By Amy Felegy for Arts Midwest.
Broadcast version by Kathleen Shannon for Greater Dakota News Service reporting for the Arts Midwest-Public News Service Collaboration

Ask any six-year-old and they’ll tell you just how to play the classic game of Go Fish: Get a handful of cards. Try to get four that match. Repeat as attention spans allow. 

But swap out the fish for owls and say “gookooko’oo” instead of “go fish,” and you have Bineshiiyag: one of several new amusements in the Nashke Native Games award-winning line. 

Launching a year and a half ago, the three-person business is trying to bolster Ojibwe language and culture in the Midwest—in a fun, accessible (not to mention, effective) way.

“Our mission is to increase awareness and the power of learning through gameplay. And boy, we just see it come to fruition every day,” says founder and CEO Tony Drews “Chi-Noodin” (Big Wind). 

Language learners, teachers, families, and curious board-gamers alike can purchase the games, ranging from modern takes on traditionals (like Bagese: The Bowl Game) to fast-paced fur trade-simulation kits with puzzles and tile matching challenges (like Mii Gwech). 

The games are an avenue for discovery; they can be played in Ojibwe or English (Dakota expansion packs coming soon!) Here, words are intentionally not forgotten. 

Drews says there are less than 700 first-language Ojibwe speakers in the U.S. 

“And if we don’t do something, we’re gonna become known as the people who were the Ojibwe,” he says. “Native history is Minnesota history. And without a spark, our youth aren’t gonna learn it.” 

Drews’s great-grandmother only spoke Ojibwe. Her daughter was sent to Pipestone Indian Training School and now, Drews’s father doesn’t know more than four words in Ojibwe.  

“It took one generation to strip my family of its culture, its language and the millennium of our culture,” Drews says. “We can’t talk about language and culture separately. They’re intertwined.” 

Take the word mindimooyenh. Somebody who holds the family together. A term of high respect for an elderly woman. 

“If you call someone an old woman in English, that’s a dig, right? So if we lose that word, we lose the cultural perspective of how we truly look at elderly women,” Drews says. “And the same with elders. We call our elders gichi-aya’aa: ‘the Great Beings.’”

Second-grade teacher Lisa Schussman’s students have played Ginebig: The Snake Game, Makizinataagewin: The Moccasin Game, and Bineshiiyag in her Lincoln Elementary classroom.

She loans out take-home kits at the Bemidji, Minnesota, school where many Native students attend; the area is surrounded by the Leech Lake (Ojibwe), Red Lake (Chippewa), and White Earth reservations. 

“I just find it such a valuable way to get … excited about the language and about their culture and respect too,” Schussman says, overhearing students using words learned in the games. 

“I think that a lot of times we get nervous to try or we don’t want to do something wrong, so then we don’t. But I’ve found that through the games, you’re a lot more willing when it’s in a fun, laughing atmosphere to just try.” 

Goji’ewizi: Just try.


Amy Felegy wrote this story for Arts Midwest.


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

When’s the last time you wrote a love letter—and then read it out loud to a room full of your neighbors?

That’s what happened in Granite Falls, Minnesota (population 2,600), during a recent artist residency featuring JJ Kapur, a theater performer turned psychology PhD student.

Over the course of a week, Kapur’s workshop, Letters of Love, invited participants to explore vulnerability through letter-writing and oral storytelling. Attendees spent two evenings writing heartfelt letters while sharing home-cooked Singaporean meals prepared by the artist’s father. The final night culminated in a public reading.

The love letters took many forms, including messages to partners, departed family members, and even the town itself.

“I did not expect people to open up the way that they did,” Kapur said. “There were folks who came up to me who literally didn’t know things about the people they’ve lived with in this community for years.”

A Space for Exchange

Based in Des Moines, Iowa, Kapur was invited to rural Granite Falls by Department of Public Transformation, a nonprofit arts organization that runs a unique space called The YES! House.

The YES! House is a creative, multi-use community gathering space on Main Street. Upstairs, two apartments host visiting artists. Downstairs, community members can attend events, hold meetings, cowork, or simply hang out. Each year, the space hosts up to 20 artists-in-residence—a number that continues to grow.

Kapur said that staying at The YES! House during his residency was essential to Letters of Love, allowing him and his father to connect with community members and share stories and food beyond workshop sessions.

“We made The YES! House our home. In our Indian culture, when people come to your house, you take off your shoes, you’re offered tea, and the first thing someone asks is: ‘Have you eaten?’ Not ‘How are you?’” he said. “We wanted people to feel they could write from that place—like they were sitting in their living room.”

The ability to offer that kind of care is what makes The YES! House special, says coordinator Luwaina Al-Otaibi.

“Deep work takes more than a one-off event,” she said. “It’s about the connection between artists and the community—and how we can facilitate that.”

Healing and Performance

Kapur, who is studying to become a counseling psychologist, is drawn to the intersection of therapy and theater.

“I’m interested in how groups can heal together,” he said. “How is the theater therapeutic and how is therapy kind of a form of theater?”

That resonance was felt by participants, including Al-Otaibi, who read a love letter to her cat of 23 years who was nearing the end of his life.

“I would never just have had that outlet,” she said. “There’s something healing about getting up and reading something like that in front of people.”

In a world that often asks us to guard our hearts, Letters of Love made space for Granite Falls residents to speak theirs out loud—and be heard.


Alana Horton wrote this story for Arts Midwest.


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Supporters of the arts are gathering Wednesday in Sacramento for Arts Advocacy Day in order to lobby lawmakers on a range of issues.

Educators are drawing attention to problems with the implementation of Proposition 28, which was supposed to help schools hire more art teachers.

Abe Flores, deputy director of policy and programs for the nonprofit Create CA, said some districts are doing something of a "bait and switch."

"Some schools are using the new Prop 28 funding to replace their existing investments in arts education," Flores pointed out. "Their students are not seeing a net increase in their arts teachers or arts programming."

The Los Angeles Unified School District is currently being sued over the issue by local parents and by the author of Proposition 28. Create CA also wants the state to designate the visual and performing arts as a qualified shortage area, so people studying to become an arts education teachers have access to more financial aid. They'd like to see lawmakers pass Assembly Bill 1128, which supports grants for student teachers.

Julie Baker, CEO of the advocacy group California for the Arts, said they will be asking lawmakers to restore funding to a number of different programs which have been zeroed out in the past few years.

"California is number one in the United States for arts jobs," Baker noted. "But we're actually 35th in the United States in per capita funding to our state arts agency, which is the California Arts Council."

California for the Arts is also promoting a bill to make it easier for cities to hire muralists by removing a requirement they be licensed painting contractors.

By Frankie (Amy) Felegy for Arts Midwest.
Broadcast version by Mark Moran for Iowa News Service reporting for the Arts Midwest-Public News Service Collaboration

Chuy Renteria started dancing-specifically breaking-at the age of 14. A magazine editor and writer these days, Renteria still uses breaking to express his identity-and defiance, rebellion, and frustration with the other dancers.

"We're in conversation. We're having the equivalent of a heated argument on the dance floor," he says. The improvisational street dance is rooted in African American and Latino culture. It originated in New York City in 1980s, alongside a growing hip-hop scene.

Renteria dances to engage with the labels pasted onto him, both accurate and biased.

"When people see me walking down the street, they can't help but think A, B, C, right? So when I go to sleep and I wake up, I can't take that away," he says.

'This is Me'

Renteria grew up in West Liberty, Iowa, in the 80s and 90s-a time and place that has shaped who he is and where his art leads him.

The city is less than two square miles in size; inside is a historically majority Hispanic population.

"Growing up in West Liberty, I felt too Mexican for the white people and too white for the Mexican people. And that was always this constant [existence] between those spaces," Renteria says.

As young as nine years old, the first-generation Mexican-American remembers racial slurs being flung at him. People would say they hated him.

"And when I found dance, it transcended all of that," he says. "It's like, this is me."

Finding Meaning

Renteria shares: "Just by nature of my own identity, in the context of the social constructs around us, me existing becomes this political conversation point to folks."

But that politicization isn't as direct a translation in dance as, say, artforms that use words or visuals. The dialogue is more subtle.

"Dance and movement, and that sort of expression, is just as valid, and it's just as politically cognizant of the world. It just does it in this kind of abstraction. It doesn't have to be hitting you over the head," he says.

Renteria's 2021 memoir We Heard It When We Were Young, along with his more recent blog posts in Of Spanglish and Maximalism, grapple with his past, the now, and beyond.

What is identity? How does intergenerational trauma and racism impact who we are? The list goes on: "Did I have a good childhood? Am I a good person because-or in spite of-my upbringing? ... Is my town a good town? The town that I grew up in, the town as of now, is it a good place?" Renteria asks.

"I'm really interested in the questions that I don't know the answer to."


Frankie (Amy) Felegy wrote this story for Arts Midwest.


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