Raymond Hitchcock, the chairman of the Wilton Rancheria tribe in Elk Grove, Calif., is proud to rattle off stories about his American Indian heritage. But when he thinks about the first time he laid eyes on Chief Wahoo — the “cheesy-looking,” red-faced, grinning Indian who serves as the mascot of the World Series competitors the Cleveland Indians — he gets uncomfortable.

He was a teenager in Carmichael, one of the only brown kids in a mostly white school where he sometimes got made fun of for being a “dirty Indian.” One day, a friend handed him a baseball cap and said Hitchcock should have it because he’s an Indian and Wahoo is an Indian.

“It made me feel embarrassed to be a Native American,” Hitchcock said. “It hurt, actually. It’s like, ‘Is that what you think of me?’ ”

I heard similar stories growing up in Cleveland, as family friends cursed the Wahoo logo supposedly created to honor Louis “Chief” Sockalexis, a Penobscot Indian who played baseball in the 1800s. They hated it so much that I joined them for a protest the day Jacobs Field — as Cleveland’s Progressive Field was called back then — opened to the public.

The year was 1994. I was 15. I held my sign as groups of slightly drunken, middle-aged men scowled at me as they walked toward the entrance. Some were shirtless with their chests painted. A few paused long enough to slur their version of a war chant.