Saturday night I went to the Wooly Fair art festival in Providence, Rhode Island.

I walked into a the first art gallery I came to and looked around. There, standing behind a table selling cupcakes, were two young white women wearing large Indian feather headdresses. Their cheeks and noses were streaked with red paint. They were laughing and talking and drinking beers. Everyone was having a good time. No one appeared offended, except for me.

I understood why the headdresses seemed like an attractive accessory. People want something closer to the ethereal and the spiritual. To look ethnic and feel closer to nature. But is their whim to play earthy mystic for a night greater than mine to enjoy an evening without feeling accosted by racist costume?

I stepped outside. I was nauseous. Not due to anger or anxiety, though they were present, but because I was suddenly and immediately alone. I was the different one.

I was tempted to clue these women in to their offense, but I also wanted to enjoy the rest of my night. Expressing displeasure with something no one else has a problem with means revealing yourself as "the other." You ruin everyone's good time and open yourself to ridicule. Because I'm not immune to this yet, I also ruin my own day. The anger and anxiety takes hours to fade.

I turned around and noticed a sign on the wall bearing the gallery's name "The Eskimo Sisters." It accompanied a framed page from a children's book with a sketch of a little cartoon "Eskimo" girl. Whatttt? I looked closer. Was this some slang I'd never heard of? I grabbed my friend's fancy phone and googled: according to the internet the term Eskimo Sisters refers to "two women that have slept with the same man." Isn't that adorable? I then searched for the gallery and found their Facebook page. This was their profile image. It looks like the owners of the gallery love romanticizing ethnic and indigenous people. Objectifying and exoticizing them for the sake of cuteness.

This was amazing. It was like these women had taken everything racist from my childhood and balled it up and turned it into an art gallery! It was inevitable. I had to say something.

As I've written about previously, I was called "Jeep Cherokee" a lot in elementary school (one of the more clever names they came up with for a fat mixed race girl) as well as being constantly teased about looking like an Eskimo. I pretended not to be bothered by racial insensitivity then. I was too afraid and little and chubby to risk exposing myself as even more of an outsider and lose friends. When it came down to it my decision was less about educating these women, and more about standing up for myself.

It was important for me to tell these women that their dress was hurtful and it was important for them to hear someone express that pain. Reading criticism on the internet (like this one) is one thing. It's important, but direct contact is another. Dismissing an article is easy, dismissing another human being standing in front of you is a little harder. I hoped.

I approached the two women (who I learned were the gallery owners).

"Hey, can I ask you something?" I said. They nodded. "Why are you guys wearing this?" I motioned to their headdresses and face paint.

"Oh we got it at a thrift store. We thought it would be fun."

I stared at them.

"Do you realize that what you're wearing is incredibly offensive and insensitive?"

Silence.

"We weren't thinking it-"

"That's the problem. You didn't think about it. I came tonight and I wanted to have a good time and then I saw this and I literally feel sick to my stomach. Do you know how it feels for native people to see you paint your faces like that and wear these headdresses?"

More Silence. Then:

"Um, well I'm actually a Native American" (Now, if this was true, it's even sadder).