Blood-Quantum Laws Are Splintering My Tribe

US example but parallels in Canada:

Even though I am a citizen of the Jamestown S’Klallam Tribe, because of my blood I may also be the last tribal member in my family line.

My tribe requires that members be at least one-eighth Jamestown S’Klallam by blood. Because I am exactly one-eighth, unless I have kids with another citizen, my kids will be ineligible to join. Regulations like this, known as blood-quantum laws, are used by many tribal nations to determine citizenship. They do this in the name of preservation, fearing that diluting the bloodline could mean diluting the culture. However, by enforcing these laws, tribal governments not only exclude some active members of their communities, but also may be creating a future in which fewer and fewer people will be eligible for citizenship. Watching enrollment in my tribe dwindle, I’ve started to wonder: What if there were another way to think about the preservation of a community?

Blood-quantum laws were originally created by white settlers in the 18th century. They were used to prohibit interracial marriages, and to keep people deemed Native American out of public offices or on reservations—essentially to determine who would (and wouldn’t) benefit from the privileges of whiteness. By the time of the Indian Reorganization Act in 1934, tribal governments had begun implementing these laws themselves. In theory, the act was designed to preserve Native American identity. In addition to restoring Indigenous people’s fishing and hunting rights, it also offered funds and land to people who volunteered to move to reservations. This system cemented the importance of blood-quantum laws because many tribes that had previously relied on kinship and relationships to determine citizenship now used blood to determine who was allowed to settle on reservations

The act also split my own tribe, the S’Klallam, into three. The federal government paid tribal members to move to two new parcels of land in Washington State and start new tribes; they became the Port Gamble S’Klallam and Lower Elwha. Those who stayed in place on the Strait de Juan de Fuca, on the northern coast of the state, had to pool their money together to buy our ancestral land even though they lived on it already; they became the Jamestown S’Klallam. Now, because of the federal government’s requirements when it offered the land, legally we are separate tribes, even though we all share the same ancestors. Someone can be enrolled in only one of the three. Cousins of mine who have a grandfather in one tribe and a grandmother in another must choose to commit to only half of their family tree and leave behind part of their heritage. Even though they are one-quarter S’Klallam, they are only one-eighth Jamestown S’Klallam—and, unless they have children with another tribal citizen, their kids will be ineligible for citizenship, just like mine could be.

Despite these laws, the three tribes continue to gather to drum and sing together, and to host potlatches—feasts with giveaways that celebrate abundance—to welcome in canoes from other local tribes during their annual journey along the Washington coastline, a cultural tradition. Still, we have been splintered. We stand side by side at gatherings, but when we introduce ourselves, we separate ourselves by saying our family name, what tribe we are connected with, and, often, whether we are an official tribal citizen. I wish we would hold together the community the U.S. tried to splinter; instead, in moments like these, we break it apart.

Tribal citizenship is more than symbolic. It determines eligibility for educational assistance, medical care, and other social benefits. Plus, only members can attend citizen meetings and vote in tribal elections. If my future children don’t meet the blood requirements for my tribe, they could still participate in events, cultivate plants in the traditional-foods garden, and take Klallam-language courses. But no matter how much they served the community in love and time, they would be deemed a “descendant” and marked as separate.

Watching others in this situation now, I’ve come to realize that a community that doesn’t serve all of its members risks falling apart. I know young people who aren’t eligible for citizenship who believe they aren’t valued. They have begun to lose their drive, pulling back from attending events and helping with programs. In prioritizing blood purity, tribes lose out on another type of preservation that comes from being involved in and learning about the tribe. They lose out on opportunities for descendants to create new memories that could eventually become stories told to future generations—a more powerful, active form of preservation than blood.

We are facing cultural extinction if blood-quantum laws stay in place. The Jamestown S’Klallam Tribe has fewer than 600 members. A future in which no one will have enough Native blood to qualify for citizenship is not only possible, but imminent. Though descendants may continue to honor the memories of those who came before, and continue teaching lessons, they will be denied the hunting and fishing rights that past generations fought hard to keep. If there are no more citizens, tribes may even lose ownership of the land that their buildings sit on. Community is so much more than laws can ever capture, but without official recognition, we could lose the foundation we have built on. It’s hard for a community to hold itself together when, legally, people are slowly being cut out of it. Though memory and cultural practices can fan the flames of heritage, only a change in the laws defining citizenship can keep the fire bright for generations to come. Otherwise all that will be left is smoke.

If tribal communities came together instead of focusing on separation, we could help our culture to flourish. We might have to cast aside the old rules governing heritage, but we could do something more important: hold on to our identity and one another as the world changes around us. One way to do this would be to discard blood-quantum regulations and instead grant citizenship to anyone who could trace their lineage back to a full-blooded member. Such a policy would keep the thread of family kinship within the enrollment guidelines, but would not exclude the children of current tribal citizens. Providing benefits to more members might be more expensive for the tribe, but those costs would be outweighed by the longevity we’d gain; our tribe would still be around for members to engage in, rather than learn about from history books. Future generations could participate as much or as little as they would like, but all descendants would be engaging as equals.

In the meantime, I will do as I have always done to preserve memories of our community while also currently living in it. I will collect photographs, researching the names of the faces they show and noting them where I can. I will tell our stories to anyone who will listen and write them down to create a record for the future. If I have children, I will teach them everything I know about our culture so that they can keep the memory alive. I will tell our stories to anyone who will listen. Even if no one is left to claim citizenship, I want there to be a way to remember the Jamestown S’Klallam Tribe.

Leah Myers is a writer based in Alabama and the author of Thinning Blood.

Source: Blood-Quantum Laws Are Splintering My Tribe