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Memories of Aboriginal/Indian education : decolonizing policy and practice Daniels, Lyn Denise 2016

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     MEMORIES OF ABORIGINAL/INDIAN EDUCATION: DECOLONIZING POLICY AND PRACTICE   by   Lyn Denise Daniels      A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF    DOCTOR OF EDUCATION   in    The Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies    (Educational Studies)     THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA   (Vancouver)     APRIL 2016   © Lyn Denise Daniels, 2016  ii Abstract  In this thesis, memories and forgetting in Aboriginal youths’ recounting of experiences in contemporary Aboriginal education programs were traced back to the Indian residential school system and colonial policy. By focusing on Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreements—policies intended to address the poor educational outcomes of Aboriginal students, within their broader social, political and historical context, the supposed “problem” of educating Aboriginal students is viewed from a decolonizing perspective. I argue that the effects of the Indian residential school system are productive across generations and continue into the present. Practicing a “critical pedagogy of decolonization” (L. T. Smith, 1999, p. 34) means listening to Aboriginal students’ memories of Aboriginal/Indian education policies in order to decolonize education, history and research. This study is aimed at informing/influencing/shaping current policy and practices and at improving the quality and outcome of Aboriginal students’ education.  The complexity of this research is reflected in the metaphorical use of the term montage, a film technique, to represent the decolonizing epistemological and methodological frames that focus on narrative analysis, textual analysis, photograph analysis, and policy analysis. Listening to Indigenous students’ memories and forgetting of public schooling practices, and analyzing visual and textual representations of Aboriginal students, Aboriginal education and history, in past and present policy were framed and captured by decolonizing methodologies. Further, fiction was used to highlight haunted memories of Indian residential schooling and to trace colonial policies  iii and practices back to a violent and traumatic past. By listening to counter memories of educational policy across generations of Indigenous actors, the relevance of these memories for understanding the effects of Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement policy today as they relate to historical, present and future manifestations of self-determination, re-birth and a decolonizing renaissance among Indigenous peoples in Canada is highlighted as a decolonizing strategy.  This thesis represents an attempt at practicing a critical pedagogy of decolonization by linking notions of race and iconic myths of frontier history to perceptions of Indigenous peoples, cultures and histories that are disciplined by a colonial archive of photographs, policies, curricula, and texts.     iv Preface  The contribution to the identification and design of this research program, the performance of each part of the research and the analysis of the research data was entirely the author’s.  These publications were based on my doctoral research:  Daniels, L. (2014). Expressions of policy effects: Hearing memories of Indian residential school. In Strong-Wilson, T., Allnutt, S., Mitchell, C., & Pithouse, K. (Eds.), Back to the Future: Productive Remembering in Changing Times.  Hanson, A., & Daniels, D.L. (2015, September.) If these walls could talk: The physical traces of residential schools. The Walrus 12(7), 24-33. Retrieved from [Visual essay: Photography by Lana Šlezić.]  University of British Columbia Behaviour Research Ethics Board, Expressions of Policy Effects, Certificate Number H09-03240.      v Table of Contents  Abstract	  ..........................................................................................................................................................	  ii	  Preface	  ...........................................................................................................................................................	  iv	  Table	  of	  Contents	  ........................................................................................................................................	  v	  List	  of	  Figures	  ...........................................................................................................................................	  viii	  Acknowledgements	  .................................................................................................................................	  ix	  Dedication	  ......................................................................................................................................................	  x	  Chapter	  One:	  Memories	  of	  Aboriginal/Indian	  education:	  a	  history	  of	  the	  present	  ......	  1	  Contextualization	  of	  research	  and	  research	  questions	  ........................................................	  1	  Research	  purpose	  .................................................................................................................................	  5	  Research	  questions	  and	  main	  argument	  ....................................................................................	  8	  Significance	  ...........................................................................................................................................	  11	  A	  brief	  history	  of	  researching	  in	  Indigenous	  territories	  ....................................................	  13	  Structure	  of	  thesis	  ..............................................................................................................................	  15	  Chapter	  Two:	  Epistemological,	  theoretical,	  and	  methodological	  frames	  ........................	  17	  Personal	  narratives:	  framed	  memories	  ....................................................................................	  18	  How	  do	  the	  practices	  of	  memory	  and	  forgetting	  inform/influence/shape	  current	  policy	  and	  practices	  aimed	  at	  improving	  the	  quality	  and	  outcome	  of	  Aboriginal	  students’	  education?	  ..........................................................................................................................	  21	  Review	  of	  the	  theoretical	  literature	  .......................................................................................	  23	  A	  history	  of	  the	  present	  ...............................................................................................................	  28	  What	  traces	  of	  colonial	  policies	  and	  practices	  can	  be	  found	  among	  memories	  of	  public	  school	  and	  followed	  back	  to	  the	  past?	  What	  do	  these	  memories	  mean	  as	  a	  trace	  of	  the	  colonial	  past?	  ...............................................................................................................	  30	  Research	  participants	  ..................................................................................................................	  34	  How	  might	  memories	  of	  educational	  policy	  across	  generations	  of	  Indigenous	  actors	  be	  relevant	  for	  understanding	  the	  effects	  of	  Aboriginal	  education	  today?	  .	  40	  Montage:	  decolonizing	  theoretical	  frames	  on	  memory,	  policy	  and	  history	  ..............	  41	  Critical	  policy	  analysis	  .................................................................................................................	  45	  Analysis	  of	  photographs	  .............................................................................................................	  47	  How	  can	  intergenerational	  memories	  of	  schooling	  inform	  a	  critical	  pedagogy	  of	  decolonization?	  What	  are	  the	  conditions	  for	  practicing	  a	  critical	  pedagogy	  of	  decolonization?	  ....................................................................................................................................	  50	  Summary	  of	  chapter	  ..........................................................................................................................	  53	  Chapter	  Three:	  Aboriginal	  youths’	  memories	  of	  being	  named	  Aboriginal	  students	  ..	  55	   vi Memory,	  postmemory	  and	  forgetting	  ........................................................................................	  57	  Reconnection,	  plurality	  and	  identity	  .....................................................................................	  73	  Narrative	  self-­‐identity	  and	  ways	  of	  Being	  ................................................................................	  79	  Narratives	  and	  persuasion	  ..........................................................................................................	  103	  Chapter	  Four:	  On	  the	  naming	  practices	  of	  policy,	  images	  and	  narratives	  of	  history	  ......................................................................................................................................................................	  105	  Aboriginal	  Education	  Enhancement	  Agreements	  .............................................................	  108	  Criteria	  for	  Selection	  of	  AEEA	  Policies	  ......................................................................................	  111	  A	  decolonizing	  methodological	  frame	  around	  four	  AEEA	  policies	  ............................	  118	  Historical	  ontology	  of	  Aboriginal	  Education	  enhancement	  agreements	  .................	  140	  Childhood,	  memories	  and	  trauma	  ............................................................................................	  143	  Critical	  pedagogy	  of	  decolonization	  ........................................................................................	  144	  Chapter	  5:	  Memories	  of	  Indian	  residential	  schools	  in	  an	  era	  of	  assimilation	  .............	  148	  Indian	  residential	  school	  case	  law	  ...........................................................................................	  150	  Memories	  of	  trauma	  .......................................................................................................................	  153	  History	  and	  trauma	  .........................................................................................................................	  157	  Postmemory	  .......................................................................................................................................	  159	  The	  history	  of	  the	  Indian	  residential	  school	  system	  ........................................................	  160	  Looking	  and	  collecting	  ...................................................................................................................	  163	  Photography	  and	  memory	  ...........................................................................................................	  167	  Architecture	  and	  identity	  .............................................................................................................	  172	  A	  history	  of	  trauma	  .........................................................................................................................	  176	  Expressions	  of	  colonial	  policy	  effects	  .....................................................................................	  177	  Repression,	  latency,	  departure	  and	  repetition	  ...................................................................	  182	  Indian	  residential	  schools,	  genocide	  and	  justice	  ................................................................	  186	  The	  persistence	  of	  policy	  effects	  ...............................................................................................	  187	  Forgiveness	  and	  promise-­‐keeping	  ...........................................................................................	  190	  Chapter	  6:	  Unmapping	  the	  colonial	  archive:	  decolonizing	  policy	  and	  practice	  ........	  193	  Practices	  of	  memory	  and	  forgetting	  ........................................................................................	  195	  Traces	  of	  colonial	  policies	  and	  practices	  ...............................................................................	  197	  Memories	  of	  educational	  policy	  across	  generations	  ........................................................	  199	  Intergenerational	  memories	  of	  schooling	  and	  a	  critical	  pedagogy	  of	  decolonization	  .................................................................................................................................................................	  202	  Bibliography	  ...........................................................................................................................................	  210	   vii Appendix	  A	  ..............................................................................................................................................	  221	         viii  List of Figures  Figure 1 Photograph by Atterton Studios of the pupils and staff of St. Paul’s School, Blood Reserve, southern Alberta with copyright from Glenbow Archives na- 1811-34 ……………………………………………...….. 170 Figure 2 Photograph from the 50th Anniversary of Gordon’s Student Residence brochure with copyright from George Gordon First Nation .................. 172  Figure 3 Family photograph of Indian residential school ‘runaways’ captured by author’s relative ..................................................................................... 182       ix Acknowledgements  Everyone included in this acknowledgement section has contributed something valuable that allowed me to complete this project. Thank you to Hartej Gill my thesis advisor for her expertise in decolonizing research and for her sensitivity to my idiosyncrasies. Thank you to Shauna Butterwick for her perseverance and attention to detail. Thank you to Andre Mazawi for his optimism with regard to my intellectual abilities. Thank you to Verna St. Denis for her insights and advice on articles and scholars to read. Thank you to my mom Lillian for passing on her beliefs about learning and education. Thank you to my sister Pam for teaching me how to read. Thank you to Teresa Strong-Wilson for her encouragement and mentorship in all things scholarly. Thanks to Jo-Anne Dillabough for introducing me to the power of theory. Thanks to Yvonne Poitras-Pratt for her modeling and encouragement. Thank you to Aubrey Jean Hanson for her indispensable editing. Thank you to the scholars whose research and writing has contributed to my thinking and writing.      x Dedication  To Aidan Daniel Stephenson       1 Chapter One: Memories of Aboriginal/Indian education: a history of the present  Contextualization	  of	  research	  and	  research	  questions	  	   One of my relatives told me about the time at the Indian residential school, some of the girls built a raft to get across the lake that was beside the school. “They wanted to run away from the school. They wanted me to come with them. We snuck out early in the morning. I looked at the raft and I didn’t want to get on. I ran back to the school and watched them from a window. They got a ways out. The raft came apart and they fell in the water and drowned.”     —Lyn Daniels, referring to story from relative (personal communication, 2007)  It [referring to participation in pre-employment program] means we do the most embarrassing things in the school. Like water the plants and pick up the recycling.  —BC Aboriginal high school student, 2005 – 2006 school year.   In moving towards healing, reconciliation and resolution of the sad legacy of Indian Residential Schools, implementation of the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement began on September 19, 2007. Years of work by survivors, communities, and Aboriginal organizations culminated in an agreement that gives us a new beginning and an opportunity to move forward together in partnership.      —Prime Minister Stephen Harper, (Canada, 2008)   2 The first time I heard my relative’s story (above) I was teaching an undergraduate course to pre-service teachers. I had invited my relative to share with the class, memories of the lived reality of an Indian residential school. This sharing of memories reflected the pedagogy that informed my teaching of the course on the history of First Nations Education in Canada. By focusing on the lived reality in an Indian residential school, my pedagogical goal was to guide students from theoretical abstractions of history to the “reality of lived experiences” (van Manen, 1997, p. 44). My strongest memory of this particular day was of the anxiety I felt for my relative’s well being because of the potential for resistance from the students to this narrated history. As an Indigenous instructor, and from the perspective of a group who knows what it is like to have “history erased before your eyes, dismissed as irrelevant, ignored or rendered as the lunatic ravings of drunken old people” (Smith, 1999, p. 29), I knew there was a good chance that these narratives might not be received in a meaningful way by the mostly white pre-service teachers who made up the class. I was anxious that the students, not really hearing, might ask questions that would reveal an ignorance for which I might be partly responsible. And my relative might conclude that I had done an inadequate job of teaching this history.  There was also my pedagogical hope for the pre-service teachers: that upon hearing my relative’s memories they would act in a meaningful way, by including this history in their future teaching. Their future teacher practice seemed to be hinged on my competency as an effective pedagogue of this difficult history. Although my own pre-service training included a specialization in cross-cultural education and I had provided numerous professional development sessions on teaching cross-cultural understanding  3 during my career in Aboriginal education, I was not prepared for the anxiety-producing and emotional position I was in, both as a teacher and as a close relative of the invited guest speaker who was a survivor of Indian residential schools. My memory of this day is rooted in the anxiety I felt.  In the class discussion following the presentation the students noted my reactions to my relative’s story in terms of the look of concern on my face while listening to painful memories. Those students who shared their insights focused on either their own relationship to this history in terms of their privileged social position (white) or made links to their own family’s experiences with marginalization or histories of forced relocation. Although my relative emerged unscathed and overall the students met the requirements of the course, questions remain about the pedagogical efficacy and ethics of having living human beings narrate their memories of extreme oppression. Such a line of questioning is particularly relevant to this study, wherein the purpose is to trace Indigenous youth’s experiences with Aboriginal education policy in the present back to the history of the Indian residential school system. In particular, my study explores how the impact of the historical Indian residential school system and its effects continue into the present; this recognition is crucial to practicing a “critical pedagogy of decolonization” (L. T. Smith, 1999, p. 34). The second epigraph at the beginning of this thesis is the voice of a high school student that I was asked (by his teacher) to support when I was an Aboriginal teacher in a school district in the lower mainland of British Columbia (BC), Canada. During our meeting, I sought to find out about his experiences with the learning environment of the school. He was in a special education program where the stated goal was to prepare the  4 students for pre-employment. I am haunted by his response to my question about what it meant to be in the pre-employment program. It led me to consider the morals and ethics involved in educational practices aimed at supporting Aboriginal students and the impact on their lives, on their self-determination and on their post-secondary education and employment prospects. In particular, I noted how the menial tasks he was required to perform were reminiscent of Indian residential schooling practices. I have proudly worked in Aboriginal Education in BC for 25 years, but this particular student’s comments led me to consider the harm that might be caused when Aboriginal students are named or labeled as such and then provided with educational supports, as is the practice in the majority of school districts in BC. Regarding Aboriginal education, Barman (2003) notes that any associated discussion of it “must begin and centre on, the (Indian) residential school, for its existence both curtailed and set the agenda for other educational options” (p. 55). She argues that the residential school agenda established the core premises and legacies of colonial practice: assumptions of sameness among First Nations, far-reaching abuses, language restrictions, family separations, limited instructional hours, voluntarism as a religious ideal against that of professionalism, and inadequate funding (Barman, 2003, p. 55). This thesis, in turn, explores the impact of these and other features of the historical Indian residential school system that appear to be productive across time and space.  Responses to this history include apologies from church organizations and from Canada that emerged in the mid-1990s and have continued into the present day. As Stephen Harper implies in the third quote at the beginning of this thesis, we are presently in a policy era of reconciliation and healing. In this introductory chapter, I contextualize the  5 research and the research questions, I explain the aims of this study and I outline the main arguments in relation to the structure of this thesis. Research	  purpose	  	  The purpose of this research is to trace the impact of historical forms of education, specifically Indian residential schools, on Aboriginal students’ experiences of education in present-day British Columbia. I focus on three key dimensions of this experience through a montage of historical memory and policy and present policy in order to decolonize traditional approaches to research that often looks at only one perspective. First, I consider memory and forgetting as they relate to colonial education policy and historical colonial policy’s impact on Aboriginal youth attending higher education in British Columbia and understandings of their own past as a colonial formation. Second, I assess policy representations of the history of Aboriginal peoples, policy history’s views of Aboriginal students and Aboriginal communities, and the role of the image and memories in Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement (AEEA) policy. Third, I investigate the conditions for the emergence of contemporary educational policy—in particular, Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreements—in what Prime Minister Harper has declared as the policy era of reconciliation in comparison with the emergence of historical education policy—in particular, the Indian residential school system—in a policy era of assimilation. By listening to Aboriginal college youth’s memories on Aboriginal education history and policy for the traces of colonial education policy effects, by connecting their experiences to broader social, political and historical contexts and to my own life as a descendent of Indian residential school survivors, as an Indigenous researcher and as an educator and administrator in public Aboriginal  6 education and, by adapting and integrating diverse epistemological and methodological approaches into three decolonizing methodological frames, I hoped to decolonize educational policy and research with Indigenous youth.  A unique challenge in this study was reading the history of Indian residential schooling from the perspective of those who experienced it. In particular, my increasing understanding of the level of violence experienced by Indigenous children, including my own family members, was difficult. In an earlier iteration of this study, chapter one focused on this traumatic history and I experienced challenges with moving the focus of my study to the present, to the extent that chapter two repeated the themes of chapter one. Feedback from thesis committee members remarked on these repetitions and I recognized that I had been trapped and even immobilized by this history. By beginning with the present realities facing Aboriginal youth and by reaching back to “remember the children” (Hudson, personal communication, 2011), I am finally able to complete this study of how “Indian education” was transformed into “Aboriginal education” and what it meant for those who experienced Indian/Aboriginal education in the two different policy eras of reconciliation and assimilation.     In beginning with the present, I highlight the widely discussed recent policy in Aboriginal Education—the Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement (AEEA). Each year, British Columbia educators and the general public are made aware of the performance and achievement of Aboriginal students through published data collected by the provincial government, as well as through the media’s attention to the Fraser  7 Institute’s1 report card on Aboriginal education and annual ranking of schools. Currently, British Columbia school districts are compelled to develop Aboriginal education policy known as Enhancement Agreements (EAs). These agreements describe how to improve Aboriginal student achievement in the public education system as a comprehensive response to students’ apparently poor performance. The aim of these enhancement agreements, which are developed cooperatively by Aboriginal community members and parents and school districts, is to set educational goals, measure the progress toward those goals and make program and service adjustments accordingly.  That government and the public are concerned with the educational performance and achievement of Aboriginal students might appear to be a fairly new development. The requirement to develop Enhancement Agreements has only been a part of provincial policy since 19992. However, the apparent problem of educating Indigenous children has occupied Canadian policy makers and educators since before the founding of the nation (Brooks, 1991). Therefore, in this thesis I argue that it is important to see the emergence of the Enhancement Agreement policy as the most recent iteration of a historical pattern of government intervention into the lives of Indigenous peoples through education. AEEAs join a long history of policy attempts to purportedly ‘enhance’, and are based on 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  1	  This think tank reported on Aboriginal education in British Columbia in 2005 and 2011. Each school year, they use data reported to and collected by the British Columbia  2 The Aboriginal Education Enhancements Branch, Ministry of Education, is responsible for policy for Aboriginal Education in the public education system. Their website indicates that a 1999 memorandum of understanding signed by the Chiefs Action Committee, the provincial Minister of Education, the federal Minister of Indian and Northern Affairs, and the President of the BC Teachers Federation led to a framework for the creation of Enhancement Agreements. It is expected that these agreements will improve the educational success of Aboriginal students.	  	  	   8 the deeply erroneous and ultimately harmful assumption that Indigenous individuals need enhancement. With this past in mind, I view this supposed “problem” of educating Aboriginal students from a critical perspective that considers the broader social, political and historical conditions within which Aboriginal education policy developed. Therefore, my focus rests upon the juxtaposition of these conditions with Indigenous memories of Aboriginal public education in British Columbia, Canada. 	  Research	  questions	  and	  main	  argument	  	   In this investigation into how Aboriginal education has been experienced with regard to policy, pedagogy and practice, I listened to the memories of seven Aboriginal college students about their experiences of public education. I revisited the history of Indian residential schools to inform the development of a “critical pedagogy of decolonization” (Smith, 1999, p. 34). This thesis represents what I have learned of this history: these are my history lessons.  The history of Indian residential schools is most often framed as a manifestation of a policy of assimilation. Knowing my family’s history with struggling to get an education and to find work that could support a family made me question this particular framing. It seemed that some family members were willing to assimilate in the hope of finding better social and economic opportunities and to get beyond survival. But this was extremely difficult given the racist attitudes of white employers and my family members’ low levels of education. The policy of assimilation had no meaning when it came to securing a meaningful education and employment. In looking back at my experiences working in Aboriginal education for more than 25 years, and the slow progress in changing the public education system, I considered, in shaping this study, how  9 understanding history differently might reveal the limitations placed on Aboriginal education and Aboriginal students today. I read the history of Indian residential schools and in particular the memories of those who survived with this question in mind: did Indian residential school students really have opportunities to assimilate while enrolled in the school and after leaving the school? With this study in the BC context, I build upon the work of scholars who link the educational challenges Aboriginal peoples face today with historical experiences of colonial education and colonial policy effects that persist (Barman, 2003, Brooks, 1991, Schissel & Wotherspoon, 2003). I argue that the educational challenges that Aboriginal peoples face today, as well as some of the egalitarian claims of Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement policy, are linked to the traumatic colonial history of Indian residential schooling. Accordingly, the research questions I pose for this study are as follows: 1. How do the practices of memory and forgetting inform/influence/shape current policy and practices aimed at improving the quality and outcome of Aboriginal students’ education? 2. What traces of colonial policies and practices can be found among memories of public school and followed back to the past? What do these memories mean as a trace of the colonial past? 3.  How might narrated memories of educational policy across generations of Indigenous actors be relevant for understanding the effects of Aboriginal education today?  10 4.  How can intergenerational memories of schooling inform a critical pedagogy of decolonization? What are the conditions for practicing a critical pedagogy of decolonization? These questions have been informed by a number of broad premises to be explored in light of the connections between past and present in terms of public, state-sponsored education for Aboriginal youth: 1. That the apparent “problem” of educating Aboriginal students today is related to the colonial past, 2. That the current emphasis on the development of Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement policy in British Columbia school districts appears to recover significant features of colonial policy,  3. That post-memory remembrances represent accounts of trauma and oppression and are inscribed into the life story of second-generation Indian residential school survivors, and are indicators of traumatic history and genocide, 4. That Aboriginal college students’ memories of public education, like those of Indian residential school students of the past, are the expressions of the lived reality of racist policy, 5. Such memories provide a bridge to history and represent an important method for decolonizing the history of Aboriginal/Indian education and decolonizing research; and 6. Social and political events condition the present emergence of Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement policy in an era of reconciliation and the historical emergence of Indian residential school policy in an era of assimilation.   11 In assessing the multi-leveled nature of the research questions, I argue for the significance of re-listening to the memories of former Indian residential school students and those of their descendants as counter hegemonic narratives that I refer to as framed memories. This is nothing less than a form of resistance that will engage with and act upon history, and have an impact on the future of Indigenous educational studies, including its various manifestations across the education system. Regarding narrative, Kearney (2004) notes that,  narrative frequently operate as representations of power: representations that must be challenged by ‘counter-narratives’, in order that their abusive tendencies be exposed and ideally, reversed. But these so-called “counter narratives … are themselves forms of narrative – alternative stories to the official story, emergent stories of marginal or truncated history, indirect stories of irony and subversion. Such unofficial narratives brush history against the grain. They put the dominant power in question. (p. 110)   Hence, the focus of my research is on framed memories because they are informed by decolonizing methodologies on several levels: my narration of how my life intersects with this history including inter-generationally, my narration of the youths’ narration of their memories of Aboriginal education and their parents experiences with Indian residential schools and my narration of the narration of those who experienced Indian residential schools. These memories are framed by theoretical and methodological resources and must speak back to history because as Kearney (2004) argues, “the horrible must strike us as horrible” (p. 102). Including witnessing schoolmates drowning in trying to escape abuse. Significance	  	  Set against the various policy eras in the history of Canadian Aboriginal/Indian education, I want to bridge history, memory and the present in ways that begin with the  12 lived experiences of contemporary policy and schooling, and then reach back to understand the effects of colonial policy and education in British Columbia and Canada on those who attended Indian residential schools. My case here is that the history of Indian Education cannot be explained as being solely about assimilation; rather, this history can be seen as the very burden of a modernist rationalist and colonial account of Canadian history. These decolonizing moves are to advance my argument that by listening to memories of public school Aboriginal education and re-listening to Indian residential school history, productive colonial effects can be seen and heard. Accordingly, this thesis is devoted to listening, seeing and understanding what Aboriginal youth have seen and heard and have been touched by in terms of being named Aboriginal students. In so doing I hope to engage in decolonizing research in Aboriginal education policy and practices in ways that will yield significant insight into “how our practices of naming interact with the things that we name” (Hacking, 2002, p. 2). Accordingly, the critical, historical ontological and decolonizing approach that I use to contextualize and frame memories of Aboriginal/Indian Education and policy accommodates diverse perspectives that constitute the data for this research project. The metaphor of montage, with its multiple and varied images and sounds, allowing views from diverse perspectives and culminating in an emotional response, complements my decolonizing approach. Through this metaphor I engaged with diverse non-traditional sources for mapping colonial traces. For example, the fiction of American Indian author Sherman Alexie (2003) was brought in to highlight key themes of the counter-hegemonic narratives that I refer to as framed memories. Framed memories not only revealed colonial traces but also informed public Aboriginal Education and pedagogy as did fiction, photographic images, discourse and  13 building structures. The results of this critical, historical ontological and decolonizing approach were understood in terms of depth knowledge or savoir that engages a critical pedagogy of decolonization by re-visiting the history of Aboriginal/Indian education in Canada. By decolonizing the history of Aboriginal/Indian education, I can reclaim my family’s history in relation to the broader history of colonial power used against the Indigenous peoples as a whole, as counter-hegemonic knowledge. Accordingly, in the next section, I provide a brief history of research in Indigenous contexts in order to explain how my decisions regarding epistemology, method and methodology were informed by this history.  A	  brief	  history	  of	  researching	  in	  Indigenous	  territories	   In the past, research in Indigenous territories adhered to the strict boundaries of particular disciplines such as anthropology, pre-history or even natural history where Indigenous histories, cultures and languages were viewed with an “imperial eye” (Smith, 1999, p. 80). Maori scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith argues that historically, the processes and practices of imperialism and colonialism contributed to systems of classification and representation that are the “formations through which the West sees names and knows indigenous communities” (p. 60). Indigenous peoples’ history, cultures, societies, languages and knowledge of the land provided the epistemological raw material around which these academic disciplines could develop.  The appropriation, exploitation and transformation of Indigenous epistemologies into Western academic knowledge and disciplines meant negating significant features of Indigenous knowledge and history. Smith (1999) explains that this process began with the first European explorers who were often accompanied by scientists. When colonial  14 activities transitioned from trading to white settlement, the white traders became “judges, land commissioners, interpreters, and even experts” on the local Indigenous cultures with the knowledge gained from their trading days. Any resulting publications of “research” were seen as “objective” (p. 82). Research among Indigenous peoples and within Indigenous communities reproduced power relations wherein researchers and research institutions take or stole from Indigenous communities instead of conducting research that might benefit these communities. Indigenous peoples’ resistance to research is understandable given this history, however many Indigenous researchers are disrupting this history of exploitation and domination by developing methodologies and approaches to research that privilege Indigenous knowledges, voices, experiences, and reflections. This domain rests on a fragile knowledge base, some have been appropriated, and some have colonial traces. The counter-hegemonic approaches for analyzing our social, material and spiritual conditions are diverse and have included oral history, feminist methodologies, native studies, cultural studies, and critical race theory.  The selection of epistemological and methodological tools used in Indigenous research contexts is complicated by the regard many Indigenous peoples hold for research as a tool of colonization. Linda Tuhiwai Smith (2005) aptly characterized this position as ‘on tricky ground’ because “research is deeply embedded in our history as natives under the gaze of Western science and colonialism” (p. 87). Decolonizing research is linked to recognizing that history about Indigenous peoples is largely told from the Euro-colonizer’s point of view. “Every history is told from a certain perspective and in the light of specific prejudice” (Kearney, 2004, p. 10). Likewise when it comes to Indian  15 residential school history, narratives that relate to explanations of ‘assimilation’ as the problem and ‘healing’ as the solution are predominant and reflect only one perspective. Further, the absence of counter-narratives not only forestalls liberation “…from the blind amnesia of the ‘now’” (Kearney, 2004, p. 99) there is also the problem of the portrayals of Indigenous peoples in official history which are rarely benign and in most cases, dehumanizing (LaRocque, 2014).  In the chapter that follows, I discuss in more detail how this thesis uses montage to highlight what I have selected to mark out from the flux of history and in doing so I hope my research will contribute in meaningful ways to the areas of Aboriginal education policy and historical memory. 	  Structure	  of	  thesis	   	  	   The next chapter, chapter two begins with my own experiences and intersections with public education and Aboriginal education that led me to ask the questions that I do. These questions organize the chapter in terms of a review of the theoretical literature on Aboriginal youth’s experiences with schooling, a detailed explanation of the way in which I integrated methods, theories and methodological implications for the research questions I ask, how they address the gap in the literature and how they are captured by the metaphor of montage. The unique decolonizing methodological frames that inform the understanding of diverse forms of data in each of the chapters of this thesis offer a different perspective on Aboriginal/Indian education policies and practices beginning in the present and then reaching back to the past. Chapter three offers the results of my listening project and conversations with aboriginal college youth, exploring their experiences in light of Sherman Alexie’s (2003) fiction and the colonial legacies found in  16 Aboriginal policies and programs. Chapter four turns attention to the Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreements and how they signify the politics of memory and forgetting and in many respects continue to be colonizing texts. The focus of chapter five is on memories of residential schools as depicted in photographs and other texts. The final chapter reflects on the findings in light of the research questions and the significance of the decolonizing methodologies used that will have an impact on current and future policies and educational programs and practices for Aboriginal youth and Aboriginal education.     17 Chapter Two: Epistemological, theoretical, and methodological frames  In this chapter, I briefly discuss my own memories of public education and experiences working in Aboriginal education that led to the research questions I am asking, I review the literature that theorizes Aboriginal youths’ experiences with public education and public Aboriginal education policy in relation to decolonization and I discuss the theoretical and methodological implications of my research questions and the gaps in the literature. Accordingly, I engage in decolonizing methodologies by collecting untraditional forms of data using diverse methods that highlight and begin with Indigenous perspectives. These perspectives are theorized as counterpoints to colonial representations of the history of Aboriginal/Indian education. By disrupting conventional approaches to research and bringing together diverse and disparate forms of investigation, I link Aboriginal college youths’ voices along with my own, to the history of Indian residential schools of the colonial past. By resisting the colonial nature of academic research, and by employing the decolonizing methodological approaches I do for this research, an in-depth exploration of the colonial effects of the history of Aboriginal/Indian education on the policy, practices and pedagogies within Aboriginal education today was framed. In this way, this thesis does not follow traditional research conventions of separating theory, epistemology and methodology. A decolonizing methodological approach necessarily integrates the key areas of research, theory, epistemology and methodology, into one chapter, as opposed to the more conventional approach wherein each is dealt with in a separate chapter. This allows for a simultaneous understanding that recognizes the dialectical relationship between how  18 knowledge is created and the ways of collecting and understanding that knowledge. Accordingly, the colonial features of research cannot be ignored in this endeavour. I argue that the colonial, spatial concepts of the line, distance, the centre and the outside (Smith, 1999) engender real effects in separating Indigenous peoples from the land and from each other. Similarly, these isolating processes can be inherent in some mainstream approaches to research, calling into question the line that purportedly separates theory from methodology and methods and the purported objectivity of such research. In this thesis, texts on theories, methodologies, and epistemologies continuously disrupt each other and simultaneously disrupt traditional research. In the personal narrative that follows this introduction, I offer one of several framed narrations that I used to approach the research questions I ask and the literature I selected to review and in making other key theoretical and methodological decisions for this thesis. Following my framed memory, I discuss each research question and the particular methods for data collection I selected to answer that question as well as the integrated theoretical, epistemological and methodological frames that I used to understand and contextualize each particular aspect of the history of Aboriginal/Indian education in Canada. By joining decolonizing methodological approaches to Eurocentric theories and research practices, decolonizing pathways for Aboriginal education policy, pedagogy and practice are opened up. Personal	  narratives:	  framed	  memories	   Listening to Aboriginal youths’ memories of public school days recalled my years in a public high school in a small rural town in southern Saskatchewan. The majority of the students there came from the Cree reserve where I lived with my family during my  19 high school education. There was a distinct line between the Cree students and the non-Aboriginal children of farmers of eastern European descent.  I had spent my elementary years in the mostly white suburbs of Regina and noticed that the quality of education in this small rural town was lower in comparison. As I advanced through high school, fewer of my Cree counterparts remained beside me until there were only five of us who graduated with the same small group of white farm kids. Down from approximately thirty-five Cree students in grade ten. The line that separated us was more than imaginary.  My family lived in close proximity to the Gordon’s student residence (updated name for Indian residential schools circa 1960s) and my years there set me on a path to try to understand the impact of these institutions on me, my family, and Indigenous peoples, generally. The memories that stand out for me so often relate to the unexplained suicides of my peers, or those who died in drug and alcohol related car accidents, and the high level of violence that permeated the environment of the student residence. The hope that my family might be immune to this violence was never fulfilled. It came as no surprise with the news in 1989 of the arrest of the long time (white) administrator William Starr of the Gordon’s student residence as I had heard rumours of his criminal behaviour. He was sentenced to four years for sexually abusing boys during the thirteen years he was the administrator there.  During my under-graduate years, in a First Nations and Métis peoples’ teacher education program devoted to and with an emphasis on cross-cultural education, Indigenous peoples’ history was most often understood in the context of Canada’s policy of assimilation. This explanation implied that the future for Aboriginal peoples depended  20 on “cultural revitalization” (St. Denis, 2009, p. 3). Genocide and Canada’s role in such a project was never considered. Throughout my academic studies and career as an educator I looked for theories and explanations that might explain the social and economic conditions experienced by my family and the First Nations communities we lived, worked and within which we had relations. The longer that I worked in Aboriginal education, the notion of assimilation as cross-cultural misunderstanding seemed more inadequate for explaining the past and changing the future.   In school district Aboriginal education contexts and in post-secondary education contexts, the history of Indian residential schools was always a tension filled topic. When I had acquired leadership responsibilities and a measure of power to shape and influence the direction of Aboriginal education programs and practices, I observed first-hand the limitations of projects that targeted and segregated Aboriginal students in the name of revitalizing cultures as a solution for their underachievement in public school contexts. I needed a theory that might explain the history of Indian residential schools as something other than a manifestation of assimilationist policy that might map out more effective pedagogies and practices in support of Indigenous self-determination in public schools today. Decolonizing methodologies, theories and knowledges as I do, is towards understanding and writing of how the colonial features of the history of Aboriginal/Indian education in Canada continue to haunt Aboriginal education and Indigenous peoples today while revealing sites of struggle for a critical pedagogy of decolonization. By linking Aboriginal youths’ remembering of public school and their parents’ generation’s experience of Indian residential schools and other technologies of colonialism to the  21 memories of survivors in published accounts from across North America, these framed memories counter and decolonize history. So does each of the perspectives gained when framed by decolonizing methodologies, wherein I listened to Aboriginal youths’ memories for the colonial effects that are highlighted in fictional representations of Indigenous youth, when I examined Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement (AEEA) policies for the colonial features identified by the literature review, and when I examined the themes that emerged from the analyses of youth memories and policy discourse and compared them to Indian residential school policies and survivor memories of Indian residential schools. These decolonizing moves frame the memories of policy from both the assimilation policy era and the contemporary reconciliation era of Aboriginal/Indian education in Canada.  How	  do	  the	  practices	  of	  memory	  and	  forgetting	  inform/influence/shape	  current	  policy	  and	  practices	  aimed	  at	  improving	  the	  quality	  and	  outcome	  of	  Aboriginal	  students’	  education?	  	   Remembering and, in particular, forgetting, are key themes in the ideology of the broader Canadian society when it comes to Canada’s relationship to Indigenous peoples (Gray, 2011). These themes emerged from reviewing and drawing from the literature of Aboriginal youth’s experiences of schooling. Focusing on youth perspectives and voices is an important feature of the decolonizing methodological approach I take in this study, in particular their views on history and Aboriginal education and their parents and their own encounters with colonial policy. This is another level of narration in this thesis wherein I narrate students’ memories of public school and their narrations of their parents’ memories of Indian residential schools.   22 Memory is often compared to the chemical process of developing photographs and is linked to the role that photography continues to play as a colonial technology. In particular when “the process of photography corresponds to the sudden recall of buried memories after a period of latency” (Long, 2007, p. 114). Framing photography as a colonial technology and mnemonic device is only one aspect of the knowledge/power relationship between Canada and Indigenous peoples explored in this thesis.  Decolonizing research methodologies needs to go beyond rhetoric. It means understanding the colonial features of research, such as the role of research in appropriating and subsuming and thereby erasing Indigenous intellectual traditions. Objectivity is assumed to be inherent in research methods designed for isolating and separating phenomenon from their social, political and historical contexts. Such practices imply particular postures that are distant from the topics and participants in research, whereas this project brings in multiple views, while emphasizing youth perspectives. An important decolonizing move is to link Aboriginal college youth to history and to bring into view Canadian colonizers’ intentions behind education policies and practices by listening to the youths’ voices, memories and thoughts about them.  I argue that the colonial features of research parallel the colonial practices and processes that Indigenous peoples in Canada experienced in terms of expulsion from their lands and isolation and separation from families and communities. Colonial research and imperial expansion owe these features of rationalization, bureaucratization and documentation to modernity (Long, J.J. 2007, p. 10) and its ideological and reproductive power across time and space.   23 In the next section, I review the literature on youth perspectives of and experiences with public school education in particular, looking for studies that are presented in light of decolonizing education thereby linking contemporary Aboriginal youths’ experiences to colonial history. Review of the theoretical literature  	  Currently, the motivation for much research into the apparent ‘problem’ of educating Aboriginal students is the recognition that there is a persistent gap between the educational attainment of Aboriginal peoples and other Canadians due to equity disparity of educational opportunities (Cappon, 2008). Such research identifies factors that lead to improved success for Aboriginal students, such as cultural frameworks that focus on the overall well being of communities (Cappon, 2008) and viewing family and community features as a “network of social relations… (that)…enables access to resources and supports” (White, Spence, & Maxim, 2006, p. 70).  Schissel and Wotherspoon (2003) take a critical approach to linking the individual experiences of Aboriginal peoples to social structures. They argue that improved education and economic opportunities for Aboriginal peoples cannot be reduced to single factors. They view schooling within a broader social system as a site that “shapes identities, social interactions, (and) options” (p. 30).  They hold the view that, “democratic opportunities for participation, socio-economic inequalities, segmented labour markets, systemic racial, class, and gender differentiation” (p. 31) are important dynamics that contribute to how individuals experience education. In this view, schools are seen to have normative functions that “shape behaviour, personal characteristics, and social practices”  (p. 31) that are marked by class, gender, race, culture and other social  24 relations that contribute to inequality. Therefore, the authors argue for an analysis that links individual perspectives with social structures that explore the possibilities for social change.  Although, Métis scholar, Howard Adams (1989) recognizes the importance of decolonization for Aboriginal peoples in Canada politically and economically, his discussion about education is in general terms and to the exclusion of youth or student perspectives. Adams (1989) devoted a chapter of his book, A Prison of Grass, to a class/race analysis of the public school system. He argued that public schools establish “a white ideal” that: systematically and meticulously conditions natives to a state of inferiorization and colonization. It does this in a number of ways: …it teaches the language, literature, and history of the colonizer and thus forces the students to deny their language, culture and essential being. The school and its teachers operate within typical racial stereotypes and coerce students into feeling ashamed and unworthy. (p. 133) A compelling feature of Adams’ argument is when he asserts that, in the Canadian context, “racism originated in the imperialist fur-trading industry, and over the centuries it has become deeply entrenched in Canadian society. As a result, assimilation of natives into mainstream society is today not a possibility, at least not in capitalist society…” (p. 14). He argues that, if Indigenous peoples had been integrated into Canadian society it would have been impossible to separate them from other people as a class of special workers. However, as long as Indians were isolated as a special group, they were easily exploited as trappers;  25 isolation or segregation of native people was therefore essential for the fur industry. (p. 14) Such perspectives are rarely put forward in educational research in particular ideas such as when Adams’ questions the typical framing of colonial history and the rhetoric of “assimilation”.  Marie Battiste’s (2013) Decolonizing Education: Nourishing the learning spirit discusses the history of “forced assimilative education” (p. 24) and emphasizes that for First Nations in particular, education is a treaty and constitutional right that is not presently honoured by Canada. She argues that given this context, relationships between non-Indigenous and Indigenous peoples need to stem from treaty relationships. For Battiste, meaningful education in Canada begins with “confronting the hidden standards of racism, colonialism, and cultural and linguistic imperialism in the modern curriculum” (p. 29). She argues that when educational institutions focus solely on understanding the “culture” of Aboriginal peoples it can mask “evolutionary or racial logic” (p. 30) that allows educators to ignore racism and the stereotypical depictions of indigenous cultures. Battiste notes that decolonization and human rights movements have used social analyses to show how erroneous these perspectives are.	  	  	  Battiste envisions an “Indigenous Renaissance” wherein “collaborative conscientization” will “sensitize the Eurocentric consciousness in general, and educators in particular, to the colonial and neo-colonial practices that continue to marginalize and racialize Indigenous students” (p. 69). Acknowledging the “unique knowledge and relationships that Indigenous people derive from their place and homeland, … and passed on in their languages and ceremony” (p. 69) is another key site of struggle. Battiste  26 highlights that some Indigenous scholars refer to these strategies as an “Indigenist” agenda that is not confined to those who are Indigenous” (p. 73) and that this “Indigenous renaissance is an action agenda for the present and future” (p. 73). This latter statement is Battiste’s opening argument for the section on Indigenous Methodologies. Although Battiste discusses how these strategies have been applied in various Indigenous contexts such as her own Mi’kmaw First Nations communities and in higher education in her own university context, the voices and perspectives of Indigenous students, youth and parents are absent from this work.  Battiste’s (2013) discussion of education in urban contexts, where there are diverse Indigenous groups, reports on advances in British Columbia (BC). She notes that in BC an “emphasis on reporting and locally based, culturally based activity” has seen gains because, she argues, more students attend public schools than the under-funded band school system (p. 141). Battiste says that success in provincial schools means that Aboriginal students have to “submit to more assimilative paths, compromising their language and identities connected to their place and the continuities with elders and communities as schools have been homogenizing and normalizing Eurocentric experiences” (p. 141). Battiste’s decolonizing framework and perspectives on Aboriginal education in BC, highlights the need for researchers to understand Aboriginal youth’s perspectives and if they do indeed experience public schools as culturally and linguistically repressive.  A study that does focus on Aboriginal youth perspectives is Robin Gray’s (2011, p. 11) exploration of the “power dynamics associated with remembering and forgetting” the history of the Indian residential school system. Gray argues that the ideologies that  27 were used to leverage this system continue under the guise of child welfare with devastating results. Gray wants to add the voices of intergenerational survivors to expose the “egregious legacy of the Indian Residential School System” (p. 10). Gray found that her co-author/youth participants challenged the “mnemonic landscapes of Canada” whereby Aboriginal peoples are blamed for a colonial social legacy as part of a tradition of forgetting Indigenous peoples (p. 17). The youth in Gray’s study, set in Vancouver, BC, made connections between their present reality and the Indian residential school system. Gray found that the youth focused on the child protection system wherein the separating of Aboriginal children from parents was identified as a strategy that ensured that cultural ways continue to be eliminated. The youth connected Aboriginal controlled education institutions with empowerment and public schools with racism. Gray concluded that Indigenous youth need publicly funded spaces for healing from these inter-generational effects.   Beyond the exceptions noted in the literature, the unequal education outcomes for Aboriginal students in the BC context are rarely understood in terms of a history of colonization. Additionally, studies that consider Aboriginal college students’ memories of public school and how aboriginal education policies and structures might have shaped and influenced their understanding of their identities and social status are non-existent. So too are studies that focus on what the different generations have said to each other regarding the colonial past, both within families and at a cultural level.  Currently, the sparse literature that exists shows the importance that Aboriginal students place on educational achievement for self-determination and empowerment (Gray, 2011), and for honouring their elders, and as a means for survival (Schissel &  28 Wotherspoon, 2003). These themes reveal a measure of knowledge of the colonial past by the youth. Perhaps this was due to the way that these studies argued for a link between the traumatic history of education for Indigenous peoples and the intergenerational effects of this trauma on education outcomes in the present. Likewise, in applying the decolonizing frames provided by the Indigenous scholars such as Adams (1989), Battiste (2013) and Gray (2011) who seek to transform education for Indigenous peoples and communities by engaging in practices of remembering and forgetting of a past, history in Canada is seen and heard as the violent, racist and colonial experience that it is. Framing and interpreting memories of Aboriginal youth’s experiences of public school is only one part of this research project. Examining and analyzing Aboriginal education policy in the past and present offers another perspective. In looking for/to theory to explain the history of Aboriginal/Indian education beyond those that espouse healing from assimilation, and that might engage and decolonize this history and consider the pedagogical implications, I have found that several theories are needed to understand and explain the social conditions that presently exist while giving hope for respectful relations between Indigenous peoples and Canada in the future.   A history of the present  A key theoretical resource that informs this thesis is Ian Hacking’s (2002) historicism or theory of “historical ontology” (p. 71). Hacking argues that, when research is focused on how those who are labeled interact with the practices of being named in a particular historical, social and political milieu, then the researcher is writing a “history of the present” (p. 71). He argues that there are many sources for the diverse statements  29 that condition the emergence of particular problems and policy solutions. Accordingly, I explore my participants’ narrated memories of public school Aboriginal education for how Aboriginal students interact with AEEA policies’ views on ways of being in public schools and in life. Hacking’s (2002) approach is in turn informed by Foucault’s (1969) archaeological approach to history that examines both connaissance—the formal statements of history on the surface—and savoir—the much broader and less rational array of practices, policies, procedures, institutions, and politics of everyday life associated with depth knowledge. Foucault (1969) followed by Hacking argues for conceptions of knowledge to move beyond formal knowledge. The formal statements of education policies are only one source of knowledge. By focusing on the informal knowledge sources such as memories, fiction, photographs and buildings, as I do in this study, the depth knowledge on the relationship between education and Indigenous peoples might be known.  Accordingly, I heed the advice of Ricoeur who recommended the “‘little narratives’ of the (so-called) vanquished as opposed to the ‘Grand Narratives’ of the (so-called) victors” (Kearney, 2004, p. 106). I also take inspiration from van Manen (1997) who advises that phenomenological, hermeneutic research can generate knowledge that can serve the practical aims of pedagogy because pedagogy requires “a sensitivity to lived experience and a hermeneutic ability to make sense of the phenomena of the life world in order to see the pedagogic significance of situations” (p. 2). In this study, the narrated memories of lived experiences of Aboriginal/Indian education policy in two different time periods will be examined for how they might inform the articulation of a critical pedagogy of decolonization.  30 It is important to recognize that taking colonial policies at face value will yield few insights as they are often written to appear and sound benign or even benevolent. A decolonizing analysis will identify the rhetorical features of colonial policy language and reveal the inherent power relations in such language. Accordingly, in this study I highlight that with Aboriginal education today and in the past, there is a practice of employing a single term to delineate policy. Given how little research there is into Aboriginal youths’ perspectives on public education, this simplified approach to Aboriginal education must be questioned. Hence, the policy eras under investigation for this study are assimilation, from the late nineteenth century until the end of the twentieth, and reconciliation, beginning in 2005 and continuing until the present time. I view each of these time periods within a decolonizing frame by looking at and listening to many perspectives on the policies themselves in order to sort out the surface knowledge from the depth knowledge (Hacking, 2002) related to the persistence of colonial policy effects in contemporary times. My research aim is not to view Aboriginal education and AEEA policy in isolation from the past but in relation to multiple perspectives of history, thereby decolonizing research and the history of Aboriginal education.  What	  traces	  of	  colonial	  policies	  and	  practices	  can	  be	  found	  among	  memories	  of	  public	  school	  and	  followed	  back	  to	  the	  past?	  What	  do	  these	  memories	  mean	  as	  a	  trace	  of	  the	  colonial	  past?	   In continuing the spirit of decolonizing research for this study on the “history of the present” (Hacking, 2002) forms of Aboriginal education and Aboriginal education policy in British Columbia, and Canada, I engaged in “reflective listening” (Hampton, 1995, p. 12) to memories of Aboriginal college youth, as little narratives, or more  31 precisely, framed memories, for how Aboriginal education policies and practices were experienced. Ricoeur’s views on narratives are pertinent to this study of the effects and impact of colonial representations on contemporary policy, practices and the lived experience of Aboriginal students in public schools because narratives have a particular “rapport with ethics” (Kearney, 2002, p. 99). Kearney refers to Ricoeur’s ideas when he argues that, the tasks of narrative “lead ultimately to a decisive hermeneutic threshold where a poetics of narrative converses with an ethics of responsibility” (p. 99).  Ethical concerns arose in this study with the recognition that I occupy multiple positions in this research project, I am the daughter, niece and granddaughter of Indian residential school survivors, an Indigenous researcher, educator, pedagogue, and instructor and I also held the position of an administrator in a public school system while conducting this study. Accordingly, I set up my research methods to counter the possible perception of my wielding of authority over the participants and with the hope of ethically and reflectively listening (Hampton, 1995, p. 12) to their memories as a way to practice the respectful reflexivity3 that is needed for pedagogical reflection (van Manen, 1997, p. 121). In this way, memories of Aboriginal students are not only framed by pedagogical concerns but also by decolonizing and ethical research practices aimed at honouring those Indian residential school students who died at the hands of Euro-Canadian colonizers. An important theoretical resource comes from Kainai (Blackfoot) scholar, Leroy Littlebear. I felt fortunate to hear him speak at a provincial Aboriginal Education conference on traditional Kainai views of knowledge and learning. He said that in his 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  3	  I might have been perceived as an authority figure with respect to the Aboriginal student participants.  32 Indigenous language, learning is understood as “making a mark in the flux” (personal communication, 1994). This particular understanding of reality has stayed with me to the extent that it informs my overall approach to the structure of this thesis. Adopting this view decolonizes history by acknowledging that Indigenous peoples such as the Kainai continue to use their language and traditions in developing knowledge and learning in contemporary contexts and is another way to exercise respect in research with Indigenous peoples. Continually returning to the ethical principle of respect allows for entry points into decolonizing research methodologies and for practicing reflexivity. My own interpretation of “flux,” as implied by Littlebear (personal communication, 1994), is that it is the infinite sum of human experience. It is defined as “a continuous moving on or passing by” in the online Merriam-Webster dictionary, and as such I imagine that a degree of flexibility is needed on the part of learners who are viewing knowledge from this perspective. Similarly, Hacking (2002) argues that there are many forms of knowledge beyond what is presented in formal contexts. Along these lines, Denzin and Lincoln (2005) describe the critical researcher as an “interpretive bricoleur” using “many methods of collecting and analyzing empirical materials” while recognizing that we are all “stuck in the present, working against the past as we move into a politically charged and challenging future” (p. xiv-xv). Accordingly, I frame this study as a montage of memories of Aboriginal/Indian education as opposed to bricolage because some of the sources of data are visual and because of the key role of the visual in European imperialism, colonialism and modernity.  Understanding the film technique of montage—wherein film technicians superimpose a series of images to create a whole picture of a particular theme or to show  33 how a character changes with the passage of time—is helpful here. Along these lines, I engage with diverse forms of data in looking and listening for what to mark out “in the flux.” With this montage approach to research, I have identified memories, fiction, photographs, architecture, and official policies as data with which to make a “mark in the flux.” Accordingly, the decolonizing methodological frames that I use to examine each of the sources have a degree of flexibility, and although the traces of colonial effects are somewhat predictable, they are manifested in diverse modes of expression, and I argue that all appear to draw from a colonial archive. By counterbalancing Euro-centric theories with decolonizing methodologies and perspectives I exercise respect and reflexivity and at the same time decolonize the research practices I use. I use these diverse forms of data because they provide different perspectives on memories of Aboriginal/Indian education policy that, when viewed together, even simultaneously, will have the effect of emphasizing the underlying depth knowledge about relationships between education and Indigenous peoples upon which they are based. Similarly, Denzin and Lincoln (2005) conflate the term “montage” with “bricolage” to describe this approach to research, but my own preference—while retaining the meaning of the term “bricolage” as understood by Denzin and Lincoln (2002)—is to use the descriptor montage. I see these two terms as essentially representing the same approach of bringing together diverse methodological aspects while highlighting visual connotations that the term montage carries.  My intentions go beyond aesthetic considerations in that similar to film makers who use montage, the series of images and sounds are used to engender an emotional response. Along these lines, images of Indigenous peoples figure prominently in this  34 study of memories of Aboriginal/Indian education and as such require a method that is analogous to “editing cinematic images” (p. 4). It is “several different images … juxtaposed to or superimposed on one another to create a picture” (p. 4). In addition, in this study, I am aiming for emotional impact wherein readers might experience a sense of injustice when the meanings of these images emerge. With this move, the line that purportedly separates emotion from research objectivity is transgressed. In this way, a sense of how history might have been experienced for some Indigenous individuals, in particular, with regard to emotions, might be understood, thereby decolonizing history and the research for this thesis.  Given the “central tasks of narrative: to realize our debt to the historical past; to respect the rival claims of memory and forgetfulness; to cultivate a self-identity; and to persuade and evaluate action” (Kearney, 2004, p. 99), then, collecting and interpreting narratives as framed memories are crucial to finding colonial traces in recounting the lives of Aboriginal students.   Research participants Trying to do research within standard research structures with youth is a challenging process. My own aims were often in conflict with the young people I worked with. Accordingly in this study, in hopes of attracting the youth, I advertised this research project as an opportunity to create art for research (see Appendix A). I sent a poster to the Aboriginal education coordinator at a small college in the lower mainland of British Columbia to display in the Aboriginal student centre. In addition I had enlisted the support of an alternate school principal. Although I found three youth participants at the  35 alternate school, and due to the circumstances of the school year and the lives of the students, they did not complete the collage nor show up for our scheduled meetings. The poster displayed at the college indicated a meeting time and place and that food would be provided. The Aboriginal education coordinator at the college passed on the poster to students and then through word of mouth I eventually found seven participants. Three came to the first meeting and four attended the second group meeting.  There were four males (Hudson, Denver, Clarke, Clark K.) and three females (Shama, Cat, Naomi) that ranged in age from, 20 to 30 years of age. Over a period of six months we met in various configurations of small groups and individually depending on the availability of the students. In determining how I might engage Aboriginal youth in dialogue and discussion I gave consideration to the visual features of representation. Claudia Mitchell (2008) has argued that the use of visual methodologies brings complexity to a research project as it can involve critical issues of representation and are particularly attractive for drawing in participants. Further, visual methods can make research accessible particularly in contexts where power and control and regulation and access are central to policy development (p. 9). Furthermore, working with the visual to create artistic texts can be regarded as an interpretive process in itself. Finally, visual methods can facilitate reflexivity as they can offer a means of situating oneself (the researcher) in the research text and is critical to engaging the interpretive process (p. 7). I found these rationales to hold true, in particular, when I began this study with group artmaking; it allowed the students to relax and readily discuss and interpret their memories of experiences with public school and to represent and interpret their public school identities in visually  36 complex and surprising ways. Further, by resisting a research project that is solely focused on printed texts, as is the case in modernist research, another aspect of this study is decolonized.  Schissel and Wotherspoon (2002) used Talking Circles as a method for engaging Aboriginal students in their study of Saskatchewan Aboriginal education. My decision to also use this method was based on my own experiences with observing its use in many educational contexts with both youth and adults. Running Wolf and Rickard (2003) indicate that Talking Circles originated with the Indigenous peoples in the mid-west of North America and are now a “pantraditional healing intervention” (p. 40) used by multiple health and educational organizations that serve Indigenous peoples across North America. An object such as a rock, feather or carved Talking Stick is passed around the circle and participants share their perspective as they are holding the object. I envisioned that my data collection would involve having the students create collage of their memories of public school and then share particular aspects that they were comfortable with in the Talking Circle.  In practice, memories of public school experiences were readily discussed while the students created visual representations of them in collage. I revised the research plan on the fly, and instead of using Talking Circles I interjected with questions when I wanted to hear particular perspectives or in order to continue with a particular topic of discussion. In retrospect, this informal approach created an environment of openness that might not have been present if we had used the more formal Talking Circle method. Accordingly, the group discussions in conjunction with the collage generated questions for individual interviews while creating a public space for participants to discuss their  37 responses to their own collages in ways that they might not have, had they not had the benefit of other group members’ thoughts and ideas. The meaning of images displayed on their own collage were explained by the participants in the small group settings and then I set up individual interviews to discuss images of a more private nature, to determine what the generations have said to each other regarding history; and, how students might make sense of the history of Indian residential schools.  Once the collages were completed I made appointments with the youth to conduct the individual interviews. My intention was to view (art collages) and hear memories (group art making and interviews) of public school in a respectful and meaningful way. The data was collected over a period of six months. The first group met during the months of June, July and August of 2011 and the second group met during the months of September, October, and November of 2011. The first meeting was used for introductions, to provide an explanation of the research project and to answer questions. Letters inviting their participation and the forms seeking informed consent were distributed at each of the first meetings and subsequently signed by each participant. They each selected a pseudonym. Each group identified a date for the second meeting where they would complete their collage and then participate in a discussion about the images they chose. Participants were reminded throughout the study that their participation was voluntary. At each of the initial meetings I brought along all of the art supplies for the participants to create their collage based on the theme: picturing memories of public school. Providing materials was intended to make efficient use of the students’ time and to ensure they had materials. The materials included large pieces of art paper, pencils,  38 paints, educational magazines, glue, scissors, coloured tissue paper, markers and gloss. I also supplied food at each of the four (two sessions for each small group) art making sessions such as pizza, fruit and yoghurt and it was another way for me to practice respect. Beginning each session with sharing food also contributed to the informality of the sessions. The group discussions took place during the artmaking sessions where I had to ask very few questions, as the directions I provided for creating the collage were more than sufficient to prompt discussion. This process helped me to develop and refine the individual interview protocol. All the sessions were digital audio taped. At the second group interview, after introductions using their pseudonyms, the participants were encouraged to explain the images they chose for their collages and to engage in free flowing discussion. The questions were intended to prompt discussion focused on the students’ perceptions of their school life, including what they were like as students and questions that encouraged them to share their perspectives of how the school viewed them as Aboriginal students. The group sessions were transcribed and I identified key topics for each of the individual interviews.  Up to two in depth, open-ended interviews were conducted following the group artmaking and interviews. The interview questions made broad reference to the themes that emerged from the narrative accounts of former Indian residential school students. The questions were designed to elicit what the participants knew of the history of education for Indigenous peoples, history in Canada, generally, and what they knew of their parents’ experiences with education as well as their perspectives on what Aboriginal education meant for them as Aboriginal students. I had prepared a list of questions but I felt self-conscious about being intrusive and continually referring to the paper so I  39 resolved to focus on their experiences of being an Aboriginal student in public school, what they knew of their parents’ schooling experiences and what educational practices the youth would have liked to experience.  I also had photographs of Indian residential school buildings to show participants but as the interviews progressed they also seemed unnecessary, as the students were forthcoming in discussing what they knew of them and their parents’ experiences of them. Individual interviews were transcribed and together with the group art-making interviews comprised the data.  As previously discussed, there were several challenges associated with this research project. These include the authority that I carried as an administrator and someone who is older than the participants insofar as they may have felt the need to follow instructions from someone like me. But given that the individual interviews were re-scheduled several times for most participants it seems that those who participated had a reason to do so. Another challenge was the pre-occupation for this age group to focus on their own social and emotional worlds. As such there were frequent reminders and re-scheduling to accommodate the participants’ busy lives leading up to the meetings. Another challenge was the reticence of a few to fully participate perhaps due to reluctance in fully revealing their public school identities or simply the busyness of their lives as student, parents, and family members. One young woman participated only in the group art making and didn’t respond to emails requesting an individual meeting.  In sum, this study used decolonizing qualitative and visual research methods including group art-making, group and individual interviews to elicit memories of public school Aboriginal education, and reflectively listening for intergenerational memories of  40 Indian residential school survivors and for other themes that figured prominently in their lives as public school Aboriginal students.  How	  might	  memories	  of	  educational	  policy	  across	  generations	  of	  Indigenous	  actors	  be	  relevant	  for	  understanding	  the	  effects	  of	  Aboriginal	  education	  today?	  	   Denezin and Lincoln (2005) explain that with texts based on the metaphor of montage: “many different things are going on at the same time—different voice, different perspectives, points of views, angles of vision” (p. 5). These scholars argue that, “works that use montage, simultaneously create and enact moral meaning. They move from the personal to the political, from the local to the historical and the cultural. These are dialogic texts” (p. 5). Further, the product of these interpretive moves made by the researcher who uses montage, is a “reflexive collage –a set of fluid, interconnected images and representations…connecting the parts to the whole” (p. 6). Along these lines, in this thesis, the aim of the various analyses and interpretations is to identify the depth knowledge that links each part to the whole in terms of a montage of memories of Aboriginal/Indian education and policies. Accordingly, I use decolonizing methodological frames that draw from multiple theories related to how memories, fiction, policies, photographs, and even the architecture of Indian residential school buildings need to be analyzed for colonial or decolonizing traces. Each frame is discussed below in terms of the rationale for calling upon the various theories that inform their construction and how they relate to intergenerational memories of Aboriginal education. In this thesis, each data chapter represents the use of a specific decolonizing methodological frame with which to view memories, policies and history respectively. I draw upon several theoretical resources in developing each methodological frame. These  41 include, the landmark work investigating the politics of colonization and the social practices of decolonization by Maori scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999), Hacking’s conceptual approach of a “history of the present” (p. 2), Kearney’s (2003) discussion of the functions of narrative, critical literary theory applied to Sherman Alexie’s literature, in particular, his short story The search engine and Long’s (2007) discussion of memory and postmemory. The salient features of each of these theoretical and methodological perspectives in regard to this study are explained below. Montage:	  decolonizing	  theoretical	  frames	  on	  memory,	  policy	  and	  history	   Smith argues that revisiting history requires an understanding that history as a field of thought was framed according to European interpretations. Hence, the history of Indigenous peoples is negated as a colonial practice that justifies post hoc, the imposition of foreign education systems (Smith, 1999). The Canadian Indian residential school system is a case in point. Smith (1999) calls for theory and research with which we can “engage, understand and then act upon history” (p. 34). As one strategy, Smith reminds us “(t)he need to tell our stories remains the powerful imperative of a powerful form of resistance” (p. 35). Accordingly I adopted an approach to listening to the Aboriginal youth participants that Eber Hampton (1995) described as “reflective listening” (p. 12). With this approach I proceeded on the “basis of an intuitive, ill-defined feeling of authentic engagement…” (p. 13). Similarly, my feeling after each meeting with the participants mirrored Hampton’s experience: “The interviews seemed real in a way that was both exhilarating and frightening in that I felt that powerful learning that I could not describe was happening” (p. 13). Further, he described, “reflective listening” as a “feeling  42 of … openness to learning and growth as a participant” (p. 13). Hampton says this practice of listening is characteristic of Indigenous communication styles. The decolonizing strategy of reflectively listening to our experiences of history is a frame that encompasses the practices of remembering and forgetting history from the perspectives of Aboriginal youths’ memories of education and life in terms of key themes found in Sherman Alexie’s (2003) literature. Another frame is around Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement policy views of history and Aboriginal students’ identities and how Aboriginal youth use knowledge, power and ethics to construct identities. Yet another frame is used to hear and view memories of Indian residential schools and colonial policy and, finally, another frames the practices that will engage critical pedagogy. Within each decolonizing methodological frame, there is increasing focus on elaborating pedagogy and practice that might decolonize Aboriginal education. A pedagogical concern frames the depth knowledge that connects Indigenous experiences of education policy across time and space. In taking this all-encompassing view of memories and policies using these decolonizing methodological frames, the metaphor of montage is well suited for framing the overall research project. In particular when flashbacks to intergenerational memories and policies are foreshadowed by memories of the present. The theories and methodologies for each of these decolonizing frames are explained and discussed in depth below. With regard to narratives, Kearney (2004) highlighted Ricoeur’s study of their power to “make present what is absent” (p. 99) thereby realizing their capacity for “projecting futures and retrieving pasts” (p. 99). Ricoeur’s critical hermeneutics recognizes that the “refigurative power of narrative prevents historians from neutralizing  43 injustice. It prevents historiography from explaining history away” (p. 102). Kearney highlighted Ricoeur’s argument that when narratives function as “rememoration” they embody an ethical character quite distinct from the triumphalist commemoration of history’s great and powerful. Where the latter tends to legitimate ideologies of conquest, the former moves in the opposite direction, namely, toward a felt reliving of past suffering as if we (readers/listeners/spectators) had actually been there. (p. 102)  In this study, framed memories of Aboriginal college students are understood to represent counter-hegemonic narratives of history; thus, they inherit an ethical character “in the service of rememoration” (p. 106). In this view, “(r)ecounting is a way of becoming … an ethical consciousness. (p. 106). Along similar lines, van Manen (1997) views stories as examples or “topics of practical theorizing. They are important for pedagogy in that they function as experiential case material on which pedagogic reflection is possible” (p. 121). Accordingly, I argue that pedagogical and ethical concerns frame the practice of reflectively listening to the memories of education across generations of Indigenous peoples, including memoirs and survivor accounts, I thereby engage with ethical practices of rememoration that can help define a critical pedagogy of decolonization. I used a decolonizing methodological approach with the framed memories of public schools of individuals who are the descendant generation of Indian residential school survivors. I examined how the six Aboriginal college students make sense of their identity as Aboriginal students as well as the extent to which their histories embody remembering or forgetting of their ancestor’s experiences with education and the Indian  44 residential school system. Accordingly Aboriginal college students’ memories are analyzed alongside a short story by American Indian author Sherman Alexie. In this way the thoughts and actions of a fictional college student who is also exploring the possible ways of being in history highlights the preoccupations with this particular age group. My argument for using fiction comes directly from Kearney (2004): “(s)ometimes an ethics of memory is obliged to resort to an aesthetics of representation” (p. 107). Along these lines, I argue that Alexie uses fiction as a form of narrative memory as described by Kearney (2004) that might allow for the identification with “as many fellow humans as possible – actors and sufferers alike …” (p. 107). Alexie’s short story mediates Aboriginal youth memories of what it meant to be an Aboriginal student in public schools, any experiences of marginalization and remembering are set in a decolonizing context alongside Alexie’s characters’ experiences of colonial history and education.  This decolonizing strategy of positioning the framed memories of Aboriginal college youth alongside the fiction of Sherman Alexie (2003) allowed insights into Indigenous narratives as the lived experiences of history. Collecting and interpreting memories of Aboriginal education and policy were considered in light of how their lives might be informed by colonial notions of the ‘white ideal’ or Indigenous being, as truth. In addition I also considered the degree to which “language and identities are connected to … the continuities with elders and communities”, (Battiste, 2013, p. 125) as Indigenous subjects. These were all themes that emerged from the literature review. In addition, gaining the youths’ perspectives on the notion that Indigenous peoples constitute a special class of workers (Adams, 1989, p. 14) who are delimited by ‘racial  45 superiority’ or if they envision multiple future pathways was another consideration that emerged from studies of Indigenous experiences of public education in Canada.  In using historical ontology (Hacking, 2002) to theorize Indigenous memories across time and space, the focus is on the naming practices of policy and the experiences of being named as Aboriginal students, in particular instances where policy practices of constituting identities along the “axes of knowledge, power and ethics” (Hacking, 2002, p. 2) are taken up or rejected by the youth. With historical ontology self-identity involves the “truth through which we constitute ourselves as objects of knowledge, the power through which we constitute ourselves as subjects acting on others and the ethics through which we constitute ourselves as moral agents” (p. 2). This series – knowledge, power and ethics—linked the memories of Aboriginal education policies of the present to colonial education in the past, and to future pedagogy and practices that imbue a possibility for Indigenous self-determination. In reflectively listening to Aboriginal students’ interpret their ways of being in relation to history and Aboriginal education policy; I heard the youth make distinctions regarding the forms of education needed for Indigenous peoples’ self-determination. With this decolonizing analysis, arguments about Aboriginal students’ views on preferred educational practices are linked to what their visions mean for ethical action as crucial to a critical pedagogy of decolonization.   Critical policy analysis Another way to contextualize and theorize Aboriginal youths’ memories of public education is to examine them against public Aboriginal education policies. In this view, Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement policies can be seen as a discursive  46 vehicle for remembering and forgetting. It is a form of official memory. Since the key purpose of education policies is to describe the actions that need to be taken regarding pedagogy and practice, policy statements can be scrutinized for the ways in which they might invoke white ideals and racial superiority and for how they might compromise Indigenous language and identities. By examining Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement policies’ views of history, policy history’s view of Aboriginal students in photographs and texts, and Indigenous viewpoints on history, the possible ways of being in history for Aboriginal students according to BC AEEA policies are revealed. This particular decolonizing methodological frame examines policy discourse on history and subjectivity and narrative viewpoints on history. Understanding that power can be exercised through discourse is the intent of Critical Discourse Analysis (Fairclough and Wodack, 2005) however, neo-colonial discourse analysis, used in the New Zealand context, highlights the effects of colonizing discourses on Maori stories, histories and knowledge system in terms of dominance, denial, and deficit thinking.  To be more specific, this decolonizing methodological frame brought to AEEA policy draws on neo-colonial discourse analysis used to examine policy discourse for Maori education in New Zealand. Bishop and Glynn’s (1999) study of policies and educational practices in history and curricula, found Maori history and traditions presented in simplistic terms and Maori intelligence was characterized as “hands-on” (p. 39). This was a code term that meant training in manual skills that required no development of the intellect. These processes and practices positioned the Euro-settlers as superior. Colonial ideology was further embedded in education policy when the national school system that was developed for Maori emphasized personal hygiene and manual  47 skills. Corporal punishment was used to enforce the prohibition of the Maori language. The Maori were characterized as ‘hands on’, due to their so-called cultural and intellectual inferiority. When Maori were expelled from their lands into urban areas, a new policy era, known as integration was proclaimed. When urban white education systems did not accommodate Maori students, an explanation aligned with the historical depiction of Maori as ‘hands on’, was promoted. The resulting cultural deficiency explanation was another code that was meant to imply intellectual deficiency and the concomitant education programs were designed so that Maori could “catch up” (p. 39). These colonial codes that allude to a fictitious past when Maori were deemed to require a curriculum that was hands-on were updated again with such multicultural education policy notions as “we are all the same” and “cultural sharing” (p. 41) with the Pakeha (whites). Bishop and Glynn (1999) argue that this neo-colonial discourse places the whites at the centre of the policy and imply a cultural uniformity that is intended to erase Maori history and culture as legitimate. Paradoxically, Maori culture is legitimized when cultural sharing as a bicultural policy solution re-allocates resources to the dominant Pakeha group to learn about Maori thereby ignoring Maori language and cultural revitalization aspirations. Bishop and Glynn’s (1999) model for identifying neocolonial discourse is a key resource of the decolonizing methodological frame focused on Aboriginal education policy.   Analysis of photographs 	  An important decision I faced was whether or not to reproduce, in this thesis, photographs that appeared in the AEEAs examined for this study. As previously  48 discussed, practicing ethical research means adhering to the principle of respect in how you position your research and ultimately how you position yourself in relation to Indigenous peoples, cultures and history. My decision to not include photographs of Aboriginal students from the AEEA polices that were examined in this study is done out of respect in that doing so might be perceived as reproducing colonial social relations. Readers who wish to see the photographs can go to the websites indicated in the bibliography. I do however include photographs in my analysis of representations of Indian residential students in the chapter on the history of the Indian residential school system. These photographs are ubiquitous and they usually accompany media stories. Their ubiquity calls out for analysis. Hirsch (1999) argues that engaging with photographs and images of traumatic history can mediate acts of remembrance, because they attest to the truth of the past while communicating the distances that must be bridged between the viewer and the subject and between the survivors of trauma and the next generation. Accordingly, photographs of Indian residential school history were to be included in the interviews with participants, however their family’s history with Indian residential schools was readily discussed and the photos were not necessary for data collection. With this policy analysis I showed how photographs and images of remembrances figured in this montage of memories of Aboriginal education policy over time. Isabelle Knockwood (2001) took and used photographs of the derelict building to revive the memories of her peers who attended the Shubenacadie Indian residential school in Nova Scotia. Sarah Spike (2012) analyzed school photographs of rural Nova Scotia for what they reveal about social history including “the hidden curriculum of  49 education, the forms of socialization and acculturation to gender roles, and racial and class segregation, the enforcement of behavioural norms and the reproduction of ideological beliefs” (p. 58). Along these lines, McClintock’s (1995) discussion on colonial photography and colonial conceptions of history and of Aboriginal communities and Aboriginal peoples is important for this analysis of AEEA policy photographs.  Colonial photography is the material practice of the ‘colonial gaze’ that displays and disciplines the so called ‘uncivilized’. According to McClintock (1995), the notion of visualizing a culture is “synonymous for understanding it” (p. 122). Such a “point of view – the panoptical stance—is enjoyed by those in privileged positions in the social structure, to whom the world appears as a spectacle, stage, performance” (p. 122).  Photography holds the “panoptic” power of collection, display and discipline, a “technology of surveillance within the context of a developing global economy” (p. 123). McClintock linked the need for “ordering and assembling the myriad world economies into a single commodity culture”, with “the need for a universal currency of exchange, through which the world’s economic cultures could be subordinated and made docile” (p. 123).  In European colonies, Indigenous peoples were captured in photographs that framed them as further back along a linear progression of cultural development. In this process Indigenous peoples became objects of the ‘colonial gaze’ where they are seen but are considered to not have the capacity to see. A case in point is the photographic project of Edward Curtis in the early part of the twentieth century wherein he intended to preserve the so-called ‘primitive’ cultures of North America by photographing and therefore displaying the historical ‘truth’ of them. I argue that colonial spatial concepts  50 identified by Smith (1999) of “the line” for establishing boundaries, the concept of “the centre as an orientation to power”, and the concept of “the outside” as an “oppositional (and distant) relation to the colonial centre” (p. 53) frame photographs as colonial. In AEEA policies, representations of Indigenous peoples in discourse and photographs are usually positioned in relation to history. I argue that when AEEA policy images are assessed in terms of the degree to which colonial tropes are invoked in images of Aboriginal students in an era of reconciliation and compared with images of Indian students in an era of assimilation, the depth knowledge or savoir that defines these representations is a notion of inferiority that justifies mistreatment and even genocide. 	  How	  can	  intergenerational	  memories	  of	  schooling	  inform	  a	  critical	  pedagogy	  of	  decolonization?	  What	  are	  the	  conditions	  for	  practicing	  a	  critical	  pedagogy	  of	  decolonization?	  	   My responses to this particular research question led directly to what I have learned from history. Hearing this history is a way to honour my relatives and ancestors and Indigenous peoples and their lived experiences with colonial policy and history. Honouring an “ethical debt to the dead” (Kearney, 2004, p. 100) was put forth by one of the research participants, as “remember the children” by “reaching out from now until back then” (Hudson, personal communication, July 7, 2011). I honour this debt by discussing a legal study of Indian residential school case law that reveals Canada’s laws’ views of former Indian residential school students and the subject positions constructed for Indigenous peoples in history. Legal decisions on Indian residential school cases involve Canada as a defendant and reveal Canada’s fundamental view of her relationship to Indigenous peoples. An examination of Canadian law’s view of Aboriginal peoples’  51 experiences with Indian residential schools unearths the savoir (Foucault, 1969) or the depth knowledge from which the surface hypotheses get their meaning. Practices of naming Indigenous peoples for legal purposes seem to make reference to the same colonial archive used in education that repeats unwanted and harmful effects on Indigenous peoples and the wider Canadian public in the present. Legal narratives, fiction, personal narratives, memories, images, and building design provide perspectives not included in official texts. Such viewing of and listening to Aboriginal/Indian education policy from these perspectives is important for the reasons that decolonizing research and historical ontology demand that inquiries go beyond official and formal texts. Accordingly, I engaged several decolonizing methodological frames to understand Aboriginal youths’ memories of Aboriginal education.  Shoshana Felman (2001, 2009) has noted that within memory studies the idea of repetition – repeated and largely unchanged dimensions of dominant, juridical or national narrative – is a feature of traumatic history. She argued that, the meaning of trauma could only be understood with “an encounter between law and art” (p. 280). Here a decolonizing methodological frame links memories of Indian residential school students to themes which speak back to the trajectory of the colonial archive: for example, buildings of traumatic confinement, and earlier published accounts of residential schooling that have been recovered and presented aesthetically. These insights about trauma, memory and space were prompted by W.G. Sebald’s (2001) novel Austerlitz where a history of trauma is linked indirectly to the policy stories that buildings tell. Sebald’s (2001) novel Austerlitz is used in this study to highlight significant memories of  52 an individual survivor, Isabelle Knockwood (2001), and that of her peers, who attended the Shubenacadie Indian residential school in Nova Scotia.  As previously discussed, historical ontology is a theory for engaging with history differently, focusing on how the practices of naming interact with the subjects that are named. Historical ontology also draws attention to the “conditions of formation” of a particular conception that “determine its logical relations and moral connotations” (Hacking, 2002, p. 67). In viewing diverse dimensions of Aboriginal/Indian education within particular conditions of formation i.e. the broader policy contexts of assimilation and reconciliation the aim is to uncover the depth knowledge associated with the practices of naming Aboriginal/Indian students in these education contexts.  A common feature of both policy eras relates to how photographs might function as a disciplinary technology. In particular for the way that history is referenced in the images and the way that they depict and display white Canadian school systems’ capacity for benevolence as a defining feature of what the Canadian government purportedly stands for. J.J. Long (2007), a scholar of both Sebald and Foucault, argues that historical archives usually depict the relationship between power and knowledge. Long noted that Sebald’s novels featured photographs and archives as preoccupations that are key for understanding subjectivity in the era of modernity and as sites that might “offer possibilities of resisting modernity’s disciplinary imperatives” (p. 19). The underlying depth knowledge that underpins the diverse views in this montage of memories is related to the power/knowledge relations, reproduced in photographs and the colonial archive. Accordingly they are also sites of possibility for unmapping technologies of colonial power and for countering these technologies with perspectives by Indigenous peoples and  53 students within a critical pedagogy of decolonization. In particular, the degree to which Indigenous self-determination is recognized and acknowledged in memories of Aboriginal education policy and articulated for educators of Indigenous children in an era of truth and reconciliation. Summary	  of	  chapter	  	  In this chapter, I have theorized the memories of events and instances where the youth self-identified and/or were identified by public school officials as Aboriginal students. Decolonizing methodologies meant enlisting theories that engage history differently. Envisioning this study as a montage of decolonizing methodological frames around memories, fiction, policy, photographs, and building design was an important way to recognize the complexity to examining experiences of Aboriginal education policies in two different policy eras. In particular, finding a metaphor or framework with which to support these diverse methods and methodologies posed significant challenges. Refining the research questions was effective in addressing these challenges.  In terms of using visual methods and focus group and individual interviews they were found to be appropriate for creating an atmosphere of trust and respect. Throughout this research process by practicing an ethic of respect, I heard memories of traumatic history. In so doing, a critical pedagogy of decolonization emerged so that Indigenous ways of being in life might be empowered and respected in public schools in Canada. In the next chapter the interviews with Aboriginal college youth are theorized, discussed and understood within historical ontology and decolonizing methodological frames. Accordingly the memories of Shama (Haida), Hudson (Haida), Naomi (Secwepemc), Denver (Cree/ Métis), Clarke (Cree), and Cat (Anishnabe) are viewed and  54 heard as the counter-hegemonic narratives that brush up against the prevailing perspectives of Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement policy as progressive.                  	  	  	  	   55 Chapter Three: Aboriginal youths’ memories of being named Aboriginal students  This chapter is devoted to my “reflectively listening” (Hampton, 1995, p. 12) to six Aboriginal college students’ accounts of experiences with public education and policy—specifically British Columbia (BC) Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement (AEEA) policy—and their memories of what it meant to be identified as Aboriginal students. In writing this “history of the present” (Hacking, 2002, p. 66), in terms of Aboriginal education policy in BC in an era of reconciliation, I highlight the roles of memory, “postmemory” (Hirsch, 1999), and forgetting in Aboriginal youths’ narratives of their parents’ lives as they were affected by historical Indian education policy. In particular, I wish to identify colonial traces in their memories of experiences of educational policy and practice and its potential impact on these young people attending higher education in BC.  Imposing by legislation particular ways of being for Indigenous peoples is a historical, Canadian, colonial, policy practice. Education policy eras for Indians/Aboriginal peoples in Canada are often referred to by their one-word descriptors:  civilization, assimilation, in the past and today the policy rhetoric is reconciliation. I argue that this practice is linked to other colonial disciplinary practices. By focusing on and hearing memories of being named an Aboriginal student, and Aboriginal students’ intergenerational memories of schooling, I aim to decolonize research methodologies, policy and Aboriginal education by framing these as key sites of struggle in the lived experiences of AEEA policies in BC public schools, in this era of reconciliation.    56 Historical ontology frames this inquiry broadly, as “how our (educational) practices of naming interact with” those “we name” (Hacking, 2002, p. 2) and how the practices of naming and being named arise in social, political and historical conditions. With “historical ontology” (Hacking, 2002) researchers investigate the “ways in which the possibilities for choice, and for being, arise in history” (p. 23). When studies are “intended to show something about our present reality, our present reasoning, our present modes of research. They may … be called histories of the present” (p. 66).  As I have argued, in the previous chapter, taking up Hacking’s theory on how experiences of being named interact with practices of naming, in this particular study of Indigenous memories of public school, requires decolonizing methods and methodologies.   By using montage the choices for interpreting and analyzing memories of public education are opened up. Accordingly, in this and the next two chapters I use multiple decolonizing methodological frames that each contributes a particular perspective to this montage of images. These decolonizing methodological frames offer multiple perspectives on Aboriginal youths’ views of being named Aboriginal students in an era of reconciliation. This policy era purports to bring Indigenous peoples and Canada closer together. It is reminiscent of the policy era of assimilation wherein residential schools were supposed to provide education and training for Indigenous peoples to join Canadian social and economic life. Accordingly, this term must be interrogated for its rhetorical features. Gaining multiple views on AEEA policy contributes to this study mapped as a montage of memories of Aboriginal/Indian education policy in BC and Canada.  The view gained from each decolonizing methodological frame is assessed against the conceptions of colonial education that emerged from the literature reviewed  57 for this study. The key features of colonial education identified in the literature described public schools that emphasize a white ideal and white racial superiority, they undermine language and identity connections to Indigenous communities and their educational practices support the notion that Aboriginal peoples represent a special under class of workers.  Decolonizing methodologies and history means highlighting the capacity for narratives to “brush history against the grain” as they put the “dominant power in question” (Kearney, 2004, p. 110). Accordingly, the first decolonizing methodological frame that I use to make meaning of the memories of BC Aboriginal college youths focuses on themes of remembering and forgetting history in life that are highlighted in Sherman Alexie’s (2003) short story “The search engine”.  In examining public school identities against the fictional life of a Native American university student in the short story “The search engine” by Native American author Sherman Alexie, the decolonizing lens I use, is concerned with debts, memory, forgetting, identity and ethical action regarding the genocide of Native American4 peoples. Similarly, how these themes are reflected in the memories of Aboriginal college youth are explored in depth in the next section.  	  Memory,	  postmemory	  and	  forgetting	   The Native American author Sherman Alexie (2003) is also concerned with social naming and its powerful effects on individuals who belong to a socially marginalized group, in this case one of the Native American Tribes in the United States (US). These 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  4	  Alexie prefers to use the term “Indian” and strongly disagrees with the term “Native American.”  58 dynamics are evident in the narrated thoughts and actions of the main character, Corliss Joseph, a Native American university student, in terms of her emerging identity and her imagined choices for being in the future. The story centres on Corliss’ search for a member of her Spokane tribe, a poet: the craft Corliss dreams of pursuing. The politics of identity that Native Americans, and I would argue, Indigenous peoples in Canada, contend with are brutally exposed with Alexie’s (2003) assertion, “(f)or five centuries Indians were slaughtered because they were Indians” (p. 11). This statement is darkly and ironically framed by how Alexie has Corliss use her knowledge of this history to rationalize the ways in which she plays on the sympathy of her white friends: “so if Corliss received a free coffee now and again from the local free-range lesbian Indiophile who could possibly find the wrong in that?” (p. 11). This is one of several allusions to the ongoing effects of the limited choices for being as the result of these unjust exchanges between Native Americans and whites. In that sense, “The search engine” is an accounting of these injustices in terms of choices Native Americans have for identity and even survival.  Margaret O’Shaughnessey (2010) has highlighted the counting feature of Alexie’s literature, in particular with the title of the collection, Ten Little Indians, in which “The search engine” appears. Although she is less concerned with the theme of accounting for historical injustice, she provides an in-depth discussion of Alexie’s use of the nursery rhyme “Ten Little Indians” and its meaning as the title of the collection. The meaning of the nursery rhyme itself may have been lost for current generations that might have learned it as a simple counting song; however, the original version describes the death of each “little Indian.” O’Shaughnessey (2010) argues that the theme of the verse is a type  59 of wish fulfillment but she doesn’t state the obvious, in that it was written for the consumption of white children. When contained in a nursery rhyme for children, the wish that Indians would continue on their path to tragic, premature and untimely deaths is normalized. I argue that Alexie, for his part, takes seriously the notion of paying a “debt to the past” (Kearney, 2004, p. 99). As Kearney (2004) has discussed, this is one of the “tasks of narrative (p. 99). For example, Corliss recalls the time her uncles were at her home for a family reunion and they were asking her about the book she was reading. When they learned it was a book of poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins, the converted Jesuit poet, written in 19th century England, one uncle admonished, “White people were killing Indians in the nineteenth century … I bet this Hopkins dude was killing Indians too” (p. 13). Corliss defends Hopkins by telling them he was a Jesuit: He was a Catholic?” her father asked. “Oh, Corliss, those Catholics were the worst. Your grandmother still has scars on her back from when a priest and a nun whipped her in boarding school. You shouldn’t be reading that stuff. It will pollute your heart” (p. 14).  But in an earlier scene, Alexie, through Corliss, gives poetry more credit, when Corliss responds with “I hope not,” to a young man’s argument that, “A good gun will always beat a good poem” (p. 4). When Kearney (2004) speaks of recalling our debt to those who have “lived, suffered and died” he means that we need to respect “the right of the past, as it once was, to incite and rectify our narrative retellings of history” because “gas ovens and gulags did exist” (p. 100).    60  “The search engine” begins with Corliss eavesdropping on a couple, students, in the student union café of the Washington State University she attends in Pullman, Washington. The young man is trying to impress the young woman with his intellect: “it was Auden who wrote that no poem ever saved a Jew from the ovens” (p. 2). Similarly, the question might be asked of the role of poetry in Indigenous peoples’ survival. Nancy Peterson (2010) points out that, “comparisons of tragic histories can become caught up with victim counts, leading to a hierarchy of suffering or victimization” (p. 212). Although Peterson (2010) notes that several Native American Studies scholars have made this comparison, she nevertheless wishes to draw our attention to the Native literary anthologies that have “entered the conversation” (p. 64), for the main reason that the “poems, essays, and stories gathered in these anthologies address themselves to a broader audience and bring up complicated epistemological and ethical issues” (p. 64). For example, she says there is a “crisis of witness to the history of Native American genocide and therefore these texts can intervene using a full range of literary, narrative, and poetic techniques, to give voice to occluded personal and tribal histories” (p. 64). Peterson is picking up on the Onandaga author Eric Gansworth’s point that even if there were an equivalent Holocaust museum for Native Americans there would be no one to record but ghosts. Peterson (2010) found that Alexie has shown in his writing and interviews his wish to show the parallels of the Shoah with Native American genocide. In particular, Peterson argues that Alexie shows “an awareness of the ethical issues attached to any comparison of genocide and suffering, even as he insists on the efficacy of aligning Native and Holocaust histories” (p. 37).   61 Of the six college youth I interviewed, only one, Shama, spoke directly of a similar comparison. It was a recollection of an exchange between her parents. Her father was Indigenous (now deceased) and her mother is non-Indigenous (from the UK). Ironically, her chosen pseudonym means ghost of many in her Indigenous language and it also means white man in other Indigenous languages in British Columbia.  Lyn: Did you ever talk about what it was like in the residential school? Shama: Yeah he did. I just remember him saying, like, you know, there’s a reason I left. And I don’t know whether he meant like circumstance or whether something worse happened, I don’t know. But the idea of … he said that a lot of…it was terrible things. Like he would … I remember he said that one of his friends was killed. And I remember my mom like not being able to fathom the whole idea. She knew what a residential school was for the most part but only from what my dad had explained. So moving here and like seeing those old buildings used as community centres and things like that … on these properties and … Lyn: Oh yeah, which? Shama: I’m trying to think. I think it’s in Wells5 (Wells Gray National Park in the BC interior). The residential school there is still standing. And being used as a community centre now and … different things like that. And my mom being like, oh why wouldn’t they shut them down? My dad’s like, well they didn’t tear down the camps, did they? I just … the look on her face. She was mortified because my dad related them to concentration camps. And then 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  5	  She	  must	  be	  referring	  to	  St.	  Joseph’s	  Mission,	  Williams	  Lake,	  BC.	  In	  1981,	  the	  school	  building	  reopened	  as	  Cariboo	  Indian	  Education	  and	  Training	  Centre.	  	   62 she was even more disgusted when she found out those actually existed in BC too. So it’s just the … like, to some degree at least, like the internment camps and stuff. (Personal communication, July 5, 2011).  In Holocaust studies, the term “postmemory” describes the notion that second-generation survivors of the Holocaust identify so strongly with the previous generation’s experience of genocide and dehumanization that they begin to constitute memories in their own right (Hirsch, 1999). Two of the six students interviewed recalled events that could be described as postmemory. But Shama did not: Shama: It’s crazy how like it gets lost in the shuffle he got. And so when he explained that he’s like “yeah I didn’t even know my family for 27 years.” And he’s like, “you don’t know how lucky you are.” And I’m like, “no I really don’t.” (Personal communication, July 5, 2011) Shama, Hudson and Naomi were the three participants who knew with certainty that their parents had attended an Indian residential school. For Hudson and Naomi, although their parents had attended Indian residential schools and it was never spoken of, their first encounters with the actual Indian residential school buildings proved to be overwhelming. Hudson, one of the male Aboriginal college youths, spoke of researching Indian residential schools for a college course and having difficulty with beginning the writing on the topic. In relating this experience he was reminded of the time he was unknowingly inside a residential school facility when he was enrolled in a course related to his work in the fishing industry: Hudson: It made me think of everything. And then it also reminded me of how I felt when I was in the Mission school. I despised that place. Could not stand  63 it and I’d ask people, “Why does this building feel this way?” And one of the people there said, “This was a residential school.” And it was one of the workers there and she said, “You could feel it?” I said, “Oh it’s disgusting. I hate being in here.” Lyn: Yeah. Hudson: And she was just shocked. I think I was only 18. Doing a three-day course. And I just could not stand it. I had to get out of there. Lyn: Yeah. Can you identify what it was that made you feel that way? Hudson: I just felt sad. Just heavy. Heavy emotions all day. Every time I was in there, to the point where I left … and hit the road. I just felt angry. I felt sad. I was scared. It’s the only way I can describe it. And then …we leave to go to the hotel. Just did not want to be in there. I asked Hudson more about his experience of being inside the Indian Residential School facility: Lyn: So you could really, in some ways, relate to the experiences of the kids in … Hudson: Especially after going to that Mission school facility. Lyn: That was like some kind of like … Hudson: That’s just an empty building. And I was able to feel that just from a building. It was … Lyn: Yeah. Do you think it was like, would you describe it as like a spiritual thing? Hudson: I would have to say so, even though I wouldn’t want to. Lyn: Why?  64 Hudson: I try not to delve into the spirit thing, you know. Complete opposite. My mother’s all about it. But I try not to. (Personal communication, July 6, 2011) Another college youth, Naomi, in a separate interview recalled a similar experience: Lyn: I’m wondering, you know, if you were to think of what’s one of the most significant historical events for Aboriginal people in your community? …Naomi:  I don’t know. Because I don’t (know) the history. Like I, and I grew up thinking (I) was Kamloops-Shuswap. Not North Thompson-Shuswap. Lyn: Right. So, like… Naomi: The residential school is the “big thing” there. I mean it’s still there. I can’t step into that school.  Lyn: The building is still there. In ______? Naomi: And it’s being used for Native education. Which I think is supposed to be some sort of healing process but we went in there for a tour. We did go on a few cultural field trips where the Aboriginal co-ordinator in elementary school took us to different places. Most of the time it was to the _____ Indian Band grounds. The park. We saw like, kikulies, pit houses. And the sweat (lodge). And we went into the residential school. Even thinking about it makes me want to puke. Like I couldn’t step in there. Like I couldn’t … I’d step in there a few steps and I was puking. And I had to go. I couldn’t handle it. Even though I didn’t really know what a residential school was when we went on that field trip. It was … I couldn’t handle it. Lyn: Right.  65 Naomi: It felt so wrong. Like I could feel everything that had gone on in there. Like I say, even thinking about it right now, I can’t believe that they’re using it as a Native school. Lyn: Yeah. Naomi: It just … I can’t stay on the ground. Lyn: So you were like overwhelmed by some kind of like feeling? Naomi: Feeling, yeah. It was like horrible pain and suffering and misery and … Lyn: Well some people might think that you have like a gift, to be able to perceive that. Has anyone ever said anything about that? Naomi: It was mentioned a few times. Lyn: Like not knowing the history but then going into the, or not, … but without knowing… Naomi: … knowing what happened there. Yeah. Lyn: Without knowing. Without having (the history but) feeling, you know, something. That’s sort of like a spiritual experience. (Personal communication, October 18, 2011) These youth had such strikingly similar and strong reactions to the buildings. At the time, as indicated by my responses to their narratives, I interpreted them as spiritual experiences. However, these memories, I argue can also be viewed as instances where accounts of trauma and oppression are inscribed into the life story of second-generation survivors of historical trauma as postmemories (Hirsch, 1999). Linda Smith (1999) identifies “remembering” as an important Indigenous research project in the context of  66 decolonizing wherein being means being self-determining and taking back control of destinies. Such a project relates to the remembering of a painful past and, importantly, people’s responses to that pain. While collectively indigenous communities can talk through the history of painful events, there are frequent silences and intervals in the stories about what happened after the event. Often there is no collective remembering, as communities were systematically ripped apart, children were removed for adoption, extended families separated across different reserves and national boundaries (p. 146).  Practices of remembering and forgetting affected the Aboriginal youth participants in very personal ways, for example, Hudson did not want to know more about his ability to feel emotions associated with trauma in a building that was a site of colonial power. Some of the effects of history on what it means for young Aboriginal college students to identify with Indigenous peoples become more apparent when set against Alexie’s short story.  In Alexie’s (2003) “The search engine,” Corliss embarks on a journey to find the Native American author of a book of poems that literally falls into her hands. The book is Harlan Atwater’s (fictitious), The reservation of my mind, and, according to the book jacket, he is from the same Spokane Native American tribe as Corliss. She telephones her mother, “the unofficial historian of the urban Spokane Indians” but she has never heard of Harlan Atwater (p. 19). Nor has the Spokane Tribal Government office. Corliss contacts by email other Native American authors and they haven’t heard of him either. This is an example of Alexie’s ironic humour as the size of the community of Native  67 American authors is obviously small when they can all be contacted by email. Corliss has transformed into a physical manifestation of a search engine, a pun for the slang and derogatory term, “injun.” Corliss has to question how Harlan Atwater could “escape the government” in spite of the situation where “(e)very moment of an Indian’s life is put down in triplicate on government forms, collated, and filed” (p. 21). After weeks of searching, and from the sparse information provided on the book jacket, Corliss finds an interview with Harlan Atwater in the archives of a weekly Seattle newspaper. More searching yields a thirty-year-old address and phone number and she calls it. But Harlan Atwater does not want to be found.  These fictional events mirror the ways in which the intergenerational effects of violent history mean that several generations of Indigenous peoples embark on a search for individuals, families and communities they are no longer connected to. Searching and various degrees of finding and not wanting to be found was a theme in one of the focus group interviews with Aboriginal college youth discussing their memories of public school: Cat: I found my family actually in Ontario. And I’m nervous. Clarke: Recently you just found them? Cat: Yes. I’m nervous. I’ve never told anybody like how incredibly nervous I am. I am. I am incredibly nervous. Lyn: And you never, ever talked to them before? Or knew about them? Cat: Not really, no. I met them once. And that’s when my biological grandmother was in the hospital with a coma ‘cause she was dying. But other than that: no. Not really. (Personal communication, September 11, 2011)  68 In particular two of the youth were in the process of finding out where they were from and reconnecting with extended family members: Cat: When I was younger I was walking … you know when you go to school and you get brought out at lunchtime or something? So that you can learn you’re Indian, you know? I was lucky because my, the (Aboriginal Education) people, L ___ and M___, they’re both Ojibwe. And so am I. So it was so great that when I started learning about like Natives and stuff I read about myself as well, and my culture and where I’m from and everything. It was actually very neat. It wasn’t until just recently – last five years or so – that I learned actually where I’m from. Like I’m from the Red Rock Band, Nipigon, Ontario. You know I didn’t really know that. Anyone can be Ojibwe but it’s like, “where are you from?” “Well I don’t know. Ontario.” “Well where?” “I don’t know.” You know? Clarke: I’m from somewhere in Manitoba. Naomi: Somewhere? Clarke: That’s as far as I know. Cat: Yeah? You know what? I’ve done a lot of digging and it’s taken me a long, very, very, very, long time to figure out who I am and where I am from and it has taken me a very long time to … it took me a very long time to do it because my mum was not … Clarke: Co-operative? Cat: Not really. And that’s why it’s taken me forever and a day to get my status: because my mum had to fill out her adoption papers. And I think essentially  69 the only reason why she filled them out the first time was because I was sitting there and I filled them out for her and all I wanted her to do was give me her signature. Clarke: That’s like for you but is your mom status or non-status? Cat: She refuses. Clarke: So what do you have to do to get your status if she is non-status? Cat: I have to prove that I am Native, through my mother. Clarke: So you had to fill out paperwork and that and they go talk to the Band, right? Cat: Yeah, all my family, well ninety percent of my family, from back in Ontario, works actually in the Band office. So … Clarke: So do you have to know which Nation you’re from first? Know what Band you’re from first? Cat: You have to figure out where you’re from … Lyn: If you could get a name then that would help a lot. Clarke: I have her adoption … Lyn: Oh right you said that already. Clarke: So I know the family name. I just have to look into it. And figure out where the family name is from. I know they’re northern Manitoba I believe is where I come from. Some also had family members that found them: Cat: I have to read you guys a message. Just because it relates, very much, right now. This is from my cousin. He said a bunch of stuff. “Nice to see you.  70 Hope we could meet some day. I see in your pics you yourself have children and the one named Abby was born the day after I was. The 18th of September is her birth date. I live in Nipigon and I’ve been trying to find your mother Annie for years now. I have found quite a few of our missing cousins over the years but Susie found you first. It made her really happy to tell me about your last name. She knows how long and hard I’ve been working on finding everyone and when piecing together our family tree. I have lot of info about our family history if you are interested in it. I was there … when my Aunt Sally and Dina tried to, fight to keep your mother and her two brothers with them but Children’s Aid took them away. We cried for a long time after. It was very hard. My Aunt Sally even tried to run away with David. They caught her though. What happened that day is the reason I began searching for everyone that we lost. It hurts so much that I had to know where they all were. Can’t take anymore the memories or anything I have written out again. I hope to chat with you soon. Bye for now. Or in our language, ___________”, which means, I will see you again. (Personal communication, September 11, 2011) Recounting the details of traumatic separations as the result of actions by the social welfare system makes this narrative memory particularly poignant. Understandably, given this narrative memory and other traumatic experiences along these lines, some of the members of the previous generation, made efforts to forget: Lyn: Is that your … do you know if that’s your nation? (On his collage).  71 Clarke: No, we’re from the Prairies. So I’m not sure if it’s Cree or Métis. But we’re from that area. Now I have her adoption and creed and all that. Because she doesn’t want to find out about the whole family situation that led to her being given up for adoption. Lyn: She doesn’t want to know about that? Clarke: No. She doesn’t want to know about her birth family. It’s because there’s a whole lot of stuff that she’s not ready to go there yet. I have her adoption creed and all that. I can go and try and find out more about the family.  And I found out a little bit from one of my aunts who taught her sisters. My aunt was a teacher up in Flin Flon. And taught a bunch of her sisters and her family. So I found out a little bit from her about that side of the family. Lyn: How did you find the aunt? Clarke: She moved back to the Okanagan and retired when she was finished teaching. I told her I was interested in finding out more and she told me what she knew. Lyn: So that was an aunt of your mom’s adopted family then? Clarke: Yup. Similarly, Cat’s mother preferred to forget. Denver was particularly understanding in the following exchange: Cat: I got in contact with all of my cousins and my aunties and my uncle that I have only ever met once in my life from my mom’s biological side. I wrote to my mom about it and I asked her if she would be interested in getting in contact with them too and she said, “No.” I was like, “well how come?” And  72 she goes, “well that’s not part of my life anymore.” I was like, “it’s never too late to get to know your real family.” Denver: Well everyone’s at a different place in their life when it comes to, especially things like that, right? Like that’s a super touchy subject for most people. And she might have her own reasons that she’s not ready for whatever. Cat: Yeah the thing with her … I talked to my uncle last night, who I’m actually really close with, I told him what she has said because it really upset me and he turns around and goes, “you know what, she’s not ready to heal though.” Which is true. Cat: My mom has told me stories of just horrific things that happened to her in the foster home that she was in and she was like, “you know they never even took me out, they never even did anything.” She was raped when she was three. She’s like, “and I remember it.” (Group Interview, September 11, 2011). These youth, in describing their lives in the aftermath of the pain of forced family separations wrought by their violent removal by government agencies, are burdened with having to find their families and communities to seek belonging to their Indigenous nations, not as an inheritance, but through government-sanctioned definitions of status. Smith (1999) says that this “form of remembering is painful because it involves remembering not just what colonization was about but what being dehumanized meant for our own cultural practices” (p. 146).  A tragic irony is that this history of  73 dehumanization is something that unites diverse Indigenous peoples in a global context (Smith, 1999).  Reconnection, plurality and identity It is impossible to write and think of identity as separate from family, culture, community and fellow humans. Cat’s view of her Aboriginal identity means reconnecting with family members from whom they were forced to separate. In asking her mom, who was taken by a social welfare agency when she was a baby, to re-connect with their Indigenous relatives she initiates reclamation of her Anishnabe identity. Cat’s mother rejects such a course of action: “well that’s not part of my life anymore” (Personal communication October 21, 2011). Although Cat’s mom is exercising her right to self-determination, the tragic irony is that it is at the expense of her Indigenous identity. It is a point of departure in terms of the rejection of her birth family and therefore her Indigenous inheritance. In choosing forgetting, she is repressing and ending her history as an Indigenous community member. These departures are a feature of traumatic history (Caruth, 1991). Cat won’t be able to inherit memories and unique perspectives with which to frame her Indigenous identity because her mother has few to pass on. This enforced forgetting through the child welfare systems doesn’t prevent Cat from engaging in decolonizing her own traumatic past by reclaiming traditions in the context of her extended family and her family’s community that she found through social internet networks. Cat refers to Aboriginal education practices that she implies helped her re-connect to her Indigenous community: “…you know when you go to school and you get brought out at lunchtime or something? So that you can learn you’re Indian, you know? I was lucky  74 because my, the (Aboriginal Education) people, L ___ and M____, they’re both Ojibwe. And so am I. So it was so great that when I started learning about like Natives and stuff I read about myself as well, and my culture and where I’m from and everything. It was actually very neat. It wasn’t until just recently – last five years or so – that I learned actually where I’m from. Like I’m from the Red Rock Band, Nipigon, Ontario. (Personal communication, September 11, 2011) Cat raises an important point in terms of the ways in which it is important to recognize the plurality among Indigenous peoples in Canada. She also highlights a practice in Aboriginal education of being “brought out”. This practice was highlighted by Hudson, Shama and Naomi and is related to the actual process of being named an Aboriginal student. I asked Shama, if the adults who were taking her out of the classroom to do various Aboriginal activities explained what the intention of the sessions were. There was ironic humour with her response:  “They just hooked us up with the pony beads and we went to town on that!” (Personal communication, July 6, 2011). Hudson appreciated the break from the daily school routine,  Lyn: Yes. So someone would come and get you and ask you if you wanted coffee? Hudson: Yeah we had a person…  Lyn: What grade were you in? [Laughter] Hudson: This was high school. Lyn: Oh okay. Hudson: And, uh, it was great. There was a good mental break.   75 Lyn: And you’d just have a chat? Hudson: There was the coffee, maybe 15, 20 minutes. Go back to class. Lyn: Oh okay. Hudson:  And then everyone goes, “Oh what did you talk about?” And I’m like; it’s not your business. Lyn: Yes. Hudson:  We’d just talk about how life’s going. How the day’s going. How school is. I always talked about rugby. But it was good you know. And I think that should be everywhere. Because every school has a couple of Indians in there somewhere. Whether they self-identify or not though they seek each other out. You know I didn’t go in my class, “All right whose another Native here?” We found each other. (Personal communication, July 6, 2011) Hudson recalled and linked these counselling sessions with discussions about life and judges this educational practice to be “great”. He advocates for this type of intervention to continue. He linked Aboriginal education to questions related to life in general. In contrast, Hudson objected to the way that the curriculum denied the plurality of Indigenous peoples:  Lyn:  And so why don’t you tell me about the images that you’ve selected for picturing memories of public school. Hudson:  Okay. Well I’ll start with… I have a bunch of pictures of aboriginal people from around North America. There’s a Sioux, a Pawnee, a Cree and a Cherokee. And then four Haida shaman. Who happen to be Haida. What always bugged me is we’re always painted with the same brush, so to speak, and we’re  76 always considered the same. When something was brought up I was asked if we did it too and I always got tired of it and I always had to remind people we’re not the same. So I pasted all these pictures on here and then putting up the same in big letters at the bottom of all the pictures. (Explaining his collage). And then, I remember back when I was in kindergarten, I was left-handed so they had a hard time with that and they wanted to fix it. And kept telling me left-handed is wrong, sort of thing. So I photocopied my left hand and then painted over it the ‘No’ symbol. Red paint. That was kind of shocking to me that it was wrong to be left-handed. And then… Lyn:  That’s sort of like another example that, you know, we’re all not the same. Not everyone is right-handed. And not everyone belongs to the same kind of… Hudson:  Yeah we’re all different in our own ways. And below my hand I used a cartoon depiction of William Shakespeare. He was one of my favourite topics in English class for high school. And I read the part of Mercutio. And I just figured I should put that in there because that was a lot of fun. It was good times. And then beside that I have a raven that I coloured in red. Because that’s my name in Haida. It’s Red Raven. So that’s just me, I guess. (Personal communication, July 6, 2011) In discussing the specificity of his own traditions and experiences as both belonging to the Haida Nation and the aspects of school that oppressed and supported his identity as a student and member of the community of humans, Hudson highlights the plurality among Indigenous peoples and individuals. But he does not link these practices to the promotion of a white ideal.   77 Smith (1999) says that, “healing and transformation become crucial strategies in any approach which asks a community to remember what many had decided unconsciously or consciously to forget” (p. 146).  Cat’s uncle maintained that Cat’s mother, Annie, needed more time to heal. The notion of healing was identified by Shama as an approach that would benefit Aboriginal students:  Shama:  People are still healing, right? I think that’s something else the policy needs to realize is... the healing process needs to happen still for so many Aboriginal people and I might not be one of those people. Like I feel like I can be a part of different groups and still fit in whereas I’ve met so many people, especially Aboriginal, where their healing still really needs to happen. Lyn:  What will that look like, do you think? The healing. Shama:  Understanding that sometimes even though the past affects us so much, standing here now, that we can still kind of look to the future and even though we’re standing strong where we are, it’s important to think about how our actions right now are going to affect things in the future. And I think that with their actions being… passing down to their kids that all people hate Indians and stuff… it’s not helpful. Because their kids are going to grow up thinking the same thing. It’s not healthy for people to grow up thinking that people hate them. Even if it’s true and even if it’s not true. It bothers me. And I think that it needs to change. (Personal communication, July 5, 2011). It seems that healing has become a catchall term or proposed solution for what Indigenous peoples need to do, however, the notion of healing is rarely elaborated. In the above quote, Shama understands healing as a type of forgetting wherein Indigenous  78 peoples refrain from teaching their children about the racism they might encounter in life. However, relating remembering and forgetting to the notion of healing might be of some import. Kearney (2004) argues that “discerning when it is right to remember and where it is better to forget” is “of crucial ethical import” (p. 108). In the case of the narratives of Aboriginal college students, their histories of forcible removals from familial and communal relationships provide an important context for deciding what to remember and what to forget as it relates to curriculum and what constitutes support for Aboriginal students in BC public schools, particularly when not every Indigenous family wants to remember its family and community history. Or when Indigenous students’ families choose to remember and a painful history is disclosed in an education setting, decisions need to be made about how to enact an ethical consciousness that goes beyond recounting. These concerns raise the questions, is it really possible to forget? And what degree of remembering can be recounted in public education contexts. Kearney says,  “(r)ecounting is a way of becoming … an ethical consciousness” (p. 106). I argue that, through hearing and recounting the experiences of Aboriginal youth whose families were destroyed by Indian residential schools, and the child welfare systems, a debt to the historical past can be honoured. Further, the burden of the search might be something that Aboriginal education and AEEAs can anticipate with their Indigenous youth populations.  In the next section I examine the extent to which remembering and forgetting have a role in their understanding of their identities as Indigenous individuals. Alexie’s fiction continues to be used to highlight the preoccupation for this particular age group and for Indigenous identities.   79 Narrative	  self-­‐identity	  and	  ways	  of	  Being	   In discussing ethical research with and for Indigenous peoples as respectful research, Smith (1999) argues that the root of such demands is related to: denial by the West of humanity to indigenous peoples, the denial of citizenship and human rights, the denial of the right to self-determination – all these demonstrate palpably the enormous lack of respect which has marked the relations of indigenous and non-indigenous peoples (p. 120).  Colonial forms of education systems that were imposed on Indigenous populations such as Indian residential schools are a prime example of a particular site wherein human rights and self-determination were denied. In spite of this history of oppressive relations, Smith acknowledges that, “Indigenous communities continue to view education in its Western, modern, sense as being critical to development and self-determination” (p 71). The disrespectful relations between non-Indigenous and Indigenous peoples are also manifested in the limited ways of being that are presented with ironic humour through the observations and contemplations of the main character, Corliss, in Alexie’s (2003) “The search engine.” Corliss is pre-occupied with questions of being, and how they might inform her own choices for ways of being. With her father and uncles, Corliss wishes they would ask questions like these: “How can you live a special life without constantly interrogating it? How can you live a good life without good poetry?” (p. 13). Corliss loves her family, but she hates her father and uncles’ lack of ambition: They all worked blue-collar construction jobs, not because they loved the work or found it valuable or rewarding but because some teacher or guidance counselor  80 once told them all they could work only blue collar jobs. When they were young some authority figure had told them to pick up a wrench and never once considered what would happen if they picked up a pencil or a book. (p. 13)  Alexie has Corliss recognize how an education system can both limit and open up future prospects, in particular when Corliss describes her high school as containing “a mirage library. Sure, the books had looked like Dickens and Dickenson, but they turned into cookbooks and auto-repair manuals when you picked them up” (p. 5). Alexie describes Corliss as “a poor kid, and a middle-class Indian” who seemed “destined for a minimum wage life of waiting tables or changing oil” (p. 5). Several of the Aboriginal youth experienced and recognized a particular form of classifying related to their identities as Aboriginal students during their public school education: Lyn: So, your perspective was valued more in the U.K. Shama: Yeah and it bothers me here. Like coming back here and being … and an Aboriginal student too. My friend that not only is my, is not respected but sometimes it’s very disrespected. So my opinion may be even … like it’s so valued in the U.K. that it kind of, yeah, okay as a teenager my opinion was sort of valued. But then an Aboriginal teenager, I find sometimes even like one step below. Which is not cool. I’m not all right with that because … Lyn: Can you think of like a specific example? Shama: I totally can. In Grade 12 when I came back (from the UK) there was this class list. And they had two class lists. And it was because we were supposed to go to the learning centre if you, when you’re writing tests, if you’re having trouble with tests. And I remember my name being on that  81 class list to go to the learning centre to take these tests. I was like, what do you mean? I’m an honour roll student. Like, there’s no way I’m going to some stupid room to write a test when I can write it in here with everyone else. And I couldn’t figure out … I thought maybe my name was on that list because I’d been away for a while. It wasn’t though. I looked at it later on. Every single kid that was, like, declared Native in school, was on that list. And I’m like, so much stupidity. It’s not right. I mean classify each student because, not only then are the Native kids singled out but then you have the other side of it where kids that have, like different backgrounds and stuff, that actually need help, aren’t receiving the help they need. So it’s this really awkward Catch-22 and … I was mad. I brought it up. I know they changed it the next year so it … it’s such a stupid way to try and classify things, right? Lyn: Yeah. So what do you think was the classification? Shama: I think, I really do think that if you declared stuff … they had separate pieces to it and so I know that they … they know that they set up the list that way because I looked at the names on it. And I knew most of those people from the Aboriginal room. So it … there wasn’t an Aboriginal service worker though, in the last year of high school. She had gone on sabbatical so the, they just sat empty and they hadn’t rehired. That’s why I put up a banana on here (collage). Because she went bananas and all that was in the room was bananas. It’s weird because the only service to Aboriginal students in my last year of high school was … there were always stocked  82 bananas in this room. So everyone went there for lunch to grab a banana. I think it’s funny because I mean, it’s really all there was. It wasn’t very helpful. (Personal communication, July 5, 2011)  In this narrated memory, being an Aboriginal student in Aboriginal education meant it was assumed you had a reduced intellectual capacity to complete tests in the classroom setting. In another example, Denver related his public school experiences as an Aboriginal student with learning Aboriginal traditions and what a staff member of the Aboriginal Education Department said to him and other youth: Lyn: So I just want to come back to what you were saying about, you know, you learned about some traditions when you were in high school. And so could you talk more about that. Like what traditions did you learn about? What was the context of that? Denver: Yeah. The first one, the first vivid one I can remember was in Grade Eight and we went to, we actually went to a Long House. And we stayed there for a few nights. Lyn: Which Long House was it? Denver: Oh, gosh, I couldn’t really remember. It was up, a little bit north. It was a field trip. Lyn: Like Squamish? Denver: Yeah, round there. So like that experience itself, it was nice. I think it was a little bit diluted for the actual education piece. Like I remember an Elder coming around and explaining the significance and the sort of  83 ceremonies held. And other than that it was kind of like a camping trip. So … Lyn: Did you guys stay overnight? Denver: Yeah we stayed overnight. Lyn: Oh cool. Denver: It was freezing and it was … [Laughter] Denver: It was good nonetheless. And another thing too. Actually this is probably a negative experience. When I look back on it now it’s like whoa this sounds pretty harsh. But I believe we were coming back from … this wasn’t an Aboriginal field trip. We were coming back from maybe like Chinatown, I believe. I think this was still in Grade Eight, maybe Grade Nine. And one of the Aboriginal workers was with us too, right? The Aboriginal Child Youth Care worker? And we were passing by like the East Hastings area and I remember her saying like to a group of us, right? Because there was a group of Aboriginal people like … like this is where you might end up, right? I think it was a slip of her tongue. I know … I look … even back then I was just like, oh that’s a little hasty. But I looked past the ethnicity part and I thought that was a personal shot because I wasn’t doing so hot in Grade Eight either, right? So it was like … Lyn: I’ve heard a lot of people talk about that, you know. And I’ve read that in books (novels) where, you know, … characters in books they were taken down to this part of town and then pointed out, you know, do you want to  84 become one of those people or, you know? Or are you going to be someone who’s going to get an education and get a job and all of that. Denver: Yeah. So … looking back… Lyn: That’s kind of weird. Why do people do that I wonder? Denver: I know. Its sort of … I honestly don’t see how there’s motivation behind anything. Honestly I think that just dampens the spirit, right? (Personal communication, October 26, 2011). The East Hastings area is frequently referred to as the Downtown Eastside (DTES) of Vancouver. It is an area where the majority of people appear to be living with poverty, drug or alcohol addiction, and homelessness and Indigenous peoples have a high degree of visibility there. Some of the possibilities for ways of being remembered by these two Aboriginal college students were based on unfair assumptions about their cognitive ability, cultural traditions and that their future might lie in the DTES as addicted, homeless and destitute. It is particularly encouraging that the youth rejected these unfair assumptions.  In Alexie’s (2003) short story, Corliss too resists classification: “she wanted a maximum life, an original Aboriginal life, so she fought her way out of her underfunded public school into an underfunded public college” (p. 5). Corliss does so by collecting aluminum cans to pay for the SAT prep course that won her scholarships. She also calls on the teachers of history and English at the local private prep school and asked for reading lists. Alexie (2003) describes these teachers as “good white people whose whiteness and goodness blended and separated” because they “faxed her study guides and copies of the best student papers” (p. 5). Alexie compares Corliss to “a narcissistic Robin  85 Hood who stole a rich education from white people and kept it” (p. 5). Similarly, in this study, Shama was equally resourceful in funding her education. We are discussing her collage of ‘memories of public school’ and the images she has included.  Lyn: Okay, so tell me more. Tell me about the playing cards. Shama: Playing cards. So when I was in the middle of my high school I dropped out and decided that I wanted to move away because I wanted to go back to the U.K. because I was so frustrated living in (lower mainland community) mostly. And I didn’t even know why. It was just, you know, teenage angst, I guess. And so I packed up and left. And I started a poker ring, poker tournaments and stuff when I went back. That’s how I made money. That’s why there’s all these playing cards. Lyn: And so, are you good at it yourself? Shama: Yeah. [Laughter] I’m kind of a shark, though. Lyn: What do you mean you’re a shark? Shama: Like you shark people into playing poker. Like, “oh no I’m not that good.” Lyn: Oh I see. Shama: Instead no, I play hard. Yeah. My first semester’s tuition was paid from poker winnings. Like I mean it’s funny. (Personal communication, July 5, 2011). Naomi also had to be resourceful because of the alternative program she was placed in: Naomi: When I was at Caby (alternate program) it was hard for me to believe that I’d end up back at high school, like a regular high school. Because they don’t teach science there and they try to dumb everything down and you  86 know they sort of were like, “well we expect ninety percent of you are going to fail. Or die. Or end up in jail.” Lyn: That’s what they’d tell you? Naomi: It was this weird speech. We had this gymnasium thing and it was like supposed to be like not a pep rally but something to encourage students. Lyn: Right. Naomi: It was like; “well I expect this to happen and this to happen …” Lyn: They expect you to fail. Naomi: Yeah. And they are like, “statistics show from the institute of blah blah blah this and … but I have faith in you.” And it’s like, you just spent like forty-five minutes going over all these stats of how you think we’re either going to die of overdose or we’re going to kill each other or we’re going to end up in jail or we’re going to fail out or we’re going to become pregnant and skip out of class, or … I was like, and now you’re just ending it with, I have faith in you. You know. So it was, I don’t know. Also I was in the, what was it called? Outreach? We are only there once a week. But you go for three hours. And it was sort of also to … Lyn: You mean you only had to be at the school once a week. Naomi: Yeah: once a week for three hours. Lyn: Oh I see. And then you did the rest of your work … Naomi: You do the rest of your work at home. Yeah. (Personal communication, November 2, 2011) Naomi spoke of another way the alternate school classified students:  87 Naomi: Yeah. And I didn’t like the outreach after a little while. They did it originally because basically bullies and bullees (bullied) both like the ones that are being bullied and the ones that are bullying them all get sent to the school. And so the outreach was mostly for people who were getting bullied. So that they like, the bullies, would have to go to school the entire week. But the people who were being bullied were there after … and like the doors were locked. Lyn: Is this something that you just figured out? Or do you think they were fairly conscious of this. Naomi: I figured it out. Definitely they were conscious of it. They had to be. Lyn: Oh yeah. Naomi: People have died going to that school from bullying and that sort of thing. So they sort of had to be aware of it. So basically like we started in the afternoon. I don’t remember what time but the doors were locked to us. And we had to wait outside. And there was a separate exit. So the people who were in class all day went through this other exit while the people who were waiting for outreach had to wait outside while the doors were locked.  At first I was really bothered by it because it would get cold outside. I’d come an hour early because I’d either be an hour late or an hour early because of the bus. And I’d have to stand outside in the freezing cold for an hour. But then I realised, because somebody was talking to somebody and I overheard it. And I slowly clued in that; hey the people who are around me are definitely the type that would get bullied. They’re like me. And so it was  88 sort of, I think that helped my first year there. Because the people that I hung around with were more like me. Not so much like me because there were only two people there for medical problems. Like everybody else was either they got bullied too much or they were the bulliers. So it was kind of weird. I thought that was the strangest thing ever. Like why would you send the people who are getting bullied to a school that’s full of the type that would bully them? But I don’t know. I didn’t make any huge connections there. (Personal interview, November 2, 2011). Naomi advocates for her studies to resume in a regular public high school: Naomi: Good or bad. And then my second year there I went into the regular program. Because I couldn’t stand the outreach anymore. Like (I told the principal) I can prove to you that I can do the work and I sort of know what the school is like. Now let me go in. And I had to cut back to outreach a couple of times because of being sick but I got through my grade nine and my grade ten there. And then I went back to the high school for grade eleven and grade twelve. Lyn: Good for you. Naomi: Graduated with honours. Lyn: Good for you! Naomi: I was like I couldn’t believe it. It was huge because, I only graduated a year later. It wasn’t like I … and both, like my dad’s side of the family, nobody has made it through high school. Nobody. And on my mom’s side of the family like half of the family has dropped out of high school. And my  89 mom went to college but she dropped out after like, you know, it was first semester when she dropped out. And my brother dropped out in grade nine. So it was, I don’t know, it was … Lyn: A huge accomplishment. Naomi: It was big for me. It was … (Personal communication, November 2, 2011) Similarly, Shama objected to being classified as an Aboriginal student and therefore in need of learning support: Lyn: And so did you ever talk to the principal or … Shama: Yes. Pretty darn quick. Lyn: Oh you did talk to the principal? What did you say to her? Shama: I did. That afternoon. I was mad. I just, I’m like well, explain why I am on the list and she didn’t have a good reason. And I’m like well, I mean, I guess you’re supposed to check these things off and agree to them, so give me a good reason. She didn’t have one. Do I have a learning disability? No. Do I have this? No. But other kids do, so … why aren’t you helping them? So tangentially but it just … Lyn: So what? Shama: I was on such a tangent. Like I was … because I kept going back to this list and I was just so mad about it. It never got put up again. Lyn: Yeah. Did you ever talk to anyone like, in the Aboriginal education department? Shama: Never. Because there wasn’t anyone.  90 Lyn: Oh right. Shama: There was just the bananas. There were a lot of Aboriginals students though at my high school. But they, I don’t know, it just wasn’t something that we really did and stuff. Lyn: What do you mean? Shama Like we didn’t do anything. We didn’t … it’s not like we hung out because we’re Aboriginal. It doesn’t make you friends. And me being Haida that doesn’t usually make new friends on the coast anyway. It’s hard to make friends down here … (Personal communication, July 5, 2011) Shama and Naomi resisted the classifications that were imposed on them by taking initiative and control of their own education. In another incident, Shama objects to the assumptions of a school counselor when her family moves to a city in the lower mainland of BC.  Shama: When my dad died, moving down to Vancouver my mom had checked off Aboriginal (on the registration) at the school. And I was going through a bit and my dad passed away and I was really upset about it. And we had to go to … I went to like a grief counsellor through the school. They never told my mom that they were doing that at all or anything. So she was mad about that. One of the counsellors thought that my dad had, because my dad died of liver disease, and they assumed it was from drinking, and I, looking back at, how furious I am now, because they just assumed that. I mean, I understand like stereotypes and stuff but … seriously if you’re a counsellor the best thing you can do is be open with people and be understanding and  91 not only making assumptions but such intense assumptions. Like it’s so offensive. They didn’t think of it as offensive. They just assumed because … (Personal communication, July 5, 2011) Shama’s narrative illustrates the extent to which public education institutions can intrude when unfair classifications that relate to life, and even death, are imposed on Aboriginal students. That the Aboriginal college youth resisted these intrusions when they were negatively affected is encouraging and appears to be empowering for the students themselves.    In contrast, in Alexie’s novel, Corliss observed what Indians had learned: “Over the last two centuries, Indians had learned to stand in line for food, love, hope, sex, and dreams, but they didn’t know how to step away. They were good at line-standing but didn’t know if they’d be good at anything else” (Alexie, 2003, p. 10). With the exception of Corliss, the Indians in Alexie’s short story lack initiative and choices for action. Challenging	  the	  grand	  narrative	  	  Kearney (2004) put forth that “emancipatory narrative can degenerate into oppressive Grand Narratives. The question of power interests cannot therefore, be divorced from the hermeneutic analysis of narrative” (p. 110). These critical issues are addressed when Alexie (2003) alludes to a particular American cultural Grand Narrative and its effects on Native Americans when Corliss thinks: George Armstrong Custer is alive and well in the twenty-first century, Corliss thought, though he kills Indians by dumping huge piles of paperwork on their skulls. But Indians made themselves easy targets for bureaucratic skull crushing, didn’t they? They’d rather die standing together in long lines than wandering  92 alone in the wilderness. Indians were terrified of being lonely, of being exiled, but Corliss had always dreamed of solitude. (p. 10) Alexie is conscious of the broader social and cultural context and power relations within which Corliss has to negotiate: “(s)o maybe, despite American racism, sexism and classism, Corliss’ biography confirmed everything nearly wonderful and partially meritorious about her country” because she was “(e)ver the rugged individual …” (p. 5). In Alexie’s novel, the character Corliss knows there are limitations and contradictions placed on her because she is a member of the racialized group of Indigenous Americans: “In the twenty first century, any Indian with a decent vocabulary wielded enormous social power, but only if she was a stoic who rarely spoke” (p. 11). Corliss too, resists these classifications, in particular when Alexie has Corlis engage in self-questioning such as, “Who am I? Who am I supposed to be?” (p. 27). With these questions, Kearney (2004) would say that a process of “narrative self-critique takes the form of a cathartic clarification whereby the self comes to ‘know itself’ by retelling itself” (p. 111).  Kearney (2004) argues that “the most fitting response to the question ‘Who is the … agent?’ Is to tell the story of a life” (p. 108); this is reflected in the events of “The search engine” short story. Corliss’ life story emerges as she searches for her fellow Spokane poet Harlan Atwater. When Corliss eventually finds Harlan, he tells her his life story. Corliss had suspected that he was a fraud, a white man posing as a Spokane Indian. Although Harlan’s (an allusion to charlatan) poems were about growing up on the reservation, and he was born into the Spokane Tribe, Harlan had never actually lived there. Corliss is surprised on hearing this. “But your poems, they’re so Indian” (p. 40). To  93 which Harlan replies, “Indian is easy to fake. People have been faking it for five hundred years. I was just better than most” (p. 40).   A preoccupation with what it means to be authentically Indigenous has spawned the politics of identity. The following exchange between Aboriginal college youth during one of the group interviews illustrates the complexities of these issues:  Naomi: You were talking about how you wished you were more Native. Cat: Yeah. I do. I do. I really do. I really wish I was more Native. Naomi: What do you mean by like more Native? Cat: I’m just so white. I just feel so out of touch. I just feel so out of touch and I hate that. I hate feeling out of touch with who I truly am. I was brought up in such a white world that … that’s not me. That’s only like half of me. But I don’t even acknowledge that I am white. I’m a Native. And that’s who I am and that’s who I will always be … Clarke: I feel the same way. Cat: … you know, it’s … I just … you know everyone has a card to prove who they are but I don’t. I don’t know anything. And it’s hard. Lyn: If you had the card do you think you would feel more Native? Cat: I think I would feel more accepted, you know? Lyn: By who? Clarke: By the Native community. Cat: I think so yeah. Clarke: I feel the same way. Lyn: Why do you feel like not accepted by them?  94 Cat: ‘Cause I’m white. Lyn: But did anyone ever say that to you? Like what did they say? Who says these things? Who gets to say who’s in and out? (Personal communication, October 21, 2011) With some of the youth, having an Indian status card confirms an “official” Native identity. In the following exchange, the youth are discussing a proposal for activities that will display their pride in their Indigenous heritage. There is the notion that they can constitute their own identities by displaying/performing them: Cat: We should seriously, and I’m not joking when I say this, I’m trying to be as serious as possible but it’s very silly in the same respect. I think that we should go round holding up signs like make a round (dance) regalia and then start chanting. Naomi: Chanting. Cat: All around the school. Naomi: What do you mean chanting? Cat: Just songs and stuff. We should teach each other songs from… ‘cause then you will look different in the Native aspect, right? So then we should just find an empowerment song from each of our tribe and just kind of chant it while we run around the school making ourselves look amazing. I think that would seriously empower us as people. Naomi: I don’t know. Something like that would be neat. Cat: You see where I’m coming from, right?  95 Naomi: We’d have to, if we wanted people to take us seriously, you know, we’d have to do it traditionally as well. We don’t want to be disrespectful. Clarke: We’d also have to get proper regalia. Cat: You can make your own regalia. Clarke: I got to make sure it actually is, like traditional, though. Naomi: Traditional for our own people too. That’s another thing. I don’t want to do that stereotypical … that’s one thing that I found I have a lot of problems with here, is that it feels like we’re losing our individual identities. As like individual peoples. Oh, Natives make Dream-catchers, so we’re going to learn how to make Dream-catchers, you know. Oh, Natives sing this one song, so every single Native sing the song even though it’s actually, actually that’s the family song from the Haida Nation and it’s been passed down by these people and if you sing it that’s actually really offensive, you know? So it’s like it should be more of individual, like it’s our own people’s thing. And I find that that’s one thing I have struggled with. I grasped on to whatever Native thing I could find … Cat: Me too. Naomi: … and then it took me a while to realize that actually it’s not my Native, it’s not me, it’s not … I was just wanting to emulate the Native people that I saw. (Personal communication, October 21, 2011) The youth are burdened with having to search for how their Indigenous identities can be informed in meaningful and authentic ways. Their interactions with educational practices of being named as Aboriginal students means they have to be vigilant about unfair  96 classifications. Hacking (2002) argues that we “constitute ourselves along the axes of knowledge, power, truth and ethics” (p. 2). In these terms, several youth resisted the power of unfair classifications, while understanding the need for respectful, ethical representations of Indigenous peoples based on specific tribal identities. However, there is an absence of knowledge of these specific tribal identities, thereby making it difficult for students to constitute identities in culturally specific ways.  Similarly, “Indians,” says the character Corliss in Alexie’s (2003) short story can be “obsessed with authenticity” (p. 40).  Alexie suggests that this obsession is linked to how Indigenous peoples were: “(c)olonized, genocided, exiled” and therefore “formed their identities by questioning the identities of other Indians” (p. 41). Further, “(s)elf-hating, self-doubting, Indians turned their tribes into nationalistic sects” (p. 40). Corliss asks, “who could blame us our madness?” for the reason that “we’ve been exiled by other exiles, by Puritans, Pilgrims, Protestants, and all those other crazy white people thrown out of crazier Europe” (p. 40). Being exiled is not just a feeling but has real, material effects in terms of how Aboriginal college youth experienced it in their public school days: Naomi: Well the reason why bullies are bullies is because they get bullied themselves. Or they feel pressure from somewhere so then they have to make somebody else feel pressure as well. Or they feel like inadequate and they feel like making fun of somebody else to make them feel better. Cat: Really? It just makes you feel worse. Because, after a while in high school I met two of my best friends in the whole entire world. And they’re still my best friends to this day. And I used to bully them. But they still stayed my friends. Like they still stayed my friends through all of the crap I would put  97 them through. They still stayed my friends. And I now know that the reason that I bullied them was that I was bullied myself. And I was bullied so harshly that it made me feel better that I was able to release that onto somebody else. Because my mom would always blow it off as, oh don’t worry about it. It will get better. And it’s, mum, no you don’t understand, like I was bullied so bad I refuse to leave school and I would come home bawling my eyes out some days, you know. I mean people used to make fun of me for a different number of things. They used to make fun of me for being a Native. Are you kidding me? And like, people used to like egg my house and toilet paper my house. Because I was Native they even went so far as to graffiti “Native” all over the property where I lived. So it’s kind of like the white chewing down on the black of it. And that was the most horrific time of my life. If I was to go back I probably, if I had the balls, I would kill somebody. Like with no word of a lie I’d end up killing somebody. And a lot of these people don’t even remember who I am. Lyn: How old were you when that happened? That’s so harsh. Cat: That was in high school. From grade eight to grade ten. And then I started doing drugs as a way to get over that and I realised that doing drugs just made it worse. I mean, fake friends instead of making real, actual friends, you know. I was 13, so grade eight. Going into grade eight, 13. Till grade ten. So 16. Lyn: And do you think you know who did it?  98 Cat: Oh, yeah they owned up to it. Because my mom went down to the school and she’s like, “I watched him do it. And he … something needs to be done.” And his parents were, “well, it’s not our fault that he’s like that.” I got in contact with some of the girls that tried to be my friend but didn’t want to lose their position in the popularity kind of thing. Lyn: So if they were public about being your friend then they won’t be popular? Cat: Then they’d be… So I had no friends, really. And then I grew up and, you know, I made friends with people that were older than me. I’ve got friends who have already passed away. Because they were so much older than me. (Personal communication, October 21, 2011)  At the time I was taken aback by the level of violence that exile could mean for some Aboriginal students in BC public schools. The following exchange shows how uncomfortable hearing about these experiences could be: Cat: I ended up almost killing somebody. Because they bullied me so much. Lyn: You mean you physically attacked them? Cat: Yes. Denver: I think that’s a very common… . . . Denver  … especially you had a lot of horrific experiences too. Clarke: Yeah someone being driven from all of those experiences, right? Lyn: Especially if no one is like standing up for you. Do you know what I mean? Like the school isn’t. Cat: Yeah the school never did anything  99 Lyn: Did the schools … what do you think they could have done? I mean it doesn’t seem like they did much. Cat: No. And they put him in a coma. He almost died and I felt horrible. I mean part of me felt horrible but the bigger part of me was like, oh well you deserved that. Like I really had no emotion for what I did. And I feel bad now, obviously. … Denver:  It looks like you were driven to that through many years of happening like that. Cat: Yes. And then I got like into drugs and stuff. And like I don’t want to say that like … Denver: Oh gosh it’s okay. Lyn: You can withdraw at any time from this. (Personal communication, October 21, 2011) Cat’s narrative of violence came just thirty minutes into the group interview where we all met for the first time. Cat’s story is another one that continues to haunt me as I determine what these memories mean for Aboriginal education and educators of Aboriginal youth. Surprisingly, the exile of Alexie’s character, Harlan, turns out differently. As Corliss listens to Harlan’s life story she finds out that Harlan had went on his own search for his family. But it wasn’t the romanticized family reunion Harlan had hoped for, as he found that his mother was a drug addict. Harlan tells Corliss that he had felt his white adoptive parents had saved him. “I mean I know they’re white and I’m Indian, and that’s supposed to be such a sad-sack story, but well, they did, they really saved my life” (p.  100 50).  Harlan asks, “What kind of Indian does that make me?” (p. 52). This is where Alexie is particularly hopeful:  Corliss knew only Harlan could answer that question for himself. She knew the name of her tribe, and the name of her archaic clan and her public Indian name and her secret Indian name, but everything else she knew about Indians was ambiguous and transitory (p. 52). Alexie’s view of identity is reflected in Kearney’s (2004) argument that the “narrative concept of self thus offers a dynamic notion of identity … that includes mutability and change within the cohesion of one lifetime…The identity of human subjects is deemed a constant task of reinterpretation in the light of new and old stories we tell about ourselves” (p. 108). Further, this practice is related to a particular view of narrative identity that is in turn related to ethics. Kearney (2004) argues that, “for narrative identity to be ethically responsible it must ensure that self-constancy is always informed by self-questioning…. A critical fluidity and openness pertains to narrative identity as long as we recognize that it is always something made and remade” (p. 111).  I asked the youth about educational practices that contributed to their Indigenous identities. Here’s what Shama said: Lyn: Is there anything that happened when you were in school that contributed to you as a Haida? Shama: That helps, or? Lyn: Yes. That contributed to your identity as a Haida girl. Young woman. Shama: I think frustration, actually, with a lot of the academics that we were doing. By not hearing about the important parts of the west’s (in Canada)  101 history which would spring up. Because it makes me so mad every time. I think that made me want to teach it more and made me want to learn more. I talked to my grandma and she taught me so much and stuff. I think it’s what it is. Just frustration with things not being taught the way they should. Ironically, Shama’s frustration with the limitation of public school history led her to have her history and identity affirmed by her Haida Grandmother. I also asked what are some of the things that she’s most proud of: Shama: I think it’s what I’m most proud of. If there’s anything that defines who I am it’s from my writing. It’s really what I do. And there’s that picture down there. It’s like the Haida moon over top of Vancouver. That’s something I put together. Lyn: You created it? And this part too? You did the ovoid and all that? Good for you. That’s nice. Shama: Thank you. It’s stuff like that… I mean that’s pretty much what it comes back to, I guess. Learning to accept the stuff: who you are but also embracing what you’re good at, I guess. That’s something I didn’t do for a long time because I don’t like to say I’m good at this, it freaks me out. It makes me really nervous. I feel a bit of a twit when I say it so it just… (Personal communication, July 5, 2011) Shama related what she’s most proud of to her identity. Although she indicated her wish for being humble and not drawing attention to her artistic talents, she links her Haida identity to creative expression in particular, art and literature. Regarding identity, Kearney (2004) drew on Ricoeur to argue: “One cannot remain constant over the passage  102 of historical time…Unless one has some minimal remembrance of where one comes from, and how one came to be what one is. For Ricoeur then, identity is a form of memory” (p. 104). This perspective has relevance for Aboriginal youths’ understanding of how previous generations of Indigenous peoples experienced colonization and how such history might impact their own education and Indigenous identities. Viewing identity as a form of memory also has implications for Aboriginal education practices today, in particular when some of the youth have highlighted that this historical knowledge is absent from their education and lives in general.  Providing diverse education experiences based on a more accurate history as well as real and fictional life stories of Indigenous individuals might inform Indigenous identities in more meaningful ways. Relating to Aboriginal students that their identity is a form of memory and a way to honour the dead and the past might be particularly motivating for students to connect past generations to their present reality. Kearney’s (2004) argument that, “communities come to know themselves in the stories they tell about themselves” (p. 111) has an important bearing on what Aboriginal education communicates to Aboriginal students. Although there are obvious limitations to relying on data collected from a small number of youth, their memories deserve attention. With regard to the youths’ memories of belonging and exclusion as Aboriginal students in their public school days, and as members of the broader Aboriginal communities, the range of possibilities for being Aboriginal needs to be expanded in public education contexts as a form of persuasive action (Kearney, 2004). This perspective is briefly discussed in the next section.    103 Narratives	  and	  persuasion	   Kearney (2004) argues, “(n)arrative persuasion almost always involves some element of ethical solicitation, however tacit or tangential” (p. 112). This is related to the rapport between ethics and poetics. Kearney says that, “What Ricoeur recommends is not a moralism of abstract rules but an ethics of experience…” (p. 112). Kearney also looks to Aristotle who “acknowledged how poetics teaches us essential truths about human experience (unlike history, which is confined to facts) and these essential truths are intimately related to the pursuit of happiness or unhappiness – that is, the desire for the good life guided by practical wisdom (phronesis)” (p. 112). However, I argue that truths about human experience through literature by an author such as Sherman Alexie can bridge to history because it is only a true history that can inform Indigenous identities in meaningful ways and thereby increase the pathways for ways of being. This argument for using fiction to highlight ways of being in history is supported by Kearney (2004):  The ethical task of testimony is not simply an individual responsibility. It is also a collective one. Here it seems the ethical debt to the dead joins forces with the poetical structure to narrate. And we recall that the two modes of narrative – fiction and history – share a common origin in epic, which has the characteristic of preserving memories on the communal scale of societies. Placed in the service of the not-to-be-forgotten, this poetic power permits us to live up to the ethical task of collective anamnesis” (p. 104).  Along these lines, fiction together with memories can inform the ethical actions of educators and contribute to the articulation of a critical pedagogy of decolonization that takes as its subject, Canada’s relationship to Indigenous peoples and cultures and to  104 Indian residential school history. There will be difficulty in achieving reconciliation without the truth of history. In sum, in this chapter, a decolonizing methodological frame focused on the memories of Aboriginal youth that are viewed as the counter narratives of history inherit an ethical character “in the service of rememoration” (Kearney, 2004, p. 106). In this view, “(r)ecounting is a way of becoming … an ethical consciousness” (p. 106). In spite of the extent to which public education is intrusive and therefore neocolonial, in terms of Aboriginal education interventions on life, exile, unfair classifications, pan Indian traditions, forgetting history, and even death; Cat’s declaration: “I’m a Native. And that’s who I am and that’s who I will always be …” and Clarke’s affirmation:  “I feel the same way”, (Personal communication, October 21, 2011) are ethical, hopeful, empowering and productive forms of remembering.  In the next chapter, I explore in depth four Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreements that have a goal for teaching history. I juxtapose memories of Aboriginal youth on the supports and interventions they experienced in public education that relate to these goals. The decolonizing methodological frame applied to AEEA policies, is related to Aboriginal student identities that are constructed according to “the axes of knowledge, power and ethics” (Hacking, 2002, p. 2). With this view, Aboriginal youths narratives are counterpoints to AEEA policy constructions of Aboriginal student identities.       105 Chapter Four: On the naming practices of policy, images and narratives of history  We are all here to stay. We agree to a new government-to-government relationship based on respect, recognition and accommodation of aboriginal title and rights. Our shared vision includes respect for our respective laws and responsibilities. Through this new relationship, we commit to reconciliation of Aboriginal and Crown titles and jurisdictions.  -The New Relationship (Province of BC, 2005)  This chapter is devoted to looking critically at five examples from an educational policy that is thought to be progressive in British Columbia (BC): the Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreements (AEEAs). In particular, I use a decolonizing methodological frame to focus on the discursive, narrative and visual features of the AEEAs in four public school districts in British Columbia for how they position history, how this history and policy positions Aboriginal students, and the kinds of history that are deemed necessary to Aboriginal peoples in BC in the twenty-first century. This decolonizing methodological frame focuses on another aspect of Aboriginal education, that of policy as memory, thereby contributing to the study as a whole that is envisioned as a montage of memories. Further, how AEEA policies refer to the history of Indian residential schools and to reconciliation needs to be examined since both the provincial and federal governments have identified reconciliation as a dominant contemporary policy orientation in relations with Indigenous peoples. For their part, the Province of BC indicates that their New Relationship with BC First Nations, as articulated in the opening  106 quote of this chapter, respects their inherent right to self-government and that decision-making stems from First Nations’ historic and sacred relationship to their territories as well as from Section 35 of the Canadian constitution. Section 35 affirms and recognizes existing Aboriginal and treaty rights.  Given the history of the Indian residential school system where Indigenous identities were forcibly repressed, this analysis focuses on contemporary Aboriginal education policies and the choices they present for ways of being for Aboriginal students in public schools as compared to the past. Hacking advises that in thinking about “constituting ourselves, we should think of constituting as so and so; we are concerned, in the end, with possible ways to be a person” (2002, p. 2). Further, historical ontology is concerned with three axes on which we constitute ourselves: those of knowledge, power, and ethics. In this chapter, I examine what AEEA policies outline for Indigenous ways of being in history in terms of knowledge, power and ethics in this era of reconciliation.  In writing this “history of the present” (Hacking, 2002, p. 66), in terms of Aboriginal education policy in BC in an era of reconciliation, I wish to identify colonial traces in AEEA policy and practice and its potential impact on young people attending higher education in BC. Accordingly, AEEA policy constructions of Aboriginal students identities based on the “axes of knowledge, power and ethics” (Hacking, 2002, p. 2) are discussed as well as instances where policy constructions of Aboriginal identities are taken up by the Aboriginal college youth. As a decolonizing move, I counter pose instances where Indigenous youth discuss educational practices that might support Indigenous self-determination with respect to Indigenous identities in public school contexts.  107 With this decolonizing methodological frame I draw on Ian Hacking’s (2002) theoretical approach to understanding “how the practices of naming”, such as how BC and Canada name their relationship with Aboriginal peoples, “interact with (those) we name” (p. 2), in this case, Aboriginal peoples. Further, the possible ways of being for Aboriginal students, outlined in policy such as in AEEAs are linked to social and historical phenomena that condition the emergence of these AEEA policy ways of being. Accordingly, “historical ontology” will be used to examine a “history of the present” (Hacking, 2002, p. 24) of the emergence of the AEEAs in this policy era of reconciliation. As discussed in the previous chapter, the views gained from each decolonizing methodological frame I use in this study are assessed against the conceptions of colonial education that emerged from the literature reviewed. The key features of colonial education that emerged from the literature found public school curricula with an emphasis on a white ideal and white racial superiority, wherein language and identity connections to Indigenous communities are undermined and educational practices that would have Aboriginal peoples occupy a special under class of workers are promoted.  The themes that emerge into the foreground of this view will form the basis for a critical pedagogy of decolonization that might inform future teaching and hearing of the difficult history of the Canadian Indian residential school system thereby opening up diverse pathways to self-determination. Writing of and practicing this pedagogy constitutes one form of ethical action.    108 Aboriginal	  Education	  Enhancement	  Agreements	   In British Columbia (BC), the AEEA policies are usually developed collaboratively: by Aboriginal community representatives and by school district representatives. Given Indigenous parents’ deliberate exclusion from the education of their children in the colonial past, the ministry directive to include Aboriginal parents and community representatives in Enhancement Agreement policy development is often viewed as a new and progressive approach to education for Indigenous children. AEEAs are official texts that reflect a level of cooperation that some might argue achieves reconciliation between the BC provincial government, BC boards of education and Indigenous governments and communities as evidenced by the signed Memoranda of Understanding that accompany each policy on the Ministry of Education website. The ministry directive to focus AEEA goals directly on Aboriginal students may also appear to be progressive in relation to Aboriginal communities’ experiences with education. The BC Ministry of Education website indicates that AEEA policies are meant to define educational success for Aboriginal students. Accordingly, the AEEAs analyzed for this study outline the educational value of history that public education and Aboriginal communities agree are priorities for Aboriginal youth to be successful as students and in life.  Historical	  Ontology	  and	  the	  AEEAs	  	  Hacking (2002) argues that studies that examine the creation of values associated with the processes that construct a social problem about the kind of person who must then be “subjected to reform, isolation, or discipline” should consider “how the conditions of formation of this conception determine its logical relations and moral connotations” (p.  109 68). In taking up historical ontology, I understand “conditions of formation” to mean the broader social and political relations of Canada to Indigenous peoples. Hacking (2002) indicates that this theoretical analysis known as “historical ontology” came from the scholarly work of and published interviews with the French philosopher Michel Foucault. Accordingly, historical ontology is about “the ways in which the possibilities for choice and for being, arise in history” (Hacking, 2002, p. 23).  In this chapter, I argue that the conditions influencing the emergence of Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreements, with “their logical relations and moral connotations” include the Indian Residential School Settlement Agreement signed in 2005, and the treaty making processes in BC that emerged in the 1990s. These are significant developments in the relationship between BC and Canada and Indigenous peoples and are the conditions that make these relations between BC Indigenous peoples and the provincial and the federal levels of government, visible. These processes and agreements inform the relationship of Indigenous peoples to Canada and public institutions; and I argue they condition the emergence of AEEA policies in this history of the present. Highlighting the broader social and cultural conditions is an important way to contextualize and theorize policy constructions of Aboriginal student identities in history. With this decolonizing methodological frame rooted in historical ontology, I wish to examine AEEAs’ effects on Indigenous peoples’ present lives and futures.  Given this decolonizing, historical ontological approach, I argue for a form of moral action that relates to decolonizing education and history. The Maori scholar, Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999) has called for “critical pedagogy of decolonization” that involves “revisiting history” (p. 34). Smith argues that revisiting history requires the  110 understanding that, as a field of thought, history was framed according to European interpretations. Smith calls for theory with which we can “engage, understand and then act upon history” (p. 34). I argue that historical ontology may be one theory that can highlight the possibilities for decolonizing history and education.  When it comes to understanding the social construction of a problem that has implications for the kind of person who must then be “subjected to reform, isolation, or discipline” (Hacking, 2002, p. 68), as AEEAs appear to do, historical ontology can complement a decolonizing framework. Because Smith emphasizes, “(t)he need to tell our stories remains the powerful imperative of a powerful form of resistance” (Smith, 1999, p. 35) both ontologies are therefore essential. I argue that AEEAs are indicators of the possibilities for choice and for being in history for Aboriginal youth in public school contexts. As such, the degree to which the right to self-determination for Indigenous peoples’ identities in history is respected in public education can be assessed. This right frames the work of Indigenous scholars in “writing back,” “researching back,” and “talking back”—work that involves “a recovery of ourselves, an analysis of colonialism, and struggle for self-determination” (Smith, 1999, p. 7). Further, given Smith’s (1999) call for Indigenous self-determination and for Indigenous scholars to revisit history by telling our own stories, I highlight Indigenous narratives of history included in AEEAs and those memories of Aboriginal college students collected for this study that highlight the possibilities for decolonizing history and education in this policy era of reconciliation. In sum, by decolonizing history and education, a decolonizing methodological frame can be focused on determining the extent to which AEEAs allow memories of  111 Aboriginal communities’ traumatic history of cultural genocide to inform Aboriginal education today. By using this historical ontological approach, my focus in examining AEEAs, rests on how policy might compel Aboriginal peoples and other actors involved in AEEA policy to constitute themselves in particular ways: as objects of knowledge in relation to truth, as subjects acting on others through power, and as moral agents in relation to ethics. With this decolonizing methodological frame another view of Aboriginal education policy is gained. This view is framed as a close up on how policy is experienced by Aboriginal college youth and adds to the overall effect in terms of the sights and sounds of Aboriginal education policy mapped as a montage of memories in an era of reconciliation.  Criteria	  for	  Selection	  of	  AEEA	  Policies	  	  There were three criteria used to select the specific AEEA policies to be analyzed for this study. First, as this is a study of the history of the present, in particular with regard to the range of possible subjectivities that policies make for Aboriginal peoples to be in history, and given the actual colonial history, AEEA policies that contained a specific goal for teaching history were selected for analysis. Second, as photographic images played a key role in colonizing Indigenous peoples (McClintock, 1995), AEEA policies that contained photographs that accompanied goals for knowing history were also selected. Third, of those policies that had both goals for teaching history and photographs, those that directly quoted at least one Indigenous leader, principal, teacher, parent, student or prominent individual were selected. I view these direct quotes as the policy writers’ efforts to include “the little (counter) narratives that brush history against the grain” (Kearney, 2004, p. 110) that can therefore be understood as attempts to  112 decolonize education and education policy. Further, these memories are usually included to provide a cultural or historical context for the particular AEEA policy. Hence, of the forty five Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreements available for viewing on the British Columbia Ministry of Education website, at the time of this analysis (2013), there were seven policies that have in common a goal for teaching history, photographs, and direct quotes of Indigenous peoples on history or education. I have chosen to limit this analysis to four because of space limitations, because of the repetition of particular themes related to culture and history, and to provide a view of diverse school districts in terms of size and geographical location. Further, some AEEAs that were analyzed at the beginning of this study are no longer available on the Ministry of Education website and it would be impossible for readers who wish to consult the policy to do so.  Each policy analysis is followed by the memories of Aboriginal college youth when they recalled particular Aboriginal programs, services and interventions that speak back to the goals and strategies identified in each of the AEEAs. These counter-narratives are important as they provide direction for teaching history, language and culture as “critical pedagogy of decolonization” (Smith, 1999, p. 34). In this view, AEEA policies can be read as a form of official memory and the views of Aboriginal college students can be heard as counter-memories and might inform counter policies and practices. In the next section, the colonial features of photographs and discourse of the AEEA texts are theorized in terms of how they inform the constitution of Aboriginal identities that AEEA policies authorize.   	  	  	  	   113 The	  Savoir	  and	  connaissance	  of	  colonialist	  discourse	  and	  images	   In this section, I describe the salient features of the particular decolonizing methodological frame used to achieve a closer view on Aboriginal education policy in an era of reconciliation. This decolonizing methodological frame draws from Bishop and Glynn’s insights on neocolonial discourse, from Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s (1999) theorizing on imperialist conceptions of history in terms of time and space and Anne McClintock’s (1995) discussion on colonial photography. With this decolonizing lens I aim to understand the function of discourse and photography in colonial conceptions of history and of Aboriginal communities and Aboriginal peoples in AEEA policies. These perspectives on images and discourse are viewed with an eye to Hacking’s (2002) conception of knowledge as either, connaissance and savoir, in terms of how Aboriginal identities that are constituted and authorized by policy. I explore what these policies draw from and are informed by in this policy era of reconciliation.  Hacking (2002) sees value in the way that Foucault (1968) refers to surface knowledge as connaissance and savoir as the frame from which the surface hypotheses get their sense. “Savoir is not knowledge in the sense of … solid proposition. This “depth” knowledge is more like a postulated set of rules that determine what kinds of sentences are going to count as true or false in some domain” (p. 77). Along these lines, I argue for understanding colonial images and discourse as connaissance or surface knowledge that frames the savoir that in turn gives a deeper meaning in terms of the possible ways of being for Indigenous peoples that are presented visually and discursively.    114 Bishop and Glynn (1999), writing from New Zealand, show how educational discourse related to education for Maori is continually updated and applied in education policy wherein neo-colonial conceptions place the whites at the centre of the policy and where a cultural uniformity is implied. These two discursive moves erase or deny the legitimacy of Maori history and culture. Education practices in policy and curricula have presented Maori traditions as primitive and therefore Maori apparently, required little development of the intellect. These processes and practices positioned the Euro-settlers as superior and the Maori were characterized as hands-on learners due to their so-called cultural and intellectual inferiority.  In modern urban white education systems Maori students’ challenges in education are represented as “cultural deficiency”: another code for “intellectual deficiency” wherein policies and practices are designed for Maori to “catch up” (Bishop & Glynn, 1999, p. 39) to whites. These colonial codes are found in curriculum that promotes a hands-on approach for Maori students. Policies that seem updated promote an agenda of “we are all the same” or cultural sharing that Bishop and Glynn (1999) argue is a type of neo-colonial discourse that has the whites at the centre of the policy. With this policy move policy functions to erase Maori history and culture.  Further, with colonial discourse, Smith says that the concept of “distance” draws together several notions about “the individual and society, time and space, knowledge and research, imperialism and colonialism” (p. 56). Smith (1999) argues that colonialism employs a specific spatial language that came to be assembled around three main concepts: (1) the line, used to map territories, to survey land, to establish boundaries, and to mark the limits of colonial power; (2) the centre, as an orientation to power, and, (3)  115 the outside, which positioned people in an oppositional relation to the colonial centre. Similarly, Anne McClintock (1995) argues that spatial difference is often presented as analogous to cultural development when it comes to Indigenous peoples and that this conception makes its appearance in colonial photography. Separation and distance means that cultures are viewed as measurable and therefore subject to control. When Indigenous cultures are viewed through a spatial lens and then represented back to the West, a process of “colonizing space” is engaged (Smith, 1999, p. 51). This process of colonizing space involves renaming the land. Renaming is a powerful ideological tool for creating disconnection between the Indigenous peoples and the land, and clears the path for land appropriation that is given back as reserves, as was the case in settler-colonial Canada. This is the context within which, I argue, photographs in AEEA policies must be viewed and is the focus of my discussion in the next section.  Seeing	  photography	  as	  colonial	  technology	  	  Anne McClintock’s (1995) study of colonial photography is instructive for revisiting historical imperialist notions of time and space. She argues that the use of photography as a colonial technology is related to the imperialist desire to “consume global history at a glance” within a single image conceptualized as “pan-optical time” (p. 36). In colonial times (mid 1880s onwards), this desire was fulfilled when this particular conception of history was “collected, assembled and mapped onto a global science of the surface” with the aid of social Darwinism. For graphic illustration, McClintock uses a well-known and supposedly scientific image composed of the heads of men that begins with apes and makes an upward progression culminating with the head of a typical European man. This is an example of how “history at a glance” is captured in “pan- 116 optical time” (p. 39). African men are near the bottom and Asian men are closer to the top in this image of cultural difference presented as a “natural” upward progression to the so-called most civilized and therefore most developed man, the European man. Women are not included in this panoptical view of cultural development and neither are Indigenous peoples. With this particular form of colonial ideology, views of “time (as) a geography, of social power, a map of ‘natural’ social difference” (p. 36) deemed cultures to be in a location in relation to the imperial centre. With this colonial view, cultural difference is akin to geographical difference and is directly related to the degree of civilization that groups were deemed to possess. McClintock (1995) argues that the contradictions in this ideology led to the invention of “anachronistic space” whereby “the agency of women, the colonized and the industrial working class are disavowed” (and represented as) “prehistoric, atavistic and irrational, inherently out of place in the historical time of modernity” (p. 40). This contradiction, McLintock argues, is related to the “compulsion to collect and reproduce history whole” (p. 40). Further, as time was commodified, historical change—in particular, the labour involved with changing history—disappeared. With colonialism, progress across the empire is understood to be a journey back in time to an “anachronistic moment of prehistory” (p. 40). Conversely, the return journey to the imperial centre, Europe, meant, “rehearsing the evolutionary logic of historical progress” where “[g]eographical difference across space is figured as a historical difference across time” (p. 40, emphasis in original). Journeys to colonial North America were no different.  McClintock (1995) argues that the effect of photography as a claim to truth that rested on its ability to capture reality raised it above all other representations of  117 knowledge by equating “western knowledge and western authority with the real” (p. 123). Photography “shifted the authority of universal knowledge from print language to spectacle” (p.123). McClintock’s theory on the colonial imperative for communicating panoptical time and anachronistic space using photography is closely aligned with Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s theoretical work on colonialist spatial language.  Linda Smith (1999) contends that a linear view of time and space are important developments for the West’s view of history. Until the Enlightenment, records of the past were not systematic and progress became an important concept in relation to time. History was recorded and measured in terms of progress, which was in turn related to “technological advancement” and “spiritual salvation” (p. 55). Smith argues that Indigenous peoples view conceptions of history grounded in notions of progress over time and domination over space as contentious. The progress orientation to time assumes that there was a prehistoric time and that the end is marked by modernism wherein so-called primitive, traditional societies ended upon contact with the West.  Understanding these colonial conceptions might allow me to determine the savoir that defines Aboriginal peoples at a deep level in AEEA policies through photography and discourse. In this view the connaissance that emerges from colonial discourse and colonial images of Indigenous peoples in terms of their perceived distance from the centre is the knowledge that appears on the surface. The connaissance in turn refers to the savoir or depth knowledge that positions Indigenous peoples outside of history and therefore primitive, and even sub-human, and not entitled to land, resources or even to a right to exist. By extension, Euro-colonialists are positioned as superior and in control of history, land, resources and life. This particular decolonizing methodological frame  118 focuses on the interplay of photographs and discourse as the connaissance, or surface knowledge of Indigenous peoples that are depicted as more culturally primitive and more distant from the culturally developed centre of Europe. In the next section I bring this decolonizing methodological frame to bear on four BC AEEA policies.  A	  decolonizing	  methodological	  frame	  around	  four	  AEEA	  policies	  	  In this section I examine four Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreements to gain a perspective on public education’s views of history and how it positions Aboriginal students and their communities and Aboriginal education in relation to history. With this decolonizing methodological frame that draws on historical ontology, a view is gained of how the connaissance or surface knowledge in AEEA policies, positions history according to “the line,” the “centre” and “the outside.” How the various actors involved in Aboriginal education and policy are compelled to constitute identities along the axes of knowledge, power and ethics is also discussed. Following each discussion of the AEEA policies, Aboriginal youths’ memories are used to speak specifically to an experience with Aboriginal education that intersects with the particular goal of the policy in question. These counter narratives inform a critical pedagogy of decolonization that consists of all the counter-memories that were collected and discussed in this thesis.  School	  District	  23	   Spiritual goal: To increase awareness and knowledge of Aboriginal history, traditions, culture and language for Aboriginal students.   119 Rationale: The teachings of history, tradition, culture and language is critical to ensuring that these values will be passed on to future generations of Aboriginal peoples.6 - Working Together for Aboriginal students of all nations.  (School District 23 Aboriginal Education Committee, 2006) History is articulated as a spiritual goal in the AEEA policy of a southern BC interior school district. History is to be valued and known by raising awareness wherein this knowledge of the past is linked to the future. The narrative viewpoints in this policy are from students and First Nations leaders. There is a full page of students’ viewpoints that serve as examples of valuing learning, for example: “I believe that I have the right to learn and the obligation because my forefathers may not have had the same opportunities” (School District 23 Aboriginal Education Committee, 2006, p. 14). The viewpoint of a First Nations leader is focused toward a better future: “Our nations have long recognized that education is the key factor in determining the future success of not only the individual students but our communities, and thus Canada” (School District 23 Aboriginal Education Committee, 2006, p. 16). This leader connects the success of Aboriginal students to the success of Canada, as the centre. With this discursive move, Aboriginal students are positioned as Canadian subjects who are constituted by knowledge of Aboriginal history, traditions, culture and language. The narrative viewpoint of the Aboriginal student constitutes her own subject position as a moral agent through an ethics of learning because it was denied to ancestors while narrative viewpoints of a First Nations leader implies reconciliation by moving Aboriginal students closer to the centre of Canada. The denial of education is a reference to the 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  6	  The rationale for this goal is notable for the implication that there are particular values that are temporal.  120 history of Indian residential schools. With more explicit references to history and to truth and reconciliation this policy has the potential for decolonizing education and history.   The goals in this AEEA policy, including the one to increase awareness and knowledge of history, traditions, culture and language are followed up by a section entitled Performance Indicators. This is an element required of all AEEAs. The performance indicators for this particular goal focus on counting increases with participation in cultural activities over the school year. This discursive move positions Aboriginal students as objects to be counted when they participate in cultural activities. Further, the cultural activities are not elaborated. The knowledge of history, traditions, culture and language is in danger of getting lost in the numbers. Reducing history to counting cultural activities trivializes Aboriginal history, traditions, culture, and language and even silences them.  The majority of the photographs that are displayed throughout this AEEA policy show students wearing traditional regalia, participating in ceremonies, standing alongside iconic artifacts such as tipis or carvings, making arts and crafts, and sitting with an elder. As there are limited careers that require knowledge of aboriginal arts and crafts traditions, they are in competition with Indigenous narrative viewpoints on the importance for students to be career and future oriented. Although they may have been included as a means for ensuring that valuing history, culture, traditions and language will be passed on to future generations, such images might have a different function in terms of displaying the “truth” about Aboriginal students. The photographs of students in traditional regalia also function to position students outside of time with their references to dancing and  121 celebrating. These activities imply that Aboriginal students are not in control of their bodies and are linked to the childhood notions of dress up and dance celebration. Contextualizing this goal as spiritual is confusing. It may be an indirect reference to being haunted by history, in particular when it is reduced to participation in cultural activities. This AEEA policy positions history and Aboriginal students as objects to be counted and occupying subject positions outside their own history. Aboriginal students are not likely to constitute themselves as moral agents when their obligation to learn their history is erased by the same policy that demands it.  In contrast, when asked about important historical events, one of the Aboriginal college youth for this study, Clarke, indicated that Indian residential school history was the most important.   Clarke: No I haven’t been to any of them (Indian residential schools). Just what from elder Greyeyes’ view of what it was like. Lyn: Do you think they have any kind of effect on you? Clarke The stories or the residential schools? Lyn: Like what happened in the residential schools? Clarke: I think it made me appreciate more how lucky we have it … even though the Aboriginal people are still sort of segregated and sort of put down just for being Native … but I think … for me I was born very white so I can blend in with white people so I don’t really get segregated as much. But for the average person that looks Aboriginal there’s still a lot of that but it’s not as bad as it used to be. Does that make sense?  122 Lyn: Yeah. It does. It makes a lot of sense. So if you were to think of an historical event. …What do you think is one of the most significant ones for Aboriginal people? Say, for the community that you became connected to? …What’s one of the most significant historical events for them, do you think? Clarke: That would probably be the closure of the residential schools. Lyn: The closure? Clarke: Yeah. I guess the story of the assimilation into the white people’s culture being important to this in a negative way. But the closure, I think as being very important. Because that really … with the residential schools it’s really, let’s take you away from all your culture. You can’t learn your culture. You can’t learn your past or your history or your language. And it would suck, right? And it is just; when they closed them it was sort of like the renaissance period in Europe. Way back when. Whereas you can get back, it’s okay you’re allowed now to learn about your culture and your language and that. Even though a lot of it was lost during the times with the residential schools. It’s like kind of the rebirth of the Aboriginal culture before that. Where it’s okay now, again, to be who you are. (Personal communication, November 8, 2011) Although I missed an opportunity to ask Clarke how this should be taught in schools, his linking of the closure of Indian residential schools with the notion of “rebirth” and “renaissance” is potentially meaningful as part of a curriculum on history and as an AEEA strategy. In contrast the focus on counting activities limits the decolonizing  123 potential of SD 23’s AEEA policy as Indigenous peoples’ knowledge and history is trivialized when a superficial view is taken. Counting cultural activities borders on the offensive when history is silenced and its decolonizing potential is elided. Invoking “rebirth” and “renaissance” to characterize the goals of a critical pedagogy of decolonization has appeal because it is linked to the notion that it’s “okay, again, to be who you are” and thereby, defines self-determination.  School	  District	  38	   All students in SD 38 will demonstrate a deeper understanding and appreciation of the histories, languages, and cultures of Aboriginal communities from an Aboriginal perspective.  School District 38 students with Aboriginal ancestry will work toward a strong sense of belonging and confidence through pride in their cultural heritage.  Increased transition rates in all areas: Into Kindergarten. From elementary to high school. From Grade 9 to Grade 10. When preparing to leave secondary school. When moving into the ____ community. When changing schools. (School District 38 Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement Committee, 2011, p. 7)  The above goal and strategies are contained in an AEEA policy that originates in an urban, lower mainland school district. A student’s narrative viewpoint is used to highlight emotional benefits of the goal for understanding and appreciating history with the following quote: “Ceremonies help you in life. They relieve emotional effects that have happened. Once you take care of it in ceremony, it can help to heal you” (p. 9). History is positioned as a silent presence in this policy since “effects that have happened” are not elaborated. Further, the goal “to work toward a strong sense of belonging and  124 confidence through pride in their cultural heritage” (p. 4) positions Aboriginal students as outsiders because they must work for and earn belonging and pride in their own cultural traditions. Aboriginal students are positioned as unappreciative and generally lacking understanding of histories, languages and cultures.  The policy goals position Aboriginal students as subjects generally not progressing in particular with a focus on “increased transition rates in all areas” and when needing “increased opportunities to develop personal leadership abilities” and needing “to engage in leadership opportunities within the schools and in the broader community” (p. 13). Overall the subject position constructed for Aboriginal students is one that is static and in that sense they inhabit the policy space as objects. All of the photographs of students show them wearing traditional regalia, making arts and crafts or are of art pieces that readers would likely infer were made by students. These truthful-seeming images support the construction of students as inhabiting a static space. The AEEA policy discourse and images position Aboriginal students in a silent, static, anachronistic space outside of time, history, culture and traditions and therefore as powerless to constitute themselves as knowledgeable, moral agents.   In contrast, Hudson argues for actively remembering that Indian residential school students mounted active resistance to abusive practices: Lyn: What books did you read to find out about this (Indian residential schools)? Hudson: I Googled scholars. I read Returning to the Teachings, Resistance (and) Renewal. I watched a couple of DVDs (digital video disc) about people that talked about it. Googled some articles. These were interviews of people that went through it.  125 Lyn: Right. Hudson: Some were from Ontario that I read about and some were here in British Columbia. I forget the name of the video that I watched. It was deep. It was about the Mission school. Or Kamloops. One of the two. Lyn: The Fallen Feather? Hudson: Yeah that one. That was a good one. And I liked how they never, they made it so it wasn’t always a negative experience. They joined sports. They stole food. I think that was amazing. And they were good at sports. They were pretty adept athletes. They had their own barter system. They were able to take the apples out of the pantry and trade them for other things. So I thought it was great. And then … Lyn: It showed something about … Hudson: Their spirit, right. I just love defiance. Which is kind of odd because I want to be a police officer. Lyn: Do you mean defiance just for …? Hudson: Self-preservation. Lyn: Oh for self-preservation. Like not just for the sake of being defiant. Hudson: Yeah. You know, that they found a way to preserve themselves, spiritually among all the nightmares. They managed to hang on to themselves. Then pretend to conform. A lot of them saved their language by speaking it in their head. Lyn: Right.  126 Hudson: While they’re in bed or prayer or whatever, they’re speaking English but in their mind they were speaking the language, which was very important. It was so important, you know, it showed staying power, who they wanted to be. They didn’t lose themselves completely. But they still lost a lot of family values. I mean those were stripped. How do you have, be a family for two months out of the year? Lyn: Right. Hudson: Parents weren’t even allowed to visit. Which, I can only imagine, was extremely hard. Lyn: Is that what your quote, “Remember the children”? Is that what that’s in reference to? (On his collage). Or what was that quote in reference to?  Hudson: It’s there to reach out from now until back then. You have to remember their importance. Because they’re who we are in everything we do. It’s a big burden to forget them. Like if we stop thinking about residential school then those children suffered for nothing. I think it’s important to us to be able to cherish today and move on by constantly being reminded that we had terrible pasts. Atrocities. Countless atrocities. You know, I mean parents weren’t even told if their child was dead? Lyn: Right. Hudson: Unmarked graves were all over the place around these houses. Unimaginable suffering. (Personal communication, July 6, 2011). Hudson’s reasoning for remembering the past reflects Ricoeur’s view on the testimonial role of narratives in terms of an ethical responsibility to the “debt we owe the  127 dead” (Kearney, 2004, p. 100)—in particular, he noted the defiant use of Indigenous languages and efforts for keeping spirits intact. Hudson, a descendent of Indian residential school survivors, positions Indian residential school survivors as moral subjects constituting themselves with knowledge of their language to resist and defy colonial power. He uses the term “atrocities” but not “genocide” to describe the history of Indian residential schools. Countering silent history with remembrances of atrocities in Indian residential schools in public schools today contributes to decolonizing history and education and can therefore form one of the key strategies of a critical pedagogy of decolonization. Hudson’s “remember the children” is another catchphrase that decolonizes history by “reach[ing] out from now until back then” (personal communication, July 6, 2011) and brings it forward into the present as a way to honour “the debt we owe to the dead” (Kearney, 2004, p. 100).  School	  District	  39	   We acknowledge that Aboriginal cultures have a continuous and proud history of their own educational practices and the residential school system interrupted this cultural legacy. The partners to this Agreement collectively value all voices and cultures that have now contributed to create this document which seeks to enhance the educational future of all Aboriginal learners. Culture and Community Goal: To increase knowledge, acceptance, empathy, awareness and appreciation of Aboriginal histories, traditions, cultures, and contributions by all students through eliminating institutional, cultural and individual racism within the school district learning communities.  128 Performance Indicators: • Decrease in racial incidents and comments reported by Aboriginal Students. Parties commit to implement actions that lead to the achievement of the goal. • Include specific goals and objectives for Aboriginal learners in annual school plans and AEEA plans to support this goal. • Create and develop opportunities for the Aboriginal communities to contribute an Aboriginal perspective to classroom content, curriculum and experiences. • Provide anti-racism workshops for district, school and administrative staff. • Encourage, guide and support dedicated school wide development opportunities for the collective learning of staff, Aboriginal families and community members. • Include Aboriginal content at all grade levels and across subject areas. Increased units, lessons and activities about Aboriginal history, culture, traditions and contributions. • Pursue innovative models to better address the needs of students in transition: from elementary to secondary school level, between programs and mainstream, and between secondary, post secondary or work experience. • Engage parents in supportive and informative collaborations with Aboriginal community members, staff, and college and university professionals/students. (Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement Steering Committee, 2009, p. 16) In this AEEA policy, in one of the largest urban school districts in BC, the local First Nation and the Métis grant permission to teach their history (p. 4, 5). The policy positions history behind a barrier of racism described as a series of absences that includes a lack of Aboriginal content at all grade levels; Aboriginal communities that don’t  129 contribute perspectives in curriculum; no anti-racism workshops; a lack of Aboriginal teachers and administrators; a lack of school wide activities that encourage collective learning; and a lack of innovative models that will improve transitions and engage parents. In this AEEA policy, racism is an absence of knowledge of Aboriginal peoples at every level of the school district and also positioned as a form of violence directed toward Aboriginal students. Indigenous viewpoints are used to attest to colonial effects on education and on identity with an acknowledgement of Indian residential schools, “Who am I? Somehow I forgot or it was driven out of me during my early days at the residential school. Maybe, but today, I found out, Who am I!” (p. 12) and with the quote: [we are] “no longer burdened with weakness from grief and pain of humiliation. I now stand with dignity and strength within my Native spirit for I am free” (p. 9). The latter quote is supported by an image of Aboriginal students reading books. However, the photograph of the diverse youth displaying their hands on the cover page of this AEEA policy communicates that there are similarities among diverse ethnic groups. With a decolonizing methodological approach to reading the photograph, the image seems to contradict the policy’s strategy for teaching the history of the original inhabitants of the territory when it re-centres history along multicultural and therefore, Euro-centric lines. There are two photographs of two male students involved in manual labour activities: yard work. These two photographs reiterate the race and class-based subject positions that originated with colonial policy. Beyond these images Aboriginal students have a muted presence in this AEEA policy. Colonial policy haunts this AEEA document in text and photographic images in spite of its critical stance against racism in the school  130 district and the testimonies of Indigenous viewpoints that allude to colonization.  The subject positions of sameness or manual labourers communicated by images contradict the attempts at decolonizing education and history. Aboriginal students are imagined with neither knowledge nor power with which they might constitute themselves as Indigenous moral agents combating racism.  Experiences with racism and discrimination were widely reported by the Aboriginal college youth interviewed for this study like the one that Denver described in terms of the assumptions made by one of his teachers on his success in school. Denver: There’s been a few teachers. And at the time I didn’t notice that it was racist, right? And I know that wasn’t really their intention but that’s pretty much like a little bit of lapse in comprehension, understanding and whatever you want to call it, right?  Lyn: So like what kind of understanding do they have, do you think that is? Denver: Probably not too much at all. Because most of my teachers were either European or Indo-Canadian so there’s that huge lapse… Lyn: So these were teachers in high school? Denver: Teachers in high school. Lyn: Oh, okay. Denver: If that happened, like, here, I’d probably be like a snarky undertone, right? But in high school I didn’t even realise that’s what it actually was. So I was kind of like… Lyn: Well could you say more about that? Like what was wrong with it?  131 Denver: Well I think, like because initially like in my last two years of school I actually started getting all my stuff together, right? I actually started to actually go to school. And what happened from there was that, I think there was one particular comment that one of the teachers was just like, well, you know, you’re Aboriginal, and you’re coming up through the ranks and all this and that. And I was thinking, I was like, well, like does that really help? Is the stigma that bad? To say that, you know, there’s a person overcoming obstacles and then to sort of relate that directly to ethnicity? Because it’s like everyone in every ethnic group who has troubles with a lot of different things, right? Lyn: Right. Denver: And that really made me wonder, it’s just like, well, I mean there’s Aboriginal people who have done way more than me, right? Like case in point. And, like the issue is like, you know, why do my achievements have to be attributed to ethnicity, right? As if that alone were a little bit of a hindrance to actually, I guess, progressing. Or overcoming adversity. Whatever you’d like to call it.  So that was… I got a little bit upset, but… Lyn: What did this teacher want you to talk about exactly? Denver: Well we were specifically, I was asked to talk about my personal story. Because I came from an alternative high school, right? So where basically the whole population was marginalised youth and for whatever reason, whether it be personal or whatever. Like they ended up here, right? And  132 generally there is a stigma around the school itself because of the population. And one of the teachers had asked me to do like a little presentation… Lyn: To the other students then? Denver: Yeah, yeah, to some of the younger students there. Because that was my last year there. So because, you know, I was doing so well and what not, so from there… actually I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean it the way that I interpreted it. But it was just, like, oof!, because he said like you know, he pretty much said like you know, ‘I wish there were like more Aboriginal people like you’. Lyn: ‘Like you’.  [Laughter] Male: And I was like… woooooooaaa Lyn: That was more or less saying, ‘There’s something wrong with all the other Aboriginal people. (Personal communication, October 26, 2011) This narrative memory recounts a colonial encounter between Denver and one of his teachers. Denver recognizes that the teacher holds assumptions about Aboriginal students based on a racialization of them. Nevertheless Denver makes excuses for the teacher even though he describes his own reaction as “oof” as though receiving a physical blow. Using the decolonizing methodological frame to analyse this teacher’s discourse highlights how he sees Denver as distinct from all the other Aboriginal students because of overcoming his struggle for academic success. This distinction positions Denver away from the group of Aboriginal students and therefore perhaps closer to an implied white ideal or perhaps  133 even closer to the centre with its Euro-Canadian value on individual agency. With his statement the teacher positions Aboriginal students as a group in a native/white dichotomy. Elizabeth Furniss (1999) is familiar with the narrative of individual agency overcoming adversity. She argues that it is part of the frontier myth that Canadians and British Columbians refer to for a “common sense” approach to history (p. 198).  Further the teacher felt he was honouring Denver in his request for a motivational speech for younger students. Denver’s life appeared to reflect this familiar Canadian “iconic myth” (Furniss, 1999, p. 203) of which he was asked to recount for the other students in the alternate program for youth deemed to be marginalized. Furniss argues that the familiar narrative of individual agency overcoming an inevitable conflict or struggle is part of the “frontier myth” (p. 198) that she sees as part of the narrative and symbolic landscape that is indirectly referenced by white Canadians through metaphor and image. Furniss analyzed the discourse used by Justice McEachern (1991) within his report on his decision on the Gitkxan and Witsuwit’en First Nations’ claims to sovereignty and Aboriginal title to land. She noted McEachern’s repetitive references to the frontier myth associated with the false notion of Canada as a vast and empty land when Europeans came to North America.  A critical pedagogy of decolonization highlights the teacher’s positioning of Denver closer to an implied white ideal. Decolonizing education would require teachers and other staff to engage in self-reflection and interrogate the assumptions that they hold about Aboriginal people. This means understanding how the notion of race continues to shape perceptions of Aboriginal peoples, cultures and histories and how racism operates in policies even when there are goals to oppose it. In this view, the “iconic myths” that  134 are indirectly referenced by white Canadian’s common sense understanding of history come to the forefront as a key starting point for interrogating assumptions about Aboriginal peoples.  Shama responded in a similar fashion to Denver in terms of making excuses for whites that hold racialized views of Aboriginal students. This was surprising given her understanding of the attempt at genocide with the history of the Indian residential schools. Shama wants to believe that there were good intentions behind destructive policies and practices.   Lyn: So if you were to think about the policies that shaped your dad’s experience with education, what did those policies say? Shama: Nothing good. Racism is really, I mean when it comes down to, in those policies, I think … I don’t think I really like to say it’s, hey we’re better than these people….So it’s like taking away a drum and giving someone a bagpipe. It doesn’t make sense. But at the same time it’s what happened. And so switching cultures on people? I think that was the goal because I really do think they thought they were doing something good though. I think I am one of those people that really likes to see good in people. And so I think the intention at the time was, you know, let’s make the best for these people. I don’t think, I mean when you look at things like smallpox blankets and stuff, you know some people are trying to kill off. But really again I think it was their best intention, thinking that different cultures will be able to mesh. So, even though it was the best thing to do for their own people I still think they’re always looking out for the good of what was bigger to  135 them at the time …And I can’t imagine… but yeah I really do think those policies are shaped by … I don’t think the idea of blending cultures was a thing yet. It works well for some groups. (Personal communication, July 5, 2011)  Even though Shama knows that racism held by policy makers created the Indian residential school system that had devastating effects on her father and her family she subscribes to another iconic myth identified by Furniss (1999); that of a history of “benevolent conquest”. Their compulsion to make excuses for whites illustrates the pressures Aboriginal students face to construct identities as objects of “iconic myth” knowledge that is presented as truth because it is “common sense” (Furniss, 1999). Even less so as “subjects acting on others through power” (Hacking, 2002, p. 2). The students seem to assume that whites automatically hold some moral authority and excuse them from being accountable and respectful of Aboriginal students by being truthful about history. Highlighting these iconic myths in a critical pedagogy of decolonization is a unique way to oppose the racialization of Aboriginal students.     School	  District	  (75)	   	  	  Theme: Culture: To improve the knowledge of culture and history of Aboriginal peoples for all students. Goal: To increase the knowledge for all students to learn about Aboriginal culture. (Siwal Se’wes Advisory Committee, 2007) With the AEEA policy in a small school district in the Fraser Valley of BC, there is a reference to the local Indian residential school in that “many children and families have made it their home because of the (Indian) Residential school and the legacy it has  136 left in (the community)” (p. 1). The legacy left by the Indian Residential School is not explained. This AEEA policy simultaneously acknowledges and silences history. Further, the goal: “(t)o improve the knowledge of culture and history of Aboriginal peoples for all students” is placed within the broader theme of “culture” (p. 8) and is another discursive move that silences history—in particular when the plan for assessing the success of this goal is to count the number of culturally inclusive class presentations in the district, and per school. The rationale for this goal “to improve the knowledge of culture and history” identifies “culture” as a vehicle, as “the way to our past, present and future” (p. 4). With this elaboration, culture replaces history, thereby erasing it. History is also erased by culture when the plan for evaluating the success of the goal rests on counting the number of cultural presentations in schools and district-wide. Erasing history leaves a space for Indigenous viewpoints to position all the teachers regardless of their ancestry with the status of Aboriginal elder with the respective quotes: “we are all Aboriginal educators; just some of us have Aboriginal ancestry” (p. 4) and the wish “to stress the importance of the role and responsibility a teacher has as an Elder to Aboriginal students” (p. 4). The majority of photographs (twelve out of seventeen) of Aboriginal students and community members are in regalia or making arts and crafts and only two photographs show students involved in typical educational activities such as reading and writing. Once again students are depicted as out of time or captured in anachronistic space. These images support the discourse that is used to construct subject positions for Aboriginal students that are static or not making transitions, unsuccessful in literacy and numeracy and not feeling a sense of belonging. Besides the goal for teaching culture, the remaining  137 goals describe a situation where Aboriginal students need “to improve grade 7 to 8 transition rates” (p. 5), “are successful for Literacy and Numeracy by Grade 3” (p. 5) and “feel a sense of belonging in their schools” (p. 7).   In this AEEA policy, Aboriginal students are positioned as outsiders, captured and held in anachronistic space where history is silenced and then erased by culture. In this sense Aboriginal students are positioned as objects with no history and therefore no moral agency to constitute their own identities and are ultimately held responsible for their exclusion from the school. Indigenous viewpoints are also used to express a fear of the unknown, which is perhaps an implicit reference to unspeakable history. By erasing history and then constituting school district staff as Aboriginal Elder subjects, the policy fulfills the quote that is attributed to Chief Dan George, a respected former chief, now deceased, of the Tsleil-Waututh First Nation:  “what one fears, one destroys (Siwal Se’wes Advisory Committee, 2007, p. 8). Although his warning was in reference to animals, and seems out of place in a policy on Aboriginal education, the subtext of this quote might be referring to this policy’s fear, and therefore the colonizer’s fear, of the history of Aboriginal peoples or of Aboriginal peoples themselves. Hudson’s discussion of one of his role models, Indigenous leader Elijah Harper, provides a unique approach to teaching history that he positions against his family’s history of attending Indian residential school, has an underlying theme of resistance. Lyn: Was there a building (Indian residential school) in your home territory? Hudson: There was a day school. It’s converted to a museum now. Lyn: Oh. Good. Hudson: But it’s decrepit and they’re going to …  138 Lyn: Tear it down? Hudson: Yeah. Lyn: So from your home community, if people attended one of these institutions they actually had to leave the island and go somewhere else. Hudson: Yeah my dad ended up in Edmonton. And maybe that was to … in the hopes of preventing running way or something. I don’t know. But often they were sent far away. Far, far away. Lyn: Right. Yeah. Hudson: And they were never peacefully taken. Like if a parent resisted the RCMP were called in. Or down here it would be municipal police to enforce the collection of the children for school. I can’t imagine that being fun at all. Lyn: Yeah. Do you think it’s had any impact on you and your education? Hudson: Yeah. Lyn: How so? Hudson: I feel fortunate that I didn’t have to go through it. And writing a paper on it in this school only opened up the realization what they went through. It was terrible. It made me feel fortunate that I was born after. If I was born in the fifties who knows what I’d be like? If I was still alive even. Lyn: Did any of your other relatives ever talk about their experiences with education? Hudson: All I ever got was just that they went to school. And the only positive thing I heard was they were grateful they got their education. And there’s a few that throughout our native history that have got further education. You  139 know there’s (a) list of politicians that have changed how Canada perceives us. It’s pretty long. And it’s great, you know. A role model I have, even when I was a kid, was Elijah Harper. To stop a government. Only one person? You know that was … my dad explained that to me when I was little. I just, from listening to everyone, “Oh he stopped them”. When he did the Meech Lake Accord. I was like oh okay. Well, I’m still young and naïve. I said, “Okay he stopped the government. What does that mean?” And then he talked about the Native rights. And that was huge. I mean that finally showed the world that we exist. You know, we’re not just villains in movies, kind of thing, so. We’re a people. We’re a respectable people that want to live alongside everybody else and live a happy … you know, live the dream. Given the stereotyping we’re up against it’s always a constant, hard battle. (Personal communication, July 6, 2011) Hudson’s thoughtful reflection highlights that including the influence of Indigenous leaders in curriculum can emphasize how history was changed by the agency and ethical actions of prominent individuals and Elders, thereby decolonizing history and education. Hudson’s narrative indicates that he wishes to construct his identity based on knowledge of those who changed Canada’s perception of Aboriginal people in relation to their telling of the truth of their Aboriginal rights. Hudson contextualized this narrative by recounting the previous generation’s resistance to the Indian residential school system. Hudson’s role model, Elijah Harper is such because of his ability to act and have an influence on others “through power, and as a moral agent in relation to ethics” (Hacking, 2002 p. 2). The crucial difference between this role model approach and the “iconic  140 myth” approach described by Furniss (1999, p. 203) is that Hudson’s role model acted based on his knowledge of his Aboriginal rights and willingness to resist established power structures. None of the AEEAs with goals for teaching history indicated that presenting the contributions of Indigenous leaders and role models might engage students with history.  In the next section I discuss the social and political milieu of British Columbia that conditions the emergence of AEEAs and thereby makes visible the relations that constitute the various subject positions of the actors involved in AEEA policies.  Historical	  ontology	  of	  Aboriginal	  Education	  enhancement	  agreements	   When I arrived in BC in 1989 from Saskatchewan and started my career in public schools, opinions and updates on the Delgamuukw case were frequently featured in newspapers and other news media outlets in BC. My non-Indigenous colleagues frequently asked my opinion on land claims. As I knew very little about it and was working in First Nations Education in the public school system, I felt a responsibility to be informed and so I enrolled in history courses to learn more. In the social and political milieu of British Columbia in the 1990s, the province established the BC Treaty Commission to oversee the treaty-making process between First Nations and the provincial and federal governments. Since the 1800s, the First Nations of BC have long demanded a treaty process; treaties had been established in the rest of Canada as well as northeastern BC7 and parts of Vancouver Island. When political organizations were established by First Nations to pursue a just settlement for the land appropriated by British Columbia they were met with such repressive measures as 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  7	  Treaty 8 includes northern Saskatchewan, Alberta and extends into BC.   141 making their political, communal and spiritual practices illegal. Finally, after a century of court cases that frequently ruled in favour of First Nations’ grievances with respect to Aboriginal rights and title to their lands, in 1991 a “new relationship” was proclaimed by the BC Claims Task Force and the BC Treaty Commission was established to facilitate the negotiations between Canada, the province of British Columbia and the First Nations of BC (BC Treaty Commission, 2009). There are at least 50 First Nations progressing through the treaty-making process and there are a handful of First Nations that have a treaty in place or are waiting for parliament to ratify their agreements8. Canadian citizens might consider British Columbia to be a defender of Aboriginal peoples and Aboriginal rights and a socially progressive place to live. AEEAs invoke the format and discourse of treaty making in that they are framed as shared decision making and as the outcome of negotiations between Aboriginal communities and school districts. This is understandable given the tenor of the 1990s, as several land claims were prominent in the courts, most notably the Gitksan-Wit’suwet’en case that went all the way to the Supreme Court of Canada. The Provincial Court of BC’s Justice McEachern’s decision that rejected Aboriginal title and rejected anthropological views of oral tradition (Furniss, 1999) was overturned by the Supreme Court. With the 1997 Supreme Court decision, Aboriginal title was recognized, which meant that resource development could not proceed until First Nations who had claim to land were consulted. In addition, the Supreme Court recognized oral history as valid and reliable—something that Justice McEachern had difficulty understanding.   	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  8 The history and status of treaty negotiations is available on the BC Treaty Commission website: 	   142 Another backdrop to the emergence of AEEA policies in BC is The Missing Children Project and the 3000 children who died while in one of the 80 or so Indian residential schools. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission is mandated by the Indian Residential School Settlement Agreement9 to carry out this particular research into missing children from Indian residential schools. Another goal of the commission is to collect and archive the stories of Indian residential school survivors. These stories will add to the already existing literature on the Canadian Indian residential school system. This history will be discussed in depth in the next chapter to gain a clear perspective on the links between colonial traces in AEEA policies and Aboriginal youths’ memories of them and the history of the Indian residential school system. In other words, how much of this history has faded into the background and what are the colonial effects that loom large in this study viewed as a montage of policy effects and narrative memory. To locate colonial traces in policy and memory, I examined how Aboriginal students interact with AEEA conceptions of ways of being in terms of intrusions that refer to the colonial policy of the past. Further, I have discussed that social and political relations between Indigenous peoples and BC and Canada were defined by first ignoring treaty making and signing of official agreements as in the rest of Canada and then a 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  9 The Indian and Northern Affairs Canada website ( indicates that Canada approved the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement in 2006. Included in this agreement is the Common Experience Payment available to former students who lived at one of the listed residential schools. There is also an Independent Assessment Process for those students who suffered sexual or serious physical abuses, or other abuses that caused serious psychological effects. They (adult survivors) must apply for compensation. A Truth and Reconciliation Commission and a Commemoration initiative are also included in this settlement.   	   143 reversal of situation in the 1990s. These are the social and political dynamics that might shape relations between Aboriginal communities and public education in this era of reconciliation, in particular as a format for negotiating and developing policy in public schools. Public education’s use of such discourse as enhancement, collaboration and partnerships to develop policy can reproduce colonial social relations along the axes of dominant power, common sense knowledge and in an absence ethics—and in reality means the erasure of history and of Aboriginal students capacity as moral actors. This situation raises the question of why Indigenous peoples might agree to these representations in AEEA policy. In the next section I put forth an argument that might answer this question. Childhood,	  memories	  and	  trauma	   As an Indigenous educator working in Aboriginal education I am always cognizant that representations of Indigenous peoples in curriculum, resources and even in conversations with educators might be based on unfair, dehumanizing assumptions. Further, Indigenous peoples are not exempt from perpetuating unfair characterizations. It might be the case with AEEA policies that white school district representatives exercise power relations in reproducing anachronistic images and representations of Indigenous peoples. At the same time, I do not want to assume that Indigenous peoples in collaboration with school district representatives adopted a laissez-faire attitude in representing regressive subject positions for Aboriginal students. Teresa Strong-Wilson (2014) has noted that photographs of childhood in relation to memoir and autobiography are not only nostalgic but are also inflected with trauma (p. 24). Along these lines I wish to argue that photographs of Indigenous children in traditional regalia in AEEAs can  144 function as a form of memory. With childhood autobiography, as Strong-Wilson argues, “trauma is often expressed as a longing for that which may not have existed in the first place, compensating for loss ‘by supplementing a memory invigorated through absence’” (p. 24). Further, there is an “idealization of the time prior to the trauma” (p. 24). Because accounts of trauma are traceable to childhood, the “body is the primary site for repressed memories in childhood autobiography” (p. 23). Along these lines, we can see an over compensation in AEEAs that have a goal for teaching history, expressed by the preoccupation with photographs of children’s bodies adorned or perhaps protected by traditional regalia and with photographs that attempt to capture a time before colonization. Strong-Wilson (2014) argues that childhood autobiography photographs are a challenge to “avert the misfortune lying ahead” (p. 24). In that sense, AEEA photographs may also refer to the violence that many Aboriginal peoples have experienced in their youth, in Indian residential schools and in the child welfare system in BC and Canada. When trauma inflects nostalgia, Strong-Wilson (2014) argues that, “a longing for change remains trapped, thwarted by actual events. Within this space and time, the body-subject occupies a grey world, shared by living and dead” (p. 25). AEEA policy photographs challenge viewers—that is, educators—to avert the violence that might lie ahead. Critical	  pedagogy	  of	  decolonization	   In this chapter, I explored the views of history adopted in AEEA policies, how the subject positions of Aboriginal students are constructed in these policies with respect to history, the extent to which narratives by Indigenous peoples are used to decolonize views of history, the kinds of history education prescribed for Aboriginal peoples, and the  145 role and function of photographs with regard to history. A decolonizing methodological frame together with an historical ontological view of AEEA policy texts, including photographs, reveals a propensity to erase history and to capture Aboriginal students and hold them in anachronistic space, that is, outside of the contemporary temporal moment. This visual representation of Indigenous children reinforces their construction as not progressing. Indigenous viewpoints in Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement policy documents were often used to elaborate on the damaging effects of education systems of the past on identity, emotional life, and future education prospects, but most fell short in that regard. What is evident in all four agreements is that goals, objectives, rationales, guiding principles and indicators of success compete with each other, thereby eliding and ultimately erasing, in particular, goals for teaching the history of colonial education policy aimed at the cultural genocide of Aboriginal peoples in Canada. None of the AEEAs with goals for teaching the history of Aboriginal peoples in Canada used the term “genocide.” Although the Indigenous viewpoints of history within AEEA policy represent attempts to turn up the volume of history, traumatic colonial history continues to be silent. Through AEEA policy’s representations of history and the positioning of Indigenous peoples and communities as outside of time and therefore of history, colonial power relations continue to operate through photographs and policy discourse. This study of BC public school Aboriginal education shows that colonial power is exercised when discursive practices silence history and prevent memories of colonial violence and cultural genocide from standing as policy and curriculum. These discursive practices are linked to the broader social and political milieu that conditions relations between  146 Indigenous peoples and the province of BC in an era of treaty making and the Indian Residential School Settlement Agreement.  Aboriginal college students’ perspectives on their experiences with learning history as well as Indigenous languages and cultures were juxtaposed with AEEA policy constructions of history, culture and identity. Counter-memories of Aboriginal college youth highlight the need to respect Indigenous pedagogies for teaching language in public schools by invoking “rebirth” and “renaissance.” Countering silent history with remembrances of atrocities in Indian residential schools in public schools today contributes to decolonizing history and education. “Remember the children” is a catchphrase that decolonizes history by “reach[ing] out from now until back then.” A critical pedagogy of decolonization means that school counsellors, teachers and other staff engage in self-reflection to interrogate the assumptions that they hold about Aboriginal peoples, cultures and history. This means understanding how the notion of race continues to shape perceptions of Aboriginal peoples, cultures and histories and how racism operates in policies, curricula, texts and day-to-day conversation. Further, the “iconic myths” that are indirectly referenced by white Canadian’s common sense understanding of history as a frontier come to the forefront as a key starting point for interrogating assumptions about Aboriginal peoples.  In this chapter, I have discussed how colonial discourse related to time and distance, including imagery, found within selected AEEA policies, continues to pervade education policy for Indigenous peoples in BC and therefore limits the discursive subject positions Aboriginal youth can inhabit. These AEEA policies silence the history of colonial genocide and violence, particularly the history of Indian residential schools.  147 Foucault referred to surface knowledge as connaissance and savoir as the depth knowledge from which the surface hypotheses get their meaning in terms of an underlying conception of the condition in question, in this case AEEA policy and conceptions of Aboriginal peoples and education. With the use of the term reconciliation the understanding of the past that is generated relates to inflexible relationships, a dichotomy (Furniss, 1999, p. 205) wherein the white settler society is on one side and therefore needs Aboriginal peoples to occupy the other side.  In the next chapter, chapter five, I continue to explore a number of other dimensions of material collected for this thesis that also evoke a certain kind of silence of the colonial past. These are explored in depth in the next chapter wherein I focus on “remember[ing] the children” by “reach[ing] out from now until back then.” This is another decolonizing methodological frame used to consider Indian residential school memories and the policy stories that buildings tell. These form the backdrop for the articulation of a critical pedagogy of decolonization that emerged from the memories of Aboriginal college youth and that highlight meaningful action.      148 Chapter 5: Memories of Indian residential schools in an era of assimilation  My relative told me that, when she was at the Indian residential school, when they were sent outside, ‘the older girls used to walk along the fence, back and forth, they wore a path, up and down and up and down, the path was so worn down from all the walking they did, it was hollow’. (Lyn Daniels’ relative, personal communication, 2007)  In this chapter, historical ontology takes in a wide and deep perspective, to encompass a study of the legal landscape of Supreme Court decisions on landmark Indian residential school abuse cases that prompted the federal government to enter into the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement, as well as, an examination of the memories of Indian residential school survivors. In this way, I engage with history from a decolonizing perspective. In addition, I argue for an analysis that links memories of Indian residential schools to themes of buildings of traumatic confinement that are recovered and presented aesthetically in the fictional literature by the late author W.G. Sebald (2001). While it may seem unconventional and unusual to include literary analysis next to a legal analysis, I take inspiration from Shoshanna Felman (2001) who argues that, “only an encounter between law and art can adequately testify to the abyssal meaning of (historical) trauma” (p. 280). These theories emerged from Holocaust studies and frame this analysis of Indian residential school history. Accordingly, when the decolonizing methodological frame used in this chapter includes a critical reading of W.G. Sebald’s (2001) novel Austerlitz the story of a second-generation survivor of the  149 Holocaust, genocide is shown to be central to the depth knowledge, or savoir that underwrites Indian residential school history. In examining narratives of former Indian residential school students that link to Sebald’s (2001) Austerlitz, memory, identity, history, trauma, repression and repetition emerge as significant themes in how colonial policy was experienced. Some might be troubled by my comparisons of the Holocaust with the history of colonization of Indigenous peoples in Canada, however I will show how Sebald’s novel was inspired by Foucault’s theorizing on the increasing intrusion of the state into the lives of individuals. Sebald’s novel, in turn inspired me because of this theoretical framing. In particular, given that there is an absence of similar analyses and approaches embedding these knowledge/power dynamics in fictionalizing Indigenous experiences of oppression. By drawing attention to the “conditions of formation” of this colonial conception of Aboriginal/Indian education, as a way to “determine its logical relations and moral connotations” (Hacking, 2002, p. 67), I fulfill my commitment to “remember the children” by “reaching out from now until back then” (Hudson, Personal Interview, August 18, 2011). Accordingly, I focus primarily on the narrated memories of those who attended Indian residential schools in a policy era of assimilation, as traumatic history that until recently, has been silenced. These are my history lessons. Each perspective contributes to the depth knowledge, or savoir envisioned as a montage of memories of Aboriginal/Indian education viewed through decolonizing methodological frames. Thielen-Wilson’s (2014) critical legal study of Indian residential school case law, examines Canada’s laws’ views of former Indian residential school students and the subject positions constructed for Indigenous peoples therein, thereby providing an  150 indication of Canada’s fundamental view of her relationship to Indigenous peoples that likely informs perceptions of Aboriginal education. Thielen-Wilson connects Canada’s legal views of Indigenous survivors of Indian residential schools to themes of genocide and the law’s support of settler illegitimacy. In this chapter I argue that genocide and settler illegitimacy are the savoir that condition on a deep level, Aboriginal/Indian policies on education in Canada. Against this backdrop of traumatic history I will discuss in depth what it might mean for the settler society to seek forgiveness and begin a new relationship based on forgiveness and not reconciliation.	  	  Indian	  residential	  school	  case	  law	  	  There are Indigenous survivors of Indian residential schools who wished to be heard and have undertaken legal action in an attempt to achieve a measure of justice in Canada’s courts. Thielen-Wilson’s (2014) analysis of Indian residential school case law is aimed at understanding the violence that survivors experienced in the system as a form of genocide (p. 182). Further, the “violence was legally sustained by Canada and its citizens” for well over 100 years and was therefore, “instrumental to Canada’s colonial nation-building project and to Canada’s claims to sovereignty, dominance and control over Indigenous people and their land” (p. 182).  Thielen-Wilson found Indian residential school litigation to be centred on having the justice system acknowledge that, “cultural genocide was a goal and partial outcome of the Indian residential school system” (p. 182). In particular, with the civil case of Blackwater v. Plint, naming “loss of culture” as an actionable tort could have been an important legal development after the criminal courts did not ‘hear’ the survivors. For her  151 part, Canada’s efforts to deny legal recognition of loss of culture involved citing statutes of limitations. The law only allowed “historic sexual assault”, negligence, and breach of fiduciary duty as legally recognized harms. Historic sexual abuse means abuse that occurred so long ago that most witnesses and perpetrators are dead. The plaintiff’s sought to have loss of culture count as an “aggravating condition to the sexual assaults…committed against Indigenous survivors” of Alberni Indian residential school in BC (p. 191). The judge allowed this reasoning and Canada did not object. Thielen-Wilson argues that perhaps Canada was over-confident that this loss would never count as an actionable tort and is evident in Canada’s defense strategy. Justice Brenner acknowledged Canada’s defense strategy was ‘distasteful’ but the inevitable outcome of the statute of limitations on all of the other wrongful behaviours, with the exception of sexual assault (p. 191).  Thielen-Wilson has summarized Canada’s defense strategy, aimed at reducing their seventy five percent vicarious responsibility for the sexual assaults of children in their care: • Canada uses the words of the plaintiffs to argue that the mere fact of being at Alberni Indian Residential School, and all the other violence survivors experienced while there, had more of an impact on survivors’ lives and communities than did the sexual abuse they experienced from the former supervisor, Arthur Plint, who had confessed in the criminal trial; • Justice Brenner has to award damages because Plint confessed at the criminal trial, and in deciding on damages he reiterated Canada’s argument; • In determining the damages Justice Brenner considers another factor, the family background and home life of the plaintiffs prior to attending Alberni Indian residential school, which he characterizes as having “measurable risks and shortcomings which were inherent to their position regardless of the sexual assaults” (p. 191).  • Not having a clear line of causation meant that Justice Brenner could reduce the damages;  • The words of the plaintiffs are used to emphasize the pain and trauma from non-sexual violence and loss of culture (not legally recognized as harm) rather than from the sexual assaults;  152 • The violence of genocide is emphasized so that Canada and the United Church can pay lower amounts of damages;  • The violence is acknowledged as rooted in the Indian Residential School system operated by Canada and supported by the legislation of The Indian Act; • It was acknowledged that the violence in survivors’ lives was carried out by a collective for the purpose of nation building rather than by an individual for whom Canada was vicariously responsible” (p. 192)  Thielen-Wilson (2014) further summarizes Brenner’s decision as follows: colonization was not identified as the root of the damage to people and cultures when it came to explaining the plaintiffs’ families’ lack of education and employment, addiction and high rates of interpersonal violence. Instead Thielen-Wilson views Justice Brenner’s judgment of them to be the indicators of Brenner’s assumption of “biological or racial inferiority” (p. 192). The judgment’s account deemed the settler collective as  “capable of genocide but only vicariously responsible for the crimes of individuals. This reduces Indigenous peoples to property and enables the settler collective to boast about the violence of the Indian residential school system and bolster the racial fantasy of rightful ownership of land” (p. 193). In this civil case, courts “severed sexual abuse from (collective) genocide and sexual abuse and genocide from land issues” (p. 183). Thielen-Wilson argues that this judgment is made in spite of the growing recognition of settler illegitimacy. Blackwater was appealed but Justice McLachlin upheld Brenner’s decision and dismissed the claim that the Indian residential school system robbed children of their communities, culture and support by placing them in environments of abuse. “This past was brought into present when Brenner refused to ‘hear’ the survivors’ narratives as truthful” (p. 196). Thielen-Wilson says that Indigenous survivors were marked as a damaged collective in these decisions. However, genocide and settler illegitimacy were kept hidden from view and Canada moved forward with land claims and “delimiting  153 forms of Indigenous sovereignty and self-determination” with the appearance of honour (p.195).  By studying this case law on Indian residential schools, Thielen-Wilson may have uncovered another perspective on the savoir or depth knowledge. The perspective that is offered in her analysis is parallel to the way that iconic myths are the narratives that white Canadian’s are compelled to recount and refer to in their understanding of history. Thielen-Wilson examined Canadian legal discourse and found, similar to Furniss’ analysis of Justice McEachern’s decisions on Gitkxan – Witsuwet’en land claims case, that Indigenous peoples are represented as a child-like damaged collective in order to disguise white settler illegitimacy and a history of genocide enacted on Indigenous people, in particular children. This is precisely the savoir for Aboriginal/Indian education policies wherein the depth knowledge of a hidden and even silent history of genocide might provide a bridge to the past. In this chapter I explore what the possibility of genocide meant in terms of survivor memories in comparison to those of a fictional survivor of the Holocaust. I listen carefully to the history of Indian residential schools to hear what Justices Brenner, McLachlin and McEachern did not.   Memories	  of	  trauma	  	  As I intend to bridge the research questions I seek to answer about the effects of colonial policy with early memories of the residential school, this chapter is therefore devoted to my attempt to listen critically to Indian residential school history and to reach back to create a link to its ongoing effects as it exists in the present, both as school practice and policy. I focus primarily on the memories of those who attended an Indian residential school. I do so as a way to engage with history, to create a decolonized  154 history, a history that is not an official account but a history that can only be bridged with memory. These memories will be considered within another Aboriginal/Indian education policy era known as assimilation. In so doing the depth knowledge or savoir for the possible ways of being for Aboriginal/Indian people in this policy era, will emerge.  Shoshana Felman (2001, 2009) has noted repetition as a feature of traumatic history. Felman (2009) uses fiction, a novella by Tolstoy10, to make the argument that when the law is blind to the trauma of a crime then such traumas will be repeated (particularly through legal trials). Felman (2001) argues that such repetitions are a “legal outcome of traumatic narratives” (p. 29). Felman (2009) also argues that Hannah Arendt’s, Eichmann in Jerusalem, is “inhabited by Arendt’s mourned and unmourned ghosts” (p. 273), namely, friends that died at the hands of the Nazis. Felman concludes that Arendt didn’t understand the effects of trauma on the survivors of the Holocaust in her dismissal of dramatic testimonies at Eichmann’s trial. Felman argues that only a meeting between law and art are adequate testimony for understanding the meaning of trauma. Further, Felman (2001, 2009) regards trauma as part of a historical narrative that will be repeated across time if we cannot confront it as socio-cultural, that is, embodied in the socio-cultural dimensions of indigenous memories of schooling experiences.  Hearing	  History	   	  	  	  Recently, I was asked by a relative to accompany her to a hearing about her experiences of abuse at a Canadian Indian residential school. The hearing was part of the 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  10 Felman wrote of the traumatic legal outcomes of cases where wives were murdered by their husbands that occurred in two different centuries, she argued that the OJ Simpson trial was a legal repetition of the trial written by Tolstoy in the novella, The Kreutzer Sonata. 	   155 Independent Assessment Process of the Indian Residential School Settlement Agreement11. This hearing involved an adjudicator and lawyers for the federal government and for the claimant. In addition, the claimant had an elder and a relative present. I was the relative. I have studied the history of the Indian residential school system but participating in this hearing was a different type of learning. In this hearing, what were highlighted for me were the striking similarities between my relative’s story and numerous other personal narratives of Indian residential schooling. Noting these similarities is not intended to undermine their significance. The history and colonial policy of the Indian residential school system persists (Brooks 1991), living through the individuals who experienced them. Colonial policy is evident in former Indian residential school students’ personal narratives and in their expressions of its repetitive traumatic effects. Accordingly, we can learn from these personal accounts at a cultural level. Former Indian residential school students narrate a continuum of responses that range from accommodation to resistance to colonial practices and its effects on: identity development, cultural practices and traditions and intergenerational personal and social relationships. However, when the memories of an individual survivor, Isabelle Knockwood (2001), and that of her peers, who attended the Shubenacadie Indian residential school, are understood as a history of trauma; significant insights come to light. For example, Knockwood’s memories of trauma are often connected to the spaces 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  11	  The Indian and Northern Affairs Canada website ( indicates that Canada approved the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement in 2006. Included in this agreement is the Common Experience Payment available to former students who lived at one of the listed residential schools. There is also an Independent Assessment Process for those students who suffered sexual or serious physical abuses, or other abuses that caused serious psychological effects. They (adult survivors) must apply for compensation. A Truth and Reconciliation Commission and a Commemoration initiative are also included in this settlement.    156 within the Indian residential school building. Such insights were prompted by Sebald’s (2001) novel Austerlitz where a history of trauma is linked indirectly to the policy stories that buildings tell. This area of analysis is little explored in policy studies (Yanow, 1998). Accordingly, themes of colonial policy effects evident in memories of Indian residential school survivors are explored in relation to the policy story told by buildings. Such memories are not identified as purely psychological phenomenon but as history that speaks to the power of a collective trauma on its people and its legacies.  The German-born writer W.G. Sebald’s (2001) novel Austerlitz is also concerned with looking at—and hearing—a history of trauma. Sebald used a “periscopic,” writing style where “everything is related round corners” (Schwartz, 2007, p. 37). Caruth (1991) argued that “(f)or a history to be a history of trauma (it) means that it is referential precisely to the extent that it is not fully perceived as it occurs; or… a history can be grasped only in the very inaccessibility of its occurrence (p. 187). She characterized this “unconsciousness” as one form of “the indirect referentiality of history” (p.187). The life of the character, Austerlitz, has been shaped by significant historical events that are unbeknownst to him (and readers) until his later years. The reader learns this history in Austerlitz’s own words via a narrator listening to the incremental recovery of his formerly repressed memories. This indirect technique conveys the ongoing effects of the intergenerational legacy of fascism on families and individuals. Although, the fictional life of Austerlitz features latency, repression, repetition and departure as aspects of a traumatic past, they are presented ‘periscopically’ because Sebald believed “there are thresholds you cannot cross, where you have to keep your distance” (Sebald in Schwartz 2007, p. 112). He believed it morally wrong if “something  157 is spun out of the lives of victims which is gratifying for the author” (p. 112). This is an important stance for a German writer in terms of the effects of history on a Jewish character.  Along similar lines, postmemory offers a model of ethical relation to the oppressed or persecuted other, and advocates “distance” in order to resist appropriation (Hirsch, 1999, p. 9).  Linking Sebald’s themes of looking, collecting, and building architecture to the history of colonial policy and Indian residential schools from this postmemory vantage point is the result of my own profound emotional connection to the recent past that the so-called second generation cannot seem to escape. Accordingly postmemories are not meditated by recollection but by imagination and creativity (Long, 2007, p. 59). The implications for critical pedagogy is recognized by Long (2007) when he argues that sufficient material narrative resources are prerequisites for the imaginative and creative investment required for postmemory (p. 60).   History	  and	  trauma	   Drawing on Freud’s work on the history of trauma and her own research into the history of the Jewish peoples and their persecution and exile, Caruth found that history and trauma shared similar features, namely: latency, repression, repetition and departure. We see these features in Austerlitz, and in the history of the Indian residential school system. When the history of the Indian residential school system is placed in the context of a history of trauma the apparently random themes of looking, collecting and architecture draw our attention to seeing—and hearing—history for what it is, whether for Indigenous or non-Indigenous (here, Jewish) peoples.  I explore the indirect referentiality of history by juxtaposing the fictional story of an individual whose life was unknowingly shaped by Nazi persecution, (Sebald’s  158 Austerlitz) with the systematic persecution that Indigenous children experienced in the Indian residential school system in Canada (and to a lesser degree Indian boarding schools in the US). In particular, the personal narratives in Knockwood’s (2001) history of Mi’kmaw children in an Indian residential school, as well as other personal narratives, offer points of comparison to Sebald’s novel for considering the diverse ways in which authors may feel compelled to carry the memories of a traumatic past to a wider audience. Some might ask, why compare the stories of the Holocaust with the stories of Indigenous genocide, in particular in light of contemporary genocidal policies of Israel to Indigenous Palestinians. In both approaches, fiction and personal narratives, a history of trauma proves haunting through expressions of its ongoing effects. Of the many collections of personal narratives of Indian Residential school experiences, Isabelle Knockwood’s (2001) Out of the Depths is ideal for understanding what children experienced inside these institutions. It is ideal because Knockwood collected narratives of former Shubenacadie Indian residential school students, a school where she herself attended, and placed these accounts in the context of history. Her book provides a key starting point for understanding the human impact that Indian residential school policy had on Mi’kmaw children and their families. Their memories and Knockwood’s approach (of collecting personal memories) resonate poignantly with Caruth’s thesis of traumatic history. Taken together, these conceptual references to history will be drawn upon as I seek to reach back to Indian residential schooling and to connect it with Indigenous students’ experience of education in the present. According to McCulloh (2003), Sebald’s purpose is to ask, “How can one find a compelling way to speak about what is in all its horror and complexity, unspeakable?”  159 (p.130). Fictionalizing such an unspeakable subject means that in the character Austerlitz we see the “insidious, if oblique, infliction of harm achieved by the actions of the Nazis” (p. 110) which resulted in the repression of his memories regarding his family history, his nation’s history and therefore his identity.  As an adult, Austerlitz belatedly recalls that he was sent on the “Kinder transport” from Prague to Wales. The Kinder transport was the program whereby children of Jewish peoples from German occupied countries were saved from the harsh and deadly conditions of the ghettos and concentration camps. The children were transported to foster homes, group homes and farms in the United Kingdom. This too is a history of trauma. In the next section, I discuss in more depth what it means to be a postmemory witness to traumatic history.   Postmemory	  	   With postmemory there is a witness to a witness of the Holocaust. Hirsch (1999) argues that acts of remembrance can generate a projection and identification with the memories of the survivors of trauma. Photographs are the media that can connect the generations. Postmemory is the relationship of second-generation children of survivors with the memories of survivors, particularly when the “memories are so strong as to constitute memories in their own right” (p. 8). I position myself in the role of the postmemory witness to the lived experiences of the history of the Indian residential school system, at a personal level, poring over photographs while listening to memories of family members, and at a decolonizing level, re-listening to the stories of Indian residential schools.   160 Knockwood opens her book by informing readers that she is holding a Talking Stick and according to her Mi’kmaw traditions, she will tell of everything that relates to a problem or issue. Those in attendance are compelled to listen as the Talking Stick is passed on. Knockwood frames the problem as one of understanding. She wants to understand why the hurt of her experiences and those of her peers does not go away. With this opening Knockwood hopes that the act of writing their memories will provide some answers as the tradition of talking has done in the past. Knockwood (2001) positions the publication of her book in a postmemory space of remembrance with the statement that the children and grandchildren of those who attended the school “are usually the ones who want to talk to me about it since the book enabled them to understand much of what previously troubled them about their parents and grandparents” (p. 13). Hence Knockwood’s collection of memories can be read as a form of “productive remembering” (Strong-Wilson, et al., 2013, p. 2) since it has meaning for future generations. They are particularly important for informing my history lessons. In the next section I review two genres of literature on the history of the Indian residential school system and touch on Indian boarding schools in the United States.   The	  history	  of	  the	  Indian	  residential	  school	  system	   The Canadian Indian residential school system operated in various forms for at least one hundred years but the full impact of the extreme physical, emotional, spiritual and sexual abuse for some of the children can never be completely understood. With regard to researchers who study Indian residential school history, Chrisjohn and Young (1997) have written: “going over this past will form one of the most intellectually and  161 emotionally demanding tasks they have ever undertaken” (p. 159). Their statement provides a testament to the difficulty with looking at this history and therefore hearing it. Recent events such as the Indian Residential School Settlement Agreement12, the outcome of a class action by survivors (Baxter), have brought a measure of public awareness about the Indian residential school system. The apology by the Prime Minister of Canada in June 2008 has highlighted this history, but the details of the Indian residential school system weren’t widely known among the Canadian public until the 1990s.  There are two main genres of literature on Canadian Indian residential schools, the personal narrative genre and the scholarly historical genre. Recent studies of specific schools that operated in the United States combine the two genres (Lomawaima, 1994; Trafzer, Keller and Sisquoc, 2006). The personal narratives present the perspectives of those who experienced the Indian residential school system (Dieter, 1999; Glavin, 2002; Jaine, 1993; Knockwood, 2001; Jack, 2006). The authors in the scholarly, historical genre seek to make comprehensive statements about the Canadian Indian residential school system. The most common explanation for the origin of the schools centres on the assimilation of the Indigenous population with the Euro-Canadian population culturally, socially and economically as the original goal of the system (Archibald, 1993; Barman, 2003; Bull, 1991; Furniss, 1995; Grant, 1996; Haig-Brown, 1988; Ing, 1991; King, 1967; Miller, 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  12	  The Common Experience payment, the Independent Assessment Process and the establishment of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission are all part of the Indian	  Residential School Settlement Agreement the result of a class action suit by survivors against religious groups and the Canadian Federal government. 	   162 1997; Milloy, 1999). The analysis of how the goal of assimilation was to be accomplished and where Indian residential schools featured in that social equation depended on each scholar’s disciplinary perspective. In particular, it depends on their analysis of the policy that was mobilized and realized in the design of the Indian residential school system.   Although the Indian school systems differed in the US and Canada, they were both founded upon colonial ideology. Lomawaima (1994) compared the recollections of former students of the Chilocco Indian Boarding School in Oklahoma, US, with the historical record and official policy. Her study represents a cross genre that considers the students’ experiences through academic scholarship. Similarly, Trafzer, Keller, and Sisquoc’s (2006) Boarding School Blues: Revisiting American Indian Educational Experiences explores the diverse perspectives of the former US Indian boarding school students using unique data such as school and community newspapers. These studies compare the ideology underlying the policy of the US Indian boarding school system with former students’ perspectives thereby validating their experiences as the lived reality of policy. Building on the work of these scholars in the US, I view former Canadian Indian residential school students’ recollections of their school experiences as the lived reality of policy. My use of this term is linked to the pervasive characterization of Indian residential school policy as ‘assimilationist’. In reality, and according to the personal narratives, there were few if any opportunities presented for students to experience an environment aimed at providing the knowledge, skills and attitudes that would allow them to participate in the social, cultural, or economic life of the emerging nation of  163 Canada. The tenor of their narratives can be more aptly described as confinement. This lived reality contrasts with the official policy. In the next section, continuous with the work of these American scholars, I focus on the ideology underlying the policy of the Indian residential school system that the scholarly authors identify, and in particular, the points at which the themes from scholarly literature and specific narrative accounts are aligned. Scenes from Sebald’s novel highlight these themes, where there are indirect references to the ongoing effects of colonial history. So too particular memories from Knockwood’s book come to light thereby linking the effects of colonial policy with the ongoing effects of fascism in Europe.  Looking	  and	  collecting	   With the allusion to an “inquiring gaze” in the opening scene of the novel, Austerlitz, Sebald is drawing attention to two kinds of looking: the kind of looking that is referred to as the ‘colonial gaze’ and the kind of looking that is synonymous with thinking. Austerlitz remains oblivious to the impact of history on his life and identity, as do the readers, until the end of the novel. But history and trauma are foreshadowed immediately in the novel’s introduction by the narrator’s observations of a zoo’s inhabitants just before his first meeting with Austerlitz. He compares their large eyes to the “inquiring gaze found in certain painters and philosophers who seek to penetrate the darkness which surrounds us purely by means of looking and thinking” (Sebald, 2001, p. 5). What ‘darkness’ is Sebald alluding to? In this instance, readers are alerted to the role that philosophers and artists have in understanding and conveying the “darkness” of our social world. A central theme of Austerlitz (2001) is the erasure of history and the effect  164 such erasure has on the social collective, but most particularly, on individuals (McCulloh 2003). McCulloh has argued that Sebald sees these dynamics as features of a social world where “certain forces … are bent on neutralizing all historical consciousness” (p. 109).  In the next scene of the novel, leaving the zoo for the train station, the narrator sees the waiting passengers as “the last members of a diminutive race which had perished or had been expelled from its homeland, and that because they alone survived they wore the same sorrowful expression as the creatures in the zoo” (Sebald 2001, pp. 6-7). Here, a central subject of the novel, the removal and extermination of Austerlitz’s family and Jewish brethren is foreshadowed.  Michael Silverblatt (2007), an American radio journalist of literature commented on the opening scene of Sebald’s novel:  I was struck in the opening of Austerlitz by the way in which the narrator moves  from a zoo…And before long the train station to which he returns becomes the  double for the zoo. The eyes of certain thinkers become the doubles for the  intense eyes of the nocturnal animals. Then the train station recalls a fortress, and  there’s a gradual opening out, an unfolding of structure and interpositions. The  speaker might well be the person spoken to, by virtue of this logic. And it extends  with, it seems to me, an invisible referent—that as we go from the zoo to the train  station, from the train station to the fortress, from the fortress to the jail, to the  insane asylum, that the missing term is the concentration camp…” (p. 79).   But for me, in reading this passage, the missing term is the ‘Indian residential school’ and the invisible referent is confinement. With this critical insight, the spatial features of Indian residential school buildings are highlighted. And with this particular introduction to his novel, both the ‘colonial gaze’, and the looking that is synonymous to thinking are linked to themes of confinement and to historical progress in the modern era as represented by the train station (Long, 2007). Both of these kinds of looking are  165 preoccupations in Austerlitz, as they also are with contemporary efforts to understand the colonial history of the Indian residential school system. Historically, and in particular with Indigenous peoples in North America, ‘looking’ played an important role in the colonial processes that expelled them from their homelands. Colonial social relations are produced through research in the ways that knowledge of ‘expelled’ people is “collected, classified, represented back to the West, then through the eyes of the West, back to the colonized” (Smith, 1999, p. 1). In colonial times, and when it comes to Aboriginal rights to land and resources, Indigenous peoples were generally looked upon by Euro-colonials as barely human. Viewing Indigenous peoples as though they were just one kind of individual is linked to domination. Such colonial images support institutional practices aimed at domination. Hannah Arendt (1968) wrote of total domination in Nazi Germany and argued that practices of degradation in concentration camps were designed to destroy the juridical person, the moral person, the unique identity of individuals and human dignity. Arendt theorized that the camps were the central institution of this totalitarian society and that the ultimate aim of degradation for those selected was to make them “superfluous” (p. 457). Domination of this kind seemed unthinkable, but it did ultimately take place in the form of death camps with gas chambers for European Jewish citizenry.  Sebald’s description of the confined zoo animals refers indirectly to colonial practices and processes of confinement. A colonial view of the social world places the history of ‘expelled’ people, in particular, Indigenous peoples, in the category of natural history. ‘Sorrowful expressions’ on the faces of the confined are related to the ‘colonial gaze’ as these images have been used to support a story of human progress that presents  166 as ‘natural’ the extermination/extinction of ‘expelled’ peoples. This application of knowledge from the natural sciences to explain human history is known as Social Darwinism where observing/gazing at the natural world came to be synonymous with knowing and therefore dominating.  In Sebald’s novel, Austerlitz’s childhood friend Gerald and Gerald’s great uncle Alphonso, a natural scientist, a fictional contemporary of Darwin, highlight the effects of the natural history ideology. Gerald and Austerlitz learn about the ‘natural order of things’ from Uncle Alphonso who observed that many forms of life were disappearing “destroyed by our passion for collecting” (p. 90). Austerlitz thought he observed “deep grief” (p. 83) on the face of a parrot captured in the Congo and taken to join the numerous natural collections at Gerald’s home. Austerlitz had befriended Gerald at their British style boarding school after Gerald was assigned to perform duties for the senior Austerlitz. Austerlitz relieved Gerald of these duties in “a breach of regulations regarded with disapproval by most…as if it were against the natural order of things” (p. 76). Separation according to age and the privileges assigned to the seniors in the British boarding school system was meant to mark and invoke class differences. Growing up in this environment can lead to blind acceptance of this social order as ‘natural’. Smith (1999) recognizes the colonial project in collecting and classifying. “Collecting” hid the true act of stealing territories, plants, animals, minerals, natural and cultural resources and even human remains (p. 61). ‘A natural order of things’ allows inquiry into every aspect of Indigenous life and culture in the name of science without questioning how research reproduces colonial social relations. In the eighteenth and  167 nineteenth centuries, collecting was important for European colonialists to “delineate the essential differences between Europe and the rest” (p. 60). The notion of preserving cultural items was connected to the colonial attitude that everything European would replace Indigenous cultures. J.J. Long (2007) says that the increasing intervention of the state in to the lives of individuals is particularly apparent in collections and is an effect of modernity. For the museum going public, viewing Indigenous peoples’ cultures in museum collections, created an image of Indigenous peoples that was confined to the past, as though they were one kind of individual. Long argued that the colonial power relations depicted in Sebald’s novels are displayed in museums, zoos, collections and photography. Their archival function depicts the state’s “increasing intervention in the life of the individual” (Long, 2007, p. 15). These institutions usually depict the relationship between power and knowledge and are a type of archive that Foucault argued functioned to discipline viewers in line with depth knowledge or savoir that few are conscious of.  Photography	  and	  memory	  	  At boarding school, Austerlitz takes up photography, “entranced by the moment when the shadows of reality, so to speak, emerge out of nothing on the exposed paper, as memories do in the middle of the night, darkening again if you try to cling to them, just like the photographic print left in the developing bath too long” (p. 77). I grew up hearing stories and viewing photographs about ‘the boarding school’. These stories were told in ways to protect the innocence of the listeners: the relatives and descendants of Indian residential school survivors. Also, perhaps not enough time had passed for them to express their traumatic experiences. Until recently, the knowledge I had of the history of  168 the Indian residential school system that had affected so much of my life was like a ‘shadow of reality’.  Photography is another form of collecting and is a tool in establishing the colonial gaze. However, with a shift in focus, it can also be a process for countering the colonial gaze. In the literature about the Canadian Indian residential school system, there exist group photos of the children who were confined within these institutions. These group photographs, Racette (2009) argues, represent “the collective body of First Nations children possessed by the state”, as these photos relay a “subtext that proclaims right of ownership and control” (p. 61). In this view, even indigenous children were subjected to a ‘passion for collecting’ as part of the colonial project.  The photographs of Indian residential school students, I argue, present the Indigenous children as a collection. J.J. Long (2007) also used historical ontology but didn’t call it that, in his study of W.G. Sebald’s novels. Long’s study of Sebald’s use of photographs and Sebald’s preoccupation with archives highlight their function as they relate to subjectivity in modernity. Accordingly, Long’s findings are briefly discussed in terms of how they relate to this study of memories of being named Aboriginal students in a policy era of reconciliation.    In the modern era, with the emergence of museums, Long (2007) argues, collections are a reflection of a subjectivity that is based on ownership and surplus wealth (p. 27).  A process of “decontextualization and recontextualization” is achieved when items are understood to represent “a larger abstract whole” (p. 28) separate and removed from their “cultural, historical, intersubjective context” (p. 28). In this process items are given new classifications that “override the specific histories …its conditions of  169 production and use” (p. 28). The labour involved in the production and acquisition of items is erased and the collection assigns the items new value. Long’s understanding of the role of collections in the knowledge/power complex links the practice of assigning ordinary objects a representative status and a classification that “prefers typical over unique”, to the “modern temporal taxonomy” wherein items and collections are inserted into the flow of time (p. 29). In this view, Indigenous children are objectified by their representation as a collection and transformed by Indian residential schools into a population of ‘Indians’. The knowledge/power dynamics can be seen below in a photograph of Indian residential school students. This photograph was found in the Glenbow Museum archives in Calgary, Alberta.  In the portrait shown (Figure 1), the Indian residential school building is the backdrop that represents Euro-colonial fantasies of control over time, space, and interior. Although in the background, the building, whose purpose is supposedly education, dominates, thereby communicating the students’ cultural distance from the imperial centre. There is the implication that European architecture and history (the arch, the brickwork) replaces Indigenous technology and history, thereby erasing it. The spatial arrangement of the people in the photograph parallels the hierarchical divisions among the different age groups, by gender and by race that was a structure of the Indian residential school system. The white adults, some in white religious attire, surround and contain the student body, where white represents pure, Christian civility. The military uniforms and shorn hair on the students represent discipline. The brick building and Roman arch represent domination and discipline. The white Christian adults replace and erase Indigenous parents and elders.  170  Figure 1: Photograph by Atterton Studios of St. Paul’s Indian Residential School, Blood Reserve, with copyright permission Glenbow Archives na-1811-34, 2016   The composition of the photograph parallels the desired spatial arrangement of the new Euro-Canadian social order where the civilizing features of white Christian society is represented by the Indian residential school building and the white staff who will discipline Indigenous children into the social order as lower class citizens. With this colonial project, movement through space is considered to be analogous to movement through time (McClintock, 1995). The composition implies that Indigenous children will progress hierarchically through the spatial order of the Indian residential school building and onto a linear progression of Euro-Canadian history. Although, the photographs of Indian residential school students were produced by the federal government and the  171 various Christian religious organizations to communicate ‘cultural’ change (Miller, 1995, Milloy, 1997), the colonial spatial concepts of cultural development in history: the line, the centre and the outside (Smith, 1999), paradoxically hold the children in anachronistic space. Isabelle Knockwood (2001) has memories of being the subject of these photographs:  I remember how we used to have to change our prison-style, broad striped blouses for dresses on the day of the photograph. Then we lined up in rows according to height with Wikew (a nun) yelling, ‘Smile, smile,” as the photographer snapped the picture. As students we all knew that a special show was put on whenever the school came into contact with the outside world. The monthly letters home were written in class and anyone who wrote anything critical about the school was punished and made to re-write the letter leaving out the complaints. (p. 143).  Knockwood’s use of the phrase “outside world” alludes to Indigenous confinement while their punishments for their attempts to share their traumatic experiences with their families reveal the level of surveillance and discipline. Their families are also on the ‘outside’ revealing their distance from the Euro-cultural centre represented by the school. Racette (2009) argues that a lack of personal boundaries and the overcrowding that plagued the system provide the “subtext” of these group photos (p. 61). Paradoxically, the close proximity of the students in such group photographs did little to relieve the isolation felt by many. Racette also notes that in other types of photographs in addition to the group shots, “the haunted eyes of somber-faced children speak of profound loneliness or a deeper pain” (p. 74). What occurred inside the Indian residential school buildings that would lead to such expressions?  172  Figure 2: Photograph from the 50th Anniversary brochure for the Gordon Student Residence with copyright permission from George Gordon First Nation Architecture	  and	  identity	  	  Buildings are connected to identity. With respect to his extensive study of train station architecture, Austerlitz, the character confides to the narrator that, “he could never shake off the thoughts of the agony of leave-taking and the fear of foreign places, although such ideas were not part of architectural history proper” (Sebald 2001, 14). Furthermore, he “often found himself in the grip of dangerous and entirely incomprehensible currents of emotion in the Parisian railway stations, which he said, he regarded as places marked by both blissful happiness and profound misfortune” (34). Later, when Austerlitz learns the history of the Liverpool Street train station in London that was adjacent to the Bedlam insane asylum he wonders if traces of the pain and suffering of past inhabitants are left in buildings. This passage alludes to the Nazi’s sinister use of buildings, their mistreatment and extermination of the mentally ill and their use of the train system to transport victims to the concentration and death camps. At the Shubenacadie Indian residential school, the students dreaded going to the infirmary. “For us the infirmary became the place from which children vanished forever.  173 Sometimes we heard that they had died and sometimes we didn’t. To us, it seemed that those sick children just evaporated” (Knockwood 2001, p. 110). Knockwood’s collection of her peers’ and her own experiences at the Indian Residential School in Nova Scotia was first published in 1992. The 2001 extended edition included a conversation with a former professor about starting university: “I would go down the corridors and I would think that I was going to see a nun or a priest because it reminded me so much of the residential school. I was more oppressed by just the building than I was by anyone there” (p. 166). The emotions evoked by particular buildings and the recovered memories associated with them are important themes for Indian residential school survivors.  The Windspeaker magazine reported that one community’s difficulty in determining what to do with the Indian residential school building as related to the 50 of the 60 suits filed by victims of sexual abuse at the school that the federal government settled out of court. “Each of the settlements relates to the activities of William Peniston Starr, former director of the school. Starr…was convicted…of 10 counts of sexually assaulting male students when he was administrator… between November 1968 and June 1984” (Sutter, 1997). Further, “…many band members share the victims’ anger that the school was demolished last summer and turned into a parking lot at the same time that most of settlements were being offered. This action demonstrated further confirmation that the government wanted the issue over with, with as little fuss and bother as possible.” And, “(n)obody has heard our stories or knows the hardships we endured,” said a victim. “I would have showed them exactly what happened and where it happened in the school. But now the school is gone” (Sutter, 1997). These memories are indicative of the confining choices that Indigenous communities are left with in deciding what to do  174 with the buildings.	  It shows the “rival claims of memory and forgetting” that was recognized by Ricoeur‘s discussion of narratives in relation to ethics (Kearney, 2004, p. 99). In Sebald’s novel, after a twenty-year interval between their meetings, the narrator listens to Austerlitz’s explanation for not knowing of his history and identity: Since my childhood and youth…I have never known who I really was. From where I stand now, of course, I can see that my name alone, and the fact that it was kept from me until my fifteenth year, ought to have put me on track of my origins, but it has also become clear to me of late why an agency greater than or superior to my own capacity for thought, which circumspectly directs operations somewhere in my brain, has always preserved me from my own secret, systematically preventing me from drawing the obvious conclusions and embarking on the inquiries they would have suggested to me. (Sebald, 2001, p. 44) With this passage the mechanisms of repressed memories are described. Austerlitz also tells the narrator of a “premonition of the past” that occurred at the Liverpool Street train station (McCulloh 2003, p. 122). He sees that he arrived at the station as a child and was picked up by his foster parents. In contrast with the moment when he learned as a teenager that the couple that raised him were not his real parents Austerlitz experiences this recollection as traumatic but for reasons that are unclear to him.   Enforced suppression of memories is of primary concern for Austerlitz, as it is for former Indian residential school students, who recalled that they underwent a destructive process (Jack, 2006; Knockwood, 2001). Knockwood argues that the Shubenacadie  175 Indian residential school functioned to eradicate individual identities and was an effort to destroy Indigenous peoples’ “collective identity” through attacks on language and the children themselves; “calling us ‘savages’ and ‘heathens” (p. 159).  The title of Knockwood’s book, Out of the Depths, is a reference to a prayer she heard uttered by a nun after a door in the school building opened inexplicably. The prayer, “out of the depths I have cried unto thee O Lord. Lord hear my voice” (2001, 101), did not provide comfort for the author but rather, induced fear. This is in a chapter entitled “Ghosts and Hauntings”, which chronicles the former students’ experiences with the uncanny, usually with respect to the children who had died at the school or the death of a family member. The phrase took on a different meaning in Knockwood’s research: “strangely enough, some of the students who were most seriously abused have been able to transform their lives and bring themselves, ‘out of the depths’” (p. 158). The depths of misery that Mi’kmaw students experienced inside the Indian residential school building included solitary confinement in a dark closet under the dining room stairs with a diet of only bread and water. Knockwood said this was the only room that was left standing after the Indian residential school mysteriously burned down. Few of these buildings exist today; many were ceremoniously destroyed and some Indigenous groups now use them for social and cultural purposes. Austerlitz too, had encounters with the dead when he was in the Liverpool Street station, which he described as a “kind of entrance to the underworld” (Sebald, 2001, p. 127). Austerlitz felt “as if the dead were returning from their exile and filling the twilight around me” (p. 132). This is immediately before Austerlitz’s recollection of his exile, a key scene in the novel. Here, Austerlitz recollects losing his language, “the dying away of  176 my native tongue” (p. 138). For the fictional Austerlitz and for Knockwood and other survivors of an Indian residential school, the history of trauma is a haunting. Haunting too, for intergenerational survivors, such as the Aboriginal youth interviewed for this study, who felt deeply the pain, misery, and sadness from these buildings.  A	  history	  of	  trauma	   Solitary confinement was one of many types of punishments that were a daily occurrence for Mi’kmaw children as it was for children throughout the entire Indian residential school system. Former students spoke of severe punishments that included frequent strapping, severe beatings, denial of food, head shaving, feet chained together and being forced to consume castor oil to bring on diarrhea. In general and tragically, the force of the disciplining, dividing and confining practices of the Indian residential school staff was most often directed at the children’s use of their Indigenous language thereby marking cultural differences as racial. These language suppression practices were successful in effecting a population of “mutes” and as such, several generations could no longer speak their Indigenous languages nor communicate with their families and community members in any language (Grant, 1996, p. 193).   The construction of the Indian residential school buildings themselves constituted neglect, as early on there were problems with sanitation, inadequate heating and overcrowding. Together with inadequate nutrition because of chronic under-funding, the poor living conditions led to epidemics such as tuberculosis and influenza. In a comprehensive study of the abuse and neglect that he argued characterized the system, Milloy (1999) found that the lack of care that Indian residential school students experienced “drifted to manslaughter” (p.78). The mistreatment was documented in  177 correspondence that came from Indigenous parents, Indian Affairs field staff13, health care professionals and provincial education inspectors. Milloy characterized the history of mistreatment of Indigenous children as “a thick unbroken line” (p. 263).  Miller (1997) argued that the physical structure and layout of the schools was based on race as evidenced by the locked doors that led to staff quarters and the separate dining rooms and food for students and staff that reinforced the privileged position of the white staff. Even though the schools were overcrowded, the structure of the Indian residential school buildings and the practices within them effectively separated and confined the children from each other, from their parents, from their extended families, from their communities and therefore, from their inheritance and connection to land and resources.   Expressions	  of	  colonial	  policy	  effects	   If history should do anything, it should answer, why. Generally, history scholars have argued that Indian residential school policy originated within the historical, political and social context of nation building underscored by colonialism and imperialism. An important dimension of colonialism was its racial ideology and its practices of the unspeakable with its dual meanings. Milloy (1999) has argued that this ideology was connected to “fear of the unknown ‘Other’ and of its disruptive potential” (p. 31). This fear stemmed from the continuous battles waged by Indigenous Nations against the US army and the spectre of such conflict extending into Canada. The Métis resistance of 1885 in what is now Saskatchewan inflamed these fears. As the social conditions for 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  13	  The Department of Indian Affairs was established to carry out first, the colonial government and then the Canadian federal government’s repressive policies with respect to the Indigenous peoples.	   178 Indigenous peoples in the west deteriorated due to the return of small pox epidemics and the starvation resulting from extermination of bison in both the US and what was to become Canada: policy makers turned to the solution of residential schools for the “anticipated disorder” (Milloy 1999, p. 32). These institutions were intended to eliminate “danger posed by Aboriginal distress” (p. 32). Apparently, policy makers held that Aboriginal parents would view their children as “hostages” and would be “hesitant to endanger whites if it might endanger their children” (p. 32).  Knockwood (2001) has argued that Mi’kmaw children’s experience of cruelty and hard labour at Shubenacadie Indian Residential School, together with loneliness from the separation from family members, interfered with academic learning. Other researchers concur: the punishing routine characteristic of the Indian residential school system overwhelmed any academic gains for the children (Grant, 1996; Miller, 1997; Milloy, 1999). Glavin, (2002) however, complicates the view that most Indian residential school students experienced as excessive, the harsh discipline and punishments deployed by the religious staff. The experience of one former student who credits his successful career to the discipline and perseverance he learned at St. Mary’s Indian Mission School was highlighted in Glavin’s study. A few scholars have also touched on this argument (Grant 1996; Lomawaima 1994; Miller 1997) and most narrative collections contained a few of these counter examples.  According to Lomawaima (1994), US boarding school policy was aimed at producing a cadre of agrarian manual labourers. She argues that this policy was out of step with the mass production character of the economy in the rest of the United States during the operation of boarding schools in the first half of the twentieth century. In  179 Canadian and US colonial policy, Indigenous peoples’ education for labour was confined to vocations that had ceased to be of value, deliberately leaving them socially, economically and culturally vulnerable. The narratives in Behind Closed Doors: Stories from the Kamloops Indian Residential School are prefaced by a comment that the school was established to produce labourers and semi-skilled trades people, thereby precluding an academic education. This analysis is aimed at the class-based intention of Indian residential school policy (Jack, 2006).  The colonial structure of Canadian Indian residential schools and, I would argue, that of US boarding schools meant that the students were trained to take up a particular race and class as manual and domestic labourers as a way to forestall their anticipated resistance to assimilation.  While the Indian residential school buildings can be seen as sites where racial ideology was realized through practices meant to indoctrinate students into a colonial social order, Racette (2009) holds an even bolder view. She has argued that the most destructive policies, introduced by Duncan Campbell Scott,14 were in concert with the broader “rise of fascism” (p. 51). These repressive policies were implemented between 1913 and 1932 and were not altered until 1951. Given this view, Knockwood’s statement about children ‘evaporating from the infirmary’ is particularly disturbing.   The theme of resistance, explored in the scholarly literature on the Indian residential school system by Haig-Brown (1988) and Archibald (1993), made a frequent appearance in the personal narrative literature as an important way to contextualize how Indian residential school students responded to colonial policy. Some narratives included 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  14	  Duncan Campbell Scott was the lead bureaucrat of the Department of Indian Affairs at the beginning of the twentieth century while also being a celebrated Canadian poet.   180 accounts of students grabbing the weapon that was to be used on them for punishment, passing secret notes, speaking their Indigenous language secretly and the ultimate form of resistance: running away from the schools (Dieter, 1999; Jack, 2006; Jaine, 1993; Knockwood, 2001). Isabelle Knockwood was singled out for special treatment when she was an older student at the Shubenacadie Indian residential school: One reward for my years of appearing to be obedient was that I was chosen to go to the local public school. In some ways it was a terrifying experience. Another student from the boys’ side was also chosen, but we were given strict instructions not to speak to each other. We walked to and from Shubie village on opposite sides of the road, afraid to speak or even look at each other. (Knockwood, 2001, p. 126)   It might appear that Isabelle had ‘made it’. That is, she has achieved a level of education equivalent to the white world and therefore the Indian residential school was ultimately a benefit to her. However, the confinement and surveillance of the Indian residential school extended to the public school, “I had the feeling that eyes were always watching from the windows of the school to make sure I did not talk to any of the villagers or go into any of their homes or stores” (p. 126). The opportunity for a public school education was almost revoked when Isabelle and her friends went off the Indian residential school grounds without permission:     But we ran into trouble when one of Wikew’s (a nun) pets told on us. The next  day while I was in school, my friends were punished. My turn came later when  Wikew told me to pull up my skirt and lie across a bench in the recreation hall. A  group of girls were standing in a circle watching. All of them were younger than I  was, but I did what I was told because I remembered I was wearing a thick pair of  navy blue bloomers that reached past my knees and heavy red knitted stockings.  Wikew lifted the strap over her shoulders and came down hard across my  buttocks. It didn’t hurt because I had such heavy clothing on. She did it again and  again, and then I stood up. “That’s enough,” I said.    181 Knockwood left the school against the order of the nun but had second thoughts when one of girls ran after her: …I understand even better why I willingly trailed after Wikew’s pet even though, at sixteen, I could easily have kept on walking down the hill and never gone back again. Going to the public school had opened up a door, and for the time being, the only way to keep that door ajar was to stay on at the Residential School. (p. 128) In spite of her daily experiences with violence and humiliation, Knockwood realizes that staying at the Indian residential school was her only chance at furthering her education in a public school. Such competing interests are another type of confinement.  Lomawaima (1994) found that many of the former Chilocco Indian Boarding School students in Oklahoma, US, adopted the strong work ethic promoted at the school.  One of their creative acts of resistance in a harsh environment included the creation “homes” or private spaces where their tribal/pan-Indian identities flourished away from the supervision of staff. These “homes” were occasionally actual structures that were built by the students where they prepared traditional food that was stolen from the school. Some organized ceremonial dances held away from the surveillance of the school staff. In her study, Lomawaima (1994) placed the responses of the Chilocco students along a continuum. At one end, the students’ responses were characterized as “accommodation” and at the other end they were characterized as “overt resistors” (p. 124). From the student’s perspective, the ideal student fell in the middle of the continuum as “covert resistors” (p. 124). Lomawaima (1994) argued that the Chilocco students gained some independence as ‘covert resistors’, in particular, the student leaders who did not report on their peers when they broke the rules. These resistant, creative responses to US boarding school and Canadian Indian Residential school policy constitute unforeseen policy effects.	   182 Repression,	  latency,	  departure	  and	  repetition	  	   Figure 3: Family photo of Indian residential school 'runaways' captured by the author’s relative.    Features of Knockwood’s study relate to Caruth’s (1991) themes of history and trauma. The extended edition of her book, published after an interval of ten years, contains an additional preface entitled, “A Code of Silence”. The preface concerns the repression that was enforced at the Indian residential school. Although Knockwood attended the school from 1936 to 1947, forty years passed before she began to talk and write about her own and her peers’ experiences: “There was a sense that terrible punishment would follow talking about what went on at the school. As a result, when we became adults we had a tendency to avoid others who had been at the school. If we did meet them we rarely mentioned our school experiences” (Knockwood, 2001, p.11).  Knockwood found, while researching her book, newspaper reports of nineteen boys who were severely beaten for stealing money and running away from the school. A sympathetic Indian agent alerted the minister responsible for Indian Affairs and a commission of inquiry was established.   183 Knockwood further found that the adjudicator who was appointed to this commission was the judge responsible for a decision that had earlier forced the Mi’kmaw off of their land. The inquiry found that the priest who administered the beating, Father Mackay, did not use excessive force in punishing the boys and the final report actually minimized the beatings: “‘All human governments rest, in the last resort upon physical pain’ (p. 152) and further, ‘…(within) the biography of the big men who moulded the destiny of the British nation, we invariably find a reference to these corrective punishments to which they were subjected in their school days’” (p. 152). Knockwood interviewed one of these former students forty years after the inquiry, at a National Indian Brotherhood meeting to draft the 1972 policy paper, Indian Control of Indian Education. This former Shubenacadie Indian residential school student, argued for the new policy by revealing the scars on his back put there by Father Mackay at the Shubenacadie Indian Residential School.  The interval between attending the school and writing about it, as well as the interval between the first publication and the extended edition are marked by repression and latency. The repeated returns to this history with the initial publication and then an additional preface in a subsequent edition are Knockwood’s attempts to grapple with the significance of this history. According to Caruth (1991), Freud wrote of being ‘free to publish’ the history of the Jews after his departure from the German invaded Austria. In the second preface, Knockwood wrote that she had “finally learned to speak freely” (p. 14). The tragic irony is that her freedom to speak, by writing in the English language, came at the expense of her Indigenous language. Returns to latent memories comprise the  184 repetitions that are a feature of a history of trauma. The forced departures from home and language are also indicative of such a history (Caruth, 1991). Adams (2006), writing in the cross genre that combines narratives of US boarding schools with scholarly analysis, sees a challenge in relying on these narratives as a data source. He argues “scholars are on shaky ground when they attempt to make hard generalizations on the question of student responses” because “experiencing an event is often quite different from having experienced it” (p. 37, emphasis in original). How can this be otherwise, though? The interval is necessary. Caruth has termed this phenomenon “the indirect referentiality of history” (p. 187) wherein the significance of a trauma is inaccessible at the time of its occurrence.  Shoshana Felman (2001, 2009) has noted that within memory studies the idea of repetition – repeated and largely unchanged dimensions of dominant, juridical or national narrative – is a feature of traumatic history. Although policy makers and historians characterized the Indian residential school period as assimilation I have argued that the colonial policies and practices and every day experiences within the schools were more closely aligned with confinement and even cultural genocide. The motivation to capture an essence of a time with a term such as assimilation is repeated in the contemporary period with the use of the term reconciliation. Such characterizations are repetitions of colonial rhetoric and ideology that disguises practices of domination, confinement and genocide as education. Within this contemporary period of so-called reconciliation, there are repetitive policy effects from the colonial policies of the Indian residential school era. One key example is the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s (TRC) mandate to collect stories  185 of former Indian residential school students. This mandate is guided by imperatives that prevent a just response to the traumatic history of Indian residential schools. They include, most notably, that the commission shall not: • Make any recommendation, regarding the misconduct of any person, unless such findings or information has already been established through legal proceedings, by admission, or by public disclosure by the individual.  • Make any reference in any of its activities or in its report or recommendations to the possible civil or criminal liability of any person or organization, unless such findings or information about the individual or institution has already been established through legal proceedings; • Name names in their events, activities, public statements, reports or recommendations, or make use of personal information or of statements made which identify a person, without the express consent of that individual, unless that information and/or the identity of the person so identified has already been established through legal proceedings, by admission, or by public disclosure by that individual.15   With this mandate the Truth and Reconciliation Commission functions to collect and archive the traumatic history of the Indian residential school but not for the purpose of achieving justice. It is a repetition of the findings of the commission of inquiry that found no excessive violence against children in Shubenacadie in the 1930s.	  Further, as the Truth and Reconciliation Commission wraps up, a key outcome is a national archive that will contain all of the stories and items collected during its tenure.  A tragic irony is that the names of the men and women who committed crimes against defenseless children are not included in this archive, thereby affirming Long’s (2007) theorizing on the function of archive wherein its underlying purpose is to display power.  With my own history lessons, there was repeated and successive re-envisioning of history. With every repetition bringing me closer to the unavoidable: that the history of Indian residential schools is a history of domination, confinement and cultural genocide.  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  15 Retrieved on February 18, 2013.  186 Indian	  residential	  schools,	  genocide	  and	  justice	  	  Thielen-Wilson (2014) argued that with the Blackwater decision Justice Brenner’s judgment and account of Indigenous peoples as “perpetually childlike, culturally and personally dysfunctional, damaged, and in need of improvement” has echoes of treaty negotiations wherein Indigenous peoples are judged to be “incapable of stewardship of land” (p. 193). But it did pave the way for the next case, Baxter, that Thielen-Wilson noted drew together all Indian residential school class and individual actions against Canada in 2006. Cloud had been certified in 2004 and Baxter likely would be too. The 2006 claim sought one hundred billion in damages. Canada lost both appeals for Cloud and Baxter. Thielen-Wilson argued that Canada’s move to negotiate a settlement agreement means that there is something about Baxter that threatened Canada.  The case claimed that the “Crown breached Aboriginal and treaty rights and human rights to enjoy, practice and transmit Aboriginal languages, and that the Crown breached its fiduciary duty with respect to its conduct regarding purpose, operation, management and supervision of Indian Residential Schools. It cited United Nations conventions on genocide, war crimes, crimes against humanity and the rights of children” (p. 195). The author contends that, “Baxter frames the survivors’ experience as evidence of ongoing genocide rather than evidence of racial, biological and cultural inferiority, as interpreted in Blackwater” (p. 195). The case highlighted the great number of Canadians involved in carrying out the organized violence of the Indian Residential School system. “Genocide is explicitly on the table and the settler collective is implicated in the violence through time” (p. 195).   187 Thielen-Wilson argues that this dishonourable behaviour would further reveal the “illegitimacy of both Canada’s claim to sovereignty and the sense of rightful belonging on the part of the settler collective” (p. 195). Further, Canada’s defense strategy in Blackwater might have backfired with “its argument that loss of culture was more to blame for psychological impact of Indian Residential Schools than was the historic sexual abuse” (p. 195), in particular “if Baxter were to proceed with its argument that Canada knowingly engaged in practices tantamount to genocide” (p. 195). These cases were closed when Canada negotiated the Indian Residential School Settlement Agreement for which the Truth and Reconciliation Commission was a central process. Thielen-Wilson sees an interrelation between: “(t)he mere assertion of sovereignty; the violence of the settler collective’s occupation of Indigenous lands; and the violence of attempted genocide” (p.196). These processes represent yet another repetition of traumatic history and function yet again to silence it.  The	  persistence	  of	  policy	  effects	   In Sebald’s novel, Austerlitz engages in postmemory remembrance when he finds his former nanny, Vera, and childhood home in Prague. She provides photographs of his mother and himself as a child and tells him some of his and his family’s history. Austerlitz pieces together his past and learns that his mother was taken to Terezín, the camp/ghetto established for Jews in Czechoslovakia. His father had fled to Paris before the Jewish citizens had all of their rights revoked. Austerlitz uses national and Terezín camp archives and discovers that both were killed by the Nazi regime but beyond that Austerlitz learns very little of his family. In this sense, Long (2007) argues, Austerlitz is an archival and therefore very modern subject.  188 Regarding Austerlitz’s favourite childhood book about seasonal changes, Vera reminds him of his recurring question: “But if it’s all white, how do the squirrels know where they have buried their hoard?” Vera repeats a version of this question, “What do we know ourselves, how do we remember, and what is it we find in the end?” (Sebald, 2001, p. 204). These questions are particularly pertinent to second-generation survivors of traumatic history as they are unfairly burdened with not knowing their history and having to research it as Austerlitz did. Several scholars have long held the view that the experiences of Indian residential schools produced ongoing effects that included: emotional distance from family members, a difficulty with managing freedom, an absence of self discipline, rigid and abusive parenting, alcohol and drug abuse, sexual dysfunction, lack of respect for elders, for language and for cultural traditions, and resistance to education and education institutions (Bull, 1992; Grant, 1996; Ing, 1992; Miller, 1997; Milloy, 1999). Educational scholars maintained that these effects were alleviated through healing that involved telling their stories (Bull, 1992; Grant, 1996; Ing, 1992).  Survivors also counter ongoing emotional isolation and inability to express feelings to loved ones with regaining their language and traditional spirituality. They acted as role models for their children and grandchildren in this regard, acknowledging that many of their peers who attended an Indian residential school did not survive due to suicide, alcoholism, and other forms of self-destruction (Jack, 2006). In telling their stories, Indian residential school survivors are drawing on storytelling as a means to healing and education as it was in the past (Jack, 2006). Although the healing claims of language and spiritual reclamation, reconciliation with religious organizations and  189 restoring balance were many (Grant 1996), skepticism persisted that such healing could actually occur. I have been talking about the Indian Residential School in Shubenacadie for many years, and I still don’t understand why the hurt and shame of seeing and hearing the cries of abused Mi’kmaw children, many of them orphans, does not go away or heal. (Knockwood, 2001, p.7).  For Austerlitz, the listener was the key: “someone to whom he could relate his own story, a story which he had learned only in the last few years and for which he needed the kind of listener I had once been” (p. 43). In my own role as listener, though, I was little prepared for the impact of hearing what it was like to experience an Indian residential school, just as my relative was little prepared for the experience of residential school and its narration. Given these experiences with colonial policy the implications for critical pedagogy and teaching practice need careful consideration. The terms of how schools can prepare the second and third generations of Indian residential school survivors to witness and hear this history and act in ethically responsible and meaningful ways is discussed in the next section. I conclude this section by highlighting a repetition wherein the colonial Indian residential school policies echo within the current AEEA policies and other reconciliation processes. These echoes function to silence historical and contemporary violence against Aboriginal peoples through policy. These are key sites of struggle when it comes to policy analysis from a decolonizing perspective. With this decolonizing view, the ideological processes associated with the myth of benevolent nation building are seen as an ongoing policy effect in terms of how they continue to shape the relations between  190 Indigenous peoples and Canada. I argue that colonial policy’s repetitive effects are the savoir, the depth knowledge that underpins Aboriginal peoples’ position in Canada as expendable.  Accordingly, when it comes to using a decolonizing perspective on policy analysis and Aboriginal education, it requires several complex frames that can analyse every level of representation of Indigenous peoples from policy texts and images to the broader social, historical contexts for these policies and how the material practices of these policies were experienced in a variety of ways by those Indigenous children, for whom the policy was aimed at. 	  	  Forgiveness	  and	  promise-­‐keeping	  	  In this chapter a decolonizing methodological frame that focused on reaching back to remember the children found that the literature, survivor memories and case law on Indian residential schools emphasized the colonial practices stemming from Indian education policy were most often used to achieve confinement and genocide disguised as assimilation. It is not surprising that this shameful and traumatic history has been silenced by iconic myths characteristic of the frontier approach to history.  In 2008, I attended a large gathering of Indigenous peoples to hear the Prime Minister Steven Harper’s apology to the survivors of Indian residential schools. The apology was met with silence. But there are many ways to interpret silence and perhaps it is a necessary interval. Time is needed to reflect and flashback to history on how we, Indigenous peoples might insert our memories into the flux so that it can reverberate meaningfully into the future. This insertion might be heard and seen as a history that is organized as a montage of memories of Aboriginal/Indian education policy. This  191 montage would flash on how the Indian education policy of the past was transformed into the Aboriginal education policy of today with its emphasis on having culture erase history. And the next image would flash on the memories past and present that speak of exile, classifications, status, iconic myths, repression, latency, intervals, and departures. The montage would flash back and forth between themes from the past to themes in the present and then rest on a covering of dust or snow, it is a recurring image in Sebald’s (2002) Austerlitz: it evokes silence and represents a desire to cover the past. It is another image in this montage of memories of Aboriginal/Indian education policy.     According to Hannah Arendt, “everybody starts his(/her) own story, at least his(/her) own life-story, nobody is the author or producer of it. And yet, it is precisely in these stories that the actual meaning of a human life finally reveals itself” (p. 180). When stories are silenced it is unlikely they will have meaning. Arendt’s discussion of action is pertinent here. She says there are two features of the unpredictable nature of action. The first is that the consequences of each are boundless “… every process is the cause of unpredictable new processes …”; and the second is that there is  “no possibility ever to undo what we have done” (p. 180). Arendt argues that there are two possible actions that can release people from “the predicament of irreversibility (and that) is the faculty of forgiving, and the remedy for unpredictability is contained in the faculty to make and keep promises” (p. 181).  Amid all the talk of truth and reconciliation and the TRC’s comprehensive set of recommendations there has been little talk of forgiveness and promise keeping. From a decolonizing perspective, both would require a historical consciousness and a deep understanding of colonialism. Arendt sees that these two principles are closely linked:  192 “forgiving relates to the past and serves to undo its deeds, while binding oneself through promises serves to set up in the …future uncertainty…. (a degree of) security without which not even continuity, would ever be possible in the relationships between men” (p. 181) and women. It is a testament to their capacity to consider their own human condition that the Aboriginal youth in this study pointed me in this direction by the demand to reach back to remember the children and the contention that Indigenous peoples can engage in decolonizing the future through rebirth and a decolonizing renaissance (Battiste, 2013).  Taking the decolonizing perspective that I do shows the rhetorical features of the policy eras of assimilation and reconciliation. Without the multiple views that a decolonizing perspective demands, it is easy to follow the well-worn paths of explanations of this history by simply characterizing it as assimilation. But by listening to intergenerational memories of Indigenous peoples framed by historical ontology and fictional imagination these narratives mattered in the grand scheme of the study. By listening to the youth make sense of their identities and histories I was able to reach back and still emerge from history much more aware of colonial traps in research.    	     193 Chapter 6: Unmapping the colonial archive: decolonizing policy and practice  On a bus ride through the DTES Vancouver an elderly Indigenous man was making his way from the front to the back of the bus, regaling the passengers on their beauty when they gave him some change. He was entertaining and it appeared that no one was annoyed. The passengers and I were jolted out of our amusement by some loud noises. A (white) woman was running alongside the bus banging on the door. The bus driver pointed ahead to the next bus stop. She continued to run alongside the bus demanding to get on. At the next set of traffic lights the bus driver let her on. She boarded the bus, cussing at the bus driver, and changing the tenor of the bus. The elderly Indigenous man who was the centre of attention up until this point told her to be quiet and sit down. “Fut the shuck up”, she retorted. Then, “Oh boo hoo, residential schools”, she said sarcastically. (Lyn Daniels, 2007). 	  This complex colonial encounter took place in the Downtown Eastside of Vancouver, BC. I recall how offended I felt with this overt display of her white privilege in dismissing Indian residential school grievances of Aboriginal peoples as represented by the friendly Indigenous man. This is another image and narrative that flashes to the foreground in this montage of memories of public Aboriginal/Indian education and is an indication of how even the most marginalized whites know they can exercise a degree of privilege in comparison to Indigenous peoples and this power and privilege, in this case,  194 was exercised by negating the traumatic history of Indian residential schools in a public space. In this chapter I conclude my investigation into memory, policy and history as it relates to public Aboriginal/Indian education and its intergenerational impacts on young Aboriginal students attending higher education in British Columbia (BC). As previously discussed the trajectory of this study changed when one of the Aboriginal youth participants called for reaching back to remember the children. This meant tracing colonial effects back to Indian residential schools from the present. Accordingly the critical insights of this youth significantly impacted and informed how I contextualized and theorized memories of Aboriginal/Indian education and my research as a whole. In this concluding chapter, I assess the joining of decolonizing methodological frames together with the Euro-centric theories that I used, to focus first of all on the practices of remembering and forgetting history in Aboriginal youths’ memories of education and life in terms of key themes found in Sherman Alexie’s (2003) literature. Secondly, to gain another perspective a decolonizing methodological frame was used to foreground the ways in which policies and Aboriginal youth constitute identities on the axes of knowledge, power and ethics. Thirdly, with the decolonizing methodological frame that draws on W.G. Sebald’s fiction, photographs, and building design, perspectives are gained on the memories of Indian residential school survivors wherein forgiveness is put forth as a key ethical principle that might guide Aboriginal education into the future. These diverse approaches are assessed for their efficacy in decolonizing education, history and research.   195 Further, in assessing the value of using multiple decolonizing methodological frames, I discuss the limitations that emerged with using the various approaches as well as the extent to which they were productive. In particular, the efficacy with using Euro-centric theories with decolonizing methods will be discussed. Practices	  of	  memory	  and	  forgetting	   The notion of a “history of the present” (Hacking, 2002) as a theory that might support decolonizing research (Smith, 1999), links the present AEEA policies with the colonial forces that defined Canada’s formation as a nation and her past relationship to Indigenous peoples. The colonial technologies and structures that were used to confine and discipline Indigenous peoples and Canadians come to the foreground when Aboriginal youths’ experiences of being named Aboriginal students in public schools are examined against history and within the broader social and cultural context of reconciliation.  With this decolonizing methodological frame the perspectives of the Aboriginal college youth were viewed and heard as memories. This was important in terms of decolonization because such counter narratives are seen to brush up against history. From the perspective of Aboriginal college youth, they are burdened with searching in order to remember identities because of public education’s and the previous generations’ efforts to forget their traumatic pasts. These searches are linked to a politics of identity wherein notions of authenticity mean officially sanctioned ‘status’. The implications of these classifications on the social status of some students meant that the trauma of being bullied lead them to resort to violence. Further, being named as Aboriginal students meant classifications that implied a lack of intelligence and more overt positioning towards a  196 white ideal as well as using the spaces of the DTES of Vancouver to display a limited future. Further there was pressure on the youth to excuse those teachers, and they did make excuses for them by constructing the history of Canada’s relationship to Indigenous peoples as benevolent conquering, thereby absolving those teachers who engaged in practices that racialized them by making unfair assumptions about their identities as Aboriginal students.  	  	  These colonial encounters reflect deeply held beliefs in iconic myths associated with a frontier approach to history that communicate the value of individual agency and overcoming struggles (Furniss, 1999). In contrast, some youth were particularly creative in their efforts to gain secondary and post-secondary education in spite of barriers associated with their classifications.  In this study the youths’ experiences of belonging and exclusion by remembering and forgetting identity and history are significant themes that not only inform pedagogy but honour debts to the past by re-counting their parents’ experiences with Indian residential schools as genocide, albeit in sometimes contradictory ways. Using historical ontology with decolonizing methodological frames to focus on memories proved useful in focusing on Aboriginal youths’ experiences with being labeled Aboriginal students.  One limitation with historical ontology is related to the way in which Hacking (2002) argued that labeling humans with particular classifications raises moral and ethical issues. In particular, with how the conditions of formation of a particular conception of a label determine its logical relations and moral connotations. Hacking’s subsequent discussion on moral connotations was limited in terms of how one might act on the moral connotations that arise in such a study. Accordingly, in this study, fiction and poetics  197 close a gap that theory, history and memory leave unfilled in terms of the specificity of the experiences with being classified that in turn indicate possible responses from moral actors. In this way, memory is foregrounded in an approach to history that is often avoided by Eurocentric historians in terms highlighting the experiences of individuals who face increasing intervention of the state into their lives. Traces	  of	  colonial	  policies	  and	  practices	  	   When it comes to policy, and in particular AEEA policy that purports to honour history, the traumatic history of the Indian residential schools system was discursively erased and replaced with culture. Or was erased because history was positioned in competition with other goals that were repetitions for teaching language and culture (thereby indicating trauma). The discourse invoked in AEEA policy relies on Euro-centric notions of time and space that position Aboriginal students further back along a supposed line of cultural and academic achievement. These constructions are also evident in the photographs displayed in AEEA policies that have a goal for teaching history. These meanings are conveyed through colonial codes in AEEA policy discourse and photographs. Codes are connaissance, the formal knowledge of Aboriginal peoples that operate on the surface of the present by referring to time and space. They draw on the savoir or depth knowledge of the history of genocidal practices enacted against Indigenous peoples and in particular, Indigenous children. AEEA policies function to discipline readers and viewers to see Aboriginal students as existing in an anachronistic space, that is, outside of time and their history is therefore inconsequential. The efficacy of joining historical ontology with decolonizing methodological frames that are focused on AEEA policy discourse and photographs is evident when these  198 same knowledge/power dynamics are found in historical photographs from the previous policy era of assimilation.  Today these group photographs16 of Indian residential school students are ubiquitous in the cultural milieu and they communicate panoptic history where the colonial and civilizing power of the Canadian state is displayed as benevolent caretaker. Along these lines, Long (2007) argues that reducing animals for display in zoos and cultural items for display in museums, to a classification system and for exhibition is characteristic of a colonial subjectivity, “defined in terms not only of its power to acquire and to name but of its ability to put this power on display” (p. 40) thereby “placing collectors at the centre of empire” (p. 40). Accordingly, I argue that in these types of photographs, power is represented and displayed by the Indian residential school buildings that loom over and confine Indigenous children within its frame and then in turn, these group photographs function as a technology of surveillance by communicating the erasure of Indigenous peoples’ history and therefore, their present and future in terms of a right to exist. This is the deep knowledge or savoir that underwrites and underlies the knowledge about Aboriginal education and Aboriginal students and continue to impact them in significant ways as colonial traces in the present policies. Hacking’s explanation of historical ontology provided a theoretical frame for bringing in memories in understanding the Indian residential school system as genocide but was limited in how to act as a moral agent in response to this savoir. Both Hacking and Kearney’s frameworks on narratives and memory were productive for framing them as counter-hegemonic history but also allowed fiction and imagination where memory failed. In the next 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  16 These photographs were often used to garner support from potential donors and as part of annual government reports. See Miller, 1997 and Milloy, 1999.   199 section, I conclude my discussion on what depth knowledge or savoir means for Aboriginal education today.   Memories	  of	  educational	  policy	  across	  generations	  	  	  In this study, a history of the present (Hacking, 2002) and the Aboriginal youths’ memories, countered the neo-colonial conceptions of history, of Aboriginal education, and of Aboriginal students in AEEA policies in particular when understood within the policy rhetoric of reconciliation and against the history of Indian residential schools. The events in the present that make relations between Indigenous peoples and white settler society more visible include the Indian Residential School Settlement Agreement and treaty making in BC wherein Indigenous peoples’ perspectives are in reality unseen and unheard. The logical relations and moral connotations of these events condition the structure of AEEA policy development in terms of agreement signing. Accordingly, colonial power is exercised and evident within AEEA discursive practices that silence history and prevent recognition of memories of colonial violence and cultural genocide in Aboriginal Education Enhancement Agreement policy. 	  A significant insight that emerged from this study of memory, history and policy over generations is that policy can function as a form of collective memory. Although policy is not as visible as the cultural institutions of memory that J.J. Long (2007) identified such as museums, archives, newspapers, photography and historiography (p. 4); policy does function as a disciplinary technology in a similar manner as the above named institutions do. In the modern era, Long (2007) argues that memory is no longer a  200 matter of consciousness but now “resides in the material of our social and psychic life (p. 4).  Further, Long argues that modernity did not begin with photography but by abstracting and reconstructing the visual experience. With this type of reconstruction, photography and the archive are understood to be key colonial practices in disciplining viewers to see Indigenous peoples, cultures and histories as inherently inferior and therefore dispensable. Long (2007) argues that the photograph and the archive function to display the relationship between power and knowledge. In particular he draws on Foucault (1983) to define the archive as the “‘increasing intervention of the state in the life of the individual’” (p. 13). Hacking too, (2002) found that Foucault (1968) referred to savoir or depth knowledge as the “archive” in terms of a “general system of the formation and transformation of statements” (p. 146).  The colonial archive is not just an abstraction. The materiality of the colonial archive can be seen when historical ontology and decolonizing history is applied to Indigenous peoples’ experiences of education over a couple of generations. In this view, AEEA policies that have a goal for teaching history function as an archive or official memory in the way that both Long and Foucault defined it. In the twenty first century Indian education was transformed into Aboriginal education that functioned to silence genocidal and traumatic history. By showing how AEEA policies exercise disciplinary power through discourse and photographs, and therefore function as an archive, I engaged in decolonizing Aboriginal education policy and history.  As previously discussed, an important way to decolonize education and research was to highlight Aboriginal youths’ perspectives of Aboriginal education as memories.  201 At the time of the data collection for this study I was unfamiliar with the notion of postmemory. In retrospect, it is a fitting conception in that Hirsch (1999) described postmemory as a “space of remembrance” wherein memories of traumatic experiences haunt the life stories of second-generation Holocaust survivors. However, in this study another perspective is gained in terms of what Hirsh (2009) included in her definition of postmemory. That as a mode of identification postmemory transmits the bodily memories of trauma but at the same time postmemory is a practice of retaining a critical distance from traumatic events. This was borne out in particular with the way that one youth, Hudson, had worked out how to respond to this traumatic history with the notion of ‘reaching back to remember the children’.   Drawing on the theory of postmemory is important for understanding the ongoing effects of genocide in terms of how to remember the traumatic history of Indian residential schools. As well, the theory of historical ontology was particularly useful in framing Aboriginal youths’ experiences with Indian residential school buildings. Their postmemory experiences highlight the need for presenting and discussing the genocidal features of the Indian residential school system in public schools today albeit at a critical distance. Long (2007) studied postmemory in relation to Sebald’s fiction and countered Hirsch’s argument that it is only in “subsequent generations that trauma can be witnessed and worked through” with his argument that it “devalues the first generation’s experience” (p. 117). Further, Long argues that for postmemory to “function adequately as a useful analytic tool and to carry the ethical burden that Hirsch places upon it, it must be distinguished from unregulated fantasy. The mental constructions of postmemory must exist in some kind of dialogue with the empirical…this can take place through the  202 archive, whose material traces of the past can check, correct, relativise or prompt both primary memory…and postmemory” (p. 118). Photography’s “perceived indexical relationship to reality privileges it as a vehicle for such postmemorial reconstruction” (p. 118). But it is not just any photograph that Long advocates in this postmemorial practice. Long’s study of Sebald’s use of photographs from family albums that engender an “affiliative gaze” in terms of the way in which “other social groups –particularly friendships – are constructed in the visual field” (p. 120) shows one way in which “something permanent can be salvaged from the vicissitudes of history” (p. 123). An “affiliative gaze”, Long argues, inherent in family albums, “stresses…the importance of preserving affective bonds and genealogical continuity at a time when these have been severed or broken by economic catastrophe and the politics of racial extermination” (p. 123). Accordingly, in the next section, I conclude my discussion on the possible directions that educators might take in beginning to teach about the history of Indian residential schools using a critical pedagogy of decolonization to understand the role of photographs and the archive in producing colonial representations of so-called Indians as inhabiting a subjectivity that is understood to be outside of time. Intergenerational	  memories	  of	  schooling	  and	  a	  critical	  pedagogy	  of	  decolonization	   In this study, in order to decolonize methodologies and research, I used multiple sources of data to substantiate and support the perspectives of the Aboriginal youth. Themes that emerged from their memories were examined against the colonial policies and memories of Indian residential schools to determine how much the past is still with us. It emerged that the memories that were most pertinent to write about were the  203 experiences that the participants had with Indian residential school buildings, the violence or bullying they experienced in public schools, their discussions of their Aboriginal identity and what it means to be an Aboriginal student and their experiences with staff members who had labeled them as a result of their status as Aboriginal students.  I experimented with different ways to frame these memories in conference presentations, classroom settings and forums but was rarely satisfied with the outcome. As previously mentioned, this study initially began with the history of the Indian residential school system. As that chapter developed I found that using fiction to highlight significant memories contributed to “productive remembering” (Strong-Wilson, et al., 2013), that is, remembering that is future oriented (p. 2). Accordingly, my interest and passion for literature by Indigenous authors helped me to identify an appropriate prose piece to set alongside Aboriginal college youth’s memories of public school. Sherman Alexie’s (2003) short story “The search engine” is of a university student grappling with her identity and place in the world is a fitting piece of fiction to engage in this analysis and interpretation of memories of public school Aboriginal education. Accordingly imagination can step in when memory fails.  Further, in a collection of interviews, Alexie discussed his responsibility as an Indian author for showing multiple ways of being for his Spokane Indian Tribal members and Indians in general, “the idea of twenty-first century Indians as lawyers and doctors and engineers, and architects” (p. xii) and “I have a very specific commitment to Indian people, and I’m very tribal in that sense. I want us to survive as Indians” (Peterson, 2009, p. 20). Alexie’s argument for fiction’s role in Indigenous survivance illustrates his  204 understanding of the same view that Kearney (2004) holds of the rapport that poetic narratives can have with ethics. As previously discussed, a particularly insightful writer of a unique form of fiction that focuses on themes of remembrance is W.G. Sebald (2002). Long’s (2007) study of, Austerlitz and Sebald’s other fiction highlighted the centrality of the photograph and the archive to modern subjectivity as one of Sebald’s most important contributions. Looking, seeing and viewing Indigenous peoples as the surveyed, is achieved when the depth knowledge of the history of genocide is more efficiently displayed in museum and archival collections and through photography. Understanding the relationships among discipline, resistance, surveillance and spectacle opens up the possibility of alternate modes of subjectivity that are not reducible to the operation of power/knowledge (p. 32). Long’s discussion of these particular dynamics and themes in Sebald’s novel Austerlitz sheds light on the way I highlighted the themes of looking, collecting and disciplining as important to understanding genocide.  Decolonizing history, education and research in practice meant reflectively listening (Hampton, 1995) to memories of those who attended Indian residential schools as a purposeful way to engage with history differently. Their memories spoke to the structure of the Indian residential school buildings and the practices within them as effective in separating and confining the children from each other, from their parents, from their extended families, from their communities and therefore, from their inheritance of land and resources. This history is silenced and erased by contemporary Aboriginal education policy. But this is only the surface knowledge, or connaissance of Aboriginal/Indian education policy that represents relations between Indigenous peoples  205 and Canada as reconciliation. The colonial archive is referenced when policy makers and historians name particular policy eras, for example when the Indian residential school era is characterized as assimilation. This preoccupation with naming a policy era is repeated in the contemporary period with the use of the term reconciliation. These rhetorical features of the colonial archive were effectively identified with the aid of historical ontology. The banality of the naming features of the colonial archive are a distraction from seeing the real material practices Indigenous peoples experienced in terms of domination, confinement and genocide in Indian residential schools. Historical ontology has a capacity to take a wide and deep perspective to include a study of the legal landscape of Supreme Court decisions on landmark Indian residential school abuse cases that prompted the federal government to enter into the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement with the Assembly of First Nations. This case law is similar to education policy wherein both construct Indigenous peoples in objectifying and dehumanizing ways. In that sense diverse practices draw on similar representations--childlike, confused, damaged, unworthy of empathy-- and notions about what can be seen, said and heard with regard to Indigenous peoples place in Canada. The colonial archive is engaged when AEEA policy conceptions of Aboriginal students, Aboriginal communities and Aboriginal education reflect a set of colonial educational practices that limits what is seen, heard and acted upon with regard to traumatic history and its continuing impact on Indigenous peoples in particular children, in British Columbia, Canada. Further, the compulsion to collect the bodies of Indigenous children and display them in an image of panoramic time as spectacle constitutes a technology of  206 surveillance and as such, both AEEA and Indian residential school photographs anticipate their future in an archival collection.  Historicizing Aboriginal/Indian education revealed the relationship of Indigenous peoples’ identity to the spaces of Indian residential schools to be one of dominance for confinement and even genocide. Accordingly, I propose a critical pedagogy of decolonization to counter these colonial constructions of Indigenous peoples and practices of confinement disguised as education in an effort to move them into the background while moving representations of the plurality of Indigenous peoples to the foreground in this montage of memories of public school Aboriginal education. History will continue to be rewritten in relationship to the lived reality of the author/speaker, wherein each generation’s life experiences will continue to reframe history. In particular, the accounts by the Aboriginal college youth constitute delayed accounts of history. Accordingly the metaphor of montage allows for movement to the past in terms of flashbacks to history and then to the present and future.  In the next and final section, I briefly discuss how unmapping representations of colonial encounters in education is a key starting point in practicing a critical pedagogy of decolonization. Creating learning engagements where Aboriginal students have opportunities to hear and read diverse Indigenous lives recounted can open up new pathways for ways of being and can inform not only critical pedagogy but also decolonize history and education. Such learning engagements need to be grounded in the recommendations of the youth to ensure that they support understanding of their histories and identities. Organizing Aboriginal Family nights is a practice of many elementary schools as a way to initiate relationships of trust between public education institutions  207 and Indigenous peoples. These functions can be extended to include creating family albums as a way to support genealogical continuity or to assist Aboriginal youth to begin filling in gaps due to forced separations that is an effect of colonization and modernity. 	  Amid all the talk about Indigenous knowledge and Indigenizing curricula in universities and school systems, it remains important to recognize the “unique knowledge and relationships that Indigenous people derive from their place and homeland … and passed on in their languages and ceremony” (Battiste, 2013, p. 69) in public education contexts. Most AEEAs have statements that acknowledge the traditional territory where their school district is located. In these contexts, such an “Indigenist” agenda that is not confined to those who are Indigenous” (p. 73) seems not only possible, but also probable wherein an “Indigenous renaissance is an action agenda for the present and future” (Battiste, 2013, p. 73). The extensive media attention given to the findings and wrap up of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and that many school districts and universities are supporting the recommendations to implement curriculum that centres on the history of the Indian residential school system are two developments that are cause for some optimism.  However, it is difficult not to see the development of a national research centre which will house all of the testimonials collected by the Truth and Reconciliation as particularly ironic given that the names of those who committed crimes against children are omitted from the narratives collected. In that sense this national archive will tell only a partial story. It is also ironic that this national research centre also opens up the possibility for Indigenous subjectivities to literally draw on a colonial archive for history and calls out for decolonizing practices that open up alternative pathways to history and memory.  208 Engaging a critical pedagogy of decolonization for this task necessarily involves understanding the colonial codes of the line, the centre and the outside as key for unpacking these representations as an initial step. Such pedagogy adopts the practice of post-memory, that is, ensuring that a critical distance from the traumatic history of Indian residential schools is maintained. This can be addressed by having learner participants indicate the degree to which they are receptive to what Roger Simon (2000) referred to as “transactive public memory” and means engaging in the retelling of traumatic narratives. Such remembrance “evokes a persistent sense … of being in relation to, of being claimed in relation to the experiences of others” (p. 63). In such learning encounters the possibility for forgiveness, rebirth and an Indigenous renaissance might emerge, but there are no guarantees. Documenting how mainstream and Indigenous educators respond to this approach is an area for future research.  In terms of reflecting on how Indigenous peoples might insert our memories into the flux so that it can reverberate meaningfully into the future, such an insertion would be heard and seen as a history that is organized as a montage of memories of Aboriginal/Indian education policy. This montage would necessarily flash back on how the Indian education policy of the past was transformed into the Aboriginal education policy of today with its emphasis on having culture erase history. In this montage, the photographs of Indian residential school students, displayed in front of the Indian residential school building is the image that represents the colonial past. And the next image would flash to representations of the memories, both past and present that speak to exile, classifications, status, iconic myths, repression, latency, intervals, and departures. Themes that might not be immediately evident in an archive and that leave an  209 incomprehensibility similar to what Austerlitz, the character experienced after visiting Theresienstadt, the prison camp/ghetto where his mother was murdered by the Nazi regime: “I understood it all now, yet I did not understand it, for every detail that was revealed to me as I went through the museum…ignorant as I feared I had been through my own fault, far exceeded my comprehension” (Sebald, 2002, p. 279).  Similarly achieving comprehension of the traumatic history of the Indian residential school might remain out of grasp in particular when the perpetrators are left out of the historical record. In ending this investigation of a montage of memories of public school, the montage continues to flash back and forth between themes from the past to themes in the present and then rest on a covering of dust or snow. The covering of dust or snow is a recurring image in Sebald’s (2002) Austerlitz: it evokes silence and might represent a desire to cover the past nevertheless postmemory and the critical distance inherent in its practice can uncover this layer to reveal the history of genocide that is lurking beneath. Perhaps it is an analogy of racialized notions of the supposed superiority of white skin. It is the final image in this montage of memories of Aboriginal/Indian education policy but it is not the end of the story. 	  	     210 Bibliography Adams, D. W. (2006). 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Policy Studies Journal, 23(3), 407- 422.  	   	   221 Appendix A Recruitment	  Poster	  	  Hey	  Students!!	  Help	  a	  researcher	  With	  an	  ART	  PROJECT	  FOR	  RESEARCH!!	  I	  am	  a	  UBC	  student	  and	  a	  vice-­‐principal	  of	  Aboriginal	  education	  in	  Burnaby.	  I	  would	  like	  you	  to	  create	  an	  art	  piece	  that	  displays	  your	  experiences	  in	  public	  school.	  I	  want	  to	  hear	  about	  your	  experiences	  in	  public	  school	  and	  Aboriginal	  education.	  Art	  materials	  will	  be	  supplied	  and	  food	  too!!	  Please	  plan	  to	  attend:	  Talking	  Circle	  and	  Art	  making	  on	  Thursday,	  June	  23,	  2011	  At	  the	  Aboriginal	  Gathering	  Place	  Time:	  9:00	  am	  –	  10:30	  am	  For	  more	  information:	  Contact	  Lyn	  Daniels	  –	  	   	  	   


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