I am a descendant of Cherokee Freedmen, the former slaves owned by the Cherokees and a smaller number of free blacks who lived among the tribe before the end of the Civil War. So watching the PBS series We Shall Remain, which aired last month, I empathized with Native Americans and silently condemned the white settlers and government officials for all that they so inhumanely inflicted on the native tribes. I felt angry about the forcible removal of the Cherokees from the Southeast to Indian Territory or modern Oklahoma.
But in recent years, I have found myself as angry with the Cherokees themselves as I am with the white settlers who wronged them in the past.
From the end of the war until Oklahoma statehood in 1907, black Freedmen were accorded rights as citizens of Cherokee Nation, if not exactly equal rights. A century later, Freedmen descendants find themselves battling the Cherokee Nation in the courts to restore their tribal citizenship.
By rejecting a people whose history is so bound up with their own, the Cherokees are engaging in a massive case of denial. The history of every family descended from Freedmen reflects close relations with Cherokees, down to some last names still in use today. Watching the PBS documentary, I was reminded more than once how interlaced the Cherokees’ family history is with my own.
A scene shows a replica of the signature of a Cherokee leader who signed the duplicitous 1835 treaty that led to the tribe’s and their slaves’ relocation. Two decades later, that Cherokee leader, John Adair Bell, kidnapped and re-enslaved my third great-grandmother, Malinda, and two of her children. He carted them to Texas, and that family was never whole again.
Another sequence dramatizes the brutal assassinations of three other Cherokees who signed that treaty. The killings happened soon after the tribe arrived in Indian Territory, touching off prolonged infighting between two factions.
Similar assassinations of two of Bell’s cousins in 1853 appear to have scared him enough that he fled to Texas. For some reason, he felt that exile entitled him to Malinda—who was born a slave to Bell’s in-laws but had been freed—and her two young daughters.
One of the living commentators who appears later on in the documentary is Gayle Ross, a descendant of the most famous Cherokee chief, John Ross, who led the tribe through the Trail of Tears and the Civil War, a period covering almost 30 years.
Ross and I met, acrimoniously, last summer in Chicago after I publicly blasted Cherokee Principal Chief Chad Smith for his inaccurate and dismissive rendering of the freedmen history and their claim to tribal citizenship.