By Alex Crevar (AB '93)
Photos by Carly Calhoun (AB, ABJ '02)
Georgia Magazine - December 2002: Vol. 82, No. 1
Reprinted with permission

"My ancestors didn't come over in the Mayflower—they met the boat. I am a Cherokee and it's the proudest little possession I ever hope to have."—Will Rogers

Principal Chief Chadwick "Corntassel" Smith can control time. His gift is one of the mind; an ability to slow situations to assess chaos with clarity. And on this morning in late September, the tribal leader, top executive, and head spokesman of the 230,000-member Cherokee Nation is in the zone, ambling down Washington, D.C.'s Second Street with a pre-rain mist falling about him. The Supreme Court's Georgia marble steps mirror his cowboy boots as he passes, and "Equal Justice Under Law," inscribed on the pediment above, frames his athletic profile—turquoise-studded belt buckle and all. Across Constitution Avenue he strides into the Russell Senate Office Building for one of the overlapping congressional meetings that jam his schedule any time he comes to town, about 10 times a year.

Left: Sequoyah High cheerleaders urge the Indians into action.

Right: Preschool Head Start students are immersed in Cherokee language to re-enforce heritage.

Smith (BSEd '73), who flew in just hours ago from the Cherokee Nation's capital in Tahlequah, Okla., has already held a strategy session with two other tribal leaders—Gov. Bill Anoatubby of the Chickasaw Nation and the Choctaw Nation's assistant chief, Mike Bailey—at the Capitol Hill Starbuck's. The trio, aides behind them, then marched to the Cannon House Office Building to meet with Oklahoma's District 2 representative Brad Carson, himself a Cherokee. At stake for all three tribes is the Arkansas Riverbed Settlement Act, a bill—H.R. 3534—sponsored by Carson, which is intended to settle out of court a case more than 30 years old. In question are the numerous leases and non-Indian homes, which have sprouted along the riverbed though it was deemed tribal property by the U.S. Supreme Court. The projected agreement will obligate the government to pay just over $41 million to the tribes, which they can then use to purchase land of similar worth. Around a coffee table in the congressman's conference room, the discussion is direct.

Governor Anoatubby: Are all congressmen on board?

Carson: It can be scheduled by next Tuesday, but timing is critical—this being so close to the end. (The 107th Congress closed October 11, forcing all "held" bills—which this, in fact, did become—back to the proverbial drawing board unless passed during a "lame duck" session following elections.)

Chief Smith: Brad, we are appreciative of your support.

Carson: I thank you—I know this is something that you all have had to deal with for the last 30 years.

This may sound like a lot of trouble for a 7,750-acre land transaction that by federal standards isn't huge. But it takes only a moment in Smith's company to know that the greatest source of historic Indian betrayal is land-based. "Sometimes, we have to work hard just to get a symbolic victory," says Smith, boarding the underground monorail that joins the House and Senate wings of the Capitol with the congressional office buildings. He appears collected, almost sedate, surrounded by darting legislative interns, though he himself directs one aide on the phone and another in person. "There are times when you feel what it was like for chiefs years ago," he says as the tram whisks him toward the Senate offices, "and then you realize that it must have been 100 times more frustrating."

"When dignity is achieved, pride is the result."—Ella Sands

Fall is Cherokee festival season. And just after his D.C. flight touches ground in Oklahoma, Smith is off to a parade in Kenwood—one of the more than 50 traditional Indian communities that dot the Nation's 14-county jurisdiction in northeast Oklahoma. It's in rural areas such as this that Smith's nationwide call for cultural introspection resonates the sharpest. Men in distinctive ribbon shirts made of calico fabric and women in tear dresses (popularized by the Cherokee removal from Georgia—the "Trail of Tears") celebrate a heritage that has persevered through more than 300 years of imperial exploitation. They eat fry bread and puffed-corn hominy and with varying levels of historic cognition they honor the U.S.'s second largest tribe (Navajos are first)—a people who include nearly 12,000 remaining full-bloods among the more than 90,000 Cherokees living within the Nation's boundaries.

Developing a strong base of common belief is one of the tenets of the Smith administration, which initiated a cultural and language immersion curriculum at the Nation's preschool Head Start programs and continually secures new funding for the facilities of its all-Indian boarding school, Sequoyah High. Those funds come from the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs and from Cherokee enterprises, which garner income through sales taxes levied on businesses located within tribal land, three Cherokee casinos (all are class 2 gambling, which consists mainly of bingo and low stakes games), and U.S. defense contracts. This combined revenue helps to pay for government expenses such as roads, schools, and public health facilities, which provide free services for all tribal members.

But touting the administration's mission—"Working together . . . by promoting confidence, tribal culture, and an effective sovereign government"—to the traditionally minded is like preaching to the choir. The more difficult sell is to Cherokees in need of public assistance, like those who shop at one of five food distribution centers on the Nation. Inside the warehouses, fruit and vegetable cans and cereal boxes stamped with plain USDA labels pack the aisles. Tribal members filling their carts do not want their photographs taken nor do they want to answer questions. "This is supplemental aid—not welfare," says Ella Sands, the Nation's assistant manager of family assistance. Sands believes that a person's ability to live with self-respect is the top priority and during Smith's tenure as chief one way they have tried to accomplish that is by building more distribution centers (before the centers, food was handed out from truck tailgates). "We have also started getting food shipped directly to us from the producer," continues Sands. "This gets food here faster, is more cost effective, and it's more dignified for people not to have USDA labels on their shelves at home. When dignity is achieved, pride is the result."

Cherokee Nation jurisdiction (once entirely Cherokee owned) includes all or portions of the 14 counties in northeast Oklahoma. The yellow sections are traditional communities.

On Friday nights in autumn, Cherokee families drive out to the football stadium to show their cultural pride while watching the Sequoyah High Indians play. On their cars are freshly printed tribal license plates (as of Sept. 30, a motor vehicle compact put the tags in the U.S. database) and they sit in folding chairs and gather under blankets, cheering for kids to whom they are often not related. Dark-haired girls in maroon uniforms scream after each score, pumping silver pompoms. "Indians from 14 states and 40 tribes come here," says Sequoyah's superintendent Tony Pivec. The boarding school is tuition-free but has one main requirement: applicants must be Indian. Mandatory courses include Cherokee and Native American history and Cherokee language. "Our school provides an awareness that you can't find other places."

"This legacy needs to be preserved," Smith explains, back at his office in Tahlequah to organize his staff before he leaves for another last-minute legislative trip to D.C. "As a historian, I know where we have gone and I see where we can go. It is important to be aware because when you have trials and tribulations, you can either fall apart or form a rallying point for a team."

On Smith's agenda for his return to D.C. is the "The Five Nations Indian Land Reform Act." The proposal would give landowners from the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Seminole, and Creek Nations—nicknamed the "Five Civilized Tribes" for their perceived acceptance of white ways during the 19th century—the same protection provided to the other 553 tribes across the U.S. The bill, sponsored by Senator James Inhofe (OK), was within sight of the finish line—the president's desk—when Inhofe himself put a hold on it after receiving pressure from Oklahoma's oil and gas lobby. At stake for the Indians, according to Smith, is the reversal of laws, which have caused eastern Oklahoma tribal Nations to lose 99.5percent of their land in less than a century.

Designated as nations (reservations are protected in perpetuity by the federal government), the Civilized Tribes were theoretically autonomous until Oklahoma statehood. Afterward, the tribes were afflicted by costly, state-decided land conveyances, partitioning, adverse possession ("use it or lose it" land laws) cases, and quiet title actions. What Smith fights for is the last remaining land designated in the ironclad agreement the U.S. made with the Cherokees upon their removal from the Southeast. The 1835 Treaty of New Echota states,

". . . the [lands west of the Mississippi River] ceded to the Cherokee Nation . . . shall, in no future time without their consent, be included within the territorial limits or jurisdiction of any State or Territory. But they shall secure to the Cherokee Nation the right by their national councils to make and carry into effect all such laws as they may deem necessary for the government and protection of the persons and property within their own country. . . ."

"Generations ago, the U.S. Government hoped the myth of the vanishing Indian was true. but it was one of life's little embarrassments that they still exist."—Jace Weaver

Tahlequah is a microcosm of the area inside the Cherokee Nation. It is a town rich in Indian heritage to be sure, but like many of today's communities within the tract traded to the Cherokees in the Treaty of New Echota, it represents just one aspect of the town's character. This is not the dusty plain of old west lore. Lake Tenkiller—nearly 13,000 acres of freshwater crowded with fishermen and water-skiers—borders the town to the east; a non-Indian council runs the city; and Northeastern State University (enrollment: 8,500) is the lifeblood of a downtown that blossoms with cafés, bike repair shops, and comfortable bookstores. Picture Athens quarter-sized. "We find unique ways to benefit from our diversity, " says Tahlequah Mayor Jerry Cook. "For instance, diabetes is a grave concern for Cherokees. With diabetes you have potential eye problems. At NSU we have one of the top optometry schools in the country. Similarly, the first day Chad was in office he came over to visit with me. It was the first time on record the chief and mayor met on the first morning. We realized that a strong relationship can only be positive."

On one afternoon in early October it's about 90 degrees and a group of NSU students take refuge from the sun under the Iguana Café's patio canopy. Drinking iced-coffee, they say their studies are bolstered by attending the college with the largest Indian population in the country. It doesn't take long for them to share their views about Cherokee history. "The plight of the Cherokees has to rank among the most shameful moments for America," says one. "Yeah," agrees another, "but what is hardest to believe is just how little of that information is taught."

Debate surrounds early Cherokee history. As with any people whose early past was not written down, little can be positively known. What is known is that by the time Hernando de Soto arrived in what is now the southeastern U.S. around 1540, the Cherokees occupied some 81 million acres (126,000 square miles)—parts of Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee. "With the appearance of Europeans, the de-stabilization of the area must have been great," says UGA emeritus anthropology professor Charles Hudson, co-editor of The Transformation of the Southeastern Indians, 1540-1760, released this year by the University Press of Mississippi. "Before whites there was, of course, fighting [between tribes] but there was a set of rules—a code of conduct. After whites they fought incessantly."

Above: Smith presides over a weekly executive meeting. His tribal advisors present State of the Nation reports, which the government uses to enact policies that best utilize resources.

Left: Elected in 1999 and up for re-election in 2003, Smith's platform places Cherokee values as the top priority. Ga-du-gi—tribal cooperation—is the administration's mission.

In 100 years—from 1721, when Cherokees signed their first treaty with the British, to 1821, when the Cherokee scholar Sequoyah invented the Cherokee syllabary—over half the tribe died of smallpox, were run from their homes, or killed in colonial wars. In 1832, after the Supreme Court and Chief Justice John Marshall found on behalf of the Cherokees and their legitimacy as a sovereign power, Andrew Jackson declared, "John Marshall has made his decision, now let him enforce it." "To this day," says Smith, "there are Indians who won't carry 20-dollar bills. Many wouldn't vote for a democrat again until FDR."

As many as 4,000 Cherokees (a quarter of the population) died in the winter of 1838-39 on the march to what is today Oklahoma. "The Trail of Tears became the defining moment of Cherokees ever after," says Smith. The tribe reinvented itself though, and in the next 30 years a new constitution was drawn, an education system was re-established, and both male and female seminaries were built—the female school being the first higher-education institution for women west of the Mississippi River. But as railroad construction rumbled west, the Cherokee Nation's 8 million acres became an obstacle to U.S. manifest destiny. The consequence of Cherokee land wealth (its downfall just 50 years previous) and American disregard for active treaties was the passage of the 1887 General Allotment Act—sponsored by Massachusetts Senator Henry Dawes—which forced eastern Oklahoma Indian populations to sign citizenship rolls in order to qualify for allotted land parcels. One's ability to trace direct lineage to "The Dawes Roll" is still the method used to determine tribal memberships.

The result of allotment, which the Cherokees were the last to submit to in 1901 (the same year they gained dual American/Cherokee citizenship), was a nation thrust into abject poverty. Without the prior understanding of individual land ownership, Cherokees were often coerced into selling their land for almost nothing or received errant advice from "guardians," assigned to them because Indians of higher blood quantum were deemed "incompetent." In 1907, Oklahoma—Choctaw language for people (okla) and red (humma)— became a state, following numerous land runs giving new settlers the "surplus" tribal territory remaining after allotment.

Cherokee land (common "trust" land and remaining individual allotments) totals less than 100,000 acres today. The Cherokee Nation, once the size of present-day Israel, is now scattered across the Oklahoma plains with a combined size roughly that of metro Atlanta. "Generations ago, the U.S. government hoped the myth of the vanishing Indian was true," says UGA religion professor Jace Weaver, who is of Cherokee ancestry—born and raised in Oklahoma—and has recently come to Georgia from Yale for, among other reasons, the possibility of starting a Native American studies program. "But it was one of life's little embarrassments that they still exist."

"My Goal is that in 100 years the Cherokee people will have what Cherokees had 100 years ago."—Chadwick Smith

After his election in 1999, Smith's first job as chief was to move his desk from the tribal CEO's corner suite, which it had always occupied, to a smaller room in the middle of the other Nation employees. He then knocked out his new office's walls, creating open space between him and his staff. He did this for two reasons. First, he wanted to eliminate artificial hierarchy. (The chief and deputy chief parking places became handicap spots.) Secondly, he had no desire to reside in an office that had bred such disgrace during the prior administration.

In June 1997, a crowd of tribal members and TV news vans collected in front of the Cherokee courthouse in downtown Tahlequah. They were there to protest and record the antics of Chief Joe Byrd, who had, for a third straight year, failed to submit a budget. After months of ignoring questions concerning his accounting practices, Byrd, who had defeated Smith in the 1995 election, declared that he had the right to decide what was constitutional. When Cherokee marshals confronted Byrd with a warrant for the administration's financial records, he fired the entire squad on the spot. Byrd then seized the Cherokee courthouse—where the files resided—with a private security force and refused entry to anyone. "It was one of those times when the pages of a history book are flipping and I had to ask myself, 'What is going to be written on them?'" says Smith, who was among the protesters outside the courthouse. The answer to that question came when Smith attempted to cross the police line, claiming the courthouse was common Cherokee land. He was quickly tackled, dog-piled, handcuffed, and charged with assault and inciting a riot. But at that moment, he also cemented himself as the Cherokee people's choice in the upcoming election. Smith's act of defiance was not unprecedented though. His great-grandfather, Cherokee Senator Redbird Smith, was also arrested for making a stand when he refused allotment at the turn of the 20th century. After Redbird's release from jail, an allotment was forced upon him.

Chief Smith may have the genes to lead the Cherokee Nation but as a youngster in Denver and then Nashville, it was not the future he envisioned. "We moved where my father found work," remembers Smith, who was into sports and fixing up cars as a teenager (he still works on old Studebakers). "We came back to Oklahoma and visited, but my father was part of a generation that suffered an economic Trail of Tears, when Indian families lost property, jobs were scarce, and many Cherokees had to again leave their homeland in search of work. I was always aware of my Cherokee heritage but it wasn't a luxury my father could afford—his first priority was putting food on the table."

It was not until Smith attended UGA, through a two-year program designed to educate Native Americans to teach Native Americans, that he discovered his calling. The program's participants came from across the country to spend every other quarter between Athens and in Indian schools student-teaching. "Generally, I was struggling to get through college," says Smith. "But it was while working with students in Cherokee, N.C., and then on the Choctaw reservation in Mississippi that I realized I wanted to work with my people." (The Eastern Band of Cherokees in North Carolina, population 12,500, like the Cherokee Nation, is federally recognized. They are the descendants of those who stayed and assimilated in the southeast when the Cherokee Nation moved to Oklahoma.)

Above: Smith is interviewed by a Tulsa TV station about the "Five Nations Land Reform Act," designed to federally protect Indian property.

Left: Smith, on the phone in D.C.'s Longworth House Office Building, calls each Cherokee Nation employee on their birthday.

"Chad was a bright, bright boy and extremely pugnacious about Indian rights," says Marion Rice, a retired UGA professor of social science education. "Our program, funded by the BIA, had a philosophy well-suited for someone like him. The idea was that there might be better rapport between an Indian student and an Indian teacher. I am not sure of the final result with that theory, but in Chad's case you could tell he was going to do something." Smith went on to earn an MBA from the University of Wisconsin and a law degree from the University of Tulsa. (Smith is only the second lawyer chief.) In the years following law school, Smith had a private law practice, served as the assistant district attorney in Creek County, Oklahoma, and worked for the Cherokee Nation as a prosecutor. In 1995, Smith lost in his first attempt to become Chief, but even in defeat he moved forward, teaching Indian law and Cherokee history at Dartmouth College.

Back in Tahlequah for one day, after another emergency jaunt to D.C. last October, Smith holds an early morning executive meeting (essentially a cabinet meeting) at the Nation's government complex. He is calculating yet jocular. As the first member of his family to graduate from college (Smith's father, a Gates Rubber Co. employee, borrowed a car to see his son graduate in Athens), he still works with a grease-to-the-elbow, 80-hour-workweek ethic and expects the same from those around him. "In order for this to be on time, you guys are going to have to do your work," he says to his service and resource advisors with regard to their strategy proposals. Then he smiles from half of his mouth. " I hope that's enough said." Combine that direct, no frills, blue-collar attitude with a photographic memory of Cherokee law and history, a full-blood bilingual wife, Bobbie Gail, who was Miss Cherokee 1976, and a relaxed, poker-face confidence and you have the modern-day chief of the Cherokee Nation.

For generations, Disney's "Peter Pan" forged the Indian form. Red-skinned savages, streaked with war paint, balanced feathery headdresses and exclaimed, "How," every few words. In fact, Cherokees never wore headdresses, nor did they live in tepees. "Early on, Indians became the symbol of a country with no identity," says Smith. "Europeans and journalists started to stereotype Indian culture as American and the trend moved to Hollywood. But the question, when it comes to stereotypes, is what set of principles does the general public want to adhere to? The American Heritage Dictionary defines 'Redskin' and 'Nigger' exactly the same."

In August 2001, Smith debated Linda Chavez before a national audience on the Fox program, "The Big Show," about the use of Indians as mascots. Chavez, the president of the Center for Equal Opportunity and former U.S. labor secretary nominee, argued, "I think we are taking this to extremes. This is not derogatory, this is symbolism." "That is an argument of ignorance," retorted Smith, who believes that only Native Americans have the right to use Indians as mascots. "A mascot by definition begets not only prejudice, but begets patronage and paternalism. For us as Indian folk we don't want to be second-class citizens." Recently, from the living-room couch in his home outside Tulsa, surrounded by pictures of his children (three of his six still live at home) in soccer and football uniforms, Smith defined his definition for avoiding stereotypes. "I have two rules. The first is called Anaweg, my 8-year-old daughter. Does it teach her the truth about Indians? If not, I don't use it. The second is called Nedsin, my deceased father. Does it honor our ancestors? If not, I have no use for it."

"What is important to remember is that Cherokees have a checkerboard of beliefs and lifestyles just like any group," says Cherokee Nation communications director Mike Miller. "Although our common past is very important to us, avoiding false, hackneyed images is also necessary. The Cherokee community has positives and negatives like everyone else. We go to church (the prevalent denomination is Baptist), pay bills, and live lives just like every other community in the country."

Smith—up for re-election this March—believes that Ga-du-gi (rough translation from Cherokee: cooperation and sharing among tribal members) is the formula for future tribal success and the foundation of the tribe's propensity for reinvention. "People relate to Cherokees because of our cultural strength and early adaptation to a sophisticated, progressive lifestyle," he says. "We have 230,000 tribal members but more than 780,000 claimed to be part Cherokee on the last census. My goal is that in 100 years the Cherokee people will have what Cherokees had 100 years ago—homes, education, and freedom from debt—so that we won't be just a historical footnote."

In the halls of the Longworth House Office Building in D.C., Smith has today's list of Nation employees celebrating birthdays in one hand and a cellular phone to his ear. As he finishes his last call: ". . . I understand you are having a birthday today and I just wanted to call and wish you a happy birthday," an aide gets his attention before their next meeting with the Resources Committee Staff. Off the phone, Smith folds the paper in methodical squares and puts it inside his breast pocket. "During discussion, I want to use the 1866 Treaty (U.S. obligation to quell insurrections on Cherokee land) as the hammer," Smith explains to the aide. And then to Bill Anoatubby, governor of the Chickasaw Nation, he jokes, "Bill, I've been meaning to talk to you about a pottery plant we recently purchased. I think if we use our pottery to package your world-famous Chickasaw candy we might just have something . . . ." Shaking hands and laughing, the two tribal leaders disappear into the congressional office to lobby for their survival.