Cultivating a prosperous look, Franklin Thompson stands in front of the Sky Ute Casino, a growing business that is part of the top-to-bottom overhaul of Colorado's workplace at century's end. Thomspon is the son of a maintenance man and a cook, the great-great-grandson of hunters.

By Tina Griego
Denver Rocky Mountain News Staff Writer

IGNACIO -- "OK, people," Franklin Thompson says, clapping his hands. "We're just about ready. Let's tuck in those shirts."

Thompson straightens his vest and brushes his hands over his long French braid, checking for stray hairs. Gold rings flash on his fingers.

It's Friday night at the Sky Ute Lodge and Casino. Fish night in cattle country.

"Oh, we have crab legs and shrimp, you know, cold shrimp and shrimp in a sauce, and trout," Thompson says. "And you also get a salad bar and a drink. It's all-you-can-eat for just $9.95. You can't beat that. It's very popular. We usually have about 300 to 500 people coming through here, and tonight we're expecting a tour bus from Albuquerque."

Thompson, 39, is the kitchen supervisor. A Southern Ute, he is the child of a maintenance man and a cook, the grandchild of farmers, the great-great grandchild of men and women who were hunters and gatherers.

Not much longer than a century ago, the Utes roamed Colorado, getting pushed by gold-hungry miners farther and farther west.

It was here, in southwestern Colorado, near the New Mexico border, that the federal government finally yanked the Southern Utes off their horses and forced upon them a plot of land and a plow. And it is here, perhaps more than any other place in Colorado, that work has changed a people.

From hunters to farmers to businessmen and women, the 1,300-member Southern Ute tribe today is among the largest employers in La Plata County. It owns an oil and gas production company so profitable that each tribal member gets monthly royalties.

In 1993, the tribe added a casino to the Sky Ute Lodge. It, too, has prospered, drawing tourists from Durango and regulars from Farmington. The casino already has been expanded once, gobbling up the old community center, pouring money into tribal programs.

Sky Ute Lodge and Casino is also the source of most tribal jobs. About 300 people now work at the casino -- 58 of them Southern Ute. They wash dishes and make nachos, repair slot machines and count money under the watchful eye of surveillance cameras.

Things have changed so quickly that along with petroleum engineers and blackjack dealers, tribal leaders created one more job: cultural preservation officer.

That officer, Everett Burch, says change is unavoidable.

"In order to survive we had to work," he says. "To buy necessities, we needed money, there's no way around that.

"... When the casino first opened, I think the elders were worried about the influence on our culture, that it might be an influence away from our way of life. But they also saw it as a way to maintain our own work force. Those influences on our culture are here whether the casino is here or not. We can't hide from them. We just have to accept it and work with it."

That can be hard, says Tamera Lansing, a 31-year-old slot technician who has been working at the casino since it opened.

She says that tribal members sometimes feud among themselves in the casino.

"It's like they forget who they are, they forget who they are working for. It's like they want to walk the walk of the white man," she says.

Thompson, the kitchen supervisor, worked as a waiter at the Sky Ute Lodge before the casino was built. He left to study food production management at Denver's Emily Griffith Opportunity School and work at the Colorado Convention Center.

He returned home in 1995 to work in the casino, first as a change-maker in the cage, then as the sous-chef in the kitchen. Last October, he was promoted to supervisor. He's responsible for 19 employees, 12 of them tribal members.

"The tribal council is encouraging us to go and get an education and then come back and help the tribe, so that's what I did," he says.

In fact, the council has created a training program for casino employees, with the goal of putting Southern Utes in management.

Thompson and his sister, JoGenia Garcia, will be rotated through every department in the casino, then given the option of going back to school or receiving more training. Whatever they choose, Harvard or Harrah's, the council will pay for their tuition and books and their casino salaries.

"Before, there used to be a fear on the tribal council because people who had education wanted to change things," Burch says. "Now, it's the reverse."

Tribal councilwoman Pearl Casias says if her grandfather could see what the tribe has done, "he'd probably say wow." Her son works in the count room, keeping track of all the money.

"I'm proud of him," she says. "He works hard. We hardly ever see him. ... My grandfather might be surprised to see the Utes working in a casino, but I think he would think it would be a good thing. He had a little leather pouch, and he would go out and gamble. I think it would certainly be something that would probably make him feel good about having employment in one place and still having the means of supporting your family.

"When I was growing up, I saw my grandparents work very hard, farming and ranching, that before-sunup-and-after-sundown kind of work, and I guess a lot of those values were instilled in me as I was growing up. So when my children were growing, I always told them the same thing my grandfather told me: 'You don't get something for nothing."'

Tribal members, however, are entitled to monthly dividends from oil and gas revenues.

"Mostly, people don't work because of the dividend," Thompson says.

Every month, each adult collects $500 and every child $300.

Casino worker Deborah Watts, 44, says the per-capita dividend discourages people from working.

"I've seen a lot of people come and go here," Watts says. "They get a few paychecks, and then they're gone. To me it's like they can't condition themselves to the work environment. They are so used to being babied.

"They just live from per capita to per capita. Our per capitas have gotten bigger, but I still think we need to work. My personal feeling is that we can't depend on it. I support my family through work."

Watts works in the cage, making change for customers. Her 16-year-old son makes snacks for them in the cafe. Her 14-year-old daughter washes their dishes. Her 13-year-old son will turn 14 in December, old enough to start working in the casino, and Watts says "he can't wait."

Her daughter, Laurena Richards, 14, is not nearly as exuberant. This is her first job, and she has to be in at 6 a.m.

"I don't like getting up," she says.

She did like getting her first paycheck.

"I was happy," she says. "It wasn't much, maybe about $80, but it was just for working two days. Probably it wasn't a lot to other people, but it was a lot to me."

Laurena is saving her money to buy a used car. When she's old enough, she wants to study cosmetology and move to New York.

Working at the casino is a good start, Watts says.

"I want her to know that it's important to get up and get to work," she says. "I know she's learned a lot. I've told all my kids they have to work to survive."

July 25, 1999

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