There are many such opportunities for bands to make money from tourism, if only they can find the start-up capital. I meet Felix Arnouse, chief of the Little Shuswap band, at the Quaaout Lodge at Talking Rock Golf Course. Interest in building a resort on this lake began in the 1970s after the local Indian Affairs office was shut down. But the hotel wasn’t actually opened until 1990, Arnouse recalls.
Although financing the project was the biggest hurdle, many band members were opposed to getting involved in any kind of business venture, believing that they’d inevitably get the short end of the stick from non-Indian partners. And many, says Arnouse, “still think it’s a bad idea.” Like Indian casinos in the United States, the Quaaout Lodge manages to provide jobs for band members who want them, but there’s still not much in the way of private enterprise here.
Some band members still live in poverty, and many struggle with drug and alcohol addiction, Arnouse tells me. There are fights over who should pay the mortgages on individual band members’ homes. Arnouse, himself a recovering alcoholic, says that he sees the cycle over and over. “They drink and party and end up fighting. It’s a big thing in Native culture.” Some fights can lead to years of animosity, which spill over into the governance of the nation. Band members have made some reforms in tribal governance – such as instituting four-year terms for the chief – that will give businesses that work with them a sense of certainty about the future. But a lot of decisions are clearly driven by family politics.
The band did manage to get a loan from the federal government to build the resort, but band members did a lot of the actual construction. Despite the lodge’s success, Arnouse says they’ve had to be very careful about any expansion plans because it’s still very hard for them to get credit.
Arnouse is a supporter of the property rights legislation, but some of his band members, not to mention other band leaders, are opposed to it. But because the legislation doesn’t bind First Nations to adopt the policies, Arnouse and Lebourdais seem confident that Parliament will pass the First Nations Property Ownership Act within the next couple of years. Regardless of which political party is in power, Lebourdais believes there’ll be enough support for it. “This isn’t my first rodeo,” he assures me.
The biggest opposition, Lebourdais says, has come from other First Nations. “They think that white people are going to buy up the reserves,” he tells me. But under the terms of the act, the land would remain part of the reserve, just as other land might remain part of a city. And there’s something else, says Lebourdais: Aboriginal people in Canada “think property ownership is a white thing.” He worries that they really don’t understand their own history. “They’ve come to think that reserves are the way it was.”
But Lebourdais has educated himself about the way things were. In the summer of 1910, Prime Minister Sir Wilfrid Laurier went on a tour of Canada. On August 25, he was met in Kamloops by a delegation of chiefs from the Secwépemc, Nlaka’pamux, and Syilx nations, who offered him a history of how their people had lived before whites came to their territory and what had happened since their first encounters a century earlier.
When they first came among us there were only Indians here. They found the people of each tribe supreme in their own territory, and having tribal boundaries known and recognized by all. The country of each tribe was just the same as a very large farm or ranch (belonging to all the people of the tribe) from which they gathered their food and clothing, etc., fish which they got in plenty for food, grass and vegetation on which their horses grazed and the game lived, and much of which furnished materials for manufactures, etc., stone which furnished pipes, utensils, and tools, etc., trees which furnished firewood, materials for houses and utensils, plants, roots, seeds, nuts and berries which grew abundantly and were gathered in their season just the same as the crops on a ranch, and used for food; minerals, shells, etc., which were used for ornament and for plants, etc., water which was free to all.52
The purpose of this letter to Laurier was to complain about the reserve system – that is, the chiefs noted that they had been promised sufficient land to continue their farming and ranching activities, as well as access to water sources and the ability to travel freely off the reserve. White settlers had gone back on these promises, as occurred across much of the American and Canadian West. But in their hopes to get Laurier to intervene on their behalf, the chiefs invoked their own history of property rights.
As the authors of Beyond the Indian Act write, “the historical evidence shows that the aboriginal peoples of North America are like all other human beings. They claim territories as collectivities but have no particular aversion to private property in the hands of families and individuals. Unless they are prevented by the force majeure of government, they change with the times and are willing to adopt whatever institutions of property are most economically efficient for the world in which they live.”53
It’s astonishing just how much First Nations have managed to accomplish while living within the confines of the Indian Act. After getting the heli-skiing venture off the ground, the Simpcw worked to ensure that they had more of a say in other sorts of development going on around them.
In 2004, the Canadian Supreme Court ruled that the Crown had a “duty to consult” with Aboriginal Peoples before developing land on which they may have claims, even if those claims are unproven. In reaction to this decision, Matthew and his colleagues developed a “consultation accommodation framework,” which they now present to companies interested in doing business on their territory (both on and off reserve). “In the past, companies have just treated us as a second thought, so they would get a license to do business on the territories without telling us what they wanted to do.” Now, the Simpcw not only get some of the revenues from projects with companies like BC Hydro but also ensure that companies mitigate the environmental impacts of the projects and reserve a certain number of jobs for members of the band. A lot of Simpcw have gained experience from these ventures, says Matthew, experience that they’ve been able to put to use on other projects. The arrangement and its benefits are similar to the ones that the Seneca Nation has been able to gain in upstate New York by creating construction firms that contract with the federal government.
In a 2007 agreement with Kinder Morgan Canada, Matthew says, the Simpcw were given contracting agreements. They provided emergency flagging crews for construction workers, for instance. This has led to other opportunities, such as driving ambulances. Now, even when companies like these aren’t working on Aboriginal lands, they hire Simpcw people with this kind of experience to help.
These frameworks are frankly not the ideal means of economic growth. Many companies probably see them as an elaborate shakedown mechanism, but at least the firms are getting some “certainty” out of the agreement. Matthew doesn’t see these agreements as the endgame for his band, either. He calls these projects “low-hanging fruit” that his people can pick while waiting for some kind of reform to come out of Ottawa.
He complains that anything from registering a lease to dealing with a will can take decades on the reserve. “My father passed away intestate and it took 20 years to settle the land issue,” Matthew says. “When you have archaic clauses that govern how you do business on a reserve, there is virtually no opportunity for the creation of our own local economy.”
When I ask Matthew what could possibly take 20 years for the approval of his father’s will by the Canadian government, he answers, “I don’t know; I’m not a bureaucrat. I don’t know anyone who works in Indian Land Management.” Of course, one problem is that federal bureaucrats are far removed from what’s happening on the ground with these bands. But another is what Matthew refers to as the “cover your ass policy,” which simply means, as he says, “They’re not going to risk it.”
Risk what?
Because the land is held in trust and because the government has a “fiduciary responsibility” to protect the interests of First Nations, the Canadian government is essen
tially liable if anything goes wrong. For instance, if a band builds a copper mine on reserve lands and an accident results in some kind of environmental contamination, the Canadian government is responsible for the consequences. As Matthew notes, the band could sue Ottawa for allowing the mine to be built. Under this system, First Nations are essentially denied the chance to take responsibility for their own future. “In the eyes of the federal government,” Matthew notes, “as a Status Indian I am still a child.”
This is a theme I hear again and again from the chiefs. As Jules says, “In Canada, there are three types of individuals not allowed to own property – kids, the mentally incompetent, and Indians living on reserves.” Fixing this problem, he says, is a matter of “social justice.” Indians need to be able “to participate in the economy.” It’s not enough to get a few jobs out of a big natural resources project. It’s not enough to be able to conduct a gaming operation. “We need a diverse economy.”
But Jules worries that his people have been living in a state of dependency for so long that they’ll need to train themselves to take responsibility again. He tells me that he was recently at a meeting of Saskatchewan chiefs discussing the problem of crack cocaine in their communities. He relates one chief’s proposed solution: “We need a billboard outside the communities that says ‘don’t bring drugs here.’” Jules sighs. “They think the problem is people outside bringing it in. The problem is in our community.”
When Jules looks around at the different pathologies affecting First Nations – from low levels of education to drug abuse to poverty to domestic violence – he says, “We have ingrained in us the mentality that it’s someone else’s responsibility. We have seen a complete abdication.” For things to get better, he says, “The leadership has to come from us.”
In his 2010 best seller Empire of the Summer Moon, journalist S. C. Gwynne recounts the remarkable story of Quanah Parker, a Comanche born around 1849. Quanah’s father, Peta Nocona, was a Comanche chief; his mother, Cynthia Parker, was white. She had been kidnapped at age nine and assimilated into the tribe. After Quanah’s father was killed in battle with Texas Rangers, his mother was taken away to live with her white relatives. But Quanah emerged from the ordeal a leader of his people, trying to improve their situation even as they were placed on reservations and forced to sell their land under the policy of allotment. Quanah negotiated with the U.S. government for more land and more money. He bought and sold cattle, he bought and sold land, and he sold protection for whites who wanted to move their cattle across Indian lands.
Quanah became quite wealthy and remained enormously generous to his people, dying with almost nothing to his name. Though Gwynne claims that “the first generations of Comanches in captivity never really understood the concept of wealth, of private property,” Quanah clearly did. As Gwynne describes him, “This was the quintessential Quanah: hustling, demanding, always looking for an angle, always negotiating yet unwilling to compromise his own principles.”54
Reading this description, I couldn’t help but think of Manny Jules. Unlike Quanah, though, Jules and his father before him managed to forge a path for the First Nations of British Columbia, if not Canada as a whole. The Comanches couldn’t adapt in time, but the Kamloops band may manage to do so, thanks largely to leaders like Jules. He can’t force Aboriginal Peoples to adopt private property on their lands, but if things go as he has planned, he’ll provide them with the opportunity to do so. Future leaders will be able to thank Jules and his allies for letting them take control of their own economic and political destiny.
“What Quanah had that the rest of his tribe in the later years did not was . . . boundless optimism. Quanah never looked back, an astonishing feat of will for someone who had lived in such untrammeled freedom on the open plains, and who had endured such a shattering transformation. In hard times he looked resolutely forward to something better.”55
For Manny Jules, something better could be right around the corner.
CHAPTER TWO
Money Instead of Freedom
The Loophole Economy and the Politics of Poverty
LUCILLE BROOKS IS PERCHED at an empty conference table in the neat new office of the sprawling Seneca government building in upstate New York. Dressed in a gray pantsuit and pumps and wearing tasteful pendant earrings and a striking Indian necklace, Brooks looks nothing if not professional. Her bookshelves are lined with thick binders of regulations, but there are few papers lying around. Light streams in through the glass door that welcomes people to the Seneca Nation of Indians Economic Development Company. SNIEDC, as it is known, was launched to help members of the Seneca Nation start businesses, by offering them not only loans but also technical assistance to help them create business plans and grow their already existing enterprises. It’s officially certified by the U.S. Treasury as a Community Development Financial Institution (CDFI).
And yet I see no clients here. After my initial interview with Brooks, I walked by the office several more times during the day. The only people in the office were Brooks and her assistant. The phone isn’t exactly ringing off the hook either. Indeed, this small business incubator hasn’t incubated much at all, Brooks acknowledges. There are a couple of small businesses – a logging company, for instance – that have come to SNIEDC for loans to purchase more equipment. The SNIEDC website lists three clients – a bakery, a Subway franchise, and a company that makes radiant heating technology. But the members of the Seneca Nation seem largely uninterested in or unaware of SNIEDC, now in its 20th year of existence.
SNIEDC loans seem like a perfect opportunity for anyone with the slightest inclination to start a small business. Just a few blocks away, the main streets of the town of Salamanca (2010 population: 5,815) are lined with empty storefronts. Upstate New York has experienced a degree of economic depression for more than half a century, but it’s nothing compared to what you’ll find in Seneca territory. You’d think people would be queued up around the block to take advantage of the opportunities Brooks has to offer. SNIEDC gives out what it calls “micro-loans” of up to $250,000, with no collateral necessary. Indeed, until recently, no one even did a credit check on the applicants. You won’t get a better deal from your own parents.
Truth be told, though, there’s not a lot of entrepreneurial spirit on the Allegany and neighboring Cattaraugus territories. As Brooks explains, “The sense is that the annuities have created an entitlement attitude, and that is the downfall. The annuities have enabled people not to work.” The annuities that Brooks mentions are drawn from casino revenues.
In 2002, desperate to change its financial situation, the Seneca Nation entered into a gaming compact with New York State, which granted the nation the exclusive right to build and operate three gaming facilities. The decision wasn’t an easy one for the tribe. Some people worried that casinos would destroy the culture and traditional religion of the Seneca people. Others worried about its moral impact or worried that Seneca leaders would use casinos to increase their influence in ways that would leave other factions out in the cold. Ultimately, however, in light of the success of other tribal gambling enterprises, there was no other way to go.
The Seneca Niagara Casino opened its doors in 2002, and a luxury hotel followed in 2005. The Seneca Allegany Resort and Casino opened in 2007, and the Seneca Buffalo Creek Casino followed in 2013.
The Seneca Nation has made well over $1 billion in profits off of these facilities. And during the past decade, that largesse has begun to trickle in ever-larger amounts into the hands of the Seneca people. The current annuity for an adult between the ages of 18 and 60 on the reservation is about $8,000, disbursed in quarterly payments. Elders get a larger amount, in a kind of American Indian social security program. Half the money for children under 18 is given to their parents, and the other half is put into a trust. When a Seneca youth turns 18 and can show he or she has graduated from high school or earned a GED, he or she receives a lump sum of $30,000. Those who don’t get a high-school degre
e have to wait until they’re 21 to receive the money. With each passing year, the annuities get larger, because the tribe invests its earnings.
Government officials and other members of the nation tell me that the best thing most young adults do with this money is buy a new truck. These are kids who have never had very much before; someone hands them a huge check and they clearly don’t know what to do. Store owners report that young people will come in to buy candy and hand over $50 or $100 without expecting any change. These young people seem to have no concept of saving or investing. They’re not unlike lottery winners, who tend to be no better off a few years after hitting the jackpot than they were before. According to the National Endowment for Financial Education, about 70 percent of those incurring a financial windfall lose that money within a few years. There’s apparently something about earning money that makes people less willing to spend it unwisely.
Instead of giving Indians more control over their own land – allowing them to develop natural resources in ways that respect their own views of the environment or to use land as collateral to start their own businesses – we’ve offered them what you might call a loophole economy. We allow Indians to engage in enterprises that we can’t or won’t have in other neighborhoods.
It used to be selling tax-free cigarettes, liquor, and gasoline. Then it was the gaming industry. Now, more states are allowing casinos to be run by non-Indians, and casinos aren’t the source of profit they once were. But never fear. The Justice Department decided in December 2014 to allow marijuana to be grown on reservations – even if the drug is illegal in the state where the reservation is located.
Gambling, cigarettes, alcohol, drugs – who wouldn’t want these businesses to form the economic backbone of their community? In some cases, these businesses have proved very profitable for tribes. For most, though, these are hardly viable paths to economic growth. And they bring all sorts of problems with them.
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