On Smoking

I’ve always been a staunchly against the habit of smoking. My feelings on the matter probably stem from the many trips I made to the Boston Museum of Science. To warn scientifically-curious children against the dangers of smoking, the museum showcased the lung of a heavy smoker, a black, tarry, shriveled organ that bear no likeliness to the perfect pink specimen right next to it, along with a long list of the cancer-inducing chemicals that could be found in the average pack of cigarettes. The fear tactic worked. The next time my uncle, a chain smoker, came to visit us in Cambridge, I plastered the screen window of our balcony with “NO SMOKING” signs while he had a cigarette or two on the balcony. He helped me print and tape the signs to the windows, leading me to suspect that he wasn’t taking this as seriously as I was. He still smokes, but now he rolls his own cigarettes. It’s healthier, he says. I take my victories where I can.


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