In my memory, all the Reagan years have a taint -- a texture almost --of cruelty. I particularly hate 1982. In 1982, Nancy hadn't just said "no" yet, and the drug war wasn't officially announced -- but it was on, let me tell you. The neighborhoods I lived in then were "those" kinds of neighborhoods. They were full of junkies and in 1979 they were full of ambulances.
By 1982 you only saw coroner's vans. No one called the police anymore, not with so much brutality and fear. Reagan's presidency heralded the outdoor overdose, the corpse on the lawn, the curbside hospital drop.
A few minutes is an awfully long time when someone's not breathing. The time it takes to pause and wonder if it's as bad as all that, if it's worth the risk -- that uncertain minute can make the difference.
So many people died in those minutes.
And that's why I hate 1982. In 1982, I knew about AIDS. It was a year of despair, disbelief, hopelessness. A year holding your breath. 1982 was the life or death minute, stretched to eternity.
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