My grade school never had DARE; instead, it had Project Charlie, a combination self-esteem and anti-drug program. For each of the regularly scheduled PC presentations, we fifth-graders had to begin by asserting our unique awesomeness in front of the class. We all had to say this phrase: "I am someone special."
Occasionally, we'd have drug-enforcement officers visit for a little show and tell. They brought handouts and real drugs so we could learn what to watch out for. "Any of you ever see something like this at home?" the officers would ask before scribbling the names of the children who innocently raised their hands.
Thanks to Project Charlie, I learned that my parents were probably lazy potheads and possibly dangerous narcotic traffickers. One afternoon, while snooping around my parents' bedroom (for nail polish? can't remember) I found a folder of yellowed, brittle rolling papers in my father's nightstand. I grabbed the papers and ran downstairs into the kitchen, where my mother was making meatloaf and watching Oprah. "MOM!" I cried. "ARE YOU AND DAD ON DRUGS?"
My mother laughed and then said no. At first I was satisfied with her answer, but then I remembered what I'd learned in Project Charlie: marijuana makes you giggle, and drug addicts frequently deny their use. Besides, her eyes looked a little too red. "Well, how do you explain THIS," I announced, shoving the evidence in her face.
She was really trying hard not to laugh at this point. (Classic stoner behavior). She's probably hiding some Cheetos right now, I thought. As my mother continued to play the keep-a-straight-face game, I changed tactics. Drug abuse was no laughing matter. It was up to me to save my family from the deadly and seductive clutches of Mary Jane.
"I've seen these before," I began. "And I know what they are! These are for MARIJUANA CIGARETTES!" As I shook the package for emphasis, little bits of paper flaked away.
"Oh honey, we haven't—those aren't even ours," my mother said. "Those belong to the old neighbors. They came over here one night years ago—"
"Do not try to pin your behavior on someone else," I said. "You must face your drug problem before it consumes you." (Tough love.)
My mother sighed. She put down the uncooked hamburger (and, I noticed, that "oregano" in the plastic bag looked miiiighty suspect) and sat down at the kitchen table. "Annie," she said, "Those papers are older than you are. They're not even ours. You know Daddy and I would never break the law."
Oh, moral confusion! Was I being taken for a ride by a cunning drug addict, or could it be that my mother was telling the truth? I quickly ran through a mental checklist. Yes, the papers were there, as was a collection of '70s drug music like the Mamas and the Papas. But what if it was all coincidence? As my mother continued to blame it on the neighbors, I decided that while I couldn't prove that she was a pot-smoking hippie, it would not be a bad idea to keep an eye on her behavior. I haven't found any more drug paraphernalia since that day back in the 1980s, but then again, she does like to bake brownies from time to time...
Occasionally, we'd have drug-enforcement officers visit for a little show and tell. They brought handouts and real drugs so we could learn what to watch out for. "Any of you ever see something like this at home?" the officers would ask before scribbling the names of the children who innocently raised their hands.
Thanks to Project Charlie, I learned that my parents were probably lazy potheads and possibly dangerous narcotic traffickers. One afternoon, while snooping around my parents' bedroom (for nail polish? can't remember) I found a folder of yellowed, brittle rolling papers in my father's nightstand. I grabbed the papers and ran downstairs into the kitchen, where my mother was making meatloaf and watching Oprah. "MOM!" I cried. "ARE YOU AND DAD ON DRUGS?"
My mother laughed and then said no. At first I was satisfied with her answer, but then I remembered what I'd learned in Project Charlie: marijuana makes you giggle, and drug addicts frequently deny their use. Besides, her eyes looked a little too red. "Well, how do you explain THIS," I announced, shoving the evidence in her face.
She was really trying hard not to laugh at this point. (Classic stoner behavior). She's probably hiding some Cheetos right now, I thought. As my mother continued to play the keep-a-straight-face game, I changed tactics. Drug abuse was no laughing matter. It was up to me to save my family from the deadly and seductive clutches of Mary Jane.
"I've seen these before," I began. "And I know what they are! These are for MARIJUANA CIGARETTES!" As I shook the package for emphasis, little bits of paper flaked away.
"Oh honey, we haven't—those aren't even ours," my mother said. "Those belong to the old neighbors. They came over here one night years ago—"
"Do not try to pin your behavior on someone else," I said. "You must face your drug problem before it consumes you." (Tough love.)
My mother sighed. She put down the uncooked hamburger (and, I noticed, that "oregano" in the plastic bag looked miiiighty suspect) and sat down at the kitchen table. "Annie," she said, "Those papers are older than you are. They're not even ours. You know Daddy and I would never break the law."
Oh, moral confusion! Was I being taken for a ride by a cunning drug addict, or could it be that my mother was telling the truth? I quickly ran through a mental checklist. Yes, the papers were there, as was a collection of '70s drug music like the Mamas and the Papas. But what if it was all coincidence? As my mother continued to blame it on the neighbors, I decided that while I couldn't prove that she was a pot-smoking hippie, it would not be a bad idea to keep an eye on her behavior. I haven't found any more drug paraphernalia since that day back in the 1980s, but then again, she does like to bake brownies from time to time...
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