“We’re taking you to the Keeper of the Plains,” I was told, and there was little elaboration after that.
“Okay,” I said. “And the Keeper of the Plains is …?”
“You’ll see.” I must hand it to my friends. They know how to create suspense.
It turned out to be a 44-foot-tall statue of a Native American man standing at the crux of the Big and Little Arkansas (pronounced “Our Kansas”, for the record) Rivers in downtown Wichita. A raised hatchet in one arm, its headdress and fringed pants seeming to blow in the wind, the statue looms tall over the nearby bridges and park that offer views of it and the river. It is a tranquil place, but as a white American woman from a devoutly-PC part of the country, I found myself looking around and thinking, “This is cool, right? We aren’t offending anyone?”