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Written and Creative Directed by James R. Sanders
Photographed by Dylan MacDonald
Makeup and Grooming by Derin Ajala
Hair by Primp and Pout
Photo assistants: Ahmad Wilder and Lindsay Chapin

In honor of Mental Health Awareness Month, observed every summer in July, I curated some of my favorite and most stylish people in New York City for a portrait series inspired by the work that Carl Van Vechten did with Black entertainers during the '30s, '40s and '50s. The portraits below, are just four of our favorites from the shoot.

The following micro-memoirs deal with issues of double-consciousness, tragedy, loss and the mental health issues that come with all those things.

Mental health problems are the devil. That’s what I was taught growing up.

The Bible says, “be anxious of nothing.”

Depression is a demon.

Strongholds are yokes that need to be broken.

I’ve heard it all.

It took me, it seems like forever, to fully realize that struggling with mental health didn’t mean that I was struggling with Jesus. That realization inspired the two excerpts below about fashion and mental health.

"What to Wear to Work"

The shoulders on which we stand are built for flatfooted pride and prepare us for the chip we carry mixed with melanin and magic smoothies.

The truth is, nothing is quite as beautiful or as heartbreaking as the burden of being young, gifted and Black.

There. Are. None. Like. Us.

When time had no limits, it was hotter than July, and ignorance tasted like water ice from the cerulean cart on the corner — I used to plan what I wore a week in advance.

These were my rules of sartorial engagement:

No loud graphics – because too much writing on a shirt is ghetto and hood.
No dark colors – because dark colors on dark hues is intimidating, even if it is Gucci.
No baggy pants – because even though flared pants are a current runway trend, on you they look like gang clothes.
No skullies — you might resemble someone who fits a description of someone who robbed a rich white woman.
After February 26, 2012 – Absolutely no hoodies for obvious reasons.

Though pronounced silently in what I wear, it’s not allowed to be lost on me that I’m Black and living in America. The same rules don’t apply. I’m reminded of this even in fashion.

In the '70s and '80s, if you were a Black man and you dressed in fitted suits with shoes and accessories to match, you were a pusherman — you didn’t have permission to be anything else even when you were.

On me, something is urban.

On others, the same look would be a journey through true grit and defiance, reinterpreted to fit a new age of consumer who isn’t afraid to push the boundaries.

In the press, buzz words like “journey,” “real” and “daring,” mixed with phrases like, “new era” and “statement-making” are all the rage when it comes to streetwear — especially when worn by someone who isn’t Black.

The fear attached to not being taken seriously on Wall Street and being viewed as a serious threat on Main Street could come down to what I wear. I deal with that every day when I approach my closet.

How am I supposed to not worry about what I’m going to wear, when someone who looks like me got killed in a hoodie? #IAmNotOkay

(Left: Jared DePriest, Celebrity Stylist | Right: Olumide and Nyra, Cousins and Fitness Models)

"What to Wear to a Funeral"

“Don’t embarrass me.”

Her voice was sharp and accented with nuances of mezzo and soprano each time she said it.

The fact that she was dead didn’t make it any less poignant — any less sharp. I felt it just the same.

Clothing for me had become what it was for her.

She converted her bedroom into a big closet where garments ruled a kingdom of minor subjects that included her bed and bookshelf. My earliest fashion education came from her. I sat on the edge of her bed and watched as she taught me garment construction, handling, merchandising, seasonal packaging — and full-on styling.

Church was her fashion show.

Being fat where fashion is concerned, doesn’t have to be a handicap. “The bigger you are, the better you dress,” she said.

A gang of feelings tougher than anyone in blue or red disturbed my peace and committed misdemeanors against my better judgement — none more prevalent the day of her funeral than the anxiety that came with what I was wearing.

I was embarrassing her from the grave.

How could there ever be peace where disappointment lay, even in the casket right in front of me? Within two weeks of her passing, all my clothes and shoes were gone, housing — gone.

Against wind providing feedback to rival clear consciousness, I had to dictate what my sizes were to a family member who had been unemployed more than not his entire life.

Fashion wasn’t his anointing and he wasn’t particularly talented at shopping.

With eight dollars in crusty single dollar bills, I came into town the night before in white flip flops, a tee shirt from Old Navy and jeans from Target.

In France, the women wear Black everyday, creating Instagram euphoria just to get coffee. My grandmother’s minks and furs, rings and triumphant church hats were spread out amongst the women in our family all of whom for once, looked incredibly French and chic in black frocks and pearls at her funeral.

Somewhere in between my two girl cousins, I prayed for steadiness and walked slowly so as not to rip the pants and shirt that were purchased for me.

When the family of the deceased enters the church, everyone looks on anticipating tears with the same entitlement of a WWE audience member during a cage match.

The buttons on my shirt strained to make an appearance and held both sides together just barely. The store he went to didn’t carry my size. He made an executive decision right then and there that I would take what I was given and be grateful. I suppose it would have been more embarrassing to go to the funeral in the flip flops and tee shirt.

Not knowing where I was going to live just 24 hours after we buried her, my mind was on how disappointed I was at 19 to be sitting at her funeral as a poor representation of how she raised me.

Few things hurt as badly as knowing you let down a lost loved one.

How am I supposed to not worry about what I’m going to wear, when every day I dress to make sure I don’t embarrass her? #IAmNotOkay

(Left: Jay R, Beauty Mogul | Right: Elishia Peterson, Educator and Author of "Blacklisted: 12 Men Facing Stigma")

Affirmative Fashion: Reparations for Style & Soul

Writing since July 2019 · 1 story contributed