Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Cultural appropriation?

Many years ago, I realized that I'm as close to Family-Traditionalist witch, as one can get.

My mother was a bit of a witchy person. She was Catholic, but in that odd sort of saints-are-almost-gods sort of way. I couldn't tell the difference between the lives of the saints and the Greek myths when I was growing up.

And my mother was full of spells--I mean prayers--for every purpose.

For all that, she was quite devout, was very well versed in Doctrine and even taught Catechism.

My grandmother was born around 1900 and she was the right age for going to seances during the 1920's. In the blackout, they used to do the Ouija board of an evening, having nothing better to do. She was reputedly a pretty good medium. Although, she always said that Mrs Next Door moved the planchett.

My mother and I were fascinated by ghost stories.

Some time in my teens I learned to read Tarot cards. I used to read my mother's regularly.

Is it any wonder I ended up Pagan?

But, there was no secret-tradition-that-was-handed-down-since-the-burning-times. There's just stories, superstitions, and things that my mom always did that have long since lost their meaning.

Then, I have this name my father gave me, because he loved the Arthurian Legends, and they'd just come to Montreal. He was feeling homesick, so he gave me an ethnic name. Little realizing the effects it would have on my life.

Every time I meet someone at a festival who's taken it as a "Craft Name" I want to say, "Look, you didn't get beaten up on the playground over it, so you can't fucking use it."

I don't say that, of course, but the urge is there. Petty? Probably. But all I can remember is that I struggled (perversely at times) to keep some dignity and my name when I was constantly told that if I just let people call me by some diminutive, my life would be easier.

It would also be easier if I pretended not to be so smart, learned to not be a fashion disaster and learned how to tell people apart (I've got faceblindness).

I also get people who look down at their noses at me, convinced that I have taken on this "powerful" name to make myself feel important. I usually get along with those people, eventually.

So, this is my teeny tiny experience with cultural appropriation. It is certainly not on the same level as other's experiences. But it is the experience I draw upon when I'm trying to explain why cultural appropriation is wrong.

In every group, there's always the urge to prove one's cred. That's human nature I think. In some groups, it's easier to spot the posers. Like with military people; the guy in the corner of the party, talking about how many people he shot in Iraq? Yeah, he probably spent his tour of duty in Germany.

In Pagan and New Age circles, there's often someone who's made a name for themselves by talking about their journeys to the Astral, and thing like that. They often take money for "initiations".  They do the plastic sweat lodge thing, write a lot of books filled with repackaged "wisdom".

Stay away from those guys,they're just scary.

I was talking recently about cultural appropriation with friends and how much of a struggle it is to figure out what is appropriation vs what is already a part of American Culture.

The biggest enemy of American Animism is hipster-ism--that "Look at me! Look how cool and special I am." The craving to be a "unique and beautiful snowflake."

My daughter brought it up yesterday when we were having dinner. We were talking about dreadlocks and the politics of hair. Her position is that white people shouldn't do them because A) unless you have the right hair, they look terrible and B) it is serious cultural appropriation.

The person she was talking to had the position that one should be able to do whatever one wants with one's hair.

We talked about Celtic hair and how there is such a thing as Celtic locks, but they are different from African locks.

I love the look of locked hair. If I could get mine to do teeny tiny ones, I would love that. However, I can also imagine the African American woman looking at me and thinking, "I got/get beaten up on the playground for that. You can't have them."

As a Pagan and an American Animist, I have been examining my own beliefs for cultural appropriation. So much that is American is appropriated though. Every group that has come here, whether voluntarily, forced to flee here, or dragged here in chains brought their gods with them. Coming here, they met the gods of this land and everyone was changed.

It's all so complicated. The obnoxious and egregious appropriations like the Victoria's Secret ads are easy to spot, but what about the small things? When my children were little, they were each given a dream catcher. My daughter and I now ask the question about whether that is cultural appropriation. Hm.

The Gods are not static. Even the Abrahamic God with his tomes of literature, changes depending on who's looking.  For years, I played it safe doing the Celtic Recon thing, but it never quite worked. What kept happening was that these weird gods would show up in ritual and in my head.

The most extreme was Kali Ma. I was skeptical that She was really calling me, so I told Her, "Give me the means to make a pilgrimage to one of your temples."

Bang. The very next week I discover that there is a Temple to Kali in Laguna Beach California. The money for airfare appears from the aether, as does a place to stay. The entire trip, every obstacle was removed from my path. So much so, that the plane arrived 15 minutes early due to a tail wind. The bemused pilot informed us that a tail wind going from east to west is actually pretty rare. The Swami at the temple had time to sit and talk to me about how and why Kali Ma chooses people. He essentially said, "Yeah, she does this. Get used to it."

So, I am a devotee of Kali--but I have always had an affinity for Goddesses with bad reputations. I do not worship Her as she is worshiped in India, but she seems content enough with what I do offer.

So, are my little Kali figures cultural appropriation?

The latest goddess to call me is Santisima Muerte. She at least is an American goddess. Although I am not of  Mexican descent, I can claim her patronage as one who works on the roads at night.

An idea occurs to me; perhaps she is the Road God's consort?

I appealed to her for a homeless friend and again to her for a friend in the midst of divorce. She protects the powerless and impoverished.

But, she is the saint of a group of people who are deeply oppressed. Do I have any right to appeal to her? To display her symbols?

I suppose it's to do with respect. Understanding that I am a guest in her shrines.

Daughter and I have talked about it at length.  Thinking about pagans with their craft names, it wouldn't be obnoxious if they didn't show my name off as proof of their pagan cred. If I didn't get accused of being  one of those very hipsters every time I turn around.

So, I approach these deities very gingerly, with respect. Like one would if one were the guest in their house.













Saturday, March 9, 2013

Maple Sugaring: The Trees Announce Spring.

I don't celebrate Imbolc. Like other Pagan holidays, it has never spoken to me. It doesn't work in most of North American, in fact. I have never lived in a place where the weather on February second made one iota of difference to whether spring would come early or late. 

No matter what the calender says, spring in Vermont begins with sugaring. The very first day of spring is the day you see the first maple tree tapped.

The sap buckets sprout on the trees long before the snowdrops, but the weather has turned. Even if we get a cold snap now, we are aware that it will only last a day or two. The snow has taken on the specific texture that skiers say they enjoy and I warn the kids not to make snowballs of to hit their father.

It is not just the temperature that has changed. The quality of the light is more substantial as the angle of the sunbeams are steeper. Every bodily sense understands that the long cold is breaking up. Winter is shrouded in silence or it roars with wind. Spring announces itself with song, even before the birds return. In the sugar bush the sap drips into the galvanized steel buckets creating a high pitched musical plink.  A dozen of these on a sunny day sounds like a couple of people riffing on high pitched steel drums. The base line is provided by the stream that is chuckling then roaring as the ice breaks up.

We have snow on the ground up here in the mountains, but it's mostly gone on the valley floor.

My neighbors for whom sugaring is a commercial exercise are up and down the street with their tractor and our grey muzzled dogs play together, running up and down the trails. 

Maple sugar is a wonderful thing. It is the only form of sugar that does not lend itself to the Plantation System. A sugar  bush can only be tapped for about 6 weeks out of the year. The rest of the year the maples just grow happily in their forest with only minimal help and protection from humans.

Sugar Maples are only found in North America. From Cornell University:

Distribution and Habitat: Sugar maple is one of 148 maple species found in the Northern Hemisphere, which includes about 90 native and introduced species in the United States. The range of sugar maple in North America extends from Nova Scotia and Quebec at its northern edge, west to Ontario, southeastern Manitoba, and western Minnesota, south to southern Missouri, and east to Tennessee and northern Georgia (Figure 2). Sugar maple is most common in New England and the Great Lakes states as well as Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York.

Sugar maples can be grown in other places, but they will not yield sap without the specific weather available in these specific parts of North America. Thomas Jefferson apparently tried to sugar in Virginia, to no avail. In order for tapping to happen, there must be warm sunny days and freezing nights.



When I tap the trees, I ask for their permission. The first time I did this, I worried that the trees felt the  way I would feel if somebody stuck a needle in me and bled me. To my astonishment, the overwhelming feeling I received was pride and happiness. 

I have often asked myself, when I commune with the spirits of the land, if the answers are just my imagination. It's oddly reassuring to get these completely unexpected answers.

These trees are  proud of themselves. They are happy to be tapped. Strong healthy trees are tapped. It's almost a status symbol (as much as trees have the concept of status) to sport buckets or sugar lines.


Maple trees are prom queens of the arboreal world, "Who else?" they ask, meaning the other trees, "Who else can gift you with this treasure?" They gown themselves in red in the autumn and preen because they are the belles of the ball.

One of those strange myths that just appears in my head occurs to me. The trees seem to tell me that they are hear to help the People, both four footed and two footed, survive the until end of the winter. February and March are famine months. The sap that browsing animals can glean from chewing on the bark of the maples provides valuable calories. These trees see themselves as saving the whole forest, every year.

There are no GMO maple trees (yet) and since the trees are North American, there's no need to look for the free trade label.

Maple sugar that comes from my own trees is as untainted as any food can be in this world.