Kaufman Updates
Permanent link for Interfaith Leadership Cohorts Travel to Mid-Michigan | By Rachel Robinson on October 21, 2025
Many stories matter. Stories have been used to dispossess and to malign. But stories can also be used to empower, and to humanize. Stories can break the dignity of a people. But stories can also repair that broken dignity.
- Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, “The Danger of a Single Story”
Often, we don’t take enough time to learn the stories of our friends and neighbors. Something that stayed with me from our most recent trip with the Interfaith Leadership cohorts came from our Native American guide, Anita Heard, Research Center Coordinator at the Ziibiwing Center of Anishinabe Culture and Lifeways in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan. She said,
“Stories are a gift. They are a way of connecting us with each other, caring for one another, and learning from each other. Each of us has a story—a gift—to share.”
Stories truly are gifts. They allow us to understand others, build compassion, learn the history of the places we inhabit, and cultivate curiosity. But stories aren’t always hopeful, joyful, or positive. Sometimes they are ugly, uncomfortable, and some invoke rage. Sometimes they interrupt stereotypes and implicit biases, offering power and voice to those who have been harmed or forgotten.
On Tuesday, October 14th, our Interfaith Leadership cohorts traveled to mid-Michigan to hear the stories of two communities: the Anishinabe people of Michigan - more specifically, the Saginaw Chippewa Indian Tribe of Michigan - and and African Americans whose lives and identities have been shaped and misrepresented by Jim Crow, whose experiences have shaped—and been shaped by—this nation’s complex history.
At the Ziibiwing Center of Anishinabe Culture and Lifeways, we were able to hear and honor the stories that have been silenced for generations. It was a reminder of the deep harm caused when a community is no longer the author of its own story—and also of the beauty and resilience found in reclaiming it. To listen is to witness both pain and revival: the revitalization of language, ceremony, and self-definition. Imagine losing the stories that connect you to your identity, your history, and your community. For Native American communities, including the Anishinaabe, this loss was not by choice. It came through forced assimilation, boarding schools, and the erasure of language, traditions, and spiritual practices. We listened intently to various stories of this community and something that was shocking was that for some of their documents to be legalized, the community has to wait twenty-five years before they can even be accepted as official. Did you catch that? Twenty-five years. Have you ever played the game of telephone? Imagine how much detail—how much heart and soul—is lost in a story passed down over that kind of time. In twenty-five years, how many voices are silenced by death, how much wisdom fades away? I can’t help but wonder if those in power counted on that silence, if they hoped the stories would be forgotten before they were ever recognized. And yet—how strong, how resilient, how steadfast must a community be to hold onto its story through all of that? What does it mean to protect the memory of your people for twenty-five years, waiting for the world to finally listen?
Another moment that stood out to me was the very cadence of Anita’s storytelling. It was slow—intentional—and at times, it was hard to stay invested. Not because of a lack of patience or interest, but because I’ve been conditioned to crave more, quicker, faster. I live in a rhythm of constant motion, of checking boxes and chasing efficiency. But just because something is slower doesn’t make it less meaningful. In fact, it had the opposite effect—it drew me in deeper. It gave me space to sit with wonder, curiosity, and awe. I want to retrain myself to stay engaged with stories like these, to move at the pace of reverence rather than productivity. When I rush, I notice how easily I can miss what is vital—what is sacred.
After hearing stories reclaimed at the Ziibiwing Center, our visit to the Jim Crow Museum of Racist Memorabilia revealed the other side of storytelling—the weaponization of narrative. Here, stories were twisted into stereotypes, used to justify oppression and normalize cruelty. It showed how powerful storytelling can be, both in necessary unearthing and its potential to harm. I knew it would make me angry, but I wasn’t prepared for how heavy it would feel. Through caricatures, propaganda, and everyday objects, I saw how narratives were distorted to dehumanize Black Americans and uphold systems of white supremacy. Every object, every caricature, every relic of hate carried a story that someone once believed to be normal. I was confronted with how deeply racism was—and still is—woven into the fabric of our nation’s story. This confrontation brought to the surface the deep injustice of having one’s story told, twisted, or controlled by others. The museum forced me to think about how privilege is not just about opportunity, but about authorship. The freedom to exist without explanation, to tell your own story in your own voice, is one of the most profound privileges there is. That realization sat heavily with me as we stepped outside those museum doors, the air thick with silence and reflection. In processing together, the words that surfaced were: powerful, useful, heavy, contextualizing, necessary. Each of us carried something different away, but those five words seemed to echo what storytelling had done to me—it changed me. It opened me. It reminded me that listening is not passive; it’s an act of witness and responsibility.
Stories stay with us. They change how we see ourselves, each other, and the world we’re part of. They make us ask questions—hard ones, important ones. So, what does it mean to be the author of your own story? What story would you tell about your community if you were the one holding the pen? And perhaps most importantly—how will you listen differently after hearing someone else’s truth? What I have learned so far is that stories are not just memories; they’re acts of agency, connection, and hope. Marshall Ganz said it best in People, Power, Change: “What is utterly unique about each of us is not a combination of the categories that include us, but rather the meaning we give to our own journey, our way through life, our personal text from which each of us can teach.” I am learning that the stories we choose to tell—and the ones we choose to listen to—hold the power to transform how we act, connect, and understand each other.