Robert Bushyhead, Voice of Kituhwa, has died. He passed from this life on July 28, 2001. He was 86 years old.

Of course, his voice will live on in thousands of video tapes and sound recordings. During the past 30 years, Robert has become something of an institution, speaking at hundreds of ceremonies, festivals and cultural events. His familiar features - the handsome rugged face and the flowing white hair - bespoke all things associated with Cherokee, especially language, history and tradition. Wrapped in traditional dress or costumed as Elias Boudinot in “Unto These Hills,” Robert’s visual image emerged from billboards, promotional television ads and millions of post cards. For three decades of visitors to the Qualla Indian Boundary, Robert Bushyhead’s image (and voice) were the Ani-Yun wiya - “The Principal People,” the essence of Cherokee.

Blessed with both an arresting face and a magnificent voice, Robert proved to be the perfect subject for photographers, journalists and interviewers. The voice, a deep, mellow baritone, could be heard in the Cherokee Museum, the classrooms of Cherokee High School and the chambers of the Cherokee Tribal Council. He was also a minister, a professional lecturer and a scholar. In any given week, he might appear in Washington to address a committee on Native American cultural preservation, travel to a university to lecture on Cherokee myth and legend or speak at a commencement, civic club or church.
His energy and stamina were phenomenal.

I first heard Robert’s voice at the Mountainside Theatre, where he spent nearly two decades doing Elias Boudinot in “Unto These Hills.” Each night, in the fog-shrouded hills, as the soldiers raised their rifles to execute Tsali - as the organ swelled and a “sound enhanced” narrator translated - Robert’s voice rose, purring in a near whisper and then soaring like a French horn, “I will lift up mine eyes unto these hills ....”

It was memorable theatre.

I first met Robert in a “domestic court” session in Sylva, where I had managed to get myself entangled in a lawsuit involving a game rooster. While I was struggling to explain why I was bringing suit against the accused (he had stolen my rooster), I saw Robert’s smiling face in the audience. I never knew why he was there, but he was highly amused. I later learned that Robert had nicknames for his friends, and the names were invariably based on some memorable (and often embarrassing event). So, it was that I became “the Gray Hackle,” which is a kind of fighting cock.

“Good Morning, Gray Hackle,” Robert would say as he passed me in the Archives Section of the Museum, “I trust all is well with you.”

He enjoyed telling curious folks how I came by the name. I was both embarrassed and flattered.
As time went on, Robert became involved in the famous “Kituhwa Project,” a language project designed to preserve the rapidly vanishing Cherokee language. Eventually, Robert became an indispensable part of the work, editing, recording and resolving riddles of enunciation. Bushyhead was especially determined to record and preserve the subtleties of the four Cherokee dialects, with a particular emphasis on Kituhwa, the most endangered. He loved to tell visitors, “When I was a child at the government school, I had my mouth washed out with soap for speaking Cherokee. Now it is taught in our high school!”

Robert spoke at hundreds of ceremonies and was especially noted for his inspirational sermons at dedications and graduations. I had the good fortune to hear him at the dedication of the Sequoyah Birthplace Museum in Tennessee. Dressed in his traditional black frock coat, his hair billowing in the wind at the outside ceremony, Robert took note of the large number of Cherokees in the audience, and spoke directly to them:

“Ana-nun wiya, Principal People, listen now. When the scholars talk to you about how you migrated to these mountains thousands of years ago, crossing the Bering Straits - pay them no heed. You were always here! Listen to what I tell you. When I go to the airports, when I go to the train stations, the people who sell the tickets do not say to me, ‘Robert, where did you come from?’ No, they say, ‘Where are you going!’ Yes, my people, where are you going?”

Like many of the Cherokees, Robert suffered from diabetes, the silent killer that slowly saps the strength and withers the limbs. The last time I saw Robert Bushyhead, both of his legs had been amputated. He sat in front of the museum, patiently waiting for his loyal daughter to wheel him inside. He looked at me and smiled.

“So, it is the Gray Hackle! How are you?” he asked.

I told him I heard good things. Both the North Carolina Arts Council and the Folklore Division had given him awards honoring his contributions to the preservation of Cherokee culture.

“I am finishing the Kituhwa project,” he said smiling with satisfaction. “That is the important one.”

There is a special prayer that Cherokee elders say when one of their valued people die. It is, if I remember correctly: “Peace to his ashes and sorrow to his going.”

Farewell, Robert. The Grey Hackle will miss you.

 

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