Commentary by Dedan Waciuri
Decades of data reveal stark racial disparities in marijuana enforcement. Despite roughly equal rates of marijuana use across races, Black people are far more likely to be arrested for low-level cannabis offenses than white people. Between 2001 and 2010, there were 8.2 million marijuana arrests in the U.S., 88% of which were for simple possession. Nationwide arrest data showed a consistent bias: Black Americans were 3.73 times more likely than whites to be arrested for marijuana during that period. In the early 21st century, studies found a similar trend – Black individuals were nearly four times as likely to be arrested on marijuana charges, even though usage rates between Black and white populations are comparable. This racial gap persists today. A 2020 analysis found Black people are still 3.6 times more likely than whites to be arrested for marijuana offenses, and in many states the disparity has even worsened in recent years.
These biased arrest patterns feed a broader system of racialized punishment. Marijuana possession has often been a gateway into the criminal justice system for communities of color. Even when arrests don’t lead to long prison terms, they carry devastating consequences: a marijuana conviction (even for a small amount) can hinder employment, housing, education, and family life for years. During the height of the War on Drugs, marijuana enforcement contributed significantly to mass incarceration. After the “War on Drugs” was declared in 1971, the total U.S. prison and jail population exploded from about 300,000 to 2.3 million incarcerated people; by the 2010s, two-thirds of people imprisoned for drug offenses were individuals of color. In Washington D.C., for example, over 90% of people arrested for cannabis were Black in the 2000s. The cumulative effect is that Black communities have borne the brunt of marijuana criminalization – facing arrests, convictions, and incarceration at wildly disproportionate rates, primarily for low-level offenses that are often handled leniently in white communities.
Racist Origins of Marijuana Laws and Stereotypes
The aggressive policing of Black Americans for cannabis has deep historical roots. Racial bias in marijuana policy can be traced back to the early 20th century, when marijuana (then commonly known as cannabis) was first demonized in the U.S. in tandem with xenophobic and racist fears. Anti-drug campaigns seized on public anxieties about non-white populations: for example, after Mexican immigrants introduced the custom of smoking marihuana in the 1910s, politicians and the press stoked fear that the drug incited violence and moral depravity. Even the term “marijuana” itself was popularized (in place of the more familiar “cannabis”) to emphasize its foreign, Mexican origin and play into anti-immigrant sentiment. By the 1930s, this hysteria had a strong racial tinge and set the stage for nationwide prohibition of the drug.
A lurid poster for the 1936 propaganda film “Reefer Madness,” which sensationalized marijuana as “The Sweet Pill that makes life bitter” and depicted users descending into “Drug-Crazed Abandon.” Such media fueled public hysteria with exaggerated claims that marijuana caused insanity, violence, and moral collapse. These stereotypes often had racist undertones – insinuating that cannabis would drive white youth to crime or promiscuity under the influence of minorities – and laid the groundwork for harsh anti-marijuana laws.
In the 1930s, Federal Bureau of Narcotics commissioner Harry J. Anslinger led an all-out crusade to criminalize marijuana, and he did so with explicitly racist rhetoric. Anslinger portrayed cannabis as a scourge infiltrating white America via Black and Latino communities. He infamously claimed that most marijuana smokers were “Negroes, Hispanics, Filipinos, and entertainers,” and that “Reefer makes darkies think they’re as good as white men.” He routinely linked marijuana to Black jazz musicians, whom he derogatorily described as creating “satanic” music under the drug’s influence. Anslinger also stoked fear that marijuana would lead to interracial relationships, warning that the drug made white women sexually promiscuous with Black men. These racist tropes were widely propagated through news reports and sensational films like Reefer Madness (1936), which depicted marijuana as a direct cause of madness, violent crime, and deviant behavior. The blatant racial narratives – portraying people of color as the source of a deadly drug menace – created public support for extreme measures against marijuana.
This atmosphere of fear culminated in the Marihuana Tax Act of 1937, effectively outlawing cannabis nationwide. Although ostensibly a tax law, in practice it criminalized marijuana possession and use. The Act’s passage was directly fueled by Anslinger’s hearings and testimony rife with racial insinuations. While the scientific consensus at the time did not view marijuana as a particularly dangerous drug, Anslinger’s campaign convinced Congress otherwise. The law stood until 1969 (when it was ruled unconstitutional) but was quickly replaced by the Controlled Substances Act of 1970, which classified marijuana as a Schedule I substance – the strictest category, alongside heroin – again citing no accepted medical use and a high potential for abuse. Notably, a federal commission in 1972 actually recommended decriminalizing marijuana, finding the harms exaggerated, but the Nixon administration ignored this advice. The historical record makes clear that racial animus was a motivating factor in marijuana prohibition from the very beginning. Racist narratives about cannabis and its users were deliberately used to win public support for criminalization, and those biases became embedded in drug laws for decades to come.
The War on Drugs and Systemic Criminalization of Black Communities
Racial repression through drug law enforcement did not end in the 1930s – it intensified in the late 20th century. In the 1970s and 1980s, U.S. drug policy became even more explicitly linked to race through the so-called “War on Drugs.” In 1971, President Richard Nixon declared drug abuse “public enemy number one” and dramatically ramped up drug policing and punishment. Years later, one of Nixon’s top aides openly admitted that this War on Drugs was crafted as a political weapon against communities of color. John Ehrlichman, Nixon’s domestic policy chief, revealed in a 1994 interview that the Nixon White House “had two enemies: the antiwar left and Black people.” He explained: “We knew we couldn’t make it illegal to be either against the war or Black, but by getting the public to associate the hippies with marijuana and Blacks with heroin, and then criminalizing both heavily, we could disrupt those communities… Did we know we were lying about the drugs? Of course we did.” In other words, federal drug laws (like the 1970 Controlled Substances Act) and their aggressive enforcement were deliberately designed to target Black Americans and anti-establishment groups, under the guise of combating crime and addiction.
Under Nixon and later Ronald Reagan, the War on Drugs led to an era of zero tolerance policies, harsh mandatory minimum sentences, and militarized policing, all concentrated in Black and Latino neighborhoods. Federal legislation like the 1986 Anti-Drug Abuse Act imposed draconian penalties (including the infamous 100:1 sentencing disparity between crack vs. powder cocaine) and mandated prison for minor drug infractions. While these laws ostensibly applied to everyone, in practice they were disproportionately enforced in inner-city communities. Throughout the 1980s and 90s, Black Americans were far more likely to be stopped, searched, arrested, and prosecuted for drugs – including marijuana – than whites. In this period, arrests of African Americans for drug offenses rose dramatically even as Black arrest rates for other crimes fell. Police and media often cast drug crime as a distinctly “urban” (read: Black) problem, fueling racialized fear. For example, news coverage regularly showed images of Black “gangs and drugs…taking over our streets,” which politicians from Nixon to Clinton used to justify ever-tougher laws.
One prominent aspect of 1980s drug policy was drug education and prevention programs in schools, such as the D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) program. With uniformed officers lecturing children to “just say no,” D.A.R.E. was presented as a race-neutral effort to curb youth drug use and improve police-community relations. In reality, scholars argue that programs like D.A.R.E. often reinforced racial stereotypes and paranoia about drugs in Black communities. Critics note that D.A.R.E. was largely ineffective at reducing drug use, and it “aided in disproportionately criminalizing Black and Latino communities.” The imagery and scenarios used in these programs frequently implied that drug dealers and users were black or from inner-city neighborhoods, implicitly framing substance abuse as a Black urban problem. Thus, even in classrooms, the war on drugs narrative painted people of color as the face of drug danger. By the 1990s, millions of children (urban and suburban alike) had internalized the idea that illegal drugs – especially “gang-associated” drugs like marijuana – were a menace emanating from communities of color.
On the streets, the War on Drugs brought over-policing to Black neighborhoods. Tactics like street sweeps, no-knock raids, and stop-and-frisk were disproportionately deployed in minority communities under the justification of cracking down on drugs. The result was an explosion in arrests and convictions for low-level drug offenses. Marijuana possession, in particular, was one of the most common charges used to sweep people into the criminal justice system. By the late 1980s and early 1990s, drug offenders (mostly for nonviolent possession or sale) made up a huge share of new admissions to state prisons. The policies were so sweeping that even many non-users in Black communities felt the impact – through neighborhood surveillance, lost neighbors to prison, and the general criminalization of everyday life. This era entrenched what scholars call systemic criminalization: a situation where simply living in certain (predominantly Black) areas meant one was continually suspected, monitored, and at risk of arrest for any drug-related infraction. It also cemented the racialization of drug crime in the public imagination, as decades of biased enforcement linked “drugs” with Blackness in American culture.
Legalization, But Not for All: Who Benefits from the Cannabis Boom?
In the 21st century, attitudes toward marijuana have shifted significantly – at least for some. What was once vilified as “reefer madness” is increasingly accepted as a legitimate medicine, a relatively harmless recreational substance, and a booming commercial industry. As of 2024, over 30 U.S. states have legalized marijuana in some form (medical or recreational), and public opinion polls show a majority of Americans support legalization. However, this new acceptance and the lucrative legal cannabis industry have thus far largely benefited white and wealthier populations – excluding many of the Black and brown people who were punished under prohibition.
The numbers tell a revealing story about who is profiting in the era of legalization. In recent years the cannabis industry has exploded into a multi-billion-dollar sector. By 2021, despite federal prohibition, state-legal cannabis in the U.S. was estimated to be a $18+ billion market supporting over 300,000 jobs. Investors and entrepreneurs have rushed to open dispensaries, cultivation facilities, and manufacturing operations for THC and CBD products. Yet this green gold rush is overwhelmingly dominated by people who never faced criminalization for cannabis. Industry analyses show that 80% to 90% of cannabis business owners are white. By contrast, Black Americans – who represent about 13% of the population – account for a shockingly small share of the legal market. One 2021 report found that Black entrepreneurs made up only 1.2% to 1.7% of all owners in the cannabis industry. In states like Colorado, Washington, and others that pioneered legalization, ownership by people of color remains in the single-digit percentages. In short, the emerging legal cannabis economy has been primarily controlled by white, affluent business interests, while minorities who were disproportionately arrested for cannabis in the past have little representation.
This disparity is not an accident; it’s partly the result of policy choices. Many state legalization laws and regulations have barriers that exclude people with prior drug convictions from obtaining licenses to grow, sell, or even work in legal cannabis businesses. For example, jurisdictions often require extensive background checks for license applicants and can disqualify anyone with a felony drug record. At the federal level, the 2018 Farm Bill – which legalized hemp (a form of cannabis with low THC) – explicitly bars anyone with a drug-related felony conviction in the past 10 years from participating in the legal hemp industry. (An earlier draft of the law even sought to ban such individuals for life.) This means that people who may have grown or sold marijuana illegally in the past (often because economic opportunities were scarce in their communities) are now often prohibited from going legitimate in the new market. As one commentary noted, this trend is widespread: even as marijuana becomes a “booming new industry,” “many jurisdictions that have legalized marijuana have excluded people with marijuana convictions from participating.” The irony is hard to miss – the very communities criminalized under prohibition are being shut out of the profits of legalization.
To address this, some states have introduced “social equity” programs within their marijuana laws, aiming to give a leg up to applicants from communities harmed by the drug war. For instance, Illinois, New York, and California have policies to reserve a portion of cannabis business licenses for minority owners or those with past convictions, and to reinvest tax revenue into affected neighborhoods. These efforts, however, are relatively recent and have met with mixed success. In many places, large well-capitalized companies (often owned by white investors or even former law enforcement officials) have been quickest to secure licenses and dominate the market. Meanwhile, smaller entrepreneurs of color struggle with obstacles like lack of access to banking, capital, and regulatory expertise – all while often being legally barred from participation if they have a past record.
The economic stakes of this inequity are huge. Legal marijuana is one of the fastest-growing industries; some projections estimate the U.S. cannabis market could reach $40–$50 billion within a few years, and globally perhaps $70 billion by 2028. Tax revenues from cannabis sales are funding public services in states like Colorado and California. The question is, who is reaping these rewards? Thus far it has been largely those who were already advantaged – people with access to investment money, connections, and clean criminal records. Black Americans and other people of color, who suffered job losses, family trauma, and incarceration from marijuana crackdowns, are seeing comparatively little of the economic benefit from legalization. In fact, many continue to deal with the lingering fallout of past convictions (difficulty finding jobs or housing, etc.), even as marijuana becomes a mainstream, profitable commodity.
Shifting Perceptions and Racial Double Standards
The rapid shift in marijuana’s social acceptability highlights a troubling double standard. When cannabis was culturally associated with racial minorities and stigmatized inner-city subcultures, it was treated as a menacing drug that justified harsh criminalization. Now that cannabis use has become more visible among white, middle-class, and affluent circles, public perception has mellowed and lawmakers have grown more amenable to legalization. This isn’t a coincidence. Over the past few decades, marijuana found new images: the cancer patient using medical cannabis to ease pain, the suburban mom taking an edible to relax, the wealthy investor touting cannabis startups – all largely sympathetic or at least non-threatening figures in the public eye. The contrast in narratives is striking when compared to the old fear-mongering caricatures of “urban” drug dealers or the “violent stoner” trope that were often black or brown. In essence, the face of marijuana in the media flipped from Black and Latino “criminals” to white entrepreneurs and users deemed “responsible” or “cool,” and the legal system’s treatment flipped accordingly.
Law enforcement’s leniency has also followed this pattern in some areas. Many majority-white suburbs or college towns long practiced de facto decriminalization (issuing warnings or citations for pot), even when nearby majority-Black city neighborhoods saw aggressive arrest sweeps for the same conduct. As marijuana normalization spread, police overall made fewer low-level possession arrests – but notably, Black people still remain over-policed relative to whites for marijuana in most jurisdictions. The ongoing racial gap suggests that biases in enforcement did not vanish with changing attitudes; rather, white individuals are simply less likely to be viewed with suspicion or punished for cannabis, even in places where it’s still illegal. Meanwhile, Black and brown people continue to be arrested at disproportionate rates, even in some states that have legalized or decriminalized marijuana. For example, a recent analysis in New York found that after legalization, Black and Latino people still made up the vast majority of those cited for illegal cannabis sales or unlicensed vending, showing how disparities can continue in new forms (such as who gets penalized for operating outside the licensed market).
The broader implications of these shifts raise difficult questions of racial justice. Who truly benefits from marijuana legalization? Thus far, it appears to primarily benefit those who were never heavily criminalized for its use or sale – namely, white populations and established corporations. The people who paid the steepest price under prohibition (through arrests, jail time, and criminal records) have seen relatively little redress. Yes, some states have begun expunging or sealing past marijuana convictions, which is an important step. And President Biden’s 2022 federal pardon for simple marijuana possession was a symbolic move, but it affected only a few thousand cases, and no one was actually freed from prison by it (since most federal simple possession offenders were not in custody). Tens of thousands of Americans – disproportionately Black and Latino – are still incarcerated for marijuana, or remain under probation/parole and unable to move on with their lives due to past cannabis offenses. They watch as the substance for which they were punished is now openly sold in gleaming dispensaries and celebrated in magazines. The inequity is not lost on those communities.
Meanwhile, the racist narratives that fueled marijuana prohibition have never fully been reckoned with. The false portrayal of marijuana as a drug that supposedly made Black men rapacious or violent has given way to marketing of cannabis as a wellness product or a harmless pleasure – but largely for the comfort of the white consumer. Society did not simply realize marijuana was benign; rather, the narrative changed when different people (wealthier and whiter) became the face of its use. The story of cannabis in America is in many ways a story of racial double standards: criminalization when used by “them,” legalization when used by “us.” This doesn’t mean legalization is bad – but it does mean that legalization without equity can perpetuate injustice in a new form.
Concluding Thoughts: From Criminalization to Equity
The history of marijuana laws in the United States illustrates how racial prejudice can become codified into policy, with lasting harmful effects. For much of the 20th century, cannabis prohibition was a tool of social control used disproportionately against Black Americans – from the jazz clubs targeted by Anslinger’s men, to the street corners targeted by war-on-drugs policing. The legacy of that era is still visible in arrest statistics, incarceration rates, and the socioeconomic damage done to Black and brown communities. Now, as we enter an age of increasing legalization and commercialization of cannabis, there is an urgent need to ensure that the benefits of reform – economic opportunities, tax revenues, and relief from past penalties – are shared equitably with those communities that endured the worst of prohibition.
Legalization alone does not automatically repair the past injustices. Without intentional corrective policies, it can actually exacerbate inequality by allowing those least affected by drug criminalization to reap all the rewards. This is why many activists and experts stress that marijuana legalization must be paired with expungement of old records, social equity licensing programs, investment in communities harmed by the drug war, and the removal of barriers (like felony bans) that keep formerly incarcerated individuals from joining the legal industry. Such measures are starting to take shape in some places, but progress is uneven. The question, “Who does legalization really benefit?” should continue to be asked loudly. If the answer remains “primarily affluent white investors and consumers,” then legalization will have failed to resolve the fundamental racial injustice at the heart of drug policy.
Ultimately, the story of marijuana in America is a cautionary tale of how fear and racism can drive lawmaking, and how those laws can devastate communities for generations. It also offers an opportunity in the present: as public opinion and laws evolve, there is a chance to not only legalize a long-misunderstood plant, but to acknowledge and undo the racist policies that came with banning it. The hope among advocates is that the mainstream acceptance of marijuana – coming now that society sees everyone uses it, not just stigmatized minorities – will spur a reckoning with the past. That means freeing people still imprisoned for weed, clearing criminal records, and actively including those who suffered under old laws in the prosperity of the new legal market. Without such intentional efforts, the racial disparities and injustices outlined above will simply morph and continue, even in an era where marijuana is ostensibly “legal for all.”
Sources:
• American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), The War on Marijuana in Black and White.
• Encyclopædia Britannica, Why Is Marijuana Illegal in the U.S.? .
• Equal Justice Initiative (EJI), “Nixon Adviser Admits War on Drugs Was Designed to Criminalize Black People”.
• Business Insider, How Big Weed Became a Rich White Business.
• Reuters Legal, Challenges of Getting Social Equity Right in Cannabis Industry.
• Coastal Carolina University study, Inherent Racism of the D.A.R.E. Program.
• CCRC, Farm Bill Legalizes Hemp but Bars Participation Based on Criminal Record. • University of Chicago Law Review, Racial Animus Behind Marijuana Criminalization