The Eno Club

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The decades were unkind to the Occoneechee. Their claim to their land and their nation was constantly disputed over the years. The treaty and the grant of two thousand acres of Piedmont forest were more legend than fact, and the tribal leaders and their descendants were unable to provide any legitimate document that verified the price paid by the United States for their assistance during the war.

So, over the years, people took advantage of them. Hardscrabble farmers poached little tracts here and there on the edges. Some of the early farm houses were burned, but the Occoneechee were uncomfortable with this violence and worried that retaliation from the whites would be disastrous.

They eventually took a different approach. When a squatter tried to claim a piece of tribal land, the Occoneechee began to offer them a lease that would expire when the current farmer or his descendants no longer lived on the property. Farmers eagerly accepted these terms, especially since the tribe required no payment. As a result, a handful of simple farms and remnants of farms dotted the reservation.

The few remaining Occoneechee lived in small shotgun houses and rotting mobile homes on the edge of their land and at the end of a rarely maintained gravel and dirt road dotted with axle-cracking pot holes. They lived in abject poverty; only a few had jobs, and none had hope.

The road was called Indian Road by the locals, even though it didn’t show up on any maps and was more path than road. Indian Road came off the main state road, and an “S” curve about fifty yards in blocked the view of the ramshackle village from people driving the main road. Before the curve, there was a state sign that said, “No outlet,” with a smaller sign below it on the same post that read, “State maintenance ends here.” Anyone who continued driving past the signs and the “S” curve found themselves amidst a cluster of unpainted wooden shacks with rusting metal roofs, several mobile homes that were falling apart, pink insulation dangling underneath them, and an upholstered chair on the porch if there was a porch. There also were the remnants of a burnt-out house at the end of a gravel driveway, with a small travel trailer parked next to it.

Next to that house was the largest house, though by no means luxurious or nice or even livable by most standards. It was the home of the tribe’s leader, Jezz, a large and imposing woman with a head of tumbled and wild gray, red and black hair. Feathers poked out of that tumbled mess which she said were eagle feathers but everyone knew were those of a lowly hawk. Her neck was ringed with a collection of turquoise jewelry, and she dipped snuff all the time. She was a spectacular sight.

Jezz was the chief, which is what everyone called her because no one knew what to call a female chief of an Indian tribe. She was still a teenager when she became chief after her father died. She was the natural heir to the role, and nobody else wanted to do it.

Like their tribal land, Jezz’s blood had been infiltrated over the generations by whites and an occasional black. She was about a quarter Occoneechee, which made her more genuine than nearly anyone in the tribe, and it made her their leader.

Early in her rein, the local county commission was briefly overtaken by magnanimous liberals who were anxious to make their county a shining beacon of equity and racial diversity and focused mainly on efforts to give the large black population more opportunity in the community and more say in how it was run.

During this time of glorious enlightenment, one of the liberal commissioners was on a hike through the forest, doing what liberals do, admiring the flora and fauna and all that was around him until he got lost and disoriented and eventually emerged into the tribe’s pitiful little enclave. He was relieved to find civilization, but unsure of what he’d found or where he was because, like most everyone, he had no idea this road or these people existed.

As he wandered about the desperate little community, Jezz emerged from her home and approached him. She was magnificent, tall and lean and dark with crazy hair and feathers, and the liberal county commissioner was transfixed by her looks. She invited him to her front porch, brought him iced tea, and they sat on the steps of the porch where he learned who these people were.

Jezz told him the story of the promise to her people made at the end of the Civil War by a great general. He listened for an hour as she told him how, years ago, the university wanted to expand its research forest to include the tribal land. The lack of deeds and proper records made this especially difficult, but the attorneys finally reached an agreement with Jezz’s father that allowed the Indians to continue to live on their so-called land, even though they couldn’t prove anything, and allow the university to train its forestry students and study the trees and flora. The university paid the tribe a tiny honorarium to keep it quiet. It was a good deal for all; the tribe had some income, which all went to Jezz’s father and then to her when he died, and the university had the inside track on a priceless asset when growth in the area and the need for neighborhoods and subdivisions pushed toward the forest.

Jezz became emotional as she continued her story, tears of frustration boiling in her wonderful brown eyes, and described the little tribe’s frustration when they would hear about that other tribe in the far western part of the state’s mountains and the stories of skyscraper gambling casinos and great wealth coming to the people who could prove their native Indian lineage. She said her people could never understand why one tribe of native Indians could enjoy such splendor and others could suffer like this. She said this all whilst dramatically waving her hand towards the mess on Indian Road.

When Jezz ran out of story to tell and wiped her tears, the liberal politician delighted in what he heard and marveled at the prospect of helping these people of color also, because their plight was as desperate as those of the blacks in the community.

As soon as he could get it scheduled, the liberal do-gooder added an item to the agenda of the county commission’s meeting dealing with an “issue of people of color,” and on the day of the meeting, fetched Jezz from her sad little home. He coaxed her into wearing a dramatic Indian headdress like in the movies. She had strongly objected to this idea, because her wild hair and bird feathers were her statement look, and she admitted that neither she nor anyone in their tribe had such a headdress. But he found one in the costume shop of the local community theater and embellished it himself with feathers and beads and other things that he thought would add drama to her appearance.

Which it did.

The community had no idea that Indians were in their midst until the spectacle at the county commission meeting, where the liberal politician described their plight and the injustice that had been done to them. The local newspaper reporter showed up for what was going to be a boring meeting but got a page 1A story with a photo when the beautiful Indian chief in full regalia spoke to the commission about her tribe’s story and the challenges of being an Indian in today’s world. That led to a front-page Sunday edition story in a few weeks with more details and photos of the pitiful little community at the end of Indian Road.

It was dramatic for a brief moment but, at the end of the day, it meant hardly anything.

The commission’s only action at its meeting was to recognize the tribe as a “sovereign entity” which was not a legal term and meant nothing but made the liberals feel better. The liberals had breathlessly wanted to bestow upon the tribe the honor of being a “sovereign nation,” but the county’s lawyer warned that they lacked the authority to declare such a thing and besides what would happen if one of the black neighborhoods wanted to be a sovereign nation also. That was the end of that.

Naturally, the liberals were drummed out in the next election by the local white establishment who couldn’t get their brains around sharing power, the economy, a seat on the bus, or anything else with someone who didn’t look like them, even if they wore a spectacular headdress and had been persecuted and abused for multiple generations.

Jezz, meanwhile, returned to her home on Indian Road and threw the headdress onto a pile of rotting trash in her back yard.