Costumes We Believe
Humor has a way of exposing the beliefs we don't realize we're carrying
Humor peels back the layers we carry,
Beliefs we wear without knowing,
Mistaking roles for truth,
Trusting the surface more than the substance.
A cab hums through a quiet evening,
A nun climbs in.
The driver stares—not curiosity,
Not a passing glance,
But a gaze heavy with intent.
She asks why.
He hesitates.
Decades of identity teach him caution.
She smiles.
He confesses: a fantasy, long-held,
A kiss from a nun.
Morality steps in; conditions set.
He must be single, faithful, devout.
The alley welcomes the fantasy—
Brief, enthusiastic.
Then guilt rolls in,
Soft as tears.
He admits the truth:
Married. Jewish.
The punchline should land,
Disappointment ready.
But the nun smiles,
"My name is Kevin. Halloween awaits."
Laughter erupts,
But the real lesson lingers:
We trust uniforms, titles, signals.
We see costume and believe identity.
Narratives comfort us because they fit
The stories we already know.
Kevin was not a nun.
The driver not honest.
The audience not observant.
Truth isn’t always hidden.
Sometimes, it wears a costume
We never think to question.
About the Creator
Lori A. A.
Teacher. Writer. Tech Enthusiast.
I write stories, reflections, and insights from a life lived curiously; sharing the lessons, the chaos, and the light in between.
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