Its 1988, Im 12 and Washington, D.C., is losing the crack war. Mayor Marion Barry hasnt walked into the Vista hotel, yet in fact, hes talking to kids at Lincoln Jr. High School where my mother teaches English. Hes sweating so much that hes got a hand towel on his shoulder and is using it to wipe the moisture from his forehead. Its all my mother and the other teachers could talk about. I would hear about it as soon as I got home: how Mayor Barry was supposed to be speaking to the kids, but the kids were all talking about how he was sweating. Because when youve watched a city devastated by drugs, you are familiar with the sweats. And the scratching. And the nod. It was all symbolic of addiction.

During the 1980s, it was impossible to throw a stone and not hit someone who was either struggling with addiction or had a family member who was a victim of crack. D.C. was The Walking Dead before we knew what a zombie apocalypse looked like.

So no one in D.C. who had seen their family or friends family destroyed by crack was surprised by the news that Barry was caught in a hotel room smoking rock two years later in 1990. We knew he had a problem. Everyone did. It was a bizarre normal. Barry being an addict didnt move the needle for those living in the city during this time. In fact, it humanized him. It endeared him to people who believed that if the bitch was the government, then shed also set us up, too .

So its no surprise that as more information pours out about former President Donald Trump and his brood that his supporters are growing stronger in force. Its what happens when a prophet is demonized; his followers believe not only in his rise to power, but in the power of his teachings. Doesnt matter that a potato could be a better president or that Trump is likely going to jail (shut up, Im dreaming here), those who love him love him recklessly and with abandon as I did with Mayor Marion Barry.

He saved my life.

Ive told this story several times, but Im going to tell it again. During the summer of my 14-year-old year of uncertainty, I was teased mercilessly about my sneakers. The growth spurt the year before betrayed me. My clothes, all of them were too small and I was starting from scratch. Its also important to point out here that because D.C. had become zombieland, the crack market created unlikely entrepreneurs. Kids my age werent just fresh, they were ridiculously fly. Im talking about new sneakers every day fly. So my beat-up Nikes stood out like a finger painting of a tree taped to a Van Gogh.

It was disturbingly obvious that something was wrong and I wasnt going for it anymore. That summer I was tumbling between staying on my side of the street and venturing off into the dark economy that had taken over my city, and then I got a job. A summer youth employment job.

Id never worked a day in my life, but Barry knew something that those living outside the city didnt: If he was going to compete with the underground hustle of selling drugs, then he had to put money in kids pockets. That was really the only way to save us. So he engineered a program that allowed D.C. public school kids to work in all facets of the District government, from the Capitol to sanitation, so that we could see what an honest days living looked like. A lot of my friends kept those jobs and were employed once they graduated.

That year, I was picked to be a part of a college leadership program in which a select group of kids got to learn study skills and hear from local entrepreneurs about what it took to make it in business. It was a plush summer job to get paid to learn how to keep dreaming about becoming a success. The last week of the program, we got to stay on an actual college campus. I never told anyone this, but I cried when that program was over because I never wanted it to end. I never felt more loved and encouraged than I did that summer.