JOE WILKES (Moderator):
To kick us off—I’d love to hear from each of you on how you understand the origins of Black dandyism as a form of resistance and redefinition, especially in a society where Black visibility was either erased or hyper-surveilled.
TED JOHNSON:
I’m almost ashamed to admit that my first introduction to dandyism came through studying minstrelsy—Zip Coon, Jim Crow, Blackface. So initially, I saw dandyism as something white folks used to mock Black people who aspired to “refined” manners or etiquette. Because of that, I dismissed it. But this conversation—and honestly, Joe, you pulling this together—made me dig deeper.
I realized I actually knew more than I thought. And I’d underestimated how powerful fashion, etiquette, and presentation could be as political and cultural tools. Dandyism, in this new light, becomes a kind of resistance on steroids. It doesn’t just counter stereotypes about Black poverty, hygiene, intellect—it says, we are not only more than what you assumed; we are beyond what you could imagine. That’s the beauty of it.
MAIKA MOULITE:
Yes, I’m thrilled to be talking about this. From a media and cultural lens, fashion has always played a dual role: resistance and assimilation. And the Black Dandy really lives at that intersection. To Ted’s point, dandyism was once tied to the image of Black people as luxury possessions—lavishly dressed to signal the wealth of their enslavers. You see it in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century paintings.
But what I love about us as Black people is how we subvert what was meant to oppress us. That’s where dandyism gets really interesting—it’s both resistance and residue. And I think the richness of our conversation deepens when we sit with that complexity. These things aren’t binary. Black style holds both the history of where we were stolen from and the cultural influences of where we landed.
JAZMYNE OWENS:
I’m also so excited to be having this conversation. Thank you, Joe. My first exposure to the term “Black Dandy” was as a slur—someone being mocked as a “dandy man.” Like Ted, I initially heard it as something negative, and later encountered it again through the lens of minstrelsy. But now, as an adult, I’m fascinated by fashion as political statement and cultural resistance.
It feels especially urgent right now, in a moment where our country seems to be grappling with whether to tell or erase history. So this theme for the Met Gala hits. It feels like a timely and necessary conversation—and I’m excited to dive in deeper.
JOE WILKES:
It’s striking that for all of you, the idea of dandyism wasn’t introduced as something positive. And I think that says something. Dandyism was imposed on us during slavery, but after emancipation, it became something more than self-expression—it was a means of control. For the first time, Black people could choose what they wore, and those choices carried meaning. A tailored suit wasn’t just sharp—it was defiance. It said, I have dignity. I have taste. I deserve to be seen.
Even now, choosing dandyism is a political act—especially if you’re Black, queer, or femme-presenting in a society that keeps trying to shrink you. As a Black queer man, I think often about how being too stylish can still be dangerous. During the HIV/AIDS panic in the ’80s, menswear grew more muted, “palatable.” Being flamboyant meant being risky. Being read as too stylish meant being read as too gay. And yet—here we are again. Color’s back. Drama’s back. The boys are back in capes and jumpsuits.
Ted, in your role with New America’s Us@250 initiative, which is all about reflecting on our nation’s progress and reckoning with historical wrongs, how do you see style functioning as a political act today? And how does the tension between respectability and rebellion—especially in Black dandyism—mirror larger questions about identity and belonging?
TED JOHNSON:
That’s a big question—and one I’m still working through. But to me, it’s twofold, and Maika touched on part of it. Much of Black American culture is built on making something beautiful from scraps. I’m from North Carolina. Soul food? That’s chitlins [a dish made with pig’s intestines], neck bones—what didn’t make it into the big house. Now, you can find pork belly with watermelon glaze on menus in fancy DC restaurants.
That’s dandyism too. Taking what society discards and turning it into something society can’t imagine without us. And that’s political. America’s narrative positions us as subservient, unoriginal, unworthy. But creation—beauty, innovation, originality—is inherently human. So when we create, we insist on our full humanity. That’s resistance.
And pop culture reflects that. I remember when Outkast hit, and later Puffy with Fonzworth Bentley. Bentley didn’t rap. He just showed up—in videos full of bravado—holding an umbrella, dressed to the nines. And he was the smoothest guy there. That was a form of rebellion. It was saying: We are not all what you think. The uniform of Blackness is not saggy pants and blinged out smiles. Dandyism becomes a way to both embrace society’s best and transform what it tries to throw away. It says: We belong. And we define the terms.
JOE WILKES:
Absolutely. And Jazmyne, I’d love to bring you in here. When we talk about style as political, I think about respectability politics versus radical self-expression—not just outside the classroom, but inside it too. Where do you see that line for Black educators and youth today? How are they expected to show up?
JAZMYNE OWENS:
Two things come to mind. First, Ted, it’s funny you mentioned Fonzworth Bentley—he was around Spelman and Morehouse a lot. [Spelman College and Morehouse College are historically Black universities in Atlanta, Georgia.] Bentley’s mom worked at Spelman, so he was always on campus. And that takes me back to Spelman’s white dress tradition. On Founder’s Day, Class Day, graduation—you wear a white dress, flesh-toned tights, closed-toe black shoes. It’s a nod to a time when that was the one nice outfit—a symbol of dignity and occasion.
It’s powerful, a sea of Black women in white. But I struggled with it, especially around respectability. At the time, I thought: Why are we dressing to impress a society that doesn’t value us? Looking back, I appreciate the tradition. It taught me how dress can be a statement—though I didn’t fully understand it then. Now, I see that tension: honoring history, but also pushing against imposed ideas of what’s “acceptable.”
I also think about school uniforms. I wore them growing up, at PS 235, Lenox Academy in Brooklyn. But even with a uniform, kids always find a way to express themselves. It’s the shoes, the sweater, the hair, the accessories. There’s always that extra layer that says, this is who I am. That’s where self-expression lives—within the uniformity.
JOE WILKES:
Yes! Same here—I grew up in a school system with uniforms, too. I used to think about Raven-Symoné’s character in Zenon, who accessorized her uniform wildly. I wanted to be that person. Even as a kid, I understood that fashion was more than fabric—it was narrative.
So Maika, building on that, I’d love to hear your take. How do these aesthetics—especially Black queer or gender-fluid expressions—challenge today’s norms around rebellion and respectability?
MAIKA MOULITE:
A lot of what I study is pop culture and who it’s “for.” And often, Black and queer expressions get co-opted by the mainstream without acknowledgment. So many Black, queer aesthetic choices are acts of resistance—just quieter ones.
We tend to think of resistance as protest, fists in the air. But fashion is political too. Scholar José Esteban Muñoz talks about this in his book Disidentifications. He writes about how queer people of color remix dominant culture—how wearing a suit with long acrylic nails, for instance, pushes back on narrow definitions of masculinity and power. That remixing is a political act.
The Black Dandy was originally a symbol of subjugation—a person dressed well to reflect the wealth of their enslaver. But we’ve consistently reclaimed that. Take Louisiana, for example. At one point, Black women stopped covering their hair. It was seen as too alluring, so laws forced them to wrap it. But then—white women like [French emperor] Napoleon’s wife adopted it, and suddenly it was haute couture.
It’s the same pattern today. Black queer folks constantly push culture forward, and once the mainstream adopts it, it’s reframed as something new—something universal. But the credit disappears. Dandyism, seen through a queer lens, is just one more example of turning scraps into a whole meal.
JOE WILKES:
Our conversation has touched on themes of being “uppity,” and that hit something for me. I’ve been called “ghetto fabulous” more times than I can count. It’s like, yes, you’re fabulous—but don’t forget, you’re still Black. There’s always that subtle correction embedded in the compliment.
When I think about the people I admire style-wise—Pharrell, Janelle Monáe, Colman Domingo, A$AP Rocky—I see modern versions of the Black Dandy. And of course, the late, great André Leon Talley, may he rest fabulously. This year’s Met Gala feels like a love letter to him, to the way he took up space and made fashion his own. He helped bring Black dandyism into the mainstream.
But I wonder: When Black style becomes the style—when the Met Gala, Vogue, or GQ embrace it—are they honoring it or flattening it? Is it representation…or repackaging? Maika, how do you interpret Black dandyism in these media narratives? Is it style, story, statement, or all three?
MAIKA MOULITE:
As a PhD student at Howard, we talk a lot about authenticity. In one class, we explored how hip hop—a distinctly Black American form—has spread globally, influencing Chicano, Japanese, and other cultural expressions. Originally a form of subversion, hip hop was a way for marginalized folks to tell their stories.
But then comes the question: What counts as authentic? And that’s where things get tricky. The moment we start policing authenticity, we risk creating a narrow idea of what Blackness is “supposed” to be. If you like hip hop and classical music, are you no longer “authentically Black”? That mindset becomes its own form of constraint.
So when I see Black dandyism on the Met Gala carpet, or in Vogue, I think less about whether it’s authentic and more about how it’s being framed. Yes, those institutions profit from these aesthetics—this is capitalism, after all. But the presence itself isn’t the problem. The real issue is that the culture often only gets celebrated once it’s been filtered through whiteness or elite gatekeeping.
We shouldn’t wait for institutions to validate the things we already know are beautiful. Appreciation should come from inside the house. That said, I do appreciate that this year’s Met Gala brought in Monica L. Miller [as guest curator]—that’s a step toward honoring the story, not just borrowing the style.
JOE WILKES:
Ted, Jazmyne: What do you think when you see Black dandyism and Black culture showing up in pop culture spaces? Is it gaining power, or getting diluted?
JAZMYNE OWENS:
Fashion is art, and art is open to interpretation. What happens on the red carpet filters all the way down to what kids are wearing at the mall, or even on their way to school. I think about the early 2000s—the velour tracksuits, bell-bottom jeans, Von Dutch hats. All of that is back now as part of the Y2K aesthetic. That’s wild to me.
Fashion reflects the moment—what matters, what we value, what we’re responding to economically and culturally. So when we see dandyism in celebrity spaces, it does matter. It tells us what’s being celebrated, and how. But it’s complicated. Pop culture is always shifting, and the meaning of style shifts with it. I have complicated feelings, too—especially about how these moments are framed and who gets to control the narrative.
TED JOHNSON:
Immediately my mind goes to imitation is the greatest form of flattery. And that is both true and not true, and I actually don’t know how I feel about that. Dandyism is rooted in European dress codes—but with a twist. Maybe “pimped out” isn’t the right phrase…
MAIKA MOULITE:
Let’s call it “European with a little seasoning on it.”
TED JOHNSON:
Exactly. It’s not traditional African attire we’re remixing—it’s European norms. But the point isn’t to mimic; it’s to transform. By taking the uniform of power and making it our own, we’re making a political statement.
There’s something powerful about conforming just enough to fit in, but then pushing the boundaries—standing out because you’ve conformed in your own way. That’s the artistry of dandyism. It plays in that gray area: not full rebellion, not full assimilation. That’s what gives it its strength.
Jazmyne mentioned earlier that fashion is up for interpretation. I agree. People may say, “You’re just imitating white style.” But if that’s all they see, they’ve missed the point.
And thinking about hip hop again—Flavor Flav comes to mind. He was a kind of dandy too, in an extreme, exaggerated way. The big clock, the gold, the hats. He didn’t just follow trends—he made them bigger. For Gen X, he was a form of flamboyant political statement wrapped in entertainment. Not just fashion, but pop-culture dandyism in its own right.
MAIKA MOULITE:
That reminds me of something I often say in class: the diaspora is a new creation. Across the U.S., Haiti, Brazil—we’re the result of forced migration, but we’ve built something singular.
So when we talk about imitation, it’s not about copying. It’s about sampling. Just like in hip hop—you hear the roots, but the result is something entirely new. The diaspora is full of these threads that connect us, even across distance and difference. We each bring our own flavor, but the ingredients echo one another.
So yes, dandyism might carry the trace of European formality—but what we’ve done with it? That’s ours. That’s not imitation. That’s transformation.
JOE WILKES:
The idea of sampling resonates deeply—not just in music, but in fashion too. For me, hip hop taught me about older songs I hadn’t known before. Sampling connects the past to the present, and fashion does something similar. It carries history in its seams. Among Black communities especially, fashion isn’t just style—it’s knowledge. A kind of cultural curriculum.
Think about everything from church hats to protest tees, school uniforms to TikTok fits—there’s always a message, a memory, being passed along. Fashion teaches. And Jazmyne, I thought of your article on the Cowboy Carter album for The Thread. In it, you framed Beyoncé’s album and its fashion as acts of cultural rebellion, preservation, and education. That album is full of musical sampling too. So I’m curious: Do you see Black fashion as a serious educational tool—something with a place in classrooms, community spaces, even policy? And is the Met Gala actually doing that kind of work with this year’s exhibit?
JAZMYNE OWENS:
Yes, absolutely. That’s exactly what the Met Gala is doing—it’s creating an entry point for education. It introduces people to something they may not have known, and then curiosity takes over. You start Googling, learning, diving deeper. It sparks self-education.
Fashion is always tied to its social and economic context. Think about the shift from the Roaring Twenties into the Harlem Renaissance and then the Great Depression—style changed because it had to. People suddenly had access to different textiles and had to adjust to new economic realities.
That’s still true today. Fast fashion brands like Fashion Nova and Shein are booming because people want to look good but can’t afford high-end garments. That demand is a response to real economic conditions. Sure, those companies have serious issues—stealing designs, for one—but they also speak to the realities of how we live and spend. And that’s what makes fashion historical. It becomes a timeline of adaptation and survival.
When trends cycle back—styles from the ’80s, ’90s, 2000s—they don’t just look cool. They mean something. They’re reminders of where we’ve been. Fashion becomes a kind of archive. And by treating it that way, the Met Gala is making a bold move. It’s saying, this matters.
TED JOHNSON:
That reminds me of something my mom said back in the late ’80s, early ’90s. Everyone was wearing overalls with one strap hanging down, and she said, “Do you know how hard your grandfather worked not to have to wear those?” That hit me. We were paying good money for something that, for his generation, symbolized backbreaking labor.
During the Great Migration, Black folks brought their workwear with them as they moved from the South to urban centers. Overalls, once farm clothes, became part of a new kind of urban uniform in the ’80s. So when I see those cycles—farmwear-turned-fashion, utilitarian clothing becoming a cultural statement—it makes me think about how deeply fashion connects us across generations.
And that connection? That’s real. You can track Black history through waves of fashion. It’s not just style—it’s story. And I love the point that Jazmyne made there.
JOE WILKES:
Exactly. You mentioning that makes me think of ripped jeans. My mom always asked, “Why are people buying clothes that look torn up?” For her, that was a sign of struggle—of not having nice things. And now it’s a trend. The cycle keeps spinning, doesn’t it?
TED JOHNSON:
Oh yeah. I grew up with iron-on patches. If you tore your jeans, you didn’t get a new pair—you got a patch. You ironed it on, maybe stitched it a bit, and kept it moving.
JOE WILKES:
And now, people are buying pre-patched jeans at full price! It’s so interesting—how that full-circle moment happens. And speaking of generational memory, Maika, as a young adult author who writes with that demographic in mind, how do you see fashion helping young people navigate identity? Is it a tool for memory, or for imagining the future?
MAIKA MOULITE:
Oh, I love this question. In one of my courses, we studied how memory—especially cultural memory—is preserved. It’s not just about individuals; it’s also about what the state chooses to keep or erase. Right now, we’re seeing elements of Black history being removed from school curricula. That changes cultural memory. And when you erase memory, you don’t just risk repeating history—you lose a part of your soul.
I recently watched the movie Sinners, and without giving anything away, one of its themes is assimilation—how it can lead to forgetting your own cultural practices. And when that forgetting happens, it’s often followed by an impulse to take cultural moments from others to fill that void.
This conversation about patched clothing reminded me of that. A patch used to signify wear and struggle. Now, it’s avant-garde. But young people wearing patched jeans or overalls might not know the full backstory—because sometimes, past generations chose not to talk about the pain. And I get it—some of that silence is about healing. But if we don’t pass those stories down, the meaning gets lost.
As a writer, I play with timelines a lot. And I think one of the most powerful things we can do is connect the dots. Fashion lets us do that. You might wear something now just because it feels right, without realizing your grandmother wore it out of necessity. That continuity matters. And the power is in the choice. You’re not being forced to wear it—you choose it. That’s agency.
Take Janelle Monáe, for example. When they first came onto the scene wearing tailored black and white suits, they said it was to honor their family members who worked in service—maids and butlers. It was a visual reminder: I know where I’m going, but I remember where I come from. That’s the Sankofa principle—reaching back to move forward.
This conversation around Black dandyism, and Black fashion more broadly, shows us who we are: not just our pain, but our power. We take what’s been handed to us—good or bad—and we make something beautiful. That’s our legacy.
JOE WILKES:
I think what’s clear from this whole conversation is that, for Black communities, our style—our dandyism, our fashion—has never been just about aesthetics. Sometimes it is about looking good, but even then, it’s also about more than that. It’s about being seen, about reclaiming space, shaping memory, and saying we were here—and we looked good doing it.
I’ve loved this entire discussion. We’ve gone from historical elegance to modern rebellion, from red carpets to everyday streetwear, and from fashion as expression to fashion as education. And before we wrap up, I’d love to open the floor: Any final thoughts? Reflections on Black style as political, pedagogical, and ultimately, our legacy?
MAIKA MOULITE:
I just want to say, thank you for this. This was so wonderful! These kinds of conversations about Black identity, about memory, and the stories we carry in our clothes—they matter. And it’s meaningful that you created space for that. So thank you.
TED JOHNSON:
Yeah, plus one to all of that. I’ll be honest, I thought I’d only have four or five things to say—and if you saw my closet, you might have retracted the invite! But this was so good. It’s not just about clothes—it’s about culture, history, and strategy. I really appreciated this.
JAZMYNE OWENS:
Same here. I’ve learned so much from each of you just in the course of this one conversation. It’s rare to be in a space where you can explore fashion this deeply, and still feel joy and pride in the process. Thank you, Joe, for bringing us together—and thank you all.
JOE WILKES:
Well, thank you all—for saying yes to being part of this, and then showing up so fully with your insights, stories, and brilliance. I’ve always loved fashion, but this was a reminder of how multidimensional it is—how it’s style and strategy, how it’s about visibility, identity, remembrance, and transformation.
We’ve honored history today. We’ve challenged norms. And we’ve celebrated the richness of Black expression in all its layered glory. So again, thank you. I hope this conversation sparks many more.
Follow The Thread! Subscribe to The Thread monthly newsletter to get the latest in policy, equity, and culture in your inbox.
