Dancing at Halftime: Sports and the Controversy over American Indian Mascots

Homecoming

Homecoming The leaves are already turning red and orange-yellow, and the wind blows hard, but it is a soft, warm wind, the last breath of summer. Indian summer. Why we call it that I don’t know. At Memorial Stadium, it is homecoming. There have already been parties, dinners honoring alumni, a parade with blue and orange floats. But this warm windy Saturday morning is the football game. Illinois vs. Wisconsin. The Fighting Illini don’t stand a chance. At the center of campus, a drum beats softly and steadily. Protesters assemble , mostly students, a few older people, a boy. This week there are guest speakers —Michael Haney, a Seminole from Oklahoma, Tim Giago, a well-known Oglala journalist and until recently the publisher of Indian Country Today, Charlene Teters, a Spokane alumna. Other Native Americans have traveled from Louisville and Chicago. They have brought a large round drum and tobacco, which they offer to the four directions. The group of perhaps 250 people marches behind the drum to the stadium. As the group approaches a fraternity, the frat boys run for their Chief Illiniwek flag. They plant the pole behind their stone balustrade and gather around, as if making their last stand. “What a joke!” they say to each other loudly. “Protesting the chief!” They laugh bitterly. As the demonstration passes a field of people picnicking at card tables, a woman I know from youth soccer, the wife of a campus minister, steps out from among the tailgaters. She stands alone and applauds. No one joins her. The atmosphere is icy. 247 “Don’t you have anything better to do? Get a job!” This comes from a group of older people sitting around their van in folding chairs, tailgaters. The demonstrators are not supposed to reply. But I can’t keep quiet. I say, “I have a job. I teach these students.” We walk right down the central alley between the orange and blue tents set up outside the stadium. Each college is staging a comeback party, welcoming alumni with hot dogs and soda, hoping they’ll feel a sense of loyalty and send a contribution. College of Communications, College of Commerce. The tent people turn and shout, “Yea chief!” and laugh, certain that they are in the majority, certain that we are few and kooky. But one African American woman sticks her head and fist out of a tent, smiles, and yells, “Right on! Right on! Right on!” until the entire procession has passed by. The marchers climb the steps and line up three and four deep outside the brick stadium. Their signs blow wildly. The signs read, “Racism Is Never Digni248 Vernon Bellecourt, of the National Coalition Against Racism in Sports and the Media, outside Memorial Stadium, University of Illinois, on October 16, 1999. Photograph by Tom Bassett. fied”; “BIG 10 = BIGOTRY”; and “Is Your Halftime Entertainment Worth the Dignity of a People?” Students try to hand out small orange squares of paper with information, but there are few takers. A grandfatherly man in an orange cap pauses to look the marchers over, then gives them the finger and walks into the stadium. Real Indians in the heart of Illini territory make the fans uncomfortable. When real Indians beat a drum and sing outside the stadium it is difficult to maintain the fiction that they are long gone and would want to be remembered as a football team. A little old lady, nattily dressed in orange sweater with appliquéd Indians, navy pleated skirt, orange tights, and bright orange leather high-tops, walks toward the stadium with a firm step. She has a round friendly face and light hair that makes a soft halo around her head. She takes in the protesters, stops. “That’s ridiculous,” she says. She starts to walk into the stadium, then turns back and throws up her hands. “Why don’t you just go someplace else?” “You want to destroy everything I fought for!” an older man yells. It is a curious accusation. In response, unable to reply, the protesters hold out their signs. A young man walks by and says angrily, “Why don’t you find a real cause? The chief! Why don’t you save real people?” Glancing up, I see one of the few Native members of the local community. An expression of pain crosses his face. He is quiet, gray-haired, a family counselor by...