I happened to catch a radio program as I was driving that was, at least in part, ,focused on the use of what are called illicit substances or drugs. The discussion centered on whether or not the authority of the federal government should supersede states in the enforcement of laws that criminalize the use or sale of one of such drugs, something designated as medical marijuana. In the passing back and forth of positions, it was noted that two or our presidents had encounters with that substance. President Clinton said that he smoked but didn’t inhale and President Obama said that, as a young man, he did both.
People smoked in my house. My father smoked … cigarettes, Regents, because they had coupons which you could exchanged for premiums. I do believe that our first record player was a Regent “premium”. My sister smoked too, but kept it a secret from the family until she was in nursing school. Those were the days when cigarettes were everywhere. They were advertised on billboards, in magazines, on TV…even doctors were described as preferring Chesterfield cigarettes. A home wasn’t complete until it had ash trays and in movies, well … movies made the texture and drama of cigarette culture into essential parts of character exposition. Bogie smoked; Bacall smoked. Even Gene Kelly burned tobacco on the silver screen.
As an anthropology major I was familiar with the practices of smoking substances as part of ritual behavior among native American peoples. For the North Americans, it was tobacco; for those further south, the substances were more potent hallucinogenics that induced trance states as part of Shamanistic activities. And so, some time during my Junior year in college, I decided that it was time that I learned to smoke cigarettes. At twenty five cents a pack, they were expensive (this was a long time ago) but to my young mind they seemed the perfect foil, the missing ingredient that would turn the ugly duckling into a sophisticated swan. To develop this perfect accessory to my de rigueur little black dress, I practiced, developed my own way of holding a cigarette, of expelling smoke with panache. I smoked for about two months. Since my job in the library gave me all of $ 30 a month for all of my non educational expenses, it felt like I was burning money. Somehow it didn’t fit. I didn’t feel swan like and sophistication was a destination on a shore that faded continually into the sunset. So, I quit. That was the beginning and the end of any kind of smoking for this gal.
Fast forward to the mid seventies and as an employee of a local community college, it was my job to assist students “find themselves” through career testing, interpretation and direction within a growing career library. Our “offices” were in the center of a large common area in the main classroom building. The area, known as the “pit” was five feet below the floor level … a sunken career center, if you will. My colleagues, Chris, Mary and I would arrive at 8 a.m. to set up for the day. The big air handlers for the building would have cleaned the large atrium like area to an almost outdoor freshness, but by late afternoon, the pit and its surroundings were filled with the fog left by student smokers.
I complained about eye irritation, but it wasn’t until we were there for about three months that we noticed behavioral changes as the day wore on. It was on the day that one of the pit people called one of the counselors and asked if he had Prince Albert in the can (and I’m not at liberty to divulge who this was) that we suspected that the smoke that filled the air was more than that of tobacco. This second hand smoke was doing more than invading our lungs and making our eyes water. We were getting high on second hand smoke…Three thirty-something women, dressed far better than any student, seriously attending to their work, were becoming giddy on MaryJane, magic hemp…pot.
We haughtily raised the issue at our next staff meeting, but were met with skepticism. None of us had actually seen anyone smoking pot. Heck, none of us would even recognize one of the offending cigarettes since all of the information available about the substance was related to identifying the leaves and a caution to watch out for smoke that smelled faintly like oregano.. Mixed in with regular tobacco smoke, the faint aroma of oregano was not detectible. We were told that the appropriate people would be notified.
The smoke never dissipated. There didn’t appear to be any investigation and hints of incipient fuddy-duddieness were alleged. We knew better. While no one else seemed alarmed, we set about to ameliorate the affects of the phantom drug. We took turns going outside for fresh air, fearing what would happen to our very adult decorum with the threat of accumulating mellow silliness.
To the point, if I ever become famous enough to have anyone question my relationship to what were once illegal substances…I would have to confess that while I’ve never smoked, I think I have may have inhaled.
