Tag Archives: by Maria Gonzalez

Responding to Defense

Letter to the Editor

To the Editor,

In his June 2017 article “In Defense of Cultural Appropriation,” Kenan Malik begins by insisting that he is bravely putting his job on the line by defending a “controversial opinion.” This tactic is often used by people to preemptively invalidate the response of the marginalized communities that they are intentionally hurting, shutting themselves off from opposing opinions. Instead of offering my own opinion, I’d like to point out an issue with the argument itself.

When speaking about challenging racism, Malik postulates that “Once, it was a demand for equal treatment for all.” He then goes on to claim that Elvis Presley becoming a cultural icon was a clear case of racism determining that white people can achieve substantially more success than people of color for the same work-Chuck Berry’s music, which came before Presley’s, had the rock and roll vibes that made Presley’s work “unique” and “revolutionary” . Evidently, the call for society to pressure the Elvis Presleys of the world to stop appropriating culture is, in fact, a demand for equal treatment for the Berrys. This seems perfectly in alignment with the past acts of challenging racism that Malik approves of. However, he then implies that ending cultural appropriation doesn’t challenge racism because it wouldn’t have single-handedly eradicated Jim Crow laws. Malik argues defending cultural appropriation holds that anti-racist acts are only valid if they give redress to the group as a whole, but what is the point of corrective action if it doesn’t include individuals?

To address Malik’s concern that he will be out of the job because people will be offended by his opinion, I am not offended.  How could I be? Malik’s “defense” of cultural appropriation doesn’t make enough sense to cause offense.

Collecting Stories Under the White Gaze

Feature Report

The  special exhibition Collecting Stories: Native American Art premiered at the Museum of Fine Arts  Boston in April 2018 and is set to close in March  2019. The online announcement of Collecting Stories identifies it as “the first in a series of three exhibitions funded by the Henry Luce Foundation that will use understudied works from the MFA’s collection to address critical themes in American art and the formation of modern American identities.” The goal of the exhibit is to unearth overlooked pieces of its collection to reconsider and correct its history of poor representation of the artwork of other cultures.  It is running concurrently with popular events such as Ansel Adams in Our Time, which draws in a queue long enough to wrap around the museum’s foyer.  It was apparent from the few guests visiting the Collecting Stories exhibit that it was a relatively less popular attraction.  Still, I anticipated an enriching experience.

Frequent patrons of the museum know that when they visit special galleries they will experience not only the art being advertised, but also the art of high quality curation. In the past year alone, they would have been able to view such notable collections such as Unexpected Families, a multi-room display juxtaposing pieces from many eras and mediums that challenged conventional notions of family by showcasing  platonic, adopted, multiracial, and queer families. The emotional rawness of that exhibit brought many visitors to tears on the cushioned benches positioned about the room, potentially for that explicit purpose. The curation of  Collecting Stories stands in stark contrast with the museum’s high standards.

The most immediately striking feature of the room in which Collecting Stories: Native American Art is housed is its size.  The space is tiny, with room for three to four paintings or boxes of handicrafts per wall, and another four pieces free-standing in the middle of the room.  The size alone was enough to discourage some visitors; I witnessed a group of women who opened the door, scanned the collection, then turned around and exited.  They say good things come in small packages, though, so I decided to explore the exhibit anyway in the hopes of finding some hidden treasures. And some of the pieces truly were beautiful.  There was a large striped Navajo wearing blanket, and and a collection of ancient Mississippian earthenware. Authentic Native American voices were integrated into the descriptions of the work, through quotes, traditional stories, and even a video of a Native woman talking about the significance of a Navajo Biil and Sis’tichii on display.  

Work your way around the room counterclockwise, however, and you will only make it past the first wall before you notice a piece that seems out of place in the exhibit.  It is a painting that, while it features Native Americans, is clearly in a different style from Native American work. In fact, a look at the object label reveals that the piece is by a German American.  Several other pieces follow the same theme. The museum’s publicity materials had indicated that the exhibit would explore “the range of perspectives, motivations, and voices involved in building the early holdings of Native American art at the Museum,” so I was utterly unprepared for the volume of pieces that were from white artists.  Nor was there any indication that passing these works off as part of Native American culture had been a misstep in the museum’s past. In total, around one-third of the collection, including the most prominent silver-plated vase that was the centerpiece of the room, was the creation of white Americans.  The relative size of the collection, combined with the amount of work by white artists on display leaves visitors questioning the exhibit’s stated purpose to provide an “opportunity to reconsider this understudied collection.” Is a reconsideration of Native American artwork that heavily features the work and interpretation of white Americans really a positive message for the MFA to be sending?

In an attempt to represent this exhibit as objectively as possible, I approached the information desk of the museum to inquire if there would be a docent available in the exhibit, or perhaps a formal tour that I could go on at some point in the day.  I explained that I wanted I wanted more insight into the curation of the pieces. The response of the woman at the desk was puzzlement, mixed with an air of condescension. “Can you not look at it on your own?” she wanted to know. Admittedly, it was a busy day at the museum, but with such a closed-off response to questions, a visitor is left with their own interpretation of the prominence of white American pieces within the Native American special exhibit.  Unfortunately, my interpretation, and likely that of many other guests, was not favorable.

The museum presents this exhibition as an attempt to redeem itself for years of overlooking Native American art.  Collecting Stories: Native American Art, however, fulfill that objective.  The MFA’s appropriation of native culture shows a disrespect that is a reflection of the disrespect of the rest of white American society, from the feathered headdresses of Coachella to sexy Pocahontas Halloween costumes.  The Museum of Fine Arts may be intent on “collecting stories,” but it’s unclear if they want to step away from their problematic past and start allowing artists from different cultures to tell those stories.

Tias, Comida, Amor

Blog Post

My father pulls up to a house one Christmas evening. As he silences the car, the sound of the engine is replaced by the squeals and the  chatter of children playing. My sneakers hit the pavement, and I’m desperate to join them. These kids, who are being schooled in the States, switch fluidly between Spanish and English, making our playtime much more comfortable than what I know I am about to endure on the inside.  Inside, I’ll find a place to sit, glued at the hip to my father. The TV will play the news or possibly a soap. At least seven people will be around, laughing and celebrating. I’ll be staring at the carpet, studying the floral design, the swirls and faded patterns, and burning the image into the back of my mind.  I’ll be sweating and praying to the figurines of La Virgen that line the room that no one will direct a question to me.  I feel like I’m trying to integrate with a different culture for the first time and realizing just how difficult that can be.

But this is not a different culture.  This is my culture. As my father likes to remind me, I’m not a guest in this house, I’m family. These aren’t strangers who have invited me to take part in their celebration.  These are my tias, my tios, my primos. The difference is that I grew up at my mother’s house. At the request of her family, who are uncomfortable when people don’t speak their language in the home, I only speak English.  In school, growing up without an accent has served me well. Here though, trying to interact with my loved ones, especially the older generations who speak only Spanish, I can’t hold a conversation with my own family.

My tia offers me a ladle of something on the stove.  It’s a deep purple color, and looks uncomfortably slimy and lumpy.  I try to refuse but my father, my papi, shoots me the look, the one where his lowered eyebrows and suddenly unsmiling mouth tell me that refusal will not be without repercussions later. My tia has been working on preparing food all day for anyone who stops by, and it would be rude to the point of hurting her feelings to turn this down.  I ask him what’s in the spoon. After a quick exchange with my father, my tia turns to me and says with a heavy Mexican accent something that sounds like the word punch.

Punch? It doesn’t look remotely like the bright red, sweet, sticky stuff that I’m used to, and I’m skeptical, but I know that the lecture I’ll catch from my papi later if I don’t try it will be worse than it could possibly taste.  I take a sip.

When I taste the punch, I am taken aback. Full-bodied and full of fresh fruit flavors with sparkling cinnamon notes.  It’s warm and comforting and inviting, and tastes like fresh foods before they have been processed and packaged beyond recognition, like the punch I had been expecting that has no recognizable flavors, only sugar and tang.  It tastes like Christmas before the commercialization. I take another big drink and mumble my gracias, hoping that my face can express my emotions better than my limited vocabulary.

My childhood was full of these awkward but loving family celebrations. I attended solemn Posadas celebrations and large parties complete with mariachis. At each and every one, I broke away as quickly as I could to go play with the children, but not before “visiting” with the adults, sitting uncomfortably while they chatted after hugging hello, unsure of what to do with my mouth until they handed me a morsel of whatever they had been preparing for me. Warm punches, freshly-baked and fragrant sweet breads, and cheesey, spicy, savory tamales  gave me a literal taste of a culture that I had been born into, despite the Spanish language barrier. I never understood what my tias were saying but I understood their love expressed in the flavor and efforts of preparing the home cooked foods that they offered me, and I hoped that, through my appreciative smiles, they understood mine . Before we left the house, we hugged our farewells, and my tia’s embrace told me the message had gotten through.