It is May 28, 1830, and I am having tea with President Andrew Jackson in the Oval Office. He has just signed the Indian Removal Act into law after Congress went along with his plan to force Southwestern tribes to hit the road – take it somewhere else, across the Mississippi, 2,000 miles away from their homelands.

We sip our British black tea on this May afternoon while the president proudly poses for a portrait. His staff neglects to inform him that his arrow chin and towering curly hair are a perfect image for the future $20 bill. “Mr. President?” I say. “How practical of you to remove the Cherokee, Creek, Chickasaw and the Seminole, so white settlers can claim millions of acres for their own.”

“I am of the people,” the hickory-framed man replies with a smile. “I despise elitism. Do you know I am the first president whose blood is not royal? I am of the people!”

I sip one more time from the flowered china cup, then stand up. “Mr. President? I surmise you made sure there is no statute of limitations written in the Indian Removal Act?”

“Whatever do you mean?” he asks. “The Indian problem is resolved with this legislation.”

“But surely you realize there will be continued Indian resistance in the years to come,” I say. “Tribal nations west of the great dividing river will refuse to give up their lands so the people can claim more acreage.”

“Their stubbornness will be for naught!”

“You are correct, sir,” I respond, reaching for my headdress. “Thousands of Indian men, children, pregnant women will be slaughtered on lands such as Sand Creek, Wounded Knee, the Marias River – their price for being stubborn.”

Jackson slams his fist on his tree-desk. His high curly hair sways like hickory branches in a thunderstorm. “Even the Indians must understand! I am of the people! I am not royalty!”

I move to the door, reaching for the brass handles.

“Wait!” the president cries. “Why are you leaving so soon?”

“Mr. President, I must report to the Trail of Would-Be Tears. I and my 16,000 Cherokee relatives have a year of walking, dying through snow, heat and bears in order to make room for the people.”

“But when shall we have tea again?” he pleads.

“Oh, I imagine we shall chat once again in, say, exactly 175 years.”

Jackson rises, steps toward me, pushing aside his $20 portrait artist.

“But all the Indians will be long gone by then!”

“Really, Mr. President, we’ll still be here. And I can assure you there will be more to us than a mere portrait memory.”