But, I mean, somehow I keep walking through it all. I go on photo shoots, get interviewed by magazines and newspapers, make TV and radio appearances—doing most of the big-time programs, including the Today show and Oprah and Terry Gross and, man, it’s all so surreal I can’t even believe it. I fly to New York. I fly to Chicago. I fly to Boston, Minneapolis, Toronto, St. Louis, Dallas, Portland, Seattle. And I’ll tell you what, if I didn’t have my dad here with me, I don’t think I could do it. We support each other. We laugh about the craziness. We go out to movies at night when the hectic days are over. We talk about missing our respective families. We swim laps in the hotel pool. He holds my hand. I hold his. I rest my head on his shoulder. We stand at the podium together, addressing more than a thousand students from a high school in Boston somewhere.
To tell you the truth, this gig speaking at a high school scares me way more than anything else we’ve done so far. I’m not sure why that is, exactly. My dad has spoken first, like he almost always does, telling his own story briefly and laying the fundamental groundwork of our situation before introducing me. For the most part, I’d say the kids look skeptical. I watch them whispering to one another, rolling their eyes, goofing around. Not that I can blame them. When I was in high school, which really wasn’t all that long ago, I remember being so totally annoyed anytime we had some stupid drug assembly. Mostly my friends and I would spend the whole time making fun of the speakers—picking them apart. I mean, seriously, you do not want to mess with a pack of surly teenagers. They’re just about the meanest motherfuckers on the entire goddamn planet. Plus the people giving the drug talks were always such layups, you know, total squares—completely clueless. They were easy targets, and we showed no mercy, and as I look around the theater, I can tell my dad and I are getting the same goddamn treatment. Hell, in a lot of ways I feel like I’m right back in high school again, fighting desperately each day to avoid social annihilation. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I hated high school. I dreaded every single minute of it. It was a nightmare. And for some stupid reason, when my dad calls me to the podium, that’s actually the first thing that comes outta my mouth.
“Man,” I say, voice trembling, acutely aware of the principal sitting there in the front row looking humorless. “Man, I know I probably shouldn’t say this, but, uh, goddamn, am I thankful I’m not in high school anymore. I mean, high school really sucked hard.”
The whole auditorium erupts in laughter and applause, and I make sure not to make eye contact with Mr. Principal Man.
“I don’t know,” I continue. “I’m not sure what to tell y’all, exactly. When I was in school, I sat through hundreds of stupid, you know, ‘drugs are bad’ assemblies, and obviously they never did a damn thing for me.”
A bunch of the kids cheer at that, so I just keep talking, feeling like maybe some of them might actually be listening.
“I guess the truth is, I’m not antidrug at all. I’m not gonna stand here and tell you drugs are bad, ’cause I don’t believe that. Drugs aren’t bad. I mean, I’d say crystal meth and heroin and coke are all pretty gross, but it’s not like they’re inherently evil or anything. I was in a lot of pain, that’s all. I always felt like I was some alien dropped off on this planet by mistake. I just couldn’t relate to most people. I felt alone and scared and, I don’t know, like a total freak or something. I think my biggest fear was that someone would see who I really was and then expose to the world the fact that I really was defective—no good—worthless, unlovable, a mistake. There was this despair in me that was just overpowering. I spent all my time waiting—either waiting for school to be over each day, or dreading having to go back. But, then again, being at home wasn’t all that great, either. I guess I was waiting for something to come change my life—you know, take me away from it all. And when I was twelve years old, well, I found it. One of my friend’s older brothers was a pot dealer, and so he brought some to school, and we went off into the bushes to go smoke, and it was like, yeah, instantly all that fear and self-loathing really just went away. Smoking pot was like the answer to all my problems. It felt like it was saving my life. And, I mean, I think it was… at least for a while.”
Something catches in my throat, and I pause for a few seconds to take a drink of water. The entire audience is completely silent—staring up at me like… like they’re fucking listening. And as I keep talking and, you know, keep telling my story, I look out into the crowd and, uh, yeah, the kids are paying attention. They’re laughing and gasping, and it’s just weird—I mean, they’re not just blowing me off. It almost feels like some of ’em might
