I realized on reflection that in almost every culture there is some sort of public declaration of one’s coming of age. The primitives in Africa and South America perform elaborate rites to mark the passage from adolescence to adulthood. In the United States, our “ritual” consists of the freedom to smoke in public.
Until a certain point, our young people are prohibited from smoking. “It will stunt your growth,” we warn them. “Only bad kids smoke.” As the youngsters grow older, we tell them to wait: “You’re not old enough to smoke. You’re still a kid.” Man, do we make that forbidden fruit attractive!
The kids practice, of course. They sneak cigarettes in bathrooms, in the school yard, outside their own neighborhoods. They work hard at learning to inhale without coughing or becoming ill. The girls practice tapping away the ashes; and at first they tap so diligently and so continually that their cigarettes look more like pretzels than fine, clean, sparkling white super-filtered royal-lengthed creations of superior tobaccos.
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