Blood on My Nikes

100 billion dollars. That’s how much sneakers are worth. Almost doubling in net worth since 2016, the retail sneaker industry now occupies one of the most lucrative positions in contemporary style and fashion across the world. With the explosion of “sneaker culture” on both social media and the runway, these constructions of just rubber and canvas have transcended conventional styles of luxury and street, manifesting a culture defined by historical and contemporary elements of sports, hip-hop, and fashion.

Understanding the widespread prevalence of a seemingly newfound sneaker consciousness, however, is to draw the line between trend and a cultural history. While Virgil Abloh’s Nikes and red box logo hoodies boast instant sell out releases and billions of dollars in the resale industry, the foundation of these pieces lies in RUN DMC Adidas and Spike Lee movies. Athlete cosigned basketball shoes, hip hop, and streetwear didn’t suddenly become cool because designers like Ricardo Tischi decided they wanted to work with Nike: the “trend” is rooted in culture. And ever since the 1980s this culture of sneakers has informed the mainstream, but it wasn’t until recently that the saturation of sneaker culture came to dominate the mainstream, manifesting a profound sociopolitical and economic problem.

About 1200 deaths occur every year over coveted sneakers and clothing. 1200 lives, mostly teenagers of color living in rough neighborhoods surrounding major cities like Chicago and New York, taken because the commercialization of limited run clothes and shoes constitutes a cutthroat system of oppression. Companies like Nike and Adidas compete vigorously to win the signing of Kanye or Travis Scott such that they can engage in massive and artful promotions to promote the newest release, and then purposefully produce small quantities only at certain locations to create a feeding frenzy among buyers. But for teenagers living in unsupported neighborhoods, that Supreme Louis Vuitton bag worth nearly 20,000 dollars translates to rent, food, or school, and they’re willing to do anything for it.

The problematization of sneaker culture arrives in the corporate exploitation of these dynamics. Nike and Supreme understand both the social and financial capital they hold, as well as the extreme demand that exists specifically among underprivileged communities, yet they continue to feed the violence. Profits made from these limited releases do not even significantly pad their bottom lines, as most of their gain comes from the sale of more basic running shoes and cross-trainers. But it is the excitement of the limited edition releases, the long lines around the block at midnight, and the mobs of customers as stores open that corporate strategists acknowledge as invaluable branding opportunities for the already globally successful companies.

While not illegal, these marketing tactics prey on already struggling communities, exploiting the influence of sneaker culture and contributing to the further oppression of colored people, often black bodies, for marginal economic and social capital.

Unsurprisingly, little is known about the victimization of these communities, as corporations suppress testimonies by seeking quiet settlements with victims’ families. However, the ultimate truth often remains that the money involved in the shoe business simply drowns out the voices of the oppressed. All the way back in 1990, Sports Illustrated ran a cover story article titled, “Your Sneakers or Your Life.” It told the story of Michael Eugene Thomas, a fifteen-year-old ninth-grader at Meade Senior High School in Anne Arundel County in Maryland, who was found strangled and barefoot in the forest near his school. The inflictor of this attack was a seventeen-year-old classmate at the same school who stole Michael’s Air Jordans in the process. The shoes didn’t even fit him.

However, the ultimate truth often remains that the money involved in the shoe business simply drowns out the voices of the oppressed.

The story of Michael Thomas unfortunately isn’t irregular, but it serves as an example: the same sneakers pictured on that Sports Illustrated cover, Chicago Air Jordan Ones, were re-released by Nike in spring of 2015 as a limited release “vintage” shoe. The Sports Illustrated piece had smeared blood on the hands of Nike executives, but still the shoes sold out in seconds. I would know because I tried to buy them.

For the sneaker industry and the brands that control it, corporate social responsibility isn’t just about using recyclable materials or designing Pride collections to support LGBTQ liberation. The limited release of products with the understanding of dangerously high demand directly saturates and idealizes sneaker culture to exploit the communities from which it originated from. And that’s the problem: sneakers, and the realm of music, film, and identity that define its culture, are inherently political because the exploitation of sneaker culture directly aligns with the exploitation of the underprivileged communities who propelled it into the mainstream.