Post by blackcrowheart on Jan 11, 2008 14:14:28 GMT -5
Cowlitz tribe blocks "path to Easy Street"
Cowlitz Indian tribal official Randy Russell keeps track of the tribe's
3,600 members in file drawers and on computer. Bill Wagner / The Daily
News
When the Cowlitz Indian Tribe decided last year to close its enrollment
rolls to all but newborns, Judi Abbott was "devastated." Abbott says she
can trace her lineage directly to Veronica Scanewa and Simon Plamondon,
the couple from whom many modern Cowlitz are descended.
"Even as a young girl, I felt there was a secret in our family," Abbott
wrote in an e-mail.
Her grandmother Leontenna Agnes, a Cowlitz Indian raised "by nuns" --
probably at one of the infamous American Indian boarding schools --
never told her daughters about their heritage. Abbott's quest to become
enrolled, she said, began after receiving a letter from her aunt Karolyn
Moriarty in the late 1990s when Moriarty enrolled her own children.
"I want so very much to be counted a member of the Cowlitz Tribe,"
Abbott said.
She won't be, unless the tribe changes its policies.
Tribal leaders say they adopted the 2006 rule change for good reason:
Enrollment exploded from 1,482 at the tribe's 2002 final federal
recognition to 3,600 today. Now, only those under age 1 and able to
prove "direct lineal descendancy" are added.
"This is not uncommon. This is the way a lot of tribes are doing it,"
Tribal Council Chairman John Barnett said.
Though the tribe prefers to downplay this problem of surging enrollment,
the it has been struggling with the burdens that came with recognition
-- including a few potential members who might see getting on the
tribe's rolls as a path to Easy Street.
"There are a lot of ways that people would become an Indian, and (a few)
would go to any lengths to do it," Barnett said.
"They think that just because you're a federally recognized tribe that
all these dollars drop out of the sky," said Nancy Osbourne, who sits on
the tribe's Enrollment Committee. "That's not the case."
There's also a proposed Cowlitz casino near La Center, which would
generate millions of dollars each year. Prospective tribal members could
see enrollment as a way of getting a piece of that pie.
While the recent change has slowed the growth, over the last few years
thousands in the tribal "family" returned to the area, enrolled for the
first time, or renewed their connection to the tribe.
New members have taken advantage of expanded services, many federally
funded, like a bigger health clinic, college scholarships, housing
programs, weatherization, and cultural and biological programs.
A desire to help
For Taylor Aalvik, when the Cowlitz earned recognition as a tribe he
knew he wanted to enroll and return to the area, which he did in 2002.
Aalvik grew up in Newfoundland in eastern Canada and "spent a lot of
time with tribes in Eastern Washington," he said.
"Actually, I'm here because once I knew the tribe was recognized and
there was federal dollars, I came back and asked, 'what can I do to help
serve?' "
A biologist by training who is working on a master's in environmental
science, Aalvik settled in Kelso with partner Tracy, a Tlingit Indian,
and their 2-year-old daughter, Kayla. Aalvik enrolled in 2002 and now
sits on the Tribal Council and the Lower Columbia Fish Recovery Board.
Aalvik said his motivation in returning was to help the tribe. He is
currently "researching and recording the history of our connection to
the land."
Aalvik registered Kayla soon after her birth.
"Obviously, I'm going to get my daughter in," he said. "I want her to
grow up knowing who she is and who her ancestors were, and being part of
the culture and tribe."
For a people accustomed to an ancient oral tradition, all the paperwork
is a new twist.
"I knew I was Indian, but I didn't know anything about being an Indian
on paper," Aalvik remembers.
Controlling growth
One test for enrolling in a tribe is through use of "blood quantums,"
where potential enrollees must show a certain percentage of their blood
traces to a tribe's roots. The method has been controversial throughout
Indian tribes. The Cowlitz tribe moved away from the use of blood
quantums -- it used to require members be 1/16th Cowlitz -- either in
the 1980s or 1990s, depending on who you ask.
"Is the blood in a quart bottle more important than the blood in the end
of my finger?" Barnett asked. "I'm part Finn, part Irish, part French,
and part Indian. I ask the question, 'is this my Indian blood in this
arm?' It's not the Indian blood that makes the Indian. It's how he feels
about himself and his heritage."
Getting information about enrollment is tough. Barnett and spokesman
Phil Harju initially offered to let a reporter see the tribe's
constitution and membership policies, but later requested a formal
letter to the Tribal Council. The Tribal Council then refused the
request. In the end, Barnett, Osbourne and Randy Russell, enrollment
director since 2005, made themselves available for interviews, but they
refused to talk about details they said are "classified," such as the
tribe's constitution and enrollment application.
Even the application itself is frequently revised, apparently. Russell
said he often sends "three, four, five" applications to parents of new
babies -- because the applications expire after 60 days, he said. Why
the short shelf life?
"For control purposes."
The tribe's move away from blood quantums allowed it to grow faster, but
other restrictions, including the 2006 rule change, made enrollment more
difficult.
In 1999, Osbourne said, the tribe began requiring direct lineal
descendancy from three key families. Before, there could be a gap in
generations, she said, "as long as you could prove your grandparent or
great-grandparent was on the roll. But you still had to be a direct
descendent."
By 2006, with sustained growth of well over 100 percent in total
membership since 2002, the tribe clamped down harder.
"We needed to get some kind of control of the tribe," Russell said. "We
needed to come up with some way to control the population (growth)."
The decision reflects the tribe's belief that the vast majority of
adults were already on the rolls by last year.
"We figured six years after recognition (in 2000), most of the adults
would be enrolled," Russell said. He said other requirements haven't
changed.
New members must be approved by the Enrollment Committee, then the
Tribal Council. Telling individuals they didn't get in is the hardest
part of his job, Russell said.
"Some understand, and some don't want to accept that," Russell said.
"Frequently, what I hear is, 'I thought my parents enrolled me as a
child,' or 'I thought since my parent was a tribal member I was
automatically enrolled,' " Russell said. "It's the parent's
responsibility to enroll the child."
The tough part is that given the complicated history of whites' efforts
to squash American Indian traditions, tribal members' ethnic heritage
has in some cases been obscured for decades.
Abbott's aunt, Karolyn Moriarty, now a Cowlitz elder, registered in
1997, at age 72. She empathized with Abbott's confusion about her
heritage.
"A lady at school asked me if I could be in an 'Indian program,' "
Moriarty recalled, thinking back to her youth. "I said, 'I don't know,'
and she said, 'well, why don't you go home and ask your mother?'
Moriarty said her mother, Leontenna Agnes, born in 1885, used to receive
information from the Cowlitz tribe but didn't identify as American
Indian.
"The thing was, I always felt that my mother should have benefitted from
(enrollment)," said Moriarty. "I felt that I should stand up for her.
She would receive letters, and I would say, 'why don't you answer this?'
And she wouldn't. She just shook her head and wouldn't discuss it."
"A great moment"
The tribe's fight for recognition, long delayed after the tribe refused
Washington Territory governor Isaac Stevenson's 1855 offer of shared
reservation space with the Quinault, dates to 1912. It ended in 2002
with new hope, but no new lands.
"I signed a piece of paper in (Washington) D.C. and they said, 'Good
luck, boys,' " Barnett recalled. "We got nothing but a piece of paper.
But it was a great moment for our people. At least we got back the
programs."
The recognition also forced the Cowlitz to formally define who is, and
isn't, a member of the tribe.
"Before the tribe was recognized, nobody was an Indian," Aalvik said.
"It's a burden that's placed on all (recognized) tribes, having to go
through, saying who is and who isn't."
The tribe's federal funding hasn't kept pace with the rolls: The funds
received through Indian Health and federal Housing and Urban
Development, Osbourne said, are calculated using the 2002 "base roll"
number of 1,482.
"We've come an awful long way in five years," Barnett said. "People can
say what they want to say, but basically a lot of (American Indians)
don't have health coverage, they don't have housing. They're destitute.
If we can reach a hand down to them, that's what the Cowlitz tribe is
all about."
The tribe is now the primary health service agency for the seven-county
"Contract Health Service Delivery Area," tribal officials said. The area
includes Pierce, Cowlitz, Lewis, Clark, Skamania, Thurston and Wahkiakum
counties.
"You service all Indians, whether or not they're part of your tribe,"
Barnett said. How many American Indians in the seven-county area?
"We don't know that figure," Barnett said. "They come and they go."
Looking to the future
Applicants for enrollment are required to demonstrate lineage in one of
three historic Cowlitz families, Russell said. The largest descends from
the union of Veronica Scanewa, daughter of Chief Scanewa, and French
trader/explorer Simon Plamondon, the first white man on the Cowlitz
Prairie (the area around and east of Toledo) , according to tribal
documents. The second traces its roots to Luce Skloutwout; the third
family is the Bernier. All three are on the Roblin Roll, a key
historical document from 1919 that documents 900 Cowlitz.
"That's the document that we used for a long period of time," Barnett
said. "That was used to document the ties."
Like Aalvik, Dana Petersen, 23, traces her lineage to the second of the
three families; she has Skloutwout roots. For Petersen, who works in
accounts payable for the tribe, registration in 2004 helped her get a
college education.
With a scholarship from the tribe, Petersen graduated from The Evergreen
College in June. She also completed an internship with the tribe during
her final term. Petersen said she doesn't recall much about the
enrollment process except it was "very complicated and time-consuming,"
-- partly because she was born in a military hospital in Germany.
"I just remember having to gather a lot of things," she said.
Petersen said she feels lucky to be a part of the tribe during this
"exciting" time. While the tribe is focused on getting its initial
reservation and casino approved -- the final draft of the project's
Environmental Impact Statement should be made public soon -- the tribe's
future depends on young members, like Petersen.
"The younger members are going to have to continue the tribe, the
younger members are going to have to step up and be involved," she said.
Cowlitz Indian tribal official Randy Russell keeps track of the tribe's
3,600 members in file drawers and on computer. Bill Wagner / The Daily
News
When the Cowlitz Indian Tribe decided last year to close its enrollment
rolls to all but newborns, Judi Abbott was "devastated." Abbott says she
can trace her lineage directly to Veronica Scanewa and Simon Plamondon,
the couple from whom many modern Cowlitz are descended.
"Even as a young girl, I felt there was a secret in our family," Abbott
wrote in an e-mail.
Her grandmother Leontenna Agnes, a Cowlitz Indian raised "by nuns" --
probably at one of the infamous American Indian boarding schools --
never told her daughters about their heritage. Abbott's quest to become
enrolled, she said, began after receiving a letter from her aunt Karolyn
Moriarty in the late 1990s when Moriarty enrolled her own children.
"I want so very much to be counted a member of the Cowlitz Tribe,"
Abbott said.
She won't be, unless the tribe changes its policies.
Tribal leaders say they adopted the 2006 rule change for good reason:
Enrollment exploded from 1,482 at the tribe's 2002 final federal
recognition to 3,600 today. Now, only those under age 1 and able to
prove "direct lineal descendancy" are added.
"This is not uncommon. This is the way a lot of tribes are doing it,"
Tribal Council Chairman John Barnett said.
Though the tribe prefers to downplay this problem of surging enrollment,
the it has been struggling with the burdens that came with recognition
-- including a few potential members who might see getting on the
tribe's rolls as a path to Easy Street.
"There are a lot of ways that people would become an Indian, and (a few)
would go to any lengths to do it," Barnett said.
"They think that just because you're a federally recognized tribe that
all these dollars drop out of the sky," said Nancy Osbourne, who sits on
the tribe's Enrollment Committee. "That's not the case."
There's also a proposed Cowlitz casino near La Center, which would
generate millions of dollars each year. Prospective tribal members could
see enrollment as a way of getting a piece of that pie.
While the recent change has slowed the growth, over the last few years
thousands in the tribal "family" returned to the area, enrolled for the
first time, or renewed their connection to the tribe.
New members have taken advantage of expanded services, many federally
funded, like a bigger health clinic, college scholarships, housing
programs, weatherization, and cultural and biological programs.
A desire to help
For Taylor Aalvik, when the Cowlitz earned recognition as a tribe he
knew he wanted to enroll and return to the area, which he did in 2002.
Aalvik grew up in Newfoundland in eastern Canada and "spent a lot of
time with tribes in Eastern Washington," he said.
"Actually, I'm here because once I knew the tribe was recognized and
there was federal dollars, I came back and asked, 'what can I do to help
serve?' "
A biologist by training who is working on a master's in environmental
science, Aalvik settled in Kelso with partner Tracy, a Tlingit Indian,
and their 2-year-old daughter, Kayla. Aalvik enrolled in 2002 and now
sits on the Tribal Council and the Lower Columbia Fish Recovery Board.
Aalvik said his motivation in returning was to help the tribe. He is
currently "researching and recording the history of our connection to
the land."
Aalvik registered Kayla soon after her birth.
"Obviously, I'm going to get my daughter in," he said. "I want her to
grow up knowing who she is and who her ancestors were, and being part of
the culture and tribe."
For a people accustomed to an ancient oral tradition, all the paperwork
is a new twist.
"I knew I was Indian, but I didn't know anything about being an Indian
on paper," Aalvik remembers.
Controlling growth
One test for enrolling in a tribe is through use of "blood quantums,"
where potential enrollees must show a certain percentage of their blood
traces to a tribe's roots. The method has been controversial throughout
Indian tribes. The Cowlitz tribe moved away from the use of blood
quantums -- it used to require members be 1/16th Cowlitz -- either in
the 1980s or 1990s, depending on who you ask.
"Is the blood in a quart bottle more important than the blood in the end
of my finger?" Barnett asked. "I'm part Finn, part Irish, part French,
and part Indian. I ask the question, 'is this my Indian blood in this
arm?' It's not the Indian blood that makes the Indian. It's how he feels
about himself and his heritage."
Getting information about enrollment is tough. Barnett and spokesman
Phil Harju initially offered to let a reporter see the tribe's
constitution and membership policies, but later requested a formal
letter to the Tribal Council. The Tribal Council then refused the
request. In the end, Barnett, Osbourne and Randy Russell, enrollment
director since 2005, made themselves available for interviews, but they
refused to talk about details they said are "classified," such as the
tribe's constitution and enrollment application.
Even the application itself is frequently revised, apparently. Russell
said he often sends "three, four, five" applications to parents of new
babies -- because the applications expire after 60 days, he said. Why
the short shelf life?
"For control purposes."
The tribe's move away from blood quantums allowed it to grow faster, but
other restrictions, including the 2006 rule change, made enrollment more
difficult.
In 1999, Osbourne said, the tribe began requiring direct lineal
descendancy from three key families. Before, there could be a gap in
generations, she said, "as long as you could prove your grandparent or
great-grandparent was on the roll. But you still had to be a direct
descendent."
By 2006, with sustained growth of well over 100 percent in total
membership since 2002, the tribe clamped down harder.
"We needed to get some kind of control of the tribe," Russell said. "We
needed to come up with some way to control the population (growth)."
The decision reflects the tribe's belief that the vast majority of
adults were already on the rolls by last year.
"We figured six years after recognition (in 2000), most of the adults
would be enrolled," Russell said. He said other requirements haven't
changed.
New members must be approved by the Enrollment Committee, then the
Tribal Council. Telling individuals they didn't get in is the hardest
part of his job, Russell said.
"Some understand, and some don't want to accept that," Russell said.
"Frequently, what I hear is, 'I thought my parents enrolled me as a
child,' or 'I thought since my parent was a tribal member I was
automatically enrolled,' " Russell said. "It's the parent's
responsibility to enroll the child."
The tough part is that given the complicated history of whites' efforts
to squash American Indian traditions, tribal members' ethnic heritage
has in some cases been obscured for decades.
Abbott's aunt, Karolyn Moriarty, now a Cowlitz elder, registered in
1997, at age 72. She empathized with Abbott's confusion about her
heritage.
"A lady at school asked me if I could be in an 'Indian program,' "
Moriarty recalled, thinking back to her youth. "I said, 'I don't know,'
and she said, 'well, why don't you go home and ask your mother?'
Moriarty said her mother, Leontenna Agnes, born in 1885, used to receive
information from the Cowlitz tribe but didn't identify as American
Indian.
"The thing was, I always felt that my mother should have benefitted from
(enrollment)," said Moriarty. "I felt that I should stand up for her.
She would receive letters, and I would say, 'why don't you answer this?'
And she wouldn't. She just shook her head and wouldn't discuss it."
"A great moment"
The tribe's fight for recognition, long delayed after the tribe refused
Washington Territory governor Isaac Stevenson's 1855 offer of shared
reservation space with the Quinault, dates to 1912. It ended in 2002
with new hope, but no new lands.
"I signed a piece of paper in (Washington) D.C. and they said, 'Good
luck, boys,' " Barnett recalled. "We got nothing but a piece of paper.
But it was a great moment for our people. At least we got back the
programs."
The recognition also forced the Cowlitz to formally define who is, and
isn't, a member of the tribe.
"Before the tribe was recognized, nobody was an Indian," Aalvik said.
"It's a burden that's placed on all (recognized) tribes, having to go
through, saying who is and who isn't."
The tribe's federal funding hasn't kept pace with the rolls: The funds
received through Indian Health and federal Housing and Urban
Development, Osbourne said, are calculated using the 2002 "base roll"
number of 1,482.
"We've come an awful long way in five years," Barnett said. "People can
say what they want to say, but basically a lot of (American Indians)
don't have health coverage, they don't have housing. They're destitute.
If we can reach a hand down to them, that's what the Cowlitz tribe is
all about."
The tribe is now the primary health service agency for the seven-county
"Contract Health Service Delivery Area," tribal officials said. The area
includes Pierce, Cowlitz, Lewis, Clark, Skamania, Thurston and Wahkiakum
counties.
"You service all Indians, whether or not they're part of your tribe,"
Barnett said. How many American Indians in the seven-county area?
"We don't know that figure," Barnett said. "They come and they go."
Looking to the future
Applicants for enrollment are required to demonstrate lineage in one of
three historic Cowlitz families, Russell said. The largest descends from
the union of Veronica Scanewa, daughter of Chief Scanewa, and French
trader/explorer Simon Plamondon, the first white man on the Cowlitz
Prairie (the area around and east of Toledo) , according to tribal
documents. The second traces its roots to Luce Skloutwout; the third
family is the Bernier. All three are on the Roblin Roll, a key
historical document from 1919 that documents 900 Cowlitz.
"That's the document that we used for a long period of time," Barnett
said. "That was used to document the ties."
Like Aalvik, Dana Petersen, 23, traces her lineage to the second of the
three families; she has Skloutwout roots. For Petersen, who works in
accounts payable for the tribe, registration in 2004 helped her get a
college education.
With a scholarship from the tribe, Petersen graduated from The Evergreen
College in June. She also completed an internship with the tribe during
her final term. Petersen said she doesn't recall much about the
enrollment process except it was "very complicated and time-consuming,"
-- partly because she was born in a military hospital in Germany.
"I just remember having to gather a lot of things," she said.
Petersen said she feels lucky to be a part of the tribe during this
"exciting" time. While the tribe is focused on getting its initial
reservation and casino approved -- the final draft of the project's
Environmental Impact Statement should be made public soon -- the tribe's
future depends on young members, like Petersen.
"The younger members are going to have to continue the tribe, the
younger members are going to have to step up and be involved," she said.