Alby Stone: Wigwam Ban Man

Copyright © 2018 Alby Stone

Like most people, I hadn’t really noticed how far the aberration had gone. Too busy worrying about the important things in life – the kids’ education, our health, my job, making a decent home for my family, the turbulent and usually depressing fortunes of Charlton Athletic – I’d been more or less deaf to the clamour and hadn’t seen how radically it had changed perceptions and affected our institutions. At least, not until the day of my son’s seventh birthday. The day had begun brightly in every sense – waking up to glorious sunshine, the profound joy of seeing the excitement on his face, watching as he wolfed down his breakfast before opening his presents. In the afternoon, the party. A dozen or so of his friends eating cake and trifle, then playing raucously in the garden. My wife and I were enjoying it as much as the kids, sneaking the occasional gin and tonic and chatting with other parents, lazily chewing the fat while the little boys and girls entertained themselves.

Then came the knock at the door. I opened it to a man in a brown suit and a woman wearing a drab, smock-like dress that appeared to be cut from the same bolt of cloth as her companion’s attire. He was short and skinny, she was even smaller, and I towered over them. They brandished identity cards with photographs in the favoured passport style – unadorned faces staring straight ahead, emotionless and mildly disturbing. I squinted but without my spectacles the accompanying script was too small to read, and in any case they were returned to their pockets of origin before I would have had a chance to read them even if I could have. The woman spoke. ‘Mr Campbell? Tyrone Campbell?’

That was my name, as it had been my grandfather’s. I answered in the affirmative and waited for them to state their business. Like so many people with my background, and despite my respectable occupation and impeccable citizenship credentials, I was wary of white people with official ID cards. The Windrush scandal was many years in the past, and though I had been unaffected in one sense, in another I was as involved as any other descendant of those who had arrived on ships to answer Britain’s call. The Home Office ‘hostile environment’ policy and changes to immigration law had been designed to foster fear and uncertainty, to make immigrants and their children ill at ease – for which read ‘not wanted here’ – and that job had been done all too well. Irrespective of documentation, reputation or occupation, none of us was unscathed, especially we who had been children at the time. The worries of adults are easily transmitted to their children. And anxiety is both contagious and transformative. Fear of the knock on the door was now hard-wired.

They exchanged glances, the kind of look government officials wear when they are about to deliver bad news of the hugely gratifying kind. I should know. I’d worn it myself often enough when interviewing tax evaders and their less savoury kin, the avoiders. ‘May we come in?’

‘Not until you tell me who you are and what you want,’ I said, smiling politely.

The man shook his head. ‘Very well, if that’s how you want to play it. My name is Ronald Buckland, and this is my colleague, Julie Pullen, Ms Pullen. We are from the Office of Cultural Identity, Enforcement Division.’

‘Never heard of it,’ I told them. ‘Which Department?’

‘Culture, Media and Sport,’ said the woman. ‘Though technically we are a cross-departmental team, so we are also subject to oversight by the Home Office and Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Among others. Until last year we were part of the Department for Rejoining the European Union, now defunct.’ she sighed. ‘Well, let’s be honest – after Davies and Fox they were never going to have us back.’

‘Well, I work for HMRC, and I’ve never heard of you. What do you do?’

‘We investigate complaints, Mr Campbell.’ The woman’s smile was wholly insincere. ‘And a complaint has been made against you. That is why we are here.’

‘A complaint? About what?’

‘A matter of cultural inappropriateness. In your garden, as we speak.’

I was mystified. ‘What, a child’s birthday party?’

They exchanged glances once more. ‘I think we’d better come in,’ said the man.

‘And if I refuse to let you in?’

‘We have power of entry,’ the woman told me. ‘You’ll leave us no choice but to summon police assistance. If necessary, they will break down your door. And you will be arrested and charged with obstruction.’

And the nightmare began.

Really, I should have known. I’m a well-educated and not unintelligent man. I work for the government, and even with all those other important things to distract me, I ought to have taken note. All those training courses and awareness events – yes, I should have known. But I’d treated it all as a joke. We all had. Surely nothing that stupid could ever become law? Yet clearly it had. The scene unfolding in my back garden proved it.

The woman spoke, the man made notes on the kind of pad I recognised from work, cheap stationery supplied by the inadequate contractor du jour. My wife and our friends looked on from the kitchen window, the children continued to play, though they were less confident and lively than before. They all knew something was wrong. I still didn’t have a clue what it might be.

Eventually, the man and woman came over to where I stood. ‘It’s got to go, I’m afraid.’ Pullen handed me a form. ‘This is a compliance order. You have one hour to remove and dispose of the item, in a respectful manner as prescribed by law. Failure to do so within the specified time will result in prosecution.’ She emphasised the point by forcefully extending a digit in the direction of the offending item, which occupied pride of place in the centre of the lawn.

I stared uncomprehendingly at the form, then my eyes followed her finger. ‘The wigwam? This is about a bloody wigwam?’

Pullen frowned. ‘There’s no need for that kind of language,’ she said. ‘We’re only doing our jobs.’

Buckland made a note, cleared his throat and spoke. ‘As it says on the form, this is an order made in accordance with the Cultural Identity Enforcement Act 2057, section 3, paragraph 2(c)(7). Items and imagery reserved for Native American use only.’ He looked around, leaned toward me. Artificially confidential, conspiratorial. ‘A word to the wise, Mr Campbell. That framed bullfight poster in your hall. Souvenir from Spain, right? Well, you really ought to get rid of it. Paragraph (2)(c)(17), items and imagery reserved for European nations. And that woman in your kitchen, the one wearing the sari? She doesn’t look Indian.’

‘Hindu convert,’ I explained. ‘Married to an Indian man. That’s their daughter.’ I pointed to a small brown-skinned girl with trifle on her grinning face.

‘That’s acceptable,’ the man allowed. ‘And that woman wearing a cross…?’

‘She’s the vicar. That’s her son over there, the one in the Batman suit.’

‘Religious items appropriate to faith, good. Superhero costumes are acceptable, as long as they fall within guidelines.’

‘Guidelines? For kids’ superhero outfits?’

He seemed surprised. ‘Of course. It wouldn’t do to have white or Asian children dressed as Black Panther, would it? Black Lightning and Luke Cage? They are classed as reserved characters. Surely a man of your ethnicity would appreciate that.’

Frankly, I didn’t give a toss which kids wore what superhero get-ups, but sneakily justifying this bullshit by invoking my race was well out of order. ‘Don’t pretend this is about me. My family’s been in this country for a century, and I’m as British as you, despite the colour of my skin. Frankly, I’m disappointed that you’d even mention it.’

‘I’m sorry – I merely thought you would have a greater appreciation of the importance of cultural identity.’

‘Rubbish. You were playing the race card. And I never thought I’d be saying that to a white man. Look, isn’t this cultural appropriation nonsense going just a little too far?’

Buckland made a face. ‘Between you and me, some of it is a little silly. Presumably you’ve been following the Pasta Trial in the High Court.’

‘Pasta Trial? What’s that?’

‘Exceptions to the Enforcement Act can be made upon contractual payment of royalties to a bona fide representative of a source culture. The Italian government has requested compensatory payment for pasta, pizza and other foods traditionally associated with the Italian peninsula. The big supermarkets and restaurant chains have formed an alliance to fight the move, but they won’t win, as the legislation is watertight. However, there has been a complication. China is claiming a share of any royalties for spaghetti, as noodles were invented by the Chinese. Marco Polo, you know. Unfortunately Taiwan is also claiming those royalties, so it’s getting a little nasty. And Mexico is claiming a share of royalties on tomato-based sauces and similar products. The Italians are spitting feathers. Sourced locally from Leghorns, one presumes.’

‘That sounds pretty complicated. It seems to me that this legislation is a rod for our own backs.’

‘It gets worse, believe me. The Mexicans are also claiming royalties on avocados, chilli, maize, potatoes and tobacco. But so are various Native American tribes. India is demanding payment for curries and other foodstuffs deriving from the subcontinent, including tea, as are Pakistan, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka. China, inevitably, is demanding money for dishes originating or copied from there. But that isn’t the worst of it. Behind the scenes, China is also claiming exclusive use of paper money, printed matter, and fireworks – that or a huge compensatory payment, and we’re talking billions. Meanwhile, Jamaica wants a one-off two billion pounds for reggae. This is strictly entre nous, naturally.’ He smiled. ‘French grandmother, so I can say that.’

‘I’m not surprised the government’s keeping quiet about that. This will drive up prices to an unaffordable level. It could bankrupt the country. People could starve.’

‘I agree. It’s political correctness gone not so much mad as totally insane and drooling in a straitjacket. Quite honestly, I don’t think it would ever have gone that far here in the UK – but you know the trouble we had securing international trade deals after Brexit. Every agreement came with multiple strings attached, and as we’ve become more dependent on – ah – sensitive countries, the strong-arm tactics have worsened. But we’re hitting back. The Foreign Secretary is in talks to offset these financial impositions. After all, no matter what the Chinese say, we gave the world cricket, rugby, football and golf. There’s a good chance of some success with the quid pro quo approach, however. Japan has agreed to keep origami, karate and judo off the table as long as we do the same with whisky and pinstripe suits.’

‘That sounds hopeful.’

 ‘Well, we’re also stuck with karaoke. And greater problems are looming, unfortunately. Everyone is claiming to have invented beer, trousers and agriculture. In fact, the Chinese are claiming to have invented everything, and the Hindu nationalists in India aren’t far behind. Then there’s religion. The Israelis are demanding payment for Christianity, and word is that they’re putting the squeeze on Islamic countries, claiming that the Prophet got the idea of monotheism from Jews, which for all I know may be true, even if the Iranians are saying Zoroaster started it all and Egypt reckons Akhenaten invented it. And various Arab states are claiming payment for algebra and chemistry – and coffee, which is bad news for much of South and Central America. Whole countries are having to find alternative names for the stars and planets, and atlases around the world are being revised and reprinted. It’s a mess, no question.’

I was pondering this when I noticed his colleague was no longer present. ‘Oh,’ Buckland said airily, ‘she’s probably just having a look round your house.’

‘Can she do that?’

‘Power of entry gives power of inspection. Don’t worry. It’s just routine. I’m sure you have nothing more to hide.’

‘I wasn’t hiding the wigwam or the bullfight poster,’ I pointed out. ‘I wasn’t even aware they were illegal.’

‘Oh, they’re not illegal as such. Merely reserved. If you were Native American then you’d have a perfect right to owning and displaying the wigwam.’

A thought struck me. ‘Where does this leave the museums?’

‘Potentially rather empty. For instance, the British Museum has already agreed to return the Elgin Marbles, and many lesser items will be going back to their place of origin. Arrangements have been made to secure some exhibits on a permanent loan basis, but for exorbitant fees that may make the place financially unviable. That was in the news only last week, as it happens. Big demonstrations, Farage and Johnson doddering down the Strand with a bunch of equally decrepit UKIP, Tory and BNP veterans. Mind you, I’d thought Farage died years ago. Must be in his nineties now. Surprised he could still walk, let alone keep hold of his pint and fag at the same time. He made a speech about how it was vital for us to leave the EU and made snide remarks about Belgians no one could remember. Johnson’s now so obese he can barely move. He was wearing one of those new lightweight solar-powered exoskeletons. He fell out of it in Trafalgar Square. Into a fountain, of course.’

‘Did he drown?’

‘Sadly, no.’

At that moment Ms Pullen came storming out through the back door, waving a book. ‘You failed to declare this, Mr Campbell,’ she cried.

I peered at the book. ‘Oh, come on. Even books?’

‘Not just any book. I can overlook the Cervantes, Dumas, Tolstoy and others, in accordance with Schedule II of the Act, Permitted Exemptions (Literary)(2)(a), Translations Promoting Positive Images of Nation or Culture – but not this, as it is an instruction manual specific to a particular culture and promotes activities included in section 4, paragraph 2(7) of the Act – intellectual property with practical applications, in this case practices reserved for use by Indian nationals or their direct lineal descendants.’

I laughed incredulously. ‘The Kama Sutra? You mean to tell me this nonsense even covers our sex lives?’

‘This is no laughing matter, Mr Campbell. That section of the Act can have very serious consequences. Tell me, were you utilising any of the – er – techniques described in this book when your son was conceived?’

‘Well, it’s none of you damned business, but he’s seven. We only got the book two years ago, to spice things up a bit. I’m pretty sure it’s the 2056 edition. Do the sums.’

She looked at the edition date and relaxed. ‘I’m pleased to hear it, though we will require a written deposition signed by both you and your wife, along with an undertaking that you will discontinue any – um – techniques you may have previously employed or are still using.’

‘Oh, for… Hang on a minute. What serious consequences did you mean?’

She reddened. ‘If your son had been conceived while using a… technique from this book, he would have been confiscated. And he would have become the property of the Indian government, unless they were prepared to waive their claim. On payment of a small fee, as provided for in the legislation and separate reciprocal arrangements, for use of their cultural property as a service.’

‘What do you call a small fee?’

‘Fifty thousand pounds. A small price to pay for a child.’

‘Not if you haven’t got fifty grand kicking about. What happens to the kids if their parents can’t afford to pay?’

‘As far as I am aware, that has yet to happen. But they would be re-educated as Indian nationals, taught to speak Hindi, and given a place to live and employment appropriate to their caste.’

‘But my son doesn’t have a caste. And I thought the caste system had been outlawed in the twentieth century?’

‘You really should keep up to date, Mr Campbell. It was reinstated five years ago in line with India’s current cultural policies. It’s all those claims they’re making for the historical veracity of the Mahabharata. They say if the caste system was good enough for the people who invented aeroplanes, the internet, atomic warfare and beer, then it should serve them as well today.’

‘Christ, this just gets better and better. Why hasn’t all this been publicised?’

‘It’s been on the news, and has been debated in Parliament.’

‘But nobody watches the news if there’s something better on and nobody pays attention to Parliament unless the party leaders are insulting each other or someone’s apologising for a sex scandal.’

‘It’s a moot point anyway,’ Buckland put in. ‘And I mean that literally. France has objected to our use of the word “Parliament”, so it’s going to be renamed. “Folkmoot” has a bit of a ring to it, don’t you think?’

‘It sounds like something out of Tolkien. Horrible.’

‘Get used to it,’ said Buckland. ‘Do you know just how much of out legal and political terminology is French? It’s all got to be translated into Old English, to make it sound a bit grander than modern English words. Luckily, the Italians are fine with the Latin, as we used to be part of the Roman Empire. It makes them feel that they’re still relevant.’

‘This is insanity,’ I groaned.

‘It’s necessary,’ said Pullen. ‘People’s culture is part of their identity and should be inviolate. Take your own culture, for example.’

‘My own culture? Me and Buckland have been through this. I’m British.’

‘No, you’re legally a Briton of Afro-Caribbean Heritage. That means you have a distinct identity which is protected in law. Just think – you won’t have to put up with seeing white youths with dreadlocks or playing reggae – that will be banned under the forthcoming deal with Jamaica – or speaking in fake Jamaican accents, not unless they want three months in prison.’

‘But I don’t have dreadlocks, and I don’t even like reggae. I’m a bald jazz fan. As for kids speaking Jafaikan, I really couldn’t give a damn.’

‘Jazz is a tricky one,’ said Buckland. ‘It’s like beer. Everyone’s claiming it – West African nations, Jews, the Irish and Scots… And the Chinese, of course. In fact, there are quite a few troublesome grey areas in this field. You remember all that fuss about the cheomsang back in 2018?’

‘I was just a toddler in 2018. Remind me.’

‘A white American girl posted a picture of herself online. She was wearing a prom dress based on the traditional qipao or cheomsang associated with Chinese women. A man self-identifying as Chinese took exception to what he called “cultural appropriation”, and he sparked an internet campaign. The poor girl was vilified in social media. Then, just as all the fuss was dying down, someone pointed out that the cheomsang had actually been imposed on Chinese women by the Manchurians when they took control of China. So this traditional Chinese garment wasn’t Chinese at all, except by enforced adoption. Naturally, the Chinese soon claimed to have invented Manchuria. It stopped the rioting in Beijing and Shanghai.’

‘But doesn’t all this prove that the idea of cultural appropriation is complete and utter rubbish? Ideas, artistic styles, styles of clothing, technological developments – these are not things that respect national or ethnic boundaries. I can’t think of any culture that’s grown up in isolation and never taken anything from another. Cultural exchange is necessary. Without it we’d still be hunting bloody mammoths and wearing their skins.’

‘I think everyone recognises that,’ said Pullen, with a nod to Buckland, who made a note of my mild profanity. ‘This is only partly about giving credit where it’s due. The main thrust is identity – retaining ownership and control of particular aspects of a culture that make it unique and so confer uniqueness on its people, while at the same time preventing other cultures from making use of those aspects to reinforce lazy cultural stereotypes.’

‘Like dreadlocks and reggae?’

Pullen bridled. ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic, Mr Campbell.’

‘Yeah, well. All I see is a whole lot of people wanting to be unique because they think their culture makes them better than all others. And a whole lot more wanting to make money out of it.’

Buckland grinned and nudged Pullen. ‘Wait for it…’

‘I mean,’ I went on, warming to the subject, ‘isn’t that what the Nazis were all about? Reclaiming ideas and images from their so-called Aryan past and shouting about how it made them superior? Hitler would have loved all this rubbish.’

‘Bingo,’ said Buckland. ‘That’s a fiver you owe me. No banknotes, just in case.’

Reductio ad Hitlerum,’ sighed Pullen, handing Buckland five pound coins. ‘Better known as Godwin’s law. If a discussion goes on long enough, sooner or later somebody will compare someone else to Hitler or the Nazis.’

‘Well, much as I hate to point out the blindingly obvious, what you’re doing is exactly the kind of thing the Gestapo used to do. Anyway, how the hell did you know about the wigwam? It only arrived this morning and it wasn’t put up until a couple of hours ago.’

‘A tip-off from a concerned citizen, Mr Campbell,’ Pullen smirked. ‘And I’d thank you to refer to it as a tipi, as Native American custom requires. It is a portable habitation of poles and cloth associated with indigenous peoples of the North American plains and prairies. The wigwam, wickiup or wetu is actually a dome-shaped structure built from whatever materials come to hand, and is typical of tribes associated with forested regions. This is clearly a tipi. Schedule 3 of the Act – concerning the protection of cultures through strict use of correct terminology – provides that the proper words must be used for all items, ideas and persons.’

My temperature was rising. ‘It was that miserable old git from number twenty-eight, wasn’t it? He’s had it in for me ever since the kids put a football through his window. I offered to pay but he still insisted on taking me to court over it. Bloody lawyers.’

Pullen again muttered something about offensive language. Buckland made a note of it, then looked up at the sky. ‘Spitting with rain,’ he observed. ‘The forecast said it would be turning wet, cold and windy. Good job you’re taking the tipi down anyway.’

‘Wigwam,’ I growled and turned to go indoors.

‘Where are you going?’ Pullen asked, as the raindrops grew fatter and more frequent.

‘I’m going in to get my parka. It’s going to be chucking it down in a minute.’

They looked at each other. Pullen smiled blissfully. Buckland at least had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘Parkas are an Inuit creation,’ said Pullen. ‘Well, actually they and anoraks are claimed by several peoples. The Inuit, the Kallalit in Greenland, the Nenets of Siberia…’

‘And the Yupik,’ added Buckland. ‘The Yupik are often classed as Inuit but they are linguistically and culturally distinct. The word Inuit doesn’t even occur in their languages, and they don’t like being called it. Anyway, the disagreement over origins means that in this case it will probably be impossible to allocate royalties and the clothing may simply be subject to a banning order. Oh, and I hope you don’t have any willow pattern crockery. The Chinese, you know.’

I mentally took a quick inventory. Shoes and socks, trousers and jeans, boxer shorts, shirts, coats and scarves. Most of my wardrobe was good, plain generic clothing with equally good, plain English names. My wife’s, though – lingerie, negligees and brassieres; espadrilles, culottes and camisoles; kimonos, pashminas and stilettos… She would need a lengthy shopping trip and a downwardly-revised fashion sense if she was to avoid either public nudity or penury by pay-off. And all because sundry collections of rabid nationalists wanted to feel superior to all the others.

‘What about learning languages?’

‘Approved and licensed individuals only.’

‘Foreign travel?’ It had been a fair while since I’d travelled abroad.

‘No problem there, Mr Campbell. Though you must now be proficient in that nation’s main language, to at least a conversational level.’

‘And to do that I’d need a license and approval. How much?’

‘An internationally-agreed standard rate of one hundred US dollars for the license, and five hundred to pay for the approval process. Oh, and the fixed ten per cent tariff for handling foreign currency.’

‘So it’s all a racket,’ I scoffed. ‘This whole thing is a trade-off between nationalist lunatics and money-grabbing con artists. It’s always the same. Cui bono?’

‘Latin,’ said Buckland approvingly. ‘I think you’re getting the hang of it. Should save you a few quid in the long term.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Pullen. ‘That reminds me. There is a five hundred pound charge for our services, payable immediately. Inability or refusal to pay will result in a fine of one thousand pounds and three months imprisonment. Card payments only.’ She looked at her wristwatch. ‘I must also point out that you now have just under ten minutes left in which to dismantle and dispose of the tipi. Otherwise…’ A shrug. ‘But you can pay when you’ve done that. Mr Buckland will give you a receipt.’

I almost panicked, wondering how the hell I was going to dispose of the wigwam – okay, the tipi – in such a short time. Those wooden poles were long and would never fit in the dustbin. I eyed Buckland and Pullen nervously. Then I became angry, the rage building up to a point at which I could no longer control myself. How dare these unthinking bureaucrats come to my home, disrupt my son’s birthday party and start laying down what I was sure would turn out to be a wholly unworkable law? How dare they threaten an honest working man, a man who had never before committed a crime of any kind, who didn’t have so much as a parking ticket to his name? The bastards were going to pay.

Almost rigid with fury, I called to the kids, telling them to go indoors. But it wasn’t because of my anger, or even the rain. I grinned at Buckland and Pullen, watching me from the shelter of an umbrella, as first I removed the cloth from the tipi, then set about rearranging the poles, setting two of them sharp end upward in the existing holes. I only needed the two. At that moment I didn’t care that Vlad the Impaler was Romanian. Bucharest could sue me for payment when it was all over. So could Beijing.

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