There she was in Phoenix, Arizona. It was 2002. (Back then she hadn't started writing her blog yet, so there are no photos or blog entries; only memories.) She was lucky enough to hire a fellow to guide her through the petroglyphs outside of Phoenix. The petroglyphs were magnificent . . . the petroglyphs, that is, that had survived the tourists . . . the petroglyphs that hadn't been chiseled out of the rock by idiots who wanted to decorate the fireplaces in their summer homes . . .
Marash Girl got to talking with the tour guide. He was a local, and a Native American. Marash Girl asked him about his experience as a Native American living in Phoenix. He told her the following . . .
"Just one example, then . . . My wife (a non-Native) and I walked into a bar and sat down at one of the tables. We ordered drinks . . . she ordered a glass of wine, and I ordered a beer. The waiter served her wine. We waited. The waiter wandered past our table, with never a glance. My wife asked him where my beer was . . . The waiter said, 'Oh, no problem. . . it's coming.' We waited another five minutes and asked again. The waiter said, 'Yes, coming right out.' This scenario repeated itself for the next half hour. The waiter never refused to serve me. He simply never served me."
(For more on this subject, see Marash Girl's Post for Thursday, May 12, 2016 "Navaho in Harvard Square")
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