KEVIN ABOUREZK: It was well after midnight.

Our challenge that night was formidable-- set up seven teepees before dawn and then await the backlash.

REBEKKA SCHLICHTING: And I decide that I'm going to wear her moccasins today, and walk upon the K.U.

Hill, just as she did her freshman year of college.

LARRY SPOTTED CROW MANN: And as he spoke, time seemed to stand still.

I wanted to scream, laugh, cry, all at the same time.

There was this reverberation crying out for justice.

♪ ♪ (Larry speaking Algonquin) I just introduced myself in my Algonquin-Nipmuc language.

I am Larry Spotted Crow Mann, citizen of the Hassanamisco tribe.

And what role do you think that language plays in terms of people understanding, um, and having an awareness of Indigenous communities?

As my cousin Tall Pine used to say, "Language is the ecology of the land."

Language centers the ideology and the function of things, right?

So when we're saying things in our language, it has a whole new meaning, a whole new expression, a more intimate, personal connection.

What are some of the biggest challenges that you've faced in terms of educating people about, um, Indigenous histories?

That we're still here.

That Indigenous people are still here.

That's-that's the number one.

- Mm-hmm.

- And the second thing is that colonization and the genocide and all the harmful things that happened, it's not something of the past.

It's a continuation that we're dealing with today.

When you go into the tribal communities, when you look at the health disparities, when you look at the education disparities all across the board, Indigenous people are suffering at the top.

And so this is a consequence of-of, uh, the trauma of the historical genocide that happened here.

It was a cool fall day... ...in 1981.

There was a mist in the air.

And the ground was wet with brown and orange leaves scattered about as I walked up the steps to my junior high school in western Mass.

Now this serene and picturesque view of New England was the darkest period of my life.

You see, I'm what we call "first generation city."

I grew up in an urban neighborhood, but my mom and family grew up in the backwoods of Massachusetts, away from everybody.

The Nipmuc homelands was a vast area comprising almost two-thirds of Massachusetts, or roughly 4,000 square miles.

The entire homelands includes parts of New Hampshire, Connecticut, and Rhode island.

My family were fishermen, farmers, crafters, and laborers who used the land and their hard work to provide for them.

Their learning took place on the land and the oral stories that were passed down to them.

The word "school" itself had become a pejorative to them.

In the late 1800s, the American trope was "kill the Indian to save the man."

And during the boarding school era, the school's goal was to systematically erase culture, identity, and spirituality of Indigenous people and replace that with European values.

That's why, a hundred years later in my junior high school or high school, there was no mention of Native American people, unless it was relegated to the past or a sports team mascot.

I never heard of a Native person accomplish anything or doing anything positive in my class.

And many teachers had told me that Native people were extinct.

I felt like a hapless bystander who only stood to benefit from white proximity.

My happiest times were when I was with my grandfather in the country.

He was a quiet and reserved man who lived his life in the cabin, deep in the woods.

He had lived close to nature more than anybody I have ever known, and he was connected to all life around him.

And this backyard was no backyard at all, but actually miles of forest that actually connected up with another farm and pasture when you finally caught up to it.

My brothers and I, yeah, we used to love to walk those trails and find new paths and pick berries along the way.

That was the happiest time I was as a child.

Back at school in the city, the more I would try to fit in, the more differently I would be treated.

And there would always be that question, even from the teachers.

"What are you?"

And I'd be afraid to say because the jokes would always follow.

"Well, can you make it rain?"

"Can you walk on fire?"

Whether it was being bullied or physically attacked, I never knew what was gonna come next.

It was a deepful, painful time in my life.

And as a result, I found a way to cope with that-- or at least I thought I did-- and that was through alcohol.

And by the age of 16, I was drinking quite frequently.

Depression and alcohol was a d-- a way of life.

And things started going bad at home, so I was spending a lot of time in the streets.

And I was able to work just enough to keep my alcohol supply coming.

And right after high school, I joined the military, and did a lot more drinking.

By the age 22, I was in a rehab facility.

Now, as a kid, I had watched many of my own relatives die at a young age, younger than I was, from alcohol.

And I seemed to be heading in the same way.

Then there was that one day that changed my life.

I was in that stale cot there in the rehab, and the TV was on, and I looked over, and of all things, it was a PBS documentary.

(scattered laughter) And they were talking about Christopher Columbus and the discovery of the "New World."

That piqued my interest.

And I listened in earnest.

And the narrator went on to talk about how alcohol was brought to the New World and it was weaponized against the Indigenous population to destroy their culture and steal their land.

And as he spoke, time seemed to stand still.

I had emotions rising up inside me that I could not fully articulate.

I wanted to scream, laugh, cry, all at the same time.

There was this reverberation crying out for justice from my ancient voices that were within me.

And when I left that facility, I never drank again after that day.

That began my journey of sobriety and my mission to learning about everything I could.

And I immediately sought out my grandfather.

I had so many questions for him.

I wanted to know all about our culture.

Who took our land?

Where are all the things that were left out of the books?

And how do we get our land back?

And my grandfather told me the stories of his childhood.

He told me how they had to hunt and grow their own food and how they shared stories.

He told me how his relatives and uncles would carve bows, baskets and crafts and sell them to whites because they weren't allowed to work in white spaces.

There would be signs that would say: "No dogs or Indians allowed."

And I learned that we have over 60 Nipmuc ancestors who fought in the Civil War.

Fighting for a freedom that they did not have themselves.

And after the war, they were promised a pension.

But when they died, their spouses never received it.

And what's worse, their land was confiscated because they were considered wards of the state.

Now after coming out of this alcoholic fog and learning of such sorrow, it was quite overwhelming.

And that's when my grandfather talked to me about the healing medicine of the drum and the power it carries.

And we got together with our family.

We held awakening ceremonies with the drum.

And we did ceremony after ceremony.

The one thing I remember that my grandfather told me, he said, "Take this drum.

It's gonna heal you.

"It's gonna take you many places, and it's gonna help you out a lot."

And at the time, I did not see it, but my grandfather was so right.

Through the drum, and then later, my writing, it has taken me around the world to share the story of my people and our journey for close to over 35 years.

But the one thing my grandfather told me, he says, "Keep it going."

And above that, I'll always remember this one thing that I did with my grandfather.

That first time I got the chance to sing to him.

We were at my mom's house, and, uh, Grandpa had just finished his tea, and he was heading out to the backyard to sit under that cherry tree to smoke his pipe.

And I followed behind with drum in hand, and I began to sing, and I saw a smile on his face and a nod of approval.

(singing in Algonquin) (singing in Algonquin continues) Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ SCHLICHTING: I'm Rebekka Schlichting, I'm a member of the Ioway Tribe of Kansas and Nebraska, I'm a filmmaker, and I'm a professor at the University of Kansas.

Fantastic, and I'm just curious, can you tell us a little bit about the Ioway?

Sure, yeah, the Ioway people originated from the Great Lakes, and ever so gently, we were moved down towards Iowa, which is where Iowa, the state, gets its name now.

And then we were moved to Kansas, and when we got to Kansas, they said, "Okay, either you're going to be civilized, or you can move to Oklahoma."

And so this tribe split; half the tribe stayed in Kansas, and the other half went down to Oklahoma.

So my tribe, I am from the Kansas and Nebraska tribe.

And do you have any strong memories or could you tell the audience a little bit about what it was like to grow up on the reservation?

I grew up on multiple reservations, in a way.

I was in and out of foster care with my aunt, and so I grew up on the Ioway reservation, the Kickapoo and Sac and Fox.

So living with my parents, it was basically, I tell people, like, living out in the country.

We were surrounded by cornfields.

There was absolutely nothing to do.

The most fun I had was living with my aunt, where we got to experiment with filmmaking, and, you know, just fun little kids running around on the res with a video camera.

Tonight, you're going to share a story with us, this audience.

I'm curious when they leave here, having heard it, what would you hope that they most take away?

Yeah, you know, it goes beyond culture for this story.

It goes beyond being a Native identity.

It's more about just how you can honor someone who has passed on in whatever way feels right to you, regardless of protocols, things like that.

♪ ♪ It's 7:00 a.m., but I've been awake since 5:00, teetering with anxiety, thinking about my scheduling, my family, and wondering if my Aunt Mary is going to pass today.

Today is the fourth day that she's been in a coma.

Four is sacred in many ways: Four directions, four seasons, four stages of life.

A few days ago, I was taking my mother shopping at Walmart for some much-needed supplies with my scholarship money.

I was going in or out of Walmart when I got a call from one of my tribal grandmas.

She told me that my aunt had a stroke and that she was in the E.R.

So I go to the E.R., I walk in the room, and I see my aunt lying on the stretcher.

She's unresponsive.

I'm crying, but I'm telling her that, "It's okay, I'm here.

You are loved," while the nurse is frantically telling me that we need to transfer her right now.

So my body goes into autopilot and I dial my siblings to share the dreadful news.

For these past few days, we've been in her room at the emergency center, surrounding her with laughter, stories... (voice breaking): ...tears... ...and love before she makes her final journey into the spirit world, the happy hunting grounds.

My siblings and I make pacts that we're going to get tattoos to honor her, and my oldest sibling scoffs at us in non-support.

It's the fourth day; I need to do something to honor her.

I go to my closet where we have our shared family powwow regalia, and I'm ruffling through ribbon skirts, leathers, feathers, and I find her moccasins, which have a simple star design on the top, beaded with blacks, gradients of dark blues, greens with silver accents.

And I decide that I'm going to wear her moccasins today to honor her, and walk upon the K.U.

Hill, just as she did her freshman year of college.

So I put those moccasins on my feet, and I tie those light tan leather straps really tight so that they don't fall off during that mile-long journey up the K.U.

Hill.

All the while, I'm praying that nobody asks me about my moccasins, for I will cry thinking about my aunt, who's laying, taking her final breaths, just 30 miles from here.

I somehow manage to get through class, I get some food, and I go back to my boyfriend's apartment.

I'm sitting on the couch, fumbling through pages, trying so hard to focus on abnormal psychology.

But I can't.

I have a sense of urgency.

So I grab my medicine pouch, my tobacco, my sage, and I hop into my 2004 smoke gray Hyundai Accent, and I drive out to Haskell Indian Nations University.

I pull up on this worn path just outside of a tree line that covers the sacred medicine wheel, which is mowed into the grass like a giant crop circle.

I come in through the west, and I make my way clockwise to the east to begin.

And now I don't have a ceremony in mind, but I go with what feels right.

I grew up on the Sac and Fox Reservation in Kansas as a member of the Ioway Tribe.

And the Ioway tribe neighbors the Sac and Fox, but for whatever reason-- maybe they had better HUD houses at the time-- but we ended up on the Sac and Fox Reservation.

And I grew up with my father, who was very proud of his German heritage, and my mother, who learned at a very young age to dislike her Native identity.

It was really my Aunt Mary who showed me the beauty of our Native culture.

She took me to powwows, to ceremonies, and to classes.

I know some traditional knowledge from growing up in this area, from going to these powwows, from going to ceremonies, and from going to a tribal high school and elementary.

So when I enter the east, I know that I'm entering the beginning of life.

I acknowledge that.

I give thanks for the beginning of this life.

I give thanks for this life.

I give an offering, I say a prayer, and then I sing one of the very few powwow songs that I know very well as I make my way to each direction.

♪ Yooo doo way hi ya ho way hi ya hey yo ♪ And now I'm in the south.

And in the south, it's the space between the beginning of life and the elders.

And so I think about my aunt at this time, and the role that she's played in my life, and the role that she's played in anybody's life that she's ever encountered or walked with.

And I move to the west, the elders' section.

And I thank Creator for the elders' wisdom, for passing on those traditions, and for my aunt who made it this far in her life and was able to do that.

Then I make my way to the north, the spirit realm, and I speak to my ancestors who have gone before me, and I tell them that it's okay.

That she can go home now.

We had pulled life support recently, and so we were just waiting, but the waiting was torture for our family.

I moved to the center of the circle, and I raised my hands up to the sky, and I raise them down to the earth, and then to myself.

(deep breath) And I feel better, and I leave weightless.

Back at my boyfriend's apartment, I'm sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, finally able to focus and study, and then I get a text.

"Shona.

She's gone."

I hop into my car and go to the emergency room right away.

I walk through the door, and I see my youngest aunt, dressing my auntie in her powwow regalia.

And anytime I've seen her wear her powwow regalia, she was lit up with happiness, sharing good food, laughing with friends, and being able to pass on those traditions to future generations like myself.

So I take her moccasins off of my feet, and I slip them over hers; the final touch.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ ABOUREZK: My name is Kevin Abourezk.

I grew up in South Dakota.

I live now in Lincoln, I'm a married father of five, and I serve as managing editor for Indianz.com.

That's "Indianz" with a Z, it's a Native American news website.

And I've heard that you are particularly interested in spreading the word about the stories about the accomplishments, the lives, and tragedies of Native Americans.

And I'm so curious, what do you feel is missing in the mainstream awareness of the topics that you talk about?

Too often, when Native American people are the subject of news articles, it's something negative, it's, you know, a story about poverty, it's a story about hardship, or decline within our Native communities.

I think that mainstream America really needs to be able to see stories about accomplishments, about the resilience of our cultures and our beliefs.

So, that's, that's my job.

I'm wondering, you know, you have a background as a journalist.

Here, you're sharing a personal story on stage.

Do you feel that your career has informed you getting to this point or had a role to play?

I believe that my journalism really has prepared me for storytelling.

That's what you do in good journalism, you know?

You're telling stories, you're always trying to get to the heart of whatever it is you're writing about, you know, whether it's trying to find out what motivates a young Native mother to keep going and go to school and, you know, build a better life for herself.

You're always trying to get to that heart, that core of that story.

♪ ♪ On a cool, damp night under a new moon, nearly a dozen people drove two pickup trucks onto a hill and began unloading teepee poles and canvases.

Slowly, we lined up the poles one by one.

We were cold and tired.

We laughed about that.

It was well after midnight, and we couldn't risk somebody seeing even the smallest flashlight, so we did everything under the cover of darkness.

Our challenge that night was formidable; set up seven teepees before dawn and then await the backlash.

Earlier that day, as the sun had set, an Omaha grass dancer performed on the site where the teepees would be built and prayed for our endeavor.

We had spent the previous week preparing for this protest.

We had gathered in secret at the Lincoln Indian Center to establish teams, each one with its own charge.

One to set up the teepees, one to provide supplies to the encampment, and one to prepare for any legal backlash we might suffer, such as being arrested for occupying land that we didn't own and hadn't been invited to occupy.

Personally, I wasn't excited about the idea of being arrested.

I'd never been arrested.

My worst legal infraction involved carrying a cup of beer outside of a house party in college a week before my 21st birthday.

I didn't like the idea of acquiring a criminal history and becoming the stereotypical "no good Indian."

I didn't like the idea of giving a future employer a reason not to hire me.

But mostly, I didn't like the idea of anyone else from our encampment being arrested, but being arrested was a very strong possibility if we moved forward with our occupation of Snell Hill.

It was an audacious idea, thought up by a friend following a particularly disheartening city council meeting a week before that had ended with approval of a massive housing development right across the street from the city's largest park, as well as its oldest and most heavily used inipi or sweat lodge.

The memory of that city council meeting hung heavy in my thoughts.

My daughter and I had spoken at the meeting, trying to urge the city council to reject this massive housing development.

Dozens of people had joined us in an effort to do the same.

Having to watch as my friends and my daughter stood with tears outside that city council chamber motivated me to take action.

But it was the city council's unwillingness to even look at us while they deliberated this development that inspired us to set up seven teepees on the land where the housing development would be built, land that was owned by the Catholic Church, but was soon to be owned by a development company.

The property was in a fairly secluded part of town, with just a few homes around it, and Highway 77 on its western perimeter.

A few cars traveled on the gravel road as we set up the teepees.

We wanted the city to see us.

We wanted our city fathers and mothers to remember that we were here and we weren't going anywhere.

Being invisible is nothing new to Native people.

Centuries ago, the federal government had moved us onto isolated places, land that nobody wanted, and expected us to give up our hunter-gatherer lifestyles in favor of farming.

We had done our best to provide for ourselves.

On the hardscrabble earth of southwestern South Dakota, where my people, the Oglala and Rosebud Lakota, had been moved.

But we didn't take to farming, and we've struggled to make the transition to capitalism.

My own family has struggled with alcoholism, diabetes, and violence.

I've lost relatives in their 20s and 30s to drinking.

But I also grew up steeped in the cultural traditions of my people, and in the activism of Indigenous leaders like Russell Means and Frank LaMere.

Over the years, I'd become an activist myself, unwilling to stand idly by as my people are mistreated or exploited.

I'd begun my activism years earlier when, as president of my college's Native Student Association, I held a protest following the university's decision to penalize a Native student who had burned sage in his dorm room while praying.

Since then, I'd hosted numerous rallies and marches, and carried signs in protest of Native people slain by police.

And on a cool, damp night last April, I found myself hoisting teepee poles and draping heavy canvas over conical skeletons.

The people I joined on Snell Hill were mostly people I had joined in ceremony, but a few of them were fairly new friends.

Following our experience on Snell Hill, we all became like relatives.

As the sun crept over the eastern horizon that morning, I snapped a photo of the site.

The image of the seven teepees and the gray clouds above them looked like a grim watercolor painting.

It reminded me of my mood that morning-- proud, but anxious.

Shortly after 7:00 a.m. local media, law enforcement, and the Catholic Diocese all received email notifications of our occupation.

About an hour later, a police cruiser drove onto the site and got out.

The Native members of our camp stayed back while we sent a non-Native to negotiate with the officer.

I think I can speak for every Native person in the camp that morning when I express my feeling of fear and uncertainty over the presence of the officer on the site.

While we were all law-abiding citizens otherwise, that's never been a guarantee of civility when it comes to our interactions with police.

Native people are more likely than anyone to be killed by police.

That's why that morning we sent a non-Native member of our camp to talk to the officer.

That day we had chosen an artist named Josh, an affable, middle-aged man with a nice smile and a calm demeanor to talk to the officer.

They spoke for several minutes.

The officer didn't seem angry, but perhaps a bit annoyed.

After they finished their conversation, the officer got into his cruiser and drove away.

The moment had ended peacefully, and we went about the work of establishing the Niskíthe Prayer Camp.

In the end, we spent 16 days on Snell Hill, more than two weeks spent educating our neighbors about our cultural traditions and the reasons for our occupation.

We hosted many organizations, including churches, social justice organizations, and city council members.

We held ceremonies and celebrations for as many as 60 people.

Sixteen days spent getting to know one another and forging lasting friendships.

I wouldn't change anything about our occupation of Snell Hill, though we endured many trials-- wintry and rainy weather, even the occasional disagreement over how to proceed with our encampment.

And we had more than one angry person drive by, including one man who drove his pickup truck right up to our teepees, and got out and began yelling at our members.

And while we haven't been able to stop the housing development from happening, I believe that we sent a powerful message to our city leaders about the resilience of our Native cultural beliefs and practices.

And I believe we reminded everyone that we're here and we're not going anywhere.

But most importantly, I feel that we planted the seeds of advocacy within future environmental leaders, such as my daughter Maya, who I am certain one day will stand up for her people and her sacred Mother Earth or Unci Maka.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪