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The BKLYN Fashion Academy had its first fashion show. The looks are fierce.

"The diversity in this program allowed the work to speak for itself and shows that talent has no color."

A new fashion academy in Brooklyn is focusing on designers and models of color.

All photos courtesy of the Brooklyn Public Library.

The BKLYN Fashion Academy is a 12-week intensive program that provides 15 aspiring womenswear designers with the necessary tools to succeed in the fashion industry.

Leading the charge on the program's design and curriculum is Brooklyn Library Outreach Specialist Lynnsie Augustin. She developed the program not only to create a space to feature the designers' work, but also to provide them with the business knowledge and skills necessary to succeed in such a highly competitive industry.

"The BKLYN Fashion Academy became a way for designers to learn all they needed to know to go into business for themselves, as well as provide a space where they could work on their designs and have a stage where they could show them off," writes Augustin in an email.      

Organized by the Brooklyn Public Library, the program has truly taken off. In addition to providing students with education and tools, the program culminated in the stunning Mode En Couleur Runway Show at the historic Brooklyn Library.

Bklyn Fashion Academy Mode En Couleur Runyway Show

We do not own the rights to this music.

Posted by BPL Business & Career Center on Friday, May 11, 2018

Designers showcased all their hard work on the runway to a packed house.

The result? Incredible designs.

The show was inspired by "Les Sapeurs," a Congolese subculture in which individuals committed to the cult of style amid widespread poverty walk the streets dressed to the nines.

"When this program was created, I wanted to incorporate an aspect of fashion that people may not know about," says Augustin. "It gave the designers a chance to do some research on Les Sapeurs and learn about another area of the world that is dedicated to innovative fashion and creativity. It was a chance to bring awareness and to inspire more creativity."

Designer Sharufa Rashied-Walker believes that this theme could've only happened at a program like the BKLYN Fashion Academy, where diversity and art that reflects people of color are championed.

"There was a sense of security and safety in that space, and it was definitely noncompetitive and loving, and you felt the support," says Rashied-Walker. "[The leadership] definitely made it very clear that they were here to support and to cultivate what we needed and what we wanted. And I think that that was something very special. I've never personally experienced anything like that before, and I think it definitely was indicative of the fact that it was a majority of color collective."

Rashied-Walker, who switched to fashion after a corporate career, found a place of creativity and freedom of expression when surrounded by students that largely looked like her. Yet the students were selected simply by the contents of their applications, not by what they themselves looked like.

"The BKLYN Fashion Academy was open to all residents of Brooklyn and the selection process was made based on applications and sample garments, so we never got to see the designers' faces until after they were accepted and came to orientation," says Augustin. "I would say the diversity in this program allowed the work to speak for itself and shows that talent has no color."

Judging by the incredible designs, it's clear that the work speaks to the talent and brilliance of the students — a welcome shift in the fashion industry.

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Sick of homophobia at the barbershop, she responded by buying a pair of scissors.

Dez Marshall first cut her hair short in high school.  It was a look she loved for herself, and one she had to fight for when she decided to try out a new barbershop in college.

Photo by Dez Marshall. Images used with permission.

"I was trying to explain to them that I just want something really low, wanted a nice shape-up, and the barber was like, ‘Oh, you want the lesbian haircut?'" Marshall said.

It wasn't the first time she felt uncomfortable in a barber's chair, and it wouldn't be the last.

"Being a woman, being queer, there’s a lot of weird questions that different barbers would ask me that just felt really invasive."

Marshall graduated and moved to New York City, where she found a job as an organizer — mentoring queer youth of color and advocating for their safety and access to public spaces. As she got to know her colleagues, she was struck by how many of them had similar stories: encounters with well-meaning but clueless stylists who were confused when their requests didn't match the stylist's own expectations about how they should want to look. Prurient questions about their dating lives. Dirty looks from other customers.

Marshall decided to take matters into her own hands — and bought herself a pair of clippers.

Marshall began cutting hair in 2013 with the goal of offering her queer, trans, and gender-nonconforming customers a stylish, no-drama trim.

Marshall at barber school in 2013. Photo by Dez Marshall/Instagram.

She currently works at The Gamesman — an established barbershop on Court Street in downtown Brooklyn — where her predominately young, LGBTQ clients mix comfortably with a large contingent of old-timers.

Marshall, initially nervous that friction might develop with the shop's older clientele, attributes her success at integrating to her former boss, Frank Shami, who passed away in August.

"Frank was very old-school, but Frank also lived by this code of: You respect people and people respect you," Marshall said.

Marshall quickly established herself at The Gamesman, with Shami as mentor, talking up her skills and frequently complimenting her clients' cuts. Though she sometimes argues politics with the other customers in the shop, Marshall says her fellow barbers and most of the regulars have embraced her presence there — and more importantly, have made room for her clients to be themselves and chat openly about their lives without judgment.

Marshall and client Milo. Photo by Dez Marshall/Facebook.

"It always makes everything easier when you don’t have to fight or prove to someone that you belong in the space," she said. "Frank just welcomed everybody. That made my job a lot easier."

With Shami's death, Marshall plans to move from The Gamesman to Colleen's House of Beauty, a few blocks away.

"It’s hard for me to remember my pre-Dez haircut time," said Emmett Findley, one of Marshall's long-time clients.

Growing up in Michigan, Findley, who identifies as trans, often struggled to reconcile his gender identity with his outward appearance, which he felt "didn't match up." He found Marshall through a Facebook networking group for LGBTQ New Yorkers after moving to Brooklyn eight years ago, and he credits her for finally giving him the haircut that he "wanted but didn’t even know that I wanted."

"The more masculine a haircut for me, the more masculine I can present, which is what I’m going for," Findley said. "It can help me feel safe in spaces where, historically, I haven’t felt so safe."

Emmett Findley, with post-Marshall hair. Photo by Emmett Findley.

Working with a barber who understands that, he said, helps him feel confident in his presentation and experience. Since finding Marshall, getting his hair cut, which was something he only used to do when necessary, has become a source of enjoyment for the Brooklynite.

“Now I go really regularly. It’s a form of my own personal self-care. I go every two weeks without fail. I put it in my budget."

Though Marshall will "cut anybody that wants to sit in her chair" — she sees a number of straight, cis clients as well — creating a nonjudgmental space for her LGBTQ customers to let their guard down is a critical part of her work.

"It’s really nice to enter a community space where you feel seen and your voice matters," Findley said.

Marshall said she takes special care to ask new clients for their preferred gender pronouns, how they want their hair to look, and about what sort of experiences they've had with past barbers or stylists to ensure she doesn't repeat mistakes. Conversations with customers are often "surface level" at first, but her goal as those relationships develop and deepen for the 20 to 40 minutes they're in her chair is to make her clients feel safe discussing everything from their relationships to struggles with their gender identity to medical treatments.

That sense of openness and intimacy, she said, can be hard for her LGBTQ clients to find — not just in barbershops and salons, but in too many spaces, public and private.

"[As] you start seeing these people on a weekly basis or a monthly basis for a year or more, you become part of each others' lives in different ways," Marshall said. "And no one should have to censor their lives because others might feel uncomfortable."

Making room for those conversations and helping her clients achieve looks that boost their confidence, Marshall said, is why she sees cutting hair as an extension of her advocacy for her community — one that allows her to make a real difference in people's lives.

Marshall with a client. Photo by Dez Marshall/Facebook.

"As an organizer, you can be working for years and never achieve a win on the issues that you’re organizing around. With cutting hair, I achieve a win after every single client."

For her customers, the appeal is even more obvious.

"I get complimented all the time on my hair, and I’m glad to have that on record," Findley said.

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This community is battling crime using jail as a last resort. And it's working.

Pauline Nevins considered getting a tattoo of her mother's phone number so the police would be able to identify her body.

It wasn't a normal thought. At least not the normal she desperately wanted to be. But in the throes of addiction, it made perfect sense.

All images via Upworthy/YouTube.

Nevins was addicted to heroin and crack cocaine and had been for over a decade. She'd spent time in jail but couldn't get clean. In November 2014, Nevins was homeless and living on the roof of a building when she was arrested.

Nevins had hit bottom. But a judge offered her a lifesaving opportunity.

He offered her a chance to go to treatment at a rehab facility. Nevins accepted, mostly to get fed and stay warm, but she quickly realized this was her chance to find the fulfillment and consistency she longed for.

Then and there, she made the commitment to save her life.

The judge who helped her get back on track was the Hon. Alex Calabrese, the presiding judge at Red Hook Community Justice Center.

Founded in 2000, the Red Hook Community Justice Center is a community court for civil, family, and criminal cases from Red Hook, a neighborhood in southwest Brooklyn, New York. Cases are heard by a single judge, Calabrese, who operates his courtroom out of an old, remodeled Catholic school.

Calabrese (center) at work in his courtroom.

Red Hook Community Justice Center is different from most courtrooms because jail and prison are no longer the first, last, or only options.

Instead Calabrese works with professionals to offer mental health treatment, drug rehab, community restoration projects (sweeping, painting over graffiti), and even support groups. There are also social workers on staff to help offenders find and access appropriate resources like GED classes and therapy.


This isn't just a job for Calabrese; it's a chance to improve lives and better the community.

"We give people the opportunity to do the work, but they're the ones that have to do the work," Calabrese told Upworthy. "And then I get to see the power of the human spirit in the courtroom because it's amazing how far people can come back and get themselves to a place where they're addressing their needs."

And the center is more than courthouse. It's a hub for community involvement. Residents can access housing resources, take classes and workshops, get information about community service projects, and attend community events.

The Community Justice Center, along with improved transportation and economic and commercial revitalization, have helped Red Hook, a neighborhood once dubbed "the crack capital of America," turn a real corner.

And many former offenders, including Pauline Nevins, have made the most of their second chance.

She completed treatment and became a drug counselor.

And she's stayed close with the judge who got her on the right track.

"Pauline is an amazing person," Calabrese said. "And I've always told her that she's in the best position to tell other people what they need to do, and to understand how difficult it is, because she's been there."

The unlikely friends even took a selfie together.

It sits at her mother's house. The same mother who used to fear every late-night phone call now talks to her daughter all the time — the same mother who beams with pride when she thinks of how far her daughter has come.

Because programs like this don't just save daughters. They save fathers, grandkids, neighbors, friends, families, and entire communities. They give everyone another shot.

See Nevins and Calabrese's story in this inspiring Upworthy Original:

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Chess can have a huge impact on students' lives. Just ask the first black grandmaster.

Brownsville is one of New York City's worst neighborhoods for poverty and crime.

But on one spring morning, the gymnatorium at PS 446 was overflowing with energy, packed with eager elementary students in their matching uniforms, all buzzing with excitement. Their howls and cheers filled the cavernous space, bouncing off the basketball backboards and shaking the school's crumbling foundation as the sound swelled to a cacophonous crescendo, and the chess team came charging down the stairs and —

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Yes, "chess team." You read that right.

Photo by Pedro Armestre/Stringer/Getty Images.

The guests of honor at this school-wide pep rally were heading to the National Elementary Chess Championships in Nashville. For some of them, their parents had never even left Brooklyn.

"A large piece of the achievement gap between lower and middle income students has to do with these kind of experiences," Meghan Dunn, the school's principal, told Upworthy. 

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Full disclosure: She's also my big sister. But it doesn't take familial bias to see the incredible advantages of rooks, pawns, and queens.

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“The only time that some of these kids are calm is when they're sitting at the chessboard," said Michael O'Gara, a teacher at PS 446 who oversees the Chess Club. "Their confidence is higher too. They're always being told they suck, someone on the playground or on the street saying 'I'm better than you.' But this is something where they can take pride."

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And they should be proud — in one category, their team ranked 22nd out of 50, which meant that each student got to bring a trophy home. (There were hundreds of teams overall.) That's a pretty big deal in a neighborhood with a median annual income of less than $16,000, and where less than one-third of the predominantly black population has a high school diploma.

Photo by Tim Boyle/Getty Images.

What's more, they've managed to make the Chess Club cool.

Even without the pep rallies, the Chess Club at PS 446 is treated more like a varsity sports team, according to Mr. O'Gara. That could be why the team has doubled in size since it started in fall 2012.

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Students even sacrifice their time on weekends to travel all across New York City to compete in competitions organized by Chess-in-the-Schools, a nonprofit organization that promotes chess for academic achievement in inner city schools. It's hard enough to get low-income students to school during the week; getting anyone to go from Brooklyn to Staten Island on a weekend is practically unheard of.

Photo by Pedro Armestre/Stringer/Getty Images.

Chess might sound like an unlikely escape for these students. But it worked for another Brownsville resident: Maurice Ashley.

You might recognize his name from a recent viral video where he totally owns a trash-talkin' hustler in a chess match in Washington Square Park.

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Ashley was born in Jamaica and emigrated to Brooklyn with his family when he was 12 years old. Growing up, he would watch his older brother play chess with friends, and while he understood the basic gist of it, it was never something he considered seriously.

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But that all changed in high school, after a friendly game with a classmate at Brooklyn Tech. As he said in an interview with Mashable, "A friend of mine was playing chess. I remembered the rules from Jamaica. I played him; I was a pretty smart kid and thought I'd beat him, and he crushed me."

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Intent on a rematch, he picked up a book on the game in hopes of learning a few tricks ... and he was hooked for life.

Maurice Ashley, right, playing chess in Union Square. Screenshot from Mashable/YouTube.

In 1999, Maurice Ashley was awarded the rare distinction of International Chess Grandmaster — making him the first black man to earn the title.

At the time, there were fewer than 500 grandmasters in the world, although there have been at least two other black grandmasters recognized since then. "African continent GMs do exist; but, according to the system of racial classification, I am the first black GM in history," he clarified in an interview with the U.S. Chess Federation. "It matters, and doesn't matter, all at the same time."

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But it wasn't just the color of his skin that set him apart from his peers. Where most chess masters are characterized as self-serious intellectual introverts, Ashley was always been outgoing and loves to share his passion for the game. ''There are not many Maurice Ashleys," said Allen Kaufman, the former executive director for Chess-in-the-Schools. "The typical grandmaster is an introvert and spends his time studying and playing rather than teaching kids.''

That's why Ashley opened the Harlem Chess Center — just six months after becoming a grandmaster.

While he was still on the path to grandmasterdom, Ashley had spent nearly a decade teaching chess as a part of the Harlem Educational Activities Fund, and he decided it was time to give back, knowing firsthand the value of the game's rewards.

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Also, he just loved the kids. As he told Mashable:

"Chess changes lives. I've coached kids in Harlem, in Brooklyn, in circumstances that are not easy. ... I've watched those exact same kids take the benefits of chess, whether it be critical thinking, better problem-solving, better concentration, better focus, and gone on to top universities around the country, to great jobs and careers."

Photo by Chris Hondros/Getty Images.

Ashley's right. Chess might be a game, but it also helps people overcome when life feels like a stalemate.

If you’ve never played, give it a try. If you know how, teach someone else.

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It doesn't matter if you live in Brooklyn or Boise — the simple elegance of the game can teach us  all about important skills like perseverance, strategy, focus, and even teamwork (which is particularly remarkable, considering it's a one-on-one game).

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And for those people who aren't even sure where their next meal is coming from, it shows them that a few lost pieces aren't the end of the game.

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Here's a video of Maurice Ashley offering some awesome advice for life, and for chess:

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