So say you’re sitting down to dinner after a long day of travel. You’re in the dining room of one of the historic inns in the Indiana State Park system — let’s say, the Potawatomi Inn at Pokagon State Park on the shores of Lake James. You order food, sit back, and then realize something important.
There’s a good chance your waiter is a Nazi.
You see, he’s wearing an iron cross necklace. And while it’s true that this symbol isn’t exclusively associated with white supremacists, in the context of an American wearing that symbol today there are very few cases where it isn’t. Like yeah, it’s associated with biker culture here too, but nine times out of ten when I’ve seen someone with this symbol on them (and it wasn’t a He-Man reference)… they’ve been a Nazi.
So you’re sitting there, and he brings you your dinner, and in your head you’re asking yourself “Is this a Nazi?” He compliments your outfit. He asks if you’re staying in the hotel tonight. He’s overall being pleasant. But, like, in the back of your head you have to keep asking yourself if you’re safe here.
And it sucks, because this place has been a haven for you for over a decade. You stop here a couple of times a year even though it’s far from where you live. You’ve told all your friends and family about it. It’s been a part of your personal story for a long time. And now? Now it feels different.
And for the record, I did tip him. Did the normal 20%. Because I might be wrong. He might not be a Nazi.
But I’m never going to find out.






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