Where the Light Lands: Visibility and Money Identity

I think this is about being seen.

That’s what I keep coming back to when I think about basketball, money, jerseys, brands—all of it. The rules didn’t change because of fairness. They changed because visibility and money identity became impossible to ignore. Players were already being watched, followed, clipped, shared, and sold. Making them more visible, more marketable, more legible just made economic sense. We’ve seen versions of this before—teams and players whose style and presence moved culture long before anyone admitted that visibility had value.

That logic isn’t new to me.

My mom could always tell what I’d been watching on TV by what I was wearing. Spider-Man meant full costume. A 49ers game meant a jersey, sweatpants tucked into my socks, a dish towel hanging from my waist so I could wipe mud off my hands. I even dressed up like a garbage man once to meet them outside. I didn’t dabble. I committed.

For a long time, I thought that was about fitting in. And maybe some of it was—I’m good at that. But the older I get, the more I think it was about being seen.

There were a lot of reasons I didn’t feel seen growing up—or didn’t let myself be. I had a deaf sister who was five years younger. I didn’t have time to complain. I could hear. I learned early how to be okay. Somewhere along the way, I figured out how to make myself smaller emotionally while finding other ways to show up loudly.

So I did it through clothes. Through brands. Through signals.

I had Jordans. I pierced my ears early. I got a perm. Anything that said I’m Lev and I’m here without me having to explain myself. Some people call that style. Some people think it’s snobbery. Both feel a little off. It was more like a language I learned while I was learning sign language.

I feel this tension even now. I wear a Rolex, and part of me likes how it makes me feel seen. I worked my butt off for it, and it gives me a small glimmer every time I look at it—not just because of the work, but because one day I’ll give it to one of my sons. But there are rooms where I pull my sleeve down. There are people I don’t want to see it. People I don’t want projecting a story onto me that skips the parts that really matter. The light feels good until it feels like exposure. Until being seen turns into being misunderstood.

What this is really about is the need we all have to be seen. Not admired. Not envied. Just seen.

Money is weird because while it doesn’t create that need, it’s often used to feel more seen—and I know I’m not the only one who does that. It can shine a light, and sometimes that feels good. But when the light hits places we might not want it to shine, it can feel uncomfortable.

That discomfort doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Sometimes it just means the truth got louder.

My truth is that I want to be seen—and I also want to control who gets to see me.

Money is weird.

And I’m learning to love when it helps people be seen in the way that lights them up.