Oh man, true story:
I was a returning student in my early 30’s enrolled in a course on Native American Literature at Montclair St. College in NJ back in the mid 90’s. The middle-aged female professor comes out dressed in a long flowing, what do you call it? - moo-moo? She is silver-haired, pony tail all the way down her back, lots of silver and turquoise jewelry. She starts telling the large class about the various “Native Americans” whose literature we will be studying (the Lakota, the Cheyenne, Apache, etc.) and begins to lecture us about how we must understand these peoples’ perspective on the “invaders that had taken over their lands, the heartbreak, the stripping away of their culture.” This lecture goes on for about 15 minutes! She then goes around the room to let everyone introduce themselves. One by one my “classmates”, with heads hung low, guiltily murmur their names, state where they are from, acknowledge that their ancestors were part of the “invading” horde that had swooped down and took over the land, etc. This is going on for what seemed like forever, my blood rising to a low boil as my turn approached. Finally, she said, “And you?” I spoke up, “My name is ________ and I am a Native American. My parents were born here. My grandparents were born here. I believe the people that you referred to in your introductory comments do not refer to this land as America or themselves as “Native American”, but as the Lakota Nation, the Sioux Nation, the Navajo Nation, etc.” She smiled and moved on.
I never set foot back in that class again.
Ah! Good to hear.