Cherokee Knife
Couple of times a week: we’d go down to the hatchery in Brevard in a two-and-a-half ton flatbed with steel tanks on the back to pick up trout that we stocked the local waters with. We generally came back with several types: rainbow and native (brown). Tourists, I was told, prefer the Rainbow (and tourism was a big business in the summer). That left me to think out loud: “If tourism brings in so much money, then why bother picking up the Brown Trout?”. “Because the Indians prefer Native Trout, they won’t even bother to eat the Rainbow”.
I was a ‘Unig’, as they called me: White. The word always had a disparaging sound to it when it was said by a Cherokee. It had remained up to my few close friends to explain what the word meant and all the sociocultural implications. I got the message and mostly kept to myself in group interaction.
Not only were Unigs a stigmatized rarity in the Village, but we were also dreadfully impoverished. I myself was working in a job corps program for poor Appalachian-Americans and as a benefit, we were allowed to attend a free USDA breakfast every morning in the cafeteria at Cherokee High School. This was way before the casino, so life was pretty austere. Breakfast was fantastic with eggs and bacon and waffles with all the syrup you could eat. Second helpings were not disallowed. I was surprised that so few people ever showed up. An old woman, mostly, and sporadic single mom’s with their children. I was told that the Cherokee were too proud to accept government handouts and wouldn’t attend the USDA breakfast.
That’s when it hit me what the Brown Trout were for: we’d stock them in the favorite fishing spots and the Native Cherokee would follow along and fish them out to take to their homes and feed their families. It was an indirect form of assistance that spared direct humiliation and the effort required was like work and saved face. It also provided a sporting chance for the Native Trout: if they were careful, they wouldn’t get caught and could live a free and happy life thereafter.
We lived in Birdtown, over in the Goose Creek community and our cabin sat right up against the Qualla Border. We could take a short hiking trail through the woods and wind up standing on the Res. It wasn’t a luxurious life, in fact it was consistently tough, but with the federal jobs and the USDA meals, we got by. I learned so much from the Old Timers and back in the holler, it seemed like that’s all there were but Old Timers.
One day, on the way back from Brevard with the Fish Truck full of trout, the aerators broke down and the fish couldn’t get any air. Since trout live in cool mountain waters where the water flows and bubbles over cataracts and stones, they are ill-adapted to anoxic conditions. Especially the Native Brown Trout who will quickly die in still, warm water. Well, that’s just what happened that hot July day: on the way back to Cherokee, all the fish died and we had two and a half tons of dead trout on the back of the truck.
So a council was held and it was decided to quickly clean the fish and the community would have a fish-fry. The council quickly rounded up a crowd of representatives from families of all the potential attendees to help clean the fish, the only available labor being a gang of teenage boys who weren’t doing anything in particular. Let me tell you right now, as a certified Unig, a gang of idle teenage Indians is dangerously rowdy.
So we all set about the task of disemboweling the dead fish and cutting their head and fins off: all two and a half tons of them. Guts went in the 55 gallon trash cans (to slop the hogs with) and splayed trout in the ice chest. I wisely kept to myself and worked quietly in the shade, apart from the others. Keeping busy with the task at hand, I never once looked up and didn’t say a word to anybody. That strategy worked well for several hours but eventually the Indian ruffians got bored with repetitive grunt-work and began horsing around. Louder and more rambunctious they became until at long last, the dreaded words sailed across the yard, ‘Hey White. You any good with a knife?”.
Once they called me over, there was nothing doing but what some of them had to come and fetch me over to the group; who surrounded me immediately and crowded around. All eyes were focused on the poor Appalachian white boy while the inquisition began.
The initiation ceremony started out with a history lesson. It was painstakingly explained to me the pride and importance of the knife in Cherokee culture. No effort was withheld when it came to imparting to the stranger how much reverence was vested in this singular artifact…