High Price

couldn’t help thinking about my own young children and the time that I wasn’t spending with them. Damon was now eighteen and preparing to go off to college and Malakai was six years younger, attending a middle school that charges tuition rates comparable to a college. The environment in which Robin and I are raising them is utterly different from the one in which I was raised. This is a source of anxiety and relief. I sometimes worry that we have pampered them too much. Would they be able to fend for themselves should something happen to Robin and me? My siblings and I joke about how MH made it clear to us that we were on our own very early in life, especially if we got into trouble with the law. One of her favorite lines was “If you go to jail, don’t call me.” MH firmly believes that her child-rearing philosophy is the reason for her children’s success in life. Her children, however, have a different perspective.
    Robin and I have been fortunate to shield our children from the traps that face so many other black boys, including Tobias and my nephews. Damon and Malakai don’t seem to have the emotional scars that I carried from my childhood. They are thoughtful and verbally expressive, even when emotional. Both have participated in athletics and the arts since they were very young. Each has already read more books than I had upon completion of my undergraduate studies; for them, an undergraduate education is the minimum expectation. They have traveled throughout the United States and have been to foreign countries. Importantly, they are staking their claim in this society. The thing that pleases me most, however, is that they are happy and cheerful. Much of their free time is spent together playing games, laughing and joking. When watching Damon and Malakai interact, I am often reminded of the time when Louie and I were kids climbing the huge sapodilla tree in Big Mama’s yard. “Don’t go too high,” Louie would say. Because he was older, he felt compelled to look after me and make sure I didn’t step on a weak branch and fall.

    Billboard.
    After saying good-bye to Louie, I sat in the car and cried, because I felt as though I had failed to look after him as he had done for me when we were kids. Prior to writing this book, I hadn’t cried since I was a child. Now, in the car, a flood of tears poured from my eyes. I thought about all of the other Louies we’ve failed to look after. I thought about all the years that I spent away from my Florida family in order to obtain an education that seems inadequate to help solve the problems they face. The tears continued streaming down as I thought about the tremendous promise that Louie once showed; I felt crushed that we both couldn’t have been scientists. After several minutes, I gathered myself and started the car. Johnny Cash was on the radio singing, “There will be peace in the valley for me, dear Lord I pray. . . .” And I slowly drove away.

CHAPTER 17
    Drug Policy Based on Fact, Not Fiction
    It’s time for America to get right.
    — FANNIE LOU HAMER
    S o, are you saying that we should legalize hard drugs like cocaine, heroin, and methamphetamine?” The question was in response to the presentation that I had just given to a group of white, aging New York City hipsters. They were fairly well educated; you know, the NPR type. Some were even professionals such as neurologists, psychologists, and social workers. All had come to a basement bar in Brooklyn to hear me speak at their monthly “secret science club” meeting.
    The room was dimly lit, smelled of alcohol, and filled to capacity—several would-be attendees were turned away. Bodies rubbed up against bodies like we were in a popular dance club. Some even reeked of marijuana smoke. And as I stood on the brightly lit stage—so bright that I had to wear sunglasses—I couldn’t help thinking back to my childhood when I was a DJ spinning records in similar settings, except then, the audiences were all black. “I mean I totally agree that war on drugs has been a huge failure. And I even support legalizing marijuana, but I’m not in favor of legalizing the hard drugs,” the attractive thirtysomething woman wearing a Public Enemy T-shirt continued.
    I wasn’t surprised by her question and comments. It wasn’t the first time that one of my presentations had been met with skepticism or incredulity. And to be fair, I had just told this audience, many of whom took great pride in their