Lifestyle 07 November 2016
I laced up my electric blue New Balance sneakers, smoothed out my lime green pantsuit, and peered into the mirror at my reflection. I’ll admit it: I grimaced. This outfit was not my finest look.
It was October 22nd, the morning of National Pantsuit Day, an event that myself and three friends had diligently worked on every hour of the previous 20 days. But now I was in an itchy, ill-fitting, borrowed pantsuit. It was raining. I felt a creeping, all-encompassing anxiety. Was this going to work? Was this a terrible idea?
I blame it all on that damn feminism.
As best as I can describe it, I was raised as an “indoor feminist.” It wasn't a childhood of marches or protests; but there was never any doubt that women were definitively the equals of their male counterparts, no matter the field or laboratory. It was an incredible privilege that not until I left for college did I begin to grasp that this was not the accepted norm.
That’s not to say that I’d never encountered gender bias or discrimination – far from it. But I'd thought that creepy catcalls, unwanted advances, lecherous older men and misogynist authority figures were all aberrations, people operating completely outside of acceptable society.
Quickly, I realized how insulated I'd been. As a woman and independent business owner in New York City, I'm repeatedly reminded of all the ways in which females are not seen as equal to their male counterparts.
National Pantsuit Day Celebration. Photo Credit: Ben Sidoti
This has never been more obvious and unavoidable than in this election, with the all-consuming, pestilence of hatred and intolerance that to me comprises Donald Trump’s candidacy.
Suddenly, the need for more action, more progress, more visible, safeguarded equality in legislation and in our government, felt urgent.
Which is when Sami called.
My good friend Sami lived down the block from me in Greenpoint, and asked if I'd help her with communications for the event she had created, National Pantsuit Day. I said yes and quickly joined the rest of the "team," my friends and fellow creatives, Mike Jacobson and Kate Dearing, to make this event a reality, all within three weeks.
National Pantsuit Day Celebration. Photo Credit: David Williams
We were motivated and united by our exhaustion of the negativity, cynicism, and apathy we’d witnessed the past two years. We were tired of listening to continual tirades, smirking asides and "dog whistles" that insisted equality of all American citizens was just a fabrication by the liberal media. With the creation of National Pantsuit Day, we decided to try to counter this, to flip the narrative on its head.
NPD was designed to recognize the progress we’ve made as a country, and the incredible work Hillary Clinton has accomplished to further the equal status of women and minorities. And, honestly, to add some much needed levity and fun to the conversation.
What resulted was more massive in scale and momentous in impact than we could’ve dared to envision. National Pantsuit Day was held on October 22nd – a drizzly, cold mess of a day – and began downtown at Foley Square. With the help of a generous brass band at the helm, 200 New Yorkers marched and screamed and sang as they walked from downtown Manhattan, across the Brooklyn Bridge, to Hillary Clinton’s HQ (where we earned some hi-fives from staff and ambassador Michelle Kwan), to a celebratory party at Hill Country. (Pun not intended but appreciated.)
Our loud, brash parade wasn't confined to New York City’s borders. Spurred by a similar urgency, seven other organizers volunteered in Boston, Philadelphia, Detroit, Dallas, Los Angeles and San Francisco, to put on their own simultaneous events under the National Pantsuit Day umbrella.
The attendees were all ages and colors and professions and backgrounds. There were families with small children, millennial-aged men (in women's pantsuits, thank you), older couples, and even two dogs in pantsuits. The most commonly heard sentiment was that the day was "refreshing," and "joyful" -- clearly, we'd all been hungering for something positive to celebrate. We'd all had our fill of hatred. Every person who attended or shared their images on social media or emailed or wrote about our project, felt like a resounding rebuke to the incessant ignorance of Trump’s campaign.
And incredibly, the movement continued – and actually grew more quickly – after the event's close. We began collaborating with our (previously unknown to us) sister site, Pantsuit Nation, which was founded by Libby Chamberlain in Maine. She's created and meticulously nourished a private Facebook group of over a million members, all of whom were equally hungry to share their stories of inequality, progress and hope.
During our march we were outgoing and friendly to everyone we met, brightly-colored, ridiculously dressed, and impossible to ignore. We unabashedly took up as much space as we could, and no matter how dorky my pantsuit, it felt incredible. Even more incredible? The fact that we, lime green pantsuit included, got the attention of our female presidential nominee herself and incredibly, were included in her final campaign video.
Though it's unclear what the future for this movement holds, it's been a thrilling experience to have tapped into this thriving community of enthusiastic humans of different backgrounds and beliefs. And so for the first time I'm confident that no matter what happens on November 8th, we will find a way to continue marching forward.
5 Min Read
Like so many millions across the globe, I deeply mourn the loss of one of our greatest real-life superheroes, Chadwick Boseman. To pay tribute and homage to him, my family rewatched his amazing performance in Black Panther. T'Challa was one of Boseman's most important roles both on and off the screen, as his portrayal of the heroic warrior and leader of the people of Wakanda inspired viewers of all ages.
Re-visiting the futuristic city of Wakanda on screen caused me to reflect on how Blacks in America once had our own version of Wakanda: Black Wall Street. Black Wall Street was the name given to the wealthy, thriving, Tulsa, Oklahoma neighborhood of Greenwood in the early 1900s. The nearly 40 square-block neighborhood had more than 300 businesses and over 1,000 homes, including several stately mansions. Like Wakanda, Black people in Greenwood built their own hospitals, schools, theaters, newspapers, churches, and everything needed for their community to flourish.
Tragically, he lost everything he built, as did the entire district of Greenwood, in the largest, government-sanctioned race massacre in U.S. history.
With only 42 years separating the moment Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves and Greenwood's founding, the amazing feat of Blacks building Black Wall Street is something that required supernatural acts of real-life superheroes the likes of which we see onscreen in Black Panther.
One of these real-life superheroes and leaders of Black Wall Street was my great-grandfather A.J. Smitherman, owner and editor of the Tulsa Star. The Tulsa Star was the first daily Black newspaper with national distribution and was a source for Black people to stay informed about issues affecting them throughout the US. A member of the first generation of Blacks born free in the late 1800s, Smitherman attended La Salle and Northwestern Universities. After receiving his law degree, A.J. began his career in community activism, politics, and the newspaper business.
A fearless leader in the Black community not just in Tulsa but throughout the nation, he dedicated his life to empowering his race in all categories of life in every way: morally, economically, physically, and politically. A.J. fiercely and courageously used his newspaper and the power of the press to end a myriad of corrupt operations and develop his community. As one of the most influential founding fathers of Black Wall Street, his contribution and investment in Greenwood was and is immeasurable. Tragically, he lost everything he built, as did the entire district of Greenwood, in the largest, government-sanctioned race massacre in U.S. history.
Unlike Wakanda—the fictional land hidden in the mountains of Africa, mostly invisible to the outside world and protected from foreign threats—Greenwood was exposed. Greenwood was not only visible, but the 11,000 residents and their luxurious lifestyle were a constant reminder to their poor white neighbors across the tracks that Black people had surpassed them in economic empowerment and success. Eventually, the jealousy, greed and contempt for the growing Black economic and political power ignited a horrendously evil act of domestic terrorism by white Tulsans.
A.J. fiercely and courageously used his newspaper and the power of the press to end a myriad of corrupt operations and develop his community.
On May 31st, 1921, thousands systematically looted and burned down Greenwood in a 36 hour-long massacre resulting in the murdering of over 300 Blacks. Thousands more were detained in concentration camps where they remained for months through the freezing Oklahoman winter.
In a recent interview, I was asked what goes through my head when I see the racial unrest taking place today and compare it to what was happening 100 years ago leading up to the Tulsa Massacre. The short answer is that I am incredibly sad. I'm sad for so many reasons. One of the things I am saddest about is knowing that my great-grandfather and great-grandmother sacrificed everything for the betterment and empowerment of their race. And after all of these years, the struggle continues.
I believe that now, more than ever, it is so important to maintain not only our hope but our faith.
A.J. Smitherman's writings in both the Tulsa Star, and thereafter in the Empire Star, a paper he founded later in New York, reveal a man full of hope and ambition to make a difference and contribute to his race and his country as part of the first generation of Blacks born free. He worked tirelessly to this end until the day he died in 1961. Tragically, A.J. died still a fugitive of the state of Oklahoma, having been unjustly indicted by a grand jury for inciting the massacre. This is another point of tremendous pain and grief for me and my family. It is a travesty that he never saw justice in his lifetime, and he furthermore never saw his dream of racial equality.
But perhaps what saddens me most is the fact that I truly believe that in his heart, he still had hope that America was on a path to find its way out of its dark past and into the light of a new dawn. He hoped that the nation would one day become a country where his descendants would no longer be subject to racial hatred, discrimination, and economic disenfranchisement. And I'm certain that he believed the days that Black people would fear being lynched would be long gone by now.
One of the things I am saddest about is knowing that my great-grandfather and great-grandmother sacrificed everything for the betterment and empowerment of their race. And after all of these years, the struggle continues.
I can feel A.J.'s blood in my veins, and I feel a responsibility to carry the torch of the light of hope. I believe that now, more than ever, it is so important to maintain not only our hope but our faith. I'm very grateful for the attention being brought to the legacy of Black Wall Street and A.J. Smitherman. Knowing their story of success and triumph and how it tragically turned to massacre and destruction is vital to insuring history doesn't continue to repeat itself 100 years later.
One thing I know for certain is that building a brighter future will require all of us to summon our own inner superhero, like A.J. Smitherman and Chadwick Boseman before us, and work together to continue to fight for our rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.