Things I'm Bad at as an Adult

So, my friend Maria recently wrote this post (which y'all should check out because it's funny and witty and all that jazz) as a response to Jenna Marble's "Things I'm Bad At As An Adult." As a response to the response, I thought I would chime in with my own list of adult-y things that I fail at. Because oh boy does it go on. And on. Apparently this shit doesn't get easier after four years of practice.

My only redeeming quality in this regard is that I can finally offer you alcohol in hopes that you'll forget about my shortcomings.

So how about some wine? Vodka? No?

The first thing that I fail at as an adult is being the chief "grownup" in a room. Get me in a room of peers, and I can lead the shit out of a group project. But if I'm leading a group of six year olds and I'm suddenly the sole person in charge, I freak out and forget everything I could have possibly learned in 22 years. Not only that, but I forget that I have the authority to say the magic word: no. As an elementary school volunteer, I've experienced some interesting incidents.

I was once instructed to tell the kids to sit down on the carpet. When the students told me they'd rather not, I was all "oh, okay, who am I to tell you what to do?"

Yes, there are times that I have to tell myself that I'm not the elementary school student. I'm being trusted to tell elementary school students what to do.

All I can think is, when the f*** did that happen? 

My second "adult" failure looks like I'm stealing off of Maria's blog, but my hatred of driving takes the cake. If I'm driving anywhere further than the grocery store, I either scream or cry. Possibly both. I've found that singing and talking in ridiculous accents helps calm me down, but I can only do that with my mother in select social situations, otherwise people tend to get this outrageous notion that I'm weird.

Hah. Wonder where they got that idea. 

I've taken this fear of driving to the next level, as a major consideration of my future plans has to do with my ability to avoid the daunting task. I am by no means a city person. I hate crowds. I would rather not break my bank account to buy a cup of coffee. But, I swear to God, one of the first items on my "pro moving to Korea" list was that I wouldn't have to drive.

If that's not dedication to avoid facing my fears, I don't know what is. Apparently I'd rather deal with crippling social anxiety than a normal, adult task.

I'm bad at looking like an adult. Not only has my face made the wise decision to convince people that I'm fourteen years old (if you tell me I will appreciate this when I'm fifty, I will slap you), but somehow, as I've gotten older, my outfit choices have gotten younger. It may not be acceptable for a twenty-something to pretend she's a cat, but that doesn't mean she can't rock a pair of fuzzy ears like nobody's business.

Said no one ever.

You might think I restricted this look to Halloween. You would be wrong.

I'm bad at dates.
Now I know what you're thinking: 1) why does this girl think I care about what she's bad at? (To which I say thank you for your honesty. Let me offer you more alcohol) But also, being bad at dates is a terrifically adult rite of passage. Suffering through a bad date is an essential part of human existence.

Right you are. But somehow I missed the memo that somewhere between high school and college, it was the polite thing to ask someone out for coffee/dinner/a movie that one or both of you pretends to be intellectually stimulated by before sucking face and introducing said face-sucker as your boyfriend at dinner parties.

Thank you for believing that I get invited to dinner parties.

While, in theory, I'm all for getting to know a person before spending your entire savings account on them (kidding, but actually, relationships are hella expensive), the thing is, I'm terrified of dates. Not because I'm shy (well, kind of because I'm shy), but because I'm so used to the one lovely part of high school when a guy would walk up to me, be all, "hey. I like your face. Be my girlfriend?" and I could say whatever I wanted to him because my mouth knew his mouth.


It's a well-known fact that kissing someone makes you feel 2000% more at ease with them. Except when it doesn't.


But no, now it has to be a backwards process, in which you go through that mortifying dance of "let's sit here and ask superficial questions and pretend to want to pay for some overcooked lobster" just for the mere possibility of not dying alone.

I guess I should be more concerned by the fact that I'm bad at doing important, adult tasks in favor of blogging about why I'm doomed.

May your adult experiences go more smoothly than mine.

Namaste. 

On Cultural Appropriation

In the spirit of the new year, I have resolved to not be that white girl who purchases a dream catcher and thinks that she knows everything about native culture.

(Let's ignore the fact that I actually have a dream catcher hanging on my wall, okay?)

But actually, I've wanted to talk about cultural appropriation ever since my foray into Hinduism was introduced to me by a slew of white people. I just haven't found the right words to do so.

I still haven't found the right words, but I'm just gonna say some things, quote some smart people, and call it a day. It worked for 3 years of college, and it'll work now.

Cultural appropriation, for those of you that don't know, is "when somebody adopts aspects of a culture that’s not their own....It refers to a particular power dynamic in which members of a dominant culture take elements from a culture of people who have been systematically oppressed by that dominant group" (everyday feminism). 

Being someone who is part of the dominant culture, but is also interested in not living in my own American bubble, I've struggled with finding the line between cultural curiosity and cultural appropriation. 

This probably isn't helping my case:

An Indian woman once asked me why I had an "om" tattoo, and I was so nervous, I ended up saying "erm, I like yoga and stuff." Clearly the tattoo was more meaningful to me and yoga has been a huge part of my life, but there's something self-conscious about being flashy with the Sanskrit--especially when getting the tattoo was such a spontaneous decision.

 I am a huge proponent of being educated--a large part of receiving a meaningful education is being exposed to something outside of your immediate frame of reference. That should be an undisputed fact (although, unfortunately, it is still plenty disputed). You cannot learn, and, consequently, cannot grow without realizing that something exists outside of your own experience.

But, paradoxically, it is nearly as ignorant as never learning about "the other" to half-heartedly step into another culture and make it all about yourself: your personal growth, your deep, meaningful thoughts whilst having these deep, meaningful experiences, your ability to assimilate. 

Chances are, your ability to assimilate is not as swell as you think it is. 

At 18, I had the glimmer of the idea that I needed to get the hell out of State College experience other cultures, and as I've talked about a million times before on this blog, I found Shoshoni. While Shoshoni's yoga classes were largely secular, we did participate in Hindu and Buddhist practices as a means for self-discovery. For the most part, these practices were presented in a tactful and sensitive way, although I probably could have read more than a chapter of The Idiot's Guide To Hinduism before chanting Sanskrit for an hour every day. 

However, I remember being assigned "temple tours," where I would take families (usually Indian) to the Shoshoni temples, allow them to pay their respects to the gods and goddesses, and answer any questions they might have. 

Although at the time I was too young to have a fully developed colonialism rant at the ready, my inner "something is not right" senses were tingling. 

Here I was, this wide-eyed white girl fresh out of high school, pretending to be an authority on Hindu practices. As far as I knew, Ganesha the elephant represented new beginnings and learning and Kali was the most badass goddess I'd ever seen. 

http://www.daniellelaporte.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/cropped_kali.png

 

 

  It felt wildly inappropriate to take something others had spent their entire lives devoted to just because I wanted to "find myself" for a month. While I certainly respect and admire the people and practices at Shoshoni, I was uncomfortably aware of the fact that we were all white people engaging in non-white activities. We, as the dominant culture, had the privilege to do so. 

Maisha Johnson of Everyday Feminism reminds us that "marginalized groups don’t have the power to decide if they’d prefer to stick with their customs or try on the dominant culture’s traditions just for fun."

(It's no coincidence that the "alternative" Burning Man is chock full of white people.) 

Another instance of cultural self-consciousness happened during a PSIDE practice, when I was watching the African Dance group rehearse. The dance caught my attention, and I found myself wanting to try it out--however, my first thought was that it wouldn't be right to be a white girl in an African dance, that it would be disrespectful somehow. Which was slightly hypocritical, seeing as I had no qualms with being in an Indian dance. 

I brought up this concern with the co-director of PSIDE, and she also admitted feeling uncomfortable being the sole white person in a minority-dominant dance. However, she also brought up the very good point that PSIDE never claims to show authentic, traditional dances from other cultures. They are simply dances that are inspired by other cultures, and they expose the Penn State student body to practices we might otherwise have never known. While this is mostly rhetoric at work, it is a hugely important distinction to make. Claiming authenticity should not be done lightly. 

Additionally, we are taught why someone might do a certain dance, and in what context it is performed. For instance, Bhangra, an Indian dance, is done in celebration (like at a wedding party). We are not just told that we are doing a certain dance because it looks cool and we want to. That would be flirting far too closely with appropriation. 

Having been able to make these distinctions at PSIDE, I've found that avoiding cultural appropriation (while still not being an uninformed, un-interested asshole) boils down to two things: Historical awareness and the ability to distance yourself from the practice. All of these practices have a rich history, and it would be an injustice to simply gloss over the background information and visit the practice in its current (usually altered by a dominant culture) state. 

If I could do Shoshoni all over again, I would make sure to read much more (and a much wider range) literature on Hinduism and Buddhist practices. If I choose to do African dance at PSIDE, the same rule applies.  

In terms of distancing yourself from a cultural practice, I don't mean that you shouldn't do it. However, it is essential to realize that while you can observe a practice (even while participating in it), it is not yours for the taking. It's somewhat akin to walking into a friend's home, appreciating the artwork hanging on their walls, and not taking it home with you. 

Don't steal art, guys. That's just not polite. 

I've tried (rather unsuccessfully) to make this a non-ranty blog. If you've stuck with me this far, thank you; have a cookie. I have no cookies to give you. You'll just have to stick with eternal gratitude. 

Considering the ironic nature of my usual sign-off, I'll just stick with an "I'll see you lovely cats and kittens later."