All-American, urban, alternative: The 90s were all about one-dimensional labels that further flattened a generation that had already lost its sense of self . Back then, this was rarely a cause for concern. Hollow descriptors were everywhere particularly when it came to the brands we wore, paying good money so our clothes would give us an identity or validate one we desperately wanted to purport. They were part and parcel of a consumer relationship we willingly entered and empowered.

But few markers caused the same damage as all-American. On its own, the phrase was often misunderstood as innocuous, though it obscured the many nationalities that make up this country. Applied to clothing brands and their marketing, however, a ubiquitous accompanying visual made it clear what that term was really supposed to mean: a young, slender, smiling white person who liked to have fun.

Think Eddie Bauer, Hollister, Aeropostale, Abercrombie & Fitch and American Eagle (which went as far as naming itself after the national symbol) brands that cornered the market on plain jeans, T-shirts, shorts and rugged outerwear. Their ads largely consisted of young, conventionally attractive white people frolicking in the sun or in the mountains together.

Its these images of an American ideal that partly inspired the recent Netflix documentary White Hot: The Rise & Fall of Abercrombie & Fitch, which details how the titular brand courted young consumers from all ethnic backgrounds despite its racist branding. While it was far from an isolated example, Abercrombie catered to a generation of adrift young people who had already been absorbing discriminatory messaging, some of it printed right there on their graphic tees, for years.