California's Tribal Cleansing: Tacit Approval from BIA and Federal Government (we can't do anything, we are impotent, but keep giving us budget dollars)
In this reports from 2010, Brian Frank has the story of Tribal Cleansing and the Struggle to be hear by those whose civil rights have been violated.
As California Tribes Continue To Purge Members, Dissidents Struggle To Get An Audience
by Brian Frank |
TEMECULA, Calif. — John Gomez Jr. reads to his sons in a near-dead language. He wants them to grow up listening to the language of their ancestors and hearing the creation stories, which are tied forever to natural landmarks here about 90 miles southeast of Los Angeles.
Gomez identifies strongly as a member of the
Pechanga Band of Luiseno Indians. He even named his sons after prominent figures in the history and lore of the Temecula Indians, who now call themselves Pechanga. To his youngest he gave the middle name Ano de Apis, after the merger of two clans through the marriage of his own ancestors Casilda Ano and
Pablo Apis (pronounced “Oppish”), who was a prominent chief. The older boy he named Chexeemal, or Kingbird, who plays an important role in the creation stories.
The boys are supposed to learn about their cultural heritage at the Pechanga tribal school, which was set up for that very purpose, but instead they have been barred from attending. In 2004, the Pechanga Band expelled Gomez and much of his extended family—some 130 adults total, along with their children—stripping them of their tribal citizenship and all the rights that go with it.
What happened to Gomez has become so commonplace in California and across the nation that the term for it is gradually gaining recognition outside of Indian Country: it's called disenrollment. More than 20 tribes—a fifth of those federally recognized in California—have voted to disenroll members in the past two decades, more than in any other state. There is no official tally, but estimates collected from several activists, including Gomez, indicate that more than 2300 American Indians have lost their tribal citizenship here since disenrollments started occurring more frequently in the late '90s.
Meanwhile, some of these same tribes reap tremendous benefits from one of California’s newest and most powerful industries, Indian gaming, which for the past two years has outperformed the almighty Vegas Strip with its more than $7 billion in estimated annual revenues. Many tribes share this newfound wealth with their members on a per capita basis—that is, by cutting individual checks, which in the case of the Pechanga reportedly amounts to six figures a year per person. Under such a system, smaller membership translates into more money for everyone, creating a perverse incentive to pit one family against another.
What’s at stake here is not only the livelihood and identities of thousands of American Indians, but also who controls a gaming industry that has virtually overnight become both the richest of its kind in the nation and one of the most influential political lobbies in California.
“We need to do something to bring light to this issue, to help other people, to help each other, and to stop this thing,” says Gomez, who as president of the activist group American Indian Rights and Resources Organization has placed himself front and center in what some are calling a new civil rights movement.
A Powerful New Player
Tribal governments together make up the fifth largest special interest group in the state, funneling more cash into California political campaigns than the powerful teachers unions or pharmaceutical manufacturers, according to MAPLight.org California, which tracks contributions. And the heads of two California tribes, including Pechanga chairman
Mark Macarro, made Capitol Weekly’s list of the 100 most powerful political players in the state.
Macarro became arguably the most recognizable American Indian in the state when during the 2008 election season he served as the face of an aggressive if soft-spoken ad campaign to expand the number of slot machines legally allowed at four of California’s richest Indian reservations. That referendum, which voters approved, resulted in an increase of thousands of slot machines at casinos owned by the Sycuan, Morongo, Agua Caliente and Pechanga tribes, further boosting their already handsome earning potential.
“We’re probably going to exceed Las Vegas in the next year as the No. 1 gambling destination,” says Cheryl Schmit, director of Stand Up For California, a watchdog organization for gambling in California.
Vegas-style gaming, including slot machines, is illegal in California. But Indian tribes have a complicated relationship with the state and federal governments. Each tribe has its own agreement with the United States that determines just how far its sovereignty extends, but in general a tribal government has the final say on many of the laws that affect routine affairs on its land.
Still, though many tribes began to operate bingo halls and experiment with gaming as early as 1980, gambling was still technically illegal. That changed in 2000, when voters approved Proposition 1A, an amendment to the California constitution making Vegas-style slot machines legal on Indian reservations, so long as the tribes signed special revenue-sharing compacts with the state. The subsequent boom has seen a rise in big, splashy resort-style casinos and made a handful of California’s more than 100 tribes very rich, even though many remain poor.
As a collective bargaining group, and with huge pools of money suddenly at their disposal, California tribes now represent one of the most powerful business interests in the state, so the question of who controls them has become as relevant to voters as it is to the people who live under tribal law.
Yet the stakes for tribal members are perhaps even higher. Elect the wrong leaders and they risk losing not only their monthly “per cap” checks, but also their very identity as tribal people, and all the benefits that go with that status.
A Case Study at Pechanga
When Gomez and his family lost their membership in the Pechanga band, they also forfeited their access to the tribal health clinic, a substantial income, access to the tribal school for their children, certain federal benefits reserved for American Indians, and even their right to call themselves Pechanga in the eyes of the federal government.
“We’ve heard that some people have committed suicide or attempted suicide,” says Gomez, referring to the emotional toll that can be exacted upon the disenrolled. “Some people just go into their own little world, you know. They just don’t want to be bothered anymore. People that had always been part of the community, not just with Pechanga or their own tribal community but with the larger Indian community, no longer participate in stuff that they used to do all the time.”
The Pechanga have become a frequent focus of media attention as a rash of disenrollments have cropped up across the state, in part because one of the major voices speaking out against tribes who take such actions is a former member—Gomez—but also because they have had two major expulsions of their own and an on-going ban on all new members.
Gomez’s family was the first to be disenrolled in 2004, but trouble began stirring long before that, long before there was even a casino.
In the early ’80s, while the tribe was just beginning to formalize a written constitution and enrollment criteria, a small band of Pechanga members led by Russell “Butch” Murphy and commonly referred to as the Splinter Group sought to break away and become federally recognized as the official
Pechanga Band, according to copies of court documents provided by Gomez.
The Splinter Group’s primary complaint had been that the new enrollment criteria were unfair. In fact, it was apparent to the group’s members that they would not be able to enroll at all, so their response was not to participate in the application process.
As a compromise to help keep the peace, at a general meeting open to all members, a respected
tribal Elder named
Lawrence Madariaga seconded a motion to extend the enrollment process for another year, allowing more time to resolve the issue. The motion carried with a 35-2 vote, but the Splinter Group announced that it was breaking away to form its own tribe, anyway.
To do so, it had to convince the Bureau of Indian Affairs—which keeps the official record of federally recognized tribes—that they had the stronger case. They wrote to the BIA laying out their argument, and the bureau at first agreed to recognize the election of their own governing council.
