Me and My Cowboy Hat

I bought a cowboy hat in Austin. It was my birthday, and I wanted to get myself a present. The hat makes me look ten years younger.

I figured if Beyoncé could go back to her cowgirl roots, I could do the same. Of course, I am an Ashkenazi Jew. My grandparents didn’t come to the United States until the early 20th century, long after the frontier had closed. But remember, in Fiddler on the Roof, Tevya is a milkman, and where does milk come from? What’s more, my husband’s Yiddish name was Tevya. The connection is definite and deep.

Even if none of this were true, why can’t I have a cowboy hat? Must I have roped cattle to enjoy this part of American culture? Must I even be American?

Culture knows no borders. Picasso was inspired by African masks. The Impressionists were influenced by Japanese art. The African American cakewalk began when enslaved people mocked the formal dances of their enslavers, but it is most often now seen on Broadway.

Cultural appropriation used to be called cultural diffusion. Then some people noticed that all people do not benefit the same way from the phenomenon. This is undeniably true, but it is an economic problem best addressed by politicians and social reformers. In the meantime, let Beyoncé sing and let me enjoy my hat.

Yippie aye yay, git along little dogies!