the a word

For Halloween this year, I know, whether on Instagram as I am scrolling in bed the next morning, or in real life at a Halloween party, I will see a white person guilty of cultural appropriation. This isn’t a statement that can be debated; at this point, I’m just stating fact.

I know this for a fact because it is the world we live in, one in which it is acceptable to look at a culture and instantly brainstorm a costume idea, with thoughts of what colour schemes would best compliment a social media feed.

Many people will be guilty of cultural appropriation this year. But, like always, they will not face trial. They will return to their lives the next day, once the costume has been stepped out of on their bedroom floor, albeit a bit haphazardly after a couple of drinks. There will be no trial, the only jury the faces of People of Colour as we look on, in oftentimes silent judgement for fear of retribution, the ribbon of silence so repetitively binding our tongues in order to remind us of our own place, our own niche we occupy in almost every setting.

I used to love Halloween. Like many other kids growing up watching American movies, October conversely to the Southern Hemisphere brought autumn, autumn colours and of course, Halloween. I loved getting dressed up, sometimes with my younger brothers and going trick-or-treating in our neighbourhood.

Nowadays, Halloween is a time of unease. It’s become what I like to call, “racist Christmas”. No other time of year is more inundated by the appearance of problematic “costumes”. Suddenly, a culture that is otherwise referred to as “oppressive”, a country that is otherwise referred to in conjunction with another crime statistic becomes “exotic”, and I can bet you good money— not rupees of course — that there will be someone in my DMs asking to borrow a salwaar or a lehenga for the night.

So, lets talk cultural appropriation. Cultural appropriation only entered the public lexicon in 2017, with the Oxford dictionary defining it as, “the unacknowledged or inappropriate adoption of the customs, practices, ideas etc. of one people or society by members of another, typically more dominant people or society.” Since the word’s widespread use began however, any discussion on this topic often quickly becomes smothered in a handful of white guilt and fragility, with echos of “am I not allowed to do anything anymore?” (or variations of such) lingering in the air.

Let me pre-empt the obvious rebuttal. It seems that white guilt is like the chivalrous knight— its defence mechanisms are what keep it legendary. The most common response to telling white people that they’re guilty of cultural appropriation: “Well, why do you appropriate our culture then? You wear our clothes and we don’t say anything?!”

There is a stark difference between appropriation and assimilation. When People of Colour have to conform to behaviour — whether that be dress codes, cultural practices, or language belonging to the dominant group — it is a means of survival. If we adhered strictly to wearing our own cultural clothing, speaking our native languages and practicing the same cultural rituals that are often viewed as “barbaric” in the West, we would soon find ourselves ostracised and made examples of why we should be “sent back to where we came from”.

When People of Colour express our. cultures in whatever way we deem fit, it is, on the most part, viewed negatively., We are told that we are not doing a good enough job of assimilating. That “this is New Zealand, not India”. That we should “make more of an effort to fit in here”. But, let any Instagram influencer arbitrarily sling a sari across her shoulder and slap on a bindhi for the ‘gram, and suddenly they’re beacons of culture and exotic beauty.

The issue, much like other forms of racism, is institutional. High fashion and big name brands have an appalling track record with profiting from appropriated culturally-significant items. From Gucci using white models wearing Sikh turbans on the runway, to Victoria’s Secret using an Indigenous American headdress during the annual fashion show, to Chanel releasing a $200 boomerang. Cultural appropriation is pervasive and peverse and its everywhere nowadays. Your favourite brunch spot advertising a new “tumeric latte” is unknowingly capitalising on years of Ayurvedic knowledge. It’s the theft of cultural practices innate to ancient traditions for consumption by the mass market. And, to make matters worse, the financial benefits that come with promoting these appropriated products to a largely white market base are rarely ever enjoyed by people whose culture it was originally from.

It’s even in entertainment; the show Married at First Sight, for one, is a fitting example. The premise of the show is basically an arranged marriage; family and friends are consulted about the traits and qualities their loved one would like in a partner, and someone is picked and matched up to how they best fit these descriptions, with the couple only meeting for the first time at the altar. On TV, its an entertainment goldmine, but one mention about how my grandparents were brought together by an arranged marriage warrants pitied glances, the word feminism being thrown around and an overall air of disdain for such an “antiquated” practice.

I was once asked if the bindhi I so proudly wore to school was a “skin infection”. I, like most other South Asians growing up in the diaspora have been called “dot head”and received some sort of negative commentary about our decision to wear a bindhi in public. It’s almost as if the public sphere heralds the ‘abuse’; that it’s fine to be visibly different from the majority outright with skin colour, but the minute you brand yourself even further, by wearing a bindhi or dressing in traditional clothing, suddenly you’re a pesky spot that just needs one more scrub with a bleach-laced stare.

Forget that bindhis are an intrinsic part of Hinduism and Indian culture, forget that they represent chakra, or are a sign of marriage, what matters in the eyes of the West is that ASOS places them under the Halloween accessory tab. For a humble $2.99, you too can be guilty of cultural appropriation!

The bindhi is a cultural icon, and one that is full of religious and social significance. For many years, so many of our cultural practices and rituals were banned under the British rule of India. Wearing bindhis or our traditional clothing, even eating our traditional food are forms of protest. They are acts of defiant reclamation, of finally being able to express ourselves without fear of colonial persecution. There are many blonde haired, blue-eyed Instagram influencers who don traditional clothes and jewellery on my feed; perhaps its Instagram’s way of perpetually raising my blood pressure. But, everytime I scroll past these pictures, it humours me to see just how carefully their photo has been taken, how well crafted their photographers must be to capture a sliver of indifference in a sea of poverty and destitution. Ignorance is a hell of a drug.

Not every Person of Colour will take issue with appropriating elements of our cultures. However, cherry picking when and where to use said cultural objects based on your social calendar is problematic in itself, when you take into account the glaring fact that we don’t get the lavish luxury of choosing when to be brown.

The lifetime of prejudice, abuse and mistreatment because of our ethnicity isn’t something that can be stepped into as easily as a borrowed lehenga. When we wear our traditional clothes, we don’t get to stop the negatives that come with expressing and being proud of our culture and heritage. For white people, the consumption of our cultures is not unlike getting a burger from McDonalds; extra ‘clout’ and a frenzy of heart reacts on the side, but hold the discrimination.

During every discussion I’ve been a part of on cultural appropriation, at some point, someone raises the point about the difference between cultural appropriation and appreciation. Appreciation is always welcome in the brown community, its part of acknowledging our diversity. Respect and understanding are cornerstones of appreciation, something that is painfully lacking when it comes to appropriation. Cultures are not costumes, period. You shouldn’t look at a group of people, take their culturally (and often, religiously) significant clothing and symbols and immediately think of costume and theme ideas. If you are in a space where you have been invited by a person of colour to engage and participate in their culture, by all means, join in. What sets this scenario apart from your “regular cultural appropriation horror story” is that it happens on our terms, not yours.

Your invitation to continue the pillage of cultures that were never yours in the first place has been revoked; until next Halloween, of course.