No Fuckin' Dope

I found out today that my father, like most men his age, had a fairly substantial drug problem. This didn't come as much of a surprise to me as it maybe should have.

Though this experience has founded itself in the context of my father's past, it is not his past that concerns me here. I had one of those experiences today where you've always had the requisite information to reach a particular conclusion, but for some reason, have never reached that conclusion. This is a very strange experience that, i'm sure, everyone has had. Also I thought that this particular context would make for a great story.

I've always found my dad's fear of drugs to be somewhat irrational. From a very young age my father has been unyielding in his attempts to rid my future of drug abuse. "Surely," I said, "drugs cannot be all bad, so long as they are moderated and tempered by a strong work ethic and a healthy social climate." To this he was totally unreasonable. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" he would say. So, as I said, from a very early age I had learned to fear drugs.

Even later in life, in college, when excitedly telling my parents about smoking pot for the first time, my father did not join in on my mothers silly enthusiasm. My little boys all grown up. Though he did not chastise me--whats done is done--he made sure that his position concerning the matter was clear and unassailable. "I just don't know why you would pollute your body with that shit" he said (and yes, though this is a line from a movie, he did, in fact, say these very words).

Even now, weeks from my twenty third birthday he tells me before I go out, half jokingly but also half concerned, "just try not to smoke too much fuckin' dope out there." This is how my father talks about drugs. When during my sophomore year in college I asked him if he's ever done any drugs he explained that he smoked some "dope" after college. This is the part that never made sense to me. Marijuana, for all of it's cultural bastards, has never really hurt anybody. What the fuck is my dad worrying about. "Do you really think you need to worry anymore?" I say as i'm walking out the door. "No, not really." He does worry.

I chalk it up to my dad's being a square. This explains everything. He's afraid because he never really new what it was about. He was in the navy. He was a straight arrow. While everyone was fucking around in the seventies he was in Viet-fuckin'-nam, plus he was a farm boy. He's from Nebraska. All he knows how to do is play baseball, shuck/husk corn, and move out to big cities. He doesn't know what he's fucking talking about. Hah! I don't have to fear drugs. I can love them. I can temper my habits with a relentless work ethic and good, healthy, safe friends. I'll experiment. I'll have fun. I'll be a better person.

I fear drugs. I fear them. To this day my father's sentiments bleed into my own. Smoking weed with my friends tends to fill me with a strange discomfort. I have never done cocaine. I've never eaten mushrooms. Methamphetamine terrifies me. Even my mild cigarette habit leaves me feeling compromised.

Today, after picking up my dad's brother from the airport, I figured it out. My uncle mentioned something in the car today about an old family friend, who according to my father, "smokes a lot of dope." His name is Michael. Michael is exuberant and fucking hilarious. He's from Brooklyn and is one of my father's oldest friends. When asking my uncle why Mikey doesn't come around anymore he explains, "he never really stopped partying." "All of that shit gets old," I said. "Exactly, he just never had a wife or kids and he always had cash, and so he always had stuff around. Your dad, I think, just had more responsibilities to deal with. I mean for a while he was pretty messed up."

My dad was "pretty messed up?" Of course he was messed up. Of course he did drugs. It was the seventies, everyone did drugs. He went to Viet-fuckin'-nam. I get it, my father isn't a square. He's a loose cannon, or at least, a normal guy. How fucking great. Everything makes sense now. My earlier understanding of my father now seems youthful, moronic even. I mean everything truly makes sense, more sense than before. Everything is clear, transparent. Strangely, I'm not angry or upset. I am fascinated. I feel reassured in my intuitions. My father's concerns seem founded. He is infinitely more credible. He has more experience, and in a strange way, he is respectable. If I have children they will know nothing of my binges, my vices, my seamy sexual behavior. Like my father, I will devour their curiosity with my obstinate stoicism. I feel close to him, and I thank God that he never disclosed the details of his past. Thank God that I have only seen my father smoke a cigarette once . Thank God that I have never seen him drunk, that sex was explained away by R-rated movies, and I thank god that I never heard my parents having sex.