Buoyed by that promise — “social equity,” as it became known — Archie, then in her late-30s, began the process of applying for a retail cannabis license.
Five years after California voters legalized recreational cannabis for adults, many cities and counties have yet to adopt programs to boost the chances of success for hopeful Black and Latino cannabis entrepreneurs.
In addition, local officials around the state created different regulations for licensing cannabis businesses and meeting social equity qualifications.
A major impediment was the requirement in Los Angeles and other areas that applicants secure property before applying for licenses.
California’s legalization of recreational cannabis in 2016 ushered in a multibillion-dollar industry estimated to be the largest legal weed market in the world.
The law — Senate Bill 1294 — cited state Department of Justice data from 2006 to 2015 showing that Black Californians were five times more likely to be arrested for cannabis felonies than white Californians despite using and selling cannabis at similar rates.
Before long, many industry experts say, it became clear that the same people who typically win in other industries — those with the most social, political and economic capital — were winning here too.
Sixteen cities and counties had issued licenses to a combined 203 equity applicants through December 2020, according to a Times review of data in a recent report to state lawmakers.
As of early January, officials in Palm Springs and Long Beach said their cities each had one equity cannabis business; San Francisco had 18; Sacramento, 19; and Oakland, 186.
In Mendocino County, which has received more than $3 million from the state for equity efforts, no applicant had met all the eligibility criteria, including having a very low income, according to a recent report from the California Cannabis Industry Assn.
In Los Angeles, which has received more than $9 million from the state for its equity program, 1,270 temporary licenses — 358 of them equity — had been granted through mid-January.
that for years was disproportionately targeted for marijuana arrests, said four equity shops in his district have opened to date.
The department recently drafted its own recommendations in response to the City Council motion and asked for more resources and staffing.
The department has increased technical and financial assistance for equity applicants, she said, and has sought amendments to the city’s municipal code to refine the process.
Government programs can’t consider race as an eligibility criterion under California law, so local officials crafted imperfect workarounds to determine who would qualify.
A consulting firm hired by the city identified police reporting districts with disproportionate arrest rates, but the City Council initially chose instead to use ZIP Codes, a less precise option that looped in some affluent and largely white areas, including Los Feliz.
One local industry expert described recruiters descending on housing projects in South L.A., offering $7,000 to people with cannabis convictions in exchange for using their name on official paperwork.
Some businesses, undercut by the cheaper illicit market, make far less and struggle to make much of a profit at all.
She often struggled to square those stressful days with the sense of boundless opportunity she’d felt right after legalization, when politicians visited South L.A., sowing lofty expectations.
Knowing it would likely come down to a matter of minutes or seconds, Keith and a group of other applicants rented fast computers.
Auditors faulted the Department of Cannabis Regulation for “imprecise messaging” and found that more than 200 applicants had accessed the online platform before 10 a.m., including 14 who started their applications early.
For the sake of her three daughters, Keith had long strived to live as an optimist — not to be too deeply swayed by things beyond her control.
It ultimately dropped the suit after the city changed its rules in the summer of 2020, replacing the first-come, first-served process with a lottery system in which applicants can secure property after they’ve been selected.
And on a recent afternoon, Keith, dressed in a “Black Women Get Us HIGHER” hoodie, walked around her bustling, brightly lit shop lined with shelves neatly arranged with pre-rolled joints, tinctures and cannabis-infused olive oil.
Keith knows that, in many ways, her pathway to licensure was exceptional.
One of the factors of eligibility for equity applicants is a conviction on a cannabis offense.
Her co-workers connected her with an investor who already had a business location to open her shop, and Archie rushed to prepare her application ahead of the Race.
The city prohibits cannabis retailers within 700 feet of one another, but when Ryan checked the licensing map on the cannabis department’s website, she said she found no conflicting locations.
Ryan entreated several city officials, including Garcetti, for help.
In July, Ryan, now 37, received an email from the cannabis department, telling her the agency couldn’t move ahead with reviewing her paperwork because there was another commercial cannabis business nearby.
The cannabis regulation department declined to comment on Ryan’s case, including her claim of a discrepancy on the map, and directed inquiries to the city attorney’s office, which also declined to comment citing pending litigation.
Her eldest son, now 17, felt compelled to get a job at Starbucks so he could pay his own phone bill.
The family’s plan was to use profits from the cannabis shop to open a restaurant — Casa Tamal, they planned to call it — where Benavides’ recipes would have a permanent home.
“All of our savings, everything we had, is gone,” Benavides said through tears from her South L.A.