Boozhoo and welcome to your Heart Berry Beadwork/Moccasin making tip of the Day. Today we are at this exciting step of pulling out our tracing paper. We get to actually see what our project will look like!! Also I ramble on about being an imperfect beader.
Why does art even matter anyway? Shouldn't we be doing more? The power of an image can hit you in the stomach and lodge itself in our heart. We are all carrying parts of the MMIW epidemic in our stomach and our hearts as well. Art makes us VISIBLE. When we as Indigenous people are SEEN, we cannot be denied. The Movement to address the MMIW epidemic is gaining ground. We need powerful imaging of ourselves as strong, fierce, and resilient. We need to be reminded that we are not only survivors but victors. The art of the MMIW movement is an incredible example of how we as Indigenous people wrap ourselves around a concept and make it beautiful. Any search of...
I didn't grow up in a wigwam. Shocking, I know. I grew up on Reservation Road. That is not a metaphor. I LITERALLY grew up on Reservation Road. In my great grandparent’s house using the little yellow outhouse. Saturday I met an elder who very proudly and sweetly glowed about her granddaughter. She told me she is a sixth generation jingle dress dancer. I told her that is amazing... and I am grateful their family made it so far intact. But my reaction to her was tainted with a little bit of jealousy, resentment, and shame. She left me wondering whether I am worthy of this dress, this dance, this way of life… To my knowledge there are no jingle...
My Grandma was not one of those fun grandmas. At her house we did not make messes or have sleepovers. She was a boarding school survivor, strict catholic, and quite frankly as a kid she scared me. As my grandma grew into her last years though I was a budding geneologist, cultural artist, and loved photos. I loved to ask her about her life, about pictures, and about our shared childhood home on Reservation road. She was not a maker. I never saw her create art of any kind. So why name the moccasin book Nookomis Obagijigan? Kadina was sent to Red Lake Boarding School in 1923. She grew up the child of the nuns who beat her. I don't know...
