Why I Won’t Quit Smoking.
No, that is not a typo. Hear me out.
I reach for my lighter. As I do, I glimpse my nicotine-stained index finger and cringe, involuntarily. I may be wearing a blazer, but my hands (and the aroma that emanates from them) is a dead giveaway: I am not composed.
I deliver my presentation — a teaching demonstration for a coveted professorship — and feel as though I nail it.
I don’t receive a call-back.
This is probably not about smoking, but I spend the next week ruminating on my handshake with the Dean, regardless.
“Did he notice?” “Was he disgusted?” “Did he see this as a reflection of my competence (or lack thereof?)”
I have been a heavy smoker for years. In a life riddled with turmoil, cigarettes have been a dependable companion.
I’m aware they are no longer socially acceptable. I’m fully educated on their deleterious health consequences. Purchasing pack after pack certainly doesn’t help my bottom line.
I still don’t plan to quit.
I began smoking as a teenager. I had just become homeless, and I was contending with addictions far more severe than nicotine. This behavior (in addition to a few, more explicitly nefarious ones) helped me connect with my peers. When one has very little, giving and receiving cigarettes becomes a crucial right of passage.
I spent countless nights outside shelters and in alleyways, sharing secrets amid stifling wafts of smoke. To not do so would have been odd: Without concrete indicators of success, cigarettes are important social currency. I’m not sure I would have survived this time without the myriad friendships that began with, “Hey, can I bum a dart?”
Now, in my work with unhoused people, this dynamic hasn’t changed. Offering someone a cigarette disarms them, and it mitigates the implicit hierarchy that accompanies having more access to resources. It is a peace offering, a reassurance that while my circumstances may differ, I’m not there to exploit them.
I also really like it.
These days, I view smoking as harm reduction. I am not immune to the lull of alcohol and crack cocaine, and I likely never will be. I also live with severe post-traumatic stress, and when I’m dissociated or disembodied, holding a cigarette is soothing— it tells me that despite my escalating panic, I am tangible, I am real, I am still alive.
I don’t expect most folks to understand this, but I’m willing to accept the looks of disdain when I light up (even if it does sometimes translate to loss of opportunity).
When you next see someone smoking, consider why they may be doing so. I guarantee that their rationale probably isn’t simple.
…and if it is — so what?
