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.”