By Alexandra Yoon-Hendricks
Having struggled with postpartum depression and anxiety following the birth of her first child, Alison Fasolino knew she wanted to have doula support that incorporated Native American traditions this time around.
But 12 weeks into her pregnancy, she faced a more urgent issue: staying afloat financially.
Experiencing debilitating morning sickness every day and diagnosed with gestational diabetes, Fasolino in February started taking time off from her job as a mental health counselor. Without her income, she and her husband would soon have to consider moving out of their Queen Anne apartment.
So when Fasolino learned about a new guaranteed basic income program for Native families run by Hummingbird Indigenous Family Services, a Seattle-based organization that also offers doula services, it was kismet.
“My first thought was just how wonderful it was that I was actually reading something that was putting emphasis on helping Native American women and specifically Native American mothers,” said Fasolino, who is an enrolled member of the Eastern Shawnee Tribe of Oklahoma.
Her next thought?
“Wow, we won’t have to worry about buying the things this baby needs and going to doctor’s appointments and transportation and that sort of thing if I were to get this,” she recalled.
American Indian and Alaska Natives in Washington have a higher maternal mortality rate than any other ethnic group. Babies born to Indigenous people are more likely to have birth complications. Tribal communities disproportionately experience housing insecurity, poverty and worse health outcomes — disparities rooted in racism and discrimination, and forged by centuries of violence, cultural genocide and economic dispossession.
To help reverse those dire trends, Hummingbird Indigenous Family Services launched the Nest in August 2023, the first guaranteed income program in the United States that specifically serves Native communities.
Under the program, 150 pregnant people who identify as American Indian, Alaska Native, Native Hawaiian or Pacific Islander were selected to receive $1,250 a month, no strings attached.
Households had to be in King or Pierce counties or on the Tulalip Reservation and roughly fall below the University of Washington’s Self-Sufficiency Standard to be eligible. A household of four people, for example, would have to make less than $100,000.
Participating parents — some of whom already have children or live with older relatives — started receiving the money during pregnancy or just after giving birth. They will continue getting payments until their child’s third birthday, meaning a family may receive as much as $45,000 by the time they exit the program.
There is a long history of social work harming Indigenous communities and significant stigma around poverty and welfare, said Tia Yazzie, Hummingbird’s Abundance Auntie. The Nest aims to change that.
“This program is going to build Indigenous generational wealth,” said Yazzie, who checks in on Nest participants to offer support and resources. “It’s not just money wealth, but cultural wealth, healing wealth.”
A number of guaranteed basic income programs have launched across the United States in recent years, offering a model of direct assistance that advocates say alleviates poverty while respecting people’s dignity and self-determination.
Critics of guaranteed income argue unrestricted cash discourages people from working and is a waste of government spending. Even supporters note small payments don’t address systemic issues like income inequality or regressive tax policies, and pilot programs rarely lead to widespread policy adoption.
Part of what makes Hummingbird’s guaranteed basic income program special is that it’s informed by Indigenous practices around healing, abundance and resilience, said founding Executive Director Camie Goldhammer.
Those enrolled in the Nest have access to a variety of Hummingbird’s other programming, such as doula services, lactation counseling and home visits. Hummingbird also funds and supports Indigenous-centered community events and activities that encourage positive early childhood development or opportunities for parents and children to bond.
During a recent workshop in Columbia City, Goldhammer taught a group of Native women how to make star quilts, a traditional handmade gift originating from northern Plains tribes.
Expecting mothers and eager aunts carefully cut strips of colorful fabrics to create an intricate morning star motif, representing the first glitter of light one can see before the sun rises. The quilts are often sewn by family members to celebrate births, commemorate milestones like graduations, and honor loved ones who’ve passed on.
Among the quilters was Chelsea Hendrickson, a citizen of the Northern Arapaho Nation who is also Cu’pik from Nunivak Island, Alaska, who was in her third trimester.
Far from the aunties and grandmothers on her reservation who know how to craft important sacred objects, Hendrickson called the class “a blessing.”
A survivor of domestic abuse and sexual violence who is in recovery for addiction, Hendrickson said “each stitch, each thread” is a meaningful part of her healing journey that binds her closer to her child and her Indigenous identity.
“You can see a therapist or go to an AA meeting, but when you have the direct connection to a community and a culture, that’s what’s really going to take the healing for a Native woman to another level,” Hendrickson said, as sewing machines hummed around her.
Pairing direct cash assistance with opportunities for family services informed by Indigenous traditions just makes sense, Goldhammer said — they’re “sisters that belong together.”
“Being able to receive care by your community in your community does lead to better outcomes,” said Goldhammer, who is a Sisseton-Wahpeton Oyate tribal citizen. “When you’re connecting them with cultural support, that’s what makes the difference.”
The cash that comes alongside the cultural support has provided significant relief and helped reduce stress for parents, said Lacey Warrior, the Nest’s program manager.
For some, like Hj-lynn Hiteuo, the money has covered rent and paid for diapers, baby formula and other necessities.
Hiteuo had recently moved to Federal Way from Micronesia when she learned she was pregnant in early 2023. Being a part of the program allowed her to stay at home for several months after giving birth.
Her daughter’s first birthday is coming up and she’s planning on a big celebration. “I’ve been saving up the money I’ve been receiving, $100, $200 every month,” she said.
“I really want to spend time with my daughter because I want to have that strong bond between me and her,” Hiteuo said. She now works part-time at a nearby McDonald’s and hopes to eventually get a higher paying job.
Similarly, when Fasolino started receiving payments in May during her last trimester, the relief for her family was instant.
“It really has been such a huge help for us, that little peace of mind,” said her husband Jon Sioleski on a recent day at Bhy Kracke Park as he cradled 3-month-old Luka.
“Each month, that’s a little added security that’s going to come in,” he said, watching Fasolino and their 2-year-old daughter Anastasia sit under the playground structure.
Fasolino has since returned to work, but only part-time. That reduced caseload has allowed her to spend more time with her children, better help her current clients, and pursue her artistic passions as a theater actor. Her family can afford to support her older daughter’s emerging gymnastics interest by paying for tumbling classes. Every once in a while, Fasolino splurges to buy traditional foods like bison.
For the first time since she was 12, Fasolino and her family will be able to fly to Arkansas to attend her tribe’s annual powwow across the border in Oklahoma next September.
Other moms in the program have been able to treat themselves to a manicure or haircut, or work on traditional art like weaving or beading. During the holidays, some have been able to travel out of state to see their relatives or purchase more gifts for the kids. One woman was able to fly her mother out from the Marshall Islands so she could meet her new grandchild for the first time.
“I do feel like the Nest is sort of a catalyst for changing the framing and mindset from scarcity to abundance,” said Warrior, an enrolled member of the Ninilchik Village Tribe (Dena’ina Athabaskan) who is also Alutiq and a descendant of the A’aniiih Nation.
Overwhelming evidence from guaranteed basic income programs around the world indicates “mostly a huge, or a very substantial, benefit,” said University of Toronto professor Arjumand Siddiqi, who studies the health effects of guaranteed basic income.
People report being healthier, happier and less food insecure, seeing higher employment rates, increased monthly income, decreased reliance on government assistance, and overall feeling better prepared for sudden expenses. One study found improved birth outcomes among low-income pregnant women who received small income supplements.
Income is a major determinant of health, said Siddiqi, who is also a senior scientist and chair of child policy research at the Hospital for Sick Children in Toronto. When families have more money, they are able to buy nutritious foods, go see doctors, afford medicine and reduce their stress, she said.
The goal of the Nest isn’t to prove direct cash payments with no strings attached are beneficial, but rather, explore how Hummingbird’s additional culturally attuned services can impact families, said Tess Abrahamson-Richards, Hummingbird’s director of data sovereignty.
Abrahamson-Richards said Hummingbird is still collecting quantitative data on the program’s impacts. The group plans to compare outcomes for those who only receive Nest money, those who only receive services from Hummingbird, and those who receive both, then publish their findings.
“What is the impact of a culturally grounded guaranteed income intervention addressing not just the financial needs of families, but also the personal and the collective?” she said.
Some of those personal needs are addressed by Hummingbird’s Indigenous doulas, who help guide families through pregnancy, birth and the early postpartum weeks.
T’leeuh Antone, an Indigenous BirthKeeper and lactation counselor with the nonprofit, has visited several Nest participants. When they go to work, formalities are “out the window.”
“You’re my relative, my sister, my cousin, I’m auntie vibes,” Antone said. “Folding clothes, bringing hot meals, picking up groceries, that’s my role, and the extra benefit to that role is you’re getting a lot of birthing education, lactation training and all those things.”
Antone said some of the people they’ve worked with are first-time parents who live far from their extended families or tribal community, while others have deep roots in the region but may not have a relative who can help guide them through pregnancy and early child rearing. Many see the birth of a child as a chance to reconnect with their Indigeneity, Antone said.
In the weeks before a baby arrives, Antone has helped families craft cradleboards or medicine pouches. During early labor, Antone might put on traditional music specific to the new mom’s tribal community. Even in a clinical setting like a hospital, birth is sacred, Antone said, and should be treated with ceremony and reverence.
“No matter where we’re at, we’re making it special,” Antone said.
The Nest, which is set to run for five years, is financially supported by the Perigee Fund, a Seattle-based foundation that aims to improve the health and well-being of infants and their caregivers.
Whether the program will be expanded in the future remains to be seen. Hummingbird has been part of a recent push to create a statewide guaranteed income program, though efforts in Olympia have stalled.
Yazzie, Hummingbird’s Abundance Auntie, hopes that more Indigenous parents will be able to experience the “life changing” impacts of the Nest. Expanding the program is in line with traditional values like leading with generosity, building strong communities and protecting the health and well-being of families, she said.
“We don’t want to just limit this to 150 people,” she said. “That’s not how we think about it as an Indigenous community.”
