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The Voices of Manoomin, Arisi, and Nasi

  • Vinessa Vincent Rajah
  • Jan 25
  • 18 min read

Updated: Aug 29

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Boozhoo, Vanakkam. Hello, I press my palms together in greetings. Over the past few weeks, I have been learning about Manoomin, our wild rice relative. I am still a young student of Manoomin, and I am grateful for the knowledge shared with me through articles, videos, and stories that have nourished my relationship with her. I write about the vulnerability of Manoomin and myself while I share our journey with you through this braided essay. By reading my piece, you accept a responsibility to create space for this knowledge and enter a reciprocal relationship based on trust and respect.


*

         

The raw basmati rice grains tinkle while they fall into the saucepan. They press themselves next to each other while the water rushes over them, tapping their tips in greeting. I do not know if they came from the same rice field, but they form a community in the saucepan now. I submerge my fingers in the cool water and stir the grains. While I continue to wash the rice, the core of the grains slowly gain definition. My ancestors who grew, tended to, and loved Arisi, Rice, peek from them. In the mid-twentieth century, my grandparents moved from India, our ancestral homelands, to Malaysia, and finally Singapore, where I am cooking in 2024. The rice and our food connect our generations across time and space. I cook rice in my home in the United States and when my parents, brother, and I return to Singapore to visit our family.


Once the rice grains are washed, I put the saucepan on the stove. Thirty minutes later, I turn off the stove. I pour the excess water from the cooked rice into a mug. We will drink the neeragaaram tomorrow morning; the fermented rice water is good medicine for our digestive systems. I take the saucepan and go to the dining table.


            My Paati, Periamma, and Amma sit at the table. The women of my family laugh while they recount stories about the cats that used to visit Paati’s home. Amma sees me and unrolls the banana leaves. My mother places them for her older sister and mother before she places one for herself, showing respect to her elders even in this small action. I walk to Paati’s side and serve her first. The wet rice grains squelch, sounding a little like the mud they were grown in, when I scoop them out with the rice spoon and put them on her banana leaf. Brown blushes bloom on the banana leaf as the rice grains heat it and its digestive juices seep into the rice grains. They enjoy each other’s company while they offer themselves for our consumption, continuing the relationship between their species for millennia. My grandmother smiles at me while I move to the side of her oldest daughter and start to scoop rice onto her banana leaf. Periamma thanks me when there is enough rice, and I move to her younger sister’s side. My mother pats my arm while I empty the saucepan. She waits for her akka, her elder sister, and her amma to start eating before she starts to eat. My Amma taught me to respect my elders by respecting them herself. She carries on the teachings that her mother taught her, teachings that have spanned generations since before humans walked on Booma Devi. I look at the steaming rice on the banana leaves and thank Earth Goddess for her harvest. Then, I walk back into the kitchen and begin to clean up.


*

        

Manoomin. Manoo-, a unique root, -min, a suffix meaning berry, seed, or grain (“Manoomin: Inanimate Noun”; “Tribal Wisdom” 00:35:48-00:37:53). Anishinaabe people fulfill a responsibility they learned from Nanabozho when they call out her names—Manoomin, The Good Berry, and The Spirit Berry (Kimmerer 208; “Manoomin: Inanimate Noun”; “Tribal Wisdom 00:35:48-00:37:53). Manoomin is known by names to other languages, too; she shares her gifts with all. The English language calls her Wild Rice, while Latin named the northern variety Zizania palustris and the southern variety Zizania aquatica (Barb and LaBine). Various communities call her by names in their own languages. I do not have the ability to translate them because I do not know those languages, so I will describe their relationships to you from knowledge shared with me. Manoomin’s oldest relationship is with Nibi. She grows from the muck or silt soils in Nibi’s slow-moving currents, reaching towards the sunlight from depths of one-half to three feet (Barb and LaBine; Hartig; “Ganawenindiwag Manoomin Anishinaabeg”; “Tribal Wisdom” 00:38:04-00:39:05). Manoomin gives thanks in their reciprocal relationship by purifying Nibi. Her dense, abundant stalks slow winds and waves, reducing algal blooms in the water (“Ganawenindiwag Manoomin Anishinaabeg”; “Ecological Importance”). Manoomin then fulfills her responsibility in her ecosystem. The roots of Manoomin gather and intertwine with loose soils, binding the soils in their embrace (“Ecological Importance”). She gives her tender stalks to Muskrat, Duck, and Goose for their habitat and lodging (“Ecological Importance”; “Manoomin—Wild Rice”). The maturation of Manoomin’s seeds coincide with the fall migration; waterfowl use Manoomin for roosting and loafing and bird species nest there while they migrate (“Ecological Importance”). Everyone thanks Manoomin for her gift of food. Migratory birds, waterfowl, ducks, and geese eat her long, nutritious grains (“Ecological Importance”; “Manoomin—Wild Rice”). They taught their younger relatives, Nanabozho and humans, how to gather and eat the grains Manoomin Plant Mothers offer (Kimmerer 210; “Cultural Importance”). In return, Anishinaabe people respect their more-than-human relatives. They offer tobacco and say, “Miigwech” in the harvesting process while they pole through the rice beds (“Manoomin: Food that Grows on the Water” 00:01:59).


*


My feet sink into the mud, and I breathe in its comforting heavy and earthy smell. Our Primary Five field trip has brought us to Malacca, where we are learning more about Peranakan culture. Today, we are visiting a rice field. I look around me. Some of my classmates play tag and others chatter with each other while beads of sweat glide down their noses. We may be slightly uncomfortable, but the rice thrives in the heat.


Someone places a small rice plant into my palms. She is a daughter plant. Mud wraps her tiny roots, and her emerging tips sway and dance in the breeze. A farmer starts to talk about how to plant the rice, but my attention keeps returning to the life I hold in my hands. My palm brushes a root that sticks out of the mud, and it feels like a brush of Paati’s hair. I touch the small stem lightly and it tickles a sleeping memory of the touch of a mother older than Paati. I blink at the young plant and the warmth from the mud and roots seep into my palms.

I am jerked out of my observation, though, when the students next to me move forward. I squelch my way to join them. They bend and plant the rice without hesitation. Uh-oh. Maybe I should have listened to the farmer’s instructions. My teacher nods at everyone and turns towards me, her eyebrows raised. I gulp and move forward, finding a space where the other students have not filled. I lean forward and try to quickly learn the procedure, but I cannot see past the shield of their bended bodies. My shoulders creep in while I look at the being that depends on me for its next stage of growth.


“Help,” I whisper.


The plant grows heavy in my palms, and my arms extend to accommodate her. My hand submerges into the water, cooling as it reaches deeper. My knuckles touch the soil bed and settle slightly. I look at the tips of the plant, peeking above the waterline, and I transfer her to my cupped right hand. My left hand starts to move, digging into the mud until I can feel a depression. My left hand then joins my right, and I place the plant in the mud. My hands cover her and the base feels strong. I raise my hands out of the water and look at them for a minute. Then, I press them together and look at the plant.


“As-salamu alaikum, Nasi,” I greet it in the language this land calls home. Greetings; peace be upon you, Rice. “Terima kasih.” Thank you.


The tips of the rice sway forward and backward in the wind; the plant says, “Wa-alaikumu salaam” in response to my greeting. Peace be upon you too. I touch her base, respecting her as my mother taught me to respect my elders. I then stand and look at the rice field around me. While the wind blows through the rice plants in neat, orderly rows, I wonder what this land would look like if Nasi helped to shape it instead of us humans.


*


When the Anishinaabe people arrived in the lands now called Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota, they saw big beds of Manoomin (“Michigan Legislature”; “Manoomin—Wild Rice”). They had come to these lands because a prophecy told them to travel west from the Atlantic coast until they found “the food that grows on the water” (“Manoomin—Wild Rice”; McWhirter “Do You Know”; “Manoomin: Food That Grows on the Water” 00:03:13-00:03:34; “Cultural Importance”). The third stop of their centuries-long migration was in a land known as Waawiyantanong, “where the curved shores meet,” now called Detroit (Barb and LaBine; Peiser 523; Hartig). Manoomin offered the gifts that she offered her animal relatives to her new human relatives. The Anishinaabe people entered a reciprocal relationship with Manoomin that continues to today; they respect her because she is a sacred gift from Creator.  Many consider Manoomin as part of their identity; they do not know who they are without her (Lemm 00:16:12-00:16:20; “Manoomin: Food That Grows on the Water” 00:00:29-00:00:35; Greenfield).


These rice beds that once welcomed the Anishinaabe people in abundance, however, are now considered “historic” (“Manoomin—Wild Rice”). Only one of these beds remain in Michigan (“Michigan Legislature”). When more new human relatives came to these lands, Manoomin offered her gifts to them as she had offered her gifts to her ecosystems and the Anishinaabe people. The European settlers, however, were not good neighbors to their more-than-human and human relatives. The settler colonialists hardened the shorelines of the Detroit River by adding dams, concrete breakwaters, steel sheet piling, and fill material. They drained and dredged wetlands while they built the logging industry (Warner; “Michigan Legislature”). Since 1815, these actions have changed the shoreline that had been undisturbed for centuries (Hartig). Nibi’s clear running currents filled with pollutants and toxins, bad medicine for the thousands of lives that depended on her. The miles of wetlands stretching from either side of the River dried up. By 1982, 97% of coastal wetlands were gone (Hartig). Without her sacred relative Nibi, Manoomin could not survive on her ancestral homelands; she could not participate in the reciprocal relationships she had known for centuries. European settlers did not hear her voice fading while Manoomin Plant Mothers bore the brunt of the raucous actions of their youngest relatives.


The actions of the settler colonialists did not only affect the Manoomin in these lands. While they made themselves a place to live, they applied their extractive ideologies from their past based on the notion of their human domination to other lands, spaces, and people. These actions were in effort of making themselves a place to live, but, even after centuries, it seems their efforts have not yielded their desire. Though they reside on a land peopled by immigrants since time immemorial—Anishinaabe people, Nanabozho, and Skywoman—both their feet are not on the shore of the place they call home (Kimmerer 205, 207). Regardless, they ensured that anyone who came to this land followed in their path. All immigrants that come after them tumble into the melting pot, surrounded by their land design of squares within squares that they force onto lands where Manoomin and her plant relatives grew (Purdy 8).  


*


The students in front of me chatter excitedly about a football game while they take their trays from a stack next to the counter. I follow their actions and grip my tray tightly. No squelching rice grains greet me when I look at the lunch line. I inhale and try to exhale, but it feels like my breath is caught between the walls of the cafeteria. A mushy white blob plops onto my tray from the scoop of the woman serving lunch. Before I can say anything, she overturns another spoon, dumping a thick, brown gravy on the blob. She slides a plate of fries on my tray, rings me up, and looks at me when I don’t move immediately. I stutter my thanks and rush to the table where my friends sit. We are the only table with immigrants, and all the immigrants in sixth grade are at our table. I sit next to Luisa and Sofia, who wave at me before continuing their conversation in Portuguese. I smile at them, but my smile disappears after a few seconds. Even though they have found a community with each other, the smiles on the faces of all my friends do not warm their eyes. They are aloof, fluttering shutters slipping and scrambling to find purchase in this cafeteria, a square in the square of the school building.


I poke the curve of the mashed potato with a fork before deciding against it. I put the fork down and turn to the fries. I pick them up with my fingers, feeling the food as the first step of eating, as Paati, Periamma, and Amma taught me. My fingers catch in a ridge, though, and I look at the waffle fry. Five lines of fried potato march in tandem while they cross another squad of five lines. My heart starts to pound, and I put down the fry. I cannot force the twenty-five sticky squares into my throat; they do not glide into my stomach like Arisi. I press my palms to the table and stand. Sofia looks at me.


“I’m going to the toilet—uh, bathroom,” I mutter, and she nods. I walk to end of the cafeteria, stumbling as I push open the door. I exhale, thinking I am free, but then I look around me. My vision is turned into a rectangle, walls to my east, west, north, and south. I feel my throat constricting, and I move as fast as I can. My shoes squeak on the square tiles, gridlocked in a pattern that reflects the layout of the roads outside.


I reach the end of the hallway and nearly throw myself onto the door of the bathroom. I run into a stall and my trembling fingers try to latch it while my vision blurs. I sit on the toilet seat. Like every day in the past month since I’ve started school in the United States, clear, hot, salty water runs from my eyes. I press a hand to my mouth while I inhale, and the breath rips through me as I exhale.


“Amma,” I whisper. “Amma,” I cry.


I look at the stall door and my head starts to throb. I’m sitting within the walls of the stall, which is within the bathroom, within the school building, within the roads of this neighborhood, within this town, within this county. It all starts to converge on me, isolating me from everything; I am a tumbling rice grain, but there is no pot to catch me, no fellow grains for me to tap my tips to. I squeeze my eyes shut.


“Am-amma.”


I hear the bathroom door open, and a slight breeze washes over me from its motion. I inhale and feel the breeze washing over me from the rice field last year. The nasi I planted must have matured by now; she would have become a Mother Plant and offered her grains for consumption and the next planting season. I rub my palms together and feel the warmth from her roots. The tips of my fingers tingle as her edges brush against me like Amma’s warm palm, and I exhale.


A minute later, I step out of the stall. The cool water from the tap runs over my palms, and I can almost hear Amma laughing while she taught me how to wash rice yesterday. The toilet of the stall next to the one I was in flushes. I inhale and look in the mirror. Other than the blush on my cheeks and nose, I have no scars from today’s battle. I duck my head and continue to wash my hands.


Luisa walks up to the sink next to me. Her nose and cheeks are red, too. I only have enough energy to nod at her, and she reciprocates the gesture. I look at our eyes in the mirror. We are both bone-tired, but there is no way home.


*


In the home they made on the land they call the United States, several descendants of European settlers have continued to disrespect Manoomin, even after hundreds of years since the settlement of their ancestors. They use motorized boats in her beds, “tearing up the fragile stalks,” while they introduce invasive species that crowd Manoomin out of the beds and relationships she has built for centuries (“Manoomin—Wild Rice”). Through the Great Lakes region, they construct Line 3, a pipeline to move tar sands. This black snake will cross beneath forty-two rice lakes. One spill from the pipeline will contaminate Nibi and Manoomin, removing access to food that Ojibwe people have been depending on for centuries (Greenfield). Their disrespect is not only physical. While they have observed Manoomin’s part in her ecosystems, Western scientists have categorized her as a “keystone species” (McWhirter “Do You Know”). They probably meant to honor the role of Manoomin in ecosystems through this phrase, using it to describe her part in maintaining the food web, shelter, and biodiversity of species (Denchak). These actions cannot mask the history of the phrase, however. In the 1960s, Robert Paine coined the term to categorize the role of starfish when mussels had overtaken the shore after he removed the starfish (“Keystone Species”; Denchak). Sea Star’s history of removal fraught with the violent effects of human intervention joins Manoomin’s story as scientists add this phrase to her name. Above all, Manoomin and the relationships she built with species in her beds are threatened by the frequent severe storms and invasive species takeover resulting from climate change (“Michigan Legislature”; Hartig; “EGLE Announces $100,000 Grant”; McWhirter “State to Sow Seeds”; “Manoomin Stewardship”; “Ganawenindiwag Manoomin Anishinaabeg”; “Tribal Wisdom” 00:28:20-00:28:35; “2023 Wildlife Division Annual Report”).


Not all descendants of European settlers chose to follow the path of their ancestors, though. Recently, many have been listening to Indigenous people in the home they have created on Turtle Island. Institutions, such as state governments, have been pairing with tribes to help Manoomin return to her homelands. In 2023, after five years of working with the Anishinaabe Caucus, Michigan designated Manoomin its “the official native grain” (“MCL – Section 2.19”; McWhirter “Do You Know”; “Michigan Legislature”; “Governor Signs Bill”; Warner). In that year, the Michigan Department of Natural Resources Wildlife Division seeded 10, 278 pounds of wild rice for restoration. Not all the seeds yielded harvest, however, as the wild rice beds are not the same as those that greeted the Anishinaabe people in their migration; they are smaller and must adapt to differing water levels and climates (“2023 Wildlife Division Annual Report”). The state also put wild rice on the endangered species list for protection (“Threatened and Endangered Species List”) and awarded a $100,000 grant to the University of Michigan for their stewardship plan of Manoomin with tribes (“Michigan Great Lakes Protection Fund Report”; McWhirter “State to Sow Seeds”). Three years after the grant, they drafted a statewide stewardship plan that incorporated the traditional ecological knowledge of Anishinaabe people (McWhirter “Michigan’s Tribal Experts”). By listening to Manoomin and the people who have stewarded her for centuries, several European settler descendants are learning to become good neighbors.


Anishinaabe people have been working to bring Manoomin back to her homelands for years before the settlers started to listen to them. Rice chiefs and elders guide their tribes in their relationship with Manoomin with their observations and traditional ecological knowledge (“Manoomin Stewardship”; “Ganawenindiwag Manoomin Anishinaabeg”). While parts of their knowledge have been “sung to sleep” (Peiser 524), several Anishinaabe people are remembering their ways by fulfilling their responsibility to themselves, their tribes, and their reciprocal relationship with Manoomin through ricing. While they do so, they ensure they and their generations of children will have food to eat, participating in the Indigenous food sovereignty movement (“Michigan Legislature”; McWhirter “Michigan’s Tribal Experts”).


Manoominike, meaning “s/he rices, goes ricing, makes rice, picks rice, harvests wild rice,” guides them and Manoomin home in their reciprocal relationship (“Manoomin: Inanimate Noun”); ricing is a sacred practice to both the Anishinaabe people and Manoomin. While the Anishinaabe people move through the rice beds in their canoes using a push pole with a fork to not impact the web of roots (“Tribal Wisdom” 01:01:00-01:02:30), Manoomin’s stalks bend and guide them forward (Lemm 17:37). When ricers say, “Miigwech,” to Manoomin for offering her gifts for their survival, Manoomin says, “Miigwech,” to ricers for spreading her seeds when 10% of their harvest falls into her beds (Lemm 00:12:46-00:12:53; “Manoomin: Food That Grows on the Water” 00:01:59).


Ricers use light sticks of white cedar to knock the rice seeds from the plant so the rice can stand again after harvested (“Tribal Wisdom” 01:01:00-01:02:30). The ricer reaches with a stick in one hand and bends rice plants over the canoe. The ricer uses the stick in the other hand and lightly knocks the rice seeds that the Mother Plants offer. Manoomin then straightens, swaying gracefully.


Ricers must finish the harvested wild rice quickly, within 72 hours, or turn the seeds back to the water (“Tribal Wisdom” 01:16:30-01:18:43). In the process of finishing, the seeds dry in the air, continuing their relationship with the wind. They are then parched by roasting over a fire to reduce moisture and loosen the hull from the grain (“Manoomin—Wild Rice”). The seeds are transferred to a small pit about two to three feet in diameter and eighteen inches in depth, lined with wood, tarp, or animal hide. Then, a huller would “dance” on the seeds to loosen the chaffs from the rice kernels (“Manoomin—Wild Rice”). The dancer would have special knee-high moccasins without beadwork. Though the chaffs stuck tightly to the rice kernels, the huller could not put too much pressure on them, respecting the food in their relationship. Finally, in the winnowing stage, the rice would be tossed in the air to remove the rice chaffs; the Anishinaabe people depended on their wind relative to help them finish their food (“Manoomin—Wild Rice”).


In return for their work in the harvesting and finishing processes, Manoomin grains provide humans with delicious, nutritious food. Manoomin grains give protein, minerals, and vitamins to their consumers, and add a nutty taste to dishes they are in. The grains also reciprocate their thanks for the people by cooking within twenty to twenty-five minutes (“Manoomin—Wild Rice”). Manoomin grains cannot share such gifts for those who do not tend to them with dedication in a reciprocal relationship. Manoomin grains farmed commercially and harvested by machines have large, dark kernels, do not have a nutty taste, and take hours to cook through (“Manoomin—Wild Rice”; “Tribal Wisdom” 01:16:30-01:18:43). Anishinaabe people who are working to bring Manoomin home, therefore, ensure to always express their gratitude and respect in the balance they maintain within their reciprocal relationship guided by traditional ecological knowledge and filled with love.


*


I thank and humble myself to the knowledge shared to me about the sacred practice of ricing. As we conclude this journey, please play the video from minute 01:20 to minute 02:32 to hear the words of ricer Fred Ackley Jr. and Manoomin while he knocks the rice grains into his canoe (“Manoomin: The Food That Grows on the Water” 00:01:20-00:02:32):



In this sacred act, I hear the strength of Manoomin weaving through the undulating waves on the sea of time (Kimmerer 206-207). I hear Plant Mothers, forced to disappear from removal, singing as they return to their homelands. I hear them singing the knowledge, from their relationships with the then newly-immigrated Anishinaabe people, awake in Anishinaabe people today. When Manoomin grains fall into the canoe, I hear grains of Arisi falling into the saucepan, tapping their tips together. I hear Manoomin’s tips tapping the tile squares of the bathroom in my middle school, talking to me even though I could not hear her at the time. I hear her voice when I saw Nasi in the bathroom waving at me from Malacca. I hear the voices of Anishinaabe people and my Indian and Malaysian ancestors guiding me into the future in my home on Turtle Island. I hear the heartbeat of women—Skywoman, Manoomin Plant Mothers, Paati, Periamma, and Amma—as they laugh, cry, struggle, and succeed in their journeys to create homes for their children and their future generations. I hear their roots spreading to create an interconnected web spanning time, place, and species. I hear them catching me in their web in the rice field in Malacca, the bathroom in my middle school, cooking rice in Singapore, and now, when I am writing to you in Waawiyantanong.


I hear the way forward in this sacred act, the way for all of us immigrants to become naturalized (Kimmerer 214-215) to Manoomin’s homeland, based on reciprocal relationships filled with love, respect, and gratitude, while we fulfill our responsibilities and share our gifts. I hear the voices of Manoomin, Arisi, and Nasi.


What do you hear?


Works Cited


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Barton, Barb and Roger LaBine. “Native Wild Rice in Michigan.” Michigan State University College of


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“Ecological Importance of Wild Rice.” Native Wild Rice


“EGLE Announces $100,00 Grant to Support Stewardship of Native Wild Rice.” Michigan Department of


“Ganawenindiwag Manoomin Anishinaabeg.” Great Lakes Indian Fish & Wildlife Commission,


“Governor Signs Bill Designating Manoomin the State Native Grain!” Native Wild Rice Coalition,


Greenfield, Nicole. “The Future Has Spoken: It’s Time to Shut Down DAPL and Stop Line 3.” NRDC.org, 24


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Teachings of Plants. Milkweed Editions, 2013.


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“MCL – Section 2.19.” Michigan Legislature, 2023,


McWhirter, Sherri. “Do You Know What Manoomin Is? Michigan’s State Native Grain.” Mlive, 1 Dec. 2023,


---. “Michigan’s Tribal Experts Want to Save Wild Rice. Here’s How They’ll Do It.” Mlive, 30 Jan. 2025,


---. “State to Sow Seeds of Native Rice Plan with Michigan Tribes.” Mlive, 10 Mar. 2022,


“Michigan Great Lakes Protection Fund Report.” Michigan Department of Environment, Great Lakes,


“Michigan Legislature Passes Bill Designating Manoomin (Wild Rice) the State Native Grain.” Native News


Peiser, Megan. “Citing Seeds, Citing People: Bibliography and Indigenous Memory, Relations, and Living

Knowledge-Keepers.” Criticism, vol. 64, nos. 3-4, pp. 521-531. Project MUSE, https://dx.doi.org/10.1353/crt.2022.a899734. Accessed 13 Feb. 2025.


Purdy, Jedediah. After Nature: A Politics for the Anthropocene. Harvard University Press, 2015.


“Threatened and Endangered Species List.” Michigan Department of Natural Resources, 20 Mar. 2023,


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Warner, Casey. “Bringing Back ‘The Good Berry’ – Efforts to Restore Manoomin, Michigan’s Native Grain.”

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