E D I T O R ' S_N O T E

Look for excerpts from Anne Lamott's new book, "Traveling Mercies," on Fridays; Word by Word, Lamott's biweekly Thursday column, will return March 4.

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T A B L E_T A L K

Are there people who just shouldn't have kids? Discuss the world's worst potential parents in the Mothers area of TableTalk

Project Girl

R E C E N T L Y

A nose for things
By Debra Fay Holton
My mother was tidy and crisp, which is why Janine's vacant mother and messy house were just what I was looking for
(02/23/99)

It's a microbe's life
By Debra Ollivier
Land of the free, home of the clean freak -- the latest round ofmicrobial warfare has turned America into a paranoid hot zone
(02/22/99)

Flea market
By Anne Lamott
It turns out faith is like a little cat that you let in once and feed, and it stays forever
(02/19/99)

Let-r play
By Polly Shulman
Classic and iconoclastic books shake up the alphabet and take kids on a trip through the Dictionapolis of the written word
(02/18/99)

Traumas in adolescent life
By Curtis Sittenfeld
A judge of the Seventeen magazine fiction contest recalls what was endearing about the writers of the 400 stories she read -- even the really bad ones
(02/17/99)

BROWSE THE MOTHERS WHO THINK FEATURE ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

A DIME BAG FOR THE SCHOOLGIRL | PAGE 1, 2, 3
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It wasn't long before I was known for having "a problem." As much as I pursued my own isolation, I loved the attention and solicitude I was getting. "How long you been on that stuff?" I was asked. "Oh, a long time. I'm from the projects, you know," I lied. I told myself that my act affirmed my project-girl identity and proclaimed my solidarity with the downhill plungers I left in Brooklyn. In reality, my actions bespoke the distorted reasoning of a guilt-ridden survivor.

Most people shook their heads in disapproval but said nothing. Harriet, the black belle from Tennessee, had plenty to say, however. Her clothes and manner commanded deference. I could see she was someone used to the best. She wanted to "try it" but needed to know it was "good quality." I assured her it was top-notch. Eddie had said so. She wasn't entirely convinced. "It's not cut with any shit? I mean, I won't get sick, or jump out the window, will I?" Sniffing it was perfectly safe, I asserted. "Okay. Can I do some with you? But don't tell." She didn't want me in her room, so we went to the Early Prison Cell [McDonald's dorm room]. Brenda was out, as was often the case. I suspected it was because of me, but she said she just had lots to do. Harriet asked when the rest of my things were going to be delivered. "Never," I said, chuckling. We got high. A few moments passed. Harriet had a puzzled look on her face. "I don't know, I feel kind of weird. I had some once before, but it felt different, What kind of coke is this?" "Coke? That was heroin ... I thought you knew." The belle bristled. "Damn, girl! Nobody takes that!" After that incident, whenever we crossed paths we would look at each other and burst into laughter. The reaction "across the street" was altogether different. A couple of my white friends, hell-bent on waging their own brand of rebellion at Mom's alma mater, were desperate to experiment. Taking "smack," as they called it, with a black girl from the ghetto was the kind of thing that made breathtaking journal entries. And all within the safety of the ivy-wrapped walls of Vassar. Wasn't that what college was about, the enriching experience of meeting people from different backgrounds?

A wealthy friend from the Upper East Side begged me to share some with her. Adrian was all curls, dimpled cheeks, and aristocratic airs. Recalling Harriet, I was more reluctant this second time around. "Suppose you overdose and die? It'll be my fault." I remembered the suspicious look I thought I had seen in the eyes of white parents my first day. "Oh, for Chrissakes, dahling. I've taken more of everything else than you could even dream about. What's a little smack going to do to me?" Her characteristic way of punctuating sentences with the word "dahling" annoyed everyone but me; it reminded me of Masterpiece Theatre. I was given a similar line by pencil-thin Pearl, the banker's daughter from Palm Springs. She insisted she'd taken it before, but gave a suspiciously vague description of what the high felt like. She even wanted to go with me to Harlem, having "heard so much about it." It was as though the entire trust-fund set of Vassar College wanted to be teenage junkies.

Finally, I agreed to share. But absolutely no one would be allowed to make the trip with me. "You'll attract too much attention, like walking spotlights." Always the pushover, I returned to Harlem, accompanied by Pearl and a buddy she'd brought along, a German intern. They were to wait in the 125th Street station until I got back. All three of us must have looked like "walking spotlights," huddling and whispering in the waiting room. "Just sit here and don't move! And don't try to make friends. I should be back in about half an hour." Pearl told me to please be careful, and the German said, "You're so brave." Foolish was a more accurate description. My Vassar admirers didn't know how easily I was outmaneuvered by real project folks. It wasn't unusual for a dealer to take my payment, then direct me to wait in an empty lobby or at a nearby car, tree, or trash bin -- anywhere other than near him. Inevitably, he'd disappear. I came to know from the sound of someone's promise to "be right back" that he wouldn't. When I accepted that something, or perhaps everything, about me spelled "easy target," I began bringing extra money to replace what would invariably be ripped off. There was nothing I could do but sidle over to the next unsavory looking stranger, hoping for the best.

I didn't see Eddie anywhere and asked for him as he had told me to do. The response was blunt and indifferent. "Eddie locked up. What you need?" I got what I needed and went to see Pops again. I knocked at his door. A neighbor opened hers. "He ain't there no more, honey. Pops got killed. A robbery." I stood there dumbfounded. She closed her door. Pops had been shot dead by someone who wanted free syringes and fast money. How could someone kill a gentle old man? I couldn't help thinking that maybe he, like me, was also out of his league.

I was away longer than expected. When I walked into the train station, there was not a Vassar girl in sight. "Did you see two white girls around here?" I asked an old woman in the restroom. She looked at me suspiciously. No, she hadn't. I caught the next train to Poughkeepsie and arrived late in the evening. I found Pearl and the German in the campus cafe, drinking beer. We squealed and hugged. They'd left after waiting for an hour, because the ticket clerk kept staring at them, as though they were "prostitutes or something." We went to Pearl's room and shared what I'd bought.

N E X T_ P A G E: Coming home to the projects a failed college girl