By Luhui Whitebear, OSU College of Liberal Arts
Resilient Teaching Voices Series
As an Indigenous woman, I have heard the word resilient used many times to describe our communities and nations. I am a descendant of my ancestors that survived genocide, the daughter of activists that fought for the rights we have, and a single parent of amazing young people who carry on the strength of our people. Resilience, a way of life and being.
In 2020, the Seattle Indian Health Board requested masks and testing kits to help prevent the spread of COVID-19 with local community members (Adach, 2021). In response, local and federal partners sent them body bags. I remember reading the news of this on social media feeling ripped open with the intergenerational grief many Indigenous people carry knowing our bodies are marked for death even in the present day. Abigail Echo Hawk (Pawnee), Director of the Urban Indian Health Institute, responded by transforming the body bags into a ribbon dress with the words “I am a tangible manifestation of my ancestors resiliency” written over and over again down a strip in the front of the dress (Adach, 2021). Our ancestors’ resiliency mean we are alive today, and we refuse being marked for death. In an article about the dress, Echo Hawk is quoted saying “it was emotionally exhausting work. Touching the bags ‘would almost break my heart at times’ (Adach, 2021).” Resilience—the will to carry on through what would break us.
What do body bags sent to Indigenous health providers during the pandemic have to with resilient teaching, you may wonder. As an assistant professor and coordinator of Indigenous Studies, I would say everything. In the classes I teach, these stories are common. Indigenous tellings of our shared histories are riddled with deep pain, beauty, power, and, you guessed it, resiliency. It can be a lot for students to navigate even if the content isn’t brand new to them. I have to be resilient in the class to keep the conversations going, and also to return home to my family without my heart being broken over and over again because of the content we cover in my classes.
I build resilience into my classes. I teach and live it. I understand that we have to be adaptable as faculty. Things happen and the ways in which students learn change. I tell students they are co-creators of knowledge in my classes and watch their eyes light up.
—Luhui Whitebear
During my journey with breast cancer treatment during the 2022-2023 academic year, I realized I didn’t want to be resilient anymore. I decided to teach through my chemotherapy and was at a point were I was wondering why we, as Indigenous people, have to be resilient all the time. Then I realized the students in my classes need me to be resilient. They need me to guide them through material that is both heartbreaking and absolutely amazing at the same time. They need me to refer them to campus services, including at times the Student Care Team, just so they can get through the term. They need me to show them that it is worth it and that they are not alone. Maybe not every single student, but enough where it matters. And when I look that student in the eyes recognizing the fire that resilience builds within, I know being resilient is worth it.
I build resilience into my classes. I teach and live it. I understand that we have to be adaptable as faculty. Things happen and the ways in which students learn change. I tell students they are co-creators of knowledge in my classes and watch their eyes light up. I read thank you messages for checking on them when they don’t show up for a while or stop turning in assignments and no one else noticed they were gone. I scrap lesson plans and rebuild them as the term goes along because something happens either to me or just in general in the world that impacts everyone. At the end of the term, I reflect with the students on what their biggest takeaway is. And more often than not, some of them tell me on their way out of the final class that they wish the class wasn’t ending so soon. I tell them I know, and that I hope they take what they learned about being in community in a classroom with them.
Resilience doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens in response to outside pressures, and oftentimes as a result of care shown by others. As a professor, I hope that students learn that resilience is more than just a word and that how we respond to unexpected disruptions doesn’t have to be perfect. We just have to not stay stuck in whatever it is we are facing whether that is in class or in life.
References
Adach, K. (2021, May 28). They sent body bags and toe tags. She made a ribbon dress. CBC. https://thewellnessalmanac.com/2021/06/07/i-am-a-tangible-manifestation-of-my-ancestors-resilience-the-ribbon-dress-made-of-body-bags-to-transform-violence-into-beauty/.
About the author: Luhui Whitebear (Coastal Band of the Chumash Nation) is an assistant professor in the OSU School of Language, Culture, and Society, and the coordinator of Indigenous Studies. She is a four-time OSU alum, mother, poet, and activist that also enjoys spending time with her dog out in nature, kayaking, and gardening.
Editor’s note: This is part of the Resilient Teaching Voices Series of guest posts about resilience and teaching strategies by members of the Fall ’25 Resilient Teaching Faculty Learning Community facilitated by CTL. The opinions expressed in guest posts are solely those of the author.
Top image generated with Microsoft Copilot. Bottom photo by Carter Pardue, The Daily Barometer.
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