I originally wrote this as a post for a class I am taking about Native American religious and spiritual practices. A component of this class includes an expectation that students experientially engage in individual rituals to deepen their understanding.
I’ll start by saying that I’m probably the person that gets pegged as “PC-er than thou” more often than not; I believe strongly in the power of words and that their usage, no matter the intent, can reify a negative paradigm or dominant structure when utilized by people who have no ownership of the term as a way of organizing their identity (e.g. people using pejoratives like gay or retarded to describe something as sub par.) And it’s that ownership thing that I’m struggling with in process to this class. I don’t have any ownership of Native American spirituality or identity.
Therefore, taking this class to enrich my intellectual, spiritual, emotional/empathic understanding of people of Native American identity or experience is important and relevant – both from a personal standpoint and, ultimately, professionally. However, the piece that I’m working on is the co-opting piece: experientially engaging in Native American spiritual practices, as they do not have the cultural, historical and personal significance to me that they would someone raised in that identity. I am especially cautious around co-opting or appropriating practices from traditionally oppressed cultures.
My privilege of being a Catholic-raised white man is that I do not get assumptions thrown at me on the basis of my skin color or gender or religious/spiritual upbringing, unless they are generally positive. Appropriating the practices of an oppressed culture is not understanding; it is often tokenizing, an eroticization of the “exotic” and discarding of a larger understanding of the complex issues, judgements and consequences of being perceived or identifying with an oppressed identity.
While this most certainly does not mean that I feel that I (or any other person) should remain in identity-exclusive spaces (much to the contrary!) it does make me cautious about approaching matters of such deep personal significance as spirituality and religion. This past Saturday, I went to a Seder for the first time in my life, and enjoyed it immensely. Through six hours, four cups of wine and more tasty vegan and gluten free food options any Portlander could shake a stick at, I was blessed to witness and participate in a ritual which was equal parts community building, laughter, religion, and testament to the importance of social activism.
On the way home, a friend and I briefly touched on the subject of appropriation. They mentioned that they, as Jewish person, had a rosary, and wondered, half-seriously, if that meant they had to get rid of it. I responded that would mean that I would have to get rid of my Buddha statues. And I think that’s the correct answer – for me, in this case. However, the issue becomes more complex when dealing with a people whose identities and ways of life have been fundamentally oppressed. I don’t know that I would be comfortable owning, for example, a dream catcher without putting some very intentional thought into why I felt I needed it and what significance, if any, it held in my spiritual practice.
There’s certainly more to say about the issue, but I’m curious on your take – how do you feel about entering into and engaging in the spiritual practices of traditions other than your own? How do you best do it in a mindful and intentional way? What are your thoughts on appropriation?
Thanks for your thoughts and words. To me, the issue of appropriation is central to how I encounter the world spiritually, culturally and creatively. As an African-American, and one reared in a household where black music (jazz mostly, but other forms as well) was as sacred/profane as any religious text, I constantly notice the ways that most American music and culture is steeped in conscious and unconscious “borrowing” of certain traditions. Specifically, those traditions grew up as a form of resistance to oppression and the literal and figurative violence of the trans-atlantic slave trade and its aftermath.
I say this because this is where the conundrum about appropriation often lies: In order for people to truly understand why the appropriation of black musical forms is painful, they have to learn about the history, context and practices of black music. I want them to know, but I also know the suspicion that I feel when I’m confronted with people’s (often entirely genuine) desire to learn about cultural traditions that are not their own.
In the end, I try to think about it in terms of power and choice. Who has the power to borrow/appropriate/change/make new, and who doesn’t? What are the colonial and economic relationships between those who choose to “borrow” and those who are borrowed from? Also, what is at stake? If I choose to ignore the frustrations of (for example) an East Asian or South Asian person who is offended by my co-option of Buddhist or Hindu iconography, what do I gain, and what do they lose? There are times when I think about that question and decide that the physical benefits of attending the yoga class with the white lady down the street outweigh my understanding that she is benefiting financially from the American tendency to commodify “Eastern” cultural and spiritual practices. Sometimes I make a different decision. The key, for me, is acknowledging that I, as the person participating in the appropriating behavior, have a choice in the matter, while those whose culture is dominated under US colonial/imperial practices may not be in that same position.