Opinion — The fabric of change: Fashion as political expression – the nicholls worth

Clothing has never been merely fabric — it’s been a protest, a declaration and a refusal to be invisible.
Since the beginning of time, trailblazers have used fashion to make noise when their voices weren’t being heard. From the boldness of an Afro, the beadwork of a Mardi Gras Indian suit or the glamor of ballroom culture, each look tells a story of resistance. Fashion has always been political — not because of trends, but because of the people who wear them. Through these threads, identity, pride, and protest have been woven into the fabric of American history.

In the 1960s and ’70s, Black Americans turned clothing into a form of protest. Members of the Black Panther Party made their image part of their message — black leather jackets, berets and raised fists signaled pride and strength.
The Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture writes: “From top to bottom the uniform was strategic and symbolic. Members did not aim to conform but challenge white standards and respectability politics.”(nmaahc.si.edu)
That look reflected a larger history of using fashion to express strength and identity. As writer Victoria Rollins notes, “Black fashion is a culmination of all the people who’ve come before us and the things they embody. Black style is the story of self, and how we choose to present it.” (The Kansas City Defender, kansascitydefender.com)

In the heart of New Orleans, the Mardi Gras Indians turn tailoring into testimony — wearing suits heavy with beads, feathers and heritage to parade pride and unity. These hand-sewn masterpieces trace a lineage of Black and Indigenous resistance, where Carnival became as much about cultural survival as celebration.
According to Tulane University’s Copies, Creativity, and Contagion exhibit, the suits draw on both West African and Native American traditions, transforming “costume” into a statement of identity and resilience. Each detail is a declaration of belonging and endurance.
For Big Chief Darold Gordon, a veteran Mardi Gras Indian of over forty years, the costume represents a powerful and personal message.
“Even after slaves was free, the Blacks couldn’t go parade with the whites, so our ancestors celebrated the way they was taught from the Native Indians,” said Gordon (Texas Observer, texasobserver.org).
Gordon explained that this tradition of cultural appreciation stands as a living monument — a testimony to the Native voices who dared to protect and uplift enslaved African Americans, and to the enduring bonds formed between two distinct, marginalized communities.

In the 1980s, ballroom culture emerged as a glittering act of rebellion for LGBTQ+ communities, particularly for Black and Latinx queer members. Fashion became a language of liberation, where sequins, tailored suits and extravagant gowns transformed dance floors into stages of identity and self-expression.
This feeling of self liberating self expression provided by the sanctuary of the ballrooms was felt by many including the New York drag queen Dorian Corey.
In Jennie Livingston’s documentary Paris Is Burning (1990) about ballroom subculture Corey said: “In a ballroom, you can be anything you want. You’re not really an executive but you’re looking like an executive.” theguardian.com/paris-is-burning
In a society that constantly pressured queer people to shrink, hide, or conform, the balls offered a rare space where they could be unapologetically themselves.
Every outfit, every pose and every performance became an act of defiance — a declaration that they would not be silenced or erased. Ballroom fashion provided not just spectacle but sanctuary, fostering a tightly knit community where artistry, resilience and pride thrived despite discrimination and exclusion.
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