This past weekend, queer communities worldwide came back together in person to celebrate in the midst of a trying health crisis that’s put an already vulnerable community in peril. Given last year’s Pride events were cancelled, this year’s comeback felt more needed than ever.
Extravagant and lavish fashion mixed with slogan signs and message T-shirts were some of the biggest ways this year’s Pride events brought a sense of normalcy (and urgency!) into our lives after a year of pajamas at home. On the streets, from New York to San Salvador, people donned their best with everything from rainbow-colored wings and tall platform heels to corset tops and sombreros that exemplified how fashion can be a tool to express every facet of ourselves — our sadness and grief, our hopes and dreams, as well as how good some of us are at wearing heels before noon.
Although Pride fashion has become increasingly commercialized, we can always rely on the community itself to remind us of the true intention behind these festivities, especially at a time when defending the rights and joys of the LGBTQ+ communities — every single day — feels as urgent as ever.
Ahead, let Pride-goers teach you a lesson about styling that has nothing to do with trends, but rather about how effective clothing can be to highlight all the things that make us individuals, together.
Pose's Angelica Ross brought some ball glamour to the streets of Manhattan. Photo: John Lamparski/Getty Images.A person wearing rainbow-colored wings and matching platform heels in New York City's Washington Square Park. Photo: Alexi Rosenfeld/Getty Images.A lesson in "be the rainbow" by a parade-goer in New York City. Photo: Roy Rochlin/Getty Images.Personal style and community heritage can be an excellent combo, as seen on this parade-goer in Mexico City. Photo: Gerardo Vieyra/NurPhoto via Getty Images.This parade-goer in New York City took the chance to dress like a rebel with a cause. Photo: Roy Rochlin/Getty Images.An all-over beauty look from New York City's Pride March. Photo: Roy Rochlin/Getty Images.Rainbow-hued wings were a big statement in this year's Pride festivities, as evidenced by this marcher in San Salvador. Photo: APHOTOGRAFIA/Getty Images.Leather bras, neon zebra stripes, corset tops, artful eyes, & matching masks make for a distinctly 2021 Pride ensemble.Photo: Alexi Rosenfeld/ Getty Images.Always wear your politics and your boots with pride like this parade-goer in Mexico City. Photo: Medios y Media/Getty Images.
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Following her performance, Cardi B returned to Instagram for more pregnancy looks. There, she posted a photo of her and Offset with the caption, “We listened to each other, communicated, prayed, and then God blessed us and our family with another little blessing. Our home feels so blissful and very busy, but we are ready and so happy!” In another photo, Cardi B can be seen posing with her daughter Kulture, both wearing custom white Jolleson headpieces and matching custom gowns by Baba Jagne. “I just know these two will love each other soo much and argue soo much since they’re 3 years apart,” she captioned the photo. “But one thing for sure is they’ll have each other’s back like no one else ever will.”
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The momentum for the current crop of July 4th clothing sales has been building for weeks, with stellar savings piling up like the ignitable material inside a firework. The arrival of the holiday functions like a match, lighting up the deals and sending them flying into the shop-o-sphere for our enjoyment. And unlike a fleeting firecracker, these markdowns will have a lasting effect on our closets — especially when team Most Wanted is on the case.
Before we busted out our ’smore-grilling cages and King’s Hawaiian hot dog buns, we went on the hunt for the best July 4 clothing and fashion sales that the internet had to offer, and found a host of stylish goods — everything from slashed-price swimwear to delectable deals on dresses to fuss-free footwear. We suggest perusing these wearable markdowns ASAP — before their sparkle sputters out for good.
At Refinery29, we’re here to help you navigate this overwhelming world of stuff. All of our market picks are independently selected and curated by the editorial team. If you buy something we link to on our site, Refinery29 may earn commission.
J. Crew
Dates: Now - June 28 Sale: Take an extra 50% off sale styles Promo Code: BESTSALE
SKIMS is heading to Tokyo. On Monday, Kim Kardashian’s shapewear and athleisure brand announced that it is now in charge of undergarments and loungewear for Team USA’s women athletes.
“We’re so proud to be supporting female athletes during the Olympic and Paralympic Games in Tokyo,” read a press statement by Kim Kardashian. “These women are incredible role models for younger girls, including my own daughters, showing them that anything is possible if you work hard enough.”
The collection features a selection of sleepwear and loungewear pieces including T-shirts, bike shorts, sports bras, tank tops, socks, panty bottoms and boxer-brief underwear in red, white, blush, gray, and blue. The pieces, which also include the Team USA logo and flag, will also be available for non-Olympians like ourselves to shop exclusively on SKIMS.com on July 12.
Ahead of the launch, SKIMS also partnered with soccer player Alex Morgan, swimmer Haley Anderson, disabled track and field star Scout Bassett, hurdler Dalilah Muhammad, and basketball player A’ja Wilson for the collection’s ad campaign shot by Vanessa Beecroft.
Over the past two years, SKIMS has grown into a lucrative goldmine for Kardashian. (According to The New York Times, the brand is now worth over $1 billion.) But the road there has been paved with controversy and mishaps. In 2019, Kardashian had to pull the brand’s original name, Kimono, after she received a letter from the mayor of Kyoto when she tried to trademark the Japanese word. In 2020, the brand’s maternity shapewear line received backlash, with customers accusing the brand that “slimming” shapewear placed unreasonable expectations on pregnant people, to which Kardashian responded: “SKIMS maternity line is not to slim but to support.” Earlier this month, an ad that showed Kim Kardashian grazing her SKIMS-clad waistline with her finger was pulled after people on TikTok pointed out that it was heavily edited, as her fingers became distorted as they got closer to her waist.
This partnership is a big step for Kardashian’s brand; SKIMS now joins the ranks of Speedo, Ralph Lauren, and Nike, who are also making garments for this year’s American delegation, as well as and Liberian-American designer Telfar Clemens, who is sponsoring and designing his home country’s Olympic uniforms. “SKIMS is designed to empower women to feel their best every day and we’re excited to work with Team USA to help spread this message,” Kardashian’s statement concluded.
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The BET Awards are always a major fashion event, but after a year spent indoors and away from the red carpet, attendees at Sunday night’s award show went above and beyond. The result? A bevy of midriff-baring numbers — from cut-outs to sheer fabrics and crop tops — that turned the heat up at L.A.’s Microsoft Theater.
Saweetie’s look for the occasion was equally scant, with the “Fast (Motion)” singer choosing a regal-looking purple-and-gold gown by Dolce & Gabbana. Like Zendaya’s look, Saweetie’s featured an open front. Continuing the trend, Ari Lennox wore a white gown by Bishme Cromartie with cut-outs across the belly.
But cut-outs weren’t the only way attendees participated in the midriff trend. With the help of her longtime stylist Jason Bolden, Taraji P Henson chose a sheer, corset dress by Versace that featured a pink-and-yellow bra-skirt set. Beneath a layer of black mesh and sequined boning, the Empire star’s taut abs quickly became her celebrity +1. For “Ungodly Hour” singer Chloe Bailey, a net-like Valentino gown exhibited not just her abs, but also everything else not covered up by the black bikini she wore underneath. Later in the evening, the elder half of Chloe x Halle changed into another see-through number, this time a draped, white Di Petsa gown.
Rounding out the bunch were Sevyn Streeter and Coi Leray, who both wore bra tops with low-rise bottoms. Streeter, a former member of the girl groups RichGirl and TG4, chose a Cher-esque crystal bra, which she paired with a matching maxi skirt, elbow-length gloves, and a head-piece that she absolutely shouldn’t feel “Guilty” about. Leray went the more casual route, styling a neon orange bra from Venus Prototype with cargo pants from Hood By Air.
After countless ab sightings throughout award season, from the Oscars to the BET Awards, any questions about the status of midriff-baring red carpet fashion have been asked and answered.
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When Tatiana Toro first launched OLT Embera, a website that sells artisanal design pieces made by Indigenous groups from her home country of Colombia, she encountered an unanticipated challenge: People said they wanted to buy her jewelry, but were scared to. “[A friend] came up to me, and she said, ‘I showed your necklaces to my co-worker, and she said, ‘Wait, but isn’t that cultural appropriation?’” Toro recounted to Refinery29. The necklaces in question were Okamas, beaded pieces common among the Embera Chami Indigenous group of Colombia. The necklaces Toro sold were made by Embera Chami artisans who she commissioned to create custom jewelry for the shop.
“These are their designs, and we are employing them. It’s not appropriation,” she recalled telling her friend.
The phrase “cultural appropriation” has become a siren alarm within discussions of identity and privilege on the internet. It explains the controversy surrounding Kendall Jenner marketing her new tequila brand, or why Mexico accused brands like Zara and Anthropologie for selling products with ancestral symbols that come from Mixteca communities of San Juan Colorado. Typically levied against people and brands who sell products that are inspired by (if not stolen from) aesthetic traditions of non-white communities, cultural appropriation is a criticism that is intended to protect vulnerable communities.
But Toro, who emigrated from Risaralda, Colombia to New York City when she was 10 years old, began to sense a more complex issue within the controversy around cultural appropriation. While it was clear-cut that giant corporations and fast-fashion chains did not have the same rights as the Indigenous people whose cultures and stories were emerging in the global marketplace, where did people like Toro fall on the spectrum? Businesses such as Toro’s represent an opportunity to support the work of Indigenous groups, and also educate consumers about their lives and histories. Unlike companies charged with cultural theft, Toro was also given permission to sell such pieces. Growing up in Colombia, Toro never came across Okamas in her day-to-day, nor did she learn about the Embera Chami people until after graduating from The Fashion Institute of Technology with a major in interior design. It wasn’t until four years ago, after a friend gave her an Okama as a gift, that she started to learn about Indigenous peoples of Colombia. She asked herself how she could continue to raise awareness and help the people of her native country.
Throughout the traumatic history of exploitation, colonization, and the ethnic cleansing of Indigenous people and culture, art and crafts have always been an act of resistance. For Toro, the entire premise of her business was to create the opportunity for people to profit from their own work. But potential customers were nervous that they themselves would be accused of cultural appropriation if they bought and wore OLT Embera pieces.
Established fashion brands have long stolen from independent designers, emerging artists, and Indigenous design traditions. From Loewe’s spring ’18 collection of textile prints and patterns originally made by Indigenous craftspeople of Ecuador to Carolina Herrera’s resort 2020 collection filled with embroidery similar to those made by the Tenango de Doria community of Mexico, this kind of aesthetic theft relies on mainstream businesses helping themselves to the ingenuity of marginalized creators, cutting them out from the profits. “That’s where my problem lies,” Toro says. “At least employ the people [from countries like] Ecuador, Peru, Colombia, Bolivia, and Panama and give them your business.”
As a Huichola business-owner from Mexico, Lydia Morales Ruiz points out that despite the historical harm and exploitation that Indigenous people have faced because of settler colonialism, the fact that they’ve prevailed is powerful. “It’s important to acknowledge both ends of this,” she said. By supporting Indigenous businesses, in other words, retailers have the opportunity to help these families survive by recognizing their artistry and providing financial compensation for their labor. “Cultural appropriation is real but that should not inhibit our ability to share our art and knowledge, nor should it drive people away from wanting to support our businesses if done respectfully and correctly.”
To that end, it’s important that consumers ask Who is actually selling the product? “If it says ‘Native American’ but comes from Ukraine, it’s likely not authentic,” points out Morales Ruiz. “Authenticate your purchases!” But labels of origin or marketing language can be misleading. According to Morales Ruiz, some resellers pose as Indigenous people to sell Indigenous-made products in ignorant ways, whether it’s misidentifying sacred items as fashion pieces, which any legitimate Indigenous business owner would understand to be hugely disrespectful.
“Resellers hurt our economies and appropriate our cultures,” she says. “Real Indigenous people design culturally neutral products to share with the world to keep our traditions alive.” The way Morales Ruiz sees it, customers should feel encouraged to own and use something that’s authentic and special.
What’s more, resellers often mark up products above industry standards, which means many Indigenous creators are paid tiny amounts compared to what the reseller pockets. Most recently, as businesses the world over struggled to survive because of dramatic shifts in purchasing behavior due to Covid-19, some Indigenous entrepreneurs failed to receive financial aid on offer from their governments because of a lack of internet services to access government websites and bank accounts.
It’s a never-ending pattern where Indigenous groups remain exploited. Trying to find the context of these communities being directly impacted is even more difficult due to a history of silencing through colonialism and lack of resources. It’s a story of multiplying exploitation, where a lack of resources begets fewer resources. “There are also people around the world that make contacts with Indigenous communities, pay them a pittance for their crafts, then up sell while undercutting the real artists that are trying to make an honest and dignified living,” Morales Ruiz explains. “Unfortunately, this kind of exploitation is not uncommon.”
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LOS ANGELES, CA – AUGUST 14: Lucy Hale is seen on August 14, 2020 in Los Angeles, California. (Photo by BG015/Bauer-Griffin/GC Images)
I spent the majority of my childhood in bike shorts. As a former volleyball player and cheerleader, they were essential to my lifestyle from the time I was six years old until high school. Tight Lycra shorts helped me move comfortably around the court and allowed me to fearlessly do cheerleading stunts in a short skirt. So it was strange that, when I tried bike shorts again at 26, I felt ridiculously uncomfortable in them.
When the bike short trend came around last summer, I was convinced I’d never try them. I knew I had no interest in going back to an item I wore every day for most of my life and had ditched voluntarily as I came into my adulthood. It took me a year of Princess Diana inspo and scrolling through Instagram #OOTD to finally convince myself to give them another try. I ended up settling for a black thigh-length pair from Target.
“Why do these keep running up?” I asked my boyfriend while we explored a hiking trail in Tucson, Arizona. “Seriously, these are so skimpy.” While I’ve comfortably worn sports bras, leggings, and other body-hugging articles of clothing plenty of times in my life, I’d never felt self-conscious in activewear until now. There was just something about bike shorts, though — maybe it was the tight-hugging fabric or the fact that my lower body was exposed — that I couldn’t get past. It wasn’t until later in the day that I realized why.
I got my first pair of bike shorts as a six-year-old cheerleader. They were an unofficial part of the uniform that everyone on the team wore underneath our short skirts, even if they weren’t particularly useful to our choreography. But we still wore them to shield our short skirts from attracting the wrong looks.
The shorts were tight, and worn along with sheer pantyhose, as was mandated team. They weren’t particularly comfortable, but they offered security from the male gaze, a concept I couldn’t grasp entirely at such a young age, yet somehow understood I had to protect myself from.
But when it came to playing volleyball, the shorts no longer protected me from anything. Instead, they made me a target.
The first time I tried out for a volleyball team I was nine years old. I hadn’t prepared at all; I convinced myself I wanted to play volleyball after a classmate said she’d be at the tryout. So when it came time to put my lack of skills to test, I did what I knew best: I took off my green jumper uniform and played in the white cotton button-down and bike shorts I wore underneath.
Though I was completely dressed under the jumper, I could feel that taking it off was frowned upon. Although other girls wore shorts as well, the simple act of taking off my jumper generated some concerned looks. Suddenly, I was exposed. And even if no one said anything, I knew that I just revealed a part of myself. So I made sure to put it back on when my dad came to pick me up and swore I played with the jumper on when he asked.
I didn’t make the team that time. But I had success at the next tryout, and ended up playing volleyball for eight years after that. Each time I went to practice or a game, I wore a pair of tight bike shorts. In my elementary Baptist school, we followed a strict dress code that included no drop earrings, makeup, or skirts above the knee. But there was no law regarding bike shorts, and who wouldn’t want me to play the sport comfortably? Or so I thought.
I managed to play in my favored athletic garment for almost three years without getting in trouble. Other girls were not so lucky. They’d often get called out by the school’s officials in the middle of practice because their shorts would run up when they ran or hugged their hips too tight. Every time I watched a friend return to the court after a private dressing down, I’d ask her what happened. The response was usually, “They want me to get longer shorts.” We all knew it wasn’t about the length of a garment. It was a matter of protecting boys lurking around the court from their “biological” urge to sexualize a girl’s body and punishing girls for the scandalous act of revealing our figures.
The day I finally got called out for my shorts I was already prepared for it. I had mistakenly left the ones I usually wore to school-team practice at home and brought a pair from my outside league team. Those were shorter than the usual pairs I reserved to play at school.
I walked from the bathroom to the court ready for an adult to come up and ask me to go home. When I finally made it, my cousin and fellow teammate said: “You know titi will say something, right?” Our aunt was the school’s principal, and I was terrified of having a family member whom I adored scold me over institutional policies that had nothing to do with our personal relationship. But that day, it happened.
I saw her look at me from the side of the court and call me over with a finger signal that read, “Come here.” Even though I explained it wasn’t on purpose, she said: “Don’t let it happen again.” She explained that the shorts were inappropriate to be worn at the school, and that she was only calling me out for my own good.
Walking back to my teammates, I felt ashamed. I finished practice and ran to the bathroom to change back into my school uniform.
After that day, I continued playing volleyball with bike shorts on. But I would bring a baggier pair of shorts to wear over them once I finished a game. By 14, even after I switched schools, I let go of bike shorts entirely, and opted for baggier styles to play volleyball. I wanted to be free to just play without the fear of my body being policed.
Although the trend says I should pair bike shorts with T-shirts and sweaters, I have yet to venture into street-style territory with my new pair, reserving them for working out or going on hikes. Not that I don’t love a sweater and bike shorts combo, but I am a creature of habit. And, frankly, every time I wear them I have to remind myself that I am no longer beholden to school policies; I am allowed to be in control. Still, I keep wishing I could give this feeling to my younger self.
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