They Tried to Brand Us… So We Branded Ourselves
Who decides who we are?
Because it wasn’t us who chose the chains.
It wasn’t us who carved those crooked names into our skin, stripped the drums from our hands, pressed a Bible to our lips, then called us saved when we bent.
No, they branded us. Not just with iron, but with language.
With every “boy” they spit at grown men.
Every “gal” they pinned on strong women.
Every misspelled name, every mispronounced tongue, every job application trashed before the interview.
And we carried it. Not because we wanted to... but because we had to.
We were taught early that our names needed to sound a little safer.
That our hair needed to lie flat like theirs.
That our tone had to stay cool, even when the world burned hot.
We were trained in a kind of invisibility. Told it was protection. Told it was “professional.” Told it was “polite.”
But beneath all that code-switching was a fight.
The one we never stopped having.
Because we always knew we were more than what they tried to call us.
More than worker. More than threat.
More than statistic, target, stereotype, token, trend.
We are the architects of rhythm, of flavor, of language, of style.
And when they tried to define us, we wrote our own dictionary.
That’s what streetwear is to us.
Not just a look. A declaration.
We dress like we mean it.
We wear what we’ve earned.
Every shirt, every sweatshirt, every graphic we drop is a line in our story.
We choose the font now. We choose the message. We choose the name.
Let’s not forget, they used to call it branding for a reason.
They marked Black bodies the way cattle are marked.
Owned. Numbered. Tracked. Controlled.
And when they stopped with the iron, they kept the spirit of it alive.
In schools, they told us our names were “too hard.”
In courtrooms, they told us our anger was “too much.”
In offices, they told us our hair was “too unkempt.”
In boardrooms, our ideas were “too urban.”
In every room, we were told: Be less.
But somehow, we kept showing up more.
That’s power.
That’s what they could never brand out of us.
So we flipped it.
Turned survival into style.
Turned pain into pattern.
Turned “too much” into a standard.
We built our own labels.
BLACKRALLY X is one of them.
And we didn’t name it soft. We didn’t name it small.
We named it like a fist in the air.
Because we’re not selling clothes.
We’re archiving memory.
We’re weaponizing pride.
We’re telling the truth... even when it don’t rhyme.
When we wear our story on our chest, we’re not just being fly.
We’re reclaiming space.
We’re saying: This is ours. This body. This name. This fire.
And yes, they’ll try to copy the look.
They’ll strip the Blackness from it, paint it beige, mark it up, and sell it back to the masses.
But it won’t feel the same.
Because the soul doesn’t come in bulk.
What we make can’t be mass-produced.
It’s lived. It’s layered. It’s real.
We are not the product.
We are the producers.
We are not the brand.
We are the blueprint.
Let the world take notes.
Let the imitators chase shadows.
We’ll keep writing our names in full.
Wearing our roots like crowns.
And printing resistance on cotton.
Because they tried to brand us…
But we branded ourselves.
And we look damn good doing it.
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