On the shifting sands of family, specifically: whose counts?

On the shifting sands of family, specifically: whose counts?

In her fourth year of graduate school, an acquaintance of mine realized that 1.) her project was going nowhere, 2.) she was uninterested in the particular field of developmental biology she’d been assigned, and 3.) she wanted to devote her life to anything but research.  She began dragging herself to work later and later each morning, checking out earlier and earlier in the afternoon.  In a department where most people worked from ten a.m. till eight p.m., she arrived near noon and left by four.

Her advisor — who at one of our departmental retreats gave a fifteen minute presentation describing the need for a slightly better animal model of the developmental process they were studying, then clicked forward to a slide showing a rare primate cuter than anything I even realized existed and announced his hope that his students would soon be dissecting them — was flush with grant money.  He was managing a huge team of students and post-docs.  It took months before he noticed her slothful behavior.

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Mouse lemur.  See, I told you: incredibly cute.

Eventually, though, he did.  At which point he called her into his office, closed the door, and told her sternly, “_____, I don’t even leave that early, and I have a family.”

I’d like to imagine that he meant to say he had school-aged kids.

A few months later, our department hosted a special event for women in science.  Invitations were sent to a dozen female post-docs around the country, rising stars who were interviewing for faculty positions.  They were wined & dined.  There were, as ever, several seminars.  The women met privately with various professors to discuss grant writing, laboratory management, that sort of thing.

At a luncheon for these professors-to-be hosted by the two female professors from my department, one of the guests asked, “How many female professors at Stanford have families?”

It’s a pertinent question.

The tenured professor sitting at the head of the table leaned forward and said, chidingly, “________, we all have families.”

The woman who had asked felt too embarrassed to clarify that she’d meant children and so never (officially) received an answer.  Personally, I don’t remember the percentage for the university as a whole.  Not high.

Woman_teaching_geometryI do know that neither of the female professors in my department had children.  As it happens, this absence was something that the woman who’d leaned forward to answer the question had complained about frequently to her students.  And yet she also declined to hire a promising post-doctoral candidate when she learned that the woman had a child (and sternly lectured her students, who had chatted with the woman, that they should’ve reported this bit of espionage back to her sooner so that she wouldn’t have wasted so much time considering a mother), and demoted a hard-working post-doc to effectively “research assistant” status after the woman gave birth.  That post-doc, deeply aggrieved, soon switched laboratories and went on to considerable success.  Despite her “strange” priorities.

The concept of family can shift and squirm, becoming whatever those in power want it to be.

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Of course, it’s hard to see the blight from here.

I found myself thinking about this while reading a recent New York Times article titled (on paper) “Violence in St. Louis traced to cheap Mexican heroin.”  The article is bleak, as you might expect.  The current culture of the United States values instant gratification and devalues suffering, so it’s perhaps unsurprising that there’s been a boom in painkiller prescriptions.  But painkillers are addictive.  And painkillers are expensive.  After people acquire a taste for opiates, many switch to heroin — compared to vitamin V, it’s a bargain!

Heroin is cheaper for consumers than most pharmaceuticals, but it still yields hefty profits for the dudes at the top of the supply chain.  Hawkers on the street eke out sub-minimum wage, but they can see the big money at the top and dream the dream.  And those hefty profits have lured bad men with guns to the trade.  Feel free to read my recent post on Ioan Grillo’s Gangster Warlords here.

So, there’s a lot of money involved.  And the product is illegal, which means there are no state-sanctioned protections for that money.  Inevitably, this leads to violence.  That’s what the Times article was about.  Nothing you wouldn’t expect.

What struck me was this line:

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Mr. Slay in conversation with U.S. Sen. Clarie McCaskill (Flickr).

“These heroin addicts are daughters, sons, husbands, wives, or, in my case, a brother,” Mr. Slay [the mayor of St. Louis, whose brother was arrested for possession] told reporters last month.

It’s nice that Mr. Slay is able to distinguish these addicts from the addicts of the past, who were all robots, test-tube babies, science experiments gone wrong, and other socially-isolated monstrosities.  Or, wait.  No.  Those heroin addicts were minorities, as opposed to daughters, sons, husbands, wives, or brothers.  Which was why they deserved incarceration, as opposed to the treatment options that have been vociferously proposed recently.

And even that was never true.  The popular misconception was that most heroin users were black people.  But, even when our brutal imprisonment of drug addicts was at its peak, it’s unlikely that more than about 15% of heroin users were black.  All the statistics are vaguely suspect — it’s not easy to study criminal behavior — but most data suggest roughly equal rates of heroin abuse across ethnicities.

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Graph on the left by Timeshifter (Wikipedia).

Black users were over-represented in prisons, but that’s because our criminal justice system (from police officers to district attorneys to judges) views black people’s drug use as scarier than drug use by “these heroin addicts.”  The mothers and sons and brothers.

(It’s perhaps worth noting that, although heroin use does not seem to enrich for any particular ethnicity, it is inversely correlated with wealth.  People with money can afford prescription painkillers.)

I’m not upset that politicians are finally willing to acknowledge that drug users have families.  Or that drug users deserve our compassion and mercy.  It’s true.  They do.

They always have.

On Ioan Grillo’s ‘Gangster Warlords.’

On Ioan Grillo’s ‘Gangster Warlords.’

During my income-less years spent researching & writing a novel, there wasn’t enough money to blow any on drugs.  While I was in California, though, my graduate school stipend had me feeling flush with cash — when you like to eat home-made bread and lentils there’s only so much you can spend on food, and when your big fashion shopping trip involves spelunking through the dumpsters during move-out week each year, you don’t drop much on clothes.

Plus, the attitude in Silicon Valley seems to be that, as long as you get your work done, doesn’t matter what else is going on.  Stoned at work?  If your work is good, nobody cares.  I fondly remember helping a friend’s bleary-eyed pot-head roommate do some Matlab coding for a project while we were both in a state of significant duress — that project worked & was widely celebrated & the dude had a star named after him.

A sorta dinky star, sure, and very far away, but, still.  His work will save a not insignificant number of lives.  Not too shabby for something he put together while often high.

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I have no idea which star is his.

Personally, I didn’t smoke much.  I like my lungs, and don’t like spending money (from my six years of grad student stipend, I socked away enough to live on for three or four years, which I figured would be plenty of time to finish my first book.  I undershot by about 50%), and, besides, pot just made me feel groggy.  Still, I spent a few hundred dollars on marijuana while I was living out there.

For about sixty bucks of that, I know that the stuff I bought was grown locally.  The rest was of unknown provenance.

A quick internet search has revealed that my few hundred bucks could buy somebody a discounted AK.

Oops.

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Image by brian.ch on Flickr.

I’ve written about the harms caused by U.S. drug policy a few times previously, but my focus is usually on our own nation’s incarceration crisis.  It’s blatantly unjust to lock up so many black & brown & poor white people for behavior that middle-class whites engage in just as often without risk of punishment.  I bought marijuana while I was living in California, but, as a rich white student, the biggest risk I faced was that my drugs might be confiscated and I’d be slapped with a fine.  With the Midwest Pages to Prisoners Project I’ve put together packages for dudes who’re serving time for possession of drugs in the same ballpark as I’ve carried.

That’s not right.  It’s something that we can, and should, fix.  This injustice would be significantly diminished if drugs like marijuana and cocaine were legalized.

Indeed, now that huge numbers of middle class whites are succumbing to heroin addiction, there’s talk from politicians about responding to their plight with treatment, not incarceration.  Which is fine.  That’s good, and correct.  But it must be hard for the families of poor and minority addicts, who may have seen their loved ones incarcerated for years, to hear.  To have yet more evidence that you & yours are considered less precious by our government.

Our incarceration crisis is a big deal.  Millions of U.S. lives are damaged by the War on Drugs.

unnamedBut I’m grateful to Ioan Grillo for teaching me about the millions of South & Central American lives lost because of the U.S. War on Drugs.

Actually, “lost” is probably not the right word.  “Lives lost” makes them sound misplaced, like somebody slipped and bonked his or her head and died.  Maybe the phrase “brutally wrenched away” would better describe murders via gunshot and chainsaw torture and burning alive and being hacked to bits by machetes or dissolved in giant vats of acid.  Which, right.  Grillo’s book is very good.  His writing is lucid and forceful and he’s done excellent research.  But you should know that there are passages that are difficult to read.  Grillo describes a horrifying world.

It’s a world that I had misconceptions about.  For instance, I’ve been fascinated by microclimes — both actual and metaphorical — ever since living in California.  While biking to work, there were dips along the road accompanied by drastic shifts in temperature and humidity.  While driving to the grocery store, there was the stark, sudden border between wealthy Atherton with its perfect green lawns and leafy trees and gated communities and the area just north so poor that it’s been unincorporated from adjacent communities.

I hadn’t realized that drug cartels operate in battle-ravaged wastelands closely juxtaposed to areas that look just like my home.  From Grillo’s Gangster Warlords:

unnamed (1)          This bloodshed is not in the poorest, least developed region of the world.  It takes place in industrializing societies with a growing middle class.  Latin American and Caribbean countries continue to modernize, building gleaming shopping malls, cinema multiplexes, and designer gyms, private schools and world-class universities.  Millions of visitors sun themselves in top-notch resorts on the countries’ golden beaches.  This convinces some surprised visitors that the countries are on a quick path to the First World.  There is real growth taking place.

          At the same time, sprawling slums are home to ultraviolent gangs with links to politicians and businessmen.  The parallel universes of crime-ridden ghettos and leafy middle-class neighborhoods live side by side, sometimes meeting and clashing.

Grillo also provides a lucid explanation for the feedback loop that causes violence to escalate.  These passages carry added weight for U.S. readers because the same logic underlies the violence of our own impoverished communities.  With poverty and some initial degree of lawlessness, people often lose their trust in police.  And when people who can’t go to the police are harmed, either by violence or theft, their only recourse is to seek retribution through more violence of their own.

          One alarming development is the extent to which gangsters control their own justice systems.  From Mexican mountains to Jamaican ghettos, crime bosses try those accused of robbing and raping and sentence them to beatings, exile, or death.  It’s jungle law.  But many residents find it more effective than any justice the police and courts offer.

          Wielding such power, gangster warlords threaten the fundamental nature of the state, not by trying to completely take it over but by capturing parts of it and weakening it.  They chip into the state’s monopoly on violence — or, more precisely, the monopoly on waging war and carrying out justice.  When the state loses this it becomes less able to impose its will on many issues, including the most basic, such as collecting taxes and policing protests.  People lose faith in the government, as happened in the Mexican state of Guerrero after the Iguala massacre.  Some form vigilante militias to defend themselves.  Others burn town halls.  If governments lose more control in this way, it could have devastating consequences.

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The only problem with showing an image of bales of cocaine is that, really, these just look like bags.  There could be anything in there.  Ramen noodles, plastic ducks, you name it. (U.S. Navy photo by Lt. Ed Early/Released)

Despite covering a lot of bleak topics, Grillo’s book was surprisingly enjoyable to read.  It helps that he is such a charming, self-effacing guy.  During an interview, he winds up riding in a car with his interviewee and being handed an assault rifle, at which point he commences worrying that he’ll accidentally kill himself or his companions.  He mentions his fear when approaching certain murderous bigshots without making a big deal of his own courage.  And the similes he uses to explain his feelings are plain-spoken but illuminating.  Consider this description of the months he spent reporting on Mexico’s vigilante uprising against a major cartel:

          Covering Mexico’s vigilante movement was like watching an action movie in many ways.  It was full of larger than life characters, took dramatic twists, and had high-intensity action scenes.  Like good movies, there were inspiring heroes on a moral mission and despicable baddies, such as Nazario [large-scale ultra-violent meth trafficker with a Jesus complex], a big enough villain for any Hollywood set.  But like the best movies, it became morally hazy by the end, the heroes showing cracks, and finished leaving you with a mix of fear and hope of what might come next.

 . . .

          Yet, after two years, the problems of vigilantism were too big to deny.  One thing is holding up the ideal of armed struggle.  The other is seeing it in action.  It’s ugly.  As vigilantes drove out the cartel, they tortured and murdered.  In 2013 and 2014, police tallies count 1,894 people killed in Michoacan [a state about midway between Iowa and Wisconsin in terms of size and population], the victims of both sides.  The vigilante ranks also filled with the gangsters they were supposed to be fighting against.  And you wondered how much better off anyone had become.

Unfortunately, U.S. drug policy inflates the profits available to traffickers.  Even if major traffickers are killed or captured by the government or vigilantes, new criminals will likely take their place as long as those incredible profits are up for the taking.

Legalization would probably increase demand (but not by much, according that what little evidence we have), but it would also cause a major fall in price.  Without the lure of easy profits, there’d be less incentive for cartels to pursue horrific violence.  I don’t think I’m being overly Panglossian in assuming that more people are murderously greedy than sadistic.

I’d like to end this post with one more quotation from Grillo’s book.  This passage comes from a conversation he had with a dude who grew up in the U.S., was deported over a domestic violence charge, started working for a cartel, then left the cartel to join the vigilantes when it seemed clear that they were winning.

          “I flipped.  I had no choice.  Now I’m scared the Knights Templar [violent trafficking organization led by that dude with the Jesus complex] are going to kill this whole fucking town for turning against them.”

          However, Manuel hasn’t done too badly out of the uprising.  He has a brand-new truck that he “decommissioned” from a Knights Templar boss who fled town.  “It’s mine now,” says Manuel, who stands a head taller than his dozen comrades in the trench.

          Still, Manuel says he dreams of escaping Michoacan to return to the United States and his former life.  He wonders why I, as a Brit, would want to spend any time here.

          “I’d love to get out of here and go home.  Why would anyone choose to live in a place like this?”

Of course, Grillo doesn’t provide an answer.  That’s not his style.  But, because I’m grateful for the existence of his book, I’d like to hazard a guess.  Grillo chooses to live there because the War on Drugs in the U.S. and Britain causes huge numbers of people to be silently, senselessly murdered.  Without the efforts of courageous journalists like Grillo, those victims would have no voice.