When I moved to Metamuville, I noted the nearby Indian reservation and its dilapidated housing. I thought the loftiest of guilty white guy thoughts. The poor, put upon Native American is my neighbor now, I thought whitely. I'll give them whatever business I can, be it gas, groceries, or whatever.
My thought two months later: Really? Twelve dollars for butter? Really?
And thus did my contempt for my new neighbors begin. In retrospect, it follows. When I was lofting whitely, I simply didn't know them. But why should American Indians be any different from the rest of humanity, really?
"Native Americans," someone white will correct.
This used to confuse me, too, but I have a handle on it now. They're "Native Americans" when they're selling art or killing whales, right up until they're trying to lure me into their casino or sell me cigarettes, liquor or fireworks. Then everyone's magically "Indian" again.
Which isn't to say I don't honor their people and their traditions. Like casinos. Like clearcutting. Like using a machine gun to shoot up a gray whale this past weekend. It's their noble, ancient way.
The whale later died, by the way.