May 2, 2019 鈥 4 min read
The ghosts of cowboys past at the 100th Santa Fe Indian Market
Oct 17, 2022 鈥 8 min read
A traditional Pow Wow Dancer at the 2022 Santa Fe Indian Market 漏 Viki Eagle / 香港六合彩即时开奖
Perspectives by 香港六合彩即时开奖 is a series devoted to starting conversations. In this feature, writer Simon Moya-Smith visits the 100th annual Santa Fe Indian Market and finds that, even a century on, old habits die hard.
Everything was in full swing two blocks away, where I could hear laughter, drums, the sound of a jingle dress and a chorus of 鈥渙ohs鈥 and 鈥渁hs鈥 from a herd of folks who鈥檇 just trundled into town.
Native people from as far north as Anchorage, Alaska and as far east as Brooklyn, New York rolled into Santa Fe, New Mexico, to sell their wares, sing songs, paint paintings, and show off their latest duds while the who鈥檚 who of Indian country came to rub elbows. Thousands of non-Indigenous people also flooded into town, including folks who, judging by their open-mouthed gapes, seemed to just want to get a glimpse of what real Natives look like. It was, after all, the 100th anniversary of the , an annual event showcasing some of the top artists from across the continent. Rumor had it that the price of hotel rooms in the area had skyrocketed to $1200 a night (鈥淲hite people prices,鈥 my Ojibwe buddy complained).
It was Saturday afternoon, the third day of the four-day market, when I wandered into the lounge of the posh Hotel St. Francis. Half-drunk glasses of Chardonnay littered the tables. Despite the crowds, I found an unoccupied table between two groups of white folks in wide-brimmed hats and jean shirts. I opened my notebook 鈥There鈥檚 no real way to express it 鈥 what it鈥檚 like to be a fetish in a room loaded with those who have a fetish for you,鈥 I wrote. 鈥淭hey want to touch your hair. Your face. Your feet.鈥 That Native people have historically been fetishized 鈥 in Hollywood, in history books, on holidays like Thanksgiving 鈥 isn鈥檛 breaking news. If you鈥檙e Native, you鈥檙e used to getting stared down like a celebrity. You almost expect people to ask you to sign their dreamcatcher as you walk by.
Suddenly, my thoughts were disrupted by the sound of boot heels and spurs on the tile floor. A massive white man with a handlebar mustache and a cowboy hat waltzed into the room like it was a saloon in the year 1888. He sat at the bar, flipped his chair around toward the entryway, and watched us. Two drinks later, he was gone.
Fast forward a few hours, and I saw him again, appearing out of nowhere like a bad apparition of General George Armstrong Custer, the famous (and, all-too-often, heralded) murderer of Native people. I needed to know what was up with this ghost of an old, dead general. Near Evangelo鈥檚, a dive joint, I approached him, introduced myself and offered to buy him a drink.
Once we were at the bar, he didn鈥檛 waste a second before beginning the underhanded insults. 鈥淚f you know you鈥檙e not Indians, why do you call yourself Indians?鈥 he asked.
鈥淲ell, Swinomish,鈥 I said.
鈥淲丑补迟?鈥
鈥淭hen Yu鈥檖ik, man.鈥
鈥淧ick what?鈥 he responded, looking a bit frustrated.
鈥淓虫补肠迟濒测.鈥
I explained how Natives identify ourselves, that Swinomish, Yu鈥檖ik, Oglala, Oneida and so on are names of the languages and the peoples who speak them. 鈥淪ee?鈥 I said. 鈥淵ou guys get confused if we refer to ourselves by our nations and tribes.鈥
He ruffled his mustache, said nothing, and took another sip of his whiskey.
鈥淏y the way,鈥 I asked, 鈥渨hy would you dress like a cowboy at event with 鈥業ndians?鈥欌 (I put extra emphasis on the air-quotes around 鈥淚ndians.鈥) 鈥淲ouldn鈥檛 you say it鈥檚 a little out of taste to dress like the oppressor at an event held by the people the cowboys oppressed?鈥
He pushed his chair back, which made a grating sound on the floor, finished his drink in one swift gulp, stood up and put his hand on my shoulder.
鈥淏ecause,鈥 he said, pausing, 鈥渨ho鈥檚 going to stop me?
The ghost of General Custer walked out the door, leaving me with deep thoughts, anger and more notes.
There are many people like that jackal who come to Indigenous events and do all kinds of awful things, some even with the sole purpose of offending or flaunting their power. There are stories of tourists grabbing braids, beads, feathers, anything that鈥檚 on your body, really, and touching people鈥檚 faces and snapping photos of Indigenous vendors and visitors when they鈥檙e not looking.
Sometimes it makes me wonder, what is the difference between the hordes visiting a zoo and those who come to the Santa Fe Indian Market and stare at us?
The fact that I so often find myself asking questions like this doesn鈥檛 mean non-Native people shouldn鈥檛 come to our events, only that they should consider how to respectfully navigate Native spaces. Come with an even cursory knowledge of the past and present. Treat us like humans, not novelties. Not relics of the days of yore. Not objects to be fondled. Don鈥檛 stare and whisper. Don鈥檛 snap photos of us without our permission. Don鈥檛 tell us you鈥檙e 鈥渁 quarter Cherokee鈥 as an excuse to snap that photo. And definitely do not come wearing Cleveland Indians shirts, Washington R** hats, or any other wretched form of Indian mascotry or dressed like a dead general with a grudge. Simple enough. Play, pay and, better yet, pay while considering the money you鈥檙e spending a form of rent. This is , after all.
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Later that day, I found myself writing frantically: 鈥buy from Indigenous folks only,鈥 over and over again as if to take my mind off the man and his vicious 19th-century-style bigotry. Because even though you鈥檙e relatively safe from the imitators at an Indian Market, there are still a lot of fakers and shills out there, all over the world, who want to fleece you with snake oil in the shape of dreamcatchers or art pieces or pottery. They use language like 鈥渁uthentically made鈥 (real Native artists don鈥檛 need to say so) and wear buckskin to reel you in. Just because someone claims to be Indigenous doesn鈥檛 always mean they are. So be sure to buy Indigenous art from real Indigenous artists.
It was growing late, and I was craving wings or shrimp or anything other than the wildly expensive tacos that crowded the area near the plaza, where most of the Santa Fe Indian Market action takes place. Diannah Reid, a Din茅 model and buddy from Brooklyn, joined me for a bite. We were only about ten minutes into our Bang-Bang Shrimp when four white women approached us.
鈥淲hat鈥檚 your booth?鈥 one lady asked, pointing at my necklace, which is made of beads and buffalo bone.
I was chewing on a mouthful of food, so it gave me time to come back with something witty. It鈥檚 a kissing booth, I considered saying.
鈥淚鈥檓 a Native,鈥 I said instead. 鈥淚 have no booth. This was a gift from my cousin.鈥
A look of disappointment fell across her face, and she turned away, saying nothing in response.
鈥淲hy do they always assume things?鈥 Diannah said.
鈥淭hey assume everything.鈥
鈥淒on鈥檛 assume鈥 is an age-old tip, but there are other things you can do as a visitor to a space like the Indian Market as well. While wandering the market, I overheard a white man tell a Native vendor, 鈥淧lease forgive my ignorance. I didn't know.鈥 鈥淪weet jeezus,鈥 I thought. 鈥淚magine if every non-Native admitted that to themselves from time to time?鈥 This man went in with complete humility and a willingness to learn. It鈥檚 something we need more of 鈥 not just in Indigenous spaces like the Indian Market, but everywhere.
In between sniffing out wannabeism and calling out casual racism, I did find a few things to revel in. They are the same things that bring me back to the market year after year. We rang bells, we cried, we laughed, and we laughed while crying. We enjoyed ourselves, despite the incidents of aggression, both passive and otherwise. That鈥檚 the Indigenous way.
One night, we took over the music hall at the Buffalo Thunder Resort Casino just north of town. Make love not war was the energy, and love was made. As the band played on stage, two Natives made out by the front door without a care in the world. Elsewhere, bad blood between two old enemies gave way to calmer tides; 鈥渟he did that to you, too, huh?鈥 one said to the other. It was our safe space, if only for a few hours.
鈥淪omewhere, right now, someone got their snag,鈥 I said to a friend (鈥渟nag鈥 is Native-speak for getting a date or even just getting laid.) But I think she was too focused on doing her own snagging to pay me any mind.
There鈥檚 nothing in this world more beautiful to me than Natives, frybread, good people and good people enjoying frybread. And that鈥檚 who and what we want at our pow wows, markets and meet-ups, especially in Santa Fe. Be the one who asks permission to take the photo, who admits their mistakes and who comes to learn. Because after 530 years of this madness, we鈥檙e still asking: 鈥淲ho are the good white folks, and who are the bad ones?鈥濃
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