A Tribal divide

Casino-rich tribes and poorer reservations are at odds over a bill to spread gambling money to more tribes–and to the state

By Jim Ragsdale

Pioneer Press

WHITE EARTH RESERVATION

It has everything a water tower needs — except water.

Soaring above the humble homes in the northeast corner of the White Earth reservation, the freshly painted light-green tower adorned with the image of an eagle sits empty while the band looks for money to run it.

"I call it the pigeon decoy,'' quipped Andrew Favorite, who supervises tribe enrollments.

The dry reservoir — along with the crumbling tribal school, the lead-tainted water system, health care needs and a jumble of substandard housing — are on White Earth's bulging to-do list. So are the needs of the many urban White Earth tribe members in the Twin Cities, 250 miles away from the pigeon decoy.

It's an image at odds with the more visible tribal success stories of recent years on wealthier reservations, where thriving casinos have fueled a revolution in high-quality schools, community facilities and personal income. But that success has eluded more remote reservations, such as The White Earth Band of Ojibwe as well as the Red Lake Band of Chippewa to the north.

This vivid divide between rich and poor tribes has reached the Minnesota Legislature in the form of a gambling bill.

Red Lake and White Earth are pinning their hopes for the future on a long-odds proposal to build a new gambling palace in the metro area, with the proceeds flowing to the financially struggling, populous tribes — and also to the state. The two tribes represent nearly two-thirds of Minnesota's Indian population.

White Earth, with about 23,000 enrolled members, nets about $3.8 million per year from its casino in Mahnomen, officials say. Compare that with the mountains of cash thrown off by the Mystic Lake complex in Shakopee for the 300-member Sioux band, where annual payments of gambling profits for each tribe member are believed to exceed $1 million.

"Three people down in Mystic Lake get more money than we get to serve 23,000 members,'' said Ron Valiant, executive director of the White Earth Tribal Council.

The ka-ching of coins and synthesized jingles of the video slot machines — the dominant industry in Indian Country — have showered riches on geographically blessed tribes, left others out in the cold, provoked jealousy among whites who want their own slot-machine music and drawn the attention of Gov. Tim Pawlenty, who wants the state to share in the booty.

"There's a chess game going on between all of the tribes and the state,'' Favorite said.

WHITE EARTH

Far from the heavily lobbied committee rooms, gambling economics is a powerful force, determining who gets housing, insurance coverage and college scholarships — and whether the water will ever flow from the "pigeon decoy'' towering over the pines of White Earth.

Bert Stevens, whose house is across the street, sees the need to fix up crumbling housing and improve police protection. But he is not convinced gambling is the solution.

"I think it just breaks up a lot of families,'' Stevens said. "It causes a lot of hardship for families.''

The push for gaming here is complicated by history, scandal and tribal politics, which resurfaced March 30. Darrell "Chip" Wadena, a former tribal chairman who served a prison term for crimes arising from the construction of the White Earth casino, was the leading vote-getter in the primary to become tribal chairman. Supporters fear the possibility of a Wadena comeback will make it harder to sell legislators on a plan to funnel millions in gambling revenue to the tribe.

On a recent visit, the "Vote Chip'' signs were out in force as Favorite guided visitors around the reservation and talked of how White Earth's painful past defines its perilous present.

All but a small portion of the original reservation was lost to settlers and loggers, and what remains in tribal hands is a scattered checkerboard of about 75,000 acres. "We had land and timber and resources,'' Favorite said. "They needed it. We got relegated to reservations in poverty. The rest of the state developed and flourished.''

Housing is scattered and often marginal. There are 600 families on a waiting list for housing assistance, according to Valiant. The main employer is the casino-hotel in Mahnomen, a quiet farm town of 1,200 with the familiar rural skyline of grain silos.

The Shooting Star Casino, Hotel and Event Center is a rural aberration. Its giant parking lot and show-biz lighting seem out of place, and tribe officials say the project may have been overbuilt for the market. Inside the casino, seniors wear their "Star Player Cards'' clipped to their collars on a curling lanyard, plugging the card into slot machines for points and extra prizes.

The casinos, even if they do not provide huge revenues for the tribe, do provide jobs for members. "We've gone from being unemployed to being working poor,'' Favorite said. The modest profits and the large size of the White Earth band mean that if White Earth sent all of its profits back to members, each person would receive about $165 per year.

The signs of progress, like the water tower, are unfinished. A new community center near Rice Lake has a spacious gymnasium, but Favorite said it has a concrete floor because the money ran out before the tribe could buy floor boards.

Favorite, who serves on the tribe's housing commission, pointed out the mismatched collection of "FEMA trailers'' left over from the Red River Valley flood, Air Force houses hauled in from North Dakota bases and newer federal HUD Houses. He drove by a burned-out sedan near Rice Lake, which he said is a frequent occurrence on the reservation, an example of vandalism and neglect with which the tribe must reckon.

"The main culprit is poverty,'' Favorite said. "We're almost like a developing nation.''

To Favorite, Valiant and other White Earth officials, the metro casino project — as far away from reality as the Capitol is from the water tower — looks like the best way out.

MILLE LACS

Bonita Bwaan laid out goatskins that would soon become dancers' uniforms. She displayed a colorful dress festooned with metal cones, used in a traditional "jingle dance.'' She and other tribal members were getting ready for a dance practice with children at the Nay Ah Shing K-4 school on the Mille Lacs reservation.

"Our kids absolutely love to dance,'' Bwaan said.

And since the casino era began, she said, the tenuous nature of old War on Poverty programs has given way to more stable funding. That makes it easier to keep the traditions alive, and for tribe members to have dependable jobs.

"Thank God for that casino,'' she said.

This is a common refrain in the lower and upper school, the picturesque health center, the sparkling tribal government office, the ceremonial building and in the corporate suites adjoining Grand Casino Mille Lacs, which look down on parked tour buses and the lines of gray-haired slot-machine feeders.

The Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe, a smallish band based on the southern shore of Lake Mille Lacs about 90 miles north of the Twin Cities, owns and operates two casinos: Grand Casino Mille Lacs and Grand Casino Hinckley.

The Mille Lacs band has approximately 3,600 members, with about half living on reservation lands, officials say. Tribal officials will not say how much the casinos earn each year, but the Native American Press/Ojibwe News reported that audited financial statements showed the two casinos produced $280 million in gross revenues in the year 2000.

Don Wedll, a non-Indian who has worked for the tribe in a variety of positions since 1973, recalls when his entire budget for managing the natural resources of the band was less than his sister made working for a Twin Cities insurance company. He remembers when the tribal budget was close to $2 million in the early 1990s. After 12 years in the casino business, it is now approaching $60 million, he said.

The band historically has focused on building its infrastructure, providing health care and improving education, but now also pays members an annual per-capita share of the profits. Tadd Johnson, who works in government affairs for the band, said those "per-caps'' are now $5,700 a year.

Poverty and unemployment rates have nosedived and per-capita income figures have surged since the casinos opened, tribal officials say. The casinos employ about 3,000 people — most of them non-Indians — and 500 more work for the tribal government in some capacity, according to Wedll and Johnson.

The once-poor band is now flush enough to pour money into lobbying in St. Paul ($600,000 in 2003, according to state figures) and to purchase Eddy's fishing resort on the lake and Woodlands National Bank in the area.

Tribe officials see the Red Lake-White Earth bill as potentially devastating, particularly if the new casino is located in the north metro area — which feeds customers to their casinos.

The success of gambling is on display at the Ne-Ia-Shing clinic, where Sam Moose, commissioner of health for the band, described how the "Circle of Health'' insurance program for band members fills in gaps in other policies and provides coverage for everyone.

The sunny clinic, whose waiting room looks out over the lake, offers health and dental care and a pharmacy, and is a great improvement over the health programs of the pre-casino era, Moose said. "It's definitely night and day,'' he said.

RED LAKE

Al Thunder, cultural coordinator for the Red Lake Band of Chippewa, stood on a cliff overlooking the icy expanse of lower Red Lake and reveled in his tribe's autonomy. "We all own every inch of this,'' he said. "It was put in common for all of us.''

That simple fact defines the Red Lake Nation, whose chiefs resisted the carving up of reservation lands into separate allotments. This left behind an intact but isolated reservation of more than 806,000 acres, including the fisheries of upper and lower Red Lakes.

Red Lake's natural bounty, along with its large numbers, once put the band in a stronger position than smaller, land-poor tribes to the south. But the coming of the slot machines reversed the equation: the value of Red Lake's vast acreage is now dwarfed by Mystic Lake's proximity to cities and suburbs where bettors live.

"Our intent is to be self-sufficient,'' said Darrell Seki, treasurer of the Red Lake Tribal Council, who has been leading the lobbying for the Red Lake-White Earth casino bill at the Capitol. Red Lake currently operates small casinos in Red Lake, Thief River Falls and Warroad, but together, they produce only $1.75 million in net revenue for the tribe, Seki said.

That amounts to $175 in net revenue for each of the band's 10,000 members, too little to pay out to members or to make a dent in Red Lake's economic and social problems.

Despite casino jobs, unemployment is so high at Red Lake, Seki said, that the 5-year time limit for state welfare benefits is waived for band members who live here.

That has triggered a reverse migration of poor Red Lakers from the Twin Cities to the reservation, where they can continue to draw benefits.

Currently, Seki estimated, about 6,000 members live on the reservation and about 4,000 are elsewhere — mostly in the metro area. He said 740 families draw welfare on the reservation. The tribe wants to build new housing, create new jobs, develop a tribal college and improve law enforcement and court facilities, Seki said.

A small reservation casino is located in a rust-colored metal building a few blocks from tribal headquarters. Thunder says there are too few slot machines to produce much revenue, and it mainly serves as recreation "for the working man.'' A sign outside cautions over-zealous bettors: "Please Don't Hit the Machines.''

The casino adjoins a small school building where Renee Gurneau is trying to build Red Lake Nation College, offering both Anishinabe culture and casino management to students who want a foot in both worlds. She has four classrooms and dreams of casino money fueling future growth. "We need everything,'' she said.

Darrell Auginash oversees Red Lake Industries, which builds modular homes that are popular on many reservations in the region. The business was closed temporarily, but he hopes it can rev up again with new contracts and additional resources for expansion.

"A plant like this gives our community hope,'' Auginash said.

The problems associated with urban poverty — crumbling housing, drugs and crime — have migrated to the northern reservations, tribe officials say. The bill is aimed at funneling money both to the reservations and to the large urban Indian populations.

Officials hope it could help Debbie Waybenais on the reservation and Alberta Van Wert's clients along Franklin Avenue.

Waybenais was trying to get her six grandchildren to stay out of the muddy puddle that the snowmelt had produced in front of her home on a recent warm day. She said she lost an 18-year-old son in a traffic accident six months ago, is receiving welfare payments and is crowded into her home with the grandchildren while her daughter waits for assistance to move into her own home.

Red Lake officials say with the casino money, they could build more homes and help those in need of housing assistance.

Van Wert, liaison officer for the Red Lake Band in Minneapolis, deals with similar problems among those who have moved off the reservation. The bill directs funding for services for urban Indian populations, officials say, and will offer jobs to tribe members and other minorities.

Van Wert sees the new casino as a lifeline for urban Red Lakers.

She grew up on the reservation, gathering wild rice, catching fish and tapping maple trees in an echo of the subsistence lifestyle of her forebears. She came to the Twin Cities for education, family and a career, but many others have not thrived in the Twin Cities.

According to a new study, the poverty rate for Indians in Hennepin County is 29 percent — four times the rate for the county as a whole. Indians four times the diabetes rate and double the rates of obesity and depression of other county residents.

In light of these statistics, Van Wert called Pawlenty's attempt to grab casino profits to balance the state's budget "extortion.'' And even if the Red Lake-White Earth bill does cut into other tribes' business, she thinks it's not too much to ask of those few who have become slot-machine millionaires.

"Do they think they could live on a million a year, instead of a million and a half, and put more money into the community?" she asked.

White Earth Band of Ojibwe.

Location: White Earth, 25 miles north of Detroit Lakes and 256 miles northwest of St. Paul.

Tribal land: 75,267 acres

Number of enrolled members: 23,000

Number living on reservation: 4,500

Casino: Casino-hotel in Mahnomen.

Revenue estimates: Annual net to tribe is $3.8 million.

Red Lake Band of Chippewa

Location: Red Lake, 34 miles north of Bemidji and 301 miles northwest of St. Paul.

Tribal land: 806,698 acres, including Lower Red Lake and most of Upper Red Lake.

Number of enrolled members: 10,000

Number living on reservation: 6,000

Casinos: Red Lake, Thief River Falls and Warroad.

Casino revenue: Annual net to tribe is $1.75 million.

Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe

Location: South shore of Mille Lacs Lake; MacGregor area; and Hinckley. Onamia headquarters is 93 miles north of St. Paul.

Tribal land: About 13,000 acres

Number of enrolled members: 3,600

Number living on reservation: 1,800

Casinos: Grand Casino Mille Lacs near lake in Onamia; Grand Casino Hinckley near I-35 between the Twin Cities and Duluth.

Casino revenue estimate: $280 million gross revenues (before expenses) in 2000.

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