Cultural appropriation is a tricky minefield to navigate even as a person of color. Within my own ethnicity, there is discourse on whether certain actions are cultural appropriation or not. I think it depends on context and people’s intentions, both of which are difficult to determine and judge in a standardized manner. This uncertainty of how to define cultural appropriation can lead to people either having a complete disregard for cultural sensitivity or choosing to not participate in ethnic activities all together. Both of these outcomes are bad because it either leads to exploitation and oppression of marginalized groups or a lack of awareness and diversity in the world.
My personal experience with cultural appropriation has heavily influenced how I think about it, so I think it’s a good place to start. I was born in Tamilnadu, India, but most of my earliest memories are from Bangalore, Karnataka, India where my family moved when I was about 4 years old. I immigrated to America when I was 8 years old, and I’ve lived in Omaha, Nebraska ever since. Omaha—or at least the suburb I’m from—is predominantly white, which meant I was the only Indian girl in my high school class of 450 students. The people I grew up around were mostly welcoming of my culture and did not ridicule it, so I never really had to address the issue of cultural appropriation until I was in high school. As a person of color, I’ve always had to speak for my whole race and culture instead of just for myself, but as I grew older, I was being asked to speak on behalf of my people on heavy topics, such as appropriation and racism, even though I had not experienced much discrimination as a 15-year-old. It wasn’t necessarily anyone’s fault because they were only trying to educate themselves and I was the nearest reliable resource, but it really isn’t fair to put that much responsibility on a teenager.
I felt like I was highly unqualified to speak about these things, but that’s exactly the point. At that point in my life, I thought I had never experienced discrimination like others from my culture because there were no obvious signs of oppression. Sure, I was hesitant to bring Indian food for lunch or wear a bindi because I wanted to fit in and didn’t want to draw attention to myself, but I’d never been bullied for taking part in my culture. That’s what makes defining cultural appropriation so difficult. There is no one single person’s experiences which can be used to say “Yes, this is unacceptable because you were treated this way.” This is also why I had no authority to claim cultural appropriation is not an issue just because I thought I hadn’t been affected by it. Even though I didn’t feel exploited by the use of Indian culture, there were other Indians who did, and I couldn’t undermine their feelings.
As I grew older, I realized that I was, in fact, affected by cultural appropriation, among other racial issues, because even if they aren’t obviously evident, they still exist. I think the practice of wearing henna is the best way to illustrate what I mean. I’m used to wearing henna for special occasions and whenever I’m bored. During high school, I’d get a cone of henna from the Indian grocery store, find a replicable design on Google, and sit down to ink own arms. Then, I’d receive nothing but compliments on the pretty designs and my practiced skill. Eventually, I began doing it for my friends too. It was a good way to spend time together as I shared a part of my culture with them. I loved sharing knowledge about how henna works and my memories of henna from my childhood, and I knew my friends loved getting to share this part of my culture with me. This, I truly believe is what cultural appreciation for henna looks like.
What changed my perspective was when I was reprimanded for wearing henna. I had covered my arms in deep orange flowers for prom to match my traditional lehenga outfit, and the designs stayed for the following week. When I returned to school, my nursing experience teacher was not happy because she did not want me interacting with patients while my henna was still visible. She called it “unprofessional” and compared it to wearing tattoos. My initial reaction was disbelief. How could this normal part of my rich culture possibly be “unprofessional”? Did the cultural connection and history behind henna mean nothing to her? Did this mean that the only accepted “professional” attire was the one created by white Americans like her, who did not need to include things such as henna because it didn’t exist in their culture?
This is where the problem cultural appropriation stems from. My teacher had no idea what significance that henna held nor did she bother finding out. All she knew was that it didn’t exist in her culture, it hadn’t been specifically addressed as part of the dress code, and therefore it must treated like a tattoo and not be allowed. When she treats me in this manner and then turns around to pay for her daughter to get henna from a booth at the annual summer carnival, am I to simply not be offended? Henna is more than just a pretty design, but she didn’t understand that. It didn’t exist in her culture, so she couldn’t relate to it, so she didn’t mind treating it as a nuisance.
I would say that my friends wearing henna is cultural appreciation and my teacher allowing her daughter to wear henna is cultural appropriation. The difference lies their attitudes towards the culture and their intent on wearing a piece of my heritage on their skin. And this is exactly what makes acts of cultural appropriation—apart from the obvious offenses—so hard to pin down. In an ideal world, people would be invested in learning about other cultures and participating in the growth of that culture’s people, but would also be aware that the culture is not theirs to profit off of or use without knowledge of its history. I believe the more we work to attain the attitude of an ideal world, the richer our experiences of sharing the world’s cultures will be.