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Xʷay'Xʷəy' and Stanley Park : performing history and land Couture, Selena Marie 2015

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 χʷaχʷəә  AND STANLEY PARK: PERFORMING HISTORY AND LAND   by  Selena Marie Couture  B.A. (Honours), Queen’s University, 1990 B.Ed., Queen’s University, 1991 M.A., The University of British Columbia, 2011  A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF  DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES (Theatre) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver)  September 2015 © Selena Marie Couture, 2015 ii  Abstract  This dissertation demonstrates performance as a mode of knowledge transfer, cultural continuity and intercultural influence that connects people – Indigenous as well as settlers and newcomers – to land. In it I engage with performance studies theory in light of Indigenous conceptions of land, performance and place naming held within the həəmiə language, while using case studies to explicate histories based on archives and repertoires. Two of my dissertation case studies critically engage with the City of Vancouver Archives. The first deconstructs the use of reenactment to create an origin narrative of benevolent “whiteness” in settler society and the second examines possible Indigenous interventions in the archive through cultural restriction. A third study demonstrates how Aboriginal Tourism of BC’s Klahowya Village, located in Stanley Park 2010-14, presents an enterprise which asserts a connection to land while enabling some intra-nation Indigenous transfer of knowledge. In aiming to rectify the absence of Indigenous women in the archival work that I have undertaken, this dissertation also features performance responses to contemporary theatrical works written and/or performed by Indigenous women in Vancouver between 2012 and 2014. Research methodologies include semiotic and phenomenological analyses enabled by an engagement with Indigenous research methodologies supported by language learning, interviews, as well as archival and field work. This research puts forth a careful examination of the influence of Vancouver’s first archivist, James Skitt Matthews, making note of limitations of the city’s archival collection with regard to Indigenous knowledge and activities. Through analyses of the performative knowledge contained within həəmiə and colonial place names this research proposes further critical consideration of existing Vancouver place names. I also develop two terms, grounded practices and eddies of influence, which are employed to create a fuller understanding of the significance iii  of land, language and reciprocity, as well as the strategic and tactical methods through which the Indigenous peoples of this area have used performance to contribute to cultural continuation and the maintenance of Indigenous places.   iv  Preface This research program has been designed, performed and analysed by Selena Couture. The UBC Behavioural Research Ethics Board approved this research. Certificate Number: H1401881. The joint Musqueam Language and Culture Program and UBC First Nations Languages Program committee has also approved it.    A version of chapter 4 has been published as “Indigenous Interventions at Klahowya Village, Stanley Park, χʷayχʷəәy Vancouver/ Unceded Coast Salish Territory” in Recasting Commodity and Spectacle in the Indigenous Americas. Edited by Helen Gilbert and Charlotte Gleghorn. London, UK: Institute for Latin American Studies, School of Advanced Study, University of London, 2014. 235-53. The book is an expansion of the papers given during the Recasting Commodity and Spectacle in the Indigenous Americas symposium held at the Institute for the Study of the Americas in London on 22-23 November 2012 and supported by the European Research Council.      v  Table of Contents  Abstract.......................................................................................................................................... ii	  Preface........................................................................................................................................... iv	  Table of Contents ...........................................................................................................................v	  List of Figures............................................................................................................................. viii	  həәn ̓qə̓әminə̓әm̓  Orthography and Pronunciation Guide ..............................................................x	  Acknowledgements .................................................................................................................... xiii	  Dedication .....................................................................................................................................xv	  Chapter 1: Introduction ................................................................................................................1	  1.1	   Research Project Overview................................................................................................ 3	  1.1.1	   Research Questions and Specifics of Site................................................................... 5	  1.2	   Review of Relevant Literature ........................................................................................... 9	  1.3	   Methodology, Structure and Ethical Reviews ................................................................. 23	  1.3.1	   Semiotics and Phenomenology ................................................................................. 23	  1.3.2	   Indigenous Research Methodologies ........................................................................ 25	  1.3.3	   Research Ethics Approvals ....................................................................................... 27	  1.4	   Dissertation Overview ..................................................................................................... 28	  Chapter 2: Land, Language, Place Names and Performance..................................................33	  2.1	   Grounded Practices .......................................................................................................... 34	  2.2	   Eddies of Influence .......................................................................................................... 39	  2.3	   Simultaneity of Place names and Tactics......................................................................... 52	  vi  Interlude: Walking Alongside “Ashes on the Water”: Podplays as an Unsettling Performance Practice ..................................................................................................................66	  Chapter 3: Reiterations of Rededications: Surrogated Whiteness..........................................78	  3.1	   Whiteness......................................................................................................................... 81	  3.2	   Archives and Conversations: “It would be more in keeping…”...................................... 86	  3.3	   The Naming, Opening and “Dedication” of Stanley Park (1888-89) .............................. 92	  3.4	   1943 Reenactment of Dedication (Around) ................................................................... 100	  3.5	   Re/dedications by a Disappearing Mausoleum (Toward).............................................. 107	  3.6	   1952-60 – The Lord Stanley Statue (Around)................................................................ 114	  3.7	   The 1964 Rededication and the Last Spike (Around) .................................................... 118	  3.8	   Conclusion ..................................................................................................................... 121	  Interlude: For the Pleasure of Seeing Her Again ....................................................................124	  Chapter 4: Vancouver’s 1946 Diamond Jubilee: Indigenous Archival Interventions ........134	  4.1	   The Jubilee Show and the Indian Village and Show: Settler Assertion, Indigenous Contention............................................................................................................................... 136	  4.2	   The Indian Village and Show: Allies in the Archive ..................................................... 140	  4.3	   The Indian Village and Show: Media Coverage ............................................................ 148	  4.4	   Embodiment: Grounded Practices at səaqʷ/ Sen’ákw ................................................ 151	  4.5	   Present but Incomplete: William Scow’s Copyright Assignment ................................. 160	  4.6	   Conclusion: Decolonization through Imaginative Space............................................... 162	  Interlude: Iterations of Marie Clements’ The Road Forward ................................................166	  Chapter 5: Indigenous Performative Interventions at Klahowya Village............................176	  5.1	   A Coast Salish Genealogy of Cultural Performance...................................................... 179	  vii  5.2	   Archive: Context, Site, Naming and Place .................................................................... 182	  5.3	   Repertoire: Knowledge Transmission, Inversion and Critique...................................... 187	  5.4	   Conclusions and Continuing Plans ................................................................................ 194	  Interlude: Tanya Tagaq and Nanook of the North..................................................................197	  Chapter 6: Conclusion...............................................................................................................206	  Figures.........................................................................................................................................213	  Works Cited................................................................................................................................241	  Appendix A: Walking Tour Draft Script Outline...................................................................272	    viii  List of Figures  Figure 1.1: View of Stanley Park Peninsula. .............................................................................. 213	  Figure 1.2: View of Stanley Park. Brockton Point is in the middle right edge of photo. ........... 214	  Figure 1.3: Map of the Vancouver area with həәəәmiəә place names relevant to this dissertation. ................................................................................................................................. 215	  Figure 3.1: David Oppenheimer, grand nephew of Mayor Oppenheimer, reading the original illuminated address presented to Lord Stanley in 1889 .............................................................. 216	  Figure 3.2: E.V. Young dressed as Lord Stanley addressing the crowd at the rededication of Stanley Park ................................................................................................................................ 217	  Figure 3.3: Frank Plante driving E.V. Young and David Oppenheimer arriving at Lumberman's Arch............................................................................................................................................. 218	  Figure 3.4: August Jack Khahtsahlano and others at the Re-dedication of Stanley Park........... 219	  Figure 3.5: Prospect Point, Stanley Park, Vancouver, B.C. ....................................................... 220	  Figure 3.6: How Lord Stanley Finally Got Into His Own Park .................................................. 221	  Figure 3.7: Page 18 from Matthews’ Stanley Park, Vancouver: The Rededication 1964 .......... 222	  Figure 3.8 (Interlude): Western Canada Theatre’s For the Pleasure of Seeing Her Again closing sequence...................................................................................................................................... 223	  Figure 4.1: Image of the stage at Brockton Point during The Jubilee Show July 1946. ............. 224	  Figure 4.2: Image from the “Potlatch Ballet” opening sequence of the “The Jubilee Show” July 1946............................................................................................................................................. 225	  Figure 4.3: Front Cover of “The Jubilee Show” program .......................................................... 226	  Figure 4.4: Back Cover of “The Jubilee Show” program........................................................... 227	  ix  Figure 4.5: Front Cover of “The Indian Village and Show” program........................................ 228	  Figure 4.6: Back Cover of “The Indian Village and Show” program ........................................ 229	  Figure 4.7: Native Brotherhood of BC in “The Indian Village and Show” program ................. 230	  Figure 4.8: August Jack Khahtsahlano’s welcome in “The Indian Village and Show” program231	  Figure 4.9: Major J.S. Matthews’ note on the inside cover of the program held in the City of Vancouver Archives.................................................................................................................... 232	  Figure 4.10: Description of the stage from “The Indian Village and Show” program............... 233	  Figure 4.11: Chief William Scow and party reading a declaration to confer an honourary chieftainship on Lord Alexander. 13 July 1946.......................................................................... 234	  Figure 4.12: Viscount Alexander of Tunis, Governor General being made an honourary Chief named "Nakapunkim" by Chief William Scow at Kitsilano Beach. ......................................... 235	  Figure 4.13: Portrait of Dan Cranmer painted by Mildred Thornton. ........................................ 236	  Figure 4.14: Totemland Society letter regarding the placement of a sign at the Fraser Midden, now known as əsnaʔəm............................................................................................................. 237	  Figure 5.1: Teepee in Farmyard.................................................................................................. 238	  Figure 5.2: Headdress at Klahowya Village. .............................................................................. 239	  Figure 5.3: Safety fencing and burnt trees after the arson of the Miniature Train Station on 21 June 2012. ................................................................................................................................... 240	      x  həәn ̓q ̓əәmin ̓əәm ̓  Orthography and Pronunciation Guide This dissertation uses an orthography developed for the həәəәmiəә language. Certain characters will only display if the First Nations Unicode font is installed on the computer you are using to read this document. The font and instructions on its installation are available here:  Please note that upper case letters are not used in the orthographic system. The following is a guide that instructs readers how to write and pronounce həәn̓q̓əәmin̓əәm̓ sounds (used with permission from the Musqueam Language and Culture program).   həәn̓q̓əәmin̓əәm̓ has 36 consonants, 22 of which are not found in English and some of which appear in only a handful of languages around the world. Since the majority of həәn̓q̓əәmin̓əәm̓ sounds are different from those of English, the English alphabet (orthography) is not a straightforward system for writing həәn̓q̓əәmin̓əәm̓ words. So instead, Musqueam uses the North American Phonetic Alphabet (NAPA), where each sound is represented by a single distinct symbol creating consistency of interpretation and predictability of pronunciation. Though they may appear foreign at first, these symbols are used worldwide to represent the Native languages of North America and Europe.   Vowels  i = the i in “pizza” e = the e in “bet” a = the a in “father” u = the u in “flute” əә = the u in “but” xi  Sometimes vowels will be followed by a colon “:”. This means the vowel is lengthened.    Consonants  Some sounds that are the same in both həәn̓q̓əәmin̓əәm̓ and English are:   h, k, l, m, n, p, s, t, w, and y.    What does that little comma above and next to a letter mean?  Some həәn̓q̓əәmin̓əәm̓ consonants such as c̓, k̓, ƛ̓, p̓, q̓, or t̕, are categorized as glottalized stops or ejectives. Although they share the same features as their non-glottalized counterparts, they are distinguished by an audible popping sound upon their release. The popping sound is created when the build up of air - caused by the closing of the glottis - is released and the sound is articulated. Use the chart below to find general description of each of these sounds.   l, m, n, w, and y represent the group of consonants known as resonants, characterized as such because of the reverberating quality of their sound. Their glottalized counterparts , , , , and , like the glottalized stops, are also represented with an apostrophe but are distinguished from the stops by the creaky quality of their sound which is achieved by constricting the vocal cords during the articulation of a particular resonant.  What does that little “w” (ʷ) next to a letter mean?  The little ʷ next to a letter means that the particular letter is made with your lips rounded.   Other consonants include  c = “ts” sound  č = “ch” sound as in “cheese” xii  ƛ̓ = Articulate this sound in the same way as “ ɬ ” below but the tongue releases only a short  burst of sound rather than a steady stream.  ɬ = Place your tongue as though you were going to pronounce an “l” sound and then simply  blow a steady stream of air past the sides of your tongue where it rests against the inside surface of your molars. Creating sufficient friction is the key to producing this sound.  q = Similar to “k” only farther back, at the place where your tongue starts its journey down your  throat! š = an “sh” sound as in “shirt” ᶿ = This sound is like the regular θ (below) but is only used in combination with the t̕ as in t̕ᶿ.  θ = Called theta, it makes a “th” sound as in “with”  x = Position your mouth as you would for a “y” and then blow without using your voice.  χ = Same place as where an h is made but more raspy sounding. ʔ = A consonant that has no sound! You make it by intentionally closing your glottis as you  would in the middle of the word “uh-oh” xiii  Acknowledgements I would like to express my gratitude to the həəmiə-speaking xʷməәθkʷəәəәm and səәliwəәtaʔɬ  peoples and the Skwxwú7mesh sníchim-speaking Skwxwú7mesh peoples who hold these lands on which this dissertation has been produced. I appreciate their generosity in hosting me.  wə na ʔəw ʔəy̓ tə nə šxʷqʷeləwən k’ʷəns ʔi tecəl – I am very happy to be here. This dissertation is the result of many years of work during which a circle of supportive mentors, friends and family has surrounded me. It is very difficult to articulate how much their kindness has allowed me to both pursue and complete this project but I will attempt it. I begin by acknowledging my supervisor, Dr. Jerry Wasserman, who first sent me to the archives so many years ago and has encouraged my development as a scholar by allowing me to find my way while also nudging me in new directions when necessary. His careful eye and thoughtful suggestions have been instrumental in the articulation of my writing and ideas. I would also like to acknowledge my committee members: Dr. Daniel Heath Justice, whose open door, enthusiasm and readiness to share his wisdom have pushed my development as a researcher engaged with intercultural relations; and Dr. Coll Thrush, who first suggested that I study the həəmiə language, guided me through a reconsideration of how histories have been written and has consistently expressed a confidence in my abilities that has buoyed me throughout these last few years.  I would also like to recognize UBC Theatre Studies faculty Kirsty Johnston and Siyuan Liu – for ideas generated through course work and much invaluable guidance during the years as my research progressed.  I appreciate very much the friendly support provided by other UBC Theatre & Film department faculty and staff: Gayle Murphy, Stephen Heatley, Robert Gardiner, xiv  Cam Cronin, Karen Tong, Gerald Vanderwoude, Deb Pickman, Ian Patton, Jay Henrickson, Tony Koelwyn and Tom Scholte. I have been preceded by generations of Indigenous and non-Indigenous scholars and activists who have contended with the inheritances of colonialism. My work is only possible because of theirs. I have benefited from supportive instructors and scholars throughout the process of my PhD. I extend particular thanks to Michelle Laflamme, Dory Nason, Susan Roy, Sherrill Grace, Toph Marshall, Reid Gilbert, Charlotte Townsend-Gault, Alexander Dick, Patricia Badir, Helen Gilbert, Dani Phillipson, Peter Kulchyski, Katie Zien, Penny Farfan, Dylan Robinson, Keren Zaiontz, Peter Dickinson, Stephen Johnson, Mique’l Dangeli, and Amy Pereault.  I have been part of a cohort of passionate theatre scholars who share with me the never-ending desire to talk and think about theatre and performance. Thank you to Martha Herrera-Lasso, Seth Soulstein, Julia Henderson, Alex Ferguson, Trish Everett-Kabut, Kelsey Blair, Jocelyn Pitsch, Lindsay Lachance, Eury Chang, Yanting Qiu, Sandra Chamberlain-Schnider, Brian Parkinson, Katrina Dunn, Dennis Gupa and Jennette White.  I thank my fellow həəmiə language students: Aidan Pine, Helene Irving, Jordana Manchester, Faith Sparrow-Crawford, Jessica Carson, Erica Baker, Chloe Erlendson; as well as my patient and generous instructors: Larry Grant, Patricia Shaw, Marny Point, Jill Campbell.  This dissertation was completed with financial support from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council; the Killam Trust; a UBC Four Year Fellowship; the Elsie and Audrey Jang Scholarship in Cultural Diversity and Harmony; a UBC Faculty of Arts Graduate Award; the Dorothy Somerset Memorial Scholarship in Theatre; and the Errol Durbach Graduate Scholarship in Theatre. xv  Dedication To my many supportive families:   ….My Couture family: my parents, brothers and sister as well as their spouses and children, scattered from the east to west coasts of Canada and down to Texas. Being the youngest of seven taught me to listen from a young age, a skill that has served me well in this work.   ….My West Coast Island family, always so kind, generous and interested in whatever I’m doing. In particular I must acknowledge the love and support from Adele and Riley Hern; they have been role models for me.    …My East Van folks: members of the 15-hundo block, Amanda Fritzlan, Marcus Youssef, Am Johal, Geoff Mann, Michelle Bonner, Patty Fraser, Mark and Goo Johnston, Verity Rolfe, Ashley, Keith, Skye, Diana, Sarah, Mica, Mark Douglas and the youth who took part in the East Van/ Fort Good Hope exchanges.   …And to Matt, Sadie and Daisy with whom I’ve been paddling this boat for over 20 years; you continue to teach me so much about strength, curiosity, joy and unending love.  1 Chapter 1: Introduction   During the four years that I have been in graduate school working towards my doctorate, much has taken place that relates directly to my dissertation topic. Within Vancouver there have been the actions to protect the Musqueam village site of əsnaʔəm1 and the subsequent tri-museum exhibit co-curated by Musqueam people, the City of Vancouver’s official acknowledgement that it sits on unceded territories of the Musqueam, Tsleil-Waututh and Squamish peoples, as well as actions to protect Burnaby Mountain from the Kinder Morgan Trans Mountain pipeline. In British Columbia at large there has been the historic Tsilhqot’in decision on Aboriginal title, and widespread opposition to Enbridge’s Northern Gateway project.2 Across Canada, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission held events to document and inform people about Indian Residential School experiences and abuses, and the indigenous resurgence movement emerged, one expression of which was the very public Idle No More movement through the winter of 2012-13. It seems a bit strange, perhaps, to work on assembling a performance history of a place where so much continues going on in the present. As histories                                                 1  cə̓әsnaʔəәm was a village used by Musqueam people until approximately 1,500 years ago. In the city of Vancouver this area became known as Marpole. In the late 1800s the area became a site of research, and settlers began to remove human remains and cultural objects.  Considered one of the largest “pre-contact middens” in Western Canada, it was declared a National Historic Site in 1933. As a result of the discovery of intact burials during the building of a condominium development, Musqueam people and supporters held a vigil and protest from January to May 2012. In October 2013 the Musqueam Nation purchased part of the lot. In January 2015, a three-part exhibit, curated by Musqueam people, opened at the Musqueam Cultural Centre, the UBC Museum of Anthropology and the Museum of Vancouver (“Documentation: unceded”). 	  2	  The Tsilhqot’in court case and blockades had been going on for over 20 years in an effort to stop logging operations in their territory south and west of Williams Lake, BC, when, on June 26, 2014, the Supreme Court of Canada unanimously affirmed the Aboriginal title of the Tsilhqot’in to 1,700 square kilometres. This is the first confirmation of Aboriginal title outside of an Indian reserve in Canada. It includes not only old village sites but also sites that have been used for resource gathering and hunting.  The court decision also clarified how to prove Aboriginal title and when Aboriginal consent is needed for resource development projects (McCue ).	  2 have been written already which narrate how Canada became a unified nation and Vancouver a city settled by Europeans, there is room for a history that contends with these narratives.  There is a need for a history conceived through the use of performance that argues that this place, despite the nationalist invading settler forces that have aimed to define it, nevertheless continues to be Indigenous.3  In the Musqueam language, həәəәmiəә, there are two locative auxiliary verbs, niʔ meaning “be there” and ʔi meaning “be here.” Because the words locate the speaker in space according to what is being discussed, they also often locate her in time, e.g., speaking of something that is not present often means speaking of the past (but not necessarily). These words can be used on their own, or in conjunction with other verbs to elaborate or emphasize the existential qualities of the action (Suttles 34-6). This dissertation concerns the there and then as well as the here and now of Coast Salish peoples in what is currently known as the Lower Mainland of British Columbia, using instances of the action of performance to demonstrate the fluidity of time. As with the həәəәmiəә verbs mentioned above, this examination of time is embedded in a location – the Coast Salish village of χʷaχʷə near what is presently known as the Lumberman’s Arch area of Stanley Park in downtown Vancouver. I have chosen this place because of the numerous Indigenous cultural performances that have taken place here over the years and currently continue. The knowledge embedded in this place name (discussed in the following chapter) reinforces the notion that the current use of this place                                                 3	  As demonstrated in this opening paragraph, I will use various terms to refer to Indigenous peoples throughout this dissertation. When relevant, I will refer to the specific group of people by name, e.g., Musqueam. When referring to Canadian policies affecting Indigenous people, I will use Aboriginal as an umbrella term for First Nations, Métis and Inuit, and Indian only when referring specifically to concepts of status contained within Canada’s Indian Act or when directly quoting from a source. I mainly use Indigenous as it is a transnational term that also connotes a connection to place.	  	  3 for performances is a continuation and adaptation of cultural practice from pre-European settlement times.   This examination of how performance is used to transfer knowledge will also include the performative activities of settlers that have occurred in this place. The settler history of Stanley Park is well documented in archives as well as in popular culture; however, the use of performance as a method of creating and maintaining a colonial space has not yet been considered. In keeping with much recent scholarship regarding colonialism that focuses on the mutual influencing of settlers and Indigenous people, establishing that this is a significant place of performance for Coast Salish peoples will bring new insights into why it has also been the site of so many settler performances. So while this dissertation is mainly concerned with Coast Salish cultural continuation through performance, I will be using a similar lens to demonstrate the cultural construction of whiteness through performance in this place as well.  By examining intercultural performances from the establishment of the city of Vancouver to our current time, I will demonstrate the importance of performance as a mode of knowledge transfer, cultural continuity and intercultural influence that connects people to place. I also hope that my research will locate histories that have been ignored by settlers and newcomers up to now that will aid the process of Indigenous resurgence, which aims for a transition from existing settler colonial power structures.  1.1 Research Project Overview Since European settlement, Vancouver has been a site of contention between settlers and the Musqueam, Tsleil-Waututh, and Squamish, as well as other peoples of this place. Indigenous groups have consistently used cultural performance to establish their persistence and political 4 legitimacy in the face of settler efforts to dispossess them of land and to control a romantic narrative of Indigenous peoples through cultural homogenization (Roy 2002 62-4; Hawker 101-25).  This research begins with an exploration of the significance of land as an organizing cultural concept for Indigenous peoples generally and, through həәəәmiəә language research, for local Indigenous groups. Performance is explored as an enunciation of land through language and place-naming practices. I then move into a critical engagement with the colonial origins of much of Vancouver’s written history through an analysis of the City of Vancouver archives enabling a new consideration of historical assumptions and an opening up of understanding regarding the use of performance both by settlers aiming to connect with land throughout the twentieth century and by Indigenous organizations countering and intervening in these performed histories. Once I consider this history, I examine the contemporary presence of Indigenous performers at a tourist spectacle to investigate how Indigenous performance at this site continues to assert cultural identity and relationship to land. As explained further below in the section on research methodologies and permissions, I conducted the research through language learning, performance attendance, and interviews, as well as archival and field work.   Many Indigenous performances at this site have occurred in the context of related intercultural settler performances of whiteness. Included in my study are reenactments of the naming and dedication of Stanley Park produced by the city archivist as well as an examination of the 1946 Jubilee Show that celebrated the 60th anniversary of Vancouver with an historical pageant. These performances also include instances of what Phillip Deloria has termed playing Indian, exemplified by the opening “potlatch ballet” scene of The Jubilee Show, and what Jean Barman has called the “erasing” of Indigenous indigeneity in the Lower Mainland, shown by 5 efforts to import a Kwakwaka’wakw village in the early 1900s, which resulted in an iconic totem pole display at the site still popular with tourists (Phillips 28; Hawker 44).  Understanding this history in its full complexity requires tracing histories not found in print-based colonial archives (Bratton). It means exploring not only the ways Indigenous people resisted colonialism and maintained cultural continuity despite centuries of violence, but ways of transmitting Indigenous history that do not depend on the colonial archive. These efforts necessitate a definition of performance that can account for both purposeful theatrical presentations and performance that seeks to assert identity through publically challenging cultural norms. Diana Taylor’s emphasis on the fruitful complexity in defining performance is helpful here. She suggests we embrace the difficulty of defining performance in order to remember “that we do not understand each other – and recognize that each effort in that direction needs to work against notions of easy access, decipherability, and translatability” (2003 15). While I am opening up the definition of performance to expand it beyond those events held in a theatre, I am also aware of the tensions involved in imposing a definition.  This research engages with works on theatre and Indigenous historiography, post-colonial theatre as well as performance studies. By bringing these works into conversation I hope to emphasize the importance of performance as a method of Indigenous history, while also bringing insights from non-Western epistemologies to the study of theatre and performance.   1.1.1 Research Questions and Specifics of Site My goal is to understand how, when and why Indigenous performance is employed to create and transfer historical knowledge, connection to land and assertion of identity. I pursue 6 these central questions in the context of related intercultural settler performances in the hope of encouraging a deconstruction of the assumption of the neutrality of whiteness.  This research is situated mainly in a section of the large urban park, Stanley Park, in the city of Vancouver which is also the site of a village used by the Musqueam, Tsleil-Waututh and Skwxwú7mesh people, known in the həәəәmiəә language as χʷaχʷə4 and in Skwxwú7mesh as Xwáxway. In 1870 this was the site of a very large ceremony (known as a potlatch in Chinook jargon) and it hosted other ceremonies until at least 1885 (Barman 2005 67-9; Kheraj 24) 5. The village was acknowledged by colonial authorities to be one of the oldest in the Lower Mainland because of its extensive midden (Roy 2010 45-6); further archeological research has found some artifacts to be 3200 years old (Kheraj 25). The peninsula was designated a naval reserve in the 1860s, although proper procedures were not followed by the colonial government. This became an issue later when the people living in the park were taken to court (Barman 2005 24-9; Kheraj 37).  Shortly after the incorporation of Vancouver, the first city council immediately made plans to use the peninsula as a public park and it was officially opened in 1888. The park is approximately four square kilometres in area and is easily accessible from the downtown core of the city. Brockton Point – named after the engineer on a Navy ship that surveyed the coast who spotted a vein of coal in the area now known as Coal Harbour in downtown Vancouver (Barman 2005 23) – is the most protected area of the land formation on the south side of the first narrows of the inlet (over which the Lions Gate Bridge was built) (see fig. 1.1).                                                   4 The həәəәmiəә language is spoken by peoples surrounding the delta of the Fraser River, extending from Musqueam, Katzie, Kwantlen, Langley, Marpole, Burrard, Jericho, and Coquitlam to Tsawwassen (Shaw and Campbell Book One 1-3).	  5 The Canadian federal government banned potlatch ceremonies from 1884-1951.  7 Once the Stanley Park causeway was built (enclosing the tidal flats which became known as Lost Lagoon), this point of the park became very accessible from the downtown core. Many of Vancouver’s iconic tourist attractions have been situated here over the years, including the Vancouver Aquarium, the totem poles, Malkin Bowl (home of Theatre Under the Stars during the summer), the Rose Garden, the Stanley Park Pavilion, Lumberman’s Arch, the Lighthouse, and the Nine O’Clock Gun (see fig. 1.2).  Although the main site of my research is the area surrounding χʷaχʷə, inquiries have also led me to activities at other village sites within Vancouver: əsnaʔəm (through museum exhibits), the Musqueam reserve and səʔaqʷ (now known as Vanier Park) (see fig. 1.3). Chronologically, this research spans the modern era of European settlement from the 1880s to the time of my writing and also reaches back, through knowledge embedded in the həәəәmiəә language, to times previous to European contact.  Vancouver and BC generally are fertile sites for this research. They are the spaces and places in which oral history and performance have become essential to substantiating Aboriginal title, e.g., Delgamuukw v. BC,6 as well as where the recent performative activities of the Four Host First Nations in the 2010 Winter Olympics have left their mark. This research engages with what the Aboriginal Arts Research Initiative calls “the integrative relationship of Aboriginal languages to the arts” (Trépanier 23) and with the mandate of the First Peoples' Cultural Council (FPCC)7 to "preserve, restore, enhance First Nations' heritage, language and culture [and]                                                 6 Legal Scholar John Borrows (Anishinabe/Ojibway) explains that the 1997 Supreme Court of Canada decision regarding the Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en peoples' claim to legal title and the right to self-government, "extended the laws of evidence to accommodate Aboriginal traditions and histories" so that they are placed on equal footing with other types of historical evidence (Borrows 555-56). 7 The BC provincial government formed the FPCC in 1990 as a Crown Corporation to support the revitalization of BC First Nations art, cultures and languages (Gessner et al. 2). 	  8 increase intercultural understanding and sharing of knowledge” (Gessner et al. 2). The FPCC’s 2014 report on the status of BC First Nations languages acknowledges the shrinking number of speakers as elders die, yet insists that there are still "very real possibilities of improving the current status" if actions are taken to revitalize languages (5-10). This research responds to their mandate and call for action with the intention of bringing awareness to the knowledge contained within həəmiə in order that a larger number of people may engage in the work to revitalize the language.  The Vancouver Board of Parks and Recreation began negotiations with Aboriginal Tourism of BC in 2011 regarding a permanent, year-round Aboriginal cultural attraction building on the current site of Klahowya Village in Stanley Park, and this continues to be a priority as the city declared 2014 the “Year of Reconciliation” (Macguire 1-2; “Aboriginal Tourism of BC: Operational Plan 2014-15” 16). Therefore, as well as filling a gap in the field of theatre history, this research aims to intervene in the continuing representation of Vancouver history in public places through an expanded understanding of history and place that includes həәəәmiəә language and place names.  Much of the literature I engage with in the next section employs the term decolonizing, which has multiple meanings, depending on the times and places it has been deployed. In this dissertation, I use decolonization to describe specifically located work that aims to reconnect with Indigenous laws and epistemologies of this land while simultaneously aspiring to recognize and dismantle the particular existing colonial structures of this settler colonial nation state. I am informed by Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang’s "Decolonization is not a metaphor," in which they explain that land is the most valuable commodity in the settler colonial state and that disruption of Indigenous relationships with land as well as the disappearance of Indigenous peoples is 9 necessary for the maintenance of settler colonial structures (5-6). Tuck and Yang further assert that "decolonization in the settler colonial context must involve the repatriation of land simultaneous to the recognition of how land and relations to land have always already been differently understood and enacted” (7). My understanding of decolonization therefore includes attention to the specific histories of Indigenous peoples enacting relations to this land, with the goal of supporting the repatriation of Indigenous lands.   1.2 Review of Relevant Literature  Moving from insights on post-colonial and decolonizing dramatic practice that emphasize concerns of history, identity, language and place, I connect these to the material significance of a localized place. In a colonial (and post-colonial) globalizing world, concerns with place are often expressed through much maligned tourist performances; however, with insights available through the use of Indigenous theatre and performance studies methodologies, tourist and historical reenactments can be shown to engage with knowledge, place and identity while critiquing histories based on a colonial archive.  Helen Gilbert and Joanne Tompkins’ Post-colonial Drama: Theory, Practice,  Politics (1996) is a wide-ranging study of performative responses to imperialism and colonialism. They outline multiple methods of fracturing colonialist history that have been used in performance, such as staging pre-contact culture to counter claims of terra nullius, reclaiming lost heroes, telling women’s stories, and using story-telling conventions. Most significantly for my research are their discussions of concepts of time, not as linear but instead conceived of as simultaneous and permeable; the remapping of space; and writing over place-names in order to control and colonize (145). They also note that postcolonial dramas often make space/place a 10 performer. Gilbert and Tompkins’ inclusion of settler histories as one of their counter-canonical historical methods is also a helpful model for my research, which includes an exploration of settler cultural performances in the space (114).   Their chapter on language is also very pertinent to my work. They explain that the stage as a location for linguistic resistance is ironic (because stages were used to impose imperial languages) but also powerful: “language functions as a basic medium through which meaning is filtered but it also acts as a cultural and political system that has meaning in itself. The post-colonial stage acts as a principal arena for the enunciation of such a system” (166-67). They also assert that the theatre can be a place for language maintenance and revitalization: Oral cultures emphasize not only the sound and rhythm of language and its accompanying paralinguistic features, but also the site from which it is spoken... By restoring to oral discourses their topology as performance pieces, theatre allows the orality of post-colonial languages to be fully realized, especially since each performance defers and deflects the authority of any written script. (167)  Moreover, they attend to the ways song and music convey emotion and can detach from a play to live on with an audience (194). Gilbert and Tompkins also note the significance of one actor playing multiple roles, and the way the fluid movement and role changes “emphasize the performativity of the body and thus frustrate viewers’ desire for a fixed and unitary subject” (234). They further explain how this type of performance makes the body more malleable and stretches the borders of subjectivity, creating flexible identities and disrupting a colonial binary (235). This nearly twenty-year-old taxonomy of theatrical responses to colonialism is useful to bring attention to the range of Indigenous performance practices that aim to destabilize colonial powers.  11 Published a few years after Gilbert and Tompkins’ work, Christopher Balme’s Decolonizing the Stage: Theatrical Syncretism and Post-colonial Drama (1999) engages in a similarly large scope of study. He defines syncretic theatre as an aesthetic phenomenon that takes place during a time of cultural interaction and change. It is different from theatre that appropriates from a source culture because of its respect for the cultural text and its maintenance of a precisely defined cultural meaning (3-5). He notes that the use of space in syncretic theatre engages “directly or indirectly with the fact that post-colonialism is finally a debate about the contestation of occupied space” (269). These insights on space, language use and a phenomenological continuum of reality in Indigenous performance are relevant to my research.  In a more recent Canadian context, Anishinaabe-Ashkenazi performer, director and scholar Jill Carter’s analysis of Cree director and theorist Floyd Favel and Guna8/Rappahannock performer and scholar Monique Mojica’s work with Indigenous theatre theory in the devising of the play Chocolate Woman Dreams the Milky Way illuminates Balme’s observations about the protection of a source culture. These three Indigenous artists and scholars demonstrate how to engage and negotiate theatrically with multiple cultural traditions in order to represent Indigenous aesthetics and narratives through a “process whereby fragments of ‘historical memory’ may be recovered, collected, reconstituted, and re-inscribed as a holistic entity within and communicated through the relationship between multiple ‘archives’ expressing themselves in multiple dimensions” (Carter 170). In keeping with Favel’s “Native Performance Culture” methods, the sacred knowledge that is used during their devising process is encoded so as not to be available to all. Through the process of abstracting and encoding the knowledge, the                                                 8	  Mojica currently identifies herself as Guna although historically she has used the spelling Kuna. When citing her previous work, I will employ Kuna if she has in order to be accurate in my citations, but will otherwise follow her current spelling of Guna. 	  12 performer is affected personally and effects a transformation in others without violating the ceremony/tradition/knowledge that is not meant to be shared (172-73). I will return to this concept below when discussing tourist performances.  I engage with these texts because of the importance they consider cultural sources, language and place to have, but my research context differs in that it is not based on analysis of dramatic literature or the theatrical devising process. Instead, I engage with a wide range of performative situations as well as a range of theatrical reenactments and their occurrence on specific lands as they create historical narratives and construct identities.  Ric Knowles’ Reading the Material Theatre (2004) utilizes materialist theory to attend to the processes of meaning-making in theatre. His analysis of the urban space around theatres as well as their architecture to ground the material reading is useful when locating Stanley Park within the city of Vancouver. He argues that theory and practice are mutually constitutive and that a precise politics of location (of both the theatre and the critic) is necessary (4). Within a cultural materialist analysis – which is concerned with historicity, and the acknowledgement of personal political positioning as well as interpellations by dominant forces– Knowles insists on historicizing the present and emphasizing the analysis of the whole performance event as a text. For semiotic analysis, Knowles recommends greater concern with the signs of the whole site-specific event, including its production and reception, to “complicate, intersect with and enrich historical and historicized analysis that takes a longer diachronic view” (204). Knowles’ call to attend to specifically located materialist concerns is clearly an important influence in my work.   One manifestation of this is attending to knowledge shared in historian Keith Thor Carlson’s The Power of Place; the Problem of Time: Aboriginal Identity and Historical Consciousness in the Cauldron of Colonialism (2010) which is concerned with the layered and 13 ever-changing identity construction of the Stó:lō people9 through the years 1780 to 1906. He explains that identity and status are tied to the knowledge of one’s ancestors, genealogical history and the ability to demonstrate the right to resource sites (49). Carlson’s focus on uncovering the patterns of collective identity formation as part of pre-contact patterns of living is innovative, as is his ability to integrate the significance of stories. He does not attempt to link stories to geological science, but instead appreciates “how belief in the historical legitimacy of the contents of such stories shapes people’s subsequent historical behavior” (112). He moves away from colonial contact as the centre of Indigenous history and shows the continuation of Stó:lō culture. In terms of understanding ceremony, Carlson explains the significance of witnessing as part of the Stó:lō  governance system, noting that the potlatch ban  “significantly altered the manner in which Indigenous people…transmitted and publicly professed notions of collective self” (181). He also links ceremony to mobility and place; not being able to potlatch meant that high-status, property rights owning Stó:lō could not relocate, because they could not transfer their property rights. “This, perhaps more than any of the more direct Church and government efforts to restrict movement, undoubtedly caused a reification of settlement-based collective identities among the Stó:lō populations at the expense of the pan-tribal associations” (206). This is a significant insight regarding the consequences of the potlatch ban as well as the connections between ceremony and place-based rights within a local BC context.  In the context of a repressive colonial government, which banned public ceremony but encouraged the use of Aboriginal culture for economic stimulation through tourism, it is                                                 9	  Stó:lō  Tribal Council staff and Elders include “all the Indigenous people living along the lower 190 kilometres” of the Fraser River as “Stó:lō” (Halq’eméylem for river). Although not all Lower Mainland First Nations have joined the Stó:lō Nation, Carlson asserts their cultural connection nevertheless, while explaining how the multiple and creative affiliations are a part of Coast Salish identity formation (9-13).	  14 important to attend to the nuances of this mode of often-commoditized spectacle. Christopher Balme’s chapter on tourist performances in Oahu, Hawaii, “‘As You Always Imagined It’: The Pacific as Tourist Spectacle,” in Pacific Performances: Theatricality and Cross-Cultural Encounter in the South Seas (2007), includes a discussion of  “reverse colonial mimicry”: “instead of imitating the colonizer and developing forms of subversion by holding up a distorted image of the European,” Indigenous people mimic “European projections of themselves” (182). Balme also contrasts Maori and Hawaiian performances with those of the Samoans and Tongans, noting that as Fourth World Indigenous cultures submerged in a majority colonizing culture, both Maori and Hawaiian groups staged “performance traditions which fulfilled the double function of presenting an image of cultural vitality to the colonial gaze and finding new functions for performance within a new cultural situation” (185).  Balme attends to the physical site of performance, e.g., the Hawaiian hula performances that happen within the village without a raised stage as tourists group around informally (ibid.). He asserts that these moments give the performers a chance to subvert the demands of the tourist spectacle. Kahnawá:ke Mohawk author and educator Taiaiake Alfred’s Wasáse: Indigenous Pathways to Action and Freedom (2005) is a good counterpoint to use in thinking about the negative consequences of the commodification of Indigenous culture. Alfred’s critical focus and ideas about operating outside of the current capitalist model of colonial governance and his vision of anarchist-indigenist cultural autonomous zones may apply in interesting ways to the work of performers within civic pageants and tourist villages. Alfred dismisses “performance of dances and shows of tourist ‘art’,” declining to consider them as culture, saying instead that they present a “false face” (43). He does not consider the possible impact of live performance when he discusses the negative effects of cultural commodification, and I respond to his criticism of 15 Indigenous people who choose to interact with settler-colonial society in this manner. His urging to deny the legitimacy of colonial governing powers is one of the criteria I use to try to sort out the diminishing or expanding of Indigenous power in these cultural spectacles: “The first and most important objective of movements against state power must be to deny the state’s legitimacy in theoretical and concrete ways. In the long term, legitimacy is the most important form of power the state possesses” (56). Along with Alfred’s call for contention, I am also aware of the difficulty of criticizing the choices made by Indigenous people who are trying to survive.  Monique Mojica similarly asserts, in her article on her development of a Kuna aesthetic for Chocolate Woman Dreams the Milky Way, that “Indian medicine shows” such as the ones her grandfather took part in are a valid performance form (130). This is in the context of a discussion with Floyd Favel, who for many years had characterized cultural performances taken out of context and put on stage as “artificial trees” with no life or roots (Favel Starr 71).10  In a more recent essay, Favel dates the origins of Indigenous theatre, which he calls the “younger brother of tradition,” to Buffalo Bill's Wild West show, which "allowed Native peoples to express their dances in freedom, as back at home, their people were being killed and massacred simply for dancing, as in the Ghost Dance, which led to the Wounded Knee Massacre of 1890 in South Dakota" (116). Favel says that this led to a tradition of performing amongst Native peoples, and the "stage became the vehicle and refuge where ancient songs and dances could be kept alive and shared with the world," while Native people could also support themselves financially (117). In a further expansion of the understanding of Indigenous people’s use of popular spectacular performances, Dakota historian Philip Deloria’s Indians in Unexpected Places                                                 10	  This work is included in Rob Appleford’s 2005 collection on Canadian Aboriginal drama and theatre under the name Floyd Favel Starr and was originally published in 1997. 	  16 (2004) documents examples of Native American cultural producers around the turn of the 20th century. Deloria argues that what people believe to be cultural anomalies are actually the result of the creation of expectations that encouraged exclusion from modernity despite active cultural production by Indigenous peoples. In an early chapter, he includes an analysis of the difference between the authenticity of the live Buffalo Bill performers and its loss in the film Cody produced, underscoring the importance of audience response. Like Favel, Deloria also makes important points about the opportunities live performance provided for Indigenous people who were confined to reserves at the time: e.g., money, travel, intertribal affiliations, the spreading and gaining of cultural information. Deloria concludes his discussion on Indigenous peoples and modernity with observations contrasting African American and Latino American discourse on integration and civil rights with Indigenous approaches to sovereignty and inclusion/assimilation.  He posits that the “geography of urbanism” was one element that influenced the closing of the window of opportunity for Indigenous inclusion in modernity, asserting that in the early twentieth century “landless African Americans migrated to northern cities in significant numbers, establishing large urban clusters of black cultural production far more easily accessible to white neighbors” (237-38). Indigenous cultural centres based on the maintenance of (vastly reduced) land bases outside of the urban centres, as well as Indigenous distrust of rhetoric of inclusion that ignored their distinct sovereign political status, led to the view that Indigenous cultural producers were anomalies in the “modernist moment” (235-38).  His conclusion may be applicable to some larger cities in the United States, but since he seems to assume that there were/are no Indigenous peoples with urban land bases, I seek to add nuance to his analysis with my research into the histories of the Coast Salish peoples and the development of Vancouver in their unceded territories. The 17 commodity and spectacle inherent in tourist performances, as well as anti-theatrical bias, have at times caused audiences to dismiss them as inauthentic. Reconsidering concepts such as identity and authenticity as well as attending to the actions inherent in performance help me to reconsider the opportunities for meaning-making operating at tourist performance sites. Also explicitly focused on the use of public festival performance to establish and renegotiate identity is Latina theatre scholar, dramaturge and director Patricia Ybarra’s Performing Conquest: Five Centuries of Theater, History, and Identity in Tlaxcala, Mexico (2009). She shows how scholars have used an originary text (the Franciscan friar Motolinía’s account of The Conquest of Jerusalem play in his 1541 text Historia de los Indios de Nueva España) to carry multiple meanings through time, including complicity with Spaniards, peaceful conquest through religion, resistance through sly performance, and the origins of theatre in Mexican/Tlaxcalan culture. Her methodology employs Diana Taylor’s concepts of performance both as an object of analysis and as a methodology, as well as using her formulation of scenario (both discussed below). Ybarra also uses formulations of historiography and focus on the local as a way of making operational logistics visible – getting out of the resistance/complicity duality. I am not able to overlay Tlaxcalan experience onto the Coast Salish environment – they are responding to very different colonial contexts – but it is useful as a model for how touristic performance can be used for identity formation.   Joseph Roach’s Cities of the Dead: Circum-Atlantic Performance (1996) begins by emphasizing genealogies of history and attending to the ghosts (or surrogations) that are present during a theatrical event. Roach introduces his method of determining a genealogical history of performance, which he deems necessary because it will “document – and suspect – the historical transmission and dissemination of cultural practices through collective representations” in order 18 to see alternative options in the present (25). This historiographic method, which questions the very idea of origins, is very helpful in efforts of decolonization that aim to unsettle colonial laws and epistemologies. Roach explains that he will analyze genealogies of performance through examining three key concepts:  kinesthetic imagination – the ability to think through movements; displaced transmission – the adaptation of historical practices to changing conditions; and vortices of behavior – places of gravitational pull which bring audiences together and produce performers from their midst. All three of his key terms are useful to me, but I most critically engage with vortices of behavior. Throughout the book Roach identifies numerous vortices, all of which have in common that they are places built to contain commerce and exchanges of emotions or ideas. All but cemeteries are conceived as places of entertainment and are in the midst of the urban environment. I discern that for Roach vortices of behavior are productive places where powers of commerce and/or performance (either as ritual or entertainment) mix with people, performing what could be considered transgressive, except that it has been allowed to happen in this place. The behaviours demonstrate culture through performance that is both a mixing of cultures and a creation of new norms. His examples of vortices of behavior also suggest that we should consider them part of European settler methods of urban interaction, which were brought to the Americas.  Roach never interrogates the force of attraction pulling behaviours together; there is an assumption that it is a natural phenomenon. But I assert that this force is part of the colonial project. Roach’s concepts of “vortex” and “gravitational pull” are metaphors embedded in the laws of the natural world. By using these words to describe the phenomenon he’s working with, Roach thereby masks the human agency involved in the creation of this type of performance place. I do not deny that Roach’s vortices of behavior do accurately describe certain places of public performance. What I disagree with is the removal of power 19 dynamics inherent in his description. I respond to his metaphor of a vortex by suggesting in chapter two a metaphor that is more responsive to Coast Salish cultural movements, that of an eddy.  Finally, Roach’s definition of violence as the excessive and meaningful performance of waste that is always performative is also compelling to consider as my research is situated in a public urban space that has been the site of acts of violence. He links the violent with the aesthetic, in that they are both beyond utilitarian practices necessary for survival (41). Diana Taylor in The Archive and the Repertoire: Performing Cultural Memory in the Americas (2003) distinguishes between the archive, which she argues is generally misconceived as unmediated records that work across distance, space and time to preserve memory, and the repertoire, which “requires presence: people participate in the production and reproduction of knowledge by ‘being there,’ being a part of the transmission” (19-20). She asserts that the repertoire is equally important as “a system of learning, storing, and transmitting knowledge,” and that the archive and the repertoire exist in a constant state of interaction, thus expanding what we understand as knowledge (16, 21). In order to access this knowledge Taylor develops a methodology of focusing on the scenario, which draws attention to the repertoire by emphasizing the power of performance to transmit knowledge, social memory and identity (28-33).  Her definition of the scenario includes “narrative and plot but demands that we also pay attention to milieux and corporeal behaviours such as gestures, attitudes and tones not reducible to language” (28). She recommends ways to use scenario to draw from repertoire as well as archive by paying attention to physical location; embodiment of social actors (social constructs of bodies in particular contexts); formulaic structures that predispose certain outcomes while also allowing for reversal, parody and change; transmission that explicates the multifaceted modes at 20 work; and ourselves in relationship – witness, spectator – as part of the act of transfer. She also cautions that a scenario is not necessarily mimetic – it is a reactivation rather than duplication (28-33). Given that the stripping of knowledge containing social memory and identity has been one of the methods employed in the colonial process to eliminate Indigenous people’s culture (as exemplified by the residential schools system in Canada), the use of the repertoire to transmit that knowledge is an important means of recuperating Indigenous subjectivities. Taylor’s work engages with Roach’s mixing of history, performance, memory and forgetting to show the transference of knowledge (5, 11). She applies Roach’s concept of surrogation productively in her consideration of the commemoration of the deaths of Princess Diana and Selena, the Tejano singer (140-46). Yet she also explains its limitations, saying it is “urgent to note the cases in which surrogation as a model for cultural continuity is rejected precisely because, as Roach notes, it allows for the collapse of vital historical links and political moves” (46). Taylor illustrates this by using the Catholic friars’ attempts to impose new religious rituals on native converts, asserting that the converts may have been “rejecting surrogation and continuing their cultural and religious practices in a less recognizable form. The performance shift and doubling, in this case, preserved rather than erased the antecedents…[it is] a form of multiplication and simultaneity rather than surrogation and absenting” (46). This is an important addition to Roach’s genealogical method.  When discussing the performative political protests of the grandmothers, mothers and children of the Disappeared in Argentina, Taylor adapts Roach’s genealogy of performance to the DNA of performance, which she defines as transmissions “that refuse surrogation…[where] nothing disappears; every link is there, visible, resistant to surrogation” (175).  Taylor’s use of the metaphor of DNA grounds genealogy more specifically in people and place and also connects with practices of oral traditions.   21  Taylor’s book is largely focused on transnational performative events such as Coco Fusco and Guillermo Gomez-Pena’s performances of Two Undiscovered Amerindians Visit…, Brazilian performer Denise Stoklos’ active engagement with and challenge of globalization rather than allowing a consumption of her otherness, and Walter Mercado’s televised astrological performances. Taylor is personally present in her analysis of New York City events, using her own photos as she encounters graffiti memorials to Princess Diana and other celebrity women in New York City, witnessing the September 11th attacks and the police disruption of a hybrid drumming “rumba” performance in Central Park. All of these analyses are connected to the mobility of people, either as privileged artistic performers or as immigrants (or even internationally mobile graduate students). It therefore makes sense that place does not figure importantly in her work. She is most concerned with place when she discusses the continuing political protests by the families of the Disappeared in Argentina and their public remembering of place – “You are here” signs locating places of torture (168, 188) and torturers still living in neighbourhoods (167). Place is also somewhat significant in her discussion of the theatre practice of Yuyachkani in Peru staging the traumatic history of the de-memorized country. She explains that the theatre company founders considered their original efforts too superficial and they only became successful once they worked with specific people in a specific place, making an effort to learn Quechua (198-200). The majority of Taylor’s discussion of their work concerns their influence at a national rather than local level: “productions are not about them, the Indigenous and mestizo Others, but about all the different communities that share a territorial space defined by pre-Conquest groups, colonialism, and nationalism” (210).  Taylor’s wide lens whereby she illustrates how archive and repertoire perform memory is not focused enough (with the exception 22 of these two of her ten case studies) to elucidate concerns with specific local place. I work with her methodologies and add to them to show how specific location is significant.  Another significant text with which I engage is Rebecca Schneider’s Performing Remains: Art and War in Times of Theatrical Reenactment (2011). Schneider creates a methodology to move away from a linear, forward-moving conception of history, first by explaining the significance of affect, which she borrows from feminist theory because it usefully resists the binary in which performance studies still gets mired (text vs. embodied gesture, or live performance vs. recorded). Affect (or feeling, emotion) is situated in between; it is sticky and jumps between bodies and time, moving us. She connects this to the Deleuzian “assemblage” used “to unsettle the rootedness of identity, to gesture not only to mobility but also to the always already crossingness, or betweeness, or relationality of the sets of associations that make up something resembling identity” (35-6). Attention to affect then leads to a notion of the temporal drag and reach, the notion that time is flexible, not linear, and that the past can be dragged into the present while the present also reaches into the future, which contributes to the “interaction or inter(in)animation of one time with another” (31).  Schneider puts forward the concept of inter(in)animation as moving “meaning off of the discrete site of material support and…[the]  temporal event and onto the ‘spectator’ or passer-by or reader…[and] into chiasmatic reverberation across media and across time in a network of ongoing response-ability” (163-64). Schneider’s insights into the status of music – that playing music is not considered a mimetic representation but a creative action – is very useful in considering the mode of musicality and how it contributes to the crossing of temporal divides (41). Schneider also discusses meeting the eyes of the photographed performer and using mediated images and recordings in performing an archive as a way of crossing the past and future possibilities (110, 177-78). Her formulations of 23 photography, reenactment and music aid in the consideration of alternate ways of interacting with archival materials dynamically as a way to open alternative futures of the past. Schneider’s insights provide an essential background to much of my research, whether it is responding to archival documents and images, or analyzing Indigenous performance events that engage with archives, such as Marie Clements’ The Road Forward. This research is a synthesizing of the theories and methodologies of these works, mainly from the fields of theatre and performance studies. It adds to those fields through a localized consideration of the entanglements of geo-historical specificities, Indigenous language and multiple modes of performance demonstrating the continuous imbrications of identity and place despite a colonial archive which seeks to displace these unceded territories.   1.3 Methodology, Structure and Ethical Reviews I use multiple complementary methodologies at different stages of my research, which are justified below. 1.3.1 Semiotics and Phenomenology  My considerations of the knowledge contained within the həəmiə and how it carries meaning when enacted through speech is supported by semiotic methods. Semiotics is useful here because of the assertion that language is a tool by which humans constitute their world, which is supported through a systematic identification of objects that are represented by signs through interpretants (Knowles 2014 16; 37). It also acknowledges that sign systems operate through a community that participates in that system. Therefore, understanding the meanings held within həəmiə, which is currently an endangered language but was once spoken by multiple groups throughout the Vancouver area, becomes vitally important. Part of 24 the colonial project has been to impose European meaning systems while denigrating Indigenous worldviews; the precision of semiotic theory will enable this research to untangle the multiple cultural systems that have been at odds since European invasion and settlement. For the performance-based analyses I engage with phenomenological theories of performance. These are particularly conducive to the expansion of historiographic thinking that I am aiming for. Phenomenology is also useful because of the nature of its personalized response, its insistence that the body is material, and that relational experience is always only partially perceptible. Body is acknowledged as both the subject and object of consciousness, and knowledge comes through it. Experience is not just of the world but also of one’s own subjectivity (Reinelt and Roach 10-11). Bert States describes the deliberate phenomenological perception as one which “displays the drama of presence and absence” in theatrical collaboration (28). He proposes that this type of performance analysis is a most personal form which is “a stopping place, as it were, at the starting place, not of all possible meanings but of meaning and feeling as they arise in a direct encounter with the art object” (27). As this methodology is one that supports the defamiliarizing of assumptions, it is appropriate for my aim of working towards decolonization.  I also use phenomenological analyses of contemporary Indigenous performances as interludes between chapters. I include these short interludes in order to underscore the contemporary presence of Indigenous people and performers as much of my dissertation is about past events. One of the pitfalls of writing history that concerns Indigenous people is that they are often portrayed as from the past. In order to avoid this I include these interludes from a first person perspective, which also keeps my own subjectivity present. 25 1.3.2 Indigenous Research Methodologies In a forum on the state of theatre research in Canada included in the thirty-fifth anniversary publication of Theatre Research in Canada, Virginie Magnat explains her use of Indigenous research methodologies in her embodied research with women who collaborated with Grotowski. She cites Opaskwayak Cree scholar Shawn Wilson's Research is Ceremony: Indigenous Research Methods, which states that while Indigenous scholars are expected to be able to work within dominant and Indigenous world views, it is part of white privilege not to have to recognize the existence of Indigenous worldviews (244). She therefore advocates that researchers from dominant cultural backgrounds also employ Indigenous methodologies of respect, reciprocity and relationality. Employing these methods means a research practice which engages in "deep listening and hearing with more than the ears,” and "reflective non-judgmental consideration" while also being aware of the connection of logic and feeling (Wilson in Magnat 245). As a white woman who is an eleventh generation descendent of French settlers and a sixth generation descendent of Irish settlers, endeavouring to move past a reliance on privileges afforded me, I also employ these research methods to access knowledge that is a result of a "relational process dependent on mutual trust, collaboration, and healing" (Magnat 247). The use of these methods will hopefully aid in the decolonizing of the academy as well as in my own process of self-decolonization.  As Taiaiake Alfred asserts in Wasáse: Indigenous Pathways of Action and Freedom, Indigenous languages can be a source of philosophy. His main argument for resurrection of the Onkwehonwe language is its “usefulness as philosophical system and as the gauge of peoples’ success at reasserting their authentic existences” (247). He continues, “only indigenous languages can carry the specific insights of non-imperial ways of viewing and organizing our 26 understanding of the world…indigenous narratives are the foundations upon which our indigenous identities and resurgent cultures will be reconstructed” (249). Following this, one of my methodologies is to engage with language as a source of Indigenous theory. With permission from the Musqueam Language and Culture department, I use the həәəәmiəә language orthography for relevant words and concepts. These are not italicized, but I will contextualize them when first introducing them and then expect the reader to be able to remember them. My intention in using the language in this way is to help with its re-generation. Rather than assuming that my readers cannot understand the orthography or words, I will expect them to do so.  I am informed by Māori scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s influential Decolonizing Methodologies, while also remaining aware that she is working from the fields of education and health. Some of her most relevant questions concerning cross-cultural research are these: who has designed its questions and framed its scope; and how will its results be disseminated respectfully? (175). My research questions have been in the process of becoming formed over the last five years, under the influence of faculty at UBC in my department as well as in the First Nations Studies courses I have taken. Course readings, conferences and my own further research have influenced my research questions as well. My work with UBC’s First Nations Languages Program (FNLG) and the support that I have received from faculty and students in the program has also encouraged me in moving forward with this process. My second chapter, which addresses conceptions of land contained within the həəmiə grammar, words and place names, has been approved by the Musqueam Language and Culture program as well as the former FNLG chair, Dr. Patricia Shaw, and been reviewed by a representative from the Tseil-Waututh Nation Treaty, Lands and Resources department. This has been a multi-year process of relationship building and continual learning. I have collaborated with members of Full Circle 27 First Nations Performance who know about my research project, conveying information to them to aid in their development of a site-specific performance at χʷaχʷə. While working in collaboration, I have learned that I need to discuss my research in sections, while I am in process, in order to be able to incorporate response. One of the most compelling sections of Tuhiwai Smith’s work is her questioning of who benefits from the research and how it will be disseminated.  “Sharing is the responsibility of research…sharing is about demystifying knowledge and information and speaking in plain terms to the community” (162). In response to this, I intend to create multiple formats of my research conclusions, to make them more widely accessible.  1.3.3 Research Ethics Approvals  This research project has approval from UBC’s Behavioural Research Ethics Board to conduct interviews and field research with language speakers and performers. I have followed the joint Musqueam Indian Band / UBC FNLG research protocols. I continue to volunteer with Full Circle First Nations Performance’s Talking Stick Festival and work to build relationships with the production team working on “Xway Xway.” I have also worked to renew consent continually with my participants by sharing my work in stages as I complete it. One limitation of this research must be explained here. As a student of a university that sits on unceded Musqueam territory, I have been privileged to be able to follow in the footsteps of many community members and scholars who have worked for years to establish respectful relationships. Due to this ongoing process, I have been able to meet Musqueam community members and learn their language over the last three years. In the latter part of my research process, I have made a research agreement with the Tsleil-Waututh Nation (TWN) and we are in the early stages of 28 building a respectful research relationship. I have also reached out to Squamish Nation administration and leadership but, unfortunately, have not been able to establish a research agreement with them. Thus, it is important to acknowledge that this dissertation is being produced mainly through the relationships I have built with Musqueam people as well as scholarly and archival sources.   Although this is the end of my doctoral program, I remain committed to establishing collaborative relationships with other local Indigenous people to further the project. While this is a limitation of the current work, the focus on Musqueam language and culture is also an opportunity to correct some misunderstandings created through the colonial archive of Vancouver, which has for a long time failed to acknowledged the significance and impact of Musqueam culture (see chapter three for this critical engagement with the archive).    1.4 Dissertation Overview While this dissertation is deeply concerned with historical activities, I endeavour to unsettle the usual chronological unfolding of history by organizing my chapters thematically. The chapters move from engaging with knowledge contained in həәəәmiəә and expressed through performative practices, to performative interventions in archival knowledge. However, since the nature and structure of colonialism clearly has an influence on chronological events and although I cycle back and forth in time looking at events and performances from different perspectives, the chapters move gradually from the pre-1880s to contemporary time. I also aim to avoid the still common colonial assumption of Indigenous peoples as being of the past, and to rectify the absence of Indigenous women in the archival work that I have undertaken. To support 29 these goals I include short interludes between each chapter in which I respond to contemporary theatrical works written and/or performed by Indigenous women in Vancouver. In the following chapter, “Land, Language, Place Names and Performance,” I begin by examining the significance of Indigenous relationships to land and their practice-based expressions. The expressions I examine include museum exhibits that encourage careful listening, the decolonizing experience of studying and performing in həəmiə, the grammar and etymological constructions of words and place names in the language as well as the strategic and tactical use of place naming by Indigenous peoples. Through this I argue that performance, both theatrical and the everyday reiterations of gesture and speech, is a necessary conceptual structure through which to expand understandings of Indigenous relationships to land. To aid in this analysis I coin two terms that I will use throughout this dissertation: grounded practices and eddies of influence. Immediately following this chapter I include an interlude in which I reflect on my experience of Musqueam actor and playwright Quelemia Sparrow’s podplay, “Ashes on the Water,” to assert that this format is uniquely suited to intervene in settler cultural assumptions about land and history. The play gives its audience the intense experience of listening to a dramatization of the Great Fire of 1886 which destroyed the new city of Vancouver, and the Indigenous women’s decision to rescue settlers, while the audience walks through the place in which it happened. Sparrow’s work theatrically illustrates my concepts of a grounded practice of performance as well as the eddies of influence in the history of this city.   Chapter Three, “Reiterations of Rededications: Surrogated Whiteness,” continues with the inquiry into the knowledge contained in place-names; however, in this section it is the name “Stanley Park” that is under scrutiny. I examine this through an analysis of the influence of city 30 archivist James Skitt Matthews on the archival record in Vancouver, as well as his work on reenactments of Lord Stanley’s “dedication” of the park through publications, stagings and monument. Using Sara Ahmed’s theory of the phenomenological construction of whiteness and white spaces, I argue that Matthews’ interventions and manipulations have recruited settlers and newcomers to invest in a particular British imperial identity which, through a disaffiliation, retroactively claims the creation of a multicultural place despite historical evidence to the contrary. The interlude following this chapter continues to seek an understanding of the construction of whiteness by engaging with Western Canada Theatre’s production of Michel Tremblay’s For the Pleasure of Seeing Her Again, staged during the Talking Stick Festival in Vancouver in February 2014. My interest in responding to the play here is connected to director Glynis Leyshon’s decision, based on evidence in Tremblay’s text, to cast Aboriginal actors and change the final imagery to connect with Indigenous life in Saskatchewan. I assert that this decision, while emphasizing Tremblay’s mother’s Cree heritage and opening a line of inquiry into many of his works that were inspired by his mother, also illuminates the gendered nature of the colonial process. This production was both a vehicle for a virtuosic performance opportunity for Cree/Saulteux actor Margo Kane as Nana, and one where the representational mode of performance of Nana as a Cree woman connects with what Bonita Lawrence (Mi’kmaw) has called a “metanarrative about encounters with genocide” (xvii). Continuing with an inquiry into the nature of the archive, Chapter Four examines archival records of two performance events during Vancouver’s Diamond Jubilee in 1946, The Jubilee Show and the Indian Village and Show, which presented the settler vision of Vancouver’s history and future crafted by the citizens’ committee. The absences in the archive, which at first seem to be part of the colonial disavowal of  Indigenous people, may instead be Indigenous assertions of 31 power through cultural restriction. I argue that the narrative of Indigenous displacement and settler emplacement performed in The Jubilee Show at Brockton Point / χʷaχʷə nightly had a counter-narrative being performed twice daily during the same period across False Creek at a place alternately known as səaʔqʷ / Sen’ákw / Snauq or Kitsilano Park. Thus the citizens’ organizing committee failed to create a dominant large-scale narrative of the city’s history in The Jubilee Show. It seems, by their actions of revising the script and commissioning the Native Brotherhood of BC (NBBC) to present the Indian Village and Show, that there was already some doubt that such a historical narrative could exist. This chapter is followed by an interlude which analyses the phenomenological performance modes balanced in Métis/Dene playwright and director Marie Clements’ production of The Road Forward during the 2013 Vancouver PuSh festival. I assert that this production, which makes extensive use of the archives of the NBBC, is a continuation of the use of performance as intervention during a mega-event.   The final chapter, an analysis of the Indigenous performative interventions at Klahowya Village, argues that the presence of performing artists at this culturally significant site in Vancouver –metres from χʷaχʷə – asserts a grounded practice. Expanding on Seneca literary and film scholar Michelle Raheja’s analysis of visual sovereignty in Indigenous filmmaking to consider the performative aspects of a live event, I show the significance of the embodied experience of both performers and audience at Klahowya Village layered over the archival architecture of this tourist space. Focusing on multiple modes of performance observed over seven site visits in the summer of 2012, I examine the scenario of touristic encounter layered into the village, taking into account the historical context of Indigenous performance in this region and the physical location of the site. Following Taylor’s emphasis on the repertoire and the archive’s not being sequential or binary (22) to analyze the site design of the tourist village as 32 an eddy of influence, I demonstrate how Klahowya Village presents an enterprise which asserts a connection to land while enabling some intra-nation Indigenous transfer of knowledge, although it is also structurally limited as a site of Indigenous critique of settler society due to its status as a touristic spectacle. The final interlude is a response to Inuit throat singer Tanya Tagaq’s performance at the 2014 PuSh festival in which she sings to Nanook of the North, a film which Raheja has discussed in the context of its knowledge transfer and Indigenous filmmaking methodologies. Similar in ways to Clements’ The Road Forward, Tagaq’s performance also engages with archival footage through song. I argue additionally that it demonstrates performance as historiography by considering how Tagaq’s throat singing is a form of research that accesses knowledge of land and people held within the film. Included in an appendix is a draft outline of a walking tour script for the site surrounding χʷaχʷə. As a follow up to my dissertation I will produce live and recorded walking tours that will make my research conclusions accessible for wider sharing. The digital audio format will be accessible even if people cannot access the land (either through difficulties of distance or physical ability). It will also allow for orality in the delivery of my research, which will bring forth the sounds of the həəmiə language spoken on the land. Thus, through tracing histories performed through language, archive and repertoire, this dissertation demonstrates part of the much larger and continuous Indigenous account of this urban area.  33 Chapter 2: Land, Language, Place Names and Performance  Land has always been a defining element of Aboriginal culture. Land contains languages, the stories, and the histories of a people. It provides water, air, shelter, and food. Land participates in the ceremonies and the songs. And land is home.  -Thomas King, The Inconvenient Indian 218  Cherokee writer and scholar Thomas King concludes his account of Native people in North America by engaging with the significance of land in a chapter subtitled “What Do Indians Want?” (215-33). King explains that this is the wrong question to ask, partly because “Indians” do not exist; they are an imaginary category. Instead, he asserts that the more important question is “what do Whites want?” and he answers this with one word: “Land” (216). This conflict, which he explains as the commodification of land by settlers operating within a capitalist economy opposing Indigenous cultural connection to lands, must be grasped: “Land. If you understand nothing else about the history of Indians in North America, you need to understand that the question that really matters is the question of land” (218). And so, guided by King’s words, I begin this inquiry into history and performance by examining manifestations of the significance of land in Indigenous cultures, as explained philosophically through political and cultural theory as well as in practice through knowledge contained within the həәəәmiəә language. Through this I argue that performance, both theatrical and the everyday reiterations of gesture and speech, is a useful conceptual structure through which to expand understandings of Indigenous relationships to land. I begin by engaging with Glenn Coulthard’s concept of grounded normativity from Red Skin, White Masks and connect this with Michel de Certeau’s influential engagement with urban spatial practices from The Practice of Everyday Life. I then synthesize these ideas with concepts from theatre and performance studies, and propose the use 34 of two terms that express a localized connection between land and performance: grounded practices and eddies of influence. I elucidate these terms through an examination of spatial knowledge contained within həәəәmiəә language grammar and etymology that demonstrates land-based thinking as well as the use of place names as a performative expression of past, present and future relationships to land.   2.1 Grounded Practices  Yellowknives Dene scholar Glenn Coulthard begins Red Skin, White Masks (2014) by asserting the colonial-capitalist nature of contemporary Canadian politics of recognition, and then in his second chapter titled “For the Land” he goes on to explain:  Indigenous struggles against capitalist-imperialism are best understood as struggles oriented around the question of land – struggles not only for land but also deeply informed by what the land as a mode of reciprocal relationship (which is itself informed by place-based practices and associated forms of knowledge) ought to teach us about living our lives in relation to one another and our surroundings in a respectful, nondominating and nonexploitative way. (60, italics original) He terms this an ethical framework that he calls grounded normativity. Coulthard explains that place “is a way of knowing, of experiencing and relating to the world and with others; and sometimes these relational practices and forms of knowledge guide forms of resistance against other rationalizations of the world that threaten to erase or destroy our senses of place” (61). He supports this understanding with an explanation in terms of his community’s Weledeh dialect of Dogrib where “land” – dè – is translated to encompass land, people, animals, rocks, trees, lakes 35 and rivers and more. This demonstrates that people are as much a part of land as other elements (which also are considered to hold agency), creating reciprocal ethical obligations among all things  (ibid). While he takes his example from his own community, Coulthard asserts that the significance of land for Indigenous peoples is widespread. I will be examining this claim in terms of local west coast peoples whose land has been developed into the urban Lower Mainland area of Metro Vancouver.  Coulthard invokes the concept of “place-based practices” in his definition of grounded normativity, but he does not connect this with French Jesuit scholar Michel de Certeau’s influential discussion of spatial practices in The Practice of Everyday Life (1984). Because de Certeau’s work is often evoked in considerations of urban experience as well as site-specific performance, it is useful for this study of Indigenous connection to place through performative practice within an urban setting to relate his concepts to Coulthard’s ontological framing of land within Indigenous thought.  De Certeau introduces his investigation by explaining his focus on how users—as opposed to makers—of representation or culture operationally manipulate and thereby invent everyday life through the “poaching in countless ways on the property of others” (xi-xii, emphasis original).  He terms this a hidden poiẽsis, which he exemplifies through a description of Indigenous peoples’ actions in response to Spanish colonizers, observing that “their use of the dominant social order deflected its power, which they lacked the means to challenge; they escaped without leaving it” (xii-xiii). He then moves on to discuss methods of invention, first defining strategy as “the calculus of force-relationships, which becomes possible when a subject of will and power … can be isolated from an ‘environment.’ A strategy assumes a place that can be circumscribed as proper (propre) and thus serve as the basis for generating relations with an exterior distinct from it” (xix, emphasis original). I would like to focus on his use of relations – 36 he calls them force-relationships—and his idea that strategies are used for generating relations with an exterior distinct from the subject of will and power and the circumscribed propre place.11   Although de Certeau assumes that Indigenous peoples are users not makers, his description of strategic actions does not necessarily exclude Indigenous relations to land as described by Coulthard above, which include practices of resistance against forces  “that threaten to erase or destroy our senses of place” (61). De Certeau then contrasts strategy with tactic, defined as “a calculus that cannot count on a ‘proper’ (a spatial or institutional localization), nor thus on a borderline distinguishing the other as a visible totality…a tactic belongs to the other” (xix). This could describe how Indigenous people have responded to invaders or settlers who do not recognize their relationship with land. He then asserts that the political and rational use of strategies is the victory of space over time, while “a tactic depends on time – it is always on the watch for opportunities that must be seized ‘on the wing’” (ibid). He concludes that the form of the tactic is not discourse but “the act and manner in which the opportunity is ‘seized’” and that it is “an art of the weak”  (xix; 37). He therefore links strategies with spatial control, and tactics with the inability of depending on a localization. He develops these concepts further in a later chapter, describing looking down upon and seeing the totality of a city as a strategic vantage point and the movement of walking through the city as tactical yet blind (91-110). Theatre and performance theorists have taken up de Certeau’s concern with action, movement and power but developed a reading that assumes that strategy and tactics are not necessarily as oppositional as he lays out.                                                  11	  The French word “propre,” which Rendall has translated as “proper,” has more nuance. It can mean “own” as in “my own” or “ma propre”; it can also mean “clean” as in “the clean desk” – “la bureau propre”-- or, as in Rendall’s translation, “correct,” as in the English word “proper.” The translation of propre as “own,” in consideration of the rest of de Certeau’s definition of strategy, seems most accurate.	  37 Diana Taylor cites these concepts in The Archive and the Repertoire  (2003) but, when discussing the non-binary nature of the relationship between archive and repertoire, she says, “[p]erformance belongs to the strong as well as the weak; it underwrites de Certeau’s ‘strategies’ as well as ‘tactics’” (22). Later, when discussing the importance of physical location in the analysis of a scenario of repertoire, whereby the “action defines the place,” she comments that de Certeau’s suggestion that “space is a practiced place” means that “there is no such thing as place, for no place is free of history and social practice” (de Certeau 117 in Taylor 29). She is responding to de Certeau’s assertion that, in relation to place, which he has defined as an “instantaneous configuration of positions [which] implies an indication of stability,” space is “like the word when it is spoken…caught in the ambiguity of an actualization, transformed into a term dependent upon many different conventions, situated as the act of a present…and modified by the transformation caused by successive contexts ” (117). Taylor’s assertion supports a decolonizing understanding of land. She dismisses the concept that there can exist a place that is a stable configuration of elements in relation to one another and that is not created through its use and the ensemble of movements within it. In her formulation, a performance is a strategy as well as a tactic, all of de Certeau’s places are continually constructed through spatial practices, never stabilized, and therefore, in terms of his definition, they do not exist. In Performing Conquest (2009), Patricia Ybarra discusses performance, history and identity over five centuries of colonial and post-colonial times in Tlaxcala, Mexico. She also engages with de Certeau’s concepts of strategies and tactics, not to “delineate tactics or resistance…[but] to further explore how Mexican artists, historians, and local elites employ actions that are more like strategies than tactics” (201). She describes the strategic Tlaxcaltecans as neither “powerless nor powerful, they make do somewhere in the middle,” saying that they 38 have made a place for themselves (ibid). Ybarra’s assertion that they “have a place” (which she puts in quotation marks) may be referencing Taylor’s dismissal that places exist, yet instead of arguing against this, Ybarra says that the Tlaxcaltecans, through their use of strategy to create place, may be exposing the “‘operational logics’ of historiography itself” (202). Ybarra and Taylor’s refusals to separate the users of strategies and tactics align well with Coulthard’s concept of grounded normativity, while also declining to separate space and time.  While the terms space and place are not easily transferrable between de Certeau and Coulthard, the concepts behind them can be discussed productively. De Certeau took pains to make a distinction between the concepts, with space as an enactment of relations as opposed to the stability of place; yet within Coulthard’s definition of grounded normativity, these concepts can be combined through what he calls the “reciprocal relationship (which is itself informed by place-based practices and associated forms of knowledge)” (61).  Just as discussed by Taylor and Ybarra, de Certeau’s separation of space and place is not valid in the context of Indigenous thought and actions. Interestingly though, Coulthard aligns with de Certeau in creating a dichotomy of space and time. As mentioned above, de Certeau aligns strategies of those with will and power with space, and tactics of the weak with time. Coulthard cites Lakota philosopher Vine Deloria Jr.’s God is Red (1972), in which he asserts that “American Indians hold their lands—places—as having the highest possible meaning, and all their statements are made with this reference point in mind,” and then contrasts this with Western societies which hold time as the narrative of central importance (Deloria 62 in Coulthard 60, emphasis added by Coulthard). This unacknowledged difference between the significance of space and time is what Deloria says leads to misunderstandings. A strict separation of space and time into Indigenous and Western ontologies, however, is not useful, and can contribute to the portrayal of Indigenous people as 39 outside of time or of the past. Although Coulthard cites Deloria, he does include in his definition of grounded normativity place-based practices and relationships – both of which must happen durationally or through time. This interdependent relationship of space and time is fundamental to theatre and performance scholarship, and therefore it is not surprising that Taylor has dismissed de Certeau’s assertion that there could be a place that “is free of history and social practice” (29).  In a synthesis of this discussion of Indigenous, cultural and performance scholarship, I propose the term grounded practices to illuminate the interaction of land and performance-based practices, making use of both strategies and tactics as described by de Certeau, while also emphasizing what Coulthard termed being deeply informed by what the land teaches through reciprocal relationship. These grounded practices, as I explain in the next section, include the enunciation of land through language that accentuates the relations of space and time.  2.2 Eddies of Influence   On a warm and sunny February late afternoon, with the sun slanting sharply through large windows, I stood at the entrance to a museum exhibit, transfixed by a projection on the floor. The sunbeams made it a little hard to discern the moving images on the institutional grey carpet, but eventually I perceived that this was a video representation of waves hitting a shore of smooth rocks in a slow rhythm. I was entering one of the three sister exhibits titled “əsnaʔəm: the city before the city,” which opened in January 2015 at the Musqueam Cultural Centre, the Museum of Vancouver (MOV) and UBC’s Museum of Anthropology (MOA). 12  I                                                 12	  Curators and themes of each exhibit are listed as follows (“Unprecedented Three-Site Exhibit”):  40 stopped in the entrance space and let the images wash over me while I listened to the voice of Larry Grant speaking words of welcome in həəmiə:  ʔa:: si:é tə siyeeʔ ct ʔiʔ tə a:ɬtən ʔiməxneʔtən, [Our respected friends, relations, and visitors13,]  ʔəi ce:p kʷətxʷiləm ʔi ʔə tə a šxʷməθkʷəəmaʔɬ təməxʷ ʔiʔ tə shəəmiəqən. [come in to the land and language of the Musqueam people].  ʔiʔ hay ce:p ə tə ɬwələp ʷəθ xʷʔəi “əsnaʔəm: the city before the city” [and thank you to all of you for coming to “c̓əәsnaʔəәm: the city before the city”.] The greeting ended with Vanessa Campbell’s voice saying (also in həәn̓q̓əәmin̓əәm̓): “You will honour us to become witnesses. Commit our ancestral village of c̓əәsnaʔəәm to your hearts and minds. Commit also to your hearts and minds the land, traditional teachings, history and language of the Musqueam people.”  Most significant for this discussion of land and performance is the emphasis, in all three exhibits about the village of c̓əәsnaʔəәm, on talking, listening and witnessing. Each features multiple examples of oral histories, and one of the most effective is the room at MOA set up with a dining table and chairs, on which a teapot, mugs, and some photos are laid out. The room also                                                                                                                                                        Musqueam Cultural Education Resource Centre and Gallery: Curated by Leona Sparrow with co-curators Terry Point, Jason Woolman and Larissa Grant, this minimum one-year exhibit focuses on the sophistication of past and present knowledge and technologies of the Musqueam people.  Museum of Vancouver: The curatorial collective was comprised of Terry Point, Susan Roy, Vivniane Gosselin, Larissa Grant, Leona Sparrow, Jordan Wilson, Jason Woolman and Susan Rowley. The minimum five-year exhibit focuses on belongings, indigenous ways of knowing, colonialism and cultural resilience. Museum of Anthropology: Curated by Susan Rowley and Jordan Wilson, this one year exhibit focuses on language, oral history and recent community actions taken to protect c ̓əәsnaʔəәm.	  13 The word ʔiməxneʔtən for visitor is composed of the word walk with lexical suffixes meaning along-side; a visitor is one who walks alongside (Shaw and Campbell Book Three 2013 333). This echoes de Certeau’s emphasis on the pedestrian speech act, but in this formulation the walkers are the newcomers to the unceded lands.  	  41 has four speakers hung in the corners with a chair underneath each one. A twenty-five minute conversation loops. The four men and two women speak in English, laughing and telling stories.14 They discuss their parents and Elders, as well as younger generations, touching on the methods of teaching and learning through talking and listening. This part of the exhibit demonstrates experientially the significance of taking the time to listen. Both times I was in the room, other people were present and we all sat still and silent, making little eye contact, intent on the voices speaking out of the darkness above, much like children listening to adults (as Larry Grant explained to me). Unlike the usual flow of a museum exhibit, this one expects prolonged attentive listening, while sharing a space with others (in contrast to the often employed insulated listening space of headphones). All of the exhibits are filled with the voices and images of contemporary Musqueam people, and offer extensive opportunities for listening. The significance of this is emphasized through Musqueam co-curator Terry Point’s comments in a video near the end of the MOV exhibit. When asked what he hopes will come of the museum presentation, he makes a request for settlers and newcomers to listen to Musqueam people. The three exhibits, filled as they are with voices, words, images and language, are clear cultural enunciations of land, identity, technology and ways of knowing, ready for the attention of the ears, hearts and minds of visitors.    In his introductory essay to The Practice of Everyday Life cited above, de Certeau likens his investigation to the enunciation of speech, saying he privileges the act of speaking, as “it establishes a present relative to a time and place; and it posits a contract with the other (the interlocutor) in a network of places and relations” (xiii, emphasis original).  He is aware of                                                 14	  The voices belonged to Larry Grant, Howard E. Grant, Howard J. Grant and Dickie Louis, Mary Roberts and Wendy Grant-John. My thanks to Larry Grant for this information. 	  42 speech act theory (citing Searle) and later describes walking as “pedestrian speech acts” which appropriate the topography as a speaker appropriates a language, spatially acting out place as speech is an acoustic acting out of language, while both also imply relations with others (97-8). While de Certeau uses speech as a metaphor to illuminate the concept of walking as a “space of enunciation,” in this next section I connect language and land more explicitly.  Spurred on by the use of spoken language and listening relations in the museum exhibits about the space of c̓əәsnaʔəәm, I examine a process of decolonization through my experiences of learning həәəәmiəә and performing in the language at community gatherings in order to convey the Indigenous epistemological conceptions of relationship to land that are embedded in the enunciation of the language. This analysis also engages with what Taiaiake Alfred has termed the Indigenous “philosophical system” embedded in a language (2005 247). In Peircean semiotics this is termed the interpretant which depends on a community participating in a shared code system. This section details the work of a community to restore their interpretant system to wider use within their community as well as a way for settlers and newcomers to better understand the place and people with whom they live.   As part of my preparations for this research I have benefited from the opportunity of being permitted to study the həəmiə language with Musqueam teachers Larry Grant, Marny Point and Jill Campbell as well as Dr. Patricia Shaw from UBC’s FNLG program.15 I recognize and respect the intellectual property rights associated with the knowledge I have acquired through the Musqueam Indian Band-UBC FNLG program as well as its culturally sensitive nature; as such I would like to respectfully acknowledge the many hands that have                                                 15	  In September 2015 UBC will launch the Institute for Critical Indigenous Studies, which includes the First Nations and Indigenous Studies program and the First Nations and Endangered Languages Program (FNEL). As the language program was called FNLG when I was a student, that is how I will refer to it throughout this dissertation.  	  43 prepared, organized and presented the information. The course work and materials were arranged with the guidance and teachings of the late Adeline Point, Ed Sparrow, Edna Grant, Dominic Point and Arnold Guerin, Sr. We were taught the orthography developed in 1999 by the Musqueam Indian Band (MIB) and UBC FNLG program as well as its correspondence to Arnold Guerin Sr.’s system developed in the 1970s based on symbols available on a typewriter. The orthography used in the courses I took is based on the North American Phonetic Alphabet (NAPA) and there is a single unique symbol for each distinct sound (Shaw and Campbell 2012 118).  The coursework made extensive use of digitized sound files paired with writing. Shaw emphasizes that every word, phrase, sentence, role in a narrative or dialogue is paired with digitized sound files providing students with a diversity of native speaker voices as role models (Personal interview). These sound files allowed me to listen carefully (and repeatedly) until I had a sound memory of words and sentences that was supported by the writing system but not completely dependent on visualizing the written words. In the absence of an immersion environment, the sound files approximate the opportunity of learning though imitation.  Through the careful introduction of sounds, words, and concepts alongside linguistic terms to describe these, I also gained the basic research skills to be able to access the knowledge contained within the Musqueam Reference Grammar (2004) by Coast Salish ethnographer and linguistic anthropologist Dr. Wayne Suttles.   The həəmiə language is referred to by Suttles as the “downriver” dialect of Halkomelem. It is spoken by multiple groups in the area surrounding the delta of what is known as the Fraser River, extending from Musqueam, Katzie, Kwantlen, Langley, Marpole, Burrard, Jericho, and Coquitlam to Tsawwassen (Shaw and Campbell 2012 1-3). The Tsleil-44 Waututh Nation language revitalization program website identifies seven groups as speakers of the həəmiə language: səliwətaʔɬ, scəaθən, xʷməθkʷəəm, qiqeyt, kʷikʷəəm, eyə and ʷanə (“Our Language”). These groups are based in the metro Vancouver areas known as North Vancouver, Tsawwassen, Vancouver, Richmond, Surrey, Langley, New Westminster, Coquitlam and Pitt Meadows and were part of a complex network of communities that is not accurately represented through the colonial reserve system. The language is currently described as part of the həəmiə/Huuinum/Halemeylem language continuum.16 Suttles explains that his book primarily reflects the speech of Christine Charles (1894-1968) and James Point (1881-1979) along with some additional materials from Andrew Charles (1893-1961), Della Kew (1929-1982) and Arnold Guerin (1910-1987) (2004 xxi). Suttles also describes the language as providing a link between the Upriver and Island dialects of Halkomelem, and that, based on their experiences of living in multiple communities, the Musqueam people with whom he worked demonstrated “no great differences in speech within” the downriver dialect (2004 xxv, xxix).  Thus, while my research is deeply embedded in the relationships that have developed between the University of British Columbia (which is situated on unceded Musqueam territory) and the Musqueam people, the knowledge contained within the language may be considered to reflect the interpretant system of Indigenous groups throughout the Lower Mainland.  My experience over the two years in which I took the five language courses has profoundly shifted my understanding of where I am living and of some of the people on whose land I am a visitor. This has been part of the process that Stephanie Irlbacher-Fox has termed the overcoming of settler privilege through efforts of self-decolonization, or what the editors of                                                 16	  I extend my thanks to Jill Campbell for this phrasing. 	  45 Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society 3.3 describe as settler reckoning with colonial past and present to undertake a decolonizing journey (146; Wildcat et al. iv). The language coursework was difficult and I often felt at sea with how unfamiliar everything was and how inept I seemed – similar to the way Irlbacher-Fox describes the experience of land-based education on settlers who are “forced to understand themselves in relation to the limits of their knowledge contrasted with the superior capabilities possessed by Indigenous Elders and land-based knowledge holders” (155). She describes this as a process of transition “from a position of dominance to one of dependence [that] constitutes an important moment of ‘unsettling’: reaching a place of potentially transformative discomfort” (ibid). I recognized that my discomfort was likely productive and by continuing to engage I began to build understanding and relationships that are part of my unfinished, continual and “messy process of relational in-the-world becoming” that is self-decolonizing (Irlbacher-Fox 156).  As well as this personal learning, the courses included an expectation of performance, which also triggered discomfort and feelings of dependence. At the end of each term language students performed at a community potluck where we enunciated the language we had learned for community members.17 This use of performance as a public summative evaluation of learning was intimidating, and as a performer the stakes felt very high. It was also generative in that we were expected to write our own skits and create characters while responding to our present experiences. Our December 2013 class performance involved our using the language we learned about the hunting and preparation of ducks to perform a skit about elves preparing Santa’s duck dinner, including singing a həəmiə version of the French song “Alouette,                                                 17	  For an audio recording of the December 2014 celebration see Gaertner “End of term Celebration Language Celebration.”  46 Gentille Alouette” called  “nə maʔəqʷ, nə ɬəkʷəm maʔəqʷ” as we plucked the head, wings and backside of stuffed ducks. Another event featured a rap written by FNLG major Aidan Pine called “ʔi ct ceʔ xʷcəməstə qəlet” (“We Will Meet Again”), sung to an instrumental of A Tribe Called Quest’s song, “Can I Kick It?” These performances challenged me to put into practice our language learning to communicate with community members. The urge for creative expression made me realize how little I knew and motivated me to learn more.  The evenings were structured around the sharing of a meal, with food provided by the FNLG program, Musqueam administration as well as the language learners. Students then took turns presenting their poetry, songs and skits. Elder Larry Grant hosted by introducing and responding to student performances. The vulnerability that is involved in performing connects to the sense of dependence mentioned by Irlbacher-Fox above, which also creates an opening through which it becomes possible to offer care and nurturing. During the performances, students and Musqueam community members would often describe their emotional journeys, using words like tension, humility, gratitude, regret, longing, pride and courage. At the December 2014 performance, Larry Grant shared his experience of first speaking publicly in həəmiə, describing how, when he speaks, he hears the voices of his grandparents again. He explained how emotional this was for him and how for the first five years, whenever he spoke publicly, he wept. Gina Grant also took the opportunity to state how proud she was of all the Musqueam community members who were learning their language, and explained that it was not in her to learn because of her experiences at residential school (Gaertner “End of term”). During these evenings, the dynamics of tension and dependence created through the action of performing and spectating (or witnessing) are used to begin to bridge the separation between settlers/newcomers and Musqueam people as well as between generations; helping 47 establish a place from which to engage in the process of decolonizing. As de Certeau posited, these acts of speaking established a present time and place, creating a network with others: those with whom I performed, those who responded to us, as well as the language teachers whose work allowed us to stand up and speak aloud in həəmiə to the Musqueam community in their cultural centre at the mouth of the river.  The courses took place on the Musqueam Indian Reserve #2, first in the Elders’ Centre and later in the community centre. Although I have lived in Vancouver since 1991, this was the first time I had been on the reserve. As a settler newcomer I had never felt invited, and was unsure whether I would be trespassing if I entered the area. This confusion is part of the legacy of the unceded nature of these lands and the present day tension which underlies settler assumptions. The FNLG coursework and materials were very explicitly concerned with knowledge of land. The first chapter of book one is subtitled “Introduction to the Musqueam people, their territory, and their language” and includes five maps of the area and over thirty place names. The first homework assignment included an exercise whereby we plotted the great Musqueam warrior qeypəlenəxʷ’s multi-day journey through the waters of the area. Before we learned how to introduce ourselves, we learned the names of the places surrounding us. Eventually I began to understand some of the knowledge about this land contained within the words of the language. I will now focus on spatial conceptions to examine the imbrications of land (including water) with expressions of language, to show how speaking in həəmiə can also be a way of philosophically moving through land and water.  In the Musqueam Reference Grammar, Suttles summarizes concepts of space required by həəmiə grammar. He explains elements of the language that require the identification of a location relative to the speaker: the use of auxiliary verbs ʔi and niʔ to add "here, now" or 48 "there, then" to a verb; the way movement is expressed in terms of away from or towards the speaker; and the fact that every noun is described by an article or demonstrative which also locates it either as present and visible, nearby but invisible, or remote and/or hypothetical (487). These three elements of the grammar embed every speaker’s expression (using auxiliary verbs, movement and/or nouns) in their relative location. Suttles then explains the significance of expression of movement in relation to water: "direction of movement and location on land or water are commonly indicated with words that refer to the shore and the flow of water...these words are the counterparts of cardinal directions in English" (488). Furthermore, directions within a house are derived from the same roots used to express directions in relation to water. For example, xʷiwəl means to move upstream, and it also means to move towards the centre of the house, towards the fire (ibid). These are just a few examples of how location and relation to water is grounded in the practice of speaking həəmiə.18 I move on now to a few words which elucidate connection to land, leadership and care. The word for moving upstream or towards the fire, xʷiwəl, is related to the word hiʔwaʔqʷ meaning “head person, chief,” which is constructed from the progressive reduplication (creating a sense of continuous, iterative and durative action) of hiw-x (comprised of the root “hiw-” with an x transitivizer meaning “take/bring someone toward the centre of the house/toward the fire), and a lexical suffix (LS) 19 meaning “head” (Shaw and Campbell “Book                                                 18 The language continuum is also responsive to the geography of the land and water. The boundary between həəmiə and Halemeylem is close to the area where the ocean flood tide (at its highest in mid winter) produces a slack water for 80 kilometres. It is said that it is possible to catch this up-bound tide from the mouth of the river and paddle to the Katzie village – the furthest upstream community that speaks həəmiə (Suttles 514).  19	  A lexical suffix is a grammatical unit added to the end of a word stem, operating as a "noun-like bound element" (Wojdak 214). It is “often similar to what could be expressed as an independent ‘lexical’ root [but] there isn’t always an independent root in the language which expresses quite the same range of meanings,” nor is there “necessarily any similarity in sound or form between a lexical suffix and an independent root with a similar meaning”   (Shaw and Campbell “Book Two” 200). Lexical suffixes have long been recognized as a distinct feature 49 Three” 334; Shaw Personal interview). The way that this word for leader conveys the motion and connection to land, water and home – as going upstream against the current or moving toward the fire – within leadership is quite powerful. It carries images of coming into the light to address and being seen by community members and also having the strength to not just withstand but move against a current.  Another philosophical connection of people, particularly women, to land is through the construction of words using lexical suffixes and prefixes. In “The Origin of the Name ‘Musqueam,’” James Point tells the story of a dangerous two-headed sʔiɬqə monster which lived in a small lake but came out one day, killing all the plants as it moved over the ground on its way to the river. Its path became the creek and wherever its droppings fell, a new plant, the məθkʷə grass, grew.20 It was considered sacred and the “xʷəlməxʷ təa təməxʷ,” meaning “people of this land,” named the place xʷməθkʷəəm (Suttles 2004 539-46). In the phrase “people of this land,” Suttles hypothesizes that the word təməxʷ is made up of the lexical suffix =məxʷ, meaning “land; people,” added to the consonant “t,” becoming the word təməxʷ, meaning “land, earth”; thus connecting land, people and earth (ibid 288). The word xʷəlməxʷ is given as “people,” or “Indian” in Suttles, or more currently an Aboriginal person (82; Shaw, Campbell, Grant and Guerin 2006 49). Suttles also suggests that the lexical suffix, =əlməxʷ, meaning “breast milk,” is related to the LS mentioned above for “land, people” (286). Following Suttles’ hypothesis, it seems that the LS for land is expanded to mean breast milk,                                                                                                                                                        of languages of the Pacific Northwest. Thompson describes them as “legion” in Salishan languages, covering “a number of semantic classes such as parts of the body, other familiar elements of nature, various artifacts and some concepts; they are frequently extended to metaphorical and abstract uses” (700). Suttles identifies ninety-one lexical suffixes in his reference grammar and speculates on the existence of twenty-eight others  (285-319). 20	  An animated projection of this story  (drawn by Suzanne Guerin and animated by Saki Murotani) loops continuously on the wall of the Museum of Vancouver əsnaʔəm exhibit.  50 (using the connective suffix -əl meaning movement), metaphorically connecting this essential life-giving nourishment to land. Suttles also gives multiple meanings for the prefix “xʷ-” all of which can generate a vivid sense of land. It can indicate an oblique relater (connecting something with something else), a verbalizing prefix for move toward, or a lexical prefix for inward, inhering, possessing, vulva (557). Together these possible meanings create a constellation of ideas that could be encompassed in the word for people of this place: connection, moving, possessing, vulva, breast milk and land, perhaps demonstrating a notion of land and people that is constructed in terms of the life-giving potential of women’s bodies.  I employ these examples of locative strategies and word constructions to show how leadership, land, water, people and women underlie the expressive practice of speaking in həəmiə. I also propose to use a cluster of həəmiə words to inspire a metaphor to consider the interrelation of space and time, and, as will be discussed throughout the rest of this dissertation, cultures. I am concerned here with the movement that happens where water meets an obstruction in an eddy, a formation where currents interact with an obstacle, either an element of the land or an object in the water. There are multiple həәəәmiəә words for interacting with an eddy, signifying the cultural saliency of this water formation. The word for “to get in the eddy” is qe’; qeqə means “in the back eddy” and qaəθət is “to get into the back eddy” (Shaw, Campbell, Grant and Guerin 2010 6).21 For those traveling through water as well as gathering resources, knowing the places where eddies form is essential, for both harnessing their power and staying safe. I propose a use of this significant water formation as a metaphorical conception of the interaction between space and time where the movement of the water is shaped                                                 21 Historian Keith Thor Carlson and Stó:lō cultural adviser and historian Naxaxalhts’i, Albert “Sonny” McHalsie (Shxw’ow’hamel First Nation), also discuss the significance of the skillful use of back eddies in upriver travel amongst the Stó:lō (speakers of the upriver dialect of Halkomelem) and their use as natural defenses against raiders (Carlson 2010 53; Carlson and McHalsie 78-80). 51 by the land, and yet through time the water shapes the land as well. This reciprocal relationship helps avoid dichotomies. The metaphor also supports much discussion in theatre and performance studies concerning interaction and relation, such as Taylor’s assertion of the interdependent connection of the archive and the repertoire and her denial of the surrogation of Indigenous cultural practices, which she asserts multiply through simultaneous action within colonially commanded behaviours. Schneider’s concepts of temporal drag and reach that create inter(in)animation can also be represented by the motion within an eddy. This metaphor, which I term eddy of influence, is also a corrective, and perhaps a localization, of Joseph Roach’s concept of the vortices of behavior.  For Roach, vortices of behavior are places of gravitational pull which bring audiences together and produce performers from their midst. Throughout Cities of the Dead he identifies numerous vortices, all of which are places of exchange of emotions or ideas where behaviours demonstrate culture through performance that is both a mixing and a creating of new norms. Roach never interrogates the force of attraction pulling behaviours together nor does he examine how the new norms are created. By using the words “vortex” and “gravitational pull” to describe the phenomena he is working with, Roach masks the human agency involved in the creation of this type of performance place and also focuses on new behaviours without considering the continuation of old actions interacting with the new. In order to trace a local genealogy of performance that engages with Indigenous perspectives, I believe that it is essential to articulate the powers that channel performative behaviours to these designated places. The eddy of influence includes motion as well as a seemingly static obstacle – which can either be natural or constructed by humans – around which the water is flowing; an obstacle that stays, creating swirling eddies in front and in the back. An eddy may be powerful, acting on objects caught 52 within it, or it may create a resting place from a strong current. An eddy also has a clear cause – the enduring object around which the river’s current or ocean’s tide must make its way. The eddy that forms around and/or within an object will eventually influence the shape of that object, and as the object changes, it will change the formation of the current. All of this must happen through time and space. I propose that this metaphor more accurately represents the continuing and dynamic presence of the Musqueam people, as well as knowledge contained within their language and place names for what is now known as Vancouver.  This also brings me back to the projection on the carpet in the foyer of the əsnaʔəm exhibit at MOA accompanied by the həəmiə words of welcome. Hours later, as I left the area, the sun had set and I could see the definition of the rocks very clearly as the water rhythmically washed over them. It was a visual representation of innumerable small eddies, and an appropriate way to frame an exhibit that explains the Musqueam peoples’ endurance through time as well as their engagement in contemporary culture and their influence on the city of Vancouver. One means of endurance has been through place names, both those adopted by settler/newcomers and those which have been officially overwritten, although the knowledge they contain about the land and their performative reiterations cannot be completely emptied out. This is the topic of the final section of this chapter.   2.3 Simultaneity of Place names and Tactics I began the first section of this chapter with a discussion of Coulthard’s concept of grounded normativity in which he describes land as a mode of reciprocal relations and obligations. In this section I examine how part of that relation is enacted through the naming of places. Naming articulates a relationship to the land; it is necessary as a way to guide travel to a 53 specific destination or to pass on knowledge of resources available in that area. The relationship can also be one in which stories are held, either about something significant that happened or about something that continuously, iteratively occurs there. Therefore, paying attention to place naming can be a way to learn what land, as Coulthard suggests, “ought to teach us about living our lives in relation to one another and our surroundings” (60). Keeping in mind what I have termed grounded practices, which illuminate the interaction of land and performance-based strategies and tactics, an examination of the knowledge held and performed through place name articulation by Indigenous people resisting colonization will also speak to the affective swirling22 about in the eddies of influence since European invasion and settlement. I begin with a short discussion of the significance of place names from anthropological scholarship. I then examine the etymological construction of three place names in the area of this research project. I conclude with a discussion of how three examples of interventions in settler cultural activities through place name enunciation and wayfinding demonstrate place names as a performative way of capturing relationship to land through times past, present and future.  Keith Basso’s Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language Among the Western Apache (1996) is a foundational work that has inspired a reconsideration of the significance of place and naming that resonates particularly well with notions of time, place and embodiment that are discussed in theatre and performance studies. Basso asserts that place names for the Western Apache represent their history as ancestors’ words and viewpoints grounded in a place, as well as the description of human activity in that place, some of which marks people as from there and some of which passes on cultural values. He learns from Western Apache elders about                                                 22 I employ the term affective here to describe the movement in order to connect with the concept of affect in feminist and theatre theory that attends to the presence of the body and the full range of “public feeling” that can be triggered through performance activities (Schneider 2011 35-6; Hurley 1-11).  	  54 the connection between the ability to visualize place name stories and the ability to communicate in a deep, concise way as well as to react to both internal and external disturbances with wisdom. Basso’s work demonstrates the importance of places and how their names are integrated into meaning-making in the Western Apache system of knowledge, giving an understanding of the importance of living surrounded by named places for the continuation of culture. His extended inquiry into “socially given systems of thought… that mold and organize the experience itself” opens up a world, showing that “to casually ignore them…is to suppose that matters are much smaller in fact than they really are” (144). While not explicitly concerned with performance, Basso’s work is deeply concerned with the placement of bodies in time and space, which links well with the durational spatiality discussed in theatre and performance studies theory. Insights on performativity and land in anthropologist Crisca Bierwert’s Brushed by Cedar, Living by the River: Coast Salish Figures of Power (1999) are also helpful in considering place names that connect to reiterative actions. Bierwert closes her book with a discussion of methods by which people enact the relationships to place through cultural practice. She asserts that “memories attached to a place are not only the associations they have with dear relatives who also lived there and have died”; what is also “important here is the attachment felt when people recapitulate the performative knowledge of those others” (280-81). Bierwert is not speaking of theatrical performance, but of the everyday actions of cultural practices, which can include theatricality.  An examination of knowledge enacted through three local place names concurs with the simultaneity and multiplication asserted by Taylor; it also illuminates the grounded practices embedded in həəmiə, which connect to knowledge that is held by the land. These həәəәmiəә place names are verbs constructed as progressive, durative and iterative acts that continue and are repeated throughout time as opposed to the perfective form, which implies a 55 complete action taken to its conclusion.  A beach on the west side of Vancouver, known to settlers as Spanish Banks, is called aəɬə in həәəәmiəә, which means shivering from cold (Shaw and Campbell 2012 1; Suttles 570). The area is on a point of land unsheltered from ocean winds – as anyone who spends time there knows, it is a cold place. In Suttles’ reference grammar, he cites a story about this name told by Musqueam Elder James Point, which connects it to “a rock of white granite… [which] was an old lady who was crying here (presumably when χe:s came and transformed her)” (570). Given that this name is the progressive reduplication of “shiver,” it seems to be commenting on both the physical feature of the shore’s always being a cold place and the transformation story embedded in the name. As the woman in the story was crying, she may also have been shivering, since these two actions often go together. In this way the name holds environmental knowledge as well as a sχʷəe (a narrative involving χe:s and his transformations of the world) (Suttles 264).   Along the seawall that rings Stanley Park is a significant rock formation; its name in həəmiə is sɬχiəx, which is constructed by the progressive verb “be standing” with an s- prefix nominalizer or resultative (Suttles 1996 14; Shaw Personal interview). A few stories tell of the rock’s being a man who was transformed – in each version because he refuses to stop ritually bathing, either to ensure that his child will be born properly (Johnson 11-20) or to prepare to protect his fishing rights (Bierwert 91-3). There is a beauty to this place name which expresses the transformation story particularly well with its combination of a progressive verb indicating continuous action and a nominalizer which immobilizes the verb into a noun, or a resultative which describes the end result of the action. Both versions of the sχʷəe of the transformation of the man resonate with a manifestation of strength in action, of standing up for what is right. The current name, however, Siwash Rock, has a pejorative connotation. Bierwert explains that 56 the original Chinook jargon word “siwash” shifted “from an equivalence with ‘Indian’ to a suggestion of a relic and then to the suggestion of a derelict… [what once] would have also suggested that there was an old story attached to [the rock]…would have been empty of spiritual significance” (287).  What we are left with now is a name of a rock formation in a very public place that denigrates Indigenous people – a name that continues to be repeated by newcomers and descendants of settlers who have little knowledge of its connotations.  The last place progressive place name I will discuss, χʷaχʷə, also brings us to the main site discussed in this dissertation. It is given as the name of the village that was located at Lumberman’s Arch on Brockton Point in Stanley Park. The meaning is given variously as  “masked dance performance… from the tradition that an ancestor received a privilege there” (Suttles 2004 571); elsewhere Suttles identifies the name as “clearly sχʷayχʷəәy…[the] performance by masked dancers, without the s-prefix” (1996 13). In A Stó:lo~Coast Salish Historical Atlas, the translation given for this place name is “masks” or “little masked performance,” suggesting a diminutive of the performance (McHalsie 153). While none of these meanings is given as a progressive verb, the reduplication of the syllable, the glottalization of the resonants as well as the possible diminutive form indicates that it may be one.23 This would give the meaning a sense of continuation – instead of “performance” it would be “performing” or, taking into account the full vowel in the first syllable, “several are performing.” If the root of the word is χʷəәy, it could be related to the verb (which Suttles describes as possibly a durative form                                                 23 According to Suttles’ reference grammar, the diminutive form occurs only in the progressive (138 and 172). In which case, if it is a diminutive, “little,” then it is also a progressive. The full vowel in the first syllable could be explained by its being the plural progressive, as it follows the pattern given in Suttles’ “Paradigms of Reduplication” (193; 196). Suttles also has three other examples of plural progressives that follow a similar pattern (167). I would like to thank Dr. Patricia Shaw for her insight on this.   57 indicating that an action is prolonged or a position is held) χʷəәyem, “tell a story”(177).24  If the suffix –em on χʷəәyem is the intransitive,25 then this could perhaps indicate that the root of χʷaχʷə is the word “story” without the intransitive added. Intransitive verbs are those that involve only one direct participant that experiences the verb  (Shaw and Campbell “Book 3” 252) and Suttles explains that the intransitive suffix is added to roots that are logically transitive, naming actions that have objects – as in the telling of a story to people (2004 231). We usually conceive of telling a story as an action that involves a listener, yet if the verb χʷəәyem, “telling a story,” and its related noun sχʷəәyem (a story from the time of χe:s) both have an intransitive ending, it may indicate the effect these types of stories have on the teller rather than the listener. The absence of the intransitive suffix, as seems to be indicated if χʷəәy is the root of χʷaχʷə, shifts the emphasis away from the state experienced by the subject of the verb.26 In terms of theatre and performance theory, this is a fascinating possibility for the place name formation. A place name that indicates performance but has the status not of a transitive verb acting on the audience or of an intransitive verb acting only on the performer, but something in between (or perhaps both), describes the relationship between the performers and audience that is often discussed in theatre theory and performance studies. It is also in keeping with conceptions of ritual in oral cultures that is intended to achieve something and have an outcome affecting others.                                                  24 As noted above, the nominalized version of this word, sχʷəәyem, refers to events involving χe:l’s and to the world before χe:l’s came  (Suttles 2004 264). Keith	  Thor	  Carlson	  identifies	  the	  upriver	  word	  sxwoxwiyám as stories/histories describing the activities of the Creator, the transformers, and sky-born heroes; often taking place in the distant past, but sometimes involving recent miraculous happenings (283). 25	   Which, as Suttles shows, can change from -əәm to –em in the durative form (2004 174-77). Once again I thank Dr. Shaw for the feedback on this idea.  26	  Shaw advises, however, that for the word to become fully transitive a suffix would have to be added She also adds that the subject of a “bare” root may well have a different function than the subject of an overtly intransitivized verb: i.e., each could take different kinds/roles of nouns as subject. She cautions that this is only one subclass or root that - əәm can add onto, although I can find no other mention of the suffix in Suttles (Personal interview). 	  58 Indigenous performers and scholars Mojica and Favel have both discussed the tension inherent in performing without violating the ceremony/tradition/knowledge that is not meant to be shared  (Favel 172-73) as well as the need to create a bridge over which tradition is transformed to fulfill the needs of theatre (Mojica 2013 129). So, while it is very important to note the connection of the place name to the sχʷayχʷəy dance that belongs to certain families and is performed for distinct purposes only in restricted community contexts, there is a difference between it and public performances at this site since settler invasion. This part of the knowledge held within the place name marks the site as one that is spiritually significant. It is certainly not within the scope of this dissertation, nor is it appropriate for me as a newcomer and settler descendant, to investigate or comment on spiritual practices. So without going into all the simultaneous meanings that are held within the name, my inquiry will note the significance of the continuity of performance and the reciprocity between performers and spectators, but will focus on public activities at the site.  I shift now slightly to considering place names and wayfinding, both in terms of physical orientation and as a way to constitute destinations along a decolonizing pathway. Schneider’s discussion of live reiterative acts, such as a gesture of a pointing finger, is generative when considering place names and wayfinding. She says the gesture “casts itself both backward (as a matter of repetition) and forward (it can be enacted again) in time” (37-8). I assert that the use of place names for wayfinding – especially in a touristic/recreational site – is a performative act along the lines of Schneider’s reiterative gesture and Butler’s formulation of the construction of gender through performativity, repetition and the normative. Wayfinding, either through the reading of maps or through the interaction between people, can both implicitly and explicitly contain the gesture of a pointing finger while also enacting the speaking of a place name.  59 Along the lines of Butler’s configuration, if a spoken place name does not follow the “socially shared” and “historically constituted” expectation, there can be anxiety and punishment, yet there is also an opportunity to reclaim power through subversive performances which gesture to the contingency of the normative and the potential to transform it (Butler 528-31).  For instance, in the summer of 2013 my partner and I hiked along a (somewhat) grueling and isolated trail in the mountains north of Vancouver. When we met with the few other hikers we would discuss the conditions and name our destination. In our usual social milieu these peaks north of Vancouver are generally referred to as The Sisters, a translation of their Skwxwú7mesh place name. When we would mention them as our first night’s destination, our easy conversation would often stall, as a look of confusion came over our interlocutors. They would then invariably say, “you mean The Lions,” and we would respond with, “yes, The Sisters.” No one ever asked us why we called them this, perhaps just taking us for fools wandering in the wilderness. In this context the reiteration of “The Lions” (with its authority supported through signage and maps) produces a normative assumption of the singularity of a place and, I assert, the attempt to create a singular place of whiteness. Our minor subversive naming, while ephemeral, was also an effort to respect and effect local Indigenous cultural continuity.  The naming of these peaks is a towering example of the enactment of multiple eddies of influence. They have been called “The Lions” since the 1890s when Judge John Hamilton Grey suggested the name because of his view of their similarity to the lions couchant of heraldry 27 (Akrigg and Akrigg 154). There are, however, some significant obstructions of the colonial name. Mohawk/English writer and performer Pauline Johnson comments on the origin of the settler name in her opening story of Legends of Vancouver (1911), in which she describes a                                                 27	  The “lions couchant” are meant to symbolize an attitude of restful vigilance and conscious power.	  60 discussion with Su-á-pu-luck/Chief Joe Capilano. She explains the settler name for the peaks by referring him to the statues of the Landseer Lions he saw in Trafalgar Square during his trip to London in 1906. In her narrative, Su-á-pu-luck/Capilano recognizes the similarity, but then tells her the story of the “Two Sisters” in which a Chief’s two daughters entering womanhood prevail upon their father to invite their enemies to their feast, creating a lasting peace. They are memorialized for this act and transformed by Sagalie Tyee (2-10). A similar story is told by Squamish elders of the “Sch’ich’yúy – The Sisters Mountains” -- in the publication People of the Land: Legends of the Four Host First Nations (Abraham et al.). In this version, the Squamish twin sisters are captured during a raid and willingly marry twin Stek’in brothers. Their good conduct convinces the Stek’in to sue for peace with the Squamish and they are memorialized as the mountains after a long life (81-90). The two publications of similar stories, almost 100 years apart, are entwined with political performances and demonstrate the tensions of simultaneity and inter(in)animation which can be present in an eddy of influence. Pauline Johnson moved to Vancouver to retire after an internationally successful career as a recitalist and poet in 1909. Throughout 1910-11, she published stories about the region related to her by Su-á-pu-luck /Chief Joe Capilano, a well-respected Skwxwú7mesh leader whom she had met in London.28  He was there as a leader of the first delegation of BC Indigenous people on a mission to present grievances to King Edward IV in 1906 with the intention to circumvent discriminatory Canadian government channels by dealing nation to nation with the monarch (Carlson 2010 269-70). He was considered a                                                 28	  There is a continuing controversy over the use of the name Capilano, which is a hereditary name belonging to the Musqueam through which Chief Joe was connected by his mother. He was allowed to use the name while leading a West Coast Indigenous delegation to petition King Edward IV in 1906, but Musqueam people did not consider his continued use appropriate once he returned from London  (Carlson 2005 34). As he was a public figure known by this name, I will continue to use it along with his Squamish name, Su-á-pu-luck.	  61 “flamboyant and gregarious” leader and was often described in newspapers as inciting unrest throughout the province before the trip as well as afterwards (Carlson 2005 1). Johnson and Su-á-pu-luck/Capilano became friends when she moved to Vancouver. Her publication of these stories in The Daily Province newspaper’s weekly Saturday magazine, which was usually quite critical of him, was certainly a political and performative act attempting to obstruct settler colonial assumptions through the enunciation of names. She portrays Su-á-pu-luck/Capilano as her “Tillicum” who speaks in accented English as they roam the waters and forests of the Vancouver area and she awaits his decision to share stories with her. She generally opens the stories locating herself and Su-á-pu-luck/Capilano, then shifts narrative perspective when he speaks. As with much of Johnson’s writing, the stories are composed for recitation with a particular attention to orality and the presence of listeners (Gerson and Strong-Boag xxx).  While her status as a celebrity attracted a flooding tide of settler attention, she and Su-á-pu-luck/Capilano used their strengths to strategically place themselves as obstacles creating an eddy so that both place names in this story could exist simultaneously.  Using the performative to exert continuous, and adaptive, connection to land continues to be a strategy. The source of the second story – “Sch’ich’yúy – The Sisters Mountains” is a book by the Four Host First Nations (FHFN)29 published just prior to the 2010 Winter Olympics. The opening ceremonies of the games featured members of the FHFN who entered immediately after the national anthem in regalia, speaking words of welcome in their own languages while four                                                 29	  This organization worked with the Vancouver Organizing Committee for the 2010 Olympic and Paralympic Winter Games (VANOC) to officially represent the Lil’wat, Musqueam, Squamish and Tsleil-Waututh people on whose territories the events were being held.  Their involvement and representation was intended to ensure economic benefit to these First Nations groups while in return legitimating the Olympic movement’s social impact (Silver, Meletis and Vadi 294). While they were a powerful organization, they did not represent all members of their nations – some of whom were very critical of the impact of the Olympics. See Defenders of the Land: . 	  62 massive welcoming statues with arms outstretched rose from the stage (OlympicVancouver2010 [sic]).  The games also featured an Aboriginal Pavilion that showcased live performances as well as a film, We are Here, projected multiple times daily on the inside of the dome, and closed with a performance of Marie Clements’ The Road Forward 30 (“Vancouver 2010 Sustainability Report” 85, 82). The FHFN organization was both a practical and performative effort to mark the territory with contemporary Indigenous presence, creating a small obstruction around which the Olympics flowed.  The book, People of the Land, was published just prior to the games. It features stories from all four nations and is illustrated not by stylized drawings but by contemporary photographs of people and places. Besides this Squamish place name story of The Sisters Mountains, there are other assertions of land and connection. The first Lil’Wat contribution is a description of the Transformer’s creation of the territory featuring the stories of five place names based on transformations, demonstrating how their history is “written upon the land” (Abraham et al. 9-19).  The Musqueam section also asserts connection to the land through transformation, citing archeological evidence as well as oral history that the “xʷəәnəәθəәt – our first ancestors – are said to have descended from the sky, wrapped in clouds, before there was anything else here. These supernatural beings populated the land until χe:s, the Transformer, changed them into their present form as rocks, animals, and features of the landscape that remain to this day” (Abraham et al. 45). This narrative asserts that the Musqueam people do not just belong to the land, they are these “places and beings,” and it cites “the many həәəәmiəә names for the sites and features throughout our territory” as evidence (ibid). This book’s publication coincided with significant international attention to the region and it is noteworthy that much of the work                                                 30	  For a discussion of iterations of this performance see the interlude after chapter four of this dissertation. 	  63 focuses on transformations linking peoples to place and naming. The use of photographs of contemporary Indigenous people to illustrate the legends of the land is an example of the DNA of performance as described by Taylor, where surrogation is refused. The editors and the Elders who granted permission for the stories to be shared were also strategically placing themselves in the swirling current of international attention, creating an eddy of influence.  Both of these published accounts of the mountain peaks’ names take advantage of the opportunity for large-scale audience – either through celebrity or mega-event – to mark a narrative of place connected to people and create witnesses of those who attend to the stories. The non-homogeneous nature of the audience, however, and the persistent racist views of many contemporary settlers, newcomers and visitors make it possible that the influence exerted will be muddied. Recent Indigenous organizing, through the Idle No More events and the Indigenous Nationhood restoration movement, makes use of the performative tactics and naming for very different sorts of audience relations.   During the recent resurgence of Indigenous actions known as Idle No More in the winter of 2012-13, there were reclamations of names across the country. Leanne Betasamosake Simpson writes of the significance of the WSÁNEĆ nations’ reclamation of the original name of PKOLS (also known as Mount Douglas on Vancouver Island), and chronicles other activities, such as the project restoring Anishinaabemowin place names to Chi Engikiiwang/ Tkaranto/Toronto.31 She describes this as a saturation of Indigenous homelands with peoples, languages and ceremonies (360-62).  These projects are in concert with Taiaiake Alfred’s call to                                                 31	  “Ogimaa Mikana: Reclaiming/Renaming” is a project which aims to “restore Anishnaabemowin place names to the streets, avenues, roads, paths, and trails of Gichi Kiiwenging (Toronto) – transforming a landscape that often obscures or makes invisible the presence of indigenous peoples starting with a small section of Queen St., re-naming it Ogimaa Mikana (Leader’s Trail) in tribute to all the strong women leaders of the Idle No More movement” (“Ogimaa Mikana”). Photos of their actions are available on their tumblr blog. :  64 “start to reoccupy Indigenous sacred, ceremonial and cultural use sites to re-establish our presence on our land and in doing so to educate Canadians about our continuing connections to those places and how important they are to our continuing existence as Indigenous peoples (“Idle No More and Indigenous Nationhood” italics added, 349).  This type of claiming of names without government cooperation or recognition is a way of manifesting eddies of influence which can appear and disappear, sweeping up some unawares, while being used to their own advantage by those who have knowledge through their continuing presence. In a movement imbued with performance – full of round dances, drumming and singing in public places – the marking of Indigenous places that have not been successfully surrogated by colonial powers is an important performative tactic. By using names that have circulated outside of official documents or names that respond in mutually affective ways to colonial choices, Indigenous peoples and their allies are using enunciation to constitute the much larger world that Basso proposes is created through systems of thought created by place naming.  In this section I have discussed the way that a performative relationship to land is held within həəmiə progressive place names and also demonstrated how this grounded practice has been enacted through the creation of eddies of influence by Pauline Johnson and Su-á-pu-luck/Chief Joe Capilano in the early 1900s, the Four Host First Nations organization in 2010, and continues to be employed as a spatial tactic by those working for an Indigenous resurgence across Canada. The enunciations of Indigenous place names are the obstructions that affect the swirling flow of colonial cultural assumptions. Through the knowledge held within the names, and their use as tools for wayfinding, place names become a performative method of expressing the relationship with land through times past and in the current flow of settler/Indigenous culture that will, in the manner of an eddy, relentlessly shape the future.  65 Although I am concluding this chapter on land, language and the enactment of the relationship between the two through place names, this will not end the discussion of the significance of all of these elements. The next chapter follows through with a consideration of naming, but it is concerned with the extraordinary efforts taken by settlers and the archivist of Vancouver to create and maintain (in the term used by de Certeau) a “proper name” of the area surrounding χʷaχʷə, known since 1888 as Stanley Park. I also continue the exploration of grounded practices of strategies and tactics connected with performances since the beginnings of the European invasion, settlement and founding of the city of Vancouver, and the ways that eddies of influence have manifested through a response to Quelemia Sparrow’s podplay “Ashes on the Water” in the interlude between these two chapters.  66 Interlude: Walking Alongside “Ashes on the Water”: Podplays as an Unsettling Performance Practice   The recorded greeting in həәəәmiəә welcoming people to the əәsnaʔəәm exhibits uses the word ʔiməxnəʔtən for visitor, or one who walks alongside; this is a useful term to describe my experience of Musqueam playwright and actor Quelemia Sparrow’s “Ashes on the Water.”32 This play is an excellent example of a theatrical grounded practice that can engage a visitor in reciprocal learning through a spatially enacted experience of the past and present. It has a unique status within the burgeoning form of podplays33 and, along the lines of David Gaertner’s analysis of Indigenous new media, compels audience members to confront present Indigeneity while disrupting settler assumptions of land (“How do we Articulate Cyberspace”).  While the experience does employ practices similar to other works to give listener-walkers new understandings of place and history, this podplay goes further because of the confluence of its content, site and authority in the storytelling.  While the advancing sophistication of mp3 audio technology and the popularity of personal media players has enabled an upsurge in the podplay form,34 there has been discussion                                                 32	  The play was first performed 14-16 July 2011, five times each afternoon followed by a site-specific dance at the Dancing on the Edge festival, as a co-production between Raven Spirit Dance and neworld theatre. It was commissioned by neworld theatre, developed and produced, in part, through the City of Vancouver’s 125th Anniversary Grant Program (“PodPlays”). The podplay is also available through the theatre company and can be enacted independently at any time. Adrienne Wong acts as the host, opening and closing the audio recording. Quelemia Sparrow plays Song, narrates and gives the walking directions, Elizabeth McLaughlin plays the mother and Margo Kane plays the Indigenous woman.	  33	  	  A podplay, also known as an audiowalk, is a pre-recorded audio play that interacts with a specific location. Listener-walkers experience it through the use of a personal media player on site, listening to the play and simultaneously navigating the area by following directions interspersed throughout.   34	  This is especially true in Vancouver with neworld theatre’s artistic associate Adrienne Wong’s engagement with the form that produced eleven works set in downtown Vancouver in 2011 (“PodPlays”). 	  67 about audiowalking since the introduction of the Sony Walkman in the 1980s regarding how the personal audio player creates a form of  “secret theatre” that isolates the listener while also enhancing perception of spatial signification in urban settings (Hosokawa 1984; Chambers 1994; Balme 2006). Kimberley McLeod’s recent article, "Finding the New Radical: Digital Media, Oppositionality, and Political Intervention in Contemporary Canadian Theatre," positions audiowalks within Alan Filewod’s call for digital media to reconstitute activist theatre (Filewod in McLeod 204-05). McLeod adds nuance to the use of digital media for intervention by comparing Montreal-based playwright Olivier Choinière’s Projet Blanc (a surreptitious one-night audio walk during which seventy-two listeners attended Theatre du Nouveau Monde’s L’École des femmes while listening to his criticism of the production) with Toronto-based urban activist Jonathan Goldsbie’s “Route #501 Revisited” (a collaborative streetcar guided tour employing Twitter, which harkened back to the history of urban spaces while creating a distributed discourse). McLeod deems the former a reinscription of theatrical hierarchy that, in comparison to Goldsbie’s event, failed to “harness the interactive potential of the digital,” and instead treated its audience as listeners (213; 218). What I want to consider, though, is deployment of the podplay on unceded land as an appropriate use of the structured form to encourage new ways of perceiving site, which is a necessary step in the unsettling of space. So while McLeod is correct to comment on the untapped activist potential of collaborative new media, she is too quick to dismiss the interventionist opportunity inherent within listening.   Content of a podplay is more than the plot of the story and the sound design; the recorded audio file is the stable element that interacts with the body of the visitor moving through the continuously shifting site. As with any performance response, the experience is filtered through an embodied sensual encounter. The difference here is that the sound and voices are stable while 68 elements of the setting – the time, weather, plants, animals, place, water, other people – are not. The presences experienced through the recording as well as the body moving in space are also distinguished by the absences of the bodies of the performers, and the possibility of a collective audience experience. Neworld theatre’s Adrienne Wong acknowledges this dynamic of distance and presence, and says it is the tension between the two that keeps her interested in the potential of the form (41-2). My response, which incorporates my presence in the space while the podplay simultaneously distances me, is based on my experience of the play “Ashes on the Water” with Dr. David Gaertner’s UBC Indigenous New Media class on the 31st of October 2014.  I have two umbrellas with me; on a day in late fall in Vancouver you can almost be guaranteed that it will rain and I grab a second one as I leave the house. I’m on my way down to meet up with the class to experience the podplay and I figure someone else may need one. We’ll be outside, listening and walking the route from close to the corner of Alexander and Main Streets, over the train overpass and into CRAB Park in the downtown eastside of Vancouver (DTES). There are a number of variables that are not within our control besides the weather. As this is all happening outside, on the street, it is uncertain what might be part of the experience. Once we’ve gathered beside the plaque at 157 Alexander Street that marks a church that once stood in that spot, we pair off. I’m sharing my earbud-style headphones with a woman who doesn’t have a media player with her. This affects the sound design; I can hear ambient noises from the street more easily than if I had both ears covered. It may not be the intention of the designers but I’m happy to have a partner in this, and I’m interested in keeping present with the landscape as the story unfolds. We have to organize ourselves so that the wire between us doesn’t tangle, and then I press play. We’re instructed to read the plaque and told that we are facing what was once Old Hastings Road and it is the year 1886, Sunday, June 13. The play then 69 starts with a voice named Song, saying that this is the story of her birth. The narrative shifts to a woman who steps out of the St. James Anglican Church doors, describing the smoky air; the sounds of carriages and horses underlie her voice. She describes the growth of the CPR townsite, with new buildings going up and the clearing of land. We hear the sounds of her baby fussing, as she shushes it as she walks. I wonder if the baby is named Song. I’m also focused on following the directions. I’m worried about navigating while I’m distracted and I also notice the tension of wanting to focus on the story being told, not wanting to miss anything despite the action around me.  The voice of Song directs us to walk towards Main Street, and the mother’s voice describes her frustrations with her crying baby. Song then describes the way into the past, directs us to let the cement fade to wooden sidewalks and allow a quietness to descend. The background noises in the sound design decrease. We walk slowly, listening to this, aware of our surroundings. There are only a few cars on the streets down here where Main Street ends and the Port of Vancouver lands begin. The railway overpass beside us mainly leads to the restricted-entry port facilities and the public space of CRAB Park. Nevertheless, we wait for the stoplight to change. Even though we could cross the empty road, being linked together and focusing on the playing of the podplay means we don’t take any chances. I press pause on my iPod to stop the play but we don’t talk. I look around myself and see low-rise brick buildings on this side of Main Street, marking this as an older part of the city. The train tracks are on my left under the roadway, and once we cross the street we’ll be at the base of a set of stairs with accessible ramps, set well off from the edge of the road, to take us up over the tracks. This is an impressive amount of pedestrian infrastructure for this area of the city.  70 The light changes, we resume listening and cross the street. Song describes her beginning, coming into the world through “the ashes of destruction,” and the sounds of trees falling fill our ears. Wind sounds blow in from the west and she describes the smoke that hangs over the area. Song says she is the song of water, of mercy, of women. The mother’s voice returns, with the sound of her crying baby. She hears a man shouting. We are told to stop and look back to the city from the elevation of the overpass. At this time of day it is unremarkable. There are few people around, mainly just the other pairs in our group ahead and behind us as we all follow the directions. My partner and I are unsure where we are supposed to be, it seems as if we should be higher up on the rise in order to see back, we hurry to catch up with the play. Ahead of us are two others from the group, also listening and orienting themselves. I mark their spot in my mind, thinking to notice which way they go so we can follow.  Fire. We hear the sounds of flames and confusion of voices shouting. The mother’s voice rises and describes the man running, the church in flames. She runs holding her baby, the sidewalk burns and she runs on the road. We are directed to turn to the north and told that there is a mission reserve on the north shore. The north shore is visible from here, but mainly we see the port machinery and buildings, and behind that the creep of the city up the north shore mountains. The water is steel grey today, as are the clouds. The air is clear, but cold and damp. I feel very distant from a warm spring day with a fire chasing me down.  Another woman’s voice is added to the polyphony. This time it represents an Indigenous woman who is attending a feast on the north shore. This woman’s speech stresses the first syllable of each word, making it notably different from the voice of Song, which is melodic and soothing, and the mother’s, which had clipped sharp enunciations until the fire started. Now she speaks in bursts, breathless. The Indigenous woman notices the wind, the choppy water, the haze 71 of smoke over the town, and then sees the flames across the inlet. We are directed to walk down a staircase off the overpass. This is where the people ahead of us were confused. This does not seem like a public staircase. The Port of Vancouver, especially since 9/11, has security measures surrounding it. Much of the area may be public but few thoroughfares are left. Most streets end at gates to the port, so few people use these areas. Trusting the voices on the podplay, my partner and I walk down the stairs. The mother speaks again; she is running from the fire, which is right behind her at her ankles. A narrator describes the panic and looting, a drunken man passed out on the ground with desperate people fleeing past him. We are directed to walk across the grass at the bottom of the stairs to the sidewalk. Up to this point we weren’t sure if we were in the right place. Now the very specific descriptions match our surroundings. My partner and I share words of relief. We are in a strange place; it doesn’t feel public. Under the overpass, along the side of the road, there is a dirt path through the grass that leads to the left and the port buildings, but we’re told to move to the right towards the park. It seems against the flow of the usual pedestrian traffic that takes these stairs, although much more in the direction that I want to go.  The mother describes the crowd and, then with horror in her voice, seeing a man who bursts into flames.  The Indigenous woman speaks again, describing the people around her on the shore looking across to the fire, people from Sechelt, Sliammon, Musqueam and elsewhere. Song interrupts, saying, “Just act, don’t think.” The Indigenous woman says, “it was the women who wanted to go,” declaring that they must make the 25-minute crossing; that they must have mercy. The narrator again intervenes – directing our thoughts to how much a fire can consume in that period of time. We walk along under the concrete structure, away from the working port and towards the public park at the shore. We wait again to cross a street. A little unsure which way we should turn at the corner, we enter the park. Song speaks again, connecting sounds with 72 emotions of love, pain, joy; add breath to these sounds and then she is there as a song. She says she is from this place.  We are directed to walk into the park, past the benches, and stand and look towards the mountains, as the Indigenous woman speaks again. She talks of the decision to help, of the brief thoughts showing on the men’s faces that it would be best to let the town burn, and be finished with “those people” who take everything they want, forbid potlatch, bring disease and treat them poorly, destroying their homes. The women insist nevertheless on helping and they set out to make the crossing of the choppy inlet. We are now walking closer to the water, away from the manicured park lawn and off the concrete footpath, now onto the sand and stones of the beach. There is little wind today and the waves slowly lap the shore. Others from our group are here already, and I can see a few more behind us. We have walked to the middle of the beach area. I look out across the water, I hear the story and try to imagine a fire at my back and canoes crossing the inlet, but all I can see is the activity of the port, the Seabus crossing to my left, a float plane descending to land. I smell the ocean though. The smell brings me to a place without time, full of plants and creatures, life and decay. It’s a green rich smell, but cold, too. I forget it when I’m far from the shore, and when I get close, it connects me again with the edge of this coast and all the times I’ve been out in these elements, sometimes trying to protect my own children from the extremes.  We hear the sounds of paddling and water. The Indigenous woman speaks with passion of the mercy driving what she calls her “fire-heart” while moving towards a rescue. We are told to keep moving towards the water. The landscape behind me fades away. I look only to the water, and try to imagine people crossing towards me. The mother’s voice returns with the baby’s whimpers saying she cannot breathe; she wades into the water and holds her baby up. We 73 hear the woman in the canoe who sees the mother holding something up and realizes it is a baby. She realizes she sees a woman with a child standing up to her neck in the water, holding out her baby to the rescuers desperately, and describes collecting the baby from her and pulling the woman to safety in the canoe, covering her with a blanket.  It’s cold by the shore, the wind is stronger here, but that’s not why I shiver. The combination of the sounds of panic in the mother’s voice, urgency in the rescuer’s words, the flames roaring underneath while the baby cries, triggers an affect of dread. The first person point of view of these characters going directly into my ears shuts out my present surroundings. I’m struck by the fears and difficulties that the characters are overcoming.  The baby is handed up, and the mother is also rescued, covered in a blanket. The women look at each other. Song then speaks again. “I came into this world through the ashes of destruction. It started off with what felt like a deep yawn, a deep yawn that shot across the inlet, through the paddles that cut the water’s surface and into the hearts of the people.” Breathing and vocables start up, then a drum beats quietly. A number of women’s voices join and a rattle starts. It is all in the time of a group paddling steadily. The Indigenous woman speaks again, and says the song was sung to calm the mother, to lift her spirits. She invokes the “mother, mother of us all, to have mercy, mercy on all human beings.” I note that this brings an association to the Catholic invocation to Mary, “mother of us all,” but doesn’t need to be interpreted this way. The song continues underneath until the voice of Song closes the play, repeating, “this, this is the story of my birth.” Adrienne Wong’s voice returns, explaining the credits and funders, noting that this is supported by the city of Vancouver’s 125th anniversary funding. I remove my earbud and look to the woman next to me. In the climax of the rescue, I hadn’t thought about her, or her experience. 74 I’m feeling quite vulnerable. Hearing the voices of the characters as they undergo this crisis has connected with my experiences as a mother caring for young children. I’ve never had to run from a fire, but I do know what it is like to feel that you are the one who has to protect someone who is completely vulnerable. I can’t stay with these thoughts and feelings for long, though. I’m outside, in a public park. There’s a couple on a bench not far away, looking at us. A man walks the shore with his dog, and another sits and stares at the water. We talk quietly. I ask the woman I’ve been walking with if she’s ever been to this park before. She’s not from Vancouver, and she doesn’t know the park. I tell her I used to bring my daughters here to look for crabs under the rocks when they were little. I remember the wedding I attended here last summer and the dance festival my neighbours took part in. I tell her that we are close to the Women’s Memorial Rock.35 We are walking past it on our way to join the rest of the group. We stop to read the inscription and look at the flowers left beside it.  There are many practical and historically based reasons for setting this play in this exact place. Our walk started at what was the edge of the town in 1886, and people would have fled to the shore. This beach is across the inlet from the mission, where it would have been possible for a gathering of people to see the fire. The resonance with the site continues, though, with its present use.  CRAB Park, the legal property of the Vancouver Port Corporation (VPC), has been leased to the City of Vancouver. Yet it is also a place over which the local low-income and urban Indigenous community has a degree of control, blocking its use to generate capital. In the early                                                 35	  Also known as the CRAB Park boulder, this memorial was dedicated in July 1997, ten years after the opening of the park. Local activist Don Larson and other CRAB park organizers conceived, designed and placed it in response to violence in the neigbourhood and the refusal of authorities to take it seriously. The inscription on the granite boulder has the phrase “The Heart…Has its Own Memory” in larger text with words in smaller text splitting the phrase where I have inserted the ellipsis: “In honour of the spirit of the people murdered in the downtown Eastside. Many were women and many were Native Aboriginal women. Many of these cases remain unsolved. All my relations.” The inscription closes with the date of its dedication: July 29 1997  (Burk 47-65).	  75 1980s during preparations for Expo 86, community activists rallied around the slogan, “Create a Real Available Beach” (CRAB) in efforts to hold space for collective resources against threatening development. Community members started organizing in 1982, occupied the site for three months in the summer of 1983, and the park was eventually opened in 1987. Since that time, the area has repeatedly been defended against further development plans – first for a casino and cruise ship terminal in 1997 and then for a soccer stadium in 2005 (Blomley 46-73). The site is recognized as an asset in the Downtown Eastside of Vancouver (DTES) according to a Carnegie Community Action Project mapping project. Its importance is identified as being a necessity that is both free and close; a place where residents can volunteer as well as connect to a rich cultural and community heritage of social justice work; a green space that connects residents to nature with spiritual importance, both as a place to grieve – as the site of the Women’s Memorial Rock – and as a place to continue Indigenous traditions (Pederson and Swanson 6-12). CRAB Park as a mutable place for performance (or enactment) of counter-narratives has been part of this unsettlability as evidenced from the occupations with which the park began to the hosting of annual festivals. As the site for Sparrow’s podplay, this history, as well as the story of the fire recounted within the play, is triggered for community members who know and use the site.  The area around the park also has a few place names associated with it. In həəmiə it is known as əməmələɬp, translated as “big leaf maple trees” from əәməәl meaning “paddle” (Suttles 2004 572); in Squamish it is known as lələi, translated as “grove of beautiful trees” (Suttles 1996 12). These names, both based on trees, highlight the importance of the forest and also of the history of the lumber industry in the transformation of the place. The Hastings Mill 76 originally sat just past the eastern edge of the site, literally transforming trees into lumber.  The fire in the play is consuming the trees referenced by these place names.   The vulnerability and the heroism of the women in the story find an echo in this site of a memorial for murdered and missing women. The vulnerability of mothers and daughters didn’t end with the fire, nor did the heroic and merciful acts. The attitudes and policies that may have caused the fire – clearing of the town site with rapacious disregard for the environment or existing communities – continued after the town was rebuilt and still affects us today. After experiencing the podplay, we all gather by the rock and I feel grounded in the continuum of this history and what Adrienne Wong has called a temporal enlargement (40). Although I am a relative newcomer to this coast, Indigenous people also supported my ancestors in eastern Canada through the difficulties of creating lives far from home. I am here as a result of mercies shown over many years, and also as a result of the withholding of mercy and the taking of more than was offered.  I’ve heard the women’s paddle song sung before at many events, as well as the story of how it came to be. I was struck then at the generosity shown to settlers, but hearing the story and song here on the shore, where the water laps at the land and it’s possible to visualize the effort it took to offer support to those in need, I am once again humbled. It’s particularly poignant to stand next to a site meant to hold the memories of women whose vulnerabilities were exploited and to whom, perhaps, not enough care was offered.  I conclude now with a consideration of the impact of the authority with which this story has been shared. Quelemia Sparrow is a descendant of the people who chose to offer help and the women with whom the song originated, as is Squamish performer and leader of the dance group 77 Spakwus Slolem, S7aplek/ Bob Baker,36 who is also listed as a cultural advisor and song creator for “Ashes on the Water” (“Ashes on the Water” IPAA). Sparrow’s encounter with this historied place is reminiscent of Guna and Rappahannock actor/playwright/scholar Monique Mojica’s “Indigenous artistic research methodology.” Mojica says that this methodology “speaks to the embodiment of place,” calls the land “our archive,” and says that “our embodied relationship to the land defines Indigenous identities, history, science, cosmology, literature – and our performance” (2012 219). By recounting this story and this song, Sparrow and S7aplek/Baker return to a moment when their ancestors allowed the continuation of settlement, offering comfort to newcomers and allowing them to walk alongside them on this land. The authority with which the story is shared is another example of how an eddy of influence can be formed. It is an obstruction in the flow of contemporary settler/newcomer spatial understanding, creating a moment to rest from the current while opening up potential for future reciprocity. This is also in line with Tomson Highway’s comment connecting performance to land, saying that Indigenous performers hope that non-Indigenous audiences “may just learn, we keep hoping, something new and something terribly relevant and beautiful about that particular landscape they too have become inhabitants of ” (3). The use of this podplay format, which has a stable unchanging soundscape that permeates the shifting personal urban landscape, creates an opportunity for learning through respectful listening. A listening that is a necessary part of the decolonizing process, because a great deal of colonization, as will be demonstrated in the next chapter, has been about selective hearing.                                                  36	  S7aplek/Bob Baker is the great-great-grandson of Su-á-pu-luck/Chief Joe Capilano who led the 1906 delegation to London discussed in the previous chapter (Dangeli 171-72). 78 Chapter 3: Reiterations of Rededications: Surrogated Whiteness  I begin this chapter with a short biography of a man. He emigrated with his family at the age of nine, traveling by boat for six weeks and twenty thousand kilometres to a settlement that was recently established on tenuous grounds, existing via the threat of state violence. He learned agricultural skills along with his parents and two brothers – the younger of whom died from infection within a few years. His family moved repeatedly in the next six years. He left school at fifteen and was abandoned by his parents and older brother who emigrated without him to a new country when he was seventeen. He worked for two years and then left that place himself, going to an even younger settlement that was also based on land theft and violence. As a citizen of the state illegally seizing the territory, he prospered in this new land. He did struggle; his lack of education, limited job skills and marriage at the age of twenty to his girlfriend who was pregnant with twins meant that his early adulthood was full of anxiety and strife.  He developed a fascination for the military and joined the local militia. He also began to collect discarded relics and oral histories. When his country of origin declared war, even though he was in his late thirties, he volunteered to fight. He was put into a position of leadership, and within less than a year he was in charge of infantrymen enduring possibilities of sniper attacks and chemical warfare while waiting to be ordered into armed raids. During combat he was shot in the side of the head by a machine gun. He received first aid but had to wait five days before his head wound was cleaned. The wound turned septic and he became deaf in one ear. He was given a medical discharge on the basis of the hearing loss as well as irritable nervousness, insomnia and anxiety.  On the night he returned home from war his wife of almost twenty years left him – he pursued her and at one point abducted her in an effort to save his marriage. Left alone with his 79 youngest son, he tried to reintegrate into civilian life but found that the management position he left to serve in the military was no longer available. He opened a business, but then suffered further loss when his youngest son broke his neck and died suddenly at the age of twenty-two. From this point on, he moved from job to job. He found a supportive woman he respected and remarried, and although he remained an active community volunteer, in his early fifties he was unemployed with few career prospects.   I have just described in general terms the biography of James Skitt Matthews, as chronicled in the first hundred pages of Daphne Sleigh’s The Man Who Saved Vancouver: Major James Skitt Matthews.37 His story is perhaps not an unusual one for a British immigrant born in 1878, yet it is important to note in an historical endeavour that will engage with the City of Vancouver’s archival collection. At the moment of Matthews’ possible despair – unemployed in his fifties during the Depression – he convinced Vancouver city council to allow him to create a city archives in 1931; he then stayed on as archivist until he died at the age of 92 in 1970. He exerted a dominance over the collection during this time that was unusual for an archivist. He was self-taught and acted as a public historian, intervening in the city through placing monuments and organizing commemorative events. Matthews was uninterested in municipal records and instead collected memoirs, photographs, objects connected to events or significant personalities, and stories (including those of working class people, the unemployed and at least one Indigenous man); he also commissioned paintings of historical events (Keirstead 87; Sleigh 199).                                                  37	  On his education, his brother’s death and his family’s departure from New Zealand (24-6); his experience in the trenches (66-70); his abduction of his first wife and medical discharge (77); his son’s death (91); his work difficulties post-war (97-101).  	  80 As will be detailed in this chapter, the concept, collection and even physical space of the city of Vancouver archives have long been attributed to Matthews’ efforts, but a more thorough examination of Matthews’ efforts to create the archive as well as to memorialize the naming, opening and dedication of Stanley Park in 1888-89 is of relevance to this dissertation. I argue that Matthews hailed and recruited settlers and newcomers to an imperial British construction of whiteness through his founding of and continuing influence on the city archives, his publications, as well as his production of site-specific reenactments and monuments.  This analysis will continue to make use of Roach, Taylor and Schneider’s performance studies methodologies. Joseph Roach demonstrates the connections between racialization and performance throughout Cities of the Dead: Circum-Atlantic Performance (1996), along with methods that enabled white forgetting, fostered through “complex and ingenious schemes to displace, refashion, and transfer those persistent memories into representations more amenable to those who most frequently wielded the pencil and the eraser. In that sense, circum-Atlantic performance is a monumental study in the pleasures and torments of incomplete forgetting” (7). While this research site is far from the circum-Atlantic, the phrase “the pleasures and torments of incomplete forgetting” does resonate, particularly with Matthews, who “wielded the pencil and the eraser” and also enacted seemingly compulsive behaviour with his collecting and interventions in the city – possibly driven by the torment of forgetting and the pleasure of selective remembering. There is much in Roach’s book that resonates here – from Matthews’ reenactments using kinesthetic imagination as a way to create colonial thinking through movement, to the spatial/temporal contingencies leading to displaced transmissions that have resulted in a monument to Lord Stanley at the entrance of the park (Roach 1996 27-30). The reenactments also, however, feature at least one possibility of what Taylor has termed 81 multiplication and simultaneity that refuses surrogation. The archival documents and photographs generated by Matthews, along with his staging of reenactments, are also examples of Schneider’s assertion of the performativity of the archive, its use in the colonial process as well as the temporal drag and reach that is inter(in)animated through these reiterative actions. However, as much as the theoretical frame of performance studies is useful in the analysis of colonial racializing processes, to engage fully with Matthews’ work as part of the construction of whiteness through performance I must also enlist theoretical work from the field of critical whiteness studies.  3.1  Whiteness I begin with critiques of whiteness studies from cultural studies theorists Sara Ahmed and Rey Chow. In “Declarations of Whiteness: The Non-Performativity of Anti-Racism” (2004) Ahmed critiques declarations of whiteness, which she terms non-performative speech acts (in the Austinian sense) (n.pag.). She cautions that one of the foundational declarations in the field – that whiteness is invisible – is only true for those who inhabit it, and that this assertion assumes a white seeing, and is therefore an exercise in white privilege, not a challenge of it. It also offers a possibility of transcending whiteness through the recognition of the self as racist and through shameful feelings, which, if moved through too quickly, allow those with white privilege to restore a positive white identity. Ahmed asks: does learning to see the mark of privilege automatically involve unlearning the privilege? (n.pag.). Rey Chow also questions the ability of those who embody white privilege to disengage themselves from it. In The Ethnic Protestant and the Spirit of Capitalism she discusses what she terms the coercive mimeticism of the performance of ethnicity. She contrasts the ethnic subject –who is disciplined to either properly behave 82 according to an essentialized identity or refuse the identity and be deemed an inauthentic traitor—with the white subject who, in sympathizing or identifying with nonwhite culture, never becomes less white (107-17).  Following these critics, I agree that identifying the marking of privilege is not enough, but argue that it is nevertheless necessary in order that it become more possible to seek to understand how the privilege is constructed, maintained and possibly hidden from those who hold it. Ahmed closes by saying that critiques of whiteness involve staying implicated in the critique and turning towards responsibilities of histories of racism, which remain part of the present  (n.pag.). So while I employ critical whiteness studies theory to recognize the construction of Vancouver, I also do so in the effort to shoulder responsibility for the present that resulted from these histories of racism. The city archives have often been uncritically employed by historians; therefore, an analysis of the archives as a performance of whiteness will bring to light the present of this history. In such a public, iconic (and in many ways continuing) site of colonial whiteness as Stanley Park, the implications of its use to construct this identity may be able to deeply unsettle assumptions of city dwellers and newcomers.  Ahmed engages in a consideration of what she terms “the worldliness of whiteness” in “A Phenomenology of Whiteness” (2007) and in Queer Phenomenology: Orientation, Objects, Others (2006).  While neither is specifically about performance, her focus on the body in space is nevertheless instructive. Following Bourdieu and Merleau-Ponty, she asserts that whiteness holds its place through habits (bodily and spatial forms of inheritance), and that “spaces acquire the shape of the bodies that ‘inhabit’ them” (2007 156). This ongoing and unfinished inhabitation “orientates bodies in specific directions, affecting how they ‘take up’ space” (2007 150). She discusses the recruitment of new white subjects through hailing, bringing in new bodies to 83 cohere as a group (2006 132-33). Matthews’ archival and publishing activities as well as the reenactments and monuments he established are all forms of hailing and recruitment to the unstable institution (or body) of Vancouver whiteness.  Ahmed cites Fanon’s assertion that bodies are shaped by histories of colonialism that make the world “white” and “‘ready’ for certain kinds of bodies…[with] certain objects within their reach” (2007 152-53). She contends that white bodies go unnoticed in white spaces and have an extended reach, and that space then takes shape by “being oriented around some bodies, more than others.” She gives an example of the way black bodies are noticed entering a white institutional space – and the way that white bodies’ entrances are unremarkable – creating a need for non-white bodies to attempt to take on characteristics of whiteness in order to inhabit white space (2007 156-58). The ease with which, Ahmed asserts, white bodies inhabit and move through white spaces is interesting to connect with discussion in Indigenous studies about movement.  One of the methods of colonization was to make spaces that Indigenous people could not move through by creating private property and marking reserves as the only space for authentic Indigeneity. This right to move through public space is very much in line with Ahmed’s assertions about comfort and discomfort: “To be not white is to be not extended by the spaces you inhabit. This is an uncomfortable feeling. Comfort is a feeling that tends not to be consciously felt” (2007 163). Ahmed asserts that white space can be created through the privilege assumed through the right to movement and this is particularly significant in a place that is considered to be for the recreational use and enjoyment of the public. So while Ahmed has reservations about the non-performative anti-racist possibilities of the mere recognition of 84 whiteness, she also has created a formulation that is helpful in seeing how white bodies, holding their inheritances of privilege, create spaces of comfort and enjoy an ease of movement.  It is also useful to consider how Ahmed, in Queer Phenomenology, takes from Derrida’s assertion that archives are homes around which worlds gather, as dwellings which mark the passage from private to public, and therefore asserts, if “archives allow documents to dwell, then they, too, are orientation devices, which in gathering things around are not neutral but directive” (118, emphasis added). Ahmed discusses orienting in terms of the phenomenology of space, saying that it is the practice of finding one’s way and differentiating between ways of doing so. Orienting toward something (facing it), she argues, is “determined by our location.” That which one is oriented towards is “not me” and allows one to do things with this other thing, extending the body’s reach (2006 113-15). She discusses orienting around something as being taken up and constituting ourselves at the centre of it and becoming the same as that which surrounds us (115-16).   The field of critical whiteness studies has been productive, particularly in the context of the United States and Britain, and while both these nations have been influential in the formation of Canadian (and specifically British Columbian/Vancouver) constructions of whiteness, they are not necessarily transferable because of the historical-geographic specificities. A brief overview of keywords and concepts discussed with regards to representation through film, visual arts and performance will lead me to a focus for this discussion. In White (1997), Richard Dyer describes whiteness as a construction that draws on imperialism, Christianity, enterprise, heterosexuality, and conceptions of race to create common identity in European settlers. He asserts that this identity is unstable and aspirational, one that has moved from local and particular to universal, a “subject without properties” that exists through dis-embodiedness. Mary Brewer’s Staging 85 Whiteness (2005) identifies systematized racism as developing in the context of capitalism and the slave trade. She suggests that disparities between capitalism and democratic ideals as well as Victorian morality created a permeable unstable whiteness. In the context of the construction of whiteness in the United States she explains that immigration to populate Indigenous lands linked whiteness to control of property. Margot Francis in Creative Subversions: Whiteness, Indigeneity and the National Imaginary (2011) focuses on the gendered nature of the Canadian colonial legacy (and the ambivalent symbol of the beaver), the Canadian Pacific Railroad (CPR) as an essential technology for extension of colonial rule and the creation of wilderness parks as another method of enclosure. She also identifies the spectral hauntings of Indigeneity in each of these symbols, which she argues are essential to a Canadian identity of whiteness.  In The Resettlement of British Columbia (1996), Cole Harris explains the creation of the Lower Mainland’s white culture by the influx of immigrants during European settlement who had to make their lives anew without a local past. A strategy for creating belonging was to focus on race as an organizing category weakening class divisions. He also asserts that usually unremarked details became symbols of difference, and the dominance of British immigrants created an expatriate identity in BC through which the racialized European colonial discourse of the late nineteenth century was superimposed on the uncertainties of an emerging immigrant society, resulting in race becoming an overriding symbol (102; 272-73). Renisa Mawani supports Harris’ assertion of British dominance. In “Genealogies of the Land: Aboriginality, Law, and Territory in Vancouver’s Stanley Park,” she comments on the colonial categories of European-ness, explaining that the Portuguese fishers who at Brockton Point married Indigenous women were not seen as European or Native. She attributes their status in between colonial categories partly 86 to their life choices but also to their lower status on the racialized hierarchy of whiteness as Southern Europeans (328).  Throughout this dissertation, geo-historical specificities, performance and place are deeply entangled. As a way to understand how this tangle has been created I undertake an exploration of the tension around white colonial identity as a “subject without property” which allows a universalizing world view permitting colonial actions, and the subsequent deep need for the creation and ownership of property in the colonial project. I employ Ahmed’s terminology of orienting toward as part of the way that Matthews configured Indigeneity in order to construct whiteness, and orienting around as the way that reiterative maintenance of white space of the park through performance is used to centre white identity. The reenactments, archival documents, publications and monument will also be discussed in terms of attempting to create habits which can then be passed on to descendants through inheritance and to newcomers through recruitment.  I will now move on to a discussion of Matthews’ work in the creation of the dwelling place of the archives in the 1930s.   3.2 Archives and Conversations: “It would be more in keeping…”  Jean Barman, who has written extensively about BC history, notes in the foreword to Sleigh’s book that “those of us who write about the history of Vancouver walk in Major Matthews’ shadow,” and her books The Remarkable Adventures of Portuguese Joe Silvey and Stanley Park’s Secret draw extensively on his collections (xi-xii). She also states that the unique nature of the City of Vancouver Archives based on Matthews’ work makes “available virtually the entirety of the city’s past” (xi). I would emphasize the word virtually in this statement. While there is a range of documentation in the archive, it cannot come close to encapsulating the city’s 87 past. It is also imperative that we interrogate the nature of Matthews’ shadow, and how our eyes may have adjusted to the limited amount of light.    Matthews founded the City of Vancouver Archives in the spring of 1931 after a successful appeal to city council (Sleigh 104-05).  It was first housed in the library annex adjacent to the Carnegie Centre, then moved to the ninth floor of the new city hall built in 1936 (the 50th anniversary of the city’s incorporation), staying there until 1959 (137). The collection was then housed in the Vancouver Public Library where it stayed until two years after Matthews’ death in 1970. He forced the construction of an archival building (the first purpose-built one in Canada) through the conditions of his will. He bequeathed his extensive personal collection of documents and artifacts not to the city, but instead to the province, and further, “decreed that unless suitable accommodation for the collection was created within the space of one year, his material would be put up for sale” (Sleigh 197).  Construction started by the end of 1971 and the present dwelling place of the archives, the Major Matthews Building, opened on 29 December 1972 in Vanier Park38 adjacent to the Vancouver Museum, built as part of the Canadian centennial celebrations (Sleigh 204-05). Matthews has been celebrated for his visionary push to create an archive for the city of Vancouver more than two decades before any other Canadian city (Barman ix). I would suggest, however, that this emphasis on an archive for the city is tied to the unstable nature of the European settlement on unceded land and the discomfort of “living without a local past,” which drove not only Matthews but also the subsequent city councils that supported his work.                                                  38 Colonial place names of the area have been formerly Kitsilano Park and the Squamish Indian Reserve. The village is known as səaʔqʷ in həəmiə and Sen’ákw in Skwxwú7mesh (Roy 2011 87). Matthews refers to it as Snauq in his archival records. As multiple groups used this place, unless I am directly citing Matthews, I will refer to it as	  səaqʷ/ Sen’ákw.	  88 The nature of the archive and its relationship to the past, present and future as well as the ways it intervenes and interacts with performance have been a part of the discourse in performance studies and more broadly for some time (Phelan 1993; Roach 1996; Derrida 1996; Taylor 2003; Schneider 2011). There has also been much discussion of the archives as a method of colonial governance (Thomas 1993; Stoller 2002; Mawani 2004) so the knowledge that Matthews was a British immigrant who controlled the city archives is not much of a revelation. What is useful, however, for this examination of how performance has been used to create and maintain land as a white space are the ways that Matthews intervened in the archive and in public life with his manipulation of official records and publications. He was quite prolific – writing numerous books and compiling seven volumes and over 3,300 single-spaced typed pages of interviews with early settlers (“About the Early Vancouver Project”). He also published two books on Stanley Park’s naming, opening, dedication and rededication events (1959; 1964), produced numerous archival documents, including two copies of a sixty-two page album of the 1943 rededication event (one which is held in the city archives and another which was sent to Lord Stanley’s son in England), and funded, designed and placed a monument depicting an impression of Lord Stanley’s pose and words of dedication in 1889. His focus on the moment of dedication of the land in which its status changed in the colonial imaginary from a federal military reserve to parkland, and his belief that this needed to be reiterated through reenactment, text and sculpture, as well as his status as the archivist make for a compelling case study as to the nature of the colonist’s archive, the unstable nature of settler property assertions and the construction of whiteness in Vancouver through the performance of Matthews’ archival impulses. This study also responds to Adele Perry’s call in On the Edge of Empire: Gender, Race, and the Making of British Columbia, 1849-1871 (2001) that “the historical processes by 89 which whiteness was constituted and empowered can and must be excavated,” and her assertion that the limited whiteness that was achieved “was accomplished through human action and history rather than destiny” (197, 201). I now turn to an event reported in Matthews’ Conversations with Khahtsahlano 1932-1954. Matthews made five copies of this book of over five hundred pages, depositing one in Ottawa at the National Archives, one in Victoria at the provincial archives and keeping the last three in Vancouver.39 Matthews accompanied the manuscript with a letter to Dominion Archivist Dr. William K Lamb, explaining the dependability of Khahtsahlano, his status as a “living link” to the “Stone Age.”40 He closes his letter to Lamb with a statement that the records “are not copyright but are my possessions. Nothing to do with City Archives.” This final statement is an indication of the ongoing dispute over the ownership of the collection that Matthews waged with the City of Vancouver. The conversations are dated as starting in 1932, shortly after Matthews took up his position as archivist. He began at this point to document conversations with any of the surviving settlers who had been in the area before the fire of 1886 (Early Vancouver Vol. 1 2). His book of conversations with Khahtsahlano is a compilation taken from his seven-volume work on Early Vancouver, which he completed in 1951. In 1938, Matthews helped Khahtsahlano officially change his name from August Jack to August Jack Khahtsahlano. Six years later, on May 8, 1944, Khahtsahlano approached Matthews, likely in his office on the ninth floor of city                                                 39	  The complete scanned text of over five hundred pages is also now available for download at This is the text I use and all the page numbers refer to the ones inserted at the bottom of the pages, not the ones on the top right.  40	  Although he never explains how he and August Jack Khahtsahlano developed a relationship, it may have had its genesis in 1911 when Matthews was one of the first settlers to build a home at Kitsilano Point, which had only recently been cleared for development (Sleigh 52). His new home was less than a ten-minute walk from where Khahtsahlano lived at what he called Snauq, also known as səәaʔqʷ/ Sen’ákw until 1913 when families were illegally removed and their homes burnt to the ground (Roy 2011 87-93).	  90 hall, with a request. The following is Matthews’ rendition of the conversation, given under the title, “Place of Birth Chaythoos, not Snauq”:  August came carrying with him his framed copy of his declaration of, I think 1938, anyway before the ‘Change of Names Act’ came into force, in which he renounces the name of August Jack and assumes for himself and his descendants the name of August Jack Khahtsahlano, which name was formally sworn to under oath before a notary public, and lodged with the Vital Statistics branch Victoria. It states that he declares that he was born at Snauq, an Indian Village at the False Creek Indian Reserve. He now wishes to retract this, as he says, ‘everybody tells me I was born at Chaythoos’, Stanley Park, (an Indian clearing where his father lived, also known as ‘Supplejack’s [sic]41 Grave’; where Lord Stanley dedicated the park). I explained to August that he had sworn to a place of birth under oath, and it would take another oath to alter that, and that copies would have to be lodged at the record office in Victoria, and that our frame would have to be undone and fixed up again, and that I was not pleased with the prospect of proving that a man who was, in fact if not in name, Chief Kitsilano, was born in Stanley Park; it would be more in keeping if he was born in Kitsilano. Whether August caught the point or not I do not know, but finally he said ‘too much bother’. He decided not to have any change made. (146)                                                  41	  Matthews consistently uses “Supplejack” as the spelling of Khahsahlano’s father’s name. Since Khahtsahlano was known as August Jack before this official name change, it seems that Jack was considered the family’s surname in colonial terms. I will therefore use the spelling Supple Jack instead. 	  91 There are many things here to which I would like to draw attention. First, the oath (or speech act) on which the certificate is based, which Matthews says would take another oath to undo. This highlights the dependence of the official record on a (possibly) unstable speech act. Matthews also discourages Khahtsahlano by saying that they would have to re-frame the certificate, which strikes me as a minor concern for someone who values historical records. Also of note is Matthews’ reasoning regarding the name of the neighbourhood and Khahtsahlano’s birthplace. This shows his willingness to manipulate in order to better narrate or design a (tidier) history of the city. Having his birthplace in Stanley Park would then make apparent the settler work in deciding the name of Kitsilano.42 Reinserting Khahtsahlano’s birth into the place legitimates the settler use of the Indigenous name.   Matthews’ collection and creation of the archives and their dwelling are aptly described by Ahmed’s phenomenological orientation of around, which allows a holding of the centre and constitution of oneself at and as that centre. The example of Matthews discouraging the correction of Khahtsahlano’s birthplace in the official documents is one of the ways of structuring the dwelling place through exclusion of inconvenient details. It is also remarkable that Matthews includes this conversation in his official record kept at three different archival institutions, perhaps giving a clue to either his ambivalence about the project or his position of arrogance. In the next section, I will briefly depart from sources generated by Matthews in order to afterwards contrast his accounts of the 1888 and 1889 events with those of contemporary newspapers, exposing his further intervention in the narrative of the city of Vancouver’s history.                                                 42	  The process of the naming is described by Charles Hill-Tout in a letter to Matthews dated 8 May 1931. After the CPR released the land for settlement about 1910, they requested that it be renamed from Greer’s Beach (after a man who had “erected a dwelling there”). CPR personnel asked the postmaster for a suggestion, who then asked Hill-Tout, who suggested “Kates-ee-lan-ogh”, and modified it by taking off the final “gutteral” sound (Matthews 2011 Vol.1 21).	  92 3.3 The Naming, Opening and “Dedication” of Stanley Park (1888-89)  The creation of Stanley Park as the first resolution by the newly formed Vancouver City Council in 1886 has been well documented by Barman, Kheraj, and numerous others less aware of the entangled connections among European settlers, emparkment, property preemption, and the transcontinental railroad. This section chronicles what was documented through newspaper accounts and documents (produced by people other than Matthews) and then suggests a chronology for Matthews’ developing narrative of the events.  On 27 September 1888, Mayor Oppenheimer and other city officials including the newly appointed Parks Commissioners went by procession to a place described as "an open space [that] has been cleared at the top of the bluff" ("The Opening of the Park") and also as “the grassy spot where Supple Jack's grave used to be" ("Stanley Park"). Once there, Oppenheimer spoke about the clear need for a park near the city for citizens to “spend some time amid the beauties of nature away from the busy haunts of men” and how the honour of naming the park was given to one of the directors of the C.P.R. in order that they “should feel that their efforts to promote the general welfare are appreciated.” That director, Donald Smith (afterwards Lord Strathcona), declined the honour and instead asked Lord Stanley to do the naming. Oppenheimer announced the name of the park and then they raised the Union Jack, played the national anthem and gave three cheers for the Queen. Oppenheimer then handed a copy of the by-law creating the position of Park Commissioner to Alderman Alexander. Letters between Oppenheimer, Smith and Stanley regarding the naming were read as well as letters of regret from those officials who could not attend. Officials and mayors of other municipalities spoke and then they set off “day fireworks” which exploded and let out inflated forms of men, animals and other things. People stayed to picnic and in the evening the mayor hosted a ball (ibid). I would like to make special 93 note of the reading of the letters aloud, the handing of a paper copy of the bylaw and the emphasis on the narrative of the naming that are all included in this ceremony, which aims to change the status of the land. Perhaps these elements were all ways to further validate the performative act of opening and naming the park through archivable text.  This is the extent of the ceremony in which the name was announced and the place “opened” as a park. In the following year, the man who named the park made a visit to the city as part of his cross-country tour on the recently completed Canadian Pacific Railroad.   From the 26th to 31st of October 1889, the Vancouver News-Advertiser as well as the Weekly World chronicled Governor General Lord Stanley’s visit.  He was welcomed as his train proceeded through the decorated streets, the schoolchildren of the city singing a song as he arrived at the Hotel Vancouver. Mayor Oppenheimer then read from an illuminated scroll an address about hopes for Vancouver as the CPR and steamships to the Orient would aid in developing a commercial relationship with China and Japan as markets for Canadian manufacturing, drawing together the Empire through commercial ties.  He expressed hope that the "Dominion of Canada will form the central position in a great route for travel and trade between the Mother Country and the Greater Britain in the Southern seas" ("Lord Stanley's Arrival at the Terminal City"). Oppenheimer also invited Stanley to visit "that noble tract of forest which granted by your Government for the benefit of our people, you were pleased to consent should be called after your illustrious name and to view the proportions of this noble gift to the people of this city for their use and enjoyment for all time to come" (ibid, italics added). Stanley then is recorded as replying with thanks, and commenting on a banner he has noticed which reads, "The welcome of a happy people without a grievance," that he hopes that the people will never have a grievance. He also suggests that the schoolchildren should have a holiday on 94 Monday so that they remember his visit (ibid).  Events during his six day visit included a steamship excursion up the north arm of the inlet, a fireworks display, illuminations of the city at night, a visit with the “Mission Indians” on the north shore, as well as a ball and a levee.  On October 29th city officials took Stanley first to visit Hastings Mill and then on a drive around the park in carriages. They stopped “at the site of the cairn.” According to the writer in the World, “owing to the inclemency of the weather the ceremony was much curtailed.” There is no mention of Stanley’s making a speech or a dedication of any sort. The article also contains a reprint of the Mayor’s address, “accepted by” Stanley, about the construction of a cairn as a memorial of the visit. He explains it was chosen so "citizens of all classes can participate in its erection" and will consist of flowers, plants and "specimens of British Columbia's minerals." Oppenheimer also makes the point that the "samples of the stones before you -- galena ore and red hematite -- are intended to represent the mineral wealth of our Province."43 Oppenheimer laid the foundation stone of the cairn, and then “the Dominion ensign was floated to the breeze and the proceedings came to a close" (“Today’s Events”).44 Erecting a monument to Stanley built out of mineral resources of the province could be considered a miniature pre-enactment of the taking of resources for the benefit of the Empire, and a symbol of a colonial / capitalist project around which settlers could constitute an identity.  The Weekly World also published a detailed article outlining the plans for the Stanley Cairn: it was to be a circular construction of stones and minerals from around the province, three tiers high, with a forty-five foot flagstaff on top, ledges for vases, and a tablet recording the event                                                 43	  Red hematite was used for the production of iron and steel and, as Oppenheimer explained in his 1889 book, The Mineral Resources of British Columbia: Practical Hints for Capitalists and Intending Settlers, processed galena ore from the Kootenay District yielded silver and lead (“A Novel Piece of Mine Engineering”; Oppenheimer 23).   44	  The article is titled “Today’s Events” and is printed in the 31 October 1889 version of the Weekly World, but it is clear from the Vancouver Daily-News Advertiser that the events described occurred on Tuesday, 29 October 1889. 	  95 on the front (“The Stanley Cairn”). This report is similar to the one published in the Vancouver Daily News-Advertiser on 30 October 1889, which also states that Lord and Lady Stanley helped lay stones for the foundation of the cairn (“Around the Park”). These articles are very specific in details and plans for the cairn yet none of the pioneer memories recorded by Matthews mentions it. None of these articles are quoted by Matthews in his 1959 and 1964 books on the 1889 dedication – except to say that “it rained a little in the morning; a passing shower” (25, 25). It seems odd that Matthews had access to the papers from 1888 and reprinted the texts from them, yet did not use the papers from 1889. I will now trace a timeline of Matthews’ efforts to document the process of the naming, opening and what he terms the “dedication” of the park as taken from his archival files and publications.  In 1937, Matthews drops in unannounced on Frank Harris, caretaker of the city water works for fifty-five years, and father of a young man killed in World War One who had served under Matthews. The conversation takes place at Harris’ cottage near the water system pipes at the end of Pipeline Road in Stanley Park. Matthews asks him if he had been present at the 1888 opening and 1889 dedication by Lord Stanley. He records Harris’ reply with his own parenthetical comment: “He stood outside there, just where the curve is; he waved his arms a bit (Mr. Harris extended his arms as though embracing the whole park between them) and dedicated it; said a few words; that was all” (Early Vancouver Vol. 4 202-03). This is the first source Matthews finds that indicates that Stanley gestured and said a few words. According to the records in his archive, Matthews then works with this gesture, and through kinesthetic imagination and displaced transmission eventually creates a dedication ceremony. Also consider that the gesture, which Matthews interpreted as embracing the park, could have been one 96 intended to embrace all of British Columbia and its resources. This would have been more responsive to Oppenheimer’s address and the symbol of the cairn.  In 1940, Matthews compiles an album about Dr. J.L. Telford, who served as Vancouver’s mayor from 1939-40. In it is a copy of a letter Telford writes on 2 October 1939 to the Earl of Derby (Lord Stanley’s son). It is an emotional letter written on the outbreak of World War Two, a few weeks before the fiftieth anniversary celebrations of the “dedication” of Stanley Park. Telford describes the park as “one thousand acres of primeval forest, interspersed with patches of smooth green sward; sea girt with sandy beaches where tens of thousands gambol on a summer’s day,” and says he wishes he could magically transport Lord and Lady Derby to stand upon the same old Indian clearing above the rushing waters of our First Narrows on which your noble father, the Governor-General, stood, and, throwing his arms into the air as though embracing the whole expanse of towering forest before him, besought the Almighty to bless our great park to the use and pleasure of future generations of all colors, creeds and customs. (“Mayor Telford”) This is the first reference in the archive that attributes this utterance to Lord Stanley, and it is worth detailing a little about Telford here. Before serving as Vancouver’s mayor, he had been the Vancouver East Co-operative Commonwealth Federation (CCF) member of the provincial legislature from 1937 to 1939 (Electoral History of British Columbia). He was a charismatic personality known throughout the province for his “spell-binding oratory” and as “the voice of the CCF.” He published a socialist newspaper, The Challenge, from 1931-33 and hosted a popular radio broadcast. Robert J. McDonald argues that his role should not be overlooked in the popularization of electoral socialism in BC in the 1930s (92-3, 100).  Some of Telford’s own values seem to be imbued in the statement attributed to Stanley, as he demonstrated later during 97 his term as mayor, which coincided with the internship of the Japanese. Patricia Roy in The Oriental Question: Consolidating a White Man's Province, 1914-41 reports Mayor Telford’s repeated efforts to quell general anxiety about the Japanese. Telford suggests that authorities should register all men between 16 and 60 (not just those of Japanese heritage) and only “investigate and intern Japanese who threatened Canada’s war effort or safety” (221, 225). Although Matthews repeatedly asked early settlers for their memories of the day of Stanley’s visit in 1889, none of them recalled Stanley’s words in the park, and none of the newspapers of the day reported his making a speech. This letter, by a socialist mayor in the context of the rise of fascism in Europe and anti-Japanese sentiment in BC, is the first place recorded in the archives that Stanley is reported as making his generous dedication to people of all colors, creeds and customs.  Four years later, on 4 August 1943, while Matthews was preparing for the first of the “rededication” ceremonies, Frank Plante came into his office stating that he drove Lord Stanley and Mayor Oppenheimer to the dedication in “the only two-horse hack in town.” He describes their clothes, the weather (“raining a little that day”), the use of a bottle of wine to christen Stanley Park, and claims Lord Stanley made a speech, as did the Mayor. He says that the ceremony lasted half an hour and that he was a few yards away as he had pulled the carriage out of the way. He does not mention the laying of any stones for a cairn. He says he had his photo taken that day and allows Matthews to copy it for the archives (Early Vancouver Vol. 6 119-20). Matthews reproduced the 1889 photo of Plante and added text which described the ceremony as happening beside Supple Jack’s mausoleum45 and attributed the words  “to the use and enjoyment for all peoples for all time” to Lord Stanley (Early Vancouver Vol. 6 123). Despite                                                 45	  I discuss this placement of an Indigenous grave at the time and place of the ceremony below. 	  98 two subsequent conversations in the next few days that contradict Plante’s claim to have driven the carriage, Matthews has Plante reenact his driving in the rededication at the end of the month, and publishes his story in his book on the 1888-89 ceremonies (1959, 1964).46  During the 1943 rededication ceremony (discussed below) and again in 1951, during a luncheon at the Stanley Park Pavilion hosting Lord Stanley’s great grandson, the Earl of Derby (during which another reeanactment of the ceremony took place with Matthews acting as Oppenheimer presenting a scroll to Derby), Matthews uses the phrase “of all creeds, colors and customs” as part of the dedication (Early Vancouver Vol 7 123-24). Following the documents preserved in the archive, Matthews constructed his reenactments, publications and the monument of Lord Stanley from these four sources: the original welcome in 1889 by Oppenheimer to Stanley that mentions the park as being for the “use and enjoyment for all time to come”; the 1937 report of an arm gesture from the man supervising the waterworks; the 1939 letter from Telford to Derby that includes the phrase “the use and pleasure of future generations of all colors, creeds and customs”; and the 1943 description by the driver of the “two-horse hack” of wine christening the ground and speeches being made. It is important to note that Matthews put more value on the memories of the settlers than on the newspaper accounts. His innovative use of sources other than newspaper texts should not be discounted, yet I assert that because his work is received as history coming from the authority of an archive, it needs to be explicitly acknowledged. In considering the creation of history using oral testimony, I would also like to be                                                 46 On 17 August 1943 Matthews has a phone conversation with a former police officer, Dan Leatherman, who says that there is something wrong with Plante’s story; he says instead that the carriage was drawn by four white horses (“Stanley Park Dedication 1889”). On 19 August, Hugh Campbell arrives in Matthews’ office also contradicting Plante’s story. He was a member of the fire brigade that acted as the honor guard that day and also says that Stanley did not go out in a two-horse hack, but in a carriage drawn by four white horses (Early Vancouver Vol. 6 124). Years later in 1949, after the first reenactment in 1943 but before his work on the publications, Matthews hears from another man, James Martin, who describes watching the procession going by with four horses pulling Stanley’s carriage, and claims there were somewhere between twelve and twenty buggies (Early Vancouver Vol. 7 298). 99 careful not to equate the conversations that Matthews has with settlers about their memories decades after events with Indigenous methods of oral history, which are given in the context of social infrastructures (ceremonies, witnessing, and the training of people in orature) that support the transmission of specific stories.   Other historians have used Matthews’ construction of the event to describe the origins of the park. Barman briefly refers to the 1888 and 1889 ceremonies in her account of the imposition of the park in Stanley Park’s Secret. As sources for the details of the event in 1888 she uses the same newspaper accounts that Matthews publishes in his book, Naming, Opening and Dedication of Stanley Park, from the Vancouver Daily News Advertiser 27 September 1888. As a source for the 1889 event she uses a document Matthews wrote in 1958 that chronicles the events of the incorporation and dedication of the park, in which he records Stanley speaking the “historic words.” She also uses the 1939 letter from Telford to Derby but does not realize that Telford is not quoting another source when he writes the words Stanley speaks (Barman 2005 93, 267 footnotes 17 and 18). Kheraj also quotes the phrase, commenting on its inscription on the statue at the entrance to the park, saying that it “captured one aspect of the meaning of public space—it explained who could use the park, but it did not define how it could be used or who should govern its use” (63). Kheraj uses Matthews’ 1959 book on the event and the monument itself as his sources (218 footnote 22). Renisa Mawani, in her article on law, space and the making of Stanley Park, conflates the 1888 opening with Lord Stanley’s visit but does not discuss his utterance, mainly focusing on the choice of Supple Jack’s grave as the site of the ceremony (2005 109-10). Using Matthews’ topical file on “Supple-Jack-Khaytulk,” she discusses the event as if the grave were present during the ceremony (135 footnote 15, 16). Using these comparisons of the newspaper accounts of the events of 1888-89 with Matthews’ archival 100 records and published works, I assert that he constructed through displaced transmission what has become known as the 1889 park dedication ceremony featuring Lord Stanley. His efforts scripted a strong narrative, imbuing both the name and the place of the park with a British white identity, creating a space around which an unstable immigrant society could gather and connect over a local history. Once the narrative was established, he then moved on to further publications, reenactments and a monument to create a habitual inheritance of whiteness.  3.4 1943 Reenactment of Dedication (Around) On 25 August 1943, the Parks Board, advised by Matthews, sponsored a “Rededication of Stanley Park” at Lumberman’s Arch (“1889 Pageant Plans for Stanley Park”; “Foresight of Pioneers Wins Public Thanks”). The event was attended by over 15,000 people and was broadcast live on CKWX radio.47 The archival file detailing the planning for the event includes four pages of names Matthews submitted to be invited to the luncheon held at the Stanley Park Pavilion to honour the “pioneers,” annotated to explain their genealogy and roles in early Vancouver (“Stanley Park – Rededication, 1943”). Minutes from a planning meeting on 11 August indicate the “characters” that may be speaking and what stories they may tell. These include Maisie Armytage-Moore, identified as having “built up a sympathy and understanding for the Squamish tribe of the BC Indians,”48 as well as August Jack Khahtsahlano with an explanation of his stories of a potlatch, the road being built through his house and his naming ceremony. His name is translated here as meaning “Man of the Lake, Lord of the Isles” and he is                                                 47	  The population of the city was approximately 275,000 at the time. The audience of 15,000 was 5.5% of the city – in terms of the 2011 census data, this would be the same as a contemporary audience of over 127,000 people (MacDonald 48; “Focus on Geography Series, 2011 Census”).	  48	  Although her name is included here, Armytage-Moore did not take part in the rededication according to accounts of the day. As she was one of the most politically active in her support for Indigenous people (working to represent them in courts, original publisher of the Native Voice and member of the Native Brotherhood of BC), this may be an indication that she did not support the celebration of the taking of this land. 	  101 described as a medicine man. Repeatedly throughout the minutes Matthews is identified as the one who will arrange and advise speakers and “instruct characters as to their duties.” Since there is no record of Lord Stanley’s speech, Matthews composed one, and included stage directions:   Your Worship, Ladies and Gentlemen: - On behalf of Lady Stanley and myself, I thank you most heartily for the warmth and cordiality of your welcome. We have almost with amazement, observed the splendid progress which your citizens have made since that awful day of fire three years ago, when all, save the bare black earth, of which you were left possessed, was your courage, vision and faith.  I am proud indeed, to accede to your request to dedicate this noble tract of forest as a park.  (takes the bottle of wine from his A.D.C. [aide de camp]) This seagirt expanse of primeval forest  (throwing his arms to the heavens as though embracing the whole one thousand acres) This seagirt expanse of forest; this marvel of natural beauty, which, since the dawn of time has stood, silent and still, awaiting this historic moment. I now solemnly dedicate to the use and enjoyment of peoples of all colors, creeds and customs for all time to come, and may the blessings of the Almighty rest upon those who here may come   (pouring wine on ground) I christen thee ‘STANLEY PARK.’ (“Stanley Park – Rededication, 1943”) An agenda for the ceremony is included which states that it will open at 3 pm with Fred Bass (hosting the CKWX radio show) describing the scene and crowds while the procession makes its 102 way to the Arch at which point the band plays “The Maple Leaf Forever.” The agenda then states that the master of ceremonies, R. Rowe Holland, chair of the Parks Commission, will describe the original scene, and the characters Mayor Oppenheimer and Lord Stanley will perform their speeches (see figures 3.1 and 3.2). After this there are a few events “tying in yesterday with today”: a choir singing “old time” songs, awards for best costume and conveyance, a song and dance by August Jack Khahtsahlano and his “accompanist” Matthias Joe, speeches by “old timers,” all ending with a modern song and a speech by the current acting mayor.  The timing of the event is curious – it was the height of World War Two, it was not a special anniversary and much of the perimeter of the park had been commandeered by the military for coastal defense, with installations of guns, searchlights and observation posts (Kheraj 166). I also wonder why there was a need to rededicate? Had something undone the first dedication? Besides the war, another major upheaval in the coastal communities and the city of Vancouver had been the internment of all people of Japanese heritage. On 16 December 1941, the Parks Board extinguished the light atop the Japanese World War I Memorial in Stanley Park (near Lumberman’s Arch where this event was held); it was not to be relit until 3 August 1985 (“Japanese Canadian Timeline”).  By 1943 the internment was complete and seized Japanese properties were being sold off, but as Patricia Roy has written, these actions were not without controversy. So perhaps this was an effort to reconnect with the British origins of the founding of the park (at a time when the mother country was under assault) and also to unify a white identity after the turmoil of the Depression in the 1930s and at a time of great anxiety about the war. One newspaper account aligns with this connection, recounting Park Board Chair Holland’s speech to the pioneers, saying that “it was worthy of comment that in the midst of world turmoil Vancouver was taking time to honor its pioneers. ‘It is the pioneer spirit that has made Canada 103 what it is,’ Mr. Holland declared. ‘It is responsible for the courage and resistance being made by our soldiers on the battlefields today’” (“Foresight of Pioneers Wins Public Thanks.” 13).  Matthews took pains to find as many genealogical connections to the original event as possible. He invited Stanley’s son, who was unable to come due to “ill health,” so instead English-Canadian actor E.V. Young played his part.49 Mayor Oppenheimer was played by his grand-nephew, David Oppenheimer. The nephew of the first city clerk played the City Clerk who carried the copy of the illuminated scroll. The “old timers” represented themselves, including Frank Plante, whom Matthews identifies in his album and subsequent publications as the man who drove Lord Stanley’s carriage in 1889. The reenactment is based on Plante’s story of the christening with a bottle of wine and Harris’ story of the raised arms and includes some of the words Mayor Telford wrote to Derby in 1939.  Matthews also identifies Plante as the “first white baby born in here” (see figure 3.3), and in both of his publications on the original events as the “first baby of European parentage born on Burrard Inlet” (Matthews 1959, 1964 42). However, a note dated 17 August 1943 details Plante’s genealogy, in particular that his mother was the daughter of Kha-my, whose father was Chief Khat-sah-lanough. Her brother was Khay-tulk (or Supplejack [sic]). Matthews concludes, saying that August Jack was present while he read this genealogy to Plante, and that they were the “white great-grandson and Indian grandson of Chief Khahtsahlano” (Early Vancouver Vol. 6 123). Plante is quoted as saying that “he knew his grandmother was Squamish Indian, but added,                                                 49 Ernest Vanderpoel Young (1878-1955) was an engineer and actor from London, living in Vancouver since 1911. He helped form the Vancouver Little Theatre Association, and worked on radio as well. He was the chair of dramatic entertainment during the city’s Golden Jubilee festivities in 1936, staging A Midsummer Night’s Dream and an operatic Hiawatha, each performed with two casts – one for voice and the other for performance – outdoors at Brockton Oval. By 1940 he had founded Theatre Under the Stars, and worked as a director and actor in many of the productions staged in the summers at Malkin Bowl (Sutherland 4-24). 	  104 ‘[t]hat was not my fault. I had nothing to do with it’” (123). This exchange transcribed by Matthews is an example of the construction of whiteness through genealogical choices and the instability of the identity. Genealogy itself, Ahmed suggests, “could be understood as a straightening device, which creates the illusion of descent as a line” (2006 122). Matthews’ documentation of Plante and Khahtsahlano’s heritage and his further aid in the construction of Plante’s identity through his photo captions in his archival documentation, the 1943 reenactment and his publications demonstrate Ahmed’s process of genealogical white straightening.   The 1943 event was documented through photographs (and possibly on radio but I have not been able to find a recording of the event). Matthews then made two albums of these – keeping one for the archives and sending one to the Earl of Derby (Stanley’s son). The 62-page album features historical photographs (including one of Chaythoos discussed below) and a few contemporary images with captions by Matthews as well as portraits of people in costume and pictures from the rededication procession and ceremony (“Rededication, Stanley Park, 1943”).  Seven of the nineteen photos of the ceremony feature Khahtsahlano (see figure 3.4).  I will use these images of Khahtsahlano and Joe’s performance to engage with some concepts of performance and photography by Philip Auslander in “The Performativity of Performance Documentation.” He asserts that the only difference between theatrical and documentary modes of performance documentation is ideological: “the act of documenting an event as a performance is what constitutes it as such. Documentation does not simply generate image/statements that describe an autonomous performance and state that it occurred: it produces an event as a performance” (53, italics original). He clarifies that his discussion of performance art documentation “participates in fine art tradition of the reproduction of works rather than the ethnographic tradition of capturing events” and that the presence of the initial audience is of no 105 importance to our perception/analysis and “evaluation of its historical significance.” He says, however, that the decision to document shifts the assumption of responsibility from the initial audience to a subsequent one (55, italics original).   Despite his disavowal of discussing ethnographic documentation, I find this formulation productive in thinking about photographs of performances that have an unstable status – in particular those that result from the ethnographic tradition of capturing Indigenous performance. This is partly because Indigenous performances that have been documented by settlers cannot be simply categorized as either event or performance, but are unstable, and often “shift the assumption of responsibility” for interpretation to us as the present audience. The instability also allows us to be more aware of the aspirational and tenuous nature of the colonial project, or as Nic Blomley asserts in Unsettling the City: “Both dispossession and displacement were, and still are… immensely powerful but also, to the extent that they are enacted, are partial and incomplete….To that extent, displacement is open to contestation and remaking” (109); and, he asserts, relies on reiteration (50-1). The photos of August Jack Khahtsahlano dancing and Chief Matthias Joe singing and drumming could be categorized as archival and ethnographic but also, I suggest, may now be seen – by an audience which did not exist at the time they were taken – as evidence of two kinds of performance, both of a settler colonial attempt at emplacement (through the event organization and its documentation) and as an Indigenous assertion of place, or what I have termed grounded practice, in the context of that attempt.  An indication of the audience response at the time of Khahtsahlano’s involvement with the rededication ceremony can be gleaned from a newspaper report of the event. In an article titled, “Surveyors Came at Dawn: Corner Cut Off House For Stanley Park Road,” the Vancouver Sun reports Khahtsahlano telling the story of the park road workers chopping at the corner of his 106 family’s house. He ends it with these words: “They say: ‘You’ll have lots of money.’ That was more than 50 years ago and I’m still waiting for it.” The only commentary in the article says that his address “amused the audiences” (13). The same edition also features a large photo of Khahtsahlano and a man identified as William August (although it is Matthias Joe who performed with him that day).  The photo features Khahtsahlano drinking out of a mug, with a headband and feather on his head.  The man next to him wears a full feather headdress and both have horizontal stripes painted on their cheeks. The caption to the photo reads: “a touch of color is added by Chief Khahtsahlano (left) and his tom-tom beater, William August.” Despite the misguided reception of the audiences at the time, Khahtsahlano’s words, “I’m still waiting for it,” are an indication that he used the public forum to amplify his need for restitution.   I will conclude my discussion of the 1943 interaction by pausing to consider what songs Joe sang while Khahtsahlano danced. His decision to dance publicly (during this time of the ban on Indigenous ceremony and dancing) could be seen in terms of Taylor’s concepts of multiplication and simultaneity. Although this was clearly an event meant to celebrate the settlement of land by the British, there may have been Indigenous people present to receive the knowledge transmitted through the repertoire enacted by Khahtsahlano’s dance and Joe’s song. Although his performance was interpreted by one newspaper article as his re-enactment of  “the dance he did for Lord Stanley in 1889” (“Foresight of Pioneers Wins Public Thanks”), Matthews’ captions in the album demonstrate that Khahtsahlano had informed him of some of the significance of the dances – that they belonged to him, that men and women danced separately and that it was improper to copy them. Khahtsahlano and Joe’s actions can be interpreted as an intervention into the Indigenous-colonial relations of 1943 and/or a temporal 107 reach either to the past through his enactment of the dance or to the future as a method of knowledge transfer.   Correspondingly, Matthews and the Parks Board, in their attention to the genealogy of the en-actors (Oppenheimer, Plante, the clerk, and even Young through his English heritage), spatiality (as close to the site of the 1889 event as the crowds and military defenses would allow), text and objects (the scroll and the wine bottle) and gesture (arms raised to the heavens, to encompass the land or in victory), also were attempting to create a temporal drag from the past to the present. The reading aloud of letters from the first ceremony as well as the telegrams from Derby and Oppenheimer’s daughter and another one sent to Derby at the end of the re-enactment are temporal and spatial interventions.  Matthews’ archival documentation of the event casts both to the future and across space to England, ultimately working to create a space where white bodies are comfortable. The inclusion of Indigenous people is consistent with observations by Margery Fee and Lynette Russell that “Aboriginality and settler invader ‘whiteness’ in Canada and Australia have a parallel history, that these identities were produced in the same discursive struggle over identity, and rely on each other for meaning” (194). Khahtsahlano and Joe’s presence needs to be seen within Ahmed’s frame of white spaces creating comfort for white bodies, but also including non-white bodies – they are not invisible.  Perhaps in this case they are hypervisible in a place that was being re-marked as within white colonial power, being used as bodies which could be oriented towards by the officials and audience, creating whiteness. 3.5 Re/dedications by a Disappearing Mausoleum (Toward) I now move to the shifting and puzzling issue of what was present in the clearing at the time of the naming, opening and “dedication” ceremonies in 1888 and 1889. In an earlier 108 publication describing the site around χʷaχʷə and Klahowya Village,50 I described the statue of Lord Stanley as standing in a clearing that once held the grave of a Skwxwú7mesh man, citing Barman’s Secrets of Stanley Park (Couture 243). The text that I cite, however, Barman’s chapter on “The Imposition of Stanley Park” and the displacement of the families living there, does not say that the statue is located on the spot of the dedication, but that the cairn to commemorate the event ended up as a “one-ton statue of Lord Stanley” (Barman 93). My misreading may be an indication of my own willingness to employ the symbol of an Indigenous gravesite, but I also think it is based on a long-running ambivalence regarding the grave’s status that I will examine in this section. 51 In her chapter, Barman includes a block quote from Khahtsahlano explaining what happened to his family when the road surveyors cut off a corner of his family’s house (2005 92). This text is taken from Conversations with Khahtsahlano and cited as from two different conversations, one in 1934 (although it seems from my reading to be from 1938) and the other in 1944 (Matthews and Khahtsahlano 35; 145-46). Barman’s excerpt mentions Supple Jack’s grave but she does not include Khahtsahlano’s comment from the 1944 conversation that the family left the grave there for a long time. She also edits out Matthews’ parenthetical comment that “(It was beside this grave that the dedication of Stanley Park by Lord Stanley took place; the procession stopped there)” (Matthews and Khahtsahlano 35). She then states that as soon as Supple Jack’s family learned of the plans for the ceremony, they removed the gravesite, which she deems “an action that only confirmed to city fathers that they were now in control” (93).                                                 50	  A revised version of this publication makes up chapter four of this dissertation. 	  51	  I would also like to acknowledge the disturbing nature of settler and scholarly fixation on the graves and remains of Indigenous people (in general) and on August Jack Khahtsahlano’s father in particular. I am not intending to comment on the actual grave but instead on the use of it by Matthews. 	  109 She does not cite the source of this information although it is consistent with some other statements made to Matthews (see below). All of this in the context of her effort to re-place the presence of the families on Brockton Point at the time and comment on the disruption caused them by the civic ceremonies (ibid). It is clear from her citational choices that Barman is most interested in the story that the family removed the gravesite before the ceremony. There is reason, however, to attend to the multiple ways this story has been told rather than choose one narrative as the truth.  After the introductory letter by Matthews and a few pages of portraits and maps, Conversations with Khahtsahlano (1955) begins with a page of undated text that lays out a short biography of Khahtsahlano and his family, noting that he was born at Snauq and the significance of his father’s burial place:   Khaytulk, [chief Khahtsahlanogh’s] son, known to early pioneers as Supplejack [sic], also lived at Chaythoos; he died in 1877, and, with much ceremony, was buried there, lying in a small canoe, covered with red blankets, placed inside a primitive mausoleum, a small shack with windows, raised on posts…It was at this picturesque spot, beside Supplejack’s [sic] grave, that the civic procession of Lord Stanley, officials, and citizens, after formal progress through the city streets, halted for the speech-making at the formal dedication of Stanley Park in October 1889. (9, italics added)  In this one page introduction to Khahtsahlano, Matthews uses one-fifth of the page to assert the location of Supple Jack’s grave and the ceremony at the site. The status of Khahtsahlano’s father’s remains at the time of the naming and dedication ceremonies is something to which Matthews returns repeatedly over the years of his conversations with Khahtsahlano and others. In 110 addition to this assertion that the grave and remains were present during the naming, opening and dedication ceremonies, there are five more assertions of the grave’s status as present at the event in two conversations dated 1938 and 1944 (32-35,145-46).52  In the first conversation Matthews inserts both comments regarding the grave and ceremony. In the interaction in 1944, as they are discussing a painting of Chaythoos that Khahtsahlano has brought to Matthews, Khahtsahlano is quoted as stating, “they left the grave for a long time; until after Lord Stanley named the park. Then they took the coffin up to Squamish” (146). Matthews includes this painting, titled “Supplejack’s Grave,”[sic]  made by Khahtsahlano in 1944 at his request, with a caption that explains:  Khaytulk died here, and was buried with ceremony, in a small canoe within a mausoleum, our first,53 of wood on posts….Here, beside the tomb, on Oct. 1889, stood His Excellency Lord Stanley when he christened Stanley Park, and throwing his arms to the heavens, dedicated it to the use and enjoyment of peoples of all colours, creeds, and customs for all time...Khytulk’s body remained for some years, then removed by canoe to Brackendale and finally to Po-kwi-la-sun, and tomb destroyed. (136D, italics added) Matthews also includes a photo of the site with a caption: “Here beside Hay-tulk’s mausoleum, a canoe inside wooden tomb on posts, Mayor Oppenheimer opened park, Sept. 27, 1888; here Lord Stanley dedicated, Oct. 30, 1889” (24H) (see figure 3.5). His creation and captioning of the photo is undated. He also includes a sketch of Chaythoos made by Khahtsahlano “whilst sitting                                                 52	  These are the conversations that Barman cites. 	  53	  Matthews is clearly hailing white settlers when he uses the first person plural possessive here to refer to this Indigenous gravesite. It was certainly not a first for the Indigenous people of the area. 	  111 in my garden this evening” on 29 July 1937. Once again the ceremonies are located beside “Supplejack’s mausoleum”[sic] (136E).  These assertions are contradicted by other conversations. Two of them are with Khahtsahlano in July and August of 1932, in which he says that his father’s remains were “exhumed and taken to Squamish for reinternment” when the park road was put in (12). The next month Khahtsahlano again mentions his father’s grave but is less definite about when it was moved, saying “may be the time they were making the road, Stanley Park, they move him” (15).  In a conversation with Matthews in 1934, William Grafton, former city employee, clearly explains that the grave was moved. Grafton also comments that Supple Jack was “supposed to have been a ‘bad actor’, supposed to have shot a lot of men coming through the Narrows.”  (Matthews inserts a note that this is the clearing where the dedication ceremony took place, but does not connect it to the grave being present.) Matthews comments in parentheses that Grafton’s statement was “read to and assented to as accurate by A.J. Khaatsahlano (sic) May 31, 1934” (272). He also includes a conversation with Frank Harris in 1937 (who had lived in a cottage on Pipeline Road) saying that the remains were moved immediately after the Park Road was put in (276).  So if we follow a chronology, from 1932-37 Matthews has the information from Khahtsahlano as well as two other speakers that the remains have been moved by September 1888, when the road was completed (Kheraj 95).  However, in 1938 and 1944 the gravesite and remains are inserted into the place during the naming and dedication ceremonies. Only one of these statements is attributed clearly to Khahtsahlano. After 1959, none of Matthews’ writings or reenactments references the presence of the remains.  While it is impossible to know the status of the gravesite from the contradictory statements recorded (and the privacy of the family should be respected), analysis of the rhetorical 112 use of the concept of the grave is revealing. This fixation on the gravesite during the naming, opening and dedication ceremonies also demonstrates Ahmed’s toward, which determines the subject’s location (with Lord Stanley in the present) and the not-subject (the grave of the dead “Indian”) with which one can extend the reach of the newly arrived subject, creating a space that is not that (an Indigenous home) but instead a park for white people. In These Mysterious People: Shaping History and Archaeology in a Northwest Coast Community (2010)54 Susan Roy discusses Indigenous gravesites and cemetery relocations in the context of the Musqueam people and the əsnaʔəm village, which was used as an archeological site. She comments that for colonial society, the “passing of individual Native people in the early decades of the twentieth century represented the point of transition from ethnographic to historic, and from the supposed ‘anonymous’ to the ‘named’ Indian. In the narration of colonial history, the death of the ‘last’ Indian went hand in hand with the arrival of the ‘first’ white baby” (98). In this formulation, the placing of Supple Jack’s remains at this site of the opening of the park makes perfect sense, along with the statement that the driver of the carriage was the first white baby. Roy then goes on to explain that when Aboriginal people began to engage with modern land claims, burial sites were both “real and symbolic expressions of ancestral ties to their lands” (99). The chronology of Matthews’ placement of the grave during the ceremony and then his disappearance of it coincides with the repealing of the legislation in the Indian Act which made it illegal for Aboriginal people to hire legal counsel in 1951 (Hanson). Matthews’ narrative that included the                                                 54 For a book about the history of Vancouver there is a marked absence of Matthews’ archives as a source. Roy makes use of Matthews’ Conversations with Khahtsahlano only once. She suggests that Khatsahlanough’s comment that Musqueam have no claim to False Creek because the Squamish were the ones who built their houses there  “reveals how Aboriginal people have drawn on Western understandings of ownership in making their claims. Possibly August was responding in terms that would make sense to Matthews” (115).  	  	  113 remains of an Indigenous man witnessing the British lord’s dedication of the park no longer enabled whiteness but instead may have supported claims of Aboriginal title.  Joseph Roach asserts that European colonial projects included the spatial “segregation of the dead from the living” and that “modernity itself might be understood as a new way of handling (and thinking about) the dead” (48). This may be why Khahtsahlano insisted that his father’s remains had been moved, in order that his people be seen as behaving in modern ways. Renisa Mawani, in “Imperial Legacies (Post)Colonial Identities: Law, Space and the Making of Stanley Park, 1859-2001” (2003), suggests that Supple Jack’s grave (like the partial maps and laws of governing technology that attempt to create Stanley Park) was also a “simultaneous presence and absence” at the moment of dedication.  She asserts: [T]he celebrations that marked the opening of Stanley Park and brought together the city’s largely British elite, did not only inaugurate the birth of a Park but the birth of a ‘civilised’ imperial city – a little piece of empire—that was imagined and constituted in relation to the perceived racialised ‘primitiveness’ and ‘savagery’ of Aboriginal peoples. (110). Mawani concludes that the grave’s presence also foreshadowed the managed touristic use of the recognition of Aboriginality to celebrate the Canadian state’s multiculturalism (ibid). The place of the dedication ceremony, whether or not it held the remains of Khahtsahlano’s father, was known to settlers as the clearing where Supple Jack’s grave used to be. Perhaps this could be considered a place name, and further inquiry might ask why did this become a way to name the place, and then why was it dropped? The timing seems to coincide not only with the changes in the Indian Act which permitted Aboriginal legal actions, but also with Matthews’ discovery of the Mayor’s promise to mark Stanley’s visit with a cairn, and his subsequent organizing through 114 the 1950s to mark not just the clearing where they stopped in 1889 but the whole of the park with Lord Stanley’s monumental presence.   3.6 1952-60 – The Lord Stanley Statue (Around) At the risk of tiring my reader, I need to delve into another manifestation of Matthews’ seemingly inexhaustible desire to mark the place – but this time through monument. When  “Lord Stanley Statue” is entered into the online search box for the archives, forty-four items are returned. Twenty-one of these are textual files and the rest digital objects (or photos). The textual files contain numerous letters to and from Matthews and the English sculptor, Sydney March, between Matthews and the Park Board, Matthews and contractors. They also contain flyers to solicit donations to the fund to pay for the statue, and numerous newspaper articles, editorials, magazine articles as well as an editorial cartoon by Norris and photos of Matthews posing with his arms raised (either mimicking the statue or in victory). A version of this latter image appeared on the front page of the Vancouver Sun on 17 May 1960, as the statue was installed two days before the unveiling by Governor General Vanier, and also in Maclean’s Magazine later that year (see figure 3.6) (“Lord Stanley Statue  - Oct. 29, 1889 - Lord Stanley statuette”; Garner).  The saga of Matthews and the Lord Stanley statue started in the early 1950s when he conceived of the need to create a marker in the park that would follow through with Oppenheimer’s promise to mark the site of the dedication with a cairn. Instead of a cairn, however, Matthews designed the statue of Lord Stanley in the act of raising his arms and speaking the words of dedication he had cobbled together.  115 According to Matthews, quoted in an article dated 6 September 1952, “the statue would commemorate an act, not a man: the naming and dedication of Stanley Park on Oct. 29, 1889” (“Stanley of Stanley Park,” italics added). Matthews recounted the story of the statue to a “private meeting” of Park Board before the regular session on 25 January 1960. His facts are these: in 1952 he requested permission from the Park Board to place a marker in the Park commemorating its dedication in 1889. The board agreed but with the “stern admonition WITHOUT COST TO THE PUBLIC.” He submitted a sketch to a “renowned sculptor” and paid him $200 to make a model. Matthews then displayed the model to the Park Board, which agreed it was suitable. He commissioned the sculpture for the cost of $4500 – charged to him. He gathered donations from 200 people--“citizens of Vancouver and British Columbia”—including $100 of his own money. The statue arrived in 1956 and was placed in storage (fees charged to Matthews). He then asked Park Board for a ten-foot square grant of land on which to erect the base, and the Board agreed. He commissioned a stonemason to make the base approved by the sculptor in London at the cost of $3000 – charged again to him.55  The contractor did not deliver the base; he cancelled the contract after eight months. This is how Matthews describes the interval of the next three or so years: “Next, at that time, the owners of the statue, who had paid for it, suffered a series of affronts and impertinences which caused for [sic] them to withdraw, and leave the statue in storage, where it has lain for several years. For good reasons, the owners are unwilling to surrender the statue to anyone; even after its erection they intend to remain custodians.” At the time of this presentation to the board, he has finally agreed to begin planning for its installation to “permit a promise made by a Mayor of Vancouver to a Governor General of                                                 55	  This	  amount	  would	  be	  the	  equivalent	  of	  $67,	  500	  in	  2015	  (“Inflation	  Calculator”).	  116 Canada to be kept, and bring to fruition an endeavour on which they have spent much time and money” (“Lord Stanley Statue File”).  Other versions of the story of the statue, likely what Matthews has termed the “affronts and impertinences,” involve objections to the lack of competition for the design, disagreement that Lord Stanley’s dedication needed to be marked in any way, and Matthews’ unreasonable desire for a prominent placement of the work (“Lord Stanley statue - Oct. 29, 1889 - Lord Stanley statuette”).  Despite these affronts and impertinences the Lord Stanley statue still stands at the Georgia Street entrance of the park (near where Stanley Park Drive begins), frozen in the pose Matthews constructed, with these words etched on the base: “To the use of and enjoyment of peoples of all colours, creeds and customs for all time, I name thee Stanley Park.” This manner in which the statue takes up space is very evocative – with his arms outstretched and legs planted he is taking up as much space as a body can. The raised arms could be seen to be signaling victory, but the phrase etched on the base of the statue seems to disavow the victorious stance. An analysis of Canadian multiculturalism and the disaffiliation of racism that it employs explains its logic. Andrew Baldwin, Laura Cameron and Audrey Kobayashi, the editors of Rethinking the Great White North: Race, Nature and the Historical Geographies of Whiteness in Canada, define disaffiliation as a “practice by which white people distance themselves from the economy of signs that frame white hegemony. Its effect is profound: it allows the liberal majority to assert that racialization is something that used to occur but that no longer does, while the everyday embodiment of whiteness is simply absorbed into normative discourse” (14). When Matthews attributed this statement to Stanley he cast the disaffiliation backwards into the year 1889, powerfully asserting the absence of racializing discourses and practices that would limit the 117 privileges available to members of that society. In reframing the past, the statue also hails the contemporary white passer-by to recruit them into an admiration of the generosity of the British nobility.  Matthews’ efforts at memorializing the event found another medium – that of monument. As Schneider explains, referring to de Certeau’s observation from The Practice of Everyday Life that the “passing faces on the street seem […] to multiply the indecipherable and nearby secret of the monument,” the monumental and the passers-by “co-constitute each other in a relationship that can be as much about forgetting (bypassing) as commemorating (monumentalizing)” (7). The Lord Stanley statue can be seen as Matthews’ effort to constitute the future people with whom it will inter(in)animate, but he had no way of controlling the multiple responses, including the hockey fans who at various times have picked up on the victorious nature of the arm gesture and added a Canucks jersey and a Stanley Cup56 to his upraised arms. Schneider also speaks about the monument’s retaining its secret – as it seems Lord Stanley’s has done up until now – and about inter(in)animation moving meanings onto “not only the ‘spectator’ or passer-by or reader (which would suggest only a one-way contingency in a linear temporal mode), but into chiasmatic reverberation across media and across time in a network of ongoing response-ability” (164). With this new understanding of the displaced transmission Matthews’ monument represents, the reverberation back in time as we look at the statue will help white settlers to stay implicated in the privileges of whiteness, as Ahmed suggests (2004 n.pag.). As long as this knowledge is not widely shared, however, we are left with the statue enacting the continuously constructed dedication and hailing of whiteness. Since the placement of the statue in 1960 (also                                                 56 Yes, it’s named after the same Stanley – he was an amateur hockey enthusiast and founded the competition in 1893.   118 with a ceremony, and dedication by another Governor General), it seems as if reenactments of the 1889 dedication no longer need the effort to assemble live bodies in costumes to make speeches; the reenactment never stops.  3.7 The 1964 Rededication and the Last Spike (Around) Nevertheless, on 29 May 1964, an 86-year-old Matthews helped plan yet another reenactment of the dedication of the park to mark the 75th anniversary of Stanley’s visit. This time the event took place at nearby Malkin Bowl instead of Lumberman’s Arch. The annual Parks Board Pioneer Luncheon was held at the Pavilion, where Matthews gave his “traditional pioneer address.” Afterwards, the guests were invited to Malkin Bowl where children performed relay races and tumbling acts. The main theatrical event was former alderman Frank Baker’s impersonating Lord Stanley, arriving in a “surrey with a fringe on top” drawn by a horse down the centre aisle of the seating area. He then intoned the phrase and made the gesture and commented on the improvements made to the road since his last visit and urged that the Park Board and staff continue to guard the park as “jealously” over the next 75 years (Lindsay 30). Khahtsahlano did not perform, although Matthews mentions that he and his wife, Swanamia, were guests at the rededication ceremony (Matthews 1964 37-8).57 At the end of the rededication ceremony the audience was invited to witness the “driving of the last spike” and the inaugural run of the three-quarter mile long newly built Stanley Park Miniature Railway, at which point the Pioneers were invited to have the first ride (Lindsay 30; Matthews 1964 18) (see figure 3.7).                                                 57 Matthews includes them in his book about the event, as well as the images of Chaythoos, and still mentions Khay-tulk’s “wooden mausoleum” but adds that it was moved when the water pipes were put in (1964 28).  	  119 There had been a small railway in the park since the 1940s but after Hurricane Freda blew through Vancouver in October 1962 the Park Board used some of the cleared area to build a more elaborate attraction. This four minute ride passed by “a prospector’s cabin complete with water wheel, a fire ranger’s lookout, an Indian encampment, over a rustic bridge, along the shoreline of a man-made lake and across the lake on a 140-foot-long trestle into a windowed 60 foot long snowshed, on through the blackness of a 60-foot long tunnel, around a view through the trees of Burrard Inlet” (Lindsay 30). The train engine was also a replica of Engine #374 which pulled the first passenger train across the country (“Ride the Stanley Park Miniature Train”). At the 1964 rededication and opening of the railway, officials greeted Baker acting as Lord Stanley when his carriage arrived at the Miniature Railway station guarded by mounted police. Mayor Rathie and Charles Blaney (a former CPR official and Parks Commissioner) then drove a golden spike to signify the completion of the railway (“Stanley Park railway”; Matthews 1964 5). This rededication is different from the previous one in its lack of attention to detail in reenacting the 1889 event. Perhaps this was no longer necessary since the statue of Lord Stanley in the act of dedication was now installed nearby.   Instead, this event focused on the opening of the Miniature Railway, linking Lord Stanley’s arrival to a “last spike” ceremony. Much has been written in Canadian history of The Last Spike, which has been used to symbolize the moment at which Canada became a nation. The photo of Donald Smith58 driving in the last spike is iconic. In Creative Subversions: Whiteness, Indigeneity and the National Imaginary, Margot Francis interprets its signification differently than as mere nation building, saying the photograph of the “‘great men’ of the railway                                                 58	  Later known as Lord Strathcona, Smith was the same man who declined when Vancouver city councilors asked him to name the park in 1888, allowing Lord Stanley to do so instead.	  120 encapsulates the intersection of masculinity and technology” (60). She also explains how the railway enabled Canada’s claim to the immense territories, “an audacious act of political imperialism” symbolizing from a Foucauldian perspective “the decentred strategies of imperial rule and…an emblem of what Cole Harris calls the ‘capillaries of colonial appropriation’” (62). The completion of the CPR is also connected with the creation of tourist promotions due to cost overruns, which drove the railway executives to capitalize on the “spectacular scenery,” eventually developing tourist sites across the country (67-8). Francis also links the completion of the CPR with the Canadian military’s access to the Red River Territory, allowing them to put down the Second Red River Resistance (66).   The image of “The Last Spike” that they were reenacting at the opening of the Miniature Railway is one of an aspirational success, which was also memorialized triumphantly by E.J. Pratt’s “Towards the Last Spike” (1952). Yet it was an incomplete aspiration of a united nationhood. F.R. Scott’s poem “All the Spikes But the Last” (1966) responded to Pratt’s, asking: Where are the coolies in your poem, Ned?/Where are the thousands from China who swung /their picks with bare hands at forty below? /Between the first and the million other spikes /they drove, and the dressed-up act of /Donald Smith, who has sung their story? / Did they fare so well in the land they helped to /Unite? Did they get one of the 25,000,000 CPR acres? / Is all Canada has to say to them written in the Chinese /Immigration Act? (64)  The Vancouver Parks Board had not included any actors impersonating Chinese railway workers, nor had they invited any of their descendants to this event. The Khahtsahlanos may or may not have attended the “last spike” ceremony, but the impact on Indigenous lands and people that the railway (and its miniature replica) had had was certainly not being considered. The only 121 reference to Indigenous peoples was the train ride passing by an “Indian encampment.” The rest of the features were replicas of railway infrastructure – tunnels, bridges – and the places that hold people who are involved in resource extraction or protection: the prospector’s cabin and the fire ranger’s lookout. Despite this illusion of an empty land of resources – across Canada and within Stanley Park – the railway continues to be Indigenous land, as Cree/Métis poet Marilyn Dumont forcefully explains in her poem, “Letter to Sir John A. McDonald”: “that goddamned railroad never made this a great nation… we were railroaded/by some steel tracks that didn’t last/and some settlers who wouldn’t settle” (Dumont 52). Her reference to settlers who “wouldn’t settle” resonates when thinking of Matthews and his reiterations of naming, dedicating and gathering together an archive around which settlers and newcomers might find comfort.   3.8 Conclusion In this chapter I have argued that James Skitt Matthews intervened in and manipulated the archive that he almost single-handedly created and maintained for forty years. I have noted the lack of a critique of his work by Vancouver historians and provided evidence that he constructed a Stanley Park dedication event to suit a retroactive disaffiliation with racialized policy and actions by early Vancouverites. Not all observers, however, have been oblivious to the unlikeliness of Stanley’s utterance. Stó:lo poet, scholar and educator Lee Maracle picks up on it in her story, "Mink Witnesses the Creation of Stanley Park," which ends with the words, "'Stanley Park, named after John Stanley. All races welcome in this park.' All races welcome, humph, good idea" (1). Matthews’ work on the reenactments of 1943 and 1964, along with his creation of the archive, served to provide an orientation around a construction of whiteness that favoured a British imperialist view of resource extraction and dispossession of Indigenous 122 people. This was aided by an emphasis on the presence of both the live and dead Khahtsahlano family towards which a white identity could offer recognition, a type of politics that has been criticized by both Renisa Mawani and Glenn Coulthard. Mawani asserts that public recognition can mistakenly be read as redistribution of material resources and economic, social, and political power, while Coulthard argues that it actually works to reconcile “Indigenous assertions of nationhood with settler-state sovereignty” (Mawani 2004 52-4; Coulthard 3).  The reiterations of these orientations through the institution of the archive, publications, reenactments and monument have created an inherited habit of whiteness in Vancouver. It is a phenomenological inheritance of whiteness (in Ahmed’s terms) as well as a literal inheritance, in that Matthews willed his collection to the City of Vancouver. I would like to suggest here that this habit of whiteness is an addiction that must be broken. The narrative that Matthews constructed about Lord Stanley, using surrogation and displaced transmission, may seem harmless; the statue stands in the park, welcoming all people for all time. Yet through the disaffiliation of the British invasion and settlement of this area, contemporary city dwellers are able to comfortably continue in their inheritance using the statue and the Stanley dedication narrative as evidence that this city was built on an openness to all. But what if this narrative, instead, was a creation of a disoriented society, one that is nauseous and horrified by its own contingency (Ahmed 2006 157-58).  In the previous chapter I asserted that place names hold knowledge, wisdom and identity for həəmiə speaking people; I have now expanded this to include the settler knowledge and aspiration to white identity held within the place name “Stanley Park.”  The loss of this knowledge has been one that, as Schneider has asserted, the archive regulates, maintains and produces (103). Derrida has also noted, in Archive Fever, that the 123 archive is a “place of election where law and singularity intersect in privilege… becom[ing] at once visible and invisible” (3). Matthews’ control in the selection of the archive is in itself worthy of note and critique. His further performative activities involving the archive align even more closely with Schneider’s description of it as a “house of and for performative repetition, not stasis” (Schneider 110). In the next chapter I return to performative interventions in Vancouver history, but this time to offer an example of how Indigenous people exerted control over colonial archival impulses.  First, however, the following interlude will examine how a theatrical performance of an iconic Canadian playwright’s work has been able to reinsert an Indigenous woman into theatre history.  124 Interlude: For the Pleasure of Seeing Her Again To continue seeking understanding of the construction of whiteness, and to respond to contemporary theatrical interventions into the disappearance of Indigenous women, I now engage with the Western Canada Theatre (WCT) production of Michel Tremblay’s For the Pleasure of Seeing Her Again. The production first opened in January 2012 in Kamloops, BC; it then toured to the annual Magnetic North Theatre Festival in June 2013. I attended a performance staged during the Talking Stick Festival in Vancouver in February 2014 at the York Theatre. My interest in responding to the play here is connected to director Glynis Leyshon’s decision, based on evidence in Tremblay’s text, to cast Indigenous actors and change the final imagery to connect with Indigenous life in Saskatchewan (“Re: Questions”). I assert that this decision, while emphasizing Tremblay’s mother’s Cree heritage and opening a line of inquiry into many of his works that were inspired by his mother, also illuminates the gendered nature of the colonial process. This production was both a vehicle for a virtuosic performance by Cree/Saulteux actor Margo Kane as Nana and one where the representational mode of performance of Nana as a Cree woman connects with what Bonita Lawrence has called a “metanarrative about encounters with genocide” (xvii).  Tremblay wrote For the Pleasure of Seeing Her Again (1998) as part of the thirtieth anniversary celebration of Les Belles-Soeurs. The play features only two characters, Nana and her son, the Narrator. It takes place in five scenes during which the Narrator, sitting in an armchair, interacts with his mother at five different ages between ten and twenty. She chastises him, they discuss books and television shows, she gossips about family and eventually succumbs to cancer. Tremblay has stated that this play was his effort to go back to how he was formed as an artist, to the woman with whom he “apprenticed” as a dramatic storyteller, his mother 125 (Tremblay and Wachtel 2000). The play, while full of appreciation, is also tinged with sorrow in that Tremblay’s mother died before he was successful; he has stated that he regrets not having been able to share his success with his parents. He has also acknowledged, however, that his mother’s early death allowed him to write Les Belles-Soeurs without self-censoring. He says,  “she would have hated every word I wrote in that play because she would probably have thought I was laughing at her, or at her sisters, or at these women” (Tremblay and Wachtel 2003).  The two plays could be said to respond to each other, demonstrating the deeply entwined nature of Tremblay’s career with the figure of his mother.  For the Pleasure of Seeing Her Again was first produced in August 1998 as Encore une fois, si vous le permettez59 by Théâtre du Rideau Vert and featured Andre Brassard and Rita Lafontaine, whose careers (along with Tremblay’s) were launched by Les Belles-Soeurs (Charlebois). Two months later, in the quickest performance of Tremblay’s work in translation up to that point, Centaur Theatre in Montreal produced the play in English, starring Nicola Cavendish as Nana and Dennis O’Connor as the Narrator (Borgstrum 324). There have been numerous productions since that time. In 2002 the American Conservatory Theatre in San Francisco opened the play on Mother’s Day, with Olympia Dukakis and Marco Barricelli in the roles of Nana and Narrator, and described it as a “French-Canadian comedy about the relationship between a supportive mother and her gay son” (Ehren and Simonson). In 2005, W!ld Rice Theatre in Singapore produced a version with Neo Swee Lin as Nana and Ivan Heng as Narrator, describing it as a “celebration of the magic of theatre as well as maternal love” (“For the Pleasure”).  Stratford Festival’s 2010 production, directed by Chris Abraham with Lucy Peacock as Nana and Tom Rooney as the Narrator, emphasized the autobiographical nature of                                                 59	  A direct translation would be “Once again, if you permit.” 	  126 the play, and the “world view that charts a way of living that leads to joy, redemption and harmony” (White 3). The director noted how extensively Tremblay has written about his mother, saying that in this play he “shows us that ‘The Mother’ is the most universal character” (Abraham 2010 3). In the entry about the play in the online Canadian Theatre Encyclopedia, Gaeten Charlebois calls it a “refreshingly uncomplicated and lucid work.” While the play has been received this way, I argue that the WCT production complicates the work in a necessary and even more refreshing manner.   As early as 1994, Tremblay published details of his mother’s Cree heritage. In his memoir Birth of a Bookworm (1994, English translation 2003), Tremblay explains his mother's roots. He says her mother (his grandmother), Maria Desrosiers, was a Cree woman from Saskatchewan and her father (his grandfather) a sailor from Brittany. They met in Rhode Island and had children. His mother was then sent back to Saskatchewan and raised by her Cree grandparents. Eventually she ended up in Montreal where she met his father, Armand Tremblay (9-12). In his dedication to Twelve Opening Acts (2002) he also describes his mother, "Rhéauna Rathier, half-Cree, half-French" (n.pag.).  He had identified his mother as having Cree heritage even before he wrote For the Pleasure of Seeing Her Again, but WCT was the first company to have picked up on this part of her character, even though there are references to it in the text itself. In the middle of the play, when the Narrator is a young teenager, he and Nana engage in a discussion about the creation of nobility, or “blue blood,” in the context of a French novel, Patira. The Narrator asks if the rich girls who go the Mount-Royal Convent School have blue blood. Nana replies:  “Of course not! Nobody has blue blood in America! Only in Europe!” She cannot explain why only Europeans have nobility, and the Narrator asks about her family: “your grandparents were Cree from Saskatchewan—…they’d settled here a long time before the 127 Europeans arrived—how come the Good Lord never appeared to tell them they had blue blood? How come he just appeared in Europe? I don’t think that’s fair! There must’ve been a Cree somewhere who deserved to be declared noble like those guys on the other side” (39-40). Nana agrees that this is not fair, and suggests that it was because the Cree did not know the Lord.  A few minutes later, however, after discussing the many nationalities of nobility in Europe, she says, “I’m beginning to wonder, you know…I never thought about it that way. When you get right down to it, there must’ve been a Cree who deserved it, too” (42).   Glynis Leyshon, director of the WCT production, calls the Cree element the heart of their production (“Re: Questions”). Besides casting Kane and Cree actor and director Lorne Cardinal (in 2012-13) and Kane and Nlaka’pamux actor and playwright Kevin Loring (in 2014), she also changed the ending from the original, which had Nana ascending to heaven in a wicker basket with angel wings in front of a tromp-l’oeil backdrop of Saskatchewan plains and a lake (Tremblay 1998 77-9). Instead, the WCT backdrop was a Northern Saskatchewan scene of snowy birch trees and a frozen lake in front of which Nana rode a silver-winged canoe to the skies (set designed by Pam Johnson and lighting by Gerald King) (see figure 3.8). Nevertheless, while these changes were noted in the media discussion of the original Kamloops production in 2012, few of the reviewers of the 2013 or 2014 productions mentioned the additional focus of the play. Mike Youds, arts reporter for the Kamloops Daily News, discusses the implications of the casting in his preview to the Kamloops production, commenting that both Cardinal and Kane are of Cree descent, like Nana, but calls this coincidental to their roles.  Kane is quoted as saying that having Aboriginal heritage is a fact of Canadian existence, and "I think people in Quebec also have a lot of mixed blood. That's part of who we are in this country" (Youds “For the Pleasure of Seeing Them”). Youds also notes that "Nana's love of storytelling reflect[s] the 128 tradition of oral narrative in Aboriginal culture and is central to the plot” (ibid).  Youds’ review of the production and a subsequent article mention the Cree content, but state that it is not central to the plot. But he acknowledges that this production is part of a gradual good change for Aboriginal actors (“Kane and Cardinal Win Hearts”; “Beyond ‘leathers and feathers’”). When the play was restaged in Ottawa for the national festival, however, little of the Cree interpretation was noted. Patrick Langston’s June 2013 Ottawa Citizen review of the Magnetic North show comments extensively on Kane’s performance but makes no mention at all of the new interpretation nor does BM McNally’s Ottawa Tonight review. Alvina Ruprecht’s Capital Critics Circle review comments on the types of structure in the play text that reflect Tremblay's oeuvre and is critical of the lack of variation in Kane's performance. Ruprecht concludes that neither Leyshon nor Kane was "properly tuned to the nuances of Tremblay's 'score'," (“For the Pleasure of Seeing Her Again”) while not considering that the play could have been instead attending to an unacknowledged Cree underscore. An unattributed response in the Ottawa Citizen does note the Cree heritage of both Tremblay and Cardinal and addresses the differences between their life experiences, quoting Cardinal as saying that while Tremblay’s parents wanted him to become a printer like his father, his own parents, because of their residential school experiences, only wanted him to be happy (“A loving tribute”). When the production arrived in Vancouver as part of the Talking Stick Festival, reviewers still did not comment on the significance of this restaging (Oliver; Jane). One reviewer does call it an adaptation through casting, saying the production changed the characters "from Catholic French Canadians to a First Nations mother and son" and re-cast the play with Aboriginal actors based on one line in the text, but did not mention how this might be significant (Jones). Neither the major Vancouver newspapers nor other online theatre sites reviewed the production. This lack of thoughtful response in reviews is 129 not necessarily surprising as the form requires a quick turn-around and is not conducive to extensive research or reflection. It also, however, can be seen as part of the attempted erasure that Aboriginal women continue to endure as part of Canadian colonial processes, which began officially, as Bonita Lawrence explains, even before Confederation in 1867.   Lawrence’s “Real” Indians and Others; Mixed Blood Urban Native Peoples and  Indigenous Nationhood is useful to help understand why Tremblay’s Cree mother and grandmother were distanced from their families, and how this is part of the much larger context of Canadian colonial processes and policies. Lawrence traces the patriarchal definitions of Indian-ness from 1850 when the first legislation was passed that declared that Indian status depended either on “Indian descent or marriage to a male Indian” (50). “Indian status” is an historical and legally significant Aboriginal identity in Canada, which forces the government to acknowledge its obligations to Aboriginal peoples.  Status, while inherently problematic since the criteria were created by the paternalistic colonial relationship, confers the right to live on reserves, share and inherit band resources and vote in council elections (Crey and Hanson). It also, as Lawrence argues, can be a way to affirm identity and belonging. Thus, the loss of status carries material, cultural and emotional consequences. In the Gradual Enfranchisement Act of 1869, Indigenous wives of non-Aboriginal men lost inheritance rights and were automatically enfranchised with their husbands, and Section 6 stripped Indigenous women of Indian status if they married anyone without status (ibid). By 1874 the term Indian was defined by descent which flowed solely from the male line, and the superintendent of Indian Affairs was given power to stop payments to women who had no children or left their husbands (52). In the 1951 revision of the Indian Act, the limited rights which entitled deserted or widowed Indian women to shares in treaty money or informal recognition of their band membership were removed (50-130 51). Lawrence also argues that the backlash against the 1969 White Paper intensified the division between status and non-status Indians (the latter category of which, due to the previous 119 years of legislation, disproportionately includes Indigenous women) (60). In 1985, Bill C31 attempted to remedy this gender discrimination through restoring status and membership to “eligible people” and passing control of recognition to bands (65). When Bill C-31 was passed there were 350,000 status Indians; by 2004, 127,000 people had regained status, although 106,000 were denied (ibid). Lawrence then lists the mind-bogglingly myriad ways that status can be applied or denied through marriage, childbearing and generational flow (65-9). She also pauses to consider not just the individuals who lost their status but also all of their descendants, counting between one and two million, which, when compared to the presence of only 350,000 status Indians, begins to show the scale of cultural genocide (56). Lawrence concludes with a call to recognize the ambiguity in Native identity rather than try to solve it (187). Therein lies the significance of WCT’s production of For the Pleasure of Seeing Her Again, and the continuing lack of recognition with which it was received.   And now, I arrive at my response to the performance. This show was one of the mainstage features of Full Circle First Nations Performance’s  (FCFNP) 13th annual Talking Stick Festival; it was also the first time in many years that Margo Kane, who is Artistic Managing Director of FCFNP, has performed at the festival other than at a cabaret night or as host of an event. The title of the play, while ostensibly referring to Tremblay’s mother, also, for Kane’s fans, referred to our chance to see her in a role that seemed written for her comedic physicality and stage-filling presence. Kane’s casting also echoes Tremblay’s acknowledgement of his mother as an influence and artistic mentor. Kane’s career in theatre (onstage and in administration) has now spanned over forty years. Her first prominent role was as Rita Joe in 131 Prairie Theatre Exchange’s mounting of the first all-Aboriginal casting of The Ecstasy of Rita Joe. George Ryga’s play had been an important part of Canadian theatre since its first production in 1967, but it took fifteen years for a company to cast it with Aboriginal actors (Couture 2011 11-17). Since that time Kane has toured the country, performing in cities, towns and on reserves, and as Renate Usmiani says, “is widely considered the ‘mother of Canadian native performance arts’” (“Margo Gwendolyn Kane”). Her work with the National Native Role Model program and her one-woman show Moonlodge were both influential in inspiring many younger artists, including Marie Clements, Lisa Ravensbergen, and Yvette Nolan. Kevin Loring also credits her with helping him learn a practice of self-exploration in the FCFNP Ensemble program (“Talking Stick: Sharing Perspectives”). Kane’s presence onstage at the York Theatre was not merely the frontside performance of an actor portraying the character of Nana, it also included the backside context of her place in the history of Canadian Indigenous theatre.  Kane’s performance is fun, full of dramatic exaggeration of words and a full bodily expression of emotions, such as Nana’s fury at her son in the first scene for throwing an ice chunk at a car. She paces the stage quickly, moving away from him and back again when she remembers her moments of fear and shame. Loring, as the Narrator, has the difficult task of acting from an armchair. Tremblay has described the Narrator’s opening monologue as his theatrical credo, stating essentially that tragedy could be about ordinary people like this woman (Tremblay and Wachtel 2000). Loring opens the play by filling the stage with his embodied allusions to works throughout Western theatre history by Shakespeare, Chekhov, Euripides, Sophocles, Ibsen, Ionesco, Genet, Shaw, Beckett, Williams, and more, and then sits in the armchair for the duration of the action until the final few minutes of the show. The blocking is purposeful – he is her audience, mesmerized by her. It’s a challenge, though, to make him 132 interesting, although he acts as our proxy (or perhaps we are his) as we watch and enjoy Nana’s antics. Opening with the references to great characters throughout theatre history puts Nana in the continuum. The most enjoyable scene of the night is Kane’s imitation of Nana’s fifteen-year-old niece with an eye twitch at a ballet recital. She moves her aging body gracefully about the stage, both executing ballet positions with the skill of a lifelong dancer and allowing herself to hesitate as a young girl learning to dance might. It seems almost like a part written for her, one in which she could stretch out in a self-expressive virtuosic performance mode.  The final scene of Nana’s illness and ascension is extremely sad after witnessing her vibrant personality up to that point. Tremblay has written it as a retroactive gift he wished to give to his mother for all she had given him. The WCT production’s change in the staging at this point introduces another performance mode. Kane and Loring continue to portray Nana and the Narrator, but when the canoe descends to take Nana away, her Cree heritage is invoked. This insertion adds on a representational mode of performance, making Nana a historical persona: a Cree woman who, through the policies outlined above, had been separated from her heritage. The gift of a painless separation that Tremblay invokes through his use of the phenomenological apparatus of the theatre is at this point expanded through Leyshon’s directorial choices and the actors’ performances to also stage the recognition of what Lawrence calls the ambiguity of Native identity.  As Nana ascends she promises to come back to haunt him if her son does not live his life to suit her, and we are reminded that her son has conjured her through a theatrical haunting. But in this production the haunting is expanded from the type of ghosts that populate a stage to those of Indigeneity that also haunt our nation, as Margot Francis has suggested, and perhaps also haunt what we conceive of as modern Canadian theatre history. Tremblay’s career began during 133 the Quiet Revolution, and as the “redefinition of Quebec’s political identity intensified, the articulation of its culture played an increasingly important role in the ferment of the times. Michel Tremblay was right in the midst of that ferment” (Wasserman 59-60). Tremblay’s role in the creation of Quebecois and Canadian culture and, his status as one of the foremost dramatists of the country has been widely accepted. I question, however, why in European settler Canadians’ eagerness for a definition of a distinct (white) Canadian culture, up to this point there has been no theatrical uptake of his acknowledgement of his mother’s Indigenous identity. This production, an example of a collaboration between Indigenous and non-Indigenous theatre artists creating an eddy of influence in the existing narrative of Canadian theatre history, indicates a way forward through a critical reconsideration of the women characters inspired by Tremblay’s Cree mother that have populated his plays throughout his influential oeuvre.    134 Chapter 4: Vancouver’s 1946 Diamond Jubilee: Indigenous Archival Interventions  The City of Vancouver archives are held in a building set in a beautiful natural environment. It is a few hundred metres back from a rocky beach with a seaside bicycle route, built into a small hill covered with rolling green grass with a view of the downtown skyscrapers across Burrard Inlet and the North Shore mountains looming behind them. For a city that prides itself on being the birthplace of Greenpeace and mixing urban life with unspoiled nature, this is in many ways an appropriate setting to house the archives. The physical place is also entangled with another less publicly promoted part of the city’s heritage, that of the dispossession of Indigenous peoples. Nearby the unceded Coast Salish land on which the archives are housed is the site of the village discussed above called səaqʷ in həəmiə and Sen’ákw in Skwxwú7mesh. The meaning of the place name is given as a result of the action to “direct the head there” (Suttles 2010 571). While the name perhaps indicates movement to a destination, as in to direct the “head” of a canoe towards the place, there is a certain kind of irony that the land now houses the archive, which, in Western historiography, is thought of as the repository of rational knowledge, or the “head” of the social body. There is a further layer to this place, as discussed in chapter two, which is that the building of the archive is also the result of James Skitt Matthews’ imposition of his will on the city to build an archive to hold his collection within a year of his death. He did not choose the place, although, as it was down the road from his home in Kitsilano and was also formerly one of the homes of August Jack Khahtsahlano’s family, he might have approved.  The village was part of a network of communities used by Musqueam, Tsleil-Waututh and Squamish people throughout the lower mainland until, in 1869, thirty-seven acres were set aside as an “Indian reserve.” In 1877, the federal and provincial 135 Joint Indian Reserve Commission expanded the reserve to eighty acres and allotted it to the “Skwamish Tribe” alone (Roy 2011 87-8).  In 1913, provincial officials coerced residents of the reserve into selling the land. The families and their belongings were taken by barge to Squamish reserves in Howe Sound, others returned to Musqueam and Coquitlam; all the buildings were burned after they left (Roy 2011 89; Barman 2007 17). The sale was illegal under the terms of the Indian Act and the land remained an Indian reserve until April 1946 when the Squamish Council surrendered it to the Department of Indian Affairs (Roy 2011 89). In 2002, after a twenty-five year court case which included counterclaims from the Musqueam and Tsleil-Waututh First Nations, the Squamish Nation was awarded control over a fraction of the area, the railway right of ways (ibid). This entanglement of place, so much part of the layers of history throughout this city, is an example of the ways that recorded and unrecorded history of the city, the archive and the lived embodied experience of Indigenous peoples resonate in Vancouver.   Since the arrival of European settlers on the west coast of British Columbia, there has been a consistent effort at erasure of First Nations villages in the land that has become the city of Vancouver. Certain locations have been part of the public narrative of Indigenous displacement and settler emplacement on the land, most particularly during times of civic celebrations. I am using here the concepts of displacement and emplacement from Nicholas K. Blomley’s Unsettling the City: Urban Land and the Politics of Property. Blomley makes a distinction between dispossession, as the process by which settlers acquired title to Indigenous lands, and conceptual displacement of Indigenous people from the settler-city space, along with the emplacement of settlers. He argues that the process of displacement / emplacement is a social and political project: “they are both immensely powerful but also, to the extent that they are enacted, 136 are partial and incomplete. For a settler society, displacement is a social achievement, but also an aspiration; it is an accomplishment, and also an assertion. To that extent, displacement is open to contestation and remaking” (109). Archival records of two performance events during Vancouver’s Diamond Jubilee in July 1946, The Jubilee Show and the Indian Village and Show, present the settler vision of Vancouver’s history and future that was crafted by a citizens’ committee, while at the same time the absences in the archive, which at first seem to be part of the colonial ignorance of Indigenous people, may actually be Indigenous assertions of power through cultural restriction. These archival absences as well as the Indian Village and Show itself and the publicity surrounding it are examples of the Native Brotherhood of British Columbia (NBBC) employing grounded practices to create a lasting eddy of influence.  Diana Taylor’s focus on the tension between the archive and the repertoire is useful here. She cautions against polarizing the two methods of knowledge transmission, instead asserting, “the archive and the repertoire exist in a constant state of interaction” (21-2). The reasons for this caution can be explicated by examining the records of the Vancouver Citizens’ Diamond Jubilee Committee (VCDJC), with particular focus, briefly, on The Jubilee Show and then in more depth on the Indian Village and Show.  4.1 The Jubilee Show and the Indian Village and Show: Settler Assertion, Indigenous Contention  Next to the site of χʷaχʷə, The Jubilee Show was performed at Brockton Point in 1946. The city archives hold extensive textual and visual records of this show. There are files of correspondence, records of meetings, as well as the original and two revised versions of the script along with dozens of photos depicting the building of the stage, backstage preparations, 137 audience members, lighting equipment and scenes during the show. The show was an ambitious event; it ran from July 1-17 and included four thousand two hundred performers60 on the purpose-built Timber Bowl outdoor stage that seated fifteen thousand spectators (see figure 4.1). Advertised as a “dramatic pageant of Vancouver’s history,” the production can be considered an attempt to use a large-scale physically embodied narrative to reinforce a dominant colonial history (and future) of Vancouver. The scale of The Jubilee Show is itself almost a caricature of settler emplacement on Indigenous land. With the number of performers and spectators converging each night at Brockton Point, it amounted to approximately seven per cent of the city’s population gathering in the small area (Diespecker, Dorwin and Burton; Daly).61 The opening act, the “Indian Sequence,” consisted of one hundred and twenty-five Vancouver settler citizens cast as Indigenous characters on a site of unceded land, which was still inhabited by Indigenous people.62  This was a performative and physical emplacement of settlers in the land and narrative of the city. The settler bodies asserted their modernity and ownership of the future in contrast to the characters they played, symbolically displacing Indigenous people who were physically still there. The use of ballet dancers in redface to perform a Potlatch ceremony was a particularly complex mingling of performance traditions. Ballet, considered one of the highest forms of art in Western civilization, was being used to express this “uncivilized”63 ceremony. In                                                 60	  Yes, 4,200 performers. 	  61  All details from the Jubilee Show performance and audience described below are derived from these sources.   62 While this show was being performed, Tim Cummings and his sister Agnes, descended from James Cummings and Spukhpukanum  (aka Lucy Cummings), still lived on the north side of Brockton Point. Since the Indian Act relied on paternal descent to establish status, this family was not legally considered Indigenous, but was treated as such in that all of the children were taken to residential schools. When the last family member died in 1958, all evidence of their lives there was erased (Barman 2005 276; Barman 2007 23-6).  138 addition, the pleasure for the audience would have been enhanced by the costumes of the performers. Redface performance in revealing costumes allowed for a heightened viewing of dancers’ muscular bodies (see figure 4.2). Although it is unclear how much of the script was actually performed after opening night (“Jubilee Show Cut”),64 it is clear that somehow, in the script revision process, the writers decided to include more Indigenous people as part of the labour of the founding of the city and somewhat engaged with modern life (Diespecker et al.). They are mostly silent presences; nevertheless, they are there.  A contentious response to this attempted erasure of Indigenous people was running concurrently as the Indian Village and Show at Kitsilano Park, the site of səaqʷ/ Sen’ákw, the former Indian Reserve and currently site of the City of Vancouver archives (it is now called Vanier Park). The covers of the programs for the events provide a visible contrast that shows the difference in intent. The Jubilee Show organizers were looking to the future, imagining the potential of the city and, while seemingly open to acknowledging the Indigenous presence in the founding of the city, they were ambivalent about inclusion of Indigenous people in the future of the city. This is most evocatively suggested through the front and back covers of The Jubilee Show’s Souvenir Program. The front cover depicts a view of the city of Vancouver with the ocean in the front and the snowcapped mountains behind the downtown city skyscrapers. Floating prominently in the immediate foreground is a totem pole while a ghostly image of Captain Vancouver materializes in the clouds. The back cover, titled “Tomorrow’s Vancouver,” pictures the city with much higher buildings cradled in a massive hand with no Indigenous                                                                                                                                                        63 Not only was the ceremony considered uncivilized, it was illegal, since the Potlatch ban remained in place until 1951.  64 The play ended at 2:00 am on opening night and had to have three hours cut. 139 iconography in sight (see figures 4.3 and 4.4). The program for the Indian Village and Show signals a continuation of Indigeneity, featuring artwork on the cover that was both modern and influenced by northwest coast Indigenous form and line (see figures 4.5 and 4.6). The Jubilee Show program is clearly a souvenir of the event and featured ten full pages of advertisements – out of twenty-four pages. The Indian Village and Show program, however, is a mixture of information about the performance and about Indigenous people’s endurance of settler colonialism. This is accomplished through poetry, essays and photos of Indigenous people and their allies. It is important to contextualize this event by recognizing not only the significance of the site, but also the changes in its status according to Indigenous responses to colonial procedures. Three months earlier, in April 1946, the Squamish council had officially surrendered the land to the Department of Indian Affairs (Roy 2011 89). Although residents had been removed thirty-three years earlier, a decision had recently been made by some Squamish leaders to sell the land for $250,000; 65 it was sold in sections to various parties over the next twenty years. (ibid). The Indian Village and Show of 1946, run by a pan-tribal provincial organization with the support of at least one Squamish man, re-places Indigenous bodies and culture at a site where there has been continuous pressure to eradicate them. The dominant narrative of Indigenous art and culture in British Columbia is that it was devastated upon first contact and revived through the work of Haida artist Bill Reid (1920-1998).  Tsimshian and Haida art historian and educator Marcia Crosby, in her 2004 essay “Haida, Human Being and Other Myths,” asserts that there was not a simple revival of Indigenous culture in the 1960s but rather that there has always been continuing contention with colonialism. The                                                 65	  According the to Bank of Canada, this would be the equivalent of $3,377,717.39 in 2015 dollars (“Inflation Calculator”).	  140 story of the NBBC and the Indian Village and Show of 1946 helps to show a lack of tidy endings and beginnings, and fills in the continuous middle to which Crosby wishes to bring awareness (117). The somewhat extensive archives of the event include correspondence between Indigenous allies such as Maisie Armytage-Moore and the organizing committee, the richly detailed program, as well as mainstream coverage of the tensions between organizers and Indigenous performers and media coverage of the ceremony making the Governor General of Canada an honourary chief. Not held within the city archives but available through UBC Special Collections is the Indigenous media coverage of the ceremony with the Governor General.  There are also, however, notable absences in the archive, particularly when contrasting it with The Jubilee Show archive. There are no photos of performances, nor any reviews or responses to them. The only photos that exist are of the ceremony with the Governor General. At first, this lack of visual or textual evidence of the performances was frustrating to me, as I read about the plans for the event but nothing about what actually happened. This seemed yet another example of colonial bias until I found a document assigning copyright of photos of eleven “Indian Ceremonial Dances” to Chief William Scow, president of the NBBC. In the end what is present in this archive, and what is absent, led me to believe that, when they are considered together, interacting as Taylor suggests, we can see differing methods of settler colonial and Indigenous knowledge transfer and a trace of one Indigenous leader’s contention with the dominant culture’s desire for restricted knowledge.    4.2 The Indian Village and Show: Allies in the Archive The poster for Vancouver’s Diamond Jubilee celebration advertises the sporting events, shows and parades happening from 1-13 July 1946 in honour of the city’s sixtieth anniversary; 141 on the bottom right hand corner it reads: “As an Added Attraction, Be Sure to See the INDIAN VILLAGE…Tribal Rituals…Fire Dances…The Pulse-stirring THUNDERBIRD DANCE!! and many other wonders of Indian lore and customs that White Men have not yet been privileged to see!” (“Vancouver Citizen Diamond Jubilee”). The citizens’ committee commissioned the Indian Village and Show and hired former reservation teacher Ralph E. Hiltz as the producer-director (Hawker 117). Archival records show that performers and hosts were acquired through connections with Maisie Armytage-Moore (later known as Maisie Hurley)66 and the NBBC (Fortney 74-9). Examining the details of the creation of a working relationship between the Jubilee committee and the NBBC through Maisie Armytage-Moore will partly illuminate how the lost “middle” of continued political resistance that Crosby describes operated.  By 1946, the NBBC had consolidated power with other pan-tribal organizations. The organization had been formed in 1930 in an attempt to “raise the standards of living, education and the general social structure to an equivalent of the white population…[it was also] recognized as the bargaining agent for all Indians on the coast” (Vancouver Diamond Jubilee Indian Village and Show Program 3-4). Maisie Armytage-Moore was inducted into the NBBC in 1944 as an honourary member for the advocacy work that she had been doing since the 1930s with lawyer Tom Hurley (Fortney 82). Her connection to the project was instrumental in bridging the cultural gap and creating working relationships between the citizens’ committee and the NBBC. An undated and unsigned memo from the CVA file on the Jubilee Celebrations describes her as knowing “all about the North Shore Indians,” saying she has “studied them for a long time” and gone prospecting with them. It notes that she was “very keen on having the                                                 66 Maisie Armytage-Moore was the daughter of R.C. Campbell, who was involved with the efforts to install the Kwakwaka’wakw village in Stanley Park in the early 1900s (Fortney).  142 Canadian Warriors Pageant.”67 It mentions her preferences for working with August Jack and the NBBC over Andy Paull and a man called Mathias (perhaps Mathias Joe?). It also notes her associations with local politicians (“Correspondence, Programmes, and Other Materials. 1946”). The final page of the official souvenir program for the “Vancouver Jubilee Indian Village and Show” gives a further trace of Armytage-Moore’s importance to the project. It lists the firms that helped with the project, gives a general thanks to all who contributed, then states specifically: “And to Mrs. Maisie Armytage-Moore, Life Member of The Native Brotherhood, for her untiring effort toward the success of the Village” (17).  These archival records of the Citizens’ Diamond Jubilee Committee show their legitimizing of Armytage-Moore as a source of information and a bridge to creating working relationships with certain Indigenous people. These various positionings of Armytage-Moore show the importance of cross-cultural relationships and of broker figures (who could just as easily be Indigenous, as will be shown through Chief William Scow’s actions). It is important to note, however, that her relationships are with “North Shore” and north coast Indigenous peoples, but not, according to these documents, with Musqueam or Tsleil-Waututh peoples. Sharon Fortney’s description of Armytage-Moore’s work and legacy, “Entwined Histories: The Creation of the Maisie Hurley Collection of Native Art,” confirms she had reciprocal relationships with many key Indigenous organizers (74).68 As a Scottish woman who could also access class privilege through her heritage, who had the respect of local political figures through her legal                                                 67 The “Canadian Warriors Pageant” may be a reference to the ceremony involving the Governor General and the Indigenous war veterans discussed below. 	  68 Fortney also quotes a personal communication with former BC Supreme Court Justice Thomas Berger who explains Hurley and Armytage-Moore’s influence on his understanding of the significance of the Royal Proclamation of 1763 and the concept that Aboriginal title had never been extinguished (83).	  	  143 work and was a member of the NBBC, she helped to connect the NBBC with a civic power source, the VCDJC.  Aaron Glass, in his introduction to Objects of Exchange: Material Culture, Colonial Encounter, Indigenous Modernity, recognizes the opportunity that such encounters, although acceptable to authorities because they were “carefully circumscribed, aestheticized, and commodifiable production of the past …[enacted] as one minor step toward modernization,” offered to First Nations people struggling with colonial modernity: a “gap in colonial policy (however contradictory) may have created a space (however marginal) for social and cultural reproduction under new conditions of material flexibility and artistic freedom” (30). Armytage-Moore helped her Indigenous allies to exploit this gap in 1946 by co-organizing the Indian Village and Show and funding the publication of The Native Voice five months later (Fortney 82). A careful consideration of the Indian Village and Show program (which had a print-run of 10,000, and was sold at the site) as well as the printed set-design for the dance performances will show how the organizers alternated between satisfying the existing objectification of Indigenous cultures and accessing artistic freedom through performance choices, ultimately using this gap to create more space for First Nations people as subjects in their own right. The writing in the program alternates between invoking the salvage paradigm and emphasizing the living Indigenous people of Canada. Producer Ralph Hiltz states in his Foreword: The Indian Village represents a dying culture of a truly great Canadian people. If it is allowed to disintegrate into an oblivious past it will be a great and irreplaceable loss to our national social structure. We then, are attempting to place these cultural arts on a basis of a national individualism as is enjoyed by other 144 nationalities in Canada in the form of their traditional dances, songs and arts. Let us enjoy and appreciate these talents of an original people, respect their heritage and assist their hopes. THANK YOU, MR. AND MRS. CANADA. (2, emphasis added)  Hiltz’s opening words configure this civic celebration as salvaging a dying culture within a nationalist framework. The next two pages immediately introduce the reader/viewer to the NBBC and the Native Sisterhood. The organization’s history is reviewed as well as its aim, which as stated above was mainly concerned with standards of living and education. After affirming these unobjectionable aims, there is also an assertion regarding their work as the bargaining agent “for all Indians on the coast”. Also introducing the NBBC are the photos of Herbert Cook, Secretary; William Scow, President; and Guy Williams, Business Agent, dressed in suit and tie (see figure 4.7). Although no photos are included of the women, the program includes an acknowledgement of the Native Sisterhood, which acts to support the Brotherhood through “feeding and lodging during annual conventions,” and mentions that they do not, as yet, vote at the conventions (ibid 3-4). Next is a welcome reported as being from August Jack Khahtsahlano, also pictured, not in modern dress but with what looks like a beaded headdress with one feather at the back. He has his arm raised to shade the sun (see figure 4.8). He was described as the “host chief” of the event and this greeting was printed in the program: Welcome, my friends, this village set once again upon the soil where my Grandfather, Great Chief Khahtsahlano, did stand upon the shores of the blue sea beneath the snow-capped peaks of the mountains to behold the visiting Chiefs approach. 145 Welcome to where I did as a boy play with my Indian brothers and at the early age of nine became their Chief. Welcome I now give you, as did my Grandfather give to his guests in ages not too distant past. Let our White Brothers behold our friendship. Let happiness fill our hearts and theirs. Let us enjoy the beauty that abounds. This was our land and now we share it with you.  Feel secure there is enough for all. I speak for my people and of my people. Welcome. (5, emphasis added) The salutation is a reminder of the Indigenous people who lived on the land where the Indian Village and Show were now set, although if read carefully, the greeting does not state a specific nation’s claim to the land. As noted in the previous chapter, Khahtsahlano’s mother was Musqueam and his father was Squamish. Therefore, the use of the first person plural possessive in the phrasing of “our land” could be interpreted as containing multiple nations. The program remarks attributed to Khahtsahlano make this point in a non-threatening manner: “This was our land and we share it with you.” Khahatsahlano was already a well-known public figure by this point. He had performed three years earlier at the Stanley Park rededication event detailed in the previous chapter, and had been featured in newspapers.  The use of this site must also be contextualized within the Canadian history of land claims. Section 141 was added to the Indian Act in 1927, making land claims illegal, and would only be repealed in 1973 through a Supreme Court decision in favour of Nisga’a title (Tennant 221-23). At the time of the Jubilee event, none of the local Indigenous peoples could legally engage in a dispute over the taking of the land, but marking it with their presence could serve 146 other social and educational aims, once again creating an eddy through which intercultural communication had to flow. Following this welcome is a poem by Blanche Muirhead Howard,  “To My Indian Brother,” which expresses the guilt of a settler enjoying “such loveliness which rightfully / Belongs to my Indian Brother,” and calls for “equally sharing” the joys of the land in the future (6). Over the page from Howard’s poem is a short, unsigned essay called “Word Sketch of the Indians of B.C.”, which first positions the former dignity of “the Indian” and then creates a contrast: “Stripped of his hunting ground and his heritage we may see him labouring with pick and shovel in a modern trend alien to his ancestry…readily accepted [white man’s] vices but acquitted few of their virtues.” The author then moves on to describe a “modernized Indian” who is “willing to accept more of the responsibility for his own welfare. The call to arms of two wars has not passed his ears unheeded and from reports they made good soldiers and good citizens.” The author then finishes, saying, “however they feel toward the invaders of their land…one thing seems certain: that we stand before the dawn of a new era, a free people, democratic and sincere, in a land of hope and plenty” (ibid 7, emphasis added).  A number of pages feature illustrations depicting a visual art exhibit at the site called “The Circle of Legends.” Images illustrate what the organizers called the “pictorial word records” from Pauline Johnson’s Legends of Vancouver, including the place name stories of “The Two Sisters” and “Siwash Rock” (discussed in chapter two above) (ibid 9-11). This once again illustrates the grounded practice of using place names to assert Indigenous connection to land during a mega-event.   A few pages further are two pages that comprise a listing of the names of performers, dances and the “visiting bands of the coast” (ibid 12-13). The names are written using English 147 language orthography and do not correspond to current spellings. The only names that are recognizable amongst the “Southern Dancers” are possibly Haatshalano and Swanomia, who may have been Khahtsahlano and his wife Swanamia. This could be an area of further inquiry that someone with better knowledge of the sounds of peoples’ names and the genealogy of southern groups may be able to undertake.69 There is, however, also an interesting note written on the inside front cover of the program by Matthews that comments on the spelling of the names as “all wrong” and urges the future researcher to “place no reliance in it whatever” (see figure 4.9). He calls it “awful stuff,” saying that it was “got up by a scatterbrain” (ibid i). The names, therefore, were not recognizable to a knowledgeable (but opinionated) contemporary settler, either. The designer of the program may have been a settler appointed by the Jubilee committee who lacked the knowledge, resources or relationships to represent the names accurately. The program editor is not credited, so it is unclear if this is the case. It may also be the case that the names were given to the organizers by the NBBC, who were accessing knowledge that was not available to Matthews. Matthews’ insertion of a note on the inside cover of the program in the archives, however, indicates once again the significance of naming, the type of knowledge that can be lost using English language orthography to express Indigenous language names, as well as the archivist’s willingness to insert his opinion in the archives. The NBBC was founded by northern Indigenous communities. However, by the 1940s there were a few branches in Coast Salish communities (O’Donnell 45). It is unclear, though, other than                                                 69 Initial discussions with representatives from the Musqueam Language and Culture program indicate that the names listed are not Musqueam or Tsleil-Waututh people (Grant). A representative of the Tsleil-Waututh Nation Treaty, Lands and Resources department agreed with this assessment but also hypothesized that the performers of the “Twin Wolf Dance” might possibly have been members of the TWN dance group “Children of Takaya,” which formed shortly after this time (Morin). 	  148 Khahtsahlano, which people from Musqueam, Tsleil-Waututh and Squamish may have been involved in this event.   Overall, the program is working to disrupt settler assumptions. The NBBC organization, with its clearly identified officials in business attire, packages its work in an understandable way. Placing this information about their organization between the nationalist salvaging of a dying culture in Hiltz’s Foreword and Khahtsahlano’s clear visual and literary signification of Indigeneity and place, followed by settlers acknowledging wrongs done to Indigenous people and expressing hope for equality in the future, creates a rupture in the dominant narrative of the “vanishing Indian” which was being expressed at The Jubilee Show. This program, with its large print run, acknowledgement of dancers and tribes, and careful preservation in the archives, was produced by the NBBC and its allies to document the events as an eddy of influence enhancing intercultural communication.  4.3 The Indian Village and Show: Media Coverage Articles in the Vancouver News-Herald helped to publicize the event, naming the chiefs attending, focusing on the secret tribal dances, the “vague worries accompanying breaking the tradition of the elder chiefs,” and explaining that the performers were missing out on their fishing season (“36 Indians”). Misunderstandings involving the organizing committee and the performers were also eagerly reported in the press. The Jubilee Celebrations committee received a postcard written by Mrs. Alice Colclough of View Royal, Vancouver Island, on 5 July after hearing a Vancouver news broadcast. She reported: Chief William Scow, the agent of the Indians attending and taking part in the Diamond Jubilee celebrations, had stated they were keenly hurt at the treatment 149 they had received as for – standards of transport [and] accommodations. The clamour of the public – breaking into their village grounds instead of paying admission etc. That they had sacrificed by trading this for fishing at home. That they were playing on only because of their promise to make the governor general their Chief. I do beg of you to see that is an outstanding ceremony -- Thus do all you can to make up to them for such serious [mistakes]. (“Correspondence, Programmes, and Other Materials. 1946.”)   The problems continued and by 9 July, the News-Herald reported that the “Disgruntled Indians May Quit Show.” The performers found that the transportation and accommodation costs were taken out of the pay they were expecting. This left them with almost nothing and no ability to return home. They also explained that “unless a more equitable settlement is reached, plans to make Viscount Alexander an honourary chief will have to be abandoned” (“Indians, Jubilee”). By the next day, the News-Herald reported that a settlement had been reached, the Northern performers had returned home and the show and ceremony would continue.  The media surrounding the event are discussed in relation to art and resistance in Ronald Hawker’s Tales of Ghosts: First Nations Art in British Columbia, 1922-61: The local media appeared ready to follow a predictable pattern in promoting the village, but Scow and others led them in another direction. Thus, while Scow tantalized the public with the statement, “I can assure you the things our people will be bringing down with them have never been seen by white people,” he also made certain that band names such as Owakalagalis, Pilnaquwilwakwas, Humchitt, Owad, and Nagaeselaq received top print billing. Scow, as a member of 150 the Native Brotherhood leadership, was determined to make and control the First Nations presence at the jubilee. (Hawker 117)  Hawker also notes that the dances were being performed at a time when the potlatch ban was still in effect, “prohibiting First Nations people from dancing off their own reserves.” He theorizes that the dancers’ wearing of modern urban clothing asserted both their continuity with the past and their participation in contemporary life, and that their presence “suggested that modernity and First Nations integrity were not mutually exclusive and that First Nations identities were more than touristic” (120). Hawker concludes that through this event, as well as the founding of the Native Voice newspaper, “First Nations art became attached to the Native Brotherhood’s attempt to present First Nations individuals to the non-Aboriginal public as dignified, organized, and professional people” (121-22).  Hawker does not consider the implications of the physical bodies of performers at the particular site of Kitsilano Park. For my analysis of the event, the media uproar is also notable partly because of the awareness it brings to the physicality of the performers. It shows a transition. The performers were initially being treated as art objects that would not need anything beyond secure transport and a safe space to be viewed. Following the public voicing of their concerns, they were understood as people with immediate needs of comfortable transport, accommodation and food as well as long-term needs of recompense for their expertise that would offset any time lost from their regular work. Their threat to abandon the ceremony for the governor general and the response (by at least one member of the concerned public as demonstrated by Colclough’s letter) show that the civic organizers of the Jubilee were also invested in the ceremony for Viscount Alexander. The ceremony, which I will return to later, was to serve multiple needs of legitimation. Moving on from the ways that the media record of 151 the event shows the movement between object and subject, I will consider more carefully how the space of the performances, both the set design and the land itself, was also used to enact this shift.  4.4 Embodiment: Grounded Practices at səaqʷ/  Sen’ákw  The village site was open during the day for people to walk around and view “a traditional Indian way of life.” In a letter to the Jubilee Committee, R. E. Hiltz described the setting for the Village and Show as well as the intended effects: A giant tom tom measuring twenty (20) feet in diameter will be constructed in front centre of the Grand Stand, a narrow lip about the rim will conceale [sic] the lighting effects of various colors which will fold over the surface of the tom tom. the [sic] side will be covered with giant masks and totem design painted in luminous paint, a circle of light four feet from this will flood these figures.  Six thirty foot totem poles lean on an outward angle around the tom tom surmounted by giant Thunderbirds. These will also be painted in luminous paint, these should be visible from many parts of the city (an advertising advantage).  …Then will follow the fire dance the mask dance and feature of features “THE INITIATION OF THE DANCER”. These dances have never before been performed before white men. They are tribal and secret, but on this very special occasion will be presented. (“Vancouver Citizen’s Diamond Jubilee”) 152 Hiltz’s letter70 is notable for its description of the viewing opportunities that would be possible. First, the shape and description of the stage as a “giant tom-tom” effectively miniaturizes the performers. “Tom-tom” is a British word for a child’s toy drum and could be considered part of a derogatory colonial perspective minimizing the importance of an Indigenous drum (“American Indian Drums”). Making the stage a giant drum enables the performers to be viewed as portable souvenir objects seen as if from a distance (both through space and time). Hiltz is also aware of the dramatic opportunity of using light and darkness to highlight the secret nature of the dances. He describes using lights hidden on the interior lip of the stage as well as lights placed four feet out to illuminate the totem poles. The footlights illuminating the performers from below would add to the mysterious nature of the dances being performed, creating unusual shadows while at the same time focusing the viewer on the lower part of the dancers’ bodies. The poles leaning at an outward angle could be seen as ancient poles that are deteriorating and about to fall or, particularly with the lighting effects, as looming and threatening to the spectators. Hiltz also envisions the event in the context of the city skyline, wanting to create it on a scale that will be viewed from afar, attracting further attention as well as helping to brand the city.    The “giant tom-tom” is pictured in the program with four small dancers on it and described as a place where the “authentic” and “tribal secret” dances are enacted (see figure 4.10). Again, it emphasizes the restricted nature of the dances but highlights the power of the NBBC by explaining that they are being performed “on behalf of the efforts of the Native Brotherhood.” It also notes that “the masks surrounding are copies of genuine museum pieces”                                                 70	  The letter was a pitch to the organizing committee and may or may not accurately describe all the details of the eventual “Giant Tom-Tom” stage as it was built, although it does correspond with the drawing in the program. 	  	  153 (8). The reader (who may also be the spectator of the dances, although not necessarily) is briefly taken away from contemporary political concerns outlined in the preceding pages of the program and oriented instead towards the attraction of the restricted and authentic, and then returned with an awareness of the legitimization by the NBBC through museum culture.  The well-publicized ceremony involving the Governor General planned for the final day of the installation at 9:30 pm was the climax of the legitimization of the NBBC at this event. The newly appointed Governor General of Canada, British Field Marshal and World War II hero Viscount Alexander (Hillson 2), was made an honourary chief in a ceremony involving “eighteen Indian World War II veterans and twenty-five chiefs.” The ceremony is described in full detail in the program and in the first edition of the Native Voice. I will quote at length significant elements of both descriptions and then suggest how they could have affected the viewers. In the program the ceremony is described this way:  His Excellency, on arriving at the Village, comes to the east gate. From behind a raised dais at the south side a procession consisting of eighteen torch-bearers, chosen braves71 of the tribe who have served in World War II, followed by twenty-five chiefs in their full regalia, proceed to the east gate. A proclamation (upon their arrival at the east gate) is read by the Ceremonial Chief stating the desire that he become an Honorary Chief and the reasons for which he has been chosen. Then escorted by the chiefs, he advances to the dais. While the procession returns, Indian maidens rejoice and dance on the Giant Tom-Tom. Then, standing before the dais, His Excellency is robed and receives his headdress, ascends the                                                 71 The word “brave” is comparable to “tom-tom” in terms of its usage. 	  154 dais to his seat, flanked by all chiefs…The entire ceremony is in native tongue.  An interpreter will be supplied to analyse the entire procedure of the ceremonial dance and translate the Indian tongue. (16)  There are multiple photographs in the city of Vancouver archives of Chief William Scow, president of the NBBC, presenting Viscount Alexander, in his military uniform, with ceremonial dress. In the photo of Scow reading the declaration we can see that the NBBC has prepared the declaration to be seen (see figure 4.11). It is written formally on a large piece of paper and decorated; it can be seen as a prop as well as the text of a political speech. Also, significantly, in light of my earlier assertion of the miniaturizing and distancing power of the “giant tom-tom” as a performance space, this political ceremony is not taking place on that platform. Instead, the organizers have built a raised dais on which their bodies will be seen as occupying coeval time and space with the Governor General of Canada who, as a war hero and a federal official representing the King of England, has a larger-than-life presence. The “Indian maidens” rejoicing and dancing on the “giant tom-tom” marks them as of the past, with less status.  The decision to use Indigenous language72 and have it translated would also have an effect on the spectators. Why use two languages? A number of reasons could be at play: some of the attending Indigenous participants might be unilingual speakers of this language and this would be a mark of respect for them; it also would initially distance a settler audience, forcing them to concentrate on the visuals and then moments later give them an intelligible understanding, or it could be an attraction of the restricted, which the NBBC had been employing in their publicity materials. This splitting of attention creates a moment when disruption of stereotypical views can happen. The use of Indigenous language and its translation could also operate as an opportunity for                                                 72	  Likely Scow spoke in his own language, Kwakʼwala.  155 speaking aloud in public languages which were being suppressed in residential schools; therefore, it may also have been a method of knowledge transfer in line with Taylor’s definition of repertoire. This ceremony was clearly carefully organized for multiple purposes.  To understand some of the purposes more clearly, it is important to note the social and political context of this event. World War Two had just ended; post-war prosperity was beginning, along with a growing belief in universal human rights due to the allied powers’ fight against fascism. This resulted in a new willingness by the federal government to consider the plight of Aboriginal people in Canada. Moreover, the Indigenous people who had fought in the war returned “with much more sophistication about the ways of the world” (O’Donnell 47).  In 1946, a Special Joint Committee was appointed to revise the Indian Act and a delegation from the NBBC, including William Scow, appeared before them in May 1947. The summer of 1946, however, had been marked by discontent regarding unfair treatment of Indigenous war veterans. They were not accorded the same benefits as white veterans, e.g., off-reserve farmland or $2,300 grants to start a fishing business or build homes (“The Veterans Land Act”). The multiple notes in the program about Indigenous veterans as well as their physical participation as torch-bearers in this ceremony were a way for the NBBC to bring their existence to the awareness of the thousands of visitors to the site. Later that year, in December 1946, Armytage-Moore and the NBBC published the first edition of the Native Voice newspaper. The ceremony involving Viscount Alexander is covered on the second page. A large photo of William Scow putting the Thunderbird headdress on the Governor General’s head accompanies the article summarizing the ceremony. The unidentified writer mentions that the ceremony was witnessed “by thousands of spectators, many of whom had waited hours” (“Governor General Made Honorary Chieftain”). The paper’s description of 156 the ceremony is similar to the program’s: the “specially prepared dais” is noted, as are the tribal torchbearers.  This writer mentions, however, that the Governor General knelt before Chief Scow (see figure 4.12). The translated text of the speech that Scow gave is included at the end of the article, noting that eight British Columbia Chiefs had signed it: I hereby declare before the people assembled, the desire of the Indian people of the Brotherhood of British Columbia to confer the title of Honorary Chieftainship upon one –Viscount Alexander … Governor General of Canada: whereby Viscount Alexander did conduct himself and proved himself as a great leader and a great warrior for the causes held dear to peaceful and democratic nations and win the respect of the Indian peoples over which he did hold command in His Majesty’s armed forces during World War II., and did out of winning the gratitude and respect of the Indian peoples, earn for himself this, the highest honor the Indian Nation can give.  From this thirteenth day of July, one thousand nine hundred and forty-six, you shall be known as Chief NAKAPUNKIM, “Great Warrior,” and we, the undersigned, set our hand to witness that these things are so. Concurrent with the above, His Excellency – Viscount ALEXANDER, Governor General of Canada is duly registered with the Native Brotherhood of British Columbia as First Honorary Life President. (ibid) This speech was read in an Indigenous language and translated, so even if any of the spectators had not read the notes in the program about the Indigenous veterans participating as the torch-157 bearers, the words of the speech would have focused attention on the veterans and, if Scow chose to, he could have gestured to the men surrounding them.  Although it is not mentioned in either the program or the article, the Governor General was presented with a totem pole carved by Mungo Martin over the duration of the event at the site (“The Unveiling” 2).73 Hawker does note this in his analysis of the naming ceremony and terms it a “physical reminder of the chieftainship and the name [Chief Nakapunkim]…itself was Martin’s own prerogative” (Hawker 118-19). Martin’s physical presence while he carved, not just the end result of his work’s being presented to the Governor General, also emphasized the continuing contemporary culture of which he was a part. But, as an article by Paul St. Pierre shows, his presence could also have been viewed through the salvage paradigm: “As the eyes of hundreds of citizens at Kitsilano Indian Village Saturday night were fixed on the robed figure of the Governor General Alexander on the chief’s dais or on the garish masks of native dancers on the giant tom-tom stage, a craftsman of a dying art was working within a few yards of them unnoticed” (Major J.S. Matthews Newspaper Clippings). It is possible that this writer was judging Martin’s work by comparison with what he (and perhaps others) would consider the kitschy show biz of the “giant tom-tom.” Returning to the ceremony and dance performance, the Native Voice article contextualizes the nature of the dances being performed slightly differently:  The newly installed Chief, and incidentally the thousands of spectators, were treated to the spectacle of famous Indian secret dances never before performed before the eyes of white men. In fact, some of the dances were of such a secret                                                 73 The pole is installed in the garden at Rideau Hall, the official residence of the Governor General in Ottawa, and was repainted by Richard Hunt, Martin’s grandson, in 1997.	  158 nature that even many of the hundreds of Indians present had not witnessed nor had any previous knowledge of the stories or legends behind them as no written record in any language has ever been made. (“Governor General Made Honorary Chieftain)  This text supports John Comaroff and Jean Comaroff’s assertion, in Ethnicity, Inc. (2009), that “the producers of culture are also its consumers, seeing and sensing and listening to themselves enact their identity – and in the process, objectifying their own subjectivity, thus to recognize its existence, to grasp it, to domesticate it, to act on it and with it” (26, emphasis original). Likewise, Jennifer Kramer, in her study of the contemporary Nuxalk engagement with the commodification of their art, “Switchbacks: Selling Out or Buying In?”, identifies activities engaged in cultural tourism as a form of strategic essentialism, and asserts that this leads to a regaining of control, self-definition and self-display, concluding that “self-objectification can serve not only as a powerful force when reappropriated by Native peoples but also as an indispensable tool for identity construction and culture making – the prime ingredients in the cultural revival process” (50-1).  This text of the declaration and the events surrounding the Indian Village and Show help explain the NBBC’s involvement. By bringing the Indigenous veterans into the “Honorary Chieftain” ceremony the organization was reminding the general public that these men fought in the war, under this man’s command.  By bestowing a ‘chieftainship’ on him, they position themselves as a political body that can give honours. And as Susan Roy suggests in her article on Musqueam culture and BC centennial celebrations in 1966, “Perhaps making White dignitaries ‘Indian’ was a way to symbolically incorporate non-Aboriginals into the Aboriginal community, transforming White politicians into pseudo-kin or inter-villagers with certain obligations and 159 responsibilities” (2002 8). These public performances of language, dances and songs also could have helped maintain the cultural continuation of the repertoire at a time when ceremonies were illegal. They also could have been signaling that despite the ban on ceremony, their cultural activities were still strong.    Using resources that they had available to them, the NBBC was searching for ways to have a large audience engage with issues of veterans’ rights, living conditions and, more subtly, control of land.  The founding of the Native Voice was one such attempt as well as their decision to work with the VCDJC on the installation and performance as well as the ceremony with the Governor General.  By agreeing to work within a cultural event and performance framework, the NBBC had more room to advance their agenda. In a performance, set design and translated speech can influence spectators in subtle ways, as can the presence of live performers. Among the living artists here were Mungo Martin as he carved, the performers of the “secret dances,” and the war veterans as torchbearers. Recent theoretical work on Indigenous performance and cultural tourism informs considerations of these activities. Fred Myers, in his introduction to The Empire of Things, notes that the discussion of intercultural performances “ignore[s] the power of the exhibitionary gaze to impose identity, and the resulting stance still tends to dismiss intercultural productions of identity as complicitous…Critics seem ambivalent about such practices, reflecting a continuing view of colonialism as absolutely determinative and of native peoples as merely victims or passive recipients of the actions of others” (52-3). Also arguing against a simple view of colonialism as “absolutely determinative,” Paige Raibmon notes in “Theatres of Contact: The Kwakwaka’wakw meet Colonialism in British Columbia and at the Chicago World’s Fair” that “survival under colonialism required compromises. These 160 compromises were not necessarily symptoms of cultural decline, and they could often be signs of cultural resiliency” (11).   4.5 Present but Incomplete: William Scow’s Copyright Assignment  Although a great deal is present in the archive of the Indian Village and Show, the absence of photographs and responses to performances of the dances seems to be a gaping hole. As I was researching The Jubilee Show, however, I came across a document assigning copyright of “Indian Ceremonial Dances” to Chief William Scow, as well as copies of the photos themselves (“Vancouver Citizens’ Diamond Jubilee Committee to William Scow: Assignment”).74 At first I was stunned to find them in what I thought was the wrong file. The photos depict a multi-age gathering of exclusively Indigenous people in a wooden structure (perhaps a Big House). There are photos of masked performers on the ground and up on a raised platform as well as spectators. They seem to show that the “giant tom-tom” was not used as the site of performance and that there were more Indigenous spectators than settlers. In investigating the photos, I learned from Karen Duffek, Curator of Contemporary Visual Arts & Pacific Northwest at the UBC Museum of Anthropology, that the masks and gestures shown indicate that they were of a Kwakwaka’wakw dance, the Atłak̕im (“Re: Scow copyright document”).	  	  She also suggested I read Chief Robert Joseph’s account of dancing the Atłak̕im as a child in Down From the Shimmering Sky. His essay recounts his experience of the dance that was interrupted at Gilford Village:	  	                                                   74 I will not include the photos here, as I am still unclear of their status as restricted cultural knowledge.  	  161 My memory fails me somewhat, for I was then a little boy. My next recollection is that we reassembled in the Big House, still in full dress for the Atłak̕im, posing for	  photographs. I remember a policeman in uniform being there. No charges were laid, even though the anti-Potlatch statute was still in effect. My people were operating covertly to sustain their traditions, values and beliefs to which the mask is so integral. (Joseph 26).	   This account is illustrated by two of the photographs taken that night. One of them, from the BC archives, is exactly the same as one of the “Indian Ceremonial Dance” photos that Chief Scow purchased from the Vancouver Citizens’ Diamond Jubilee committee. Clearly, the photos I had found were not of the Indian Village and Show, but instead of the interrupted dance at Gilford Village, which also took place in 1946.  Further correspondence with Dr. Martha Black, Ethnology Curator from the Royal BC Museum, revealed more information on the photos from their description in the archives: “copy of a print owned by William Scow of Alert Bay. He claims that it was taken by a policeman at a dance at Gilford in 1946. This is not a potlatch, but rather a public dance program…Photographs taken inside Scow house” (“Re: Dance Photos”). The question now arises, why did the VCDJC own the copyright to these photos? Had someone from the organizing committee gone to see the dances and taken the photo? Had they been given to the committee as an artifact? Had they been part of the display during the installation? It makes sense that Scow wanted the copyright in order to be able to control the circulation of the photos, particularly since the dances may have had Kwakwaka’wakw cultural restrictions and were also still outlawed by Canadian federal law. The assignment purchase price of $1 indicates that it was a legal formality, not a commodity purchase, and also a degree of acknowledgement of his rightful ownership by the VCDJC.  162  4.6 Conclusion: Decolonization through Imaginative Space As a result of this copyright assignment, I began to reconsider the absences in the Indian Village and Show archive. Perhaps there are no records of the script or photos of the performance due to an exertion of restriction orchestrated by the NBBC leadership. This consideration would tell a very different story of the colonial archive and the knowledge passing through the repertoire.  The “secret dances” which had been so promoted in publicity materials were outlawed and therefore under stress because it was more difficult to pass on the knowledge. They also may not have been “secret” dances but instead some that were allowed to be performed at intercultural public events. The dancers also may have used the gathering as an opportunity to exchange knowledge while they were not publicly performing. Perhaps the NBBC chose to organize performers for the dances in order to continue to pass on the repertoire of ceremonial dances, while at the same time working with non-Indigenous allies in the organizing committee to uphold cultural restrictions through the control of photos. Textual evidence for public consumption was produced and preserved through the program, but visual evidence through photographs was either not produced or, if it was, the preservation has been restricted. Another clue that the NBBC was interested in promoting the dancing is the identity of the dances’ announcer, Chief Dan Cranmer (see figure 4.13). Cranmer was the host of the infamous potlatch held twenty-five years before this event, in 1921, where many participants had been arrested and some of them imprisoned when they were unwilling to surrender their dance regalia. The relinquished items were then sold to museums in the U.S and Canada (Hawker 17-33).75                                                   75 The chapter “The Cranmer Potlatch and Indian Agent Halliday’s Display” in Hawker’s book is an analysis of the significance of this event in the history of Indigenous art in BC (17-33). Much of the regalia seized from participants has since been repatriated and is on display at the U’Mista Cultural Centre in Alert Bay, BC. 163 Cranmer was a Kwakwaka’wakw leader and also a public figure who embodied a public defiance of the potlatch ban.   In taking time to consider the absences in the archive for this event, I have aimed to create a pause in my analysis to focus on what is absent from the archive of the Indian Village and Show and think creatively about why some things might not be there. My aim is not to discount what is available through the archive, but to acknowledge the biases that helped to create it (as detailed extensively in the previous chapter) and the powers that may have kept things from inclusion.   As a performative event that celebrated the 60th anniversary of the city of Vancouver, The Indian Village and Show contrasted greatly with The Jubilee Show by featuring Indigenous people who were modern, politically engaged cultural producers who knew that settler curiosity about their culture could be a source of power for them. The narrative of Indigenous displacement and settler emplacement that was being performed in The Jubilee Show at Brockton Point nightly had a counter-narrative being performed twice daily during the same period to the south around the peninsula and across the bay  in Kitsilano Park (see figure 1.3). Thus the VCDJC failed to create a single large-scale narrative of the city’s history in The Jubilee Show. By revising the script and commissioning the NBBC, a mainly northern-based pan-tribal organization, to put on the Indian Village and Show, they seem to already have had some doubt that such a historical narrative could exist. The organizing that went on in the next few years also shows this ambivalence. In 1949, the new Mayor, Charlie Thompson (who had been part of the VCDJC), would form the “Totem-land Society” with members of city council, Harry Duker (also                                                                                                                                                         164 from the Jubilee committee), Maisie Armytage-Moore and members of the NBBC to work on branding Vancouver as “Totem-land.” The sole surviving document from this society is a letter regarding finding the exact location of a midden76 and posting signage, an attempt to re-place Indigenous history within the urban landscape (see figure 4.14) (Phillips 51-4). The municipally controlled organizing committee, while staging a colonial narrative of the city that glorified settlers in Stanley Park, also attempted to work with an Indigenous political organization that strategically performed some elements of their cultural heritage in order to maintain a presence and influence the future. It is notable, however, that the citizens’ committee did not ask local Indigenous people from Musqueam, Tsleil-Waututh and Squamish to host the show. This may have been because their claim to the land (although not legally recognized) would have been too legitimate. The NBBC also may have been chosen because of the size of its organization and its ability to gain support from across the province.   The land on which the Indian Village and Show was staged has continued to be a place of historical performance in many ways. It is the location of the City of Vancouver Archives, the Planetarium and Museum of Vancouver, the Maritime Museum and the summer Bard on the Beach Shakespeare Festival. It is also a place that has electrified the discussion of Indigenous land use in urban space. Since the 2002 decision that awarded a fraction of it to the Skwxwú7mesh Nation, they have had to decide what to do with the valuable land. A few months before the 2010 Winter Olympic juggernaut descended on the city, the Skwxwú7mesh Nation erected a massive double-sided electronic billboard on the west side of the Burrard Bridge which, along with three other billboards on their North Shore lands, will generate $1                                                 76	  The letter is not explicit but is likely talking about what was known as the Marpole Midden or	  əsnaʔəm. 	  	  165 million/year for the next thirty years (Stewart). The outcry from neighbours was predictable, mainly concerning the blocking of expensive views by the unsightly advertising, yet the project went ahead. Of more interest to me, particularly given the Indian Village and Show installation with its use of art for political purposes, was the “Digital Natives” project that took place in April 2011 on the billboards near Burrard Bridge. For one month, interspersed with the ads for large corporations, were 140 character messages, some in Skwxwú7mesh, Kwak’wala and həəmiə. The many messages that glowed either in white text on the red illuminated background, or red text on a white background against the grey Vancouver sky, cycled through with the advertisements at ten second intervals. One of the messages, “Dukwida’masixwa ‘kikw?/ Can you see the Totem Pole?” is attributed to Kwakwaka’wakw artist and scholar Marianne Nicolson. She explains it as an effort to play with ideas about the existing copy of a Mungo Martin totem pole outside of the Maritime Museum, and the billboard itself as a mimicking of the “Pacific Coast Aboriginal public declaration of rank and ownership traditionally expressed by the ‘totem pole’” as well as the acknowledgement of the awkward and disputed practice of having “Kwakwaka’wakw art in Coast Salish territory” (Brown 53). Nicolson’s message also seems appropriate to consider as a reference to the Indian Village and Show, a performative intervention of strategic grounded practices organized by the NBBC on Coast Salish land, which glowed briefly in 1946, also within textual and visual parameters.  That the work of the NBBC continues to be an inspiration to performers will be discussed in the following interlude about Marie Clements’ The Road Forward. I also return to the work of performers in connecting with land in the next chapter, only this time with a more explicit cooperation between a provincial Indigenous organization and local Indigenous peoples, returning to the site of χʷaχʷə. 166 Interlude: Iterations of Marie Clements’ The Road Forward Indigenous performances staged for large-scale spectacles, international festivals and those which circulate as film on the internet can be ripe sources of information about embodied performance and heritage transmission that are concurrently expressive of local voices and intentionally aiming to influence global cultural flows. In this interlude I explore some iterations and phenomenological dimensions77 of a performance event that has circulated in each of the aforementioned formats in the past five years, Marie Clements’ The Road Forward.   On the final day of the 2010 Winter Olympics held in Vancouver, at the Aboriginal Pavilion, “The Road Forward,” a musical performance installation created and directed by Clements, composed by Jennifer Kreisberg and choreographed by Michael Greyeyes, was performed six times for the international audiences attending this mega-event. The technical rehearsal for this performance was also filmed. Clements then developed it into an award-winning music video which circulated to sixteen film festivals in North America and Europe, and continues to be available online (“The Road Forward Program” 2). In February 2013 at Vancouver’s PuSh International Performing Arts Festival, red diva projects (Clements and Michelle St. John’s company)78 developed a full-length “Aboriginal blues/rock multi-media musical” which was performed one night only at Club PuSh, and subsequently remounted for a                                                 77	  I am using here modes described by Bert States in “The Actor’s Presence: Three Phenomenal Modes.” His modes are the self-expressive, during which we have an awareness of the virtuosic artistry of the actor (26); the collaborative, which breaks down the distance between performer and audience, making a more dynamic relationship possible, one that says “we are in this together” (29, 33); and the representational, which is in the “key of he, she, it and they” when an actor becomes a character (33).	  78 red diva projects is committed to “the development, creation, and production of innovative works of live performance and new media…that are ready to shape and shift, encircling artists of all disciplines who are willing to answer the call for social change through artistic expression…specializ[ing] in the development of original works that reflect an integrated Aboriginal perspective and a highly actualized creative process towards production” (“The Road Forward Program 3). 167 three night run during the 2015 PuSh festival.79 A full analysis of all four iterations is beyond the scope of this short interlude, and while I will be referring to the music video, I will mainly discuss the 2013 live performance.  The program for this event, designed as if it were a replica of the Native Brotherhood of BC’s newspaper, The Native Voice, explicitly connects the performance with activist work done by the Brotherhood and Sisterhood from the 1930s to the ‘70s.80 The program also links the NBSBC’s activist work with the Constitution Express of the 1980s and the contemporary Idle No More movement.81 In her program notes Clements says,  The Road Forward was and is an opportunity to create something that can sing inside an audience – the possibility to place this little known history inside our collective voice…not just so we get to know it, but so that we get to understand it is a part of ourselves…so that it can make us stand taller, appear bigger, move forward understanding that creating change for the better is a long tradition. (3, italics added)  The events and film present the singers and musicians in a self-expressive virtuosic performance mode, singing compositions that integrate traditional and contemporary music, while also performing in a representational mode as historical personae to bring attention to local                                                 79 The PuSh International Performing Arts Festival happens every year for three weeks in January and presents “work that is visionary, genre-bending, multi-disciplined, startling and original. The Festival showcases acclaimed international, Canadian and local artists and mixes them together with an alchemy that inspires audiences, rejuvenates artists, stimulates the industry and forges productive relationships around the globe” (“About & History”).   80	  Clements’ The Road Forward explicitly credits the Native Brotherhood and Sisterhood, and it seems that this is her effort to credit the women’s work retroactively. Following her lead I will also refer to the Brotherhood and Sisterhood as working together, and in this section abbreviate the organization as the NBSBC.	  81 “… photographs from the Constitution Express, besides the obvious difference in clothing and hairstyles, look fairly similar to the photos and videos you’ve no doubt seen of the Idle No More protests” (“The Road Forward Program” 2).  168 Indigenous histories. Projections of archival documents also aided in the re-presenting of these histories. During the PuSh Festival, the projections expanded to include a live streaming of video and a Twitter feed. These elements allowed for a collaborative performance mode, asserting the contemporary connections to the heritage of the absent activists and ancestors. All iterations use frontside characters along with both simultaneous and alternating exposures of the backside singers, actors, and activists, which Bert States has described as deliberate phenomenological perceptions that demonstrate theatrical collaboration, which “displays the drama of presence and absence” (28). I assert that Clements’ The Road Forward responds to pressures of globalization to package one-dimensional historicized Indigenous characters by instead circulating uncontained continuing identities presented through the use of modalities of performance that insist on affective connections and historical inter(in)animations with the present and future. Before I begin my analysis of the performance, I would also like to link this work with some of Schneider’s ideas of performativity and historical reenactment, referred to earlier in the chapter on Matthews’ rededication reenactments. Schneider explains the significance of affect, which she borrows from feminist theory because it usefully resists the binary in which performance studies still gets mired (e.g., text vs. embodied gesture or live performance vs. recorded). Affect (or feeling, emotion) is situated in between; it is sticky and jumps between bodies and time, moving us. She connects this to the Deleuzian “assemblage” used “to unsettle the rootedness of identity, to gesture not only to mobility but also to the always already crossingness, or betweeness, or relationality of the sets of associations that make up something resembling identity” (35-6, italics original). Attention to affect then leads to a notion of the temporal drag and reach, the idea that time is flexible, not linear, and that the past can be 169 dragged into the present while the present also reaches into the future, which contributes to the “interaction or inter(in)animation of one time with another” (31).  Although The Road Forward is not exactly an historical reenactment, these terms are useful in helping us think about how the performance revives history and connects it with the present.  In the music video,82 the performance included women dressed in 1950s style costumes, evoking The Supremes, and combined the frontside (on stage) view with the backside (in the darkened room). The glowing orb that floats throughout the song showing archival images also haunts it. As the song progresses, the viewer can see that during the 2010 performance the archival images were projected on the dome of the Aboriginal Pavilion and this is what the performers are singing and raising their hands to.   I begin by isolating moments of the various performative modes and then identifying how they each contribute to the temporal drag cross-constituting the present artists/activists with their ancestors. I use this to connect with the significance of the music in the reenactment of the NBSBC archives. The singers have a strong self-expressive presence. The ensemble sang eighteen songs, ten of which had lyrics by Marie Clements and were mainly composed by Jennifer Kriesberg and/or Wayne Lavallee. Two songs were covers. One was the Native American band Redbone’s 1974 hit, “Come and Get Your Love,” described by the band leader and contributing composer, Mwalim/ Morgan James Peters, as “a tribute to REDBONE and Vegas Lolly, as well as a statement about Idle No More being all about NDN and first [sic] Nation People getting our love/ what we are entitled to” (Peters). The other cover was of Labelle’s 1975 disco hit “Lady Marmalade.”                                                 82 The full ten minute video is available online at the National Screen Institute website: 	  170 These songs allow the singers, St. John and Kreisberg along with Cheri Maracle, to soar and show off a range and vocal power that makes me aware of their presence as supremely talented people. As Peter Dickinson wrote in his blog, Performance, Place, Politics, they were the “vocal soul” of a “galvanizing evening” (“PuSh 2013”). This focus on the women’s voices also underscores the intention of honouring the women activists from the Native Sisterhood of BC, memorializing missing and murdered Aboriginal women as well as connecting with the powerful women from Saskatoon who had spurred the Idle No More movement and Chief Teresa Spence, whose six-week hunger strike had ended only a week previous to this performance. The strength of all these women’s voices is represented in St. John, Kriesberg and Maracle’s performances. The artistry of these women singers as well as the other musicians overtly commands our attention, and the performers do not fully disappear into their roles.  So while they are costumed to evoke a past era, and some of the musical choices as well as the projected archival materials also support this past-ness, their self-expressive presence kept asserting the present.  Another way we are kept aware of the present moment is through the use of multiple collaborative performance elements by which Clements shifts awareness back and forth between the audience and performers. The Club PuSh performance space is set up cabaret-style and most of the audience space is made up of chairs surrounding small tables, encouraging audience members to be aware of each other and interact. The show opens with people coming in through the audience, singing and drumming. Xále/Sekyú Siyám, Chief Ian Campbell of the Squamish Nation, sings a Canoe Journey Song, and then another, unidentified older man speaks in həәəәmiəә and translates his welcome. Thus, the opening is a direct connection to our presence on Coast Salish lands, following welcoming protocols, and an indication of how this 171 intra-nation Indigenous performance is also a grounded practice. The performative mode here is one of direct connection between the speakers and witnesses.  In a further effort to unsettle the usual performer/audience viewing perspective, after the musicians enter and start an instrumental opening to the show, a projection of three women in a dressing room lights up a large frame-style hand drum propped up at the front of the stage. At first it is unclear whether this is recorded footage or live-streamed. The women are fixing their make-up in a mirror and putting finishing touches on their costumes. The music mounts as they get ready, then leave the dressing room and make their way through the building to backstage with their images still projected on the drum. We start to hear singing from somewhere behind, and then finally they burst onto the stage. Like the placement of the seating and the opening welcome songs, this detail focuses us on the stage as a place of performance and then, as the singing starts, folds us back into our roles as audience members. The closing images return to this mode. As the evening starts to wind up, ushers circulate through the audience giving out 3D glasses. The images are then projected in 3D as more performers come onstage – and everyone sings some unidentified West Coast style traditional songs.83 While this is going on, the drum, which has been used as a screen on and off through the show, now has a live Twitter stream projected onto it. It takes me a while to understand that the tweets are from other audience members. I am distracted by this at first, then I realize, with the combination of the professional and amateur performers singing traditional and contemporary music while 3D archival and contemporary images float behind them, that the tweets are another assertion of live continuity. It is also significant that this is happening as #Idle No More is all                                                 83	  I use the term traditional here to describe songs based on Indigenous cultural knowledge that has been passed down through generations, employing forms, lyrics and musicality that are connected to past practices but also responsive to contemporary experience.	  172 over the twitter-sphere, and the movement has been mentioned repeatedly over the evening, connecting the current activism with the historic work. This use of projected images also brings to mind Schneider’s assertions about the “future that subsists in the still.” Schneider suggests that the “future subsists not only in the photo but through the ‘we’ who look to ‘rediscover it’ as ‘still’ – ‘still’ in the sense of the term that signifies remaining, more than silence and motionlessness” (161-62). These layered moments of performance as the event concludes bring the collapse of the present and the historical to a crescendo.  Just before this finale comes a moment that makes particularly powerful use of the representative performance mode, which has been balancing with the self-expressive and collaborative modes throughout the night. A major focus of the work, as mentioned, is to represent historical archival material through the use of costume, images and, most significantly for this next example, song lyrics.  Ostwelve/ Ron Dean Harris sings a song based on the words of a speech by George Manuel, a šəәxʷepməәx leader influential in Canadian and international Indigenous organizing. Manuel was instrumental in the national organizing against Trudeau’s “White Paper,”84 and internationally he was involved in the creation of the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. He also coordinated support to ensure the protection of Aboriginal rights within the Canadian Constitution as a major organizer of the Constitution Express (“Chief George Manuel”; “Constitution Act”). Ostwelve’s song was called “If You Really Believe.” It was a hip hop style iteration of a 1979 speech by Manuel (“Education Workshop”); the song                                                 84	  The 1969 “White Paper” was a policy paper put forward by Pierre Trudeau and Minister of Indian Affairs Jean Chrétien, aiming to put an end to the legal relationship between Canada and Aboriginal peoples through the dismantling of the Indian Act. It was met with great opposition by Indigenous leaders as it was considered another attempt at assimilation (“The White Paper 1969”). The political organizing in response to the White Paper could be compared to the effects of Bill C-45 and the Idle No More movement.	  173 lyrics repeatedly assert Manuel’s words: “if you really believe that education for our children (or health care, or housing…) is our right…you don’t ask for it… you take it.” Ostwelve’s performance is riveting, aggressive and emotional. He holds his lower body still, stares straight out at the audience, and slowly gestures with the hand holding his drum at the group of people watching him as he addresses us directly. His skill as a self-expressive performer is on display while at the same time he represents George Manuel’s speech, thereby connecting our present with this past through affect.   As Clements herself points out in the program, the event is a fusing of ink and voice. She is playing with words here as she discusses the influential newspaper, the Native Voice, and the voices of the singers and artists we encounter at the event. Her choice of a musical as the form through which to express this history is significant. Song and music, as Gilbert and Tompkins point out in Postcolonial Drama, can be “‘detached’ from the theatre event by the audience to live on after the performance’s conclusion when the audience retells or resings parts of the theatrical presentation as an act of memory” (194). Music can also be a powerful transmitter of intense emotional affect. And even more significantly, as I consider the chiasmatic meeting of the present with the past when playing music, Schneider points out that playing music is not only mimetic representation but also a making of music. It is both action and representation, “the beloved and often discussed conundrum of theatricality in which the represented bumps uncomfortably (and ultimately undecideably) against the affective, bodily instrument of the real” (41). So as the musicians, singers and artists perform, inspired by the Native Brotherhood and Sisterhood of BC, whether they are performing original compositions or those based on texts of activist ancestors or even covers of 1970s pop songs, they are always in the present tense, 174 expressing emotion in a way that travels with audience members out of the venue and into the future.   These iterations of this performance have garnered attention from various audiences globally (including now this one). The dense layering of self-expressive, collaborative and representational performance modes in a musical format successfully inter(in)animates the activist continuum of Indigenous peoples – those alive, working and performing right now, along with generations of their ancestors. The significance of this lies not just in its assertion of a continuing presence against the uninformed view that Indigenous peoples of the Americas tragically vanished. While this assertion is (unfortunately, tiresomely) still necessary at times, the event is also significant for demonstrating the effectiveness of using various phenomenological performance modes to fold time. The Road Forward briefly opens a place where the people posing and looking at the camera in old photos or the writers who committed their ideas to paper can be understood to have been active in their own time while, simultaneously, their eyes and words reach to the future, ready for our gaze to reanimate them. Having these archival works floating through the air (in 3D!) while the singers perform history through songs passed on by a physical repertoire blends Indigenous and Western historiographic methods. They are layered and balanced in such a way that neither the present nor the past takes precedence. Times co-exist, depending on which mode the audience member chooses to access.  Besides being an entertaining and inspiring evening that brought people together to collaborate, The Road Forward reenactment of the NBSBC archives in the context of the Idle No More movement also demonstrates how this kind of inter(in)animation can be part of a revolution. In this time of resurging activity and strength, connecting with the power of those who have passed, not merely by understanding the historical facts of their activities but by 175 summoning their presence, will contribute to the forward momentum through a temporal reach.  To complete my discussion of this work, I would like to return to the song The Road Forward85 and quote a few lines:  I feel you beside me, I know your name.   I hear your voice becoming ours, it is the same …  I feel your breath, I know your pain, I hear you cry.  We carry the load together, you and I.  The words themselves are powerful and I feel a bit of chill as I write them out, responding to the summoning to carry the load. I hope that my reader is also similarly affected.                                                  85 Also melding her artwork with activism, Clements donates all proceeds from the sale of the mp3 or DVD of this work to a scholarship for children of missing and murdered Aboriginal women. Both are available through the red diva projects website: 	  176 Chapter 5:  Indigenous Performative Interventions at Klahowya Village On a hot day in late July 2010, I walked through an area of Stanley Park, the thousand-acre urban park in downtown Vancouver, with some youth participants of an exchange program I was hosting between East Vancouver and Fort Good Hope, Northwest Territories.86 We had stopped on our way to a picnic lunch at the beach for the northern youth to have a chance to see some huge west coast trees. After we passed the aquarium, a sign caught our attention. It advertised Klahowya Village and, just behind it, Coast Salish iconography decorated the entranceway, a false wall of a longhouse made up of cedar planks with two large cut-outs of red hands upraised in a gesture of thanks and welcome (the logo of the Aboriginal Tourism Association of British Columbia). I had heard of the recently opened tourist attraction, but we had not planned on bringing our visitors to the site. However, they were interested and so we walked through, stopping to rest beside a carver working on a tree stump. He engaged some of us in conversation and when he learned that our group was participating in a youth exchange, he decided to perform a ceremony with us. He had us join hands in a circle around the stump he was working on and explained that he wanted us to help him connect with the spirit of the wood. A singer in costume danced and drummed as we circled and sang along. As the song ended, he asked us all to lay our hands on the wood. Then we packed up and went on our way.  I was left feeling ambivalent. I did not understand what I had just experienced. I am wary of much of the cultural tourism that happens in Vancouver’s public spaces and suspicious of the commodification of Indigeneity. We had not been asked to pay any money for our experience but                                                 86	  From 2002-10, I was a co-organizer for a youth exchange program run by the Purple Thistle Centre, an arts and activism collective run by youth in East Vancouver. The program involves exchanges with the Sahtu Dene people of Fort Good Hope, Northwest Territories, and is intended to build ongoing relationships between the two communities. 	  177 there were artisan-made cedar bark hats, dreamcatchers and bentwood boxes as well as tickets to the “Spirit Catcher” train ride for sale. I did not know where the performers and artists at the village had come from or who was paying them to be there, yet our interactions with them were positive. I felt uncomfortable and wanted to know why. This chapter87 is a result of my trying to understand the source of that discomfort. In it, I argue that the presence of performing artists at this culturally significant site in Vancouver –metres from χʷaχʷə, and, as detailed in chapter three, a diligently assembled public archive – asserts a limited form of visual sovereignty. Michelle Raheja has described this practice in Indigenous filmmaking as one that addresses settler populations by using stereotypical self-representations while it connects to aesthetic practices that strengthen treaty claims and more traditional cultural understanding by revisiting, borrowing, critiquing and stretching ethnographic conventions (19, 193).88 Encountering the stereotypes employed in this process could have been one source of the discomfort I felt, as could my venturing into an unsettling space inflected by colonial conventions. Expanding on Raheja’s analysis of visual sovereignty in Indigenous filmmaking to consider the performative aspects of a live event, I show the significance of the grounded practices of the performers at Klahowya Village creating eddies of influence within the layered archival architecture of this tourist space.  Diana Taylor distinguishes between the archive, which she argues is generally misconceived as unmediated records that work across distance, space and time to preserve memory, and the repertoire, which “requires presence: people participate in the production and                                                 87…	  and	  much	  of	  the	  rest	  of	  this	  dissertation.	  88	  Raheja is careful to explain that in using the word “sovereignty” she engages with the discourse concerning Indigenous concepts of sovereignty that pre-date European nation-to-nation conceptualizations, asserting that the “English word ‘sovereignty,’ then, becomes the placeholder for a multitude of Indigenous designations employed to describe the concept that also takes into account the European origins of the idea” (198).	  178 reproduction of knowledge by “being there,” being a part of the transmission” (19-20). She asserts that the repertoire is equally important as “a system of learning, storing, and transmitting knowledge,” and that the archive and the repertoire exist in a constant state of interaction, thus expanding what we understand as knowledge (16, 21). In order to access this knowledge Taylor develops a methodology of focusing on the scenario, which draws attention to the repertoire by emphasizing the power of performance to transmit knowledge, social memory and identity (28-33). As the stripping of knowledge containing social memory and identity has been one of the methods employed in the colonial process to eliminate Indigenous people’s culture (as exemplified by the residential schools system in Canada), the use of the repertoire to transmit that knowledge is an important means of recuperating Indigenous subjectivities. My intention is to explore not only how Indigenous people resist colonialism in the present, but also how Indigenous knowledge is transmitted through performances that do not depend on the colonial archive. I also contend that the visual sovereignty asserted in this place creates a new archive to interact with this repertoire. Focusing on multiple modes of performance observed over seven site visits in the summer of 2012, I examine the scenario of touristic encounter layered into the village, taking into account the physical location and historical context of Indigenous performance in this region. This focus on the scenario illuminates the knowledge transmission that occurs through the embodiment of social actors and the use of formulaic structures that predispose certain outcomes while also allowing for reversal, parody and change. I also consider the implications of what non-Indigenous people might consider “aberrant” cultural practices during a live performance as opposed to a film (Raheja 204). Following Taylor’s emphasis on the repertoire and the archive as not being sequential or binary (22), and using Raheja’s notion of visual 179 sovereignty to analyze the site design of the tourist village as an intervention in the colonial archive, I demonstrate how Klahowya Village presents an enterprise that asserts sovereignty while enabling some intra-nation Indigenous transfer of knowledge, although it is also structurally limited as a site of Indigenous critique of settler society due to its status as a touristic spectacle.   5.1 A Coast Salish Genealogy of Cultural Performance Settler government policy in Canada and British Columbia has a long history of funding cultural projects to capitalize on Aboriginal tourism, dating back to the early days of European settlement. One commentator asserts, “Young people today are not able to find employment because they are not trained for new fields in business life. … Indian young people, by reviving old native arts, will find a profitable trade in the tourist industry” (Dawn 12). This quotation could easily be from a recent news conference, but it is not. The speaker is R.A. Hoey, head of the Indian Affairs Welfare and Training Division Arts program, who came to Vancouver in 1938 to announce the federal government’s new policy regarding First Nations art. Although the government had outlawed traditional ceremonial practices in the late nineteenth century, it began at this point to encourage traditional artistic practices for economic uses. While not explicitly articulated in government policy, the fact that performances were banned while visual arts were encouraged is an indication that performance had the power to unsettle colonialist operations. The potlatch ban was enacted in 1884, thirteen years after the colony of British Columbia joined Confederation, and remained in place until 1951 even though Indigenous groups publicly resisted its strictures through petitions such as the one signed by Coast Salish people in 1910 (Shaw and Campbell “Book 2” 165). As Dawn explains, the 1938 policy has been considered the 180 spur that started a post-war revival in Indigenous art production, but it was already flourishing. Instead, the policy helped to change the audiences for that cultural production from Indigenous to non-Indigenous people and recontextualized its tangible creations within museums as aesthetic objects that were consumable commodities, “divorced from cultural meanings” (Dawn 43).  This policy may have been influential in the NBBC’s involvement in the 1946 celebrations of Vancouver’s Diamond Jubilee discussed in the previous chapter. Centennial celebrations have also been a recurring site of Indigenous cultural performance. Susan Roy positions the Musqueam involvement in the 1966 Centennial celebrations in BC, including their enactment of a warrior dance at a totem pole raising in Tsawwassen, south of Vancouver, as performing resistance to settler efforts to culturally homogenize all BC First Nations people. She also examines their decision to use sχʷayχʷəy dance in a ceremony making a mayor into a chief, and reads it as strategic:   [I]f we understand politics to encompass the strategies employed by Aboriginal communities to further their existence, visibility, and recognition as nations, then other activities (such as the display of expressive culture) can also be understood as political strategies. … Cultural performance makes the connection between people and place visible, tangible, and, it is hoped, memorable. (Roy 2002 90) Roy’s observations support the idea that performances were banned because of their usefulness as political strategy and their ability to unsettle. Indigenous cultural performances continued to be supported by governments and used strategically by First Nations groups in this region throughout the 20th century and into the 21st, the most internationally visible taking place during the 2010 Winter Olympics opening ceremony and the accompanying Cultural Olympiad.  As discussed briefly in Chapter Two, a significant element of the plans made by the 181 Vancouver Organizing Committee (VANOC) for the 2010 Olympic and Paralympic Winter Games was the negotiated involvement of some Indigenous groups and the creation of the Four Host First Nations (FHFN) organization to officially represent the Lil’wat, Musqueam, Squamish and Tsleil-Waututh people on whose territories the events were being held.  Their involvement and representation were intended to ensure economic benefit to these First Nations groups while at the same time legitimating the Olympic movement’s social impact (Silver, Meletis and Vadi 294). O’Bonsawin asserts that the 2010 Winter Games influenced the modern treaty process by motivating the government to settle with First Nations on whose land a major ferry dock would be built in order to avoid disruption in transportation, and that the process also “encourage[d] First Nations communities … to develop tourist centres with the purpose of promoting Indigenous cultures” (151-52). Her assertions make explicit the connections between land, political negotiations of power and performative events at this time and place.  The opening ceremonies of the Olympic Games featured members of the FHFN who entered immediately after the national anthem in full regalia, speaking words of welcome in their own languages while four massive welcoming statues with arms outstretched rose from the stage. The spectacle then expanded to include hundreds of Aboriginal people from across Canada, dancing in the arena in arresting costumes throughout the hour-long parade of the athletes (“Opening Ceremony - Complete Event”). The games also featured an Aboriginal Pavilion that showcased 232 performances89 as well as a film, We are Here, projected on the inside of the dome (“Sustainability Report” 85, 82). Of the hundreds of events staged during the Cultural Olympiad, 21 were categorized by VANOC as Aboriginal, including two original plays. Bruce                                                 89	  Including	  as	  the	  closing	  performance	  the	  first	  iteration	  of	  “The	  Road	  Forward,”	  discussed	  in	  the	  previous	  interlude.	  182 Ruddell’s musical, Beyond Eden, dramatized Canadian artist Bill Reid’s 1957 expedition to recover totem poles in Ninstints on Haida Gwaii, and Marie Clements’ The Edward Curtis Project recontextualized the work of renowned photographer Edward Curtis by imagining him in dialogue with a contemporary Indigenous journalist who is trying to deal with the traumatic deaths of two young children (Couture 2010 10-17). The work done by the FHFN organization during the Olympics is in keeping with the genealogy of ongoing federally and provincially funded projects (as mentioned above) to increase Aboriginal tourism. Since 1997, a closely related organization, Aboriginal Tourism of British Columbia (AtBC), has been offering training, resources and networking to First Nations entrepreneurs and communities working in the tourism business (“Canada Boosting”; “About Us”, 2013). The organization has been the recipient of over $10 million of combined federal and provincial funding in just the last seven years (“Canada Boosting”; “$150K Grant”; “$5 Million”). Klahowya Village is one of AtBC’s current projects and clearly a genealogical descendant of governments’ past promotions of Aboriginal tourism for economic stability and its use as political strategy for First Nations groups, which includes performances of grounded practices.   5.2 Archive: Context, Site, Naming and Place One part of the strategy is the re-branding of the site on which Klahowya Village is located. In his broad-ranging study of Pacific performances, Christopher Balme draws from Taylor’s concepts when he describes the buildings of Hawaii’s Polynesian Cultural Centre as an archive (2007 186). Similarly, the site of Klahowya Village is an archive in the process of a politically motivated mediation, a concept Taylor elaborates in discussing the myths of the archive (19). In 2009, the City of Vancouver Board of Parks and Recreation, facing a budget 183 shortfall, decided to close the Children’s Farmyard in Stanley Park. It had been losing money for years and the city chose not to subsidize it further. In May 2010 the Board approved a motion that AtBC open Klahowya Village, using the existing miniature railway90 at the site as an Aboriginal cultural tourism attraction and renaming it the “Spirit Catcher Train” (“Minutes” 2010). Klahowya Village has been running each summer since, expanding each year.  Currently there is no admission fee, but a small amount is charged for the train ride. The Village is now layered over the various other signifiers of farm life left from the Children’s Farmyard. In the summer of 2012 a tipi structure was set up in the middle of a yard that is surrounded by two barns, livestock pens, a red cast-iron water pump, some split-rail fencing and rough stonewalls (see figure 5.1). The former ticket booth to the farmyard was a BC Métis Federation exhibit of information and artifacts. The miniature railway, which winds through the forest around various remnants of farm life (a farmhouse, covered wagon, wooden water wheel and woodshed) as well as plastic replicas of livestock, has been transformed into the Spirit Catcher ride with the addition of two tunnels: when I visited, the entrance had poster-sized photos of a tipi, a child in dancing regalia and a man drumming; the exit tunnel had glow-in-the-dark fluorescent masks. The farmhouse roof was adorned with a cutout eagle, and over-sized bentwood boxes were placed as props throughout the forest for the use of the costumed performers acting out the “Legend of the Sasquatch.” As previously discussed, the miniature railway is itself a particularly significant example of archival architecture – the engine of the train is a replica of Canada Pacific Railway Engine #374, which pulled the first Canadian transcontinental passenger train into Vancouver in 1887 (“Stanley Park Miniature Train”).                                                 90	  This is the same miniature railway that was opened in 1964 with a reenactment of the dedication of the park and the hammering of the last spike discussed in chapter three.	  184 Although some European settlement had occurred in the area for sixty years, the arrival of the railway consolidated the incorporation of the existing settlement into the city of Vancouver. The name of the village installation, Klahowya, is explained with signage at both entrances:   Prior to European contact, the Aboriginal people of BC spoke Chinook, a trade jargon that was spoken between several First Nations and was made up by many First Nations languages which allowed communication and trade of resources that were not typically found in one zone territories. The Chinook language was used from Baja to Alaska and into Montana. In Chinook, Klahowya means Welcome.  The use of the Chinook word for “Welcome” to name the village is diplomatic. As a language developed for intercultural communication, Chinook signifies the cross-cultural contact that is expected to happen between tourists and Indigenous representatives at the site. It also signifies, however, that this site of χʷaχʷə as well as Stanley Park and Vancouver in general are on unceded and overlapping territories of Coast Salish nations. Each host nation, the Musqueam, Skwxwú7mesh and səәliwəәtaʔɬ, was represented by signage at the Eagle entrance. The Musqueam sign emphasized the continuing presence of Musqueam people “on this location where you now stand,” explained the meaning of their name to be “People of the River Grass,” relayed their origin story and stressed the importance of runners in protecting their land. The sign also explained the orthographic system of həəmiə and depicted the 2010 Canadian Olympic hockey team’s jersey, which was designed by Musqueam artist Debra Sparrow. The Skwxwú7mesh sign incorporated text in their language, as well as a map of their territory identifying Klahowya Village as the site of the Skwxwú7mesh village of Xwayxway. Modern and historical photographs of Skwxwú7mesh people were also included. The səәliwəәtaʔɬ sign 185 was printed in həəmiə first and then translated into English; they identified themselves as People of the Inlet, described their traditional lands, mentioned their creation story and emphasized their knowledge of the land and the connection between the health of their culture and the health of the environment. The sign depicted Chief Dan George, a famous leader, poet and actor (who starred in the film Little Big Man among other screen and stage works), as well as recent images involved with the Olympic opening ceremony and torch run.  Each nation, as well as the Sts’ailes Nation from further up the Fraser River and the BC Métis Federation, also had a weekend set aside during the summer when their performers were featured. These signs were an important part of the visual sovereignty being asserted. Their representations of traditional culture along with performers, leaders and images from the recent Winter Olympics mark the Klahowya Village project as part of the ongoing political strategy to increase recognition and connection to the land, as well as cultural continuation.  The re-branding of the site is a conscious choice. Each of the major reports on the project that AtBC has published emphasizes the brand, noting and enumerating its use in all creative designs and signs on site, and stating that branding the Village as an integral part of AtBC is an important strategy (AtBC 2010 17; AtBC 2011 8; AtBC 2012 14). Such branding can be seen as a method of creating a visible public archive, just as the City of Vancouver has attempted to brand itself with Indigenous signifiers over the years. In particular, this part of Stanley Park is a place where, I contend, the settler city of Vancouver also performs itself – and has for many years.  186 Near this site is the remnant of an attempt by R.C. Campbell-Johnston91 and the Art, Historical and Scientific Association of Vancouver (AHSAV), starting in 1915, to purchase and move a Kwakwaka’wakw village from Alert Bay to Stanley Park. The AHSAV’s plan was interrupted in 1925 when a Skwxwú7mesh representative, Andrew Paull, met with the committee and Indian Agent C.C. Perry to explain that the “Squamish did not want a Kwakwaka’wakw village. They had no objections to a mixed village … but they wanted the living Squamish to be recognized” (Phillips 28; Hawker 44). Currently one of the most visited tourist sites in Vancouver, the Stanley Park totem pole collection is a leftover from this effort. The City of Vancouver updated (and re-branded) the site before the 2010 Olympics to include commissioned Coast Salish portals carved by Musqueam artist Susan Point (“First Nations Art”).  In close proximity – an area that I could ride around on my bike within ten minutes – are well known destinations such as the Vancouver Aquarium and Lumberman’s Arch, an arrangement of large rough-hewn logs that celebrates the logging industry. The area is also home to an open-air performance venue, Malkin Bowl, where the summer company Theatre Under the Stars operates, and Brockton Oval (which was the site of the Timber Bowl theatre where The Jubilee Show was staged in 1946). Nearby, visitors can also find the Shakespeare Garden, in which all the trees mentioned in his plays and poems have been planted. Another kind of settler performance can be seen when the Nine O’Clock Gun fires every evening; it is a de-commissioned British naval cannon installed on the point in 1894 when a community of Indigenous people was still living on the site (Barman 2005 109). Matthews’ monument to Lord                                                 91	  Campbell-Johnston was the father of Maisie Armytage-Moore, whose influence with the NBBC and the Indian Village and Show was discussed in the previous chapter. 	  187 Stanley’s 1889 imagined act of dedicating the park is just over five hundred metres south of the tourist village.  Keeping these past and present settler uses of the site in mind while also noting the AtBC interventions in the area helps to clarify the dynamics of performance, history and spectatorship at Klahowya. This part of the city, which masquerades as a natural park, is actually a carefully constructed public archive that contains many layers of history, performance, tourism, commodity exchange and intercultural communication. Klahowya Village is only the most recent one to be added as settler and Indigenous people continue to contend with the task of reconciliation that has been the national project for the last few decades. Touristic spectacle, in order to be most accessible to a general public, often aims to avoid the difficult truths inherent in the settler/Indigenous relationship; however, any encounters which occur here are nevertheless embedded in this context.  5.3 Repertoire: Knowledge Transmission, Inversion and Critique   Touristic spectacle mainly aims to entertain, yet this does not preclude an educational function. Spectacle can overlap with a necessary part of resurgence, which is knowledge transmission, within a First Nations culture in order both to enable recovery and cross-culturally correct misunderstandings. The dances at Klahowya enabled one prominent means for cultural transfer. Each of the six dance troupes that I saw perform over the summer was multi-aged, and included young children who were clearly being instructed to model the skilled performers. Two of the youngest were less than two years old; they were dressed the same as the other dancers and were free to come and go onstage. One toddler was given a drum to play. The speaker for the Kwakwaka’wakw group, when introducing his toddler grandson, explained that this was part of 188 the practice for passing on knowledge of song and dance.  The Sts’ailes Nation dance group engaged in both kinds of knowledge transmission. Of all the groups I saw, they were the most multi-generational. The adults sang and drummed while a teenage youth led about six boys through the dances, with the younger children rarely looking away from him to the audience and the older boy watching each of them in turn as he danced. One dance was about the Sts’ailes creature Sasq’ets. The Sasquatch, aka Bigfoot, is well known all over North America as an elusive creature of the woods. The 2012 Klahowya Village’s event space, website and promotional videos on YouTube were branded with images of Sasquatch. The Sts’ailes Nation, however, reclaimed the story, explaining that Sasquatch was “thought to be a mispronunciation of Sasq’ets” (“Klahowya Village in Stanley Park”). Their dance troupe performed in mid-July, singing their Sasq’ets song and explaining the story’s origin. While reclaiming the story for themselves and passing on the dance skills, the group also transmitted knowledge across cultures. A spokesperson for this Sts’ailes group emphasized that they were following protocol by sharing only some of their songs and ended their performance by opening up the touristic encounter and inviting spectators to join in the last dance, which many people did. In the railway play, the Sasquatch, usually cast as a mysterious and somewhat fearsome monster, was instead presented as a protector of the environment who only punished greedy people. The puppet show plot also featured the Sasquatch as a protector of the land, teaching an urban First Nations girl where her food comes from and the importance of not polluting the earth.  The Sts’ailes group functioned confidently and generously, transferring knowledge through generations and across cultures, performing and modeling resurgence. When a woman in the audience interrupted the spokesman to ask if Sasq’ets was related to the name of the Canadian 189 province of Saskatchewan, he patiently explained to her that it was very far away from here and derived from a different First Nations language, and then returned to his performance.  His patient response to a seemingly obtuse question (rudely asked) was yet another Indigenous demonstration of the kind of generosity employed for inter-community reconciliation, which aims to restore estranged people to a peaceful coexistence. The Sts’ailes group also approached the story in dynamic ways. The original Sasq’ets creature is viewed as fierce, very bad smelling – usually smelled before he is seen – and male. There is also a female counterpart – who steals children who are out after dark. The Klahowya Village adapted the story to connect with environmental concerns of contemporary life, thereby demonstrating that knowledge is not just transmitted from a static archive but can be active and incorporate change, as from a repertoire.   Another significant element to note about the dance performances is their location on the site. One of the major alterations to the Children’s Farmyard in 2012 was a stage built into the fenced area by the barns. A large courtyard surrounds this stage along with a few viewing platforms, although they are all separated by a large pond directly in front of the playing area. The stage also has a striking sculptured eagle made out of cedar shingles that serves as an overhang. Despite its appealing design, this area was rarely used over the summer. Christopher Balme’s analysis of the Polynesian Cultural Centre performances is helpful in understanding the performing place chosen by dance groups at Klahowya Village. Balme contrasts the Maori and Hawaiian performances with those of the Samoans and Tongans, noting that as Fourth World Indigenous cultures submerged in a majority colonizing culture, both Maori and Hawaiian groups staged “performance traditions which fulfilled the double function of presenting an image of cultural vitality to the colonial gaze and finding new functions for performance within a new cultural situation” (185). Balme describes the Hawaiian hula performances as “entirely didactic,” 190 happening within the village without a raised stage as tourists group around informally, with the performers acting as cultural demonstrators (185). Balme’s insights into this didactic tourist spectacle help explain why dancers at Klahowya did not favour the dramatic stage. Rather than displaying themselves at a distance, which could have made them seem far away and of the past (perhaps a reprisal of the “Giant Tom Tom” of the Indian Village and Show), they chose to dance on the same ground as the spectators. This emphasized their presence in the present, and their connection with the physical space.  One method of asserting strength is to elicit a formulaic expectation, then refuse to fulfill it. The storyteller, who was on site telling stories twice daily, did just this. He would call people to his area, which comprised a number of logs arranged as seats in front of the stump of a tree carved out with enough space for a person to stand inside. He was usually dressed in everyday clothing, although sometimes he would wear his dancing clothes. He did not introduce himself on any of the days that I attended. His performance integrated drumming, singing and telling stories. One story he told, first in his own language and then translated into English, was about an industrious beaver who carries a lazy porcupine up a mountain to force him to find a new shelter. In another story, presented as a way of explaining how the plants and animals are talking to us, an old man learnt from a spider web how to make a fish net. These narratives, however, were only part of the storyteller’s performance. He mainly initiated a dialogue with the people who attended, asking them where they were from and inviting questions. He was incredibly patient with people coming and going and asking him to pose for pictures – sometimes even in the middle of his performance. He spoke about the term “Indian,” explaining that it was a government word and important to use in order to hold governments to their responsibilities. He spoke of Aboriginal title, demonstrating with a newspaper and his credit cards how it underlies 191 all other titles and cannot be extinguished. He also showed – by lifting up a log from the ground and carrying it – what it was like to carry hatred around with you. The advertised storytelling session thus became a space for sharing insights and experiences. At each session he also shared his drum with visitors and would sing to whatever beat they played, always making sure any children present had a turn.  These performances went on for much longer than the scheduled half hour. At one session, when the storyteller explained that there would be no more First Nations people by 2048 (I think he meant those with government-recognized status), a white man who identified himself as a Mormon from Japan was moved almost to tears and asked for suggestions about how to help Indigenous people. I was struck by this interaction; it was so unlike the anthropological staging of culture in museums, termed an “encounter without ever meeting” by Andreas Zittlau in her discussion of Nora Naranjo-Morse’s Always Becoming at the National Museum of the American Indian (100). Instead, the performer had created a safe environment for conversation and meeting. He often commented that he did not mean to offend people, and once mentioned that AtBC had hired him and given him leave to say whatever he wanted. The choreography of his performance also inverted expectations. As he moved from the defined performance area in front of the stump into the adjacent forest behind the audience and sometimes out of view to gather plants to use as illustrations for his stories, the spectator–performer arrangement dissolved into a space of dialogue for sharing insights and life experiences. This echoes the movement of the dance groups away from the Eagle stage onto the grass field behind the vendors and seems to indicate an overall effort by the performers to create ambiguous encounters that could also be cross-cultural interactions without the barrier of theatricality.  One element of the Village site was particularly puzzling. A red and white beaded and 192 feathered headdress had been placed on a manikin head with an invitation for visitors to take photos of themselves wearing it next to the totem pole (see figure 5.2). The bedraggled headdress was not representative of any of the BC First Nations peoples and no one attended to it. I observed many visitors who took photographs of themselves wearing it. This item was incongruous, playful yet unsettling; it invoked a Hollywood stereotype of “Indian” in a place that seemed to be making an effort to undo those conceptions. As an empty headdress available for visitors to put on, this prop recreated the settler vision of the “imaginary Indian”, a colonialist construction. Many people interacting with the headdress seemed surprised and laughed.  Such moments can be illuminated by a concept that Phillip J. Deloria develops in Indians in Unexpected Places. Deloria makes the point that people respond to images of Native Americans in modern situations with a chuckle. He believes this patronizing chuckle has to do with the anomaly of an Indigenous person engaged with modernity but argues that settler expectations actually create the anomaly. By placing an object that signifies stereotypes of “Indian” within a site where Indigenous peoples were asserting both their modernity and the continuation of their traditions, the Klahowya organizers inverted the chuckles. They placed an emphasis on the present by inviting visitors to perform expectations from the past as well as to indulge in the desire to “play Indian.” Not everyone accepted the invitation, however, and some passersby dismissed the headdress as a discomforting relic. Discomfort and ambiguity, while not conducive to a simple entertaining touristic experience, are part of the decolonizing process, a chaotic and unclean break from colonialism not answerable to concerns regarding settler futurity (Tuck and Yang 20, 35). In that respect, this strange and unexpected object was among the most compelling elements of the installation. Balme calls this “reverse colonial mimicry”: “instead of imitating the colonizer and developing forms of subversion by holding up a distorted image of 193 the European,” Indigenous people mimic “European projections of themselves” (182). These moments give the performers a chance to subvert the demands of the tourist spectacle.  Rebecca Schneider’s discussion of Spiderwoman Theatre’s work in The Explicit Body in Performance also illuminates this phenomenon. She explains that the actors “make explicit the ways their bodies have been staged, framed by colonial representational practices, and delimited. Here, they turn upon that historical representation of the native, upon colonial mimicry of native identity, with what might be called counter-mimicry” (169). In her discussion of visual sovereignty in Indigenous filmmaking, Raheja notes that some directors deliberately show the aberrant – for example the eating of raw meat or polygamy – as a method to disrupt dominant narratives and create debate (204). In my analysis of performances at Klahowya Village I have sought representations of what non-Indigenous audiences might consider aberrant practices. I could not find any. This led me to think about the difference between live performance and film. Aberrant acts displayed on film can affect an audience strongly and provoke reactions. No matter what the reaction, however, the actors in the film are not in immediate danger during the shared moment of screening. This is not the case with live performance, especially where the boundary between the audience and performers is so permeable, the dancer posing next to the spectator in the headdress, or the dancers and singers standing in the grassy lawn surrounded by spectators.  Raheja also discusses the potential for violent retribution for critical self-representations, noting that the “threat of violence explains how early Native American cinematographers …[worked] primarily within the bounds of hegemonic discourse out of fear of violent reprisal, while also subtly critiquing Indian images” (231). Klahowya Village was well staffed and supported, in a very public place in Vancouver; the potential for violence in some ways seemed very remote.  194 However, on 21 June 2012, the opening day of that summer’s enterprise, an act of arson burnt down the Spirit Catcher Railway Station and Info Booth (see figure 5.3).  The fire was set in the night and completely destroyed the building (which was in the middle of the site) as well as $40,000 worth of artists’ supplies, tools and products (Harry). The arson has never been attributed to any person or group. The Village’s organizers held a healing ceremony a few days later in order to respond to the incident and carry on; however, throughout the summer the burnt site, with its safety fencing and singed trees, remained a constant reminder of the violence. Even if the arson was completely unconnected to AtBC’s work, in the context of past and contemporary acts of violence towards Indigenous people it must be recognized as constituting part of the milieu within which Klahowya operates. For this reason it is not surprising that the performers avoid shocking or aberrant cultural practices during the live events.   5.4 Conclusions and Continuing Plans At the ceremony first opening Klahowya Village on 1 July 2010, Xálek’/Sekyú Siyám, Chief Ian Campbell of the Skwxwú7mesh Nation, made note of the site’s connection to the historic Coast Salish village and suggested that perhaps Stanley Park should be renamed Xwayxway. The ensuing media storm, with comments both in support and virulently dismissive of the idea, was only put to rest when a federal cabinet minister with the governing Conservative Party declared that it would not happen (Stueck). This statement highlighted the layered colonial history of this area: the park is federal land because it was considered a strategic military position by the original colonial land surveyors and is only leased to the city of Vancouver, although no records exist to support this federal claim (Barman 2005 25-7).   195 I now recognize the source of discomfort that I originally felt upon entering Klahowya Village. The enterprise, which seemed like an easily dismissible touristic spectacle, is actually what Raheja describes as “the space between resistance and compliance” (193). In the summer of 2012, dance groups and the storyteller used tactical grounded practices by transmitting their knowledge and inverting stereotypical expectations in the repertoire of performance enacted repeatedly over the weeks, as well as through their interventions in the archival landscape design. Each of the groups mentioned at some point during their performance the proximity to χʷaχʷə;  indeed, the spokesperson with the səәliwəәtaʔɬ group pointed out one of their young dancers, saying that his great-grandfather had lived there and fished nearby. As discussed in Chapter Two, the place name of χʷaχʷə contains knowledge regarding the continual performing that has occurred there as well as, possibly, the shifting dynamics of affect between performers and specators/witnesses. The name of the original village therefore reinforces the notion that the current use of this place by Coast Salish groups is a continuation and adaptation of cultural practice from pre-settlement times, and is not without precedent.  Klahowya Village is still in the early phase of development. It represents a cooperative project for an Indigenous group promoting an economy based on tourism, working collaboratively with other local Indigenous nations and three levels of government. In this incarnation it offers some opportunity for knowledge transmission, dialogue and unexpected humorous critiques of stereotypes, while still needing to be somewhat neutral in order to attract tourists and create a safe place for interactions. The current ironic visual layering of an “Indigenous village” on top of a “settler farm” offers a rich metaphor for the possibilities of restitution. The next phase, which is already under negotiation with the City of Vancouver, will be for AtBC to build a cultural centre on the site, likely removing the traces of the settler farm 196 (Mcguire). Local company Full Circle First Nations Performance has also announced a work in development, “Xway Xway,” described as “a site specific, multi-disciplinary collaboration” capturing the ongoing relationship of the Squamish, Musqueam, Tsleil-waututh  Katzie, Hammond and other Sto:lo peoples to Xway Xway (Stanley Park) (“Productions & Events”). A purpose-built cultural centre and this new performance promise the continued use of grounded practices in this long-swirling eddy of influence that exists on the edge of Vancouver, named after a British Lord who visited briefly in 1889, built on top of and in the midst of an Indigenous archive kept alive through an ongoing repertoire.  Before moving to the conclusion of this dissertation, I offer one more interlude reflecting on the use of performance as a method of historiography by Tanya Tagaq.  197 Interlude: Tanya Tagaq and Nanook of the North The York Theatre is set up with a large screen towering on stage left and slightly angled towards stage right, where Inuk throat singer and artist Tanya Tagaq, violinist Jesse Zubot and drummer Jean Martin stand crowded together amongst electrical cords, microphones, visual monitors and amps. This recently renovated hundred-year-old proscenium-style theatre seems unlikely to be able to contain this “concert for film” wherein Tagaq, Zubot and Martin will create a soundscape to Robert Flaherty’s 1922 film, Nanook of the North.92 The vertical looming screen brings to mind Diana Taylor’s formulation of the past, conceived not only linearly with a disappearing horizon, but also as a “multilayered sedimentation, a form of vertical density” that is stored within performance as what is already here and “made present and alive in the here and now” (2006 83). The screen will hold the knowledges sedimented within the images of the Inuit who performed as well as collaborated with Flaherty in the production of the film by operating cameras, developing film and suggesting scenes (Raheja 195). In Reservation Reelism, Raheja argues that Nanook of the North is used as a repository of both knowledge and method by contemporary Indigenous filmmakers who recognize “the imprint of Indigenous people working in various capacities as intellectual and cultural advisors and technical assistants… [to] draw from this early motion picture material to frame their own projects that engage with notions of the traditional in order to think about how the past informs the present” (196). She also asserts that film technology permits filmmakers to “stage performances of oral narrative and Indigenous notions of time and space that are not possible through print alone” (ibid). In this performance                                                 92	  The live music interacts with a film score created in 2012 by Derek Charke in collaboration with Tagaq for the first commissioned performance at the Toronto International Film Festival (Charke).	  198 response I contend that Tagaq’s interaction with this archival film is an embodied performance of an historiographic method.  Jacky Bratton, in New Readings in Theatre History (2003), discusses the concept of the performer as historian in an effort to move away from a literary-based theatre history. She considers how comic actor Charles Matthews, who performed on the London stages in the early 1800s, and his mimicry of others in his “monopolylogues”93 embodied and performed a version of theatre history (114-15). She also points out that imitation is not conservative stasis but that Matthews’ creations of elaborate syntheses of performers imitating performers “suggest that there is in these recuperations…an intention to build upon memory, an appeal to organic growth” (118). In a similar vein, Tagaq’s response to her ancestors’ creation of Nanook of the North involves both mimicry and a dynamic building upon memory, using her body, breath and voice to make present a history on stage.   All live performance responses require attention to details of actions on stage and a consideration of how these create responses in the audience. The effect of this performance was astounding in so many ways, yet the details are difficult to put into words; there are two reasons for this. First is the nature of the throat singing form and Tagaq’s manifestation of it, and second is the immense presence of the film on stage. Peter Dickinson, in his review of this performance, responds to both these elements, saying that Tagaq breathed new life into the film and that his gaze shifted continually between Tagaq and the film, creating a "constant and conscious perceptual adjustment that forced me to recalibrate, in the moment, my reading of each" (“PuSh 2014”). I will begin by examining Tagaq’s interpretation of the throat singing form and the content of the film. I will then articulate a response to two particularly evocative moments of                                                 93 Monopolylogues, a term originated by Matthews, are performances wherein one actor plays many characters.  199 Tagaq’s performance.   Nine months after this performance at the York Theatre, Tagaq’s album Animism won the Polaris Music Prize for best Canadian album.94 While introducing her, musician Geoff Berner exhorted the audience to listen to her music, saying:  If you listen, you will careen through a panorama of the contradictions of existence. You can hear the living land, and the land under assault. You can hear children being born and conceived. You can hear the torture of the innocent, and the glory of the tenacious, unstoppable force of life. If you listen you can actually hear the sound of a people defying genocide to rise, wounded but alive, strong, and ready to fight.  Her subsequent performance and acceptance speech garnered a great deal of international attention and she has been profiled in many newspapers and magazines, speaking for the first time about her history of sexual assault, substance abuse and a suicide attempt, in order to draw attention to these issues as well as to de-stigmatize them (Nelles). Many of these profiles have attempted to put into words what Tagaq does on stage: “she is almost demonic. Her face contorts in fury or ecstasy; her hands slice the air; she hunkers down and crawls across the stage, stampeding through the songs without stopping…what we hear is something like her insides—guts, heart—trying to escape her body” (Nelles); she “sings about what it feels like to be an Inuk woman today -- a lot of hurting about abuse, pain” (Chapman); her performance is a “jaw-dropping forty-five minutes of guttural heaves, juddering howls, and murderous shrieks”                                                 94 The Polaris Music Awards began in 2005 to honour, celebrate and reward “creativity and diversity in Canadian recorded music by recognizing, then marketing the albums of the highest artistic integrity, without regard to musical genre, professional affiliation, or sales history, as judged by a panel of selected music critics” (“Polaris”).    200 (Seabrook). In a video made for the Open University, Tagaq demonstrates how she makes the sounds of throat singing. She sings a deep note on exhalation and a high note on inhalation, making noise high up in the nasal cavity and then down into her epiglottis. While exhaling, she also splices the notes from high to low. She uses her mouth to shape sounds further. Some songs are only deep tones, during which she inhales quickly for a continuation of the low sounds. Her advice to people who are learning the technique is to spend a year trying to sound like their dog (Open University). Although she is described as an Inuit throat singer, Tagaq explicitly states that while her singular practice is based on tradition, it is a creative interpretation of it. She taught herself how to throat sing while at art school in Halifax from a cassette recording of Inuit women that her mother sent her. Past practice of the form has been taken up mostly by women in pairs as part of a joyful competition, with an emphasis on imitating the “soundscape of northern life,” including the syllables of words, names of ancestors and places or something present while the women are singing (Nelles; Diamond 52, 49). Tagaq does link her contemporary practice very explicitly to her experiences of the land, telling Inuk journalist Malaya Qaunirq Chapman that she is “yelling about the land, the experience of the Nuna [land] and the peace on it. The peace -- the most deepest, perfect, amazing peace I've ever felt in my whole entire life and the whole root of who I am." An analysis of her work on Animism also makes this link to a personification or amplification of the land, particularly with the song “Fracking,” in which she makes the sounds of the earth undergoing this oil extraction process (Polley). This explanation of the form as well as Tagaq’s use of it connects with what I have termed the grounded practices of Indigenous performance while also demonstrating imitation used as historiographic method. Unlike Charles Matthews in Bratton’s example of embodied performative historiography, Tagaq’s mimicry is of 201 human as well as other-than-human life.   The other part of the performance on stage at the York is the projected film of Nanook of the North. Although the film is iconic in Canadian and documentary film history, and was used in schools to teach about “Eskimo” life for years, this is the first time I have seen it. I had been prepared by reading about it in Raheja’s book as well as through attending a panel discussion earlier in the day. Unlike most people who first see the film, I am well aware of the collaboration of the Inuit people with Flaherty and this leads to my staggering appreciation. After establishing the character Nanook (played by Inuk actor Allakariallak) as a respected and skillful hunter, and introducing his extended family, which includes two wives, Nyla (possibly played by Alice Nuvalinga) and Cunayoo (played by an actor whose name is not known) (Emberley 86),95 the film moves on to tell the story of the family’s life over a few seasons. There are scenes on the water, using small and large boats, scenes on the ice with dogs and sleds, demonstrations of melting water, building shelters, and numerous technologies used to live in the environment. Flaherty uses a staged narrative and continuity in his editing to give a realistic sense of being in the place with this family. There are scenes of humour, such as their arrival at a trading post in a small covered boat out of which five people and a dog emerge, or Allakariallak’s playful interaction with a gramophone when he bites a record while laughing at the camera.  The gramophone scene has often been read as one which seeks to place Inuit outside of modernity, although Raheja argues that the actor’s laugh can be read as part of an Inuit cultural code, one which can confront non-Inuit spectators with the absurdities of their assumptions and                                                 95	  Flaherty explains in his preface to the film that he developed the film as he went and showed it to the actors to gain their approval for the project. The only credit given