COLUMN: For Johnny and Andy

From Paul Godinez's "Word Up G," Fall '95 It has been declared by the social powers that be to be the party trend of the 90's. Chances are your parents were occasional users or, if they are diehard fans, still divulge themselves in the pleasures of this incredible illegal substance. Marijuana is a common escape for all types of college students, whether they be the testosterone driven frat guys, the alternative freaks, the sophisticated prep school crowd, or even the nerds. At Penn, access to weed is easy, use is widespread and support for its legalization argued fervently by the diverse clientele. Nancy Reagan just did not get the job done with "Just Say No," and the marketing strategy equating your brain on drugs to an over-easy huevo failed to convince Generation X that marijuana is very bad for you. This phenom has achieved national prominence with the bunglings of reports of use by our non-inhaling President. The late, not-so-great Surgeon General Jocelyn Elders put in her two cents on the legalization debate. Hell, even Newt Gingrich smoked weed in his youth, which probably accounts for his poor taste in adjectives to describe the First Lady. Take a trip to Wonderland, that tobacco products store (yeah, sure) downtown, and you can hear the speech on the usefulness of hemp and even purchase some 100 percent hemp products to take home for Christmas or Hannukah or Kwanza, depending on your flavor. Everywhere pot has forced itself onto the American conscience. I have never smoked or directly inhaled marijuana or any other kind of illegal substance. High school friends were regular users. Friends in college smoke up all the time, some more than others. I even have a friend who dipped into the horticultural practice of crop raising using fluorescent lights in his closets, though I will not mention names or spell out techniques. My friends have urged me, strongly, to experiment. My twenty-first birthday is their projected date of completion of their mission. My fraternal brothers nicknamed me "Preacher" because of my clean record. I play along with the joke, baiting my hermanos with feigned interest in trying pot. The real truth is I will never touch the stuff to even save my own life. There are two reasons I do not smoke pot. They are Juan and Miguel "Andy" Pagan. Puerto Rican brothers from the tough Kensington section of Philadelphia. Kensington, with its high rates of crime and unemployment, and its decrepit public housing, makes University City look like Disneyland. Johnny and Andy are lifers in Kensington, products of the mean streets. My association with these characters came through the catering company I helped to start. This suburbanite columnist, straight out of Bryn Mawr, learned the pitfalls and consequences of the drug trade from Hispanic boys from North Philly. For Johnny and Andy, dealing drugs began when they were ten. Most of the readers of this column were first taking training wheels off their BMX bikes at that age. Andy dealt occasionally through his youth. Johnny got caught up in the "game" till he got picked up by narcotics agents when he was eighteen. Chef Ronald's Catering was a test in responsibility. Johnny had to work because parole required it. Andy worked to get out of the neighborhood. The hours spent in the kitchen allowed me to learn all about drugs. Like any other kid my age, Andy and Johnny had plans. Andy dreamed of moving back to Miami with his girlfriend, who he planned to marry on Valentine's Day. Johnny wanted to go to trade school and work on cars with his biological father in Boston. Both stressed the lure of dealing, the fact that easy money is hard to pass up. Both talked of the influence of the street, how coming out of a broken home drove friends into the Front Street gangs. Both talked incessantly of how, one day, they were going to get out of Kensington. The streets reclaimed the lives of Andy and Johnny. Andy quit work because collecting welfare and dealing drugs is easier, not to mention more profitable, than working in a catering kitchen. After helping me move into my high rise apartment my sophomore year, Johnny disappeared. He "violated" his parole, which explained the occasional visits by the detectives to the catering company. Most likely he is back on the street somewhere. The draw of dealing is too great for these kids. With such a demand for product, the opportunity costs of dealing outweigh the risk of becoming a juvenile delinquent with the ankle monitor and the weekly visits to the parole officers. It does not matter who the inner city kids need to deal to as long as it helps them beat the economic system to live the American dream. So, the next time all you rich Ivy League brats spend your parents' hard earned money or your financial aid on that new three foot bong at Wonderland or an ounce from your drug connection, observe a moment of silence for the lives being snuffed out. The next time you go for the bong, think about what is going on in the big picture. Consumers are keeping the illegal drug business going, which is keeping the inner city youth in the drug game. Remember the lives of your peers that you are jeopardizing for that temporary high. I take my stand against drugs because I have a heart for kids like Johnny and Andy. The fact that their environment deteriorates as a result of the actions of the rich, spoiled brats who attend this university disgusts me. I only hope that the future will see a change in the attitude of this generation. Until then, I take my defiant stance against Generation X's dangerous social trend. Feel free to pass the joint my way if you want to test my resolve. All it will get you is a smile from the "Preacher." Deep down I know the real deal, hombres. This crime doesn't pay, you punk ass. Paul Godinez is a junior political science and history major from Bryn Mawr, Pa. Word Up G appears alternate Thursdays.