The recent U.S. Patent and Trademark Office decision to cancel all seven of the Washington football franchise's federal trademark registrations gives the outward appearance of a minor episode in the serial drama we call the sport industry. Did anything really happen, however, as a result of that series of decisions?
The seven Native American petitioners involved in the case were obviously vindicated at some level from the standpoint that the Trademark Trial and Appeal Board agreed with their assertion that the word "Redskin(s)" is derogatory, denigrating, contemptuous, disreputable and disparaging.
But what of the fate of the franchise following the board's ruling? Must the franchise cease using the "Redskins" name and logo as a result of this? No. Will Washington be required to change the symbols used to market the team? No.
From a purely business perspective, one might get the impression there is little that warrants serious consideration here. If the board determined that the term "Redskins" is offensive but due to the vagaries of First Amendment rights and the mysteries of trademark law the franchise can continue to use the term, why should the Washington ownership — along with people like Ted Turner and Richard Jacobs — be paying attention?
Quite simply, because the tides of sentiment on this issue are shifting. Owners of franchises that use Native American imagery to market their teams, whether they know it or not, are already behind the curve on this. They may well be left in the dust battling court cases they will not win, resisting change where change is inevitable.
It is of no small consequence that 2,500 schools, colleges and universities have discontinued use of Native American signifiers for athletic teams within the past two decades. Less than two years ago, the Los Angeles School District eliminated Native American imagery throughout the system. In the summer of 1998, the New York State Department of Education launched a study to determine if Native American imagery should be eliminated from schools under its jurisdiction. As recently as March, intervention by the Civil Rights Division of the U.S. Department of Justice at Erwin High School in Buncombe County, N.C., resulted in the removal of the term "squaws" as the symbol associated with female sports teams at that school and the establishment of an understanding that these symbols contribute to a hostile learning environment for students.
The abandonment of these names at a community level will eventually undermine a franchise's ability to marshal the support necessary to sustain these images over time. Further, the students now being educated in these very same schools, some of whom will in time ascend to the bar, the bench and the legislative branch of government, will bring a newly revised set of understandings to these issues when they surface in the future. That augurs well for Native American plaintiffs and spells trouble for franchise owners.
The potential for this is seen in the actions of a group of second-graders who, in 1989, led the charge against the Massachusetts Turnpike Authority's logo — a pilgrim hat with an arrow through it. Pointing out that, without the help of Native Americans, the first English settlers in Massachusetts would most likely have starved to death that first winter, the second-graders convinced the powers-that-be (Gov. Michael Dukakis and state legislators) that the symbol was offensive and did not make sense. Confronted with fact and logic, the MTA agreed to remove the arrow from the hat.
In addition to this ever-expanding collection of cases, there is also the matter of the mythologies supporting some of the imagery in question. For instance, the Cleveland baseball franchise justifies its use of the "Indians" name and "Chief Wahoo" logo on the basis of a story that it claims has "historical significance." According to the 1999 Cleveland Indians Media Guide, the club was named in 1915 when "a local daily newspaper ran a contest and the name Indian was suggested by a fan who said he was doing it in honor of an Indians player named Louis Francis Sockalexis."
What is interesting about this claim is that it is inaccurate.
An examination of the four daily newspapers that existed in Cleveland in 1915, the year in which the name was chosen, shows that the renaming of the franchise was undertaken by local sportswriters at the behest of then-owner Charley Somers. On Jan. 16, 1915, the Cleveland Plain Dealer announced the new "Indians" name with great fanfare but noted: "The nickname, however, is but temporarily bestowed, as the club may so conduct itself during the present season as to earn some other cognomen which may be more appropriate. The choice of a name that would be significant just now was rather difficult with the club itself anchored in last place."
This hardly amounts to a tribute to Sockalexis (whose name is not mentioned) and clearly demonstrates no intent to construct a lasting monument to honor him. Franchises like Cleveland face the very real prospect of appearing disingenuous and duplicitous as the mythologies upon which their identities have been built collapse under the weight of objective scrutiny.
Within the context of increasing cultural awareness backed by legal force, the cancellation of Washington's trademarks might better be viewed by the owners of franchises that use Native American imagery as an invitation to begin the next millennium with a fresh outlook and a fresh face, so to speak. The alternative will surely be the dedication of substantial time, legal expertise, public relations tools, marketing creativity and financial resources in the defense of what are being found, more and more frequently, to be indefensible images. To opt for this alternative amounts to a wasted opportunity to act now when the millennium itself stands ready for any and all who wish to take advantage of new beginnings.
Ellen J. Staurowsky is associate professor and coordinator of the Sport Communication Program at Ithaca College. Stephen Mosher is associate professor of exercise and sport sciences at the college.
