When you’re a minority and you say you work in cannabis, or with cannabis, everyone automatically thinks you’re trapping.
Growing up I saw my dad go back and forth to prison for years. I never asked why or what he did; I just knew he went, and I was glad when he came home.
In May of 2007, when I was in 5th grade, he got out. He came to pick me up (from school?) in a red 2005 Chevy Cavalier that was filled with smoke. My 2 brothers were in the backseat. I would usually only see them during holidays, or visiting my grandma in prison. She was not there for weed. By then any stigma was gone, I was immune to it. I knew what it was forever because my mom and other family members frequently smoked it, but I had never seen an adult smoke like, right next to me, in plain sight—and while driving, at that. I remember asking him, “You can just smoke anywhere and everywhere?” He proceeded to pull out a laminated paper card and explain to my 11 year old self how he’s prescribed it, and that I needed to “stay in a fuckin’ kids place.” That was that.
Needless to say I proceeded to watch him roll countless swishers, all while driving with his kneecap, on our way up to Hanford, California. The whole time we’re listening to his old cellmate Messy Marv on repeat. I knew this drive like the back of my hand from all those prison trips for my grandma, so I sat back and turned on my PSP to watch Lords of Dogtown while loads of PomPom smoke was being blown from my dad’s mouth, through the steering wheel, bouncing off the blowing AC vent, right …
Read More
Author: Hesh J. / High Times
