Ethics and Business? Please

II

I called Fred bright and early with exciting news. “OK, Chippewa seems the best route to go. They got the most Casinos. The Apaches ain’t got shit. Granted, they fought back the most. You get more flies with honey...”

I got an unexpected response.

“I'm done with you. That's why people look at us with the side-eye now; I mean us, Black folk as a whole. We are willing to exploit anyone and everyone to get what we want. It doesn't matter if they did anything to us or not. I can't exploit the red man like the palefaces did.”

Well, that rankled me some. “I'm not exploiting the red man. I am exploiting the paleface system that believed you cure centuries of Native oppression with a few business opportunities.” Self righteousness was always strength of mine.

There was actual sadness in his voice. “But in turn you are exploiting them too, because that was laid out for them. You… you're going to try to exercise a ridiculous loophole to get paid.”

I changed tracks. I kinda needed him to work this with me. “ Hmmm...Never thought of it that way. Is it the double dip, Casinos AND reparations that's the overkill?”

“You’re fucking kidding me. Nope. The overkill is that you're taking advantage of a benefit that was not meant for you, redfoot.”

“That's PROUD BLACKFOOT, Gut Crusher. Bearing in mind: people are going to look at us how they look at us. I can ignore it with expensive enough sunglasses purchased to view the desert sands of my new casino... That’s Black folks’ problem. We spend a whole lot of time worrying how we are perceived, and believe me, other people have made billions off of our perception issues. We need to get over that. I don’t care if white people or anyone else looks at me as some conniving whatever…please. The business history books are filled with ‘em, and those are the successes. The good guys? No one mentions them.”

Now he switched tracks. “How would you like it if the government announced reparations and you had to be 1/8 black to get them, so when you go to get in line there are these WASP republican types in line around the block because their great-great grandfathers had children out of wedlock because they went creeping in the middle of the night to the slave house? But that makes them 1/8 black and the blond-haired blue-eyed devils are standing in line to get YOUR money...Doesn't sit too well with you, now does it. That would be just one more way that the white man screwed us.”

I laughed. “Wouldn’t bother me one bit. If they are one eighth Black, according to laws still on the books in this fine republic, they Black. If they chose to pass for a number of years and then come out for their share of the pie, well, hell. Sounds American to me. No no no. Black folk keep getting shit on because we are ALWAYS fair, ALWAYS trying to do the right thing. We gotta play the game like everyone else did. Do whatever to get ahead, save our money, and move to the suburbs. Actually, that's what's happening. I have yet to see real Native Americans own these places, and I bet the boards don’t live on reservations.”

I could hear Fred throwing up his hands. “So why would you want to be one of them? I thought we had to be better than that?”

“Man, this is America. Land of the loophole. Why is it the people who could benefit from loopholes spend time pontificating about why they shouldn’t. Then they get on Black radio and bitch about the fact they don’t have what the loophole exploiters have. That’s crazy. One good thing about reparations is it would expose all of the Negroes that have been passing for the last 50 years. I wanna know.”

“But this is for THEM!”

“If genealogy says I am one of THEM how am I wrong? Dude, there is a lot of shared history between our peoples. The non reservation boarding schools alone are a blot on history that would make any decent person cringe. You are going to correct that by allowing gaming? These people went to lengths to “Americanize” them that were inhumane. Perhaps if people of color, Africans, Native Americans and whomever else, stopped being so damned concerned with ‘fair’ and ‘right’ and learned to do unto others as they do unto us, or before they do unto us, we’d be better off. Sorry. I can benefit my people more by generating funding and using it to help folk who look like me than by sitting around lamenting what’s ‘right’.”

“Is this about helping your people?”

“Sure. Starting with those whom share my last name. Which includes you.”

The line went dead.

I spent the better part of the afternoon digging through the Native American Rights Fund website, along with any of the other research I had piled high on my desk. I had some understanding of Native American history. Mostly the bad. I remember a colleague once telling me about how bad the reservations were. She told me a story of how some native came into a bar where she and her friends were drinking, slit a man’s throat, and walked out. She explained that because the bars were on Indian land and the victim was an outsider, there was noting that could be done.

“I mean, these were our bars, bars owned by white people,” she explained, “but we had no power there.”

I was not listening so intently that I was against reminding her that I, in fact, was not white. Nowhere near it. I was tempted, however, to taunt her with the fact the natives had probably felt that way about Caucasians for a long time. Hell, I thought. Was it justified?
The schools natives had been sent to at the turn of the century were an even worse tale. Tribesmen were sent to these boarding schools that basically attempted to beat the “savagery” out of them. Really? The Native Americans may not have been perfect, but could leaving them alone have been that bad of an idea? How did their savagery compare to that of the Europeans who supplanted them? I’m no romanticist. When my own people try to sell me on the innate humaneness of Africans, and how if we were left alone, we’d never fight, I have to look at the Derg, Rwandan genocide, Mobutu and Idi Amin to counter that. Actually, I have to look no further than the neighborhoods of my native Chicago to dispel that nonsense. People, I believe, are always trying to rule other people. The easiest and most sure way to do that is through violence. Whenever folk want to argue that I tell them to go learn elementary school history over again and then come see me.

In exchange for a lot of headache, heartache and outright abuse, was financial compensation really enough? And would it work for Black folk? That was the biggest argument against reparations. You can’t just issue a group of people checks. You can, but every group has its haves and have snots, and the haves are usually much better with money. That’s probably why they are the haves. They’ll invest theirs and find ways to profit from the one group that will quickly do business with them, no questions asked: the have nots. Eventually you have a Black upper class and lower class, and the lower class has accumulated a lot of temporary assets. Cars, consumer goods, and what not. In many cases, they may spend what they get trying to survive and never think about the long haul because life for generations has been about survival, and happy times have been about finding ways to forget that you are just surviving. What happens when their money is gone? Folk may riot. Hell, people riot when athletic teams win championships. This could cause the apocalypse.

So the Native American solution might work, with one caveat. It was easier for the government to grant certain land and business rights to the natives, because technically, they were already on what’s considered their sovereign land. What an irony that is. We stole the country from you and wanted to make you like us, but we’ll allow you to have certain rights on land that we tell you is really yours. Crazy as it was, however, it was working. But how?

That said, I was realizing I would probably have to do some research on a reservation before moving forward with my plan. This was not going to go over well with the missus, who last night gave me a tongue lashing for having the kids do the feathers and photos thing. She practically washed out poor Scoompi’s mouth with soap for using the term “Indian.” Scooter, who knows where he gets his bread and butter, had no problem letting the “freedom, justice and equality” thing slip.

My wife was raised a Black Muslim. I got none last night.

Oh, well, I thought, fighting off the nagging feeling that a vodka tonic was just what I needed right now, a new casino, they’ll love me in the morning.

There was a knock on my office door. “Doc? Can we talk about my paper?”

I put my research aside. Andy Chen was one of my best students, proudly living up to that stereotype.

“Dunno, Andy,” I said, glancing at my calendar. “Think I used up all of my Asian time this week.”

“Work it out,” he laughed, pulling up a chair, “you people are bad with time anyway.”

“Touché,” I said, offering him a 7-up out of my fridge. “Now, here was my issue. Your thesis was solid, but you and I both know with just a little more digging…”

Casinos would have to wait.

Only In America

“This is the stupidest thing he has come up with in a long time,” Scooter muttered, “and I oughta know. Nothing rivals this for sheer stupidity and embarrassment.”

“Shaddup,” I snapped through clenched teeth. “And don’t smile. We are a proud people, angry that we have lost our land and heritage. Adjust your feather.”

“I’m not sure about this, Daddy,” Scoompi whispered. “I’m too bright to be an Indian.”

The flash popped.

It all started after sex one morning.

We were both lying there, fan blowing, blinds barely blocking out the sun, fatigued but not quite sleepy. Actually, I was thirsty.

“You know,” I said, “people have something to say about every group of women but Native American women. Black women have attitudes, Latin women are hot tempered, Jewish women are domineering, and European women are wild…”

“What about Asian women? I never hear anything about them,” she said as she snuggled against me.

I sniffed. “Every man knows that one. They are submissive. And popularly so.”

“Oh really?”

“Look, to quote Alexyss K. Tylor…”

“Get back to your point about Native American women.”

“Have you ever seen a real Native American?” I was up on an elbow now. She snagged what cover I lost.

“No, well…”

“I mean, every person I know who swears they are Indian looks white. I see guys who look like Brad Pitt with last names like “Frazier” talking about they are Native Americans. I mean, I have yet to see any Native Americans. If you look up “Famous Native Americans” on the web, they give you Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull and that guy that played Tonto fifty years ago.”

She was half asleep, but drawled, “You know, I have seen a real one. She used to work at the phone company with me, in Michigan. We had a lot of them there, you know. The first casinos for them, well, some of the first, were in Michigan.”

“Really?”

“So, I knew this one woman who worked with me. She was very pretty. Just…you ever look at someone and not be certain of their ethnicity? You knew she wasn’t Black, or from the Middle East or Asia, but, she was kind of a mixture of them all. She was pretty. Married a Black guy, had two kids. Her little boys were adorable. But we’d look, like, is she Mexican? South American?””

“Well, the Latinas as we know them are a mix of indigenous people, Mediterranean Spaniards, and in South America, Black folk. Shoot. Most of the slaves went south of the Equator, Hon. Ya’ll still friends?”

“We worked together. She didn’t talk much.”

“Shoot. Can you blame her? Check out their history. Talking to folk lost tem an entire country. I mean, no one has been shit on like the Indians. Black folk even had it a bit better.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Black folk were brought here in ships, but history points to other Black folk selling them for guns and whatnot. I mean, so at least some Black people, the ones that got to stay in Africa, got something they wanted out of the deal. Guns to win more wars and enslave more Africans for more guns. The Native American trusted white people, fed them, kept them from starving, and got nothing in return. Did you read what JD wrote about the first Thanksgiving? ‘Hey, what’s the gunpowder for?’ ‘We’ll figure something out.’”

“Make your point, Honey.” Yawn. “And please. Stop quoting these obscure Internet personalities. No one reads JD McCallum and no one watches that Alexyss Whosis, but you.”

“Tylor. Bet if the Indians had her, they’d still own Manhattan.”

“Anyway, Maria, that’s her name, did open up towards the end. She was leaving the phone company because she was voted to some position on her tribal council. They like, gave her a two hundred fifty thousand dollar house…”

“In Michigan? That’s like a million dollar pad anywhere else…”

“Shut up. Yeah. They put her through school, everything. You know, in many native communities, alcoholism runs rampant, and they face the other social problems we all do…”

“Yeah, but they are justified. I mean, it’s one thing to have a fight and lost some stuff, but the Native American people…they fought back, they got tricked, they just got screwed. I mean, I honestly think they got a worse shake than Negros did. This country’s history on dealing with people of color in general sucks, but its abuse of the Native American is horrible. Whenever these anti reparations guys argue about welfare and whatnot, when did they use that argument with the Indians? And they screwed them royally. Again, it’s one thing to be taken from your house. But to have people come in and take over your house? It’s been yours all this time, you be nice to them, and look-they leave you on the worst parts after they carve up the rest? Of your own pad? After all you did for them? Shit. I’d drink, too. They got the shaft.”

“Well, now they got casinos.”

“This is enough to make one seriously consider the argument for reparations. Seriously? That argument that no Blacks now are slaves? So what? None of the Indians alive now walked the Trail of Tears. I think Black folk get played because they complain a lot, but in the end, everyone knows Black fell for that phony boat trip number, and people have looked at them as dummies ever since. Yeah, I remember reading where they were pretty liberal with the terms of who was a native. If you had like, an eighth of Indian blood…”

“That’s right…”

“My Grandaddy’s momma was Cherokee…”

She snuggled under the covers. “Don’t you have to teach today? I’m going back to sleep. Been nice discussing American history with you. Wake me if you want to go for another round, but otherwise, I’m no longer interested in a conversation that began with female stereotypes.”

So she was listening.

Contrary to her belief, I wasn’t teaching, but did have office hours. I half closed my door, put my feet up on my desk, wished I had some Jack Daniels and called my brother Fred. I had an idea.

“Hey man. I got an idea. Gotta see what percentage of Native American I got in me. I want an in on the casino deal, plus I'll retain Black status so I can get reparations too.”

All Fred said was, “Wow.”

“What?”

“Something is seriously wrong with you. But that’s fine. I am claiming the Fuzzhead Jenkins name and working on a blues album with a friend of mine.”

“Dude, you can’t. Fuzzhead is me, and as I am now Native American, so is he.”

Fred snorted. “Cool. Gives me more material. The Ballad of Confused Crazy Horse. Nice ring to it.”

I shook my head, as if Fred could see me. “No no no. I will remain Fuzzhead. I want to increase my Native American fan base and get some casino loot. I am having my kids find feathers outside our house so they can pose for family photos dressed in our native garb this evening. Yeah, Baby! REPARATIONS NOW! Once I get my casino.”

A real tone of concern crept into Fred’s voice. “Ah... did you start drinking again?”

“Nope. Actually, been feeling good to be booze free. WAY more oxygen to da brain. You wanna be Indian, too? I can get you a cool name.”

Fred learned long ago to humor me. “I like ‘Big Chief GutCrusher.’”

“It's yours. But like the dictator thing, I'ma need your help. This is easier. It requires NO moving abroad. We can do it all here.”

Fred sighed resignedly. I had him. “It would be harder here. Security is tight. We gonna wind up in Gitmo dancin’ around with our drawers on our head.”

“No no no. Gitmo is for those OTHER Indians. Or people that kinda look like them,” I protested.

Fred sighed again. “You vacillate between brilliant and intolerant to a point that is absolutely moronic. What did they hire you to teach again?”

“It don’t matter. Tenure, Baby. Let’s go get us a casino. Hey? You think Alexyss might be Native American? I hope so. I no longer want to date outside of our tribe.”

Fred snapped, “Dummy. You married. I did the ceremony. Shut up.” And he rang off.

I did some research later. It was a lot of paperwork, so I put on my glasses and dug in. Around lunch time I was going to knock off for a swift pint, but settled for a salad with chicken instead.

When I arrived home, I shared part of my plan with the kids, just telling them the end goal was “heritage and diversity.” Scoompi went for it. She’s the loving type. Scooter smelled a rat.

“And why are you suddenly so interested in being a Native American?” he said, with a hint of suspicion.

“It’s gonna be fun!” Scoompi danced around. I nodded, trying to rig the timer on my wife’s DSLR.

We took several photos, with the kids wearing headdresses with single feathers. Luckily, Scooter’s foul mood helped. His glowering fit the mold. Since I obviously had been estranged from my tribe, I decided to forgo a full headdress in favor of three feathers and a hard, yet peaceful look.

“What are those for?” Scooter all but growled, gesturing at my head.

“They stand for freedom, justice and equality,” I replied humbly. He muttered and shook his head, something about “blasphemy.”

Since Sitting Bull and I share similar physiques, I took several photos of myself in dignified, Bull like poses.

“Why are you looking at the camera like that?”

I really needed to belt that kid one. He was a kill joy.

“I am grieving. The loss of my land and heritage. Like Sitting Bull.”

“This is bull, alright, but I’m not sure about sitting.”

My lovely wife bounced through the front door. For the first time, I realized her Creole and Latin heritage gave her a decided reddish cast…and those cheekbones…

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she exclaimed.

Scoompi burst in the living room, feather still affixed to the shoe polish darkened headband.

“What’s this, Baby?”

“I’m an Indian, Mommy! Yay!”

Scooter muttered, “We are so going to hell for this one,” and shook his head.

She looked at me. “We have to talk.”