Among the many revered Cherokee formulas, there is one for the treatment of ordeal diseases. Ayunini, from whom this formula was obtained so very long ago, said the disease is often sent to someone by a friend or even a parent, to test the afflicted person’s endurance and knowledge of counterspells.
The prayer is addressed to the Black, Red, Blue, and White ravens, which are each in turn declared to have put the disease into a crevice in Sanigilagi—the Cherokee name of Whiteside Mountain, at the head of Tuckasegee River, in North Carolina. The term is used figuratively for any high precipitous mountain. The word adawehi, which is used several times in the formula, refers to a magician or supernatural being.
Translated into English, the entire prayer goes like this:
Listen! Ha! Now you have drawn near to hearken and are resting directly overhead. O Black Raven, you never fail in anything. Ha! Now you are brought down. Ha! There shall be left no more than a trace upon the ground where you have been. It is an ancestral ghost. You have now put it into a crevice in Sanigilagi, that it may never find the way back. You have put it to rest in the Darkening Land, so that it may never return. Let relief come.
Listen! Ha! Now you have drawn near to hearken, O Red Raven, most powerful adawehi. Ha! You never fail in anything, for it was ordained of you. Ha! You are resting directly overhead. Ha! Now you are brought down. There shall remain but a trace upon the ground where you have been. It is an ancestral ghost. Ha! You have put the Intruder into a crevice of Sanigilagi and now the relief shall come. It [the Intruder] is sent to the Darkening Land. You have put it to rest in the Darkening Land. Let the relief come.
Listen! Ha! Now you have drawn near to hearken, O Blue Raven, you are resting directly overhead, adawehi. You never fail in anything, for it was ordained of you. Ha! Now you are brought down. There shall be left but a trace upon the ground where you have been. You have put the Intruder into a crevice in Sanigilagi, that it may never find the way back. You have put it to rest in the Darkening Land, so that it may never return. Let the relief come.
Listen! Ha! Now you have drawn near to hearken; you repose on high on Wahili, O White Raven, adawehi. You never fail in anything. Ha! Now you are brought down. There shall be left hut a trace upon the ground where you have been. Ha! Now you have taken it up. You have put the Intruder into a crevice in Sanigilagi, that it may never find the way back. You have put it to rest in the Darkening Land, never to return. Let the relief come.
* * *
In 1981, as I went back to my old job of writing grant proposals on behalf of the Cherokee Nation, I found I was still angry. But it was a healthy anger and not destructive. My rage came mainly from the frustration caused by the way I feel about Western medicine, the way it generally dehumanizes patients. At least, that had been my experience during my long recovery process.
To help channel the anger and to maintain a good mind, I decided to write a short story that would address this issue of cultural clashes. It was the story of the aging Ahniwake, a kind of Cherokee “everywoman” who found herself at the mercy of the American system of medicine after a lifetime of turning to traditional Cherokee doctors in her ailments. Another character in my story was a young woman named Pearl, the older woman’s granddaughter, who was trying to guide Ahniwake through unfamiliar surroundings in the ways of white people.
I called the story “Keeping Pace with the Rest of the World.” It did not appear in print until 1985, in Southern Exposure, a publication of the Institute for Southern Studies. That issue was called “We Are Here Forever: Indians of the South.” That story was my first published piece, and it helped me deal with the trauma I had to endure. It was pure fiction, but it was filled with the stark truth.
“[The doctor] did not know how to heal an illness, only how to cut it out.” … More to herself than to Pearl, Ahniwake added, “He did not know my clan, my family, my history. How could he possibly know how to heal me?”
Wilma Mankiller, from the story
“Keeping Pace with the Rest of the World,”
Southern Exposure, 1985
During my months and months of rehabilitation, I was able to do some writing and reading. I also studied various tribal issues. I came to realize that I had been given a chance to think about what I wanted to do with my life. When the reality of how frail life is dawned on me, I set about to begin projects that I could not have tackled otherwise. Fortunately, Chief Ross Swimmer was willing to allow me to go back to my position with the tribe. I was still in my recovery phase when I hobbled into his bank in Tahlequah and asked him if I could return to my job. He did not hesitate for a second, and for that I am grateful.
When I returned to my duties with the Cherokee Nation, I did so with a fury. I was not particularly anxious to move up the ladder of hierarchy in my tribe. My work was my main priority. I was determined to work closely with self-help projects and program development. I wanted to see to it that our people, especially those living in rural areas, had the chance to express their own special needs. I was determined to do this by using the “good mind” approach.
In 1981, I helped to found and subsequently was named the first director of the Cherokee Nation Community Development Department. I did not necessarily seek the job. In fact, I first headed a national search to locate a director before I finally decided to accept the position myself. Immediately, we set out to identify new ways to implement renewal projects in rural Cherokee communities. This department grew from important development work carried out in the tiny Adair County community named Bell. As this project evolved, we needed a new department so we would be eligible to receive grants.
I had assumed that Swimmer and his consultants had located some funding for the project. Not so. We immediately put together several federal and foundation grants. We also recruited many volunteers to allow local citizens to construct a sixteen-mile water line and to revitalize several of their homes.
Bell was a poor community with about 350 people, of which 95 percent were Cherokee. Most of them spoke Cherokee. In my mind, the Bell project remains a shining example of community self-help at its very best. The local residents were able to build on our Cherokee gadugi tradition of a physical sharing of tasks and working collectively, at the same time restoring confidence in their own ability to solve problems.
We established a partnership between the Cherokee people living at Bell and the Cherokee Nation. Our goal was to bring members of the community together so they could solve their common problems. From the beginning, the Bell residents realized they were responsible for the success or failure of the project. They knew they were expected not only to develop long-range plans, but also to implement their community renewal, with our staff members acting only as facilitators and funding brokers.
It turned into a massive community-renewal effort using local labor and talent and about a million dollars in hard costs, funded by grants. When we started out at Bell, it was a community in utter decline. At least a quarter of the people living there had to haul in water for household use, and almost half of the homes fell well below minimum housing standards. The mean family income in Bell was very low. Many of the young people were leaving the community to find jobs elsewhere.
But instead of surrendering to defeat, the people of Bell became involved in their project. They proudly met the challenge. In the end, they were able to complete everything they had set out to accomplish. The new rural water system that brought the town its first running water was installed by community volunteers—the men and women of Bell. The rehabilitation work on the twenty homes and the dilapidated community center was carried out by the homeowners themselves. The construction of twenty-five new energy-efficient residences was accomplished with resources of the Cherokee Housing Authority. The local people served as their own labor force.
Though failure had been the unanimous prediction of Bell’s neighbors, people from surrounding communities came to see what was happening. So did several foundation executives who viewed this renewal project as an example of Third World development; certainly few places in the world were poorer than Bell. When a local CBS television crew—attracted by Bell’s reliable scenes of poverty—came to film powerlessness, they played an inadvertent role in changing the situation by letting residents see themselves on the evening news and begin to feel less isolated. Soon, even the non-Indian residents of Bell were saying positive things about this water project in the newspapers, and the Indian community began to feel visible for the first time. Most important, they had become visible through something they were doing for themselves.
The next fourteen months encompassed a novel’s worth of personal change and problem-solving, but by the end, the water system was complete. The CBS crew returned to document success, and the seven-minute story that resulted appeared on “CBS Sunday Morning” with Charles Kuralt. Now known as “the town film,” it is often replayed with pride.
… for Wilma, watching individual people flower was the greatest reward.
Gloria Steinem
Revolution from Within, 1992
Bell is only about ten miles from Mankiller Flats, and from the very start I was aware of the obvious similarities between the two places. That is why the project and its overwhelming success were important to me. Bell meant so much to me, and in so many different ways. Bell represented success where everyone else had anticipated failure. For me, the Bell project also validated a lot of the things that I believed about our people. I have always known that Cherokee people—particularly those in more traditional communities—have retained a great sense of interdependence, and a willingness to pitch in and help one another. I also knew that we had the capacity to solve our own problems, given the right set of circumstances and resources. The Bell project affirmed those beliefs.
On a more personal level, the Bell community project was very important to me because during it I came to know a man who proved to be very crucial in my life. I am proud to say this man eventually became my husband. His name is Charlie Lee Soap. He is a full-blooded, bilingual Cherokee, and probably the most well-adjusted male I have ever met.
I had first encountered Charlie Soap in 1977, not long after my daughters and I moved back to Oklahoma. At that time, he was working with the Cherokee Housing Authority, and I consulted him about a housing matter. Charlie had a reputation as someone who could get things done in the housing office. He was quiet, but very positive and very efficient.
I had also heard the comments of the women who worked at the housing authority office. They mentioned that Charlie, a tall and handsome man, was a skillful Plains-style dancer, and when he was in college, he had learned to do many different tribal war dances in full regalia—complete with a colorful eagle-feather bustle and Angora leggings. His dancing prowess at powwows was known throughout Oklahoma. I was told that Charlie could walk into a school filled with children and captivate his audience. They would watch spellbound as he danced, with his long black hair flying. Afterwards, the children would crowd around him to ask questions, and reach out to touch a feather. Later, when I really got to know him, I saw that Charlie is indeed like a Pied Piper, particularly with children and young people. They love him and his stories, and he enjoys working with them to help them build self-esteem and to encourage them to remain in school.
During the Bell project, Charlie was assigned to work with me as a co-organizer. That is when I really came to know him. I was impressed from the very start. After some of our lengthy meetings in Bell, Charlie would drive me home to Mankiller Flats. We would sit in his pickup outside my house and talk at length, not only about the Bell project but also about our own dreams and aspirations. I came to learn a lot about this man, and found that Charlie Soap was much more than just another skilled dancer.
We discovered we are about the same age. Charlie is a bit older. He was born on March 25, 1945, at Stilwell. His mother’s name was Florence Fourkiller Soap, and his father was Walter Soap, a farmer who also worked for the railroad. After his father died, Charlie’s mother eventually remarried, and her name is now Florence Hummingbird. Both of Charlie’s parents could trace their family lines back to our people’s old homelands in the Southeast. Like my own family, Charlie also came from a family with eleven children. He had one sister and nine brothers, including two half brothers. Charlie was right about in the middle.
He learned as a boy how to work hard and pull his own weight. He and his siblings cut railroad ties, cleared land for crops, picked strawberries and beans, and hauled hay. His family lived in the Bell community and then moved to a nearby community called Starr. They lived as traditional Cherokees, and at one time, Charlie’s father was very active in the Keetoowah Society. Cherokee was the Soap family’s primary language.
Charlie mostly attended country schools. He became an accomplished athlete, and later played basketball at college and during a hitch in the navy. Charlie had been married twice before. He had three sons from his first marriage—Chris and Cobey, and another son who had died during heart surgery as an infant. Charlie’s youngest son, Winterhawk, was from his second marriage. When I met Charlie, that marriage was in trouble and was soon to end.
At the time, I was quite happy, living near Rocky Mountain on my ancestral land with my two daughters. They were busy with schoolwork and friends, and I had my tribal duties, not to mention my concerns about recovering my health. It had been several years since my marriage had broken up, but I was not particularly interested in more than a casual relationship with a man. At any rate, Charlie was still wrapped up in his own problems. We simply did not pay much attention to each other on a personal level until later, after the Bell project was concluded. Instead, we first developed a fine working relationship, and that led to a solid and strong friendship. That proved to be the best foundation for us when we finally realized we were in love.
From the very start, Charlie and I found that we worked very well together. Many of our values were the same. We also complemented each other in different ways. I think I was able to provide Charlie with some self-confidence, and he helped me to understand how to get things done within a bureaucratic system. He has taught me so much, because he knows quite a lot about Cherokee medicine and many of the old stories that have been handed down through the generations.
On the other hand, we were not afraid of our differences, and enjoyed debating various issues with one another. Some of the issues we wrestled with concerned religion and spirituality. Charlie had been raised in the church, and even had taught Sunday school for a while. I had had some exposure to Christianity, but had never even read the Bible. Despite our different religious experiences, Charlie and I are both highly spiritual people. Today, we attend church regularly, as well as ceremonial activities. We enjoy doing both.
Charlie’s marriage ended in 1983, but we did not marry for three more years, until October of 1986. Our relationship as a couple developed very slowly. It evolved as we grew more comfortable with each other, but we remained wary and cautious. I recall very well a day when Charlie stopped by my house for a cup of coffee. We had been sitting there in the kitchen talking when he kissed me. It was so unexpected. We embraced and kissed again. Both of us were wondering what was going on. For about a week or so after that, we shied away from each other, but that did not last. We missed being with each other too much.
From the onset, our relationship was as solid as a rock. It all stemmed from a deep respect. It is the strongest love I have ever known. We genuinely like each other. We never seem to get bored, and I think we continue to bring out each other’s strengths. That is so important. It has been said that when someone asks Charlie or me to name our personal heroes, we start our lists by naming each other. It’s true.
Now that I am principal chief of the Cherokee Nation, Charlie remains constant. He is a secure male. He is neither intimidated nor threatened by strong women or by other strong men. He still is one of the most unusual persons I have ever met. He is bright, never pretentious, and he genuinely enjoys helping people. He is free from all traces of racism and sexism. He likes children and is respectful of old people. Charlie Soap is a comfortable man. He is comfortable to be with, and he is comfortable with himself. He is guileless. He is my best friend.
I know who I am, what I am, and what I can do or cannot do. I am a Cherokee and I am proud of it. There is no one who can take that away from me.
Charlie Soap, 1992
Those first few years in the early 1980s were some of the most pivotal in my life. Everything about the Bell experience was positive. My daughters were doing well in their schoolwork, and were learning more each day about their Cherokee heritage. Many members of my family were living within easy reach. My work was very satisfying. I was beginning to feel complete.
After enduring two back-to-back assaults on my physical self, that period was comforting to my mind and soul. It was the best medicine. Serving as the principal organizer and enabler at the Bell community marked the first time I had been given any real power within the tribe. I enjoyed the tasks and eagerly asked for more. Chief Swimmer was generous in his response to my requests. I was able to use federal grants to finance my people’s dreams.
Then in 1983, history was made when Ross Swimmer asked me to run as his deputy chief in the next election. Just the year before, he had been deserted by most of his closest political supporters, partly because he had been diagnosed with lymphatic cancer. Those supposed allies of Swimmer’s had little courage or loyalty. One of the reasons they decided to challenge him as chief was because they considered that he was too ill to remain in office, since he was out much of the time taking chemotherapy treatments. They wrote him off as a dead man. So the following year when the time came for Swimmer to announce his bid for reelection for another four-year term, he remembered me. I suppose he trusted me, and was satisfied with my work and my allegiance to the tribe. He asked me if I would consider being on the ticket as his deputy.
By that time, Swimmer had recovered much of his health. The chemotherapy treatments had been effective. His prognosis was good, but he had also chosen to seek internal Cherokee healing from William Smith, a traditional medicine person, and from the Seven Medicine Men at the ceremonial grounds. He stepped inside the circle and asked for their help. I recall that Chief Swimmer made the point that he did not seek the traditional Cherokee healing as a symbolic gesture, but because he believed in its power.
I know just from my own knowledge that most, or many, contemporary medicines are derived from the natural medicines that the Indians developed years ago and … the folks there certainly have a handle on those medicinal roots and herbs and things. They might well have a lot of the answers to common illnesses. A lot of those roots and herbs have been synthesized into drugs today, and combined with some other chemicals that make them more potent, still serve the same purpose.
… in my ancestry, one of the Swimmers was a medicine man and listed all the herbs and the roots and the mushrooms and everything else that were used medicinally and many of them are extracted today and used in everyday medicine. So, I was fairly confident that [Cherokee traditional medicine] certainly wasn’t going to hurt me and if anything it might hold some secret to helping.
Former Cherokee Chief Ross Swimmer
Unquestionably, Swimmer was taking a great chance by bypassing his male friends to select me as his running mate. I suppose he saw me as an effective leader and manager. He must have forgotten that I am also a liberal Democrat.
I was greatly flattered by Swimmer’s selection of me, but I thought the whole idea was totally ludicrous. Because our tribe is so large, running for tribal office is much like running for Congress, or even a national political post. It is very much a mainstream process, complete with print and broadcast advertising, campaign billboards, rallies, and all that sort of thing. I honestly believed I could not possibly get elected. I realized that I had successfully developed and managed tribal programs and had much experience, including my years in California, but I simply could not picture myself in high tribal office. I told Chief Swimmer I was honored that he had chosen me, but my answer was a polite no. I had to decline.
But almost immediately after I gave him my answer, I started to think about what was transpiring around me. I then gave Chief Swimmer’s offer more thought. I went out among some of our rural communities in eastern Oklahoma where we were facilitating development projects. In one small community, I came upon three of our people living in an abandoned bus without any roof. Their few extra clothes were hanging on a line. They had few other possessions. It was a very sad scene. It burned into my mind.
I knew this was not an isolated situation. Many Cherokees were forced to put up with poor housing, rising medical costs, and educational deficits. I realized I was being given an opportunity to create change for Cherokee families such as those living in the old bus. I knew that if I did not act, I would no longer have any right to talk about or criticize the people who held tribal offices.
The visit to that small community had a major impact on me. I drove straight to Ross Swimmer’s home. I told him I had reconsidered, and I would run for election as deputy chief in the 1983 election. I quit my job with the Cherokee Nation so there would be no conflict of interest, and I filed for office.
From the start, I figured most people would be bothered about my ideas on grass-roots democracy and the fact that I had a fairly extensive activist background. I adhered to a different political philosophy than many people living in the area. But I was wrong. No one challenged me on those issues, not once. Instead, I was challenged mostly because of one fact—I am female. The election became an issue of gender. It was one of the first times I had ever really encountered overt sexism. I recalled that my first real experience with sexism had occurred in California. I had once slugged a boss during a Christmas party in San Francisco when he came up behind me and tried to kiss me. He did not fire me, but I do believe he got the message that I did not want to be mauled. The memory of that time came back to me during the 1983 campaign.
I heard all sorts of things—some people claimed that my running for office was an affront to God. Others said having a female run our tribe would make the Cherokees the laughingstock of the tribal world. I heard it all. Every time I was given yet another silly reason why I should not help run our government, I was certain that I had made the correct decision.
The reaction to my candidacy stunned me. It was a very low time in my life, but I would not be swayed. I figured the best tactic was to ignore my opponents. I remembered a saying I had once read on the back of a tea box. It said something like this—if you argue with a fool, someone passing by will not be able to tell who is the fool and who is not. I did not wish to be taken for a fool.
I built my run for office on a positive and cheerful foundation to counter the incredible hostility and great opposition I encountered. To say that the campaign was heated would be the understatement of all times. Most of the negative acts did not originate with my opponents for office, but with those who did not want a woman in office. I even had foes within the Swimmer-Mankiller team. Toward the end of the campaign, some of them openly supported one of my opponents.
Occasionally, the actions of those who were out to stop my election were violent. I received hate mail, including several death threats. After one evening rally, I returned to my car and discovered that all four tires had been slashed. On other occasions, there were threatening messages over the telephone. Once I picked up my ringing telephone and heard the sound of a rifle bolt being slammed shut on the other end of the line.
I also had a chilling experience while riding in a parade. I was waving and laughing and smiling at the crowd along the street when I spied someone in the back of the crowd. I saw a young man, and he had his hand cocked and his fingers pointed at me as if he were holding a pistol. Then he drew his hand back, firing an imaginary gun. I never even blinked. I just calmly looked away. The parade continued. No matter how disturbing those incidents were, the scare tactics did not work. One consolation was that the people in Bell and other rural Cherokee communities where I had worked were very supportive.
My two opponents for office were J. B. Dreadfulwater, a popular gospel singer and former member of the tribal council, and Agnes Cowan, the first woman to serve on the tribal council. She was older than I was, and already established in our tribal government. They were worthy opponents who I liked to criticize me for having no experience in tribal politics. In truth, I had a great deal of applicable experience, but I did have much to learn about political campaigning.
Some of the early experiences were painful. For example, we sent invitations for the first campaign event and made a lot of preparations. That particular evening arrived, and everything was laid out beautifully. Only five people, however, came to hear me speak, and three of them were related to me. But I smiled and realized it could only get better from there.
I think my opponents ignored the fact that I had a great deal of experience as a community organizer. I had learned a long time ago, at the Indian Center in San Francisco, how to reach large groups of people and bring them together. That is just what I did. I went door to door and campaigned. I attended every event and rally. I kept encountering opposition as a female candidate, but I did not use it as an issue in my campaign. Gradually, I saw some changes, but they were very few and far between.
Finally, election day arrived. When the ballots had been counted, Ross Swimmer was reelected, to his third term. I beat out Dreadfulwater in that first election, but had to face Cowan in a July runoff. In a tough battle, I defeated her and was able to claim ultimate victory. It was truly a moment to remember forever. The people of my tribe had selected me to serve as the first woman deputy chief in Cherokee history. I took office on August 14, 1983. As one of my supporters put it, at long last a daughter of the people had been chosen for high tribal office.
Women can help turn the world right side up. We bring a more collaborative approach to government. And if we do not participate, then decisions will be made without us.
Wilma Mankiller, Denver, September 1984
My two years as deputy chief proved to be difficult—very difficult. I had inherited many people on Ross Swimmer’s staff, and would not have my own people aboard for some time to come. Although Swimmer had chosen me as deputy and had stuck with me through the tough campaign, there were major differences between us. He was a Republican banker with a very conservative viewpoint, and I was a Democratic social worker and community planner who had organized and worked for Indian civil and treaty rights. Also, I had been elected along with a fifteen-member tribal council that, for the most part, did not support me. In fact, they had mostly worked against my election. Suddenly they were confronted with this young idealist woman, this veteran of Alcatraz, who was not only the newly elected deputy chief of the tribe but also acted as president of the council. I was shocked by how petty and political some of them behaved, even after my election.
Serving as president of a council that, at the start, did not support me was an interesting experience. Several members were almost hostile, but what surprised me the most was the lack of support I received from the three women on the council. Of course, they had also opposed my election, but I had naively assumed that once I was in office, we would all work together. But the situation did not get any better. In the subsequent election, two of the women supported my opponent, and the third did not seek reelection. I suppose that throughout those first few months, I felt a real lack of personal power. I had all the responsibility with none of the authority. Mostly, I just coped.
Gradually, I learned to adjust, and so did many of the council members. Still, it took all of us a while to figure out individual styles and ways of doing business. I stayed very busy as deputy chief, helping to govern an Indian nation spread over fourteen counties in northeastern Oklahoma. Despite our differences, Swimmer and I shared an absolute commitment to the rebuilding and revitalizating of our rural communities. As deputy chief, I helped to supervise the daily operations of the tribe. Those included more than forty tribally operated programs ranging from health clinics to day care, elderly assistance to water projects, Head Start classes to housing construction.
Then in September of 1985—just a little more than two years after I took office—there was more sudden change to deal with. Chief Swimmer was asked to go to Washington to head the BIA when he was nominated by President Ronald Reagan to serve as assistant secretary of the interior for Indian affairs. To assume the top Indian affairs post in the federal government, with fourteen thousand employees and a $1 billion annual budget, was an offer that Swimmer, then forty-one, did not want to refuse. The offer came at about the time other tribal officials and I had just about gotten used to each other.
Although it had never been invoked before, Article Six of our Cherokee Nation Constitution, ratified in 1976, provided for the replacement of a principal chief who leaves before the expiration of a term of office. According to this constitutional provision, the deputy principal chief automatically replaced the resigning chief. Legislation passed by the Cherokee Nation tribal council called for that body then to elect, from within its ranks, a new deputy principal chief. Members of the council would then recommend a name to fill the vacancy on the council, after which the nominee would be confirmed by the full tribal council.
When I first learned about Swimmer’s upcoming departure, I was somewhat concerned that I would go through the same ordeal as before, when I ran for deputy chief. I immediately began to prepare myself—spiritually and emotionally—for the onslaught. But remarkably, the transition was not that difficult. I suppose many people who were opposed to me thought they could live with the tribal laws and wait for two years until the next election, when they could clobber me at the polls. My problem seemed clear. I had to serve the balance of Ross Swimmer’s term—from 1985 to 1987—without any real mandate from the people.
Swimmer’s presidential nomination was ultimately confirmed by the United States Senate, and on December 5, 1985, I was sworn in as principal chief of the Cherokee Nation in a private ceremony. Formal ceremonies were held on December 14 at the tribal headquarters. Right before I took the oath of office, Ross Swimmer called me to offer his best.
Memories of my public inauguration will stay with me as long as I live. It was not the happiest of occasions. Swimmer had had little time to prepare me for all the complex issues we were facing. His staff members and many other people felt that the Cherokee Nation would crash and burn with a woman in charge. I was very wary. I knew full well what was ahead.
For the ceremony, I wore a dark suit and white blouse. There was snow on the ground, but the sky was clear and blue and cloudless. So many people came to me with hugs and smiles and good wishes. There were tears of happiness. I recall sitting behind the chief’s desk for the first time for an official photo, and someone in the office said, “You look very natural sitting there. It’s very becoming.”
The council chamber was packed. There were many photographers, reporters, and guests. At the proper time, I stepped forward and placed my hand on a Bible. I raised my other hand to take the oath of office. It is a very straightforward pledge:
“I, Wilma P. Mankiller, do solemnly swear, or affirm, that I will faithfully execute the duties of Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation. And will, to the best of my abilities, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitutions of the Cherokee Nation and the United States of America. I swear, or affirm, further that I will do everything within my power to promote the culture, heritage, and tradition of the Cherokee Nation.”
Thunderous applause followed when I finished the oath and stepped up to the podium. As the crowd became still, the sound of camera shutters clicking continued until I spoke. I thanked everyone in attendance, and all of my friends, family, and supporters. I spoke of the deep honor of assuming the position of chief. I complimented Ross Swimmer for his leadership, and I talked of the many tasks before me.
… I think there’s a bit of nervousness in the Cherokee Nation. I think any time there’s a change, people wonder what’s going to happen, is there going to be some kind of major change. And my political adversaries like to spread around rumors that there’s going to be a purge of employees. That’s just not the case. I like what’s going on at the Cherokee Nation. There will be very little that will change. The only thing that will change is that there will be more of an emphasis on the development of the economy.
Wilma Mankiller, inaugural speech, 1985
By the time I took the oath of office, my eldest daughter, Felicia, had married, and I had my first grandchild, Aaron Swake. I was a forty-year-old grandmother, as well as the first woman to serve as chief of a major tribe. I told the reporters, who seemed to materialize from out of nowhere, that the only people who were really worried about my serving as chief were members of my family. That was because all of them knew very well how much time I tended to devote to my job. My daughters were, of course, concerned about my health. But my little grandson thought it was great that his grandma was the chief.
I’ll have to do extra well because I am the first woman.
Wilma Mankiller, People magazine, 1985
One thing that I never tried to become as chief was “one of the boys,” nor am I a “good ol’ girl.” I never will be. That goes against my grain. I do know how to be political and to get the job done, but I do not believe that one must sacrifice one’s principles. Gradually, I noticed changes within the tribe and especially within the council.
Rural development was, and still remains, a high priority on my list of goals. For me, the rewards came from attempting to break the circle of poverty. My feeling is that the Cherokee people, by and large, are incredibly tenacious. We have survived so many major political and social upheavals, yet we have kept the Cherokee government alive. I feel confident that we will march into the twenty-first century on our own terms.
We are staffed with professionals—educators, physicians, attorneys, business leaders. Already, in the 1800s, we fought many of our wars with lawsuits, and it was in the courts where many of our battles were won. Today, we are helping to erase the stereotypes created by media and by western films of the drunken Indian on a horse, chasing wagon trains across the prairie. I suppose some people still think that all native people live in tepees and wear tribal garb every day. They do not realize that many of us wear business suits and drive station wagons. The beauty of society today is that young Cherokee men and women can pursue any professional fields they want and remain true to traditional values. It all comes back to our heritage and our roots. It is so vital that we retain that sense of culture, history, and tribal identity.
We also are returning the balance to the role of women in our tribe. Prior to my becoming chief, young Cherokee girls never thought they might be able to grow up and become chief themselves. That has definitely changed. From the start of my administration, the impact on the younger women of the Cherokee Nation was noticeable. I feel certain that more women will assume leadership roles in tribal communities.
In 1992, I attended a meeting in the Midwest. My keynote presentation had been well publicized in the region. After my presentation, a native man told me he had an important message for me. He told me he was an Oneida, and one of the prophecies he had heard was that this time period is the time of the women—a time for women to take on a more important role in society. He described this as “the time of the butterfly.”
When I read recently of Judge Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s nomination to the Supreme Court, Hillary Rodham Clinton’s work on health-care reform, the appointment of Ada Deer as assistant secretary of the interior in charge of the BIA, and the election of a female Canadian prime minister, I smiled and thought about the prophecy of the anonymous Oneida man who had driven all day to pass along his message to me.
I had negative thoughts [about women leading the tribe] before. But I have had the opportunity to work with her [Mankiller]. I have been impressed with her leadership.
J. B. Dreadfulwater, former political opponent of Wilma Mankiller’s
New York Times, December 15, 1985
In 1987, after I had fulfilled the balance of Ross Swimmer’s term as chief, I made the decision to run on my own and to win a four-year term of office. It was not an easy decision. I knew the campaign would be most difficult. I talked to my family and to my people. I spent long hours discussing the issues with Charlie Soap, whom I had married in 1986. Charlie had contracted with private foundations to continue development work with low-income native community projects. His counsel to me was excellent. He encouraged me to run. So did many other people.
But there were others who were opposed to my continuing as chief. Even some of my friends and advisers told me they believed the Cherokee people would accept me only as deputy, not as an elected principal chief. Some of those people came to our home at Mankiller Flats. I would look out the window and see them coming down the dirt road to tell me that I should give up any idea of running for chief. Finally, I told Charlie that if one more family came down that road and told me not to run, I was going to run for sure. That is just what happened.
I made my official announcement in early 1987, calling for a “positive, forward-thinking campaign.” I chose John A. Ketcher, a member of the tribal council since 1983, as my running mate for the June 20 election. In 1985, John had been elected by the council to succeed me as deputy chief when I became principal chief. An eleven-sixteenths bilingual Cherokee, John was born in southern Mayes County in 1922. A veteran of World War II and a graduate of Northeastern State University in Tahlequah, Ketcher, as I do, considered unity and economic development to be the two priorities for the Cherokee Nation. He still does. John has remained deputy chief to this day, and is a great asset to the Cherokee people.
After we debate issues, we remain friends and support each other. We are all Cherokees. The same blood that flows in the full-bloods flows in the part-bloods. We all have things we would like to see happen, but if we argue over issues or candidates the four years between tribal elections, we wouldn’t be able to get anything done for those who need it and those we serve—the Cherokee people.
Deputy Principal Chief John A. Ketcher
I drew three opponents in the race for principal chief. I had to face Dave Whitekiller, a postal assistant from the small community of Cookson and a former councilman; William McKee, deputy administrator at W.W. Hastings Indian Hospital, in Tahlequah; and Perry Wheeler, a former deputy chief and a funeral home director from Sallisaw, in Sequoyah County.
From the beginning, the best description of the campaign came from someone on the council, who said there was an “undercurrent of viciousness.” I ignored things that were going on around me. I did the same thing I had always done—went out to the communities and talked to as many of the Cherokee people as possible about the issues. I tried to answer all their questions. My critics claimed that I had failed to properly manage and direct the Cherokee Nation, which was obviously false. Our revenue for 1986 was up $6 million, higher than it had ever been to that point. I was not about to lose focus by warring with my opponents.
The election eliminated all the candidates except for Perry Wheeler and me. None of us had received more than 50 percent of the votes. I had polled 45 percent to Wheeler’s 29 percent. We had to face each other in a July runoff. My supporters worked very hard during those last few weeks. Charlie was one of my main champions. On my behalf, Charlie visited many rural homes where English is a second language to remind the people that prior to the intrusion of white men, women had played key roles in our government. He asked our people to not turn their backs on their past or their future.
Charlie’s help was especially important because I was stricken with my old nemesis, kidney problems, during the final weeks of the campaign. Finally, just before the election, I had to be hospitalized in Tulsa, but the physicians never determined the exact location of the infection and could not bring it under control. The lengthy infection and hospitalization would nearly cost me not only the election but also my life, since it brought on extensive and irreversible kidney damage. From that point forward, I was repeatedly hospitalized for kidney and urinary-tract infections, until I underwent surgery and had a kidney transplant in 1990.
Wheeler, an unsuccessful candidate for the chief’s job against Ross Swimmer in 1983, tried to make my hospitalization a major issue. He waged a vigorous and negative runoff campaign. He publicly stated that I had never been truthful about my health. It all reminded me of the way Swimmer had been attacked when he was battling cancer. Wheeler, whom I can best describe as an old-style politician, also made claims that I had not hired enough Cherokee people for what he called the higher-paying tribal posts.
When she [Mankiller] came back here [to Oklahoma], she had a different philosophy. She grew up in a time when the hippie craze was going on.
Perry Wheeler, Tulsa Tribune, 1987
When all the ballots from thirty-four precincts plus the absentee votes were tallied, the woman who supposedly knew nothing about politics was declared the winner. The night of the runoff election, we went to the Tulsa Powwow, where my daughter Gina was being honored. In a photograph taken that evening, Charlie, Gina, Felicia, and I look very tired and worn, as if we had just been through a battle. Later that night, we returned to Tahlequah to check on the election results. When the votes of the local precincts were counted, it appeared that I had won easily. Everyone around me was celebrating, but I was concerned about the absentee votes. Once that vote was included, I allowed myself to celebrate.
At last, the Cherokee Nation had elected its first woman as principal chief—the first woman chief of a major Native American tribe. I had outpolled Wheeler, and John Ketcher had retained his post as deputy chief. Wheeler conceded victory to me shortly before midnight.
At long last, I had the mandate I had wanted. I had been chosen as principal chief of the Cherokee Nation by my own people. It was a sweet victory. Finally, I felt the question of gender had been put to rest. Today, if anyone asks members of our tribe if it really matters if the chief is male or female, the majority will reply that gender has no bearing on leadership.
Because I have risen to the office of chief, some people erroneously conclude that the role of native women has changed in every tribe. That is not so. People jump to that conclusion because they do not really understand native people. There is no universal “Indian language.” All of us have our own distinct languages and cultures. In the African-American community, people can rally around a single leader, as they did for a while around Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Because Native Americans have our own languages, cultures, art forms, and social systems, our tribes are radically different from one another. Many tribal groups do not have women in titled positions, but in the great majority of those groups, there is some degree of balance and harmony in the roles of men and women. Among the Lakota, there is a very well known saying that “a nation is not defeated until the hearts of the women are on the ground.” I think in some ways Rigoberta Menchú, the Nobel Peace Prize winner—a Guatemalan human-rights activist—may be a good rallying force for all of us. She represents to me the very best of what native womanhood is about. I am awestruck by her life and accomplishments, as are many other native people in Central, South, and North America.
In the instance of the Cherokees, we are fortunate to have many strong women. I have attained a leadership position because I am willing to take risks, but at the same time, I am trying to teach other women, both Cherokees and others, to take risks also. I hope more women will gradually emerge in leadership positions. When I ran for deputy chief in 1983, I quit my job and spent every dollar of my personal savings and proceeds from the car-accident settlement to pay for campaign expenses. Friends describe me as someone who likes to dance along the edge of the roof. I try to encourage young women to be willing to take risks, to stand up for the things they believe in, and to step up and accept the challenge of serving in leadership roles.
True tribal tradition recognizes the importance of women. Contrary to what you’ve probably read in history books, not all tribes were controlled by men.
Wilma Mankiller, Harvard University, 1987
If I am to be remembered, I want it to be because I am fortunate enough to have become my tribe’s first female chief. But I also want to be remembered for emphasizing the fact that we have indigenous solutions to our problems. Cherokee values, especially those of helping one another and of our interconnections with the land, can be used to address contemporary issues.
During those first few years of serving as chief, I began to feel an immense responsibility. I would think to myself that if I did not make it to this meeting or to that session, it would reflect poorly on all women. I felt that not only my credibility but also the credibility of any woman who might follow me was on the line.
Gradually, I relaxed. As my comfort level with my position as chief increased with each passing day, I found myself able to accomplish even more for the Cherokee people. I did not even mind some of the publicity that continued to pour in because of my election. I felt that any attention that was being given to me could be diverted to the people of the Cherokee Nation. That was extremely positive.
When I look at her, I just see Wilma. But sometimes I think about what she has done … and I can’t believe it.
Irene Mankiller, Oklahoma Today, February 1990
Although my spirits were buoyed by the milestones accomplished by the Cherokee people, I was still troubled by continuing kidney problems. I had been misdiagnosed by doctors in Tulsa, and I sought medical help in Denver. Although I knew I had polycystic kidney disease, I continued to hope that I would not experience total kidney failure, as had been predicted years before by the physicians in California. I even tried some highly experimental procedures to see if I could stave off the disease. Most of those attempts were acts of desperation.
On the advice of a kidney-disease researcher, I traveled to the University of Oregon in the spring of 1989 to undergo yet another procedure. The doctors made a fifteen-inch abdominal incision to expose both kidneys so they could remove the tops of the cysts and bathe the area with antibiotics. At the very minimum, the procedure was believed to lessen the number and severity of the damaging kidney infections, and possibly to slow the progress of the disease. But it did not work. Shortly after returning to Oklahoma, I was again hospitalized with a severe kidney infection.
By the autumn of 1989, I realized that kidney failure was imminent. Again, I was hospitalized. I was told that I would soon have to begin dialysis, and within six months consider the possibility of a kidney transplant. I devoured every bit of written material and research I could find. For a time, I felt very tired. I found myself having to face yet another major health battle to stay alive. Had not the automobile accident, the trauma of Sherry’s death, the repeated surgeries, and the bout of myasthenia gravis been enough for one person? I was not certain I could fight so hard again.
While I was lying in yet another hospital bed, one of my doctors came in to speak to me about my various options. I was struck by her youth and vigor. Earlier, she had told me about her marriage plans, and how excited she was about beginning her medical practice. As she spoke, I allowed myself the rare luxury of wondering what it would be like to have her life—a life without constant social and political struggle, without endless battles with disease.
Later that afternoon, after I questioned myself at length about my troubles, I slept. I got through the frustration and sense of helplessness, and I dreamed. When I awoke, I felt refreshed, as if I had come back to a safe place. Once again, I knew I could make it if I tried. I also realized that I would share every step along the way with the public and the Cherokee people.
The transplant team projected that I could wait about six months before the surgery. They wanted to wait until my diseased kidneys totally failed, and then remove them. Then they would place me on dialysis, and put my name on the national waiting list for a donor cadaver kidney. I did not feel good about that plan. I was already weak, and I could not understand how I could possibly survive all the procedures that were ahead of me. During that time, I learned a lot about the great number of people who are on waiting lists for kidneys, hearts, livers, and other organs. Although there has been an increase in awareness of the need for organ donors, the number of donors has not increased. If potential donors could talk with some of the people whose lives have been saved by transplants, they would be convinced that organ donation is the right thing to do.
While I waited, I asked for my close family members to be tested as possible kidney donors. The surgical team agreed. Charlie asked all my brothers and sisters, my mother, and my two daughters if they were interested in donating a kidney. Six relatives immediately signed up—three brothers, two sisters, and my daughter Felicia. After they were all tested, only my sister Frances remained as a viable donor. Most of the others had some form of the genetic kidney disease themselves, although not nearly as severe as mine. Frances, although clear of disease, had slightly elevated blood pressure and blood-sugar level. After further tests, the doctors decided that unless her problems could be eliminated, she would also be struck from the list of potential donors.
I was not very comfortable with much of the medical advice I had been receiving. I told the doctors I was considering getting an opinion from another transplant center. My main physician became very defensive, and told me I could not dictate my treatment.
I was sharing this trauma with my good friend Gloria Steinem. We had become close through our joint work together on the Ms. Foundation board. Gloria gave me the name of an excellent physician who she believed would help me. When there was some hesitation on my part, Gloria insisted that I set up a meeting with the doctor at his office in Boston. She was right to persist. Dr. Anthony Monaco, a skilled transplant surgeon affiliated with New England Deaconess Hospital and Harvard Medical School, saved my life.
Only fifteen minutes into our first meeting, I knew I had found the right person. He asked that further tests be conducted on Frances, and although she again appeared to be a good match for the procedure, Dr. Monaco was concerned about her blood-sugar level and blood pressure. He ordered more tests.
Meanwhile, my condition was worsening. I was becoming badly anemic, and I was coping with profound weakness. My kidneys were barely functioning when Frances took the final battery of tests. Charlie and I were at a fund-raiser in New York when we received word that Frances had failed the tests and was definitely eliminated as a donor. We had come full circle and had nowhere else to go.
But then a few days later, Charlie called my last remaining sibling, who had not been tested—my big brother Don in California. Charlie explained the situation, and Don agreed immediately to take blood tests and consider serving as a donor. The results were good—Don was free of any disease and could serve as a donor. The decision to donate one’s kidney is difficult. This was especially true for Don, who hates being near hospitals and medical doctors and made it a point to stay healthy so he would not have to get even remotely close to a medical facility.
Don talked with his wife and children about the situation. They were, of course, fearful for his safety. But Don and I went to Boston for a final test to make sure there was a complete match of blood and everything was in order. Everything checked out.
In the spring of 1990, Don agreed to go ahead with the surgery and to give me one of his healthy kidneys. The operation was set for June. I know how hard that decision was for him to make. There are obviously no words to thank him for his sacrifice. As he had been all my life when he worked so hard along with my father to put food on the table and shoes on our feet, my big brother Don was once again a hero. He is indeed my special hero. Without Don, without the diligence of my friend Gloria Steinem, and without the skills of Dr. Monaco, I would not be alive today. One more time, death visited with me, perhaps lingered nearby for a while, and in the end gave me a reprieve.
The surgery took three hours. My brother’s kidney was removed and transplanted, and it began to work almost immediately after it was placed in my body. Don experienced incredible postoperative pain, but both of us soon mended, although I suffered much guilt from watching Don go through a painful rehabilitation. But except for a few minor problems, there have been no real complications since the operation. I was back to work in Oklahoma in August, less than two months after having received my new kidney. I am much more respectful of death than to declare myself a clear victor, however. With an illness such as this, even though I feel well most of the time, I am aware that things could go wrong again, that I could experience kidney rejection or other problems related to the transplant.
Since the operation, I have continued to work as hard as possible for my tribe and other Native Americans by adhering to the principles of self-government and by fulfilling as many of my people’s needs as possible without the bureaucratic delays of the past. I am proud to watch my people improve their individual lives on their own through various educational and employment opportunities. We Cherokees have managed to figure out how to live successfully in a very modern, fast-paced world, while preserving our cultural values and traditions.
There is still much to be done. That is why, in 1991, I decided to run for another four-year term as principal chief of the Cherokee Nation. I wished to continue my work—especially to concentrate on health and housing issues. Although I drew two stalwart opponents, William K. Dew and Art Nave, I won another term by a considerable margin. The newspapers called my victory a landslide because I received 82.7 percent of the votes. I really did not expect to do that well. I was only hoping to avoid another runoff. But by receiving so many votes, I felt that our people were saying the issue of gender and doubts was at last buried.
My inauguration ceremony was held on August 14, 1991. It was another full house. Charlie held the Bible as I again took the oath of office. There were a lot of speeches and warm words. I felt very comfortable at the podium delivering my address. I knew many others were present there that day besides the people gathered in the auditorium. I felt their presence, too.
It’s a fine time for celebration because as we approach the twenty-first century, the Cherokee Nation still has a strong, viable tribal government. Not only do we have a government that has continued to exist, we have a tribal government that’s growing and progressing and getting stronger. We’ve managed not to just barely hang on, we’ve managed to move forward in a very strong, very affirmative way. Given our history of adversity I think it’s a testament to our tenacity, both individually and collectively as a people, that we’ve been able to keep the Cherokee Nation government going since time immemorial.
Wilma Mankiller, inaugural speech, 1991
Although our tribe has continued to make remarkable progress, we still have much to do. Issues I am working on now include a new education plan, Cherokee language and literacy projects, developing Sequoyah High School into a magnet school, developing a comprehensive health-care system, an extensive array of services for children and youths, settlement of old land claims, taxation, housing initiatives, safeguarding the environment, and economic development.
My family also remains very important to me, and is a great source of joy.
Felicia is quiet, somewhat shy, and expresses little interest in politics. She is content with a nice job at Northeastern State University in Tahlequah. She is tall, and very slender and striking. She has dark brown hair and brown eyes. Felicia has two sons and a daughter, Aaron, Jaron, and Breanna Swake, ages seven, three, and two, respectively.
Gina is very bright and outgoing, and was always on the honor roll. She too is tall and pretty, with thick black hair that she keeps in a wild tumble of curls, even now at twenty-seven. She has inherited my interest in politics. She has one son, Kellen Quinton, who is four years old.
Both of my daughters married men with Cherokee ancestry.
When my girls were growing up, I encouraged them to read, appreciate music, maintain a sense of humor, and dance. We danced to all kinds of songs, but our favorite was Aretha Franklin’s “Respect.” After the car accident in 1979, I could no longer do that type of dancing. I am always saddened when either of my girls refers to “the time when Mom danced with us.” I still do ceremonial dances, but I no longer do very much contemporary dancing.
Charlie’s son Winterhawk Soap, who lives with us, is thirteen. Like his father, he is a Plains-style dancer. He attends Cherokee ceremonial dances, and is interested in Cherokee culture. Winterhawk likes art and history, and is a good student at Rocky Mountain School, where my brothers and sisters and I walked down those country roads to school years ago.
Now, at my home at Mankiller Flats, surrounded by my books, my art, my grandchildren, and the natural world, I realize that my journey had indeed brought me to the place where I was always destined to be. As I sit by a winter fire or walk to the spring where my family has gone for generations or rest on the porch where the walkingsticks like to come to munch on redbud leaves, I often think about my past and the history of my people.
I recall the numbers of Cherokees who, in the last two centuries, left behind our traditional ways. Those Cherokee elite, as I call them, adhered to the white ways. I also think of their counterparts, the traditionalists who remained true to our tribe’s past. I remember hearing that this division created incredible stress and confusion within our Nation, and in 1811, a large comet blazed across the sky for weeks. There was talk of more war with the British and with the Creeks. I recall the old stories.
It was during that time that our people reached a crossroads. It was a period of great uneasiness, and that year and the next, there were severe earthquakes that caused fear to spread among our people. An indication of this turmoil was conveyed by the Warrior’s Nephew to the Moravians. He reported that some native people—led by a man beating a drum—had descended from the sky. The man had warned the Cherokees that the Mother of the Nation was unhappy. She was unhappy that we had given up planting corn. She was unhappy that we had let the whites take over our sacred towns. The Mother of the Nation wanted the Cherokees to return to the old ways.
According to the oral tradition, it was during this time that a great Cherokee prophet called Charley claimed to have received a message from the Great Spirit, the Creator of Life and Breath. Charley emerged from the mountains accompanied by two wolves. Charley told an assembly of Cherokees that the Great Spirit was displeased that we had given up our old ways in favor of the white man’s mills, clothing, and culture. He told them that the Great Spirit was angry and wished the Cherokees to take up the old dances and feasts—to return to the time when they listened to the Great Spirit in their dreams. Charley warned that if they ignored the message he delivered, they would face death. However, when death did not overcome those who chose to ignore his prophecy, his power diminished among our people. But some of us realize that the death Charley talked about may not have been physical death, but the death of the spirit.
This is one of my favorite stories. It is a lesson. When it is told well, I can visualize the prophet and his two wolves coming out of the night to warn the Cherokees about the impending loss of our traditions and culture.
Among the artworks I keep in our home are a painting and a wood sculpture. They are depictions of Charley and the wolves appearing before the council of Cherokees. Having Charley in my home reminds me every single day of the need for contemporary Cherokees to be on guard. Having Charley nearby reminds us to be sure to do everything we can to hold onto our language, our ceremonies, our culture. For we are people of today—people of the so-called modern world. But first and foremost, and forever, we are also Cherokees.