Why did we start smoking?

I have pack of cigarettes called Royals. It’s a flip top box, and half of the front is covered by a bold black and white box that reads “smoking kills.” On the back is a larger box that says “Smoking can cause a slow and painful death.” The pack is from the United Kingdom, and I’ve had it for at least 5 years. Can’t recall who gifted it to me, but I treasure it.

I remember thinking that maybe some day the US would adopt such warning labels. So, it was a big letdown last week when the government caved in to big tobacco, and dropped its fight to ask the Supreme Court to review efforts to block the package changes. As it now stands, the FDA will create some new “less offensive” labels, but we don’t know when.

I’ve been thinking about all of this because of New York Mayor Bloomberg’s latest effort to force his constituents toward better health. Bloomberg proposed legislation on Monday to ban all stores from publicly displaying tobacco products. “Even one new smoker is one too many,” Bloomberg said. You gotta love this guy. Discussing large sodas and cigarettes in the news is so much more fun than say, budgets or urban renewal.

According to Action on Smoking and Health (ASH), a non-profit public health group, “There is strong evidence that when tobacco is out of the sight of children, it is also out of mind. If they don’t see cigarettes, they’re much less likely to take up the habit.”

In this case, I’ll use myself as an example to possibly prove or disprove the above hypothesis. From birth, and yes, in utero, I was subjected to the smoke of my parents’ filterless Camels. I know they would both have walked a mile for them – no question. They were so frugal that we never had paper towels or Kleenex in the house. It was toilet paper or nothing. Yet, two cartons of camels were faithfully purchased every Saturday at the A&P.

As a kid, that was just the way it was in my house with yellowed walls and ashtrays everywhere. When my visiting grandmother asked me if I was going to smoke when I grew up, I promptly replied, “yes.” I thought that’s what grown-ups did. I can still conjure up the taste of the candy cigarettes we would suck on and play with. Guess no one gave that a thought either.

So, my parents had 3 children – two of us are baby boomers, one a bit older. Of the 3, only my middle brother took up the habit. He’s been smoking for 50 years without a break. My older brother began smoking when he was a paratrooper, but quit after a month or two. You see, he was a good money manager, and always had enough at the end of the month for his cigarettes. Not so his platoon mates. They would be broke by mid-month and be bumming from him. He decided not to support his or anyone else’s habit and that was that.

Now, to me. When I was a teenager my mother pleaded with me to never have that first cigarette. “It’s the most addictive drug on earth,” she said, “Once you get it in your bloodstream, you will want it forever; please don’t fall victim to it as I did.” She even suggested other ways that I could be rebellious or feel “cool.” This was just about the time that warnings had been put on cigarette packs (1966), and people were discussing the ill effects to be more than “stunting your growth.” Remember that one?

Well, approval seeker that I was, I was torn. On my senior trip a bunch of us bought cigarette holders in China town and a pack of Virginia Slims to fit into them. We just thought this was the funniest thing, going around our classmates pretending we were Bette Davis.

On my return home, I trashed the cigarette holder, and never smoked again. You see, my dad had just died of a heart attack, and I didn’t want to do anything to upset my bereft mother. So, I was spared the habit, and I am grateful.

I feel enormous compassion for those who do smoke, whether they’re trying to quit or not. Smokers know that they’re killing themselves cell by cell. That they’re contributing to an industry that brings debilitation, death and economic hardship to the poorest people on the planet. That their second hand smoke and discarded butts pollute everything around them. They know this and more, and yet many feel powerless to give them up.

When I see a smoker hiding around a corner trying to be inconspicuous, I always smile and say hello, remembering my mother’s words, and knowing that that’s what she would want me to do.

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