It has become a long-standing tradition for me to visit the Met whenever I am in NYC, so when I found myself in NYC this past Thanksgiving weekend, I thought it only natural to plan a visit. Leading up to the day, I noticed that instead of feeling the typical anticipation and excitement of past visits, a nagging awareness in my subconscious questioned my perception of museums as institutions. Previously, I had observed artifacts at museums as conduits for cultural expressions and the communication of history; they were outlets for creativity and expression for generations to appreciate. Because of this lens I held, I embodied a blissful ignorance that continues to enable museums to act as vendors of public history that erase the violent history of the United States. Walking through the Met ultimately became similar to walking through myriad narratives rooted in colonialism.
It could have been because it was near the time of Thanksgiving, or what I now recognize as the National Day of Mourning for Indigenous communities, that a story of violence crystallized before me. I started questioning the history of the acquisition and display of non-western art at the Met: a history of settler colonialism, a history that is on-going and ever-present. Even though the Met does share a public statement acknowledging that it is based on the land of the Lenape diaspora, is a few sentences of acknowledgement sufficient? Does it not omit more detail related to the violent acquisition of artifacts, as well as the construction of the museum itself?
I ended up deciding to disrupt my tradition of visiting the Met. I spent the time there reflecting on how I am consuming and generating subconscious narratives of colonial oppression. I wanted to disrupt the equilibrium of my reality that is so submerged into the dominant narratives involving the subordination and exploitation of Indigenous communities. It becomes a rude awakening when you realize that the museums you have grown to love so much over the years include looted art that enables a colonial narrative to pervade.
Topics of genocide and oppression generate a lot of discomfort—whether it is at a visit to a museum with friends or at a family Thanksgiving dinner. If you ask me if I will ever visit the Met again, I will probably respond with a yes. I continue to hold a strong sense of appreciation for museums and the treasures they possess. My appreciation for them, however, no longer lies in a naive consumption of imperial narratives, but their ability to call one to critically reflect on history—our history, and acknowledge moments of failure for both ourselves and our societies.