Brennan: It’s Time I Stopped Calling the Team the ‘Redskins’

In a decision that reflects a deeper national reckoning with race, language, and identity in sports, USA Today columnist Christine Brennan has publicly stated she will no longer use the Washington NFL franchise’s long‑time nickname, the “Redskins.” Her announcement places her among an expanding coalition of journalists, advocates, and fans who argue that the term is a racial slur incompatible with modern standards of coverage and respect. As major leagues and teams face escalating pressure to abandon Native American mascots and branding, Brennan’s move highlights the growing expectation that media professionals not only report on cultural shifts, but also model them through their own word choices.

From violent origins to “tradition”: how the Redskins name emerged and why it matters now

The nickname associated with Washington’s NFL team was not created in a neutral or respectful setting. The term arose in periods when Native Americans were objectified and targeted in laws, news accounts, and popular entertainment. Historical records from the 18th and 19th centuries show the word appearing in bounty proclamations and sensational newspaper stories, often in the same breath as payments for scalps and state-sanctioned violence.

By the early and mid‑1900s, as professional sports grew into a powerful entertainment industry, franchises adopted the term as part of a marketing strategy, pairing it with mascots, logos, and sideline rituals. Over time it became embedded in game-day culture, then retroactively described as “heritage.” Yet the historical record is clear: the term developed within a framework of racial hierarchy, dispossession, and forced assimilation, not from any genuine partnership with Native nations.

In the 21st century, that past collides with a sharper awareness of how language shapes policy and public attitudes. Native activists, historians, and civil-rights organizations have consistently labeled the word a slur, emphasizing that its casual repetition contributes to ongoing prejudice and a narrow, outdated image of Native people. Their concerns are directly tied to contemporary disparities in health, education, and representation, not just subjective feelings of offense.

Today, the conversation has shifted from whether someone “means harm” to whose experiences carry weight. Within that shift:

• Native advocates describe a clear connection between the team name and everyday discrimination, teasing, and exclusion.
• Researchers have linked demeaning mascots and team names to measurable psychological harm, especially among Native youth.
• Legal and policy experts argue that such imagery weakens broader efforts toward tribal sovereignty, self-determination, and equitable treatment.

Native American perspectives: why racial slurs in sports still cause real harm

Within Native communities, the response to the Washington franchise’s old nickname has been remarkably consistent: it is not a tribute, but a reminder of historical violence and ongoing erasure. Educators, tribal leaders, community organizers, and young people themselves recount how hearing the word on national broadcasts turns a slur linked to bloodshed into something fans cheer for on Sundays.

Parents describe children shrinking when classmates repeat the name in school hallways. Elders talk about turning off games to avoid seeing fans in fake war paint and plastic headdresses. Counselors note that when a derogatory term is elevated to the status of a brand, it gains an aura of legitimacy that makes it harder for Native people—especially kids—to challenge in daily life.

Their experiences converge on a central idea: once a slur is stitched into jerseys and plastered on stadium walls, it doesn’t stay confined to sports. It spills into classrooms, workplaces, and social media, normalizing prejudice under the cover of entertainment.

• Students report more taunts and bullying around game days and during playoff runs.
• Elders connect the word to a history of government-approved violence and cultural suppression.
• Health and mental-health professionals warn that repeated exposure to racist imagery contributes to chronic stress and identity conflict.

These testimonies have undercut the claim that the name is harmless or purely celebratory. Native speakers detail a chain reaction: a caricatured logo flashes across a broadcast; costume shops stock feathered headdresses; local teams copy professional logos without permission; and non-Native fans dress up in outfits that resemble sacred regalia.

Across these accounts, several themes emerge:

• Dehumanization – treating hundreds of distinct Indigenous nations as a single, cartoon figure frozen in the past.
• Normalization – turning a racial slur into background noise for tailgates, highlight reels, and fantasy leagues.
• Exclusion – keeping Native people visible on merchandise, but largely absent from decision-making power and revenue streams.

Media, fans, and the NFL: who keeps racist identities alive—and who is pushing back?

The struggle over team names and logos now plays out in newsrooms, TV trucks, league offices, and fan forums. Broadcasters, editors, and columnists wield substantial influence: their decisions to either repeat or retire terms like “Redskins” can normalize racist language or help move public conversation forward.

Some major outlets have shifted quietly toward neutral labels such as Washington or the Commanders, signaling a deliberate break with the past. Others continue to use the old name, citing tradition, brand recognition, or “reporting the news as it is.” On social platforms, fan groups often amplify legacy imagery through memes, throwback jerseys, and nostalgia clips, reinforcing the sense that the old name is simply part of football culture.

Journalists who refuse to use slur-based names frequently encounter backlash from portions of the fan base who see any linguistic change as an attack on their memories, rituals, and loyalty. The result is a visible fault line between those who view language as an evolving ethical responsibility and those who see it as fixed, apolitical, and owned by fans.

• Media organizations must decide whether to formally retire racist terminology across all platforms.
• Fans are split between defending controversial mascots as “heritage” and organizing campaigns for reform.
• NFL executives weigh PR backlash, sponsor expectations, and legal risk alongside deeply rooted traditions.

Inside league headquarters, conversations are no longer just about logos and uniforms. Decision-makers now factor in sponsorship exposure, broadcast contracts, consumer expectations, and political scrutiny. In recent years, corporate partners and apparel companies have emerged as key drivers of change, warning teams that clinging to racist names can damage brand reputations and alienate younger audiences.

Even so, progress is uneven. Some franchises have retired offensive names and conducted extensive rebrands, while others rely on vague statements, internal reviews, or silence. Controversial imagery persists in certain markets, often framed as “local tradition” rather than as part of a nationwide debate over race and representation. Every choice—whether it’s a network’s style rule, a fan boycott, or a sponsor’s ultimatum—either accelerates the move away from racist team identities or helps entrench them a little longer.

What journalists and leagues can do now: retiring offensive names and redefining tradition

The shift that Christine Brennan describes does not have to be symbolic only. Newsrooms and leagues can take concrete steps to phase out slurs like “Redskins” and develop new, inclusive traditions that resonate with today’s audiences.

Editors can begin by revising style guides so that racial slurs and demeaning caricatures are explicitly labeled as unacceptable in headlines, scripts, and social posts. Training sessions for reporters, producers, and on‑air talent can clarify why certain terms are no longer used and provide language alternatives. Broadcast partners can update lower‑thirds, score bugs, and highlight packages to rely on city names, official franchise names, or clearly vetted nicknames, while briefly explaining the change to viewers.

On the league side, commissioners and owners can establish league-wide standards for acceptable branding and fan conduct. That includes third‑party cultural reviews of team names, logos, mascots, and crowd chants—ideally overseen by panels that include Native historians, artists, and community leaders. Rather than treating Native sources as occasional “voices on both sides,” journalists and executives can form ongoing partnerships with tribes, Native organizations, and Indigenous media, drawing on their expertise in both history and current impact.

Practical steps include:

• Adopt inclusive language policies and apply them across print, digital, audio, and television content.
• Audit archives—from online story databases to highlight reels—and revise headlines, tags, and graphics that normalize offensive terms.
• Center Indigenous perspectives in features, explainers, and pregame coverage, moving beyond occasional quotes to sustained storytelling.
• Develop new rituals and celebrations—such as Indigenous Peoples’ recognition nights, land acknowledgments, and partnerships with Native youth sports programs—to replace outdated mascots and chants.
• Publish transparent progress reports that track language practices, representation, and community engagement over time.

Conclusion: language, responsibility, and the future of sports storytelling

Christine Brennan’s refusal to use the “Redskins” name marks more than a personal choice; it signals a broader shift in how sports culture reckons with its own history. As journalists, fans, sponsors, and leagues re‑evaluate long‑standing practices, the argument over Washington’s former nickname has moved far beyond semantics. It now sits squarely in debates about power, representation, and ethical responsibility.

Whether others follow Brennan’s lead or continue to cling to the old terminology, the landscape has changed. Language is no longer treated as a neutral backdrop to the game, but as a core part of how communities are seen—or erased. The cost of preserving offensive “traditions” is increasingly weighed against the opportunity to tell a fuller, more accurate story about the people and histories intertwined with American sports.