Waking up in Santa Fe the next morning, Gregg donned the outfit again. He was headed back into town, this time with the Honor the Treaties crew in tow. They shadowed him as he made his way through the streets, playfully cajoling him to pose in front of Indian cigar statues and hold signs. As they entered the Santa Fe Plaza, Gregg acknowledged some apprehension given that he would be in full view of the outdoor Indian Market, a plaza mainstay. Nevertheless, Gregg scoped out a spot and perched atop a bench holding a sign that read, “my spirit animal is white guilt.”

It was not long before an inquisitive onlooker approached. “Tell me what that means… my spirit animal is white guilt,” he demanded. “It’s just sarcasm, tongue and cheek,” replied Gregg. Well, I know that, and I can’t—being white, I feel bad how they treated the native peoples.” Gregg replied monosyllabically, “sure!” The man went on, “you know, I have a Navajo family… I known ‘em 30 years, and they adopted me into the tribe man, and to them, I’m their son… when I go visit on the rez, they cry when I leave.”

The conversation carried on for a few minutes, and you could tell the man had something to prove to Gregg. He wanted to show him he wasn’t like other white people, that he was cultured and invested in the American Indian community. By the end of the conversation he managed to discern Gregg hailed from the Northern Paiute tribe, and was attempting to compliment him by indicating that the Paiutes were fierce warriors. But it came out awkwardly, “everybody hated the Paiutes man, the Sioux, the Cheyenne… this is a true Paiute!” the man declared before departing.

A few minutes later, a very different kind of viewer came forth. A native man from the Indian Market ambled over to engage Gregg. Immediately, the tone of the conversation shifted, suddenly Gregg was on the defensive, you could tell he felt the need to justify his cartoonish appearance to this unknown man. In contrast to the monosyllabic retorts he had been offering the white man, Gregg was now speaking in full sentences. “This project, I call it, The Last American Indian On Earth, which obviously I’m not, so it’s just a play on the stereotype and to kind of mess with people a little bit—Indian Jackass, you know?” He couldn’t help but to let out a bit of nervous laughter. “Yeah, the thing is, a couple of them were kinda offended over there,” the man replied referring to other Indians working at the market. You could tell he was not impressed.

Apologetically Gregg admitted, “out of context, it’s horrible. It really is horrible. But... it raises a lot of questions about identity, and who decides who is Indian, and is it possible for this to exist in the modern day? For non-Indians I think this is important because they don’t believe that indigenous people exist, especially out east, and so they see this and they can’t process it because they’re like, well they’re extinct.” With this admonition, Gregg revealed that his intended audience was not the Native American community. He had acknowledged the night before that his art was meant to be provocative—that he offended people sometimes, and here he was the next day being forced to explain himself yet again.