Sitting On The Bench of History

The Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act is a United States federal law that wan enacted on November 16, 1990, by George Bush. This Act requires that any federal agencies and institutions that receive federal funding to return Native American “cultural items” to lineal descendants and culturally affiliated Indian tribes and Native Hawaiian. This Act allowed many Native peoples to be able to regain parts of their culture that at one time seemed to be lost forever. While many involved in Museums were hesitant at having to do this, none the less they were all corporative with the process. While the process is not an easy one for Native peoples, it is a step forward towards regaining of an almost lost culture. Like all things writing out, you always have to be observant of the fine print. The Native people who claim and want to regain important cultural items must be a federally tribe. This leaves hundreds of tribes who are unable to retrieve back items that belong to them and their ancestors.

Growing up in Pembroke, N.C. , there were a few things as a Native American you grew to understand; never trust someone who can’t make sweet tea, collards and chow chow is a must, and Lumbee Pride. Now before I go any further allow me to further divulge for you of what a Lumbee is, particularly Lumbee tribe. Lumbee Tribe is state-recognized tribe of 55,000 enrolled members, making us the largest state tribe east of the Mississippi River (impressed yet?), furthermore also establishing our own highly successful University called UNCP. Some have called us the decedents of the Lost Colony, some have called us, well, let’s just say our federal recognized tribes don’t hold much liking to us. With some if not many helping to make sure Federal reorganization doesn’t come our tribes’ way. The thing about it is growing up in this luscious culture of Pow Wow’s, Homecoming, and Parades, I never really learned much, nor cared to about what I claimed to be. I just always was told this is who I am and to be proud of it. It wasn’t until college and taking a Native American History class did I begin to learn about my peoples as we called them. Which now lead me to this museum to learn about the Lumbee tribe in order to write a report that I rather not do.  One positive note I can lean on is that the hour and a half drive got me out of class for the day, also I get to try some great food in the area, but first things first I must gather some Intel. After some time finding a parking space (that didn’t require making a small down payment) I walked up to the rather large museum of history and was surprise at the scale of it. My family wasn’t necessarily the museum going type, drag racing sure, but museums? Not so much. As I walked in through the tall glass double doors or the smooth black and grey checker stone building, I hear the echoes of footsteps treading along in the building. Some are little feet of children, some of adults spending a quite day in the past, and some of the dragging of those really not interested in being here, that one’s just mine for the record. Inside I am impressed by the niceness of the inside of the structure. The shine of the tile floor that reflected everything, like an upside down world looking back at you. Section off were different exhibits of bookmarks in our state’s history; from signs of a certain era, to equipment that has long went past its prime, to careful recreations of historic events in our states long history. The past reminding us why it’s still worth taking notes about. As I continued on my stroll through history lane I finally stumble my way to a little section of Native American history of NC. As I saw this little section showing log cabins, native attire, and a few stand ins’ for our ancestors, I couldn’t help, but have a part of me wonder, “With Natives being the Indigenous people of this area, how come there is so little shown?” I guess it’s the same reason that I don’t have much knowledge of my own culture of people. I never really cared to find out so no one tried to tell me. Maybe it was that we had all just got caught up in culture, that we forgot about our own culture, not all of us, but enough that it seemed to be barely hanging on. Now we still had the tradition of homecoming; with our Lumbee call, t-shirts with family tree of names, and a parade showcasing the community. Plastered everywhere would be Lumbee, but now that I think of it, how much did we really talk about it. How much of our history as a culture was being sent down to us and why was that I never stopped to listen to an elder speak of the Lumbee history?

I stopped in my deep pondering of enlightenment as my eyes connected on a big square glass case with a beautiful quilt inside of it. The glass case had tan borders on each side with what seemed like a light shining inside on the edges. The quilt looked big enough to wrap two people in it if needed; its texture looked almost like corn taken off the stalk during harvest time back at the house. I could almost feel the quilt in my hands, soft, warm, yet with a toughness that time gives. On the blanket where spaced our squares with different circular shapes on each one with different types of colors. Looking at it was like looking into a vortex of amazement. The quilt checkered with different shades of brown and the corners had smooth rounded edges. It almost reminded me of the quilt my grandma made me when I was young. I remember when she made it and gave it to me saying, “It’s as good as Maggie Lowrie and may her spirit guide you.” I figured maybe that was the honorary Native Quilt speech, but regardless I loved it and her.

To my surprise I read the sign standing beside this case that said, “Pinecone Patchwork” Lumbee quilt. I couldn’t believe that something of ours was in this museum that all kinds of people can see. Note I came here to gather info on the Lumbee people, but granted I didn’t expect to actually find something. Minus in Lumbee Country, the rest of the state and country isn’t clamming for our history. I continue with my amazement of this beautiful design quilt, when I hear a voice say, “It’s a beauty ain’t it?” I’m startled for a brief moment, but I catch myself as to not show it.

“Yes, yes it is,” I tell him. I turn my head to see a older gentleman, possible in his late 70’s, his grey shine of hair short on the sides and back, with the top long enough to brush to one side. With a white t-shirt with a saying in black letters, “Lumbee isn’t just a name, it’s our culture", along with some dark blue jeans and worker boots on, he stood right over my shoulder and looked at what I had saw or maybe he was watching all along.

“Nice shirt,” I tell him.

He looks at the quilt and then back at me.

“Thanks,” he told me.

My wife always said I had a certain way with style.

After a brief moment of quietness, I walk past him and go to bench nearby to take a seat. One the seat of it, is an engraved is name of the ones who donated to the Museum.

“Deep pockets,” I say to myself as I get comfortably seated on the bench.

The Old gentleman comes and sits beside me. I figured maybe he got tired and needed to take a rest, which I couldn’t blame him. He took his old gentlemen’s grunt as he made his sit on the bench.

“So what’s got you at the museum today?” he turns and asks me.

“I’m writing a report on the Lumbee tribe,” I tell him.

“You’re a Schuffle town Lum, aren’t you?” he asks me with a smile on his face.

“Yes sir,” I tell him.

Side note for everyone Schuffle town was the old name for the town known now as Pembroke aka UNCP.

You come a good distance to learn something you could have learned local.

Yea, I guess so.

We both continue to look at the exquisite quilt as if it had a story it wanted to tell and maybe it does.

“My federal name is Allen, but tribe calls me Brother Sparrow,” the old gentleman tells me.

My name is James.

What’s your tribal name, James?

I sit there and think for a moment, realizing even though I claim my heritage, I never had been involved in it.

“I guess I don’t know,” I tell him.

Well as a tribal elder I’ll give you one.

Brother Sparrow thinks for a moment. Then he closes his eyes and whispers what seems like a quite prayer or chant. Whatever he was doing I could almost feel a force in my spirit, maybe it’s the ancestral side. Whatever it was it felt right. Finally he opened up his eyes and still looking at the blanket, he spoke.

“Brother Otter,” he tells me.

I was hoping for a cooler name I thought to myself, but it seemed to fit me though.

“I like it,” I tell him.

You should, it’s what the spirits appointed to you.

“You know the name of this quilt Brother Otter?” Brother Sparrow asked me.

No, doesn’t give a lot of details about it.

That’s because it doesn’t belong to them. That was my Great Grandma Maggie Lowrie Locklear’s quilt.

“You know about Henry Berry Lowrie?” he asks me.

Sure do.

Henry Lowrie is a well known legend in our community. Songs have been written, books, as well as the oral history of him and the Lowrie gang; a group of Lumbee men who took on the corrupted law.

Maggie was the daughter of Henry and Rhoda. You see she created the “Pinecone Patchwork” quilt, late in her life. It’s been told that the spirits came to her in a dream and showed what she needed to make. They told her how this quilt would keep the people together, just the same as the needle keeps the thread together, so no one can separate them. She used the materials she had including her husband’s old work pants, shirts, her dress, and tattered aprons. This here quilt is highly regarded in our community. People from all around have come to see this quilt and marvel at its craftsmanship. You wouldn’t find a finer one than this. There’s more to it though, it’s our history, our way of life, our culture, all inside the perfect woven fabric.

I sit there is amazement at hearing this knowledge and surprised I had never heard about this before.

“So did you donate it here?” I asked brother Sparrow.

“No.” he tells me, as I hear the sadness in his older voice.

It was taken from us and it took me years on top of years to find where it is. You see someone gave it to them, but it isn’t theirs to have.

“Then they should give it back to you then,” I tell him.

“Not that easy Brother Otter,” Sparrow tells me.

We’re not federally recognized, so the act doesn’t apply to us. We’re not a federal tribe so they won’t return it back to us.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“It’s ok, as Indigenous people we are accustom to dealing with injustice and being seen as less by others,” Brother Sparrow responds back to me.

“Yea, but it still doesn’t take away the fact that it should be at home with our people,” I tell him.

We look at the blanket some more, this beautiful quilt that at first I didn’t see as anything else besides a quilt, but now I look and I see more, I see a culture. I look at my phone and notice that it’s almost time for the museum to close.

“Well it looks like the bar is closing. It was nice talking to you,” I tell him as I get up to leave.

We say our goodbyes and I walk to the exit. Suddenly I feel the urge to turn around and go see Brother Sparrow. We I turn back, sure enough brother was still sitting on the bench. I walked back up to him, his eyes still fixed on the quilt, and his feet firmly planted.

“You leaving?” I ask him.

“No” he proceeds to tell me. Not till they give us back the quilt.

Right then and there, I knew what was happening; Brother Sparrow didn’t come to the museum for a nice look around. No he thought of this moment and that he had something to stand for.

I go and sit back down beside him.

We both look at each other and we don’t say a word. Brother Sparrow closes his eyes and I follow behind him, as we enter into prayer and seek protection on our journey.

The lights slowly begin to dim as the sound of locked door echo through. Yet here we sat waiting for our reward.

Some more time had passed until some guards come by surprise to see up there sitting down.

“You two the museum is closed, there is no one allowed after hours,” the guard tells us.

“We’re here for what belongs to our people and we won’t leave until it has been returned,” Sparrow tells the men.

The guards look at each other for a moment not sure what to really do. I seat there wondering what I am doing myself, but somehow I feel that this is the correct thing to do. Sit-ins have been something down for the longest time, especially during the civil rights movement. It was a dangerous thing to do, but sometimes you have to refuse to move in order to get things moving.

Finally I decide to make a move and hoped it would pay off.

“Can you get the Curator on the phone?” I ask one of the guards.

“She is very busy,” the guard tells me.

“I guess then she’ll get a call later from news outlets,” I tell them with a stern look.

The one guard looks at the other. Then one of them calls her up.

They’re talking on the phone for a while, when he brings it over to me.

The guard hands the phone over to me. I and the Curator have a talk and after almost an hour we get off the phone. I look over at Brother Sparrow who looks tired and I stand up. I reach my hand out to my brother.

“Come on it’s time to go home,” I tell him.

He looks at me and gives me a little smile as he takes my hand and gets up.

The guards walk us out and before we leave out Sparrow looks at the two men.

“That bench needs a cushion,” he tells them as we leave out.

I left that morning with no interest in my cultures history and arrived back wanting to embrace it all; which I did. I didn’t see Brother Sparrow for a few weeks, until one day there was a knock on my dorm door. I opened to see Sparrow there with a local paper. The headline talked about the return of the “Pinecone Patchwork Quilt”.

“How’d you get them to do this?” he asked me curiously.

I told them how returning it would give them great publicity and also that a story of them taking from Natives wouldn’t help the museums cause.

Sparrow begins to laugh.

Brother Otter you live up to your name. Thank you.

No thank you, for showing me the way.

“This is going to rejuvenate our people. Allow us to form a unity again with our ancestors and build on our culture,” Sparrow tells me. I agree with him on that and I planned to help any way possible.

There was a great celebration for the Quilts return, as well as articles, paintings and oral telling of the history of the quilt. Soon the years pasted on, brother sparrow died a few years after the quilts return, but there was no sorrows only the promise on meeting on the other side. I graduated with a major in Native American history and after getting my Masters degree in teaching, I came back as a professor to UNCP, were I continue to teach on Native History, particularly Lumbee history. I make sure ever semester that I take my students to see the Pinecone Patchwork Quilt and tell the story of Maggie Lowrie Locklear and how her great Grandson Brother Sparrow returned it back to the Lumbee people. Through it all, One thing I learned was that either you’re sitting through history of your sitting to make history.