Stigma and Survival in the Shining City
Hunter Biden Speaks to the Silent Struggle That Killed My Friend
A Quick Note:
I first published Stigma and Survival in the Shining City exclusively on Medium back in November 2023. As I move away from that platform in May 2025, there are a few pieces I feel too strongly about to leave behind — and this is one of them. It’s personal, it’s painful, and it’s still just as important to me today.
Thanks for reading. —AG
Let me be clear: I hold no brief for Hunter Biden.
He is a troubled, controversial figure in a family that I see as genuinely good people. And I’m not here to argue about politics, mostly because Hunter Biden is not a politician. He is an addict.
And he just said a couple of things that brought me back to the friend I just lost:
“I am not a victim. By any standard, I grew up with privilege and opportunity, and fully accept that the choices and mistakes I made are mine, and I am accountable for them and will continue to be. That is what recovery is about.
What troubles me is the demonization of addiction, of human frailty, using me as its avatar and the devastating consequences it has for the millions struggling with addiction, desperate for a way out and being bombarded by the denigrating and near-constant coverage of me and my addiction on Fox News (more airtime than GOP presidential candidate Ron DeSantis) and in The New York Post (an average of two stories a day over the past year).”
Biden, a son of privilege who had his share of grief and loss, nearly killed himself with drugs and alcohol. My friend Robert just lost a similar battle.
Let me tell you about him.
First and foremost, Robert, as my editor, would insist that I mention his brilliance. He attended Oberlin and subsequently worked for Microsoft. He had numerous friends who admired his intelligence, kindness, and wit. His usual plea for me to note his devilish good looks further underscores this point. By any measure, Robert was successful.
Until he wasn’t.
In high school, we had some adventures in drama club and on the debate team. His acerbic wit made up for his utter lack of acting ability all the same — making him a pal. We put together an underground newspaper, which bought us a week in detention and dare I say the silent respect of much of the faculty. I viewed myself as a clever young man, but Robert was legitimately smart, as in high I.Q. Like me, he had a sarcastic streak in him, but also a rich — though usually well-hidden — vein of genuine care for other people.
We often felt we were a bit too sophisticated for the usual school antics — dismissive of what we termed “stupid stuff.” Admittedly, that attitude sometimes led to monotony, like on the night of our high school graduation. With not much on our agenda, we found ourselves driving around, spotting the cars of the typical jocks undoubtedly getting lit and laid inside the bland walls of the local La Quinta.
Up to that moment, I had remained abstinent from alcohol, reserving that inevitable first sip for my college years. Robert, on the other hand, had taken a liking to the “wacky tobacky” at his school. When he came over to visit me and my roommate a year or so later, an undercurrent of restlessness was palpable in him.
As the visit progressed, the stark contrast between our past and present selves became evident: life had indeed changed dramatically in just one year. We irritated one another. As the weekend concluded, our parting words lacked profundity: other than a bro hug, he made a last dig at the glorified shack I lived in, punctuated by a cursory “take it easy.”
The twists and turns of life took us apart, but thanks to that disgraceful blight on the body politic, Facebook, our paths crossed again.
Robert had moved on from job to job, finally setting on running his own editing and writing service. He had moved on from marijuana and hinted at using stronger stuff. I didn’t press.
He later took on the role of editor for many of my novels. His prowess in developmental editing was commendable, yet he occasionally faltered when it came to deadlines. At times, his typical attention to detail seemed to slip. In introspection, I believe there were moments when he might’ve given less than his best, compensating for his lapse in scrutiny with overly generous compliments.
“You really don’t need to do much with this,” he said about one draft, returning a sparsely marked-up manuscript that clearly needed more work. I got somebody else to look it over who validated my concerns.
I wasn’t upset — just let down because I sensed he was manipulating me. Further instances, like when his electric bike was either stolen, required fixing, or faced some semi-serious issues that needed financial assistance, came and went. After encountering such scenarios about three times, I resolved not to offer him money, especially when he seemed incapable of looking after that damned bike…if you catch my drift.
Don’t get me wrong: when he was sober and not faking it, working off his debt to society after robbing two banks on a bicycle (with no weapons, I might add), he would be manically great at editing as well as a delight to speak with.
One such occasion was in 2018 when he was a captivating guest on the Mysterious Goings On podcast. He discussed the book he authored on avoiding incarceration and the crimes that made him a guest in the Greybar Hotel more than once. During the segment, he candidly delved into his personal challenges, experiences behind bars, life in a halfway house, and his motivation behind the book he wrote to assist others in steering clear of prison.
Money was always an issue, given that the terms of his parole and the conditions he set for himself ruled out any high-paying jobs. He typically worked at a Subway or ran a Mercari store from home. It never appeared to be a source of embarrassment, but I suspect it might have stung now and then.
Even so, Robert seemed to be really good for a good long while; like he was at peace with who he was.
Until he wasn’t.
We hadn’t had much deep conversation in a while until he sent me a DM with his outrage:
Here’s my thing with Hunter Biden. Stipulate that every bad thing said about him by any person ever is all true. Trust me, just stipulate it. OK, now look at his life. His guilty, guilty life. I still come out of it feeling unbelievably sorry for the guy. He fucked off a good life, horribly, because of traumas that nobody should experience and, granted, choices that were bad. But he hasn’t gone around hurting people and breaking the world, he’s just been a creep and a fuckup. Who could look at this guy and think “he should be in prison forever!!!” and not “those poor bastards, what a fucked-up situation”? WHO?
Recovering from the surprise of Robert standing up for a Democrat — given that Robert identified as a compassionate Libertarian — I countered that Hunter was merely a pawn used by bad people to dirty up the president. Robert then responded:
It’s hateful. Exactly. Your enemy has a son who is a tire fire. Did the enemy DO it? Hate him for that, then, if you must. But we know he didn’t. He’s just a man with a fuckup for a son. Where is the basic human decency? Where is the basic pity?
And then he wrote the last words I ever received from him:
As a one-off? OK. You joke about the guy being a POS, you score your point. You’re not a great human but you’re not Hitler. This is some Hitler shit.
Robert rarely invoked “Hitler” during our debates. An adherent to Godwin’s Law, he didn’t need to. He was too smart. Invoking the H-word indicated that he was speaking from his heart, from that vein of caring. And of being wounded by what he probably dealt with every day of his addicted life. Scorn, judgment, humiliation.
I’ll never know to what extent the stigma of being an addict hindered Robert’s sobriety efforts. But it didn’t help. Who among us doesn’t harbor a desperate, hidden secret? An addiction or compunction or malfunction we are terrified the world will find out about?
No wait — it’s not the finding out that is terrifying.
It is the cruelty. It is the shaming. The utter lack of humanity. Dry kindling and kerosene, just waiting for social media and a click-addicted news media to offer up matches to the pitchforks and torches crowd.
Robert had a great group of friends and a long-suffering, but kind family that tried to help him. Anthony Bourdain did, too. Matthew Perry. Bourdain and Biden had it all; the former took a way out, and the latter struggles every day. The jury is still out on what happened to Perry. The death grip addiction has on millions is aided and abetted by the stark lack of empathy.
Hunter Biden appears to have a good support group. I wish him well. But I fear for this country, where human suffering is viewed as cheap sport, drawing witless — and heartless — catcalls from the sidelines.
In a society where addiction battles are ridiculed, where is our collective empathy? Whether it’s a celebrity chef, the president’s son, or my dear friend Robert, the judgment they face is a mirror of our societal values.
We’re supposed to be better than this. Because the United States of America was and will forever be “a shining city on a hill.”
Until, perhaps, it isn’t.
If you or someone you know is struggling with substance abuse or addiction, you can call the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration National Helpline at 800–662-HELP (4357) any time of day or night.