Dear Readers, I was incredibly proud to have worked on the petition signature campaign for the ballot initiative to decriminalize marijuana in San Marcos, which voters approved with an overwhelming 85% of the vote. When we turned in thousands of signatures at city hall after all our hard work canvassing, it was a day for celebration with tears, hugs, elation, a giant group river plunge, margaritas and a spontaneous stick-and-poke tattoo session by an apprenticing artist.
Although I was very aware that I was the oldest team member, I felt it more acutely when “Let’s all get tattoos!” followed our salted-rimmed cheers. I do love tattoos. I rock a couple of larger pieces by talented artists that I adore. I’ve also always wanted a hand-poke, but when the group decided on a small marijuana leaf design, I couldn’t muster the same level of excitement. No judgment for my fellow justice warriors — it just wasn’t my jam. Especially since I’ve already collected a few spontaneous souvenir inkings in my day.
My first was at 17, in Mexico, on a senior class trip. The entire exchange happened in Spanish, and honestly, I think my AP Spanish teacher would have been proud. It’s still there, on my big toe. No one knows what it is. I love it. Another came after my first year of marriage as an unplanned, post-midnight decision to run out to a random shop to mark our anniversary. That one’s since been covered and transformed, though I’m still healing from the marriage.
