The erosion of cultural significance is never spontaneous. Rather, it is a result of cultural appropriation, and the amalgamation of historical power imbalances, privilege of a dominant group, and social inequality that precedes it.  In an even smaller portion of these cases, Indigenous culture is typically on the short end of the stick, as it has been for decades, but it’s not to say that it’s still a multitude of cases where it occurs.

Cultural appropriation, in simple terms, is the act of taking something from another culture and reframing it as your own, where cultural appreciation would be the act of recognizing, learning about, and showing respect from which the inspiration is drawn. The conditional structure of each, when it is stripped down to its barest values, makes you realize that there isn’t much of a difference, because both are fundamentally the same in that they derive themes and elements from cultures and incorporate that into existing fashion — the disparate factor is that one disregards it, whilst the other fortifies it.

Of course, you can try to ask the same broad questions about both; you can wonder what makes it what it is, or who decides the shape it takes. But while it is useful to ask the world around you when conceptualizing the importance of intention in regards to these sorts of things, it’s vital to realize that the utmost priority is asking yourself: Where is the line, and how do we keep ourselves from crossing it? 

There is, regrettably, a decisive line between cultural appreciation and cultural appropriation, and the very same line runs thinly between respect and harm, because cultural appreciation and cultural appropriation are respectively founded off of these simple values: it’s no secret that, nowadays, people are more inclined to the latter. The dividing line itself is based on intentions and, subsequently, actions, which then require time and effort; hence why the source of the issue often lies in people having trouble crossing from harm to respect. 

If you’ve ever gone online shopping, you might have gleaned that there is an annual trend in taking cultures and reducing them to themes in Halloween costumes. A lot of the time, it is the same trend in “Indigenous-themed” costumes — eagle feather headdresses, braided wigs, buckskin tunics. A step worse than that would be the plunge into sexualizing the dresses with high-cut skirts and a lower collar, which some markets seem to take in a last, but not final, act of desperation.

It evokes the question: Does possession equate to connection? And, if you simply wear a dress adorned with ill-placed eagle feathers or intricate beaded necklines, does it fit you further into the role of an Indigenous person? You would think it would be, considering how many costumes there are of Indigenous people, falsified by the pretense of the designers, believing they have enough knowledge of how Indigenous peoples look, but unless you actually put in the time to research what’s acceptable, it’ll never be enough. The action of using these patterns is not derived from any romanticized notion designers may have of Indigenous peoples; it is instead fueled by the need to commercialize anything they can, irrespective of who or what communities they subdue by doing this. Over time, these stereotypes, these horrible depictions — all of them manifest into default convictions, injected into the minds of many. Their lack of authenticity does not make them any less present.

In this relentless traduce of their identity, Indigenous people, as caricatures, are no longer treated as people. Instead, they are pared down and treated as mere extensions of the sacred symbols that had been commercialized first; the cruelty in it is that they only hold value as motifs at the disposal of fashion trends.

This trend holds true throughout the years, and it doesn’t only occur annually, like how Halloween does; a Chanel’s “Cowboys and Indians”-themed collection staged by Karl Lagerfield on December 10th, 2013, or a 2015 scandal where fashion label KTZ was responsible for releasing a collection with traditional techniques and styles of many Indigenous groups. Both collections would feature appropriated styles of Indigenous groups, with no effort made to appeal to the eyes of the culture that the collections extracted styles from, and no actions taken to credit them accordingly.

But, there have been some cases where the implementation of Indigenous symbols into fashion breached the line of cultural appropriation, and into cultural appreciation, even if the amount is outnumbered by the number of cases in which fashion brands chose to appropriate Indigenous culture instead. Namely, when Pharrell Williams had unveiled his collection for Louis Vuitton during a 2024 Paris Fashion Week runway show, merging Native American talent into accessories and music by showcasing Indigenous style as well as their talent, and made a point of hiring artists from the Dakota and Lakota nations, and a live performance of the powwow group Native Voices of Resistance. 

The stark difference between the cases is the amount of effort, or lack, thereof; Pharrell William’s dedication to showcasing Indigenous artistry and style in fashion is what separates him from the other cases, brings his case from appropriation to appreciation. Of course, it does take some effort, but the ability to integrate one culture into another without stealing from either one is a learned one, and it is this earned quality that makes learning it worth the time in the end.

So, let us revisit the broad questions from earlier — the matter of who makes it what it is or who decides what category it falls under is meaningless. Because, here’s a little spoiler: Everybody begins on the side of harm, whether it is intentional or not. 

And if you are persistent, you can make it to the endpoint.