Indigenous Peoples Day: What the Potawatomi taught me

In recent years, as the public ritual called land acknowledgment has become more common, I have become more aware of the names of the Indigenous nations that used to live on the land I stand upon. While I found the ritual a nice sentiment, I felt something was missing.

So did Nicole Anderson Cobb, a historian, playwright, and journalist, and Latrelle Bright, who teaches theater at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, my alma mater and Dr. Anderson Cobb’s.

“You go to events, ... you drive by places, ... you see names on things, and you don’t know anything about their history,” Ms. Bright tells me in an interview. “We read land acknowledgments. ... They sort of say we’re sorry, but they don’t say what happened.”

That was about to change – in my experience, at least.

Beyond land acknowledgment

A few months ago, these two women created an interactive experience, “Unsettled: An African American Reflection on the Potawatomi Trail of Death.” It started with the usual land acknowledgment but quickly went several steps further. The 40 of us who had gathered were given time and space to reflect on a specific event in American history.

In 1838, an estimated 850 Potawatomi were forced off lands in Indiana by a state-authorized militia and made to walk 660 miles through Illinois and Missouri to a parcel of land in Kansas. Many became ill; about 40 died. When they arrived in Kansas, two months later, they had little more than the ground beneath their feet to help them settle into their new home.

Many people were surprised, Dr. Anderson Cobb tells me, that they’d known none of this history before going on “Unsettled.” But that doesn’t surprise her. “Many communities have histories that need to be interrogated,” she says. “It’s not good enough to say it’s uncomfortable so we won’t or shouldn’t do that.”

As the day’s event progressed, there was more to learn and experience. We were led down a half-mile trail along the Sangamon River. The Potawatomi had followed this resource during part of their journey through Illinois. The walk gave us time to contrast our experience with the 1838 forced march. The displaced Potawatomi traveled during a drought; food and water were scarce. Many of us had brought snacks in our backpacks and clean water to drink.

Along the way, we heard performers read from the letters of the Rev. Benjamin Petit, a Catholic priest who accompanied the Potawatomi, as well as reports from those who had overseen the tribe’s removal. The performers also sang Negro spirituals, something that certainly didn’t happen in 1838. But the songs’ messages connected two peoples’ histories, affirming a common humanity.

“We don’t see how history overlaps,” Ms. Bright shares later. “We think my problems are my problems and your problems are yours. We don’t see that there is a whole system at play. ... The day wasn’t about reading [a land acknowledgment] but seeing where our connections and disconnections are.”

At our final stop along the trail, we were close enough to the river’s edge that several people walked to its banks. We listened in silence as it flowed past, reflecting on what we had heard and were feeling. When I returned to our starting place, I wrote my own land acknowledgment: “We’re standing on the holy ground of people who were exiles on their native land. What was it like to follow a river into mystery ... the past gone and the future uncertain. Sobering, sacred – sad.”

Curious about these women’s motivations, I ask Dr. Anderson Cobb why they created this unsettling experience. “Scholarship is the purview of us all,” she explains. “We are all better for doing the work of inquiring about peoples, cultures, languages, and traditions that are different from our own. ... As a taxpayer, educator, and the parent of a child in school here, I have the complete right to inquire about the history and tell the stories that I’m finding.”

My growing understanding

I’ve started some inquiring of my own, watching documentaries and reading about this nation’s engagement with its Indigenous people. On a recent trip to California, I could have gone to one of its fantasy-filled theme parks, but instead opted for a Native American museum located on a reservation.

And a few weeks ago, I had the rare opportunity to travel – by car – approximately 80 miles of the Trail of Death. Between two central Illinois cities – Danville and Decatur – I peppered the president of the Potawatomi Trail of Death Association with questions. In 1988, George Godfrey, a member of the tribe, decided he wanted to help ensure that the Trail of Death would not get swept under America’s historical rug. Every five years, he and about 30 others load up their vehicles. Over six days, they travel from Twin Lakes, Indiana, to cities near Osawatomie, Kansas, the starting and ending points of the forced march nearly 200 years ago. Along the way, the caravan stops at many of the historical markers that trace the 1838 route.

“The importance of the caravan,” Mr. Godfrey tells me as we ride along, “is keeping people educated. We need to expand the knowledge. ... I want people to leave with some ways that they can work with other people so that all people can be understood and respected.”

In some of the places where we stopped, townspeople joined us at the historical markers, usually a large boulder with a metal plaque attached. We’d listen as Mr. Godfrey, an octogenarian, shared some of the history of what took place at or near that site. It was sobering and sacred, but I didn’t feel sad. I was grateful for an experience that was turning indifference into concern.

Recently, I heard a speaker define land not only as terra firma but also as the place where we build community and form our identity. When people are removed from their land – whether kidnapped and brought to another continent, made to leave their land by a dominant power, or forced from their homes because of war, starvation, catastrophic weather events, or political chaos – their original sense of community and identity is lost. They have to eke out a new life on unfamiliar land. That’s not an easy task, especially when those who are displaced are made to feel unwelcome, marginalized, or invisible where they’ve landed and likely had hoped to find safe harbor.

Indigenous people had been out of sight and out of mind for me. But it’s never too late to learn, change, and engage. Expanding my knowledge of America’s Indigenous population has become a powerful tool for dismantling the callous ignorance that had kept me from caring about the people who came before me and who still live on this land.