Richard Jernigan -> RE: Rosalía “El Mal Querer” (Dec. 13 2018 21:31:32)
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Cultural appropriation? To assess my transgressions I must first determine my native culture. As an eight-year old in San Antonio, Texas I used to drive my mother crazy tuning the radio to conjunto, cumbia and Tejano stations. She didn’t speak Spanish, so the breathless shouted commercials particularly annoyed her. Having learned “educated” Spanish in the homes of my two best buddies, I found the commercials almost as funny as a Cantinflas movie. When my mother tuned the radio to her preferred 1930s big band swing, I headed to the shoe repair shop at the corner of south Flores street, where the men turned up the music loud enough to be heard above the noise of the machines. I may have taken my first step on the downward path of appropriation in those days. When I organized a band in high school in the early 1950s, there was plenty of 1930s swing in the repertoire. It was the surest way to get the kids out onto the dance floor. I spent many a warm summer evening on my grandmother’s back porch in the tiny south Texas town of Raymondville, listening to the teenager across the alley playing beautifully lyrical mariachi trumpet. When they came around in the 5th grade in Oklahoma City, asking if we would like to play an instrument, I chose the trumpet without hesitation. However, my teacher didn’t know any mariachi, so I learned standard Amercan brass band music, a decided departure from my native culture. “Native” is a bit problematic. Extensive paperwork and a little DNA testing say that I am 100% from Scandinavia and England. Except for learning English first, and indoctrination as a Protestant, my preferences in music and food would have clearly labelled me as Mexican-American. Perhaps I was fated for a sinful career of cultural appropriation. My father was in the military. I had 20 addresses before I was 21 years old. As we moved around I pursued my criminal instincts, dipping into jazz and classical. I even sunk as low as 1950s pop, to respond to requests at school dances. My trumpeting career ended after my second year at University, when my math and physics class schedule diverged from those of the Symphony and Concert Band. Though dreadfully pocho by then, I honored my true Mexican heritage by turning to the guitar. Of course there was not a trio romantico teacher in thoroughly gringo Austin in 1957, nor was there a classical teacher up to the level I was lucky enough to encounter on the trumpet, while in high school in a Washington DC suburb. But the flamenco students of the Englishman (ahem) Eddie Freeman clearly knew what they were up to. And so, another offense was added to my cultural appropriation rap sheet. I write this from a log cabin with a foot of snow on the roof in Takeetna, Alaska. In a few minutes I will get out my Abel Garcia classical from Paracho, and work on some Spanish vihuela music from the 16th century, having arrived at a surprisingly advanced age as a hardened sinner of eclecticism. Next week: Christmas and New Years in Florida. RNJ
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