“GET OUT OF HERE, yeah you, do not look at my face bitch, keep walking, take your slut with you”.
By the time I had finished writing this sentence I had relived every second of that day.
After what had been a not so happy Saturday in San Francisco, my friend and I were walking back to his car when a man stepped out of his house to make sure that I had been ripped off of every ounce of strength and that all that was left behind was just pure fear.
Growing up in India, “racism” was an outside term, was something that I had not lived through except for the suggestions made by friends and family on how to lighten my skin color. I had read about it, heard about, had seen it on TV, I even knew I would be the victim of it outside my country but it was not something that was always on my mind until I made the decision to come here, to the land of dreams and opportunities, where I could pursue my education and career in psychology. I had always wanted to be part of something bigger, something more diverse and by leaving my country I hoped to live that desire.
Orientation week, was when I first felt like the “other”, not because I experienced racism but because I was expected to share my share of experiences with racism during group discussions or when my presence was not acknowledged when my roommate and I introduced ourselves to potential friends.
As I walked back to the car, my body shivering like I had just come out of ice cold water, tears running down my cheeks involuntarily, I recounted every little memory starting the first day of college, memories that I didn’t know existed were now more clear than ever.
Our brains tend to shut down traumatizing memories as a coping mechanism to avoid any kind of mental discomfort, but mine cannot help but recount every second of that day whenever there is a presence of a trigger, a question that questions my story, my experience or a statement that does something worse, something that turns my story into nothing.
“I think cultural appropriation is just a social construct. I don’t believe it’s actually a thing”.
He continues stating reasons for his argument, I am too tired to fight back, too tired to prove yet another person what’s culturally appropriate and what’s not or what’s racist and what’s not, I am tired. All I could think of was that Saturday, the Saturday when San Francisco seemed like a great idea. Long before we knew it, we were walking through the streets of San Francisco, taking in the essence of the city.
Haight Street, so colorful, so full of life, a place that demands curiosity and attention from every visitor. Enthusiasm slowly turned into sadness which then slowly turned to anger when I witnessed my culture splattered all over the walls which at one point seemed too twisted, too hard for me to interpret anymore. Kali, The Indian Goddess of death, who embodies the victory of good over evil, a Goddess who is worshipped and respected by all in my country, certainly does not belong on a wall outside a tattoo shop, portrayed as something far from a respected Goddess. With this very picture in my head, I walked towards the car, but all I can remember from that day is the man and the wall.
Not many are vocal about their experiences because they try to forget it or not see it because acknowledging it is painful. However, silence does not nullify their stories, the stories are still there, they are still happening and we are living them. Racism is very much present and so is microaggression, outside this campus and inside it, and maybe we can do something about it, by first trying to not question a person’s story but by trying to be in it.
Yes, cultural appropriation is also a real thing, No, it is not the act of sharing or celebrating cultures but distorting it, so the practice of yoga or any other cultural practice along with the knowledge and acknowledgment of the culture and history behind the practice is certainly not cultural appropriation, it is called being "aware", being “not ignorant”.
There should never be an argument on cultural appropriation or micro aggression or racism in the first place because the truth is that it is very much present and in the process of arguing about the presence or absence of it, many are getting hurt because they know, they have lived through it all.
