As a Black Southerner raised in Florida, I spent every summer in my birth state of South Carolina, wearing denim cutoffs and a red or blue blouse during the first week of July, with my aunts and uncles in an overzealous Americana look they probably got from Old Navy. My cousins ran around the backyard in blue-and-white-striped rompers with red scarves twisted through their braids.
I didn’t know the disdain for that aesthetic until I left to live in New York City, the belief that those colors worn together are only for a certain type of American. The South means everything to me. It is home and holds so much of what this country represents, what red, white, and blue stands for—negatively and positively. The idea that these colors are owned by only one group feels disparaging to the South and its Black and brown natives.
My aunt at our Fourth of July celebration.
My great-aunt and grandma at our Fourth of July celebration.
In early June, popular dress brand Selkie released their “American Woman” collection, reimagining vintage American flag prints into romantic, theatrical silhouettes. “We refuse to surrender the symbols of this country to those who would use them against us,” Selkie said in its Instagram caption below a carousel of women in ruffled, patinated stars-and-stripes dresses. I remember seeing the collection, not necessarily being fond of it from a personal style standpoint but enjoying what it meant. My first thought wasn’t “this is only for MAGA and tradwives,” because I don’t personally think of them when I think of America.
The collection was meant to reclaim the flag and its red, white, and blue color scheme, which lately has served as a symbol for the far right. The internet immediately declared the collection ill-timed, with commenters saying that flag reclamation isn’t currently possible. That there was no way to wear the flag without looking like a “proud American” (emphasis on “proud,” if you know what I mean) or “MAGA-adjacent.”
I do see what the commenters are saying and I don’t blame them. On this weekend, America’s 250th birthday, the flag represents America, and therefore represents all of its complicated history and current events. Walking around wearing the flag’s colors or the flag itself in 2026 serves as a reminder of genocide, xenophobia, and bigotry. Still, while sartorial patriotism feels gauche and impossible under our current administration, there’s no world where those colors don’t also belong to me. And I don’t think I should be forced to stop wearing them.
There have been moments throughout fashion history when oppressive, colonialist flags were reclaimed in the name of rebellion. Suffragettes customized stars-and-stripes flags to celebrate states where women could vote. Jewelry designer Alexis Bittar, alongside Oscar-winning film producer Bruce Cohen, released a documentary and campaign in 2025 challenging the LGBTQIA+ community and other marginalized groups to reclaim the American flag as an inclusive symbol of freedom, democracy, and equality rather than letting it be used as a weapon of division. Beyoncé and her Cowboy Carter era directly reflected what it meant to take ownership of Americana fashion and the flag. She held the flag in her hand atop a white stallion, wearing a red, white, and blue Western-themed latex leotard with chaps and a cowboy hat. Through 27 songs, she declared that America—and her Southern roots—aren’t something you can take away from her.
Jonathan Square, PhD, an assistant professor at Parsons and writer, historian, and curator of Afro-Diasporic fashion and visual culture, notes how important that ownership is, saying, “Most Black people in the U.S. have roots in the South, and it can’t be denied. It’s a place ripe with problems. It’s a very violent part of the country, but it’s also the crucible for American identity. Most Black folks still live there, so we can’t turn our backs on it.”
Square explains that the only way to approach this current discourse around Americana fashion and the ownership of its colors is for Black and queer people to hold onto their roots, too.
“We are Americans,” Square says. “Even though the flag has been used as a racist symbol and we’ve been excluded from the full benefits of American citizenship for so long, I think one way of signaling that reclamation is to say, ‘You’re not going to use this against me. I’m taking this symbol and I’m putting it on my Black, queer—in my case—body, and I’m going to change the meaning of it.’ That’s liberating ourselves, changing the meaning of these symbols and making them meaningful.”
Two hundred and fifty years ago, my ancestors were still enslaved. But I’m able to sit here, dive into this country’s history, write about my feelings, and dissect what it means to be as true-blue American as one can be. I can wear the American colors and stand for something more powerful than hate.
Am I still going to make jokes that I’m wearing red, white, and blue in a very liberal, pro-choice, anti-racist way? Absolutely. That differentiation is important because of the world we live in. But to say you outright cannot wear the flag or those colors without it being a signifier of racism dismisses the Americans who died by force: Indigenous people, enslaved people, my people.
I’ve never lived in or belonged to any other country but this one. It’s very likely I never will. My pride for America represents the only story I’m able to tell about who I am.
My ancestors did not endure a hundreds-year-long genocide for me to let a hateful group take ownership of my country and its colors. I am as American as it gets. To be honest, I already celebrated my Independence Day back in mid-June, when my family honored Juneteenth, remembering 161 years ago, when the final group of enslaved people in Galveston, Texas, learned they were free. But this Fourth of July, as the country “celebrates” 250 years, I’m still going to wear my red, white, and blue outfit, enjoying what it means to be my version of American. I deserve to—and no MAGA type can ever take that from me.
Aiyana Ishmael is the style editor at Cosmopolitan magazine. In her work, Aiyana focuses on the culture of fashion and how it intertwines and shapes the zeitgeist. She is an award-winning journalist from Miami, Florida, and a graduate of the historically Black university, Florida A&M. She is a 2024 Forbes 30 Under 30: Media honoree, and her debut romance novella PASSING GAME is set to release March of 2027 (831 Stories/Simon & Schuster).
