When I was 8 years old I learned three interesting facts,
two of them about my family. The man we
called Grandpa Elam was actually the father of the man we called Grandpa
Jack. This made him my
great-grandfather, a term I’d never heard before. The second thing I learned was that Grandpa
Elam was an Indian. It was hard to
believe because I never saw him wear feathers or war paint. The only time I ever saw him wear anything
but faded overalls and a long-sleeve shirt was at his funeral a few years
later. The third thing I learned was
that modern-day Indians (now referred to as Native Americans) wear clothes just
like everybody else.
There were two hit songs on the radio that summer. Both of them about Cherokees--Cherokee People
by Paul Revere & the Raiders and Half Breed by Cher. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that
some of my ancestors treated some of my other ancestors pretty badly.
But I tried to put that out of my mind and just enjoy the fact
that it wasn’t hard for me to get a good tan.
My junior high mascot was The Indians. This made perfect sense because the only
other junior high in town was The Cowboys.
What better mascots for cross-town rivals? Now I had a connection to my school
mascot. School spirit was a bit more personal for me. At sporting events and pep
rallies the school band played the song Cherokee. It also made sense that our school colors
were red and white. The only problem
with that is whenever I wear something bright red I look like I have sunburn. Or like I’m blushing. Or both.
The school colors at the university I graduated from were also red and
white.
Sometimes I didn’t like the red that was always under the
tan. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of
being part Cherokee. Far from it. I just would have preferred some shade of tan
or light brown.
But I still enjoyed tanning quickly and easily. You can almost see it get darker if I’m out
in the sun for fifteen or twenty minutes.
I don’t have to worry about burning within a few minutes like some
people do. Thanks, Grandpa.
It’s not that people take one look at me and think, “He’s an
Indian.” I ended up with blue eyes and
enjoy all the privileges of a white American. There's Irish, Dutch, and plenty of English flaoting around in my DNA. But none of them have ever been oppressed in this country.
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| You can't always tell by looking if someone is part Cherokee. Photo source traveler.wordpress.com |
A number of years ago there was a controversy about the
Atlanta Braves fans doing “the tomahawk chop” at baseball games. Native American groups were upset about
it. I didn’t understand why they had a
problem with it. It was just some
chopping motion people made.
I don’t remember if they had any problem with the name
Braves. Brave is a compliment, right? The controversy quickly faded.
I’ve never heard of any controversy regarding the KansasCity Chiefs mascot. Chief isn’t an
insult.
Redskin is a different matter. Some people don’t understand why it’s a big
deal. You’ll never hear of a team named
the Detroit Blackskins or the Houston Wetbacks.
But somehow it’s OK for the Washington Redskins to keep using that name
even after many people have voiced their opposition to it. Some sports announcers have wisely stopped
using the term.
Redskin is defining a race of people solely by the color of
their skin, as if nothing else matters.
A chief is a person. A brave is a
person. But a red skin in an object. It dehumanizes. It’s an archaic term left over from the days
when, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.”
Probably the main reason why Washington has been able to get
away with using this name for so long is because there aren’t enough Native
Americans left to riot in the streets the way other ethnic groups have. This is especially true on the East Coast,
where the British and then the American military did such a thorough job of
killing them or pushing them out of the way.
Here in flyover country, it’s common to find other Americans who are
some fraction Native American like me.
When I started losing my vision it got harder to tell some
shades of color apart. Blue has been the
holdout. I can see a wide variety of
blues. Greens, browns, and reds
masquerade as each other. When my vision
decreased again in 2003 the problem grew worse.
The world isn’t black and white, but colors are muted.
It was mid-summer 2005 and the sun had ripened my skin just
as it always has. I was wearing a light
grey T-shirt and glanced at my arm. Next
to that dull grey was this beautiful, earthy mixture of light brown, burnt
orange, and copper. Two things happened
at that moment. I got to enjoy a rich
shade of color I hadn’t seen in a few years and I truly fell in love with the
color of my skin. It’s just too bad it
took being deprived of brilliant colors and wearing a grey shirt to make me
appreciate what was right there in front of me—on me—all along.
I wonder if a paint store could match a color of paint to
me. Now I feel like I could have a paint
swatch named after me. I claim it—all of
it—the tan, the pink, the white, and
the red that went into making this American mutt.
Oh, Washington. When
your politicians and dysfunction aren’t pissing us off, your team mascots are. In both cases it’s due to your unwillingness
to look beyond the bubble where you hide and ignore the rest of us. I know you’ve already bought all that merchandise
with Redskins on it. But you can donate
it to poor people in Africa who have no idea what any of it means. Every year, thousands of garments proclaiming
a certain team to be the champion of their league are manufactured in advance
in anticipation of jubilant fans snatching them up. But there can only be one winner and those
unused T-shirts end up being worn by people in countries where football just
means soccer. So don’t tell me you can’t
do anything with all that stuff.
This could be your opportunity to pick a mascot honoring
your city’s history like San Francisco’s 49ers.
Or you could give a nod to the heritage of some of your residents like
Minnesota’s Vikings. I’ve got it! You could do both with the Washington
Blowhards.
