Pumpkin Spice, Miley, and the Trouble with White People

White people must have lost their minds today. It's been so hot outside and now, out of no where (or rather the residual effects of the underwhelming Hurrican Karen), the temperature has suddenly dropped. This anti-spike in temperature is surely going to signal a turn toward fall. The leaves will be falling soon and hoards of Caucasians will be heading to the pumpkin farm or the corn maze, adorned with scarves (though it's not cold enough) and pumpkin spiced lattes (though they're overpriced), and mmmmm, it will just be wonderful. It's what we do every year around this time, because, well we're a predictable race. Similar to bears, fall time is the last hoorah before white people go inside for the winter, only to emerge again to Instagram everything about spring. We run to craft stores and collect as many holiday-themed collectibles that we can and then we craft our asses of. Hobby Lobbys and Michael's across the nation feel our wrath as we leave their stores in shambles to craft and craft and craft, and that's where the problem comes in.
As of late, there has been some public conversation surrounding cultural misappropriation: let me explain what that is. It's when one race (white people) take something from another race and then claim it as their own without actually claiming it as their own. I first started noticing the term when white people in office spaces across America would simultaneously burst into Grand mal seizures while "The Harlem Shake" would play in the background. Black people responded by going on MSNBC and instructing white people how to actually do the Harlem Shake, which for the record, requires you to keep the Grand mal seizure specifically in your legs. A couple months later, white people misappropriated "twerking," a la Miley Cyrus. Again, we were doing it wrong. I'm still not exactly sure what twerking is... I believe the jury is still out on that one.
But let me clarify: saying that white people are stealing the Harlem Shake or twerking is like watching a thief rob a bank and then drop all the money before they get out the door. White people aren't stealing anything. And I would hardly say it's cultural misappropriation. I took a lot of creative writing classes in college and people would come in all the time with terrible strings of words that they would call poetry. I guess I could say that they were misappropriating poetry, but instead, I just liked to tell them in workshop that they were doing it wrong. Misappropriation is not where we should be focusing our efforts, guys. Focusing on things like that is like when Congress was freaking out about gay marriage as our economy was going down the drain. Bigger fish, y'all. Bigger fish.
I'm guilty of it, too. I'm sitting here on my eggshell colored couch, watching The Walking Dead, while working on a blog. The whiteness is getting out of control. There's a pumpkin sitting on the island in my kitchen that I plan on carving tomorrow. I'm a 23 year old man. The answer does not lie in making sure that cultural traditions are kept separate from one another... it comes in stamping out all this whiteness everywhere. I come from a home full of guns and deer heads and camouflage, so obviously my journey away from whitehood has been quite a process. However, I like to believe that I move toward becoming less and less white every day. I've always had the privilege of having a "racially aware sensei" for most of my life, guiding me through the ups and downs of what it means to be fighting a life of whiteness. It started in middle school with my friend Kierra, continued along into college where Sean took over, and finally led to post-grad where Krystal has graciously taken care of me... and that's where the story leads to: Krystal, me, and a racially charged glass of alcohol.
For my 23rd birthday, I invited all of the friends I had made in DC at the time (approximately 2.7) out for dinner and drinks. Only 1.7 of them showed up, but that wouldn't stop me from celebrating my 23rd year of life. The only issue with this birthday is that I had never been "out for my birthday" before, and I was pleasantly surprised that people tend to buy you drinks on your birthdays. My drink of choice has turned out to be a long island tea, which was apparently my dad's drink of choice when he was trollin for honeys at Buster Mugg's back in the 80s. Like father... sort of like son. Anyway, that's what people kept bringing me all night. Eventually, I was right at the point of not being able to keep any more drinks down (because birthdays are hard, get off my back), and I was sitting with Krystal and her boyfriend, Skip. My old roommate, Andrew, came over with another long island tea and offered it to me... and it was at that point that all my feelings about whiteness came bubbling over. You could say that the spirit of black America had entered my body, but that is probably a little bit presumptuous and a lotta bit racist. I'll just tell you what was said:
"I told you no," said Justin.
"But it's your birthday drinking," said Andrew
"Why are you trying to keep us down? You're always trying to keep us down," said Justin
"Who?" said Andrew
"Us," motioning to himself, Krystal, and Skip, "Us black people," said Justin
To Krystal, "You know I'm not racist, right?" said Andrew
Krystal gave the side eye.
The conversation did not stop there, as I spent at least another ten minutes explaining how Andrew was constantly trying to bring down the African American race, while calling on no other specific example other than the fact that he tried to bring me what must have been my tenth long island tea of the night, but inside, I felt like I was finally conquering the issue we've all been facing. It's not that he was taking anything from me, self-appointed representative of the African Americans. It's that he was trying to force his whiteness on me... and overall, on us. That's when it hit me. The problem with race in America does not exist because of lack of integration... the problem exists because white people are just trying to cross too many lines.
It came to my attention even more as I was checking out at Trader Joes with an organic pumpkin, some cranberry apple butter, pumpkin ravioli, and a bouquet of marigolds. I was the problem. Look at me whiting up Arlington even more than it already is. For those of you who don't know, Arlington is one of the whitest places in America. It's full of bicycles, mom and pop shops, people who are excited to take public transportation, and mostly coffee. What we need is to invite a couple of diverse friends over... no strike that. First, we need to make our traditionally white places seem less unsafe to our diverse friends, then invite them into our world. So white people, I leave you with this: leave your carts in the aisle. The organic food will be waiting when you get back. Walk out of that Trader Joe's and go wade in the water. Wade in the water, children.

An Open Letter to Miley Cyrus

Hey girl,

So, I missed your original live performance on the VMA awards tonight because I was at a Fantasy Football draft party--I know, I don't know what I was doing either. But I saw Twitter blowing up over everything you did tonight... the tongue, the bears, the foam finger, so I stayed up to see the encore performance. I want you to know I'm not mad. I, too, have had some questionable nights with a foam finger; I think that all of us can say that we've been there before. But to quote you, it's about "the climb." I'm not sure where exactly, or what exactly, you're climbing up, but I think it's time that we had a conversation that's been coming for a while. Let's rewind for a second.
We're not so different, Miley. I know what it's like to follow in the footsteps of a man who once wore very large cowboy boots. There's a bit of a shadow that you have to escape, and it's not the easiest in the world. We hail from Tennessee, a land full of talk drinks of water. But look at where you've come from! Look at what you've done! At 12 years old, you were already breaking away. You became Hannah Montana. Do you know what I was doing at 12 years old? Hiding from people in the locker room because I was scared of athletic activities and the prospect of "teabagging." But you weren't. You owned that wig and that painfully caricatured accent because it's what Disney wanted you to do. You knew who you needed to please, and you did, and good at you for it. In the midst of it all, I don't feel like you ever lost sight of who you were. Hannah was a moment, but Miley... well, she's a lifetime. Plenty of other Disney stars have ended up in much worse positions than you are at now. As you would say, "We run things [Disney], things don't run we." At the height of it all, you broke free. Remember that, Miley?
People critiqued you for that... for wanting to be your own person. You wanted to be something outside of Hannah. And even with the haters screaming about how you were rising above your means, you stuck to your guns. Your best friend Leslie said it best, "She's just being Miley." That's why I come to you today, stripped of all the bear onesies and the blonde wigs. Are you still just being Miley or are you a girl who forgot what's waiting on the other side? You have inspired a nation with your lyrical genius. You acted in a Nicholas Sparks movie that made over four times its budget, and guess what? You were nominated for stuff because of it. Granted, one of those was for Worst Actress, but like we've discussed before: off with the haters. You had hair for days, and people LOVED that about you. You were the common girl's girl, and every night as those young girls went to bed, they thought to themselves, Maybe, just maybe, I too could be Miley.

I think where things have always been a little shaky is that you repeatedly keep telling us that you're not Hannah. Listen, pumpkin. We haven't thought of you as Hannah for years. The first outburst was a little uncomfortable, but nothing we couldn't shake off. You screamed at us and told us that you couldn't be tamed, but what I think you were missing is that none of us were trying to tame you. I'm going to get a little harsh with you right now, but you came out of that bird nest in "Can't Be Tamed" like a possessed Natalie Portman with a chip on your shoulder. We didn't want that. We wanted you to release that mane of hair and do you. You do you, Miley. There's no need for you to get angry; plenty of female stars have come before you and shed the skin of their past lives. I know that I never expected you to be stagnant. You're Miley for God's sake.

But you persisted onward and now look where we're at. You've lost all sense of fashion, you have this odd fascination with teddy bears, and you cut all of your hair off. My sophomore year of college, I got really mad at my parents and cut my hair into a mohawk, but you know what? I let it grow back because that's what you do when you're an adult. You tame yourself because sometimes, that's what it takes to remember exactly who you are. As I watched you caress Robin Thicke's penis tonight with a foam finger and then stick that foam finger in your mouth, I saw a piece of myself. Well, not exactly. Actually, on a strictly literal basis, I didn't see any of myself in you, but that's probably because I have an unprecedented fear of sexually transmitted diseases, but that's neither here nor there. What I'm trying to say, Miley, is that we've all been troubled. We've all been lost at one time or another in our lives. Hearts have been broken before and identities put into question, but most of us do something like get a small tattoo or make the unfortunate decision of posting poetry on Facebook. Granted, we don't have a national stage, but I dare to say that we would do anything like you did tonight. It was a lot, babe. Watching you motorboat that woman's tiger printed bottom filled me with concern and worry. I've never been mad at you. All of this concern is coming from a place of love.
You used to be this force--a young woman who exemplified what it meant to come into her own. You provided enough angst for us to fight through our issues, but not so much that we would get grounded. It was you who helped us come into our own, and now we, collectively as a nation, want to do the same for you. I'm not sure where you're headed tonight after the VMAs; I'm assuming you'll be going to some swanky party with a lot of alcohol, sexual tension, and possibly some molly, or "Miley" to your younger audiences. But I think after that, you need to go home for a bit. Let that hair grow out. Again, not to be mean, but you looked like Cynthia from The Rugrats tonight. Go hang out with Billy Ray and do more songs in your backyard. That was nice. And when you get back on a plane to LAX, take your dream and your cardigan and keep them close. As my mother would say to some of my more adventurous friends, "Leave a little bit to the imagination." Whatever you're going through right now, whatever might be troubling you heart, is not bigger than you, Miley. This is just a hiccup: an instance where making out with a doll in a pool seemed like the perfect idea at the time, but may be a little weird to look at in five years or so. We believe in you and everything you do. Now it's time for you to believe in yourself. Let all those butterflies fly away.

With love,
America