Details

Storyteller: Michael
Tribe: Lac Courte Oreilles Band of Ojibwe
Created: 2018
Location: Duluth, MN
Transcript: My mother and grandmother were the ones who raised me until my grandmother's passing when I was six-years-old. They set the example of what it means to be a healthy, sober Anishinaabe person. My grandmother was active in traditional Anishinaabe spirituality and culture and was the first to bring me around our ceremonies and spiritual activities. After she passed, my mother insisted on my staying close to the drum and assuming a role as a singer in my community. I also have to acknowledge my wife Krysten- in Ojibwe we say ‘niwiiw’ but for my wife I have to say NIWIIW and also my children; Niizhoo, Preston, Lexie, and Lenny. My children remind me every day of our purpose in life and I try to instill in them our perspective and values as a people. 

I cannot forget the elders who have helped me over the years- Bizhikiban, Zhaangweshiban, Ogimaakweban, Jiingwewegaabaw, Amikogaabawiban, and many, many others. These are the ones who taught me to speak our language and use it daily in my home. They also taught me stories, some of the talks for our doings, and the humor that sets our people apart from many other cultures. I also include one of my namesakes, Niiyaandawe who has shaped my work ethic and tendency to help others when I am able. I am also inclined to acknowledge my graduate school advisor, Biidaanakwad for all that he has done to help our Anishinaabe people maintain our language.

When I was born my mother was living with my grandmother in a village on our reservation called New Post. We lived there until I was about 4 years old. My mom decided to attend graduate school in Eau Claire, and we moved there. I attended kindergarten there. I don't remember much about living there. We stayed there most of the school year until my grandmother became ill and my mom moved us back to the reservation so she could help care for her. My grandmother had moved to a different neighborhood on the rez, Dry Town, where she ran a group home for troubled reservation youth. Here I was exposed to some of the social problems that our people were facing. She ran AA meetings in the basement, ceremonies in the living room, and volleyball games in the backyard. Her home was a social center for individuals in our community looking to break free from the vicious cycle of addiction. After she passed, my mom took over the group home and the activities that took place there.

A few years later, upon finishing her education and certification, my mom became a chemical dependency counselor. She moved us out of Dry Town, and we moved into a house in the Round Lake community. This area was much more secluded and was a fair distance away from the more crime-ridden neighborhood we had lived in before. I spent a lot of time outside while living there; riding bike, swimming, fishing, and wandering around the woods. We lived there for a few years.  

When I was 15-years-old, my mom rented a house in Hayward. I was a sophomore in high school and moving into town was a real adventure. I quickly fell into a peer group that was a bad influence on my development. I started drinking early and struggled in school. My mom sent me to live with my aunt Melody in the Six Mile community on the reservation. There I was eligible to attend a different school and avoid some of the trouble I was getting myself into in Hayward. I attended Winter high School for half of my sophomore year and my entire junior year. I transferred back to Hayward to live with my mom for my senior year, only to drop out during the spring semester.

From there I lived with my sister in Watertower, on the reservation, before sobering up and moving back in with my mom. When I was 19-years-old, I moved in with my girlfriend, who would later become my wife. We moved into a house we shared with one of her cousins in the Gurno Lake community on the reservation. That is where I lived during the peak of my powwow traveling days. We'd be gone to powwows most weekends at home for only a few days during each week.  

When our first son was born, we moved back in with my mom until we could find a place of our own. When my mom became sick with cancer, we all moved into a house in the Whitefish community on the reservation. Here is where I really started reconnecting to our Big Drum society here at LCO and began attending ceremonies regularly. Once my girlfriend became pregnant with our second son, we decided to get married and I went back to school to finish my undergraduate degree. I commuted to Superior, Wisconsin to attend the University of Wisconsin Superior. By the time I finished, we had two sons and a new baby girl.

After receiving a graduate school fellowship, we moved to Minneapolis for a year. My wife hated the city, so I moved her and the kids back home to Whitefish while I stayed in the cities during the week and traveled home to the reservation on the weekends. Once I finished graduate school, we all moved to the Gurno Lake community to take over the house of my wife's late mother. While living there, our fourth child was born. We bought a house soon after in the Skunawong community on the reservation where we still reside today. Each of those places represents a stage in my life and have transformed me in to what I am today. 

When we were little kids, we had many opportunities to listen to our elders. One thing I remember hearing was "If the Anishinaabe people do not speak their language or practice their spiritual, traditional ways, there will be no Anishinaabe people in the future." That scared the heck out of me. I have always lived with the desire to learn my language and help out where I can. I honestly never thought that was possible. The only people I had ever heard speak Ojibwe were elders. I also remember being told our sacred wintertime stories of Wenabozho. Those stories and their lessons are something I think about daily.  

When I took a class at the tribal college, I had a language instructor, Keller Paap, who spoke our language fluently. He wasn't very much older than I was. When he told me that he had learned our language as an adult, I reset my goals and made learning Ojibwe a priority in my life. Another influential experience in my life was losing my great-uncle Bizhikiban. He was the last first-language speaker in my family. Losing him sent a panic through me and motivated me to learn more and work harder.  

When I arrived at graduate school, I was taken under the wing of Dr. John Nichols, my advisor who hired me to work for the Ojibwe People's Dictionary. Through that work I became very close with a number of elders from across Ojibwe country.

This is especially true for Larry Amik Smallwood. Amik taught me about our humor, our language as a tool to convey our humor, and the poise that a public speaker or storyteller should have. We lost Amik in April 2017, another reminder to ask as many questions of our elders while we still have them with us.

Growing up without a father has motivated me to be the father I never had. Having children and raising them has influenced me and how I think about my culture. I strive to give my kids the teachings and the lessons that were lacking for youth like myself who were raised by single moms. 

In my short lifetime, I have witnessed so much loss but yet so much resilience.  What is more remarkable is how much we have been able to maintain as a people- despite deliberate attempts to strip us of our ways, our language, and our spiritual mindset as Anishinaabe.  I think for our children and our people, we need to stop allowing our colonizers to define us. We give in so easily to the mainstream and its standards for success. We have gone on with our current educational arrangement externally determined with very little success while simultaneously losing generations of traditional indigenous knowledge of our elders.

As for myself, after completing my PhD and all of the accolades that come with advanced degrees, I could have very easily assumed the guise of a university professor, removed from my people attempting to educate whichever ones miraculously made it into my classroom. That is success according to the mindset of our colonizer. Instead, I took a pay cut to return to my home community, to help out with the education of our children, in OUR language, for OUR survival- that is success from an Anishinaabe perspective.

When it comes to life, we only get one chance. My uncle used to say, "Our moccasins only touch this ground one time- make sure you leave a mark."