Endless numbers of books and articles have explored the impact of crack cocaine on America's urban culture, particularly black culture. By contrast, far less is known about how speed (methamphetamine) has affected white, blue-collar culture. As speed replaces cocaine as the drug of choice in many metropolitan regions, PNS special correspondent Alisa Moore writes of her own experiences growing up in a household dominated by crank. Due to family privacy concerns, she is writing under a pseudonym.

SAN FRANCISCO -- Growing up, my mother, my younger sister and I shuttled back and forth from San Diego to Portland, Oregon where my stepfather cooked and transported "crystal meth."

Methamphetamine, crank, speed -- whatever you choose to call it -- is predominantly a white, blue-collar drug . It's cheap and usually home-made as anyone with basic chemistry-set skills can cook up a batch in a couple of hours. It offers a long-lasting high at a fraction of the price of cocaine.

Eventually, we moved to a small town outside of Portland to get away from San Diego's druggy scene. But it didn't take long for my stepfather to hook up with some guys he'd met in California -- including one former nurse who was cooking huge quantities of crystal meth in a barn on the outskirts of town.

Once my stepfather got caught up in the business, we didn't see much of him.

My mother tried to keep his business away from the house but the money was too good to turn down. She was too proud to use food stamps, though we were eligible, but within a few months there was a new metallic-blue Porsche in the driveway, two brand new red scooters for us and a Harley Davidson motorcycle with orange flames for my stepfather. We accepted our gifts with thanks. We knew better than to ask questions.

Then my stepfather's friends got busted and everything started to cave in.

Two brown vans full of U.S. Marshals pulled me over as I was leaving the high school parking lot with a car full of friends. They had no idea what was going on -- my face burned with embarrassment as one marshal flipped photo after photo for me to identify and asked questions in rude tones. Some of the faces looked familiar but I kept my mouth shut.

Everyone gawked and stared, and I wanted to at least drive out of range of the school but that was impossible until, finally, they let me go. After that I was regarded with a suspicion and curiosity -- the weirdo from California.

The cops were tightening the circle, so my stepfather -- who kept a suitcase filled with money in my sister's closet knowing this would probably happen -- disappeared. One night, my mother got a call telling her to go get all his electronic gear before the cops confiscated it. After that we each had our own stereo and television.

Meth can make you into an obsessive freak, the ultimate consumer. My stepfather became obsessed with musical instruments and weapons -- rifles, knives, French horns, and guitars cluttered our house. He could not stop consuming. In this sense, crystal meth is the perfect American drug. It gives you the energy to work a second job, makes you endlessly fascinated with consumer gadgets.

It's hard enough to be functional within a family under any circumstances, but when a family member is an addict it is impossible. The web of lies grew so thick it was impossible to tell what the truth was. I think my mother felt guilty about our "unconventional" lifestyle -- but also defiant because she needed the money to keep us afloat. Somehow she managed to keep some semblance of a middle class family life. We always had a roof over our heads and clean clothes.

My sister and I dealt with our stepfather's activities in very different ways. Mostly I stayed away from home. I spent a lot of my time reading or lost in my own head -- so much so, that it's hard for me to remember a lot of things. I hardly ever spoke to my stepfather, though secretly I wanted his approval. Our real father had remarried and was busy rebuilding a new life in San Diego. We had a cordial long-distance relationship over the phone, but he knew little of our lives, and we offered little information.

My younger sister, in contrast, looked up to my stepfather. She was always angry. She skipped school and hung out at the river doing countless hits of acid. The police started to come by as often for her as they did for my stepfather.

We were both aimless, floating -- only I receded inward into books and daydreaming and she rebelled outward with drugs and shoplifting.

After my stepfather went on the lam we took circuitous long distance car trips to visit him on holidays. One Christmas it was a motel in Phoenix. My sister and I swam all day in the pool enjoying the sun while he and my mother stayed hidden in their dark motel room like vampires surrounded by empty liquor bottles and loads of suitcases erupting with musical instruments, jewelry, cowboy boots from Mexico.

Those many long car rides zig-zagging across the western states were the few times we felt close like a family. My mother would be happy because somewhere along the road we'd meet up with my stepfather. But the other day when I mentioned my fond memories of these car trips to my sister, she laughed till she nearly cried. "Those were drug runs, dummy," she said.

This should not have surprised me, but it did. Mostly, I was embarrassed for being so clueless -- would my mother really put us at risk like that? There's no way I can discuss this with her, so it's my sister's memories versus my own. It also made me realize how my childhood has formed me as an adult -- my imagination is so strong that I can completely block things out.

Eventually, my stepfather got caught and went to jail, but when he was let out early for good behavior, he continued doing meth and other drugs because his addiction was so strong. I should add that my stepfather could be one of the most wonderful and fun people you'd ever want to be around. I've often noticed that addicts can have wonderful larger-than-life personalities. The only problem is they can't keep their demons at bay forever.

Three years ago my stepfather died, not from an overdose but from driving home drunk from a bar.

Now, I worry about my sister and her four-year-old son. He was born with drugs in his system but he seems to be a bright and healthy child. Everyday, my sister fights the impulse to do meth just as my stepfather did for so many years. I've always been afraid to try it. I hear that meth is even more potent now than it was in my stepfather's day. I hope we can break the cycle.