Ann Landers column
Just running in and out, might be able to catch up with everyone
later…thought I’d share this with you all, knowing that some of you
have teens…mine doesn’t smoke but my son (25) does.
- Cat
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Dear Ann Landers: I read this column in the Raleigh News and Observer
on July 25, 1976. It made me quit smoking after I had been hooked for
15 years. Now my daughter is hooked. She is 17. Please run it again. -
A Concerned Mother
Dear Mother: Here it is. I wish you luck.
Dear Ann: This letter reflects my own feelings about cigarettes after
24 years of smoking. I’m ashamed to admit I’m still at it. I doubt
that this letter will have the slightest impact on the heavily
addicted. For me, all the words in the world will not take the place
of that first cigarette in the morning.
I’d rather address myself to your readers who are 17, as I once was,
with a set of healthy lunges, white teeth, clean blood coursing
through my veins - and in my pocket my first package of cigarettes.
How was I to know that 24 years later I’d be so hooked that any
thought of quitting would be out of the question? How could I know,
at 17 that I’d be waking up each morning with a mouth that tastes
like the bottom of a bird cage? How could I know my teeth would be
stained and my chest would feel as if it were filled with cement? All
I knew was that smoking was the cool thing to do. It made me feel
grown up.
Although I’ve never seen my lungs, I know how they must look. My
uncle, who is a surgeon, once showed me some before and after
picutres. “Sit in on an autopsy one of these days,” he said. “You’ll
see that the nonsmoker’s lungs are a bright pink. When I open up the
chest cavity of a smoker, the entire respiratory system is nearly
black, depending on how long he has smoked.”
Still I continue the filthy habit, going half crazy on mornings when
I’m out of cigarettes. I go digging through ashtrays and wastebaskets
for a butt to satisfy my craving. I pace the floor like a hungry
lion, waiting for the store to open. Then I hurry, unshaven, and hand
over another 55 cents for a pacage of suicide (That was the price in
1976. Now a package of suicide is more like $1.80.)
With that first puff I realize nothing about it tastes good. Those
ads are a lot of baloney. But the people who sell cigarettes don’t
care about you. You’re hooked and they love it. Their sexy ads tell
you to “C’mon.” But don’t be fooled, Seventeen, its not a bandwagon
you’ll be hopping on. It’s a hearse.
If I could write cigarette ads, I’d show pictures of myself, coughing
my head off, gargling away a rotten taste that keeps returning,
spending money I can’t afford. Stupid me, sucking on a little white
pacifier.
Then I’d show you pictures of the clothes I’ve burned, and the people
I’ve offeneded with my breath, my smoke, my ashes, my matches and my
butts.
This is me, Seventeen, a rasping, spitting, foggy-brained addict who
has let the habit consume me. I’m a “can’t quitter” who creates his
own air pollution, who prefers carbon monoxide to oxygen, whose
sinuses are constantly draining. Me, with the yellow fingers and the
foul breath, smoking more and enjoying it less - telling you that I
wish to God someone had wised me up when I ws 17. - A Damed Fool Who
Hates Himself.