Drew Hayden Taylor is an award-winning playwright and author who lives on the Curve Lake First Nation in Central Ontario
Chief Wahoo, proud emblem of the Cleveland Indians since 1947, may soon be relegated to the trash heap of questionable sports and product icons. Several years of public displeasure and even one complaint filed to the Ontario Human Rights Tribunal by famed Métis architect Douglas Cardinal, slowly whittled away at the Indian's health like a bad case of public relations tuberculosis. At last word, Chief Wahoo will not be saved by the cavalry.
Here's the thing: He is riding off into the sunset. Not today. Not next month. Not this baseball season. But in one year. In 2019. In one more trip around the sun. One cannot but wonder at the logic in such a delay. If Chief Wahoo is indeed dying, a funeral – depending on the various religious and spiritual beliefs – usually takes around three or four days. A year (possibly longer) is an unusually long mourning period. Yes, I understand the bureaucracy of racism can be slow and laborious. To native people though, it's like saying, "Okay, we are going to stop giving you these small-pox-infested blankets, but here are some lovely dish towels."
But until the big-toothed, headband-wearing Indian is officially declared dead, the baseball franchise still plans to make money off of his grinning mug. The great gods of promotion will continue to market his image on their usual sports paraphernalia.
Here's a little bit of perplexing irony: a Wahoo, to the best of my knowledge, has nothing to do with North American Indigenous culture. It is, in fact, a fish. Wikipedia describes it as "a scombrid fish found worldwide in tropical and subtropical seas. It is best known to sports fishermen, as its speed and high-quality flesh make it a prize game fish." It does not play baseball or powwow dance. The logic of racism frequently escapes me.
Chief Wahoo is just the first arrow in the quiver of Indigenous discontent. The sports universe is awash with vague and not so vague questionable references to North American Indigenous people: the Blackhawks, the Redskins, the Eskimos, the Braves – do they even do the Tomahawk Chop any more? For decades, there have been protests against these insensitively named teams. I've seen art and museum exhibits highlighting how much more offensive team names could be if they were directed at the dominant culture, i.e., the Toronto Caucasians, the Montreal Jews and so on. And let's not forget the Minnesota Vikings – we all know how much Vikings loved scrimmaging between raping and pillaging. They did love their away games.
The small town nearest my First Nation has a hockey team that plays in the Orr Division of the Provincial Junior Hockey League. They are called the Lakefield Chiefs. At first, many might give them the benefit of the doubt, thinking they might be honouring police or fire chiefs. But alas, their logo is neither, unless police and fire chiefs wear feathered war bonnets favoured by Prairie nations several thousand kilometres to the west.
So as it stands, Chief Wahoo will no longer be seen on the caps and jerseys of the players. If these Indians were trying for any form of accuracy, the grinning face would be replaced with images of Ganesh or the Taj Mahal. After all, they say they are the Indians.
The term "Indian" itself creates a certain amount of flinching. In Canada, polite company does not use that word in referring to Canada's First Nations, or increasingly South Asians. Except if you're going out for Indian food (South Asian not Indigenous), but that's different.
We, the First Nations of this country, still frequently use the term "Indian" amongst ourselves. Especially those (meaning me, too) of a certain generation who were brought up with that moniker and have trouble keeping up with all the new terms. Some might say it's no different than the "N-word" used within black communities. Frequently, I lecture on native literature, humour or culture in a variety of differing institutions, and it's not uncommon for the "I-word" to pepper my discourse. And pretty much every time, a non-Indigenous or Indigenous individual will call me to task for daring to use the word.
I have a new play opening at Toronto's Tarragon Theatre in a few weeks called Cottagers and Indians. The title alone raised a few eyebrows. There will however be no baseball or headbands in the play. Maybe some grinning though.
Team logos are not as serious as other issues that face Indigenous communities, but they are yet another brick in the wall of Indigenous existence.