Gambling tribe denies racism charges in membership policy

Brett Martel

Friday, Aug. 17, 2001 | 10:54 a.m.

NEW ORLEANS -- That old story about the person who goes from rags to riches and suddenly is besieged by relatives he didn't know he had resonates deeply with the chief of the Tunica-Biloxi Indians.

Earl Barbry can understand why hundreds of blacks want to show blood ties to the tribe and share in the wealth of its successful central Louisiana casino.

But one thing he can't understand -- the accusations of racism for the tribe's attempts to keep these blacks out.

"For a people that has been discriminated against all our lives, more so than any other race, there's no way in hell we'd discriminate against anybody," Barbry says.

The tribe closed its membership rolls shortly after opening its casino seven years ago and Barbry says he's not letting someone in "because they once walked on a reservation."

Howard Desselle Jr., a local representative of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, says he has suspected discrimination against black applicants for years, but began to speak out recently when a few frustrated applicants asked for help.

That Desselle would be the one leading the charge against the tribe is ironic, if only because it was his father, a bar owner in the late 1930s, who allowed Indians to socialize at his club. Both blacks and Indians generally were barred from white establishments at the time.

"They mingled, married, had children and whatnot," Desselle recalls.

Desselle's poster child is Ellen Jacobs. Her mother was black, her father Indian, she says. For proof, she offers a copy of her parents' marriage license. She also has the marriage license of her father's parents.

"Everybody in this area knows my daddy was Indian," Jacobs says.

But Jacobs, 59, claims she has been stonewalled by the tribe, which has refused to discuss the matter with her or even respond to the certified letters she has sent.

It's not clear how much money individual tribe members receive from revenues generated by the casino. Jacobs, who is a school food service manager, says she's comfortable and doesn't need the money. But she resents being excluded from the tribe and its newfound fortune.

"It's just the idea of accepting part of your family and not the other part. They accepted a few blacks to make it look good," she says.

Barbry describes the number of tribe members with black ancestry as "fairly large," including three of seven tribal council members.

The council holds all power over tribal affairs, and federal law regarding tribal sovereignty means the council can accept or reject whomever they want for whatever reason.

The tribe, formally recognized by the federal government in 1981, closed its member rolls shortly after opening the Grand Casino Avoyelles -- now called the Paragon Casino -- in 1994. The only new members will be newborns, says Barbry, who has been chief since 1979, when efforts to gain official recognition were picking up steam.

"All these individuals come up, all of a sudden, wanting to be in the tribe, and the first thing they tell you is it's not because of the casino or the money," Barbry says. "I can tell you that's an outright lie because money is the only thing it's concerning."

Desselle does not argue that point.

"Before the casino came into existence, there was no interest in trying to be an Indian," he says. "But the tribe also knows that if they let in all the blacks in the area of Indian blood, there'll be a smaller piece of the pie for everyone."

Furthermore, many of those of lighter skin allowed into the tribe in the early 1990s did not seem to have any better credentials than many black applicants who've been rejected, Desselle contends.

Reservation casinos, unlike state-licensed casinos, are not required to publicly report their revenue figures. Barbry says that much of the money earned by the casino -- which includes a hotel, entertainment club, performance hall, meeting and banquet rooms, and a golf course -- goes back into it for upkeep. Most profits are spent on improvements to reservation land, utilities and health care for tribal members, leaving a only a modest stipend for individual members, Barbry says.

"If a lot of these people that come in wanting to join the tribe knew exactly how much it was, they'd be in for a surprise because it's not a windfall. They'd be disappointed," Barbry says.

Barbry offers little hope for current and future tribe applicants, no matter how good their credentials.

"You can be denied no matter who you are if tribe says it's going to deny you, because the tribe, as a sovereign nation, has ultimate say so," Barbry says.

Knowing the people he's trying to help have little legal leverage, Desselle and other NAACP officials have started discussing a possible boycott of the casino, pointing out that there are many blacks on the tour buses that come in from Houston, Dallas, Baton Rouge and New Orleans.

Keeping blacks out of the tribe, Desselle says, "may be legal but it isn't justified. You can't deny these people who know they are Indians."