Growing up, I saw firsthand how incarceration creates cycles that are hard to escape. It’s not just about serving time—it’s about the instability, the financial strain, the stigma, and the emotional weight it places on families. It affects education, opportunity, and mental health. For a long time, I felt like I was carrying the weight of something I couldn’t control, something that had already determined my future before I had a chance to define it for myself. Incarceration doesn’t just affect the person behind bars—it affects entire families, shaping futures in ways that are hard to explain to those who haven’t lived it. My mother was incarcerated when I was younger, and that experience has deeply shaped my educational journey and my desire to give back to my community. At the same time, I struggled with my identity and where I came from. I used to feel ashamed of my Indigeneity. Deeply ingrained into our culture, there is the notion that black and brown children will amount to nothing. So much so that I began to believe what I saw and heard about. But as I grew older and reconnected with my culture, especially through powwows, I began to unlearn this trauma. They became a place where I felt grounded—where I could see the strength of my people, hear the songs that have survived generations, and understand that resilience is part of who we are. I used to be ashamed of where I came from, but now I carry it with pride. Contrary to what I was taught to believe in my educational journey, being Afro-Indigenous and living in a single parent household did not make me predestined to fail. I began to see my education not just as a way out, but as a way forward—not just for myself, but for my community. I don’t want to just escape the struggles that come with poverty, incarceration, and generational trauma—I want to break those cycles. Public schooling and educational systems particularly in the midwest are not always environments conducive towards the success of people of color. I want to be part of the change that ensures future generations have opportunities that weren’t always available to those before them. Now, when I think about my mother’s experience, I don’t just think about the pain of it—I think about the responsibility it has given me. It has made me determined to uplift others, to work toward a future where incarceration isn’t the story that defines so many Indigenous and Black families. It has taught me that giving back isn’t just about helping others—it’s about healing, about making sure the struggles of the past don’t dictate the future.

For a long time, I was ashamed of being from Nebraska. It felt like a no man's land, a place no one cared about unless they were talking about corn or college football. When people asked where I was from, I would answer hesitantly, waiting for the usual reaction—"Where? Alaska?", a joke about the Midwest, or complete disinterest. I didn’t see Nebraska as a place worth being proud of. Going to powwows has always been a powerful experience for me. They are more than just gatherings; they are a connection to something larger than myself. The first time I really paid attention to what was happening—not just as a spectator, but as someone feeling the energy in my bones—I understood why they mattered so much. The drums, the songs, the intricate beadwork on regalia, the way the dancers moved with history and resilience in every step—it was a reminder that our culture is alive. It’s not just something in history books; it’s here, now, in us. I remember one particular powwow where I stood at the edge of the dance circle, watching an elder lead a song. His voice carried generations of strength, pain, survival, and joy. I saw little kids laughing as they danced, their feet touching the same earth our ancestors walked. I realized then that Nebraska isn’t just a place—it’s a home, a history, a people. It’s where my roots are, where my ancestors lived, struggled, and thrived. I had been ashamed of something that should have been a source of pride. At the same time, I have also seen the struggles that exist within my community—poverty, alcoholism, the weight of generational trauma. I’ve seen how these things hold people back, how cycles of pain repeat when there aren’t enough resources or support. That’s why I want to be someone who helps break those cycles. I want to work toward a future where being from Nebraska, being Omaha, isn’t just about survival—it’s about thriving. Now, when people ask where I’m from, I say it with confidence. Nebraska is part of me, just like the stories, songs, and resilience of my people. The shame I once felt has been replaced with a responsibility—to honor where I come from, to uplift my community, and to make sure the next generation has more to be proud of. And every time I go to a powwow, I’m reminded why that work matters.