A few days ago, one of my friends emailed me a recent newsletter from the Marijuana Policy Project. And we started to get excited about what we read.
We had been talking about the number of states that had compassionate laws on the books—as we go to print, the total is 16 states, plus Washington D.C.—when we started to share our ideas about what we thought the future would hold for our nation’s MMJ community. How many more states would become 420 states? We have red states, we’ve got blue states—but how many green states will we have in the next few year? We have 16 now—but how many by next year? Or by 2020 for that matter? I grew up at a time before medical cannabis laws were even a twinkle in anyone’s eye—way, way, waaay before Proposition 215 blazed a trail for all of us. But my children (my son is 10, my daughter 3 months) will grow up never knowing a country without compassionate states.
But what we read in the MPP Insider blew our minds. The organization’s lofty goal? Pretty ambitious: 27 states by 2014—almost a dozen more than we currently have right now as I type these words.
Twenty-seven states in the next two years. Twenty-seven states. More than half of the country.
But my friend insisted that this was nothing. All 50 states—yup, that’s what he’s talkin‘ ’bout.
Now a guy in my position is naturally gonna be a staunch MMJ advocate—but all 50 states? Was I being a pessimist? Could the whole country really go green sooner rather than later?
Then I started to think about this past Fourth of July. Now, I’m no Founding Father hugger, but I had to admit that those old dudes with the powdered wigs were pretty ballsy. Those guys must have looked at each other back in 1776 and thought, “This is crazy! There’s no way this is gonna work. There’s no way we can stand up to authority because we want to control our own destiny, run our own show, call our own shots, decide for ourselves how to run our lives. This is crazy!”
A bunch of gaiters- and spats-wearing colonists spitting on some British boots? Suicide.
Well, we all know how that ended. And here we are, 235 years later, celebrating the fact that a handful of brave—and maybe crazy—guys decided to tackle a giant. To do the impossible. To make . . . history.
So, I owe my friend an apology (Sorry, Dave.). Why did I doubt you? Why was I a Debbie Downer? I realize now that it’s OK to be crazy—at the right time.
I’m sure that by now you’ve heard about that very interesting bill proposed by congressmen Ron Paul and Barney Frank.
See, history’s made every day. And you, my friends, are part of it.
