Page 2 of Love Is a War Song

“Your fans are not happy.” Niles, my designated A&R rep from my label, said on speakerphone. His uppity British accent sounded more nasally than usual. Frankly, I’d never heard him this upset in my four years working with him.

My Rolling Stone cover story was released two days ago, and since then, I’ve had the worst two days of my life.

It was not the crowning accomplishment we all dreamed it would be.

It was quite literally the worst thing the internet had ever seen.

Perez Hilton came out of celebrity-bashing retirement to drag my ass across the For You pages of elder millennials and I was “cringe” to the entirety of Gen Z.

Those kids were terrifying with their specific cruelty.

They did one Google search and saw I didn’t have a dad.

There were hundreds of comments, all iterations of No wonder your dad never wanted you .

I had to turn off comments to everything, which was an even bigger mistake because now in the court of public opinion, I was worse than guilty. I was canceled.

One video with over one million views would be seared in my brain forever.

The content creator said “Miss Fake Pocahontas turned off her comments, ignoring her fans and those she harmed. She’s damaged her career for good.

Just wait, I bet in forty-eight hours she’s going to release a video apology filmed in front of a random nondescript wall.

No, girl, it didn’t work for Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher, it won’t work for you.

RIP, Avery. You need a brain tonight, not a warrior.

” She filmed it on the floor of her dorm room and burned me at the stake with that one.

Every costar and so-called friend I had made throughout my entire life and career had been releasing Notes app–screenshotted statements to their social media feeds distancing themselves from me and condemning my cover.

There was a mass unfollowing. Even Logan Wilson, who played my brother in a Costner western a decade ago, blocked me.

He hit me up just last week asking for tickets to my show. Now I didn’t exist.

I was moving through the stages of grief.

I tried to deny it was happening yesterday.

My delusional and optimistic self believed it would blow over and that it was just a few loud naysayers and not a chorus of thousands of angry fans.

But it went even further—several tribal chiefs were featured on rotating morning news shows from Zoom to condemn me and the headdress.

I was public enemy number one. My publicity team worked in overdrive to run a report this morning on my approval ratings compared to recent scandals and mine were lower than Hilaria Baldwin’s when it broke that she really was a white girl from Boston and not from Spain.

She grew up speaking English and there was no way she actually forgot the word cucumber . So, I had that going for me. Yay.

I was lying on the floor of my hotel room trying to focus on my breathing. I had a show in two hours to open for My$teriou$ Money. Everything was supposed to be aligning for my ascension into pop stardom, not crashing and burning.

My best friend, Chelsea, was supposed to be doing my hair and makeup before the show, but she could barely be extracted from My$teriou$’s side.

They had been hooking up on and off for a couple months.

This only added more stress, because if I was late, I’d get an earful from everyone, especially my mother.

I doomscrolled social media on my phone. It was once my dream to be on the Trending pane—but never like this.

#averyfoxisfake 1.2m posts

#elonmusk 730.4k posts

#bringsnackwrapsback 27.8k posts

How was my post volume higher than whatever new nonsense Elon Musk was up to?

How was that fair? Certainly, the conversation and public demand to bring back McDonald’s Snack Wraps was a much more interesting topic.

Real change could happen there. I was pro Snack Wrap.

I was spiraling, desperately looking for anything I could do to change the tide.

I switched over to TikTok and it was worse.

So.

Much.

Worse.

Someone made a filter using the Rolling Stone cover and a cutout hole where my face was supposed to be with the title “Pretendian Pop Princess.”

Men, women, and children were using the filter to make fun of me and lip-synch my song.

I was the laughingstock of the music industry and I also discovered there was a subset on Twitter called NDN Twitter—which stood for Indian—where all the Native Americans on the site came together to share memes, jokes, and discuss Native issues like enrollment, land rights, and current events affecting Indian Country… like me. They all hated me there too.

Being a child actor, I was used to weird rumors and conspiracy theories about me, but this was a war zone.

Completely untrue assumptions and fake facts were headline-breaking news.

People I had barely encountered in my life were giving interviews on how I duped them all into believing I was Native American.

An “expert” on the evening news last night even said my duplicitous nature would leave scars of trauma on all the children who looked up to me.

“This was all one large misunderstanding—” my mother said, trying to smooth things over, but Niles immediately cut her off.

“You said you were Native American,” he said.

“Of course we’re Indian!” my mother screamed.

I threw my arm over my eyes, using the plush hotel terry cloth robe to block out the world and the new creepy fan mail that littered the hotel room floor around me.

I couldn’t bring myself to open any from this latest batch.

Someone in the hotel lobby posted a photo online of me checking in so everyone knew we were staying at the Four Seasons in Dallas.

I’d received more hate mail in twenty-four hours than in all my years performing on Disney.

This was all hand-delivered to the hotel.

“My assistant printed out a few articles and they say it’s disrespectful and inaccurate to use the word ‘Indian.’ I’m told it’s politically correct to say Native American or Indigenous,” Niles continued. “We need major damage control. Can you get the chief or whatever to vouch for you?”

“I grew up in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. I think I know what we call ourselves, and you honestly believe I have the principal chief of our nation on speed dial?”

“Well, how do you suggest we fix this?” Niles’s demand came out like a whine.

“I emailed five suggestions, but I think the best and quickest way to turn this around is to send Avery to Oklahoma to my mother.”

“And are you and your mother enrolled? The discourse seems to be pretty divided online on if you have to be enrolled or not.”

“I am.” My mother sighed.

“Then why isn’t Avery? I have no idea what that entails, but it would appease the critics if that were the case. Perhaps send Avery on an apology tour, because I have to admit, the loud arguments online don’t look good, and their position is compelling.”

“It’s a lot of paperwork and it takes months to hear back. I just never took the time. I’m used to people taking me at my word.” Her voice was quiet, full of warning.

Niles continued on as if he wasn’t listening.

“There are over half a million comments on Instagram calling to boycott Carl’s Jr. if they don’t remove her song from their new “All American” ad.

Look, I’m in London on holiday visiting my mum, no one expected this, but we have to fix it immediately.

Avery is a liability for Grand Records right now.

” Niles’s voice was solemn, and the tone said more than his words.

Goose bumps flared across my skin, and I had a sinking feeling in my stomach as I sat up, inching closer to my mother and the phone perched on the small table in the suite.

“What do you mean?” my mother asked, her voice cold and quiet.

“Figure it out or we are canning the album and washing our hands of this whole thing.”

The line went dead, and my mom screamed her outrage at the phone. I had nothing in me left to cry. I’d spent the last forty-eight hours sobbing. I had received plenty of criticism in my career, but this was pure, unadulterated hatred and the most devastating part was, the criticism was justified.

I wasn’t put in a feathered crown, but a warbonnet.

A feathered and rhinestoned warbonnet, to be more accurate, and a matching crystal bikini as an homage to Cher’s “Half-Breed” costume.

My big hit “I Need a Warrior Tonight” was a hype dance track up there with Britney and J.Lo.

Cher’s sexy look was “all the rage,” they told me.

My mom had lusted over the set and didn’t think anything was wrong with it.

We all thought it was beautiful and clearly just a costume.

We giggled, excited with the hair and makeup team about how amazing this idea was.

It was edgy and not serious. Never in a million years did we think anyone would be offended.

We were in on the joke. Taking back this Native maiden stereotype. Reclaiming it.

But it backfired, because of my ignorance. It wasn’t powerful. It was problematic.

I didn’t know men, chiefs really, were the only ones allowed to wear warbonnets as high distinctions of honor.

Nor did I know only certain Plains tribes wore these things.

Things that I now knew were called regalia .

It felt like a sad excuse, but I wasn’t raised anywhere near this.

The only exposure I had to it growing up was the movie Peter Pan .

I remembered seeing Peter wearing one and the lost boys and Darling kids in the feather headbands.

Which, thanks to this huge mistake, I now knew was also extremely problematic and racist. So racist.