Confessions of an Evangelical UU

One of the many topics that came up at meals and breaks during the Now is the Time" conference was cultural misappropriation. It is of course a concern amongst UUs who are trying to be sensitive to multiculturalism, especially after what I call the "Zulu hula" fiasco at General Assembly in St. Louis (2006). During a plenary session, several women got up on stage and led us in a sing-a-long/dance. Plenary sessions are long and convention centers often overly air-conditioned, so getting up and moving is not a bad idea. The problem is that it was white women encouraging us to use a Zulu freedom dance as an exercise routine.

What was amazing to me in the aftermath of that uproar (for indeed it did cause a polite but passionate uproar) was that many white UUs had no idea what the offense was. I heard people say they thought that as long as the history of the dance was explained beforehand (which it was), then it was alright to use it. From my perspective, it depends on how one uses it. Is it done with respect for the context in which it was created or is it being colonized? And by that I mean taken from the original owners and "repackaged " for our enjoyment. The latter is cultural misappropriation.

I am usually careful to say misappropriation, because imo, cultural appropriation is a fact of life in a multicultural society. This woman of Chinese descent living in the U.S. eats pizza and tacos and collard greens and creme brulee. And people from all over the world, of all ethnicities, listen to and perform hip hop music. Cultural appropriation is a foregone conclusion. And it's not a bad thing. It's what naturally happens when different cultures interact and someone sees value in someone else's cultural expressions. Real value - ie, sees meaning. Not commercial value, nor cultural "collecting."

Which brings me to an experience immediately after the conference. I had arranged with my family for them to meet me in the town of Mountain View for dinner before I flew back to DC. My father had selected a restaurant on Castro Street, a pleasant small street lined with shops and eateries, mostly but not entirely Chinese-owned. Arriving there before them, I strolled the street, going into various shops. Repeatedly in these Chinese owned shops, I saw the influence of living in the U.S. In the Chinese grocery store there were tortillas and the obligatory Cafe du Monde coffee. (For some reason, Chinese grocery stores in the U.S. always carry Cafe du Monde coffee from New Orleans.) In a couple of the shops, green Irish decorations sat next to Chinese tsotchkes, in anticipation of St. Patrick's Day. Christian paraphernalia mingled with statues of Kwan Yin, all in cramped little aisles packed to the brim with merchandise. Chaotic and wonderful.  And in an Italian gelateria the flavors included green tea, red bean, and ginger. Fusion cuisine at its finest.

On the same street, however, was a New Age store, with what looked like aging white boomers behind the counter. Next to self-help books, crystals and "Angel" trinkets were Celtic runes, African incense, Hindu and Buddhist deities, Taoist feng shui items, Native American fetishes and ritual items... all sanitized into an easily digestible mediocrity. I'm not fond of New Age stores in the first place but the stark contrast made it even more unpleasant.

I've been thinking about what it is that makes the New Age store different from the other shops on the street. They were all selling stuff in order to make a living, so that wasn't it. It's the difference, I think, between living with your neighbors and playing tourist.

As much as I loved yesterday's part of the "Now Is the Time" conference, I had difficulty with the programing today. Dr. Butler asked us to reflect on and share our deepest longing with respect to this work. I did not want to share my deepest desire with some stranger whom I'd only just met. This is perhaps strange since I am willing to share with theoretically the entire world via the internet. I'm willing to throw it out there into the wind. But sitting in the hotel conference room next to flesh and blood, I felt vulnerable and defensive. The truth is that my deepest desire is simply to not hurt anymore. That is all I want.

It seemed to me like a small and selfish desire, unbefitting a UU and someone who was at this conference presumably for greater concerns. Hence my unwillingness to share. But it is not a small task to not hurt anymore. Nor does it only involve myself. I hurt every time I see someone else mistreated based on race (or religion/gender/orientation for that matter). So to relieve my pain we would have to relieve theirs. I hurt - I ache all over - whenever a white friend denies the reality of our suffering. So to relieve my pain we would have to open eyes/minds/hearts that are closed. It is no small task. I suppose I could have shared my desires in these grander terms, but the truth is that I just want to not hurt anymore.

After the scheduled programming, we broke into small informal caucuses. And it was good - it was amazing - to have people of African descent, Latinas, and Asians all in the same room. We aired our grievances, confessed our fears, affirmed and forgave each other.

One of the Asian women whom I'd met expressed an anger I have felt myself and heard other PoCs express. In telling a white UU that she wanted to work on racial justice, the response she got back was "Cool, I'm interested in animal rights." The logical conclusion here is that the physical and emotional welfare of humans of color is on par with the welfare of animals. And that this is some sort of "interest" as in hobby, which could change next week.

Racial justice is not an "interest." As our companion forcefully expressed, "My survival depends on it!" For a spit second my censoring brain considered labeling this statement as hyperbole, but then I remembered the conversation from only last Sunday. Her survival really does depend on it. All of ours does.

I'm still digesting our work during the A/PIC conference. But I wanted to reflect on some themes I found today.

During the worship service, I heard a poem with which I am well familiar, Suicide Note, by Janice Mirikitani. Don't remember the first time I heard/read it but it's been many times since. Even glancing at the words now I feel the swell of emotion. I have felt the despair over imperfection.

After service we broke into small groups to answer questions as part of the "Building the World We Dream About" curriculum in which our conference host, Throop Memorial, is participating. Discussion participants shall remain nameless our of respect for their privacy, but you know since this was an A/PIC conference, the participants were APIs. One young woman talked about how she had been suicidal as a teen, until finally she decided that out of spite, she wasn't going to let the racism kill her. Her anger saved her.

It's been so long that I'd almost forgotten, but I was suicidal as a teen as well. Nearly every day I fantasized about different ways in which I could end my pain, but could never figure out how to do it without distressing others. One particularly bad night after I came in from walking in the rain, daring cars to run me over, a Chinese American friend I'd known from early childhood cursed me out. Invectives flying, she reminded me of my family and friends and how they would feel if I killed myself, reminded me of my filial obligations that are such a strong part of Asian culture. She told me that if I ended my life she would hate me for the rest of hers. I resolved that no matter how much it hurt to live, I would never kill myself. My friend's anger saved me.

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I have lived with depression all my life. My father has it. I can see signs of it in my brother. I had always assumed that it was due to a genetically inherited chemical imbalance. Today was the first time that I considered that it might have something to do with being Asian American. After all, my family members have that in common too.

This isn't to say that all Asian Americans are depressed and suicidal. Obviously not. Nor to say that one shouldn't seek pharmaceutical help (tho I've personally always been resistant). But today was the first time where I considered that the stresses of trying to bridge the cultural divide may actually be causing self-destructive tendencies (ie - it's not just me and my faulty genes).

It's amazing that I'd never thought of that before, given how much Ms. Mirikitani's poem resonates with me.

While visiting Pasadena, I'm staying with my friend Phoebe in her house in Temple City.  The towns south of Pasadena - Alhambra, Monterey Park, and San Gabriel - are notable for their high concentration of Asians.  (Monterey Park is over 55% Chinese.)  If you want good Chinese food in L.A., you don't go to Chinatown; you go to Alhambra and Monterey Park.  To the east in San Gabriel and Temple City, I noticed that there is more of a mixture of Asians and Latino/Hispanics.  Neighbors with straight dark hair and varying shades of tan skin living side by side.  

Driving northward towards Pasadena, I saw a blonde woman in sportswear walking her terrier and was surprised.  "What's she doing here?" I wondered.  The wonder lasted less than a second before I remembered that this is after all the U.S. and it was she who was the norm here, not me.  Still, however silly, the experience of surprise was something that I wanted to record and share.

Before heading over to the start of the A/PIC conference at Throop Memorial Church, I spent the day hanging out with old friends and visiting the Norton Simon Museum of Art.  What I remember about the Norton Simon is its fabulous collection of 19th and 20th century Western art - sculptures by Rodin and Moore, paintings by Picasso, Kandinsky, Klee and Degas.  What I did not remember about the museum was the even more impressive collection of Asian art - room after room of stunning bodhisattvas showcased beautifully.  How could I not remember this?  Guess I was not in the right frame of mind to appreciate it before.

As the A/PIC conference started, I met new friends, and as old friends started to trickle in I was struck by how moved I was to see them.  I call them "old friends" but really, some I've only known since last year and only for the few days of the conference.  But I was just so happy to be there.  So grateful.

And grateful for the generosity of Throop Memorial Church for opening it's doors to us.  As Rev. Clyde Grubbs explained the history of Throop Memorial and how Amos Throop was also responsible for founding Caltech, I let out an audible gasp.  For over six years I had studied at Caltech, much of that time searching for a more spiritual life, never knowing its connection to Unitarian Universalism.  It was as if the Spirit were telling me: see, this is where you were meant to be all along.