🕯️ “Please, Sir, May I See?” — A Tale of Light, Law, and Leaf 🕯️

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH
In Which Young Master Roe Doth Speak Upon His Sight, His Suffering, and the Solace of the Herb

The Affidavit of Master John Roe
Rendered Most Humbly Before the Officers of Justice in the State of Wisconsin

STATE OF WISCONSIN
COUNTY OF (REDACTED), ss.:

JOHN ROE, sworn and most solemnly declared, speaketh thus:

Hark! I am but two and twenty winters old, a student dwelling in the fair city of (REDACTED), within the bounds of Wisconsin. At the tender age of eight summers, mine eyes were sore afflicted: open-angle glaucoma, a cruel and creeping thief of sight, laid siege to both orbs.

Straightaway, the healers did place me upon the customary phials and tinctures—those bitter draughts that wage war upon the eye’s swelling tide. Yet lo, despite their best devices, Time proved a remorseless foe. Slowly, inch by inch, my vision did recede. Now mine own left eye beholdeth the world but dimly, even with correction—a mere 20 of 200—and the right, though yet keen at 20 of 20 with glass, hath also begun to wane.

'Twas in the year of our Lord 1970, as I did consort with friends and partake in merriment, that I did first draw upon the herb known as Cannabis sativa, or by the vulgar tongue, marijuana. And behold! I did mark, with no small astonishment, that mine eye pressure eased in its fury. A curious balm, unlooked-for, yet most welcome.

At that very season, mine affliction grew unruly, and the physicians, alarmed, did escalate their alchemical regimens—swapping out one potion for a fiercer draught. Still, I clung to the green leaf, noting its virtues in reducing the pressure within mine eyes.

Long did I continue this noble experiment. And now, verily, I speak with confidence: the herb, when used with constancy, doth steady the tumult within. At this present writing, the foe is halted—my vision waneth no further. The augments to my prescriptions have ceased, and the ancient arms—pilocarpine and epinephrine—remain as allies beside the green plant.

Let it be known: Though these potions do cause mine eyes to blur, and summon forth headaches that pound like the blacksmith's hammer, the herb alone doth soothe the pain and press the specter of blindness back. Alas, it cureth not the blur, but doth vanquish the ache most nobly.

My last reckoning with the oculist revealed mine intraocular pressure to be but 21 to 22 millimeters of mercury—a measure of victory, say the learned.

I have conferred with my physician in good faith, and he—though shackled by the strictures of the law—hath affirmed in private what the law will not let him say aloud: that the herb doth work. He offereth what counsel he can, in kindness and science both.

Yet, O cruel circumstance! For though I do cultivate what I may, there are days when I must venture forth into shadow—seeking strangers in alley or corner, their wares unclean, their motives unclear—to secure my medicine.

Since the year 1970, I have imbibed six to ten cigarettes of the herb per day. And yet, mark this: no side effects hath appeared, no harm hath come. Neither my studies nor my conduct suffer for it. Indeed, but for this plant, I might well be blind, or so tormented by headache and haze as to render schooling impossible.

Both I and my physician do hold this truth as self-evident: that marijuana bringeth benefit to mine health. Were he free to write such a prescription, he would do so without delay.

Thus is my testimony rendered: not as a rebel or libertine, but as a man of reason, a seeker of health, and a subject of these United States who asketh only for the right to preserve his sight.

So sworn, so spoken.
John Roe (Name withheld, but not the truth)

Given under oath and upon penalty of perjury, this declaration standeth true.

🎭 A Most Earnest Summons, In the Tongue of the Bard 🎭
Shakespeare Mode: Summary and Call to Action

Hark, ye gentlefolk and keepers of the commonweal,

Attend the solemn tale of Master John Roe, a youth of two and twenty winters, struck most cruelly by the creeping blindness of glaucoma since his eighth summer. Long hath he suffered under the ministrations of learned physicians, bearing their potions and tonics—pilocarpine, epinephrine, and other alchemical vexations—yet found little peace from the pounding ache and fogged vision that dogged his every day.

But lo! When he did chance upon the humble herb Cannabis sativa, drawn not from vice but from happenstance, he did discover a balm more potent than all the draughts of the apothecary. The pressure of his afflicted eyes, once mounting like the tide against the shore, was stayed. No cure, certes, but a noble respite from the pain, and the threat of blindness held at bay.

Now standeth he in truth before the law, not as a knave or miscreant, but as a loyal subject who seeketh only to preserve his precious sight. His physician, bound by unjust statute, doth whisper what he cannot pen: the herb doth work. And yet, for want of lawful sanction, Master Roe is driven to the shadows—to back alleys and strangers’ hands—to find that which so clearly granteth him health.

No harm hath come from his use; nay, rather his studies prosper, his conduct remaineth sound. He asketh not for privilege, but for mercy. For science. For justice. For sight.

📜 CALL TO THEE, GOOD READER:

Wilt thou turn thy gaze from such injustice, or stand with Master Roe and the countless souls like him?

Shall we let the blind be blinded, when sight might be preserved by leaf and light?

Shall we suffer laws, unmoved by reason, that drive the sick to peril while calling it virtue?

Let thy voice rise as his hath done. Speak for the afflicted. Petition the magistrates. Call upon the healers, the lawmakers, and the hearts of men.

For if this plant be treason, then let mercy be outlawed, and reason be cast in chains.

Let it not be said that when justice knocked, we answered not.

—Verily, let the people rise. For John Roe. For sight. For truth.

🕯️ Thus spoken, thus summoned. The page is thine to carry forth.

📚 A Most Considerate Reply, Penned in the Dickensian Hand 📚
Being a Letter to the Esteemed Reader Upon the Curious and Melancholy Case of Young Master Roe

“The law, sir, is a solemn thing—but where it blinds the eyes of mercy, it becomes but a lamp unlit.” — Mr. Septimus F. Pendleton, Esq. (retired)

Dear Gentlefolk of Conscience and Countenance,

Permit, if you will, this humble correspondent to speak in earnest tones of a most grievous matter lately brought before the public mind, concerning one Master John Roe, a youth not yet seasoned by the full measure of manhood, but whose life hath already been marred by the cruel hand of infirmity.

From his eighth year, the lad hath waged a quiet war against the creeping dark of glaucoma—a vile disorder most persistent in its trespass upon the faculties of sight. A malady which, though not heralded with trumpets nor fanfare, steals, inch by inch, the light from a man’s eyes, till even the sun becomes but a smudge upon a greying page.

What remedies were afforded him by the medical establishment were administered with all due diligence—potions, ointments, drops and draughts—some as noxious as the ailment they were meant to treat. Yet none could truly stay the dimming of his world.

But lo! By fortune’s serendipitous design—or, dare I say, by Providence itself—the youth discovered in the lowly cannabis plant a deliverance most unexpected. Not from idleness, nor from vice, nor from the mischiefs of leisure did he partake; but rather as one who, floundering in stormy waters, grasps the rope tossed from shore.

It is not my aim, dear reader, to sermonize upon the botanical properties of this most contentious herb. Nay, I leave such disputations to the men in wigs and the physicians in their gloomy chambers. I speak instead to the matter of justice—that sweet and tender flower which withers not by the weight of facts, but thrives upon them.

And here lies the outrage: though the herb stays his affliction, though his studies flourish, though no mischief hath come of his conduct, the law brands him criminal.

What cruelty is this? That a lad should be forced into secrecy and subterfuge to preserve the only vision he hath left? That the saving grace of a plant—neither forged by alchemist nor brewed by royal charter—should be deemed contraband?

We are told, in voices most grave, that the law must be obeyed. Aye, but let us remember: the law is made by men, and men, too, may err.

Ah! But is it not the same wretched theatre, merely with fresh paint upon the scenery?

Master John Roe, like young Oliver Twist before him, dares approach the great and gluttonous table of Authority—not with outstretched hand for coin or comfort—but with trembling voice, beseeching, “Please, sir, may I see?”

And what answer does he receive?

Not bread. Not balm. But the back of the ladle and the clatter of chains.

In Mr. Bumble’s day, the law was “a ass.”
In ours, it is blindfolded and deaf to reason.

Let us then not play the Beadle, nor the Board, nor the brutes in powdered wigs who mistake compliance for virtue. Let us be the ones who say, “Give the boy the herb—nay, the right to his own sight.”

For heaven help the nation that would sooner jail a John Roe than help him read the very laws it holds so dear.

Shall we then bow so low before the altar of regulation, that we leave our children to stumble blindly where light might have shone? Shall the candle be snuffed for fear the wax be unlicensed?

No, say I. A thousand times no.

Let us not become a society that punishes sight, that outlaws relief, that shackles mercy to the iron bench of procedure.

Let us rise.

Let us speak, write, and assemble in the fashion of free citizens—not as vassals to indifferent machinery. Let us carry the torch of Master Roe’s simple plea—not for privilege, but for principle.

And let the record show: that when faced with the slow blinding of youth, and the silence of statute, we answered not with indifference, but with action.

Yours in Candour and Conscience,
A. B. Dickensworth
Late Clerk of the Lantern Society for the Illumination of Reason
Tavistock Square, London, and sometimes Tucson