The Community Artist from the Community

Community Artists who are native to the communities in which they practice are able to empower people in exceptional ways. They have the advantage of a shared history and sense of ownership with those whom they touch. They innately have special knowledge of community structure, life and needs.

When these individuals are professionally trained in the community arts field, they return with the capability to act as a link to society and resources outside of the community, as people are often best able to identify with someone of a similar background. However, in seeking and obtaining outside professional training, these individuals are prone to experience great tension in both the academic setting and in the worlds of their communities. Moreover, community artists who are native to the communities in which they practice must strive to prove their abilities to people who have known them since birth.

I can speak to this experience as both a graduate of the Master of Arts in Community Arts Program (MACA) at Maryland Institute College of Art (MICA) and as a community arts practitioner in the community in which I was raised.

I am Native American, from Southeast Baltimore, a member of the Lumbee Tribe of North Carolina. My mother is Lumbee and my father is Caucasian, of Swiss ancestry.

I am a community artist, and I work with Native American youth in Baltimore City Schools for the Native American Program.

I am one of a very small group of young people from my community, of my generation, to earn a college degree. To the best of my knowledge, there is only one other person my age who has pursued an advanced degree. I received both my undergraduate and graduate degrees from MICA, a revered art education institution located in West Baltimore.

At work in City Schools, I am called “Ms. Ashley” or “the Indian lady.” My kids look for me every day. Their friends tell them that I look like their sister, their aunt or their mother. The kids tell their friends that I am their cousin.

Their families know that my mother is Ms. Frieda, who was a Sampson, and that means something to them. I know their families and their last names and their houses and that also means something to them.

When we talk about issues that are affecting them as Native American young people or as residents of Baltimore, we are talking about issues that affect me too.

We are constantly faced with the fact that few people outside of Southeast Baltimore, perhaps only a few within, know that there is a Native American Program in City Schools, let alone that there is a Native American population in Baltimore at all.

There are Native American peoples indigenous to the State of Maryland who still thrive here today. However, the majority of Native Americans living in the State of Maryland are members of the Lumbee Tribe of North Carolina.

In the 1930s, after the Second World War, there was a large migration of Lumbees from North Carolina to Baltimore. They came seeking employment in trades such as construction, drywall and factory work, and many also became self-employed. They settled “in Southeastern Baltimore, concentrated in a 64-block inner-city area from Broadway Street to Patterson Park. Estimates of the number of Lumbees in Baltimore range from 4,000 to 6,000.”[1]

Since that time, Lumbees in Southeast Baltimore have established the Baltimore American Indian Center, a Native American church, a Native American Daycare and an Indian Education Program in the Baltimore City Public School System.

As Lumbee families became more substantial in their means, many began to move to surrounding counties, but the “Indian neighborhood” continued to be the “64-block inner-city area from Broadway Street to Patterson Park.” Natives living in the counties customarily went and still go back into this part of the city to attend church, and otherwise share fellowship with Native people. Also, many Lumbee people living in Baltimore migrate between North Carolina and Baltimore on a regular basis to visit family and tribal territory.

The community, although its members are now more geographically scattered, is relatively tight-knit to this day. Many members literally have familial ties to each other as Lumbees, and long, shared familial histories of living in both Baltimore and North Carolina. The Lumbee community of Southeast Baltimore was thus established over several decades and has largely remained intact until recent years.

While Lumbees left extreme poverty and segregation in North Carolina, where the main means of making a living was farming, oftentimes sharecropping, they faced different types of dilemmas in Baltimore. They had left tribal territory, where everyone in their community was Native American, for a place where Native Americans were and continue to be a minority. A new struggle of maintaining Native identity began for Lumbee residents of Baltimore and intensified for every generation born there.

Additionally, employment, housing, substance abuse and high-school drop-out rates have been and continue to be major issues for Lumbees living in Baltimore that affect everyone in a family, but are perhaps hardest on the youth.

The most recent threat to the geographic Native community stems from the gentrification of Southeast Baltimore. Due to changes in property values/taxes, corrupt landlords or “slumlords” and a lack of employment, many Native Americans who remained in Baltimore City have been forced out of the neighborhood.

Presently, the population of Native American people living in Baltimore City is greatly diminished. There are significantly fewer Native American students attending the Baltimore City Public School System. Many community support systems established for Native American youth and enjoyed by previous generations, even mine, no longer exist for the current group of young people.

When I completed my undergraduate degree at MICA, I sought work within the physical confines of my community. It was during this period that for the first time, and perhaps as a result of my studies outside of the community, I began to see things around me with new eyes. I was struck by a need for healing and a creative outlet for my people. As I was pondering this, I was contacted by the director of the MACA program to see if I was interested in applying.

The MACA graduate program was recently established at MICA in 2005 offering to “provide a unique credential for visual artists who wish to pursue a career in art-based youth and community development.”[2] Within the MACA Program, graduate

When I did apply, I requested to be afforded the great privilege of working with my own community. To the best of my knowledge, I remain to be the only MACA alum who came to the program as a product of the community in which my graduate residency was completed.

While the MACA program is now only three years old and offers a degree in a field that is still being defined, this could be viewed as a strange statistic in light of what the role of a community artist can entail.

I have learned, in school, that community art overlaps with a variety of fields including, among others, art education, community organizing and social work. A community artist works using tools from these varied disciplines to go about empowering communities through art. Many times, community artists operate on grassroots levels and find themselves in the homes or intimate community spaces of the people with whom they work. They dwell in situations that are deeply emotional and personal to the individuals involved. For the effective community artist, the possession of an in-depth knowledge of community life and structure and an established, genuine level of trust/rapport with community members is a prerequisite.

Many times community artists work in communities that have been in some way disenfranchised or disadvantaged, that are in some way isolated from the rest of society, that are often composed of individuals who represent ethnic minorities. It seems unlikely that an outsider of any such community would easily be able to obtain the necessary trust and rapport with community members and knowledge of the community itself in order to even begin work. Although, many dedicated individuals do commit themselves to this difficult process of “belonging,” which is unique for every community, and then go on to facilitate wonderful change. It can’t be easy.

In some cases, it can be impossible. Very few outsiders and outside agencies have ever been able to work with my Native American community in any meaningful symbiotic capacity, or at all. I believe that — first, because I am from the community — I was able to do so

There are obvious advantages to approaching a community as a community member. When I “officially” entered into my role as a community artist in the Native American community of Southeast Baltimore, I already knew everyone. I knew them, I knew their families, I knew their histories. I knew their business. They knew me and mine. I knew the neighborhoods, and I knew a good bit of the history of the neighborhoods, as I had even lived through some of it. Things that happened there happened to me and my family, too. I knew the culture because it is also my culture. I knew the problems and issues that the community was facing, because they were also mine. Not only did I have the community’s trust, I also had and have their love, respect and support. This is where I started. An outsider might never get to this point.

The Baltimore American Indian Center (BAIC) was founded, in part, on the premise that it could function as a point of entry for Native American people to the rest of society. Native American people do not traditionally seek help or services beyond the Native community, even if they live in a culturally diverse place, as we do. They find it easier to identify with people of their same background. Therefore, the Indian Center has, although perhaps more so in the past, always been able to run interference for the community members it serves.

The same concept of having a Native person function as a point of entry for Native young people in Baltimore City Schools was adapted from the BAIC by the Native American Program. Presently, I am the Native American person who functions as this point of entry for Native young people in City Schools, and I am one of many within our community at large.

Not just anyone could do my job as effectively as I can. This is a valid statement by default, even without the inclusion of any special training or skills that I may have, because of the fact that I am Native American Baltimore Lumbee and a product of the same community.

Consider a case study of how Native students who attend Patterson High School were motivated to address issues surrounding their cultural identity through community art.

Bear in mind the fact that these students are never exclusively assembled together during school hours (and seldom without), unless they are called together by their Native American advocate, me, as part of the Native American Program or through the BAIC. Apart from this type of circumstance, they are never seen as a group and are likewise not recognized as a group. Before our programming began, many of them were not publicly known to be Native American, sometimes by choice.

And then there was me. I relate to the young people I work with in ways that other school staff cannot. First, it will not go without mention that I physically look like many of them or their family members. This is perhaps a happy coincidence, because as you will learn, not all Native Americans look alike, but the fact remains just the same. Second, our form of speaking, mine and theirs, is distinct. We are all from Baltimore, but beyond that, a linguist visited the program for one of our projects last year, and we studied how North Carolina Lumbee speech patterns are present in our own. Maybe most important, I have the knowledge of the familial ties that literally bind the majority of us together.

While I had the ability to bring the Native American students together, they were not at first thrilled about making art.

When we began to meet, I posed the question to them, “Does anyone [in the public] know that there are Native Americans who attend this school?” The answer was a resounding, “NO.” My next question was, “Does anyone know that there are Native Americans living in Baltimore City?” Another “No.” I asked, “Why not?” Among other answers, the young people conjectured that: 1. It’s because Native Americans don’t have a special month like African Americans to celebrate their heritage, and 2. When people see us, they don’t recognize us as being Indian.

I was slightly unnerved by the first reason, because Native Americans do have a “special month;” November is National Native American Heritage Month. I understood that most people do not know that, but I expected Native young people, at least, to know.

The second reason led to another question, “When people see you, why don’t they recognize you as being Indian?” Some young people in the group supposed that they didn’t look “Indian.” The vast majority concluded that it’s because they have to wear uniforms to school and there is nothing to distinguish Native Americans from anyone else.

Always eager to rid themselves of the dreaded Patterson uniform, the young people first began to discuss their options for alternate attire. The idea of a different uniform was immediately shot down. The principal would not have it. Students were also well aware that they could not deface their uniforms in any way, because they would be sent home if they did.

The idea of a Native American uniform patch was brought up. Who could the young people approach to find out about getting a patch? Several young people decided to investigate the chain of command they would have to go through to get their answer.

The young people ultimately decided that, at least in the short term, they wanted to make buttons that they could wear to set themselves apart. Suddenly, they saw a need to make art! We had several lessons about effective graphic design and the significance of colors and symbols. The young people then designed their buttons, which are still being worn, and traded with their friends.

This project is indicative of a community arts social-action process in which young people were engaged throughout the course of programming. Young people decide on the issue that they want to address. Then, they decide how they will address it in a visual way. They become empowered to change the situation themselves using their creative voices.

The project continued to unfold at Patterson. To address the point about the young people not “looking Indian,” I asked, “What does an Indian look like?” Approximately ten Native American young people of various complexions, hair and eye colors, replied that Indians have long, flowing, black hair, brown eyes and dark skin.

This struck a chord with me, as I had grown up with and had only recently been liberated from my struggles with the same idea. As an adult, I feel that I am now virtually unhaunted by the absurd idea that I do not “look Indian” — although I am continually amazed that now many of the adult people I work with believe that I am the prototype for what an Indian should look like, which is equally absurd.

As a group, we realized that a lot of times people, including Native Americans, end up with wrong ideas about Native Americans because there is a lot of misinformation circulating in the world, including within our schools and within ourselves. The young people then decided to do a project where they created text posters of what they felt was commonly believed incorrect information about Native Americans. Then, the young people corrected the text.

Through this process, young people further developed their sense of identity as Native Americans. They also became empowered to educate others to the point where they recognized innate knowledge within themselves about who they are and assumed the authority to correct others who would purportedly be “educating” them.

Art was the visual means that they used to affirm their identities as Native Americans and as individuals. Art was and is being used by these young people to educate others about their culture and bring recognition to their community. They used art to prove to society and to the Baltimore City Public School System that they will not be ignored.

This work was subsequently displayed in a culminating event, the Community Art Corps Show at Maryland Institute College of Art. It was installed in a real gallery at a real art institution. A colorful gallery guide was also designed and a page in it was dedicated to the community arts programming held at The Native American Program.

An opening of the show was held for the communities represented. Being that MICA is relatively far removed from the geographic Native community, I had my doubts that many community members could be convinced to attend. However, many of the family members of the Native American young people, who had apparently been listening to the students raving about afterschool art programming for the past few months, did attend. They were so proud of and impressed with the accomplishments of the young people that several of them were moved to tears. I recall the grandmother of one young participant remarking that she never thought she would see the day when one of her family had a piece of art work in a gallery.

Outsiders of the community were also notably moved by the show. They became entirely more knowledgeable about Native Americans as a result of viewing this particular body of work that the young people had produced.

While we know that many people are to this day unaware that a Native American community exists in Baltimore City, the young people understood that even on a very basic level they were effectively defying this assumption by existing and identifying themselves as who they are in their visual artwork and, on this day, in person as well. This immediate success was the topic of conversation among the young people for weeks afterward.

Again, not just anyone could have filled my role in facilitating this process. My roots in the same community in which I was working were, in part, what allowed all of it to take place.

If graduate work within my community was easier for me, conversely, I believe that school outside of my community was difficult.

During our first summer of the MACA program, everyone in our class went to teach at various community sites in Baltimore’s 14th District, which is technically only a few miles away from the “Indian neighborhood,” but a world apart in culture and design.

I had really never ventured into the West Side of the city before attending MICA. I had no idea who or what was over there, but I knew who and what weren’t there. Even as an undergraduate student, I had maybe two routes worked out to travel to and from school. If one way was closed for road work or another reason, I could go the other way. I never explored and I always returned to “my” part of the city as soon as I was released from class.

During that summer, I was also at an advantage compared to some of my classmates in that I had a car, so I volunteered to do a lot of the driving. However, I had no idea where I was going almost all of the time, while they somehow did. This both mystified and humored some of my classmates, although it was secretly a source of anxiety and embarrassment to me. Everyone but me was originally from miles and miles away from Baltimore, and I had spent years growing up only a few miles away in Southeast. Yet, I had to ask “left or right?” at every turn, all summer long.

In part, I think this ongoing situation was due to a mental block that is harbored unconsciously by many residents of Baltimore. Baltimore remains a very segregated place. It amazes me that even with the opportunity to leave one’s neighborhood, many people never think to do so.

Before this experience, I thought that I knew the whole city inside out, because in my mind, Southeast Baltimore was the only part of the city that concerned me. I could and can name streets and alleys in order, in any direction, from memory, starting from most any point in Southeast. That was my world. I felt comfortable in it. I knew what to expect there. I knew where to find anything I needed. At school and at work in the 14th District, all of this changed.

Then there were cultural differences. Apparently, a big part of any “convening” of community artists necessarily involves a lot of talking. One of the main focuses of the MACA Program is consensus building. During programming, all issues needed to be talked out until a consensus could be reached. All members of the program needed to be present in the consensus, and it was expected within the group of peers that everyone verbalize their feelings on the various matters known in class discussion.

It was difficult for me to participate in this way. Although I was often mentally engaged by the dialogue, I generally don’t speak until I have something to say. I was taught to conduct myself in this way since I was a small child. The opposite would be called by my family and my community, “talking just to hear myself talk.” As I didn’t always have something to say at every given opportunity, I was viewed by some as withholding. We even had discussions about my silence, during which I may have been rather reserved.

I had an idea that this was part of a culturally learned behavior. I asked my mother about it. I even researched on the Internet to support my hypothesis, to see if I could explain this to my classmates in a way that they could accept and understand, since we were doing so much work on diversity appreciation. Apparently and decidedly, I was right, but my silence was not accepted, even as a part of my cultural identity.

One major source of exasperation that I experienced over the duration of all of my years at MICA was the prevalent and audible view that Baltimore City is dirty and dangerous and, at times, even that this is only the natural consequence of the presence of the people who inhabit it.

The murmuring came mostly from people who had moved from other parts of the country and the world. Their opinions and fears were likely substantiated to a degree, in some cases. Muggings and robberies around campus were not uncommon. But there were two general categories of “complaints” that I experienced over five years.

The first category of complaints were obviously laced with racial and class discrimination. They came from individuals who were seeking college degrees and who intended to live elsewhere after completing their various programs. They were not interested in integrating their lives with the world(s) of Baltimore.

The second category of “complaints” were not complaints, per se, but rather vocalizations of pity for “the way people live” here. One person even stated that they felt that the children of Baltimore City suffered from depression and are in need of therapy.

As a native of Baltimore, I was more angered by the second category of offenders. Life may be tough here for a lot of people. This is not to say that joy, love and happiness do not abound. If you grow up in the ghetto, it is not terrible to you in the same way it would seem to be to an outsider observing your life. While I myself did not grow up in what I would call the “ghetto,” I did grow up in Baltimore. And I imagine that this same principle applies to any place in the world. Pity is not needed. The willingness to listen and learn without judgment or diagnosis is needed. This leads to understanding and real service.

Even within my community, there are disadvantages to being an “insider” community artist.

Jesus Christ was right when He said that, “Only in his hometown and in his own house is a prophet without honor." (Matthew 13:57) It can be difficult for people to recognize an individual whom they have watched grow up, or grown up alongside, as having specialized knowledge about anything.

I have been “just a kid.” Sometimes I still feel like “just a kid” because it is likewise difficult to stand up before people who have raised me and try to tell them anything “new.” Fortunately, I spend much of my time working with young people who prove to anyone paying attention that “kids” have a lot to say that is worth listening to.

Then, there is no avoiding the plague of what I like to refer to as “art jobs.” An artist who has grown up in a community, and who works in the community, as I do, will be asked to use his/her talents to solve many problems. Some tasks may seem like they should take precedence over others, but the artist’s hierarchy will not necessarily be equal to the community’s. For example, the fact that I needed to be in a meeting to apply for a grant to create a community garden had nothing to do with the fact that my skills were needed to build a mobile donkey out of a grocery shopping cart for the church Christmas play at the same exact time.

Beyond that, there is to consider the fact that a community artist who lives and works in the same community where they were brought up can generally be contacted and located at any time. In other words, without set limitations, there will never be rest for the weary.

Yet, it could be argued that it is a choice to serve in one’s community, and these factors are to be considered in making that decision. It may have been my choice as some point in my life to serve my community, but really my love for my people and for the neighborhood compels me to do so. I do not imagine a time when I could stop.

Outside of my community, my name is still Ashley Minner. I am called “Ashley,” “Ms. Minner” or “Ms. Miner.” I explain that I am Native American, from Southeast Baltimore, and a member of the Lumbee Tribe of North Carolina. I still find that few people even know that there is a Native American community in Baltimore. I travel to gather knowledge and resources to bring back, and to educate others about where I’m from and what it is that I do. I have become good at this, even though many times I feel like I’m speaking one language within my community and another without. I’m continually amazed at everything I don’t know about the rest of the world, perhaps because I grew up where I did, and I learn more and more.

To me, it makes perfect sense for artists coming from communities like mine to pursue an education in community art or a related field. After all, the community members themselves are the biggest stakeholders in any community. Communities are lucky when outsiders spend the time and effort to get acquainted with their culture so that they can help facilitate improvements that come from the grassroots up. Individual community members should themselves pursue the skills they need to empower their people, because they are already at such an advantage to do so by virtue of identity.

This essay is part of the Community Arts Convening & Research Project, 2008, funded by a Nathan Cummings Foundation grant to the Maryland Institute College of Art. The essay was reviewed and selected by the project's Editorial Board: Ron Bechet, Xavier University of Louisiana; Lori Hager, University of Oregon; Marina Gutierrez, Cooper Union; Ken Krafchek, Maryland Institute College of Art; Sonia Mañjon, California College of the Arts; Amalia Mesa-Bains, California State University Monterey Bay; Paul Teruel, Columbia College Chicago; and Stephani Woodson, Arizona State University.

Ashley Minner is a community artist who is active in the Baltimore Lumbee community. She works as a liaison for The Native American Program (Indian Education) of The Baltimore City Public School System. She also runs the Native American After School Program (NAASP) in which art programming and community organizing are implemented to help Native young people affirm their identities as Native Americans, as individuals, and as citizens.

[1] Stilling, Glenn Ellen Starr. “An Annotated Bibliography” The Lumbee Indians. 21 April 2007. Appalachian State University. 9 July 2007 <http://linux.library.appstate.edu/lumbee/>.

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The Community Artist from the Community

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