Ojibwe storytelling has always been at the heart of my work as an educator, long before I ever left the USA to live in England. As an Ojibwe educator living in England, I carry stories shaped by family, survival, and cultural recovery—stories that travelled with me from Saugeen First Nation to classrooms and communities around the world.

Alongside this work, I have been quietly laying foundations for the next phase of my teaching through Rohini Academy of Astrology, expanding its scope in ways that reflect both cultural integrity and lived experience. While astrology is often discussed in abstract or commercial terms, my own approach has always been shaped by heritage, observation, and story—ways of understanding the world that long predate modern astrology as a discipline. With the encouragement and support of fellow Ojibwe educators such as Jodi Branton I’ve been thinking carefully about how Indigenous ways of knowing, including star knowledge, can sit respectfully alongside contemporary education, without being rushed, diluted, or removed from context.

Some journeys don’t begin with choice.

They begin with what was taken — and what must be recovered.

I come from the Saugeen First Nation, near Southampton, Ontario. I am Ojibwe (Anishinaabe). My mother is full-blooded Ojibwe, and both of her parents were survivors of the residential school system.

That matters.

For my grandparents’ generation, culture was not gently eroded — it was actively stripped away. Language, ceremony, teachings, and cosmology were treated as something to be erased. What survived did so quietly, often in fragments, carried in memory rather than practice.

When people talk about “lost culture,” I think of my grandmother — and of everything she was never allowed to receive.

Title IV and the return of what was interrupted

For my sister and me, Title IV Indian Education became a turning point. It offered something our grandparents had been denied: a structured, supported way to relearn what had been taken. Through Title IV, we were able to reconnect with Ojibwe teachings, history, and cultural identity — not as nostalgia, but as living knowledge.

I remain deeply grateful for that opportunity.

It was through this context that I first understood storytelling not simply as tradition, but as recovery. Stories carry continuity when formal transmission has been broken. They restore lineage where institutions once severed it.

That understanding has shaped my entire life.

Speaking when it wasn’t welcome

While at university in Michigan, I became involved in what was often referred to as Red Power activism. I wrote newspaper columns (written under my maiden name) challenging the use of Native American mascots by schools and sports teams — including my own former high school, which used names such as Big Reds and Redskins, and major teams like the Cleveland Indians.

My argument was never about offence.

It was about misrepresentation.

Native people were treated as symbols, costumes, or myths — while real communities were rendered invisible unless they conformed to stereotype. Sacred practices were imitated for entertainment. Living cultures were treated as extinct.

When critics dismissed these concerns with, “It’s just a name,” I learned something important.

If it’s just a name, then changing it shouldn’t be a problem.

Decades later, my former high school has changed its mascot. When people complain about that change, I quietly repeat the same words that were once used against me. History has a way of teaching patience.

Teaching, travel, and storytelling as continuity

I later moved to England, where I taught in East London — one of the most culturally diverse areas of the city. Storytelling again became a bridge: between cultures, between generations, between children whose own family histories had often been interrupted or displaced.

Ojibwe stories travelled with me.

Over the years, I have taught and shared stories across Canada, the United States, Europe, India, Australia, and South Africa. I don’t think of this as spreading culture so much as carrying responsibility. Stories are not owned; they are entrusted.

Sometimes I describe myself, half-jokingly, as a “roaming Ojibwe.” But there is truth in that. I carry what was recovered, and I offer it where it may be received with care.

Quiet work, long timelines

For more than three decades, I have also been working — largely in private — with Ojibwe Star Lore. This is not casual interest, and it is not borrowed knowledge. It is careful, respectful study that sits at the intersection of cosmology, observation, and cultural memory.

I have never rushed this work.

Some knowledge does not want spectacle. It wants patience.

Through my own school, Rohini Academy of Astrology, I have been slowly exploring ways to integrate astrology with cultural and educational integrity. Nothing is finalised, and I won’t say more than that. But this work has deep roots, and it is guided by the same principle that has always shaped my teaching: accuracy, respect, and continuity.

Coming together again

This week, I spent time with my dear friend Jodi Branton, who is also Ojibwe. We grew up within the same Title IV world, shaped by the same urgency to reclaim what had been denied to our grandparents. Today, Jodi is working toward rebuilding Title IV, which lost its funding around a decade ago — a project I wholeheartedly support.

Our work runs in parallel. She supports my projects; I support hers. Both are rooted in education, cultural repair, and responsibility to future generations.

Sitting with family, sharing stories, and speaking honestly about where we come from reminded me that this work is not abstract. It is personal. It is generational.

Looking forward without rushing

As I prepare to return to England after these final days with family, I do so carrying more than plans. I carry memory, gratitude, and a renewed sense of purpose.

What was taken from my grandparents cannot be undone.

But what was interrupted does not have to remain lost.

Through education, storytelling, and careful stewardship of knowledge — including the stars that guided our ancestors — something enduring can be rebuilt.

Quietly.

Correctly.

And in time.