A stroll through Centretown reveals all the usual mom and pop shops, urban grocers, and pub-grub restaurants that line Bank Street and give the neighbourhood its particular flair. But there seems to be something else hanging in the air, waywardly wafting like huge puffs of green mischief down the boulevard, just begging passersby to follow their nose.
Bongs and glass pipes line smokeshop windows and Canadian flags with red pot leaves hang from storefronts by granola grocers and herbal medicine shops. The only thing missing are the red-eyed, wayward stoners one would expect to find on the wrong end of a joint. Where are they?
To pick through the seeds and stems of Centretown’s seemingly not- so-secret stoner culture, one needs only to catch up with Filip Adonis and Daniel Lynch, employees at High Times on Cooper Street. The store sells everything from ashtrays and aluminum foil to bongs and bowls. Magazines and cookbooks rest on a shelf near the front, while do-it-yourself grow kits and different strains of seeds are available at the back. They even stock a choice of products that promise to mask the signs of cannabis on, say, a government urine test.
A one-stop shop, to be sure. But, for who?
“You’d be shocked at the wide range of people that pop in here,” Lynch tells me. “The bulk of our business comes from students and a lot of government workers. It’s not always the people you’d think.”
But the typical stoner stereotype persists; the young, tie-dye sporting hippy remains the image associated with marijuana use.
“People get the wrong impression because we call it a drug, so you’re automatically bad for doing it. Like, you wouldn’t want your mom knowing about it,” Adonis says. “Centretown’s got a huge underground cannabis community. They’re just good at keeping it quiet,” he adds, ringing up a few customers, no ponchos or peace signs in sight.
Earlier this year, the federal Liberal party voted to support the legalization of marijuana at its annual convention. Additionally, institutions such as the Hotchkiss Brain Institute in Alberta and Simon Fraser University are producing increasing amounts of research that show marijuana’s myriad of medical uses, including treating pain or eating disorders. This is valuable work, but before pursuing such institutional change, let’s first break the ingrained stereotypes many hold of marijuana users.
Stu Baker and Cass Triska are university students living in Centretown and daily marijuana users. They say they recognize the social stigma associated with weed smoking, but don’t buy into it much because they don’t see themselves in the mold.
“The stereotype that people associate with stoners, I just don’t think it’s true,” says Triska. “Look at us, we all get up and go to school, have decent grades, jobs. We’re functioning members of society, not a bunch of losers.”
Despite one too many boxes of Kraft Dinner, their house is in decent order; Baker’s engineering homework laid out quietly next to a small handful of dope and an electric vaporizer. But despite their frequent use, neither Baker nor Triska could say exactly what the legal ramifications of pot use are.
Since 1997, cannabis has been listed as a narcotic under the Controlled Drugs and Substances Act, nestled between heroin and hallucinogens such as LSD and magic mushrooms. Depending on how much one is holding during a run-in with the cops, a pot charge can bring anything from a small warning or fine to some prison time.
But compared with legally regulated drugs such as alcohol and tobacco, marijuana sits significantly lower on the personal harm rung, at least according to a study conducted by the medical journal The Lancet in 2007. Marijuana also consistently accounts for zero annual deaths in Canada. Smokers such as Baker and Triska say they see sparking a joint as no different than cracking a beer or sipping a stiff drink at the end of a long day.
“It’s more just to relax and hang out once your work is done, have some deep chats with a friend then go to sleep,” laughs Baker. “Nothing too crazy.”
Others in the neighbourhood see marijuana’s function as far exceeding a little rest and relaxation or some giggles. Former Centretown resident Clayton Goodwyn is a Canadian Forces veteran who uses cannabis to treat disabilities such as chronic pain and anxiety from his years in the forces. Unable to find a doctor willing to prescribe him medical marijuana, he buys from dealers but worries about the quality of what he’s rolling up. In the past, he says he's tried prescription painkillers and anti-depressants but neither worked.
“I consider marijuana as a medication” says as Goodwyn. “We’re not bad people, we’re not druggies. The people who need it as medicine should have it as medicine.”
But to reach the point where people such as Goodwyn can easily access the medicine that works for them, or for students like Barker and Triska to breathe a bit easier, society needs to re-evaluate the way smokers are seen.
The super stoner may be an understood exaggeration, but pot smokers still seem to be getting the wag of the finger rather than the old tip of the hat when it comes to public policy.
The Harper government’s controversial 2011 omnibus crime bill set mandatory minimum sentences for marijuana offenders carrying even minor amounts of weed, while superior and appellate courts in Ontario have repeatedly declared Canada’s cannabis laws to be of no force or effect.
We’ve hit a crossroads where stereotypes and draconian legislation are standing in the way of legitimate social and medical progress.
Before the legalization movement can get a foot in solid grass, and those who need it as medication can do so unrestricted, it’s time to rethink the pothead pose and accept weed as something that’s become increasingly interwoven into Canadian culture.
When we begin to see marijuana smokers not as lazy, drug addicted societal dregs, but rather as the smiling faces of our neighbours, our legislation may start to reflect it as well.