On Cultural Appropriation or Why You Get Dominoes for Your Birthday

(I started this post one month ago. Don't judge me.)

This first-generation thing gets complicated. You want to do right by your birthright (always big up my US passport) yet your parents' culture is what raised you. For me, this means awkward conversations as a child at school dispelling stereotypes about my otherness. I remember sneaking my father's mixtapes to school for my walkman (remember those?) Most of my peers couldn't get the reggae and soca I was jamming to. No matter how much I explained it to them.

This was right before Bob Marley's Legend was released, so reggae to my peers in Florida was Red Red Wine and Don't Worry Be Happy. Nothing against those songs but it didn't quite connect.

By high school I really wanted people to get it. It didn't matter that I was the only West Indian around (not the only black student - I've been corrected since graduation, but I didn't know.) I was willing to teach my white friends anything they wanted to know about my culture. I wanted to even expand our history class offerings at my school.

I was unsuccessful in my campaign.

College came and I noticed at FSU that students were willing to satisfy their cultural curiosity. At the same time, being West Indian was a Real Thing. Four years as a part of the Caribbean Students Association showed me the power of celebrating your culture together. It also showed me how to graciously welcome people into your culture. We had members who were not technically from the Caribbean, but we welcomed them just the same. Taught them our language(s). Fed them our food. Defended them from ignorant questions. Many cultural groups among all dimensions did that. The salad bowl began to heat up and blend in backwoods Tallahassee and it was fun. It was popular, especially among SGA geeks like me, to patronize all the big groups' events.

I began keeping a set of dominoes in my car in those days. Why a set of dominoes? It's how my parents and my mother's parents welcomed their friends and family into their inner circle. Dominoes as a game is not unique to Jamaica, but I still claim our version as the strongest. My grandmother (the woman I hyphenate my name for) was a local domino champion. I saw her play the most wizened domino sharks that would challenge her. After she passed, my grandfather played hard as much as he was able. You know you're "in" with my parents if they play a board game with you at all -- and dominoes is entry into the family. They give the good food and One Love hospitality to all visitors, but not the domino table. The memories, debates, and nostalgia over slammed plastic tiles with blood and chosen family doesn't sound that important but it was to me.

So my sophomore year of college, I started teaching my friends how to play dominoes like I learned.

(If my mother was telling this story, this is where she would tell you that I can't really play but I can "match." I have not one a major family game in years so I can only say I'm getting better.)

They loved it! So much that I tried to introduce more Jamaican things. Some jerk chicken here. A couple reggae tracks there. I got bold enough to ask my family one year for real Wray and Nephew white rum.

That was a mistake.

In my working days, I kept this dream alive with the West Indians I met in the call center. Carene's family is not allowed to play in my house to this day because of the defeat I suffered in my own townhouse. Yet not a lot of takers outside of the Caribbean circle.

Then I moved to Orlando and met my church family. God blessed me with a small diverse group of peers that welcomed me into their cultures and families and were avidly curious about me. I liked Asian food before Orlando; I am a snobby fan now. Mochi, pancit, spam fried rice, banh mi, and green tea ice cream were in my diet. I am still a fool for real Vietnamese pho, especially in winter. In kind, my friends accepted my exchange of easter bun and cheese, jerk, and sorrel. They also started to play dominoes with me. I had intensions start a Domino Revolution -- build a niche trend where Americans started getting into dominoes. I saw a campaign with red and black and me in a beret.

Well, it didn't really catch on. I never bought the beret. Even the enthusiasm started to wane among my friends. I played mahjong with them. I played Cranium with them. Cards Against Humanity created a few riotous nights. Not to mention the marathon Zombies nights. But dominoes lost its cachet.

Nonetheless, between Sarasota and Orlando, I began a personal tradition. When I made a new friend, especially a non-Jamaican one, they got dominoes as their first birthday or Christmas present. (Note: some friends we don't exchange presents...don't act brand new bout "I ain't get no dominoes.") Nothing fancy - Target sells the multicolored pack I carry around with me for less than $10. It means you're in. And I hope for a return to the Revolution.

I share the example of dominoes as a demonstration of how culture can be shared well. As Halloween approaches (not a holiday for me, but go off) I see the back-and-forth on social media about cultural appropriation. Should you be able to dress up as someone else's anything if you are not a part of their culture group? Are you celebrating? Are you making fun? Do you even have the right?

I take these case by case. Most usually miss and land in the "offensive" column. Here's the best way to describe it:

Culture to me is a house. If you are a member of the cultural group, it's the home you own. We should treat our homes a certain way: a place where we dominate, we have our breadth, and we are comfortable. It is our place of peace. (People also mistreat their homes and do wrong in their homes, so the rules apply accordingly. You are still wrong in your own house.) Participating in someone else's culture -- making their food, dressing how they dress, speaking their language -- makes you a renter in their house. The rental rules are different than for the owners. You must treat rental property with care and based on the rules the owners set. Renters earn their way in. If the owners break your lease you are out. Period. Acting out of bounds has consequences. That also means that there is a certain license about allowing others in. If people rent for years they usually treat the properties as their own. One leaky car in the driveway or a couple weeks without mowing the lawn is not grounds for eviction. If someone has been a fierce defender and student of a culture and make a mistake or gaffe, sometimes they should get grace. Yet...some offenses deserve severe scrutiny. Who decides? Ideally, everyone in the discourse. Right now with the tensions between cultures in the American salad bowl: the cultural group gets the call. It's not entirely fair, but history.

This is how I used to defend Snow over Shaggy. Go figure.

Readers, I encourage everyone to explore a little outside of the familiar. I've never regretted a moment of exploring something new in someone's culture. I also can't say I haven't made mistakes. But through travels to three continents, learning four languages and attempting at least seven others, I won't stop expanding my tent - or renting in other houses. Mine is extremely accessible - a reggae beat or an urban restaurant and you're there. You never know: you could learn some patois or get a domino game off me.