Legalization of cannabis in Canada represents a move neither to accept the herb as part of normal life, nor to accept its consumers as normal people. It is, rather, an attempted trade deal; it attempts to trade legalization for the extinguishing of cannabis culture: the medical, intellectual and spiritual dimensions of the cannabis experience. Bill C-45 allows would-be consumers to purchase dried cannabis legally. But in return, and on pain of prosecution, they must purchase in a way that calls on none of their experience, and as little of their intelligence as possible. Consumers that are renters must accept that they may never be accorded a safe or pleasant harbour for consumption. Property owning consumers must agree to live with the fact that C-45 deepens the class-divide between property-owning and non property-owning Canadians, a divide that was scary enough before this law. Consumers that are patients must accept, in addition, the continued prohibition of concentrates and edibles, and a possible loss of the compassion club that has become essential to their health.
Bill C-45, allows retailers to sell cannabis legally. But in return, on pain of arrest, they must model themselves after the post office clerk, who shares with the customer a bond of ignorance; neither knows much about the package changing hands. (Of course, at the post office ignorance serves the interest of privacy. What purpose does it serve here?) If retailers are directors of compassion clubs, they must model themselves similarly, or prepare to face yet another court challenge. If they are general retailers with City licenses acquired before C-45, they must decide to swallow the post office model, or dream up a viable alternative. Back to pop-up markets maybe? If they are growers, they can sell legally. But in return, on pain of facing criminal charges, they must agree to cut all contact with customers, and sell to a central warehouse only. This exchange means no enduring customer relations; no clear grower identity; no exchanges of knowledge. C-45 allows Canadians to consume cannabis. But if they are drivers, they must submit to willfully unreliable drug testing. The list goes on. This week I ran a thought experiment, and strolled through Day One of Legal Bud, courtesy of Bill C-45. Here, in five scenes, plus commentary, is how it looked to me.
Scene One.
I am disoriented. I am used to being able to place my nose close to an open jar, the better to inhale the product’s terpenes. Has this clerk heard of terpenes? I am used to being able to look at a bud, under magnification if I choose. I am used to retailers who know the products, and are competent to discuss the effects of the strains on offer. These are not trivial conditions; they are the observational methods by which I have learned to judge what would suit me. What a strange way to buy agricultural produce, like buying apples in locked box, which I can see only when I’m back home. I will avoid shopping here if I can.
The large licensed producers have for some time, been predicting shortages. We’ll run out of product in a week, they’ve said. But this shop has few customers. Experienced buyers, for now, are choosing buy where their experience counts for something. Potential new buyers have been scared off by the warnings: they could become psychotic, addicted, or lung-damaged. I have senior citizen friends that have never tried cannabis, who have said as much. The place is eerie. If this pace keeps up, the new shop will soon be out of business.
Scene Two.
Next, I visit my compassion club. On Day One it is business as usual: visible buds, extracts, cookies, salves, and a steady stream of visitors. But the atmosphere is tense. Will the by-law officers visit? Will the police arrive? Will they perhaps leave us alone? The employees do not plan to break ties with trusted growers, or to turn themselves into robo-clerks. But the director does not look forward to trouble. He’s been at this for over twenty years, and has already endured four arrests, and a major court case. He’s tired. He wonders if it’s best to remain quiet, or to advertise the club’s non-compliance. He wonders if there is even a choice. The patients, who are accustomed to a cheerier ambiance, make their purchases and leave, worried and confused. They haven’t had to worry like this for over ten years. I leave, trying to imagine a good fund raising scheme. We’ll probably need it.
Scene Three.
Cannabis calls for a sofa, a cup of tea, and music. I am wondering if I could set a up sofa on the sidewalk, play my banjo, and vape. A sidewalk vape band might appeal.
Scene Four.
Scene Five.
Is C-45 good? At this juncture, I say it is a move forward. But as it stands, it is heavily punitive, and depressingly moronic. Happily, it is so riddled with contradiction that we will soon have regulation quagmires, regional uproar, and much litigation. Cannabis culture needs it—that, and a couple of generation’s worth of social adjustment in the anti-cannabis lobby—to be the change it wants to see.
Judith Stamps
