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In 1998,
Oregonians spent $224.6 million at Indian casinos. Nationally,
tribal gaming centers took in $10 billion this year.
The
tribal council recently approved extending health-insurance
benefits to the non-tribal spouses of tribal elders. The
spouses of younger tribal members are still not covered.
The
Grand Ronde recently signed a deal with the Kalispel tribe
in northeast Washington, which is starting a new casino.
In return for consulting services and a start-up loan of
$5.8 million, Kalispel will give 20 percent of its profits
to the Grand Ronde for five years.
Bruce Thomas (above), president of Spirit Mountain Development
and former partner at Stoel Rives law firm, and tribal chairwoman
Kathryn Harrison (below) have led their tribe to prosperity.
According
to enrollment requirements, which were tightened last July,
you have to be 1/16 Grand Ronde and at least one of your
parents had to be registered when you were born in order
for you to qualify for the tribal rolls.
Civic leader Sho Dozono sits on the board of the Spirit
Mountain Community Fund, which doles out money to charities.
The
current incarnation of the Confederated Tribes of the Grand
Ronde is made up of members from the Umpqua, Rogue River,
Kalapuya, Chasta and Molalla tribes.
Even
though Portland was well-established by 1855, it was part
of the lands ceded by treaty by confederated bands of Indians
living in the Willamette Valley that year.
Casino
profits have funded a $3.5 million health center and a $4.6
million administration building. A 38-unit elder housing
project is under construction.
Oregonians
have proved to be among the most eager gamblers in the country,
dropping $282 per person per year at casinos, video-poker
terminals and other gambling outlets in the state.
"I wouldn't be working here if it were only about gambling,"
says Chuck Galford (above), marking manager at Spirit Mountain.
The
Grand Ronde has set the standard for other tribes. The Siletz
tribe, after much wrangling, recently agreed to a 5 percent
fund in exchange for expanding its gaming offerings.
Last
year the Spirit Mountain Community Fund granted $32,450
to the Oregon Problem Gambling Treatment Foundation.
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Dividends
Of All Kinds:
The success
of the Grande Ronde provides many forms of security.
As Indian As He Wants -
And Needs - To Be:
Justin Martin, tribal lobbyist
Two weeks ago, in the plain rectangular main room of the
Grand Ronde Community Center, history was made.
Two hundred people packed into the room, most wearing the
uniforms of the lower Willamette Valley: flannel shirts
and boots, tavern-style jackets and baseball hats, skirts
and cardigans, jeans and sweatshirts. The scene looked more
like a church supper or a family reunion than a meeting
of the most powerful Indian tribe in Oregon.
All eyes were aimed at the front of the room. Some people
twisted in their seats at the folding tables to get a better
look as Bruce Thomas, tribal member and the president of
the Spirit Mountain Development Corporation, presented the
tribe's budget for the year 2000.
Five years ago, the Grand Ronde tribe was so broke that
it didn't bother printing revenue columns on its annual
financial statement. This year, using computer-generated
slides and a cordless microphone, Thomas announced to the
tribe that last year the Spirit Mountain Casino, 33 miles
west of Salem, made $50 million, not in revenues but profit.
A few quiet, appreciative whistles rose up from the crowd,
but mostly the group responded as if they were Fortune 500
CEOs, seasoned in discussions of such dizzying wealth. There
were no wild bursts of applause, no jokes about buying Cadillacs
or Hawaiian condos.
After Thomas spoke, financial officer Bob Saunders rose
to discuss the first-ever dividend checks from casino profits.
On Dec. 15, he announced, $2,800 would be waiting at the
tribal government office for every adult member. Again,
the response was muted.
Later, over a lunch of turkey, stuffing and potatoes, tribal
member Wayne Sells explained the zen of being Grand Ronde.
The middle-aged Sells lives in a small trailer and supports
himself by picking up odd jobs and hunting mushrooms in
the coastal forests.
"Even if this were all taken away tomorrow," he told
WW, "we would still be Grand Ronde."
Of the eight tribes in Oregon that offer casino gambling,
none is as successful as the Grand Ronde. Whether because
of the location of the Grand Ronde's Spirit Mountain Casino,
the wisdom of tribal chairwoman Kathryn Harrison or the
drive of Thomas, the growth has been staggering.
Seventeen years ago, the Grand Ronde didn't exist except
in the hopes and imaginations of a few elders. Today, its
business generates $115 million in annual revenue.
The story of the Grand Ronde has often been told in recent
years--usually with awe. It's the story of how the federal
government disbanded the tribe in 1954, and how the membership
scattered. How a core group of elders fought for 11 years
to re-establish the tribe. And how they were finally successful
in 1983.
Five years later, the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act laid
out the conditions under which Indian casinos could operate.
In the autumn of 1995, Spirit Mountain Casino opened, and
the resulting windfall has been used to rebuild a culture.
The rise of the Grand Ronde is now an Oregon legend. But
what is less well-known is the quiet and sophisticated way
in which the tribe has won friends and influenced people.
As the Grand Ronde tribe quietly disperses its dividend
checks, it is clear that, like the other tribes in Oregon,
the Grand Ronde is entering a different and delicate stage--a
transformation from underprivileged to unprecedentedly rich,
from ignored diaspora to one of the state's most powerful
special interests.
The Grand Ronde has turned the racial slur "Indian giver"
on its head. In 1997, as part of negotiations with the governor's
office to expand casino gaming, it set up the Spirit Mountain
Community Fund--a multimillion-dollar endowment funded by
6 percent of the casino's profits. During the past two years,
the fund has given more than $4.2 million to dozens of groups.
The fund was the tribe's way of heading off criticism from
lawmakers who saw the casinos as a tax-free cash cow and
competition for restaurants that couldn't offer the same
flashy games.
The tribe also agreed to state oversight of casino operations
and hired Bob Watson, former head of the state's Department
of Corrections, to run the tribe's gambling commission.
Watson, a brother of tribal chairwoman Harrison, understands
the way state government works and has the trust of tribal
leaders.
The Grand Ronde's willingness to negotiate is a key reason
it was the first tribe to win approval for expanded games,
says Chip Lazenby, legal adviser to Gov. John Kitzhaber
and chief negotiator with Oregon's tribes.
"I think the Grand Ronde was successful because it was
the first tribe to come to the governor's negotiating table
and, instead of saying, 'We are a separate entity and we
don't care what your problems are,' they said, 'Let's come
up with something that's mutually beneficial,'" Lazenby
says.
The community fund continues to deliver for the tribe.
First, it's a goodwill machine.
"They are just absolutely terrific," says Patrick LaCrosse,
president of the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry and
an unfettered friend to the tribe.
In 1997, when OMSI was struggling under millions of dollars
of debt, the tribe granted it $256,000. More grants followed
the next year: $50,000 and $15,000.
"We were in pretty poor financial shape three years ago,"
Lacrosse says. "We applied to everyone--the Meyer Memorial
Fund, the Ford Family Foundation, the Rose Tucker Trust.
Spirit Mountain was one of the first to step up."
LaCrosse doesn't mind using gambling money to fund a museum
for children. "Gambling is legal in this state," he says.
"I don't know a single Oregon nonprofit that would refuse
the money."
In fact, the state's charitable organizations are lining
up for a handout. The Grand Ronde Community Fund gets hundreds
of grant applications a year and has awarded grants totaling
$4.2 million since 1997. According to the fund criteria,
money is available only to non-government programs in the
11 counties that surround the reservation. Religious or
political organizations are not eligible. (Government programs
in Polk and Yamhill counties, where the casino and reservation
are located, are eligible.)
The list of recipients includes some of the most revered--and
non-controversial--institutions in the state.
In 1997, the fund's first year, the tribe handed out nearly
$1.6 million, including $170,000 to Life Flight, $100,000
to the Portland Art Museum and $169,149 to Stop Oregon Litter
and Vandalism.
The following year, casino profits exploded, and the fund
reached more than $3 million. Recipients included Oregon
Public Broadcasting, $250,000; Oregon Coast Aquarium, $220,000;
and the Portland Art Museum, $500,000.
This year, the tribe has given $150,000 to the Oregon Classical
Chinese Garden; $250,000 to the Multnomah County Library
Foundation; and $270,000 to the Raphael House, a Portland
shelter for abused women, among others.
Not all the grants are so large. Interfaith Caregivers,
for example, received $5,000 this year. But the tribe is
creating a reputation for generosity. At least twice, it
has granted twice the amount applied for.
"It's very smart," says Peter Bragdon of the 1996 Governor's
Task Force on Gaming. "If something harmful pops up in the
state Legislature or on a ballot initiative, do you think
people like the Buchanans [of the Portland Art Museum] would
be more likely to support the tribes? You bet."
Giving often feels as good as receiving, however. The trustees
of the Spirit Mountain Community Fund, which awards the
grants, are fans for life of the tribe.
The eight-person board includes three tribal council members,
one representative of the casino and one governor appointee.
The remaining three board members are chosen by the tribe
in cooperation with the governor. The current board members
exemplify the tribe's ability to find support among some
of the most influential people in the state.
State Sen. Kate Brown is known for her reason and consensus-building.
If the Senate Democrats pick up three seats in the 2000
election, she will be the next Senate president.
Sho Dozono, owner of Azumano Travel, is an outspoken community
leader for school funding.
U.S. Attorney Kris Olson is a personal friend of tribal
chairwoman Harrison and an enthusiastic supporter of the
Grand Ronde. As a government official, she normally wouldn't
be permitted to serve on fund-raising boards. This one,
though, is different, thanks to Attorney General Janet Reno's
directive under the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act to enhance
and promote tribal gaming.
"This helps the community know what a good neighbor the
tribes can be," Olson says. "I've served on a lot of boards
in my life. This is by far the most wonderful endeavor I've
ever been involved in."
In addition to currying favor through its generosity, the
tribe has hired political advisers, and the Grand Ronde
can afford the best.
In 1995, the tribe hired Len Bergstein. If an Oregon political
dictionary existed, under the word "connected" you'd find
a picture of the Portland political strategist.
Bergstein got his start working for Neil Goldschmidt when
Goldschmidt was mayor and later worked for Gov. Bob Straub.
Mayor Vera Katz considers him a confidant, and his client
list includes Bob Pamplin of Ross Island Sand and Gravel.
Chuck Galford, marketing manager for Spirit Mountain Casino,
has known Bergstein for 20 years. He recommended that the
tribe hire Bergstein when the governor began convening a
task force on gambling.
"At the time there was a lot of hostility against Indian
casinos from the Oregon Restaurant Association," Galford
says. "They feared the casinos were going to be in direct
competition to video poker. We wanted a little bit of advice
on the political landscape."
Two years later, the tribe hired lobbyist Barrows, a 45-year
veteran of the Capitol, in response to bill-rattling from
lawmakers who wanted to eliminate video poker. Barrows counts
among his clients US West, 3M and OMSI. Well-respected and
savvy, Barrows is the dean of the Salem lobbying corps.
He's an expert at "explaining" issues and "educating" opponents.
Case in point: Last session, Sen. John Lim, a longtime
opponent of gambling and the state lottery system, wanted
to call a hearing to get the scoop on Indian casinos. Barrows
says the hearing was actually a prelude to legislation banning
video poker. According to the Indian Gaming and Regulation
Act, Indian casinos are allowed to offer only games that
aren't specifically prohibited elsewhere in the state. As
a result, a ban would possibly eliminate video poker and
line games at the casinos, which make up about 70 percent
of their revenue.
Instead of going on the defense against Lim, Barrows persuaded
the Gresham Republican to hold a hearing to learn what benefits
the tribes received from gambling money.
At the hearing, members of the Grand Ronde, Siletz, Umpqua
and other tribes explained that gambling was funding a cultural
rebirth of their people. Tribal members testified about
the many ways in which their lives had improved. After the
hearing, Barrows says, Lim promised not to introduce an
anti-gaming bill.
In addition to direct lobbying, Barrows acts as a consultant
on campaign donations. Last election the Grand Ronde contributed
about $60,000 to candidates on both sides of the aisle,
including $4,790 to Kitzhaber, the largest tribal contribution
he received.
The most recent challenge to the Grand Ronde came not from
the state or the restaurant industry but from another tribe.
Last fall the Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs asked
Kitzhaber if he would approve placement of a casino off
their reservation, on land they bought an option on in Cascade
Locks, 40 miles outside of Portland. Had the governor agreed
to the state's first off-reservation casino, the success
of the Grand Ronde, which has the closest casino to Portland
and Salem, would have been seriously threatened.
It would be an exaggeration to say that this brought about
an Indian war, but it did cause undeniable tension.
Earlier this year, Warm Springs tribal leaders went to
Grand Ronde to tell the other tribe of their plan. According
to Grand Ronde leaders, the meeting was short. One tribal
elder says: "They came to us, told us what they were going
to do. We said 'Do what you need to,' then we all got up
from the table. That's the Indian way."
The Grand Ronde and the rest of the Oregon tribes did not
wait serenely. They lobbied the governor's office. Bergstein
talked to Lazenby and made it clear that Grand Ronde was
against the move.
"It would have hurt us significantly," says Thomas. "We
built this casino with the understanding that everyone else
would be limited to their tribal lands. We would never have
invested as much in it if we thought the rules would change."
Last month, Kitzhaber denied the Warm Springs tribe's request.
Grand Ronde faces another battle in 2000, thanks to a group
of unlikely political bedfellows with a shared hatred of
the state lottery's 8,900 video-poker machines.
"These machines are venal and addictive and prey upon the
weak," says Greg Kafoury. The Portland trial lawyer has
teamed up with fellow lefty activist Lloyd Marbet and Republican
former Gov. Vic Atiyeh to sponsor a ballot measure that
would ban video poker.
Kafoury says it would take a court ruling to determine
whether his measure would affect tribal gaming, but he doesn't
care if it does. He says a Native American recovery built
on gambling is wrong. "It's a corporatization of tribal
culture," he says. "That will be all they are, an oasis
of gambling."
Tribal leaders disagree with Kafoury's analysis and have
no desire to let him test his vision of a gambling-free
state. Fearing that Nevada gambling interests could bankroll
the measure in an attempt to cut out competition, the Grand
Ronde has begun strategizing with the other eight gaming
tribes about how to fight it. With people like Bergstein
and other hired guns on their side, this will be a sophisticated
campaign.
Tribal supporters will no doubt point to a 1998 study published
by the Association of Community Mental Health Programs,
which found that gambling addicts were nearly five times
more likely to hit the video-poker machines and Keno than
seek satisfaction at reservation gaming tables.
They also will no doubt get testimonials from folks at
OMSI, state lawmakers and the government officials in Polk
and Yamhill counties who have come to depend on tribal affluence.
And, if need be, there are always ways to remind Oregon's
overwhelmingly white electorate of history. In a way, the
jackpot of the casinos gives karmic relief to non-Indians.
When the casinos first opened, it was common to hear wry
comments along the lines of, "Well, this is how they'll
get their lands back."
"It's important to remember why the tribes are in casinos,"
Galford says. "There is a greater good being served. Out
of all the federal programs in history, this is the only
one that works."
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Willamette Week | originally
published December 22,
1999
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