Miyo-Kisikaw and Good Morning,

Today is Indigenous Peoples' Day. You are receiving this because you, or someone you know, is in the line of Miyo Nipiy, later known as Suzanne Connolly. Where on her line you fall is up to you to figure out, but to the youngest person on this email, Ivy Franklin Cornelius, she is a 6th great-grandmother.

Last year we reflected on the rhythms of Miyo Nipiy's youth. Born around 1788 near the Rat River, she was raised in the dense forest and vast skies of what is now Canada. We honored her hands, most likely skilled in tanning hides and beadwork, and her profound spiritual connection to the natural world.

This year, as we approach election season here in the United States, it feels appropriate to reflect on another fundamental pillar of our ancestors' legacy: how they governed themselves. While Miyo Nipiy's life unfolded north of the 49th parallel, many of her descendants now live, work and vote south of it. To Indigenous peoples, these modern borders are relatively recent lines drawn across ancient homelands. The democratic values of our ancestors, however, transcend them completely.

Miyo Nipiy most likely never cast a paper ballot, especially in her youth. She didn't need to. Long before parliamentary chambers or voting booths arrived on this continent, the Cree and neighboring Indigenous nations practiced a sophisticated, deeply participatory form of democracy. As the daughter of a respected Cree chieftain, Miyo Nipiy was raised at the heart of this political order.

In traditional Cree society, an okimaw (leader) was not a ruler who imposed their will. Leadership was not about raw power or wealth; it was an immense burden of service. Leaders were chosen for their character, their generosity, their wisdom, and their ability to build consensus. Governance did not mean 51 percent of people who cast a ballot defeating the other 49 percent. Instead, vital decisions—where to migrate, how to manage resources, when to forge alliances—were debated around the council fire until the community reached a shared understanding. The voices of clan matriarchs, seasoned hunters, and elders carrying the community's historical memory were all weighed equally.

An okimaw only held their position as long as they retained the absolute trust of their people. They governed through wahkohtowin: the guiding Cree principle of kinship, interconnectedness, and collective responsibility.¹

It is a striking irony of American history that the United States Constitution drew heavy inspiration from the democratic confederacies of Native peoples,² yet systematically excluded them from the franchise. Despite possessing this continent's oldest traditions of representative government, Native Americans were not broadly recognized as U.S. citizens with the right to vote until the Snyder Act of 1924.³ Even then, it took decades of litigation, grassroots organizing, and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 to dismantle the poll taxes and literacy tests that states used to keep Native people away from the polls.⁴

Today, exercising the right to vote carries profound historical weight. When Native citizens and their descendants cast a ballot, they are doing much more than participating in a modern civic duty. They are honoring generations of ancestors who governed by listening and moral integrity, and who fought for centuries simply to have their existence and sovereignty recognized by the governments built on top of them.

As this election season approaches, remember Miyo Nipiy. Remember the chieftains, the matriarchs and everyone who came before you. Having a voice in how your community is run is both a hard-won inheritance and a sacred responsibility. Because if you remember from elementary school, everyone comes from somewhere. And at least a little bit of you comes from here, America.

And in the spirit of our current American political system, take some time to donate to a worthy cause of yours today. But remember what is more important than money, your time. Despite the common catch-phrase, one heavily does outweighs the other.