As a child in Germany, I devoured the novels of Karl May. His stories about the early American West featured noble Native characters, often in friendship with the “White Man.”

When I came to the United States in 1966, I could not wait to meet “real Indians.” I saw the bronze statue in Watch Hill and learned words like Narragansett and Misquamicut. In time, I realized that the beautiful names of local places signified a proud, enduring presence of Indigenous peoples all around us in New England.

I also discovered that many locals lacked awareness of our shared history. Some told me the Indians were dying out, unable to adjust to “our civilization,” and beset by poverty and illness. Those left, I was told, lived mostly on reservations out West.

Really?

Asking “why” can be dangerous. We m

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