In Praise of Cultural Appropriation

Doing my best to obliterate the things that stand between us.

Jul 20, 2024

As much as I lament my kids growing up so fast, it’s fun to hear the interesting—and random—questions they come up with as they grow older.

Yesterday my daughter hit me with this one:

“Dad? Do you know what cultural appropriation is?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I was doing it back when it was still cool.”

"What?" she said, her eyes lighting up as she wondered whether to feel excited or repulsed by the idea of her father as a trailblazer against this generation's current social mores.

Turns out the question was prompted by a video she saw in which a white guy wore a traditional Chinese long robe to a college campus to see what type of reaction he’d get.

Predictably, a series of politically correct collegians—almost all white—cursed and threw insults, accusing him of cultural appropriation.

Cultural Appropriation: The unacknowledged or inappropriate adoption of the customs, practices, ideas, etc. of one people, or society, by members of another, and typically, more dominant, people or society.

He then went to Chinatown to see the reaction of actual Chinese people, who, as you might suspect, were thrilled to see someone outside their culture wearing their traditional garment.

“If the Chinese people weren’t upset, why were all the non-Chinese people mad?” she asked.

I refrained from saying, “Because they’re idiots,” and instead, I told her a story.

When I was a young man, someone once asked me about my background. Not understanding the question, I asked for clarification.

“What’s your culture?” came the response.

Still somewhat confused, I said, “Californian.”

“No, no,” he said. “What’s your specific cultural background?”

“Southern Californian,” I replied.

In the years since, I’ve realized both what he meant, and—thanks to a particularly deep genealogical dive by a relative—that my cultural background is a bland cocktail of, among other things, Norwegian, Swedish, German, Irish, Scottish, and Welsh.

Basically, anything white, pasty, and rhythmically challenged.

It came then as a great relief to my yet unborn offspring that, by marrying my wife, who is Vietnamese, they would enjoy not only a much-welcomed infusion of ethnicity but also a more expansive and interesting culinary range.

However, from the moment I popped the question almost 25 years ago now, a dark controversy began to swirl around our proposed union.

Though it varies based on personal preference, on her wedding day, a Vietnamese bride in the U.S. will usually alternate between the traditional Vietnamese áo dài—pronounced “ow” as in “OU-ch” and “yai” as in “YI-kes”—and her “Western” gown.

Sometimes as many as four times.

But, with the groom, it’s a different story.

Those who favor a modern approach will stay unchanged in a tuxedo or a suit for the whole day. But for those who want to go old school, they will mirror the outfit changes of their bride by wearing the male version of the áo dài.

In the lead up to our wedding, this turned into a big issue for my future in-laws, who rejected any suggestion that I wear an áo dài as demeaning and a denigration of their culture.

Hah, I got ya!

No, in fact, the “controversy” was that they really wanted me to wear an áo dài but were afraid to ask because they assumed that, as a non-Vietnamese, I wouldn’t want to.

Quite the contrary, and much to my in-laws’ delight, I wanted to go full-on old school, so much so that we included my groomsmen as well.

This required a trip to Orange County’s famous Little Saigon district. There, we chose patterned silk fabrics—gold for me and blue for my groomsmen. These fabrics, along with everyone's measurements, were then sent to Vietnam to have the garments custom-made by hand.

Six months later, we got them back, and there was a big problem—but only with mine.

You see dear reader, I’m six foot four, a height that’s historically rare among Vietnamese men. And since the seamstress who made my áo dài had no idea that I was a gangly non-rhythmic white guy, she assumed the measurements for my outfit were wrong and modified them. The result left me with sleeves four inches too short, ending just past my elbows.

We were too close to the wedding to send it back to Vietnam, and even if we had the time, we didn’t have any fabric left to make the fix.

Leave it to my ultra-resourceful future mother-in-law to save the day.

The woman who, at 27, fled Vietnam the day Saigon fell—with five children under the age of six and nothing but the clothes on her back—spent two years traversing 15,000 miles, enduring three refugee camps and two U.S. government relocations, was not about to let a few inches of missing fabric ruin her daughter’s wedding.

When they make a man’s áo dài in Vietnam, they use the same material to make both the upper part—which is like a long gown or dress—and the lower part, which to be honest, looks like pajama pants.

But even hardcore male traditionalists here in the U.S. dispense with the pants, usually just wearing black slacks instead, which are mostly covered by the top gown anyway.

And this gave us our solution.

My mother-in-law cut off a few inches from each pant leg and sewed them onto the sleeves of my áo dài, giving my outfit a slightly different—think Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon—but completely acceptable look.

“Hah, that is awesome,” said my daughter. “So did you switch back and forth between outfits?”

“No,” I said.

“Why not?” she said, looking a bit disappointed.

“Well,” I continued, “When we got to the restaurant for the reception, my groomsmen and I changed into our áo dài. But everyone thought they were so comfortable that we decided not to change back into our tuxedos.”

“That’s so cool,” she said. “Did anybody get upset that you wore them?”

“No, just the opposite,” I said. “Ông (dad) and bà (mom) were so happy and proud that their new son-in-law fully embraced their culture. In fact, I think they would have been upset if I didn’t wear an áo dài.”

“Do you have any pictures of you in your áo dài?”

“Sure,” I said, my heart swelling with pride at this special father-daughter moment.

A few quick taps and I had the photos up on my phone.

“Oh my god!” she said, “You look so much younger. And you’ve got hair!”

“I guess?” I grumbled, the moment suddenly getting slightly less special.

“Wait a minute? Bà Sally and cô Amy wore them too,” she yelled, pointing at a photo of my mom and sister.

“Absolutely,” I said. “The Lunds appropriated the hell out of your mom’s culture.”

“AHAHAHA,” came a burst of laughter, “and half of mine too.”