In the past few months, I've had an opportunity to speak to students at a high school for adults in Minnesota and criminal defendants in the judicial system in Texas. The students know almost nothing about addiction. The felons know everything. They're at opposite ends of the spectrum that separates fiction from fact. And both are crucial to changing the debate about alcoholism and drug addiction in America.

At the Lehmann Center School, in a gritty Minneapolis neighborhood of emigrants from all over the world, older students striving to get their high-school diplomas never had heard about alcoholism or drug dependence from somebody who was addicted. Recovery rarely, if ever, is discussed openly in the countries they came from. Their experience is limited to what they've seen since arriving here, and it is not good.

They wrote thank you notes to me after my visit to their class in May.

"I never knew this disease called addiction is real and needs treatment like other diseases," wrote Suchi Ali, a Somali immigrant. "I thought people who do drugs are bad people and they choose to be that way. After your visit you changed my attitude and my feelings of discrimination that I had about them."

Giovanny Mora is from Colombia, where the cocaine cartels reign in spite of a U.S.-funded war on drugs that has all but failed over the decades. He already knows the violence and crime. He never saw the solution:

"I can understand better how bad drugs and alcohol can affect our lives, especially for people like you," he told me. "In my heart, I never before have sympathy for drug addicts until I listen to your story. Now I see this from another side from your vivid experiences."

Nearly all of the students shared with me that their neighborhoods around Minneapolis are rife with alcohol and drug problems. They've seen the homeless people, the harassing panhandlers on the street corners, and they've tried to steer clear of the crime while they themselves work hard to make it in their new country.

"Before I hear your story I think the only way to deal with these problems is to put them in jail," wrote Essotom, from Togo. "There are hundreds of thousands of new people who can be saved (with treatment)."

The Dallas County Judicial Treatment Center is one place where such people are being punished, but they also are being given a chance to find help. It's in the tiny town of Wilmer, Texas, where I spent many idyllic summers on my grandparents' farm when I was a kid. In January, I went back to find common ground with strangers just like me, sharing my story and listening to theirs.

"What you told me about yourself, your struggles, your falling down and getting back up and finally making it, gives me strength and hope to make it too," said Linda P., who was facing felony theft charges but given a chance by the judge to avoid prison time, provided she successfully completes the treatment program. "I've done bad things, I know. But I am a decent woman who doesn't have to do drugs any more in my life."

She was not alone. I heard the same story over and over again that night and in letters they wrote later. Her story was Jim's story, and his story was Deana's story, and her story was mine.

"Sir, you've inspired me to get my life together so I can go back home to Dallas and tell people what I've gone through to help them like you helped me," wrote DeShawn J. "Your message is about helping ourselves by helping others."

From the classroom to the courtroom, it is time to talk openly about addiction. The practical lessons of intimate knowledge can help to overcome public ignorance. There is a lot to learn.

William C. Moyers is the vice president of external affairs for the Hazelden Foundation and the author of "Broken," a best-selling memoir. The paperback edition was released in August 2007. Please send your questions to William Moyers at William@WilliamMoyers.com. To find out more about William Moyers and read his past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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