http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/...erspec-appropriation-cultural-0830-story.html
They got him. Just as I feared they would.
My nephew Kyle came to live with us this summer after his freshman year of college. Apparently he’s now a deputized member of the cultural-appropriation police.
He hadn’t even unpacked his massive bag of dirty laundry when he made a snide comment about the three straw hats hanging in our hallway collected during our years living in Southeast Asia.
The next day when Kyle and I were backing out of the driveway and I called out “Adios” to my neighbor, Kyle mumbled, “Appropriate much?”
But then the following Saturday, I overheard Kyle ask my wife if we had any sunscreen he could borrow. “Brenna and I are going kayaking.”
I poked my head around the corner. “Mmm. Kayaks. You mean that watercraft appropriated from the Inuit people of the Arctic region?”
Quick on his feet, Kyle recovered and retorted, “I meant to say we’re renting canoes.”
“As in the canoe that was developed by the indigenous people of North America?”
Stymied, Kyle canceled his plans. He and Brenna spent the day sitting quietly on a park bench.
The following Monday our neighbor offered Kyle 50 bucks to move a mound of dirt into his backyard. I was glad to see the boy working. But when I saw he’d helped himself to the wheelbarrow from my shed, I couldn’t help myself.
“Whatcha doing there, McFly?”
“Moving this dirt for some quick cash.”
“Using a wheelbarrow?”
“Yup.”
He continued shoveling.
“As in the one-wheeled cart invented by the Chinese?”
Kyle looked at me for a long moment as he processed this information before finally lowering the handles of the wheelbarrow.
He switched to lugging the dirt in a five-gallon bucket. It took him the rest of the afternoon. The job worked out to four dollars an hour.
The next day he was so stiff and sore, Brenna suggested they go stretch out at “Yoga in the Park.” Until I pointed out yoga is a sacred practice rooted in Hinduism.
Brenna went by herself.
My wife told me to leave the poor boy alone. But hey, as his uncle, I feel it’s my job to help him live out his passionately held core values.
In the summer our family eats most of our dinners on the deck which is conveniently located off our kitchen. Well convenient for most of us. Not for Kyle. Once I pointed out that modern architects got their inspiration for the sliding glass door from the Japanese shoji, Kyle stopped using our sliding door. You know, it having been appropriated and all.
At dinnertime Kyle now goes out through the garage, runs down the hill on the side of the house, jumps the fence, cuts through the hedges, and climbs the stairs to the deck. I get exhausted just watching him.
Once when it was his turn to help prep for dinner, he made seven trips. One of them after we’d all sat down. I pointed out he’d forgotten to bring the salt shaker.
Last week, prompted by a text from his mother, Kyle came home with birthday flowers for my wife. Anticipating my efforts to help him rout out all cultural appropriation from his life, Kyle brought home tulips. We are Dutch-Americans, after all. As he walked past me he beamed victoriously, pointed at the flowers, and boldly declared, “Dutch.”
“Um, Kyle.”
He paused. His confidence seemed to waver ever so slightly.
“Tulips aren’t native to the Netherlands. The Dutch first imported them from Turkey in the 1500s.” Kyle’s shoulders sagged. His face darkened. He lowered the flowers to his side.
The next morning I found the bouquet on top of our compost pile. I tried to lighten Kyle’s spirits by taking him out for lunch. He attempted to order a jumbo fries until I pointed out the word jumbo comes from the Swahili “jambo.”
He ordered a small.
But it didn’t matter. Shortly after we sat down, he refused to eat his fries. I may have mentioned something about potatoes not being native to North America or Europe. They originate from South America.
He pushed his fries toward me and focused his attention on his sweet tea. Until I asked him how Southerners might feel about him — a Northerner — appropriating their regional drink.
I used his sweet tea to wash down his fries.
Most weeks, his less-woke friends go out for Taco Tuesdays, but not Kyle. No more hummus. No more bagels. No mo’ pho. Poor Kyle. Living the unappropriated life is tough business.
Whenever it rains, Kyle gets soaked. No more umbrellas for him. Chinese.
Kyle has stopped binge watching “The Walking Dead” once I mentioned the word for, and the concept of, zombies were appropriated from West Africa.
Kyle was taking a summer math course at the community college. But he dropped out. It was just too hard. His homework was taking all evening. He was doing all his assignments using Roman numerals since Arabic numerals are … well, Arabic.
These days, Kyle doesn’t go out or do much of anything. He was spending the majority of his time in the basement curled up on the futon he'd lugged home from college until someone — I'm not going to say who — pointed out that futons are Japanese. Now he just spends his waking hours curled up on the floor in a wad of blankets.
Last time I checked on him, he was whimpering quietly to himself. It’s been a rough summer to be Kyle.
Me? Oh, I’m doing fine, thank you very much. I am sitting here (guilt free, mind you) in my Hawaiian shirt, sipping my Tusker lager from Kenya, and listening to Bob Marley.
Life is good. Good, indeed.
Jack VanNoord was a classroom teacher for 30 years. He lives with his wife in the suburbs of Chicago. He is the author of the family travel memoir “Hope They Like Rice.”
My nephew Kyle came to live with us this summer after his freshman year of college. Apparently he’s now a deputized member of the cultural-appropriation police.
He hadn’t even unpacked his massive bag of dirty laundry when he made a snide comment about the three straw hats hanging in our hallway collected during our years living in Southeast Asia.
The next day when Kyle and I were backing out of the driveway and I called out “Adios” to my neighbor, Kyle mumbled, “Appropriate much?”
But then the following Saturday, I overheard Kyle ask my wife if we had any sunscreen he could borrow. “Brenna and I are going kayaking.”
I poked my head around the corner. “Mmm. Kayaks. You mean that watercraft appropriated from the Inuit people of the Arctic region?”
Quick on his feet, Kyle recovered and retorted, “I meant to say we’re renting canoes.”
“As in the canoe that was developed by the indigenous people of North America?”
Stymied, Kyle canceled his plans. He and Brenna spent the day sitting quietly on a park bench.
The following Monday our neighbor offered Kyle 50 bucks to move a mound of dirt into his backyard. I was glad to see the boy working. But when I saw he’d helped himself to the wheelbarrow from my shed, I couldn’t help myself.
“Whatcha doing there, McFly?”
“Moving this dirt for some quick cash.”
“Using a wheelbarrow?”
“Yup.”
He continued shoveling.
“As in the one-wheeled cart invented by the Chinese?”
Kyle looked at me for a long moment as he processed this information before finally lowering the handles of the wheelbarrow.
He switched to lugging the dirt in a five-gallon bucket. It took him the rest of the afternoon. The job worked out to four dollars an hour.
The next day he was so stiff and sore, Brenna suggested they go stretch out at “Yoga in the Park.” Until I pointed out yoga is a sacred practice rooted in Hinduism.
Brenna went by herself.
My wife told me to leave the poor boy alone. But hey, as his uncle, I feel it’s my job to help him live out his passionately held core values.
In the summer our family eats most of our dinners on the deck which is conveniently located off our kitchen. Well convenient for most of us. Not for Kyle. Once I pointed out that modern architects got their inspiration for the sliding glass door from the Japanese shoji, Kyle stopped using our sliding door. You know, it having been appropriated and all.
At dinnertime Kyle now goes out through the garage, runs down the hill on the side of the house, jumps the fence, cuts through the hedges, and climbs the stairs to the deck. I get exhausted just watching him.
Once when it was his turn to help prep for dinner, he made seven trips. One of them after we’d all sat down. I pointed out he’d forgotten to bring the salt shaker.
Last week, prompted by a text from his mother, Kyle came home with birthday flowers for my wife. Anticipating my efforts to help him rout out all cultural appropriation from his life, Kyle brought home tulips. We are Dutch-Americans, after all. As he walked past me he beamed victoriously, pointed at the flowers, and boldly declared, “Dutch.”
“Um, Kyle.”
He paused. His confidence seemed to waver ever so slightly.
“Tulips aren’t native to the Netherlands. The Dutch first imported them from Turkey in the 1500s.” Kyle’s shoulders sagged. His face darkened. He lowered the flowers to his side.
The next morning I found the bouquet on top of our compost pile. I tried to lighten Kyle’s spirits by taking him out for lunch. He attempted to order a jumbo fries until I pointed out the word jumbo comes from the Swahili “jambo.”
He ordered a small.
But it didn’t matter. Shortly after we sat down, he refused to eat his fries. I may have mentioned something about potatoes not being native to North America or Europe. They originate from South America.
He pushed his fries toward me and focused his attention on his sweet tea. Until I asked him how Southerners might feel about him — a Northerner — appropriating their regional drink.
I used his sweet tea to wash down his fries.
Most weeks, his less-woke friends go out for Taco Tuesdays, but not Kyle. No more hummus. No more bagels. No mo’ pho. Poor Kyle. Living the unappropriated life is tough business.
Whenever it rains, Kyle gets soaked. No more umbrellas for him. Chinese.
Kyle has stopped binge watching “The Walking Dead” once I mentioned the word for, and the concept of, zombies were appropriated from West Africa.
Kyle was taking a summer math course at the community college. But he dropped out. It was just too hard. His homework was taking all evening. He was doing all his assignments using Roman numerals since Arabic numerals are … well, Arabic.
These days, Kyle doesn’t go out or do much of anything. He was spending the majority of his time in the basement curled up on the futon he'd lugged home from college until someone — I'm not going to say who — pointed out that futons are Japanese. Now he just spends his waking hours curled up on the floor in a wad of blankets.
Last time I checked on him, he was whimpering quietly to himself. It’s been a rough summer to be Kyle.
Me? Oh, I’m doing fine, thank you very much. I am sitting here (guilt free, mind you) in my Hawaiian shirt, sipping my Tusker lager from Kenya, and listening to Bob Marley.
Life is good. Good, indeed.
Jack VanNoord was a classroom teacher for 30 years. He lives with his wife in the suburbs of Chicago. He is the author of the family travel memoir “Hope They Like Rice.”
