In 2020, following nationwide protests after George Floyd’s murder, California began an ambitious experiment: could expansive data collection and new oversight agencies reveal whether policing was systemically racist?
Central to this was the Racial and Identity Profiling Act (RIPA), passed in 2015 and expanded after 2020. RIPA required law enforcement to collect demographic data on every stop—including perceived race, ethnicity, gender, age, and, later, sexual orientation, disability, English fluency, and housing status—from all agencies, large and small.
By 2024, over five million stops were reported in a single year. Each was cataloged in detail to provide a statistical basis for understanding racial disparities in policing.
RIPA’s data reveal significant disparities: Black residents, only 6% of the population, made up over 12% of stops. Hispanics were also stopped disproportionately; Asians less so. Black and Native American residents faced force two to four times more often than Whites or Asians, a pattern consistent across regions.
Aside from the statistical stop, detain, arrest statistics, “Use of Force” especially in viral social media driven events conjures in many people’s minds a negative view of policing and so, it’s important to clarify what “use of force” means in most encounters.
While high-profile cases like George Floyd or Rodney King dominate public perception, RIPA confirms that the majority of recorded force is low-level: physical restraint, the use of handcuffs, or guiding a person by the arm. Serious or injurious force—such as the use of tasers, batons, or firearms—is rare relative to the total number of stops. Most police interactions involve little to no force at all, but extreme incidents, though infrequent, have an outsized effect on trust and debate.
As the data has expanded, so have the complexities. RIPA tracks those stopped but not the officers’ racial identitifiers, limiting insight into whether disparities stem from bias, policy, or policing patterns. For example, neighborhoods with more crime and more calls for service—often from residents—see more stops, arrests, and force, affecting Black residents disproportionately. This reflects both community demand and police deployment, not bias alone.
This context is often overlooked. The demand for policing in high-crime areas can drive stop disparities, creating a cycle of need and response that is not solely about prejudice.
A central flaw remains: RIPA doesn’t track the officers’ identifiers, treating police as monoliths and missing crucial distinctions. It shows patterns but cannot explain the root causes of disparities. Notably, RIPA’s findings often mirror those of police oversight agencies: most public complaints are not about explicit racial or gender bias, but about dissatisfaction with how people are policed—such as perceived disrespect, procedural unfairness, or over-policing.
Despite investment in data and oversight, a basic question remains: What does “police reform” actually mean?
The term “police reform” is rarely defined. Are they new policies? Departmental changes? Legal accountability? Or a shift in police culture and values? “Reform” means different things to different groups—from more transparency and professionalism to fundamental changes in policing or shifting resources to community alternatives.
In California, police reform has largely come to mean reducing racial disparities. New laws, data portals, and oversight are judged by whether they close demographic gaps in stops and arrests.
This focus is understandable, given the history of policing in communities of color. Reducing disparities is seen as both an ethical and political imperative.
But defining reform mainly by racial disparities risks oversimplifying complex public safety challenges and ignoring questions like citizen trust, the needs of victims, and police roles in mental health or homelessness.
Which brings up an often-overlooked reality that police are continually called to address deep-rooted social issues—economic hardship, mental illness, substance abuse, homelessness, and educational gaps. When other social systems fail or are underfunded, police become the first responders to crises that are not, at their core, criminal problems. This expectation stretches law enforcement far beyond crime control, leading to a cycle where officers are asked to intervene in situations for which they are not fully equipped or trained. The result can be frustration for both the public and police, increased tension in communities, and missed opportunities for prevention or support.
True reform must consider the broader social context and the roles that police are asked to fill in the absence of robust health, housing, and social services.
Making racial parity the main measure sets an unrealistic standard—expecting stops and arrests to match population shares regardless of crime patterns or community needs. Any deviation is seen as failure, regardless of context.
Reducing unjust disparities is important. But real reform must address the complex realities of public safety and diverse community needs, not just statistical equality.
Ultimately, California’s police reform story is one of grappling with tough questions about race, fairness, safety, and trust—and the need for clear goals, honest data, and engagement with real-world complexity.
Oversight agencies also face challenges—conflict with city administrations, bureaucracy, political interference, and limited authority—leading to blame and frustration rather than trust and reform and then stall after initial enthusiasm, leaving the public doubting whether accountability is real or just symbolic.
California’s data-driven police reform is both a warning and a challenge: facts and transparency matter, but numbers and new agencies alone cannot rebuild trust. True reform demands honest engagement with complexity and real accountability systems.
Steve Smith is a senior fellow in urban studies at the Pacific Research Institute.
