distress. How could I confess now? After that sob story, who wants to be responsible for such an insensitive move? I kept my mouth shut and my eyes open, my palms creating an attractive little puddle on the wooden desk in front of me. No one answered. I was in the clear.

The next day during outdoor recess, I was held in by my teacher. Someone had spared me the trouble and confessed for me, and I got a yelling that is still horrifyingly vivid in my mind. I stood and listened for thirty minutes. About why lying was wrong, about how it is a nasty habit to fall into, and about how hurt and surprised she was by my deception. As tears filled my eyes, I couldn't meet hers. I stared at the colorful border lining the wall, trying to find some happiness in its cheery demeanor. The effort was to no avail - I felt disgusting, ashamed, and angry at the tacky little tattle-tale that ratted me out. As if I needed any more evidence that stupid boys had stupid cooties.

For the next month of school, I cowered in my teacher's presence. I wasn't as participatory, I played it very safe, and avoided all eye contact with her unless absolutely necessary. I was a pathetic excuse of a human in my mind, and I vowed to never lie again.

I went on to middle school, leaving the incident behind me. But one day, something strange happened. Having the opportunity to cheat with a classmate, I politely refused his offer and felt good about doing it. I immediately remembered the day of the pointer, the talk in the hallway, and the impression it left on me. I emailed my teacher, thanking her for instilling the lesson of right and wrong. Though I resented everything about the period when I was that guy, I was grateful for her words that knocked some sense into me.

As I look back on it now, I'm not as grateful as middle school Avani was. Of course I understand the gesture - to teach me that lying is wrong. But what I'm not quite sure I can parse is the notion that there is always one wrong that opposes one steady right. I was so shaken up that day, that the idea of a white lie was blasphemy to me, for a really long time. I didn't get it - how can there be exceptions to a rule? That's not what I was taught in the 5th grade.

And here lies a fundamental problem. The world, as full of color as I love to see it when I walk outside each day - is somehow always black and white to me. Hidden beneath the hue of the trees are roots that are grounded in either good or bad soil in my mind, and I can't seem to shake that idea. It is always one extreme or the other, and the grey lines of moderation are constantly blurred. Why can't I seem to find this balance? Because I always try to follow a rule. A safe set of steps that logically lays out what things mean, and how to proceed. Instead of finding the middle way between "you're approaching the grey" and "you're just kidding yourself," I push towards the polars. Something about staying as far away from the middle ground as possible makes me feel safe. Like I am either completely off, or completely on, and that's more appealing than being neither one of the two.

And sure, maybe that's just an issue that stems from an obsessive personality. But a part of me thinks that the red rage in her eyes 10 years ago left me too scared to ever try to approach color again.