{"id":202,"date":"2021-10-22T11:44:16","date_gmt":"2021-10-22T11:44:16","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/writing.lenahoeck.com\/?p=202"},"modified":"2021-10-22T11:44:18","modified_gmt":"2021-10-22T11:44:18","slug":"please-smoke-responsibly","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/writing.lenahoeck.com\/index.php\/2021\/10\/22\/please-smoke-responsibly\/","title":{"rendered":"Please smoke responsibly"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

I smoked my first cigarette with my best friend, Myriam, when I was twelve years old. We shared it high up in her treehouse \u2013 after we gained permission from our parents, of course. Because that\u2019s how we rolled. We had wondered for ages how it would be. What would it taste like? How would it feel to draw smoke into your mouth? Would we cough? Would we like it? Would it change our voices?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Others in our class smoked, but we didn\u2019t think they could answer our questions. And even if they could, there was no way we would ask them. They were the cool kids, and we were the ones who got straight As: the teachers\u2019 favourites, as they called us to our faces. I sometimes wondered what they called us behind our backs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That others smoked made it clear that we could try it too. Obviously our bodies would take it without too much trouble. Our research suggested that there was a difference between just drawing smoke into your mouth, and inhaling it into your lungs. The latter would make us cough, but it was the real thing. Someone said that it was a waste of a cigarette if you just \u2018puffed\u2019 it. So we decided we wanted to try the real thing<\/em>. No point in half doing it. That wouldn\u2019t satisfy our curiosity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We walked up to Myriam\u2019s mum and told her outright that we wanted to smoke. Not in general, just one. Just to try it. We knew we weren\u2019t too young \u2013 other kids our age were doing it even without asking for permission. Myri\u2019s mum was a teacher at our school and knew all about the other kids. She was pleased that we asked permission and told us that we could try smoking, but there were conditions. First: my parents had to consent. Second: we had to pay for the cigarettes ourselves. Third: we had to smoke in the garden, not too far away from where she was sitting. Fourth: the pack of cigarettes would go to my dad afterwards (he was a smoker).\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We accepted the conditions and set out to the closest cigarette vending machine. Back then you could still buy cigarettes on the street \u2013 vending machines were placed about every 500 metres apart both on main roads but also quiet backstreets. This enabled underage rebels (such as us) to purchase cigarettes on the sly. A pack was five marks (I grew up in Germany), which was a lot of money for two 12-year-olds. It was money that could be spent on sweets from the kiosk near our school, on furry stickers, on CDs and magazines. After a quick discussion, we decided it was worth it. Time to embrace teenagehood, one risky decision at a time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Buying cigarettes from the vending machine made us buzz with adventure and rebellion. We knew it was illegal. While I was putting coins into the slot, Myriam was on the watch-out for passersby. We retrieved our bounty from the machine and ran off, back towards her house. We were safe, no-one had seen us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The best place in the garden was Myri\u2019s tree house. It was behind the house, in a tall, old willow. About three meters up, the trunk separated into two, and the tree house sat in the fork. Smaller branches hung down on all sides of the tree house, so that we had almost perfect cover. We climbed up the ladder, ripped open the pack and admired the cigarettes \u2013 three rows of them, all neatly arranged next to another, with orange speckled filters. I took one out. Then we realised we had nothing to light it with. Amateurs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We returned with matches and this time we were all set. No hindrances, no excuses. Myri was nervous, and so was I. She asked if I would light the cigarette, arguing that I knew more about this (my dad was a smoker, remember). I grinned and said I\u2019d do it. It was surprisingly easy. I puffed a few times, getting used to the feeling of drawing smoke into my mouth. Then I passed the cigarette to Myriam. She put it in her mouth and I saw the red end light up brighter as she drew on it. She coughed and smoke billowed out of her nose and mouth. \u2018Did you inhale?\u2019 I asked. She nodded, still coughing. I took back the cigarette: my turn to take the final step into the unknown.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I tell people this story, they are shocked. Why would our parents allow us to smoke when we were just 12 years old? The answer is simple: we would have tried it anyway. Maybe not that day, but some day not too long afterwards; definitely somewhere less safe, less supervised. Myriam and I actually kept to all the conditions her mum had set, even the last one. We had bought West Lights \u2013 the brand my dad liked to smoke. He grinned as I handed over the almost full pack that evening, and I caught a glimpse of a new expression on his face. It was the expression I would come to associate with my teenagehood.\u00a0<\/p>\n<\/body>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"