The ghosts of cowboys past at the 100th Santa Fe Indian Market

Perspectives is a series about beginning conversations. Even a century after the Santa Fe Indian Market was founded, old habits die hard.

I could hear laughter, drums, the sound of a jingle dress and a chorus of "oohs" and "ahs" from a group of people who had just arrived in town.

Native people from as far north as Alaska and as far east as New York traveled to Santa Fe, New Mexico, to sell their wares, sing songs, paint paintings, and show off their latest duds. Thousands of non-Indigenous people came into town, including people who wanted to see what real Natives looked like. The 100th anniversary of the Santa Fe Indian Market was an annual event that showcased some of the top artists from across the continent. There was a rumor that the price of hotel rooms had gone up to $1200 a night.

The third day of the market was when I entered the lounge of the hotel. The tables were covered with half-glasses of wine. There was an empty table between two groups of white people in wide-brimmed hats. I wrote about what it was like to be a fetish in a room filled with people who have a fetish for you. They are interested in touching your hair. You have a face. You have feet. It isn't breaking news that Native people have been fetishized. You get stared down like a celebrity if you are Native. People are likely to ask you to sign their dreamcatcher as you walk by.

My thoughts were disrupted by the sound of boots on the floor. A huge white man with a mustache and a cowboy hat walked into the room and looked like he was in a saloon. He sat at the bar and looked at us. He left after two drinks.

I saw him again a few hours later, and this time he looked like the notorious murderer of Native people. I wanted to know what was going on with this ghost. I introduced myself and offered to buy him a drink.

He didn't waste any time before starting to insult us. Why do you call yourself Indians if you know you aren't an Indian?

I said, 'Well, Swinomish'.

'What?'

The man said Yu'pik.

He looked a bit frustrated and asked "pick what?"

That's right.

Swinomish is one of the languages that the Natives identify themselves with. You can see. I spoke. We refer to ourselves by our nations and tribes.

He took a sip of his whiskey and did not say anything.

I asked why he would dress like a cowboy at the event. I put a lot of emphasis on the air quotes. Isn't it odd to dress like the oppressor at an event held by the people the cowboys are oppressing?

He put his hand on my shoulder after finishing his drink, after pushing his chair back and making a grating noise on the floor.

He paused and asked who would stop him.

The ghost of General Custer walked out the door and left me with a lot of thoughts.

There are many people like that jackal who come to Indigenous events and do all sorts of awful things, some even with the purpose of offending or flaunting their power. Tourists grabbing braids, beads, feathers, anything that's on your body, really, and touching people's faces and snapping photos of Indigenous vendors and visitors when they're not looking are some of the stories.

I wonder what the difference is between the people who come to the Santa Fe Indian Market and the people who visit a zoo.

It doesn't mean that non-Native people shouldn't come to our events, only that they should think about how to respectfully navigate Native spaces. You should have a good idea of the past and current. Don't treat us like new things. Not the stuff of yore. It's not objects to be touched. Don't look and whisper. Don't take pictures of us without our consent. Don't say you're a quarter Cherokee to get us to take that photo. Don't come wearing Cleveland Indians shirts, Washington R******* hats, or dressed like a dead general with a grudge, that's for sure. It's simple. Pay while considering the money you are spending a form of rent. After all, this is Native land that has been taken.

A chef in Minneapolis is bringing Native American food to the world.

I was writing frantically because I wanted to distract myself from the man and his 19th century-style bigotry. Even though you are relatively safe from the imitators at an Indian Market, there are still a lot of fakers and shills out there who want to fleece you with snake oil. They use language like "authentically made" and wear buckskin to get you to listen. People who claim to be Indigenous don't mean they are. Don't buy art from fake Indigenous artists.

It was growing late, and I was craving wings or shrimp or something else other than the taco stand at the Santa Fe Indian Market, where most of the action takes place. I had a friend from Brooklyn join me for a meal. Four white women approached us as we were about to eat our shrimp.

One lady pointed at my necklace, which is made of beads and buffalo bone.

I had a mouthful of food and had time to come back with something funny. I thought it was a kissing booth.

I said I was a native. I have no place to sit. My cousin gave this gift.

She looked at her face and said nothing.

They assume a lot of things. The person said, "dinah said."

Everything is assumed by them.

There are other things you can do if you visit the Indian Market. A white man told a Native vendor to forgive him. I had no idea. I thought it was sweet. Imagine if every non- Native admitted that to themselves. The man was willing to learn. We need more of it, not just in Indigenous spaces, but everywhere.

I found a few things to be happy about after calling out casual racism. I return to the market year after year because of the same things. We cried, we laughed and we laughed at the same time. Despite the aggression we enjoyed ourselves. It is the Indigenous way.

We took over the music hall at the casino. Love was made when the energy was made. Two Natives were left by the front door as the band played on stage. One of the old enemies said that she did that to him as well. For a short time, it was our safe place.

I told a friend that someone had gotten their snag, which is Native-speak for getting a date. She was too focused on her own work to pay attention.

Natives, frybread, good people and good people enjoying frybread is the most beautiful thing to me. That is who we want at our meet-ups in Santa Fe. You should be the one who asks for permission to take the photo and the one who admits their mistakes. We still don't know who the good white folks are and who the bad ones are.