CHARLIE PERRY: Before you know it, we got eight Indians at the table.

I mean, from Oklahoma to Alaska, you might as well called us the United Nations of Natives.

REBEKKA SCHLICHTING: And I decide that I'm going to wear her moccasins today, and walk upon the K.U.

Hill, just as she did her freshman year of college.

LEVELLE WELLS: So here I am on an elevator, going to the third floor of the clinic.

I feel uncomfortable and nervous, especially when I walk into this large room, I see a circle of people, and they all Native.

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "Sacred Circle."

This episode of Stories from the Stage was recorded at Nebraska Public Media.

The circle is an important symbol for many Native cultures, used to depict the passing of a day, the cycle of the seasons, the natural movement from birth to death and rebirth, or the very structure of families and communities themselves.

Tonight, our amazing tellers will invite us into the sacred circle as they share their stories.

♪ ♪ WELLS: My name is Levelle Wells.

I live in Omaha, Nebraska.

I'm from the Omaha tribe, and my Indian name is Ong-pa-ton-ga, it means Big Elk.

I am president of the Big Elk Native American Center, and I'm also the co-founder of Wells and Bailey Trauma Intervention Specialist.

Can you give us some detail about what exactly your organizations do?

Well, my nonprofit, we do fundraising to fund talking circles and to fund events within the community.

And then the Wells and Bailey Intervention Specialists, what we do is interrupting the trauma so the kid can be more resilient, and then they can make better decisions.

And, you know, it's, it's you know, a big question, but I am curious, what would you say is the biggest issue facing Native Americans today?

Historical trauma, intergenerational trauma, which I believe has led to low self-esteem amongst a lot of Native Americans.

And that leads to put Native Americans in a state of, like, a bliss where I'm just here and things happen, and that's just tradition.

When things can, you know, can be a lot better.

What motivates you to continue on in your work, year to year, day to day?

As I get older, I don't see too much changes for my Native American people, and it just, uh, it just it fires me up to keep being a voice for my people.

It's Thanksgiving night, I'm 40 years old, and I live in Omaha, Nebraska.

It was a bad snowstorm going on.

I just come from bar-hopping with some of my relatives.

On my drive home, around 2:00 a.m., I had an urge for McDonald's to soak up some of the alcohol.

So I took a hard right, and ran over a curb, and out of nowhere, police lights was behind me.

I wasn't nervous.

I was numb.

This had been my life for a while.

It all started when I was 17 and I got arrested in a drug bust in my neighborhood.

Although I wasn't the one selling or buying, police ran up on me and, put handcuffs over me and said, "Sorry, buddy, wrong place, wrong time."

Eventually, I was wrongfully convicted, and sentenced to five years in prison when I was 17.

I remember being in shock when I heard the word "guilty."

My mother started crying and a tear fell down my cheek as they led me to jail.

When I got out of prison, prison had changed me.

I sometimes say prison turned me into a monster.

I was no longer in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I was doing things that were wrong: drive-bys, gangbanging, robbing, drug dealing, drinking and drugging.

This was my life for the next 20 years.

I had started to earn power, street status, and respect.

People started to look up to me in the streets, in the gangs, and in prison.

One time, while in prison, I was made leader, a leader of some Natives in a gang without me even knowing it.

Deep down in my heart, I knew what I was doing was wrong, but the peer pressure was strong.

I am also of a mixed race; my mother was born in Nebraska, raised on a reservation, my dad was born in Alabama, he is Black.

Eventually, he moved up from the South to escape the racism.

In prison, you must stick to your own race or a gang, but me being a big guy and biracial, I was able to squash beefs between different races.

As years passed, I started to imagine a different lifestyle, particularly after I had a daughter.

All I seen in my future was prison or death, and I know my daughter needed a father in her life.

So I started to make plans to go to the reservation, and go to the community college and take some plumbing classes, so I can be a plumber like my father.

But every time I got out prison or jail, the streets was calling my name.

One time when I got out, a homie of mine's gave me a welcome home package.

It consisted of a quarter-ounce of crack to sell for me to get on my feet, and a TEC-9 pistol to put in work, like they say, in the gangs.

But here I am in my car, Thanksgiving, with a cop behind me.

I started talking to that rearview mirror and thinking, "Things must change.

I got to do better."

Then the cop car knocked on my window.

I was still drunk and I got belligerent with him.

I remember going down to the downtown jail to sign the papers for the D.U.I.

ticket and waking up cold with no blanket.

I said to myself, "Something has to change."

So a few months later, I'm signing different papers, this time to get admitted to the Ponca clinic.

I had tried for many years to get clean on my own, but it never worked.

I didn't want to give up the fun.

When I'm drunk and high, I feel like the man.

I was just scared to live in the moment.

But I made a promise on New Year's Eve to go to rehab.

So here I am on the elevator going to the third floor of the Ponca clinic, going to my first session, my group session.

I feel uncomfortable and nervous, especially when I walk into this large room, I see a circle of people, and they all Native.

I am what you call "Urban Native" because I didn't grow up on the reservation.

And many Urban Natives tend to forget their traditional ways.

So in the beginning of group, some of the groups would start joking with me about me not knowing some of the culture, but they was also apprehensive of the stories I was sharing and some of my street swag.

Eventually, they started to respect me and accept me for the changes I was making.

So I kept going back to the group and meeting with my sponsor.

He was our van driver, he picked us up every week.

He was a spiritual leader from the Oglala Nation.

He adopted me as nephew... as a nephew, something I needed because I didn't have a father figure in my life.

By this point, my friends started looking at me different.

They wouldn't even shake my hand if I seen them at the bar, but I didn't care, I didn't want to associate with no longer anyway.

I was proud of the changes I was making and I was no longer looking in a rearview mirror.

In Native culture, the circle is sacred.

It's been ten years since I joined that circle at the Ponca clinic, and today, I facilitate talking circles for the adults and youth who experienced trauma like I did.

We gather chairs together, dim the lights, and say our prayers as equals.

And I feel today I have turned my pain into purpose.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ SCHLICHTING: I'm Rebekka Schlichting, I'm a member of the Ioway Tribe of Kansas and Nebraska, I'm a filmmaker, and I'm a professor at the University of Kansas.

Fantastic, and I'm just curious, can you tell us a little bit about the Ioway?

Sure, yeah, the Ioway people originated from the Great Lakes, and ever so gently, we were moved down towards Iowa, which is where Iowa, the state, gets its name now.

And then we were moved to Kansas, and when we got to Kansas, they said, "Okay, either you're going to be civilized, or you can move to Oklahoma."

And so this tribe split; half the tribe stayed in Kansas, and the other half went down to Oklahoma.

So my tribe, I am from the Kansas and Nebraska tribe.

And do you have any strong memories or could you tell the audience a little bit about what it was like to grow up on the reservation?

I grew up on multiple reservations, in a way.

I was in and out of foster care with my aunt, and so I grew up on the Ioway reservation, the Kickapoo and Sac and Fox.

So living with my parents, it was basically, I tell people, like, living out in the country.

We were surrounded by cornfields.

There was absolutely nothing to do.

The most fun I had was living with my aunt, where we got to experiment with filmmaking, and you know, just fun little kids running around on the res with a video camera.

Tonight, you're going to share a story with us, this audience.

I'm curious when they leave here, having heard it, what would you hope that they most take away?

Yeah, you know, it goes beyond culture for this story.

It goes beyond being a Native identity.

It's more about just how you can honor someone who has passed on in whatever way feels right to you, regardless of protocols, things like that.

It's 7:00 a.m., but I've been awake since 5:00, teetering with anxiety, thinking about my scheduling, my family, and wondering if my Aunt Mary is going to pass today.

Today is the fourth day that she's been in a coma.

Four is sacred in many ways: Four directions, four seasons, four stages of life.

A few days ago, I was taking my mother shopping at Walmart for some much needed supplies with my scholarship money.

I was going in or out of Walmart when I got a call from one of my tribal grandmas.

She told me that my aunt had a stroke and that she was in the E.R.

So I go to the E.R., I walk in the room, and I see my aunt lying on the stretcher.

She's unresponsive.

I'm crying, but I'm telling her that, "It's okay, I'm here.

You are loved," while the nurse is frantically telling me that we need to transfer her right now.

So my body goes into autopilot and I dial my siblings to share the dreadful news.

For these past few days, we've been in her room at the emergency center, surrounding her with laughter, stories... (voice breaking): ...tears... ...and love before she makes her final journey into the spirit world, the happy hunting grounds.

My siblings and I make pacts that we're going to get tattoos to honor her, and my oldest sibling scoffs at us in non-support.

It's the fourth day; I need to do something to honor her.

I go to my closet where we have our shared family powwow regalia, and I'm ruffling through ribbon skirts, leathers, feathers, and I find her moccasins, which have a simple star design on the top, beaded with blacks, gradients of dark blues, greens with silver accents.

And I decide that I'm going to wear her moccasins today to honor her, and walk upon the K.U.

Hill, just as she did her freshman year of college.

So I put those moccasins on my feet, and I tie those light tan leather straps really tight so that they don't fall off during that mile-long journey up the K.U.

Hill.

All the while, I'm praying that nobody asks me about my moccasins, for I will cry thinking about my aunt, who's laying, taking her final breaths, just 30 miles from here.

I somehow manage to get through class, I get some food, and I go back to my boyfriend's apartment.

I'm sitting on the couch, fumbling through pages, trying so hard to focus on abnormal psychology.

But I can't.

I have a sense of urgency.

So I grab my medicine pouch, my tobacco, my sage, and I hop into my 2004 smoke gray Hyundai Accent, and I drive out to Haskell Indian Nations University.

I pull up on this worn path just outside of a tree line that covers the sacred medicine wheel, which is mowed into the grass like a giant crop circle.

I come in through the west, and I make my way clockwise to the east to begin.

And now I don't have a ceremony in mind, but I go with what feels right.

I grew up on the Sac and Fox Reservation in Kansas as a member of the Ioway Tribe.

And the Ioway tribe neighbors the Sac and Fox, but for whatever reason-- maybe they had better HUD houses at the time-- but we ended up on the Sac and Fox Reservation.

And I grew up with my father, who was very proud of his German heritage, and my mother, who learned at a very young age to dislike her Native identity.

It was really my Aunt Mary who showed me the beauty of our Native culture.

She took me to powwows, to ceremonies, and to classes.

I know some traditional knowledge from growing up in this area, from going to these powwows, from going to ceremonies, and from going to a tribal high school and elementary.

So when I enter the east, I know that I'm entering the beginning of life.

I acknowledge that.

I give thanks for the beginning of this life.

I give thanks for this life.

I give an offering, I say a prayer, and then I sing one of the very few powwow songs that I know very well as I make my way to each direction.

♪ Yooo doo way hi ya ho way hi ya hey yo ♪ And now I'm in the south.

And in the south, it's the space between the beginning of life and the elders.

And so I think about my aunt at this time, and the role that she's played in my life, and the role that she's played in anybody's life that she's ever encountered or walked with.

And I move to the west, the elders' section.

And I thank Creator for the elders' wisdom, for passing on those traditions, and for my aunt who made it this far in her life and was able to do that.

Then I make my way to the north, the spirit realm, and I speak to my ancestors who have gone before me, and I tell them that it's okay.

That she can go home now.

We had pulled life support recently, and so we were just waiting, but the waiting was torture for our family.

I moved to the center of the circle, and I raised my hands up to the sky, and I raise them down to the earth, and then to myself.

(deep breath) And I feel better, and I leave weightless.

Back at my boyfriend's apartment, I'm sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, finally able to focus and study, and then I get a text.

"Shona.

She's gone."

I hop into my car and go to the emergency room right away.

I walk through the door, and I see my youngest aunt, dressing my auntie in her powwow regalia.

And anytime I've seen her wear her powwow regalia, she was lit up with happiness, sharing good food, laughing with friends, and being able to pass on those traditions to future generations like myself.

So I take her moccasins off of my feet, and I slip them over hers; the final touch.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ PERRY: My name is Charlie Perry.

I'm originally from Topeka, Kansas, currently living in Los Angeles, California, where I predominantly work as an associate producer on non-fiction films, documentaries, web series.

(speaking Potawatomi) So just introduce myself, I'm Charlie, and I'm Prairie Band Potawatomi.

I understand that storytelling might have been a big part of your childhood, and I'm wondering who were the storytellers when you were a kid?

Everybody in my family, but it really started with my grandma and my mom.

I could fondly remember my mom and my grandma taking turns every other night to read me a bedtime story, and I think that's really where my love of storytelling started.

You know, and I also fell in love with reading at a really young age because of that as well, too.

When you were preparing for, you know, sharing this particular story with us tonight, did you learn anything about yourself or your family?

Oh, this has been such a cathartic experience for me so far.

I feel like I need a box of tissues on hand, you know, because I feel like I could just cry at any time, because, you know, putting this together really brought back a lot of memories that were a little bit difficult in the moment.

But I look back fondly on them because that sharpened my ire, and made me the best person I could possibly be.

So there I am, my second day of college, I'm sitting at a lunch table by myself, and, you know, honestly, I'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

You know, I want to be up The Hill, with all the other rocking and chalking Jayhawks, but I'm down The Hill with the fighting Indians.

I mean, what, did I get lost on the way to college?

You know, I'm not brown enough.

They're going to know I'm an imposter.

I barely know anything about being Potawatomi, other than what my grandmama told me, and, you know, what my mama confirmed.

But, you know, I'm 26 years old, and I deserve to be here.

I dropped out of high school at 18.

It took me four years to finish my final four credits, and I had to go to an alternative learning institution for adults and use the computer.

I got a memo that says I graduated high school.

You know, it's all I could afford.

So, hey, let's go to Haskell India Nations University and give it the old college try.

You know, but I had a little ace in the hole.

My mom actually went there in the '90s.

She was even the student body president.

And I'll tell you, she's just as light-skinned as I am.

Now, you know, she had ran a competitive race, and she got elected, but I'll tell you, turmoil followed while she was serving out her term.

You know, I remember her telling me about the bulletin boards around campus.

You know, with posters of her pictures saying, "Jean the half-breed."

Or, you know, other flyers up that said, "Is this the best we can do?"

You dang right it's the best you can do.

You know, and I remember one circumstance where I walked in to Navarre Hall, and there was a petition going to impeach my mother from her position, because they said that she couldn't handle it, that she was neglecting her son, and that she wasn't being a good wife and she should just give it up.

You know, but my mom, she cared.

And the only reason she even ran for student body president is because she walked through that graveyard every day on campus.

And you might be asking, "You had a graveyard on your campus, Charlie?"

Well, yeah, Haskell was one of the original boarding schools made in the 1800s to assimilate Native American children.

So basically government agents would go around and just snatch them up, kidnap them, and bring them to this school and convert them to the White man's ways.

So she cared about those brown babies, and she ran, and she got it, and she was tough.

She must have got it from Grandmama Georgia.

Now, Grandmama Georgia, she looked the exact opposite of us.

You would figure that she found mom on the side of the reservation somewhere.

You know, but she was a strong Potawatomi and Salish Kootenai woman from Flathead, Montana, and she's got a great story, too.

She actually hitchhiked all the way from Montana and ended up somehow in Topeka, Kansas when she was 13 years old.

She got to Topeka when she was 19, and one day she decided to go to a honky tonk in North Topeka across the bridge with my old Aunt Lois; a couple of troublemakers.

So my Grandma Georgia looks up, happens to spot a young man on stage stringing his old guitar with his cowboy hat on.

That was my Grandpa David, a man serving in the Air Force at the local base from Maine.

So, you know, there's a reason I'm a little bit more light-skinned.

You know, now Mom, when she graduated college, she returned to our reservation and ended up getting a job running the foster home.

And in over a decade, she helped dozens and dozens of young Native American children have an opportunity to have a life.

And that was great to see, but I'd always ask her, "Mom, why do you care so much "about keeping these Natives and Native families, "you know, and away from White families when, I mean, look around, we're the White family."

You know, but now looking back, I totally understand what she was going for.

So, you know, obviously we had to move to the reservation.

I spent my first 17 years in Topeka, in the city.

You know, I grew up loving basketball, and basically, all I knew about being an Indian was what I got off the Pocahontas Disney VHS, or Dances with Wolves, or you know, just any little thing I saw.

I was cheering for the Chiefs, I was like, "Heck yeah!"

We got ourselves some Native representation.

I love it.

But when I got out to the country, you know, making friends was difficult, and I never had any problem making friends in the city.

I mean, you might as well call me Tom Cruise, because it was Mission Impossible when I was trying to make Potawatomi friends.

You know, I even took my basketball down to the Boys & Girls Club, you know, and I kept calling next, no one would pick me up, I just couldn't understand it.

And then we went to the powwow that summer, and I watched my grandmother and mother proudly dance for our ancestors' memories, while I saw other younger children calling my little sister Custer's daughter because she had blonde hair, you know?

And I had to ask myself up there, "You know, why would I want to help a community that doesn't care about my family?"

You know, and that brings me back to the lunch table that day at Haskell, sitting alone.

You know, I was just, had a chip on my shoulder so big, it was bigger than the whole dang university.

You know, and I was ready to fight.

I was ready to prove them all wrong.

I'll show you, I'll show you what I can do.

I'm going to be the best Indian out of all y'all.

But then, the anger kind of fell away, and I took a step back and I thought of my mom the day before at orientation.

She was sitting there right next to me, so, so proud.

And I didn't need her, I mean, I'm 26-years-old, going to college, I'm a grown man.

I don't need you to hold my hand, Mom.

But there she was, and I remember that moment when I walked her back to her car, and gave her a big old hug, and she had such tears in her eyes, and she said, "I'm so proud of you.

I'm so excited for your journey that you're about to take."

And you know, she didn't hand out compliments like that very often, so it made me feel so, so good.

So I'm at the lunch table, and I'm like, "You know what?

"Maybe I'll be just like mom, "and I'll run for student body president, too, "and I'm going to win it just like she did, "but I'm going to do it even better because I don't even care."

I had to make friends, though.

I mean, I'm at the table all by myself, right?

So I did what Charlie does best.

I looked over, lunch line, and I popped them with the head nod.

Caught a glance from somebody I saw at orientation earlier.

A big old 6' 1" brick house of an Indian started walking my way.

He caught my gaze, and then he sat down, and I was like, "Okay, I got me one.

I got me, maybe, a friend, right?"

So and then I look at the lunch line again.

I'm like, let's see if we can go two for two-- bam!-- hackysack buddy comes and sits down, and then bam, bam, bam, bam.

Before you know it, we got eight Indians at the table.

I mean, from Oklahoma to Alaska, you might as well called us the United Nations of Natives.

(chuckling) All sitting together, I felt so good in my heart.

A year later, I did get elected to something, but it wasn't student body president.

I actually got elected editor of the newspaper, the Haskell Indian Leader.

So I would go to every game, every volleyball game, every football game, every beading club, the anime club.

I met so many Natives from so many different tribes, that my own stereotypes that were ingrained fell away.

And I started to see everybody for who they are, and they started to see me for who I was, too.

And I'll tell you, I took that, I took that love for the people, for my community as a whole, and I ran with it.

So I'm thankful for that lunch table, and I'm thankful for those hardships that I had to go through.

But most of all, I'm thankful for my mother, for raising me to be the Potawatomi man I am today.

And God bless her soul-- thank y'all.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪