Beginning with a discussion of the Jewish ghettos and Russian pogroms, The House I Live In declares strongly that these atrocities exist in our contemporary backyards. This is indeed a tough thesis to support and an astounding one to hear when you settle in to watch a film about the spiraling convolutedness that has been our futile, forty-year “War on Drugs.” Initially pushed in 1971 by Richard Nixon, the War on Drugs has become a part of political rhetoric for each president and elected official since, something quickly and efficiently exposited to us through sound bites from Nixon, Carter, Reagan, Bush I, Clinton, and Bush II.
The reason for their declaration to fight “public enemy #1,” or the epidemic of drug use is simple: politicians can’t appear to be lax on what we have been taught is a “crime.” I suppose the closest we’ve come is Bill Clinton admitting to being around marijuana, but protesting that he “didn’t inhale” and didn’t enjoy it. This might be true; however, admitting to smoking pot might have cost him the election, so thus began his fervent “three strikes” push, only a microcosm of how we assess those involved with illegal drugs, bunching them into one group of nefarious villains.
At the heart of The House I Live In is the incredible inconsistencies in drug policy – most notably the disparity in punishments between those who possess cocaine and those who possess crack (1:100). Those of us who grew up in the 1980’s will remember the strong media push against crack cocaine, the extreme addiction that a single puff would create, the crumbled future that would instantly take hold, and the violence that would ensue. “Boy, 16, Kills Mom,” screams various headlines.
Clearly, the film is not promoting crack use or abuse, but it does remind us that the same rhetoric was spouted about marijuana in the 1950’s — much like methamphetamine is today. For reference we only need to look at Reefer Madness and the now hilariously unbelievable situation in which the protagonists find themselves. But as William Julius Wilson, Harvard Professor, reminds us, “War starts with propaganda,” something that ties neatly back to our definition of “crime,” and how we categorize those who commit them.
This documentary also digs a bit deeper into history and explores the time frames in which certain drugs became prohibited. Marijuana was often produced as a byproduct of hemp, a resource used for clothing and rope. However, it became illicit when Mexicans began indulging – Mexican immigrants (legal and illegal) who would work for lower wages than most Americans. Opium was also legal for a period of time and used mostly by aristocrats and housewives – until it was recognized to be extremely popular among the Asians, particularly the Chinese – who once again would work for lower wages. The same connection is limned between African Americans and cocaine use during the Jazz Age. And, if we remember the onslaught of 1980’s anti-crack rhetoric, the same racist conceit can be seen in the “images of black urbanites smoking crack cocaine.”
Overall, House is about the creation of a permanent underclass, one ostracized through penury and stripped of possessions and jobs via a lack of education and a precarious economy. The film’s thesis then becomes that drugs is the easiest way to survive in a community in which the largest enterprise is narcotics. In a Tony Montana-type way, drugs become the byway to power. Unfortunately, they also lead to a vicious cycle of abuse and commerce, wherein the distributors become the users who eventually find themselves incarcerated.
Looking at as many angles as possible, the documentary also looks at the river of money that flows from drug convictions: the money and automobiles seized by the police department via drug raids, the contracting companies and their employees who reap the benefits of building prisons, and the various employees of the prison from guards to cafeteria and medical staff. Prisons are a business and, in a time of recession and a potential double dip in that recession, closing businesses is just as faux pas as appearing lax on crime.
The inherent problem here is that prisoners are usually not rehabilitated; instead, they become grist for the recidivism mill. Some prisoners are often provided with engineering, electrical, woodworking, or other marketable skills, but as the economy has stagnated, so has the money given to rehabilitation programs. In turn, under-trained convicts remain untrained when they are released, forever fearing that box on an application that asks about one’s felony convictions. This box impedes progress in the job market, but its need to be checked also elides the right to vote, the ability to receive grant money to enter college, a prohibition on public housing, and a negation of certain types of health insurance.
Essentially, a release from prison is not a fresh start. Rather, it’s a placement in abeyance until someone takes a chance on a former criminal. Given few options, the former criminal often reverts to a previous lifestyle – one that guaranteed a steady income and the ability to survive. Clearly, this is not the case for 100% of people who have spent time in prison, but “convicted felon” and “drugs,” (“public enemy #1”) on an application is a lethal combination that feeds the circuit of commerce and recidivism. In order to stay open, prisons require prisoners, and it a steady stream is created by disenfranchising those released.
Throughout the film, the connection to WWII Europe might be a bit of a stretch. It’s slightly exaggerated and forces us to look at how we treat, view, and judge those in the permanently-locked underclass. But, there’s an accuracy to the idea that we attack and attempt to remove those that are unpleasant and those who we see as direct competition. In a sense, it’s not the drugs we have a problem with; it’s the demographic that use them.
This causes me to wonder whether or not Colorado and Washington would have recently passed legislation to legalize marijuana had their populations not consisted of above 85% reporting as white and less than 5% reporting as African American. In essence, has marijuana been legitimated based on a hegemony that – according to The House I Live In – no longer feels threatened by their minority competitors?
