On an evening during the mid 1990’s, I sat at a local bar named Waldo’s. It’s what you’d expect from a bar, except that they also played live music. Occasionally, The Beatniks would play here; they covered many classic tunes. I remember mostly the Beatles covers. I hang with some of the friends that work at the cafeteria in the next building.
Naturally, I chat with a number of other people at the bar; one sharply dressed Indian man chats with me for a bit. Eventually, he pauses and declares, “Isn’t it ironic, here we talk… both of us similar as Indians, yet different.” I know precisely what he meant. He immigrated from the Asian country of India, and I am (Native American) Indian. Except I’m not an Indigenous person, not even close. I was born from two Chinese parents.