Momnesia

Sometimes There's Just No Way to Win

C.S. “Um, there’s a crazy person on line one. He says he’s an Indian and he’s mad about a story we ran about apache indians.”

We all exchange looks of confusion. The topic doesn’t ring a bell. I start searching our archives.

M.F. “I’ll take the crazy people. I don’t mind.”
Me (having just found it): “No, it’s a DVD review. That’s my responsibility. I’ll talk to him.”

I take a minute to scan through the contents of Apache Indian and Reggae Revolution. Nothing unusual here. I pick up the phone.

“This is Stacey. How may I help you?”
“Yes. I am an Indian and I do not agree with the Reggae Revolution.”

“I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”
“I’m looking right here on your web page. Now I want to know who gave you all permission to use the name Apache Indian.”

“Well, that’s the name of the band. Wait... are you with the band Apache Indian?”
Maybe they weren't happy about the review, I think.

“No. I am a certified Apache Indian, and I want to know who gave you permission to use it?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think we need permission to print the name of a band.”
“He’s not even Indian. He’s black! Look at him!”

I do. I can’t tell either way. So I run a quick Google search. Hmm. Lifetime achievement award in Great Britain. Originally from India. Started in Banghra music.

“Says here he’s British.”
“I don’t know where he’s from. He’s not an Indian. Where did you get permission for this? I don’t know who you are.”

“We’re the alternative news weekly newspaper in Augusta. And, sir, we’re really not in charge of what stage names people choose.”
“I am telling you, I am a certified Apache Indian and no one can call themselves an Indian unless the council says they can. Now I need to know what you’re going to do.”

“Sir, we can’t tell bands what to call themselves. I mean, there’s a band called Zombie Bazooka Patrol, and maybe there’s a few pissed off zombies out there. I don’t know.”


“I want you to put me in touch with the American Indian Council.”

“Excuse me?”
“I want you to put me in touch with the Council. He’s not Indian. He’s black.”

“Uh, he’s from India. You want me to get the information of the council for you?”
“If he’s from India, why would he call himself Apache Indian?”

"I don’t know. I think it’s a play on words.”
”But why call himself an APACHE Indian?”

"I – I don’t know. Did you want the council’s information?”
“Yes. I am sitting here by the computer. The cursor is blinking.”

“Uh, okay.”

I run another Google search. Nothing by that name comes up, except for a 9-member organization in the state. I don’t think that’s it. I look for the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

“Okay, sir, I have –"
“I am waiting!”

“Yes, sir, I have the—”
“I want to get in touch with them and see what can be done. He can’t call him self an Indian. He’s black. Now I am three-quarters — (his dog starts barking in the background) Cooter! Hush! Hush, Cooter!”

I hear muttering in the background. Someone is talking to him. I whisper to A.C.: “He has a dog named Cooter!” I hear him stomping around in the background.

“What? Bible thumpers? Gotdammit.”
I hear a door open and soft voices I can’t make out.

“I don’t believe in your God,” he tells someone else in a forceful tone. “I’m an American Indian, and I don’t believe in your god or your religion. Christians and the Catholic Church murdered 600,000 American Indians. You all murdered them.”

Whatever poor soul knocked on the wrong door replies. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but the tone is placating, with an undertone of shock.

“No. I don’t believe in your god. Your murdering Catholic god. You go do your research, my friend.”

The door closes.
“Sir?” I try.

“Goddamn Bible-thumpers.”
“Sir? Are you still there?”

“Why’dja let them in?” he barks at someone.
“Sir!” I am close to hanging up the phone.

“Yeah?”
“Are you still with me? I have the information.”

He gives me his e-mail address.

“I am waiting for your e-mail.”
“Okay, I—“

“You cannot claim to be an Indian unless you are certified by the council. Not an Indian, and not a particular tribe. Besides, he’s black!”

I’m sick of this guy.

“Sir, he’s a British national, and he’s originally from India. And, anyway, I don’t think American laws apply to British citizens.”
“It don’t matter. You can’t say you’re an Apache Indian without permission."

“Really? That’s so interesting. I didn’t know that. So, like, Tim McGraw had to get permission to use the names of tribes in his songs?”
“I don’t think he actually claimed to be an Indian.”

“Huh. I think the lyrics are ‘I’m an Indian outlaw,’” I begin. He tries to interrupt but I talk over him. “’Half Cherokee and Choctaw. My baby she’s a Chippewa’... I’m just saying…”

“I know all about the whole Tim McGraw story!” He’s practically yelling at me. It's kind of awesome. “He had to get permission, I’m telling you!”

“Okay. Well, I have the information for you. I’ll just e-mail it. And thanks so much for calling. We appreciate your feedback and I learned a lot from our conversation today.”

He starts in again.
Click.