By Jay Gabler for Arts Midwest.
Broadcast version by Mike Moen for Minnesota News Connection reporting for the Arts Midwest-Public News Service Collaboration

When it comes to good nutrition, Sharon Day believes in starting early. 

“Our goal is to begin our babies with an Indigenous diet,” Day explained. Traditionally, “we had corn, beans, and squash. Those were our foods, along with wild rice, and if we ate meat, it was very lean, low cholesterol.” 

That’s very different from “the foods they began to feed us,” said Day, referencing European colonizers. “The commodity foods, white flour, white sugar, these foods high in cholesterol.” 

The Indigenous Peoples Task Force (IPTF), a Minneapolis organization Day co-founded in 1987, is now making an effort to hit reset on that unhealthy diet. The first jars of Indigi-Baby food were released in 2023, providing families with a wholesome and sustainable alternative to commercial products. 

The IPTF has been developing its baby food for nearly a decade, said Mike Neumann, the program’s agroecology coordinator. There was extensive testing of the recipes, which were created by Lori Watso — a chef and nurse from the Shakopee Mdewakanton Dakota Community. That was followed by a national search for a partner to help produce and package the foods, as well as a struggle with pandemic-era supply chain delays. 

“It’s much more complicated than we imagined in the beginning,” said Day. Indigi-Baby bucks the status quo for 21st century baby food: the products need to meet not only government regulations but also the IPTF’s own high standards for food quality and back-to-basics packaging. 

“Most of the baby food on the market these days comes from these little plastic pouches,” said Day. “We didn’t want to do that, so ours is actually canned in jars — and so we have to get licensed for the process.” 

The food’s integrity begins at the source. Ingredients are grown locally, using heirloom seeds and methods that forgo the extractive approach of industrial agriculture. “The strategies we use,” said Neumann, “are geared towards improving soil health, helping to attract pollinators, bird and other life.” 

“We don’t use any herbicides, any pesticides, none of that,” said Day. 

“There’s a sweet potato and Hopi black bean,” said Day, grabbing different Indigi-Baby jars to list the varieties. “Gete okosomin and butternut squash. Wild rice and apple juice; a little bit of lime juice and maple syrup. Sweet potato and rutabaga, and in this one there’s also super tender rutabaga apples and a little bit of lime juice.” 

The first batch of Indigi-Baby food was produced in association with North American Traditional Indigenous Food Systems, an organization founded by famed Oglala Lakota chef Sean Sherman. IPTF is currently exploring more options for partners to produce future batches.

In distributing the first jars of Indigi-Baby, IPTF prioritized community health clinics and food shelves, in Minnesota and elsewhere. “Our goal is to get it to as many Native babies [as possible],” said Day. 

“The goal,” she elaborated, “is when young mothers give birth, they would nurse their babies. And then from the nursing, give them this baby food, which doesn’t have any of the sugar, fats, or salts, or flour — the [ingredients] that are killing us.” 

Neumann said grocers are already asking when they can stock Indigi-Baby products, which may start appearing on regular store shelves as the project’s capacity increases. 

Nationally, there’s at least one other brand of baby food informed by a similar philosophy: Bidii Baby Foods, a New Mexico company based in the Navajo Nation. According to its website, Bidii Baby Foods wants to challenge the assumption “that traditional foods are reserved for times of ceremony or celebration (mainly because they are expensive and hard to come by).” 

That accords with a larger goal of increasing access to traditional foods, for the health of the community and of the earth. The crops that become Indigi-Baby food have proved more resilient to climate shocks, and because more carbon is stored in the soil compared to at heavily-tilled conventional farms, said Neumann, “it’s also helping in a very small way to reverse climate change.” 

Regarding IPTF’s more crop-diverse, less invasive farming practices, said Neumann, “We know it works in other places, and we’re seeing it here as well. It’s something that we’re hoping to do more to promote as part of Indigi-Baby foods: these Indigenous-based, regenerative agroecology methods.” 

And the babies like it, too, said Day. “So far, so good,” was how she described families’ reactions to the first shipment of Indigi-Baby. During the testing process, Day couldn’t resist trying a spoonful or two herself. 

“It tasted pretty good to me,” said Day. “I think you could take the same ingredients and make smoothies with them. That’s how good they are — and they’re very healthy.” 


Jay Gabler wrote this story for Arts Midwest.


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By Amy Felegy for Arts Midwest.
Broadcast version by Judith Ruiz-Branch for Wisconsin News Connection reporting for the Arts Midwest-Public News Service Collaboration

Patty Loew attended five screenings of a new film this year. She wasn't joining box office masses at Wicked or Inside Out 2, but Bad River: A Story of Defiance.

The independent documentary, directed by Mary Mazzio and released in March, drew in masses of its own. AMC Theatres put it up on select big screens across the United States. Peacock started streaming it last month.

The documentary highlights longstanding issues facing the Bad River Band of Lake Superior Chippewa in northern Wisconsin. Loew 'Waswaagonokwe' (Torch Light on the Water Woman) is a citizen.

She and other Band members are interviewed in the film, which explores tragic boarding school histories and how members of the Band have faced violence and racism.

The documentary heavily focuses on the Line 5 dispute between the Band and Canadian energy company Enbridge. Loew, who recently retired as director of the Center for Native American and Indigenous Research at Northwestern University (among many other titles), addresses it in the film.

"My little tribe is standing up and saying, 'We're protecting the water, not just for us. We're protecting water for the planet.'"

Behind the Struggle

As it stands, 12 miles of a crude oil and natural gas pipeline run through Bad River land, constructed in 1953. In 2017, Bad River's tribal council voted against renewing the company's rights to use their land. It led to years of protests and activism when Enbridge refused to leave. Last summer, a federal judge gave Enbridge three years to shut down the pipeline on the reservation.

That reservation includes just under 40 miles of Lake Superior shoreline, thousands of wetland acres, and hundreds of miles of streams, rivers, and tributaries.

The documentary shows its beauty. Think grandiose drone shots and stunning water imagery.

"Bad River is where I go when I need my batteries recharged, when I need time to reflect, when I just need to get back in touch with things that make me happy," Loew says.

Last month, the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources issued construction permits for Line 5 to reroute 41 miles south of the reservation and exit Bad River lands by 2026.

But Loew and other Band members who are interviewed in the film say that isn't enough to protect Mashiiziibii land and nearby areas from a potential pipeline burst. They want it shut down.

Enbridge lawyers and the U.S. government say they can't, citing a 1977 energy treaty with the Canadian government. But Bad River citizens say Ojibwe treaties, which established reservations and land rights, predate that by over 100 years.

"If such a rupture were to occur, nearly one million gallons of oil would spill into the river, flowing into Lake Superior and devastating the wild rice beds and fishing populations central to the Band's way of life," stated 30 Midwestern Native Nations in a letter to the White House in February.

There have been over 20 spills along the Line 5's 645-mile route since 1968, including over 14,000 gallons in Bad River land in 1972.

Despite the continued debate, Loew has hope.

"The right thing will eventually happen," she says.

"I think everyone-whether you live in a red or a blue state, or whether you are Native or non-Native-[wants] clean water and clean air, not just for themselves, but for their children and grandchildren."


Amy Felegy wrote this story for Arts Midwest.


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Arizona State University has developed a new tool that they hope will help researchers analyze connections between illnesses and health determinants within Indigenous populations. The Indigenous Health Research Dashboard is an online repository of peer-reviewed, published studies that focus on medical conditions and diseases impacting Indigenous health since 2020.

Angela Gonzales, a member of the Hopi Tribe in Northern Arizona, and an ASU professor and director of the American Indian Studies Program, said it is important for her to be a part of an initiative that aims to move the needle for Indigenous health equity. She explains that she has seen firsthand the "devastating impacts" of limited access to health care in Native communities.

"By having it public available and accessible, when tribes are interested in trying to find out the latest research, for instance let's say on COVID-19 vaccinations, they have a one stop source to be able to access a lot of that information. You can search by keywords, can search by key topics, it breaks it down into regions," she said.

Gonzales added that the dashboard is what she calls 'bio-directional,' meaning it's an effort that is driven by what tribal partners have identified as major health concerns, and said the project has also allowed students to develop their research skills and learn to synthesize information. They are currently recruiting students to be a part of the team that will continue working on the initiative next year. She hopes they're able to capture a more 'holistic' and historical view of health trends and findings.

Gonzales says they're ramping up outreach efforts to ensure public health professionals and medical providers in Indigenous communities know about the useful resource. But she adds that Native communities have already expressed the need for such information.

"If you're a tribal health professional, the opportunity to do research, it takes away from your other responsibilities that are oftentimes more pressing. By having this dashboard available, they can go right to it," she continued.

Gonzales said that Indigenous health equity has been improving in recent years, but she says as an academic she hopes researchers do better to create a stronger 'knowledge bridge,' and develop resources that are use-inspired. She feels the dashboard is a step in that direction.


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The state of Washington is helping Native Americans access health care after decades of barriers.

Health insurers have made it difficult for tribal members to get care covered, despite state and federal laws that bar this.

Vicki Lowe is the executive director of the American Indian Health Commission, which has led efforts to remove hurdles for Native Americans.

She said health insurers would try to make tribal clinics charge out-of-network rates, and wouldn't honor their referrals.

However, the Washington State Office of the Insurance Commissioner has come out with guidance to prevent this.

"Not only will tribes have more money to help pay for services for their tribal members, tribal members will get care in a more timely manner," said Lowe. "So those two things just are really important, and insurance companies have been a barrier for that for decades."

Washington is among the first states to move forward with guidance for insurers and also enforcement of the law so that insurers will stop putting up roadblocks for tribal members to get care in the state.

Todd Dixon is the deputy commissioner for consumer protection and the tribal liaison for the Office of the Insurance Commissioner.

He said one reason for releasing the guidance was that the agency has seen an uptick in complaints - the number one compliant typically coming from billing managers at clinics.

"It says, 'Hey, we have an enrolled member. He or she was seen at our clinic. We billed the insurance company. They said we're out of network and so "we're only paying 60%." And then they send a bill to the enrolled member,'" said Dixon. "It's not how it works."

The Insurance Commissioner's office has been sending notices to insurers who violate protections for Native Americans.

Lowe said before they got involved, tribes fighting with insurers on their own were getting them nowhere. But it's different with the state backing them.

"Knowing that if somebody violates these laws that they're going to get that outreach from the insurance commissioner and that they have 15 days to respond," said Dixon. "Where if a tribe asked them, they would maybe not respond or respond in some convoluted way - it's a power shift to really have the state agency behind this."