
Not your grandparents' City Council: Chicago aldermen less aligned with 5th floor
When Ald. Scott Waguespack started his City Council career as an opponent of Mayor Richard M. Daley, it was mostly at the wrong end of a bunch of lopsided votes.
But his days as one of five aldermen who said no to Daley's infamous parking meter deal or a quixotic early thorn to Mayor Rahm Emanuel are long gone.
Now, when the Northwest Side alderman butts heads with Mayor Brandon Johnson, he is often one of many across a relatively broad political spectrum, and sometimes he even gets his way.
'You see more accountability and more responsibility that's shared now than in the past,' he said. 'I think you're seeing people kind of trust in each other.'
It's a sea change that grew under Mayor Lori Lightfoot, and is gaining momentum in City Hall with Johnson: The City Council, long derided as a mayoral puppet, is increasingly operating independent of the fifth floor.
The shift follows the demise of Chicago's infamous machine politics. It also tracks with the ascension of the aldermanic Progressive Caucus and the 'Common Sense Caucus' formed in part to oppose it, both shifting groups that bring more ideological force into debates.
As the City Council changes, some aldermen lament a decline in decorum and a heightened willingness to impede opponents by any means as harmful to progress. But others view the growing pains as a worthwhile price for what they hope will become permanent independence.
'Under Lightfoot we were toddlers,' Ald. Andre Vasquez said. 'Under Johnson, we are teenagers.'
Three days before his 2025 budget finally passed after tense negotiations, Johnson acknowledged a 'seismic shift' at City Hall.
'Look, I'm the first person to admit that the mayor's office, as well as City Council, won't be our grandparents' mayor's office or City Council,' he said. He touted aldermanic diversity and rejected the 'monolithic' approach of the past, though at the start of his term he squashed an attempt by some aldermen to control who got what leadership roles.
Aldermen and City Hall-focused experts have seen the ongoing transformation too.
'Johnson is either losing votes or having to make major changes,' said Dick Simpson, a former alderman who strongly criticized Mayor Richard J. Daley's agenda.
For years, Daley's powerful Democratic Party machine ruled Chicago through patronage. By Mayor Harold Washington's time in office, however, white machine aldermen organized to powerfully oppose the city's first Black executive.
Richard M. Daley rebuilt the 'rubber stamp' by amassing enough political and financial power to threaten or cajole recalcitrant aldermen to back his agenda, holding out the carrot of projects for their wards or the stick of an opponent in their next election campaign to help seal the deal. It largely held under Emanuel, who was quick to use his clout to bring aldermen in line.
But it became 'crystal clear' under Lightfoot that the City Council 'buried its rubber stamp and has become a legislative body,' Simpson, a retired University of Illinois Chicago political science professor, wrote in one of his many reports studying how closely aldermen align with mayors.
Johnson's half-completed term 'so far has shown an even greater degree of conflict,' the team carrying on his research wrote in a soon-to-publish book excerpt.
The change follows the rise of the Progressive Caucus, a once-fledging cohort that now boasts 19 aldermen and a powerful hand, lead researcher Kumar Ramanathan said.
As progressive power grew in the decade since the caucus was founded, a growth highlighted by Johnson's victory, a similarly-sized loose coalition — the unofficial, self-dubbed Common Sense Caucus — emerged in part to oppose it.
Northwest Side Ald. Nick Sposato, now one of the body's most conservative members, joined the Progressive Caucus after he defeated machine-backed Ald. John Rice in 2011. He left the caucus in 2016 and teased current members after the November election with Donald Trump flags affixed to his wheelchair. Waguespack was head of the Progressive Caucus for years but has often aligned with the 'Common Sense' group's opposition.
The two groups are difficult, if not impossible, to map onto the typical left-right American political spectrum, in part because aldermen often join forces due to political expediency, ethnic background or geographic particulars rather than ideological agreement. The Progressive Caucus includes many progressives and several Democratic Socialists, and the Common Sense group counts among its members several centrists and the City Council's most conservative members.
Those two coalitions are shifting forces that show up differently at each vote, and many aldermen fit neither. A large bloc remains primarily focused not on legislating at City Hall, but on providing ward services, said Ramanathan, a UIC postdoctoral scholar who is active in several progressive community groups.
But the emergence of two poles in the City Council, albeit messy ones, has given aldermen footing to have debates outside the old with-mayor, against-mayor paradigm, Ramanathan said. He pointed to Johnson's decision to remain neutral during recent votes on whether to ban the sale of new fur products or lower the city's speed limit.
'You are starting to see the legislative process emerge independently from the mayor,' Ramanathan said, adding that he believes the split would have continued regardless of who won the last mayoral election.
This City Council's makeup at first offered Johnson a great deal of middle ground with aldermen. As several pieces of major progressive legislation passed early in the term, 'it felt like we had the keys to the car,' Ald. Desmon Yancy said.
'The Blackest, gayest, most Latino, most progressive council,' Yancy said. 'What happened?'
The opposition Johnson faces has been led by many centrist and conservative aldermen. They argue it has more to do with him than any permanent shift, often citing his progressive views and failure to communicate with them.
But even winning over the Progressive Caucus more closely aligned with his agenda has been a challenge. Last year, each member of the group voted against Johnson's proposed property tax hike for the 2025 budget when aldermen struck it down in a remarkable 50-0 decision, and many have hit him with strong public criticism.
Vasquez argued the varying support from progressives is a response to the issue-specific stances voters expect them to hold onto, even when that means breaking with the fifth floor.
'The people who voted for us are also progressive, but they also want effective, good government, and they're not seeing that,' the Progressive Caucus co-chair said.
It also could be a reflection of the headwinds Johnson faces with voters and well-funded political groups. Even the most ideologically strident alderman becomes a political pragmatist if he thinks tying himself to an unpopular mayor could hurt his own reelection prospects.
Vasquez, often a Johnson critic who recently became chair of the aldermanic Latino Caucus, took part last fall in a small, informal group that sought to steer the city's troubled budget amid gridlock. He called them the 'Sensibles.'
Aldermen have also been more willing to use procedural powers to impede opponents. Legislative underdogs have been quick to 'defer and publish' ordinances set to face a final vote or send newly introduced ordinances they disagree with to the Rules Committee.
The tactics can delay votes and discussion by weeks or months. Johnson allies have recently used such moves to stall a vote on a teen curfew, while mayoral opponents used them to hold up his 'green social housing' and 'cumulative impact' ordinances.
Waguespack said ordinances have been tanked that way more than ever before in his five terms. He said the process makes the whole council look 'ridiculous' and likened it to plumbing taking sewage away.
'It's like everything goes into a whirlpool,' Waguespack said. 'It all gets mushed together. And then flushed out of sight.'
Such 'political gamesmanship' has become more common, according to the body's longest-serving member, Vice Mayor Ald. Walter Burnett.
Burnett, who endorsed runoff candidate Paul Vallas in the 2023 mayoral election but has proved to be one of Johnson's best allies, argued the apparent aldermanic independence is often inspired by a desire not to legislate, but to politically damage Johnson.
'I wish people would work more on getting things done than doing politics,' he said. 'Some of the stuff that they go against or try to procedurally stop is good stuff, it's just that they just don't want the mayor to get a win.'
Like others aligned with Johnson, Burnett often likens the current moment to the Council Wars of the 1980s, when a majority bloc of white aldermen blocked Mayor Washington's every move. But while Johnson faces committed, combative opposition, there is no commensurate bloc of votes large enough to consistently thwart him.
When they aren't using procedure to spar, aldermen are also more frequently turning to piercing words, like when Ald. Byron Sigcho-Lopez appeared to call Ald. Bill Conway a 'white supremacist' during a February debate over a controversial pro-Palestinian puppet. Moments later, after he was kicked out of the meeting, Sigcho-Lopez apologized and said he had called the debate, not his colleague, 'white supremacist.'
The most recent harsh exchange occurred last month after the fatal shooting of two Washington, D.C., Israeli Embassy employees by a Chicago man. Ald. Raymond Lopez posted a photo online that he insinuated showed Johnson and progressive aldermen posing with the shooter, captioning it 'birds of a feather.'
When Ald. Rossana Rodriguez-Sanchez confirmed the photo actually showed one of her staffers, not the shooter, and asked for an apology, Lopez doubled down on his argument that stances of City Hall progressives had caused the shooting. Rodriguez-Sanchez sent a cease-and-desist letter to Lopez, who also recently suggested in a social media post that the mayor should be arrested for Chicago's immigration policies.
Ald. Matt O'Shea said he now often finds himself 'embarrassed to say I'm a member of the City Council' because of episodes like that.
'You give people an excuse to not vote when this is what we have representing us. We don't have people who have opposite viewpoints sitting down, negotiating, trying to find compromise,' he said. 'It's really frustrating at times with this group, with an unwillingness to lay down your weapons.'
O'Shea also criticized 'an utter lack of involvement' from some aldermen who do not engage in shaping legislation, including from aldermen like him who regularly disagree with Johnson.
'If you're just going to be a no vote about anything this mayor or any other mayor has, then let's just be a straight shooter and say 'I don't like this guy. I'm going back to my neighborhood to say I fought everything,'' he said. 'But don't pretend like 'I wanted to work with you.''
The division on display in the City Council was there before behind closed doors, Ald. Matt Martin argued. But it is now more out in the open and 'principled,' he said.
Past aldermen were focused on the 'minutiae' of their community and happy to defer on citywide issues to mayors, he said. Many of those nuts-and-bolts ward-level services like trash pickup, tree trimming and pothole repair are now centralized through citywide street grid planning and the 311 service request system.
'Increasingly, I don't think that we're in a position where we can just defer to what a department or what the mayor's office proposes,' he said. 'And I don't think it, at the end of the day, matters who is the mayor.'
Echoing the reform-oriented alderman's optimism, Ramanathan called the trend of aldermen more strongly shaping legislation 'healthy for democracy.' As debates revolve less around the mayor, aldermen are more responsive to other influences, like labor unions, he said.
The 'simpler time' of commanding mayors is over for now, and things would not be the same as they once were even if Richard M. Daley could be plucked from the past and put into power, he said.
'It can feel difficult because it's new and unusual,' Ramanathan said. 'But if we want to have a politics that isn't dominated by one person and one office, then I think it's important for us to all build the habits of legislation that isn't filtered through the mayor's office.'
Early last month, Johnson, who has cast three rare tie-breaker votes and come close to issuing the first veto in decades, likened dealing with dissenters to being at a Thanksgiving dinner, where there is sometimes disagreement on what to make.
'There are a few family members that I wish would stop bringing things,' he joked. 'Mayor Johnson is not solely responsible for all of the success, no more than am I responsible for all the challenges, but we are all responsible.'
Some aldermen want a better seat. Several are toying with the idea of formally taking more power from the mayor in permanent ways.
Ald. Marty Quinn is pushing an ordinance that would require city bonds to be approved with a two-thirds majority vote, a far higher council threshold for the mayor to meet than the current simple majority.
'If we are serious about being co-equal, that's the way it should be,' he said. 'Long after I'm gone and Mayor Johnson is gone, this is a good precedent.'
Still, Quinn called the council's movement toward independence 'baby steps,' not 'leaps.' Some aldermen are eyeing a bigger jump.
Ald. Gilbert Villegas is trying to build support for Chicago to install a city charter clarifying aldermanic and mayoral powers. Such a charter could give aldermen new tools to vet laws or shape budgets and would likely remove mayors from their role presiding over City Council meetings, he said.
'The City Council is not armed and doesn't have the proper staff and tools necessary to be the co-equal branch to the executive,' Villegas said. 'This is a structure in order to make sure there's an equal playing level for both.'
And as aldermen weigh locking in more powers for the council, the pushback Johnson may face from mayoral hopefuls could rise as the 2027 election approaches.
Conway, like several of his colleagues, is rumored to be weighing a mayoral bid. He has raised over $342,000 this year in campaign contributions, according to his latest filings. Asked if he is running, he said he is focused on the current moment.
He thinks it will be hard for Johnson to pass a budget next year amid what he sees as a leadership vacuum and a lack of aldermanic trust in the mayor marked by 'just a whole lot of water under that bridge.'
'That void cannot go unfilled. So, City Council will have to fill it,' Conway said. 'If the mayor's office can't get it over the finish line, we are gonna have to find a way.'

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A Border Patrol agent died in 2009. His widow is still fighting a backlogged US program for benefits
When her husband died after a grueling U.S. Border Patrol training program for new agents, Lisa Afolayan applied for the federal benefits promised to families of first responders whose lives are cut short in the line of duty. Sixteen years later, Afolayan and her two daughters haven't seen a penny, and program officials are defending their decisions to deny them compensation. She calls it a nightmare that too many grieving families experience. 'It just makes me so mad that we are having to fight this so hard,' said Afolayan, whose husband, Nate, had been hired to guard the U.S. border with Mexico in southern California. 'It takes a toll emotionally, and I don't think they care. To them, it's just a business. They're just pushing paper.' Afolayan's case is part of a backlog of claims plaguing the fast-growing Public Safety Officers' Benefits Program. Hundreds of families of deceased and disabled officers are waiting years to learn whether they qualify for the life-changing payments, and more are ultimately being denied, an Associated Press analysis of program data found. The program is falling far short of its goal of deciding claims within one year. Nearly 900 have been pending for longer than that, triple the number from five years earlier, in a backlog that includes cases from nearly every state, according to AP's review, which was based on program data through late April. More than 120 of those claims have been in limbo for at least five years, and roughly a dozen have languished for a decade. 'That is just outrageous that the person has to wait that long,' said Charlie Lauer, the program's general counsel in the 1980s. 'Those poor families.' Justice Department officials, who oversee the program, acknowledge the backlog. They say they're managing a surge in claims — which have more than doubled in the last five years — while making complicated decisions about whether cases meet legal criteria. In a statement, they said 'claims involving complex medical and causation issues, voluminous evidence and conflicting medical opinions take longer to determine, as do claims in various stages of appeal.' It acknowledged a few cases "continue through the process over ten years.' Program officials wouldn't comment on Afolayan's case. Federal lawyers are asking an appeals court for a second time to uphold their denials, which blame Nate's heat- and exertion-related death on a genetic condition shared by millions of mostly Black U.S. citizens. Supporters say Lisa Afolayan's resilience in pursuing the claim has been remarkable, and grown in significance as training-related deaths like Nate's have risen. 'Your death must fit in their box, or your family's not going to be taken care of,' said Afolayan, of suburban Dallas. Their daughter, Natalee, was 3 when her father died. She recently completed her first year at the University of Texas, without the help of the higher education benefits the program provides. Congress created the Public Safety Officers' Benefits program in 1976, providing a one-time $50,000 payout as a guarantee for those whose loved ones die in the line of duty. The benefit was later set to adjust with inflation; today it pays $448,575. The program has awarded more than $2.4 billion. Early on, claims were often adjudicated within weeks. But the complexity increased in 1990, when Congress extended the program to some disabled officers. A 1998 law added educational benefits for spouses and children. Since 2020, Congress has passed three laws expanding eligibility — to officers who died after contracting COVID-19, first responders who died or were disabled in rescue and cleanup operations from the September 2001 attacks, and some who die by suicide. Today, the program sees 1,200 claims annually, up from 500 in 2019. The wait time for decisions and rate of denials have risen alongside the caseload. Roughly one of every three death and disability claims were rejected over the last year. U.S. Sen. Ted Cruz and other Republicans recently introduced legislation to require the program to make determinations within 270 days, expressing outrage over the case of an officer disabled in a mass shooting who's waited years for a ruling. Similar legislation died last year. One group representing families, Concerns of Police Survivors, has expressed no such concerns about the program's management. The Missouri-based nonprofit recently received a $6 million grant to continue its longstanding partnership with the Justice Department to serve deceased officers' relatives — including providing counseling, hosting memorial events and assisting with claims. 'We are very appreciative of the PSOB and their work with survivor benefits,' spokesperson Sara Slone said. 'Not all line-of-duty deaths are the same and therefore processing times will differ.' Born in Nigeria, Nate Afolayan moved to California with relatives at age 11. He became a U.S. citizen and graduated from California State University a decade later. Lisa met Nate while they worked together at a juvenile probation office. They talked, went out for lunch and felt sparks. 'The next thing you know, we were married with two kids,' she said. He decided to pursue a career in law enforcement once their second daughter was born. Lisa supported him, though she understood the danger. He spent a year working out while applying for jobs and was thrilled when the Border Patrol declared him medically fit; sent him to Artesia, New Mexico, for training; and swore him in. Nate loved his 10 weeks at the academy, Lisa said, despite needing medical treatment several times — he was shot with pepper spray in the face and became dizzy during a water-based drill. His classmates found him to be a natural leader in elite shape and chose him to speak at graduation, they recalled in interviews with investigators. He prepared a speech with the line, 'We are all warriors that stand up and fight for what's right, just and lawful." But on April 30, 2009 — days before the ceremony — a Border Patrol official called Lisa. Nate, 29, had fainted after his final training run and was hospitalized. It was dusty and 88 degrees in the high desert that afternoon. Agents had to complete the 1.5-mile run in 13 minutes, at an altitude of 3,400 feet. Nate had warned classmates it was too hot to wear their black academy shirts, but they voted to do so anyway, records show. Nate, 29, finished in just over 11 minutes but then struggled to breathe and collapsed. Now Nate was being airlifted to a Lubbock, Texas, hospital for advanced treatment. Lisa booked a last-minute flight, arriving the next day. A doctor told her Nate's organs had shut down and they couldn't save his life. The hospital needed permission to end life-saving efforts. One nurse delivered chest compressions; another held Lisa tightly as she yelled: 'That's it! I can't take it anymore!' Lisa became a single mother. The girls were 3 and 1. Her only comfort, she said, was knowing Nate died living his dream — serving his adopted country. When she first applied for benefits, Lisa included the death certificate that listed heat illness as the cause of Nate's death. The aid could help her family. She'd been studying to become a nurse but had to abandon that plan. She relied on Social Security survivors' benefits and workers' compensation while working at gyms as a trainer or receptionist and dabbling in real estate. The program had paid benefits for a handful of similar training deaths, dating to a Massachusetts officer who suffered heat stroke and dehydration in 1988. But program staff wanted another opinion on Nate's death. They turned to outside forensic pathologist Dr. Stephen Cina. Cina concluded the autopsy overlooked the 'most significant factor': Nate carried sickle cell trait, a condition that's usually benign but has been linked to rare exertion-related deaths in military, sports and law enforcement training. Cina opined that exercising in a hot climate at high altitude triggered a crisis in which Nate's red blood cells became misshapen, depriving his body of oxygen. Cina, who stopped consulting for the benefits program in 2020 after hundreds of case reviews, declined to comment. Nate learned he had the condition, carried by up to 3 million U.S. Black citizens, after a blood test following his second daughter's birth. The former high school basketball player had never experienced any problems. A Border Patrol spokesperson declined to say whether academy leaders knew of the condition, which experts say can be managed with precautions such as staying hydrated, avoiding workouts in extreme temperatures and altitudes, and taking rest breaks. Under the benefit program's rules, Afolayan's death would need to be 'the direct and proximate result' of an injury he suffered on duty to qualify. It couldn't be the result of ordinary physical strain. The program in 2012 rejected the claim, saying the hot, dry, high climate was one factor, but not the most important. It had been more than two years since Lisa Afolayan applied and three since Nate's death. Most rejected applicants don't exercise their option to appeal to an independent hearing officer, saying they can't afford attorneys or want to get on with their lives. But Lisa Afolayan appealed with help from a border patrol union. A one-day hearing was held in late 2012. The hearing officer denied her claim more than a year later, saying the 'perfect storm' of factors causing the death didn't include a qualifying injury. Lisa and her daughters moved from California to Texas. They visited the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial in Washington, where they saw Nate's name. Four years passed without an update on the claim. Lisa learned the union had failed to exercise its final appeal, to the program director, due to an oversight. The union didn't respond to AP emails seeking comment. Then she met Suzie Sawyer, founder and retired executive director of Concerns of Police Survivors. Sawyer had recently helped win a long battle to obtain benefits in the death of another federal agent who'd collapsed during training. 'I said, 'Lisa, this could be the fight of your life, and it could take forever,'" Sawyer recalled. "'Are you willing to do it?' She goes, 'hell yes.'' The two persuaded the program to hear the appeal even though the deadline had passed. They introduced a list of similar claims that had been granted and new evidence: A Tennessee medical examiner concluded the hot, dry environment and altitude were key factors causing Nate's organ-system failure. But the program was unmoved. The acting Bureau of Justice Assistance director upheld the denial in 2020. Such rulings usually aren't public, but Lisa fumed as she learned through contacts about some whose deaths qualified, including a trooper who had an allergic reaction to a bee sting, an intoxicated FBI agent who crashed his car, and another officer with sickle cell trait who died after a training run on a hot day. In 2022, Lisa thought she might have finally prevailed when a federal appeals court ordered the program to take another look at her application. A three-judge panel said the program erred by failing to consider whether the heat, humidity and altitude during the run were 'the type of unusual or out-of-the-ordinary climatic conditions that would qualify.' The judges also said it may have been illegal to rely on sickle cell trait for the denial under a federal law prohibiting employers from discrimination on the basis of genetic information. It was great timing: The girls were in high school and could use the monthly benefit of $1,530 to help pay for college. The family's Social Security and workers' compensation benefits would end soon. But the program was in no hurry. Nearly two years passed without a ruling despite inquiries from Afolayan and her lawyer. The Bureau of Justice Assistance director upheld the denial in February 2024, ruling that the climate on that day 15 years earlier wasn't 'unusually adverse.' The decision concluded the Genetic Information Nondiscrimination Act didn't apply since the program wasn't Afolayan's employer. Arnold & Porter, a Washington law firm now representing Afolayan pro bono, has appealed to the Court of Appeals for the Federal Circuit. Her attorney John Elwood said the program has gotten bogged down in minutiae while losing sight of the bigger picture: that an officer died during mandatory training. He said government lawyers are fighting him just as hard, 'if not harder,' than on any other case he's handled. Months after filing their briefs, oral arguments haven't been set.


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Business of Fashion
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In June, a new nonprofit, The Jewelry Edit Foundation, convened a group of industry leaders — including executives from Coach, Tiffany & Co. and Hermès — for a 'Lunch With Purpose.' The agenda: support underrepresented designers through year-round programming with a heavy focus on diversity, equity and inclusion, as well as sustainability. The Jewelry Edit Foundation has its roots in a retail platform of the same name (with a similar values-driven emphasis) founded by the designer Rosena Sammi in 2020, when fashion's promise to stand for something was at its loudest and most urgent. But in the second Trump administration, organisations that put DEI front and centre are increasingly rare, and groups with public backing from major corporations are even rarer. Sammi says the need to plow ahead now is more critical than it has ever been. ADVERTISEMENT 'I want to be surrounded by people brave enough to take action — not stand by on the sidelines,' she said. 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Felita Harris, a former Donna Karan executive, co-founded RAISEFashion in 2020 and is doubling down on its mission to support BIPOC designers. (Courtesy/Courtesy) A few companies have kept up their pre-2024 approach to politics. Outdoor retailer REI and beauty brand Lush Cosmetics have recently doubled down on their DEI commitments — with Lush even using the acronym in product names and marketing. Designer Willy Chavarria in April partnered with the American Civil Liberties Union to launch Creatives for Freedom, which takes on issues like immigrant rights. So why have some brands and creatives continued to press forward when so many others have pulled back? ADVERTISEMENT The motivation is a combination of mission and margin — rooted in the belief that fashion can be a cultural force on issues like race, gender, and immigration, and that marginalised creatives drive the innovation and relevance the industry needs to grow with a new generation of consumers. 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Target — once praised for its swift response in the wake of Floyd's murder in its home city of Minneapolis — backed off its diversity commitments within hours of Donald Trump's inauguration. The URL that once led to a 2020 statement by chief executive Brian Cornell about 'a community in pain' now returns a 404 error. Foot traffic has declined in each of the four months since Target changed its policies, according to In May, Cornell told investors that year-over-year sales were down partly due to the fallout. Meanwhile, plenty of retailers have plowed ahead with their existing DEI policies, sometimes under new names, without facing a backlash from Trump or consumers. The key is to move past the 2020-era reflex to turn everything into a marketing play, experts say. ADVERTISEMENT Lush keeps its internal DEI work mostly under the radar, even as it renamed three of its bestselling bath bombs 'diversity,' 'equity' and 'inclusion' in January. That's because, while the brand is known for its activist campaigns, when it comes to its culture and workforce, 'you should take care of your own house before talking about it externally,' said Amanda Lee Sipenock Fisher, the company's head of DEI and belonging. Lush's cheekily named soaps are a natural way 'to enter the conversation with our products,' Sipenock Fisher said. But it works best when paired with substantive work behind the scenes. 'When you have a DEI programme that first and foremost serves your people, you are tuning in directly to employee engagement,' Sipenock Fisher. 'And we know that employee engagement is an incredible KPI. It is a driver of successful businesses.' Lush's "diversity" bath bomb. (Courtesy/Courtesy) That dual track approach is getting more challenging as the Trump administration puts corporate DEI initiatives under the microscope. 'I've never seen this much external interest in our work,' she said. 'Seeing [DEI] being threatened, rolled back, quieted — that was a moment for employees, consumers and companies to say, 'Wait, there is backlash to the silence.'' Retailers with the most successful DEI programmes today tend to be the ones that were thinking about the topic before 2020. REI formally embedded inclusion into its business strategy nearly two decades ago, Lacasse said. Its partnerships with groups like Outdoor Afro, Black Girls RUN!, and Latino Outdoors are part of a broader strategy that includes investing in inclusive sizing, colour palettes and gender-neutral designs — products that have become some of the company's top performers, Lacasse said. 'This is really about continuity of our brand commitment, our purpose and trust building,' she said. 'We do really believe that when we show up consistently over time, when we centre the voices of our communities and we make equity a shared responsibility, we can really strengthen our position as a brand.' Fashion as a Cultural Force Even as brands face pressure to retreat, fashion's most public-facing moments — red carpets, runways, and campaigns — remain powerful, if inconsistent, signals of inclusion. But 'visibility doesn't equal viability,' Harris pointed out. In other words, fashion has become known for splashy displays of support — like buzzy shows or red-carpet moments featuring BIPOC designers — that often fail to translate into lasting commercial success, like shelf space, wholesale deals or infrastructure investment, Harris said. The Met Gala in May offered mainstream exposure to Black creatives, with LaQuan Smith, Grace Wales Bonner, Ozwald Boateng and Sergio Hudson delivering standout red carpet moments. The spotlight on the Black dandy — a fluid term celebrating expressive, often ostentatious style — landed like a quiet protest in a politically fraught climate. Teyana Taylor, Colman Domingo and Lewis Hamilton at the 2025 Met Gala. (Getty Images) 'The Met Gala shows fashion's power to inspire the masses,' Chavarria said in an email. 'However, that must live beyond the one event and we should use that momentum to elevate voices.' The industry has repeatedly failed to turn these cultural flashes into lasting structural change — whether through sustained investment, leadership opportunities, or shelf space. With a few high-profile exceptions, including Pharrell Williams at Louis Vuitton and Olivier Rousteing at Balmain, designers of colour remain rare in top creative roles. These designers not only continue to be locked out of these top roles — they're also expected to lead the charge for change, often while navigating the very systemic barriers that hinder their progress. Designer Willy Chavarria walks the runway during his Ready to Wear Spring/Summer 2025 fashion show. (Getty Images) 'I don't want Willie [Chavarria] to be the only one who's doing this work, and I also don't want it to always be the person who is in the marginalised community who feels that they have to be the one doing this work,' said Jessica Weitz, national director of artist and entertainment engagement at ACLU. 'There's no question that this industry could not exist without a diverse workplace ... and a diverse group of people who are in the business of buying fashion.' Fashion's influence — its soft power to shape culture and drive progress — has dulled, insiders say, not for lack of rhetoric, but for lack of follow-through. 'Maybe the world is looking at fashion in the same way we [experience it], which is, can fashion be trusted?' said Harris. 'Can it really deliver what it promises? Because how can fashion call for democracy when designers are going out of business? When there's such a lack of Black leadership at the top?' Still, designers like Chavarria say there's power in holding the industry accountable to the ideals it promotes. 'Fashion has always been political, and now it's becoming urgent,' Chavarria said. 'It is a way to resist. Now more than ever, fashion must stand with the communities that have always used it to speak out and be heard.'