I was still new to this world when I first saw the dragonflies dance to the flute.
A Dakota elder, who is now with the spirit world, once took out his instrument in the place where his people lived, loved and left so many years ago. It was the season when the strawberries started to grow along the paths we walked, the clouds sailed gently overhead and the sacred rice was starting to grow.
When I need to remember the good life, I think back to this moment in time.
The Big Lake
I knew the Big Lake as the place my sister belonged to. We used to go up here in her little green Chevy with the rock n’ roll rose sticker on the back. We would blast the radio or sometimes slip in one of my mix CDs. Rod Stewart, the Animals, and Lucinda Williams were the soundtrack of Highway 169. This is where her dad was from, although the U.S. tried to remove his family to White Earth at one point, but they resisted and so they stayed. We used to visit the little cemetery near the Big Lake and pay our respects to the ancestors. Yes, this is a very special place.
Our childhood days spent drawing at the kitchen table together led me to art school to get my degree. After I graduated, I received a fellowship to learn more about the relationships between museums and Native people. My sister and I travelled all over the state learning about place histories, material cultures and Indigenous reclamation.
This was the first place we stopped.
Mixed media illustration of women holding red willow branches in the snow underneath a night sky. Racquel Banaszak, Ningii-o-maamiginaag Miskwaabiimizh (I Went Out to Gather Red Willow), 2026, mixed media illustration with colored pencil, ink, glass beads, cotton thread, on velvet, 11”x15”.
The place known as Mille Lacs or Misi-zaaga’iganing or Bde Wákhaŋ, or more accurately it is known as Bde Wákhaŋ or Misi-zaaga’iganing or Mille Lacs, is a sacred place of emergence where the world began—a place where Indigenous people have lived and loved—a place people have fought for—a place many people have had to leave. I believe this place remembers all of that.
There is a state park there where the informational signs tell about memories crafted by geology, anthropology, archaeology and cultural studies. It is important to remember that these signs are written by institutions trying to tell particular stories about this place. In the way back time, frozen waters moved and grooved the earth and gave shape to kettles and moraines. When the earth warmed up this became a place of abundance full of maple trees, fish, berries, deer and plenty of wild rice. Dakota people were here, so were the Ojibwe and French visitors as well as the American settlers. I can’t remember if these historical signs tell about the memories of violence and removal or the drum and kinship. Even if the geologists, anthropologists and archaeologists don’t remember, I believe this place remembers all of that.
This is why the dragonflies danced to the flute. They remember all of that. They are the warriors who loved fiercely. They are the protectors of the women and children. Their wings beat up and down to the vibrations carried in the wind. Their bodies shimmer and reflect this place where the water echoes the meeting of the forest and the sky. They are made of bits of stars and earth and water. We all are.
The Red Willow
Years later I began my graduate school journey. I was chosen for another fellowship, this time to travel to the Big Island of Hawaii to learn about arts, culture and collective liberation. We were asked a simple question: When was a time you were happy?
I thought back to the previous winter, just before I learned my sister had passed. The sky was the color of a robin’s egg. With my baby on my back and my oldest daughter holding my hand, we trudged out to this magical place I had driven past so many times in the days of my youth.
But this day was different, this day was special.
The brilliant red willow stood out amongst the white snow and bare branches. We laid down our asemaa and greeted the miskwaabiimizh—the red willow—and chickadees who followed us on our journey to reclaim our right to pray as we have always done.
My grandma would never have allowed this, though. If only she knew about our ancient stories that taught us how to live in a good way. I’m sure she would have actually been proud. But she was raised by a boarding school survivor and taught the ways of the black book that missionaries have been giving to Native people for far too long. It wasn’t until I was an adult and became educated in Native histories that I actually knew what this meant. My grandma would have insisted that this was wrong—but this felt so right.
It felt right to be out here with my babies and the blue sky, red branches and the winter birds. Later I took out my trusty pocket knife, shaved away the outer bark to make asemaa and placed it in a glass jar. Freshly shaved red willow is truly one of the most delightful smells in the world.
Asemaa is there for us whenever we need it—sometimes when the going gets tough or maybe when we need to help send some extra healing energy to the world—perhaps something good happened and we want to express our gratitude. It helps us remember that everything we need to live a good life is all right here.
The city
“Miigwech”, “Pidamaye” and “Aho!” greeted us as we walked through the stairs on my baby’s first day of kindergarten. They were seemingly simple words painted by students on the sidewalks, but they made my heart feel good in this new phase of life.
My baby was going to hear, understand and know our language in a way I never dreamed possible. Immersion schools, where our children are taught in their Native language of Ojibwemowin or Dakota, offer our people an education rooted in our languages and worldviews.1 These schools help us raise kids who think Indigenously.
My baby was going to hear, understand, and know our language in a way I never dreamed possible.
As a historian and descendant of boarding school survivors, I understand that boarding schools were places where our kids went to learn the ways of American society, places that weren’t designed with us in mind. But this was different.
This is part of the urban Native legacy in south Minneapolis. The American Indian Movement, pivotal in the fight for Indigenous rights, was founded here in the 1960s.2 The community organized around better education, housing and healthcare for our people. Survival schools like Little Red School House and Heart of the Earth were created to strengthen the minds of our children.3 Little Earth is the only Native-preference urban housing community in the United States and is often referred to as the heart of the urban rez4. The area is home to urban tribal offices, community clinics and a pharmacy, a coffee shop and art gallery, and the Indian Center. There is no other place like it.
This is a place that was born out of a need for community. When the world turned its back on Native people in the city, they came together and created something beautiful, a testament to the strength and tenacity of people who they tried to remove but couldn’t.
We held onto our languages, cultures and ways of knowing.
My daughters’ school was made possible because of generational practices of visiting and learning from other Indigenous people. I remember the joy I felt when I visited another Indigenous immersion school, one taught in the Hawaiian language, on the Big Island. Students knew their own history, danced to their ancestral sounds and grew their own sacred food—a beautiful vision of the Indigenous future. What a glorious gift to bear witness to.
Everyday my babies get to smudge at school and offer asemaa for all that we have been given.
The future
An Ojibwe linguist once explained that zaag—“emerge”—is the root word for both growth and love.
Zaagi—a plant sprouts: After a long hard winter, when the snow melts and the trees run with sap, there is one magical day each year when all the world suddenly turns green.
Zaagi’—love: After a long hard winter when nothing seems to grow, a seed laying under a blanket of snow suddenly feels the warmth and light of gichi manidoo, the great mystery. This is a reminder that the creator’s unconditional love makes it possible for seeds to grow.
In many ways I see this community of Minneapolis as a new place of emergence where our world is beginning again, just as it has many times. This is a place where people live and love—a place where many have had to leave—but it is a place worth fighting for. I believe this place remembers all of it.
I’m sitting here, not quite certain of the future.
But I know that the trees will run with sweet water in the spring.
The birds will return bringing warmth and light.
The seeds will grow and the strawberries will still bloom.
The dragonflies will still dance to the songs we play.
And as long as we hold on to who we are, our children will know how to live a good life.
Acknowledgements
To the women of my family, Indigenous educators and the language keepers who continue to inspire me—Miigwech for helping make this world a better place for my indaanisag, my daughters.
- “Home.” Midwest Indigenous Immersion Network (MIIN). March 3, 2026, http://www.miinojibwe.org/ ↩︎
- Storied 1968: American Indian Movement. Directed by Minnesota Historical Society. St. Paul, MN: Minnesota Historical Society. 2019. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LLh3gw0kVhQ&t=157s ↩︎
- Davis, Julie L. Survival Schools: The American Indian Movement and Community Education in the Twin Cities. University of Minnesota Press, 2014. ↩︎
- Little Earth. Hear Our Story. Little Earth of United Tribes. https://www.littleearth.org/ ↩︎