Cultural Identity in Art: A Conversation with Sequoia Hauck and Alondra M. Garza

Sequoia and Alondra’s work is a powerful example of how art becomes a space for cultural reclamation and resistance. Deeply rooted in their respective histories, Sequoia brings forward Indigenous futurism, ceremony, and a deep sense of responsibility to community, drawing from their Anishinaabe and Hupa heritage. With the layered perspective of someone who grew up on the border, Alondra examines the complexities of Latinx identity through bold, vibrant visual language, using her work to expose cultural and political realities often overlooked.

What I admire most about these artists isn’t just the work they produce but how they show up. They’re carving out intentional spaces for their people, in much the same way Tangible Collective creates space for Blackness. For both Sequoia and Alondra, art acts as a bridge between cultural memory and the contemporary moment—a way to imagine futures while remaining grounded in history. This is a snapshot of our conversations, a glimpse into their practices, and the cultural contexts that shape their work. - ZA’NIA COLEMAN

Za’Nia Coleman: Where are you from, and how do you culturally identify?

Sequoia Hawk: Boozhoo, aaniin nindinawemaaganidog. Ozaawaasige indigoo. Sequoia Hauck nindizhinikaaz. Gaa-waabaabiganikaag nindoonjibaa. Ajiaak nindodem. Ashkibagi-ziibiing nindaa. 

I said, “In ish Moen. Hello, my relative.” My spirit name is Ozawa Segei, which means Yellow Shining Sun or Yellow Light. My name is Sequoia Hawk. My family is White Earth Anishinaabe, and my father is Hupa, from what is now Northern California. I belong to the Crane Clan and currently live in St. Paul. I am a Two-Spirit, queer, trans, interdisciplinary artist; filmmaker; poet; maker of things; and theater director.

Alondra M. Garza: My name is Alondra M. Garza, and I live in Minneapolis. I am originally from the Tex-Mex border, born and raised on the Mexican side, and then I lived on the Texas side for a little while. I moved to the Twin Cities to pursue my Master of Fine Arts. That’s what brought me here, and I really fell in love. There’s so much opportunity here.

In terms of where I'm from, it's easier to say the Rio Grande Valley. It's a border area near the coast, with Brownsville, Texas being part of it, along with a few other smaller or bigger cities. I’m from one of the smaller parts, but it's all the same area, and it definitely influences my art practice. I consider myself an interdisciplinary or mixed media artist who likes to use her art to talk about different parts of Latinx identity—whether that's struggles or the best parts. 

I like to use bright colors—things that attract the eye—but then that leads to harsher conversations that sometimes people don’t want to have. I like to use my art as both a tool and a trick, because people will say, “Oh, that looks so pretty,” and then, as they start paying attention or reading about it, they’re like, “Oh. Yeah.”

ZC: Do you have a specific ethos or recurring theme that guides your work?

SH: Every time I make something, it’s a ceremony. It’s held in that same esteem. There are protocols I put into place when creating, the same way we would in a ceremony. I try to offer tobacco, make offerings, give gifts, and understand the responsibility of holding stories, especially in documentary work. When someone shares a story with me, I understand that I am now the holder of that story, and it’s my responsibility to carry it. What does that mean? How do I honor that?

Even when I’m editing, I’ll light candles or create space for spirit. These are the ways I make and create. And I think once I realized my work is for the Native community, that’s when everything clicked. I thought, “This is for little me or future little mes. For the families, for the people.” That level of specificity is what guides me. It’s not just knowing who the audience is, but understanding the intention—the heart of the project. Where it’s going, and what’s leading me.

It’s bigger than the audience; it’s about who the work is for, spiritually. For example, this police brutality project I’m working on—it’s really for the people who are no longer here. How do you honor someone who isn’t here anymore? And also for the families who are much closer to this than I am.

That guiding principle ties into Indigenous futurism, a concept coined by Grace Dillon. Her work, along with many other Indigenous futurists, holds deep meaning for me. Sometimes I don’t make it obvious, but internally I’m always thinking about the seven generations before and after me. That’s also a key part of Indigenous futurism. Filmmaking, I think, is such a good example of it—it’s a digital medium that we haven’t had for a long time. The way we can expand, tell stories, and share them through film is one of the best parts of the medium.

There’s a lot more to it, but this is the foundational work that I exist in.

AMG: Before I officially moved to Texas, I finished all of my schooling in Mexico, including high school. I became a naturalized US citizen when I was ten, but it wasn’t until I was about 14 that I moved and started school in Texas. I had a grandfather who was Tex-Mex, meaning he was first-generation. His parents were from Mexico, but they crossed the border undocumented and he was born in Texas. He became a US citizen, met my grandmother in Mexico, and decided to move back.

Even though I grew up in Mexico, I was still very close to the border, so I’m going to speak from that perspective—being on the Mexican side, while my family was on the other side. I definitely grew up very Mexican, but the culture near the border is more influenced by the US. It’s closer to what you’d think of Texas, though I like to joke that Texas got it from us. We love barbecue, and we have a lot of traditions. Some of the traditions you find in southern Mexico were lost in the north because of the US influence. I was fortunate to have a visa growing up, so we’d cross the border every other weekend.

When I graduated from high school, I decided to go to college in the US because there were more opportunities. I was already going back and forth, but it was a hard decision because I didn’t even have the language. A lot of people assume everyone at the border is bilingual, but that’s not true. It really depends on what your parents decide for you. My parents chose to give me the full Mexican experience, so I didn’t know much English—just the basics like counting numbers and saying hello. I started college like that, which was crazy. For three years, I went back and forth between ESL classes and regular college courses, so it took me a little longer to graduate. 

Living on the Texas side opened my eyes more. In Mexico, we did our own thing, almost as a form of survival or coping. But in Texas, you saw a lot more—people crossing the border, people being chased by ICE, immigrant camps where you could volunteer or donate. In Mexico, the camps exist, but they’re more hidden. In Texas, they’re more visible, and people are encouraged to help. It made me realize my privilege. I had the privilege of being a US citizen, so I didn’t have to go through what others were going through. So it’s a very complex, layered experience.

I like to talk about that in my art. I use a lot of iconography to describe these experiences, but it’s not always easy to explain visually. That’s why I often give talks or explain my work through words. I think it’s part of my artistic process—it's performative, in a way. Talking about it is healing for me. I’m trying to get better at explaining it visually through my art, but I also like leaving some mystery.

ZC: How would you describe the Native art scene in Minneapolis, and how have you seen it evolve?

SH: I think it's so uniquely special. I feel so honored to be in the Twin Cities, because historically, this place has been abundant with Native art-making and history. The duality of that is really why Native artists thrive so much here. Minnesota, and especially Minneapolis, is very special. When it comes to art-making, particularly in theater, we’re not Chicago, LA, or New York, but we’re almost there in some ways.

That’s especially true for Native folks. There are so many Native theater companies here, and so many Native people with incredible skills in visual art, dance, and more. When I first came into the theater scene, I wanted to know who was doing what. Marissa Carr was really the first person I connected with, and she took me under her wing. She introduced me to a company she was starting with Ernest Briggs called Turtle Theater Collective, and gave me a crash course in Native theater. I got to know everyone, learned all the drama, all the tea, and had the chance to work with everyone. I was like, 'Damn, okay, yeah, you’re right. Thank you!'

Marissa unfortunately lives in Chicago now, but we’re trying to get her back—though she’s thriving where she is. She helped me connect with so many people that I’m still connected with today, and I’m so grateful for that. We should all know each other and uplift and support one another. Of course, that doesn’t always happen because life is hard, and the world is the world, but I’ve really tried to learn from everyone doing this work. I’ve worked a lot with Rosie Simas, who is so generous, and I learn something from her every time I’m with her about how to be a Native artist.

ZC: How are you seeing it? How are you seeing it evolve?

SH: I think there are more of us now, actually. We were always here, but we didn’t know where each other were. We were all in our own isolated pods, doing our own things. And with Native folks, we’re storytellers. So, I think what has really changed is that we’ve blossomed into more people feeling like they can be artists, identifying as artists, and wanting to do it. That has created more work—more shows have been able to happen, more excitement, more funding, all of that. Of course, there’s still a long way to go, but that’s what I’ve seen since I got involved.

ZC: You curated a show of Latinx diasporic art at that gallery. It was a powerful exhibition, highlighting the diversity and richness of Latinx experiences through art. It was really impactful because it brought visibility to voices that weren’t always being showcased. Since then—maybe three or four years ago—I’ve noticed a larger presence of Latinx art and artists being platformed and showcased in different spaces across the city. It feels like there’s been a shift in recognition and opportunities. As a curator, how have you seen the landscape for Latinx artists grow? And despite this progress, what challenges still remain in terms of representation and support?

AMG: Yeah, so when I first curated that show, I was really grateful for the opportunity. I had heard stories that there used to be a group of Latinx curators who did shows like that, but it had closed down and hadn’t happened in many years. I think that’s why it felt so impactful for a lot of people, even for our own community. Many people felt like, “Oh, this hasn’t happened in so long, or maybe it’s never happened.”

So many people attended the event. I never expected it to be that well-attended. It showed me how much the Latinx community needed it. Maybe they were hiding, or they just didn’t feel safe, but somehow I created a space where they felt comfortable to show up, and it was incredible. That’s when my passion for curation really started. I realized, “Okay, people actually do need this.” And it wasn’t just me—it was a collective feeling that these stories needed to be told. That gave me the reassurance to keep going, and it's something I continue to do with my apartment gallery for Latinx artists and in my work here as well.

I’ve definitely seen growth in the Latinx artist community. Before, I think a lot of artists stayed within their own community or didn’t feel welcome in larger spaces. But I think more people, not just me, started building bridges and opening doors in different places, which made others feel safer to step in. I also think the increase in Latinx people moving here, especially from Central America in the past three years, has played a big role. Some of them are artists, and they’re now joining the community. Plus, younger, first or second-generation Latinx Minnesotans are growing up and seeing more spaces where they can show their art. It gives them hope that they can do it too when they grow up.

I also think it’s tied to the broader conversation around racial disparities, which really came to the forefront after the murder of George Floyd—may he rest in peace. I always mention him because I believe what happened, and the way the city came together to protest and demand justice, woke a lot of people up. The city realized it had been ignoring non-white communities, and that change needed to happen. I’m not crediting the institutions, I’m crediting the people who started the protests and the movement. It’s because of them that we made progress, opened people’s eyes, and started seeing our narratives being shown more.

I’ve been intentional about listening to how other communities navigate challenges similar to those I and my community face. Their practices are rooted not only in their personal histories but in the ongoing relationship between land, people, and the futures they are imagining. Sequoia’s work with Indigenous futurism and Alondra’s exploration of Latinx identity create a layered conversation on what it means to carry the weight of history, live fully in the present, and envision a future that prioritizes care and community. Their work highlights the importance of building culturally specific spaces outside of dominant frameworks, and focusing on the stories and possibilities of their own communities.