There was a  man standing in front of me in the  Wied - Neustadt Pow wow Grand Entry, he was dressed in the Men's Southern Traditional Style. He turned to me, looked me up and down, and smiled, after his smile he asked. "Is that a Crow style or an Iroquois style head-gear that you're wearing?"

"Cree - style," I said.

"Would that be Plains Cree, Woodland Cree or Montagnais Cree?"
"Plains Cree," I reply, hoping that I passed this unexpected multiple guess quiz.
"What does Pow wow mean?" He asks me, but before I could even answer, he continues that he "read it was of Cherokee origin."

I nodded, "could also be…"
He cuts me off again, "are you a Native American?" I nod and add quickly, "I am an original American."
"But doesn't the name America come from the Spanish explorer, Amerigo?"
"Could be," I nod.
"Why do you call yourself an original American? If you're a Native American."
"Because, we were there first."

"Did you know," I decided to add to the mix, "that every place that was so-called discovered by a so-called discoverer was not really discovered, it was only a part of their travel itinerary."

"And Columbus? He had no Indian guide."
"No, but he was looking for India."
"So this is likely how you came to be called Indians?" He asks, not really asking.
"Could also be, because at the time, Columbus said that we were 'In Dios.'"
"In Dios?"
"Yeah, living in God."

"While your people were living a life on the plains, the Aztecs were kings."
"So were the Mayans," I added.

He turned to watch another Indian walk into the Grand Entry line up, "he must be a Lakota," he whispers to me.
I shook my head and said he wasn't.
"Really, how can you tell? Is there something in his regalia?"
"I know him," I simply said.
"He's not Lakota? He's dressed like one."
"Go ask him," I suggested.
"Ask him? Ask him what?"
"Ask him what kind of an Indian he is. We ask each other that all the time."

"Are you staying for the 49's later?"
"No."
"It's so fun, to sing a 49."
"Everybody here sings them together, and we dance the rabbit dance and side-step."
"Oh, sounds fun."

"Do you believe in the Native American Church?"
"Umm, no." I say.
"Why not, it's the religion of the American Indians." he says, tossing in another banking term.
"Well umm, not my Indians."

"No? But I read and thought." "Why do you call yourself an Indian?" He asks.
I show my Canadian Indian Status card, he takes it, studies it.
"The government calls you Indians?"
"Yeah."
"Everybody in Canada calls you Indians?"
"Not everybody."
"What are you also called?"
I wanted to laugh and tell him the many "other" terms the dominant white society had come up for us, behind our backs, behind the closed doors of their church, or in the columns of their letters to the editor, but instead I say, "First Nations."
He hands this card back.
"What does this card entitle you?"
"To remain silent," I laugh again.
"It should say First Nations on this card," he says.

"Where are you from?" I ask him.
He says, "Former East Germany."
I nod.
"When we we're under communism, it was hard for us to learn something of the Indians. Not like here in the west. The West German Hobby Indians always had access to real Indians from Turtle Island." I smile at the use of this term.

"Like today's pow wow," he continues. "You won't hear a Veteran song."
"Why not?" I ask.
"Because we're not too proud of our World War 2 history."
I nod. "Okay."

"So what do your people call yourselves in your language?"
"Neheyo." I said.
"What does it mean?"
"It means, 'the people.'"
"Just, 'the people?'"
"Yeah, 'the people.' Actually, the 'exact people.'"

"This is one thing I like about your people." He says. "There is a wisdom is your words, even if you speak very little."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I have this book," he pulls it out of his pouch. It's a little blue book of wise North American Indian sayings.
He hands it to me, I flip through it. It's all in German, but I recognize some of the names. Chief Seattle, Chief Red Cloud, etc…
He pulls out a pen, "would you be willing to sign my book?"
"Me?" I ask.
"I never wrote this book."
"But it's gift to my daughter, on her twenty-third birthday."
I slowly take the pen he's offering me, wondering what to write.
I scribble in quick caps, 'think Indian', then add in an upside down and backwards style, and in all caps, the name BLACKBIRD.
He takes it back, impressed.
He pulls out a second book, the exact same but in black.
"Please sign this one too."
I begin to sign. "Who is this one for?" I ask.
"For me," he grins.

After the Grand Entry and a few inter - tribals, I walk over to the plastic, life - size Apaloosa. All the Hobbyist's children wait in line, and then have their pictures taken as they stand next to it. I join them in line, pay my two Euros and have my polaroid snapped too.