Ahhh, Friday. It has that weekend sort of feeling to it already and I can’t wait until the day concludes and I can officially kick of the weekend. I have plans, even. I’m going out with a bunch of friends to celebrate Chinese New Year.
I’m pausing now in anticipation of the comment that I have most often received in response to this pronouncement – “I didn’t know you were Chinese!”
It’s said with a grin, perhaps even a smirk, and a pointed look at my very white, very Irish features. Note that I didn’t say very “American” features.
I realize that I am about to tread on treacherous ground, but that’s never stopped me before, so here I go. I’m American and I’m white. The two are not mutually exclusive, but nor are they synonyms. I’m distinctly
not Chinese, though – there is no denying that, not that I would; not that I would expect anyone to deny their heritage or pretend to be something other than what they are.
The interwebs of late have been filled with thoughtful meta about race in general, race in America in particular, the difference between race and culture, appreciation for diversity and the dangers of cultural appropriation and I’ve read a lot of it with various degrees of agreement, discomfort and annoyance.
I’m white. I’m American. I’m going out to celebrate Chinese New Year.
The group of friends going with me includes other white people – Protestant, Catholic and Jewish, black people – with and without African heritage (because it turns out that people who are from the West Indies do not appreciate being called African American), Mexicans, Peruvians, Indians, Bengalis, Lebanese and a host of assorted mixed race folks who quite openly revel in their mixed-raceness.
Oh, and yes, even Chinese people.
For the past five years, we’ve all gotten together to descend on our favorite Chinese restaurant in the city, where we’ve long known the owner and his entire (extended) family. We laugh and joke and carry on. We tell stories. We drink. We eat an absolutely ridiculous amount of food, most of which is not offered on the menu, but is prepared by our chef and his mother from their retinue of favorite dishes for the occasion.
We discuss topics ranging from trash TV (bring on the next season of
The Real Housewives of Atlanta) to traditional Chinese food and medicine. We tell stories of our travels, ranging from the fact that the restaurant owner sneaks Viagra with him when he goes back to China, to the fact that one of our youngest attendees spent a semester in Ireland and will be spending a semester in Argentina. We talk jobs, we talk families, we talk current events, we just basically talk a lot.
We even talk food. We compare and contrast our favorite foods (quite a few fans of Indian food!) and the differences between cultural cuisines. Several members in our group own restaurants and most of us have waited tables, so large parts of the discussion center around the differences in the types of crowds that visit steakhouses versus those that visit Chinese restaurants.
As for the holiday itself, Mr. Jou, our host, has described it a festival to celebrate family and friends. The restaurant is decked out in lanterns and we conclude our meal with shots of alcohol set alight (rather than firecrackers, which he used as a child). We toast to each other, to the future, to the end of another winter, to friendship and to good fortune. We revel long past the close of business (last year we didn’t conclude until 4 a.m.) and then we all go our separate ways and back to our lives.
I’ve done some reading about “traditional” Chinese New Year, because I was curious as to how the celebration originated. I don’t pretend that it has the same cultural significance to me that it does to someone who is Chinese, or has Chinese heritage. How could it? I’m not Chinese.
But I’m also not blind, nor oblivious. There are very large immigrant populations from all over the world in the city that I call home. I can travel down one highway and see Little Korea, Little China, Little Viet Nam, Little Mexico and Little India all within a few miles. I see these cultures and I grow curious. I want to visit the shops and eat in the restaurants. I wear jewelry and clothes that I buy from these shops, despite the fact that they are certainly
not part of my heritage.
I don’t speak the language. I don’t understand the depth of the history. I don’t always know exactly where the home-town of the shopkeeper is. And yet, I don’t consider my participation to be cultural appropriation, either.
The United States used to be described as a melting pot. I am aware that that term has come under intense – and justified – scrutiny of late. No one wants to be forced to leave behind their cultural identity and take on someone else’s. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but assimilation is the worst sort of insult.
I struggle sometimes to know where the line is – and when I read posts from people on the internet expressing their frustration at (usually and almost always specifically stated ‘white’) interlopers, I get uncomfortable, because I don’t want to be accused of “appropriation.”
Still, this is the city where I live – this is my city. These are my neighbors. These are my friends. Being involved with them doesn’t feel like appropriation. It feels like community.
Is it worse to attend Chinese New Year celebrations as a white person, or stay home with disinterest? What if you’re Japanese? Or Indian? Or Mexican? Or Peruvian? Or black? Or racially Chinese, but culturally southern? Or bi-racial?
I’m going to make mistakes, because I’m human. I’m going to be oblivious to social cues, because I’m sometimes oblivious. I’m going to hurt the feelings of someone from a different race than mine, because I only know how to be white. I’m trying, and whether that counts for something or not, it’s the truth.
I don’t know where the line is between cultural appreciation and cultural assimilation, or when I can legitimately say that something that is traditionally a part of someone else’s culture has become an important and anticipated part of my own life. I may throw the question out tonight at dinner between the spring rolls and the baby octopus and see what answers I get.
There are a lot of things I don’t know and I’m probably “doing it wrong,” but I do know one thing - I’ll be damned if I miss out on this year’s Chinese New Year celebration.
This entry was written for Topic 12: Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
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