It started behind an abandoned mall on the east side — a concrete wall, a few spray cans, and a crew of kids who hated how everything started to look the same. Sneakers. Hoodies. Logos. Every brand pretending to be “authentic.”

One of them tagged the wall in dripping black paint: “STREET NAME”
They didn’t even mean it to be a brand. It was just a statement — a rebellion in two words. But overnight, it spread. We started sketching the same tag on their notebooks, their skate decks, their jackets. It became a symbol of something real — of not fitting in, of being the glitch in the algorithm.

So we started making our own pieces. Not clean. Not perfect. Graffiti patterns on oversized tees. Patches stitched crooked on hoodies. Denim scarred like it’s lived through every back alley and rooftop in the city. Every drop tells a story — not about trends, but about survival, creation, and doing things your way.

Street Name isn’t fashion. It’s evidence — proof you existed in a world that keeps trying to erase individuality.