One day I stood 
in the summertime woods 
of far northwestern Wisconsin
where everything still seemed
green, clean. With me,
an elderly Chippewa 
gentleman. He was from 
around here, like most 
of his ancestors; the 
others were German. He 

told me a little 
story about how it 
was in the olden 
days with his people 
and their names. He

said that at the 
first signs of life 
stirring in the womb, 
the father would place 
his hand on the 
woman’s belly. He would 
feel the baby in
the womb and she,
the woman, would show 
him how to feel
it. Then, he’d go 

out on a three-day 
journey into the wild 
places. Where he’d keep 

his eyes and ears 
open for a sign 
about what the name
of the baby should 
be. An eagle with 
a snake in its 
talons. A wolf disappearing 
around a stretch of 
trees. A golden trout 
hanging out in the 
water in a special 
way. Or a bear

standing up and looking 
at you. The husband 

would go back and 
tell his wife. And
they’d make up the 
name for the baby 
based on this sign 
Nature had given them.

Later, when the child
was older, around ten 
(boy or girl), the 
child would make up 
a verse about his 
or her name. It 
would be a short 
little poem or song 
about their name that
would change with the
days. Why they liked
life, what they were
proud of and still
wanted to accomplish. Because
everybody did it, in
their own way, it

was easy to do. 
And they would sing 
their own name at 
important times during the 
day. Getting up in 
the morning. Before eating 
food, or going to 
sleep, or when stressed 
out; or terrified. No 
one else would ever 
know this verse, exactly, 
at least not all 
of it. 

When the 
warrior (woman or man) 
laid down for the 
last time, they would 
sing or say the 
verse as their spirit 
wafted out to join
the rest of the 
worlds
in whatever comes 
next.