This poem is a sharp critique of cultural appropriation that recounts the pain of having one’s traditions mocked, only to see them later commodified. The author was made fun of for oiling her hair with coconut oil. This same oil is now a trendy beauty product.
The reverence of “Namaste” has become a sound whispered in suburban yoga studios. The mother’s morning tea, “cha,” is stripped of its meaning to become a “chai tea latte”. The poem asserts that while others claim the flavors, the violent history of ancestor’s plundered villages for those spices “stays with me”.
- Now it’s whispered in yoga studios,
- A shallow sound,
- suburban moms pressing palms together,
- not knowing that the roots
- stretch deeper than the mat.