Johann Hari on Billie Holiday, Harry Anslinger, and the War on Drugs

On Wednesday – the same day that New York approved emergency access to medical marijuana – New York City activists gathered in a Chelsea loft to hear Johann Hari, author of Chasing the Scream: The First and Last Days of the War on Drugs, explain why the drug war hasn’t worked.

He began, though, not by talking about the modern drug war, but by telling a story that started more than three decades earlier.  

“In 1939 seven blocks away from where we are now,” Hari said, “Billie Holiday walked on stage in a hotel where she wasn’t even allowed to walk through the front door. And she sang a song. It was called ‘Strange Fruit.’”

That was “the musical starting gun for the civil right movement,” but at the time it attracted unwanted attention from one Harry Anslinger.

For more than three decades, Anslinger was the head of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. He was the man responsible for waging the war on drugs before it was called the war on drugs.

According to Hari, he had a “really intense hatred” of drug addicts and of African Americans — and Holiday was both.

The same night the rising jazz great sang “Strange Fruit,” Hari said, Holiday got a warning from Anslinger: Stop singing that song.

But Holliday didn’t stop, and Anslinger stayed true to his threat.

He hired someone to follow her and, in 1947, the singer was arrested on drug charges and sentenced to 18 months in prison. After her release, she couldn’t get the license she needed to perform in places that sold alcohol.

“This is what we are doing to addicts all over the world,” Hari said. “We are putting barriers between them and their ability to reconnect.”

Holiday started using again and by the late 1950s, years of drug and alcohol abuse took their toll: She was diagnosed with liver cancer.

Hari
Johann Hari in 2011, via Wikimedia Commons

Hospitalized in 1959, she was arrested and handcuffed to her deathbed when cops raided her hospital room. She died, but Hari doesn’t think Anslinger — who later became an opiate addict himself — came out on top.

“Right now people all over the world are listening to Billie Holiday and they’re feeling stronger and nobody fucking remembers Harry Anslinger,” he said.

That’s not entirely true, though. As Hari recounted, at least one person remembers Anslinger: Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio.

In the course of his research, Hari visited Maricopa County — and found a picture of Anslinger hanging on the notorious sheriff’s wall.

In that same visit, Hari passed a chain gang of female Maricopa County inmates digging graves, wearing shirts the read “I Am a Drug Addict” and trying to ignore the jeers from passersby.

According to Hari, that’s the exact opposite of how addiction should be addressed, because it’s based on a misunderstanding about how addiction works in the first place.

There’s an assumption that heroin causes heroin addiction which means that forced sobriety is the solution, Hari said.

He doesn’t think that’s accurate, though.

Early addiction experiments showed that a rat put in a cage with a bottle of drug-laced water and a bottle of regular water would quickly become a drug addict, Hari said. That seemed to reinforce the idea that the drugs were the problem.

In the 1970’s, Bruce Alexander tried a different experiment. He gave the rats the tools for happy, fulfilling rat lives instead of putting them in rat solitary confinement. They had the drug water and the regular water, but they also had toys and — most importantly — rat friends.

“It’s basically heaven for rats. It’s called Rat Park,” Hari said.

“This is the fascinating thing: In Rat Park, they don’t like the drug water. They almost never use it. None of them ever use it compulsively, none of them ever overdose.”

Addiction, Hari said, is not about drugs; it’s about the cage.

“We’ve got to change the cage, we’re living in a shitty cage,” he said.

Hari believes that, like the rats, humans need to bond with the others in their cage.

“But when you can’t do that because you’re traumatized, or isolated or beaten down by life, you will bond or connect with something that gives you some sense of meaning [and] that might be heroin,” Hari said.

“For 100 years we have been singing war songs about addicts … we should have been singing love songs to them all along,” he said.

Talking Heroin on HuffPost Live

huffpostliveIn some places, heroin is cheaper than cigarettes. That was one of the interesting takeaways from today’s segment on HuffPost Live, featuring me, Major Cities Chiefs Association Director Darrel Stephens, Dixon Police Department Chief Dan Langloss, and Drug Policy Alliance Manager Michael Collins. The discussion covered some of the ways in which police departments have come to realize the value of funneling addicts into treatment instead of jails and prisons. Click here to watch the full half-hour video.

 

Obscenity, Addiction, and Lenny Bruce

“Satire is tragedy plus time,” said Lenny Bruce.“You give it enough time, the public, the reviewers will allow you to satirize it. Which is rather ridiculous, when you think about it.”

It’s been 49 years, but Bruce’s death—a morphine overdose—is still a tragedy. Though he was many things, first and foremost, Bruce was a comedian. Today, when we think of comedians who died of drug overdoses, it’s names like Mitch Hedberg, Greg Giraldo, John Belushi, and Chris Farley that come to mind. But, before all those, there was Lenny Bruce.

Ozzie and Harriet 

Bruce, who came into the world as Leonard Alfred Schneider, was born on Long Island in 1925. His parents divorced when he was five and then when he was 16, Bruce ran away from home and worked on farms before joining the U.S. Navy at the age of 17. He served aboard the U.S.S. Brooklyn in North Africa, but after three years, he was honorably discharged—after claiming to be gay—and eventually moved back home with his mother.

Then, at the age of 22, he did his first stand-up show at a nightclub in Brooklyn. After a stint in the merchant navy, he met Harriett Jolliff, the singer and striptease dancer better known as Honey Harlow. According to The New York Times, “The couple’s six-year marriage was Ozzie and Harriet as reimagined by William S. Burroughs …  They shopped for wallpaper. They injected heroin. She served jail time for marijuana possession.”

After getting into trouble with the law for a fundraising scam involving a leper colony in New Guinea, the couple moved to Pittsburgh, where they got into a serious car accident. In 1953, they moved to California, and Bruce’s comedy career continued gaining steam.

Bruce’s Style: Talking Dirty and Influencing People

Over the course of his 18-year comedy career, Bruce became known for his stream-of-consciousness style and his wry satire—and also for his obscenity. He stepped away from the family-friendly humor that preceded him and took on serious issues, issues that some people didn’t think it nice to joke about. He said, “All my humor is based upon destruction and despair. If the whole world were tranquil, without disease and violence, I’d be standing on the breadline right in back of J. Edgar Hoover.”

No topic was sacred. He called out censorship and the government: “Take away the right to say ‘fuck’ and you take away the right to say ‘fuck the government.’” He poked fun at religion: “If Jesus had been killed 20 years ago, Catholic school children would be wearing little electric chairs around their necks instead of crosses.” He joked about his own Jewishness: “A lot of people say to me, ‘Why did you kill Christ?’ I dunno… it was one of those parties, got out of hand, you know. We killed him because he didn’t want to become a doctor, that’s why we killed him.” He talked about everything from sex to mothers-in-law to law enforcement.

As Paul Krassner, the journalist who edited Bruce’s 1965 biography, How to Talk Dirty and Influence People, told Rolling Stone in 2012, “What Lenny did as a performer was break through the traditional targets of humor and talk about things that really mattered. Everything from teachers’ salaries, racism and sexism to abortion rights and atomic testing – all different forms of injustice.”

The willingness to address those topics in and of itself created a new form of comedy. In 2013, The Guardian wrote, “Lenny Bruce was not the first standup comedian, but he did create what we now mean by ‘standup comedy.’ The idea of some guy on a stage, often some guy with problems, who finds himself at odds with the establishment and has only his wits to resist with: that all begins with Bruce.”

“Life is a four-letter word.”

In pop culture, the ’60s are remembered as a time of flowers, acid, and anti-war protests.

For Bruce, the ’60s were a time of obscenity trials and drug arrests. In September 1961, he was arrested after cops entered his Philadelphia hotel room and found methadone, speed, and needles. Although it made national headlines, that particular arrest did not lead to a conviction as the grand jury failed to indict; the comedian had prescriptions for everything he’d been arrested with. At the time, Bruce was convinced the arrest was retribution for his handling of religion in his on-stage performances. That would not be Bruce’s last drug arrest. In 1962, was arrested again for drug possession and in 1963 he was caught with heroin, methedrine, and syringes. 

Just about a month after the 1961 Philly arrest, Bruce was arrested for using the word cocksucker at a show in San Francisco. Although he was acquitted, that arrest was only the first in a string of obscenity-related arrests finally culminating in his arrest for a performance at Café au Go Go in Greenwich Village. That arrest resulted in a conviction and a four-month jail sentence, although the sentence was stayed pending appeal.

After firing his attorneys, Bruce began preparing the appeal on his own. One of the fired lawyers later observed that, as the comedian immersed himself in the legal process, ”He was a guy quickly sliding down, into drugs.”

The repeated obscenity charges made him almost unemployable; no one wanted to risk hiring him. Given his lack of work and the cost of repeatedly defending himself against charges in multiple states, Bruce had to file for bankruptcy.

On Aug. 3, 1966, Bruce found out he was going to lose his Hollywood Hills home. Later that day, he was found naked on the bathroom floor, a needle still hanging out of his arm. At the age of 40, Bruce had died of a morphine overdose. Regarding his drug use, Bruce is often credited as saying,“I’ll die young, but it’s like kissing God.”

Although he’d already been a drug user, some blamed his death on the continual legal battles he fought; he later came to be known as a First Amendment martyr. One of the district attorneys who prosecuted him in New York later admitted, “We drove him into poverty and bankruptcy and then murdered him. We all knew what we were doing. We used the law to kill him.”

As Bruce once said, “Life is a four-letter word.”

His Memory

While comedians today can anticipate that almost every performance will be filmed, put on YouTube, and shared on Facebook, that wasn’t true in Bruce’s day. Today, there’s only a handful of videos of Bruce performances, and most recordings are audio-only. Some are available in transcripts—such as those paraded out at his obscenity trials—but the net result is that his era’s technological limitations have diminished our collective memory of him. For many young people today, he’s never been a household name like Chris Farley or John Belushi.

Nonetheless, he’s had a lasting impact on the world of comedy. As Nat Hentoff wrote in Gadfly: “A long and growing list of comedians—actually, social satirists—owe a great thanks to Lenny Bruce. These include Richard Pryor (who came closest to meeting Lenny’s standards), George Carlin, Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock and an emerging number of young black and Hispanic fearless, funny commentators. Bruce opened the doors not only on the way we live, but also on the way we often cover it up.”

Posthumously, Bruce’s memory has not been covered up so much as it has been revised—for the better. In 2003—almost four decades after his death—New York pardoned his final obscenity conviction.

This story was originally published at thefix.com.

Me and My Mugshot

If there were awards for Worst Mug Shot Ever, mine would certainly be in the running. In 2010, while enrolled as a student at Cornell University, in Ithaca, New York, I was arrested with a large amount of heroin and sentenced to two and a half years in state prison. At the time of my arrest, I was using—as is pretty apparent from the picture—and also selling to support my habit. In my mug shot, my face is blotchy, my hair is all over the place, and I have scabs where I picked at my face while high. It’s pretty horrible.

When news outlets ran my mug shot in their coverage of my arrest, some of the comments that it inspired were pretty horrible, too. Certainly I did not expect sympathy, but even so, some of the comments surprised me. People called me a “whore” and “slut” and riffed on the “Ithaca is Gorgeous” slogan, writing, “Ithaca is Whoregeous.” These comments obviously did not stem from the fact that I actually looked like a prostitute; it should have been abundantly clear from the picture that absolutely no one would have paid to sleep with me at that point. The comments were intended as sexist, stigmatizing insults.

Part of that is due to a sexist nature of commonly used insults, and part of it is due to the nature of bad mug shots. But the most pernicious part of it is a reflection of the way our society generally views addicts.

When a man is arrested for drugs and has a horrible mug shot, people may insult his appearance but they usually won’t insult him sexually. That is, they’ll say he’s ugly, but they won’t say that he’s got a small penis. With a bad female mug shot, though, it seems OK to make the insults sexual in nature.

Mug shots like mine are dehumanizing. And when we see people as less than human, it becomes easy to lob insults with impunity.

Terrible mug shots are a dramatic appeal to our basest instincts. They’re fascinating in a sort of train-wreck-you-can’t-stop-watching way. The thing is, those mug shots are not of trains, they’re of real people. People who need help. You certainly don’t see that image of me and think, “Wow, we’re so much alike. That could have been me. That could have been my sister/mother/daughter. I hope that person gets help.” You think, “Eww, that’s gross! That would never be me or anyone I know.”

Some people commented that my picture was “the face of addiction.” Although my face clearly was the face of someone entrenched in an addiction, this should not be what we think of when we think of the face of addiction. Most addicts don’t look like this. The true face of addiction runs the gamut—there are beautiful models addicted to cocaine, mothers addicted to painkillers and mayors who smoke crack. And although none of them may have the dramatic “face of addiction” that I did, we are all struggling with the same demons.

Nonetheless, the “face of addiction” has become its own genre of image. Google the phrase and you will find thousands of faces like mine. The widespread “faces of meth” pictures are the most popular of the bunch. They’ve been used as the basis for fear-based prevention campaigns, and over time they’ve also come to do much harm as stigmatizing clickbait. Sometimes, these images come with a “before” and “after” picture so that viewers can marvel at how disfigured and inhuman a drug addict can become, almost as if addiction were a demonic possession. The truth is that the face of addiction can also be much more subtle, but no matter what it looks like we are all struggling with the same demons.

At the time of my arrest, it made sense that news outlets would run that picture. The thing is, five years later, it still appears in articles about me.

Since my release from prison in 2012, the Cornell Daily Sun, Mic News and, as recently as last week, the Washington Post have all published articles that included that mug shot. I’ve accepted that this picture is something that will continue to hold a somewhat morbid fascination for some people. I don’t hold it against the editors and writers who ask to use this picture. In fact, I get it. Most of the time, they have good intentions; they want to offer a visceral representation of how bad addiction can be. The problem is that they are unwittingly contributing to the stigmatization of addiction.

Usually, the picture is contrasted with a picture of me now. Although that comparison offers a moving comparison between how badly I was doing then and how much better I’m doing now, it also plays on a dramatic visual contrast between “normal person” and “ugly, addicted criminal.”

It’s true that addiction is ugly—but when we contribute to the stigmatization of people with addiction, we make it harder for them to seek help. For most people in an active addiction, it is difficult to admit to the seriousness of the problem. By stigmatizing addiction, we only make it more unlikely that addicts and their families will recognize the need for, and seek out, help. After all, nobody wants to admit that they or their loved ones are part of this seemingly reviled demographic.

Every time I see that mug shot, a part of me wilts. It brings back all the shame, remorse and regret I associate with who I was then. I have to constantly remind myself that that’s who I was then. To avoid obsessing over that image, I have to dissociate myself from the person it depicts.

Living with the shame of a past addiction is something that every recovering addict has to deal with—some more publicly than others. Although the continued use of that mug shot will probably always bother me on some level, one thing it has taught me is that I have a truly wonderful group of friends.

When people I know shared the column I wrote for the Washington Post on Facebook, they all—every single one—chose the “remove preview” option so that the picture doesn’t show in the post. I didn’t ask them to do this. They just did it. To them, I am a real person, not an abstract representation of the face of addiction. Consciously or not, they chose not to contribute to the stigmatization of one face of addiction—the face that they know personally. To them, it wasn’t that I could be their sister, daughter or friend; it’s that I am. Nothing helps defeat the stigma of addiction like actually knowing someone who’s overcome it.

Note: This article was originally published by substance.com on Jan. 28, 2015.  Also, the original refers to “arrest and trial.” I deleted that here, but the word “trial” was added in by an editor; since I took a plea my case did not go to trial. The vast majority of cases do not go to trial.