The primary reason for the uniform was so that we could be identified. We were predominantly patrolling trains at that time, in the late ‘70s. They were very dark and dank. Old GE light bulbs often provided the light on the platforms. Thugs would knock ‘em out or vandals would destroy them. We tried to create an identity where, if you had a problem and you were seeking help, you could see the red beret in the distance and you would run in that immediate direction. Or you would see us running to help you. Unlike the cops; even nowadays they don’t wear the hat. They want to be like John Travolta, styling and profiling, you know, they hold the hat. Does no good. We always wear the red beret, because that’s how people know who you are. It’s not the red satin jacket or the T-shirt — really, it’s the red beret. They say, ‘Oh, it’s the Guardian Angels.’

We don’t ‘own’ the red beret. I appropriated them from the Boy Scouts. I’d go to the Army Navy store and buy them in bulk in different sizes; they had the patch on. It was strange to see these visual advertisements of Gucci with the red beret and their logo, selling them for outrageous amounts of money. I think somebody who created that fashion look was looking at the Guardian Angels patrolling in Italy and thought, ‘Oh, that’d be great.’ Their whole purpose is obviously to churn out more and more fashionista material. Before that, [the beret] was considered ‘counterculture’ — we were being harassed by the police, we were considered outliers. Then all of a sudden, Gucci mainstreams the red beret as a fashion statement.

I came out of the era of the ‘60s and ‘70s. You had the Black Panthers, you had the Young Lords — they were like a paramilitary group. They were at odds with the status quo, with police. But then again, what we were trying to do was to provide public safety, so we were the opposite of gangs. In searching for a name, ultimately I thought that the group that seemed to have the most traction among inner-city young men and young women in the late ‘70s was the Hells Angels. They hated Black and Hispanic people, they were one-percenters. And yet young Black and Hispanic men idolised them. They were watching the B-grade movies, like Hells Angels Forever, in Times Square — you could get three flicks for five dollars — and they would emulate them. And I said, what’s the complete opposite of Hells Angels? Well, Guardian Angels. But still it didn’t matter: People thought we were a gang, thought we were vigilantes, thought we were Hells Angels, thought we were Charlie’s Angels. Everything other than what we were.

The Guardian Angels give a good look into what people can do who decide that they have to protect themselves, protect their communities, protect their quality of life, and more importantly, protect strangers that they don’t even know. This is something that everybody should be doing without a red beret, without a red satin jacket. It was more the norm years ago; people felt you had to be a good Samaritan. But nowadays, everybody’s got the earbuds in, they’re texting, sexting, whatever they’re doing at that moment. They’re oblivious. And the pandemic has made it ten times worse. Now I’m supposed to be afraid of my neighbour? I’m supposed to be afraid of the person on the subway? You don’t engage in conversation, you’re constantly tugging your mask. If anything the pandemic has caused us to isolate more, to think about I and Me, not Us and We. We’re constantly on guard.

The identification of the red beret should be synonymous with self-help. People are too dependent on the government from the cradle to the grave: ‘What’s the government gonna do for me?’ Eh, c’mon. People walk around with an attitude, like, ‘They’re all corrupt.’ Why even waste your time? They do care about you, but a lot of the time they promise to do too much when they’re elected. And the reality hits: They really can’t do all the things they promised they could do. If [we] were less dependent on the government and took more responsibility for what happens day-to-day in [our] neighbourhood, we’d be a lot better off, we’d be happier, we’d feel empowered. And then when politicians are a dollar short and a day late, as they are with most things, we wouldn’t be as disappointed. I say: Channel that anger into doing something constructive. Internationally this red beret is a symbol of, If you’re not satisfied with the way things are, do something about it. Legally, lawfully, within the constraints of what your society permits. Don’t tell me you’re gonna sit on the couch and grow barnacles on your backside. It’s time to get your rear in gear, get out there, and do something.

People want to get involved. But then they realise it’s a regimen, you have to work for this. You don’t just get the red beret, you don’t just get to style and profile. You have to jump through the hoops. That’s how we maintain quality control. You also have to be able to work with a wide range of people: men, women, gay, straight, people who agree with you, who disagree with you. We try to keep religiosity and politics out of it. You’re here for one mission. You’re capable of being the individual that you are, so long as you’re not promoting crime. Other than that, we put you all in the mix, and that’s what makes it a successful group.

I learned the purpose of the uniform early on, in elementary school at St. Matthews in Crown Heights, run by the Josephite Irish nuns. We had to wear grey slacks, a white T-shirt, and a maroon tie; the young ladies had to wear a similar uniform, except pleated skirts that were sort of maroon grey-ish. Now after school, the young boys especially would sometimes go into a store and cause a problem. The store owner would then come to the Mother Superior and say, ‘You know, some of your folks, they came in and took some potato chips and ran out the store.’ The Mother Superior would take the store owner from class to class and she’d say ‘Identify who it is.’ Occasionally he would: ‘That’s the young man there.’ He would leave, and the Mother Superior would say ‘We’ll take care of it.’ Everyone in the class was culpable. It was group guilt. Mother Superior would say, ‘You know, some of you were probably aware of what Johnny did there and you decided not to say anything.’ This would be a group punishment. It might mean having to stay after school for a week; it might mean having some of the privileges you were extended removed. Now you’d be really mad at Johnny.

In society now, news is so instantaneous — it goes viral, it’s all over the world. Let’s say a Guardian Angel did something in Gothenburg, Sweden that tainted us. It would impact every Guardian Angel all over the world. It’s that understanding of when you earn the red beret and that jacket, you — one rotten apple — could taint all of us, after 41 years. It puts on a lot of pressure and responsibility. Our philosophy is: We trust people.

Oftentimes somebody’s joining who may have low self-esteem, who may not think they could ever achieve anything in life. Now all of a sudden, they’ve earned their way into the Guardian Angels. People are patting them so hard on the back they gotta go for a chiropractic adjustment the next day. In their normal life, they’re either a person of no consequence or a person that people fear because of the way they look. We have to have quality control, which means we have to trust the people to follow the rules and regulations. I would much prefer to take risks on people than risks with money, gambling, or the stock market.

My credibility is based in the streets. I can go into any neighbourhood — I’m gonna have my detractors, but I’m gonna know how to deal with them, because I’m gonna debate ‘em right there in the streets. My limousine is the subway and the city buses. You’ll never find [politicians] on the subways and the city buses — occasionally for a photo op. Like Bloomberg, the billionaire, he used to go to 59th and Lexington and he would take the express train two stops to City Hall. And all of a sudden he said he was ‘a man of the people’ — yeah, with eight NYPD armed security officers, and he took the SUV from his townhouse on 79th Street. That was all a mirage. I will take the subway, I will take the buses, I will not have security. Maybe I’ll have an aid or two to handle this technology, because I’m like a luddite. But other than that, I’m gonna have the same means to get around as the people do. Because if elected officials had to use the same public transportation as the people do, you’d watch how fast things would be improved.

People think, ‘He must be a right-wing totalitarian dictator-type.’ I’m not at all happy with the [current] president, but I’m not at all happy with what the Democrats have offered up. I am Curtis Sliwa. A unique individual. In this particular run, I’m gonna run on the Republican line and probably on the Independent line. Right away people say, ‘Oh, you’re nothing more than Donald Trump.’ You look at my quotations about Donald Trump. I said he’s a manic depressive. He is the George Steinbrenner of American politics. And he needs to get off that damn Twitter at 4:30 in the morning. He has helped to polarise this country. But I look at the alternatives, at the Democrats, and, you know, they’re not necessarily upping the standards here. I’m an independent, autonomous person. No matter who gets elected president, we’re gonna have to learn to do more with less.

One of the benefits of always wearing a red beret, the jacket, and the garb — I can be like Zuckerberg. He’s got billions, I’ve got two cents that I rub together, but I get to wear the same thing every day. It doesn’t matter what I wear. It’s so easy to pop the beret on. It doesn’t matter what I have on underneath. So I get a pass on being a fashion statement. Then again, some people out there wear the same freakin’ stuff, day in, day out and they could afford a wardrobe — they just wear the same black T-shirt, black pants. For me, it’s who I am. I’m 24/7-365 Guardian Angel Curtis Sliwa.

Some people will say, ‘Hey, do you sleep in that?’ Yeah, sometimes I do! Boom, I collapse. Beret is on. Coat is on. [Laughs.] And then you get up, and you go right on out. Back to it.

Olivia Aylmer is a New York-based writer, editor and graduate of Barnard College at Columbia University.

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I’ve been in the bridal business for twenty-two years now. My father is a farmer and a singer and we hail from the Howrah district in West Bengal. I initially began as an embroiderer for a small workshop and I trained for fourteen years under Miss Zeenat, a designer who had been in the business for decades. Soon after, her daughter became engaged, and I had the opportunity to design her wedding outfit: a powder pink Saree with silver Dabka work. The outfit reflected an infusion of Western elements, like sequins and Swarovski crystals, with traditional techniques like Zardozi, Indian metallic thread work. We were inspired by traditional jewellery designs, and we brought in samples that we transformed; the design of an uncut diamond necklace became the embroidery of a neckline, or a detail on the folds of the Lehenga. These early stages were very experimental. In this business there is no right or wrong, but it’s important to recognise what’s desirable to the client. We never used to start off with a clear result in mind; it was always an organic thought process.

Under the guidance of Miss Zeenat, I learnt the complexities and techniques of the business; I then decided to open a workshop of my own. I could only afford to hire one embroiderer who came to me as a teenager, and today he still works for me. Over time, I developed a loyal clientele who approached me with private orders. Young brides-to-be accompanied by their army of friends and relatives – often led by a tight-fisted mother – flocked to my workshop months before the nuptials. They would come with me with cut-out images from bridal magazines or newspapers asking to look like their favourite Bollywood actress.

There were very few popular bridal designers back then, so fashion magazines were the main source of inspiration. It was a less demanding business then; there was a sense of trust in our design capabilities and the clients would always walk away happy with the dress. Nowadays brides often shop from the high-end boutiques, but back then nothing was ready-to-wear, everything was created from scratch according to the client’s wishes. We would show the client a variety of patterns that we would then customise. We worked with a tailor who would stitch the entire outfit according to the bride’s instructions – from the cut of the Lehenga, to the pattern of the Zardozi embroidery. We would make individual swatches of the embroidery for the client’s approval before creating the outfit. We were never stingy with our work; a good customer relationship is vital because our business survives through word of mouth. I used to have clients from all religions and each had their own tastes: Muslim brides desired work that was shiny and contemporary – satins and silks in shades like lavender and emerald – and Hindu brides often opted for more traditional fabrics such as Bandhini and Zari in colours like gold and red. Nobody wears black though – it is considered inauspicious.

My specialty is Zardozi work; and to create a Lehenga with this technique is a highly time consuming process that requires deft craftsmanship. We often employ expert craftsmen, Karigars, who have been in the business for a minimum of eleven years. The Lehenga is a very opulent decoration to the fabric of the outfit; three-dimensional flower motifs seems to be the trend today. Swarovski work is also very popular: these crystals aren’t always available locally and often have to be imported from Japan. It’s like making a piece of jewellery: the placement of the crystal is so important in order to get the most from its sheen. To produce this work is very expensive, so we can only cater to stores that have a heavy footfall. To make an entire Lehenga can take weeks and the skilled hands of fifteen artisans.

Recently, there has been a Westernisation in terms of fabrics and silhouettes accross the Indian bridal industry. Twenty years ago there wasn’t the same use of silhouettes and materials. Back then, we would exclusively use traditional fabrics like brocade, Bandhani and raw silks with Zari work. Women shop for their bridal outfit differently too: high-end bridal boutiques have become the standard. I don’t feel they are producing an extraordinary garment, mostly they run their business off the marketing and brand value attached to their names. We can’t afford that sort of publicity. A lot of craftsmanship in the industry is also waning with modern technology. Patterns are now computerised, but while innovation is booming, customers are beginning to lose appreciation for hand-embroidered bridal wear.

With the emergence of large designer stores, my private client base has diminished and I now only cater to boutiques. I miss the old days where there was more enthusiasm and creativity involved in creating a Lehenga, but today’s work is more stable. I have a family to support even though the old romanticism of the business has faded away.

Tanya Mehta is a Mumbai-born writer.

Anna Skeels is an illustrator based in London.