Early years

Born in 1985, Doxtater grew up in Oneida, Wisconsin, in an area known as Site One, where the tribe had developed its first housing. As the third of four children with a large age gap between her and her older siblings, she was raised feeling somewhat separate from them.

Her father was the oldest of ten children, and had learned hard lessons about responsibility early in life. He was a goal-oriented, strict presence, while her mother provided the nurturing, loving guidance that made her feel safe. The family overcame tremendous challenges, including her parents nearly divorcing, before Leslie was even in grade school.

Leslie grew up with severe asthma and was frequently hospitalized. The constant use of steroid medications caused weight fluctuations. By the time she was in the sixth grade, she weighed 200 pounds. Doctors warned her parents that if she continued gaining weight at that rate, she might not survive to adulthood.

Her father’s solution was sports. From the fifth grade onward, she played volleyball, basketball, and softball year-round. Starting at age nine, her father pushed her to pitch, hoping to stabilize her weight and build her confidence so she wouldn’t be bullied.

“I hit everything in our backyard. I hit the shed, the side of our house, our dog at one time. No control whatsoever,” she said.

Her father, as coach, was strict but forgiving of her lack of control. He would let her hit three batters before taking her out of a game, a moment she would often laugh at, knowing her time was up. By the age of sixteen, she was playing summer league against college players, gaining the confidence she’d need to face older, more experienced opponents.

Her resilience extended far beyond the softball field. As a child with undiagnosed ADHD, she found school almost too easy and often struggled to stop chatting with her classmates. During her pivotal fourth-grade year, her male teacher punished her for talking too much by isolating her in the back of the classroom. She found solace by drawing characters like Big Bird, Kermit the Frog, the Tasmanian Devil, and Peanuts characters from the books around her. She discovered a passion for drawing, which became a coping mechanism she still uses in meetings today.

Self-acceptance

Queer existence wasn’t something discussed with children on the Oneida reservation, even within families with LGBTQ+ people.

“I grew up with great-aunts, Auntie Ida and Auntie Laura, who lived together,” said Leslie. “I always thought they were sisters. When I was 16, I realized they were not related at all.”

“I asked my mother, ‘they aren’t really sisters, are they?’ and she said ‘no,’” said Leslie. “I was so confused. ‘But they live together?’ I asked. And my mother said, ‘yes,’ and walked out of the room. That was the end of that conversation.”

Middle school brought early accusations from classmates. While changing for gym class, girls would call her a lesbian, a term she didn’t fully understand at the time, but still fiercely denied. She held on tightly to the defense of “I’m not gay.”

Things shifted when she went to college at Lakeland University. Surrounded by openly queer softball teammates, she initially rejected their advances.

“Just because you kiss me doesn’t make you gay,” girls would tell her. “Actually, that’s exactly what it means and I’m not doing it,” said Leslie.

Yet, the experience forced her worldview to widen. She eventually dated the catcher from her softball team.

“It was a complicated relationship,” she said.

The real turning point came freshman year, when her roommate brought her to PrideFest Milwaukee.

“I saw families, I saw kids, I saw people from all different backgrounds that I didn’t even know existed,” Leslie said. “And it was the first time I thought I could be gay and still have a family.”

But the road forward was still not a straight line. Fearing she would bring shame to her family and the reservation, she continued to hide her queerness when she went home. She dated a man for two years, ending the relationship after he expressed insecurities about her having female partners in the past.

Eventually, she started going to XS, a local bar, with her cousins to drink cheap Captain Morgan and Cokes while secretly mingling with queer women upstairs. Rumors about her dating a prominent out Oneida girl began to swirl, and her parents started to ask some uncomfortable questions.

Her father, who already had aunts in a same-sex relationship, simply asked if her partner was her “other half” before hugging her and telling her he loved and supported her either way. Her mother, a born-again Christian, accused her of lying about her life and cut contact with her for almost a year.

The silence was devastating. Leslie began to drink heavily, mourning the loss of the loving, nurturing parent she deeply relied on.

Nearly a year later, her mother sent an email inviting Leslie to Thanksgiving dinner. She insisted on bringing her girlfriend and seated her mother right next to her. The meal passed without a single negative word, and her mother has been unconditionally supportive ever since.

Stepping into sacred spaces

After working in the casino slot department for 15 years, Leslie took a role as the Tribal Action Plan Specialist, a position focused on substance abuse and harm reduction. In this job, she noticed something alarming: Two Spirit people faced the highest risks for alcoholism, substance abuse, sexual violence, and suicide in the country.

Yet, there were no resources for Two Spirit or queer people within her community. None.

The Oneida Nation lacked policies encompassing gender inclusion, leading Leslie to recognize there was no equity index for tribal services. To fill the void, she launched programming, hosting a drive-through event and a virtual panel during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic to celebrate the community.

But advocacy wasn’t enough. Doxtater recognized that deep-rooted cultural healing was required.

Because Oneida people were long ago converted to Christianity, the traditional knowledge surrounding Two Spirit identities had been systematically erased by colonization. To date, no specific traditional term has been found in the Oneida language to define Two Spirit individuals. Leslie continues to seek clues everywhere, including the memoirs of an early French explorer who documented a third gender among the Haudenosaunee nations, leaning on researchers within the UW System to help track down the references.

She also began reclaiming ceremonial spaces. She started consistently attending the longhouse, an integral center of Oneida culture that operates strictly on gendered norms. She challenged the longhouse to create a space for individuals who didn’t fit the binary, developing the concept of wearing “ribbon pants” instead of skirts so all attendees could feel comfortable.

“One of the faith keepers told me that the longhouse belongs to Oneidas, so it’s just as much my long house as it is hers as it is anyone’s,” Doxtater said with pride.

Armed with that affirmation, she encourages other Two Spirit relatives to enter the space like they own it.

“If you want to dance with the men, dance with the men. If you want to dance with the women, dance with the women.”

Doxtater’s most poignant experience of cultural reclamation happened recently in New York. During a Haudenosaunee women’s gathering for the solar eclipse, a group of women were creating a wampum belt to present to the male title holders as an assertion of their voices. Leslie, realizing she was one of the only openly queer people in a room of 130 women, noticed a young trans girl standing alone with her siblings in the far back corner.

Fearing the child would be excluded, Leslie made a move to intervene. Before she could, a faith keeper who had previously supported the LGBTQ+ community approached the child. The faith keeper brought the trans girl down into the circle, asserting to the elder clan mothers that if the girl felt that was where she belonged, she must be allowed to participate. The young trans girl was welcomed into the sacred circle, touching the wampum belt and pouring her energy into the process.

The faith keeper later revealed she had dreamt of finding the child crying on top of a mountain and bringing them down to safety—a vision that guided her actions that day.

“I was almost in tears at that point,” Doxtater said, acknowledging the monumental shift in inclusion within sacred spaces.

What it means to be Two Spirit

While Two Spirit is more increasingly known than ever before, there are still many misconceptions about what it means exactly. Two Spirit does not simply mean “gay,” “lesbian,” “bisexual,” or “transgender.” In fact, there is no simple explanation for the umbrella term, which had multiple interpretations throughout history and across different tribes.

“The term “Indigiqueer” is gaining popularity among urban Indigenous people seeking a connection that doesn’t rely entirely on lost ancestral knowledge,” said Leslie.

Still, she believes that true advocacy from the wider LGBTQ+ community requires creating space for Two Spirit voices. Appropriating Two Spirit identity is not an option. For non-Native people, she offers gentle but firm correction: Two Spirit is absolutely linked to tribal heritage, culture, and specific community roles that non-Natives simply do not possess.

Three years ago, Leslie was hired as the Tribal Action Plan manager. Today, her advocacy has expanded to driving real world change.

When anti-trans health bills were proposed in Wisconsin, Doxtater drove to the hearings, sitting for six hours as one of the few Indigenous people in the room to submit testimony. Back home, she continues pushing the Oneida Nation to implement gender-affirming care policies and tribal inclusivity codes that circumvent federal restrictions to protect Two Spirit health.

“Two Spirit youth have the highest rate of suicide of any youth in America,” said Leslie. “They need to be loved wholly, completely, and unconditionally.”

A gathering of drums

During a casual conversation with Menominee organizer Mindy Thunder, Leslie learned that many states (including Arkansas) hosted a Two Spirit Pow Wow. Wisconsin has never had one before. Leslie saw the opportunity for a historic moment.

She’s spent the past few months organizing the first-ever Wisconsin Two Spirit Pow Wow.

Just two days after proposing the idea at a panel in Milwaukee, an audience member stepped forward to completely fund the rental of the Woodland Bowl on the Menominee Indian Reservation in Keshena. She drove to Minneapolis to observe their Two Spirit Pow Wow, secured the venue, sought out a host emcee, and earned supportive sponsorships from Vivent Health, Fair Wisconsin, PFLAG, Oneida Tourism, and others.

The inaugural Wisconsin Two Spirit Pow Wow is scheduled for June 13, 2026, at the Woodland Bowl. It will mark a historic day of gathering, visibility, and healing for Two Spirit people across the region. All are welcome–with or without Indigenous heritage–to learn about history, culture and community.

“I feel like if I didn’t do it, nobody else would,” she said. “It’s one of those ‘if not you, then who?’ moments for sure.”

Thanks to Leslie, a generation of Two Spirit youth will never have to stand outside a sacred circle, a parade, or a longhouse and wonder if they belong.