I am a modern Lakota winyan. No accent. No paint. No feathers. I’m like no Indian you’ve ever seen. Because I am not a mascot. Or a blockbuster archetype.
Someone dressed like a gothic taxidermist is trying to sell me my own culture. “Your values and beliefs are for sale!” he proclaims in redface. “So is your land. I’ll buy it for you [if you see my movie].” Good trade? Spending $5 million on land worth $14,000 to sell a movie made for $250 million. I’m no good at math. But that seems excessive. Over the top. Not enough…#greatwhitesaviorcomplex.
When Racism knocks on your door, it’ll be riding a pinto, wearing a bird, and wrapped in a Comanche flag.
…Why put $5 million into the pockets of a greedy old white man? Why not give the $5 million directly to the tribe? Why not consult with the people you’re hoping to impact before rushing out and doing what YOU think is best for them? Who knows what’s best, anyway?
And that’s what this is really all about. Natives don’t have control. Of anything…How much we need. What we can have. Where we can have it. Our images are not our own. They belong to those with money. And I want to scream, “THESE IMAGES YOU CREATE HURT ME!” You may not know it, but they hurt you, too.
Ours is a Halloween heritage. A logo legacy. Slot machine sovereignty. Tonto traditions. Ancestry for the price of admission.
