In honor of Native/Indigenous Heritage Month

We must get back to seeing each other. History is the reason for the present, and that is an undeniable fact. We find ourselves in a critical moment where national tensions are high and communication with others feels like it is at an all-time low. When communication is low, that means we are not listening to each other. And when we are not listening, we are certainly not seeing each other either.

The erasure of the Indigenous peoples of this land should never be disputed, especially now. The original inhabitants of this land have a story that long predates our existence, stories that we would truly benefit from revisiting honestly and humbly. The United States of America is nothing without the forced sacrifice of the Native peoples. This is not a statement of victimhood or a matter of blame. These are simple facts.

We often hear about treaties that were “agreed upon” by Native and Indigenous peoples, but if we take a true step back, would any of us today willingly give up our land? Would we really be comfortable losing a place we have always called home? The Native nations were asked to do exactly that, and then forgotten.

We must also confront how we have chosen to name and frame this part of history. For generations, we have normalized calling Indigenous people “Native American,” which undercuts the truth at the very start. The words “Native” and “Indigenous” speak to something far deeper than a label. They represent a sacred connection to land, memory, and survival. To be Indigenous is to belong to this land, not to claim it. That distinction matters because it shapes how future generations understand whose stories truly form the foundation of America.

I write this as a practicing historian who once struggled to understand the story of the United States but has come to appreciate it more deeply because I can now see myself in it. My history, like that of the Indigenous peoples, is a part of the American story that for too long has been treated as secondary. What I have learned is that America’s greatness is not found in erasing pain but in recognizing how every people’s struggle, sacrifice, and resilience built the country we now share.

We often hear people say that the United States is the greatest country in the world. Many who make that claim point to our accomplishments, our innovations, and our power as evidence. But I believe our greatness rests not in what we have achieved, but in the opportunity and possibility that exist here. Our history makes us the greatest nation, but only if that history is inclusive of all stories that have contributed to our success. We cannot celebrate greatness while only listening to the voices of the victors. To truly honor the idea that all are created equal, we must also honor all who have helped make America what it is, including those who were displaced, silenced, or written out of the record.

Through my work with the Institute for Common Power, I have sat in circles with educators and leaders, listening deeply as we share perspectives and process history together. It always makes me wonder what would happen if America could do the same. What if the entire nation could stand in one large circle, arm in arm, looking at one another and listening? How powerful would that image be? How transformative could that conversation become?

Much of today’s rhetoric still echoes the idea of Manifest Destiny, a mindset rooted in white supremacy that claimed divine direction to take from others and call it progress. But what if, instead of taking, we reclaimed? What if we took ownership of our entire history, embracing the uncomfortable truths alongside the triumphs?

Years ago, I attended a talk at The Ohio State University featuring Sandy White Hawk, an Indigenous activist and storyteller who spoke about the legacy of removal, survival, and return within her own lineage. Her story, chronicled in Blood Memory: The Story of Removal and Return, revealed how the deep wounds of history live on in modern-day reservation life. Listening to her reminded me how little attention we give to the realities facing Native communities today. Too often, we treat Native peoples as history rather than living history.

As the event came to a close, audience members were invited to approach the stage. I had asked a question and wanted my son to meet her, to see the kind of living truth that cannot be found in textbooks. When we reached her, she greeted us with warmth. My son and I both shook her hand, and in that moment, something began to shift in the room. The question that I had posed turned into a much deeper answer, one that drew people in rather than ending the conversation. Slowly, those around us began to back up and form a circle so everyone could hear what she was saying. The space became quieter, softer, and more reverent as she continued to share personal stories of her people, her pain, and her pride.

It felt sacred, unplanned, and honest, a moment of shared humanity. For me, that circle represented what America could be if we truly listened and saw each other. In moments like these, we need to practice hearing and seeing one another more.

That day, I felt more connected to American history than ever before. Sandy White Hawk’s presence was living proof of what it means to survive, remember, and return. Her story, like so many others, is part of the American story that too many still refuse to see. If America ever stood together in a circle like that, it would be impossible to dismiss the history that shaped her existence, mine, and ours.

Seeing each other is the beginning of understanding. Understanding is the beginning of truth. And truth, whole and unedited, is the beginning of healing.