THE SOLARIUM

How many times have you heard the phrase “progress isn’t linear”?

You’ll hear it a lot in therapy, or from well-meaning friends. In this context, it’s a reassuring reminder. No one’s perfect, so your journey toward self-betterment won’t be, either. You’ll make missteps, momentarily lose sight of your goals, and even go backward at times.

Unfortunately, social progress isn’t linear either.

People can fight for their rights for generations and appear to secure a victory only to have it snatched away years later.

Progress isn’t linear.

Slavery is outlawed in the United States, with the exception of a loophole in the 13th Amendment. A straightforward end is avoided, shifted into a circuitous continuance.

Progress isn’t linear.

Roe v. Wade leads to an advancement in federal law, protecting the bodily autonomy of millions. Decades later, the case is overturned. Back to square one.

Progress isn’t linear.

A genocide happens. We let it happen. We tell ourselves, never again.

A genocide happens. We let it happen.

A genocide happens.

A genocide happens.

A genocide happens.

Progress isn’t linear.

It’s hard to believe progress is being made at all.

A far more minor example of this popped up at my university earlier this week.

Every summer semester, students across departments within the Graduate Program in Creative Writing have a shared class called “The Common Read.” The department heads choose a book that all incoming students have to read and discuss with one another.

Last year, that book was Appropriate by Paisley Rekdal, an interesting–if fairly introductory–text on cultural appropriation within writing.

I found the book quite open-ended, more concerned with offering writers the tools to build their own code of ethics rather than listing dos and don’ts.

I’ll summarize it in the style of one of my “ten words or more” reviews:

Ten Words: Appropriation in art is unavoidable. Do your research. Think critically.

Like I said, it was a fairly introductory text, aimed toward creatives who not only hadn’t thought about cultural appropriation in any serious way but may have resented the fact that they now had to.

I certainly had classmates that resented it. Especially within the publishing concentration, where I was the only person of color within my cohort, the book was met with hostility.

One older white woman referred to the book as “hateful”, and another classmate said they only got their book signed by the author at our residency because they “felt bad for her.”

The head of our program openly disparaged the book choice, seeming to discard it as pretentious nonsense for poets to ponder over rather than a text with practical applications within the publishing industry.

I’ll be honest–I don’t think I liked the book more than anyone else. It wasn’t exactly a fun summer read, and the class discussions that resulted from it were deeply unpleasant. I referred to The Common Read as “don’t be racist class” when bringing it up with friends and complained about it without fail every week.

One time, I listened to a Zoom class full of (mostly) white people somehow convince themselves that dressing up for Frida Kahlo for Halloween wasn’t cultural appropration.

“I mean, as long as you’re not in brownface,” as one girl put it.

The fact that Frida Kahlo was a Mexican woman–and one who wasn’t too fond of gringos, at that– whose style of dress was inextricably inspired by traditional Mexican cultural attire was besides the point, I guess.

I didn’t speak up during that particular discussion. What would be the point–to be The Token MexicanTM, so all my white classmates could pretend to agree for the sake of political correctness, inwardly judging me all the while?

A part of me resented having to take that class. It felt like my presence did less to further my own understanding of cultural appropriation than it did to provide my white classmates with real-time learning experience.

It felt like having to kindly and patiently listen to white people be told, over and over, that 2+2=4 while people like me perform constant calculations of racial calculus just to survive.

Also, some of those white people were insistent that 2+2=5, and anyone who suggested otherwise just hated art, and was trying to limit their creativity.

And even the people who were willing to admit that 2+2=4 still weren’t happy about it, because math is hard and boring, and they would’ve rather been reading about dragons or something.

Trust me, I hate math. I would’ve rather been reading about dragons, too.

I hated the experience of taking that class. But I’m glad I did, anyway.

I can’t understate how useful it is to have a basic, introductory text to refer to in conversations about something as complicated as cultural appropriation. I might not have had any guarantee that my classmates understood the book, but I at least had some confidence that I wasn’t bringing up anything completely inconceivable to them.

We had a shared foundation, however boring the experience of pouring that cement was. We had a common language, even if it wasn’t one any of us actually enjoyed speaking.

Given the staggering number of my classmates who confessed to never having thought about cultural appropriation in their writing at all, reading Appropriate, whether or not they understood or engaged with it, constituted progress.

This year, I don’t have to take that class. However, my cohort and I were told that, this year, the department heads’ choice for The Common Read would be “less divisive.”

What does “less divisive” mean in this context?

Given how mild and introductory Appropriate was, the only way to start a “less divisive” conversation on cultural appropriation would be not to have one at all.

Where is the divide here? Is it between people who think cultural appropriation is okay and those who don’t? I don’t think anyone came away from that book believing the latter. I certainly didn’t.

The real divide is between those who are willing to do the work and those who aren’t, people insulated by privilege who resent being asked to set aside their own pleasure and comfort for a couple hours a week and experience a mental and moral challenge.

This isn’t a community book club, after all. The Common Read is a graduate-level class for those striving for achievement and advancement within creative writing, artists who should relish being given more tools with which to examine their art.

The administration promised their next pick would be “less divisive”, but I believe a more honest statement would be “less controversial.”

In the early 1900s, it was “less divisive” if women just shut up about the right to vote and made dinner.

In the early 2000s, it was “less divisive” for gay people to stop shoving their sexuality in everyone’s faces by wanting to exist in public.

Now, apparently, it’s “less divisive” to pretend that cultural appropriation is not a complex issue within creative communities. I guess that means students of color like myself should let even this small, incremental, unpleasant piece of progress be pushed back because enough white people complained.

Progress isn’t linear.

Yes, but we all have a duty to keep it from going backward when we can. Writing this out has helped me get my thoughts in order, as well as blow off some steam. When I make my case to the administration, I will do so in a calm, productive manner.

What’s the point of being a writer if you never use your words to push for change?

***

So, as some of you may have noticed, I completely forgot to get my Artemis Fowl review up this week. I’ll have it out this Wednesday, and I promise I had a good reason for missing it this time–I was recording the first episode of The AD8Keys Podcast with Csilloalexandra Domingue.

Due to technical issues, the episode won’t release until this coming Friday, but the pop music and songwriting-focused podcast will be available on Csilloalexandra’s YouTube and Spotify pages. It was a lot of fun to record, and I’m excited to see where it goes.

The “Lemon Squares in All Dimensions” reading and commentary video will go up on the first Sunday in April, so stay tuned!