In a country that never misses a chance to call itself “the land of the free,” the United States somehow still cages nonviolent cannabis prisoners or offenders alongside some of the most dangerous people walking the earth. The contradiction is almost comical—until you remember we’re talking about human beings losing decades of their lives, rotting behind bars with murderers, rapists, and child molesters while the legal cannabis industry thrives on the outside.
There is no sugar-coating this: the system is broken by design, and the cruelty is intentional.
Every single day, cannabis consumers wake up, sip their morning THC-infused beverage, and scroll past ads for gummies, tinctures, vapes, and pre-rolls. They can spend more time choosing a strain than it took federal judges to sentence nonviolent cannabis defendants to multiple decades in prison. We have dispensaries that look like Apple Stores and cannabis CEOs ringing the NASDAQ bell, all while people like Edwin Rubis and Parker Coleman sit in prison cells as if they’re some kind of public menace.
How is that justice? How is that remotely defensible?
Spoiler: it isn’t.
The Absurdity of the Cannabis Double Standard
Today, cannabis is legal in the majority of states. It’s celebrated, taxed, and sold as medicine, recreation, and wellness. Yet behind the glossy surface hides a harsh reality the industry avoids—a reality where real people serve real time under outdated, racist, and morally bankrupt laws that most Americans now oppose.
Imagine being locked up in a federal penitentiary, surrounded by men who have committed actual violence, while watching on the small TV in the common room as cannabis companies announce quarterly earnings. Imagine trying to explain to a cellmate—someone who might have taken a life—why you are in prison.
“I was involved in cannabis.”
That’s it. That’s the whole story.
And that explanation lands differently when your reality is a bunk bed in a facility where violence is a routine part of the air supply.
But that’s the twisted world the federal government created: the same plant that can make you a millionaire today could have put you in a cage for 40 years yesterday. And if you happened to get sentenced before the nation pulled its collective head halfway out of its ass, well… you’re just collateral damage to the system.
The Human Toll: The Story of Edwin Rubis
Take Edwin Rubis, for example. Edwin isn’t a violent man. He isn’t a threat to society. He’s a father, a spiritual caretaker, and a person who turned his life around long before the system decided to punish him for it. Yet he’s serving a 40-year federal sentence for a nonviolent cannabis conviction—one rooted in the very era of mandatory minimums that judges themselves now openly condemn.
Forty years.
Let that sit for a second.
That’s longer than many murderers serve. Longer than rapists serve. Longer than child predators serve.
Edwin has been locked away for nearly three decades while billions of dollars have been made selling the exact same plant. He watches a nation embrace cannabis as medicine and commerce while he remains stuck in a time capsule built out of outdated laws and political cowardice.
Inside those prison walls, Edwin has been forced to navigate a world filled with genuine predators—people placed there because they physically harmed others. He has lived through violence, chaos, and the daily psychological warfare that incarceration inflicts on people who never belonged there.
His reality is a cage. His “crime” was cannabis.
That’s the American justice system in a nutshell.
Parker Coleman: Another Victim of a Cruel System
Then there’s Parker Coleman, another nonviolent cannabis offender trapped in the federal system under a 60-year sentence—a punishment so extreme it would be laughable if it didn’t represent a human life being ground down by bureaucracy.
Parker didn’t commit a violent act. He wasn’t a threat to the public. Yet, the War on Drugs’ dragnet swept him up and threw him into a world brimming with people who committed unimaginable violence. Instead of offering rehabilitation, the system forced Parker to adapt to a high-security environment where survival comes first and humanity comes last.
His story is a ever-present reminder that cannabis prohibition has never been about safety. It has always been about power.
Prison Isn’t Just a Loss of Freedom—It’s Survival
Those who talk casually about “serving time” have no idea what the inside of a federal prison really looks like for a nonviolent cannabis offender.
There is no gentle landing spot. No safe unit for nonviolent inmates. No separation from violent offenders.
When Edwin Rubis or Parker Coleman enter the system, they enter a violent ecosystem where they are outnumbered. They must navigate gang politics, intimidation, assaults, and volatile personalities. A look in the wrong direction can turn deadly. A dispute over a phone call or a seat at a table can erupt in violence.
The courts subject nonviolent cannabis prisoners to trauma and brutality during sentencing—because acknowledging it would reveal the truth: these sentences are psychological torture disguised as “justice.”
Legalization Hasn’t Ended the War—It Just Made the Hypocrisy Louder
While people like Edwin and Parker sit inside cages, the legal cannabis economy explodes across America.
Dispensaries multiply. Brands launch. Investors celebrate. Politicians pose for photo ops at cultivation facilities. Entire conferences are built around networking, product launches, and THC-infused hospitality.
And yet, the very people punished under the old system—people who paved the way for today’s cannabis culture—remain locked away as if nothing has changed.
If that doesn’t make your blood boil, you’re not paying attention.
Any honest narrative about cannabis incarceration must include the reality that Black and Brown communities bore the brunt of drug-war enforcement. They still do.
The War on Drugs was never an equal-opportunity crusade. It was a targeted assault on specific neighborhoods, families, and generations. Legalization didn’t erase that harm. It just created a new economic ladder that many of those affected can’t access because they’re still in prison, or still burdened by a criminal record that shouldn’t exist anymore.
If the cannabis industry wants to talk about equity, this is where the conversation begins.
Rescheduling Isn’t Justice—Freedom Is
Washington has been buzzing about cannabis rescheduling, and while it may help businesses and banks, it does nothing for the people still behind bars.
Edwin won’t walk free because of rescheduling.
Parker won’t go home to his family.
Thousands of others won’t see daylight or get their lives back.
Justice will not be achieved until the federal government finally does what voters, scientists, medical professionals, and the majority of Americans already support:
- Release all nonviolent cannabis prisoners.
- Expunge their records.
- Provide resources for rebuilding their lives.
Anything less is political theater masking cowardice.
Cannabis Is Legal. It’s Time to Free the People Still in Cages for It.
America cannot call itself a free country while nonviolent cannabis prisoners live behind bars among violent criminals. It cannot call itself just while people like Edwin and Parker lose decades of their lives for something that is now a legal, regulated, taxable industry.
Cannabis justice isn’t complete until everyone harmed by prohibition is free.
If cannabis is legal, then these men deserve freedom—full stop.
Beard Bros Pharms and Beard Bros Media have stood with cannabis prisoners for years. This fight is personal. It’s urgent. And it’s winnable.
Here’s what you can do today:
- Support organizations like Freedom Grow dedicated to freeing cannabis prisoners.
- Share the stories of men like Edwin Rubis and Parker Coleman.
- Demand that lawmakers stop dragging their feet and start delivering real clemency.
Justice delayed is justice denied. Enough is enough.
