The Afterword: White people take everything from Black culture but the burden
The world is on fire, the revolution has begun and history has taken a sharp turn. On May 25, George Floyd was killed in cold blood by a Minneapolis police officer while three more aided and watched, prompting nationwide outrage and protests in all 50 states. As a result, the Black Lives Matter movement is far more visible than it has ever been before; not only is it the driving force behind recent policy change within cities across various states — such as Los Angeles Mayor Eric Garcetti’s recent decision to reduce LAPD funding — but it is also forcing white people to have uncomfortable conversations and face truths they otherwise may never have confronted about racism. It is this shift toward accountability that hits closest to home.
I am a white, privileged female who draws extensively from Black culture every single day of my life — from the music I listen to and the clothes I wear to the slang I use and the people I identify with. I am far from alone in that reality; in fact, many of you reading this probably meet the same criteria. Over the past week, I’ve had many long-winded, awkward conversations on the subject of cultural appropriation and its significance with my white peers — some of them disappointed me, while others outright sickened me. After reflecting on these conversations, I decided that I want to use this platform to send a very clear message to my white readers, colleagues and friends.
Like systemic racism, appropriation of Black culture is so ubiquitous and normalized that most white people can actively engage in it and never, not once in the course of their lives, be forced to confront that fact — not that that’s anything new. The infatuation with Black culture by white people has historical roots; look no further than the whitewashing of the rock ‘n’ roll genre and hip-hop culture, along with other cultural thefts, for evidence. The enduring influence of Black culture in America as well as white people’s enduring exploitation of it is not a matter of opinion — it is fact.
In 2020, white girls in Jordans populate Instagram’s “Explore” page; rap is the No. 1 genre; public figures like the Kardashians and Billie Eilish, among many, many others, successfully exploit Black trends and behaviors (everything from cornrows to use of a “blaccent”) that their very pioneers have been persecuted for embracing. Why? Because the business model is such that Black culture sells when white people hijack it.
That being said, I’m not here to “whitesplain” cultural appropriation. The point I’m trying to make is that, in the wake of this nationwide call to action, white people are under scrutiny in a way we have never been before — and that has the potential to be a great thing. Right now, the way you choose to approach this issue as a white person (the conversations you do or don’t have, the sacrifices you are willing or unwilling to make) are extremely consequential. With that in mind, I have a few thoughts I want to share.
Popular culture in America today — yes, virtually all of it — is directly rooted in Black culture. Our white privilege cushions us, enabling us to reap its benefits while ignoring its dire realities. To listen to Black artists, wear clothing inspired by Black culture, use slang coined by the Black community, capitalize on traditionally Black beauty trends, to consciously draw on fragments of Black culture for your personal benefit but then stay silent when Black people are being killed is objectively and patently harmful. Your silence is complicity in injustice, in oppression and an ugly confirmation that if given the choice to retain your privilege at the cost of Black lives, you would.
The most disturbing part of it all is this: I know that white people taking accountability for appropriation tarnishes their “enjoyment” of the very culture they’re exploiting and for that reason, addressing those realities isn’t “fun.” Aside from the obvious fact that curbing systemic racism was never meant to be “fun,” what a small sacrifice to make — what a tiny, insignificant price to pay — to have a part in bringing those oppressed justice. Any who evaluate that tradeoff and choose silence play an active role in the persistence of racism in America.
In that same vein, playing dumb and asking questions like, “So I’m not allowed to wear Jordans or I’m racist?” or making condescending comments such as, “Just because I appreciate Black culture but didn’t post anything doesn’t make me racist” is effectively racial gaslighting. By making those remarks, you are indicating that you understand the dynamic relationship between the variables at hand — Black culture, your exploitation of it and your white privilege — and have chosen to dismiss and trivialize it rather than see it for what you know it to be. You’re not fooling anyone.
Newsflash: Recognizing your privilege and doing something about it is not meant to be comfortable. In fact, the goal is for you to feel encumbered and burdened, for you to acknowledge your implicit biases and the role you’ve played (whether you realize it or not) in perpetuating racist societal structures and to then actively try to mitigate that effect. This shit is meant to make you think and squirm in your seat. In order for real change to happen, white people must feel uncomfortable. Perhaps that one meager moment of discomfort can lend some insight into how Black people in American feel on a daily basis and have felt for the past four centuries.
The revolution is happening; we are scorching the earth. Put your delicate feelings aside, and join the fight — we are duty-bound to address our nation’s past sins and continuing injustices and we should never forget it.
Rachel McKenzie is a rising senior writing about pop culture. She is also the opinion editor for Summer Trojan. Her column, “The Afterword,” runs every other Wednesday.