One Sad Story -- Jennie

I'm figuring out my students' grades when I come across "Ben," a young man with an abominable attendance record. Like many first-time college kids, Ben came in strong in the fall, eager to learn, with a twinkle in his eye and a shiny new textbook under his arm.

Because mine is a writing class, it quickly became apparent that Ben, like many community college students, is a recovering addict, who, in addition to working three jobs, raising a child in a one-bedroom apartment, and revising his essays before his power gets shut off, is staving off cravings for methamphetamine.

It's a tough fight.

I've seen addicts who've been clean for nearly two years relapse into meth use without warning and without cause. It seems that the urge for the drug suddenly supersedes its substitutions: education, caffeine, nicotine.

In November, Ben began missing a few classes. He had excuses, of course, but soon the absences neared the limit for passing the course. Wiping his nose on his sleeve, Ben promised he'd come to every remaining class. After showing up for three consecutive meetings, Ben disappeared for two weeks.

Returning at the end of class in December with wild, unblinking eyes, Ben begged me to make an exception; he had been laid off, his child was taken into foster care, and he had made some bad decisions. I see Ben's situation a lot this time of year; money is tight, work is hard to come by, family drama unfolds, and there are impossible holiday expectations. In being fair to all of my students, however, I never make an exception for any of them.

I hate meth. It lies to my students, promising them freedom from their troubled lives, promising them happiness. It replaces pain with a short, cheap high that my students mistake for joy.

There is so much meth here. It is easy to get, easy to make, easy to ruin an entire life with one single use. I read in Beautiful Boy, journalist David Sheff's journey through his son's addiction, that the meth epidemic could be contained by reigning in nine pharmaceutical plants. But this won't happen until the government admits meth's epic destruction. Until they know Ben.

Ben has failed my class before the term is even over. When I don't give in to his pleading for one more chance, he storms out of the room. Alone at my desk, I hope deeply that Ben finds freedom from his disease. In his haste, he has left behind his text. The cover is torn off, and the pages are curling, wrinkled and wet.