In a small two-bedroom home, nestled anonymously on the upper Westside of Santa Barbara, the lights are humming right now. Vaguely Victorian in style with a white picket fence and a well-manicured front lawn, the home does little to betray the blooming emerald harvest growing inside its walls. A woman walking her dog passes by the driveway, urging her four-legged friend to “do your business,” never giving a second thought to the perpetually drawn window shades of the back room, the constantly spinning electricity meter humming in the side yard, or the sweet odor of fresh ganja blowing in the breeze.
On the inside, behind a series of remarkably unlocked doors, several dozen marijuana plants grow under the warm white glow of two high-wattage light bulbs. The room is tropical and welcoming, a meticulously built and cared for growing space complete with CO generators, fans, high-tech venting, massive air filters, digital ballasts, and an atmospheric control panel that not only governs the humidity but also powers an iPod to play smooth jazz when the lights are off. In a matter of days, this secret garden will yield at least four pounds of high-grade medicinal cannabis known as “purple kush”-every gram of it, at least in the eyes of our town’s law enforcement, completely legal while simultaneously being, in the esteem of the federal government, unfailingly illegal.
Even with its state legality proven by a wall full of photocopied doctors’ recommendations and a notebook filled with legal documents naming the tenant of the house as the “primary caregiver” for several medical marijuana patients, standing in the grow room feels undeniably like an illegal act. After all, we live in a country that’s been culturally conditioned to view cannabis as criminal since the drug was banned in 1937. Sensing my discomfort, my host patted me on the back. “I know it takes some getting used to, but try and relax, man. It’s medicine,” he smiles, “no different than going to a Tylenol factory.”