On cultural appropriation, privilege, entitlement, and giving back with humility
[not quite as articulate as I hoped. I wrote this when I could barely prop my eyes open, but I've been mulling it over deeper and peeper for months]
I’ve done a quite a bit of reading on the subject of Haitian Vodou. Two things that each of the more recent titles address first first are cultural appropriation and the history of Haiti. Reading and digesting each of these topics in repition is bringing about interesting changes in me.
First, I have to admit, as a graduate student in sociology, I love, love, LOVE the straightforward and brutally honest way Kenaz Filan addresses privilege and entitlement. I am grateful for the not-so-gentle way in which he lay the smacketh down upon thee. He reminds me of what I need to see and overcome in myself, including reassessing my view of Judeo Christian imagery. I wish Filan had things he wished to say about Neopagan topics as well, so that the Neopagan community could receive the Clue By Four he has in store for them as well.
I’m especially grateful to both Filan and Chita Tann for speaking out against cherry picking, or “buffet paganing," bits and pieces of African Diaspora traditions and then using them haphazardly in a vaguely Gardinarian Neopagan ritual.
Kudos especially to Chita Tann for being blunt when she said, “Never forget that Haiti has no obligation to accept you, no matter how sincere you are or how respectfully you promise to act. Haitian Vodou, the people of Vodou (Vodouisants), and the Lwa owe you nothing and have no obligation to respond to your questions or your interest. If you are not Haitian, you simply do not have an inherent right to own or borrow Haiti’s spirituality, in whole or in part."
I’ve never been crazy about history. The minutia and names and dates all start to run together for me, normally. Battles over this and wars over that because someone thought they had the Right and True Way of something and it needed to be the Only Way as well… It all drives me crazy after a while. But this is different…
With each book I read, I become more and more engrossed in the history of Haiti and the evolution of Vodou. Each author reveals, through the lens of their own bias, different facets of what happened. Filan laid bare the details of Vilbrun Guillaume Sam’s brutal dismemberment in the streets. Wade Davis helped me draw correlations between the American occupation of Haiti and the flood of horrific, cannibalistic depictions of Vodou that hit the US, which in turn influenced the budding New Orleans Voodoo tourism scene. Davis’ wordcraft also put a chillingly unforgettable face and story behind Francios Mekandal’s name and achievements. Chita Tann developed my awareness of the power shifts between controlling nations during the revolution, and she revealed to me the Parsley Massacre, deepening my understanding of the intricacies in policy and backing between Presidents Vincent and Trujillo.
Ms. Zora Neale Hurston, with her brilliant meanderings of colloquial phrase, her blending of field research with narrative, and her occasional stunning wordcraft painted a very intimate picture for me of Haiti immediately post occupation. She painted for me a beautiful picture of a Haiti that had hope, and she showed it to me through an American black woman’s eyes. I loved the way she compared and contrasted the countries and customs she encountered to 1930s America. It helped me immensely in framing my understanding of Haiti’s past and present.
With each book, with each author, with each set of names and dates, Haiti becomes more alive to me, more real. I can feel her breathe, feel her cry, feel her peoples’ soul. I have trouble communicating this part, and I’m exhausted beyond measure at the moment, so bear with me…
I don’t just want to give back. I want to share her troubles as my own.
I don’t just want to serve the Lwa, I want to serve their people.
I’m aware of my place out of place, aware of my gleaming skin, aware that most of my ancestry is northern European (My mom is adopted, but she’s a freckled redhead. I can do the math.) I’m aware that I’m over here where people sometimes eschew meat because they can and want to. I’m aware that many of my fellow Americans will hold their brutalized and poisoned BicMac aloft while and scoffing at animals killed humanely in sacrifice and recognition of divinity. I know that my skin represents oppression. That my country represents gluttony and scathing condescension. I know that I am perhaps the last person in the world that anyone in Haiti wants to see.
But I want to go. I want to try.
My uncle was (is? we’re not close) involved in building homes and schools somewhere in Haiti before the earthquake. Shortly after the earthquake hit, a gnarly storm felled a massive tree right into the middle of his house. He woke up the next morning, surveyed the damage to his home, and kissed his wife goodbye. He couldn’t stay to care for his broken home because he had a plane to Haiti to help rebuild her broken schools and churches and homes.
I respect his dedication and I want to talk to him about perhaps going with him sometime, but I’m not sure if his accomplishments are part of mission work. I feel like showing up to help while waving my country’s dominant religion around would be adding insult to injury. I think, but I’m not sure, that it is mission work, but not evangelical. I believe they travel with the backing of the church, but do not seek to convert. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
Papa Legba and the Baron reached out to me. I feel like it’s important that I reach out as well. I’ve been wracking my brain for months trying to figure out how to bend or suspend my work schedule to make it happen. I’m sure when it’s time, the money for a plane ticket and the opening in my schedule will simply be there. I have a feeling Papa will make sure of it.
Ok. Bleary eyed and barely coherent. Need sleep. Just needed to get this all out.
I’ve done a quite a bit of reading on the subject of Haitian Vodou. Two things that each of the more recent titles address first first are cultural appropriation and the history of Haiti. Reading and digesting each of these topics in repition is bringing about interesting changes in me.
First, I have to admit, as a graduate student in sociology, I love, love, LOVE the straightforward and brutally honest way Kenaz Filan addresses privilege and entitlement. I am grateful for the not-so-gentle way in which he lay the smacketh down upon thee. He reminds me of what I need to see and overcome in myself, including reassessing my view of Judeo Christian imagery. I wish Filan had things he wished to say about Neopagan topics as well, so that the Neopagan community could receive the Clue By Four he has in store for them as well.
I’m especially grateful to both Filan and Chita Tann for speaking out against cherry picking, or “buffet paganing," bits and pieces of African Diaspora traditions and then using them haphazardly in a vaguely Gardinarian Neopagan ritual.
Kudos especially to Chita Tann for being blunt when she said, “Never forget that Haiti has no obligation to accept you, no matter how sincere you are or how respectfully you promise to act. Haitian Vodou, the people of Vodou (Vodouisants), and the Lwa owe you nothing and have no obligation to respond to your questions or your interest. If you are not Haitian, you simply do not have an inherent right to own or borrow Haiti’s spirituality, in whole or in part."
I’ve never been crazy about history. The minutia and names and dates all start to run together for me, normally. Battles over this and wars over that because someone thought they had the Right and True Way of something and it needed to be the Only Way as well… It all drives me crazy after a while. But this is different…
With each book I read, I become more and more engrossed in the history of Haiti and the evolution of Vodou. Each author reveals, through the lens of their own bias, different facets of what happened. Filan laid bare the details of Vilbrun Guillaume Sam’s brutal dismemberment in the streets. Wade Davis helped me draw correlations between the American occupation of Haiti and the flood of horrific, cannibalistic depictions of Vodou that hit the US, which in turn influenced the budding New Orleans Voodoo tourism scene. Davis’ wordcraft also put a chillingly unforgettable face and story behind Francios Mekandal’s name and achievements. Chita Tann developed my awareness of the power shifts between controlling nations during the revolution, and she revealed to me the Parsley Massacre, deepening my understanding of the intricacies in policy and backing between Presidents Vincent and Trujillo.
Ms. Zora Neale Hurston, with her brilliant meanderings of colloquial phrase, her blending of field research with narrative, and her occasional stunning wordcraft painted a very intimate picture for me of Haiti immediately post occupation. She painted for me a beautiful picture of a Haiti that had hope, and she showed it to me through an American black woman’s eyes. I loved the way she compared and contrasted the countries and customs she encountered to 1930s America. It helped me immensely in framing my understanding of Haiti’s past and present.
With each book, with each author, with each set of names and dates, Haiti becomes more alive to me, more real. I can feel her breathe, feel her cry, feel her peoples’ soul. I have trouble communicating this part, and I’m exhausted beyond measure at the moment, so bear with me…
I don’t just want to give back. I want to share her troubles as my own.
I don’t just want to serve the Lwa, I want to serve their people.
I’m aware of my place out of place, aware of my gleaming skin, aware that most of my ancestry is northern European (My mom is adopted, but she’s a freckled redhead. I can do the math.) I’m aware that I’m over here where people sometimes eschew meat because they can and want to. I’m aware that many of my fellow Americans will hold their brutalized and poisoned BicMac aloft while and scoffing at animals killed humanely in sacrifice and recognition of divinity. I know that my skin represents oppression. That my country represents gluttony and scathing condescension. I know that I am perhaps the last person in the world that anyone in Haiti wants to see.
But I want to go. I want to try.
My uncle was (is? we’re not close) involved in building homes and schools somewhere in Haiti before the earthquake. Shortly after the earthquake hit, a gnarly storm felled a massive tree right into the middle of his house. He woke up the next morning, surveyed the damage to his home, and kissed his wife goodbye. He couldn’t stay to care for his broken home because he had a plane to Haiti to help rebuild her broken schools and churches and homes.
I respect his dedication and I want to talk to him about perhaps going with him sometime, but I’m not sure if his accomplishments are part of mission work. I feel like showing up to help while waving my country’s dominant religion around would be adding insult to injury. I think, but I’m not sure, that it is mission work, but not evangelical. I believe they travel with the backing of the church, but do not seek to convert. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
Papa Legba and the Baron reached out to me. I feel like it’s important that I reach out as well. I’ve been wracking my brain for months trying to figure out how to bend or suspend my work schedule to make it happen. I’m sure when it’s time, the money for a plane ticket and the opening in my schedule will simply be there. I have a feeling Papa will make sure of it.
Ok. Bleary eyed and barely coherent. Need sleep. Just needed to get this all out.