I’ve written about weed for a while now — off and on since my second year of college in 2019, when I jokingly pitched the idea of a column to the Daily Trojan’s editor-in-chief at the time. Several days later, on a regular smoke sesh/walk with friends, we brainstormed the name: “To Be Blunt.” That later morphed into this newsletter, which I’ve been tending to as unevenly as I’ve watered actual gardens in my life.
Since then, I’ve pared down my dependence on the substance heavily (much of my freshman year of university was a mixture of waking-and-baking alternating between ingesting-and-slumbering, and I wouldn’t be caught dead and clear-eyed without my trusty PAX pen in-hand). I appreciate cannabis for what it has done for me, the way I can share it with friends in between jokes that seem just a touch sillier with its influence, the way that — when it doesn’t command me to panic and be weird — it can restore my peace.
But between the reality of my lessened usage and the fact that I have mostly covered much of cannabis’ sociological/political/cultural/economic capital in these posts and articles, I have struggled to find what to write about, even though I think about this side-venture of mine often. (Which is to say, I am always, always interested in hearing what you — yes, you! — want to hear me yap about in this Substack).
Additionally, I’ve since decided to attempt another form of writing I’ve been way too scared for way too long to even begin to conceptualize; that is, until I did and can now fathomably say I’m about to embark on the editing process for in the coming weeks. With much embarrassment and a little pride (that I will hopefully grow from a seedling to a full-fledged photosynthesizing being), I can say that I have done what every other writer has done at some point and write — quite critically, at times solipsistically and often insufferably — about myself. Dun-dun-dun, the dreaded memoir.
What I included in this post is the initial stages of an excerpt, which kicks off the m*moir in question. It will likely change if it sees the world again in a more official capacity, but in the meantime, it satisfies my craving to give back onto this platform, onto my (few, but mighty and lovely!) readers and onto myself.
I rummaged past forgotten stuffed animals, graduation-era mementos and a prop wig in search of the bag within a bag that contained a dual-lock vacuum seal. Hidden underneath layers of nostalgia and pink taffeta, my hands grasped on the familiar casing. Finally, I thought, and, how ridiculous to be hiding my stash of weed underneath Hello Kitty toys and a diploma-boasting giraffe.
Carefully, I detangled the tote bag handles; less graciously, I fumbled with the stoner-proof ziploc. With my mauve lighter and unopened joint tube in hand, I set out onto the next part of my routine: climbing down onto the matted half-roof of my childhood home. I’d gotten better at the journey with each trip, having made the soothing trek dozens of times when my parents were out. In the dwindling light of a Southern California sunset and cool winds of winter’s last stand, I lit up, the flame dancing about the joint’s end as I inhaled for a smooth burn.
Getting up from my perch in the corner between the window (opened just a crack for me to get back in and block any odorous evidence of my activities from anyone else), I paced around the makeshift balcony. I stood at the end, near the rain gutter, wondering what would happen if the ledge suddenly gave way, thinking about all the discussions I’d had with my father about how we’d transform the brown floor into a tiled deck, complete with railings and outdoor furniture. A balcony wasn’t just a place where you could sip coffee in the mornings, looking out atop Downtown’s haze and, on a cloudless day, see the ocean glisten with dancing diamonds. It was one of the many endpoints of having made it in the United States, of graduating from a two-bedroom intergenerational apartment shared with grandparents and an uncle. Of making it out of Armenia and to something to begin with.
To access the area, I had to climb through the old bedroom of my father’s parents, left barren — save for a few empty suitcases and photographs lining the cupboards — now that both of them were gone. I didn’t want it to be made into a balcony, even if we eventually had the money to do so. This was a place that was entirely my own. It was untouched by my little brother, with whom I shared a Jack-and-Jill style bathroom, and who most likely didn’t know of nor care for its existence. Certainly, it wasn’t frequented by my parents.
Growing up, the house was filled with yelling. Doors were useless at blocking out sound while I was studying, and there was a running joke that the slightest tiptoe upstairs would reverberate across the home’s poorly insulated foundations, shaking it all like an earthquake. The television was on continuously, mixing with the venomous arguments my grandfather had with my grandmother as she ran around the kitchen, frying eggplants on the stove and meticulously rolling dolma by the hundreds of grape leaves. Often, I would only reach the top of the stairs only to get called back down again, by my father who wanted my help holding a flashlight for one of his continual garage/car/gardening tasks, or by my younger brother, who couldn’t find the soup in the fridge, or by my father again, for the very same ask (the soup was always front and center in the middle, or behind a slender bottle of kefir, clearly visible).
It’s been quiet lately. As a teen, desperate for silence when I poured over math or English homework, I never thought I’d miss the sounds of chaos and dysfunction. It was a particularly Armenian experience to hear my relatives on Skype at full volume in the kitchen at 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning, drowned out only by my immediate family’s boisterous voices, which echoed across seven rooms and two floors as they filled everyone back home on the happenings of our lives.
It’s been four years since my grandmother died, and if I think about it too much, I start to feel a tightness in my chest that I’d rather stay buried. Even now, when my father gets wistful, heart heavy with regret and reminiscence, I stay silent, unable to articulate how cruel it feels to lose a crucial part of my tether to my culture before I’m able to fully grasp my place in it. Hearing secondhand stories from my great aunts is an exercise in dilution, a reminder of my failings as a granddaughter to practice forbearance and understanding.
I think about all these things on loop, especially when all I can hear is my breathing and the beeps of the fire alarm in a still, empty home — one devoid of laughter and Armenian soap opera reruns, bereft of the smells of tomato sauce and red pepper paste, so cavernous that it’s a miracle it ever felt so small.
Now, I welcome the cloudiness that envelops me, that forces my thoughts to evaporate without a trace. It’s a pleasant lift, a lap on the shore that washes away everything before it. It tells me to let go, to just be, to think less and feel more, to exist.
After deciding my lungs can’t take it anymore, I put out the fire, tossing the joint back into its tube and hiding it underneath one of the matts. As always, the struggle to get myself up a foot off the ground in order to climb back into my house seems insurmountable, my arms gelatinous and depth perception fucked. Despite the mental and physical challenges, I accomplish it with nary a stubbed toe, though my landing is less graceful as I stumble forward and catch myself on the bed. Hurriedly, I drag the window closed and begin my post-session ritual: Light a candle, immediately. Do not, for the love of God, forget that you lit said candle. Take off your jacket and toss it at the far end of your room to destinkify. A shower is preferable, but one can make do with a thorough hand-washing, perfuming and hand sanitizer combo. Give into the munchies or, at the very least, chew some gum or drink some wine. Finally, try to be somewhat normal when around other people.
We moved into this house when I was 11. It was the abode of our collective dreams. I called dibs on the bedroom with a cozy reading nook, which was not at all a problem once my older brother peaked into the one next door, which had a miniature walk-in closet. My parents and little brother, then a year and a half, got the master bedroom, as my grandparents shared the one across from me, which had a full, private bathroom. Unbeknownst to me at the time, my then-19-year-old brother also had a penchant for surreptitiously smoking weed. Once, I found an uneaten apple in the trash, with what looked like a burnt, grassy center with small divots and holes in random places adorning the skin. I had never been more confused in my life. At another point, back at our old home a year or so earlier, after coming home from a night out, I asked him why his eyes were so red as my parents approached after locking the car door. He told me in a hushed and panicked whisper to shut up.
And … that’s all you’re getting for now, folks! For better and, also hopefully, for worse. I leave you all with a relevant meme.
Anyway. Happy Eclipse Day to all who celebrated. May your retinas be safe and well, and you — sane and exuberant.
Until next time,
your bud Natalie