I'm writing my long story in a time when the wind has finally changed. The idea of legalizing marijuana, for medical or recreational reasons, has become increasingly popular. Most rational people have come to the conclusion that the plant is not a threat to society but can actually do some good. A thesis that I have supported for at least half a century. Twenty-five years ago, however, these arguments fell on deaf ears.
In the early 1990s I campaigned for Gatewood Galbraith, a lawyer from Lexington who was running for governor of Kentucky and supported legalization. He and I drove around the state in a hemp-fueled Cadillac. He only got 5.3% of the vote in the Democratic primary, but I didn't care. When she ran for the second time, in '95, I joined her campaign again and was happy to play in support of her. This time, in the primaries he obtained 9% of the votes. In '99 he moved to the Reform Party and I remained at his side. In the elections he ended up getting 15% of the votes: I saw it as a good step forward.
People criticized me a lot for my choices. They said I shouldn't associate my image with weed, weed smokers, and all sorts of hemp-based nonsense. For me it wasn't nonsense at all. I was convinced this was a good thing. And I didn't give a shit if that stance hurt me. I could never betray marijuana, just as I could never betray a member of my family or a lifelong friend. Because marijuana has never failed me. Unlike alcohol, it has never made me mean or violent. Unlike cocaine, it never agitated me or pumped my ego. On the contrary, it always calmed me down. Unlike acid, it never messed with my brain: it calmed it down. Unlike tobacco, it did not cause the cancer that killed my mother and father.
I owe a lot to marijuana. As I write these words, at eighty-two years old, I believe I can calmly say that marijuana – taken instead of alcohol, cocaine and tobacco – has contributed to my longevity.
In 1994, when the world still looked down on people who smoked pot, I stopped in Abbott for a few days. Sometimes I would come home just to relax a bit and play poker with the guys. That Saturday evening I was returning by car to Austin when, near Waco, I realized that I was very tired: to avoid risking an accident, I decided to pull over, sit in the back seat and take a nap. I fell asleep straight away. I woke up when two policemen started knocking on the window. They pointed flashlights at me. “Good evening, officers,” I said.
The flashlights inspected the interior of the car from top to bottom, stopping at the open ashtray. “What's in there?” asked one of the policemen. “A joint,” I replied. “Do you have any other illegal substances with you?” “I think so,” I replied, “Take a look under the passenger seat.” He did so and found some more grass in it.
They sent me to McLennan prison in Waco. I risked six months in prison and a substantial fine. I got out on bail paying $500. The trial didn't take place until the following March, the same day I was supposed to play the Grammys in LA. I decided to forgo the Grammys and show up in court. My lawyer pointed out that the officers had turned off the audio and video recording system during the search, and had not provided a valid reason for searching my car. The judge threw out the case and let me go. To dispel any hard feelings, I went back to Waco to play for free for the Sheriffs' Association of Texas: I just wanted to make the police understand that I wasn't angry with them, but that I simply thought the laws against pot were antiquated.
When I play, I try not to talk too much on stage: I present the song and it ends there. But that evening, in front of the officers, I made an exception. In short, I said it would be better for everyone if marijuana became legal, regulated, and taxed like tobacco. There was timid applause.
Compared to the injustices suffered by others, what happened to me is nothing. Ray Charles told me that one of his musicians had once been caught with a cheap joint in Houston in the 1950s and had been thrown in prison for a year. There is a long list of people who have suffered real persecution for that reason. And I can't help but wonder: why? Why waste the precious work of law enforcement on this bullshit?
From MyLife. It's a long story by Willie Nelson with David Ritz, Il Castello Editore.