A veteran pot activist named Richard Lee founded Oaksterdam in 2007 to serve this new and lucrative trade and add a veneer of respectability to an industry operating in a legal gray area. (The feds have adopted a mostly hands-off policy, though they occasionally swoop in to make an example-setting arrest, like that of the comedian and stoner icon Tommy Chong, in 2003, for running a head shop.) State law requires no formal training to operate a dispensary, so an Oaksterdam degree is more showpiece than necessity.

My introductory class had consisted of two sessions. The first taught the legal and business aspects of running a dispensary and, because the faculty is active in the cannabusiness, emphasized such practical concerns as not getting robbed (keep your stash in a gun safe) and not getting busted (exude good corporate citizenship—incorporate, pay your taxes, join the Chamber of Commerce; Duncan won over suspicious neighbors by cleaning up all the dog poop on the block). Learn your bud: what’s good, what’s bad. Carry a variety of strains, at different price points. Know their effects. For instance, you’ll need to explain to customers that sativas produce a clear, heady high, while indicas cause a drowsier, full-bodied kind of lift (and munchies). You’ll want to sample everything.

The second session was Grow Lab, taught by a reed-thin young man in a kimono shirt, who introduced himself as Joey the Horticulturalist. State law allows patients and caregivers to grow 12 plants, but some localities set higher limits (Oakland, for instance, allows 72), so if you prefer to do without external suppliers, you can grow your own. Joey had assembled a nylon “Hydro Hut,” with lights, ventilator fans, and a grow table—your basic beginner setup. While explaining how everything fit together and how we would plant, grow, and harvest a crop as a class project, Joey effortlessly fielded a series of increasingly technical questions, earning respectful nods. For raw botanical skills, Martha Stewart can’t hold a candle to Joey.

The vibe at Oaksterdam was friendly, but without quite encouraging intermingling. I struck up a conversation with the guy behind me. Balding and bearded, with a ponytail and a tie-dyed shirt, he looked to be about 60 and introduced himself simply as “Hawkeye.” Hawkeye had ambitions to be a large-scale commercial grower—not strictly legal, although I did not sense concern. Yet he was the only cliché-worthy specimen I encountered at pot school. My 30 or so classmates encompassed every age, gender, and ethnicity; paid careful attention; and asked pointed, intelligent questions. Save for perhaps a slight overrepresentation of piercings and tattoos, nothing indicated an unusual field of study. The atmosphere of purposeful endeavor was like what you might find at a night-school business class of aspiring franchisees.