Remembering John Crowe

By Gary Carden

Jobs were scarce in Jackson County and I spent four months applying for any employment in a 50-mile radius of Sylva. One day, I showed up at the Council House in Cherokee and filled out an application for "whatever was available."

As luck would have it, Ralph Henry was there and recognized me as his ninth-grade teacher in Waynesville. He told me that the Cherokees were looking for a grants writer. I didn't know what that was, but I applied for it anyway, hoping that I could get a pay check or two before someone figured out that I didn't know what I was doing.

Given a few instances where I was given a "compulsory leave of absence," I was there for the next decade. That is where I met Chief John Crowe.

No one was more surprised than I was to discover that I could write grants, and eventually I came to work in the Council House where I talked to Chief Crowe every day. Well, to tell you the truth, John didn't talk much.

In fact, when I remember him now, his reticence is his most noticeable quality. In tribal council sessions where long-winded speeches were the norm, Chief Crowe was a quiet presence. He seemed to be the epitome of the old Cherokee axiom, "If you can't improve on the beauty of silence, keep your mouth shut." John was watchful. He didn't miss anything, but his face usually remained impassive.

During my first few months of work, I tried to impress Chief Crowe by returning to the office at night to work. Several times the tribal police took note of my presence in the Council House at midnight and reported me to Chief Crowe. One day, he came in my office and closed the door.

"We need to talk," he said. Then, he sat down and nailed me with an unblinking stare. He told me that the police had told him about my late nights in the office.

"What are you up to?" he said.

I got flustered and talked too much, explaining that I was just trying to write a lot of grants. He nodded, and said, "We will see," and then he was gone. He later told me that in the world of tribal politics, he had learned to suspect "hidden agendas." It was several years before he came to trust me.

Chief Crowe fired me three times. The first time was when I had the bad judgment to do "an imitation" of him one morning in the Council House. He had very distinct mannerisms and I couldn't resist addressing the council members as John did. I didn't know that he was standing behind me at the time. He told me to get my dictionary (the only thing that I brought to work with me) and get out. I did.

Three weeks later, I got a miserable job teaching remedial English at Southwestern Technical Institute (now Southwestern Community College). Several weeks later, I got a call from the Council House asking why I wasn't "at work." I said that Chief Crowe had fired me. The caller said, "Just a minute." When he came back on the line, he said, "I just talked to Chief Crowe, and he don't remember firing you."

He then said that I could come back to work "until Chief Crowe remembers." I returned, but I stayed in my office since I was afraid that if I went out in the hall, I would meet Chief Crowe and he might remember that I wasn't supposed to be there.

During the next decade, he fired me two more times without explanation, but each time someone would call and ask why I was not at work. I eventually figured out that being fired was Chief Crowe's way of giving me a vacation. Once when I got up enough nerve to ask him about it, he said, "I'm teaching you humility." The technique worked.

One of Chief Crowe's official duties was acting as a genial host to visiting dignitaries. Over the years, the tribal government had developed a routine in which politicians, visitors from Washington and Raleigh and campaigning representatives were introduced to the Tribal Council during a regular session, given an official "Cherokee name" and ceremoniously presented with an ornate headdress. Since traditional Cherokees did not wear ornate bonnets, the Chief would acquire one of the huge headdresses from a craft shop in downtown Cherokee (usually from South Dakota), and he would officiate while the bonnet was placed on the visitor¹s head.

Invariably, the politician looked somewhat foolish. Chief Crowe rarely laughed in public, but I always noticed that he had a hard time keeping a straight face during this ceremony. Sometimes, he gave a fleeting smile looking at the "honorary Cherokee" dressed in feathers and a blue suit. On several occasions, I saw him quickly return to his office and close the door before he laughed out loud.

During the struggle to try to save the Tellico Plains in Tennessee from flooding by the TVA, Chief Crowe found himself besieged by archaeologists from the University of Tennessee. They wanted Chief Crowe to join their efforts to stop the flooding. They had a "hidden agenda," of course. They had long-range plans to excavate all of the Cherokee graves in the region.

John was opposed to the flooding, but the grave excavations offended him even more. On one occasion, I accompanied Chief Crowe to Tellico to attend a meeting with the archaeologists. The archaeologists made flattering speeches, talking of the great honor of meeting a chief as famous as John Crowe.

Throughout the speeches, John said nothing, but simply watched the speakers perform. Afterwards, he was given a tour of Tellico where teams of student interns were excavating graves. It was hot, and one of the interns told me that the temperature was 110 out at the grave sites because all of the trees and vegetation had been removed in preparation for the flooding. John Crowe stopped at one of the graves and watched a young man diligently dusting a skull in an open grave with instruments that resembled toothbrushes. John called to the young man. "Where are you from?"

The sweating intern said, "Falls Church, sir."

"That is in Virginia?"

"Yes sir."

"Your family lives there?"

"Yes sir."

"Buried there?"

"Yes sir."

"You wouldn't mind if we went up there and dug up your grandfather, would you?" Chief Crowe enjoyed the young man's discomfort. He looked at the archeologists, and gave that rare smile. Then, he said he would like to go home now.

It took me over a decade to realize that he probably liked me. He certainly enjoyed making me uncomfortable. I remember him asking me once what a "redneck" was. I gave an elaborate definition, and he asked if he was a "redneck." Absolutely not, I said. But, he asked if he wasn't a "redskin," and what was the difference?

While I stuttered and tried to make a distinction, he stared at me with that earnest, puzzled expression, those bright watchful eyes until I ran down and became silent. Then, he went to his office and closed the door. I'm certain that he was sitting in there laughing.

Chief John Crowe served at a difficult time in the history of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians. He listened to endless presentations on "self-determination" delivered by Bureau of Indian Affairs spokesmen from Washington and said nothing. Once at a conference where he was asked to respond to such a presentation, he rose and spoke a single sentence: "As near as I can tell, self-determination and termination mean the same thing." The meeting was adjourned.

I don't know what other people remember about Chief Crowe, but I remember the bright, watchful eyes and the impassive face ­ a man who in the midst of voices that beguiled and flattered, kept his own peace. He listened and noted, weighed and considered, ignored empty rhetoric and "hidden agendas." When he spoke, he did so with disconcerting honesty.

Peace to his ashes and sorrow to his going.

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