by Neil Weiner
I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, the names circling like military rotor blades that won’t shut off.
Apache.
Black Hawk.
Kiowa.
Chinook.
Iroquois.
Cayuse.
Sioux.
Shawnee.
Choctaw.
Cheyenne.
Lakota.
Each one lands heavier than the last. They call them machines, but I hear nations. Histories. People who bled, who prayed, who endured. Now their names are stamped onto gunships cutting through the sky.
I whisper the word Pahana, the lost white brother in Hopi, like it might steady me. It doesn’t. We were taught balance and harmony. To move through the world without tearing it apart. That’s what it means to be Hopi, grounded in something older than conquest.
So why this? Why take the names of those who were pushed, broken, and scattered, and then fasten them to war? Why not call them the English? The Germans? The Irish? The French? The conquerors who actually carved up the land.
The thought burns through me, sharper each time it comes back. My family tells me to let it go. My friends say it’s too big, too entrenched, too late. But I’ve seen names change. The Washington Redskins fell. Stanford University let go of Indians. The University of North Dakota dropped Fighting Sioux.
Pressure works. Voices stack. Change happens. I stare harder at the ceiling, as if the answer might be written there.
If no one else will say tackle it, I will. Enough thinking. Tomorrow, I start.
I write letters the way a drowning man is certain someone has to hear his plea for help: To the tribal chief. To the tribal council. To the Department of War.
I choose my words carefully, measured, respectful, rooted in history and dignity. Then I wait. One week passes. Then two.
Not even a rejection form letter. The lack of response says I’m not worth the time. I have another strategy to get my university involved.
At Arizona Northwest University, I sit across from my Native American advisor. Her office smells faintly of sage and old books. She listens, nodding slowly.
When I finish talking, I’m waiting for outrage, for alliance, for anything.
She folds her hands and says, gently, “You need to concentrate on your studies.”
That’s it. Not you’re right. Not this matters .The dismissal lands heavier than any insult. That’s when I find the envelope. No return address. My name typed, not written. It’s sitting alone in my university post office box.
Inside, a single sheet. Across the top, in thick red ink:
TOP SECRET
My pulse kicks. I read. With every line, my chest tightens.
TOP SECRET
EYES ONLY
Department of War – Psychological Operations Division
Internal Memorandum (Restricted Circulation)
Subject: Utilization of Indigenous Nomenclature in Military Asset Designation
The purpose of this memorandum is to outline the strategic rationale behind the continued use of Native American tribal names in the designation of United States military helicopters and related combat systems.
Extensive internal studies indicate that Indigenous tribal names evoke a consistent psychological response in both domestic and foreign populations. These responses include associations with unpredictability, stealth, endurance, and a perceived connection to primitive forms of warfare. Such associations enhance the perceived lethality and mystique of the equipment bearing these names.
Further analysis suggests that these identifiers contribute to a symbolic amplification effect, whereby opposing forces project exaggerated fear responses onto conventional military assets. The terminology functions as a low-cost psychological multiplier within broader operational frameworks.
It is also noted that domestic reception among Native populations has historically produced minimal organized resistance. Cultural fatigue, fragmentation, and limited political cohesion reduce the likelihood of sustained opposition. As such, reputational risk remains negligible.
The letter reads like camouflage, bureaucratic doubletalk masking a message that lands with brutal clarity: we are only useful as symbols, our tribal names repurposed for machines of war. My anger sharpens into purpose. I copy the letter and send it to every tribal nation whose name has been appropriated.
The response is immediate and unified, outrage transforming into resolve. Within a week, we gather at the National Museum of the American Indian, not as scattered voices but as nations of Elders, lawyers, and activists. The letter is laid bare, its intent dissected, its insult named. What began as my anger becomes something far more powerful: coordination, strategy, and unity. This is correction of another wrong foisted on us for centuries.
As I sit in the meeting I reflect on what got me here. I watched my father sit across from men in suits who smiled as they explained why our sacred land no longer belonged to us. The Congress in 1974 passed the Navajo-Hopi Land Settlement. This law forced thousands of Hopifamilies to relocate including mine from our historical lands.
I carry that moment with me. Every time I hear our names used without consent, turned into something we would never choose, it feels like another piece of our pride ripped away. If we don’t speak now, we teach the next generation to accept being erased in legalese.
They expect resistance. Protests. What they don’t expect is lawsuits.
At first, the Pentagon ignores it. Then the filings begin.
Trademark petitions. Cultural misrepresentation claims. Licensing requests. Hundreds of them, filed by dozens of tribes, all using the same dense, impenetrable legal language. We contact media outlets with the billions in cost overruns for the helicopters. We point out that the Blackhawk gearbox and rotor systems failed and engine failures of the Chinook.
Eventually, the Pentagon blinks. They will retire every tribal name, effective immediately, if we stand down. We agree. At the ceremony, rows of helicopters sit freshly painted, no longer bearing the weight of stolen identities but renamed for birds of prey.
Behind us, an engine roars to life. The first helicopter lifts, then another, their new names gleaming in the sun. For a moment, I brace for the old anger, but it doesn’t land the same way. This time, the sound doesn’t carry our names away; it leaves them untouched.
© Neil Weiner
Dr. Neil Weiner (he/him) has over 40 years’ experience as a clinical psychologist who specializes in trauma recovery and anxiety disorders. He enjoys using stories to help readers harness their resilience to aid them on their healing journey. He has been published in a variety of professional journals and literary fiction in over forty magazines. His psychology books include Shattered Innocence and The Curio Shop. Non-psychology publications are Across the Borderline and The Art of Fine Whining. He has a monthly advice column in a Portland Newspaper, Ask Dr. Neil.
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