Micropolis

With their new video for "Hymn for the Weekend," shot in India, Beyoncé and Coldplay stumbled into a controversy that's been centuries in the making: the cultural appropriation debate. When is it okay to borrow from another culture, and when does the simple act of, say, wearing a kimono or Indian tribal clothing become offensive, a sort of identity theft?  "Our clothes are our external representation to the world," said Susan Scafidi, author of "Who Owns Culture?" "So when you wear the clothes of another culture, you're representing yourself as part of that culture."    

Beyond all the usual demands of child rearing, Muslim parents in America have their own set of problems. They're more likely to worry about their kids being bullied or called names. In the wake of the Paris attacks, people around the world have tried to make sense of extremist violence. We spoke to a Muslim family in Brooklyn about the discussions they've been having at home. And we hear from experts who closely study youth radicalization. "The issue exists in our country," said Humera Khan, who teaches Muslim youth how to avoid being recruited by terrorists online. "Now the question is, how scared should we be?'  

The Obama administration announced that the U.S. would take in 85,000 refugees next year, including 10,000 Syrians. That's up from 70,000 this year, but still far short of what the nation's taken in during previous refugee crises. In 1980, for instance, the nation accepted nearly a quarter-million refugees, many of them from Southeast Asia. Sudanese refugee Ahmad Adam-Ali (L) on reaching America: "For me it means everything in this life." Seen here at an Indian restaurant in Paris with fellow refugee Abdallah Abdulmunim and WNYC reporter Arun Venugopal (Arun Venugopal) “If this is the biggest refugee crisis since the second World War why are we taking so few refugees?” asked Mark Hetfield, the president of HIAS. His organization has been resettling refugees since the 1880s, and has called for accepting 100,000 refugees from Syria alone. "It's clearly in our capacity to do so." Conservative lawmakers, however, argue that increasing the numbers would allow a 'jihadist pipeline' into the United States.  Despite this resistance, there are those who continue to think of America as a land of fantastic possibility and promise. WNYC's Arun Venugopal talked to one such refugee.  This story was made possible with support from the French-American Foundation.

For many tennis fans, the story of Serena Williams begins in 2001 at the Indian Wells Masters tournament.  While 19-year-old Serena was on the court, facing off against Kim Clijsters, her sister Venus and father Richard Williams entered the stadium — to boos. Venus had pulled out of a match against Serena earlier, due to tendinitis, but a rumor floating around held that Richard had forced her to withdraw, in order to orchestrate a win for Serena.  "I've never seen anything like it," remarked one of the TV commentators.  In a rebuke to the crowd, Richard raised his fist: the Black Power salute. He later said he heard people shouting the N-word, and issuing physical threats. Serena was the local girl, having been raised in nearby Compton, but the crowd overwhelmingly backed the Belgian Clijsters. Indian Wells has been haunted by the controversy ever since — as has the sport. After all, tennis is supposed to be civilized, the sport of kings. It's also defined by its overwhelming whiteness — among both players and fans.  If Serena Williams wins the US Open this weekend, she will have bagged her 22nd major title and completed the first Grand Slam since Steffi Graf achieved the feat in 1988. But her cultural significance extends far beyond that, especially to the African American fans who have followed her career. Imani Perry, a scholar of African American studies at Princeton, recalls that as a 7-year-old, she was the only black child among 300 attending a tennis camp in Evanston, Ill. "Other campers wouldn't speak to me or sit with me," said Perry.  When she took the court, her opponents simply sat down on the other side of the net and refused to play. This was in 1980. She never picked up a racket after that. But she has always loved watching the Williams sisters on TV. She turns off the sound, though, "because there's so much animosity," she said. Commentators complained about how "noisy" the Williams' sisters' hair was, or "that their father wasn't equipped to coach them. There was so much constant criticism." She said that black women in particular feel that "it's this unbelievable resilience that they've displayed." Kavitha Davidson, a sports columnist at Bloomberg View, said Serena contends regularly with racism and sexism, or 'misogynoir' as coined by scholar Moya Bailey. That explains why there is a long list of tweets comparing Serena to a gorilla, and why she earns $10 million less in annual endorsements than Maria Sharapova, despite a far better record. For her most ardent fans, those who think she's the best player ever, this is an inexcusable double standard.  But is she the best ever? For some long-time observers, that's an open question.  Los Angeles Times sports columnist Bill Dwyre said it's hard to definitively rank Williams above previous greats like Steffi Graf, Martina Navratilova or Margaret Court, all of whom have held the 'best ever' title at various points. "The eras are different. The time is different, the equipment is different, the balls fly faster, the crowds are different, the marketing and branding that they do is much different," said Dwyre.  But her success stands out. And it's because of the timing.  "So much is frankly devastating and depressing at this moment about race in this country," said Professor Perry. "She allows people just to feel pride and joy in a way that's unfiltered and unmediated."

ABC's "Fresh Off the Boat," based on Eddie Huang's memoir of the same name, premiered last week on a wave of hype. This is the first Asian-American sitcom since Margaret Cho's "All American Girl." What took so long? In this episode of Micropolis, we consider the long, fraught history of Asians in TV (not including the excellent "Goodness Gracious Me," below), and why ethnic sitcoms are generally problematic.  But as NYU's Charlton McIlwain argues, we could be at a turning point. The Big 3 networks are now scrambling to make up for lost audiences, and are essentially telling minorities: "Tell me what you want, and we'll do our best to give it to you, because we need you really much more than you need us."

When he was 17 years old, Kedar Powell's dad handed him a jar filled with $25 in change and kicked him out of the house. "'This is what you want to do? Bye,'" Kedar recalls his dad saying. "And that's how life started for me." Kedar is gay. His father is Muslim. His mother had already rejected him — she is a devout Christian who had divorced his father years earlier. But he found redeeming moments in his religious upbringing in Brooklyn. "I was always in the church, in the choir. I loved to sing. Singing is my passion," he said. But as he came of age, he realized he was "different." His mother tried to set him straight at church, but eventually turned him out, sending him to live with his father — but things were even worse there. And after his father sent him away, he became another gay homeless youth on the streets of New York.   "I slept in abandoned buildings. I slept in the train," he said. "I used to break into abandoned buildings and sleep on the floor." For more than five years, he survived by performing sex work, occasionally escaping life-threatening situations. He said God guided him out of those episodes.  Jennie Livingston, director of "Paris is Burning," the classic documentary which explored the underground world of voguing and ballroom, said LGBT youth are disproportionately homeless. "Who do they get thrown out by? Generally the religious parents. And it's ironic, it's sick, it's really unfortunate. I don't know how those parents define what love is, or what the inner principles of those religions are," she said. As many others have, Kedar found community through the voguing scene, but at 27, he feels he's too old to regularly participate. But he hasn't aged out of God. Even though he now has a stable home in Queens, he still visits an outreach program for LGBT youth run by the Church of St. Luke in the Fields. He's stopped going to church, though. He said he's tired of people trying to make him straight. Instead, he expresses his spirituality through dance. "It's very important for us to perform. That's how we get our energy. Our life. Everything," he said. 

America has a long history of religious hucksterism — people who have used God to sell everything from widgets to wars. But in a cynical city like New York, Micropolis wonders if that tactic can possibly work. “Hector the Inventor" says he has escaped death three times due to divine intervention. He is convinced God will help make him rich while also eliminating world poverty. "I’m not afraid of God, and I know what I’m doing," says Hector. "Because I’m guided."

Hema Ramaswamy, a resident of Middletown, New Jersey has Down syndrome, but that didn’t stop her from rigorously studying Indian classical dance and mythology for years, and giving a grueling solo performance before hundreds of friends and family members. This loving portrait of Hema affirms the power of religious and cultural communities, and the ability of art to shape a young woman’s identity.  Backstage before her arangetram, Hema receives encouragement from friends. (Preston Merchant/Preston Merchant Photography) Hema studied in preparation for four-and-a-half years. (Preston Merchant/Preston Merchant Photography) Hema is flanked by her sisters Uma Shankar and Geetha Radhakrishnan as she thanks the audience after her arangetram performance. (Preston Merchant/Preston Merchant Photography)  

For those in the business of Muslim P.R., 2014 has been a pretty rough year.  In the wake of ISIS beheadings and movements like Boko Haram, Americans increasingly believe that Islam encourages violence more than other religions. This, despite research from the conservative Manhattan Institute that Muslims in America are actually highly assimilated. But in recent months, Muslims have taken to social media — with a campaign called "Not in My Name." It's an earnest attempt by Western Muslims to distance themselves from extremists, with hashtags and YouTube videos. That was followed by a counter-hashtag, the much snarkier #MuslimApologies. Sorry for making the first hospital in the world, the first university, algebra, and medicine. #MuslimApologies — Hatim Alzoubi (@h_dawg35) October 24, 2014 I'm sorry your addiction to caffeine was instigated by an Arab inventing coffee. #MuslimApologies http://t.co/cE8ImY4WxF — A Crafty Arab (@acraftyarab) October 8, 2014 I am sorry or re-introducing #Greek #philosophy to the #west and for inventing the toilet and for #coffee and #cigarette #MuslimApologies — kahraman haliscelik (@turkishreporter) October 6, 2014 I'm so sorry for coffee, cheques, parachutes, chemistry, soap... #muslimapologies v @mehdirhasan @abdullahoguk http://t.co/6ju9qaiTSH — Abdullah (@abdullahoguk) October 5, 2014 One of the "apologists," executive director of the Arab-American Association of New York Linda Sarsour, said she thinks "Not in My Name" is pointless, because it won't sway ISIS or the Westerners who already hate Muslims. "Sometimes I tell my people, 'Is it worth it that you go out there and say this or write these statements? Why do you feel so defensive? Why do you feel like you have to defend yourself? You're a good American. You're leading a congregation. You're talking about social justice. You're a law-abiding citizens. Why do you always feel compelled to have to apologize for every damn Muslim out there that does something crazy or does something violent?" Sarsour said. But communications expert Robert Perez, who worked on a successful campaign to convince the Presbyterian Church to ordain gays and lesbians as clergy, said that earnestness actually works. People respond to what he calls "Journey Stories," Perez said. "You show the conflict, you show the concern, you even show the fear and those stories proved to be very powerful." Those types of stories encourage empathy, Perez said, and it's empathy, not irony, that changes minds.   A version of this story originally ran in On the Media.

The “War on Christmas” has become a perennial rallying cry on Fox News and conservative talk radio. But in multicultural New York City, even non-Christians who don’t celebrate Christmas get a kick out of the holiday spirit.  Micropolis talks to The Daily Show's Aasif Mandvi, New York Times columnist Andrew Ross Sorkin and artist Swati Khurana on why, contrary to staging a war on Christmas, they are engaging with it in their own way. Arun also discovers that in the Orthodox Jewish enclaves of Brooklyn, some people don’t even know it's Christmastime. 

Nihal Kajjam remembers the precise moment when he encountered the Hare Krishnas in New York. He was wearing jeans and a black Megadeth t-shirt and was walking near the statue of Gandhi, in Union Square. And then he heard a small group of people dressed in saris and traditional robes, chanting — and it captivated him. Kajjam grew up in a religious, Krishna-worshipping family in India, but had since personally "dwindled." He ate meat, grew a little too cocky about his jumpshot, fell hard for a girl who broke his heart. Watching the Hare Krishnas chanting, though, inspired him, and earlier this year he left his NYU dorm and moved into the Hare Krishna ashram in Bedford-Stuyvesant.  He's become a vegetarian and he's celibate. The Hare Krishnas, he said, have given him a sense of purpose and a community. "If you give up the senses for the right reason, you get a higher taste. And that higher taste is tasty, bro. It’s really good. It’s awesome! Now I have meaning to my life," Kajjam said. Kajjam is just one of those drawn to the new Hare Krishnas, who are making a comeback in New York. The International Society for Krishna Consciousness was founded in the East Village in 1965 by A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, known as Prabhupad. Prabhupad became one of the central figures of the counterculture, and for a while, the Hare Krishna chant was everywhere — on the streets, in pop music, and on TV. But then the religious group seemed to vanish. Steven Gelberg, who joined the Hare Krishnas in 1970 and left in the 80s, said that the Krishnas had become aggressive — and dishonest. He recalled a Krishna technique he dubbed The Changeup: First, a Krishna would give someone a book. Then (seemingly on second-thought), he or she would ask for a small donation, and convince the mark to hand over a $20 with the promise of change. But then the Krishna would never give the change back. "And so they put people in the position that they had to be almost rude and say, 'No, give me more money back. I'm gonna give you $5, I want $15 back.' So it became a very manipulative thing, and that really pervaded the organization," Gelberg said. Various Hare Krishna scandals followed, and people left the fold or moved away. Some of the especially devout, like Abhiram, born John Sims, moved to India and chanted there. Then Occupy Wall Street happened in 2011. Some Krishnas led the Occupiers in chanting and it sparked a rebirth. "We decided we should bring the Hare Krishna mantra back to the streets of NYC. Just as Occupy Wall Street have gone to the streets," said Abhiram, who now presides over the Bed-Stuy ashram. "No social change ever in history comes from the intellectuals, comes from the leadership, comes from the vested interests. Ever. Never. It always comes from the bottom. It always comes from the street. And so we're taking it to the streets." With the Hare Krishna revival came a new business plan. Instead of conning strangers out of their cash, the Krishnas make organic, gluten-free, vegan, dark chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies. They're being sold for $3.50 each at The Bean chain and other fine coffeeshops. Freshly-baked cookies receiving Krishna's blessings (Hare Krishnas)  For Kajjam, the sense of belonging he's found with his fellow Krishnas has been invaluable. "All these guys, I feel like taking their legs and putting them on my head," he said. "Because if it wasn’t for their mercy, I’d be so lost."