“Hell, no. I’m not going, and you shouldn’t, either.”
Carlos had an issue with the white kids from the upper Westchester schools. He often complained about the fact that many of them seemed to think they were better than us. Not only that, but he said that during football games against them, some of their players would call him racial slurs on the field when referees couldn’t hear.
While I knew Carlos was right about some of the kids, I felt like those weren’t the ones who were throwing the party. If so, why would they invite me?
I think we’ve established by now that not only was I naive as hell back in high school, but I also wasn’t very focused on exploring any deep and important thoughts about race. Surviving high school was my number one mission. Damn shame.
I knew I could get Carlos to change his mind, though, because, while he felt strongly about those kids, he felt more strongly about Cynthia Rodriguez, a Mexican American girl from our neighborhood who went to my school. Carlos had been in love with her for years but hadn’t had the courage to speak to her.
It was simple: Get Cynthia to come with us to the party, and I would be able to talk Carlos into coming, too. Cynthia and I were on mock-trial team together and had been friends since sophomore year. It wasn’t hard to talk her into going to the party, because she was happy to simply not be the only person without plans.
So I told Carlos his future wife was going, and he was in.
I mean this literally when I say “future wife.” Carlos and Cynthia ended up getting married after college. Don’t believe what you hear; there are still high school sweethearts out there.
I spent days searching for costumes with Carlos. He was focused on impressing Cynthia, while I was focused mainly on looking cool but not like I was trying too hard.
Carlos landed on being a fireman because he felt it would allow him to show off his developing muscles, and I decided to be a vampire. Not one of those cape-wearing vampires, more like a True Blood vampire, where you don’t know I’m a vampire until I show you my fangs or tell you.
Basically, all I did was wear some dope sneakers, a fly outfit, and have fangs in. Low-key, inexpensive, and a conversation starter. I was the master of strategic popularity.
Since Cynthia lived near us, she rode with me and Carlos in his car the night of the party. In all of my time knowing Carlos, I had never seen him so nervous and quiet. He didn’t say a word until we got to the house.
When we pulled up, it was like a scene out of Animal House or Old School. It was a sea of red Solo cups and teenagers wearing costumes mainly made of stuff they seemed to have found in their parents’ closets. The sounds of Gwen Stefani’s song “Hollaback Girl” (ugh, this was a terrible song) and people shouting “Go! Go! Go!” were the first things I heard, and I immediately knew this party was everything I’d expected, sadly.
For many of you, the movies Animal House and Old School are before your time. But I’m not devoting space in the encyclopedia to them, so if you really want to know more, head to Google. As far as the song goes, I wouldn’t bother searching for it. For those of you who will still inevitably search, don’t forget that I warned you.
The three of us sat in the car for a second and stared at one another as if trying to decide whether we were actually going to do this instead of finding somewhere to hang out and watch bad horror movies.
Right before any of us could make a suggestion, the person who was throwing the party ran up to the car.
I think the name of the guy throwing the party was Tony, but I’ve met so many fratty bros like him, it’s hard to remember. Let’s just call him Tony.
“Fred! My man! You made it!” Tony yelled.
I stared at him blankly, annoyed and despising myself for dragging my friends to this guy’s house to help me continue surviving high school and keep my popular status.
We got out of the car, and Tony led us inside to show us where to get drinks. Along the way, Tony made sure to introduce us to everyone he saw. But not in the way of “These are some people I know.” More like, “Hey, look, I have friends who aren’t white. I’m cool, huh?” As we met more people on our journey to the drinks, I quickly realized we were in fact the only nonwhite people there.
I would be lying if I said I expected to see many other people of color, but to be the only ones was both surprising and off-putting. Normally this would have been a bigger issue for Carlos, but he was more concerned with showing Cynthia he was courteous by getting her a drink. I didn’t drink alcohol, so I spent my time just observing people.
I decided to give Cynthia and Carlos some alone time by walking around a bit and seeing what people were wearing and checking out the house. (I was an expert-level wingman.)
I found people dressed as the typical things: hot nurses, hot cats, hot pilots; someone was even a hot Pikachu. But what caught my eye and immediately made me pause was the sight of two white kids dressed in sombreros and traditional Mexican garments.
I walked up to them, and they greeted me by saying, “Hola,” in what seemed to be their attempt at a Mexican accent. I looked at them for a second in disbelief, and then looked at what else they were wearing and carrying.
One had a belt with an empty can of beans and rice tied to it, while the other was standing next to a mop, bucket, and a sign that said WILL WORK FOR TEQUILA next to him. I still hadn’t said a thing. I just stood there, dumbfounded.
While I wasn’t the wokest kid in high school, I did know what blatant racism looked like by that point in my life. I’m just going to assume that by this point in the book, you can also see why these costumes were hugely problematic.
I eventually said, “What are you guys doing?” To which one of them replied, “What do you mean, señor?”
So I replied, “Your costumes are racist as hell.”
A white girl standing with them replied, “That’s not racist; it’s Halloween. Besides, you’re not even Mexican.”
“I don’t have to be Mexican for it to be racist, and I don’t care if it’s Halloween. Take them off,” I replied.
One of them told me to make them take off the costumes, to which I was very happy to oblige, so I started walking closer, ready to fight. As I did so, Tony ran over with a few people and jumped in between me and the two guys.
Look, I’m a believer in nonviolence. I think most things can be resolved through conversation. But there have been times when I’ve been involved in physical altercations, which I’ll talk more about later. This was very nearly one of those times.
Tony looked at me. “Fred, what’s the problem, my dude?” (I hope you rolled your eyes at “my dude.”)
I told him what was going on, and he replied by telling me it was Halloween and I was “starting trouble for no reason,” because they were “just costumes.”
I tried to explain to Tony that they weren’t “just costumes,” because they weren’t costumes at all; they were racist ways of reflecting people’s lives and cultures.
I’ll be honest: what I likely actually said to Tony was “F*ck you! That’s racist.”
In the middle of my back-and-forth, Carlos and Cynthia walked over. Before I could explain what was going on, they both looked at the two guys in the Mexican costumes. Carlos immediately said, “You think that’s funny?”
“You need to calm down. It’s not that serious,” replied one of the guys.
“It is that serious. You’re making fun of our culture, idiot,” replied Cynthia.
I’m pretty sure that was the moment Carlos knew they were meant to be.
“We are both Latino, and we are telling you it’s offensive. How would you feel if someone made a costume out of you?” Cynthia continued.
One of the guys looked at me and said, “Why don’t you and these spics leave?”
None of the other white people called him out for what he’d just said. They all just stood there.
It was in that moment that I knew Carlos and I were likely going to be arrested that night. Two ki
ds of color fighting a bunch of white kids while Cynthia likely pleaded our case.
Carlos and I looked at each other, and it was as if the world froze. Without saying a word, we were playing rock, paper, scissors with our eyes to decide who was going to hit him. Before we could decide, the guy’s nose was bleeding.
We looked at Cynthia, who was standing there, grabbing her hand and cursing because she had hurt herself punching the guy in the face.
I take back what I said earlier—this was probably the moment Carlos decided he was going to marry Cynthia.
What happened next is something of a blur, but it included Carlos and me fighting a few guys, Tony calling the police, Cynthia running to get the car, and us running out of the house, then jumping into the car and speeding off. Yeah, that about sums it up.
Lucky for us, we were gone before the police came.
I later heard the police had been receiving noise complaints and were more concerned about the party than about turning three teens of color into outlaws. (This doesn’t happen often.)
On the way home, we were all silent for a while. Partially because fighting a room full of young racists is tiring work, but mainly because it was such a traumatic experience.
After a while, our silence was cut through by the sound of Cynthia crying. Carlos asked her if she was okay.
What she said next sits with me constantly, and I hope that it sits with you as well.
She replied, “All we asked them to do was respect us. Why won’t they just respect us?”
Carlos didn’t reply. He pulled the car over and asked me if I would drive, then got in the back seat with Cynthia while she cried on his shoulder and we drove her home.
His father taught him well.
The reason I constantly think about what Cynthia said that night is because it constantly takes place. It’s not always as aggressive, disrespectful, or racist as what we dealt with that night, but it’s always wrong.
This is the issue of cultural appropriation.
From white women wearing their hair in box braids to non-Native Americans wearing stereotypical Native American attire on Halloween (or anytime), cultural appropriation is one of the most frequently disrespectful and racist occurrences in society.
My friend Daniela Alvarez is one of the proudest Mexican Americans I’ve ever met, so I wanted to pick her brain about the issues of cultural appropriation and representation.
DANIELA: I never really saw shows or movies or any type of media piece where someone looked like me or someone looked like my dad or any member of my family or whatever. It was extremely rare. Specifically for Mexican culture, there’s a lot of representation of the drug war and cartels, and that’s the representation we see of my culture. Having to see those things in the media and then people playing on them with racist costumes and tropes is hard.
Following that statement, Daniela and I spoke for a while about whether there were aspects of Mexican culture she wishes people understood beyond the stereotypes.
DANIELA: I think there’s a thin line between cultural exchange or appreciation and appropriation. Cinco de Mayo is a very good example. Please, I want you to patronize Mexican businesses. I want you to buy tacos for Taco Tuesday. No one’s saying you shouldn’t do that. But learn about my culture and don’t disrespect it in the process. You don’t need to wear sombreros or dress like you’re in a mariachi band to eat tacos or celebrate our Cinco de Mayo. My culture is not a costume.
While [appropriation] may not be the biggest problem we have, it definitely leads to more serious sentiments, like saying “build a wall,” like being anti-immigrant and being anti-Latina, anti-Black, all these things. The dehumanization with things like appropriation has historically always led to larger issues. This is one of the reasons it’s so important growing up to have friends and family of all types of ethnicities and races, because that is where you get the most perspective, from real-life relationships, real-life interactions. Respect often starts at interaction.
This lack of respect is what allowed the guys at that Halloween party to call two Latinxs “spics” while also wearing stereotypical Mexican attire, and also to claim the attire wasn’t racist.
Part of what makes cultural appropriation so problematic is that it ignores the need for understanding the actual history and people who own the culture. People can learn and appreciate, but unless they are from that group, they can never fully understand.
A case study of the harm cultural appropriation causes can be found in attitudes toward Black hair. Historically, for instance, braids have been worn by women of African descent for hair care and for the ease they bring in hotter climates.
Because box braids haven’t been a standard hairstyle for most white people, the style has often been considered unprofessional in the workforce and unacceptable in many other settings, forcing many Black women to change their hairstyles to meet these standards.
Over the years, many white women have adopted box braids as a hairstyle of choice, oftentimes making them not only acceptable in the workforce but also a staple of high fashion. Meanwhile, Black women wearing braids is still largely frowned upon (at best) or completely unacceptable (at worst), and when the style is praised on white women, Black women are often not given credit as the originators of the style.
Oh, remember earlier when I said that you didn’t have to search for “Hollaback Girl” by Gwen Stefani? I didn’t follow my own rules and went to search for the video. Guess what? There’s a ton of examples of appropriation in it. So now I’ve changed my mind: you should go take a look and see how many instances of cultural appropriation you can spot. (I noticed at least six.)
Hair, like other aspects of culture, is part of who we are, and who we are means something. Each one of us comes from our own rich culture of food, music, and clothing, and also of triumph and struggle. Often our cultures are difficult to explain, even for the people who belong to them.
What makes a culture special is that it’s not just yours; it belongs to a community of people. Your people—people who typically share an understanding of your culture and acknowledge not only the positive aspects of it but the negative, too.
Think about that the next time you’re planning your Halloween costume or doing just about anything else that could end up being problematic.
Still not sure you know the difference between “appropriation” and “appreciation”? Here are some questions to ask yourself that might shed light on the distinction:
Who is selling the thing I want to buy? Who gets paid if I buy it?
If the money isn’t going to the people whose culture is being represented, walk away.
Is the thing I want to wear used in specific ceremonies or rituals?
If so, say no!
Is the thing I want to wear or buy associated with negative cultural stereotypes?
Do your research!
Have people from within the community spoken out against white people wearing or buying the thing I want to wear or buy?
I repeat: Do your research!
If you’re reading this book because you truly want to be a better white person, then consider that sometimes that might mean deciding not to do or wear or say or buy something because there’s a chance doing so might hurt someone.
By the time I started college, I was focused on having people around me who were nothing like most of the people I went to high school with. I knew that I needed a break from all of the subtle (and not so subtle) racism. So I did what made the most sense to me and tried to make as many Black friends as possible.
I came to find over the years that just because someone is Black or a person of color doesn’t mean they actually “get it.” But we will discuss this more later.
It ended up not being very hard to find Black students who were tired of racism and wanted to be around other Black people.
This was 2007, and pro-Blackness was at an all-time high in the entertainment industry, with artists such as Lupe Fiasco, Erykah Badu, Kanye We
st (before he was promoting white supremacy for money), and Common leading the way.
Within a few days, I had met new friends at events on campus. Of them I ended up becoming closest with two guys named Jayvon and Cory. They were from the Bronx and had gone to high school together and decided to go to the same college.
We clicked almost instantly. Where I was from was walking distance to the Bronx, so we had that in common. But everything else just seemed to work, too: we all listened to the same types of music, were interested in reading similar books, wanted to spend hours playing NBA 2K and Call of Duty, and, most important, were all focused on growing as Black people and helping our community.
I trusted them with Blackness and found myself often learning from them, because, frankly, they had been doing this longer. Jayvon’s father was a Black Muslim and had been teaching him pro-Blackness since he was a child, and Cory’s mom was a social worker in the Bronx who made sure he understood how white supremacist systems impact Black and brown youth.
Since we were all from the same area, we had the opportunity to hang out over the holidays back home. Which meant my two worlds could potentially collide. As I already said, I wasn’t this pro-Black person in high school, so most (if not all) of my friends weren’t that way. It was bad enough trying to get my family to know a more “woke” me, let alone old friends.
I’d gone from letting people call me an Oreo to protesting on campus over the disproportionate pay of Black professors. I didn’t want my new friends to think I was a fraud.
Lucky for me, when I went home that first year, I didn’t have to figure out what to do. All of my friends from back home were unavailable during the holidays.
I later found out they were actually available, but people had been seeing my “woke content” on Facebook and decided to steer clear. It was probably for everyone’s best, anyway.
The Black Friend Page 8