There is so much I don’t know about what I call ‘the gansta
side of growing ganja’. I’m just a
simple Sister, trying to eek out a simple existence, while serving the
people. I know of no other way to do
business than with complete transparency . . . open books, open attitude, open
dialogue, democratic decision making.
Anything else is foreign to me.
In the grower’s world, however, everything is stealth. Everything is done on a handshake. Nothing is written down. It is this contrast between my modus operandi
and the growers’ that creates all the tension.
I am not saying that all Hispanic men are old-school,
sexist, bullies, who think men should make all the decisions, but all the
Hispanic men I have worked with are all that.
For many decades, cannabis growing has been their domain and for many
decades, the women pretended it wasn’t happening and stayed out of their way. Then they met the Sisters, who have their own
way of doing everything. The Sisters who
are unashamed, unapologetic, and feel like we are on a mission from God. And that
is the basis for many culture clashes in our ganja growing operations.
“This is a very, very, very special strain.” Chico told me
one day last season, as we were visiting and checking up on the Ladies. “You have to be specific, when you tell
people about this strain, because it’s not just ordinary strawberry
diesel. It is strawberry diesel coffin
cut.” When I heard the words, my brain
thought ‘cough and cut’, not ‘coffin cut’.
But I just listened as he extolled the virtues of that plant, knowing I
would be at my computer later to properly research the strain.
I listened with grave attention to him warning me to specify
to all buyers the true nature of the plant, by using the full title. “My home-boy paid five thousand dollars for a
little tiny cut of this plant, and he only let me buy some clones if I promised
him that I wouldn’t make any clones that weren’t just for me. We can’t let this strain go out the door.”
“That’s crazy.” I said.
“Five thousand dollars for a ten dollar clone?”
“No, it’s not an ordinary plant. It has been bred for maximum THC and maximum
output and it’s in high demand with the coastal dispensaries. You’ll sell the shit out of this, Sister.”
Ok, Chico, Ok. That
was in the autumn of last year. A few
months later, Brother Larry and I had produced our first line of products to
initiate a market trial. In the ingredients,
on the labels, it clearly says “Strawberry Diesel Coffin Cut”. When Chico, our grow foreman, saw the line of
products, he whistled. “Wow, Sister,
these are really nice!” I don’t know if
he read the tiny print next to ingredients.
This week, I learned that Chico got in a bit of trouble over
our labels. I didn’t learn this from Chico, but from his growers, who were
talking about it in the garden when I suddenly appeared. “What are you talking about?” I asked, having
overheard a bit of the conversation.
Sometime in the past four months, one of our bottles of
tincture made its way into the hands of the man who sold his proprietary strain
for five thousand dollars a clipping. He
saw it and then asked around until he determined who grew for the Sisters of
the Valley. Then he called Chico in and
said (basically) “WTF?”
“These guys are bad-asses,” said the man explaining, the
younger of Chico’s two crewmen. “They
cut off people’s arms for violating treaties.
But don’t worry about it, Sister, Chico handled it.”
I wasn’t worried.
Just puzzled. ‘Didn’t he tell me to be specific?’
Later that day, I saw Chico and asked him about it. “I didn’t know you were going to put it on
your labels,” he said. “I’m not sure I
even knew you were making a line of products . . ."
“That’s because you don’t listen to the women.” I said. “When women talk, you hear ‘yada yada yada’ .
. . “
This week’s confrontation happened because the Sisters’ co-opted
Chico’s work crew to help us with our harvest.
This time of year, good, experienced harvest teams can choose where they
work and we weren't really ready for an early harvest.
We had a meeting, Chico, his team, the Sisters. At the time of the meeting, we all agreed that
starting the very next day, Chico’s team would be in to work with the sisters
for the first six hours of every workday until we got caught up from what we
call the Ballico breakaway. Ballico is
where we had a rather large crop going (sixty plants). We had to harvest early – and suddenly --
because every day for four days, the thieves made a visit and on the fourth
day, there was a shoot-out. We harvested
and were out of our location by one-thirty in the afternoon on that fourth day.
One of my most favorite old movies is Lilies of the Field
with Sydney Poitier. The Mother Superior
wanted a shshshshshapel (chapel). No
money, no work crews, but she wanted that chapel and the whole movie was about
her getting it. Chico is my Sydney. He says ‘No’ much more comfortably than he
says ‘yes’, and he has tried to say ‘no’ to me many times, but I just don’t
accept it. Just like the tough old bird
in the movie.
Chico is a good guy -- old school, but big-hearted.
One of his crew members is a recovering meth addict. So, when that young man came by the abbey,
unannounced, after a successful court hearing, we welcomed him in, made him
some tea, sat to hear about what happened.
He has only been off the powder for eight weeks, and only six weeks ago,
he joined our foreman's work crew.
Later that night, Chico stopped by to scold the sisters for
being too soft on his men. “You Ladies
molly-coddle them!” he complained. “You
give them tea and cookies and act like it’s all guns and roses!” Chico
frequently mixes his metaphors, English not being his first language. We don’t laugh, though, because he’s not the
kind of man who takes teasing lightly, and especially not when he’s intent on
making a point, as he was the other night.
Well, sometimes we can't resist. As
soon as a reasonable amount of silence passed as a sort of ‘we’re listening’
from the Sisters, Sister Darcy said “Would you
like some tea or cookies?” And I
couldn’t help but add, “Or maybe today you would rather have us serve guns and
roses?” Both of us began laughing, then,
and had to live with the fact that Chico waved his hand dismissively, and stomped away.
We didn’t get through one day of the new work schedule, without
Chico blasting me for commandeering his team during his busiest season of the
year. Chico was at that meeting, Chico
agreed to the schedule and the staffing and to the whole plan. When I reminded him of that, his only
response was a good one. “I can’t say no
to you, Sister.” Awwwwww. So he’s a raging bull because he lost his
work crew, but he agreed to give them up to help us and now he’s angry about
it. “So you are really mad at yourself
because you can’t say no to me?” I
laughed. “How delightful!”
Somehow, we have to get caught up on our harvest and give
Chico back his men, at least part time.
We will work that out. Can’t have
a grumpy foreman. He’s building our
chapel.
