'At 9, I was keenly aware of the giant garbage bags of illicit cannabis straining the closet door of our spare bedroom.'
A family of deer exploded out of the forest. I must have been 6, squatting in the dirt driveway with my model horses as the animals dodged around me, eyes bulging. Then a helicopter emerged from behind the trees, its body like a giant insect, loud as a machine gun. It hovered low overhead, sending debris whirling into my face. My mom rushed out of the house and pulled me close to her body. The chopper moved on toward the next ranch.was a creature of the Reagan Administration.
My parents eventually divorced, and Mom and I moved back to San Francisco, where she distributed her edibles to people with AIDS at the dawn of the medical marijuana movement. The specifics changed over time, but one fact remained constant: telling the truth could send my mom to prison. At school, I struggled to make friends. I got bullied, eventually volunteering in the administrative office during recess to avoid other kids. Looking back, I wonder how much of my social awkwardness grew from the secrecy. There was so much I couldn’t share.
I faked my way through D.A.R.E., acing quizzes to win bookmarks and notebooks. But I never saw the lecturing policeman as anything other than my sworn enemy. I still remembered the helicopters thundering over our house in the woods. My mom’s role had changed by the late 80s. Cannabis was as illegal as ever — our secret just as dangerous — but dealing mattered in a different way. HIV/AIDS was devastating our communit. Lifesaving protease inhibitors wouldn’t hit the market until 1996. Diagnosis was considered a death sentence. With few treatment options, marijuana emerged as helpful with common symptoms — notably nausea, appetite loss, pain and depression. Dealers became healers.
Looking back, I’m surprised I didn’t suffer more anxiety over my mom’s illegal work. I was terrified of AIDS but didn’t lose sleep over the real possibility of a bust. It’s only now, decades later, that I worry for the safety of the child I used to be.What if my mom’s oracles had failed and the cops had come for us?A friend recently compared my mom sharing her secret with me to giving a child a gas can and matches and telling them not to burn the house down. Perhaps she’s right.
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