A Future Where the Voices of Native Youth and the Voices of Black Youth Thrive — A Letter From Our Founder
Hey there!
My name is LT, and I’m the Director and Founder of Outlast Arts and Education. I thought it’s time, after nearly 7 years, that I introduce myself — in my voice, and share the story of who Outlast is, and why we do what we do.
So anyway, here I am. I’m the Black lady dressed in all Black.
If you’re familiar with Outlast, you know that for the past several years we have worked with Native American youth from Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota.
I’m going to start with addressing the possible elephant in the room, though I hope there’s not really an elephant in the room — but in case there is…
Yes, I’m Black and I run an organization that, so far, has only served Native youth (though we have had more than a few Afro-Indigenous students attend our program — and we celebrate both their Black and Native identities). I have been called a race traitor, among other things, and anti-Blackness has sometimes been prevalent, and in some instances, hindered the building of community. Outlast has, occasionally, struggled to find cross-cultural support for our cause.
If you’re new here, you may be wondering, what is their cause? Ultimately, at our core? Solidarity. Community. Art. Support for youth in areas where access to certain types of education is limited at best and completely unavailable at worst. This has the potential to limit their long-term college or career prospects or deny them access to very fulfilling and impactful creative outlets.
Basically — we aim to support Native and Black youth in rural areas. We do that through film and media arts and technology.
Truthfully, I started Outlast knowing very little about running an organization. Six, going on seven, years later, I’m still learning how to successfully run an organization, how to find sustainable funding, how to keep what we’re doing fresh and relevant to our learners. (Hello TikTok and Instagram Reels!)
When Outlast began, there was no real plan and there was no focused mission. I was still just a kid attending The University of Southern California, where I studied film and television production. I worked two jobs while taking 18 credits. One of my jobs was managing the equipment rental shop at the on-campus gym. I was an opener, meaning I got to work at 5 am. It was slow, and I used to pass the time by watching TedTalks.
One morning I watched a TedTalk about Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. It was meant to be educational, to inspire watchers to learn more about the injustices inflicted upon Native people for hundreds of years by the hands of the U.S. Government and white supremacy. To share this knowledge, the TedTalk presenter relied on images and tales of extreme poverty. He highlighted, over and over, how sad and defeated he perceived the Pine Ridge community to be. I found the video appalling. Here he was, an outsider to the community, who was more inclined to highlight the struggles of the community instead of their strengths. While he broadcasted these images all over the internet and on the cover of National Geographic, I wondered, what was going through the minds of those he profiled?
Growing up, I loved watching movies and television. However, more often than not, most Black characters were represented as one-dimensional stereotypes. Black people were portrayed as poor, violent, hyper-sexual, or the “sassy black friend”. Always the sidekick, never the hero. Often the villain. These images did not inspire pride in me as a Black woman. I spent many of my adolescent years trying to separate myself from those ideas of Blackness. It wasn’t until early college that I realized that those portrayals of what it meant to be Black were often not created by Black people. People outside of my community were telling me, through media, what it meant to be Black.
So when I saw this TedTalk, it felt all too relatable. A simple, though life-altering, thought crossed my mind. “What if we showed the kids from Pine Ridge how to make their own films?”. This would contribute to a future where those who lacked a nuanced understanding of the realities and experiences of people of color were no longer the dominant voice in the writers’ room. What if Black people and Native people could create stories together?
I texted a few friends and fellow film students.
“Want to start a film camp for students on Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota?”
That was it. No context, no plan (because I didn’t have a plan), just a text.
Within hours (because as I mentioned, it was around 6 am at this point) the responses started coming in. One, in particular, still reminds me how truly down my friends are.
“Sure,” said Nix.
And with that, Outlast was born.
We started meeting weekly to work out the logistics of a cross-country project to teach film, though none of us were yet professionals in the industry or had ever run a youth camp. I should also point out that at this point, none of us had ever been to South Dakota.
I logged onto Facebook and started looking for people and organizations from Pine Ridge to see who, if anyone, would be interested in partnering with us on this project. I messaged a woman whose family ran a Boys and Girls Club and asked them if they would be interested in Outlast Film Camp. After a phone call, they invited me to fly over to meet the family and tour the facilities.
There was no going back. I spent the last few hundred dollars in my bank account and flew to South Dakota to meet with and stay in the home of strangers. It wasn’t until several years later when a friend and fellow Outlast collaborator pointed out
“So you just showed up to the Rez, spent four days with a stranger, to start a film camp? You know that’s wild, right?”
Perhaps a little ridiculous, but it all worked out. The woman I initially spoke to continues to be a friend today, and I have only the best memories from the trip. (Though as a general rule, I would not recommend anyone talk to strangers on Facebook, fly across the country, then go stay in their home!)
Anyway, the trip was wonderful. The family loved the idea of the project and offered to host us at their center and handle recruiting students to attend our camp. I flew home and let the team know that we were one step closer to pulling this off.
We had a location, but we were still broke. We made an Indiegogo with a goal of $7000 (oh how I wish camp still only cost $7000! Damn inflation!). None of us had a major social media following. Instagram was still fairly infantile, Twitter was growing, but not the tool it is today, and TikTok did not yet exist. But being a group of millennials, there was one tool at our disposal, the go-to website for social justice movements — Tumblr. We messaged every relevant account and begged them to reblog our campaign. Eventually, it took off — went viral before going viral was a thing. We received small donation after small donation, but a week before our campaign was set to end, we were still $3000 short.
I was contemplating how much plasma I would have to donate to cover the difference when we received an anonymous donation of $3000. I tried to find out who this generous soul was but could never figure it out. In case you’re reading this, kind, anonymous donor, thank you. Without you, there wouldn’t be an Outlast.
Now that we had the money that we needed, we rented a small SUV, filled it to the brim with food, supplies, film equipment, and ourselves, and drove 1,299 miles (19 hours and 17 minutes) from Los Angeles, CA to Pine Ridge, South Dakota.
We wanted the camp to be accessible to all interested students, so there was no cost to attend Outlast Film Camp. Food and snacks were provided, as well as transportation. We cooked all the food, drove upwards of 4 hours+ roundtrip daily (Pine Ridge is the size of Connecticut!) to pick up campers, and taught a variety of film workshops.
We didn’t put a cap on the number of signups, so in our first year, our highest attendance count was 21, ranging from ages 8–19 years old. (I still don’t put caps on attendance, to the irritation of my Assistant Director. “We don’t have the money!” she screams at me, once or twice a year. We always find the money, though).
We taught the (very) basics of cinematography, directing, and sound. The campers worked in groups of 4–5 to make documentaries on subjects of their choosing. They made documentaries ranging from life for youth on the reservation to the meaning of friendship.
By day 5 of 6, we were running out of activities to keep the students busy. We played a lot of basketball (Ball is Life!), took walks to the ice cream shop, danced, and watched movies in between workshops. Towards the end of camp, I and the other mentors were running on fumes. This was 10x harder than any student film set we had ever been on, and we never really knew what to expect. However, during that week I came to know a level of community, collaboration, and solidarity that would completely alter my outlook on life and the possibility of change.
With that said, truthfully, I had no intention of running Outlast again. It wasn’t that I intended to not do it again. I just hadn’t thought about it — at all. I assumed we would do this cool project and I would go back to my life as a film student and aspiring cinematographer. Once upon a time, I wanted to be the first Black woman to be nominated for an Oscar in cinematography. That’s not my path anymore, but whichever Black woman is currently working towards that goal, I’m rooting for you, sis!
On our sixth and final day of camp, we screened the campers' documentaries. I thanked the campers for collaborating with us, and let them know that I would miss them. I asked if anyone had any words they wanted to share. One camper, a 9-year-old girl, raised her hand and said
Terri, I’m glad I came to camp. I’m going to miss you and I’m sad I’m not going to see you again.
I’m not sure what I replied at that moment because this baby had just rocked my whole world. I excused myself so that I could ugly cry in the hallway. I had entered these kids' lives, given spiels about the importance of solidarity and media representation, and started developing kinships. Then I was just going to disappear after a week? How was that solidarity? It wasn’t.
I started building this bridge, and I had to keep hammering away.
I collected myself and went back into the screening room. To the team’s surprise, I said
“Hey, by the way everyone, we’ll be back next year, too! And the year after that, we aren’t going anywhere!”.
The campers were stoked, and deep down under their shocked faces and baggy eyes from sleep deprivation, so was the team.
From that moment on, I started considering and working towards what Outlast is and what Outlast could be. It has grown from what was once meant to be a one-off project to an organization that strives to provide students with access to high-quality film and media education, promote digital literacy, and encourage leadership skills.
We are an organization that aims to build and strengthen relationships between Black and Native communities by bringing us together to create art.
One day, hopefully sooner than later, we will expand to being able to collaborate with more rural communities of color. We won’t always be Outlast Film and Media Camp on Pine Ridge Reservation, because it’ll be Outlast Film and Media Camp for Native and Black youth. Ultimately, youth from both communities will come together to create, learn and uplift one another.
So, you see, none of this is about betraying my race, and none of this is about saviorism, because operating from either one of those ideas would be very weird. This is about building a Native and Black future, together, starting with reclaiming our narratives and equipping our youth with valuable skills that will support their long-term well-being and success.
This is about working together because this country was built on stolen land by stolen people.
This is about showing up, time and time again, even when it’s hard and money is tight.
This is about coming together to Outlast whatever comes our way.
I hope you’ll stay with us on this journey. Almost 7 years down and many, many more to go.
In Solidarity,
LT
P.S. Camp never really cost $7000, we just didn’t know how to budget for a summer camp.
