Last Sunday, I meandered my way to Moloa’a, with some friends, to listen to music. Lounging on the side of a sloping hill, nestled by the mountain valleys, it truly was a beautiful moment. Which was nice, because I was a little rattled by the cops (cops?) that were standing outside the event. I had definitely seen a few more cops this past year with the unsolved death of Amber Jackson, but I had never seen cops, looking slightly, but not truly, menacing. I had heard, on the way, that there were cops that had spilled into the Saturday night show, and they there were looking to give tickets. I would almost not mind if the money would go to having a five day school week for the children, assuredly it doesn’t, and I digress.
I remember my roommate triple checking her parking job, “Am I really not touching the road?” As I would have too, if I was in fear of being a recipient of the rampant ticketing. Alas, we all looked at the car from separate angles and agreed it was a good foot away from the asphalt (there was no curb where we were). We walked down and around to the entrance of One Love Farm. I smiled at the cops, hoping. I do not recall getting a smile back. Most of the time I do. My grandfather was a cop. I respect the work they do, but I don’t unaffectedly remember getting a smile back.
