Essay: Illicit to Legal
Amy Weinstein
As I use scissors to rip open the roughly textured FoodSaver vacuum bags, air begins to fill the empty spaces between the buds. I feel them spring into action, happy to breathe even the musty oxygen of the dark dispensary basement, where the windows are lined with spiky wooden planks to keep out any unwanted visitors.
Photo credit: Angela Lewis
I begin to think about each bud’s personal history—the journey that led them to this basement, to be unpacked, counted, and loved by my hands. I think about where they will go next. These little buds are destined to help create happiness, soothe pain, rekindle friendships, dry tears, and spark magic. To be there for my patients when they need them.
I remind myself that these are the lucky buds. Some of them, even light, little ones, will go on to be a catalyst for the separation of disenfranchised families. Blamed and abused to racist, ugly ends. Others will be seized by authorities and languish in boxes, never to be connected to their human counterparts.
Dispensary Life
Managing an illegal dispensary in Toronto in 2015 meant walking one of the same paths as those buds. I was constantly learning from my patients, expanding my understanding of cannabis as medicine, and learning about the human body, not to mention smoking better quality bud than ever before. But I was also living in a state of fear—not only for myself, but for the patients and employees that relied on me daily. If this thing went south, there would be over 1,000 people without a reliable source of medicine, and we could all end up with criminal records or even in jail.
What would happen to the mother who had weaned herself off opiates using THC concentrates from our shop? How about the patient who was seeing real results using Rick Simpson Oil from our store to treat her breast cancer? What would come of the patient files that we carefully locked behind two sets of bolted doors? As Toronto’s dispensary count climbed above 10, and then 50, and then 150, my fears were exacerbated. On one hand, I was excited to see a flourishing, above-ground cannabis marketplace emerge in a city that desperately needed it. Patients had access to high-quality medicine, and healthy competition provided the quality assurance the underground market had been lacking. Cannabis was flowing freely, and innovation was at an all-time high—pun always intended.
At the same time, the risks got bigger with every new dispensary springing up. And the stakes seemed higher: more patients relying on us for medicine; more attention on what we were doing; more likelihood of a raid. There were more questions from family and friends, and more questions I had to ask myself. More pressure and more drama, no matter how hard I tried to avoid it.
When nearly 200 dispensaries had sprouted throughout the city like neon toadstools, John Tory decided it was time to take action. He ordered Project Claudia and 60 dispensaries were raided simultaneously. My store was one of them, but in a lucky twist of fate, I happened to miss a rare day of work on that very date. This was the end of an era.
I was dismayed that my staff would have to deal with the financial burden that inevitably comes with being caught up in a raid, and I was irate to learn that the owners of our dispensary did not offer them any monetary help or compensation for this purpose. The anger I felt toward the city and toward the owners of my dispensary stoked a fire that was already burning inside me around the severe incongruencies around cannabis caused by prohibition. How could something that helps so much be so shameful? How could my staff be arrested for selling cannabis to patients whose lives were made better by a visit to our store? I knew I had to focus on what I could do to improve the situation.
When I began working at the dispensary, I wanted a break from the hustle, but what I realize now is that rather than slow my roll, I needed to be inspired. My time there sparked a shift in my sense of self and sense of community. My patients taught me about compassion and about what cannabis consumers and patients want and need. I learned to listen to my own needs through the process. Since I, unfortunately, did not feel safe in that world, I decided to enter the legal cannabis industry. There was still much work to be done, and I knew I wanted to do it with safety and accountability.
Being the change
I was eager to fight the stigma from the inside out, and was excited to join the team at National Access Cannabis. I wanted to bring this plant to people who might never have considered it before. As the regional manager for NAC, I was responsible for building, staffing, and opening the Toronto location.
I knew times were changing when a woman, likely in her eighties, asked for the medical cannabis paperwork to bring home. “I am going to leave it lying around for my son to find on his own. He never does what I tell him to do,” she told me with a grin.
However, I quickly learned that corporate cannabis had its own set of challenges, since it lacked the established foundation of the black market world. The problems were often the inverse of the ones I had previously faced. Business was not smooth, and transitioning thousands of patients to an unreliable Licensed Producer system did not seem viable or even in their best interests.
To say the medical system was failing patients would have been an understatement, and that became clear to me when one I finally convinced one of my former dispensary patients—let’s call her Jane—to make the switch to an LP. There was rarely a visit without tears for Jane. Her cancer was in remission, but left her “sewn together like a ragdoll,” she said, with constant pain on her right side. When she came by the dispensary I would search for the strongest, cheapest cannabis we had. I would hand her an ounce and she would hand me $100. When our shop closed after the raid she called me every week and I would go and see her, giving her the same price and eating the financial losses myself, since I no longer had the backing of a dispensary to provide cannabis she could afford. I was thrilled when I finally convinced her to join a large LP with a solid compassionate pricing program, as I thought she would be properly taken care of at last. She had very little money and no credit card, so we filled out the forms and sent a money order through Canada Post. I gave her the cannabis I had on hand and told her to expect her first regulated shipment in a day or two. A week went by, and then another, and Jane did not receive anything from her LP.
As I continued to make it work and keep Jane stocked with her medicine, we tried to get to the bottom of the issue. The LP’s Customer Service department said they had never received the money order. We were both confused. I connected Jane with another dispensary who was kind enough to honour the pricing arrangement we had, as it was all she could afford. Weeks went by as we waited for answers from the LP or Canada Post as to what had happened to the money. Jane continued to shop for cannabis underground. After a three-week investigation, it was confirmed by Canada Post that Jane’s money order had been cashed by the LP three days after it had been sent. I don’t believe this was a malicious event but rather points to the rapid growth and the LP’s inability to keep up with operating procedures. They were growing way too fast. The most challenging transition of legalization exists at the level of individual humans, and I realized there was a lengthy road still ahead.
The best of times. The blurst of times.
To be fair, the above story is an extreme case, but I wanted to highlight the intricacies that exist between the grey market and the LPs beyond. There are benefits to the legal system, as there are checks and balances, and the opportunity to educate medical professionals like doctors, nurses, and naturopaths about the benefits of cannabis. It has been invigorating to watch them turn to cannabis for their patients, and sometimes even for themselves.
The best part of going legal is that I am able to spark interest in cannabis (and spark up cannabis itself) in unexpected places. In my current roles as Brand Manager at 48North and co-editor of Latitude, I feel like I am closer than I have ever been to marrying my experience in the illicit market to my place in the legal cannabis regime. I am confident that I am able to move my mandate forward, safely turning people on to the therapeutic benefits of the plant.