Brandon is called a ‘unicorn’ by his classmates—for being a non-toking college student surrounded by aggressive, athletic stoners.
Weed
“Obviously, at a college in America, there are so many taboo things at your disposal, most likely for the first time. You’re around new people and want to be accepted, and you more than likely will step outside of your comfort level. In collegiate males, this usually spells DISASTER.”
The words from an old college buddy recently led to an epiphany about my freshman year of college. For me, “weed” epitomizes Thursday and Friday nights at Springfield College. Like thirsty wildebeests at a watering hole, a group of football jocks and lax bros swarmed around room 207 for its stash. Muffled sounds of Pink Floyd and Dave Matthews being played behind barricaded doors meant joints were being rolled and smoked. Weed led to alcohol binges, which turned these hyper-testosterone boys into destructive and reckless animals. It was not uncommon for the morning after to look like a scene from a Tarrantino film.
Like hyenas, a few of them snickered at those of us who refused to touch the shit. However, most of the guys recognized us for being “unicorns.” I didn’t mind being seen as a symbol of optimism, even if it was in a sarcastic way. Yet, being such a clean whistle came with a small price.
I missed out on a lot of male bonding. When the guys gathered to smoke, I wasn’t a part of their inside jokes and private conversations. In turn, I often felt left out, but wasn’t willing to smoke in order to gain popularity. I brought the isolation upon myself and had to find other ways to connect with people that did not involve drugs and excessive amounts of alcohol. I’m glad I chose to keep a clear head because my grades and health remained intact.
Pot was something white kids smoked while listening to Nirvana and Green Day.
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The guys I met were strong, well-built and athletic, but by February, they could could no longer hide their beer guts, and dark circles formed under their eyes. Their grades fell hard as smoking and drinking took priority. Having been sobre my entire college career—minus a drink or two—I was extra conscious about the effects of weed on the male mind, spirit and body. I had too much at stake to let the herb ruin all of my hard work.
Pot
I first learned about “pot” in sixth grade health class. We laughed at the anti-drug films on VHS that looked like they were from late 70s, but I was particularly disturbed by the side effects of drugs. Middle school was the beginning of a social divide between friends and foes, the well learned and the lazy, and the wiseasses from the serious. By high school, my social class was already decided by the rest of the world.
Pot was something white kids smoked while listening to Nirvana and Green Day. They wore so many baggy layers of black, decorated with safety pins and trucker wallets, that they looked like a nighttime skyline of a rundown city. The “Brat Pack” wannabes smoked during lunch and after school, and flipped their hair as if they were “the shit.” They didn’t care who knew if they smoked. Stickers of the cannabis leaf adorned their lockers and backpacks. They were rebellious assholes who interrupted class with wisecracks and physically threatened anyone they thought was weak, especially after blazing. Luckily, I was quick-witted enough to hold them off most of the time, but I always prepared myself to kick one of them in the balls as a last resort. Unfortunately, I had to one day after TV production class. That was the first and last time I had been choked by someone who was high.
Ganja
From their stoops, I can feel their eyes on me. They’re suspicious. I am a sheep in wolf’s clothing and afraid of being found out. Even though I am black like they are, I don’t sound, dress or walk like they do, and I certainly don’t smoke that ganja. Please God, don’t let them see my sneering look of disgust. Where is a cop when you need one? It’s in the middle of the day. Don’t these people have jobs?
Roaches
You never knew when the tyrannous, snarling ape or the loopy, nonsensical buffoon would walk through the door. There was always an argument to be had. The cat was at fault. My mother was at fault. My brother was at fault. I knew when to keep my mouth shut and stay below the radar, so I never got the brunt of the screaming, but I am not deaf and you can’t unring a bell.
As he sat in his chair trying to explain himself, amidst sounds of rifles firing and helicopter sounds coming from his computer game, a firestorm of anger and nausea came over me. He was caught.
I was barely three or four when I started to find burned “roaches” buried in the brown yarn-like fibers of the living room carpet. Back then, we lived on the top floor of a multi-family house that sat in the western side of town. I was quiet and very observant, which is probably why I still carry this memory with me today. I was too young to know what a joint was and found them so infrequently that I never gave it much thought.
By the time I was a teen, I had long forgotten about all of that until I found another one lying on the sill of the bathroom window. By then, I knew enough about drugs to have an idea of what it was, but I still wasn’t completely sure. I brought the roach to my mother to confirm my suspicions. She didn’t have to say anything. Her expression said it all.
We all knew that my father occasionally smoked cigarettes, but never in a million years would I have thought that he smoked weed. But it all started to make sense. I didn’t want to confront him about it, but my mother insisted, despite being embarrassed. She certainly wasn’t going to make any excuses for him.
He struggled to find his words at first, but I wasn’t listening anyway. My mind was too busy trying to connect the dots. He had been smoking for as long as I had been alive and probably long before that. I felt so disappointed and mislead by the newly appointed hypocrite sitting before me. Who was I supposed to model myself after now? How could he preach right from wrong to his sons for so many years, then turn around and get high?
At that moment, I no longer knew who my father was and what role weed played in shaping the person he was. Worse yet, I didn’t know what role weed played in shaping me.
Read more on Marijuana on The Good Life.
Image credit: EmreAyar/Flickr
Jojo: Of course! I’m glad you have such a strong opinion about the story. I hope everyone gets something from it, good, bad or otherwise, and you are absolutely correct in several of your points. However, you may be reading to far into some things, but I will just say this without squashing other people’s interpretations: Keep in mind that the story just simply answers: “What does marijuana mean to you?” It is not about bullying, faulty parenting, college or the ghetto. I never said “Ganja” took place during present day nor did I discuss why the story came about.… Read more »
Yes it’s clear marijuana didnt do this to your father. Sorry to say it was in his nature and not caused by cannabis. You’re lucky that was around bc if not he’d likely be a drunk which is much worse as this can lead to death. Millions have died from alcohol, none from cannabis. He probably wouldn’t have been around at all if be didnt have cannabis. Sorry you had a tough upbringing hopefully you can learn compassion for all of those who have been the victims of racist prohibition, mostly minorities.
Jimbo: Thanks for your comment. It was in the early 2000s. The jocks, stoners, muscle-heads et all were random guys on my floor, placed together by the higher powers in ResLife. “Furiouz”: Thanks for reading and good observation. Everyone’s college experience is different. Not everyone reacts to weed the same way. Some chase it with alcohol, which is part of the point I was trying to make, while others (as you said) chase it down with only pizza. “Jojo”: 1. (Re: Weed) Perhaps. 2. (Re: Pot) That’s true. I can only speak about what I saw with these two eyes.… Read more »
Thanks for responding. I don’t actually think you’re a douchebag, but I do think it would do you good, rather than popping out your eyes, to consider the parts of the story that you might have missed. We all are limited by our experience, until we choose (excuse the druggy sounding phrase) to expand our horizons, through research, discussion, and self-education. To stereotype based on our own limited personal experiences exacerbates problems between people. If you replaced your references to pot smokers with “white people” or “asians” or “left handed people” or “gingers” it becomes all the more obvious that… Read more »
Your “weed” experience in college has everything to do with hanging with football and lacrosse guys, and nothing to do with weed. You have a problem with douchebags, not weed. Your “pot” experience again seems to be that you have issues with who you hung out near. There were a lot of potheads around you that you didn’t know about, because they weren’t being douchebags. Again, you have with douchebags, not pot. Your “ganja” experience seems to be an expertise in stereotyping. Who’s the douchebag now? As for the roaches, your dad wasn’t a douchebag at least. And he may… Read more »
Funny, the last thing anyone I know wants to do is drink alcohol or fight after smoking some weed. It’s more like pizza delivery and some PvP or some full court basketball. I think it’s more about the crowd you ran with then the effects of weed. I wonder how many wars have been started in antiquity due to the effects of too much wine and trash talking.
“The matrons of yon Danes weareth combat boots!” ( After several pints of bear and honey)
Was this in the mid 90s (Guessing that because of the Dave Matthews reference)? If so I was in college at the same time. I did not smoke week but I had friends who did (never in the dorms though). While those of us who did not might have seemed a bit “lame” or “rigid” to those who did we were never called names derisively. Why were you hanging out with jocks and muscleheads?