Native Wolf

Native American women were highly visible in early 20th century suffrage. White suffragists were fascinated by matriarchal power within tribes, but quickly forgot them by 1920. “The Indian woman rejoices with you,” one woman told Alice Paul, but she was quick to remind too that the fight was far from over. The 19th Amendment didn’t grant voting rights to Native women— at that point, they weren't even considered US citizens.
That woman who reminded Alice Paul was Zitkala-Ša (“Red Bird”), who spent her entire life straddling two cultures. Born and raised on a reservation in South Dakota, she was taken by Quaker missionaries to attend boarding school. Later, she wrote on her struggles with identity, the inner conflict she felt between the culture she came from, and the culture she was educated in— the joy of learning to read, write and play music, but also the pain of losing her heritage.

While studying at Earlham College and the New England Conservatory of Music, she began recording Native American oral histories and translating them into English. It was her belief that because many Indigenous customs were passed orally through music, opera would be a powerful way to share her cultural values with a new audience. So in 1913, she wrote the libretto and songs for the first Native American opera— composed in the romantic style, and based on a sacred Sioux dance deemed illegal by the US Government.

She argued that as the original people of America, indigenous people had a right to be citizens and be represented in government with the right to vote. Her relentless work in promoting a pan-Indian movement across all tribes for the cause of citizenship rights led to the passage of the 1924 Indian Citizenship Act. In 1926, she co-founded the National Council of American Indians, lobbying for Native suffrage rights. Her later books were amongst the first to bring traditional Native American stories to white audiences.

On International Women’s Day, it’s important to remember Zitkala-Ša’s call to remember Native women, and the full range of their political and cultural experiences.

Photo from Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery

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Whispers of the Land
In the heart of the earth, where the spirits speak,
The winds of the past whisper stories so unique.
With pride in our soul and honor in our name,
We stand strong, never to fade or wane.

The feathers of our ancestors, woven in the sky,
Carry the wisdom that will never die.
Lipan Apache, our roots run deep,
In every breath, the earth we keep.

"Cows run away from the storm while the Buffalo charges toward it- and gets through it quicker. Whenever I'm confronted with a tough challenge, do not prolong the torment, I become the Buffalo" -Wilma Mankiller (First Female Chief of Cherokee Nation, Oklahoma)

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Echoes of the Fallen
To the ones who fought, with courage so bright,
For a land that never saw their might.
They bled and died, hearts full of pride,
For a country that never stood by their side.

In their memory, we stand tall,
Honoring their sacrifice, one and all.
With feathers high and spirits strong,
Their legacy lives, forever long.

Rattlesnake Pete. Umatilla Indian Reservation. Oregon. Late 1800s

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Echoes of the Lost
Through lands they once called home,
A journey paved with endless roam.
125,000 hearts did bleed,
For a dream that refused to heed.

Through bitter cold and burning sun,
The silent cries of many won.
In the dust, their spirit stays,
Echoing through the endless days.

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"The Spirit of the Warrior"

Beneath the skies of endless blue,
The warrior stands, strong and true.
A skull adorned with sacred art,
A symbol of the fearless heart.

Feathers rise and axes gleam,
A vision from a warrior's dream.
With every step, the earth does hum,
A silent prayer for those to come.

In winds that whisper ancient songs,
The spirit of the past belongs.
To fight, to stand, to never bow—
The legacy of warriors now.

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"Spirit Never Forgotten"

She walks with the wind, her spirit free,
Lost in the shadows, yet forever we see.
Her hand, stained red, a mark of pain,
But her soul lives on, through the rain.

Gone too soon, but not erased,
In every echo, her voice is traced.
She whispers through the trees and sky,
A warrior’s heart that will never die.

With us in spirit, she stands strong,
Her memory a flame that burns on long.
Gone but always, in our hearts she stays,
Guiding us through the darkest of days.