Bug-eyed, buck-toothed, grinning, bright red racist caricature of Native Americans. The old Cleveland Indians baseball team Chief Wahoo in the middle of a several-thousand-person powwow. It was like putting on a Klan hood at a black church barbecue. And it's not even my shirt. I'm Detroit Tigers, but my roommate is from Ohio. Somehow in the dark. Trying not to wake anybody up, I must have grabbed this stuff. And it's like I've summoned darkness. Every single person in the entire arena turns around in slow motion and point at me to stare. A thousand pairs of angry eyes. At least that's what it feels like. Me scrambling to pull my hoodie up. I run off the dance floor, lickety split toward the exit. The announcer, he sees me. He's seen the whole sari displayed. He's like, no, no, no, no, no. This dance is not over. I'm scared to look around and see once friendly faces filled with hate. But when I lift my eyes, there's no anger. Surprise, surprise. This story, like most stories, isn't about me. Everyone's just trying to get it to the rhythm of the drum. Trying to show each other love. So I tried to dance, to dance, to move my feet. Stomping, stepping, stomping, stepping. Trying to dance over it, through it, to bury it. To bury it, that grinning thing burning on my chest. That old American demon. Still smiling. It's the first time, now. Now, Malachi and his husband, Jeremiah, they have a very special plan for this weekend. They're heading deep into the woods of Oklahoma for one of the most important stomp dances of the year, the Green Corn Ceremony. See, Jeremiah is Cherokee by blood,