Marijuana was a gateway drug in my life. I know that from personal experience. Without digging too far into circumstances I never questioned and never cared to examine until now, I was taken to Burbank, California, to live with my biological grandmother, Connie, and her husband, John D. Clement. John was my step-grandfather, a British American, a Purple Heart recipient, a World War II veteran, and a UCLA graduate. He was born on June 25, 1918. We lived on Bethany Road, and I attended Thomas Jefferson Elementary School from first through fifth grade.

My step-grandfather died on March 1, 1994, from cancer. I don’t know all the specifics, but I do recall a white gauze covering where his ear used to be. I remember his face, despondent, as he sat there in the living room in pain. I would stand there and stare at him, then walk away confused.

We spent a lot of time together. Sometimes we would go on camping trips. He liked fishing, so we would camp in Bishop, California, in the Owens Valley on the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada. Those trips gave us time together away from home.

Sometimes he would take me to the park, and we would play baseball. He was always the pitcher, and I was always the batter. I learned how to cheat back then because I would run from first base to third base and then to home plate while his back was turned and he was searching for the ball.