He nodded in agreement.
They started the meeting and a number of topics were thrown around but the question on everyone’s mind was what was next? They all looked at Matthew for answers. He stopped and thought for nearly sixty seconds before answering. The tension in the room heightened with every second that ticked by. Then Matthew spoke.
"I believe we have two options." He looked around the room slowly making eye contact with each attendee. "One is to form an underground resistance and fight fire with fire." A small rumble of approval to this statement permeated throughout the group. "Or we can form a social movement based on non-violence." Again the rumble of approval, followed by silence.
Everyone in the room sat quietly waiting for someone to ask a question. A dark figure from the back of the room stepped forward and blew out the smoke from a cigar hanging off his bottom lip.
"You know me, we been doing business for a long time, some of us. Trust me, we need to strike them. The only thing they understand is war. You want to get freedom, we have to take it."
Matthew stood up and looked down at the man. "Good point, Rocco," he said, then turned to me, asking, "Renee, what do you think?"
Everyone in the room turned and looked at me. I turned a dark shade of red and could feel the blood rushing to my face. "As a student of history, I can tell you, at least in modern times, a non-violent approach is the only way to gain international support, which in most cases is the only way to effect change."
My nerves disappeared as I continued to become more and more engaged in the conversation and Matthew continued to ask for my opinion. By the end there was still no consensus on what to do. A few of the leaders, including Rocco, were dead set on violence. I imagined it was not much different than the differing camps of the civil rights movement. What the violent crowd may not realize is the way the government uses your actions against you. The Black Panthers for instance, chose to fight, which made it easier for the feds to paint the picture of homegrown terrorists, as opposed to liberators.
None of the information deterred the five hold outs who were led by Rocco and wouldn’t vote for a non-violent approach, so we agreed to table the discussion and decision until next Wednesday's meeting at the same bar. After the meeting everyone came over to introduce themselves to us, and when I say us, I mean us. Somehow, in the last week I transformed from an American teenager into an infamous rebel leader. My father used to say all the time when I was little,"You act that and become that which you surround yourself with." I always rolled my eyes, but here was a perfect example: one day I kiss a new boy, and the next I'm his partner in revolution.
I have to admit I was riding a surge of adrenaline and dopamine fuelled by emotions that crashed down on me like waves on a rocky shore. Lust, love, fear, anger, and a steady hand from a rock of a man played with my mind and seduced my soul. It didn’t matter to this radical group that I wasn’t really your typical marijuana advocate. In fact, they seemed to relish me for it. To many of the lifelong rebels and fighters, it is a welcome sign to see folk that may sit on the other side of the isle finally waking up.
Chapter 14
The Diary of Renee de Garcias, A Weed War Tale,
Entry 6
We left the bar and walked toward Coors Field. The night’s sky had no clouds and a brisk cool wind blew in our faces. Matthew didn’t say much and his pace indicated that we were in a hurry. Suddenly, he grabbed my arm and pulled me into a doorway of a bar called the Rock Bottom Brewery. "What are you doing?" I asked.
"Someone is following us." He pulled my arm and walked us through the open brewery into the back. A strong whiff of wheat beer filled the room as a worker exited the brewing room. Matthew waited till he passed, and stuck his foot in the door before it closed. "This way." he said. I looked up to see the exit sign over the door before we ducked, and darted between the huge vats of beer.
Without warning, and from an unknown direction, two silent bullets punctured the vat just above our heads. As we ducked down and tried to take cover, beer shot out of the holes, soaking the floor.
Matthew pointed, "Look."
I peered under the row of vats, and could see two pairs of men's dress shoes.
"Come on," he whispered, motioning for me to follow.
We crawled around the tank until we were on the back side. He pointed at the door. "You ready?"
I looked at him, then under the tank at the rapidly approaching shoes. "Yes," I said reluctantly.
He propped himself up into a starter’s stance like a sprinter. "On three."I followed suit, and he began to count. "One, two, and three."
As we shot out across the void toward the door, no sound rang out, but I could see holes being made by the bullets as they zipped past our heads. We hit the door and flew out into a dark alleyway.
Matthew swung around and slammed the door shut. He frantically scanned the area and found a metal bar, which he grabbed, propped it up against the door, and jammed it down into the asphalt. Suddenly, the door was hit from the other side, but it didn’t budge, and the bar held. Bullets ripped through it, and they kicked it, but the door didn't budge.
"Come on," Matthew said. He grabbed me and we sprinted down the alley until we reached the sidewalk. He cut the corner, so I had to jump over a burrito vendor's cooler and nearly knocked him and his spicy potato wraps to the ground. Matthew slowed way down and joined the flow of bar hoppers. His shoulders slumped and he put one arm over mine. He leaned in close, "Shh." His eyes scanned past the group we had joined and stopped. I followed his laser stare though the crowd and saw one of the shooters desperately scanning the area. Matthew's massive hand gently wrapped around the back of my skull and he said, "Head down." He leaned in and kissed me as we continued to walk. At first I closed my eyes, but there was no feeling, so I opened them to find his eyes still locked on our stalker. The kiss worked. We slipped by unnoticed and disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter 15
The Diary of Renee de Garcias, A Weed War Tale,
Entry 7
The next morning we departed the projects and drove three hours through the flat side of Colorado, to the small town of Sterling. A gathering of militia from as far away as Texas was being held on a five hundred acre farm just west of the Nebraska border. Apparently the owner of the farm was a huge proponent of the hemp industry, and used some ingenious logic to garner enough public support to ensure his safety in the state. He argued that it was ridiculous that we could buy hemp products in the store but couldn’t grow it due to its relationship with its cousin marijuana. To that end, he insisted that the ban on hemp was a threat to national security and undermined individual states’ rights.
States’ rights, the lynch pin in the whole issue, was plastered on signs and walls throughout the tiny Colorado town. Once a thriving agricultural hub, Sterling was now only a shell of its former glory. Riddled with empty stores and boarded-up farm houses, the town was ready for a change. All the empty promises made by the government and big agriculture fueled a healthy distrust for the federal government and the corporations who control it. To the people who still lived here, growing hemp made sense, and by the look of things around the demonstration, they were also ready for a war. Matthew pulled his car up beside a Howitzer World War II tank. I looked out past it and noticed that everyone was carrying a gun of some kind. Three young men, carefully cleaning and inspecting their assault rifles, were right in front of an elderly woman who wore a belt holster like an old cowboy, and two lovers on the grass both wore shoulder harnesses. Matthew opened the door and stepped out, but I was frozen, my legs were heavy and my chest pounded. I thought I was dying. When I looked at my hands, sweat was pouring off my palms.
Matthew leaned in the car, "You coming?" He stopped and sat back down in the driver’s seat placed his hand on mine and said, "Renee, I know you’re scared, but I need you, and these people need you."
"What abo
ut all those guns?"
He laughed, saying, "Oh honey, those aren't for the meeting. Carrying guns is just a part of life out here.”
"What about the tank?"
He laughed even harder, "Ol’ Betsy belongs to the curator of the natural history museum, and hasn't been a functional weapon since an unfortunate accident at a fourth of July parade in the early sixties."
"How do you know all this stuff about this place?"
"My granddad lived on a farm out here, and I use to spend the summers working it for him."
BAM, BAM, BAM. Suddenly, a man in front of the window, wearing an old letter jacket, was banging on the roof and staring at us. "Yo, Mattsta, you back!"
"Yeah, we’ll be there in a few minutes." He grabbed my hand and looked at me, ignoring his friend. "You OK? You don't have to…"
I cut him off. "Yes, I do." I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, took a deep breath and stepped out of the car.
The gymnasium was packed, with standing room only, and the energy was amazing. Speaker after speaker took the stage strongly expressing slightly different words, but somehow the same message kept resurfacing: individual liberty. This crowd saw the whole picture and recognized the potential fight ahead. If the government can determine for an individual what should be done with his body, where will the line be drawn?
It wasn't always like this for the gun-toting conservatives; they were once the biggest supporters of laws regulating personal behavior. They justified passing these laws by linking them to moral codes, but that was before the “ban on guns” talk started. The government and special interest groups used the same rhetoric about safety and security to sway public opinion against the ownership of firearms. Suddenly, a collective realization spread through the populace; by supporting moral issues that limit liberty, they were inadvertently supporting the erosion of their own liberties.
All the speakers before Matthew were incensed, and calling for violent revolution or direct action. Each call for violence made me cringe like nails on the chalkboard, but I had no idea Matthew was planning on me being the voice of reason for the crowd. Thirty seconds before he was to go up, he looked at me and asked, "You ready to talk these people over to the light side of the force?"
"Why?"
"They all know me. I think it would be better coming from an outsider."
I shook my head no, to indicate my disapproval, but it was too late. He was already being led up onto the stage. My mind began to race, OK, come on. How can I win this crowd over? I didn’t even hear his speech, but the cheers at the end indicated he had introduced me. When I walked out onto the stage, a silent fog crept through me, and the crowd seemed to disappear into the blazing hot lights. As I approached the microphone Matthew leaned in, hugged me, grabbed my hand, turned and held it up in the air. The crowd went wild and my fog was lifted.
I stepped forward and started speaking clearly to the quiet and intent crowd. "’Hate cannot be expelled by hate. Only love can do that.’ Martin Luther King Jr. said that, and as a student of history I am here to help you make an informed decision on the road ahead. If we are to prevail, we must band together as one, letting go the divisions that so many of us have let drive us in the past. Has there been injustice? Yes. Are we angry? Yes! But we mustn’t let our anger turn us into what we fear. If we want our country to stand, and we want to hold on to the same ideals that the founding fathers set forth, we must follow the non-violent route. We must step out and demand our liberty under the guise of the Constitution. If we do this in an organized and legal way, we will place the burden of proof on the doorstep of the president and attract international support.”
A voice from the back of the gym yelled, "They already have you painted as a terrorist."
"You’re right, sir. They will paint many of us as terrorists, and many of us will have to make the ultimate sacrifice, but we must not fall for their trap."
"What trap?" Matthew yelled, giving me a Cheshire cat-like smile.
I nodded at him, and continued. "They want us to react and to use violence. If we do, then they can discredit us and use the propaganda machine they control to sway public opinion. Violence begets more violence and we must not let ourselves fall prey to their wicked games."
I slammed my fist down on the podium and people applauded. "The issue itself doesn’t matter, but we must take the opportunity to give notice that our liberty and freedom are non-negotiable and we will not let fear destroy our natural rights. Thomas Jefferson said, ‘Those who give up their freedom and liberty for security deserve neither.’ Some of our countrymen have forgotten that,” I slammed my fists down again and raised my voice, "but we will not rest until we break free from the tyranny of the social police."
I raised my hands and the crowd went wild with applause. Matthew joined me and we embraced hand in hand before bowing.
As we walked off the stage, a man walked up to Matthew, handed him an envelope and said, "Here is the original tape." Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
"What is it?" I asked.
"My contact came through," Matthew explained, holding up the envelope. "This will exonerate us and expose them."
Chapter 16
Mr. Borinski sits on the only piece of furniture left in his apartment when his little sister Claire enters the room.
"What have you done with all your stuff?" She looks around the empty room.
"I donated it of course."
She pauses, then comes over and kneels down in front of him, pleading with him, “So this is it? You’re going to let her death destroy you?"
"They killed her."
"B." She grabs his head and turns it toward hers. Tears flow down both of their faces. "She killed herself, B."
"What happened that night is what killed her. She just couldn’t live with the rape." His lower lip quivers and he weeps uncontrollably.
"I know it's hard."
"How could you possibly know?"
She knows he is right, but this is her older brother. "You’re right, I couldn't know, but I don't want to find out by losing my only brother."
"It's too late. My whole class is nearly done with the novel and it's only a matter of time before they come for me," he says, as he pulls up his shirt to expose a gun.
"That’s your plan?" She rolls her eyes. "You even know how to use that?"
He smiles and chuckles. "It's not even loaded, but they don't know that, and won't till it is too late."
"What if I called them and..."
He cut her off placing his finger up to her lips. "I need you to do something for me."
She wipes some of the tears away with her forearm. "What?"
"When it's over I need you to upload this to the web." He hands her a small portable drive.
"What is it?"
"It's a link to the video archive from my classroom. I redirected a feed to record in a secure server."
"Why?"
"People need to see it with their own eyes, and then maybe they will start to wake up."
"See what?"
"Everything, from the beginning, including all the class discussions and my assassination."
"Jesus, B., you know this won’t bring her back. You think she wanted to be a martyr?"
His face becomes stoic. "Yes, and I think if I would have done this before, she wouldn't have…" he gulps and weeps, "killed herself."
"Oh B., you can't blame yourself! What happened was not your fault."
"Claire, can you do this for me?"
"Won't I get in trouble?"
"Follow the instructions, and they won't be able to trace it to you."
"I don't know."
"If this goes viral it could spark a revolution. Remember the stories mom and dad used to tell us about the twentieth century? This could be the spark that ushers us back to that."
"Oh, B!"
"It's OK. Claire, look at me." As he says this, she looks up into his eyes
." I am not afraid, and for the first time in a long time I have a purpose. Please, tell me you can do this."
Claire looks down at her hand and closes her fingers around the tiny drive, and assures her brother, "Yes...I can do this.”
Chapter 17
The Diary of Renee de Garcias, A Weed War Tale,
Entry 8
The next two days were a complete re-education for me. Matthew saw something in me and said I needed to understand the Movement if I was going to help him lead it. I insisted that I did not want a leadership role, but he didn't listen. Instead of heading back to Denver, we went the opposite direction across the border of Nebraska. Matthew's uncle owned a small trailer on the shore of a man-made lake called McConaughy. To be honest, with alI the undeniable chemistry between us, aside from some incredible intellectual discussions, I wasn’t sure what to expect.
Day 1
We drove late into the night past miles of fence posts with old boots on them until we pulled up to a faded, green single-wide trailer. I don't even remember walking in the door. My eyes were closed and I could smell a hint of moist sweet grass.
Next thing I know, I woke up with my face buried in an unfamiliar pillow. I found myself in an empty trailer as the sun danced through any opening it could find. Still half asleep, my feet stumbled across the old shaggy carpet and out onto the covered porch, where Matthew sat sipping coffee.
“Good morning," He said with a crooked grin. "You ready to get started?"
"Started with what?" I asked, and now looking back, I kind of wish I hadn't agreed with him so readily.
"You’re-education," he said, chuckling under his breath.
"Are you sure that’s what I need?" I responded, winking at him.
"Let’s go over some basics and then you can decide where we go from there." He reached over, grabbed the handrail and pulled himself up, saying, “Let's take a walk."
"OK," I said, as if he was just going to pour the information into my brain.
We started down a path that ran deep into a sandbar that sat below the house and separated the grassy plains from the long white sandy beach. Matthew began, "Let’s start with the Movement, and what it truly is."