My family and I returned from Wisconsin with new names. I wish I could answer all the questions that I’ve been asked about the ceremony, but I have my own questions, and I’m not sure what I should share and what I should keep up in the Northwoods. It was held in the woods, around a fire of maple logs. My aunts, cousins, and some family friends were there with us. We gave the elder tobacco to offer to the spirit, and she prayed in Potawatomi and Ojibwe. The wind picked up after it started, and as she said the names that came to her, there was a low rumbling that seemed to come from the fire. She named me Mishkagabo, which means “standing strong.” As I read over this, I hear it in my Indian voice. But I’m not putting on! It happened that way. Of course, I’m still processing this, and I’m not sure about what it all means to have this new name besides the fact that I’m glad I have it and that I have to live up to it. It would’ve been easier if she’d named me “Reads Quietly” or “Stands Alone.”