Drugs, Me & My Parents

Posted on February 10, 2008

If you’re going to read a story about someone who goes into the medical marijuana business, it’s only right that you know something about them. Truth in advertising, as they say. Because lets face it, there’s a mile of difference between a narrator who’s a friend of Bill W, a narrator whose drug of choice is Jesus, and a narrator who polishes off an eight-ball shortly before sitting down with you. So in the pristine interest of doing shit right, I’m going to open the pilot’s log on my own drug history. There’s just one problem with being so honest, and that’s the people with whom I haven’t been honest. Have I lied? Mostly, no. Have I omitted colorful parts of the narrative? That’s how I’ve avoided lying. In each of these relationships, we’ve followed a sort of protocol, one reminiscent of the military. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” It’s strange how even talking about drugs remains such a taboo. We can gossip about sex, politics, religion, descend like vultures on Britney Spears, or watch a flick where some poor sap gets his guts pulled out of his ass, but drugs are like the third rail of easy conversation. There’s something seriously fucked up about that. 

Social mores are fine by me, but anything becomes troublesome when it places a muzzle over our honesty. Many drugs fall into this category. All of the illegal ones, to start. Maybe you believe that marijuana should be illegal, but even so, I think we can agree on this much: Any principle that willfully supersedes other principles, like freedom of speech, for example, is maybe one that deserves some revisiting. And not in jingoistic terms, replete with slogans custom written for bumper stickers, but borne out of honest and thoughtful debate. Because whether or not you use drugs, or agree with their use, or would ban cigarettes and alcohol too, I’m sure you agree that families should be able to have honest talks about the subject. That kids and teens often benefit from learning about their parents’ experiences, and that good relationships are fostered, in part, by establishing clear, open and honest lines of communication. When we’re wary about bringing shit up, when other’s experiences are closed down to us, we are essentially left to our own devices. Morality delivers us into the clumsy hands of fate. And dude, nobody wants that.

I feel badly, for example, that I’ve never had a real conversation about drugs with my parents. We can talk about the most combustible subjects, but when it comes to drug use, everyone clams up. I would actually enjoy the occassional sitdown, but it’s one of those things that nobody broaches. My parents don’t ask, and completing the dysfunction cycle, I confess nothing. At thirty-three, I might have thought at some point—conversationally—they might have wondered about the first time I had a drink without their knowing. Or when I was first hung over. Or when I smoked cigarettes—because c’mon everybody tries those. Or any other question they might want answered as people who love me. And likewise, I’ve flamed out in terms of candor about smoking pot, or drinking, or any of my other drug use. Or whether I’ve struggled with addiction, considering it runs in our family. My parents don’t ask, I don’t tell. Why? I’m not sure about the answer on their side. For me, because I don’t want to violate some unspoken trust. I’ve never wanted to assume that my desire to reveal should rise above their desire not to know. My parents have plenty to worry about. I don’t like the thought of adding more.

But now the landscape has shifted and I know that a sit down is necessary. Last month, I was an unemployed writer, recovering from a hormone deficiency, aimlessly wandering CareerBuilder. Today, I’m heading into the world of medical marijuana. And if I’m going to do it right, before you read further, you deserve to know who you’re dealing with. And so do my parents. So I hastily called a family meeting. My parents were inquisitive. They wanted to know what was up. I calculated possible cartoon responses. Maybe their eyes would spring out of their heads. That afternoon, freaking out, I smoked two bowls to keep my wits. It was only then, sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, a silver haze of smoke surrounding me, blues on the dial, that I was able to settle on a plan. I would write this story in two parts. The first you’ve just read.

What follows is one loving, but slightly-dysfunctional family’s talk about it.

Next: Drugs, Me & My Parents, part two

Pocketful of Sunshine

Posted on February 9, 2008

 Sunset, Los Angeles

Photo by Jessica Burke

Sharing: Barack Obama

Posted on February 7, 2008

For those of you who believe that government has a role to play in promoting opportunity and prosperity for all Americans, a polarized electorate isn’t good enough. Eking out a bare majority isn’t good enough. What’s needed is a broad majority of Americans–Democrats, Republicans and independents of goodwill–who are reengaged in the project of national renewal, and who see their own self-interest as inextricably linked to the interests of others.

I’m under no illusion that the task of building such a working majority will be easy. But it’s what we must do, precisely because the task of solving America’s problems will be hard. It will require tough choices, and it will require sacrifice. Unless political leaders are open to new ideas and not just new packaging, we won’t change enough hearts and minds to initiate a serious energy policy or tame the deficit. We won’t have the popular support to craft a foreign policy that meets the challenges of globalization or terrorism without resorting to isolationism or eroding civil liberties. We won’t have a mandate to overhaul America’s broken health care system. And we won’t have the broad political support or the effective strategies needed to lift large numbers of our fellow citizens out of poverty.

Maybe the critics are right. Maybe there’s no escaping our great political divide, an endless clash of armies, and any attempts to alter the rules of engagement are futile. Or maybe the trivialization of politics has reached a point of no return, so that most people see it as just one more diversion, a sport, with politicians our paunch-bellied gladiators and those who bother to pay attention are just fans on the sidelines: We paint our faces red or blue and cheer our side and boo their side, and if it takes a late hit or cheap shot to beat the other team, so be it, for winning is all that matters.

But I don’t think so. They are out there, I think to myself, those ordinary citizens who have grown up in the midst of all the political and cultural battles, but have found a way–in their own lives, at least–to make peace with their neighbors and themselves. I imagine a white Southerner who growing up heard his dad talk about niggers this and niggers that but who struck up a friendship with the black guys at the office and is trying to teach his own son different, who thinks discrimination is wrong but doesn’t see why the son of a black doctor should get admitted into law school ahead of his own son. Or the former Black Panther who decided to go into real estate, bought a few buildings in the old neighborhood, and is just as tired of the drug dealers in front of those buildings as he is of the bankers who won’t give him a loan to expand his business. There’s the middle-aged feminist who still mourns her abortion, and the Christian woman who paid for her teenager’s abortion, and the millions of waitresses and temp secretaries and nurse’s assistants and Walmart associates who hold their breath every single month in the hope that they’ll have enough money to support the children they did bring into the world. Read more

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