Yesterday, I was heading down Thayer Street towards Green Side Up Gallery to get a new bong, because my roommate Jimmy broke my old one last weekend. I was thinking a lot about the type of bong that I wanted, because the fact that I smoke weed is an integral part of my identity. This bong needed to really represent me, and the fact that I like to smoke weed, and the fact that I like to get high by smoking marijuana. As I was contemplating the relative values of ceramic versus glass, I caught a waft of incense floating from a storefront. I wheeled around to find the source, and saw it for the first time.
It was beautiful. Through the windows I could see a slew of dream catchers hanging from the ceiling. Buddha statuettes gazed at me from every flat surface. I entered with reverence, and stopped at the first table.
These well-known emblems of weed culture let me know that I was in the right place. I picked up the statue of the trippy multi-armed dude. Wow, drugs really open people’s minds. How powerful. I put it back down and moved towards the back wall.
Munchies! The ethnic names made the food look like it might be spicy, which is a problem for me because I get sick if I eat anything other than plain white bread and potatoes. I thought an unopened box sitting on my shelf might add to the ambience in my room, though, so I grabbed one and walked over to the bookshelves.
As a stoner, it was hard to choose between a book about an ethnic guy with tigers and a book about cool names for your pet. Either way I was just going to leave it out on a table as an accompanying piece to my bong, so I chose the book with the cooler cover. I walked towards the rotating cases with The Sons of Shiva tucked under my arm and started looking through. Suddenly, I saw an offensive pin and grabbed it off the case.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. That’s in bad taste, store. Didn’t you ever hear that cultural appropriation is wrong? I was disgusted. But as I was putting it back on the case, I got a glimpse of the back.
Oohhhhh. It’s a nature American pin. I held on to it, glad that I had the foresight to check the label. I started to head up towards the counter to buy my finds, and on the way there a few more wonderful things caught my eye.
Traditional stoner garb, at a steal. I had to tear myself away.
A belly dancing video starring a comfortingly Caucasian-looking woman—perfect to zone out to while you’re stoned.
The only item in the store related to religion, labeled as such for customers’ convenience. I’m not really a religious person, so I just clutched my Sons of Shiva book tighter and moved on.
I stood in line happily envisioning people coming into my dorm and, within a few glances, having a feel for me, and how much I like weed, and how much I like to get high by smoking weed. My mood began to diminish, though, when I realized that the people in line ahead of me were not actually stoners. I was outraged that they would buy items from a store like this. These things weren’t just novelty pieces that you could put out to look cool. They represented an identity, an alignment with an entire complex culture and all of its history. These people merely benefitted from the trendiness of weed culture without having to face the prejudice involved with actually being a stoner. I left the store feeling incensed, and then realized how funny that was, since I had entered the store smelling incense. I laughed over this for several minutes, and in the meantime forgot about everything that had happened in the past hour, because I was completely and utterly blazed.
THE END
Images via Monika Rajagopalan.