Uplifting Black Environmentalists in Mni Sota

The Frogtown neighborhood of Saint Paul was once a swampy wetland, where frogs were so numerous that the area was named for them. Now, Frogtown has less green space than most other neighborhoods here—there’s six times less green space per child in Frogtown than the city average. Back in 2009, long-time residents like Seitu Jones, Soyini Guyton, Patricia Ohmans, and Anthony Schmitz dreamed of addressing this disparity by turning a 12-acre site owned by the Wilder Foundation into a park and farm for the benefit of their community. Then, through years of hard work and diligent organizing, they made it a reality. At its inception, more than 100 semi-truck loads of rich dirt were brought in from Dakotah Roots, the Shakopee Mdewakanton Sioux Community’s organics recycling facility, to build the Frogtown Farm. Home to many once displaced from the Rondo neighborhood—the heart of Saint Paul’s African American community—the significance of this project in this location cannot be overstated. 

By the time this essay is published, Black History Month will be nearly half-over. It is impossible to encapsulate in just one month—the shortest month of the year—the countless ways in which Black people have shaped this country. Nevertheless, we dedicate this month’s blog to the Black folks and communities we admire that have made, and continue to make, our local communities vibrant, specifically in the realm of environmental stewardship, justice, and activism. 

Perhaps before we start, we should lay some groundwork by naming those original sins upon which the United States of America was built. The Doctrine of Discovery was first signed by Pope Alexander VI in 1493 to justify innumerable acts of violence and destruction committed by European colonists across the globe, and later codified in U.S. federal law in 1823 to justify the continued dispossession of Native lands. Hand in hand, another papal bull, “Romanus Pontifex,” issued in 1455 by Pope Nicholas V, authorized the enslavement of Africans by Europeans for the purposes of trade and domination. These decrees laid the groundwork for centuries of violence and oppression against Black, Indigenous, and Black Indigenous / Afro-Indigenous communities, and their legacy remains with us today. 

Perhaps we should continue by exploring how Black and Indigenous communities have interacted and overlapped in this place we call home, in Mni Sota. We could begin with the military camp of Fort Snelling, which, in 1837, claimed enslaved peoples like Dred Scott at the same time that American officers negotiated bad-faith treaties with Dakota leaders. Perhaps we should mention that neither Black nor Indigenous individuals were legally considered citizens of the United States of America until 1868 and 1924, respectively, and that both groups continue to be systematically disenfranchised and discriminated against to this day.

Perhaps, though, in this month that is also meant to celebrate and uplift, we should not dwell entirely on the evils that have plagued us. Perhaps we should also take a moment to celebrate the relationships Black communities have with Uŋči Makha – our Grandmother Earth. There so are many people in our local communities working to reclaim relationships with land, natural resources, and each other. We will never have enough room to shine a light on everyone doing this work, but we want to take space in this month’s blog to talk more about a few of them: 

[Grand Risings Farm, based near Hinckley, is entering its first growing season in 2021.]

First, the land. Across this country, Black communities have found power and stability in land ownership – as a rebuttal to redlining and housing discrimination, and as a counter-measure to food apartheid. Urban farmer Blain Snipstal writes about the theory and practice of Afro-ecology, which describes “how Black people in the U.S. can reconnect with their African or Afro-Indigenous past through traditional planting and harvesting techniques.” There are some incredible people across our state exploring just that. 

According to the latest Census of Agriculture, less than 2% of farms across the United States are owned or operated by Black farmers. In Minnesota, that number is only .03%. Grand Risings Farm was started by young mother, herbalist, activist, advocate for BIPOC birthers, and farmer Zedé Harut. Owned and operated by a team of Black farmers who share “a mutual passion for food justice, collective liberation, and preservation of cultural traditions”, Grand Risings Farm is the first Black-farmer-owned CSA in Northern Minnesota. Support their work as they enter their first growing season, and follow their journey on Instagram. Grand Risings Farm is connected to the 40 Acre Co-Op, a Black-led nationwide cooperative supporting socially disadvantaged farmers. Based in Sandstone, their work focuses on ending the striking income and land ownership disparities rife in American agriculture. Let us rally around those working to make sure Black farmers are not erased from the fabric of Mni Sota. 

We also want to shine a light on some of those people in the Black community who fight tirelessly for environmental justice, not only in their neighborhoods, but for all of us. 

[The Northern Metals recycling facility lies directly next to the Mississippi River, with downtown Minneapolis to the south.]

Roxxanne O’Brien is an artist and activist who has advocated for affordable housing, against police brutality, and for community-conscious development in North Minneapolis for decades. In this interview with the Minneapolis Interview Project, Roxxanne traces her upbringing and path to the work she does today, and we are struck by her words: “Black people in North Minneapolis have not had the opportunity to experience their natural resources. We have not been able to get close to the river because of the industry, polluting the area, exploiting our air, water and soil, and blocking our access.” The pollution and toxification O’Brien speaks of is due to industrial operations like the Northern Metals recycling plant located directly between North Minneapolis and the Mississippi River. After years of violations and criminal alteration of records by Northern Metals, O’Brien’s activism led to the closure of Northern Metals Shredder in Minneapolis, a $1 million penalty to the state, $600,000 to the city of Minneapolis and funding for three years of air quality monitoring. 

Across the Twin Cities, other leaders mirror O’Brien’s efforts to open the door for healing in communities so often neglected and harmed by urban development. Janiece Watts and Ben Passer of St. Paul-based Fresh Energy have revolutionized conversations, action, and policy surrounding the implementation of clean energy practices, tying this industry to rent stabilization, air quality, healthcare, and, most centrally, the tenets of white supremacy and capitalism that dominate the energy industry. 

[Sam Grant speaks at a protest against the Line 3 Pipeline in Saint Paul. Photo courtesy of the Indigenous Environmental Network.]

Sam Grant, the executive director of MN 350, interrogates conventional notions of sustainability, arguing that it is not enough to simply push for green technologies or more efficient forms of capitalist development. Like Passer and Watts, he instead advocates for holistic, community-based approaches toward addressing climate change and ecological degradation: to fully heal the earth and ourselves, we must first acknowledge the structural racism that upholds and perpetuates systemic inequality in our communities. 

And there are others still, like artist, poet, and activist Louis Alemayehu, who express the importance of community in the climate justice movement. Alemayehu has spent over fifty years in Minnesota learning from Indigenous community members, advocating for clean air and water, teaching new generations of artists, and through it all, bringing people together to honor and care for the earth.

This month, we encourage you to learn more about these individuals and their work, and take action in supporting their efforts and the efforts of other Black folks doing this powerful work for the planet. Black History Month is not just about educating ourselves on the past – but educating ourselves on the ways Black Americans are making history now. Let’s support their powerful work and lift their stories, now and into the future.

On Language and Legacy: Wakáŋ Tipi | Tipi Wakáŋ | Taku Wakáŋ Tipi

[Screenshot taken from Wakan Tipi: Dakota Sacred Land video produced by Hamline University’s Center for Global Environmental Education.]

With this blog post we embark on the first of a two-part series dedicated to the Dakota sacred site that propels our work and mission forward. If you have followed Lower Phalen Creek Project, you have likely heard us refer to this site as Wakáŋ Tipi. This month, we begin to explore the complex history of this unique sacred site as we seek a deeper understanding of place and the Dakota language.

Although one cannot fully explain or hope to convey the totality of value and meaning of sanctity in a single blog post, our work is building on itself. Ultimately, Wakáŋ Tipi Center will be a repository for a vast collection of cultural history, knowledge, and traditions that will strengthen the Dakota Nation and educate non-Dakotas about the first peoples of Mni Sota. Over the years, we have described the importance of this place elsewhere on our website, yet much of that is based on documented historical records. Dakota history, on the contrary, is primarily oral. So this first of this two part series is taking a deeper dive into the history of this site by exploring the written records. For the second part of this series, we will interview and convey, with permission, the oral history of this site; stories and perspectives of Dakota elders and knowledge keepers as it relates to this place that we hold so dear.

The first European known to have visited this area was Jonathan Carver. In November of 1766, Jonathan Carver described a “great stone cave called by the Naudowessee¹ Waukon Teebee, or in English the house of the spirits.”² He described the cave in great detail, including the abundance of rock art, or petroglyphs, inside the cave’s entrance. He also noted that “appearances of lights shining at a distance and strange sounds” coming from inside the cave were, at least in part, why the Dakota deemed this place both mysterious and sacred. After staying with the Dakota over the winter of 1766-1767, Carver described his invitation to, and participation at, the annual council meeting of eight bands of the Dakota, which took place on May 1st, 1767 inside of the very same cave he had first encountered the previous November.³

[The interior of the cave, circa 1870. Photograph courtesy of the Minnesota Historical Society.]

Sorrowfully, Carver’s observations represent the only accounting of this site as it was before European colonization—upon the publishing of his writing in 1778, subsequent European visitors to the area referred to it as “Carver’s Cave.” In so doing, these authors ignored any acknowledgement of the cave’s standing in the Dakota universe.

It is indicative of the erasure of Indigenous Peoples in the United States that we do not find this site again referred to in the Dakota language until 1994—over two hundred years since Carver himself used Dakota name for the place. Paul C. Durand—a non-Native man from Minneapolis, who, drawing largely from field notes and maps produced by Joseph N. Nicollet in 1838 on a survey mission throughout the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers for the United States government, and with assistance from Dakota elders and knowledge keepers—notes the following in his book, Where the Waters Gather and the Rivers Meet: An Atlas of the Eastern Sioux: 

Wakan Tipi (1) sacred (2) habitation. Carver's Cave below Dayton’s Bluff, St. Paul. The common intersection of the roads of communication between the three original villages was precisely at this place. It was here the dead were brought, placing them on scaffolds then later burying them in the adjacent mounds. - Jos. N. Nicollet⁴

[Durand’s map of the Twin Cities area from his 1994 publication, Where the Waters Gather and the Rivers Meet: An Atlas of the Eastern Sioux.]

These observations are further corroborated in Mni Sota Makoce, a comprehensive anthology of Dakota life and lands. Authors Gwen Westerman (Sisseton Wahpeton Oyate) and Bruce White return us to Jonathan Carver's journals in describing the association between the sacred cave site and the adjacent burial mounds: “despite extensive travels, [the Dakota] always brought the bones of their dead to this location. In [Carver’s] journal he called it ‘the burying place of the Mottobautonway band’, a reference to the Bdewakaŋtuŋwaŋ Dakota.”⁵

From the historical record we find multiple authors referring to the site as Wakáŋ Tipi; these publications also indicate the name of the site was relayed and recorded from Dakota peoples themselves. We also find records of the site’s significance to the people—a place for ceremony, annual councils, and as a final resting place. And we see multiple accounts tying the site to broader Dakota culture, being an “intersection point”, or hub of social and religious activity for the Dakota bands of Mni Sota. 

However, even with these written records, so much more about this site is left unwritten. Dakota life—the culture, the language, the geography, and the people—could never be quantified and cataloged in academic records. Beginning with the Treaty of 1805, Dakota lands were acquired, bit by bit, through a series of coerced, improper, unofficial, and to-this-day-unratified treaties with the United States government. Even the agreements made between 1851 and 1858, supposedly guaranteeing permanent protection of Dakota lands along a 10-mile section of the Minnesota River, were nullified by 1862, when the United States proceeded to abandon all pretense of humanity by committing three genocidal acts in the span of one year: executing 38 Dakota warriors in what remains the largest mass execution in U.S. history; confining Dakota women and children to a concentration camp at Fort Snelling, deprived of food and resources, for a harsh Minnesota winter; and ultimately exiling the survivors from their homelands in Mni Sota altogether. 

The trauma of this loss, and the century of genocidal policies that followed, including the establishment of reservations and boarding schools, remains in the blood memory, the DNA, of Dakota people to this day. The reclamation of the Dakota language, at one time illegal, is of critical importance to the continuity of Dakota culture today. The University of Minnesota’s Dakota Language program characterizes the situation this way:

Due to federal policies of genocide and ethnic cleansing in the 19th and early 20th centuries that attempted to assimilate Dakota people into Euro-American ways of life, today there are only about five first-language speakers of Dakota who were born and raised in Minnesota Dakota communities. With only about 20 speakers from Dakota communities outside of the state, there are currently more second-language learners than first-language speakers of Dakota.⁶ 

The precarity of the Dakota language cannot be understated. As Carolynn I. Schommer writes in the foreword to Stephen Riggs’ A Dakota-English Dictionary, “The Dakota language and culture are one and the same. The language is the foundation of Dakota culture.”⁷ The language itself was first transcribed in written form by settler missionaries not for the purpose of language preservation but as part of a United States government policy, the Civilization Fund Act of 1819, of assimilating the Dakota into Christian, English-speaking colonial society. Valiant efforts to preserve the Dakota language were made by scholars like Ella C. Deloria, in direct contradiction of these policies, and various translation and dialect preservation projects continued into the twentieth century. It was not until the Native American Languages Act of 1990 that these efforts were formally and structurally supported.

Returning to the name of this sacred site, Wakáŋ Tipi, and in understanding the meaning of a name, we find certain complexities. For one, “Dakota language structure is much different from the English, and no literal translation can be made from either language into the other.”⁸ Further, the Dakota language has a different grammatical structure than English. In Dakota, for example, you have a Noun-Adjective structure, as opposed to the Adjective-Noun structure of English (ie: whereas in English you would say black dog, in Dakota you would say Suŋka Sapa (Suŋka = Dog, Sapa = Black). When applying this structure to this sacred site, to describe the cave as “dwelling place of the sacred,” (where Tipi = Dwelling and Wakáŋ = Something Sacred/Mysterious), there enters into the conversation some diversity in thought around the name of the site itself. Some Dakota speakers refer to the site as Tipi Wakáŋ, where Tipi is the noun and Wakan is the adjective, describing the dwelling place. Some Dakota speakers refer to the site as Wakáŋ Tipi, where the noun, in this case, or the subject that is most important in this place name, is actually that which is sacred, those sacred and mysterious beings, the word Wakáŋ. Tipi then, would be the lesser noun, a dwelling place, describing where these beings dwell.

This line of thought is also found in Durand’s Atlas of the Eastern Sioux, where Durand does include Tipi Wakáŋ in his atlas of place names, but not as a traditional place name. Tipi Wakáŋ, according to Durand, describes a “sacred house, a church.” He goes on to specify this is the place name used for the early mission house of Samuel Pond at Sakpe’s village.⁹

Durand’s notes signify a distinction, linguistically and culturally, in the identification of a sacred structure or building versus the description of a natural site identified to be a place where sacredness dwells. Another notable place name in Durand’s atlas is Taku Wakan Tipi, which could be translated as “Dwelling Place of Something Sacred” (Taku = Something). This site, according to Durand, is, “a small hill, over-looking the Fort Snelling prairie located between the VA Hospital and the Naval Air Station. It was called Morgan’s Hill in pioneer times.”¹⁰ This site, strikingly similar in name to Wakan Tipi, is no coincidence when you consider the stories associated with the two places. But what are those stories, histories, and miracles, that led the Dakota to refer to this site Wakáŋ Tipi? Certainly, there is more to know than what is documented in this historical record. 

For the second part of this series, we will share, with permission, the stories that are appropriate to be told in this format, from Dakota elders and knowledge keepers, about this place. And we know that in the Dakota community, there are multiple perspectives and relationships to place, even multiple ways in which Dakota people refer to this site. We honor all of those relationships and histories, even when they may conflict. In a Dakota worldview, there is an understanding that there is not so much that is right or wrong, but more often there is just appropriate or inappropriate. We honor that different communities and even different families within the same community, may have different stories about one place, and they are all correct.

As we look to continue this exploration in our two-part series, it is important to remind ourselves just how difficult this process can be. Restoring the relationships and names for these places must be a thoughtful, careful, and deliberate process. Respecting the time that it takes for Dakota communities to be in conversation, and remembering that Indigenous Peoples were violently stripped of their language, ceremonies, and relationships to their grandmother earth. We must do this work while keeping in mind, as Carolynn Schommer reminds us, the unbreakable bond at the heart of it all: Dakota language is Dakota culture; the culture is the language. 

If you would like to contribute to this series with oral history relating to this site, please contact Wakan Tipi Center director, Maggie Lorenz (Spirit Lake Dakota/Turtle Mountain Metis) or Mishaila Bowman, our communications coordinator (Sisseton Wahpeton Oyate).

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Citations

1. It is worth noting here that Carver’s use of the word “Naudowessee” is a misspelling of a derogatory word coined by the Anishinaabe and used by French fur traders—nadouessioux—to refer to people of the Očéti Šakówiŋ.

2. Carver, Jonathan. Journals of Jonathan Carver and Related Documents, 1766 - 1770. Edited by John Parker. St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1976: 91-92.

3. Carver, 1976: 115-120.

4. Durand, Paul. C. Where the Waters Gather and the Rivers Meet: An Atlas of the Eastern Sioux. Faribault, MN: The author 1994: 99. 

5. Westerman, Glen, and Bruce White. Mni Sota Makoce: The Land of the Dakota. St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 2012: 219-220.

6. “Dakota Language Program.” University Of Minnesota College of Liberal Arts, Department of American Indian Studies. Regents of the University of Minnesota, 2021. Online: https://cla.umn.edu/ais/undergraduate/dakota-ojibwe-language-programs/dakota-language-program

7. Riggs, Stephen R. A Dakota-English Dictionary. Edited by James Owen Dorsey. St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1992: vi-viii.

8. Schommer, Carolynn I., in Riggs, 1992: viii.

9. Durand, 1994: 99.

10. Durand, 1994: 99.

Resilience, Possibility, and Belonging

[photo from Urban Bird Collective Website]

In a recent article for the Star Tribune, Bob Timmons details how men of color in northern Minnesota are finding solace and solidarity in the outdoors: “the meetup has been a sounding board, a time to share creativity or family pursuits. But time, too, to vent their outrage and their concerns about social injustices at home or anywhere.” In sharing natural spaces and activities like birding, members of this group—young and old, outdoors enthusiasts and newcomers—have discovered resilience, possibility, and belonging.

For this month’s blog, we dive into what these three words can mean for us: how does one find resilience, possibility, and belonging in the outdoors? How, especially, do people who have historically been excluded from outdoor activities and spaces find these values? For that, we look to Sam DeJarnett, a wildlife management professional and avid birder based in Portland, Oregon. DeJarnett hosts the  Always Be Birdin’ podcast, where, in the second episode, “Who Is Fostering and Who Is Failing BIPOC In Nature?” she explains how her passion for birding—and for wildlife in general—has been constantly challenged and questioned based on the simple fact that she is a woman of color. DeJarnett also poses four questions, to herself and to her audience, that explore how people of color engage with the outdoors, often in spite of white supremacy, racism, and settler-colonial cultures. And who better to speak to the experience of BIPOC outdoors enthusiasts than members of the Urban Bird Collective? 

Founded in 2018, the Urban Bird Collective supports birdwatchers of all abilities in leading walks in metro area neighborhoods. The collective works to create safe and welcoming spaces for all communities—especially BIPOC and queer community members who have not historically been welcomed or allowed access to such spaces—to come out and explore birding and the outdoors. We invited Urban Bird Collective members (including our very own Maggie Lorenz!) to share their thoughts on Sam DeJarnett’s questions for BIPOC birders. Read below as Maggie, Monica Bryand, Loreen Lee, and Melissa Michener discuss their perspectives, and take part in the conversation during our Dec. 26th Birding While BIPOC event. (Register here: https://bit.ly/2VV6XWs.)

Who or what fueled your interest in nature?

Melissa

Growing up my family always took advantage of outdoor opportunities because they were low cost options to entertain a big family. Some of my favorite memories were hiking after Christmas Day, camping trips to Lake Tahoe, winter trips to Big Bear mountains. Although we were not rich in funds, we were rich with adventure. Growing up in California, it would be hard not to admire the different landscapes that that state has to offer. 

Loreen

I had the joy of my parents taking my sister and me on lots of tent camping road trips when we were growing up. We visited many regional, state and national parks in my home state of California and also ventured out to the Southwest and Pacific Northwest regions of the United States. Because of these experiences, I became fascinated with plants, animals, rocks and much more. I'm deeply grateful to my father and mother for planting a seed in me that would grow into a passion for nature and for being in the right relationship with our environment.

Maggie

I have always been passionate about nature and the environment. Some of my fondest memories in childhood were times I was close to nature — once in elementary school my class planted trees and it was more exciting to me, and more memorable, than any field trip. I also vividly remember my persistence with my parents to get me a subscription to get those Wildlife Fact Files and I anxiously awaited getting them every month. My favorite trips as a family when I was young were to Pipestone National Monument and Battle Creek Park. The natural wonders and the stories that connected me to my culture as a Dakota person were really significant. 

Monica

As a kid I grew up being outside all day and basically only went in to eat. I grew up in Saint Paul and lived next to what I thought was a forest, only to come back as an adult and see that it was a hillside that was a little wooded. Either way, I loved it and loved the freedom of outside. The other thing I enjoyed as a kid was summer camps: some were day camps and other times I would spend a week or two away in the woods.  Later in life I just became more concerned for the environment and animals in general. I didn’t start birding until I was in my late 30’s and now it’s all I think about. 

Who or what discouraged and/or challenged your interests in nature?

Melissa

I moved to Minnesota at 18 years old to attend Hamline University. Moving to a state with different landscapes and weather posed its own challenges. However, I joined the outdoor recreation club and took a camping trip to Duluth. New to the natural environment of Minnesota, I was nervous. Also, I didn't have the nicest or newest equipment so creates another barrier in being able to fully participate in nature. 

Loreen

In my K-12 education, there wasn't a lot of encouragement from teachers or counselors for girls or people of color like me to pursue careers in the sciences. Even though I loved learning about the natural world, I didn't necessarily view myself becoming something like a biologist, because I thought I didn't have the chops to pursue that field. Later, as a young adult, I lived in Los Angeles for several years. I loved hiking all the different trails and sometimes would go to group hikes. I often felt out of place in these gatherings, because I'd show up and it would be mostly white people. When I got into birding 3 or 4 years ago, I encountered a similar situation. Whenever I would be out bird watching and I'd run into other people also bird watching, it was usually white folks.

Maggie

I have never been discouraged from my connection to the natural world. Sometimes people from my community would say things like "why are you doing that white people stuff" if I would go to a trash clean up at a park or volunteer at things like that. But it never discouraged me. And I understand it, the world of environmentalism for a long time has been dominated by white folks and a lot of people of color don't feel like it is a space for them. As American Indians though, one of the stereotypes we have is that we are deeply connected to nature, which is both true and untrue. As a society we held on to that connection for longer than some other societies, but we are all part of the natural world, we are not apart from it. It's not something we observe from the outside, but something we belong to, and I think Native people have held onto that understanding a bit longer than some other communities. 

Monica

I think that working on social justice issues lead to environmental justice issues and protecting the environment. I was fortunate to work and put my volunteer time into making a difference on many fronts. The people that I met are what inspired me to continue and made the “work” fun and exciting. 

On a personal note, being a women and women of color, I always had to think about safety when I was going out in the woods or a park by myself. I hate that feeling and sometimes it keeps me from going out alone and other times I go but with a greater sense of awareness about my surroundings. 

How did each of these experiences make you feel?

Melissa

All my fears about adventuring in a new state were completely unfounded upon arriving in Duluth. The leaves were at leave, Lake Superior was glistening and so vast. We spent the afternoon and evening at Hawk Ridge Observatory to learn about bird banding and got to see a saw-whet owl. Joining a community of people who share similar interests or passions empowered and inspired me to explore more and launched my intrigue and love for Minnesota. 

Loreen

Looking back on these different experiences, I think the overarching theme is I was made to feel small or I was made to feel invisible. 

Monica

Very vulnerable :( 

Why do people of color so often face discouragement when it comes to careers, passions, even interactions in nature?

Melissa

Wow, great question. I think that the first piece to acknowledge is that many times we don't see people of color in these positions. Without leaders and mentors, it is hard to imagine doing that particular career or even knowing how to travel down that career path. Many times these positions aren't the highest paying jobs and are highly competitive. It takes work but it can be done. It also takes exposure to these types of careers and passions to allow our young people to interact in positive ways. There are many new groups out there focused on building more spaces in nature for Black, Indigenous, People of Color (BIPOC) and it has been a beautiful thing to be a part of. 

Loreen

I've been engaged in social justice and DEI work since the early 2000s. And so I do tend to think a lot about race (and other aspects of identity) and contemplate these questions on space-- who belongs, who doesn't belong, what does it mean to create spaces with intention where everyone is seen, heard and valued? I believe the challenges that BIPOC folks face when trying to take up space in nature are deeply rooted in our nation's history of white supremacy, settler-colonialism, the genocide of indigneous people and the enslavement of black people. Our country was founded on controlling and exploiting both the land and people of color. Fast forward to today... When you consider the high incidence of Black Birders being harassed by white people for just being outdoors, you can see it's about power and who has the 'right' to take up space. 

Maggie

I think that white folks have this belief, whether conscious or subconscious, that the way white-governed environmentalism interacts with the natural world is the right way, or the best way, and any ways that fall outside of those standards are not acceptable. This plays out in the policies of parks and land management agencies and then punishes non-white communities who relate to the land or natural world differently. That makes it hard for people from those communities to want to step into those spaces in a formal way. For me as a Dakota person, I see the plants in some of our parks as medicine. From my perspective I might see a stand of chokecherries and think to myself, hey we have ceremony coming up, I will gather some of those chokecherries to make an offering or feed the people. But that isn't allowable in a lot of public spaces, so if I do gather those cherries, I am now seen as a troublemaker or even criminal for breaking the rules. So now, I am in a more formal position as the director of an environmental nonprofit, and while here in this role, I am trying to take these cultural perspectives to land managing agencies and see how we might change some of these policies or rules so that people feel more comfortable in these spaces; and feel they also belong and the way they relate to nature is also honored. We can do that while also honoring our responsibility to provide high quality habitat for our non-human relatives by not overharvesting, for example. I think there is a way to do this, it will just take open minds from new folks coming into land management roles and I see that happening already, it is very encouraging. 

Monica

As someone who has worked for justice on so many levels, people get discouraged when they don’t see people like them in spaces or in jobs. Not only don’t they see themselves represented but they also face discrimination or a sense of not belonging. For most non BIPOC folks they never think about who they will see or what discrimination they might face when going out in nature. BIPOC folks on the other hand can’t just enjoy spaces without holding thoughts in the back of their head about what they will face.

 My hope is that my work with the Urban Bird Collective that helps to create safe space for BIPOC and the LGBT communities to be out in nature will change some of that. In addition to our group, we see other communities of color starting up their own hiking and outdoor groups to take back nature for all to enjoy. 

* * *

We want to take a moment to clarify, for anyone who needs to hear it: you do not have to be an expert to be a birder! You don’t have to have a degree in zoology, expensive gear, or years of experience. As Sam DeJarnett reminds us, “All you need to go birding are your eyeballs and your ear-balls!” And here at Lower Phalen Creek Project, we are always finding moments in our work to pause and appreciate the presence of the Kiŋyaŋpi Oyate. 

This past summer, we spent a late-summer morning weeding rows of corn at Dream of Wild Health’s farm in Hugo. As a light drizzle let up and low grey clouds drifted away, a small flock of sandhill cranes swept down onto the mowed grass between the long rows of corn and a small pond near the road. We sat in the dirt and watched red crowns bob atop long necks and slender beaks as the cranes poked about in the tallgrass. As quickly as they arrived, they were gone, swooping off farther afield. 

More to the point, we cannot write an entire blog post on the topic of birding without mentioning the presence of birds near and dear to us. The Kiŋyaŋpi Oyate—our winged relatives—are equal and distinct beings in our universe. Dakota people, and many human communities throughout history, have had longstanding and meaningful connections to these relatives. One such relative, Waŋbdi (eagle) holds a particularly special place in Dakota culture. Waŋbdi is a messenger and a brave and powerful presence in our lives. It is no coincidence that the acts of genocide committed against Dakota people corresponded with the decimation of American bald eagles. It is also made all the more meaningful that as we have reclaimed sacred sites like Wakáŋ Tipi, we have seen eagles return to Dakota homelands. Walking along the Mississippi River Gorge, part of the Mississippi Flyway and the Twin Cities Important Bird Area, it is now common to see eagles soaring high above the river. Near Wakáŋ Tipi itself, eagles circle the ancestral burial mounds on the bluff above, and, improbably, an eagle’s nest sits perched high up in an aged cottonwood, keeping watch over the land and the water. 

On Sacred Dwellings

The sacred site of Wakáŋ Tipi has been a centerpiece of Dakota life and culture for time immemorial. A visible landmark that originally extended to within 50 meters of the shores of Wakpá Táŋka (the Mississippi River), Wakáŋ Tipi served as neutral ground for Oceti Šakowiŋ traveling from place to place. Ceremonies were held here, nestled between the river and the sandstone bluffs upon which generations of Dakota relatives lay buried. 

There have now been visitors and settlers living on Dakota lands for over 200 years. French fur traders and other explorers traveled to Dakota lands even earlier, sharing what they saw and found. Jonathan Carver, in 1766, is the first European known to have visited Wakáŋ Tipi itself, and his descriptions of what he saw remain the most vivid and complete written documentation of the cave. In fact, Carver’s 1778 book, Travels Through the Interior Parts of North America, made Wakáŋ Tipi a famous landmark of Turtle Island. From Carver’s initial writings to the present, Wakáŋ Tipi has been a frequent destination for settler communities, from tourists and historians, to geologists and businessmen. Its popularity, however, has often meant desecration, destruction, and disrespect for the sanctity of this place. 

In a fitting representation of the settler-colonial mindset, one of Jonathan Carver’s first acts upon encountering Wakáŋ Tipi was to inscribe, alongside Indigenous petroglyphs, the British royal coat of arms. And though, after staying near Wakáŋ Tipi with Dakota hosts for over six months, Carver did not follow the settler tradition of the “naming” the site as his discovery, he took great pride in being the first European to document and describe it. Other settlers decided to refer to the cave as Carver’s, and from that point on, this pattern of desecration has been repeated, over and over again. 

In a poignant rebuff of these repeated intrusions, Wakáŋ Tipi has periodically closed itself off from the outside world. From a Western scientific standpoint, this is explained in part by erosion: landslides accumulating limestone talus at the bottom of the bluffs cover the cave entrance. But we offer a different perspective — Wakáŋ Tipi, a living presence in this world as much as you or I, protects itself from harm as best it can. Pickaxes, dynamite, and shovels clawed away Wakáŋ Tipi’s domed ceiling and reduced its stores of spring-fed groundwater, but these periodic enclosures protect what remains.

Ever since Jonathan Carver marked Wakáŋ Tipi with colonial symbols, the land and its people have been forced to adapt to the intrusive and destructive forces of capitalism and settler colonialism. After Carver, waves of explorers, historians, scientists, and tourists probed Wakáŋ Tipi for the sake of fame and dominion. Whenever the cave closed itself off, settlers would search for the slightest entry point, claw out rubble and obtrusive walls, and probe the cave for personal gain. Throughout the 19th century, multiple men laid claim to “discovering” Wakáŋ Tipi, and into the 20th century, periodic “reopenings” of the cave entrance were celebrated with tours, photographs, and other recreational activities. 

[Swede Hollow, c. 1910. Phalen Creek is visible in the foreground.]

Between 1830 and 1930, waves and waves of immigrants settled and reshaped Mni Sota Makoce at the same time that the Dakota people were dispossessed of and exiled from their ancestral homelands. The oft-told tale of Swede Hollow is one of grit and bootstraps, in which different immigrant communities cycle through an upward trajectory of poverty, to assimilation, to success. We expand this narrative when we remember that: (1) not all people living on the land now known as Swede Hollow experienced the same upward economic mobility, and (2) the same systems that forcibly removed Dakota people from Mni Sota relegated immigrants to housing that ultimately contaminated a Dakota sacred space. Even though Swede Hollow was continuously inhabited by immigrants for over 100 years, and at its heyday was home to over 1,000 people, the City of Saint Paul neglected to provide the critical residential infrastructure found in surrounding neighborhoods. As a result, residents of Swede Hollow had no choice but to route the community’s raw sewage and waste directly through Phalen Creek. At one time, a major railroad line ran straight through the area, and Hamm’s Brewery operated directly above the community. These intrusions contributed to the gradual decline of Phalen Creek, and it is only recently that this ecosystem has been rehabilitated. 

In recent research into settler history on Dakota lands, we came across a particularly striking note: in 1934, in the midst of the Great Depression, the St. Paul Daily News reported that a number of unhoused men turned to Wakáŋ Tipi itself for shelter. This has been noted by more recent visitors to the cave, who have found marks on the cave walls and smoke traces on the ceiling. And what are we to make of this? This year, St. Paul has seen high numbers of unhoused community members finding shelter throughout the city. Our unhoused neighbors have relied on the relative privacy provided by public parks and green spaces, including Swede Hollow Park and Bruce Vento Nature Sanctuary. The root causes of homelessness are failures not of individuals but of the settler colonial state: from the commodification of housing, to unfair evictions and foreclosures, to a soulless approach to addiction and mental health that fails to provide adequate stability and support to those who need it most — American society fails us. It is therefore unsurprising that, almost one hundred years apart, members of this society have turned to places like Wakáŋ Tipi for respite. 

As we enter into another Minnesota winter, we ask all of you to think of your unhoused neighbors. It is not lost on us that despite making up roughly 1% of Minnesota’s population, nearly 15% of unhoused Minnesotans are Indigenous. It is shameful that, on stolen Dakota land, in a society that holds so much material wealth and resources, we lack adequate shelter and stability for all. Visit the website for the Wall of Forgotten Natives for more context on how Minnesota has treated unhoused community members. Visit the Twin Cities Mutual Aid Map for a list of organizations and groups currently providing mutual aid and support to our unhoused neighbors. In a society that has taken us far away from traditional ways of relating, we must remember our generosity and our compassion. We must work to address the harm to land and to people, one day at a time.

Restoration, Embodied

Between October 7th and October 8th, 2020, the governor of Minnesota weaponized half of the state’s 149 conservation officers against citizens of Minnesota. The 75 officers are employed by the state’s Department of Natural Resources (DNR), and their listed primary purpose is to “enforce laws related to fish and wildlife, state parks, trails, forests, waters and wetlands.” It is also listed as a key qualification for the position that conservation officers must “not pose a direct threat to the health or safety of other individuals in the performance of job duties and responsibilities.” The enlisting of these “peace” officers to patrol and criminalize peaceful community gatherings is yet another reminder of the violence enacted by American empire on the lands and people of Turtle Island.

A week later, on Indigenous Peoples’ Day, we hosted a virtual launch of the Wakáŋ Tipi Center (you can find our recap of the event in our October newsletter, or watch the full event on our YouTube page!). We asked Dakota elder Faith Spotted Eagle to share her perspective on the meaning and value of sacred sites, and this is what she told us: 

The responsibility comes to us in these sites with perpetual protection because it is our lifeway [...] [This responsibility] is in our DNA. Our spaces were not even legally allowed to be sacred until the American Indian Religious Freedom Act of 1978. Places were stolen from us and re-named without respect by settlers.

The goals of a conquering government are: (1) to erase and replace; (2) to rely on the logic of elimination.

This is not to say that all state officials, or that all non-Dakota allies, share this ill-intentioned perspective. Rather, it is the institutions of white supremacy and colonialism that impose these perspectives on the people and lands of Turtle Island. In fact, Faith went on to say that allies (from both the government and the public) play a critical role in protecting and reclaiming sacred sites. We need look no further than Wakáŋ Tipi itself -- it took years of dedicated investment from private and public organizations to purchase the land, and years more to fund the remediation and restoration work that created Bruce Vento Nature Sanctuary. This does not obscure the harm caused by Andrew Carnegie and the railroad; this does not excuse the desecrations committed by state anthropologists, historians, even tourists. What Faith’s comments and Wakáŋ Tipi’s history tell us is that we must value every opportunity to take back what has been lost. In so doing, we re-discover the energy that connects Dakota people to Dakota land, and we restore strength and power to both.

***

Last week we had a lovely conversation with Asha Shoffner, Environmental and Outdoor Education Coordinator for St. Paul Parks & Rec, about her newly established BIPOC Outdoors - Twin Cities group, dedicated to outdoor enjoyment led by and for Black, Indigenous and/or People of Color. A couple of weeks ago Asha hosted a Full Moon hike where community members gathered at dusk to go on a 1-mile hike along the Mississippi River. She recalls, 

I have never felt more embodied while outside in my entire life. We had two wonderful Indigenous women from different nations share their cultural teachings of the full moon. One woman who was kānaka ʻōiwi, or Native Hawaiian, shared with us her teachings while another woman shared with us the importance of laying tobacco down in the water to connect and pray with the full moon.

This brings up a really important distinction. BIPOC folks tend to break down the compartmentalization of the mind, body, and spirit while on the land in a way that is healing and nourishing to the soul. We recognize that our bodies, minds, and spirits are not only connected with each other but also the land and waterways. When we share our cultural and spiritual practices of the Earth and all of Her relatives, we are reconnecting and remembering the parts of our bodies and minds to our spirit and sense of spirituality. We are creating an embodied experience where all elements of ourselves and the land and waters are in alignment. 

[Our virtual launch emcees share a laugh with Graci & Faith during their conversation.]

To have spaces like Wakáŋ Tipi at all -- much less to protect them, nurture them, and re-establish sacred relationships with them -- is a victory worth celebrating. And it is true, as Faith reminded us on Monday night, that allies (including the government itself!) play a role in these victories. And yet, it is no accident that Lower Phalen Creek Project has changed over time. It is no accident that a group of largely white conservationists and community members sought to save a neglected parcel of land. It is no accident that Dakota community members were drawn to this site and the work involved in protecting it. It is no accident that we became Native-led, in our staff and board. As Maggie writes in this month’s letter from the executive director, there is no single, absolute path to land sovereignty. But to walk that path, to acknowledge that even the term “sacred site” does not fully reflect the value of a place like Wakáŋ Tipi to Dakota people -- to do these things is to begin to break out of the restraints imposed by the American empire. This is why we celebrate BIPOC-led outdoors activities. This is why we work to make green spaces accessible to our community. When the people and the land have each suffered too much to name, it is only right that they should heal and come to thrive again, together.

Seeds and Summers End

Seeds and Summers End

As we embark on another changing of the seasons, we have an opportunity to reflect on the recent past. It is easy — tempting, even — to roll all the negative, scary, stressful events of the past six months into one big anomalous nightmare. We may have heard the phrase, or perhaps even uttered it ourselves: “I just wish things would return to normal.” 

This feeling is understandable — one would have to think that anything would be better than the current state of the world. As we reach a natural transition point in our year, however, and as we take this opportunity to reflect, we must also see the potential for more. We know that the unemployment, inadequate healthcare, and lack of affordable housing we see in our communities today are not new or recent issues. It is not coronavirus that caused the death of George Floyd — it was centuries-old systems of state violence and oppression. 

How do we live with these disappointments, these evils? What gives us hope in these times? You might respond to these questions any number of ways, but to us, the answer, in a word: seeds. This is the time of year when we walk Bruce Vento Nature Sanctuary collecting the seeds and seedheads of native grasses and wildflowers, from little bluestem, to lobelia and blazing star. In so doing, we are investing in the future — our future, one with ecosystems that renew themselves and rejuvenate us. As we head into the next year, we’re partnering with organizations like Friends of the Mississippi River and Mississippi Parks Connection to update our Natural Resource Management Plan, to establish and protect native plantings that hold cultural value to Dakota people. This is but one way in which we are reclaiming relationships with green space and taking action to create the future habitats we envision.

This past Saturday, we celebrated the history of Phalen Creek as a critical relation to the Dakota people and the waterways of this area. We shared how the creek came to be named for Edward Phelan, a European settler and murderer who had no valuable or respectful relationship to the creek and its many gifts, no understanding of water as life. At this event, we acknowledged the present — we told of how the creek is lost to us, bound up in concrete, and channeling waste from one place to another. And, at this event, we envisioned the future. We envisioned the creek brought back to the surface, a creek named for its relations with Dakota people and Dakota land, a creek respected and shared by the community. The seeds of these changes, the vision of a thriving ecosystem of a creek once again flowing above ground — these seeds were planted precisely because they contain knowledge of the past.

[Above, clockwise from top left: (1) one of our Phalen Creek Story Stroll exhibit signs gives compelling reasons to daylight the creek; (2) carnations make waves along the path of Phalen Creek; (3) artists put the finishing touches on one of seven cut-flower art installations; (4) visitors watch one of the afternoon performances. (All photographs courtesy of Caroline Yang). ]

When we talk about seeds and flowers and names and communities, novelist and avid gardener Jamaica Kincaid comes to mind. Kincaid has written extensively about Antigua, the small Caribbean island where she was born and raised, and the beautiful complexities of life there. In a recent piece, reflecting on the motivations for cultivating specific plants, Kincaid writes, “The garden figures prominently in the era of conquest.” She goes on to examine how European colonists and explorers came to possess and name new (to them) plants. She laments that in the present, the fields of botany and ecology are dominated by naturalists and “plant hunters [who] are the descendants of people and ideas that used to hunt people like me.” 

[Author Jamaica Kincaid stands outside in her garden, hands clasped in front of a shovel. She wears a black cut-off t-shirt with the phrase, “I Can’t Breathe” printed on the front.]

White supremacy is interwoven in the fabric of American society, and this extends to the way we name and relate to plants, wildlife, and all beings that make up our non-human kin. The streets of the East Side, for example, bear names like Magnolia and Jessamine. As examined by Christopher Lehman in his book, Slavery's Reach, the names for these St. Paul streets came from slaveholding landowners who sought to create in the Minnesota territory a replica of their southern lifestyle. To have, in 2020, streets named for the flowers cultivated on southern plantations, streets named over a century ago by slaveholders seeking their own comfort and dominance on this land, is a shameful reminder about which narratives we choose to respect, and it brings more attention to the glaring omission and exclusion of Indigenous perspectives.

There is much about American society that seems to be infertile; polluted; broken. But, from an ecological standpoint, restoration projects are always, inevitably, long-term endeavors. Restoring a habitat is about embracing uncertainty; it is about perseverance. When we return collected seed to the soil — whether balled up in mud debris, mixed and scattered over the prairie in late winter, or planted by hand — we are using resources familiar to us and to the seeds themselves: nitrogen, oxygen; water, sun. Yet we are also trusting that the land knows what it wants to grow, what new life it can hold. And perhaps the same could be said of our society. The abolition of policing and mass incarceration; comprehensive, universal healthcare; accessible and sustainable infrastructure and institutions; sovereignty of Indigenous lands and life. We must use knowledge we already carry with us to foster these new changes; and we must trust that our world will nourish and sustain what we have borne.

[An artist smiles while laying flowers at one of seven art installations along the path of Phalen Creek. Photo credit: Caroline Yang.]

We encourage you all to take this time to reflect; to take stock of what you contain and bear out; to collect and store what you want to see grow. The time will come to plant seeds of change, but if we want these seeds to grow, we must be patient. We must trust that this world we seek will come.