A NATION WITHIN A NATION
IN aggregate wealth and individual opportunity, no nation in history can match the U.S. Its cities, for all their problems, gleam like gilded Camelots in contrast to most of mankind's habitations. Its fields generate a superabundance of food, its factories a surfeit of goods and gadgets. The gross national product this year will top $846 billion, and median family income is approaching $8,000 a year--about $2,000 more than that of the country with the next highest standard of living. Sweden. The accouterments of affluence are everywhere: Americans possess more than 60 million automobiles, 70 million television sets (10 million with color), $500 billion worth of common stock. At least two-thirds of U.S. families own their homes.
Yet in the midst of this unparalleled abundance, another nation dwells in grinding deprivation. It comprises the 29,700,000 Americans who are denied access to the wealth that surrounds them --a group three times the population of Belgium. They are the men, women and children--black, white, red, yellow and brown--who live below the "poverty line."
The nation of the poor is often invisible to the rest of America. Unlike the destitute of other times and places, its inhabitants are not usually distinguishable by any of the traditional telltales of want: hunger-distended bellies or filthy rags, beggar's bowls or the lineaments of despair. Harlem's broad avenues--clean by Calcutta's standards--bop to the stride of lively men and women in multihued clothing; the tawdry tenements of Chicago's South Side are forested with TV antennas. Even in Mississippi's Tunica County, one of the poorest in the nation, where according to the latest census eight out of every ten families live below the poverty line, 37% of the households own washing machines, 48% own cars, and 52% own television sets. In the Los Angeles district of Watts, California's most notorious Slough of Despond, the orderly rows of one-story, stucco houses reflect the sun in gay pastels, and only the weed-grown gaps between stores along the wide main streets--"instant parking lots"--hint at the volcanic mob fury that three years ago erupted out of poverty to take 34 lives and destroy $40 million worth of property.
Scope & Symptoms. Foreign observers of U.S. urban riots are frequently stunned at the vigor of the American poor. How, they wonder, can a looter claim to be hungry and oppressed, yet walk off with a color-television set as easily as if he were hefting a loaf of bread?
Clearly, American poverty is unique, both in its scope and its symptoms. According to a U.C.L.A. study, "it may refer to a family's or person's ability to purchase goods and services, to the opportunities open to individuals or groups for improving their economic position, [yet] it has subjective dimensions as well, determined by some kind of norms accepted by the society at large. People who fall below the norm do not necessarily consider themselves to be poor, and people who are above the norm may feel poverty stricken."
There are, in other words, two kinds of poverty: physical and psychological. Both differ from anything in the American experience in that they are increasingly institutionalized, nearly to the point of becoming endemic. Poverty in the past, as U.C.L.A. Economist Paul Bullock notes, was "a temporary, perhaps one-generation, condition through which particular groups passed as they adjusted to the economic and cultural requirements of American capitalism." During the Depression, virtually an entire nation felt the pangs of penury. Even during good times, as a 1948 Gallup poll, which classified 50% of Americans as "poor or on relief," indicated, plenty of people were poor. Today's self-perpetuating pauperdom cannot be rationalized.
Poor Definitions. Few phenomena in human history have been so closely scrutinized by statisticians as American poverty. From Michael Harrington's 1962 study. The Other America, to last month's report by the Citizens' Crusade Against Poverty, Hunger, U.S.A., which found that 10 million Americans are chronically malnourished, the condition of the U.S. poor has been catalogued in a sierra of statistics. Central to any understanding of the subject is the "poverty line," a sliding scale devised five years ago by Social Security Economist Mollie Orshansky. Her flexible income line rises for large urban families and recedes for those in rural areas, dipping as low as $1,180 a year for a single male on a farm, and soaring to $7,910 for a city family with eleven or more children. The level for an urban family of four--which is as close to a typical situation as can be found--is $3,335.
To be sure, many who fall below the line are poor only by definition, such as a married medical student whose current low income is offset by bountiful prospects for the future, or the elderly couple whose monthly income of $150 in Social Security payments may suffice if they own their home, car and furniture. Nor does the poverty line distinguish between costs of living in different regions: $3,335 a year stretches a lot further in Gadsden, Ala., than in New York City. Nonetheless, the Orshansky measure, if anything, underestimates the real dimensions of poverty in the U.S.
According to the Office of Economic Opportunity, which for nearly four years has waged President Johnson's War on Poverty, the poor make up 15% of the U.S. population. Contrary to the impression given by riots and all the other conspicuous problems of the slums, Negroes are not the major component of that group, at least not in numbers: two out of every three poor Americans are white. Of the 11 million rural poor, nearly 9,000,000 are white. Since 70% of the nation's citizens live in cities and towns, it is not surprising that more than 60% of the poor are urban dwellers. In age, nearly half of the poor are 21 or younger; a quarter 55 or older. Indeed, a third of all Americans of 65 or older--5,400,000 of them --are poor.
No Monopoly. Poverty is nationwide in its distribution. It reigns not only in the grimy ghettos of the big cities, but also along the rills of Appalachia, in the lush fields of Southern and Middle Western farm lands and as far north as Bethel, Alaska's Lousetown, where Eskimos dwell in chilly discomfort. Even the suburbs are afflicted. Of the more than 212,000 families in New York's Westchester County, one of the nation's wealthiest enclaves, at least 44,000 families are in dire economic straits; outside of Detroit the suburb of New Haven (pop. 1,650) is marred by "Early Dachau" apartments for the poor.
While no region has a monopoly on poverty, the South comes the closest. Virtually half of America's poor live in the 16 Southern and border states, an area that holds less than a third of the total U.S. population. Moreover, the South is the spawning ground for much of the poverty that scars the rest of the land: since 1940, some 4,000,000 Negroes and uncounted poor whites have left the South for what they hoped would be a more rewarding life in the cities of the North and West. Few have found it.
The rural poor often merely swap a mud-ringed shack for a squalid tenement, a diet of clear grease and chitlins for one of cupcakes and orange soda. Inadequate nutrition, as Hunger, U.S.A. pointed out, can account for "organic brain damage, retarded growth and learning rates, increased vulnerability to disease, withdrawal, apathy, alienation, frustration and violence." The poor must wait longer at clinics and hospitals, have fewer doctors available to them; they cling to medical superstitions (some poor Southerners believe, for example, that a stocking full of eggshells hung over their door will "cure" menopause). Hence it is no surprise that infant mortality is twice as high among the poor, active tuberculosis four times greater. "The people living in the poor southern section of wealthy Los Angeles," writes Paul Jacobs of California's Center for the Study of Democratic Institutions, "have about the same amount of health care available to them as do the people who live in poor areas of Greece."
Breeding Poverty. The number of American poor has declined in absolute numbers from 34 million in 1964 to just under 30 million today, but many experts believe that the nation may be reaching an irreducible minimum--at least under existing programs. Though the Labor Department last week announced that unemployment had dwindled to a scant 3.5%, lowest figure since last January, which matched the boom year of 1953, the jobless total in the poorest neighborhoods of the nation's 100 largest cities stood at 7% during most of this year, and shows little sign of improvement. That poverty breeds poverty can scarcely be denied: according to one recent study, 71% of all poor families have four or more children (v. 1.35 offspring for the nation at large), and though two-thirds of all poor mothers are married and living with their husbands, half the husbands do not hold regular jobs. The other half hold full-time jobs that do not pay enough to lift them above the poverty line.
The other one-third of poor mothers are widowed, abandoned, divorced or unmarried--and the last have proved to be the most fecund of all. Fully 40% of all offspring on the national rolls of the Aid for Dependent Children program are illegitimate. AFDC spent $2.3 billion last year, up from a quarter of a billion dollars 20 years ago. One angry black Atlantan estimates that 616 poor Negro households in her housing project contain only 30 headed by a husband. The rest are women-dominated. Mrs. Marie Childress of Cleveland, for example, receives only $102 a month to feed and clothe ten children. Many AFDC mothers conceal pregnancies as long as possible, and by not seeing doctors, often end up with birth difficulties.
Hopelessness & Helplessness. Statistics at best can only delineate the bare perimeters of poverty. The sensations of being poor are scarcely comprehensible to the 170 million Americans who are not poor: the hollow-bellied, hand-to-mouth feeling of having no money for tomorrow; the smell of wood smoke that hangs over Southern shantytowns--romantic to the suburbanite, but symptomatic of scant heat and pinchgut rations to the poor; the bags of flour delivered by a well-meaning welfare agency, in a household that has no oven; the pervasive odor of human urine and rat droppings in perennially damp walk-ups; the bite of wind or snow through a wall of rotten bricks and no hope that the landlord will repair the crack. Poverty is the certainty of being gouged--particularly by one's own kind. For if the poor share anything it is oppressors: credit dentists and credit opticians; credit furniture stores and credit food markets where for half again as much as the affluent pay, stale bread and rank hamburger are fobbed off on the poor. Poverty spells the death of hope, the decay of spirit and nerve, of ambition and will.
"Poverty is a psychological process which destroys the young before they can live and the aged before they can die," says Yale Psychologist Ira Goldenberg. "It is a pattern of hopelessness and helplessness, a view of the world and oneself as static, limited and irredeemably expendable. Poverty, in short, is a condition of being in which one's past and future meet in the present -- and go no further."
In recent months, TIME correspondents from coast to coast have surveyed the dimensions of American deprivation. From the eroded gullies of Appalachia to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, through the gumbo of the Mississippi Delta and the muskegs of Maine -- and of course in the slums of every major American city -- they sniffed the stench of penury, tasted the grits and sowbelly of the poor man's kitchen, and listened to the anger and anomie that suffuse the voice of the poor. Some of the manifold faces of poverty:
MISSISSIPPI: The Grip of The Man For most of his 38 years, Earl Perkins has chopped cotton for The Man --the white plantation owner. The most he ever earns is $3 for a twelve-hour day in the fields, and usually he is paid off with a fraction of his actual pay in cash (the rest probably goes to the company store). To supplement the larder, Perkins sometimes hunts rabbits, not with a gun but by skewering cottontails in their warrens with a sharp stick. Although he lives on the plantation year round, he works only about one month of the year-- since cotton growers began picking mechanically and controlling weeds with thin-stream flamethrowers. Perkins, his wife and eight children pay $10-a-month rent for dilapidated "shotgun" shack* which has no indoor plumbing, electricity or gas. Perkins' life is typical of the more than 100,000 Southern blacks in the Delta whose mode of existence has changed little in 150 years.
In contrast to Perkins, another cotton chopper named Walter Abney, 35, has eluded the grip of The Man. Working the same hours for the same wages as Perkins. Abney was spared the burden of children; two years ago, the Delta Ministry -- a branch of the National Council of Churches -- set up Freedom City near Greenville, Miss., and Walter signed on. Now he and his wife live in a rent-free, two-room apartment with a somewhat leakproof roof, and receive $30 a week of deus ex machina handouts. Walter Abney is free of The Man.
TEXAS: Women of Houston Those Negroes who try to improve their lives by moving to Southern cities are scarcely better off. Mrs. Lillian Glenn, 57, is black, underweight and nervous. She says that she has a "plastic stomach" -- the result of three abdominal operations -- and she fears that she is going blind. Her two sons are unable to provide for her: one is in reform school for car theft, the other in county jail for violating probation on a suspended burglary sentence. Her daughter, Willie Mae, 24, had a job in a wastepaper factory until a co-worker last March told the boss that Willie Mae had a tumor on her heart. She does not, but she was fired. Now Willie Mae stays home, watching television (daytime soaps, mostly) and reading paperbacks cadged months ago from the wastepaper company. Recently, she read Somerset Maugham's Ashenden ("What I really like is sex novels," she says). Mrs. Glenn pays $10-a-week rent for her quaky quarters in "The Bottoms" but has got only $22.80 from welfare for a gas bill. As a result, she is always in debt.
Mrs. Marjorie Jenkins, 37, is black, proud, and stands 4 ft. 10 in. "I tried for welfare but I wasn't very successful," she says. "I wasn't barefoot and my clothes weren't ragged and my hair wasn't all knotty on my head. They so much as told me to go to the doctor and have my tubes tied and stand on the corner and sell my body. Even though I had my first baby before I was married, I've got pride." Mrs. Jenkins lives in Kelly Village, one of Houston's four public housing projects, with her three children and a granddaughter.
She divorced her truck-driver husband over a dozen years ago and gets no alimony. She earns just under $200 a month as a hospital maid; her $39-a-month, two-room apartment is tidy and her children are neatly dressed. "It's no crime," she says, "to be clean."
KENTUCKY: Blind in Duck Hollow Eb Herald would like to see it, but he can't: the sweet William and May apple and columbine bright on the ledges, the dogwood dotting the green rise to the west, the clear bulge of Duck Creek as it purls over the smooth stones through Duck Hollow. Eb -- his real name is Elbert, but one doesn't call a mountain man that -- is 56, and he went blind seven years ago. (Degenerative blindness afflicts many Appalachian dwellers as a result of in breeding.) Lank and long-striding in his pale blue bib overalls, his sightless eyes gleaming under a faded brown fedora, Eb stalks his 52 hillside acres mending fences with the assurance of a man born to the slope. His four-room tar-papered house perches on a 45-degree cant with the same defiant certitude. With his wife Louise (pronounced Looeyes, hill style) and five children -- two of them his own, two nieces, and a grandchild -- Eb Herald survives the year in comparative comfort on $2,868.
He draws $55 a month for disability; the kids are good for $156 more in AFDC; a vegetable garden and a chicken coop housing about 30 Leghorns take care of the rest. There is a TV set in the shack, and a large fray-feathered fowl refrigerator stored with home-bottled pickles, beets, scallions and -- two weeks of the month -- spareribs or ham burger. Eb wryly remarks that there are advantages to blindness: it gives him an honorable excuse for being on the dole. Since the hardwoods were lumbered off and the deep coal mines virtually gutted in the early 1950s, welfare is about the only industry left in the mountains.
CHICAGO: Nothin' from Appalachia Many white poor who have left Appalachia still return to the "hollers" to sample the hospitality of home, chow down on pokeweed salad and hog jowls, pop a squirrel with the old .22-cal. "hog rifle," or just "swang on the front stoop." Others are totally uprooted. In a second-story apartment on Chicago's North Side, an obese Appalachian woman grunted heavily as she heaved herself off the army blanket covering her bed. She flicked off the stained TV and said: "I've got trouble. My 14-year-old, he just got stabbed in the eye with a knife. The doctor's afraid he's goinq to lose it." Another son, a towheaded boy with a soot-smeared face, gave up playing with his bare toes and rapped the iron bedstead with a broken piece of cast iron. His mother rapped him clear across the room. The woman's husband is mentally deficient and unable to work. Her sons are "waterheads."* The woman said that the knifed 14-year-old had not been treated for six years. "His head is as big as yours," she told a welfare worker. The mother is on probation for threatening to shoot President Johnson.
Many of the poor urban whites' children hang out, sullen and sledge-fisted, at places like "The Lunch Pail," a tawdry dive on Chicago's seamy North Side; many become winos, staggering along the hallways in search of a corner to crumple up in. There are 30,000 Appalachians in the North Side area, a melting pot of penury composed of 10,000 Indians, 5,000 Puerto Ricans and Mexicans, and a smattering of Eskimos and Cuban refugees.
The Appalachians are the most hopeless: they arrive in ancient automobiles, hoping for nothing more than a quick profit on a job that will permit them to return to their holler. They are generally too individualistic to work with others and cannot tolerate taking orders. When the womenfolk get work, male pride often degenerates to ire or alcoholism. The men get hooked on day-work (which they can quit easily), earning maybe $7 or $8 a day as a launderer, car washer or janitor. Or they begin hitting the bottle, hanging out in such bars as the "Country A Go-Go" (hillbilly music and rock) where they "jest set" and tip back straight shots of bourbon. Arguments start, fists and knives flail, blood is spilled. As one Appalachian woman complained recently, while her kids played games with the mice that infest her apartment, "Daddy's gone, and I'm tired of bein' a nobody, a nothin'."
MAINE: The Shores of Lake Winnecook
Appalachians are not the only poor whites; they can be found throughout the nation. "Years ago," says an old Maine selectman, "a boy could leave school, get himself a saw and a jitterbug (tractor) and go into the woods to cut lumber. He'd do all right." Men like Everett Williams, 35, can no longer do all right. Williams, a lean, bony man in outsized boots and a gas-station-green work shirt, lives with his wife and eight children in a rusty 8-by-23-ft. trailer on the swampy shore of Lake Winnecook, just off Interstate 95 near Unity, Me. During the summer he runs a lakeside parking lot for tourists; during the fall he digs potatoes for $1.40 an hour; between times he drives a chicken truck when he can. In 1967 he earned about $3,000, but after breaking a leg while ditchdigging last fall he missed much of the lucrative potato-digging season. He did not receive workmen's compensation.
NEW YORK: From Slums to Suburbs Black poverty is most evident in the crumbling cores of Northern and Western cities. Walter Pollard, 64, came up from Winston-Salem, N.C., to Harlem in search of a "good job." Today he lives just over the poverty line--$150 a month as a janitor keeps him a scant penny above the $1,710 poverty line for a single man in an urban area. Short (5 ft. 6 in.) and lean in his baggy denim trousers, woolen work jacket and purple longshoreman's cap, he used to support a wife and five children. He and his wife were divorced a few years ago. "All that hard work, and I wind up a poor man," he says. "The poor family, it wants the same things as the middle-class family. If it can't have them, it causes trouble." Subsisting on a diet of canned food ("I'm not much of a cook"), sandwiches and an occasional dinner with a daughter, he looks forward to social security payments that will begin next year. "I don't like that welfare much," he says, "and I sure don't mind workin'. Besides, I don't want to go through all that stuff you gotta go through to get it. No sir!"
Pollard's plight is common enough from Harlem to Newark. But to find poverty in Greenport, L.I., is something else again. As Poet William Cullen Bryant wrote in the 1870s of the tidy, tree-shaded town with its white clapboard houses: "Nowhere is decay or unwholesome poverty apparent." It is not apparent today, but there all the same are migrant labor camps, like the Cutchogue settlement for potato workers, whose four grey-painted World War I barracks house itinerant teams of Florida, Arkansas, Virginia or New Jersey farm hands. Isaiah, 35, the crew chief, is a diminutive Negro from Florida who tools around the camp in a late-model Cadillac, earning his daily bread from a 10% surcharge on each worker's hourly wage, plus his own earnings as a laborer. Unlike his predecessor at Cutchogue, whose wife held the "liquor concession" and charged $1 for a pint of cheap, lemon-flavored wine (local price: 51-c-), Isaiah is considered a pretty fair boss.
CALIFORNIA: Poor for a Reason California, as the nation's most populous state, also houses poverty's most divergent allotment of poor. Their moods are remarkably lacking in self-pity. "My old lady went on welfare after we split up," says John Ross, 27, a white San Francisco warehouseman. "I think it stinks. People are so tied to that crummy check that they're afraid to say boo." Down Salinas way, in the bean-and-lettuce country celebrated by Steinbeck, leather-handed migrant workers--some of them Latin-Americans, whose 2,000,000 poor rank second only to Negroes in the U.S.--work the fields and wreck the saloons in an epic cycle of productivity and degradation. Many men stagger into the fields to chop weeds for $1.40 an hour until they have enough for another binge. Others grind out an endless season of stoop labor to keep their families barely abreast of the poverty line.
ARIZONA: Where the Baby Cried Legend has it that the People of the Blue Water were driven from their ancestral home a thousand years ago by the rapacious Apache. They wandered for years through the desert and came finally to a vast canyon, at the bottom of which they found lush cottonwoods and rushing water. The shamans had no sign from the spirits that they should stay, and the People were about to leave when a baby began to cry insistently. That was the sign, and the Havasupai stayed. Today the babies are still crying. Perhaps the smallest Indian tribe in the U.S., the 300 Havasupai are besieged by an enemy far more devastating than the Apache.
Like most of America's 500,000 Indians,* the Havasupai are slowly losing their traditions with nothing to replace them but isolation. Indians who move to the cities frequently become the most passive and ponderous of alcoholics; on their squalid reservations they live to an average age of 44, v. 68 for whites. Many of them die of cirrhosis of the liver or in automobile accidents. On most reservations, mental retardation, illness and violence have taken a fearsome toll. Indian suicide is 15% higher than that of the general population. The "Red Power" movement aimed at retaining tribal customs and generating income for Indians begun by the Cherokees of Oklahoma and the Sioux of the Dakotas has not yet descended to the Havasupai, whose kids, at the weekly movie, screened by the P.T.A., cheer for the U.S. Cavalry to kill the Indians. One boy recently startled his Head Start teacher by announcing: "When I grow up, I want to be an Indian."
Hand & Arm. From the ghettos to the Grand Canyon, the plight of the poor seems like the inescapable obverse of the American dream. Yet poverty in the U.S. is ultimately curable--if not by money alone. Dozens of welfare agencies, public and private, are pumping up to $8 billion a year into the lower depths, but reaching only 8,000,000 of the poor. The very structure of welfare in most cases militates against job-seeking and normal family life, as AFDC's "man in the house" regulation makes all too clear. Welfare rolls would be even longer if more poor Americans knew what they were entitled to receive. While the white poor often reject welfare as "nigger programs," the foreign poor simply do not know how to go about getting it: almost all Spanish-speaking immigrants to the U.S. have hardly a word of English when they arrive.
Though potentially of much greater social value than the Depression-born dole. Lyndon Johnson's much touted War on Poverty has proved a holding action at best. The Office of Economic Opportunity, supervising programs ranging from Head Start to Foster Grandparents, has carried the main burden of combat, but even its staunchest supporters admit that it has barely made a dent in the problem. As a Chicago Negro says: "The only helping hand a black man will find is at the end of his own arm." Under the paring knife of a parsimonious Congress, Los Angeles' Deputy Poverty Director William Nicholas maintains that the OEO is becoming "just another social-service agency." While stressing individual achievement and mobility, the OEO programs have permitted only the nimblest of the poor to scramble up from the lower depths, leaving the hopeless and the riot-prone in control of the ghettos.
Those who stay behind are the truly dispossessed, the old, the ill and, most deleteriously, the alienated young who, in the phrase of Newark Detective Charles Meek, himself a Negro, "dance their hips off, turn on to booze, narcotics, airplane glue, girls." To them, a steady job, in the slang of the ghetto, is "slave," and no amount of youth-corps training at "skills centers" can help them. Many of the jobs open to these youths cannot match either the income or the romance of the traditional ghetto occupation: petty crime.
Says Economist Bullock: "It simply doesn't make good sense economically to give up hustling pot in order to concentrate on a car-wash or service-station job. As long as the rewards of welfare dependency or hustling exceed the income from a job, the ghetto resident is merely obeying the sacrosanct American principle of maximizing his economic gains. This fact, of course, deeply offends those middle-class Americans who are vigorously pursuing these same goals."
Another adverse effect of the War on Poverty has been to set deprived minorities in competition with one another for federal aid. Militancy becomes a weapon for winning attention; and the minorities grow increasingly jealous and imitative of one another's extremism. "We've tossed a few crumbs in the middle of millions of the nation's people and said, 'Folks, you fight for it and may the best man win,' " says one high-ranking poverty warrior. "That's a disgrace." Nonetheless, for all its faults, the War on Poverty has at least dramatized the plight of the poor to the rest of America.
Poor No More. And the poor need not always be with us. Certainly, in a modern industrial society and a free-enterprise system, the hard-core unemployed and unemployable will be around for a long time. The needed initiatives, which still require sound and sober study, include the guaranteed annual wage, the family allowance (which only the U.S. among the world's maior industrial democracies denies its citizens), and the negative income tax, which late last month was endorsed by a committee of industrialists including Ford's Arjay Miller and Xerox Chairman Joseph C. Wilson. The statistic that moves businessmen the most: from the age of 17, a male who lives to 57 can cost the public $140,000.
Whatever the solution, the poor need no longer suffer the extremes of actual hunger and physical debilitation. By guaranteeing a minimum income to every one of its citizens, a society as affluent as today's America can afford not only to keep its economic cripples well housed, well fed--and well--but also to provide them with the crucial increment of dignity that is denied by penury.
The eventual answer, however, lies not in palliating deprivation but in enabling the young to escape the self-regenerating cycle that has trapped their parents in poverty. Better medical care for poor children and early educational programs like Head Start, followed through with continuing vocational training, cultural enrichment, and ultimate employment, would grant a meaningful role in the mainstream of American life to all citizens. Such an attack would in the long run prove a sound investment, in lives as well as dollars, for a society with both the conscience and creative resources to hold out for all its people the actuality of the American dream.
*So called throughout the South because, in the folk phrase, "You could shoot a gun through it and not hit anything."
*Victims of hydrocephalus whose skulls fail to drain body fluids and thus swell to disproportionate size. Surgically inserted tubes can relieve the condition.
*Only the Yaqui, who came to the U.S. from Mexico in the 1880s, are not wards of the U.S. Government when they live on reservations, as most Indians still do.
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