Of Kente and Two Corinthians

Congressional Democrats kneel for a moment of silence.

Ah, the temptation to scold--and to jump on the scolding bandwagon.

A friend posted a Washington Post piece about a "performative" symbolic act in the U.S. Capitol. For eight minutes and 46 seconds, Congressional Democratic leaders knelt in the Hall of Emancipation. All--both black and white--wore stoles made of Kente cloth, a traditional west African textile that is a powerful symbol of African cultural identity. There are many Kente patterns, each symbolizing a different virtue, value, or tradition. In the United States, Kente cloth stoles are often wore by African-American students during their graduation ceremonies. They also make frequent appearances in African-American churches. It's not unknown for a white guest preacher to wear a Kente stole at a black church service.

The scolding came from a Nigerian/Ghanaian scholar at Oxford University, who was offended at the "performative" nature of the event. A Google search turns up a dozen different news stories, all highlighting the controversy--and none really getting it. There were accusations of cultural appropriation, calling it a photo op akin to Donald Trump's brandishing of a Bible outside a church that had just been cleared of peaceful protesters, and still reeked of the tear gas used on them. The word "performative" comes up a lot in these stories, along with a finger-wagging wokeness that I often find in news stories written from outside a church, looking in on the wacky irrational things Christians do. It's not just progressives who feel the brunt of it: I am tired to death of reading and hearing pundits decry Donald Trump's use of the words "Two Corinthians" as he was addressing an audience of Christian college students in January, 2016--that's right, more than four years ago, a full year before he moved into the Oval Office and ruined everyone's lives forever. (I write that with my tongue nowhere near my cheek.)

A quick pivot to that incredibly minor incident, and then I'll be back on the far larger case of the Kente-wearing white politicians. Speaking before an auditorium filled with Evangelical students of Liberty University, Donald Trump awkwardly dropped a Bible verse. In citing it, he referred to Paul's Second Epistle to the Church at Corinth as "Two Corinthians," clearly not knowing the custom, in American churches at least, is to call it "Second Corinthians." I read and heard the pundits pouncing en masse, and winced, and have gone on wincing ever since. It's become a cliche used to highlight Trump's inexplicable (to pundits, anyway) appeal to Evangelicals: here's a man who says "Two Corinthians," ha ha ha.

I wince because what you call this particular book of the Bible is utterly secondary to what it's about. It's not uncommon for British Christians (remember the British? They invented the English language we're scolding Trump for using so poorly) to refer to books whose titles include a number by the active number, rather than the passive "first," "second," or "third," and I distinctly remember hearing this usage when I was attending seminary in Dallas, Texas. In case you've forgotten (I sometimes do, in fact), I'm a fully ordained elder in the United Methodist Church, though I haven't served a church as its pastor since 2000, and have devoted most of my energy since then to teaching elementary general music.

I wince, as well, because of the monstrosities Evangelicals are willing to give Trump a pass on. There's ample hypocrisy to criticize Christian Trump followers over. The man comes closer to embodying the Antichrist than any fictional representation I've ever encountered--and I've seen quite a few. I used to really get into the genre, not because I believed it, but because the intellectual convolutions involved in building such a world fascinated me. Anyway, to put it simply: Christians who support Trump have chosen to ignore far worse behaviors than him being unfamiliar with the most common way for Americans to refer to a particular book of the Bible, and laughing at him for this microscopic faux pas is not convincing anyone to change their mind one way or the other. It just makes the pundit look petty and ignorant.

Now back to the Kente incident: seeing the headlines, the first thing that ran through my mind was, "Clearly these writers have never been to a black church service." The next thing was, "Do they not see Congressman John Lewis standing right next to Nancy Pelosi? If he's not offended, why are they making such an issue of it?" I finally had time this morning to Google the story, and found the controversy stemmed from a tweet by Jade Bentil, a researcher at Oxford. Her words: "My ancestors did not invent Kente cloth for them to be worn by publicity-obsessesed politicians as 'activism' in 2020."

Here's where I get cautious. I am not here to lecture any African or African-American about cultural appropriation, the use or misuse of cultural symbols, or taking offense at anything a white politician may be doing in the context of a global uprising against the abuses police commit against people of color. But I need to show you some pictures:

The first is of my friend Russell, a fellow music teacher I had the privilege of meeting during my first trip to Ghana in August, 2014. The second is of me with my wife, Amy, on the day of our wedding. Russell and I were in Ghana with an international group of music teachers who'd come to study West African music, dance, and culture, with an eye toward teaching it to our students. It was a watershed experience for me--I often think now of my identity as pre- and post-Ghana--and everyone else in the group I've had contact with since then was transformed by it, as well. We were immersed in a culture that made no apologies for itself while simultaneously extending us the warmest welcome I've experienced anywhere. I went back four years later with a different group of musicians, and again was blown away by the richness of the culture and the thorough-going hospitality of the Ghanaian people. Ghana hosts many groups like the two I traveled with, Westerners hoping to study at the feet of master musicians steeped from birth in the rhythms and movements of performing art that predates European civilization. When we're there, we are delighted to support local artisans, particularly tailors who custom-make clothing from gorgeous textiles. Russell had a whole Kente suit made for himself; I had two dashiki shirts made. I've worn those shirts as a teacher and performer, to parties and concerts, and, most significantly, to my wedding. Here I am wearing the other one at our post-honeymoon wedding party, with Amy wearing a dress I had made for her at the same time:

I remember Amy asking me at one point that year, as I was putting on one of the dashikis for yet another occasion, "So you're African now?" The answer, of course, is no. I can never become African, no matter how hard I may try. But I do celebrate and honor African culture, and I stand in solidarity with all those of African heritage who cry out against the oppression people who look like me have committed against them over the last millennium.

There's another factor at work here: I wore my first dashiki when I was seventeen. It was the uniform my high school band director chose for our jazz band. He'd seen Dizzy Gillespie wearing one, loved it, and (I think--I never asked him) wanted to acknowledge and honor the roots of jazz in African culture. It was 35 years before I put on another dashiki, but I haven't looked back since then. I wear these shirts to honor and be in solidarity with the cultural pioneers who created the music I love, teach, and aspire to play better.

Here's one more story, and then I'll move on to the conclusion of this essay. In February, 2019, I was preparing for a second grade concert, the theme of which was a celebration of African-American culture. (It was Black History month.) One of the songs on the program was "I Shall Not Be Moved." The school I was teaching at was located in an upper-middle-class suburban neighborhood southwest of Portland. There were very few Asian, Hispanic, or Black students at this school. A few days before the concert, I took a call from the mother of one of my white students telling me she'd read an essay about cultural appropriation, and asking me to cut the song from the program. I told her the song we were using had been used in the civil rights era by diverse groups of activists standing together against racism, but she was adamant. She felt it was disrespectful for anyone other than African-Americans to sing this song. It didn't matter that there were two African-American students in the second grade: she didn't think it was appropriate for her child to sing it.

We sang it anyway. I can't remember if her child was at the concert. I carefully set the stage for it by introducing the historical context of the song. At no point was I claiming this as my own cultural heritage. But being an ambassador for cultural diversity is a huge part of music teaching, and all my concert programs sought to hit this diversity target. My philosophy of music education begins with the reality that all western music is, of necessity, a melange of different styles and influences. This is especially true of popular music, something I've written a lot about in this space. American music has been, since its origins, influenced by the enslaved Africans who built this country. It's not a stretch to say that the music of those slaves has conquered the world.

I play and sing this music out of respect, and because interpreting the music of others is an essential part of being a musician. We don't make music in a vacuum. We don't create it in a vacuum, either. It's ethically necessary to acknowledge our debt to these earlier musicians, and in humility note how far our own performances fall short of their genius. Both the Beatles and the Rolling Stones did as much in the 1960s, even as many white American musicians were blatantly stealing songs created by African-Americans.

Now, finally, back to the Kente-wearing politicians. The word that jumps out at me from the original tweet is "performative," as if performances are cheap, illegitimate actions.

This criticism indicts everything I do as a musician and improviser, and everything I used to do as a preacher and worship leader. Music, drama, dance, comedy, preaching, leading worship--these are all performing arts. Without the interactive relationship between performers and audience, they can't exist. I'll take it a step farther: in the communal sharing of these arts, something true, beautiful, and profound comes into existence that is more powerful than any words on a page can ever be. Symbolic acts matter. When Nancy Pelosi, on national television, carefully tore her copy of the State of the Union to shreds, she communicated more than any carefully worded response could. These politicians kneeling, while wearing Kente stoles, were doing exactly what we elected them to do: representing us, expressing our solidarity with all the protesters and activists as many of us cannot do without putting ourselves at risk of infection or injury. Whenever we witness a performance, those who perform are representing us, whether it's making a piece of music, speaking eloquently, or most powerful of all, acting symbolically. Nancy Pelosi, as a lifelong Catholic, understands this more profoundly than any non-religious journalist can. The Congressional Black Caucus leaders kneeling with her, who presented her with the stole so they could all show their solidarity with each other and with the movement, have themselves grown up in culture and religion that understands the power of the performative.

So please, journalists, before you jump on a critical bandwagon to go after something you don't understand--take a little time to learn about what's actually going on, what it means to the people doing it, and to help yourselves come across as better-informed. Your ignorance does no one credit.