Authentic

I hate the word authentic.

My disdain for the word is admittedly vague and I concede there is a time and a place for its usage. However, on its worst day, the word ‘authentic’ can be downright problematic.

The human obsession with finding the ‘real’ is understandable. We live short lives and that inevitably leads to a mad scramble for any sort of meaning. Some seek Gods, find legacy in procreation, or feel impact with service. Others except absurdity and console existential dread with fleeting pleasures and personally meaningful experiences. Many mix and match the above. Yet, somehow, it is universal that we all yearn for something “real.”

But what does that even mean?

I suppose my feelings are ambivalent from the beginning of this argument. How could I admit to the ubiquitous nature of this compulsion but then follow that with a condemnation?

First, the contradiction is glaring. We live in reality- so everything we encounter is inherently ‘real.’ To infer something is synthetic or less-than because it does not meet a certain criteria of soulfulness or depth is dismissive. Our life is filled with small, shallow aspects that are no less important.

For example, I am currently drinking coffee out of a large, misshapen mug with the word ‘wild’ etched into the side. The bumpy, imperfect nature of the mug might imply that it was made tenderly by hand by some pottery artisan- or even by me. However, by simply glancing at the bottom, there is evidence that it was mass produced in China by a global conglomerate. Additionally, you may think that I spent time browsing the glassware section, searching for the perfect word that connected to me. No. I thought the lettering looked trendy.

It’s the perfect symbol of how ‘authentic’ seems to crop up again and again. In our attempt to summon the ‘real,’ we end up with cheap fabrication. Which of course, we then bemoan and count as a mark against our genuine existence.

But I love this mug. It’s big, which I prefer. The ceramic material is thick enough that my drinks stay warm. I’ve gotten a number of compliments on it. Yes, this mug is a symbol of all things fake, mass-produced, and superficial. But it’s also MY mug. I put it to my lips everyday while I work, talk politics with coworkers, and live my mundane reality. Note that I do not use mundane derogatorily but rather with secure realism.

A more dangerous example of the quest for authenticity going awry is in experiencing other cultures. We want our culture served plain and uncut, no pesky modernity or messy actuality. I suppose this makes sense sometimes with food. Obviously, someone intimately familiar with Mexican food culture is going to create a far better eating experience than a minimum wage worker at a fast food chain serving pre-frozen food. No shade to those restaurants, though. Some believe Taco Bell was pivotal in popularizing Mexican food in America. And while not actually active in Mexican culture, my brother would probably argue that Del Taco plays a key role in Californian teenage culture.

Still, classic Mexican food is delicious. More than that, it feels good to participate in the appreciation of the original style, not just the imitation.

But what about someone who has Mexican and Japanese family and whose food reflects both heritages? Any culinary play between those two would be incredibly interesting but you’d be hard-pressed to call it authentic. That’s when we’re limited by the term. Fusion food is more than tasty, it’s an uplifting manifestation of modern cultural cross-fertilization.

Then, there are cities. I’ve been lucky enough to travel quite a bit and through those adventures, speak with a lot of other travelers. There is a practice among them of trying to find the ‘real insert-country/city-name.’ On the one hand, this is a positive attempt to move past the pre-packaged façade designed for tourists, in order to better experience the country as a local might. On the other hand, those dogged in the search for ‘authenticity’ risk blowing past realities in favor of a certain vision in their head. Is the small, picturesque town in rural Colombia authentic? Is urban Bogota authentic? Is the tourist-heavy seaside city of Cartagena authentic? Is Medellin, a place overcoming their infamous history of drug cartels and undergoing rapid modernization to the great benefit of its citizens, authentic?

My belief is that they are all equally authentic. To claim one is more ‘real Colombia’ is to discount the narratives of entire swaths of the population in service of a narrow picture. Furthermore, it seems arrogant of me to even deign to preside over a discussion remarking on the legitimacy of various aspects of a foreign country. How is that my place?

I will not go too deep into the ugliest side of this, but I would be remiss if I didn’t mention this thorny topic. Authentic can be code for unchanged, which has a darker side. Modernity may bring in fast-food and aesthetically displeasing commercialization but it also brings in schools, hospitals, grocery stores, and more. When we celebrate those who’ve not had access to the benefits of modernization (and re-frame it as ‘escaping’ modernization), we risk romanticizing hardship. It’s a tricky issue in which I'm not fully versed so I’ll leave those affected to tell their own narratives rather than speaking for them.

That brings me to the final example in my ever-growing post: my own backyard. Washington, DC is an interesting case study. We are, like other metropoles, obsessed with finding bite-sized authenticity to sprinkle onto our concrete, neoteric lives. DC is rapidly changing- eternal construction projects creep from one neighborhood to the next, sweeping away businesses, and tragically residents, that have been there for decades. We simultaneously decry the injustice of it all, while guiltily relishing the idea of a Whole Foods within walking distance. We love unique (even weird) outing experiences. The most recent trend I’ve seen is a bar where you also participate in ax-throwing. 

We cheer every new restaurant that opens and begrudgingly fill every post-modern, metallic eyesore that serve as new apartment complexes (my ‘authentic’ Capitol Hill rowhouse comes complete with real DC mice and historic faulty electrical wiring!). Yet, we deeply cherish a few local institutions. Any hole-in-the-wall that has survived the brutal, unrelenting march of urban redevelopment deserves our love and patronage.

This past Saturday, after my ASL class, a classmate and I went to one such place. It was a breakfast joint that was basically one tiny room. Much of the decorations had been left up since the 80s and the menu was incredibly basic- and subsequently the cheapest food I’ve seen in DC so far. The wait staff was funny and they knew many of the diners by name (who knew the staff’s names in turn). We drank coffee from mismatched mugs and talked politics over waffles that were made in a waffle maker you could buy at any target. And that’s when that troublesome word popped into my head: authentic.

This kind of out-of-the-80s, underground-feeling dining experience could be artificially created. You could hunt down some retro decorations, recreate outdated restaurant practices (cash only and no substitutions, for instance), and you could even demand that your wait staff take on a certain persona. That happens all the time. But this didn’t feel like that. It felt real. I was a part of something meaningful: a local resident visiting a local institution.

Which, of course, is where I bring my argument full circle, back to my ambivalence. I suppose I should include some closing thoughts before I think myself around the track again. 

Assigning labels of authenticity is fraught with pitfalls. We hazard mislabeling the basic content of our lives as trivial or fake- when those are the very things that build our reality. Additionally, in our attempts to escape 'synthetic' modernity, we can sometimes box people in with such terms. But perhaps despite all this, our quest for authenticity is ultimately a part of the human condition.

Maybe the dichotomy of real vs fake is inextricably interwoven into our perceptions of meaning and value. Maybe the conflation of real and meaninful isn’t an error, but a gut feeling that’s difficult to put into words. And maybe judging whether something feels ‘real,’ while a problematic exercise when done from the outside, has merit when contemplating your own life and community.

Or maybe authenticity is a nostalgic shadow on the wall, the concept an organic side-effect of the modern age, which we will never truly capture.

This headache is why I stand by my opening line: I hate the word authentic.