Appropriation, Assimilation and Square Dance

Gjoa Haven is a small settlement in the Northwest Passage. It was our last landing in the Passage, and we explored it on foot with local guides. The walking tour ended in the town hall with a presentation of traditional Inuit drumming, dancing and throat singing, followed by a lively square dance performance by a group of young local girls and boys. I know nothing about square dance, but I was told that, while this dance had included some elements of square dancing, it was very different from what traditional American square dance looks like – it was more of an uptempo mix of traditional Inuit and classic square dance moves. After their performance, the dancers invited everyone to join; I eventually found myself dancing vigorously, fully decked out in several layers of Arctic-proof woolens, thick muck boots and even my life vest – I am still surprised I managed to move at all.

Later that night, we spoke about the square dance performance among the team. It had made some of us uneasy: To some, it was a symbol of how the traditional Inuit culture had been wiped out and assimilated by the Colonialists, and their traditions had been replaced by something else, something alien. As members of an oppressed, disempowered culture, they were now dancing to the tune of their oppressors.

But were they really? It is true that Inuit culture in Nunavut was systematically dismantled by the Canadian government until the late 20th century, leaving behind generational trauma that can be felt in Inuit communities until this day (if you want to know more, google „residential schools“). But new pride in their traditions, rediscovery of ancestral knowledge and the revival of customs are growing across Inuit communities. Reviving a culture in a different age, though, will necessarily change it: The American-inspired Inuit dance performance we watched and joined is something new, born out of the heritage of two cultures. It is something that didn’t exist in this form in either of the cultures before. To me, the dance did not symbolise oppression – but rather, it was a symbol of freeing oneself of oppression; of reviving a tradition of dance that young people take joy and pride in, but with a modern twist – and of keeping only the good bits of an otherwise pretty bad colonial past which is, thankfully, gradually ending.

Talking about culture – in another blog post, I had promised my take on cultural appropriation, so here it comes.

Sometimes, it’s pretty easy to detect cultural appropriation, especially in contexts of commercialisation and exploitation. But when it comes to an individual’s fashion choices, I don’t always find it so clear-cut. „Imitiation is the sincerest form of flattery“, my Mum used to tell me. But where’s the line between showing appreciation for the beauty of another culture by imitating what one admires about it – and cultural appropriation? To be honest, I don’t know.

If, for instance, I were to get finger tattoos because I think the tale of Sedna is beautiful, is that a sign of appreciation or appropriation? What about Inuit face tattoos? Some have more general meaning; the lines on a woman’s chin, for example, represent stages of womanhood. Other face tattoos have more personal meanings. If I, for instance, decided to have a line tattooed down my chin to honour my motherhood, would that be different from getting finger tattoos? And if so, why? Would it be different again if I imitated a tattoo with a more personal meaning, such as my colleague Ashley’s traditional Inuit arm tattoo, because I admire both her and the beauty of her tattoo? Hers has a deeply personal meaning, and obviously, if I had the same tattoo, it could not possibly mean the same thing for me. Would she, should she, could she, feel flattered – or offended?

What about if I wore my stick-straight blonde hair in corn rows just because I think they look pretty? Or what if bought a bright, colourful, sparkly shalwar kameez from one of those magnificent shops I see when I am in Bradford (15th-largest town in the UK, but home to the second-largest Pakistani community, so there’s a fair share of shops windows to longingly look at!) but have never dared to enter? I know for a fact that I actually disagree with some of the values of the culture the shalwar kameez represents. Yet I consider it a timeless, dazzling piece of sartorial art. Were I to finally pluck up the courage to buy one of the colourful embellished robes I have been yearning for since I was a little girl, would I simply be making a bold fashion statement – or would I be buying into values I don’t support? Would I be insulting all the women who wear the shalwar kameez because they believe in modest dressing and I don’t? Might I even be condoning mysoginy and victim blaming by wearing a piece of clothing designed to be „modest“ – or would I simply be expressing a love of bright colours, comfortable cuts and heavily embellished fabrics? (In case you are wondering how one could possibly be opposed to something seemingly as harmless as dressing demurely, here’s some examples of the „she-was-asking-for-it„-mindset, rape culture and victim blaming that it can fuel.)

Here’s my take on cultural appropriation, assimilation and appreciation: Imitating another person’s physical appearance can be a sign of appreciation and admiration, even if the wearer hasn’t informed themselves about the originating culture. It can create a positive moment, and the more we make us of such moments as door-openers to a broader and more meaningful intercultural dialogue, as an opportunity to educate and learn from each other, a means of bringing people and cultures closer together, the better.

So, should you run into me one day and I am wearing Inuit face and finger tattoos, my hair in corn rows, a shalwar kameez, geisha make-up and wooden clogs, singing a French chanson while doing a rain dance: If I have borrowed from your culture, please accept the invitation and tell me more about what’s behind this thing I simply like. I’m eager to learn!