Why We Celebrate: Cannabis, Community, and Pride 🏳️‍🌈

Look. We love a parade. We love a party. We love any excuse to wear mesh in public. But Pride? It’s so much deeper than the disco ball.

This month isn’t just about waving flags—it’s about remembering who built the damn float. Queer and trans folks didn’t just show up for the cannabis movement—they helped pave the road, baked the brownies, and said “we’re doing this ourselves” when nobody else would.

So yeah, we’re celebrating. Loudly. With THC drinks in hand and glitter in places we won’t discuss here. But we’re also pausing to give credit where it’s overdue. Because every time you crack open a legal seltzer, you’re sipping on the legacy of people who fought for access, care, and basic human rights.

This isn’t just a vibe. It’s a thank-you note in blog form.

We’ll get into the history, the heroes, and where you can find us during Pride IRL. For now—cheers to the ones who made space. 🐸

(Pictured Above: Dennis Peron, Mary Jane Rathbun, and members of the San Francisco Buyers Club holding protest signs: "Pot Patients to the DEA: GO AWAY!", and "HIV 15 yrs. leave my treatment choice alone")

LGBTQ+ Activists Helped Legalize Cannabis.

Before weed had luxury packaging, Instagram pages, and dispensaries designed like Apple stores, it was medicine—passed hand-to-hand, quietly, illegally, and out of love. In the middle of the AIDS crisis, queer communities were being devastated,  and cannabis helped ease the pain, anxiety, and nausea for patients who were often left to suffer alone.

Hospitals were turning people away. The government was actively ignoring a pandemic. The available meds—like AZT—were harsh, unproven, and not enough. Misinformation about HIV/AIDS was so widespread that many people were afraid to even touch or care for those who were sick. But in the thick of all that fear and loss, cannabis showed up like an old friend with snacks and a blanket. It eased nausea. Brought back hunger. Softened the pain. Gave people some comfort, some appetite, some agency—when almost nothing else could. 

And when the medical system failed—again and again—queer and trans folks stepped up. They didn’t wait for legislation. They built Buyers Clubs and underground networks out of apartments, hospital rooms, and the back corners of gay bars. They distributed cannabis alongside unapproved HIV medications. They hosted fundraisers, printed newsletters, and staged die-ins. 

Many were part of ACT UP (which stands for AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power) —a direct-action group that shouted when it was time to shout and organized when no one else would.

They weren’t just passing weed. They were building systems of care. Creating networks of survival. Breaking laws in the name of compassion. Because they understood what the government didn’t: that weed wasn’t a party drug—it was a lifeline.

In 1996, years of underground resistance helped push California’s Prop 215 across the finish line, making it the first state to legalize medical cannabis in the U.S.

That law didn’t come from a boardroom. It came from grief. It came from love. It came from queers with clipboards, brownies, and thousands of voices.

Weed as wellness? Dispensaries as we know them? That whole “this is medicine, not just a good time” framework? That came from queer resistance. They risked arrest. They broke laws. They buried friends and kept going. They saw cannabis for what it really was.

And the wild part? Most people have no idea. This part of the story doesn’t always make the dispensary tour. But it’s real. And it’s why we’re here.

So let’s talk about a few of the people who made it happen—and why their legacy still matters today.

1. The Architect of Medical Legalization: Dennis Peron (he/him)

Gay rights activist. Vietnam veteran. Certified menace to the DEA.

Dennis didn’t get into weed reform because he wanted to be famous. He got into it because his partner was dying, and cannabis was the only thing that helped.

After serving in Vietnam, Dennis came back to the States with two things: PTSD and a trunk full of Thai stick (Cannabis). He settled in San Francisco’s Castro District and quickly became a loud, proud, and slightly illegal fixture in both the queer rights and underground cannabis scenes.

Then the AIDS epidemic hit. Hard. His partner, Jonathan, became one of the thousands of people denied proper care while the government pretended the crisis didn’t exist. Cannabis was one of the only things that eased his suffering—and Dennis knew it shouldn’t be a crime to help someone die with a little peace.

So he turned his grief into action.

In the early ’90s, Dennis co-founded the San Francisco Cannabis Buyers Club, aka the first public medical marijuana dispensary in the U.S. Picture a smoky mix of protest, hospice care, and gay rebellion—all happening in a building constantly under threat of police raids. People lined up in wheelchairs, with IV poles, with zero time for the state’s nonsense. And Dennis made sure they got what they needed.

Dennis got raided. He got arrested. He didn’t stop.

Instead, he doubled down—campaigning for Proposition 215, the 1996 initiative that made California the first state to legalize medical cannabis. That bill was written at his kitchen table. He fought for it at rallies, in courtrooms, and on the street.

“Every cannabis user is a medical patient, whether they know it or not.”

Dennis didn’t just believe in cannabis. He believed in people. And he believed no one should suffer just because the government couldn’t get its morals straight.

Without him, weed might still be a felony and a whisper. Because of him, it’s a lifeline—and a legal one at that.

2. The Edible Outlaw: Mary Jane Rathbun aka Brownie Mary (she/her)

Hospital volunteer. Cannabis folk hero. Sweet little old lady who gave exactly zero f*cks.

Mary didn’t look like your typical criminal. She looked like someone’s grandma—which made it all the more satisfying when she started outsmarting the cops and smuggling pot brownies into hospital rooms like it was her part-time job. (It kinda was.)

In the 1980s, Mary was volunteering in the AIDS ward at San Francisco General Hospital, where she saw patients wasting away—literally unable to eat from nausea and meds that barely worked. So she did what any kindhearted, slightly chaotic queen would do: she showed up with weed brownies. Thousands of them.

She called them her “magical little confections.” They worked. And she didn’t stop.

Brownie Mary baked at home, using donated weed and an old-school mixer, then hit the streets with her Tupperware trays like a stoner Meals on Wheels. She got arrested three times for it—each time becoming more iconic. When she was sentenced to community service, she chose to do it right back at the hospital where she’d been baking in the first place.

The press couldn’t get enough. Neither could the patients. And behind the cozy grandma aesthetic was a razor-sharp advocate who knew exactly what she was doing.

In 1991, she joined forces with Dennis Peron to open the San Francisco Cannabis Buyers Club, giving patients safer, more consistent access to cannabis. And in 1996, she testified in favor of Prop 215, helping California become the first state to legalize medical weed.

Mary’s legacy isn’t just about edibles—it’s about compassion, resistance, and showing up in orthopedic shoes to raise hell with a mixing bowl.

“I'm not a criminal. I did nothing wrong. I was helping my kids. We desperately need medical marijuana in this country.”

She didn’t care about being radical. She cared about being kind.

And she made kindness into a felony-level offense.

3. The Matriarch of Radical Care: Miss Major Griffin-Gracy (she/her)

Trans rights icon. Survivor. Storyteller.

Miss Major has been fighting for her community longer than most people have had legal weed—or rights. A veteran of the Stonewall Riots, a survivor of police violence and incarceration, and a lifelong advocate for trans women of color, Miss Major has turned a lifetime of systemic neglect into a masterclass in loud, necessary care.

She came up in the ’60s and ’70s, back when being trans was criminalized, policed, and pathologized. She lived through it all—poverty, abuse, and the prison industrial complex—and came out the other side with a voice that shakes walls and hugs like a weighted blanket.

When the AIDS crisis hit, Miss Major saw her sisters dying—trans women, mostly Black and brown, largely ignored by mainstream queer movements. And she stepped in, the way she always has: quietly, powerfully, and on her own terms.

Cannabis, for her community, wasn’t a luxury. It was a tool. A form of harm reduction. A way to manage trauma, PTSD, chronic pain, and the everyday violence of being trans in a world built to erase you.

She’s spoken openly about the need for cannabis access in trans communities—not just for healing, but for surviving. She’s called out the medical system. She’s uplifted mutual aid. She’s reminded us that housing, safety, and weed are all part of the same fight.

“I’m still fighting the good fight.”

Miss Major didn’t open a dispensary. She didn’t co-author any legislation. But her legacy is in every conversation about access. About dignity. About why weed matters, especially for those who are still left behind.

4. The Scholar: Wendy Chapkis (she/they)

Lesbian sociologist. Cannabis ethnographer. Chronicler of care.

Wendy Chapkis didn’t just study cannabis activism—she documented it, analyzed it, and elevated it. As a professor of Sociology and Women & Gender Studies at the University of Southern Maine, Chapkis has spent decades exploring the intersections of drug policy, gender, and social justice .

In their groundbreaking book, Dying to Get High: Marijuana as Medicine, co-authored with Richard J. Webb, Chapkis delves into the story of the Wo/Men’s Alliance for Medical Marijuana (WAMM) in Santa Cruz, California. This collective of seriously ill patients and caregivers didn't wait for permission—they grew and distributed medical cannabis in defiance of federal law, embodying a model of compassionate, community-based care .

Chapkis's work goes beyond chronicling events; it challenges societal perceptions. They argue against the stigmatization of the cannabis "high," highlighting its therapeutic value in providing relief and a sense of agency to patients facing terminal illnesses .

Through meticulous research and compelling narratives, Chapkis has illuminated the human stories behind policy debates, reminding us that at the heart of the cannabis movement are individuals seeking dignity, relief, and justice.

Weed Is Queer History. Pride Is Part of the Legacy.

Cannabis didn’t get legalized because someone in a suit had a good idea. It got legalized, in part, because queer and trans people were fighting to stay alive—and knew weed could help.

If you’ve ever taken a gummy to unwind, sipped a THC seltzer at a picnic, or walked into a dispensary like it was your local wellness boutique—that’s because of the groundwork these activists laid. They weren’t just pushing for access. They were redefining what care could look like.

Learning this history doesn’t ruin the vibe. It deepens it. It turns every chill night in, every shared joint, every fizzy sip into something a little more meaningful. Because this plant isn’t just fun—it’s freedom. And that freedom was earned through protest, mutual aid, grief, and love.

So yeah, we celebrate Pride with cannabis. Loudly. Weirdly. Joyfully. Because they made sure we could.

A Different Kind of Cheers

Let’s be real: alcohol has had a huge presence at Pride for decades. Rainbow cans. Corporate floats. Sponsored happy hours from brands that couldn’t name a single queer activist if you paid them.

And while visibility is cool, here’s the truth most ads skip:

Queer folks—especially trans folks, especially people of color—are statistically more likely to struggle with substance misuse. And alcohol? It’s often the most available (and most pushed) option at every celebration.

That’s not about weakness. That’s about survival.

When the world feels unsafe or unkind, it makes sense to reach for what’s there. When every social event is built around drinking, it’s hard to imagine what joy looks like without it.

But we think it’s time to imagine more.

THC drinks aren’t a fix-all—but they are an alternative. One that doesn’t come with hangovers, regrets, or “did I just text my ex again” energy. A cannabis seltzer can take the edge off, help you feel connected, and give you space to actually be in your body—without the spiral.

So whether you're dancing at Pride or laying low with your chosen family, we’re proud to offer something else. Something sessionable. Something that says “cheers” without saying “I’ll be dehydrated for the next 72 hours.”

Final Thoughts

We celebrate because they fought.

Because before there were dispensaries, there were buyers clubs. Before legalization, there were queer organizers, caretakers, and rebels who risked everything to make medicine accessible. That history deserves more than a footnote—it deserves recognition, gratitude, and action.

We celebrate because Pride is about community. About care. About showing up for each other—even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it’s quiet.

Whether you're part of the LGBTQ+ community or an ally learning how to better support it, your presence matters. You don’t have to march in a parade or wear glitter to be part of this. Allyship shows up in the everyday—in who you listen to, who you uplift, and how you stand up when it counts.

We celebrate because joy is resistance. Because survival is sacred. And because queer and trans folks didn’t just fight for themselves—they fought for a world where care, dignity, and access could exist for everyone.

This plant? This moment? This movement? It’s not just a celebration. It’s a legacy.

So however you’re showing up this month—loud, quiet, curious, clear-headed, high, healing—we’re glad you’re here.

And we’ll keep showing up, too. With humility, with heart, and with a fizzy drink in hand.

🌈Happy Pride. Take care of yourself. Take care of each other. 🌈