Billy or Barry?
By Liz Biggs
Three years ago, when I first started writing this column, I wanted a QR code next to the title so readers could listen to songs I chose while reading. “The Day the Lizmix Died” would have been accompanied by Don McLean’s “American Pie.” “Que Sera Sera and Ooh La La” would be paired with Doris Day and the Faces hits. “How Do You Mend a Broken Heart” — the Bee Gees, of course. And “The Good, the Bad and the Rebel” — David Bowie’s “Rebel Rebel.” Alas, not everyone had access to the same streaming service so it was not logistically possible. But I still dream.
This column would be a tough decision between Billy Joel’s “Honesty” and Barry Manilow’s “It’s a Miracle.” Oh, the humanity — my brain is racked with an existential crisis, battling between science and religion. I generally have about 1,000 thoughts running through my head simultaneously, so thankfully only about 500 involve science and religion. Yes, there are grocery lists and important dates swimming around in there, but most of the time I am going down fun rabbit holes like, “Oh, Todd Rundgren is playing at the Saenger, let me listen to every album he has ever made.” (FYI: His 1968 Nazz album is my favorite.) My doctor prescribed medication for my condition. I tried it, stuff got done, but I missed my random thoughts. They’ve kept me company for 60 years. Sitting still is overrated. I don’t need medicine when I have naturally occurring deadline-induced hyperfocus.
But back to Billy vs. Barry — for me, Billy’s “Honesty” usually wins the battle. I believe in the cold, hard truth. This is a small town so many of you already know my “miracle baby” story. My daughter was 10 when we ran into my husband’s urologist in the Publix deli line. He asked, “How’s my miracle baby?” On the way home, she asked, “Mommy, why did he call me a miracle baby?” Hmmm — Billy or Barry?
The answer is both. I’m not good at sugarcoating but I did my best: If you put on rose-colored glasses, then yes dear, your birth was a miracle. A magic man in the sky named God waved his wand and you were born. But if you take off those glasses, then there is something called science. Your father had surgery to prevent pregnancy. He is genetically predisposed to the formation of scar tissue, so his tubes formed scar tissue and reconnected, a rare occurrence called recanalization. So, your birth can be explained scientifically. It is up to you whether you want to wear the rose-colored glasses or not. Some days you may need to and that’s okay.
Some may judge my parenting decision to be brutally honest with my children. Years ago, I was scolded by a Sunday school teacher when the loaves and fishes lesson was taught and my daughter was skeptical of miracles. And I thought my little girl would sob when I told her the truth about Santa and the Easter Bunny. But no, she was relieved. She had seen her presents hidden under the bed in years past and was terrified of that bunny anyway. The conclusion is that the foundation was laid for honest communication, which is of great value in this wild world.
But back to Billy and my existential crisis. “Honesty is such a lonely word. Everyone is so untrue,” he sings. After having jury duty recently, the question that haunts me is: What good does it do for an atheist to swear to tell the whole truth “so help you God.” What is the punishment for lying if you don’t believe in hell? Perjury, of course, but what if the person is powerful and can lawyer up and avoid perjury? Why would a godless, powerful person ever tell the truth? Ay, Shakespeare, there’s the rub. That’s why stuff doesn’t get done around here. I’m busy questioning my faith in humanity. I need to clean out a closet, Billy. Maybe I’ll find some rose-colored glasses.
