Writing in The Bold Italic, Sarah Browne describes her first year as a medical cannabis patient:
I was never a pothead. Even during the psychedelic ’70s in Madison, Wisconsin, my poison of choice was bourbon. Or beer on Badger game days. While many of my friends were stoners, I stayed firmly in the Tequila Sunrise/Singapore Sling camp, sorority girl that I was. It took me a full 38 years to bloom into the cannabis evangelist I am today.
It’s been one full year since I was ushered into this surprisingly complex, frenetically evolving world of weed. Since then, my cranky has disappeared, my energy has mightily rebounded, and I look forward every evening to my chocolate Kiva nightcap. In a sense, natural cannabis has helped reset my body back to its natural rhythms. My brain approves.
Beyond these very real personal health benefits, though, there’s another thing that has completed my transformation to cannabis evangelist.
One Saturday, I stood in line at Oakland’s Harborside Health Center, surrounded by the proverbial melting pot of patients — black, white, brown, young, old. Grandmas. Millennials. Baby boomers. Vets. Mill Valley moms in their Kate Spades. They were the living, vaping, smoking, nibbling embodiment of Harborside Health Center’s mission: a “dedication to changing the perception of cannabis to one of wellness and healing.”
Once you hear the stories — many tragic, many uplifting — of the decades of struggle and devotion by cannabis pioneers, your slumbering sense of social justice wakes the hell up. We’ve endured 70 years of misinformation, propaganda, injustice and drug-war rhetoric over what? A plant whose very name in Latin means useful?
Enough of this nonsense. I’m a cannabis evangelist. Who’s with me?