Martin, 73, is the longtime chief of the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians, one of the most successful tribes in the U.S. And while the casino is not the sole vehicle of the 8,300-member tribe's remarkable ascendancy, it is a bright star in the Choctaws' financial firmament. During Martin's 40 years as tribal leader, his people have risen from abject poverty to become the envy of their non-Indian neighbors.
The Mississippi Choctaws are an economic machine, making everything from greeting cards to automotive wire harnesses to plastic utensils for McDonald's. Four decades ago, about 80 percent of the tribe was unemployed; today anyone on the 25,500-acre reservation who wants a job can have one. Last year the tribe even opened a factory in Mexico, leading one official to joke, "We're running out of Indians."
The barrel-chested Martin gladly gives his visitor the tour in his tribal-issued silver Lincoln Town Car. He points to the elementary school built in 1990 and bulging with 500 kids. Next comes the wastewater treatment plant, which the Choctaws built without federal funding (Martin has little patience with red tape). "Four-point-five million we put in that one," he says. Along the road are small, neatly kept houses erected years ago with HUD money. Many have satellite dishes. Then he turns into a new subdivision of 30 three-and four-bedroom homes. "We call this one River Oaks," says Martin. "Other tribes come through here, and they say, 'How can you build these houses?' " He chuckles. "I say, 'It just takes a little money, is all.' "
Martin grew up on the reservation in a day when few Choctaws had running water or electricity, much less disposable cash. His father, Willie, who died when Phillip was 11, worked for the Bureau of Indian Affairs as a janitor. His late mother, Mary, was a homemaker with five sons and a daughter. Subjected to the same Jim Crow racism as blacks, Choctaws were expected to clear the sidewalks when whites approached. The jobs, says Martin, "were all menial, if you got one." In 1939, at age 13, Phillip went to a BIA boarding school, where he was placed in fourth grade, the only Choctaw among Cherokees. Still, he graduated from high school at 18.
Drafted into the U.S. Army Air Forces at the end of World War II, he joined the Allied forces in Europe and was amazed by the devastation. For the first time, he says, he realized white people could have it as bad as Indians. Later, in Munich, he saw Germans sifting the ruins for reusable bricks and was struck that, "even in their defeated condition," they were determined to rebuild their lives. He wondered if his people might do the same.
Leaving the military as a staff sergeant in 1955, he married Bonnie Bell, now 68, who worked for the local BIA. (The couple have two daughters, Deborah, 43, and Patricia, 42; both work in the Choctaw school system.) Phillip had technical skills—he had been a radar specialist—but he could not find a decent job. "They told me, 'You don't have any experience,' " he says. Using the G.I. Bill, he went to school to learn to be an electrician but still couldn't get enough work. In 1961 he finally landed a maintenance job at nearby Meridian Naval Air Station.
In 1957 he won a seat on the tribal council. In 1959 he became chairman. But the council was then controlled by the local BIA. When Martin wanted to make contacts in Washington, D.C., the BIA superintendent took a group in an agency car and introduced them to select congressmen. Martin felt patronized. "We came back," he says, "and I told the guys, 'I've been all over the damn world. I know how to get to Washington and back.' From then on, we didn't tell anybody. We just got in the car and went."
Exercising a newfound independence, Martin and other tribal leaders cultivated powerful pols (among them the late Mississippi Sen. John Stennis) and secured federal funding for a high school, hospital, roads and housing on the reservation. By 1969 they had also secured funds from a local bond issue to build a 30-acre industrial park. In 1978, the Packard Electric division of General Motors asked the tribe to manufacture wire harnesses for cars and trucks. The plant opened in '79, but was soon on the verge of bankruptcy. Recruited by Martin, mid-level Packard executive Lester Dalme instituted management reforms that had the enterprise turning a profit within a month.
"Bottom line, the chief took a chance on me," says Dalme, 53, who still runs the operation. "There was something about the charisma of this guy. He wanted to do something for his people. He had this vision—and he pulled you in with it."
Soon the Choctaws were making cards for the American Greetings Corporation and car speakers for Chrysler and running their own direct-mail business. "When we started, the goal was to create jobs," says Dalme—and break the cycle of dependency. The new goal is upgrading employees' skills. To this end, the tribe will pay full freight for anyone who wants to go to college.
Withal, Martin's commitment to the Choctaws has come at a personal price. "I always say I don't know what a vacation is like," says Bonnie, "because I've never had one."
She is not likely to get one anytime soon. Martin talks animatedly about a new casino, about the new, PGA-quality Dancing Rabbit Golf Club, about how he wants to create more doctors and lawyers. "When you see something growing, like some flower out there," he says of his people, "you've got to keep it nurtured, keep it watered."
"He's the chief," Dalme says simply. "And Lord help the next guy."
William Plummer
Michael Haederle in Philadelphia, Miss.
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- Michael Haederle.
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