My mother smoked in the car wherever we went. Still does, though we no longer ride together. Always the gaping, brimming ashtray, unable to close, always the barely cracked window, the air system on defrost.
I grew up in a time when people knew smoking was bad for you. By then, there was no question, no debate. You could still smoke most places though we would avoid the smoking section of restaurants at my step-father's demand.
Even very young, I understood the culture had shifted and smoking wasn't something "nice people" did. I was embarrassed and disgusted that my mother smoked. When I went to sleepovers, I would take my pajamas out of the backpack and they smelled bad, even freshly washed. I wanted to shove them back in, I wanted to hide my home life from the rest of the world.
I once threw away my mother's cigarettes in a theatrical gesture, imagining her heart would break from my impassioned outburst and she would quit forever. I remember feeling bad about wasting the money already spent, throwing money in the trash, but I rationalized there was a larger principle at play. It had to be done. I felt scared and exhilarated to act on my beliefs. She asked me if I had seen them and I told her. She went to the garbage and retrieved them, went to the couch with a sigh and lit one, same as always. No comment or discussion, no repercussions for my behavior, no change.
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