The Price of the Culture

I remember New York City in the late ’90s and early 2000s, when the train you were on often determined the style you’d see—the J train looked different from the 2. The visual cues of neighborhood, class, music, and community were often written into what people wore.

Now, when I take the A train from my home in Bed-Stuy to work, shop, or visit my sister in Washington Heights, the looks repeat themselves across lines and boroughs. The outfits aren’t identical, but the story feels the same: wide-leg trousers, vintage sneakers, oversized silhouettes, carefully curated “effortlessness.” It’s as if we’re all pulling from the same Pinterest board.

Historically, effortlessness, especially the falsified kind, was never the point of style. Within Black culture, clothing has often carried meanings far beyond aesthetics. In Slaves to Fashion, scholar Monica L. Miller argues that Black people have historically used clothing “to break down limiting identity markers and propose new ways of fashioning political and social possibility.” Style wasn’t simply about looking good. It became a language through which Black people communicated status, dignity, individuality, and belonging. 

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That understanding of style still resonates today. Celebrity stylist Tiffani Williams defines style as “your visual relationship to yourself.” Clothing becomes the vehicle through which we communicate who we are, what we value, and where we belong.

But what happens when that relationship to self becomes mediated by algorithms, influencers, and commerce?

The economic power of Black style is hardly new. In 1997, LL Cool J famously appeared in a Gap commercial while wearing a FUBU hat and referencing the brand’s slogan, “For Us, By Us.” The campaign boosted Gap’s reach among its target audience while simultaneously introducing millions of consumers to the Black-owned streetwear label. Long before affiliate links and LTK storefronts (a popular influencer marketing and shopping platform), Black cultural influence was already moving products and generating value. 

Over the last 15 years, influencers have managed to monetize our attention and our trust. A recommendation from a favorite creator can feel more like a suggestion from a friend than a marketing campaign. And because we buy into them, we often also buy into the products, lifestyles, and aspirations they promote. But as cultural influence (particularly) became commercial influence, the relationship between style, identity, and consumption became more complicated.

Before a trend can fully emerge, it’s documented, monetized, linked, and sold. An outfit is no longer just an outfit or even a connection to self or culture. It’s content. A personal aesthetic is a brand. And increasingly, the line between developing personal style and consuming feels harder to distinguish.

For consumers, particularly those trying to develop a personal style, the path from inspiration to purchase has never been shorter. Bri Saint, plant-and-style content creator, believes the challenge isn’t social media itself, but what happens when consumption replaces self-discovery.

“There is a lot of inspiration on social media,” Saint told me. But too often, she says, people see a creator they admire, click through an affiliate link, and attempt to purchase their aesthetic. “Now it feels like people are seeing, ‘This is what the cool girls are wearing,’ and then clicking straight into someone’s LTK. It’s like you’re trying to buy your way into an identity.”

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The distance between seeing and buying has collapsed. And when we get what the influencers sell us, we look more aesthetically pleasing. We belong. But to whom?

Williams sees the tension less as a problem of social media and more as a question of awareness. She returned to the importance of understanding both ourselves and the influences surrounding us. “Be aware of yourself. And be aware of what you’re taking in,” she told me. In a culture where aesthetics move at the speed of an algorithm, the issue isn’t inspiration itself. The issue is what happens when consumption begins to replace self-discovery.

Williams was hesitant to frame the mainstreaming of Black style as purely a loss. Drawing a parallel to hip-hop, she noted that what was once niche has become foundational. “Hip-hop has become a natural part of the identity of America,” she said. The relationship between culture and consumption, after all, isn’t new. As hip-hop moved from the margins to the mainstream, marketers increasingly recognized its power to shape consumer behavior.

The difference today may be the speed. What once moved through neighborhoods, radio stations, magazines, and music videos now moves through algorithms. Culture is no longer simply shared. It is packaged, linked, and sold in real time.

Neither Saint nor Williams argues for abandoning social media. The question isn’t whether influencers inspire us; they do. The question is whether inspiration leaves room for self-discovery. If style is, as Williams suggests, a relationship to ourselves, then no affiliate link can complete it. The Black dollar will continue to shape culture, just as it always has. But developing a personal style still requires something money can’t buy: the time, awareness, and confidence to decide who we are for ourselves.

Black culture has always shaped what America wears. But in an economy built on visibility, aspiration, and endless consumption, it can sometimes feel as though we, the creators of the culture, are being asked to buy back pieces of our inheritance, one affiliate link at a time.

This story appears in WayMaker Journal: The Money Issue. Words by Porsalin Hindsman-Israel.

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