This year I celebrated the Fourth of July in Schuylkill County and Bastille Day, July 14th, in Condé-sur-Huisne, the French village where I have a country home. In early July, I made a quick trip to the States to attend the marriage of my niece Sarah Hahner of Pottsville to Darren De Arment, formerly of Pittsburgh, and then stayed on to celebrate the 4th with family and friends.
Stateside, my nephew put on a firework display in the backyard and we roasted hotdogs. Back in France, I missed the fireworks, but we roasted merguez, France’s spicy version of the American hotdog, eaten not in a soft bun but in a long piece of baguette.
While in Schuylkill County, I read The Republican Herald every day, the paper version that makes me feel close to my mother, a faithful reader all her life. In the July 4th edition, looking at the headlines, I had a shock: on the left side of the page I saw a big color photo celebrating Independence Day; on the right, the photo of a woman from Coaldale on trial in a heroin-overdose death.
That strange juxtaposition of fireworks and holiday fun alongside a story about a woman accused of a drug-related murder delivered a powerful message: “the land of the free and the home of the brave” is fighting for its independence once again, but this time it’s freedom from drugs.
I’d read about this war in France, but there’s nothing like being in a place to make events more real. From sea to shining sea, the opioid epidemic is attacking small towns and big cities, rural America and the rustbelt; drug-related incidents in Coaldale, Shenandoah or Pottsville echo nationwide. For Schuylkill County readers, it may even be old news.
When I was a junior at Pottsville Area High School, a new boy in town tried to sell me heroin. I said “no,” because I’ve always been a sensible person and the idea of anyone but our family doctor putting a needle in my arm gave me the creeps.
Back in those days, heroin was an urban drug. People used it in New York City, but in a town like Pottsville, in a hard-drinking county like Schuylkill, it didn’t have much of a chance—though the new boy did convince his Pottsville girlfriend to try.
At about the same time—as if I needed more convincing, I saw one of the first movies in which Al Pacino starred, the 1971 film “The Panic in Needle Park.” In it he plays a heroin addict and smalltime New York dealer who sends the woman he loves into the street as a hooker so they can both buy drugs. Leaving the theater, I was ready to hurry home and hide under my bed so frightened had I become of the ravages of heroin.
Later, living in New York City in the 1980’s, I got a firsthand view of the drug: discarded needles in the gutter, hookers leading johns into dark basements or doorways, ready to pull any willing male with a few dollars off the street if it meant they could have a fix. I also remember seeing drug delivery trucks pulling up to the curb and customers appearing out of nowhere. They’d make their purchase and then they and the truck would just as quickly disappear.
Once I even slipped my fingers into the coin slot of a payphone, rooting for my change, and pulled out a tiny bag of white powder that I quickly pushed back in place, hurrying away, trying to blend in with the crowd, hoping no dealer had identified me.
The 1980’s were a rough time in New York City, with the Big Apple undergoing a temporary decline. The first cases of Aids were appearing and adolescents, for a thrill, would stab pedestrians or commuters at bus stops with needles, inoculating them with the fear that they could have contracted the deadly disease.
I’m sure those harsh and sordid times played a role in my leaving New York City for France. But back in the 1980’s, heroin was a popular drug there too among musicians and artists who liked to believe they had things under control.
Until the current US opioid epidemic, which has now been going on a for a few years, I associated heroin with the city and the fringes of society. My last visit to the States brought home to me how much heroin and other opiates have penetrated “ordinary” American lives, middleclass men and women, their children, workers and the unemployed. Today, for those under 50, death by overdose is the number one cause of mortality.
To me this means that a lot of Americans are leading desperate lives. It also means that those with addictions can be found in any town or city, among neighbors or friends, among professionals or unskilled laborers; they can be anybody and everybody, just like with an epidemic of the flu.
Apparently heroin use is on the rise in France as well, though there is nothing comparable to the addiction to pain-killers so many Americans know. Those who work the hardest in heavy industry and incur the most painful injuries are among the victims. Losing their prescription for oxycodone, some turn to heroin.
During my recent trip to the United States, I read, observed and felt sad. Something is wrong in a country where, in 2015, according to the American Society of Addiction Medicine, 20.5 million Americans 12 or older had a substance-use disorder. In 2017, more than 70 thousand of them may die. This is an epidemic and its victims are not committing a crime. Nor can America become “great again” if the nation, collectively, does not find a cure.
In a highly centralized country like France, citizens, often grudgingly, count on their leaders to propose and find solutions when a problem plagues the nation. Healthcare and education, for example, are debated and taken care of at the highest levels of government.
In the United States, I tend to place my hopes in the grass roots. United, Americans pulled through two world wars and the Great Depression; the tragic pain of 9-11 was shared by everyone.
But drugs are associated with crime and drug-users are traditionally considered criminals. Today, independent of the causes of their addiction, they require understanding and care. That’s the impression I’ve brought back to France after my most recent trip to the USA.
