Start the Revolution Without Me: Casing Million Marijuana March

By J. Lawrence Scholer | Wednesday, May 22, 2002

I had slept through my alarm and was only awakened by a violent shaking. I turned over and saw Reviewer Viraj Patel '05 standing by my bed. I lazily pawed at his head and pulled a sheet over my face.

'Larry, get up,' Viraj said. 'You were supposed to be up and hour ago. We're going to be late.'

That's right...I was supposed to be reporting on the Million Marijuana March in Boston today. I had seen flyers, emblazoned with a giant marijuana leaf, for the event. 'Liberation Day,' the flyers proclaimed in bold green letters. Over 160 cities were to take part in this Million Marijuana March, a 'rally and march against intolerance.' I figured Boston would hold quite a rally, far larger than the one in Concord, NH and classier than the one in stoner-haven Burlington, VT.

Viraj began to shake me harder. 'Larry, come on,' he said. 'We have to leave in ten minutes.'

I made a bear-like groan and rolled from the top bunk, nearly losing my balance when I hit the ground. I rubbed my eyes and stretched them open—my vision had not yet adjusted to wakefulness.

'Are you alright?' Viraj asked.

'No, I'm not,' I said. 'Let's go.'

Viraj and I went to meet up with Rob Sutton '02, who would be accompanying us on our trip to Boston. I had recruited Viraj and Rob, both members of the Campus Libertarians, to travel with me and carry out the actual protesting. I would just observe and take photographs and notes.

All we had as a guide to the march was a list of places where a NORML representative would be stationed throughout the day. Thus, we had no idea where we were going. Fortunately, we passed the central office for the Boston Globe. We pulled in and went inside. I approached the desk and asked the receptionist if she knew anything about the Million Marijuana March. She informed me that she just answered the phones and had no idea what I was talking about, so she connected me to the newsroom. The newsroom had heard of the march, but didn't have any detailed information. It did, however, inform me that something was scheduled at the grocery store just down the street.

An older woman, around sixty, was standing outside the doors of the Star Market near the Globe. She held a clipboard and approached shoppers as they stepped on to the sidewalk. The shoppers glanced down at her clipboard, took the pen she offered and signed. This couldn't be the rally, could it? Was this the Boston leg of the Million Marijuana March? Was this old lady with dyed orange hair, wearing blue jeans and a drab floral blouse, the representative of the Boston legalization movement?

I approached her, camera slung across my shoulder. 'Are you from NORML?' I asked. I knew she was—I had seen her petition—but I couldn't admit it to myself. I expected to find some apathetic seventeen year-old stoner kid slouching by the supermarket doors, too lazy to ask any passersby to sign. But this woman was probably a grandmother. She must have glaucoma, I thought.

'Are you a registered voter in this district?' she asked, thrusting her clipboard towards me.

'No, I'm not from around here,' I responded. 'What exactly are you doing?'

'We're gathering signatures to put the legalization question on the ballot,' she said, looking past me for more likely signers.

'Is this all that's going on? There's no march? No rally? Like a big protest on the Common?'

'Heavens,' she laughed. 'Oh no...we're just gathering signatures. Well, some of us are; others finished a few months ago. We're just working in districts that still need signatures.' She left me and approached another shopper. I stood dejected on the sidewalk, tired and hours from Hanover. Nevertheless, I was still somewhat hopeful. I had come to Boston to do a story on the Million Marijuana March, and I resolved to do just that, march or no march. I returned to Viraj and Rob who were waiting patiently for me, ready to protest at my command.

'So where's the protest?' Viraj asked me.

'This is it. It's a petition drive...but I'm sure there is stuff happening on the Common,' I said.
Downtown

We boarded a train bound for the Common and Rob asked, 'What exactly do you want to write about.'

'I don't know,' I said. 'I'll probably just try to find some interesting characters at the rally. Talk to them...basically focus on the people at the rally, you know.' I was glad to have Rob along—he's probably the best-known Libertarian (and founder of the Capitalist Party of America) on campus. He was also, a few years ago, a sworn enemy of the Review, having been named the 'Horrible Person of the Week,' a feature which has since been discontinued. Apparently, he had initiated a freshmen class-wide blitz-mail war that clogged the system and nearly got him kicked out of school. He is also known for his former choice of hairstyle—short in the front and long in the back, He has since cropped it considerably.

I was eager to see what the Common had in store for me. I pictured a scene reminiscent of the Golden Gate Park in the Sixties. Eclectic youth would be scattered on blankets on the grass, groovy and high. Some kids would be running around frantically, smattering signs, trees, benches, everything in sight with Day-Glo. The scene would go on until sunset when some surly motorcyclists would come and crash the party. It'd be furiously taking notes, intruding and annoying. Maybe some big guy would get off his motorcycle and smack in the face with a chain and I'd almost die.

The Common, however, was dead. It was still early and it was a Saturday, so things might pick up later. (They didn't.) Now all that was going on was a Little League game. There weren't even any police around. I put away my pen and pad. For the rest of the morning, the three of us searched for any sign of Liberation Day activities. We scoured the Common for at least an hour. Still, we didn't give up.

We then walked a few blocks to the Massachusetts statehouse. The statehouse was undergoing renovations and was wrapped in plastic. The only person around was a security guard.

'Viraj,' I yelled. 'Stand over there!' I pointed Viraj to a spot near the street with one hand and readied my camera with the other. 'Rob, you stand over there,' I said, pointing Rob to the iron gate in front of the statehouse. 'Now protest for legalization!'
Post-Protest

Viraj, Rob, and I headed into Cambridge for lunch. We patronized a dank pizzeria run by an Indian gentleman. The entrance reeked of urine, but the restaurant itself seemed clean enough. While the food was equal or superior to any of Hanover's offerings, the proprietor was clumsy and bumbling. I witnessed him toss pizza dough and drop it. Then, he made a pizza that was too big for a box, and he had to remake a customer's take-out order while she waited.

After eating, we visited Harvard. The campus was bustling with life. A band, ignored by Harvard students, was playing, and prospective students were busy taking tours. I suggested that we take a tour and ask asinine questions, being completely obnoxious. Rob and Viraj did not like that idea, so we just ambled around the campus.

After about a half hour, Viraj spotted a poster with a portrait of Alan Keyes and inspected it.

'Alan Keyes is speaking right now at the law school,' said Viraj. 'Let's go see him.'

'I don't know,' I said. Then I realize that I had dragged Viraj to Boston for an event that never happened, so I obliged him.

Keyes was speaking to a full audience. All the seats in the lecture hall were full, so we stood in the back with about sixty other students. We arrived midway through Keyes speech and he was busy lecturing the audience on moral relativism in relation to terrorism. Everyone recognized that flying aircraft into the Twin Towers was an evil act, an act of terrorism, said Keyes. He continued discussing the clear distinction between right and wrong, and then, in typical Keyes fashion, he related terrorism to abortion. He stopped talking and the hall burst into a rousing applause. We left before the question and answer segment.

We left and sought the nearest T to take us to our car, which was parked illegally at the Boston Globe. Outside the nearest T, there were two men sitting on a bench with a weathered Sanyo boombox. They were blasting the radio. All of a sudden the music came on and the men began to shout jubilantly. 'Yeah, Led Zeppelin!' one yelled. 'Kashmir!' said the other. They then began to voice the guitar riffs in gruffy tones, stopped, and exchanged two high fives. 'Yeah!'

The Globe hadn't touched our car; it remained pristine in the 'Reserved for Visitors' spot by the front door to the building. We sped off in the wrong direction.

Hey, Boston Globe, I used your parking space all day and you didn't do anything. It was so obvious that we were abusing you. Oh yeah, and your paper sucks!

Start the Revolution Without Me: Casing Million Marijuana March

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