One day, it will be time for a father-son talk

My 5-year-old son, Joseph, is one-quarter Navajo. Joseph and I went to several Braves games when he was a baby. It was easy: Tickets were cheap, and I had been in love with the team ever since the worst-to-first 1991 season. (I still have not forgiven Kent Hrbek for pulling Ron Gant’s leg off first base in the World Series.) I remember one particular game late in the 2016 campaign when Joseph was 13 months old. When the Tomahawk Chop started, I sat him in my lap facing the field and used his chubby arm to chop along to the beat. A few seconds in, I paused, feeling uneasy. I saw his beautiful brown skin in my hand and could not continue. During the weeks and months that followed, that uneasiness has only grown, expanded to the point that we had to stop following the team. The Atlanta Braves were my first love in sports; our family hasn’t watched a game since 2017.

To many, the name Braves doesn’t appear offensive on its face. I’ve heard several arguments for removing the more problematic aspects of Native American mascots (e.g. Chief Wahoo, the Washington R-dskins name) and leaving elements like the Braves as it might slip under a theoretical bar of what is deemed too racist.

Even if the name Braves doesn’t cause harm, having a name that calls Native Americans to mind appears to encourages harmful language. A review of the words used on social media before the most recent Super Bowl showed that trash talk of the Kansas City Chiefs relied on dangerous stereotypes of Native peoples. Fans regularly referenced tribal genocide, alcoholism, etc. to insult the Chiefs. Having a team named the Braves doesn’t make someone use racist language, but it’s hard to imagine a news organization saying Atlanta was “scalped” if the team were named differently. (See: Braves Scalped in 2019, hardly ancient history.)

As long as the Braves name remains, the organization will have to play whack-a-mole with racist imagery and language as it pops up. Yesterday it was the Screaming Indian logo; tomorrow it will be the Tomahawk Chop. If we don’t have to think of Native Americans as real people, then we’re free to reduce them to whatever whitewashed historical stereotype we desire.

My son will one day realize what it means for there to be a team named the Braves. I’ll help him grapple with the Tomahawk Chop. I’ll show him how to forgive people referencing smallpox, scalping or peace pipes without a care for the real pain associated with it. I plan to teach him about how the Braves were named in 1912 — only nine years after the Supreme Court ruled that Congress had full power to override previous treaties with Native Americans. He will have to decide how that makes him feel about himself and his home.

I hate that it took me this long to finally consider the danger in reducing an oppressed people group to a mascot. One day I hope Joseph will forgive me.

Perhaps he and I, as father and son, could talk through these big questions as we watch our favorite team, the Atlanta Hammers, play.