The Face Beneath the Masks

A Meditation on Sincerity, Freedom, and the Daily Refusal to Lie

Dino’s Homily and Poetry Site

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I’ve carried masks most of my life. Some fit so well I forgot they weren’t skin. Others pinched at the edges, uncomfortable but necessary for a time. A mask to sit across from generals and senators. A mask to soften myself for a grieving family. A mask to smile through moments when my chest felt like it might crack open. They were useful—until they weren’t.

The trouble with masks is that if you wear them long enough, you start to lose the memory of your own face.

Integrity, at least as I’ve come to know it, is remembering. Remembering that my words, my actions, and the person I am when no one’s watching should be one and the same. Not identical in detail—life calls for adjustments, for tact, for mercy—but one in essence. One thread running through it all.

That sounds noble. It isn’t. It’s messy, costly, and sometimes lonely. But the alternative—living split between versions of yourself—is far worse.

Facing What Masks Hide

I once heard a line from Baldwin that cut straight through me: nothing can be changed until it’s faced. That’s the kind of truth that doesn’t leave you alone. I think of it whenever I’m tempted to put on a mask for convenience. Because masks are nothing but avoidance stitched into costume. They hide what we’re too afraid to face, and in hiding, they change nothing.

On the other side of the world, centuries earlier, Confucius spoke about sincerity as the root of character. Not performance, not polish, but sincerity. To him, sincerity wasn’t an accessory you put on to look respectable. It was the bedrock under your feet. If you lost it, the whole structure of your life swayed in the wind.

Baldwin gives me the courage to face what I’d rather avoid. Confucius gives me the reminder that sincerity isn’t decoration—it’s foundation. And when I put those two together, I hear one simple call: live without masks.