This spring, a rainstorm caused a river to overflow into a field on the Oneida Nation in Wisconsin, destroying much of the river, including the traditionally important white corn crop.
Families tried planting a second time, but it was too wet; many seeds dissolved in the waterlogged soil. The corn that did sprout was ragged and crooked.
It looked “bloodless,” said Lea Zeise, one of the coordinators of Ohe láku, a nonprofit that works with families who plant crops. “Very thin and very fragile.”
A few members picked what was left in late August in its early form, known as green corn, but it was barely enough to go around. There will be no white corn in the annual food boxes sent to tribal elders next year. And the harvest moon event, traditionally a major time for ceremonies and community gatherings, has been canceled.
It’s a stark reminder of the uncertainty that Native growers face as the planet warms and seasonal weather patterns become more unpredictable. Many tough years are likely to come, threatening the foods that bind the Oneida People to their culture, the land, and each other. Oneida white corn managers and other Native growers are adapting and are proactively implementing sustainable land management techniques, such as using green manure to improve soil health and protect their lands from future droughts and floods. But years like this are a reminder that it won’t always be enough.
“We’re really facing some pretty serious setbacks with climate change. There’s a lot at stake. And so it feels very personal,” Zeise said. “It’s very hard not to go out on the field and just feel deeply sad.”
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EDITOR’S NOTE: This is part of a series on how tribes and indigenous communities are coping with and combating climate change.
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White corn is more than just food for the Oneida people; it’s part of their creation story and a family member to care for. It’s also an annual, seasonal reason for people to come together, which was the philosophy behind Ohe láku, which translates to “among the corn stalks.”
Corn braiding is a favorite pastime for 10-year-old Lucia Stevens, who was crowned Lil’ Miss Oneida this year and whose Oneida name Tehwahshútyahks means “she breaks the night.” She’s been participating in the white corn harvest for as long as she can remember, but this has been the toughest year she’s ever experienced, her mother Stephanie said.
“We did our best,” Lucia said. “The reason we didn’t get as much corn is because the days kept getting too hot, and then the days kept getting too rainy, and it kept going back and forth.”
Zeise and her mother, Laura Manthe, who helped found the organization, said families can learn from each other by growing corn together. They can all contribute to the labor-intensive processes of planting, weeding, hand-picking the cobs, winnowing to separate the chaff from the grain and other tasks, Manthe and Zeise said. The group can also still have a significant harvest, even if the animals get a cut, and they have a better chance of surviving extreme weather events if they grow on a larger piece of land.
But even growing together was no match for this year’s spring flood. Drive around Wisconsin, Minnesota and Michigan and there are many farmers “whose corn looks terrible,” Manthe said. But commercially grown corn, which uses more uniform varieties than heirloom varieties and is often genetically modified, looks pretty good this time of year, she said.
Oneida and commercial farmers also take different approaches to dealing with corn smut, a type of fungus that can grow on corn. While many commercial growers consider it a disease that should be eradicated, some Mexican growers use it in cooking and consider it a delicacy. Inspired, Ohe láku members are only beginning to use it now that wetter seasons are more prevalent, but by then corn smut is too mature to use.
Becky Webster, who grows Ohe láku, is also the executive director of another Oneida farm and nonprofit, Ukwakhwa, where she plants white corn in smaller plots and in two different ways. Some she plants in rows and some she plants in a method called Three Sisters, where corn, beans and squash are all planted together in hills. She said the Three Sisters corn didn’t flood because it was protected by the hills, but an unusually late windstorm blew a lot of the stalks down. She thinks it’s salvageable, but not in a great position. And she can’t remember ever seeing weather like it.
“Our springs have been pretty consistent before, except for the occasional storm. But we’ve had extremes. Last year was extreme drought, and this year was extreme rainfall,” Webster said. She added that it’s harder to predict which planting methods might be most effective, and described how it’s challenging to strategically save seeds, because the seeds that did well in a wet year don’t do as well in a dry year, and vice versa.
All the Oneida growers stressed the importance of relying on traditional agricultural knowledge, which is even more important because many tribe members have been cut off from their own culture. It’s a way to get back to their roots after families lost land to colonists, children were forced to go to boarding schools, and land was leased or sold to non-Native farmers. But reviving old knowledge is made more difficult by the new seasonal unpredictability.
“Even if we knew everything our ancestors learned, we would have to do so in an unpredictable and changing climate,” Webster said.
Daniel Hayden, a PhD candidate at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, thinks more research is needed to understand the science behind sustainable indigenous farming techniques that go back generations. He’s been working with Ohe láku for several years to test sustainable practices like interseeding green manure, where other crops are planted in the same field to improve soil health, balance moisture levels and prevent erosion. It’s a work in progress, and this year it wasn’t enough to prevent most of the corn from washing away, although his research plot of white corn did make it.
He acknowledged that while Oneida farmers are willing to focus on managing land and improving soil health — not necessarily maximizing yields — commercial farmers have other priorities. He hopes his research will add to the conversation about incorporating indigenous practices into mainstream agriculture, something he believes hasn’t gotten enough attention.
As Webster put it, “Native practices are no longer Plan B, they have to be the plan. Because we are very aware of everything around us.”
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Follow Melina Walling on X on @MelinaWalling.
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