Tribes are using casino profits to fund a new emphasis on educating their children.
By Lesli A. Maxwell -- Bee Staff Writer
Published 2:15 am PST
With a high school diploma, Paula Lorenzo is one of the most educated
members of the Rumsey Band of Wintun Indians. Growing up an American
Indian and poor, Lorenzo said, she wasn't expected by anyone -
including herself - to finish high school, much less go to college. As
one of the few Indian students at Rio Linda High School, she remembers
feeling alone.
"I wasn't a good student," she said. "I never said a word in class and
did my best to be invisible. I just got by."
Still, she defied statistics - the ones that showed most Indian
students would drop out - and graduated from high school in the late
1960s. Later, she enrolled in business classes at American River
College, but left after a counselor told her the results of an aptitude
test showed she was better suited for work on a tomato harvester.
Decades later, Lorenzo, 54, is chairwoman of the tribe that operates
the thriving Cache Creek Casino Resort. She oversees a
multimillion-dollar enterprise, has signed two intricate gaming deals
with governors and is the public face of her Capay Valley tribe.
But success and newfound wealth have done little to satisfy an old
longing, one that tugs at Lorenzo during her day-to-day dealings with
lawyers, corporate heads and politicians.
"It's not enough for us to just rely on the casino," Lorenzo said. "In
my job, I look at all the people I work with who have bachelor's and
master's, all kinds of degrees. Now that we have the means, we are
going to take full advantage of all the opportunities we can."
Inside the walls of its state-of-the-art school - Yocha-De-He
Preparatory - the 47-member Rumsey Band of Wintun Indians is pouring
millions of dollars and great hope into reversing decades of low
achievement.
The tribe, which has never had a member graduate from a four-year
college, is spending roughly $1 million a year to prepare its children
for academic success and any college they set their hearts on.
Yocha-De-He means "spring camp" or "spring home" in the Wintun
language. Founded six years ago in a double-wide trailer in the casino
parking lot, it now occupies a sleek new building with Indian motifs at
the center of the Rumsey Rancheria.
A modern take on the one-room schoolhouse, Yocha-De-He enrolls about 15
children, mixing preschool, kindergarten and first-grade students in
one classroom and grades two through eight in another. A third
classroom is devoted to the tribe's infants and toddlers.
Profits from the tribe's Cache Creek Casino also are going toward
independent study programs for high school students, boarding school
for one tribal teenager and tuition for community college. Once a
member reaches a four-year college, the tribe will pay for that,
too.
Tribes investing in education Like the Rumsey band, dozens of casino
tribes in California have begun investing their newfound wealth in
education. Rancherias around the state have opened preschools and
elementary schools. Tribes are hiring learning specialists and
counselors. They're sending their children to boarding schools and
private universities. Many also are offering a second chance to adult
dropouts who want GEDs and a shot at college. Wealth from their booming
casinos has eliminated one of the biggest barriers to academic
achievement: poverty. But daunting educational and social issues remain
for Indian students, even those from wealthy tribes.
For decades, Indians have had among the highest dropout rates and
lowest college attendance rates in California. In 2003, roughly half
the state's American Indian public high school graduates - 1,525 out of
3,077 - enrolled at a public college or university. The majority
enrolled in a community college. Only 139 landed at a University of
California campus, while 271 arrived at a California State University
campus.
In California - home to more American Indians than any other state -
more than 90 percent of Indian children are enrolled in public schools,
said Cindy La Marr, former president of the National Indian Education
Association and long-time director of Capitol Area Indian
Resources.
Most are scattered among public schools in cities, suburbs and rural
areas, and are far less likely to be in classrooms with other Indian
students than tribal students in states such as New Mexico and
Arizona.
That, along with poverty, can make for isolation and low self-esteem,
La Marr said.
"Being poor is a huge factor," La Marr said. "You aren't adequately
clothed, you don't have enough money to buy lunch. And then, there are
the stereotypes. One is you have parents who are drunks and welfare
users and then there's the new one: that you are a rich Indian. You
can't win."
Specialized study emphasized Yocha-De-He is tucked amid large,
custom-built homes that have replaced the broken-down trailers and HUD
homes that sheltered the tribe for decades. Surrounded by natural
grasses and native plants, the classrooms open to a view of the
mountains that form the eastern boundary of the narrow Capay Valley.
Inside one classroom, 10 children, ranging from grades two through
eight, share two, sometimes three, teachers. Each student has a
computer. Their colorful self-portraits hang along the walls.
One 10-year-old, dark-haired and shy, gets a personalized math lesson
from teacher Denice Cottrell, who talks him through a multiplication
problem as he counts out acorns. Nearby, the only second-grader in the
class learns to spell her name using the Egyptian alphabet.
Eight other students hunch over division problems as math teacher Todd
Gettleman moves from desk to desk. When they finish, he ushers them
across a courtyard to Spanish lessons.
Keeping a sharp eye on it all is the school's director of education,
Nancy Remington, a former principal at Sacramento Country Day School,
one of the region's most prominent private schools. The tribe lured her
back to California from a job she had taken at an independent school in
Colorado.
At the tribe's request, Remington has chosen an American history
curriculum that puts less emphasis on the historic perspective of
European explorers and settlers than what is taught in the typical
public school.
Once a week, tribal teacher Sage Lapena visits the school to teach the
Wintun language and culture. In September, the tribe paid to send
Yocha-De-He's students to Washington, D.C., to celebrate the opening of
the National Museum of the American Indian.
"We want to produce well-prepared, well-rounded students without losing
our heritage and who we are," Lorenzo said.
To do so, Remington said, the tribe eventually will expand Yocha-De-He
to include a high school program. Large, noisy classrooms and
lecture-style teaching can present a challenge for Indian students, she
said, and the tribe's teenagers have struggled to fit in socially at
nearby Esparto High, where most students are Latino.
"It's tough for them because they look Latino but their culture is very
different and they don't speak Spanish," she said. "It's hard to make
friends."
Determined to thwart failure, she already has pulled two tribal
students from the high school and enrolled them in independent study
programs that pair them with a Yocha-De-He instructor.
Righting 'rich Indian' stereotype A new problem at public school is the
"rich Indian" stereotype, said Lorenzo, who is paying more than $45,000
annually to send her 15-year-old grandson, Raul, to the private
Landmark School in Boston. She didn't want him singled out for his
wealth. More important, Lorenzo said, Raul needed help with reading and
the boarding school seemed the answer. He now is thriving in classes
with fewer than 10 students.
"People always say it's hard for Native Americans to adapt from the
reservation," he said in a telephone interview. "I have adapted because
all my learning is one-on-one."
When he graduates in 2007, the youth will be poised to become the first
Rumsey tribal member to enroll in a four-year university. He is looking
for a campus with a good astronomy program.
Like Lorenzo, Jessica Tavares, the 52-year-old chairwoman of the United
Auburn Indian Community, remembers school as a harsh environment.
Tavares' mother was raising six children with the help of welfare and
what she earned doing field work. When Tavares was in eighth grade, her
mother took the children to a local charity for clothes. Tavares chose
a dress she was especially proud of until she wore it to school.
"It had belonged to the richest girl in my class," she said. "She and
her friends made fun of me."
Like most of the tribe, Tavares eventually dropped out of school.
Now, as head of the Thunder Valley Casino in Placer County, Tavares
said she is committed to seeing the 261-member tribe put money into
education. This year, it is spending $1 million on a range of services.
It has hired a director of education and four other teachers and
learning specialists, and is at the beginning stages of its quest to
groom its children for higher education.
It's a vast turnaround for a tribe that survived for decades on
government handouts.
"For years, we could only dream of doing something like this," Tavares
said. "Before the casino, there was no hope that our kids would go to
college. Sometimes I still stop and think, 'Is this really happening?'
"
Effort is turning kids around The investment is already dealing
results. Darlene Cortez, 17, says she was failing English and on the
verge of dropping out of Colusa High School by the middle of her
sophomore year.
The prospect haunted her mother, Davetta Cortez, 38, who had dropped
out at 18 and worked mostly in fast-food jobs in the years since. "I
didn't want another generation to end up like me," she said.
Cortez approached the tribe, which stepped in with tutoring services
and an independent study program.
Now, Darlene is wrapping up her high school credits and will enroll at
American River College in January. Her sister Charlene, 16, will start
community college next fall.
Both girls recently were invited to join the National Honor Society.
The day their letters arrived, Cortez came close to tears.
"I'm just so proud of what they've done," she said. "They've already
started to turn things around."
Turning kids around, one at a time, is how Remington sees her job, and
most days at Yocha-De-He, there are signs of progress.
During a recent session, Cottrell worked with a 10-year-old who needs
extra help with math, especially multiplication. She asked him to
create his own multiplication word problem.
He decided to figure out the solution to nine times five, and placed
the buttons before him in nine piles of five, saying each represented a
coat with five buttons. Slowly, he counted, then softly announced his
answer: 45.
"That's it," Cottrell said. "You did it yourself."
