The last time I saw my uncle, he asked me about college and teased me for being a nerd. He probably gave me a noogie or did something just as annoying while obnoxiously talking about cars, girls, or one of the other few topics he seemed to be endlessly interested in. Before he left he gave me a hug and told me he was proud of me, because "people like me" need to save the world from "people like him." That was something he told me a lot. The first time, if memory serves, was when I was 12 and thought I wanted to become a lawyer. He said "That's good, B. Put away the bad guys. The people like me." It struck me because I didn't feel that anyone I knew could possibly be considered bad. But then again, I was constantly being told I could do better. I, unlike him and so many in my community, was not allowed to slip through the cracks.
Growing up, the line between good and bad tends to blur. If someone loves you and makes you laugh and takes care of you and gives you band-aids when you fall off of your bike, they're a good person, no matter what societal standards might say about that person's worth. While I didn't see anyone around me as being a "bad person," I knew that the lives they led were not what I would want as I grew older. I promised myself that I would not become a victim of circumstance. If I tried harder, read more, and did all of my homework there was no way I could become like those around me. But, if the past couple months have taught me anything, it's that my environment has had more of an impact on me than I thought. And I'm not so sure that's a bad thing.
When I was five, I got in trouble at school for telling students about my uncle who was next door at the Juvenile Detention Center for getting caught with pills. I have flashes of memories of cops coming to my house in the middle of the night looking for one person or another and fading glimpses of my sister and I eating cereal in the cool of the morning while my mother frantically raised bail money. I remember friends in elementary school being suspended for bringing drugs and weapons and being informed of these things as if they were typical activities. My childhood was full of not being allowed outside because of gunshots and dark classrooms where our teachers told us to stay quiet, no matter how many questions we had. Sometimes I can't recall if a memory is of a drill or an actual lockdown, they feel so similar. These are the memories that fill the space between recess and birthday parties.
But I also very much remember my mom making enough food for the friends who would come home with me after class because she knew they wouldn't have the opportunity to eat when they left. I remember classmates crying because their parents were being deported and me not understanding what it meant for a person to be illegal. I have a distinct memory of sitting in first grade and enjoying cupcakes with a friend who didn't come back after the weekend. Abigail. I'm still not sure of the story there, but life went on and I found a new best friend. I identified as gifted and plucked away from my classes and surrounded by a demographic who looked more like me, but had led very different lives up to that point. As we moved into middle school and high school, the students I knew began to disappear. Some of them began to work jobs to supplement their family income. Others could not catch up in school and gave into the path that was laid out for them so early on. Whenever I see a former classmate on a wanted page, I think of the spelling bees and science fairs we shared and wonder what changed.
By my sophomore year, I had found myself on a radically different path than many of the peers I had started with, but I could not escape the problems that continue to plague my community. Three years ago, I attended the funeral of a family friend who overdosed on heroin. He taught me how to draw. He watched Selena with me on repeat until I fell asleep. He was family. When he died, I was hurt. The heroin epidemic hadn't seemed real to me until that point and I reacted in a way I would assume is typical of a high school sophomore. I took a day or two off school and cried. I went to his funeral and sat, silent, with family as we listened to someone talk about a better place. I worked on my biology project and told no one that a person I loved had overdosed. I think I believed that distancing myself from those around me would make me a better person. Would I still be a good person if someone I loved had done drugs? Had overdosed? Are we allowed to love people who make poor decisions? I don't know. So I stayed silent.
When my uncle, Josh, died two months ago, I knew what had happened, but I wished for a million other things. I wished for a car accident or a lightning strike or anything that would prove me wrong. Anything that would give me the right to mourn without guilt. He was clean, I kept telling myself. Over and over, I even told my mom on the way to my grandmother's house. He was clean. He was clean. I wanted to believe that I knew what drugs look like and that he was better. There's no way he would do this to us. He couldn't. And yet, when the autopsy came back, it showed the inevitable. A lethal mix of cocaine, heroin, and oxycodone. He was gone and I was angry. I'm still angry. I'm angry at him for every time my cousins have asked when their dad is coming back. I'm angry at his dealer, the sister of the family friend who died three years before. I'm angry at the world for creating environments that set children up for failure then punish them for not meeting expectations.
My uncle had the same story as many of my neighbors and peers. An abusive alcoholic father. Dyslexia is a school that was not equipped to handle special needs. The guidance of neighbors much older who served as poor role models to a kid whose community cared very little about his future. I fear his story was laid out well before he had the opportunity to draft a new narrative.
When I share these sentiments, I know that many will dismiss his life, and the lives of others, as someone dying at their own hands. As if their actions somehow makes their experiences less valid. I am already bracing myself for the inevitable "There are no excuses for those decisions." statements and arguments. And maybe there aren't. Maybe there are other ways. I honestly don't know and I'm not going to pretend to. Because there are many issues I care about and many topics I am knowledgeable of, but this is one I have always tried to stay away from. Because it hurts too much. To see people around you die. To acknowledge that the community you've called home for so long has failed so many. I can't accept "There are no excuses." Because I am most angry when I hear those thoughts applied to situations like an individual's addiction, but not to children going hungry or receiving inadequate education or being forced to choose between homework and a paycheck. It is rare that I hear of that there is "no excuse" for these circumstances.
When I was younger, I was afraid to go outside because I feared people in my neighborhood. When we moved to a different side of town, I always imagined it would be better. That I wouldn't worry so much about my younger siblings going outside to play. But two weeks ago, there were two overdoses in the field behind my house, in a place where an elementary school once stood. Across the street from where my younger brother and sister walk our dogs. When I hear sirens, my first reaction is often to tell them to put their bikes up and get inside. And that's not the way it should be. I do not want them to grow up scared of the world, too.
I think people worry about Ohio's heroin epidemic for many reasons and a lot of that has to do with being scared of children being exposed to these issues, the violence we associate with drug activity, and the degradation of our own communities. But I do not believe these are things we can talk about while our voices are full of fear. We cannot seek to prevent the collapse of communities we deem valuable while ignoring the ones that produced these issues. We forget that there are people who are dying who have lived lives that we do not understand and who have people who love them as much as we love those around us and that this lack of connection with those affected prohibits us from developing comprehensive solutions.
I cringe every time I think about my uncle talking about how bad "people like him" are. Because I cannot believe that's true. I cannot believe that the only way to stop this epidemic is to punish people who weren't given a fair shot to begin with. I can't pretend I know how to stop heroin, among other drug activity, from breaking down communities across Ohio, because I don't. But I think the first step is realizing that every death we see on the news and in our local papers is not just another overdose-they are people. With families. And lives. And that there are typically a multitude of issues surrounding these deaths. I don't know the solution, but I think the first step is consciously choosing to reach a level of understanding we've been avoiding for too long. Our job, as neighbors, peers, and friends, is not to put away "the bad guys." Because people like my uncle are too often not "bad guys", but are not given the chance to be seen as anything else. Our job is to make sure every student, no matter their background, is given the opportunity to succeed. And that those who have fallen behind are given the opportunity to get ahead. We cannot keep assuming that every person associated with the things we've come to fear is a bad person, because developing solutions based off these assumptions will keep us from moving forward. I believe in Ohio and I believe that there are so many incredible things that can happen here, but I think that has to start from a place of understanding and acknowledging a range of stories, voices, and experiences from every background.
The last time I saw my uncle, he asked me about college and teased me for being a nerd. He probably gave me a noogie or did something just as annoying while obnoxiously talking about cars, girls, or one of the other few topics he seemed endlessly interested in. Before he left he gave me a hug and told me he was proud of me, because "people like me" need to save the world from "people like him." That was something he told me a lot. The first time, if memory serves, was when I was twelve and thought I wanted to become a lawyer. He said, "That's good, B. Put away the bad guys. The people like me." It struck me because I didn't feel that anyone I knew could be considered bad. But then again, I was constantly being told I could do better. I, unlike him and so many in my community, was not allowed to slip through the cracks.