No one is really sure how UC Santa Cruz’s annual, impromptu 4/20 celebration became a tradition, but it could be that people here just really like to smoke weed. Rolling Stone once called us “the most stoned campus on Earth.” Not a student on campus doesn’t know when or where the 4/20 celebrations take place (the meadow next to Porter College), and — just like for San Francisco’s Hippie Hill 4/20 extravaganza — people travel from all over the region to attend.
Though 4/20 has become an integral part of the UCSC experience, college administrators still despise it. This year, UC Santa Cruz chief of police Nader Oweis sent out multiple emails to students warning of “the unsanctioned gathering known as ‘4–20’” (he actually bolded “unsanctioned”). You’d think they’d appreciate the free publicity and the unique recruitment opportunity provided by the flocks of teenage stoners bumbling around our scenic campus, but no; instead, the chief of police warned that they’d be “conducting a DUI checkpoint near the west side of campus, aggressively seeking those who choose to drive under the influence” (again, emphasis his).
I wanted to shine a light (spark a lighter?) on the madness of “the unsanctioned gathering on 4–20” to prove to police chief Oweis and chancellor George Blumenthal that there’s really nothing that bad about celebrating a perfectly legal drug. So on the bright, clear afternoon of April 20, I trekked down with the rest of the students toward the expansive meadows behind Porter College, one of UCSC’s 10 residential colleges. For some reason lost to history, the Porter meadows have always been the locus of the 4/20 celebration. The meadow itself is accessible only through winding, hilly paths that eventually all merge into a bowled-out clearing surrounded by trees and, when I arrived at 3:00 p.m., stoners were already scattered across it.
Painters had set themselves up on the hills surrounding the meadow, readying their easels. I approached a girl in a rainbow propeller hat who was setting out her paints. She introduced herself as Gabby, and when I asked if she’d pose for photos, requested that I return later when the painting is started so she can show her progress.
Groups both small and large had sprawled themselves throughout the field, situated atop brightly dyed blankets and tapestries. Of course, there were a lot of cheesy “weed” clothes, including crowns crafted of half-dried weed leaves and shirts that read, “Free Smoke Zone,” on a large cannabis leaf. Green face paint with “4:20” written out was a popular option this year.
When I asked if she was nervous about the increased police presence, she scoffed: “Pretty sure no one gives a flying fadoodle about the cops.”
When I arrived, there was already a flock of policemen hovering over peacefully chilling stoners, insisting they not smoke (the horror!). The smokers were displeased with the cops’ rules. “Don’t smoke until 4:00, they said. Then they’ll leave,” said Hunter, who looked sad about being sober. Hannah, a blonde with impressive dreadlocks who claimed that this was her third 4/20, was sitting near the front of the meadow, playing with her dog. When I asked if she was nervous about the increased police presence, she scoffed: “Pretty sure no one gives a flying fadoodle about the cops.”
Eleanna and Lillian, a stoner chick duo (pictured above), were also upset at how the doting cops had harshed their mellow. They said that in previous years, they had seen more bands and non-smokers enjoying the festivities. Eleanna mentioned that the police were hovering over them as they tried to smoke. “They said if we smoked again, they’d give us a misdemeanor,” she recounted in obvious disapproval. As a fourth-year student, she knew what 4/20 was like in its glory days. “I’m enjoying myself, but it’s just not the same,” she finished.
Some of the first-timers seemed somewhat disappointed with the turnout. Connor, a transfer from Kresge College, said, “It’s not as big as the photos I’ve seen.” That seemed to be the consensus.
As 3:30 p.m. approached, the cops were still about, and still no one was smoking anything (besides a subtle vape here and there). Never before had there been such trepidation! But at last, as the meadow finally began to crowd, smoke began to rise. “They can’t get us all!” someone in the crowd cried, indistinguishable from the mass of people among the billowing smoke.
The enlarged crowd changed the air from oppressive to jovial, and as more smoke climbed into the sky, laughter and general ruckus began to emanate from the meadows, audible even from Porter College up the hill. The 50 or so police who had originally held the stoners back were rendered incapable of stopping everyone. At 3:40 p.m., a brass band set up next to a group of 10 policemen, featuring a tuba, trombone, saxophone and marching-band drums.
Half an hour before the main event, I ran across a young man with a large smoking apparatus in his hands that he called the “4:20 Device,” which was made of a huge tube into which small holes for blunts and joints were cut. It looked intimidating. Santa Cruzians seem to have a penchant for odd smoking devices: along with the classic bong, there were portable vaporizers that looked kinda like walkie-talkies. At one point, I saw something I thought was for smoking, but then someone flipped a switch, and it started playing music, so perhaps it was some kind of dual-purpose instrument? I may never know.
As 4:00 p.m. rolled around, the crowd had grown to an estimated 3,000 people, and the police, who had struck fear before, were now invisible. What was normally a two-minute walk from one side of the meadow to the other now took 20 minutes; in front of me, a (likely stoned) girl tripped as she ran toward the meadows, not wanting to miss out on 20 past 4. I watched another dude sitting cross-legged on his tie-dyed blanket, openly grinding over $100 worth of weed. A voice rose above the din: “Selling ribs!” he cried over the brass band. By 4:10, things were getting pretty chaotic; I watched as a guy dressed like Jesus hit a blunt.
Gabby, the artist I had met earlier, was still painting atop her hill, away from the ruckus. Her painting was almost complete but lacked people. She was conflicted about whether she should prepare to light up for 4/20 or get the final details into her piece. From the hill’s vantage point, I could see the thickening smoke settle over the bobbing heads in the meadow, obscuring the horizon; this was with four minutes to go. A drone buzzed overhead, luring the attention of the smokers. At 4:19 and 5o seconds, the countdown began—10…9…8…Once they hit zero, people began to cheer, strangers hugged and couples kissed.
Shortly thereafter, the crowd began to thin. (Maybe the weed was running out, having gotten all used up during the big moment.) Some enterprising entrepreneurs had set up a munchies table outside the meadow, shouting “Cheap Costco pizza!”
Phillip was even more disappointed: “I smoked a cigarette on accident instead of weed,” he lamented.
I walked over to speak to a laid-back faction of experienced 4/20-ers reclining in the coveted shade amid the grass, sucking on their respective herbs. A man named Anderson summarized his experience of 4/20/17: “Smaller, more cops, less fun.” I was inclined to agree. Maybe it was because there was more alcohol consumption and fewer exposed breasts, but students just seemed less pumped. Anderson’s friend Phillip was even more disappointed: “I smoked a cigarette on accident instead of weed,” he lamented.
By 4:50, the bongs were mostly emptied, and walking through the meadows unobstructed was once again possible. But at the far end of the meadow, the police had formed a line, and at exactly 4:56, they began to walk forward, causing a flurry of folding lawn chairs and good-natured grumbling. Not a single student protested at the abrupt end to their festivities, even the sunbathing dude who had to quickly clothe himself. The line of policemen advanced further, and students peacefully backed away, laughing among themselves and filming as they retreated. One man bravely walked up to the center of the line of cops and, on bended knee, offered a policeman a Pepsi (in homage to Kendall Jenner’s recent, terrible Pepsi commercial). “That’s not gonna work,” he said tersely, though he looked like he wanted to smile. The man drank the Pepsi himself, right in front of them.
All photos courtesy the author.
