Standing Bear Network

Standing Bear Network ᑲᓂᐸᐏᐟ ᒪᐢᑿ
SBN is an all indigenous media initiative, designed to educate and empower grassroots and traditional communities.

Residential schools in Canada were part of a government-supported, church-run system created with the goal of assimilati...
07/10/2025

Residential schools in Canada were part of a government-supported, church-run system created with the goal of assimilating Indigenous children into Euro-Canadian society. The system operated for over a century and inflicted deep and lasting harm on generations of First Nations, Inuit, and Métis peoples.

The first federally funded residential school opened in 1883. From the start, these schools were designed not simply for education, but for cultural erasure. Children were taken—often by force or threat—from their families and communities. Once inside the institutions, they were forbidden to speak their languages, wear traditional clothing, or practice their spiritual and cultural traditions.

The schools were run primarily by Catholic, Anglican, Methodist, and Presbyterian churches in partnership with the Canadian government. The environments were often harsh, and many students suffered physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. Malnutrition, disease, neglect, and isolation were common. Thousands of children died, and many were buried in unmarked graves far from home.

The last federally funded residential school, the Gordon Residential School in Saskatchewan, closed in 1996. By then, over 150,000 Indigenous children had been impacted by the system.

The legacy of residential schools lives on in the intergenerational trauma carried by survivors and their families. It continues to shape Indigenous experiences in Canada today—socially, emotionally, spiritually, and politically.

In 2008, the Canadian government issued a formal apology, and the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) was established. The TRC’s final report, released in 2015, described the residential school system as cultural genocide and issued 94 Calls to Action to redress the harm and advance reconciliation.

The work of healing continues.



ᐊᓂᓈᐯᐃᐧᐣ aninâpêwin — Truth
ᐊᔭᐦᑊ ayahp — It happened
ᐅᑳᐤ okâw — We remember

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network







I just read about two young women — Silvana Garza Valdez and Maria Paula Zárate — and I can still feel the echo of their...
07/09/2025

I just read about two young women — Silvana Garza Valdez and Maria Paula Zárate — and I can still feel the echo of their courage in my chest. Nineteen years old. Barely more than children themselves. And yet, in the heart of catastrophe, they became pillars. Protectors. Carriers of calm in a storm that took so much.

When the floods came to Camp Mystic — that place meant for laughter and summer joy — they didn’t panic. They led. They wrote the girls’ names on their arms, not out of fear, but out of fierce responsibility. A sacred act. A way of saying, “You matter. You will not be forgotten.” And through the night, they stayed — holding space, offering comfort, doing what so many in power often forget to do: they showed up with love.

It moves me deeply, because in this world that still builds walls and draws lines around who belongs and who doesn’t… these two young Mexican counselors reminded us of a truth older than any border: that spirit, that heart, that leadership — it knows no nationality. It speaks the language of humanity. Of kinship.

Some people want to argue about immigration, about who has the right to be here, to belong. But I look at Silvana and Maria Paula, and I see what our teachings have always known — the ones with the strongest hearts often come from the most overlooked places. They didn’t ask permission to be heroes. They just became them.

And so while many are grieving, and the floodwaters have taken more than we can measure… I hold on to this story. I lift it up like an offering. Because in their actions, I see the kind of world we are still capable of building — one where young women stand in the center, not the margins. One where care and courage are not bound by passports.

This is what solidarity looks like. This is what love looks like when it moves through floodwaters.

This is what it means to be human.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network







The sun begins to soften now, casting long shadows over the land. The trees are still, the birds quieter than usual, as ...
07/09/2025

The sun begins to soften now, casting long shadows over the land. The trees are still, the birds quieter than usual, as if all of creation knows — something sacred draws near.

Tomorrow night, the Mitho Pîsim will rise — the Good Moon, the Buck Moon.
They say it’s when the young bucks begin to grow their antlers, shaping themselves for what they are becoming.
And maybe, we are not so different.

So this afternoon, I offer this prayer:

Tân’si Kîsikâw Kihci-Manitow, Great Spirit who moves through all things —
Prepare our hearts for what tomorrow brings.
Help us to see with the eyes of the deer — alert, gentle, and wise.
Let our growth be strong but humble,
Like the antlers that stretch upward without forgetting the Earth beneath them.

Bless the young ones who are learning who they are.
Bless the old ones who carry the stories.
Bless the ones who are walking in between —
Searching, listening, healing.

As the Thunder Beings drum in the distance,
As the sky shifts toward twilight,
We remember:
We belong to the land.
We belong to each other.
We belong to the sacred rhythm of becoming.

Tomorrow, when that moon rises,
Low and glowing like an ember in the sky,
We will lift our prayers again —
But for now, we listen.
We give thanks.
We wait.

Tapwe. It is good. It is time.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network









July 10th the Mitho Pîsim, the Good Moon — known by many today as the Buck Moon — will rise once again over the backs of...
07/08/2025

July 10th the Mitho Pîsim, the Good Moon — known by many today as the Buck Moon — will rise once again over the backs of our homelands. But you don’t need a calendar to know that. You can feel it in the stillness of the evening air. You can hear it in the way the wind speaks differently through the spruce and birch.

This is the time when the bucks begin to grow their antlers — the young warriors of the forest preparing to wear their crowns. And just like them, we too are growing. Stretching. Becoming.

They call it the Thunder Moon too — for the storms that roll across this land in summer. But I like to think those thunder beings are drumming for the moon’s arrival. They know something sacred is coming.

And tonight, on the eve of her rising, we heard that thunder — soft and distant — rolling across the far edge of the sky. And as if drawn out by its rhythm, we caught sight of a doe and her fawn stepping gently from the bush.
So quiet. So deliberate. The mother watched the horizon while her little one’s legs trembled in the grass. A moment of peace. A teaching, if you’re listening. Life continues, tender and strong beneath the coming moon.

This full moon will sit low in the sky, almost shy, almost whispering. She won’t climb high above us — not this time. Because of what the astronomers call a “Major Lunar Standstill,” her path will be closer to the horizon. But don’t mistake that for weakness. When she rises low, she rises large.

And oh — she’ll glow red and gold, like the last ember in a sacred fire. That’s the Earth’s love making her blush. That’s the smoke of our prayers, circling her face. That’s the color of memory — and every ancestor who ever watched the same moon rise.

They also say this moon comes close to the day we touched her, back in 1969 — Apollo 11. A giant leap, yes. But long before boots touched her soil, we walked there in dreams. In story. In ceremony. In songs passed from kokum to grandson around a birchbark fire.

So when the moon rises this Thursday, I invite you to pause. To put your phone down. To walk barefoot on the earth. To offer a quiet prayer. To remember you are stardust and bone, moonlight and memory.

Look east. Let her rise in your spirit, not just your eyes.

Because this Buck Moon?
She’s not just a show for cameras and telescopes.
She’s a reminder.
That we are part of something vast.
That time is a circle.
That thunder still sings in the distance.
And that even in the deepest dark,
there is always a light returning.

mîna kîsikâw pîsim — the moon returns again.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network









There is a light in the eastern sky that always comes back.Even after the darkest night. Even after storm and sorrow.Tha...
07/08/2025

There is a light in the eastern sky that always comes back.
Even after the darkest night. Even after storm and sorrow.
That light is called Wapahan — the Morning Star.
And she rises not in noise, but in promise.

Wapahan tells us,
“You are not alone in the dark. The light is already on its way.”

Long before this land was divided by fences and papers,
before they tried to name our rivers and carve up our hills,
our people were already following that light.

And when we gather today, when we carry the Eagle Staff,
we are not carrying a symbol of the past.
No.
We are carrying Wapahan in another form —
a staff of memory, a staff of hope, a staff of the people.

That staff leads us still.
It reminds us:
We are still here.
We are still rising.
We have never laid down our light.

You see, we never ceded our Wapahan.
Not to any government. Not to any crown.
Because how can you give away what was never theirs to take?

Our languages still sing.
Our children still dance.
Our prayers still rise like smoke toward the sky.

The world may have forgotten who we are…
But we have not.
We remember.
We return.
We rise — just like that Morning Star.

So walk tall, nîtisânak — my grandchildren, my relations.
When you feel lost, look east.
Look to the morning.
Wapahan is still shining.

And so are you.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network






We woke today to the sound of rivers grieving.The Guadalupe — once a place of laughter, singing, and prayerful joy — tur...
07/07/2025

We woke today to the sound of rivers grieving.

The Guadalupe — once a place of laughter, singing, and prayerful joy — turned fierce and sorrowful in one heartbeat. Nearly 100 of our relatives have walked on, many of them children, their songs cut short. Camp Mystic, a sacred place of girlhood and dreams, has been humbled by the storm. The land wept with sudden rain, and the river rose without mercy.

In times like these, we do not ask whose fault it was. We do not point fingers to blame. That is not our way. Instead, we gather — around kitchen tables, around fire circles, around prayer.

We offer to***co.

We call to the ancestors.

We sing for the lost ones, and we light our sacred fires for the ones still waiting to be found. Let no name be forgotten. Let no soul drift unseen.

The flood came without warning, they say. And that is how life is sometimes — swift, unforgiving, beyond our control. But what is in our control is how we answer.

And look — look how the people have answered.

Over 850 rescued. Hundreds of helpers — from every direction — arriving without hesitation. People giving what they can, opening homes, offering food, offering arms strong enough to carry grief. Strangers becoming family. That is the medicine. That is the teaching.

This is not just a story of death.

It is also a story of life.

Of how communities rise like the sun after a long night. Of how dry skies are coming, yes — but so is the quiet work of healing. Of rebuilding. Of remembering.

And to the little ones who survived — to the counselors still searching — to the families whose hearts are breaking: you are not alone.

We walk with you.
We pray with you.
We carry your names in our songs.

And to those still missing… may you hear our voices in the wind. May the river return you gently. May Creator cradle you home.

Let us not waste time in quarrels or questions too soon. There will be time for those. For now, let us be human. Let us be kind. Let us hold each other close — tighter than before.

Because if there’s one thing this storm has taught us again, it’s this:

We are all just walking each other home.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network









The land is heavy with sorrow today in Texas.More than fifty lives have been lost.Fifteen of them were children.And twen...
07/06/2025

The land is heavy with sorrow today in Texas.

More than fifty lives have been lost.
Fifteen of them were children.
And twenty-seven more — young girls from Camp Mystic — are still missing.

The Guadalupe River rose too fast. The rains came like a wall. Some clung to trees. Others were swept away. And now, search teams move through mud and silence, hoping against hope that life still lingers somewhere.

There are no easy words for the grief of a parent waiting by a phone that doesn’t ring.

No comfort for the empty bunk. The unread bedtime story. The shoes still by the door.

This is not just about weather — it’s about readiness.

About what it means to truly care for one another when the sky turns dark.

Storms are growing stronger. Floods more sudden. And with each one, the question deepens: Are we prepared? Are our systems of warning, rescue, and relief as strong as they need to be?

We owe it to every life lost — and every life still holding on — to do better. Not just in response, but in preparation. Not in blame, but in wisdom.

To the children still missing:
We are with you.
We send our love into the wind, our prayers into the water.
We hold your names in our hearts, even if we don’t know them.
If you are walking home to the Spirit World, may the ancestors carry you gently.
If you are still waiting, may the helpers find you soon.

To the families who grieve:
We see you.
You are not alone.
And we will remember your little ones — always.

Let this be a moment where compassion rises higher than the floodwaters,
where love rushes in faster than the rain,
and where care becomes the current that carries us forward.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network









Mîkwêc — I see tonight’s sunset, and my spirit feels full.Look at that sky, nîtisânak. The way the sun dips low, like an...
07/06/2025

Mîkwêc — I see tonight’s sunset, and my spirit feels full.

Look at that sky, nîtisânak. The way the sun dips low, like an old one laying down his bundle after a long day. That soft fire… it’s not just light — it’s a teaching.

Out there, two souls move gently across the water. No rush. No noise. Just the rhythm of the paddle, the heartbeat of the lake, and the whisper of the trees remembering who we are. The sky wears the colors of the ancestors — red like lifeblood, purple like ceremony, gold like the stories we pass down.

This is not just a sunset. It is the Earth offering us medicine — for our hearts, our thoughts, our breath.

Tonight, I offer this blessing:

May you always find quiet waters when your spirit is tired.
May the fire in the sky remind you of the one you carry within.
And may you never forget — even in stillness, you are moving toward something sacred.

Tânisi kîsikâw — what a beautiful evening.

Keep walking in a good way.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network









Today wasn’t about the fireworks.It was about family.While the world rushed to the rhythm of explosions in the sky, I ch...
07/05/2025

Today wasn’t about the fireworks.
It was about family.

While the world rushed to the rhythm of explosions in the sky, I chose something quieter — something fuller. I watched my son take the stage at South County Commons, his voice weaving through the evening air, fingers dancing over guitar strings like they were born for it. There’s a pride in moments like that — not loud, but steady, like a drumbeat beneath the heart.

Nearby, I played with Alice and Anna — four and six, full of wonder and wild energy. We hid behind tables and chairs, giggling as if joy was something we could bottle. We shaped stories from Play-Doh, little hands crafting worlds where anything was possible. And for a while, that was enough — just laughter, music, and the sacredness of presence.

After the show, we made our way back to the lake. The puppies bounded through the tall grass, and the sky greeted us with one of those sunsets that reminds you how the Earth prays — not with words, but with color. Fireworks cracked in the distance, but I barely noticed them. Waffles did — ears perked, curious, unbothered. There’s wisdom in that kind of calm.

And now, the fire is lit.

Not just for show.
Not just for the season.
But for celebration — of family, of resilience, of the ancestors who walk with us still.

We gather not just to remember…
But to give thanks for the quiet revolutions happening in our hearts.

Because sometimes, the most powerful fireworks are the ones that spark within — when you choose love over spectacle, presence over performance, and stories over noise.

Tapwe

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network









I just read through the details of this sweeping bill they passed — 900 pages deep and packed with changes that will rip...
07/04/2025

I just read through the details of this sweeping bill they passed — 900 pages deep and packed with changes that will ripple across this land for years to come.

They call it tax relief, national security, and economic growth. But I look beyond the headlines. I look for what it means to the people. To the land. To the future.

There are tax breaks for working folks — overtime, tips, and even a small nod to our Elders with that Social Security exemption. But beneath that? Cuts to Medicaid. Cuts to food aid. New work requirements that don’t make space for chronic illness, mental health, or the realities of rural life. A few will feel lighter. Millions more will carry the burden.

And while the defense budget grows — with new ships, mass deportations, and thousands of ICE agents promised bonuses — I see something else: echoes. The echo of forced removals. Of walls that divide more than they protect. Of policies that dehumanize in the name of order.

Then there’s the environment — where it gets complicated. This bill guts tax breaks for wind and solar. And while many are rightly concerned, let’s speak honestly: even so-called “clean energy” has a cost. Wind turbines take land. Solar farms disrupt ecosystems. Lithium mining scars the Earth just as deeply as coal once did. No energy is truly free if it forgets its relationship to the land and the life around it.

So while some call it a “death sentence” for renewables, I say — maybe it’s a reminder. A reminder to slow down. To rethink how we define progress. To ask not just how we power our lives, but why, and at what cost.

Meanwhile, tucked into those final pages: children’s Trump savings accounts, a Garden of Heroes, Mars missions, and a $3.3 trillion price tag — unless you squint real hard and use that “magic math” they’re peddling.

But here’s the truth I carry: Budgets aren’t just numbers. They are declarations of values. They reveal who we honor, and who we overlook.

I don’t speak this from a partisan place. I speak it from the circle, the sweat lodge, the kitchen table. From the quiet places where real lives are lived, and real choices get made every single day.

So on this eve of fireworks and flags, I offer this:

Let’s be vigilant — not just of government, but of ourselves.

Let’s stop chasing solutions that only shift the harm somewhere else — from pipelines to turbines, from one generation to the next.

Let’s return to balance. To responsibility. To teachings that remind us: true power doesn’t come from extraction or expansion. It comes from relationship.

And if that isn’t in the budget — then we’ll write it ourselves, in the way we walk, the way we resist, and the way we remember.

Because some of us weren’t waiting for a bill to remind us what’s sacred.

We already knew.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

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As I sit with this story… my heart is heavy.Four lives gone. Four families shattered. Four sacred fires extinguished far...
07/03/2025

As I sit with this story… my heart is heavy.

Four lives gone. Four families shattered. Four sacred fires extinguished far too soon. And fourteen others — wounded, scarred, surviving something they’ll never forget.

I read about this latest mass shooting outside Artis Lounge in Chicago, and I can’t help but feel the same ache I’ve felt too many times before. Names change. Cities change. But the grief? The grief feels familiar.

Aviance King. Leon Henry. Devonte Williamson. Taylor. These weren’t just “victims.” These were loved ones. Daughters, sons, sisters, boyfriends, cousins. People who laughed. Danced. Dreamed. People who had plans. Who had someone waiting for them to come home.

This wasn’t just some “tragic event.” It was a spiritual rupture. Another moment where our communities are forced to navigate the trauma of violence in a world that too often turns the page before the candles even burn out.

And to see it happen at a space created for joy, for music, for togetherness — that stings. That’s sacred space being desecrated. That’s a celebration turned to mourning in a matter of seconds.

I hear the pain in the words of Shaniah Battle, mourning her sister. I feel the weight in Mello Buckzz’s post, trying to breathe through unimaginable loss. And I see the exhaustion in Pastor Donovan Price, standing once again in the aftermath, surrounded by chaos, trying to bring prayer into a place of pain.

And I ask — how many vigils? How many sirens? How many young people gunned down before we truly confront what this system has done — the poverty, the glorification of violence, the access to weapons, the erasure of healing spaces, the abandonment of mental health, and the way our communities are left to bleed in silence?

Yes, this was a targeted shooting. But the system that allowed it — that nurtures this environment where weapons speak louder than words and grief is a constant drumbeat — that’s not accidental. That’s by design.

But still… in the middle of all this pain, I see something else, too.

I see people refusing to let the memory of their loved ones disappear. I see prayers rising. I see a community that still sings, still gathers, still loves — even in the face of bullets and headlines.

So I say their names.
I honour their lives.
And I call for more than just justice.
I call for healing.
I call for transformation.
I call for a world where our people don’t have to keep lighting candles in the rain.

Let that sacred fire burn — not in memory of the pain alone, but in hope that one day, we won’t need to gather like this again.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

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Soon, little one, the sky will sparkle with fireworks.People will wear red, white, and blue.They’ll wave flags and shout...
07/03/2025

Soon, little one, the sky will sparkle with fireworks.
People will wear red, white, and blue.
They’ll wave flags and shout,
“Happy Fourth of July!”

But do you know something?

A long, long time ago, before there was ever a place called America…
This land already had her own names.
Her own songs.
Her own Peoples.

We were here.

The Nehiyawak, the Anishinaabeg, the Lakota, the Dene, the Tlingit, the Apache —
so many Nations, each with stories older than fireworks.
Our laws were written in the stars.
Our flags were our feathers.
Our parades were the sound of moccasins in the grass,
and our fireworks?
They were the drums and the dancing fires beneath the moon.

So on the Fourth of July, when others cheer and light the sky with color,
we light something too —
a sacred fire.

We put down to***co.
We say thank you to the ancestors.
We remember the aunties and uncles who kept our songs alive,
even when someone told them not to sing.

Because, my sweet one —
our fire never went out.
Even when they tried to blow it out with laws and schools and silence,
our fire just waited.
Waited for you.
For your voice.
For your laugh.
For your bright, shining eyes.

So don’t be sad on this day.

Just remember:
You come from a People of light.
From a Nation of storytellers, dancers, and dreamers.
From a land that still whispers your name when the wind blows through the trees.

And while others celebrate freedom…

We remember something even more powerful:

We were free before they even knew the word.

And we are still free now.
Because the fire in you —
will never, ever go out.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network







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