In this stew that we find ourselves in, the issue of using the word Redskins in Washington D.C. pro football remains unresolved. Nearly everyone has chimed in on this issue except for the school bus driver who rolls through my neighborhood.  It is the hot topic across Indian Country and has started to draw mainstream attention.

Members of the football league were scheduled to meet this week with representatives of those who are pushing for a name change.  Even if the meet is open, cordial and candid it is not a sure thing that Redskins’ owner Dan Snyder will do an about-face and drop the offending nickname.  The usually genial billionaire business man has emphasized that he won’t change the name and urged reporters to quote him in all caps (a lettered roar). So a meet is encouraging.

But, oh how the haters have hated since this new push began. I am mesmerized. As a lifelong Redskins fan, I have eschewed the Kool-Aid I swilled for decades; now I am watching this with all the fascination of a detached scientist watching a lab experiment where my Petri dish is the American response.

Filtering through this is riddling. My favorite part of this has long been the dichotomy.  In our socially progressive society, proponents of the old nickname would have us believe that when the word Redskin is paired with the logo and the city’s name that it really is not that severe.

But let’s be honest, historical racial epithets are so last century.  Now seems like a time as good as any to rename the franchise in a way that will leave those 80-year-old sensibilities in a museum where they belong. This is a chance to officially acknowledge that this version of their name might have outlived its usefulness.

During my childhood, the Washington Redskins were the local favorite and thus mine. I have recounted this before.  But something started pecking away at my long held affection for this name. In a new and hopefully color blind society, it seems untenable to keep it. Now it will be fascinating to see if the mainstream actually hears what American Indians say and even then apathy will be equally telling.

It is a riveting phenomenon in that Indians can become passionately and staunchly vocal about something and loudly protest that which offends us--usually from the mainstream.  Our responses have morphed into what I call the Horton Hears a Who effect: Even an orchestrated and amplified chant for help is distorted into a tiny voice that can scarcely be effectively registered by the society at large.

I am not exaggerating here.  I was watching a segment from a national news show about Halloween candy and its nutritional value. An industrious reporter asked the assembled and costumed children what they thought. I was charmed.  As every impaneled child voiced his opinion, delight turned to dismay.

One of the costumed children was dressed as an Indian replete with pseudo war bonnet, face paint and buckskin. As the smile ran away from my face, it dawned on me that using minorities as conduits for recreational enjoyment echoes lamely.  A passé attitude will model for all kids who are always watching.

As this renewed drama unfolds we wait for the outcome from others who have control to decide. In our United States (the one we live in, not the one the world sees) it is necessary to distinguish between racism and being racially insensitive. To err on one side and to decry the other seems morally bankrupt.

Meanwhile, the entire city of Washington, D.C. continues to engage in unfettered emblemania on history’s cue. Fascinating.