(c) 02/01/2021
As
an aging white woman employed at a US government agency and working side by
side a high number of incredible women of
color, I wouldn’t dare offend them by parading around with cornrows in my hair.
But on vacation in pre-solvent Jamaica! Where every white girl on the beach
paid someone next-to-nothing to sit behind her in the sand and plait like
cousins sharing gossip and we time; where every market and tourist
attraction came with its own set of beggars; where my presence alone signaled
privilege; yes, I found enough excuses to wear a hair style I had always found
beautiful but didn’t grow up with. Does
my cultural appropriation make me a bad person? I’d be the first to argue yes,
it does. For now, I will simply pretend that I am complex.
I
wasn’t surprised to be complimented by vacationing middle-aged white women, some
of whose own grandchildren were flinging braids and beads throughout the
resort. But from vacationing younger black women? Seeing that as encouragement gave me the boldness to keep and wear cornrows
back to Seattle. The first thing I discovered was that cornrows don’t block
winter chill and I had to cover my scalp with a hat, ratty braid bottoms
sticking out like beaded weeds. Then, shopkeepers who should have recognized me
as a regular, followed me about the store and hawk-like, watched movements of
my hands. It was as though the braids themselves connoted tight hair equals loose
ethics, connoted thievery.
It
is a myth that, historically, white people have never worn braids. Celts wore
braids. Scandinavians wore braids. The French wore braids, though I’ve read
they picked the style up from Algerians. By eight, I learned to plait my hair
into two braids down and in front of my shoulders. They were neat and tidy. My
grandmother complained once that they made me look “Indian”. Aunt Beulah was
the sole Native-American in our family, and she wore her hair up in a beehive.
Did she look white? A female wouldn’t wear headdress, but I never witnessed her
in traditional Colville wear, as likely having to give it up to assimilate into
our family, or else just never when we visited. Not even if I was on vacation and in another
country, I know enough to never wear a feathered headdress. And yet, my fedoras
have side feathers and my fascinator - long black feathers that tickle my
forehead.
In
the sixteenth century, following explorations to South America feather working
from Prague and Nuremberg to Paris and Madrid became big business. Initially
plumes were worn by warriors and conquistadors.
Eventually in Europe, feathers became women’s wear. The meaning of
feathers morphed. They symbolized being elite. Bonding with other cultures.
That the wearer came from a civilized culture (although I suppose that might
have depended upon the type of feathering). The one constant meaning was that a
bird had either died or been pillaged and no longer had its own feathers. When I
wear feathers, it is to add elegance, or feel pretty. I am reading Michael Taussig’s, Beauty and
the Beast, which includes meditations on beauty. It suggests to me
that beauty as consumerism or turned into a commodity satisfies “a need for the
grotesque, and the curdling of the ugly.”
Does beauty always have a price? I’m not sure, but appropriation does. At
what point were feathers folded into the dominant culture, and which culture?
I
have a pair of earrings made with long, colorful feathers. I rarely wear them. They
are a beautiful turquoise and boho with beads, but I can’t quite help but feel
I am appropriating native culture. My work colleague wears doorknocker earrings
– those large hoops. I wear them sometimes as well, starting in the 8th
grade when I found them in a headshop where I used to pick up my banana
flavored rolling paper. Anyway, another colleague, my bff-black woman friend, told
Becky that Becky wasn’t allowed to wear the doorknockers. After Becky left, I
turned to my friend and said, “I wear those big old hoops sometimes, too.” She
looked me over and finally said, “That’s
okay. I’ll let you.”
Boho
fashion: long multi-layered skirts, sometimes over pants, in bold colors and
often with mirrors sewn into the patterns; strings of silver chain: scarves,
scarves, scarves! A jingling coin belt. Be a wanderer, or a tinker. 1969 Vogue
admonished us to follow our gypsy soul. Despite controversy the gypsy motif has
never left fashion. It was seen on the runways as recently as 2019. Not that
many of us are wandering in 2020. The
term “gypsy” was once reserved as a slur against Romani people. It is difficult to lay the fashion aside as
over the years it has gone from hard to resource materials to expensive
garments, mixing in Victorian influence, new material such as denim, and braids
and dreads, and feathers.
I
read Bury Me Standing by Isabel Fonseca when it was first released in the 90s.
Soon after I attended a lecture by a Romi woman
lecturer who referenced that book as an example of an outsider not
understanding their culture but claiming to be an expert. Current reviews slam
it as being based on one
woman's misconceptions, prejudices and assumptions. Cultural
appropriation is an extension of centuries of racism, genocide, and oppression.
No one has said it’s easy, but uncovering
history seems crucial to me to upend oppression.
In
1976, Mao Zedong, the Chairman of the Communist Party of China died. In the
following turmoil policy efforts centered around economic recovery. In 1979 the
Downtown Seattle Bon Marche hosted a Chinese Extravaganza which featured
clothing and accessories from China. Just a couple of years earlier I had found
a cotton Tang suit at a high-end boutique on lower Queen Anne. The trouser
ankles had elastic which puffed out the legs and the top had Chinese frog
fasteners which I found less efficient than buttons, but prettier. When I wore
the outfit to the movie theater, I noticed that several men in the line were
pointing toward me and laughing. The Chinese clothing featured at the Bon did
not encourage jeering. We sales associates noted that the sleeves on most
blouses and dresses did not allow for our, obviously fat American hands to fit
through. I didn’t have that problem with the black and burgundy, brocade satin
Mandarin Jacket I purchased. I wore it formally with black dresses. Not like
the post-hippie youth who wore the jackets to dress up their jeans and
Birkenstocks.
The
distinctly Chinese styles may have lost fashion influence, however the Union Made-in-America
clothes are more or less extinct, and it’s nearly impossible to find garments
that aren’t Made-in-China. Starting early in the twentieth century, Chinese
citizens began adapting Western Clothing. It was a slow process, but have they,
in turn, appropriated Western fashion? No. No oppression involved. They are
appreciating Western Fashion.
Pre-Covid,
I practiced Yoga on a weekly basis. My preference is for Restorative Yoga, as holding
one pose for several minutes in darkness and relative isolation rejuvenates my
body and soul. I have very little balance control and find some of the other
styles, such as Vinyasa and Hatha to be too challenging. Since being co-opted
by Western culture, Yoga has become an industry. You got your mats, your
blocks, your bolsters and bands. You got your classes, your candles, your
essential oil and diffusers. It’s an Eastern spiritual practice set within
Western individualism and consumerism, so practitioners can feel comfortable
knowing they are correctly, fashionably attired while thinking primarily of
themselves.
Since
I also used the same set-up for Pilates class, I doubled-it. Two bags, two
mats, two towels, two blocks, et cetera so there was always a clean set to
grab. In it to win it; so far as it being a physical practice. I have never
thought the way Americans practice Yoga should be called Yoga. It is obvious
that an entire spiritual practice and a way of life is missing from the
Westernized version. Spirituality remains something we cannot buy beyond the
material trappings. Calling Yoga by a different name would likely only further
hide its roots in colonization and appropriation.
Post-Covid
I think the wise call is to ask myself if I am being complicit in a system that
harms people of color, poor people, people with disabilities, trans or LGBT
people. Is there a way I could get stretching in without participating in a
system of power, privilege and oppression? Can I, metaphorically, throw out the
bathwater and keep the baby?
Cultures
do not freeze. They are fluid. So, it becomes impossible to live in a global
world without being influenced by the aesthetics of non-Western cultures just
as it is for other cultures to not be influenced by Western fashion. The
exchange of styles is one of the joys of a multi-cultural world. Can we
re-interpret, re-imagine, re-arrange without it being appropriation?
If
I were to describe my current aesthetic, I find I am leaning toward what I
think are Japanese cut pants, like the Tobi work pant, and large, baggy,
colorful linen pants; and dropped crotch pants. I found a couple of Etsy stores
in Bulgaria that specialize in these styles, and here I am in the States
wearing them. I think it is important that we stop taking and start giving
credit. It is possible that my dropped crotch pants are more Hip Hop than
Japanese. What subculture do I thank, and how do I thank them?
