POT SHOTS - THE FACES OF MARIJUANA IN BOSTON

IN 1937, HARRY J. Anslinger, the commissioner of narcotics, stood
before the United States Congress to speak of a new scourge that was
sweeping the country: marijuana. He presented many tales to illustrate
just how dangerous the drug was. "A teenage boy and a girl lost their
senses so completely after smoking marihuana, " he intoned, " that
they eloped and were married."

And yet, Anslinger continued, conjugal indiscretion was the least of
the country's problems in the face of the green menace. The drug, he
said, caused "delirious rage" in its users." A man under the
influence of marihuana actually decapitated his best friend; and then,
coming out of the effects of the drug, was as horrified as anyone over
what he had done. "

Although few are concerned about gangs of murderous potheads roaming
the streets anymore, marijuana is still viewed by many Americans as a
public menace -- and its users are still condemned as renegades,
reprobates, and criminals. The year Anslinger provided his colorful
testimony, there were 338 arrests for marijuana violations in the US.
Today, the annual arrest rate stands at about 700,000.

According to some estimates, as much as $10 billion of public money is
spent every year in the effort to stamp out pot. And yet, says Drug
Enforcement Administration literature, "Marijuana is the most
commonly-used illicit drug in America today." According to government
figures (as reported by NORML -- the National Organization for the
Reform of Marijuana Laws), about 70 million Americans have smoked
marijuana at least once; 18 million have smoked in the past year; and
10 million are regular users.

Though authorities still claim that pot use leads to a host of health
problems -- impaired memory, heart attacks, paranoia, cancer,
infertility, psychological dependence -- an ever-growing number of
people are willing to challenge these claims. There are even those who
say that pot is good for you -- and this argument, too, is gaining
ground. Today, nine states allow limited medical use of marijuana.

Partisans on both sides of the marijuana question seem unwilling to
budge. For the bystander, trying to keep up with the pro/anti debate
can feel like watching a tennis match. You read an editorial here, a
study there, and you come away with little more than a bad case of
mental whiplash. But one thing, at least, is certain: like it or not,
pot is a part of American life, and it is not going away.

And beyond the statistics and the charts, the arrest figures and the
thundering rhetoric, there is a human element to marijuana -- one that
is often overlooked amid the clamor of argument and counterargument.
Just who are the people who have an intimate relationship with the
drug Harry Anslinger once described as " a menace " ?

Sally

Sally is a drug dealer.

She doesn't keep a pit bull in her apartment. She doesn't employ
runners or lookouts. She has never been involved in a turf war or a
deal gone bad. She doesn't wear gold rings or sport a single diamond
in her teeth. Soft-spoken and polite -- maybe even a little timid --
Sally (not her real name) doesn't fit the popular image of a drug
dealer at all -- except for the fact that she deals drugs.

Although she allows that selling pot is "technically illegal,"
Sally, 24, doesn't see herself as an outlaw. In fact, as far as she's
concerned, she's providing a public service. "I'm convenient," she
says." I don't overcharge. The guy I get it from, he can't believe
how honest I am. "Sally's pot is indeed quite a bargain. She charges
$55 for a half-ounce -- about $10 to $20 below the going rate in
Boston." And, "she says, "my stuff's really good."

Like the vast majority of pot dealers, Sally does not make a living
from this business. Instead, she uses her revenues -- about $200 a
month -- as a way to smoke for free. She also enjoys the social aspect
of selling pot. "Sometimes people will hang out for 10 minutes," she
says, "sometimes half an hour. It's nice because it gives me an
excuse to see people."

To pay the rent on her Somerville apartment, Sally holds down two
part-time jobs. And that suits her just fine. To become a full-time
dealer, she says, would make her feel "sketchy." She doesn't
deliver. She doesn't sell large amounts. She never has more than a
couple of ounces in stock. Her customer base consists of about 25
people -- all people she knows. "I keep it pretty low-key," she
says. "I wouldn't feel comfortable making too much money."

Still, if Sally were to get caught, she would face up to two years in
prison and a $5000 fine. Her driver's license would be suspended for
two years. She would go down in the record books as a convicted
dealer. Even worse, her parents might get involved. "They're very
conservative," she says. "They found out I smoked when I first went
to college and they wanted to send me to rehab." She adds: "My
little sister would probably be a little traumatized, too."

As Sally says this, her voice takes on a jittery edge. "I do get a
little sketched-out talking over the phone sometimes, "she says. "I
just hope the police have better things to do than come after me. I'm
not pushing crystal meth or ecstasy or any of that crazy stuff. If I
thought I was causing harm, I wouldn't be doing this. I'm just hooking
up my friends."

Lester Grinspoon

Harvard Medical School professor Lester Grinspoon can still quote,
word for word, the first letter he received on the publication of his
1971 book Marihuana Reconsidered (Harvard University Press). "It was
a one-liner," he says. "I'll never forget it: 'You dirty Harvard
Jew. You only did this to make money.'" He laughs and adds, "There
was no signature."

The cause of the letter-writer's wrath was the central argument in
Grinspoon's book: that marijuana was not nearly as harmful as authorities
had previously claimed. "When I wrote the book, believe it or not, I was
concerned about this terribly dangerous drug," Grinspoon says, looking a
good deal younger than his 73 years, his lanky frame folded neatly into a
chair at the Massachusetts Mental Health Institute in Boston. "So I went
into the library with the idea that if I could write a really good,
scientifically sound statement on the harmfulness of marijuana, maybe some
of these kids who were smoking it would pay some attention."

Grinspoon certainly had every right to expect his book to be taken
seriously. A published professor and practicing psychiatrist allied with
the prestigious Harvard Medical School, Grinspoon had academic credibility
in spades. The book's conclusions, however, came as a surprise to many --
not least to Grinspoon himself. "I looked at the material that the
'authorities' -- in quotes -- were publishing on marijuana, and it seemed
very unconvincing," he recalls. "I came to realize that I was the one who
was misinformed -- that despite my training in science and medicine, I had
been brainwashed like just about every other citizen of this country."

These may sound like the common recollections of a first-time smoker, but
that night actually marked a leap forward in Grinspoon's research. Those
messy napoleons and freaky Sgt. Pepper numbers formed the basis for the
third and final step in Grinspoon's ongoing exploration of marijuana -- and
one that puts him, yet again, right in the thick of things.

In his latest book-in-the-making, The Uses of Marijuana , Grinspoon moves
beyond debates over whether marijuana should be regulated, deregulated,
allowed for medicinal or recreational use, or outlawed. Not only should we
tolerate pot, he will argue, we should celebrate it.

"Over the years, I have come to understand that marijuana is not just for
fun, it's not just for medicine, but there are other ways in which this
high is useful," he explains. "I began to realize that this drug, this
plant, is truly remarkable, that it can be used to enhance various aspects
of life." In other words, pot is a vehicle for self-improvement, like
practicing yoga or going to college.

The project has at its heart a Web site Grinspoon launched
(www.marijuana-uses.com ), in which he invites pot users to submit essays
describing how the drug has enriched their lives. The site currently
contains 66 essays, including one by a New York City police officer who
argues that smoking weed makes him a better cop.

The idea that pot enhances creativity and provides a sense of harmony, that
it can heighten one's appreciation of music, art, and sex, is getting to be
old hat. But Grinspoon doesn't stop here. Perhaps the most controversial
argument he makes in favor of marijuana is that it is an effective
problem-solving tool, and an aid to the most sacred of straight-edge
ideals: reason. "Marijuana expands the breadth of variables one can bring
to bear on a situation. It allows the intellect to visit parts of one's
consciousness that are usually off-limits," he says, adding, "Cannabis has
helped me make some important life decisions. This is something I'm glad I
didn't have to go through life without."

Naturally, these claims have raised a few eyebrows. Particularly disturbing
for some is that Grinspoon will openly admit to being a regular user ( "I
smoke, on average, a third of a joint a night," he says). "Some people,
some of my friends, have practically stopped speaking to me. They feel that
I've destroyed my reputation by admitting that I use marijuana. A lot of
people say that's crazy, that it's the kind of honesty that makes people
think you're not smart enough to keep to yourself."

But Grinspoon has never been one to let a little criticism discourage him.
"I think one of the reasons that cannabis users have such a negative
stereotype attached to them is that people like me refuse to come out and
say, 'Hey, not only do I use cannabis, but I find it useful,'" he says.
"That's why this book is so important: it's saying that this stuff is not
just for fun, it's not just for medicine, it's useful. Can you get that
through your head? It's useful!"

Marcie Duda

In 1998, doctors found five aneurysms -- weak-walled blood vessels that
pose the risk of bursting -- in Marcie Duda's brain. By some ugly twist of
fate, some genetic bungle, such conditions seem to run in Duda's family:
she had already lost one sister to the affliction, and another had
discovered an aneurysm early enough for treatment to be effective. In a
sense, Duda had been waiting for the day when she would get the news.
Doctors gave Duda, who was 38 at the time, little chance of survival.

Duda, a single mother of a seven- and a nine-year-old, did survive, albeit
with 10 metal clips in her brain, an inability to taste or smell food, and
daily bouts of nausea and searing, unbearable pain. "I get such severe
migraines I have to go somewhere dark and quiet," she says. "I lie on the
couch and vomit and vomit because the pain is so bad." For the migraines,
Duda has a prescription for morphine; for the nausea and loss of appetite,
she takes Marinol (a pill form of tetrahydrocannabinol, or THC -- the
active ingredient in marijuana).

But what she really needs, she insists, is a joint.

"I cannot cook for my kids on morphine," she says. "I cannot think straight
on morphine. Morphine gets you wicked high and it makes you want to puke.
"Even the Marinol, which Duda credits with having helped her keep her
weight up, has its drawbacks. "It takes three hours to kick in," she says.
"With pot, in 10 to 15 minutes, the pain's gone. I can think straight. I
can get up and take care of my kids. It gives me more of an interest in food."

Duda knows all this because she smokes pot every day, four times a day --
which makes her, in effect, a criminal. "I've gone public and said I smoke
pot. And there's more chance I could get caught since I went public," she
says. "Most of the local cops know. Everyone looks at me now and expects me
to be stoned. I could lose my kids over this. My two kids are the last
thing in the world that I can afford to lose. I'm scared."

But Duda's fear has not kept her quiet. She has become an insistent voice
in the argument to legalize medical marijuana. "I feel it's my duty," she
says. "I worked for 20 years as a home health aide, and I see people my age
curled up with MS [multiple sclerosis] and cancer. I loved the people I
worked for; they weren't only my patients but my friends. I go and see them
once a week and we light up. My friend with MS, we smoke a joint and his
body uncrinkles. I'm doing this for people like that, who can't get out of
their beds and who have put their hope in me."

Duda believes her most powerful argument is her own experience with pot. To
date, she has testified twice before state legislators to argue that she
should be able to grow her own marijuana -- or at the very least, buy it
without threat of arrest. "If they let me grow four or five plants, there's
my supply for the year," she says. "I begged them." But the state continues
to drag its feet. Many local activists anticipate that a medical-marijuana
bill currently before the legislature will eventually fizzle and die.

"I'm past frustration," Duda says. "The bottom line, and what I said to
them, is: 'When I have a really bad headache, it's so hard to describe the
pain. When I'm like that, just give me a joint or give me a gun.'"

Jim Pillsbury

"There's only a handful of us who are willing to die, or willing to be
arrested, for the cause," says local marijuana activist Jim Pillsbury. "I'm
not looking for trouble, but I'm not going to back down from it, either."

Pillsbury, 48, is certainly no stranger to trouble. In 1985, he was
arrested for growing marijuana. Five years after that, the town of Ashland
tried to stop Pillsbury from organizing a rally for NORML. He sued the town
for violating his freedom of speech -- and won. But then, Pillsbury is
committed to free speech -- perhaps to a fault.

"There was this selectman, about the same age as me, who I happen to know
is a dope smoker," he says of the Ashland incident. "He went on TV and
said, 'We need to keep Pillsbury out of town because I don't like what he's
got to say.' Soon as he said that on the record, we bagged him big-time.
Just the fact that I had the courage to do that proves that I'm not playing
about. After you win a civil-rights case, you gain a certain amount of
respect."

Though he often speaks publicly about his pot use, Pillsbury insists he has
no fear of being arrested. "There isn't a doubt in anyone's mind, law
enforcement included, that I smoke," he says. "But they have no reason to
come after me. I'm not a drug-crazed wacko. I'm a fairly upright citizen.
And I'm a very good neighbor -- just the other day I did three of my
neighbors' lawns. My neighbors support me. They may not be dope smokers,
but they support my right to say what I believe."

Pillsbury doesn't exactly fit the classic mold of the upright citizen: with
his long stringy hair, wispy mustache, and penchant for tie-dyed T-shirts,
he actually looks every bit the renegade pothead. But looks can be
deceiving. Despite his long-standing prickly relationship with authority,
Pillsbury is a canny political operator. Last November, he was part of a
group of six NORML members who put Question 9 -- a non-binding bill that
proposed decriminalizing marijuana -- on the ballot. If the bill becomes
law (it's currently in committee), the penalty for possession would be a
fine of not more than $100 -- making it the legal equivalent of a speeding
ticket. "It was the first time we've ever asked the general public how they
feel about decriminalization," Pillsbury says. "It was an incredible
success. Overall, something like 63 percent voted yes on the question."

If Question 9 fails, Pillsbury says he will run for state representative,
with decriminalization forming the basis of his platform. "Why penalize the
poor pothead?" he says. "Every year, 700,000 people are arrested for
marijuana. These are, for the most part, respectable, law-abiding citizens
who pay taxes and go to work every day. It's doctors, lawyers, Indian
chiefs, all the way down to the workingman who digs ditches. It's not like
1968 -- we're not huddled around a puddle passing a joint. We're all grown
up now. Things have changed."

Jasper

Jasper was 15 when he first started smoking pot. He had gone on a school
trip to the Hague in Holland -- a country that has long tolerated marijuana
use -- and he and some friends made their way to one of the city's
so-called coffee shops. "It was kind of like, 'When in Rome,'" he says. And
so, giggling and elbowing one another, Jasper and his schoolmates began to
pass around a joint they had procured from some local kids.

Like many first-time pot smokers, Jasper (not his real name) was a little
disappointed. "Some of the other people were getting really stoned," he
says. "I could tell that wasn't happening to me. I still had my bearings."
As it turned out, this was not such a bad thing. "There were definitely
people who were bugging out," Jasper says. "One kid in particular had to
spend some alone time in the bathroom."

Jasper, now 23, vividly remembers the first time he himself experienced an
attack of weed-induced jitters. He was a freshman in college, rooming with
a guy who was, as Jasper puts it, "further along in usage." One afternoon,
the roommate broke out his prized bong, a device in which pot smoke passes
through a reservoir of water, thereby cooling it and allowing the user to
inhale much more deeply. Jasper, who had never smoked from a bong before,
was " completely flattened " by the experience. "I crumpled to my knees and
said, 'Water! Give me water!'"

Nonetheless, he stuck with it, smoking weed at parties after school, taking
a quick toke before classes every now and then, and sometimes blowing off
school altogether to gather with his friends and smoke. "I can definitely
step back and say it was part of a whole partying thing that distracted me
from my studies," he says. "But I never experienced the sense of not being
able to function."

Today, Jasper, a Somerville resident, works in retail. Though he still
smokes regularly, he has slowed down considerably since his college days.
"It's not a constant thing anymore," he says. "A lot of the time it's
something to look forward to at the end of work. The older I've gotten, the
more I place a value on doing it as a reward: 'Ah, I've just finished a
shift.' I look forward to it."

And as Jasper gets older, he's also noticed that a lot of his friends are
starting to kick the habit altogether, though he has no plans to do so just
yet. "I enjoy the relaxation it induces," he says. "I'm usually kind of
argumentative; I voice my opinions strongly. When I'm stoned, it dulls the
impulse to do that. I get less bent out of shape about things. I don't want
to slip into hippie lingo, but pot definitely has a communal aspect to it.
There is something to be said for passing a bowl or a joint to someone,
that unspoken camaraderie. I have always totally enjoyed that."

Jasper does, however, have one concern about his pot use. "I feel like I
may have started a bit young, really," he says. "The average adult can take
on the responsibilities of getting stoned. But kids shouldn't be blazing to
their hearts' content all through high school."

Lea Cox

When it comes to pot, retired teacher Lea Cox is "about as anti as you can
get." As president of the Hanover-based Concerned Citizens for Drug
Prevention, Cox sees herself as a foot soldier in the war on drugs. It's a
war, she says, that is getting harder and harder to fight: "I'd be stupid
if I said [the anti-prohibition lobby] haven't made headway. These pro-drug
propagandists are so good at what they do. They could teach Hitler a thing
or two about propaganda. They are slick. They offer half-truths. They make
good people believe their lies."

Cox is particularly annoyed by those who argue for the medical use of
marijuana. "People have to understand, marijuana is a euphoria-producing
drug," she says. "It makes people think everything is wonderful. It makes
them feel great. But feeling great has nothing to do with medical benefit,
nothing. They could take a shot of tequila and I'm sure they'd feel the
same. To take something and call it a medicine because it makes you feel
good is absolutely stupid."

As passionate as she is about the issue, Cox insists that her anti-pot
stand is founded on hard science. "I attended a symposium -- very good
scientists from around the world," she explains. "We've known for years the
damage marijuana can do. It impairs the immune system. It causes DNA
damage. There are myriad things it does and kids have no idea because
people like [Harvard professor and pro-pot advocate] Lester Grinspoon tell
them that marijuana grows naturally and so cannot hurt you. Well, poison
ivy grows naturally and that doesn't make it beneficial."

Grinspoon, as befits a nemesis, is happy to refute Cox's claims. "What the
government has done in putting these countless millions of dollars into
studies that would demonstrate the toxicity of cannabis," he says, "has
ended up doing just the opposite. No drug has been studied quite as much --
there's no drug in the pharmacopoeia that has been studied as much -- and
what's emerging is the impression that marijuana is not a dangerous drug."

Cox remains unmoved. "Grinspoon," she says. "He's the worst of them."

Her distaste for anti-prohibitionists notwithstanding, Cox is a regular at
MassCann's annual Freedom Rally. "When I go to the pot rally, I wear my
pins -- a marijuana leaf with a negation through it, and a no needles pin,"
she says. "One time they were all shouting at me. This stuff is supposed to
make you mellow, but I've never seen more argumentative people in my life.
This one fellow steps in front of me and says, 'She's got more B-A-L-L-S
than I have. Leave her alone. Let her speak.'" She adds, "I don't get as
much hostility as I'd like."

Other than her Freedom Rally run-ins, Cox prefers to steer clear of
anti-prohibitionists. "Our previous president refused to debate them and
she was right," she says. "If we had held to that then they wouldn't have
the forum they have today. They wouldn't have the credibility they have
today. These are no longer tie-dye people -- they're people with
credentials who look well. They've gained respectability that they never
had before."

So does Cox feel as though she's losing the war? "Those people haven't
succeeded," she says. "They're the ones who have lost, not us, because
we're still here. Sometimes I wish I could get rid of this drug fight so I
could devote all my time to my grandchildren. But I'll fight until the end.
This is important. We're here trying to save our children and our country.
You can't have a country that thinks it can smoke pot on the weekend and
function on Monday."

Bill Downing

On September 15, anywhere between 50,000 and 100,000 people will take to
the Boston Common for the 12th annual Freedom Rally, an event that is part
celebration, part protest, and part pain in the ass -- at least for Bill
Downing, president of MassCann/NORML, who organizes it. "Since we started
this we've gone from hundreds of people to tens and tens of thousands of
people," he says. "That can be very stressful. I get knots in my stomach.
One year I had these knots so bad that at the end of the rally I just
collapsed."

This sort of thing happens when you find yourself going toe-to-toe with the
Boston police, Beacon Hill Brahmins, and the mayor. Naturally, local pols
- -- Thomas Menino included -- do not take kindly to having thousands of
potheads cavorting within feet of the State House, and every year Downing
finds himself engaged in lengthy and costly battles to obtain permits for
the event. "In 1998 and 1999 it got so bad that we actually had to go to
court," he says. "We won both times, got about 30 grand from the city. It
didn't nearly cover our legal expenses."

Though getting permits has not been a problem in recent years, Downing
still gets those telltale knots. "The continuing problem with the city is
them sending in the police to harass rallygoers, " he says. " We found out
they spend $30,000 for every rally. We hire park rangers. They do
everything we need them to do -- control the crowd, make sure sick people
can be evacuated, keep out pirate vendors. We don't need the Boston police.
The only reason they're there is to do illegal searches and intimidate
people. They arrest about 75 people a year. Thirty thousand dollars to do
that."

Still, Downing considers the rally to be a "tremendous asset" in the fight
against what he considers oppressive marijuana laws. " This year we have
[Libertarian politician] Carla Howell as one of the main speakers," he
says. "She's an excellent speaker and a strong supporter of relaxed
marijuana laws. She recently announced that she's running for governor of
Massachusetts. So that's very exciting."

Bill Downing -- eloquent, levelheaded, and smart -- represents a new breed
of pro-pot activist. For starters, he doesn't like to be called pro-pot.
"Our organization is not pro-marijuana," he says. "We don't support smoking
marijuana. We're against the idea that ordinary citizens who smoke should
be branded as criminals. We're trying to draw people into a broad
coalition. I know people don't want their money to be used locking up
potheads. But they also don't want to be a part of an organization that
advocates smoking pot. So in order to avoid alienating people, we've got to
send a clear message: stop locking people up."

Yet there are many pro-pot -- or anti-prohibition -- activists who say
Downing's Freedom Rally itself is a liability for the cause, because it
alienates potential allies in local and federal government. Testifying
before the House Judiciary Committee in 1997, Janet Lapey, executive
director of Concerned Citizens for Drug Prevention, painted a lurid picture
of the rally: "Forty thousand young people were lured to Boston Common to
hear rock music glorifying drug use and to smoke marijuana openly," Lapey
said. "There was a thick cloud of marijuana smoke over the Common, and
children as young as 12 explained to reporters they were smoking marijuana
because it is a healthy medicine."

"The rally was meant to send a loud message to the State House, that we are
here to reform the laws and this is how we're going to do it -- with mass
demonstration," says local activist Jim Pillsbury. "But it's turned into
more of a party than a political event. Politicians laugh at the rally.
It's turned into a kids' fest. Parents do not want to see their kids
smoking pot on the six o'clock news. And they sure don't want to see them
get busted on TV."

Downing -- who calls the Freedom Rally "my baby" -- insists this kind of
criticism is unfounded. "You ask me what I think about kids smoking pot on
the Common," he says, "and I'll tell you it's evidence that prohibition has
no effect. Here we are spending $20 billion a year trying to control drugs
- -- about a third of that goes to marijuana -- and for what? "He continues,
getting a little more heated: "What are you doing? What are you doing?
You're calling me and asking me questions. The rally generates interest and
discussion about our cause and that's the goal. Anyone who says it's not a
success should look at the print on this piece of paper. The only reason
it's here is because of the rally."