A Veteran’s Guide to Civil Disobedience
When you spit into the wind, expect a wet face. When you shit where you eat, expect to be shown the door. All’s fair and whatnot. Just like when I finally opened up to my VA headshrinker, I knew it came with consequences: like the end of my career.
I knew that as soon as I opened my mouth about using cannabis in the civic leadership circles I was in, my time at the sponsored dance was over.
No worries. I’m used to being thrown in front of grenades by people who run from them.
Fact is, I needed some place to be. Somewhere to lick my wounds from a political war I had Forrest Gumped myself into, to figure out what my next moves were.
The Doctrine Begins
Civil disobedience isn’t what you think it is anymore. Forget the grainy footage of Bull Connor’s dogs or some kid standing in front of a tank. The institutions have evolved—they’ve grown calluses. Outrage, protest, hashtags—just background noise now, like Muzak in an elevator to hell. The bureaucrats sip their coffee and nod sympathetically while the system grinds forward, immune to the noise. So the rebellion has to mutate.
It’s not Molotov cocktails—it’s absurdist theater in waiting rooms. A joint lit in a VA pharmacy. Not for spectacle, not for YouTube views, but as a precise act of sabotage: a reminder that the rulebook and reality are at war. The pharmacy tech can’t arrest you, can’t heal you, can’t reconcile the contradiction. All they can do is blink. That’s the power. Not the riot, but the paralysis.
And then the bigger question: who are veterans supposed to be in this country? We’ve been taxidermied into mascots. The “hero” trope—polished, sanitized, neutered. Waving flags, halftime tributes, discount codes. Meanwhile, the reality for many is messier: trauma, addiction, rage, survival. To honor veterans, you don’t slap another bumper sticker on your SUV—you tell the truth. Some vets come home broken. Some come home radical. Some light up in pharmacies because the system won’t let them heal any other way. That’s not unpatriotic—that’s the most American thing left.
Healing outside the “official” channels is its own form of dissent. The government says “here, take these pills”—and people say no. They find cannabis, or art, or community, or rituals older than the nation-state. They reclaim autonomy molecule by molecule, story by story. And the gatekeepers hate it, because it strips away their monopoly on legitimacy. Once you realize the prescription pad isn’t the only ticket to survival, the whole edifice looks like a scam.
And writing—people, the writing. Protests flare and fade, swallowed by the news cycle, but words have half-life. A slogan dies on the street corner, but an essay can ricochet through decades. Writing is a weapon you can reload forever. It archives the madness. It makes sure no bureaucrat or lobbyist can claim “we didn’t know.” It gives the next wave of rebels a map.
Civil disobedience today isn’t about volume. It’s about precision strikes in the heart of the machine, followed by words that outlast the moment. Light the joint. Write it down. Force them to confront the contradictions, and then make sure the record survives. That’s how you outmaneuver apathy. That’s how you outlive the nine-to-five empire of managed decline.
Because the truth doesn’t march in the parade. The truth smokes in the pharmacy and scribbles in the margins.
Inside the War Room
They say every warfighter brings the war home with them. Me? I brought it into a small room with stained glass windows, psychedelic brushstrokes, and a desk that’s carried more weight than most people know.
For the last decade, this space—this room—has been the womb, the war room, and the witness to my fuckery.
It didn’t start with a plan. It started with memory. With pain. With survival. I didn’t set out to design a workspace. I set out to stay alive, to stay grounded, and to keep telling the truth even when no one wanted to hear it.
This room has seen me write policy briefs that Congress probably ignored—until they didn’t. It held court while I recorded spoken word, digitized Robert Randall’s archives, and shared Zoomies with veterans from multiple continents while a ceiling fan spun above like a rotating compass needle, reminding me I’m still here.
The walls don’t just have murals—they are murals. A sun that burns hotter than Baghdad’s asphalt. Camouflage blobs that drip down like melted ideals. A wizard painted into the corner like a spiritual security force. This isn’t paint—it’s protection. Layers of self-repair disguised as expression.
The bookshelves groan under the weight of truth: Thompson, Baldwin, Ginsberg, The Green Paper. Diplomas and lanyards hang not to impress, but to remind. Not of what I’ve earned, but what I’ve survived.
You’ll find artifacts tucked into every corner. An old MP patch. A holster. A bottle of water next to a record crate. A bar stool that’s more storytelling perch than place to sit. Every item here has a past and a pulse.
People walk in and say it’s colorful. I say it’s coded.
This room has been the launchpad for Arizona Garden Month, the International Veterans Leadership Committee, the Veterans Action Council, the takedown of fake allies, the sanctuary for the truth behind MAPS, and a thousand emails that started with “Dear Editor…” or “To Whom It Damn Well Should Concern.”
This room never judged me for smoking in grief, for crying mid-draft, for skipping class to transcribe government lies into Google Docs. It held space when the world wouldn’t.
I didn’t design an office. I grew one. Like a garden. This room is the physical embodiment of the Burn Slow Doctrine—sit with the soil, feel the storm, and make something useful out of the wreckage.
Reflecting on the Warrior Ethos
It’s not a slogan. It’s not marketing. It’s a way of moving through the world — especially when the battles aren’t on a battlefield.
What it is:
- Discipline when no one’s watching.
We don’t need orders — the mission is in our bones. - Purpose bigger than self.
We didn’t serve to collect ribbons. We served to protect, uplift, and defend what mattered. - Integrity under pressure.
When systems collapse, the warrior stands — not because it’s easy, but because they said they would. - Sacrifice without applause.
No parade, no parade needed. Just a quiet, unshakable oath. - Adaptation without abandonment.
Retired? Maybe. But the ethos doesn’t retire — it just evolves.
And now?
The next expression of that ethos may be silence. Stillness. Stewardship.
But make no mistake — those are weapons too.
The garden, the puppies, the peace — that’s not stepping away. That’s sovereignty.
We’ve earned the space to choose silence, rest, and presence — not as retreat, but as clarity.
The ethos doesn’t vanish. It roots deeper.
And if it’s ever needed again?
We’ll know.
And the next arrow will fly.
Photos courtesy of Ricardo Pereyda.
This article is from an external, unpaid contributor. It does not represent High Times’ reporting and has not been edited for content or accuracy.
