She Who Helped Nanaboozhoo

I stumbled across him one day by what I thought was accident. He was walking along the St. Louis River. I found my little eight-year-old self lost, deep in the woods at a place where reality mingles with illusion. Where the air is thick with laughter which sometimes causes the mossy patchwork to be covered with snow midsummer. If you look closely, you swear the trees have faces sketched into the bark and their branches reach towards you with their long, arthritic fingers. This place cannot be found by the uninvited and only reveals itself when you least expect it. This is where the trickster, Nanaboozhoo, calls home. 

“Are you sick of me yet?” I asked Nanaboozhoo as I crouched down to pick some vibrant green fiddleheads. “It's been what? Damn near twenty-five years since you lured me into the woods by using the Little People?”  

I love harvesting fiddleheads in the springtime. My grandma used to make soup with them. And although I don’t know the recipe, I still gather them for nostalgia.  

“Everyone must learn lessons. The Little People teach good ones - temptation … trust …” replied Nanaboozhoo, as he lifted his white ceramic mug to his lips to take a sip of black coffee. The handle is missing and the cup looks like it’s covered in a grey spider web, but it’s just cracks from when he accidentally dropped it during one of his tricks. Karma.  

Though rooted in traditional Ojibwe beliefs and known as a shapeshifting figure, the modern Nanaboozhoo isn’t quite what you’d imagine. Standing around six feet tall, he wears worn blue jeans and a buffalo plaid flannel with a curled chest pocket and frayed seams. The beadwork on his deer-hide moccasins mirrors the looping bracelet on his left wrist. On his right hip, he carries an arrowhead. His long, black, slightly wavy hair is always tied in a thick, low braid that runs the full length of his spine, with short, wispy strands framing his face. His skin carries the earthy warmth of his homeland, rich in copper and soil tones. His eyes are unreadable, as if guarding stories no one dares to unearth. 

“So, what’s on the agenda today?” I asked, curiosity in my voice as I stood and sifted through the fiddleheads, gently brushing away any small insects. Satisfied with my harvest, I tucked them into the front pocket of my windbreaker and zipped it shut. I never know what he’s planning. But it’s that mystery and unpredictability that continues to draw me back. And somehow, despite all that, he makes me feel safe.  

He let out a long, steady breath. “Not sure yet,” he said, resting his shoulder against one of the square wooden posts holding up the small roof over his front deck. “There are some bikers on the nearby trail. Would be hilarious if Bigfoot wandered across their path.” The old wooden boards groaned with each step he took. He sat down at his rocking chair and crossed his right ankle over his left knee. 

“You’re such a jackass, you know that?” I muttered as I made my way up the uneven stone path to his cabin.  

Picture the kind of place you'd expect to find a swamp witch—ominous and a little too quiet. The two four-pane windows flanking the door are cracked, each corner webbed with delicate strands of cobwebs catching dust and the occasional insect. The screen door hangs crookedly as it’s missing a hinge, groaning whenever it’s opened. A windchime, crafted from birch bark and what I can only hope are animal bones, sways beside the motion light. The thick, stale shingles are curled upward towards the sky and fly away with the wind when it sings hard enough. The little red brick chimney always has smoke curling its way out the top. This is Nanaboozhoo’s domain.   

I sank into the second rocking chair and grinned. "I hope this seat isn't taken?"  

I closed my eyes, letting the world around me settle in. The wind whispered through freshly budded leaves, birds called out in song, and small creatures rustled beneath damp sticks. CAW! CAW! echoed high in the treetops. The air was warm and dense, just shy of humid. It soaked into my bones, thawing out the stiffness left behind by a long, bitter winter.  

Nanaboozhoo took another sip of his coffee, his gaze fixed on the distance. Before us stood only trees, yet they seemed to form an invisible dome—an invisible barrier that offered a quiet sense of safety and shelter. Beyond that bubble lay a world silently unraveling, crying out beneath the weight of oppression, violence, and injustice.  

Our rocking chairs creaked out of sync, when he leaned forward, I leaned back. Somehow, that offbeat rhythm felt like the balance we all search for. A reminder that harmony doesn’t always come from perfect timing. We sat in quiet appreciation of each other's presence, a shared comfort in stillness. This wild, peaceful, and oddly enchanted place is my escape from the chaos of reality. Nanaboozhoo is lucky to call it home. I’ll admit, there are moments I feel envious.  

 “There’s some canoers coming up the river, shall we take a walk?” He’s up to something and I have no idea what it could be.  

We left the porch and followed a narrow dirt path that twisted like a snake through tall grass, passing through a cedar garden, butterflies and bumblebees danced around us like confetti falling from the sky. The bees’ gentle hum recharged my spirit. The air carried a warm, earthy scent, the rich aroma of damp forest floor mingling with ancient wood. We crossed a makeshift bridge of white birch logs to keep our feet dry from the small stream running beside the river. 
The river’s peaceful murmur spoke in a secret language—liquid laughter bouncing off scattered rocks and fallen logs along its course. 

We stood on the shoreline, looking out at the river. “Have I told you the story of me and the bulrushes?” he asked me.  

“You haven’t, but I’m all ears,” I responded excitedly. I waited to see the people in their canoes come around the bend. I could hear their wooden paddles softly slice through the water and submerge beneath their canoe. As the paddles were lifted, beads of water majestically fell and reunited themselves with the river. The delicate melody of the canoe and paddle is so peaceful, as if it’s hiding secrets beneath the surface.  

“A long time ago, when people were new to Mother Earth, I was young and carried myself with a tall sense of pride. I always have. I looked across this very river and something caught my eye,” he said, gazing in that same direction. “I discovered a group of dancing men. And they were good dancers. So what did I do? I danced against them because I’m a good dancer too. Dancing. Dancing. Dancing. All day and all night for five days straight. I began to get fatigued. And these men had a lot of strength, they showed no sign of being tired. I tried my hardest to keep going, staying on the beat with every pound of the drum. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The heartbeat of Earth itself. Finally, I became so weak, I fell to my hands and knees. I felt failure consume my body. I immediately knew it was my time to learn the lesson of defeat. I found some strength to crawl up the river bank and into my canoe. I paddled across the river to see who these powerful men were and where they learned to be the strong dancers that they were. As I got closer, I felt shame dissolve and exit my body. I noticed who my competitors were … bulrushes swaying peacefully in the wind,” he said, as he looked back in my direction.  

  “Nanaboozhoo lost a battle?” I questioned sarcastically, “I never thought I would hear such a story.” I gave him a slight nudge with my elbow. The canoers finally made their way around the corner. The happy couple waved at us between their paddling. I waved back and Nanaboozhoo did the classic, downward head nod.  

Nanaboozhoo gazed down the river, lost in deep thought during the long silence before he finally spoke. 
“I don’t always win,” he said quietly. “I have lessons to learn, just like anyone else.” 
“Did you know there are six types of Indians?” he continued. “North American popular culture is filled with them—the savage, the noble, the dying, the dead, the living, and the legal Indian. I embody all but two of those.” 

His words gave me pause. I stood there, trying to make sense of what he had just said. I needed a moment, it wasn’t clear to me. 
“What do you mean you’re all but two of those?” I asked.  I’m not sure why, but my chest began to hum with the weight of each heartbeat, the pounding steady and strong. 

“I’ve been here a long time,” Nanaboozhoo said. “I’m not dying anytime soon, and I’ll never have a government name. I’ve watched the world shift and reshape. I’ve crossed paths with many spirits along the way. But I’ll never truly belong to your world, I only exist within it.” 

He paused, his voice heavy. “This place is a prison to me. And as you know, good people don’t end up in prison for doing good things.” 

Prison? What is he talking about? He’s lived through so much, how could he see that as a prison? Is he saying he’s not a live or legal Indian? Then what? Savage, dead, dying… noble? 
My heart pounds loud enough for him to hear. I breathe slowly, trying to steady myself, but my stomach knots and my thoughts ricochet inside my head. I step back. For the first time, I feel afraid of him. 
He could sense my nerves and kept his distance out of respect.  

“There are many stories about Indigenous people,” Nanaboozhoo said calmly. “We have our own stories that give us shape, meaning, and purpose. I’m just one of those, told in the bitter cold of winter. They’re good stories.” 

 I want to relax, but my body stays tense. 

“Not all stories serve us,” he continued. “Some are forced on us, made by colonizers to claim our land and control our lives.” 

“Nanaboozhoo, you’re scaring me,” I said, my voice trembling. “What are you trying to tell me? Who are you?” A chill crawled up my spine.  

He paused, the silence stretching endlessly. 

“Do you know how I came to be here?” he asked at last. “It’s a story I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time. But there’s never been a right moment. Once you hear it, you’ll never see me the same.” 

The hairs on my arms and neck stood up.  

He looked down the river and reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of tobacco he had shaved himself from the red willow that grows near his home. He tossed it into the water, murmuring words I couldn’t understand, an Ojibwe prayer. 

After a long silence, he finally spoke. 

“When I chose to come to the Earth side, I had a twin. We were opposites, fire and ice. But my twin died during our journey. I killed him. And shortly after I was born, my mother died too. I had so much power. Too much. And I didn’t know how to control it. I took her strength, and it ended her life. Growing up motherless, I learned something dark: my strength fed off harm, abuse toward the women of my kind became the source of my power. I sustain my tricks, my shapeshifting, by feeding on the stereotypes placed on Native women—the hypersexualized, the unfit mother, the drunk, the broken. The ones abused in every possible way. And I keep them here, hidden in the river with the Wendigo, where no one will ever find them. As long as they stay buried here, I believe I can remain.” 

He glanced up and down the length of the river. A brief silence hung between us before I found my voice. 

“What do you mean you keep them hidden?” I finally asked. 

“Let me show you,” he said, pointing to the water. I looked down—at first, it seemed like a school of fish. But as I stared, I realized they were shadowy, eerie forms—something not of this world. 

He reached into the water and lifted one out effortlessly, holding it in his palm. It hovered in the air cloud-like, transparent, but contained. It had no face, yet I felt it looking at me. Then it spoke telepathically. My mind filled with cruel, shameful words that made me feel worthless. The shadows slithered through my thoughts, down into my body like thorny vines. 

Suddenly, I felt like a stranger in my own skin. My spirit fought to flee, but I was trapped in invisible pain. My head pounded, fists clenched, jaw locked tight like steel. The shadows crept up my scalp, down my hair. I felt glass in my veins, cold and slow. I wanted to scream but couldn’t. Tears spilled down my face, burning my skin. Please make it stop, I begged inside. 

Click. 

The pressure broke. My mouth opened. I could breathe again. 

All it did was look at me. And I was terrified. 

“Feel that pain?” Nanaboozhoo asked. “That’s from the stereotype. It waits behind you, watching for your breaking point, then it latches on, and you become it. When I’m weak, I come here, grab one, and send it out to find a host. It’s like a puppet. I control where it goes and what it does. Stereotypes exist. They just need a reason to survive. Colonization gave them that.” 

A surge of emotions hit me—anger, sadness, confusion, betrayal. 

How did I not see this? How did I befriend someone who chooses to hurt people like me? Were all the terrible things I went through because of him? What did I ever do to deserve that kind of cruelty? It all feels calculated. 

I was disgusted. 

I thought about the time I almost became a statistic. I wasn’t raised to be a victim—my parents are loving, nurturing, and gave me strength. Who would do this? Who would target the innocent just to feed off their pain? 

My stomach churned, my jaw tightened, my ears burned. Heat surged under my skin, anger rising fast. 
“Did you make me go through all of that just for a fix?” I snapped. “You needed the pain to keep yourself alive?” 

“Yes.” 

I turned away, unsure what to think. I hate being a victim in a world shaped by colonialism—fighting to stay afloat while society keeps trying to drag me under. All because I’m seen as less—because I’m a Native woman choosing to stand up and make a difference? And for that, I’m punished? 

None of it makes sense. 

I think back to when my son’s father nearly killed me, his hand like a vice around my throat, almost ending my life at 29. I used to blame the drugs, thought it was comfort laced with poison. It wasn’t just the addiction. It was Nanaboozhoo. He is the sickness. The personality of abuse, of addiction. 

Native women are always targets—walking with bullseyes on their backs. And they’ll carry that burden for as long as Nanaboozhoo exists. 

Nanaboozhoo noticed my distance. 

“I knew you’d see me differently,” he said quietly. “And I accept that. But can I show you one more thing? The Wendigo is down here—you deserve to see it.” 

Despite everything, I couldn’t help but turn toward him. There’s something about his mystery that keeps pulling me in. 

“Look into the water again,” he said. 

I waited and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. I could see the brown sediment on the bottom of the river, floating around the slippery rocks. Occasionally a minnow would wisp by. “What am I looking for?” I asked, annoyed, head cocked to one side and hands on my hips. “All I see is my reflection,” I said as I looked back at him. 

“That’s part of it.” 

“Are you saying I’m the Wendigo?” I snapped.  I knew I sounded harsh, but how could that even be possible? I’m selfless, I lift others up, help them grow, push them to be their best. Sure, I have my flaws, but I don’t hurt people for personal gain. That’s not who I am. 

“The Wendigo isn’t some cannibalistic beast,” he said, his voice low and hard to trust. “How can it be cannibalistic if it was never human? It’s the demons wearing familiar faces. The shadows we carry beneath our skin. The monsters we let slip out and hurt others. That’s what a stereotype is. That’s my fuel.” 

He paused, then crouched and placed the stereotype back into the water. It swam off, imitating a fish, just like stereotypes, slipping by unnoticed. 

“I could’ve stopped it long ago,” he admitted. “But it makes me stronger. I can be selfish.” 

As he remained crouched, Nanaboozhoo stirred the water with his pointer finger. “Look again. You’ve seen it once, now see it again. Not everything is revealed the first time,” his voice hinting with danger and riddles. 

I peered into the murky depths. Then I caught my reflection—and his—side by side. That’s when he revealed himself. The most terrifying sight I’d ever seen. 

He wore a mask that twisted like smoke on the wind, never holding one shape for long. 

First, a hollow face with a twisted grin stretching ear to ear, sunken eyes gleaming with hunger. Then, a mouth filled with jagged, razor-sharp fangs slick with fresh blood. Next, a deformed skull draped in sagging, pulsating skin, veins writhing beneath like worms. Finally, four horns spiraled from his forehead, curling outward. Where his nose should have been was a gaping, empty hole.  

Then, the mask changed one last time into something familiar. My heart almost exploded out of my chest. The mask of an abuser, wearing a grin so vile and evil, so distorted, I swear it could cut right through me. It just stared at me like I was invisible, like I was nothing. It was the face of fear, customized just for me. The face of a monster. Death.   

Frozen in fear, my heart thundered in my ears, palms slick with sweat. I looked away, wanting to run but couldn’t move my legs. 

Slowly, I dared to look again. Nanaboozhoo’s mask shifted back to the face I knew. I stepped back, stumbling as my legs wobbled beneath me. 

I closed my eyes and wanted to cry. My skin was tingling and no longer with fear, but the bitter sting of realization. It’s that feeling of trusting the floor but it gives way underneath you. I trusted Nanaboozhoo with my life but the reality is, he doesn’t care about it. Or me. I was crumbling inside. 

I sat on the riverbank, letting a handful of small rocks slip through my fingers, watching them fall one by one. My whole existence now lived in my head. I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping one arm around myself, my chin resting heavily on my knees, a weight pressing down, threatening to crush me from the inside out.  

“So this is what you meant by prison?” I said, my voice low, steady. “You’re not just cruel—you feed on it. You twist everything around you to fit your own illusion, because deep down, you know there is no real truth for you.” I paused, realization settling in. “You shape the world however you want, and that’s exactly why it isn’t real. You exist in this world… but you’ll never truly belong to it.” 

“It’s lonely, never feeling anything real,” Nanaboozhoo said, his voice with a quiet ache. “You’re the first to show me a glimpse of freedom from this prison. This is my karma—for what I did when I came here.” 

He looked down, shame in his eyes. 

“Life is unfair. And somehow… I passed that truth on to you.”  

“Why me?” I questioned. 

“You carry a pride I know well, offering second chances, believing people can change. You don’t judge the past. I once hoped you’d see beyond the monster I’ve become. 

I felt sick, my stomach tightening at his manipulation. I shook my head in frustration. 

But then, guilt crept in. How can someone ask for help when this is all they’ve ever known? Manipulators lack empathy. He seemed genuinely sad. 

My anger softened, and I looked over at him. “Do you want to change?” I asked him.  

He answered without pause. “That’s why I came to you. I need help but I don’t know how. It’s all I’ve ever known, and that scares me. I just know I don’t want to be the bad guy anymore.” 

The Nanaboozhoo I knew was coming back to light. The one who listens and gives his undivided attention. The one who laughs at his own jokes. The one who throws an obstacle or two in your way just to watch you succeed. This is the friend I know. Nanaboozhoo has the power to rewrite his story.  

We sat in silence. I absentmindedly twirled my hair, lost in thought, while Nanaboozhoo stared at the sky. My mind raced, plotting ways to help him. There’s a fine line between helping those who need it and those who want it. He’s seen evolution, he knows stagnation doesn’t last. So why stay in a place he knows is harmful? Then it hit me! 

“You’re just a vessel!” I said aloud and somewhat overly excited.  

“What?” 

“You’re just a vessel craving excitement, good or bad!” I said, standing up.  “You helped me heal. You said healing means accepting your trauma and sharing the good.  By staying silent about your own pain, you’re enabling colonization. You need to heal by decolonizing your story.” 

“I thought I was the mastermind here?” laughed Nanaboozhoo. “But what does it mean to decolonize? He asked.  

“We need to undo colonialism - take back our land, restore our culture, language and traditions, and reclaim what is ours. Stereotypes are not ours, they never were and they have no business being here. You have to let them go,” I said to him. 

“And what keeps me alive, then?” Nanaboozhoo asked, his voice vulnerable. He tucked his chin, thumbs nervously twirling. 

“You teach lessons, offer guidance, and help people. That’s powerful.” 

I could now sense the roles had reversed; he was consumed by fear. He looked aimlessly at the ground, trying to kick a small rock around with the toes of his moccasins. But he understood what I was saying. 

“What’s the first step?” he asked me rather assertively as he straightened his posture. He was ready to start the mission. 

“We have to dismantle the stereotypes by flooding the river.”  I said.  But I didn’t think this through. How are we going to flood a river? What about the things that meet at the river’s edge? My goal isn’t to destroy something to make another thing better. I think about the houses miles down the river, occupied by families and all the animals that nest along the river. This needs to be done but how? This isn’t a matter of time but I would like to destroy this evil sooner than later. Suddenly, tick … tock…  It felt as if someone started a timer and the countdown had begun … 60 … 59 … 58 …   

I looked over at the river. Inch by inch, the water line was starting to rise. It had a secret to tell. The water began to swell with long, rhythmic waves. There was no rain yet so the water was being fed by something other than water - grief? Madness? No, it was the stereotypes. They were refusing to surrender. Their cries were loud but their words never met, causing the tide to become messy. The air grew thick like suffocation, someone holding their breath, causing my skin to react before my brain had a chance to process.  

The clouds rumbled, restless and arguing among themselves. Then she whispered from the sky until she wept so fiercely the air shimmered. The wind howled—RUNNING, RUNNING— a wounded animal fleeing its predator, weaving through rain and branches, haunted by everything it had seen, carrying the scent of fresh rain mixed with heavy grief. The rain pounded the earth like furious fists, relentless and wild. The wind surged faster, untamed. 

I glanced at Nanaboozhoo, his arms outstretched, head thrown back, blending with the storm as it pierced his body. He offered himself to the chaos, raw and fearless. He began to laugh, rumbling the sky. Clouds collided, booming thunder echoed. 

His laugh twisted into a growl, dark and terrifying, like a beast unleashed. It clawed through the clouds, flashing warnings in lightning strikes. 

The sky warred with itself, thunder shaking the ground, lightning striking water, sending sprays bursting upward with every impact. The wind howled fiercely, pushing me every which way. My hair whipped across my face and my clothes were soaked. 

The river’s rush was lethal, and I feared falling in. Rain plastered my hair to my skin, blurring my vision. I needed shelter fast. Scanning around, I spotted a tall white pine, barely bending in the storm’s fury. I sprinted fifteen yards, ducking beneath its branches and clutching the trunk. It was my only anchor against the chaos. 

I closed my eyes, silently praying for the storm to end. I managed to peek over at Nanaboozhoo, getting a blurry glimpse of him through the rain. He started to lower his arms and lift his head back up. Suddenly, the thunder and lightning began to settle down, fatigued from fighting. The wind and rain eased up, they finally cried away all their tears. The fierce, angry water was returning back to its soft and gentle whisper. Nature was returning to normal after being conflicted for so long. It was finally able to let go of all the horrendous things it’s seen over the hundreds of years and reclaim its homeland.  

As everything continued to settle down, I tiptoed out from underneath the tree. The clouds began to disappear and the sky was transitioning from grey to bluejay. The sun was bright and the heat began to instantly warm and dry my body. The leaves on all the trees became green and luscious. Animals perched themselves on any branch they could find to witness this shift. I approached Nanaboozhoo. He met my gaze in silence and pointed to the river.  

It sounded like a shrieking eel, sharp and unnatural. The water rippled with tension. I thought it was a fish gasping for air, thrashing wildly. But it wasn’t. It was the stereotypes. Dying. The river’s surface fluttered, then suddenly, they burst upward, thirty feet high. Some hovered, stunned. Others collided and spun like debris in a storm, paused and uncertain. BAM! One by one, they were yanked into the sky, trailing smoke. We watched until they vanished into the blue, gone forever.  

At that moment, Nanaboozhoo dropped to his knees, body limp. As he collapsed, his body twisted, landing on his back. He lay still except for the steady rise of his chest. Gasping for air, he sat up. Transitioning from something tired from walking for thousands of years into something refreshed. His skin regained color, a rich palette of warm brown undertones. His hair sleek and now woven into a fishtail braid. His eyes settled into a polished mahogany brown.  

He raised his hands, scanning the top and flipping it over as he inspected his palms. “What happened? I feel different,” said Nanaboozhoo. He stood up and kept looking himself up and down. “I feel as if I have more life?”  

“It’s called freedom. You no longer have to live in a prison and question yourself. You get to live your life now with good intention and keep helping people reach their goals,” I said to him. “You now have room to help others decolonize this world through the lessons you teach them.” 

“After all the things I put you through, how are you so happy?” asked Nanaboozhoo. His legs were weak beneath him. 

“When the world tells me I’m not capable, my happiness is proving it wrong. When everything is against me, it’s the most rewarding feeling to overcome those obstacles that are purposely put in your way,” I said to him. “Now that nature is claiming back what is ours, it’s your turn to claim back what is yours - the power of decolonization.”  

We turned from the river and began the walk back, a quiet relief settling over us. Although we followed the same trail, it felt entirely new. We had carved a path that was stronger and safer. It didn’t punish, it protected. It didn’t break us, it shaped us. It was a path that carried lessons, not pain. Nanaboozhoo had been reborn not because he forgot his wounds, but because he faced them. In releasing his trauma, he opened the door and let his healing journey begin. 

This was the day she helped Nanaboozhoo.