Kakinow

Ni Wagomakanak: We Are All Related1

Please cite A. Wilson (forthcoming October 2015). Kakinow Ni Wagomakanak: We are all related. In
Struggling in Good Faith: Twelve American Religions and their perspectives on LGBTQI inclusion, M. Copeland
& D. Rose (Eds.) Skylight Paths Publishing: Woodstock, VT.
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I am a two spirit woman from the Opaskwayak Cree Nation, a reserve that lies approximately 400 miles
north of the border between North Dakota and Canada. My family clan name is Wassenas, which translates
as reflecting light from within. In this chapter, I offer my own understanding of knowledge that has been
passed to me from my community and through my family. I also draw on my work as a community
researcher who has worked extensively with Indigenous LGBTQI people. I have been given the somewhat
daunting task and humbling responsibility of discussing spirituality and Indigenous LGBTQI people in the
United States and Canada. Indigenous peoples across what we now call North America2 are a diverse group,
each with its own distinct culture, language and spiritual understandings, beliefs and practices. At the same
time, there is commonality in some aspects of their cultures and spirituality, as well as their historic and
present day experiences. A commonality, however, is that we understand that we have been on this land
mass continuously for 50,000 years or more and, as our origin stories3 tell us, we evolved from these lands
and waters. Our sense of our selves in the world is (and has always been) inseparable from the land and
waters that birthed, nurture and sustain us. In traditional Indigenous spiritualities (unlike Judeo-Christian,
Muslim or Buddhist traditions) we do not look to an individual or specific people as the founder(s) or
leader(s). Rather, we find guidance in a Great Mystery - the recognition that while we cannot know
everything, we are connected to everything by a spiritual energy, joining us in a circle that reaches out as far
as the stars, constellations and cosmos, and encompasses the whole of our past, present and future.
This understanding shapes and is reflected in our languages. Our Cree language is ordered, organized or
gendered around whether something is animate (meaning that it has a spiritual purpose and a spiritual
energy) or inanimate. In Cree,our term for land is aski which expresses relationality or more specifically,
that we, the land and waters, the plants, animals and other living creatures are related. The term mino
pimatisiwin refers to our relational accountability, that is, our responsibility to live in conscious connection
with the land and living things in a way that creates and sustains balance or, as my father translates from
our dialect, to live beautifully.
A form of humility comes along with knowing that, as people, we are part of something bigger. None of us
are endowed with absolute authority or knowingness. We recognize Elders, pipe carriers, Elders, Sundance
leaders and others who have significant or special understanding, knowledge or experiences that others do
not have. We also understand that everyone comes into the world with gifts or talents, such as the ability to
paddle, the ability to communicate and work with animals, or the ability to connect with the spirits. Their
gifts may simply emerge as experience calls them forth or they may be discovered or developed by working
(sometimes for years or for a lifetime) with a mentor, Elder, or other person from whom they can learn.

1

I would like to acknowledge and thank the following people who contributed to this article by transcribing notes,
reading drafts and/or through discussion: Stan Wilson, Janet Sarson, Roz Dotson, Rebecca Sockbeson Cardinal, and
Mychal Copeland. Kinanaskohmitinawaw.
2
In Canada, Indigenous people include First Nations, Inuit and Metis peoples. I am a member of a First Nation, and, out
of respect, will use this term when referring specifically to their experiences.
3
All Indigenous nations in North America come from oral traditions. In some nations, stories, historic events, maps and
other important knowledge was recorded or documented in media such as petroglyphs, petrographs, birch bark scrolls,
wampum belts or condolence canes, but the primary way to convey knowledge was through oral traditions.

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In Canada and the United States, every First Nation or Indigenous nation has gone through colonization and,
with that, sustained attempts to assimilate its citizens. The historic era, extent and manner in which
colonization was imposed and the impacts of these experiences differ within and across nations, but as part
of this process, the practice or expression of traditional spirituality was made illegal in both Canada and the
United States.
Over this time, traditional spirituality went underground and many of our people were forced or chose to
adopt or adapt Christian practices. Even after the prohibition was lifted and it again became legal to practice
traditional spirituality, people were still affected by the disruption of the continuity of their spiritual
practices. Many who had adopted Christianity continued to worship in those churches, although Christian
practice in our communities is often infused with traditional spiritual practices. For example, Catholicism is
practiced in many Pueblo communities, but in some of these communities, traditional ceremonies (led by
Pueblo head persons or by Catholic priests) have been adapted to celebrate Catholic holidays. The Native
American Church mixes traditional practices from Midwestern and Southwestern Indigenous peoples with
Christianity. As with other aspects of our traditional cultures, we find ways to reconnect or maintain our
connections to traditional spirituality.
Historically, if there were an equivalent to the Bible, Koran or other authoritative text in traditional
Indigenous spirituality, it was the land. In all Indigenous nations in Canada and the United States, knowledge
we gathered on the land was transferred orally in stories, songs, chants or recitations of family lineages. A
main character in Cree traditional stories is Weesageychak, a trickster who, when the story was told in our
language, was not assigned a gender. The implicit understanding of gender and sexual diversity
communicated by the absence of gender-distinct words in Cree is lost, however, when the story is told in
modern settings, or translated into English, which requires gender attribution. In these retellings,
Weesageychak is transformed into a male and new meanings (the semantic burdens of Christianity and
heteropatriarchy that the English language carries) are ascribed to these very old stories.
In this sense, the main texts that are now brought to bear on Indigenous LGBTQI personhood include the
Bible, dictionaries, and the Indian Act. The Bible has become authoritative, in part, because it has been
translated into every Native language in the world and published in Canada not only in Roman orthography
but also in syllabics, an orthography created by a missionary (while he was working within the traditional
territories of my people, the Swampy Cree) specifically to Christianize and assimilate Indigenous peoples.
Syllabics were also used in dictionaries of the Cree and other Indigenous languages, texts written primarily
by ministers or priests from Catholic or other Christian denominations. These dictionaries were carefully
censored, eliding from our languages any terms or concepts that challenged a western world view, such as
spiritual understandings about sexual and gender diversity, or our responsibility to care for and nurture the
well-being of the land, waters, and living things. Today, people in my community who are trying to learn or
recover our language rely on those texts, the dictionaries and Bibles that were written to assimilate us into a
Christian, heteropatriarchal and hierarchic world view.
The Indian Act was passed in 1867, nine years after Canada was formed. The Act placed control of the
everyday lives of Indigenous peoples and communities in Canada in the hands of the federal government.
With the Acts passage, government agents travelled through our settlements and communities and
developed lists that identified who, among our people, it would now recognize as Indigenous (status
Indians, a category of being that now belongs only to some descendents of the people included in the
agents lists). Those of us whom the agents did not find and add to their lists suddenly were no longer, in a
legal sense, who we knew ourselves to be. Those of us who were (un)lucky enough to be identified as
status Indians became legal wards of the state. We were confined to small reserves (typically located on
tracts of land considered undesirable in the new settler economy) within our large traditional territories,
and our well-developed governance systems were replaced with a Chief and Council system designed and
overseen by the government.
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The purpose and intent of the Indian Act was to assimilate Indigenous peoples out of existence. Removing
and controlling our access to the vast expanses of our traditional territories was a way to remove and
control our access to our identity, our sense of our selves that is shaped by the spiritual values of
relationality and relational accountability to the land, waters and living things. The Acts regulations and
descriptions of what and who an Indian is were deeply heteropatriarchal. Until 1985, if a woman with
Indian status married a person who was non-Indigenous or Indigenous without status, the government
would legally strip her (and her children) of status. Without status, she would lose the right to live on her
reserve. The obverse was true for men with status: if they married an Indigenous or non-Indigenous person
without status, she would gain status.
This and other aspects of the Indian Act introduced regulation of the body (and the heart) into Indigenous
communities, leaving little room for the acceptance of diverse gender and sexual identities that had once
been common in our communities. The Act has been revised repeatedly, carefully fine-tuned to meet the
needs of mainstream society at any given time and steadily chipping away at the culturally distinct values
and ways of being of Indigenous peoples. It was the legal tool that enabled the government to prohibit (for a
75-year period that did not end until 1951) ceremonies such as the Sundance and the Potlatch, ceremonial
dances and other spiritual practices that express our fundamental spiritual principles of relationality and
relational accountability.
The Act also provided the legal basis for the establishment of the residential school system, which made
Indigenous childrens attendance at these schools mandatory (copying the example of the Indian Boarding
School system established earlier in the United States). The schools were designed to Christianize and
assimilate Indigenous children, and prepare them to become useful labourers in the settler economy. The
removal of children to the schools devastated their families, communities and Nations. Once at the schools,
the majority of children were the victims of spiritual, emotional, and/or physical abuse, and many were also
sexually abused by the priests, nuns and other staff who operated the schools. When children were finally
able to return home, their families and communities had often not yet recovered from the trauma and loss
they experienced when their children had been removed to the schools. The federal governments response
to this was to amend the Indian Act in 1951 to enable provincial child protection services to enter reserves
and apprehend children. The vast majority of the children were placed in non-Aboriginal foster homes or
institutionalized care and many were exposed to physical and sexual abuse. Once again, Indigenous children
were removed from their own culture and from traditional spiritual values, understandings and practices,
including the acceptance of gender and sexual diversity.
There is a long history of acceptance of gender diversity and sexual diversity within Indigenous nations of
North America. We know this, in part, because it was recorded in texts produced by Europeans at the time
of first contact and then later by anthropologists who catalogued our cultures. We also know this from the
more authentic records of our own people our stories, ceremonies, languages, and ways of being. As
discussed earlier, all Indigenous peoples in Canada and the United States have experienced colonization and
parallel attempts at assimilation. This disruptive and invasive dynamic that has corrupted and relegated as
inconsequential Indigenous peoples traditional knowledge and spirituality, and made room for values and
practices from settler culture to seep into our cultures.
For Indigenous LBGTQI people, this means we are now subject to racism, sexism, misogyny, homophobia
and transphobia both in mainstream society and in our home communities. The extent to which these
interconnected oppressions are manifested and normalized in our communities relates to a several factors,
including the number and kinds of churches in a community and the extent to which spiritual leaders (within
or outside the churches) promote or challenge these various forms of oppression. For example, in the early
80s, queer Indigenous peoples were hit hard by the HIV and AIDS epidemic and, over a short period, many
died. In Canada, a federal law was in place that prevented anyone who died from HIV/AIDS-related illnesses
from being buried on a reserve, the home community of many people with HIV or AIDS. In some
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communities, active resistance developed around this issue, as family members (in particular, mothers,
aunties and grandmothers) recognized the homophobia and AIDSphobia that drove the law. Ultimately, a
group of women lobbied the federal government, and the law was changed, so that their relatives could be
buried with their other family and community members. That experience generated a significant positive
shift in thinking in many communities, including my own.
Homophobia and transphobia still linger in our communities (although they are manifested less openly than
they were a few decades ago) and, in combination with the ongoing racism directed at Indigenous people,
the misogyny and sexism directed at women and transpeople, and the seemingly insoluble poverty that
prevails in our communities, Indigenous LGBTQI people youth in particular continue to be at risk.
Homelessness is increasing for Indigenous youth and school drop-out and forced-out rates, HIV-infection
and suicide rates are elevated within this group. It should be noted that trans Indigenous youth often leave
school around the time that they recognize and name their identity and, following this, are often forced out
of or feel that they have to leave their families or homes and so become homeless.
In response to their experiences of multiple forms of oppression, Indigenous LGBTQI people are finding
strength in their culturally distinct identities. In the 1990s, a relatively small group of LGBTQI people from
several Indigenous nations throughout Canada and the United States recognized the need for a term to
describe themselves that would acknowledge and affirm their Indigenous identity, their spiritual connection
to the land, and the spiritual value of accepting gender and sexual diversity. They named themselves two
spirit. They also began to explore, ask about and talk more freely and openly about words from their own
language that refer to two spirit, gender and sexually diverse people. Dine culture recognizes multiple
genders, and there are different forms of Dine language for each of those genders. In other cultures
(including my own), a term for queerness does not exist because queer people were simply seen as part of
the circle. As part of this cultural resurgence, there is greater understanding of the recognition of and
respect for sexual and gender diversity in traditional cultures.
The term two spirit emerged as an act of empowerment for both individual two-spirit people and the larger
community. It has been embraced widely by Indigenous LGBTQI people and, with that, a range of meanings
has been attributed to it. Two spirit was developed as a term to describe to our connection to traditional
understandings of sexual and gender diversity, but some have taken it to mean that we are positioning our
selves on a continuum that ranges between female and male. Others see it as an expression of our
connection to the land (or physical and material) and the spiritual worlds. I understand it as a
multidimensional and multiliminal space in which we bring to any moment both our experiences of multiple
forms of oppression and our possession of multiple forms of empowered identity, where we are in
relationship with the land, the people, our animal and other guardian spirits, the star spirits, and our own
souls.
As an invented term that uses the English language to express our identity, two spirit encourages non-
Indigenous people to acknowledge the complexity of our distinct identity. The term recognizes the
importance of spirituality and spiritual traditions but, in claiming our identity as two spirit people, we are
not proclaiming ourselves as people who, by their nature, are extraordinarily spiritually gifted. A young
person who is just coming to understand their sexuality typically wants just wants to be part of a community
where they are seen and valued as the person they are. As a community, two spirit people can offer that to
each other. Within western culture, however, two spirit people are often romanticized, recast in flattening
stereotypes excavated from the writings of European explorers and more contemporary anthropologists
strange beings whose sexuality somehow makes them hyperspiritual. This is not who we are.
There has been considerable discussion within Indigenous communities about who can rightfully call
themselves two spirit and the general agreement seems to be that the term should be reserved for
Indigenous people that is, people who are descendants of the original peoples of these lands. Many of our
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community members feel that when a non-Indigenous person identifies her- or himself as two spirit, it is an
act of cultural appropriation. At pow-wows and in other contexts, non-Indigenous people may be welcome
to come and observe our ceremonies, celebrations or other aspects of our culture. Non-indigenous people
may also be invited to participate in ceremonies but this does not typically happen unless we are confident
that the person invited will participate in a way that respects the protocols, values and intent associated
with the ceremony. It is particularly important that non-Indigenous people do not impose their own
meanings on our ceremonies or spirituality, or exploit them for their own personal ends or for profit. As
noted earlier, each two spirit person has their own understanding of what that identity means, but for all of
us, our present day and historic experiences as Indigenous people are an essential component of that
identity.
Soon after Indigenous LGBTQI people identified as two spirit in the 1990s, the two spirit community began
to organize gatherings that would offer them a safe space to socialize, share their understandings around
sexual and gender diversity, and participate in ceremony. Two spirit gatherings quickly became an annual
event and today there are many gatherings held each year at locations throughout the United States and
Canada. At more local levels, two spirit people have organized drum groups for ceremonies, powwows and
other significant events such as pride celebrations. At the two spirit powwow in the San Francisco Bay Area,
the rigid gender categories that are a standard feature of the powwow circuit have been left behind and
dancers are welcome to participate in the regalia of their choice. Two spirit sweat lodges have been built
and there are now Sun Dances that are led and attend only by two spirit people. Change has also occurred
outside the two spirit community. In many of our home communities, our identity has been recognized, and
the term two spirit appears, for example, in literature produced by local organizations and in casual
conversations between community members.
Today, some young Indigenous LGBTQI people are searching for a new term to describe their identity. Two
spirit identity has helped to empower Indigenous LGBQTI people and increased understanding of gender and
sexuality diversity in our communities. From these young peoples perspective, however, the term has been
described as a placeholder and what is needed now is a term that makes it clear that gender and sexuality
are fluid, flexible and queer states of being.
Another exciting change is the emergence of the concept of coming in. Two spirit or Indigenous LGBTQI
peoples stories of how they grew into their identities are often very different from conventional coming
out stories which typically feature a declaration of an independent identity: An LGBTQI person gathers up
their courage, tells a friend or family member who they are, and, more often than not, are met with
resistance, anger, rejection, abandonment and or violence. Coming in is about individual identities while
also about collective community building. Our coming in stories are about recognizing ourselves as
Indigenous people who are LGBTQI people and then, fully present in that identity, coming into relationships
with our biological, found or created families and communities. Like the term two spirit, the concept of
coming in fits us well. People are using the term and have developed coming in ceremonies to welcome,
embrace and honour two spirit people within Indigenous traditional spirituality.

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