Post Tag: Culture

It was a cold, late afternoon in early January of 2022. I left my apartment as I had done countless times before. My destination was a church’s analytical lab, where I was involved in an ongoing psilocybin experiment.

Upon arriving at the warehouse, I parked my car in the familiar spot and headed into the lab. However, on this particular day, a strange feeling of impending doom crept up my spine as I approached the large roll-up door. Dismissing my intuition as an inconvenient interruption, I continued into the lab to work alone.

Inside, the deafening roar of the chemical-resistant fan that powered the fume hoods made it difficult to hear anything. But amid the noise, a destructive crash from somewhere in the building caught my attention. The sight of charred and mangled cars outside the warehouse did little to ease my growing concerns.

As darkness descended on the warehouse, I ventured toward the commotion. Frantic flashlight beams pierced through gaps in the large wooden roll-up doors leading to the loading bay. Through a small hole in the paneling, I witnessed a scene that sent shivers down my spine: heavily armed officers in bulletproof vests, armored helmets, and automatic weapons.

Disbelief washed over me as the officers repeatedly commanded me to open the doors. Still in shock and peering through the small hole in the paneling, I asked to see a search warrant. The response was swift and brutal, with the barrage of a battering ram shaking me from my stupor. As I was knocked to the floor along with shards of the door, the reality of the situation began to sink in.

I allowed the police inside, and the warehouse doors gradually rose to reveal a team of heavily armed officers in the loading bay. I was searched, cuffed, and placed face down on the hood of a police cruiser, surrounded by a fleet of police vehicles in the cold winter night.

Down the Rabbit Hole: How it All Began

As the cold settled into my chest, I reflected on everything that had led to this moment.

From an early age, I witnessed the tragic effects of addiction, compulsion, and mental affliction in my loved ones. This led me down a path of fascination with medicinal chemistry, introspective psychonautics, and the healing journey. I spent years immersed in laboratories, pushing the boundaries of my own limitations. But beneath my ambitions lay unprocessed trauma, and I was ultimately neglecting my own needs.

Amid the COVID-19 pandemic, I found connection with a community rooted in Kabbalistic Judaism. This diverse group (editor’s note: name withheld) embraced holistic practices, including holotropic breathwork, yoga, artistic expression, nature retreats, and guided ceremonies with psychedelic mushrooms as its sacrament. This religious nonprofit prioritized safety, with a doctor available at all times and thorough participant screening.

Recognizing the inherent variability in mushroom potency, the group sought to standardize their psilocybin sacrament. They launched an extensive cultivation and breeding project, and in the spring of 2021, I moved to Denver to support their efforts.

Over months, we transformed an empty warehouse into a 2,000-square-foot laboratory equipped with advanced analytical instruments. With chest freezers filled with freshly frozen, vacuum-packed psychedelic mushrooms, our goal was to extract, purify, and analyze the sacrament to determine its potency and enable consistent dosages.

Contributing to the safety of the congregation while delving into a subject close to my heart felt like a dream come true. My journey, marked by my biological father’s overdose, the study of Alexander Shulgin’s work, 18 months of immunosuppressive chemotherapy, and my near-participation in a MAPS clinical trial, had brought me full circle. I was now actively involved in a movement of compassion, community, and cooperation—a movement that offered solace and respite from the cruelties of modern life.

The Legal Conundrum

Despite my willingness to support the church’s mission, I hadn’t blindly walked into it. My legal counsel and the synagogue’s had cited multiple case precedents and interpretations of the law supporting the church’s actions as a legal and legitimate form of religious expression.

These legal arguments hinged on various factors, including the 2019 city-wide decriminalization of psychedelic mushrooms, the Denver Police Department’s pledge to deprioritize psychedelic mushroom-related offenses, and the federal Religious Freedom Restoration Act, which guaranteed free religious expression for all faiths on American soil.

However, this thin veil of safety was torn apart as officers tore through the church’s facility, uncovering chest freezers filled with large frozen mushrooms. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing: my arrest for sacramental mushrooms that didn’t belong to me, at a publicly registered and openly advertised religious nonprofit, in an era where psilocybin mushrooms were gaining recognition for their potential medical benefits and safety compared to alcohol or cannabis.

Despite my disbelief, the fact remained: I was bent over the hood of a police cruiser in a lab coat, surrounded by bags of mushrooms in the dead of night.

In an act of desperation, I chose to cooperate with the police, explaining the mission of the church, the foundational practices of Kabbalistic Judaism, and the purpose of the church facility they had raided.

It took two hours to fully explain my circumstances on record, and I could sense that the investigating officers were shocked by my story. Even for seasoned narcotics detectives, arresting a professional chemist with kilograms of wet psychedelic mushrooms at an advanced laboratory operated by a nonprofit Jewish synagogue was far from ordinary.

After the interview, I was told that the officers would investigate my claims by verifying the existence of the church and its community of over 300 congregants. For now, I was placed on investigative hold and sent to the city jail. As I was transported, the officer driving the cruiser expressed interest in my religious beliefs and confessed a desire to try psychedelics. I couldn’t resist informing the officer that the synagogue welcomed all without prejudice, should they ever choose to attend a ceremony.

The Reality of Incarceration

Upon arrival at Denver City Jail, I was processed, screened for COVID-19, and kept in a temporary holding room until a prison cell was ready. My court hearing was scheduled for the following morning, with release expected later that day. I changed into the orange scrubs of an inmate under the watchful gaze of a corrections officer who snickered at my visible discomfort.

Not long after I climbed into the top bunk above a fellow inmate, a nurse arrived to administer Suboxone to the man below me. Unfortunately, the inmate hit his head on the metal bed frame, opening a bloody gash, which went unnoticed by the medical staff. After administering the dose, the nurse advised the inmate to stay in jail until the effects of the Suboxone had dissipated, and then promptly left him in a sleepy stupor. He was released from prison hours later, without his glasses or cellphone, potentially unaware of the overdose risk he faced if he decided to use opiates again.

Moments after the nurse’s departure, a small wad of discarded paper appeared from underneath the cell door. It was a note from an inmate in the adjacent cell who had overheard the nurse administering Suboxone. The inmate offered coffee, sugar, and other commissary treats in exchange for more Suboxone. Although I was given a mangled pen shaft to respond, I had to disappoint the inmate by explaining that the drugs weren’t mine to give in the first place, and they were already gone.

Despite what I’d been told, I was not released the following morning. Uncertain hours dragged into days as I languished in jail, unable to speak to anyone outside.

Despite the challenges of incarceration, I found an anchor in the flimsy pen shaft I’d been given my first night behind bars. Throughout sleepless nights, I covertly journaled my experiences in the margins of my intake paperwork, holding the makeshift pen and papers out of sight from the guards. I began to notice the details of my surroundings—the layers of stained paint on the cinder block walls, the rank, humid smell of suffering and shame in the air. Desperate for news, I asked for an update from a corrections officer delivering the evening meals, but received only laughter in response.

My dreams were haunted by vivid visions of a court trial, conviction, and sentencing. Yet, amid the nightmares, I experienced a spontaneous endogenous psychedelic dream state that offered a glimmer of hope and resilience.

Pretrial Observation

Finally, I was released. Over the days that followed, the fleeting relief I felt upon leaving prison quickly decayed into anxiety and agoraphobia. Loud noises, emergency vehicle sirens, and media depictions of police officers triggered episodes of post-traumatic stress. Despite years of applying various psychotherapeutic methods for my own healing, and weekly support from a therapist, I struggled to remain emotionally present and descended into a deeply dissociative depression.

As an accused felon under mandatory pretrial observation, I was unable to leave the state of Colorado without court approval and had to check in with the assigned pretrial officer after every court hearing. Any attempts to secure employment were thwarted by the glaring red flag of a level one drug felony on my background check. Career opportunities that had been secured months prior were abandoned in light of the investigation. Even driving for Lyft was no longer an option.

In this haze of rejection and persecution, I received the support of family and friends, notably my civil attorney, Robert Rush, who connected me with Sean McAllister, a well-known champion of psychedelic and social justice local to Denver. His confidence and thorough understanding of the law were critical to the ongoing court proceedings and gave solace to my shattered sense of security in the future.

Sean and I reviewed hundreds of pages of documents and photos from discovery over the next few months. Just weeks after the arrest, I was reading various reports from officers describing their firsthand experiences arresting, detaining, and interviewing me, along with my mugshot, fingerprints, and a full transcript of the phone calls I made from prison. Working through the crippling weight of anxiety and deeply triggering nature of reviewing evidence, I attempted to offer insights and interpretations that eventually became integral to our initial argument for full dismissal of the criminal charges.

Despite seemingly insurmountable support for a guilty verdict and the shame I had internalized through the trauma of these experiences, I held onto the conviction that this criminal accusation was merely a relic of vestigial legislation. The misinformation and outright lies seeded by prohibitionist narratives since the advent of the War on Drugs had blossomed into burgeoning tendrils of prejudice and ignorance that stemmed throughout the criminal justice system and ensnared countless victims in its thorny grip.

Thankfully, I was hardly alone in this opinion. Mounting support for sweeping changes to psychedelic law had catalyzed the decriminalization of psilocybin in Denver just a few short years before, and a recent report from an impartial review board discovered that the past two years of decriminalization had not led to any significant public safety concerns.

Following his involvement in the initial campaign for decriminalization, my attorney continued to fight for psychedelic access through his work with the Natural Medicine Health Act (NMHA). This new law sought to retroactively decriminalize personal possession, storage, use, processing, transport, obtainment, ingestion, cultivation, gifting, and ancillary support services for psilocybin mushrooms and other natural psychedelic medicines, and create a legal clinical system for patients to access therapies at licensed facilities, staffed by specialists trained to state specified standards.

In comparison to my legal conundrum, this new paradigm seemed like salvation. Despite my social anxiety and traumatic episodes of police-related paranoia, I attended several events in support of the NMHA and immersed myself in the local ecosystem of fellow psychedelic enthusiasts and professionals. Stark differences in opinion over decriminalization versus legalization and regulation divided the group into clear sides: those in support of the NMHA and those opposed.

With the prospect of my freedom hanging in the balance, I was deeply confused and saddened by this conflict. Completely unable to discuss the details of the ongoing investigation, I repressed impulses to share my struggle, instead opted to thoroughly review the language of the NMHA itself and network with the incredible individuals responsible for drafting and supporting it. The guidance and expertise offered by this group was invaluable during this vulnerable time. I was humbled to receive their presence in my life and gladly accepted an invitation to host an educational psychedelic mini-conference at my home. The event included numerous presentations, talks, demonstrations, and group exercises from expert members of the local community and conjured a feeling of much-needed camaraderie in light of the glaring uncertainty surrounding the approaching election.

Despite all my efforts and attempts to support the campaign, review case evidence, and secure a path through this upheaval, I ultimately had to surrender to a lack of control. I slowly allowed a fickle feeling of freedom within myself and began to engage in my own life with renewed interest.

On a serendipitous skate down the Cherry Creek Trail into Confluence Park, I ran into a representative of the NMHA collecting signatures for the law’s inclusion on the upcoming November ballot. As I happily offered my support, I reflected upon the potency of surrender and its demonstrated ability to align me with an opportunity to support progress for the future of psychedelics and my freedom.

The Road to Redemption

Notwithstanding the inspiring support offered by compassionate communities, gaining ground with the prosecution moved at a snail’s pace. Resistance to dismiss the case outright was inherent to their initial plea offer of a level three drug felony (DF3), requiring up to four years of imprisonment and fines up to $500,000. Besides litigating the case in court, the upcoming vote for the Natural Medicine Health Act appeared to be the only way towards resolution.

After submitting my ballot in support of the NMHA as early as possible, I hit the road to visit loved ones and explore the natural beauty of the country. Over the months leading up to the November 2022 elections, I surrendered to the sweeping landscapes of North America, crossing the distance between California and New York twice before the ballots were counted. No matter what the future held for me, I was determined to bring my fullest attention to the precious days I had left and enjoy the freedom and simplicity allowed by a life rich with companionship and catharsis.

By November, the NMHA passed, marking significant progress in the psychedelic movement. Still, the prosecution remained resistant to dismissal. I contemplated accepting a plea deal to avoid incarceration, but it felt like a conviction in itself.

My legal journey took an unexpected turn in mid-December 2022 when my attorney presented a compelling argument for dismissal based on the NMHA’s language. To my astonishment, all criminal charges against me were entirely dismissed.

Reflections on Freedom and Justice

The dismissal of my case highlighted a profound shift in societal values regarding psychedelics. However, I couldn’t help but think about the countless lives affected by the War on Drugs and the thin line between freedom and persecution. My own burdens included debt, missed career opportunities, and traumatic memories.

As Colorado prepared to draft guidelines for the psilocybin industry, I continued to struggle to recover seized property. While progress had been made, the burdens of prohibitionist policies continued – and continues – to threaten the lives and liberties of many Americans.

My journey from arrest to legal redemption was a rollercoaster ride through the complexities of drug laws, personal trauma, and the evolving landscape of psychedelics. While I found freedom in the dismissal of my case, the broader fight for justice and the responsible use of psychedelics is very far from over.

Amidst the fervent cries of psychedelic-centric victory heard around Colorado since the passing of the Natural Medicine Health Act (NMHA), it is important to remember those less publicized, less well-funded, and less white, human beings who continue to suffer and die from various manifestations of the War on Drugs – the same political ill that prevented access to “natural medicines” in the first place.

A malignant disease afflicting the collective body of culture, the War on Drugs is among the most horrific, anti-human disasters in the history of American policy. Lack of access to psychedelics is one symptom of this disease, but there are many others; including the opioid overdose epidemic, mass incarceration, the creation of Mexico’s narco-state, the militarization of police, the erosion of personal rights, and continued institutionalized racism. Like a very expensive band-aid triumphantly placed on the skinned knee cap of a dying person by self-congratulatory doctors, the NMHA does absolutely nothing to alleviate these most malignant symptoms of the disease that is the War on Drugs. In this way, the NMHA and other psychedelic-centric drug policies paradoxically represent the continuation of oppression more than its end.

Passed on November 8th, 2022 by Colorado voters through a ballot initiative, the NMHA brought immediate statewide decriminalization and pending legalization of certain “natural medicines” including psilocybin, DMT, mescaline, and iboga. Those unfamiliar with the details of the NMHA can read about them extensively here. As far as psychedelic policy goes, the NMHA is a reasonably cutting-edge development, merging both legalization and decriminalization models. But there is no such thing as a “psychedelic policy,” only drug policy.

Dr. Carl Hart, Columbia University’s Department of Psychology Chair, defines the problem succinctly as “psychedelic exceptionalism,” “the perspective that psychedelics are somehow better and more useful than other classes of drugs like opioids or stimulants.” This rampant false belief that psychedelics can be meaningfully separated from the larger drug policy conversation enables the generally privileged and up-power “psychedelic community” to ignore prohibition itself as the core societal disease while profiting from the treatment of a single symptom. Rather ironic, really.

Gazing through the glamor and capitalist speculation currently surrounding the psychedelic phenomenon reveals a more essential truth: Psychedelics are morally-neutral substances just like any other. Our inability to see this is our responsibility, but, in part, not our fault. America has a long-standing tradition of simplistic moralistic judgments around substances which began with the Women’s Christian Temperance Movement in the 1800s and continued through programs like D.A.R.E. Our cultural soil is deeply seeded with the idea of “good drugs” used by “good people” and “bad drugs” used by “bad people.”

After decades of wrestling with this tired old narrative, we’re finally managing to change it, but only along those same dualistic lines of thinking. By highlighting the positive effects of psychedelics, we have begun to politically pry some useful substances from the realm of “bad” drugs. The DEA is now considering releasing MDMA from its unscientific schedule I clutches while states legalize and decriminalize some psychedelics. This is the entire basis of the psychedelic renaissance. What has unfortunately not been considered is the problem with assigning a moralistic value to substances in the first place. In a compensatory over-swing of the flawed rhetorical pendulum, “psychedelic people” and their “medicines” are now coming to be seen as “good.” Such thinking leads predictably to unjust policy outcomes. This is, after all, the same fallacious logic that sparked the War on Drugs in the first place.

The categorical separation of “good” drugs and “bad” drugs is synonymous with the assignment of human beings into those same categories. The prevalence of this bias in the psychedelic space, implicit or explicit, betrays a deep lack of contextual awareness leading to oppressive behavior, which is contrary to the kind of societal-level healing that the movement claims to represent. Despite the political utility of rhetorically distancing psychedelics from other substances, our “natural medicines” are still ultimately “drugs” that must be considered within the larger context of American drug policy.

The Cultural Context of Psychedelics: A Brief Reminder of The War on Drugs

To triage the symptoms of prohibition, addressing each by their lethality, reveals a clear picture of the injustice inherent in a myopic focus on psychedelic-centric policy change. While it’s true that lack of access to psychedelics is preventing untold numbers of people from receiving helpful treatments for things like anxiety, depression, PTSD, addiction, etc., these kinds of maladies are collectively overshadowed by more immediately fatal symptoms of prohibition.

Itemizing the harms of the War on Drugs is something akin to sorting through the rubble of a war-torn metropolis while bombs are still falling – an extensively horrific task far exceeding the scope of this article. Two vignettes that partially describe the scope of destruction can be found in the interwoven phenomena of the opioid epidemic and mass incarceration; two direct symptoms of the War on Drugs.

The number of people who died from opioid overdose in 2022 was the equivalent of a 9/11 attack every 2 weeks, and rising in 2023. After September 11th, 2001, the U.S. reacted swiftly to pass a series of sweeping legislation, initiate new programs, and even go to war in Iraq and Afghanistan. Opioids clearly kill many times more people than terrorism ever has, but no such action is being taken. We won’t even mention the fact that opium production in Afghanistan was higher under U.S. control. The solutions to the opioid problem can be clearly found in harm reduction-based policies such as those implemented in Canada and Portugal. These policies stand on much firmer empirical ground than those arguments that drove our country to war in the Middle East, so where is the commiserate response?

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention calls the recent spike in overdose deaths the “third wave.” It kicked off in 2013, is around nine times larger than any other overdose “wave” in history, and is primarily due to synthetic opioids like “illicitly manufactured fentanyl” and carfentanil. Fentanyl has long been found as an adulterant in compounds sold as heroin, but in recent years, it’s also been found in things that are not opioids like MDMA and cocaine. Fentanyl’s prevalence as an adulterant is directly tied to the underground market that was created by the War on Drugs.

Throughout alcohol prohibition in the 1920s, simple logistical realities incentivized clandestine distillers to manufacture the strongest possible concentrate of their drug, and moonshine was born. It was both easier to conceal and more profitable per gallon than beer or lesser-proof spirits. Fentanyl is the same story. One pound of Fentanyl is as potent as nearly 50 pounds of heroin, and one pound of carfentanil is as potent as 100 pounds of heroin. Which is more likely to be smuggled across a border? The manufacture and indiscriminate distribution of the most lethal substances is not stopped by the War on Drugs, it is directly caused by it.

An article published in the Journal of Law, Medicine, & Ethics titled “We Can’t Go Cold Turkey: Why Suppressing Drug Markets Endangers Society” names U.S. drug policy itself as a “key accelerant that transformed this wave of addiction into an inferno of death, disease, and personal destruction.” It’s well known that a policy approach centering harm reduction and public health over criminal punishment greatly reduces overdose deaths. Yet, we continue to quietly tolerate more than a hundred thousand American deaths each recent year.

Overdose is only one of many dark manifestations of prohibition untouched by psychedelic-centric policies. The United States, the “land of the free,” only has 4% of the world’s overall population, yet holds 20% of the prison population. Of those people in U.S. prisons, 45% are there for nonviolent drug offenses. This means that nearly 10% of human beings in prison on planet Earth are imprisoned in the United States as non-violent victims of the War on Drugs.

The outcome of American drug policy is so horrifically maligned with the logical goals of such policies (public health & safety) that one can’t help but question the intentions of policymakers. Far from the realm of fringe conspiracy, we have seen institutional harm inflicted intentionally on substance users in the past.  In the 1920s, the U.S. Government intentionally poisoned alcohol heading for the underground market, resulting in the death of at least 10,000 people. This action was justified using logic that claimed people who use drugs are bad, morally reprehensible humans – that same tired old trick of moral conflation. If the goal of the War on Drugs was to reduce drug use and create a safer society, then it has failed horribly. If the goal is to punish “bad” drug users in some of the most severe ways imaginable, then the War on Drugs has been a resounding success.

Through the lens of trauma-informed care, which invites us to see substance use as a result of trauma, the situation becomes downright sinister. A common American story might be told as such: A traumatized person turns to substances as a momentarily helpful coping mechanism. (Those with 4 or more Adverse Childhood Experiences are 1,350% more likely to abuse opiates than the general population). As a direct result of prohibition itself, the substances they find on the street are concentrated to the highest potency imaginable. There are few, if any, harm reduction or effective mental health services available. Instead, a militarized police force backed by an 80-billion-dollar prison industry is actively seeking to put this person in a cage – that is if they don’t overdose first. It is into this maelstrom that policies like the NMHA interject: “Legalize psychedelics!”

Why Only “Natural Medicines”?

A report from the Colorado Department of Public Safety on substance use trends does not even mention psilocybin or other psychedelics as relevant factors in state public health. The report does, however, describe an increase in fentanyl-related incidents including lethal overdose, explaining that 275,569 doses of fentanyl were seized in 2021. According to the Denver Open Data Crime Catalog, only 14 people were arrested for psychedelics in 2021, and 24 people in 2020. For opioid arrests in those same years, the numbers were much higher: 236 and 348 people respectively. The numbers were even higher for the worst outcomes, with an average of about 1,000 people dying every year in Colorado from an opioid overdose. In this way, psychedelics are not an immediately pressing issue from a law enforcement or public health perspective. So why do they continue to be the sole focus of organized and well-funded political efforts such as that which birthed the NMHA? Why has this particular symptom of prohibition received so much attention, funding, and policy action?

Interest Convergence: Suddenly The Privileged Care About Drug Policy

It’s an unfortunate truth that our beloved Renaissance and all of the psychedelic research and policy are predominantly reflective of white interests. One historian asserts that “psychedelic culture [is] dominated by privileged white men.” Indeed, a recent U.S.-based survey of over 41,000 people found that more than half of the white respondents had used psilocybin or LSD, “whereas less than one-quarter of Black [people] reported lifetime psilocybin use.” A relevant meta-analysis examining 18 studies on psychedelic-assisted therapy that occurred between 1993 and 2013 revealed that “82.3% of the participants were non-Hispanic white.” Psychedelic exceptionalism appears to have firm roots in institutional racism and white privilege.

“Under the theory of interest convergence, there will be no racial progress unless the interests of the marginalized align with the interests of those in power,” said the dean of equity and inclusivity at the University of Pittsburgh School of Law, Tomar Pierson-Brown. Drug use itself is nearly universal, and a full half of the people in the United States 12 years and older have used illegal drugs at least once, but there have always been substantial practical disparities in the way our culture takes and politically relates to substances based on arbitrary categorization.

Despite the fact that white people use drugs at higher rates, Black people are nearly three times as likely to be arrested for them; and people of color now make up more than 66% of the U.S. prison population while representing only 37% of the general population. Overdose rates also display increasing disparity across racial and economic lines. Between 2019 and 2020, overdose death rates throughout the U.S. rose 44% for Black people, 39% for American Indian/Alaska natives, and only 20% for white people. Counties with greater economic inequality saw Black people die from overdose twice as often compared to counties with more equal economic distribution.

As if by design, historically oppressed groups suffer and die from the War on Drugs at higher rates than white people. Though the recent intensification of overdose deaths allows a more clear view, we have seen these same kinds of disparities for decades with little attention given. Besides MAPS, which is perhaps the first pharmaceutical company in history to explicitly oppose the War on Drugs, there have been few for-profit organizations working to fight prohibition in any way. Now we see psychedelic ticker stocks, psychedelic venture capitalists, and psychedelic certificate programs all vehemently fronting the narrative of “healing” while functionally ignoring the collective disease that is the War on Drugs.

It seems institutional racism, the at-scale death of opioid users, and mass incarceration were not enough to attract the attention of the wealthy and powerful to drug policy. Only the promise of greater wealth has been sufficient to finally stir society’s biggest players into support of limited reform. Suddenly, every venture capitalist is a psychedelic advocate, but where are the drug policy advocates? After all, the only true difference between the heroin dealer and the “psychedelic entrepreneur” is that one is on a side of the culturally created narrative which happens to be favored at this particular moment in history. Tomar Pierson-Brown puts it succinctly in saying: “It’s not irony, it’s interest convergence.”

Healing Without Harming: Anti-Oppressive Psychedelic Advocacy

Psychedelic modalities are without-argument desperately needed as accessible tools for front-line mental health professionals, but policy efforts focused on them exclusively are oppressive. Ibram Kendi, author of How to be an Antiracist, explains that “there is no such thing as not racist, there are either anti-racists or racists.” In this same way, drug policy is either anti-oppressive or oppressive. There is no in-between. Without applying this attitude, policy and organizational efforts within the psychedelic space are destined to become embodied examples of oppression.

Anti-oppressive approaches “minimize the effects of structural inequalities, social hierarchies, and power differentials.” As we have seen, psychedelic-centric policies like Colorado’s NMHA actually accentuate the power of the dominant groups and do absolutely nothing for the people suffering most from the War on Drugs. Drug policies like the NMHA neglect the most destructive aspects of the War on Drugs in favor of the more profitable, ‘sexy,’ and privilege-aligned substances (like psychedelics). These kinds of policies pander to the dominant culture while ignoring the core problem.

Fervent psychedelic purists (I know because I used to be one) will argue that making psychedelic healing widely available would lead to the amelioration of addiction. While this is true to a degree, it would not happen fast enough to meaningfully stem the tide of overdose deaths and is a backward way to approach the problem; like using nicotine patches to treat lung cancer.

Anti-oppressive psychedelic advocacy must necessarily include and prioritize an end to the War on Drugs as a whole, not just psychedelic legalization or decriminalization. The systemic situation that prevents access to psychedelics is the same that has created the overdose epidemic, mass incarceration, and a slew of other hugely destructive phenomena. It’s the War on Drugs and the disease of prohibition. As beneficiaries of recent drug policy changes, psychedelic institutions of all kinds have a clear responsibility to advocate for an end to the War on Drugs writ large. To ask “How can I make a psychedelic dollar?” without simultaneously asking “What can I do to help end the War on Drugs?” is unjust and tone-deaf. Only by directly addressing the core disease itself, and not just a single symptom, can we begin to truly heal as a culture.