It’s been more than twenty years since I lived in South Minneapolis, in the heart of the American Indian community. I worked there as editor of The Circle, a monthly newspaper devoted to covering urban and regional Indian news.
The differences between then and now are striking.
Back then, you could walk down Franklin Avenue and pass by a number of Indian nonprofit organizations, whose missions were to help urban Indians get home loans, job training, and medical services. These nonprofits met a huge need among the 20,000 or so mostly young native people who lived in the city.
The advent of these nonprofits came after years of urban racism. There was a time when Minneapolis police officers regularly dragged Indians, both sober and drunk, beneath the Franklin Avenue bridge and beat them horribly.
Of course, this racism extended to job discrimination and a lack of public school services. Much of this can be traced back to the federal government’s relocation policy, which was an attempt to move Indians off reservations in order to assimilate them into white society. American Indians were dumped into urban ghettos around the country. The promise of a prosperous life proved to be an illusion.
Indians lived in cramped, run-down apartments. They relied on second-hand clothing stores, welfare, and eventually food stamps. The lack of opportunity in the city drove many Indians back to the reservation.
As Indian people, we are taught that individuality is the enemy of our identity. It is community that saves us.
These are the conditions that gave rise to the birth of the American Indian Movement in Minneapolis in the late 1960s. AIM was fearless in dealing with racism. Its members protested at City Hall and demanded an end to police brutality against native people.
For all the accusations of greed, self-promotion, and misogyny, AIM is rightly credited with drawing attention to the plight of city Indians. The group’s very visible protesting sparked the start of Indian nonprofits, which created assistance and opportunities. AIM itself built a job training program and a school for Minneapolis Indians that continues to this day.
Throughout the 1970s, these nonprofits provided such services as the nation’s first urban American Indian clinic. A huge Indian center was constructed to foster a greater sense of community. The center offered elder services, a place for off-reservation voting, a café, and a gym (which doubled as a bingo hall). It was a place to congregate for pow wows, feasts, and other gatherings.
The Minneapolis American Indian Center was also home to The Circle, which quickly became a vital source of news. The monthly paper provided notices and a calendar of community events—all integral to building community.
During the late 1980s, when cities began doling out urban renewal grants, Indian leaders banded together to get their share of the pie. Those grants allowed for the expansion of services on Franklin Avenue. A shelter was built for homeless Indians. A home ownership program was established and an after-school program was created.
In the area of education, newly graduated Indian educators realized they needed to take the lead in establishing native language programs in public schools. For those Indian students who could not cope in white schools, AIM’s high school and two charter schools filled the need.
In just a few short years, the grant monies stopped coming. Much community-building remained unfunded. But the native communities of Minneapolis did what they could with the resources they had.
One of the most difficult and intractable issues was the Indian booze and drug problem. In Minneapolis, Indian bars still stood next to nonprofit centers. One of the biggest scourges was a liquor store on Franklin Avenue that was like a magnet to Indians. Attempts to address the problem by handing out pills meant to reduce the cravings for alcohol largely failed. Sickness and death were common.
But years of protest eventually led to the closing of the liquor store. And soon the Indian bars began to dry up.
Despite the lack of grants, a cultural and social shift often referred to as “Indian self-reliance” was taking hold in Minneapolis. Education, increased job opportunities, and a move from renting run-down dwellings to Indian home ownership were quite evident.
When I lived in South Minneapolis, I would always walk along Franklin Avenue to work. I used to say that the reason I did not quit smoking cigarettes was because I wanted to give something to the Indian chronics who roamed the avenue.
Today, these guys are harder to spot, along with some of the more positive things that marked the area. Many of the bars are shuttered, but so are a number of the nonprofits. And while the city of Minneapolis invested money to renovate the Indian Center, many of the cultural programs are gone.
The American Indian Movement still has a presence, but it’s much smaller than it used to be. AIM members no longer patrol the streets at night, and no longer stage regular protests.
I left Minneapolis to earn an advanced college degree, which helped me land a teaching gig at the University of Wisconsin–Madison that paid more than the $200 a week I was earning at The Circle. And while there is an Indian community here in southern Wisconsin, I miss Franklin Avenue. I miss the Indian center pow wows, the feasts, and even the one time I went to play bingo. I had found a true urban Indian community.
I was born on a farm outside of Milwaukee. When we lived in the city, the only Indian experiences I had were taking the occasional racist comment, welfare, and the drunken laughter of my Ojibwe Indian aunts sitting around our kitchen table.
My Indian connection ended when my father moved us to a broken down farm in northern Minnesota. I was surrounded by Norwegians and Germans.
In high school, when the Red Lake Indian Reservation basketball team came to town, the racism was palpable. I was filled with shame and self-hate. Minneapolis healed me of those deep wounds.
And yet this healing journey was not easy. While a student at the University of Minnesota, I avoided the Indian center on campus. I just could not relate to all those reservation-based Indians. At first, I dreaded going to the Minneapolis American Indian Center, which had a sweat lodge. To this day, I do not attend sweats. It is just too intimate for me.
Since so many Indians are poor, I used to wonder whether this defined our identity and whether, if we all became casino-rich, we would cease to exist. Imagine an Indian middle class or, worse, part of the top 2 percent!
I think the reason we have so many Indian alcoholics in our communities is that the drink is a way to fight off assimilation. It seems Indians are affected by spirits more than other groups. Spirits connect many Indians to a lost past, to the death of a way of life.
Years ago, I wanted to explore reasons that gangs were so appealing to native youth. More than one Indian youth told me that when they were in juvenile detention, non-Indians were shocked that they wanted to join a gang. “But you’re already in a gang,” was a common response. “Your tribe is your gang!”
We are often told by our Indian leaders and “experts” that the appeal of gangs is because of the lack of culture and tribal languages available to our youth. But I disagree. It is the lack of family and community that drives our youth to gangs. Our culture and languages are only effective if rooted in community.
I miss the Indian center pow wows, the feasts, and even the one time I went to play bingo. I had found a true urban Indian community.
In a larger sense, this is true of urban Indians. Whether it is alcoholism, drugs, or gangs, without community we lose our identity. Hence, I have a real concern about “Indian self-reliance.” As Indian people, we are taught that individuality is the enemy of our identity. It is community that saves us.
So imagine my fear when I think of the displacement of urban Indians. In the past few years, I have visited Franklin Avenue. New businesses and thriving stores have replaced those nonprofits. Some kind of social and economic re-engineering is unfolding, pushing the poverty farther south. Combine that with Indians relocating to the suburbs, and it is no wonder that the idea of an Indian center is becoming extinct.
The old neighborhood has become an Indian ghost town. During my years teaching college, I could barely recognize the Indian students. The blood has thinned out. Assimilation, it seems, is something to aspire to. Perhaps the same can be said about urban Indians.
I hope I am wrong.
I know from my time spent working for my tribe that there are those who are beginning to recognize the need for family. Family is the cornerstone of community. I hope my urban Indian brothers and sisters are rediscovering that as well.