Inside a west suburban bungalow-style home, Alejandra* sits at a small table in her newly remodeled kitchen and asks me if it’s OK if she smokes during our interview. I say yes. She hops off the stool and makes her way behind the counter, pulling out a rolling tray from an old shoebox.
She apologizes that we weren’t able to meet. The garden apartment she rents in Pilsen, she says, is built like a fortress. Not only does it cancel out her cell service, but she also keeps her windows covered for additional protection of herself and her business. I tell her I caught a whiff of baked goods outside her building, but I couldn’t find her. She laughs, her smile disappearing behind a thick cloud of white smoke.
There’s no visible address on her building, but a mailman, who was en route, reassured me that I was at the right place. I knocked, but there was no answer. I waited, then knocked again and called her name. But I stopped, fearing I’d draw unwanted attention to her.
“This is such an industry, where it’s like, ‘who do you know?’” she says. “It really has to be like that. I’ve had situations where I have to filter people. I had some guy, for example, he messaged me on Instagram. He has no pictures on his Instagram. Never posted, and he’s following like four people. I don’t know who that is.”
For many, the underground proves to be the safest place to prosper. Leila* is a yoga instructor, who has embraced cannabis in her own holistic practice and leads cannabis-friendly classes. Jessica* is a Black artist who hosts canna-paint parties with her best friend, Jackie.*
“When you saw who the people were in the room at the time, it was a majority of just older white males,” Maria says. “There wasn’t any females in the group. There wasn’t any person of color in the group, and that’s something that to me is very disheartening.”
