The Oklahoman

DARE STICKS TO ITS OLD-SCHOOL APPROACH

- BY JESSICA CONTRERA

WEST BRIDGEWATE­R, MASS. — The class had covered bullying, internet safety and good decision-making, and by February, Officer Thaxter could see that the sixth-graders were ready. The morning bell rang. The 11- and 12-year-olds scooted their chairs closer to their desks, looking up at a dry-erase board where their teacher had written the agenda for the day: “D.A.R.E.”

The lights went off, and the projector went on.

“Today,” Officer Thaxter said, “we’re going to talk about marijuana.”

For 16 years, every elementary school student in this small town in Massachuse­tts has learned about drugs from Kenneth Thaxter. But this year, his lesson needed to change, and he was about to find out whether the students knew why.

“What do you know about marijuana?” he asked.

“It’s a drug,” a boy named Jack said.

“There are different names for it,” Cassidy said.

“There is medical and legal,” Luke said.

“It could actually save your life,” Chelsea said.

“OK, very good,” Thaxter said, and he began to explain.

Massachuse­tts had become one of eight states to legalize recreation­al marijuana, and in just a few months, anyone over 21 would be able to purchase it at dispensari­es nearby. This, he thought, was a confusing message to send to kids. They’d grown up knowing that drugs are bad. Now they were hearing from older siblings and maybe even their parents that weed is just a plant, and plants are good. It was up to Thaxter to convince them not to try it.

He pointed to a list on the screen. Difficulty concentrat­ing. Trouble problem-solving. Loss of coordinati­on and motor skills.

It was exactly the kind of lesson that DARE officially has distanced itself from. The policerun program on “Drug Abuse Resistance Education” was seemingly everywhere in the 1980s and ’90s. Then multiple studies showed that it did nothing to stop kids from doing drugs. In the 2000s, states slashed it from their budgets. It revamped its curriculum to focus less on drugs and more on smart decision-making. Still, it’s a shadow of its former self. In Massachuse­tts, which once had 800 DARE officers, 140 remain, including the one now asking his students: “Who likes roller coasters?”

Hands shot up around the room.

“You get up to the top, right before you go over the edge, that’s your body creating endorphins,” Thaxter said. “If you are using drugs to create endorphins, rather than doing it naturally, it’s very dangerous.”

He clicked to a slide titled, “What is addiction?”

And here was the core of his job. Was he going

to persuade the kids to never smoke weed? To “Just Say No” forever? Unlikely. But there was a far bigger drug problem outside these walls that he was hopeful — desperate, really — to do something about.

“When your body needs and craves a drug, and doesn’t get the drug, you become sick,” he explained.

Chelsea raised her hand. “Like if you use too much pills, you can overdose?”

“Yes,” Thaxter said. Prescripti­on pills had started the problem. Then it was heroin and fentanyl and carfentani­l, the opioids that killed 1,997 people in Massachuse­tts last year, some of them here in West Bridgewate­r. Overdoses had become an expected part of Thaxter’s shifts as a patrol officer. His colleagues had responded to one just the night before. In the next 48 hours, there would be two more.

Another hand went up. He always encouraged the students to share stories, as long as they said “someone I know” instead of the person’s name. This student wanted to tell the class how someone she knew had stolen money to pay for drugs.

“Yes, people become desperate,” Thaxter said. “That’s what addiction looks like.”

“Someone I know, he overdosed and he killed

himself,” the next sixthgrade­r said. Her dad had told her that his best friend was now gone. She kept that part to herself.

“I know someone, and he did drugs and stuff, and now he is homeless,” said another. Her parents had told her that she just wouldn’t be seeing her uncle anymore.

Thaxter nodded. His job was to ensure that none of these preteens would ever become like the “someone” they knew.

“Drugs have touched all of us. Everybody here could probably raise a hand,” he said, trying to get the students back on track. “So, here’s the thing. The teen brain is under constructi­on.”

An epidemic

He remembers the first overdose he responded to with Narcan, the nasal spray hailed as a lifesaving antidote to opioid overdoses. It was five years ago, when rampant abuse of the drugs still felt like something that happened in big cities, not “little bedroom communitie­s,” as Thaxter called this one. The woman lying unconsciou­s at his feet was a respected health care provider at the local hospital.

“What happened?” he remembers her asking when she was revived.

“Hon,” he said, “you overdosed.”

Now every police cruiser and fire truck in town is equipped with Narcan, and soon it will be in all the schools. That’s how a drug epidemic feels in West Bridgewate­r, population 7,000. It isn’t junkies on the side of the road, or skyrocketi­ng crime — but if you know where to look, it’s everywhere.

When Thaxter arrives at the police station in the mornings, there are fewer shoes lined up outside the cells — a sign not that fewer people have been arrested, but that the officers have taken them straight to the hospital, afraid that they will overdose.

His colleagues come back from their days off with stories of trying to go about their lives — getting gas, picking up their dry cleaning — when they glance into the cars in the parking lot and realize that they need to rescue someone.

Thaxter has made a habit of reading the obituary pages, looking for young faces.

“It almost looks like we’re at war,” he says. “I don’t ever remember seeing so many obituaries for people in their 20s. The picture, you can tell, they’re totally healthy and vibrant, and then it will say, ‘Died suddenly at home.’”

Now her schools are filled with people trying to make sure that others don’t end up the same way. “Ninety-nine percent of the time, they were really successful kids in school and had a bright future,” Oakley says.

Curriculum overhaul

“You want to blame something, blame MTV,” the president of Massachuse­tts DARE told a Boston Herald reporter in 1997. The country was in the middle of a contentiou­s debate over its best-known drugreduct­ion effort. Study after public health study had concluded that DARE did not decrease drug use among students and may have even increased it. Politician­s and police argued that the program’s benefits, such as

familiariz­ing students with law enforcemen­t, couldn’t be quantified.

By 2002, Massachuse­tts had eliminated $4.3 million in funding for the program. That same year, the West Bridgewate­r chief of police called Ken Thaxter into his office and said, “You have kids, right?” and with that, he became the town’s DARE officer.

Nationally, the program scrambled to fix itself. The curriculum was overhauled. DARE’s mascot, Daren the Lion — chosen in the 1990s, when “The Lion King” was really popular — stayed the same, but what he preached changed. By 2010, DARE had taken the word “drugs” out of its mission statement; the program’s goal is now to “teach students good decision making skills to help them lead safe and healthy lives.”

But last summer, when DARE leaders met in Texas, their highest-profile speaker was fonder of what the program used to be. “DARE is the best-remembered antidrug

program,” Attorney General Jeff Sessions told the officers. “Your DARE team is ready to meet this next challenge. Just like you did in the 1980s and ’90s.”

Dominic DiNatale, the current head of Massachuse­tts DARE, heard about the speech but didn’t watch it or read it. In the past year, his state has been working to introduce marijuana retail sales and combat the opioid epidemic all at once. Some districts that had eliminated their DARE programs contacted him, asking what it would take to get it back.

With no state funding, he answers, it frequently requires a local police department, which may already be low on resources, to be willing

to forgo a patrol officer. It requires principals who are under pressure to get students to pass standardiz­ed tests to give up teaching time.

The glory days of DARE, it seemed to DiNatale, were long gone. The program’s success would come down to the DARE officers who were left.

Posing a question

“Here’s the problem,” Officer Thaxter told the students at the end of his lesson. “You’re at a party. Some of the kids there are smoking marijuana. OK? Nobody has really asked you to try it, but it’s available. What do you do?”

He paced at the front of the room while the class worked in groups to figure

it out. “OK,” he said. “What are you going to do?”

He posed the question to three more sixthgrade classes that day, 92 students in all.

“All right, guys, you did a great job,” he told the last class, and then the bell rang and the students ran for the buses that would take them to places where, one day, they would make a choice about what parts of DARE they would listen to, and what they would ignore.

Thaxter thanked the science teacher and left the building. From the front door, he could see three houses where he had responded to overdoses. He got into his car. In three weeks, he would be back for another lesson.

 ?? [PHOTO BY JAMIE COTTEN, FOR THE WASHINGTON POST] ?? Ken Thaxter talks to a sixth-grade class at Howard Elementary School about the perils of drug use. Because of the opioid crisis, many of the students are already familiar with the consequenc­es of drug abuse.
[PHOTO BY JAMIE COTTEN, FOR THE WASHINGTON POST] Ken Thaxter talks to a sixth-grade class at Howard Elementary School about the perils of drug use. Because of the opioid crisis, many of the students are already familiar with the consequenc­es of drug abuse.
 ??  ?? ABOVE: The national DARE program has dropped any mention of drugs from its mission statement, but not Ken Thaxter. “It almost looks like we’re at war,” he says of the opioid crisis in his community.
ABOVE: The national DARE program has dropped any mention of drugs from its mission statement, but not Ken Thaxter. “It almost looks like we’re at war,” he says of the opioid crisis in his community.
 ?? [PHOTOS BY JAMIE COTTEN, FOR THE WASHINGTON POST] ?? LEFT: Thaxter has been the DARE officer in West Bridgewate­r, Massachuse­tts, since 2002. Massachuse­tts faces a major opioid epidemic, but it recently legalized marijuana, making Thaxter’s job that much more challengin­g.
[PHOTOS BY JAMIE COTTEN, FOR THE WASHINGTON POST] LEFT: Thaxter has been the DARE officer in West Bridgewate­r, Massachuse­tts, since 2002. Massachuse­tts faces a major opioid epidemic, but it recently legalized marijuana, making Thaxter’s job that much more challengin­g.
 ??  ?? Ken Thaxter stands outside Howard Elementary. About 40 cities and towns in Massachuse­tts still support the DARE program, but where there were once 800 officers, only 140 remain today.
Ken Thaxter stands outside Howard Elementary. About 40 cities and towns in Massachuse­tts still support the DARE program, but where there were once 800 officers, only 140 remain today.

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