Being the “face” of something is nothing new for Sixkiller, but it’s a role he’s had to grow into over time. In 1969, when he arrived on the UW campus amidst the cultural and racial tumult of the late 1960s, his face — with its olive-toned skin and deep-set eyes, topped with wavy, jet-black hair — made Sixkiller a lightning rod for questions about everything from Native fishing rights in Northwest waters, to the Vietnam War, to civil rights, to the Kent State shooting. Overnight, he wasn’t just an 18-year-old kid leaving home for the first time to go to school and throw a football; he was a spokesperson for Native Americans across the country, expected to speak for an entire nation of people on some of the most sensitive topics in U.S. History.
“I had no idea what to do or say,” says Sixkiller, whose parents were Cherokee Indians who moved from Oklahoma to Ashland, Ore., when he was just a baby, in search of higher-paying jobs. “I wasn’t raised in a Native American community. None of my friends were native, and they never treated me as if I were any different from them — I was just Sonny. So, there was definitely a shock when I suddenly found myself at the forefront of all of those issues, being asked questions about things that I honestly had no idea about. I had a hard time with that.”
By the spring of 1970, Sixkiller was, in his words, “ready to bolt.” The media intensity, combined with a new offense that emphasized running the football, had him questioning his role on the team. A psychology professor provided counseling, however, while many of Sixkiller’s teammates provided support.
“The senior captains, when I was a sophomore [in 1970] wrote a letter to the Seattle Times asking them to stop referring to me in racial terms, like the ‘Cherokee Chucker’ or things like that,” Sixkiller recalls. “I told them I appreciated them doing that. It was cool to know that they had my back.”
Over the years, Sixkiller grew into his status as a role model for Native Americans across the country. It wasn’t until he traveled to speak at reservations across the Midwest in the mid-1970s, though, that he truly embraced it.
“It was an eye-opening experience to go to reservations and see what life was like for Indians in the pre-casino days in places like South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana and Arizona,” he says. “It was terrible. Truthfully, it was terrible. But, through those experiences, I met some of the most fantastic people I’ve ever met in my life. I’d go there to talk to kids about sports and education, and try to motivate and inspire them, but by the time I left, I was the one feeling like I had gotten something from the experience. It was very rewarding, and finally made me feel comfortable in the role I was in.”
Thus it is today that Sixkiller is the most visible face of the most rapidly growing segment of golf in the Northwest, and quite possibly in the entire United States — Indian-owned courses. In the last 10 years, two of the Northwest’s most celebrated course openings — Circling Raven in Idaho and Salish Cliffs in Shelton — were the result of tribal investments, while both the Cedars at Dungeness and White Horse Golf Club have benefited from their purchase by local tribal interests. While money is the motivator behind most business ventures, Sixkiller says the impact of the Northwest tribes’ heavy investment in golf goes well beyond the cash register.
“First of all, it employs Natives, and gives them the chance to learn about a business and make an income,” he says. “That helps tremendously. And it gives them a sense of pride in ownership. I talk to folks all the time who say, ‘Come play our course,’ or ‘Have you seen our course?’ Everyone has a sense of pride. It’s like a house — if you keep your lawn manicured and your house nicely painted, people have a better impression of who you are. It’s the same way for the tribes.”
Down the road, Sixkiller sees another potential benefit — an increase in golf participation among the Native American community. Notah Begay, a full-blooded American Indian of Navajo and Pueblo descent, broke onto the PGA Tour in 1995. Almost 20 years later, though, he is still the only Indian in professional golf (now an analyst with The Golf Channel) — like his college teammate, Tiger Woods, the walls he knocked down have yet to produce the expected flood of minorities to the game.
“I think it will certainly help,” Sixkiller says of the Native investment in golf’s impact on producing more Native golfers. “Don’t get me wrong, there are Native golfers and Native tournaments all over the country; we just don’t hear about them. To get to that next level, though, requires support at the school level, and the family level. Family means a lot to these kids, and I think there might be some who don’t pursue sports at a high level, or don’t go to college, because they have to stay home to support their family.
“Plus, it costs money to have clubs. It costs money to pay greens fees. It even costs money to practice,” he continues. “That‘s tougher on minority kids and kids from lower socioeconomic backgrounds. If the Native courses can make it cheaper and easier for Native kids to pick up golf, I think it can have an impact.”
Begay’s foundation, the Notah Begay III Foundation, was established in 2005 to drive more Native American youth to sports like golf and soccer, while Sixkiller has contributed to multiple Northwest tournaments that benefit youth and community programs throughout the region. The Renton 21 Club, of which Sixkiller is president, holds an annual tournament in July at Maplewood Golf Course, open to the public, which raises much-needed funds to support youth, Rotary and other community programs in Renton. In addition, his annual Sonny Sixkiller Celebrity Golf Classic, held at the Cedars at Dungeness each summer, brings together dozens of Husky sports legends and other local celebrities to benefit the Olympic Memorial Hospital Foundation and the local Boys and Girls Club.