Summary

AS WE HAVE ALWAYS DONE

Indigenous Americas Robert Warrior, Series Editor

Chadwick Allen, Trans- Indigenous: Methodologies for Global Native Literary Studies

Raymond D. Austin, Navajo Courts and Navajo Common Law: A Tradition of Tribal Self- Governance

Lisa Brooks, The Common Pot: The Recovery of Native Space in the Northeast

Kevin Bruyneel, The Third Space of Sovereignty: The Postcolonial Politics of U.S.– Indigenous Relations

Glen Sean Coulthard, Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial Politics of Recognition

James H. Cox, The Red Land to the South: American Indian Writers and Indigenous Mexico

Brendan Hokowhitu and Vijay Devadas, The Fourth Eye: Māori Media in Aotearoa New Zealand

Daniel Heath Justice, Our Fire Survives the Storm: A Cherokee Literary History

Thomas King, The Truth about Stories: A Native Narrative Scott Richard Lyons, X- Marks: Native Signatures of Assent Aileen Moreton- Robinson, The White Possessive: Property, Power,

and Indigenous Sovereignty Jean M. O’Brien, Firsting and Lasting: Writing Indians Out of

Existence in New England Shiri Pasternak, Grounded Authority: The Algonquins of Barriere Lake

against the State Steven Salaita, Inter/Nationalism: Decolonizing Native America and

Palestine Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, As We Have Always Done: Indigenous

Freedom through Radical Resistance Paul Chaat Smith, Everything You Know about Indians Is Wrong Lisa Tatonetti, The Queerness of Native American Literature Gerald Vizenor, Bear Island: The War at Sugar Point Robert Warrior, The People and the Word: Reading Native Nonfiction Robert A. Williams Jr., Like a Loaded Weapon: The Rehnquist Court,

Indian Rights, and the Legal History of Racism in America

A S W E H AV E A LWAY S D O N E

Indigenous Freedom through Radical Resistance

LEANNE BETASAMOSAKE SIMPSON

Indigenous Americas

University of Minnesota Press | Minneapolis | London

The publication of this book was assisted by a bequest from Josiah H. Chase to honor his parents, Ellen Rankin Chase and Josiah Hook Chase, Minnesota territorial pioneers.

Title page art copyright Lianne Marie Leda Charlie

“Our Treaty with the Hoof Nation” and “Binoojiinh Makes a Lovely Discovery” were previously published in Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, The Gift Is in the Making , from the Debwe Series published by HighWater Press, 2013. Reprinted with permission.

The interview by Naomi Klein was previously published as “Dancing the World into Being: A Conversation with Idle No More’s Leanne Simpson,” Yes! Magazine, March 5, 2013. http://www.yesmagazine.org/peace-justice/ dancing-the-world-into-being-a-conversation-with-idle-no-more-leanne -simpson.

Billy- Ray Bellcourt, “sacred,” was previously published at https:// nakinisowin.wordpress.com/2016/02/26/sacred/. Reprinted with permission of the author.

Copyright 2017 by the Regents of the University of Minnesota

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by the University of Minnesota Press 111 Third Avenue South, Suite 290 Minneapolis, MN 55401- 2520 http://www.upress.umn.edu

isbn 978-1-5179-0386-2 (hc) isbn 978-1-5179-0387-9 (pb) A Cataloging-in-Publication record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

Printed in the United States of America on acid- free paper

The University of Minnesota is an equal- opportunity educator and employer.

22 21 20 19 18 17 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

CONTENTS

Introduction My Radical Resurgent Present | 1

  1 Nishnaabeg Brilliance as Radical Resurgence Theory | 11

 2 Kwe as Resurgent Method | 27

 3 The Attempted Dispossession of Kwe | 39

 4 Nishnaabeg Internationalism | 55

 5 Nishnaabeg Anticapitalism | 71

 6 Endlessly Creating Our Indigenous Selves | 83

 7 The Sovereignty of Indigenous Peoples’ Bodies | 95

 8 Indigenous Queer Normativity | 119

 9 Land as Pedagogy | 145

10 “I See Your Light”: Reciprocal Recognition and Generative Refusal | 175

11 Embodied Resurgent Practice and Coded Disruption | 191

 12 Constellations of Coresistance | 211

Conclusion Toward Radical Resurgent Struggle | 233

Acknowledgments | 249 Notes | 251 Index | 283

1

INTRODUCTION MY RADICAL RESURGENT PRESENT

I am writing this chapter on a gray, wet winter day, in the café in the sports complex at Trent University as my two kids attend swimming lessons.1 The doors of the complex have Trent’s logo on them— the French “explorer” Champlain’s sword, jutting into waves, or as my elder Doug Williams often cynically jokes, “the heart of the Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg.”2 My kids pass the symbol with a casual “they should change that” and “don’t have a fit, Mom.” They have grown up in their territory, learning with a community of artists, makers, and elders, a luxu- ry that not all of us, including myself, have had. Because of that, I see a strength in them that I don’t see in myself. I see an abili- ty to point out and name colonialism, resist and even mobilize to change it. They know more about what it means to be Nish- naabeg in their first decades than I did in my third. This intimate resurgence in my family makes me happy.

Over a decade ago, I was listening to Doug speak to a group of Canadians in a coffee shop in downtown Peterborough, a city in central Ontario between Toronto and Ottawa. Peterborough is known to be a conservative hockey town (really, a small city) on the edge of cottage country. Doug wanted his audience to

2 INTRODUCTION

know where they were, and he began by telling them what the land used to look like. The non- Native audience was nearly si- lent, transfixed by each sentence he spoke. So was I, because as he was speaking, I was recognizing that the land I know as my home has been devastated by settlement, industrial develop- ment, the construction of highways and roads, the Trent- Severn Waterway, and four centuries of dispossession. I understood that the landscape I knew as home would be almost unrecog- nizable to my Ancestors, and I hadn’t known previously that I could barely even imagine the worlds that had already been lost. In the weeks after that talk, I spoke with Doug about what he had shared. As we drove around our territory in the months that fol- lowed, he pointed out where the Wendat (Huron) villages used to be, where hunting grounds were located, the former locations of black oak savannas and tallgrass prairies. I began to start my own talks with a narrative of what our land used to look like as a quick glimpse, albeit a generalized one, of what was lost— not as a mourning of loss but as a way of living in an Nishnaabeg pres- ent that collapses both the past and the future and as a way of positioning myself in relation to my Ancestors and my relations. I want to do the same here in this book.

Nogojiwanong (the place at the end of the rapids, or Peterbor- ough) is in the heart of the Michi Saagiig part of the Nishnaabeg nation, and we call our nation “Kina Gchi Nishnaabeg- ogamig— the place where we all live and work together.”3 Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg territory is along the north shore of Chi’Niibish, or Lake Ontario. Chi’Niibish literally means “big water,” and we share this lake with the Rotinonhseshá:ka.4 Michi Saagiig means “at the mouth of the rivers,” and that name comes from our his- tory as people that spent time at the mouths of the rivers drain- ing into Lake Ontario.5 We are travelers, moving throughout our lands rather than settling in one place. We are the eastern door- way of the Nishnaabeg nation, and we have responsibilities to take care of our relationship with the Rotinonhseshá:ka. We also have diplomacy with the Rotinonhseshá:ka Confederacy; there are at least four wampum belts (treaties) that remind us of those responsibilities as well.6 There is also a wait- in- the- woods cer-

INTRODUCTION 3

emony between the Kanien’kehá:ka (Mohawk) and the Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg. Diplomatically, we have always had close ties to the Wendat. They asked to live in our territory at different points in history, and we made agreements with them so they could. There are wampum belts made, and the oral tradition has a lot of evidence that we lived together quite well: they lived in longhouses and farmed, and we were hunting and fishing, ricing and sugaring, traveling by the waterways.

Michi Saagiig Nishinaabeg are salmon people. Doug tells me Chi’Niibish had its own resident population of salmon that mi- grated all the way to Stoney Lake to spawn. We drank directly from the lakes, and that was a good, healthy thing to do. There was a large population of eels that also migrated to Stoney Lake each year from the Atlantic Ocean. There was an ancient old- growth forest of white pine that stretched from Curve Lake down to the shore of Lake Ontario, which had virtually no un- derstory except for a bed of pine needles. There were tallgrass prairies and black oak savannas where Peterborough stands today. The lakes were teeming with minomiin, or wild rice. The land was dotted with sugar bushes, the lakes were full of fish.

It sounds idyllic, because compared to now it was idyllic. Our knowledge system, the education system, the econom- ic system, and the political system of the Michi Saagiig Nishi- naabeg were designed to promote more life. Our way of living was designed to generate life— not just human life but the life of all living things. Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg were travelers; we rarely settled, and this was reflected in our politics and gover- nance, in our diplomacy with other nations, and even in the pro- tection of our land. Stable governing structures emerged when necessary and dissolved when no longer needed. Leaders were also recognized (not self- appointed) and then disengaged when no longer needed. It was an emergent system reflective of the relationality of the local landscape. I think of our system of gov- ernance as breathing— a rhythm of contraction and release.

There was a high degree of individual self- determination in Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg society. Children were full citizens with the same rights and responsibilities as adults. They were

4 INTRODUCTION

raised in a nest of freedom and self- determination. Authoritar- ian power— aggressive power that comes from coercion and hierarchy— wasn’t a part of the fabric of Michi Saagiig Nish- naabeg philosophy or governance, and so it wasn’t a part of our families.

People were expected to figure out their gifts and their responsibilities through ceremony and reflection and self- actualization, and that process was really the most important governing process on an individual level— more important than the gender you were born into. In the context of gender fluidity and sexualities and relationship orientations outside of colonial conceptualizations, I see this idea of freedom as one that perme- ated the fabric of precolonial Nishnaabeg society.

When Champlain visits us and refers to the freedom our chil- dren have within our society, and our nonpunitive, attachment- based parenting, it’s his white male way of acknowledging that freedom and authentic power.7 His sword did not pierce the hearts of the Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg. We are still here.

Over the past two hundred years, without our permission and without our consent, we have been systemically removed and dispossessed from most of our territory. We have fought back as our homeland has been stolen, clear- cut, subdivided, and sold to settlers from Europe and later cottagers from Toronto. The last eels and salmon navigated our waters about a hundred years ago. We no longer have old- growth white pine forests in our territory. Our rice beds were nearly destroyed. All but one tiny piece of prairie in Alderville has been destroyed. Most of our sugar bushes are under private, non- Native ownership.

Our most sacred places have been made into provincial parks for tourists, where concrete buildings cover our teaching rocks. Our burial grounds have cottages built on top of them. The rivers have lift locks blocking them. The shores of every one of our lakes and rivers have cottages or homes on them, making it nearly impossible for us to launch a canoe. Our rice beds have been nearly destroyed by raised water levels from the Trent- Severn Waterway, boat traffic, and sewage from cottages.

We live with the ongoing trauma of the Indian Act, residen-

INTRODUCTION 5

tial schools, day schools, sanatoriums, child welfare, and now an education system that refuses to acknowledge our culture, our knowledge, our histories, and experience. At the beginning of the colonial period, we signed early treaties as international diplomatic agreements with the crown to protect the land and to ensure our sovereignty, nationhood, and way of life.8 We have fought against the gross and blatant injustice of the 1923 Williams Treaty and its “basket clause” for nearly one hundred years, a treaty that wasn’t a treaty at all within our political prac- tices but another termination plan.

Heralded as the “first modern- day treaty,” it resulted in eighty- nine years without hunting and fishing rights. My grand- mother grew up eating squirrel and groundhogs because if her parents were caught hunting deer or fishing, they were criminal- ized. In the fall of 2012, as a result of a civil suit, the province of Ontario sent us a letter indicating that it will recognize our trea- ty rights secured in the earlier, 1818 treaty over a hundred thou- sand acres in southern Ontario. We will see. We have been living our understanding of our rights, and nearly every year since the treaty was signed, people are charged by conservation officers for hunting and fishing “out of season.”9

This is the context within which I experience resurgence. This is the very real urgency of resurgence. Michi Saagiig Nish- naabeg, like other Indigenous peoples living in the most urban and industrialized parts of Canada, have virtually no land left to be Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg. There are very few places to retreat to the bush, and almost none where you can’t hear the rumble of traffic or run into a cottager or tourist. My kids regu- larly remind me of this. On their first visit to Yellowknives Dene First Nation territory, they remarked that they could be more Nishnaabeg in Dene territory than in their own. They asked why there were no police or white people watching us fish, a hundred kilometers off grid outside of Sombe’ke (Yellowknife). Settler surveillance for them is a normalized part of being on the land. They expect it.

They also expect that we will be there anyway, in spite of environmental destruction, despite the violence of surveillance

6 INTRODUCTION

culture, because they were born into a centuries- old legacy of resistance, persistence, and profound love that ties our struggle to other Indigenous peoples in the Americas and throughout the world. It is not happenstance or luck that Indigenous peoples and our lands still exist after centuries of attack. This is our stra- tegic brilliance. Our presence is our weapon, and this is visible to me at every protest, every mobilization, every time a Two Spirit person gifts us with a dance at our powwows, every time we speak our truths, every time we embody Indigenous life. It is visible to me in the Unist’ot’en camp, in the hearts of Moosehide Tanners Against Fascism in Denendeh, in the work of the Native Youth Sexual Health Network, in the forty years of mobilization against mercury contamination and deforestation at Grassy Nar- rows First Nation, in Elsipogtog, Kanehsatà:ke, Listuguj, and of course in the phenomenal mobilization against the Dakota Access pipeline in Standing Rock, North Dakota, by the Stand- ing Rock Sioux Tribe and the Oceti Sakowin (The Great Sioux Nation).10 It is visible to me when we refuse to replicate trans- phobia and anti- Blackness in our territories. It is our Ancestors working to ensure we exist as Indigenous peoples, as they have always done.

From this standpoint, it doesn’t matter who is president or prime minister, because our most important work is internal, and the kinds of transformations we are compelled to make, the kinds of alternatives we are compelled to embody are profound- ly systemic. I am strongly interested in building an Nishnaabeg presence, an Nishnaabeg present, that embodies and operation- alizes the very best of our nation because this is what we have always done. My Ancestors struggled, sacrificed, and fought much worse than I have to get me here, and I have the same responsibility to my future relations.

I Am Not a Nation- State

During the winter of 2013, Idle No More organizers in Toron- to recognized that although Indigenous peoples have been talking about nationhood for years, the idea of Indigenous na- tionhood is a concept still very misunderstood by Canadians.11

INTRODUCTION 7

In response, the Toronto organizers launched a dialogue called “Nation to Nation Now— The Conversations,” which took place at the end of March in Toronto. They invited speakers from both the Rotinonhseshá:ka Confederacy and the Nishnaabeg nation to come together and share about what nationhood means to us from within our own political practices. Nishnaabeg curator and artist Wanda Nanibush moderated a  discussion between my- self and Nishnaabeg elder/artist and language speaker Robert Houle.

Robert and I were on first. I got up very early and drove into the city on the 401, following the north shore of Lake Ontario. I remembered our old stories of what the land used to look like, and I wondered if my great- great- grandmother would even rec- ognize her homeland with the nuclear plant, the condos, and the six lanes of traffic that never stop day or night. I wondered if she were here with me, in the car, driving as the sun came up, if she would feel home. It struck me at that moment that our na- tionhood, my nationhood, by its very nature calls into question this system of settler colonialism, a system that is such an over- whelming, violent, normalized, and dishonest reality in Cana- da and so many other places. It is the force that has removed me from my land, it has erased me from my history and from contemporary life, and it is the reason we currently have thou- sands of missing and murdered Indigenous women and Two Spirit/queer people in Canada.

When I arrived at the conference venue several cups of cof- fee and two traffic jams later, I wasn’t thinking about my grand- mothers anymore. I was thinking about what I wanted for my own great- grandchildren. It was very simple. It is very simple. Indigenous freedom. I include it here because Indigenous free- dom is a guiding vision or manifesto for what follows, and it starts with being very clear about what I want out of the present and what I expect from the future. What does it mean for me, as an Nishnaabekwe, to live freedom? I want my great- grandchildren to be able to fall in love with every piece of our territory. I want their bodies to carry with them every story, every song, every piece of poetry hidden in our Nishnaabeg language. I want them

8 INTRODUCTION

to be able to dance through their lives with joy. I want them to live without fear because they know respect, because they know in their bones what respect feels like. I want them to live without fear because they have a pristine environment with clean wa- terways that will provide them with the physical and emotional sustenance to uphold their responsibilities to the land, their families, their communities, and their nations. I want them to be valued, heard, and cherished by our communities.

I want my great- great- grandchildren and their great- great- grandchildren to be able to live as Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg un- harassed and undeterred in our homeland.

The idea of my arms embracing my grandchildren, and their arms embracing their grandchildren is communicated in the Nishnaabeg word kobade. According to elder Edna Manitowa- bi, kobade is a word we use to refer to our great- grandparents and our great- grandchildren. It means a link in a chain— a link in the chain between generations, between nations, between states of being, between individuals. I am a link in a chain. We are all links in a chain.

Doug calls our nation Kina Gchi Nishnaabeg- ogamig, the place where we all live and work together. Where Nishnaabeg are in deep relationship with each other. Our nation is a hub of Nishnaabeg networks. It is a long kobade, cycling through time. It is a web of connections to each other, to the plant nations, the animal nations, the rivers and lakes, the cosmos, and our neigh- boring Indigenous nations.

Kina Gchi Nishnaabeg- ogamig is an ecology of intimacy. It is an ecology of relationships in the absence of coercion,

hierarchy, or authoritarian power. Kina Gchi Nishnaabeg- ogamig is connectivity based on the

sanctity of the land, the love we have for our families, our lan- guage, our way of life. It is relationships based on deep reciproc- ity, respect, noninterference, self- determination, and freedom.

Our nationhood is based on the idea that the earth gives and sustains all life, that “natural resources” are not “natural resourc- es” at all, but gifts from Aki, the land. Our nationhood is based on the foundational concept that we should give up what we can

INTRODUCTION 9

to support the integrity of our homelands for the coming gener- ations. We should give more than we take.12

It is nationhood based on a series of radiating respon- sibilities.

This is what I understand our diplomats were negotiating when settlers first arrived in our territory. This was the impetus for those very first treaties— Nishnaabeg freedom, protection for the land and the environment, a space— an intellectual, po- litical, spiritual, artistic, creative, and physical space where we could live as Nishnaabeg and where our kobade could do the same.

This is what my Ancestors wanted for me, for us. They want- ed for our generation to practice Nishnaabeg governance over our homeland, to partner with other governments over shared lands, to have the ability to make decisions about how the gifts of our parent would be used for the benefit of our people and in a manner to promote her sanctity for coming generations. I believe my Ancestors expected the settler state to recognize my nation, our lands, and the political and cultural norms in our territory.

My nationhood doesn’t just radiate outwards, it also radi- ates inwards. It is my physical body, my mind, and my spirit. It is our families— not the nuclear family that has been normalized in settler society, but big, beautiful, diverse, extended multiracial families of relatives and friends that care very deeply for each other.

This is the intense love of land, of family, and of our nations that has always been the spine of Indigenous resistance. The fact that I am here today is a miracle, because it means my family, like every Indigenous family, did whatever they could to ensure that I survived the past four hundred years of violence. For my kobade to survive and flourish the next four hundred years, we need to join together in a rebellion of love, persistence, commitment, and profound caring and create constellations of coresistance, working together toward a radical alternative present based on deep reciprocity and the gorgeous generative refusal of colonial recognition.

10 INTRODUCTION

This vision for a present has the potential to create Nish- naabeg futures that categorically refuse and reject dispossession and settler colonialism and the violence of capitalism, hetero- patriarchy, white supremacy, and anti- Blackness that maintains them.13 To me, Indigenous nationhood is a radical and com- plete overturning of the nation- state’s political formations. It is a vision that centers our lives around our responsibility to work with our Ancestors and those yet unborn to continuously give birth to a spectacular Nishnaabeg present. This is a manifesto to create networks of reciprocal resurgent movements with other humans and nonhumans radically imagining their ways out of domination, who are not afraid to let those imaginings destroy the pillars of settler colonialism.

This is my beginning. This is my radical resurgent present.

11

ONE NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE AS RADICAL RESURGENCE THEORY

Gilbert drove the kids from the reserve into town for school every morning, and sometimes when we would come to visit, he would drive another lap around the reserve to pick up all the Elders in his yellow and black bus, driving us to the treat- ment center or out to the community trapline on the edge of the reserve. I was in my midtwenties. Young. I didn’t yet know which things in life are rare and which things happen all the time if you remain open and happen to be in the right place at the right time. Over two years, spending time with a group of twenty- five Elders who had known each other and their land for their entire lives was an extremely rare situation. One that in the next twenty years of my life wouldn’t be repeated with the same depth.

I’ve gone back to this experience over and over again in my head and in my writing because it changed the way I think in a fundamental way. It changed the way I am in the world. I want to reconsider it here because this experience is foundational to my work on resurgence and to who I have become. I considered

parts of this story in the short story “lost in the world where he was always the only one,” published in Islands of Decolonial Love, although somewhat fictionalized, as a way of linking our current reality to the Nishnaabeg sacred story of a little boy who is taken to the skyworld to learn from seven Elders and then re- turned to the earth to share his new knowledge with the Nish- naabeg.1 Meaning, we all have to be, in some way, that little boy. Like that boy, those Elders that I learned from for those two years actually gave me something that has propelled my writing and thinking ever since. It was the greatest gift.

I was working with Professor Paul Driben, an anthropolo- gist from Lakehead University at the time. We had been hired by the Effects on Aboriginals from the Great Lakes Environment (EAGLE) project of the Assembly of First Nations (AFN) to work with the Anishinaabeg reserve community of Long Lake #58, located in the boreal forest of northern Ontario, about three hundred kilometers northeast of Thunder Bay, to create a land- use atlas. The band council sent us to the Elders. This was not a unique project in the 1980s and 1990s. Traditional Eco- logical Knowledge was in its heyday in the eyes of white policy makers, academics, and even Aboriginal organizations. The idea was that if we documented on paper the ways that we use the land, policy makers would then use the information to minimize the impacts of development on our lands and ways of life. The idea was that clearly documented land use would bring about less dispossession, as if dispossession occurs by accident or out of not knowing, rather than being the strategic structure it is. The project was to gather the individual cognitive, territorial maps Elders held in their heads into a collective, a visual re- mapping and translation of some aspects of Indigenous Knowl- edge into a form that would be recognized by industry and the state.

Of course, I don’t think the Elders involved in these studies were naive. I think what I saw, and perhaps what they saw, was a process that could be used as a tool to generate cohesion, pride, and rebuilding within our own communities when our own people saw visually and so clearly what dispossession, displace-

12 NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE

ment, encroachment, and industrial extractivism look like over our territories across time. Laid out in a visual way, the magni- tude of the loss cannot be explained away, the strategic nature of colonialism cannot be ignored. The driving force of capitalism in our dispossession cannot be denied.

I was suspicious of Dr. Driben in the beginning. He wasn’t Native, he was an anthropologist of all things, but he had created these maps before with other Nishnaabeg communities. Sitting in his windowless cement office in the basement of a building at Lakehead University eating subs, I could tell by the details on the maps that Elders trusted him. I could tell by the bunker- like nature of his office far removed from the upper echelons of the university that perhaps the university didn’t. This boded well for our relationship.

Paul did something that has stayed with me and has always informed my approach to working with communities and to re- search. He was invited into the community to do a specific task, which in the end he delivered, but he actively and continually divested himself of the false power the academy bestowed upon him when he drove onto the reserve. He asked the Elders if they thought the project was a good idea. They said it was. He asked them how best to proceed. They told him. He asked them if they would be the decision makers. They agreed, and then they were, and he got out of their way.

This was an overwhelmingly different way of conducting research than I had experienced in two biology degrees. At the time, I could only frame it within collaborative or participatory or community- based methodologies, but it was really none of those. Those kinds of methodologies to some degree privileged Western theories, epistemologies, or knowledge systems, and the process that emerged in this situation was Nishnaabeg to the core. These methodologies assume there is a role for the aca- demic. Paul did not. He came into their circle on the terms of the experts, the Nishnaabeg Elders, not the other way around.

Which enabled me to come into their circle, as a young Nish- naabeg person with very few useful skills to them other than youth. Western education does not produce in us the kinds of

NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE 13

effects we like to think it does when we say things like education is the new buffalo. We learn how to type and how to write. We learn how to think within the confines of Western thought. We learn how to pass tests and get jobs within the city of capital- ism. If we’re lucky and we fall into the right programs, we might learn to think critically about colonialism. But postsecondary education provides few useful skill sets to those of us who want to fundamentally change the relationship between the Canadian state and Indigenous peoples, because that requires a sustained, collective, strategic long- term movement, a movement the Canadian state has a vested interest in preventing, destroying, and dividing. Postsecondary education provides very few skill sets to those who want to learn to think in the most complex ways possible within the networked system of Indigenous intel- ligence. In fact, I needed to leave all of that kind of education behind in order to come into this with hesitation and an open heart. The parts of me that I drew on in this circle of Elders were liabilities at university— gentleness, humility, carefulness, and the ability to proceed slowly.

During the next two years, the Elders, who in my memory are now eagles, took me under their wing. I wrote down on large topographical maps every place- name for every beach, bay, peninsula, and island they could remember— hundreds and hundreds of names. We marked down all of their traplines, and the ones before that and the ones before that. We marked down hunting grounds and fishing sites, berry patches, ricing camps, and medicines spots. We marked down birthplaces and graves. We marked down places where stories happened. We marked down ceremonial sites, places where they lived, places where life happened. We also marked down the homes of their relatives— places where moose and bears lived, nesting spots and breed- ing grounds. We marked down travel routes, spring water spots, songs and prayers. Places where feet touched the earth for the first time. Places where promises were made. The place where they blocked the tracks during the summer of the so- called Oka Crisis.2

We also recorded pain. The prisoner- of- war camp, the in-

14 NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE

ternment camp, and its school that some Nishnaabeg kids at- tended so they could continue to live with their families and not go to residential school. The 150 years of clear- cuts. The hydro- electric dams, the direction the lake was supposed to flow. The flood, the road, the railway tracks, the mines, the pipeline, the hydrolines. The chemical sprays, the white people parks and campgrounds. Deaths.

The overlays showed decade after decade of loss. They showed the why.

Standing at the foot of a map of loss is clarity. Colonialism or settler colonialism or dispossession or dis-

placement or capitalism didn’t seem complicated anymore. The mess I was wrapped in at birth didn’t seem so inevitable. It seemed simple. Colonizers wanted the land. Everything else, whether it is legal or policy or economic or social, whether it was the Indian Act or residential schools or gender violence, was part of the machinery that was designed to create a perfect crime— a crime where the victims are unable to see or name the crime as a crime.3

But this isn’t even the most important thing I learned from the Elders of Long Lake #58 in the middle of the 1990s. They gifted me with my first substantial experience with Nishnaabeg thought, theory, and methodology in a research context, and Nishnaabeg intelligence in life context. Paul showed me the kind of researcher I thought I wanted to be, but in reality I wanted to be able to think like those Elders, not him. By tak- ing such a radically different approach to both community and research, Paul divested his power and authority as an academic that had been placed on him by the academy and then by an Aboriginal organization and placed that responsibility where it belonged: with the leaders and the intellectuals of the commu- nity. Paul was a holder of space. He created the space for Elders to not just say the prayer and smudge us off at the beginning of the meeting but to be the meeting. He created the space to put Nishnaabeg intelligence at the center and to use its energy to drive the project. Those Elders gave me my first glimpse of Nish- naabeg brilliance— theory, methodology, story, ethics, values all

NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE 15

enmeshed in Nishnaabeg politics and encircled by the profound influence of the world. They pulled me into an alternative Nish- naabeg world existing alongside the colonial reality I knew so well. This has propelled my life.

This experience more than anything else opened my mind and heart to the brilliance and complexity of Nishnaabeg em- bodied thought. It resonated in a profound way in me and has driven two decades of living, making, writing, and research. Sometimes it is the only thing I am absolutely sure of, and more than that, I am absolutely sure that we as Nishnaabeg cannot survive as a people without creating generations of artists, think- ers, makers, and doers that live in Nishnaabeg worlds, that are in respectful relationship with each other, that create a movement that joins us to other Indigenous nations to protect the land and bodies. We need to live deliberately and with meaning.

I think about the maps those Elders carried in their bodies as two- dimensional representations of the networks they live and their parents and grandparents lived. I think about the maps my generation carries in our heads or maybe in our phones. I think about the networks the next generation will carry in their bodies. I think about how the networks we have in our heads today create the networks our children have in their heads as adults. It is this experience more than any others that has led me to center Nishnaabeg intelligence in my life, in my work, and in my thinking about resurgence.

Years later, when I would begin thinking and writing about Indigenous resurgence as a set of practices through which the regeneration and reestablishment of Indigenous nations could be achieved, the seeds those Elders planted in me would start to grow with a strong feeling , more than thinking, that the in- tellectual and theoretical home of resurgence had to come from within Indigenous thought systems, intelligence systems that are continually generated in relationship to place. I realized that the Elders of Long Lake #58 had pulled me into an Nishnaabeg world, and that this world was a very fertile place for dreaming, visioning, thinking, and remembering the affirmative Indige- nous worlds that continue to exist right alongside the colonial

16 NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE

worlds. I got a strong sense from them that our intellectual sys- tems are our responsibilities, that they are an extension of our bodies and an expression of our freedom. There was no room in their Nishnaabeg world for the desire to be recognized and af- firmed by the colonizer. There was no room in their Nishnaabeg world to accommodate or center whiteness.

The Nishnaabeg brilliance those Elders pulled me into was profound. Their world— a cognitive, spiritual, emotional, land- based space— didn’t recognize or endlessly accommodate whiteness, it didn’t accept the inevitability of capitalism, and it was a disruption to the hierarchy of heteropatriarchy.4 Thinking about it now, I see that it was my first flight path out of settler co- lonialism. In their very quiet, nondemonstrative, and profound- ly gentle way, those Elders refused settler colonialism, driving along the TransCanada in a children’s school bus, laughing all the way to their trapline. They refused and generated something different. Everyday. Just like their Ancestors and their Ances- tor’s Ancestors.

Biiskabiyang and Flight

Biiskabiyang— the process of returning to ourselves, a reengage- ment with the things we have left behind, a reemergence, an un- folding from the inside out— is a concept, an individual and col- lective process of decolonization and resurgence.5 To me, it is the embodied processes as freedom. It is a flight out of the struc- ture of settler colonialism and into the processes and relation- ships of freedom and self- determination encoded and practiced within Nishnaabewin or grounded normativity. In this way, it is a form of marronage.6 Scholar Neil Roberts describes the con- cept of marronage (derived from Awawak and Tainos thought) in his book Freedom as Marronage “as a group of persons isolat- ing themselves from a surrounding society in order to create a fully autonomous community,”7 like the act of retreating to the bush, or resurgence itself. Breaking from contemporary polit- ical theory’s vocabulary to describe this flight, Roberts writes, “marronage is a multidimensional, constant act of flight that in- volves what I ascertain to be four interrelated pillars: distance,

NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE 17

movement, property, and purpose. Distance denotes a spatial quality separating an individual or individuals in a current lo- cation or condition from a future location or condition. Move- ment refers to the ability of agents to have control over motion and the intended directions of their actions. Flight, therefore, is directional movement in the domain of physical environment, embodied cognition, and/or the metaphysical.”8 It necessari- ly, then, must be rooted in the present. Black feminist theorist and poet Alexis Pauline Gumbs, in an interview about her book Spill: Scenes of Black Feminist Fugitivity, says, “I am interested in presence and the present tense. I think fugitivity requires being present and being with, which are both challenges.”9

Those Elders of Long Lake #58 knew present and being with, they knew flight— distance, movement, land as relation- ship, purpose. They watched the freedom of eagles, our messen- gers, moving effortlessly between worlds as expert communica- tors. Through ceremony, they shifted through physical realities to heightened spiritual ones. They constructed the world ac- cording to the structures, the processes, and the relationships Nishnaabewin illuminates. To me, they were marronage. My flight to escape colonial reality was a flight into Nishnaabewin. It was a returning, in the present, to myself. It was an unfolding of a different present. It was freedom as a way of being as a con- stellation of relationship, freedom as world making, freedom as a practice. It was biiskabiyang.

No matter what we were doing together, those Elders al- ways carried their Ancestors with them. They were in constant communication with them as they went about their daily lives engaged in practices that continually communicated to the spiritual world that they were Nishnaabeg. I didn’t understand this. I kept asking them about governance, and they would talk about trapping. I would ask them about treaties, and they would take me fishing. I’d ask them what we should do about the mess of colonialism, and they would tell me stories about how well they used to live on the land. I loved all of it, but I didn’t think they were answering my questions. I could see only practice. I couldn’t see their theory until decades later. I couldn’t see intel-

18 NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE

ligence until I learned how to see it by engaging in Nishnaabeg practices for the next two decades.

It would be fifteen more years after my experiences at Long Lake #58 before I would sit down and begin to write what would become Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back. I had completed a PhD at the University of Manitoba and was spending a good deal of time with Robin Greene- ba, a Treaty 3 Elder, and Elder Garry Raven- ba, and the community of Hollow Water First Nation on the east side of Lake Winnipeg. I had moved home to Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg territory to learn from my own Elders and had connected with Curve Lake Elder Doug Williams, as well as Wikwemikong Elder Edna Manitowabi. They all confirmed my experiences in Long Lake #58: that centering ourselves in this Nishnaabeg process of living is both the instrument and the song.

I set out initially in Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back to find Nishnaabeg knowledge of how to rebuild from within after dev- astation because I thought this knowledge would be instructive about how to continue to resist and resurge in the face of on- going colonialism. I did this not so much through discussion, although there was discussion, but through deep engagement with the Nishnaabeg systems inherent in Nishnaabewin— all of the Nishnaabeg practices and ethical processes that make us Nishnaabeg— including story or theory, language learning, cere- mony, hunting, fishing, ricing, sugar making, medicine making, politics, and governance. Through this engagement, a different understanding emerged. This is entirely consistent with Nish- naabeg thought, although I did not appreciate it at the time.10 It became clear to me that how we live, how we organize, how we engage in the world— the process— not only frames the out- come, it is the transformation. How molds and then gives birth to the present. The how changes us. How is the theoretical in- tervention. Engaging in deep and reciprocal Indigeneity is a transformative act because it fundamentally changes modes of production of our lives. It changes the relationships that house our bodies and our thinking. It changes how we conceptualize nationhood. Indigenous intelligence systems set up, maintain,

NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE 19

and regenerate the neuropathways for Indigenous living both inside our bodies and the web of connections that structure our nationhood outside our bodies.11 Engagement changes us be- cause it constructs a different world within which we live. We live fused to land in a vital way. If we want to create a different future, we need to live a different present, so that present can fully marinate, influence, and create different futurities. If we want to live in a different present, we have to center Indigeneity and allow it to change us.12

I talk about this in Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back as emer- gence, but emergence isn’t quite the right concept because it isn’t just a recognition of the complexity and multidimensional- ity that we might not fully understand at work. It is also a strate- gic, thoughtful process in the present as an agent of change— a presencing of the present that generates a particular kind of emer- gence that is resurgence. Kinetics, the act of doing, isn’t just praxis; it also generates and animates theory within Indigenous contexts, and it is the crucial intellectual mode for generating knowledge. Theory and praxis, story and practice are inter- dependent, cogenerators of knowledge. Practices are politics. Processes are governance. Doing produces more knowledge. This idea is repeated over and over again in Nishnaabeg story and for me ultimately comes from the Seven Fires creation story as told to me by spiritual leader Edna Manitowabi and recorded in Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back.13 Through this story, she taught me that knowledge or existence itself is a function of intellec- tual thought, emotional knowledge, and kinetics or movement. Gzhwe Manidoo (The Creator, the one who loves us uncon- ditionally) didn’t research about creating the world or think about creating the world. Gzhwe Manidoo created the world by struggling, failing, and by trying again and again in some of our stories.14 Mistakes produce knowledge. Failure produces knowl- edge because engagement in the process changes the actors em- bedded in process and aligns bodies with the implicate order. The only thing that doesn’t produce knowledge is thinking in and of itself, because it is data created in dislocation and isola- tion and without movement.

20 NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE

The Seven Fires creation story confirmed to me in an epic way that the original knowledge, coded and transmitted through complex networks, says that everything we need to know about everything in the world is contained within Indigenous bodies, and that these same Indigenous bodies exist as networked ves- sels, or constellations across time and space intimately connect- ed to a universe of nations and beings. All of our origin stories do this, and, really, in the complex reality networked emergence generates, Nishnaabewin itself is a continual generation and it- eration of these stories and principles.

The Seven Fires creation story sets the parameters for Nishnaabeg intelligence: the commingling of emotional and intellectual knowledge combined in motion or movement, and the making and remaking of the world in a generative fashion within Indigenous bodies that are engaged in accountable rela- tionships with other beings. This is propelled by the diversity of Indigenous bodies of all ages, genders, races, and abilities in attached correlations with all aspects of creation. This is the exact opposite of the white supremacist, masculine, hetero- patriarchal theory and research process in the academy, which I think likely nearly every Indigenous body that has walked into the academy in some way has felt. We need (to continue) to refuse that system or refuse to let our presence in that system change who we are as Indigenous peoples.15 We need to contin- ue and expand rooting the practice of our lives in our homelands and within our intelligence systems in the ways that our diverse and unique Indigenous thought systems inspire us to do, as the primary mechanism for our decolonial present, as the primary political intervention of our times. This means struggle. Strug- gle because we are occupied, erased, displaced, and discon- nected. Struggle because our bodies are still targets for settler colonial violence. Struggle because this is the mechanism our Ancestors engaged in to continuously rebirth the world. And our struggle is a beautiful, righteous struggle that is our collec- tive gift to Indigenous worlds, because this way of living nec- essarily continually gives birth to ancient Indigenous futures in the present.

NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE 21

Nishnaabewin as Grounded Normativity

What I learned from Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, from the process that created it and through the process of engaging in conversations about it over the past five years, is that although I found lots of stories within Nishnaabeg thought about rebuild- ing, struggle, and self- determination, these were not all crisis- based narratives, and they certainly were not victim- based nar- ratives, nor were they about mere survival. These stories relied upon a return to self- determination and change from within rather than recognition from the outside. They all pointed to invigorating a particular way of living. A way of living that was full of community. A way of living that was thoughtful and pro- foundly empathetic. A way of living that considered, in a deep profound way, relationality. When I look back at it now, my ex- perience with the Elders of Long Lake #58 was my first substan- tive experience of Nishnaabewin, or what Dene political theo- rist Glen Coulthard, author of Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial Politics of Recognition, calls “grounded normativi- ty,” ethical frameworks generated by these place- based practic- es and associated knowledges.16 In academic circles, particularly theoretical ones, this is an important intervention because grounded normativity is the base of our political systems, econ- omy, and nationhood, and it creates process- centered modes of living that generate profoundly different conceptualizations of nationhood and governmentality— ones that aren’t based on enclosure, authoritarian power, and hierarchy. The term itself is far less important in Indigenous circles; we’ve always known our way of life comes from the place or land through the prac- tice of our modes of intelligence. We know that place includes land and waters, plants and animals, and the spiritual world— a peopled cosmos of influencing powers. We know that our prac- tices code and reveal knowledge, and our knowledge codes and reveals practices. We know the individual values we animate in those lives in turn create intimate relationships with our fam- ily and all aspects of creation, which in turn create a fluid and collective ethical framework that we in turn practice. I think in

22 NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE

the context of my own nation, the term Nishnaabewin— all of the associated practices, knowledge, and ethics that make us Nishnaabeg and construct the Nishnaabeg world— is the clos- est thing to Coulthard’s grounded normativity. I use the term interchangeably with Nishnaabeg intelligence, like Coulthard, as a strategic intervention into how the colonial world and the academy position, construct, contain, and shrink Indigenous knowledge systems.

In this sense, in the past, Nishnaabeg woke up each morning and built Nishnaabeg life every day, using our knowledge and practices because this is what we are encouraged to do in our creation stories; these are our original instructions. This proce- dure or practice of living, theory and praxis intertwined, is gen- erated through relations with Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg land, land that is constructed and defined by our intimate spiritual, emotional, and physical relationship with it. The procedure is our grounded normativity. Living is a creative act, with self- determined making or producing at its core. Colonized life is so intensely about consumption that the idea of making is reserved for artists at best and hobbies at worst. Making is not seen as the material basis for experiencing and influencing the world. Yet, Nishnaabeg life didn’t rely on institutionality to hold the struc- ture of life. We relied upon process that created networked re- lationship. Our intelligence system is a series of interconnected and overlapping algorithms— stories, ceremonies, and the land itself are procedures for solving the problems of life. Networked because the modes of communication and interaction between beings occur in complex nonlinear forms, across time and space. There is necessarily substantial overlap in networked responsi- bilities, such that the loss of a component of the network can self- correct and rebalance.

Governance was made every day. Leadership was embodied and acted out every day. Grounded normativity isn’t a thing; it is generated structure born and maintained from deep engage- ment with Indigenous processes that are inherently physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual. Processes were created and practiced. Daily life involved making politics, education,

NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE 23

health care, food systems, and economy on micro- and macro- scales. I didn’t need to look for catastrophe or crisis- based sto- ries to learn how to rebuild. The Nishnaabeg conceptualizations of life I found were cycles of creative energies, continual pro- cesses that bring forth more life and more creation and more thinking. These are the systems we need to re- create. The struc- tural and material basis of Nishnaabeg life was and is process and relationship— again, resurgence is our original instruction.

What does Nishnaabeg grounded normativity look like? What is the ethical framework that is provided to me living my life on the north shore of Lake Ontario? What are these practic- es and associated forms of knowing? Nishnaabeg political sys- tems begin in individuals and our relationships to the implicate order or the spiritual world. The ethics and values that individ- uals use to make decisions in their personal lives are the same ethics and values that families, communities, and nations use to make decisions about how to live collectively. Our ethical intel- ligence is ongoing; it is not a series of teachings or laws or pro- tocols; it is a series of practices that are adaptable and to some degree fluid. I don’t know it so much as an “ethical framework” but as a series of complex, interconnected cycling processes that make up a nonlinear, overlapping emergent and responsive net- work of relationships of deep reciprocity, intimate and global interconnection and interdependence, that spirals across time and space. I know it as the algorithm of the Nishnaabeg world. I wrote about many of these in Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back— the seven grandmother teachings, ethics of noninterference and the practice of self- determination, the practice of consent, the art of honesty, empathy, caring, sharing, and self- sufficiency, for example. Our economy, fully integrated with spirituality and politics, was intensely local within a network of Indigenous in- ternationalism (discussed in chapter 4) that included plant and animal nations, the Great Lakes, the St. Lawrence River, and nonhuman beings and other Indigenous nations. Its strength is measured by its ability to take care of the needs of the people, all the peoples that make up the Nishnaabeg cosmos. Colonial- ism has strangulated grounded normativity. It has attacked and

24 NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE

tried to eliminate or confine the practice of grounded normativ- ity to the realm of neoliberalism so that it isn’t so much a way of being in the world but a quaint cultural difference that makes one interesting. When colonialism could not eliminate ground- ed normativity, it tried to contain it so that it exists only to the degree that it does not impede land acquisition, settlement, and resource extraction. It is this situation, the dispossession of Indigenous peoples from our grounded normativities through the processes of colonialism and now settler colonialism, that has set up the circumstances that require a radical Indigenous resurgence as a mechanism for our continuance as Indigenous peoples.

I feel grateful, looking back, that I was able to interact with the Elders of Long Lake #58, these Nishnaabewin theorists, on their own terms, as opposed to as a graduate student. Had I gone into their community as a student, I would have inevitably writ- ten about this project within the confines of the academic litera- ture and thinking of the academy in the 1990s, and this perhaps would have become my record of these events. Instead, I didn’t write about this experience until now, but I held it as a seed that in the right Nishnaabeg context grew and gives credence to the idea that the fuel for our radical resurgence must come from within our own nation- based grounded normativities because these are the intelligence systems that hold the potential, the theory as practice, for making ethical, sustainable Indigenous worlds.

I believe our responsibility as Indigenous peoples is to work alongside our Ancestors and those not yet born to continually give birth to an Indigenous present that generates Indigenous freedom, and this means creating generations that are in love with, attached to, and committed to their land. It also means that the intellectual and theoretical home for our nation- based resurgences must be within grounded normativity and, for me specifically, within Nishnaabewin, our lived expression of Nish- naabeg intelligence.

NISHNAABEG BRILLIANCE 25

27

TWO KWE AS RESURGENT METHOD

While the few years I spent with the elders of Long Lake #58 are responsible for me falling deeply in love with Nishnaabewin, they are also the beginning of me being able to link the experiences of my life with a critique and analysis of colonialism. As an instructor in many different Indigenous land- based programs, I often have the honor of witnessing our people link the circumstances of their lives— that is, how they experience the personal trauma of colonialism through the child welfare system, the state education system, gender violence, ad- dictions, poverty, the prison system, or mental health issues— to the larger structures and process of settler colonialism. These are powerful moments to witness, and in my own person these moments have been the most theoretically generative, particu- larly if these moments are housed and nurtured within ground- ed normativities.

Like Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back and “Land as Peda- gogy,” this book was generated from within Nishnaabeg intelligence— Nishnaabeg intellectual practices or, more broad- ly, Nishnaabewin— rather than the traditional theoretical and

28 KwE AS RESURGENT METHOD

methodological orientations of the Western academy.1 It is an- chored theoretically within the ways my people generate knowl- edge, through deep reciprocal embodied engagement with Aki, and by participating with full presence in embedded practices— inherent processes that occur within a series of ethical frame- works that, when adhered to, continually generate consent.2

In Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, I used the Seven Fires Nishnaabeg creation story, as told to me by elder Edna Mani- towabi, to demonstrate the nature of knowledge from within Nishnaabewin, and this is also an important theoretical anchor in this book.3 In Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, I emphasized in my analysis of this story that knowledge within the Nishnaabeg universe comes from the spiritual world and flows to humans through intimate relationships with human and nonhuman en- tities. I discussed how knowledge is created through the combi- nation of heart knowledge or emotion, and thought or intellect. I explained how the transformative power of knowledge is un- leashed through movement, kinetics or action, our embedded practices and processes of life; that is, one has to be fully present and engaged in Nishnaabeg ways of living in order to generate knowledge, in order to generate theory. In this way theory is generated from the ground up, and it necessarily then has to be accessible to all Nishnaabeg so we each have the opportunity to develop our own intimate meaning. I talked about how Gzhwe Manidoo transferred all the knowledge that went into the cre- ation of the universe to Nishnaabeg bodies, but that the knowl- edge was so vast it didn’t just stay in our heads, it spilled into every aspect of our beings.4 I stressed that knowledge is intimate within Nishnaabewin: individuals have the responsibility for generating meaning in their lives, for discovering their place in the world with the guidance of their names, spiritual relations, clan affiliations, their own gifts, desires, talents, and skills sets and by actively engaging the world. I emphasized it was the re- sponsibility of families and communities to support individuals and their diverse life paths, as opposed to judging and discour- aging individual growth and actualization, and that this creates agency and self- determination, variance and diversity. I went

KwE AS RESURGENT METHOD 29

on to talk about how Nanabush’s early trips around the world (discussed in more detail in chapter 4 of this volume) outline Nishnaabeg ways of knowing or generating knowledge, includ- ing visiting, ceremony, singing, dancing, storytelling, hunting, fishing, gathering, observing, reflecting, experimenting, vi- sioning, dreaming, ricing, and sugaring, for example.5 Chapter 4 also explains how Nishnaabeg internationalism allows for the engagement of other theoretical traditions within the frame of Nishnaabewin. Edna says, “wear your teachings,” and what she is telling us when she does, is that you can’t study or read about this system to understand it. One has to animate our practices of living over several decades. One has to be the intervention, one has to not only wear the theories but use them to navigate life.

As much as this book is about my own deepening under- standings of these theories within my life, these intellectual practices are also the mechanism through which I have generat- ed my understanding of the theories, concepts, and ideas in this book. This book comes then from a different set of intellectual practices than the ones privileged in the academy. It adheres to a different set of theories on how knowledge is constructed, gen- erated, and communicated. It uses a different set of methodolo- gies to generate those ideas. I understand the word kwe to mean woman within the spectrum of genders in Nishnaabemowin, or the Nishnaabe language. Kwe is not a commodity. Kwe is not capital. It is different than the word woman because it recog- nizes a spectrum of gender expressions and it exists embedded in grounded normativity. Kwe cannot be exploited. There is a fluidity to my use of the term kwe that gestures to the gender variance within Nishnaabewin. Kwe does not conform to the ri- gidity of the colonial gender binary, nor is kwe essentialized. In my mind, kwe has the capacity to be inclusive of both cis and trans experiences, but this is not my decision to make, because I do not write from that positionality.

My life as a kwe within Nishnaabewin is method because my people have always generated knowledge through the combina- tion of emotion and intellectual knowledge within the kinetics of our placed- based practices, as mitigated through our bodies,

30 KwE AS RESURGENT METHOD

minds, and spirits. In fact, within Nishnaabewin, I am fully re- sponsible for generating meaning about my life through the way I think and live. This internal work is a necessary and vital part of living responsibly and ethically within our grounded normativ- ity. It is my sovereignty. Within this larger process, on the land I’ve engaged in Nishnaabeg practices of hunting, fishing, har- vesting rice and medicines, ceremony, language learning, sing- ing, dancing, making maple syrup, parenting, and storytelling, and I’ve spent over a decade learning from elder Doug Williams. I’ve paid great attention to my thoughts, emotions, and expe- riences as a kwe living at this particular point in time, and I’ve used this to critique settler colonialism and to generate thoughts on radical resurgent responses.6 I have not reacted to these emo- tional responses uncritically but explored and processed them through ceremony, discussions, artistic practice, and therapeu- tic contexts and with elders. This is an act of resurgence itself: centering Nishnaabeg intellect and thought through the embod- iment of Nishnaabeg practices, and using the theory and knowl- edge generated to critique my current reality.

This is not just experiential knowledge or embodied knowl- edge. It is not just individual knowledge rooted in my own perspectives and experiences with the abusive power of colo- nialism, because it is theoretically anchored to and generated through Nishnaabeg intelligence and because it takes place entirely within grounded normativity— perhaps a strangulated grounded normativity but grounded normativity nevertheless. In an entirely Nishnaabeg intellectual context, I wouldn’t have to explain this at all. This would be understood because it is how our knowledge system has always worked.

This is kwe as method generating kwe as theorist. This is kwe as method generating kwe as theorist, as we have

always done. To this end, this isn’t an academic book in a Western sense,

because in many ways it does not conform to and reproduce straight, white, cisgendered, masculinist academic conventions, theories, and citational practices, and therefore knowledge, de- spite the fact these are normalized within the academy.7 Indig-

KwE AS RESURGENT METHOD 31

enous peoples, particularly children, women, and Two Spirit and queer (2SQ) people, can choose to use the conventions of the academy to critique the system of settler colonialism and advance Indigenous liberation, and I believe this is valuable work.8 We can also choose to continue to produce knowledge and theory in opposition to the academy as resistance, resur- gence, and sustenance through our own systems of knowledge, and I believe this is also vital work.9 Many of us do both at the same time. However, the knowledge our bodies and our prac- tices generate, that our theories and methodologies produce, has never been considered valid knowledge within the academy and therefore often exists on the margins.10 As a result of this gatekeeping, the academy cannot account for nor explain what has happened to me as a kwe under the system of colonialism in a manner that I can wholeheartedly embrace, and without the knowledge, analysis, and critique produced by Indigenous peo- ple, particularly women and 2SQ people on our own terms, the academy cannot have a full understanding of colonialism as a process nor can it fully understand Indigenous resurgence.11 As political orders, our bodies, minds, emotions, and spirits pro- duce theory and knowledge on a daily basis without conforming to the conventions of the academy, and I believe this has not only sustained our peoples, but it has always propelled Indige- nous intellectual rigor and propelled our resurgent practices.12 This is Indigenous excellence.

Following Nishnaabeg intellectual practices, you will find me citing Indigenous scholars and writers that resonate most profoundly in my head and in my heart, as the practice of deb- wewin, or the process of producing truths.13 You will find me relying on Nishnaabeg practices as theory, highlighting my own personal practice of Nishnaabeg intelligence and privileging the often painful and uncomfortable knowledge I carry that has been generated from existing as an Indigenous woman in the context of settler colonialism. My body and my life are part of my research, and I use this knowledge to critique and analyze. I will not separate this from my engagement with academic litera- ture, because in my life these things are not compartmentalized.

32 KwE AS RESURGENT METHOD

I write from the first person, because within Nishnaabewin, this is a mechanism of accountability for my own thoughts, critique, and analysis, and a recognition that these will necessarily vary from other Nishnaabeg thinkers. I use Nishnaabewin as theory because that is what my people have always done, although there are many other conceptual windows into our thought system. I tell stories, both sacred stories (aandisokaanan) and personal stories (dibajimowinan), as a way of communicating ideas and concepts because that is how my people express themselves, and I rely on Nishnaabeg aesthetics to communicate meaning through story (see chapter 11 for a detailed explanation). Some concepts are introduced early in this book and then repeated later in the work as a mechanism for deepening understandings because in Nishnaabeg intellectual practices meaning is derived from both repetition and context.

There are those who will not see this as an expression of the complex system of Nishnaabeg intelligence, as theory or intel- lect, or as a valid form of knowledge production. I will not apol- ogize for this, or qualify this, or defend this, nor will I write this book in a way that might be more palatable to whiteness. There are those who will therefore position this work not as theory or an academic contribution but as a soft intellectual work or narrative or creative nonfiction. The latter positioning is both racialized and gendered, and I have no desire to center white- ness and answer to their positioning. This work has already been done by several scholars and students in Indigenous academic circles. I believe my job as an Indigenous thinker and writer is to use the work of my colleagues to expand us, challenge us, and to hold us all up, as this community continually does for me.14

This book builds upon the thinking and action of countless Indigenous peoples I am in relationship with in the present and with those who have engaged the same ideas and thinking in the past. My writing and thinking is (still) highly influenced by the unapologetic work of Lee Maracle in general and I Am Woman in particular. When I read this book, it feels like she wrote it to me.15 It feels truthful. It feels real because it is. She wrote about what it was like to be an Indigenous woman, and she used it to

KwE AS RESURGENT METHOD 33

formulate a scathing critique of the colonial system. She didn’t back it up with academic references. She didn’t qualify it. She didn’t say maybe it isn’t like this for everyone. She didn’t dance around being a victim. She didn’t beg for the colonizer to recog- nize her pain. She hit gender violence, capitalism, heteropatri- archy, and colonialism hard. She just spoke her truth, without apologies. And then she published it herself. As if this is normal, as if it is her birthright, because, as she demonstrates to us, it is. Here we are, over twenty years later. It is still in print. It’s still being used in courses. There is still nothing like it. To a large extent, I learned kwe as method from her, scholars like Trish Monture, and community organizers like Judy DaSilva and from so many Indigenous women like them, working in their commu- nities, in cities, and in their families with zero fanfare and little recognition. I think the first time I saw kwe as method in action was during the summer of 1990, when I watched Mohawk activ- ist from Kanehsatà:ke Ellen Gabriel on the nightly news act as spokesperson for her people during the “Oka Crisis.” The same unapologetic grounded truth that emanated from her during the summer of 1990 she carries with her to this day, not as a celeb- rity, but as a committed educator and language activist in her community.

At its core, kwe as method is about refusal.16 It is about re- fusing colonial domination, refusing heteropatriarchy, and re- fusing to be tamed by whiteness or the academy. I understand this refusal in the context of Nishnaabewin and Michi Saagiig grounded normativity because I have come to know refusal most intimately in this context. Within Nishnaabewin, refusal is an appropriate response to oppression, and within this context it is always generative; that is, it is always the living alternative. When the Nishnaabeg were exploiting the deer by overhar- vesting, the deer refused and left the territory.17 After the state believed we could no longer hunt and fish in our territory as a result of the Williams Treaty, many hunters and fishers refused and continued to do so. When Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg wom- en were told they were not Status Indians because of whom they married, many refused and continued to live as Nishnaabeg.

34 KwE AS RESURGENT METHOD

Earlier this year, when white cottagers demanded James Whet- ung stop harvesting wild rice on Pigeon Lake, he refused, and then the wider community also refused.18 I exist as a kwe be- cause of the continual refusal of countless generations to disap- pear from the north shore of Lake Ontario. I am interested in all the ways the Nishnaabeg refuse colonial authority, domina- tion, and heteropatriarchy throughout time while generating Nishnaabewin.

I am often reminded of this when I think of Kiizhigo, and I think of Kiizhigo when I’m refusing to be confined to the city and when I am out on our lakes. Kiizhigo was a Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg who lived in Curve Lake. He did not like the way the government was constantly interfering in the life of the com- munity, so he left and went to live on an island by himself. He refused colonial domination and reembedded himself in Nish- naabewin, taking care of himself with his bush skills and knowl- edge of the land. Kiizhigo lived there by himself for many years until he died, and the island is now named after him.19 Everyone thinks of Kiizhigo and his refusal when we drive or paddle by his island. His refusal is now encoded on the land.

The Radical Resurgence Project

The Radical Resurgence Project uses Indigenous interroga- tion, critique, and theory, and the grounded normativity these systems generate, as the intelligence system that instigates re- surgence and is the process from which grounded, real world, Indigenous alternatives are manifest and realized. It employs Nishnaabeg story as algorithm, as coded processes that gener- ate solutions to the problems of occupation and erasure and to life on earth. It begins from a place of refusal of colonialism and its current settler colonial structural manifestation. It refuses dispossession of both Indigenous bodies and land as the focal point of resurgent thinking and action. It continues the work of dismantling heteropatriarchy as a dispossessive force. It calls for the formation of networks of constellations of radical resurgent organizing as direct action within grounded normativities and against the dispossessive forces of capitalism, heteropatriarchy,

KwE AS RESURGENT METHOD 35

and white supremacy. These are actions that engage in a genera- tive refusal of an aspect of state control, so they don’t just refuse, they also embody an Indigenous alternative. This in my mind is not up for debate. I simply cannot see how Indigenous peoples can continue to exist as Indigenous if we are willing to replicate the logics of colonialism, because to do so is to actively engage in self- dispossession from the relationships that make us Indige- nous in the first place.

As I do in all my writing, I write first and foremost for my own people. There are many different diverse interpretations and philosophical standpoints within Nishnaabewin, and as communities of thinkers, I know we will continue to engage very deeply with our knowledge in our Nishnaabeg lives. My favorite thing is discussions where Indigenous intellectuals engage with my work from within their own nations’ thought system. These conversations are so rich and affirmative to me. I look forward to this Indigenous internationalism. I look for- ward also to continuing to build this internationalism with the brilliance of Black theorists, artists, activists, revolutionaries, and radical imaginaries and their communities both within my territory and beyond with the hope that we can become mutual coresistors in our flight to freedom.

At this point, I’ve made a series of basic, necessary inter- ventions to set the stage for my discussion of the Radical Re- surgence Project. I’ve made the case for centering this work in the theoretical home of Indigenous intelligence and grounded normativity, and that this book itself is conceptualized and com- municated through Nishnaabewin. I use kwe as method to re- fuse and to analyze colonialism as a structure of processes, and I’ve placed the eradication of gender violence as a central proj- ect of radical resurgence. These interventions continue and are expanded over the course of the book. In chapter 3, I put forth a more expansive nonhierarchical conceptualization of dispos- session to include land and bodies as the meta- relationship In- digenous peoples have with the state. I also use kwe as method to discuss settler colonialism as a structure of processes. My dis- cussion of Indigenous intelligence or grounded normativity as

36 KwE AS RESURGENT METHOD

the theoretical fuel for radical resurgence is deepened in chapter 4 with my discussion of place- based Nishnaabeg international- ism. I then turn to another crucial intervention in resurgence theory with a consideration of Nishnaabeg practices of anticap- italism in chapter 5. Chapters 6, 7, and 8 take on heteropatriar- chy as an impediment to Indigenous nation building and radical resurgence, and queer Indigeneity as a crucial expression of In- digenous intelligence. Chapter 9 explores place- based resurgent education that centers children in Nishnaabewin. Chapter 10 considers resurgent struggle, recognition, and generative refus- al within Indigenous movement building. This leads to my con- sideration in chapters 11 and 12 of constellating everyday acts of resurgence into collective action through everyday decolo- nization and living a decolonizing queer politics, drawing on work by Kwagiulth (Kwakwaka’wakw) scholar and resurgence theorist  Sarah Hunt along with non- Indigenous scholar Cindy Holmes. I also examine Cree/Dene scholar Jarrett Martineau’s work on resurgence in artistic practice and the creation of con- stellations as flight paths to Indigenous freedom. The Radical Resurgence Project concludes in the final chapter by consider- ing resurgent mobilization.

These interventions are explored through engagement with my own understandings of Nishnaabeg intelligence, Indigenous scholarship, and kwe as resurgent method. They are reoccurring themes that are introduced in various forms and then deepened as the book progresses. These interventive themes are explored from the starting point that radical resurgent mobilizing must refuse dispossession in all forms and take on, in a deeply critical way, the forces of capitalism, white supremacy, and heteropatri- archy, and that in these refusals, we center ourselves in generat- ing the alternatives.

As for Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, the vast majority of thinking and research for this book has taken place in commu- nity and on the land. My thinking is highly influenced through conversations and interactions with several Indigenous theo- rists, including elders Doug Williams and Edna Manitowabi, my children, Minowewebeneshiihn and Nishna, and the col-

KwE AS RESURGENT METHOD 37

lective work of the Dechinta Centre for Research and Learning, particularly Dene elders and land users. Some of the theorists cited in these pages practice within Indigenous intelligence sys- tems, some within Western systems, and some carry and prac- tice both. They are all concerned with Indigenous excellence regardless of where their practices are based, and their work is rigorous. I have thought a great deal about the important discus- sions around citational politics in Indigenous Studies, and for me this discussion moves beyond just citations; for me these are complex questions that relate to the construction of knowledge itself. Those who think and live within Indigenous intelligence systems are marginalized within the academia and are not posi- tioned as theorists or thinkers. For those of us trained within the academy, the parts of us that embody Indigenous intelligence are also marginalized and often invisible to the academy but visible to our families and communities. Following Nishnaabeg prac- tices, I have cited the source where I first learned the concept— not necessarily where I first heard the concept, but where I first paid attention to it. The idea of thinking in formation or thinking with, for me, comes from Indigenous intellectual practices and is also parallel to the intellectual work and brilliance of Black feminist theorists and is central to this work.20 In this book, I am thinking and writing deeply about the challenges Black fem- inist theorist Alexis Pauline Gumbs asked of herself in writing The Spill. I am asking myself, what does it mean to write with Indigenous theory? What does it mean to “prioritize being with each other, being with the work, being with the possibilities, more than they prioritize the gymnastics of trying to get it right in a structure built on wrongness?”21 To Gumbs, this meant not citing white people or men in her book. To me, it has come to mean thinking critically about the emerging canon in Indige- nous Studies, noticing whose voices are centered and whose are marginalized, prioritizing Indigenous intellectual practices and theories, embedding myself in a formation with other Indige- nous thinkers, and citing the works necessary to bring about in- terventions of the highest caliber as I strive for excellence within these Indigenous spaces on Indigenous terms.

39

THREE THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KWE

A few years ago, the Ontario government recognized the hunting and fishing rights promised to the Michi Saagiig Nish- naabeg in the 1818 treaty, after refusing to do so for eighty- nine years.1 This made me happy. I am now able to hunt and fish in my territory without worrying that constant settler surveillance will lead to my criminalization for violating provincial fish and gaming regulations. But there is also a problem. It seems like the state is recognizing our hunting and fishing rights, on one hand, because we legally forced them to do so (using their le- gal system), and on the other hand, because our hunting and fishing rights no longer pose a threat to the state and to settler society. They pose no threat to cottage life in the Kawarthas, to either the family farms or the industrialized farming in the southern part of our territory, or to the cabin cruisers on the Trent- Severn Waterway. They pose no threat to the golfers in the multiple pesticide- laden courses throughout Kina Gchi Nishnaabeg- ogamig, to the sport hunters jammed onto the frag- ments of crown land on opening day, or to the anglers on the

lakes and rivers following the regulatory seasons of the Ministry of Natural Resources.2 They pose no threat to settler land acqui- sition. Harvesting is no longer the economic fabric of our nation. Dispossession in our territory is now so complete that there is almost no place to hunt. The recognition of these rights seem- ingly poses no economic or political threat to settlers, because hunting and fishing can now really be practiced in this territory only on a microscale, as a hobby. And to keep it that way, the provincial recognition of these rights did not come with a return of land upon which these rights could be exercised.

I hunt anyway. We hunt anyway— on the small patches of “crown” land, with permission on private land, without per- mission on “private land,” and in the places where our people have always hunted. Just like we do ceremony in campgrounds, in interpretive centers, and in church basements, in the places our people have always done ceremony. Just like we pick medi- cine in ditches, in farmers’ fields, and in tiny forests, where our people have always picked medicines. Just like we rice, launch canoes on the sides of roads or from private docks or lawns, and spearfish in the spring, in the places we always have.

While being out on the land in my territory can be won- derful, it is also heartbreaking because my primary experience of being a Michi Saagiiig Nishnaabekwe in my territory is one of continual dispossession. I am constantly reminded of this through the physical destruction of terrestrial and aquatic eco- systems, by the construction of monster cottages in our camp- sites and sacred places, by the physical barriers of roads, lift locks, farms, and golf courses, by the sheer volume of boat traf- fic, jet skis, and leaf blowers in the summer, and by the settler erasure and surveillance that reminds me, according to them, I am not supposed to be here. I grew up physically disconnect- ed from my territory. I grew up cognitively disconnected from Nishnaabeg thought and language. I grew up, like other Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg, in the United Church as opposed to our own spiritual practices. I grew up disconnected from my own power as a kwezens and later as a kwe. I grew up disconnected from the practices of Nishnaabewin. I also refuse that reality.

40 THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE

Expansive Dispossession

The removal of Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg bodies from the land, from the present, and from all of the relationships that are mean- ingful to us, politically and otherwise, is the meta- relationship my Ancestors and I have with Canada. This was accomplished and is maintained through land theft as a result of unethical treaty making and the murdering, disappearing, assimilating, and erasing of Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg bodies and presence from the north shore of Lake Ontario.3 A great deal of the col- onizer’s energy has gone into breaking the intimate connection of Nishnaabeg bodies (and minds and spirits) to each other and to the practices and associated knowledges that connect us to land, because this is the base of our power. This means land and bodies are commodified as capital under settler colonialism and are naturalized as objects for exploitation. This has always been extremely clear to Indigenous women and 2SQ people, and it’s why sexual and gender violence has to be theorized and ana- lyzed as vital, not supplemental, to discussions of colonial dis- possession.4

Indigenous bodies, particularly the bodies of 2SQ people, children, and women, represented the lived alternative to hetero- normative constructions of gender, political systems, and rules of descent. They are political orders. They represent alternative Indigenous political systems that refuse to replicate capitalism, heteropatriarchy, and whiteness. They are the embodied rep- resentation in the eyes of the colonizers of land, reproduction, Indigenous governance, and political systems.5 They reproduce and amplify Indigeneity, and so it is these bodies that must be eradicated— disappeared and erased into Canadian society, outright murdered, or damaged to the point where we can no longer reproduce Indigeneity.6 The attack on our bodies, minds, and spirits, and the intimate trauma this encodes is how dispos- session is maintained. This is why the bodies of children and the structure of our families were attacked through the residential and day school system and continue to be targeted through the state’s child welfare system and state- run education system. This

THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE 41

is why the bodies of women and 2SQ people as well as men are attacked through outright murder, imposed poverty, criminal- ization, assimilation, addictions, physical and mental illness, legislative disappearance, ongoing cognitive imperialism, rac- isms, and the heteropatriarchy of Canadian society. Our bodies are taken from us, and if they are handed back to us at all, they are battered, bruised, neglected, and broken. So Indigenous bodies have to work very hard first to be alive and second to exist as Indigenous peoples. The “social ills” in our communities Canadians so love to talk about are simply manifestations of the hurt and trauma from the ongoing violence of dispossession. They are the symptoms, not the disease. “Fixing” the “social ills” without addressing the politics of land and body dispossession serves only to reinforce settler colonialism, because it doesn’t stop the system that causes the harm in the first place while also creating the opportunity for neoliberalism to benevolently pro- vide just enough ill- conceived programming and “funding” to keep us in a constant state of crisis, which inevitably they market as our fault.

The Canadian state has always been primarily interested in acquiring the “legal” rights to our land for settlement and for the extraction of natural resources. The removal and erasure of Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg bodies from land make it easier for the state to acquire and maintain sovereignty over land because this not only removes physical resistance to dispossession, it also erases the political orders and relationships housed within Indigenous bodies that attach our bodies to our land. The results are always the same: the fictitious creation of the Canadian my- thology that if Indigenous nations existed, they did so in politi- cally primitive forms in the distant past; that if Canada has any colonial baggage, it is also firmly in the past; and that while some unfortunate things might have happened, again in the past, it is time to put that aside and start a new relationship where we are now; that is, with Canada having full and unchallenged jurisdic- tion over all the land within its borders; that is, in this new rela- tionship, we will not be talking about land, and we will certainly not be talking about land restitution.

42 THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE

Dispossession for kwe is not just about the removal of my body from the land. It is the removal of my body from Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg intelligence or grounded normativity, and then the attempted destruction of grounded normativity itself. It is the Christianization of my spirit. It is the theft of my sexuality. It is the theft of my emotional life, which is now overwhelmed processing a backlog of trauma and the ongoing daily violence of being Indigenous in Canada. It is the violent extraction of my body, mind, emotions, and spirit and the relationships they house from Nishnaabewin, the relational structure that attaches me to Aki.

Aki is not capital. It is not a commodity. Kwe is not capital. Kwe is not a commodity.

Throughout my life, the land- based people I have come in contact with categorically refuse this expansive dispossession. In some ways, this refusal is acute in my homeland because we have so little Nishnaabeg space left. My people are out on the land, even if we are criminalized, even if we have to ask settlers for false permission, even though the land is not pristine, even though, even though.7 This is in part because within Nishnaabeg thought, the opposite of dispossession is not possession, it is deep, reciprocal, consensual attachment. Indigenous bodies don’t relate to the land by possessing or owning it or having con- trol over it. We relate to land through connection— generative, affirmative, complex, overlapping, and nonlinear relationship. The reverse process of dispossession within Indigenous thought then is Nishnaabeg intelligence, Nishnaabewin. The opposite of dispossession within Indigenous thought is grounded normativ- ity.8 This is our power.

What does all of this mean in terms of building radical In- digenous nation- based resurgences? It means recognizing that dispossession is our relationship with the state, and like our An- cestors, we simultaneously refuse dispossession as a foundation- al force in our lives. It means we have to think of dispossession in more complex terms than just land loss. We have to think of expansive dispossession as a gendered removal of our bodies and minds from our nation and place- based grounded normativities.

THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE 43

It means resurgence must be concerned with the reattachment of our minds, bodies. and spirits to the network of relationships and ethical practices that generates grounded normativity. It means the reattachment of our bodies to our lands, regardless of whether those lands are rural, reserves, or urban. It means that our resurgent responses to settler colonialism must come from within our nation- based grounded normativities. Radical resurgence means nonhierarchical relationships between land and bodies, bodies meaning the recognition of our physicality as political orders, and our intellectual practices, emotions, spir- ituality, and hubs of networked relationships. A refusal of dis- possession that is generative is the process of becoming deeply attached to Nishnaabewin and reembedded and enmeshed in grounded normativity. It means the interdependence of land and bodies in a networked fashion rather than a gendered hierarchy.

The continually generated ethical systems of grounded normativity require us to act in particular ways in the face of oppression even if we cannot name the direct connection to dispossession and even in situations where the oppression is un- related to Indigenous dispossession. Because settler colonialism is the system that maintains this dispossession in the present, we need to be clear that our attachment to land is not up for negoti- ation, and that a radical resurgence within grounded normativ- ity necessarily means the dismantling of settler colonialism and the return of Indigenous lands.

Colonialism and Kwe

I understand colonialism as an overwhelmingly dominating force in my daily life that continually attacks my freedom and well- being as kwe. Colonialism tries very hard to keep me off my land. It tries very hard to ensure I cannot speak my language, think as my Ancestors did, find comfort in elders or the river or the lake of rice. It tries very hard to get me to think in a particu- lar way. It tries very hard to get me to resist in a particular way. It tries very hard to get me to move about my territory in a partic- ular way. It controls how I make a living and how I feed my fam- ily. It tries to control the relationship I have with my children. It

44 THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE

tries to control my sexuality, the ways I express my gender, how I take care of myself, and how I parent with escalating magnitudes of structural and interpersonal discipline and violence if I do not conform. It creates a world where I am never safe. It is a violent system of continual harm forced on my body, mind, emotions, and spirit designed to destroy my ability to attach to my land, to function as kwe, and to be a grounded, influencing agent in the world. I am interested in freedom, not survival, and as kwe, I understand my freedom is dependent upon the destruction of settler colonialism.

I understand settler colonialism’s present structure as one that is formed and maintained by a series of processes for the pur- poses of dispossessing, that create a scaffolding within which my relationship to the state is contained. I certainly do not ex- perience it as a historical incident that has unfortunate conse- quences for the present.9 I experience it as a gendered structure and a series of complex and overlapping processes that work to- gether as a cohort to maintain the structure. The structure is one of perpetual disappearance of Indigenous bodies for perpetual territorial acquisition, to use Patrick Wolfe’s phrase.10 I think the insight that settler colonialism is formed and maintained by a series of processes is important because it recognizes that the state sets up different controlled points of interaction through its practices— consultations, negotiations, high- level meetings, inquiries, royal commissions, policy, and law, for instance, that slightly shift, at least temporarily and on microscales, our ex- perience of settler colonialism as a structure. The state uses its asymmetric power to ensure it always controls the processes as a mechanism for managing Indigenous sorrow, anger, and resis- tance, and this ensures the outcome remains consistent with its goal of maintaining dispossession. It can appear or feel as if the state is operating differently because it is offering a slightly dif- ferent process to Indigenous peoples. Goodness knows, we’d all like to feel hopeful. We’d like to see a prime minister smudging or acknowledging he is on Indigenous territory and have that signal a significant dismantling of settler colonialism. This is at- tractive to us because we know we experience colonialism as a

THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE 45

series of entrenched processes and practices, particularly in our local place- based realities, and within our own thought systems we know that we can create change by shifting the practices with which we are engaged. If we experience settler colonialism as a structure made up of processes, when the practices of settler co- lonialism appear to shift, it can appear to present an opportunity to do things differently, to change our relationship to the state.

The structure shifts and adapts, however, because it has one job: to maintain dispossession by continually attacking Indig- enous bodies and destroying Indigenous families. Neoliberal states manipulate the processes that maintain settler colonialism to give the appearance that the structure is changing. They ma- nipulate Indigenous emotional responses, for instance, to get us to support these slight shifts in process by positioning those who critique the state- controlled processes of reconciliation or the national inquiry into missing and murdered Indigenous women, for instance, as angry radicals who are unwilling to work togeth- er for the betterment of Indigenous peoples and Canadians. Co- lonialism as a structure is not changing. It is shifting to further consolidate its power, to neutralize our resistance, to ultimately fuel extractivism. Our history and our intelligence systems tell us we need to see this in the present.

Indeed, settler colonialism as a structure necessarily has to shift and adapt in order to meet the insatiable need of the state for land and resources. The processes of colonialism don’t neces- sarily look and feel the same every time, but we can’t be tricked. Intent matters within Nishnaabeg thought. Over and over again we watch our elders pray and explain intent to the spirits so that they will help and support them. The intention of the structure of colonialism is to dispossess. We cannot allow our processes, our emotions, or our intelligence to be co- opted and processed into the structure that is at the root of all of our problems, even if at the outset these processes appear to be kinder and gentler than those we have experienced in the past.

The processes within nation- based grounded normativities destroy the structures of colonialism because they perpetually shift power back. In fact, intact, grounded normativity prevents

46 THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE

the context and the conditions necessary for colonialism ever taking hold in the first place. I think we need to make a shift from Indigenizing the processes that maintain the structures of settler colonialism, and expand, deepen, and reactualize the processes and knowledges of grounded normativity to structuralize Indig- enous nationhood and resurgence and mobilizations as a mech- anism to dismantle the structure of colonialism in all forms.

Radical Resurgence

When I first began thinking about the Radical Resurgence Proj- ect, I struggled in considering whether resurgence was still a relevant and useful lens to frame the interventions I wanted to think and write about. On one hand, resurgent thinkers are a small group of Indigenous scholars and organizers, mainly West Coast based, who continue to write and think about resurgence theory. Few of us have taken up what resurgence looks like with- in nation- based thought systems. A lot of Indigenous scholar- ship ends with resurgence as the mechanism to move forward without adding substantively to the conversation of how to do this, and still others have talked about nationhood, nation build- ing, and a recentering of Indigenous political thought without mentioning resurgence to any degree. There are some valid cri- tiques, although rarely written of resurgence, particularly re- garding gender violence and queerness. At one point, I consid- ered if it would be relatively easy to write the same book without mentioning resurgence, just grounding my work more deeply in Nishnaabeg thought. The aftermath of Idle No More, and the election of a liberal government changed my thinking. I see a critical need for Indigenous organizing and mobilization more now than I did under Harper because of the subtle, yet power- ful forces of neoliberalism demobilizing movements of all sorts and pulling Indigenous peoples into state- controlled processes to a greater degree. I see the natural world, one that I’m entirely dependent upon and in love with, crumbling beneath my feet with the weight of global capitalism. I see a radical transforma- tion that has to occur not just for the Nishnaabeg but for oth- er Indigenous nations as well. I wanted to find a respectful way

THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE 47

of talking and thinking about issues that are difficult for us to talk about.

Resurgence has come to me to represent a radical practice in Indigenous theorizing, writing, organizing, and thinking, one that I believe is entirely consistent with and inherently from In- digenous thought.11 Radical means a thorough and comprehen- sive reform, and I use the term in this book to mean root, to channel the vitality of my Ancestors to create a present that is recognizable to them because it is fundamentally different than the one settler colonialism creates. I am not using the term to mean crazy, violent, or from the fringe, nor do I think a trapper’s critique of colonialism by setting their traplines is a radical act. It’s also normal. It’s a valid critique based on direct experience with the system.

I am also not afraid to be radical, because when I hear sto- ries of my Ancestors praying to the water every single day, be- fore they had experience with pollution or with how bad things could get, I see these practices in my current context as a radi- cal act of love. I think the epic nature of settler colonialism re- quires radical responses. Radical resurgence requires a deeply critical reading of settler colonialism and Indigenous response to the current relationship between Indigenous peoples and the state. Radical requires us to critically and thoroughly look at the roots of the settler colonial present— capitalism, white suprem- acy, heteropatriarchy, and anti- Blackness. Radical requires us to name dispossession as the meta- dominating force in our re- lationship to the Canadian state, and settler colonialism as the system that maintains this expansive dispossession.

I’m also not suggesting that we rename resurgence as rad- ical resurgence— to me, this is the movement’s collective deci- sion, not mine. Radical resurgence is simply a tool I’m using in this book to communicate more specifically what I mean when I use the term resurgence. This is necessary because the word resurgence is now used in all kinds of ways, some of which feed nicely into discourses around reconciliation and neoliberalism, and others that remain in critical opposition to both. Radical resurgence means an extensive, rigorous, and profound reorga-

48 THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE

nizing of things. To me, resurgence has always been about this. It has always been a rebellion and a revolution from within. It has always been about bringing forth a new reality.

Resurgence as a lens, critical analysis, a set of theoretical un- derstandings, and an organizing and mobilizing platform has the potential to wonderfully transform Indigenous life on Turtle Is- land. Nishnaabeg intelligence propels me toward this fundamen- tal transformation because I know that the current man- made global structures of the world are killing the planet and exploit- ing everything and everyone that is meaningful to me within my own nation. Resurgence is hope for me because of its simultane- ous dismantling of settler colonial meta- manifestations and its reinvigoration of Indigenous systemic alternatives— alternatives that have already produced sustainable, beautiful, principled societies. Yet we need more visioning, thinking, acting, and mobilization around these Indigenous systemic alternatives be- cause creating the alternative is the mechanism through which freedom can be achieved. Engagement with Indigenous systems changes Indigenous peoples. It is a highly emergent and gener- ative process. This requires less engagement with the state and more presence within Indigenous realities. This requires strug- gle and commitment.

So if resurgence was always radical, why use a modifier now? Well, I’m being strategic and deliberate. I am using rad- ical to separate the kind of resurgence I’m talking about from other modifiers. In the context of settler colonialism and neo- liberalism, the term cultural resurgence, as opposed to political resurgence, which refers to a resurgence of story, song, dance, art, language, and culture, is compatible with the reconciliation discourse, the healing industry, or other depoliticized recovery- based narratives. I get worried when I hear the state and its in- stitutions using the term resurgence.12 Cultural resurgence can take place within the current settler colonial structure of Canada because it is not concerned with dispossession, whereas polit- ical resurgence is seen as a direct threat to settler sovereignty. From within Indigenous thought, however, the cultural and the political are joined and inseparable, and they are both generated

THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE 49

through place- based practices— practices that require land. Our people have known this for a long time. Our “cultural” practices were hidden from the surveillance of Indian Act authorities because they embodied our political practices, because they were powerful, and regenerating language, ceremony, and land- based practices is always political.13 Community- based resur- gence projects like the language nests are inherently political and cultural because the intent is to facilitate radical transfor- mation rather than just a cultural revitalization. For instance, a giveaway ceremony or part of a ceremony in Nishnaabewin is a mechanism of redistributing wealth in a collective and is at once a political, spiritual, social, and communal practice. We simply cannot achieve a nation- based resurgence within the current hyperextractivist economic and political structure of the Ca- nadian state. Culture as a modifier de- politicizes resurgence into the realm of neoliberalism (this can be a culture practice but not an economic or political one), and my insertion of the word radical is a taking back of resurgence from the realm of neoliberalism and reclaiming its revolutionary potential, that is, its potential to offer robust, ethical, and sustainable alterna- tives to settler colonialism. Cultural resurgence can be read as compatible with settler colonialism because it fits within an in- clusive narrative of Canada as a multicultural society. Language, cultural expression, and even spirituality don’t (necessarily) pose an unmanageable threat to settler colonialism, because cultural resurgence can rather effortlessly be co- opted by lib- eral recognition. Indigenous peoples require a land base and therefore require a central and hard critique of the forces that propel dispossession. I’m not interested in a multicultural re- surgence or an artistic resurgence as a mechanism for inclusion into the Canadian mosaic. I am not interested in a resurgence that continues to replicate anti- queerness and heteropatri- archy. I am not interested in a resurgence that replicates anti- Blackness. I am not interested in inclusion. I am not interest- ed in reconciling. I’m interested in unapologetic placed- based nationhoods using Indigenous practices and operating in an ethical and principled way from an intact land base. This is the

50 THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE

base from which we can develop a “new relationship” with the Canadian state.

Centering Gender in Resurgence

I spend a lot of time in the Radical Resurgence Project writing about gender because dispossession is gendered, settler colo- nialism is gendered, and our resurgence therefore must crit- ically interrogate the hierarchies of heteropatriarchy in all its forms in order to stop replicating it in our nation and movement building. Gender has been marginalized in resurgence scholar- ship in particular and in Indigenous scholarship in general and is too often confined to the space of “Indigenous feminisms” or discussed only under the dogma of shallow tradition and rigid protocols.14 So often when Indigenous women and 2SQ writers and academics write about gender, our work is taken out of the political and theoretical realm and positioned in the margins. We simple must stop practicing heteropatriarchy in our scholar- ship, organizing, and mobilization. The gendered nature of colo- nialism and settler colonialism means heteropatriarchy has to be critically considered in every project we’re currently collective- ly and individually engaged in. Otherwise we risk replicating it.

What does it mean then to use the bodies, minds, and expe- riences of Indigenous children, women, and 2SQ people as the measure of the success of our movements? What does it mean to no longer tolerate heteropatriarchy in communities, in our academic and creative work, and in our movement building and mobilization? How do we set up Indigenous processes to deal with these violences within our movements and in our commu- nities? How do we ensure every Indigenous body, honored and sacred, knows respect in their bones? I see this as the work of radical resurgence.

To be clear, gender and sexual violence has taken place in centuries of overwhelming state violence targeting in differ- ent ways all genders and sexualities of Indigenous people, and heteropatriarchy is a foundational violence and dispossessing force used by the state, replicated by its citizens, and internal- ized often unwittingly and unknowingly by Indigenous peoples.

THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE 51

Heteropatriarchy is not a discrimination that has come with white supremacy and colonialism; it is a foundational disposses- sion force because it is a direct attack on Indigenous bodies as po- litical orders, thought, agency, self- determination, and freedom.

It is within our reach to stop degrading and devaluing the lives of children, Indigenous women, and 2SQ people right now and to collectively commit to this as a radical resurgence proj- ect. This would be a beautiful expression of radical Indigenous gender politics that we haven’t seen before. For some of us, it means conducting ourselves in profoundly different ways in all aspects of our lives. It means processing underlying abuse and trauma in a responsible way. It means a rebellious transforma- tion in how we conduct research, whom we cite as experts, and how our thinking is framed and ultimately takes place. I am not suggesting that we center resurgence around masculinity, even critical masculinity. I’m interested in working with all genders and ages to build nationhoods that refuse to replicate heteropa- triarchy in all forms. This has great potential for building unified movements, and it necessarily involves listening to 2SQ people, children, youth, and women to unlearn the practice of hetero- patriarchy. And while stopping intimate violence without our communities might be within our reach as an everyday act of resurgence, the systemic dismantling of heteropatriarchy is a much larger project.

Gender violence is part of a long history of white men work- ing strategically and persistently to make allies out of straight cisgendered Indigenous men, with clear rewards for those who come into white masculinity imbued with heteropatriarchy and violence, in order to infiltrate our communities and nations with heteropatriarchy and then to replicate it through the genera- tions, with the purpose of destroying our nations and gaining easy access to our land. When we engage in gender violence or are silent in the face of homophobia, transphobia, heterosexism, discrimination, and ongoing gender violence, we are working in collusion with white men and on behalf of the settler colonial state to further destroy Indigenous nationhood. We are traitors to Indigenous nations. For resurgence to work, we have to have

52 THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE

each other’s backs in our personal and professional lives so we can undo these systems on a macrolevel. We should be each oth- er’s greatest allies in this work.

Too often within Indigenous politics, a hierarchy of issues is set up flagging land issues with urgency. Land claims, treaty violations, blockades, and political negotiations are positioned as righteous work, while issues regarding children, families, sexual and gender violence, and bodies are positioned as less important— issues that can wait until we have the land back. There is also a gendered nature to this work and this assump- tion. Men working on land and political issues are positioned as theorists and leaders. Women working on child welfare issues or gender violence are marginalized and then dismissed and ignored as Indigenous feminists or community organizers. Transgendered and gender- nonconforming people are erased in the binary altogether, as are their substantive bodies of theory, knowledge, labor, and organizing. This serves only to divide us by separating and then positioning sexual and gender violence as less important to physical dispossession. It also serves to rep- licate the heteropatriarchal targeting of women and 2SQ bodies in particular, and in stark contrast to Indigenous knowledge sys- tems. Resurgence must right this. Kwagiulth (Kwakwaka’wakw) scholar  Sarah Hunt eloquently explains further that not only must we stop privileging so- called men’s work over women’s, we must treat body sovereignty with the same urgency and im- portance as political sovereignty:

Imagine if we had not lost the capacity to determine and enforce this power over our homelands and our bodies. If we started enforcing this now, I can tell you that there would be many chiefs, language speakers, cultural and political advocates who would lose their heads, because the version of resurgence we’ve been nurturing has allowed for cultural leaders to take up their roles on the “political” front- lines even while violently preying on people at home. And we have left victims of violence at the whim of state actors who regularly demonstrate

THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE 53

indifference or contempt for us, rather than building alternative mechanisms for dealing with interpersonal violence.

This is not true resurgence.15

We must continually ask ourselves how we replicate these sys- tems in our own lives and in the lives of the organizations and movements we are a part of, and collectively generate on- the- ground alternatives that center the experiences and analyses of children and youth, women, and 2SQ people. Gender violence and the destruction of Indigenous families are the fundamental dividing and dispossessional issues of our times. Resurgence will not survive, exist, or be useful if it continues to replicate the vio- lence against children, women, and 2SQ people. Dispossession under settler colonialism is gendered, and radical resurgence and nation building must take this into account in a serious and critical manner. There is no choice.

The Radical Resurgence Project simultaneously names an expansive dispossession as our primary relationship with the state, it names colonialism as the meta- system of domination, and it categorically refuses both. It refuses neoliberalism’s move to separate cultural resurgence from political resurgence and co- opt it. It faces the root. It demands land. It smashes hetero- patriarchy. It centers radical resurgence within our own nation- based intelligence systems of grounded normativities. This does not mean confinement but rather an expansive, emergent, gen- erative theoretical space that engages the best of the world’s lib- eratory thinking within the context of grounded normativity.

54 THE ATTEMPTED DISPOSSESSION OF KwE

55

FOUR NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM

When I was in my third year of biology at the University at Guelph in the early 1990s, I traveled to McMaster University with an antiracism student group for a conference on racism. It was a different time for Indigenous students at Canadian uni- versities. It was rare even to see another Indigenous person on campus at that time. There were two Indigenous speakers at the antiracism conference that day that blew my mind. I didn’t know who they were at the time. They were speaking truths to the academy in this brilliant, beautiful way, a truthful way that I hadn’t encountered before. They were speaking back to power from a place of strength. I remember talking to both of them after, telling them I was Nishnaabeg. Both said the same thing to me: they told me that everything they had said, all of their knowledge existed in my nation too, although expressed differ- ently, and that it was my responsibility to seek it out. They both sent me to my intellectual home.

The two speakers that day were renowned Haudenosaunee scholars and orators John Mohawk and Trish Monture, and al- though I didn’t realize it at the time, they had just engaged me in what I later think about as Indigenous internationalism.

56 NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM

At this point in the Radical Resurgence Project, it should be clear that I strongly believe that Indigenous thought must pro- pel resurgence. I also think Western liberatory theories can be very useful to Indigenous scholarship and mobilization particu- larly when they are considered within grounded normativity or within Indigenous thought systems.1 This thinking for me comes from within Nishnaabewin itself. Indigenous peoples have al- ways been theoretical people. We’ve always thought in complex ways about the nature of our worlds. We’ve always sought out explanations and deeper meanings. In Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, I used Edna Manitowabi’s retelling of the Seven Fires creation story to illustrate one tiny aspect of Nishnaabeg intel- ligence to demonstrate this complex thinking, outside of the dream catcher and medicine wheel appropriations of colonial culture. I wanted to emphasize that our theoretical understand- ings were constructed differently than Western theory: they are woven into doing, they are layered in meaning, they can be communicated through story, action, and embodied presence. There is an incorrect assumption, however, in this narrative that Indigenous scholars and community organizers must therefore engage only in what is perceived to be Indigenous theory. My understanding of Nishnaabewin is that our intelligence includes all the thinking that has gone into making the realities we live in and that on a more philosophical scale, internationalism has always been a part of our intellectual practices. With our com- plex ways of relating to the plant nations, animal nations, and the spiritual realm, our existence has always been inherently in- ternational regardless of how rooted in place we are. We have always been networked. We have always thought of the bush as a networked series of international relationships.

While Indigenous thinkers have always been strongly root- ed in place, we have also always seen the complicated ways our existence is intrinsically linked to and is influencing global phe- nomena; indeed, our systems of ethics require us to consider these influences and relationships in all of our decision making. In Nishnaabeg practices, our first intellectual, Nanabush, physi- cally walked the world twice after it was created.2 Nanabush

NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM 57

did not walk the world through a liberal lens to help “those less fortunate.” Nanabush did not walk the world to see how natural resources could be harnessed or how people could be exploit- ed into a particular economic or political system. Nanabush walked the world to understand their place in it, our place in it, to create face- to- face relationships with other nations and beings because Nanabush understood that the Nishnaabeg, that we all, are linked to all of creation in a global community. On this epic journey around the world, Nanabush visited with the different human and nonhuman nations that make up our world. They shared and generated story, ceremony, song, and action. They carried with them the political and spiritual practices of the Nishnaabeg as they visited different nations’ homes. They created a collective consciousness and set of international rela- tionships with each aspect of creation, which they passed on to the Nishnaabeg. When I teach PhD classes in theory and meth- odology, I use this story to demonstrate Nishnaabeg method- ology or ways of generating knowledge. The idea of Nanabush as the first researcher comes from Edna Manitowabi’s teachings as well. On this journey, Nanabush very clearly demonstrates Nishnaabeg research ethics— consent, reciprocity, respect, re- newal, relationship. They also demonstrate methodology within this ethical framework— doing or making, relationship, visiting, singing, dancing, storytelling, experimenting, observing, re- flecting, mentoring, ceremony, dreaming, and visioning as ways of generating knowledge.

Nanabush’s footprints marked all over the Canadian Shield remind us of their internationalism and that the global intercon- nections of our local place- based existences are intimately inter- twined. When Nanabush returned from their journey and visit- ed with Gzhwe Manidoo, Gzhwe Manidoo listened to what they had experienced and then sent them around the world one more time, this time with Ma’iingan, wolf, as a companion. This to me points to the relational nature of our knowledge— the journey changes with a companion, the methodology is relational. The second journey with wolf forged a different, but related, set of relationships. One’s experience of the world, of knowledge, or

58 NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM

of learning is profoundly contextual, and the body of knowledge generated the second time is different from the first.

The trajectory of Nishnaabeg internationalism, therefore, was formed very early in the creation of our world. Nanabush continues to travel the world and the universe as a teacher, in- tellectual, and leader. I see Nanabush’s journey being repeated over and over again as Nishnaabeg women engage in epic water walks around the Great Lakes, and as young Nishnaabeg walk great distances as a form of protest. But I also see Nanabush’s internationalism operating in my own place- based existence. I think a lot about this story as my professional life takes me to the territories of different Indigenous nations. I also remember that one doesn’t have to physically travel to be engaged in inter- nationalism. We have many nations that are coexisting within a given land mass already, whether those nations are made up of relationships of human or nonhuman beings. Nanabush’s in- ternationalism is layered and multifaceted and is a network of complex interrelationships.

A fundamental difference between Indigenous and non- Indigenous concepts of internationalism is that for Indigenous peoples, internationalism takes place within grounded norma- tivity. Thinking back to this volume’s introduction, one remem- bers that my nation is not just composed of Nishnaabeg. It is a series of radiating relationships with plant nations, animal na- tions, insects, bodies of water, air, soil, and spiritual beings in addition to the Indigenous nations with whom we share parts of our territory. Indigenous internationalism isn’t just between peoples. It is created and maintained with all the living beings in Kina Gchi Nishnaabeg- ogamig. Nanabush didn’t just visit with the peoples of the world, they visited with every living being of the world. The following story about the relationship between the Nishnaabeg and the Deer demonstrates internationalism within grounded normativity.

Our Treaty with the Hoof Nation

In a time long ago, all of the deer, moose, and caribou suddenly disappeared from Kina Gchi Nishnaabeg- ogamig.

NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM 59

Well, maybe it wasn’t so suddenly. At first, nobody noticed. The relatives of the Hoof Clan had to be very patient. But, after awhile, people starting to notice some changes.

In fall, dagwaagin, the hunters came back with no meat. When snow blanketed the earth, the people didn’t even see a

single track in the snow— for the whole bboon! By ziigwan, the people were getting worried. No one had seen

a deer for nearly a year. No one had seen a moose for nearly a year, and no one could even remember the last time they saw a caribou.

The people got worried. Were the Waawaashkeshiwag lost? Were the Moozoog sick and unable to get out of bed? Had Adik- wag been kidnapped by aliens? Is this all a game of hide- and- go- seek gone wrong?

The Nishnaabeg wished they had been paying better attention. They wished they had been taking better care of their relatives.

The people started feeling sad and guilty and worried— and hungry. And do you know what happens when you’re feeling sad and guilty and worried and hungry? That sad and guilty and worried and hungry mixes altogether and stews and grows and grows and grows.

And then that sad and guilty and worried and hungry turns into something different.

Those Amikwag get a little slappy with their tails. The Jijaakwag start to get a little bossy. The Migiziwag start to get nippy. Those Makwag get even more growly than usual. Those Zhigaagwag get a little careless with their medicine,

spraying it all over. And then everything starts to go in the wrong direction. So, those Nishnaabeg decided to do something before every-

thing got all lost. They got up before the sun one morning , lit a sacred fire. They prayed, sang , and offered their semaa.

After a long discussion, where everyone spoke what was in their hearts, the people decided to send out their fastest runners out in the four directions to find those hoofed ones.

Those runners ran for four days. Ziigwan was the first to come back. She hadn’t seen so much as a tuft of hair. Then Niibin

60 NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM

arrived, exhausted, and reported the same. When Dagwaagin came back, he reported that he’d seen no evidence of deer, moose, or caribou either.

Finally, Bboon returned. He was exhausted, “When I was in the very north part of our land, I saw one young deer. She ex- plained to me that her relatives had left our territory forever be- cause they felt disrespected.”

The Nishnaabeg were silent. They felt sad and lost. They thought about how they had been wasting the meat of the Hoof Clan. They thought about how they hadn’t been sharing with all their community members. They thought about how they’d killed deer even when they didn’t need them.

The people didn’t know what to do, so they decided to go and meet with the oldest and wisest people they knew. Those Elders decided to send a delegation of diplomats, spiritual people, and mediators to go and visit the Hoof Clan.

After some negotiation, the people learned that the Hoof Clan had left their territory because the Nishnaabeg were no longer honoring them. They had been wasting their meat and not treat- ing their bodies with the proper reverence. The Hoof Clan had withdrawn from the territory and their relationship with the Nish- naabeg. They had stopped participating.

The diplomats, spiritual people, and mediators just listened. They listened to all the stories and teachings the Hoof Clan had to share. They spent several long days of listening , of acknowl- edging , of discussing , and of negotiating. All the parties thought about what they could give up to restore the relationship. Finally, the Hoof Clan and the Nishnaabeg agreed to honor and respect the lives and beings of the Hoof Clan, in life and in death. They assured the Hoof Clan that they would use the flesh of the Waawaashkeshi- wag , Moozoog , or Adikwag wisely and that they would look after and protect deer, moose, and caribou habitat and homes. They told the Hoof Clan that they would share our meat with all in need, take only what they needed, and use everything they take and that they would rely on other food sources when times were tough for the Hoof Clan. The Nishnaabeg promised to leave semaa to acknowledge the anguish they have brought upon the animals

NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM 61

for killing one of their members so that they might live, and they told the Hoof Clan they would perform special ceremonies and rit- uals whenever they took an animal.

In exchange, the hoofed animals would return to our territory so that Nishnaabeg people could feed themselves and their fami- lies. They agreed to give up their lives whenever the Nishnaabeg were in need.

So the Waawaashkeshiwag , Moozoog , and Adikwag returned to the land of the Nishnaabeg. To this day, we still go through the many rituals outlined that day when we kill a member of the Hoof Clan. We remember those original Hoof Clan teachings about how to share land without interfering with other nations. We remem- ber how to take care of the land so we can all bring forth more life. We honor our treaty relationship with Waawaashkeshiwag , Moozoog , and Adikwag— so we can all live good lives.3

The idea of having international relations, relationships that are based on consent, reciprocity, respect, and empathy, is re- peated over and over again in Nishnaabeg story. The Deer clan, or nation, in this story has power, agency, and influence. They have knowledge that is now shared and encoded in the ethics and practices of hunting deer for the Nishnaabeg. There is an assumption on the part of the Nishnaabeg that the deer have language, thought, and spirit— intellect, and that intellect is dif- ferent than the intellect of the Nishnaabeg because they live in the world in a different manner than the Nishnaabeg, and they therefore generate different meaning. Our shared diplomacy has created a relationship that enables our two nations to coexist among many other nations in a single region. From within Nish- naabeg thought, our political relationship with the deer nation isn’t fundamentally different from our political relationship with the Kanien’kehá:ka.

Nishnaabeg internationalism is a consistent force in Nish- naabeg thought. The mutual influence of our relationship with Rotinonhseshá:ka can be seen in our ceremonies, political prac- tices, and intellectual endeavors. There are both Rotinonhse-

62 NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM

shá:ka and Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg thought and practices in our treaties and associated ceremonies. The eagle and the white pine tree, for instance, carry symbolic meaning in our nation and in the confederacy. Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg carries stories of Kanien’kehá:ka influence, and Kanien’kehá:ka stories carry our influence. We both have creation stories from floods and Skywoman. In my territory, babies are carried in carriers called Tikinagan. Our story is that a young Nishnaabeg parent had a baby that needed to be carried to feel calm and content. The par- ent was struggling to get work done in addition to baby care and was becoming increasingly tired and overwhelmed. One day, in the bush, the parent saw a Kanien’kehá:ka mother using a cradle board as a carrier. The Nishnaabeg parent made an Nishnaabeg version and was able to carry the baby close to her while get- ting other tasks accomplished. This made life easier, and the ba- by’s life easier. In this story, the concept and technology of the Tikinagan are attributed to the Kanien’kehá:ka people, and this is acknowledged in the story, although in the process of mak- ing and using the Tikinagan, we embed Nishnaabeg parenting practices and styles. The Tikinagan is created and used within Nishnaabeg grounded normativity.4

Internationalism between the Kanien’kehá:ka and the Mi- chi Saagiig Nishnaabeg extends beyond story and theory. We share a very powerful body of water, Lake Ontario. We are very distinctive, separate nations, and we continue to practice an in- tellectual and conceptual internationalism that has been a core practice of our Ancestors. This is embedded into our treaties and political diplomacy and the ceremonies that accompany these practices. It is also in the space of community. The Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg reserve community of Alderville has a strong rela- tionship with the Mohawk reserve community of Tyendinaga, and Tyendinaga recognizes this in a yearly ceremony commem- orating their flight from the United States after the American Revolution to the north shore of Lake Ontario and being wel- comed by Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg.5 Internationalism is also expressed between individuals. In my own case, my theoretical thinking been has been influenced during my career by sever-

NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM 63

al Rotinonhseshá:ka/Haudenosaunee scholars, and whether I know them personally or through their work, scholars, writ- ers, and thinkers from these nations continue to influence and inspire me. These relationships provide the basis for engaging with different nations and different theoretical positions. Per- haps consistent with “theoretical promiscuity” as a frame, which may be useful for many, Nishnaabeg grounded normativity provides the instigation for wide intellectual engagement but centers it within place- based practices and knowledges.6 This means we have to continually be knowing and expressing who we are as Indigenous peoples within grounded normativity and assessing the usefulness of theories from other nations from the inside. I think grounded normativity in its Nishnaabewin forma- tion compels us to ask particular questions when we’re engaging with theories from outside our own practices. Before I use work by writers, scholars, and artists outside of the Nishnaabeg nation in my own writing and thinking, I ask myself the same series of questions. Where does this theory come from? What is the con- text? How was it generated? Who generated it? What was their relationship to community and the dominant power structures? What is my relationship to the theorist or their community or the context the theory was generated within? How is it useful within the context of my own people? Do we have a similar con- cept or theory? Can I use it in an ethical and appropriate way (my ethics and theirs) given the colonial context within which scholarship and publishing take place? What are the implica- tions of citation, and do I have consent to take this intellectual thought and labor from a community I am not a part of ? Does this engagement replicate anti- Blackness? Colonialism? Hetero- patriarchy? Transphobia? This critical process, I think, is a pro- cess that many Indigenous academics already do naturally, and the answers are not easy, nor will they be the same for everyone.

Over the past few years, I have spent time in Denendeh, working with Dene people at the Dechinta Centre for Research and Learning. When I was first invited to this territory, I was very reluctant to teach in the program because I could not un- derstand what I could possibly contribute, as a non- Dene from

64 NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM

the south. I was encouraged by both Dene and Nishnaabeg to go and figure out a way of contributing that honored the eth- ics, politics, and histories of both nations. This began with re- membering Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg political practices for visiting other territories, practices that include a particular way of introducing oneself and an acknowledgment of territory. This territorial acknowledgment is also an agreement to act in a peaceful manner and with respect for Dene sovereignty, self- determination, and governance. It is a commitment to follow the practices of the Dene and to conduct myself according to those laws and practices. This is no way impacts my identity as an Nishnaabeg person. I am not becoming Dene; I am operating as an Nishnaabeg person in Dene territory in a careful manner so as to continually demonstrate respect and peaceful intent be- tween our two nations.

There is a flip side to my time in Denendeh, and that is see- ing Dene scholar Glen Coulthard explain his academic work in the context of his own community and nation. Red Skin, White Masks clearly speaks to an international audience, and the schol- arly community has embraced and celebrated the work in this context. I have been fortunate to witness Glen sharing Red Skin, White Masks with his people in his homeland, Chief Drygeese Territory of the Akaicho region of Denendeh, and I have seen a glimpse of what I’ve come to know as a long practice of Dene internationalism. I’ve seen Glen explain this work, a rather dif- ficult and challenging work at that, in a language and a manner that are fundamentally Dene— gentle and tough, careful and ex- pansive, and riding a current of profound love— to uncles and cousins, elders, hunters, Dene theorists, political leaders from the 1970s, and current chiefs and councils, and to my favorite, a group of young Dene feminists. I’ve watched his people con- nect with the concepts of recognition and resentment and the pitfalls of reconciliation, and even Marx and Fanon, as they live out as best they can the grounded normativity he articulates in Red Skin, White Masks in a deeply meaningful way. I’ve watched these non- Indigenous theories resonant within their grounded normativity.

NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM 65

At its core, Red Skin, White Masks is in part reflective of their history, their resistance, their mobilizations, their reali- ty, and their way of life. In essence, they first recognize them- selves and their experiences in this book. Red Skin, White Masks brings international theories to Dene people on their terms. Recognition is discussed at length in chapter 1, but here it is im- portant to recognize the importance of a Dene scholar reflecting and recognizing his community and nation while naming very clearly the processes of domination and extermination that they have so fiercely resisted in the past century. There are parts of this book that are a moving honor song to the strategic polit- ical organizing and rebellion of the Dene nation. This kind of recognition is far too rare within our own communities, yet it is critical in terms of breaking out of the bonds of negative inter- pellation. I understand Indigenous collective self- recognition as resurgence because Red Skin, White Masks strengthens us. I see that reflected in the Dene nation when I hear Dene responses to Red Skin, White Masks that range from:

“You’re right. You got it right. That’s what happened.”

“Mahsi Cho for saying that women are equal to men and that feminism is important.”

“You’re right! It wasn’t communist white people from Toronto, it was us, and a flip chart.”

Having spent time in Glen’s homeland, I find none of this is sur- prising, because to me the impetus for writing this book is very clear. The fire in these pages is founded upon and propelled by a tremendous love of land, love of people, and love of Dene in- telligence, whether that is hunting, making dry fish, scraping moose hides, storytelling, or visiting with aunties in Dettah. Red Skin, White Masks holds Dene people up, and watching how this work has been greeted in Denendeh, I’ve learned how important it is that our work as Indigenous scholars leaves our communities and nations in better shape than when we started, and how important it is to hold our peoples up as the brilliant, tough, loving, revolutionaries we are, even when we are telling

66 NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM

our most brutal and horrible truths, even when we are using big ten- dollar words. The most critical test of our work is whether it validates, clarifies, challenges, inspires, and confounds our own communities. We don’t always need to rely on the theories gen- erated within grounded normativity, but we do need to inter- pret and apply those within the context of nation- based interna- tionalism and from within the ethical frameworks of grounded normativities.

What about the theories and practices of Black Radical Tra- dition, of revolutionary movements in the Global South, the work of Black womanists and feminists, anticapitalism, anti– white supremacists, antiheteropatriarchy, abolition?7 Can we ethically engage these bodies of work and struggle? Do our eth- ical practices within grounded normativities require us to en- gage not just with their theories but with the people and peoples that embody these theories? Do our ethical frameworks teach us that we must develop relationships of reciprocity and co- resistance with these communities that embody both our ethical practices? How can our intellectual processes of ethical engage- ment be used to decenter our intellectual study from whiteness and produce productive ethical engagement with our global provocateurs?

For me, engagement with the theories and practices of co- resistors is powerful because it often illuminates colonial think- ing in myself, and it demonstrates different possibilities in anal- ysis and action in response to similar systems of oppression and dispossession. The ethical practices within Nishnaabeg ground- ed normativity, though, require me to engage not just with their theories but with the people and peoples that embody and enact these theories. I think my Nishnaabeg ethical practices demonstrate that I must develop relationships of reciprocity and coresistance with these communities that embody our eth- ical practices of solidarity. I cannot not just take their theories. This process of ethical engagement has the potential to decenter our intellectual study from whiteness and produce productive ethical engagement with our global provocateurs. Building al- ternatives with communities of coresistors is powerful because

NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM 67

our struggle for liberation is profoundly related to theirs. But to engage in a truthful way, we have to first know who we are, and I worry we are not committing the time and energy to Indige- nous intelligence and theory, because it is a struggle. Indigenous intellect and grounded normativity is under attack. It is easier to rely on Western liberatory theory already well established in the academy. It is easier than concerning ourselves with land. But if we don’t do the hard work of revitalizing our intellectual prac- tices and our relationship to land, we will lose it within this gen- eration. This is our struggle. It is hard work. It is responsibility and accountability and real, and you cannot get a degree in it. It’s not a hashtag or a sticker or a T- shirt or a selfie or anything white liberals think is important. It isn’t recognition. It is struggle.

We live in a time of global rebellion, where struggles against U.S. imperialism, for instance, have led to uprisings against neo- liberalism across the world and within Canada and the United States. Increasingly, we’re experiencing organizing against cli- mate change as the epochal struggle of our times, with revolu- tionary movements taking on the fight as a fight against global capitalism. This interests me because I see the dismantling of global capitalism as inseparable from the struggle for Indige- nous sovereignty, self- determination, and nationhood because capitalism at its core is not just incompatible with core Indig- enous values but has to violently shred the bodies who house those values in order to sustain itself. Capitalism cannot create Indigenous worlds, because, as Vijay Prashad says, “capitalism has never been able to produce decency.”8

Indigenous thinkers have always engaged in international- ism, but we knew ourselves first, or rather not at the expense of knowing within our own nations. Imagine if twenty years ago we had collectively decided to sink our energies not into estab- lishing ourselves as a discipline in the Western academy but into invigorating nation- based Indigenous intelligence systems on our own terms. Some of us did, many of us always have, and thus sites of Indigenous intelligence remain where they’ve always been: in the bodies and practices of Indigenous peoples who are engaged in these processes in a deep and meaningful way.

68 NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM

When I first started thinking through Nishnaabeg interna- tionalism, I thought of Michi Saagiig Nishnaabekwe, Nahne- bahnwequay, who had lost her Indian status and rights to her home and land because of her twenty- year marriage to a white man.9 In 1860, she left her home and traveled alone and preg- nant to New York to meet with Quakers, and then on to England to petition Queen Victoria, reenacting the journey of Nanabush. Nahnebahnwequay gave many important speeches in England about the situation our people were facing. She addressed the Aborigines Protection Society, an English organization con- cerned for the rights of those dispossessed by British colonial- ism. She also met with the British press and, on June 19, with the queen. Three weeks later, she gave birth.10 There were other Mi- chi Saagiig writers, activists, and artists actively engaged in this sort of internationalism, but Nahnebahnwequay is significant to me because she was a women engaged in politics at a time when colonialism had already ravaged Nishnaabeg women’s political influence.11 She was also, as an Nishnaabeg woman, a political order, fostering solidarity on the terms of Nishnaabeg grounded normativity.12 The Quakers became part of a network of allies who existed outside of the dominant political landscape and forged a solidarity with these allies that gave her support and access to power she would not have had otherwise, particularly had she stayed in southern Ontario. Similarly, in the mid- 1800s, Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg artists Maungwudaus, Uh wus sig gee zhig goo kway, and their children traveled and performed with other family members extensively in Canada, the United States, Great Britain, France, and Belgium. I include Maungwudaus’s wife, who traveled and performed with him, when I talk about Maungwudaus because to do otherwise would replicate hetero- patriarchy and once again erase the agency and contributions of Nishnaabeg women. There is very little written about her, and what we do know comes through Maungwudaus himself. There is no information regarding their artistic relationship. I feel con- fident in assuming it was significant and that she deserves as much credit as Maungwudaus himself because she traveled with him and performed with him, and I’m assuming she did all this

NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM 69

while being the primary caregiver to their children in hostile European countries and during extraordinary circumstances, including the death of her children. Maungwudaus recorded his critical observations of his European journey in a journal he published in 1848 in a clear and articulate expression of Michi Saagiig thought and internationalism.13 Maungwudaus’s journey and his journal are discussed in more detail in chapter 11, as is Nishnaabeg artist Robert Houle’s installation of Nishnaabeg in- ternationalism Paris/Ojibwa.

Similarly, in my own lifetime, Nishnaabeg women have con- sistently engaged in these same practices. Judy DaSilva and sev- eral other Nishnaabeg leaders from Grassy Narrows First Nation have replicated the journey of Nanabush, traveling to Japan to learn from doctors, researchers, and survivors about mercury poisoning. The industrial dumping of mercury into the English- Wabigoon River system in the late 1960s and early 1970s has caused severe long- term health and social impacts in the sur- rounding First Nations communities for decades. The long- term relationship between Dr. Masazumi Harada, a Japanese medical doctor working on Minamata disease, and the community of Grassy Narrows is but one example of place- based Nishnaabeg internationalism, and this strikes me as highly relevant to our current situation. It is different from Nahnebahnwequay’s jour- ney in that DaSilva is connecting with people who are engaged in resistance, research, and activism related to mercury poison- ing as a mechanism for improving the health of her own people.14

This book in many ways is the continuation of the journey that the elders of Long Lake #58 inspired in me so many years ago. I wanted to be able to think like them, from within Nish- naabewin. I wanted to know our philosophies and concepts well enough to break out of the bounds of tradition and culture. I wanted to be like them— to live in a different world. I wanted to be part of a community, a real- world community of Indige- nous peoples actively creating the alternative. This Nishnaabeg future, though, at this point in time is so very threatened. I’ve just lived through a year where the fall was too warm, and this affected the migration of geese through our territory and the

70 NISHNAABEG INTERNATIONALISM

movement of deer. The winter was also too warm, which im- paired our ability to ice fish. The spring is now too warm, and our production of maple sugar is devastated. It is crucial then that the Radical Resurgence Project take on global capitalism and its link to global warming, which is a direct threat to Indig- enous presence and our visions for the future. And so the next chapter explores Nishnaabeg practices of anticapitalism.

71

FIVE NISHNAABEG ANTICAPITALISM

In early 2013, author, social activist, and filmmaker Naomi Klein, known for her political criticism of corporate globaliza- tion and capitalism through her activism and her international best sellers No Logo and The Shock Doctrine, e- mailed me and asked if she could interview me for what would become a New York Times best seller, This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. the Climate. And so, on an icy February morning, I drove the same section of the 401 that inspired “I Am Not a Nation- State” in the introduction to meet her in the Toronto neighborhood of Roncesvalles.

I was nervous. Naomi Klein was a big deal, and I wasn’t sure why she wanted to interview me. I knew she had close ties to other Indigenous activists and writers, including the late long- time Secwepemc activist, leader, and writer Art Manual and Lu- bicon Cree activist and organizer Melina Laboucan- Massimo; I was unsure what I could possible add to her research. I went because she lives in my territory, because her work is smart and widely read— more widely read and considered than any works by Indigenous peoples, particularly Indigenous women. I went

72 NISHNAABEG ANTICAPITALISM

because not very many people reach out to me in the way that she did.

We met in a coffee shop. I remember both of us being ner- vous. She was a little bit late because she had slipped on an icy sidewalk. I remember wishing that I had dressed better. She brought her copy of Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, which was covered in colored sticky tabs. She had read the book, really read the book. I wished I had reread it, so I could remember what I had written. I was afraid she thought that I might be smarter than I was in real life.

Naomi and I talked for a few hours in a conversation guided by her questions. She recorded the interview on her iPhone and had offered to transcribe it and publish it in a manner that suited us both, and then to use snippets in her book. The interview has now been blogged and reblogged in a variety of places.1 The sig- nificance of this in my own thinking is that this is when I began to understand the importance of critiquing and analyzing capi- talism from within Indigenous thought, from within grounded normativity or Nishnaabewin, from within Nishnaabeg intelli- gence. I’ve always shied away from taking capitalism on in my work because I have always felt that I haven’t spent enough time reading, thinking, and analyzing Marx— that I should leave the analysis of capitalism, its role in dispossession, and its impact on me as an Indigenous woman to others more qualified to do so. I didn’t feel qualified to speak back to capitalism as an Indigenous woman. Once I recognized that bit of cognitive imperialism in myself, it became just the thing I knew I had to speak back to. And so I’ve changed my mind. I think it is way too important a conversation not to have within the Nishnaabeg nation in partic- ular and within the broader Indigenous nation- building move- ment, even if it is difficult. Indigenous peoples have extremely rich anticapitalist practices in our own histories and current re- alities. I think it is important that we continue the work of our Ancestors and our elders in critiquing and analyzing capitalism, how it drives dispossession, and its impacts on us from our own perspectives. Indigenous peoples in my mind have more exper- tise in anticapitalism and how that system works than any other

NISHNAABEG ANTICAPITALISM 73

group of people on the planet. We have thousands and thousands of years of experience building and living in societies outside of global capitalism. We have hundreds of years of direct experi- ence with the absolute destruction of capitalism. We have seen its apocalyptic devastation on our lands and plant and animal relations. This in no way diminishes the contributions of other anticapitalism theorists, thinkers, and writers; rather, I think it adds the beginnings of a critical reframing of the critique, one that is centered within grounded normativity.2

Naomi wanted to talk about extractivism, what she de- scribes in her book as a “nonreciprocal, dominance- based rela- tionship with the earth, one of profound taking. It is the oppo- site of stewardship, which involves taking but also taking care that regeneration and future life continue.”3 Extractivism wasn’t something I had thought a lot about, but the conversation un- folded as follows.4

NAOMI KLEIN: Let’s start with what has brought so much Indigenous resistance to a head in recent months. With the tar sands expansion, and all the pipelines, and the Harper government’s race to dig up huge tracts of the north, does it feel like we’re in some kind of final colonial pillage? Or is this more of a continuation of what Canada has always been about?

LEANNE SIMPSON: Over the past four hundred years, there has never been a time when indigenous peoples were not resisting colonialism. Idle No More is the latest— visible to the mainstream— resistance and it is part of an ongoing historical and contemporary push to protect our lands, our cultures, our nationhoods, and our languages. To me, it feels like there has been an in- tensification of colonial pillage, or that’s what the Harper government is preparing for— the hyper- extraction of natural resources on indigenous lands. But really, every single Canadian government has placed that kind of thinking at its core when it comes to indigenous peoples.

Indigenous peoples have lived through environmental

74 NISHNAABEG ANTICAPITALISM

collapse on local and regional levels since the beginning of colonialism— the construction of the St. Lawrence Seaway, the extermination of the buffalo in Cree and Blackfoot territories and the extinction of salmon in Lake Ontario— these were unnecessary and devastating. At the same time, I know there are a lot of people within the indigenous community that are giving the economy, this system, ten more years, twenty more years, that are saying “Yeah, we’re going to see the collapse of this in our lifetimes.”

Our elders have been warning us about this for gener- ations now— they saw the unsustainability of settler so- ciety immediately. Societies based on conquest cannot be sustained, so yes, I do think we’re getting closer to that breaking point for sure. We’re running out of time. We’re losing the opportunity to turn this thing around. We don’t have time for this massive slow transformation into something that’s sustainable and alternative. I do feel like I’m getting pushed up against the wall. Maybe my ancestors felt that two hundred years ago or four hundred years ago. But I don’t think it matters. I think that the impetus to act and to change and to transform, for me, exists whether or not this is the end of the world. If a river is threatened, it’s the end of the world for those fish. It’s been the end of the world for somebody all along. And I think the sadness and the trauma of that is reason enough for me to act.

NAOMI: Let’s talk about extraction because it strikes me that if there is one word that encapsulates the dominant economic vision, that is it. The Harper government sees its role as facilitating the extraction of natural wealth from the ground and into the market. They are not inter- ested in added value. They’ve decimated the manufac- turing sector because of the high dollar. They don’t care, because they look north and they see lots more pristine territory that they can rip up.

NISHNAABEG ANTICAPITALISM 75

And of course that’s why they’re so frantic about both the environmental movement and First Nations rights because those are the barriers to their economic vision. But extraction isn’t just about mining and drilling, it’s a mindset— it’s an approach to nature, to ideas, to people. What does it mean to you?

LEANNE: Extraction and assimilation go together. Colonialism and capitalism are based on extracting and assimilating. My land is seen as a resource. My relatives in the plant and animal worlds are seen as resources. My culture and knowledge is a resource. My body is a resource and my children are a resource because they are the potential to grow, maintain, and uphold the extraction- assimilation system. The act of extraction removes all of the relationships that give whatever is being extracted meaning. Extracting is taking. Actually, extracting is stealing— it is taking without consent, without thought, care or even knowledge of the impacts that extraction has on the other living things in that environment. That’s always been a part of colonialism and conquest. Colonialism has always extracted the indigenous— extraction of indigenous knowledge, indig- enous women, indigenous peoples.

NAOMI: Children from parents.

LEANNE: Children from parents. Children from families. Children from the land. Children from our political sys- tem and our system of governance. Children— our most precious gift. In this kind of thinking, every part of our culture that is seemingly useful to the extractivist mind- set gets extracted. The canoe, the kayak, any technology that we had that was useful was extracted and assimilat- ed into the culture of the settlers without regard for the people and the knowledge that created it. . . .

The alternative to extractivism is deep reciprocity. It’s respect, it’s relationship, it’s responsibility, and it’s local.5

76 NISHNAABEG ANTICAPITALISM

As I drove home after the interview, and in the editing process that followed, I could see why Naomi was focusing on extractiv- ism as a narrative that could open up a conversation with Ca- nadians and spark mass movement on climate change without bringing up capitalism and the backlash that entails, but the more I thought about extractivism as a concept, it didn’t explain what had happened to my people and to me. Stewardship as an alternative was too simplistic a concept to describe the re- lationship of Nishnaabeg with land. The more I thought about extractivism, the more important it became to name capitalism, particularly in the context of radical resurgence. I was recently reminded of this by Nipissing elder Glenna Beaucage in Ryan McMahon’s Redman Laughing podcast season on reconcilia- tion, because she names it, and she remembers an old man, or an elder, naming it. She says:

When the treaty came, it turned the word creation into resources, and resources are to be exploited. To me creation is to be respected, but when we say resources, now we can exploit them. We got mixed up. I heard an old man tell me we’ve become capitalists. Even with our fishing and hunting we’ve become capitalist. We see money.6

Later on in that same conversation, another Nipissing elder talks about how the education system in Ontario is designed to move our people into the middle class, away from Nishnaabewin. Like these elders, I can’t see or think of a system that is more counter to Nishnaabeg thought than capitalism, and over the past two de- cades I have heard elders and land users from many different In- digenous nations reiterate this, and it is part of the elder’s analy- sis and thinking we ignore. We hold a collective apathy around critiquing, organizing, and creating alternatives, despite the fact that Nishnaabeg people and our society are the alternative— we lived without capitalism for centuries. There is an assumption that socialism and communism are white and that Indigenous peoples don’t have this kind of thinking. To me, the opposite is true. Watching hunters and ricers harvest and live is the epitome

NISHNAABEG ANTICAPITALISM 77

of not just anticapitalism but societies where consent, empathy, caring, sharing, and individual self- determination are centered.

My Ancestors didn’t accumulate capital, they accumulated networks of meaningful, deep, fluid, intimate collective and in- dividual relationships of trust. In times of hardship, we did not rely to any great degree on accumulated capital or individualism but on the strength of our relationships with others. The Michi Saagiig oral tradition has within it stories of Wendat and Roti- nonhseshá:ka /Haudenosaunee coming to us and asking to hunt or farm in our territory during times of famine. Our grounded normativity compelled us to assist our neighbors if we were able. We also have a series of embedded practices that redistrib- ute wealth within the community. Harvests are distributed in community to our most vulnerable members— those who can- not harvest for themselves. Many of our ceremonial practices include a giveaway component where goods are distributed among participants. Gift giving is part of our diplomacy and de- signed to reinforce and nurture relationships. In daily life, greed, or the accumulation of capital, was seen as an assault against the collective because it offended the spirits of the plant and ani- mal nations that made up our peopled cosmos, and therefore put Nishnaabeg at risk. “Capital” in our reality isn’t capital. We have no such thing as capital. We have relatives. We have clans. We have treaty partners. We do not have resources or capital. Resources and capital, in fact, are fundamental mistakes within Nishnaabeg thought, as Glenna Beaucage points out, and ones that come with serious consequences— not in a colonial super- stitious way but in the way we have already seen: the collapse of local ecosystems, the loss of prairies and wild rice, the loss of salmon, eels, caribou, the loss of our weather.

Another mistake is the idea of excess. There are lots of Nish- naabeg stories about the problems with excess. Recall the Deer clan story in chapter 4. When the Nishnaabeg killed an excess of deer, the deer left the territory, to the point where today we have an abundance of deer in my territory but very few Deer clan people, and this reminds us of that imbalance. Medicine people often look for excess and imbalance in a person’s life when they

78 NISHNAABEG ANTICAPITALISM

look for and treat root causes of illness and disease. Going back, even one generation in my family, I see a way of life that was careful, frugal, full of making and self- sufficiency, and one that frowned upon waste, surplus, and overindulgence. Older mem- bers of our communities will often comment on this, particular- ly with regards to my generation and our children and the sea of things they are growing up in. It concerns them. It worries them. They see it as a problem with the way we are living.

On one hand, for Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg living Nish- naabewin, material wealth simply didn’t make sense, because we never settled in one place. We were constantly moving through- out our territory in a deliberate way, carrying and making our belongings as we went. Having a lot of stuff made life more diffi- cult on a practical level. On an ethical level, it was an indication of imbalance within the larger system of life. When Nishnaabeg are historicized by settler colonial thought as “less technologi- cally developed,” there is an assumption that we weren’t capital- ists because we couldn’t be— we didn’t have the wisdom or the technology to accumulate capital, until the Europeans arrived and the fur trade happened. This is incorrect. We certainly had the technology and the wisdom to develop this kind of econo- my, or rather we had the ethics and knowledge within grounded normativity to not develop this system, because to do so would have violated our fundamental values and ethics regarding how we relate to each other and the natural world. We chose not to, repeatedly, over our history.

Similarly, we don’t have this idea of private property or “the commons.” We practice life over a territory with boundaries that were overlapping areas of increased international Indige- nous presence, maintained by more intense ceremonial and dip- lomatic relationship, not necessarily by police, armies, and vio- lence, although under great threat we mobilized to protect what was meaningful to us. Our authority was grounded and confined to our own body and the relationships that make up our body, not as a mechanism for controlling other bodies or mechanisms of production but as structures and practices that are the very practices of Nishnaabeg life. We have stories warning us of the

NISHNAABEG ANTICAPITALISM 79

perils of profit— gain achieved not through hard work within grounded normativity but gain, benefit, and advantage achieved in disproportion to effort and skill or exploitation. Nanabush is the most obvious example of all of this. He experiments with capitalist modes of production when he tries to get various beings— skunks, ducks, geese, for example— to do the hard work of life for his own personal gain and accumulation. He tries in various stories to outsource the work of feeding himself, and disaster ensues. There are stories where he is greedy; he experi- ments with capital accumulation, and disaster ensues. There are stories of Nanabush manipulating animals to create competitive markets for his goods and services, and again disaster ensues. There are stories where Nanabush engages in a host of exploitive and extractivist practices at the expense of plants, animals, or the Nishnaabeg, and this results in his demise. His preference in these stories is to employ various beings of creation in service to him, while he lounges around and enjoys the profit of this un- equal labor. He is categorically met with his demise every time, and eventually he learns his lesson.7 One of his brothers, howev- er, does not. He insists that the community feed him by hunting, fishing, and gathering on his behalf. We do, because we are kind, empathic, and decent people. We give him time to work his shit out. We try to bring him back into the fold by encouraging him to be a self- determining part of the collective by engaging in some practice, any practice really. Nanabush’s other brother, in a similar circumstance, becomes an artist as a way of contrib- uting and living in our nation and is celebrated for his contri- bution. But this brother, the lazy one, doesn’t. Eventually, the nation can no longer carry him, and he withers away and dies. His death is a transformation, and he becomes the moss on the rocks that you see in our territory.8 Moss reminds us. Moss, like pine trees, or maple trees, or geese, is an algorithm, a practice for solving a problem, and all of these Nishnaabeg algorithms are profoundly anticapitalist at their core. To me, Nanabush em- bodies anticapitalism because the system of grounded norma- tivity within which he exists demands nothing less. Capitalism cannot exist within grounded normativity.

80 NISHNAABEG ANTICAPITALISM

I wrote in Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back that Nishnaabeg society is a society of makers, rather than a society of consum- ers. This is the foundation of our self- determination and free- dom — producing everything we need in our families within grounded normativity within a network of caring and sharing. We made our food, our clothes, our homes. We made our edu- cation system, our health care system, our political system. We made technology and infrastructure and the systems of ethics that governed its use. We made our social services, our com- munication system, our histories, literatures, and art. We didn’t just control our means of production, we lived embedded in a network of humans and nonhumans that were made up of only producers. In terms of resurgence, this holds a lot of hope for me in creating alternative economies and ways of living. Education cannot just be about shifting our children into the urban middle class. Resurgent education must be about turning our children inwards toward Nishnaabewin making.

Too often, in my experience, Indigenous peoples in Canada start from the place that global capitalism is permanent and our survival depends upon our ability to work within it. The poverty facing Indigenous communities is an imposed poverty, the result of being a target of extractivism for generations now. Solutions to social issues like housing, health care, and clean drinking wa- ter that divorce the cause (dispossessive capitalist exploitation under settler colonialism) from the effect (poverty) serve settler colonial interests, not Indigenous ones, by placing Indigenous peoples in a never- ending cycle of victimhood, and Canadians in a never- ending cycle of self- congratulatory saviorhood, while we both reinforce the structure of settler colonialism that set the terms for exploitation in the first place. Organizing around issues of poverty and social conditions in urban and reserve communities as a critical core of the project of resurgence, as a political issue, breaks this cycle. It also has the potential to build collectives of individuals taking on the responsibilities of the nation, while aligning themselves with those who face the greatest struggle and carry the greatest burden of settler colo- nialism. The division between reserve and city is an artificial co-

NISHNAABEG ANTICAPITALISM 81

lonial division. We are all related, and this is all Indigenous land. Strengthening reserve- urban relationships strengthens nations, and it has the potential to build movement.

Throughout my adult life, I’ve spent time on traplines and hunting territories in northern Ontario and in Manitoba. These trappers were inevitably dealing with the logging industry clear- cutting their traplines. Canada and the provinces have from their legal perspective successfully dispossessed Nishnaabeg people of our territories through a series of settler colonial pro- cesses. These settler colonial processes— treaty making, pol- icy making, consultation, impact assessments, and the court system— provide them with the ethical justification to clear- cut a particular trapline, removing another Nishnaabeg family from the land and effectively destroying their grounded normativity, destroying remnants of an Nishnaabeg economy, plant and an- imal habitat, medicines, ceremonial grounds, burial grounds, hunting places, libraries of knowledge, and networks of rela- tionships, because it is in the best interest of Canadians to do so. Often Nishnaabeg people will participate in all the processes settler colonialism sets up for us to have a voice in this, except the processes are set up to reinforce settler colonialism, not dis- rupt it. Oftentimes this results in blockades, as it has in Grassy Narrows, with people now having blocked a logging road for over a decade. To me, this is a clear indication that land users do not see this situation as inevitable. On a local level, individual families are living this way of life, in some cases choosing a lower standard of living and to not move to the city, to live Nishnaabe- win. Resistance to capitalism isn’t futile, it’s the way out.

It is critical that this generation inspires and creates the next generation of Indigenous peoples that can think and live inside of their own intelligence systems more deeply than my gener- ation. I worry we’re not doing that. I think resurgence must be centered on nation- based, diverse, and unique Indigenous thought systems that house Indigenous intelligence. This is our source and our seed. We cannot be Indigenous without it, and these systems have been under assault for over four centuries. This is a political issue, an education issue, and a mobilization

82 NISHNAABEG ANTICAPITALISM

issue. Just as the Nipissing elder reminded us, the goal of radical resurgent education and mobilization cannot be the proletari- anization of our people. This is not the new buffalo. The massive shift of Indigenous peoples into the urban wage economy and the middle class cannot be the solution to dispossession, be- cause this consolidates dispossession. We cannot build nations without people, and we cannot build Indigenous nations with- out people who house and practice Indigenous thought and pro- cess, and we also cannot build sustainable Indigenous nations while replicating gender violence. In the next three chapters, I make the case for the dismantling of heteropatriarchy as a core project of the Radical Resurgence Project.

83

SIX ENDLESSLY CREATING OUR INDIGENOUS SELVES

For the past few years, when I talk about gender in In- digenous postsecondary classrooms, primarily classes on self- determination, resurgence, and governance, I lead the students through a simple exercise to begin. As a group, I ask them to list all the stereotypes they have been the target of or have heard about Indigenous women. There is a moment of pause after I outline the exercise, and I always make sure I look into the eyes of Indigenous women, because I know they are wonder- ing if this is a safe thing for them to participate in, and they are wondering why I’m asking them to go to such a horribly painful place inside themselves. Often, I will start by writing the word slut on the flip chart or chalkboard and explain that for as long as I remember, going way back into my history as a girl of five or six, people have associated me and my body with this word. I explain that this term is used by colonialism to regulate and control my body and sexual behavior, and I explain that I have sovereignty over my body, my sexuality, and my relationships.1 I explain that many women and 2SQ people have reclaimed this

word as a mechanism for enacting their own self- determination, values, and ethics over their bodies. There are always nods, and eyes drop to the ground. The class adds to the list: dirty, squaw, bad mothers, lazy, promiscuous, irresponsible, addicts, crimi- nals, prostitutes, easy, bad with money, bad wives, dumb, stu- pid, hysterical, angry, wild in bed, useless, drunks, worthless, without feeling, violent, weak, partiers, alcoholics. After the first three or four stereotypes are on the list, they come faster, and the energy starts to shift from shame and hurt to an expul- sion of those same things. Heads are held up high, as we name and then cast off and cast out the internalized racism and patri- archy of the colonizer.

Then I ask the group to list all of their truths about Indige- nous women: intelligent, strong, brave, courageous, sexy, com- mitted, hard- working, good mothers, partners, wives, loving, caring, honest, brilliant, spectacular, empathetic, compassion- ate, beautiful, smart, kind, gentle, good lovers, organized. We do the same for Indigenous men and for the queer community. Groups come up with between thirty to fifty gendered stereo- types specific to each gender and gender/sexual orientation. They come up with beautiful lists of truths, and in essence all three lists are the same. In one class, at the land- based Dechin- ta Centre for Research and Learning, the women of the group came up with the list of racist stereotypes for Indigenous wom- en.2 As the instructor, I often have to start the process because it is too painful for young Indigenous women to even speak. With this group, when it came time to list the truths, they were silent, and then something really profound and transformative hap- pened. The Dene men in the group made a beautiful list that left nearly everyone in the room in tears (smart, intelligent, beau- tiful, sexy, good mothers, good partners, strong, connected, spiritual, good hunters, good fishers, good providers, excellent sisters, aunties, and grandmothers, powerful). When we got to the part of the exercise where we listed the positive things about men, the women did the same, and then the group came togeth- er and generated a similar list for 2SQ people.

During our discussion of 2SQ people, we talk about sex,

84 ENDLESSLY CREATING OUR INDIGENOUS SELVES

gender, sexual orientation, and relationship orientation. We talk about terminology and pronouns. We talk about transphobia and how all bodies are real bodies. We talk about how groups with the highest rates of suicide in our communities are 2SQ people and trans youth. We talk about how learning on the land can be a safe space, or it can be a nightmare for trans youth.

This particular time I did the exercise was special. It was moving for everyone involved. As the men listed off positive attribute after positive attribute, the women, myself included, were emotional because we have been told over and over again, through pop culture, the mainstream media, our experiences with the church and Indian Affairs, by teachers and parents that we are all of the things on the negative list. This was perhaps the first time in our lives we had been told directly that we are not any of those things, and to have it come from our Dene male colleagues was extremely meaningful. It felt like they had our backs.

This is one of the most powerful learning experiences that I’ve had in a classroom in my teaching career. The exercise is simple enough in itself. The act of naming stereotypes is a com- manding space because it brings my attention to the very per- sonalized violence of colonialism on my internal thoughts and beliefs about myself. When I write the word slut on the chart, I am thinking and feeling every time that word has been used to push me down, control me, and limit my potential. When I write dumb on the chart, I can’t help but to reflect on how that inter- nalized belief is so implanted in me by settler colonialism that I have to remind myself every time I speak or sit down to write or walk into the classroom that I’m not actually dumb. Each time I participate in this exercise, it reveals to me the degree to which I have unconsciously internalized these lies, and that we as com- munities of people have unconsciously internalized these lies, and it provides a chance to speak back.

The next layer is a collective realization that we all to varying degrees carry around these unconscious colonial beliefs about ourselves, despite the fact that some of us have obtained mea- sures of success in Indigenous worlds, settler colonial society,

ENDLESSLY CREATING OUR INDIGENOUS SELVES 85

or both. This begins to shift the power dynamics between the students and me and how the class sees me as an Indigenous women instructor. I am no longer “better” than them because I have a PhD or because of these false successes. I have not been removed from the violences of settler colonial life. I carry the same damage as they do, and I am not ashamed of that damage, because the shame does not rest within Indigenous peoples but with settler colonial Canada.

As the group moves through the exercise, the energy of the class moves from shame and humiliation, to celebration and joy, to happiness. We talk about how good it feels to recognize when our own people recognize our positive attributes and see us through Dene or Nishnaabeg eyes rather than through the eyes of settler colonialism. We talk about how good that feels in ourselves, and we pause and feel it. We link our personal feel- ings and experiences with the other subjects of the course— the Indian Act, residential schools, the public education system, self- government policy, the criminalization of Indigeneity, en- vironmental destruction, gender violence— and students begin to realize that the negative beliefs they carry within themselves were planted in them and the generations that came before them for a very specific reason: dispossession of their lands. We talk about how shame prevents us from connecting to our loved ones, learning our languages, and being on the land. We are hon- est about the stereotypes of other genders and sexual orienta- tions that we carry and amplify in our own lives.

People bring up stories of grandmothers chopping wood, hunting, trapping, and fishing, and of grandfathers cooking, sewing, and doing childcare. We talk about binaries and fluidity around gender and how in Indigenous contexts it is often im- portant that we all have a baseline of skill and knowledge about how to live. Oftentimes someone will bring up a relative who didn’t fit so easily into the colonial gender binary, and we talk about how the community, the church, and the state responded and responds to this. We talk about how we gender the land in English and if this is the same in their languages.

We talk about Indigenous men and how all genders have

86 ENDLESSLY CREATING OUR INDIGENOUS SELVES

experienced and do experience gender violence, although it af- fects individuals in asymmetric ways because of the hierarchy it instills. We talk about how Indigenous peoples are in a difficult position: simultaneously being targeted by gender violence and therefore carrying trauma, benefiting to varying degrees from hierarchy, and oftentimes knowingly or unknowingly perpet- uating gender discrimination, violence, and anti- queerness. We talk about how difficult it can be to hear that an action or a phrase is hurting Indigenous women or 2SQ people. We talk more about shame.

Inevitably someone will ask if some of the stereotypes are true, often referring to the epidemic of gender violence in our communities, and if the students themselves don’t bring that up, I do, because I know someone is thinking about that. We talk about the nature of stereotypes. We talk about how we are not the sum of the list of stereotypes. We talk about how stereotypes are not just “backwards thinking” but a system of social control. We talk about consent, accountability, self- determination, re- sponsibility. We acknowledge how all genders, including Indig- enous men, have been the target for sexualized and gender vio- lence. We talk about how that is not an excuse for perpetuating it. We account for things. I ask them to pick one of the stereo- types from the negative list. I use my own nation as an example and draw a rough trajectory that cuts through four centuries of heteropatriarchy as a tool of dispossession:

• Nishnaabeg people have self- determination over their bodies and sexuality. Sex is not shameful within Nish- naabewin. All genders and ages hold political power and influence. There is a diversity of genders, sexual orientations, and relationship orientations and respect for body sovereignty.3

• Colonizers want land, but Indigenous bodies forming nations are in the way because they have a strong at- tachment to land and because they replicate Indigene- ity. All Indigenous genders as political orders also rep- licate Indigenous nationhood, but the colonizers are

ENDLESSLY CREATING OUR INDIGENOUS SELVES 87

looking through the eyes of heteropatriarchy, so they see Indigenous women’s and girl’s bodies as the bodies that reproduce nations, and they see 2SQ bodies as the biggest threat to their assimilation and dispossession project.4

• Colonizers notice that women, children, and 2SQ people hold power and influence in Indigenous gov- ernance. They notice this is not the same in European nations. Hierarchy is key to their system of control.5

• During times of violent conflict, sexual and gender- based violence is widely recognized as a tactic of both war and genocide because it is frequently used as “a military tactic to harm, humiliate and shame” and be- cause violence and war weaken systems of “protection, security and justice.”6 Sexual violence is an effective co- lonial tool in genocide and dispossession because the damage it causes to families is so overwhelming that it makes it very difficult to have the emotional capital to continue to resist.

• Indigenous nations are attacked physically and symbol- ically through things like the Indian Act, policy, colo- nial laws, and fraudulent and unfair treaty negotiations at the same time as they are coping with violence, land loss, loss of an economic base, and disease.

• Indigenous nations lose political power and can no longer hold settlers accountable in their lands. There are fewer Indigenous bodies on Indigenous lands. We are confined to reserves. We are “governed” by the heteropatriarchy and settler colonialism of the Indian Act. Our children are in residential or day schools. We are rewarded with recognition when we assimilate.

• The gender binary is introduced and reinforced through residential schools, the church, and the Indian

88 ENDLESSLY CREATING OUR INDIGENOUS SELVES

Act. 2SQ people are disappeared. Indigenous women are domesticated into the role of Victorian housewives. Native men are domesticated into the wage economy and taught their only power is to ally with white men in the oppression of Indigenous women through church, school, law, and policy.7

• Christian beliefs about heterosexual, monogamous, churched relationships and sexuality are infused into the community through missions and residential schools and reinforced by Indian agents.8

• Propagation of negative stereotypes of Indigenous women, men, and 2SQ people is widespread in popular culture, as evidenced in the first newspaper reporting on Indigenous peoples in Canada.9

• Canadian society through the media, books, and oral culture continues to justify the strangulation of Indig- enous women’s body sovereignty and to justify the violence against Indigenous women, which has led to the epidemic of murdered and missing Indigenous women and girls.10

• Indigenous women are blamed by the state for caus- ing the violence by making poor lifestyle choices, and Indigenous men are named as the perpetrators of this violence.11

• Canadian citizens born into heteropatriarchy and nor- malized gender and sexualized violence against Indig- enous peoples replicate this violence in their personal lives with structural support of the state’s legal, educa- tion, and political systems.

• Disconnected from land and our knowledge systems, and the targets of four centuries of state violence, we replicate the violence we’ve experienced in our communities.

ENDLESSLY CREATING OUR INDIGENOUS SELVES 89

• We as a class can list in less than thirty minutes nearly a hundred stereotypes of Indigenous peoples, and many of us hold particular ones inside us that make us feel not good enough.

At first, they are surprised the Nishnaabeg prof from the south with degrees and the privilege credentials gives me still some- times believes the worst about myself because colonialism has conditioned me to do so. This reframing, though, illuminates the deliberate nature of this on the part of the colonizer to get land, and that when we repeat it and live it, we are helping the colo- nizers.12 This critical reframing, drawing on issues already dis- cussed in class, then offers students a new orientation to them- selves and their communities, one in which the interrogation of colonialism, the historical context, and the resistance of Indig- enous peoples figure prominently. It is the approach Mohawk scholar Audra Simpson takes in her fantastic book Mohawk In- terruptus: that there are signposts in our nations, communities, and bodies of colonialism’s ongoing existence and simultaneous failure. She writes,

Colonialism survives in a settler form. In this form, it fails at what it is supposed to do: eliminate Indigenous people; take all their land; absorb them into a white, property- owning body politic. Kahnawa:ke’s debates over membership index colonialism’s life as well its fail- ure and their own life through their grip on this failure.13

This is a subtle and elegant shift in our analysis of Indigenous politics because it provides the proper and truthful context within which our analysis can take place. This approach also nests and confounds polarity: colonialism is violent and evil, and Indigenous peoples agree on that, and we have a range of responses to that horrific and ongoing violence that is ultimately rooted in a fog of love, anger, fear, shame, pride, and humilia- tion. For Simpson, the issue of membership is not about wheth- er we should kick white people off the reserve; the fundamental question her people are grappling with is how do we continue to

90 ENDLESSLY CREATING OUR INDIGENOUS SELVES

exist as Kanien’kehá:ka people in the face of settler colonialism elimination?

Simpson emphasizes “debates over membership” because this could be any issue in Indigenous political life. You can re- place that phrase with “debates over land protection,” “debates over governance,” “debates over gender violence” because her intervention is that we need to shift our lens of analysis from one that plays into the limits of Western thought to one that is holy and diversely Indigenous at its core, both in experience and in intellectual thought, but that brings with it the most robust crit- ical analysis of our times.

Following Simpson’s intervention on framing, I want to use the pain and anger that heteropatriarchy strikes to reject the replication of settler colonial gender violence within our bod- ies, communities, and nations. We need all genders to do this, and we all need to think critically about how we replicate this in our communities and in our daily lives. Placing the interrogation of heteropatriarchy at the center of our nation- building move- ments ensures that our nation building counters the impact the settler colonial political economy has on Indigenous bodies, in- timacies, sexualities, and gender. It counters the continual vi- olent attack on bodies, intimacies, sexualities, and gender as a dispossessing force. We have a choice. We can choose to uphold white, heterosexual, masculine control over Indigenous bodies, or we can choose to collectively engage in the dismantling of heteropatriarchy as a nation- building project. Nation building in Indigenous contexts is a collective effort, and in critically un- doing the gender hierarchy, what happens to Indigenous wom- en, children, and 2SQ bodies is the measure of our success as nations.

Stereotypes are not attitudes that can be changed by using a different terminology. They are windows into the pervasive log- ics of white supremacy and heteropatriarchy and how they op- erate through time and space in Canada on my body and mind as an Indigenous woman. These terms are part of a much more omnipresent and ubiquitous system of control that has stolen not only my land from me but also my body and the way I think

ENDLESSLY CREATING OUR INDIGENOUS SELVES 91

about my body. I am not murdered, and I am not missing, but parts of me have been disappeared, and I remain a target be- cause I was born a Native women, and I live as kwe.

Students at Dechinta have already heard me talk about con- sent and individual self- determination within the context of Indigenous politics, and so we then talk about creating these alternative systems of accountability. I use the example of the Community Holistic Circle Healing project in Hollow Water First Nation, an Nishnaabeg community on the east side of Lake Winnipeg, in Manitoba. We talk about how this group found that 80 percent of their residents had experience with sexual abuse, and how they used Nishnaabeg processes of accountability to create a community- based alternative to the Canadian criminal justice systems for cases of sexual violence.14 We talk about how this system requires the admission of guilt on the part of the per- petrator to proceed. There is a truth telling as the first step. The circle of healing involves support for all of the individuals and families involved. It involves the perpetrator witnessing the full impacts of his actions. It involves the larger community witness- ing the full impacts of sexualized violence and an accounting for how we contribute to the epidemic levels of violence in our communities. It involves ceremony and Nishnaabeg practices of regeneration. It involves regenerating relationships.

Students often share their frustrations with the criminal jus- tice system and with our communities in terms of how we han- dle these issues. They often have a wealth of ideas for visioning systems of accountability in their own lives.

Thinking back to the bush classroom at Dechinta and Denendeh, I learned something else important that day. I learned that I want, but don’t necessarily need, Indigenous men to have my back. I don’t want to be continually seeking out the solidarity, the recognition of white women because I want the solidarity of straight cisgendered Indigenous men. I want them to stop exploiting, abusing, and degrading women and chil- dren. I want them to stop engaging in systemic, structural and casual sexism and patriarchy. I want them to hold each other accountable when there are no women around, and casual and

92 ENDLESSLY CREATING OUR INDIGENOUS SELVES

not- so- casual sexism in the form of the objectification, ongoing criticism, and other forms of white patriarchy enter their social, personal, and professional lives. I want them to hold each other accountable when casual and not- so- casual homophobia, trans- phobia, heterosexism and all forms of anti- queerness appear. I want them to support and assist and to be critically engaged in, but not lead, the dismantling of heteropatriarchy as the crucial nation- building exercise of our time. I want them to see that they have been targeted by white men working strategically and persistently to make allies out of Indigenous men, with clear re- wards for those who come into white masculinity imbued with heteropatriarchy and violence, in order to infiltrate our commu- nities and nations with heteropatriarchy and then to replicate it through the generations, with the purpose of destroying our nations and gaining easy access to our land.

White supremacy, rape culture (although Sarah Hunt re- cently reminded me that when rape happens to us, it is rarely named as “rape”), and the attack on gender, sexual identity, agency, and consent are very powerful tools of colonialism, set- tler colonialism, and capitalism primarily because they work very efficiently to remove Indigenous peoples from our terri- tories and to prevent reclamation of those territories through mobilization.

These forces have the intergenerational staying power to destroy generations of families, as they work to prevent us from intimately connecting to each other. They work to prevent mobilization because communities coping with epidemics of gender violence don’t have the physical or emotional capital to organize. They destroy the base of our nations and our politi- cal systems because they destroy our relationships to the land and to each other by fostering epidemic levels of anxiety, hope- lessness, apathy, distrust, and suicide. They work to destroy the fabric of Indigenous nationhoods by attempting to destroy our relationality by making it difficult to form sustainable, strong re- lationships with each other.

Dismantling heteropatriarchy and generating modes of scholarship, organizing, mobilizing, and living that no longer

ENDLESSLY CREATING OUR INDIGENOUS SELVES 93

replicate it must be a core project of radical resurgence. Cen- tering the voices of children, women, and 2SQ people within the Radical Resurgence Project is a mechanism through which to counter the gendered nature of heteropatriarchy and build systems of consent, accountability, and agency so that all Indig- enous political orders are valued, cherished, and celebrated as a crucial part of our communities and nations, and fully engaged in the regeneration of alternative Indigenous worlds. Indigenous freedom means that my sovereignty over my body, mind, spirit, and land is affirmed and respected in all of my relationships.

94 ENDLESSLY CREATING OUR INDIGENOUS SELVES

95

SEVEN THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES

My maternal family can trace our ancestry to the origi- nal families in the Grape Island Mission and the Bay of Quinte Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg. The attempts to assimilate us were the responsibility of Indian agents, the Methodist missionaries, and the education system because settlers wanted our lands. In the four generations of living Nishnaabekwewag in my family, I can so clearly see the devastating impacts of policies and reg- ulation of Nishnaabeg gender, sexuality, and relationships and of the assimilatory nature of domesticity in myself, my moth- er, and my grandmother. We grew up believing the stereotypes and believing that if we existed outside of the domestic sphere, outside of heteropatriarchal, monogamous Christian marriage, we embodied the dirty, stupid, useless, promiscuous, and irre- sponsible assumptions built into the word squaw. I grew up be- lieving the worst of the stereotypes. It is not something I was able to dig myself out of until the 1990s when my sisters and I began to critically question these assumptions and our experi- ences in activist communities and in women’s studies programs

at universities. I can trace, then, through the historical record and the oral tradition in my family over two hundred years of intense targeting of Indigenous bodies, self- determination, sex- uality, and relationships, and this targeting continues to happen to my children.

The Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg had been dealing with evan- gelization and assimilation by the Methodists at least since the end of the War of 1812, which signified a massive influx of Unit- ed Empire Loyalists (American loyalists who resettled in Brit- ish North America during the American Revolution) into Mi- chi Saagiig Nishnaabeg territory.1 These English- speaking white people were offered land grants in Ontario— land that required the dispossession and control of the Nishnaabeg. This resulted in an increase in activity of the Methodist missionaries as a form of assimilation and marked the beginning of a non- Native ma- jority in our territory. This was also accompanied by a shift in Indian policy in Upper Canada that resulted in increased pres- sure on officials to promote “Christian civilization” among Na- tive peoples and the recognition that the “financial burden” and political burden of honoring treaties could be eliminated if Na- tive peoples were assimilated into Canadian society. This in turn led to the establishment of Methodist missions in the 1820s at the Credit River near Toronto, Mud Lake (now Curve Lake First Nation), and Grape Island (an island in Lake Ontario off the coast of Kingston). These missions were intense sites of assim- ilative education designed to make Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg devout Methodists, the men and boys farmers and carpenters, the women and girls managers of effective British households and patriarchal nuclear families in village- like settings, thus re- moving Indigenous peoples from the land completely and eras- ing those who did not conform to the colonial gender binary completely.

Much of the teaching at the Methodist missions was done by white women, which means in this context that much of the policing of Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg bodies, intimate relation- ships, and parenting was done by and through white women.2 White women were the ideal, and missions were out to quiet-

96 THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES

ly destroy Nishnaabeg nationhood by erasing strong, powerful Nishnaabeg women who were skilled at fishing, hunting, trap- ping, sugaring, ricing, and medicine. White women were out to destroy our political system, health care system, economy, and system governance. White women were out to destroy gender variance and fluidity, our knowledge of families, kinship, birth, birth control, sexuality, breastfeeding and attachment, and community parenting. They were out to destroy our education system and spirituality. White women were out to remove us from political influence in our communities and our nations and to position us as “less than” our male counterparts. They were out to destroy our agency, self- determination, body sovereignty, and freedom and to contain us under the colonial heteropatri- archy within which they lived and used to have power over us. White women were out to destroy our intelligence and political systems.

This is genocide. This is sexual and gendered violence as a tool of genocide

and as a tool of dispossession. It is deliberate. Two celebrated white women writers figure prominently

in the local settler historical record in Peterborough, Ontario. The two sisters, Catherine Parr Traill and Susanna Moodie, moved uninvited into the heart of Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg territory in disregard of and seemingly oblivious to the interna- tional agreements my nation had made with theirs in the 1830s. Susanna Moodie subsequently, at the direction of her publisher in Britain, wrote Roughing It in the Bush as a guide for settler life for those British subjects considering moving to occupied Nishnaabeg territory. Moodie’s work remains a canonical work in Canadian literature for both its literary and Canadian cultural contributions, with Margaret Atwood’s 1972 book of poetry The Journals of Susanna Moodie further cementing Moodie into Ca- nadian prominence.

I’ve read Roughing It in the Bush a number of times, and it is never an enjoyable experience. At one point, Moodie writes about the lynching of a Black man in Michi Saagiig territory, with all the anti- Blackness that is Canadian and that Canada would

THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES 97

not exist without. Passages such as “[the] Mississauga Indians, perhaps the least attractive of all these wild people, both with regard to their physical and mental endowments” grate on my being, not because of their historic inaccuracies or their reflec- tion of the normalcy of white supremacy at the time but because so much Indigenous effort has gone into disproving her lies, and because this pillar of white supremacy and colonialism— the idea that we are naturally less than our white counterparts— continues to produce generations of Native youth that believe they are, or, perhaps more dangerously, believe that achieving what matters in settler colonial Canadian society— degrees, eco- nomic prosperity, home ownership, or whatever— makes them a more valuable Indigenous person. It does, but only through the lens of white supremacy.3

Moodie’s detailed descriptions of Mississauga men with their “coarse and repulsive features” and “intellectual faculties scarcely developed,” and of Mississauga women as “a merry, light- hearted set  .  .  . in strange contrast to the iron taciturnity of their grim lords” set the tone for an overwhelmingly anti- Indigenous and anti- Black characterization of life in occupied Upper Canada.4 She goes on to repeatedly position Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg as stupid and ugly throughout the chapter ti- tled “The Wilderness and Our Indian Friends,” freely comment- ing on physical attributes and sexuality of Mississauga men. She writes, “The vanity of these grave men is highly amusing. They seem perfectly unconscious of it themselves; and it is exhibited in the most child- like manner,” and “I’m inclined to think that their ideas of personal beauty differ very widely from ours.”5 She also freely comments on the bodies and sexuality of Mississau- ga women: “Tom Nogan, the chief ’s brother had a very large, fat, ugly squaw for his wife. She was a mountain of tawny flesh, and, but for the innocent, good- natured expression which, like a bright sunbeam penetrating a swarthy cloud, spread all around a kindly glow, she might have been termed hideous”; “she ap- peared very dirty, and appeared quite indifferent to the claims of common decency.”6

I could go on, but I won’t. Much of this overt racism is dis-

98 THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES

missed or absent in the analysis of Roughing It in the Bush, or at least neutralized by placing it in “the context of the historical record,” even in specific analysis of the representations of Native women.7 The historical record in this context is meant to be the “original literary context” in which they were writing and the prevailing and normalized attitudes and beliefs about Indians at the time.8 It is a prevailing racist Canadian attitude that we can- not judge writers from the past by today’s standards.

Which leads me to ask whose historical context and whose standards?

We know the answer, and it certainly is not the historical context of the Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg or Black people in Can- ada. The Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg nation was under the vio- lent attack of colonialism from every angle. The end of the War of 1812 for the Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg was devastating. We witnessed the extirpation of salmon and eels from our territory, and the construction of the Trent- Severn Waterway, which de- stroyed the water in most of our lakes and our food security as the flooding destroyed the wild rice beds, an unprecedented (at the time) level of environmental destruction. We were in nego- tiations that resulted in the 1818 treaty, the residential schools system was being set up, with the first school opening in Alder- ville First Nation in 1828, and we were under the height of the efforts of the Methodist missions designed to carry out cultural genocide and assimilation. All of these processes were designed to clear Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg bodies from the land to the extreme benefit of settlers.

Moodie is writing about my relations while living on stolen land in an enclave of white supremacy. She is both witness to and beneficiary of the violent dispossession of Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg from our homeland. Her entire existence and that of her family are predicated on that crime, and she is willfully oblivious as she constructs Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg people as also willfully oblivious. This trumps any possible shared sister- hood Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg women might have with her as female. Carole Gerson writes, “powerful as white but disem- powered as female, Moodie and Traill share with Native women

THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES 99

some marginal space on the outskirts of frontier culture.”9 Geno- cide sets up a clear dichotomy in which, unless white women are willing to divest themselves of the power of being white, there is no shared marginal space with Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg women. Describing interactions between white women and Mississauga women as “experimental and not oppositional” is a fiction that exists in white women’s theorizing themselves out of responsibility for benefiting from and replication of the gen- dered violence of colonialism through assumed allied spaces of women- to- women contact zones. Think about how Moodie so completely steals the self- determination of Indigenous women and recasts us as dirty and stupid, a recasting that I still live with nearly two hundred years later. She comprehensively steals and erases the bodies of Indigenous peoples and exerts an absolute power over Indigenous life as if this is her birthright. Think this is just in the past? Think again. Think about how those very same ideas are still the top four in 2015 when Indigenous youth, fresh out of high school, list the stereotypes they have heard in their own lives.

The ways in which Moodie negates Indigenous nationhood, obfuscates colonialism, and replicates the gendered nature of colonial violence that both informs and influences Indian policy cannot be dismissed and excused as the “racism of the times,” because it is these unexamined foundational beliefs about In- digenous peoples that were used and are used as justification for dispossession, residential schools, the Indian Act, and the violence against Indigenous women that is normalized in settler Canadian society, and for the continued paternalism of helping Indigenous peoples and dealing with the “Indian problem.” It seems to me that the point of the words “original literary con- text” is to provide a broad exoneration that fits seamlessly into the Canadian narrative of the past: Mistakes were made. Land was lost. Children were stolen. Cultures were adapted. Treaties didn’t work out. We meant well. We tried our best. Progress is inevitable, and while it is regretful you didn’t have the intelli- gence or fortitude to be successful, that’s life. Maybe we’ll try and be nicer and help more.

100 THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES

Very few Canadians will directly proclaim they are in favor of the position of Indigenous peoples in Canada, but a very large number of Canadians will do everything they can to preserve the social, cultural, and economic systems of the country, even though this system is predicated on violence and dispossession of Indigenous lands and bodies. Therefore, we do not need the help of Canadians. We need Canadians to help themselves, to learn to struggle and to understand that their great country of Canada has been and is a death dance for Indigenous peoples. They must learn to stop themselves from plundering the land and the climate and using Indigenous peoples’ bodies to fuel their economy, and to find a way of living in the world that is not based on violence and exploitation.

The Indian Act

I’ve taught the Indian Act and its devastating impact on Indige- nous nations for over fifteen years in various Indigenous Studies courses. I talk about the consolidation of legislation that led to the first act in 1876. I discuss the most oppressive forms of the act: the banning of the Sundance and Potlatch ceremonies, the pass system, the imposition of chief and council administration, the restrictions on organizing and hiring legal counsel, and so on. I make a point of how this undermined the political influ- ence of Indigenous women through the patriarchal rules related to leadership and elections. We discuss the patriarchal nature of status and membership clauses, and I highlight the resistance of Indigenous women and our organizing related to Bill C31, and Bill C3. I present all of this as the historical fact that it is, and in doing so, I present a fairly straight, masculinist view of the Indian Act; that is, I don’t fully interrogate the targeting of Indigenous women and the 2SQ community, and therefore I ob- fuscate the gendered nature of colonialism and the Indian Act. I underreport the targeting of Indigenous women and the 2SQ community in Indian policy, targeting that has directly and indi- rectly impacted me and the women in my family in violent ways.

I was not conscious of this underreporting until I sat through a lecture on the Indian Act by a male colleague and friend of

THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES 101

mine, and I felt a swell of emotion in me— strong feelings of an- ger, injustice, and erasure. At first, I thought it was me, that I couldn’t somehow support my friend and colleague doing what was by all standards in Indigenous Studies a very thorough and complete discussion of the Indian Act that highlighted gender in the same way that I did. But my experience of his lecture, as es- sentially a student or as someone who wasn’t directing the con- tent or the discussion, was one of profound disempowerment. My first reaction was to blame myself. Why couldn’t I cope with not being in charge? Why was I angry with someone who has always had my back? What was untrue about what my colleague was saying? Was this just a trigger for my own unprocessed shit? Was I being hysterical?

I sat with this. I hiked around the bush with this. Eventually I uncovered a tiny part of me that was saying that there was a strong disconnect between my lived experience as kwe and how the Indian Act and its implications had been discussed in class. That the women in my family experienced the loss of status, and then some of us gained it back, was only part of the deep pain inside of me. The rest of the pain stemmed from the racist ste- reotyping of Indigenous women as promiscuous, sluts, dirty, unfit mothers, stupid, angry, apolitical, useless, skill- less, bad, crazy, unstable, disposable beings, which then became codified in the Indian Act and to some degree remains encoded in the In- dian Act. And not just the stereotypes. My family, like all Indig- enous families, has directly suffered under the colonial systems that white supremacist hatred has justified, including the child welfare system, disease, imposed poverty, addictions, mental health issues, and even death.

I sat with the trees and this pain, trying to make sense of things, like I am now, trying to figure out why the words squaw, slut, dirty Indian, and stupid have so much power over me. I con- sidered that I don’t necessarily want to “heal,” because I am not damaged, or diseased, or unhealthy. My response to the inter- generational trauma of settler colonial violence is correct and strong and vital. I don’t believe that one can be Indigenous in Canada in 2016 and live a normal and fulfilling existence unless

102 THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES

one is completely delusional and is living as a full Canadian; that is, with an unexamined, uncritical view of Indigenous- settler re- lations, or having adopted the measures of success of Canadian society to the point where one views the scars of oppression as cancers. I don’t want to be “healed.” I want to have processed hurt and pain to the point where I can speak back to those words and harness the power of fear, hatred, and love into sustained mobilization— to the point where they don’t control me, but they are experiences I can draw on when it is useful to do so.

I need to place my emotional experience, my life, in a posi- tion of honor. I need to respect and listen to my intelligence as a cisgendered Indigenous woman and as an Indigenous person. As kwe.

From this standpoint, my reaction to my colleague’s Indi- an Act lecture makes sense because “promiscuous, sluts, dirty, unfit mothers, stupid, angry, apolitical, useless, skill- less, bad, disposable, crazy, unstable beings” are not just words, and they are not just racist, sexist stereotypes or signifiers. They are four centuries– old weapons used to take power and influence away from Indigenous women in a habitual and strategic fashion, to promote the state’s goals of assimilation and dispossession. They are attacks on my sovereignty. Without analyzing how these be- liefs were perpetuated by settlers in settler society and used to justify violence against Indigenous peoples, we erase how they became encoded in policy, legislation, and all of the institutions of colonial society. And not only do we erase this history and this present, we erase how we replicate this in our scholarship and in our personal lives. Our societies, then, force Indigenous women, 2SQ, and trans people to ignore what feels wrong, so we police and silence ourselves, or maybe I should just speak for myself and say, I’m paying much more attention to figuring out what feels wrong and why and then sitting with, analyzing, and voicing those feeling- inspired interventions.

So how did the practice of the Indian Act specifically target Indigenous women and queer Indigenous peoples (and by prac- tice I mean not just the policies on paper but how they played out on the ground in the lives of Indigenous peoples) from the

THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES 103

perspective of Indigenous peoples and of Indigenous women and 2SQ peoples in particular?

To begin to understand this, we must understand that colo- nizers saw Indigenous bodies— our physical bodies and our con- structions of gender, sexuality, and intimate relationships— as Audra Simpson says, as a symbol of Indigenous orders of gov- ernment and a direct threat to their sovereignty and govern- mentality. The church, the state, and broader Canadian society worked in concert to surveil and confine Indigenous bodies and intimacies to Euro- Canadian heteropatriarchal marriages, that is, singular, lifelong monogamous relationships designed to re- produce the building blocks of Canadian nationalism instead of the replication of Nishnaabewin and Nishnaabeg nationhood, while also placing Indigenous conceptualizations and forms of intimacy and relationship as transgressive, immoral, unciv- ilized, and criminal.10 The “bedrock” of the Canadian nation- building project rested on the creation of “moral and respon- sible citizens” born out of “moral families, based on Western (largely Anglo) middle- class notions of sexual purity, marital monogamy, and distinct gender roles” in which women were domesticated and men were breadwinners.11 Gender and sexu- ality were crucial areas in which officials evaluated Indigenous nations and intervened when Indigenous practices contravened assimilatory policies.12

The Indian Act is long- standing legislation in Canada and is the primary document that outlines how the state interacts with the individuals and communities the state recognizes as Status Indians and Bands. The Indian Act in 1876 and its subsequent revisions had lots to say about gender. It is widely known and documented that the earliest versions of the Indian Act were im- bued with heteropatriarchy by which queer Indigenous peoples and relationships were disappeared, and there is no doubt in my mind that queer Indigenous peoples would have experienced extreme pressure and often violence to conform to colonial het- eronormativity. In the 1876 version of the act, Indian women were not allowed to possess land and marital property unless they were widows, but a widow could not inherit her husband’s

104 THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES

property upon death— everything went to his children. This was revised some in 1884, when Indian men could will their property to their wives if the Indian agent deemed the wife to be in good moral character. This remained intact until 1951, although men still often hold exclusive rights to property even if a relationship ends.13 The gender discrimination in rules for who are deemed Status Indians is widely documented and has been partially ad- dressed with Bill C31 and Bill C3, but the gender discrimination still exists in the act, albeit pushed back one generation. The po- litical influence of Indigenous women was also attacked in ver- sions of the act from 1876 to 1951, when we were removed from Indian Act administrations completely. The acts did not allow women to run for chief or council positions, nor did they allow for Indigenous women to vote in band elections. This combined with provisions that made it illegal for Status Indians to hire le- gal counsel and to organize politically made it more difficult for Indigenous women to have influence.

Indian agents perhaps caused severe damage in intimate Indigenous spaces because they were provided the authority to punish Indigenous peoples for not adhering to heterosex- uality, monogamy, and colonial gender expressions. Indian agents could punish disobedience by taking away children, by refusing economic relief in times of need, by taking away trea- ty and interest payments, and by formally charging Indigenous peoples and subjecting them to court and criminalization.14 Indian agents had considerable authority on reserves and ac- tively policed gender, sexuality, and marriage, as evidenced by the “Immorality on Reserves” filing system at Indian Affairs.15 Robin Jarvis Brownlie, a non- Indigenous historian, has pro- duced focused work on the surveillance of Nishnaabeg intima- cies by Indian Affairs in the 1920s and 1930s by examining the records of Indian agents working at the time in Georgian Bay. Indian agents held a lot of power over Indigenous peoples, and Brownlie’s examination of these records reveals the regulation of Indigenous women’s gender and sexuality and the “consider- able interest DIA officials took in the marital and sexual habits of both men and women.”16 Brownlie opens with a discussion of

THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES 105

a letter sent by Duncan Campbell Scott, deputy superintendent of Indian Affairs from 1913 to 1932, to an Nishnaabeg woman living as a member of the Chippewas of Nawash First Nation at Neyaashiinigmiing (Cape Croker). The letter was sent at the re- quest of her local Indian agent because her husband was “pay- ing attentions to other women.” Scott’s letter threatened that his department would cancel the loan on her husband’s farm if the woman failed to mend her ways in her marriage. Scott encour- aged her to properly perform “her duties as a wife and a moth- er” and spend more time in the home and less time “running around to the neighbours,” thus making the place more attrac- tive so that her husband would be interested in staying there.17 Brownlie goes on to note that the Indian agent had requested a letter to also be sent to the husband, but that letter appears to never have been written.18 Threats of economic sanctions were common and particularly targeted women during this time pe- riod because they were often poor.

The threat of economic sanctions is particularly relevant in the Williams Treaty area because these communities had lost their hunting and fishing rights through the fraudulent process of signing the treaty (which wasn’t negotiated), in the midst of a century of environmental destruction (of wild rice beds and fish populations through the construction of the Trent- Severn Waterway), settler encroachment, and dispossession, which de- stroyed the foundation of our economy.19

There is a strong parallel between the dispossession of Mi- chi Saagiig Nishnaabeg from our homelands and the dispos- session of Indigenous bodies from our grounded normativity. Within Nishnaabeg political practices, governance begins with how our minds (emotional and intellectual), bodies, and spir- its interact and relate to one another. Illness often arises out of an imbalance of these four aspects of being. The interaction and interdependence of these aspects of being enable us to make de- cisions about our bodies, and thus individual self- determination becomes a driving force in Nishnaabeg practice. Individuals within Nishnaabeg society are afforded a large amount of free- dom within our philosophical and ethical understandings of

106 THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES

the world to conduct themselves in a way that is beneficial and contributing to their families but also honors and respects their gifts, talents, and desires.

Everywhere in the world Indigenous women and our sexual agency provided a dilemma for the colonizers.20 Initially, in the absence of white women, colonizers positioned and used Indig- enous women for sexual gratification. By the mid- nineteenth century, the colonizers positioned all the sexual autonomy (and the autonomy in general) of Indigenous women to be illicit— especially if it occurred “in public,” the domain of white men.21 The more Indigenous women exercised their body sovereignty, the more we were targeted as “squaws” and “savages,” subjected to violence and criminalized. A large part of the colonial project has been to control the political power of Indigenous women and queer people through the control of our sexual agency because this agency is a threat to heteropatriarchy, the heteronormative nuclear family, the replication and reproduction of (queer) In- digeneity and Indigenous political orders, the hierarchy colo- nialism needs to operate, and ultimately Indigenous freedom. Indigenous body sovereignty and sexuality sovereignty threaten colonial power.

By the mid- 1800s, federal, provincial, and white govern- ments had set up various legal and regulatory mechanisms to manage the agency of Indigenous women and Indigenous politi- cal orders through the management of prostitution as any “illicit” sexual agency taking place in the public sphere, often meaning any expression of relationship outside of churched, monoga- mous marriages between men and women of the same “race.”22 Public expressions of Indigenous sexuality outside of the norms of the colonizers were contained in the charge of prostitution in order for the state to destroy Indigenous self- determination by attacking Indigenous bodies through regulatory mechanisms.23

The first Canadian statute dealing with prostitution was in the mid- 1800s in Lower Canada. In 1879, provisions regarding prostitution were included in the Indian Act— shortly after the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) was created, in 1873. These provisions were amended in 1884 and eventually moved

THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES 107

to the criminal code in 1892, resulting in the first expulsion of In- digenous women from urban spaces back to reserves, although the coded term profligacy, meaning “promiscuity,” remained in the act to continue the regulation of sexuality.24 Nishnaabekwe writer Naomi Sayers recently addressed the link between Cana- da’s current prostitution laws and colonialism, writing that these laws “were really there to protect society’s whiteness/maleness. As such these laws were disproportionately applied to racialized and Indigenous bodies.” Sayers continues:

Specifically, the first sections [of the Indian Act] relating to prostitution, written in 1879, included sections ban- ning “houses of prostitution” (or in a contemporary con- text, “bawdy houses”). Initially, “houses of prostitution” were defined as being disorderly, a definition which had almost nothing to do with sexual behaviors. These sections also explicitly included wigwams— that is, Indigenous peoples’ houses— meaning that Indigenous houses were assumed to be disorderly by nature. This gave government and policing agencies the permission to enter Indigenous people’s houses on spurious grounds unrelated to the actual offense in question. These same claims that Indigenous houses were disorderly also led to the removal of Indigenous children from their homes, forcing them to attend residential schools designed to erase Indigenous identities from society. Following this, several other sections were included, but were later repealed and replaced in 1880 and 1884. Even though these sections were repeatedly repealed and replaced, changes to prostitution laws always increased the force and effect of these laws on Indigenous women’s bodies. Because these laws originated under the Indian Act, there were no attempts to criminalize non- Indigenous men for similar offenses.25

In the 1930s a young Nishnaabeg woman living on a reserve in northwestern Ontario was sentenced to two years in provincial reformatory for vagrancy. The evidence centered on her sup-

108 THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES

posed sexual promiscuity, including graphic evidence of her most recent sexual encounter, and that she had two “illegiti- mate” children. A petition was presented to the court signed by the Indian agent and her family that in the interests of morali- ty on the reserve she be sent to a reformatory.26 Her name was Emma. She was convicted under section 101 of the Indian Act in 1933 for profligacy (promiscuity).27

Because these measures were continually and violently in- troduced and reinforced by the church, the education system, and the state and through settler culture, the degree to which these colonial values were infiltrated into the practices of Indig- enous peoples and communities means very little to me because it occurred without informed consent or critical thought and under extreme oppression and duress. To say that Indigenous cultures, values, and morals “shifted” or “changed” under these conditions is absurd. This was a strategic and habitual all- out attack on Indigenous intelligence that is tantamount to culture genocide and part of genocide in general.

Hierarchy had to be infiltrated into Indigenous construc- tions of family so that men were agents of heteropatriarchy and could therefore exert colonial control from within. This was accomplished by placing Indigenous men in more pow- erful positions within Indigenous communities than Indige- nous women, and by teaching through example, the church, and various Indian agent interventions that the role of a good wife was to serve her husband in every conceivable way. One example of this is the Indian Act elections. Until 1951, Indig- enous women could not run for chief and council, nor could they vote in these elections. Missions, such as the Methodist one at Grape Island and later in Alderville First Nation, made Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg men into farmers and carpenters, and Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg women into wives, in the tradi- tions of England, meaning they engaged in unpaid labor con- tained inside a British- like household, ruled by their husbands. Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg women were transformed from be- ing autonomous, influential, and economically and politically powerful within our nation to being dependent, subservient,

THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES 109

second- class citizens confined to the domestic sphere in colonial society.

Since Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg nationhood is at its core relational, and all of our political practices stem from the es- tablishment and maintenance of good relations, Indigenous forms of social kinship had to be destroyed and replaced with the heteronormative nuclear families. Indigenous intimate part- nerships were diverse and shattered the heteronormative sexual and relationship orientations of settlers. There were practices of nonmonogamy, separation, divorce, and situations where both genders had more than one partner. These unchurched relation- ships were the subject of much settler surveillance.

Indigenous forms of gender construction and fluidity around gender had to be replaced with a rigid heteropatriarchal gender binary and strict gender roles. Indigenous peoples had to be removed from educating Indigenous children. The sexuality of Indigenous women and 2SQ people had to be removed from the public sphere and from the control of Indigenous women and 2SQ people, as normalized within Indigenous societies and contained within the white heteropatriarchal home.28 This last point is critical to understanding the experience of Indigenous women today. Since we came from societies where sexual free- dom and self- determination of our bodies was our birthright, the control of our bodies and sexuality became of critical im- portance to the colonizers. They reframed Indigenous sexuality within the confines of shame and modesty. They sanctioned it only on the terms and for the enjoyment of husbands and men within marriage. They removed it from the public sphere by la- beling Indigenous women as promiscuous or prostitutes, and then criminalized their acts— all of which is a violent imposition on Indigenous self- determination and body sovereignty.

Officials were particularly focused on conformity to Chris- tian forms of monogamous lifelong marriage and Euro- Canadian sexual prescriptions, and on the deterrence of nonmarital sexu- ality.29 The rigidity of the colonial gender binary was a promi- nent part of policy and practice. The state had a strong interest in assimilating Indigenous bodies into the gendered roles of Eu-

110 THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES

ropean females and males and infusing Indigenous families with the hierarchy of heteropatriarchy. This resulted in a near erasure of queer genders and sexualities, the confinement of women to the domestic sphere of the home, the ongoing criminalization of Indigenous women who trade or sell sex, and the continued criminalization of Indigenous women and queer people in ur- ban, rural, and reserve spaces. It also resulted in the confine- ment of men to the roles of white patriarchal husbands and fa- thers, to the unskilled or the semiskilled working class, and to a colonial hierarchy of gender within Indigenous intimacies with men at the top, women in the middle, and nonconforming gen- ders disappeared through individual and systemic violence.30

Nishnaabeg women skilled and adept in the practices of hunting, trapping, fishing, sugaring, ricing, gardening, and har- vesting medicines were economically independent from the set- tler economy and therefore were less reliant on their husbands and Indian agents economically. This afforded them a higher lev- el of freedom and autonomy that in turn posed a greater threat to assimilation. Thus, dismantling the power and influence of Indigenous women became important to the destruction of In- digenous nations. Domesticity— confining Indigenous women to heteropatriarchal marriage and the home— was an intense site of cultural genocide carried out by missions and educational institutions and through Indian Act policy and practice. Both missions and Indian agents actively regulated Indigenous wom- en’s sexuality and enforced obedience and compliance to Euro- Canadian models of “correct” gender expression.31

Non- Indigenous historian Joan Sangster has also document- ed examples of the sexual surveillance and punishment of Nish- naabeg women in Ontario under the Female Refuges Act, the Juvenile Delinquents Act, and the Training School Act. From 1919 to 1958, women in Ontario considered “idle and disso- lute” were incarcerated under the Ontario Female Refuges Act. It targeted “women considered promiscuous, with illegitimate children, suspected of venereal disease, sometimes women in- volved with Asian or Black men.”32 This act also impacted Indig- enous women, particularly because Canadian society in general

THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES 111

already positioned Indigenous women as promiscuous and idle. In the early 1940s a young Indigenous woman was taken before the court by her Indian agent and the local RCMP for drink- ing and “dissolute” sexual behavior and was sentenced under the Female Refuges Act to a term at the Mercer Reformatory in Toronto.33 Indigenous women were also convicted under this act for sleeping with men who were not their husbands, public intoxication, promiscuity, and prostitution, and the courts were highly influenced by the racist stereotypes of Indigenous wom- en when sentencing.34

The threat of being sent to a reform school figured promi- nently in my own childhood growing up in the 1970s. My Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg mother made it clear that if my sisters and I did not behave as good, young ladies— meaning polite, respect- ful (of male authority), and pure— we would be sent to reform school. In some ways this can be viewed as Indigenous women now taking on the role of the colonizer, or as Indigenous wom- en’s morals or values shifting to mirror that of the colonizer, but I think neither of these is true. I think my mom was trying to pro- tect me from a racist, heteropatriarchal colonizing society that had the ability to punish me for behavior it deemed transgres- sive, and that this belief was something that seven generations of the Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg women in my family had now faced. This also plays out in our communities in how we treat our relations who are pushed out of our community governance and decision making because they are perceived to fulfill and embody the stereotypes more overtly (people who are street involved, people with addictions issues, those who trade or sell sex, and queer people who “flaunt” their sexuality, for exam- ple).35 Yet, within Nishnaabeg thought, every body is a political order and every body houses individual self- determination. The important work of the Indigenous Sex Sovereignty Collective reinforces this idea in their statement calling for centering the voices of people who trade or sell sex in Indigenous antiviolence organizing: “At a personal level, self- determination means the ability to choose how to identify one’s experience, sovereignty over one’s body, and respect for the decisions a person makes

112 THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES

over their own lives today.”36 This idea is the very foundation of Nishnaabeg governance.

Native girls were also sentenced to the Ontario Training School for Girls, established in 1933 as a secular, state- supported reform school designed for girls under the age of sixteen, for a variety of misdeeds, including incorrigibility, sexual promis- cuity, and running away under the Juvenile Delinquents Act and Training School Act of 1908. This could transpire without a court case, with only the recommendation of a child welfare agency, relatives, foster parents, guardians, or Indian agents, and the number of Indigenous girls incarcerated increased steadily after 1940s.37 All of these acts, policies, attitudes, systems, and habitual practices were set up to control, undermine, and crimi- nalize the self- determination of Indigenous women.

I notice that in the aftermath of the height of the Idle No More movement, there has been a significant amount of online activism toward eradicating stereotypes of Indigenous peoples and a significant lack of discussion and action about land issues. While it has become the practice for segments of Canadian so- ciety, particularly the more liberal and well- meaning segments, to condemn racist stereotypes, this same group is immobilized with regard to land issues. As a result, it is possible to get, for instance, music festivals to ban hipsters from wearing Native headdresses, or sports teams to change their name from the Nepean Redskins, or even the word squaw to be removed from maps. These efforts have my respect but also my worry. Chang- ing stereotypes are easy wins right now. They are easy because they are acceptable to the oppressor, and they only give the il- lusion of real change. It is not acceptable to wear a headdress to a dance party, but it is acceptable to dance on stolen land and to build pipelines over stolen land. It is not acceptable to call Indigenous women “squaws,” but it is acceptable to maintain all of the systems that target Indigenous women’s minds, bod- ies, and spirituality and to continue to exclude those political orders from governance and decision making that we perceive to be embodying these stereotypes.38 It is acceptable to under- mine and attack our body sovereignty and self- determination. It

THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES 113

is acceptable that we are not in control of how we want to use our bodies and our minds. It is acceptable that we are not free. In a sense, it is like the colonizer saying to me that colonialism, colonial gender violence, and Indigenous dispossession are now so entrenched in North America that we don’t even have to use racist stereotypes to maintain these systems. They perpetuate themselves.

Let me be clear, from within Nishnaabewin, the decisions about how I use my body, my mind, my sexuality, my spirituali- ty, and the relationship I’m embedded in are my decision and no one else’s. The regulation of my body, my brain, and my sexual- ity are attacks on my body as a political order, my nationhood, and my freedom, regardless of intent. I do not consent to have my freedom restricted by those who believe they know best for me and my body. I refuse.

Indigenous Bodies as Political Orders

One of the most important interventions for me over the past few years related to gender, Indigenous nation building, and re- surgence comes in the form of a talk by the brilliant Mohawk scholar Audra Simpson titled “The Chief ’s Two Bodies.” One of Simpson’s intellectual gifts is the ability to eloquently reframe the most important issues of our times out of a simplistic co- lonial realm and into truth— a layered and complex Indigenous reality. I am indebted to her for this. I’ve heard versions of “The Chief ’s Two Bodies” live. I’ve watched a recorded version sever- al times. I’ve used the recording of her talk in classrooms across the country. I’ve forced graduate students to watch and to read her work before I’ll work with them. Simpson is of course a cel- ebrated and widely respected Indigenous scholar. For me, her work is some of the most important scholarship of our time be- cause her analysis fully resonates with me as a scholar and with my experience as an Indigenous woman. I use my body, mind, spirit, and life in my writing as research and as a canvas, and rarely do the echoes of another scholar’s work align with both my head and my experience. Simpson’s does that.

In her talk, which I understand is part of a larger, new book

114 THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES

project, Simpson maintains that the bodies of Indigenous wom- an are legal targets for death, disappearance, and elimination be- cause we are signifiers of a political order that is a direct threat to the political legitimacy of settlement. I want to spend some time here exploring her talk and how I relate to it as an Nishnaabekwe because I think her intervention changes the way we are talking about gender (or not talking about it) in Indigenous Studies.

Simpson begins her talk stating that her paper makes two very simple arguments:

That Canada requires the death and so- called disappear- ance of Indigenous women in order to secure its sover- eignty; and this is a sovereign death dance that requires us to think hard about the ways in which we imagine not only nations and states but what counts as governance itself.39

What follows in Simpson’s talk is a clear articulation of how the murdering, disappearing, and erasing of Indigenous women is necessary for Canada to secure and legitimize its sovereignty because they house and reproduce Indigenous political orders. This isn’t true just for Indigenous woman, but it is also true for queer bodies and children because these Indigenous bodies have always housed and acted out Indigenous power, political and otherwise, that white women, queer people, and children did not have. This power resulted in the legally mandated dis- appearance of Indigenous women through the Indian Act, pol- icy, and the criminal justice system; of transgendered people through the Indian Act, the criminal justice system, and residen- tial schools; and of children, as our greatest potential, through residential schools and the child welfare system.

As a member of a neighboring nation to Simpson’s, I’ve al- ways been aware of the power and agency of Kanien’kehá:ka women, both political and personal, because I don’t think there is a division between the two in Indigenous thought. Compari- sons made between the two societies often note that Kanien’ke- há:ka women’s political power is well documented in Rotinon- hseshá:ka politics and governance and recognized as having

THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES 115

influenced white feminism, whereas Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg society is positioned as a “hunter and gatherer” society, partic- ularly by historians and anthropologists, with an assumption that Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg women certainly did not enjoy the same power and influence the Kanien’kehá:ka women had.40

To begin with, this is a profound misunderstanding of Mi- chi Saagiig political systems and governance. The governance and political systems of so- called hunter and gatherer societies in general and the Nishnaabeg in particular remain profoundly misunderstood. Our rhythmic, seasonal, traveling throughout the territory gets positioned as “nomadic,” rather than as a polit- ical and governing structure and process that facilitated a gentle and sustainable use of our lands and waters, a decentralized na- tional leadership, and an intensification of personal and political relationships with a diversity of human and nonhuman nations.

Our system of governance is often talked about, even among ourselves, as the clan system. The clan system is a way of or- ganizing society into different responsibilities and of intimately connecting people to animal nations. To me, the clan system is actually a series of systems or networks of relationships that was also, when intact, territorial. In Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg terri- tory, the three main original clans were Eagle (Toronto area), Caribou (southeast shore of Lake Ontario), and Crane (Peter- borough area), with each clan holding particularly responsibil- ities for governance and for relationships to the animal nation they were akin to.41 The so- called leadership clans were the Eagle and Crane clans, but my understanding is that this type of leadership was an emergent structure that appeared when needed, particularly to deal with international issues or issues that concerned more than one clan, and was based on a gen- erated grounded power, rather than an appointed authoritarian power.42 Decisions were made by generated consensus of clans and clan leaders, and therefore the people had a stake in mak- ing new understandings through participatory practices that provided deep engagement with the issues. Individuals were at the base of the political system— people were the foundation of the Nishnaabeg politic. Individuals were accountable for their

116 THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES

own self- actualization and self- determination in relation to the spirit world and their responsibilities to their relations. These values and processes guided families and then clans, and while the processes for decision making might get more complicated, the values and basic processes remained the same across scales. Leadership appears decentralized and family based, but this is a rather simplistic conceptualization of it. Nishnaabeg live in a world that is profoundly influenced by the spirit world, particu- larly at this time. All of our political structures are plugged into the essence and real power of life that exists across time and space as worlds of nonhuman beings, some of which are spiritual be- ings and some of which are our Ancestors. Decision making and leadership in a highly networked, diffuse political system that is grounded in relationship to spiritual power have to be actively generated, sustained, and maintained within Indigenous bodies and the relationships that forms these hubs. Different manifes- tation of leadership lies in all Indigenous bodies. To eliminate an Nishnaabeg political system, you can’t just storm a building and execute the leader, because networked political systems recover from this loss, quickly and easily. Several other relationshiped bodies will hold all of the knowledge and skill embodied in this one leader. To eliminate an Nishnaabeg political system, you have to attack the nodes of the network and in particular the nodes of the network that continually regenerate the network itself: Indigenous bodies. Rotinonhseshá:ka and Nishnaabeg political systems are different, but women hold agency, power, and influence within both. Colonial governments and settler co- lonial governments require the taking of land from Indigenous peoples to propel their capitalist economies. Every year, Canada needs more land and more resources, and that comes domesti- cally entirely from Indigenous lands.

Simpson’s talk affirms my refusal of the ongoing victim nar- rative that neoliberalism creates, and it places my generated knowledge as kwe as a critical intervention in Indigenous schol- arship and politics. My body sovereignty is not subject to attack just because it is an Indigenous woman’s body. My body sov- ereignty is subject to attack because it exists as an Nishnaabeg

THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES 117

political order “that threatens forms of sovereignty to settler states.” Therefore, if you are engaged in political theory, polit- ical science, governance, resurgence, or nation building, you simple cannot ignore the fact that the performance of settler governmentality in Canada and the United States is strategically gendered. To ignore this fact represents an intellectual dumbing down of scholarship and action, and it serves the state, not In- digenous nations.

My mom was born in 1945, and so at this point in the histor- ic record things become more intensely personal. But that’s the trick of colonialism and white supremacy. The greatest violent acts were not carried out on unknown, nameless, and faceless Indigenous peoples. They were carried out on our children and siblings and parents and grandparents, and on us. This didn’t happen in the past, it’s happening as I speak, to our families in real time, in real life. Colonialism is by its nature gendered, and therefore the Radical Resurgence Project must also center the voices of Indigenous children, women, and 2SQ peoples and critically examine and act in ways that not just deconstruct but destroy the power of heteropatriarchy while building the alter- native. We have to viciously throw off the lies fed to us through schools about the foundations of Canada and struggle to un- derstand and feel the violence and pure evil that took our lands from us. We first have to survive in order to escape. And we first have to escape (enough) before we can mobilize.

118 THE SOVEREIGNTY OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ BODIES

119

EIGHT INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

To be queer and native and alive is to repeatedly bear witness to worlds being destroyed, over and over again.

— Billy- Ray Belcourt, “Can the Other of Native Studies Speak?”

My family regularly participates in sweat lodge ceremonies. My kids have grown up in this ceremony. This past summer, we came together in community as we always had. At the time, my daughter was questioning her gender and how to express it in a truthful way. She was not wearing skirts, or lace, or pink, or anything that said “girl.” She was asking about gen- dered pronouns and what it exactly it means or doesn’t mean to be a girl. She was dressing in boys’ clothes and wearing a boy’s bathing suit. She’s growing up in ceremony, and she is well aware of the accepted protocols in our wider community and our fami- lies’ ceremonial practices. Typically, the accepted protocols are that women wear skirts, sit on a particular side of the lodge, have responsibilities around water and berries, and do not participate in the ceremony while menstruating. The morning of the sweat, she didn’t pack a skirt but her boy’s bathing suit. She helped me put the cedar in the lodge and the berries in a wooden bowl (in

some ceremonial communities this is a woman’s role), and she helped with the fire (in some ceremonial communities this is a man’s role). When it came time to go into the lodge, she sat in the circle with the rest of us, in between the men and the wom- en. When the pipes came around, she smoked them. This was all normalized for her.1 There was no discussion ahead of time or after (although we’ve had plenty of discussion over all of this for the past fifteen years). We just did things as, for her, they had normally been done. I felt proud of my community and my family and also sad in the realization of how uncommon her ex- perience is right now. I thought about how crushed she would have been if someone had tried to make her wear a skirt or had discouraged her from fire keeping. If that had happened, I know the pain and hurt she might have felt might have been enough for her to remove herself from ceremony, maybe forever. I also know from listening and reading the stories of queer Indigenous youth that her experience is incredibly rare.2 Queer youth are telling me that most often they get crushed. The toll of crushing on bodies, minds, and spirits is accumulative, diminishing, and restrictive. It also eliminates. It eliminates queer bodies from Indigenous spaces. It eliminates Indigenous bodies as political orders.

Their Indigenous worlds get destroyed. This is so unacceptable to me within the ethical frameworks

of Nishnaabeg grounded normativity, and also so unnecessary. It is also infuriating because while there are a lot of things we cannot fix right now, this is one of the things that we can collec- tively take on and make better. Right now.

At the very foundation of this story is the idea that my child has the responsibility of figuring out a meaningful way to live in the world that is consistent with her most intimate realities. The job of everyone else is not to direct or control that but to sup- port her. This is a relationship between her and the spirit world. No one else has the right to interfere with that, unless it is caus- ing great harm to someone else.3 This is true for all Nishnaabeg people regardless of gender. We all have the responsibility to figure out how to become contributing members of our society

120 INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

while honoring our deepest truths, our gifts and skills, our clan affiliations, and our names. Self- actualization is a relationship between ourselves and the spirit world, and it is supposed to take place in the context of family and community.

We all have a relationship to creation. Alex Wilson, a scholar from Opaskwayak Cree Nation, says, “We call the moon grand- mother and the earth mother in English, but in Cree this is not the case. What is important is the relational aspect acknowl- edging some kind of kinship. In Cree, land (aski) is not gen- dered. . . . Same for water. It’s not gender but it has spirit of life and it’s fluid.”4

This is true in Nishnaabewin as well: the earth is Aki; the moon, dibik- giizis; the sun, giizis; the sky, giizhik. Although there is a heteronormative imposed gender often projected onto creation, this is only one telling, a telling that is reflective in my view of a Christianized relationship to the earth, rather than one that is more deeply reflective of Nishnaabeg ethics and prac- tices.5 Perhaps one of the most powerful community- based tool kits ever written on the subject, Violence on the Land, Violence on Our Bodies: Building an Indigenous Response to Environmen- tal Violence, produced by the Women’s Earth Alliance and the Native Youth Sexual Health Network, provides a simple exercise that can be used to consider one’s relationship to all aspects of creation without gendering them. The exercise begins by asking participants to choose one particular aspect of the land— a river, the sky, and so on— and talk about it and their relationship to it without gendering it. The exercise emphasizes that we all have a relationship to creation and that these relationships are not tied to certain body parts. It centers the idea that creating life comes in many forms, not just from the womb, and it creates a space where all genders can have valuable, ethical, consensual, mean- ingful, and reciprocal relationships with all aspects of creation— which I believe is the point.6

My spiritual world is also benevolent and intelligent. Spir- itual beings see the complications of colonialism that have asymmetrically targeted queer bodies because they’ve lived through this with us, because many of them are queer in sexual

INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY 121

orientation, and most of them come from a time when our na- tion embodied queerness in formation, as practice, ethics, and process. The violence of heteropatriarchy, heteronormativity, and transphobia changes our lived context. I believe our Ances- tors love us unconditionally and are willing to work with us so no Indigenous bodies feel the pain and hurt of exclusion, shame, or outright violence in our most intimate spaces. Not only have they consistently provided us with stories, song, and ceremo- nies that embody the concepts of consent, body sovereignty, freedom, and individual self- determination, they have repeated- ly emphasized the ideas of compassion, empathy, and caring in everything they do. I believe my Ancestors and the spiritual be- ings I am in relationship with are brilliant and complex, and they are not going to strike me down because I didn’t follow a “rule” about how I should approach them— this to me is how Christi- anity works, not Nishnaabewin. I’m going to be someone’s An- cestor at some point, and that’s certainly not OK with me.

We simply cannot accept a singular, shallow interpreta- tion of Nishnaabeg thought and use it to shame, exclude, and degrade members of our nations. Our thought systems within grounded normativity are fluid, dynamic, and responsive, and it is our responsibility to practice grounded normativity in the way it was intended: to build strong societies of individuals who are functioning as their best selves. They also come from the land— the land that provides endless examples of queerness and diverse sexualities and genders.7 We collectively have a respon- sibility to figure out how to make our spirituality relevant to all our people. That’s the philosophical and practical challenge each generation inherits. I strongly believe, then, that I have a responsibility to interpret and live these practices in ways that do not replicate homophobia, transphobia, heterosexism, het- eronormativity, and heteropatriarchy. I think nation building and resurgence cannot be meaningful otherwise.

Alex Wilson has been working on this issue for decades now, from within her own Cree grounded normativity. She is from Opaskwayak Cree Nation in Manitoba, a community that normalized queerness when she was growing up. She writes,

122 INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

“In my community, the act of declaring some people special threatens to separate them from their community and creates an imbalance. Traditionally, two spirit people were simply a part of the entire community; as we reclaim our identity with this name, we are returning to our communities.”8 Over the years, when I’ve asked different Nishnaabeg elders about queerness, they often say that we didn’t have that. Then when I ask if two women ever lived together intimately, without men, they will remember stories of queer couples, not as queer people, but just people who lived like that, as something that wasn’t a big deal, as if it were a normal inconsequential part of life. What these el- ders and Alex are describing is a gender variance that existed in many Indigenous communities prior to the strategic implanting of the colonial gender binary. This imposed an artificial gender binary as a mechanism for controlling Indigenous bodies and identity and sets out two very clear genders: male and female. It lays out two sets of rigidly defined roles based on colonial conceptions of femininity and masculinity.9 It then places co- lonial concepts of maleness and masculinity as more import- ant than female and femininity and erases any variance. This is what heteropatriarchy needs to operate, and the more that heterosexual cisgendered Native men and women buy into the hierarchy and choose to reproduce and enforce violence, exclu- sion, and erasure, the better it works to divide and destroy the fabric of relationships that make up our nations. Heteropatriar- chy isn’t just about exclusion of certain Indigenous bodies, it is about the destruction of the intimate relationships that make up our nations, and the fundamental systems of ethics based on values of individual sovereignty and self- determination. The more destruction our intimate relationships carry, the more destruction our political systems carry, and the less we are able to defend and protect our lands, and the easier it is to dispossess.

2SQ Indigenous peoples flourished in many Indigenous na- tions and were highly visible to the first European “explorers.” The archival and Western historical record sets down this visibili- ty and the anti- queerness of these explorers, translators, traders,

INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY 123

and missionaries in the 1600 and 1700s. Samuel de Champlain, Jacques Marquette, Baron de Lahontan, Jesuit priest Pierre- François Lafitau, Pierre François Xavier de Charlevoix, military interpreter and writer John Tanner, David Thompson and Al- exander Henry, Charles MacKenzie, fur trader Ross Cox, and, later, photographer George Catlin are a few examples.10 In Nar- rative of the Captivity and Adventures of John Tanner during Thirty Years Residence among the Indians in the Interior of North America, John Tanner describes Ozawendib (Yellowhead), from Leech Lake, as a visible 2SQ man with several intimate partners, or “husbands.”11 Tanner records the term agokwa as one that was used to describe Ozawendib. He also describes an elder and the Nishnaabeg community around Ozawendib using the pronoun “she” to address Ozawendib and notes that her sexuality, rela- tionship orientation, and gender were accepted as normal.12 Tanner also records his own anti- queerness, as he describes this beautiful scene as “disgusting.”13

Joseph- François Lafitau was a French Jesuit missionary and ethnologist working in Rotinonhseshá:ka territory in the early part of the 1700s. In his major and often cited work published in Paris in 1724, Customs of the American Indians Compared with the Customs of Primitive Times, Lafitau “congratulates” missionaries for “suppressing” Indigenous queer relationships. He describes the missionaries’ success in prompting many queer Indigenous people and their relations to see their identity as “shameful.” He was pleased to report that after seventy- five years of missionary work, people once “regarded as extraordinary men,” had now “come to be looked on, even by the Indians, with scorn.”14 Je- suit missionaries also counseled Indigenous parents of children who were not conforming to the colonial gender binary to force conformity.15 This is significant to me because the book was pub- lished 1724, before the height of the residential schools system and the Indian Act, after seventy- five years of intense targeting of 2SQ people in Indigenous nations and communities within the reach of Jesuit missions.16 By 1724, the Jesuits were boasting about the deliberate elimination of queer Indigenous peoples from our nations. Of course they were incorrect, because 2SQ

124 INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

people clearly resisted and found ways of living invisibly to co- lonial powers, or I couldn’t have written this chapter.

Scott Lauria Morgensen’s Spaces between Us: Queer Settler Colonialism and Indigenous Decolonization makes the point that in other parts of the Americas 2SQ people were eliminated by death, but that by the mid- nineteenth century in French and British Canada and in postrevolutionary New England, 2SQ people were “less singled out for violence than subjected with their communities to military attack, containment or removal.”17 He goes on to say that colonial institutions such as Indian agen- cies, missionary churches, and boarding schools noticed sexual and gender variance but “without needing to exact brute force violence, these institutions used disciplinary education to try and break Native communities, languages and cultural knowl- edges.”18 Given the amount of surveillance of “unchurched” re- lationships among Indigenous men and women on reserves by clergy, Indian agents, and Christianized Natives, as discussed in the previous chapter, I find it difficult to believe that this wouldn’t also be the case for 2SQ people in our communities, whether or not there is documented evidence in Indian Affairs archives.19 I’m also unsure that I see the difference between brute force and the extreme forms of gendered, sexualized, physical, and emotional violence and abuse suffered by Indig- enous children in residential schools, violence I can only imag- ine was amplified the more a child expressed variance from the strict colonial gender binary. We have no statistics on the num- ber of queer children that died in residential schools, died es- caping residential schools, committed suicide as a result of their residential school experience, or were forced to live an invisi- ble life because of residential school homophobia and shaming. Nor have we fully investigated the intergenerational impacts of the infusion of anti- queer violence into our communities and its impact on our political systems and nationhood as a result of residential schools. Further, nearly four hundred years after Lafitau’s book, queer Indigenous youth are telling us very clear- ly that anti- queer violence is still a tremendous, horrific force in their lives.

INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY 125

Two Spirit elder Ma- Nee Chacaby, in her autobiography A Two- Spirit Journey: The Autobiography of a Lesbian Ojibwa- Cree Elder, recounts her childhood in Ombabika, a community in northwest Ontario. Chacaby remembers her grandmother ex- plaining to her that she had two spirits as a young child. She used the term niizhin ojiijaak to describe a male and female spirit liv- ing inside a girl.20 She explained that Nizhiin Ojiijaak girls were often drawn to activities that boys like, and she said that Niizhin Ojiijaak could choose not to marry, could marry someone of the opposite sex, or could marry someone of the same sex. She ex- plained that Nizhiin Ojiijaak couples would adopt children who had lost their parents, that they sometimes had special healing or ceremonial responsibilities, and that it was her responsibility to figure out how to live her own life. Her grandmother also told her stories of Nizhiin Ojiijaak— two men living and raising chil- dren together, another woman who was responsible for making navigational marks on rocks— and Chacaby remembers meeting other Nizhiin Ojiijaak in Ombabika.21

All of this evidence points to what Two Spirit and queer people have always known from living as 2SQ in settler colo- nialism: 2SQ bodies and the knowledge and practices those bodies house as Indigenous political orders were seen as an ex- treme threat to settler society, sovereignty, dispossession, and the project of colonization, colonialism, and assimilation. The powerful relationships queer bodies house— consent, diversity, variance, spiritual power, community, respect, reciprocity, love, attachment— were the very first thing colonizers sought to elim- inate, and they began celebrating what they thought was the genocide of 2SQ people in my nation long before colonization reached nations on the West Coast or in the north.

I had the privilege of hearing Alex talk about queerness and Indigeneity in my class on self- determination at Dechinta last year. Alex talked about how normalized gender variance in In- digenous communities was attacked and the gender binary was violently enforced through residential schools, day schools, and sanitariums, where children were separated into boys or girls,

126 INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

their hair forcibly cut, and their clothes changed to skirts or pants, and where they were punished for normal, healthy ex- pressions of sexuality and gender expressions outside of the ri- gidity of Victorian masculinity and femininity. The gender bina- ry was also reinforced through the Indian Act: only men could run for chief and council until 1950, marriage was defined in a heterosexual, monogamous way, and the rules for status and property were gendered and binarized. Indian agents forced En- glish names on us, which also upheld the gender binary; a binary was also reinforced in the church, by anthropologists studying roles, and later by narrow interpretations of our own thought systems. Indian agents prevented the use of Nishnaabemowin and therefore the gender variance encoded in our language, and they policed the intimacy of Indigenous peoples, as described in the previous chapter, to promote heterosexual, monogamous relationships between cisgendered men and women to the ex- clusion of all other intimate partnerships. I thought about this as an attempt to break the network of intelligent relationships housed in Indigenous bodies in order to prevent the replication of Indigenous freedom, in order to get land. This is one way het- eropatriarchy dispossesses, but it’s not the only way.

While these actions caused the power and agency of all gen- ders to shrink, those that are farthest away from colonial ideals suffered most and continue to be targets of harsh colonial vi- olence. Remember Audra Simpson’s characterization of Indig- enous bodies as political orders. Queer Indigenous bodies are political orders. Queer Indigenous bodies house knowledge, relationships, and responsibilities. Queer Indigenous bodies are a threat to settler sovereignty, which is why queer Indige- neity has been and is violently targeted by colonial and settler colonial powers in an ongoing way in order to dispossess. Queer Indigenous bodies therefore also house and generate a wealth of theory and critical analysis regarding settler colonialism that straight bodies cannot. Engaging in anti- queerness, therefore, in all its various manifestations is tantamount in my mind to us consenting to and participating in autogenocide.

INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY 127

Queerness from within Nishnaabeg Thought

Naming the gender binary as colonial is important because when I think about this binary from within Nishnaabeg concep- tual thought or from within the reality of so- called hunting and gathering societies, it makes no sense in terms of the ethical sys- tems grounded normativity sets up. Further, it is at odds with the practicality of life in the bush because it restricts and pre- vents relationships, productivity, and, in many aspects, actual survival. If I am to be able to take care of myself on the land, I need to have a reciprocal and respectful relationship with all aspects of creation. I need to have a proficiency in hunting, fish- ing, gathering, making shelter, traveling, ceremony, warmth, light, and feeding and clothing myself and those reliant upon me. I cannot restrict myself to an exclusively gendered workload and just expect to survive.

The word matriarch in reference to Indigenous conceptu- alizations of power and gender makes no sense to me within Nishnaabeg thought because it reinforces a gender binary, it reinforces anthropological social constructions of Indigene- ity, and it reinforces authoritarian power, rather than authen- tic grounded power. Nishnaabeg “women” hunted, trapped, fished, held leadership positions, and engaged in warfare, as well as carrying out domestic tasks and looking after children, and they were encouraged to show a broad range of emotions and to express their gender and sexuality in a way that was true to their own being, as a matter of both principle and survival.22 Nishnaabeg “men” hunted, trapped, fished, held leadership po- sitions, engaged in warfare, and also knew how to cook, sew, and look after children. They were encouraged to show a broad range of emotions and to express their gender and sexuality in a way that was true to their own being, as a matter of both prin- ciple and survival. This is true for other genders as well. And while there was often a gendered division of labor (one that I believe was exaggerated by anthropologists), there were also a lot of exceptions based on individual agency. The degree to which individuals engaged in each of these activities depended

128 INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

upon their name, their clan, their extended family, their skill and interest, and most importantly individual self- determination or agency.23 Agency was valued, honored, and respected because it produced a diversity of highly self- sufficient individuals, fami- lies, and communities. This diversity of highly self- sufficient and self- determining people ensured survival and resilience that enabled the community to withstand difficult circumstances. This diversity was seen in everything; for instance, there are a diversity of ways to harvest and process wild rice, which vary between individuals, families, communities, and regions. The how looks different for different individuals, but as long as the practices produce cured rice in an efficient and ethical manner, they don’t need to be all the same. In fact, it is better for long- term sustainability if they aren’t, so we have a variety of solu- tions and knowledge before any problems show up.

While the intersections between queer theory and Indig- enous Studies are interesting, I am more drawn to recovering how Indigenous theory, in my case how Nishnaabeg theory, conceptualizes gender or can conceptualize gender and sexu- al orientation because my sense is that my Ancestors lived in a society where what I know as “queer,” particularly in terms of social organization, was so normal it didn’t have a name.24 I’ve thought a great deal about Alex Wilson’s words quoted early in this chapter, and in my fiction writing I try to create story worlds where queerness is normalized. This is consistent with stories I’ve heard from queer and straight elders.25 It’s led me to consider what straightness looks like in societies where queer- ness is normalized, where difference isn’t difference but nor- mal. Queerness provides for and celebrates variance, including straightness, whereas heteropatriarchy sets out to destroy, con- trol, and manipulate difference into hierarchies that position white, straight, cisgendered males as normal, and everyone else as less.

This kind of thinking is now marginalized within Nish- naabeg intelligence, and I’m the first to offer that my thinking on this may be different than the majority of my nation. I want to begin by looking broadly at our values about diversity, consent,

INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY 129

self- determination, and noninterference, building upon the dis- cussion I started in Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back. Nishnaabeg thought directs me to respect and celebrate individual self- determination and diversity. Coercion in this way of thinking is a kind of exploitation. Coercing someone into wearing something they are not comfortable wearing, using gendered pronouns that they do not want us to use, erasing queerness from every corner of the universe, is not consistent with any Nishnaabeg teaching I’ve ever heard. In this way, I believe that within Nishnaabeg intelligence, or grounded normativity, we have the concepts and ethics to build Indigenous nations where queer people have body sovereignty, self- determination, influence, and freedom and bear crucial political orders, and where homophobia, trans- phobia, heterosexism, and heteronormativity are unacceptable. I don’t accept the narrow, singular interpretations of our knowl- edge systems that lead to “tradition” steeped in dogma, exclu- sion, erasure, and violence, and I am not willing to replicate that in the beautiful Indigenous worlds we will create in the present and in the future. I can’t be part of a movement or a ceremonial community that is interested in building worlds that will contin- ue to destroy queer Indigenous youth.

In 2011, Darryl Dennis hosted an episode of CBC’s ReVision Quest on the theme of being Indigenous 2SQ people. I remem- ber pulling over on the side of the highway and listening as he in- terviewed Nishnaabemowin (our language) expert Roger Rou- lette, Alex, and many others in his exploration of what it means to be “queer and Indigenous.” Seven and a half minutes into the episode, Roulette explained some of the nonjudgmental termi- nology we have in Nishnaabemowin regarding queerness:

wiijidaamaagan means s/he co- habits with a person; wiipemaagan means s/he sleeps with a person and wiijiiwaagan means a friend or companion; according to Roger’s uncle . . . a gay person is described as wii- jininiimaagan— a man whose partner is another man; wiijikwemaagan is a woman with a female partner— the word has no judgment in it.26

130 INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

Roulette also explained to the host that gender was not exclu- sively bound to certain roles in life, “it was determined more by a child’s natural inclinations rather than whether baby clothes were pink or blue, and in some places these survived right up into modern times.”27 I felt relieved that Roulette had confirmed something that I had learned from a variety of elders but that still somehow remains on the margins: that this rigid gender bi- nary of male/female was brought to us under colonialism and exists in tension to some of our core values and ethics, or at least to some interpretations of our core values and ethics.28 Similarly, Nishnaabeg historian Anton Treuer writes:

[Sex] usually determined one’s gender and, therefore, one’s work, but the Ojibwe accepted variation. Men who chose to function as women were called ikwekaazo, meaning “one who endeavors to be like a woman.” Women who functioned as men were called ininiikaazo, meaning “one who endeavors to be like a man.” . . . Their mates were not considered ikwekaazo or ininiikaazo, however, because their function in society was still in keeping with their sex [gender]. If widowed, the spouse of an ikwekaazo or ininiikaazo could remarry someone of the opposite sex or another ikwekaazo or ininiikaazo. The ikwekaazowag worked and dressed like women. Ininiikaazowag worked and dressed like men. Both were considered to be strong spiritually, and they were always honored, especially during ceremonies.29

Nishnaabeg playwright Waawaate Fobister uses the term re- corded by Tanner, agokwe, in his critically acclaimed play of the same name to describe gender variance and a gay male sex- ual orientation in a similar way. Waawaate translates the term to mean a “wise woman,” “two spirit,” and “woman within a man.”30 Some 2SQ people in the Nishnaabeg community also use the term agokwe- ininito to refer to gender variance and a lesbian sexual orientation, although my understanding of Nish- naabeg gender and sexual orientation is that we continue to ex- press both qualities along a spectrum of variance.31

INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY 131

Later in the day, I returned home to my family and contin- ued reading to my kids out loud from Nishnaabeg writer Louise Erdrich’s Birchbark House series. This is Erdrich’s juvenile fic- tion series and includes The Birchbark House, The Game of Si- lence, The Porcupine Year, and Chickadee. The series begins in the mid- 1800s and follows an Nishnaabeg family living on an is- land in Lake Superior through three generations of living out an Nishnaabeg existence in an era of increasing settler surveillance and violence. Erdrich has carefully crafted a world that repli- cates the one so cherished in Nishnaabeg oral tradition, and this makes these novels both a gift and a masterpiece.

Erdrich’s work is also an important reflection of the rela- tionship between Nishnaabeg children and adults, and one that with a few exceptions is consistent with my understanding of this relationship coming through the oral tradition.32 Children were afforded a lot of freedom and agency within their own lives. The Porcupine Year, for instance, begins with a story about two children, twelve- year- old Omakayas, the main character of the series, and her younger brother, Pinch, out night hunting for deer in a canoe. This in itself demonstrates a high level of skill (canoeing, firearms, navigation, hunting), self- determination (these two children are the decision makers), and trust from adults in their family. As in any good story, after the children are caught in the confluence of two rivers and whisked over rapids, they are forced to use their intelligence to take care of each other and make it back to their family.33

Similarly, the character Two Strikes clearly demonstrates that difference and diversity were both valued and fostered within Nishnaabeg practices. Two Strikes, while identified in the novels as a girl, takes up the responsibilities of hunting, trap- ping, and physically defending the family from a young age. The family, in fact, her extended family and community, not only makes room for her, but they support, nurture, and appreciate the gifts and contributions she makes to their community. She is an excellent shot and without question the best hunter and pro- tector of her generation. She refuses to participate in the culture of women, whether its work, ceremonial responsibilities, or po-

132 INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

litical responsibilities. She behaves and lives out the responsibil- ities of men, and rather than coercing or shaming her into the re- sponsibilities of women, her family steps back and supports her expression of herself, in part because it is her responsibility to figure out how to live authentically in the world and in her fami- ly. Two Strikes chooses not to wear skirts and not to participate in girls’ puberty rituals, because her path is different. Her rela- tionship to the spirit world is a powerful one, which her family supports her in and influences, but they also have tremendous respect for her own agency within that relationship.

My daughter doesn’t particularly like Two Strikes as a char- acter, and neither do I, primarily because Two Strikes isn’t written as a particularly lovable character. She is bossy, obnox- ious, and mean, and she is also strong, uncompromising, and persistent. I wish the one gender “nonconforming” Nishnaabeg character my kid has read about was not written as someone who takes on the worst aspects of colonial masculinity as her queer identity, and I wish the gender fluidity that I know is part of my nation was written into all the characters. I wish my chil- dren were growing up surrounded by stories and literature writ- ten by and for 2SQ people that include trans kids as characters who are loving, brilliant queer Indigenous peoples.

Anti- Queerness as Autogenocide

This idea of supporting an individual’s responsibility to self- actualize and find their own path with regard to their life’s work, their gender expression, their sexual identity, their rela- tionship orientation, and all other aspects of life is something I have repeatedly experienced within Nishnaabeg society, par- ticularly among those practitioners who are engaged with the complexities of our ancient philosophies, as opposed to people, like myself, who are very much engaged in a process of recla- mation and decolonization. I have also witnessed this in other Indigenous nations. When an individual asserts their identity, it is the community’s job to make room and support that as- sertion. I have also of course seen the opposite of this, partic- ularly directed toward women and 2SQ people, when rigidity

INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY 133

and singular interpretations of protocols and rituals are used to exclude individuals and communities of people. Exclusion has been more common in my experience then inclusion. I find this extraordinarily problematic and inconsistent with my understanding of Nishnaabeg thought because while I am well aware of these teachings and protocols, there is another set of practices that are ignored when women and 2SQ people are excluded from ceremonies or pressured into wearing skirts. I understand that I am responsible for how I perform and inter- pret these practices and that responsibility is between me and the spirit world. I don’t blindly accept that elders or ceremonial leaders can dictate that for me (nor do they ask me to). They can certainly offer perspectives and advice, but ultimately I am responsible for how I conduct myself, and this is dependent upon my own personal relationship with the spiritual realm. I might have a responsibility to share skirt wearing or moon time practices with other self- identified women, but it is up to them to determine which practices they will animate in their life, and if I’m upholding Nishnaabeg practices of love, gentle- ness, and respect for individual self- determination, then I must also practice an ethic of noninterference, nonjudgment, and nonshaming.

Resurgence, though, is not just about bringing queer indi- viduals into straight Indigenous spaces. Queer Indigeneity can- not be reduced to just sexual orientation. It is about a web of supportive, reciprocal, generative relationships that we often do not have names for in English and that exist outside of the hierarchy and the imagination of heteropatriarchy— a hierarchy that places the relationship of cisgendered, married, monoga- mous men and women at the top, and de- emphasizes or erases all other relationships. Ceremonies, ritual, social organization, and mobilization that replicate this invisibility and hold up the hierarchy also center heteropatriarchy. Radical resurgence is then about the destruction of the colonial hierarchy that hetero- patriarchy embeds in us, our communities, and our nations, and restoring all Indigenous bodies as political orders within our po- litical systems and nationhood.

134 INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

Centering Queerness in Resurgence

Two Spirit scholar Dana Wesley spent a considerable amount of time for her master’s thesis, titled Reimagining Two- Spirit Community: Critically Centering Narratives of Urban Two- Spirit Youth, listening to Two Spirit youth. She concludes her work with a challenge to the broader Indigenous nation- building community:

In my personal experiences during the beginning of the Idle No More movement, I noticed that it became a bit of a trend to include Two- Spirit when talking about women and children in relation to nationhood and sovereignty. At first glance it appeared to be a step in the right direction, in that there was recognition of Two- Spirit people (as well as of women and children) among Indigenous people who were challenging hetero- patriarchy and heteropaternalism in conversation with each other about nation building. Unfortunately, the conversation often stopped short of any kind of real engagement with Two- Spirit people. In my experience I did not witness any Two- Spirit people take part in Idle No More as representatives of Two- Spirit leadership. In Indigenous social and activist spaces, I have witnessed a pattern wherein Two- Spirit people are invoked by ges- tures to inclusion in the absence of any meaningful Two- Spirit involvement. Essentially, Two- Spirit has become a buzzword to include in speeches and presentations, but there is no follow- through on how to support Two- Spirit people within their own Indigenous communities. There is still no mention of Two- Spirit roles or of how essential they are to Indigenous communities. If Indig- enous people want to have real conversations about nationhood, then there have to be serious efforts made to foster relationships between Two- Spirit people and wider Indigenous communities. If our leaders, academ- ics, teachers, clan mothers, elders and medicine people

INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY 135

are serious about the idea that we are all related, and that nation- building is how we are going to decolonize our minds and communities, then there has to be more than just lip- service recognition of Two- Spirit exis- tence. Creating real connections with Two- Spirit people means asking them what matters to them in relation to nation building.34

There are several important truths in this paragraph. Wesley is speaking back to a particular problem in Indigenous politi- cal mobilizations in general: the replication of anti- queerness through the erasure of 2SQ people from the leadership of these movements; the superficial gesturing toward 2SQ issues in or- ganizing, presentations, and scholarship; and a lack of conver- sations with, or perhaps of listening to, the 2SQ community in nation- building exercises. She issues us a challenge. If nation building is how we are going to decolonize, then we have to ask 2SQ people what matters to them. I’d add that we need to do more than consult. We need to listen, hear, and center 2SQ peo- ple in nation building. To do otherwise is to dream Indigenous realities where we position queerness not as normal, as Alex Wilson practices, but as special and outside of the collective grounded normativity that generates us.

The contributions of Indigenous Two Spirit and queer or- ganizers under the banner of Idle No More are also tremendous, and I want to be careful here to not erase the hard and often behind- the- scenes work of these organizers and the willingness of the Idle No More organization (www.idlenomore.ca) to ad- dress these issues within the organization. Several active chap- ters are led by 2SQ activists, the communications team of the organization includes many 2SQ leaders, the majority of Idle No More webinars have included 2SQ voices, and when INM was invited to meet with James Anaya (UN Special Rapporteur  on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples), they used their entire allot- ted time to bring forward the issue of homophobia and suicide in the Two Spirit community. These are tremendous contribu- tions to Indigenous movement building and organizing and are a

136 INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

result of years of hard work, sacrifice, and organizing on the part of the 2SQ community.35

I’ve thought a lot about the idea of queering resurgence and nation building throughout my life because I don’t fit neatly into the colonial gender binary and the heterosexual, monog- amous relationships it demands. It has never been the center of my work in part because I think there are brilliant queer Indig- enous writers, scholars, and activists who are doing a better job of articulating these issues than I am, and because I’ve been in a long- term heterosexual relationship that bestows upon me priv- ilege those in queer primary relationships do not have. I worry, though, that collectively we’re not hearing or seeing the work of these brilliant queer Indigenous writers, scholars, and activ- ists. I worry that Indigenous feminisms are sometimes too in- fluenced by mainstream white, straight feminism. I worry that Indigenous masculinities reinforce the colonial gender binary, centering cisgendered straight men (who are already centered in everything) instead of dismantling heteropatriarchy, and that the binary set up between feminisms and masculinities casts queer people out, so they have to continually come in, because worlds have been constructed by straight Indigenous peoples that leave queer Indigenous thought out. I worry that Indige- nous theory gets positioned in the past as unable to explain or generate queer Indigeneity in the present. I know that if we have to worry that we don’t have enough queer voices on the panel or enough queer voices in the book, then we’ve already failed because we’ve constructed Indigenous worlds where 2SQ have to come in because anti- queerness placed 2SQ outside. This was clear to me at the 2015 meeting of the Native American Indig- enous Studies Association annual meeting when hundreds of people showed up to hear the panel I was on, discussing Red Skin, White Masks, and a handful of people, who for the most part all knew each other, showed up to hear the queer Indige- nous youth roundtable.

Queering resurgence begins for me by recognizing Al- ex’s normalization of queerness within her community, by ac- knowledging, as Roger Roulette does, the normal descriptive

INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY 137

terminology used to recognize queer relationships, and by looking at how gender is conceptualized and actualized with- in Nishnaabeg thought. I think Nishnaabeg thought is queer, and if we’re doing it correctly, we shouldn’t have to queer re- surgence, because the political, ethical, and social organization that the 2SQ Indigenous community has held onto and protect- ed so fiercely would already be centered. Queer Indigeneity has a place for straightness, and that’s why we should center it.

The Skirt. Again.

The question I have been asked over and over again since the publication of Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back is if I wear a skirt to ceremony. I deliberately didn’t answer the question in that book because my point was to emphasize the process I went through to critically think about protocols and dogma in ceremonial practice, and to encourage others to do the same. I’ve made that point, and the repeated asking of this question tells me I need to be more clear.

I’ve been participating in Nishnaabeg ceremonies for about twenty- five years now across our territory. Different ceremonial leaders have different practices, which is part of the beautiful diversity of being us. I tend to think deeply about our practices and why we do the things we do. I think ceremony is everyone, and that every Nishnaabeg body and mind has a place in our cir- cle, because I understand the point of ceremony to be to con- nect to the spiritual world in a good way, and to do so requires an open heart.

Over my life, I have seen us reclaiming our practices as Nish- naabeg. I think that’s a beautiful thing to be doing. I think that’s a critical thing to be doing. Knowing protocols is a way of show- ing we belong. But the more time I’ve spent language learning, on the land, and hanging out with elders, the less I think of rigid protocols and the more I think of relationships. In ceremony, I think the most important thing is that the group of people who have come together feel safe, respected, and openhearted as a necessary prerequisite to spiritual connection. That to me is the point of ceremony.

138 INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

We have some important practices and stories in regard to skirt wearing for women. We have some ceremonial leaders that have very rigid protocols concerning gender. I have seen women and girls pressured into wearing skirts and excluded if they don’t feel comfortable doing so. I have been pressured into wearing a skirt in order to participate. I have also seen the oppo- site. I have seen the skirt- wearing stories shared and ceremonial leaders adding that it is up to individuals to decide what they wear. In my own life, I mostly work with elders who believe that consent, respect for individual self- determination, diversity, and noninterference— basic Nishnaabeg values— are more im- portant than rigid protocols.

Sometimes I think in our desire to reclaim what we’ve lost, we hold onto rules and protocols too tightly and forget that our way of life is about relationships— the practice of benevo- lent relationships. I often think of stories of ricing when I think about things like this.  So- and- so used to rice from the back of the canoe. That family always sat in the front of the canoe. Old Kokum refused to use the sticks and only used her hands. Those guys used to duck hunt at the same time.  Crazy old so- and- so built himself snowshoes and walked over the beds.  We all did things slightly differently but in the context of shared values. I think ceremony is the same. Our communities hold so many, of- ten hilarious stories of individuals doing things differently and being supported and cherished by the rest of the community. A particular incident also stands out in my mind from my expe- riences in Long Lake #58 First Nation. An elder told me that he didn’t always have enough money to purchase tobacco when he went out hunting. Instead of tobacco, he would gift the an- imal whatever he had with him of value, which oftentimes, he explained, was a piece of his baloney sandwich. He felt that the animal spirit would understand his intent and accept this gift in the spirit it had been intended. These tiny rememberings are in- structive to me.

In my own life, I don’t always feel comfortable wearing a skirt, particularly if I am being pressured. Indigenous bodies, my body, have been a target for violence under colonialism and

INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY 139

settler colonialism for four centuries.  We were forced to wear skirts in residential schools, at church, and in missions in order to assimilate us from being Nishnaabeg women into the ideals of settler housewives. I was forced to wear a skirt or dress to church. Under colonialism the skirt has been and still is in many cases a tool of oppression. My body remembers this.

I believe that my Ancestors and the spiritual world are aware of this. I have been taught that they love us uncondition- ally and that they are brilliant. I believe that they are benevolent and that “tradition” can change and adapt to the needs of the people. I believe it is important to reclaim our foundational eth- ics of consent, noninterference, respect for self- determination, and diversity. 

I have been in ceremonies where all genders are welcomed and cherished, where some people wear skirts and others do not, where trans people and gender nonconforming folks are normalized, and where community pipes are smoked by every- one. These have been some of the beautiful, powerful, and gen- tle places of my life. This to me is the purpose of ceremony. At every point in the day, there is a different amount of light— it is not just day and night. Our circles are not just men and women. There is an endless amount of diversity in our communities. I want us to stop policing and judging and excluding and start to build the kinds of communities that would make our Ancestors proud. Our philosophies are far more complex than you can’t come to ceremony if you’re not in a skirt. 

I’m not going to take my kids into ceremonial places where their gender expressions are not honored and appreciated, and in my own life, I am committed to creating ceremonial spaces where all Indigenous bodies are celebrated. I think that’s the intelligent decision. When I see women wearing pants at cer- emonies, I believe that they are wearing teachings of diversity, consent, and respect for body sovereignty. When I see queer, transgendered, and gender nonconforming Nishnaabeg at cere- mony, I am reminded of 2SQ political orders and brilliance. My favorite ceremonies are ones where I see women wearing skirts to honor those teachings, where I see women wearing pants to

140 INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

honor different teachings— where I see the full range of gender variance working together for a better future.

The heteropatriarchy of settler colonialism has regulated the bodies of Indigenous women and 2SQ people, and trans people particularly, to death. We live in a vat of heteropatriarchal vi- olence. In this reality, gendered practices that once existed in a different context no longer generate the same intimate rela- tionships in a settler colonial context, at the very least, not for everyone. In our current practices of Nishnaabewin, we simple do not publically regulate cisgendered heterosexual men’s and boys’ clothing or their bodies, particularly their reproductive body parts. Yet, we ask women and girls to publically exclude themselves when they are menstruating from many of our cere- monies, and we are continually regulating 2SQ bodies and re- lentlessly regulating trans bodies. The explanation for excluding menstruating women is that we are “too powerful” because we are cleansing ourselves. I’ve thought a lot about this over the years. No one, at any time, spiritual leader or otherwise, has ever asked me if I hold spiritual power when I am menstruat- ing. I have felt and been spiritually powerful at several points in my life, so I am well aware of what that feels like. This isn’t tied to menstruation for me. Further, I don’t consent to discussing the intimate cycles of my body as a prerequisite for participating in a ceremony, particularly when men are not asked to do the same. I do know how this makes me feel, regardless of how this is explained to me. I do know that I do not feel valued, included, or powerful when my body is regulated. I don’t feel respected when I’m honored as a “life giver” and not as an intellectual. For me, this regulation is a clear imposition on my own agency, sovereignty, self- determination, and freedom. It is a gendered regulation that controls women and 2SQ people and our spiri- tual power, and it prevents me from relating and attaching to the spiritual realm.

I understand the purpose of Nishnaabeg spiritual practices is to demonstrate respect to the spirits, to engage in rituals that infuse ceremony with meaning, to create a unity of purpose within the ceremonial group, and to engage with the spiritual

INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY 141

world, and so sometimes I wear a skirt to ceremonies and some- times I do not. Sometimes I can wear it and be open spiritually, and sometimes I cannot, because I have grown up a target of heteropatriarchy and the skirt is a loaded symbol of white male power for me. Sometimes I wear jeans because that’s what I’m comfortable doing. Sometimes I wear jeans to demonstrate to youth that ceremony is about what is inside, not about what you wear, and to make space for them. Sometimes I wear pants so that I’m the person who has to negotiate with the women who have boxes of skirts in their cars or the ceremonial leader that is excluding, so younger people, including my kids, don’t have to. When I am a visitor in other Indigenous peoples’ territories, I tend to follow the practices of the people I am with because I believe it is their place, not mine, to find ways to practice their grounded normativities without holding up heteropatriarchy. I also have these discussions with my comrades in their terri- tories, and they have often already figured out how to do this. In my own practice, I explain skirt and moon time practices to people new to our ceremony, and let them know that they will be supported however they choose to interpret these practices. I don’t think anyone— straight or 2SQ— should be coerced into wearing skirts. I think it is actually extremely easy to remove the gender binary and exclusionary protocols from ceremonies and recenter them in practices of consent, diversity, noninter- ference, and intent, and I believe it is these practices and these relationships that should be the basis of our ceremonial life, our lives, our moments, and our nation building.

I don’t like the word protocols.36 Ceremony is our birthright, straight and queer. Protocols, like laws, are rigid rules. I like the word practices because practices are relationships. If we have not grown up with our practices, one of the first things we can reclaim is protocols: wear a long skirt, walk around the circle in a clockwise direction, don’t blow out the sage, and so on. En- acting protocols is a way of belonging. It is a very simple way to say that “I know the rules” and therefore I belong. Which on one hand I like. I like it when people feel they belong; our peo- ple should feel like they belong. On the other hand, protocols

142 INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

make a lot of our people feel like they don’t belong, including myself, and that’s very problematic because it isn’t congruent with the fundamental philosophical underpinnings of Nish- naabeg thought.

Breaking Indigenous peoples’ spiritual connection to each other and to land is a critical part of dispossession. Breaking In- digenous peoples’ social and spiritual mechanisms for process- ing trauma, for comfort, and for connecting to a higher power is critical in demobilizing our responses to colonial violence. This creates generations in some places of Indigenous peoples that have grown up without relationships to the implicate order, and we feel ashamed about that. As we re- embed ourselves in this system, we have to confront fear, shame, and anxiety and the idea that we are not good enough to be here among our cere- monial leaders. We have to confront the idea that we may be made to feel we don’t belong, and we have to stop practicing interpretations of Nishnaabewin that cast people out. We don’t exist unless we all belong. We all belong.

Cree poet and scholar Billy- Ray Belcourt recently shared this poem on his blog, nakinisowin, and I am sharing it here with his permission:

sacred

a native man looks me in the eyes as he refuses to hold my hand during a round dance. i pretend that his pupils are like bullets and i wonder what kind of pain he’s been through to not want me in this world with him anymore. and i wince a little because the earth hasn’t held all of me for quite some time now and i am lonely in a way that doesn’t hurt anymore.

you see, a round dance is a ceremony for both grief and love and each body joined by the flesh is encircled by the spirits of ancestors who’ve already left this world. i ask myself how many of them never knew what desire tasted like because they loved their kookums more than they loved themselves.

i dance with my arm hanging by my side like an

INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY 143

appendage my body doesn’t want anymore. the gap between him and i keeps getting bigger so i fill it with the memories of native boys who couldn’t be warriors because their bodies were too fragile to carry all of that anger. the ones who loved in that reckless kind of way. you know, when you give up your body for him.

and i think about the time an elder told me to be a man and to decolonize in the same breath. there are days when i want to wear nail polish more than i want to protest. but then i remember that i wasn’t meant to live life here and i paint my nails because 1) it looks cute and 2) it is a protest. and even though i know i am too queer to be sacred anymore, i dance that broken circle dance because i am still waiting for hands who want to hold mine too.37

My immediate response to reading this was heartbreak, and the line “too queer to be sacred” stayed with me. I wanted to shout “so queer, so sacred.” Radical Indigenous resurgence and Indigenous life cannot destroy the worlds of queer youth. Our responsibility is to hold each other up. We have to be the safe place. We have to build that future. Queer Indigenous youth are our teachers and our most precious theorists, even though they shouldn’t have to be. They have experiences with acute hetero- patriarchy as expansive dispossession. They hold part of the the- ory Indigenous nations need to escape settler colonialism. We need to listen.

144 INDIGENOUS QUEER NORMATIVITY

145

NINE LAND AS PEDAGOGY

Over the past few years, I’ve spent a lot of time each March in the sugar bush. The practice of harvesting sap and making maple syrup has been a foundational experience for me and my family. The following Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg story was told to me by Doug Williams. This is my own retelling of it, and it is one of the ways I tell it in March, when my family and I are in the sugar bush, making maple syrup. This story has been published by various authors over the years.1 I have told differ- ent versions over the years. Nearly every time I tell it, I under- stand new meanings and make new connections.

The main character in this version of the story is Binoojiinh. Binoojiinh means child. Previous versions of this story have the main character as a boy and a girl.2 This story is republished here with the main character a gender- nonconforming child choos- ing to use the pronouns they and their. This changes the context of the story. I am repeating this story here deliberately to make the point that it is crucial we tell stories in a way that draws ev- ery member of our community into the stories, and to demon- strate the intelligence we all miss when we continue to uphold the colonial gender binary.

146 LAND AS PEDAGOGY

Binoojiinh Makes a Lovely Discovery

Binoojiinh is out walking in the bush one day It is Ziigwan3

the lake is opening up the goon was finally melting they are feeling that first warmth of spring on their cheeks “Nigitchi nendam,” they are thinking, “I’m happy.”

Then that Binoojiinh who is out walking collecting firewood for their Doodoom decides to sit under Ninaatigoog maybe just stretch out maybe just have a little rest maybe gather firewood a little later “Owah, Nigitchi nendam nongom. I’m feeling happy today,” says that Binoojiinh.

And while that Binoojiinh is lying down, and looking up they see Ajidamoo up in the tree “Bozhoo Ajidamoo! I hope you had a good winter.” “I hope you had enough food cached.” But Ajidamoo doesn’t look up because she’s already busy. She’s not collecting nuts. Gawiin. She’s not building her nest Gawiin, not yet. She’s not looking after any young. Gawiin, too early. She’s just nibbling on the bark, and then doing some

sucking.

Nibble, nibble suck. Nibble, nibble suck. Nibble, nibble, suck. Nibble, nibble, suck.

Binoojiinh is feeling a little curious. So they do that too, on one of the low branches.

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 147

Nibble, nibble suck. Nibble, nibble suck. Nibble, nibble, suck. Nibble, nibble, suck.

MMMMMMMMmmmmmm. This stuff tastes good. It’s real, sweet water. MMMMmmmmmmmmmm.

Then Binoojiinh gets thinking and they make a hole in that tree and they make a little slide for that sweet water to run down they make a quick little container out of birch bark, and they collect that sweet water and they take that sweet water home to show their mama.

That doodoom is excited and they have three hundred questions:

“Ah Binoojiinh, what is this?” “Where did you find it?” “Which tree?” “Who taught you how to make it?” “Did you put semaa?” “Did you say miigwech?” “How fast is it dripping?” “Does it happen all day?” “Does it happen all night?” “Where’s the firewood?”

Binoojiinh tells their doodoom the story, She believes every word because they are her Binoojiinh and they love each other very much. “Let’s cook the meat in it tonight, it will be lovely sweet.”

148 LAND AS PEDAGOGY

“Nahow.” “Nahow.”

So they cooked that meat in that sweet water it was lovely sweet it was extra lovely sweet it was even sweeter than just that sweet water.

The next day, Binoojiinh takes their mama to that tree and their mama brings Kokum and Kokum brings all the Aunties, and there is a very big crowd of Michi Saagiig Nishnaabe-

kwewag and there is a very big lot of pressure Binoojiinh tells about Ajidamoo Binoojiinh does the nibble nibble suck part.

At first there are technical difficulties and none of it works. but Mama rubs Binoojiinh’s back she tells Binoojiinh that she believes them anyway they talk about lots of variables like heat and temperature

and time then Giizis comes out and warms everything up and soon its drip, drip, drip, drip. those Aunties go crazy Saasaakwe! dancing around hugging a bit too tight high- kicking and high- fiving until they take it back home boil it up boil it down into sweet, sweet sugar.

Ever since, every Ziigwan those Michi Saagiig Nishnaabekwewag

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 149

collect that sweet water and boil it up and boil it down into that sweet, sweet sugar all thanks to Binoojiinh and their lovely discovery, and to Ajidamoo and her precious teaching and to Ninaatigoog and their boundless sharing.

Given Lovingly to Us by the Spirits

Nishnaabe scholar Wendy Makoons Geniusz translates the word gaa- izhi- zhaawendaagoziyaang as “given lovingly to us by the spirits.”4 This describes the gift of maple sap and the process of making sugar so perfectly. This spring, while tapping a stand of maple trees, I remembered that the story of Binoojiinh is one of my favorite stories. It’s one of my favorites because nothing violent happens in it. At every turn, Binoojiinh is met with very basic, core Nishnaabeg values— love, compassion, and under- standing. They center their day around their own freedom and joy. I imagine myself at age seven running through a stand of maples with the first warmth of spring marking my cheeks. I imagine everything good in the world. My heart, my mind, and my spirit are open and engaged, and I feel as if I could accom- plish anything. I imagine myself grasping at feelings I haven’t felt before, that maybe life is so good that it is too short, that there really isn’t enough time to love everything.

In reality, I have to image myself in this situation because as a child, I don’t think I was ever in a similar situation. My expe- rience of education from kindergarten to graduate school was one of coping with someone else’s agenda, curriculum, and ped- agogy, someone who was not interested in my well- being as a girl, my connection to my homeland, my language or history, or my Nishnaabeg intelligence. No one ever asked me what I was interested in, nor did they ask for my consent to participate in their system. My experience of education was one of continual- ly being measured against a set of principles that required sur- render to an assimilative colonial agenda in order to fulfill those

150 LAND AS PEDAGOGY

principles. I distinctly remember being in grade three at a class trip to the sugar bush and the teacher showing us two methods of making maple syrup: the pioneer method, which involved a black pot over an open fire and clean sap, and the “Indian meth- od,” which involved a hollowed- out log in an unlit fire with large rocks in the log to heat the sap up— sap that had bark, insects, dirt, and scum. The teacher asked us which method we would use, and being the only Native kid in the class, I was the only one who chose the “Indian method.”

Things are different for this Binoojiinh. They have already spent seven years immersed in a nest of Nishnaabeg intelligence. They already understand the importance of observation and learning from our animal teachers when they watch the squirrel so carefully and then mimic its actions. They understand em- bodiment and conceptual thought when they then take this ob- servation and apply it to their own situation— by making a cut in the maple tree and using a cedar shunt. They rely upon their own creativity to invent new technology. They patiently wait for the sap to collect. They take that sap home and share it with their family. Their mother, in turn, meets her child’s discovery with love and trust. Binoojiinh watches as their mama uses the sap to boil the deer meat for supper. When they taste the deer and the sweetness, they learn about reduction, and when their mama and they go to clean the pot, they learn about how sap can be boiled into sugar. Binoojiinh then takes their elders to the tree, already trusting that they will be believed, that their knowledge and discovery will be cherished, and that they will be heard.

Binoojiinh learned a tremendous amount over a two- day period— self- led, driven by both their own curiosity and their own personal desire to learn. They learned to trust themselves, their family, and their community. They learned the sheer joy of discovery. They learned how to interact with the spirit of the maple. They learned both from the land and with the land. They learned what it felt like to be recognized, seen, and appreciated by their community. They came to know maple sugar with the support of their family and elders. They come to know maple sugar in the context of love.

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 151

To me, this is what coming into wisdom within a Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg epistemology looks like. It takes place in the context of family, community, and relation. It lacks overt co- ercion and authority, values so normalized within mainstream, Western pedagogy that they are rarely ever critiqued. The land, Aki, is both context and process. The process of coming to know is learner led and profoundly spiritual in nature.5 Coming to know is the pursuit of whole- body intelligence practiced in the context of freedom, and when realized collectively, it generates generations of loving, creative, innovative, self- determining, in- terdependent, and self- regulating community- minded individ- uals. It creates communities of individuals with the capacity to uphold and move forward our political practices and systems of governance.

I am using Binoojiinh’s story here in the same way it is used within Nishnaabeg intelligence, as a theoretical anchor whose layered and diverse meanings are revealed over time and space within individual and collective Nishnaabeg consciousness. A “theory” in its simplest form is an explanation of a phenome- non, and Nishnaabeg stories in this way form part of the the- oretical basis of our intelligence. But theory also works a little differently within Nishnaabeg thought. “Theory” is generated and regenerated continually through embodied practice and within each family, community, and generation of people. The- ory isn’t just an intellectual pursuit. It is woven within kinetics, spiritual presence, and emotion. It is contextual and relational. It is intimate and personal with individuals themselves holding the responsibilities for finding and generating meaning within their own lives.

Most important, theory isn’t just for academics; it’s for ev- eryone, and so the story of maple sugar gets told to (some of ) our kids almost from birth. Theory within this context is generated from the ground up, and its power stems from its living reso- nance within individuals and collectives. Younger citizens might first just understand the literal meaning. As they grow, they can put together the conceptual meaning, and with more experi- ence with our knowledge system, the metaphorical meaning.

152 LAND AS PEDAGOGY

Then they start to apply the processes and practices of the story in their own lives (when I have a problem, I’ll call my aunties or my grandparents), and “meaning- making becomes an inside phenomenon.”6 After they live each stage of life through the sto- ry, they then can communicate their lived wisdom through six or seven decades of lived experience and shifting meaning. This is how our old people teach. They are our geniuses because they know that wisdom is generated from the ground up, that mean- ing is for everyone, and that we’re all better when we’re able to derive meaning out of our lives and be our best selves.7 Stories direct, inspire, and affirm an ancient code of ethics.8 If you do not know what it means to be intelligent within Nishnaabeg re- alities, then you can’t see the epistemology, the pedagogy, the conceptual meaning, or the metaphor, or how this story has ref- erences to other parts of our oral tradition, or how this story is fundamentally, like all of our stories, communicating different interpretations and realizations of an Nishnaabeg worldview.

It is critical to avoid the assumption that this story takes place in precolonial times because Nishnaabeg conceptualiza- tions of time and space present an ongoing intervention to lin- ear thinking. This story happens in various incarnations all over our territory every year in March when the Nishnaabeg return to the sugar bush. Binoojiinh’s presence (and the web of kin- ship relations that they are composed of ) is complicated by their fraught relationality to the tenacity of settler colonialism,9 and their very presence simultaneously shatters the disappearance of Indigenous women and girls and Two Spirit and queer peo- ple from settler consciousness. They also escape the rigidity of colonial gender binaries by having influence and agency within their family, while physically disrupting settler colonial com- modification and ownership of the land through the implicit assumption that they are supposed to be there. Their existence as a hub of intelligent Nishnaabeg relationality may be threat- ened by land theft, environmental contamination, residential schools and state- run education, and colonial gender violence, but Binoojiinh is there anyway, making maple sugar as they have always done, in a loving compassionate reality, propelling us to

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 153

re- create the circumstances within which this story and Nish- naabewin takes place. Propelling us to rebel against the perma- nence of settler colonial reality and not just “dream alternative realities” but to create them, on the ground in the physical world in spite of being occupied. If we accept colonial permanence, then our rebellion can only take place within settler colonial thought and reality, and we also become too willing to sacri- fice the context that creates and produces cultural workers like Binoojiinh. What if Binoojiinh had accepted the permanence of settler colonialism as an unmovable reality?

What if Binoojiinh had no access to the sugar bush because of land dispossession, environmental contamination, or global climate change?

What if they were too depressed or anxiety ridden from be- ing erased from Canadian society, removed from their language and homeland, and targeted as a “squaw” or a “drunken Indian.” Or too depressed or anxiety ridden from being bullied for not neatly fitting into the colonial gender binary?

What if the trauma and pain of ongoing colonial gendered violence had made it impossible for their mama to believe them, or for their mama to reach out and so gently rub their lower back at that critical point? What if that same trauma and pain pre- vented their aunties and elders from gathering around them and supporting them when there were technical difficulties? What if settler- colonial parenting strategies positioned the child as “less believable” than an adult?

What if Binoojiinh had been in a desk at a school that didn’t honor at its core their potential within Michi Saagiig Nish- naabeg intelligence? Or if they had been in an educational con- text where having an open heart was a liability instead of a gift? What if they had not been running around, exploring, experi- menting, observing the squirrel . . . completely engaged in Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg ways of knowing? What if they hadn’t been on the land at all?

What if Binoojiinh lived in a world where no one listened to trans kids? Or where they had been missing or murdered before they ever made it out to the sugar bush?

154 Land as Pedagogy

It Comes through the Land

For me, this story is a critical intervention into current thinking about Indigenous education, because Indigenous education is not Indigenous or education from within our intellectual prac- tices unless it comes through the land, unless it occurs in an Indigenous context using Indigenous processes.10 To re- create the world that compelled Binoojiinh to learn how to make ma- ple sugar, we should be concerned with re- creating the condi- tions within which this learning occurred, not just the content of the practice itself. Setters easily appropriate and reproduce the content of the story every year when they make commercial maple syrup in the context of capitalism, but they completely miss the wisdom that underlies the entire process because they deterritorialize the mechanics of maple syrup production from Nishnaabeg intelligence, and from Aki. They appropriated and recast the process within a hyperindividualism that negates re- lationality. The radical thinking and action of this story are not so much in the mechanics of reducing maple sap to sugar but lie in the reproduction of a loving web of Nishnaabeg networks within which learning takes place.

For countless generations, Nishnaabeg children grew up within the milieu of Nishnaabewin, not the institution of school. Many of our children still do, thanks to parents, grandparents, and communities. Like governance and leadership and every other aspect of reciprocated life, education comes from the roots up. It comes from being enveloped by land. An individual’s intimate relationship with the spiritual and physical elements of creation is at the center of a learning journey that is lifelong.11 You can’t graduate from Nishnaabewin; it is a gift to be practiced and reproduced. And while each individual must have the skills and knowledge to ensure their own safety, survival, and pros- perity in both the physical and spiritual realm, their existence is ultimately dependent upon intimate relationships of reciproci- ty, humility, honesty, and respect with all elements of creation, including plants and animals.

Nishnaabeg- Gikendaasowin, or Nishnaabeg knowledge,

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 155

originates in the spiritual realm, coming to individuals through dreams, visions, and ceremony and through the process of gaa- izhi- zhaawendaagoziyaang— that which is given lovingly to us by the spirits.12 This makes sense because this is the place where our Ancestors reside, where spiritual beings exist, and where the spirits of living plants, animals, and humans interact. To gain access to this knowledge, one has to align oneself within with the forces of the implicate order through ceremony, ritual, and the embodiment of the teachings one already carries.13

Within this system there is no standard curriculum because it is impossible to generate a curriculum for “that which is giv- en to us lovingly from the spirits,” and because it doesn’t make sense for everyone to master the same body of factual informa- tion. Nishnaabeg society in its fullest realization requires a diver- sity of excellence to continue to produce an abundance of sup- portive relationships. Within the context of humility and agency, decisions about learning are in essence an agreement between individuals and the spirit world. Nishnaabewin fosters and cher- ishes individuals with particular gifts and skills as a mechanism for growing diversity, and childhood is an excellent time for in- dividuals to focus in on those particular gifts and hone them into excellence. Just as it is unthinkable within an Nishnaabeg world- view for a leader to impose their will on their people, it is un- thinkable to impose an agenda onto another living thing— in es- sence the context is the curriculum, and land, Aki, is the context.14

In addition to the land (including the spiritual world), the context for Nishnaabewin is profoundly intimate. Gaa- izhi- zhaawendaagoziyaang requires long- term, stable, balanced warm relationships within the family, extended family, the community, and all living aspects of creation. Intelligence flows through relationships between living entities. Gaa- izhi- zhaawendaagoziyaang requires love, the word zhaawen, a part of the word Gaa- izhi- zhaawendaagoziyaang , means to have complete “compassion for another in one’s thoughts and mind. It has a connotation of bestowing kindness, mercy, and aid. It includes ideas of pity, empathy and deep unconditional love.”15 Nishnaabeg scholar John Borrows explains:

156 LAND AS PEDAGOGY

For instance, my friend Kekek notes that zhawenjige is another derivation of zhawenim. It means to hunt. We hear the word used in hunting and harvesting songs. When we sing zhawenim izhichige it means “you will be pitied, or have mercy placed upon you in your actions and what you are doing.” The idea behind this word is that when we acknowledge our relations with the world, and our responsibilities to each other, then we will all be blessed or find love and compassion. We will be nourished, sustained and taken care of. The idea of zhawenjige is said to be part of an old treaty the Nish- naabeg made with the animals. As long as we love them they will provide for us, and teach us about love and how to live well in the world.16

Meaning, then, is derived not through content or data or even theory in a Western context, which by nature is decontextual- ized knowledge, but through a compassionate web of interde- pendent relationships that are different and valuable because of difference. Individuals carry the responsibility for generating meaning within their own lives; they carry the responsibility for engaging their minds, bodies, and spirits in a practice of gener- ating meaning. Within Nishnaabewin, I am responsible for my thoughts and ideas. I am responsible for my own interpretations, and thus you’ll always hear from our elders what appears to be qualifying their teachings with statements that position them as learners, position their ideas as their own understandings, and place their teachings within the context of their own lived expe- rience. This is deliberate, ethical, and profoundly careful within Nishnaabewin because to do otherwise is considered arrogant and intrusive with the potential to interfere with other beings’ life pathways.17 Although individuals have the responsibility to self- actualize within this system, intelligence in this context is not an individual’s property to own. So once an individual has carried a particular teaching to the point where they can easily embody that teaching, they also then become responsible for sharing it according to the ethics and protocols of the system. This is primarily done by modeling.

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 157

Continually generating meaning is often, but not exclusive- ly, done in ceremony and involves ongoing ethical systems of ac- countability and responsibility, particularly for emotional trau- ma and healing.18 Individual generated meaning is an authentic and grounded power. These meanings in all of their diversity then become the foundation of generated collective meanings and a plurality of truths.19 This collective process, operational- ized within Nishnaabeg political practices, for example, gener- ates a series of collective meanings, including dissension, that make sense within broad and multiple interpretations of Nish- naabeg values and philosophies.20

Nishnaabeg Intelligence Is Diversity

There are unseen forces or spiritual elements that hold power and influence in the story of maple sugar that are only alluded to within the narrative at least in part because older Nishnaabeg teachers culturally talk about these things as if they are sitting beside us in a room, rather than coming directly at them.21 There is an implicit assumption in this story that Binoojiinh offered tobacco to the maple tree before they cut the bark to collect the sap. They do this as a mechanism to set up a relationship with the maple tree that is based on mutual respect, reciprocity, and caring. By placing the tobacco down, they are speaking direct- ly to the spirit of the maple tree. I understand it as their spirit speaking directly to the spirit of the maple tree, entering into a balanced relationship of mutuality. The maple tree does not have to produce sap for Binoojiinh; the tree has agency over this act. Binoojiinh also has agency; they have chosen to act in a way that aligns themselves with actions their people know promote more life and interconnection within Kina Gchi Nishnaabeg- ogamig.22 There are also several other spiritual interactions in- volved in this story of lovingly coming to know: the spirit of the squirrel, the spirits of their family that supported them, and the spirits of their Ancestors. Within an Nishnaabeg epistemology, spiritual knowledge is a tremendous, ubiquitous source of wis- dom that is the core of every system in the physical world. The implicate order provides the stories that answer all of our ques- tions. And the way we are taught to access that knowledge is

158 LAND AS PEDAGOGY

by being open to that kind of knowledge and by being engaged in a way of living that generates a close, personal relationship with our Ancestors and relations in the spirit world through cer- emony, dreams, visions, and stories. The implicate order does not discriminate by gender, by age, by ability, or by any of those things. The implicate order only cares if you believe, if you’re living your life in an engaged way. If we are open to this, then knowledge will flow through us based on our own actions, on our name, clan, and helpers, and on our own self- actualization, as long as we uphold these responsibilities.

Binoojiinh already lives in a reality where the spiritual world has tremendous presence in each moment. Binoojiinh is a vessel of resurgence. They are a leader. They embody the core teachings and philosophies of Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg culture. They paid attention to our creation story— the one that says Nishnaabewin have both intellectual knowledge and heart knowledge, the one that says you have to be fully present in all aspects of your physical and spiritual body to access the gift of knowledge from the spiritual world.23 Binoojiinh very clearly represents this kind of citizen capable of upholding the tenets of our nation in spite of settler colonialism. They are in essence the goal of community: the re- creation of beings that continu- ally live lives promoting the continuous rebirth of life itself.24 In the context of Nishnaabeg resurgence— the rebuilding of Indig- enous nations according to our own political, intellectual, and cultural practices— we need to reestablish the context for creat- ing a society of Binoojiinh because we need to re- create a soci- ety of individuals who can think and live inside the multiplicity of our culture and our intelligence.

This presents Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg people with a crit- ical task. If we do not create a generation of people attached to the land and committed to living out our culturally inherent ways of coming to know, we risk losing what it means to be Nishnaabeg within our own thought systems. We simply cannot bring about the resurgence of our nations if we have no one that can think within the emergent networks of Nishnaabeg intelli- gence. We cannot bring about the kind of radical transformation

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 159

we seek if we are solely reliant upon state- sanctioned and state- run education systems. We cannot carry out the kind of decolo- nization our Ancestors set in motion if we don’t create a gener- ation of land- based, community- based intellectuals and cultural producers who are accountable to our nations and whose life work is concerned with the regeneration of these systems rather than meeting the overwhelming needs of the Western academic industrial complex or attempting to “Indigenize the academy” by bringing Indigenous Knowledge into the academy on the terms of the academy itself. Our Ancestors’ primary concern in “educating” our young people was to nurture a new generation of elders— of land- based intellectuals— philosophers, theorists, medicine people, and historians who embodied Nishnaabeg in- telligence in whatever time they were living in because they had lived their lives through Nishnaabeg intelligence.

They embodied Nishnaabeg intelligence because they were practitioners of Nishnaabeg intelligence.

Nishnaabeg intelligence has been violently under attack since the beginning days of colonialism through processes that remove Indigenous peoples from our homelands, whether those processes are education in residential and other forms of state- run schools, outright dispossession, the destruction of land through resource extraction and environmental contamina- tion, imposed poverty, heteropatriarchy, or colonial gendered violence. Our peoples have always resisted this destruction by engaging in Nishnaabewin whenever and wherever they could. I would not exist and be writing this chapter today if it were not for the physical survival of several generations of Nishnaabeg wom- en in my family and the heartbreaking sacrifices of my elders in resisting colonial educational practices in their commitment to teaching others, the vast majority of the time in the absence of compensation or deep reciprocity, and outside of the provincial education and the postsecondary education system. Not one time has an elder told me to go to school to learn Indigenous Knowledge. Not one time has an elder told me to go and get a degree so that I can pass Indigenous Knowledge down to my children, yet we place tremendous pressure on our youth to gain

160 LAND AS PEDAGOGY

Western academic credentials. This seems highly problematic to me because we desperately need a new generation of think- ers who are articulate and brilliant from within Nishnaabewin, a generation that can think within our philosophies and enact those philosophies as a living and breathing imposition to colo- nialism, as every generation has done in some capacity before us. Otherwise we risk losing being Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg. To create a nation of Binoojiinh— to survive as Nishnaabeg— we shouldn’t be just striving for land- based pedagogies. The land must once again become the pedagogy.

Intelligence as Consensual Engagement

Binoojiinh very clearly embodied the idea of land as pedagogy as they went about their day learning with and from maple trees, among many other beings. Binoojiinh had already grown up in a community where the adult practitioners of Nishnaabeg intel- ligence were teaching them through modeling how to interact with all elements of creation. So on one hand, Binoojiinh was just doing what they had seen the adults in their life do every day over and over again in a variety of different activities. On a deeper level, Binoojiinh was also teaching us by “modeling”; their story aligns itself with our embodied theory, our Creation stories.

Gzhwe Manidoo in the very beginning of the cosmos and in the continual creation of Nishnaabeg ontology, axiology, and epistemology set up the context for Nishnaabeg reality.25 That context was the earth Gzhwe Manidoo created, and as we know by now, Nishnaabeg conceptualizations of Aki are at their core profoundly relational. Borrows explains it this way:

The Nishnaabeg have long taken direction about how we should live through our interactions and observations with the environment. People regulate their behavior and resolve their disputes by drawing guidance from what they see in the behavior of the sun, moon, stars, winds, waves, trees, birds, animals, and other natural phenomenon. The Nishnaabeg word for this concept is

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 161

gikinawaabiwin. We can also use the word akinoomaage, which is formed from two roots: Aki: noomaage. “Aki” means earth and “noomaage” means to point towards and take direction from. As we draw analogies from our surroundings, and appropriately apply or distinguish what we see, we learn about how to love, and how we should live in our lands.26

Aki includes all aspects of creation: landforms, elements, plants, animals, spirits, sounds, thoughts, feelings, and energies and all of the emergent systems, ecologies, and networks that connect these elements. Knowledge in akinoomaage flows through the layered spirit world above the earth, the place where spiritual beings reside and the place where our Ancestors sit.27

In the Nishnaabeg creation stories told and discussed in Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, the process in which Gzhwe Manidoo created the world is the process by which Nishnaabeg people come to know. Coming to know is a mirroring or a reen- actment process where we understand Nishnaabeg epistemolo- gy to be concerned with embodied knowledge animated, collec- tive, and lived out in a way in which our reality, nationhood, and existence are continually reborn through both time and space. This requires a joining of both emotional knowledge and intel- lectual knowledge in a profoundly personal and intimate spiri- tual context. Coming to know is an intimate, unfolding process of relationship with the spiritual world.

Coming to know also requires complex, committed, con- sensual engagement. Relationships within Nishnaabewin are based upon the consent— the informed (honest) consent— of all beings involved. The word consensual here is key because if chil- dren learn to normalize dominance and nonconsent within the context of education, then nonconsent becomes part of the nor- malized tool kit of those with authoritarian power. Within the context of settler colonialism, Indigenous peoples are not seen as worthy recipients of consent, informed or otherwise, and part of being colonized is engaging in all kinds of processes daily that given a choice, we likely wouldn’t consent to. In my experience

162 LAND AS PEDAGOGY

of the state- run education system, my informed consent was never required. Learning was forced on me using the threat of emotional and physical violence. In postsecondary education, consent was coercive: if you want these credentials, this is what you have to do, and this is what you have to endure.28 This is un- thinkable within Nishnaabeg intelligence. In fact, if there isn’t a considerable amount of demonstrated interest and commitment on the part of the learner, learning doesn’t occur at all. Raising Indigenous children in a context where their consent, physical and intellectual, is not just required but valued goes a long way to undoing the replication of colonial gender violence.

In the context of resurgence, which is in essence an emer- gent process mitigated by spiritual forces, physical and intel- lectual engagement with the struggle of nation building within specific cultural contexts is the only way to generate new knowl- edge. Being engaged— deeply and consensually— in the physical, real- world work of resurgence, movement building, and nation building is the only way to generate new knowledge on how to resurge from within Nishnaabeg intellectual systems. We cannot just think, write, or imagine our way to a decolonized future. Answers to how to rebuild and how to resurge are therefore de- rived from a web of consensual relationships that is infused with movement (kinetic) through lived experience and embodiment. Intellectual knowledge is not enough on its own. Neither is spir- itual knowledge or emotional knowledge. All kinds of knowl- edge are important and necessary in a communal and emergent balance.

This creation story also emphasizes that Nishnaabeg peo- ple embody all the necessary knowledge for resurgence. We are enough because if we are living our lives out in an Nishnaabeg way (as many of us are), we can access all the knowledge that went into creating the universe. In my experience as an Nish- naabeg person in the context of centuries of gendered violence and ongoing occupation of my homeland, part of my knowledge base is a critical attunement to settler colonialism and generated theories of resistance as well as resurgence and liberation, both coming from within my own knowledge system and through

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 163

the sharing of the liberatory politics of Indigenous peoples and people of color who have also been forced to live through op- pression. Aki is also liberation and freedom— my freedom to establish and maintain relationships of deep reciprocity within a pristine homeland my Ancestors handed down to me. Aki is encompassed by freedom, freedom that is protected by sover- eignty and actualized by self- determination.

Once this context is reestablished, even if it begins as only a dream or a vision, even held just by a few individuals, the fetishi- zation of theoretical approaches to realize that context becomes counterproductive.29 If Dionne Brand or Fred Moten speaks to my heart as an Nishnaabekwe, as both do, then Nishnaabeg in- telligence compels me to learn, share, and embody everything I can from every teacher that presents themselves to me in a mutually ethical, consensual, and reciprocal way. Nishnaabeg intelligence is diversity— Nishnaabeg intelligence as diversity.30

Nanabush. Period.

Nanabush is widely regarded within Nishnaabeg thought as an important teacher because Nanabush mirrors human behavior and models how to (and how not to) come to know. I think it’s important to point out that Nanabush does not teach at a univer- sity, nor is Nanabush a teacher within the state school system. Nanabush also doesn’t read academic papers or write for aca- demic journals. Nanabush is fun, entertaining, sexy, and playful. You’re more likely to find Nanabush dancing on a table at a bar than at an academic conference. If Nanabush had gone to teach- ers’ college, Nanabush would have been fired in the first three months of his first teaching gig.31 This is precisely why Nana- bush is an outstanding teacher. Nanabush not only teaches me self- compassion for the part of me that may dance on bars in celebration of life and love and all things good, but Nanabush comes with inevitable contradictions held within the lives of the occupied. Nanabush also continually shows us what happens when we are not responsible for our own baggage or trauma or emotional responses. The brilliance of Nanabush is that Nana- bush stories the land with a sharp criticality necessary for

164 LAND AS PEDAGOGY

moving through the realm of the colonized into the dreamed reality of the decolonized, and for navigating the lived reality of having to engage with both at the same time.

In the spirit of Nanabush, part of me is being facetious in that last paragraph, and part of me is not. The academic indus- trial complex does not and cannot provide the proper context for Nishnaabeg intelligence without the full, valued recogni- tion of the context within which Nishnaabeg intelligence man- ifests itself: the practice of Aki— freedom, sovereignty, and self- determination over bodies, minds, and land. The academy does not and cannot provide the proper context for Nishnaabeg in- telligence without taking a principled stand on the forces that are currently attacking Nishnaabeg intelligence: colonial gen- dered violence, dispossession, erasure, and imposed poverty. The academy does not and cannot provide the proper context for Nishnaabeg intelligence without the full recognition of the system that generates this intelligence and the people who have dedicated their lives to growing, nurturing, and living that system— our elders and knowledge holders. The academy does not and cannot provide the proper context for Nishnaabeg in- telligence without fully funding the regeneration of Indigenous thinkers as a matter of restitution for the damage it has caused and continues to cause the Indigenous Knowledge system through centuries of outright attack.32

I imagine myself talking about postsecondary education with Nanabush right now, and he immediately asking me why I think spending sixty hours a week indoors in a classroom or on a computer is Indigenous education at all. Point taken. I’ve just spent several hours writing all of this down when my Ancestors have always understood this, and in fact, I think my kids under- stand most of it. Several Nishnaabeg elders are embodying all of these teachings right now, and any Indigenous person with motivation to learn to think inside the land should be interact- ing with their own elders and experts in their own homelands instead of reading me. So while I could ask Nanabush what Nish- naabeg education is, I’d have to be ready for him to flip the table. He’s not known for his patience, for one thing, and for another,

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 165

he’s spent eternity trying to demonstrate that with his own life. It’s not Nanabush’s fault we aren’t paying attention.

One person who is paying attention is Binoojiinh, because in going back to the sugar bush, Binoojiinh models their day on an important Nanabush story. Shortly after the creation of the world and the birth of Nanabush, Nanabush took a trip around the world as a way of learning about the world. That’s the first lesson. If you want to learn about something, you need to take your body onto the land and do it. Get a practice.33 If you want to learn about movement building, get yourself outside in- volved with people that are building movements. That doesn’t mean don’t read books or don’t talk to people with all kinds of intelligences. It doesn’t mean don’t find mentors. It does mean get out, get involved, and get invested. After Nanabush had completed his first journey around the world, he embarked on a second journey around the world, this time with wolf as a companion. At this point, we should all recognize pretty clearly that the learning changes when the relational context changes. Nanabush did a tremendous amount of visiting on both of his trips— he visited with Nokomis, he visited with the West Wind, he visited with plants and animals, mountains, and bodies of wa- ter. Visiting within Nishnaabeg intelligence means sharing one- self through story, through principled and respectful consensual reciprocity with another living being. Visiting is lateral sharing in the absence of coercion and hierarchy and in the presence of compassion. Visiting is fun and enjoyable and nurtures the inti- mate connections and relationship building. Visiting is the core of our political system (leaders visiting with all the members of the community), our mobilization (Tkamse and Pontiac visited within and outside of their own nations for several years before they expected mobilization), and our intelligence (people visit- ing elders, sharing food, taking care). Binoojiinh knew this. This is why they were visiting the maple tree in the first place.

At several points in Nanabush’s journey, Nanabush sought spiritual guidance through dreams, visions, and ceremonies. At one point he had to learn to build a canoe to cross a large body of water. He experimented until he figured it out. This was both

166 LAND AS PEDAGOGY

time consuming and frustrating. When he finally got a structure that would float, he had no way to propel it. This was also time consuming and frustrating. Eventually by calming down and watching a beaver, he was able to fashion a paddle inspired by the beaver’s tail and continue across the body of water.

In this story, Nanabush models how to come to know for Binoojiinh. He shows us land as pedagogy, without yelling “LAND AS PEDAGOGY,” or typing “land as pedagogy” into a computer fifty times. Sometimes when I am teaching PhD stu- dents, I say that in this story Nanabush is teaching us how to be students, teachers, and researchers. He is giving us theory and methodology, but it’s really much bigger than that. Nanabush is teaching us how to be full human beings within the context of Nishnaabeg intelligence. Nishnaabeg intelligence is for ev- eryone, not just students, teachers, and researchers. It’s not just pedagogy, it’s how to live life.

Resurgent Education

Being engaged in land as pedagogy as a life practice inevitably means coming face- to- face with settler colonial authority, sur- veillance, and violence, because this practice places Indigenous bodies in between settlers and their money.34 The practices of hunting, fishing, and living off the land within my territory have been a direct challenge to settler colonialism since 1923 and the imposition of the Williams Treaty.35 Being a practitioner of land as pedagogy and learning in my community also mean learning how to resist this imposition. It’s a process of learning how to be on the land anyway.

There are countless stories that I could tell here about set- tler surveillance, criminalization, and violence that occur on the land while Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg are engaged as practi- tioners in Nishnaabewin,36 but the story I want to leave you with is one that comes from someone who has invested greatly in my intelligence as an Nishnaabekwe.

Over the past fifteen years or so, I have spent a large amount of time on the land learning from Doug Williams. Doug and I have hunted, fished, trapped, picked medicines, conducted cer-

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 167

emonies, harvested birch bark, made maple syrup, canoed an- cient routes, and harvested wild rice throughout our territory. This represents the most profound educational experience of my life, and I hope that it is far from over. During our exten- sive time on our land, Doug has taught me the history of Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg, an oral tradition passed down to him from his uncles, who would have learned it from their parents and grandparents. He has taught me the political practices of our people and the ceremonies, philosophies, and values they car- ried with them. He has taken me to every sacred site in our terri- tory and has shared songs, seamlessly moving between the roles of best friend, father, and elder. He has patiently listened to me. He has patiently answered every question I’ve brought to him. He has told me hundreds of stories cataloging the fierce resis- tance of our Ancestors to our way of life. He has healed me.

It is this relationship more than any other that has created in me the same fierce resistance my Ancestors carried with them and that has fostered a responsibility in me to our territory. It is this relationship more than any other that has made me Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg. Doug has invested more time in my spiritu- al, emotional, and intellectual education than anyone else in my life. Yet it is completely unrecognized, unsupported, and disre- garded by academic institutions.

Being out on the land with Doug living our Michi Saagiig Nishnaabewin means we run up against colonial authorities regularly, whether that is the police, game wardens, or settlers providing their own homegrown surveillance for the settler co- lonial authorities. To be honest, most of this is fairly normalized, and unless there is a particular aggression or violence involved in the incident, I often don’t even notice. But Doug reminds me continually through story that being tied to land also means be- ing tied to an unwritten, unseen history of resistance:

The 1923 Williams Treaty was devastating to my people. I witnessed the trauma and the fear that was put on my people that were trying to live on the land. They lived daily watching over their backs and trying to maintain

168 LAND AS PEDAGOGY

their lifestyle as Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg. The govern- ment with the implementation of the “basket clause” was a sneaky way to get rid of us as people who enjoyed this part of our great land.37 These old men I hung around with such as Madden and Jimkoons Taylor lived a life where they had to live by sneaking around and feeling like they were “poachers.” They resorted to catching other animals and harvesting those things that the government did not feel were part of the things they need to “protect” from us. These things included small animals, such as the groundhog and the porcupine; the muskrat for meat and other things were also eaten be- cause we were forbidden from hunting deer (which was our staple). Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg were also prohib- ited from fishing from October 15 to July 1 every year under provincial statutes. These colonial restrictions were devastating to people that lived on the land. They posted game wardens in the tri- lakes area— Buckhorn, Chemong, and Pigeon— to enforce these restrictions. We faced starvation.

It was particularly difficult to obtain food in the win- tertime, and since fishing was prohibited, it became a time of great suffering. People had to run up an account at the Whetung General Store to tide them over until the muskrat season opened in April. So it was November to April that was quite difficult. Some people still had to fish and would do it at odd hours and would have to sneak around and not be seen. This is a very difficult thing to do in the winter. Anyone standing on the ice can be seen for miles, and this is what the game warden would look out for and go out and chase my people. There were many stories told of how my people escaped the game warden. There were many stories of our people being caught and going to court in Peterborough to be given fines for fishing out of season. Imagine the indigni- ty on our people when they came in front of the Canadi- an courts for being Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg in our own territory!

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 169

Our people were incredibly strong and resilient. We were able to survive even though we were forced to live in an undignified way of living off the land. There is a story told of one of the young men— Shkiin, short for Shkiininini meaning “young man.” Shkiin had the ability to escape the game warden by putting on these skates you tied onto your feet. The only problem was the skates had no brakes, so it was impossible to stop. One day, the game warden showed up with modern tube- type skates. He saw Shkiin fishing out on the ice, put on those speed- skating skates, and went after Shkiin. Shkiin tied on his skates and took off. After awhile, the game warden start- ed to catch up. Shkiin thought, “uh oh I’m in trouble.” Just then he saw some open water. He thought he would skate as fast as he could and jump over the open water because he knew the game warden couldn’t follow. So he skated as fast as he could, took the leap— it was about twenty feet— and he made it. He landed, looked around, and the game warden had to put on the brakes. Shkiin turned around, waved at him, and gave him that Saasaakwe sound. The old people used to tell about that story and how Shkiin became a legend in getting away from game wardens.

I admire the resilience of my people very much. One of the ways they kept up their spirit was with humor. Many stories are told of the klutzy game wardens that were posted on the lakes to watch out for us. There are also some sad stories. Old Sam Fawn after many years of carving axe handles, saving up money, and making other items like that. With his little bit of money he was able to afford a cedar- strip canoe from Peterborough. He went fishing on Fox Island out of provincial season. He was seen by the game warden, who chased him. Sam beat him and came across from Fox Island to the mainland at Curve Lake. He put his canoe up on shore, turned it over, and walked home. Everyone did that back in those days. Everyone knew each other’s canoes. The game warden was watching him from Fox Island, and he

170 LAND AS PEDAGOGY

sneaked over and seized that canoe. The canoe has never been seen again. Poor Sam Fawn, worked hard his whole life, trying to live off the land. I remember him as being one of the most gentle human beings that lived in Curve Lake. The trauma created by the 1923 Williams Treaty will be long- lived. It lives in our hearts. The govern- ment can never repay us for what the damage they have caused. The damage is done. Many of the people that lived through this trauma have now passed on. I remem- ber them dearly, and I hope that somehow there are no game wardens in the Happy Hunting Grounds.38

This story serves as an important reminder: by far the largest attack on Indigenous Knowledge systems right now is land dispossession, and the people that are actively protecting Nishnaabewin are not those at academic conferences advocat- ing for its use in research and course work, but those who are currently putting their bodies on the land. In many ways, the fight for Nishnaabewin is not taking place in parliament, on so- cial media, or on the streets in urban centers; rather, it lies with communities like Grassy Narrows and those on the ground who are active practitioners of Nishnaabewin or who are actively protecting their lands from destruction.

When I was a PhD student at the University of Manitoba in the late 1990s, there was a considerable amount of discussion among academics on how to ethically and responsibly bring In- digenous Knowledge into the academy, as a way of legitimizing the knowledge of Indigenous peoples as an intellectual system on par with Western traditions, as a mechanism to attract In- digenous students to the academy, and as a means to preserve Indigenous Knowledge.39 An effort was made to produce more Indigenous scholars so they would have a stronger presence within the colonial system. When I first held a tenure- track position in an Indigenous Studies department, there were two elders on faculty, both women, who had gained tenure on the basis of their expertise in Indigenous Knowledge, not on West- ern credentials. Fifteen years later the same university has no

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 171

tenured elders, only Indigenous and non- Indigenous academics primarily hired on the basis of Western credentials.

The problem with this approach then and now is that it reinforces colonial authority over Nishnaabeg intelligence by keeping it reified and fetishized within a settler colonial ap- proach to education designed only to propel settler colonial- ism. This serves to reinforce asymmetrical power relationships between Indigenous Knowledge and Western knowledge, and between Indigenous and non- Indigenous peoples. It sets both Indigenous Knowledge holders and Indigenous learners up in a never- ending battle for recognition within that system, when the academy’s primary intention is to use Indigenous peoples and our knowledge systems to legitimize settler colonial author- ity within education used as a training ground for those who would legitimize settler colonial authority over Indigenous peo- ples and our nations in Canadian society.40

The thing for Nishnaabeg to do is to stop looking for legit- imacy within the colonizer’s education system and return to valuing and recognizing our individual and collective intelli- gence on its own merits and on our own terms. Withdrawing our considerable collective efforts to “Indigenize the academy” in favor of a resurgence of Indigenous intellectual systems and a reclamation of the context within which those systems operate goes much further toward propelling our nationhood and rees- tablishing Indigenous political systems because it places people back on the land in a context that is conducive to resurgence and mobilization. The academy has continually refused to recognize and support the validity, legitimacy, rigor, and ethical principles of Nishnaabeg intelligence and the system itself, so we must stop begging for recognition and do this work for ourselves. This co- lonial refusal should be met with Indigenous refusal— refusal to struggle simply for better or more inclusion and recognition within the academic industrial complex.41 As Jarrett Martineau and Eric Ritskes state in their discussion of decolonial aesthetics, “This means the task of decolonial artists, scholars and activists is not simply to offer amendments or edits to the current world, but to display the mutual sacrifice and relationality needed to

172 LAND AS PEDAGOGY

sabotage colonial systems of thought and power for the purpose of liberatory alternatives.42 This is true in politics, art, cultural and intellectual production, and education because these sys- tems are seamlessly woven together within our intelligence. If the academy is concerned about not only protecting and main- taining Indigenous intelligence but also revitalizing it on Indig- enous terms as a form of restitution for its historic and contem- porary role as a colonizing force (of which I see no evidence), then the academy must make a conscious decision to become a decolonizing force in the intellectual lives of Indigenous peoples by joining us in dismantling settler colonialism and actively pro- tecting the source of our knowledge: Indigenous land.

I am not saying that Indigenous peoples should forgo learn- ing Western- based skills altogether, but we currently have a sit- uation where our greatest minds, our children and youth, are spending forty hours a week in state- run education systems from age four to twenty- two if they complete an undergradu- ate degree. Next to none of that takes place in an Nishnaabeg context, and although many Indigenous parents and families do everything they can do to ensure their children are connected to their homelands, this should be the center of the next gener- ation’s lives, not the periphery. To foster expertise within Nish- naabeg intelligence, we need people engaged with land as cur- riculum and in our languages for decades, not weeks. Shouldn’t we as communities support and nurture children who choose to educate themselves only within Nishnaabewin? Wouldn’t this create a strong generation of elders? Don’t we deserve learning spaces where we do not have to address state learning objec- tives, curriculum, credentialism, and careerism, where our only concern for recognition comes from within? Are the state- run education system and the academic industrial complex really a house worth inhabiting?43

Nishnaabewin did not and does not prepare children for suc- cessful career paths in a hypercapitalistic system. It is designed to create self- motivated, self- directed, community- minded, in- terdependent, brilliant, loving citizens who at their core uphold our ideals around family, community, and nationhood by valu-

LAND AS PEDAGOGY 173

ing their intelligences, their diversity, their desires and gifts, and their lived experiences. It encourages children to find their joy and place it at the center of their lives. It encourages children to value consent. This was the key to building nations where ex- ploitation was unthinkable. But don’t our children have to live in a hypercapitalistic system? Well yes, and if we are going to sur- vive this as Nishnaabeg, we need to create generations of people who are capable of actualizing radical decolonization, diversity, transformation, and local economic alternatives to capitalism.

The beauty of culturally inherent resurgence is that it chal- lenges settler colonial dissections of our territories and our bod- ies into reserve/city or rural/urban dichotomies. All Canadian cities are on Indigenous lands. Indigenous presence is attacked in all geographies. In reality, the majority of Indigenous peoples move regularly through reserves, cities, towns, and rural areas. We have found ways to connect to the land and our stories and to live our intelligences no matter how urban or how destroyed our homelands have become. While it is critical that we grow and nurture a generation of people who can think within the land and have tremendous knowledge and connection to Aki, this doesn’t have to take away from the contributions of urban Indigenous communities to our collective resurgence. Cities have becomes sites of tremendous activism and resistance and of artistic, cultural, and linguistic revival and regeneration, and this comes from the land. Whether urban or rural, city or re- serve, the shift that Indigenous systems of intelligence compel us to make is one from capitalistic consumer to cultural produc- er. Radical resurgent education is therefore at the heart of the Radical Resurgence Project because it rebelliously replicates nation- based Indigeneity. Binoojiinh reminds me that “the free- dom realized through flight and refusal is the freedom to imag- ine and create an elsewhere in the here; a present future beyond the imaginative and territorial bounds of colonialism. It is a per- formance of other worlds, an embodied practice of flight.”44 For me, Binoojiinh as fugitive to within provides the fire, the com- passion, and the loving rebellion to do just that.

TEN “I SEE YOUR LIGHT” RECIPROCAL RECOGNITION AND GENERATIVE REFUSAL

Indigenous scholarship has recently experienced cru- cial interventions into how we account, frame, and tell the truths of the political and cultural lives of Indigenous peoples that move away from a constriction of our intelligence within the confines of Western thought and the dumbing down of the issues for the non- Indigenous outside to a meticulous, critical, robust, and layered approach that accurately contextualizes and reflects the lives and the thinking of Indigenous peoples on our own terms, with the clear purpose of dismantling colonial dom- ination.1 In my mind this approach isn’t just important in the academy, this is also important in the Indigenous practices of resurgent organizing, mobilization, and struggle.

As a first step, this requires a clean break from mobiliza- tions and organizing that occur in direct response to the state and that are entwined with the politics of recognition. Glen Coulthard’s meticulous discussion in Red Skin, White Masks of recognition, reconciliation, resentment, and the Dene nation’s

175

own mobilization in the 1970s demonstrates the pitfalls of this approach. Coulthard demands that we stop seeking recognition from the state of our cultural distinctiveness, of our inherent rights to self- government, of the state’s treaty obligations under the domination of settler colonialism. He uses Fanon’s critique of Hegel’s master- slave dialectic and the experience of his own Dene nation to challenge the assumption that Indigenous peo- ples will achieve any sort of peaceful coexistence through the politics of recognition. He maintains that instead these politics serve only to entrench settler colonial power. He points to re- surgence, a radical resurgence in my mind, as a more effective set of politics to dismantle colonial domination.2 The first tenet then of radical resurgent organizing is a refusal of state recogni- tion as an organizing platform and mechanism for dismantling the systems of colonial domination.

The second tenet requires us to refuse the state’s framing of the issues we organize around, and respond to and re- embed these issues within Indigenous political contexts and realities and within the place of productive refusal as a mechanism for building unity within the struggle. I want to revisit the way Audra Simpson reframes memberships here in terms of resurgent or- ganizing. In Mohawk Interruptus Simpson re- embeds member- ship issues into a living Rotinonhseshá:ka matrix of relatedness and tension over membership and belonging in Kahnawà:ke by naming the root: fear of disappearance— a basic, terrifying, om- nipresent reality of being Indigenous and particularly of being an Indigenous woman or queer person and occupied by Canada. She re- embeds belonging in a productive place of refusal, which I read as a spectacular animation of Mohawk theory as Mohawk life and Mohawk land. A productive place of refusal is one that generates grounded normativity. If we mobilize around “fear of disappearance” rather than encoding that fear into policy in the form of a membership code, what does that mobilization look like? This is important to consider because when we encode fear into policy, we inevitable create hurt, pain, and ultimately divisions within our own communities. Membership issues in this light, actually most Indigenous issues, are ultimately about

176 “I SEE YOUR LIGHT”

Indigenous peoples very existence as Indigenous peoples. All of us want our communities and nations to continue, and I’m con- fident in saying that because all of us have in various ways been fighting to survive assimilation for centuries now. This shift in framing from identity politics to fear of disappearance enables us to organize around the root, instead of the symptom, and it allows for multidimensional nation- based approaches. For ex- ample, what if we had refused the gender discrimination of the Indian Act from a productive place of refusal when we first be- gan to mobilize around this issue in the late 1980s? What if we had seen this issue as an attack on our nation, as a mechanism to accelerate assimilation, as a strategy to weaken our resistance, as a colonial strategy to get more land and destroy Indigenous families by attacking Indigenous women, many of whom were moms? What if we had mobilized as nations to love and physi- cally support those women that lost faux status, as our nations have always done, and used this issue to build unity and to strengthen ties within communities? What if we had organized outside of the politics of recognition, refused identity politics, and categorically refused the heteropatriarchy of the Indian Act? What if our leaders saw heteropatriarchy as an attack on our nations and refused to uphold it as an act of sovereignty and self- determination, and we focused intensely on taking care of our own and having each other’s backs?

What if no one sided with colonialism? What happens, then, when we build movements that refuse

colonial recognition as a starting point and turn inwards, build- ing a politics of refusal that is generative? Well, you get things like the Dene Declaration, and you get things like the Iroquois Nationals refusing to participate in the World Lacrosse League Championship tournament in Manchester because the UK re- fused to recognize their sovereignty as demonstrated through their Mohawk passports.3 You can sign a petition and stage a demonstration because you don’t want a Canadian passport, or you can make your own passports and travel on them. The latter to me represents resurgent organizing. It is organizing based on a refusal of settler colonialism coupled with the embodiment of

“I SEE YOUR LIGHT” 177

the alternative, an alternative that amplifies grounded normativ- ity. Radical resurgent organizing refuses both settler colonialism and its many manifestations. It does not allow settler colonialism to frame the issues facing Indigenous peoples, and this is criti- cal because settler colonialism will always define the issues with a solution that reentrenches its own power. Radical resurgent organizing refuses the politics of recognition as a mechanism to bring about change, and it is generative; that is, it is organizing and mobilizing that takes place within nation- based grounded normativities.

In the next three chapters, I explore the potentialities of organizing and mobilizing within a radical resurgent politic by beginning to reconceptualize these concepts within Indige- nous intelligence or within the diverse nation- based practices of grounded normativity. I see a relocalization of place- based, nation- based issues and alternatives within a network of other Indigenous nations doing the same, a focus on people and re- lationships, the prioritizing of resurgent- based education, and the strengthening of networks of bodies that house Indigenous intelligence. Indigenous resurgent organizing might look like a network of Indigenous intellectuals giving talks in the pris- on system in a coordinated, nation- based way across Canada; it might look like a network of urban breakfast programs high- lighting Indigenous food systems and alliances between reserves and cities within Indigenous nations; it might look like a net- work of land- based freedom schools for all ages; it might look like co- ops, trade agreements, and economies that prioritize Indigenous modes of production and sharing; it might look like a series of coordinating, rotating blockades and camps across Turtle Island that challenge the extractivism. Resurgent orga- nizing takes place within grounded normativity and is neces- sarily place based and local, but it is also necessarily networked and global.

Building movements that reject the politics of recognition and center generative refusal inherently creates Indigenous bodies more connected to each other and the land, and that act out, through relationality, Indigenous thought. In a sense both

178 “I SEE YOUR LIGHT”

books asked the same question to me as a reader: What is the best way to ensure we do not disappear as unique distinctive Indigenous peoples and place- embedded nations? How do we build movements with strong enough personal relationships to withstand settler colonial pushback? Or asked another way, how do I live as an individual and as part of a collective in a way that ensures I recognize my great- great- great- grandchildren as In- digenous peoples?

The Act of Recognizing

My favorite part of Simpson’s Mohawk Interruptus, the part I’ve thought the most deeply about, is a tiny moment shared be- tween two Mohawk nationals in a bar in Greenwich Village. The researcher, Simpson, asks her interviewee, “What is the ideal form of membership for us? What do you think makes someone a member of the community?” He looks her squarely in the eye and doesn’t answer. Instead he says, “When you look in the mir- ror, what do you see?”

Genius. Every time I get to this part of this book, I stop reading. This

time, I’ve stopped reading for three weeks now, because there is so much to think about in his answer.

Obviously, the interviewee does a brilliant job of reflecting the academy and the researcher back onto us, and that’s very enjoyable to me because our people have been refusing the framings, the constraints, and the outright lies, and misinfor- mation of the academy. But he also refuses the agonizing over whether someone else belongs and asks Simpson, asks me, asks us to consider how we belong. Couple this with the underlying question that haunts membership and citizenship codes, how do we ensure our survival as Indigenous peoples, and he is ul- timately asking me to consider, perhaps critically, how I reflect, act, model, and embody my belonging back to my family, com- munity, and nation.

How do I recognize myself as a Michi Saagiig Nishnaabe- kwe? Do my Ancestors recognize me as one of their own? How does Simpson as a Mohawk woman recognize me as a Michi

“I SEE YOUR LIGHT” 179

Saagiig Nishnaabeg woman? How are we related? When I am hunting, does the spirit of the moose see me and recognize me in the same way she recognized my Ancestors? Does the moose see me as someone who is seeking her consent through my of- ferings, prayers, and practices to harvest her body so that my family can live? Does that moose see me as someone who is en- gaging with her in the relational terms set out in our diplomacy? Does she feel respected and that she has sovereignty and agency over the act of harvesting? Or have my actions made her feel like a resource? Does she see me as the enemy? Does she feel exploited? Unseen? Unrecognized? Hunted?

What makes me a member of my nation? What am I contrib- uting? How am I living Nishnaabewin? How am I embodying consent and diversity in an Nishnaabeg way? How I am contrib- uting to resurgence? What practices am I carrying along to the next generation? What am I doing in my daily life and practices of being Nishnaabeg that are ensuring the next generation will be Nishnaabeg, that is, substantively living different lives than their Canadian neighbors?

What do I see when I look in the mirror? A list of negative stereotypes? The positive attributes? A mixture? Do I see a net- work of intimate relationships rotating through time and space in all directions across human, plant, and animal nations and in the context of a spiritual cosmos? How do I, how do we reflect back the Indigeneity of our unique nations? How do I both see my reflection and act as a mirror? Do I, like Simpson, see a nice person? How do I recognize my relations? How am I recognized?

What if the driving force in Indigenous politics is self- recognition rather than a continual race around the hamster wheel of settler colonial recognition?

Recognition in Nishnaabewin

Let’s talk about how relationality plays out in Indigenous con- texts. Part of being in a meaningful relationship with another being is recognizing who they are, it is reflecting back to them their essence and worth as a being, it is a mirroring. Positive mirroring creates positive identities; it creates strong, grounded

180 “I SEE YOUR LIGHT”

individuals and families and nations within Indigenous political systems. So at the same time I am looking into the mirror, I also am the mirror. What do I mirror back to my kin? Dysfunction? Criticism? Cynicism? What do these two books mirror back to Dene and Mohawk peoples? That’s easy: they mirror back strength, pride, connection, beauty, love, fierceness, courage, bravery, and the very best parts of being Dene or Mohawk.

Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg greet each other by saying the word Aaniin, which is a way of saying hello that is common for Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg people to use. I spent some time with Doug last week, sitting around a fire talking about Nishnaabeg conceptualizations of recognition. We talked about the word Aaniin. He told me the Ah sound places us in a spiritual context, in the context of the Nishnaabeg universe. The Ni is “a taking notice as sound.” When put together, he understands the word to be asking, how do you see yourself in all of this? Or put an- other way, taking in all the thought and feeling of your journey in the universe, how do you see or recognize yourself ? Aaniin then can also mean “I see your light,” or “I see your essence,” or “I see who you are.” To me, seeing someone else’s light is akin to working to see the energy they put into the universe through their interactions with the land, themselves, their family, and their community. Aaniin isn’t an observation but a continual process of unfolding; it is a commitment to the kind of relation- ship where I have dedicated myself to seeing the unique value in the other life as a practice.

Why, then, do we continually seek recognition from Canada when we know it never ends well? Why is internal reciprocal recognition so important within Indigenous thought? Recog- nition within Nishnaabewin is a lovely practice that builds re- silient relationships. My people recognize through song when spirits enter our lodges and ceremonies. We recognize our fam- ily members who have passed on to the Spirit World through particular ceremonies. We recognize and greet the sun every morning, and the moon each night through prayer and ceremo- ny. We recognize when particular animals return to our territo- ry in the spring, and when plants and medicines reappear after

“I SEE YOUR LIGHT” 181

winter rests. Recognition for us is about presence, about pro- found listening, and about recognizing and affirming the light in each other as a mechanism for nurturing and strengthening internal relationships to our Nishnaabeg worlds. It is a core part of our political systems because they are rooted in our bodies and our bodies are not just informed by but created and main- tained by relationships of deep reciprocity. Our bodies exist only in relation to Indigenous complex, nonlinear constructions of time, space, and place that are continually rebirthed through the practice and often coded recognition of obligations and respon- sibilities within a nest of diversity, freedom, consent, noninter- ference, and a generated, proportional, emergent reciprocity.

Reciprocal recognition is a core Nishnaabeg practice. We greet and speak to medicinal plants before we pick medicines. We recognize animals’ spirits before we engage in hunting them. Reciprocal recognition within our lives as Nishnaabeg people is ubiquitous, embedded, and inherent. Consent is also embedded into this recognition. When I make an offering and reach out to the spirit of Waawaashkesh before I begin hunting, I am asking for that being’s consent or permission to harvest it. If a physical deer appears, I have their consent. If no animal presents itself to me, I do not.

This kind of Indigenous collective self- recognition is a core, place- based practice. It is a core, living concept of Nishnaabeg grounded normativity because it is a mechanism in which, de- spite environmental destruction and settler colonial strangula- tion, we continually throughout our lives and throughout the day reinsert ourselves in the network of living relationships that give us meaning. Indigenous internal, reciprocal self- recognition is a mechanism through which we reproduce and amplify Indige- neity.4 When another Indigenous person recognizes and reflects back to me my Nishnaabeg essence, when we interact with each other in an Nishnaabeg way, my Michi Saagiig Nishnaabewin deepens. When my Indigeneity grows, I am more connected. I fall more in love with my homeland, my family, my culture, and my language and more in line with the thousands of stories that demonstrate how to live a meaningful life, and I have more

182 “I SEE YOUR LIGHT”

emotional capital to fight and protect what is meaningful to me. I am a bigger threat to the Canadian state and its plans to build pipelines across my body, clear- cut my forests, contaminant my lakes with toxic cottages and chemicals, and make my body a site of continual sexualized violence.

Nanabush is the original teacher of reciprocal recognition. Recall from chapter 4 and from the previous chapter on ed-

ucation, Nanabush’s journey around the world.5 I want to revis- it this story one last time. In my PhD theory and methodology classes, I often position Nanabush as the first researcher because the purpose of this journey is to learn about the world.6 I point out that Gzhwe Manidoo doesn’t give Nanabush a reading list or a stack of books. Gzhwe Manidoo doesn’t make him write a proposal, come up with a research question or objectives, or go through an ethics review. Students laugh at the absurdity of that, but to me it isn’t absurd; it is a critical political intervention that says that Nishnaabeg intelligence is brilliant in its own right and that after Gzhwe Manidoo transferred all of the knowledge from the creation of the universe into our bodies, after Gzhwe Mani- doo showed us the potential of combining potential energy and kinetic energy as a creative force, after the Nishnaabeg world of being was created, we had access to the entire universe through our practices.7 This is Nanabush’s theory— this is the relational foundation that Nanabush interprets and derives meaning from. There is some fluidity to this theory— it’s not necessarily the same for everyone. People’s interpretations change as they wear these stories through their lives. Lived experience leads to trans- formation. But there is a limit to the fluidity, and that’s the web of ethical relationships that working in cohesive manner with each other, create more life and propel the continuous rebirth of mino bimaadiziwin.8

Nanabush sets off on foot on a trip around the world. Nana- bush visits with every aspect of creation: the rivers, the lakes, the oceans, the plants, the animals, the spirits, the mountains, the prairies, the northlands. Nanabush greets and recognizes every aspect of creation, and Nanabush names each of those beings in each of those nations. Nanabush develops a deep relationship

“I SEE YOUR LIGHT” 183

of reciprocity with each of these, many of which are recorded in our oral stories. Nanabush introduces the Nishnaabeg to the practices of consent, recognition, and reciprocity. Nanabush listens. Nanabush shares of himself. Nanabush learns about the plants, for instance, and therefore learns about himself. Nana- bush doesn’t interview anyone or hand out surveys. Nanabush visits. Nanabush observes. Nanabush reflects. Nanabush does ceremony. Nanabush listens. Nanabush shares and receives sto- ries. Nanabush actively participates. Nanabush experiments. Nanabush prays, sings, and dances. Nanabush struggles. Nana- bush dreams. Nanabush participates.

When Nanabush returns, Gzhwe Manidoo asks him to go around the world another time. This time with Ma’iingan, the wolf, as his companion. Relationality gives birth to meaning. Repeating the journey again in relation to another being shifts and deepens understandings. For the journey to go well, Nana- bush has to engage in reciprocal recognition with Wolf as a daily practice because the journey will challenge their strength and the strength of their relationship on every level.

These practices are Nanabush’s methodology, to use an aca- demic term. These practices are the basis of Nishnaabeg politi- cal, economic, spiritual, and intelligence systems. They are the base of reality. Nanabush’s trip stories the landscape with rela- tional knowledges. When Nishnaabeg see a birch tree, we rec- ognize a library of stories involving birch. When we see a lady’s slipper, or moss on rocks, or cranberries, or maple trees, or a woodpecker, or beaver, more libraries. Nanabush’s character is a reflection of Nishnaabewin and of Nishnaabeg themselves, and in our practice of Nishnaabewin we are both mirror and reflec- tion to ourselves and our communities. Nested into each prac- tice is the practice of reciprocal recognition.

Reciprocal recognition, the act of making it a practice to see another’s light and to reflect that light back to them, forms the basis of positive identity, self- worth, and dignity in the other be- ing. This in turn creates strong individuals and strong families, the building block of Nishnaabeg political systems.

In our language, Basil Johnson uses the term Maa maa ya

184 “I SEE YOUR LIGHT”

wen du moowin to mean the process or the art of recognizing, of understanding, of fully comprehending, of being aware, cog- nizant, and enlightened; literally it means the blending of all thoughts and feelings into recognizing another being. When I took this word to Doug, he talked about the wendamoowin part meaning “what is your thought process as you move through life?” He talked about the first maa in maa maa ya meaning “it’s in my heart.” He made a distinction between Baamaaya, mean- ing searching for recognition, and maamaaya, meaning having it, finding, fully understanding yourself or another being.9

I want to think about that for a minute. Recognition within Nishnaabeg intelligence is a process of seeing another being’s core essence; it is a series of relationships. It is reciprocal, contin- ual, and a way of generating society. It amplifies Nishnaabewin— all of the practices and intelligence that make us Nishnaabeg. It cognitively reverses the violence of dispossession because what’s the opposite of dispossession in Indigenous thought again? Not possession, because we’re not supposed to be cap- italists, but connection, a coded layering of intimate intercon- nection and interdependence that creates a complicated algo- rithmic network of presence, reciprocity, consent, and freedom.

When another Native person recognizes and mirrors back to me my Nishnaabeg essence, my Indigeneity grows. When my Indigeneity grows, I fall more in unconditional love with my homeland, my family, my culture, my language, more in line with the idea that resurgence is my original instruction, more in line with the thousands of stories that demonstrate how to live a meaningful life, and I have more emotional capital to fight and protect what is meaningful to me. I am a bigger threat to the Canadian state and its plans to build pipelines across my body, clear- cut my forests, contaminant my lakes with toxic cottages and chemicals, and make my body a site of continual sexualized violence.

I See Your Light

One of the mechanisms settler colonialism applies to destroy Indigenous systems of reciprocal recognition is shame. Shame

“I SEE YOUR LIGHT” 185

is a powerful tool of settler colonialism because it implants the message in our bodies that we are wrong. Think back to the list of negative stereotypes the class listed at the beginning of chapter 6. The primary message in these stereotypes is you are wrong, not even you’ve done something wrong but you are wrong. This is the overwhelming and pervasive message of our partici- pation in Canadian culture unless we are fully and utterly assim- ilated, and even then, our appearance is still wrong because it is not the right hue. The impact of being immersed for several generations now in continual, daily messages to varying degrees of you are wrong is that individually and collectively we carry large amounts of shame inside of us.

I first started thinking seriously about shame after reread- ing Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks while teaching the same group of students I described earlier at the Dechinta Centre for Research and Learning. A few weeks after we had done the exer- cise on gender stereotypes in the Indigenous self- determination course I was teaching, Dene filmmaker Amos Scott visited the class. I had asked Amos to work with me on a music video for a song that was being released on a record of poetry and music. Amos agreed, and we decided to use the project as a filmmaking workshop with the students.

I introduced the students to the poem. I went through each line, explaining my intent and the Nish-

naabeg references. I played them the poem- song. Amos then asked each of them to say in one word how

they felt. We recorded the list of feelings. He then asked them to translate that emotion into a visual image, and we recorded those. Then we went through each line and created a storyboard.

Then we talked about intent. In essence, the students wanted the film to be a mirror. They

wanted the film to be an exercise in reciprocal recognition, al- though they didn’t use those terms. They wanted other Native people, particularly Native youth, to see themselves in the film in a positive way— smiling, participating in “ancient” Dene practices in “contemporary” times. They wanted the genders to show a range of emotions. They wanted to show skin, love, con-

186 “I SEE YOUR LIGHT”

nection, and drinking without shame. They wanted to create a piece of work where Indigenous audiences would feel that they were right. They wanted to make a film where they were present- ed without being shameful.

In showing the film to Indigenous audiences over the past few months and leading discussions about the experience of watching the film, I have seen that the overwhelming emotion produced is pride. Watching the film is an emotional experience for Native people, and there are often tears. They see beauty. One audience member commented that it is “all the best parts of us in two and a half minutes.” Although the film is Dene at its core in that it depicts mainly Dene people on their land practic- ing their way of life, Indigenous peoples from other nations still recognize themselves and their practices in the film. Audiences feel good.

Intellectually and artistically, this is an extremely simple in- tervention and one that is often a driving force in Indigenous art making and the self- representation of Indigenous story in the media. In terms of Indigenous audiences though, it is still a powerful intervention. It is still new. It still carries tremendous meaning to see our communities and families and ourselves re- flected back to us in a positive light. The film is saying just that “I see your light.”

My kids had a much different reaction to the film. They had trouble positioning it as a film at all. They thought it was bor- ing. They didn’t understand why we would make a film that just recorded normal life where nothing happens. “That is just us doing what we normally do. Why would anyone want to watch that?” That feedback made me very happy. They think being Nishnaabewin is normal. They aren’t ashamed to the degree they can’t even imagine feeling ashamed about that. It has taken my family over six generations to get here.

This experience led me to reflect more deeply on the role of shame as a tool of settler colonialism. We are made to feel ashamed for being Indigenous. This shame leads to discon- nection from the practices that give us meaning. It elicits pain. To cope with that pain, either we turn inward, amplifying and

“I SEE YOUR LIGHT” 187

cycling messages of shame leading to self- harm, drugs, alcohol abuse, or depression and anxiety; or we turn our shame out- ward into aggression and violence. We are then made to feel ashamed— dysfunctional, wrong, “damaged goods”— because of how we cope with the pain of shame and violence, which in turn amplifies and perpetuates shame. We also shame ourselves over not knowing our languages, not protecting our lands well enough, not organizing effectively enough, for always being on the losing end of colonial violence. Shame cages resurgence in a very basic way because it prevents us from acting. Radical re- surgent organizing, then, must generate the escape routes out of shame and into grounded normativity.

Right now to a great degree in Indigenous life, we are look- ing into the colonizer’s mirror, and that mirror is reflecting back that we are shameful, that we are not good enough, that we are not smart, or successful, or rich enough, or white enough, or Canadian enough, or together enough to organize. And what is reflected back is much, much worse if we are Indigenous wom- en or 2SQ.

But why is the colonizer our mirror? Because the coloniz- er will always reflect back to us what the state wants to see: an “Aboriginal” that shops at the Gap, votes in the election, skips happily to Revenue Canada on income tax day, perhaps knows her language and participates in a ceremony instead of church on Sunday, perhaps even attends a vigil for missing and mur- dered Indigenous women, because wow, those poor Indigenous peoples just can’t get their shit together. But they certainly do not reflect back anything that has to do with land, sovereignty, or my power as kwe.

Yet, collectively we still keep looking and begging, and ed- ucating and appealing to the morality of benevolent Canada. If only they knew better.

Look where that has gotten us. Resurgent organizing, then, has to be concerned with

building a generation of Indigenous nationals from various In- digenous nations who think and act from within their own in- telligence systems; who generate viable Indigenous political

188 “I SEE YOUR LIGHT”

systems; who are so in love with their land, they are the land; who simply refuse to stop being themselves; who refuse to let go of this knowledge; and who use that refusal as a site to gener- ate another generation who enact that with every breath, birth, and political engagement and in every moment of their daily existence.10 Resurgent organizing must create a future genera- tion that never has to ask how to live free, because they’ve never known anything else— a generation that does not know shame, because they are embedded in each other’s light.

“I SEE YOUR LIGHT” 189

191

ELEVEN EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE AND CODED DISRUPTION

In “Everyday Decolonization: Living a Decolonizing Queer Politics,” Kwagiulth (Kwakwaka’wakw) scholar and re- surgence theorist Sarah Hunt and non- Indigenous scholar Cindy Holmes ask, “What does decolonization look and feel like, what does it entail, in our daily actions as queer women? What is de- colonization beyond  something to  aspire  to  as  allies to  Indige- nous struggles for self- determination or as Indigenous queers who want to align  various  aspects  of  our  Two- Spirit  identi- ties?”1 They ask us to actively take up decolonization in intimate spaces— with friends and family and in our homes— and encour- age us to engage in critical conversations within these spaces as a mechanism to see, hear, and think differently. They challenge us to embody our decolonial politics and practice them in our daily lives. If we are members of Indigenous nations, they propel us to live in our bodies as Indigenous political orders in every way possible. They ask us to re- create Indigenous political prac- tices inside our homes, right now, every day, including a criti- cality about the replication of heteropatriarchy. This to me is a

powerful movement and a powerful way of embodying radical resurgence.

Cherokee scholar Jeff Corntassel’s research on Indigenous pathways of resurgence focuses on identifying “everyday prac- tices of renewal and responsibilities within native communities today” by asking the simple question, “How will your ancestors and future generations recognize you as Indigenous?”2 His chal- lenge is for individuals and communities to reject state affirma- tion, recognition, and the performativity of the rights- based discourse and to move beyond political awareness and symbol- ic gestures to grounding ourselves and our nations in everyday place- based practices of resurgence. He warns against the pol- itics of distraction— states’ attempts to move us away from the renewal of place- based practices by distracting us with politics that are designed to reinforce the status quo rather than decon- struct it. He encourages us to center our individual and commu- nal lives around renewal. I see power in Hunt and Holmes’s and Corntassel’s work as flight paths out of the cage of violence and shame that colonialism traps us in.

The combination of living decolonial queer politics in inti- mate spaces and everyday acts of resurgence can be a force for dramatic change in the face of the overwhelming domination of the settler colonial state, particularly on microscales.3 This kind of thinking has inspired diverse nation- based principled action, particularly among Indigenous youth, all over Turtle Island. The generative and emergent qualities of living in our bodies as political orders represent the small and first steps of aligning oneself and one’s life in the present with the visions of an In- digenous future that are radically decoupled from the domina- tion of colonialism and where Indigenous freedom is centered. This embodiment draws us out of the politics of distraction and away from continually positioning ourselves and structuring our movements in a response to the politics of distraction. We then become centered in our Indigenous presents, rather than cen- tered in responding to the neoliberal politics of the state.

This is so crucial in the context of resurgence. My Ancestors are not in the past. The spiritual world does not exist in some

192 EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE

mystical realm. These forces and beings are right here beside me— inspiring, loving, and caring for me in each moment and compelling me to do the same. It is my responsibility with them and those yet unborn to continuously give birth to my Indig- enous present. This spatial construction of time is crucial and is encoded in Nishnaabemowin. Nishnaabeg artist Susan Blight recently explained this to me using the word biidaaban. This is commonly translated as “dawn.” Blight, learning from elder Alex McKay from Kitchenuhmaykoosib Inninuwag, broke down the word as follows. The prefix bii means the future is coming at you; it also means the full anticipation of the future, that you can see the whole picture. Daa is the verb for living in a certain place or the present. Ban or ba is a verb used for when something doesn’t exist anymore or someone who has passed on. Biidaaban, then, is the verb for when day breaks, the actual moment daylight ap- pears at dawn, not as a prolonged event but the very moment.4 My own interpretation of this is that the present, then, is a col- liding of the past and the future. Everyday embodiment is there- fore a mechanism for ancient beginnings.5 Engagement in these practices unlocks their theoretical potentialities and generates intelligence. It is this present, this presence, that will create flight paths out of colonialism and into magnificent unfolding of In- digenous place- based resurgences and nationhoods. I was re- minded of this by a short video from the Polynesian Voyaging Society’s journey of the Hōkūle’a when one of the knowledge holders comments, “you can’t go anywhere if your canoe is tied to the dock.”6

Embodiment compels us to untie our canoes— to not just think about our canoes or write about our canoes but to actually untie them, get in, and begin the voyage. Embodiment also al- lows individuals to act now, wherever they are, city or reserve, in their own territory or in that of another nation, with support or not, in small steps, with Indigenous presence. These acts re- inforce a strong sense of individual self- determination and free- dom and allow individuals to choose practices that are mean- ingful to them in the context of their own reality and lives. On an individual level, people are taking it upon themselves to learn

EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE 193

their own nation- based Indigenous practices. This can mean ev- erything from becoming vitally attached to land and place; to learning language, songs, dances, stories, and artistic practices; to renewing ceremonies; to engaging in land and place- based practices and ethics; to revitalizing our systems of politics, gov- erning, caring, education, and service; to reclaiming birthing, breastfeeding, and parenting practices and death rituals; to re- generating the responsibilities and positions of the 2SQ com- munity. At first glance, these acts seem to have the most trans- formative power within individuals. But as I’ve witnessed this unfolding in various manifestations, these individual everyday acts of resurgence are starting to also become organized and collectivized, and it is in relationship to each other that we can enact and renew our political and governing practices. I am thinking here of the Dene students at Dechinta, spending sig- nificant time on the land with elders mastering Dene thought through the practice of Dene bush skills. I am thinking here of the Onaman Collective regularly hosting language immersion houses, building canoes and snowshoes, making maple syrup, and fund- raising to buy land for a permanent cultural camp; and the Ogimaa Mikana Project in Toronto restoring original names and inserting Nishnaabemowin into the urban spaces of down- town cores. I am thinking of the Kwi Awt Stelmexw language institute for Skowmish immersion. I am thinking of the tireless peer- to- peer work on sexual health and addictions done by the Native Youth Sexual Health Network.7 I am thinking of young moose- hide tanners in Denendeh whose work might start out as individual everyday acts of resurgence but then grow as they connect with hunters, expert hide tanners, tool makers, story, and Ancestors and as they embody and generate theory.8 I am also thinking of the resurgent organizing and daily embodiments of Indigenous practices taking place on the land around occupa- tions such as the Unis’tot’en Camp and the ongoing blockade at Grassy Narrows.9 I am interested in thinking about how to build upon these place- based resurgent mobilizations to build a net- work of resurgent struggle. Everyday acts of resurgence tie us to original creative processes that create networks across time and

194 EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE

space and generate doorways for new theoretical understand- ings to emerge. They are the kinetics in Edna’s creation story. They are the how.

Refusing Colonial Spatialities

Everyday acts of resurgence sound romantic, but they are not. Put aside visions of “back to the land,” and just think land— some of it is wild, some of it is urban, a lot of it is ecologically devastated. Everyday acts of resurgence are taking place as they always have, on both individual and collective scales on Indige- nous lands irrespective of whether those lands are urban, rural, or reserve. Every piece of North America is Indigenous land re- gardless of whether it has a city on top of it, or it is under threat, or it is coping with industrial development. I am uncomfortable with the continued settler colonial positioning of reserve versus urban communities as a mechanism to reinforce division. Re- serves are colonial constructs, as are urban communities. Urban Indigenous communities are often sites of tremendous oppor- tunity and action in terms of political alliance building, gover- nance (because urban Indigenous collectives and organizations are not under the thumb of the Indian Act), language revital- ization, local Indigenous economic and food initiatives, urban land reclamation and renaming, artistic renaissance, political education, and community organizing, as are reserve commu- nities, and I believe many Indigenous peoples are attached and in love with our homelands regardless of where we live. Indige- nous women and 2SQ people have particularly long histories of activism in Canadian cities as a result of the expulsive heteropa- triarchal policies of the Indian Act. We have a network in cities of Friendship Centres, shelters, theaters, health care programs, organizations that support the families of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls, and schools because of these ac- tions, not to mention the decades of 2SQ movement building and organizing that has taken place in urban environments, and this unfortunately too often goes unseen.

In Mark My Words: Native Women Mapping Our Nations, Seneca scholar Mishuana Goeman asks us to question the

EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE 195

acceptance of colonial spatialities, and she challenges us to construct deeper understandings of ourselves by examining our own relationships to place and to each other outside of the spatial constructs of settler colonialism.10 Goeman speaks of her family’s mobility in a manner that enables me to see that they are mapping aspects of their Seneca grounded normativity through spatialities as intervention, as a mechanism through which to maintain their dignity and self- sufficiency as Indigenous peo- ple. Through connections with other Indigenous people outside of their reservation, they created tiny islands of Indigeneity, in spite of these settler colonial spatialities. They created ref- uges. They escape into Indigeneity. Goeman uses the concept of (re)mapping, drawing on Gerald Vizenor, to “connote the fact that in (re)mapping, Native women employ traditional and new tribal stories as a means of continuation.”11 This makes sense to me. Mapping, storytelling, and continuation have always been a part of our grounded normativity, even shattered grounded nor- mativity. Vizenor defines survivance as “an active sense of pres- ence, the continuance of native stories, not a mere reaction, or a survivable name. Native survivance stories are renunciations of dominance, tragedy, and victimry.”12 Within Nishnaabeg thought, stories throughout time have always been a renuncia- tion of dominance, tragedy, and victimry, and so to me, the lens of resurgence resonates more than the lens of survivance. I don’t experience a division between “tribal” and “new.” I don’t just renounce. I refuse and I continue to generate. Tools do not nec- essarily define process, and while we have added “new” tools for storytelling within our embedded practices, we can also remain rooted in our deeper philosophical and aesthetic understand- ings to generate meaning. There is no hybrid. Mobility shatters and refuses the containment of settler colonialism and inserts Indigenous presence. This is an asset.

Indigenous mobility under the domination of settler colo- nialism as process is complicated and layered with multiplicity. I see at least four kinds of mobility: mobility within grounded normativity as an embedded Indigenous practice, mobility as a response to colonialism as resistance, mobility as a deliber-

196 EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE

ate and strategic resurgence, and mobility as direct or indirect forced expulsion, relocation, and displacement and the creation of Indigenous diaspora. Indigenous movement can be any one of those things or a fluid combination of any or all of those ele- ments. Indigenous peoples and our mobility can certainly be an expression of agency and self- determination within even shat- tered grounded normativity. Given the reality of settler colonial- ism, many of us continually reevaluate where we live, whether it is a city or a reserve, in our own territory or not, as a process to figure out how to live with as much dignity as possible. Our answers change as we move through the stages of life. I see this as a theoretical intervention. I see this as us using our mobility as a flight path out of settler colonialism and into Indigeneity. I see mobility imbued with agency as resurgence.

Mobility and the diplomacy and community building in- herent in it are a practice of many Indigenous nations. We’ve always moved throughout our territories and through the ter- ritories of others with the practice of diplomacy, moving with the consent of other nations. Most of us have lived or will live in a variety of places throughout our lives, and we travel back and forth maintaining connection wherever possible and when- ever we have the means. This in my mind does not necessarily dilute our Indigeneity, nor does it dilute our demands for a land base. In resurgence practice we should be working to strengthen the connections between our communities and building upon our strengths rather than falling into the colonial trap of urban versus reserve. Everyday acts of resurgence are one mechanism that can be used to build a more united resurgence movement that strengthens nationhood and works outside of the colonial spatial constructs the Indian Act has created to keep us divid- ed, particularly when everyday acts are collectivized and done in relationship or community with other Indigenous people. Indigenous makers— those who live Indigenous practices in- side of Indigenous spaces— hold onto these practices. When we start to link up with other individuals and communities en- gaged in everyday acts of resurgence by refusing the divisions of colonial spatialities, networks, or constellations, emerge.

EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE 197

The Indigenous artistic community is a site where this has al- ways occurred, and I’d like to think about these contributions as a mechanism for moving from individual acts of resurgence to collective ones.

Creative Combat: Resurgent Artistic Practice

In his extraordinary dissertation “Creative Combat: Art, Resur- gence, and Decolonization,” Jarrett Martineau begins to con- sider what happens when everyday acts of resistance become collectivized. Martineau uses the artistic practices of a diverse series of Indigenous provocateurs to examine the decolonizing potentiality of art making to disrupt and interrogate forms of settler colonialism and advance the project of resurgence and Indigenous nation building.13 Using the practices of the artist collectives Post Commodity, Walking with Our Sisters, and Skookum Sound System, among many others, for examples, Martineau not only examines potentiality but artists and art- ist collectives engaged in radically resurgent production pro- cesses that result in art not as a product or even as an event but as an organizing structure of their lives— for their collectives and for the audience that participates with them.14 Martineau argues that they are engaged in affirmative refusal, a refusing of forms of visibility within settler colonial realities that render the In- digenous vulnerable to commodification and control. He frames these creative practices as against representation, arguing that resurgent practice (he uses “artistic practice”; I would argue all resurgent practice) acts as “noise to colonialism’s signal”; that is, resurgent practice is a disruptive and a deliberate act of turning away from the colonial state. But these practices aren’t just dis- ruptive. They are grounded in a coded articulation, like Martin- eau’s dissertation itself, of Indigenous intelligence as theory and process and as affirmative refusal, resulting in the creation of not just points of disruption but collective constellations of dis- ruption, interrogation, decolonial love, and profound embod- iments of nation- based Indigeneity. They are artistic processes based in the infinite creative wealth of grounded normativity.

198 EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE

In a sense, the artists that Martineau draws upon and Martineau himself are making alternatives and are creating islands of colo- nial disruption in the present.

While Martineau’s work makes crucial interventions in and across the fields of Indigenous studies, Indigenous contempo- rary art and aesthetics, performance studies, critical theory, political philosophy, sound studies, and hip- hop scholarship, the dissertation itself is also elegantly engaged in an affirma- tive refusal. I see a foundational use of Indigenous intelligence in Martineau’s dissertation, yet to someone without extensive experience inside Indigenous knowledge systems, his work ap- pears theoretical (only) in a Western sense of the word. This is because Martineau is refusing to visibilize Indigenous intelli- gence or grounded normativity and therefore make it vulnera- ble to commodification and control by settler colonialism, and by those that have not done the work within Indigenous intelli- gence systems to carry the knowledge in the first place.15 It is an elegant level of protection and disruption, and it is a reminder that one does not become educated within Indigenous intelli- gence systems by reading books or obtaining degrees. My expe- rience of this dissertation was not of a linear, logical work that moves from A to B, but of a spiraling into and then out of a core series of arguments, much like the movement of spiritual energy in ceremony. I interpreted this as a profound coded expression of Martineau’s own Cree and Dene grounded normativity. In moving from individual acts of resurgence to connecting with networks of resurgence, coded communication and articula- tion are important because they protect the network from co- option, exploitation, and manipulation, and the sovereignty of the network remains in the hands of its Indigenous makers. This is perhaps one of the greatest lessons I continually learn from Indigenous artists: coded disruption and affirmative refusal through the use of Indigenous aesthetic practices. As a writer, my biggest struggle is often to speak directly to Indigenous au- diences without the manipulation of settler colonial publishing, editing, and distribution. How do we speak to each other and build relationships with each other on our own terms?

EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE 199

Indigenous Aesthetics: Coded Disruption and Affirmative Refusal

The use of Indigenous aesthetics in artistic practice is one mech- anism Indigenous creators use to code their work, to “disrupt the noise of colonialism,” to speak to multiple audiences, and to enact affirmative and generative forms of refusal. It is also an everyday act of resurgence and a practice in and of itself that becomes collectivized when Indigenous peoples recognize the shared code. In my own writing, I rely on Nishnaabeg aesthetic principles to speak to multiple audiences through my own artis- tic and intellectual practices. This began a few years ago when I was at a talk by Monique Mojica at Nozhem Theatre in Peterbor- ough, Ontario.16 She was explaining her artistic process in work- ing with a Kuna visual artist and in writing a play in pictographs. She talked extensively about Kuna aesthetics: repetition, duality, multidimensionality, and abstraction.

This resonated with me because I saw those aesthetic prin- ciples and theory underlying all kinds of things in Nishnaabeg thought, from ceremony, to storytelling, to art making of all kinds, and I recognized that I was already using them in my practice and wanted to deepen this practice. I thought carefully about each principle.

Repetition is interesting for a writer, because editors unfamil- iar with Indigenous aesthetic principles hate repetition. Repeti- tion is a bad thing whether you are writing nonfiction or fiction. Editors look for it because the assumption is that the reader will get bored, yet rhythmic repetition is at the base of Nishnaabeg intelligence. We hear variations of the same creation story for our entire lives, and we are expected to find meaning in it at ev- ery stage of life, whether that meaning is literal (when we are kids), metaphorical, conceptual, or within the constellation of our collective oral traditions or that meaning comes from lived experience. Our way of life is repetitive. Every fall we collect wild rice. We don’t take a year off because we are bored, because aside from that being ridiculous, if we are not continually and collectively engaged in creating and re- creating our way of life,

200 EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE

our reality, our distinct unique cultural reality doesn’t exist. If you’re bored, frankly you’re not paying attention.

Duality is another principle that confuses Western thinkers because they get it mixed up with dichotomy. Duality again is present in all of our stories and our ceremonies and our daily lives, but it is not an either- or situation. I understand it really as holism. Every year, we all experience the fall and spring equi- noxes, when there is the same number of hours of darkness and light everywhere on earth. Now that’s not what really happens. Our experience of an equinox is mitigated by weather, for one thing, but even if we understand that one day as a dichotomy, there are 363 other days of shadowlands, and all of it is part of a complex whole— a whole that is constantly in motion and con- stantly changing. Yet there is a clear dichotomy between night and day, and you know what? I’m not a postcolonial critical the- orist, so I don’t experience dichotomy as a problem.

I like writing multidimensionality into my work not because I’m trying to write speculative fiction but because that’s how Indigenous worlds work. There is an organization of time and space that’s different than the colonial world’s— different plans of reality. The implicate order, if you want to use that term, is influencing and intertwined within our own continually created physical reality. I was recently asked to write Indigenous science fiction, which coming from Indigenous aesthetics didn’t make much sense to me. Our stories have always talked about the fu- ture and the past at the same time. They’ve always coinhabited the spiritual realm; the birthright of the storyteller has always been to make the stories that come through them relevant to the current generation. A lot of what science fiction deals with— parallel universes, time travel, space travel, and technology— is what our Nishnaabeg stories also deal with.

Abstraction is also a grounding principle in Nishnaabeg aes- thetics. Again, I think Western thinkers get this confused with extraction. Indigenous abstraction is different because it comes from our grounded normativity. Extraction is a cornerstone of capitalism, colonialism, and settler colonialism. It’s stealing. It’s taking something, whether it’s a process, an object, a gift, or a

EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE 201

person, out of the relationships that give it meaning, and plac- ing it in a nonrelational context for the purposes of accumula- tion. Abstraction within the context of grounded normativity is shifting the relationality to change meaning or to illuminate a different meaning.17

I also now see layering as an aesthetic through which mak- ers weave multiple and coded meanings, and these can be lit- eral, conceptual, metaphorical, and theoretical meanings lay- ered into their artistic practice and the art they produce. This became very clear to me in working with Kanien’kehá:ka dancer and choreographer Santee Smith on her piece Re- Quickening. Re- Quickening blurs the lines between performance art, dance, and theatre and is a call for a reawakening of the intact femi- nine. As an audience member, I experienced the performance through movement, sound, and embodied kinetic conceptual knowledge that centered the truths of Indigenous women and our relationships in spite of the strangulation of various settler colonial insurgencies. It was grounded in Kanien’kehá:ka inter- nationalism, as Santee worked with Maori, Zapoteca, and Kuna artists.18 Two years before the world premiere, I was invited by Santee to her parents’ home at Six Nations to talk about wom- en, sovereignty, and violence along with four Indigenous art- ists: Christi Belcourt, Monique Mojica, Marina Acevedo, and Frances Rings. What unfolded was a very honest, complicated conversation about our experiences being Indigenous women that was highly influential in my development of parts of this book because I was so struck by the raw truths that come out in the intimate spaces Indigenous women and 2SQ people create and by the fact that these truths are so (still) rarely written. I am tremendously grateful for Santee’s willingness to honor and center my experience and our collective experience as strength. In Santee’s collaborative process the themes discussed at this meeting became an embodied performance ritual with multiple meanings mapped over objects, wardrobe, movement, sound, text, and the relationships between the performers themselves. This is an echo of what happens in my own creative work around layering meanings within storytelling, and I see it as ultimately

202 EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE

an Indigenous mechanism for packaging and revealing knowl- edge in different contexts throughout a person’s life. This to me is how ceremonial knowledge works: one can experience it on literal, conceptual, metaphorical, emotional, physical, spiritual, and intellectual levels through time and space but only if one deeply engages with the work with an open heart.

I have also learned a great deal about the Nishnaabeg aes- thetics of reenactment and presencing from watching the perfor- mances of Nishnaabeg performance artist Rebecca Belmore and Nishnaabeg artist Robert Houle. From Belmore, I’ve learned that my voice, my body, and my physical presence are interven- tions in a settler colonial reality, in a similar way to the work of Audra Simpson, but in this case not intellectual, or not just intel- lectual, but as a physical presence. Belmore’s body is her art, as my body is research. When Belmore enters a space to perform or even to give an artist talk, she does so in a way that emanates Nishnaabeg sovereignty and self- determination to a degree that I’ve only witnessed in elders. She comes into space with grounded power as a provocateur and agent who is not a victim. She is intervention. She is theory. She is both the presence and the doorway, and in her performances she often gives birth to the flight paths out of settler colonial reality and then literally takes those flight paths in front of the audience as witness.

A good example of this occurred in Belmore’s performance in Queen’s Park, Toronto, on Canada Day 2012. The space was marked with four pots of niibish, or nibi (water), and three large plastic bottles of water marking the front of the space, telling me that this performance was going to be about women. Nibi with- in Nishnaabeg philosophy carries within it many complex teach- ings and is also a strong reference to women. There are four fe- male spirits responsible for the water in the oceans, the fresh water, the water in the sky, and the water within our bodies. Nibi is the responsibility of women. Nibi is women’s sovereignty.

Belmore began by leading her three shkaabewisag (help- ers) around the mitigomizh (oak tree), which would become the focal point for the work. Over the next hour, large sheets of brown kraft paper were unrolled, moistened with spray bottles

EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE 203

of water, and carefully wrapped around the tree over and over. They used nibi to hold the sheets together. At first, the tying of the brown paper around the tree seemed like a marker to me. My attention was exclusively on mitigomizh. It was the elder, the grandmother Nokomis in the park. I imagined the destruc- tion Nokomis had witnessed over the course of her life. I thought of all the water held by her roots and in her body. I thought of all the black oak trees and black oak savannas that are no longer in Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg territory. I noticed the hordes of people walking by the tree, not noticing, on their way to see the horse statue and the legislature. For an hour, we sat or stood, talking and laughing quietly with our friends, eating and drink- ing and looking at Nokomis, the old oak tree in the context of water. We watched as our water was used to hold together the paper, methodically being wrapped around our grandmother.

I remembered the murdered, the missing, the stolen, the disappeared, and the erased. I remembered generation af- ter generation after generation after generation of our warrior women and 2SQ. I remembered the generations yet to come. When mitigomizh was wrapped with the paper, it reminded me of a sexy, strapless party dress, with ruching from top to bottom and one asymmetrical strap coming across her shoulder, where Belmore had attached the gown to the tree (by initially throw- ing the paper tied to a yellow rope over a very tall branch).

Mitigomizh for me had become sexualized through no choice of her own. She was aesthetically beautiful, but then she was also aesthetically beautiful before the performance began. I had just forgotten to notice.

Then, one of the shkaabewis, dressed in her own black party dress and with long, flowing black hair, sat in the lap of mitigo- mizh. Belmore took the wig off the shkaabewis’s head and placed it over her face. Then she continued to wrap the shkaabewis into the tree with the paper. All the while, our sacred water was be- ing used as the glue. Eventually, the Indigenous woman disap- peared.19 Belmore then sat on the ground in front of the pots of water, facing the mitigomizh and the disappeared woman.

That in and of itself was emotionally moving.

204 EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE

Then, the pinnacle. The peace was suddenly and without warning shattered

by the sound of gunfire. I immediately thought of Oka and the sounds of bullets terrorizing the pines. The violence of the ex- plosion vibrated through my body and the ground.

The twenty- one- gun salute felt like the brutal targeting and assassination of Indigenous women disguised as a salute and an honoring, which speaks to the insidious and manipulative nature of colonialism, helping, and reconciliation and the dan- gers of perpetually placing Indigenous women in the context of victimhood. The audio also included casual chatting, as if noth- ing was happening. As if it was all so normal, because violence against Indigenous women and 2SQ people is normalized. The layers of paper on mitigomizh’s body made the stereotype of “easy squaw” came alive for me as the paper now became the layers of sexism, racism, and heteropatriarchy slowly and seem- ingly gently, but fiercely and persistently, wrapped around my body, replacing my own context of sacred being, good in her own right, with one of violence and attack, directly in the line of fire with people who are not afraid to pull the trigger. The water, my own fragmented power being used to hold me down, hold me back, to make me disappear.

This is the collective story of Indigenous women and 2SQ people in Canada.

We all to varying degrees face the daily firing squad, dis- guised as a reconciliatory salute. Our young girls are slowly but surely wrapped in heteropatriarchy and racism. Our bodies are never our own but always the focal point of the gaze, receptacles of violence. And then there are our grandmothers, carrying the water inside them, rooted to the land, their bodies magnificent archives of story.

The brilliance of Belmore’s work is always for me in its ap- parent nuanced simplicity, which hours and days later becomes more and more complex. It is the very best of Indigenous story- telling grounded in the very same processes that have brought meaning to the lives of our Ancestors: multidimensionality, rep- etition, abstraction, metaphor, and multiple sites of perception.

EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE 205

In short, a multilayered conversation whose meaning shifts through time.

At the end of the performance, Belmore took the wig off her shkaabewis’s face and helped her out of the wrappings and down off the tree. The image of Belmore extending a hand to Cherish Violet Blood and Blood bursting through the bonds of five hundred years of oppression with a huge smile on her face is one of the images seared into my memory from that day. The others, I’ll carry with me, and every time I pass by a mitigomizh, wherever I am in the world, I will now remember the fierce, gentle, beautiful, nurturing nation- building spirit of Indigenous women.

Rebecca Belmore is presence. She takes (back) her (our) space (land) in the world, and her work compels me to take (back) my (our) space (land) in the world. On Canada Day in 2012, she took every mitigomizh in my territory back, no matter where they grow. She embedded the story of Nishnaabekwewag into their bark, and in doing so she liberated the story of Indige- nous women from the bonds of victimhood. Belmore constructs a constellation between the missing and the murdered, the erased and the present, and she does so on the terms of kwe, not so much as performance but as reality. I experienced Belmore’s intervention as radical resurgence.20 After reading Martineau’s work, I also understand it in terms of affirmative refusal. In re- considering it here, years after the original performance, I see it is a coded intervention that disrupts the heteropatriarchy of set- tler colonialism and generates and then reinserts kwe as theorist and kwe as revolutionary.

Robert Houle’s Paris/Ojibwa is another intervention that is generative encodement and carries within it an expression of Nishnaabeg aesthetics.21 When I first stood in front of Houle’s reconstruction of a 1840s Parisian salon, I had tears in my eyes thinking about my Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg relatives from the Credit River at the center of the installation. I felt the horrific pain and despair of Uh wus sig gee zhig goo kway, a young Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg mother and artist who watched her children die of smallpox in Europe while completely isolated from her

206 EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE

land and family. Standing in the gallery some 170 years later, I could feel my heart break, imagining the moment when she re- alized that she would lose her own life and leave her remaining children motherless in a foreign and hostile land. This is the bril- liance of Houle— his ability to create islands of decolonial love in their full richness while also evoking raw emotional responses, and in the process collapsing the perceived gap between artist and audience.

Paris/Ojibwa  is a contemporary, multifaceted response to the story of a group of Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg artists who traveled to Paris in 1845 to entertain French nobility as part of  George Catlin’s “Indian Museum.” The artist collective in- cluded a family: Maungwedaus (see also chapter 4), his wife Uh wus sig gee zhig goo kway, their children, and various other fam- ily members. The early and brutal first stages of colonialism had foisted upon them a set of complex circumstances that led to their collective resistance and artistic response— one that took form through dance, performance, and the writings of Maun- gwedaus himself. I experience Maungwudaus and Uh wus sig gee zhig goo kway as rebel artists refusing colonial recognition at a time when Maungwudaus’s brothers were (already) actively engaged in the politics of recognition as a mechanism to improve the social conditions of our people. Maungwudaus’s journal in- vokes this. He was irritated and critical of his audience. He was not uncritically performing for white people. When he wrote in his journal lines like “The English women cannot walk alone; they must always be assisted by the men. They make their hus- bands carry their babies for them when walking,” he is providing us with a rare written critical account of English life through the eyes of a Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg writer and artist.22 To me, he was a performance artist in the same vein as Belmore, giving a performance as coded intervention and affirmative refusal.

Houle’s installation is a reconstructed Parisian salon with four painted panels of figures returning to their homeland: a shaman, a warrior, a dancer, and a healer. Below each panel is an image of the smallpox virus. Above the panels are the names of the dancers, cycling in reference to Nishnaabeg honoring

EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE 207

practices.23 I loved that Houle’s language and visual imagery speak directly to our community: in the bowl of sage in the front corner of the salon, in the “sound of water, which changes to drums and finally an honor song, fills the entire space,” and in his respect for our practices of honoring the spirits of those who have passed on by not speaking their names, but cycling them in text at the top of the exhibit.24 Paris/Ojibwa represents a lib- eration, a homecoming, and an honor song both to the Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg artists in Catlin’s “Indian Museum” and to contemporary Nishnaabeg.

Originally shown in Paris as part of a series of performance reenactments, Paris/Ojibwa’s Canadian premier was at the Art Gallery of Peterborough in the heart of Michi Saagiig Nish- naabeg territory. The initial Parisian enactments are a crucial part of this story. In 2006, Houle and artist Barry Ace traveled to various locations in Paris, following the footsteps of Maungwu- daus’s performance collective, reenacting Michi Saagiig Nish- naabeg dance and performance for the crowds of Paris.25

The installation installed in Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg ter- ritory at the Art Gallery of Peterborough now becomes to me about resurgence. I like the irony of a Parisian salon in the heart of Kina Gchi Ogamig, nested in Nishnaabewin, as a physical intervention of the Nishnaabeg internationalism discussed in chapter 4. Houle shifts the gaze from “Indians as objects in a mu- seum” to the politics of power and representation that allow us to exoticize and objectify “Indians” in the first place, while also illuminating the resistance and resilience of the Nishnaabeg. Through Paris/Ojibwa, Houle delicately transforms the history of Maungwudaus and Uh wus sig gee zhig goo kway from trag- edy into a beautiful, sacred story of the Nishnaabeg kind.26 This idea of reenactment as aesthetic combined with abstraction be- comes a way of empathizing across time and space with Maun- gwedaus and Uh wus sig gee zhig goo kway by creating and then living a different ending.

This reenactment as aesthetic became a part of my own ar- tistic practice with the making of the poem, poem- song, and video “Leaks.” The poetry is a response to a racist encounter

208 EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE

with a white county worker while picking wild leeks with my daughter, who was five at the time. This was her first encounter with white racism. I felt guilty for not being able to protect her and initially wrote the poem as a way of processing the traumat- ic experience for myself. I sent the poem to Cree/Nishnaabeg singer- songwriter Tara Williamson, and she sent a song back. Over the course of a few months of performing the piece in Peterborough, we were approached by Métis filmmaker Cara Mumford, who wanted to make a video of the poem- song and to have my daughter dance in the film. Cara’s process involved going back to the site, like Houle, and reenacting to some de- gree (in a child- appropriate manner) what had happened but this time in a different context— the context of a loving, support- ive, funny group of Indigenous women artists. This process of art making through reenactment was not only healing but pro- duced a moving short film.27

All of these works involved an initial tragedy or experience with colonial violence, and all three use the processes of Nish- naabewin to lead artist collectives and eventually audiences through a different ending of the story. Paris/Ojibwa ultimately restores honor and dignity to those lost through colonial vio- lence, on our own terms. Paris/Ojibwa in particular operation- alizes the story of Maungwedaus and Uh wus sig gee zhig goo kway but through an opaqueness rather than through the con- sumptive eyes of the colonizer. While the Parisian audience is consuming Ace’s dance performance, Paris/Ojibwa is also con- suming them under the gaze of the Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg. While I am walking through the Parisian salon installed in my ter- ritory, I am part of a speaking back to colonialism. Paris/Ojibwa is a disruption to colonialism’s gaze, it is a generative refusal, it is opaque— a visible but largely unreadable or differently read installation and experience to those outside of Nishnaabewin.28 In a sense, Houle has built a network or a constellation across time and space, transforming Maungwedaus and Uh wus sig gee zhig goo kway from skeletons in unmarked graves in Europe to sacred beings.29 He then links them as Ancestors to us, to me and my community, to himself and his community, to how we are

EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE 209

represented, and to the audience who walks into a constructed Parisian salon as spectacle, embedded in opaque Michi Saagiig grounded normativity. For me, as a Michi Saagiig audience, he set up a constellation as a flight path to my Ancestors, Maungwe- daus and Uh wus sig gee zhig goo kway, their family, and their affirmative refusal, centuries before that was even a concept.

210 EMBODIED RESURGENT PRACTICE

211

TWELVE CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE

Stars, in Edna Manitowabi’s telling of the Seven Fires creation story, represent the thoughts of Gzhwe Manidoo.1 In the first attempt at creating this world, Gzhwe Manidoo’s thoughts and ideas went out into the universe in perpetuity be- cause there was no physical structure to embody them. That’s the first layer of knowledge that stars carry. They are a reminder that thought (the sound of the rattle) has to be combined with heart and motion (the sound of the drum) in order to have ener- gy and influence. These are the sounds of the skyworld holding the universe together, because sound creates and maintains re- lationships that embody both intellectual and emotional knowl- edge, otherwise known in Nishnaabeg thought as knowledge.2

The skyworld is an important space in Nishnaabeg thought. I know of Nishnaabeg creation stories of spontaneous creation, creation from the earth below us, creation from the water, and of course, there are several origin stories about creation from the skyworld.3 To me, the skyworld in the peopled cosmos of the Nishnaabeg holds the present because it carries the events and

beings of the past, and the events and beings of the future. We are born from the skyworld, and we return there when our time in the physical world is done. The spirits live there. Knowledge is held there. One of the primary responsibilities and beautiful struggles of physically being Nishnaabeg is that we have to strive and commit to maintaining deep everyday relationships with this world when we are physically on the earth.

Collections of stars within Nishnaabeg thought are bea- cons of light that work together to create doorways, like Ba- gone’giizhig, into other worlds.4 On a conceptual level, they work together to reveal theory, story, and knowledge represent- ing a mapping of Nishnaabeg thought through the night sky and through time. It takes the light of the stars a great deal of time to reach the earth, so when we look at stars, we are actually look- ing from the present back into time and space. When my chil- dren were being born, Edna Manitowabi told my partner and me to watch the sky for information of what this new being’s name might be, because birth is an act of coming through the doorway between the spiritual and physical world. The peo- ple around me, supporting me, were in this way a constellation opening a doorway to the spiritual world to give physical pres- ence to a new being. I am also a new hunter, and this comes with great responsibility. The taking of life is similar for me to the giv- ing of living because they both involve transformations between worlds, and those transformations occur through doorways. The act of hunting requires an animal’s consent to return to the spirit world by appearing and then physically dying, allowing its spirit to travel through the doorway back to the spirit world.

Constellations are not just physical doorways to other worlds; they also act as conceptual doorways that return us to our core essence within Nishnaabeg thought. Constellations are constantly in motion shifting with the seasons, serving as signposts indicating when it is time to tell winter stories, when the ice is no longer safe, or when it is time to move to the sugar bush. Some constellations are ceremonies, like the sweat lodge or shaking tent formations, while others are animals of the clan system. Constellations are coded mappings for Nishnaabeg for

212 CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE

those with star literacy.5 They are what Jarrett Martineau de- scribes as opaque— visible to everyone all night and unreadable theory and imagery to the colonizer or those who aren’t em- bedded in grounded normativity. Just as birds and other animals look to stars as guides in migration, the Nishnaabeg looked to the skyworld for knowledge and flight paths out of settler co- lonialism. The constellated and emergent relationships from within grounded normativity between radical resurgence, gen- erative refusal, and reciprocal recognition, for instance, might create the potential for heightening nationhood, Indigeneity, and freedom. Similarly, Martineau writes of a slightly different conceptual constellation as a mechanism to open up flight and fugitivity in the context of radical resurgence:

Thus far I have explicated becoming other as a strategic movement away from the terms of subjection and sub- jectivity, considered through strategic refusals mobi- lized in abjection, disidentification, détournement, and opacity. Taken together, this resistant constellation can be understood as a modality of flight, both away from identity and identity politics as such, and in anticipation of an arrival to an elsewhere that is already here, if hid- den from view. This elsewhere is a decolonial turn away from the romantic rhetoric of revolutionary subjectivity represented in direct contestation against Empire.6

This is an important intervention into the use of ideas of escape, fugitivity, and flight. Indigenous thought doesn’t dissect time into past, present, and future.7 The future is here in the form of the practices of the present, in which the past is also here in- fluencing. When Martineau suggests resistant constellations as flight paths to the future, he is really talking about the opaque Indigenous worlds that Indigenous peoples to varying degrees are already living within— flight paths to Nishnaabewin, flight paths to an amplified and centered grounded normativity. This works because constellations are place- based relationships, and land- based relationships are the foundation of Indigenous thought. Aki is the foundation of Nishnaabeg thought.

CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE 213

This conceptual layer of constellated intelligence is also seen in Nishnaabeg theory. The Gchi Ojiig formation, known as the Big Dipper, is to me about these same constellated relationships, overcoming hardship, struggle, and resolution, and in a radical resurgence context, it is a mapping of flight or fugitivity turning inwards and away from settler colonialism. Indigenous fugitivity is always flight inwards.8 The story takes place in a time where the world was engulfed with darkness— there was no sun. Let’s say the story takes place exactly right now, as all of our stories do, because faced with the strangulation of settler colonialism that results in children as young as ten years old committing sui- cide, it certainly feels like I live in a place where there is no sun.

Ojiig (fisher), lynx, wolverine, and otter embark on a jour- ney to the skyworld to see if they can get the sun back because sustaining life was so difficult in constant cold and darkness. The four beings travel to the skyworld, where life is very good and the sun’s warmth brings forth a continual bounty of new life. It is warm with lush vegetation and a pristine lake. Wolverine and Ojiig decide to work together to make the hole in the sky bigger so the warmth of the skyworld will flow down to their mother. I wonder if they forgot to ask the sky people for consent. No one has ever told that to me, but still I wonder. It doesn’t seem right. They aren’t in their own territory, except for Wolverine because she is also a star person, she is also a member of both worlds.9 Maybe it’s not consent that’s missing. Maybe it is collective de- cision making.

After they work for a long time, the snow on earth starts to melt, the waters start to flow, and the world begins to wake up. At some point, the people of the skyworld show concern that the hole is taking all of their sun and warmth. They confront the four animals. Wolverine is so startled that she falls through the hole and back to the earth. Some of the sky people and fisher, lynx, and otter negotiate to make the hole the right size so that both worlds can share and benefit from the light and heat of the sun. Other sky people aren’t able to understand, and they kill fisher with an arrow. Gzhwe Manidoo watches all of this. Hon- oring her for her work, Gzhwe Mnidoo picks up Ojiig and places

214 CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE

her in the stars for trying to help everyone on earth. Every win- ter Ojiig is struck by the arrow and falls over on her back, but during the summer she rolls onto her feet to bring warmth back to her people.10

This story is about mistakes, struggle, mobilization, sacri- fice, love, negotiation, and sharing. To fully understand the cod- ed conceptual meanings of this story, one has to consider all of the knowledge and story held by the four animals, the skyworld, the people of the skyworld, and the grounded normativity with- in which this story takes place. The lynx, otter, and fisher are all members of the larger Martin Clan, a clan that is concerned with providing the necessities of life to the nation, including protection.11 In that way, the journey to the skyworld is a col- lective action in the fulfillment of their larger responsibilities to the nation.

Constellations are also an original code. When Canadians look up in the sky, they see the Big Dipper. When Nishnaabeg people who live within Nishnaabeg intelligence look up, they see Gchi Ojiig, they see their version of this story— an actual flight path out of darkness. They see a story and a series of re- lationships between otter, fisher, wolverine, lynx, and the sky people. They see a negotiation and a treaty. They see a problem, action, and solution. They see honoring and remembrance, and thanks to Martineau’s work, I now also see opacity. The land it- self is a coded representation of Nishnaabewin that is visible to those who live within Nishnaabewin but is opaque to those who do not. This is fundamentally why engagement with land- based practices generates theory within Indigenous contexts. Being on the land is a highly intellectual practice that is a living inter- action between heart, mind, and movement.

Fugitive Intervention

Constellations exist only in the context of relationships; other- wise they are just individual stars. When individual star people or thoughts come together, they create doorways into Nish- naabewin. In the section of “Creative Combat” titled “Decolo- nial Constellations of Love and Resistance,” Martineau details

CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE 215

the concept of constellations as opaque, fugitive theoretical interventions in the universe of settler colonialism. Martineau and I have been talking about constellations as Indigenous intel- ligence, as theory, and as an organizing concept for years now, and what follows is highly influenced by both these conversa- tions and his published work.12 The concept of constellation pro- vides a different conceptual way of collectively ordering beyond individual everyday acts of resurgence, and Martineau provides several examples of this formation as a mechanism operating in the context of the artist collective. This gestures toward the con- stellation as an organizing value in resurgent movement build- ing, one that I started to see glimpses of during Idle No More with small collectives of people coming together to organize a particular event, or to create or hold Indigenous presence that in some way was disruptive to settler colonialism. Martineau writes,

The artist collective, I claim, embodies Indigenous values of individuated creation and collaborative, interdependent communality. In the transdisciplinary work of artist collectives including Postcommodity, Skookum Sound System, A Tribe Called Red, and the Black Constellation, collectivization becomes a means of instantiating micro- communal forms of relation- ality, governance, and creation. In the case of Métis artist Christi Belcourt, for example, the Walking With Our Sisters “exhibit” becomes a collectively- produced and collaboratively authored work that self- generates structures of creative Indigenous women’s and queer leadership and accountability. As the exhibit travels be- tween communities, it creates locally- organized, lasting relationships between co- creators and collaborators.13

The idea of a constellation of amateurs is the process that has driven my own artistic work through the production of the album f(l)ight (RPM Records, 2016). Starting with a series of poems, I worked with a collective of Indigenous and non- Indigenous musicians and artists to produce songs, a recorded

216 CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE

album, and a performance. This constellation grew each time the record was performed live in various incarnations from a site- specific installation and durational performance with Tanya Lukin Linklater to more standard musical performances. This constellation grew again through the creation of a series of music videos with a diverse group of emerging Indigenous filmmakers (leannesimpsonmusic.com).

The idea of artist collectives creating space for instantiating microcommunal forms of grounded normativity and Indige- nous intelligence is rich and fertile Indigenous space across Tur- tle Island and extends beyond artistic practice. Collectives allow people with common goals to come together, produce, act, and then disband, reform, or continue as needed. They are an op- portunity to govern ourselves using Indigenous processes, to challenge heteronormativity in our ceremonial practices, to crit- ically examine how our movements erase and marginalize 2SQ and replicate transphobia. Individuals can and should have their own practices of production, but these collective spaces can be used to generate resurgence modes of production in addition to their own work, and when these collectives start to develop re- lationships with other collectives, constellated organizing inten- sifies across orders of magnitude. This organizational structure seems to have relevance to radical resurgent organizing.

Constellations then become networks within the larg- er whole. Individual stars shine in their own right and exist, grounded in their everyday renewal of Indigenous practices and in constellated relationships, meaning relationships that oper- ate from within the grounded normativity of particular Indig- enous nations, not only with other stars but also the physical world and the spiritual world. Constellations in relationship with other constellations form flight paths out of settler colo- nial realities into Indigeneity.14 They become doorways out of the enclosure of settler colonialism and into Indigenous worlds. They can be small collectives of like- minded people working and living together, amplifying the renewal of Indigenous place- based practices. They can be larger Indigenous nations work- ing within their own grounded normativity yet in a linked and

CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE 217

international way. When these constellations work in interna- tional relationship to other constellations, the fabric of the night sky changes: movements are built, particularly if constellations of coresistance create mechanisms for communication, strategic movement, accountability to each other, and shared decision- making practices.

Mobilization within Grounded Normativity

A few years have passed since Idle No More, which represent- ed the largest mass mobilization of Indigenous peoples that I’ve witnessed in my lifetime. I want to now spend some time thinking about this mobilization, how we organized, and what we achieved. I think these conversations are important, and while I know we’re having them in small groups, with our most trusted friends and colleagues, I don’t think those involved with the many facets of the movement are having them on the scale of the movement. My consideration of these issues here is pri- marily based on my own experience from within the mobili- zation. Many, many others will have different experiences and perspectives, and in my consideration, I mean no disrespect to the tremendous contributions of the organizations, leaders, and people that I struggled alongside with during the winter of 2012– 13. There were several beautiful and effective moments in our collective action. My discussion here is also by no means a comprehensive review of Idle No More, and I am using the term “Idle No More” in the broadest sense and in a temporal sense as well; that is, I am referring to the diverse movement that was at its peak during the winter of 2012– 13. I am not referring to the organization Idle No More (www.idlenomore.ca) nor the ongo- ing work that has continued to occur under the banner of Idle No More to the present day. I focus on primarily three issues here: our use of the Internet, how we built the movement, and our relationship to allies. These issues in a sense are not specific to Idle No More but are relevant to thinking through mobiliza- tions in the age of the Internet. I will be upfront: I have a lot of observations and few answers. This section is based largely on my personal experiences and observations during 2012 and

218 CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE

2013 in Ontario, and there is certainly regional diversity within the movement. I have not been involved with Idle No More as an organization, and I have not organized under the banner of Idle No More since 2013. I’m not sure any of us have answers at this point, because the Internet and mobilizing in Indigenous contexts are so new. I do, however, think we need to take stock and remember how to organize and mobilize within grounded normativity in a way that is effective in the present.

At the beginning of Idle No More, I felt like I was part of a community. I felt like I was part of something bigger. I remem- ber being excited about being a part of something with a group of like- minded people who wanted to change and were willing to make sacrifices to do so. I worked with people I had met on- line and never met in person, editing blogs, organizing protests and events. There was a sense of unity that I enjoyed, and even though I knew that politically I might not agree on everything with the organizers I was working with, we could agree on enough to trust each other and work together on some issues. I thought that I was part of a community, and in a sense I was. And on the other side of that, there was shallowness to my on- line relationships that would only later reveal itself.

During the editing of The Winter We Danced, a collection of key writings from the winter of 2012– 13, it became clear to me that there were three distinct but interrelated Indigenous political strains coming together: a rights- based approach that was interested in changing the relationship between Indigenous peoples and the state through policy, bills, and electoral politics; a treaty rights approach that included using the numbered trea- ties to change the relationship between Indigenous peoples and the state; and a nationhood approach that involved the rejection of recognition and rights- based politics and a turn toward In- digenous resurgence and that was anticapitalist in nature.15 In many ways, the divisions weren’t as clear as I am making them, and many individuals saw and see merit in all three approaches, while others simply do not. There was also a fourth strain, which involved lifelong organizers, those who had been organizing as activists through years of work, many of whom were involved

CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE 219

in the environmental movement or had long activist résumés of participation in community- based actions. The movement was young in the sense that a lot of my mentors, those Indigenous people who had decades of experience in struggle, were par- ticipating from the sidelines. Many of the voices and leadership emerging were new to political activism. This was both inspiring and frustrating, as basic organizing and media literacy at times was lacking. It is often said that the movement was led by wom- en, and I think this is true, but I also think most resistance move- ments throughout Indigenous history have been led in various ways by women. There were also ally voices— predominately but not exclusively white. Social media played a critical role in providing a vehicle to bypass Indigenous representations in the mainstream media and self- represent our interest, our voic- es, and our movement to the Canadian public directly. But we didn’t use social media just for self- representation. We used it as a tool through which to amplify, to organize, and to build the movement. Although the vast majority of actions during Idle No More took place on the ground, in the real world, the organiza- tion of those events took place using social media. In a sense, the movement, like other mass movements at the time, for the first time was built to some degree in cyberspace.

On one hand, that last statement isn’t the full truth, and I need to be more nuanced. The Indigenous community, particu- larly the segment of our community that is engaged politically, is small. To some degree we know each other. More than once, I asked friends and family who so- and- so was, and most often they knew a friend or a cousin of the person I was asking about. In a sense, the networks that social media created between in- dividuals were an overmapping of kinship networks that already existed, but not entirely. Indigenous agitators of the past, such as Nahnebahnwequay, Pontiac, Tkamse, and Yellowhead, spent large amounts of time, years in fact, movement building. Move- ment building was relationship building, and it involved travel- ing large distances to create a physical connection with other human and nonhuman beings. This privileged the power of hu- man connection and intimacy and of being fully present in the

220 CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE

moment. Walking a great distance to spend significant time with people and the land builds empathy, trust, and the ability to give each other the benefit of the doubt. It connects bodies to land, and bodies to Ancestors. I was reminded of this during the great walks of Idle No More, with youth undertaking epic physical journeys to Ottawa, stopping to meet and visit communities of people along the way. The Nishiyuu walkers created a moment of unity in the movement because they physically walked on the land and connected to other Indigenous peoples.16 These Cree youth, like Theresa Spence, did something real.

This movement- building step is critical in all movements, but it is particularly crucial to think this through in the age of the Internet, when a seemingly easy shortcut exists. Seeming- ly, because on a very basic level, I wonder how the Internet, as another structure of control whose primary purpose is to make corporations money, is at all helpful in building movements. I wonder if the simulated worlds of the Internet are simulations that serve to only amplify capitalism, misogyny, transphobia, anti- queerness, and white supremacy and create further depen- dencies on settler colonialism in the physical world. I wonder if this creates further alienation from oneself, from Indigenous thought and practices, and from the Indigenous material world. I wonder if this is a digital dispossession from ourselves because it further removes us from grounded normativity. The Internet is the ultimate Cartesian expression of mind and mind only. There are no bodies on the Internet. There is no land. Insertion of Indigeneity in cyberspace is not insertion of Indigeneity in the physical world. As much as it pains me to admit, grounded normativity does not structurally exist in the cyber world, be- cause it is predicated on deep, spiritual, emotional, reciprocal, real- world relationships between living beings. Dispossessed from our Indigenous material worlds, our thought systems and our practices, are we losing the ability to be makers and to solve problems, or at the very least are we accelerating this loss be- cause most of our time is spent on screens connected to the In- ternet? How are we generating theory as practice on the Inter- net? How are we building a movement that centers Indigenous

CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE 221

makers when Internet access is so unevenly distributed across our territories? How is the Internet anything more than a house of cards when the next distraction is just one second away? How would my Ancestors feel about me being so fully integrated into a system of settler colonial surveillance and control when I have very little knowledge of how any of this technology works? I can’t “fix” my phone. I don’t know how to set up alternative dig- ital communication systems. I don’t know how to protect myself from state surveillance. I do know how to do exactly what larger corporations— Facebook, Apple, Twitter, and Google— want me to do to make them money, and I do it for the most part un- critically. I do know how to engage in apps and software. I can even be a content provider, but I have no ability to structurally intervene. Yet, almost more than any other structure, the Inter- net has structurally intervened in my life. There is a tremendous asymmetry here. The Internet and digital technologies have be- come a powerful site for reinforcing and amplifying settler co- lonialism, and I see losing the ability to structurally intervene as highly problematic. Code and algorithms are controlling our (digital) lives, and capitalism is controlling code. For Indigenous peoples, this takes place in the wider context of colonialism as the controlling structure in Indigenous life. Every tweet, Face- book post, blog post, Instagram photo, YouTube video, and e- mail we sent during Idle No More made the largest corporations in the world, corporations controlled by white men with a vest- ed interested in settler colonialism, more money to reinforce the system of settler colonialism. Our cyber engagements were also read, monitored, collected, surveyed, and archived by the state. They were also read, monitored, collected, and surveyed by the segment of Canadian society that hates us, and they used these to try and hurt us. This worries me. I think we must think critically and strategically about adopting digital technologies as organizing and mobilizing tools. What are we gaining? What are we losing? How do we refuse the politics of recognition, engage in generative refusal, and operate with opaqueness on the Inter- net? Can we operate from a place of grounded normativity on Facebook when the algorithm attacks its very foundations?

222 CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE

When I think of the consequences of Internet organizing, I return over and over to January 11, 2013— Indian Act chiefs in boardrooms, people on the streets. It was at this point that I began to realize that Idle No More wasn’t a movement that we could sustain. Most of my comrades I had never met in person. While there were small groups of people meeting and strategiz- ing about specific actions and events, we had no mechanism to make decisions as a movement because at this point social media had replaced organizing. Disagreements over analysis or actions occurred online, and because we had shallow cyber relation- ships, instead of real- world ones, the larger structure fell apart quickly. We tried to build a movement online through social media, and when we needed to trust each other, when we need- ed to give each other the benefit of the doubt, when we needed empathy and a history together that we could trust, we couldn’t. When we were sold out by leaders who didn’t represent us, we were not able to regroup and relaunch the movement.17 This was the first significant pushback from the state, and it crushed us, and maybe without the state doing anything at all, we would have crushed ourselves. I wonder in hindsight if maybe we didn’t build a movement, but rather we built a social media presence that privileged individuals over community, virtual validation over empathy, leadership without accountability and responsi- bility, and unchecked liberalism that has now left us more vul- nerable to the superficial recognition of the neoliberal state.

I’ve returned a few times in this book to Nanabush’s first journey around the world as a way of showing the relationship between place and internationalism within Nishnaabeg thought, and to explore how Nanabush is original, reciprocal recognition. Nishnaabeg leaders, organizers, those concerned with mobiliz- ing our people throughout history, have also considered this sto- ry, particularly the visiting aspect of it. Nanabush visited with, that is, created, a personal, intimate relationship with all as- pects of global creation as a prerequisite for the work Nanabush came to do on earth. Leaders, whether Tkamse, Pontiac, Nish- naabeg water walkers, or the Nishiyuu youth, re- created this journey when they physically and personally traveled to each

CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE 223

community in our territory to mobilize the nation. This act of visiting and recognizing was repeated over and over again through virtually every Indigenous mobilization up until Idle No More. Social media gave us an opportunity to skip the hard work of being present, of doing ceremonies together, of sharing food, and of standing face- to- face with our people, even when we disagree. I’m not sure it’s an opportunity we should have taken.

Social media in many ways is the antithesis of Indigenous life. It is appealing, attractive, addictive, and apathetic. It ampli- fies fear, ego, and anxiety. It centers individuals within a corpo- rate, capitalist, coded algorithm— an algorithm that we have no control over and that most of us don’t even know how it works. It creates a false sense of power and influence. It scans our digital lives and then markets them back to us. Every piece of cyber re- sistance makes them more money and consolidates their power. The Internet creates false communities of like- minded individu- als without presence, empathy, or trust. A relationship is not ac- cepting a friend request and scrolling through photos and posts. A Facebook page is not a person, and a Facebook friend isn’t a real friend.

Use of social media also has serious consequences for leader- ship within movements. Idle No More, at least initially, enjoyed a decentralized leadership model. This allowed for a diversity of tactics, politics, and localized actions that produced high levels of engagement. Decentralized leadership though, a cornerstone of Nishnaabeg leadership in the past, requires larger amounts of trust and truthful communication, shared accountability, and collective decision making. So again, if this kind of leadership is to be effective, the first steps of building a movement cannot be skipped, because in this process communications networks are built that enable secure, collective, principled decision making within the ethical processes of grounded normativity. The com- munication network in decentralized leadership models needs to be even stronger and more robust than in more centralized models. Conversations about leadership and strategy cannot take place online, because social media is public and Indigenous

224 CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE

peoples are spectacle, criminal, and easy targets for exploitation and violence in settler colonial public. In the absence of both movement- generated leadership and robust private communi- cation networks, social media creates a vacuum. Its spectacle sparks and then amplifies infighting and lateral conflict. It al- lows white liberals to crown leaders for us through likes, shares, followers, and protest selfies, and spokespersons for our move- ments are chosen without regard to the movement itself, let alone grounded normativity.

It isn’t quite as easy as saying the Internet is pure capitalist evil though, is it? Social media proved to be a power tool to am- plify the movement. Social media enabled us to get bodies on the ground in real life quickly. Social media and blogging were also critical in the education of Canadians during Idle No More, by providing a direct link between Indigenous peoples and our audience, unmitigated by the mainstream media, and this is evidenced through the plethora of writing— writing that took place during the mobilization. We wrote the movement in real time from our own perspectives in an unprecedented act of self- representation.18 This was the first time that this happened on such a grandiose scale. Blogging, podcasting, and spreecasting became critical tools of representing ourselves and our issues on our own terms, en masse, to the Canadian public. When we don’t have content that accurately reflects our lives, being a con- tent provider is important. This was powerful, maybe even if it was making the bad guys more money. It influenced, to some de- gree, the way the mainstream media reported on Idle No More and in the years now following, on Indigenous issues in gener- al. It increased our visibility in Canadian society, at least on the terms that Canadian society was willing to afford us recognition.

In the aftermath of Idle No More, the wealth of Indigenous reporting, writing, analysis, and opinion has propelled at least some Indigenous voices, arguably those that conform to neo- liberalism most easily, into the mainstream media. While that has certainly benefited individual Indigenous peoples, most of whom were not in it for career advancement or notoriety, myself included, I’m not sure how or if this has benefited us

CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE 225

collectively. We are certainly more visible in 2016 then we were in 2012. More Canadians read my work. There are more Indige- nous peoples engaged in federal politics, and more Indigenous politicians in positions of power. We have more media celeb- rities. We have more Twitter followers and Facebook friends that have produced faux leaders that speak on our behalf with no accountability, and in some cases, no actual knowledge of the issues. I’m not sure, however, that I see evidence that we have advanced a decolonial political agenda, that is, a “radical decoupling of Indigenous life from the state’s control and from the conditioning wrought by colonial society; a collective prac- tice oriented toward the total reclamation of Indigenous life and land; a struggle for freedom.”19 I’m not sure I see that we’ve made much progress in terms of fundamentally shifting our re- lationship with the state, particularly in terms of a nationhood approach and in terms of resurgence. I’m not sure.

Again and again, it matters to me how change is achieved. If I think back to my creation stories— whether it’s the Seven

Fires story, the story of Nanabush and the turtle’s back, the story for Kinomagewapkong, the people that were created from the ocean, those spontaneous humans— the creation of the world within Nishnaabeg thought comes from struggle.20 It was never easy. Mistakes were made. Prototypes were built. It came from a being or beings, fully engaged in a creative process that was a process of struggle. This is in stark contrast to Christian creation stories, where the world was made in seven days and then given to humans. Nishnaabeg worlds were created, collectively, out of struggle, and the process of creating and creation was given to us, not the results of that. The process, not the results.

The crux of resurgence is that Indigenous peoples have to re- create and regenerate our political systems, education systems, and systems of life from within our own intelligence. We have to create Indigenous worlds, not on the Internet but in physical re- ality. Our movements must respond to the basic social needs of our communities: relief from crushing poverty, clean drinking water, listening to youth and then doing what they tell us to cre- ate meaningful existences for them in their communities right

226 CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE

now, supporting harm reduction approaches to addictions, dis- mantling children’s aid and supporting people recovering from the damage it has caused, setting up alternative accountability structures for gender violence so 2SQ people, women, and chil- dren are safe, and supporting midwifery, breastfeeding, and fam- ilies with children. These “social issues” are not social. They are political. They are a direct result of state violence in the form of settler colonialism that maintains and accelerates dispossession. Organizing to support urban and reserve communities on these issues in a politicized way must be part of any radical resurgence project because within Indigenous grounded normativity, these are our first responsibilities. This means we collectively have a tremendous amount to learn from Indigenous youth because they are disproportionately impacted by all of these social issues and because they are therefore experts on the way out.

This isn’t something any state government can do for us. If we don’t want our communities to be governed by the Indian Act, we need to build our alternative. If the state education sys- tem is failing our kids and not reproducing Indigenous intelli- gence, then what is the alternative (freedom schools, language houses)? If capitalism is killing the planet, then how do we cre- ate for ourselves a material means through which to build na- tions (local, place- based, integrated Indigenous economies)? How do we eradicate gender violence and create systems of ac- countability outside of the police and inquiries? And we must not just ask what is the alternative: we need to do the alterna- tives over and over until we get it right. This is the work of decol- onization and resurgence, and it is not work the state can do for us, because we are the experts, because we are self- determining. Coming to state power with working alternatives in place, with strong nations, is coming to the state with grounded, authentic Indigenous power. More important, engaging in the resurgent process of creating based on individual and national Indigenous intelligence builds stronger relationships between our peoples and our lands. The struggle, even if it is not successful according to the dominate colonial narratives of success, creates more con- nection, more engagement with Indigenous thought, a seeking

CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE 227

out of Indigenous expertise, and a stronger Indigenous present. These are the necessary prerequisites for an Indigenous future because the act of presencing is the act of creating the future.

If Indigenous peoples were engaged in resurgent organizing and mobilizing right now at the intensity they were at the height of Idle No More, through the election and through the first years of Trudeau power, if neoliberalism’s electoral politics hadn’t gutted the resistance, what would the landscape look like now? What’s clear to me is that the work that goes into building rela- tionships in the real world, building a movement of empathetic, caring Indigenous peoples, is how long- term mobilization was achieved in the past. It’s the reason any of us exists today.

Constellations of Coresistance

In almost every classroom I find myself in and at the end of al- most every talk, there is always a white person that asks the In- digenous instructor or speaker what they can do to help. It is usually an honest question with good intentions. It is not the worst question we all have to answer. I want to take a step a back from that question for a moment. I’m interested in thinking about who we are seeking solidarity from within the context of grounded normativity. Who should we be in constellation with? White “friends” and allies are seen as the promised land of the changed. If we can just get more white people to see that we are human, to see the state of poverty and inequality, they will pres- sure their governments and do the work they need to do in their own lives to bring about change. If the issue impacts everyone, maybe we can all be on the same side.

I think resurgent mobilization necessarily points us in a different direction because there is virtually no room for white people in resurgence. Whiteness is not centered in resurgence. If we recognize settler colonialism to be dispossession, capitalism, white supremacy, and heteropatriarchy, that recognition points us to our allies: not liberal white Canadians who uphold all four of these pillars but Black and brown individuals and communi- ties on Turtle Island and beyond that are struggling in their own localities against these same forces, building movements that

228 CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE

contain the alternatives. These are our allies, yet during Idle No More, we had almost no relationship with any of these commu- nities, not because these communities weren’t interested in us, but primarily because, again, we hadn’t done the work of rela- tionship building before mobilizing.

I have been influenced throughout my life by Black femi- nists and womanists and by the Black Radical Tradition. As a second- year biology student at the University of Guelph, I took two courses in Black history taught by Dr. Clarence Mumford, who introduced me to Black Marxist traditions and Black lib- eratory movements. Professor Mumford gave me a tremendous wake- up call. He propelled me to find out who I was and live it. Dr. Mumford mentored me and a group of Black students and students of color for three years when we were on the universi- ty’s presidential task force for antiracism, and he had a formative influence on my learning how to organize. He taught me how to speak back with fire.

Is there a basis for coresistance and solidarity between radi- cal resurgence and the Black Radical Tradition? Black feminists and womanists? Black queer organizers and thinkers? How can Indigenous resurgence and nationhood make sure we are not replicating anti- Blackness without solid, reciprocal relation- ships with Black visionaries who are also cocreating alternatives under the lens of abolition, decolonization, and anticapitalism? Doesn’t grounded normativity compel us to figure out how to act in solidarity with these comrades?

This is heightened for me in my own nation. Again, how is a pretty important concept in Indigenous thought because it reminds us that the outcome is different if Indigenous peoples create the alternatives on our own terms, on the ground, rath- er than by relying on the state. It also matters with whom we achieve liberation. Toronto, or Gchi Enchikiiwang, exists with- in Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg territory.21 The largest community of Black people in Canada live in Toronto— the home of fierce and beautiful acts of diverse forms of Black people’s resistance to white racism, erasure, and ongoing police violence, to name just a few. Yet, the lines of segregation between the resisting

CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE 229

Indigenous and Black communities for the most part remain in- tact, and in fact, I think are being reinforced by the mainstream Indigenous response to the Trudeau government.22

How am I accountable to the struggle of Black peoples in Kina Gchi Nishnaabeg ogamig? How am I responsible to them within the context of Nishnaabeg political and ethical systems? How do I ensure my nationhood and relationship to land on the north shore of Lake Ontario do not replicate systems that re- strict Black spatialities or replicate geographies of domination? As Katherine McKittrick in her brilliant Demonic Grounds: Black Women and the Cartographies of Struggle writes, “Black matters are spatial matters. And while we all produce, know, and negotiate space— albeit on different terms— geographies in the diaspora are accentuated by racist paradigms of the past and their ongoing hierarchical patterns.”23 Within Nishnaabeg political thought, we have practices of sharing space with other nations and communities of peoples and respecting their auton- omy to govern themselves over those lands.

In September 2015, when asked why violence against wom- en remains a problem with young men today, Trudeau said mu- sic lyrics, pornography, and absentee fathers are factors in “a lot of communities.” Several Black activists responded on Twitter, among them Toronto Star columnist Desmond Cole; one of his tweets read, “Is it a coincidence that two of the three factors Trudeau cited about violence against women are well- worn ste- reotypes about black people?”24 A few months later, Trudeau an- nounced the “most diverse cabinet in Canadian history,” except there were no Black cabinet ministers. What does it reveal when the state seemingly holds Indigenous peoples issues in high re- gard while replicating anti- Blackness? What does it reveal about us when we are silent? You can’t engage the Indigenous commu- nity with one hand and continue to erase Black Canadians with the other. It matters to me profoundly how change is achieved and with whom we achieve it.

Within Nishnaabewin, I have ethical obligations to the Black community. My people and the Wendat shared land and then respected each other’s self- determination and jurisdiction,

230 CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE

and I believe Nishnaabeg political practices compel me to do the same. I think then we would have to figure out political mech- anisms to respect each other’s governance, sovereignty, and ju- risdiction while committing to taking care of our shared ecosys- tem. I think we would have to figure out how we can support each other so both of our peoples could live free on the north shore of Lake Ontario. To me that’s what solidarity could look like under grounded normativity. That’s what a constellation of coresistance and freedom could look like under radical resur- gence. That’s a future I’m interested in building.

The creation of a radical resurgence practice seems critical to me, and we are in a stage of building a movement that re- jects state recognition at its core and is committed to sacrificing and doing the hard and long work of rebuilding Indigenous na- tionhood one system at a time. We need to collectively figure out how to instigate and sustain mass resurgent mobilizations within nation- based grounded normativities. We need to radi- cally uncouple ourselves from the state political and education system. We need to be willing to take on white supremacy, gen- der violence, heteropatriarchy, and anti- Blackness within our movement. We need to be willing to develop personal relation- ships with other communities of coresistors beyond white allies. We need to develop these as place- based constellations of the- ory and practice because when we put our energy into building constellations of coresistance within grounded normativity that refuse to center whiteness, our real white allies show up in soli- darity anyway.

CONSTELLATIONS OF CORESISTANCE 231

233

CONCLUSION TOWARD RADICAL RESURGENT STRUGGLE

I am writing this final section in Tio’tia:ke/Montreal in April. This place holds meaning for me as a Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg because my people came here often to trade, to vis- it, and to maintain diplomatic ties with the Kanien’kehá:ka. It is also in some ways the birthplace of my own politicization, wit- nessing the mobilization and resistance at Kanehsatà:ke during the summer of 1990. Yesterday, Ellen Gabriel drove me around her community, past the golf course and through those glorious Kanien’kehá:ka Pines— the magnificent trees of peace that used to exist all over her territory and mine and now only barely exist in small stands. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen trees this size in my territory. The Pines are peace. They are full of quiet beauty. To me, the Pines themselves are generative refusal. They refused the golf course, and within their roots, barks, needles, and spir- it, they continue to generate peace as they have always done. The Kanien’kehá:ka people that protected this place in 1990 are also generative refusal. Looking back, I remember this now as both an intense sacrifice and a resurgent mobilization, based on

Kanien’kehá:ka political processes, analysis, strategies, action, and love.

This Kanien’kehá:ka resurgence is also a spectacular echo of Kanien’kehá:ka intelligence, and it compels me to think more deeply about our approaches to organizing and mobilization. Indigenous peoples with radical imaginations and desires for freedom must create collective, private physical spaces where we can come together and think very long and hard about how to organize and build resurgent movements, about how we move beyond everyday acts of resurgence to collective actions in the short and long term, and about how to create community that embodies and practices our nation- based processes in the present. How do we organize in the present to ensure we are creating a generation of Indigenous peoples who are intimate- ly attached to their lands, skilled in the practices of grounded normativity, and have direct experience in building and main- taining our political processes, education systems, and wellness practices, for example?

I began to think more deeply about strategy and tactics during Idle No More when debates and differences of opinion emerged over tactics. Segments of the movement were decid- edly against direct action because it makes Canadians angry— the assumption is that we lose their support— and in some cases because it was seen as incompatible with Aboriginal culture.1 On one hand, they are right. It does make a segment of Canadian society very angry. On the other hand, this analysis has always bothered me because it centers the transformation of Canadians and of whiteness as the measure of a movement’s success. More than that, it centers the politics of recognition and forces us to hand over our power to the white Canadian liberals we’re trying to get onside. There is an assumption that if I act nicely, calmly, and happily, Canadians will support me because it is the right thing to do, because it feeds into Canada’s international narra- tive of themselves as being a champion of human rights and the benevolent empathic state that cares about the oppressed. There is an assumption that if we behave as “good Indians” in the eyes of white liberals and even of what remains of the Canadian Left,

234 CONCLUSION

we will be rewarded with rights and recognition. There is an as- sumption that I need to come at this from a place of pity, vic- timhood, and powerlessness. If this had been the starting point for the Kanien’kehá:ka, I wonder if their Pines would still exist.

I’ve tried to consider this in a less flippant and deeper man- ner because the white racism in the mainstream media and Ca- nadian society, which fully erases Indigeneity and continually replaces it with stereotypes, means that our movements and actions will always be misrepresented. It means that we are al- ways misrepresented. When we do something “nice,” like hand out free coffee and donuts along with information flyers, racist Canadians might be taken aback because they are being con- fronted with the opposite of their assumptions about “Indians.”2 But there is also something that doesn’t feel very authentic or genuine to me. I don’t want my racist neighbors to like me be- cause I gave them free Tim Hortons coffee, or because I have a PhD, or because they believe my education in their systems means “I’m a credit to my race.” I actually don’t care if they like me, nor do I care if they support me. That doesn’t matter to me. It does, however, matter in a profound way what my immediate family and community think of me. It does, however, matter in a profound way that other communities of radical resistance see in me someone who has their backs because I have consistently acted in that manner. It does matter that the metaphorical pines in my territory exist for my children and for their children.

At the beginning of Idle No More, Dene scholar Glen Coulthard wrote:

If history has shown us anything, it is this: if you want those in power to respond swiftly to Indigenous peoples’ political efforts, start by placing Native bodies (with a few logs and tires thrown in for good measure) between settlers and their money, which in colonial contexts is generated by the ongoing theft and exploitation of our land and resource base. If this is true, then the long term efficacy of the #IdleNoMore movement would appear to hinge on its protest actions being distributed more

CONCLUSION 235

evenly between the malls and front lawns of legislatures on the one hand, and the logging roads, thoroughfares, and railways that are central to the accumulation of colo- nial capital on the other. For better and for worse, it was our peoples’ challenge to these two pillars of colonial sovereignty that led to the recommendations of RCAP: the Canadian state’s claim to hold a legitimate monopoly on use of violence and the conditions required for the ongoing accumulation of capital.3 

If Idle No More had embraced placing Indigenous bodies be- tween settlers and their money, in a coordinated, strategic, nation- based, and internationalist orientation connecting with movements globally, and if we had done the on- the- ground work of building a movement, we might have seen a mass mo- bilization based on a strengthened articulation of Indigenous nationhood, tighter alliances between movements, and an in- terruption in the material economic infrastructure of Canada in a way that we’ve seen only reactionary glimpses of in the past. Networks of planned, rotating actions can be organized to re- spect local self- determination but require face- to- face commu- nication networks of trusted relationships, which Idle No More lacked. Bodies on the land within the context of grounded nor- mativity also doesn’t necessarily mean blockades and protests— it does mean thinking through new strategies and tactics and placing our action within the practices and ethics of grounded normativity.

It’s also important we think through our conceptualiza- tion of direct action, from the so- called protest tactics of non- Indigenous social movements to ways of organizing and mobi- lizing that are inherently Indigenous. Placing Indigenous bodies on the land in any Indigenous context through engagement with Indigenous practices is direct action. Anything we do that af- firms the bodies, minds, and experiences of Indigenous wom- en and 2SQ people as the embodiment of Indigenous political orders is direct action. Everyday acts of resurgence are direct action. Resurgent organizing, mobilizing, and political action

236 CONCLUSION

have the potential to change the framing of this conversation in a significant and powerful way. Organizing that is based on the critical animation and embodiment of Indigenous intelligence leads to place- based organizing, nation- based organizing, and organizing that illuminates Indigenous processes— the how. Re- surgent organizing clearly lives out Indigenous values and eth- ics. It strengthens ties to Indigenous practices— ceremony, poli- tics, decision making, leadership, language, gender, and land. It approaches the state from grounded normativity, from a recip- rocal Indigenous recognition, from a place of strength. It comes at organizing from a completely different place: we are not beg- ging the colonizer for attention, for money, for sympathy, for rights, for recognition, or for moral benevolence. There isn’t necessarily a list of demands, because lists of demands are either ignored as being structurally impossible while maintaining the system of settler colonialism, or are absorbed into the neoliberal state to ensure real change doesn’t occur. We don’t need a list of demands, because we are the demand. We are the alternative. We are the solution, based on our own nation- based conceptu- alizations of ourselves. Our bodies and the political orders they house are the demand. Our embodied alternative is the solution. Building movements that embody the Indigenous alternative in structure, process, and formation that are brilliant expressions of international grounded normativities changes the game.

The seeds of this approach can be seen on microscales whether they present as a freedom school in Kanien’kehá:ka ter- ritory, a blockade against deforestation in Nishnaabeg territo- ry, a bush university in Denendeh, an alternative justice system for sexual offenders in Hollow Water, a Cree language house in a city, Native youth providing peer- to- peer support related to sexuality, gender violence, and addictions, or thousands of moc- casin vamps traveling Turtle Island. These are resurgent mo- bilizations because they are consistent with nation- enhancing processes and practices and because they are actions that are not recognition based or colonially reactive. There is no demand upon the state or its citizens other than to get out of the way and respect Indigenous self- determination and nationhood. What if

CONCLUSION 237

we take their lead and stop begging the state to be accountable but shift our energy into building our nations on our own terms?

Refusing Victimhood

What happens when Indigenous peoples, particularly Indige- nous women and 2SQ people, write ourselves, represent our- selves, and enact ourselves as revolutionaries fighting a trans- formative campaign against colonialism, white supremacy, heteropatriarchy, and capitalism through everyday acts of re- sistance and resurgence, rather than allowing ourselves to be framed and represented in ways that articulate and amplify us as helpless victims?4 How does the state respond? How does this strengthen our nations?

Trauma- based mobilizations in Canada from the organizing that preceded the Truth and Reconciliation Commission to the decades of organizing that preceded the national Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women have been successful in at least one of their main goals: compelling the state into apol- ogizing and setting up commissions and inquiries as a mecha- nism to account for past injustices. There is no doubt in my mind that this may bring healing and solace to some survivors and the families of those victimized. My comments here are not meant to diminish the anguish of survivors or their families nor the sac- rifice, commitment, and struggle of the families and community organizations that have acted out of love to try to bring justice and healing to their own lives and to our communities. They have done this for decades without support, acknowledgment, or empathy from Canadians and oftentimes without support from mainstream male- dominated Indigenous political organi- zations. I worry, though, that Indigenous grief can be managed, exploited, and used by the state to placate Indigenous resis- tance. I worry that while these movements have been excellent at forcing the state to enact its own mechanisms for accountabil- ity, these mechanisms have never brought about accountability for Indigenous peoples because they are processes that are partly designed to uphold the structure of settler colonialism.

Those who are grieving are vulnerable, and being Indigenous

238 CONCLUSION

in Canada is to some extent a constant state of grieving because our losses of our own family members, lands, languages, etc., etc. are so immense. Canada has become very good at respond- ing to our pain by deploying the politics of grief: a set of tools the state uses to avoid structural changes and accountability by focusing on individual trauma rather than collective, communi- ty, or nation- based loses, by truncating historical injustices from the current structure and the ongoing functioning of settler co- lonialism, by avoiding discussions about substantive changes in- volving land and dispossession in favor of superficial status quo ones, and by turning to “lifestyle choices” and victim blaming to further position the state as benevolent and caring. The state then manipulates and manages our collective grief into a series of processes that feeds into the structure of settler colonialism. The politics of grief are deployed to use our grief against us.5

The politics of grief place white Canada in a position of moral authority, a position they have not earned, particularly with regard to Indigenous peoples. There is an assumption on the part of grief- or trauma- based mobilization that if Canadians see and clearly understand Indigenous pain and anguish, they will act differently. Many of the individuals and families who are targets of violence either through individual sexual, physical, or emotional abuse or through the disappearance or murder of a loved one are placed in the position of grieving publically as a mechanism for sparking mobilization and change. We grieve. The state performs false pity. We have collectively responded to state violence with the strategy of appealing to the morals and benevolence of the colonizing state and to the empathy of citizens of that same state for action. This tactic has produced the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and the Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, both of which are controlled entirely by the state and are being used for the state’s purposes: to placate Indigenous resistance and to appease the moral concern of Canadians. The politics of grief can also so easily become the politics of distraction— a process, which as Corntassel reminds us (see chapter 11), moves us away from the renewal of place- based practices by distracting us with politics

CONCLUSION 239

that are designed to reinforce the status quo rather than decon- struct it. Both the politics of distraction and the politics of grief are just enactments of the politics of recognition. And so I ask, while these state- run processes are taking place on their own terms, what happens if we refuse, turn inward, and in concert engage in large- scale resurgent organizing on our own terms? What does that look like?

The PKOLS Reclamation

On May 22, 2013, members of the Tsawout (SȾÁUTW) na- tion, with support from the Songhees and the other local WSÁNEĆ nations, including Tsartlip (WJOȽEȽP), Pauquachin (BOḰEĆEN), Tseycum (WSIKEM), and Malahat (MÁLEXE) and allied supporters from the Greater Victoria community in British Columbia, walked from the bottom of Mount Douglas and placed a sign that said “PKOLS” at the top. They did not ask the city of Victoria for permission. Their authority to do so came from the leaders of the SȾÁUTW nation.

Now to many non- Native people, Mount Douglas, or Mount Doug as it is affectionately known, is a prominent landmark and park in Victoria, a 263- meter hill named after the second gover- nor of the colony of Victoria Island, Sir James Douglas. It’s a mu- nicipal park with hiking trails through a mature second- growth forest.

To the SȾÁUTW nation, Mount Douglas isn’t a municipal park. It isn’t even Mount Douglas. To the SȾÁUTW, it has al- ways been known as PKOLS. PKOLS is a significant place in the creation stories of the nation, and its name can be translated to mean “White head” referring to the white rocks their creator collected in Cordova Bay and used to make the surrounding mountains. PKOLS is and has always been a gathering place for families, communities, and nations.

When six hundred people, many of them non- Native allies, march up a mountain in a Canadian city and restore one of those original place- names under the leadership of Indigenous na- tions, the act then is extraordinarily significant. When this hap- pens within Indigenous constructions of the world, it is a joyful,

240 CONCLUSION

inclusive, celebratory occasion because beyond being a ground- ed, embodied expression and practice of Indigenous nation- hood, sovereignty, and freedom, it is a collective and transfor- mative direct act. It changes people in the present. It transforms our relationships to each other and to the land we share.

I live 3,400 kilometers from PKOLS, and I am not a part of the SȾÁUTW, Songhees, or the WSÁNEĆ nations. I watched the event unfold from the other side of Mikinakong, the place of the turtle, or Turtle Island. I was struck by the strength of the SȾÁUTW, Songhees of the WSÁNEĆ peoples. It was a brave thing to do. I was struck by how much we can influence how our actions are represented to the Canadian public when they are deliberate, planned actions rather than reactions to settler governments or industry. It was extraordinarily difficult for the mainstream media to misrepresent this action as an overly ag- gressive and angry action that threatened the safety of Canadi- ans and Canada when the images on their cameras were of fam- ilies laughing and celebrating together. These faces told me that everyone felt good— Indigenous peoples for obvious reasons, and non- Indigenous peoples, I can guess, because it feels good to finally be on the right side of history. It feels good to do the right thing.

PKOLS is significant to me in terms of resurgent struggle and mobilization in several ways. First, although it is a response to the colonial occupation and the erasure of Indigenous pres- ence, it is not an immediate responsive action. That is, the re- sponse wasn’t instigated by the state through the passing of legislation or the enacting of policy. It was initiated by Indig- enous peoples on Indigenous terms. The process of organizing the event served to strengthen relationships between different Indigenous nations and peoples and their allies. The event was a collective, physical act of renewing relationships to land and territory using the mechanisms of the SȾÁUTW nation. There were responsibilities for the SȾÁUTW nation, Indigenous al- lies, and non- Indigenous allies. There was a ceremonial renewal of the Douglas treaty. There was Indigenous reciprocal recogni- tion. The sign remains, and to me the success of the action is that

CONCLUSION 241

even if the city of Victoria had removed the sign, they cannot remove the experience of hundreds of people coming togeth- er to support the reinsertion of the self- determination of the SȾÁUTW nation into the city of Victoria.

The PKOLS reclamation was not a victim narrative. No one was asking for white recognition. No one was putting pain and hurt on display as a mechanism to influence white decency. It wasn’t a directly reactionary act. It was an insertion of Indig- enous presence and power. PKOLS was an action of holding our heads up high and holding each other up in the warmth of the village, of coming at it with our best selves, of coming at it from a place of strength and knowing and grounded power. The PKOLS reclamation was a generative refusal. It is an example of radical resurgent organizing and mobilization.

It was a taking back of Indigenous space for Indigenous purposes that is echoed in land reclamation actions in ceremo- nial gatherings and in places like the Unist’o’ten camp and in the blockade at Grassy Narrows. While the mainstream media might focus on the blockade aspects of these actions, which are important in their own right, there is also a taking back of space in that the communities that maintain the blockades are often reinvigorating Indigenous governance, ceremony, economic systems, education, and systems of caring. These are bubbles of resurgent life. They are our first, or perhaps our latest, attempts at actualizing Indigenous alternatives. I dream of Kanehsatà:ke and PKOLS reclamations everywhere in a coordinated, strate- gic, constellated wave of resurgent organizing and mobilization.

Generative Refusal

I have visited and revisited the idea of generative refusal at vari- ous points in the Radical Resurgence Project because I think it is a very useful tool both conceptually and kinetically and because the more time I spend with generative refusal, the more pow- erful this idea becomes. Over the course of writing and editing this book, the term came up naturally in several instances in the text. I thought of consolidating this into a chapter or a section at the beginning, but that didn’t seem right. What seemed right

242 CONCLUSION

is what naturally happened: it came up, it deepened itself, and now at the end, it’s the concept that encapsulates what I want to leave you with.

I used a deer story in chapter 4 to talk about Nishnaabeg in- ternationalism. I often use this story to teach about Nishnaabeg political practices in general and about Nishnaabeg diplomacy and treaty making specifically. Over the years, this story has come to be a wider, theoretical intervention, at least for me per- sonally, and it is relevant to how we collectively respond to in- justice, violence, and aggression because it is ultimately a story of refusal. This, to me, makes the story especially relevant when considering what resurgent mobilizing might look like.

In this story, the deer, collectively, as a nation of people, are faced with wrongdoing in the form of physical violence and exploitation. Both the Nishnaabeg and the Waawaashkeshiwag live and interact in the spiritual world, and they interact with the physical world by spending time here in bodies— deer bodies or human bodies. The Nishnaabeg bodies are dependent upon the deer bodies, political orders in their own right, in the physical world for survival, and therefore, there is a negotiation that primarily takes place in the spirit world, where the deer decide which deer bodies are given up in the physical world to return to the spiritual world, so that the Nishnaabeg might survive. The Nishnaabeg are dependent and reliant upon the deer. The deer are not particularly reliant on the Nishnaabeg, although in a set- tler colonial reality, the deer perhaps become more reliant on the Nishnaabeg because we have a voice they do not. That is, we can speak back to the colonizers in a way the deer cannot. In the confines of this telling of the story, however, the deer hold a nonhierarchical power, like all the plants and animals, that the Nishnaabeg do not, and although I don’t understand the Nish- naabeg world as one that is imbued with hierarchy, I do under- stand that in all of creation, human beings require the most help from the rest of creation to live, and in that sense, we have the least amount of grounded, spiritual power and influence.

When faced with injustice and violence, the deer chose to leave the relationship and withdrew from the territory they were

CONCLUSION 243

sharing with the Nishnaabeg. I’ve thought a lot about this story and deer in general for the past decade because I am a mother to two Deer clan children. This means that I have a more intimate relationship with the Deer clan than I did previously. Children in particular like and understand this story in an intimate way. It makes complete sense to kids that the deer withdraw in the face of violence because of course children are often in the position in settler colonial society where they have no other choice in re- sponse to violence other than withdrawal. Adults, presumably, even occupied and oppressed ones, have a wider range of tacti- cal responses.

The withdrawal of the deer is a pretty radical response in that they did not try initially to engage with the Nishnaabeg, who I think are loving, rational, just people. They did not try to talk to us or negotiate. They didn’t explain to us how our ac- tions were hurting their nation. They didn’t appeal to us morally. They didn’t look to the Nishnaabeg for recognition. They didn’t display the grief or the outrage they must have felt for the devas- tation, trauma, and violence the Nishnaabeg had caused them. Their emotional response, their healing, was not up for public consumption or performance. They didn’t protest or demon- strate the emotional cost to our neglect, despite the fact it must have been significant. After all, the Nishnaabeg were essentially murdering their citizens in direct violation of our grounded nor- mativity. Instead, the deer withdrew and turned inward to re- build themselves as a nation and a clan.

The deer refused. They enacted the politics of generative refusal— they refused the Nishnaabeg and then went and re- newed themselves. They initially refused to come to the negoti- ating table, believing the Nishnaabeg would either not join them or the Nishnabeg would attempt to manipulate the process, or because the Nishnaabeg were not ready to feel the full weight of our wrongdoing. They refused to subject themselves to more violence. They refused to give the Nishnaabeg an opportunity to encode that violence into a structural negotiation process, and they refused to give power to the party that was abusing power in the first place.

244 CONCLUSION

This is instructive in terms of radical resurgent mobilizing. The deer refused and organized on their own terms. They didn’t need the Nishnaabeg, just like the Nishnaabeg don’t need set- tlers. It seems consistent with the concept of Biiskabiyang, a turning inward toward the essence of, in this case, the deer na- tion.6 They retreated and focused on rebuilding and recovering first, shifting the power away from the Nishnaabeg. They made the Nishnaabeg recognize them and our own neglect. There is also a thread of flight, of fugitivity, in this narrative because in their refusal and flight out of violence they liberated themselves into a physical reality that was entirely consistent with the one they deserved and wanted for themselves. In their flight, they turned inward. This is consistent with the idea that focused re- building using Indigenous processes enacts an Indigenous pres- ence that has the ability to give life to an Indigenous future and changes not only the actors involved in the focused rebuilding, but the power dynamics between the deer and the Nishnaabeg, or between the Nishnaabeg and the state.

Final Words

I began the Radical Resurgence Project by grounding radi- cal resurgence in the theoretical home of Indigenous intelli- gence, grounded normativity, and Indigenous internationalism and by communicating the book itself through Nishnaabewin. I highlighted the importance of land and land restitution in radical resurgence. I used kwe as method to refuse and to an- alyze settler colonialism as a structure of processes. I put forth a more expansive nonhierarchical conceptualization of dispos- session to include land and bodies as the meta- relationship In- digenous peoples have with the state. I then turned to another crucial intervention in resurgence theory with a consideration of Nishnaabeg practices of anticapitalism. I made the case for dismantling heteropatriarchy as an impediment to Indigenous nation building and radical resurgence and argued that queer In- digeneity is a crucial expression of Indigenous brilliance. I em- phasized the importance of land- based resurgence education. I considered resurgent struggle and organizing in relation to the

CONCLUSION 245

politics of recognition, the politics of distraction, and the poli- tics of grief. The concepts of reciprocal recognition and gener- ative refusal emerged at several points in the discussion of rad- ical resurgence. I reflected on the importance of everyday acts of resurgence and constellating these actions in the present to bring forth futures that are profoundly Indigenous through re- surgent struggle, organizing, and mobilization. I recognize that it is so easy to write about this, and even talk about this, and that it is so difficult to realize it in real life, especially because we are still building the individual and community capacity to do so. I recognize resurgence is messy and difficult and requires a great deal of sacrifice, persistence, failure, and sheer dedicated hard work. It is struggle— struggle where most of us are at the limit of our emotional capacity to struggle. I still think we have to do it.

This book cannot end with a section on future directions for this research that is counter to what I think is the central point of this book: Indigenous futures are entirely dependent upon what we collectively do now as diverse Indigenous nations, with our Ancestors and those yet unborn, to create Indigenous presences and to generate the conditions for Indigenous futures by deep- ly engaging in our nation- based grounded normativities. We must continuously build and rebuild Indigenous worlds. This work starts in motion, in decolonial love, in flight, in relation- ship, in biiskabiyang, in generosity, humility, and kindness, and this is where it also ends. I cannot be prescriptive here because these processes are profoundly intimate and emergent and are ultimately the collective responsibilities of those who belong to unique and diverse Indigenous nations. I don’t want to imagine or dream futures. I want a better present.

In many ways, I feel confident and grounded in the concepts and ideas in this book, although resurgence is not a process that can come from any one person or any single set of ideas. My hope for this work is that readers consider my words along with the intentions they come with, not as those of an expert but as part of a much larger, Indigenous international relationship- building process about how to liberate ourselves from the grips of colonialism— an interaction that centers Indigenous nation-

246 CONCLUSION

hood instead of colonialism. I hope that this work in a small way is able to propel a formation of Indigenous thinkers on their own trajectories in the way that Indigenous makers and land users al- ways do, in the way that the PKOLS reclamation and the Kane- hsatà:ke or Gustafsen Lake resistances did for a generation of us, and in the way that Mohawk Interruptus, Creative Combat, and Red Skin, White Masks did for me this year. I hope this book cre- ates more connection, more thinking through together, more endless unfolding of the past and the future into the present. Perhaps the Radical Resurgence Project can propel us even a little to grow multiple layered constellations of freedom, to light our seventh fires over and over and over again, with the love and persistence in spite of everything. Perhaps it can make a little more space and forge a little more strength for those doing this work on the ground every day without recognition. I look for- ward to the coming years, when I’ll look back on this book and see the weakness of my arguments and how much my thinking has changed, and this will be a very good thing. I hope that this next generation will read this book and see how little I actual- ly know about how to live Nishnaabewin compared to them. That is the real Radical Resurgence Project, and it isn’t radical or even resurgence, it’s just Indigenous life as it has always un- folded. Indeed, “revolution will come in a form we cannot yet imagine.”7 Our revolutions will be our new dawn, our biidaaban, with the past and the future collapsing in on the present, as we have always done.

CONCLUSION 247

ACKNOwLEDGMENTS

Nothing is ever created in isolation, and this book is no exception. It was made in a community of relationships within which I exist, and although I am responsible for the mistakes and missteps, I am not responsible for the insights and the brilliance: these come from the land, the nation, and the community of thinkers and makers of which I am a small part. I would simply not exist as Betasamosake without the con- tinuous friendship and support of elder Doug Williams. He is one of the smartest people I have ever met. His continuing in- fluence on me is tremendous, and I am grateful for the decade of time he has spent with me. I am also grateful for the influ- ence of elder Edna Manitowabi; her intelligence continues to inform and breathe vitality into my work. I am very appreciative of the elders and land users I have met and worked alongside in Denendeh through the Dechinta Centre for Research and Learning, for their generosity and Dene intelligence: Ethel La- mothe, Jane Dragon, Therese and Modeste Sangris, Mary- Rose Sundberg, Paul Mackenzie, Melaw Nakehk’o, Mandee McDon- ald (Maskîkow- iskwiw intelligence), Amos Scott, Gordie Liske, and Siku Allooloo (Inuit/Taino intelligence).

I am indebted to the brilliance of my cherished comrades

249

Sarah Hunt, Jarrett Martineau, Glen Coulthard, and Daniel Heath Justice and for their deep engagement with my work and with this manuscript. Miigwech to Susan Blight, Erin Freeland Ballantyne, and Matt Hern, who read and provided feedback on previous drafts, and to Alex Wilson and Billy- Ray Belcourt, who read chapter 8. Miigwech to Minowewebeneshiinh Simpson for giving permission to share her story. Nia:wen to Ellen Gabriel, who helped me with her language, and miigwech to elder Shir- ley Williams, who helped me with the Nishnaabemowin. Miig- wech to Lianne Charlie for the cover art. I also thank Robert Warrior and Jason Weidemann and the staff at the University of Minnesota Press for their attentive support.

The first draft of this manuscript was completed while I was a visiting scholar in Indigenous studies at McGill University, ar- ranged and supported by Allan Downey. Miigwech Allan. A pre- vious version of “Land as Pedagogy” was published by Decolo- nization, Indigeneity, Education, and Society, and short sections of the manuscript were published by various blogs (including the Nations Rising blog and my own blog) and were panel pre- sentations at the Native American and Indigenous Studies Asso- ciation and the American Studies Association annual meetings.

250 ACKNOwLEDGMENTS

NOTES

Introduction

 1. A previous version of the section “I Am Not a Nation- State” in this chapter was first published on the Indigenous Nationhood Move- ment’s Nations Rising blog, which no longer exists, and was reposted at http://leannesimpson.ca/i-am-not-a-nation-state/.

 2. Doug Williams is an elder from Curve Lake First Nation. The French explorer Samuel du Champlain was the first white explorer through our territory in 1615.

 3. Leanne Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back: Stories of Nishnaabeg Re- Creation, Resurgence and a New Emergence (Winni- peg: ARP Books, 2011), 14.

 4. Rotinonhseshá:ka and Haudenosaunee are both words for Iroquois peoples. Since I wrote part of this book in Montreal, I have used the Kanien’kehá:ka terminology in this manuscript. According to Ellen Gabriel, Rotinonhseshá:ka means “People of the Longhouse” in Kanien’kéha (language of the Kanien’kehá:ka or Mohawk people). 

 5. Alternatively rendered as Mishi- zaagiig, “People of the large river mouth,” as shared with me by the editors Alan Corbiere, Deborah McGregor, and Crystal Migwans in the publication Anishinaabewin Niswi: Deep Roots, New Growth (M’Chigeeng, Ont.: Ojibwe Cultural Foundation, 2012), 42n4.

 6. Leanne Simpson, “Looking after Gdoo- naaganinaa: Precolo-

251

nial Nishnaabeg Diplomatic and Treaty Relationships,” Wicazo Sa Re- view 23, no. 2 (2008): 29– 42.

 7. See Champlain’s journal of his 1615 voyage, entry 321, avail- able at https://archive.org/stream/voyagessam00chamrich/voyages sam00chamrich_djvu.txt.

 8. I am using the terms sovereignty and self- determination with- in the context of Nishnaabewin and Indigenous political theory and practices.

 9. This first part of this section is based largely on oral tradition passed down to me from Doug Williams. Some of this is recorded in his new, unpublished manuscript, but the vast majority of it was learned within Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg Knowledge system over a fifteen- year period, from 2000 to 2016.

10. For historical context, see Nick Este, “Fighting for Our Lives: #NoDAPL in Historical  Context,” The Red Nation (blog), Septem- ber 18, 2016, https://therednation.org/2016/09/18/fighting-for-our -lives-nodapl-in-context/.

11. Throughout this book when I use “Idle No More,” I am refer- ring to the broad movement that took place during the winter of 2012– 13, not the organization.

12. I first learned this in the late 1990s from Robin Greene- ba, a Treaty 3 elder from Shoal Lake.

13. I am grateful for the brilliant scholarship of Rinaldo Walcott, Katherine McKittrick, Christina Sharpe, Luam Kidane, Hawa Y. Mire, Fred Moten, Idil Abdillahi, and Robin D. G. Kelley; the poetics and scholarship of Dionne Brand, Claudia Rankine, Alexis Pauline Gumbs; and the actions of Black Lives Matter Toronto for challenging me to think about anti- Blackness, Black life, and Black futures alongside Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg futures and for compelling me to begin to think about an Nishnaabeg presence that structurally detonates anti- Blackness from our radical alternatives. These ideas are far from com- plete, but I look forward to thinking through this together.

1. Nishnaabeg Brilliance as Radical Resurgence Theory

 1. Leanne Simpson, Islands of Decolonial Love: Stories and Songs (Winnipeg: ARP Books 2013). The Nishnaabeg story is in Ed- die Benton- Banai, The Mishomis Book: The Voice of the Ojibway (Hay- ward, Wis.: Indian Country Communications, 1988), 61– 68.

 2. The “Oka Crisis” took place during the summer of 1990 as a re-

252 NOTES TO INTRODUCTION

sponse to the expansion of a nine- hole golf course into a sacred area of the Mohawk community of Kanesatake and involved a large- scale mo- bilization of land protectors with sites of physical resistance in Kanesa- take and Kanawake and solidarity protests across Canada.

 3. I heard Justice Murray Sinclair say this about residential schools in his capacity as a member of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission at Queens University on March 27, 2015.

 4. I use the term heteropatriarchy as an umbrella term to mean the intertwined systems of patriarchy and heterosexism to include its manifestations as heteronormativity, transphobia, and cis- normativity.

 5. Leanne Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back: Stories of Nishnabeg Re- creation, Resurgence and a New Emergence (Winnipeg: ARP Books, 2011); and Wendy Makoons Geniusz, Our Knowledge Is Not Primitive: Decolonizing Botanical Anishinaabe Teachings (Syra- cuse, N.Y.: Syracuse University Press, 2000), 9– 10.

 6. Neil Roberts, Freedom as Marronage (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015), 1– 15.

 7. Retreating to the bush was a common practice to escape the control of Indian agents, residential schools, coerced farming practices, encroachment, and many of the other impositions of settler colonial society; Roberts, Freedom as Marronage, 4– 5.

 8. Ibid., 8– 9.  9. Jessica Marie Johnson, “We Need Your Freedom: An Inter-

view with Alexis Pauline Gumbs,” December 13, 2016, http://www .aaihs.org/we-need-your-freedom-an-inter view-with-alexis-pauline -gumbs/?utm_content=buffera2b87&utm_medium=social&utm _source=twitter.com&utm_campaign=buffer.

10. As with Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, this book is based on my own interpretations of Nishnaabeg thought. I do not speak for all Nishnaabeg people. I do not speak for anyone but myself. Like all na- tions and cultures, there are many different ways of understanding our stories, histories, theories, and intellectual traditions within our col- lective system of ethics. There always has been and is lots of healthy and robust conversation about these interpretations.

11. Michael Yellowbird’s lecture “Decolonizing the Mind: Heal- ing through Neurodecolonization and Mindfulness,” January 24, 2015, Portland State University, Portland, Oregon, is an excellent explora- tion of how ceremonial practices generate or regenerate neuropath- ways that provide the capacity to uphold Indigenous ethics and opera- tionalize Indigenous political systems.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 253

12. Some of our people are already doing this, and many of our people have always done this, in particular, language speakers, hunt- ers, trappers, fishers, and medicine people.

13. See chapter 2 in Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, 31– 49. 14. I learned this from Doug Williams; see endnote 60 in Simpson,

Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, 46. 15. Audra Simpson, Mohawk Interruptus: Political Life across the

Borders of Settler States (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2014). 16. Glen Coulthard, Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial

Politics of Recognition (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014), 60.

2. Kwe as Resurgent Method

 1. Leanne Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back: Stories of Nish- nabeg Re- creation, Resurgence and a New Emergence (Winnipeg: ARP Books, 2011); Leanne Simpson, Islands of Decolonial Love: Stories and Songs (Winnipeg: ARP Books, 2013); Leanne Simpson, “Land as Ped- agogy: Nishnaabeg Intelligence and Rebellious Transformation,” De- colonization, Indigeneity, Education and Society 3, no. 3 (2014): 1– 25.

 2. Aki means land— place, power, relation; it is the opposite of land as commodity. Aki is not capital. Throughout this book I used land- based and place- based interchangeably to denote practices that comes from relational reciprocity with Aki.

 3. See chapter 2, Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, 31– 49.  4. The Creator, the one who loves us unconditionally, according

to Doug Williams; see endnote 60 in Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, 46.  5. See chapter 2, Simpson Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, 31– 49.  6. This is actually something Indigenous scholars do, and I think

have always done. I was reminded of it in reading Mishuana Goeman, Mark My Words: Native Women Mapping Our Nations (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2013), when she talks about the mo- bility of her family causing her to pause at the dichotomy between urban/reservation and reflect more deeply on spatialities (7).

 7. The Indigenous academic community, particularly PhD stu- dents, have been forced to justify the use of Indigenous methodologies, ethics, and theories and more broadly Indigenous ways of knowing for nearly three decades now. I’d encourage those who find this paragraph surprising to read Linda Tuhiwai Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples (London: Zed Books, 1999) as a start-

254 NOTES TO CHAPTER 1

ing point. We have nearly two decades of this work now. Kwagiulth (Kwakwaka’wakw) scholar Sarah Hunt, in her dissertation “Witness- ing the Colonialscape: Lighting the Intimate Fires of Indigenous Legal Pluralism” (Simon Fraser University, 2014), makes a similar case for this from a slightly different theoretical frame (31– 43).

 8. I am using Two Spirit and queer (2SQ) as an umbrella term in this book to refer to all Indigenous Two Spirit, lesbian, gay, bisexual, pansexual, transgender, transsexual, queer, questioning, intersex, asex- ual, and gender- nonconforming people. See http://www.nativeyouth sexualhealth.com/ for more information. Hunt writes, “Two- Spirit is used by some Indigenous people to describe the diverse roles and identities of lesbian, gay, bisexual, queer, trans and/or gender- fluid In- digenous people in North America. At the 1990 Winnipeg gathering of the International Gathering of American Indian and First Nations Gays and Lesbians, ‘Two- Spirit’ was chosen as a term to move away from the anthropological term ‘berdache’ in describing Native queer iden- tities and communities. Following this usage, and that of some recent Two- Spirit scholarship, I choose to capitalize this term”; “Witnessing the Colonialscape,” xv. I include the term queer in 2SQ to recognize that not all Indigenous queer people use the term Two Spirit to identify themselves. Lesbian elder Ma- Nee Chacaby presents a different under- standing of the term Two Spirit, which is explained in chapter 8.

 9. Again, for those readers who find this idea new, I’d suggest beginning with Patricia Hill Collins, Black Feminist Thought: Knowl- edge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment (New York: Routledge, 1990).

10. Tuhiwai Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies. 11. Of course this is beginning to change with the swell of Indig-

enous scholarship, particularly by Indigenous women and the 2SQ community.

12. The idea of bodies as political orders I learned from Audra Simpson in her talk “The Chief ’s Two Bodies,” keynote address, In- ternational R.A.C.E Conference, Edmonton, October 2014; available online https://vimeo.com/110948627. This is discussed further in chapter 8.

13. In Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, I talk about debwewin as the sound of my heart or the art of truth making; see chapter 1, endnote 17.

14. Tuhiwai Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies; Margaret Kovach, Indigenous Methodologies: Characteristics, Conversations, and Contexts

NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 255

(Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2010); Shawn Wilson, Research Is Ceremony: Indigenous Research Methods (Halifax: Fernwood Pub- lishing, 2009); Leanne Simpson, “Decolonizing Our Processes: Indig- enous Knowledge and Ways of Knowing,” Canadian Journal of Na- tive Studies 21, no. 1 (2001): 137– 48; Leanne Simpson, “Anishinaabe Knowledge as Process,” Tribal College Journal 11, no. 4 (2000): 26– 30; Leanne Simpson, “Anishinaabe Ways of Knowing,” in Aboriginal Health, Identity and Resources, ed. J. Oakes, R. Riewe, W. Koolage, L. R. Simpson, and N. Schuster, 165– 86 (Winnipeg: Department of Native Studies, University of Manitoba, 2000).

15. Lee Maracle, I Am Woman (Vancouver: Press Gang, 2003). 16. Audra Simpson, “On Ethnographic Refusal: Indigeneity,

‘Voice’ and Colonial Citizenship,” Junctures 9, no. 1 (2007): 67– 80; and Audra Simpson, Mohawk Interruptus: Political Life across the Borders of Settler States (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2014). This concept is also reconsidered in the conclusion, this volume.

17. This is a Nishnaabeg story, and it is explored further in chapter 4 and the conclusion.

18. See Leanne Simpson, “Land and Reconciliation: Having the Right Conversations,” March 5, 2016, Electric City magazine, http:// www.electriccitymagazine.ca/2016/01/land-reconciliation/.

19. I’ve heard this story from Doug Williams several times— every time we pass Kiizhigo Island. There is a written version of it in Vanes- sa Watt’s master’s thesis, “Towards Anishnaabe Governance and Ac- countability: Reawakening Our Relationships and Sacred Bimaadiz- iwin” (Indigenous Governance Program, University of Victoria, 2010), http://dspace.library.uvic.ca/handle/1828/2222; see page 41. Her sto- ry also comes from Doug.

20. Jessica Marie Johnson, “We Need Your Freedom: An Inter- view with Alexis Pauline Gumbs,” December 13, 2016, http://www .aaihs.org/we-need-your-freedom-an-inter view-with-alexis-pauline -gumbs/?utm_content=buffera2b87&utm_medium=social&utm _source=twitter.com&utm_campaign=buffer.

21. Ibid.

3. The Attempted Dispossession of Kwe

 1. Anishinabek News, http://anishinabeknews.ca/wp-content/ uploads/2013/04/2012–12.pdf; also see Williams Treaties First Na- tions, http://www.williamstreatiesfirstnations.ca/.

256 NOTES TO CHAPTER 2

 2. Although the Ontario Federation of Hunters and Anglers have continued to intervene in our treaty matters.

 3. See Peggy Blair, Lament for a First Nation: The Williams Trea- ties of Southern Ontario (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2008).

 4. Julia Emberly calls for a complication of colonial dispossession that takes into account sexual violence and that recognizes the com- modification of land and bodies as naturalized objects of exchange and exploitation. Julia Emberly, “To Spirit Walk the Letter and the Law: Gender, Race, and Representational Violence in Rudy Wiebe and Yvonne Johnson’s Stolen Life: The Journey of a Cree Woman,” in In- digenous Women and Feminism: Politics, Activism, Culture, ed. Cheryl Suzack, Shari M. Huhndorf, Jeanne Perreault, and Jean Barman (Van- couver: UBC Press, 2010), 236.

 5. Audra Simpson, Mohawk Interruptus: Political Life across the Borders of Settler States (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2014), 156.

 6. Ibid.  7. Much of this resistance is documented in our oral traditions;

see also Doug Williams, “Who  Depleted Our Fish Anyway?” Curve Lake Newsletter, June 24, 2011.

 8. These ideas were developed over conversations that began be- tween me and Glen Coulthard, and expanded to the students in the Indigenous governance program at the University of Victoria in the winter of 2015, and then to conversations between me and Sarah Hunt. The idea of bodies being taken from the land comes to me from Ger- aldine King.

 9. Patrick Wolfe, “Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native,” Journal of Genocide Research 8, no. 4 (2006): 388.

10. Ibid. 11. In this way, resurgence has always been radical, whether you

consider the concept within Indigenous thought systems, its relatively recent appearance in the academy, or how it is embodied in our com- munities. Countless Indigenous peoples conceptualize it to be con- cerned with the root.

12. I thought of this recently when the National Research Centre on Indian Residential Schools invited me to a roundtable of Indigenous and non- Indigenous academics discussing resurgence. I chose not to attend.

13. I dislike the term culture because as a category it is too small and too restrictive to mean the breadth of practices and knowledges contained within Indigenous intelligence.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 257

14. Indigenous feminists have been fierce and principled in their work. I am here commenting on the fact that this work is often con- fined to courses on “Indigenous feminisms” or, worse, “Native Women of Canada,” to women’s organizations, and to women’s publications rather than integrated in a substantial and theoretical way across all of our work. I believe this work should have far more influence than it has in Indigenous life.

15. Sarah Hunt, “Violence, Law and the Everyday Politics of Rec- ognition: Comments on Glen Coulthard’s Red Skin, White Masks,” available at https://www.academia.edu/12834803/Violence_Law _and_the_Ever yday_Politics_of_Recognition_commentar y_on_Red _Skin_White_Masks_; see p. 6 in particular.

4. Nishnaabeg Internationalism

 1. This chapter and the concept of Nishnaabeg international- ism were influenced by a series of conversations with Glen Coulthard during 2015– 16, from his own yet unpublished work on Dene internationalism.

 2. Edward Benton- Banai, The Mishomis Book: The Voice of the Ojibway (St. Paul, Minn.: Red School House, 1988), 6– 12. Nanabush is a being that is continually transforming. Nanabush appears in stories as all different genders, as particular plants and particular animals. I am using the pronouns they/their to acknowledge this variance.

 3. This is an Nishnaabeg story, and several different versions have been published. This version is from my book The Gift Is in the Making: Anishinaabeg Stories (Winnipeg: HighWater Press, 2013), 9– 13. Nish- naabemowin: waawaashkesh is deer; mooz is moose; adik is caribou; Gchi Nishnaabeg- ogamig is “the place we all live and work togeth- er,” according to elder Doug Williams from Curve Lake First Nation; dawaagin is fall; bboon is winter; Amikwag is beavers; Moozoog are moose (plural); makwag are bears; jijaakwag (ajijaakwag) are cranes; migizig are bald eagles; zhigaagwag are skunks; semaa (asemaa) is to- bacco; ziigwan is the early part of spring when the snow is melting, the ice is breaking up, and the sap is flowing; Niibin is summer; waawaash- keshiwag are deer (plural); adikwag are caribou (plural).

 4. Compare with the stories and practices discussed in Brenda Child, Holding Our World Together: Ojibwe Women and the Survival of Community (New York: Viking, 2013), 16– 18.

 5. Janice Hill, Tyendinaga Turtle clan mother and director of

258 NOTES TO CHAPTER 3

Four Directions  Aboriginal Student Centre at Queens University, Kingston, Ontario, reminded me of this when I visited the centre on September 27, 2013.

 6. See Audra Simpson and Andrea Smith’s discussion in their in- troduction to Theorizing Native Studies, ed. Audra Simpson and An- drea Smith (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2014), 9– 12.

 7. There are lots of examples of relationships between Indig- enous peoples and the Black Radical Tradition and Black feminism, from George Manual’s work, to Lee Maracle, to the history of the Dene Nation; see Glen Coulthard, Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Co- lonial Politics of Recognition (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014). It is our responsibility to continue to build these rela- tionships in the present and to liberate ourselves rather than take from others. I am using the term abolition as in the abolition of slavery in its various manifestations, not in the anti– sex worker abolition sense.

 8. This is a quote from Vijay Prashad’s panel discussion “War, Peace and Global Justice” at the Black Radical Tradition’s conference “Reclaiming Our Future: The Black Radical Tradition in Our Time,” Temple University, Philadelphia, January 9, 2015. It’s available online at http://www.theblackradicaltradition.org/livestream. The preced- ing paragraph was influenced by the full panel, which included George Ciccariello- Maher and Glen Ford.

 9. Prior to the consolidation of the Indian Act in 1876, this policy was practiced indiscriminately in Ontario at the whim of Indian agents. Although a Christian women, Nahnebahnwequay was also a resistor and was targeted here strategically. Donald B. Smith, “Upright Wom- an: Catherine Sutton, or Nahnebahnwequay, ‘Nahnee,’” in Mississauga Portraits: Ojibwe Voices from Nineteenth- Century Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013).

10. Ibid. 11. Smith’s Mississauga Portraits profiles several of these people,

including Kahkewaquonaby (Peter Jones), Shawundais ( John Sun- day), Maungudaus (George Henry), Kahgegahbown (George Cop- away), Nawahjegezhegwab ( Joseph Sawyer), and Pahtahsega (Peter Jacobs). With the exception of Maungudaus (discussed in the context of artist Robert Houle’s Paris/Ojibwa later in this volume), it seems to me these figures were actively engaged in the politics of recogni- tion (and were subsequently writers, Indian Act chiefs, preachers) as advocates for our people, particularly in terms of improving social conditions. My belief is that much of the resistance that went into

NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 259

ensuring Nishnaabewin exists today is not recorded in the historical record of Canada but is in the minds and bodies of Nishnaabeg families and elders.

12.See also Glen Coulthard and Leanne Simpson, “Grounded Normativity/Place- Based Solidarity,” American Quarterly  68, no. 2 ( June 2016): 249– 55.

13. Maungwudaus/George Henry, An Account of the Chippewa In- dians, Who Have Been Travelling among the Whites, in the United States, England, Ireland, Scotland, France and Belgium; With Very Interesting Incidents in Relation to the General Characteristics of the English, Irish, Scotch, French and Americans, with Regard to Their Hospitality, Pecu- liarities, etc. (Boston: George Henry, 1848).

14. Dr. Masazumi Harada first visited the community in 1975, and the community continued to build this relationship and work with him until his death. There were several trips back and forth. See Anasta- sia M. Shkilnyk, A Poison Stronger Than Love: The Destruction of an Ojibwa Community ( New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1985) for a consideration of the mercury crisis and for the beginnings of this relationship (194).

5. Nishnaabeg Anticapitalism

 1. One of the places it is blogged is http://www.yesmagazine .org/peace-justice/dancing-the-world-into-being-a-conversation- with-idle-no-more-leanne-simpson.

 2. I’d like to acknowledge the work of Glen Coulthard on cap- italism and Indigenous peoples here. He uses Marxist categories of analysis, and he attributes his understandings and interventions to the practices of his own Dene people; see Andrew Bard Epstein, “The Co- lonialism of the Present: Scholar and Activist Glen Coulthard on the Connection between Indigenous and Anticapitalist Struggles,” Jacobin, January 1, 2015, https://www.jacobinmag.com/2015/01/indigenous -left-glen-coulthard-interview/; and Glen Coulthard, “For Our Nations to Live, Capitalism Must Die,” Rabble.ca, November 6, 2013, http:// rabble.ca/news/2013/11/our-nations-to-live-capitalism-must-die; in addition to Glen Coulthard, Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial Politics of Recognition (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014). There are also several other Indigenous organizers, writ- ers, scholars, and activists who provide critiques of capitalism, includ-

260 NOTES TO CHAPTER 4

ing Lee Maracle, Art Manual, Nick Estes, and Daniel T’selie, and many more on- the- ground critics in reserves, at blockades, and in the bush.

 3. Naomi Klein, This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. the Cli- mate (Toronto: Knopf Canada, 2014), 169.

 4. The interview is reprinted with Naomi Klein’s permission.  5. “Dancing the World into Being: A Conversation with Idle No

More’s Leanne Simpson,” by Naomi Klein, Yes! Magazine, March 5, 2013, http://www.yesmagazine.org/peace-justice/dancing-the-world -into-being-a-conversation-with-idle-no-more-leanne-simpson.

 6. This occurs at 24:20 on the January 13, 2016, episode of sea- son 5, Redman Laughing , a podcast by Ryan McMahon, http://www .redmanlaughing.com/listen/2016/1/red-man-laughing-rebuilding -community.

 7. There are several examples of these stories in print and many, many more in the oral tradition. See Alan Corbiere, ed., Gechi- Piitzijig Dbaajmowag: The Stories of Our Elders (Manitoulin Island, ON: Ojib- we Cultural Foundation, 2011); Anton Treuer et al., Awesiinyensag: Dibaajimowinan Ji- gikinoo’amaageng (Minneapolis: Birchbark House; Wiigwass Press, 2010.; http://nanabush.ca/; Basil Johnston, Living in Harmony, The Anishinaubaemowin Series (Cape Croker, ON: Kege- donce Press, 2011); Basil Johnston, Ojibway Heritage: The Ceremonies, Rituals, Songs, Dances, Prayers and Legends of the Ojibway (Toronto: Royal Ontario Museum, 1976); Basil Johnston, Tales the Elders Told: Ojibway Legends (Toronto: Royal Ontario Museum 1981); Daphne Odjig, The Nanabush Series (Manitoulin Island, ON: Odjig Arts, 2011; originally published in 1971); Joe McLellan, The Nanabosho Series (Winnipeg: Pemmican Publishing); Stories from the Seventh Fire: The Four Seasons: Traditional Legends for Each Season (Kelowna, BC: Film- west Associates, 2000), DVD; Edward Benton- Banai, The Mishomis Book: The Voice of the Ojibway (St. Paul, Minn.: Red School House, 1988; Patronella Johnson, Tales of Nokomis (Toronto: Stoddard Kids, 1994); The Adventures of Nanabush: Ojibway Indian Stories, compiled by Emerson Coatsworth and David Coatsworth (Toronto: Doubleday Canada, 1979); and Dorothy M. Reid, Tales of Nanabozho (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1963).

 8. I first heard this story orally from Nishnaabeg educator Dr. Nicole Bell, in Peterborough as part of our language nest, Nishnaabe- mowin Saaswansing, in 2010, although there are versions of the story in print as well.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 5 261

6. Endlessly Creating Our Indigenous Selves

 1. I often use Nishnaabe feminist Dory Nason’s “We Hold Our Hands Up” as a reading to follow up this discussion; see “We Hold Our Hands Up: On Indigenous Women’s Love and Resistance,” Decoloni- zation: Indigeneity, Education and Society (blog), February 12, 2013, https://decolonization.wordpress.com/2013/02/12/we-hold-our -hands-up-on-indigenous-womens-love-and-resistance/.

 2. I have used this exercise a number of times at Dechinta; this particular event took place in the fall of 2014.

 3. This is explained fully in the next chapter of this volume.  4. Audra Simpson, Mohawk Interruptus: Political Life across the

Borders of Settler States (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2014), 156; Jaskiran K. Dhillon, “Indigenous Girls and the Violence of Settler Colonial Policing,” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education and Society 4. no. 2 (2015): 1– 31.

 5. Shari M. Huhdorf and Cheryl Suzack, “Indigenous Feminism Theorizing the Issues,” in Indigenous Women and Feminism: Politics, Activism, Culture, ed. Cheryl Suzack, Shari M. Huhndorf, Jeanne Per- reault, and Jean Barman (Vancouver: UBC Press), 21– 29.

 6. “Sexual and Gender- Based Violence in Crisis Situations,” Unit- ed Nations Development Programme, http://www.undp.org/content /undp/en/home/our work/cr isispreventionandrecover y/focus_ areas/gender_equality_andwomensempowerment/sexual-violence -in-conflict.html.

 7. This is well documented by several feminist historians study- ing Indigenous women and coloniality working in different time spans and regions in Canada. In my own community, the work of Robin Jar- vis Brownlie and Joan Sangster do this, as evidenced in the next chap- ter of this volume.

 8. Robin Jarvis Brownlie’s archival work on the Indian Act and the regulation of Indigenous women’s sexuality is critically important here; see Robin Jarvis Brownlie, “Intimate Surveillance: Indian Af- fairs, Colonization, and the Regulation of Aboriginal Women’s Sexu- ality” in Contact Zones: Aboriginal and Settler Women in Canada’s Co- lonial Past, ed. Katie Pickles and Myra Rutherdale (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2005), 160– 78; as is Karen Stote’s recent work on sterilization and genocide in Indigenous women in Canada; see Karen Stote, An Act of Genocide: Colonialism and the Sterilization of Aboriginal Women (Halifax: Fernwood, 2015); Sarah Carter, The Importance of Being Mo-

262 NOTES TO CHAPTER 6

nogamous: Marriage and Nation Building in Western Canada to 1915 (Edmonton: University of Alberta Press, 2008); and Lesley Erickson, Westward Bound: Sex, Violence, the Law and the Making of a Settler Society (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2011).

 9. For a particularly detailed treatment of this, see Sarah Carter, Capturing Women: The Manipulation of Cultural Imagery in Canada’s Prairie West (Kingston, ON: McGill- Queens, 1997).

10. There are literally countless Indigenous women and organiza- tions that I could cite here, but I will point readers in the direction of Bev Jacob and the Amnesty International report she wrote in 2004 called Stolen Sisters: Discrimination and Violence against Native Wom- en in Canada (Ottawa: Amnesty International Canada, 2004); and the 2009 report No More Stolen Sisters: The Need for a Comprehensive Re- sponse to Discrimination and Violence against Women in Canada (Otta- wa: Amnesty International Canada, 2009).

11. Gloria Galloway, “70 Per Cent of Murdered Aboriginal Wom- en Killed by Indigenous Men: RCMP,” The Globe and Mail, April 9, 2015, http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/politics/70-percent -of-murdered-aboriginal-women-killed-by-indigenous-men-rcmp -confirms/article23868927/.

12. The evidence that sexualized and gender violence was a de- liberate tool of genocide, assimilation, and settler colonialism is over- whelming. However, it in no way matters that it was deliberate or whether this occurred consciously and strategically or unconsciously. It in no way matters, because it is sheer violence, and within Indige- nous legal systems, the magnitude of the damage caused to our nations can in no way be mitigated by a defense of unintention or the context of “not knowing.”

13. A. Simpson, Mohawk Interruptus, 7– 8. 14. I worked with Hollow Water First Nation in the late 1990s

and had the opportunity to participate in and observe the Commu- nity Holistic Circle Healing project in action. See Berma Bushie, “Community Holistic Circle Healing,” August 7, 1999, International Institute for Restorative Practices, http://www.iirp.edu/article_detail .php?article_id=NDc0.

7. The Sovereignty of Indigenous Peoples’ Bodies

 1. This paragraph is based on Doug William’s oral history of our nation and is offered here as a sketch to set the context for the

NOTES TO CHAPTER 6 263

rest of the chapter, rather than an exhaustive account of our history.  2. Neil Semple, The Lord’s Dominion: The History of Canadian

Methodism (Kingston, ON: McGill- Queens University Press, 1996), 161.

 3. Susanna Moodie, Roughing It in the Bush (Toronto: McClel- land and Stewart, 1989), 181.

 4. Ibid., 301.  5. Ibid., 304, 305.  6. Ibid., 305.  7. Carole Gerson, “Nobler Savages: Representations of Native

Women in the Writings of Susanna Moodie and Catherine Parr Traill,” Journal of Canadian Studies Summer 32, no. 2 (1997): 5.

 8. Ibid.  9. Ibid.,10. 10. See Joan Sangster, Regulating Girls and Women: Sexuality,

Family, and the Law in Ontario, 1920– 1960 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2001), particularly chapter 6; and Robin Jarvis Brown- lie, “Intimate Surveillance: Indian Affairs, Colonization, and the Reg- ulation of Aboriginal Women’s Sexuality,” in Contact Zones: Aboriginal and Settler Women in Canada’s Colonial Past, ed. Katie Pickles and Myra Rutherdale (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2005), 160– 78.

11. Sangster, Regulating Girls and Women, 169. 12. Brownlie, “Intimate Surveillance,” 162. 13. For a complete discussion on the complexities of this in light

of new legislation, see Pam Palmater’s 2010 report to the Standing Senate Committee on Human Rights on Bill S- 4, http://www.ryerson .ca/content/dam/chair-indigenous-governance/img/reports/senate -commitee-bill-s-4.pdf.

14. Brownlie, “Intimate Surveillance”; and Sangster, Regulating Girls and Women.

15. Sangster, Regulating Girls and Women. 16. Brownlie, “Intimate Surveillance,” 160. 17. Ibid. 18. Ibid. 19. See Peggy Blair, Lament of a First Nation: The Williams Trea-

ties of Southern Ontario (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2009); Doug Wil- liams, Curve Lake First Nation, August 15, 2015.

20. Jean Barman, “Taming Aboriginal Sexuality: Gender, Power, and Race in British Columbia, 1850– 1900,” in The Days of Our Grand- mothers: A Reader in Aboriginal Women’s History in Canada, ed. Mary-

264 NOTES TO CHAPTER 7

Ellen Kelm and Lorna Townsend (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2006), 270– 91.

21. Ibid. 22. Yvonne Boyer, “First Nations Women’s Contribution to Cul-

ture and Community through Canadian Law,” in Restoring the Balance: First Nations Women, Community, and Culture, ed. Gail Valaskakis, Madeleine Dion Stout, and Eric Guimond (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 2009), 78.

23. I am using the term prostitution here instead of sex work be- cause it is a concept at this point defined by the colonizers and includes all kinds of sexual agency and self- determination outside of what Indig- enous sex workers now define as sex work.

24. Boyer, “First Nations Women’s Contribution,” 78. Also see the work of Nishnaabekwe writer Naomi Sayers, “Prostitution Laws: Pro- tecting Canada’s Crackers since 1867,” Tits and Sass (blog), March 27, 2014, http://titsandsass.com/prostitution-laws-protecting-canadas -crackers-since-1867/.

25. Sayers, “Prostitution Laws.” 26. Sangster, Regulating Girls and Women, 168. 27. Ibid., 182. 28. See Ma- Nee Chacaby, A Two- Spirit Journey: The Autobiogra-

phy of a Lesbian Ojibwa- Cree Elder (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 2016), 64– 66; Lesley Erickson, Westward Bound: Sex, Violence, the Law and the Making of a Settler Society (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2011); Sarah Carter, The Importance of Being Monogamous: Marriage and Nation Building in Western Canada to 1915 (Edmonton: Univer- sity of Alberta Press, 2008); and Sarah Carter, Capturing Women: The Manipulation of Cultural Imagery in Canada’s Prairie West (Kingston, ON: McGill- Queens UP, 1997).

29. Carter, The Importance of Being Monogamous, 160. 30. Brownlie, “Intimate Surveillance,” 162. 31. Ibid. 32. Joan Sangster, “Scales of Justice Don’t Balance for Women,”

View from Trent, May 4, 2001, https://www.trentu.ca/news/view /justice.html.

33. Sangster, Regulating Girls and Women, 184. 34. Sangster, Regulating Girls and Women. 35. This was brought to my attention by Sarah Hunt in her com-

ments on a previous draft of the manuscript. 36. “Centering the Voices of People Who Trade or Sell Sex in

NOTES TO CHAPTER 7 265

Indigenous Anti- Violence Organizing: Statement from the Indigenous Sex Sovereignty Collective,” Indigenous Sex Sovereignty Collective, http://indigenoussexsovereignty.tumblr.com/.

37. Joan Sangster “Domesticating Girls: The Sexual Regulation of Aboriginal and Working- Class Girls in Twentieth- Century Canada,” in Contact Zones: Aboriginal and Settler Women in Canada’s Colonial Past, ed. Katie Pickles and Myra Rutherdale (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2005), 184.

38. This was brought to my attention by Sarah Hunt in her com- ments on a previous draft of the manuscript.

39. Audra Simpson, “The Chief ’s Two Bodies,” keynote address, International R.A.C.E Conference, Edmonton, Alberta, October 2014, available online https://vimeo.com/110948627.

40. Sally R. Wagner, Sisters in Spirit: Haudenosaunee Influence on Early American Feminism (Summertown, Tenn.: Native Voices, 2001).

41. Doug Williams, unpublished manuscript, 32. 42. Leanne Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back: Stories of

Nishnabeg Re- creation, Resurgence and a New Emergence (Winnipeg: ARP Books, 2011).

8. Indigenous Queer Normativity

 1. I share this story here with my daughter’s permission, although this is my version of the events, not hers.

 2. I would encourage readers to seek out the voices of queer In- digenous youth: the work of Dana Wesley, Billy- Ray Belcourt, the Na- tive Youth Sexual Health Network, Erin Marie Konsovo, to name just a few. Gwen Benaway’s blog on transitioning is also important reading: https://gilesbenaway.wordpress.com/.

 3. I believe that not wearing a skirt, or sitting on a different side of the lodge, or helping fire keep does not cause harm to our spiri- tual community, because I have led countless ceremonies where this is the case, and because I believe my Ancestors uphold our values of consent.

 4. Alex Wilson, as quoted in Native Youth Sexual Health Net- work and Women’s Earth Alliance, Violence on the Land, Violence on Our Bodies: Building an Indigenous Response to Environmental Vio- lence, http://landbodydefense.org/uploads/files/Violence%20on%20 the%20Land%20and%20Body%20Repor t%20and%20Toolkit%20 2016.pdf, 5.

266 NOTES TO CHAPTER 7

 5. Eddie Benton Banai, The Mishomis Book: The Voice of the Ojib- way, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010).

 6. Native Youth Sexual Health Network and Women’s Earth Alli- ance, Violence on the Land, 5– 6.

 7. Bruce Bagemihl, Biological Exuberance: Animal Homosexuali- ty and Natural Diversity (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999).

 8. Alex Wilson, “How We Find Ourselves: Identity Develop- ment and Two- Spirit People,” Harvard Educational Review 66, no. 2 (1996): 305.

 9. Qwo- Li Driskill, Chris Finely, Brian Joseph Gilley, and Scott Lauria Morgensen, eds., Queer Indigenous Studies: Critical Interven- tions in Theory, Politics, and Literature (Tucson: Arizona University Press, 2011); Kiera Ladner, “Women and Blackfoot Nationalism,” Journal of Canadian Studies 35 no. 2 (2000): 35– 60; Chris Finely, “De- colonizing the Queer Native Body (and Recovering the Native Bull- Dyke): Bringing ‘Sexy Back’ and Out of Native Studies’ Closet,” in Queer Indigenous Studies, ed. Driskill, Finely, Gilley, and Morgensen, 21– 43; Andrea Smith, “Queer Theory and Native Studies: The Heter- onormativity of Settler Colonialism,” in Queer Indigenous Studies, ed. Driskill, Finely, Gilley, and Morgensen, 43– 66.

10. J. Michael Thomas, “Leading an Extraordinary Life: Wise Practices for an HIV Prevention Campaign with Two- Spirit Men,” prepared for 2- Spirited People of the First Nations, Toronto, 2007, http://2spirits.com/PDFolder/Extraodinarylives.pdf; George Cat- lin, “The Dance of the Berdashe,” Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and Conditions of North American Indians (New York: Do- ver Publications, 1973; reprint of the 1844 ed. published by D. Bogue, London).

11. This is a different Yellowhead than the Odawa chief in Ontario. 12. Nishnaabe playwright Waawaate Fobister uses the term agok-

we in a similar manner and translates it as “wise woman,” “two spirit,” “woman within a man.”

13. John Tanner, Narrative of the Captivity and Adventures of John Tanner during Thirty Years Residence among the Indians in the Interior of North America, ed. Edwin James (New York: G. & C. & H. Carvill, 1800), 105.

14. Joseph- François Lafitau, Customs of the American Indians Compared with the Customs of Primitive Times, 1724, page 365, as quoted in Thomas, “Leading an Extraordinary Life”; also see Scott Lauria Morgensen, Spaces between Us: Queer Settler Colonialism and

NOTES TO CHAPTER 8 267

Indigenous Decolonization (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2011), 36– 42.

15. See Thomas, “Leading an Extraordinary Life,” 21. 16. Morgensen, Spaces between Us, 16– 17, 38. 17. Ibid., 16– 17. 18. Ibid., 38. 19. I haven’t done this research— there very well may be. 20. I understand ojiijaak as meaning “aura.” This comes from Doug

Williams. So this word to me does not literally mean two spirits but means a person has two auras. In my discussions with Doug, he indi- cated he wasn’t sure this interpretation was right, and needed more discussion with elders and fluent language speakers. I flag it here as an ongoing conversation within Nishnaabemowin and Nishnaabewin.

21. Ma- Nee Chacaby, A Two- Spirit Journey: The Autobiography of a Lesbian Ojibwa- Cree Elder (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 2016), 64– 66.

22. See Anton Treuer, The Assassination of Hole in the Day (St. Paul: Borealis Books, 2011), 26– 27.

23. Leanne Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back: Stories of Nish- nabeg Re- creation, Resurgence and a New Emergence (Winnipeg: ARP Books, 2011); Tara Williamson, “Of Dogma and Ceremony,” Decoloni- zation, Indigeneity and Society (blog), August 16, 2013, http://decolo nization.wordpress.com/2013/08/16/of-dogma-and-ceremony/.

24. I identify as queer and live embedded in a web of queer re- lationship. I have been in a long- term heterosexual relationship for nearly twenty years, meaning I also carry heterosexual privilege. In my work, I try to engage queerness in a meaningful way by centering the voices of 2SQ writers and scholars and continually critiquing my own heterosexual privilege.

25. Chacaby, A Two Spirit Journey. 26. CBC, ReVision Quest, July 20, 2011, starting at 7 minutes,

http://www.cbc.ca/revisionquest/2011/2011/07/20/july-20-21-23 -two-spirited-being-glbt-and-aboriginal/; Métis writer and thinker Chelsea Vowel has also considered this in Cree, “Language, Culture and Two- Spirit Identity,” âpihtawikosisân (blog), March 29, 2012, http:// apihtawikosisan.com/2012/03/language-culture-and-two-spir it -identity/. Nishnaabeg Two Spirit playwright Waawaate Fobister uses the term agokwe in his play of the same name. I transcribed the Nish- naabemowin words from the recording and then asked language ex- pert and elder Shirley Williams for help with the spelling. She under-

268 NOTES TO CHAPTER 8

stood many of Roulette’s words, and as an alternative, she suggested “wiichi- ninoonmaagan” or “ wiichi- ninoonmaaganimon” for the term gay, December 12, 2016, Peterborough, Ontario. I also consulted An- ishinaabemowin language expert Patricia Ningewance (through Tara Williamson, on January 22, 2017). Patricia understood Roger’s words and added that wiidigemaagan means “spouse.”

27. CBC, ReVision Quest, July 20, 2011, starting at 8 minutes, http://www.cbc.ca/revisionquest/2011/2011/07/20/july-20-21-23 -two-spirited-being-glbt-and-aboriginal/.

28. Gitxsan journalist Angela Sterritt wrote a series of articles on culturally relevant sex education in Indigenous communities for the Globe and Mail, and her article “Indigenous Languages Rec- ognize Gender States Not Even Named in English” explores these ideas in other Indigenous nations, http://www.theglobeandmail.com /life/health-and-fitness/health/indigenous-languages-recognize -gender-states-not-even-named-in-english/article29130778/.

29. Treuer, The Assassination of Hole in the Day, 27. After reading a previous version of this chapter, Billy- Ray Belcourt pointed out that Treuer’s use of the word sex in this quote is problematic because “sex” is an impossible category, as anatomy fails to name any obdurate form of life.

30. See Waawaate’s discussion of the play Agokwe, http://www .tedxtoronto.com/speakers/waawaate-fobister/. These translations oc- cur widely in the media in multiple places in their discussion of the play.

31. Doris O’Brien Teengs, “Two Spirit Women,” 2nd ed., written for 2 Spirited Peoples of the First Nations and the Ontario Aborigi- nal HIV/Aids Strategy, Toronto, 2008, http://www.2spirits.com/PD Folder/Two%20Spirit%20Women.pdf.

32. Louise Erdrich, The Porcupine Year (Toronto: Harper Collins, 2008), 1– 30.

33. Ibid. 34. Dana Wesley, “Reimagining Two- Spirit Community: Criti-

cally Centering Narratives of Urban Two- Spirit Youth,” (master’s the- sis, Gender Studies, Queens University, 2015), 102; https://qspace .librar y.queensu.ca/bitstream/1974/13024/1/Wesley_Dana_L_201 504_MA.pdf.

35. This paragraph is based on the feedback I received from Alex Wilson, January 20, 2017. I am grateful for her generosity and perspec- tives on this issue and Idle No More.

36. I used the word protocols in an interview with Lee Maracle

NOTES TO CHAPTER 8 269

for the Quill and Quire regarding storytelling practices. She corrected me and said stories are our birthright: “We wouldn’t call it protocol. Protocol to me is what you have with other nations. With your children it’s their birthright. These stories are their birthright. In my commu- nity, the elders actually don’t have the authority over how you work with the stories. That’s why I’ve never asked them. I can still plow on if they don’t say anything. But I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t step outside my family.” This made me think about the idea of protocols in a bigger way in the context of ceremony. The interview is available at http://www .quillandquire.com/authors/lee-maracles-tale/1/#search.

37. Reproduced courtesy of Billy- Ray Belcourt, https://nakinis owin.wordpress.com/2016/02/26/sacred/.

9. Land as Pedagogy

 1. A different version of this story is told by non- Native author C. B. Cook in Maple Moon (Markham, ON: Fitzhenry and Whiteside, 1999). There are several other maple sugar origin stories; see the title story in Leanne Simpson, The Gift Is in the Making: Anishinaabeg Sto- ries (Winnipeg: HighWater Press, 2013); Leanne Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back: Stories of Nishnaabeg Re- Creation, Resurgence and a New Emergence (Winnipeg: ARP Books, 2011)); and Alan Corbiere, “The Socio- Cultural History of Ninaatigwaaboo Maple Water,” Ojibwe Cultural Foundation 6, no. 4 (2011): 1, 4– 9.

 2. A similar version of this story is published in Simpson, The Gift Is in the Making , with the main character as a boy. Another version of this story was published in 2014 in Leanne Simpson, “Land as Pedago- gy: Nishnaabeg Intelligence and Rebellious Transformation,” Decolo- nization, Indigeneity, Education and Society 3, no. 3 (2014), with the main character as a girl, available online at http://decolonization.org /index.php/des/article/view/22170.

 3. Ziigwan is the first part of spring when the ice is breaking up and the snow is melting. Doodoom is an older Michi Saagiig Nish- naabeg word that children use for their mothers. It means “my breast- feeder.” I learned this word from Doug Williams. Ajidamoo is a red squirrel. Gaawiin mean “no.” Semaa is tobacco. Miigwech means “thanks.” Nishnaabekwewag means “Ojibwe women.” A saasaakwe is a loud shout or vocalization of approval used to call in or acknowledge the spirits. Ninaatigoog are maple trees.

 4. This subheading comes from the work of Nishnaabeg scholar

270 NOTES TO CHAPTER 8

Wendy Makoons Geniusz and her translation of the Nishnaabeg word gaa- izhi- zhaawendaagoziyaang; Wendy Makoons Geniusz Our Knowl- edge Is Not Primitive: Decolonizing Botanical Anishinaabe Teachings (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2009), 67.

 5. Geniusz, Our Knowledge Is Not Primitive, 67, calls this process of coming to know gaa- izhi- zhaawendaagoziyaang: “that which is giv- en lovingly to us by the spirits.”

 6. Manulani Meyers, June 3, 2014.  7. Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, 3– 7; Jill Doerfler,

Niigaanwewidam James Sinclair, and Heidi Kiiwetinepinesiik Stark, “Bagijige: Making an Offering,” in Centering Anishinaabeg Studies: Un- derstanding the World through Stories, ed. Jill Doerfler, Niigaanwewid- am James Sinclair,  and Heidi Kiiwetinepinesiik Stark (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2013), xv– xxvii.

 8. Manulani Meyers, June 3, 2014.  9. Jarrett Martineau and Eric Ritskes, “Fugitive Indigeneity: Re-

claiming the Terrain of Decolonial Struggle through Indigenous Art,” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education and Society 3 no. 1 (2014), II.

10. Vine Deloria Jr., “Traditional Technology,” In Power and Place: Indian Education in America, ed. Vine Deloria Jr. and Daniel R. Wildcat (Golden, Colo.: Fulcrum Resources, 2001), 58– 59.

11. Ibid., 60. 12. Geniusz, Our Knowledge Is Not Primitive, 11, defines

Nishnaabeg- gikendaasowin as knowledge, information, and the syn- thesis of our personal teachings; Nishnaabeg- inaadisiwin as Nish- naabeg psychology, way of being; Nishnaabeg- izhitwaawin as Nish- naabeg culture, teachings, customs, history; aadizookaanan as sacred stories; and dibaajimowinan as personal stories and history. I include all of these components in the term Nishnaabewin. Also see Geniusz, Our Knowledge Is Not Primitive, 67.

13. This is a term used to refer to the spiritual world by Sákéj Youngblood Henderson, First Nations Jurisprudence and Aboriginal Rights: Defining a Just Society (Saskatoon: University of Saskatchewan, Native Law Centre, 2006). Also see Sákéj Youngblood Henderson, “Empowering Aboriginal Thought,” in Reclaiming Indigenous Voice and Vision, ed. Marie Battiste (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000), 248– 79.

14. Gregory Cajete, Look to the Mountain: An Ecology of Indige- nous Education (Durango, Colo.: Kivaki Press, 1994).

15. John Borrows, “Fragile Freedoms: Indigenous Love, Law and Land in Canada’s Constitution,” unpublished paper that formed the

NOTES TO CHAPTER 9 271

basis of a CBC Ideas episode, “Fragile Freedoms: John Borrows, First Nations and Human Rights,” March 5, 2014, http://www.cbc.ca/play er/Radio/Ideas/ID/2440345608/. Also see John Borrows, “Maajita- adaa: Nanaboozhoo and the Flood, Part 2,” in Centering Anishinaabeg Studies: Understanding the World through Stories, ed. Jill Doerfler, Ni- igaanwewidam James Sinclair, and Heidi Kiiwetinepinesiik Stark (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2013), ix– xv; and Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, 37– 41.

16. Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, 11. 17. Doug Williams taught me this concept through the word

dnaagaa’aa (my phonetic spelling) in the context of hunting. It means “don’t hurt anything if you don’t need to, because you are stopping their path in life, have total compassion for other living beings.”

18. To me, this is actually a critical part of the system. Being ac- countable and self- aware of one’s own flaws and now, in the context of settler colonialism, one’s experience with trauma and violence become critical to operationalizing Nishnaabeg intelligence.

19. Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, 58. 20. It is my understanding that there is a high degree of nonin-

terference in the intimate truths of individuals, and also a collective high degree of noninterference for groups of people to hold different truths. There is respect for this diversity. This is balanced with collec- tive processes— ceremony and political processes (in governance, the generation of consensus, for example) that move, for instance, seven collective truths into an eighth understanding, while still acknowledg- ing and validating dissenting views. See Simpson, Dancing on Our Tur- tle’s Back, 58, for a more detailed explanation.

21. I started to think about Nishnaabeg intelligence after several discussions with Hawaiian thinker Manulani Meyer between 2012 and 2014, in Peterborough, Ontario, and Vancouver. See Manulani Meyer, “Indigenous Epistemology: Spirit Revealed,” in Enhancing Mātauran- ga Māori and Global Indigenous Knowledge (Wellington: New Zealand Qualifications Authority, 2014), 151– 66.

22. This is a Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg name for our territory or nation that means the place where we all live and work together, and emphasizes the relational aspect of our conceptualization of nation- hood. It refers to the north shore of Lake Ontario. See Simpson, Danc- ing on Our Turtle’s Back, 14, for a more detailed explanation.

23. Ibid.

272 NOTES TO CHAPTER 9

24. Winona LaDuke, All Our Relations: Struggles for Land and Life (Cambridge, Mass.: South End Press, 1994), 4, 132.

25. Henderson, First Nations Jurisprudence; L. Little Bear, “Jagged Worldviews Colliding,” in Reclaiming Indigenous Voice and Vision, ed. Marie Battiste (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000), 77– 86.

26. Borrows, “Fragile Freedoms,” 10; also see Borrows, “Maajita- adaa,” ix- xv.

27. Geniusz, Our Knowledge Is Not Primitive. 28. I would add that this context was one of real and symbolic

normalized violence for many Indigenous women and queer scholars coming through the system between the 1960s and the 1990s. “Indige- nizing the academy” at this stage meant individual sacrifice for Indige- nous women in order to obtain the credentials necessary to make the academy less violent toward the next group of Indigenous people com- ing through this system. It saddens me that these individual sacrifices so often go unrecognized.

29. I began to think about this more clearly after a discussion with long- time organizer Jaggi Singh about tactics in social movements, in St. John’s, NL, May 14, 2014.

30. This is another idea that I learned from Manulani Meyer be- tween 2012 and 2014 in Peterborough, Ontario, and Vancouver.

31. See Borrows’s conceptualization of Nanabush (Nanaboozhoo) in his story “Maajitaadaa.”

32. Linda Tuhiwai Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples (London: Zed Books, 2012).

33. Manulani Meyer came to a PhD class in Indigenous Studies at Trent University in 2012 that I was teaching on methodology and theo- ry. She began by asking students not what their dissertation was about, or what their theoretical framework or methodological approach was, but instead what their practice was in the context of Indigenous Knowledge. This is a critical distinction.

34. Glen Coulthard, “#Idle No More in Historical Context,” in The Winter We Danced: Voices from the Past, the Future, and the Idle No More Movement, ed. Kino- nda- niimi Collective (Winnipeg: ARP Books, 2014), 36.

35. Peggy Blair, Lament of a First Nation: The Williams Treaties of Southern Ontario (Vancouver, BC: UBC Press, 2008).

36. For one example, see Leanne Simpson, “Aambe! Maajaadaa! (What #IdleNoMore Means to Me),” Decolonization: Indigeneity,

NOTES TO CHAPTER 9 273

Education and Society, December 21, 2012, http://decolonization .wordpress.com/2012/12/21/aambe-maajaadaa-what-idlenomore -means-to-me/.

37. The basket clause was a legal clause added after the treaty was negotiated that negated all other treaties Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg had signed with the Crown. It is our belief that this clause was added after negotiations were complete without the knowledge of our lead- ers. See Blair, Lament of a First Nation.

38. Doug Williams, interviewed, recorded, and transcribed by Le- anne Simpson, July 4, 2013, Curve Lake First Nation.

39. Leanne Simpson, “Our Elder Brothers: The Lifeblood of Re- surgence,” in Lighting the Eighth Fire: The Liberation, Resurgence, and Protection of Indigenous Nations, ed. Leanne Simpson (Winnipeg: ARP Books, 2008), 73– 89.

40. For a broader discussion, see Glen Coulthard, Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial Politics of Recognition (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014); Andrea Smith, “Queer Theory and Native Studies: The Heteronormativity of Settler Colonialism,” in Queer Indigenous Studies: Critical Interventions in Theory, Politics, and Literature, ed. Qwo- Li Driskill, Chris Finely, Brian Joseph Gilley, and Scott Lauria Morgensen (Tucson: Arizona University Press, 2011), 43– 66; and Paul Nadasdy, Hunters and Bureaucrats: Power, Knowl- edge, and Aboriginal- State Relations in the Southwest Yukon (Vancou- ver: UBC Press, 2003).

41. For a discussion of Native Studies in the context of the academ- ic industrial complex, see Smith, “Queer Theory and Native Studies.” For a broader discussion of Indigenous recognition in Canadian poli- tics, see Coulthard Red Skin, White Masks; and for a discussion of the politics of refusal, see Audra Simpson, Mohawk Interruptus: Political Life across the Borders of Settler States (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2014).

42. Martineau and Ritskes, “Fugitive Indigeneity.” 43. Rubén Gaztambide- Fernández, “Decolonial Options and Ar-

tistic/AestheSic Entanglements: An Interview with Mignolo,” Decol- onization: Indigeneity, Education and Society 3, no.1 (2014): 196– 212.

44. Martineau and Ritskes, “Fugitive Indigeneity,” IV.

10. “I See Your Light”

 1. In my mind two of the most important recent examples of this are Glen Coulthard, Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial

274 NOTES TO CHAPTER 9

Politics of Recognition (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014); and Audra Simpson, Mohawk Interruptus: Political Life across the Borders of Settler States (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2014).

 2. Coulthard, Red Skin, White Masks.  3. Coulthard, Red Skin, White Masks, 69– 71; A. Simpson, Mo-

hawk Interruptus, 25.  4. “In particular Fanon emphasized the essentiality of reciprocal

recognition for human life and relatedness. Without reciprocal recog- nition, there can be no identity, no self- worth, no dignity”; Hussein Abdilahi Bulhan, Frantz Fanon and the Psychology of Oppression (New York: Plenum Press, 1985), 114.

 5. For a written version of this story, see Edward Benton- Banai, The Mishomis Book: The Voice of the Ojibway (St. Paul, Minn.: Red School House, 1988), 6– 12.

 6. I first heard this from Edna Manitowabi in 2005.  7. Leanne Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back: Stories of

Nishnaabeg Re- Creation, Resurgence and a New Emergence (Winni- peg: ARP Books, 2011).

 8. Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back; Winona LaDuke, All Our Relations: Struggles for Land and Life (Cambridge, Mass.: South End Press, 1994).

 9. Basil H. Johnston, Anishinaubae Thesaurus (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2007), 88.

10. When I say we are the land, I mean that we embody so pro- foundly the intelligence of the natural world that we are indistinguish- able from it. I am conflating Indigenous bodies with land here at the same time as I’m refusing settler colonialism.

11. Embodied Resurgent Practice and Coded Disruption

 1. Sarah Hunt and Cindy Holmes, “Everyday Decolonization: Living a Decolonizing Queer Politics,” Journal of Lesbian Studies 19, no. 2 (2015): 154– 72.

 2. Jeff Corntassel, “Re- envisioning Resurgence: Indigenous Path- ways to Decolonization and Sustainable Self- Determination,” Decolo- nization: Indigeneity, Education and Society, 1 no.1 (2012): 86– 101.

 3. It is also important to acknowledge that many Indigenous peo- ples have always lived this way and continue to do so now, and they would neither frame their lives nor their practices in this manner. It is simply how they have always lived. Mahsi Cho to Daniel T’selie

NOTES TO CHAPTER 11 275

(K’asho Got’ine Dene from Radili Ko/Fort Good Hope) for reminding me of this during the spring of 2015.

 4. Susan Blight, panel presentation, Indigenous Writers Gather- ing, Toronto Reference Library, Toronto, June 9, 2016. This was con- firmed with Susan in e- mail June 23, 2016, and is used here with her permission. Susan learned this from elder Alex McKay.

 5. Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, “The Hōkūle’a: Indigenous Resurgence from Hawai’i to Mannahatta,” talk given on March 31, 2016, The New School, New York.

 6. This is a quote from the trailer, https://vimeo.com/51118047; also see http://www.hokulea.com.

 7. For information about the organizations and their work men- tioned here, see the following: http://christibelcourt.com/onamin -collective/, http://ogimaamikana.tumblr.com/, https://www.kwiaw tstelmexw.com/, http://nativeyouthsexualhealth.com/.

 8. I’m thinking here of the wonderful women I’ve met through Dechinta, especially Melaw Nakehk’o (check her blog: https:// melawnakehko.wordpress.com/) and Mandee McDonald.

 9. For more information, see http://unistotencamp.com/ and http://freegrassy.net/.

10. Mishuana Goeman, Mark My Words: Native Women Mapping Our Nations (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2013).

11. Ibid., 6– 13. 12. Gerald Vizenor,  Manifest Manners: Narratives on Postindian

Survivance (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1999), vii. 13. Jarrett Martineau, “Creative Combat: Indigenous Art, Resur-

gence, and Decolonization” (PhD diss., School of Indigenous Gover- nance, University of Victoria, 2015).

14. See http://postcommodity.com/; http://walkingwithoursis ters.ca/; and http://www.skookumsound.com/.

15. He does this is contrast to my own academic and nonfiction work, where I have purposefully and deliberately visibilized Nish- naabewin (to some degree) in Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back. I under- stand and have a great deal of respect for his approach— an approach I take in my own creative work. The danger of Indigenous scholars and writers visibilizing Indigenous intelligence is that it sets it up for ex- ploitation in the context of settler colonialism. This has happened with the release of Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back to some degree. People can read the book and believe they have some grasp of Nishnaabewin without ever engaging any Nishnaabeg or learning these concepts in

276 NOTES TO CHAPTER 11

the appropriate manner. The benefit of this approach is that many In- digenous people have told me it has inspired them to learn their own intelligence system on their own terms, in their own nations. The dif- ference in approach ultimately comes from different but related guid- ance the two of us have received from our elders and our own spiritual communities.

16. Monique’s talk was part of the All in the Family Residency, September/October 2011, Nozhem First Peoples Performance Space, Trent University, Peterborough, Ontario.

17. This section is from an interview I did with Jarrett Martineau for his dissertation and is originally published in Martineau, “Creative Combat,” 106– 7. It is edited slightly here.

18. See the Kaha:wi Dance Theatre’s website: http://kahawid ance.org/feature/re-quickening.

19. This was Cherish Violet Blood, an actor, storyteller, comedian, activist, and Blackfoot woman.

20. A previous version of this section was published on my blog in July 2012, http://leannesimpson.ca/tag/rebecca-belmore/.

21. I’d like to acknowledge the curatorial work of Nishnaabekwe Wanda Nanibush in continually installing and exhibiting these artists and the very best of Indigenous performance art in particular.

22. There is a profound lack of work on Maungudaus by literary scholars, especially considering he wrote a few decades before Pau- line Johnson. See Ojibwe writer Heid E. Erdrich’s consideration of Maungudaus in “Name’: Literary Ancestry as Presence,” in Centering Anishinaabeg Studies: Understanding the World through Stories, ed. Jill Doerfler, Niigaanwewidam James Sinclair, and Heidi Kiiwetine- pinesiik Stark (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2013), 13– 34; and his journal Maungwudaus/George Henry, An Account of the Chippewa Indians, Who Have Been Travelling among the Whites, in the United States, England, Ireland, Scotland, France and Belgium; With Very Interesting Incidents in Relation to the General Characteristics of the English, Irish, Scotch, French and Americans, with Regard to Their Hospitality, Peculiarities, etc. (Boston: George Henry, 1848).

23. There are regional variations of this tradition, but Nishnaabeg practices concerning death involve not speaking the name of those who have passed for a certain period of time— sometimes four days, sometimes a year, sometimes forever— and some places don’t carry these traditions at all. Houle and his family do carry these traditions, and rather than list the names of those who died, Houle cycled the

NOTES TO CHAPTER 11 277

names, repeating them so the spirits would not feel “called back” to the physical world. Houle explained this to me at the opening of the exhibit in 2011.

24. Wanda Nanibush, “Contamination and Reclamation: Robert Houle’s Paris/Ojibwa,” review, Fuse, December 29, 2010, http://fuse magazine.org/2010/12/961.

25. See Nanibush’s more detailed description of the work in ibid. 26. A previous version of this section was originally published as a

review of the exhibit; see Leanne Simpson, “Robert Houle: Honouring Ojibwa History,” Canadian Art, July 28, 2011, http://canadianart.ca /reviews/robert_houle/.

27. The video can be viewed at http://leannesimpson.ca/leaks -music-video/.

28. See Martineau’s meticulous comprehensive discussion of opaqueness in Martineau, “Creative Combat,” 46.

29. See Martineau, “Creative Combat,” for his use of constellation. Houle told me at the opening at the Art Gallery of Peterborough in June 2010 that this transformation was jiibay to aandisoke.

12. Constellations of Coresistance

 1. Leanne Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back: Stories of Nishnabeg Re- creation, Resurgence and a New Emergence (Winnipeg: ARP Books, 2011).

 2. I was writing this section and ran into Lee Maracle at an Inter- national Women’s Day event in Toronto, March 10, 2016. In the course of our conversation, Lee said, “sound holds the universe together” and talked about her daughter’s powerful singing voice as an example of the sound.

 3. These stories come from Doug Williams.  4. “Hole in the Sky or Pleiades,” Annette S. Lee, William Wilson,

Jeffrey Tibbetts, and Carl Gawboy, Ojibwe Sky Star Map Constellation Guide: An Introduction to Ojibwe Star Knowledge (Cloquet, Minn.: Native Skywatchers, 2014), 22; Michael Wassegijig Price, “Anishi- naabe Star Knowledge,” Winds of Change, 17, no. 3 (2002): 52– 56; and http://www.michaelwassegijig.com/star-knowledge.html.

 5. Lee, Wilson, Tibbetts, and Gawboy, Ojibwe Sky Star Map Constellation Guide.

 6. Jarrett Martineau, “Creative Combat: Indigenous Art, Resur- gence, and Decolonization” (PhD diss., School of Indigenous Gover-

278 NOTES TO CHAPTER 11

nance, University of Victoria, 2015), 81.  7. “The purpose of fugitivity is to rupture the normative order of

representation; ‘to open the enclosure’”; Martineau, “Creative Com- bat,” quoting Fred Moten and Stefano Harney, The Undercommons: Fu- gitive Planning and Black Study (New York: Autonomedia, 2013), 11.

 8. Gchi Ojiig is “Big Fisher.”  9. Origin stories about the creation of wolverine attach wolver-

ines to the skyworld. I mention it here to demonstrate the code mean- ings, layering, and complexity of Nishnaabeg theory, but in the spirit of opacity and direct relevancy, I’ve chosen not to tell it.

10. Leanne Simpson, The Gift Is in the Making: Anishinaabeg Sto- ries (Winnipeg: HighWater Press, 2013).

11. Lawrence Henry SittingEagle, no date, Clan Responsibilities: Ojibwe Clan System, The Seven Original Clans, Rousseau River Anishi- naabe First Nations.

12. Jarrett Martineau has highly influenced my thinking in this regard both through his written work and as a colleague and friend. We’ve had countless conversations from 2012 to the present on the topics in this book, and while I’ve been careful to acknowledge con- cepts and ideas that came from him, there is a broader, more diffuse influence that I’d like to acknowledge here, although I remain solely responsible for how these ideas are presented in this work.

13. Martineau, “Creative Combat,” 41. 14. Jarrett Martineau and Eric Ritskes, “Fugitive Indigeneity: Re-

claiming the Terrain of Decolonial Struggle through Indigenous Art,” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education and Society 3 no.1 (2014): I– XIII.

15. The Winter We Danced: Voices from the Past, the Future, and the Idle No More Movement was edited by an editorial collective called the Kino- nda- niimi Collective comprised of Tanya Kappo, Wanda Nani- bush, Hayden King, Niigaan Sinclair, and me. The book was published by ARP Books, Winnipeg, in 2014.

16. I am thinking here of the Nishiyuu walkers and their 1,600 kilometers from Whapmagoostui, Cree territory, to Ottawa; http:// www.cbc.ca/news/abor iginal/quebec-cree -walker s-f ind-lasting -impact-in-trek-to-ottawa-1.2612958.

17. See elder Alo White’s account of this in his “The Sucker Punch of January 11,” in The Winter We Danced, ed. Kino- nda- niimi Collec- tive, 160– 63. Indian Act chiefs in the Assembly of First Nations agreed to a high- level meeting with then prime minister Stephen Harper,

NOTES TO CHAPTER 12 279

which resulted in the ending of Spence’s hunger strike and effectively the end of the movement.

18. Jarrett Martineau with Stephen Hui, “Give People a Hub,” in The Winter We Danced, ed. Kino- nda- niimi Collective, 115– 18.

19. Jarrett Martineau, personal communication, April 13, 2016, Toronto.

20. Kinomagewapkong means “the rocks that teach”; also known as the Peterborough Petroglyphs.

21. Gchi Engiikaaying is the word Doug Williams knows for To- ronto and means “big bay.”

22. I want to be careful here not to erase those Black and Indige- nous community organizers who have been building relationships in Toronto for decades. There was recent evidence of this in the Black Lives Matter mobilizations and in the OccupyINAC actions of 2016. Also see Luam Kidane and Hawa Y. Mire, “Constellations of Black Rad- ical Imagining: Black Arts and Popular Education,” in Our Schools/ Our Selves (The Canadian Centre for Policy Alternatives) 24, no. 3 (Spring 2015), 1– 8.

23. Katherine McKittrick, Demonic Grounds: Black Women and the Cartographies of Struggle (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006), xii.

24. Robin Levinson King, “Justin Trudeau Called Out for State- ments Made about Music Causing Violence against Women,” Toronto Star, September 22, 2015, http://anti-Blackness.thestar.com/news /federal-election/2015/09/22/justin-trudeau-points-finger-at-com munities-for-causing-violence-against-women.html.

Conclusion

 1. See Jorge Barrera, “Idle No More, Defenders of the Land Form Alliance, Call for ‘Sovereignty Summer,’” March 18, 2013, APTN Na- tional News, http://aptn.ca/news/2013/03/18/idle-no-more-defend ers-of-the-land-form-alliance-call-for-sovereignty-summer/.

 2. During Idle No More, there was an information blockade at Alderville First Nation where people handed out pamphlets and cof- fee, and I think this was a tremendously beautiful and generous act of resistance.

 3. Glen Coulthard, “#IdleNoMore in Historical Context,” De- colonization: Indigeneity, Education and Society, December 24, 2012,

280 NOTES TO CHAPTER 12

https://decolonization.wordpress.com/2012/12/24/idlenomore-in -historical-context/.

 4. Vijay Prashad wrote this sentence with regard to Palestinian people in an interview he did with Daniel Whittall about his book Let- ters to Palestine on the Red Pepper blog, July 2, 2015; http://www.red pepper.org.uk/letters-to-palestine-an-interview-with-vijay-prashad/. I edited the sentence and placed it in an Indigenous context.

 5. See Glen Coulthard, Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Co- lonial Politics of Recognition (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014); and also Audra Simpson, “Reconciliation and Its Dis- contents: Reconciliation in the Age of Sorrow,” video, March 22, 2016, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGl9HkzQsGg.

 6. Leanne Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back: Stories of Nishnabeg Re- creation, Resurgence and a New Emergence (Winnipeg: ARP Books, 2011).

 7. Jack Halberstam, “The Wild Beyond: With and for the Under- commons,” in The Undercommons: Fugitive Plag and Black Study, by Stefano Harney and Fred Moten (New York: Automedia, 2013), 11.

NOTES TO CONCLUSION 281

283

INDEX

Aaniin (Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg greeting), 181

Abdillahi, Idil, 252n.13 Aborigines Protection Society, 68 abstraction, as aesthetic principle,

201–2 academy: bringing Indigenous

Knowledge into, discussion in late 1990s on, 170–71; critical process of Indigenous academ- ics, 63; gatekeeping by, 31, 37; importance of work as Indige- nous scholars, 65–66; “Indige- nizing” the, 159, 171, 273n.28; interventions in Indigenous scholarship dismantling colonial domination, 175–78; method- ologies of, 13; methodologies of Indigenous scholars, 29–34, 254n.7; pressure on youth to gain Western academic cre- dentials, 159–60, 162, 273n.28; proper context for Nishnaabeg intelligence, lack of, 164; using

conventions of, to critique system of settler colonialism, 31; Western liberatory theo- ry, 56, 67. See also education; knowledge

accountability: alternative systems of, 92–93, 227; forcing state to enact its own mechanisms for, 238; politics of grief used by state to avoid, 239–40

Ace, Barry, 208, 209 Acevedo, Marina, 202 aesthetics, Indigenous: abstraction

as, 201–2; coded disruption and affirmative refusal through use of, 171–72, 199, 200–10; duality as, 201; Kuna, 200; layering as, 202–3; multidimensionality as, 201; reenactment and presenc- ing as, 203–10; repetition as, 200–201

affirmative refusal, 198, 199, 200–10; Belmore’s performance art as, 206

284 INDEX

agency, 68–69, 129; balanced rela- tionship of mutuality in maple sugar story, 157; of children, 132–33; diversity and, 129; gendered regulation as imposi- tion on, 141; of Kanienkehá:ka women, 115–16; mobility as expression of, 197; of Nish- naabeg women, 68–69, 128; sexual, colonizers’ control of, 89, 107–13, 262n.8. See also self- determination

agokwa (term for 2SQ person), 124, 131, 267n.12, 268n.26

agokwe-ininito (gender variance and lesbian sexual orientation), 131

Aki, the land, 28; as context and process of coming to know, 151, 155; dispossession and removal from, 43; as foundation of Nishnaabeg thought, 213; as liberation and freedom, 163; meaning of, 254n.2; “natural resources” as gifts from, 8; Nish- naabeg conceptualizations of, as relational, 160–61; practice of, 164. See also land

akinoomaage, knowledge in, 161 Alderville First Nation, 99, 109,

280n.2 algorithms: digital dispossession

and, 222, 224; Nishnaabeg, 23, 24, 34, 79, 185

allies in resurgence, 228–31 All in the Family Residency, 277n.16 Amnesty International, 263n.10 Anaya, James, 136 Ancestors, 2, 41, 44, 74, 77, 117; in-

ternationalism and, 62; primary concern to educate practitioners of Nishnaabeg intelligence, 159;

queerness normalized among, 129; refusal of settler colonial- ism, 17, 43; relationship with, 18, 122, 140; vision for Nishnaabeg present, 4, 10, 25, 48; working to ensure existence as Indigenous people, 6, 21

animals, relationships with: hunting and fishing and, 58–61, 156, 180, 212, 243–45, 272n.17; recog- nition of, 181, 182; zhawenjige and, 156

Anishinaabeg reserve community of Long Lake #58, Elders of, 12–17, 18, 22, 25, 27, 69

Anishinabek News, 256n.1 anti-Blackness, 6, 10, 48, 97–98,

229, 230, 252n.13 anticapitalism, Nishnaabeg, 71–82;

anticapitalist practices of Indig- enous peoples, 72–73, 76–80, 81; Klein and, 71–76. See also capitalism

anti-queerness, 123–27; as au- togenocide, 127, 133–34; replication of, through erasure of 2SQ people from leadership of nation-building movements, 136. See also queer normativity, In- digenous; Two Spirit and queer (2SQ) people

Apple, 222 Art Gallery of Peterborough, 208–9,

278n.29 artist collectives, 198–99, 216–17;

Houle’s Paris/Ojibwa as story of, 206–10

artistic practice, resurgent, 198–210; coded disruption and affirmative refusal through, 198, 199, 200–10; decolonizing po- tentiality of art, 198–99, 215–16

INDEX 285

Assembly of First Nations (AFN), EAGLE project, 12

assimilation, 41, 42, 263n.12; Ca- nadian nation-building project and, 104; dismantling power and influence of Indigenous women and, 111–13; extraction and, 75; fighting to survive, 177; Meth- odist missions and missionaries and, 95, 96–100; recognition as reward for, 88; stereotypes and, belief in, 95–96, 100, 103

Atwood, Margaret, 97 autogenocide, anti-queerness as,

127, 133–34

Bagemihl, Bruce, 267n.7 Barman, Jean, 264n.20 Barrera, Jorge, 280n.1 Beaucage, Glenna, 76, 77 Belcourt, Billy-Ray, 119, 143–44,

266n.2, 269n.29, 270n.37 Belcourt, Christi, 202, 216 beliefs, unconscious colonial, 85–86.

See also racism; stereotypes Bell, Nicole, 261n.8 Belmore, Rebecca, 203–6 Benaway, Gwen, 266n.2 Benton-Banai, Edward, 252n.1,

258n.2, 261n.7, 267n.5, 275n.5 biidaaban (dawn), 193 biiskabiyang (turning inward to-

ward essence), 17–21, 245 Bills C3 and C31, 101, 105 Binoojiinh Makes a Lovely Discov-

ery (maple sugar origin story), 146–49; Binoojiinh as embodi- ment of idea of land as pedagogy in, 150, 160, 165. See also maple sugar origin stories

Birchbark House series (Erdrich), 132–33

birth, as coming through doorway between spiritual and physical world, 212

Black community as coresistors, 228–31; building Indigenous internationalism with, 35; in Toronto, lines of segregation be- tween Indigenous communities and, 229–30

Black Constellation, 216 Black feminism, 18, 37, 229, 259n.7 Black Lives Matter Toronto,

252n.13, 280n.22 Black Radical Tradition, 66, 229,

259n.7, 259n.8 Black Skin, White Masks (Fanon),

186 Blair, Peggy, 257n.3, 264n.19,

273n.35 Blight, Susan, 193, 276n.4 Blood, Cherish Violet, 206, 277n.19 bodies, Indigenous: attack on,

dispossession and, 41–42; Bel- more’s body as her art, 203–6; colonizers’ view of, 104; as de- mand, embodied alternative and solution, 237; erasure of political orders and relationships housed within, 42; Indian Act and, 101–14; networks carried in, 16, 21, 127; as political orders, 104, 114–18, 127, 140, 192, 236, 237, 255n.12; as political orders, elimination of queer, 120, 126, 127 (see also queer normativity, Indigenous); as political orders, erasure of, 42; reciprocal rec- ognition and, 182; regulation of menstruating women, 2SQ, and trans bodies in ceremony, 141; removal from land, 41, 42, 81; settler colonialism as structure

286 INDEX

for purposes of dispossessing, 45–46; skirt wearing under co- lonialism as tool of oppression, 139–40; sovereignty of, 53–54, 95–118, 140, 203; white women teaching at Methodist missions and policing of, 96–97; as wrong, shame as tool of settler colonial- ism to convey, 186–89. See also embodied resurgent practice

Borrows, John, 155–56, 160–61, 271n.15, 273n.31

Boyer, Yvonne, 265n.22 Brand, Dionne, 163, 252n.13 Brownlie, Robin Jarvis, 105–6,

262nn.7–8, 264n.10 buffalo extermination, 74 Bulhan, Hussein Abdilahi, 275n.4 burial grounds, 4 Bushie, Berma, 263n.14

Cajete, Gregory, 271n.14 Canadian Left, 234–35 Canadian narrative: international

narrative as champion of human rights and benevolent empathic state, 234; of the past, 100–101

Canadian nation-building project, 104. See also settler colonialism; state

Canadian public, social media and visibility of Indigenous people to, 225

capital, nonexistence among Nish- naabeg, 77

capitalism, 48; actualizing local eco- nomic alternatives to, 173, 227; critiquing and analyzing, from within Nishnaabewin, 72, 73, 79, 260n.2; digital dispossession and, 221–22; dispossession and, 10, 13, 34–35, 41, 72; extractiv-

ism and, 13, 76, 80; global, 47, 80; global, organizing against climate change as fight against, 67, 70; refusal of, 36; settlers’ appropriation of maple syrup origin story in context of, 154; Western education and, 14. See also anticapitalism, Nishnaabeg

Caribou clan, 116 Carter, Sarah, 262n.8, 263n.9,

265n.28 Catlin, George, 124, 207, 208,

267n.10 ceremonial practices, 4, 18, 19, 23,

40, 134, 253n.11, 266n.3; alter- native systems of accountability and, 92; ceremonial knowledge, 203; generating meaning in, 157; giveaway ceremony, 50, 77; Indian Act and, 101; Nishnaabeg internationalism and, 61–62; protocols for, 134, 269n.36; pro- tocols for, exclusionary, 139, 141, 143; protocols for, skirt-wearing, 119–20, 138–43; protocols for, as way of belonging, 142; purpose of, 138, 140; recognition within Nishnaabewin through, 181; skirt-wearing as accepted proto- col for women, 119–20, 138–43; sweat lodge, 119–20

Chacaby, Ma-Nee, 126, 255n.8, 265n.28, 268n.21

Champlain, Samuel du, 1, 4, 124, 251n.2, 252n.7

Charlevoix, Pierre François Xavier de, 124

Chickadee (Erdrich), 132 Chief Drygeese Territory of the

Akaicho region of Denendeh, 64 “Chief ’s Two Bodies, The” (A.

Simpson), 114–15, 255n.12

INDEX 287

Child, Brenda, 258n.4 children, Indigenous: adopted

by Two Spirit couples, 126; agency of, 132–33; Deer clan story and, 244; dispossession of, 41; relationship between Nishnaabeg children and adults, 132; residential and day schools and, 15, 41, 88, 99, 100, 108, 115; residential and day schools and, gender binary reinforced at, 125, 126–27 (see also education)

child welfare, marginalization of women working on, 53

child welfare system, 41, 115 Chi’Niibish (Lake Ontario), 2;

salmon and eel in, 3, 4, 74, 77, 99 Christianity, 122; Christian mar-

riage, Indian Act and conformity to, 104, 110–11; creation stories in, 226; gender binary reinforced in church, 127; infusion and reinforcement of beliefs, 89; Jesuit missions, 124–25; Meth- odist missions, 95, 96–100, 109, 111

Ciccariello-Maher, George, 259n.8 citational politics in Indigenous

Studies, 37 cities: contributions of urban Indig-

enous communities to collective resurgence, 173; settler colonial positioning of reserve-urban re- lationships to reinforce division, 80–81, 173, 195, 197

citizenship, 177, 179 clan system of Michi Saagiig Nish-

naabeg, 116 climate change, 76; effects of,

69–70; organizing against, 67, 70 coded disruption, 198, 199, 200–10 coercion, as exploitation, 130

cognitive imperialism, 72 Cole, Desmond, 230 collaborative or participatory

methodology, 13 collective action: contribution of

urban Indigenous communities to collective resurgence, 173; In- digenous futures dependent on, 246; PKOLS as, 241–42. See also constellation(s); networks

collective consciousness, interna- tionalism and, 57

collectives, artist, 198–99, 216–17 collective self-recognition, Indige-

nous, 65 Collins, Patricia Hill, 255n.9 colonialism, 15; academy’s lack of

understanding of, 31; coded dis- ruption of, 198, 199, 200–10; col- onized life about consumption, 23; current prostitution laws and, 108; dispossession from grounded normativity through, 24–25, 106–7, 221–22; as domi- nating force in daily life, 44–45; entrenched, 114; expansive dispossession of, 41–44, 144; experiencing personal trauma of, 27, 85, 118; extraction-as- similation system of, 75; gender binary of, 125, 126–27, 128, 131, 145; Indigenous international relationship-building process for liberation from, 246–47; kwe and, 44–47; Moodie’s guide to settler life in Nishnaabeg terri- tory, 97–100; ongoing existence and simultaneous failure, 90–91; refusal of, 33–35, 43; refusing colonial spatialities, 195–98; resisting, 73; as structure of pro- cesses, analyzing, 35; tools of,

288 INDEX

93, 139–40; treaties of, 5, 39, 99. See also settler colonialism

coming to know, 161; Aki as context and process of, 151, 155; consen- sual engagement and, 161–63; Nanabush modeling, 165–66. See also intelligence, Nishnaabeg; knowledge

commodification: of land and bodies, 41, 198, 199, 257n.4; of land and bodies, refusal of, 43, 152, 254n.2; refusing to visibilize Indigenous intelligence to prevent, 198, 199

communism, 76 community-based methodology, 13 community building, 197–98 Community Holistic Circle Healing

project in Hollow Water First Nation, 92

consensual engagement: consent embedded in reciprocal recog- nition, 182; hunting and, 212; intelligence as, 160–63

constellation(s), 34–35, 211–31; of coresistance, 228–31; fugitive intervention and, 215–18; Gchi Ojiig formation (Big Dipper) story, 214–15, 279n.8; mobiliza- tion within grounded normativ- ity and, 218–28; as organizing value in resurgent movement building, 216–17; as physical and conceptual doorways, 212–13

consumption, colonized life about, 23

Cook, C. B., 270n.1 Corbiere, Alan, 251n.5, 261n.7,

270n.1 coresistance: Black and brown

individuals and communities,

35, 228–31; constellations of, 228–31 (see also constella- tion(s)); ethical engagement with theories and practices of coresistors and people enacting them, 66–67; white “friends” and allies, 228, 231

Corntassel, Jeff, 192, 239, 275n.2 Coulthard, Glen, 22, 23, 64–65,

254n.16, 257n.8, 258n.1, 259n.7, 260n.2, 260n.12, 273n.34, 274n.1, 274nn.40–41, 280n.3, 281n.5; on Idle No More, 235–36; on politics of recogni- tion, 175–76

Cox, Ross, 124 Crane clan, 116 creation, relationship to, 121, 128 creation story(ies), 211–12; Chris-

tian in contrast to Nishnaabeg, 226; maple sugar origin story aligned with, 145–53; PKOLS in, 240–42; Seven Fires, 20–21, 28, 56, 211; wolverine, 279n.9

“Creative Combat: Art, Resurgence, and Decolonization” (Martin- eau), 198–99, 215–16, 247

Creator, the. See Gzhwe Manidoo (The Creator)

Credit River Mission, 96 Cree grounded normativity, 122–23,

199 criminal justice system: alternatives

to, 92–93; criminalization of In- digenous behavior under Indian Act, 105–13, 115

cultural resurgence, 49, 50, 54 culture, use of term, 257n.13 culture genocide, 109, 111 Curve Lake, 3, 34 Customs of the American Indians

INDEX 289

Compared with the Customs of Primitive Times (Lafitau), 124

Dakota Access pipeline in Standing Rock, North Dakota, mobiliza- tion against, 6

Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back (Simpson), 19–20, 22, 24, 27, 28–29, 36, 72, 80, 130; creation stories told and discussed in, 20–21, 28, 56, 161; debwewin, practice of, 31, 255n.13; skirt-wearing protocol for ceremony and, 138; visibiliz- ing Indigenous intelligence in, 276n.15

DaSilva, Judy, 33, 69 death, Nishnaabeg practices con-

cerning, 277n.23 debwewin, practice of (process of

producing truths), 31, 255n.13 decentralized leadership, 224–25 Dechinta Centre for Research and

Learning, 37, 63, 84, 92, 126, 186, 194

decolonization: artists and artist collectives engaged in, 198–99, 215–16; everyday acts of resurgence and, 192–95; Idle No More’s effect on decolonial political agenda, 226; Indigenous aesthetics, coded disruption and affirmative refusal in use of, 171–72, 199, 200–10; living decolonizing queer politics, 191–92; refusing colonial spatial- ities, 195–98

Decolonizing Methodologies: Re- search and Indigenous Peoples (Smith), 254n.7

“Decolonizing the Mind: Healing

through Neurodecolonization and Mindfulness” (Yellowbird), 253n.11

Deer clan, treaty with, 58–61, 77; as story of generative refusal, 243–45

Deloria, Vine, Jr., 271n.10 demand, Indigenous bodies and

political orders as, 237 Demonic Grounds: Black Women

and the Cartographies of Struggle (McKittrick), 230

Dene Declaration, 177 Dene people: Dene students at

Dechinta, 194; grounded norma- tivity of, 199; listing truths about Indigenous women and men, 84; moose-hide tanners in Denen- deh, 6, 194; music video depict- ing Dene people practicing their way of life, 186–87; working with, in Denendeh, 63–66, 92

Dennis, Darryl, 130 Dhillon, Jaskiran K., 262n.4 digital dispossession, 221–22. See

also Internet diplomacy: deer story and Nish-

naabeg, 58–61, 243–45; mobility and, 197–98. See also Nishnaabeg internationalism; treaties

direct action, Indigenous, 236–38. See also mobilization; resurgence

disappearance of Indigenous bod- ies, 41–42, 45; fear of, 176–77; of women and 2SQ people, 41–42, 89, 104, 111, 115, 152, 176, 204, 239

dispossession: breaking Indigenous people’s spiritual connection to each other and to land as critical

290 INDEX

part of, 143; capitalism driving, 10, 13, 34–35, 41, 72; colonialism and kwe, 44–47; consolidation of, by shifting Indigenous peo- ples into urban wage economy, 82; digital, 221–22; EAGLE project for less, 12; effect of four centuries of, 2, 4–6, 7, 12–13, 15, 40, 103; expansive, 41–44, 54, 144; from grounded norma- tivity, 24–25, 106–7, 221–22; heteropatriarchy as foundational force in, 42, 51–52, 87–90, 93, 97, 127; hunting and fishing and, 5, 33, 40, 106, 166, 167–70; Methodist missions and, 96–100; opposite of, in Indigenous thought, 185; primary expe- rience of being Michi Saagiiig Nishnaabekwe as one of, 40; refusal of, 34, 36, 43, 44; as relationship with the state, 43, 45–46, 245; and removal of In- digenous body from Nishnaabe- win, 43, 127, 143, 159; “social ills” as manifestations of ongoing violence of, 42, 227; uncon- scious colonial beliefs planted in Indigenous populations for, 86, 100, 103

distance, marronage and, 18 distraction, politics of, 192, 239–40 diversity: agency and, 129; collec-

tive meanings and plurality of truths, 157, 272n.20; fostered by Nishnaabewin, 155–57; Nish- naabeg intelligence as, 157–60. See also queer normativity, Indigenous

Doerfler, Jill, 271n.7 domesticity, 104, 106, 109–10;

cultural genocide and, 111

Douglas, Mount, PKOLS reclama- tion of, 240–42, 247

Douglas, Sir James, 240 Driben, Paul, 12, 13–15 Driskill, Qwo-Li, 267n.9 duality, as aesthetic principle, 201

Eagle clan, 116 EAGLE project, 12–17 economic alternatives to capitalism,

actualizing, 173, 227 economic sanctions, threat of, 106 education: assimilative Methodist,

96; capitalism and Western, 14; land as pedagogy, 145–73; land-based freedom schools, 178, 227, 237; maple sugar origin story and, 145–49, 150, 160, 165; resurgent, 80, 82, 166–73, 178, 245; sex, 269n.28; state-run education system, 14, 41, 76, 149–50, 159–60, 162, 172, 227; Western, 13–14. See also acad- emy; intelligence, Nishnaabeg; knowledge

eels, 3; loss of, 4, 77, 99 Effects on Aboriginals from the

Great Lakes Environment (EA- GLE) project, 12–17

Elders: communication with Ances- tors, 18–19; EAGLE project and, 12–17; on faculty at university, 170; learning from, 11–17, 22, 25, 27, 69, 76, 152, 164; marron- age and, 18; on queer people, 123

Emberly, Julia, 257n.4 embodied resurgent practice,

191–210; artistic practice, 198–210; artistic practice, coded disruption and use of Indigenous aesthetics in, 198, 199, 200–10;

INDEX 291

artistic practice, decolonizing potentiality of, 198–99; everyday acts of resurgence, 192–95, 236, 246; living decolonial queer pol- itics in intimate spaces, 191–92; refusing colonial spatialities, 195–98

English-Wabigoon River system, industrial dumping of mercury into, 69, 260n.14

environmental collapse, 73–74, 77, 99, 106

Epstein, Andrew Bard, 260n.2 Erdrich, Heid E., 277n.22 Erdrich, Louise, 132, 269n.32 Erickson, Lesley, 263n.8, 265n.28 Este, Nick, 252n.10, 261n.2 ethics: ethical engagement with

theories and practices of coresis- tors and people enacting them, 66–67; ethical intelligence, 24; ethical obligations to Black community within Nishnaabe- win, 230–31; ethical systems of grounded normativity, 44, 78, 130; internationalism and, 56–57; as limit to fluidity of Nanabush’s theory, 183; Nish- naabeg research, 57; queerness in Nishnaabeg thought and, 130, 131; treaty with Hoof Nation, 58–61, 243–45

“Everyday Decolonization: Living a Decolonizing Queer Politics” (Hung and Holmes), 191–92

excess, problems with, 77–78; Deer clan story illustrating, 58–61, 77

extractivism, 13, 25, 42, 46, 50; defining, 73; Indigenous ab- straction versus, 201–2; Klein’s interest in, 73–76; poverty and,

80; resurgent organizing to chal- lenge, 178

Facebook, 222, 224, 226 family, extension of idea of, 9 famine, assistance during, 77 Fanon, Frantz, 64, 186, 275n.4 Fawn, Sam, 169 fear of disappearance, 176–77 Female Refuges Act, 111–12 femininity, colonial conception

of, 123. See also gender; queer normativity, Indigenous

feminism: Black, 18, 37, 229, 259n.7; Indigenous, 51, 137, 258n.14. See also women, Indig- enous

Finely, Chris, 267n.9 fishing. See hunting and fishing

rights flight: biiskabiyang and, 17–21, 245;

flight paths out of settler colo- nialism, 17, 36, 192, 193–95, 197, 203, 210, 213, 217–18; freedom realized through, 173

f(l)ight (album), 216–17 Fobister, Waawaate, 131, 267n.12,

268n.26, 269n.30 Ford, Glen, 259n.8 Four Directions Aboriginal Student

Centre at Queens University, 259n.5

freedom: Aki as, 163; biiskabiyang and flight, 17–21, 245; idea of, in precolonial Nishnaabeg society, 4; Indigenous, as guiding vision, 7–8, 94; realized through flight and refusal, 173

Freedom as Marronage (Roberts), 17–18

freedom schools, 178, 227, 237 Friendship Centres, 195

292 INDEX

fugitivity, 213, 214, 279n.7; in Deer clan story, 245; fugitive interven- tion, 215–18

gaa-izhi-zhaawendaagoziyaang (given lovingly to us by the spir- its), 149; Nishnaabeg knowledge through process of, 155; rela- tionships required for, 155–56

Gabriel, Ellen, 33, 233, 251n.4 Galloway, Gloria, 263n.11 Game of Silence, The (Erdrich),

132 game wardens, enforcement of

hunting and fishing restrictions by, 168–69

Gawboy, Carl, 278n.4 Gaztambide-Fernández, Rubén,

274n.43 Gchi Enchikiiwang (big bay),

280n.21. See also Toronto Gchi Ojiig formation (Big Dipper),

214–15, 279n.8 gender: centering gender in re-

surgence, 51–54, 94, 118, 134; discrimination by, Indian Act and, 105, 177; fluidity of, 86, 110, 133; gender binary, as colonial, 125, 126–27, 128, 131, 145; gender binary, heteropatriarchy and reinforcement of, 88–89, 97, 110–11, 123, 127, 129, 134; gendered stereotypes, 83–84, 85, 89, 91–92, 102, 112, 205; gender variance, 123, 131–32, 141; gender variance, colonial response to, 124–26; marginal- ized in resurgence and Indige- nous scholarship, 51; privileging of men’s work over women’s, 53–54; relationship to all aspects of creation without gendering

them, 121; skirt-wearing pro- tocol in ceremony and, 119–20, 138–43. See also queer normativ- ity, Indigenous

gender violence, 15, 41, 51, 54, 92–93, 100; affecting all genders, 86–87; in collusion with white men and on behalf of settler colonial state, 52, 89, 93; eradica- tion of, 35, 227; marginalization of women working on issues of, 53; rejection of replication of set- tler colonial, 91; as tactic of both war and genocide, 88, 263n.12; Trudeau on, 230

generative refusal, 177–78, 209, 233, 242–45, 246; Deer clan story as story of, 243–45

Geniusz, Wendy Makoons, 149, 253n.5, 271nn.4–5, 271n.12

genocide, 88, 97, 99, 100, 262n.8, 263n.12; culture, 109, 111; of Two Spirit (2SQ) people, 126. See also violence

Georgian Bay, records of Indian agents working in, 105–6

Gerson, Carole, 99–100, 264n.7 Gift Is in the Making: Anishinaabeg

Stories, The (Simpson), 258n.3 Gilley, Brian Joseph, 267n.9 giveaway ceremony, 50, 77 Globe and Mail, 269n.28 Goeman, Mishuana, 195–96,

254n.6, 276n.10 Google, 222 governance, system of, 3, 4, 9; Nish-

naabeg practice, 106–7, 112–13, 116–17; Nishnaabewin (ground- ed normativity) and, 23–24. See also political systems; state

Grape Island Mission, 95, 96, 109 Grassy Narrows First Nation, 6, 69,

INDEX 293

81; ongoing blockade at, 81, 194, 242

Great Lakes, epic water walks around, 58

Greene-ba, Robin, 19, 252n.12 grief, Indigenous, 238–39; politics

of grief and, 239–40 grounded normativity: artist

collectives creating space for instantiating microcommunal forms of, 217; Cree, 122–23, 199; Dene, 199; dispossession from, 24–25, 106–7, 221–22; ethical systems of, 44, 78, 130; mobili- zation within, 178, 218–28, 236; organizing within nation-based, 178; productive place of refusal generating, 176; Seneca, 196. See also Nishnaabewin (grounded normativity)

Gumbs, Alexis Pauline, 18, 37, 252n.13

Gustafsen Lake resistance, 247 Gzhwe Manidoo (The Creator), 20,

28, 184, 254n.4; context for Nishnaabeg reality set up by, 160–61; Nanabush and, 57, 183, 184; stars as thoughts and ideas of, 211; story of Gchi Ojiig (Big Dipper) and, 214–15. See also creation story(ies)

Halberstam, Jack, 281n.7 Harada, Dr. Masazumi, 69, 260n.14 Harney, Stefano, 279n.7 Harper, Stephen, 47, 73, 74, 279n.17 Haudenosaunee, 77, 251n.4 Henderson, Sákéj Youngblood,

271n.13 Henry, Alexander, 124 heteronormativity, 130 heteropatriarchy, 10, 17, 21, 48, 144,

177, 205; centering gender in resurgence, 51–54, 94, 134; cod- ed intervention disrupting, 206; as foundational dispossession force, 42, 51–52, 87–90, 93, 97, 127; gender binary and hierar- chy of, rigid, 88–89, 97, 110–11, 123, 127, 129, 134; Indigenous men placed as agents of, 109–11; refusal of, 33, 34, 36; risk of replicating, 51, 52, 53, 89; sexual agency as threat to, 107–13; skirt-wearing and, 141, 142; systemic dismantling of, 52, 245; systemic dismantling of, as core project of Radical Resurgence Project, 82, 83–94, 118; systemic dismantling of, Indigenous men and, 93; use of term, 253n.4

heterosexism, 93, 130 Hill, Janice, 258n.5 Hōkūle’a, Polynesian Voyaging

Society’s journey of, 193 holism, 201 Hollow Water First Nation, 19;

Community Holistic Circle Healing project in, 92, 263n.14

Holmes, Cindy, 36, 191–92, 275n.1 homophobia, 93, 130, 136 Hoof Nation, treaty with, 58–61, 77,

243–45 Houle, Robert, 7, 203, 277n.23;

Paris/Ojibwa, 69, 206–10, 259n.11

Huhdorf, Shari M., 262n.5 Hui, Stephen, 280n.18 humor, resilience and, 169 Hunt, Sarah, 36, 53, 93, 191–92,

255n.7, 255n.8, 257n.8, 258n.15, 265n.35, 266n.38, 275n.1

hunter and gatherer societies: gender binary from within

294 INDEX

reality of, 128; governance and political systems of, 116–17

hunting and fishing rights: under 1818 treaty, 5, 39; provincial recognition of, as no threat to state or settlers, 39–40; treaty with animals, 58–61, 156, 180, 212, 243–45, 272n.17; Williams Treaty (1923) and loss of, 5, 33, 106, 166, 167–69, 274n.37

hyperindividualism, capitalist, 154

I Am Woman (Maracle), 32–33 identity politics, 177, 213 Idle No More, 6–7, 47, 73, 113, 216,

234, 252n.11, 269n.35, 280n.2; aftermath of, 225–26; decen- tralized leadership model, 224; great walks of, 221; Indigenous political strains coming together in, 219–20; mobilization within grounded normativity, 218–28; movement building, 220–21, 236; relationship to allies, 220; tactics, debates over, 234–36; Two Spirit activists and, 135–37; use of the Internet, 219, 220, 221–26

ikwekaazowag (gender variant men), 131

imperialism, cognitive, 72. See also colonialism; settler colonialism

implicate order, 20, 24, 143, 155, 157–58, 201. See also spirit world

Indian Act, 15, 50, 86, 88, 100, 101–14, 227, 259n.9, 279n.17; elections, 109; gender dis- crimination of, 105, 177; impact on Indigenous nations, 101–2; Indigenous bodies and, 101–14; masculinist view of, 101; ongoing trauma of, 4–5,

102–3; practice of, specifically targeting Indigenous women and queer Indigenous peoples, 101, 102, 103–14, 115, 127, 195, 262n.8; provisions regarding prostitution, 107–9, 110; spatial constructs, 197

Indian Affairs, 125; “Immorality on Reserves” filing system at, 105; surveillance of Nish- naabeg intimacies by, 105–6, 110, 125

Indian agents, authority of, 89, 105–6, 109, 112, 127, 259n.9

“Indian Museum” (Paris 1845), 207, 208

Indian policy, 100; pressure to promote “Christian civilization” among Native peoples, 96. See also Indian Act

“Indian problem,” 100 Indigeneity: constellations in

relationship with other constel- lations forming flight paths out of settler colonial realities into, 217–18; engaging in deep and reciprocal, as transformative act, 19–20, 22, 182–83, 185

Indigenous internationalism. See internationalism; Nishnaabeg internationalism

“Indigenous Languages Recognize Gender States Not Even Named in English” (Sterritt), 269n.28

Indigenous Nationhood Movement, 251n.1

Indigenous peoples, presence as weapon of, 6. See also resur- gence; specific peoples

Indigenous Sex Sovereignty Collec- tive, 112

Indigenous Studies, 101, 102, 115;

INDEX 295

citational politics in, 37. See also academy

individual self-determination, 106–7, 112–13, 116–17, 123, 129, 130, 134

ininiikaazowag (gender variant women), 131

Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, 238, 239

intelligence, Nishnaabeg, 272n.21; colonial authority over, 171; coming into wisdom within Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg epistemology, 151; as consensual engagement, 160–63; critical task of generating practitioners of, 158–60; dispossession and removal of Indigenous body from, 43, 159; as diversity, 157–60; ethical, 24; experience with trauma and violence as critical to operationalizing, 157, 272n.18; fostering expertise within, with land as curriculum, 172; Indigenous aesthetic prin- ciples and theory underlying, 200–10; internationalism as part of, 56–58, 67; maple sugar origin story and, 150, 151, 154; modes of, 22–23; Nanabush as teacher within Nishnaabeg thought, 163–66, 183–84, 223; Nish- naabewin as lived expression of, 25, 159–60 (see also Nishnaabe- win (grounded normativity)); personal practice of, applied to research, 31–32; practitioners of, required for resurgence, 158–60; queerness from within Nishnaabeg thought, 128–33; recognition within, 185; reified and fetishized within settler

colonial approach to education, 171; responsibility for generating meaning within own lives, 156–57; resurgence and funda- mental transformation driven by, 49; revitalizing our intellec- tual practices, 67; Seven Fires creation story and parameters for, 21, 56; teaching by model- ing, 156, 160, 163–66; visiting within, meaning of, 165. See also education

International Gathering of American Indian and First Nations Gays and Lesbians (1990), 255n.8

internationalism: collective con- sciousness and, 57; between constellations, 218; Dene, 64; difference between Indigenous and non-Indigenous concepts of, 58; ethics and, 56–57; between individuals, 62–67; Kanien’ke- há:ka, 61, 62, 202; network of Indigenous, 24, 29, 35, 56, 58; Nishnaabeg, 55–70, 258n.1; Nishnaabeg, deer story and, 58–61, 77, 243–45; Nishnaabeg, Paris/Ojibwa as physical intervention of, 208. See also Nishnaabeg internationalism

Internet, 220–26; consequences of organizing through, 223; digital dispossession and, 221–22; false communities of, 224; movement building and use of, 219, 220, 221–26; simulated worlds of, 221; social media, 220, 223, 224–26; structural intervention by, asymmetry of, 222

intervention. See embodied resur- gent practice

296 INDEX

Iroquois peoples, 251n.4 Islands of Decolonial Love, 12

Jacob, Bev, 263n.10 Jesuit missions, 124–25 Johnson, Basil, 184–85 Johnson, Jessica Marie, 253n.9,

256n.20 Johnson, Patronella, 261n.7 Johnson, Pauline, 277n.22 Johnston, Basil H., 261n.7, 275n.9 Journals of Susanna Moodie, The

(Atwood), 97 Juvenile Delinquents Act, 111, 113

Kaha:wi Dance Theatre, 277n.18 Kahgegahbown (George Copaway),

259n.11 Kahkewaquonaby (Peter Jones),

259n.11 Kanien’kehá:ka (Mohawk), 3, 33,

253n.2; internationalism be- tween Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg and, 61, 62, 202; mobilization and resistance in summer of 1990, 233–34, 247; power and agency of Kanienkehá:ka women, 115–16; Tikinagan origin story and, 62

Kanien’kehá:ka Pines, 233, 235 Kanienkehá:ka terminology, use of,

251n.4 Kappo, Tanya, 279n.15 Kawarthas, 39 Kelley, Robin D. G., 252n.13 Kidane, Luam, 252n.13, 280n.22 Kiizhigo, 34, 256n.19 Kina Gchi Nishnaabeg-ogamig

(place where we all live and work together), 2, 8, 39, 58, 157

kinetics, production of knowledge and, 20, 28, 29

King, Geraldine, 257n.8

King, Hayden, 279n.15 King, Robin Levinson, 280n.24 Kinomagewapkong (rocks that

teach/Peterborough Petro- glyphs), 280n.20

Kino-nda-niimi Collective, 279n.15 Klein, Naomi, 71–76, 261nn.3–5; on

extractivism, 73–76 knowledge: academy and Indige-

nous, 170–71; in akinoomaage, 161; ceremonial, 203; consen- sual engagement and coming to know, 161–63; kinetics and production of, 20, 28, 29; kwe as resurgent method, 29–37, 245; narrow interpretations of knowledge systems, rejection of, 130; Nishnaabeg, origination in spiritual realm, 154–55, 156, 157–58; practice of our modes of intelligence and, 22–23, 30; relational nature of, 57–58, 156; responsibility for generating meaning within own lives, 156; for resurgence, embodied in Nishnaabeg people, 162–63; Seven Fires creation story and, 21, 28, 211; stars as thoughts and ideas of Gzhwe Manidoo, 211. See also intelligence, Nishnaabeg

kobade (link in a chain), 8, 9 Konsovo, Erin Marie, 266n.2 Kovach, Margaret, 255n.14 Kuna aesthetics, 200 kwe: colonialism and, 44–47;

dispossession for, 43; gener- ated knowledge as, as critical intervention in Indigenous scholarship and politics, 117–18; meaning of, 29; refusal as core of, 33–34, 35; as resurgent meth- od, 29–37, 245; as resurgent method, in action, 33; as theorist

INDEX 297

and revolutionary, in Belmore’s performance art, 206

Kwi Awt Stelmexw language insti- tute, 194

Laboucan-Massimo, Melina, 71 Ladner, Kiera, 267n.9 LaDuke, Winona, 273n.24, 275n.8 Lafitau, Joseph-François, 124, 125,

267n.14 Lahontan, Baron De, 124 Lakehead University, 12, 13 land: as coded representation of

Nishnaabewin, 215; conflat- ing Indigenous bodies with, 189, 275n.10; everyday acts of resurgence on, 195; examples of queerness and diverse sexualities and genders provided by, 122; extractivism and, 13, 25, 42, 46, 50, 73–76, 80, 178, 201–2; Indig- enous attachment to, 43; land reclamation actions, 242; land theft through treaty making, 41, 42; procedure or practice of liv- ing generated through relations with, 23; Radical Resurgence Project and demand for, 50–51, 54, 245; removal of Indigenous bodies from, 41, 42, 81; at top of hierarchy of issues, gendered nature of, 53

land as pedagogy, 145–73; consen- sual engagement and, 160–63; maple sugar origin story and, 145–53, 154, 160, 270nn.1–3; Nanabush and, 163–66, 183–84, 223; Nishnaabeg intelligence as diversity, 157–60; Nishnaabewin and, 154–57, 172–73; resurgent education and, 166–73

“Land as Pedagogy” (Simpson), 27

land grants to United Empire Loy- alists, 96

land-use atlas, EAGLE project to create, 12, 14, 16

language nests, 50, 261n.8 layering, as aesthetic principle,

202–3 leadership within movements,

social media use and, 224–25 “Leaks” (Simpson), 208–9 Lee, Annette S., 278n.4 Linklater, Tanya Lukin, 217 Little Bear, L., 273n.25 logging industry clear-cutting of

traplines, 81 Long Lake #58 First Nation, elders

of, 139; Anishinaabeg reserve community of, 12–17, 18, 22, 25, 27, 69

lynching of Black man, 97–98

Maa maa ya wen du moowin (art of recognizing), 184–85

MacKenzie, Charles, 124 Mahsi Cho, 275n.3 Ma’iingan (wolf ), Nanabush’s jour-

ney with, 57–58, 184 Manitowabi, Edna, 8, 19, 20, 28, 29,

36, 56, 57, 211, 212, 275n.6 Manual, Art, 71, 261n.2 Manual, George, 259n.7 maple sugar making, 150 maple sugar origin stories, 145–53,

270nn.1–3; balanced relation- ship of mutuality in, 157; land as pedagogy, Binoojiinh as embodiment of idea of, 150, 160, 165; learning and applying, 151–52; settlers’ appropriation of content but not wisdom of, 154; spiritual interactions involved in, 157–58

maps: of pain and loss, 14–15;

298 INDEX

topographical, 14; as two- dimensional representations of lived networks, 16

Maracle, Lee, 32–33, 256n.15, 259n.7, 261n.2, 269n.36, 278n.2

Mark My Words: Native Women Mapping Our Nations (Goeman), 195–96, 254n.6

Marquette, Jacques, 124 marriage, Indian Act and confor-

mity to Christian forms of, 104, 110–11

marronage, 17–18 Martin Clan, 215 Martineau, Jarrett, 36, 171, 206, 213,

271n.9, 276n.13, 277n.17, 278n.6, 278nn.28–29, 279nn.12–14, 280nn.18–19; on decoloniz- ing potentiality of art making, 198–99, 215–16; influence of, 279n.12

Marx, Karl, 64, 72 masculinity: colonial conception

of, 123; Indigenous, 137. See also gender; queer normativity, Indigenous

matriarch, gender binary reinforced by term, 128

Maungudaus (George Henry), 68–69, 207–10, 259n.11, 260n.13, 277n.22

McDonald, Mandee, 276n.8 McGregor, Deborah, 251n.5 McKay, Alex, 193, 276n.4 McKittrick, Katherine, 230,

252n.13, 280n.23 McLellan, Joe, 261n.7 McMahon, Ryan, 76, 261n.6 McMaster University, antiracism

conference at, 55 membership issues, 176–77, 179 men, Indigenous: as agents of

heteropatriarchy, 109–11; alternative systems of account- ability and, 92–93; expression of gender and sexuality encouraged among, 128. See also gender; sexual violence

menstruating women, exclusion from ceremonies, 141

Mercer Reformatory in Toronto, 112

mercury, industrial dumping of, 69, 260n.14

Methodist missions and missionar- ies, 95, 96–100, 109, 111; white women involved in, 96–97

methodologies: academic, 13; kwe as resurgent method, 29–37, 245; Nishnaabeg thought, theo- ry, and methodology, 15–16, 57; relational nature of our knowl- edge, 57–58

Meyer, Manulani, 271n.6, 271n.8, 272n.21, 273n.30, 273n.33

Michi Saagiig (Mishi-zaagiig) Nishnaabeg, 251n.5; Aaniin as way of saying hello among, 181; artist collective from, in Catlin’s “Indian Museum” in Paris in 1845, 206–10; Bay of Quinte, 95; ceremonies, 62, 77; critical task of generating practitioners of Nishnaabeg intelligence, 158–60; dispossession from land, 96–100; evangelization and assimila- tion of Methodists, 95, 96–97, 99; governance and political systems, 3, 4, 116; individual self-determination among, 3–4; lack of land, 5; nationhood as relational, 110, 272n.22; oral tra- dition, 77; positioned as “hunter and gatherer” society, 116; as

INDEX 299

salmon people, 3; territory, changes in, 2, 3, 4; as travelers, 2, 3, 78; wampum belts (treaties) of, 2–3; War of 1812 and, 99; way of living designed to generate life, 3

Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg Knowl- edge system, 252n.9

Migwans, Crystal, 251n.5 Minamata disease, 69 mino bimaadiziwin, 183 Mire, Hawa Y., 252n.13, 280n.22 mirroring, positive, 180–81, 184 missions: Jesuit, 124–25; Methodist,

95, 96–100, 109, 111 Mississauga people, 98, 100 Mississauga Portraits: Ojibwe Voices

from Nineteenth-Century Canada (Smith), 259n.11

mobility, Indigenous, 196–98; kinds of, 196–97

mobilization: direct action, Indige- nous, 236–38; in direct response to the state, making clean break from, 175–76; around “fear of disappearance,” 176–77; within grounded normativity, 178, 218–28, 236; harnessing power of fear, hatred, and love into sustained, 103; heteropatriar- chy and prevention of, 93; to interrupt material economic in- frastructure of Canada, 235–36; neoliberalism demobilizing movements, 47; PKOLS recla- mation, 240–42, 247; resurgence and, 49, 81–82; resurgence and, constellations of coresistance in, 228–31; resurgence and, examples of, 237; trauma-based, preceding commissions and inquiries, 238, 239–40; visiting

as core of, 165, 223–24; Western liberatory theories and, 56

modeling, teaching by, 156; Binoo- jiinh and, 160; Nanabush and, 163–66

Mohawk, John, 55 Mohawk Interruptus (A. Simpson),

90, 176, 179, 247 Mohawk theory as Mohawk life and

Mohawk land, 176 Mojica, Monique, 200, 202 Monture, Trish, 33, 55 Moodie, Susanna, 97–100, 264n.3 Moosehide Tanners Against Fas-

cism in Denendeh, 6, 194 moral authority, politics of grief

placing white Canada in position of, 239–40

Morgensen, Scott Lauria, 125, 267n.9, 267n.14

Moten, Fred, 163, 252n.13, 279n.7 movement, marronage and, 18 movement building, 220–26, 236;

constellations of coresistance and resurgent mobilization, 228–31; constellations as organizing value in resurgent, 216–17; Internet and, 219, 220, 221–26; relationship building in the past, 220–21, 228; social media and, 220, 223, 224–26

Mud Lake Mission (now Curve Lake First Nation), 96

multidimensionality, as aesthetic principle, 201

Mumford, Cara, 209 Mumford, Clarence, 229 music video(s): constellation of

amateurs producing f(l)ight from series of poems to, 216–17; of Dene people practicing their way of life, responses to, 186–87

300 INDEX

Nadasdy, Paul, 274n.40 Nahnebahnwequay, 68, 69, 259n.9 Nakehk’o, Melaw, 276n.8 nakinisowin (blog), 143 Nanabush, 258n.2, 273n.31; broth-

ers, 79; continuation of journey of, 58, 69; stories illustrating perils of profit, 79; as teacher, 163–66; as teacher, of recipro- cal recognition, 183–84, 223; walking the world, 56–58, 165, 183–84, 223

Nanibush, Wanda, 7, 29, 277n.21, 278nn.24–25, 279n.15

Narrative of the Captivity and Adventures of John Tanner during Thirty Years Residence among the Indians in the Interior of North America (Tanner), 124

Nason, Dory, 262n.1 National Research Centre on Indian

Residential Schools, 257n.12 nation-building project, Canadian,

104 nationhood, Indigenous, 6–10; cen-

tering queerness in resurgence and, 135–38; consensual engage- ment in nation-building, 162; engaging in deep and reciprocal Indigeneity and conceptualiza- tion of, 19–20, 22; foundational concept of, 8–9; interrogation of heteropatriarchy at center of nation-building movements, 91; Moodie’s negation of, 97, 100; placed-based, 50–51; relational at its core, 110, 272n.22

nationhood approach to Indigenous politics, 219

“Nation to Nation Now—the Conversations” (conference), 7–10

Native American Indigenous Stud- ies Association, 137

Native Studies, 274n.41 Native Youth Sexual Health

Network, 6, 121, 194, 266n.2, 266n.4

Nawahjegezhegwab ( Joseph Sawyer), 259n.11

neoliberalism, 48; demobilization of movements, 47; de-politicization of resurgence, 50, 54; “fixing” the “social ills,” 42; manipula- tion of processes maintaining settler colonialism, 46; uprisings against, 67; victim narrative created by, 117

networks: carried in Indigenous bodies, 16, 21, 127; clan system and, 116; coded disruption protecting, 199, 209–10; communication network in decentralized leadership models, 224–25; constellations becom- ing, 34–35, 217–18; everyday acts of resurgence and, 194–95, 197; of Indigenous internation- alism, 24, 29, 35, 56, 58; kinship, 220; manifesto to create, 10; movement building and, 220–26; networked political systems, 116–17; of relationships of Nishnaabeg life, 23, 24, 77, 80; of relationships of Nishnaabeg life, reattaching to, 44, 182; resurgent organizing within, 178; through social media, 220, 223, 224–26

Ningewance, Patricia, 269n.26 Nishiyuu walkers, 279n.16 Nishnaabeg algorithms, 23, 24, 34,

79, 185 Nishnaabeg anticapitalism, 71–82 Nishnaabeg-Gikendaasowin (Nish-

INDEX 301

naabeg knowledge), 154–55, 156, 157–58

Nishnaabeg internationalism, 55–70, 258n.1; agency and con- tributions of Nishnaabeg wom- en, 68–69; ceremonial practices and, 61–62; example of place- based, 69; Nahnebahnwequay and, 68; Nishnaabeg intelligence and, 56–58, 67; trajectory of, 58; treaty with the Hoof nation, 58–61, 77, 243–45

Nishnaabeg nation, 1; governance and political systems of, 24, 106–7, 112–13, 116–17; Michi Saagiig part of (see Michi Saagiig (Mishi-zaagiig) Nish- naabeg); precolonial Nishnaabeg society, 3–4; sacred story, 12; surveillance and punishment of Nishnaabeg women in Ontario, 111–13; way of living in a Nish- naabeg present, 2, 6, 10. See also intelligence, Nishnaabeg

Nishnaabemowin Saaswansing (language nest), 261n.8

Nishnaabewin (grounded norma- tivity), 17, 18, 22–25, 27, 87, 141, 260n.11, 271n.12; abstraction within context of, 201–2; context for, 155–56; critiquing and an- alyzing capitalism from within, 72, 73, 79, 260n.2; dispossession and removal of Indigenous body from, 43, 127, 143, 159; diversity fostered by, 155–57; education through the land and, 154–57, 172–73; education system in Ontario designed to move Indigenous people away from, 76; ethical obligations to Black community within,

230–31; expanding processes and knowledges of, to dismantle structure of colonialism, 47; fight to protect, 170; flight paths to, 17, 213; internal work and living responsibly and ethically within, 30, 44; internationalism within, 58, 63; land itself as coded representation of, 215; mapping, storytelling, and continuation as part of, 196; Nishnaabeg systems inherent in, 19–21, 28, 122; queerness within, 130–33; recognition in, 180–85; reenact- ment as aesthetic and, 208, 209; refusal within, 33–34, 44, 114, 176, 178; relationship to creation and, 121, 128; rela- tionships within, based upon consent, 161–62; resisting destruction of Nishnaabeg intelligence by engaging in, 25, 159–60; responsibility for gener- ating meaning within own lives, 156–57; teaching by modeling, 156; as theory, 32; visibilizing, 276n.15; Western liberatory theories considered from within, 56

Nizhiin Ojiijaak girls, 126 Nogojiwanong. See Peterborough,

Ontario No Logo (Klein), 71 No More Stolen Sisters: The Need for

a Comprehensive Response to Dis- crimination and Violence against Women in Canada (Amnesty International), 263n.10

normativity. See grounded nor- mativity; queer normativity, Indigenous

302 INDEX

Nozhem Theatre (Peterborough, Ontario), 200

OccupyINAC actions of 2016, 280n.22

Oceti Sakowin (The Great Sioux Nation), 6

Odjig, Daphne, 261n.7 Ogimaa Mikana Project in Toronto,

194 Ojibwe, gender variance accepted

among, 131 ojiijaak (aura), 126, 268n.20 Oka Crisis (1990), 14, 33, 252n.2,

253n.2 Onaman Collective, 194 Ontario, Lake, 2; salmon and eel in,

3, 4, 74, 77, 99 Ontario Federation of Hunters and

Anglers, 257n.2 Ontario Female Refuges Act, 111–12 Ontario Training School for Girls,

113 Opaskwayak Cree Nation in Manito-

ba, 122–23 organizing: direct action, Indige-

nous, 236–38; in direct response to the state, making clean break from, 175–76; Internet and, 220–26; lifelong organizers, 219–20; refusal of state’s framing of issues for, 176–77; resurgent, 177–78, 188–89; resurgent, con- stellations and, 217; resurgent, examples of, 178, 240–42. See also Idle No More; mobilization; Radical Resurgence Project; resurgence

Ozawendib (Yellowhead), 124

Pahtahsega (Peter Jacobs), 259n.11 pain, records of, 14–15

Palmater, Pam, 264n.13 Paris/Ojibwa (Houle), 69, 206–10,

259n.11 passports, 177 pedagogy. See education performance art, 203–6 Peterborough, Ontario, 1–2;

Art Gallery of, 208–9, 278n.29; local settler historical record in, white women writers and, 97–100

Peterborough Petroglyphs, 280n.20 Pigeon Lake, 34 pipelines, 6, 73, 113, 183, 185. See

also extractivism PKOLS reclamation, 240–42, 247 plants and medicine, recognition of,

181–82 political orders, Indigenous bodies

as, 42, 104, 114–18, 127, 140, 192, 236, 237, 255n.12

political practices: Indigenous political approaches, 219–20; individual generated meaning as foundation of generated collective meanings within, 157; influence of Indigenous women, 68, 97, 101, 105, 107, 220; living a decolonizing queer politics, 191–92; for visiting other ter- ritories, 64. See also embodied resurgent practice; Idle No More

political resurgence, 49. See also Radical Resurgence Project; resurgence

political systems: alternative Indigenous, Indigenous bodies representing, 41–42; networked, 116–17; Nishnaabeg, 24; Nish- naabeg, accountability to Black struggles within, 230; Nish-

INDEX 303

naabeg, building block of, 184; Nishnaabeg, visiting as core of, 165; Rotinonhseshá:ka, 115, 117. See also governance, system of

politics: citational, 37; of distrac- tion, 192, 239–40; of generative refusal, 244–45; of grief, 239–40; identity, 177, 213; of recogni- tion, 175–76, 234–35, 240

Polynesian Voyaging Society, 193 Porcupine Year, The (Erdrich),

132–33 positive mirroring, 180–81, 184. See

also recognition Post Commodity, 198, 216 poverty, 80; social ills/needs and,

226–27 power dynamics, collective reali-

zation of unconscious colonial beliefs and shift in, 85–86

Prashad, Vijay, 67, 259n.8, 281n.4 presencing of the present, 20; as

act of creating the future, 228; aesthetics of reenactment and, 203–10; Ancestors’ vision for Nishnaabeg present, 4, 10, 25, 48; engaging in resurgent process and struggle and, 20, 193–95, 227–28; flight paths out of colonialism created by, 193–95, 197; PKOLS reclama- tion as response to erasure of Indigenous presence, 241, 242; presence of spirit world, 192–93; presence as weapon, 6

Price, Michael Wassegijig, 278n.4 pride, as response to Dene film, 187 private property, 78–79; Indian Act

and gender discrimination in inheritance of, 104–5. See also capitalism

process, settler colonialism as series

of complex and overlapping, 45, 81

process-centered modes of living, 19–20, 22, 23–24, 226

profit, perils of, 79 prostitution, management of,

107–9, 110, 265n.23 protest, Nishnaabeg walks as form

of, 58 protocols for ceremonial practices,

119–20, 134, 138–43, 269n.36; enacting, as way of belonging, 142; exclusionary, 139, 141, 143

Quakers, support for Nahnebahn- wequay, 68

queer Indigenous peoples: Indian Act and, 103–4; as political orders, elimination of, 120, 126, 127. See also Two Spirit and queer (2SQ) people

queer normativity, Indigenous, 119–44; anti-queerness as autogenocide, 127, 133–34; centering queerness in resur- gence, 135–38; ceremonies, skirt-wearing for, 119–20, 138–43; living a decolonizing queer politics, 191–92; nonjudg- mental terminology regarding, 130–31, 138; queerness from within Nishnaabeg thought, 128–33

Quill and Quire, 270n.36

racism, 98–99, 100; anti-Black- ness, 6, 10, 48, 97–98, 229, 230, 252n.13; Black struggles against, 228–31; codified in Indian Act, 102; misrepresentation of Indig- enous people and, 235; reenact- ment as aesthetic in response to,

304 INDEX

208–9; stereotyping of Indige- nous women, 102, 205

Radical Resurgence Project, 34–37, 47–54, 247; centering gender in resurgence, 51–54, 118; critical reframing and, 90; defining rad- ical, 48; dismantling of hetero- patriarchy as core project of, 82, 83–94, 118; expansive dispos- session as primary relationship with state, 41–44, 54; generative refusal and, 242–45; radical resurgent education at heart of, 173. See also resurgence

Rankine, Claudia, 252n.13 rape culture, 93 Raven-ba, Garry, 19 RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted

Police), 107, 112 reciprocity: as alternative to

extractivism, 75; reciprocal recognition, 180–85, 223, 241, 246, 275n.4

recognition, 64, 65, 259n.11; act of recognizing, 179–80; within colonizers’ education system, Indigenous refusal to struggle for, 171; happiness from, 86; in Nishnaabewin, 180–85; politics of, 175–76, 234–35, 240; recip- rocal, 180–85, 241, 246, 275n.4; reciprocal, music video as exercise in, 186–87; reciprocal, on Nanabush’s journey around world, 183–84, 223; reciprocal, shame as tool of settler colonial- ism to destroy, 185–89; refusal of state, as organizing/mobilizing platform, 175–76, 178, 188–89; as reward for assimilation, 88

reconciliation discourse, 46, 48, 49, 64, 76. See also neoliberalism

Redman Laughing podcast, 76, 261n.6

Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial Politics of Recogni- tion (Coulthard), 22, 64–65, 137, 175–76, 247

reenactment, as aesthetic, 203–10 reform school, 112 refusal: affirmative, 198, 199,

200–210; of capitalism, 36; of colonialism, 33–35, 43; of colonial spatialities, 195–98; of dispossession, 34, 36, 43, 44; generative, 177–78, 209, 233, 242–45, 246; of heteropatriarchy, 33, 34, 36; within Nishnaabewin, 33–34, 44, 114, 176, 178; produc- tive place of, 176–77; results of, 177–79; of settler colonialism, 17, 43, 177–78, 275n.10; of state recognition as an organizing platform, 175–76, 178, 188–89; of state’s framing of issues of organizing/mobilizing, 176–77; of victimhood, 238–40

Reid, Dorothy M., 261n.7 Reimagining Two-Spirit Communi-

ty: Critically Centering Narra- tives of Urban Two-Spirit Youth (Wesley), 135–36

relationality: of Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg nationhood, 110, 272n.22; of Nanabush’s journey around world with Ma’iingan, 57–58, 184; of nature of knowl- edge, 57–58, 156; of Nishnaabeg conceptualizations of Aki, 160–61

relationships: with our Ancestors and in spirit world, 158; bal- anced relationship of mutual- ity in maple sugar story, 157;

INDEX 305

gaa-izhi-zhaawendaagoziyaang requiring, 155–56; housed with- in Indigenous bodies, erasure of, 42; Indigenous international relationship-building process, liberation through, 246–47; intelligence as consensual engagement, 160–63; movement building as, in the past, 220–21, 228; of Nishnaabeg life, net- works of, 23, 24, 44, 77, 80, 182; positive mirroring and reciprocal recognition in, 180–85; practice of benevolent, as way of life, 139. See also networks

(re)mapping, 196 repetition, as aesthetic principle,

200–201 Re-quickening. Re-Quickening

(dance), 202 research: academic methodologies,

13; centering gender in resur- gence and, 52; importance of work as Indigenous scholars, 65–66; Nishnaabeg thought, the- ory, and methodology, 15–16, 31–32, 57

reserves, confinement to, 88 reserve-urban relationships, settler

colonial positioning of, 80–81, 173, 195, 197

residential and day school system, 15, 41, 88, 99, 100, 108, 115, 257n.12; gender binary rein- forced at, 125, 126–27

resistance, Indigenous, 9, 73, 81 resurgence: artistic practice, decol-

onizing potentiality of, 198–99; artistic practice, use of Indig- enous aesthetics in, 200–210; biiskabiyang and flight, 17–21, 245; Binoojiinh as vessel of, 158,

173; centering gender in, 51–54, 94, 134; centering queerness in, 135–38; coded disruption and affirmative refusal, 198, 199, 200–210; community-based resurgence projects, 50; consensual engagement in context of, 162; constellations of coresistance and, 228–31; context, 5–6; cultural, 49, 50, 54; embodied resurgent practice, 191–210; everyday acts of, 192–95, 236, 246; everyday acts of, organized and collectivized, 194–95; generative refusal and, 242–45; Indigenous collective self-recognition as, 65; from within Indigenous thought sys- tems, 16–17, 19–20, 44, 81–82, 226–28, 257n.11; from within Indigenous thought systems, cul- tural and political joined, 49–50, 54; Kanien’kehá:ka, 233–34, 247; knowledge for, embodied in Nishnaabeg people, 162–63; learning from Elders and, 11–17; mobility imbued with agency as, 197; Nishnaabewin as grounded normativity, 22–25; organizing/mobilizing for, 49, 81–82, 177–78, 188–89, 228–31, 236–38; PKOLS reclamation, 240–42, 247; practitioners of Nishnaabeg intelligence required for, 158–60; presencing of the present, 20, 193–95, 227–28; reattachment of our bodies to our lands, 44; refusing colonial spatialities, 195–98; refusing victimhood, 238–40; shame and inability to act, 188; strategy and tactics, 234–38; struggle

306 INDEX

necessary in, 226–28, 246; use of term, 48–49. See also Radical Resurgence Project

resurgent education, 80, 82, 166–73, 178, 245

retreating to the bush, 17, 253n.7 Revision Quest (CBC), 130–31,

268n.26 rice beds, wild, 3, 34; diversity of

ways to harvest and process, 129, 139; loss of, 4, 77, 99

rights-based approach to Indige- nous politics, 219

Rings, Frances, 202 Ritskes, Eric, 171–72, 271n.9,

279n.14 rituals upon killing animals, 60–61.

See also ceremonial practices Roberts, Neil, 17–18, 253n.6 Rotinonhseshá:ka, 2, 251n.4; politi-

cal systems, 115, 117 Rotinonhseshá:ka Confederacy, 7;

diplomacy with, 2, 61–62 Rotinonhseshá:ka/Haudenosaunee,

77 Roughing It in the Bush (Moodie),

97–100 Roulette, Roger, 130–31, 137,

269n.26 Royal Canadian Mounted Police

(RCMP), 107, 112

sacred (Belcourt), 143–44 sacred places, 4; Oka Crisis and, 14,

33, 252n.2 salmon in Lake Ontario, 3; extinc-

tion of, 4, 74, 77, 99 Sangster, Joan, 111, 262n.7, 264n.10,

265n.32, 266n.37 Sayers, Naomi, 108, 265n.24 science fiction, 201 Scott, Amos, 186

Scott, Duncan Campbell, 106 self-actualization, responsibility for,

120–21, 133–34, 156, 158 self-determination, 3–4, 87; alter-

native systems of accountability and, 92; Belmore’s performance art emanating, 203; of Indige- nous women, Moodie’s erasure of, 97, 100; of Indigenous wom- en, state regulatory mechanisms to destroy, 107–13; individual, 106–7, 112–13, 116–17, 123, 130, 134; individual, gender and, 129; mobility as expression of, 197; Nishnaabeg society as society of makers and, 80; return to, stories relying on, 22. See also agency

self-recognition, 180; collective, 65; reciprocal, 182–83

Semple, Neil, 264n.2 Seneca grounded normativity, 196 settler colonialism, 4–5, 7, 10, 15,

263n.12; biiskabiyang and flight out of structure of, 17–21, 245; commodification of land and bodies under, 41, 43, 152, 198, 199, 254n.2, 257n.4; connecting personal experiences to larger structures and process of, 27, 45–46, 80, 81, 85–86; consen- sual engagement in context of, 161–62; constellations as opaque, fugitive theoretical interventions in universe of, 216–18; cultural resurgence as compatible with, 49, 50; destruc- tion of, as response to, 44, 45, 47, 48, 49, 172; dispossession from grounded normativities through, 25, 106–7, 221–22; flight paths out of, 17, 36, 192, 193, 197, 203, 210, 213, 217–18; gendered

INDEX 307

dispossession under, 52, 54; gender violence and, 52, 89, 93; heteropatriarchy of (see hetero- patriarchy); Internet and digital technologies as powerful site for reinforcing and amplifying, 222; maple syrup origin story and resisting, 152–53; Moodie’s guide for settler life in Nish- naabeg territory, 97–100; nation building countering impact of, 91; neoliberal manipulation of processes maintaining, 46; Nishnaabeg historicized as “less technologically developed,” 78; Nishnaabeg intelligence reified and fetishized within settler colonial approach to education, 171; politics of grief and, 239–40; positioning of re- serve versus urban communities as mechanism to reinforce divi- sion, 80–81, 173, 195, 197; pov- erty and dispossessive capitalist exploitation under, 80; processes designed to uphold structure of, 238; refusal of, 17, 43, 177–78, 275n.10; roots of settler colonial present, 48; shame as tool of, 86, 185–89; shifts in processes of, to consolidate state’s power, 46; “social issues” as direct result of state violence in form of, 227; spatial constructs of, refusing, 195–98; struggle against, 21; Two Spirit (2SQ) people as threat to, 126; unsustainability of settler society, 74, 90; using con- ventions of academy to critique system of, 31

Seven Fires creation story, 20–21, 28, 56, 211

sex education, 269n.28 sexism, 92–93 sexual agency, colonizers’ control

of, 89, 107–13, 262n.8; prosti- tution provisions of Indian Act, 107–9, 110

sexual violence, 41, 51, 53, 257n.4; as colonial tool in genocide and dispossession, 88, 263n.12; community-based alternative to Canadian criminal justice systems for cases of, 92–93. See also gender violence

shame, 86, 87, 124; responses to, 187–88; as tool of settler colo- nialism, 86, 185–89

Sharpe, Christina, 252n.13 Shawundais ( John Sunday), 259n.11 Shkiin, story of, 168–69 Shkilnyk, Anastasia M., 260n.14 Shock Doctrine, The (Klein), 71 Simpson, Audra, 203, 254n.15,

255n.12, 256n.16, 257n.5, 259n.6, 262n.4, 266n.39, 274n.41, 275n.1, 281n.5; on colonialism’s ongoing existence and simultaneous fail- ure, 90–91; on Indigenous bod- ies as political orders, 114–15, 127; on Indigenous women’s bodies as legal targets, 115; on membership, 176, 179–80

Simpson, Leanne Betasamosake, 251n.3, 251n.6, 252n.1, 253n.5, 254n.1, 256n.14, 256n.18, 260n.12, 266n.42, 268n.23, 270n.1, 273n.36, 274n.39, 275n.7, 276n.5, 278n.1, 278n.26, 279n.10, 281n.6

Simpson, Minowewebeneshiihn, 36 Simpson, Nishna, 36 Sinclair, Justice Murray, 253n.3 Sinclair, Niigaan, 279n.15

308 INDEX

Sinclair, Niigaanwewidam James, 271n.7

Singh, Jaggi, 273n.29 SittingEagle, Lawrence Henry,

279n.11 skirt-wearing for women in cere-

monies, protocol for, 119–20, 138–43

Skookum Sound System, 198, 216 skyworld, in Nishnaabeg thought,

211–14 smallpox, 206–7 Smith, Andrea, 259n.6, 267n.9,

274nn.40–41 Smith, Donald B., 259n.9, 259n.11 Smith, Santee, 202 “social ills,” neoliberal “fixing” of,

42 socialism, 76 social media, Idle No More move-

ment and, 220, 223, 224–26; as antithesis of Indigenous life, 224; consequences for leadership within movements, 224–25; as power tool to amplify the move- ment, 225–26

social needs of communities, movements responding to basic, 226–27

Songhees, PKOLS reclamation and, 240, 241

sound, 278n.2 sovereignty: body, 53–54, 95–118,

140, 203; individual, 123; Iroquois Nationals’ refusal to participate in World Lacrosse League Championship tourna- ment and, 177; political, 53

Spaces between Us: Queer Settler Colonialism and Indigenous De- colonization (Morgensen), 125

spatial construction of time, 193

spatialities: Black, 230; refusing colonial, 195–98

Spence, Theresa, 221 Spill: Scenes of Black Feminist

Fugitivity (Gumbs), 18, 37 spirit world: as benevolent and

intelligent, 121–22, 140; birth as act of coming through doorway between physical world and, 212; negotiation between deer bodies and human bodies in, 243; Nishnaabeg knowledge originating in, 154–55, 156, 157–58; presence of, 192–93; purpose of Nishnaabeg spiritual practices, 141–42; recognition of family members in, 181; self-actualization as relationship between ourselves and, 121, 133, 134. See also ceremonial practices

Standing Rock Sioux Tribe, 6 Stark, Heidi Kiiwetinepinesiik,

271n.7 stars: collections of, within Nish-

naabeg thought, 212–15; as thoughts and ideas of Gzhwe Manidoo, 211. See also constel- lation(s)

state: Canada’s international narrative as benevolent em- pathic, 234–35, 239; Canadi- an nation-building project, 104; coming to the state with grounded, authentic Indigenous power, 227; dispossession as re- lationship with, 43, 45–46, 245; enactment of mechanisms for accountability, forcing, 238; pol- itics of distraction, 192, 239–40; politics of grief, 239–40; politics of recognition from, pitfalls of,

INDEX 309

175–76, 234–35, 240. See also settler colonialism

state-run education system, 41, 76, 149–50, 159–60, 162, 172, 227

Status Indians and Bands, 33, 104; gender discrimination in rules for who is deemed, 105

stereotypes: assimilation and belief in, 95–96, 100, 103; Black, 230; gendered, 83–84, 85, 89, 91–92, 102, 112, 205; online activism to- ward eradicating, 113; as system of social control, 87, 90, 91–92

Sterritt, Angela, 269n.28 St. Lawrence Seaway, 74 Stolen Sisters: Discrimination and

Violence against Native Women in Canada ( Jacob), 263n.10

Stoney Lake, 3 storytelling practices, 270n.36. See

also creation story(ies) Stote, Karen, 262n.8 “Sucker Punch of January 11, The”

(White), 279n.17 surveillance, settler, 5, 39, 40, 50,

104, 132, 166; history of resis- tance against, 167–69; Indian agents and, 105; Internet and, 222; of Nishnaabeg intimacies by Indian Affairs, 105–6, 110, 125; of Nishnaabeg women in Ontario, 111–14

survivance, 196 Suzack, Cheryl, 262n.5 sweat lodge ceremonies, 119–20

Tanner, John, 124, 131, 267n.13 technologies, digital. See Internet Teengs, Doris O’Brien, 269n.31 territorial acknowledgment, 64 theory: assessing usefulness of theo-

ries from other nations from the

inside, 63; conceptual layer of constellated intelligence in Nish- naabeg, 214–15; as contextual and relational, 151; of coresis- tors, ethical engagement with, 66–67; generating, 28, 151; of Nanabush, fluidity of, 183; with- in Nishnaabeg thought, 151–52; Western liberatory, 56, 67

This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. the Climate (Klein), 71

Thomas, J. Michael, 267n.10 Thompson, David, 124 Tibbetts, Jeffrey, 278n.4 Tikinagan (baby carrier), story of

origin of, 62 time, in Indigenous thought, 213 Tiotiake/Montreal, mobilization

and resistance at Kanehsatà:ke during summer of 1990, 233–34

Toronto, 280n.21; Belmore’s perfor- mance in Queen’s Park, 203–6; Black Lives Matter Toronto, 252n.13, 280n.22; community of Black people in, 229–30; Ogimaa Mikan Project in, 194

Traditional Ecological Knowledge, 12

Traill, Catherine Parr, 97, 99–100 Training School Act (1908), 111,

113 trans people, 85, 103, 115, 140,

141. See also queer normativity, Indigenous

transphobia, 6, 85, 93, 122, 130, 217 traplines, 81 treaties, 88; Ancestors goals in

negotiating, 9; of 1818, 5, 39, 99; with Hoof Nation, 58–61, 243–45; hunting and fish- ing rights under, 5, 33, 39, 106, 166, 167–69, 274n.37;

310 INDEX

internationalism and, 62; land theft through, 41, 42

treaty rights approach to Indigenous politics, 219

Trent-Severn Waterway, 2, 39, 99 Trent University logo, 1 Treuer, Anton, 131, 261n.7,

268n.22, 269n.29 Tribe Called Red, A, 216 Trudeau government, 228, 230 Truth and Reconciliation Commis-

sion, 238, 239, 253n.3 Tsawout (SȾÁUTW) nation,

PKOLS reclamation and, 240, 241

T’selie, Daniel, 261n.2, 275n.3 Tuhiwai Smith, Linda, 254n.7,

273n.32 Turtle Island, 49, 178, 192, 217, 228,

237, 241 Twitter, 222, 226, 230 Two Spirit and queer (2SQ) people,

6, 31, 41, 51, 53, 54, 84–85, 89, 103, 110; anti-queerness of Euro- peans toward, 123–27; Belmore’s performance art as collective story of Indigenous women and, 205; in Cree grounded normativity, 123; Indigenous nation-building and, 135–37; nonjudgmental terminology regarding queerness, 130–31, 138; raw truths coming out of intimate spaces created by, 202; urban activism of, 195; use as umbrella term, 255; visibility to European “explorers,” 123–25. See also queer normativity, Indigenous

Two-Spirit Journey: The Autobiog- raphy of a Lesbian Ojibwa-Cree Elder, A (Chacaby), 126

Uh wus sig gee zhig goo kway, 68–69, 206–7, 208, 210

Unis’tot’en Camp, 6, 194, 242 United Empire Loyalists, 96 University of Guelph, 55, 229 University of Manitoba, 170 urban communities: consolidation

of dispossession by shifting Indigenous peoples into urban wage economy, 82; Indigenous, as sites of opportunity and action in resurgence, 195; settler colonial positioning of reserve versus, 80–81, 173, 195, 197

victim narrative, neoliberal, 117; refusing victimhood, 238–40

Victoria, PKOLS reclamation of Mount Douglas and, 240–42

Victoria, Queen, Nahnebahn- wequay’s meeting with, 68

violence: anti-queer, 125, 126; Deer clan story of injustice and, 58–61, 243–45; four centuries of state, 9, 10, 21, 42, 43, 45, 85, 86, 89, 103, 227; normalization of, 205; range of responses to, 90–91, 102–3; replication of, 89; shame turned outward into, 188. See also gender violence; sexual violence

Violence on the Land, Violence on Our Bodies: Building an Indigenous Response to Environ- mental Violence (Women’s Earth Alliance and Native Youth Sexual Health Network), 121

visiting: great walks of Idle No More and, 221; mobilization and, 165, 223–24; Nanabush’s journey around world, 56–58, 165, 183–84, 223; within Nishnaabeg

INDEX 311

intelligence, 165; of other terri- tories, political practices for, 64; social media as opportunity to skip, 224

Vizenor, Gerald, 196, 276n.12 Vowel, Chelsea, 268n.26

Wagner, Sally R., 266n.40 Walcott, Rinaldo, 252n.13 Walking with Our Sisters exhibit,

198, 216 wampum belts (treaties), 2–3. See

also treaties War of 1812, 96, 99 Watt, Vanessa, 256n.19 way of living, 22; practice of

benevolent relationships as, 139; repetition in, 200–201. See also Nishnaabewin (grounded normativity)

wealth: problems with excess, 77–78; redistribution, 77

Wendat (Huron), 2, 77; diplomatic ties to, 3

Wesley, Dana, 135–36, 266n.2, 269n.34

Western education, 13–14. See also academy; education

Western liberatory theories, useful- ness of, 56, 67

Whetung, James, 34 White, Alo, 279n.17 white allies, 228, 231; politics of

recognition and, 234–35 white supremacy, 10, 21, 35, 36, 48,

91, 93, 102, 118; Moodie’s guide to settler life in Nishnaabeg terri- tory, 97–100

white women: Methodist missions and, 96–97; settler historical record and, 97–100

Whittall, Daniel, 281n.4

wigwams, Indian Act provisions on prostitution including, 108

Williams, Doug, 19, 36, 145, 251n.2, 252n.9, 254n.4, 254n.14, 256n.19, 257n.7, 258n.3, 263n.1, 264n.19, 266n.41, 268n.20, 270n.3, 272n.17, 274n.38, 278n.3, 280n.21; as author’s teacher, 1–2, 3, 30, 166–70; on recognition, 181, 185

Williams, Shirley, 268n.26 Williamson, Tara, 209, 268n.23,

269n.26 Williams Treaties First Nations,

256n.1 Williams Treaty (1923), 5, 33, 106,

166, 167–69; basket clause, 5, 168, 274n.37

Wilson, Alex, 121, 122–23, 126–27, 129, 130, 136, 137–38, 266n.4, 267n.8, 269n.35

Wilson, Shawn, 256n.14 Wilson, William, 278n.4 Winter We Danced: Voices from the

Past, the Future, and the Idle No More Movement, The (Kino-nda- niimi Collective), 219, 279n.15

“Witnessing the Colonialscape: Lighting the Intimate Fires of Indigenous Legal Pluralism” (Hunt), 255n.7

Wolfe, Patrick, 45, 257n.9 wolverine, origin stories about

creation of, 279n.9 women, Indigenous: agency and

contributions of Nishnaabeg women, 68–69, 128; Belmore’s performance art about, 203–6; centering gender in resur- gence, 51–54, 94, 134; expan- sive dispossession of, 41–42; heteropatriarchal targeting

312 INDEX

of women, replicating, 53, 89; Indian Act and, 101, 102, 103–14, 195, 262n.8; “Indigeniz- ing the academy” and individual sacrifices for, 273n.28; inquiry into missing and murdered, 238, 239; as legal targets for death, disappearance, and elimination, 42, 89, 115, 195, 205; Methodist missions and dispossession of Nishnaabeg women, 96–100; Nahnebahnwequay as political order, 68; political influence of, 68, 97, 101, 105, 107, 220; raw truths coming out of intimate spaces created by, 202; regula- tion of menstruating women in ceremony, 141; sexual agency, as dilemma for colonizers, 107–13; stereotypes about, 83–84, 85, 89, 91–92, 102, 112, 205; truths about, 84, 85; urban activism of, 195; violence against (see gender

violence; sexual violence). See also bodies, Indigenous; gender

Women’s Earth Alliance, 121, 266n.4

World Lacrosse League Champi- onship tournament, Iroquois Nationals refusal to participate in, 177

WSÁNEĆ nations, PKOLS reclama- tion and, 240, 241

Yellowbird, Michael, 253n.11 Yellowknives Dene First Nation

territory, 5 youth, Indigenous: listening

to, resurgence and, 226–27; pressure on, to gain Western academic credentials, 159–60, 162, 273n.28. See also children, Indigenous; education

zhawenjige (to hunt), 156. See also hunting and fishing rights

Leanne Betasamosake Simpson is a Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg scholar, writer, and artist. She is on the faculty at the Dechinta Centre for Research and Learning and a distinguished visiting professor at Ryerson University in Toronto. She is author of Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, The Gift Is in the Making , Islands of Decolonial Love, and This Accident of Being Lost, and editor of Lighting the Eighth Fire, This Is an Honour Song (with Kiera Ladner), and The Winter We Danced (Kino- nda- niimi Collective). She is a member of Alderville First Nation, in Ontario, Canada.