This article first appeared in the December 2017 issue of Talking Leaves, the newsletter of the Mt. Hood Cherokees.
How should we define what it means to be Cherokee in the 21st century? Enrolled members of the Cherokee Nation, Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians, and the United Ketoowah Band of Cherokee Indians in Oklahoma represent a clear standard for Cherokees. Some view non-citizen descendants as “wannabes” regardless of the individual’s heritage, knowledge, or community involvement. Despite this, there seem to be three things that identify one as Cherokee. They involve the congenital or ancestral, the cultural or societal, and the metaphysical or spiritual. Congenital/ancestral (It’s not about the cheekbones) During the 2012 election cycle, Elizabeth Warren, a United States Senator from Massachusetts for the Democratic Party, said that a family member told her that Warren’s “papaw” (grandfather) had high cheek bones and, therefore, was an Indian. The cheekbone declaration and lack of curiosity coming from this woman regarding Cherokee culture and history are breathtaking. When pressed, Warren was unable to support her assertions of being Cherokee. To date, Warren has never sufficiently addressed those early assertions regarding Cherokee descent to satisfy this writer. She has preferred to remain silent, showing no interest in learning more about our history, culture, or concerns. In the more recent election, Donald Trump called Warren “Pocahontas,” which generated laughter and further sarcasm among more than a few Americans. Again this week, Trump, with a portrait of Andrew Jackson looming in the background, referenced Pocahontas (meant to insult Warren) while attending a Navajo Code Talker ceremony in the Oval Office designed to honor these veterans for their service. Such comments demonstrate the profound ignorance and stereotypes about indigenous life and heritage. Pocahontas was a Powhatan and endured kidnapping, rape, and an early death; nothing funny about that. As Cherokees—enrolled or not—we must speak out against the irrelevance of high cheekbones and the cruel and dangerous conventions of our people. Those of us not endowed with tribal citizenship get caught in the middle of a rather nasty, race-baited quagmire. We’re stuck somewhere between the fumblers like Warren and enrolled Cherokees who were diligently raised as such. Individual Native American self-determination upsets the balance of things within the tribe, even when such self-identification is accurate. I comprehend that Cherokees want to emphasize the nation-to-nation relationship with the United States government, even though Cherokees were Cherokee before such a relationship existed, yet that speaks to my point: One either has Cherokee ancestors or one does not. My dilemma here is the proclamation sometimes put forth that only citizenship and/or race determine who is a Cherokee. More dialogue is in order. Cultural/societal (“the proudest little possession”) An artist named Jimmie Durham has been the subject of recent controversy, particularly amongst Cherokees. The Indian Arts and Crafts Act of 1990 (P.L. 101-644) was instituted to protect tribal members and certified Indian artisans from fraudulent individuals claiming Indian heritage. In earlier times, Durham claimed Cherokee heritage and to date has presented no documentation of Cherokee ancestry. One recent article describes Durham as a “77-year-old white guy.”i Durham should be protested and perhaps disciplined, but my concern lies with the language among some who use race as a primary argument. Fortunately, Cherokee Nation citizens that I know (most of who are of mixed racial origin) are more concerned about Durham’s misrepresentation than his racial makeup. Humorist Will Rogers (my third cousin, three times removed) was a “white guy.” He was also Native American, a citizen of the Cherokee Nation. Rogers is reported to have said, “I am a Cherokee and it’s the proudest little possession I ever hope to have.” Today, plenty of others, even in high-level tribal government roles, are white guys. They are also Native American. Clearly, it’s about more than pigmentation. It has been said that of all creatures, the U.S government registers three according to some type of pedigree database: dogs, horses, and Native Americans. If race describes physical features and ethnicity refers to cultural characteristics, how are we to differentiate and bring clarity to this outdated and patrimonial construct? I have at least one “mixed-blood” Cherokee ancestor listed as white on some census roles and Indian or Native American on others. This was a period in history when it wasn’t “cool” to be Native American. Race played a much greater role before and during early European contact, when Cherokee mixed marriages were few. Is our current condition about race, or is it about how each Cherokee expresses and celebrates his or her identity and heritage? Regarding Jimmie Durham, the purposeful distortion of his identity supersedes his skin color. He was wrong in principle, regardless of his race. Being Cherokee is certainly about birthright but it’s also about being part of a sacred community that in contemporary times represents people of mostly mixed-racial heritage and a sincere, ethnocentric focus on the traditions and values of our ancestors. Metaphysical/spiritual (“All my relations”) The spiritual aspect of being Cherokee belongs to all of us. It lends to more than speculation about cheekbones or DNA sampling, which is spurious at best regarding Native American identity. It’s about deep-seated relationships, such as with one’s higher purpose, others (people, especially ancestors; the created order as a whole—“all my relations”), and self. Many Cherokees have a deep connection with something greater than themselves. Incidentally, one of my second great-aunts was named Julia Pocahontas Lowe. Perhaps Julia’s mother, Cynthia, meant to honor Pocahontas as an expression of her own metaphysical leanings. Most Cherokees with which I am familiar tend to express some sense of reality about something that is beyond their perception and tend to use their awareness to add to the greater good, usually in service to others. How are we to continue to think about being Cherokee? Perhaps stepping back and viewing things from a broader perspective is in order. In December 1971, Canadian Pierre Berton interviewed martial artist and actor Bruce Lee for The Pierre Berton Show. When Berton asked Lee if he considered himself Chinese or North American, Lee, a philosophy major and enjoying the height of his popularity, said that he preferred to think of himself as a human being and that “Under the sky, under the heaven, there is but one family.”ii In times of such division, wise words to ponder. Being Cherokee by citizenship or descent is a distinction, a specific branch of the larger family tree. We possess those qualities that differentiate us from others, while simultaneously demonstrating characteristics that permit us to harmonize with them. Let us continue to relate to the rest of the family with common sense and charity. Bryan Jackson is a member of the Mt. Hood Cherokees. His ancestors span the censuses from the Reservation Roll of 1817 to the 1909 Guion Miller Roll. A few of those ancestors travelled the Trail of Tears in the Bell Detachment. He holds life placement in the First Families of the Cherokee Nation (Sonicooie) and the First Families of the Twin Territories. Sources:
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Have you ever encountered one of those “moments”? Have you ever been fortunate enough to be a part of something that led you to believe that you might have a future doing it? Something where you were a standout? I subscribe to the notion that all of us are genius at something by the time we’re 10 years old. Some folks have multiple talents or gifts that they enjoy sharing with others. The dispensing of those gifts is their response. Responding to a calling is an act of courage. It is like walking to the edge of a long diving board for the first time and knowing that the deep end is just that—deep. You might be afraid of the water; of slipping and losing your balance before you even hit the water. What might be preventing you from responding to a calling? Drowning? The wonderful thing about the angels around us is that most of them know CPR, so fear not. Trusting in others is part of a healthy response to a call. Go on—show me your swan dive! When we’re truly called to something, it is our option not to respond. We just might not have the resources in the moment to answer. The universe understands. Don’t be surprised, though, when the invitation returns somewhat aggressively, kind of like all those letters from Hogwarts School that overtake Harry Potter and marks the beginning of his destiny. If you feel ready, grab those reigns. I and others eagerly await your response. Sunset at Seabrook, Pacific Beach, Washington What are you called to discern about yourself? If you’re like me, it’s all a work in progress and the minute you think you might be close to figuring out some things, you’re down for the count again. Self-improvement courses, education, therapy, even—God forbid, some type of clinical training designed to make one more aware of self and others, are available. Thing is, no matter how much of this we do, the calling to awareness is a consistent exercise that we must do if we are to grow. People will be unhappy with us as we push toward our calling. They will despise us, in fact, but character is not defined by our perceived reputations. It is defined by our adherence to our principles. What are the things that do define you? Is there something that establishes who you are and gives you the drive and compassion for what you do? If you are not who you thought you would be, then who are you, and how can you love yourself regardless? Hey, maybe you’re better than you thought you’d be! Go get ‘em, Tiger! If that is indeed the case, please remember those of us who didn’t turn out quite as well as we thought we might. Have mercy; be aware. Our character and our propensity to offer grace to others can lead us to a higher level of awareness. Our consciousness, our mindfulness, our understanding and appreciation of ourselves and others, these are the qualities that lead to a higher awareness that enable us to be what we are called to be, and do what we are called to do. I realize that a lot of people go through life without ever considering what they might be called to do. It’s not something that is part of their reality. Yet, it could be. Take, for example, the young lady in this photo. She was called yet again to marriage, as was I, and the greatest win of my life was the day she said “I will.” We've been married over 20 years, and I look forward to the next 20. She was further called to excellence as an Education for Ministry mentor, Catechesis of the Good Shepherd catechist, and sustainable investment professional, among other things. Her "being" is just as important to her as her "doing." Calling sometimes implies religious or spiritual beliefs. “What am I here for?” or “What is God/The Great Spirit asking me to do?” are the kinds of questions that Christians like me sometimes grapple with. Those who profess no particular belief in a higher power have demonstrated that they, too, wrestle with the notion of calling. These are materialistic times. We are materialistic people, even though we prefer not to think about that. At some point, we must settle for ourselves why we are here, and most importantly, who we are going to help while we’re here. This gets us to the deeper questions and will carry us to the calmer end of the pool where our money and our stuff, or lack of it, no longer suck us to the bottom. I invite others, both here and in an upcoming book, to investigate their respective calling(s) and how identifying, naming, and realizing those callings can change lives in the sacred circle of people with whom we share those lives. Caution: Living out a calling usually entails risk, great risk. Sometimes, that risk involves the loss of significant relationships. It will, however, bless your being with new relationships that take you where you need to be. Let’s take the mystery as it comes, and while we’re at it, help one another to embrace our calling, be it our first, our 20th, or our last. We are called to do and be no less. To what are you called to be in 2018? Shalom, Peace, di-da-yo-li-hv-dv-ga-le-ni-s-gv (until we meet again). Bryan (This essay was first published in the June issue of "Talking Leaves," the newsletter of my Cherokee community of choice, the Mt. Hood Cherokees).
In April Penny and I returned to the East Coast and I once again had an opportunity to visit the “motherland,” with a climatic return to Kituwah Mound. It was a multi-purpose visit: family, friends, nostalgia, and research. We began in my hometown, Charlotte, where we broke bread with my sisters and some of their children and had a wonderful visit. More than the Cherokee, it was the Catawba, Cheraw, and Waxhaw tribes (following generations of Iroquios, Sugaree, and other Siouan groups) that dominated the area now known as Charlotte and Mecklenburg County, sometimes called the Southern Piedmont Region. Later Penny and I divided our time so we could see as many friends as possible, except for a few we absolutely had to see together. By mid-week I joined her in Asheville, N.C., in the Western North Carolina Mountains. The Asheville area is where my mother was born and raised and the last place Penny and I lived before relocating to The Pacific Northwest. Asheville, according to Vicki Rozema in Footsteps of the Cherokees: A Guide to the Eastern Homelands of the Cherokee Nation, means “ashes place” and is of Cherokee (Unta kiyasti’ yi, meaning “where they race,” as Cherokees once held footraces in the area) origin. On Friday I travelled up to Johnson City, TN, for visits with my former chaplain clinical supervisor, Dr. Larry Easterling, and my friends Jane, a chaplain colleague, and Pat, a member of the chaplain Spiritual Advisory Committee, all from my time at Mountain States Health Alliance. Larry, a native of Appalachia, was very interested in, and honoring of, my Cherokee heritage when we served together. Johnson City, by the way, is the site of the Tipton-Haynes Museum, in the area where the Battle of the State of Franklin took place, yet another reality of the theft of American Indian land during the late 1700’s. The museum has many Native American artifacts dating back to the early period. Due to time constraints, I did not visit the Qualla Boundary this trip, home to the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians. Penny and I rejoined, however, and on Saturday drove over to Bryson City, N.C., where my great-grandmother and grandmother lived, and where my father was raised. My plan is to be interred at Bryson City Cemetery where great-grandmother Estelle (Miller Roll #2991) and my aunt Mildred (Miller Roll #2992)—the last enrolled Cherokees in the family lineage—are buried. Kituwah Mound is just outside of town and Penny and I arrived before noon. For the first time since I’ve visited the mound, trespassing signs were posted. I became distraught about this and we saw two men reclining in the shade of an industrial-type awning near the property, so we went over to inquire and “chew the fat” with them. One was clearly Cherokee (confirmed by the front license plate on his truck, sporting the Tsalagi letters for “Cherokee”) so I identified myself as a Mt. Hood Cherokee and my relationship to the Cherokee Nation and inquired about the signs. “Oh, just ignore that,” one of them said, “That’s just to keep people from picking from the garden.” To say I was relieved is an understatement as I had visions of Sunday’s local headlines: “Swain County sheriff’s deputies arrest man for refusing to leave ancient Cherokee site,” complete with a mug shot of my bald head and a separate photo of Penny’s startled expression. Archaeological dating of Kituwah Mound indicates a presence of almost 10,000 years. It is only about four or five feet high, compared to suggestions of it once being nearly 20 feet tall. For a century or more the mound was farmed by private landowners and began to deteriorate in size and character until the Eastern Band bought it back in 1996. In 2009, the Duke Energy Corporation tried to build a substation on the site until tribal leaders and members from the Eastern Band, the Cherokee Nation, and the United Keetoowah Band stood against it. In 2010, Duke decided to put the substation in another spot, signifying a victory for tribal government, Cherokee spiritual expression, and Native American rights. If one has never visited Kituwah or has not returned since 2010 and an opportunity for sojourn presents itself, one might recall the dedication and commitment that took place to keep this treasured site intact for descendants. Ascending the mound in bare feet on a sunny 80-degree day instantly put me in mind of my great, great, great aunt Mary and her family, who departed Hiwassee, TN (Trail of Tears) on October 11, 1838, arriving in Indian Territory at the Vineyard Post Office in Arkansas on January 7, 1839, and the juxtaposition of such a lovely day in 2017 to the horrors of removal. The grass was long and obscured the ground so we were wary of snakes but the ancestors were with us. As I got on my knees to begin the four directions, I was conscious of voices shouting to one another and two working vehicles in the adjacent farming field shutting down their engines. I tried to relax in the heat as I faced east. After a brief meditation I turned to face the west. I felt the tears coming. I reflected on the names of the women in my father’s line, those who died trying to survive removal, and indigenous people everywhere, and breathed deeply. Thoughts of the Rutherford Expedition, Andrew Jackson, and heavy-footed soldiers with bloody bayonets competed for my attention but I put them in their place. I pondered my father’s frustration at not knowing more about his Cherokee legacy. My face was soaked with tears by the time I faced north. Penny, the epitome of compassion in moments such as these, asked what I was feeling. I couldn’t respond. The names returned: Soniovee (Christian-imposed name “Susannah”), my fifth great-grandmother; Sarah, my fourth great-grandmother, Annie—my third great-grandmother and Mary’s youngest sister; Emma, the second great-grandmother; Estelle, my great-grandmother who helped raise my father; and my grandmother Aileen. I sensed their presence on the mound, surrounding me as I’m convinced they did when I had my second heart attack in 2008. I felt a distant breeze and could see the grass on the mound blowing to and fro as I faced south, the birds singing and cicadas chattering as they do only in the southeast. It was when I went prostrate that I most felt the presence of the Great Spirit and my ancestors. Something about kissing the ground considered sacred to our tribe makes me new again, listening for the words of those so far away yet somehow always nearby. The message? “Be faithful, because the Cherokees will rise again in a way you have not considered. When that time comes, you will be called upon, and you will respond, and we will once again be with you.” Penny had been circling the mound, taking pictures. When I opened my eyes again I smiled as I thought about the theophany (a visible manifestation of God or a deity) I had just encountered. I considered my Mt. Hood family and smiled again. How I wished you were there! I also contemplated this year’s Remember the Removal bike riders, some of whom would be visiting Kituwah for the first time in the following weeks. I took a deep breath and exhaled, and rising to leave, I noticed the engines from the farming vehicles roar to life again. As Protestant clergy, I reflect on this moment theologically as well as philosophically. The various sacraments, ordinances, and rituals I’ve known in the church—Holy Communion (instituted by Jesus, or Tsi sa, prior to his own removal), baptism, marriage (established by God at creation in Judeo-Christian thought), ordination—none exceed the intimacy and profundity I enjoy through the sacrament of birthright celebrated via prayer and reflection on Kituwah Mound. The Tuckasegee River runs parallel to the mound site and is about a three to five minute walk. We went down to the rapids and hung out for a bit. The first thing we did was “go to water,” stepping in and covering our faces and arms with the cold, brisk flow. We snapped a few photos and I took a video of the river that captures the sounds of the whitewater. A circular fire pit in some sand away from the water’s edge indicated many a picnic and get-together over the years. This was the second time I had gone to water at this spot and it was life-giving to be able to do it again, especially with Penny at my side. We took our time meandering and held hands as we headed back to the car and suffice it to say, it was a powerful experience and one that I hope to repeat. On one visit years ago, we tried our GPS to see if it would take us there and things went awry so it’s probably easier to know that Main Street in Bryson City is also State Road 19, and one follows this road out of the small town for a couple of miles at most and Kituwah Mound is on the right, next to a corn field, marked by a sign. Trust me: You will be led to it. A na s gv ti A quatse li E qua A da nv do Wa tsi Ga wo hi lv do di Ni hi (May Our Great Spirit Watch Over You) Bryan |
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January 2024
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