It started with a smiling Black man who posted aTikTok in a navy blue quarter-zip sweater, casually declaring himself a “quarter zip dude now.” The video was fun and playful, delivered in a wry manner along the lines of comedic self-expression. There was no grand statement, just a moment of joy and personality. But that moment quickly grew into something larger. 

The video sparked a wave of similar jokes, garnering millions of views on TikTok and Instagram as other Black men joined the trend, leaning into the aesthetic, the jokes and the energy of it all.

Soon, the trend shifted tone. What began as playful self-styling slowly turned into a kind of unspoken competition. Quarter-zip sweater versus Nike Tech hoodie. Soft versus street. Refined versus relaxed. As if these aesthetics were opposing teams, instead of two equally valid ways of showing up. And in that framing, nuance began to disappear. 

Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with young Black men wearing quarter-zips. There is nothing wrong with Nike Techs either. The problem emerges when one style is framed as proof of growth and respect, while the other is positioned as the opposite. When the narrative becomes that young Black men are choosing to respect themselves by abandoning one uniform for another, the conversation moves from fashion to addressing a forced cultural norm of decorum. And that is where harm begins.

As a young Black woman watching this unfold, I understand how quickly narratives form around our bodies and our style. Black people have alwaysset trends that later become mainstream and detached from their origin. The resurgence of this aesthetic is not new.

As some creators have pointed out, this style echoes the legacy ofBlack dandyism, where dressing sharply was not just about looking good, but about defiance, dignity and reclaiming power in a society that denied both. Clothing came to symbolize lineage, memory and the long-standing relationship between Black style and self-expression.

Society is quick to turn our individuality into symbolism. That is why this moment feels important. Not because it is about a quarter zip, but because it reflects the ongoing attempt to box Black people into digestible versions of themselves. 

During the Harlem Renaissance, figures like Langston Hughes embodied this ethos, often appearing in tailored suits, pressed ties and polished shoes, using dress as an extension of his intellect and artistry. His presentation challenged stereotypes of Black inferiority and asserted a visual narrative of refinement, brilliance and cultural authority at a time when Black humanity itself was under siege. Dandyism was a form of protest. It asserted that Black men could be refined, elegant and intentional in a world that tried to deny them complexity.

That historical context is beautiful. It deserves space. But today’s quarter-zip conversation risks transforming that legacy into something unrecognizable. When creators begin ranking which version of Blackness is more sophisticated, more respectable or more evolved, it starts to resemblerespectability politics. There will always be Black men who feel most themselves in a quarter-zip. There will always be Black men who feel most themselves in Nike Tech. And there will be Black men who identify with neither. None of these choices determine their intelligence, integrity, self-respect or worth.

This trend could be a doorway into something deeper: a conversation about lineage and the various embodiments of Black style. It could be a moment to unpack the rebellious nature of dandyism and the creativity that has always lived in Black communities. Instead of pitting Nike Techs against quarter-zips, we could ask what both say about the desire to be seen, respected and understood. 

And yes, the man at the center of this moment did joke that he was now a “quarter-zip guy,” and in a sense, he sparked the divide himself. But there is a clear difference between playful self-definition and intentionally stoking discourse concerning the history of Black cultural policing and emotional boundaries for men. But what he framed as a lighthearted shift in personal style was quickly transformed by parts of the internet into a hierarchy, where one look was positioned as more mature, respectable or evolved than the other.

The risk is not the garment — it’s oversimplification. The risk is reducing a community to a single look. Black identity does not conform to a trend cycle. It is not a punchline or a uniform. The most powerful truth remains this: Black people do not move as a monolith. Never have. Never will.

WSN’s Opinion desk strives to publish ideas worth discussing. The views presented in the Opinion desk are solely the views of the writer.

Contact Robin Young at[email protected].