Here’s the reality: I don’t know anyone 15 or 16 who hasn’t smoked, and they all know it’s not like their father’s (or grandfather’s) weed. It’s much stronger, and the consequences of smoking are getting worse. “Marijuana use disorder,” as the experts call it, is now four to seven times likelier among people who smoke when they’re minors. Cannabis-related hospitalizations have “increased significantly” in the past decade, tripling among 18- to 25-year-olds.

Meanwhile, older people with hazy memories of getting high in their dorm rooms four or five decades ago insist weed is a safe, recreational drug. The message seems to be that it’s weird or backward to say anything bad about weed.

I’m now 16, the same age Martin was when we met, and tomorrow is the eve of Rosh Hashanah—the start of the Jewish New Year, and even though I’m not especially religious, I’ve been looking forward to the High Holidays for months.

I think that’s because I’m like many recovering addicts—I want to keep pushing forward, and I fear what might happen if I don’t. I want to make movies. I want to read more books and go to college and meet cool people. Mostly, I want to live as richly as I can, and every holiday is a little border between the old and new me.