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How do you know you belong? For my eight-year-old self, it was simple: Did I have friends who sat with me at lunch? Was there a Power Ranger who looked like me? Did I get to eat at McDonald’s on my birthday? Gratefully, thankfully, those juvenile hallmarks of belonging were all I needed when I was growing up; my parents shielded me from feeling like I didn’t belong, and from the worst consequences of not belonging. Because of this, I never really understood how impossible it was for my parents to find work, despite their advanced degrees. I never understood what it took for them to decipher mountains of paperwork in a language they didn’t speak well, all in order to access benefits to keep my sister and me fed and clothed. I never felt endangered, because my parents absorbed it all, at least until I was in my early teens. 

Obviously, I’m no longer that same shielded child, but if I try to shut enough things out today, I can still inhabit that narrow field of vision; I can believe that my personal comfort and consumption are a meaningful indicator about whether Asian-Americans belong in this country. On Monday, I woke up to good news: Asian-Americans had finally broke through the Oscars’ bamboo ceiling, with Minari’s Steven Yeun and Youn Yuh-jung, producer Christina Oh, and director Lee Isaac Chung — as well as Nomadland’s director, Chloé Zhao — clinching nominations. This came after a major spike in Asian-American storytelling across film, TV, streaming networks, and music. Where we once only had The Joy Luck Club and Claudia from The Babysitter’s Club, we now have Crazy Rich Asians, Always Be My Maybe, The Farewell, Lana Condor, Alice Wu, multiple reality shows about millionaires of Asian descent, and also three presidential candidates (though they do not create movies, I’d argue they had more screen time than most actors last year). To take it a step further — Asian-American products are now lining our shelves, Asian-American faces stare back at us from advertisements, and Asian-American executives have been promoted into boardrooms. If I were only basing Asian-Americans’ progress off the accomplishments Asian-American elites have had with representation, I would have been caught off-guard by the news yesterday that six Asian women were murdered by a vengeful white man.

On Monday, the power of celebrity representation was supposed to mean that all Asian-Americans could feel like they belonged. I wonder how much that mattered to the Asian women who were killed.

I don’t want to suggest that representation is not important in affirming Asian lives. There’s value in feeling seen and heard. When we see our stories told by mainstream venues, it quells our anxieties. When I talk to Asians just a bit older than me, their feelings tend to be even stronger: They vividly remember when Asian representation in media wasn’t just absent, it was overtly racist. They understand the importance of being seen as we really are, instead of as stereotypes, or not at all. But our representation in Hollywood, in corporate America, and even among the political elite, isn’t evidence that our country’s systems and institutions are any less racist in the ways in which they dole out wealth, protection, and opportunities. I fear that placing so much importance in cultural trophies like representation wins is misleading — a distraction. 

When representation as an end-goal so dominates our conversations and energies, it diverts us from being able to identify and address the Goliath problems that lead people to commit crimes, take lives and livelihoods, and threaten public safety. Recently, celebrity-led social-media activism has bubbled up around crimes against Asians, and has reinforced the idea that being anti-racist amounts to showing hashtag solidarity or being represented on magazine covers. As I see it, racism has very little to do with corporate brands not posting on Instagram about Asian hate, and everything to do with the outrageous economic injustice that plague minority communities; the unbelievable lack of stable employment, especially during this pandemic year; the inhumane cost of acquiring non-employer-provided healthcare; and the easy access to weapons that turn racist thoughts into violent, hate-fueled actions.

When I am at my most cynical, I think that racism is inevitable. Small-minded and insecure people will always harbor racist ideas, no matter which movies win Oscars or who is in the White House. I sometimes dream of an America where racist institutions of violent oppression are instead turned upside down: Instead of empowering racists, our systems will instead disarm and disempower violent and discriminatory inclinations. What would it look like if racists only had words to injure people? What would it look like if our schools, our hiring practices, our law enforcement, our legal systems, our immigration policies, our hospitals, our social welfare programs were just and fair? Would it even matter, then, if someone tweeted that their eyes looked “chinky” or joked about happy endings? What would our world look like if it were impossible to put any actions behind racist thought? Where it would be impossible to even conceive of that?

I have an idea of what that world looks like. It looks something like mine. The greatest gift my parents gave to me, at the expense of their own safety and comfort, were the tools to create a personal safety net. I am not scared when someone shouts konichiwa at me on the street, or when I receive racist DMs and emails, or when I see tweets that make cheap jabs at Asian-Americans’ expense — because I have the resources, the energy, and acquired skills to neutralize those words from becoming actions that affect me. My job is one that I was able to get because, culturally, I inhabit a white-adjacent space; the money I make doing it means that I am largely shielded from the violence, threats, and life-altering discrimination that plague many Asian communities. I mention this not because I’m proud of having these tools —I’m not; how can you be proud of gifts? — but rather because I find it shameful that the state has left it up to individuals to construct these nets ourselves, making it a certainty that more people than not will slip right through.

But also, by finding success and safety within racist systems, there is a tacit affirmation that these systems — that racism — is valid. It proves that racists are right, and it makes it easy to commit acts of racism that have real impacts on already vulnerable people’s lives. To me, it seems futile to fight this iron scaffold of racism by asking individuals not to hate us. Stop Asian Hate highlights a crucial wrong. But as a solution, I believe that it’s as misguided as trying to prevent bullying by telling a tormentor that they’ve hurt their victims’ feelings — that was always their intention, after all. But while being told to “Go back to China” or “Your people did this” is upsetting and dehumanizing, it would become less terrifying, less of a threat, if it were not also a very real possibility that someone saying these words was not also carrying a gun.

I’m not the only one to see racism this way. According to professor Ibram X. Kendi, the author of the widely read How To Be An Anti-Racist, racist thought flourishes and mutates into violence under discriminatory policies — a theory he proves over and over again in his previous book, Stamped From The Beginning. The key to eliminating racism, according to Kendi, is dismantling unjust policies that protect the economic interests of a small minority. It is not putting oppressed people in positions of power in these same unjust institutions.

I worry that the current conversation about representation distracts us from addressing the root cause of suffering, and that representation is considered by too many as an adequate “solution.” In so much of the recent and necessary discourse around the violence targeting Asians, I see people like myself — protected, privileged, and semi-public figures — who have used this as an opportunity to reframe the conversations around their experiences. I’ve seen Asian celebrities sitting in magnificent homes cite the statistic that there are more Asians living in poverty in NYC than any other minority group, as if their lives and that of poor New Yorkers share anything but a census designation. This statistic is horrifying and tragic, and should not be used to justify how badly people have felt about being called a rude name or getting a tacky email from a publicist. But, the inevitable conclusion of seeing Asians as a monolith is that privileged Asians will potentially benefit from other people’s suffering; when guilt-trips finally catch up with people in power, they will dole out anti-racist favors to those who need it least, to already privileged Asians, who are mostly Chinese, Korean, Japanese, or of mixed race. Asians like myself are the ones who already benefit most from white supremacy; we also get to benefit from being seen as victims of it, too.

I want to be clear: It’s important to our individual well-being to share our own stories, and to reckon with and heal from our own traumas. But it is another thing to believe that speaking up and saying I have suffered, too is a productive way to fix the most racist aspects of our country, especially if these statements aren’t coupled with criticism of our institutions and the state.

How do you know you belong? I’m no longer convinced that it’s the right question for minorities to ask, or that it’s even an idea worth spending time on. In a country founded upon the idea that only land-owning white men have the divine right to self-determination, what does it even mean to belong? And why would we even want to? But, it’s our natural instinct, a basic human desire to feel like we are at home. I’m deeply sympathetic to people who lack the external affirmation that their lives are valuable, worthy, and meaningful. But, I’m inclined to see belonging as less a presence of something — like visual representation — and more an absence: of violence, of fear, of the need to expend an unbelievable amount of paranoid energy just to live. 

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This February, I found myself struggling through an article I was writing about the rash of violence mostly targeting Asian-Americans wearing face masks. How do I convince Americans that, at least to many East Asians, face masks were a good thing — for everyone? The CDC had recently said face masks did little to prevent the spread of COVID-19, the respiratory virus that was ravaging China, but wasn’t yet known to be in America. In fact, at the time, there was consensus that most people who wore face masks were committing a deeply selfish act; every non-medical professional you saw in a mask meant there was one less for doctors, nurses, and other essential workers. So, how could I explain that, among the people who had first-hand experience of SARS, masks didn’t communicate self-centeredness, gullibility, or paranoia? Back in China, not wearing a mask said those same things about you. I tentatively wrote this sentence: “Those who refused to wear [masks] during the outbreak — or wore them incorrectly — drew criticism.” And I hoped that Americans would have the imagination to understand that perspective.

Fast-forward six months, one pandemic, and close to 200,000 American deaths: Everything has changed. We didn’t have to imagine a doomsday. We inhabit it. And it includes masks. 

Now, the idea that I’d have a difficult time explaining to the average non-Asian-American how mask-wearing is considered an act of public health is laughable (even though there are many who still don’t believe masks work). Today, there are plenty of Americans who understand the differences between N95s and non-medical cloth masks, who pay attention to the etiquette around wearing them while exercising, grocery shopping, and taking public transportation. They know about the disturbing cultural pockets of mask-deniers for whom personal liberties are more important than their neighbor’s health. Six months ago, most Americans couldn’t tell you where to buy a facial mask. These days, most Americans likely own at least one.

Like so much about this pandemic, the way that masks have entered the consumer market is unprecedented. “I can’t think of anything that has become as ubiquitous over this short a period of time,” says retail analyst Neil Saunders. With the speed of a fad and the urgency of an essential item, masks went from nowhere to omnipresent in the span of a few weeks. Today, masks can be found in drugstores, big-box stores, and even gas stations. They are — aside from perhaps underwear — the most regularly worn item in America right now.

This has predictably thrown an already unstable fashion industry for a loop. The pandemic upended production capabilities and supply chains, as well as ransacked consumers’ pocketbooks, and thus their abilities and appetite to purchase new clothing and accessories. But to some fashion companies, masks presented an opportunity. Designers like Christian Siriano, Rachel Comey, and Dov Charney quickly pivoted, using their factories to create non-medical PPE (personal protective equipment) to be donated to medical facilities. For them, producing masks was not only a charitable act, but also a potential financial life raft to help offset the loss in revenue of apparel, occasion-wear, and other typically reliable fashion categories.

Some brands I spoke with, like Vida and Brave New Look, believe their decision to manufacture and promote masks has given them a newfound relevance, as well as an essential new revenue stream. Etsy reported that it earned $346 million in three months alone from face masks — a category that didn’t exist the previous quarter. Gap, which owns Old Navy and Athleta, reported $130 million in quarterly sales. The brand Lisa Says Gah offers a popular-selling affordable mask that introduced the company to a new range of customers; 70% of those who bought masks were first-time buyers, a 10% increase from her typical shoppers. A spokesperson from Sanctuary — whose five-pack of masks has become a best-seller across the internet — confirmed that their PPE line has been a boon: “We immediately added PPE masks as a way to keep our business going. We’ve seen an enormous return, and quite frankly, it’s kept us in business.”

For other fashion labels with more established brands and identities, making this transition has been complicated for some of the same reasons that I’d initially struggled with writing about masks in the first place: The initial messages that came out from our government institutions and health organizations were confusing for brands as well as for the population at large. It wasn’t until early April when the CDC finally acknowledged that non-medical masks were effective in slowing the spread of COVID-19 that folks were able to wear them with science on their side; by then, more than 10,000 Americans had already died. Brands felt pulled in two unsavory directions: Start producing “fashionable” masks and risk being labeled as opportunistic (a real hazard, given the ferocity and speed of cancel culture). Ignore it, and risk being seen as negligent.

Making the wrong decision could be catastrophic in ways beyond a brand’s financial health or public image. Dov Charney’s LA Apparel factories, which reopened to churn out masks to a swarm of positive press, soon became a hotbed for infection. Over 300 workers contracted coronavirus and four died before the county’s Department of Public Health ordered the factories to close.

One segment of fashion retail has steered clear of all this chaos, but perhaps to its detriment: luxury brands. You won’t find face masks on high-end retail sites like Net-a-Porter. Matches Fashion didnt’ stock them until this month. And while heritage labels like Louis Vuitton and Prada committed to creating masks and gowns for medical use, they have never sold them to consumers. “If you’re charging high premiums for masks, as some luxury brands will do, you do run the risk of people saying you’re cashing in on a health crisis,” explains Saunders. “Unfortunately, the political debate has become so heated, that even selling masks or offering masks is a lightning rod for criticism. I don’t know any other product that’s been as politicized to the extent that retailers feel the need to bury them away and hide them.” When you search for “face masks” on luxury fashion retailers, you’re more likely to come across $95 SKII facial treatment sheet masks than PPE. Net-a-Porter declined to provide a statement, and Matches did not respond to questions about why they waited until August to stock masks on their site.

High-end designer versions of masks do exist, but they’ve been created by younger, more progressive labels like Marine Serre, Collins Strada, and Off White. A couple department stores, including Nordstrom, offered masks from their existing vendors. “It was a seamless process to add masks into our accessories and we’re excited to offer customers different styles and designs,” a Nordstrom spokesperson said.

But many higher-end retailers who carry these masks are reticent to talk about it. Farfetch never responded to queries, and after a month of discussions with Shopbop for an interview about their decision to highlight masks as one of their top categories on its site’s navigation bar, it eventually pulled out of the interview.

Masks were never going to be an uncomplicated win for the fashion industry — or even an easy one. One of the reasons that masks have been so difficult to introduce is the inherent challenge of designing comfortable, high-quality, safe masks. Masks, writ large, are uncomfortable to wear: They fog up glasses, pull on ears, slide down faces, and give wearers mascne. Certain fabrics that feel good against skin are among the least effective at protecting the wearer or the public. Masks that come with an exhalation valve are more comfortable to wear, but more dangerous for others. Add to that the lack of regulations, standards, or guidelines; for consumers, there’s immense pressure and risks involved with buying the right mask, but very little reassurance that we’re making the right decisions. 

Designers and retailers have a responsibility to get it right — and quickly — which Saunders points out is key to retailers establishing masks as a more permanent fashion category. “What you don’t want [as a retailer] is to offer masks that people buy on the basis that they’re going to be protected, and they somehow find out that your masks do a lousy job at protecting people,” he says. “That’s very, very important.”

As common as masks are now, there’s also the very attractive prospect that upon the implementation of an effective vaccine, they will disappear as quickly as they arrived. And, there’s no guarantee that masks will be something people continue to buy for as long as contracting COVID-19 is a daily threat — after all, how many masks does one person even need? Some fashion designers who already cannot afford to take on more risk are wary of investing too much in designing and manufacturing masks, lest the public’s need and desire for non-medical masks disappear after a vaccine. But, if we look at East Asian countries that dealt with the SARS epidemic, mask-wearing has remained a habit. In Japan, where disposable blue and white medical masks are as common an accessory as sunglasses or headphones, established mask-wearing norms likely slowed the rate of COVID-19 spread.

But it’s reasonable — if cynical — to expect that pandemics will become a more common occurrence, as climate change, antibiotic resistance, and globalization become more a part of our reality. And if that happens, it’s possible that Americans’ instincts towards self-expression and originality will lead to a real opportunity for fashion masks to flourish, unlike in Asia, where, for the most part, masks are a purely utilitarian accessory, and “fashion masks” are rare. That spirit, coupled with America’s robust fashion manufacturing capabilities and wide-range of retailers and businesses, could be meaningful for masks’ ability to become an everyday fashion accessory, even more so than in Europe, where fashion brands have largely chosen to skip out on masks and where infection rates are much more under control.

“It says something about American culture that we immediately pivot from wearing something that is functional and does the job, to wearing something that expresses my personality or that makes me look or feel good,” says Saunders. “That pivot from essential item to fashion item is something that’s quite peculiar to the American market. It speaks to the American sense of individuality, but also entrepreneurialism.”

In these six months of mixed messaging, masks — even without bells and whistles (or rhinestones and beaded strawberries) — have clearly communicated a whole catalog of expressions: They’ve signaled political beliefs, tastes and preferences, as well as how neighborly, considerate, and kind their wearer is. The fact that a single garment can convey all of that is unusual, unprecedented, and unbearably heavy. These are qualities that uniquely define our commitments to one other in 2020

If anything is up for that task, it’s face masks — worn in sickness, and hopefully, in health.

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This pandemic forced many businesses to their knees, but the fashion and retail sector fell particularly hard. For an industry constructed out of floss and glitter, that quite literally sells a fantasy, the repercussions of so much global uncertainty — a terrified consumer base, reluctant to spend money or leave home; factories that couldn’t operate without endangering workers; a glut of products that were suddenly only appropriate for a lifestyle that had ceased to exist — swept away whatever smoke and mirrors were left. However, the rarely spoken reality is that the fashion industry had been in decline for a long time prior to COVID-19. Success stories were dwarfed by horror stories: Once-ubiquitous retail institutions forced to declare bankruptcy, past indie darlings attempting their third (fourth? fifth?) comeback, innovators and “disruptors” whose big-picture dreams were ultimately betrayed by their inadequate management. 

All of this has contributed to the fact that over 13,000 stores have closed so far in 2020 — that’s already 50% more than in 2019. But, it’s cynical to see what’s happening as merely a correction for how bloated the industry had become. And yet, after covering the post-2008 recession industry, that’s exactly how I’ve been led to think because of everything designers have told me through the years. The pressure to grow, to produce, to flood the market, and scale at breakneck speeds is unsustainable. So many have confessed they feared that the industry’s rapid metabolism would eventually cripple them. For creatives, the prospect of killing their business because of numbers is a particularly difficult demise to accept.

So — a thought exercise. Instead of fashion companies swelling themselves to death, what if they did…less? What if the industry helped support creatives who made one thing well, and encouraged consumers in seeking out high-quality products that were made to last? What if we produced only as much as we needed?

To talk this through, I reached out to Brand Assembly’s Hilary France, an industry oracle who helps emerging fashion brands figure out how to survive as a business. We chatted about the root cause of the problems plaguing fashion, how to incentivize smallness instead of largeness, and why the industry — which, at its best, should serve as a cultural mirror — was too distracted and ill-equipped to meet this moment. 

As few, if any, of us want to return to the days of sewing all our own clothing, we’ve got to rely on the brands, labels, and stores to produce the products with which we adorn ourselves. With that in mind, here’s the beginning of a conversation about how consumers might one day interact with the industry:

Connie Wang: I’ve been thinking a lot about what would happen if fashion brands just did less — what problems would it solve? Would it be a net-positive? 

Hilary France: I started working pre-recession, so I saw this industry at its height. Post-recession, we began chasing our own tails. We had to provide the inventory to get the product in the store, but it wasn’t selling at full price, so it had to [be] mark[ed] down just to get those revenue numbers. We began second-guessing whether any of this was sustainable.

There was — there is — too much. There was too much of a sense of like we just need to feed this industry. Why do we create in the first place? Most want a creative outlet that hopefully becomes a business. Most don’t want to create in order to have more stuff.

Connie: Something I’ve always wondered about is if a brand becomes famous because of one thing that they do — like DOEN with dresses or Cult Gaia with the Ark bag — why is there pressure then to expand into all of the different categories? The natural inclination seems to just go wide really, really quickly? Where is the compelling pressure to do that coming from?

Hilary: That pressure can be internal. You find success with something, and you want more. But in most cases, brands have investors they’re beholden to. These investors want to expand, and you can’t just do that through one product and sales channel. If they’ve tasted success, you have to expand. But at what point is it just okay to be? And to exist in that single point?

When I was working on the brand side, we’d have a best-seller and we’d chase ourselves to make a 100 more. And 99% of the time, we would never sell through those extra units that we raced to produce. When is it okay to be like, “All right, that sold out, that’s awesome, let’s move on to the next thing?”  

Some designers want to make big money and cash out. But I’ve met lots of designers, especially recently, whose goal is just to reach a certain point where they can sustain a lifestyle.

There needs to be a separation of those mentalities, especially on the investor side.

Connie: Are there even options right now for designers to seek out investments that don’t require unsustainable growth and scale?

Hilary: Fashion is a cash-poor industry. You have to pay to manufacture goods before you actually get paid for selling them. There are some new and simple creative financing tools that are out there to address that. I just came across this company that helps you pay your bills that you can’t pay by credit card. It gives you a little bit of padding to your cashflow. 

Connie: Something I see as key to fixing this is to lower the barrier to entry, since making that first-ever product requires so much energy compared to making the fifth or sixth product. In a sense, doing that also lowers the barrier to exit, and makes it easier for brands to decide they’re going to shut the lights off now because they’ve done what they wanted to do. All that initial investment prompts this feeling that you have to keep going, even if you feel like you’re done. 

Hilary: Production has always been the biggest challenge. When you’re smaller and you only want 10 items of a single unit, that cost per unit is higher typically than if you produced 250 of them.  

In the very beginning, smaller brands have to get footing because their margins are so much tighter than when you’re larger. I don’t know how to fix that problem, but I think if designers realize that that is the case and price things strategically from the beginning, that could eliminate that scariness of how much to invest early on.  

It also affects consumers. Emerging designers are forced into pricing their products at $500 versus $350.

Connie: To fix that seems like it means not only changing how consumers think about pricing but also why things cost the way that they cost, because like we just don’t have the capabilities to manufacture at a certain level in the United States without paying more for it. 

Hilary: Consumers’ mentalities are changing. I think more people are abandoning this more, more, and more mentality. Now they’re asking, “What do I really need, and what’s the purpose behind my purchase?” I’m a huge advocate of local production and sustaining and creating opportunities. 

Connie: On face value, it’s terrible to design something in the United States, produce it in China, and ship it back to the United States to sell. But the simple fact is that it’s not only cheaper to do it, but also the quality is higher because China’s manufacturing technologies and production capabilities are much more advanced. To me, it seems like a huge problem that designers can’t make products in the amount they need, at the quality they need, and at the price they need, while utilizing resources that are closer to home.

But when you look at China’s workforce, there’s a future there within manufacturing. I mean you look at who is in manufacturing clothing here in the United States, and everybody is over 50 years old, you know?

Hilary: There’s no apprenticeship or teaching of the trade. There does need to be more workforce development in the industry on the production side. 

Connie: Unlike the 2008 recession, I feel like there’s no rhyme or reason to the companies that are failing right now. They’re big and small — mission-driven and mission-less. And they’re failing in such sad, undignified ways. Whether it’s cultural or financial, you hear more bad stories about retail right now than you hear good ones.

Hilary: I’m glad that you actually brought that up because I think that goes back to this whole idea of how many products need to be produced, the tens of thousands of units each month that have to be produced to service stores, or even operate a direct-to-consumer business.

All it took was a month at the beginning of COVID [to destroy a company]. If you need X amount of sales to keep your people on staff, and to develop and produce, it’s this hard hamster wheel that has to turn. Most brands can’t afford to lose a month, which is tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars. That’s a critical miss. The wheels fall off real quick in a situation like that.  

Connie: I know that your job is to ensure that brands live and that they have a long life. But what happens if we shift our thinking to make it easier to pull the plug? Are we disincentivized to shorten the lifespan of a brand, and are there pros and benefits to making that process easier?

Hilary: As a founder and CEO myself, since COVID hit, I’ve been through the seven stages of grief like seven times over with just my own company. Doing in-person events was the lion’s share of our revenue. I could try to stay above water and grasp at every possible revenue event, or I could sit back and conserve cash for when I can step on the gas again.

Having the flexibility to experience ebbs and flows with your own business is crucial. That includes pulling the plug.

Connie: I have a metaphor: I feel like we’re in a moment where we have the literacy to expect a very diverse amount of content from our television programming. Some TV shows only need to be web-based. Some TV shows become part of our daily habits and are real necessities: News programming, for instance. Some are relevant for a decade-plus. And then some only need to be around for one season — we celebrate them because they shine really bright and tell a full, complete story. And everyone is excited that they end when they do. And the creators of that really one successful season move on to other projects, and we consider their careers to be successful. 

Currently, the industry is set up to facilitate that entire breadth of content and diversity of output. Can we think about fashion products that way? In a sense, they’re pretty similar to TV shows. They’re creative products that are, for the most part, wants not needs. They speak to people who are looking to find themselves or see themselves reflected or mirrored in their consumer choices.

Hilary: It’s a good point. There’s this Netflix mentality now where we’re all consuming something at the same time, and then we’re done with it, and we move on. It ties back to what your question was earlier about how a brand can die with dignity. It ties in with trends, too. Like, I want these TV shows or these collections to stand out because they say something, instead of because somebody is telling you that you have to wear it.

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Connie Wang, Khareem Sudlow

#DMTBeautySpot #beauty

“Don’t go to HR.”

A senior editor of the magazine where I was interning told me this over many glasses of house white wine at a subterranean bar. I was 19 and didn’t have a fake I.D., but she told me not to worry — she knew the bartender. Taking out a lowly peon like myself felt like a very decent thing for an editor to do, so I drunkenly told her all about my wide-eyed ambitions: have a long career in media championing young women, become an editor-in-chief one day, maybe start my own magazine? And she told me how to get there: Always say yes, especially to assignments you don’t feel prepared to take on. Find male mentors, because successful women are insecure and will sabotage you. Arrive at the office before your boss gets there and don’t go home until they leave. The only way to get a raise is to quit and come back later. 

And, finally: Never go to HR, especially for serious issues. Leave. Brush it off. Let their mistreatment of you fuel your rage. Work hard to climb the ladder, so you eventually get your own chance to derail your tormentors in the future.

It was the first time that I realized there were a set of unspoken rules within media. I was grateful to her for this education, though, at the time, I didn’t realize she’d offered to me as a way to help her as much as to help me. During happy hour drinks later that summer, she’d ask random men at bars which one of us they’d rather fuck — “She’s a BABY, you creep!” she’d cackle as I’d shrink — knowing I wouldn’t tell a soul. Still, though, she was right, I assured myself. She should not be a mentor, and I should never go to HR. Knowing these things, and enduring these horrible experiences with her made me feel tougher, savvier, and more worthy of competitive workplaces. I felt lucky to be learning this lesson early.

Like many other older millennials who graduated during the recession of ’08, who came from families with neither connections nor trust funds, and who did not look like the cast of The Hills, I was just happy to be there. I might have only been paid $12 a day (subway fair, plus lunch they said) to intern at the glossy magazine during the daytime, so I could split a $2 falafel with a roommate at night, in an apartment in which six girls slept in two bedrooms — but I was glad for the opportunity. At one magazine internship, I was assigned to catfish powerful people in media so I could collect gossip for posts, but, instead of dwelling on how their lackeys harassed me in comments and tweets, I was just thrilled to be learning how to report under pressure. I might have been groped by senior leadership, had my first drafts passed around the newsroom for ridicule, and watched as my co-interns developed gruesome eating disorders and drug habits from the pressure to fit in, but I figured these hardships were part of the job. I was so grateful to be there — for the chance, the experience, the education.

We — older millennials in media who I call the Grateful Generation  — saw as national protests against the World Trade Organization, Wall Street, and the Iraq War flared up and then flamed out, making leftist collective action seem like a historical magic trick and not a reliable modern tool for change. The 9-5 and Working Girl of our era was The Devil Wears Prada, which taught us that the best way to deal with a bad boss and a toxic workplace is to quit. But, if quitting wasn’t an option — either because we cared too much about our careers or lacked the funds to just stop working — we were supposed to find ways to exist within the broken system, by heeding the unspoken rules, watching our own backs, and privately fixing things when they went wrong. Along the way, many of us did more than just survive a bad situation. We learned how to thrive within these environments, becoming devils ourselves. We, the Grateful Generation, owe you younger people in the room an apology.

In the days since the police killing of George Floyd, a movement has been spreading throughout newsrooms and workplaces, including at Refinery29. Corporations from L’Oréal to Amazon opened the door to criticism by aligning themselves with Black lives, when Black employees’ own experiences said something very different about these corporations’ cultures. Across the business world, the massive delta between external words and internal actions became too hypocritical to bear. For many in the workforce, especially those who entered it recently, there is not enough to be grateful for when surrounded by so much systemic inequality — and at every level. What’s the use in operating professionally, privately, and discreetly, when the next rung on the corporate ladder was bound to be just as undignifying, just more of the same?

The Grateful Generation espoused the worst parts of modern careerism with recession-bred shell shock, seeking to climb ladders and win favors in desperate search for financial security. We read websites dedicated solely to secret job listings (archived pages from ED2010 — a website that posted jobs from whisper networks — showed that a large percentage of these writing jobs from the time were “volunteer” positions: writers would not receive financial compensation, but would receive “plenty of perks and exposure”). On blogs, we lionized “super interns” like Tess Brokaw or Emily Weiss. We “networked” without embarrassment: I distinctly remember attending an ED2010 mixer wearing an outfit I had copied from the pages of The Teen Vogue Handbook: An Insider’s Guide to Careers in Fashion, and listening with dread as hundreds of other women all talked about applying to the the same unpaid internship posting. If you had asked us, we all wanted the experience so badly and would have done anything to get it. But if you had pushed, I’m not certain any of us could tell you why.

In our search for a paycheck and some respect, many of us lost sight of the purpose of having a job in journalism: to tell the truth to a public that trusts us to do so.

One of the distinct privileges of working in women’s media is that I am constantly surrounded by young women with the same kind of wide-eyed ambition I once had. But they want something else: to make people feel like they belong, to inspire others with confidence, to speak truth to power, and to shine a light on injustice in every form. No wonder that, shaken by these women’s hands, the media industry has undergone two reckonings in two years, with #MeToo and #BLM. These women have demanded answers and solutions to the misogynistic and anti-Black environments that have felt as inextricable from this industry as its reliance on ad revenue and exclusivity. 

In particular, Black women at workplaces like The New York Times, Conde Nast, and Refinery29 are sparking changes that will benefit everyone. Let’s keep in mind that the things being asked for are simple dignities: a decent and equitable wage for work, a properly functioning HR, and the space to do their jobs without fear of being harassed. If achieved, it’ll be because Black women, WOC, and their allies have ignored these unspoken rules to take care of things in public as well as behind closed doors. The least institutionally empowered among us will have uplifted everyone.

The gratitude I feel about those who risk retaliation and lost future work knocks me off my feet. In my career, I have mostly felt at the mercy of systems larger than myself. The antidote to that small feeling is linking arms with Black women. It gives me the confidence that we are more powerful than any institution.

Late last year, I was asked to give an interview to The New Yorker about why Refinery29 formed a union. Steven Greenhouse, the legendary labor reporter on the project, asked me whether I thought there was a generational divide among organizers. I knew he wanted me to talk about how foreign the Jimmy Hoffa era of organizing seems to young people today, but I wanted to express to him what I saw as the more salient difference that affects workplaces far beyond just media. The younger generation, I told him, sees problems as networks — the ways in which our culture is tied to our economy which is tied to geopolitical forces, the environment, and random circumstance. When they see a problem, they are more likely to question the entire system. My generation had recognized the same problems, but our solutions relied on navigating these issues in isolation: Want a raise? Get another job offer. Want healthcare? Find work at a bigger company. 

This is the first time that I’ve been part of a team that is finally, thankfully, made up of women who don’t see things the way my generation did. But now I don’t see things that way, either. And for that, I am truly grateful.

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Connie Wang, Khareem Sudlow

#DMTBeautySpot #beauty

It was a striking image, even if the subject’s pose and attire were familiar: Gorgeously dressed in bright white sneakers and a flowing blue gown, the young person stood tall,  a glowing city behind him. It’s a picture-perfect example of a street-style shot. But instead of a lit-up Paris, it was St. Paul lit up with police floodlights. He was wearing his graduation gown, there to witness, support, and speak out against the police brutality, white supremacy, and anti-Black forces that have made his graduation an unspeakably tragic one.

“I was looking forward to graduating with a cap and gown,” Deveonte Joseph told me over the phone. The seventh sibling out of ten, Joseph is the first in his family to graduate high school with a diploma, an incredibly hard-won and meaningful achievement.

“It’s been hard. I’ve fought through it, but I did it. I graduated. We graduates from 2020 are going through all this. And it’s not fair, because there are a lot of people who wish to be in that crowd, and walk across that stage, and wear that gown, and throw up your cap with everybody,” Joseph said, explaining that his graduation, scheduled for this week, will be modified to observe social distancing procedures — “a car meet-up and drive around the city or something.”

17 yo Rachel Garrison commemorating her graduation as valedictorian of North Education Center. She was here when Minnehaha Liquors burned protesting for George Floyd. pic.twitter.com/bEPebz7j5E

— Rochelle Olson (@rochelleolson) June 2, 2020

During a time that should be marked by graduation celebrations, another kind of observance is taking place. Across the country, in the middle of a pandemic that necessitated rigid stay-at-home measures, demonstrations and protests have erupted in nearly every major American city against anti-Black criminal justice systems and anti-Black federal and state institutions. This weekend, young Black people have had to choose between demonstrating against the apparatuses that disproportionately kill them or staying at home to avoid a virus that also disproportionately kills them. 

One day after George Floyd’s murder in Minneapolis, the protests spread across the river to St. Paul. Before stepping out, Joseph took out his graduation robes, still fresh from their packaging. “When I put on the gown, I felt like I really accomplished something big. My brother always told me that not a lot of African Americans even reach my age. It’s a big accomplishment to graduate high school.” Then, he headed out for the evening. The photo that local street photographer Nathan Aguirre took shows Joseph as a resolute, tassel-clad figure set against the backdrop of a grieving St. Paul; his cap and gown speak to America’s pure potential as well as our failure to fulfill the promises we make to our youth.

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I saw Datelle Straub, Avery Lewis, and Titan Harness-Reed pull up to the street protests wearing their bright red 2020 graduation caps and gowns from Patrick Henry High School. Datelle saw the police advancing on the group and raised his diploma in the air. “Because of COVID we couldn’t walk the stage, so we decided to put our robes on to show that there is black excellence in our community. And we walked the streets as our stage and protested,” Straub said. When he saw police approaching, he lifted his diploma. “As we were walking, cops jumped out of a van and aimed their guns at me and my friends. And put a red dot on our chests. It’s just frustrating that they are OK with killing the future.”

A post shared by David Guttenfelder (@dguttenfelder) on May 31, 2020 at 11:13am PDT

From Dallas to San Francisco, New Jersey to Minneapolis, the cap and gown have become an especially impressive reminder of the resilience of Black excellence, and all the systems, people, and policies at work to undermine it. “As we were walking, cops jumped out of a van and aimed their guns at me and my friends, and put a red dot on our chests.” Minneapolis graduate Datelle Straub told photographer David Guttenfelder, who captured Straub and his friends in maroon graduation gowns. Straub held up his diploma from Patrick Henry High School to defend himself. “It’s just frustrating that they are OK with killing the future.”

Last Friday, in San Francisco, Louis Michael, a new graduate from MidAmerica Nazarene University in Kansas, was planning on joining some friends to protest. Before he left, he received a notification that an Amazon delivery had arrived. “It was my cap and gown. I had originally planned on wearing my BLM T-shirt and blending in,” Michael recalled. But when he put on his cap and gown, Michael felt a stirring of feelings. “I felt sad that this is what we’ve come to as a country. But at the same time, I’m proud because I know I’m getting ready to go out and stand up for what I believe in. To stand in front of a line of police officers in riot gear, with my fist in the air, and my cap and gown… I felt powerful.” A photo of a masked-up Michael in his graduation threads on top of a Black Lives Matter shirt, shot by photojournalist Sarabeth Maney, went viral. “A picture is worth a thousand words. This one’s worth a million,” he says.

Graduations mark one’s passage from dependency to independence. Worn on a grassy lawn or in a crowded auditorium, a cap and gown symbolizes the fulfillment of a course of study, and the opportunity to enter the world empowered by all the knowledge that has been acquired. Graduation is also a promise: If you follow the path you’ve been told you must take, the world will be open to you, for whatever you want to do.

But, the idea that graduation is the starting line of the American Dream only makes sense if you trust that “responsible” actions necessarily result in “deserved” consequences — that hard and honest work will be rewarded in fair and just ways. For Black Americans, this contract has always been crooked. What’s unwritten and unspoken has always upended any promise made.

Go to college. Get a high-paying job. Buy a home. Enter into a life of insurmountable debt. High-paying jobs discriminate against Black applicants, and you will likely have to make compromises. Feel perpetually uncertain about your employment and financial stability.

The taxes you pay will fund social services that keep you healthy and safe. You will pay proportionally more taxes than billionaires, but the benefits you receive will be inadequate, dangerous, and unfairly distributed. State-funded hospitals will kill your women. State-funded law enforcement will kill your men.

Abide by the law. The police will protect your civil right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. But being Black is also a crime. The audacity to exist is reason enough to turn police protection into police predation.)

Vote. This is how you can change the world. Black disenfranchisement is real. Our two-party system makes it nearly impossible for consequential progress to be made. 

Who would willingly sign a contract like this? But we force everyone born or naturalized in this country to do it, which is why — during a week and a season and a lifetime of watching the subtext come further into focus — we feel renewed anger at the code by which we’ve been forced to live, a sense of bewilderment at the double-binds that that trap us. “So much that used to be in the dark to most of America is coming into the light in America,” explained Michaels, who graduated with a communications degree. “Some have been aware of this, a lot hadn’t. 2020 has made it clear to everyone.”

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SHARE THIS‼️ Post it on your stories ‼️ tweet about it ‼️ COMMENT A ✊🏿‼️. You won’t see it around the internet. If you’re going to represent something be ALL IN. Class of 2020, we have work to do. We have to change the way they look at us, how we work together and the message we speak. The work was never over. Let this be etched in history books as an educated black man with his community and family. Never separate. Represent. #blacklivesmatter #newark #rutgers #classof2020 Let’s work.

A post shared by Adedotun O. Adeyemo 🥂 (@legendbybirth) on May 30, 2020 at 1:33pm PDT

Contracts can be changed. As a photographer, Aguirre has documented the rapid developments to his neighborhood, for both better and worse. As someone who exists in a state of flux, he ultimately sees the story of the past week as a hopeful one. “It’s a story of persistence. People aren’t backing down. It’s the revolution. There’s a lot of love for the community, and we’re all coming together to say that it’s time for the system to change. It has to change. This can’t not.”

Joseph’s last day of high school is today. His mother, Yvette, was supposed to take him shopping this week for new sneakers, but with stores in their neighborhood closed because of the demonstrations and the pandemic, he’ll likely wear something random he already owns. “But I tell him it’s not his clothes that’s what makes him,” Yvette told me. “It’s his mind, soul, and heart.”

Joseph cannot afford college in the fall, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a plan. “I’ve been planning since my junior year. I want to go to school for music and art. I want to spend the positive energy I have, and give people the motivation and inspiration to accomplish their dreams.” He currently has a fundraiser to get him started this fall.

“I have a slogan with my art: TNIS, Turn nothing into something. That’s what I do. That’s the future.”

May we feel inspired by Joseph’s resolute optimism, his creativity, his excellence. May those who have provided Joseph with all that nothingness feel shame and the full crush of that responsibility.

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Connie Wang, Khareem Sudlow

#DMTBeautySpot #beauty

I do not enjoy wearing face masks. They leave red indents on my nose and eczema rashes all over my cheeks. I have to continuously chew mint gum in order to withstand the sensation that I’m breathing in my own old breath, caught in what feels like a closed loop of respiration. Face masks make me acutely aware of the mechanics of every inhale and exhale — which is distracting if I’m trying to do anything else, as I’m pretty much breathing all the time.

And yet, over my 30-some years of traveling to China for work and to see family, I’ve worn face masks each time: small ones that fit child-sized faces, paper ones and cloth ones, surgical masks and cheap drugstore versions, the ones that come with a button-sized air filter, and the ones I bought in a subway kiosk that came with a bootleg set of Comme des Garcons eyes. (If you want a genuine designer face mask, there are many to choose from.) I tell my American friends that I wear them because of the pollution, or that I can’t afford to get sick during business trips and marathon family reunions. But the truth is that I wear face masks because it’s just the thing to do.

In China, as in many countries in East Asia, face masks are as common a sight in public as a pair of headphones. You might never see a single person with a paper coffee cup during an entire commute, but at least one in four people — even in non-epidemic times! — will certainly be wearing a mask. A Japanese colleague once explained it to an American coworker, who was confused about whether or not there was some kind of outbreak in Tokyo (there was not): You wear a face mask if you’re sick, and you also wear one if you’re trying not to get sick.

That’s … all the time then? The two of us Asians shrugged while nodding.

So when the new coronavirus, known as COVID-19, first hit China in early January, the most identifiable indication that something was different in public wasn’t that people were wearing face masks: It was that there were significantly more people wearing them. As it made its way to Japan and South Korea where face masks are also a normal and expected commuter accessory, the same thing happened. But, while more people now wear them, the meaning of the masks hasn’t changed; it remains a gesture toward good hygiene. A person who wears a mask isn’t admitting that they are sick or paranoid: They’re acknowledging that they are aware of their civic duty regarding public health. In fact, those who refused to wear them during the outbreak — or wore them incorrectly — drew criticism. In these countries, a mask is a symbol of reassurance. It represents communal trust, a pact that we’re all in this together. 

Contrast that with what the sight of people in face masks elicit in the United States: fear, uncertainty, xenophobia. In most of America, it is common only for certain professionals — surgeons, painters, factory workers — to wear masks on the job. Seeing a civilian in a mask in public is rare, and implies an extreme situation. Sometimes it’s a condition that draws pity (the person in the face mask has a compromised immune system), other times, it might inspire a morbid curiosity (it’s become a garment popular among post-apocalyptic-fetishistic communities including preppers and burners who spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about society’s collapse). But most often, seeing a person wearing a face mask in America serves as a reminder that they’re not from here. In the ten years I regularly took the subway in NYC, the only times I saw someone in a face mask were on tourists who were visiting from East Asia, confused about why their very normal etiquette was getting them vibed from locals.

The idea that it would be common for most Americans to wear masks is a new one, arriving hand-in-hand with COVID-19. While medical professionals and government officials have advised that face masks are generally ineffective (about as helpful at preventing the public spread of illnesses as a pillow in a car crash), at the same time, what is being advised — washing our hands, staying home if we feel ill, not touching our face — feels almost magical, more like performing an incantation than taking any concrete action, though the science more than supports its efficacy. Face masks, on the other hand, are extremely tangible: You can hold one in your hand, pay for one at the store, and admire the stack of them under your bed, next to cans of Hormel Chili. 

That’s what many Americans did, stockpiling them despite warnings that doing so might lead to a shortage. Certainly, Asian-Americans were among early mask-buyers, who understood face masks to be a hygienic accessory and polite thing to do — but that’s not how everyone else saw it. Since then, a rush on masks has led to price-gouging and reduced inventory, leaving actually sick patients, their families, and the public at risk, and medical institutions scrambling to contend with log-jammed supplies.

In the coronavirus economy where 8 ounces of Purell now cost $75, masks have become the ultimate luxury product in that they are both unnecessary and very expensive. You look both foolish to be wearing one, and yet privileged to be able to. Celebrities and influencers take selfies in masks from the vantage points of their first-class airline seats. What’s more, these masks are indicative of something more significant: They are a reminder that there will always be people who will have access to the most expensive, hard-to-find healthcare treatments. And there will always be those who won’t. Hand-washing and no-touching are weak weapons against disease when compared to money, especially in a country where millions of people are un- and under-insured. It’s turned out that face masks have the unique ability to expose our toxic class divisions, how much we distrust outsiders, how unjust and underprepared our institutions are, and how frail our civil society is and has always been.

The sight of face masks can be agitating and anxiety-inducing. Under these conditions, they can trigger people to think the worst about their neighbors, and even inspire them to act on their most odious prejudices and impulses. There’s been a rise of violent anti-Asian discrimination, oftentimes targeting those wearing masks, all made worse by establishment publications like the New York Times who irresponsibly choose to use images of Asian people wearing masks in Asian-majority communities to illustrate articles about the coronavirus that include neither Asian patients nor locales. With each instance, all the most hyperbolically misanthropic associations that Americans have about face masks — an admission of disease, selfishness, stupidity, paranoia, gullibility, and greed — becomes further correlated with Asians, unfairly stigmatizing us as the culprits of a problem we didn’t create.

Face masks, to Asians, used to feel like a necessary nuisance, but also a small act of civic duty, public responsibility, and kindness to our neighbor. They are a signal that society is stronger when we consider the vulnerabilities of the strangers who surround us. But now, and here, they feel like a scarlet letter, a sudden swerve in meaning that’s been forced upon us. Without a cure or a vaccine, this kind of prejudice is its own type of disease. The stigma itself, rampant and quickly spreading, is dangerous all on its own.

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Connie Wang, Khareem Sudlow

#DMTBeautySpot #beauty

When my sister was two and I was six, my grandmother came from Jinan, China, to stay with my family in Tuscaloosa, Alabama for a year to help watch us while my parents worked to get their degrees. When she arrived, we taught her a handful of English phrases we thought she might need: How much? Too much. Nice to meet you. She also wanted us to teach her a special one: No hug. It’s unhygienic and obscene to press your body so close to someone else’s, she griped.

Today, my grandma has forgotten nearly all the phrases she learned, but ‘no hug’ still rolls off her tongue. The first time I visited her in China as a teenager, bounding out of the car from the airport during a summer visit: No hug! In my 20s, when I introduced her to my boyfriend, who speaks about as much Chinese as she does English: No hug, she warned him. But when I last saw her, just two weeks ago, as China was uncder quarantine because of a mysterious coronavirus that turned into an epidemic, what used to feel like a personal quirk took on a graver warning: Absolutely, definitely, don’t even try it, No hug.

My mom, sister, and I were in China because we were supposed to be visiting my dad’s father, who was ill and not getting any better. My own dad was waiting to go later. The plan was to visit Taiwan, Seoul, then Jinan, China where my mother’s family lived, before arriving in Qingdao, 660 miles northeast of Wuhan, roughly the distance between NYC and Detroit, where — though I didn’t know it then — the virus originated. Before we left the U.S., our relatives in China mentioned that there was a bug going around the country, and we should bring extra face masks if we had them. Just in case.

But while we were sightseeing in Taipei, we started getting news from friends and family on WeChat that the flu didn’t seem like the standard strain. Local news was reporting that it was a serious form of coronavirus — a group of viruses that includes the common cold and SARS, all of which can cause respiratory infections in humans — and was quickly spreading across China. By the time we reached Seoul, the Wuhan coronavirus was front-page news on international newspapers. There were a couple cases in my dad’s hometown of Qingdao, and coronavirus patients were also being treated in the same hospital where my grandfather was being taken care of. As we repacked our suitcases in a small hotel room in Seoul, to head to Jinan, we fretted over whether it’d still be safe to visit.

But by the time we landed in my mother’s hometown — wearing the duck-billed N95 surgical masks that my sister, a medical student, had gotten us —the decision had been made for us. We couldn’t go any farther. My uncle met us at the airport (no hugs this time, but he was never a big hugger, anyway) and explained that the government had been cordoning off neighborhoods, shutting down public transportation, and access to public spaces and private businesses. The hospital where my grandpa was being treated was on lockdown, as were the apartment complexes that housed my father’s side of the family. Non-residents couldn’t enter, for everyone’s safety.

When we arrived at the three-bedroom apartment where three generations of my mom’s family lived, we knew it’d be the last stop on our trip. The circumstances were unsettling, but we were so happy to see them, so my mother, my sister, and I awkwardly reached out to touch my aunt, cousin, and her daughter, Jiajia, on their shoulders. This time, we didn’t try for a hug — for our health.

But even without the threat of a virus, my Chinese family wouldn’t have naturally greeted us with a huge embrace. East Asians just don’t hug. While every family is different (just like families in the West can range from fairly chilly to Tom Brady-level intimate), generally speaking, not touching is as normal in East Asia as air-kissing is in Europe. The first time I tried shaking hands with someone in Japan, I felt like I was trying to tango with someone who didn’t realize we were dancing. To say hello, we gesture: to an empty chair, to grab a bag you’re carrying, through an open door. When we say goodbye, we wave in the direction of whoever’s leaving, even if they’re just a foot away. Even among family members, physical affection is rare.

Things are slowly changing for the younger generation. My cousin, a single mom, had moved back in with my aunt and uncle, and everyone was helping her raise Jiajia — a precocious three-year-old who orated rather than babbled, and loved instructions, dogs, and Fruit-by-the-Foot. My cousin sometimes hugs Jiajia — not the fully enveloping bear hugs that come so naturally to American parents, but they’re hugs nonetheless. Most of the time, Jiajia doesn’t even hug back, but you can tell it delights her.

The hugging is a point of contention with her grandparents. “It’ll spoil her,” my aunt complains to my mother. Affection, she wants us to know, gives children the idea that other people will tolerate selfish behavior (“I just want it, you can’t tell me no!” Jiajia loves to yell). They believe children should learn that they’re part of a family, not the center of one. A three-year-old might not be able to cook dinner, chauffeur the grandparents, or bring home an income, but she can eat everything on her plate, clean up after herself, and not bother mom when she’s resting. 

In China, love means actions — not affection. In America, having to “do” anything in order to receive love, especially for children from their elders, turns love into a transaction. But in China, duty is the purest expression of love: the acts, considerations, inconveniences, unacknowledged self-sacrifices, and extra labor are what you do in order to spare someone else pain, no matter how piddling. 

I can see how action-based love can seem cold, to have to work so hard for something that should be given freely. But the way my Chinese family sees it, Western pronouncements of love — physical closeness, inquiring about feelings, listening — can seem superficial, even performative.

“Don’t encourage her,” my aunt repeats, as my cousin dodges a gleeful slap from Jiajia as she crouches to embrace her daughter after a successful trip to the potty. But my aunt encourages Jiajia in different ways, like spending an hour making an elaborate lunch just for her, with special mini noodles and thinly sliced vegetables that’s easier for a tiny mouth to eat.

On New Year’s Day in China, we all gathered around the television to watch the annual state-produced Spring Festival Gala. Seen by an estimated 500 million people, it’s the world’s most-viewed televised event, and has become as integral to the holiday as a menorah is on Hanukkah, or turkey is on Thanksgiving. The tone is usually aggressively patriotic and melodramatic, but this year, for the first time since it started running, the Gala included a non-rehearsed segment that focused on the coronavirus. It took on a paternal tone.

The presenters acknowledged how isolated those in Wuhan might feel in quarantine, but urged them to remember their duty: “Staying at home is your greatest dedication and sacrifice against the epidemic,” said news anchor Ouyang Xiadan. As for the rest of China, presenters asked them to think about a self-imposed quarantine as an opportunity to spend more time with family, but also as a way to declare their love for their countrymen: “A quiet New Year’s will help us all be safe. This is your biggest contribution to fighting the epidemic.”

I was in China, but wanted to know how the U.S. was reacting to the virus, so I scrolled Twitter, via a VPN that let me bypass China’s firewall. Both objective reporting and panicked reactions from the West — from Chinese-Americans, Asian-Americans, and non-Asians alike — reinforced the stereotypes that Chinese culture was cold and unempathetic. 

There was the usual moralizing over the dirtiness of the niche local tradition of consuming wild animals (“with heads and beaks attached,” read the first sentence of a NYT article about Chinese wet markets), and stories vilifying Chinese tourists too selfish and obstinate to care about Western notions of personal space, exposing entire cruiseliners, passenger planes, and foreign cities to the virus.

But there was also a focus on the callousness and inhumanity of Chinese culture, which allowed this epidemic to turn into a pandemic. News outlets reported that the government initially covered-up the severity of the epidemic, describing a government more intent on good PR than the welfare of its people. The unforgiving quarantines and swiftly implemented bans on travel, traffic, and assembly were only possible with authoritarian muscle and “questionable” ethics that seemed to further hurt already sick people, forcing them to walk for miles in order to seek out care. Even the state request that people stay indoors with their own loved ones had become a problem, as self-quarantines were leading to cross-generational infections among family members. Western outlets ogled the run on surgical masks. Technically ineffective, they suggested that no one should be wearing them, nevermind that masks were already as common an accessory in China as headphones or sunglasses, and seen as a courtesy — a polite gesture — to your fellow commuter. Instead of a polite gesture by your fellow commuter, the mask communicated something evil, inciting hate crimes against Asian American in NYC.

But sitting on the couch, watching my family move around the apartment, I didn’t see coldness or callousness. I saw their best attempt to take care of each other in the way they’ve always done it, even if that wasn’t with hugs. I listened to my aunt talk about how being a loving, responsible parent often meant breaking her own heart, by hiding away her laughter and lightness from her child. She never joked in front of my cousin, or allowed herself to be silly or joyful. As she spoke, I saw her as she was back then, taking a beat behind the front door as my cousin came home from school, working to stiffen her lip before turning the handle.

It struck me how easily what looks like love to some can look like cruelty to others.

When it was time to go home, the mood was different. We were closer. My mother, sister, and I had spent the past week acting within our Chinese family’s modes of love, so as we were leaving, they felt it was their duty to act upon ours. This time, we all hugged goodbye. “Bao yi bao!” my cousin instructed Jiajia, who wasn’t used to wrapping her arms around anyone who wasn’t her mom. “Give your aunts a hug!”

When I landed in Los Angeles, after having had my temperature taken five times at three different airports to check for fevers, I finally discarded my face mask, then turned on my phone to see a text message from my father. My grandpa had passed away. None of my immediate family had gotten to say goodbye, nor would we be allowed back in the country for the funeral.

And so, we did all we could do and turned to each other, my father, mother, sister, and me, armed with our dual ideas of love and family, our dual heritage in China and America. We texted and called each other, trying to shrink the distance between us. We asked what we could do, and wordlessly did what we ought to, helping each other out with errands and work, sending each other kind texts just because. 

In China, the virus persists. Death and infection tolls are exponentially growing, with over 600 deaths and 31,000 infections. Patience and trust are wearing thin. Was the government protecting its people, or was it lying to them? Were appeals to love a tactic of brutality?

Shortly after midnight last Friday, the doctor and whistleblower Li Wenliang died of the same disease he warned the public about. Earlier in January, he had been detained for “spreading rumors” about the existence and severity of the coronavirus. When news of his death broke, a dam broke too. Online, an outpouring of outrage and frustration flooded Chinese social media. Posts demanding freedom of speech appeared, then were deleted by censors. In America, my family’s texts echoed the same refrain: I feel helpless, I’m so sorry, things are horrible, please try to feel better, what can I do? We were so far away from our Chinese family, and even each other.

When I texted my dad I was scared he was lonely, he wrote back, “That’s sweet, but don’t worry about me…Your job is to take care of yourself.”

It wasn’t a hug, but it felt like one.

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Connie Wang, Khareem Sudlow

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In the spring of 2008, I spent all the money I had saved and bought myself a cross-country plane ticket from San Francisco to New York City to see if I wanted to move there. Armed with thick stacks of MapQuest print-outs, I traversed Manhattan, determined to see every landmark on the deranged list of places that I considered to be the heart and soul of a place I read about obsessively on gossipy, local blogs I devoured like Gawker and The Cobrasnake. I was a lost Goldilocks who hated the Bay Area. By the time I reached the end of the list, I had hoped that I could tell whether the city would be my new home.

As someone who studied photos of every single regular at a Misshapes party, but only knew one person in real life who had actually lived in New York (a family friend, whose dorm room floor I was crashing on), the list had zero overlap with an average tourist’s. Mine included the nightclub Don Hill’s, which looked far less exciting at 2 p.m. in the afternoon, and the juice bar Liquiteria, a place I heard served single-serving bottles for the price of a meal. But at the very top of the list was what, to me, felt like the epicenter of the most exciting, best stuff the city was about: 35 Howard Street, the home of the original Opening Ceremony flagship.

That store will be closing its doors this year. On Monday, Opening Ceremony founders Carol Lim and Humberto Leon sent out a statement announcing that after its recent acquisition by fashion platform New Guards Group, the brand would halt selling any merchandise from other designers other than its own label, move its business online, and shut down its retail locations, without concrete plans to continue a brick-and-mortar business. In a letter that was addressed to their family of employees, collaborators, and fans, the duo wrote: “We are stepping back from multi-brand retail, for a moment, so we can come back with an experience that is just as inspiring, filled with love, and relevant for the years ahead as Opening Ceremony has been.” 

With Barneys’ stores closures last year, there are only a handful of high-fashion retailers left that can say that they’re devoted to fostering new indie brands. Dover Street Market and its global fleet of stores is a clear leader. Certain local gems like Alara in Lagos or Totokaelo in Seattle offer a more curated, but still delightful, playground to get lost in. But there’s less appetite — from both investors and customers — to take a chance on clothing that demands a sense of imagination. As consumers shop to fulfill functional needs, companies that provide superlative products — the longest-lasting jean, the most ethical cashmere sweater, the best white T-shirt — are edging out magpie retailers. 

What started as a marketplace modeled after the Olympics, that picked designers and makers from one country at a time to introduce to New York customers, Opening Ceremony was founded on the idea of taking big chances on unproven, unestablished, and unstable designers. Many of the items I’ve bought there have outlasted the brands that first made them. The same things that made it so entertaining to shop there — the never-ending merchandise, the small quantity of each designer — were likely the same qualities that made Opening Ceremony a risky business. 

Today, these emerging designers can sell directly to consumers. The internet and social media has made middlemen retailers like Opening Ceremony irrelevant as a marketplace. But “discovery” platforms — influencers and Instagrammers — don’t exactly foster newness. Clicking ‘like’ on one photo of a lime-green turtleneck leads me to become inundated with photos of other electric-hued tops. That is not discovery. That’s the fashion equivalent of being fed last week’s leftovers when you asked for something new. When our keystrokes and clicks are monitored to instantly feed us back whatever we just consumed, shopping can feel like a never-ending cycle of deja vu. It takes a lot more effort to end up somewhere strange and unfamiliar. When Opening Ceremony was in its heyday, it was as simple as walking through its doors.

In 2008, Opening Ceremony was thriving, because that kind of dressing — experimental, brave, sort of unhinged — was how every young, ambitious, and creative person dressed. It was every downtown It-girl’s favorite store. It was where every fun-looking person found their favorite thing to wear. Every artist, musician, and designer I admired was shooting, designing, ideating, or collaborating with Opening Ceremony. The store’s name aside, Opening Ceremony was the main act: It was what people came to see. 

Cracking what Opening Ceremony was seemed like the key to cracking what New York City was all about. And cracking that meant finally going to Howard Street.

Opening Ceremony was on a shaded, quiet street lined with cast-iron storefronts, but the entrance to the store itself was strewn with people sitting on an expansive stoop, like they were waiting for a portrait photographer. Each person was dressed with a singular sense of humor and character, as if they had randomly drawn a bizarro archetype from a hat: Sports But Make It Showbiz, Goth Schoolgirl Orphan, Kids By Way Of PBS. It was so perfectly eclectic; I had the distinct feeling that I had stumbled across some kind of Fashion Sesame Street.

Inside, a sales clerk stopped me to ask me who my jacket was designed by. She didn’t flinch when I told her it was from the clearance bin at Urban Outfitters, and instead said that it reminded her of this new designer they had gotten in late last year from, she was super into it, and, Would I like to see?

I followed her through a maze of painted plywood, and down the rickety set of peeling stairs to a rack of clothing by Tsumori Chisato. I could see that she was right. My jacket — a cropped little thing in thin-wale corduroy, covered in a confetti sprinkle of ditsy flowers — looked like it would have belonged on that rack along alongside oversized sack dresses covered in ‘70s storybook illustrations, gigantic paints in prints that felt both garish and glamorous to me, and fringed tops that looked like a three-dimensional mesa sunset. 

I was scared of the price tags — three figures, well above what I could afford. But the salesperson pulled out a top and handed it to me. And this one? She leaned forward. This one’s on last mark-down, although I’m not sure why. It was a cotton-jersey blouse that looked like it was made from a tangle of sailor’s rope and sun-softened muslin. It was $45. I spent the last of my cash, wore it the next day, and decided that New York was a place where I could find both comfort and joy. I still have it, and wear it often.

I had always liked fashion in the sense that I liked buying clothes and enjoyed putting them together in outfits for myself. But after that day in Opening Ceremony, I began to live fashion. It became a language, a community, and a purpose. Fashion, as celebrated by Opening Ceremony, was about enthusiastic self-expression, discovery and curiosity as life principles, and seeing how far you could stretch the limits of taste, and the boundaries of definitions.

Opening Ceremony played by their own rules. They were among the first to turn fashion shows into actual shows, showcasing dance performances, short films, and quixotic plays instead of a catwalk. They were a talent incubator; you could literally clock the amount of time it took for a store employee like Darlene and Lizzie Okpo or Anna Gray to go from model, to writer, to soon after, the founders of their own companies, heads of others, and artistic powerhouses in their own right. They were a creative studio, among the first retailers to collaborate with heritage companies like Pendleton and Tevas, and willingly extending their overflowing cache of relevance to what people without imaginations might have considered deeply uncool companies. They were pioneers of inclusivity during a time when advertisements believed having a redhead in a fashion campaign was considered “diverse.”

“As children of immigrants who grew up in the suburbs, looking through magazines to learn about what was happening in fashion and culture, we feel incredibly lucky to have been able to even start this company,” Humberto and Carol wrote in the statement announcing the closure of their stores. Strays, transplants, and people like me were lucky to have the store, too. We were underemployed kids of the recession from all backgrounds, many of whom were also children of immigrants who moved to New York without jobs nor connections, but with juiced-up ambition and a knack for spotting opportunity. We came here because we wanted to be the best at something many of us couldn’t even name yet. And we orbited the Opening Ceremony universe because it seemed like a place that cared so much about seeing people like us make it on our own terms, in our own ways, however ineffable they might be.

As the brand grew bigger, the brand added stores across the world. But the NYC store itself expanded in spurts and additions, as if the shop were an avatar for the company. The store was labyrinth, with narrow staircases in the backs of small rooms, and chambers and antechambers that opened up into expansive arenas of clothing. At a certain point, you had to exit onto Howard Street in order to enter into another section of the store. There was one time when I got so lost, I had to call a friend for help.

Shopping without a singular purpose, but rather just to explore, was as much about learning about clothing as it was learning about myself. It was frustrating, and sometimes lonely, but deeply thrilling when came across something you had almost overlooked, but reflected yourself back to you in a way that glowed.

We were lucky to have had Opening Ceremony for as long as we did.

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DMTBeautySpot

via https://www.DMTBeautySpot.com

Connie Wang, Khareem Sudlow