Unpack the appropriation of streetwear culture.

Charlie Lahud-Zahner
Written By Nicole Cardoza

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.

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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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Nicole Cardoza
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