Overdose deaths up by 200% in Charlotte’s Black communities. ‘It’s ruining my life’

James Patton overdosed on fentanyl in a park just a few weeks ago. 

As an on-and-off cocaine user for more than 40 years, he was familiar with the white, powdery substance and the “good feeling” he got when it entered his system. 

But that day the cocaine overtook him with an unfamiliar sensation. He started to feel hot, then dizzy and the next thing he knew he was out cold. 

Someone around him injected him with a Naloxone he picked up from Hajee House Harm Reduction — the first Black-led harm reduction organization in Mecklenburg County. Without it, the 60-year-old Charlotte native said he wouldn’t be here. 

Fentanyl being laced into his cocaine as he was so unsuspecting scared him, he said. 

“I don’t know what fentanyl is,” he said, recalling the experience. “I’ve never done it. Never saw it.”

Earlier this year, Mecklenburg County released an alarming figure — from 2019 to 2023, overdose deaths in the county’s Black and brown communities had increased by more than 200%. Patton is one of hundreds who’ve overdosed largely from fentanyl and other opioids permeating the local drug supply. This is while overdose deaths in white communities increased by 25%.

Historically, rural white communities have been at the forefront of conversations about opioids as pharmaceutical companies targeted their communities. But minimal attention on people of color has led to lack of education and awareness that has left these communities ill-equipped to tackle this crisis’ grip, local advocates say.

Local harm reduction organizations and the county are working to fill the gaps. But one of the main challenges, advocates say, is convincing communities of color to release themselves from the shame and stigma surrounding opioids and fully acknowledge their impact. 

“It’s an addiction that they never ever felt before,” said Terica Carter, founder of Hajee House Harm Reduction. “We have people that do heroin. We have people that did crack all their life. Fentanyl is a thing that holds you so tight that they’ve never seen before. So once they get it, it’s hard to shake it.” 

A desire for education

On Dr Webber Avenue off Beatties Ford Road, a mix of 90s and 2000s R&B — D’Angelo, Musiq Soulchild and Frankie Beverly — blasts through the speakers of a flat screen TV. White folding tables prop up aluminum foil containers of hot food. And cardboard boxes overflow with gently used clothes. 

Every Thursday up to 60 people come to Hajee House Harm Reduction’s headquarters for a hot meal, clothes and a re-up on their supply of Narcan. Carter started the organization five years ago after losing her son, Tahajan Carter, to an accidental fentanyl overdose. 

Her desire as the first Black-led harm reduction organization in Mecklenburg County was to educate her community and give them tools that she wishes she had before her son passed. But looking at the recent stats, Carter can’t help but think that if the Black community was made aware of how opioids were impacting them sooner, how different things would have been. 

Between 2019 and 2023, 665 Black and brown people died from an overdose, according to data from the county. More than 3,200 experienced a non-fatal overdose. This increase in overdose deaths and non-fatal overdoses is largely linked to illicit substances being intentionally or unintentionally laced with fentanyl or the sharing of prescription medications, said Dr. Raynard Washington, director of the Mecklenburg County Public Health Department. 

Over an 18 year period, the county will receive $73 million from the 2021 national opioid settlement to combat the epidemic in the community. The first $10.9 million has been used to support Naloxone distribution, evidence-based addiction treatment, recovery support services and more. 

But when Carter’s son died in 2018 she had no idea about the rising stats in her community. She had little knowledge about opioids or the signs of overdoses. And in the places she sought support during that difficult time she was one of a few Black faces in a sea of white ones. 

She vividly remembers attending an opioid awareness event at Pritchard Church in 2020. Out of the 200 attendees, she was one of three that were Black. It was here she began to realize the education gaps in her communities when it came to opioids.

“The Black community was unaware of it. We thought it was just some poison,” Carter said of fentanyl. “Later on, in the year 2019 we started losing friends and family. When my son passed, the people that were around him did not know what to do. And if I was there, I wouldn’t have known what to do... So when we start seeing a lot of people pass it, it would just hit me in the gut, like, “Oh my God, and we got to do something.”

When it comes to drug use, Black and brown people have historically not been afforded the same access to quality social determinants of health — including education, said Lauren Kestner, director of Queen City Harm Reduction. The solutions exist, but the key is creating environments where these solutions can be supported. 

“How do we motivate and how do people really become willing to take a hard look at their communities around them?” she said. “I think it comes back to again, education, more community listening sessions, more engagement.” 

Today, Carter unabashedly shares her son’s story and finds ways to equip her community with information that could save lives. Each month she hands out about 240 Narcan doses through her weekly events, and in August, she will host her second opioid awareness rally. 

“I just wanted to educate our people,” she said. “After I got into harm reduction, it gave me a space to feel a part of something not so embarrassing (or to feel) shame from losing a son from an overdose.” 

A taboo topic

Getting communities of color to overcome the stigma and shame they associate with overdosing and fentanyl is another thing, Carter said. 

In many circles of the Black community the topic is taboo, Carter said. 

“We, as Black people, did not want our kids to overdose. We thought overdosing and heroin was a white drug, some stuff white kids did. So we watched them go through the epidemic of kids dying, and we looked at them like they were crazy, because we didn’t take pills and we didn’t do those types of things.” 

But the numbers show that this crisis doesn’t discriminate. In her advocacy she tries to break through the barrier of shame, and stress the importance of the community being prepared. 

“That’s why I stepped up for our community to talk about it. It was shame and embarrassing for me, but I took that hard conversation, put it on a platform,” she said. “I let you talk and ask me and see me. See the hurt. I cry sometimes at events. I get to meetings and I get choked up because it’s real, you know. But that’s why I fight so hard, because we did not want to acknowledge it, talk about it, or say anything about no damn fentanyl.” 

There is also a God factor that contributes to the shame and stigma these communities of color experience, Kestner said. These communities are deeply religious, which can create a barrier when trying to educate about opioids. 

“God and science can exist,” she said. “You know they’re not mutually exclusive … What I really emphasize to the people I get to engage with is science and data and real life issues can also exist. Because for all of the things we don’t want to see, how are we going to pretend these issues aren’t happening and also protect our children and really know how to lean into God?” 

Antonio McCall comes to Hajee House often to pick up clothes and new doses of Narcan. Just this month, a Narcan he had stowed away in his backpack saved the life of one of his friends who overdosed. 

While he’s grateful to be educated about fentanyl and how to respond if someone around him were to overdose, he doesn’t feel like it’s talked about enough. People overdose so much it’s almost become normal. 

He thinks of his 6-year-old son. “I don’t want him growing up around it,” he said. “I want him to be around people that wouldn’t give him something like that.” 

Sick and tired of being sick and tired

James Patton wants to get clean. 

As the father of nine and grandfather of 18 he said he desires a life free from addiction. He wants to see his grandchildren grow and watch the youngest graduate.

But cocaine, he said, is ruining his life. He works hard in the home improvement business but he’s homeless and has a strained relationship with his family. 

Patton’s desire to try cocaine nearly four decades ago was driven by curiosity, he said. But the interest has become a grip on his life that’s hard to escape. And now knowing fentanyl has made its way into the mix scares him. 

“Some people say you don’t have to have this,” he said of cocaine. “Yes you do. Once you get it in your system good and you’re doing it, you have to have it just to get going, you know? Do I like it? Yeah, I like it. Do I love it? Do I want to keep doing it? No. Because it’s ruining my life.” 

He’s been looking into long-term programs — hoping to find one that is welcoming and doesn’t write off his mistakes as a lack of commitment but an extension of his humanity. 

“I’m about at the point where I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired,” he said. “It’s time for me to come in off the streets. It’s time for me to get into some kind of program. To do something it’s really that time for me.”

This story was originally published July 28, 2025 at 5:00 AM.