The Poisonous Apple

The Poisonous Apple

By: Raymond Seto

         The grey fog shrouded my vision as the air seeped into my nostrils. The smoke overwhelmed my vulnerable lungs. I choked and gasped for every last pocket of fresh air, but bitterness contaminated the air like the taste of the powdered remains of a crushed pill capsule.  It seemed hopeless, but soon enough, the smoke subsided and my vision cleared. My nose remained clogged, my throat tight, and my lungs breathless. Amidst the clearing shone the innocent brown eyes of a five-year-old boy.

          To understate the situation, it was an unfortunate reality-- my dad smoked. Not even the importance of family could make him stop. Out of three children, I held the position of youngest with my twelve-year-old brother as the oldest and my eight-year-old sister in the middle, but nothing could halt his "fix." Every day, I would come home from preschool only to be enveloped by the stench of burning tobacco. The man, my father, did not even bother to smoke outside for the sake of his wife, my loving mother, and his three young children, but he put the bread on the table so he could do anything he wanted.

         I remember sitting on "Daddy's" lap one day as he adorned his Camel shorts and huffed and puffed that despicable Camel brand cigarette in my face. That brand channeled his love. But I was young and "ignorance was bliss," as the saying goes. As an unaware young boy with much to learn, I did not act -- yet.

         Soon after my sixth birthday, I realized the dangers of smoking a cigarette. Immediately, the hero inside was born, and I took a strict stand against smoking. I knew that second-hand smoking could harm me, but I needed to protect my daddy. So I did what any logical child would do in that situation.  I reached out to my dad; I reached like a child reaching for an apple in a tree. However, I realized that reaching for the apple was a futile attempt. I knew what I had to do -- I had to climb the tree.

         One day, I kneeled on top of the bathroom counter as I slowly opened the cabinet, revealing the Camel behind the infamous smoke that engulfed my house. My hand extended to reach for an army man action figure I left there the night before, but in the process, my hand knocked the camel into a sink full of water. Immediately, the cigarettes became drenched and defective. In that very moment, my heart filled with the terror of how my dad would react, but at the same time, my bodyd filled with pride and victory. Although I didn't show it, inside, my heart began to cheer; the game began and the scoreboard read Raymond: 1, Camel: 0.

         It didn't take long for the score to increase. In fact, soon after, I began the habit of "camel-tipping." Pack by pack, I would reign victorious, and with each pack, my dad's resolve would weaken and the apple would be closer. With each climb  up the tree, my dad became more infuriated. He could not get his fix and grew tired of frequently spending money on numerous cigarettes. Fortunately, he never harmed me in anger, but instead used colorful language in our native Chinese dialect.

         I slowly noticed the smell beginning to disappear. Every day when I came home from school, I took a giant whiff of air. The sensation felt extravagant and lovely. It had been so long since I could breathe without coughing up a lung. Nevertheless, I desired to pursue the matter further. While I severed my dad from his precious cigarettes, the apple was not yet in reach. I felt so close that my fingertips could lightly graze the apple's base; however, the deed was not yet finished. I took one more leap on the apple tree and performed a ridiculous final act worthy of applause.

         One night, after completing my homework, I opened the bathroom cabinet to find two packs of Camels waiting to be tipped. However, this time, I held another goal; I needed to do something so vulgar, so outrageous, that I would end my father's addiction once and for all. I opened up his cigarette packs, took out my natural "water gun," and urinated inside each cigarette pack. It did not end there because I did not throw away the cigarettes like the others. This time, I put the packs back where I found them and went off to my 8:00 p.m. bedtime.

         I woke up the next morning with a furious father and a smile on my face. I couldn't help but smirk as my dad interrogated me. As a rough Chinese-to-English translation, he screamed at me, "What is this? Did you pee in my cigarettes?"

         I tried my best to ignore him and got ready for school. That day was unusual. An awkward silence filled the air, and my dad left for work two hours earlier than usual. Later that night, my dad came home, comforted me, and hugged me tight. It felt unlike him to do such an act, especially not given the circumstances.

         I never asked what truly happened, but his character changed that day. I believe he talked to my mom and they came to a consensus, but nevertheless, the result astonished me. I had reached the apple. I had reached my father. Since the urine incident, my dad has never touched a cigarette, and I could not be more proud of him for breaking his fix.

         "With age comes great wisdom" is another famous, albeit, true saying. This short progression of my life has provided me with much insight -- insight that has vexed me to contemplate the fate of others with similar predicaments. With increasing knowledge, I shortly realized that what my dad was doing was not just wrong but completely immoral and uncaring. However, whether my insistent destruction of his cigarettes or a sudden realization of the effects on his children made him quit smoking, my dad is a rare case.

         Many people who become addicted to cigarettes and smoke through packs a day essentially destroy lives. They can do so of their own accord, but by experiencing second-hand smoking myself, it makes me sick to my stomach when I see parents smoking around their children. Two weeks ago, I happened to be at the Metro Light Rail station at McDowell and Central Avenue right next to the Phoenix Public Library when I noticed seven children waiting beside their parents. The oldest child appeared to be only five or six years old, the same age I was when my similar experience occurred. The youngest child looked like an infant who could not even walk. In one hand, the father held the infant and in the other, a cigarette. The wife was no better, for she said nothing about it. Why? Because she was too busy smoking a butt as well to care for her children. Each blissfully ignorant child stood there oblivious to their parents' lack of concern.

         The most depressing part is, while my father quit, many will not share that stroke of luck. In fact, the reason my father refrained from smoking could have been my desire to reach to him. Regrettably, the majority of children won't reach for the apple. In fact, some simply walk away from the tree entirely while the suffering spreads and the apple decays. As the apple rots and shrivels, it begins to fall; thus, those who failed to reach will merely eat that apple, spreading the addiction. They give in to the same addiction that their parents suffered from, or possibly even worse.

         The only way to stop the terrors of smoking on families is to stop it at its source. The rotting apple must be plucked before it rots completely. Once plucked, hope takes hold -- hope that the preservation of the apple could prevent detrimental effects. Some argue that the rotten apple can still be eaten because smoking has minimal effects, but whether minimal or not, harm comes from the smoker's surroundings. The chain reaction from a smoker's cigarette affects men, women, and children, family and strangers alike. Both cases of harm should be considered unacceptable and unnecessary. While some may also argue that smoking has declined in massive numbers, the issue still requires attention, regardless of how minute or significant it may seem. The number of smokers has declined in the past century within the United States; nevertheless, children suffer from second-hand smoke, and unfortunately, many learn from their parents and spread that very same addiction down to their children and then to their grandchildren. However, before smoking declined in the 1900s, it boomed; the number of smokers reached a peak because of the failing socioeconomic stability of the nation. If that happens once again, then the issue will only get worse, affecting more and more children. The addiction isn't going to go away on its own, nor is it acceptable to allow so much unneeded suffering to occur.

         Acting now to reinforce no smoking zones rather than later can potentially save many lives. Although there are other pressing matters in need of attention in contemporary civilization in comparison to smoking, the problem cannot be ignored. If smoking ravages humans undisturbed then the issue could possibly re-evolve. Children represent the future and the undeveloped mind is highly susceptible to a wide range of ideas. To ensure that smoking does not become the new "craze", the rotting apples must be picked and the tree cleansed in order for the issue to truly disappear.