GARETH RILEY-AYERS
Contributing Writer
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Over Martin Luther King, Jr. weekend of my last spring semester at SMU, I headed to Uptown with my girlfriend to meet old friends and possibly make new ones. I wore a blue and white checkered button down, black slacks, a black belt and black Nikes.
I had been to Uptown the most out of my group, so I suggested that we go to Primebar. They had an open space and played pretty good music when I’d gone before. And it was my girlfriend’s first time Uptown, so I was excited to show her around.
When the bouncer took my ID at the door, he gave it a couple looks, glanced at my pants, shoes and then denied me entrance.
“Pants too baggy. We’re running a tight ship tonight. No sagging allowed,” he blankly stated.
I was confused. These black dress pants are one of my favorites due to their professional fit. They’ve been worn with blazers and button downs at formal SMU events. I even wore them the week before to a country club back home in Atlanta. I raised my shirt in hopes of erasing doubt from his mind.
“Apologies sir, but my pants aren’t baggy or sagging at all. I understand it’s dark; but see, they’re belted at my waist.”
“Please step out of line, you’re too baggy,” he repeated. His gaze weaved around me the entire time, looking down at my pants and shoes, then side to side around my face beyond me. In spite of my fixed gaze, this bouncer and I never made eye contact.
Another person in my group, a Dallas native, was denied entry for cargo pants; he didn’t say a word to anybody and drove home. I figured I would just button up and tuck my shirt and try again. I waited in the back of the line and went to the other bouncer this time. He eyed my ID, then glanced me up and down.
“Your pants are too baggy. Please step out of line, sir.”
I was speechless. I’ve never sagged in my life, and I don’t own a pair of baggy pants. Most of my pants fit tight because my thighs are comparatively larger than my waist. And the week before, my father and I had just discussed the importance of the fit in my pants in relation to professionalism. “Baggy” is something that I am not. On the other hand, I looked in line and many other patrons were allowed entry with wrinkled button downs, tank tops, loose fitting jeans, Vans, ripped jeans and white washed jeans—comparatively more baggy. My girlfriend looked at me with a furrowed brow from the other side of the felt rope. I didn’t understand.
“They didn’t let you in because you’re a black man, Gareth,” she revealed to me. “The only people turned away from this club have been black guys.”
All the while many definitively more baggy people were granted entry. But my girlfriend was right: those baggy people were white, and I am black. I watched as many more groups of baggy people entered the bar and other “baggy” groups were excluded. They wore jeans, dress shoes and blazers, but were too “baggy” to enter. Two police officers stood at the door; I approached one, a white officer.
“Do my clothes look baggy to you? Are my pants sagging? The bouncer said my pants are sagging.”
“You look alright to me, kid. But I don’t make the rules. I’m sorry.”
My girlfriend left our group inside the club to stand with me. We stood outside the bar with the rest of the “baggy” guys and their girlfriends. I felt emasculated and embarrassed. My ride was inside the bar. I promised to show my girlfriend a good time at a fun bar, and I couldn’t even get inside. We had both heard anecdotes about racial profiling in Uptown, but I had never seen it. Many times, I’ve vouched for Uptown as a fun area, since I myself never experienced discrimination. I thought: it wouldn’t happen to me; they just didn’t know the dress code. And if Uptown was so bad, I would certainly experience it the same even if I only went out with my white friends, right?
After being denied again at 2 a.m., a second, black, police officer called out to me and pulled me aside. He stood about my height with a graying moustache. I could recognize that he was about the age of my father.
“What are you doing, kid? Look, you’re obviously dressed very nicely. But they are giving you the run around…you don’t want to give your money to this kind of place anyways. They do this to everybody. Don’t give them that power. Just don’t mess around with these folks anymore.”
I eventually met up with my ride and headed home—hell bent on doing something. I googled “Primebar Dallas” and the third suggestion in the queue read “Primebar Dallas Racist.” I looked at the different reviews, accounting instances of racial profiling of black and brown patrons. Each one described as “too baggy” while white bar-goers entered with ease; many were accompanied with pictures of their pants and shoes. Again I felt helpless. Lying in bed that night, I saw pictures on Facebook of my white classmates having fun at Primebar for the MLK holiday, and I thought about what the black officer said. And truthfully, it sucks that I’m never going back to Primebar, because I really used to like that place.
Riley-Ayers is a senior majoring in political science.
