Why I Stitch What I Stitch

On Culture, Clothing, and Saying the Things That Don’t Get Funded

I make this work because I’m not comfortable letting grievances go unsaid.

Not the big dramatic kind — but the everyday ones. The quiet erasures. The way our stories get softened, repackaged, or skipped over entirely unless they’re profitable, palatable, or trending. Clothing is one of the loudest ways we move through the world, and too often the messages on our bodies are chosen for us by corporations that don’t know us, don’t serve us, and definitely don’t answer to us.

I make this work because I’m not comfortable letting corporations control the fashion narrative.

Right now, the industry is dominated by companies like H&M, Shein, and Temu — brands that move fast, produce cheaply, and flatten culture into aesthetics. They borrow language, symbols, and silhouettes from communities without carrying the weight of what those things mean. Our stories get reduced every day, stripped of context and history, turned into designs that disappear as soon as the next trend hits.

I don’t believe our culture deserves that kind of treatment.

I believe community requires contribution. Everybody brings something — and for me, that service looks like art and expression. Clothing is one of the most accessible forms of communication we have. Before we speak, we’re already saying something. Before we explain ourselves, we’re already being read. I’d rather wear a shirt that says “All Power to the People” than one that says “JUICY.” Not because pleasure or style is wrong — but because intention matters. What we wear reflects what we value. It signals what we remember, what we honor, and what we’re willing to carry on our backs.

I make this work because there are important voices that aren’t being elevated solely because they don’t control the pipeline. When you don’t own the narrative, you’re always reacting to it. Embroidery gives me a way to slow things down. Stitching language into fabric is deliberate. It resists disposability. And sometimes, it opens doors to conversations that wouldn’t happen otherwise.

I’ve had POC, and non-POC ask me who Malcolm X is after seeing one of my sweatshirts. They’d never seen him before. That moment always lands heavy — not out of judgment, but out of clarity. It reminds me how much history gets skipped, softened, or avoided altogether. It also reminds me why this work matters. Clothing can still teach. It can still challenge. It can still connect people who might not otherwise meet in the middle of a real conversation.

I do what I do because I want people to remember my impact on the culture — and more importantly, to remember the culture itself. I want my work to ask questions without shouting. To feel familiar without being safe. To represent people honestly, without shrinking or translating ourselves for comfort.

This isn’t about controversy for the sake of controversy. It’s about speaking from the soul. About seeing something on a rack, or on someone’s body, and feeling recognized. When someone reads a piece and says, “This feels like me,” that’s the point. That’s the work.