The Lumbee Indians

Front matter

Malinda Maynor Lowery

Author of Lumbee Indians in the Jim Crow South

THE LUMBEE INDIANS

Contents

PREFACE Xi A GENEALOGY xvii

Interlude: Watts Street Elementary School, Durham, North Carolina, 1978 1

INTRODUCTION 3 Interlude: What Are You? 13

Preface

Yes I’m proud to be a Lumbee Indian, yes I am.

When I grow up into this world

Tm gonna be just what I am.

My mother and father are proud of me,

They want me to be free.

Free to be

Anything I want to be.

Willie French Lowery, “Proud to Be a Lumbee,” 1975

Other Americans sing their national anthem at baseball games, but Lumbees sing theirs at funerals. We sing it when we need to tell our story, at times and places when our people come together to overcome obstacles and to heal. The song that many members of the Lumbee Indian tribe, including myself, consider our national anthem is Willie French Lowery’s “Proud to Be a Lumbee,” which he originally wrote as a children’s song. With its memorable tune, the song is like any national anthem: a creed, an affirmation of values and beliefs about the best of our community. But it also tells us who we are, where we come from, and where we are going. Willie passed away in 2012, and at his wake, a former speaker of the Lumbee Tribal Council proposed that we indeed make “Proud to Be a Lumbee” our official national anthem as he called for the 300-person crowd to sing it.

Our wakes are wonderful examples of Lumbee pride—pride we take in how we defy expectations, in how we readily celebrate our victories, and in our refusal to give up. Our wakes are not always somber occasions, especially when the departed was much loved or had suffered mightily. They are thick with hellos and how-are-yous, loving embraces, laughter, and tears. Singing, at least xi in my family, is critical; we sing at wakes with such sweet commitment that it almost feels as though we are carrying the departed from this world to the next.

Music had a special significance for me at Willie’s wake; he was my best friend and husband until he died at age sixty-eight of Parkinson's disease and dementia. The first time I laid eyes on him, he was singing “Proud to Be a Lumbee,” and in the intervening years I spent thousands of hours with him and his music.

When the speaker called for Willie’s anthem that night, I turned around to look for our then four-year-old daughter, Lydia, who had been exuberantly socializing with the crowd as she was passed from lap to lap of watchful, caring family and friends. Lydia knew the song, and I wanted to sing it with her. Before I could locate her, I heard her voice over the loudspeaker. Confused, I looked to the front of the church and saw a cousin lifting her up to stand on the podium, microphone in hand. Like her daddy would have, Lydia led the whole crowd in the song—the younger generation carrying the older one into the next world. I watched Lydia stand over her father’s casket and sing with her ancestors and her living community to back her up, and I shed a new round of tears. Even in death and pain, we still rejoice. Lumbees see ourselves as blessed, privileged even, to be able to sing through our tears.

With Willie’s words, Lydia sang not just her own story; she told the stories of generations of Lumbees who—through European settlement, African slavery, wars against tyranny at home and abroad, and renewed commitments to justice—have survived to be a self-determining people. Willie’s national anthem crystalizes the importance of freedom and justice, those most American of values, to the Lumbee people, despite—or because of —the ways the United States has marginalized us. The story of America and its defining moments is not complete without the story of our people.

Lydia will learn one version of the history of the country in school; at home, she will learn the history of her people. Between the two, she will come to understand herself both as an American and as a Lumbee. In a few years she will learn about the first English “Lost Colony,” one of many origin stories that define who belongs and who does not. Her Lumbee ancestors appropriated that story and made it their own. She already knows that America marks the anniversary of the Declaration of Independence at the same time Lumbees hold our annual reunification celebration—what we call Lumbee Homecoming. Eventually, she'll hear classmates deride her people as downright dumb for celebrating the birth of the country that killed them and took their land. She'll learn to respond that xii Preface we're very much alive and still on our land and that there is no conflict between the Lumbee people and independence.

After those early stories, veiled by loss and legend, the Lumbee experience with America’s defining moments becomes even more dissonant. Lydia will learn about the Trail of Tears, not as a chapter of America’s Manifest Destiny but as her own ancestors’ near erasure from the land. She will learn about the wars of empire and assimilation on the Plains and in the Southwest. She will learn that back home in North Carolina, her great-great-great-grandfather Henderson Oxendine and his cousin Henry Berry Lowry lived and died, hunted down like the Indians of the Wild West. She will, unfortunately, encounter disbelief from classmates who tell her “You don’t look Indian” because those Wild West images are all they know. They will not know, though I expect she will tell them, that her elders, many of whom were veterans of World War II, defied those stereotypes when they ambushed a Ku Klux Klan rally in 1958. She will defy the expectation that she and her people are violent degenerates, an image born of our forceful resistance to white supremacy, nurtured by the westerns, and matured during Ronald Reagan's war on drugs and the criminalization of the poor. And she will hear the story of the first Lumbee inauguration ceremony, before she was born, when her daddy played “Proud to Be a Lumbee” to an overflowing, cheering crowd. Lydia will learn how finally, after fighting to establish and uphold the U.S. Constitution, the original people of this place wrote their own constitution.

“When we are young,’ wrote the novelist Louise Erdrich, “the words are scattered all around us. As they are assembled by experience, so also are we, sentence by sentence, until the story takes shape.”’ Words and stories about herself and her people shape who Lydia is. She is fortunate to have “Proud to Be a Lumbee” ringing in her ears; she can make her own decisions about being American and being Lumbee. Her future depends on how Americans make and remake the United States and on whether they fully acknowledge the existence and survival of American Indians. We are not only villains or victims; not just a collection of myths, legends, and stories. American Indians are the cocreators of this nation of “one, yet many,” on which rests so much of the world’s hope.

Any project on American Indian history begins with recovering the words, sentences, and stories that have been erased. That invisibility shaped me from a young age, as I absorbed my family’s stories. Sometimes they emerged whole, but they mostly came only as tidbits of information, puzzle pieces—not because the story is unknown but because no one person knows the whole story. This book is one Lumbee person’s attempt to assemble those pieces, a task made even more interesting amid other southerners—and Americans’ —routine

Preface xiii mourning over lost histories, lost colonists, and lost causes. Growing up in North Carolina, outside of the Lumbee community but still connected to it, I’ve been conscious that my ancestors were the original southerners, here before something called the South ever existed. Yet other Americans, especially southerners, freely mourn and memorialize their histories being lost or erased, all the while challenging our right as Lumbees to do the same. Instead, others look at the history we know perfectly well—if in pieces—and tell us we are not who we say we are, that we don’t have a history, that we are not important. This book is an answer to that hypocrisy.

Lumbee history teaches us that the United States is a constellation of communities bonded together through success and failure, death and rebirth, family and place. Each of these communities has a right to self-governance, but not at the expense of its neighbors. Our failures teach us that we have a responsibility to be fair. Native people have played integral roles in the struggles to implement the United States’ founding principles and distinct roles in the expansion and defense of their own and the United States’ territory. They have done so not just as the “First Americans” but as members of their own nations, operating in their own communities’ interests. Accordingly, Native peoples have the right to open debate and disagreement within their tribes, just as other Americans argue about their own differences of opinion.

Nations emerge from both civil debate and violent clashes; in this sense, the Lumbee tribe is not different from the American nation. But often, when tribes debate either with other tribes or within themselves, the U.S. federal government labels them as illegitimate or dysfunctional. “Can't you all just agree?” is acommon refrain among policy makers when confronted with differences of opinion. Yet to insist that all Native nations must agree when the United States does not hold itself or any other nation to that standard is a simple, profound hypocrisy.

Surviving Native nations—groups of individuals with unique claims on this land—are forcing Americans to confront the ways in which their stories, their defining moments, and their founding principles are flawed and inadequate. The myth of U.S. history—that we are a nation of immigrants, struggling to find common ground and expand freedoms for all—leaves no place for Native nations. Excluding Native peoples, or telling only their stories of dispossession, does not honor the complexity of those communities or of American history. Lumbee history provides a way to honor, and complicate, American history by focusing not just on the dispossession and injustice visited upon xiv Preface

Native people but also on how and why Native survival matters. Native nations are doing the same work as the American nation—reconstituting communities, thriving, and finding a shared identity to achieve justice and self-determination.

In many respects, Lumbee history does not conform to the expected story of Native Americans. The federal government did not remove us, nor has it fully recognized us as a sovereign Native nation. And like so many other Native groups, the federal government does not define us. Lumbees have consistently faced, and often aggressively challenged, the categories Americans use to describe people by race, tribe, or recognition status. Lumbee history suggests that the need to rationalize slavery, segregation, and the elimination of Indian people created those categories.

These three systems of oppression ran distinctly counter to the nation’s founding principles but nevertheless became normalized. All of these systems were seen, felt, and experienced by Indians as well as by non-Indians. Through Lumbee history, we can see how they are related. Structural discrimination based on race and federal recognition of Indian tribes emerged from these three interrelated systems and continues to prevent Americans from fully implementing our founding principles. At the same time, Lumbee history shows how coexisting systems—of kinship and place, celebration and reciprocity, togetherness and debate—also provide ways of making sense of our world.

The history of Native people, just like American history, is a story of survival, not disappearance. The integrity and coherence of Native communities, even in the face of the intense destruction and ambivalence of colonialism, is a fundamental principle rather than something to be proven or justified. I chose Lumbee history as the vehicle to explore a relationship between U.S. history and Native American history because I know it best, but not just because Iam Lumbee: I have made our history the primary subject of my intellectual work since the 1990s. The combination of my identity and my professional interests has given me many sources to draw on, including oral and written sources, conversations that have sprung from personal relationships, and my own experience with our people and places and with other Americans’ ideas about us. For more distant time periods, the sources I have drawn upon are much the same as any historian would use—often fragmentary documents, public records, and observations (more or less accurate) about the Lumbees. In the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, the written evidence is more detailed and complex, and oral histories, told by Lumbees rather than about them, have become more available. In these more recent eras my own relationship to the community has become most visible. I explore this relationship through

Preface xv the first-person interludes that precede each chapter, and sometimes in the chapters I cite personal conversations with family, neighbors, and friends who participated in events. I am bound by two sets of ethics that overlap heavily: a Lumbee’s obligation demands accountability to the people who have lived history, and a historian’s responsibility demands accountability to the widest possible sources.

xvi Preface

A GENEALOGY

In the beginning there was the water, And the pine.

From the sky

A woman fell.

Or—

the Creator made Four daughters.

In any case,

the People came into being, And the People Have remained.

Then there were the Names, And the Names remained With the People also.

There was a man sent from Virginia, and his name was James Lowry. James married Sally, after the war at the time of the journey. Sally was the mother of William, the Patriot soldier, and Jimmie, the Jockey.

William the father of Allen, the One Marked for Death. Allen the husband of Cathrean and then Mary.

There was a man sent from Virginia, and his name was John Oxendine, the orphan.

John married Sarah, the mother of Charles, the landowner. Charles the husband of Ann.

Ann the mother of Nancy, the runaway, and Lewis, the bootlegger, Betsy, and James.

xviii

Betsy the mother of John.

James the father of Big Jim, the Politician.

There was a man sent from the South, and his name was John Brooks. John married Patty, daughter of William, the Patriot. John married another woman, whose name we do not recall.

She the mother of Lovedy, who was the mother of legions. Patty the mother of Mittie, who was the mother of Sandy.

There was a man sent from Granville District, and his name was Robert Locklear.

Robert married a woman whose name we do not recall.

She was the mother of Randall, who married Sarah.

She the mother of Major and John, who married women whose names we do not recall, after the war at the time of the journey. Randall was the father of Big Arch.

Major was the father of Lazy Will.

John was the father of Samuel.

Samuel the grandfather of Preston, the School Master, and Margaret. Margaret the wife of Nathan, the former slave.

Preston the father of Governor, the Doctor.

There was a man sent from a place we do not recall,

and his name was Cannon Cumbo.

Cannon married Ally, the mother of Stephan.

Stephan married Sarah, the mother of Mary and Christianne. Mary the second wife of Allen, the One Marked for Death. Christianne the wife of Betsy’s son John.

Lazy Will the father of Cathrean, wife to Allen, the One Marked. Cathrean was the mother of Patrick, the Preacher.

Mary, second of Allen’s wives, was the mother of Henry Berry, the Outlaw.

Mary also the mother of Calvin, the Preacher.

Christianne, the wife of John, was the mother of Henderson, the Singer.

Sandy, the son of Mittie, was the father of Joseph, the Advocate, and Malinda, the turpentiner.

The grandfather of Dalton, the peacemaker.

Malinda was the mother of Bloss.

A Genealogy

Calvin, the son of Allen, was the father of Doctor Fuller, the Politician.

Lovedy, the mother of legions, was grandmother of Beadan, the first recognized.

Also great-grandmother of Pikey and Lawson, the Longhouse leaders.

Patrick, the Preacher, was the father of Martha, the bootlegger, and Emmaline.

Emmaline the wife of Preston, the School Master.

Martha the mother of Lucy, the gardener.

Lucy the mother of Waltz, like the dance.

Henderson, the Singer, married Virginia.

Virginia the mother of James, the fiddle player.

James the father of Foy, the farmer.

Foy the husband of Bloss, daughter of Malinda, the turpentiner. Bloss the mother of Louise, the teacher.

Waltz the husband of Louise.

Louise the mother of Malinda, who married Willie, the Songwriter, and then Grayson, the Storyteller.

Malinda the mother of Lydia, the Loved.

Behold, how the light shines in the darkness, And the darkness did not overcome it.

A Genealogy xix

THE LUMBEE INDIANS

Watts Street Elementary School, Durham, North Carolina, 1978

I blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Well, I was born in a tipi?

At the lunch table in elementary school, a little girl had just told me that she didn’t believe I was Indian, because to her I didn’t look “Indian.” Some Lumbees do match the stereotype, but with my curly hair, average cheekbones, and freckled, olive skin, I don’t. Until she tried to tell me I wasn’t who I said I was, I'd never realized I was supposed to look different than I did. If I couldn't look “Indian” enough to please her, then I thought I should tell a story about myself that sounded “Indian.” My dad loved Gunsmoke and everything western, and I had become so accustomed to associating images from those movies and TV shows with “real Indians” that my little brain believed that real Indians were born in tipis.

It didn’t really occur to me that I had told the girl an outright lie (I had been born in a hospital in Robeson County), but I didn’t doubt that I was a “real Indian.” I learned Lumbee history at home and American history at school; I learned to think of myself as an American and as a Lumbee. I knew the Lumbees were not the same as other Americans who came here later; we had different stories. At the age of seven, I had absorbed America’s narratives and collective memories of Indians. These stories were like a static interference that ran between my education as a Lumbee person and as an American person. They not only influenced me but also influenced this other young person who demanded a truth from me that did not match the one I carried. I found myself forced to tell a truth—not the truth as it happened, but a truth that both she and I could accept as logical and authentic. That was the first time I remember authoring my own story. And even though I got it wrong, I don’t reject it now— it was the honest reflection of a child who had no true idea of how much her identity did not match the stereotypes or of how powerful the stereotypes were.

American governments—both state and federal—have built their policies toward the first Americans on the same architecture of logic and authenticity my classmate possessed. When American Indians tell their own stories, they sound dissonant, out of sync with these arrangements. To me, as a Lumbee and an American, this architecture is distracting, but it doesn’t interfere with who owns the story and how we use stories to become a people.

z Interlude

Introduction

America is woven of many strands. I would recognize them and let it so remain. Our fate is to become one, and yet many. This is not prophecy, but description.

Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man, 1952

These are the stories of one nation, the Lumbee tribe of North Carolina, from the arrival of European settlers through the twenty-first century. Today the Lumbees are the largest tribe of American Indians east of the Mississippi, with a population of over 70,000." Their historic homeland stretches the 700 square miles from the James River in Virginia south to the Great Pee Dee River in South Carolina, encompassing much of modern-day piedmont and eastern North Carolina. The Lumbees are descendants of the dozens of tribes in that territory, as well as of free European and enslaved African settlers who lived in what became their core homeland: the low-lying swamplands along the border between North and South Carolina. Lumbee history has unfolded there since before the formation of the United States.

The Lumbees’ once remote, almost ungovernable refuge is now less remote but no less a refuge, a safe haven for the Indians to be just who they are. This homeland now encompasses Robeson, Scotland, Hoke, and Cumberland Counties in North Carolina and is cut through by Interstate 95 at the halfway point between Miami and New York. It is nestled between two American icons, one of pleasure and one of sacrifice: Myrtle Beach and Fort Bragg. The singular natural feature of their homeland is the Lumber (also called Lumbee) River, formerly called Drowning Creek for its swirling, surprising, and dangerous currents.

The Lumber is a black-water river, black because swamps that surround it deposit organic material into the river, where it decomposes. The waters are strong, vivid, and alive, even as they process things that are dead. Three million years ago, the Lumbee River was the Atlantic Ocean; as the sea receded and the area became wetlands, the sandy beach soil became layered with mud, silt, clay, limestone, and sandstone. The Lumber River basin is, even today, one of the most biodiverse places in the world, with an enormous spectrum of plants available for healing and traditional medicine. There are dense swamps where the water runs southwest, fingerlike, toward the river. But the river is not the wide Shenandoah or the roaring Colorado; the Lumbee River meanders slowly, twisting and turning an intricate shape that changes as its waters forge new paths. For the Lumbees’ ancestors, it was difficult to farm and hunt in the wetlands, and they were impossible to travel through. Over the last three centuries, whites, blacks, and Indians have changed the place considerably, adding textures of commercial crop and livestock farms, manufacturing plants, office buildings and hospitals, malls and parking lots, and churches and schools to an already deeply complex land.”

Actually, “land” is hardly the right term for this homeplace—it is water and soil, two perfect opposites flowing together since ancient times. Water knows nothing of difference or inferiority, though it may separate neighbors, towns, and nations. Rivers change course unexpectedly, and rains flood and reduce high ground to lowland.

The people who live there and whose ancestors are buried there see the land as a blessing. The Lumbees’ feeling for their home is akin to what Black Elk, the Lakota healer, described when he said, “The land is my blood and my dead; it is consecrated; and I do not want to give up any portion of it”? No degree of alienation from it, legal or illegal, chosen or forced, alters the power of that blessing.

Lumbees talk about places from the bottom up, driven by relationships and stories, rather than from the top down. The Lumbee homeland is best imagined in many layers, as something to be remembered and felt, rather than as a map of places that can only be seen. Locations on a map—a town, a school, a homestead, a road, a swamp, a river—are just the beginning of what Lumbees mean when they talk about place.

The family settlements that sit half a mile or more back from the roads, completely invisible until one is on top of them, are important but easily missed parts of this landscape. There a traveler might find a dozen or more houses and trailers clustered together, sheltered by pine, poplar, pecan, and oak trees. A swamp or river branch is often close by.

Areas named Prospect, Union Chapel, Fair Grove, Wakulla, Saddletree, and the Brooks Settlement have no visible boundaries, but their borders are clear in the minds of Lumbees. To be “from” one of these communities often, though not always, means that one’s family has lived there, on or very near the same piece of land, for at least a century. Over time, people from towns and cities such as Pembroke, Lumberton, or even Baltimore have thought of themselves the same way, as indelibly attached to those places, even though they are different from their ancestors’ original places. Stories—some known by a large share of tribal members but many kept within families and lineages—connect those places and the settlements and towns on the Lumbees’ cultural map.*

Nations—both Native nations and the United States—are built on histories of mistakes, ambitions, luck, and persistence. And as they are constructed, they are torn asunder by war, negligence, betrayal, and hatred. They comprise the stories we tell about defining moments, values we fight to protect, people who made change, and places at which such change occurred. Following the arrival of Europeans on the continent and the beginning of their colonial enterprise, Native nations and the settlers and enslaved people who would create the United States have undergone similar cycles of rupture, rebuilding, and transformation. Whether one’s ancestors sailed on the Mayflower; arrived in chains in Charleston or New Orleans; disembarked at Ellis Island, San Francisco, or Miami; or walked through El Paso or swam the Rio Grande, this nation aims to become what we have all worked to construct and restore: a nation more just, compassionate, equal, able, and free.

Since the new nation of the United States formed around and through us, Lumbees have insisted on both our kinship with the United States and the value of our difference from other Americans. My closeness to these stories, and my identity as both an American and a Lumbee, might cause concern that I will not tell an accurate account of the Lumbees’ own mistakes, negligence, or betrayal alongside the history of our ambition, persistence, and luck (though that’s rarely a concern when other Americans write their own histories). Because I am interested in how nations are built and what stories are told to create national identities, I must consider all the material that is relevant to that question, whether it portrays Lumbees in a positive light or not. Survival is not as simple as success or failure.

Americans generally know that the disruption brought by settlers and colonization victimized American Indian nations, but few are aware that when American citizens continue to ignore American Indians or tell them they do not exist, they continue to take part in colonialism. The result of this ongoing colonialism is that while American Indians have not vanished, outsiders constantly question the authenticity of our stories while insisting their own narratives are perfectly legitimate. American Indians have not only survived but have demanded that our stories be heard—sometimes with physical force, other times through political or legal channels, always through community building and celebration of who we are—while outsiders tell our stories for us and even outlaw our own versions. We stand up and demand to be recognized.

There are words and concepts we use in Indian Country that not all Americans understand, and there are ways we talk about ourselves that sometimes require translation. All societies are fundamentally built on family and the communities of families that attach themselves to places. For American Indians, families and networks of families—what the Lumbees routinely refer to as “our people’

formed the basis of the communities that Europeans later called “tribes.” Tribes are composed of members, usually people linked by kinship, marriage, and sometimes adoption, residing in a homeland that they may have occupied for as many as thousands of years or as few as a hundred years. Either way, the places where Indians live are called Indian Country. Attachment to family and places is a key part of being Indian, and so is belonging to a tribe.

Knowledge of kinship (the relationships between different families) and place (the stories told about families in certain locations) is critical to Lumbee identity. A person is Lumbee if two criteria are met: one has ancestors who are members of this long-standing community with its distinct history, and one’s family still identifies with the community and specific places within it.

When one Lumbee meets another, two questions reveal everything they each need to know about the other’s identity: “Who's your people?” and “Where do you stay at?” The first is a way to establish a kinship connection and to understand where in the tribe's social life the person fits. When I tell people who my grandparents or great-grandparents are, that tells them something about me. “Where do you stay at?” situates someone in relation to the Lumbee homeland. If I say I’m from Durham, where I grew up, two hours away from Robeson County, that tells the listener that I might not know everything I ought to about what it means to be Lumbee in Robeson County. But if I tell people I was born in Robeson County and raised in Durham, that tells them something else—that my family has a close bond with the community and that my parents made considerable sacrifices to raise me to value my culture, even though I may not have a day-to-day experience of living in a Lumbee community.

Histories of Lumbee families are not exclusive to one historic tribe (we descend from several historic tribes), and ideas about “race” cannot adequately

Contemporary Lumbee homeland A? i K ZZA Robeson County L 4 f ee

Durham

Lumbee territory, nineteenth and twentieth centuries replace ideas about family. My nephews, who have a non-Lumbee mother, are no less Lumbee than my daughter, who has two Lumbee parents. I have cousins whose mothers or fathers were not Lumbee, and I did not even realize they were “half Lumbee” until I was a teenager. They lived in Robeson County and were closer to what it meant to be Lumbee than I was, growing up in Durham. Parentage is only one factor, and often a small one, in how Lumbee families count their kin. Their ability to practice inclusion predates contact with Europeans and continues to be a vital part of their survival.