Cherokee

i n d i a n c o u n t ry
Cherokee
In the Smoky Mountains,
a story of survival,
endurance, and identity unfolds
through the
Eastern Band of the
Cherokee Indians.
wr i t t e n b y m i cha el g ra ff
photography by patrick cavan brown
Embracing their heritage,
many Cherokee people act
out history through the
outdoor drama Unto These
Hills and at the authentic
Oconaluftee Indian Village.
128 Our State October 2010
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This is what you see:
On the edge of the town of Cherokee sits a grown
man in a costume. He’s wearing a full headdress
of red, orange, and white feathers. He’s sitting
in front of a tepee, waving at passing cars and
smiling so big his eyes squint.
Ernest Lambert is
one of the most
recognizable people
in Cherokee. A full
tribal member, he
takes pictures with
visitors passing
through.
130 Our State October 2010
“Y’all want a picture?” he asks, smiling.
He’s one of the chiefs on the corners.
For two days, you’ve ignored the chiefs on the corners.
For two days, you’ve been here searching for the real
Cherokee. You’ve turned up your nose to every kitschy
shop, every sign that says something like “Wigwam
Motel,” and every joker with a plastic tomahawk. You’ve
talked to people who know the real story, the people in
the museum, the people at the arts and crafts shop, the
woodcarvers, and the storytellers.
You’ve learned about the terrible and heroic tale of
the Eastern Band of the Cherokee Indians, saw with
your own eyes at an outdoor drama how, following the
American Revolution, your forefathers spent nearly
200 years doing everything they could to change these
people, exterminate these people, disband these people,
“correct” these people, and make these people more like
your people.
Your heart bleeds for these people.
And so you think you don’t want to see these chiefs on
the corners. You think they’re frauds. You believe they
are precisely what’s wrong with the town of Cherokee.
By now, at the end of the two days, you want to tell the
man in the costume standing on the edge of town: “Hey,
Chief, Cherokee Indians never lived in tepees. They
didn’t wear headdresses, either.”
As if you know something he doesn’t.
Then you meet Ernest, the grown man in the costume.
You find out he’s been working this same spot on U.S.
Highway 441 near the entrance of the Great Smoky
Mountains National Park for more than 40 years. You
learn that he comes from a traditional Cherokee family,
has a hay farm with a small herd of cattle on the outskirts
of town, is a stone mason in the winter, and has a wellknown sister who is leading the tribe’s cultural revival.
You learn he’s as close to the real Cherokee as any person
in these hills.
Ernest has greeted more visitors and taken more
pictures with more people than anybody at the museum.
That people stop for him more than they stop for the
real thing, well, that says more about us than it does
about him. He’s just playing along.
He wears the headdress not to be phony, but because it’s
what visitors have wanted for years. They didn’t want to
know that real Cherokee people lived in real homes with
real foundations. They wanted their Indians in tepees.
Ernest wears the headdress not because he’s a fraud, but
because he knows his customer. He’s a businessman. And
he’s good at it.
“If I stood out here with no feathers on, it ain’t going
to do much good,” Ernest tells you.
And that’s when you realize something: Ernest got
you. For two days, you’ve searched for the real Cherokee
by dismissing one of its most authentic members. For two
days, you’ve been doing the same thing your forefathers
had done since the Revolution: You came up with your
own idea of how a real Cherokee should act, and you
were so sure of it, you wanted to tell him.
When you come here, you ask a question
you’d never ask in another town.
“Are you a member of the tribe?”
You’d never ask that in Raleigh or Charlotte. You’d
never walk up to someone in Durham and ask him to
specify his race and origin. But you ask it here, in a place
where, yes, there’s a pretty good chance the person you’re
talking to is a member of the tribe.
“Every day,” says Davy Arch, one of 9,000 enrolled
members living here on the Qualla Boundary. “I’m asked
that every day.”
You ride into town on a Monday. That’s
how they’d say it in the movies. And there’d be a sunrise
somewhere, maybe some tumbleweed. But that’s not
what you see today. What you see today is the hotel and
casino. Big and flashy.
It’s all anyone sees when they drive into Cherokee on
U.S. Highway 19. It’s 15 stories tall, and it pops out of a
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“The museum is the easternmost end of
the Trail of Tears,” says Dr. Barbara Duncan, the
education director for the Museum of the Cherokee
Indian. “But, we believe the Trail of Tears started on
every doorstep.”
Your feet move a little when she says that.
Duncan is not a member of the tribe. She’s a scholar
with a degree from the University of Pennsylvania and
an absolute passion for the Cherokee.
The museum documents the 11,000 years of
At the Oconaluftee Indian Village, locals and other actors spend their days working in an authentic Indian
village, circa 1760, and a few times a week, there is a reenactment of an attack on the village.
spot of land where Arch grew up. You walk through the
place. You hear the sounds, like you’re in a giant video
game, with fake change falling and numbers spinning.
It’s truly a casino. You’ve been in town five minutes, and
you wonder, nose up, how could they build a casino on
such sacred ground?
Then you meet Leeann Bridges. She’s a member
of the tribe. She’s short, blond, and has a tattoo of her
son Owen’s name on her arm. She’s the vice president
of marketing for Harrah’s Cherokee Hotel and Casino.
She loves the casino, and she loves the Cherokee Indians
more. Listening to her, you start to realize there’s more
to this casino, more to this town, more than you can see.
Bridges moved away from home after high school,
earned an anthropology degree from Western Carolina
University and later an M.B.A. from Meredith College.
She came back because of the casino and hotel. It’s her
job to promote Harrah’s. But she talks mostly about what
the place means to the tribe.
When the casino opened in 1997, Swain County was
the poorest county in North Carolina. Now, it’s up to
90th out of 100. Now, Cherokee tribe members who
want to go to college can have their room and board
paid for. Now, every tribal member receives a dividend
check every six months.
All of it is thanks to the casino.
The Cherokee Indians have a rich story. It doesn’t
start with slot machines. And it doesn’t end with slot
machines. But at this point in that history, slot machines
are paying their way from poverty to prosperity. Slot
machines are the biggest piece of the most recent history
of the Eastern Band of the Cherokee Indians, whether
132 Our State October 2010
you consider slot machines traditional or not.
“We have a middle class here that we’ve never
had before,” Bridges says. “Growing up here, we just
didn’t have a whole lot. It’s nice to know that my son
will have a place to work here if he wants.”
At Paul’s Restaurant on Tsali Boulevard,
the waitress sets down a plate filled with something
called an Indian taco. It’s made with fry bread, beans,
lettuce, cheese, chili, tomatoes, and onions. It is sweet
and delicious, and it’s Paul’s hottest lunch item, and
there’s no way you can eat it all.
But it has nothing to do with Cherokee. It’s a
Southwestern meal. Navajo.
The waitress, she has black hair with squiggly curls.
You’ll see her again, at another restaurant, the next
morning. It’s a small town; you remember faces.
In a way, that’s all it is, a small town in the mountains.
Cherokee has 13,000 permanent residents, a couple
of roads, a casino, a few restaurants, a few motels,
and an entrance to the Great Smoky Mountains
National Park.
That’s how most people first noticed Cherokee.
When the park was built in 1934, Cherokee became
the place at the end of the last real road of civilization,
before the vacation in the mountains. People would
drive through Cherokee, look at the kitschy signs and
take a picture with a chief on the corner. But many
never cared to ask any questions. They assumed, saw
tepees and tomahawks, and then they went camping.
history of the Cherokee tribe, as well as it’s possible to
document 11,000 years of anything. There are stone
spear points from the Paleo Period and medicine pipes
from the Woodland Period and pottery pieces from the
Mississippian Period. There’s a movie that explains how,
in Cherokee mythology, a big buzzard came through
flapping his wings: Each down-flap made an ocean, and
each up-flap made a mountain range.
There’s even a three-dimensional projection of a
medicine man. And there’s a replica living room from a
replica residence of the Cherokee Indians from the 1800s.
It looks like a replica living room from a replica residence
of anybody who lived during the
1800s. It’s a home.
It’s all part of the narrative. The
museum has undergone major
renovations since Ken Blankenship
— a member of the tribe and a
Vietnam War veteran — took over
as executive director in 1985. In
1998, Blankenship led an overhaul
of the exhibits, taking advice from
people at Disney.
“When I came in 1985, the
exhibits were early Wal-Mart,”
Blankenship says. “You didn’t know
any more about a Cherokee than
you did when you came in. …
Everything has to tell a story.”
And that means including it
all, even the parts you don’t want
to see.
“There have
been so many
efforts to get
rid of the
people and
take them
out of their
homes. The
fact that
they are still
here, really, is
incredible.
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Started in 1948, Unto These Hills is the second-longest-running outdoor drama in the United States. More than
six million people have seen it since its opening.
In the museum, it’s labeled “Contact and Colonies.” You
can’t reduce it to two words, though.
In the 1700s, the Cherokee occupied land from the
Ohio River to what is now Georgia. They became trading
partners with the British. Cherokee chiefs even visited kings
in England. These were good times, safe times, for the
Cherokee. When the British lost the Revolutionary War,
however, the Cherokee became victims of the new people
in power.
The United States government first told the Cherokee
to assimilate, to adopt American ways. The tribe tried. A
man named Sequoyah came up with a written language, 85
characters deep, and every member of the tribe learned it
within a few months.
In the War of 1812, the Cherokee came to the aid of the
Americans. In the Battle of Horseshoe Bend in 1814, one
legendary Cherokee warrior, Junaluska, saved the life of one
legendary American general, Andrew Jackson.
It wasn’t enough.
Sixteen years later, Jackson was president and signed
the Indian Removal Act, which led to the Trail of Tears. In
1838, when most of the Cherokee tribe refused to leave the
land behind, United States troops moved in and forcibly
removed 15,000 people. They went into the homes — like
the one you see in the exhibit, the one anyone could’ve
lived in during the 1800s — and pulled men, women, and
children right from dinner tables. And then they marched
them from North Carolina to Oklahoma. Along the way,
4,000 Cherokee Indians died.
The easternmost end of all of that was right here at this
spot, at the museum.
Your feet move a little again.
“There have been so many efforts to get rid of the people
and take them out of their homes,” Duncan says. “The fact
that they are still here, really, is incredible.”
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The actors are circling counterclockwise.
And they’re smiling. They do this every night. And
they’re still smiling. Genuinely.
It’s well into the night at the Mountainside Theatre,
and this is the final dance of the show. You’re about
the six-millionth person to see Unto These Hills, which
opened in 1948 and is now the second-longest-running
outdoor drama in the United States.
It’s the museum, acted out. The story starts in the
early 1800s, when your forefathers came along. A young
man plays Sequoyah and develops the language. Others
play Junaluska and Andrew Jackson. Another plays a
man named Tsali, who agreed to be killed to allow some
of his fellow tribe members to remain on their homeland
during the Removal. The sounds of blank shots firing
make you jump, thanks to the updated sound system.
This is where the museum’s story comes to life. The
actors are all current members of the tribe, pouring their
hearts into the performance, every night, same as the
members before them have done for 62 years.
Then there’s the final dance. And they’re circling
counterclockwise. And they’re smiling.
The kid behind the counter at Qualla Arts
and Crafts has his mouth full. You say hello anyway,
walking past him, figuring you’d get a nod and never see
him again.
But he throws up his index finger, telling you to hang
on. Wearing a University of North Carolina at Greensboro
T-shirt, he finishes the last bites of his breakfast, and he
swallows. Then he gets out what he wanted to say to you.
“Hello, sir.”
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There’s something about
these hills — a calmness
that extends deep into
every member of the
Cherokee tribe.
Davy Arch is the assistant manager of the Oconaluftee Indian Village. But when he’s not at work, Arch spends
his time living a quiet farming life just outside of town.
That’s it. He just wanted to say hello back.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise that a person in this town
— where tourism is the most important industry — would
be polite. But coming from an 18-year-old, it does.
Jacob George is a member of the tribe. He graduated
from Swain County High School in May, and at the
ceremony, he hung a feather in place of his tassel. His
mother told him it was a tradition.
Just the other day, he tells you, an old lady told him that
on the first big spring rain, the thunder wakes the snakes.
Also, if you’re swimming during a storm, the thunder will
hold you under. He listens to every story. And he remembers
them. He knows traditions die with generations, unless
they’re passed down.
“If it’s lost, there’s no going back,” George says. “It will
be too late. We need to know about this stuff.”
Davy Arch walks onto the deck at the
Oconaluftee Indian Village and begins to direct the
actors. The village, a replica Cherokee village from 1760,
features a trail that travels past woodworkers, basket
weavers, finger weavers, and arrow makers. It feels real.
The actors are about to attack the village — with the
136 Our State October 2010
visitors in it — as they do every Tuesday at noon.
Arch is the assistant manager. If there’s one person you
need to talk to about Cherokee traditions, everybody’s
told you, it’s Arch.
When he’s not managing the village, he’s seven miles
outside of town, on an 80-acre farm his grandfather once
owned and later passed down to him. From his house, he
can see Waterrock Knob, one of the highest peaks on the
Blue Ridge Parkway.
Also a master woodcarver, Arch spent two years
living outside of Cherokee, in Morehead City, where he
taught at Carteret Community College. Like so many
people from Cherokee, he had to get back here. There’s
something about these hills — a calmness that extends
deep into every member of the Cherokee tribe.
“If you’re raised here, it’s just part of your soul,” Arch
says. “It’s a combination of the setting and the culture,
and an attitude toward life.”
You see that. Nobody ever yells here. The Cherokee
people, despite all the reasons they have to be angry, are
absolutely at peace. You see that. But here’s what you
don’t see.
When Arch talks to you, he’s looking around you. Not
rudely or shyly. He’s looking at the trees and the animals
and the insects. In the evenings, he listens for the bird
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calls — when they start singing, he knows there’s exactly
an hour left before nightfall. Certain frogs indicate a
shift in the weather.
He believes it. He knows it. It’s in him.
He also shares this with you: Cherokee people believe
in seven directions. There are the four cardinal directions
— north, south, east, and west. There’s the center. And
there’s above and below.
In dances, the upper world is symbolized by
counterclockwise dancing.
It’s why the actors, the ones you watched in Unto These
Hills, were smiling.
The woman with gray and black hair tied
in a bun is the one you’ve been waiting to talk to all week.
If there’s one person you need to talk to about Cherokee
traditions, everybody’s told you, it’s Marie Junaluska. She’s
a member of the tribe.
She’s also involved with the North Carolina Arts Council.
She also sits on the Eastern Band of the Cherokee Indians
Tribal Council as an interpreter, typing up the minutes
on a computer with an English-to-Cherokee program.
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She’s also a grandmother of seven. She’s also helped with
the advancement of the Kituwah Academy, an immersion
school where children are speaking Cherokee from early
childhood — a school developed to help make sure that
language doesn’t die, after generations and generations of
tribal members were told they could not speak it. She’s also
helping with adult programs
that teach the language and
traditions. She’s also one of
the key promoters of the
message: “We are still here.”
Harrah’s Cherokee
It’s a statement of fact, softly
777 Casino Drive
defiant, completely true.
Cherokee
Yes, she’s a member of
the tribe, but like so many
Owned by the Eastern
people here, she’s so much
Band of the Cherokee
more.
Indians, the 15-story hotel
provides a base from
Today, she stands in the
which to explore the
back room of the Little
town. Have dinner at the
Princess Restaurant. “Let’s
hotel’s Selu Garden, and
sit back here,” she says.
browse the extensive art
“There’s more privacy. A
collection, which includes
little quieter.”
work from Sean Ross and
For the next two hours,
Darrin Bark.
Visit
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over a plate of bean bread, fat back, and fried chicken, she uncoils her
story.
Her great-grandmother’s grandfather was Tsali, the Cherokee who
gave up his life to save his fellow tribe members.
Her parents went to the boarding schools, where students were punished
for speaking the Cherokee language or practicing Cherokee traditions.
But her mom didn’t waver; when she finished school, she still brought the
traditions to her children, including Junaluska.
They grew up in the hills, Junaluska and her siblings, and they learned how
to live with only a few stores. When they cut plants one season, they made
sure they’d grow back the next. They also did things that all kids do, play with
slingshots and such. But they were as Cherokee as Cherokee can be.
Their grandfather was a medicine man. Junaluska and her siblings
would watch as he went into the woods, found plants and herbs, came back,
mixed them together, and, with a traditional prayer, helped heal earaches,
toothaches, and cuts. He could even heal pain one might feel from a family
member’s death, Junaluska says.
She and her siblings would watch, learn, and carry the Cherokee
traditions with them into adulthood. One of those siblings is a man
named Ernest — the chief on the corner you’ve been ignoring since you
got here.
Marie Junaluska learned most of what she knows about Cherokee
traditions from her mother. Now, she’s passing it down to the next
generation of tribe members.
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Junaluska has no problems
with Ernest’s job. In fact, she
once worked in one of the places
that sold tomahawks.
“It’s a living,” she says.
Then, Junaluska — with her
voice never shaking, showing that
calmness that runs through these
hills — teaches you the most
valuable Cherokee tradition.
“What’s in here,” Junaluska
says, lightly wiping her hand
down her face and chest, “is
what’s real.”
Here’s what you see: a
member of the tribe.
Ernest is about to pack up
for the day. It’s time to get back
home to his life without the
costume, the life on his farm, the
traditional life.
He has hay to cut, he tells
you.
You ask him if he ever tells his
customers that his character is
not authentic. “Whenever they
ask,” he says. “I do tell ’em it’s
Western-style. But the kids, they
just want the picture.”
Just then, a man, a woman,
and their young son walk up.
The father has on a bright-green
shirt that reads, “Lucky’s Irish.”
Maybe he’s Irish, all the way
here in Cherokee. Maybe he’s
promoting his heritage. Maybe
he just likes green.
It’s hard to tell just by looking
at the shirt.
Either way, there on a corner in
the town of Cherokee, you see a
young boy in a baseball cap and a
grown man in an Irish shirt sitting
on either side of a grown man in a
costume. All of them are smiling.
And mom snaps the picture.
Michael Graff is the associate editor
of Our State magazine.
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