A Reaction

My brother and I discuss what actually defines cultural appropriation.  We speak in circles around details he contests don't matter. He is testing me, but at least he's obvious about it.  He sends me photos and gauges my reaction.  Feathers on headbands.  Traditional Chinese dress.  I'm compelled to stand my ground, a soldier in a battle to whom I'm not sure it belongs. I have explanations but these are not reactions.  I don't feel them.  He is grading me, but there is no 'right' answer, because he isn't invested in the stories themselves, only the way I hear them. I change the subject.

I choose silence, wondering only, "Should I be angry?"

At the mall last year we looked at jewelry covered in Hamsa imagery.  The symbol of an eye embedded in a palm has a variety of histories as do most intersections of religion, especially in the Middle East.  My brother commented that my sister-in-law would not like it.  Though it appeared an opportunity to react and reintroduce our conversation. I didn't. I pondered in silence that my sister-in-law once gave me a necklace with a Hamsa symbol years ago. Then too, I didn't react. She had to explain what it meant. 

Still, until my brother made his comment, I didn't realize how the Hamsa was a part of her origin story she shared with me, a part she believed she could share with me, a connection point that somehow enough of me deserved to receive.  Displayed on that cart the symbol was at best a part of her borrowed, and at worst, a part of her that was taken.  Without her explanation, I had no reaction. I only had a question:

So I read more, and I ask, "Can I be angry?"

Last month, a song came on the radio, "When You Believe."  It was a pleasant surprise, and I was happy to sing along.  Each time I hear it, the lyrics fill me up with hope.  I can feel the strength circle in my stomach and resilience flow across my chest and through my body.  Last week, I heard the song again on the car radio and suddenly, warmth became sharp and rigid.  I realized why the song was on the radio.  An acapella group recorded it, for Christmas. I was driving so all I could do was tick the boxes in my mind, the ones I've tried to illustrate. Except this one surprised be because I could feel it. A reaction.

I inhaled.  The original context (The Prince of Egypt, a Passover story) was erased.

My heart pounded.  The author's origin (Stephen Schwartz) was erased.

My stomach turned.  Someone else profited from it (record producers, agents, musicians)  

And ached.  Someone with privilege could celebrate the words that the original identity could not (Post October 7 antisemitism has surged.)

Was anyone paying attention?

I eased the car to my destination and shut off the ignition.  I exhaled. I rehearsed one more time, checking door locks and boxes. As I stepped out of the car, I sensed something else. A reaction.

I was angry.

I was in Israel visiting my family on October 7.  I haven't been able to return since.  I bought a ticket for Hannukah.  Two weeks ago my flight was cancelled.  I avoided the office holiday party, extra annoyed at the cheese and sausage filled dishes across the table.  I sat at my desk and searched new flights.  For months, no, really for over a year, I held my breath and hoped.  I had hoped and hoped some more.  

"I would only trust El Al," my brother said.  

"European and American air carriers pushed all flights into 2025.  The El Al ticket is for these dates is now $7000."

At home, I stared at the clothes and toys spread across the bed.  I clipped tags and cradled folded clothes. Dog hairs clung to packing tape. Frustrated. Sad. Angry.

I would disappoint my niece.

I would celebrate one more Hannukah alone.

I would have eight minutes with them on a video chat, not eight nights.

No oozing jelly nor wax dripped artwork.

I would not be able to go.

I write why I'm angry, because it's not a question anymore.