Professor Grisel Acosta had to define her own version of power dressing, and now she is proud to finally see it all over TV.

At 15, my mother asked me if I wanted a quinceañera. I was very clear that I had no interest in looking frilly for an entire day. I asked to use the money that would have been spent on what I considered a shallow party to, instead, purchase a leather motorcycle jacket. When I bought it at the local Army/Navy surplus store and transformed myself into a queer, Afro-Latinx James Dean, I knew the power of clothing. Whenever I wore it, the jacket worked as a sort of speaker of irreverence, amplifying my actual and metaphorical voice. I could imagine it was the beginning of my bright, badass future, as long as I never turned on the TV. Programs then, such as Murphy Brown and L.A. Law, depicted successful women as incredibly…beige, both in skin tone and apparel. I was neither. There was nothing edgy or vibrant about what they wore.

When I graduated college and tried to build a working-woman’s wardrobe, even if items were the right size, I looked as though I were wearing someone else’s clothing. The then-popular tan or gray suit with footballer-size shoulder pads and a lacy blouse were the equivalent of a Cinderella poufy dress mentality that had been binding my brain since I could read dead-end fairy tales. Even when I tried to conform to whitewashed ideas of professionalism, it seemed only to open the door to comments like, “Oh, you look like a student,” although I suspect these kinds of comments were less about my clothing and more about the body in the clothing. And so, in addition to being excellent at my job, I decided to spend time scouring obscure shops and websites in order to find a way to be professional and colorful, to somehow still have my voice speak through my apparel, even if on occasion that voice made folks around me a little uncomfortable. I got good at it, often finding items from overseas or sites that didn’t last longer than a year, and it still breaks my heart when I think of the excellent digs I got at shops on 8th street in Manhattan that all shut down in the early 2000s. I can’t describe the joy of wearing faux leather leggings, suited for my small frame, with an oversize sweater purchased through an obscure designer in South Korea, a full decade before the trend hit in the U.S., and all for very little money. While some colleagues expected me to mute my voice, both metaphorically and in reality, these clothes were part of what allowed me to feel empowered to speak up at meetings. And the more I spoke up with honesty and sincerity, the better my career went, so kudos to the clothes. Still, I wish it hadn’t been so difficult to find powerful work clothes that suit a bold woman of color. Then, things started to change.

It took 25 years and tireless self-direction, but though I built myself without a model, today I finally feel like I could be as seen on TV. What did it take? More women of color, female-identified queer folk, and size-positive queens in leadership positions. Several television programs—Flack, Twenties, Harlem, and Shrill—show powerful women in breathtaking clothes that imply a creative, cutting-edge mind, and do not kowtow to male-centered ideas of what professional-wear should look like. Dress codes, in school and at work, often reinforce gender-shaming, homophobia, transphobia, or racist ideas about how folks wear their power. Seeing Sophie Okonedo, as Caroline in Flack, lead a public relations meeting, wearing a navy, green, and red striped suit with tiny daisies embroidered all over it, I knew there must be a comet in the sky shifting the very turns of the universe. Her workplace outfits on the show are varied—sleeveless maxi dresses, blazers and tees, formfitting knits—all of which still make her look like THE boss. Yes, her height and voice intimidate, but her wardrobe gives her so much strength. Tell me her red, black, and white outfit in season one, episode two doesn’t make you feel like she would play an incredible Cruella DeVille. Eve, played by Lydia Wilson, keeps up in her patent leather, pink and red combos, and jumpsuits with cutouts that similarly amplify her fearlessness. Their unconventional yet totally professional clothes tout these ideas with booming subwoofers they shall be dancing to whilst cooking a delicious dinner. When Ruth (Genevieve Angelson) is getting ready to reenter the workforce, in season two, she asks Robyn (Anna Paquin) what women wear to work these days. “Do they wear pantsuits?” she asks while fidgeting with, you guessed it, beige pants. Robyn answers, “It’s not the ’80s. Women wear whatever they want.” Amen!

Twenties and Harlem speak similar truth to fashion power. These are programs with women at the center and lots of suits in floral patterns and rich jacquard. Hattie (Jojo T. Gibbs), the main character in Twenties, is just starting in the entertainment industry in Los Angeles, but her patterned button-downs paired with casually luxe jewelry convey knowledge of converging style worlds. Her strategic use of T-shirts with feminist and queer slogans makes clear she has a point of view, is ready to write, and unapologetically needs to be comfortable to do that. The queer flair is elevated when she borrows one of Ida B.’s (Sophina Brown) structured blazers for a film screening. Ida B. is Hattie’s boss for a short time and on-and-off love interest. Her wardrobe consists of perfectly tailored white dresses and pants, and tweed with gold threading. She takes a note from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie in that she doesn’t believe looking powerful means dressing the way men dress. Both she and Hattie take it a step further in demonstrating that being queer and dressing powerfully can take on infinite forms. Women wear whatever they want. Harlem’s Tye (Jerrie Johnson) character is a lesbian with a wardrobe that could be taken from both Hattie’s and Ida’s racks. A tech leader, she makes it clear in no uncertain terms that she does not need the help of a business dinosaur in the series pilot, while wearing an oxblood shirt and navy suit flocked in a huge, lush print of flora and fauna. It’s as if life itself is telling fossils that they are no longer needed.

I give Aidy Bryant, as Annie in Shrill, a shout-out, as well—yes, we can take up space, wear miniskirts, be workplace leaders, and be hot. The fact that the show’s clothing designer had to create the clothes because they didn’t exist is…ugh, but I hope more clothing designers take note. We bring our rainbow selves to the table and make it clear that it is perfectly okay to wear hoops, to wear bright colors, to wear red lipstick, to wear our hair in its natural state, to wear our gender the way we see fit, to wear our power and amplify it.

The professional world has become more colorful because more people like me are in leadership positions: Black, Latinx, queer, size-positive, to be specific. It is about time TV reflected this change. At a meeting for the Mellon Foundation–funded Black, Race, and Ethnic Studies Commission at the City University of New York, with the chancellor, his right-hand person, arguably the most powerful woman at the institution, was wearing an emerald leather motorcycle jacket at the table across from me. (I was in a sapphire suit, in case you’re wondering.) When I asked her about the jacket, she said it was her go-to “blazer.” Echoes of my childhood leather jacket made my eyes heart emoji. It was as if she forcefully took Cinderella’s slipper and threw it up, both impractical glass footwear and ceiling smashed to beautiful bits, the iridescent shards reflecting every color found in nature.

Grisel Y. Acosta, PhD, is an Afro-Latinx, queer full professor at the City University of New York-BCC. She is the author of Things to Pack on the Way to Everywhere, a 2020 finalist for the Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize, and the editor of the Routledge anthology, Latina Outsiders Remaking Latina Identity. Select work is in VIDA: Women in Literary Arts, Women's Media Center, Salon, Best American Poetry, The Baffler, Split this Rock, The Acentos Review, Platform Review, Speculative Fiction for Dreamers: A Latinx Anthology, NOMBONO: Speculative Poetry by BIPOC Poets, and The Future of Black: Afrofuturism, Black Comics, and Superhero Poetry. She is a Geraldine Dodge Foundation Poet, a Macondo Fellow, and creative writing editor at Chicana/Latina Studies Journal.

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