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In a New Cannabis Landscape, a Navy Veteran Battles for Racial Equity

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“Transforming Spaces” is a series about women driving change in sometimes unexpected places.Jam the towel under the door. Open the window. And hide the bong.For decades, college students have found ways to mask the pungent aroma of marijuana smoke on campuses. Wanda James, however, did not always feel a need to hide. A 1986 graduate of the University of Colorado Boulder, Ms. James would sit on the steps outside her dorm and roll joints with her friends.It would be decades before Colorado became one of the first two states in the country to legalize recreational cannabis, but on campus, James never worried.“The worst that would happen is they would tell us to put it away, or they might take it from us, and that was the end of it,” Ms. James recalled of the campus police.Fast forward 40 years: Ms. James, a former Navy lieutenant, is a member of her alma mater’s Board of Regents — and a prominent advocate of racial justice in the changing cannabis landscape.It wasn’t until after college that Ms. James realized she had been living in something of an alternate reality with her cannabis use. She learned how the United States’ marijuana laws have led to Black Americans’ being sentenced to prison at a higher rate than white Americans despite near equal usage rates, setting her on the mission to which she has dedicated her life.Ms. James, the chief executive of the Simply Pure dispensary in Denver, is licensing her company’s name to entrepreneurs in the cannabis industry who are from communities that had once been hotbeds of marijuana arrests.Rachel Woolf for The New York TimesMs. James, 60, has owned multiple cannabis businesses over the years, including a pair of dispensaries and an edible company, which has given her a platform to speak about what she believes to be racial injustices in the industry. She has been at the forefront of calling for cannabis legalization at the state and federal level. Federal scientists, in recent reports, have recommended easing restrictions on marijuana, a so-called Schedule I drug like heroin, and having it reclassified to a Schedule III drug, along with the likes of ketamine and testosterone.“Wanda is a force of nature!” said Senator John Hickenlooper, the former Colorado governor who named Ms. James to a task force that came up with recommendations on how to regulate marijuana in Colorado. Those recommendations became a model for the two dozen states that have since legalized the sale of cannabis in recreational dispensaries.But as more states have legalized the sale of recreational cannabis, prompting bigger companies to get involved in an industry that is increasingly mainstream, Ms. James is one of the few Black women in a leadership role. Several smaller cannabis businesses, mostly run by people of color and women — many of whom were caregivers who saw the benefits of medical marijuana for those they cared for — have been pushed out of the space, Ms. James said.In fact, ownership by women of cannabis companies fell to 16.4 percent in 2023 from 22.2 percent in 2022 with racial minorities accounting for just 18.7 percent of owners, according to a report from MJBiz Daily, a publication that covers cannabis-related legal and financial news.These days, Ms. James is not only pushing for wider cannabis legalization — recreational use of the plant is legal in 24 states and the District of Columbia but illegal on the federal level — but also for reform in the industry to ensure more people who look like her fill leadership roles.She believes that by becoming a dispensary owner, and now a leader in an industry with policies that have historically harmed Black and Latino Americans, she could reclaim some power for minorities targeted in communities that were hotbeds of marijuana arrests. In New York, for instance, state cannabis regulators documented a staggering 1.2 million marijuana arrests that disproportionately targeted Black and Latino Americans over 42 years.“There is so much happening in the industry to where it has not been a promising place that looks to diversity as a positivity right now,” she said. “We are trying to find out ways to help.”Ms. James grew up in rural Colorado on a ranch filled with dogs, rabbits, chickens and guinea pigs. Her father, a single parent and Air Force veteran, was a cowboy and they often rode horses together.As a businesswoman and a shaper of marijuana policy, Ms. James has been honored by the Colorado Women’s Chamber of Commerce and High Times Magazine, among other organizations.Rachel Woolf for The New York TimesThe penchant for caring for animals has continued. Ms. James has housed more than 30 dogs over the years, including some she found on the street. Like her father, she joined the military, becoming the first Black woman to complete the University of Colorado’s ROTC program. She served four years in the Navy before moving to Los Angeles, where she worked for two Fortune 100 companies. She also met her husband, Scott Durrah, then a property manager in West Hollywood and a fellow pot smoker, with whom she opened several restaurants in Colorado and California. Ms. James’s Rottweiler, Onyx, was the maid of honor at their wedding.While the couple were building their businesses, the country was feeling the long-term impact of President Ronald Reagan’s hard-line policies on cannabis. Mr. Reagan’s Comprehensive Crime Control Act of 1984 and Anti-Drug Abuse Act of 1986 — the year Ms. James graduated from college — “flooded the federal system with people convicted of low-level and nonviolent drug offenses,” according to the Brennan Center for Justice. In 2007, nearly 800,000 people were arrested for simple marijuana possession, the F.B.I. reported. About 80 percent of those arrested were Black. .“It was the demographic least likely to have a family friend that was an attorney and the least likely to have parents or family money to be able to get them out of the situation that night,” Ms. James said.Those statistics remained front of mind for Ms. James as she pursued cannabis business ownership and worked behind the scenes in politics.Ms. James at an election-night watch party in 2022. She has been at the forefront of campaigning for cannabis legalization at both state and federal levels.David Zalubowski/Associated PressIn 2008, Ms. James managed the successful congressional campaign of Jared Polis, a Democrat who was elected Colorado’s governor in 2018. The following year she and Mr. Durrah opened the Apothecary of Colorado, a medical cannabis dispensary, becoming the first African Americans to own a legal dispensary in the United States. They later closed the medical dispensary to open an edibles company, Simply Pure, which in 2015 became Simply Pure Denver, a recreational dispensary.“She’s a trailblazer,” said Tahir Johnson, a mentee of Ms. James. “When you think about a strong Black woman, that’s what she embodies.”As she became a businesswoman and a shaper of marijuana policy, she had a personal point of reference that she has returned to often in her work: her half brother, who served time in prison for offenses including marijuana possession.The cannabis industry “has not been a promising place that looks to diversity as a positivity right now,” Ms. James said.Rachel Woolf for The New York TimesMs. James has shared her journey in short documentaries produced by The Atlantic and Yahoo, and in 2018, she was named one of the 100 Most Influential People in the cannabis industry by High Times Magazine. She has used her platform to call for federal cannabis legalization, which would help dispensary owners inject some of the money they’ve been paying in taxes back into their businesses, increasing the likelihood of creating “generational wealth,” she said; because recreational cannabis is still illegal on the federal level, dispensary owners are unable to write off basic expenses, like staff salaries, unlike noncannabis businesses.And she’s tapping into her network to create change. Beginning with Mr. Johnson, her mentee, Ms. James is licensing the Simply Pure name to young entrepreneurs in the industry who are from communities harmed by racial disparities in marijuana arrests.Mr. Johnson said he had been arrested three times for marijuana possession, and he was “honored” Ms. James chose him to continue her legacy. He plans to open Simply Pure Trenton soon.“The fact that she’s trusted me to take on this mantle to this next phase of the organization means a lot to me,” he said. More

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    California Panel Calls for Billions in Reparations for Black Residents

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    A task force recommended that legislators enact a sweeping program to compensate for the economic harm from racism in the state’s history.A California panel approved recommendations on Saturday that could mean hundreds of billions of dollars in payments to Black residents to address past injustices. The proposals to state legislators are the nation’s most sweeping effort to devise a program of reparations.The nine-member Reparations Task Force, whose work is being closely monitored by politicians, historians and economists across the country, produced a detailed plan for how restitution should be handled to address a myriad of racist harms, including housing discrimination, mass incarceration and unequal access to health care.Created through a bill signed into law by Gov. Gavin Newsom in the wake of the nationwide racial justice protests after the murder of George Floyd in 2020, the panel has spent more than a year conducting research and holding listening sessions from the Bay Area to San Diego.It will be up to legislators to weigh the recommendations and decide whether to forge them into law, a political and fiscal challenge that has yet to be reckoned with.The task force’s final report, which is to be sent to lawmakers in Sacramento before a July 1 deadline, includes projected restitution estimates calculated by several economists working with the task force.One such estimate laid out in the report determined that to address the harms from redlining by banks, which disqualified people in Black neighborhoods from taking out mortgages and owning homes, eligible Black Californians should receive up to $148,099. That estimate is based on a figure of $3,366 for each year they lived in California from the early 1930s to the late 1970s, when federal redlining was most prevalent.To address the impact of overpolicing and mass incarceration, the report estimates, each eligible person would receive $115,260, or about $2,352 for each year of residency in California from 1971 to 2020, during the decades-long war on drugs.In theory, a lifelong state resident who is 71 years old, the average life expectancy, could be eligible for roughly $1.2 million in total compensation for housing discrimination, mass incarceration and additional harms outlined in the report.All of these estimates, the report notes, are preliminary and would require additional research from lawmakers to hash out specifics. The costs to the state were not outlined in the report, but totals from harms associated with housing and mass incarceration could exceed $500 billion, based on estimates from economists.While the panel members considered various methods for distributing reparations — some favored tuition or housing grants and others preferred direct cash payments — they ultimately recommended the direct payments.“The initial down payment is the beginning of a process of addressing historical injustices,” the report reads, “not the end of it.“Kamilah Moore, the chair, and Amos Brown, the vice chair, at the task force meeting on Saturday.Jason Henry for The New York TimesLast year, the task force, which is made up of elected officials, academics and lawyers, decided on the eligibility criteria, determining that any descendant of enslaved African Americans or of a “free Black person living in the United States prior to the end of the 19th century” should receive reparations.Still, on Saturday, there was sometimes contentious debate over clearly expressing the criteria in certain sections of the report — particularly regarding compensation.Should lawmakers pass legislation for payments, the panel suggested that a state agency be created to process claims and render payments, with elderly individuals getting priority. Nearly 6.5 percent of California residents, roughly 2.5 million, identify as Black or African American.“This is about closing the income and racial wealth gap in this country, and this is a step,” Gary Hoover, an economics professor at Tulane University who has studied reparations, said in an interview. “Wealth is sticky and is able to be transferred from generations. Reparations can close that stickiness.”In voting on its final report on Saturday on the Oakland campus of Mills College at Northeastern University, the panel also suggested that state legislators draw up a formal apology to Black residents. A preliminary report made public last year, outlined how enslaved Black people were forced to California during the Gold Rush era and how, in the 1950s and 1960s, racially restrictive covenants and redlining segregated Black Californians in many of the state’s largest cities.In emotional testimony for much of the past year, Black residents have stood before the panel often revealing personal stories of racial discrimination, lack of resources in communities because of redlining and trauma that has had negative effects on health and well-being.While the task force marked the first such effort by a state, a similar measure aimed at creating a commission to explore reparations has stalled in Congress for decades.Representative Barbara Lee speaking during the task force meeting on Saturday.Jason Henry for The New York TimesIn brief remarks before the panel on Saturday, Representative Barbara Lee, a Democrat whose district spans Oakland, lauded the work members have done.“California is leading on this issue,” said Ms. Lee, who is running for the U.S. Senate. “It’s a model for other states in search of reparative damage, realistic avenues for addressing the need for reparations.”The median wealth of Black households in the United States is $24,100, compared with $188,200 for white households, according to the most recent Federal Reserve Board Survey of Consumer Finances. In California, a recent report from the nonpartisan Public Policy Institute of California found for every $1 earned by white families, Black families earn 60 cents — the result of disparities in, among other things, education, and discrimination in the labor market.Assemblyman Reggie Jones-Sawyer, who is one of two state lawmakers on the panel, said he had spoken with Mr. Newsom in recent weeks and expressed optimism that legislation would be approved based on the panel’s report.“The reality is Black Californians have suffered, and continue to suffer, from institutional laws and policies within our state’s political, social, and economic landscape that have negated Blacks from achieving life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness for generations,” said Mr. Jones-Sawyer, who represents a Los Angeles district. “This really is a trial against America’s original sin, slavery, and the repercussions it caused and the lingering effects in modern society.”Mr. Jones-Sawyer said he expected to present some form of legislation early next year.But the efforts and support for racial justice that followed Mr. Floyd’s death are now confronted with an economy that is shadowed by fears of a recession. In January, Mr. Newsom announced that the state faced a $22.5 billion deficit in the 2023-24 fiscal year, a turnaround from a $100 billion surplus a year ago.Nationwide, opinions on reparations are sharply divided by race. Last fall, a survey from the Pew Research Center found that 77 percent of Black Americans say the descendants of people enslaved in the United States should be repaid in some way, while 18 percent of white Americans say the same. Democrats were even split on the issue, with 49 percent opposed and 48 percent in support. Other polls on the issue have found similar splits.Even so, cities across the country have moved forward with reparations proposals. In 2021, officials in Evanston, Ill., a Chicago suburb, approved $10 million in reparations in the form of housing grants.More recently, the San Francisco Board of Supervisors has expressed support for reparations that could offer several million dollars. And in nearby Hayward, Calif., city officials are hearing proposals for reparations for land taken from Black and Latino families in the 1960s.Kamilah Moore, a lawyer who is chair of the California task force, said she was confident that the Legislature would “respect the task force’s official role as a legislative advisory body and work in good faith to turn our final proposals into legislation.”“It will soon be in their hands to act,” Ms. Moore said. More

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    California Panel Sizes Up Reparations for Black Citizens

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    In the two years since nationwide social justice protests followed the murder of George Floyd, California has undertaken the nation’s most sweeping effort yet to explore some concrete restitution to Black citizens to address the enduring economic effects of slavery and racism.A nine-member Reparations Task Force has spent months traveling across California to learn about the generational effects of racist policies and actions. The group, formed by legislation signed by Gov. Gavin Newsom in 2020, is scheduled to release a report to lawmakers in Sacramento next year outlining recommendations for state-level reparations.“We are looking at reparations on a scale that is the largest since Reconstruction,” said Jovan Scott Lewis, a professor at the University of California, Berkeley, who is a member of the task force.While the creation of the task force is a bold first step, much remains unclear about whether lawmakers will ultimately throw their political weight behind reparations proposals that will require vast financial resources from the state.“That is why we must put forward a robust plan, with plenty of options,” Dr. Lewis said.The effort parallels others on a local level, in California and elsewhere, to address the nation’s stark racial disparities and a persistent wealth gap. The median wealth of Black households in the United States is $24,100, compared with $188,200 for white households, according to the most recent Federal Reserve Board Survey of Consumer Finances.In a preliminary report this year, the task force outlined how enslaved Black people were forced to California during the Gold Rush era and how, in the 1950s and 1960s, racially restrictive covenants and redlining segregated Black Californians in many of the state’s largest cities.Californians eligible for reparations, the task force decided in March, would be descendants of enslaved African Americans or of a “free Black person living in the United States prior to the end of the 19th century.” Nearly 6.5 percent of California residents, roughly 2.5 million, identify as Black or African American. The panel is now considering how reparations should be distributed — some favor tuition and housing grants while others want direct cash payments.The task force has identified five areas — housing discrimination, mass incarceration, unjust property seizures, devaluation of Black businesses and health care — in discussions for compensation. For example, from 1933 to 1977, when it comes to housing discrimination, the task force estimates compensation of around $569 billion, with $223,200 per person.Final figures will be released in the report next year; it would then be up to the Legislature to act upon the recommendations and determine how to fund them.The state and local efforts have faced opposition over the potentially steep cost to taxpayers and, in one case, derided as an ill-conceived campaign to impose an “era of social justice.”More on CaliforniaJaywalking Law: California has had one of the strictest jaywalking laws in the nation. Starting Jan. 1, that will no longer be the case.Remaking a River: Taming the Los Angeles River helped Los Angeles emerge as a global megalopolis, but it also left a gaping scar across the territory. Imagining the river’s future poses new challenges.A Piece of Black History Destroyed: Lincoln Heights — a historically Black community in a predominantly white, rural county in Northern California — endured for decades. Then came the Mill fire.Employee Strike: In one of the nation’s biggest strikes in recent years, teaching assistants, researchers and other workers across the University of California system walked off the job to demand higher pay.A two-day public meeting of the state task force this fall, in a makeshift hearing room tucked inside a Los Angeles museum, included a mix of comments from local residents on how they had been personally affected and how the disparities should be addressed, along with testimony from experts who have studied reparations.While even broad-scale reparations would be unlikely to eliminate the racial wealth gap, they could narrow it significantly, and proponents hope California’s effort will influence other states and federal legislators to follow suit.“Calling these local projects reparations is to some degree creating a detour from the central task of compelling the federal government to do its job,” said William A. Darity Jr., a professor at Duke University and a leading scholar on reparations. Even so, Dr. Darity, who is advising the California task force, said “there is an increasing recognition” that the lasting effects of slavery must be addressed.Every year for almost three decades, Representative John Conyers Jr. of Michigan introduced legislation that would have created a commission to explore reparations, but the measure consistently stalled in Congress. After Mr. Conyers retired in 2017, Representative Sheila Jackson Lee of Texas began championing the measure, which passed a House committee for the first time last year, but stalled on the floor.Underscoring the political hurdles, opinions on reparations are sharply divided by race. Last year, an online survey by the University of Massachusetts Amherst found that 86 percent of African Americans supported compensating the descendants of slaves, compared with 28 percent of white people. Other polls have also shown wide splits.Still, several efforts have gotten off the ground recently.In 2021, officials in Evanston, Ill., a Chicago suburb, approved $10 million in reparations in the form of housing grants. Three months later, officials in Asheville, N.C., committed $2.1 million to reparations. And over the summer, the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors approved a plan to transfer ownership of Bruce’s Beach — a parcel in Manhattan Beach that was seized with scant compensation from a Black couple in 1924 — to the couple’s great-grandsons and great-great-grandsons.“We want to see the land and economic wealth stolen from Black families all across this country returned,” said Kavon Ward, an activist who advocated on behalf of the Bruces’ descendants and has since started a group, Where Is My Land, that seeks to help Black Americans secure restitution.“We are in a moment that we cannot let pass.”A so-called blight law from 1945, the task force’s interim report explains, paved the way for officials to use eminent domain to destroy Black communities, including shuttering more than 800 businesses and displacing 4,700 households in San Francisco’s Western Addition beginning in the 1950s.After work on Interstate 210 began later that decade, the report goes on, the freeway was eventually built in the path of a Black business district in Pasadena, where city officials offered residents $75,000 — less than the minimum cost to buy a new home in the city — for their old homes.And there is Russell City, an unincorporated parcel of Alameda County near the San Francisco Bay shoreline where many Black families fleeing racial terror in the Deep South built lives during the Great Migration. Testimony to the task force by Russell City residents recounts the community’s rise and ultimate bulldozing.A mural honoring the history of Russell City in what is now Hayward, Calif.Jim Wilson/The New York TimesMonique Henderson-Ford grew up hearing stories from her elders about Russell City, where many Black families fleeing racial terror in the Deep South built lives during the Great Migration.Jim Wilson/The New York TimesThe town was demolished to make way for an industrial park.Jim Wilson/The New York TimesUnlike neighboring Hayward and San Leandro, Russell City didn’t have racist housing covenants stipulating that only white families could own certain homes. After World War II, it grew into a small but tight community of Black and Latino families that once included seven churches.On weekends, children played on the unpaved streets as their parents, many of whom worked in the shipyards, sat on porches, and on some foggy nights, Ray Charles and Big Mama Thornton played shows at one of the town’s music venues, called the Country Club.“It was vibrant,” said Monique Henderson-Ford, who grew up hearing stories about Russell City from her mother, grandmother and cousins.After leaving Louisiana in the 1950s, her grandparents lived briefly in San Francisco but were displaced by an urban renewal project. Using savings from years of work at Pacific Gas & Electric, her grandfather paid $7,500 for their property and home in Russell City, and the family soon added three small houses to the homestead for their sons.“This was their American dream,” Ms. Henderson-Ford said in an interview.But it didn’t last long.Lacking sewer lines and reliable electricity, the area was designated as a blight, and officials called for its destruction and the area to be turned into an industrial park. Russell City was annexed into Hayward, and the city and county bought up some properties and seized others through eminent domain. Residents, including Ms. Henderson-Ford’s grandmother, pleaded with officials to be allowed to remain in their homes.“I got a nice place,” she told the Alameda County Board of Supervisors during a public meeting in 1963, according to a transcript. “Allow me a break.”In exchange for their property and homes, county officials gave the family roughly $2,200, less than a third of what it had originally paid, according to Ms. Henderson-Ford.On a recent morning, Ms. Henderson-Ford and her cousin joined a reporter on a walk through what was once Russell City but is now an industrial park.They passed the spot where their grandfather used to fish, yanking up striped bass from the bay as he peered northwest and watched San Francisco’s skyline take its distinctive shape.“Imagine if the houses were still here,” Ms. Henderson-Ford said. “We would all be sitting on a fortune.”Amid the uproar in 2020 over the murder of Mr. Floyd, a Black man, in police custody in Minneapolis, Artavia Berry, who lives in Hayward, knew she had to do something.“We could not look away from what happened right here,” said Ms. Berry, who learned the history of Russell City after moving to the region from Chicago a decade ago.Ms. Berry, who leads the Community Services Commission, a municipal advisory body, composed what would become a formal apology from the City of Hayward to onetime residents of Russell City. Last November, the City Council approved the resolution, as well as several follow-up steps.An aerial view of the area as the industrial park that replaced Russell City, lower right, was under construction in 1971.Hayward Area Historical SocietyA kindergarten class on the playground at a school in Russell City in 1949.Hayward Area Historical SocietyBut in a public letter to city officials, Hayward Concerned Citizens, the group that railed against an “era of social justice,” said the apology was misguided, arguing that Alameda County, not the City of Hayward, had pushed residents out.“We are strongly opposed to any direct financial reparations,” the group wrote.For Gloria Moore, who grew up in Russell City, the words stung.Now 79, she was 3 when her parents arrived in Russell City from Texarkana, Ark. Her mother worked as a cook at a local elementary school and her father worked for Todd Shipyards in the Bay Area. She still has vivid memories of walking to school in the mud when it rained, because the streets weren’t paved and there was no public transportation.After their home was taken for about $2,200, the family members struggled to regain the financial stability and community they had built in Russell City.By the 1970s, Ms. Moore had moved to Los Angeles to begin a career in city government, and she remembered noticing how many of her co-workers owned their own homes. She was renting.Over the years, she and other former residents of Russell City have gathered at a park in Hayward for a Labor Day reunion, where they share stories and often tears.“Sometimes things were suppressed because it was too painful,” she recalled. “But no one ever forgot.” More

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    Inflation Reduction Act to Rewrite Embattled Black Farmer Relief Program

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    To circumvent legal objections, the new law will provide aid to farmers who have faced discrimination, regardless of their race.WASHINGTON — A $4 billion program to help Black and other “socially disadvantaged” farmers that never got off the ground last year amid legal objections will be replaced with a plan to make relief funds available to farmers who have faced discrimination.The changes, which are tucked into the climate and tax legislation that is known as the Inflation Reduction Act of 2022, are drawing backlash from the farmers whom the original debt relief program, part of the $1.9 trillion American Rescue Plan of 2021, was intended to help. The new program is the latest twist in an 18-month stretch that has underscored the challenges facing the Biden administration’s attempts to make racial equity a centerpiece of its economic agenda.Black farmers have been in limbo for months, not knowing if the debt relief they were promised would be granted. Many invested in new equipment after applying last year for money to help defray their debt. Some received foreclosure notices from the Department of Agriculture this year as the program languished.The legislation, which passed the Senate this week and is expected to pass the House on Friday, would create two new funds to help farmers. One, at $2.2 billion, would provide financial assistance to farmers, ranchers and forest landowners who faced discrimination before 2021. The other would provide $3.1 billion for the Agriculture Department to make payments for loans or loan modifications to farmers who faced financial distress.The money would replace the $4 billion program that was intended to aid about 15,000 farmers who received loans from the federal government or had bank loans guaranteed by the Agriculture Department. They included farmers and ranchers who had been subject to racial or ethnic prejudice, including those who are Black, American Indian/Alaskan Native, Asian American, Pacific Islander or Hispanic.Last year’s pandemic relief package included an additional $1 billion for outreach to farmers and ranchers of color and for improving their access to land.White farmers and groups representing them questioned whether the government could base debt relief on race and said the law discriminated against them. The program was frozen as lawsuits worked their way through the courts.The program also faced resistance from banks, which argued that their profits would suffer if the loans they had made to farmers were suddenly repaid.Fearful that the program would be blocked entirely, Democrats rewrote the law to remove race from the eligibility requirements. It is not clear how discrimination will be defined, and the legislation appears to give the Agriculture Department broad discretion to distribute the money as it sees fit.Groups representing Black farmers, who have faced decades of discrimination from banks and the federal government, are disappointed that the money will no longer be reserved specifically for them.What’s in the Climate, Health and Tax BillCard 1 of 8What’s in the Climate, Health and Tax BillA new proposal. More

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    New Data Show Few Black Economists at the Fed

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    Black researchers made up about 1.5 percent of the Federal Reserve system’s 945-person staff of doctorate-level economists at the end of 2021, a number that highlights the central bank’s ongoing struggle to improve racial and ethnic diversity in its ranks.Data that the Fed on Thursday published publicly for the first time showed that 72 percent of the system’s Ph.D.-level economists are white, 17 percent are Asian, and 9.4 percent identify as Hispanic or Latino. A small share report identifying with two or more races.

    The new diversity figures follow reporting by The New York Times last year, in which data provided by the Fed showed that just 1.3 percent of economists across its system identified as Black alone around the end of 2020. The 2021 data are roughly, but not exactly comparable, because the central bank made methodological improvements in collecting the figures this year.Economics is a heavily white and Asian profession — just under 5 percentof U.S. citizens or residents who earned doctorates in the field in the 2020 school year were Black — but the Fed tends to be even less racially diverse than the profession as a whole. The release underlined that America’s central bank is making slow progress when it comes to hiring and retaining a more racially varied staff of experts.Across the Fed’s 12-bank system and Board of Governors in Washington, 14 Ph.D.-level economists identify as Black alone. The board employs 429 economists, but no Black women and just one Black man.There appears to be some progress toward greater diversity at the entry level, however. When it comes to the Fed’s 393 research assistants, who usually have bachelor’s degrees and are often aiming to pursue doctoral degrees in economics down the road, the new data showed that 19 people, or about 5 percent of the assistants, were Black.That is a slight improvement from 3.7 percent the prior year, and it roughly reflects the share of economics graduates who identify as Black.The Fed’s more entry-level staff was also more diverse by gender: 42 percent of research assistants were women, compared to about 25 percent of its doctorate-level economists.Lawmakers and think tanks have for years pushed the Fed to increase diversity within its ranks, arguing that having a set of economists and researchers at the central bank who more closely reflect the public — the people the Fed ultimately serves — would lead to a wider range of viewpoints around the policy table and more rounded economic discussions.The Fed sets the nation’s monetary policy, raising or lowering the cost of borrowing money in order to slow down or speed up the economy. Its actions help to determine how strong the labor market is in any given moment, help to control inflation, and can influence financial stability.“The risk with underrepresentation, from a substantive standpoint, is that you are underrepresenting perspectives that are important for policymaking,” said Skanda Amarnath, executive director at Employ America, which pushes the Fed to focus more intently on the job market.That could mean that a range of ideas and experiences “don’t get fully understood, or captured, to the same degree,” he said.The Fed is about to see greater racial diversity at its highest ranks: Lisa D. Cook and Philip N. Jefferson, who are both Black, were confirmed as Fed governors just this week. Susan M. Collins will become the first Black woman ever to lead a regional Fed bank when she becomes president of the Boston Fed this summer, and Raphael Bostic, the first Black man to ever lead a regional bank, is currently president of the Atlanta Fed.The Fed’s leadership team has also become more gender diverse in recent years. Assuming Mr. Biden’s nominees are all confirmed, three of the central bank’s seven governors will be women. Once new presidents take office in Boston and Dallas this summer, five of its 12 regional bank leaders will be women.Fed officials have in recent years talked publicly about aiming for a broader array of views within their own workplaces.“The Atlanta Fed is committed to modeling economic inclusion, and that starts with our own organization,” Mr. Bostic from Atlanta said in a 2020 opinion piece, published after George Floyd, a Black man, died at the hands of the police in Minneapolis. “We embrace diversity and inclusion as essential to who we are.” More

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    As Infrastructure Money Flows, Wastewater Improvements Are Key

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    The new law allocates $11.7 billion for wastewater and stormwater projects. Will it get to the impoverished communities who need it most?HAYNEVILLE, Ala. — What babbles behind Marilyn Rudolph’s house in the rural countryside is no brook.A stained PVC pipe juts out of the ground 30 feet behind her modest, well-maintained house, spewing raw wastewater whenever someone flushes the toilet or runs the washing machine. It is what is known as a “straight pipe” — a rudimentary, unsanitary and notorious homemade sewage system used by thousands of poor people in rural Alabama, most of them Black, who cannot afford a basic septic tank that will work in the region’s dense soil.“I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s kind of like living with an outhouse, and I can never, ever get used to it,” said Ms. Rudolph’s boyfriend Lee Thomas, who moved in with her three years ago from Cleveland.“I’ve lived with it all my life,” said Ms. Rudolph, 60.If any part of the country stands to see transformational benefits from the $1 trillion infrastructure act that President Biden signed in November, it is Alabama’s Black Belt, named for the loamy soil that once made it a center of slave-labor cotton production. It is an expanse of 17 counties stretching from Georgia to Mississippi where Black people make up three-quarters of the population.About $55 billion of the infrastructure law’s overall funding is dedicated to upgrading systems around the country that handle drinking water, wastewater and stormwater, including $25 billion to replace failing drinking-water systems in cities like Flint, Mich., and Jackson, Miss.Hayneville’s town square. The infrastructure package targets funding toward “disadvantaged” areas like Hayneville and surrounding towns, part of the Biden administration’s goal of redressing structural racism.Charity Rachelle for The New York TimesLess attention has been paid to the other end of the pipe: $11.7 billion in new funding to upgrade municipal sewer and drainage systems, septic tanks, and clustered systems for small communities. It is a torrent of cash that could transform the quality of life and economic prospects for impoverished communities in Alabama, Mississippi, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Illinois, Michigan and many tribal areas.In this part of Alabama, the center of the civil rights struggle 60 years ago, the funding represents “a once-in-a-lifetime chance to finally make things right, if we get it right,” said Helenor Bell, the former mayor of Hayneville in Lowndes County, who runs the town’s funeral home.But while the funding is likely to lead to substantial improvements, there are no guarantees it will deliver the promised benefits to communities that lack the political power or the tax base to employ even the few employees needed to fill out applications for federal aid.“I am very worried,” said Catherine Coleman Flowers, a MacArthur fellow whose 2020 book “Waste” highlighted the sanitation crisis in Lowndes County. “Without federal intervention, we would have never had voting rights. Without federal intervention, we will never have sanitation equity.”Mark A. Elliott is an engineering professor at the University of Alabama who works with an academic consortium that is designing a waste system optimized for the region’s dense clay soil. He said he was concerned that more affluent parts of the state might siphon off federal assistance intended for the poor.“My hope is that at least 50 percent of this money goes to the people who are in most desperate need, not for helping to subsidize the water bills of wealthy communities,” Mr. Elliott said. “Sanitation is a human right, and these people need help.”Straight pipes are just one element of a more widespread breakdown of antiquated septic tanks, inadequate storm sewers and poorly maintained municipal systems that routinely leave lawns covered in foul-smelling wastewater after even a light rainstorm.The infrastructure package targets funding toward “disadvantaged” areas like Hayneville and surrounding towns, part of the Biden administration’s goal of redressing structural racism. Yet the infrastructure package gives states broad latitude in how to allocate the funding, and it contains no new enforcement mechanisms once the money is out the door.A PVC pipe behind Ms. Rudolph’s house spews raw wastewater whenever someone flushes the toilet or runs the washing machine.Matthew Odom for The New York TimesThe wastewater funding is moving through an existing federal-state loan program that typically requires partial or complete repayment, but under the new legislation, local governments with negligible tax bases will not have to pay back what they borrow. As an additional enticement, Congress cut the required state contribution from 20 percent to 10 percent.“A lot of people know that the bill isn’t just about drinking water, but the wastewater part is just as important,” said Senator Tammy Duckworth, Democrat of Illinois, who helped draft the provisions after assisting two small cities in her state, Cahokia Heights and Cairo, upgrade failing sewer systems that flooded neighborhoods with raw sewage.The Environmental Protection Agency, which is administering the program, said in November that the first tranche of funding for drinking water and wastewater projects, $7.4 billion, would be sent to states in 2022, including about $137 million for Alabama.Biden administration officials are confident the scale of the new spending — which represents a threefold increase in clean water funding over the next five years — will be enough to ensure poor communities gets their fair share. “We want to change the way E.P.A. and states work together to ensure overburdened communities have access to these resources,” said Zachary Schafer, an agency official overseeing the implementation of the program. But major questions remain — including whether individual homeowners without access to municipal systems can tap the money to pay for expensive septic systems — and the guidelines will not be ready until late 2022. While the revolving loan fund is generally regarded as a successful program, a study last year by the Environmental Policy Innovation Center and the University of Michigan found that many states were less likely to tap revolving loan funds on behalf of poor communities with larger minority populations.Alabama’s revolving loan fund has financed few projects in this part of the state in recent years, apart from a major wastewater system upgrade in Selma, according to the program’s annual reports.The water funding is not likely to be divvied up in Alabama until later this year. The Republican-controlled state legislature is still negotiating with Gov. Kay Ivey, a Republican, over what to do with tens of millions of dollars allocated through the $1.9 trillion stimulus package Mr. Biden signed in March.A flooded yard in Hayneville in 2019. Straight pipes are just one element of a more widespread infrastructure breakdown in the area.Julie Bennett/Associated PressEvery member of the state legislature is up for re-election next year, and legislators from bigger, more powerful communities in Birmingham, Huntsville and Mobile, eager to deliver to voters, have already begun preparing their applications.The Infrastructure Bill at a GlanceCard 1 of 5The bill receives final approval. More

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    Can Progress on Diversity Be Union-Made?

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    Staring at the wall of glass clawing its way up the unfinished facade of the Winthrop Center in downtown Boston — 53 floors of commercial and residential space soaring 690 feet — Travis Watson isn’t interested in the grandeur of the thing. He wants to know who’s working on it.“It doesn’t pass the eye test,” he scoffs: In a city whose non-Hispanic white population has dwindled to 45 percent, it’s hard to see Black and brown faces on the site.He has more than his eyesight to go by. In 2018, Mayor Martin J. Walsh — now President Biden’s labor secretary — appointed Mr. Watson to lead the Boston Employment Commission, the body created to monitor compliance with the Boston Residents Jobs Policy. The policy mandates giving a minimum share of work to city residents, women and people of color on large private construction projects and those that are publicly funded.The latest version of the ordinance, from 2017, requires that Asian, Black and Latino workers get at least 40 percent of the work hours on sanctioned projects to better reflect the city’s demographics. (It also mandates that 51 percent of the hours go to city residents and 12 percent to women.) Mr. Watson complains that while many projects fail to meet the benchmarks, nobody is penalized.When the commission reviewed the Winthrop Center project in mid-September, when it was roughly halfway done, only 32 percent of the hours worked had gone to people of color. Other downtown projects have similar shortfalls. In September, even a project to renovate City Hall — the building where the targets were written and the Employment Commission meets — was shy of the mark.“We should be going higher,” Mr. Watson said. “This is a floor.”Boston is one of the nation’s most solidly Democratic cities. It just elected Michelle Wu, an outspoken progressive, as mayor by a resounding margin. She campaigned heavily on a promise to expand opportunities for minority businesses and to empower workers and communities of color with the sort of policy proposals that led to the creation of the Employment Commission — proposals aimed at ensuring that lucrative opportunities are fairly distributed. But the projects underway in Boston show how much harder it is to deliver on goals of racial equity than to set them.In Boston and beyond, building is one of the last American industries offering good jobs to workers without a college degree. The prospect of trillions of dollars of new federal funding for infrastructure projects under Mr. Biden’s Build Back Better program is raising hopes that roads, bridges, railways, wind farms, electric grids and water mains could provide millions of good construction jobs for a generation or more.What infuriates Mr. Watson is that, as he views it, unions for the building trades are the main impediment keeping people of color from building sites. He recalls one of his appearances before Boston’s City Council: “A councilor got up to say this is a union city,” he said. “For me, he was saying this is a white city, a city for white workers.”This tension has opened an uncomfortable rift between elements of the nation’s traditional Democratic coalition. Prominent advocates of racial equity push for Black and Hispanic contractors, whose operations are often small and nonunion but hire a lot of workers of color.Unions push back against the charges, sometimes forcefully, arguing that the growing number of apprentices of color indicates an embrace of diversity. In the first three months of this year, for example, nearly 30 percent of apprentices across the building trades in Massachusetts were nonwhite, up from 24 percent six years earlier.The unions also contend that nonunion contractors and their allies are cynically using a discussion of racial diversity to exploit workers.“The most vocal critics of our vigorous, intentional and ongoing efforts to improve our diversity, equity, and inclusion practices are often directly employed, funded, or formally aligned with nonunion special interest groups,” Renee Dozier, business agent of a Boston area local of the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, said in a statement. Many critics, she added, “have a direct profit motive to see wage and safety conditions watered down in one of America’s most dangerous industries, construction.”Mr. Watson shrugs off such criticism.The 38-year-old son of a white mother and a Black father, a graduate of Brandeis University with a major in African and African American studies, Mr. Watson is a former community organizer in the predominantly Black neighborhood of Roxbury and North Dorchester, south of downtown.He is employed as a director of racial equity and community engagement at the Massachusetts Housing Investment Corporation, a nonprofit group that offers financing for affordable housing and other community projects.He is deeply frustrated by what he views as the naked discrimination barring Black and Latino workers from the high-paying construction jobs that offer a path into the middle class. He is exasperated that unions generally won’t disclose the racial and ethnic mix of the workers in their halls — aside from apprentices, which they are obliged to report — and suggests that it is because the numbers would show their lack of diversity.He also grew frustrated by the inability of the Employment Commission to do anything about all this. As the law stands, he noted, contractors must only go through the motions to prove they are making an honest effort to comply.By last month, he had had enough. He resigned.Travis Watson, who resigned as the head of the Boston Employment Commission, views unions as the primary obstacle keeping people of color from building sites.The Pipeline IssueUnions for the building trades — laborers and electricians, plumbers and metalworkers — are largely to thank for ensuring that construction work is a middle-class job. The unions have bargained successfully for decent wages, and for health and pension benefits. They train workers and monitor safety conditions on building sites.Gatekeeping is also one of their functions, particularly in a union-friendly city like Boston. Unions run apprenticeships, which confer and certify the requisite skills, controlling the pipeline of workers into the profession.Who gets a job at downtown projects like the Winthrop Center or the City Hall renovation, where large unionized contractors and subcontractors do a vast majority of the work, is often decided in the union hall, which handles calls from contractors and makes assignments from a list of out-of-work journeymen and women.City data suggests that workers of color got 38 percent of the hours on projects subject to the ordinance last year. This year, between April and September, the share actually hit the target of 40 percent, it said. But there’s a stark difference in the jobs that whites and nonwhites get: Minority workers in 2020 did 76 percent of the work removing asbestos, where the mandated base wage set for projects like the City Hall renovation is usually around $40 an hour. By contrast, they got only 22 percent of the plumber hours, which pay around $60.“The pipeline issue is a real one, and I do think there’s a lack of diversity in the pipeline,” said Celina Barrios-Millner, the chief of equity and inclusion in Boston’s departing city government. “Any time you see outcomes that are so skewed, you have to understand there is discrimination somewhere down the line.”Some union officials acknowledge the issue. When the City Hall project came up for discussion at the Boston Employment Commission in May, Commissioner Charles Cofield, an organizer for the North Atlantic States Regional Council of Carpenters, which covers New York and New England, argued that “the main part of the pressure needs to go to the people supplying the manpower.” That means the business agents at the union locals.Elmer Castillo, an immigrant from Honduras who rose to be vice president of Local 723 of the carpenters’ union for a couple of years, has long experience with the ways of the building trades unions. “Unions are good if you know how to work with them,” he said. But equality of opportunity between white and minority workers? Mr. Castillo says, “That doesn’t exist.”Workers are supposed to be selected for a job based largely on how long they’ve been unemployed. But nepotism rules in the union hall, Mr. Castillo contends. Business agents trade favors with contractors. They will place their sons, cousins and nephews in the good jobs, and they will make sure that those sons, cousins and nephews follow them up the union ranks.“This builds a chain that never ends, a chain of whites,” Mr. Castillo said. “One will never have the opportunity to achieve what they achieve.”Craig Ransom, now the business manager at Local 346 of the carpenters’ union, offers his career as an example of the glass ceiling Black workers face. After rising to business manager at Local 723, he got stuck — blocked from what he says would be his natural progression to regional manager. “Unions are good for people that look like me,” Mr. Ransom said. “But at the very top level, there is no one that looks like me.”The conflict between white insiders and Black or Hispanic outsiders clamoring for an opportunity has bedeviled unions since the dawn of the labor movement. Even after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 ended officially sanctioned discrimination, race often trumped class solidarity. Many unions discriminated against workers of color, and many employers turned to workers of color to cross union picket lines.A few years later, President Richard M. Nixon leaned into the conflict between unions and African Americans, embracing the so-called Philadelphia Plan, which required federal contractors to prove they were hiring minority workers to match the ethnic composition of the area where work was being done. It would create “a political dilemma for the labor union leaders and civil rights groups,” said John Ehrlichman, a Nixon adviser, driving a wedge between two pillars of Democratic politics.“Unions are good for people that look like me,” said Craig Ransom, the business manager at Local 346 of the carpenters’ union. “But at the very top level, there is no one that looks like me.”Labor unions have come a long way since then. One reason is that far more workers of color are in the labor force, and many unions want to organize them, including the Service Employees International Union and UNITE HERE, which covers leisure and hospitality workers.The other reason is that organized labor doesn’t have the clout it once had. “The old bastions of exclusion with strong seniority systems that favored white workers have been decimated,” said Nelson Lichtenstein, a historian of labor at the University of California, Santa Barbara.In the fiscal year that ended Sept. 30, the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission reported fewer than 100 racial-discrimination complaints against unions, about one-third the number brought a decade before. “They don’t have the power they used to have in being involved in hiring,” said Gwendolyn Young Reams, the commission’s acting general counsel.Unions in the building trades remain something of an exception. They are strong, compared with other unions, and retain control over training and hiring, especially in public projects and the large, more heavily regulated construction in union-friendly urban areas. Nearly 13 percent of construction workers are unionized, about double the overall rate across private industries.‘Driving the Ship’Maven Construction is not a union contractor. It is an open shop, meaning it has not signed a deal to employ only union workers. Its founder and chief executive, JocCole Burton, a Black woman, knows that limits the kind of work she can do. But she also understands the cost of signing up with the unions.“Every single college or university in the region, every hospital and all public work requires union labor,” said Ms. Burton, who founded Maven in Atlanta and moved it to Boston four years ago. “Anything that is downtown and most work in the Boston metro is going to require union labor.”The exception is affordable-housing projects, which bring in nonunion contractors to keep costs down, Ms. Burton said. Still, open-shop contractors are mostly limited to smaller projects. “The largest project we’ve done is $35 million,” she said, with jobs worth $5 million to $10 million more typical.She is seeking to make Maven a “signatory” contractor, to have a shot at more lucrative work. But the arrangement is expensive: The benefits and other obligations add up, and they are hard to afford if you don’t have a steady stream of big projects.More problematic for Ms. Burton is that she expects unions to provide few workers of color. “The unions are in the business of making sure that the union halls get all the work, but they don’t have enough Black and brown bodies in their halls,” she said.Ms. Burton says she is shocked by what she sees as overt discrimination in such a liberal city. “The racism experienced 50 years ago in Atlanta is the same we see in Boston today,” she said. “It’s subtle — not as overt — but it is the same.” A crucial problem, she argues, “is the unions are driving the ship when it comes to equity.”Union officials contend that much of the criticism is unfair. A report from Local 103 of the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers noted that while people of color made up only 4 percent of retired electricians drawing a pension in the last five years, they accounted for almost 30 percent of their apprentices, a testament to how much it has evolved.“There is no denying that unions in many industries, including construction, just like corporations in many industries, have a troubling past when it comes to diversity, equity and inclusion,” said Ms. Dozier, the business agent for Local 103. “But we are doing more every day to increase the diversity of our membership than almost any other industry — and frankly, it is unethical of the nonunion lobbyists and their mouthpieces to try and turn that important work into an excuse to further their own exploitative practices.”The site of the City Hall renovation project. In Boston and beyond, building is one of the last American industries offering good jobs to workers without a college degree. Mark Erlich, who retired in 2017 as executive secretary-treasurer of the New England Regional Council of Carpenters and is now a research fellow with the Labor and Worklife Program at Harvard Law School, argues that construction unions have become more welcoming to nonwhites in the last few decades.Mr. Erlich is one of the authors of a book addressing the history of racial exclusion in the building trades. He notes that the original Boston Residents Jobs Policy in 1983 came out of the fight by Black workers for jobs on building sites. But it had to include residents and women to gain white political support and overcome the opposition of union leadership.“There is a legacy of racism, which by no means has been eliminated,” Mr. Erlich said. “I respect folks in the community that complain that things are not changing fast enough. And they are not changing fast enough.” Still, he argues, unions realize that “they need to become less homogeneous and reflect the demographics of the city.”And he warns that the nonunion contractors that will hire workers of color do not generally provide training or a career path, as unions do. The work is often more dangerous, he says, and it pays nothing like the wages in union shops.The Limits of PatienceWorkers of color who make it into the unions acknowledge the opportunities that membership provides. On a sunny October afternoon in Dorchester, a roomful of apprentices and journeymen and women, assembled by Local 103 to talk to a reporter, lauded the union’s efforts to broaden its ranks and called for patience.“Diversity doesn’t happen overnight,” said Sam Quaratiello, a recent graduate of the apprenticeship program who is of Asian descent. Walter Cowhan, a Black journeyman, argued that the union had become far more diverse in his 20 years of experience. Still, he said, if workers of color are to become more prominent on job sites, training is essential. “If you don’t prepare the work force, directly bringing in Black and brown workers could undermine the whole process,” he said.But among some of those pushing for racial equity, patience is wearing thin. Mr. Watson offered the words of the Black author and activist James Baldwin: “You’ve always told me it takes time,” Mr. Baldwin said in the 1989 documentary “The Price of a Ticket.” “How much time do you want, for your progress?”The building unions are “huge obstacles” to that progress, said Angela Williams-Mitchell, who heads the Boston Jobs Coalition, a community organization dedicated to increasing opportunities for people of color. “They do not open their doors to create access for communities that have historically been excluded.”If they are so committed to diversity, she says, why do unions refuse to provide data on the share of minority journeymen and women, even as they disclose the racial and ethnic breakdown of apprentices? “Break it down for us so we know what needs to be done,” she urges.Unions remain essential to maintain construction’s track record of lifting workers up, Mr. Erlich says. He recalls one of Mr. Watson’s heroes, the late Chuck Turner, a community activist who fought to increase Black employment in the building trades. “He was the ultimate radical — his attitude was, let’s drive the unions into the sea,” Mr. Erlich said. “But he came around to the position that without unions, construction would become a low-wage job.”Mr. Watson, in fact, agrees. “Unions are great,” he said. “But they have to give us an opportunity.” More

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    ‘Black Capitalism’ Promised a Better City for Everyone. What Happened?

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    ROCHESTER, N.Y. — The Panther Graphics printing plant sits along a row of red brick buildings and empty parking lots on the edge of a circular highway that separates this city’s downtown from a largely Black neighborhood to the north. Nearby, there is a warehouse, a Baptist Church and a billboard that warns “A Shot from A Gun Can’t Be Undone,” a reference to Rochester’s soaring murder rate.Tony Jackson, the owner of Panther Graphics, grew up here, the oldest of six children. His mother died when he was 13 and his father served time in Attica, the nearby state prison. But Mr. Jackson said he always had “ink in his blood” — a helpful trait in a city dominated by the giant film and copying companies Kodak and Xerox — and he found his calling in commercial printing.Mr. Jackson named his company, which produces labels for the grocery chain Wegmans and health care enrollment packets for Blue Cross Blue Shield, after the Black Panther Party. “It represents being Black and being strong,” he said.Today, in Mr. Jackson’s office, there is a photo of his son breaking a tackle as a running back on the Duke University football team and also a large painting of four men — Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, Nelson Mandela and Barack Obama — gathered around a table, smiling.“I have always wanted people in this neighborhood to see what is possible,” he said.But Panther Graphics is the product of a complicated legacy. The company is one of the few sizable, Black-owned employers operating in Rochester, a city of 200,000 people, 40 percent of whom are Black.There was a time, though, when Rochester was on the cutting edge of Black “community capitalism” — an effort to create companies owned, staffed and managed largely by Black people that could lift up the broader community.Just as giant corporations have pledged billions to help combat racism and support Black Americans in the wake of George Floyd’s murder, corporate investments in Black businesses were seen as an antidote to racial unrest in the 1960s, a way to ease the tensions that threatened the reputations of burgeoning corporate hubs like Rochester.Some of those efforts in Rochester were quite bold and innovative at the time. Looking back now though, the long term challenges of achieving those ambitions shows the limits of social activists partnering with big business and how such efforts may not make a substantial dent in the systemic issues of poverty and racism affecting the broader Black community. It is a disheartening case study for the many companies that have made public commitments to promote equity and inclusion this year.Nearly 60 years ago, Xerox teamed up with a Black power group to create a factory that made vacuums and other parts for copying and film processing and was partly owned by its work force.For decades, Kodak and Xerox — both with large operations in Rochester — dominated the city’s business landscape.Recently, Rochester has dealt with a rising murder rate and municipal unrest.That company, which was eventually called Eltrex Industries, provided hundreds of manufacturing jobs to Black residents, including Mr. Jackson, who credits his experience there with providing the skills and connections he needed to start his own business.As part of an effort to promote more racial equity, Xerox also recruited Black engineers and technicians to Rochester, including Ursula Burns, who rose to become the first Black woman to lead a Fortune 500 company as chief executive officer.Eventually, Eltrex shut its doors in 2011. Its challenges were blamed on a mixture of racism and its reliance on winning contracts from Xerox and Kodak, which were fighting for their own survival in a digital age and whose ability to support the venture became more limited.Some community leaders say the company and its corporate sponsors veered from its mission by focusing on profit while shedding its Black activist identity.“With as many corporate entities as Rochester has, you wouldn’t think it would have such a large poor Black population,” said Dennis Bassett, a former executive at Kodak and Bausch + Lomb, who is Black and moved to Rochester in the 1970s.That contrast seems even more stark these days, after a particularly tumultuous time for the city, which is the nation’s third poorest, by one measure, after Detroit and Cleveland.Lovely Warren, the first woman and second African American to be the city’s mayor, was indicted in July on weapons charges after her 10-year-old child was left alone in her home where police found a pistol and rifle. Ms. Warren pleaded not guilty.The city was also roiled last year by the death of a Black man, Daniel Prude, who was handcuffed on a frigid street by Rochester police officers and had a mesh hood put over his head because they said he was having a psychotic episode. Video of the confrontation, which led to Mr. Prude’s death, came out months later, prompting protests in Rochester. In February, the police pepper-sprayed a nine-year-old Black girl at her home, setting off more protests that joined a larger national conversation about race and policing.The widespread protests throughout the country led corporate America to pledge billions of dollars in investments to Black-owned businesses and to ramp up hiring of African Americans.But following through may be a challenge, the way likeit was in Rochester.Tony Jackson owns Panther Graphics, one of the few sizable, Black-owned companies in Rochester.Malik Evans, who won the Democratic nomination for mayor, said the city needs to create more small- and medium-size businesses.Despite decades of investments, Eltrex failed to grow to its fullest potential and spawn a large number of other community-owned companies as many had hoped it would.“This could have been the nation’s first billion dollar Black-owned business and the start of many others,” Mr. Jackson said of Eltrex. “But it failed to adapt.”‘We wanted a factory’When the head of Xerox Joseph Wilson drove up to the headquarters of the organization in 1964, the Rev. Franklin Florence remembers there was still smoke in the air from the protests erupting around Rochester over the lack of affordable housing for Black people.The F.I.G.H.T. organization was an umbrella group made up of Black churches, tenant associations and even book clubs that used their collective strength to organize protests around any issue affecting the membership.Many of Rochester’s corporate leaders were shaken by the protests, but it was Mr. Wilson who took the step in 1964 of reaching out to Mr. Florence, the head of F.I.G.H.T. — short for Freedom, Independence, God, Honor, Today — to ask how Xerox could help.“Joseph Wilson asked what we wanted,” Mr. Florence recalled in an interview. “We told him we wanted a factory.”Mr. Florence had gained national attention during the civil rights movement with his campaign against Eastman Kodak, the city’s largest and most influential company, which had employed relatively few Black residents.He was a polarizing figure in Rochester who led protests at Kodak’s annual shareholder meeting, an embarrassment to the founding Eastman family and a warning to other companies about the power of social activism to disrupt their businesses.Eltrex’s original factory building was torn down a decade ago after a vehicle smashed into the first floor and burst into flames.A photo of the Rev. Franklin Florence at Central Church of Christ. He gained national attention in the early days of the civil rights movement with his campaign against Eastman Kodak.Mr. Wilson of Xerox assigned one of his executives in Europe to set up the plant. The company that would run it would be called Fighton.Some of Fighton’s first products were vacuums and parts for electrical transformers. A portion of the company was owned by the employees and the rest by the F.I.G.H.T. organization which ran a neighborhood housing project called F.I.G.H.T. Village, near the factory. Xerox lent managers to help train the workers.Among the efforts to support Black business amid the unrest of the 1960s, Fighton represented something new.“They wanted to try capitalism, but they wanted it to happen in a socialist way,’’ said Laura Warren Hill, a history professor at Bloomfield College in New Jersey, and the author of “Strike the Hammer: The Black Freedom Struggle in Rochester, NY 1940-1970.” “They wanted it to have a human face and to help the underserved.”The role of the city’s big corporations in this initiative also stood out.“You have Xerox working with a Black power group,” Ms. Hill said, “to shape what Black capitalism is going to look like.”Matt Augustine, Eltrex’s longest serving chief executive, said his approach to hiring was to give employees first and often “second chances.”Changing leadership and a nameOutside of Rochester, though, Fighton was not always so well received. The name seemed to be a big part of its problem.“The people we were trying to do business with would ask ‘What does this Fight mean? Fight who?’” recalled Matthew Augustine, the company’s longest serving chief executive.In 1976, Mr. Augustine was recruited to become C.E.O. by a friend from Harvard Business School who was on the board of Fighton.The F.I.G.H.T. organization had gone through an internal power struggle, with Mr. Florence eventually losing his leadership role. At the time, the factory was not profitable and in danger of shutting down, Mr. Augustine said.The Fighton board wanted Mr. Augustine, a native of Louisiana, to shift the business model to be “more personal profit orientated” and less focused on the community benefit, he said.Residents of F.I.G.H.T. Village, a housing project near where the old Eltrex factory stood.The board agreed to give Mr. Augustine ownership of most of the company and he eventually amassed an 80 percent stake.One of his first moves was changing the company’s name from Fighton, which was seen as too militant in the business community, to Eltrex Industries — a mashup of Electrical, Transformer and Xerox.In addition to manufacturing, the rebranded company started selling office supplies and offering snow removal and mail processing services. Under Mr. Augustine’s watch, Eltrex was meant to be a one-stop shop for companies seeking to fulfill their minority-owned business goals.Mr. Augustine said his approach to hiring was to give many employees first and often “second chances.” Some workers were still incarcerated and came to and from the factory from jail each day.Rochester had other Black-owned businesses but many tended to be restaurants, barbershops and other service-focused enterprises. At its height, Eltrex employed 350 people, mostly Black and Hispanic workers, in “prideful jobs” Mr. Augustine said. It generated $20 million in sales and was profitable.Kodak, which had been initially reluctant to get involved because of its contentious relationship with the F.I.G.H.T. organization, also agreed to do business with Eltrex, Mr. Augustine said.Despite it financial success, Mr. Florence’s son Clifford Florence said Eltrex was straying from its original mission.“They lost sight of the advocacy that they should be doing for the poor and began to look at the money,” he said.Mr. Jackson went to work at Eltrex in the late 1980s. He got the opportunity to supervise employees and to work in sales, where he made valuable connections. He looked enviously at Mr. Augustine’s office, his Mercedes and house in the suburbs. “That’s what inspired me to start my own business,” Mr. Jackson said.In 1993, Mr. Jackson left Eltrex to start Panther Graphics. One of his biggest accounts came from Xerox. In a few years, Mr. Jackson also had a house in the suburbs and a cabin on Lake Ontario with a pontoon boat.Several years ago, Mr. Jackson drove his Porsche to visit a friend in north Rochester and handed him cash to buy them beer. A few minutes later, the police surrounded Mr. Jackson and his sports car. An officer threatened to search him, suggesting that the cash was for a drug deal. The police eventually left, he said, but did not apologize for their mistake.“I am not going to cry about it because what good does that do?” Mr. Jackson said.‘I bit my tongue more than I wish’In her memoir published in June, Ms. Burns describes how the very top executives at Xerox and the longtime board member Vernon Jordan mentored her throughout her career. She praised Mr. Wilson, who is credited with founding Xerox, for taking an “enlightened” approach to diversity.Some community leaders say the Eltrex company and its corporate sponsors veered from their mission by focusing on profit and deliberately shedding its Black activist identity.“Why is it that we have none of these people working here?” Mr. Wilson said, according to Ms. Burns’s book. Mr. Wilson remarked that he could not run a “great company” where Black people and women he saw outside his window were “literally not here.”While Mr. Wilson and other executives set a supportive tone at the top, these efforts by Xerox and the city’s other large companies did not always change attitudes across the broader Rochester community, some local leaders say. Ms. Burns, who is retired from Xerox, declined to comment.Eltrex was regularly recognized with awards for the quality of its products. Yet, Mr. Augustine would hear rumblings from people in the local business community about the need to improve quality control at Eltrex.Eltrex was also paying a higher interest rate than other companies — something Mr. Augustine learned after he was appointed to the board of a local bank.“People ask, ‘Why weren’t you a billion dollar company?,” said Mr. Augustine. “But they don’t understand the environment we were operating in.”“When you hear about the folks burning down Black Wall Street. This stuff is real. There are people who are absolutely threatened by any kinds of success for Black people and they work to keep you from being successful.”Dennis Bassett spent 50 years in corporate America, including at Kodak and Bausch + Lomb. He wishes the companies would have done more to help the city.Dennis Bassett spent 18 years at Kodak and 17 at Bausch + Lomb. He remembers flying with a top Kodak’s executive on the corporate jet, talking about the need for more diversity. Kodak “did a good job putting people of color in executive positions,” Mr. Bassett said.But those hiring initiatives did not always reach down into the company’s middle management, where many key decisions were made, he said.And even as Xerox and Kodak “were printing money,” the city’s poorest Black residents continued to slide further into poverty, he said. Mr. Bassett faults himself for not pushing the companies to do more to help the city.“Back then, I was chasing the brass ring,” said Mr. Bassett, 73. “I was doing the things I needed to be successful for my career and my family.“I look back and say I bit my tongue more than I wish I had bit my tongue,” he added.In a statement, a Xerox spokesperson said the company has spent millions over many decades supporting science programs for Rochester students and organizing mentorships and other volunteer activities to “help close the poverty gap.”“Giving back to communities throughout the world, particularly underserved communities, is ingrained in our company’s values,” the spokesperson said.Kodak did not respond to requests for comment.Mr. Bassett faced some barriers in Rochester that seemed intractable.Mr. Bassett remembers that when he put his five-bedroom house in an upscale Rochester suburb on the market in the 1980s, the realtor recommended that he take down all the family pictures or any artwork that could indicate that a Black family lived there.“The realtor was matter-of-fact,” Mr. Bassett said. “And guess what? We complied. I just wanted to sell my house.”Clifford Florence, a minister at Central Church of Christ in Rochester, has been trying to get Plymouth Avenue, on which his church resides, named after his father, the Rev. Franklin Florence.A new mayorRochester will have a new mayor in January, most likely a City Council member named Malik Evans.Mr. Evans, who defeated Ms. Warren in the Democratic primary this summer, said the city needs to let go of its identity as a company town dominated by Kodak and Xerox, and become a “town of companies.”“We have older African American residents who had graduated from high school and were getting jobs at Bausch + Lomb and Kodak, and then buying property,” said Mr. Evan. “But then that fizzled.”Mr. Evans said the city should focus on creating more small- and medium-size businesses and that corporate commitments cannot fade as the protests against racism recede.“It can’t become just another flavor of the month,’’ he said. “We always look back a few years later and say, ‘Whatever happened to that.’”A statue of Frederick Douglass, who escaped slavery and became a prominent Black abolitionist. He lived in Rochester for 25 years and was buried there.A mural called “I Am Speaking” featuring John Lewis in downtown Rochester. It was painted by local artists and based on a photograph by the Civil Rights era photographer Danny Lyon.Mural painted by Ephraim Gebre, Darius Dennis, Jared Diaz and Dan HarringtonA forgotten legacyToday, there are no grand monuments to Franklin Florence or the company he helped create. Eltrex’s original factory building was damaged in 2010 after a vehicle smashed into the first floor and burst into flames. The vehicle’s occupants were killed in the crash and the building was demolished.“If you walk down the street in Rochester, not many people know who Franklin Florence is, and I think that is a crime,” said Ms. Hill, the historian. “Whether you love or hate him, he is an important figure.”Even today, there is debate about Eltrex’s legacy. Mr. Augustine, the former C.E.O., said he regretted that he was not able to grow the company’s customer base before Xerox and Kodak began to struggle. But he often found that other companies were not sincerely interested in engaging Black-owned businesses, but only looking like they were.Kodak filed for bankruptcy in 2012., while Xerox restructured its business which resulted in a series of large lay offs at its Rochester facilities. Mr. Augustine said some of Eltrex’s assets were sold and its employees transferred to Cannon Industries, a metal fabricator and one of the other large minority-owned businesses in Rochester.“Could we have done more? Yes,” said Mr. Augustine. “But I am proud of what we accomplished.”Mr. Jackson said Eltrex failed to adapt to life beyond Kodak and Xerox and its problems should not be blamed on racism. “I have to reinvent myself every five years or I die,” he said.For his part, Franklin Florence said he had hoped the original concept of Fighton could have been expanded. He urged the protesters who are pushing to end systemic racism today to keep up the pressure.“There were people back then who said we had to get out of the street and into the boardroom,’’ Mr. Florence said. “Our folk went into the boardrooms and we suffered. And that is where we are today.”Malik Evans, a City Council member, said Rochester needs to let go of its identity as a company town dominated by Kodak and Xerox, and become a “town of companies.” More