Top Black Legislators caught gatekeeping for white cannabis retailers.

Gatekeeping Exposed: How Washington's HB 1551 Tried to Sabotage Cannabis Equity—and How Black-Led Resistance Crushed It.

By HARVEY TRUTH Published December 6, 2025

In the heart of Black History Month, February 2025, a deceptive piece of legislation slithered through Washington's halls of power, masquerading as progress while slamming the brakes on true equity in the cannabis industry. HB 1551, sponsored by Representatives Kristine Reeves, Debra Entenman, and Melanie Morgan—all Black women legislators—was pitched as a fix for the state's floundering social equity program. But let's call it what it was: a calculated freeze on opportunity, a gift to entrenched insiders, and a blatant betrayal of communities ravaged by decades of racist drug war policies. This wasn't reform; it was institutional sabotage, dressed up in symbolic sponsorship to shield it from the backlash it deserved.

Thankfully, the bill didn't survive. It crashed and burned thanks to fierce, unyielding grassroots resistance led by Black Excellence in Cannabis (BEC) and key figures like Peter Manning, Mike Asai, and Amirah Ziada. These trailblazers didn't just spot the gatekeeping—they blew the whistle, rallied the troops, and awakened Black and Brown communities across Washington to the raw truth: equity delayed is equity denied. Their victory in February 2025 isn't just a win; it's a blueprint for 2026, when similar schemes will inevitably rear their heads again. Communities must show up en masse next session—louder, stronger, and ready to dismantle the barriers before they solidify.

The Setup: A Program Built on Broken Promises

Washington's cannabis social equity program was born from a painful truth: Black and Brown people bore the brunt of prohibition's brutality, facing arrests, convictions, and shattered lives at rates far exceeding their white counterparts. The program promised restitution through prioritized licensing for those hit hardest, aiming to inject economic justice into a billion-dollar industry dominated by white-owned giants.

But from day one, it was a mess. Scoring glitches, glacial processing times, murky zoning rules, and agency overreach turned the dream into a nightmare. Enter HB 1551 in February 2025: instead of slashing red tape or holding bureaucrats accountable, it doubled down on dysfunction. This bill didn't heal wounds—it poured salt in them, all while claiming to "refine" the system. Hard truth? It was a manufactured stall, engineered to protect the status quo.

The Bill's Dirty Core: A Moratorium Masquerading as Maturity

Strip away the flowery language, and HB 1551's guts reveal a predator. Section 6(6)(a) slapped a moratorium on new license applications and reissuances until June 30, 2026—a full 16-month lockdown on progress. No new entries, no fresh blood in the market. This wasn't about careful planning; it was a deliberate chokehold, starving out aspiring Black entrepreneurs who'd already sunk time, money, and hope into the process.

Then there's Section 6(6)(b): a mandated "evaluation" report due by December 1, 2025, handing the Liquor and Cannabis Board (LCB)—the very agency guilty of past screw-ups—the keys to self-audit. Conflict of interest? Absolutely. This setup let the LCB rewrite rules on license mobility, scoring, and even who qualifies as "disproportionately impacted," all with zero real oversight. It's like letting the fox grade its own henhouse security exam. The result? More delays, more discretion for gatekeepers, and zero wins for the people the program was meant to serve.

Delay as a Weapon: Who Wins, Who Loses?

This wasn't accidental incompetence; it was strategic warfare. By pushing real action to the 2026 session, HB 1551 bought time for the powerful to regroup. The LCB gets a breather from scrutiny, dodging the heat for their equity failures. Established cannabis operators—overwhelmingly white and wealthy—lock in their market dominance, free from new competition that could disrupt their profits. Lobbyists and industry fat cats, who've long whispered against true equity expansion, gain extra innings to twist arms and shape rules in their favor.

The losers? Black entrepreneurs, plain and simple. Many had bet everything on upcoming licensing rounds, only to watch their dreams deferred yet again. For communities gutted by cannabis criminalization—where families were torn apart by arrests and generational wealth was obliterated—this delay isn't bureaucracy; it's violence. It perpetuates poverty, blocks wealth-building, and echoes the same systemic racism the program was supposed to end.

Hiding Behind Representation: A Cynical Shield

Here's where the hypocrisy hits hardest: sponsoring this bill with three Black women during Black History Month wasn't empowerment—it was exploitation. This tactic is as old as politics itself: trot out marginalized faces to front harmful policies, then cry foul when critics call it out. The timing? A masterstroke of symbolism, designed to mute dissent and paint opposition as an attack on Black leadership. But real equity isn't about optics; it's about outcomes. HB 1551 used representation as armor, shielding provisions that would keep Black folks on the sidelines.

The Emergency Clause: Democracy's Backdoor Betrayal

To top it off, the bill slapped on an emergency clause, making it effective immediately and referendum-proof. Emergencies are for crises like natural disasters or public health threats—not for quietly killing equity. This move was pure power play: sidestep public input, dodge accountability, and ram through gatekeeping without a fight. No urgent threat justified it; it was just another tool to insulate insiders from the people they claim to represent.

The Turning Point: Black Excellence Rises and Roars

But the gatekeepers underestimated the fire in the streets. Enter Black Excellence in Cannabis, a powerhouse organization amplifying Black voices in the industry. Alongside them, Peter Manning, Mike Asai, and Amirah Ziada emerged as beacons of truth-telling. Manning, with his sharp eye for systemic BS, dissected the bill's flaws in real-time forums. Asai mobilized networks, exposing how the moratorium would crush emerging Black businesses. Ziada, a force in community education, woke up folks statewide to the stakes, turning whispers of frustration into a thunderous demand for justice.

Their efforts sparked a wildfire: intense organizing, statewide rallies, and direct confrontations with lawmakers. Black and Brown communities didn't just complain—they showed up, testified, and forced the narrative shift. By highlighting the bill's harms—economic sabotage under equity's banner—they flipped the script. HB 1551 stalled in the Senate, collapsing under the weight of united resistance. This wasn't luck; it was hard-won victory, proving that when impacted communities lead, mountains move.

Lessons for 2026: Show Up or Get Shut Out

HB 1551's defeat is a triumph, but the war rages on. Gatekeeping doesn't die easy; it'll resurface in 2026 with new disguises. Black Excellence in Cannabis and leaders like Manning, Asai, and Ziada have shown the way: vigilance, education, and mobilization are non-negotiable. Communities must flood the next session—pack hearings, demand transparency, and hold feet to the fire. No more delays, no more shields. The cannabis industry owes its soul to those it harmed; it's time to collect.

In the end, HB 1551 wasn't just a bill—it was a mirror, reflecting how power clings to inequality. But February 2025's uprising shattered that mirror, reminding us: truth rains hard when excellence leads.

THE POLICE WERE CALLED

On February 4, 2025, during the House Consumer Protection & Business Committee hearing on HB 1551, dozens of Black and Brown community members showed up in Olympia calm, disciplined, and determined to protect the very social-equity licensing opportunities the bill sought to freeze for another 18 months. They waited patiently for their turn to speak, delivered powerful, fact-based testimony against the moratorium, and remained seated and respectful even as committee leadership repeatedly cut microphones and attempted to rush the agenda. Despite their entirely peaceful conduct, Capitol security called the Washington State Patrol into the hearing room, a move that placed uniformed troopers directly behind seated Black and Brown residents who had done nothing more than exercise their constitutional right to petition their government. The presence of armed officers—summoned solely because impacted community members dared to challenge a bill sponsored by Black legislators that would delay their economic justice—served as a chilling reminder of how quickly the state resorts to intimidation when marginalized voices refuse to be silenced. Far from a riot or disruption, it was a masterclass in dignified resistance met with unnecessary state force, exposing the lengths gatekeepers will go to protect a white-dominated cannabis market from true equity.