Today, Savage Media will release a video of Preston Wells’s poem entitled “If the Indian Mascot could speak.” It invokes a sense of anger, which I’ve never been able to express.
A dozen Jews created an open letter to companies that make products for the Washington football team and the Commissioner of the National Football League.
Dick Cheney and I both started college with the Yale class of 1963; we both lived in Berkeley College, one of Yale’s residential colleges. I graduated in 1964, after taking a year off. I read that Cheney flunked out twice and finished college at the University of Wyoming.
Why, despite overwhelming evidence, do so many fans refuse to believe that the “R*dskins” team name is a racial slur – that the R-word is to Indians what the N-word is to blacks; a derogatory and highly offensive racist term?
Monday morning I looked at my Twitter (@jfkeeler) Interactions list and I was surprised to see that Jake Tapper, CNN anchor had answered an obnoxious response to my tweet “Why Indian Mascots Need to End in a Picture” featuring a photogra
Over the years I have visited and fellowshipped with a great number of tribes situated in the Eastern and Southern regions of the United States. Through this experience I have noticed a telling reality that has long been silently acknowledged, but rarely publicly spoken about.
As a researcher, I talk to other Native people about shared social issues. Sometimes we discuss the history and impact of federal Indian law, tribal politics, or the “real Indian” meme.
The Washington NFL team “honored” Navajo codetalkers during halftime of the San Francisco-Washington game (Washington lost, again, 27-6).
Recently, a tanning salon advertisement touted that Indians not only brought corn to the first Thanksgiving, they brought “sexy color.” After complaints (one of which was mine), the ad was taken
I grew up in the white world. Anyone not white was a minority. In school we learned that Christopher Columbus was a hero who discovered America. Indians fought cowboys in the Old West, and Custer was tragically killed by a huge group of “bad savages."
It was a chilly Massachusetts morning in the fall. Grandpa and I were checking out of the extended-stay hotel and the manager Darryl Robinson came to help us carry our belongings to the car. He was an older black gentleman; tall, with hands that had seen some hard manual labor.
As a troublemaker I’ve always been ambivalent about the Redskins epithet, because I identify with the redskin that will kill a white dude, scalp him and raise the bloody trophy along with an ear-piercing victory war whoop. Did I make that ritual up?