When I was on social media, I disclosed this episode... and I'll add more information and introspection on it here... AND I'll say that it's part and parcel to something I experienced this weekend at the
Austin Powwow and American Indian Heritage Festival.
Also, when I was on social media, I had a LOT of regular blog readers. It's fallen off to a very small number, and I know that if I keep posting soapbox issues, it might be tiring and you folks might be tempted to catch up on something less... whatever this is. However, this is something that's true about me and I can't ignore it: I believe in full human rights and justice for everyone, to a person. For every person from any nationality or of any ethnicity. For gay, trans, and folks who defy categorization. For victims. For prisoners. For people I disagree with. For fat people. For people who are in situations through no fault of their own AND as a result of their own choices. For everyone.
Especially when I see my complicity in injury or oppression, in upholding systems that have marginalized others, I want to speak up. I need to confess so that no one will think I don't know what I've done, or that I am not deeply sorry. And I need people who have developed understandably low expectations of white ladies like myself to have a bit of hope to cling to... not because of anything I am doing, but because of these kids. These kids give me a needed respite to my cynicism, and it is my sincere desire that the affect of these stories will be the same for you.
First. Here are two pictures for you.
The first is from 1978, at the present-day Ka-Do-Ha Indian Village Museum in Murfreesboro, Arkansas. The second is from 1979, at the Cherokee Heritage Center in Park Hill, Oklahoma. Obviously, my parents wanted us to learn about the Native American history or we wouldn't have visited the sites. VERY often, we were the only children at places like these. We had no ill intent. But that doesn't change the fact that in our attempt to "embody" the culture we were supposedly respecting, we appropriated stereotypes in a way that is harmful. It further perpetuates those stereotypes, and it personally hurts individuals. I apologize for my ignorance, and for any damage my actions caused. I pledge to keep learning and keep doing better.
The above pictures are the ones that popped into my head as we were walking through the market at the powwow this weekend. Many of the sellers were Native Americans, and Mal saw something that caught his eye. There were a couple of rows of slightly-smaller-than-life-size ceramic partridges. They were each painted white with lovely designs on their backs. Each one was different. The seller told me that her son made all of them, as well as canteens and other pieces, with no pattern... just whatever came to him while he was designing.
Mal asked me to take a picture. In the past, I can see myself taking a picture of the neatly-arranged flasks, then using it as wall art. But because of what other populations have taught me, I said, "It IS beautiful. But if you think that art is lovely, and you want to look at it, then you need to buy it." That meant nothing to Malcolm in the moment, I'm sure. I could have just said, "No." But it's part of a bigger picture that I'm trying to paint for him. Eventually, hopefully, the whole thing will click into place into his worldview.
We did buy a partridge. I got it for D, whose birthday was Saturday, and who adores birds. Incidentally, here's a picture I took a decade ago when I took my own now-adult child to the Cherokee Heritage Center.
The guide's name is Robert, and he patiently showed D (we were the only people under the age of 60 on the tour) how to weave, play stickball, shoot a rabbit with a blow gun, and how to make an arrowhead out of an antler. Also, he told us that in the early 1800s, the literacy rate of the Cherokees was higher than their white neighbors'.
I want to tell you something about D: D was not raised by any kind of "woke" parents. I have read blog posts from this same time frame, and I cringe now at the thoughts I used to have. Yet somehow, D became this incredibly empathetic, conscientious human being all because that's just who D is. In fact, much of the growth I've sustained over the past few years are because D has dragged me into the light through a strong will and influence.
We've had plenty of times when D has called me out for, say, enjoying a song on the radio that contained a racial slur. I didn't buy it, but came home and did my own research... and realized that, dang, that song was out.
So if that's the person D is, maybe, just maybe, Mal will be, too? And he'll even have a head start? I'm going to hope that, and maybe you can hope it, too.
Now we'll get to what I wish had been mere clickbait, but which was, in fact, an actual event in my life. As I mentioned, the Native American poses were from when I was 6 and 7 years old. Let's move forward to 1987, when I was 15 years old.
My high school had an annual lip synch contest. Sophomore year, my favorite group was The Pointer Sisters. I'd been in love with their song "Neutron Dance" ever since it had been released. I remember my friend Pam and me dancing around my house to it, and her slipping and injuring herself in the kitchen.
I wrangled two friends, both white like I am, into doing this with me. So I'm in the "it has to be realistic" camp that I see now is ridiculous, but I also am skeptical when contemporaries of mine like Seth Meyers say "everyone knows this isn't appropriate." Adolescent me in northwest Arkansas in the late '80s had maybe a passing awareness of minstrelsy (the only "Jazz Singer" I knew was Neil Diamond). Or Jim Crow. Or any of the baggage that is wrapped up in black face. I wish I'd known. I wish I'd made a better decision.
As I've thought about it over the years, I can't help but wonder what the grown-ups in the room were thinking. Did any of them realize it was a bad idea? If they didn't, why wouldn't they tell me? I was quite open about our plans. We had a dress rehearsal, and I made sure that everyone knew we would be actual black folks the next day. The only feedback I got was that I needed to wear a better bra because my chest was too bouncy for a wholesome high school program.
The morning of the lip synch contest, I left the house looking like this, because I had classes before the program.
I think my distinctly uncool high school self was trying to approximate the style on the "Break Out" album as best I could. Remember it? (Also, does the shirt say "Dance" on it in puffy paint? I believe that it does.)
White shirt tied at the waist, check. Boot things, check (actually, they were super-high-top fold-down Chuck Taylors, and my favorite article of clothing. I wore them to a cowboy thing in college, because I've never owned a pair of actual boots until I recently got some snow Crocs). Curly hair, check... it was the late '80s. Layers, not really but I put on a bandana, so half-check? Dark hose so you couldn't see my Caucasian legs? Sigh. Check.
My mom took this picture. She knew I was going to color my arms and face. If she'd known it was offensive, she, of all people, would have set me straight. If there's one thing my mom can't abide, it's people getting their feelings hurt. And swearing.
Do you know how I colored my face and arms? With body paint. I bought it at a Fort Smith costume store. It was basically a tongue depressor that had been coated with this brown "paint" that was dry until you ran the stick under water. Then you could just rub it across your skin, and the color would transfer. I'm sure I talked about the owner about our "cool" plans. That person didn't say anything negative about it, either.
And we danced. We Neutron Danced. We got second place, and I felt robbed.
Then.
Someone complained.
There were three black kids that I distinctly remember from high school; a brother and a sister, and a girl who lived around the corner from me. The neighbor girl went to someone at the school and complained that we'd done the performance in black face. I don't remember how I heard about it. But sadly, here's what I took away from it, since no one told me differently: She liked a guy I had dated the summer before, and she was just trying to get me in trouble out of cattiness.
Once again, I wonder how the adults in charge decided to handle this? I was given no context as to why someone might be upset by what we did ("I ADMIRE them! I want to BE them! That's what we did!" was my refrain, and one that continues to be used by people who are unwilling to examine their actions and attitudes... which was definitely me at 15).
It's interesting that I've never seen a photo from that performance. It's like even the yearbook photographer knew "These are never going to see the light of day." Oh, the next year, I won the lip synch contest when a friend and I did "Let Go" by Cheap Trick. I dressed up as a man. Until a few years ago, I probably would have insisted that being as "authentic" to The Pointer Sisters as I could was the exact same as dressing "drag" as whichever one of the Cheap Trick dudes I was.
But regardless of
my intent, the impact of my action was that at least one person got hurt, and that I unwittingly contributed to a long history of caricaturizing people of color. I had taken on the easiest and most shallow facet of blackness to mimic, and had not thought of the fact that my classmates didn't get to shower after the ceremony and go back to a position of majority and privilege.
I won't use her name, but on the off chance that the young woman who complained ever reads this, I am deeply sorry. In my self-obsessed outlook, I took your hurt and centered myself. I minimized your complaint to absolve myself of any guilt or need to do emotional labor. I owed you an apology. I owed everyone an apology. I should have gotten up at the next assembly and confessed, repented, and maybe taught a history lesson that just was not covered in our classrooms. You were right. I'm sorry if you didn't feel validated in your concern. I wish we could have sat down and you confront me, if you'd wanted to. You deserved better.
How does this inform my life today? Well, at least one of my children would never appropriate anything. In fact, when I brought home a shirt with an alebrijes on it as a souvenir for my older child, I had to report that I'd gotten it at the "Discover Mexico" visitor's center, so the sale of it was benefiting a local economy (albeit a robust tourist one) in Mexico. But if the other is tempted, we will talk about it and educate him as to why it's not appropriate.
Although I am totally and fully responsible for my choices, even as a teen, I do wish that the grown-ups in my orbit had done a few things that could have helped everyone. So I will use that as a blueprint in case I ever need to intervene in such a situation:
1) I will try to keep anyone, especially minors, in my charge from committing blatantly offensive and needless acts.
2) If there is a complaint, in relaying it to the offending party, I will use grace but also inform them why their actions were problematic. If I don't know, I'll do the research and learn why on my own, without forcing the offended party to justify their hurt.
3) I will seek as much input on how to handle the problem as the offended party wants to provide.
4) I will strongly suggest that the offending party respond in some reparative way, even if it takes a while for them to figure out why, and then how.
Okay, that's it. Gormless but trying. Your continued patience is appreciated.
