I Love Cordova — but the War on Drugs Is Still Killing the People I Grew Up With
Contributed by Joshua McHoes
A few days ago, someone I had known since kindergarten overdosed and died.
He was the first person who handed me a bag of weed. I was a teenager, and like most of us in Cordova back then, I was looking for a way to get by and deal with depression in a dark town. We weren’t close anymore. He’d taken a darker path — one that included hurting others, threatening people I care about, and lashing out over petty drama. Still, the news knocks the air out of me.
Because this keeps happening. Over and over.
I keep losing people I grew up with. And when they’re not dying, they’re turning on each other, drowning in addiction, caught in endless cycles of trauma and silence. I’m tired of it. Tired of watching people spiral while our community stays quiet. Tired of hearing the local radio jingle — “I love Cordova” — while another body drops.
Because I do love Cordova.
But I also hate what this town keeps putting us through.
The War That Never Ends
The War on Drugs isn’t history. It’s not something we survived. It’s still here. Quiet. Deadly. Wrapped in layers of shame, punishment, and denial.
I know this war well. I grew up inside it. I still wear my heart on my sleeve like I did as a kid — always trying to make people laugh, connect, and stand up for what’s right. But people didn’t see that. They saw a target. They spread rumors. Even adults — teachers included — judged me, tried to tear me down, and talked about me like I’m some lost cause before I even got a chance to become someone.
So I built walls. I toughened up. Not because I wanted to — but because I had to. Because it’s the only way to survive in a town where vulnerability makes you a victim.
I didn’t feel safe at school. But I still tried to speak up.
When my best friend — a young man of color — was being made an example of, I said something. I tried to call it out.
No one listened.
No one wants to see the systemic racism in their own backyard. No one wants to talk about the way the white savior complex operates in small-town Alaska — cloaking itself in performative concern while upholding the same structures of judgment, silence, and control.
What the War on Drugs Really Looks Like
This war doesn’t look like tanks and tear gas in Cordova. It looks like gossip. Like expulsions. Like kids being labeled instead of helped. Like trauma being punished instead of healed. It looks like another overdose. Another missed funeral. Another teacher looking the other way.
It looks like kindness being called weakness.
It looks like kids turning on each other to survive.
It looks like adults pretending the mountain air and close-knit community are enough to hold us together — while we quietly come apart.
Drugs aren’t the root of the problem here. They’re the symptom. The real issue is the pain no one talks about — the kind passed down, unspoken and untreated, for generations.
Cordova is beautiful. But it’s also deeply wounded. And some of those wounds have names.
From Cordova to the Capitol
Today, I’m older. I’ve gone from those dirt roads to the halls of power in Juneau. I was a legislative intern this past spring and have moved on to being a drug policy advocate working with the Marijuana Policy Project. I help push for decriminalization, harm reduction, and second chances.
But I have always carried Cordova with me every step of the way. And I carry the people I’ve lost — including the one who just died.
My work now is fueled by the heartbreak I’ve witnessed and lived because I know what happens when a town refuses to confront the damage it’s done.
I know what happens when a kid is told — over and over — that they’re the problem — until they believe it.
I know what happens when punishment is easier to find than help.
I know what happens when no one listens — until it's too late.
And I know that if we don’t make changes now, we’ll keep losing people — one by one — until there’s nothing left to love about Cordova but the ghosts.
What Cordova Needs
We don’t need more arrests. We don’t need more “tough love.” We don’t need to keep funneling resources into punishment while people overdose in silence.
We need counselors, not cops. We need compassion, not control. We need to stop hiding behind small-town pride and admit what’s really happening here.
We need to listen to the kids trying to speak up — before they stop trying.
I love Cordova. But I also see its flaws. Its silence. Its scars. And if we can’t admit those things, then we don’t really love it at all — we love a fantasy, a postcard version that ignores the pain behind the picture.
So let’s end the war — not just the failed policies, but the culture that sustains them. Let’s end the judgment. The isolation. The cycle.
Because I don’t want to write another one of these.
Because I’m tired of seeing obituaries instead of apologies.
Because I love Cordova.
But I won’t keep pretending this place loves us back until it chooses healing over punishment.