The First Crackhead President
American media is not equipped to cover a lying, thieving commander-in-chief.
I have a cousin named “Slick.”
I’m not quite sure whether my older cousin earned that title because of his charisma or the Dax pomade-stained durag that facilitated his dizzying waves. In any case, my cousin’s nickname might be the most appropriate street moniker of all time. He is objectively handsome, supremely athletic and charismatic enough to talk a fish into wading onto dry land. He was born with the voice of an angel, and by the time he was 15, Slick had taught himself to play multiple instruments, including the drums, keyboards and guitar.
He had a girlfriend in every neighborhood and won every high school talent show. Although everyone wanted to play on his team when he played pickup basketball, he always picked me. He regaled me with street stories while giving me free haircuts. Our entire family roared with laughter when he hilariously impersonated the shouting techniques of everyone in our church. Needless to say, I revered my older cousin. In fact, Slick only had one fatal flaw that I knew of.
Slick smoked crack.
My cousin and I grew up in a super-religious churchgoing family that considers a sip of red wine to be the same as mainlining heroin, so our grandparents, aunts, uncles and elders were not equipped to deal with this soul-stealing dependency. And because his struggles with substance abuse coincided with the beginning of the crack epidemic, they believed he was going through a phase that could be cured with community kindness, love and prayer.
My not-so-streetwise aunt actually believed Slick needed to borrow her VCR at 3 a.m. to watch a training video for an upcoming job interview. When I “lost” the money I earned at my after-school job, Slick happily volunteered to help me look for it. Even as we watched him descend into the throes of dependency, we could not fathom that a substance abuse disorder could turn the most gifted human being we’d ever seen into an unrepentant hustler, liar and thief.
We eventually realized that Slick was not just going through a phase. We didn’t stop loving him, but we stopped treating his addiction like it didn’t exist. Supporting him required vigilance and tough love, which was tough. To me, he was my charismatic, gifted cousin who taught me how to shoot a jump shot and how to gently caress the back of a girl’s neck during a kiss. Still, I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t understand why my cousin eventually earned another nickname…
“Crackhead Slick.”
This story is about Donald Trump.
