on native ground
The discovery of Indigenous remains underneath the ground we walk on should not be shocking to anyone who decides to dig into it.
On March 9th, 2023 news broke that Indigenous remains were discovered at the construction site for our brand new highway in Duluth, called “The Twin Ports Interchange Project.” This is not the first time the city has disturbed burial sites during its “renewal” projects. In 2017, MnDot failed to consult with the Fond du Lac Band before beginning construction for the Highway 23 project and ended up disturbing yet another Indian burial site.
This (re)discovery (disturbance) is a perfect time to discuss settler colonialism in conversation with this resurgence of indigenous ways that have been lost in capitalist translation as “eco-friendly,” “all-natural,” “hand-crafted,” and “organic.”
I come back to Duluth maybe three or four times a year. I spend most of the year in Providence, Rhode Island, and on the campus of Brown University. Providence is rich with history (as is Duluth), and everywhere you go in the city you can find a little monument or stone acknowledging what happened on the land before us. Put simply, Providence reckons with its past. Providence does not wait until remains are found to begin to dive back into the city’s origins.
*To be clear, I am not diminishing the efforts of Indigenous leaders and advocates who are doing important work in Duluth. Rather, my frustrations are aimed toward those who:
put the lives of Native American people at the bottom of Duluth’s priority list
seek capitalist greed and in turn destroy/disturb the land, and appropriate Indigenous culture
make it so damn difficult to find information on Indigenous history in our area.
I think as we get farther away from tradition and more towards technology, we have to keep reminding ourselves who came before us. Is it not another form of colonization if we choose to put a billboard or a coffee shop where there should be a historical marker? What would it mean to have reminders everywhere in our city, so that we can’t go a day without reckoning with settler colonialism?
Each time I return, it becomes increasingly challenging to find commemorations or even acknowledgments of the original people who occupied this special place I call home. What we have right now is not nearly enough. While nothing can compensate for, or reverse the complete colonization of our city, there are specific actions we can take to increase visibility since settler colonization deemed Native Americans invisible.
When I wanted to find out more about the history of our city I had to really dig. I’m not talking about the mining/shipping/industrial history that is so readily available to us. I’m talking about the origins, the traditional ways, and the names of people who were here before allathat. This is another form of colonization. Duluth’s Indigenous history is hidden, but that doesn't mean that white Duluthians haven't profited off of Indigenous-inspired everything.
For example, this new “Craft District” in Lincoln Park (previously one of Duluth’s neglected areas) has new businesses that promote nature, handmade decor, and organic living, yet neglect to mention how the Ojibwe have been doing that for centuries (and they did it without a storefront with some weird name.)
This is what settler colonialism does. It arrives, it stays, and it wipes away…eventually profiting off of that erasure.
How powerful would it be to “give the stars their right name?” as Danez Smith puts it. The word Duluth recognizes some French guy who came here looking to make a buck. But, Onigamiinsing (“little portage”) and Misaabekong (“the place of giants”) incorporate the true and beautiful features of our city; they are the original names. There’s a difference (power in language).
All of this goes to say, those who know our city’s Indigenous history are never surprised when remains are found. In fact, for us, it serves as a reminder that more work needs to be done in order to protect and acknowledge the People who came first. This starts with a plan of attack on Settler colonialism and the Capitalist system that exploits Indigenous ways.
(For more reading on Duluth’s history, I highly recommend Linda Legarde Grover’s Gichigami Hearts.)
you can have february back
Carter G. Woodson created Negro History Week to put our names out there, but now our names flood the headlines as victims of the latest act of violence committed by the police.
Now, the week has expanded to the shortest and coldest calendar month in honor of our history. For 28 days, Target puts corny fake liberatory statements like “Curl Power” or “Young, Black, and Gifted” on their 100% cotton T-shirts. For 28 days, Good Morning America will put a black person in front of the camera and ask them questions like, “what does Black History Month mean to you?” or “are you proud to be black?”
They’ll call that “doing their part” as if the other 337 days aren't spent circulating images of black death & exploiting black men & women.
They say the month is spent celebrating us…but I still walk into a room full of white people and don’t get my standing O…so I’ll believe that when I see it.
As a matter of fact, y’all can have the whole month back.
My hands are sore from gripping onto those 28 days too tight. I’ve carried the burden of filling the auditorium (and your timeline) with black figures for too many years. I’ve been asked what the month means to me one too many times; I am giving it back.
In return for the month, I’d like all of us back.
“Us” being the ones taken from this earth too soon. “Us” being the little black boys & girls who still had growing up to do, and the black men & women who had growing old to do.
I want them live and in the flesh. Having a barbecue. Attending graduation. Baking a pie. Shopping. Getting a car wash. Having children. I want them back to living mundane lives in exchange for this mundane month.
What good is this month for a “celebration” of black history when police departments are making their own history for the most killings in one month?
So take February back & let our people come out of a traffic stop alive.
I can do without the sales, the limited edition BHM sneakers, the performative Instagram posts, & the special episode that airs on Feb. 1st.
I’d like long, full, and warm lives rather than the shortest, coldest, and pitiful 28 days.
“So take February back & let my people come out of a traffic stop alive.”
semester recap fall 2022
I am proud to say I’ve had my best semester yet and haven't even gotten my final grades back.
First, each of my four classes was crafted by professors who put a lot of thought and effort into the content of their classes. I learned theories created by genius black women, and I applied them to my life. Having that knowledge made it much easier to go about in the world. At least I knew what to call the phenomena I was experiencing. I also spent a lot of time “unlearning.” This means, what I previously held to be true and pure and right was flipped left. It was like my professors had a special flashlight that allowed me to see the truths that are hidden in the dark. I took an art history class with my good friend and spent a lot of time contemplating the role of art in our world, and in my life. I read Assata Shakur and fell in love. She’s everything I want to be. I went (multiple times) to an art show with artworks created by previously incarcerated artists. I was required to find my position on the criminal justice system in a one-page paper and wrote it in 5 minutes (no joke I had a lot to say). I developed a high school curriculum about the Kent State shooting and pondered how to teach young adults about censorship, revolution, protests, and grassroots movements.
Beyond the classroom, I grew close with one teammate and built a friendship I’ve never had before…it's really girly. We talk about boys, we go out to dinner with just ourselves, we go shopping for just one thing, we text each other about the slightest inconvenience, we ask each other for outfit/hair/nail opinions, and we give into each other’s delusions. I think that is what I was really missing these last years in school, just a real friendship. It makes sense that when I got close to her, I had a lot more fun. But she’s leaving me. Doing a semester in London. I am in awe of her determination to see the world. She’s the most independent person I know. I look up to her because of how she carries herself. I know she’s going to take over London & soon enough she’ll be telling me about the man that fell in love with her or how she got a full-time job in a law firm over there (her dream). It’ll come true.
And lastly, I worked really hard on treating myself with kindness. This looked like getting a coffee after a rough day, having a self-care night, or even reminding myself that I have good things coming in my future when things feel like they're falling apart. I most definitely haven’t perfected this skill but this semester I loved myself a lot more than I ever have. It was easier to live with myself and sit alone when I had love for myself. From me and only me.
May I always remember the lessons I learned this semester. May I never forget the knowledge I worked hard to uncover.
Fall 2022,
THANK YOU!
on takeoff
I am highly conscious of our/yall’s/my Instagram stories. In the false world of social media, stories are the easiest way to spread information. Think about it. What’s the first thing you do when you open the app? Do you start scrolling, or do you click the profile pictures of those you follow which are conveniently placed on the top of your screen? Instagram itself knows we gravitate toward stories. That’s why they put an ad in between every other story.
I'm tired of the story posts for a rapper’s death. Make it a post if it really meant something to you.
Here's a nuanced thought you probably didn't think about: the act of reposting “RIP Takeoff” or “Damn, RIP to the greatest </3” for it to disappear in 24 hours highlights the lack of concern shown towards black death. It shows the temporality a black body holds in society’s realm of care. 24 hours and it’s out of sight. I guess that's how much time society deems the black death relevant.
And I find it hard to believe that everyone’s “shocked.” You’d be shocked if Keith Urban got slain over a game of dice. You're desensitized to the death of young black rappers who produce your favorite party song.
It is a privilege to post a black man’s death, and maybe a nice picture from his life, and then move the fuck on.
I’m sure Philando Castile’s family wishes they could post and move on.
Tamir Rice’s family too. And most definitely Trayvon Martin’s family.
I didn’t forget that yall posted them as well. But you probably haven’t spoken their name since. That story post is long gone (or maybe you put it inside the “BLM” highlight in your bio).
There is nothing normal about Black men, especially artists, dying young. It is not a trend. Nor is it a ‘way of life.’ Being an artist, black, and wealthy is not the equation for a violent and premature death.
Their death means more than no more music for you. It means children lose their fathers. It means a lover loses the recipient of their love. It means parents lose their sons,
and you reposting their picture on your story is not mourning or grieving their death.
Playing his music all day today arent condolences.
If you want to grieve his death, call him by his name. His real name.
Kirshnik Khari Ball.