“The deception of others is almost always rooted in the deception of ourselves.” -Bill W.

I spent a lot of my elementary school days wishing I could draw. Maybe it's because every project, no matter the subject, involved some pictorial component (we drew out word problems, illustrated book reports, and graphically depicted science experiments) or maybe it's simply because I was a creatively charged kid. Unfortunately, no matter how much I tried, something about my drawings was always off. 

In the fourth grade, I made one of the best discoveries of my childhood: By placing a blank sheet of paper on top of one with illustrations (i.e., pages from books, flyers, greeting cards) then putting them both against the window in my room, I could perfectly trace an original onto my blank piece of paper. 

It was a guiltless victory, signing my name to the bottom of the traced drawing and parading it around to my friends and family. They pretended to be impressed while probably wondering why I only ever drew scenes from the Bernstein Bears. 

Nobody ever caught on. But also, nobody really cared. And today, I can draw no better than I could back then, in the fourth grade.

Every Friday that same year, our teacher sent home a folder that contained our graded assignments for the week. Students were to deliver the folder to their parents, get the folder signed with the date, then return the folder to our teacher on Monday. 

I still remember arriving at school the Monday of The Incident. I was standing in line to enter our classroom and was struck with the desperate realization that I had forgotten to get my folder signed. I ran to the bathroom where I took out my folder and a pencil and carefully copied my mom's signature from the last week's row into the row of the current week. Stomach in knots, I stuffed my folder into my backpack and ran back into line. I knew I was in the wrong, but I couldn't afford for this mare of my perfect 5-gold-star record! Later that morning, I turned in my folder.

For the rest of the week, I couldn't look my mom in the eye. I knew she knew. She had to know. She has eyes in the back of her head, she always said. The next Friday, when my teacher handed me my folder, I realized that my mom would see my forged signature above this week's blank row. 

My fool-proof plan was foiled.

When I got home, I vigorously erased my rendition of her signature. The plan was to tell her the truth, that we had forgotten last week and that she had to sign twice. However, given my strong grip, I may well have engraved the forged signature. The moment I handed my mom my folder, the jig was up.

"Did you forge my signature?"

"No..." 

"This is illegal. You can get arrested for this!" I went to sleep annoyed at myself for getting caught and repeatedly praying that my mom wouldn't call the cops. 

That day, I formed a child's criteria for dishonesty: Don't get caught. 

But there was is a nuance in these two situations that I failed to recognized until now: Though in both cases I was being dishonest, in the former, I was only being dishonest to myself -- and only harming myself. 

***

Recently, I've returned to the drawing board to formulate my adult definition of dishonesty. 

It hasn't been easy. 

Two years ago, I read Dan Ariely's The Honest Truth About Dishonesty. Study after study showed how a lot of people cheat a little bit, regardless of consequences. We slide down a slippery slope of exaggerating a little and then exaggerating a little more. Sure, it's not because we are all inherently immoral individuals, but more often than not, our environments encourage us to act in slightly dishonest ways. Though there are ways to diminish the temptation to cheat, I finished the book feeling unsettled by the frailty of human honesty.

Then yesterday, I read a recent New York Times article in which Sam Borden explains how America falls short of all other countries in a crucial World Cup skill: dishonesty. 

The way this plays out, players should dramatize transgressions by the other team to force a more favorable decision from the referee. For example, "flopping" onto the ground in response to a light push from an opponent has a higher chance of being called by the referee. 

Despite the fact that players of other teams rely on and profit from this tactic ("The best attackers in the world, including Cristiano Ronaldo and Luis Suarez, regularly fall to the ground, particularly if they feel that they are going to lose possession"), American players refuse to be pulled down by them. The idea of dishonesty, "runs contrary to the ethos of idealized American sports. [...] American athletes are typically honest on the field, no doubt influenced by years of being told to be strong, battle through contact and finish the play." 

So long as their intentions are pure, what is refreshing to see is that American players are unwilling to lie to themselves despite the fact that others are doing it, despite the fact that an opportunity cost is victory. They want to authentically reach their goals, and will stand up -- not fall over -- for what they believe in. Tactics like flopping to win would make them soccer players of another country, not of America.

Honesty with oneself is such a pure form of honesty. Maybe the purest. 

Today, I formed an adult's criteria for dishonesty: Don't lie to yourself. 

Dishonesty isn't as transparent as tracing paper. We bend truths, tell white lies, protect with half-truths, and recount sides of stories. In our "mature" lives, little in life can be defined as a truth or a lie. Often, lies can and maybe even should masquerade as truths. 

But the minute you start lying to yourself -- about your thoughts, words, behaviors, and intentions -- you lose yourself. You truly flop to the ground, lose the trust of others and lose trust in yourself. And once you lose these things, none of them will be as easy to forge as your mom's signature.