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As the United States has celebrated the life of civil rights activist Dorothy Height, who recently died at age 98, few folks could resist commenting on her distinctive style. She was known for her formal wardrobe of feminine suits in lush colors and, most specifically, her glorious hats. Across a crowded room — one thick with powerful men in dark suits and political women in conservative uniforms — she was easy to spot. She was the matriarch under the wide, portrait brim; she was the lady in the milliner’s masterpiece of horsehair and peacock feathers.

Her fashion flourishes, as a matter of creativity, longevity and spark, deserve their due. Along with her stylish flair, and some might even say her profound eccentricity, there was also the unmistakable air of dignity. Each time she entered a room, she brought with her a rich lesson in history, discipline and personal responsibility.

Height could have relied solely on a “ladies who lunch” manner of dress, diligently ensuring that her handbag always matched her shoes, and her jewels were unfailingly real. And in truth, there was a regal quality to Height’s style. She could have assembled a wardrobe of business suits, in the manner of so many political women. And certainly, Height’s wardrobe was professional.

But her mission was complicated: It combined business and politics, theater and moral certitude. She had to cajole and debate, charm and speechify. So she dressed in a manner that seemed to combine all those needs. She wore the conservative cuts of Capitol Hill and Wall Street with the ornamentation and color of an impresario who needed to captivate an audience before she could energize it. And she had the hats — the church lady hats — that spoke of fervor and devotion: God-is-good and God-is-great. Her style was distinctive and so was her job.

In a White House statement after her death, President Barack Obama noted that Height “served as the only woman at the highest level of the Civil Rights Movement — witnessing every march and milestone along the way.” She represented not just herself but her gender. On stage, under scrutiny, she had to be all things: feminine, strong, humble, proud. She had to be a presence, but not a distraction. She found a style that served her well when she was marching on the Mall for equality, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and using her quiet elegance as a counterargument to society’s perception that in so many fundamental ways she, as a stand-in for all black women, was not worthy.

Height’s style was captivating because it appeared to be seamless, never wavering, never turning sloppy or half-hearted. The images of her as a young woman standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial look as though they could have been snapped on the steps of a church. She is wearing a hat, of course, a suit, a blouse and a pair of button earrings. Her hair is neatly coiffed. It’s Aug. 28, 1963, in the nation’s capital. Records indicate that the temperature went into the 80s that day, yet she is not alone in her formality. Women in the crowd are neatly turned out in dresses and suits. Men wear jackets and ties. Wouldn’t they have been more comfortable in shirt sleeves and shift dresses? Perhaps.

But they were engaged in serious business. And while they were marching for equal rights — the women in heels, no less — they already had their dignity. Their attire reflected the power and value of what they already possessed.

In her later years, Height often would be the sole woman on the dais or in the spotlight who seemed to have worked so hard and taken such care with her appearance. Her hat would match her suit or coordinate with it just so. The hair would be set. As she got older, this could not have been an easy task. It would be wrong to say that her aesthetic was retro or vintage. It was merely polished and proud.

Her style remained a testament to the fervent belief that even after so many years of activism, she still represented not just herself, but so many others. With each public appearance, Height’s personal story brought history into full focus without her having to say a word.

Height’s clothes didn’t speak of a different time, but rather a different attitude. It’s an attitude that leaves so many elders — and no small number of young people — baffled by the continued affection that some men have for trousers that slide down their hips. What was once a fashion trend has transformed into a cultural indictment that has riled lawmakers, parents and even a president. Their sloppy clothes, inspired by the disenfranchised, declare, “I am not worthy” — of YOUR respect and of SELF-respect.

In contrast, Height had a consistent message: Dignity is reflected in how one dresses. It is determined by whether one chooses to swagger or to shuffle. And by the decision to relinquish one’s fate to others or to declare oneself deserving of something more and better. Height’s clothes were a constant reminder that appearances matter. And bound up in her long fight to see a society that judges each of us by the content of our character comes the lesson that dignity has always been within our control. 

The Washington Post