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Standing Bear Network, 65 Johnny Cake Trail South, Wakefield, RI (2025)

08/31/2025

Long ago, after the newcomers came with their papers and pens, they gave our people something strange. They said, “This is how you will know who you are.”

They brought a stick. But it was not whole. It was cut and cut again—half, quarter, eighth, sixteenth—smaller and smaller, until almost nothing was left. And they told us, “This is you. This is your child. This is your grandchild.”

But our old ones looked at that broken stick and shook their heads. They said, “No. That is not us. We are not pieces. We are not splinters.”

Still, the stick was carried into our homes, into our councils, into the pockets of our young people. It was written on their cards. Some even began to believe it.

⸻

One day, a boy sat by the fire with his grandmother. He held the card in his hand, the numbers and fractions heavy on it. He asked her, “Kokum, am I really just one-quarter?”

The grandmother looked at him with gentle eyes. She pointed to the flames.

“Tell me, grandson,” she said, “when this fire burns, do you call it a quarter fire? Do you say it is half a flame? No. A fire is a fire. And you, my boy, are nehiyaw. Whole, alive, burning bright.”

⸻

The boy looked closer. He saw how each stick on the fire, no matter how small or crooked, was taken in. The flames did not ask, “How much are you?” They welcomed all, and together they became a great fire.

That is our way. Not the way of fractions, but the way of the circle.

⸻

When the people returned to the lodge and remembered this teaching, they put away the broken stick. They said:

“Our children are not eighths. Our grandchildren are not sixteenths. They are sacred bundles, given whole. They carry the songs, the laughter, the prayers of our ancestors. They are not less. They are us.”

And so the circle grew strong again.

⸻

Even now, my relatives, we are living this story. We are walking not backward, but inward—toward the center, toward the fire. And when we arrive, all of us—mixed families, adopted children, those who married across nations—we will sit together. Not as fractions, not as outsiders, but as relatives.

The fire will not ask, “What part are you?” It will only ask, “Are you ready to keep the flame alive?”

⸻

So let us walk home that way:
Whole. Undivided.
Still nehiyawak.
Still here.
And stronger than ever.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez

08/31/2025

In the old days, before papers and councils of another kind, our Pimicikamak people gathered by the river. We did not choose one person to rule over us. We did not hand our voices to a stranger. We sat in a circle, because the circle holds us all.

At the center of this circle, the people tended four fires. Each fire had its keepers.

One fire belonged to the Women, for they carry the generations, they know the weight of water and the work of life. Their voices guided the camp with gentleness and with firmness.

One fire belonged to the Men, for they carried the hunt, the nets, the protection of the people. Their voices reminded the circle of courage and responsibility.

One fire belonged to the Elders, those who remembered the stories and treaties older than ink. They spoke slowly, but their words reached far into the future.

And one fire belonged to the Youth and Children, for even the youngest had a voice. Their laughter, their questions, their dreams — these reminded the people who they were truly deciding for.

When the people gathered, no one spoke above the rest. The fires burned side by side, and decisions were made only when all four flames rose together. If one fire grew dim, the people waited, tended it, and brought it back to strength. For how could a Nation walk forward if one fire was left behind?

That was our governance. Not a line, but a circle. Not power over, but power with. Not forgetting, but remembering that every voice, from the smallest to the oldest, belongs to the fire.

And so, even today, when we sit together, that circle is still with us.

Tapwe,

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez

08/30/2025

This story is not only about one man who carried darkness in his hands. It is about the system that shielded him, moved him, and allowed him to prey upon our children for decades. Dr. Weber was not just a predator hiding in the shadows—he was kept in place by institutions that turned their heads. Supervisors, administrators, investigators — they all knew enough to act, yet chose silence or self-preservation over the safety of Native children. And who bore the cost? Our sons, our nephews, our grandchildren. Innocent boys who should have been safe in a hospital bed, but instead carried a secret that burned their spirit.

This is deeper than misconduct. The United States had a treaty obligation — written into the Blackfeet Treaty of 1855 and the Sioux Treaty of 1868 — to provide health care to our Nations. But what is health care if it becomes a place of harm? What is a treaty if the very services it promised are turned into weapons against our children? This is not just a betrayal of trust. It is a breaking of sacred agreements.

The $18 million settlement may seem large in dollars, but it does not balance the scales of what was taken. No amount of money can restore a childhood, heal a scarred memory, or bring back the innocence lost in those hospital rooms. This settlement is not justice — it is only acknowledgment. Justice would have meant protection in the first place. Justice would have meant listening to the staff who raised alarms in 1995. Justice would have meant believing the boys when they showed signs of fear. Justice would have meant a system that served the people instead of itself.

We, as Nations, have always said: our children are sacred bundles. They carry within them the seeds of tomorrow, the songs yet to be sung, the languages yet to be spoken. When those children are harmed, it is not just individuals who suffer — it is the whole Nation, the whole circle of life. The IHS, the BIA, and the federal government must remember: treaties are not just words on paper. They are living agreements, tied to our survival. They promised to care for our people — not to abandon them to predators.

So I say this: we must never again allow silence to shield abuse. We must raise our voices for the children, for the ones who were silenced, and for the ones yet unborn. We must remind the government that the treaties live, and so does their responsibility. And to the survivors — you carry a strength no settlement can measure. The ancestors walk with you. The prayers of your Nations rise with you. Your story is not just of harm, but of survival, of resilience, and of truth-telling that will protect others.

Tapwe, these truths are heavy, but they must be spoken.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez

08/29/2025

Today, nîtisânak, I worked alongside my four-legged companion, Waffles. For many winters and many summers — thirty years of them — I carried a burden in my heart. The stumps of old trees sat upon the land, unmoving, like heavy memories that would not let go. I would walk past them and say, one day. But that day always seemed too far, too heavy, too much.

This morning, I picked up my tools, and Waffles picked up his spirit. He trotted beside me, tail wagging, eyes bright, as if to say, let us begin, kâwâsimis, little grandfather. And so we began.

It is a teaching, you see. The work that feels impossible is never so great once you place your hands upon it. The soil opened. The roots that clung to the earth loosened. The stumps, once like mountains in my mind, gave way to steady effort. With sweat upon my brow, I realized the truth: the hardest part of any burden is not the work itself — it is the waiting, the carrying of it in silence.

When the last stump was ground to dust, I stood in the clearing. The air felt lighter, the land felt freer, and so did my spirit. Waffles looked up at me, his nose smudged with earth, and his eyes told me what words could not: You did it. We did it.

So I say this now to you, my grandchildren: never fear the things that stand long in your path. Begin, and the earth will meet you. Begin, and your companions will walk with you. Begin, and you will find that the mountain you feared was only a stump waiting to be moved.

Tapwe,

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez

08/29/2025

The children… taken in the night, not with kindness, but with the sound of tires on gravel and the shuffle of strangers’ boots. The children who cried out for their mothers, for their kokums, for their dogs, for their safe place — and no one came, because the law stood in the doorway with its papers and pens.

They called it care. But it was theft.
They said it was for the child’s good. But it was for their hunger, their systems, their cages.
And our children — our sacred bundles, our Nations in small bodies — were treated like numbers, files, cases to be closed.

I say this now, so no one forgets: not one more stolen life.

For every child taken, there is a story that was silenced, a drumbeat that was interrupted, a star whose light was dimmed. But still, the ancestors gather around those little ones. They whisper in dreams, they guide their steps, they keep the sacred flame alive within them.

For every child still waiting — waiting to come home, waiting to be held, waiting to be seen as sacred — we rise. We light the fires, we sing the old songs, we hold the bundles high. We remind the world: these children belong to the land, to the people, to the ancestors. Not to cages. Not to files. Not to graves.

We will not bury children when we are meant to hold them.
We will not watch another life stolen without raising our voices, without standing in the way, without putting our bodies between the child and the system that steals them.

We rise with ceremony.
We rise with love fierce enough to break iron.
We rise with stories older than their laws.
We rise for the ones taken, and for the ones still waiting.

And I tell you — the children are coming home.
Every single one.

Not one more stolen life.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez

08/28/2025

Our brother, Elder Raymond Collins Robinson, has taken his stand at Jenpeg. He is not there for himself alone, but for all of Pimicikamak. The dam that was supposed to bring prosperity has instead brought sickness, poverty, and broken promises. The Northern Flood Agreement, called a “modern treaty,” was meant to lift our people from hardship. Instead, Manitoba Hydro has failed in its duty.

The waters that once gave us life now run with poison. The waves of the dam have made them undrinkable, and the purification plants are old, worn down, unable to keep up. Methylmercury lies hidden in the depths — creeping into the fish, the birds, the very food that once sustained our way of life. This is not just about water; it is about the disruption of our hunting, fishing, and trapping — the lifeways of our ancestors.

And what has come from this? Our youth carry heavy burdens. Too many lives have been lost to su***de. Too many homes broken by violence, alcohol, and drugs. Poverty was not eradicated — it was deepened. And when the fires came recently, even the land itself seemed to weep with us as we were forced to leave our community.

But Elder Raymond reminds us: we never ceded our Wapahan, our Eagle Staff. That staff is the living heart of our sovereignty, our nationhood. No dam, no corporation, no government can take that away.

This is not only a struggle for clean water. It is a struggle for dignity, for the right to live as Pimicikamak, in balance with the land, the waters, the winds. Our brother’s stand is a prayer made visible — a call to remember that treaties are sacred, that promises must be honored, and that the land still breathes beneath us.

Tapwe, the struggle continues. But so does the fire of our people.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez

08/28/2025

As the sun leans toward the horizon,
we ask for balance in our hearts.
May our words be gentle,
our thoughts be kind,
our actions guided by love.

Let the warmth of this afternoon carry us through whatever shadows remain.
Let the winds bring healing to those who are weary,
and strength to those who are struggling.

We remember the children, the elders, the ones who walk beside us,
and the ones who walk now among the ancestors.
We are all part of this great circle,
tied together by the breath of life itself.

Great Spirit, walk with us into the evening.
Keep our steps steady,
and let our hearts rest in gratitude.

Mîkwêc.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez

08/27/2025

Two little ones, innocent as the morning dew, have had their lives taken in a place where prayers were rising. Seventeen others were wounded, their families now holding onto hope, their spirits shaken. In Minneapolis, at Annunciation Catholic School, what should have been a moment of faith and beginning has turned into grief that will echo for generations.

When a child’s life is cut short, it is as though the whole circle of creation trembles. The songs of the birds grow quieter, the rivers hesitate in their flow, because life itself knows something sacred has been broken. The pews that held the children now hold silence, the windows that once let in light are shattered by violence.

But even in this darkness, I tell you, the sacred fire still burns. The Pope sends his prayers from afar, leaders and neighbors stand together, and across nations people bow their heads for those families. This is not enough to take away the pain, but it reminds us that we do not grieve alone.

We must hold the children close — those who remain with us — and tell them that they are loved, that they belong, that their lives are precious. We must also honor the ones who have crossed over by living in a way that brings peace, by walking carefully, by choosing compassion where anger tempts us.

In our teachings, when a life is lost, the spirits of the people gather to guide the little ones home, to carry them on eagle’s wings to the lodge of the ancestors. Let us trust that these children, whose names are not yet known to us, are now embraced in that eternal circle.

So I say to you: light a candle, offer to***co, whisper a prayer in your own way. For the families, for the community, for all of us who must continue in a world that can sometimes forget the sacredness of a child’s laughter.

Tapwe — it is true — we will walk through this sorrow together. And though our hearts are heavy, we must not let despair take root. Instead, let us water the seeds of love, so that one day, when the children look back, they will see not only the violence of this day, but the strength of those who carried them through it.

Kihci-Manitow (Great Spirit), hear our cries today.
Two little ones have been taken from us, their laughter silenced too soon.
Seventeen more carry wounds in body and spirit.

Wrap these children in your light,
carry them gently to the lodge of the ancestors.
Surround their families with strength and comfort.
Steady the hearts of those who tended, who prayed, who wept.

Help us remember that even in sorrow,
the sacred fire still burns.
Teach us to hold our children close,
to walk carefully, to love deeply,
to choose compassion where hatred has sown pain.

We give these prayers like smoke rising to the sky,
trusting you will carry them where they are needed most.

Tapwe.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez

08/27/2025

Along the north shore of Lake Huron, where the waters breathe against the stones and the forests rise like ancient relatives, a small victory has been won. A forestry company has stepped back from its plans to rain down herbicides upon those trees, those medicines, those beings who share that place with us. They may not tell us the reasons — but we know the prayers, the voices, the footsteps of the people who stood together in Serpent River First Nation and beyond.

When our people gather to protect the land, it is not only politics. It is ceremony. It is love. Each drumbeat, each sign, each word spoken that day carried the spirit of responsibility — the same spirit our ancestors felt when they made covenant with the land and the waters.

The company says, “only for this year.” But even one year matters. One summer without poison falling on the forest. One season for the blueberries, the medicines, the songbirds, and the deer to breathe a little freer. One year for the children to play in the shade of jack pine without fear of hidden chemicals on the wind.

Other places, like Québec, have already banned these sprays. They remind us there are other ways: the patient hand-pulling of weeds, the careful burn, the wisdom of balance rather than shortcuts of destruction. These ways may cost more, but they cost less than the sickness of the earth, less than the cancers and poisons that ripple through water and body alike.

So let us not be satisfied only with this pause. Let us carry the teaching forward — that the land is not a resource to be “managed” with poison, but a living relative to be cared for with respect. Let us encourage new paths, older paths, that align with the circle of life and not against it.

Today, the forests of the north shore whisper their thanks. And we, too, whisper back: we are listening. We will keep standing. We will not forget.

Tapwe

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez

08/26/2025

The sun still walks its path across the sky, reminding us that each moment is a gift. The warmth upon our faces is the breath of the Creator, whispering: You are alive, you are here, you are loved.

We give thanks for the food that has carried us through the day, for the waters that refresh our spirits, and for the hands of our loved ones that remind us we do not walk alone.

For those who carry heavy burdens, may this hour bring a softening of the heart. For those who are weary, may this moment be a resting place. For the children, may they always know laughter and safety. For the Elders, may they feel the honor and gratitude of all their generations.

Great Spirit, guide our steps so that the rest of this day may be filled with kindness, balance, and truth. Let our words be gentle, our thoughts be clear, and our actions be like good seeds planted for tomorrow.

Mîkwêc, Creator — thank you for this day and for the gift of being together in this circle of life.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez

08/26/2025

Âh, nîtisânak — my little ones, come close. I will tell you a story of the buffalo and the people.

Long ago, the buffalo covered the prairies like waves upon the sea. They gave us food to eat, warm robes to wear, strong hides for our lodges, and bones for our tools. Every part of the buffalo was a gift. Without them, the people could not live.

But the buffalo were strong and many, and to hunt them was not easy. Our ancestors did not waste or take more than they needed. Instead, they worked together with courage and respect.

There was a high cliff, standing tall against the sky. The people called it the buffalo jump. They would gather in a circle, making a plan. Runners dressed in skins would guide the herd, slowly, carefully, toward that place. And when the buffalo thundered over the edge, the people below would give thanks and finish the work quickly, singing prayers of respect.

It was not just a hunt, my grandchildren — it was a ceremony. It was a promise: the buffalo gave life, and the people gave back honor.

If you stand at those cliffs today, you can still feel the ground shaking with the hooves of long ago. You can still hear the voices of the people, working together, giving thanks.

So remember this teaching: like the buffalo jump, life takes all of us together. One alone cannot do it. But in the circle, with courage and respect, we can face anything.

That is how the buffalo still live in us.

Mîkwêc. All my relations.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez

08/25/2025

Once again the land is crying out with fire. In the valleys of Napa and the high desert of Oregon, the hills and canyons are glowing with a fierce heat. Families are being asked to leave their homes, firefighters are standing against the flames, and the old trees — some still scarred from past burns — are giving their bodies back to the fire.

But we must remember: fire is not only an enemy. Fire is a teacher, fire is a cleanser, fire is part of the great cycle. Our people have always known this. Long ago, the land burned in its own rhythm, clearing space for new grass, bringing medicine back to the soil, opening pathways for the deer and elk. It is only when the balance is broken that fire becomes this destructive.

Look at what is happening now: the Pickett Fire walks the same ground as the Glass Fire of 2020. That fire left behind dead trees, dry brush, and open wounds in the land. Now the new fire is feeding on those scars. In Oregon, the flames run through canyons where the grasses are brittle and the juniper stands thirsty. The land itself is telling us: “I cannot carry this heat alone. I need rest, I need renewal.”

Still, my grandchildren, do not let despair overtake you. Even now, people come together. Firefighters cut their lines into the earth, helicopters carry water through the smoke, neighbors open their doors to one another. Out of danger, we see kindness. Out of fire, we see courage.

The seasons will always bring change — heat and drought, wind and storm. Yet if we walk gently and with respect, we can help the land to heal after fire. Each act of care for the earth — planting, conserving, protecting — is like a drop of water on the flames. One drop may seem small, but together they can cool the fire.

So we pray for those who have lost their homes, we pray for those who fight the fire, and we pray for the land itself, that it may heal. Let us walk forward with truth and with optimism. For just as green grass grew again after the Glass Fire, so too will life return after this.

Kîsikâw Pîsimwêw, we lift our voices for the families who have been asked to leave their homes, for the ones who wait with heavy hearts, and for those who walk into the fire to protect life. Watch over them. Place your hand upon the tired shoulders, and bring comfort to the children who are afraid.

We pray also for the land — the trees, the grasses, the waters, and the animals who live there. May the winds soften, may the rains come gentle, and may renewal follow after the flames.

Bring healing where there is loss, courage where there is fear, and hope where there is sorrow. Carry each one safely through this fire, and remind them that even in the darkest night, the dawn will rise again.

Mîkwêc. All my relations. 🌿🔥✨

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez

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