To eliminate Cognitive Dissonance, the smoker would have to change one of the two cognitions. Imagine a goof that would have the nerve to eliminate #2 and replace it with something like, The dangers of smoking are largely a myth. You can’t believe everything they say. Of course, changing #1 makes more sense. Still, many smokers refuse to quit, which begs one, important question: What on earth keeps them going? My parents were a prime example of a couple who lived, for years, under the cloud of Cognitive Dissonance. Mom and Dad watched Granddaddy Bird waste away to nothing, and yet they continued to smoke until 1990, finally quitting fifteen years after that awful day in 1975. My father had crippling lung disease and was on oxygen twenty-four hours a day. What took them so long to quit? Mom says the two of them finally got the will power to walk away from nicotine, but why didn’t this happen earlier? You know the answer. Justifications—that pernicious cancer that sneaks upon us.
· Today’s not a good day to quit, but I’ll quit one day.
· I’m addicted and it’s not easy to quit.
· At least I’m not an alcoholic.
· At least I’m not doing hard drugs like cocaine.
· Everyone has a vice. Smoking is mine.
· Smoking evens me out.
· Smoking helps keep the pounds off.
· Smoking helps relieve stress.
· Smoking energizes me.
· Lots of people smoke.
· Lots of good and successful people smoke.
· I’m a good person.
My favorite comes from a friend of mine, an intense guy, who was forced to quit a few years back because of artery blockage— “I ENJOYED SMOKING. DO YOU HEAR ME, TOM? I REALLY, REALLY LIKED IT.”
I often wonder which justifications my grandfather used all of those years. Granted, when he started smoking, there was no CDC, no Surgeon General, and no American Cancer Society. All the silver screen actors huffed and puffed: Gable, Bogart, and Hayworth. But that all changed significantly before his cancer diagnosis. So, why didn’t he quit? What was he waiting for? For that matter, what is anybody waiting for? Are they waiting for the chest x-ray that will reveal a spot on the lung? How about shortness of breath or coughing up blood? It is here that many throw away the cigarettes and stare into the abyss, hoping to strike a deal Kubler-Ross so eloquently describes in her writings. The cigarettes are gone and I won’t smoke again. I swear. Now, can you just go away and leave me alone?
Unfortunately, in many cases, cancer stares straight back from that abyss and answers, No deal.
A Wish
Vista Memorial Gardens is a small cemetery that lies just west of the Opalocka Airport in Miami. Granddaddy Bird has been there in repose since 1975. I’m ashamed to say this, but I don’t think any of us have been to the cemetery in years. Mom lives three hours away; I live an hour north of there. Aunt Bee relocated to Central Florida in the mid-80s and passed away just a few years ago. South of Vista Memorial, there’s a small house nestled in an old Miami neighborhood. It’s the house in which my mother grew up. And in that house, in that small living room, there is a conversation that I desperately wish had taken place in 1945—years prior to Granddaddy Bird’s lung cancer diagnosis.
“Hey, Dad. I want you to quit smoking, do you hear? I’m not kidding. Throw away the cigarettes.”
“Sure thing. After the holidays, honey.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
4. The Cheech and Chong Effect: Justifying Marijuana Use… With a Shrug and a Smile
It was the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college. Dad and I stayed up late one night watching cable. As I flicked through the channels, I felt the overwhelming impulse to stop and check out a movie that was playing on HBO. It involved the exploits of two bungling stoners called Cheech and Chong. In fact, if memory serves, we were watching Things Are Tough All Over. These two buffoons really were hilarious, and we roared for the next hour-and-a-half. I don’t want to sound too sentimental, but it was a bonding experience for Dad (a World War II B-24 tail gunner) and me (a struggling college student) over a movie whose unifying theme was…drug use, of all things. Dad and I chuckled about the movie for the next couple of days.
Then, toward the end of the week, I got a little irritated with myself. I hate drugs. I absolutely detest marijuana. I’m sorry, but I think marijuana users are knuckleheads. See, even here I have to stop myself. Knuckleheads. I’m poo-pooing the issue by using an inane euphemism like knuckleheads. What I should be saying is this: Marijuana users are breaking the law. They’re drug users and drug users belong in either rehab or in jail. And this is really my point about the pot culture in America and around the world: Many of us fall victim to the same mentality when it comes to marijuana.
Let’s start with a well-known fact that’s really a myth: pot is not a real drug. You’re an uptight idiot if you oppose its use. In fact, why don’t you just relax and get a hobby, sport? Smile. God loves you, dude. Hey, it’s all good. And finally, look around you. Everyone’s tried pot.
In the battle of Madison Avenue slogans, pot users are getting the best of those of us who vehemently oppose its illegal use. They’re winning the war of words. Worst of all, they’re winning by being completely illogical about it. I’m amazed at how similar people’s stories and excuses are when it comes to pot use. They all say the same things and use the exact same verbiage when they’re under suspicion for drug use. It’s uncanny—almost like they’re operating from a universal playbook—like some goofy life coach has huddled them all together for a pep-talk.
This One I Call Page 1 from the Pot User’s Playbook
FIRST and foremost: deny, deny, deny. This does occasionally work, especially if you’re dealing with a naïve interrogator, such as an employer, doctor, teacher or school administrator. Simply tell them you don’t know what the heck they’re talking about.
IF you feel that you’re dealing with a skilled interrogator and have nowhere to hide, give ground only in small increments. Start with, “I once tried pot…I think.”
IF you are pressed for how much you smoke, tell them that you only take a drag or two, nothing more. Now this is crucial: always underestimate your pot use by at least 90%. They’re probably too dumb to realize that a “drag or two” is code for “I smoke out almost every weekend. Let that be our little secret.
WHEN being harassed for how frequently you smoke Mary Jane, simply say: “Oh, just special occasions.” If they ask for a definition of a “special occasion”, be as vague as possible. Never surrender specifics. Mention something nebulous about a friend’s birthday party, at which the whole world seemed to be smoking—including the guy’s own mother. Maybe mention an obscure holiday.
IF the unjust, fascist interrogation continues, tell them that everyone (parents, politicians, doctors, mail carriers, bloggers) smokes weed, and that they need to open up their eyes and get with the program. Of course not everyone smokes weed, but just about everyone WE know does. But they don’t have