By Miranda Jones
On Nov. 3, 2025, Nathaniel Williams was sitting in his car in Greensboro, N.C., when the air changed. The clock had just struck 11 p.m.—the dead of night—when a private moment was shattered, transforming into a viral nightmare of physical and a high-stress arrest. According to Greensboro Police, Williams had marijuana in his lap and that plant was enough to lead to state-sanctioned violence. For many in our community, sitting in a parked car offers no sanctuary from a system that treats a scent as a detonator.
I know this story well, though my version is older. My late father sold marijuana and was arrested. He warned me to never go to jail, no matter what. What he saw behind those bars changed him. I have seen firsthand how the cycle of criminalization tears humans and communities. Today, as an educator, I see that same cycle reaching for my students.
Walk into our schools, and it isn’t uncommon to catch a distinct scent in the hallways. If you’re an ‘80s baby like me, you know we used to call it “reefer”—a term that makes my students laugh. They quickly correct me: “Sister Miranda, it’s called ‘weed,’ ‘za,’ ‘gas’ or ‘loud.’” But the most striking shift isn’t the terminology; it’s the transparency. My students describe smoking with or around their parents as a fact.
In these homes, this isn’t an act of rebellion—it is a form of bonding. For many parents, allowing their children to smoke at home is a calculated safety choice. They have traded the old school rules of disrespect for what they see as shared bonding and safety. They believe a joint in the living room is a small price to pay to keep their child out of the back of a squad car.
I used to hear these stories and become enraged with judgment. I was trained to see “dysfunction” and “delinquency.” But my perspective shifted when I stopped judging and started listening. We must accept that for many, this use isn’t stopping regardless of others’ personal disdain. If you think a young person is going to hell for smoking weed, I promise you: the Forsyth County jail is worse.
As of March, 24 states and Washington, D.C., have legalized adult-use marijuana, and 80 percent of the country has moved toward a sensible approach. Yet the North Carolina General Assembly has refused to budge, clinging to rhetoric while our residents bear the “receipts” of their inaction.
We cannot wait another 30 years for Raleigh to catch up. The city of Winston-Salem has the power to act now by adopting a “Cite and Release” protocol and a Lowest Law Enforcement Priority policy. This shift is more than a policy tweak; it is a resource management strategy. According to the International Association of Chiefs of Police, a formal arrest takes an average of 85.8 minutes to process, whereas a citation takes only 24.2 minutes. By implementing “Cite and Release,” our officers would save over one hour per incident—saving them time and the city money that could be spent on the Behavioral Evaluation and Response (BEAR) team instead.
The data from the Winston-Salem Police to Citizen (P2C) portal and state records tell a story of systemic bias we can no longer ignore. While usage rates are nearly identical across racial lines—with roughly 23 percent of both Black and White adults reporting use—the handcuffs are reserved for only one group.
In North Carolina, the “receipts” are staggering:
- The Arrest Gap: Black North Carolinians make up roughly 30 percent of our population but account for 63 percent of convictions for simple marijuana possession.
- The Local Disparity: In Forsyth County, Black residents are arrested for marijuana at 4.6 times the rate of white residents.
- The Low-Level Trap: Over 50 percent of all misdemeanor marijuana convictions in our state are for possessing less than a half-ounce.
We are effectively using a plant to maintain a racial hierarchy. While the General Assembly stalls, a “Hemp Cliff” looms on November 12, 2026, that threatens to turn thousands of law-abiding Winston-Salem residents into criminals overnight as federal definitions shift. We cannot afford to wait for Raleigh.
Let me be clear: We are not asking law enforcement to break the law. We are asking for a change in how this law is managed locally. Every police department operates on a system of “prioritization.” We are simply asking that a small amount of a plant—legal in 40 other states—be placed at the bottom of that list.
But we must look further. While we wait for the state to stop moralizing and start governing, North Carolina is watching a massive potential for public investment evaporate. This isn’t just an activist talking point; it is a fiscal reality acknowledged within the halls of our own government. According to Fox 8, NC House Bill 413, proposed last year, confirms that marijuana restrictions in North Carolina have deprived the state of “hundreds of millions of dollars in tax revenue.” After a multimillion-dollar deficit, this money could mean the difference between overcrowded classrooms and sufficient special education support.
One cannot claim to champion a child’s future while supporting the very policies that dismantle it. It is a staggering contradiction to invest years of public resources into a student’s academic success, only to allow a low-level possession charge to disqualify them from the workforce before they even graduate.
This is not an endorsement of adolescent drug use; it is a refusal to accept state-sanctioned harm as a solution. We must protect our youth from a cycle of criminalization that moves them from a classroom to a cell regardless of their parent’s choices. We are encouraged that city leaders like Council Member Annette Scippio and Mayor Pro Tem Denise D. Adams are listening. MPT Adams recently noted that while we should expect “pushback,” it is time to see if this can be done.
We welcome the pushback because we are bringing the data to answer it. To those who would condemn this, I ask you to look past your disdain and look at the “receipts.” A morality rooted in the destruction of families and the economic exile of our neighbors is not morality at all; it is a preference for punishment over progress.
The opinions expressed in this commentary are those of the writer and not necessarily those of the AFRO.