By Brandon Weber, Contributing Writer

A historical marker was erected in Maxton, North Carolina, to commemorate an event that occurred sixty years ago, when the Ku Klux Klan tried to rally in the heart of Lumbee Indian territory. The Klansmen were run out of town, and the 1958 event made the national news, including the New York Times and Life magazine. The conflict became known as “The Battle of Hayes Pond.”

The Lumbee Tribe of North Carolina has fought long and hard for tribal recognition and respect. With 55,000 members, it’s the largest tribe east of the Mississippi and the ninth largest in the nation. But while the tribe was recognized by the state of North Carolina in 1885, the federal government dragged its feet on official recognition until 1956, and even then stopping short of full recognition.

In 1956, Ku Klux Klan activities in the area had already been ratcheting up in the wake of the 1954 Supreme Court decision in Brown v. Board of Education mandating the desegregation of schools. After the recognition of the Lumbee in North Carolina, Ku Klux Klan wizard James W. “Catfish” Cole launched a campaign of terror against the tribe, questioning its indigenous status and telling the Greensboro Daily News, “There’s about 30,000 half-breeds up in Robeson County and we are going to have some cross burnings and scare them up.”

Cole and other members of the KKK accused the Lumbee of being “mixed race” people, who were intermingling with African Americans and whites, and called for a rally “in the heart of that mongrelized Indian country.”

Before Cole could even begin his prepared speech, more than 500 well-armed men—Lumbee people, as well as members of the Tuscarora and Coharie tribes—began to emerge from the surrounding dark. He was accosted on the makeshift stage by one of the members of the tribe, a shoving match ensued, and one tribal member shot out the solitary floodlight. Others began shooting rifles into the air to disperse the crowd. “You didn’t know exactly what you were going to do when you got there, but you were excited about going,” remembered one Lumbee, Ray Little Turtle.

“We had to do what we had to do,” Lumbee member Lee Ancil Maynor, who was thirty-three at the time of the rally, said at a reunion event in 2016. “If we hadn’t done it, they would have soon been in our front yard.”

Local law enforcement showed up after the altercation had taken place, but by then, the field was clear.

The Lumbees gathered up discarded robes and the rally banner and marched back into Maxton to celebrate, which included burning Catfish Cole in effigy. Press coverage showcased two Lumbee men, one a celebrated World War II bomber engineer, wrapped in the KKK banner they had torn off a Klansmen’s car at the rally.

Today, the Lumbee continue to struggle for recognition and respect, most recently resisting the construction of an oil and gas pipeline running across the tribe’s territory, threatening to separate communities and pollute precious water resources. But the tribe’s identity will be forever tied to the 1958 resistance.

“This is a part of who we are,” said tribal Chairman Harvey Godwin Jr. at a 2016 gathering. “We drove the KKK out of Robeson County and they haven’t came back since. We need to use that energy to fight our battles today, but without the weapons.”

The Sad Story of the Sioux

By Christopher Cacciatore

Sioux Indian Council 1847 (Image Credit: George Catlin)

I had a lot of trouble prying meaning from the translated words of Black Elk. Because the account is taken from the spoken Lakota words from an actual Sioux, I trust that Neihardt gave the most accurate depiction of the Native American people that he possible could. However, the account was given with plenty of description and a lack of story line content. Naturally, my mind focused on the historical plot that provides the setting for the story: the interaction of Native Americans with European settlers up until the battle at Wounded Knee or rather, the massacre at Wounded Knee.

Like his father before him, Black Elk would become a warrior, as well as a medicine man of the Oglala Lakota (Sioux) tribe.

I found a lot of morbid irony in the fact that the Native Americans, a peace loving people who value the sacredness of all life forms, were forced to defend their people against the west settling “white man.” The Great Sioux were not a violent people, but were killed by the millions as they faced inescapable genocide. We can see the Sioux’s peaceful tendencies as Black Elk explains with his sacred bow in-hand that he “was a little in doubt about the Wanekia religion at that time, and did not want to kill anybody because of it.” It is a feeling of vengeance invoked by the suffering of his own people that drives his will to fight.

The account makes me think that in many ways, the Native Americans were more advanced than his white counterpart. The Native Americans did not have the technological innovation to stand up to the United State’s armies which ultimately led to their defeat, but the Sioux people understood an important concept that we so often talk about: unity. The conflict caused between the Native American people and the invading white settlers was the result of the white man’s poor reconciliation with diversity. The Sioux people found meaning in, “pleasing to the Powers of the Universe that are One Power.” The White man found meaning in furthering his own success and beliefs. Black Elk has trouble comprehending the white man’s senseless killing as he recalls when “the bison were so many that they could not be counted, but more and more Wasichus came to kill them until there were only heaps of bones scattered where they used to be. The Wasichus did not kill them to eat; they killed them for the metal that makes them crazy, and they took only the hides to sell.” Just as the bison were killed for unjustified reasons, the Sioux people were killed for land, religious differences, cultural differences, and other ignorant reasons.

Sioux Warrior "White Belly."

I could rant on the countless injustices of the white man when it comes to the treatment of Native Americans, but instead of focusing the rest of my entry on the tragedy of the fall of the Sioux, I’d like to acknowledge their great culture. The Sioux were nothing less than a wise people. They understood that land can’t truly be owned by any one person. They understood that all living and natural forces are in some manner sacred. We can all learn from Black Elk’s continual appreciation of the beauty around him.

Florida's Lost Tribes

Historical Society of Palm Beach County, NAT Editorial Contributor

A map of Florida's Lost Tribes. (Photo Credit: Theodore Morris)

When Europeans arrived in south Florida in the 16^thcentury, they found at least five established tribes, which they brought into the historic period by writing about them. The Mayaimi, probably descendants of the Belle Glade population, lived in the center near Lake Okeechobee. The Tequesta were found to the south in the Everglades, the Jeaga and Jobe north of them along the east coast in a sub-area called East Okeechobee. The dominant Calusa (“fierce people”) in the southwest periodically asserted political dominance over the others. Those in the area that is now Palm Beach County included about 5,000 Tequesta and about 2,000 Jeaga and Jobe. The Ais Indians covered a large area from the St. Lucie River to Cape Canaveral, and at times extended their alliances south as far as the Keys.

Calusa Fishermen. (Photo Credit: Florida Museum of Natural History)

During the 1500s, Hernando D'Escalante Fontaneda of Spain was shipwrecked and spent 17 years with the Calusa. Although his memoirs provide only scanty information about the Belle Glade culture, Fontaneda refers to the people who lived around “the Lake of Mayaimi, which is called Mayaimi because it is very large.” (The Miccosukees later named it Okeechobee, which also means “big water.”) The Mayaimi Indians built large mounded villages and, like many others, were fishermen and hunters rather than farmers. Indians who lived inland made great use of terrapins, from saltwater marshes, and other turtles in their diet. Middens (refuse heaps) on the edge of the Everglades contain more turtle carapaces (part of the shells) than any other bones.

Tequesta Indians, Florida. His hat is reminiscent of hats in many other places, such as the Easter Island statues. (Photo Credit: First People)

Within 250 years of Juan Ponce de León’s exploration of the Florida coastline, the early tribes were gone. Some were killed in warfare or enslaved; most died from European diseases, for which they had no resistance. Much of what we know about them during this Contact Era comes from European ship’s logs, the journal of a shipwrecked Pennsylvania Quaker, and over a century of archaeological efforts.

• • •

ABOUT ARTIST THEODORE MORRIS (NON-NATIVE)

“I wanted to do something with my life that had meaning, so I decided to use paint on canvas to bring back the early Floridian Native peoples, whose images and lifestyles were grossly misrepresented in history books and other chronicles. I combined my passions for art and history to resurrect the earliest Florida Natives so that they can be accurately understood. While I cannot change history and right the terrible wrongs, through my paintings I honor their memories and help set the record straight. Perhaps serving as a combat medic in the historic Seventh Calvary in Vietnam in 1968 made me relate on a personal level to the incomprehensible deaths of native men, women, and children by European military conquest, disease, and slavery.”

Mr. Morris' creative works can be viewed at www.losttribesflorida.com

Zitkála-Šá (1876–1938), also known as Gertrude Simmons Bonnin, was hailed as a writer, political activist, musician and teacher. Several of her books focus on struggles of identity and how she was torn between American culture and her Native roots. Her books were among the earliest works to bring forward Native stories to non-Indians.

A famed composer, Zitkala-Sa wrote the libretto and songs for the first Native American opera, The Sun Dance Opera, (1913). She was also a co-founder of the National Council of American Indians, which lobbied for citizenship and civil rights. Her life story is featured in the biography Red Bird, Red Power: The Life and Legacy of Zitkála-Šá (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2016).

Excerpt from American Indian Stories, published 1921:

MY MOTHER

A WIGWAM of weather-stained canvas stood at the base of some irregularly ascending hills. A footpath wound its way gently down the sloping land till it reached the broad river bottom; creeping through the long swamp grasses that bent over it on either side, it came out on the edge of the Missouri.

Here, morning, noon, and evening, my mother came to draw water from the muddy stream for our household use. Always, when my mother started for the river, I stopped my play to run along with her. She was only of medium height. Often she was sad and silent, at which times her full arched lips were compressed into hard and bitter lines, and shadows fell under her black eyes. Then I clung to her hand and begged to know what made the tears fall.

"Hush; my little daughter must never talk about my tears"; and smiling through them, she patted my head and said, "Now let me see how fast you can run today." Whereupon I tore away at my highest possible speed, with my long black hair blowing in the breeze.

I was a wild little girl of seven. Loosely clad in a slip of brown buckskin, and light-footed with a pair of soft moccasins on my feet, I was as free as the wind that blew my hair, and no less spirited than a bounding deer. These were my mother's pride, – my wild freedom and overflowing spirits. She taught me no fear save that of intruding myself upon others.

Having gone many paces ahead I stopped, panting for breath, and laughing with glee as my mother watched my every movement. I was not wholly conscious of myself, but was more keenly alive to the fire within. It was as if I were the activity, and my hands and feet were only experiments for my spirit to work upon.

Returning from the river, I tugged beside my mother, with my hand upon the bucket I believed I was carrying. One time, on such a return, I remember a bit of conversation we had. My grown-up cousin, Warca-Ziwin (Sunflower), who was then seventeen, always went to the river alone for water for her mother. Their wigwam was not far from ours; and I saw her daily going to and from the river. I admired my cousin greatly. So I said: "Mother, when I am tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin, you shall not have to come for water. I will do it for you."

With a strange tremor in her voice which I could not understand, she answered, "If the paleface does not take away from us the river we drink."

"Mother, who is this bad paleface?" I asked.

"My little daughter, he is a sham, – a sickly sham! The bronzed Dakota is the only real man."

I looked up into my mother's face while she spoke; and seeing her bite her lips, I knew she was unhappy. This aroused revenge in my small soul. Stamping my foot on the earth, I cried aloud, "I hate the paleface that makes my mother cry!"

Setting the pail of water on the ground, my mother stooped, and stretching her left hand out on the level with my eyes, she placed her other arm about me; she pointed to the hill where my uncle and my only sister lay buried.

"There is what the paleface has done! Since then your father too has been buried in a hill nearer the rising sun. We were once very happy. But the paleface has stolen our lands and driven us hither. Having defrauded us of our land, the paleface forced us away.

"Well, it happened on the day we moved camp that your sister and uncle were both very sick. Many others were ailing, but there seemed to be no help. We traveled many days and nights; not in the grand, happy way that we moved camp when I was a little girl, but we were driven, my child, driven like a herd of buffalo. With every step, your sister, who was not as large as you are now, shrieked with the painful jar until she was hoarse with crying. She grew more and more feverish. Her little hands and cheeks were burning hot. Her little lips were parched and dry, but she would not drink the water I gave her. Then I discovered that her throat was swollen and red. My poor child, how I cried with her because the Great Spirit had forgotten us!

"At last, when we reached this western country, on the first weary night your sister died. And soon your uncle died also, leaving a widow and an orphan daughter, your cousin Warca-Ziwin. Both your sister and uncle might have been happy with us today, had it not been for the heartless paleface."

My mother was silent the rest of the way to our wigwam. Though I saw no tears in her eyes, I knew that was because I was with her. She seldom wept before me.

THE LEGENDS

During the summer days my mother built her fire in the shadow of our wigwam.

In the early morning our simple breakfast was spread upon the grass west of our tepee. At the farthest point of the shade my mother sat beside her fire, toasting a savory piece of dried meat. Near her, I sat upon my feet, eating my dried meat with unleavened bread, and drinking strong black coffee.

The morning meal was our quiet hour, when we two were entirely alone. At noon, several who chanced to be passing by stopped to rest, and to share our luncheon with us, for they were sure of our hospitality.

My uncle, whose death my mother ever lamented, was one of our nation's bravest warriors. His name was on the lips of old men when talking of the proud feats of valor; and it was mentioned by younger men, too, in connection with deeds of gallantry. Old women praised him for his kindness toward them; young women held him up as an ideal to their sweethearts. Every one loved him, and my mother worshiped his memory. Thus it happened that even strangers were sure of welcome in our lodge, if they but asked a favor in my uncle's name.

Though I heard many strange experiences related by these wayfarers, I loved best the evening meal, for that was the time old legends were told. I was always glad when the sun hung low in the west, for then my mother sent me to invite the neighboring old men and women to eat supper with us. Running all the way to the wigwams, I halted shyly at the entrances. Sometimes I stood long moments without saying a word. It was not any fear that made me so dumb when out upon such a happy errand; nor was it that I wished to withhold the invitation, for it was all I could do to observe this very proper silence. But it was a sensing of the atmosphere, to assure myself that I should not hinder other plans. My mother used to say to me, as I was almost bounding away for the old people: "Wait a moment before you invite any one. If other plans are being discussed, do not interfere, but go elsewhere."

The old folks knew the meaning of my pauses; and often they coaxed my confidence by asking, "What do you seek, little granddaughter?"

"My mother says you are to come to our tepee this evening," I instantly exploded, and breathed the freer afterwards.

"Yes, yes, gladly, gladly I shall come!" each replied. Rising at once and carrying their blankets across one shoulder, they flocked leisurely from their various wigwams toward our dwelling.

My mission done, I ran back, skipping and jumping with delight. All out of breath, I told my mother almost the exact words of the answers to my invitation. Frequently she asked, "What were they doing when you entered their tepee?" This taught me to remember all I saw at a single glance. Often I told my mother my impressions without being questioned.

While in the neighboring wigwams sometimes an old Indian woman asked me, "What is your mother doing?" Unless my mother had cautioned me not to tell, I generally answered her questions without reserve.

At the arrival of our guests I sat close to my mother, and did not leave her side without first asking her consent. I ate my supper in quiet, listening patiently to the talk of the old people, wishing all the time that they would begin the stories I loved best. At last, when I could not wait any longer, I whispered in my mother's ear, "Ask them to tell an Iktomi story, mother."

Soothing my impatience, my mother said aloud, "My little daughter is anxious to hear your legends." By this time all were through eating, and the evening was fast deepening into twilight.

As each in turn began to tell a legend, I pillowed my head in my mother's lap; and lying flat upon my back, I watched the stars as they peeped down upon me, one by one. The increasing interest of the tale aroused me, and I sat up eagerly listening for every word. The old women made funny remarks, and laughed so heartily that I could not help joining them.

The distant howling of a pack of wolves or the hooting of an owl in the river bottom frightened me, and I nestled into my mother's lap. She added some dry sticks to the open fire, and the bright flames leaped up into the faces of the old folks as they sat around in a great circle.

On such an evening, I remember the glare of the fire shone on a tattooed star upon the brow of the old warrior who was telling a story. I watched him curiously as he made his unconscious gestures. The blue star upon his bronzed forehead was a puzzle to me. Looking about, I saw two parallel lines on the chin of one of the old women. The rest had none. I examined my mother's face, but found no sign there.

After the warrior's story was finished, I asked the old woman the meaning of the blue lines on her chin, looking all the while out of the corners of my eyes at the warrior with the star on his forehead. I was a little afraid that he would rebuke me for my boldness.

Here the old woman began: "Why, my grandchild, they are signs, – secret signs I dare not tell you. I shall, however, tell you a wonderful story about a woman who had a cross tattooed upon each of her cheeks."

It was a long story of a woman whose magic power lay hidden behind the marks upon her face. I fell asleep before the story was completed.

Ever after that night I felt suspicious of tattooed people. Whenever I saw one I glanced furtively at the mark and round about it, wondering what terrible magic power was covered there.

It was rarely that such a fearful story as this one was told by the camp fire. Its impression was so acute that the picture still remains vividly clear and pronounced.

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Read all of American Indian Stories for free online: http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/zitkala-sa/stories/stories.html

Buy the book: https://www.amazon.com/American-Indian-Stories-Zitkala-Sa/dp/1502838192/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1513129747&sr=8-3

Learn more about Zitkála-Šá:

https://www.britannica.com/biography/Zitkala-Sa

https://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/zitkala-sa/stories/stories.html