Tribal Patterns

Hi.

I haven’t done one of these in a while, due to a number of reasons I’d rather not get into. But seeing as that ghastly, oozing, pus-filled sore on the collective face of humanity we like to affectionately refer to as Fashion Week has mercifully ended for the year, I feel like you suckers may be in for a good old-fashioned down-home kick in the sartorial nuts. Better hydrate and take plenty of bathroom breaks, because it’s about to get all anthropological up in this bitch.

I am about to open up a can of whoop-ass on this shit:

Yeah, that’s right. Tribal. Fucking. Patterns.

Now, those of you who know me personally have already made peace with the fact that political correctness isn’t terribly high on my list of priorities. I calls ‘em as I sees ‘em, like a good little cantankerous  34-year old with high-functioning Tourette’s. Still, I typically make a good-faith effort to at least keep the decibel levels of my outrage to a minimum. But when I started seeing these sartorial excrements cropping up all over the place both in wide-leg and leggings varieties, I found that my capacity for subdued expression was sorely put to the test. So, in no particular order, here’s what really fucks me off about Tribal Print.

So, OK. I get it. You Americans are a weird bunch. You love to be as offensive as possible, but still maintain a sense of cultural decorum about it. Fine. Whatever floats your boat. Personally, back in Soviet Russia, we just shot things we disagreed with in the back of the head, dumped them in a landfill, and called it a day. But I get it, cultures vary. But Americans are hilariously selective about their bigotry: they elect an black president, but expect him to act with the castrated decorum of a pasty Canadian. Huh? Well, we wouldn’t want all the white people to feel threatened! And then they pat themselves on the back for being such good sports for allowing a black dude in the White House.

Yaaay us, aren’t we so tolerant?

Uh huh. You know what we call that where most civilized, intelligent sub-species of human come from?

Xenophilia. That’s right. Better known to you mouth-breathers as “cultural tourism.”

You appropriate the aspects of a culture you like (i.e., deem non-threatening to your narrow worldviews and sensitivities) and co-opt it to fit in with your lifestyle. Ta-daa! Instant makeover, you guys, OMG selfie!!!

Well, fuck that noise. This bizarre pseudo-Victorian propriety game you guys are playing is fucking bullshit, and it’s boring me to tears to even try explaining to you why it should be tightly packed into a high-velocity railgun and fired directly into the sun.

Seriously, “tribal?” Are you fucking kidding me with this? That’s like calling a Kazakh person “oriental” just because their features appear slightly mongoloid, or referring to udon as “pasta” because, hell, it’s bread in soupy, long form. “Oh, it’s all right, Ethel, all those Chinamen are basically just the same. Heck, I can’t tell them apart!”

The bottom line is, you can’t say these patterns are “African,” because that would be offensive to the people living in Africa. So, we have to paint with a slightly less broad strokes of a slightly less broad brush so as to stay just the right distance away from being the patronizing tools everyone already knows you to be. So, hey, let’s just isolate the cultural-developmental subsets of African people. They certainly won’t care! Hell, tribes are what Africa is all about, we don’t even have to distinguish them from one another. It’s all “tribal,” right?

Fuck.

You.

Do me a favor right now. Go to Google Image search, and just type in “African Person” into the search bar. See what comes up. Don’t argue with me, don’t protest, just do it. Scroll down for a few minutes, while you are at it.

I’ll wait.

Ready? Good. That slew of images you saw should probably reflect any number of ethnic sub-groups, states of dress, and skin colors. You should have seen everything, from super dark-skinned Mursi women from the Omo River valley of Ethiopia, with those plates in their lower lips, to dudes who essentially look like you and me, save for their distinctly middle-eastern facial features, aka Berbers. So, again, now: which of these, or any of the other thousand tribes does the pattern on your little fucking set of trousers come from?

So, to recap: this fascination with the exotic is bullshit. If you want exoticism, experience it on its own terms, don’t just cherry-pick it because it’s ginchy, cool, or otherwise visually appealing. I mean, fuck, you don’t see ME dressing up in a fucking giant-ass Russian hat, and sitting around with a balalaika and a bottle of vodka just to get attention, do you?

OK, maybe that one’s a bad example. Besides, that’s a banjo. Totally different thing.