Once I attended an Al-Anon session. This was a seminary assignment; we were to observe and take notes and write up a report for a sociology of religion class. Instead, I found myself participating. I know recovering alcoholics who dislike Al-Anon—it is an organization for families of alcoholics—because it can be judgmental. The fact is, however, that those who are part of an alcoholic family do suffer. I didn’t go back to Al-Anon, and I religiously avoid self-help books. I do know, nevertheless, that my outlook was profoundly shaped by my youngest years and the insecurity that dogs me every day of my life has its origins then. I also thought about how memoirs of alcoholics can become bestsellers. The jacket blurbs say how funny they are. I don’t hear so much about memoirs of those who were collateral victims. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not blaming alcoholics. Alcoholism is a disease. It may be treatable, but it is tragic for those afflicted with it. That doesn’t diminish the impact of having to live with it when you’re too young to have a choice.
When I was in college an erstwhile friend took me to see Arthur. Dudley Moore was rocking the critics with his performance. I smiled through my horror. There was nothing here to laugh at. So a book like Dry makes me feel…? Conflicted. What do I understand now that I haven’t before? I read about how even prestigious colleges are increasingly renowned for their parties, lurching about under their laurels. Some will experience it as a temporary fling and will move on. Some will never graduate. What can be done? We can listen. I suppose that’s why my friend gave me the book in the first place. I need to put aside my pain and fear. I need to listen.