This is the first of a two-part column on the use of the Chief Illiniwek symbol/mascot by the University of Illinois. The final part will run on Dec. 2.

Forget everything you’ve heard about the American Indian mascot debate – words like tradition, racist, honor and protesters. Instead, imagine this along with me:

It’s halftime – a crisp, bright blue autumn afternoon. On your way to the stadium this morning, you kicked golden leaves across the quad before stopping to tailgate with some close friends. The stadium is full, your team is winning, your friends are all around you and the marching band is on the field.

Suddenly, an eager hush of anticipation ripples through the crowd. They rise to their feet, cheering wildly as a single figure enters the field; with the crowd’s volume rising to a fever pitch, he dances wildly between members of the band. Who is this lone figure dancing at halftime?

He pauses, and you see clearly – a man in a costume and face paint, dressed to look like Martin Luther King Jr.

Outrageous, right? Such a mascot would certainly generate outrage and protests. It would make blacks and other minorities on campus uncomfortable and deter qualified potential minority applicants and faculty members.

Yet the Board of Trustees at the University of Illinois – the state’s “flagship” university and my own alma mater – continues its endorsement of a similar mascot. The only difference is that U of I’s mascot is not African American, but American Indian.

Apples and oranges – that’s what I’m told when I make this comparison. Or when I say Abe Lincoln should dance. Or Franklin Roosevelt should be pushed around in a wheelchair. But why? Why do we create a distinction between one important cultural symbol and another?

Certainly, as a culture, we respect and admire these men. We cherish the values they displayed and fought for and the courage, freedom, and sacrifice they represent. Why should we not, then, honor them with weekly halftime performances, as many claim they do with the Chief?

Aristotle argued that there were three standard thoughts required to generate human compassion. First, the recognition that something bad has befallen someone else. Second, that the bad thing was not (or not completely) the person’s fault. And third, that there is the potential for a similar bad thing to happen to us.

This third reason is why we, as a culture, allow the continued use of American Indian mascots like the Chief – we simply cannot (or will not) imagine what it would be like if figures from our own mainstream culture were presented to be “honored” at halftime of a sporting event the way those from American Indian cultures are. We cannot imagine Martin Luther King or FDR mascots performing at halftime.

There are those who have dismissed this issue as one of political correctness; however, this is not an issue of hyper-sensitivity. Those who protest the Chief are not a minority of placard-waving, hippie activists. At the heart of the debate over the use of the Chief is the issue of how dominant, mainstream culture will remember and represent those who, willingly or not, have come under its influence. Many who protest the Chief are less concerned with what it says about Native culture than they are with what it reveals about their own.

Columns reflect the opinion of the author and not necessarily that of the Northern Star staff.