There isn’t anything wrong with respectful appropriation. In fact, it is usually cause for celebration.
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Very odd I stumbled upon this. I was thinking of this very sort of thing: why is “appropriation” always negative? Can someone of one race not have ties to a culture dominated primarily by another? Even if they didn’t always: is there really something wrong with finding joy and appreciation in a different culture? Interestingly, we humans are choosy about what we consider to be “going too far,” in this appreciation and yet still, we also accept changes to the standards we set. Hip-hop, jazz, etc. were not considered appropriate for everyone to take part in until relatively recently. Now, everyone loves these genres; and people of all colors and nationalities contribute to them without a second thought. Still, things like dialectical differences (which are not set in stone and can easily vary even throughout the course of a day) are seen as strictly racial or nationalistic. Do you “talk black,” “dress white,” or identify with the customs of a culture you grew up with (or maybe one you didn’t!), but were not strictly part of? What does it matter? What does it even mean? I am white, I grew up with both white and black people. My identification lies in both cultures: both ango-saxon and Gullah. I can safely say most people around my area were highly influenced by the cultures around us, while some may not even recognize it. Our ancestors have radically different histories, but those are just that: history. And, as we all know, much of what we know of history is nothing we want to repeat. Humans are not robots: we are free-flowing creatures with nearly infinite possible ways of being. We are free to love the beauty in all things. THAT is genetic. THAT is our nature.
Slipping around safely, stored in my skull:
Quiet kin creeping, I’m keeping them,
Close, in careful cloistered confines.
I loathe them with patience.
Invisible imposition; insolent, incessantly evading.
An aggravated animosity; a nasty arousal,
Atrophying adoration for the absent.
They cherish me parasitically.
I hear their hums’ hindrance hollowing me,
Without windows, they wander without way,
Whispers to wails; wishing for willing ears.
I nourish them perversely.
Secrets calling, interminable,
Acrid harbingers warning me.
They starve me with gentle prudence.
Wicked hope: absolution exists.
Cure me. See us.
We covet separation so petulantly…
We scorn this delusion with sage poise.