SUE MILLER SIBLEY’S CORN AND CRAB SOUP 

1/2 cup cooking oil

1/2 cup flour

1 large onion, diced

3 stalks celery, diced

1 red bell pepper, diced

1 bunch green onions, chopped

1 clove garlic, crushed

1 can Rotel brand stewed tomatoes

1 can creamed corn

2-4 cans chicken broth

1 lb crab meat

(or 1/2 lb. crab, 1/2 lb shrimp)

1 Teaspoon liquid crab boil*

salt, pepper, & creole seasonings 

The secret to all gumbo is in the roux.  A roux should be made slowly and evenly.  Different gumbos call for different degrees of dark.  This particular gumbo wants a deep, dark brown, close to mahogany.  So begin by making a dark brown roux using the oil and flour in a large cast iron skillet over low to moderate heat, stirring constantly, making sure not to burn the roux (or yourself).  If you should accidentally burn your roux, start over again.  It can take as long as 30 minutes to get a good roux.  Be patient and don’t rush it.  And be careful while stirring the roux:  it's called Cajun Napalm because it sticks and burns.  When the roux is dark enough (as dark as brackish swamp water), add the Holy Trinity and cook over a medium heat for 20 to 30 minutes.  In a large soup pot, heat corn, tomatoes, and chicken broth.  When roux and vegetables are ready, add to the soup.  Simmer for about an hour and then add crab meat and crab boil.  Taste for salt, and add your seasonings.  Serve with cornbread instead of rice. 

*Liquid crab boil is more widely available nowadays, but if you can’t find any, just adjust your seasoning by adding a couple of bay leaves, some cajun spices and some Tabasco.

 This is a Redbone gumbo.  Redbones are from the bayou country out in western Louisiana.  We’re as likely to eat cornbread as rice, and with this particular gumbo, it’s preferred.  This recipe was a gift to me from my cousin of blessed memory, Regina Sue Miller Sibley.  Thinking I needed a name with more cachet, I renamed it Tchoupitoulas Corn and Crab Gumbo.  But for the purpose of giving it to my cousins, let’s go back to calling it Sue’s Corn and Crab Soup.

There was another commenter asking me if I had a problem with Blacks. No, not really. They got their story, we got ours. I don't think I ever deny the fact that we have African genes. But we didn't get any of the culture from the genes. I grant you, it's our loss. I mourn that daily. We had some tough times, but we did not have the "Black experience." My ancestors in this country were never slaves. Say what you will, but it made a difference in our experience as mixed-race Americans in the 17th, 18th, and 19th century inA these Americas.

Call us what you will: Melungeons, Redbones, Moors, Lumbees, it's all the same. There is very likely African blood, but we've been denying it/running from it for over 300 years, long enough that we have our own story and it ain't the more typical African-American experience born of slavery and segregation. We have nothing in common with that experience. We were on the other side. Any self-respecting American Black upon learning of this group of mixed-race people called Redbones by others would disavow any possible kinship, culturally or genealogically. We just have a different experience, and it does bug me when my story is claimed by others with no right to use it like were there own.

Bearhead Creek, Beauregard and Calcasieu Parishes, Louisiana

There is no group of people known as the Redbones of Bearhead Creek, although there are plenty of Redbones living along Bearhead Creek.

Terry Jackson

We buried Terry on Friday, April 17.

It didn't rain until after we said our last good-byes to Terry. In the several hours between Good Hope and midnight, it rained six or seven inches. I sat out on Brenda's patio watching the lightning flashes and counting for the thunder the way I was taught to count as a kid, you know, "one Mississippi, two Mississippi, and so on." The lightning was never right over us, but the rain was. All of those old church songs about being washed kept coming to mind. You know, "washed in the blood," "wash my sins away," that sort of thing.

I did let the rain "wash" the sadness brought on by Terry's sudden death, at least as much as I could. I wanted to speak to Terry's family about his greatness. Sure, they know he's great, but did they appreciate the impact he had on hundreds of people close and far away? I wanted to thank him for so many gifts to his cousins, near and far. I did tell his widow that I wanted to speak, but the opportunity didn't happen.

We all have different ways of processing death. In my multi-cultural existence here in California, I have sang several dozen varieties of the same song. After a few, we develop a few favorites. I like it when family and friends are invited to speak spontaneously of the deceased. Terry's service did not provide that opportunity. I was very disappointed. I did not feel slighted, just disappointed.

The young man who delivered the eulogy was a nephew. I didn't get his name, and I didn't get a copy of the program. He was great, but talk about country! He began by reading the eulogy from the funeral home's website, word for word. Bless his heart, he hadn't a lot of experience at reading in front of a large crowd, but you know what? He did great! After he finished the reading part, he started talking about his uncle Terry, and as he talked, the Spirit filled him and he gave a passionate testament of love for his beloved Uncle.

I was a pall-bearer. It is one of the ways we honor the dead. It goes back a long way in our cultural history. It allows us to honor our friend by taking responsibility for the body. It's mostly symbolic nowadays, but it wasn't that many years ago that pallbearers would be those in the family and friends and neighbors that would dig the grave, build the casket, and cover it. Now it's largely symbolic. BUT, I would have been proud to take a shovel, build a casket, carry it to the grave, cover it, and do what I could beyond that to comfort Terry's family. The symbolism was very strong in my heart and mind on Friday. There was something right about seven of Terry's friends, family, and me, taking the casket out of the Hearse and carrying it over to the grave. Even as symbolic as it is these days, it still takes physical strength to lift that heavy casket and carry it over to the grave.

The minister who preached Terry's service was Michael Cole, a young, handsome, Pentecostal preacher who is married to one of my Redbone cousins. He told the most delightful story about an interaction he had with Terry. Michael worked at the Singer Pentecostal Church for a few years. In those years, he had several opportunities to interact with Terry. He told this story. One Sunday, after services, he noticed Terry had a big smile on his face, and the twinkle in Terry's eye told Michael that it had something to do with him, so he asked him what made him so happy that morning. Terry's answer: "I love a short-winded preacher!" I liked the humility Michael Cole brought to his part in the service, as he worked through his own feeling of loss.

Terry was a powerful person if one measures power by the effect one has on the lives of others. Terry was not drawn to the Internet because of something lacking in his own life. Terry was drawn to the Internet because he had an abundance in his heart that he felt compelled to share. While he was kind to strangers, once the bond of kinship was established, he became fiercely loyal in his affection.

His most generous gift to us was the tombstone project. Erlene and Terry traipsed through thickle and briar, snakes and mosquitoes, high water and flood, to photograph and catalogue the tombstones in almost every cemetery in southwest Louisiana. No matter who you are, you could go to the site and find a picture of the tombstone of your Redbone ancestor. Thank you, Terry. May your name be blessed by dozens of generations to come.

It is said that only the living suffer death. The dead themselves are at peace. It is we the living who suffer loss. There's a lot of us living who are hurting right now. God sent us an angel to dwell amongst us and we took him for granted too many years. We are all poorer now with Terry's death.

A couple of years ago, Terry wrote this:

In telling these old stories of these folks, there is one thing that is
confirmed time and time again for me about a wish I have had all of my
life. That wish being, that I would have been able to just meet and
sit and talk with these people of mind for just a week. Just imagine
the history and details of the different stories and tales we have
heart that has been told over and over. We could have learned the
truth, too. I would be willing to bet that the truth wouldn't be far
from the way we know the stories today.

We buried Terry at Good Hope Cemetery. There are six generations of his ancestors buried there. I want to imagine them sitting out on God's front porch in their rocking chairs, laughing and remembering their stories. Terry's going to get a proper welcome, I know that's a fact. While he's going to want to hear their versions of some of the stories he's heard, they're going to want to hear him telling about growing up in Redbone country in the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, and 10s. Oh sure, they may watch down and look out for us, but nobody told a story like Terry. They're going to want to hear his version.

Rest in peace, Terry, rest in peace. I am a better man having known you.

It's going to take me awhile to get over losing you.

Royce "Terry" Jackson

August 5, 1958 - April 14, 2009

Rest in peace, dear cousin, rest in peace. The world is a poorer place now without you.

If you're still not sure about whether or not you're a Redbone, here's a few Redbone faces with Hershel Frazier's song, "I'm a Redbone."

Enjoy!

Who are My Mother's People?

I had an email the other day from someone who asked me what names are generally considered Redbone names. That question begins more arguments than it settles.

To get to it, you first have to define what a Redbone is. Is it simply someone of mixed-race ancestry any where in the United States? Is it a combination of mixed-race ancestry and identity with place? Is it the remnants of a tribe of native Americans from the East Coast? Where did the word Redbone come from?

Except for a small group of families in South Carolina, there is no group that identifies itself as Redbone. The ones in South Carolina chose to call themselves Redbones because they considered the other names they were called, Issues or Old Issues, to be derogatory.

There are several concentrations of people with mixed-race ancestry in Louisiana who are called Redbones by others. They do not call themselves that. There may be people who are considered part of those groups who do call themselves Redbones, but there is no group identity, just individuals who identify with the idea and have adopted the name.

The closest you can come to having an identifiable group is the kinship among various family clans in southwest Louisiana who have shared the same geography for the past couple of hundred years. That kinship is based on family lines and not upon identification based on color or culture. These family clans have never called themselves Redbones, despite beling called that by others, and even then, seldom to our face.

Someone once asked me, if we didn’t call ourselves Redbones, what did we call ourselves? I answered that we called ourselves neighbors, friends, and cousins. Still, there is something there; something tenuous, but always present: an underlying acknowledgment of shared circumstance beyond family blood lines. A sense of belonging that is not easily quantifiable.

When used by the dominant culture, Redbone meant someone who looked Indian, was mostly White, but who also probably had some Black blood. The only people who were called Redbones were generally being called that by others. Is that alone enough to make someone a Redbone? I’m not so sure. Calling someone a bastard doesn’t make them a bastard. So you can see why it’s very difficult to determine who is and who isn’t a Redbone.

My family has been called Redbones at least since 1892 when the Lake Charles Press screamed in a banner headline “REDBONES RAMPANT!” It referred to a gunfight between my great-grandfather, a couple of his brothers and several cousins and neighbors because a crew chief referred to them as Redbones, a name to which they took exception. The story was picked up by various newspapers around the country, prompting a letter from McDonald Furman to Albert Rigmaiden, the Treasurer of Calcasieu Parish, which inquired about the people known as Redbones.

Rigmaiden referred very specifically to a small and isolated group of families in the area north and northwest of Lake Charles. He listed the names: Ashworth, Perkins, Drake, Hoozier, Buxton, Dial, Sweat, Johnson, and Goins. Rigmaiden told Furman that he didn’t know where the name came from. He speculated it was given to them by Blacks. The families he identified as Redbones were, according to Rigmaiden, originally from South Carolina.

There is no other record of any other group being called Redbones before that or even after that. There are a couple of place names where the word Redbone is used, but there is nothing in the record to link the word’s use in that context to mixed-race people.

The group Rigmaiden referred to as being from South Carolina are the ones from whom I descend. He got most of the names, but not all. LV Hayes, who is the most respected of Redbone genealogical researchers, thinks it is very important to identify those original names as the genus of who are real Redbones. From Marion County, in South Carolina, come the names Ashworth, Perkins, Dial/Doyle, Johnson, Sweat, and Goins. According to LV, The Buxton family came from South Carolina, but not the Marion District. The Bass, Bunch and Drake families came from Virginia via either North Carolina or Kentucky. The Nash and Willis families came out of North Carolina.

My regular readers know that I do not purport to be a genealogist. Genealogy is a tool I use (some might say poorly) to construct the historical timeline for the Redbones of southwest Louisiana. LV Hayes has been most generous in sharing his genealogical research. I also would like to thank the Starks Historical Society and its members for their help in researching and understanding the genealogy of our people in Louisiana and Texas.

While it’s popular to say how isolated and stand-offish the early Redbone settlers were, the facts just don’t support that conclusion. Within a generation, another dozen families had intermarried into that core group, giving birth to thousands of new mixed-race settlers and adding another dozen or so names to the list of what would become to be known as Redbones. Some of those other names Butler, Coward, Esclovan, Hayes, Jacobs, Thomas, and Strother were added almost immediately to the names associated with this group of mixed-race settlers from South Carolina. By the end of the 19th century, the names Berwick, McLeod, Droddy, Ozan, Myers, and Smith were also added. Miller became a Redbone name in the early 20th century when Nick Miller, originally from Bohemia, married Elizabeth Hoosier and founded a large and extended family of Redbones in the Starks area.

I may have missed a name or two, and others may have a different opinion about which names came first. I don’t think it matters too much. To be descended from one of those original names does not make one a Redbone. To have a name not on the list doesn’t mean that you’re not a Redbone.

All of these different names brought a unique combination of ethnicity to the mix. Some of the families were thought to have brought some African into the mix, but not having any African was a very important distinction emphasized among mixed-race families in southwest Louisiana. Most of the families believed their dark color came from a Portugese ancestor and maybe a little Indian somewhere way back. DNA suggests a strong South Asian component as well, but since there is no memory or myth of South Asian, nor any historical references to any possible source for South Asian, all dark genes were assumed to have come from American Indian. But each family brought a unique combination, and even today, 200 years after mixing it up, not all Redbones are related to each other, although it does seem that way sometimes.

Beginning in the 1990s, a popular movement started among people who are descended from those mixed-race families to rehabilitate the word Redbone and to use it as a collective noun for telling our stories. There hasn’t been much opposition from within the community of people who share the characteristics of the groups usually thought of as Redbone. Just the same, it’s still a slur to many people, especially those born before World War II. In another few years, there won’t be anyone who remembers the word as a racial slur.

There is an organization called The Redbone Heritage Foundation that has taken an aggressive approach to owning this term. It should be noted that these people do not have any identifiable ties to the people in southwest Louisiana who are still called Redbones by their neighbors. This organization does not represent any Redbones in Louisiana and has no right to speak on the behalf of anyone other than themselves. It can't be said strongly enough: these people have nothing to do with Louisiana's Redbones.

For two hundred years our struggle has been to live free, work hard, and practice our religion without the burden of being called a racial explicative. My 20,000 plus cousins in southwest Louisiana are proud to be called Americans, and some of us don’t even mind when you call us Redbones, but be sure to smile when you do, and it probably wouldn’t hurt if you can add cousin to it.

The Beginning of a Dynasty?

Another Voice Added to the Choir

LV Hayes, a respected elder of the Bearhead Creek Redbones has published his response to the blog posting by Jim Serra which he called "Mystery in our Midst." You will remember Mr. Serra once asked me to write a story about southwest Louisiana's Redbones, and when I didn't do it quickly enough for him, he did it himself. That was bad enough, but he relied on flaky sources, i.e., Marler's dimestore, self-published book and the raving maniacs at the Redbone Heritage Foundation (RHF) (which,by the way, is NOT Redbone, they have no Heritage, and with twenty members and no money, they're not much of a foundation). We all waded into that mud slinging free for all forcing Serra to close the discussion. That was fine with me. The white trash went back to their hovels leaving us Redbones alone.

LV was invited by Serra to give his point of view to the discussion. When LV wrote it, Serra refused to run it, saying it was too disparaging of the RHF. At my suggestion and urging, LV has decided to publish it himself on the Internet. He chose a blog format which keeps him as the editor of his own work, yet allows for conversation in the way of Comments.

Louisiana Redbones is LV's response to lies, damn lies, and unfounded myth. To those people who keep saying that Louisiana's Redbones are mysterious, I suggest you read LV's post entitled "If You Don't Tell Your Own Story." Maybe you don't know much about us, but we know who we are.

The Main Reason We Don't Believe We Have African Ancestry Is ...

Because our ancestors told us we didn't. It's like that ol' time religion, if it was good enough for grandma, it's good enough for me. Besides, no one has ever shown us any proof of it. I ain't saying there's anything wrong with having African ancestry, but just as it would pretentious for me to claim to be descended from Charlemagne without proof, it's ludicrous for anyone else to say I have African ancestry without proof. It's sort of like that Jerry Seinfeld line, "not that there's anything wrong with it."

Drums along the Bayou

Cousin Terry has a new blog which he calls My Redbone Roots. Today he takes aim at two of the most dispictable creeps ever to suck air from real humans, old (and near death) Tupperwear Two Feathers, who is known by more names than Carter has little pills, and Princess Pig Face, the president of that group of wannabe Redbones. You know those two, they're the thugs Don Marler uses to enforce his opinion on the Redbone debate. Marler's opinion, by the way, is that Louisiana's Redbones descend from Blacks. Any of you real Redbones out there just remember that little point. Marler and the RHF is painting you with an African brush. The three of them can eat shit and die.

Go read Terry's blog.

Nature or Nurture: What makes a Redbone

The nurture vs. nature debate is one the online Redbone-identified community dealt with ten years ago, at length. After vigorous research and debate, most of us concluded that there really isn't a cultural difference between people who might be called Redbones and their neighbors. There is no line separating the two.

This conclusion was met with stiff resistance by several writers in the Starks-DeQuincy area who repeatedly insisted that there was "something special" about the Redbone culture in that area. Because of my affection for those writers, I took them at their word on the subject. Later, in my several opportunities to visit in southwest Louisiana, I concluded that "something special" was more about family bonding than anything else. A lot of extended families still living in a more rural setting have that "something special."

I approach the conversation of nature and nurture in a more political context. Do the people who are likely to be called Redbones form a class? The answer is yes. Whether acknowledged or not, when you can be categorized by the population in an area with or without your awareness or consent, you belong to an identifiable class. In the case of our cousins in southwest Louisiana, that class is called Redbones.

In East Texas, there lives a huge number of potential Redbones who are not Redbones because they are not necessarily included in that class. My Droddy cousins in East Texas do not identify themselves as Redbones. They are adamant about it. No one assumes anything about them because of where they live or whether or not they are dark, or because of any association with a particular family name.

By genealogy, they are as Redbone as anyone in Starks, being descended from Redbone royalty: Ashworth, Perkins, Drake, Bunch and Dial/Doyle. So what? They have very few political, cultural, or social ties to southwest Louisiana. I do not consider them Redbones. And if it was so important to Austin and Owen not to be called Redbones that they were willing to shoot people, I am not going to push their great-grandsons and daughters in East Texas on the subject. They have a stronger argument as to why they're not than I do that they are.

So, that's why I don't think it's just a matter of bloodline. If you live in southwest Louisiana and are blood, you're going to be identified as a Redbone whether you participate in that decision or not. If you live anywhere else, being a Redbone is a personal choice of identity. I probably annoy a lot of people in the simplicity of my conclusion, but that's what I believe. No, where I annoy certain people is with my insistence that the class of Redbones who are likely to be identified as Redbones whether they think of themselves that way or not outweigh the interests of those Redbones who are self-identified Redbones who live in places not affected by the discussion.

There is a strong sense of community among our people in southwest Louisiana. I think it's based mostly on the interconnectedness of the various family clans which are continually reinforced through family reunions, weddings, funerals, and church and school activities. These ties have been continually reinforced for 200 years. Those people are as tight as any group that does not define itself separately from the surrounding culture can be.

Larry Keels gives Don Marler way too much credit when he says the movement towards claiming the word Redbone was started by him [Marler] to advance his own little point of view and sell books. I had embraced the word a long time before that. I've been calling myself a Redbone since the early 70s when I came to the conclusion that being part Indian was not in itself satisfactory. I wasn't just a native American in some abstract sense. I was born to a dark people who lived a very simple, subsistence life style, and who were rich in cultural warmth. They were an in-between people, born on this continent with no memory of a before. We didn't remember being Indian and we didn't remember Europe. I felt a very special pride in the idea of being a bridge group between the two. I was in Alaska about this time, and I was accepted completely by the Athapascans in the interior of Alaska as a Redbone, and they got it completely.

And a lot of other people born after WWII have come along the same path. I didn't need Marler to give me cover for calling myself a Redbone. My pride comes from my own experiences and memories of growing up in a special place being raised by special people.

So there, nature or nurture? It's a false choice and has nothing serious to add to the overall discussion, but is one of those personal meditating points which shapes a person's overall point of view.

Happy Redbone History Day!

A lot of people are put off by the idea of celebrating a day dedicated to a lost Italian sailing on someone else's ships looking for one place while stumbling onto another. What a loser! A lot of native Americans say we should call it Indigenous People's Day, but why would we give what is probably the worst day in their historical experience a day dedicated to joyful celebration?

I think I'll call it Redbone History Day. Let Redbone men and women everywhere rejoice! Let little children approach their parents and ask, "WTF is a Redbone?" Let Redbone men go into the woods and return with wild turkey and venison. Let Redbone women cook that wild game and gather their families about the hearth and tell stories and recount genealogies.

Why not? Me, I love theme parties.

Family Photographs

When I was home at Memorial Day, several cousins brought all of their photographs over for me to scan. I haven't had time to go through and identify everyone yet, but I will over the next week or so. Here's the link for them to be viewed as a slideshow: Bearhead Creek Redbones.

Yeah, yeah, I know, there's no such thing as Bearhead Creek Redbones. We're a figment of an overactive imagination: mine. In fact, I made up the pictures, too. I just thought Chaddy and Linda brought pictures for me to scan.

This one of Lizbet Miller and a couple of grandsons working is one of my favorites.

Not bad for just imagining it, eh? Here's another of which I'm fond. It's my first cousin, Sue Miller Sibley when she was about three or four.


Go look at the whole bunch.

Mark your calendars, cousins. We're gathering on October 27, 2007 at the VFW Hall in Starks, Louisiana to talk about our kinship and our history. We're going to tell stories and remember our ancestors. We're also going to talk about what it means to be a Redbone. We've got a lot to talk about. See you there.

A Point of Clarification

Just because someone is white trash with a bit of Indian in 'em, does not make that person a Redbone. I'm just saying, that's all.

The Mayhaw

Can you believe that people found something to do with mayhaws? In case you don't know, the fruit of the mayhaw i's a bitter, seedy, little thing sort of like a crabapple, but smaller and less tasty. It's supposed to be some relative of the hawthorne. I have no idea about what a hawthorne is, but I do know what a mayhaw is, and I have the utmost admiration for the first determined Southern pioneer woman who figured out a way to use it. I did extensive Google searching for the history of mayhaw jelly and it seems to have no beginning. It's just one of those things that's always been. That means it was invented by women.

Like all Southerners, I grew up with mayhaw jelly. To me as a kid, it wasn't special in any way, it was just jelly. All biscuits tasted better with jelly. Besides mayhaw, we had dewberry, blackberry, and plum. Figs were preserved, pears made into a butter which was a preserved puree. Generally, if it was made from edible fruit, preserves were preferred to jelly. Dewberries and blackberries were a toss up. Jelly got rid of the fruit pulp, and most importantly, the seeds. I liked both.

The mayhaw is an edible but not palatable fruit. It's all seed covered by a thin layer of bitter pulp, covered by a tough and even bitterer peel. Its flavor is strange and elusive. Like I said, I grew up with the taste of mayhaw jelly, but when I moved away from the South in the early 1970s, I quickly forgot about mayhaw as a flavor. Fast forward 30 years and I'm sitting down to breakfast on Cow Creek in East Texas on a cold morning and placed in front of me was a large platter of biscuits, butter and mayhaw jelly. The taste was like a sweet tart of memory, taking me back to childhood. What a rush. I have not been without it since.

This week-end, Starks, Louisiana is celebrating its Mayhaw Festival. By circumstance, it's probably the largest gathering of Redbones in southwestern Louisiana and east Texas. I am there in spirit at least. Meanwhile, I'm having another biscuit and jelly.

The Orange County War of 1856

Here's a version of it I bet you never heard before.

(From the Calcasieu Press)
Madison, Orange County, Texas
July 4th, 1856

Mr. Editor:

Your readers will perhaps be benefited by a knowledge of the present state of affairs in Orange County, Texas. If you think so, you are at liberty to publish in your valuable paper, the following statement which will be found near the truth:

First, all the good citizens of the county are under arms on duty in various directions, endeavoring to drive out from their midst a gang of gamblers, cow, hog and horse thieves, mail robbers, mail burners, counterfeiters, and murderers, who have been collecting in this county for many years, increasing in boldness as they increased in numbers, till they became wicked beyond endurance.

These villains of various criminal hue, have been ordered to leave the county and go beyond the limits of fifty miles distance. The number of these characters may equal forty, more or less, including all the free mulattoes and their white associates.

At the present writing only three have been killed, some others keep themselves hid in the thickets and marshes, playing a hide and seek game to assassinate the better citizens and fulfill their threats heretofore made, and many are aiming to go into Calcasieu and the adjoining parishes to live.

I will give you the names of many of these people and a light touch of their practices, that your readers may be on their guard.

Wm. Ashworth, mulatto, has possessed a handsome stock of cattle, and for many years has proved himself a man of universal hospitality, but owing to his color, few people of honor and pride of character have descended to enjoy it, while hordes of gamblers, thieves and counterfeiters hung about him and played securely at their respective games unmolested, except by one another. It is said, (and believed to be true) that some 7 men have been shot in his house in the course of his hospitality to these villains.

His son Luke has pursued a course which has thrown some wealth into his hands, but although he has cautiously avoided the appearance of open dishonesty, yet he has been a secret keeper for these rascals and had knowledge of the most of their rascality without ever informing the officers of Justice.

Henderson, 2d son of Wm. Ashworth, never courted the name of honesty, as I can learn, but on the contrary, is inclined to boast of his ability to steal, and I have no doubt but he is entitled to all the honor due to a master thief and an accomplice in murder. Luke Ashworth and others, state that he penned 18 head of cattle belonging to the neighbors and killed them at one time, for the hides. He assisted in the murder of Samuel Deputy.

Clark Ashworth, 3rd son of Wm. Ashworth, has acted his part among the rest, and, on his own responsibility, only stands bound over the court for the Hog stealing.

Tap Ashworth, was driven from an adjoining County for some misdemeanor, and is now involved in a law suit (I am told) of a thousand dollars on account thereof; since residing here, nothing has been alleged against him more criminal than his assistance personally rendered to Henderson in penning the stolen cattle which he butchers; for which he, Tap, receives gratis as much of the choice beef as he wants.

Aaron Ashworth, has never been charged with dishonesty, nor has he entertained a promiscuous suit of vagabond parasites; but having raised a number of daughters of color, he seems to have disposed of them unluckily among a set of lazy, idle white men for mistresses, who were allured more by the beauty of a few cattle bestowed on them, than by the beauty of the girls. Thus he has entailed upon our country a horde of worthless creatures in a shape of human beings, who, no doubt will in due time, be ready to steal and burn any property which the more honorable and industrious citizens may construct for the beauty and improvement of this country.

Sam Ashworth, son of Aaron, seems to inherit in his disposition, all the most diabolical qualities of the Indian, Negro and White man, without any of their principles, is the murderer of Samuel Deputy, a very useful and enterprising citizen. He had attempted to murder several before, but without success. He now stands indicted for one attempt by the Grand Jury of your Parish, and a writ was issued more than a year ago; but for want of an efficient officer, or some other reason unknown to me, no exertion has been made to arrest him, and he is still at large, threatening the lives of several others.

Those who are considered directly accessory to the murder of Deputy are Jack Bunch, Ned Glover, Bill Blake, Burwell Alexander and Henderson Ashworth, the Cow Thief. Jack Bunch, cousin to Sam, assisted in killing Deputy, and is guilty of killing by his own hand, Terly, the drunken keeper of his sister a few years ago.

Ned Glover, alias Haywood, according to his own confession before execution, murdered a man in the State he came from, and changing his name, made his escape to this country. He together with Bill Blake and Burwell Alexander, are accessory to the death of Deputy, by allowing Sam Ashworth, then a prisoner under them, to go at large, but a few hours before the murder took place, Glover is well known to deal in counterfeit money.

Bill Blake is well known to be an extensive and accomplished Thief, Gambler and Counterfeiter.

Burwell Alexander, is at present in Madison recovering from his wounds.

[Illegible] Smith, [illegible] and Bill Wingate are the reputed burners of the East pass Saw Mill and are [illegible] cow and hog thieves.

Jack, {illegible] and Mart Stewart, Bill Jim and Steve Wingate—Johnson and Oliver Clark, Ana and Jim Mc[illegible], all he bunches, and some others are all [illegible] cow and hog thieves, belonging to Henderson Ashworth’s gang.

Willis Goodman, Wright, Pate, Charlie Martin are promiscuous thieves and villains of various hues.

Jack Moore was a bold counterfeiter the man of the mint, and was executed by the Committee of safety amidst his coin and dies, at Joe Bremons on Sabine in the big thicket. Boz Sapp and his father Addison Sapp, were found with him, but made his escape bare footed and bare headed, leaving their saddle bags, in which was found plenty of proof of their rascality and guilt.

The balance of them are either connected with Bill Blake’s gang of horse thieves or Henderson’s gang of cow thieves or both.

The White people on Johnson’s Bayou have wisely determined to rid themselves of their colored neighbors who keep up a constant intercourse with rascals abroad, and they have already ordered them to leave.

They find it impossible with safety to let any remain, as it is reduced to a certainty, that the most honest among them will hide for others who steal and commit other depredations. So your readers may look for the following names among them ere long, to wit: Franswa Galia, Silista Galia, Eli Burwick, James Anderson, Drury Ashworth, Larkin Ashworth, Wm. Nelson, Moses Nelson, Robert Nelson, Stephen Perkins, and Jonathan Carter, all of colored families.

Now Mr. Editor, your readers at once the impropriety of allowing this motley gang to settle among them without industry, without moral principle, and without the least shade of hope, that their descendants which they are propagating, can ever be admitted to an equality with the white people. And they at once see the mistake, which these colored people are laboring under to want a settlement there, under such circumstances. Can you, Mr. Editor (I believe you can), convince some of the leading ones among these deluded people, of this mistake, and show them their true interest in making their exoduses beyond the Rio Grande, where they and their children will at once be on an equality with the Natives of that Country.

Adieu [signed:] PROGRESSION

A Letter from Bearhead

Hey Cousins,

I've got to share this with you all.

This event happen yesterday to Erlene when she was leaving one of the stores here in Dequincy. It was right at dark, Erlene had gotten into the truck to leave the store, as she was backing up to turn around to enter the road, another truck passed. She heard a noise and looked around and this truck had slammed on its brakes and thrown the truck in reverse. It backed up and drove into the drive beside her. The driver door flung open and got out. She saw the look on his face and thought to herself, Oh no here is a nut, what's he going to do!!!!. She said his eyes were the size of silver dollars, He came up and knocking on the window with one hand and had the other one in the air made into a fist. He was saying over and over, YES! YES!YES! He kept motioning for her to roll down her window.

Since there was a few people around, she lowered her window enough to hear him and he told her this.

"Lady," he said, "I don't know who you are and you know nothing of me. I have just found out in the last few months that I am a descendant of Redbones and maybe Indians. He said he had lived in California all his life and had never been to Louisiana, but once he learned of his ancestors history and where they were from, he packed up and left Calfornia and just moved here to be amongst his people and to become one of them.

She said he was talking a mile a minute. He then said the reason he stopped was because he saw her license plate which says "R3DBONE" and the "REDBONE AND PROUD OF IT" bumper sticker. He went on to tell her to never be ashamed of who you are and who your people are.

He said "I am so proud of my people and our ancestors." She was still a little shocked over this and kept saying over and over O.K. O.K. and drove off without even mentioning his name. As she drove off he was still standing there with his fist in the air saying over and over "YES! Yes! Yes!

Thought I would just pass this along to show you our message is working in mysterious ways, just as our ancestors did.

Terry

I'm glad our message is getting out there, but that dude is lucky he didn't get shot. You just don't approach a Redbone you don't know that aggressively. I know people who live in DeQuincy that would have shot him about the time he got out of his pickup truck and headed towards them.

I remember reading a mystery by Tony Hillerman which was set on the Navajo Reservation in Arizona. His character drove up to someones house and sat in the car for a few minutes, waiting for the occupant of the house to come to the door. He explained that it would be rude to jump out of the car too quickly. I thought to myself, that's how we Redbones are, too. Maybe for other reasons, but when I was growing up, if someone parked in your driveway, you walked over to the door to see who it was, waiving them in when you saw who it was. I don't remember if the visitors would be waiting to be invited in, in fact, I doubt it, but I do remember that you didn't just jump out of your car and run to the door.

When I was in DeQuincy in November of this past year, I remembered this enough to sit in my car for a minute or two before jumping out and going to someones door. On each of those occasions, the person I was visiting came to the door and waived me in.

I'm just saying, that's all.

Bumper Sticker Time

This is the first bumper sticker. It'll be ready for the Ashworth and Droddy gatherings in early November. If you want one before then, send me $2 each to cover cost and postage and I'll get one in the mail to you.




My personal favorite, Red to the Bone! does not have the word Redbone in it, and no, close isn't enough in this instance. Likewise, I did not go with the RHF sloan, Redbone, Taking Pride in Who We Are with this first round of bumper stickers. That can come later.

Redbone and Proud

Acceptance of the word "Redbone" is not something imposed from outside
by others. We've rejected that approach for as long as we've heard
the word. Don and LV just reenacted the gunfight at Smokey Grove.
Don uses the term like someone in the dominant culture as simply a
descriptive noun. LV responds with the Al Pacino line, "you talking
to me?" Amos knew who and what the guy meant when he said "where are
those Redbones?" Didn't like it one bit, but he knew who the guy was
talking about.

The thing is, Redbones have never had a sense of group identity with
each other much beyond family lines. Just because someone calls you
something doesn't make you one. If enough people call me a bastard,
do I start looking for a club to join? Do I substitute their opinion
of me for my own?

Our families lived for 200 years with the one-drop rule. It didn't
matter how many times they made us write FPC, Free Negro, or Mulatto
on the blackboard, we have always seen ourselves White. Why? Because
we didn't have any other option. We were simple people trying to get
by the best we could. I'm sure if any of my ancestors realized that
embracing our Indianness would get their decendants a casino, they'd
have worn paint and feathers, but they didn't.

Look at the Caine River Creoles. Compare their status to ours
starting in 1800 and ending at 2000. What's the biggest difference
between their demise and our success? We have never agreed that we
were anything other than White mixed with Indian. It's been bred into
us. Am I in denial, or am I being loyal to my ancestors? Here's the
thing: in theory, I'm okay with having a black ancestor. Show me the
proof. If you can't stand up in a conference of genealogists and
prove it, then don't bother me with it. Until you can prove my oral
history wrong, leave me alone. I'm an Indian-White mix who is
White-identified. I will not dance to contemporary theories on the
graves of my ancestors.

The movement to rehabilitate the word and to build a positive
association to it has already begun. I didn't begin it and no one in
this room began it, but I do enjoy talking about it. Before I'm
through I'm going to have a book of my own right next to Don's on that
shelf of Redbone literature. It'll probably be mostly bullshit, but
that won't make my mother any less proud of me.

Redbones exist. Not everyone who thinks they is is, and not everyone
who thinks they ain't ain't. I'm an Internet Redbone myself. If I
lived on Bearhead these days they'd probably burn me out. Those
people down there have always been "rascally and treacherous."