High Price (27 page)

And fortunately for me—and, as it turned out, my academic future—Melissa had a serious crush on me. Several days later, when I ran into her again, she came over immediately and asked me if I was all right. I laughed off the incident and before long, we were seeing each other. Melissa would become my girlfriend for the next year and a half.

About a month later, Melissa introduced me to cocaine. One of the local dealers was also pursuing her, though she wasn’t much impressed by him. He asked if she indulged, seeing an opportunity to spend time with her; she said yes but often secretly stashed the cocaine he gave her so we could do it together. I wasn’t especially interested in the drug. But when she took it out for the first time, I didn’t think it would be cool to say no.

It was still 1988; at the time you couldn’t turn on the TV or see a headline without being confronted with a story about the horrors of crack. I still knew nothing more than street lore about drugs, but even that far into the 1980s among the people I knew, powder cocaine had retained its glamorous associations with wealth, celebrity, and sex. Snorting it was perceived as fun rather than risky or particularly addictive. I didn’t see any harm in trying it and thought that Melissa knew what she was doing, although I later learned that she wasn’t actually an experienced user.

And sniffing my first line through a straw, I thought it was great. I had a sense of mastery and found relief regarding any anxieties that I might have been feeling about the evening. But while the drug made Melissa peppy and talkative, I found it calming and became more contemplative, perhaps because I also drank Schlitz malt liquor when I did lines. (Interestingly, although most drugs are not taken solo, little research focuses on the effects of drug combinations.)

Like many Gil Scott-Heron fans, I’d also taken to writing poetry. After a few lines, I loved nothing better than writing. As many cocaine fans discover, while the drug can produce stimulation and mental clarity, you may also come to see the most banal thought as being the height of brilliance. Under the influence of cocaine, dull or usual thoughts sometimes seem more important or significant than they are during nonintoxicated states. This is one of the main reasons that people take drugs: to alter their consciousness. And, as far as we can tell, humans have sought to alter their consciousness with psychoactive agents (often plant-based) ever since they have inhabited earth. There doesn’t seem to be an end toward this pursuit anytime soon. In other words, there has never been a drug-free society and there probably will never be one. So slogans like “our aim is a drug-free generation” are nothing more than empty political rhetoric.

Nonetheless, although I thoroughly enjoyed it, I never developed the intense craving for or compulsive use of cocaine that some users describe. I knew that if I developed a serious cocaine habit it would have jeopardized my ability to earn money, which in turn would have jeopardized my housing arrangement with Betty. With no money or accommodations, I seriously doubt that Melissa would have remained interested in me. So, when cocaine was available—and Melissa and I did it about twice a month for a few months—I often did want more as we enjoyed our supply. When we ran out, however, I never found myself unfolding the packet to see if there was perhaps a hidden clump left or looking on the mirror for stray flakes. I didn’t even consider going out and buying some. It was certainly pleasant and I definitely enjoyed the sense of clarity it gave me. But it wasn’t irresistible to the point that I was willing to jeopardize the things—earnings from work, housing, and Melissa—that allowed me to indulge in the first place.

Yet again, I’d had the experience of most drug users, the not particularly exciting nonaddiction story that never gets told. I was in the 80–90 percent of cocaine users who do not develop problems with the drug, the group that rarely speaks out about their experiences because they have nothing much to say about them or because they are afraid of being vilified for having taken an illegal substance. In the current political climate, it is not surprising that many drug users do not speak out about their experiences. I served as an expert witness in multiple court cases where mothers have had their children removed from their custody simply because they admitted to smoking marijuana. My testimony on behalf of these mothers, explaining that it’s inappropriate to conclude that someone has a drug problem simply because they admit to illegal drug use, didn’t seem to matter. Since we tend to hear from that problematic 10–20 percent, their experience is incorrectly regarded as the norm.

Indeed, when I began researching drugs myself as a scientist, I first discounted my own personal experience as being aberrant, falling for the propaganda that continuously puts pathology at the center of the drug dialogue. I ignored my own story, just as I had when I didn’t notice that problems in my neighborhood that were later attributed to crack cocaine had actually preceded it.

B
ecause my ties to Atlanta weren’t particularly strong, when Melissa suggested that I move with her to North Carolina and take a job at her mother’s restaurant, I agreed. I became their short-order cook and manager. The idea was that their restaurant was going to be a huge success and make us all lots of money. Simultaneously, I enrolled at UNC-Wilmington in 1989, still set on finishing my degree. I managed to get some Pell Grants to cover the tuition. If that didn’t work out, I figured the restaurant job would.

Without my relationship with Melissa, I might never have become a neuroscientist. If I hadn’t met her, I wouldn’t have moved to Wilmington and wouldn’t have taken Rob Hakan’s experimental psychology class at UNC-W. Also, I would have never met my two other crucial mentors at that school, Don Habibi and Jim Braye. I don’t know if I would have completed my education without these three men. Due to my seemingly interminable work at the restaurant, I almost dropped out within a few months of starting.

Managing a restaurant and being a cook is hardly a part-time job. Pretty soon I found myself working twelve- to sixteen-hour days for minimum wage, dumping the grease into the grease pit when my shift finally ended at 1 a.m. and wondering how the hell I’d gotten there. I stank of sweat and cooking oil and every part of my body was tired. The long hours meant that I had little attention left for my classes and even less time to do homework. In my first semester, I barely managed to make Cs.

Without being aware of it, I began to slip away from academia. My air force goal of becoming a counselor to uplift black youth started to seem like a foolish pipe dream. I was called into the financial aid office because I was required to maintain a 2.0 to keep the Pell Grant funding. My grades were so low that I was in danger of losing it.

But during that same time, I also took a philosophy class with a young white professor named Don Habibi. It was his second semester teaching and he was the most intellectually curious person I’d ever met. It seemed like he knew something about everything—and yet he treated me like my perspective was unique and important as well. We connected. As a Jewish man who felt out of place in the South, he understood, I think, some of the alienation I felt, too.

Later, when I moved into the building where he lived, we became even closer and he encouraged me to continue to take the academic opportunities that began to present themselves. He was single and admired my ability to meet women; I respected his intellectual achievements. I’d take him to black clubs and in return, he taught me many essential aspects of cultural capital associated with growing up in the white middle class. When I first took his class, though, it was still not completely clear that I’d be able to stay in school.

Luckily, however, I had also found another mentor who refused to give up on me. Jim Braye was one of only three black men on campus who were in professional positions at the time. He did not teach, but rather worked in the administration as the director of career planning and placement. He was a retired army colonel with a rich, deep baritone voice that made him sound like Paul Robeson. My time in the air force had given me great respect for any black man who had moved up through the ranks in the military, particularly as early as he had, which was during the Korean War.

A friend of mine who had also been in the military had introduced us. I followed up with Jim and he had actually helped me enroll at UNC-W in the first place. As had happened many times before in my young life, chance placed an opportunity in front of me. I saw it and grabbed on, as if it were a life preserver.

Soon Jim began spending hours with me, teaching me new vocabulary and even how to pronounce words that I often stumbled on like
apocalypse
. He had a calendar with a “word of the day” to learn, and he’d drill me on them as the weeks went by. When he saw that my restaurant job was getting in the way of my education, he kept his eyes open for job openings in psychology for which he thought I’d be qualified. He had me do mock interviews in his office. He taught me about the hell that black men—even those with his accomplishments—catch in the white world.

Often, however, he’d just let me hang out and soak up his wisdom. I wasn’t afraid to seem “dumb” or “uncool” in front of him because it was so clear that he knew much more than I did. Before long, he was like family. I could tell that he understood my struggles.

Sometimes when he saw me coming he would take one look at me and say, “Time for a shot in the arm.” He could always tell when I needed a lift. Then he’d close the door to his office behind us and tell his secretary that we weren’t to be interrupted. I loved listening to him because he sounded so authoritative and was so wise. He wouldn’t let me get discouraged.

Most of the other students I knew didn’t recognize what he had to offer because they hadn’t been in the military. But I could see that he’d learned how to survive in a biased world and I paid attention. I wanted what he had and wanted to know exactly how he’d gotten it. It was because of Jim that I finally quit the job at Melissa’s family restaurant and got an entry-level position that did not require a degree at a child psychiatric hospital, which had more student-friendly hours. And that was why, when I took that experimental psychology class with Rob Hakan in my last semester, I was ready to learn and be inspired.

My best friend and classmate, Walt, was a brother with whom I used to listen to the latest Public Enemy LPs. We’d sit for hours critiquing every lyric and relating them to our current situation at UNC-White (the name that black students called the university due to its low number of black students and faculty, despite being located in a town with a large black population). Walt couldn’t understand why I would spend so much time with white men like Rob and Don. I had to explain that I needed support from those who’d forged the kind of career I wanted. No matter how different they seemed from us, they were actually more like us than their colleagues, I argued. Walt couldn’t wrap his head around this thought.

Indeed, research shows that having a white male mentor is advantageous to women and minorities in science. When a field contains few members of historically excluded groups, having a mentor from the privileged majority can open doors. In one study of sociologists, for example, blacks with white male mentors were found to be more likely to be on track for tenure and to get a position at a major research university, which led to publications in better quality journals and greater academic productivity.
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For me, both in college and graduate school, having a variety of mentors with different experiences and strengths made a massive difference. I was happy to receive all the knowledge and insight I could from wherever it was offered.

Of course, making good use of multiple mentors means recognizing their specific expertise: a white male mentor may give useful advice on science but be less knowledgeable or effective in advising on the race-related challenges a black student faces.

Even after I’d found my three mentors, however, I hadn’t completely left my old life behind. Money was a constant issue. None of the jobs I had paid more than six dollars an hour and once I got involved with Rob, I was spending more and more time at the lab, which initially didn’t pay at all. When Melissa and I broke up in November 1989, I needed to find a new place to live because she had paid half the rent. A woman who ran a record store that specialized in reggae allowed me to stay in her store for a short time, until she hooked me up with a Jamaican named Dwight, who wanted a housemate.

Dwight was a cool brother with long dreads that he wore covered with a hat. He was also a high-level marijuana dealer: he had operations in Miami and Brooklyn as well as Wilmington. I didn’t care that he was in the game; his being a drug dealer was not my concern. I wasn’t about getting into anyone else’s business. I needed an affordable place to live and he had one. He knew that I knew but it wasn’t something we talked about. Besides, his position within the drug game was high enough so that he himself never possessed marijuana. So I didn’t have to worry about our place being raided by the police or robbed by rival dealers. He was a low-key, mellow guy who had also worked in construction. Well, he didn’t actually work in construction; he just kept his union dues current to give the appearance of maintaining legitimate work.

About ten years older than I was, Dwight soon became impressed when he saw me studying and getting involved in lab work. He saw my vocabulary improve as I practiced. He soon thought I was some kind of brainiac and began bragging about me and my scientific future to his friends. Meanwhile, I was living way above my means, maxing out the multiple credit cards that were then being sent to college students as though the companies were giving away money. When the bills inevitably came due, I first pawned the saxophone that I’d once tried unsuccessfully to learn to play. Then I asked Dwight about getting in on the dealing action.

He flat out refused me. In the way that people in the life often look out for those who have alternatives, he didn’t want me to get dragged down. He said it was ridiculous for me to even think about and that I was too smart for this. He did, however, begin letting me stash money for him. Sometimes I kept it in the room where we housed the rats for my research. I don’t know if he even really needed me to do that or if he was just trying to give me a way to feel like a man who wasn’t reliant on him for charity. Still, he helped me get through my crunch and was another man in my life who refused to let me give up on myself. (Dwight himself, sadly, was later shot to death in Brooklyn; I don’t know the exact circumstances of his killing.) I slowly got out of debt and managed to stay that way. With Dwight’s help, I managed to keep my nose to the grindstone.