Native businesses in WA navigate ‘very complex’ tax system, red tape | Northwest

While customers perused Rings of Chain’s table displays of abalone shell pendants, beaded earrings and brooches, owner Ha-huli-tud Tionna Marie Hawk greeted a Suquamish Tribal elder, Kippie Joe, approaching her business’ canopy tents.

Being a vendor at annual festival Chief Seattle Days this month was a homecoming for Hawk, 22, who is Suquamish. Joe — the artist who crafted Hawk’s childhood cedar hat — placed an adult-sized cedar cap atop Hawk’s braided head, to her delight.

“This is my first time I get to do an event at home for my full season,” said Hawk, who sells her jewelry at fairs around the U.S. Her biggest challenge is “making sure you’re in the right place, with the right people.”

Employer businesses owned by Native Americans, Native Hawaiians (Kānaka Maoli) and Alaska Natives make up a disproportionately small slice of the state’s businesses. Native business owners point to an array of barriers that have historically kept them from thriving, on top of other economic headwinds battering industries. Among these hurdles are bureaucratic red tape, a lack of visibility and limited access to resources.

Washington tracks a minuscule percentage, 1.5%, of Native- and Pacific Islander-owned businesses that employ workers, according to Census statistics.

Powwows and cultural festivals are boons for the state’s few Indigenous business owners. Chief Seattle Days served as the backdrop for a buzzy market of Native vendors. At targeted community events, business owners cultivate their customer bases, enjoy elevated brand exposure and come across new opportunities.

“A lot of spaces are not created for people of color,” said Jo Citlali, an Aztec artist who sells jewelry. That sets Chief Seattle Days and other Native celebrations apart.

“People feel safe,” Citlali added.

‘It is very complex’

Native business owners often need to get past all the red tape — even more than the average demands of bureaucracy.

The overlap between federal, state, local and tribal powers can be convoluted.

Tribes are self-governing nations within the U.S., and their members are both tribal and American citizens. The jurisdictional nuances can get sticky quickly.

Because of the hoops, Valerie Segrest, 43, said she hesitated to start her consulting company, Old Growth Solutions. “I didn’t want to do this for years.”

For instance, in Washington, a business owned by a tribal citizen doesn’t need a local business license to conduct its affairs on the reservation. However, it is required to obtain one through the state’s Revenue Department if it will operate outside Indian Country.

Similarly, state taxes don’t apply to tribal citizens making purchases in Indian Country, though tribal taxes may exist in their stead. However, if the purchase is made by a non-tribal customer, then state retail sales tax may be collected.

“I’ve had to spend extra funds this year on hiring a tax consultant to make sure that I’m complying,” said Segrest, a member of the Muckleshoot Indian Tribe who resides in Enumclaw. “It is very complex.”

Those formalities are antithetical to the shared values that ultimately drive Native business owners, such as generational thinking and community service, Segrest added.

“Most Native business owners are not trying to be a capitalist company,” she said. “We want to build that generational wealth just as much as every other American does, and we just need to do it our way.”

‘A cultural steward’

For Native business owners, visibility remains a prominent stumbling block.

Washington is home to about 8 million people — and 3.4% of the population identifies as American Indian, Alaska Native, Native Hawaiian or other Pacific Islander alone, per the U.S. Census Bureau.

That’s a larger collective Indigenous population than neighbors Oregon and Idaho, but it’s smaller than those recorded in Alaska, California, Montana and Hawaiʻi.

Washington tracks a minuscule percentage, 1.5%, of Native- and Pacific Islander-owned businesses that employ workers, according to Census statistics.

Growing up in Federal Way, Nyomi Iwalani José, who is Kanaka Maoli, didn’t meet many business owners who looked like her. She only encountered them at Hawaiian cultural events.

“You kind of look up to them, especially when I was a kid,” said José, 26.

She launched Iwalani’s Creations in 2020, selling jewelry, stationery and home decor. “I’ve always wanted to have something for myself.”

Being a Native business owner comes with an added layer of responsibility, José said. She feels a duty to respect and honor her culture and engage with her community while growing her shop.

“Not only am I a business owner,” she said, “I’m also a cultural steward.”

While José tends to connect with other Pacific Islanders, large events like Seattle Center’s annual Live Aloha Hawaiian Cultural Festival, which takes place next month, have diversified her customer base.

“That has brought a lot of exposure,” she said.

Taking a gamble

Ample access to resources is another sticking point for Native business owners.

Assets like knowledge and cash make all the difference, said Sage Keʻalohilani Quiamno, a Kanaka Maoli angel investor and business owner in Seattle.

“We don’t know what we don’t know,” she said. “That is the main challenge.”

It’s why the Northwest Native Chamber exists, according to CEO James Alan Parker, an enrolled citizen of Chippewa Cree Tribe.

The organization serves Native people in Washington, Oregon and Idaho, offering technical assistance, a business development program, financial guidance and other resources.

“Most entrepreneurs really start businesses with either family resources or leveraging assets like housing,” Parker said. “That’s simply not available to the majority of Native entrepreneurs.”

The majority of tribal lands are considered trust lands, per the U.S. Department of Interior. While the tribes manage them, the U.S. federal government holds those titles. That complicates the process of applying for loans.

The hardest part of starting out: Acquiring the money to get your business off the ground, Quiamno said. “It’s basically taking a gamble on a company that doesn’t have any traction.”

Quiamno, 35, cofounded Future for Us, a career development platform for women of color at work, in 2019. In her first year, she didn’t pay herself a salary.

Her platform amassed a community of more than 20,000, and it became profitable. She sold it in 2021 to a local venture capitalist.

“Not a lot of people get to say that,” Quiamno said, “especially as Indigenous women entrepreneurs.”

Since then, she’s established her own fractional public relations firm. As an angel investor, she’s inspired to give back and fund Kānaka Maoli-owned businesses.

“I want more of us to become millionaires, multimillionaires, billionaires,” she said.

‘Times are hard right now’

Sometimes, launching a business can mean working another job to get by.

Small children in Native regalia skipped past Citlali’s tent at Chief Seattle Days, bells jingling on their dress skirts.

“I work full-time, so I don’t always get a chance to do events like this,” she said.

The number of Americans working multiple jobs rose from 8.4 million in 2024 to 8.8 million in 2025, per the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. However, the data is limited and doesn’t track Native populations.

Citlali is employed as the marketing and sales coordinator at the Suquamish Museum. She still tries to carve out dedicated time each week for her creative pursuits.

Citlali, who is Mexico City-born and Los Angeles-raised, learned how to bead as a preteen. Art was always within reach: Her father and brother are muralists, and their family does traditional Aztec dancing.

They were invited to perform at Chief Seattle Days over three decades ago, and Citlali eventually made the move to Washington.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, while working from home, Citlali returned to beading, specializing in Indigenous-inspired designs.

She often asks herself whether the stability of a nine-to-five job — insurance and benefits included — or the freedom of full-time artistry is more important to her. “I still don’t know,” she said, with a laugh.

“Times are hard right now,” Citlali said. “You have bills to pay, and so you have to choose to have a regular paycheck rather than put yourself out there.”