POSTCARD FROM THE POT RALLY
Nothing like the first time
BY CAMILLE DODERO

There’s nothing quite like your first Pot Rally. At your first Pot Rally — also known as the Freedom Rally sponsored by MASSCANN/Norml — you’re in awe: whoa, all these people smoke pot? You’re probably young, in high school or college, and you still get goose bumps walking into a hemp shop. You’re used to toking up on the sly, usually in the back of your best chum’s El Camino or a dorm room with a towel stuffed under the door. So when you first see all these folks inhaling herb on the Common — during the day, no less — you’re psyched. They’re high! We’re high! Did you hear that, Mom? Thousands of us are high!

But once you’ve graduated from college and realized that anyone you’d ever want to befriend has sucked on a doobie or 200, the Freedom Rally becomes a very different sort of event. There’s the usual: live music; pot-friendly vendors; shish-kebab stands; the words "peace" and "love" scribbled in chalk on the concrete; Green Party representatives; Phish paraphernalia; lots of kids taken into police custody (52 arrests this year, a figure that’s dropped about 20 since 2000 — last year’s rally, held in the wake of 9/11, was sparsely attended and only 23 people were arrested); a drum-circle around Martin Milmore’s Civil War monument; a High Times booth; a hemp-fashion show. But now the crowd appears awfully young. Like 15. Like too young to drive. Like too young to fry burgers legally at McDonald’s. Like too young to see Austin Powers 2 without sneaking past the ticket agent. And more than ever, the event seems to look like a Spencer Gifts exhibition: " Aberchronic and Pinch " T-shirts, tie-dyed jerseys, beach balls, green bandanas, smiley-face balloons, American-flag towels, Santa caps, fake marijuana-plant necklaces, hats stitched with " 420, " posters of half-naked women with marijuana-leaf pasties for sale.

But there’s something else that happens, and it’s something that you never would’ve guessed: it’s quite interesting to watch strangers try to smoke pot when you’re sober. Crouched on the hill below Milmore’s monument, there’s a baby-faced kid with white Fila high-tops and an Afro about four inches thick. In his lap is a cream-colored leaflet that reads 5 IRON LAWS OF DRUG PROHIBITION. The flyer’s folded into a U-shape and sprinkled with enough pot to fill at least a dime bag, maybe more.

" Yo, keep a lookout for me, Dog, " he says to a friend in a black Red Sox hat. For the next 10 minutes or so, Fila Boy painstakingly separates the dried leaves from the brittle stems, while his three friends wait with a lighter — one is a girl with corkscrew curls and a pink, girly T with BOOTYLICIOUS written in shimmering, cursive letters. As he works, Fila Boy brushes broken stems onto the legs of his dark-blue baggy jeans; by the time he’s finished, there’s enough marijuana on his pants to fill a thimble.

" Roll it, roll it, " Fila Boy hastens, handing the pile of grass to his friend, a/k/a Dog. Dog pours the herb into a palm-size brown sheet — it’s hard to tell if it’s a blunt wrapper or a brown leaf, and there are plenty of other resourceful folks here who’ve substituted fallen leaves for rolling paper. But Fila Boy interrupts right away. " Wait, Dog, hold on, " he whispers, pointing to a female park ranger about 20 feet away.

" Ohhh shit! " Dog yells.

" What, what? " says Fila Boy.

Dog points to his lap. There’s nothing there.

" You scared me and I dropped it, " Dog whimpers.

" You better start scooping it up, " says Fila Boy. " Use your tongue if you have to. "

Issue Date: September 19 - 26, 2002

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