Your Suit Will Not Save You

I love you. And because I love you I will critique you.

I love wearing suits. I look good in them. Great in them if I can be honest. I workout. I buy them slim. I get them tailored. I make sure I accessorize — the right watch, chain, glasses. I walk different. Talk different. Feel different.

And yet.

Yet I am not different. I am Jude. The same man who some days had a hard time mustering the energy to shower. The same man whose cleaned bathrooms and served as chauffeur. The same man who didn’t have the money at times to afford a tie, let alone a suit.

I am the same man in a suit or out. And I need the same respect in a suit or out.

I understand the power of seeing men march in suits. The image is striking — backs erect, strides dignified and direct. Reminiscent of the history we were allowed in elementary school. Purposeful. Confident. Engaging, bordering on erotic.

You say you do this to combat stereotypes. That implies that men out of suits are the stereotype. But they are not the stereotype. The are the reality. Half of all African American men in New Orleans are unemployed; I expect the numbers are higher post COVID. The average household income of a Black household is less than $27,000. Household. Not individual. Household. For many reasons — slavery, Jim Crow, redlining, war on drugs, personal responsibility, lack of role models, crooked cops and courts — for all of these reasons many of us do not have the reason to wear a suit. Or the opportunity. Or even the ability.

Are we not men too? Or are we stereotypes that need to be silenced? Do we not try our best? Abide by the law? Raise children? Apply and apply and apply for work?

Are they — we — not worthy to march along side you?

I love you. And because I love you I critique you.

I know you mean well. I’ve seen you grow into a proud leader, and everytime your name comes up behind your back I chuckle and pontificate with pride upon your accomplishments. I always have. I always will.

But love means honesty. Love means directness. Love means correction. And I think this needs correction.

Don’t ask men to come in suits. Ask them to come in their work clothes — suit, janitor’s uniform, cooking apron, garage over-alls. Ask them to march arm in arm, together, unified not by appearance but by purpose. And when you’ve finished marching — After you’ve taken pictures and made your speeches — Help your brothers find a job. Match brothers with mentors. Follow up with resume reviews and opportunities. Offer support or just an ear — no judgement. All are welcome. All together. All men.

I’m not going to tag you. I’m sure someone will forward this to you. That’s fine. That’s the point. This is not shade. This is not hate. I don’t want to embarrass you. I don’t want to demean you or call you out your name. I want to support you. I want to support us. I want to embrace us. Job or not. Wealthy or not. Suit or not.

I love us. And because I love us I know we are enough. We do not need to disprove how they feel about us. They murder us in suits. It does not matter how they feel about us.

It matters how we feel about us. I need us to love us first. Honestly. Arm in arm, hand in hand, side by side, suit next to sweaty shirt.

Or not. It’s your march. Your world. I will love you the same. I will just love you, in this case, from afar.