SHARPS CORNER, S.D. — One of the most quoted pieces of data in the debate over the Washington Redskins' nickname is a poll conducted by the Annenberg Public Policy Center in 2004 which found that 90% of Native Americans were not offended by the name. It was not the most rigorous survey — respondents were simply allowed to self-identify as "Native," a flaw obvious to anyone who has a friend who dubiously claims to be one-sixteenth Cherokee, and Annenberg didn't contact anyone from Alaska or Hawaii, two states with large native populations where sensitivity to indigenous-culture issues is likely more pronounced than it is elsewhere. I'm not Native American — I'm a white guy from Massachusetts — but I live on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota, so I decided to do my own informal study. I asked 50 people on and around the reservation a simple question: If it were up to you and only you, would the Redskins change their name?

Twenty-one people said yes. That's 42%, well above the proportion Annenberg found. But that means 29 said no, which surprised me. To use the common analogy, I'm guessing that 58% of randomly selected strangers from my previous neighborhood — the South Bronx — wouldn't be quite so tolerant of a team named the Washington Brownskins. While it's not true that the "Redskins" controversy is entirely a creation of politically correct white liberals — the Oneida Nation of New York is running a season-long protest campaign against Washington's NFL squad, while advocacy groups like the National Congress of American Indians have been active on the issue of Native nicknames and mascots since at least the 1960s — it's also undeniable that Natives don't always see "Redskins" and other nicknames as insults that needs to be addressed immediately. In this part of the country, the Standing Rock reservation has denounced the University of North Dakota's Fighting Sioux mascot, but the state's Spirit Lake Reservation supports it. Why such mixed reactions to an issue that, to many outside parties, seems like a no-brainer?

"I don't really worry about it," said Elaine YellowHorse, a college student and EMT on the reservation, told me. "There are just so many other things that I need to worry about before that."

But YellowHorse gives the lie to the idea that 58% of the survey respondents actively condone the name. While she said she wouldn't bother to change it, YellowHorse also told me that she found "Redskins" offensive and was upset by the idea that there were non-Native fans running around in headdresses in the nation's capital. It's a difficult sentiment to understand — to find something offensive but not worth worrying about — but when the whole world around you is tinged with racism, you have a high bar for what you deem worthy of worrying about.

To wit: After attending (and winning) a college archery shoot last year in nearby Rapid City, YellowHorse parked her truck in the parking lot of her hotel, turned off the ignition, and found a gun pointed in her face.The truck was surrounded by police officers with their weapons drawn, shouting, "Get your hands on the wheel!" She followed the instructions and yelled, "Please don't shoot me!" After a few tense moments, the officers lowered their weapons, gave her a confusing story about how there'd been a fight nearby and someone had fled the scene in a truck that "matched the description" of hers, and left.

That kind of treatment is actually something I've experienced myself, minus the guns, when I'm rolling 65s. In South Dakota, the first two numbers on a license plate usually identify the county where the owner lives. In my case that's Shannon County, which is entirely on the reservation — creating just about the most convenient tool for motor vehicular racial profiling imaginable. I've driven cars with and without Shannon County 65 plates for years, and they are two totally different experiences. Drive with 65s, and police cruisers make quick K-turns to follow just a few feet behind your bumper, daring you to get nervous and make a mistake; you're often pulled over for reasons unclear. When this happens to me and the police see a (fairly) clean-cut white guy behind the wheel, they look surprised, offer sheepish explanations, and leave. If you're Native American, the experience tends to be different.