For me, the numbers in this illustration aren’t the most troubling issue (though they are, indeed, troubling). Looking again at the white kid, they are surrounded by mirrors of all shapes and sizes reflecting an assortment of characters back at them. In the mirrors the child sees themself as an astronaut, a firefighter, a superhero, royalty, young, and old. How great it must be for a child to be able to identify with such a wide array of representations—as an Indigenous person, I wouldn’t know. There’s power in that kind of media recognition. When you’re seen as multifaceted, never mind being seen at all, it’s likely others will see the issues that matter to you, and it’s also likely you’ll see yourself and the potential person you might become—a hero, a professional, or simply happy.

Compare that to the Native child depicted, whose mirror can barely reflect one whole eyeball. This is what happens to Natives beyond age and across all media platforms: We are barely there—or missing. And if not missing, then misrepresented, which is the same as being actively erased. But books aren’t the only platform lacking Native representation. Every media platform from movies to television shows to news organizations has a Native identity problem. We’re depicted as historical props and background pieces, comedic sidekicks, or fantastically supernatural—and rarely more than one-dimensional. There are thousands of unique Indigenous tribes existing across the Americas today and yet most non-Native people think “long, dark hair, headdress, and scantily-clad brown skin” when asked to describe someone Indigenous to these lands. If we’re shown in a contemporary light, you get poverty porn directed by an outside lens.

Because of how few opportunities there are for an Indigenous writer to be published (and published mainstream), and because I know their work to be invaluable toward the betterment of all Indigenous people, I tend to seek out Indigenous content producers. The authors listed (and the hundreds of others on my “favorite” lists) are talented and prolific writers. They are constantly creating, despite unwilling publishers, despite health issues, and despite limited access to sought-after MFA programs. Smith is one of my favorites because many of her books are for audiences my daughter’s age and younger; that’s important for the reasons made clear from the graphic described above. Kurisato teaches me something—usually about myself—every time I read something new from her; I am very inspired by the words she puts out into the world and being inspired is important to a content creator like me. Janis is a relative of mine from South Dakota and has refused let an inaccessible publishing industry dissuade her from self-publishing several epic fantasy series.

You work across so many formats: writing, photography, video, design, speaking. How has leveraging a variety of media helped you express yourself and spread your message?

Writing had always been a strength and in college someone told me I could get paid to write for newspapers looking specifically for Indigenous writers. So my undergrad was spent studying journalism in a growing digital landscape.

In a Native journalism training program, we were told newsrooms needed our tribal perspectives to not only ensure fairness and balance, but also to push for Native representation beyond the crime beat and beyond the powwow picture. The idea that I could help guide change regarding the perception of Native people (among Natives and non-Natives alike) resonated with me.

I’ve been working as a professional journalist for more than 15 years, first as a daily multimedia reporter for several Midwest newspapers, then as a multimedia freelancer for national publications, then as an editor for an international magazine, and now as a multimedia communications professional for a tribal school district. Journalism helped me find a voice that relied on facts, sources, and constitutional legality and ethics, but more importantly helped me discover my passion for storytelling, a word I use very purposefully to connect me to my people’s way of sharing knowledge—with or without written words.

Through journalism I developed a (I hope) healthy urge to remain atop the latest media trends, especially within digital technology and social media—all storytelling tools, of course. In journalism, you learn quickly that the more ways you can tell a story, the better people will hold onto it. Above all else, utilizing new media technology and sources has been the single-best strategy for growing into changing journalism roles, which for me now includes Indigenous activism and advocacy.

Standing Rock and the #NoDAPL movement showcased the power of social and visual media when helmed by Indigenous content producers. It wasn’t the New York Times or Associated Press or Huffington Post breaking the stories out of camp and exposing North Dakota’s state-sanctioned violence against Native people. That people across the globe knew anything was thanks to the many embedded Native journalists and activists who told their truths via tweets, Instagram and Facebook Live.

How does your writing/art inform your on-the-ground activism (like rioting), and vice-versa?

In an underrated tweet from 2014, Teju Cole wrote, “Writing as writing. Writing as rioting. Writing as righting. On the best days, all three.” I love that sentiment and feel like it best describes what I hope to do with my writing. On my best days, the three are one in the same.

My writing on Indigenous issues often incites bullying and harassment from non-Natives. I call for folks to stop supporting racist Indian mascots and stand with Indigenous people against Big Oil and it never fails that a stranger tells me I’m oppressing them and to kill myself. Even my poems create intense backlash, so I must be doing something right/riot[ous]. I think many Black and brown folks would agree: Regardless of the platform, the demand for justice is often labeled violent and met with vitriol.

The activism and advocacy I accomplish strengthens my writing with relevance and accountability. For me, that’s important. If I can’t testify, I march. If I can’t march, I donate. If I can’t donate, I volunteer. If I can’t volunteer, I promote. Sometimes I do all these things and more, or none of these things. But always I vote. And always I write. The hope is to inspire action of some kind—even if the only person I inspire is myself.

What can readers do to support your work?

Oh, let me count the ways!

Support Native media makers whenever and however you can. Consume our work, yes, but make sure you also compensate us financially. Buy our books, subscribe to our magazines and newspapers, watch our movies, listen to our music, and make sure your local art show has Indigenous representation.

Talk to the leaders within government, education, the arts, health, etc., and ask how Indigenous people are represented at the highest level—demand our seat at the table!

Make sure to buy from legit Native vendors, not just those “inspired by” and wanting to “honor” Natives by appropriating our designs, traditions and spiritualties for profit.

Follow, like and share our content on your social media platforms—not once or twice, but always.

Learn the names of your community’s original Indigenous inhabitants. Acknowledge them as often as you can and understand that you are always on Indigenous land. Support Indigenous resistance and join local movements in your area through volunteer work, financial donations, listening, and voting.

Don’t buy that Indian princess costume, burn that chicken-feather headdress, abolish Columbus Day, retire Indian mascots, divest from banks that support Big Oil interests, and stop violence against Native womxn and Two Spirits.

Be transparent. Recognize that your intentions and the impact you have on others aren’t the same thing. Accept criticism. You will make mistakes—learn, grow, and try again. Whatever you do, do something.

There’s so much more! Not sure what to do or how to help? Ask us how!

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