It’s time to
talk about our problem with alcohol.
In August of
this year Obi Ndefo was putting groceries in his car outside Erewhon Natural Foods Market in Los Angeles
after teaching a yoga class. As
he stood at the back of his car, a car swerved at 40 miles an hour and hit Obi
pinning him against his own car, reversed and drove away. Remarkably Obi lived
through the next few moments and is “in a new body” now learning to live without
his legs. His survival has been called a miracle. His resiliency is the evidence
of that miracle. The driver was arrested the next day in Los Angeles and booked
on a DUI charge. Obi holds no anger or hatred for the driver and has moved on. He
says “I don’t have time for negativity in my life. People are counting on me.”
Two weeks later, in the twisting mountains outside of Taos,
New Mexico, country singer Kylie Rae Harris crashed into 16 year old Taos high
school student Maria Elena Cruz. Maria’s
father, Pedro Cruz, is Deputy Chief of the San Cristobal Volunteer Fire
Department. He was among the first to arrive on the scene. Both young women
were killed in the crash. Kylie Rae Harris toxicology reports showed .28% blood
alcohol content. The data recorder on her truck noted she was traveling 102
miles an hour at the time of the crash. Kylie Rae, 30, from Wylie, Texas just
outside of Dallas, had a prior DWI conviction in Collin County and had been
ordered to install an interlock device on her car.
Last Tuesday on
a crisp winter morning in Dallas, Nancy Dennington, a 72 year old woman, just
returning home from her walk, was struck by a 30 year old in an Audi. The
driver, Ryan Crews, stood blankly staring at her while two of my friends tried
to save her life: comforting her with their words and blankets until the
paramedics could arrive. She died somewhere inside of those moments.
Crews is believed to have been
intoxicated from either drugs or alcohol. He failed a sobriety test and pills
were taken from him at the scene. Five years ago, Ryan received a DWI for
running a red light in the same neighborhood. Two years ago the interlock
device on his car was removed. His booking photo was taken by police in his
hospital bed. Police plan to charge Crews with
Intoxication Manslaughter.
According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration,
accidents from drivers under the influence kill about 30 people in the U.S.
each day. While fatalities from DWI accidents
are down 13% in the last ten years, I sense our alcohol culture is on the rise.
A recent marketing campaign in Dallas offers locals and travelers The
Margarita Mile: an experience where you can 1) download the app; 2) explore
the margaritas; 3) drink and check in and 4) explore the rewards.
In our parking garage at work, a billboard promoted the new wine
bar where you can “Be Happy”. Alcohol is pervasive as necessary entertainment,
a path to happiness and the place to be. Messages to drink responsibly feel
lost in the small print. What is our responsibility in this space of popular
culture?
I asked myself
this question the other night when I, with my two boys 12 and 13, and our small
dog came upon three teens smoking pot at the park across the street near White
Rock Lake in Dallas. “Is that what marijuana smells like?” my twelve year-old queried
(too) loudly. As I watched them head to their car, the cold foggy air thick
with the scent of weed, I weighed three options: 1) call 911; 2) call 311; 3)
do nothing. I did nothing. But this question “what was my responsibility in
this” weighs heavily as the air did that night. For Obi, for Maria Elena and
for Nancy. What did we see and not say? Who do we watch and wonder, “are they
safe to drive?” and how often do we dismiss the thought, turn the cheek and move
on into our “complicated enough” lives?
I posted a brief story on a neighborhood page, briefly. Within minutes the comments section was filled with a frightening tone of tolerance and a resigned complacency: "get over yourself" one person wrote; another said "it's just pot". The comments worsened and I took the post down. But here's the thing. I can't get over myself. And is it...just pot? Is that what Maria Elena's father would say?
I posted a brief story on a neighborhood page, briefly. Within minutes the comments section was filled with a frightening tone of tolerance and a resigned complacency: "get over yourself" one person wrote; another said "it's just pot". The comments worsened and I took the post down. But here's the thing. I can't get over myself. And is it...just pot? Is that what Maria Elena's father would say?
This holiday, let’s stay in that uncomfortable space a little bit longer. It
may be the gift we weren’t expecting to give.
