The Seed Keeper
Diane Wilson’s debut novel The Seed Keeper (2021) interweaves the stories of modern Dakhóta women and their ancestors in Minnesota. The narrative centers on the life and memories of Rosalie Iron Wing, a Dakhóta woman who comes of age divorced from her culture after being fostered out to non-native families following the death of her father. As a teenager, Rosie meets and befriends Gaby Makespeace, another Dakhóta teen and their lives become forever entwined. Both women come of age amidst the family tragedies and personal crises common to modern day Native people: substance abuse, incarceration, teenage pregnancies, shattered families, and the foster system prior to the Indian Child Welfare Act of 1978. As their stories continue to emerge, and the years roll by, The Seed Keeper bears witness to further atrocities experienced by the Dakhóta by traveling back in time to the experiences of a third Dakhóta woman. Forced relocation following the 1862 US-Dakhóta War, death by starvation, agency schools, suicide, and more add to the many powerful subjects on which Wilson’s novel touches. Wilson’s characters’ stories bring to life plenty of evidence, both historic and contemporary, of the destruction at work as Euro-Americans settled on Dakhóta traditional lands. Yet, lest I misrepresent this moving novel, The Seed Keeper does not descend into hopelessness. Rather, just as the seeds sown into the dress hems of Dakhóta women in times of historic crises, hope and survival are resilient even in the face of devastating damage, and even across many generations.
As the title suggests, The Seed Keeper maintains a thread of cultivation and harvest, of nature and the importance of living in harmony with earth’s rhythm, throughout. The Seed Keeper beautifully describes the intricate processes through which Dakhóta women for generations kept their corn seeds, even during the most difficult of times. The contrast between Euro-American farming techniques and those of the Dakhóta is striking and at times difficult to swallow. Wilson’s novel raises serious issues around big agriculture and the very real environmental and ethical concerns that come with its chemical farming, genetic engineering, and patented seeds. Additionally, The Seed Keeper raises the issue of the water warriors and the Dakhóta people who work tirelessly to restore the health of their rivers. Needless to say, there are many prescient and current issues to study, consider, and learn from in The Seed Keeper.
Wilson’s writing is eloquent and moving. Her characters are dynamic and human. She shares her Dakhóta culture with her reader with grace, reverence, and honesty. I encourage any lover of growing things, anyone who appreciates indigenous narratives and histories, and/or any fan of historical fiction, particularly those set in the American Midwest, to spend time with Wilson’s The Seed Keeper.
Bibliography:
Wilson, Diane. The Seed Keeper. Milkweed Editions: 2021.
A Few Great Passages:
“The old ones said the Dakhóta first came to this sacred place from the stars. That’s why we’re called the Wičáŋĥpi Oyáte, the Star People, because we traveled here from the Milky Way. Even the waŝíču scientists have agreed, finally, that this is a true story” (6).
“Maybe we all carry that instinct to return home, to the horizon line that formed us, to the place where we first knew the world. Maybe it was that instinct driving me now” (11).
“Coming home was like swimming upstream, searing for the beginning, for the clean, unmuddied waters of my childhood” (17).
“My father believed in the power of stories, whether they were written, or told around a fire or the kitchen table. For him, books were weapons that could be used against you unless you armed yourself with knowledge” (19).
“Cradled in the snow, I felt the quiet that settles when the land is at rest. It was peaceful lying there. The frantic energy of harvest had given way to the season of long, cold nights, when the few birds that have not fled sound were focused on survival, saving their songs for spring. Winter felt like a preview of what it meant to die, to be released from the ties that bind us, to be free of our bodies. When I was growing up, winter had been a time for telling stories, for mending things, for dreaming about the coming spring” (102).
“Seeds need soil and water and sun. I thought of something my father used to say: that we watch and we learn from the trees and plants around us. I remembered the coneflower, with its bristly seed head that dries over the winter and scatters in the spring. In the forest and on the prairie, plants were spread by wind and by traveling roots, with trees and shrubs and medicines selecting the best place to thrive, competing with one another while still building a community together” (112).
“I studied the patience of the red oak, so perfectly formed over many years, as she endured the cold. In the fall, she prepared by pulling the energy of sunlight belowground, to be stored in her roots, much as I preserved the harvest from my garden. Through a season that seems too cold for anything to survive, the tree simply waits, still growing inside, and dreams of spring” (195).
“A library book showed me that the tiny seeds I had taken for granted were actually unique living beings with their own history, story, and family. Each seed was made of an embryo, a seed coat, and something nutritious, almost like a packed lunch. The Mother Plant, like me, wanted only the best for her babies. Some plants, like dandelions, scattered their seeds in the wind, while others, like some pines, needed fire to open their cones. Somehow, the Mother knew to dry her seeds almost completely so they would sleep until the time was right to wake. Each seed held a trace of life that would spark when given water, when given the appropriate conditions” (238).
“‘Keep the seeds from the center of the cob for planting. The seeds near the tip can be used for cooking; seeds from the other end, share with the animals. Keep a sharp eye open for any kernels with a black heart. Those cobs were picked too early and will not grow’” (245).
“As parents, how do any of us answer it [the question of having done right by our children]? Especially when we struggle with our own challenges, not realizing when we’re young how much the past has shaped us, how we carry our parents’ sorrow and that of the generations that came before them? “ (279).
“Without family, I had drifted like a dried leaf in autumn, blowing in a new direction with each gust of wind. Family gave me a place, history, connection, identity. Even in the midst of terrible pain and heartbreak, family held the possibility of love” (303).
“Your mother was not well. Whatever it was that had come home from the boarding school with your grandmother, it lived on in Agnes. She never found a way through it. It lives on until somebody finds a way to stop it” (324).
“‘People don’t understand how hard it is to be Indian [ . . .] I’m not talking about all the sad history. I’m talking about a way of life that demands your best every single day. Being Dakhóta means every step you take is a prayer” (335).
“Sometimes, when I was working in the garden, a wordless prayer opened between me and the earth, as if we shared a common language that I understood best when I was silent. Only by paying attention with all of my senses could I appreciate the cry of the hawk, circling overhead, or see sunflowers turning toward the sun, or hear the hum of carpenter bees burrowing into rotted lots. Just as birds make their nests in a circle, this clearing encircled us, creating a safe place to grow and to live. History might have cost me my family and my language, but I was reclaiming a relationship with the earth, water, stars, and seeds that was thousands of years old” (343).
“[S]eeds share a memory that is a vast ribbon of time, flowing back through each season of rain, and the seasons of not enough rain, and the years when the wind blew and make the plants grow stronger” (348).
“In this world there is no death. There is only the eternal cycle of birth and rebirth moving from one body to another. Our flesh lives in the belly of a deer, in the wing of a butterfly, in every seed you plant. Our bodies nourish the roots and leaves that keep us alive. When you care for the seeds, you care for all of our ancestors. Nothing is lost. Nothing is lost” (348).
“You have to heal yourself first before you can go out and change the world” (352).
