Code for Whites Only
Somewhere between here and Gallup is a Raffi musical tape by the road, thrown overboard after too many renditions of Baby Beluga.
During my graduate school years we travelled across the USA by car, loaded with two wee lassies, fruit juice and car games.
We zig-zagged to Ithaca and Madison, visiting relatives and stopping by pow-wows during summer months.
While driving down Route 66 past cactus and lizards, we’d look for hotels with air conditioning and swimming pools.
During our travels we noticed signs on hotels and motels that read, “American Owned,” “American Hospitality,” and “Genuine American.”
As a member of the Osage Tribe, I figured the hotels must be owned by Native American business-folk.
Fat chance. Continue reading