Nicole Cardoza Nicole Cardoza Nicole Cardoza Nicole Cardoza

Understand the TikTok strike.

Over the past month, many Black social media creators organized a strike to stop creating and posting dance choreography on the social media app TikTok. The social media app is built around reposting and remixing content from other creators, and a popular feature is learning and recording dances to trending songs. When Black female rapper Megan Thee Stallion released her new song, “Thot Shit,” on June 11, many Black creators agreed not to create choreography.

Good morning and happy Wednesday! Don't overlook the Black creator TikTok strike – it may read as petty social media drama on the surface, but this organized response is a larger declaration for respect and representation in the growing creator economy. Learn more in today's newsletter! And follow us on TikTok if you haven't already.

Thank you for your support! This daily, free, independent newsletter is made possible by your support. Consider making a donation to support our work. You can start a monthly subscription on Patreon or our website, or give one-time using our website, PayPal, or Venmo (@nicoleacardoza).

– Nicole

TAKE ACTION

  • Learn more about the Black TikToker Strike by following the hashtag #BlackTikTokStrike.

  • Support marginalized creators on social media: use more engagement tools on posts you see from creators you enjoy. Like, comment, share, and save the images and videos that they post.

  • ​Understand how strikes work and the best way to support them.

  • Consider: What do you know about the origins of your favorite digital trends? I.e your favorite gif, TikTok dance, or meme?

GET EDUCATED

By Nicole Cardoza (she/her)

Over the past month, many Black social media creators organized a strike to stop creating and posting dance choreography on the social media app TikTok. The social media app is built around reposting and remixing content from other creators, and a popular feature is learning and recording dances to trending songs. When Black female rapper Megan Thee Stallion released her new song, “Thot Shit,” on June 11, many Black creators agreed not to create choreography. Ironically, the music video for the song in question centers women of color as essential workers and highlights the type of hostility that Black creators experience online.

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Get a 1-min breakdown of the issue on the ARD TikTok >​

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This is because of a growing conversation around compensation and equity for Black people on TikTok. Black creators often are behind the TikTok trends that go viral, but rarely gain recognition; white TikTok users are oftentimes miscredited as creators and gain sponsorships and media recognition (Teen Vogue). Black creators have also been vocal algorithmic censorship of content related to Black Lives Matter last summer, which further increased racial disparities of who’s celebrated on the platform (Time).

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But this isn’t a TikTok-specific issue. Much of popular culture today leans heavily on language, dance, and other cultural cues taken directly from the Black community – particularly the Black LGBTQ+ community. From dances to hairstyles, phrases, and music, dominant culture often adopts Black culture and makes it mainstream. And white people, who benefit from more power and privilege in our society, are more likely to gain recognition for echoing these cultural acts – even if they had no hand in creating them. Learn more in a previous newsletter.

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Moreover, the Black community still has to fight for their cultural markers to be accepted within culture at the same time as those with power and privilege enjoy them. Consider recent initiatives to allow natural hairstyles in schools (Chalkbeat), or the fight to normalize AAVE as a valid vernacular (Black Youth Project). With this context, it’s clear how a strike on short dance choreography reflects a broader stance on the cultural appropriation of Black culture throughout history.

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It’s also important to recognize the role of withholding labor in the history of Black movements. Black people have gone on strike by withholding labor to extract fair compensation since before the Civil War. Consider the Great Railroad Strike of 1877, where over 100,000 railroad workers halted trains and stopped working for over two months in pursuit of better wages and conditions. There’s also the Memphis Sanitation Strike of 1968, where 1,300 Black workers walked off the job, demanding that the city recognize their union, increase wages, and end inhumane conditions. As garbage stacked up across the city streets, the workers never relented, attracting the support of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., who visited to show support and delivered his famous “Mountaintop” speech. Learn more in a previous newsletter. And just last year, when players from major league sports stopped playing for 48 hours after the shooting of Jacob Bake, the world took note – and fundamentally shifted how sports leagues respond to social issues (Vox). Their efforts – alongside other labor strikes led by other people of color – didn’t just raise awareness of critical issues, but carved a path for more equitable practices in labor unions altogether (Teen Vogue).

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You can argue that TikTok influencers aren’t exactly the same type of wage workers who took part in past strikes. But let’s not overlook the influence of the “creator economy” and those that lead it. As digital communities flourish, nearly 50M people around the world consider themselves creators and receive some type of compensation from their work (Forbes). Creators offer a ton of value by creating content and community that might be inaccessible otherwise, particularly those from marginalized communities that offer an alternative to what’s mainstream. But being a creator is a difficult job with little infrastructure or safety (Teen Vogue). It’s powerful to see creators withholding their labor without that type of support behind them, and advocate for more equitable practices for this burgeoning labor market.

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Perhaps this strike will encourage everyone that enjoys content online to reflect and consider: how do we value the creators of the content we consume? What labor may we take for granted – both online and off? And how can the strikes of the past transform our future?

Key Takeaways

Black creators on TikTok are on strike to take a stance against cultural appropriation and lack of credit for the choreography they introduce to the platform

  • Strikes throughout history have been a powerful way to shape perceptions about labor and value

  • Popular culture is rooted in Black cultural markers, but rarely celebrates or protects those that create it

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Charlie Lahud-Zahner Nicole Cardoza Charlie Lahud-Zahner Nicole Cardoza

Unpack the appropriation of streetwear culture.

As much as we’d all love to think our sense of style is unique and that you were into hightops before they were cool, fashion and what’s fashionable doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Maybe you really are a trailblazing fashionista, but the reality is that what’s in and what’s hot is often part of a continual trend of commodifying Black culture (Medium). “Streetwear” apparel and sneakers have undergone a mass appropriation from the counterculture of hip-hop fashion to the default style of dress for young people trying to stay fresh.

Happy Tuesday! Wishing you an easeful morning. Today, Charlie takes over the newsletter to unpack how streetwear culture is often appropriated without appreciation, and unpacks how street cred can be simultaneously bought and discriminated against – depending on who wears the clothes.

Also, we've officially launched our virtual community! This space is designed for you to connect with others, share resources, hold conversations around our newsletters, and sign up for events. All proceeds support our work. Flexible payment options are available. Patreon subscribers: check Patreon for an access link using your existing subscription.

I really hope to see you there! If you're more of an email reader, no worries. Nothing is changing here. As always, you can support our work by making a one-time gift on our website or PayPal, or subscribe for $7/month on Patreon. You can also Venmo (@nicoleacardoza).


Nicole

TAKE ACTION

  • Watch Fresh Dressed, a 2015 documentary tracing the history of hip-hop fashion from its birth in New York City to global commodification. Available on Amazon Prime, YouTube, Google Play, and other streaming services.

  • Buy clothing and shoes that are Black-owned and/or rooted in Black communities. Start local, or use the guide at the bottom of the article for shoes and sneakers. 

GET EDUCATED

By Charlie Lahud-Zahner (he/him)

As much as we’d all love to think our sense of style is unique and that you were into hightops before they were cool, fashion and what’s fashionable doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Maybe you really are a trailblazing fashionista, but the reality is that what’s in and what’s hot is often part of a continual trend of commodifying Black culture (Medium). “Streetwear” apparel and sneakers have undergone a mass appropriation from the counterculture of hip-hop fashion to the default style of dress for young people trying to stay fresh.

Ironically, most of the popular slang that comes to mind for looking good—fly, fresh to death, dipped, clean, on point, on fleek—-were appropriated from Black culture (Vox). For a more concrete look at the cultural appropriation of hip-hop fashion, look at the history of the white Nike Air Force 1, a sneaker once deeply integrated into basketball and hip-hop culture are now creased and championed by Kendall Jenner and social media influencers alike (TeenVogue).

These days Billie Eilish might be seen as the first person to make XXL cool, but that’s not even close to true: Oversized sweatshirts, oversized pants, loud monochromatic outfits predate her by 40 years. And while celebrities like Eilish and Eminem can wear baggy clothing without question, others who wear the same outfits risk being stereotyped as “unprofessional” or “dangerous.” In 2005, as mainstream hip-hop fashion began to enter the league, the NBA implemented a dress code indirectly targeting Black athletes by banning baggy clothes, jewelry, and durags. Coach Phil Jackson supported the rule and described the style associated with hip-hop as “prison garb and thuggery” (Sportscasting). 

Origin stories are nebulous at best, but most hip-hop historians agree that the birth of hip-hop can be traced to DJ Kool Herc rapping over a beat in the 1973 Bronx (PBS). As a genre emerging from funk, soul, and R&B, hip-hop was music made by and for Black people. For instance, the content of Gil Scott Heron’s 1971 song “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised,” a precursor to hip-hop, evolved from the 60s Black Power movement and defined revolution not just as a movement refusing to be commodified, but as a specifically non-white phenomenon. Cut to the present, hip-hop is a growing global industry (Forbes) and Machine Gun Kelly exists.

And the mentalities of hip-hop fashion and hip-hop were necessarily intertwined: Both were Black cultural movements expressing themselves in spaces where they were excluded (Fresh Dressed).

“In so many ways, hip-hop is a reflection of society and environment, wherein folks who are denizens of the culture, do not see themselves, do not see themselves in mainstream culture,” said Sacha Jenkins, director of Fresh Dressed. “So they say, ‘How can we see ourselves in our own terms while borrowing the things we appreciate — even if these brands don’t appreciate us?’” (LA Times).

This was especially true for sneakers. Notably, the Nike Air Force One, the most recognizable silhouette in sneaker culture, shifted from being named after New York City’s Harlem (the Uptowns) to being associated with pastel Hydro Flasks and Polaroid cameras.

First developed in 1982, the AF1 used to look like a heavy hi-top hiking shoe and was the first basketball shoe with new “Nike Air” technology (Complex). The shoe became popular in New York City and the tri-state among ballplayers and, eventually, anyone in the know (Nike). Basketball and hip-hop have always had a close relationship--so much so it’s common to see NBA players try their hands at rap at some point in their career (Complex).

Eventually, the shoe became an integral part of hip-hop fashion and hip-hop. References to the white-on-white shoe can be heard in New York’s own by Jay-Z in “Can I Live II”, and most famously by St. Louis rapper Nelly in “Air Force Ones.”

That’s where I first heard about the shoes: Nelly, an artist and producer who rose to fame in the early 2000s whom I knew as the guy with the bandaid on his face that sang “Heart of a Champion”, was a big fan of the chunky shoes at Foot Locker. Fast forward to 2018 and I bought my first pair, all grey winterized SF AF1s with buckles and straps. And, much to my delight, I received many undeserved compliments.

Why were they cool though? Not because I wore them, but because I, along with other consumers, benefited from dipping our feet into the cultural cache of hip-hop fashion. At first, I justified the purchase because I’m not white, yet the fact remained I got to be cool because I appropriated Black culture and walked out of the Buffalo Exchange.

Sneaker culture’s gentrification has changed the hobby to a mainstream industry of online sneaker drops, and reselling for profit (Complex). Sites like StockX treat shoes like investments with the potential to appreciate in value. According to the New York Times, the sneaker/streetwear resell business is currently around $2 billion dollars and expected to reach $6 billion by 2025. However, none of the popular resale sites, who claim a percentage of each sale, such as StockX, GOAT, Stadium Goods, etc., are Black-owned and the footwear industry as a whole is predominately white: At Nike, which has a brand value of nearly $35 billion (Statista), only 16% of the upper-level managers are non-white (Portland Business Journal).

White-owned companies like Nike, Adidas, and Puma continue to flourish as vendors of Black culture, but there are alternatives. Despite not having the same staying power, Black-owned sneaker companies still exist and are available anywhere thanks to the internet. Buying from a Black-owned sneaker/shoe company is worth it because A.) you’re supporting a Black-owned business, and B.) you’ll actually get to wear something that is unique.

My favorites include Etsy-based ML Neiks Design Studio which specializes in women’s athleisure, and Harlem-based Ninety-Nine Products who make a running shoe which I plan on buying (for myself) this holiday season. For a longer list of Black-owned sneakers click here or here for women’s style shoes. 

KEY TAKEAWAYS

  • Hip-hop and hip-hop fashion are a product of Black culture, that, like many aspects of Black culture have been appropriated for mainstream consumption.

  • The white Nike Air Force 1 is an example of this appropriation. Once nicknamed after New York City’s Harlem neighborhood, this shoe has become a mainstream staple and a symbol of sneaker culture’s gentrification.

  • Rather than contributing to white owned brands profiting from Black culture, buy sneakers/shoes from Black owned businesses. 

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PLEDGE YOUR SUPPORT

Thank you for all your financial contributions! If you haven't already, consider making a monthly donation to this work. These funds will help me operationalize this work for greatest impact.

Subscribe on Patreon | Give one-time on PayPal | Venmo @nicoleacardoza

Read More