Week 13: Born Addicted

Life in small town Appalachia is much more complicated than folks in other regions would ever imagine. Generations of outsiders extracting resources, people, and culture has been an enormous burden carried by all. And there are patterns in the lives of Central Appalachians, repeating stories and themes that arise again and again, through generations, through families and through communities.

It was one such repeating story that WEKT news producer Jaclyn Perez found herself in when she was out in the field, filling in for a sick reporter. The FDA and the CDC put out a joint report on the long term effects of babies born addicted to opioids. A generation of kids born on pills were now old enough to have mountains of data collected on them. And Jaclyn was tasked with putting a local spin on this story.

“I’m not a reporter, Jim. I’m a producer,” she complained, sitting in the News Director’s office. A handful of Emmy’s sat above a credenza and the walls were covered on both sides with plaques, awards and certificates.

Jim picked up a stack of papers and handed them to Jaclyn. “Take a look at these,” he said.

“What’s this?” she asked as she started thumbing through the documents. She could see medical charts with redacted information and ledgers filled with numbers and statistics.

Jim leaned back into his chair and let out a sad breath. “That is just a piece of the supportive data from yesterday’s report. In your hands, you have medical information of five kids born ten years ago, right here in Black Grass, that were addicted to opioids at birth. And, you have charts and data on a few hundred more from the region. Somewhere in America, a kid is born addicted to pills every 20 minutes. That’s 20,000 a year, give or take. How many of them are here? And what are we doing to stop it? Don’t you think that’s a story worth telling?”

Jaclyn cocked her head to the side and winced. “Yes, by a reporter. And that’s not me.”

“Look, I’m not aiming for a damn Pulitzer here. Or even an Emmy. But you’re a hell of a copy writer and you have good instincts. You were on camera in college; I remember seeing it on your resume.” Jaclyn’s walls were breaking just a bit, but she still didn’t feel comfortable taking on the story. “What if I send Henry to be your shooter? He’s the best cameraman we have, and he can make any shot you need happen.”

She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. “Having a shooter helps. I was never much with a camera. How long do I have to work on this?”

Jim looked down to his desk calendar. “It’s the lead story tomorrow at 6.” She nodded and headed out of his office.

A little later, in the “Shooter’s Shack,” the equipment office where reporters check out gear for filming, Jaclyn ran into Henry. He was duct taping a handle back onto an old camera. “That’ll hold,” he said, ripping the tape with his teeth. He was a short black man with streaks of white in his hair and goatee. He had been a videographer for WEKT since they started broadcasting in the 80s, and had no plans to retire any time soon.

“I think they stuck you with me,” Jaclyn said as she plopped down on the bench beside Henry.

Henry smiled and shook his head. “I’m just happy to not be shooting car lots and jewelry stores.” His voice was rich, friendly and warm. “What are we covering?”

Jaclyn pulled out a small notebook and started reading. “Dr. Ninutra at Black Grass Community has agreed to meet with us this afternoon. She’s chief medical officer. Ms. Nox at the high school and Mrs. Archer at the social worker's office as well. Still trying to find a parent to talk. But, I guess most folks don’t want to admit that their kid was a drug addicted baby.”

“Might have more luck with a grandparent raising the kid or even foster families,” Henry said, never looking up from the microphone he was preforming surgery on at the moment.

Her eyes became wide and bright and a grin grew across her face. “That’s excellent! Why don’t you do this story, Henry?” she said as she gave him a gentle punch on the shoulder.

He just shook his head and kept looking down at the wires in the mic. “My wife says I got a face for radio and a voice for silent reading. I’ll stick to shootin’ if it’s all the same to you.”

Ms. Nox agreed to let them film in her office. Jaclyn was left a little uncomfortable form the graphic art on the walls of the office. Ghastly images of self harm, monsters and inky blackness were on every available surface. “What’s with the pictures, Ms. Nox? You got a thing for horror?”

“Art therapy. I was an art teacher before a councilor and I find it’s a great way to connect with the kids and let them express trauma.” Ms. Nox was a tall woman in her late 30s with sharp features.

Jaclyn sat across the desk from the school’s counselor while Henry prepped the camera. “As I said on the phone, we’re working on a story about the new report that just came out on the long term effects of babies addicted to opioids. Let’s start there, how are these addicted babies tracked?”

Ms. Nox furrowed her brow a bit. “It is very atypical to have any identifiers in a student’s file that would identify them as having been born addicted to opioids. Special Education students, which make up about 15% of the student body in a typical school system, do have detailed medical information collected if it is pertinent to the child’s learning ability or a specific need. We cannot and will not discriminate in any way students who were born addicts from those who were not. Anecdotally, this being a small community, you hear things. And there are definite, well, patterns, or characteristics that keep popping up. Not every classroom issue or behavioral problem stems from drug abuse related students, but the numbers are disproportionate. Teachers have limited time on task as a result of focusing on children with reduced mental capacity, resulting in less learning for the whole class. And there are no special programs or initiatives for these students, who, unfortunately, make up a significant percentage of student populations nation wide, with larger numbers here in Appalachia.”

Jaclyn was disheartened as she walked out of the school building. “There must be more of these kids than I’d realized.”

Henry slung the heavy camera bag higher onto his shoulder as they walked. “Lord has blessed me in so many ways. One I am probably the most thankful is that my wife, my two girls and three grand babies haven’t been wrapped up with that poison, praise the Lord.”

Mrs. Archer’s office was in a strip mall on the other side of town. She was a middle-aged woman with a chubby face and curly blonde hair that shot out in every direction.

“One area I’m very troubled about in this situation is not that the child is born addicted and all the medical issues that come with that, but the socioeconomic issues and the increase of generational addiction. If a child is raised in an environment of addiction, then addiction becomes the norm. If squalor and poverty are your standards, studies have shown, that escaping this cycle is almost impossible. And that is why the ‘bootstrap’ argument is so infuriating. We have a significant portion of the next generation that is being trained to be lost, hopeless addicts who have no way of climbing out of the hole they were born into. And no one is offering to teach them how to climb out, much less offer them a hand up.”

Tears began to well up in Mrs. Archer’s eyes as she spoke. The years she had spent fighting for these children to see them have some semblance of a better life was pouring out of her soul like water from a fire hose.

The social worker hugged Jaclyn after the interview was completed. “Thank you for telling this story. It needs to be told,” she said.

“Powerful stuff,” Henry said as he loaded the car with equipment. “Let me make a call. I might have a parent for you to talk to.” He walked away as Jaclyn texted Dr. Ninutra to let her know that they were on their way.

At the hospital, Dr. Ninutra meet them in a conference room decorated with historical items from the community. A beautiful coal-themed quilt hung on the far wall and an engraved wooden ax rested on a pedestal. She was a striking woman from South-East Asia, Jaclyn assumed, and looked to be in her 50s. Her accent was present, but easily understood. Chit-chatting with the doctor as Henry set up the camera, Jaclyn learned that Dr. Ninutra was born in Malaysia and came to America over thirty years ago. She spent time in Baltimore and Cleveland before coming to Black Grass. “What brought you all the way down here?” Jaclyn asked.

“This is the first place to feel like home.”

Jaclyn nodded. “Well, since this is your adopted home, let’s talk about one of the most pressing issues locally, drug abuse. Specifically, the recent report that came out detailing the long term effects of being born addicted to opioids.”

“Drug addicted babies are one of the most heartbreaking things. They are in agony as the opioids leave their system, so we typically treat NAS, or neonatal abstinence syndrome, with morphine or methadone. It is not a perfect solution, but it is the best we can do, so they do not suffer. As for long term effects, Extreme ADHD, reduced cognitive ability, lack of spacial recognition, poor memory recall and a generally lower IQ are all traits of children we know were addicts at birth. I do not have the solution to fix this problem, but I pray to God every day that one is found and found quickly.”

Jaclyn felt sick to her stomach after the interview. This problem was so much worse, and larger, than she had ever imagined. “Let me drive,” Henry said as they got to the station vehicle. Jaclyn gladly tossed him the keys.

“Where we headed?” she asked as Henry turned off the bypass and down a winding side road.

“I got someone for you to talk to. But we can’t show her face. Gotta change her voice up too. You know how to do all a that?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m kinda learning as I go here.”

Inside a small, unremarkable house on the side of a hill, Henry adjusted lights behind Natasha Jenkins, a rail-thin woman with stringy brown hair and mangled teeth. She sat at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. “We sure appreciate you sharing your story, Natasha,” Jaclyn said.

“I ain’t wantin’ to show my face. And Henry said you could change up my voice too.” She looked back at him, seeking reassurance. From the other room, the electronic beeping of a video game blasted as Natasha’s son, Garrett, sat much too close to the screen.

Jaclyn placed her hand on Natasha’s knee. “Henry is setting up these lights, so we won’t be able to see your face. And I’ll alter your voice on the computer."

After a few minutes, they were ready to film. Henry gave a thumbs up and Jaclyn turned to Natasha. “Ma’am, we discussed previously about the new report on the effects of drug addicted babies. Do you care to share your experience with us?”

Natasha took a deep breath. “I never wanted to be on drugs. Not like I was there at the end, especially. I don’t think anybody would. I knew it was probably not good for my baby, but I just couldn’t stop. I wanted to. I did. But it was like a bear, sittin’ on my chest, digging sharp claws deep into my body. And I’ve regret it ever day since.”

Jaclyn nodded, trying to make Natasha feel comfortable and seen. “What about your son?"

“When I first looked at him, he was perfect. Still is. But there’s been problems, too. He supposed to be in the 7th grade, but he’s still in 5th. I held him back one year, and the school held him back a couple years after that. He has a hard time in school. Can’t sit still for long. My mama raised him for a couple years when I was gettin’ clean. But I figured he’d just grow out of the hyper stuff.” Her eyes filled with tears and she started sobbing. “He don’t deserve to be punished for my mistakes. I’m the one that messed up. I’m the one that did all a this bad stuff, and he has to pay the price. It’s all my fault.”

“Is there something you’d like to say to potential moms out there who are addicted?” Jaclyn asked.

“There is help. There is hope. You just gotta want it. My kids is my whole world and I have to live with the fact that I did ‘em wrong before they was even born. Don’t be like me. Get help. Right now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Right this second. Don’t do to your babies what I done to mine.”

Jaclyn hugged Natasha as Henry packed up the gear. “You are so brave and so strong,” Jaclyn said, with her arms wrapped around Teresa’s shoulders.

“I am what the Lord has made me. And I thank him every mornin’ for the gift of another day with Garrett and his sisters.”

Back at the station, Jaclyn instantly began editing. Over the next 12 hours, she cut, trimmed and overlaid footage, added music swells and tweaked audio to make the best story she possibly could. After a power nap and a shower, she was back at the station, scrambling to finish. “I owe these reporters an apology; this is more stressful than I remember,” she thought as she exported her video file.

At 5:57, she found herself standing on the set, ready to present her story live. The news graphics blasted onto the screen with dramatic music playing in the back. “Good evening, everyone, I’m Jim Morgan. Tonight’s top story is a troubling look at a national report that has implications right here in East Kentucky. Jaclyn Perez is here with more.”

The red light came on the top of Camera 3 clicked on and Jaclyn was live.