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Weeding Out the Reefer Madness
Pubdate: Wed, 09 Jun 2004
Source: Globe and Mail (Canada)
Page: A24
Copyright: 2004, The Globe and Mail Company
Contact: http://www.globeandmail.ca/
Details: http://www.mapinc.org/media/168
Author: Beth Kaplan
Note: Beth Kaplan lives in Toronto.
WEEDING OUT THE REEFER MADNESS
Smoke Dope With Your Adult Kids? A Question Faced by Many a Baby Boomer.
'You want me to smoke grass with you?" I asked, in disbelief.
"Yes, but only if you promise never, ever to call it grass again,"
replied my daughter.
"It'll be a bonding experience," said her best friend.
I've been asked before, and have always refused, not because I really
disapproved, at least completely, but because disapproval is what my
kids wanted to hear. But now my daughter and her friends are in their
early twenties; they're at university or working, and they're adults.
Before, when they were teenagers, I knew they smoked weed, as I knew
that sometimes they drank too much. My job was to hover, near and yet
far, keeping a stern eye on things, letting them know that I was
watching, but also giving them a safe place to do what they were going
to do anyway. Maybe I was wrong, too lax.
In comparison with some parents, however, I was puritanical. The dad
of one of my son's friends used to buy dope for his boy, and smoke it
with him and his buddies. "He is so cool!" said my son. His young
friend did, however, end up dealing in large quantities.
Now it's different. I don't need to maintain an abstinent moral pose;
now I do want a bonding experience. My daughter is home from
university for the summer, but next summer she'll stay down East and
work, and then the plan is to go overseas. Our bonding opportunities
are growing fewer. And besides -- what can happen?
But the drug scares me. Of course I used to smoke as a teen, during
the 1960s. In fact, I had the classic Sixties experience, smoking my
first joint at 16 while listening to the Beatles' just-released
Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band for the first time. At one
point I met a band of hippie musicians and actors who grew fantastic
grass; they sent me a bag in a hollowed-out copy of the British
theatre magazine Plays and Players. So groovy! I rolled it up and
smoked in my bedroom before going out, blowing smoke out the window.
My parents, who were cool, finally said they'd like to try this new
thing, and asked to smoke with me and my brother. We all smoked some
hash together one night in 1969, while listening to Bob Dylan. My
mother had a wonderful time, giggling and weaving around the room as
if drunk. My father sneezed several times. "Well, if nothing else," he
said, "this stuff certainly stimulates my mucous membranes." But he
didn't like it at all. "I have my drug," he said, pouring himself a
glass of burgundy.
By the early 1970s, I was with him. Dope was starting to make me
shake. For some reason, marijuana made me introspective in the most
negative way; instead of a glorious sensual experience, getting stoned
brought up my failings, my losses, my enormous stupidity. I had to
stop smoking, before I stayed in the dark hole into which the drug
cast me. I quit, and had not smoked since.
Now, 30 years later, here are my daughter, her boyfriend and her best
friend, and they are holding one little joint. I can handle one little
joint. I puff, hold it in, pass it on. Puff, hold it in, pass it on.
Only three puffs, and it hits. And then I remember -- I've heard that
the dope these kids smoke is not like ours was. In only a few minutes
I am very, very stoned. And suddenly, I am very, very scared. But this
time, I can't show anything, must not make a fool of myself in front
of my girl and her friends.
I am hanging onto the chair arms. Someone says, "Yeah, that's great,
put that on." And out scrapes the raucous voice of Janis Joplin. Janis
Joplin -- what decade am I in? The room should be filled with incense,
and I, sitting on a faded Indian bedspread over an ancient sofa,
wearing little round glasses, a curtain of hair, bellbottoms, love
beads! Janis Joplin. It hurts to hear her, shredding her vocal chords.
I am sick with fright. The pit -- the pit, the deep dark hole is going
to open up, and I will fall in. I can feel it there. You hopeless
specimen of a human being, the voice begins. I hang onto the chair as
the room spins. No, I say to myself. I am not going to fall into that
hole. I'm not 23, as I was then, as my companions are today. I am 53,
I've lived a good life, I've raised two children, we are sitting in my
house, I am accomplished, I am all right. We are all, all right. I
will not be pulled into that hole again.
My daughter and her friends are laughing, chatting, unaware of the
battle going on in me. "This stuff is much stronger than I'm used to,"
I manage to say, trying to laugh with them. I relax, and see that my
daughter is extremely funny when she's stoned. She is proud of me. She
tells me that her brother, who's away living with his dad, always
wanted to be the one to smoke with me first. He'll be jealous, she
says. Through my haze I listen to the kids. They're funny, smart,
quick. I hear, for the first time, how bright her best friend is, and
lean over to tell her so.
"Janis was different from the others," I hear myself announcing.
"Jimi, Jim Morrison, they didn't have to die, they were careless. But
Janis always seemed to be driving towards death."
"Wow," they say, blinking at me. This relic, this ancient monument,
was actually there.
"Do you want to hear about it?" I say.
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