August 16, 2024

Today I turn twenty-one years old. This day is recognized as a cultural milestone in the United States. The brain does not stop forming until twenty-five, but people do not celebrate that birthday. The biological changes associated with puberty occur for most between 13 and 18, but people do not celebrate that either. We celebrate the doors that are unlocked by our ages. We celebrate the eighteenth birthday by purchasing a lottery ticket. Likewise, we celebrate the twenty-first birthday by drinking our first beer.

“Are you going to celebrate at the Firstie tonight?” My peers are curious if I will go down to the local watering hole and have a few drinks. “No,” I reply, “I have to clean for the inspection tomorrow.” It’s true, the hardest inspection of the year is tomorrow morning, and I’ll likely be up into the wee hours of the morning cleaning dust off all surfaces in my room, ironing my clothes, shining my shoes, and organizing all my belongings. I know the inspection is a cheap excuse. At lunch, one of my friends asked me how old I was today. When I answered, she asked “you don’t drink anyway, do you?” It’s true, my lips have never touched a drop of alcohol. The convenient excuse when presented the option was “I’m not drinking tonight” or “I’m not 21 yet.” The truth however, is far deeper than that.

I have been face to face with addiction. In high school, my dad’s alcoholism got to a point where all he cared about was getting drunk after work. His three kids were afterthoughts. He would come home from his job, drink in the kitchen, and then lay in bed. He always laid on his stomach, across the bed so that his head stuck off the left side and his feet off the right. He hardly spoke. He and mom had split up a couple years earlier, so there was nobody else in the house to regulate his behavior. He would give my older sister cash to go get dinner for us, usually Taco Bell. The kitchen sink had been broken for over a year, and we couldn’t make dinner because we couldn’t wash the dishes after. Every few months he would cook something and leave the dirty dish in the sink to be forgotten about.

Fleas made our house their home. Kitty litter was sprinkled across the entire house. Oppressive North Carolina summer heat overpowered the window AC unit three rooms away in the kitchen. In the winter, space heaters stopped us from shivering at night. Us four shared a bathroom about six feet wide, nearly every foot of which was peppered with mildew like a Jackson Pollock painting.

Our neighbors farther down the driveway sold meth. Trucks with their bright headlights relayed up and down the driveway all night, glaring into my room as they passed.

I would steal snacks from my student government meetings to eat for lunch. I don’t know what my sisters ate.

I thought all this was normal. There was more. The farther I get from it, the more I realize how abnormal it was. A violent disease was ravaging our house — alcoholism.

So, to answer your question, my well-meaning friend — no, you don’t have to worry about buying me a drink for my birthday.

Instead, buy me a coffee. I’ll need it to get to where I’m going.

All-American 2025