Kendra Haag’s family on the reservation couldn’t bear to watch her play soccer -- or any of her other sports -- in high school.

She was a solid player, but the uniform she wore at every school event was emblazoned with a racial slur too painful and humiliating to bear: “Savage.” The image of the school mascot depicted a Native American.

Haag, now 29, is a member of the Kickapoo tribe. Her father was a member of the tribal council; her grandfather, a war chief. Her parents moved from a border town near the Kansas reservation to Savannah, Missouri, a town of about 5,000 people, when she was a young child. From second grade until she graduated, Haag bore the shame of that word and image on her uniforms and school T-shirts.

In the rural town, where life centers around the high school, the word was everywhere. In the ‘90s, the city council voted to paint “Savannah Savages” and the mascot on the town’s water tower.

“I remember obviously not feeling good about it. Wishing it would change, but not having the power to do so at that young age,” Haag said.

A few years after her youngest brother graduated from high school, she joined a movement to rid the district of its mascot. Recently, Haag, now living in Arizona, helped to circulate an online petition to urge the school board to remove the slur. But at a time when professional sports teams with Native American names and mascots are seriously considering removing them from their branding, Savannah is still fighting to keep its “Savage” pride.

In the town, which is about 98% white, generations have attended the same high school. Many participate in homecoming events each fall, years after graduating. Even knowing all this, the severity of the backlash has stunned Haag.

She’s been threatened and called obscenities. A counter-petition to keep the mascot now has more than 2,100 signatures, compared with more than 3,500 signatures on the petition for change. The local paper ran a front-page headline declaring, “We are all Savages” on a recent graduation story.

The mayor refused to answer a reporter’s question, and did not return calls to comment.

Haag remembers her teammates singing a refrain from a song in the 1995 Disney version of “Pocahontas”: “Savages, savages, barely even human.”

She would storm out of the locker room when she heard it. “Everyone knew I was Native,” she said.

She remembers pep rallies where students would make tepees and wear fake feathers and war paint, with no idea of how disrespectful it was to her culture and identity.

Some Savannah grads struggle to reconcile Haag’s hurt with their own hometown pride.

“I’ve worn that Savage on my body for probably 10 years,” said graduate Jason Harris, who now lives in Kirkwood, Missouri. “They call it Savage Pride. They don’t look at it like they are offending anyone.” He said changing the mascot is really about changing the identity of the town: “All they have ever known is being a Savage.”

To an outsider, keeping such an obvious slur in this day and age seems preposterous.

“’Savages’? In 2020?” said Tyrone Terrill, secretary of the National Coalition Against Racism in Sports and Media, who wrote a letter to the school board in support of change. The board will discuss the issue at a July 14 meeting.

“Their name, ‘Savages,’ is more racist than the name ‘Redskins,’” he said. He suggested the school board president could keep the name as long as she replaced the Native person mascot with her own image.

There are signs that attitudes are changing, especially among the younger generations and those who have moved away. David Kozminski, a self-described proud graduate and valedictorian of the school, left a comment under the petition for change: “To this day, I regret that I didn’t speak up more when I had the chance.”

He’s about to become a father for the first time, and decided he cannot stay silent.

“I decided that for me to be able to look (my son) in the eye and encourage him to stand up for the right thing -- to stand up for vulnerable people even when it’s not easy -- that I have to start doing the right thing myself,” he said.

Haag said a few of her former classmates have reached out to her to apologize if they had made ignorant or racist comments to her growing up. Other supporters have said they are willing to donate money to help the school pay for changing its signage.

Haag’s father and other tribal leaders plan to attend the upcoming school board meeting to advocate for the long overdue change.

It remains to be seen if the town is ready to listen.

A collage of white women speaking out against racism has led to an uprising in an international moms’ organization. Nearly 40 chapters of the International MOMS Club have disbanded after the organization’s leadership clamped down on anti-discrimination messaging.

The unexpected controversy started with a simple homemade collage. A group of mothers in Southern California submitted a photo of themselves holding signs with their children that read: “We stand with all moms and pledge that racial discrimination will stop with our kids.”

It was modeled after other collages that had been posted on the Facebook page from chapters thanking essential workers and teachers, according to Jill Coene, former president of the Rancho Santa Margarita MOMS Club chapter. But their post was rejected for being “political” and violating the standards of the nonprofit.

Coene was incensed by the decision, which didn’t seem to hold water, since plenty of nonprofits offered much more direct statements supporting anti-racism efforts. The Girl Scouts organization said “Black Lives Matter.” MOPS International, a Christian moms’ group, posted an image on Juneteenth that said, “We celebrate today. But also stand against and lament the injustices that remain embedded in our society.” After the killing of George Floyd in police custody, the MOPS group had posted a photo that said: “All mothers were summoned when he called out for his mama.”

But the International MOMS Club, which was founded in 1983 by Mary James, has taken an entirely different approach. In response to questions, the organization defended the decision to reject the collage: “It was political because others outside the MOMS Club have made the issue political,” read the unsigned email. “Some members complained that the poster itself was racist.”

That sounded like gaslighting, and felt like a betrayal to moms who had volunteered for years to build their local chapters.

Sara Simpson, who founded the St. Louis-area West County chapter seven years ago, asked: “What political party is pro-racist? ... If you can’t even say ‘don’t be racist,’ then I don’t want to be on your team,” she said. “It’s such a weird hill to die on.”

She looked up the political contributions and Facebook posts of the board members and found a majority supported conservative political causes.

“It seems like they are taking a very strong political stance, while saying they are not,” she said. “It’s really disappointing, and not transparent at all.”

The Kirkwood, Missouri chapter voted unanimously to disband once they learned about the organization’s response.

“They shut down dialogue on it,” said former chapter president Emily Kadel, adding that “they are just not the right group for us.”

The organization appears to agree, stating in its email to a reporter: “(Our chapters) know that we’re looking out for them and their nonprofit status. If some members don’t understand this, then we aren’t a good match for them.”

It was an easy choice for about 70 moms in the St. Louis chapter. Former chapter president Megan O’Laughlin Nordheim said that their chapter didn’t find the original post at all political, and that no one debated the decision to disband.

“We’re out,” she said. Those who take issue with statements about ending racism “have a pretty big ethical divide from us.”

The International MOMS Club downplayed this widespread reaction.

“This is a normal time for weak chapters to disband because it’s our yearly change-over,” the statement said. “We’ve seen a small uptick from normal, but nothing unexpected.”

On Facebook, the group’s leadership has doubled down. The most recent statements advise chapters against talking to the media about the controversy, and say that even if one dissenting member wants to remain in the group, it remains an official chapter.

“Too bad you can’t post the f-word in the Post-Dispatch, because I have plenty of them to throw around,” said O’Laughlin Nordheim after she read the statement.

For many of the moms who have chosen to leave, the anger is tempered by a deep sadness. The club was the place they found mom friends, a sense of belonging and connection in the often-lonely parenting world.

Coene, of the chapter that ignited the firestorm, said she never expected this kind of reaction. She doesn’t consider herself a political activist, and said she’s been going through a grieving process since leaving the group.

“It was a huge part of my life,” she said. She’s been heartened by the support from other chapters.

“We know our collage looks like a bunch of white women, but what we’re saying is that systemic racism exists where we live, and we are pledging to help make that stop,” she said.

For these moms, it’s not about a collage: It’s about standing up for what’s right.

When the pandemic decimated ad revenue at newspapers around the country, I was one of dozens of employees at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch put on a two-week furlough. Shortly after, I joined the millions of people currently trying to access unemployment benefits.

I got worried when the phrase “issue on file” showed up on my online application. It was too early in the waiting game for me to feel anxious about whether I would see any money, but this was my first time navigating this state bureaucracy.

I tried calling one of the state unemployment offices three times. Once, I stayed on hold for two hours -- only for the call to mysteriously disconnect. Another time, I left a voicemail, but never heard back. Yet another time, I heard a recording that said the hold queue was full and to try back the next day.

More than 44 million people across the country have applied for state jobless benefits since mid-March. Several Facebook support groups have formed for those trying to get benefits. At a colleague’s suggestion, I joined such a group.

The one I picked already had nearly 1,200 members. Reading the posts felt like standing in a virtual line and listening to the horror stories of the people next to you.

I talked to Andrea Michel, 41, of Steelville, Missouri, who has been dealing with the system since March, when she was laid off from her job as a reservations agent for Hilton hotels. She tried to log into the state’s benefits application system, but her sign-in didn’t work. It took two weeks to reach someone to fix that hurdle. Then her claim was rejected, perhaps because she had switched jobs in February.

Every day, she would call and wait on hold to talk to someone. She calculated the time spent on these calls: In one week, she spent 19 hours on hold.

“There were days when I sat on the phone for six hours,” she said. She finally got approved and received payment for one week. The next week, the system said her claim had expired.

Back to the phones.

She needed to file additional paperwork. One rep told her it was a new quarter, so she needed to reapply. She asked about all the weeks of back pay she was owed, by then more than $4,800. One person told her she was out of luck; another said not to worry, she would receive it. One day, the system showed that her claim was being processed; another day, it said it was rejected.

Her family’s bills are piling up. Their landlord let them pay rent late since they had never been late before, she said. Her husband drives 91 miles each way to work at a factory in St. Louis, and the tires on his truck are bald. His overtime was cut when the pandemic hit.

“We’re depending on that money to get new tires because if those go, he can’t get to work,” she said. They have never been in such a financial hole before. In fact, they had some money saved before she lost her job, but those savings were used to pay for her 19-year-old son’s car and insurance once he got laid off.

“This week we weren’t able to buy any groceries at all,” she said. They had stocked up before the quarantine, so they aren’t out of food yet, but it’s running low.

She said the struggle to try to get benefits has her feeling anxious, stressed and helpless: “It’s heart-wrenching, because you don’t know if you will be able to pay your bills.”

She is battling the fear of the payments not coming at all: “Am I going to be able to recover? Will it wreck my credit? Will I have to go without food for a week because I had to pay my electric bill instead?”

Michel wrote her congressman, Jason Smith, asking for help. His office replied, saying they would forward her message to their liaison in the state department of labor.

“However, they are getting several hundred referrals just from state and federal legislators, so it’s taking a couple weeks before they reach out,” the email said. Heaven help you if you happened to change jobs shortly before getting laid off, or had an employer contest your claim.

Delores Rose, a spokeswoman for the Missouri Department of Labor and Industrial Relations, said benefits can be paid within 22 days after establishing a new claim or renewing an established claim, unless an issue is being investigated. She said an investigation can take, on average, another four to six weeks to be completed -- and that’s during “normal times.”

These aren’t normal times.

Meanwhile, the extra federal aid for pandemic assistance runs out at the end of July, and the Trump administration opposes extending it.

I eventually got the payment for the two weeks I filed for. Michel’s claim and back pay got approved a week after mine.

The first thing she did was pay the two months of rent they owe, and buy new tires for the truck.