In forests across North America, a humble forager shapes ecosystems in ways few people notice. Squirrels, with their endless caching and forgetfulness, are not just entertaining backyard acrobats; they’re essential engineers of our forests. Every nut they bury and fail to retrieve plants the possibility of a future tree, a quiet act of reforestation repeated millions of times over.
In Squirrel: How a Backyard Forager Shapes Our World, author Nancy F. Castaldo invites readers to see these small mammals as more than scatterbrained hoarders. Through wit, history, and ecology, she reveals the profound intelligence behind their behavior and their role as keystone species sustaining the health of entire ecosystems.
In this excerpt from Chapter One, “As a Keystone Species,” Castaldo explores how the squirrel’s “enhanced” cognitive abilities, instinctive drive for survival, and sometimes-forgotten food caches knit together the forest’s living architecture — proving that even the smallest creatures can hold up the biggest systems.
“Keystone: a central stone at the summit of an arch, locking the whole together.” —Oxford English Dictionary
“I learned a fun fact about squirrels. . . . Squirrels cannot find 80 percent of the nuts they hide. Are you kidding me? Is that the greatest thing you’ve ever heard in your life? First of all, animals aren’t supposed to make mistakes. But secondly, I made this realization. . . . Hold your skulls in, because your brains are gonna [f***ing] explode. That’s how trees are planted,” pronounced comedian Sarah Silverman.
Ernest Thompson Seton, naturalist and pioneering founder of the Boy Scouts of America, wrote in the foreword to his 1922 animal-fiction story Bannertail: The Story of a Graysquirrel, “In the nut forests of America, practically every tree was planted by the Graysquirrel, or its kin. No squirrels, no nut-trees.” While Seton often anthropomorphized his animals with the human qualities of curiosity, desire, and sympathy, garnering negative and vocal criticism from other naturalists, his observations should not be discounted.
Is Seton or Silverman correct? Perhaps both or neither. Plants rely on seed dispersal for their survival. While some plants have seeds that fly away in the wind, many need a creature, such as a bird or squirrel, to carry away the seed. Whether a seed is picked up on fur and brought inadvertently to a new location, excreted after being eaten, or carried away and planted in the earth, plants have relationships with dispersers. These relationships are crucial to the survival of forest ecosystems; they are crucial to our own survival. Evidence of a seed dispersal crisis in Europe in 2024 indicated that for 30 percent of plant species, most of their dispersers are threatened or declining, demonstrating how vital seed dispersers, such as squirrels, are in our world.
Squirrels are dispersers. They do plant trees, but the process is more complex than both Silverman’s and Seton’s pronouncements. Squirrels have used their skill at finding food to their advantage, and this demonstrates an “enhanced” cognitive ability. Their food-caching behavior does not lack purpose or direction. And so we must consider the brains of squirrels, how squirrels contribute to the health of our forests, and their role as keystone species.
“Not much goes on in the mind of a squirrel. Huge portions of what is loosely termed ‘the squirrel brain’ are given over to one thought: food,” wrote Kate DiCamillo in Flora and Ulysses, a novel centered on a girl and a squirrel that won the John Newbery Medal in 2014. DiCamillo wasn’t wrong in describing squirrels’ focus and behavior toward food. But that drive for sustenance is present among most animals. From wolves to pelicans, wild creatures constantly think about their next meal. It’s a matter of survival. Squirrels aren’t an exception. Without that drive for sustenance, they perish. But there is more to the squirrel brain than DiCamillo’s description suggests.
Squirrel brain is often used as a derogatory metaphor for someone having scattered and fuzzy thinking without much depth or connection. The truth is much different. Squirrel brains, about the size of a walnut, are substantially more complex. Just as scientists have observed in other creatures, there is a great deal we are uncovering about animal brains and cognition. Squirrel brains are quite large compared with the size of their bodies, quite larger than those of other rodents. This ratio, comparable to that of many primates, demonstrates cognition complexity. This complexity is seen in the way they group their nuts. Squirrels use the method of “spatial chunking,” keeping their nuts grouped according to type, to help them remember where they are stashed. Walnuts with walnuts. Hazelnuts with hazelnuts. They also group nuts by size. This is not fuzzy thinking.
Noted US squirrel researcher Michael Steele, along with researchers from Germany and the United Kingdom, explored the “enhanced” cognitive ability of gray squirrels. While they found that some cognitive abilities in gray squirrels, such as solving novel problems, has undergone mild variation as they have adapted to new environments, the previously reported enhanced performance is likely a general characteristic that brings fitness advantages to this species and contributes to their adaptability to new environments. Squirrels demonstrate exceptional problem-solving abilities and have a complex communication system that includes both sound and scent to share information of threats and food sources. “Squirrel brain,” then, is far from scattered and fuzzy. And having that brain also has a huge impact on our forests.
In Bannertail, Seton captured a squirrel’s robust autumn food drive: “No longer wabbly or vague, as in that first autumn, but fully aroused and dominating was the instinct to gather and bury every precious, separate nut. Bannertail had had to learn slowly and partly by seeing the Redsquirrels making off with the prizes. But he had learned, and his brood had the immediate stimulus of seeing him and their mother at work; and because he was of unusual force, it drove him hard, with an urge that acted like a craze. He worked like mad, seizing, stripping, smelling, appraising, marking, weighing every nut he found.”
Anyone, like Seton, who has observed squirrels during autumn can relate to Bannertail’s urge that made him act in a “craze” to gather nuts. The urgency squirrels exhibit not only enables them to feed throughout the cold months ahead; their behavior also builds forests.
This wasn’t the first time Seton wrote about squirrels. A decade earlier, he included squirrels among sixty mammalian wildlife species in Life-Histories of Northern Animals: An Account of the Mammals of Manitoba. Most of his remarks that follow the sections on classification are his personal observations or those of his friends and colleagues. “I am informed by A. K. Fisher that at the southern end at Lake George, in early autumn, it is sometimes an everyday occurrence to see Red-squirrels swimming across the lake, from west to east (about two miles)—never in the opposite direction. The chestnut grows abundantly on the eastern side of the lake, but it is comparatively scarce on the western, and these extensive migrations always take place in years when the yield of chestnuts is large.”
Lake George is a thirty-two-mile-long lake in northern New York state’s Adirondack Mountains. The mountains make up the southern part of the Eastern Temperate Forests ecoregion, which extends into Maine and eastern Canada and is home to the state’s Adirondack Park Forest Preserve. The forests in the park and around Lake George consist of hemlocks, spruces, beeches, pines, and broad-leaved trees. Red squirrels, as well as eastern gray squirrels and two species of flying squirrels, make their home in the forests along with a host of other mammals, including moose, deer, and beavers.
A. K. Fisher’s observations of chestnut-searching swimming squirrels in Lake George were not the only observations in the Adirondacks. Early studies of red squirrels in the mountains reported sightings of squirrels swimming across Big Moose Lake, Long Lake, Brantingham Lake, and Lake George. Seton also included James Higby’s observation of June 1877; Higby witnessed as many as fifty squirrels crossing Big Moose Lake.
Another account was documented in Winslow Watson’s history of Essex County: “The autumn of 1851 afforded one of these periodical invasions of Essex County. It is well authenticated, that the red-squirrel was constantly seen in the widest parts [about seven miles] of [Lake Champlain], far out from land, swimming towards the shore, as if familiar with the service; their heads above water, and their bushy tails erect and expanded, and apparently spread to the breeze. Reaching land, they stopped for a moment, and relieving their active and vigorous little bodies from the water, by an energetic shake or two, they bounded into the woods, as light and free as if they had made no extraordinary effort.”
The massive chestnut trees at the Adirondack lake were appreciated not only by native squirrel species; they also appeared in many works of art at the turn of the century, including Robert Melvin Decker’s Old Chestnuts at Bolton, Lake George, circa 1890–95. Alfred Stieglitz captured a dying chestnut tree on the eastern edge of Lake George in a 1927 photograph. None of this art captured swimming or climbing squirrels.
However, those chestnut trees, a boon for American red squirrels, were doomed when the nonnative Chinese chestnut tree entered the United States with a lethal fungus.
On an autumn day roughly a century after Stieglitz took that photo, I sat near that site at the southern end of Lake George, reading Diane Ackerman’s passages about squirrels in her book Cultivating Delight.
As with my many other visits to the lake over the years, I did not witness a single red or gray squirrel swimming in the lake. I also haven’t seen those majestic chestnuts that propelled the swimming behavior that Seton memorialized in 1909. The lack of chestnut trees altered the composition of the forests and the behavior of the wildlife that depended on them.
Fortunately, those American red squirrels did not completely rely on the chestnuts for their survival. But it is easy to see how we could have had a different outcome with the population of our common squirrels.
These days, post chestnut tree habitation, red squirrels harvest seeds from Adirondack conifers, including pines, spruces, and firs. They also feed on birch catkins and sugar maple bark and seeds. The Adirondack forests also provide them with nuts from beaked hazelnut and American hazelnut and the berries of northern wild raisin, wintergreen, and partridgeberry. They are regularly seen on all forest trails.
In this program, we drop in on a remarkable conversation between two world-renowned Native American women artists. National Poet Laureate and musician Joy Harjo riffs with renowned photographer Cara Romero. They discuss how life is art, and how they make their art to reflect the lived truths of their cultures and people.
Featuring
Joy Harjo is an internationally renowned performer and writer of the Muscogee Nation. She served three terms as the 23rd Poet Laureate of the United States from 2019-2022 and is winner of the Poetry Society of America’s 2024 Frost Medal, Yale’s 2023 Bollingen Prize for American Poetry, and was recently honored with a National Humanities Medal.
Cara Romero is a contemporary fine art photographer. An enrolled citizen of the Chemehuevi Indian Tribe in California, her art is shaped by a visceral approach to representing Indigenous and non-Indigenous cultural memory, collective history, and lived experiences from a Native American female perspective. Along with her art career, Cara is the Executive Director of Bioneers.
Credits
Executive Producer: Kenny Ausubel
Written by: Kenny Ausubel
Senior Producer and Station Relations: Stephanie Welch
Associate Producer: Emily Harris
Producer: Teo Grossman
Host and Consulting Producer: Neil Harvey
Production Assistance and Program Engineer: Mika Anami
This program features music by Joy Harjo and from Nagamo Publishing, the Indigenous-created music library.
This is an episode of the Bioneers: Revolution from the Heart of Nature series. Visit the radio and podcast homepage to find out how to hear the program on your local station and how to subscribe to the podcast.
Subscribe to the Bioneers: Revolution from The Heart of Nature podcast
Transcript
Neil Harvey (Host): In this program, we drop in on a remarkable conversation between two world-renowned Native American women artists. National Poet Laureate and musician Joy Harjo riffs with distinguished fine art photographer Cara Romero. They discuss how life is art, and how they make their art to reflect the lived truths of their cultures and people.
This is “The Power of Art for Healing and Justice” with Joy Harjo and Cara Romero.
Cara Romero (CR): Wow. Another full house. Good afternoon, everybody, thank you for coming today. My name is Cara Romero. Welcome to the 18th annual Indigenous Forum. We’re on day two of our annual conference. I’m really excited to be here with you…
Host: In March 2025 during the annual Bioneers conference, Cara Romero – Executive Director of Bioneers and Co-Director of the Indigeneity Program – sat down with celebrated poet Joy Harjo for a conversation at the Indigenous Forum.
Cara Romero and Joy Harjo at Bioneers 2025
A musician and performer, Joy Harjo is a Muscogee Creek matriarch. She was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in the heart of Muscogee Creek Nation. She comes from a people rich in tradition. They are language speakers, storytellers, singers, artists, preachers, dancers, and fierce protectors of their culture and community.
Joy came of age amid the 1960s backdrop of intense political and civil rights movements, including those for Native rights. Poetry became part of her artistic life amid this larger upheaval. She has received numerous awards and written eleven volumes of poetry, From 2019 through 2022, Joy served three terms as the 23rd United States Poet Laureate, She has been an inspiration for countless young Native artists.
Cara Romero is a contemporary fine art photographer. An enrolled citizen of the Chemehuevi Indian Tribe in California, Her art is shaped by a visceral approach to representing Indigenous and non-Indigenous cultural memory, collective history, and lived experiences from a Native American female perspective. She uses contemporary photographic techniques to depict the modernity of Native peoples, illuminating Indigenous worldviews and aspects of supernaturalism in everyday life.
Here’s Cara Romero and Joy Harjo.
Cara Romero (CR): I wanted to talk to Joy today about what art has given to me, to my community, and what her art inspires us to think about and to be about.
I wanted to ask you about your earliest memories, about your childhood, about those memories that form us, that make us who we are later in life. And I know the stories of the Muscogee Creek people and how they made it to Oklahoma. Can you talk a little bit about your family’s history, about coming to Oklahoma, and maybe a little bit about what you were like as a young girl?
Joy Harjo(JH): Oh man…That’s a long story. Like where do we start? Because we started out in the Southeast, and were illegally removed by Andrew Jackson, who is—went against Congress, etc., to force us out. And my relatives stood up at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend against that illegal move, but here we are in, now in Oklahoma. The Muscogee Creek Nation is now in Oklahoma.
And my father, my father’s Muscogee Creek, and we knew the story. We knew our relatives’ names. And that’s just always part of you. It’s not something that…I didn’t come from a stereotype. I came up in a family. There was cool stuff. My mother wrote songs and did demos for her music. And my dad, he was so good looking, and he loved to party. And we lived next door to the bootlegger. So we had some good times until they weren’t any good times.
Joy Harjo. Credit: Karen Kuehn
But I grew up in a house of music. But also, really, I mean, now there’s a word for historical trauma. There wasn’t then. But, you know, there were those kinds of things happening too. But in the middle of it all, I knew I was loved, and I always had a kind of of compassion for my father and my mother.
And I think of my earliest memories, of course, is being a kid, and you realize—I mean, you think about your consciousness now, but when you’re a little child, your consciousness was still there. And as a child, I can remember being in that realm where I…It’s like the realm you go to when you create, or if you’re really good at fixing cars, and you’re listening to the engine and all that. It’s the same kind of realm. Or scientific study, or with a baby in your arms at 3 in the morning while you’re trying to rock them to sleep. It’s a similar kind of realm, where you’re in touch with things.
And I remember very early on that I preferred to be there sometimes, or outside. I wanted to be by myself, often. I always—I felt more myself by myself. I was in the closet a lot. The closet was full of my art, as was the garage.
Joy at Institute of American Indian Arts as a high school student in the 1970s
But we were laughing the other day about names and naming, and I said, well, I was so morose, but they named me Joy. I mean, I was funny. I cared about my mother so deeply. I would run her bath and I would do things to make her laugh. I was the trickster. I was always doing things to make people laugh that I’d get into trouble. I got into more trouble than any of my brothers and sisters, just because I would run—I was very creative. But I loved – art is where I found myself. We don’t really have words for art. I think it’s part of something everybody did. You’d sit at the table, people would be drawing, carving—it was all—knitting, whatever people did. It’s just all part of life, the art of life and the art of living.
CR: I think my very earliest memories are when our family relocated from Los Angeles. I was born in Redondo Beach in Los Angeles to interracial parents. My dad is Native. My mom is non-Native. And our tribe had reorganized in the heart of the Mojave Desert, and my whole family moved back—my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, my mom and dad, my brother and I. We all lived in one trailer at the end of a dirt road, which eventually became our first council house for our tribe.
And we had the most pristine, undeveloped shoreline on the California side of Lake Havasu, and it was just in its kind of new strange beginnings at an edge of—all of our ancestral homelands were under the water, and here we were moving back as a tribe after a time of great sadness. You know, everybody had left when they flooded in the valley, and we moved back.
But I never thought of myself as an artist. It wasn’t something that we pursued as—like it wasn’t a pursuit. But I think back, as we get asked these questions a lot – when did you know you were an artist, or when did you become an artist. And I have to think back to these early memories and think, well, I was always an artist. You know? That was my best friend.
When there was chaos, when there was drinking, when there was trauma, when there—when you got sent to your room for getting in trouble, art was always there never asking anything from me. It was always just a place that I could go.
And so I drew. I drew for hours. You know, I grew up before cellphones and computers and all of that. And I think of those early childhood memories so fondly. And I think that they’re really important to who we become and how we form as young individuals.
Because, I think a lot of times we grew up out of place. You know, here we are like young Native kids in public school systems, and we live in these parallel worlds where it’s one way back home and then representation and academia or media or Hollywood is absurdly different. You know? Or what we read in textbooks about ourselves, or when we study cultural anthropology.
When I stumbled back into art, for me it was photography that changed my life. But I knew instantly that I was going to be able to tell stories through the art; that I wasn’t going to fit in writing textbooks or maybe being a Native studies professor, but it was actually through art.
Can you talk a little bit about the power that you felt when you became an artist to maybe do more for your community and for people than you ever imagined?
JH: I always felt like an artist, but I thought I was going to be a painter. Because I could go into that space, into that space, and listen and create, and so on.
And I was at the University of New Mexico, and part of KIVA Club, which was our Native student center and place where we could go and be with ourselves and be with each other. And we were—because of the times, I think it started as kind of a social club, but it became a place of awareness and issues, political gatherings and so on. We became very active.
And a lot of the political actions, Native rights movements were going on, and so on, and a lot of the surrounding Native communities, some of them would come to us because, well, we’re Native students at the university, so we must be smart in those kinds of ways, because that’s why a lot of us were sent there or were there, so we could go back to our communities with what we learned out there.
I remember going out to some of these meetings with uranium companies out near Laguna, or out in Navajo land who were dealing with the coal companies, and just sitting there and witnessing. I was a witness. And that’s where, for me, poet—my mother’s a song lyrics poetry and music, but listening to how these beautiful ways these people talked, sometimes in their own language, sometimes in English, that was very metaphorical in the way that I think all of used to use language.
I’ve heard language people in Muscogee, Hawaiian, and other Native languages say people don’t speak in metaphor like they used to, because when you use text, you usually don’t speak in metaphor. Well, what does metaphor do? It opens the space up from maybe two dimensional or three dimensional to maybe five or six dimensional. That’s the power of metaphor.
So I was listening to these people in the community make this connection with who they were as a people, and how they belonged to the land, and how they had been there, why they were there, and what their connection was. And they were standing there as guardians. Really, that’s really what got my writing started. I started writing poetry. But, I came to realize that what motivated me was healing and justice. Those became major motivators.
Poetry to me was similar to art in the sense that you were still, even in art, you’re dealing with rhythm, you’re dealing with color, you’re dealing with phrasing. It’s just—You know, and images in a certain way. I used to tell the artist Jaune Quick-to-See Smith, I said you paint like a writer and I write like a painter. And that’s what started my poetry.
Which made no sense to anybody. How are you going to make a living? Poetry? And then nobody wanted to give you money—for scholarships—because poetry was not useful. You know? We need doctors. We need educators. But there was something, and what is that? There was something that was planted in me that I had to take care of.
It didn’t make logical sense. I’m a mother with two children, how are you going to make a living? But it was something I knew beyond knowing, and it gave me to create, and then to work with that. It’s very demanding. And nothing is given to you for free. I. I realize it was not about me at all. It was about what needed to come through on behalf of healing, on behalf of justice.
Host: After the break, Joy Harjo and Cara Romero explore whether making art is selfish or self-care, overcoming the steep barriers for women artists, the gift of mentors and ancestors, and the irreplaceable role that art plays in healing culture and history to honor future generations.
Host: Now, let’s return to Joy Harjo and Cara Romero in conversation at the Indigenous Forum, which took place at the Bioneers Conference…
CR: As you get older – I’m at the great in-between at almost 50 now, and I can look back and talk to my younger self and remember that the darkest times in my life were when I wasn’t creating, and the lessons that that gave me, that there’s some kind of self-sabotage that maybe we as Native people coming through trauma think I don’t deserve to have that happiness, or I don’t deserve to take care of myself.
And I think with art making, it can feel very…from the outside, frivolous. Or like you have this need to be selfish with time, but it’s actually for all of us, this radical act of self-care, to give yourself time to create.
And I think when we become mothers, it’s in our nature to sacrifice everything. Right? I think I learned that when I was making milk that my body would steal its own bone marrow to nourish my children, that this child was the most important thing. But that metaphor for me was like, you may also sacrifice your art making, or the things that keep you spiritually whole. And we have to problem solve as mothers, as art makers, like how can we look at this importance of spiritual health and creating, especially as women, to carve out that time for ourselves, and to give us that—It’s not selfish; it’s self-care. You know? And it actually makes your children healthier.
JH: Yeah, but there’s so much judgment for women who pursue an art. You have to walk through that. I remember I was so proud that I got an NEA grant, and I had just graduated from the University of Iowa, so I would be home working and people would say, well, because you’re not doing anything…[LAUGHTER]… Or even taking that time there’s been a judgment, well, you took that time away from your children. There’s a lot of that. A lot of it’s unspoken.
And women, we have to fight for our time and even place sometimes in the whole—in terms of being an artist, because there’s so much with our children. I love how you were talking about nursing and how you would do anything. It’s built in.
But, you know, our art’s also like that. It’s out of the same place of creating and giving birth and taking care of children. Art is, it’s the same thing, in a way, because you’re giving birth to something that comes through you, and you give birth to it, and you nurture it, and you grow it. It’s very similar to having children.
And there’s also—You were talking about self-care, and then I think also about culture-care, which is similar. When you’re doing your art, it’s not just about you.
And that’s how we know who we are as people, is our artists. And yet it’s so difficult to get funding for arts and artists, and Native arts and artists when—I was a founding board member of Native Arts and Cultures Foundation. But I remember we thought, okay, early on we have to raise money. Well, we’ll go to tribal nations and raise money. Yeah, think again. No one wanted to give money for art. “Well, what does that do for us? How does that help? We’re just trying to get by. You know, artists, they’re just selfish.” And yet I mean, how do we know our history? How do we know who we are, what makes us? It’s all about the arts and creativity.
CR: One of the things that we have to do as artists is we have to figure out how. And art is like this never-ending renewable resource, right? Like your creativity is never-ending. You know, it will always regenerate and it comes from something more than human. It comes from an incredibly special place.
So there have been times, as a mom, where I’m like I just can’t do this, but you have to figure out how. You have to drink coffee at night. You have to turn off the TV. You have to get a babysitter on the weekends. And for me, I didn’t know what I was doing at the time, other than being selfish, or that’s what it seemed like, but I was able to make art. That kept my spirit happy.
And in 2017, I got one of the grants from Native Arts and Cultures Foundation. That was how we met. I was so excited. They said we got to go to Minneapolis and I was going to get to meet Joy Harjo. She’s in that room over there. And I was just like a big fan girl. I wanted to tell you in seventh grade I played the saxophone.
JH: That’s cool.
CR: And that I knew she had gone to the Institute of American Indian Arts, and I had studied in Oklahoma. I was so excited to meet Joy Harjo.
But they gave me $25,000 to make art for a year, and I made more art than I had ever made in my life, and I made good art.
JH: You did, and you do!
CR: And it put me on the map. And you guys did more than that. You connected me with museums. And it was never a time in my life before I got that grant where they said you’re good enough; just go make it. Whatever your imagination can think of. And when you free artists to feel that they’re not frivolous or spending their electric bill money on creating dioramas or installations or things from their imagination, magic happens. Right?
And once it’s made, our society loves it, and centers these arts so much. But there’s a lot of us out there struggling, problem solving. And some of us, like my husband in particular, we can’t be anything else. And we’re often like the black sheep of the family. Right?
JH: Yeah, my brother and I decided we were the black sheep of the family.
CR: And I just say push through. You know? Like you have to continue pushing through, and being the artist, and that it will come.
JH: Oh that place saved my life. When I went there, I think it was the late ‘60s. I think it started in about ‘64, and I was there ‘67. But it literally saved my life. I mean, I went from a house of music to a stepfather who essentially banned music. When it was his time to come in, my mother would stop singing, and she didn’t sing like she used to. And I was—I accidentally forgot what time—I was singing, and he came in and banned. He said there’s no singing in this house.
And so I tried to find a way out, and suicide was a possibility. And I heard about—I thought, I want to go to Indian school. I didn’t know about IAIA then. So my mother took me over, because I wouldn’t have lived if I had stayed there. And we went over to the agency, the BIA. But as we were going out the door, my mother said, oh, and she’s a really good artist. And the agent said, well wait a minute, there’s a new school here out in Santa Fe, Institute of American Indian Arts, and gave me the brochure. So I applied and I got in based on my art. And I was thrilled and went out there, and that changed everything.
I mean, you can imagine, I’d always thought of myself as an artist, and there I was with—It was—Then, it was eighth grade to twelfth grade and two years post-graduate, and young Native people all, and that’s when I thrived. Before, I would not talk in class. I didn’t engage much except with the friends I had. The Institute, that changed everything because I felt I was there in a place I belonged with all these young Native artists.
Then we had teachers like Fritz Scholder, Allan Houser, I mean all these incredible Native artists.
And you know, even though we were kids, we would sit and talk together about what art meant, and our art, and how it related. Even talking about sovereignty before there was a word sovereignty that was used as it is now. And we kind of knew that and there was something coming through us of that generation, that we knew that it was part of our, not just our survival, but thriving as Native people. And that generation was, I think, coming through at that time, really changed things.
CR: Within these abilities that we have to be artists is healing. And if there’s something that we need in our communities, and really with all peoples now, it’s healing. And we see art disappearing from our schools, and art disappearing from all the places where we desperately need it.
And I think it’s especially scary for me because I’ve always looked especially at Native arts as the things that carry educational bundles that exist against all odds. We were allowed to gather our shells. We were allowed to make our dance regalia. And we hid things. We hid knowledge. We hid traditional teachings in our art. And I think a lot of times when you go to see Native arts now, all of that power is still hidden.
It’s so important because art is disarming. You know? And everybody can bring their own experience to art. And it doesn’t ask anything of you. But if you can find a space where people, no matter their background, to think about things they’ve never thought about, or to have empathy for Native Peoples, or Afro-Indigenous artists, or Asian diaspora artists, or Latin artists, that is the power of art for social change.
That is the other beautiful thing about art is that it asks nothing of us. We don’t need those institutions to share and to embrace and to celebrate. I think the artists always during these times rise up.
JH: That’s true.We found our way through it before.
CR: And I guess you’re bringing up for me this idea of courage, and there’s a moment as artists where we find our voice. And sometimes it’s like—we’ll talk about finding our voice or finding maturity. For me, there was a few things that I felt a moment of liberation, liberation from the pressure of what people thought—liberation from expectations of the art world.
My grandmother, and there were elders in my life that inspired me, that gave me courage. And there were three of them that come up for me right away. My grandmother, when I would have moments of self-doubt, she said, “Oh Cara, you need to stop worrying so much about what other people think.” And it was just a moment where she was such a strong woman, and I never forgot that.
There was another moment where we were relearning our dances as I was much older. I was in my 30s. And this is something that we go through as Native people. Things were taken away, and there’s a certain humiliation that comes from relearning things at an older age when you’re not a little kid. And my friend, Wiletta[ph] Wilder taught me—she was from [INAUDIBLE] High[?]—and she said that as an older woman, she first started going to the dances, and the younger girls were teasing her. And she said never be afraid to dance; it’s between you and Creator. And that, for me, carried over into all of the art making. You know, we often talk that it comes from a place bigger than self, but never worry about what other people think, and you don’t have to worry about stereotypes or whether your art fits in, or what the world expects from you or where it’s going to go. Do it because you’re in communication with something much bigger than this world and yourself.
What gives you courage to be who you are and what you’ve given to the world? Are there people? Is there something that drives you?
JH: Well, I know what happens when I don’t. It’s true. You know? I’ve had a lot of teachers in terms of facing fears and stepping through. So I’ve had a lot of—I’ve had a lot of mentors. I’m not here by myself, necessarily.
I like what you were saying about the Creator in yourself. That relationship is prime, and that’s what art is, is that relationship and what comes out of that relationship, the shape of your life, what you’re doing, whether you’re an artist or not, comes down to that relationship. You know? There’s that presence always there.
And as a little kid, I remembered feeling that and feeling. We all have that child in us. That’s important to think of when you think of younger people and little children. Their consciousness, it’s all there. They see what’s going on. They may not be at a certain point of intellectual comprehension or language comprehension, but their soul sees and knows, and that’s who we are. And all of that is within us. Even our elder selves, even as we’re a little kid, because there is no—Time works differently in that space. We’re who we are. At whatever age.
CR: Well, I just wanted to say thank you for taking those risks and being brave for all of us to see what’s possible. You have affected a lot of young Native women, and that’s a really special legacy to leave. And we honor you for being here. Can we get a round of applause for Joy Harjo?
JH: And Cara Romero!
Host: Joy Harjo and Cara Romero, “The Power of Art for Healing and Justice”
Across Turtle Island, Indigenous youth are reshaping movements for justice, sovereignty, and ecological healing. Grounded in ancestral knowledge and community responsibility, they are crafting solutions rooted in relationship — to land, to culture, and to future generations.
In Hawaiʻi, student organizers are building zero-waste systems and advancing policy to phase out single-use plastics. In Louisiana’s bayou, young leaders from the United Houma Nation are transforming climate grief into collective action and community resilience. On Cape Cod, Mashpee Wampanoag youth are helping lead a growing Rights of Nature movement that restores both waterways and cultural memory.
These young leaders are not waiting for permission — they are changing narratives, shaping policy, and defending their homelands with clarity and care. This Native American Heritage Month, we honor their leadership and the movement they are building.
Your support helps grow this work by sustaining Bioneers’ Native Youth Leadership Program and empowering the next generation of Indigenous changemakers.
In solidarity,
The Bioneers Indigeneity Program team
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Investing in Native Youth Leadership
For more than a decade, the Native Youth Leadership Program (NYLP) has brought Native youth from across Turtle Island to the Bioneers Conference and Indigenous Forum to build cultural pride, leadership skills, and community power rooted in Indigenous values.
The impact lasts for years. Jade Begay (Tesuque Pueblo/Diné) first joined Bioneers as a Native Youth Scholar — an early step on a path that led her to shape national climate policy, advise on federal environmental justice strategy, and support Indigenous-led solutions from the Amazon to the Arctic. Her journey is one of many that began with early leadership support through NYLP.
This program is funded entirely by donors. Your support provides travel, scholarships, mentorship, and a powerful space for Indigenous youth to lead.
Indigenous Youth Defend Sacred Waters & Rights of Nature
Youth Leading to Protect the Planet & Communities
In Mashpee, Massachusetts, the Native Environmental Ambassadors of the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe are leading a powerful movement rooted in ancestral responsibility and natural law. At just 17 years old on average, these youth passed the first-ever youth-led Rights of Nature law to protect herring, relatives essential to their ecosystem and culture.
“We’re not protecting nature — we are nature protecting itself,” said elder activist Casey Camp-Horinek (Ponca).
Their work sparked a growing national youth coalition supported by the Bioneers Indigenous Rights of Nature Initiative, now spanning 21 Tribes across Turtle Island.
When UN leaders failed to pass a meaningful global plastics treaty, youth in Hawaiʻi and Louisiana made a decision: they would not wait for governments to act. On Hawaiʻi Island, students with Mālama ʻĀina Compostables launched a zero-waste program that has already diverted 19,000 pounds of food waste from landfills while pushing Bill 83, a local ban on single-use plastics.
Their work has sparked powerful alliances. At the Zero Waste Youth Convergence in Nāʻālehu, 70 young organizers from across Hawaiʻi and Louisiana’s Cancer Alley came together to confront plastic pollution from both ends of the pipeline, where it’s produced and where it washes ashore.
Supported by Recycle Hawaiʻi and Bioneers’ Indigenous Rights of Nature Initiative, these youth are proving that real solutions rise from the community level — one ordinance, one compost bin, and one act of solidarity at a time.
What started as a cohort of five youth in the Bioneers Intercultural Conversation program has blossomed into its own robust initiative. The Bayou Youth Leadership Project continues to rise strong from the heart of coastal Southeast Louisiana — led by Indigenous youth dedicated to protecting their lands, waters, and culture. Over the past year, youth have traveled near and far — from the bayous of Dulac, LA, to cultural gatherings around Turtle Island — representing the voices of their people and their vision for a just, sustainable future.
Through community workshops, cultural exchanges, and storytelling circles, youth are learning from elders while shaping their own path forward. They ground their leadership in the values of stewardship, responsibility, and kinship with all living beings.
From restoring coastal ecosystems to advocating for Indigenous rights, the Bayou Youth are carrying the teachings of their ancestors. Their collective goal is simple but powerful: to uplift Indigenous youth voices, protect their homelands, and build a future where our communities thrive — rooted in tradition, guided by purpose, and connected to the Earth.
Navigating the Currents of Change: A Conversation with Sammy Gensaw III — In this 2024 interview, the Ancestral Guard founder and Klamath River defender reflects on dam removal, cultural revival, and why youth leadership is essential to the future of Indigenous sovereignty and ecological justice.
How a Klamath River Kayak Journey Rewrote Indigenous Water Rights — This New York Times feature follows Indigenous paddlers on a journey down the Klamath River, weaving in the long fight for water rights, river restoration, and cultural connection to ancestral waterways.
Shreya Chaudhuri – Reclaiming Roots: The Global Fight for Indigenous Science — In this Bioneers 2025 keynote, youth climate leader Shreya Chaudhuri challenges colonial environmental frameworks and calls for a return to Indigenous knowledge systems, reminding us that real climate solutions are not new, they’re remembered.
When negotiators met to finalize the United Nations Global Plastics Treaty in mid-August, the desperate need to stem the growth of toxic plastic pollution rested on the promise that a binding agreement could finally curb the petrochemical industry’s destruction. But as the talks collapsed under the weight of corporate lobbying, youth movements around the world felt what many already knew: Governments aren’t going to save us from plastic. The treaty’s watered-down language — stripped of enforcement mechanisms and loopholes for “recycling technologies” that burn more than they restore — left young people realizing that true change must rise from the ground up.
“Every day we pick up the same plastic bottles that washed ashore last week,” said one student from Hawaiʻi Island. “We don’t need more negotiations. We need action.”
In the absence of international accountability, youth from Hawaiʻi and Louisiana are organizing their own alliances. For them, the fight against plastic is not an abstract policy — it’s a matter of life and death. In the shadow of one of the largest concentrations of petrochemical industries in the country, known as Cancer Alley in Louisiana, youth grow up under skies laced with the smoke of petrochemical plants that feed the world’s plastic addiction. On Hawaiʻi’s southern shores, that same plastic reappears as trash tides that bury the sand and choke honu. While global leaders were failing to deliver a treaty that matched the urgency of the crisis, these young organizers had already decided to build the future themselves — one community, one ordinance, one compost bucket at a time.
Youth from Oʻahu, Maui, and Hawaiʻi Island came together—through a gathering organized by Big Island youth—at the 2024 National Recycling Congress to confront the full life cycle of plastic waste, from its production in “Cancer Alley” to its accumulation on Hawaiʻi’s beaches.
The gathering, led by Recycle Hawaii and supported by an EPA Recycling Education & Outreach grant and the Bioneers Rights of Nature Initiative, created a space for young people to share stories, learn from one another, and build new strategies for environmental justice.
Bridging the Places Where Plastic Hurts
Recycle Hawaii works with youth on plastic reduction policies and recycling advocacy along the island’s south shores, far from tourist beaches and close to the ecological disaster locals call “trash beach.” With its new EPA grant, the organization is uniting youth from communities most impacted by plastic pollution at both ends of its life cycle: where it’s made and where it ends up.
To bridge the story from production to pollution, Recycle Hawaii partnered with two Louisiana youth groups: Brilliant Mindz and Rural Roots Louisiana. Their communities in Bogalusa and Donaldsonville live in the shadow of major industrial sites — a paper mill, a nitrogen plant, and the corridor known as Cancer Alley — where pollution and poverty are part of daily life.
Recycle Hawaii used its Youth Ambassador grant from the Bioneers Rights of Nature Initiative to sponsor the travel of four Louisiana youth to attend the National Recycling Congress, joining their Hawaii-based counterparts in dialogue and collaboration.
Youth Voices Lead the Way
Over the week-long gathering, youth from both states “talked story,” sharing the realities of pollution in their communities and learning about zero-waste initiatives, systems thinking, and Rights of Nature laws. Together, they explored how to turn their lived experiences into policy change.
“To watch our haumāna present in front of the NRC attendees was a huge privilege,” said Ulu Makuakāne, Recycle Hawaii Program Director. “You could see and feel their kūpuna throughout the presentation. They were grounded, centered, and knew they were representing something bigger than themselves.”
“This was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments that clearly inspired these students, showing them that achieving big things is possible,” said Justin Canelas, Operations Director of Recycle Hawaii. “It’s been truly special to watch them grow into young professionals. For this group, the sky is the limit.”
While world leaders stall, Hawaiʻi County youth are drafting the future. Bill 83, an ordinance to ban single-use plastic in food service, is their rallying cry. When the bill appeared before the county council, the same youth who sort cafeteria trash and tended compost bins showed up to testify. They spoke not as students but as experts in lived experience.
“This generation isn’t afraid of change,” said Laura Acasio, of the County Office of Environmental Resilience. “They know it’s necessary — for their health, their island, and their future. What they’re doing is shifting the narrative from fear to responsibility.”
Acasio reminded them that government is a tool they can wield. “You have civic agency,” she told them. “Your voice matters. There’s nowhere for the trash to go — it’s an island. That means we must do better.”
For the youth of Kaʻū, Bill 83 represents more than a plastic ban — it’s a paradigm shift. It moves the county’s 2007 Zero Waste Resolution from intention to action. The students understand that “disposable” only works when you have somewhere to throw it away — and their landfill is nearly full. With their testimony and organizing power, they’re proving that local legislation can carry the moral weight that global treaties have failed to deliver.
Building a Movement for Change
Thanks to funding from the EPA and the Bioneers Rights of Nature Initiative, these youth leaders will continue to meet in the coming years to connect the worlds of waste production and pollution. Together, they are raising a rallying cry for a future where no communities are called “Cancer Alley” and no beaches are known as “trash beach.” Their work reflects a generation determined to turn the tide — from waste and harm to restoration and justice.
Malama ʻĀina Compostables: The Kaʻū Youth Movement
In the rural district of Kaʻū, a group of teenagers decided to start where change was most tangible — their school cafeteria. They called themselves Malama ʻĀina Compostables, guided by the belief that taking care of the land begins with what we throw away. Partnering with a local pig farmer, they began collecting leftovers, diverting nearly 19,000 pounds of food waste from the landfill in just two years.
“Sometimes people think you have to start big,” said Kona, one of the youth organizers. “But we started with lunch trays. That’s how you build momentum — one meal, one bin, one community at a time.”
As their compost program grew, the youth realized their school was a model for the island. They began presenting to principals, holding waste audits, and urging other schools to follow. Their message is both practical and spiritual: waste is not just a management issue, it’s a relationship issue. “You take care of your home, and your home takes care of you,” said one student. “This isn’t just a place to visit. It’s our house.”
The Malama ʻĀina crew is showing Hawaiʻi, and the world, what zero-waste leadership looks like when it’s rooted in aloha ʻāina. They’ve proven that youth-led initiatives can fill the policy gaps left by global systems, embodying resilience not as a buzzword but as everyday practice.
The 70-Person Youth Convergence: From Cancer Alley to Kaʻū
This October, Recycle Hawaiʻi and Bioneers’ Rights of Nature Initiative helped bring together seventy young people for the Zero Waste Youth Convergence in Nāʻālehu — the southernmost town in the United States. Youth from every Hawaiian island gathered alongside visitors from Louisiana’s Cancer Alley, where petrochemical plants poison the air that feeds the world’s plastic addiction. It was a historic meeting of two ends of the same crisis — where plastic is born, and where it dies.
“We talk a lot about the circle of life,” said Recycle Hawaiʻi Program Director Ulu Makuakāne, “but here we were talking about the circle of waste — from production to pollution — and how youth can break that cycle.”
At the convergence, Louisiana delegate Lael Judson shared her story of being born premature due to chemical exposure. Her testimony stunned the room. “We thought plastic hurt the ocean,” one Hawaii-based student reflected, “but she showed us how it hurts people first.”
For four days, youth built alliances across oceans, learning composting systems, cultural protocols, and civic advocacy side by side. They swam at Punaluʻu Beach, where sea turtles nest in black sand shadowed by corporate neglect. There, surrounded by the evidence of both natural beauty and man-made harm, they made a pact: to be the generation that ends the age of plastic.
“Their bond,” said Justin Canelas, Operations Director of Recycle Hawaiʻi, “showed what’s possible when we unite the places where plastic hurts the air and the places where it hurts the sea. This is how movements begin.”
Bioneers is honored to have supported this youth group’s efforts by providing funding for travel scholarships and to help cover the costs of their youth convergence. If you want to support more youth-led organizing, we welcome you to support our Indigeneity Program’s Native Youth Leadership program.
Although young people cannot vote, they are realizing that they can organize, legislate, and build grassroots momentum for a future where our laws honor people’s rights to a clean ecosystem and nature’s right to thrive.
In 2023, a group of Mashpee Wampanoag youth formed the Native Environmental Ambassadors (NEA), to advocate on behalf of their ancestral lands and waters.
They sat with elders and culture keepers who reminded them that there was a time, not very long ago, when plants and animals were abundant. They were devastated by the stark contrast between the elders’ recollections and the state of their homelands today.
The group’s first efforts focused on protecting herring, a keystone species along the Eastern seaboard. Once abundant, herring populations are now at 5% of their pre-European contact levels. Without herring, the ecosystem would face devastating consequences. They drafted a groundbreaking emergency declaration for the Rights of the Herring to exist, persist, and thrive, as well as the Tribe’s right to protect and advocate for their ecosystem’s survival. It was passed unanimously by their Tribal Council.
“The youth are working really hard to figure out how to protect the herring, how to protect the river from the damage that’s being done from things like nitrogen and chemical runoff, from the oil that’s coming out of these boats and the invasive species that the boats sometimes carry in. . . the big story is that we’re all related . . . to the herring, we’re related to this water, this water has a spirit, and it is all as well.” —Renee Lopes, Mashpee Wampanoag Matriarch.
Since then, the Native Environmental Ambassadors have hosted river clean-ups, paddles, and educational days at their Tribal headquarters. They have attended Climate Week in New York City. They have spoken throughout the US, including Bioneers Conferences, advocating for the Rights of Nature.
In August, they organized an Intertribal Gathering in Mashpee, MA, to mobilize for the Rights of Nature. In addition to hosting a public forum, over 70 invitees from organizations including Bioneers, Global Alliance for the Rights of Nature [GARN], LINK (Linking Indigenous and Non-Indigenous Knowledge), Movement Rights, and Native Land Conservancy came together.
“There’s something very important about youth leadership and also inclusion with elders in the same spaces, and giving both equal platforms. I don’t even want to call them platforms, because it’s not that one has higher power than the other. It’s recognizing that there’s so much wisdom that comes from an Indigenous youth perspective and an Indigenous elder perspective.” —Isabella Zizi, Northern Cheyenne, Muskogee Creek, enrolled Citizen of Three Affiliated Tribes, Movement Rights Youth Leader
Some of the most prominent environmental activists in Indian Country presented on issues from food sovereignty to Indigenous land stewardship, ecological restoration, and how to Indigenize the law.
“We’re not protecting nature — we are nature protecting itself. We have to internalize that with every breath we take. Her water flows through us, the breath we share is one breath with the wind and the thunder nation, and what warms us is from the Father Sun. When we gather like this, it reminds us that natural law is still alive — and natural law will always guide what happens with every species.” —Presenter Casey Camp-Horinek, Ponca Tribe, Elder Ambassador for Movement Rights
“For me, it’s never been about just protecting property or resources. It’s about protecting relatives manoomin, the wild rice, the fish, the water, the air. These are not resources, they are sources of life. And when we take it to court, we are making the system recognize that truth. We’re not asking for permission, we’re asserting our responsibilities. That’s the shift Rights of Nature makes.” —Presenter Frank Bibeau, Minnesota Chippewa Tribe, White Earth Ojibwe Attorney
A central goal of this InterTribal Gathering was to inspire other youth to “Indigenize the Law.”
“Being able to host and have all my people here from other tribal nations—it’s very healing for me, and to see other people happy to be here and to experience the different cultural things we do as coastal people.” —Amaya Balbuena, Youth Leader, Mashpee Native Environmental Ambassador
“I hope they take home the idea that we’re making a change, that we can do this, and that we can impact the future generations not let our water get sick, not let our marine, plant, and bird relatives become extinct.” —Oakley Robbins, Mashpee Wampanoag, Native Environmental Ambassadors Youth Facilitator
The Native Environmental Ambassadors recognize that legislation is just one step in preserving the planet, and they have demonstrated this with the counsel of elders and the courage to speak out, showing that young people have the power to shape the country’s legal future.
In passing the first youth-led Rights of Nature law, the Native Environmental Ambassadors set a precedent for what Tribal Citizens can accomplish to safeguard nature. And their work has just begun.
While it is impossible to quantify the long-term impact of this historic gathering, where the average organizer’s age was 17, the Native Environmental Ambassadors have sparked a nationwide youth-led movement for the Rights of Nature.
“I hope they take home the idea that we’re making a change, that we can do this, and that we can impact the future generations not let our water get sick, not let our marine, plant, and bird relatives become extinct.” —Ciara Oakley-Robbins, Mashpee Wampanoag, Youth Facilitator, Native Environmental Ambassadors
Since 2023, 13 youth groups representing 21 Tribes have formed a coalition to fight for ecosystems coast-to-coast under the guidance of the Bioneers Indigenous Rights of Nature [IRoN] team. At the time this article is being written, several more are forming!If you are as inspired as we are by these incredible young leaders, join us in supporting them. You can donate directly to the Native Environmental Ambassadors here. You can also give to the Bioneers Indigeneity Program, where we gift the youth ambassador groups grants to advocate for nature. Click here to donate to the Bioneers Indigenous Rights of Nature initiative.
Additional Quotes From the InterTribal Gathering
Words from Presenters
Casey Camp-Horinek, Ponca Tribe, Elder Ambassador for Movement Rights
“The purification is already here: the wind is stronger, the floods are floodier, the droughts droughtier. Mother Earth is cleansing herself, and we have to decide how we will live in balance so our children and grandchildren can survive.”
“At first I thought, not another law, no thank you, Western concepts. But then I began to understand the Rights of Nature as indigenizing those Western forms, turning their tools back to honor the oldest way possible. For us, it became the Immutable Ponca Rights of Nature Statute, passed in 2017 after many community meetings. It went into our courts, it passed through tribal council, and yes, even through the Bureau of Indian Affairs. We had to go through their systems, but at the heart of it, what we are doing is asserting what has always been true: the land wants us, the water wants us, the Earth wants us to be caretakers.”
Frank Bibeau, Minnesota Chippewa Tribe, White Earth Ojibwe Attorney
“Rights of Nature is what I sometimes call a disruption law. It lets us decide — within our tribal laws, our community values what is important, rather than relying on state or federal systems that were never designed to protect us. And once you put it in tribal law, it can be appealed, and you can force federal courts to look at it. That’s what makes it powerful. The courts may not like it, but they have to respect the process. We are asserting that we’re not just stakeholders — we are Nations with inherent rights, and so are our rivers and our fish.”
“For me, it’s never been about just protecting property or resources. It’s about protecting relatives manoomin, the wild rice, the fish, the water, the air. These are not resources, they are sources of life. And when we take it to court, we are making the system recognize that truth. We’re not asking for permission, we’re asserting our responsibilities. That’s the shift Rights of Nature makes.”
Juliette Jackson JD, Klamath, Clerk at Patterson Real Bird & Wilson LLP, Native Law Group
“As a baby lawyer, I feel so lucky to have interacted with people some attorneys never meet in their whole careers trailblazers in the American Indian Movement and leaders in Rights of Nature. They’ve challenged me to think about law in ways I was not taught in law school. Rights of Nature pushes us to step outside the box, to see treaties, trees, and jurisdiction differently. It reminds me that the tools we get in law school are not the end-all, be-all — they are one way of seeing the world, but not the only way. Our elders and our youth are teaching us new, and very old, ways to understand law.”
“My message to young people is simple: your willingness is enough. If your heart is calling you to this work, trust it. The mentors will come, the resources will come, the money will come, but none of that matters if you don’t step forward. Our communities need people willing to bring their skills home and apply them. That’s what inspires me about the youth here — they didn’t wait for permission, they organized, they brought us all together, and in doing so they’re shaping the future.”
Samuel Gensaw, Yurok, Ancestral Guard
“When these places get sick, we get sick. When our river is sick, we are sick. I shouldn’t be criminalized for trying to feed my grandmother the foods our family has eaten for generations, or for walking the same grounds my ancestors walked. But that’s the reality many of us face — laws designed to erase our ways of life. Rights of Nature is a path to change that, to assert that we are not separate from these places. We are part of them, and they are part of us.”
“Our ancestors didn’t do this work because they wanted to — they did it because they had to. That’s what we are doing now. When I was 17, we started the Ancestral Guard. We piled eight people into a beat-up car just to make it to meetings where we demanded a future for our kids. We didn’t have food, we didn’t have places to sleep, but we knew if we didn’t go, nobody else would. This isn’t a gimmick. It’s a pathway to autonomy, to taking care of our people in ways that haven’t been done in over a hundred years. That’s what Rights of Nature is about.”
Words From Forum Participants
Renee Lopes, Mashpee Wampanoag, Matriarch
“The youth are working really hard to figure out how to protect the herring, how to protect the river from the damage that’s being done from things like nitrogen and chemical runoff, from the oil that’s coming out of these boats and the invasive species that the boats sometimes carry in. They rinse off, they leave behind these species in the pond. We’re trying to address all of those pieces, and the big story is that we’re all related. They’re related to the herring, we’re related to this water, this water has a spirit, and it is all as well.
The whole goal is to figure out how to stay connected to all those things, how we can all live sustainably. We look after those things, and the kids are not just learning that, they’re figuring out how to do that as people. With the help of groups like Bioneers and other allies, their goal is—we want our way of life back.
We had this way of life that was symbiotic, that everybody could thrive. But we all need to work together so that we can continue to thrive. And if they die off, we die off, and we’re seeing that. There’s a big need to tend to these relatives in a good way.”
“Being able to host and have all my people here from other tribal nations—it’s very healing for me, and to see other people happy to be here and to experience the different cultural things we do as coastal people. Going quahogging today, seeing everybody out in the water, was just an awesome sight to see.”
Sophie Atkins, Mashpee Wampanoag, Native Environmental Ambassador Youth Member
“Doing this makes me think about social activism in the future, whether as a career path in law and policy, or just as something I live by. Even if it’s not a job, I’ll still advocate for nature’s rights.
To non-Natives: you’re living on this land, so it’s your responsibility too. Too many people are passive, like someone else will solve it. There’s no sense of urgency—but there needs to be. It’s an individual responsibility. Keep going. It might not look good at this point, but change will come. Even when it looks tough, don’t get dismayed by what’s happening in the wider world.”
National Poet Laureate and musician Joy Harjo shares her artistic journey as a Native American woman into what she calls the “story field.” She says that in these times of radical disruption, chaos and disturbance, great creativity also pours forth… and we all play a part in which way the story will go.
Featuring
Joy Harjo is an internationally renowned performer and writer of the Muscogee Nation. She served three terms as the 23rd Poet Laureate of the United States from 2019-2022 and is winner of the Poetry Society of America’s 2024 Frost Medal, Yale’s 2023 Bollingen Prize for American Poetry, and was recently honored with a National Humanities Medal.
Credits
Executive Producer: Kenny Ausubel
Written by: Kenny Ausubel
Senior Producer and Station Relations: Stephanie Welch
Associate Producer: Emily Harris
Producer: Teo Grossman
Host and Consulting Producer: Neil Harvey
Production Assistance: Mika Anami
This program features music by Joy Harjo and from Nagamo Publishing, the Indigenous-created music library.
This is an episode of the Bioneers: Revolution from the Heart of Nature series. Visit the radio and podcast homepage to find out how to hear the program on your local station and how to subscribe to the podcast.
Subscribe to the Bioneers: Revolution from The Heart of Nature podcast
Transcript
Neil Harvey (Host): Joy Harjo is a Muscogee Creek matriarch. She was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in the heart of Muscogee Creek Nation. She comes from a people rich in tradition. They are language speakers, storytellers, singers, artists, preachers, dancers, and fierce protectors of their land, culture and community.
As a young woman pursuing painting, Joy left Oklahoma and attended the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, New Mexico. She went on to study painting at the University of New Mexico. She came of age against the 1960’s backdrop of intense political rights movements, including those for Indigenous rights, civil rights, and women’s rights.
Poetry became part of her artistic life amid this larger upheaval.
Joy has written eleven volumes of poetry, two memoirs, and several plays, musicals, non-fiction works, and books for young audiences.
In 2019, she was named the 23rd United States Poet Laureate, making her the first Native American to hold the position. She was appointed to her third term in 2021. Joy Harjo has been an inspiration for countless young Native artists.
She spoke at a Bioneers conference.
Joy Harjo(JH): I just want to say, coming into this place, I want to thank the redwoods out there who are helping me prepare. I want to start with a dream and what I’ve learned. I learn a lot in dreams. And you could say sometimes I challenge myself to think that I’m walking through a dream right now, and maybe we are, and what would I do? What would I do in that if I understood that we are in the dream field, or the story field. They call it the story field. The story field.
Joy at the Library of Congress as US Poet Laureate. Photo courtesy Shawn Miller
When I was young in my poetry making, I was a mother to two young children with a full-time job, and tending to what my art demanded. I was beset by dreams that were appearing more and more dimensional and real. I was as awake in them as I was in my living. I’ll just read this.
In one of my dreams I was taken by a guardian far above the Earth. Earth was dressed in blue and green. She was lit from within. I was enveloped in a lush darkness that extended forever to eternity. Space was not empty, rather there was a profound depth of sound presence, like an echo stacked within many layers of echoing. There were blues that don’t exist in every day earthly existence, stars and planets gleamed like giant colored diamonds. I was in a circle of exquisite belonging.
When I looked closer to the detail, I saw a lit field of stories. They were all over the world through all time. The stories were continually shifting and shaping color. Where there was kindness, there was light. Meanness made upheaval. There were those who created light and shared it, and others who stole and devoured it. Every story that ever happened made an imprint on the field. The past was just as mobile as the present and future. Everyone’s thoughts, dreams and actions were motivated by the story direction. And when I say everyone, also the animals, the plants, the stones, the winds. Everyone’s thoughts and dreams and actions were motivated by the story direction.
The energetic particles around and through everything were made of what we Muscogee people called [awn-nuh-getch-kuh] or love. It is a fierce love that is strong enough to compel to beauty and right action. It is a love beyond what is fully comprehensible by any singular mind. We need all of our minds to comprehend us.
It is happening now. In the dream I understood that we are “Ekvnvcakv” Earth. In my Muscogee language, “Ekvnvcakv” we are the story. All of this was shown to me.
Then I woke up. I was much like you. I turned off the alarm, slid out of bed, and stepped into the details of the day. But…I believe that’s our natural way of knowing. It’s about, ultimately about listening, and deep listening, and even deeper listening. What about the sounds beyond what two-legged humans can hear? What about those sounds? And what about those songs beyond what we two-legged humans can hear? And what about the stories beyond what we two-legged humans can perceive?
Host: Joy started writing in 1973, when she was a 23-year-old mother of two and deeply engaged in the surging Native rights movement. She recalls this: “I started writing poetry out of a sense of needing to speak not only for me, but all Native American women. It has a lot to do with investigating history and finding a voice when I felt that I had no voice.”
JH: We are in a…crossroads in a time of chaos, and a time—we know about these times, but every—it’s something that we couldn’t really imagine, imagine for here. But it’s always in those times of great disruption, chaos, and disturbance that creativity steps forth.
I keep thinking about a butterfly and the whole chrysalis. I keep thinking that we’re kind of in a chrysalis stage. And you know what happens there. We’re going along, and we’re like, we’re caterpillars, and we’re having a good time, and our life, we kind of know the parameters, and then it shifts. It’s sort of like the— you know. And maybe—Obviously, it didn’t just happen,. wWe’re in the story and there’s a culmination. You know? It’s a culmination of many, many—of lack of attention, lack of care, um lying to ourselves, allowing others to lie to us, not participating, addiction, etc., etc. But here we are.
And I think of us right now as two-legged humans in this, and even Earth herself, because we are her, in a kind of chrysalis stage, which is a stage in which everything you knew turns into a kind of soupy mess. I mean, I don’t know what exactly happens in a chrysalis, [LAUGHTER] all I know is that you go in a caterpillar, and then you come out and you’re able to fly and you have beautiful wings and a body. But who’s to say the caterpillar isn’t as beautiful? And that comes to story and the stories we tell ourselves, and how we tell the stories.
So I want to share a poem. It’s a story. It’s based on– it’s a contemporary, traditional Muscogee story, because we keep going, and we keep telling stories and making stories. But in a way it’s a kind of story about how we came to where we are right now.
Rabbit is up to tricks, and in our culture, rabbit is the trickster figure. And we usually have trickster figures near anywhere there’s power because they show us what happens when power is misused. And those wielding power can often get confused or get taken in, because they forget that any power that any of us has personally or collectively is meant to be shared.
Rabbit is up to tricks. In a world long before this one, there was enough for everyone until somebody got out of line. We heard it was rabbit, fooling around with clay in the wind. Everybody was tired of his tricks, and no one would play with him, and he was lonely in this world. So rabbit thought to make a person. And when he blew into the mouth of that crude figure to see what would happen, the clay man stood up.
Rabbit showed the clay man how to steal a chicken. The clay man obeyed. Then he showed him how to steal corn. The clay man obeyed. Then he showed him how to steal someone else’s wife, and that clay man obeyed. Rabbit felt important and powerful, and clay man felt important and powerful. And once that clay man started, he could not stop. Once he took that chicken, he wanted all the chickens. Once he took that corn, he wanted all the corn. And once he took that wife, well, he wanted all the wives. He was insatiable.
Then he had a taste of gold. He wanted all the gold. Soon it was land or anything else he saw. His wanting only made him want more. Soon it was countries. Then it was trade. The wanting infected the Earth.
We lost track of the purpose and meaning of life. We began to forget our songs, our stories. We can no longer see or hear our ancestors, or talk with each other across the kitchen table. Forests were being mowed down all over the world to make more, and rabbit had no place left to play. Rabbit’s trick had backfired.
Rabbit tried to call that clay man back, but when the clay man wouldn’t listen, rabbit realized he’d made a clay man with no ears.
Host: When Yale University invited Joy to give a speech and then create a book from it, instead she wrote the book first, called “Catching the Light.” The topic was “Why I write.” She reads from one section about Guardians.
JH: I mean I’ve wondered you know, how did I become a poet or what is it? There’s the familial genealogy and then there’s your spiritual genealogy, —your soul’s genealogy, the genealogy of a place, the genealogy, even, of ideas, genealogies of songs and so on.
Every place has guardians whose responsibility it is to tend that person or place. There are guardians of cities, mountains, plants, and animals, for all beings and states of mind on this planet Earth. These guardians are real and, in healthy societies, they are active.
When the guardians or keepers of these lands are forcibly removed, massacred, and their lifeways stolen through the theft and warehousing of children, when female power is no longer standing equal with male power, then the lands suffer, we all suffer. The waters become polluted, fires are out of control, storms become massive and aggressive, and the earth trembles. There is confusion and destruction among all those who inhabit the land, these times.
But we can change the story, and that is done by the artists, the thinkers and the dreamers, those who can envision from within this immense field. Indigenous artists must be part of the leadership in the revision of the American story. We can change the story of a violent hierarchy that follows in the wake of the Papal Bulls, proclaiming Indigenous Peoples as non-humans for land and resource theft and slavery, to manifest destiny, which opened the West and the world for the taking, and set in place a caste system that places value according to skin color, culture, sexual identity, and economic standing.
We can turn to honoring female power without whom there is no life. Rivers, mountains, lands, other animals and elemental inhabitants will be respected co-inhabitants. Time, experience, and the ancestors have taught me that it is while practicing our arts and in ceremony that we come closest to who we really are as individuals, as part of a family, a generation, a country, a planet, a timeless point of experience. It is when we come into close contact with our ancestors, the origin. We must feed that place, honor it.
I bow down to the storykeepers, to the keepers of poetry. I’m reminded of the water spider who, when the Earth was covered with water, carried an ember on her back so we could make fire to keep the story going. Everything is a prayer in the becoming as she approaches us swimming through time.
Host: “Guardians” is a fertile expansion of the human rights story – and it’s more than a story.
When we return, Joy Harjo suggests that what’s up for humanity today is to practice deep listening. The world is teeming with communication – human and other-than-human – visible and invisible. She says it’s a vast living story and we all have a voice in how the story will go.
Photo credit: Kerry Kehoe
Host: The song you just heard is “Winding through the Milky Way” by Joy Harjo.
You can explore our extensive media collection from our annual Indigenous Forum and learn more about the Bioneers Indigeneity Program at bioneers.org. You’ll find educational materials and news about catalytic initiatives to support the leadership and rights of First Peoples. That’s bioneers.o-r-g.
Along with her writing, Joy Harjo has taught English, creative writing, and American Indian studies at numerous universities. She was a former chancellor of the Academy of American Poets, and served as a founding board member and chair of the Native Arts and Cultures Foundation. She’s the recipient of many prestigious honors.
Joy is also an accomplished musician who performs with her saxophone and flute, both solo and with her band Poetic Justice. She has released six award-winning music albums. Which makes sense, because, unlike the clay man, she’s learned that it’s all about learning to listen. She’s all ears…
JH: I have many teachers and mentors, many of the human ones gone, and plant mentors, the Pacific Ocean, I lived and raced canoes in Oahu for 11 years. [APPLAUSE] And the ocean there is one of my most beloved teachers.
But it’s about listening. I remember one time when I was in Oahu, and I was in my room where I was working, and when you’re in that creative space you think about what you do listen to and the sounds you do hear. In the city, it’s not often the trees. You know? You get a lot of other kinds of sounds. But I was sitting there in that space of deep creativity, because when you go there, you start to hear, you start to really hear. Sometimes I think that there’s seven levels to hearing. And I know this because I feel like there was a trickster god who looked down and looked at me and said she’s beyond hope; she doesn’t know how to listen, so we’ll make her a poet and a musician, and she’ll have to learn. [LAUGHTER] So I know that I was somewhere around. I haven’t hit the seven levels of listening yet.
But I was listening, and deep listening, and I hear a voice say come out, come out here and see me. And so I thought, well. And it was insistent, so—And there was a little bird. I used to feed the birds every morning, and there was a bird that didn’t like to eat that early, and it would come out later, and I would feel it tug on me. So I would always go out when it would tug on me. I would go out and it’d be out there waiting for its food.
So I went out to see who was asking me, and it was a rainbow. And I thought, okay, I know people might think I’m crazy, but that’s okay. And I took a photograph of it. I have a photograph of it that I printed out. And so I thought, okay, and I just put it somewhere, you know, in my poetry file. And about a year later, I’m in Albuquerque with one of my guitar players, Larry Mitchell, and we’re driving south. He and his wife are in the front seat, and I was on the left driving south to go do a photoshoot down in the Rio Grande, in the valley. And we’re going along in the Sandia Mountains—and I love those mountains—were on the left, and I see a rainbow, and I hear: I will see you later, and I’m going to bring someone with me. And I thought, okay. Of course, I didn’t say anything to anybody, and I never talked about this for some time.
But we get down there. We’re out photographing, and a double rainbow appears. [AUDIENCE RESPONDS] But the reason I’m telling you this is, I mean, I don’t know why. I’ve had other—a few other experiences, but it reminds me that we are in a living story, and that there is communication, and it’s—I’m not special. This is something that happens to all of us, but we don’t always listen. It’s going on all the time, this communication—with the redwoods out there—there’s this continual communication.
And so I’m giving you this because I want people to know that we are part of a living system. It is living. And it’s ongoing. And we just—I think we just have to listen.
When I grew up, we had radios. We had local stations. And the big deal was when I got a little transistor radio and I could take it to bed and listen. But we can hear all kinds of sounds now. But I think what this time is requiring of us, because I think what happens when the caterpillar goes into that chrysalis state, it’s in deep listening to imagine what’s possible, to imagine becoming.
This poem is called Remember, and this poem—and this is about listening. Okay? This was when I was very young. It’s one of the earliest poems that I ever wrote, and it’s been a poem that’s gone all over the world. It’s on Lucy spacecraft right now. And it has its own book. But it tells me that we all come in with story, we all come in with gifts, every one of us. Sometimes we get lost, that’s part of the story. We wouldn’t have stories if no one was lost. We wouldn’t have stories if everybody behaved. Nobody wants to hear about that. So if you think about that…You think about that. Think about the story we’re in right now. What an amazing and terrible and beautiful story we are all in together. And we are all part of what’s going to happen, and we all have a part in which way the story will go. Everyone, everyone has a part in which way the story will go.
So I want to close with the poem Remember because it came to me. I was a young woman. I had no plans to become a poet. It wasn’t offered in career day. I was going to be a painter, an artist. That’s what my grandmother, my great aunt who became my grandmother, was my grandmother too, they were painters, and that’s what I did from when I got up as a little kid. And this poetry thing came at me, and I finally had to give up and say, yes, I’ll do it, although I didn’t understand it, and I still don’t totally understand it, except that it’s how I move through the world, to carry something with me that is beyond what I know and understand.
So this poem—and I’ll share it, I’ll close by sharing it with you—came to me because I realized that I needed this poem. It was teaching me. Well, who was teaching me? Who writes the poetry? What’s behind? What is this thing called inspiration? What is this thing? It’s related to breath—inspire—inspiration, breathing. We’re here breathing. And it’s related to that. And so it came.
We all have helpers and we have guardians, some of them are right here with us. We see them and some we don’t see. We don’t see…Again, what can we see? How far can this Earthly human eye see versus our spiritual eyes that we also all have?
So this is Remember. This poem came and helped me out. And it still helps me out. And I’m offering it to you to be useful and mvto, mvto, mvto, mvto. Thank you for gathering here together. And it’s wonderful to see all the young people and the stories that you are making that will give nourishment to this Earth.
Remember the sky you were born under.
Know each of the stars’ stories.
Remember the moon,
Know who she is.
Remember the sun’s birth at dawn,
That is the strongest point of time.
Remember sundown and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled to give you form and breath.
You are evidence of her life, and her mother’s, and hers.
Remember your father, he is your life also.
Remember the earth, whose skin you are—red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth, brown earth.
We are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their tribes, their families, their histories too.
Talk with them.
Listen to them.
They are alive poems.
Remember the wind.
Remember her voice.
She knows the origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people are you.
Remember you are this universe and this universe is you.
Remember that all is in motion, is growing, is you.
This Indigenous Peoples’ Day, we invite you to listen to Indigenous wisdom and remember the history Indigenous Peoples have endured. The struggles we all face today — ecological destruction, the separation of children from families, broken treaties, and the erosion of sacred lands — are not new. Indigenous Peoples have long endured these injustices.
Amid budget cuts to schools, hospitals, and land protections, and in the face of ongoing violence, we cannot lose courage or hope. This is a time for “every effort to the front lines.”
Hope is scarce but essential. It fuels resilience and makes the impossible possible. We remain committed to lifting up stories of restoration and resistance — art transforming consciousness, youth-led legal movements, rivers running free.
For every crisis, there is a solution. On this day and throughout this month, we grieve the repetition of history’s ugliest moments and then move forward, guided by Indigenous Peoples, to build a future worthy of the next seven generations.
In that spirit, this newsletter issue highlights voices and insights from the 2025 Bioneers Indigenous Forum, along with ways to engage with Indigenous media and initiatives throughout Indigenous Peoples’ Month.
In solidarity,
The Bioneers Indigeneity Program team
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Support the Bioneers Indigenous Forum
Since 2008, the Indigenous Forum has been a sovereign space within the Bioneers Conference where Indigenous activists, scientists, elders, youth, and culture-bearers come together to share knowledge, frontline solutions, and cultural wisdom. It is the only gathering of its kind, connecting Indigenous Peoples with one another and with allies to build networks, strengthen movements, and inspire action.
Your support helps sustain this vital space — amplifying Indigenous voices, fostering cross-cultural dialogue, and ensuring Indigenous leadership continues to guide solutions for our shared future.
Art and Healing: A Conversation with Joy Harjo & Cara Romero
Art in many forms is both a spiritual practice and a survival skill for Indigenous Peoples. In this conversation, U.S. Poet Laureate Joy Harjo and acclaimed photographer Cara Romero explore how creativity becomes a path to healing, resistance, and reconnection with ancestors and traditional knowledge.
Haudenosaunee Chief Oren Lyons (Joagquisho) and Taíno Elder José Barreiro (Hatuey) join moderator Baratunde Thurston to explore the Indigenous foundations of American democracy, the legacy of Haudenosaunee diplomacy, and the resurgence of Indigenous self-governance principles worldwide. In a time of climate and democracy crises, this conversation offers both urgency and hope.
California Indian leaders Aja Conrad (Karuk), Elizabeth Paige (Cahuilla), Ali Meders-Knight (Mechoopda), and Jordan Reyes (Tribal EcoRestoration) share stories of restoring land and water through traditional practices like fire management, plant knowledge, and regenerative harvesting. Moderated by Eriel Deranger, the panel also offers practical guidance on building partnerships and sustaining long-term collaborations.
TAKE ACTION: 9 Films to Bring Indigenous Stories to Your Community
This Indigenous Peoples’ Month, we invite you to share the power of Indigenous storytelling. Across the continent, Indigenous filmmakers are creating remarkable documentaries and features that honor resilience, cultural survival, and ecological knowledge.
Hosting a screening—whether at your school, workplace, or community space—is a meaningful way to spark dialogue, strengthen connections, and celebrate Indigenous voices.
Explore our list of groundbreaking films, from Sugarcane and Resident Orca to Tiger and more, and consider bringing one to your community.
We mourn the passing of Malcolm Margolin (1940–2025), founder of Heyday Books and a tireless advocate for Indigenous cultural renewal in California. Through The Ohlone Way, News from Native California, and decades of publishing, mentoring, and bridge-building, Malcolm opened space for Native voices and stories that had too often been silenced.
Described as “a mighty redwood of a man,” his legacy lives on in the Indigenous writers, cultural leaders, and movements he supported. We honor his memory with gratitude for the paths he helped to open.
Art in many forms is both a spiritual practice and survival skill for Indigenous peoples. Often described as a healing journey, Native people work through art practices to reconnect to ancestors and traditional knowledge, recover from intergenerational trauma, and find ways to support family and build economy in suppressed reservation living standards. In this intimate conversation, former US Poet Laureate Joy Harjo and contemporary photographer Cara Romero discuss the creative process, inspirations and the importance of art and “artivism” in healing and resistance for Native peoples.
This conversation took place at the 2025 Bioneers Conference.
Haudenosaunee Chief, Oren Lyons (Joagquisho) and Taino Elder, José Barreiro (Hatuey), in a conversation moderated by Baratunde Thurston, discuss the Indigenous roots of American democracy, the legacy of Haudenosaunee diplomacy, and the global resurgence of Indigeneity and its first principles of self-governance.
In a moment of severe climate and democracy crises, those who hold wisdom about how to live together and with the natural world are being sought out more than ever. Rarely have voices as powerful as Lyons and Barreiro been in public conversation, and never under today’s circumstances.
In this session, California Indian leaders share success stories of collaborations implementing traditional values and practices to restore land and water, including the revitalization of fire management, plant knowledge and regenerative harvesting. Panelists also explore practical guidance on forming innovative partnerships, setting mutually beneficial goals, and maintaining long-term, effective relationships. Moderated by Eriel Deranger. With: Aja Conrad (Karuk); Elizabeth Paige (Cahuilla); Ali Meders-Knight (Mechoopda); Jordan Reyes, Tribal EcoRestoration.
This talk was delivered at the 2025 Bioneers Conference.
Needless to say, farmworkers are essential workers. They labor long hours with low pay often under harsh conditions to perform the physically demanding and indispensable work that feeds us all. And yet their efforts and sacrifices go, for the most part, unappreciated by society. “These are the forgotten people. The undereducated, the under-protected, the under clothed, the underfed…” That is how legendary journalist Edward R. Murrow described the plight of farmworkers in the 1960 documentary Harvest of Shame. Tragically, the shame endures 85 years later.
Historically, the disenfranchised have been prey for those in power or those who hunger for power treated as “other,” as less-than-human, and as those to be feared. The U.S. farm economy was built on the backs of industrious essential workers, many of whom have no rights, and, at the hands of masked ICE (U.S Immigration and Customs Enforcement) agents, are being ripped away from their families with no notice in mass deportation sweeps. The strategy of fear that victimizes the vulnerable has pushed farmworkers (and others) deeper into the shadows of society, and the repercussions, not surprisingly, have been dramatic. Just one example of a growing trend is a farmer in California’s Central Valley who had to leave $300,000 worth of perfectly good cherries unharvested because 70% of his regular, skilled workforce was too frightened to come to work and earn the wages they desperately need.
Living in Constant Fear
Even some documented workers are afraid to go to work knowing that there have been cases of U.S. citizens who have been arrested, detained and deported by ICE, which uses racial profiling to conduct random raids. The Trump administration has reversed the policy of the previous administration and has given ICE permission to raid schools, hospitals, places of worship and even natural disasters. In an incident in Washington State, ICE conducted a raid taking firefighters away from their work during an active fire–the largest wild fire in the state at the time. After a number of Indigenous firefighters who were detained showed their tribal ID cards and were finally released, two other firefighters were taken into custody by ICE.
“It’s a risk every day to go to work. It’s a risk to go to the grocery store. It’s a risk to drive your kids to school. It’s a risk to drive your child to their doctor’s appointment,” one New York farmworker told Newsweek. Farmworkers have had to resort to a family survival strategy in which the mother and father do not go to work on the same day so they both won’t be arrested by ICE and separated from their families.
One farmworker from Ventura County, California, who wanted to remain anonymous, told the Guardian “We really feel like we’re being hunted; we’re being hunted like animals.”
The raids and living with the fear of a possible raid have affected, not only their ability to earn a living, but also the mental health of many undocumented farm workers.
The Economic Impacts of Scapegoating Essential Workers
The USDA estimates that 40 % of farmworkers are undocumented and that 70-80% of them are foreign born. Millions of these people, many highly-skilled with decades of experience, make their living in agriculture, construction, hospitality, healthcare and other vital components of our economy, and now, through no fault of their own, they are being victimized by a cruel policy that is economically harming all these sectors.
USDA Secretary of Agriculture Brooke Rollins suggests that Medicaid recipients, who will now, under this administration, be compelled to work to receive healthcare, can take the place of the missing migrant farmworkers. Most farmers find such an idea risible. They know that most people born in America tend to shun the hard work, difficult conditions and low pay of farm-work.
Shay Myers is a 3rd generation farmer and CEO of Owyhee Produce, a family operation selling organic and conventionally grown onions, asparagus and watermelons. Recently on a Tik Tok video, Meyer did the math illustrating how essential to the economy undocumented workers are: “Undocumented workers in the U.S. are somewhere between 12 million and 30 million. Let’s pick 20 million. There are 20 million people that are undocumented that are working in the US economy. How many people are not working? What’s our unemployment rate? ……. It’s 4.2 %. It represents about 7.4 million people. Let’s just say we kick those 20 million [undocumented] people out and every single one of those 7.4 million people went to work. There would still be 13 million job openings. Can you imagine what that would do to your community? Can you imagine what that would do to your business? Can you imagine what the impacts would be economically?
Meyer makes the case for the economic value of undocumented workers, but it is important that we also keep in mind the value of those people as vital parts of our society and community. The vast majority are dedicated to making a better life for themselves and their families and to build a foundation for the next generation to thrive.
Grassroots Movements for Justice
The safety net for farmworkers is a David of community organizations working against the Goliath of an unfriendly government. Here are a just three of a number of organizations supporting and advocating for farmworkers.
The Coalition of Immokalee Workerscampaigns against abuses in the field, wage theft, and forced labor. After decades of rallying consumers, students and church groups, they negotiated with a number of major food corporations to increase farmworker wages and to agree to enforceable standards to safeguard farmworkers’ rights.
California is home to an estimated 165,000 Indigenous Mexican farmworkers. Over 80 percent of Indigenous farmworkers in California come from the Mexican state of Oaxaca. Facing discrimination as indigenous people in their home country, coming to the U.S., they encounter new challenges: violations of labor laws and rights, workplace retaliation, wage theft, etc.
Mixteco/Indigena Community Organizing Project (MICOP) assists Indigenous agricultural workers on California’s Central Coast. MICOP helps these people, who only speak their native indigenous language, overcome the language barrier; educates people on how to heal the trauma of internalized racism after so many years of dealing with oppression; and provides safe space for victims of domestic violence. They help build healthy communities and fight for the rights of farmworkers in the workplace.
Anne Lopez is the author ofTheFarmworkers’ Journey that tells the story of how the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) impoverished Mexican farmers, forcing millions to cross the border to work on American farms. Moved by the struggles of the migrant workers that she interviewed for her book, Dr. Lopez founded the Center for Farmworkers Rights, which, along with fighting for the rights of farmworkers, leads farmworker reality tours; provides scholarships for young people in these families; and distributes food, household items, clothing, and other essential products and services to address the immediate needs of farmworkers facing food insecurity and clothing shortages.
These kinds of good Samaritan efforts help mitigate the injustice and trauma of being a member of an oppressed and disenfranchised social class, but what more can be done?
A Plan for Structural Change
Dr. Lopez didn’t pull any punches at the Center for Farmworker Families Harvesting Equity Conference when she said that “farmworkers make up a slave subclass modeled after slavery in the [Antebellum] South.” As a remedy, she offered three steps to transform the lives of farmworkers: (1) comprehensive immigration reform, (2) a living wage, and (3) a contract with their employers.
Her call for justice questioned why people who work in the fields have to live in constant fear of being deported and why a systemic impoverishment of such a critical part of agriculture has forced them to depend on charity to get their basic needs met. Lopez also cited a UC Merced study that found that 22.5% of farmworkers’ earnings are stolen by their employers as a key reason why contracts are needed so that farmworkers have a legal option to recoup their wages.
Mahatma Gandhi, spiritual and political leader whose non-violent campaign led to India’s independence after 200 years of British rule said, “The true measure of a society is how it treats its most vulnerable members.” Farmworkers are too important to be relegated to the shadows of society as victims of injustice and racism. What will it take to realize that our personal health, as well as the agricultural economy, are directly dependent on the health and wellbeing of those essential workers who live and labor on the fringes and to finally give them the equity, respect and justice they deserve?
This Indigenous Peoples’ Month, we invite you to bring powerful Indigenous stories to your community. In recent years, Indigenous filmmakers have created a remarkable wave of documentaries and features that honor resilience, cultural survival, and ecological knowledge. Hosting a screening—whether at your school, workplace, or local gathering space—is a meaningful way to spark dialogue, strengthen connections, and celebrate Indigenous voices.
Here is a list of groundbreaking Indigenous Films you could host in your community, business, or school, or watch on your own.
Sugarcane
Winner of the 2024 Sundance Directing Award and now streaming through National Geographic Documentary Films, Sugarcane is a powerful debut from Julian Brave NoiseCat (Secwepemc/St’at’imc) and Emily Kassie. The film follows the Williams Lake First Nation’s investigation into abuse and deaths at St. Joseph’s Mission residential school, weaving survivors’ testimonies with NoiseCat’s own family history. Both epic and intimate, Sugarcane bears witness to long-buried truths while honoring the resilience and enduring love of Native families and communities.
Resident Orca follows Lummi Nation elder Squil-le-he-le Raynell Morris and Tah-Mahs Ellie Kinley as they lead a decades-long fight to free Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut, an orca taken from the Salish Sea in 1970 and forced to perform at the Miami Seaquarium for over 50 years. Interweaving the struggle to bring her home with reflections on salmon, sovereignty, and survival, the film reveals how the whale’s captivity mirrors the broader story of Indigenous families torn from their communities — and why her return would be an act of justice, healing, and kinship.
Scha’nexw Elhtal’nexw Salmon People: Preserving A Way of Life
Scha’nexw Elhtal’nexw Salmon People: Preserving A Way of Life follows Lummi families as they fish for sockeye, confronting climate change and a dwindling salmon population. Inspired by the late Chexanexwh Larry Kinley, the film reflects on sovereignty, resilience, and the question: Who are we without salmon? A Children of the Setting Sun production with Vision Maker Media, GBH, and WORLD Local U.S.A. Scha’nexw Elhtal’nexw Salmon People premiered at Bioneers 2024.
Rooted in Lingít stories and ceremony, Yáa at Wooné centers Kiks.ádi women who carry forward ancestral teachings of respect for the yaaw (herring). Through song, ceremony, and community organizing, they honor the herring as relatives, practice Indigenous science, and work to ensure abundance for generations to come. This short film is both a cultural teaching and a testament to sovereignty, showing how protecting herring is inseparable from protecting Indigenous lifeways.
Directed by Haudenosaunee filmmaker Paige Bethmann, Remaining Native follows 17-year-old Ku Stevens as he retraces the 80-kilometer escape route of his great-grandfather, who fled Nevada’s Stewart Indian School as a child. Balancing his dreams of becoming a collegiate runner with the weight of his family’s history, Ku’s story connects past and present, showing how the legacy of boarding schools continues to shape Indigenous youth today. Award-winning on the festival circuit, the film is a moving portrait of survival, resilience, and the power of remembrance.
Winner of multiple international festival awards, Haagua is a poetic story of cultural regeneration told through ocean, memory, and movement. Framed by the figure of Great Great Grandmother Ocean and her unborn son, the film traces survival and renewal across generations while following Indigenous surfers who bring ancestral wisdom back to the waves. Blending ceremony, identity, and the rhythm of surfing, Haagua celebrates resilience and the reawakening of Indigenous lifeways along the shorelines of California, Mexico, and beyond.
Premiering at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival, where it won the Short Film Special Jury Award for Directing, Tiger tells the story of Muscogee Creek artist and elder Dana Tiger, her family, and the revival of the iconic Tiger T-shirt company. Weaving together a legacy of art, resilience, and healing after profound family loss, the film highlights how creativity and cultural pride sustain generations — and why the Tiger name continues to inspire and endure today.
You’re No Indian exposes the devastating practice of tribal disenrollment, where thousands of Native Americans have been unjustly stripped of their identities and community ties. Uncovering the role of casino profits, political power struggles, and government complicity, the film reveals how disenrollment fractures families and erases culture. Urgent and unflinching, it stands as both testimony and call to action for truth, justice, and sovereignty.
Savage Land tells the story of 18-year-old Cheyenne Arapaho Mah-hi-vist Red Bird Goodblanket, who was killed by police in his family’s home, and places his death in the context of centuries of violence against Indigenous peoples. Directed by Campbell Dalglish and Henrietta Mann, the film connects present-day tragedy with the legacy of the Sand Creek and Washita Massacres, revealing how historical trauma continues to shape life in America. Powerful and unflinching, Savage Land calls viewers to reckon with the past that is still with us today.
