Jeffrey Ian Ross's Blog

For as long as I can remember, when the winter months arrive, I wear a black leather jacket and a black knitted longshoreman’s hat. It’s a ritual that anchors me, something that feels right.

The hat is basically a simple knit cap beanie; snug-fitting, brimless or minimally brimmed, made from wool or acrylic, originally worn by dock workers, fishermen, laborers, sailors, and stevedores.

I’m a creature of habit. When it comes to clothing, once I find something I like, it’s hard for me to change my mind. I didn’t grow up with the longshoreman’s hat. In suburban Canada, where I spent my childhood, the winter headgear of choice was the toque. Every year, classmates arrived with a fresh batch, probably bought from Eaton’s, Simpsons, or some other national retail chain. The hats were colorful, fuzzy, long, and often downright silly in a Bob and Doug Mackenzie way.

But during my cab driving days, I explored different clothing styles and imagery, and the longshoreman’s hat spoke to me. It was darker, cleaner, sharper, and far more aligned with the look I wanted to project.

There was a quiet toughness to the hat, a kind of minimalist confidence. I also believe it’s relatively hip and stylish. In some respects, I’m paying homage to a long line of people who have worn it: Jean Reno, who played Léon in Léon: The Professional (1994), wore one. So did The Edge, guitarist with U2. Wearing the black knitted longshoreman’s hat feels like joining that tradition.

But the appeal isn’t only symbolic. The hat is practical. It’s inexpensive enough that losing one doesn’t ruin your day. It folds down neatly into a jacket pocket without bulging or ruining the silhouette. And it looks intentional without trying too hard. It’s part of street culture without slipping into contemporary streetwear.

That said, not every black knit cap qualifies. There are rules. Buy me the wrong one, and it will sit untouched forever in the basket where we store our hats; get it right, and I’ll wear it for years. And it cannot have the insignia of a company, organization, or brand on it. I don’t want to be mistaken for a human billboard.

For clarity, here’s what makes a true black knitted longshoreman’s hat, at least to me:

Price: It shouldn’t be expensive. If I lose it, I should be able to replace it without thinking twice.Material: A wool-polyester blend is ideal. All wool sometimes itches, smells when wet, and loses shape; all polyester causes my head to overheat and becomes uncomfortable to wear.Knit: The knit must be tight, with no prominent ribbing. It also cannot be unnecessarily thick or thin, like a running cap.Length: When folded once, the cuff should be about two inches and cover roughly half the ears. If the hat is too long, it’s probably a hipster stocking cap; too short, and it’s most likely a French fashion beanie, which seems a tad overdressed and a little kitsch.

For years, I could find a suitable version at places like the long-gone Hercules Army Surplus Store on Yonge Street in Toronto, or Canal Jeans on Broadway in New York City. Before Amazon, I had to hunt for them; now the search is easier, but my standards haven’t loosened.

Not only is the black knitted longshoreman’s hat both a look and a habit, but it’s become part of my identity. In this manner, it’s a small thing that somehow connects memory, utility, style, and a sense of belonging.

 

 

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For the past month, and even longer, Maurice “Mobetta” Brown’s “Stand Up,” released on his 2017 album, THE MOOD, has dominated my playlist. The song, much like his title track “The Mood,” is an infectious piece of music that has burrowed into my consciousness like few songs in recent memory.

Brown, a New Orleans-based jazz trumpeter mentored by Wynton Marsalis and a sideman for John Legend and Santana, has crafted something that transcends traditional jazz trumpet songs and players. Featuring the legendary Brooklyn rapper Talib Kweli, as a vocalist, “Stand Up” demonstrates Brown’s range as an artist, his sophisticated music composition, powerful lyrical choices, and an unmistakable coolness that permeates every measure. The song comfortably blends jazz with the social consciousness of hip-hop.

The song is a politically charged anthem (especially the message of not standing up to false prophets) that resonates deeply for me and I suspect his fans too. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve played this track, and the live performances on YouTube only deepen my appreciation. Brown and his collaborators command the stage, and you see how the song’s energy is embraced by the musicians who are playing with him.

“Stand Up” is more than a catchy tune. Although the song is dated, it’s an iconic call for peaceful protest, delivering messages of hope and resistance. If you’re looking for something that sits comfortably between jazz tradition and conscious hip-hop, you should definitely check out this track.

The post This Month’s Song on Heavy Rotation appeared first on Jeffrey Ian Ross.

The academic study of graffiti and street art is interdisciplinary. Although two scholarly journals (i.e., Nuart Journal and Street Art & Urban Creativity) specialize in this subject, university-level classes are rare and scattered across different departments. No post-secondary institution has a dedicated program or department for this field.

What’s more, none of the major learned societies has a division that brings together scholars working on graffiti and street art. As a result, conducting research in this area can be a little lonely.

Since January 2023, however, John L. Lennon, PhD, a professor of English at the University of Southern Florida, has organized a monthly Zoom meetup (the “Graffiti and Street Art Group”) devoted to graffiti and street art. Except for the summer months, the hour-long sessions typically draw at least ten participants, ranging from graduate students to senior professors who have conducted and published research on graffiti and street art.

Each meeting focuses on a rotating set of topics: participants discuss ongoing research, share recent publications, and occasionally invite someone to present an article or book for group discussion. The conversations are lively and engaging, often leading to new insights and collaborations. Opportunities for publication and conferences that might be interested in papers and chapters about graffiti and street art are also discussed. For example, Lennon is now editing a forthcoming special issue of Visual Inquiry on graffiti/street art and pedagogy, with all articles contributed by members of the group.

The meetings are informal and interdisciplinary, attracting scholars from around the world, including the United States, the United Kingdom, and various parts of Europe. The group now boasts 90 individuals on the listserv.  Although attendance varies from month to month, a genuine sense of community has formed among the participants. The meetup now serves as a vital point of connection for researchers studying graffiti and street art across different academic and cultural contexts.

People interested in joining the group should reach out to John at jflennon@usf.edu

Image Credit:

Title: Community (Rusholme, England)

Photographer: Dunk

 

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I can’t remember what month it was, only that snow had begun to fall as we drove from Lethbridge to Calgary. The road wasn’t a highway, just a patchwork of farm grids: a few miles straight, a turn left, a curve right, and again. It was slow going, maybe 90 minutes through sleet and wind before you hit the main highway.

At one bend, we saw a man and a woman standing by the roadside. A First Nations couple. Maybe they were from the nearby Blood Reserve (Kainai Nation), where some of my students lived or came from. I don’t even recall if they had their thumbs out, but they looked desperate.

We pulled over. Natasha stepped out into the sleet to fold down the passenger seat of our two-door ’83 Cutlass. It was cold enough to give someone frostbite or worse

We asked where they were headed. It was somewhere along our route. They climbed into the back seat and sat quietly, never speaking to each other the whole time. Both of their jackets appeared too thin for the weather. The woman stared out the window, her face turned away from us.

Natasha and I spoke in French with each other, speculating about their situation. Maybe they had a gun or a knife. Perhaps they were high. I worried we were being rude, talking about them in a language they might not understand.

When we reached their stop, they thanked us and stepped into the snow. We watched them go, hoping they’d make it through the night. Some people might’ve driven on, afraid. But we couldn’t leave them there to freeze. Whatever their story, helping them felt like the only right thing to do.

Photo Credit:

Title: A Curve Ahead

Photographer: Paul Jerry

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Since the start of the new Trump administration (early 2025), we’ve seen an increase in federal law enforcement operations in major U.S. cities. In New York, Chicago, and Denver, federal agents (especially Immigration and Customs Enforcement – ICE) have conducted widespread immigration enforcement actions, often without coordination with local police. In Newark, residents filmed armed federal officers making arrests outside schools. In Los Angeles, reports emerged of families afraid to take their children to medical appointments for fear of encountering enforcement teams.

Public opposition to ICE activities has been intense. These operations are eroding the already fragile trust between local police and the communities they serve.

Police–community relations have been a problem for decades. Since at least the 1950s, police chiefs, police commissioners, and directors of public safety have tried one initiative after another (e.g., “neighborhood watch,” community policing, etc.) to build, strengthen, or improve their relationship with racial and ethnic minorities. Programs like Cincinnati’s collaborative agreement after the 2001 riots showed how sustained engagement could reduce tension and crime simultaneously. Other efforts, like superficial “listening sessions” without follow-through, produced only cynicism.

But the principle has remained constant across both successes and failures: trust is the foundation of effective policing. Without it, witnesses don’t come forward. Victims don’t report crimes. Communities become less safe for everyone.

Many chiefs hesitate to speak out, worried about jeopardizing federal funding streams or creating conflicts with federal partners they depend on for task forces and resources. They may also worry about pushback from city and county councils and the rank and file who may have Republican Party sentiments. These are important considerations. But they pale in comparison to the damage being done right now to relationships that took years to build and can be destroyed in weeks.

If today’s chiefs truly believe that community trust matters, they can’t stay silent while federal agents damage the very relationships they’ve spent careers trying to repair. Speaking out doesn’t require grandstanding. At least four possible actions can be taken:

Issuing Joint statements from organizations such as the Major Cities Chiefs Association or the International Chiefs of Police, making clear that uncoordinated federal enforcement undermines local public safetyMake Public announcements (via media channels, at city or county councils, etc.) that local officers will not participate in or provide information for immigration enforcement operations.Directly communicate with affected communities about what role local police will and won’t play.Collect and disseminate data that indicates how these operations impact crime reporting and community cooperation.

Admittedly, this will create tension with federal authorities. But protecting community trust isn’t a partisan position. It’s a professional imperative. Chiefs (and those coming up in police organizations behind them) who’ve built their careers on the principle that legitimacy matters can’t abandon it when political winds shift.

Silence is complicity. And it’s long past time for leadership.

Photo Credit

Photographer: Paul Goyette

Content: Activists protesting against ICE confront Chicago police,

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Over the past few weeks, considerable media attention has been given to protestors wearing inflatable or oversized novelty suits at anti-Trump demonstrations, including the recent No Kings protests. And yes, most of the people dressed up as frogs, dinosaurs, unicorns, and chickens look like they’re having fun. But as these images circulate, it’s worth asking whether the spectacle that attracts attention might also dilute what that attention is for.

Admittedly, there are at least three main reasons why these costumes have become popular at these venues. First, they provide memorable visuals that spread across social media, increasing the protest’s reach and visibility. Second, their absurdity and the humor they create help keep the atmosphere light and nonviolent, signaling that these gatherings are meant to be peaceful and friendly. Third, the imagery helps undercut Trump and his allies’ narrative that protestors are violent extremists, because it’s difficult to take that claim seriously when the demonstrators include inflatable chickens.

These are all legitimate tactical advantages, and protest movements throughout history have used the power of humor and performance in shaping their communication strategies. For example, the Yippies’ absurdist protests in the 1960s and ACT UP’s theatrical demonstrations in the 1980s both used spectacle to dramatize the importance of their causes. Their tactics were entertaining, but the laughter served a direct political purpose.

But I wonder if something gets lost in translation. When protest images go viral primarily because they’re entertaining rather than because they communicate specific demands, there’s a risk that observers remember the spectacle without engaging with the substance. The question isn’t whether people in dinosaur suits are taking the issues seriously, but whether their chosen medium of expression helps or hinders their political message from landing with audiences who need persuading.

I’m not suggesting that protesters should abandon humor or embrace solemnity. Nor am I insisting there’s only one “correct” way to protest. Different tactics reach different audiences, and humor can make difficult political messages more accessible. But it’s worth asking: when someone sees an inflatable chicken, are they more likely to consider the protest’s demands, or do they simply keep scrolling? Does the costume invite curiosity about the cause, or does it become the entire story?

Maybe I’m overthinking this, and the protesters themselves are best positioned to judge what works. But in an attention economy, like the one we currently live with, I hope the message doesn’t get buried beneath the costume.

Image Credit

Title: No Kings Protest

(location Madison, Wisconsin, October 18, 2025

Photographer: Kevin Fager

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Living beside a used car lot can teach you about noise, boundaries, and the limits of goodwill.

Years ago, I lived in a low-rise apartment in Toronto’s Little Portugal, right next to a small lot that sold used cars. Most of their customers were newcomers buying their first vehicle, and the salesmen hustled hard. But as neighbors, they could be… challenging.

They’d rigged the office phone to a loudspeaker outside so they wouldn’t miss calls while working the lot. Too often, they forgot to switch it off at night. We’d hear the ringing phones and fragments of messages people left long after midnight.

Friends, relatives, and former customers who were passing in front of the business would sometimes slow down (disrupting the traffic flow) and honk as they drove by. And sometimes salesmen, friends, and customers would attempt to burn rubber on the small lot in noisy and smoky displays of bravado. It was a mixed-use neighborhood, after all, but the line between liveliness and disruption blurred fast.

Occasionally, someone would steal a car. One night, under the overpowering security lighting on the lot, my neighbors and I watched a man jack up a vehicle and remove the entire transmission. I’m sure the owners had insurance, but each theft still meant paperwork, deductibles, and hassle.

The police would occasionally make the rounds, knocking on doors to ask if we’d seen anything. There was always a polite chorus of “no,” and plenty of feigned surprise.

The truth is, we saw plenty. If the car lot owner and crew had been better neighbors, if they’d kept the noise down, turned off the loudspeaker, shown a little consideration, we might have looked out for them.

But they didn’t, and we didn’t. The boundary between tolerance and indifference had long since been crossed.

I eventually moved away. In time, both the apartment building and the car lot fell to the developer’s wrecking ball, and with them, the noise.

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Ever since the emergence of contemporary graffiti and street art, the surfaces where it has been applied and the methods by which it has been disseminated have evolved.

In New York City, for example, graffiti writers began by tagging and bombing walls in their neighborhoods but eventually expanded to similar surfaces in different parts of the city.

Soon thereafter, writers started “getting up” in subway stations, tunnels, and cars. When graffiti was placed on the outside of trains, it enabled writers to go “all city.”

This activity, along with the places where graffiti appeared, morphed into freight and passenger trains, which helped disseminate the writers’ work across regions, the country, and in some cases, internationally.

Along the way, other mobile surfaces like box vans and delivery trucks were increasingly hit.

The shift from static walls to means of transportation introduced a crucial idea: mobility could serve as a medium, expanding both the audience and reach of graffiti and street art.

Now, in the contemporary city, dockless bikes and scooters are increasingly becoming sites for graffiti and street art.

Stickers and tags placed on these mobile platforms extend the same logic that animated early train graffiti: visibility through circulation.

This evolving relationship between graffiti/street art and urban mobility reveals how writers and artists continually adapt to changes in society to keep their work in motion and in public view.

That being said, it’s important to acknowledge that not only do surfaces present opportunities, but they also present constraints. In the case of bikes and scooters, the size is small, and because of the construction, certain types of graffiti and street art are better suited. Thus, in many cases, stickers may be the easiest to apply.

So what?

This development matters primarily for its cultural significance, technological relevance, and political communication.

First, mobile graffiti/street art challenges the static, property-based logic of the city. It asserts presence where the writer/artist might otherwise be excluded.

Second, by targeting new mobility systems (e.g., bikes and scooters), graffiti and street art are increasingly part of the digital economy and the so-called “smart city.” It turns corporate tools of efficiency into carriers of unregulated expression.

Third, this mobility transforms both authorship and audience. Finally, by using shared mobility platforms as canvases, artists reclaim space in a city increasingly privatized by technology companies. It is a subtle, yet potent, form of resistance.

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The drive to the Johnston farm, one of my father’s clients, always felt long, but the visits were mostly fun and always an adventure. The place had the basics: a farmhouse, a barn, a silo, cows, pigs, and at least one dog. When my father consulted with Mr. Johnston and my mother, if she came along, chatted with Mrs. Johnston, my older brother, sister, and I would play in the barn, sometimes with the Johnston boy.

The barn was the best part. To my ten-year-old eyes, it was enormous.  On each side of the main floor were haystacks and baled hay. We spent what seemed like hours playing tag in the maze-like tunnels built into the haystacks or swinging from a rope tied to the rafters and letting go into piles of hay. Below the floor were stalls with pigs and cows; they were ridiculously loud and aggressive.

But on one visit, my brother and sister weren’t there. While my parents talked inside the house, the Johnston boy, barely a teenager, asked me if I wanted to join him outside to survey the property. Just before we stepped out, he picked up a rifle, and I thought nothing of it.

After a short walk, we came to a clearing and spotted a small dog sitting upright in the distance. The boy said it had been there for a few days and hadn’t moved. He added that the dog was not theirs and was trespassing. He also said that the animal must probably be lame. His words tumbled out quickly, as if rehearsed.

Then, without pause, he leveled the rifle to his shoulder. The Johnston boy looked down the barrel and aimed. A crack split the air. The dog toppled. Silence. He turned, as if nothing had happened. We left the body where it lay.

It was the first time I had seen a defenseless animal killed so casually. Alone and unsettled, I said nothing, out of shock, maybe fear. Perhaps he wanted to impress me. Maybe it was something darker. I never told my parents, but the brazen suddenness of that act has been an enduring memory for me.

Author’s Note: “Johnston” is a pseudonym

Photo Credit:

Photographer: Stan Shebs

Title: Farm in the Kitchener area of Ontario

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In most urban settings, a sense of belonging is an important foundation for political participation. Political participation (also referred to as political engagement/mobilization) includes actions that are designed to express, claim, maintain, or expand individual and community justice, legitimacy, or power. And by belonging, I’m not simply talking about attachment, social connection, or loyalty, but about a deep feeling in which place and space are integral to personal identity and meaning.

These distinctions matter. While connection to a place can be instrumental, and loyalty may be strategic, belonging implies an affective and positive bond. Such attachment often affects/motivates a person’s desire and capacity to perceive and articulate grievances when a block, neighborhood, district, or city is threatened.

Admittedly, the causal relationship between belonging and political mobilization is not straightforward. In some cases, political engagement emerges from experiences of exclusion or displacement, where the absence of belonging generates claims to recognition and rights. Furthermore, belonging also operates unevenly across spatial areas. For example, what it means to belong to a block differs from what it means to be attached to a city, and how people respond in the political sphere may vary based on the attachment they feel for each different geographic entity.

These dynamics are also shaped in part by the quality and duration of social interactions. Sustained and positive encounters with neighbors, local workers, businesses, or community organizations tend to reinforce belonging, while recurrently negative or conflictual interactions (including criminal victimization) may erode it. Thus, belonging is not fixed but continually produced and contested in everyday urban life.

Expressions of belonging take multiple forms. Material practices such as home-making, memorialization, or the use of streets and public spaces can demonstrate attachment to place. Informal street-level symbolic markers often connected with street culture (e.g., graffiti, street art, etc.) may signal identification in visible ways. Institutional practices, such as branded signage, neighborhood newsletters, or city-sponsored campaigns, attempt to inscribe belonging into the urban landscape. Belonging can even manifest in less direct actions, for example, in the maintenance of civility, norms of cleanliness (e.g., cleaning the sidewalk in front of your residence or business), or everyday restraint (i.e., treating others with respect).

Although visible signs of identity can indicate attachment, they can also be performative or commodified branding detached from durable commitment.

            In DC, where I live, belonging is demonstrated in lots of different ways, including displaying the DC flag on porches, murals, bumper stickers, clothing, and tattoos. Similarly, the 202 area code is placed on local clothing brands like District of Clothing, One Love Massive, and Made in the District that sell shirts, hats, and hoodies with neighborhood names (e.g., “Brookland,” “Petworth”). We also see slogans like “Don’t Mute DC” placed on this type of clothing.  The “Taxation Without Representation” license plate encapsulates a widely shared grievance and serves as a civic identifier. DC has numerous neighborhood murals, paying homage to well-known homegrown music greats like jazz great Duke Ellington in Shaw to or the grandfather of Go-go, Chuck Brown. Bands often “rep” their neighborhood during performances. The “Don’t Mute DC” movement (2019) defended neighborhood cultural expression when Central Communications, a Metro PCS store in Shaw, was told to stop playing Go-go on speakers. Block parties, cookouts, and Go-go shows often double as neighborhood identity affirmations. Events like Adams Morgan Day or the H Street Festival showcase neighborhood pride while attracting visitors. Meanwhile, graffiti and street art may contain neighborhood names, abbreviations, or slang.

Yet markers of identity do not automatically translate into political action. Wearing a shirt with the name of the neighborhood on it or displaying a city flag does not guarantee that an individual will sign a petition, attend a protest, or join a boycott. The key issue is whether attachments to place channel grievances into collective political mobilization, and what kinds of actions are residents willing to engage in. Where belonging is absent, grievances may remain diffuse, limiting the scope for individuals and communities’ claims for justice, legitimacy, or claims to power.

All being said, belonging is a start.

Photo Credit

Title New York, New York. Children escape the heat of the East Side by using fire hydrant as a shower bath (1943).

Photographer: Smith, Roger

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