by the time you’re reading this, they will have already done so.
Hempiphany
I was kicking it in Key West with a few buddies during the summer of 1993. Sippin’ brews on the beach was the agenda. The only 6:00 o’clock appointment we had was to say farewell to the day at Sunset Pier. A place that’s as spectacular as it sounds. People from around the world converge to patron vendors, browse shops, and watch street performers. At the optimal moment, families and couples posed against another horizon radiating backdrop.
The rule of thumb amongst the boys was that no Key West trip was complete without visiting Sunset Pier’s famous head shop: The Environmental Circus. The Circus was a top-notch head shop with an unlimited stock of the usual fare: incense, blunt wraps, glass pipes, tie-dyes, and band posters. After wandering for a few minutes, I discovered my friends had already abandoned me. I didn’t mind getting lost. I’ve always been a little more inquisitive than the rest. I was engulfed by the Circus’ eccentric goods. My curious eyes wandered. My gaze gravitated to a table with folded shirts. Blank blue shirts that had a natural look and feel. They were modest, plain, and rougher than the motley tie-dyes begging for my attention.
Mindlessly, I handled the price tag and—to my surprise—the tag read fifty dollars! I couldn’t be seeing correctly. For a t-shirt!? Irritated, I further examined the tag for substantial claims: 45% HEMP and 55% ORGANIC COTTON. The word “HEMP” blared out to me. My vague familiarity with this word had everything to do with my elected position as the Marion County Democratic Chairman. I knew about hemp cultivation from Marion County’s historical records. I was also aware of old Kentuckian laws that made hemp clothes, and other hemp goods, illegal. The strictest interpreter of the law could arrest someone for wearing a hemp hat. But how were these laws enforceable? I could only imagine the scene: a police officer arresting a non-violent citizen for wearing an illicit t-shirt.
As if under a catatonic spell, I completely forgot my grubby fingers were ensnaring hemp fabric. I must’ve looked pretty stupid manhandling a t-shirt I couldn’t afford. My blank stare connected with the sales clerk. He was visibly annoyed; he was hissing at me to snap out of it. Somehow, I uttered words, “Isn’t this hemp t-shirt illegal?” The clerk spoke with eyes only, “You gotta be kidding me, dude.” He laughed to ease the tension, but his efforts backfired. Like spontaneous combustion, the clerk’s laugh ignited a spark inside my head. I was experiencing a eureka moment; I dropped the tee on the floor and raised my hands in triumph. My mind entered a wormhole of possibilities.
Back in Kentucky, a company called American Sewing Technology was hauling their t-shirt manufacturing operations to China. A lot of outsourcing was happening during the 90s. Being the Marion County Democratic Chairman, my duty was to prevent those jobs from leaving or to replace them. The tools at my disposal were sparse. Yet, this hemp t-shirt propositioned itself as an attractive new angle. Could Marion County’s hemp history reinvent itself in the modern era? Could hemp, a new commodity, reinvigorate our local economy? Overcome with cosmic excitement, I ran in place while trampling fabric beneath my feet. I was abruptly brought back to reality by the butt-end of the clerk’s broom handle. Ouch! He wasn’t amused by my natural tie-dyeing efforts.
For the rest of my Key West trip, one thought kidnapped my mind: industrial hemp had the potential to replace Kentucky’s stolen industries. I foresaw hemp empowering Kentuckians throughout all stages of the supply chain: to the farmer, to the processor, to the manufacturer, to the distributor, to the retailer, and even to the recycler. My epiphany made the impossible seem achievable. These were the humble beginnings of a hemp advocate. As if in a trance, I roamed the sunset vistas absorbed by an unfolding vision more beautiful than any Key West horizon. Could hemp save the world?
The next few days melted away and I found myself back in Kentucky. I felt compelled to do something immediately, yet I was unsure how to proceed. How could I, a mere party county chairman, get hemp rolling to rejuvenate Kentucky’s economy? To my surprise, my subliminal wishes began to manifest. Soon after the Key West trip, things began falling into place like I never thought possible.
Gatewood Pact
I was fifteen armpit hairs old when I first smoked dope. The local college students from the University of Kentucky, in Lexington, sold grass in old matchboxes. It cost $2.50 for a matchbox stuffed full of ditch weed. The city-raised undergrads took advantage of the rural youth. Who could blame them? These New York yuppies conveniently redistributed wild growing grass—probably from our own backyards—to my harebrained friends and me. It was a cottage industry where high schoolers paid the tuitions of the undergrads. A perfect model of trickle-down economics: every spare cent I earned trickled out of my pocket and into theirs. I’d do anything for a drag.
In the late 1960s, I was a wild and distracted teenager who never fully discerned the War on Drugs. The big city drug crackdowns that my grandfather would listen to over the radio never happened in the country. Admittedly, I never fully grasped the consequences of any kind of war. That’s why I declared one of my own. I enlisted into the United States Army as a seventeen-year-old. On behalf of the stars and stripes, I fed my innocence to the gnashing jaws of Vietnam. Uncle Sam had pulled the wool over my eyes. Hoorah was swapped for horror-stricken. Vietnam exposed me to incredible violence, as well as the devastating effects of hard drugs. I was fortunate I stick to booze and pot, because 100 percent pure heroin was readily available. Even the straightest sergeant smoked dope to cope with inevitable doom. Anything to keep the nerves steady amidst soul-rattling shelling.
My experiences in Vietnam opened my eyes to the truth about my government. Nam revealed the debauchery behind the slapstick jargon peddled by Congress. I was happy to return to the States when I did, feeling extremely fortunate to have stayed fully intact. Upon my return, I was astonished by the seismic societal shifts that happened while I was gone. The 60s’ peace marches left an indelible sticky trail that permeated the national consciousness. The hardline political machine from my grandfather’s generation had no choice but to loosen their grip in the early 70s after several self-inflicted humiliations, such as the Pentagon Papersand Nixon’s white house tapes.
I was too disgusted with the federal scene to keep tabs on every national scandal; I concentrated on easing myself out of the Army with small-town public service. I decided to work with the Kentucky National Guard. Like a crutch, I needed the civil structure in my life, mostly to maintain my post-Nam sanity. I eventually became the Marion County Democratic Party Chairman. I would serve in that position for twenty years. My intentions were to build a humble political career founded on integrity.
Between the regular town hall meetings, I kept tabs on other politicians from my region—specifically, ones pursuing the same issues as I. One man I was beginning to admire more was Gatewood Galbraith. Both being Democrats, at the time, we had many mutual relationships. We both supported the same agricultural hot-button issues too. Compared to my novice political career, Galbraith had already accomplished a lot. He had run for Kentucky Agriculture Commissioner, as well as run for the Democratic Primary to be the next Kentucky governor in ’91, and again in ‘95. Gatewood’s legend was blossoming as a modern-day “David” against the federal bully, “Goliath.” He proclaimed his pro-Americano agenda with sharp shameless intellect.
What frightened the establishment most about Gatewood was that his truth-saying style of politics was inspiring a new breed of leader. His followers loved him for giving “The People” a bombastic voice for the type of change they demanded. Gatewood made harassing the Washington elites into a contact sport and the elites held him in contempt. Gatewood’s most fervent stance was cannabis legalization. Many attempted to vilify him for that talking point. But the opposition learned their best strategy was to avoid debating Gatewood altogether. If the truth in his words didn’t cripple his opponents, then the raucous cheers from the rafters would. He made politics into a spectator sport. His off-the-cuff rhetoric never became less potent over the twenty
