Details

Storyteller: Michael
Tribe: Dakota & Ojibwe
Created: 2018
Location: Minneapolis, MN
Transcript: My name is Michael Joseph Norcross. I was born at a place called Regions Hospital in Saint Paul, Minnesota. The story I’m going to share with you today is one of tragedy, identity, and destiny. This story is about my not being enrolled in any tribe but going on a great odyssey coming across a token that seals the identity deal and is beyond treasured and priceless. It all starts with what I like to call the great tragedy. My grandmother committed suicide when my mother was only 9 years old after a domestic incident, and that is when my mother was taken into a non-Native foster home for the rest of her youth. My early childhood was just a “chip off the old block” Saint Paul lifestyle – naturally there was zero exposure to anything cultural, ceremonial, or spiritual. Living in Frogtown in the 90s, which was a predominately Black neighborhood, I noticed that we were different, but what were we: Were we Hispanic?

As time went on I met my grandfather. He would always be playing cribbage with his friends drinking beers, and always shouting an expression “Ho-Wah!”. I finally got the hint after seeing so many Native friends and family coming around shouting ho-wah that we weren’t in fact Mexican, we weren’t Black, but we were American Indian.

The rest of my childhood and adolescence was very bland. Alcohol use was abundant every which way I went. Other than school, alcohol and drugs, and all the troublemaking that came with it, my teen years wasn’t much of a story. Somewhere along the way I found myself watching Dances with Wolves in a foster home of my own. It was right then and there I knew my American Indianness needed a cultural boost for the sake of my health and family’s overall functional ability. I was smart enough to know that all the troublemaking and boozing and drugs were simply me expressing my discontent and concern about past traumas and how everyone collectively decided to deal with it so unhealthily. Most of the youth in my family were in and out of detention centers. In hindsight I could see there was a strong, strong stigma that made severe alcoholism and trouble-making normalized and okay for it to exist throughout our homes and our community. It opened up a chapter in my life that I like to call “the healing song” which continues to this day and unto my children someday, ultimately reversing the vicious cycle of suicide, alcoholism, violence, stigma, and drug abuse.

Subconsciously I always knew I would be on some kind of cultural preservation mission, but it was hard because the main elders I had to teach me were gone, my grandfather and grandmother, so I had to start from scratch… My grandmother’s name was Ramona Columbus, she was a full-blood Dakota woman from the Lower Sioux Community. Her father was Tom Columbus, and her mother was Eleanor St Clair. The Columbus name is what the family decided to call themselves because they were the first family to settle in the area after the Treaty of Mendota in 1851. My grandfather’s name was Victor “Ronnie-bob” Norcross, he was a full-blood Ojibwe man from the White Earth Nation, the Norcross’s are mainly concentrated in the town of Ponsford and Pine Point and are related to some Rocks and Bigbears. As a junior, his father's name was also named Victor Ronald Norcross, and his mother's name was Dorothy.

Amidst all the troublemaking, drugs, alcohol, and stigma, I learned how to sing when I was 14. Not knowing it would develop into the most impactful component of my identity, spirituality, and greater healing journey. This was in a place called Little Earth, which is an urban Native community in south Minneapolis. The man who had introduced the art of drum and song to me was the late Eugene Redday Sr. I was on some kind of a semi-homeless wandering journey, and had been taken in by him and his family. He was mostly blind and had been singing in the living room; kids were singing along and he looked across the room to where I was and said “Sing!” Being respectful to his request I raised my voice for the first time and it sounded very hoarse and unpleasant. I knew I had some practicing to do. In a basement I put on an old Midnite Express CD and learned all the songs and sang aloud to myself, which was a great learning process. Many pow wows with Eugene Redday Sr. and his sons had done the trick since I was able to critique my voice and learn a great deal of songs. With singing there are two departments, the pow wow department and the ceremonial department, each one with it’s own umbrellas of categories, types of songs, and appropriate times and places to render each. I found this out during my first sweat lodge when I was 15. They said we would need shorts and a towel; I had neither, but I was so excited that I went in with my jeans on. I said I absolutely have to do this. Boy did that metal button on the jeans sure get hot. Naturally all the songs stuck to me like glue. I was eager to learn as much as I could. I found my growing ability to sing appropriate songs upon request very rewarding.

When I was 19 I was homeless and drifting at the Lower Sioux Pow Wow. This is an age when other enrollees from the tribe get up to 150 thousand dollars in their trust fund. Calling every high school I could, they had all said I was 19 and couldn't go back to finish high school. The last school I had attended was Red Lake High School in northern Minnesota and I did not complete 11th grade. Hopeless and ready to give up I had a friend named “Negoni” that wanted to walk to the store. After telling them my situation the girl he was with said “Why don’t you go to an Indian school? They can possibly accept you and you get to live in a dorm for free with free meals.” This seemed only fantasy to me being homeless and hopeless. She wrote down the four Boarding schools for me on a piece of paper: Riverside Indian School in Oklahoma, Chemawa Indian School in Oregon, Sherman Indian School in California, and Flandreau Indian School in South Dakota. The girl said “apply as soon as you can…. like this week.” I immediately took the paper to a library, Googled each school, and printed out the applications. An immediate black cloud of hopelessness and extreme despair came over me when I saw the checklists required for each application. Every single requirement I did not have. I only had about three months before the school was going to start with or without me. I did not have tribal enrollment, a copy of my birth certificate, a copy of my social security card, a copy of parent’s enrollment, a copy of updated physical examination, a copy of updated immunizations record, and copy of an up-to-date school transcript. These were all things that seemed impossible to get in the little time I had. First, I had to go to jail, because I had a warrant for petty theft from a liquor store. I was not going to turn in my applications while having a warrant because I was afraid they could look it up and decline me immediately. My goal was to get accepted. When I was in jail for a week I made a game plan. I was going to knock out the checklist day by day and get the applications mailed off as soon as possible. The week I was released from jail I went to a clinic to get updated on my immunizations and physical. I called the registrars for each school and each said better hurry. The next thing I did was called Red Lake High School and request for them to fax my most recent transcript, from the 11th grade when I dropped out. The applications said that if you’re not enrolled in a tribe then you must have a CIB, which was a Certificate of Indian Blood.  This was my next immediate step. I went to White Earth Urban Office to have them look up my grandfather’s name and verify everything but they said we know you meet blood requirements but unfortunately the papers say you do not because in the early 1900s, full-bloods had to lie and say they weren’t full-blood in order to get a specific housing or land allotments – this is called the Nelson Act. Even though my grandfather’s father was a full blood he had to say he was less than 100% in order to get these land plots assigned to them. This was very angering to be asked to leave the White Earth Urban Office with them saying they couldn’t do anything for me in my desperation. Giving up already my last hope was one place… Lower Sioux Indian Community. Soon enough I found myself catching a ride there and next thing you know I was in the enrollment office, they gave me a similar run-around, thinking I was trying to get enrolled, they said I needed to do a two-year residency, and after that get voted on, which isn’t a guarantee. I said look, I don’t care about your enrollment or about your money, I need what’s called a CIB in hopes that I can finish high school and I’ll make a life for myself thereafter. They made an official CIB for me stating that I met blood requirements to be enrolled in the tribe and that my mother was an enrollee. Meanwhile I stopped by my mother’s house to get a copy of her rez ID to have as many things as I could. She said at the time “It’ll be on the porch, I don’t want to see you.” I took it nevertheless, who knows why she didn’t want to help. I figured it’s deeper than what I’m trying to accomplish. I chose not to engage in the never-ending feud. I had everything notarized at the local courthouse even the immunizations. This is how desperate I was to get accepted to any school. I went back to Minneapolis to get copies of my birth certificate and social security card and to mail all the applications off. Time was running out. I was at a severe point of giving up when I went to the social security place and they said that I couldn't get my social security card unless I had a copy of my birth certificate. Then the birth certificate place said the same thing: that I couldn’t get my birth certificate unless I had a copy of my social security card, neither of which I had. I surrendered and gave up. I came to grips with myself that I wouldn’t be finishing high school and I would continue life the way it was. I was totally depressed. I found myself at the American Indian Center in Minneapolis. An army recruiter was there, near what was the Wolves' Den Cafe at the time: Sergeant Labatte. I told him “Well I wish I could enlist into the army but I can’t even finish high school.” I told him the whole story. He replied “Well guess what, I’m a federal employee and I can sign off on your birth certificate.” He said meet me Monday and we’ll go over and handle it. Time was almost up, but I figured what the heck – let’s try it out, and if it don't work then I don’t care anymore.

It was now July 2011. Sergeant Labatte signed off on my birth certificate in the middle of the week and I finalized all four of the applications and mailed them off. Attached to each was a pity-party letter explaining my entire situation. Now, it was the waiting game. I wandered around Minneapolis for the time being, until I found out the results. All of the boarding schools declined my application. Except for one. Uncle Joe, my mentor and the man who took me in when homeless messaged me and said I had a letter. I traveled to Granite Falls to retrieve it. It was an acceptance letter and travel itinerary from Sherman Indian High School in Riverside, California. I felt a true relief and happiness, something that was foreign to me in those times. Sherman said that they could fast track my curriculum so I could graduate on time with everyone else.

I flew to California August 18th, 2011 and experienced what it was like to be a student at Sherman Indian High School. It was the most magical place I’d ever been. There was a sign there that said “arrive as strangers, leave as family” and it was true. Everyday was an awesome experience there, we sang and danced and did cultural things. I even met my fiancé there whom I’m still with to this day. She’s White Mountain Apache. I met people from different tribes there and we all graduated. It was a miracle. There were free meals and a bed, which was better than church basements and homeless shelter mats at the time. I was a super senior and was 20 years old when I graduated from Sherman Indian High School.

Towards the end of the school year a teacher who knew I was a singer, Mr. Hathaway, gifted me a hand drum. He was somebody I could always talk to. 90% of the student body would probably say he’s their favorite teacher year after year. He said that the hand drum was sitting on his wall in the school and was made by a young lady ten years before that in a workshop there. Knowing there were so many tribes in the school all the way from Mississippi to Alaska and everywhere in between, we could never pinpoint what she was. The drum was nicely made, and sure enough her original pencil initials were on it “SP” in another section of the drum in pencil it says “Sam,” which leads me to believe her name was Samantha. I hope to maybe reach her someday and let her know how special of a drum she had made, and to say thank you very much to her and Mr. Hathaway alike.

After I graduated and came back to Minnesota, I had let a brother borrow the drum. Years later I realized the significance and importance of the drum and asked for it back. This particular drum tells a story, not only mine but the person who made it. It also tells a story of Sherman Indian School, which was once Sherman Institute, where culture was once stripped beaten and whipped out of children. The drum is many things along with a symbol of cultural preservation and healing wounds of today, yesteryear, and hundreds of years in the past, not only in my life but for all people who went to Sherman Indian School historically. It’s no different than all other drums that can revitalize and reshape ones foundation of identity and spiritual essence and healing. I just wanted to be a part of something in this life, a tribeless, homeless person that was granted acceptance, and out of it came this drum. Even though I didn’t get the big money from Lower Sioux, this drum feels like a million dollars. If the house burned down, the one thing I would grab is this drum. Even though I was asked to leave White Earth Urban Office, I still hum Ojibwe tunes. This drum is my Indianness, my enrollment, my identity. It ensures my healing in my family, it ensures my tribal identity, it ensures my happiness and spirituality in a world where even spirituality seems hierarchical now. This is a true testimony to how a drum could make a person feel whole. This drum is all I need. The colonial idea of blood quantum and the hierarchical idea of who’s Indian and who’s not has been a battle for me, but this drum is a trophy and a victory. It makes me feel like I’m a part of something and most importantly a part of the Sherman family, the wonderful magical place with palm trees and destiny. The place who accepted a wretch like me when no one else would, I’m forever in gratitude. In a world where I’m technically not even Native American, I received this miraculous token. Whatever this drum may mean to me, there is no doubt that it’s a story of true resilience and fortitude that can only be Indigenous.