The punch line is no home for discussions about addiction

A throwaway joke about heroin addiction appears in a reputable student publication. My TA laughingly tells the class that cocaine has restorative properties.

A friend breaks into the always popular “Hi, I’m So-and-so and I’m an alcoholic” while opening a drink. We talk about addiction almost every day, but hardly ever in the right ways.

In 2012, 8,300 people in New Jersey were treated for addiction to opiates. In 2013, 1.7 percent of eighth graders in the U.S. reported using cocaine in their lifetimes. And each year, alcohol abuse leads to 88,000 deaths in the U.S. These are the conversations we need to have, but all too often they seem to be virtually nonexistent.

At Georgetown, as in many affluent places, we discuss addiction carelessly because of the pervasive feeling that it could never happen here. For many, addiction-based humor is harmless and casual because the people telling the jokes will never meet their faceless subjects. For those whose lives have been affected by addiction, however, even comfortable environments run the risk of callously renewing old traumas.

The effects of this reality are far-reaching and devastating. Even going to class becomes difficult when there’s no telling what the professor might inadvertently say. As with any negative experience, there is a constant possibility that day-to-day occurrences will bring back painful memories. But in terms of public discussion, there is a significant difference between addiction and most other tragedies. As a society, we have a general clandestine agreement not to joke about certain things—the Holocaust, cancer, or natural disasters. With addiction, however, this inhibition does not seem to apply.

This is the inevitable factor of shame that comes with talking about this issue. In one breath, people joke about the effects of addiction and make it brutally clear that anyone affiliated with an addict should be ostracized. Meth addicts are hilarious—and disgusting. For addicts and the people close to them, then, every new social situation holds a potential trigger, and more often than not they feel powerless to stand up for themselves.

While conversations about race, gender, sexuality, and countless other societal factors are more commonplace than ever, the struggles of addicts and their loved ones are still routinely silenced. Scientific studies widely acknowledge that addiction is a disease, but the diagnosis carries a burdensome stigma. It’s much easier to laugh the issue away than to explore its consequences, and that reality leads to a dangerous culture where the broad effects of drug abuse are systematically ignored.

The sad truth is that, even at Georgetown, addiction is inescapable. Your professor might be in Narcotics Anonymous. Your roommate might be grappling with alcoholism. The man serving you lunch might have a child abusing prescription drugs—even he might be abusing them.  And yet, however much your comments offend them, chances are they will never tell you. You will continue about your day, but the casual joke you made will easily ruin theirs. Regardless of whether you think you know the other people in the room, humor about drug abuse is uncomfortable at best and detrimental at worst.

But thinking before you speak is incredibly easy. Refraining from jokes about addiction guarantees that you won’t inadvertently hurt someone who is already suffering. Next time you’re about to pretend you’re an alcoholic, look up your state’s statistics on alcohol abuse. Find out what happened to the kid who sold drugs behind your high school. Think about all the friends, siblings, significant others, parents, and coworkers in the world who battle addiction every day, and then take a moment to wonder who your joke might affect.

The day that my TA laughed so casually about addiction, I stayed after class very slowly putting notebooks into my bag and wondering whether or not to say something. I wanted to tell him his joke was tasteless and, more importantly, not worth ruining my entire class period for two seconds of half-hearted laughter.

In the end I was too afraid—afraid he would look at me differently or grade me more harshly because, in his mind, I would forever be associated with such a taboo subject. I left the room with my head down. I hope someday I won’t have to rush out of classrooms with knots in my stomach. I hope someday “safe spaces” on campus will really feel safe. I hope someday addiction can be discussed as an epidemic and a valid topic of conversation—no longer the punch line of a joke.