I once had to do with a genuine German "Indian" named, say, Rüdiger, whose father - unknown to him for decades - had been a GI in post-war Germany, who later lived with his American family as a doctor in the US. He was an enrolled member to the Mandan tribe.
Rüdiger grew up as the only child of his German unmarried and single mother in my hometown, at times even in my neighbourhood.
When I met with him, Rüdiger, a man no longer young, was a pre-trial detainee accused of some degree of guilt in the death of a roommate at an alcoholic homeless shelter.
Judging by his facial features, he was unmistakably of "Indian" descent. He wore his dark hair long in the Indian style and had decorated his headband with self-made flattened crown caps from beer bottles.
As a result of his unsettled life, R. suffered from various illnesses, such as an eye condition, which increasingly limited his vision, so that he feared that he might soon no longer be able to pursue his hobby, reading books. This now was his only joy and occupation in his monotonous life as a prisoner on remand.
Ich weiß nicht mehr genauer, welches Buch es war, das ich Rüdiger in seiner Zelle zukommen ließ. Es war die Erzählung eines älteren Indianers, der in vergleichbar ärmlich-misslichen Verhältnissen lebte wie er…
Wohl aber, wenn auch nur vage, weiß ich noch, was mich zu der Geste bewogen hat.
Der deutsche echte Indianer „Rüdiger“ hatte durch seine authentisch-schlichte Art beeindruckt und mich gewissermaßen selber unwohl fühlen lassen - in meiner fast ḱanġi-artigen „Verkleidung“…
Vielleicht auch in Erinnerung an die betrunkenen „Natives“, die einst in Anchorage, vor dem Liquor Store liegend, meinem mit Schlangenhautband und Stachelschweinborsten verzierten Hut spöttisch „Hey, Bronco Billy!!!“ nachgerufen hatten.