Chris La Tray transforms a simple travel log into a profound meditation on cultural survival, arguing that the most potent acts of Indigenous resistance are not grand political gestures, but the quiet, deliberate choice to show up and tell one's story. In a media landscape often obsessed with headlines and viral moments, La Tray offers a counter-narrative: that the future of a people is secured in the "tiny actions" of daily life, from a school visit to a library reading. This piece is essential because it reframes the concept of "resistance" not as a reaction to oppression, but as a proactive, spiritual commitment to remaining oneself.
The Weight of Small Stones
La Tray anchors the piece in the work of Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, introducing the Anishinaabe concept of Zhaaganashiyaadizi—the process of assimilating at the expense of one's core identity. "Zhaaganashiyaadizi occurs when a person tries to live his or her life as a non-Native at the expense of being Nishnaabeg," La Tray writes, defining it as a series of choices that erode the self. This framing is powerful because it shifts the burden of resistance from external political battles to internal, daily discipline. La Tray applies this lens to his own discomfort with digital platforms, noting that "social media drives me more deeply into assimilation than just about anything else" due to the "untruths and lateral violence" that plague these spaces.
The author's refusal to fully capitulate to the algorithmic demands of modern communication is a bold stance. He admits to the friction of this choice, acknowledging that while he admires peers like James Vukelich Kaagegaabaw who use these tools effectively, "I can't" do the same without compromising his own integrity. This honesty about the difficulty of the path is what makes the argument resonate; it is not a lecture on purity, but a confession of the struggle to remain whole in a fragmented world. Critics might argue that rejecting digital tools limits the reach of Indigenous voices in an era where visibility is currency, yet La Tray suggests that the quality of the connection matters more than the quantity of the audience.
From my perspective as a Nishnaabekwe, whenever one throws a stone into the lake with intent, commitment and vision, the implicate order or spiritual world mobilizes to provide support and open doors.
La Tray uses this metaphor to explain why his upcoming road trip—visiting schools in Montana and attending book festivals across the country—matters. He is not merely promoting a book; he is engaging in what he calls "survivance," a term coined by scholar Gerald Vizenor to describe an active sense of presence beyond mere survival. "These are tiny actions but who knows what the result can be?" he asks, suggesting that the ripple effects of these interactions are impossible to predict but spiritually significant. The argument holds up because it validates the work of educators and storytellers who often feel their impact is invisible in the grand scheme of policy or history.
The Poetry of Purposeful Drifting
The commentary then pivots to the influence of Japanese haiku poets, specifically Matsuo Bashō and Santōka Taneda, whose work inspires La Tray's own approach to travel and storytelling. He contrasts the "aimless" wandering of these poets with his own "not aimless" journey, noting that while he may feel "mired in my own melodramas," the act of moving through the world is a form of grounding. "I've worn out my body in journeys that are as aimless as the winds and clouds, and expended my feelings on flowers and birds," La Tray quotes Bashō, using the ancient poet's words to justify his own relentless travel schedule.
This section reveals the deep interconnectivity of La Tray's worldview, where Anishinaabe philosophy and Japanese Zen poetry converge on the idea of presence. He writes that "the sentiment the haiku expresses isn't often my experience," yet he finds value in the "idea of the wandering poet... just setting out aimlessly onto the road." This juxtaposition is effective because it universalizes the Indigenous experience of displacement and movement, finding common ground in the human desire to find meaning through journeying. However, one might note that La Tray's travel is far from aimless; it is a calculated effort to maintain a network of relationships and share specific cultural narratives, which adds a layer of intentionality that the poets' wandering lacked.
The author's reflection on the "murderous capitalist culture" he is forced to navigate adds a sharp political edge to the otherwise lyrical tone. He admits, "I'm not thrilled about being forced to exist within this murderous capitalist culture," and describes his platform choices as a form of "monkeywrenching the entire ugly business." This candid admission of systemic frustration grounds the spiritual musings in material reality, reminding the reader that the choice to resist assimilation is also a political act against economic and social coercion.
Bottom Line
Chris La Tray's most compelling argument is that cultural resilience is built not in the spotlight of political rallies, but in the quiet, persistent act of showing up for one's community. While the piece risks being dismissed as too introspective by those seeking immediate policy solutions, its strength lies in its redefinition of success: the survival of a people is measured by the stories they keep alive and the relationships they nurture. The reader should watch for how La Tray translates these "tiny actions" into broader movements, as the gap between individual resistance and collective power remains the critical challenge for Indigenous resurgence.