Native American Activists Make Gains, but Philanthropy “Continues to Scratch the Surface”

Participants in the first Indigenous Peoples March in Washington, DC, January 18, 2019. Rena Schild/shutterstock

This article was first published on July 28, 2020.

The past month has brought a stunning series of victories for tribal nations and Native American activists, following years—and in some cases, generations—of advocacy and organizing.

Nearly half of Oklahoma is now legally recognized as Native land; construction on the Keystone XL oil pipeline is blocked in part; a federal court ordered the Dakota Access Pipeline to be emptied and newly reviewed; the Washington NFL team—whose name has long been denounced as a slur—has announced it will rebrand. And that’s not even the full list.

These steps forward come as a nationwide movement against systemic inequity, centered on anti-Black racism but inclusive of Indigenous issues, makes major strides. They also come four years after protests at Standing Rock captured the attention of the world and grantmakers, promising new and expanded engagement and funding of Indigenous causes by philanthropy. And they take place amid a global pandemic, which has been particularly devastating to Native communities.

Institutional support for Indigenous issues in the U.S. has long hovered around 0.4% of total foundation funding. Support increased during Standing Rock, but a 2019 report by Candid and Native Americans in Philanthropy found that, when adjusted for inflation, the gains in 2016 were “modest” and comparable to pre-recession totals in 2006. The picture is less clear in recent years, partly due to shifts in data collection.

I spoke to a handful of Indigenous leaders and grantmakers who support Native causes to get their perspectives on philanthropic engagement since Standing Rock, the ongoing shortage of funding, and the relationship between institutional philanthropy and Native communities during this movement moment.

“I think we’re just barely starting to understand the Standing Rock story in the broader view of history of what’s happening right now,” said Erik Stegman, executive director of Native Americans in Philanthropy. “We’re really just starting to see the culmination of that right now, and I hope philanthropy is ready to join us, because if there was ever a moment for true systems change, it’s right now.”

To be clear, neither Stegman nor others I spoke with credited support from institutional philanthropy with the recent advances. Rather, he pointed to the work of underfunded Native-led organizations, such as the Indigenous Environmental Network, and the wide array of roles they play in their communities.

This has been especially true with COVID-19 and the recent momentum on racial justice, he said. The grassroots organizations that provide meals for seniors and distribute personal protective equipment in tribal communities are the same ones organizing protests, both in support of Black Lives Matter and on campaigns like changing the name of the Washington NFL team.

For such groups, funders “don’t really understand how many different spaces they’re playing in, and how important they are,” said Stegman, who is a member of the Carry the Kettle First Nation (Nakoda). “Any increase in dollars is definitely supporting that change in the end run.”

Standing Rock was vital to starting many conversations with philanthropy, given that visibility has always been a “fundamental barrier” for Native people, Stegman told me. But groups have yet to see new funders come forward with the flexible, multi-year commitments that they, like all grassroots organizations, are best served by. “We’re still at a kind of a moment of trying to push a lot of them to make those bigger investments,” he said of funders.

Stegman noted that “a lot of interesting new leaders have come into the field in Indian country.” For instance, Edgar Villanueva (who recently wrote a powerful guest opinion piece for Inside Philanthropy) captured the sector’s attention with his 2018 book “Decolonizing Wealth: Indigenous Wisdom to Heal Divides and Restore Balance.” More recently, Villanueva partnered with Native Americans in Philanthropy and others on a COVID-19 relief fund that has distributed $700,000 to Native-led relief efforts and is planning a $1 million direct cash assistance program.

“Institutional Philanthropy is a Form of Wealth Hoarding”

Nick Tilsen, founder, president and CEO of NDN Collective, and a citizen of the Oglala Lakota Nation, is another rising leader cited by Stegman. 

“Imagine the wins that we’re on the cusp of right now in this country and the change that we’re seeking,” Tilsen told me. “This is an opportunity for philanthropy to show up in a way it has never shown up in the history of it as an institution.”

Tilsen has an ambitious vision for his two-year-old organization. One goal is to create a $50 million annual grantmaking fund “led by Indigenous people, for Indigenous people.” His group has also assembled an array of subsidiary organizations to advance its cause, including a foundation (which runs all grantmaking), an impact investing fund (to take and distribute investments), 501(c)(3) and 501(c)(4) organizing and advocacy arms, and a social enterprise wing (to pursue for-profit ventures for the nonprofit).

While Tilsen has one foot in the world of philanthropy, he also has a pointed critique for the sector, along similar lines as an argument that many in the field first heard articulated in Villanueva’s book.

“When you think about philanthropy and where the money in philanthropy comes from, there’s usually a connection in some point in time of the stealing of Indigenous people’s land, the slavery of our Black brothers and sisters, and the labor of our Latinx communities,” he told me. “I don’t think we should move forward in the framework of guilt. But we should move forward in the framework of, if philanthropy is going to show up, we need change, we don’t need charity.”

He’s seen plenty of interest in that discussion among grantmakers. NDN Collective has raised $30 million in the last two years through relationships with 50-plus philanthropic partners, including the Novo Foundation, Doris Duke Charitable Foundation, JPB Foundation, Surdna Foundation, Libra Foundation, Bush Foundation, and the Northwest Area Foundation. 

But Tilsen’s goals go well beyond expanding funding for his organization and other Native-led groups.

“It’s not just about philanthropy increasing the money that it gives to Black, Indigenous and people of color, it’s increasing discretionary grants and giving up decision-making power,” Tilsen said. “The more it wants to hold on to that, the more it perpetuates white supremacy in the field of philanthropy.”

“The Money Doesn’t Make the Work. We Make the Work”

Thomas Lopez serves as director of development, a volunteer position, for one of those grassroots organizations that does a bit of everything: the International Indigenous Youth Council. Launched during the Standing Rock uprisings, the organization now has seven chapters around the country that work to organize Indigenous youth. 

In recent years, the organization has sustained itself—paying its lawyer, accountant, bookkeeper—thanks to a single “large private donation” made by a family in the wake of Standing Rock, said Lopez. Preferring flexibility, they have avoided seeking support from institutional philanthropy for as long as possible.

“With donations, we have the freedom to do what we want to do. With our young people, we don’t want something breathing down their neck, telling them what they have to do,” he said. “This system has the ability to suffocate people and smother people’s fire and taint people’s message.”

When COVID-19 struck, they canceled much of their programming, as the relationship-building they do does not translate well to virtual calls, he told me. Instead, they started a relief fund with $5,000, aiming to give $150 each to youth applicants. They now have $38,000. “That’s the most money that we’ve ever raised for anything, outside of what we raised for Standing Rock,” said Lopez, who identifies as Mexican Otomi, Diné, Apache and (Hunkapi) Lakota. 

They’ve experimented with making personal protective equipment kits for southwest tribal reservations, and now they’re hoping to issue stipends to some of their organizers. Their hope is to create something sustainable, given the depth of the challenges facing their communities.

“COVID-19 only made things that were inaccessible completely out of the picture. In Diné Nation, they haven’t had clean drinking water forever,” he said. 

The group is now starting to look for grants for the first time, but the barriers are substantial.

“When I go into these grants as a college-educated young person, and I’m confused, I can only imagine what my young rez people are going through,” he said. “When you make things that are inaccessible in this way, you cut out a huge section of the people who could benefit.”

“A Fundamental Population for Philanthropy”

The W.K. Kellogg Foundation began funding Indigenous communities in the 1980s with grants to tribal colleges to support projects like Native language programs. For at least the past decade, it has been one of the top funders of Indigenous issues in the United States, along with the Ford and Robert Wood Johnson foundations. 

“Standing Rock was this galvanizing force that changed the way that philanthropy was looking at their investments into Indigenous communities and why they’re so important,” said Vicky Stott, a program officer at Kellogg with a focus on racial equity and community engagement, and a citizen of the Ho-Chunk Nation. 

Kellogg, for instance, made $52 million in grants to Native communities in 2015 and 2016. Since 2017, it has made $123 million in such grants, including $73 million in the U.S., with a focus on promoting health equity, expanding economic opportunity, and bolstering early childhood education, and another $50 million in Mexico.

As more grantmakers turn their attention to Native communities during this new movement moment, Stott hopes Kellogg can provide a model for philanthropy of the sustained partnership that’s needed.

“We just continue to scratch the surface,” she said. “Yes, it’s helpful that we continue to increase our investments. Yes, it’s helpful that we continue to engage and show up and be a partner. And at the same time, it’s really, really important that we have partnerships that continue to increase over time.”

Joe Scantlebury, vice president for place-based programs, says partnership, close listening and humility have been key to their work. For instance, when they first approached tribal communities in New Mexico, they had all kinds of plans. 

“They said, ‘No, thank you for your ideas, but without water, it’s meaningless,’” he said. “They helped us really appreciate why we needed to invest in their access to water.”

Kellogg has also worked to reduce structural hurdles and address power dynamics when working with such grantees, from using trusted fiscal sponsors as needed to negotiating data use concerns with sovereign tribes. They’re aware of the challenges faced by Lopez and others in completing grant applications. 

“It’s not that we have a solution yet, but it’s something we identify as a potential barrier,” said Verónica Fernández de Castro Robles, program officer for Latin America and Caribbean Programs. “Money flows and mechanisms are a challenge, I think, for us, and for philanthropy overall. And there are pieces we need to overcome.”

Scantlebury says for too long, he’s seen a particular attitude among philanthropists: “‘This is such a small population of people. Is it really worth our attention, our investment, our time?’” He could not disagree more.

“It’s a fundamental population for American philanthropy to pay attention to, because if we can’t see this population whose land we stand on, then we can’t see anybody else, either,” Scantlebury said. 

“And the rules and the barriers that we create from being able to see this population are rules that we’ve created. Not the IRS, not the federal government,” he added. “This is individual decisions, individual boards and individual leaders, who created the very barriers that make investments in this population impossible for philanthropy.”