Never Wanted to Be White, Just High Yellow with Good Hair — the Ism Before the Ism – Ron W.

Good evening. My name is Ronald White, and I'm an alcoholic. I want to start off by thanking the committee, thanking Bob Durrell and whoever else thought it fitting for me to be able to come and share with you guys. It's always an honor and a privilege to speak at a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. Do you guys mind if I look at myself for a second? I look real tall on there. Never mind, I'm silly like that. But I just need to let you guys know that before I got up here to share, the people who were doing the readings, they told me that they were going to read a little passage out of the big book, and they wanted to check with me on what it was, because they wanted to make sure it wasn't anything. It wasn't anything that was going to impede on anything I was going to share about or anything like that. And I said, oh, no, I'm easy. You can just read anything, and, you know, it won't be a problem. They read the one thing out of the book. That's how God works. It was a great thing to read because it really talks about step one. And I need to also share with you guys that, first of all, my sobriety. My sobriety date is July the 14th of 1986. I will always be grateful to God for giving me this gift of life and this gift of sobriety, because it is truly a gift. It is grace that has me standing before you. I have a home group, 9604 South Figueroa, right in the heart of south central Los Angeles. My sponsor is a guy named Jerome Scott. What else do I need to tell you? I just need to let you know what my story is. Whenever I come and share at gatherings like this and I talk about either a topic or a step or something like that, it's real kind of difficult for me sometimes because I am a firm believer in the first of all, I'm a firm believer in the big book of Alcoholics Anonymous. And I've been going through this book with men and women sitting down, reading this book line by line and paragraph by paragraph for the last 23 years. And I am dedicated to what this book talks about, not because somebody else just told me it works, but because it became true in my life. And it is a real thing for me. It is not a theory. And for me to talk about just one of the steps is always difficult. And Bob has this good thing that he tells us to weave our experiences in with the steps so that it would become alive. And I always like to tell you my story anyway because I suspect that I don't like to, to assume everybody in here has heard my story. And somebody might be looking at me tonight and I think I look kind of nice. You know. And once again, I'll describe it for the people on the tape. I have this beautiful gray charcoal gray suit on. It's a silk tie that matches it impeccably. My shoes are matching one another. I don't have any tape on my glasses. I'm about six foot four, wavy blonde hair. Oh, okay. That's, oh, all right. Went a little too far there. You can see the illness in me. But somebody might be looking at me tonight thinking that I don't look like an alcoholic. So surely what can this square looking guy, he looks like a preacher or a teacher or, you know, somebody who just, you know, strolled in, you know, from the debating society, somebody they just pulled off the streets to give you a nice speech or a lecture on alcoholism and the pleasure principle. Right? And, you know, the endorphins and all this other kind of, you know, I almost used some bad language. But all that stuff, you know, that other people can tell us. But you guys told me that my greatest experience that I can bring to talking to another sick and suffering alcoholic is my experience. And they told me that they have something in the book that outlines the way that I should share with you. There's a chapter in the book, chapter seven. That's the chapter entitled Working with Others. And somebody else will talk to you later on this weekend. My good friend Tom. It talks about the 12th step. And it says in there that I need to share with the new man or woman what I used to be like, what happened and what I'm like today. Because there is something that happens when one alcoholic shares with another. It don't happen when nobody else tries to share with us. There is a connection that is made. There is sort of an identification, for want of a better word, that takes place. It don't happen when nobody else tries to share with us. I remember my mother. She was a very good mother. And you'll hear her in my story. My mother, who I love so dearly, would sit down with me when I would come down off one of those runs. And she would wash me and she would feed me. And we would sit down at this table and hold hands. And she would pray over me. And then she would be saying, you know, well, Ronnie, Ronnie, what happened? You know, how could you do this again? And she didn't know that I wanted to be able to tell her exactly why when I got off that bus from work and I was walking home. And I meant to come home. And my feet just seemed to carry themselves into the liquor store. Try to explain that to a non-alcoholic. Try to explain that to somebody who has never felt the obsession to drink. Try to explain what happened after I take that first one when all I intended to do was just take one when I went to the Red Onion to have a margarita with the people after work. And then the next thing I knew they were cooking. Last. Last call for alcohol. Try to explain the craving to a non-alcoholic. She didn't know. And at the time, I didn't understand what was wrong with me. It took me coming to a place like this with some people sharing with me their experience, strength and hope for me to understand. So that's the way I'll do it. I will try to share with you what I used to be like, what happened, what I'm like today. And in that, I believe I'll talk about step one. Step one is to turn a blind eye to what's going on in my experience. On July the 14th of 1986, I found myself standing in the lobby of a place called the Harbor Lights Center, a place run by the Salvation Army. The Salvation Army Harbor Lights Center was an all men's alcoholic recovery center located on what we call the nickel. Fifth Street. Los Angeles. It housed 150 beds for alcoholic men, and I stood in that lobby because I was being interviewed. And I'm not talking about a job interview, y'all. I'm talking about one of those intake interviews. They're giving you to see if they're going to give you one of those beds. I was being interviewed by this old black guy named George. They called him an advocate. He was a counselor, the intake advocate. And he had a list of questions he was asking me to see if I qualified for one of those beds. You know those complex questions they ask you, Mr. White, how much do you drink? What do you drink? And as he's asking me these questions, I remember I was looking down at my dirty runover tennis shoes, mumbling my answers. Now, I'm looking at the tennis shoes because my chin felt like it were stapled to my chest because I was so ashamed of being there. I couldn't even look this guy in the eye. I'm mumbling my answers, and my eyes traveled up from those tennis shoes up to these gray corduroy pants I was wearing. And the pants weren't fitting me nicely like this suit is tonight. The pants were kind of hanging off of me. They were real dusty and dirty because I'd been on a run for four or five days. And the pants were hanging off me somewhat like those youngsters. You know how the youngsters have a style of dress nowadays? I hate it, right? Showing the undies. Showing the undies. Showing the undies. Showing the undies. Underwear. And they, on purpose, right? You know, and they, and it's just hanging off of them. And they call it what? Sagging. Well, that wasn't a style back in 86. And I was not a youngster. I'm 31, I was 31 years old at the time, but I'm an alcoholic. When I drink, I don't eat. So imagine me about 40 or 50 pounds lighter than I am this evening. I'm a small guy anyway. Drop 40 pounds off me. I look like a skeleton. My eyes were popping out my head and my cheeks were sunken in. And I looked like one of those kids on those commercials for famine in Africa. Just malnourished. In fact, I didn't even want you to see how skinny I had become. So I wore, I had this big black overcoat on that I wore everywhere that I went. Like you wouldn't notice the coat, right? It's L.A. in July. And I'm not talking about no nice top coat, y'all. I'm not talking about no cashmere or no London fog or nothing real fancy or nice. I'm talking about one of those cheap, seedy-looking chest of the molester coats, right? You know, I had a baseball cap pulled tightly over my head because by now I have no purse or no hygiene. I've stopped combing my hair. I've stopped bathing. My hair was all matted on my head. And so I wore this baseball cap everywhere that I went. If you had seen pictures of me in Alcoholics Anonymous in the first two years of my sobriety, my hair grew lopsided, real long on the top and real short on the sides because I could not even grow hair from those indentations from that baseball cap from the first two years that I was sober. And if you had smelled me that morning, I had a stench on me. You know the smell that the drunk has on him when it's coming out your pores and you haven't bathed for weeks and you've got the same drawers on that you've been wearing, but I don't know how, you know how it's all blacked and caked and you just... Some of you guys know what I'm talking about. Don't be... In fact, don't let me discriminate. Some of you women. Some of you men know what I'm talking about, too. So don't try to act like you, you know, you're better than. If you get a chance to shake my hand or hug me at the end of the meeting, I want you to take a whiff. I have a fine little body oil on tonight. I think something called Issey Miyake. Issey Miyake. You would have called it. You would have called it a pissy Miyake if you smelled me that morning. It was sad. And you know something? I never would have thought that I would have been in the Harborlight Center at age 31 in the condition that I was in. I wasn't laughing about it like I am tonight. There was nothing funny about the way that I felt that morning. It wasn't one of the goals in my life to become alcoholic, to be standing in the Harborlight Center begging them for a bed. In fact, I thought quite the opposite. I thought I could never become a drunk because while growing up, I grew up in an alcoholic household. My father was a drunk. My father was a wino. And I grew up with a resentment against him. He would always reek of his favorite drink, something called Ripple. Some of you guys remember Ripple, old cheap wine from the 50s. He smelled of it. He would get paid on Friday and never made it home until Sunday. He was broke when he came home. And when he brought his butt home, my mother would confront him and she would ask him, what happened? I have five brothers in my family. There are six boys. And my mother would ask him, you couldn't bring home a dime? We've got all these boys we've got to feed. And he would cuss her out. Like she had done something. Something wrong. When he did this, he made my mother cry. When he made my mother cry, I looked at him with hatred. I hated him for being so weak. I hated him for being such a punk. I hated him for not loving us enough to bring home the money. I hated him for being an alcoholic. And so I swore, I made a vow as I was growing up to never become like him that I would never drink. And you know something? For the first 18 years of my life, I drank nothing. But you know something? Even while not drinking, while growing up, I still had the thinking, the feeling, what I've come to associate as the ism of alcoholism. In the doctor's opinion, that portion of the book that they read that part from, Dr. William Silkworth, who worked with the co-founders of Alcoholics Anonymous in our book, included a letter where he, talked about working with thousands of alcoholics and noticing that they had certain things in common. One of the things he said they had in common is that they seemed to have what he called an allergic reaction to alcohol. The physical abnormality. But that wasn't what really interested me when I first got sober because I told you I didn't drink nothing for the first 18 years of my life, but he wrote something else in the book. He said that these men and women, when not drinking, seemed to have feelings, feelings of being irritable, restless, and discontent. That they seemed to be not at ease with themselves. And I identify with that because even before I started drinking, I've always felt dis-ease. I've never felt comfortable in my skin. I've never really felt like I was a part of. I've not always felt like I was less than, even though I did oftentimes. A lot of times I felt better than. But I've never felt just. I've always hated being so damn short. Now that may not be a big deal to anybody else in the room other than the other little men. And after the meetings, oftentimes, tall women come up to me and they say that's the way that they felt when they were growing up because I felt different than those who I grew up with. You can see from my height now, I'm not going to grow anymore, you guys. This is it. I've hit the growth spurt. I'm not growing no more. I'm 5'4 and a half. And that's right, a half. 4 and a half. Still grown, talking about a half, three quarters. But I've always had this thing about my height. Not only was I too short, though, I was also too small. Because it would have been nice if I was short and buffed, but I was always real skinny. I was always a frail looking kid. I was asthmatic when I was growing up. I was not really good as a physical specimen. And in my neighborhood where I grew up, I grew up in Watts, y'all. And tough place to grow up. And the guys judged each other's self-worth by how well they played sports. By how athletically inclined they were. And I wasn't good at hitting a baseball or throwing a football or shooting hoops. Or doing nothing like that. We would pick teams. And we always made the best two athletes have to be on opposite teams. And all the other boys would crowd around in a circle. And wave their hands waiting to be picked, right? And I'd be saying, pick me, pick me! And then they'd go, I'll take Donald, I'll take Ralph, I'll take Jimmy, I'll take Bob. I'll take Tony. And they got to the end and it was always me and some fat guy. And somebody was saying, alright, I'll take Ronnie. And they don't know the way that made me feel. Inside. Like I was less than. Like I was a burden. I've always hated being so black. And I don't mean being black, but I'm so black. Even black people discriminated against me. It's like, you know, I grew up in the 50s and the 60s. And you know, I understand now, having grown up, I know this was my perception of things. But I always thought that the lighter your skin was, the more handsome you were. The prettier you were. And I thought everybody in my race thought that. Everybody in my race thought the same thing. And I never wanted to be white. I just wanted to be high yellow. You know. With good hair. Right? You know. I could go on and on describing for you the things that made me irritable, restless, and discontent while I grew up. Never being satisfied with my station in life. Always wanting to be someone else or somewhere else. Suffering from the ism of alcoholism. Suffering from the ism of alcoholism. Suffering from the ism of alcoholism. Even before I started drinking. Even before I started drinking. And I had to find something to help me escape. But I couldn't drink. Because I didn't want to become my father. And I found something that helped me escape. And the thing that I found while growing up were books. I became addicted to reading. Libraries became my sanctuary. Because when I would read, I would escape. And I was no longer on 108th and St. Louis. And I was no longer on 108th and St. Louis. And I was no longer on 108th and St. Louis. And I was transported to distant lands. All of a sudden, I was somewhere in Europe or in Paris. I was somebody who loved espionage. I loved spy novels. Because I would always become the hero in those stories. And they were just the opposite of me. They weren't short. They were tall. Dark and handsome. Well, I was dark. But, you know, all the other stuff. I had that. And they would be so exciting and so dangerous. And I wanted to be that. Because I was dull. And my life was, it seemed like it had no meaning. And their lives were so what I wanted mine to be. And I would escape in these stories. But you know something? I understand that the disease I suffer from, which is physical, mental, and spiritual in nature, it's progressive. And what that means for me is this. Anything I've ever used in my life that's ever helped me escape from who I am and the way that I felt, after a while of using it, it doesn't seem to have the same effect. And I seem to require more. And I need it bigger. And I need it faster. And I need it stronger. And after a few years of reading those novels, they didn't help get me, get out of myself the same way. And I had to find something else. And I discovered comic books. There was a line of comics, DC comics. You see, because the heroes were bigger and stronger and more grand and grandiose. And the stories were shorter and quicker than those novels. And I gravitated to these DC comic heroes. Superman and Batman. Green Lantern. Green Arrow. Adam. Hawkman. Aquaman. The legion of superheroes. The Justice League of America. There was a superhero I became called Mon-El. You guys may not remember him, but I do. I would go in my mother's closet and I would grab one of her towels out of the closet. And I would tie this towel around my neck. And this towel became a cape. And I would run out on 108th and Central. And I would get a running start. And I would jump and I would fly down 108th Street. Now I don't know if any of you guys know anything about Watts in the 60s. One of the most dangerous cities in the entire country. And imagine this little skinny kid with a towel around his neck running at full speed down the street. You would have imagined that I would have been a pro. You would have imagined that I would have been afraid to do that, right? That I would have been frightened. That I would have been afraid of being ridiculed. Of being beat up. Of being scorned. But you know something? When I put on that towel, when I put on that cape, I felt no fear. Because you see, it made me feel strong. It made me feel heroic. It made me feel powerful. And even back then, lack of power was a big problem. Lack of power was my dilemma. Step one. And I was willing to go to any lengths to feel the sense of power. After a few years of wearing that dang towel, I didn't get the same effect. And I started hearing that ridicule. And I needed to find something. And my family purchased a small little black and white television and I fell in love. They nicknamed me the human TV guide. When neighbors would come by, I would be clued to the television set and my brothers would play a game. Ralph would be standing by the door and I would hear it open and a neighbor would come in and he would hunch him and he'd say, Hey man, watch this. Ronnie. Wednesday. 8 o'clock. And without moving, I'd say 8 o'clock. Channel 2 is Gunsmoke. Channel 4 is Mannix. Channel 5 is Donna Reed. Channel 7 is Petticoat Junctions. Now I don't know if... Some of you guys in here remember. Some of you guys in here remember the names of those shows. Because these are the shows that I grew up with. I knew whatever was on any channel, any time of the day, any day of the week. Thank God they didn't have cable. There was a television show that came on back when I was growing up that later became one of the guiding forces in my life. And maybe some of you guys remember the show. It was a show called Perry Mason. Perry Mason was a criminal defense attorney played by an actor named Raymond Burr. Raymond Burr was one of the handsomest white boys I had ever seen on television. He was tall. He had broad shoulders. He had these beautiful black suits that he... I think they were black. It was black and white television. So the suits looked black. They were nice dark suits. Jet black hair that was slicked back. And I don't know if you remember Perry Mason's eyes. Perry had these dark piercing eyes. And he always had this client who was in trouble. And they got to the end of the episode. And it looked like his client was about to go down. And Perry would try to have this last witness on the witness stand. And his private eye, Paul Drake, would always come in the back of the courtroom with a slip of paper. And he'd pass it to Perry. And Perry would read that note. And he'd square his shoulders. And then he'd approach the witness. And the witness would start to get nervous. And start to fidget around and sweat a little bit. And Perry wasn't having it. He wasn't going to let him go. And he would just close in and he'd say, Is it a true? Yes! Or somebody in the back of the courtroom would jump up. I did it! It was amazing. I don't think a case ever went to the jury. Right? You know, it was like, Case dismissed! Alcoholics dream, right? You know. Some of you guys know, right? That's who I wanted to be when I grew up. Because I wanted to be Perry Mason. Because you see, Perry had power. He had the ultimate power to bend people's will to his simply by the force of his presence and his words. And I thought, maybe I could do that. So I grew up wanting to be Perry Mason. I wanted to be a lawyer. I was a straight-A student as I came through school because my addiction to reading and all that fantasy made me ready for school. I was the best reader in all my classes. I was a very articulate young man. I was good at writing essays because of all that stuff that I would see on television and in those books. And I was a very good reader. I was a very good reader. I was a very good reader. I was a very good reader. I was a very good reader. I was a very good reader. And I was an honor roll student all the way straight through school. I got to high school, and by the time I got in the 12th grade, I was following in the path behind my brother Ralph, who many of you guys know. And Ralph was always a high achiever in school. He would be student body president or boys league secretary or whatever. And every step of the way, when I got into the next grade, I would assume that position that he had. And I need to let you know something because I don't share about this a whole lot. That inside, even while I had these accomplishments, I felt as if I didn't really deserve them. As if I hadn't really earned them. As if they had been something that had been handed down to me. Never let anybody really know that. But inside, I still felt like it was something that I really didn't have for myself. I was my senior class president when I was in the 12th grade. I was a member of a world famous marching band called the Lock High Marching Saints. I played trombone. And I marched in what we called the front rank, which is the front line of the band. We marched in the Rose Parade. And then I became a member of a jazz band that went to the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles. And we won the sweepstakes for the best jazz band in the country. I got accepted to go to college on a full scholarship in Los Angeles at a school called Loyola. Loyola Marymount University. A private Jesuit school for this little kid, this little black guy who went to a Baptist church. And here I'm going to college on a full scholarship with these priests. And you would have thought it sounded like I had a series of accomplishments in my life I should have been proud of. That I should have really been able to embrace. But you know something? I am like most alcoholics. For some reason, the things I have don't seem to have the value as the things that you have. That the grass always seems greener on the other side. That my glass is never half full, it's always half empty. That while I'm an achiever over here, I want to be an achiever over there. I never wanted to be a bookworm on the honor roll. I wanted to be one of those guys scoring touchdowns. Who had them writing about him in the sports pages. Who could have their ego fixed. Who had those cheerleaders cheering for him. Nobody ever came in science class and said, Yes, Ronald, that's the right answer! There were no pom-poms for me. And you know something? I understand. See, the funny thing about our disease is it's often times a looking back process. Because I can't see it when it's right in front of me. I can only see it when I turn around and I look back. I know there were people telling me I was alright. I know now that there were people who patted me on the back and prayed. But they didn't do it with enough enthusiasm. That even when they did it, I thought that they, yeah, are they really serious? Did they really mean it? Because you see, inside, I know me. See, that's a part and parcel of my disease. The ism. The I, self, and me part. That always thinks, that always questions anything that's ever come into my life that's good. Even when I strive to get something, when I achieve it. I like it for a minute and I get tired of it real fast. And I am so full of fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of inadequacy. I go to these dances that we had at school. Noon dances we had at our high school. And they would have these red lights on. To make the room look so romantic and everything, right? And I remember they would have these slow records. They would put on at the end of the dance. And there was a group back in the day, an R&B group, real popular, called the Dells. And the Dells had a record out at the time called, Stay in My Corner. And it was long. And it was slow. And they would put that record on so that the guys and girls could get together. And get close. And I remember I did that dance. And they put Stay in My Corner on. And all the guys would rush across the room to grab a girl. And they would be staying in my corner. And I would be staying in my corner. Because you see, I fear rejection so much. That I won't even take a chance of going to ask you to dance. Because I know when you say no. Not if you say no. I know when you say no. I am going to have to take that walk of shame back across the room. And everybody is going to be looking at me. And pointing at me. And laughing. See, that's the way my thinking is. And this is before I started drinking. When I graduated from Locke High School in 1972. Getting ready to go to Loyola Marymount University. My 12th grade class gave a beach party to celebrate our graduation. It was a night beach party. And I'm walking along the beach by myself. These flickering lights. They set these trash cans on fire to light up the beach. And I'm walking along the beach by myself. The professor. That's what they called me. And I've got a can of soda. And I'm just walking. And I stopped. Because I saw a guy and a girl underneath a blanket. And I looked. And the blanket was moving. And I listened. And I heard that girl say. Oh. Oh, I'm sorry. Excuse me. I got. Woo. A little hot there for a second there. I wanted to get underneath a blanket. But I didn't. But everybody knows the professor doesn't get underneath blankets. And somebody was passing around something. I wish I remember what it was. Because it became my first drink. It was either some Tyrolia or some Spaniada. High class stuff, right? Back when they used to make it in the jugs where you could chug a lot. Because you see, by now, my thinking told me I could take a drink. And I would never become my father. There's something about the ego that's amazing. My head told me my father was a janitor. I'm accepted to go to college on a full scholarship. I'm going to be the next Perry Mason. I'm better than him. He was a high school dropout. I'm going to Loyola. I'm smarter than him. My thinking told me I could drink and I would never become him. I'm going to Loyola. I'm going to Loyola. And so I drank. In many pages in the big book of Alcoholics Anonymous, it describes that men and women drink essentially for the effects produced by alcohol. Now it doesn't say alcoholics drink essentially for the effects produced by alcohol. It says men and women. It means everybody. But there's something different about me as an alcoholic and the feeling that's produced in me when I drink. When I drink, I drink. When I drink, I get taller. When I drink, I get bigger. When I drink, my skin gets lighter. When I drink, my voice gets a little bit more bass in it. My hand goes in my pocket and I kind of get this lean. You know what I'm talking about. Transformational. So much that the sensation is so elusive that I will go, even when it begins to injure me, when it is injurious to me, I will chase that feeling over and over and over again. We're talking about step one, y'all. Because you see, when I started drinking, in the beginning, when it was working, I wasn't getting injured. I was able to go to the parties all of a sudden. And I didn't feel those fears of rejection any longer. I had that courage to walk across the room and hold out my hand and ask that girl, and if she said no, I just went to the next one. There was no walk of shame. I was going, I was aggressive. I truly believe that alcohol saved me in the beginning. Because you see, this kid on this college campus who was so scared when I got there because I was a fish out of water and I didn't know if I was going to be good enough. Because now I'm not just with people who are smart like me. They're smarter than me. And they look different than me. And not only that, they're social. They're not just the professor. They're the professor and they're popular. And so all of a sudden I have to fit in and alcohol helped me. Alcohol helped me do that. But you see, I share with you something else about the nature of my illness. It is progressive in nature. And after a while, it wasn't just good enough for me to feel good on Saturday at the parties. I wanted to feel good on Sunday too. And on Monday. Now I want to feel good every day. Daily drinking starts doing some things to you. Around my third year in college, my grades started slipping because when you drink every day and every night, you don't get to class every day. So now my grades aren't quite the same. I guess it goes from A's to B's. But you see, there's also another component to that. My thinking starts to change. Because you see, my character became real ill. My morals and my values started to change. I would have these lines that I would draw and all of a sudden I would cross those lines. I used to be this straight-A student who would never do anything wrong. Now I have to start cheating on my exams to keep up. Started writing the answers on the cuffs of my shirts. Going to the bathroom during the test so I could look up the answers. My spirit started becoming real ill. I started plagiarizing my term papers. Hell, I started buying these term papers from these services that used to sell them. Things that I never dreamed that I would do before. And now all of a sudden I'm doing these things because it is more important than anything else. More important now for me to drink and feel good than for me to do the right thing. And after all, I'm still passing anyway. See, my head also has this justifier in it. My thinking has this thing that told me nobody wants to be just a bookworm anyway. I want to be a student of life. Had all the catch phrases down. You see, the most dangerous part of my dishonesty is not what I tell you. It's what I tell myself. And I buy it. And I believe it. The thinking. The obsession. That subtle form of insanity that started to creep into my thoughts and into my actions. And I would shrug it off and I would say after all, nobody wants to just be a square anyway. And I'm still passing my classes. And I graduated from college on time. Now I need to just kind of like let you know that respecting the truth is not the only thing that I need to do. But respecting the traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous, I don't go into a whole bunch of detail about all the other things that as a direct result of my alcoholism, I started using because I'm a garbage can. Because I need it all. And by the time I graduated from college, on time, somehow in 1976, I got accepted to go to law school pursuing Perry Mason. Went to a law school located in San Francisco, California. A place called Hastings College of the Law. I didn't know at the time that it was one of the most prestigious law schools in the country. What I was doing was a geographic, y'all. See, I don't tell people that a lot of times. You see, I got accepted to go to law school at Loyola Law School, too, in Los Angeles. But by now, I knew my disease had started growing so serious that I even in the back of my head knew that if I kept this up in LA partying with my brothers and stuff, I'd never make it through law school. So I ran away to law school. I ran away to law school in San Francisco. And didn't even know... See, God writes straight and crooked lines because I didn't know that I was being placed into a beautiful circumstance and situation at Hastings that later was going to influence all the other things I did in life. But I need to let you know this. That law school in San Francisco are places that are made for an alcoholic. You see, it's a whole lot of drink in there. And when you go to law school, they only have two tests a year, a midterm and a final. And that was ready made for me. I would go to the class the first couple of weeks, learn what they were doing, and I would just check out, y'all. I was a law clerk for an alcoholic, and I thought that's the way you do it. And I would work during the day, and we would get loaded at night. And I would go take the midterm and pass it because I was a good crammer. And then the finals would come, and I would pass that. And I went to summer school after my first year, summer school after my second year, and I graduated from law school early in two and a half years. I was a law student at the age of 23, just before my 24th birthday in December of 1978. They have a test you got to take to be a lawyer called the bar exam. And they were going to give one in February of 1979, right after I turned 24. And I stayed in San Francisco to study for the bar exam because I wanted to walk across the stage in the graduation with my fellow classmates when they finished their last semester in May. And so I took the bar exam in February, and the results happened to be coming out on the day of graduation, the last Saturday of May of 1979. And I'm in my apartment getting dressed, putting on my cap and gown. My family had flown up from Los Angeles. We were all crowded in my little apartment. And there was this pounding at my door. And it was my best friend from law school, a guy I worked at this law firm with. And he came pounding on the door, and he says, Ronald, they just posted the bar results. And guess what? You passed. And at age 24, I became one of the youngest black attorneys ever licensed to practice law in the state of California. Obviously, these are people who've never heard me share before, because you'll know that's the last clapping you'll be doing for a while about any accomplishments by me. Because you see, I'm an alcoholic. It's probably the most dangerous thing that could have happened to me was doing just that. Because you see, I never thought that God had done that for me. I'm like most alcoholics in the disease. I thought I had done this. That my ego told me, you're a boy genius. You're a boy wonder. You're going to be the next Perry Mason. You're going to be the next Perry Mason. Isn't it true? Right? You're going to be a millionaire by the time that you're 30. I need to let you know that by the time I was 30, I was not a millionaire. Because you see, my disease is progressive. I didn't even have a bank account when I was 30. You would have thought that I would have at least bought a house on the hill, a condominium or a mansion. I was living back at home with my mother sleeping on her floor. I didn't have a nice job for a law firm on Wilshire and Westwood in Los Angeles. The only job I had was carrying out the trash and watering the lawn for a 21-year-old dope dealer who lived across the street from my mother. I could not even imagine the shame and degradation that my mother felt at looking at this son she had been just so proud of. Just five years before. Alcohol is no respecter of intellect. Alcohol doesn't care if you graduated from law school or if you dropped out from high school. Alcohol doesn't care if you're a man or if you're a woman. Alcohol does not care if you're black or if you're white. It doesn't care if you grew up on Wilshire or in Westwood. Alcohol doesn't care if you're a man or if you're a woman. Alcohol doesn't care if you're short or if you're tall. Alcohol is an equal opportunity ass-kicker. If you suffer from the disease that I suffer from, that is first of all physical in nature, the big book of Alcoholics Anonymous has a lot of things written in it, all the way through the 12 steps are detailed all the way through chapter 7. But it's interesting to note that probably the most the most that is written in the book in talking about deception is about step one. Because it understands the deep denial that exists in me about the true nature of my illness, the true hopelessness and powerlessness of my condition because it knows that ego has a magnificent way of rebuilding itself. And it accompanies itself with these lies that I tell myself with the obsessiveness of the disease that stays with me for so long. Because you see, I could not see the physical nature of my disease. I couldn't see that when I would take one, one of anything, that something would happen to me that is unexplainable to anybody else who has never felt it. There's a craving that takes place within my body, an itch that is so deep and so persistent and so strong that I would do anything to scratch it. And the only thing that can scratch it is another drink. And it is amazing how that next drink creates another scratch, another itch, and another one, and another one. So much that I cannot even be able to tell you the things that I will do to get another one. I was stealing the food out of my mother's refrigerator to get the next one because of the craving. Things that I said that I would never do, let me have one. My experience tells me the true nature of the allergic reaction my body has to alcohol. I was stealing the shoes out of my mother's closet because she happened to wear the same size as this girl around the corner. I stole this gold watch that my mother... See, I suppose these things might not really have import to those of you who don't know the relationship that I have with my mother. Because I need to let you know just how strong the craving is. My mother put my father out of the house when I was nine years old because she felt like she could raise six boys better by herself as a welfare mother, better than having this drunk dragging us down. So she made him leave from the house and chose to raise us on her own, catching the bus to church every Sunday with six boys. Going ahead and now not being satisfied with being on welfare, she wanted more for her and her boys. So she started taking work, working for other people's families, cooking and cleaning for them, bringing home things to iron for them, getting up at five o'clock in the morning, getting us dressed for school, and feeding us and catching the bus to take care of these other people's kids. And didn't just want that, she wanted more so she went back to school to get her high school diploma while working, raising six boys, going to night school to get her high school diploma. Because she wanted to get off welfare and be able to work at a better paying job. And she graduated from Tray Tech College with a high school diploma, but she wasn't satisfied with that. This woman who was a firm believer in the power of God, because she was a church going woman, never drank at all herself, but she believed in the power of God. And I used to think she was so weak for that belief. Because I was looking at, look at how hard things are for you. How can you think that there's really a God? But with my intellectual self. And this woman, fueled by that, went back, not only did she went back to college, worked two jobs, raising six boys, graduated from college, got a job for Prudential Insurance Company. They loved her so much, they didn't even wait for her to retire to give her a gold watch. I stole that watch. Because I needed one. I didn't want to give it to anyone. You might hear the pride that I have in my mother, in her accomplishments. The love that I have for her, it exceeds any love that I have for anyone. But let me have one. The craving doesn't know anything about love, or trust, or respect. I'm an animal. I'm an alcoholic. The craving overcomes anything that is near and dear to me. But that's not the scariest part of my disease. That's not the scariest part of step one, because you see, the solution is merely, don't take the first one. But there is something else about me, in my thinking. And it's described in chapter three, the chapter called, More About Alcoholism. They call it an obsession. They need to nickname that chapter, More About Relapse. Because it talks about the mental stages that precede a relapse into drinking. What is it that goes through my head, before I take the first one? Knowing what's going to happen after I take the first one. Now, the cool thing about it is, I didn't always know what was going to happen after the first one. But after a while, I did, and I still couldn't stop myself from doing that. There is something in my, and they call it, a subtle form of insanity. A thought that overrules all other thoughts. That whispers to me constantly, this time it will be different. Don't always say it like that. Sometimes it says, just change what you're drinking. Ronald, don't drink the hard stuff. If you just drink beer, or some wine, or something, then you'll be alright. Stay away from that gin. You know, gin makes you sin. . Never wanting to accept that I can't take one. And so my head tries to figure out the legal loopholes to that. And in the book it describes all the different methods that we've tried, with or without a solemn oath, reading spiritual books. See, the big book can be just a spiritual book that I read, if I don't do the actions described in the book. And so I understand that until I can treat the sick thinking that I've developed. And see, and it talks about in the book that once this thinking is firmly entrenched in an alcoholic, we think that only one thing can conquer that. And it's a spiritual experience. I didn't know that at the time. Because you see, I tried over and over and over, and I can keep on going for the entire course of this meeting, over again to try different methods, easier, softer ways. Because you see, my ego doesn't want to give up. My ego doesn't want to surrender. My ego is just like that guy who is choking me when I'm in that fight. And then he turns, give up, Ron! No, no, I'm not going to! Because I want a safe face. I would rather die than give up. That's the way my disease is. And I almost did. On July the 13th of 1986, I burned a guy out of some money. And it was a Sunday. And he wanted his money back. And he was a dangerous guy. He lived a few doors down from my mother. And I knew that he was going to hurt me bad when I told him I didn't have his money. And my mother had just gotten a ride home from church with these good sisters that would... And I need to let you know that me and all my brothers were in the disease. And so we were almost killing my mother. Literally killing her. She had a nervous breakdown and almost died. I didn't learn that that's what it was until after I got sober. When she went in the hospital and she was real sick and all that, I didn't even know that we had given her a nervous breakdown and she almost died from this illness. From what I suffer from. She suffered from it. But she had gotten home from church. And she was dressed beautifully in these church clothes. And these ladies escorted her into the house. And I had a bright idea. I said, if I tell this guy about me not having his money in front of my mother, he won't do anything to me. Because he respects my mother. Because he respects my mom. And so I took this wolf in my mother's house. Not caring nor thinking about her safety. Only thinking about myself. I've become a coward. Selfish and self-centered. And I'm explaining to this guy I don't have his money. And he's just nodding his head and looking at me. And he says, Ronald, it's fine. It's all right. We can make some arrangements. We can make some arrangements for you to pay it back. Why don't we just step outside on the porch and, you know, we can make some credit arrangements. And I'm thinking to myself, yeah, I got over again. And so he steps out on the porch. And I start to step out after him. Looking back, making sure my mother was close enough for me to see. She couldn't hear what we were talking about. But she was close enough cooking Sunday dinner. And I stepped outside. And this guy, his name was Kenny. And Kenny was waiting on me when I got outside. And he must have leaned back and hit me with everything that he could. And I just found myself flying across my mother's front yard. And I landed on the grass and rolled over. And Kenny didn't stop there. He ran over and proceeded to kick me in the head and stomp me. He was trying to kill me. And as Kenny is kicking me and stomping me, I felt as if I were removed from my body watching this happen. And I'm looking at Kenny kicking me and stomping me. And I looked over and I saw my mother come out the house and step on the porch. And I expected her to say, stop, stop, that's my baby. Because she always saved me. But she said nothing. And I turned around and looked at Kenny and he's still kicking me and stomping me. And I looked back at my mother and she turned around and walked back in the house and closed the door. And it was at that moment that I experienced step one. Bill describes it in the book so eloquently when he talks about quicksand stretched all around me. Alcohol was my master. The very next day is when I checked into the harbor light. And I was in the harbor light. And I was in the harbor light. You see how I am? I'm a real alcoholic. I'll try to make it sound fancy. I didn't check in to the harbor light center. I didn't have reservations. You know. They weren't expecting me. Mr. White? No, no. I was, I didn't have any luggage. I'm here. No. It's like, you know. I was dropped off at the harbor light center in the state I described to you at the beginning of this meeting more dead than alive. And they gave me a bed. And I did nothing but eat and sleep for the next seven days. And then they started bringing me to meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous where I started sitting in the front and listening like only a dying person could hear. And I heard men and women get up to podiums just like this and they shared with me that I would come. And then I would come to. And then I would come to believe. That a power greater than myself could restore me to sanity. The step one experience that I'm sharing about is the experience that I get before I get here. It's the things that bring me here. But you know something? I don't even understand those things until I get here. Because when I'm out there and I'm drinking and I'm doing all those crazy things. I didn't even know what they meant until I heard you share a message. I heard you share about what you did. And when you share with me your experience it triggered in me my experiences. And it made me remember all of those times that I said I was only going to do one. Or that I tried to stop while I still had some form of money left and I was unable to. It talked to me about all those episodes when I, the things I said I would never do. And once I took one I did all of those things. And that's because of the craving, the allergic reaction produced in me by alcohol. I need to let you know that after I was in the Harborlight Center for 130 days. They took me to a second phase of their recovery program. A place called Harmony Hall. Harmony Hall is a place where they start to transition the men back into real life. Giving you jobs. Getting your social security guard back. Getting your driver's license. Because if you have been anything like me. I was an animal when I got to Alcoholics Anonymous. I had nothing. I forgot to share with you guys. When I got sober I thought I could never be an attorney again. Because I thought I had been disbarred. Because I had been practicing law without a license. For five years. Every time I got my money to pay my bar dues I drank it. And after all I knew I was a lawyer. Why did I need to have a bar card? Sick. So when I got sober. I thought the dream that I had of being an attorney was lost. And I was just going to be satisfied with whatever work I could find in Alcoholics Anonymous. The first job they found me through that sober living was working for a little old lady who had a nursing home. And she said she needed for me to do some book keeping for her. Now that might sound fancy. Let me tell you what I did. I would catch the bus to this lady's house. And she would sit me on a couch in her living room. And then she would come over and she would hand me a stack of her bills. And then she took her checkbook. And she signed a bunch of blank checks. And then she handed me the checkbook. And she said Mr. White. I want you to pay all my bills for me. And I want you to balance my checkbook. And I'll be back in a couple of hours. And she left me alone. In her house. With a bunch of blank signed checks. And I'm five months sober. And I'm scared. When she came home two hours later I was sitting on that couch still. And I handed her all of her bills. And they were sealed up with checks inside. And I gave her her checkbook back. And it was balanced. And there were no checks missing. And I said I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. And there was nothing missing in her house. And that lady paid me $40 a week to do that job. And when she paid me that $40 and I caught the bus back to Harmony Hall. I felt 10 feet tall. It had been a long time since I had been in a house. I had been in a house for a long time. Since anybody had trusted me. And I had not burned them. And I knew there was something about that spirit that had gotten so sick when I had started drinking. It was getting better. And I grew closer to the power. When I was 10 months sober they told me I had to leave the sober living to make room for somebody else to come over from the Harbor Light Center. I was hiding out. In the sober living. Afraid to move back to my mother's house because that's where I drank. And there was a lady who was bringing in panels of Alcoholics Anonymous into the sober living. And she heard me share about how scared I was of going back home. And she came up to me at the end of the meeting and she said, Ron, you can move into my apartment with me and my roommate Jenny. And you can sleep on our couch until you feel comfortable enough to be able to go home. And you can sleep on our couch until you feel comfortable enough to be able to go home. Now I need to let you know, it's funny how God works because the first thought in my mind was not, Oh I'm so grateful she's doing this. The first thought in my mind was, Oh she wants me. With my 10 months sober. You know, it's like. But I'm telling you God writes straight and squiggly lines. I got to that woman. I got to that woman's house. And I didn't make any moves on her. And I respected her house. And I didn't take anything. And she respected me and gave me a key. And trusted me. And I caught the bus to my home group. It took me an hour and a half to take the bus to what later became my home group, 9604 South Figueroa. And after two months of doing that. I felt spirit filled enough to move back to my mother's house. And this lady taught me the meaning of trust. And unconditional love. And I grew closer to the power. After I was a year and a half sober in Alcoholics Anonymous. Going to meetings, sounding good. Talking about the program works. Keep coming back. And somebody walked up to me after the end of the meeting. And they said, Ronald. You talk about how you trust in God. Why don't you call up the state bar and find out what's happening with your bar card. Living in fear in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous. So afraid of rejection. I told you guys about that. A deep seated fear that I have. That I fear rejection so much that I'll just reject myself. That I won't even ask the question because I think the answer is going to be no. And it's only going to confirm that I'm not worthy. So on the urgings of a meeting of this, a member of this fellowship. I called the state bar. And they told me, Mr. White, you haven't been disbarred. But your license has been suspended for nonpayment of dues. $2,500 you owe us. You pay us that money back and we'll give you your bar card back. Well shoot, $2,500 sounded like $25,000 at the time. I had a minimum wage job. I wasn't there. But you know something? It's amazing how much money you could save when you're not drinking. Amazing, right? I was living back at my mom's. She wasn't taking much rent or anything. And I'm just going to meetings when I'm not at work. I'm working as a legal proofreader now for a law firm. I saved half of every paycheck for the next six months. And I wrote a check for $2,500 to the state bar of California. And they gave me my bar card back. And three months later, somebody in one of the meetings says, Ron, isn't it time for you to start looking for a job as a lawyer? Still living in fear. Afraid of sending out that resume. You guys know how when you get sober and you try to make up a resume and you got a gap. And I'm wondering, how can I kind of squeeze in there, Harborlight, Harmony Hall, Bookkeeper proof? What law firm is going to want to hire me? And somebody just told me, Ronald, trust in God. I'm sitting in my proofreading office at the law firm I was working for at the time, reading a copy of the LA Times. And they used to have this section called the Metro Section. And in this section, I read about a profile of two people who were working in the public defender's office in Los Angeles County. And it talked about the indigent, the poor people that they were working for, alcoholics. Poverty stricken people. The people who were me. Who I used to be. And I said, this is something that I think I want to do. So I sent in an application. I called them up and they said they were doing interviews and they were hiring. And I sent in a resume and an application and they had me in for an interview. And these five lawyers were sitting around a table asking me these questions about what I'd do if I had this situation. And we were getting to the end of the interview and nobody had asked me about the resume. And I'm thinking, yeah, I got by. And this smart ass lawyer at the end of the table said, Mr. White, we notice you haven't been practicing law for the last two years. Why not? I said, sir, I'm an alcoholic. I did not mean to say that. You guys have me trained. I said, I'm an alcoholic. I've been serving. I've been working. I've been sober for the last two years. And he looked at me and said, Mr. White, lawyers do a lot of drinking. Don't you think the stresses of this position might make you want to drink again? I said, sir, it was stressful when I was out there. I said, I think God has prepared me to do this job. And he looked at me funny. I don't think they hear the G word, job. God, who is that? Is that a reference? They don't know. That's my best reference. They said, Mr. White, we'll let you know whether or not you're on the waiting list or if we can hire you. We'll contact you in ten days. And I went home that afternoon. It was a Wednesday. I didn't feel particularly, you know, cool about that interview. The alcohol thing popped out and everything, you know. But they called me three hours later and said, we want you in for another interview this Friday, Mr. White. I said, shoot, probably want me to pee in a bottle. But I've been sober for two years. I am willing. When I showed up that Friday, they didn't ask me to pee in a bottle. They had me see the head public defender at the time of all Los Angeles County, a guy by the name of Wilbur Littlefield. Mr. Littlefield had me escorted to his office on the top floor of the Criminal Courts building in downtown Los Angeles. I was sat on a couch. And Mr. Littlefield said, I'm going to go to the police station. I said, okay. And Mr. Littlefield just started walking around talking about what public defenders do for about 15 minutes. I'm fidgeting on the couch like one of those witnesses on Perry Mason, you know, waiting for him to ask me those questions about alcohol. Because I know the questions are coming. But I'm ready. I prayed up. I had been in a meeting the night before. And you guys put me in a prayer circle. And, you know, I'm ready. Well, Mr. Littlefield just stopped talking after a while. And he gave me this funny look. And he walked over to where I sat. And he stuck out his hand to me. And he said, Ron, we'd be proud to have you join our office. You have a place to say thank you, Representative San Cruz. I said, good. Good. Now I'm going to get this out of your Bosses set. Jordy is going to be returning. I didn't know what he was like, or even have any меш Tanzas keep in my mind. I was going to get this stuff done in fun. I was going to start thinking about the picture that he sees when I back. You know, it would be so comfortable. And People will share those images. It would be hard to take. But when I said I wanted that picture, that was the best picture so I could have. What is that but a miracle? Alcoholics Anonymous takes broken up pieces of men and women, working with the guidance of a loving God who works through the unselfish men and women who toil in this fellowship, and we put the pieces back together again. It was as if each man and woman who sits in this room tonight were standing in the lobby of the Harbor Light Center when I arrived there more dead than alive with my chin on my chest, too ashamed to even look you in the face. And you guys walked up to me and you placed your hand underneath my chin and you lifted up my head. And even more than that, you wrapped your arms around me. As dirty and as filthy and as nasty as I was, you wrapped your arms around me and you literally loved me back to life. Damn. That's Alcoholics Anonymous. Who would have ever dreamed that this little skinny hookhead kid born in South Carolina, South Central Los Angeles, would have been able to achieve the things that he achieved and then lose them and then gain even more? That's Alcoholics Anonymous. In February of 1991, February 8th, 1991, I found myself standing in the delivery room of Kaiser Hospital in West Los Angeles with a pair of scissors in my hand cutting the umbilical cord on my son, Ronald Jr. No ego. I may have had it backwards, but a few months later, three months later to be exact, I married the mother of my son. We just celebrated 19 years of marriage. Of marriage. This past May. You see, that's Alcoholics Anonymous. They told me when I got here that there's only one step that you have to do perfectly. And that's step one. I don't know if that's true or not, you know, or anything like that, but I do know this. That if I ever, ever, ever, ever, succumb to the obsession again, if I ever start to think that this time it's going to be different, if I ever start thinking that I don't have to work quite as hard at this, if I ever start thinking that maybe it's this meeting I don't have to go to, or that, maybe I can lighten up on that service a little bit too much, maybe I need to, you know, not so many meetings, they're still saying the same stuff they've been saying. If I start saying, you know, well, shh. See, I understand. But I don't know which thing it is that keeps me sober. So I'm not going to cut out nothing. Because I understand that if I allow myself to start believing the hype, if I start thinking about it. And see, this weekend, we're going to hear a lot of great speakers. I looked at the lineup and I saw some of these people. These are like a lot of my idols, if you want for want of a better word. Because I know, you know, they're just people just like me and they're no better nor worse or anything like that than anybody else in Alcoholics Anonymous. But I respect and love a lot of the people that you're going to be hearing this weekend. And I almost felt daunted. Somebody had said to me, Ronald, you know, you're doing step one. You're going to be setting the tone for the whole weekend. Can you believe it? And see, in my head, we want to buy that in a way because I'm like most alcoholics. I want to take a lot of the credit, but none of the blame. But. But I understand that this is a special place for me. That Alcoholics Anonymous literally saved my life. I need to leave you with this. In November of 1987, it was a Sunday morning and my mother was getting ready to go to church and she was dressed quite beautifully, just like she was that day that guy Kenny tried to beat me to death. She steps out of her bedroom and in the doorway of her car, she sees a man in a white shirt and he says, hey, may God show up. I have to leave. Heطn l'ang Now here I am, look at this very picture, I think of what sort of moment in my life I think everyone was going through. I was a parent. I was a baby. But to me, that's something that's also important, not just for me. What I paid for it, what I gift for it. And I was making this effort because I really enjoyed it. I was putting myself in the shoes of Aí forms. silo okayopposérique.com. You're where we almost drank my mother to death. And the tears my mother cried that morning were tears of joy for what the program of Alcoholics Anonymous had done for her and her boys. Twenty-three years later, every Sunday morning since then, men and women have been joining my brother and I in going through this book called Alcoholics Anonymous. We can no longer be at my mother's house because it's 150 strong now. And every Sunday we get the opportunity to take a walk with God. I invite each one of you to do the same. If you take a walk with God, he'll meet you at the steps. Thank you for letting me share. Thank you.