It can be exhausting trying to make oneself palatable.

For many Black people, altering their appearance and mannerisms to fit white expectations is a matter of instinct. In many cases, the trauma of having to alter one’s appearance to meet arbitrary white standards of presentableness and respectability is a generational one, and living with that history takes serious emotional labor.

Racism doesn’t always present in a white hood, shouting slurs and waving a Confederate flag. Most often, racism presents as intolerance couched as concerns around professionalism and fears around personal safety. It is the blithe cherry-picking of Black anatomy ― the booty, the lips, the complexion, the texture of hair, even ― to embellish white beauty standards and fuel celebrity without addressing glaring representation issues. It is snap judgements from well-meaning folks, people so convinced of their niceness it hurts all the more. It is class assumptions; it is subliminal and overt messaging in the media; it is being routinely pressured into accommodating white fragility; it is being gaslit into second-guessing your style choices, into being made to feel like a transgressor for doing something as natural and joyous as letting your hair be.

HuffPost spoke with four individuals who go through this a lot. They shared their experience being locked in a battle that’s invisible to the self-appointed arbiters of worth. Even in purportedly safe, neutral, equal spaces, they feel the stress of over-scrutiny, alert to even subtle shifts in tone and gesture that could invalidate their personhood any moment.

 

The Equal Justice Initiative (EJI) Releases New Report on the Reconstruction Era / Video

 

I was a fashion designer for around 15 years. I realized that the field had little room for meaningful cultural or aesthetic representation, so I became disillusioned and turned to academia.

“Criminality is always projected on to Black men in hoods, so I often wear hoodies.”

When I started, I would try so hard. I would make an effort to fit into academia’s idea of workwear. Looking back, it was horrendous ― I’d wear a shirt and bowtie with a blazer. It felt restrictive, but I guess back then as a young lecturer I felt the need to be respected. I was trying to be one of them. It was clearly a mistake.

Now, I enjoy breaking stereotypes with my personal style. I wear sneakers because they’re rebellious; everyone at university wears brogues or Oxfords. I couldn’t afford sneakers as a child, and I wear them to make my childhood self happy. Another example: Criminality is always projected on to Black men in hoods, so I often wear hoodies. Mainstream media conflates IQ and intent with appearance: Those who wear all-jersey sportswear are considered below the common class denominator, less intellectual. So I like creating a sense of surprise from people finding out that I’m a senior lecturer who wears Air Jordans and has dreads. I won’t let people tell me that I’m a criminal or trivialize me intellectually because of how I dress. I’m sure everyone would feel more comfortable if I wore a three-piece suit, but that won’t ever happen. Not even when they bury me.

Sometimes, colleagues or students will comment on or appreciate my “diverse” personal style, but to me the word itself is symptomatic of a problem. I dress as I dress, and think, “Diverse from what?” I don’t question why they wear ties and shirts even in the sweltering heat. On many occasions, I have been mistaken for a student. It’s interesting to see how my outward appearance measures on the scale of white respectability standards. I am proud of being a lecturer with a personal sense of dress built around Black culture, art and basketball.

Source: Dressing While Black: Self-Censoring To Pass In White Spaces