For better or worse, gambling has changed the way many Cherokees live.
by Joe Tarr
Jesse and Frances Welch have lived at Cherokee all their lives, but they've never stepped foot inside the building that draws most people to this little tourist community on the other side of the Smokies in North Carolina.
Like a lot of people who live on the Cherokee Reservation, the Welches didn't want the casino that opened here in 1994. But today, the Welches can sit on their porch—with a good view of the mountains where Jesse grew up—and look down their driveway to one very tangible benefit of the casino. "It bought my truck," says Jesse, pointing to a shiny black Ford Ranger pickup.
A charter bus driver, Welch paid for the vehicle with the twice-annual checks that every tribe member gets as a share of the casino profits. "I just get that check and turn it over to the finance company," he says. The per capita payments currently add up to more than $6,000 a year, and the amount keeps growing.
There have been other benefits from the gambling hall, where pot-bellied retirees in golf shirts and old ladies in polyester smoke cigarettes and plunk coins into flashing video poker games. Because Frances is in a wheelchair, the tribe paved the couple's driveway, as they have for all disabled folks.
The casino has added 1,700 jobs to the community, it's given the tribal government a sizeable budget to tackle a variety of economic and social problems, and it's injected hundreds of millions into the economy.
Once one of the poorest communities in the region, Qualla Boundary—or simply "the boundary" (terms many locals prefer over reservation)—could soon become one of the wealthiest.
In this predominantly Baptist community, many people feared and opposed the casino. They're upset that the tribal government never held a referendum on the idea. Not everyone is handling the change well and many are still uneasy about the gambling. But, in such a traditionally poor area with few job opportunities, it's hard to argue that the money is bad a thing.
"I don't know how people would have voted for it if we'd had a referendum," says Principal Chief Leon Jones. "But I could tell you which way they'd vote now."
Over the Hills
Winding down U.S. Route 441 out of the Smokies and into North Carolina, the first town you come to is Cherokee, N.C. Both sides of the road are lined with schmaltzy tourist attractions, most of which use pop culture Indian words, like Pow Wow or Tepee or some variation on Bear or Chief. The development seems largely scattershot. It's part Pigeon Forge, part Gatlinburg, with far fewer people. There are lots of pseudo Indian artifacts and trinkets for sale here.
The main street is not without some charm. You can see fly fishermen casting in the Oconaluftee River in the middle of town, and you can wander through the Oconaluftee Island Park's bamboo stand.
Around the corner on U.S. Route 19 there's a number of small amusement parks—Santa's Land, a chairlift, a zoo. Once, they made up this town's main industry, but all of that changed a few years ago.
The 1988 federal Indian Gaming Regulatory Act allowed tribes to conduct gambling operations if that type of gaming was permitted in their state. Tribes were required to negotiate an operating agreement with the state government, but were otherwise free from regulation and taxes.
In 1993, North Carolina legalized video games of chance, as a favor to coastal merchants who wanted to lure tourists. The machines would pay prizes worth less than $10, not cash. But, the legislation opened the door for the Cherokee to have video poker at its bingo hall. The state at first fought the tribe in court, but eventually relented.
The first compact negotiated between the governor and the tribe was a limited one, lasting seven years. The maximum payouts were restricted to $25,000 and the tribe was only a small casino. In January 1995, the tribe installed 78 video poker machines in their bingo hall. The games brought in $600,000 in the first year.
The tribe then found a private company to manage its casino, and in 1997 Harrah's took over the operation, opening the larger building that now stands. The tribe owns the casino, but they pay Harrah's to run it for them under a contract that runs out in November 2004. The tribe could run the casino itself, but for now that seems unlikely. Harrah's has aggressively expanded the operations, enlarging the game area and opening a 15-story, 252-room hotel this year (there's a "16th" floor, but no 13th, a courtesy to superstitious guests). The company is now increasing the game space to 80,000 square feet and will have 3,500 video games.
In 2000, the tribe renegotiated its compact with the state, expanding it to 30 years. This time around, the governor asked for just one thing, says Tribal Council chairman Bob Blankenship. He wanted them to establish the Cherokee Preservation Foundation and fund it at a minimum of $5 million a year, to help keep the region from losing its culture.
You can get a little disoriented inside Harrah's casino. There's sparse natural light, just the blinking, sparkling buzz of thousands of video games. (One of the predominant medical emergencies inside the casino is seizures, sometimes brought on by long exposure to the dizzying computer lights.)
Last year, the casino drew 3.3 million people. The visitors tend to be older, a few in wheelchairs or carting oxygen tanks around with them. Brenda Oocumma, chairman of the casino's board of advisors, says most people come from a 250-mile radius, but they get visitors from all over the world. There are no live card games, but video blackjack tables were just added—a live dealer taps buttons to make video cards appear before each player. The casino paid out $159 million, with $228,000 the record prize, for 2001.
In return, the casino has given the region 1,700 jobs, becoming by far the area's largest employer. It's also the state's largest tourist attraction. "The main impact is it gives people work," says Blankenship. "If they wouldn't be working, they'd have to be on welfare. There's no other industry here but tourism."
Tipping the Pay Scale
Kenneth Maney used to be a policeman for the Cherokee tribe. After about 10 years on the force, he was only making $8.25 an hour. It wasn't enough for his family, so he gave it up and took a job with a private contractor. "He paid me $8.25, starting with no experience," Maney says. "I went up from there. But my family life was suffering. So, after a while I came back onto the reservation."
This time he got a job as a fish and game warden, a post he's held for nine years. How well the tribe has done can be seen in his pay stub. His hourly rate is more than $18. The difference, of course, is the money the tribe now has at its disposal thanks to casino profits.
According to the 2000-2001 Report to the Principal People (an annual report given to Cherokee members), the casino made the tribe $139 million last year—an increase of almost 20 percent from the year before. The amount continues to climb and could be in the $150-$160 million range this year.
Half of all the profits are distributed to tribe members. Checks are sent out twice a year—June 1 and Dec. 1—to all 12,500 registered members, whether they live in the boundary or not. (About 10,000 members live on the 57,000 acres owned by the tribe.)
Right now, the checks are about $3,000 each, or $6,000 a year. Children get the per-capita payment as well, but their money is placed in a trust fund. They get access to it when the turn 18 and graduate high school. Without a diploma, they get the money at 21.
The other half of the profits is used by the Tribal Council in much the way any local government would use its revenue. Before the casino came along, the council's main funding was from a 7 percent sales tax and the federal government. (The tax is still there, bringing in the tribe about $5 million a year.)
"I served in tribal government when we didn't have any money to do anything, and we were always applying for government grants," says Blankenship. "Now, we've grown into a multi-million dollar budget."
The tribe's budget, once about $10 million a year, is now roughly $120 million. The tribal government has been able to do more than it ever dreamed it could. They did a study of salaries in the area and made their pay competitive with them. The number of people on the payroll has climbed from 300 to about 900, and there are still openings.
Last year, the tribal government used about 20 percent of the budget toward operations. Other tribal money goes toward an endowment fund, capital improvements, housing, debt service, health care, and education. The tribe funds the school system at about $2 million a year and the hospital at $4 million, and it operates a senior citizens home.
"If we didn't have the casino, we'd be in a lot of trouble," Blankenship says. "The [federal] government only pays about 50 percent of the health care that Indians need. They would only send people for treatment if they were dying. They wouldn't have any income to live off of let alone for health care and education needs."
The tribe has also tackled a number of living standard projects. It recently completed a $9 million sewer project in the Big Cove area. (One of the tribal goals is to get everyone in the boundary area proper water and sewer, whether it be wells and septic tanks, or city water and sewer connections.) They're working on establishing a Fannie Mae home ownership program, to help people buy mid-ranged priced homes. "We're trying to get rid of all these trailers that got drug onto the reservation. They don't last long and they don't look good," Blankenship says.
When you ask tribal leaders about the effects the casino has had on life here, you get something of a party line response. They rattle off all the wonderful projects that the tribe has taken on since the casino opened. Their optimism is understandable. There are still many problems that need to be addressed, but now they have resources to tackle the problems.
"The government didn't have the funds [before the casino]," says Chief Jones. "Our main source of revenue was the [sales tax] levy back then. We did an admirable job, but we can do much more now."
A Different Type of Tourist
Around the boundary, the reaction is not so overwhelmingly rosy. Almost everyone says that the casino has given the tribe a wonderful opportunity—even those who were against it. And those checks sure come in handy. But there are grievances and fears.
There are complaints that Harrah's employs too few Native Americans. Of the casino and hotel's 1,700 workers, 30 percent are tribal members. But, the casino points out that 60 percent of its supervisors and above are Native Americans.
"We'd all like for it to be 100 percent tribal members, but I can't go out and force people to work for us," Oocumma says.
The average hourly wage is $9, the average salary is $37,000, and the total payroll is $48 million, according to the casino.
"The casino has not only impacted the Eastern Band," Chief Jones says. "For instance, we don't have an auto dealership or a major clothes store. I can't buy a suit here. Every two weeks, those 1,700 [payroll] checks are spent in Western North Carolina. And twice a year, those per capita checks are spent in Western North Carolina. We have a major impact on the economy."
The gamblers do provide a more steady flow of tourists; while they used to just come from Memorial Day to Labor Day, they now come year-round. "It used to be this time of year we'd roll up the sidewalks and call it a year," says John West, who is sitting out at the firehouse on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
The casino has done some things to try to keep the money local. Vicki Leadford, general manager of the Qualla Arts & Crafts Mutual—a cooperative of 300 local artists who join together to sell their crafts—says the casino has been one of their biggest customers, buying art for the hotel and casino. "They probably come [to the store] about twice a month. They really help us out in the long run," she says.
But some merchants say they aren't sharing in the gold mine.
Steve Cooper's family has been running the Tee Pee Restaurant for 39 years. Located across from the tribal fairgrounds, the Tee Pee is a popular breakfast spot for locals, including the director of the Cherokee Museum down the street.
Cooper says the casino hasn't been that great for business. An early incarnation of the gambling hall was located near his diner. When the casino moved to its present home, business dropped about 25 percent. It was then that he realized that a lot of his customers—including many who lived 10 or 15 miles away—were coming to town to gamble and would grab a bite to eat before or after. When the casino moved a few miles away, he stopped seeing a number of regulars.
"I actually realized how many people were coming here to gamble," says Cooper, who is a tribe member. He estimates that local Cherokee merchants are hurting since the casino opened, because tourists are now going to the casino and staying there. With a couple of restaurants and gift shops inside the casino and an adjoining hotel, you don't have to leave the place. Big spenders or winners also get complimentary meals.
"They say they don't want to compete with you, but they're just like everybody else. They want to keep it all to themselves," he says.
Sitting outside the Pow Wow gift shop on U.S. Route 19, Chief Redhawk has seen a lot of changes in Cherokee over the years. He's not a real chief; he just poses as one for the tourists. And although some of his garb isn't authentic to Cherokee traditions, he says he tries to point tourists to the genuine Native American attractions in the area. He plays to the awestruck kids and their parents, offering to pose with them for $2 ($5 if they use his instant camera).
"This is how I make my living," he says. "I answer questions all day long. I don't work for anybody but myself."
Chief Redhawk says the casino has hurt the traditional tourist attractions. "There's a lot of people who say, 'We just donated a lot of money to the casino up there, and we don't have any for a picture.'" He says the tourists are different now. Before it was mostly families and fishermen visiting; now it's amateur gamblers hoping to strike it rich.
"It looks like [the boundary] is heading into more commercialism, and I'm not in favor of that. It's building up so quickly. It's kind of hard to understand. Maybe it's just building too quickly for people to adjust."
John Finger, a University of Tennessee history professor who has written three books on the Cherokee, says the casino has largely been a good thing for the tribe because it has given it self-sufficiency. However, there are still some fears and resentments about the gambling hall.
"There are a lot of people who see the casino as a the wedge toward legalizing alcohol sales. There's no doubt that a large part of the business establishment would love to see that happen," Finger says.
Jackpot?
Much of the opposition is for religious reasons. When the casino was first proposed, there was strong opposition to it from the more than 20 Baptist churches in boundary.
"We just feel that gambling is morally wrong," says the Rev. Bobby Watts of the Rock Springs Baptist Church, who is not a tribe member but serves many. "When you study the Bible's instruction on the use of money, gambling is not a wise investment, it's not a wise way to use money. It's addictive. I've counseled with people who have become addicted to the gambling. Homes in trouble, business in trouble because of the gambling addictions."
There are a few people who turn down their per capita checks or donate them to charity. Maney, the game warden and a Deacon at Rock Springs Baptist Church, at first refused his checks. He's accepted the last few, but gives the money to others. He started accepting them when realized that his tribal job was being financed through the casino as well. "There's no way I could work for the tribe and not accept [money from the gambling operations]," Maney says. "When the per capita check comes, I believe I can give it to who I want to. I found lady folk here on the reservation, they're missionaries. I give it missionaries or the visiting preachers that come by or people that need help and ask me for money. My kids have been in trouble with debt and I have given money to them."
There are no statistics on how people are spending their per-capita. As you'd expect it goes toward the whole gamut—booze, couches, cars, home improvements, charities and investments. Some do spend it in the casino.
"A lot of them lost their lives already because of booze," says Frances Welch. "If they use [the money] right, it's good. But some of them drink it up."
"Most people, you see them taking new furniture and appliances home after they get their checks," Blankenship says. "The population has a few people who have social problems, an inability to hold a job. Those people when they get their per capita they usually blow it."
But, he adds, "They wouldn't do anything anyway."
Joseph French, a Cherokee tribe member who recently moved to Lenoir City, says the worries have not come true. "This did not make instant alcoholics, like everyone feared," he says. "We have alcoholics and drug addicts just like everyone else. What it did do is establish some semblance of trying to help these people. The adverse effect is everyone and their brother is claiming to be Cherokee trying to get some of that money. And they come out with some dynamic names."
A lot of people are worried about how the money is affecting the children. "We just hope we get the financial training for our kids. They're going to come into a whole chunk of money at once. We're trying to convince some of them to leave it there until 30," French says.
Assuming the annual per-capita payment stays around $6,000 (which, given the growth trends, seems unlikely) and assuming a conservative 5 percent average annual yield, a Cherokee born today would stand to get about $168,000 when he or she turns 18. The amount will likely be much more than that. It could provide a huge opportunity for them, but it might also lead to lots of trouble.
Blankenship says that the tribe pays for financial planning classes for both the high schools and for adults, to help them manage their funds.
The Rev. Watts says he's seen 18-year-olds spend their money in not-so-wise ways. "It's been several years; by the time they turn 18, they're getting a pretty sizable amount of money. Most of the ones I've been around go after immediate things, like a car, instead of an education. I'm sure there are some who have used it wisely."
In 1990, the Cherokee tribe took over administration of the schools, with assistance from the federal bureau. Doyce Cannon, director of education in the Bureau of Indian Affairs, is essentially the school superintendent, overseeing a K-6 elementary school and a high school with 1,197 children, 98 percent of whom are Native American.
The graduation rate has definitely gone up, according to Cannon. The rate is now at 92 percent, up from the 80 percent rates of a few years ago, Cannon says.
"I think the opportunity is there for all of our kids who have the grades to where they can go to college," Cannon says. "Our enrollment in college is pretty good. Let me put it this way: The opportunity is there since the funding is more available. We've had more kids take advantage of that funding."
Another concern is that the casino will further rob the Eastern Band of its identity and culture. Any cultural assimilation began long before there was a casino, but some fear it will speed the process up.
"A lot of the basketry design, the beadwork, have already lost the meaning of the design," says Maney. "We're losing our culture because we're trying to assimilate into the non-native culture, I suppose.
"I used to work with the Choctaw Indians. There, people have to go to school to learn English because they're taught Choctaw at home. That's not the way it is here," he says. "I can't even speak Cherokee."
Although any enormous commercial enterprise has the potential to rob a traditional culture's character, some people say the casino has actually done the opposite. By supplying a steady stream of funds, the tribe has been able to do more to preserve its traditions.
Tina Saunooke, director for the Qualla Childcare Program, says the program has been able to teach Cherokee in the schools and offer extensive arts and cultural classes.
The Cherokee Preservation Foundation—established two years ago to help keep the Native American culture alive—awarded its first series of grants this month, $2.1 million to 53 different organizations. The foundation is charged with giving out $5 million a year in grants, but could amount go up to $10 million.
The Qualla Arts & Crafts Mutual benefited with a $20,000 grant. They're going to use it to have classes helping people connect their art with the past and tribal customs. "Everyone is putting out crafts but not thinking about quality. We want to build the pride in what they're putting out," she says.
Winners and Losers
Despite all the money and opportunity the casino has brought the tribe, many Cherokee will likely remain a bit uneasy about the place for years to come. They're thankful for the new jobs and the extra government services and they cash their per capita checks. Maney marvels at some of the changes. "I didn't think I'd ever see a 15-story building anywhere on Cherokee land," he says. "They're building roads here."
But, he's seen a darker side too. He's seen fishermen who've been coming to Cherokee for years gamble away their savings and their vacation trailer homes.
"I've been in the building one time, because I was required to be there," Maney says. "There are a lot of people who it has hurt, it's devastated their lives. The money they give out, I could live without it now. Those people who have a problem with the gambling, losing their savings, I feel real bad for them. There's no explaining how it makes you feel. But the Tribal Council voted for it. Those were the people that brought it in. I don't know who they were or what their religion was or even if they had any. They were the people that brought it in. But, it's here now."
October 17, 2002 * Vol. 12, No. 42
© 2002 Metro Pulse
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