EMBODYING INDIGENOUS COAST SALISH EDUCATION: TRAVELLING WITH XÉ:LS THE SISTER, MAPPING KATZIE/Q̓IĊƏY̓ STORIES AND PEDAGOGIES by Kerrie Charnley B.A., Simon Fraser University, 2005 M.A., Simon Fraser University, 2008 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES (Language and Literacy) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) October 2019 © Kerrie Charnley, 2019 ii The following individuals certify that they have read, and recommend to the Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies for acceptance, the dissertation entitled: Embodying Indigenous Coast Salish Education: Travelling with Xé:ls the Sister, Mapping Katzie/q̓iċəy̓ Stories and Pedagogies submitted by Kerrie Charnley in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in The Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies (Language and Literacy) Examining Committee: Dr. Jim Anderson, Language and Literacy Education Co-supervisor Dr. Jo-ann Archibald, Education Studies Co-supervisor Dr. Michael Marker, Education Studies Supervisory Committee Member Dr. Cash Ahenakew, Education Studies University Examiner Dr. Charles Menzies, Anthropology University Examiner iii Abstract My doctoral work examines intergenerational relationships between Katzie people, their stories and memories connected to the land and waters of their territory, their understandings, and their contexts. I explore and explain ways the waters and the land are integral to the literacy and pedagogy of Katzie people, and fundamental to Katzie people’s identity, wellbeing, and existence. I weave a Coast Salish story blanket through an oral narrative style of writing; through a pedagogical model of a Coast Salish spindle whorl; through my reconsideration of the Coast Salish Xe:xals story so that it includes the feminine sister Xé:ls’ story; through participants’ stories, and through auto-ethnography and memoir. Research grew out of the five protocols of Coast Salish people that I learned through my upbringing: starting with the local; acknowledging and expressing gratitude for place and people; getting an education; listening to one’s elders; and, loving one another. Research processes included interviewing 11 participants and mapping their stories onto meaningful places in Katzie traditional territories. Some of these interviews were conducted at meaningful places within the territory. The process drew on the collective memories of Katzie community members to bring forward intergenerational wisdom and practices specific to Katzie as sited in places such as Pitt Lake; the teachings from these stories compose a land- and water-based pedagogy grounded in the relationship between territorial places and Katzie people. Findings from this study include four story themes, and recommendations, from participants’ interviews, 10 methodological principles, and six pedagogical practices that guide an understanding of Katzie literacy and pedagogy. iv This study addresses the gap in Canadian scholarship, education, and specifically in Indigenous literacies. Coast Salish experiences of education, stories, pedagogies and realities have been limited to the long time dedicated work of a few Coast Salish scholars. Further, this study answers the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada’s Calls to Action to bring Indigenous people’s world view, experiences, historical and contemporary realities, voices and leadership into the fabric of Canadian education. Listening to the real life voices and stories of Katzie people is a first step toward reconciliation and restitution in the local education systems. v Lay Summary This graduate project examined the stories of Katzie community members in order to bring forward intergenerational wisdom and practices connected to their lands and waters that are specific to Katzie people in an education context. My research process included interviewing 11 participants. Research grew out of five protocols of Coast Salish people I learned through my upbringing: starting with the local; acknowledging and expressing gratitude for place and people; getting an education; listening to one’s elders; and, loving one another. Findings from this study include four story themes and recommendations from participants’ interviews, ten methodological principles, and six pedagogical practices, that guide an understanding of Katzie literacy and pedagogy. Teachings from these stories compose a land- and water-based pedagogy grounded in important relationships to the territorial places of Katzie people. Listening to the words of Katzie people is a first step toward reconciliation and restitution in local education systems. vi Preface This dissertation is an original intellectual product of the author, Kerrie Charnley. The fieldwork described in Chapters 4 and 5 was covered by UBC Ethics Certificate number H16-01038. vii Table of Contents Abstract .............................................................................................................................. iii Lay Summary ...................................................................................................................... v Preface................................................................................................................................ vi Table of Contents .............................................................................................................. vii List of Figures .................................................................................................................... xi List of Tables .................................................................................................................... xii Glossary ........................................................................................................................... xiii Acknowledgements ......................................................................................................... xxv Dedication ..................................................................................................................... xxvii Chapter 1: Introduction and Overview ........................................................................... 1 Purpose ........................................................................................................................ 3 Research Questions ................................................................................................... 12 Identification of the Problem/Gap ............................................................................ 13 Site Selection ............................................................................................................ 15 Location of Researcher ............................................................................................. 18 Addressing the Knowledge Gap ............................................................................... 22 Theoretical and Methodological Considerations ...................................................... 22 Chapter 2: Researcher and Participant Ancestries, and Grandmother’s Story ............. 28 Five Pedagogical Protocols ....................................................................................... 30 viii My Grandmother’s Story: Amanda Charnley (Born Pierre) ..................................... 31 Connecting the Stories of Xe:xals, My Grandmother’s Story, and My Daughter’s Story of Our Mitochondrial DNA ............................................................................. 56 A Pierre Family Ancestral Tree ................................................................................ 58 An Urban Coast Salish Childhood Interacting With The Public School System In Vancouver ................................................................................................................. 61 Participants Ancestries and Geographies .................................................................. 73 Participant Stories of Ancestry and Birthplace ......................................................... 74 Katzie Geographies in Participant Introductions and in their Stories ....................... 80 Chapter 3: Literature Review Towards a Theory of Indigenous Peoples’ Perspectives of Land, Water, and Place in Education ....................................................................... 82 Indigenous Knowledge Connected to Land/Water is Storied ................................... 83 Indigenous Knowledge Requires Preparation by Making Space for Looking Inward................................................................................................................................... 92 Indigenous Knowledge Connected to Land/Water is Holographic .......................... 95 Indigenous Knowledge Connected to Land/Water is in Relationship .................... 102 The Language of the Land - Indigenous Peoples’ Literacy .................................... 113 Chapter 4: Methodology – Xé:ls and the Spindle Whorl: A Rematriatist Transformative Coast Salish Research Methodology .......................................................................... 132 The Methodology Journey ...................................................................................... 134 Methodological Purpose and Goals ........................................................................ 135 Cultural Rebirth and Decolonizing: Emergence of an Indigenous Feminist/Rematriatist Process ................................................................................. 137 ix Methodology and Cultural Pedagogy in Relationship ............................................ 139 10 Methodological Principles ................................................................................. 141 Methods................................................................................................................... 175 Coast Salish Spindle Whorl Metaphor - Transformation ....................................... 181 Conclusion .............................................................................................................. 182 Chapter 5: Xe:xals the Changers’ Renewing and Rebalancing the World through Cultural Spiritual Land, Water and Place-based Stories ............................................. 185 Four Types of Story ................................................................................................ 190 Thematic Analysis .................................................................................................. 206 Recommendations For Change: Xwulunítum/Settlers and External Colonial Systems Need to Change. ...................................................................................................... 229 Xé:ls the Sister’s Story: Listening for Her Emerging Story in Experiences, Imaginings, and Transformings of the Xe:xals story. ............................................. 238 Research Questions ................................................................................................. 243 Chapter 6: A Katzie Land, Water and Place-based Pedagogy .................................... 248 A Katzie Pedagogy in Relationship with Lands and Waters in Katzie Territory ... 249 Six Key Fundamental Practices in Katzie Pedagogy .............................................. 255 A Katzie Territories Land and Waterways Passport Program ................................ 268 Katzie-Led Katzie Education .................................................................................. 268 Chapter 7: Spiraling through the Spindle Whorl with Concluding Thoughts ............ 271 Spinning Back: Returning to the Research Questions ............................................ 272 Spiritual Teachings Beyond the Research Questions ............................................. 278 x Contributions of My Research ................................................................................ 281 The Significance of this Study ................................................................................ 283 Changes in Katzie Community Education that Has Happened in Recent years ..... 286 Suggestions for Future Research ............................................................................ 287 References ....................................................................................................................... 295 Appendix A: Embodied Indigenous Land and Water-based Education: Mapping Katzie/q̓iċəy̓ Stories and Pedagogies - Interview Questions........................................... 315 xi List of Figures Figure 1. Coast Salish Katzie Spindle and Whorl............................................................. 10 Figure 2. Katzie First Nation and Coast Salish Neighbors. .............................................. 17 Figure 3. Photograph of My Great-Grandfather Peter Pierre On The Cover of “The Book”. ......................................................................................................................... 29 Figure 4. My Grandmother, Amanda Charnley (nee Pierre). ........................................... 39 Figure 5. My Grandmother Amanda Charnley Wearing William Charnley I’s Air Force Uniform. ...................................................................................................................... 46 Figure 6. My Grandmother, Amanda Charnley, and Me. ................................................. 52 Figure 7. Our Pierre Family Portrait. ................................................................................ 58 Figure 8. Musqueam Coast Salish Artist, Joe Becker’s Salmon with Eggs. .................. 132 Figure 9. Spindle Whorl: Heart = Salmon Egg = Rebirth .............................................. 182 Figure 10. Spindle Whorl Model, A Holistic Education Process. .................................. 252 Figure 11. Amanda Charnley (Pierre). ............................................................................ 294 xii List of Tables Table 1. Pierre Family Tree During Colonial Period of 1864-2019, 155 Years. .............. 59 xiii Glossary The following is an explanation of how I define key terms used in this dissertation. Auto-Ethnography This work is auto-ethnographic in that it tells the story of my own education and family history and also the stories of my grandmother and great-grandfather. The story of our lands and waters is also being told and is threaded within our telling of our stories. Voices of the lands and waters exist, provided we are listening to them. Cognitive Dissonance, Cognitive Imperialism and Cognitive Resonance Battiste (2000), Burkhart (1999), Deloria (1969), Waters (2004), and others have observed that Indigenous students experience a kind of disconnect or cognitive dissonance between the culture of Western schooling and the knowing found in the culture of their home communities. Cognitive imperialism is a core colonial phenomenon where one people’s worldview, epistemology and ontology is made dominant at the expense and exclusion of another people’s world view, epistemology and ontology. I propose a way to heal colonially imposed cognitive dissonance and imperialism is by forging instead what I term a cognitive resonance, whereby schooling environments include Indigenous-led pedagogies, literacies, and values which allow Indigenous students to feel that their identities and land- and water-based epistemological realities are acknowledged and valued in schooling environments. Decolonization The definition of decolonization in this thesis is informed by the definition put forward by Corntassel (2012). This understanding of decolonization prioritizes “reconnecting Indigenous nations with their traditional land-based and water-based cultural practices” xiv by “moving from an awareness of being in struggle, to actively engaging in everyday practices of resurgence...rejecting the performativity of a rights discourse geared toward state affirmation and recognition, and embracing a daily existence conditioned by place-based cultural practices” (Corntassel, 2012, p. 89). In a nutshell, resurgence is implementing Indigenous epistemology and values which are always about embodying them in practice. Identity People have multiple identities according to the roles and contexts in which they live. Over the last 200 years, colonial policies in British Columbia have tried to violently destroy or at best dramatically limit Coast Salish identities, through corralling us into reservations, denying us the vote, outlawing our core cultural practices and our ability to gather and politically organize, and forcing us into residential schools. Since Indigenous identities are deeply connected to the land, we need to reclaim and engage in that connection in all areas including in education. Indigenous Epistemology Epistemology is how we know things, or in other words, epistemology is our unique cultural and contextual ways of knowing. Indigenous pedagogy draws on an Indigenous worldview and epistemology and conceptualizes learning and understanding as coming from a transformative knowing. Indigenous knowing is a verb, rather than coming from obtaining knowledge as an object. Indigenous peoples’ knowing stems directly from the perception of oneself as being in constant relationship with nature, land, and water. xv Indigenous Land- and Water-based Education This term refers to traditional knowledge and recent emerging theory by Indigenous scholars (e.g., Meyer, 2013 and Tuck, McKenzie, & McCoy, 2014) which centers lands and waters as entities and places of knowing and learning within a decolonizing, Indigenous sovereigntist framework. It takes a critical stance regarding outdoor education, environmental education, and place-based and other settler-derived and -centered education that dichotomizes nature and humans as separate. Indigenous land- and water-based education recognizes that humans are a part of nature and the environment in a mutually reciprocal, non-hierarchical ecology of relationships. Indigenous Pedagogies Indigenous pedagogy is knowledge located not only in the mind but also in the body, heart, and spirit as well as in relationship with others including the lands, waters, elements, animals, plants, and ancestors. Indigenous Storywork This term draws on Archibald’s (2008) storywork methodology, which is guided by seven principles (reverence, reciprocity, respect, responsibility, holism, interrelatedness, and synergy) as well as by relationships with elders, metaphysical experiences, story, land, and self (reflection). Language: Hun’qumyi’num (Downriver), ’Halq’eméylem (Upriver), and Hul’q’umin’um’ (Island) There are many Coast Salish languages. In the places where my ancestral family lived and in which I was raised and in the places where I continue to reside, there are considered to be three Coast Salish languages. This was common knowledge in my family. The three Coast Salish languages: “Halq’eméylem is the Upriver xvi dialect, Hul’q’umin’um’ is the Island dialect, and Hun’qumyi’num’ is Downriver dialect” (Carlson, 2001, p. 22-23). Even though my main ancestral language and the language my grandma, Amanda Charnley, and her sisters spoke mostly was Hun’qumyi’num’ Downriver, she also spoke fluent Island and Upriver. It makes sense to me that I use Downriver language because one strand of my project is an unravelling and following of my female ancestral line and that line takes me directly further downriver from Katzie to Tswwassen and even across the Salish Sea. It stands to reason that my great-grandmother Katharine Pierre (nee Charles) who was from Tswwaasen and also had ancestry to Saanich on Vancouver Island would have spoken at least both Downriver Katzie/Musqueam and Island and would have taught her children these langauges. I have heard that she never spoke english. Thus, for this reason of rematriating myself, my ancestral line, and our language back to the land and our communities, and due to language proximity and access, I use when possible Downriver language. In this dissertation I sometimes use the word Halq’eméylem to refer to our languages in general as this is sometimes the name used for both the specific upriver language and to designate the overall language group of these three languages. Listening It became clear through research that there are different kinds of listening that occur, and that are distinct in a Katzie Coast Salish and in Indigenous education, based on traditional values and protocols, honored and effective through time. The values and protocols and need to listen to Indigenous peoples is in the literature (Archibald, 2008; Daniels, 2018; Pidgeon, 2014; Younging, 2018), and most importantly, is shown implicitly in the practice of Indigenous people’s oral narrative tradition, and can be seen at work in the xvii practice of Coast Salish witnessing. I found some mention of the importance of this unique kind of listening in a Coast Salish context in the works of Archibald (2008) and White (2006). Literacy - Regular The definition of literacy I work with stems from the field of social-based literacies, which critiques past views of literacy (such as the “banking” idea of literacy which assumes students’ minds are empty vessels waiting to be filled) and the notion that literacy is only one set of skills to be learned, without taking into account a diversity of skill sets for a diversity of literacies in a diversity of contexts. Regular literacy tends to privilege linguistic or written print language (print) and related skills and contexts. A social basis for literacy appreciates the diversity, resources, and knowledge students bring to school with them and foregrounds a multimodal, multi-contextualized literacy. Students are seen as coming to school with knowledge drawn from the rich resources of their homes and communities, and are therefore seen as co-constructors of knowledge. Scholars in social- or family-based literacy (Cooper & Hedges, 2014; Kendrick, 2014; Moll, Amanti, Neff, & Gonzalez, 1992) acknowledge the “funds of knowledge” that students bring from home. This type of literacy more closely reflects the concepts found in Indigenous literacies. Literacies - Indigenous My research project aims to develop and describe an emerging definition of Indigenous literacies drawn from the work of the Best Start Curriculum (BSC) (2010), Grande, (2004), and Hare (2005). My definition of Indigenous literacies is strengths-based and community-oriented, includes family and community “funds of knowledge” as interfaced xviii with territorial lands and waters, and values multimodal forms of literacy and expression including oral storytelling, Hun’qumyi’num language, and performative narrative events (e.g., dance, ceremony, and canoeing). Literacy Topographies This is a term I have coined to explain the cognitive maps of knowing that people have in their minds, bodies, hearts, and spirits, derived from, and mirroring, their connection to the land and waterscapes in which they live. Our stories and knowledge are topographic. Love Love is understood as a core value, a teaching, a practice, and a reason for being. It means being welcomed, valued, cherished, and protected at all times. Metaphysical The definition of metaphysical used for this project is drawn from Ermine’s (1995) concept of inner space and outer space, as well as Cajete’s (2000) use of word maps and his understanding of how Indigenous perspectives can be thought of as patterned into maps linked with land and story (i.e., topographies). I also see the metaphysical as a mode or code that my family from Katzie and other Coast Salish nations draws from in the knowing of things. The metaphysical is important to us and is expressed through dreams, pre-cognition, and non-literal signs in the land, water, climate, geography, animals, and other entities in the environment. Indigenous pedagogy and literacy take into account metaphysical and spiritual modes and codes. When one lives in two realities—metaphysical and physical—one thinks and behaves differently from those who only think in one physical reality. We tend to live within these two alternate realities, but we sense that the meta-reality is really the metaphysical. In contemporary xix terms, the physical might be conceptualized and experienced as a sort of virtual reality of the metaphysical. Nə́c̓aʔmat tə šxʷqʷeləwən ct (pronounced “nutsa maat te shwel’wen st”) We are one heart, translated into English from Hən̓q̓əmin̓əm̓ (Musqueam and Katzie language). Outdoor education My research seeks to bring local Indigenous land- and water-based epistemology and pedagogy into mainstream schooling for the purpose of strengthening pride in Indigenous identity for Indigenous students and communities. I also perceive a vitally important need to connect all students, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, to learning through natural outdoor environments. Children’s disconnection from nature constitutes a growing crisis with profound implications for life on this planet (Dickson, 2011; Dillon, 2005; Louv, 2005; Moss, 2012; National England, 2008; National Trust, 2008; Office for Standards in Education, Children’s Services and Skills [Ofsted], 2008). Pedagogy My use of the term pedagogy draws on Friere’s (1970) concept of the pedagogy of the oppressed, where students are seen as drawing from their own knowledge and knowing for the purposes of education, transformation, social justice, and liberty. This conceptualization stands in contrast to the notion of a student’s mind as blank space waiting to be filled with knowledge and skills to support the status quo. xx Protection This term invokes the importance of protecting as well as being and feeling protected through ceremony and family; through land, water, animals, plants, and ancestors; and through belongings such as Coast Salish blankets. Spindle whorl A spindle whorl is a tool that consists of a disc or spherical object fitted onto the spindle to increase and maintain the speed of the spin. It is an essential tool for preparing wool to be woven. Coast Salish peoples constructed, designed and used the spindle whorl, and continue to use it, in unique ways. In my work the Coast Salish spindle whorl can also be used as a tool to think with, and as well the spindle whorl, among its other functions, can be a way to engage spiritually with the world. Stewardship and Guardianship Indigenous definitions of stewardship and guardianship are more relevant, and socially just, than what environmentalism (informed by European ideas of nature as separate from humans) has offered thus far in terms of speaking back to corporate capitalism (which co-opts “sustainability” for its own purposes and tends towards practices of greed, hoarding, and overconsumption.). Indigenous notions of stewardship and guardianship are based on an understanding of reciprocity among all lifeforms in the natural environment. In this worldview, “sustainability” is unnecessary because destruction and toxicity are beyond conceptualization due to an ethic of care, generosity, and health. Xe:xals (plural) (pronounced “hay-heayls” but also pronounced, and spelled, in slightly different ways by different people from different places) This term refers to transformer siblings, three brothers and one sister. Some stories say they took the form of bears who originally travel through the landscape, transforming xxi humans into features of the land. My great-grandfather speaks of Xe:xals in his story of our Katzie origins and cosmology in the ethnography, The Faith of A Coast Salish Indian, (Jenness, 1955). A common story recorded in the public domain is that Xe:xals are the orphaned children of Red-headed Woodpecker and Black Bear who were killed by Red-headed Woodpecker’s second wife, Grizzly Bear (Carlson, 65-66). These stories mention Xe:xals to make points about other stories regarding transformation, cultural beliefs and land rights in published works on or by the Stó:lō, our upriver relatives. More in depth stories of Xe:xals are to be found in the oral tradition archive. I believe that stories of Xe:xals offer a useful Coast Salish metaphor for the transformative nature of methodologies that Indigenous scholars are developing. Like Xe:xals, our organic methodologies have the purpose of transforming our communities in ways that uphold our worldviews, values, and identities as peoples who are intimate with the land and life beyond human forms. I find the connection made between Xe:xals and writing relevant to the work I am pursuing: “the name Xe:xals is derived from the same proto-Salish root as the verb ‘to write’ or ‘to enscribe’ ” (Carlson, 2001, pp. 65-66), which Carlson implies is what the Xe:xals are doing as they travel over the earth. They are in a sense writing their intentions onto the landscape by transforming people into landscape features such as giant rocks. When people see those rocks, they remember stories and associated knowledge: how to take care of things and how to live in a way that takes into consideration balance and life for all beings. These places on the landscape are mnemonic, like written text on a page but with arguably more far reaching and deeper meanings. xxii Xé:ls1 (singular) (pronounced “hayls” but also pronounced, and spelled, in slightly different ways by different people from different places) The Transformer, the Changer. Since the onset of euro-colonialism, most all Xé:ls stories in the public domain and published works consider Xe:xals to be a singular male hero. Xé:ls is powerful and transforms elements, animals, humans into other kinds of things, like transformer rocks, based on moral, ethical, spiritual and educational purposes. Transformer rocks serve as educative reminders of the stories and events that happened. The feminine, female, sister Xé:ls is only mentioned, if at all, in brief, in passing, as possibly existing. Since the onset of euro-colonialism no story or feats or power are attributed to her in the public, published domain--though this is hopefully changing even as I write. More Indigenous women, especially young Indigenous women, with the onset of the web, social media, and social change in the past thirty years, are finding their voices and writing themselves into the public domain participating in self-transformation mediated by visual and textual literacy. Xulmuxw (singular) (pronounced “qwul multh”) Xwuxwílmuxw (plural) The Halq’eméylem word for a First Nations person. First Nations people. Us. People of this land. In my family, we referred to speaking our language as speaking “Xulmuxw”. Xwunítum (singular) (pronounced “qwe-neetim”). Xwulunítum (plural) (pronounced “qwul-a-neet-im”)* This term can translate to mean “white people” or “foreigner” as my grandmother and uncle translated it for me, but it also encompasses a more complicated fraught reference 1 Xé:ls is the singular spelling of Xe:xals the transformers from The Musqueam Grammar Reference by Wayne Suttles (2004), Vancouver: UBC Press. Whenever possible I use a Hun’qumyi’num’ spelling. xxiii to those newcomers, who came here to Musqueam/ xʷməθkʷəy̓əm2 (people of a specific intertidal water shore grass) and Katzie/q̓íc̓əy̓̓ (“land of the moss”), Kwantlen (“tireless runner”), Kwikwetlem, Semiahmoo, Tsawwassen (“land facing the sea”), and Tsleil-Waututh (“people of the Inlet”) territories only approximately 150 years ago (five generations), and who continue to come here in droves. I do not count Squamish in this list because Squamish territory is actually up the coast and interior from here and they speak a completely different language from the rest noted above. The invasion of Xwulunítum occurred during the 1800s and very early 1900s. The Xwulunítum leadership through government and churches attempted to colonize us through their asserted laws, policies within structures such as political, legal, economic, religious, and education systems, as well as the literal fences surrounding reservations, prisons, residential schools, and white foster homes. These continue to colonize us as those systems and policies perpetuate, transform, and expand. The exception to this is the spaces where Indigenous peoples have continued to live according to our values, epistemologies, ontologies, culture, ceremony, and family relationships, and most importantly persisted in relationship with traditional lands and waters in whatever ways possible. Another current exception exists where nascent reciprocal voices can be engaged through projects such as the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, the recommendations of which have been heard and taken seriously by some institutions. I realized that this term, Xwulunítum, which we had used all my life at home, 2 https://www.musqueam.bc.ca/our-story/who-we-are/ https://tsawwassenfirstnation.com/general-info/tfn-vision-mandate/ https://twnation.ca/about/twn-faqs/ https://www.katzie.org/culture-and-language https://www.kwantlenfn.ca http://www.kwikwetlem.com/newslettersnotices.htm All accessed February 15, 2019. xxiv was a Katzie word in our language when my peers at school told me that they had never heard that word before. I asked my grandma what it meant, and she said the best translation is “foreigners.” The translation to “foreigners” is complicated. Xwulunítum are more than just visitors or newcomers; as foreigners, they are also historically invaders, and encroachers on Indigenous peoples’ lands, territories, rights and ways of living and thinking. Xwulunítum leadership and citizenry have in a sense historically been agents of colonization, resource extraction and displacement of Coast Salish peoples. In the current era of The Truth and Reconciliation of Canada’s Calls to Action and political will, there is much hope for this history to change course. xxv Acknowledgements I am in deep gratitude to the patient and compassionate advising and guidance that my dream team committee provided me: My co-supervisors, Dr. Jim Anderson, Ph.D., Department of Language and Literacy and Dr. Jo-ann Archibald Q’um Xiiem, Ph.D., Professor Emeritus Education Studies, and the third committee member, Dr. Michael Marker, Ph.D., Department of Education Studies. I know I was truly blessed that they agreed to be on my committee, and I will be forever grateful for their insights. And for their belief in the importance of this work. I would like to express deep gratitude to the participants who shared their time, stories, and recommendations for Katzie education with me. I am especially grateful to my family elders who believed in the importance of this work, and who took it upon themselves, to help me start my story interview work off, in a good way, through Katzie cultural spiritual ceremonial recognition, and care, for our ancestors, living on our sacred lands, and in our sacred waters. I would like to gratefully acknowledge the financial support, during different times of my Ph.D. journey, that altogether made it possible for me to complete my education: Graduate Emergency Bursary UBC, Indspire, The New Relationship Trust Doctorate Award, The Office of Indigenous Education - The Faculty of Education UBC, Katzie First Nation Education, Cody LLED Graduate Student Emergency Award, M. Dorothy Mawdsley Bursary, Student Aid Bursary for Graduate Students UBC, and the UBC Aboriginal Emergency Assistance Grant. Also, words cannot express the deep gratitude I feel for the generosity of friends who believed in the value of my work, and in me, and who came forward to provide me with a roof over my head, a bed to catch xxvi whatever sleep I could afford, and food to keep my energy up, during the most harrowing final three and a half years of this dissertation process. Hands held high, and bless you! xxvii Dedication I dedicate this work to the lands and waters in Katzie territory, Katzie people, our ancestors, and our future generations, and our animal and plant relatives. I especially dedicate this work to my grandmother, for it was her dream that I write down her story, which is also the story of our people, our family, and the land and water. I dedicate this work to our ancestors, and in particular, to Xé:ls the sister. I dedicate this work to my daughter, Keisha Amanda Charnley, who has always impressed me with her ways of thinking, and her quick humour, and who I love to the depths of my being. I dedicate this work to Katzie youth and their future. May you all above be wrapped in a blanket of love, and protection, and achieve all of your dreams. 1 Chapter 1: Introduction and Overview This chapter serves as an introduction to key components of the dissertation—namely, the study purpose, research questions, site, researcher location, and theoretical and methodological considerations—and concludes with a brief description of the contents of the chapters to come. This dissertation follows my exploration of a pedagogy of place as seen by Katzie people. The Katzie Coast Salish voices and narratives interwoven here come from their own concentric circles of place-ness. Each person’s unique worldview, perception, and experiences form a constituent part of a holograph of realities. My writing aligns with Indigenous scholars who foreground the oral tradition, decolonization, and privilege the first-person voice. In order to decolonize the standard writing style of a dissertation, I implement a Coast Salish Indigenous writing style that holds space for weaving together cultural, personal and political, expressions and understandings. There is a sense of competing realities I feel I must wrestle with every step of the way: the continuation of colonial practices and the lived realities of Indigenous people. It is a history of my growing up in the very colonial 1960s, 1970s and 1980s. It is a way of doing scholarship and research that is an exploratory journey of memories connected to larger issues in the world, to colonization and history and life story. Included in this work is my grandmother’s life story, the story of my education journey and the stories of 11 participants. My writing is a weaving of these narrative threads into a Coast Salish story blanket, which corresponds with the aspects of travel and transformation within Coast Salish cultural traditions, and enacts Coast Salish oral 2 narrative. This kind of writing, and the kind of reading, that the reader must do, while engaging with this dissertation, is like a trickster energy that challenges us to let go of the certainty of Western scholarship, embrace the unknown and unknowable, and in the process learn something new. This way of writing makes space for Indigenous peoples’ voices to be heard and their realities to be understood. My writing upholds the traditions of Coast Salish women doing cultural work of weaving with its practical, pragmatic and spiritual purposes. This work aligns with the work of our Coast Salish heroine, Xé:ls the sister, who is our almost lost, or forgotten (or hidden, silent or quiet), feminine Coast Salish transformer sibling, and one of our original ancestors who creates something new, with new and old energies. I imagine Xé:ls transforming through weaving, and spinning wool, with spindle whorls of varying sizes, from bone whorls to giant cedar whorls. Like Xé:ls , my weaving and spinning is through the life I live, the research I undertook, and the words I weave here to document them. My writing style is like the spindle whorl, spinning out threads, weaving threads of knowledge, of story, of experiences, of narratives, times and places together. This writing allows for the weaving of a blanket of diverse realities and intersections, one that parallels, re-maps, and transforms the physical places, with the multi-layered cognitive, cultural, and storied landscapes of this study’s participants, of my grandmother’s life, of my education journey, and of Xé:ls, the sister. This story blanket weaving occurs within a Katzie Coast Salish topographical and narrative framework. This interweaving of personal, family, and scholarly narratives follows Coast Salish protocol of family (rather than the lone individual) and listening to one’s elders. I listened to my grandmother’s directive to “write down” her story and to “get an 3 education”, and I wove both -- her story, and my education that is two-fold--into this dissertation. My doubled education is a strand of Coast Salish Katzie education protocols enwoven with a strand of Western European education protocols. My hope is that the readers of this dissertation catch at least a glimpse and sense of the metaphysical dimension of this Katzie specific, Coast Salish, metaphysical/physical woven and twinned reality. My family held me up by coming forward to start my research fieldwork in a good way, through a ceremony that included our ancestors on a special place on our territory. I am very grateful for this. Hychq’a siem to those who read the multilayered narratives held here in this dissertation. I hope they will be helpful to you on your journeys as they have been on mine. Purpose My topic is land/ocean/place-based resurgent pedagogy drawing on Katzie epistemology, Indigenous storywork, and multimodal experiential literacy. The rationale and theoretical framework for the study draws on theories of Indigenous knowledge connected to land and place, and place-based pedagogy. I hoped to see how relationships between Indigenous knowledge and land are forged through multimodal, multi-literate means, and I intended through this study to write a land/ocean pedagogy that facilitates knowledge and well-being through relationship with the land and water. An overarching research question posed by this study was: what are the notions of place that contribute to Indigenous peoples’ identity, belonging, and history? To construct an answer, I explored the greater history of family and community through ethnographic work and from participant perspectives. I looked at how emerging theories 4 of Indigenous place are embedded with mono- and dialogic meaning through the following: geographic markers; relationships of place; stories that emerged; and people’s lived experience of place on Katzie territory. I wondered, how do people maintain relationships with land? The methods by which I acquired data for my study included: inter-generational interviews about meaning, stories, and land; researcher auto-ethnographic narrative; and a retelling of one of our ancestral origin stories. I documented the interviews through audio recordings, transcriptions of these audio recordings, photography, and reflective notes. While I was interested in language—learning my own traditional language—and although I believe that traditional language renewal is critically important, for this study I was not as focused on language revival 3as other scholars have been. I see Indigenous languages as a part of Indigenous literacy, but Indigenous language is not the main focus of my interest. Rather, my work is guided by the necessity of filling the research gap which exists related to practices, and in particular multimodal literacy practices which assert Indigenous identity and values. Multimodal literacy practices are those located within a broad definition of language that extends beyond linguistic signification to encompass non-linguistic “language” or other symbolic modes of expression, communication, and knowledge-holding. This includes, for example, meaning-rich modes such as art as language, music 3 For work I did on language revival during my Masters Degree refer to: Charnley, K. (2006). “Our Stories Are Our Sacred Ground; Our Language is the Air We Breathe—Toward a Halq’eméylem-based Literary Aesthetic: The Aboriginal Worldview in Contrast with the European Philosophical Tradition.” Papers for ICSNL, 41 (Kiyota, M., J. Thompson, and N. Yamane-Tanaka, eds). UBCWPL 1, 6-76. https://lingpapers.sites.olt.ubc.ca/files/2018/02/Charnley_2006.pdf 5 as language, body language, embodied or felt kinds of language, engagement with the environment, and story. I am interested in the senses we engage when we express and hold knowledge and knowing in these kinds of multimodal ways. I am interested in kinesthetic and whole-body literacies, as well as, what I think of as land/water literacy. This study focuses on relationship with natural environments, and how that relationship shapes such literacies, including linguistic-based literacy—whether that engagement is for cultural or physical survival. To be human is to be more than physically alive; is to be psychically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and culturally alive. I have, through engaging in this study, become increasingly interested in spiritual survival. Toward the end of my dissertation writing, despite my desire to be in the present physical reality in order to get my work done, the spiritual came to me. I had a dark prophetic dream, and tragedy occurred in our lives a week later. I was forced to seek spiritual protection, and the process of that protection helped me immensely. I would not have completed this dissertation or Ph.D. without it. With this orientation towards multimodal, multi-sensate knowledge sharing, obtaining, holding expression, and competency in these modes (or literacy), this thesis is composed of, a combination of types of stories. The types of stories in this dissertation include: personal life experience stories; descriptions of scholarship; critical analysis, along with analysis of the personal life experience stories and traditional stories shared by the study participants in interviews; the sense of a Coast Salish mythic or storied reality; and visual stories in photographs. I would also like to propose that we—the reader of this dissertation and I—think of all of the stories on this list and even categories not included 6 above (for example, the stories of science or of religion) as being contained all together in one big mythic, epic, world story composed of interweaving stories in process. This mythic story composed of interweaving stories in process is in the present, with contemporary stories. In a spindle whorl process the mythic story travels forward in an oscillation, moving spirally on a spindle that is turning through a whorl, bringing fibers of story through the whorl and back again until threads are formed that move from past to present, transforming past, present and future. This mythic story of stories is both physical and metaphysical. The stories occur in the physical world where we are engaged with our physicality, but we sense and know that our ancestors and other beings, entities, and life force energies exist with us both in and beyond our physicality, in the metaphysical realm. Our stories, our identity as Katzie or Coast Salish people, and the land/water and life in nature are intimately, and intricately, connected for us; and the spirit world—or you could call it a kind of alternate reality—is as real to us as our physical existence. It is as real, if not more so, than the virtual realities in which we all partake every day, through the interface of imagination, and physicality. In weaving together all these various types of stories, this thesis serves to decolonize and unravel the ethnographic record of my own great-grandfather’s epic narration of Katzie cosmology and origins as told to anthropologist Diamond Jenness, and to weave his epic story into the fabric of the continuing stories of Katzie people, lands, and waters. My great-grandfather was a descendent of ΘƐ’ɬǝctǝn, one of two first ancestors, and he was a brilliant knowledge keeper and orator and took good care of his family and community and the mental, physical, emotional and spiritual health of Coast 7 Salish people. He was called upon to travel great distances to heal people’s spirits, vitality, souls, bodies, hearts and minds. My great-grandfather ΘƐ’ɬǝctǝn continues to be remembered and referred to as a person of great standing for his powerful knowledge and his healing feats. Musqueam elders and elders elsewhere, when they ask me where I come from and I tell them, some have immediately told me a story about a feat of his that they either witnessed, or which was passed down to them from eyewitness family members. His traditional name was θƐ’ɬǝctǝn/Hawkltin after our family’s first ancestor who the Sky People put at Pitt Lake and Sheridan Hill4. θƐ’ɬǝctǝn/Hawkltin means “clothed with power” (Jenness, p. 10). Indeed, he was clothed in power as the stories tell us. My great-grandfather’s story as captured in the anthropological book, The Faith of A Coast Salish Indian, remains the core authority of all Coast Salish scholarship since. Along with the ethnographic notes that preface it, this book is unique among historical anthropologists’ publications5 in that my great grandfather’s voice: his words are quoted verbatim, and form the bulk of the publication. It is the most comprehensive account of reality and the details of our Katzie Coast Salish territory by a Coast Salish person to this day. Many of the participants in my study called his story, “Grandfather’s Story” or “Grandfather’s book.” While my great-grandfather’s stories continue to be important to understanding our cultural spiritual land water nature intertwined realities, it is my grandmother’s story and example that is a main departure point and impetus for this study. I will explain in the chapters to follow. The Coast Salish Spindle Whorl 4 Pitt Lake and Sheridan Hill are in Pitt Meadows/Maple Ridge which is 40 kilometers east of Vancouver, British Columbia. 5 Anthropologists Boas and Hill-Tout wrote substantially about the upriver Stó:lō Coast Salish. 8 One of the most culturally identifying signifiers for the Coast Salish is the Coast Salish spindle whorl. It is not simply an object used to pull and turn raw wool into threads of yarn. It is complicated. It is mnemonic. It holds and produces our understandings, doings, transformative creating. It is a spiritual, intellectual and relational (familial) signifier, that turns and travels at the same time and same place and in multiple times and multiple places. All involved in the spinning of wool for the Coast Salish honor power blankets have to be clean spiritually and have to have a well-intentioned focused mind while doing any part of the process. Those who specialized in caring for the Coast Salish wooly dog and those who gathered the precious mountain goat wool left on bushes high up local mountains were all required to have good intentions, good hearts and to be healthy and smooth of mind in their work. Artists were commissioned to carve the spiritual designs into some whorls. Sometimes these designs became animated and appeared to take on a life when the whorl was spun. All of this good, healthy energy became increasingly powerful as the process was imparted into the blanket and then onto the blanket wearer. The power of our spindle whorl is a transformative process; and through the Coast Salish spindle whorl, stories, geographies and histories can be conceptualized. A 10,000 year old Ozette village on the Olympic Peninsula held whale bone and stone spindle whorls that our people used throughout our long history in Coast Salish territories. Today, the spindle whorl motif is found as a symbol for Musqueam First Nation. The design of the Coast Salish spindle whorl can be found, for example, in a gigantic, three dimensional sculptural form welcoming visitors to Vancouver at the Vancouver International Airport, or as designs on manhole covers on Vancouver City streets. I 9 initiate this discussion in order to pull out the threads of thought, through a metaphorical spindle whorl cognitive process, from my Katzie Coast Salish ancestors to inform the present. In fact, there is also a Katzie spindle whorl held at the British Columbia Museum in Victoria (Figure 1). 10 Figure 1. Coast Salish Katzie Spindle and Whorl. Held on permanent public display at the B.C. Provincial Museum. Photo: Courtesy of the photographer, Keisha Amanda Charnley. 11 I first came across the Coast Salish spindle whorl through the work of artist Susan Point of Musqueam Nation in the early 1980s6. Susan Point has been leading the way for our Coast Salish revival of spindle whorl conceptualizations and others like Debra Sparrow and Krista Point have led the way with blanket weaving; all are working with the meanings attached to these conceptualizations and material belongings. Recently, the Musqueam First Nation has started to use the spindle whorl as a metaphor for their community vision (see Musqueam website: https//www.musqueam.bc.ca/community-engagement/ccp/). Their “comprehensive community plan and the vision that guides it,” entitled, We are of One Heart and Mind, or as we say in our language “nə́c̓aʔmat tə šxʷqʷeləwən ct” (pronounced “nutsa maat te shewelen st”), takes inspiration from the spindle whorl, spinning and twining together fibers of community to form a single thread with which to weave their community vision. Coast Salish identities of the self, family, nation, land and spirit were pulled apart by the colonial drive to separate us from each other, from the lands and waters, from other life forces and from our very selves. This unraveling by colonial forces was for the colonial machine to grab the natural resources and in the process; it has left a wake of destruction in its path. I use the spindle whorl in a cognitive way to knit and weave these narrative identity threads back together. 6 I have lived on Musqueam territory most of my life. I hold my hands up to our relatives and neighbors, the Musqueam Nation for taking care of this land and water and the culture in a beautiful way. Musqueam Nation has had a close relationship with Katzie for millennia. The closest language to Katzie language is Musqueam language, Hən̓q̓əmin̓əm̓. 12 Research Questions This study focuses on Indigenous pedagogies that support Indigenous literacies in the Katzie context. The big research questions asked by this study are as follows: 1) What is the relationship Katzie people have with the rivers and lands in their traditional territories? 2) What stories, memories, oral history, and names exist related to meaningful places on the land/water? What traditional educational activities occur there? 3) And bringing the two above questions together I wondered how might these ways of engaging with river and land places inform a land- and water-based pedagogy and curriculum? Other considerations extended out of the above questions. I wondered about what possible unique literacy modes were Katzie people using currently that provided them with their identity as Katzie and how were these modes being used as identity strengtheners, either implicitly (i.e., unintentionally) or explicitly (i.e., intentionally). Were these current literacy modes connected to traditional literacy modes such as oral storytelling/narrative modes, and how were these traditional literacy modes being used? For example were there specific cultural contextual places such as the home, the longhouse, and the land, and at specific cultural contextual times, when types of literacy modes were practiced. Further, in terms of question three, I wondered how might a Katzie First Nation pedagogy that connects identity to land look like and in what ways could Katzie First Nation’s literacies and pedagogies, which include storytelling and multimodal meaning-making, contribute to experiences of educational success for Katzie youth and community. 13 Identification of the Problem/Gap The atrocities that occurred in residential schools, and their range of effects across time and space, have long been well known among First Nations residential school survivors in Canada. The last residential school in Canada closed in 1996; but only more recently have these facts become public knowledge within the academy and the broader public sphere, thanks to the courageous work of the 6,000 residential school survivors, by First Nations scholars such as Dr. Roslyn Ing in the 1990s and, finally, due to the tireless work of those involved with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada and its Reports and Calls to Action (TRCC, 2015). Added to this multi-generational trauma is the fact that current mainstream education has also largely failed Aboriginal peoples in Canada. Graduation rates of Aboriginal students in public schooling have hovered at abysmal levels for the last four decades. In recent years these rates appear to be unstable with rises occurring in some years and decreases occurring in subsequent years in at least one School District and that District is one where most of the Katzie children and youth go to school. According to the BC Ministry of Education report (BC Ministry of Education, November 2018) Grade 12 graduation with a Dogwood Diploma in the Maple Ridge-Pitt Meadows School district, in the 2017-2018 school year only 55 percent of Aboriginal students graduated in the schools which Katzie school children attend. This rate is markedly less than the year before when 63 percent graduated. Much work needs to be done to improve the public school experience, success rates, and graduating statistics for Katzie people. According to the BC Ministry of Education, in 2017-2018, 69.6% of Aboriginal students graduated from Grade 12 with the regular Dogwood graduation diploma, while for the general non-Aboriginal population of Grade 12 students, 86.5% graduated. The 14 2017-2018 report shows an improvement from the 2015 report which showed Aboriginal students’ graduation rate at 50% and non-Aboriginal students’ graduation rates at 74%. Non-Aboriginal students also saw an improvement in their graduation scores with an increase of 12.5%. In 2015 there was a 24% discrepancy. In 2019 there still remains a sizeable 17% discrepancy between the rates of success in the public schools between Aboriginal students and their non-Aboriginal counterparts and this is simply unacceptable. This is evidence of the monumental crisis in education and an education system that while improving success rates for all students, it still largely fails Aboriginal children and youth, their families and communities, and Canadian society (BC Ministry of Education, 2018). The above statistics reflect not only a shortage of relevant curriculum but also, importantly, what I see as a lack of Indigenous pedagogy (i.e., pedagogical practices related to teaching, learning, and ways of knowing) rooted in local places that are relevant to Aboriginal identities. Studies show that increased exposure to Indigenous cultural practices and ways of knowing in education increases education outcomes for Aboriginal peoples (Barnhardt, 2015; Best Start Resource Centre, 2010; Eder, 2007; Hare, 2005; National Indian Brotherhood [NIB], 1972). Understanding and inclusion of Aboriginal forms of literacy need to be incorporated into mainstream schooling. It is generally understood that, for all learners, there exists a correlation between literacy achievement and educational achievement. In order for Aboriginal students to succeed in school, Aboriginal forms of literacy and meaning-making need to be valued. Because an intimate connection to land is core to Indigenous epistemology, pedagogy, literacy, and identity, any implementation of 15 Indigenous education must also include a relationship with the land upon which the process of education is situated. It is my hope that with more research in the areas of Indigenous pedagogy, literacies, epistemologies, and engagement with land, schools will increasingly put into practice the understanding that the mind’s way of knowing is only one of many possible ways. For example, there are ways of knowing that privilege embodied and multi-sensate engagement with the world that can be pedagogical,7 and these kinds of language/pedagogies of place are needed in the Coast Salish context. With this hope in mind, my research project initiated interviews with members of the Katzie First Nation community focused on Indigenous pedagogies and literacies in the Katzie context. Site Selection Katzie First Nation: Q̓iċəy̓ First Nation8 The site I selected for this study was the Katzie First Nation, one of the many Coast Salish nations along the coast of British Columbia in Canada, and in Washington and Oregon in the United States—the imaginary colonial line made real by the border patrol dividing our Coast Salish families. The land and waters of Coast Salish Territories have their eastern edge in Yale (near Hope, BC), and extend west to Vancouver, north to 7 For a discussion of Howard Gardner’s concept of multiple intelligences in a Coast Salish context, refer to: Ethel Gardner’s dissertation (2002) and her article Where there are always strawberries, (2000). I see my work/understanding as more embodied, multi-sensate, and engaged with the natural environment (we might term it holistic intelligence) compared with Gardner’s notion of multiple intelligences, but I think multiple intelligences can be a part of how we might understand holistic intelligence. We might conceive of this holistic intelligence as something akin to Manulani Meyers’ holographic universe (2003, 2013), and Gregory Cajete’s (1994, 2000) multiverse. 8 q̓iċəy̓ or Katzie means “people of the moss.” The name has slightly different meanings in the different areas containing the three reserves where many Katzie people currently live—for example, “people of the nettle.” 16 North Vancouver, up the coast to Sliammon and Powell River and Okeeno, across the Salish Sea to Comox on Vancouver Island, and south past Victoria to the southern region of Washington State. The Katzie traditional territory extends up the Pitt River to the lower tip of the Garibaldi mountain range in the Lower Mainland of British Columbia. Katzie territories include Pitt Meadows, Langley, Barnston Island in Surrey, and Maple Ridge, and extend along the Alouette River, Alouette Lake, Pitt River, Pitt Lake, and Fraser River and across Surrey to Boundary Bay, Tsawwassen, Ladner, and Musqueam. According to the Katzie First Nation Band Office Map (not shown here) and land claims based on the oral narrative and practices, Katzie First Nation Territory includes the entire Pitt Lake through Pitt Meadows, Maple Ridge, Port Coquitlam, Port Moody, Langley, Surrey, New Westminster, Burnaby, Vancouver, Richmond, Delta, Ladner Tsawwassen, to Point Roberts. There are five reservations. Three of the five reserves house Katzie members. Reserve number one is on the north shore of the Fraser River in Port Hammond (Pitt Meadows/Maple Ridge District). It is directly across the River from Barnston Island (Surrey District). Reserve number two is on the south shore of the Fraser River in Langley. Reserve number three is on the south side of Barnston Island facing Surrey and is accessible only by barge ferry. Reserve number four is on Pitt Lake. And reserve number five is the Katzie graveyard in Maple Ridge. The traditional territory of the Katzie First Nation goes from the lower part of the Garibaldi mountain range down through Pitt Lake and Pitt River, through Surrey, and all the way to Point Roberts9. There were major travel routes from Mount Currie, Lillooet 9 To see a more detailed map of the Katzie cultural territory, refer to: Eco-Cultural Restoration in Katzie Traditional Territory, p. 4 (for the traditional territory range) and p., 24 (for the Pitt Lake and Pitt River area in detail), http://katzienaturalresources.ca/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/Katzie-First-Nation.-2017.-Eco-Cultural-Restoration-in-Katzie-Traditional-Territory.pdf 17 and Harrison through and over the mountains to Katzie long ago before there was ever a highway along the Fraser river to Vancouver. Figure 2. Katzie First Nation and Coast Salish Neighbors. (Permission granted to the use and copy of this map from Coqualeetza Cultural Education Centre) The Map of Halq’emeylem Speech Area (Figure 2) shows where Katzie First Nation is in relation to the other Coast Salish nations and language speakers in Canada and into the United States. Katzie is in the center upper position right above Kwantlen, however, our traditional territory expands further through Kwantlen, through what is now called Surrey, and downriver toward Tsawwassen and Musqueam. Pitt Lake is the very long lake with Pitt River extending out of its top and can be seen to the left adjacent and Katzie First Nation. 2017. Eco-Cultural Restoration in Katzie Traditional Territory. Katzie Territory, BC, Canada. 18 above to where Katzie is labelled on the map. Allouette Lake is also noticeable on the map just above and to the right of the word Katzie. Nicomen Island, where my grandparents moved not long after they were married, and where they raised their children until the 1948 flood, can also be seen on this map. Nicomen Island is located just below where it says Nicomen on the map. It is to the east and right above Matsqui and Sumas. Location of Researcher Katzie is my family’s ancestral nation and I am a Katzie First Nation member. I chose this site because it holds great meaning to me from the stories told to me by my grandmother, and because it holds meaning for my fellow Katzie relatives. I also chose Katzie because I wish to give back to my ancestral and familial community. I wished to inspire us to continue to struggle against colonization and be the healthy, happy, brilliant people we were born to be, and to uphold the richness of our education and traditions that have guided us for millennia to be available for our future generations of Katzie. This work will also serve to educate the Xwulunítum/Settlers to hear us and further understand the true local history of Canada in the specific place of Katzie territories. My desire to discuss land- and water-based stories of lived experience in Katzie territories was based on the fact that these stories were missing in the literature and in the practice of schooling. The interviews I conducted were a way to bring forward old and new knowledge that Katzie have been implementing, and to draw out and identify Katzie land- and water-based pedagogy despite colonialism’s goals of erasure. I was also interested in the kinds of literacies Katzie members are engaged in. The interviews resonated with oral narrative, which is our traditional form of knowledge transfer, 19 relationship building, and self and family identification, along with modeling and experiential-based forms of knowledge sharing and literacy. I was also interested in the topic of land and stories because I was raised in a large extended family where stories of land hold a high currency. My interest in Indigenous education was also informed by my personal experience as a youth who attended 13 different schools in Vancouver and North Vancouver. Changing schools almost every year was very stressful and there were many difficult times, but the one strengthening constant was the few rare lessons held outdoors and the security of my extended family of aunt, uncle, two cousins, and two grandparents. On the occasions of outdoor lessons, when innovative teachers took students outside of the classroom for lessons at the beach, in the school grounds, or in the forest, my learning became exciting, engaged, and memorable. These experiences were holistic, multimodal, embodied, and experiential, and involved an interdisciplinarity across subjects as various teachers specializing in the areas of art, science, and social justice collaborated to co-lead these extraordinary lessons beyond the square box of the factory-modeled school building with its rows of desks and chairs. At home, my grandmother told stories about our large family and ancestors within the geographical and storied topography of our culture as Katzie people and as people at the intersection of Coast Salish and British interactions within a colonial context. The stories my grandparents told created the mental landscape in which I lived. These stories specifically featured the land where my grandmother’s family had lived for generations and millennia, and where my grandfather’s family settled when they arrived from Blackburn, England. These stories also recounted pivotal events connected to specific 20 places. It was clear from these stories that these events and geographies made us who we are today, yet this clarity and knowing was not in the public sphere beyond our familial and community context. It was not clear exactly who we were in the larger society because we had yet to be known in relation to these events and geographies that were meaningful to us. This phenomenon of not being known how we knew ourselves to be, was particularly the case in the schooling context. The only concrete certainties were the geographies and the stories. Throughout my childhood, my grandmother spoke of the book, mentioned previously, that ethnographer Wayne Suttles and anthropologist Diamond Jenness (1955) had written based on interviews with my great-grandfather, Peter Pierre. She expressed her dream that, one day, I might write down her own incredible story. My Ph.D. work is one way of writing down my grandmother’s story. This research is also informed by my previous work in the field of English literature and translation theory, specifically my engagement with French theorists Derrida, Cixous, Irigaray, Kristeva, and de Beauvoir. These theorists explored how we think in language and how language thinks us, and how to expand and break through oppressive boundaries of meaning and usage (i.e., around gender, sex, class, and race). How we break free of language that constrains us (e.g., the language of racism, sexism, and corporatization in a colonial context) is a question with which I and others have struggled, both in theory and in lived experience. Many of the struggles I have experienced and read about related to schooling have been created out of a patriarchal and corporate colonialism connected with both the content and the practice of schooling, right down to the actual buildings and physical structures within which schooling occurs. Robinson (2006) points out that the institution 21 of education is based on a factory model of compartmentalization and industrially defined efficiency founded during the Industrial Revolution of the 17th century—an education model which both Robinson and I see as outmoded and past due for an overhaul. This factory model corresponds with European modes of science that separate and compartmentalize knowledge, things, and people in order to classify and control them. Holistic, embodied, ecologically-oriented science such as the modes of science Indigenous peoples have practiced are quite different, as is the type of education that arises out of a holistic, ecological, engaged way of being in the world. It is time, I believe, for an educational revolution informed by research that models holistic and embodied methodologies. It is time to decolonize education and this begins, according to our Coast Salish protocol of staring with the local, in the local places in which we find ourselves. My local place for most of my life has been Musqueam territory, however, during the course of this doctoral journey, I have lived in other Coast Salish territories. I feel it is vital to ensure that my work has as its core the intent to benefit the community where the research is occurring. Smith (2005) and others have noted that Indigenous peoples have been researched nearly to death, not only receiving next to no benefit from research but actually suffering harm from it, as their resources are taken and their stories and identities misshapen and owned for profit by researchers, companies, and institutions. Self-reflexivity and field notes provided distance to learn through reflection on the experiences that occurred during my research. 22 Addressing the Knowledge Gap A gap exists in the literature when it comes to studies of Indigenous peoples’ forms of literacy, particularly Indigenous peoples’ multimodal forms of meaning-making. Hare’s (2003) research on Anishinaabe elders’ views of literacy and Michell, Vizina, Augustus, and Sawyer’s (2008) report are the only research literature available that directly discuss Indigenous literacy modes, models, and needs in Canada. Although very informative in paving the way for understanding Indigenous literacy, neither work focuses on Coast Salish—never mind Katzie—literacy modes and needs, which are contextualized and have a history specific and unique to the local lands, waters, geographies, and mental topographies in our Pacific Northwest coastal territories. Indeed, while there is a gap in scholarship regarding an understanding of the literacies and pedagogies of Indigenous peoples in general, a specific gap exists in the understanding of the literacies and pedagogies of those Coast Salish nations of the Vancouver region where I live. Katzie is one of these Coast Salish nations of the Greater Vancouver region. Theoretical and Methodological Considerations My main theoretical consideration is that I want to enact my values within and through my scholarship. I believe that scholarship is only as valuable as far as it is enacted. Since one of my main reasons for working toward my doctoral degree is that I believe societal change can happen through what happens in the microcosm of the university. I see the university as a microcosm of the bigger outside world—a petri dish for what could happen out there. More recently, I also see the university as a place that can overlap with the out there through community partnerships and collaboration. I want to contribute to change that makes the world a more equitable place, and for me one of 23 the most profoundly inequitable realities I have experienced and witnessed others experience is being First Nations in the face of settler institutions and settler ways of seeing and doing things. I want to see Canada decolonize, and I believe that is possible through incremental changes in universities, schools, and communities that make space for First Nations lived experiences to be known and shared by First Nations peoples themselves. And for settlers and new immigrants to listen and to take leadership from First Nations peoples in making the world a better, healthier, and more equitable place. At first, I decided to include in my thesis only scholars who are Indigenous. In this way, I felt that readers could take their leadership from the First Nations voices embedded in this paper. However, there are a few exceptional non-Indigenous scholars who I have included whose work are models of a respectful, honorable and decolonizing way of doing scholarship with First Nations people. These scholars are models of how to be a good Xwulunitim/settler scholar relative. I believe that there is a danger in that reconciliation, while a nice and informative gesture, can be largely a marketing tool, a pacification, for continued colonization. Until there is restitution in the form of settlers giving up leadership space, finances, land and water and natural resources, and other benefits accrued to them due to colonization and the uprooting of Indigenous peoples from our rightful places, then reconciliation and justice will not be in effect in Canada. Further, given that Indigenous women have largely been silenced within the colonially imposed band system, and that Indigenous women have been the most vulnerable population in Canada in terms of being targeted victims of violence and inequity in the justice system, I have also chosen to weave the voice of the until now silenced sister 24 within the Xe:xals siblings into my dissertation as an act of decolonization and upholding the place and voices of our matriarchs and the feminine.10 In terms of methodological considerations, it was important to me that my methodology contained aspects of resurrecting and nurturing Coast Salish or Katzie culturally in application. I also approached my research project by combining the auto-ethnography of my education and family history experiences with the Katzie participants’ stories in a way that serves to decolonize and re-contextualize our stories in a contemporary living reality. Rather than an implied message that Indigenous peoples are on the brink of extinction for the sake of colonial progress, emphasis is placed on the fact that Indigenous peoples and Katzie in particular are on the cusp of (and are actively and determinedly engaging in) a resurgence, a blossoming, a flourishing of culture, traditions, and political activities to decolonize and to be Katzie in Katzie lands and waters and in relation with other Coast Salish as has been the case since time immemorial. I also see my project contributing to the beginning trend of Intergenerational Indigenous Outdoor Education Programs implementing land-based pedagogies that I have observed emerging in post-secondary education. In recent years some maverick university professors have begun working in collaboration with First Nations 10 I have been thinking about the mitochondria of our DNA that can only be passed down from female to female, from mothers to daughters to granddaughters and so on. My daughter pointed out to me one day that the mitochondria of our DNA is the part of the DNA through which women’s genes are passed on. She pointed out that, at this time in our Pierre family, my daughter and I and my great-aunts Margie and Tillie’s daughter’s daughters are the only descendants of Katherine Pierre who carry her DNA and can pass on her DNA any further. This could possibly have implications for stories passed on, as well as for overall spiritual and physical health. First Nations have, up until two generations ago, had substantially stronger health status compared to settlers, both genetically and in terms of the environmental impact, that our lifestyle has in our territories. 25 Communities to offer university credit courses on the land. Intergenerational land- and water-based learning is starting to re-flourish in ways that allow Indigenous and non-Indigenous students opportunities to engage with broader, more holistic and interconnected content in richer and more diverse ways through land- and water-based Indigenous pedagogy. I have noticed this phenomenon occurring in seedling courses and programs led or co-led by First Nations educators in partnership with Indigenous elders, traditional knowledge keepers, and university scholars (e.g., Tracey Friedel at UBC/Nuu Chah Nulth/Bamfield; Ron Ignace at SFU/Secewepemcx; Glen Coultard at UBC/Dechinta University/Guichon; and Pangnirtung Summer School—a joint program through the Native Studies Department and Faculty of Environment at the University of Manitoba in collaboration with the Hamlet of Pangnirtung, Nunavut) that take the classroom out of the square box and onto the lands and waters of First Nations territories. I am interested in how Indigenous literacy can be fully experienced and applied in these land- and water-based contexts, and how these efforts might lead to local and non-local Indigenous learners having more meaningful, and thus more successful joyful experiences in schooling at the post-secondary level, where attrition rates are high. I wonder how these efforts to offer university courses in Indigenous contexts might be transforming the university experience for all students who engage with them. By documenting Katzie stories and knowledge paradigms, my project addresses the gap in local post-secondary education that exists in relation to Coast Salish peoples, and in particular Katzie, education paradigms, pedagogy, and content. My study follows on the heels of, and supports and offers validation for the inaugural courses forged within local Indigenous education paradigms at some Canadian universities within the last ten 26 years. I hope my research will, like the above re-flourishings built on the foundation of 45 years of work by Indigenous parents and scholars and non-Indigenous allies, build upon all of this previous work so that Katzie land- and water-based university-level programming can be created that takes into account who the Katzie people are, what the land means to us, and what our goals are for the future. Parents, aunties, uncles, grandparents, cousins, and older siblings benefitting from culturally relevant post-secondary programming implemented through Katzie pedagogy will also have a mentoring impact on children K-12 who will witness their parents and elders enjoying school. We must also build and nurture community education that is sustainable and does not rely on capricious Canadian government funding bodies that are not seriously invested in working toward our long-term benefit—in fact, they still work within a system that was built to do quite the opposite. My project contributes to the need for scholarship that promotes the understanding and valuing of Indigenous literacies in general, and in particular responds to the lack of scholarship regarding the literacies and pedagogies of local Coast Salish First Nations. Further, my project contributes to filling the gap in education scholarship regarding ways of knowing, literacies, curriculum, and pedagogy of Katzie First Nation peoples. Understanding and including Indigenous knowledge and the role of land and place must begin under the guidance and leadership of local Indigenous nations in the lands and places in which we live (Calderon, 2014). In Chapter 2, therefore, I discuss the ancestral significance of this research study. I describe my ancestry, enact a Coast Salish and Katzie protocol, and share my education history as an example of an urban Coast Salish childhood interacting with the public 27 school system in Vancouver. Little to no first hand accounts of Indigenous children’s experience of education in urban public schools have reached academic publication to date. I also introduce the participants who volunteered to be interviewed for the research project within an ancestral and familial context. In Chapter 3, I describe a literature review of works related to Indigenous peoples’ perspectives of land, water, and place in education. In doing this review, I drew out theoretical themes as a starting place to delineate an emergent theory of Indigenous peoples’ perspectives of land, water, and place in education. In Chapter 4, I discuss the methodological approach I created for my research project, and the principles I found in other Indigenous researchers’ descriptions of their own methodologies. I describe the cultural history of the metaphor I use to discuss aspects of methodology, methods, and findings. In Chapter 5, I describe the results and findings of my study in the form of story themes I found in the participants’ interviews and shared stories. I describe participant recommendations for education that are relevant for Katzie. In Chapter 6, I outline what I see as a possible Katzie pedagogy drawn from the research I undertook. I discuss pedagogical themes, principles, and content that came out of this project by reflecting on the literature review, methodological approach, participant story themes and participant recommendations. In Chapter 7, I discuss the contribution that this research study has made to scholarship and to supporting Katzie identity, belonging, and culturally-based education rooted in the lands and waters of Katzie territories and stories. I also discuss the significance and limitations of this research project. Further, I identify some suggestions for future research that could stem out of this research project. 28 Chapter 2: Researcher and Participant Ancestries, and Grandmother’s Story This chapter serves to provide key points of the cultural and land-based contexts for my thesis research. In the first part of this chapter, I discuss my family history and highlight aspects of my public schooling and post-secondary education history. In this way, I provide an auto-ethnographic account of my two strands of education, the strand of Coast Salish education and the strand of the British colonial based public schooling, that I experienced while growing up. This story of my two education strands and experiences acts as a parallel story, an urban mirror to the Coast Salish and to the colonial strands of educational contexts and experiences that my family, my relatives and the participants share and address. I weave our stories together to create a holistic interwoven understanding of our family experiences, understandings of, and visions for, education. In the second part of this chapter, I introduce the participants in my research study, their stories of their family ancestry and place of birth, sharing where they are from and the geographies they discuss in their stories; I include a Pierre family tree. Our family tree is interwoven, crossing territories and families around the world. The family tree is not complete but provided within the limits of the dissertation and its topics. I present my grandmother’s story to the best of my ability. I give a synopsis of my great-grandfather’s book of our cosmology and origin story, and provide an overview of my great-grandfather’s version of the story of Xe:xals that is framed within that anthropological record of the Diamond Jenness and Wayne Suttles book with the image of my grandfather’s portrait on its cover (see Figure 3). I introduce the concept of my emerging story of Xé:ls as the remembered sister. 29 Figure 3. Photograph of My Great-Grandfather Peter Pierre On The Cover of “The Book”. Photograph Taken by Researcher. 30 Five Pedagogical Protocols Upon reflection I noticed that there are five important universal pedagogical and epistemological protocols that we have as Coast Salish which embody teachings that applied to my project. These five protocols that value the local, land and people, ancestry and place, elders, getting an education, and loving one another are explained as follows. The first protocol, with its teachings, is to first start with the local as your point of departure—i.e., to acknowledge the local nations and lands in which one is standing. This is like the spinning work of the Coast Salish spindle whorl, the movement and momentum is from the center outward. This protocol shows how much we value a significant connection to the land and place we are on in this moment. The second protocol is connected to the first protocol. The second protocol is to express gratitude for being invited to be on the territory of the people and nation where we are at the beginning of doing some kind of work together. We are thanking the people of this territory for taking care of the land and water and beings living there and for protecting their ancestors in a healthy way to sustain the health of all. We acknowledge that without their taking care of themselves and the lands in a healthy way we also would not be able to now. We also acknowledge the Xwulunítum/Settlers who may be present. The third important protocol is to ask, “Where are you from?” and to share where you come from means, first and foremost, to describe what your family lineage is and how you identify, and then secondarily to state where you are from geographically. The fourth main protocol we have as Katzie and Coast Salish peoples is listening to, and doing, what our elders ask of us. In this next section, I talk about the ancestry that is at the core of Coast Salish protocols and of this research study. I talk about how my grandma and her story is at the 31 heart of the momentum that guides the knowledge of this dissertation. I organize this section on my ancestry and my grandmother’s story according to what I have drawn out through familial experience, familial education, and the literature as the four protocols that are important to the topic of my dissertation and my grandmother’s story. Much of who I am and who I have become is because of this protocol. Adhering to this protocol influenced what I know, and these things I owe to my grandmother. I share some of her story below. The fifth important protocol is to love one another and I noticed this was a constant present value expressed, told, felt and enacted when I was with my grandmother and Pierre relatives growing up and when I was interviewing this study’s participants and during the many re-readings I did of their transcribed interviews. Thus, for me, as a Katzie Coast Salish scholar, it is particularly meaningful to begin my research by acknowledging the land, family and peoples from whence I come—Katzie Peoples and Territories, where I shall continue to live along with our neighbors, Musqueam territory. By doing so, I feel I am already working to fill the knowledge gap in academia because I am embodying and practicing the local Indigenous protocol and pedagogy that is missing in the research literature. I can then move on to do the work set before me, that is attending to the protocols of getting an education, listening to my elders, and loving one another. I now begin the work of telling my grandmother’s story. My Grandmother’s Story: Amanda Charnley (Born Pierre) My research project began with my grandmother. My grandma, Amanda Charnley (born Pierre) is the middle daughter of Peter Pierre (or “Old Pierre”) of Katzie and Katherine Pierre (born Charles) of Tswwassen. My grandmother was born on the south 32 shore of the Fraser River. My grandmother was cherished and loved like an aunt to hundreds if not thousands of people; to blood relatives and non-blood friends, she was known as “Aunt Mandy.” My grandmother is the one who gave me the directive to tell her story, and held up her father’s book—Old Pierre’s telling of our origin story to anthropologist Diamond Jenness and ethnographer Wayne Suttles (See footnote 11), The Faith of a Coast Salish Indian —as an example of how important it is to tell our stories11 and to share and explain our family’s knowledge and how we experience our realities. When I was ten years old, my grandmother modelled this directive when she shared the story of our relative Slumach and his gold mine12 with a Xwunitum family friend, Don Waite (See footnote 12 for links to two photos of my grandmother and Don Waite). Many believe the gold mine was cursed because all who had anything to do with it died tragically shortly thereafter. My great-grandfather had handed down the story to my grandmother about his nephew, Slumach. Slumach brought bowling ball sized gold nuggets out of his mine located in the northern mountains of our territory, but he kept it 11 The physical fact of this book was evidence that a place in settler society was possible, and since my great-grandfather had been listened to then maybe there would be more space for listening to us, seeing us, and recognizing our existence and our authentic, non-stereotyped experience if only an effort was made toward expanding that space. The book itself is a manifestation of my great-grandfather’s and our faith as Katzie people. We call it our book because it is our book, it belongs to our family; it contains our great-grandfather’s words and stories, and these are our core origin stories. 12 The story handed down to my grandmother about her father’s nephew, Slumach and the lost goldmine, like in the case of my great-grandfather’s book, also belongs to our family and holds my grandmother’s voice. She was interviewed by author, pilot and ex-RCMP, Don Waite for a book and a movie and her story is now referred to in many different books and films, e.g., Waite, D. (1972).“The Lost Mine of Pitt Lake," in Kwant'stan (The Golden Ears).Maple Ridge, BC: by the author. Clicking on the link in this citation will take one to the download of the publication. On page 20 is a photo of my grandmother on one of the visits Don Waite made to interview her. This was taken at my grandparent’s house in Mission. My grandmother’s interview is available on the following link: http://www.slumach.ca/books.htm under “Aunt Mandy’s Interviews” in the sidebar.There is a photo there of her and Don Waite that was taken outside on my grandparent’s property. 33 secret13. Slumach was imprisoned and eventually he was hung to death in New Westminster in 1891. Gold prospectors continue to be obsessed with finding the location of Slumach’s mine. Throughout my childhood, she expressed the wish that I might one day write down her story. She had lived an amazing life, persevered through the happiest and darkest of times by her own strength and inner resources as well as a lived faith in Coast Salish healing medicine, practiced and passed down by her parents. My grandmother held a vast and deep love for her parents, husband, children, grandchildren, and extended family, friends, and communities. I appreciate my grandmother as well as her parents for their stories and values passed down to me. I am also grateful for my English grandfather, Clinton Charnley, for his time, voice, ear, attention, companionship, and affection in my early formative years. I am thankful for stories I have heard from my grandmother’s niece, my aunt Martha Washington (daughter of Simon Pierre), who married into Lummi. She told me how my grandfather learned our language fluently and lived at Katzie because of love—love and respect for my grandmother and for her parents and family, and the love he had for our land and the love expressed through his passionate interest in the many breeds of cattle that took him travelling for work. I am also grateful for my Aunty Catherine Chaney (born Charnley), my grandma’s youngest child, for helping me by sharing some of her memories of my grandma and my grandma’s story. I also am grateful to my mother Judy 13 My great-grandfather had also given my grandmother the map of where the gold mine was that he had written down according to Slumach’s instructions. In his last days in prison Slumach shared his final thoughts with my great-grandfather. However the map was lost in the 1948 flood when my grandmother and her children lost everything, including my grandmother’s treasured hope chest that held her beloved wedding photographs, and had to be rescued by boat. 34 Frances Charnley, my grandmother’s first daughter, for sharing her stories and values with me and for always listening to and showing respect, awe and great care for my grandmother. This was good role modeling for me during the time I was growing up until my grandmother passed on to the spirit world to unite with her predeceased family members, my grandfather and our ancestors. My mother’s role modeling taught me the value of listening to our elders. She showed me to listen and learn from my grandmother and to respect, be awestruck and care for her. The experience of a love filled relationship that I had with my grandmother was the richest of my life that I always return to and which comforts me in the cold dismissive, degrading and generally unfriendly and unloving world of the Xwulunítum where I have been forced to live as an unwelcome, displaced person for most of my life. While all around me they enjoy and reap the benefits of my homelands. Gorging on the benefits of my homelands and leaving waste and toxicity in their path. I decided to begin the complex journey of sharing my grandmother’s story by listing a few facts about who she was as a person. ● My grandmother was a healer taught by her parents and family. ● My grandmother was a Plant Knowledge Keeper. She worked with cascara and nettles, and knew and could answer questions about many other plants. ● She married my English grandfather in August 1925, when she was 23 and he was 41. ● When she was 29 years old she slipped on the ice of the slough, while getting water to boil to cook and wash clothes with, on the homestead on Nicomen Island 35 between Dewdney and Deroche, British Columbia14. For a week, after slipping on the ice and hitting her head, she had headaches, and my grandmother woke up on the seventh day blind. My grandfather was away working as a butcher and cattle buyer for a company at the time. My uncle Bob was five at the time and her second child Cecil was two. Cecil died within the year of leukemia, pneumonia, or a viral infection like the flu, depending on who you talk to. Three more children (Bill, Judy, and Cathy) were born afterward. ● She was a copious reader of health books. She read in braille, and ordered books from the Canadian National Institute for the Blind (CNIB). ● She was a noted public figure in the Mission, Fraser Valley area. ● She provided a place of refuge for family members during the residential school years. ● She was a member of the Mission Eagles Ladies Auxiliary and the CNIB. ● She loved bingo. She travelled from Hope to Vancouver, and from Stave Lake to Sumas and Linden, USA to attend bingo sometimes 6 or 7 nights of the week for periods of time. 14 Shortly after they were married the Indian Agent had come to the house at Katzie and told them that because my grandfather was not native, they had to leave Katzie. She did go live for periods of time with her parents when she had her babies and durng her rehabilitation period after she was blinded. After my grandparents lived in Katzie, they lived in Marpole in Vancouver and when things did not work out there, they had moved to the Nicomen Island property of one of my grandfather’s brothers.This left my grandmother far away from her family, living in isolation even far from settler farms. Adjacent to a slough, the homestead was only approachable by boat or by a long hike in the brush, forest and creek. We used to go back there every year during my childhood to pick blackberries and reminisce about those times they lived there. My grandfather travelled for work. This left my grandmother vulnerable to the accident that happened that blinded her. 36 ● She dreamt of being an actress. I remember her telling me that sometime between the mid 1910s and 1920s, she auditioned for the part of Pocahontas. People from Hollywood came to scout out an actress. She was told she did not get the part because her neck was considered to be too short for their liking and the part went to a girl she knew who had a long neck. ● She was a Katzie language speaker from birth (Hun’qumyi’num’, another used spelling is Hən̓q̓əmin̓əm̓), the downriver language. She also spoke island Hul’q’umin’um’, and upriver Halq’eméylem, and could understand and speak some Silx/Interior Salish with family members and friends when we visited them in the Okanagan in the summers. ● She was involved in weekly Coqualeetza elders and language meetings in Chilliwack for years during the 1970s and 1980s. The Anxiety of Writing Down the Story of a Life (Especially of One’s Grandparent) In actually writing down my grandmother’s story, I feared I could not do her story justice, and I was overwhelmed by the magnitude of how to capture in words the full meaningfulness of her life. What would she have said? She was the one who asked me to write down “her story,” but what can I say? I was a child, a teenager, and a very young adult when I knew her. She had a life beyond what she told me about herself. I asked her what I thought were a lot of questions but now I wished I had asked her even more questions. I have heard people say recently that it is important to ask the elders questions, it shows you value them, and what they know, and when they are shown this, they are more likely to bring their memories forward to share with us. There is so much of my grandmother’s inner world that, now that I am an adult, I would like to ask her about 37 now. She was always so pleasant—so thoughtful, upbeat, and caring. I don’t know fully what she meant by her hope that I would “write down her story someday” nor the full reasons. What I do know is that it was very important to her that I do. I can only do the best I can in writing down what I remember, what I felt, and what I currently feel, and have faith that is all she wanted from my efforts, and that it will be enough for now. I want to be responsible, and to proceed with love and care and hope and faith that this story I write will turn out well. I want my grandmother and her story to be understood, respected, and highly valued by those who read what I write down. So, I begin with these questions, worries, and acknowledgment of my own shortcomings to start the story—my story of her story. I will write down what I remember, and that will at least be a start. Perhaps this initial act of giving voice to my grandmother’s life story can be amplified and continued by others who knew her and remember her, and who read or hear about her story in and beyond this dissertation. In a broader sense, I see my grandmother’s story as the story of our people, our Katzie people, our Coast Salish people, our Indigenous people, and the human race. It is the story of living a passionate, fulfilled, and loving life against the odds, in the face of colonial culture’s brutality against us at so many turns, and systems of oppression such as those enacted by the colonial Canadian government through the decades—the residential and public school systems, and the Indian Act with its many discriminations, especially the discrimination against us for our gender as girls, as women, as elders. Remembering My Grandmother I began my grandmother’s story with a list of facts, but of course that bare outline, while factually correct, does not capture who my grandmother was as a person. I have 38 included a photograph (see Figure 4) (that my grandmother gave me) to show her in a light that she saw herself in as she had seen this photograph with her own eyes before she became blinded and thus knew and liked this capture of her image in a happy content moment when she was around twenty years old and wearing the fashionable hair style of the day, a bob15. 15 For a riveting article on how the power of photographs have been used by colonial agents to diminish and relegate Indigenous peoples for colonial purposes, e.g. the constructedness of images in photographs of Indigenous children at residential schools, see D. Lyn Daniel (2018), “Truth and Reconciliation in Canada: Indigenous Peoples as Modern Subjects”. I read Daniel’s work as reminding us of the critical importance of bringing all of our experienced stories forward, and as showing us that photographs also hold power to decolonize, through our sharing of our historical and contemporary realities. Daniels quotes from theorist Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999) who “reminds us ‘(t) he need to tell our stories remains the powerful imperative of a powerful form of resistance’ (p. 35)”. Daniels goes on to quote from theorist Anne McClintock (1995) who studied colonial photography, where “the panoptical stance–is enjoyed by those in privileged positions in the social structure, to whom the world appears as a spectacle, stage, performance” (McClintock, 1995, p. 122) and this panoptic “power of collection, display, and discipline, a ‘technology of surveillance within the context of a developing global economy” (p. 123) where there is a need for “’ordering…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)”. Daniels states, “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” (Daniels, 2018, p. 4). I include photographs of my grandmother that show a reality rarely seen in the public domain. The photos in this dissertation show a reality beyond the posed photographs of residential school children or that posed image of the family (See Figure 7) with my grandmother, some of her siblings and her parents, the photo from where the portrait of my great-grandfather was taken for The Faith of A Coast Salish Indian. 39 Figure 4. My Grandmother, Amanda Charnley (nee Pierre). A close-up during her early 20s, before she was blinded. Photograph given to researcher by her grandmother. Photographer Unknown. Researcher’s private collection. The list captures aspects of who she was in terms of what she did and was involved in socially, but the truth of what I know of her is in our personal relationship. When I think of my grandmother, what I feel and know about her, and my true understanding of who she really was, is contained in my experience of her as her grandchild. I knew my grandmother from the time I was an infant until I was 26 years old. On a personal level, what I know of her now is based on memories, that unravel in threads when tugged into consciousness, and into language from the feeling senses of the past, when I was with her physically. These senses, imprinted into mental, physical, and emotional memory, are here recalled, re-sung, to be rethreaded, to be rewoven here in this present writing down of her story. The sensations and sense of my grandmother that were imprinted upon me during my upbringing and that continue to stand out to me are the following: 40 Her laugh—especially when she was speaking “Indian” with her elder sister, Aunt Margie from Katzie on Barnston Island, Surrey. Language. Talking and laughing in “Indian” or “Xwulmulwx” with Aunt Margie. In her bedroom. Blue with white threads cotton bedspread on her 1940s “waterfall” bed. Shades drawn down. Dappled light coming through in shadows, like her blind vision. Abilities, art, creativity. Keeping busy. Pottery, basketry, knitting slippers for Christmas and sweaters to sell to Rex Cox’s store in Mission. Trapped muskrat furs, and sold them to Rex Cox and companies in Vancouver. Her role as a confidante. We all confided in her—me and my family and great extended family and her many friends ranging far across geography and cultures. She kept confidences tightly and with grace. She could be trusted. Her deep faith in transformation, in the ability of people to take action to solve their problems whether health-related, social, spiritual, or interpersonal. Her faith in a higher power, the power of our ancestors, the power of the dead, and the power of other entities such as animals that came into our lives or that we sought out—deer, grouse, grasshoppers, cougars, snakes. Her quick wit, occasional jokes and plays on words, and intellectual pursuits such as discussing topics of the day on the public radio talk shows in Mission City. Her unwavering love and selflessness. She liked her hair short and the color blue was her favorite color. She wore two-inch Cuban-heeled European- and British-made black leather laced shoes that seemed to me to belong to Victorian times rather than the 60s, 70s, or 80s. They were beautiful, well-made, and comfortable for her. She wore size 5E width. She 41 was five feet tall and weighed 90-100 pounds when she was young and 105-120 pounds during the time I knew her. My grandmother always wore dresses, preferably blue, and stockings, and a full slip. Textures were important. (Quality was important.) She always had a container of Jergens hand lotion on her vanity beside her bed, and a box of Kleenex, and often a box of chocolates hidden away in the drawers beneath, as well as mail for my mom or uncle or me to read to her. There would be piles of braille books on her vanity, the adjacent chair, and over the closet. These braille books were much larger than regular bound smooth pages of non-braille books. They were made of light brown unbleached paper about 16 inches by 14 inches with braille texture to brush your fingers across and feel the pattern of the raised dotted words. When family came to visit, one of the first things that would happen when they came up to where my grandmother was sitting in order to greet her, was she would ask to feel their faces. She would lightly read the angles of their facial features with the tips of her fingers in order to see them, and to see how they were, to get a sense of how they were compared to the last time she saw them. She would note if they had gained or lost weight and ask a question or two, such as what was going on in their lives since their last visit. It was always interesting when new family members, through marriage, or a young child, came to visit and it was their first time having their faces read by my grandma. They were so surpised and delighted. There was an intimacy, a deeper connection that occurred in this way of reading and seeing. On a very visceral level, I loved the touch and smell of her skin. She had a beautiful smell—powdery, silky, and soft even though she never used any kind of 42 perfume. We are called “people of the moss” and sometimes I think it is not only because there is a lot of moss and lichen found in our land, but also because we—at least the Katzie women in my family—have skin that is as soft as moss. My grandma was born in 1902, and she was 59 years old when I was born. She told me when I asked her about school that she went to a Catholic nun-run day school in Hammond. She told me about what the nuns did to the students when she went to school in the early years of the last century, from around 1910 to 1915, for the first time when I was in my late teens or early twenties in the early 80s. She said they beat the girls’ chests with rocks when they went to the water to wash their clothes. She said the girls would be screaming but nobody could hear them out there. She said they did that so that the girls wouldn’t develop sexually. She said they didn’t do that to her though. I asked her why and she said she didn’t know, but she felt so sad for the ones she saw attacked like that by the nuns. She said she left school around Grade 6. I asked her why Grade 6. Her parents took her out and told her she had learned enough there. And on another occasion, she said that the school only went up that far. She helped her mom at home and went to work at the sundry store in Hammond. She met my grandfather (1884-1971) when she was only 6 years old because he would come to visit her brother Xavier as they had become friends. My grandfather’s parents and some of his siblings had settled in Pitt Meadows and Barnston Island but he arrived later. He was 24 years old at that time. She loved to recount their courtship and love for each other and marriage. She said their first kiss was when she was 16 years old, behind the barn. He would have been 34. They were engaged to be married when she was 21. They waited and married when she was 23 and my grandfather was 41. He had to ask 43 her father for her “hand in marriage.” My grandfather had a love of travel as he had emigrated all the way from England and had already lived a long time in California and hoped to travel to South America to see a breed of long horned cattle there. My grandmother said her father told him he could only marry my grandmother on the condition that he would never move her away from her family and territory, and he promised, so they were married. They also waited to have their first child. She had their first child when my grandmother was 25 years old, in 1927. My uncle Bob was her only surviving child that she saw with her eyes before she was blinded. Uncle Bob lived from 1927-2002, and for most of his life, between logging jobs and after he retired from logging, he stayed by my grandmother’s side. Uncle Bob passed on at age 74. My grandfather was away working as a cattle buyer and butcher when she had an accident, slipping on the ice and hitting her head while getting water from the frozen slough to boil for making tea and cooking and to wash clothes. Afterwards, she had headaches for a week and woke up one morning blind. She had had bleeding behind her retinas. It is said that my grandfather sent all the way to Switzerland for doctors who came to attend to my grandmother but none could help her. In fact, because one doctor tried to operate, he actually made the situation impossible to fix later. When I was 10 years old and new techniques and knowledge could have fixed her eyes, the modern doctors said that because the earlier doctor’s work had left scar tissue, they couldn’t fix her eyes now even though without that additional scar tissue they would have been able to. She was very sad and depressed for a little while after that, because that had been the first time in 40 years that she had gotten her hopes up that she would see again. I felt so bad for her, and so wanted her to be able to see like the rest of us. She 44 tried to look in the mirror, and she said sometimes she could see shadows out of the corners of her eyes. She would describe the scenery, though, when we went for drives in our Fraser Valley. She remembered what places looked like, and when I asked her how she knew we were at a place that she was describing to me, she said she could feel the bumps and turns of the car and could tell from that where we were at any given point. When we went for drives to places she hadn’t been in a long time like the Okanagan or Vancouver Island, or in new places we travelled to by bus, like California or Nevada, she would ask me questions, wanting me to describe what it looked like outside as we were driving. Around this time, my grandfather passed away. My grandmother was sad, and her life changed somewhat after that. She started going to bingo a lot more and getting out of the house, which helped her with the grief and loneliness of missing my grandfather. Around this same time, her sister Tilly also passed away a few months before my grandfather, and then there was a tragic automobile accident involving her nephew and many of his family. She was in her 70s at this point, and I was 8-12 years old. I had always been my grandfather’s sidekick, even sleeping in his bed with him when I stayed with them up until this time. When he passed on, I started gravitating to my grandma. I was also at an age now where I could get to know my grandma more, valuing her and bonding with her. I cherish my time with her and am so grateful I spent a lot of time in my adult youth with her as well. Years later, when she passed away, I threw myself on her grave and wanted to crawl in too. The loss was apocalyptic; my world felt like a vacant, desolate, lifeless desert without her. 45 My grandmother’s second surviving son, William (Bill), lived from 1936-1964, dying at age 28 prematurely while serving in the Canadian Air Force while stationed in Nova Scotia. My grandparents and his siblings were so proud of his brilliant intellect and for his accomplishment in reaching for his goal of becoming an airplane pilot. My grandmother even donned his uniform during one of his rare visits he had made home (See Figure 5). 46 Figure 5. My Grandmother Amanda Charnley Wearing William Charnley I’s Air Force Uniform. Photographer unknown. Private collection of Pierre Family. 47 He had taken his exams and was fearful about the result. A family friend, Dr. Roslyn Ing, who was his neighbor at the time, decades later when I met her for the first time, she informed me that when the exam results were posted days after his death, my uncle had aced the exam and was at the top of his class. My grandmother had had him when she was 34. When he died, allegedly of suicide, I was two. My mom was 25. My aunty Cathy was 21. My grandma was 62. My grandfather was 80. Next came my mother, Judy Frances Mathilda, who was born in 1938 and is still living at age 80. My grandma was 36 when she had my mom, and my grandfather was 54. Last came my aunty Cathy (Katherine Veronica), born in 1942 and still going strong at age 76. My grandma was 40 when she had my aunt, and my grandfather was 58. After my grandfather died in 1971 when he was 87, just days before my 9th birthday, my grandmother, age 59, increased her attendance at bingo to most days of the week and continued this practice for many years. Since bingo was normally held only once or twice a week in most towns, she travelled across the Fraser Valley in the Lower Mainland of British Columbia and into Washington State to play bingo and visit family and friends who were also attending bingos at whichever place she happened to be at. There was bingo at the Legion on Granville Street, in Vancouver, and at Main and Broadway, and at the Legion Hall and Eagles Hall in Mission. There was a hall in Sumas, Washington, Stave Lake Hall, Haney, and Lyndon, Washington. She attended bingo sometimes five or six times a week. Bingo was one of the places where she’d meet relatives and old friends, and would get to know staff who often would gather around in awe at her ability to play bingo with the braille cards she would bring. Most of the time they would be okay with her bringing her braille cards, but occasionally they would say 48 no, and me or my uncle or mom or aunt would play for her, or we would leave disappointed and sad at her not being able to play. My grandmother had an active social life. She attended Eagles Ladies Auxiliary meetings and made speeches, and of course went to their bingo nights. She continued to participate in the CNIB that was based in Vancouver. She especially borrowed books from their braille library on a very regular basis, and would grow bored when they ran out of books to borrow. We attended the annual CNIB fair at the Kitsilano High School gym ice rink, where we played games like bingo, and everyone won a bag or two of groceries as they left. I was often allowed to go in with her while she played bingo, although I was not the legal age of 18 to be on the premises back then (even though there was no alcohol or other types of “gambling”). I was age 8-12 during this time. My grandmother was also very involved in attending the Coqualeetza elders’ language meeting in Chilliwack on Tuesdays or Wednesdays from 10 am to 1 pm with lunch. We would get a ride with some nice, generous person who loved my grandma. Often it was Hank Pennier16 and Maggie Pennier. Maggie was my grandma’s “niece,” and she would drive. Hank had a damaged knee from his logging days and walked with a cane. We would be excited, and would be washed, groomed, dressed and ready to go when the person arrived with their car to take us. My uncle Bob lived with my grandmother after he retired from logging and after my grandpa died, and he would often 16 For Hank Pennier’s autobiography, refer to: Pennier, H. (1972). Chiefly Indian: The warm and witty story of a British Columbia halfbreed logger. West Vancouver, B.C.: Graydonald Graphics. For a recent recontextualized publication of Hank’s autobiography, See: Pennier, H. (2006). Call Me Hank: A Stó:lõ Man's Reflections on Logging, Living, and Growing Old.(Eds.). Carlson, K.T. and Fagan, K. Toronto, Ontario: University of Toronto Press. 49 go with her to bingo and to the language conversation group as he loved bingo too and spoke our language. I remember her lying down on her bed in her quiet, cool bedroom and reading daily. I believe her reading was a major influence on me and inspired my own interest in reading and in learning about health. I remember her calling the radio station especially when her friend, Bennett, was DJing; she would ask him to play my favorite songs like Cher’s “Halfbreed” or Cher’s “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves,” or my grandma’s favorite Alvin and the Chipmunks songs. Sometimes she would call the radio station during a talk show to ask questions and put in her “two cents” on the matter under discussion. I remember her resourcefulness in getting on the phone to make things possible—for us to go places, to find other children for me to play with, and even a few times to find another girl to play with that had horses so I would get to ride, which was one of my favorite and most thrilling things to do. I also remember that people were constantly amazed at her being “blind.” People, Xwulunítum/Settlers andXwuxwílmuxw/Us people of this place, thought she was amazing. Wherever we went, they marveled at her ability, comfort, and ease despite her being blind. She could do what sighted people could do, and more. My grandmother fit in wherever she went. People gravitated to her, were astounded by her abilities and her inner strength and fortitude, and loved and adored her. I remember her being the confidante of many. Women and also men would come to talk privately to her and ask for her help with some problem or issue in their lives, and sometimes they would cry. She would listen quietly, with her ears alert, to their concerns, and then tell them some wise thing about how to think about the situation or what they 50 could do. She would comfort them, give them faith, and even make them laugh in her sweet, gentle way. Although none of the questions I posed to research participants concerned my grandmother, many of the participants wanted to share how much they appreciated having known my grandmother, and to tell me stories of how they went to her for help during horrible times and how profoundly she helped them in coping with those times. My grandparents’ home in Mission City, was one and a quarter acres, adjacent to a forest and high on a hill overlooking the Fraser Valley. It was a two hour bus ride from Vancouver. When I was ten and eleven years old, my home life was at its worst, and, on one of my overnight visits, when my grandmother asked me how things were (she seemed to sense when something was wrong), I confided in my grandma. She exclaimed and cried, and asked me some questions, thought silently, and came up with a way for me to survive what was going on. She said not to believe the mean things that were said to me at school and at home. She said those people were coming from a crazy place. She said try running around the school block as many times as I could, and every day whenever possible, and that that would help me cope and to feel better. She said with a marvel in her voice that her brother “X” (Xavier) was an awe inspiring cross-country runner. She said that when things get bad at home, to have some coins set aside, so that I could get away from the beatings, so that I could go to a café, have a ten cent hot chocolate, and wait things out. I started doing this. She also said to come to stay with her as much as possible and that when I reached 13 to come live with her and go to the high school that was walking distance from her house. When I went back home, remembering that there was something I could do, run, and that I might be able to go live with my 51 grandmother helped me cope. Running became a key coping mechanism and gave me joy into adulthood. My grandmother believed in a higher power, and had an intimate relationship with they/him/her. She had faith and spiritual healing resourcefulness. We would sometimes pray to Mary, the mother of Jesus, with my grandmother’s rosary beads. She practiced and believed in the efficacies of our Katzie medicine and spirituality and family would come to her to learn more. My grandmother had no ego or selfishness; she loved her family and friends and helped others selflessly even when it meant that she would be uncomfortable physically or in other ways. Often the help for which people would come to her was related to health, romance, depression, grief, or faith problems. My grandmother had gone through so much and had had such caring, attentive, and smart parents that she had a vast inner strength—emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually, and socially. Her mental strength was in harmony with her physical strength; they matched. When she was 80, she was lugging a queen size bed up a narrow, steep flight of steps to the upper floor “attic” of her house when she slipped and broke her osteoporosis-weakened hip. How many people of any age or stature, never mind a 5-foot tall 80-year-old woman, do you know who would matter-of-factly lug a queen size mattress up a long staircase? 52 Figure 6. My Grandmother, Amanda Charnley, and Me. Photographer: Unknown. Researcher’s Personal Collection. 53 One of the most important aspects of my relationship with my grandmother is that I know she loved me unconditionally (See Figure 6). She never complained to me, and never wanted me to suffer in any way. Spinning out of the protocol of listening to one’s attentive and caring grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, and respected elders is the protocol of loving one another. ’I’cu’watul (ee su wat ul) - The Protocol of Loving One Another I spent a lot of time with my grandmother, observing her. I noticed that if she heard of family members hurting one another, it caused her great concern, alarm, and sadness, and she would do anything in her power to help solve the problem. She would give wisdom or suggestions to those she felt were being hurtful, and counsel those who were hurt to heal themselves, get stronger, and have faith in themselves, doing her best to make sure they felt loved. She would even call on other, outside resources to provide people with whatever help they needed to heal or help themselves. I often heard my grandmother tell us and other people in her life to “listen,” to “love one another,” and to “be good to one another.” Recently, I heard my friend, Jane Alcorn, say “’I’ cu’watul” (ee su wat ul) which means “be good to one another.” That phrase sounded familiar to me. My grandmother was thinking in our language when she told us “to be good to one another.” I see this dissertation as one way of writing down my grandmother’s story. This writing down of some aspects of her bigger story is a way of continuing to express my love for her. And so, grandma, this is the best and most sincere effort I can make to write down what I know of your story. I hope I do you justice. I love you. 54 The influence of Family, Smelalh and Siem - The Protocol of Getting an Education My grandmother and grandfather always told me to make sure I obtained my high school graduation. My grandfather usually stopped mid-point of one of his soliloquys on the politics of the day and the plight of “the common man,” and point a shaky finger my way and look at the adults and say “She is a smart one that one. See. She is listening.” My mother always told of her many missed opportunities to get a university education, starting with high school counsellors who counselled her away from academics and into the typing pool, and then when some family crisis happened and she had to part with some of her university tuition savings, and then me. My mother was adamant that I go to university. University was where I was heading. And that meant sciences. I secretly wanted to be pretty and a hairdresser. I was embarrassingly either at or among the top of my class in math until grade 1017, and at that time the grades for my other subjects took a bit of a dive too. The stresses of my childhood and home life had caught up to me and I had a hard time coping and a hard time having the consistency of focus that studying the sciences require so I did not obtain the science pre-requisites required for a science degree. I quit high school but then started a few months later at a school that was semestered and through my other subjects, and an additional literature class, I managed to get a high school graduation certificate. I was very depressed and lost by this time. My mother enrolled me in my first semester of Langara College and even paid the tuition for that semester. I had been working since I was 13 years old at two local ice cream parlours 17 In my teen world it was uncool to be getting perfect scores on math quizzes. Every week the math teacher would announce it. Thus I was grouped into nerd status by the popular white kids, although my love of running, tennis, the gym, and being a cheerleader, helped me have some leverage among some athletic schoolmates who became friendly with me at some of my schools. 55 to pay for the piano lessons that I desperately had wanted, and for my own things. So this gesture of my mother’s was a surprise. So I went and took that first step. In our Coast Salish languages, there is the concept of smelalh (Carlson, p. 27). The term refers to those who know their familial history. This concept is connected to the idea of getting educated, traditionally and historically. My Ph.D. studies is my attempt to become smelalh. I believe my grandma, Amanda Charnley, and also my aunt Martha Washington (Simon Pierre’s daughter) and uncle Joe Washington wanted me to be smelalh, although they didn’t use this terminology. I think that this was what they were talking about when they repeatedly reminded me, “Remember where you come from—you are Katzie, and come from a grand family,” and when my grandmother voiced her oft-repeated wish, “Someday maybe you will write down my story. Wouldn’t that be something?” My grandmother always said we were from a respected and esteemed family. I have come to understand that to be true and also I have come to think about how this is connected to the term “siem”. Through listening to it in use at gatherings and see it in emails, I have come to understand it as honored one18. I believe that in a present-day setting it is important for us to reclaim our siem status—to feel like the esteemed people we are and behave accordingly. We need to learn what our siem means and practice it so that it once again becomes natural like it was before the Xwulunítum arrived/invaded in droves, consuming everything in sight and assuming our death. This is the way for our 18 My friend Jane Alcorn, from Penaluket, who is an Island language speaker, and who is employed as a language technician, has coined a term that is an extension of siem, she calls it “siemism”. My friend describes siemism as leading a good wholesome life and other things. She says a siem is more than an honored person, siem is someone who takes care of their family and community and other things. Someone who has knowledge and skills to protect and take care of things. 56 survival to be witnessed by those around us in our Coast Salish communities. This is how we spin with a spindle whorl past colonialism. Being siem and getting an education can include learning about and reviving our heroine stories in order to transform us in present day contexts. Connecting the Stories of Xe:xals, My Grandmother’s Story, and My Daughter’s Story of Our Mitochondrial DNA In my great-grandfather, Old Pierre’s, book, he talks about our ancestor, Xe:xals. Xe:xals was made in the sky and came from the Sky People. [In the account of Xe:xals in Jenness (1955), they/he/she is in the singular.] Xe:xals are the transformers, who transformed and made the animate and inanimate entities in our territories. Xe:xals helped to make our world. The Sky People brought our five Coast Salish lower Fraser River families: three families who make up the Katzie, Musqueam, and an extinct family in Point Roberts.19 However, stories of Xe:xals are occasionally told which note that Xe:xals were multiple/plural. Unlike the Jenness/Old Pierre telling of the story or Simon’s translation, they were more than one male originating hero but rather four siblings that included three brothers and a sister. Despite this caveat, most stories continue to be told with Xe:xals being referred to as if singular and male. In telling my grandmother’s story, I believe it is important to tell Xé:ls the sister’s story. I feel that Xé:ls, the sister’s story is also, in a way, my grandmother’s story, and that it needs to be told. We need to bring feminine heroines back to the forefront with their brothers. Further, I feel that the telling of the sister, Xé:ls’ story is an extension of my grandmother’s request that when I grow up, I tell her story, a project to which I have 19 Other Coast Salish familial nations outside of our lower Fraser River and its delta also have stories of creation involving Xe:xals or Xeels or Khaals (and other possible spellings likely exist). 57 dedicated my entire adult life—save the years I was raising my daughter. Although, now that I think about it, that too could be seen as a telling of my grandmother’s story, in that my daughter is named after my grandmother and carries mitochondrial DNA passed down from me, my mother, and my Katzie grandmother, and also from my Tswwaassen great-grandmother and her mother and grandmother, and so on up the female ancestral line to the first woman that we all came from. This DNA can only be biologically handed down through the female line. In our family, the only people remaining who carry this mitochondrial DNA who can pass it on are my daughter, and my grandmother’s sisters’s daughters’ daughters’ daughters. There are few women left in our family who have mitochondria DNA from our Great-grandmother Katherine Charles and her mother and her grandmother all the way back to the first women on earth. Scientists say that all mitochondrial DNA can be traced back to the first human woman. This means that we are all related through the maternal line and gives renewed meaning to the idea behind the saying of “all my relations” that one often hears Indigenous people saying – and “nutsa maat” among Coast Salish people. As the above section and the following participants’ section shows, our stories are pivotal to our existence as Katzie people. Our stories contain the stories of our ancestry, our worldview, our social organization, our beliefs, our faith, our protocols and values, our spirituality, and our science. Our stories tell us who we are and how to be. Our stories are our identity as Katzie people. Telling my grandmother’s story, Xé:ls the sister’s story, my upbringing and education story, and my daughter’s mitochondrial DNA story are acts of resistance against a colonialism that seeks Indigenous peoples’ invisibility and absence. Telling our stories makes us present, alive, creative, healthy and happy. 58 A Pierre Family Ancestral Tree The Pierre family tree (See Table 1) is an ongoing project of ancestral oral narrative in our family as we put the pieces back together. This is partial and a sample of the Pierre extended family stemming out of the Peter and Katherine Pierre family members shown in the family photograph (see Figure 7). This photograph is the source image for my great grandfather’s portrait that is on the cover and inside of the Jenness’ and Suttles’ book. Figure 7. Our Pierre Family Portrait. My grandmother, Amanda, is on the far right in front. Beside her is her mother, Katherine (we know as Tatent) and her father, Peter “Old Pierre” (we know as Mament), her youngest sister Mathilda between them. Her older sister Margaret stands at the back on the left, her brother Xavier on the right. Mament and Tatent’s three oldest children (August, Frank, Simon) are not in the photograph. Photographer Unknown. Researcher’s personal collection. Gifted to researcher by Agnes Pierre upon Amanda Charnley’s (nee Pierre) passing. 59 Patriarch (Mament) Peter Pierre (1864-1944) (Katzie) and Matriarch (Tatent - diminutive “little mother”) Katherine Pierre (nee Charles) (1857-1946) (Tswwaassen). Children: Died after birth: Joseph (1878) at one month, Paul (1892) at two weeks. All, but the anonymous participant, are in bold after their parents (See Table 1). Table 1. Pierre Family Tree During Colonial Period of 1864-2019, 155 Years. August Pierre (1877) (married Mary Ann Bailey) Took her name; their descendants are Baileys. Unknown number of children. Richard (m. Margaret): Rocky Bailey (m. Diane): Rick Bailey. Simon Pierre (1886) (m. Josephine Michel, Minnie Miller) 3 children Edward Peter Pierre: Ed Pierre (m.Yvonne), Garnet, Brian, Allen, Arnold , Leslie Bailey, Tammy. Daisy: unknown. Martha (m. Joe Washington): Bobby (Bobby Jr; Travvis); and another son Frank Pierre (1889) (m. Amadelia Peters) Unknown children. Margaret Pierre (1897) (Aunt Margie) (m. Andrew James) 6 children Helen James (m. Leonard Adams): Myrtle James. Alice James (partner Nyman) Peter James: Paula, Peter, Paul, Patricia Nancy James (m. Kershaw): Lenny (Roma, Lainie); Linda, Allan Louise James (m. Andrew; m. settler): Valerie, James, Gail, Claude Xavier Pierre (1900) (m. Minnie Mussell, Anastasia Peter) 14 children Joaquim (Joe) (m. Agnes Harry): Coleen (Mavis; Frances), Joaquim jr., Richard (Len jr.), William, Beverly, Eileen, Helen. Laura. Lorraine. Sadie. Irene. Normaline. Juanita. Serena. Raymond. Timothy. Benedict (m. Gertie). Harry (m. Brenda, settler): Crystal, Trevor Cyril (m. Brenda Leon): Terrence, Trenton, Stewart, Spencer, Burgess Amanda Pierre (1902) (m. Clinton Charnley) (Aunty Mandy) 5 children Robert (Bob). Cecil. William (Bill): Bill Jr (Bill the 3rd, Brendon, Peter Charnley); Roseanne, Catherine-Amanda, Robert, David. Judy Frances Mathilda: Kerrie Charnley (Keisha Amanda Charnley) Catherine Veronica (m. Chaney): Clarke Chaney, Jason Chaney Mathilda (Aunt Tillie) Pierre (~1906) (m. settler Bill Kelly) 4 children Lillian: Carole, Warren. Doreen. Peggy. Johnny Kelly. 60 Where I Come From In this section, I explain where I am from in terms of my family lineage and my experiences in the public school system. Even though I have never physically lived there, Katzie is my cultural familial community, since I was raised with stories and bloodlines stemming from Katzie and Katzie territory. However, compared with those who have lived and grown up at Katzie, there has been a disconnection for me and my immediate family starting with my grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Clinton and Amanda Charnley. Due to the Indian Act requiring my grandma to move off the reserve when she married my English grandfather, I have been a satellite of this community. I felt as a child that Katzie was where most of our relatives lived, but I only knew some of my extended family: my (great) aunt Margie and a few of her children, especially Alice James (Nyman) who took me under her wing one or two summers when I was ten years old, and her grandchildren, as well as some of my (great) uncle Xavier’s grandchildren. In Lummi, Washington, I knew my aunt Martha who was the daughter of my (great) uncle Simon Pierre. In recent years, since gaining my Indian status, due to the recent changes to the Indian Act (thanks to McIvor’s work20 from 1986 through to 2010 leading to an amendment through Bill C-3 to the Indian Act in order to secure Indigenous women’s rights to pass on their Indian Status to their children and grandchildren into perpetuity, like Indigenous men have always been able to do) I gained membership in the Katzie Band. And I have had the opportunity to start to get to know more relatives and 20 See An Act to promote gender equity in Indian registration by responding to the Court of Appeal for British Columbia decision in McIvor v. Canada (Registrar of Indian and Northern Affairs) https://www.parl.ca/DocumentViewer/en/40-3/bill/C-3/royal-assent 61 community members. My work on this research project has also contributed to these expanding relationships. An Urban Coast Salish Childhood Interacting With The Public School System In Vancouver I feel that while much important work has been done to bring to light the atrocities and experiences that Indigenous children and their families suffered under the residential school system, I hope there comes a time when the experiences of abuse, terrorism, ostracism, isolation, abandonment, and silencing that Indigenous children suffered under the racist white public school system in Canada in the 60s and 70s, when I went to school, be brought to light. Growing up, my experience was somewhat unique in that we moved at least once a year most of the time, we moved approximately 24 times in total, and I consequently transferred schools almost every year and attended 11 different schools in the Vancouver School system. Where I am from culturally and ancestrally and my experiences in the education system in Vancouver during my formative years have shaped me in certain ways, and have helped lead me to this dissertation project on Indigenous, Coast Salish, and Katzie literacy, language, and pedagogy. These experiences taught me that school content could be taught in different ways than the prescribed status quo normally presented to, and accepted by, teachers and students. Because I was the new kid every year, I was for the most part alone and vulnerable to the bullies at each school. These foundational experiences left their mark on my psyche and my being. Because I was not taught as a young child about my cultural identity, I had no cultural identity, which left me extremely vulnerable at school in ways similar to, but less 62 so, than the ways I was vulnerable at home.21 Overall I liked school, even though it had cold, hard, surfaces, and even though I was surrounded by mostly emotionally distant strangers, it mostly felt safer than at home, unless my grandmother and uncle were visiting. At school, as the perpetual new kid, I never had a posse of friends to help protect, defend, or insulate me. The fact that I was an only child also contributed to my being alone. I have two younger cousins, my aunt’s two boys, who have been much like brothers to me; we spent many weekends playing together, and celebrated birthdays and holidays at their house in North Vancouver, and at our grandparents’ in Mission. However, this was not my reality at school or in my life outside of family time. Because I was dark in every way—skin, eyes, hair; even my name, Kerrie, in Celtic means “dark one”—I was sometimes the target of racism. During my primary school years, the population in Vancouver was primarily white Anglo, with maybe one or two Japanese or Chinese students in a classroom. It was a little different when one year I briefly attended a North Vancouver school, where I had about four classmates who were First Nations. By the time I was in Grades 4-7, Vancouver had experienced an influx of immigration of non-Anglos for the first time in generations—eastern European (Czech, German, Austrian, Romanian) and predominantly South Asians of Indian descent. This is 21 At home, I was very vulnerable to other abuses. From the time I was very young there were many moments when I lived in terror for my life, as I was the target of brutal attacks, (I prefer not to share the details here), and living a mostly loveless terrorized existence at home. The kinds of physical violence, torture, emotional and psychological abuse that I suffered were the same ones, or similar, to the kinds that I have since heard residential school survivors tell. I spent most of my lifetime trying to understand how someone could ongoingly and unapologetically hurt in so many ways, beat, name-call, threaten, and challenge the perceived reality of the child that there were other people, such as family members, who did have regard for that child, and terrorize the child that one is supposed to love and care for, a vulnerable child who loves unconditionally, before realizing in my 40s that I will never really know. However, I believe that the main reason is because the colonial context is so systemically abusive, violent, aggressive and terrorizing, in its reach into the depths of our families, our psyches and our bodies. 63 when the racism came on full force. People at every new school assumed I was also a new immigrant of Punjabi descent, and I was called “Punjab” with disdain as I walked by white boys primarily. Some older boys spat at me. If I ever tried to correct them, they would just laugh and taunt me, saying, “What are you, then?” I had no answer other than what my mother had instructed me to say: “mixed.” Of course, they would then ask, “Mixed of what?” My mother was adamant I just say “mixed.” There was shame in being Native, and I was darker than my mom and did not make efforts to shade my skin in the summer from tanning. In Grade 5, within the first two weeks of school, a white girl decided to challenge me to a fight after school for no apparent reason other than she had hated me at first sight. A French-Canadian girl who was also new to the school that year and who was also different because her English was not fluent, stood by my side during the day; after school, we went out the exit by the basketball court to her home, which was in the apartment building directly across from the school. She was my first friend at that school. I realized that being able to speak adeptly and fast and knowing the lingo of the white students was key to survival and to fitting in at school. Unfortunately, although I was a copious reader of books beyond my grade level, I did not possess the quick, adept speech language skills required, to protect myself, and to fit in within the public school context. Additionally, during those 13 years of public schooling, I was too terrified at school and at home to be able to draw on the language skills I did possess. I could not speak most of the time except with my family, particularly my two cousins, my aunt, my grandma and grandpa, and my uncle, or with my annual temporary best/only friend. When I reached adulthood, I made it my goal to gain the courage to speak, even though 64 the progress was glacial, because I felt it was key to success in the world outside of my family life. Through mammoth efforts—attending counseling, reading copious books on speaking, confidence, and assertiveness, and taking workshops on communication and public speaking whenever I could bring my nervous self to do so—I was able to gain the confidence to give presentations in front of the class. Even so, the process was always fraught with tension and anxiety. This muteness did not change very much until a few years ago, when a concussion (fortunately or unfortunately) left me with a substantially diminished internal editor/risk assessor, and I started to just say or do whatever entered my mind with an ease previously unknown to me. This phenomenon has subsided somewhat recently, with effort. It was not until a couple of years after I graduated high school, when I met political activist students while working on Simon Fraser University’s student newspaper as a volunteer writer and graphic artist, that I started to think about my Native-ness, and the abuses I had suffered while growing up, in political terms. I read Marx and other political writers, started reading the local feminist newspaper Kinesis, combed through second hand bookstores that highlighted political books, and attended political events including musical benefits for causes like the wars in Nicaragua and El Salvador. I was very depressed at the time, feeling isolated and struggling at college and then university where my GPA became dismal. There were bigger things going on in the world and I felt very alienated from my professors and fellow students. The final straw was when after completing all of my required courses to obtain a major in Anthropology-Sociology I took the one course on First Nations in Canada and on the second class the professor passed around the room a skull that she said was Coast Salish. As the skull was handed 65 around the room closer and closer to me I became increasingly nauseous and traumatized wondering if this was a relative and where exactly it was from and how this professor, and the students, could think this was an acceptable thing to do22. I left the room and never returned. I withdrew from university. Around this time, I came across the original publication of Lee Maracle’s Bobbi Lee, Indian Rebel and a lightbulb went on in my being. This was the first time I had read or heard that it was okay to be mixed Coast Salish and Anglo or another nationality, and that this was an identity one could have. I started to relax and exhale for the first time in the world outside of my grandparents’ and my aunts’ and uncles’ presence. The rest is history, as the saying goes. I read feminist texts and any texts I could find written by Indigenous writers. I went to the Vancouver Friendship Centre and learned about Native organizations in Vancouver and started working for them. I had gone to the one in Mission with my grandma and uncle during childhood, so I knew this to be a good (and often the only) resource for Native things going on. I needed job skills, and after finding out that there was a brand new Native Education Centre, I applied for, and took, their office automation certificate program and landed at UBC’s Native Indian Teachers Education Program (NITEP) for my office practicum. Soon after that, I met a family of Indigenous scholars who inspired me to go back to university as a Native person. I decided to see if anyone at the university would agree to supervise a directed study that I created that focused on Native women’s literature in Canada. I submitted my outline and 22 For more on this experience refer to: Charnley, K. (1991). “Concepts of Anger, Identity, Power and Vision in the Writings and Voices of First Nations Women.” Fireweed Quarterly, 32, 32-43. Also in: Charnley, K. (1990), “Concepts of Anger, Identity, Power and Vision in the Writings and Voices of First Nations Women.” Gatherings: the En’Owkin Journal of First North American Peoples, 1, 11-22. Penticton, BC: Theytus Books. 66 references list to several departments including History, English, and Women’s Studies. The Canadian poet Daphne Marlatt was the Woodward Chair of Women’s Studies at Simon Fraser University at the time and she enthusiastically came forward. With her warmth and encouragement I eventually published the essay I wrote for that study. The first A I received at university was for that directed study course. I embraced my love of literature (written down stories) and oral traditions. I eventually completed a Bachelor of Arts degree with a major in English Literature, and a Master of Arts degree in English with a focus on the politics of voice in Indigenous and Settler publications about and by Indigenous peoples in Canada. I eventually went on to work for eight years as an overseer of the Summer Science Program for Indigenous Youth at The University of British Columbia. The Program welcomed Indigenous youth from First Nations territories and communities throughout the Province of British Columbia to explore science and health studies and professions. I was on a path that has since led me here, to writing this dissertation. It has been a lifelong journey toward healing, and toward knowing who I am and what my gift is. The few pivotal and formative positive experiences I had in school were made possible by key influential, independent-thinking, courageous, and caring maverick teachers. I attended five secondary schools in five different Vancouver neighborhoods (the last one was in Burnaby) and five different elementary schools in other Vancouver neighborhoods. The teachers who had a positive impact on my life were those who engaged me (intentionally or not) in ways that may not have constituted an explicitly culturally-responsive or community engagement approach, but certainly incorporated a place-based and holistic pedagogy that influenced how I saw myself and my identity. In 67 Grade 3, I was blessed with a group of newly graduated teachers who tried to get us outside as much as possible during lessons, where I felt far more comfortable than in the square box of the classroom. Though I was virtually mute while at school, there was one time in Grade 3 at my school in North Vancouver—where I had joined the lunchtime ukulele club—when our music teacher asked me to sing the national anthem. I was scared, but she had gained my trust and I felt relatively at ease in her presence, so I sang and it felt freeing and good. I am not saying I was a good singer, but I was fine and I did it. It was one of the very few good experiences I had doing anything in front of the class. In Grade 4, I was fortunate to have a teacher who was also this west end school’s art teacher for all grades. She was from England, and as a child had lived through the bombing of London and been shipped to live with relatives she did not know well in the countryside, where she was lonely. Her story resonated with me because I too was lonely; I was an only child and was used to being uprooted at least once a year and moved to a new residence, a new school. I too was displaced from my homelands, though I did not know it at the time. I will always remember Mrs. Farina, who eventually retired to Salt Spring Island, with her bright blue eye shadow reaching all the way up to her eyebrows, and her colorful afghans and flowing gowns that made her stand out visually from the rest of the teachers. She found the wobbly, imperfect lines of my artwork to be “art,” and on more than one occasion held my work up to the class as a model, saying that aiming for perfect did not make art, and that a feeling imbued in the artwork and the flow while doing it was more important. She used to get us thick, wooly, professional caliber paper canvases on which to paint and draw, from her brother who worked as a longshoreman at the docks. She introduced us to the Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe by reading it aloud 68 to our class; I fell in love with the book, and inhaled all of the books in the series that year and in the years to come after I left that school. Mrs. Farina also made me vice president of student council, as shy and soft-spoken as I was. This was a pivotal event for me, and made me feel like maybe I had leadership ability—a feeling that stayed with me. When I was in Grade 5, the teachers at the eastside school I was attending arranged to have our grade visit the Faculty of Education at the University of British Columbia for a week’s worth of classes. The highlight of this week, for me, was when I and my peers and the teachers were introduced to Haida carver Bill Reid, and other carvers whose names I never knew. They were carving a pole in a shed behind the Scarfe education building. Although this wasn’t at a school, in the summer between Grade 5 and Grade 6, for the first time my mother agreed to pay for me to attend a week at a summer day camp where I got to spend time with other children my age and to be led by some interesting “hippie” youth leaders. We ate “gorp” (a mix of peanuts, chocolate chips and raisins) which I had never had before. Toward the end of the week, these leaders took us on an overnight camping trip approximately 30 miles east of Vancouver to Allouette Lake. We camped on the east side of the lake down a road that the leaders said was a “secret” road but I think it must have been a logging road. The girls did not want to be my friend, which was not an unusual thing in my life, but there was one quiet well-spoken boy who became my buddy. His parents had dressed him in a suit for the camping trip. He was unique like me. In the middle of the night, I had no problem walking through the brush to the out house in the dark alone; however, the giggling girls stopped giggling and were afraid and asked me to take them. That is when I knew I had skills and strengths that 69 other children did not have. The next day we canoed along the lake and saw huge, tall trees reaching up beneath the water. The leaders said at one time the water was lower and the trees were a part of the forest but that now they were dead beneath us. At sunset, before the trip back home,we had a camp fire on the beach on the other side of the Lake and looked at the stars while the leaders told us stories. It has always been a good memory. It is a part of my education. I didn’t know it then but Allouette Lake is in our traditional Katzie territory. In Grade 6, I started my own art club at school for a few months. David Suzuki met us at the beach one day to help clean up English Bay beach, and we were interviewed for the radio by Elie O’Day and by a TV news crew. I later was involved in the David Suzuki Foundation and a society of concerned parents led by Suzuki’s wife, Tara Cullis, and her foundation, the Public Education for Peace Society, developing Native studies curriculum for high school. I believe there is a link that drew me to that work because of my experience in Grade 6 on that beach, and also with the teachers I have mentioned above. There were some experiences in high school, mediated by observant teachers, that upon reflection, I see were pivotal in terms of offering me a space in which to achieve educational success, one was traumatic but the others were uplifting. When I was in Grade 8 Biology class, I was asked to share about my shell collection, since my biology teacher thought that might be fun, of interest, and relatively easy for me to talk about. On the morning of my presentation, I was surprised that a few of my classmates even cheered me on when I went up to the counter at the front of the class. I had carefully laid out all of my shells that I loved, and had them labeled with their Latin names, but when I looked 70 out at the class, I froze. It was beyond my control. I may have emitted a shaky word or two, then collapsed into clam-shut mutism. Finally, my teacher took pity on me and let me go sit down; he made the most of it, inviting my classmates up to see the shells. It was a traumatic experience that I continue to remember with a shudder. I feared that this kind of freezing up would happen again, whenever I was preparing for future oral presentations at college and university. Also, in high school, I had a Physical Education teacher, Ms. Light, who could see during the weeks we had our running module, that I loved to run, and I was usually in the lead at it because of this. On the other hand, I dreaded volleyball, because, to me, it seemed the girls got physically and verbally aggressive, and competitive. The whole experience went against my grain, and unlike the other girls who seemed to enjoy it, I did not. I asked my P.E. teacher if there was any chance I could go run instead of doing the volleyball. She thought about it, and said, “Yes, I trust you because I know you love to run!” So off, I went to run in nature outdoors, around Lost Lagoon at Stanley Park every P.E. class during the volleyball weeks. This was a major relief, and I loved every minute of the experience. I was so very grateful for this teacher’s good judgement and care. In Grade 9, some of my teachers got together, and offered me the opportunity to collapse my class work in Physical Education, English, Social Studies, and Science into one big project,23 that I could dream up. The project had to include all four subjects 23 I created a project on the evolution and revolution of medicine. I bought a paper roll, unrolled it to be my height, lay on top of it and drew the outline of my body. I then proceeded to draw various systems. Some of the systems were the blood (vessels, veins, major arteries) and the nerve (sympathetic and parasympathetic) systems as metaphors for the evolution and revolution of blood and nerves in terms of invading bacteria, viruses and the increasing human knowledge of them through medicine, health and political milestone moments and periods in history from Hypocrites onward. 71 somehow, in order for me to pass the year, because I had been going through a particularly trying time at home (from grade 9 onward I was going to 24-hour Night and Day restaurants, where the police had their coffees and meals, in order to have peace and safety to do my homework away from the alcohol, aggression and unpredicatable chaos at home in the evenings – my grandmother had suggested this restaurant as a safe option). During this time I had skipped so much school that I was at serious risk of failing and starting down a dubious path as far as future school success was concerned. I’m grateful to the teachers who supported me through that time and worked to make school possible for me even under the hardest of circumstances. This was one of my first experiences with how learning could be holistic and school subjects could be blended for a richer, successful and even enjoyable learning experience. Later, when I went back to university on my own terms, and in having learned what my identity was as an Indigenous person, I focused on courses that were relevant to my interests as a politically informed activist, and my GPA increased dramatically, and while it required sacrifices to attend post-secondary school and be a parent to my daughter, I did it. It seemed the only way to pull us, my daughter and I, up out of financial poverty. I knew going back to school would require a lot of sacrifice upfront, but I hoped it would eventually pay off. It was with many unexpected hurdles however. There was a time around the fifth year of my Ph.D. when my life and finances took a nosedive worse than any time I can remember. A speeding, out of control driver on New Years Day crashed into me and my family in our van on the freeway and turning us onto oncoming traffic. Afterward I was traumatized and have had severe whiplash and difficulty sitting for long periods at a computer and difficulty focusing and all of the 72 physical activities that gave me joy in life and that were my stress reducers had to be put on hold and most still are as of this writing. The Ph.D. was hard enough before the accident never mind after. As well the job I had had for eight years ended a few months later. I seriously regretted reaching so high of a goal. Who was I to go for a Ph.D. anyway? I was just barely holding it together. Especially when our family dog died in a house fire. That was the final straw. I fell into a depression. Fortunately, with the moral and financial support of friends and a few individuals in the university, I was able to muster the last bit of strength within me to pull myself out of it. During the last of the writing, I was hired to teach a summer course on Indigenous education focusing on reconciliation and this was at a university on traditional Katzie territory (a dream come true). I was able to invite relatives in as guest speakers to share our knowledge and reality with fourth year student teachers in their Professional Development Program year. It took me 36 years of hard work on all fronts to achieve this dream, but, I did it. Every step towards a goal counts, the steps accumulate into us achieving our goals. My familial and schooling background had pointed me toward this dream of raising awareness and helping to decolonize, and to transform the longstanding isolation, discrimination and racism I and other Indigenous children have experienced in local schools, into understanding, inclusion and appreciation of Katzie knowledge (epistemology and ontology) and pedagogies (ways of sharing knowledge/educating/ learning) in local Canadian educational settings. In the next section, and chapters to come, are participants’ stories regarding their educational experiences and their observations of education experiences of youth in the community. The participants share 73 stories of their understandings of land and water education, contributing and strengthening the heart of this dream of raised awareness and transformation. Participants Ancestries and Geographies Almost all of the participants that came forward to volunteer for my doctoral study, with the exception of June and Jim Adams, were Pierre descendants. I appreciated all of the participants asserting the value of the knowledge they possess and that they were willing to share it with me for this research project. The participants expressed dignity, esteem, and a sense of worthiness related to their roles as knowledge keepers and holders, leaders, and elders in our Katzie First Nation community, and the ways in which these roles extend out into the academy through my research project and possibly into communities beyond Katzie First Nation’s own community and territory. I designed the following section in a way as to allow the participants to introduce themselves and their birthplaces. I found it helpful to make the ancestral tree in this chapter to help me understand family and geographical histories and the connections between each participant and also the people they were speaking about. Of the 11 participants, nine were descendants of Peter Pierre/ θƐ’ɬǝctǝn/Hawkltin /“Old Pierre” and Katharine Charles Pierre. List of Participants Anonymous James Adams June Adams Rick Bailey Roma Leon Ben Pierre Cyril Xavier Pierre Ed Pierre Jr. Harry Pierre Len Pierre Jr. Terrence Pierre 74 Participant Stories of Ancestry and Birthplace In introducing the participants, I have made space for them to speak for themselves. What the participants found to be important to share in identifying themselves, their family, and their geographical location was answering the questions in my study. In particular, the participants, without being asked to, adhered to the five protocols and teachings I describe earlier in this chapter. Further, I noticed that their introductions answered to a degree my research question on place: What are the important places to Katzie and for a Katzie land/water-based place based pedagogy? The participants identified their family connections and relationships, told where they were born and found it important to locate where their parents, and in some cases grandparents, were from and lived. The participants introduce themselves as follows. Their introductions are sequenced according to the order in which their interviews took place. I begin with the eldest participant, Ben Pierre, the oldest son of my grandmother’s brother Xavier Pierre. Ben Pierre Benedict Pierre Sr. carries his grandfather, Peter Pierre’s, name: “θƐ’ɬǝctǝn/ Hawkltin”. “The first section of the first four letters is ‘…,’ [sounds like hawk]” he points out. He was born in Royal City, New Westminster, British Columbia. I was born and raised on Barnston Island in the Katzie Indian reserve there on the Fraser River. Most of my growing up days it was between the Indian residential school on Kuper Island. And the other residential school I was transferred to was up in Mission—the Oblates of Mary Immaculate or the St. Mary’s “Oh my” Indian Residential School. But in between that timeframe of going to residential school for 13 years and 75 during my summer holidays, I’d spend it with my family, in the Barnston Island or in the fish canneries on the Fraser River, or in Steveston. And my mom and my dad were a part of the fishing industry; same with all my brothers, and my sisters also worked in the fish canneries. And St. Mungo’s Cannery in Steveston, the Great West Imperial Cannery, and all of the Canadian fish canneries. Cyril Xavier Pierre I am very glad to be here today. My name is Cyril Xavier Pierre. I carry part of my father’s middle name, Xavier, which I carry with pride and strength. I always believe that I am a direct descendent of the Katzie First Nations through my grandfather and my grandmother, who are full Katzie originating from Pitt Lake where our ancestry evolved from, right from the head of Pitt Lake right down to, well, throughout the whole Pitt River, and right into the Fraser river where we now reside on Barnston Island which is Katzie number three. When I speak of the Katzie, I like to involve all of the land base which should be talked about to complete the circle of our life as Katzie people. Ed Pierre Jr. Father: Edward Peter Pierre Senior. Grandfather: Simon Pierre. Ed’s ancestral name is T’stahkison from Simon Pierre’s brother—“My dad’s uncle.” I was born in Vancouver—Vancouver General Hospital. I was born and raised in Katzie I.R.124.… I grew up here basically all my life. And so I’ve seen a lot of changes.…Our identities, you know, not only our English name, but our ancestral name that we hold so close and dear to us…it’s part of our upbringing.… Once you start learning about your name you start learning about your family and other tribes, where you’re from, not only 24 I.R.1 is Indian Reserve number one in Port Hammond in Pitt Meadows/Maple Ridge District. 76 from Katzie but you know it branches out to other reserves and tribes. Like Katherine Pierre that you mentioned, you know. There are different stories about where’s she’s from and where’s she’s lived. But you know it’s like all our people are like that. She basically grew up in the Chemainus area. She travelled back and forth from Katzie to Chemainus by canoe.… That’s how our people travelled.… There are stories about that, when she used to travel. Not by herself but, you know, someone else paddling with her. You’d see her dugout, attending funerals and family matters. You know it’s courageous of them and they are so strong.… Yeah, you wouldn’t be able to do that today I guess. Terrence Pierre My name is Terrence Pierre.… I was born in Surrey. And I was raised on Katzie number three on Barnston Island and I was born…1988. And my parents are Brenda and Cyril Pierre. My mother is from T’sailes up towards Agassiz area. And my father is Cyril from Katzie. And my grandparents are Xavier and Minnie on my dad’s side. And my grandpa and grandmother are from T’sailes and from Port Douglas I believe. Yeah. I am a wild land firefighter.… I am based in Lytton and I’m on a unit crew so a unit crew can be deployed anywhere in the country, like if there is a big wild land wildfire. Yeah, so we basically are like the ground crew for working on big fires and trying to put them out or clean them up.…I work from like March until the end of September. And then for the rest of the months I am not sure what to do … Like last year I went travelling. Like I went and travelled through Central America. And just to see the connection of their spiritual beliefs like down there. Like I went down and I was in Guatemala. We were at where they have all of the pyramids and stuff down there. One of the guys looked at me, and he’s like you’re not from here, and I said no I’m from Canada. And he’s like ‘oh okay’, and then 77 he started explaining on like how their people down there are like related to like us way up here. Because it was like, like some of their belief systems, like they drew like their offerings and stuff like that and they use like certain colors. And it was like, I was totally like mind blown because it’s like the exact same up here. And it was really, really amazing. And just to see the way that other people live and.… Yeah, like how it’s connected, for sure. James Adams Parents: Jack Adams and Doris. Grandfather: James Adams, Katzie Chief for 30 years. Grandmother: Edith Adams (Miller). Jim was born in his grandfather’s house at Katzie IR1 on the other side of the dyke in 1942. The nearest hospital was New Westminster and most people did not have vehicles; they had canoes they travelled in. Jim had seven brothers and sisters. Remaining are Jim, who lives at IR1, and his sister, Donna James, who lives on IR3 on Barnston Island and was married to Peter James. June Adams Mother: Marianne Savino. Father: James Savino. June doesn’t know the names of her grandparents as “they were never talked about.” She “saw a picture of them and that was about it.” June was born and grew up in Steveston. Before Steveston, she thinks her parents lived in Albion, and before Albion, “Kwantlen Reserve, I think.” June was born in a house, “in Canadian Fish Cannery.” June’s mother Marianne had 16 children. “My mom never went to hospital and she never ever had any doctors and she did everything herself,” June recalled. “She would have her kids and be out of bed the next day…Women were strong in those days. They could have had all their babies at home.” 78 Roma Leon (née James) Parents: Lenny James (Katzie) and Marge. Grandmother: Nancy Kershaw who was Nancy James. Great-grandmother: Margaret James, formerly Pierre. Roma’s family are “all Pierre descendants.” Roma was born in Surrey at Surrey Memorial Hospital, and grew up in Surrey and on Barnston Island. “I have lived in Katzie Territory all of my life,” said Roma, “but I have lived on the reserve, for I guess, I’m not quite sure, about 35 years maybe.” Richard Bailey Parents: Rocky and Diane Bailey. Grandparents: Richard and Margaret Bailey and Bill and Dolly Cunningham. Richard was born at Maple Ridge Hospital in Maple Ridge, BC. Speaking of his family, Richard shared: The Bailey side lived on Katzie. The Cunningham side lived at Katzie for a certain amount of time, then they took enfranchisement, I think it’s called, and moved off. And since then some of them have come back with the, you know, the government acts that allowed them to come back and regain their status and this type of thing. Anonymous This anonymous participant was born at St. Paul’s Hospital in Vancouver and comes from the Pierre family. I will not share further details here, so as to preserve the anonymity of the participant. Harry Pierre Mother and father: Francis Xavier Pierre from Katzie and Minnie Mussel from Chilliwack. Grandparents on father’s side: Peter Pierre and Katherine. Grandfather on mother’s side: Harry Mussel. Harry Ronald Pierre was born in New Westminster. “I grew up on the reserve here all my life,” Harry shared, “except for when I went to residential 79 school—I went away for three years.” Harry doesn’t remember his grandparents, either because they were gone before he was born or because they passed away when he was too young to remember them, but he knows he was named after his mother’s father. “That’s where I got my name from. She told me that he was killed by a train, he was run over by a train or something.” Len Pierre Jr. Parents: Richard and Kelly Pierre. Len’s mother is adopted into the Katzie family by the James side on Barnston Island. Her name comes from the Campbell family in Musqueam. Her biological parents are Robert/Bobby Campbell and Jeannie Campbell. Grandparents on father’s side: Joaquim Pierre (Katzie) and Agnes. Len’s grandmother Agnes is from the Harry family of the Tsawout First Nation on Vancouver Island. Len was born in the hospital in Maple Ridge and has grown up and lived his “whole…entire life here on Barnston Island.” For a short time after he was born, he lived in Pitt Meadows when his mother moved to IR1, but then they moved to Barnston. I was born in our traditional territory in the city of Maple Ridge.… I have grown up my whole…entire life here on Barnston Island.… I am the Indigenous Wellness Cultural Designer for the First Nations Health Authority.… It’s a really long fancy title that basically just says that I’m a teacher, a curriculum expert, and a cultural practitioner. So I get to travel across the province teaching [word or two muffled in recording] our First Nations communities. But basically infusing Indigenous knowledge and infusing health curriculum together for communities. 80 Katzie Geographies in Participant Introductions and in their Stories There are common threads of beloved connection to Katzie territory, family and people running through these introduction stories. I was curious to find out the places where the participants were born, and I was happy to find out that all of the participants were born close to home—the farthest away was Vancouver and the closest was in the family home. It was interesting to learn that not only had all of the participants who volunteered been birthed at or close to home, but they had also made the choice to continue to live in the same place as they were raised, staying home and close to family in our territories as adults. This connection begins the answering of the second research question of: What are the significant places in Katzie territory to education? In beginning to answer the third research question of significant places, arguably where one is born has significance as this is where one begins one’s life journey and where ideally one’s family feels is a safe nurturing place to be born. Or close to where one feels is the safest and most nurturing place to be born. All of the participants were born within an hour’s drive from Katzie territory showing that parents and families valued Katzie territory and remained living in Katzie territory despite colonial efforts to remove and distance us from places where we identify as Katzie. This is the case more so with the male line than the female line. Unfortunately for the female line, the Indian Act’s gender discrimination and oppression of Indigenous women forced them to move farther away and far from traditional lands. In the Peter and Katherine Pierre line, two of the three sisters and their children moved from Katzie reserves due to the Indian agent, Indian Act, and Band Chiefs and Council having to follow those Indian Act rules. The only sister of my grandmother’s that was able to remain living at Katzie was Aunt Margie and also her descendants. Those who have been able to remain living at Katzie are 81 descendants of my grandmother’s Pierre brothers. Nevertheless, the lands and waters hold an intimate bond for all of us who were forced to live apart from our extended families who were able to stay on the reserves. Interestingly, I noticed that there are representatives of each of my grandmother’s siblings who came forward to be participants in my study. Participants are descendants of my grandmother’s older brother August, the renowned brother Simon, her closest brother Xavier, and her older sister Margaret. Missing are descendants of Frank, Aunt Tilly and of my grandmother. The scholars in the literature talk about these kinds of intimate relationships Indigenous peoples have with the lands and waters of their territories in terms of pedagogy or the way we learn and know things, and importantly in terms of how our connections to our birthplaces and lands and waters ground our identity as Indigenous peoples.The next chapter discusses what the scholarship says about the significance of Indigenous peoples education connected to story and land in terms of education and decolonization. 82 Chapter 3: Literature Review Towards a Theory of Indigenous Peoples’ Perspectives of Land, Water, and Place in Education I read a range of literature to find out what are some of the Indigenous perspectives of land and place that exist within education. Throughout my readings and analysis of the readings, I asked myself why/how is this relevant to my Katzie pedagogy, literacy, and land study? I looked for themes that repeated across the literature I read. I also looked for principles and protocols that repeated across the literature. This chapter is the story of this reading and thinking, and how the perspectives, principles, values, and processes outlined in these readings connect with my work. I have structured this chapter loosely into thematic sections, and within these sections are topics corresponding to the work of particular scholars. The scholars, I include, discuss their perspectives regarding two broader themes: 1) that Indigenous knowledge is storied and 2) that Indigenous knowledge is in relationship. Stories invite relationships to happen between teller, narrator, reader/listener, and the characters. The thematic sections are as follows: Indigenous Knowledge connected to Land/Water is Storied; Indigenous Knowledge Requires Preparation by Making Space for Looking Inward; Indigenous Knowledge connected to Land/Water is Holographic; Indigenous Knowledge connected to Land/Water is in Relationship; and The Language of the Land—Indigenous Literacy. Within these themes is discussion of Indigenous perspectives of Indigenous knowledge systems, epistemology (ways of knowing), and ontology (ways of being) connected to land, water, and place. Within these five major themes are subthemes such as how there is no such place without story; kinship/relationship; and heart knowledge. Within these five major themes and their subthemes are topics, such as, the dual physical and metaphysical realities, in-space, inner space, geopsyche, metaphoric mind, how Native 83 science is storied, and holographic epistemology. Within the first theme, Indigenous Knowledge is Storied, there is a discussion of the values, perspectives, principles, and processes involved in doing Indigenous storywork. Indigenous storywork conceptualizes a holistic approach to Indigenous education with examples in a Coast Salish context. I found that the readings together addressed questions such as what does it mean to be connected to a place? and what does the relationship between Indigenous thought and physical land formations look like or mean? Indigenous Knowledge Connected to Land/Water is Storied Stories are a form of knowledge attached to places experienced on the land. Further knowledge is created by the telling of the story. These stories teach us how to live a good, balanced life in harmony with other people and the world. Memory and emotional attachment solidify the knowledge in our minds. If we attend to the story’s teachings, they stay with us and are expressed by us physically when we go to the places, and when we live our lives in ways that are based on the teachings. In reviewing the literature, I found that Jo-ann Archibald’s (2008) groundbreaking work Indigenous Storywork: Educating the Heart, Mind, Body and Spirit was the most relevant, supportive, and comprehensive literature for my research project. To use my spinning, weaving, and blanket-making metaphor, Archibald’s (2008) work is like one of the wefts, perhaps part of the loom upon which the blanket of my dissertation is woven. There is so much in the book that speaks to the work I wanted to do to provide space for Katzie participants to share their stories connected to land and water and to look for theoretical pedagogy and literacy principles for education. 84 It was a challenge to condense here all of the valuable and contributing ideas within Archibald’s (2008) work that informed and corresponded with my own work. To begin with, we were both directed by elders to do the work. The two types of story that I noticed among the stories told to me were life experience stories and traditional myth stories, just like what Archibald found in her extensive work with Coast Salish elders. Additionally, a sense of sharing and hearing stories leading to learning how to live a good life and be a good relative was evident in the stories shared with us both. The idea that learning and ways of being were located in the heart and emotion was in Archibald’s work, and was also a definite feature of the stories told by my study’s participants, and of why and how the stories were told. The aspects of Archibald’s work that I saw as most relevant to my project was her investigation of story as knowledge for education, in particular curricula. Archibald’s study involved working with 13 elders in a Coast Salish context. I too sought to learn more about stories as knowledge; however, my focus was a little different in that my emphasis was more on pedagogy than on curricula. However, Archibald’s work on pedagogy in her chapter entitled “Storywork Pedagogy” supports my focus on pedagogy (how we learn and teach) and on literacy (how we understand, make meaning, and communicate what we know). Like Archibald, I too worked with a similar number of elders; however, my study included a few younger participants as well. I too worked within a Coast Salish context; however, Archibald’s focus was on an upriver Stó:lō context while mine was on a downriver Katzie context. Upriver Coast Salish families speak a different dialect and pronounce words differently than downriver Coast Salish like Katzie, Musqueam, and Tsleil-waututh families who speak the same language dialect. Upriver Coast Salish families have different origin stories connected to 85 different places than downriver Coast Salish Katzie, Musqueam, Kwantlen, Coquitlam, Tsleil-waututh, and Tsawwassen. Archibald’s (2008) work served as an exciting role model for my own work. She wove a teaching story through her book, and asserted that we can “live life through stories” (p. 101) which are ideas that I wanted to convey in my study. Archibald learned through her storywork and work with elders that storytellers “learned the stories not only from master storytellers but also by being closely connected to land” and “that stories can become a teacher” (p. 101). Strong connections between storytellers, story as teacher, and an intimate engagement with land were core concepts I too wanted to promote and draw out, in a Katzie context. The power of story is characterized by seven principles of Indigenous storywork that Archibald learned through working with Coast Salish elders. These are key principles that I returned to again and again when thinking about Coast Salish and Katzie story, epistemology, and ontology. I think these principles would be beneficial to include when incorporating Indigenous pedagogy and literacies in education. The seven principles are: respect, synergy, holism, interrelatedness, reverence, reciprocity, and responsibility. In her chapter “The Journey Begins,” Archibald explains the seven principles through examples drawn from stories of elders and storytellers. She discusses the Indigenous philosophical concept of holism, explaining how it refers to an interrelatedness “between the intellectual, spiritual (metaphysical values and beliefs and the Creator), emotional, and physical (body and behavior/action) realms to form a whole healthy person” (p.11). This extends through mutual influence to one’s family, community, band, and nation. It is a system of relationships. The holistic goal of mutual harmony and balance is reached by striving to achieve in everything we do the purpose of 86 living, which is what Cajete (1994) calls a “wholesome life” (p. 13). Archibald (2008) cites these words by Stó:lō /Coast Salish writer Lee Maracle: We believe the proof of a thing or idea is in the doing. Doing requires some form of social interaction and thus, story is the most persuasive and sensible way to present the accumulated thoughts and values of a people. (p. 26) Archibald (2008) discusses cultural responsibility in terms drawn from listening to the stories of elders, knowledge keepers, and storytellers. She says that witnessing the way in which elder Maria Campbell carries out her “cultural responsibility of sharing the learning and takes ownership of any mistakes” serves as “a gentle reminder to me that I should also take responsibility for any mistakes contained in my research because those who shared their knowledge with me did so with great care” (p. 24). The “storyteller’s responsibility toward others is linked to the power that her/his stories may have” (p. 27), emphasizes Archibald (2008). She shares a beautiful quotation from Leslie Marmon Silko on the healing power of story: The old folks said the stories themselves had the power to protect us and even to heal us because the stories are alive; the stories are our ancestors. In the very telling of the stories, the spirits of our beloved ancestors and family become present with us. The ancestors love us and care for us though we may not know this. (p. 27) According to Archibald and Silko stories have the power to protect us and to keep us strong (p. 27). Drawing from the work of Darwin Hanna, Archibald affirms that we have a responsibility to “our ancestors—those who gave us the responsibility to keep our culture alive” (p. 28). 87 Another important cultural principle is reciprocity which includes balance. Reciprocity is connected to relationship where there is a generous engagement between those involved. When a listener hears a story the listener then has a responsibility to remember what and how the story was told. One may be called upon, if given the authority, to retell the story at some point (p. 27). There is an acknowledgement of a relationship that exists among storyteller, story, and listener, even when the story is conveyed in print form. The story listener is a participant who is “actively engaged with the story” (p. 33). Archibald calls this synergy and sees this “synergistic interaction between storyteller, listener and story” as “another critical storywork principle” (p. 33). She says that remembering the stories is critically important, not just for continuing the oral tradition, but also to help us live and thrive in “a healthy way” and to keep us strong. If one is “given the authority” and remembers the stories, one can tell others the stories, “thereby practicing the principle of reciprocity” or giving back, making a circle (p. 27). Archibald explains the principle of reverence through the words of Ojibwa storyteller, and author, Basil Johnston, drawing on his understanding of how “traditional reverence for speech and its strong connection to truth,” respect, and trust give credibility to one’s words (p. 19). Johnston said that elders teach youth not to talk too much, or too often, or too long, and to not speak about things they knew little or nothing about. How often have I desperately wished that some of my fellow students—those who take up so much learning space in class—knew this teaching. Archibald (2008) quotes Johnston: To the tribe the man or woman who rambled on and on, who let his tongue range over every subject or warp the truth was said to talk in circles in a manner no different from that of a mongrel who, not knowing the source of alarm, barks in 88 circles. Ever since words and sounds were reduced to written symbols and have been stripped of their mystery and magic, the regard and reverence for them have diminished in tribal life. (pp. 19-20). In addition to the concepts discussed above, there were many other concepts in Archibald’s Indigenous Storywork that were important to the goals and process of my research project and journey; however, there is not enough room in this chapter to share them all here. As I read the work of other scholars for this literature review, I started noticing some parallels among them stemming out of my reading of Archibald’s (2008) work. Holding in my mind these principles and processes of teaching embedded in Indigenous story’s relationship with the land, epistemology, and life goals and values, I kept an eye out for how these principles were evident in the way stories were shared by my research participants. I also applied this perspective to my own experiences of land, story, and education. I found that all seven of the principles outlined by Archibald were present wherever I looked. In thinking about Katzie knowledge and story, and how I might be able to enact and live, what I proposed in my project, I reflected back on Archibald’s (2008) Coyote’s Eyes story and the personal story threaded through her chapters. Unlike Archibald’s Indigenous Storywork, I was working not only with living in-person participants but also with a published anthropological text that contained an elder’s (my great-grandfather, Peter Pierre’s) telling of our Katzie origin story involving four sibling transformers—together called Xe:xals which in most stories since colonization has been condensed into a single male entity. I kept thinking of Xe:xals, wondering how I could incorporate 89 Xe:xals into this contemporary knowledge-sharing format of a dissertation. Eventually, this wondering spun itself into a thread of a story that felt right. There is No Such Place Without Story Gregory Cajete (2000) says that from Indigenous perspectives, there is no such place as an environment without speaking it into being. Alongside Archibald’s work with Coast Salish elders, pedagogy, and storywork, Gregory Cajete’s work in speaking to Native science, story, and elders was a core support for my research. In Cajete’s (2004) chapter entitled, “Philosophy of Native Science” in American Indian Thought, a compilation of scholars writing on a diversity of Indigenous epistemological and ontological concepts, he says that, in contrast to Western science’s obsession with finding one truth and controlling an outcome, Native science focuses on meaning making and interrelationship. This leads to a good and balanced life for all, and celebrates the interrelationship among all of the natural environment. Cajete’s ideas of in-space and cognitive mapping were a major weft or side of the blanket loom, supporting the journey I was on in terms of connecting how we think to places on the land and water and in this way informing the best practices and approaches for Indigenous education and in particular Katzie education processes and context. Even more specifically, Cajete’s work implies and answers questions not only of what place means to Indigenous peoples, but also how place is conceptualized by Indigenous people and what it means to be connected to a place. Further, Cajete (2004) makes a case for the core role of land and place in education and where stories are crucial. He says, “Native science is born of a lived and storied participation with natural landscape and reality” (p. 46). This resonates with what my work is trying to accomplish, and I wonder about these 90 questions of place related to Katzie Coast Salish context, places, and environment. Just as Archibald saw the importance of working locally, close to her Coast Salish roots, Cajete worked with his home Tewa Pueblo community. I followed in these scholar’s footsteps and did my work locally in my home Coast Salish community of Katzie. Like Archibald’s work, and my own, Cajete’s work is about continuing to hold respect for, and work with, elders’ teachings in the interconnection of Native science, life, and education. Cajete (2000) explains that, “in a sense, all traditional Indian education can be called environmental education because it focuses on the spiritual ecology of a place” (p. 193). He explains, “Indian people expressed a way of environmental education that oriented them to ‘that place Indians talk about’” (p. 193). By talking about those special places, “they connected their spirit to them through their words, thoughts, and feelings” (pp. 42-43). This is one reason why the telling of stories, or oral narrative, is so critical for our survival and for maintaining our connection to our lands and waters. It was so important that the participants in my study tell their stories of connection to the lands and waters of our territory out loud in interview. Telling is decolonizing in its reconnecting us to our lands, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. Ideally, the telling would often happen on the land and in those places. Cajete (2000) also talks about how knowledge of a place does not exist without experiencing it in an ecological, systemic, and directly engaged way. Without this kind of engagement, there is a disconnection. Cajete (2000) explains, To know any kind of physical landscape you have to experience it directly; that is, to truly know any place you have to live in it and be a part of its life 91 process.…The scientific map, despite its claim of objectivity, has behind it a relatively subjective history and cultural worldview. (p.181) I think this, “to know any kind of physical landscape you have to experience it directly,” is a pedagogical principle that can be applied to any kind of knowledge, and it is a principle I will include in the creating of a sample Katzie pedagogy in Chapter 6 of this dissertation. Place is a complex living reality integral to Indigenous perspectives. Everything humans do involves the land and elements; from the first breath we take, to the lifetime of breaths we take, to the foods we eat, everything we do is engaging with nature whether we give this credence or not. Cajete coins several perfectly articulated terms related to our land, epistemology, and story connection. An important one for my study is “geopsyche” (Cajete, 2000, p. 78). He defines geopsyche as a sacred geography where spirituality and geography are not separate. Western knowledge, he asserts, has gone on a tangent from this understanding that emphasizes experience. Cajete explains that Indigenous people are people of place, and that the nature of place is embedded in their language. The physical, cognitive, and emotional orientation of a people is a kind of “map” that they carry and transfer from generation to generation. This map is multidimensional and reflects the spiritual, as well as the mythic geography of a people in that “a people’s origin story maps and integrates the key relationships with all aspects of the landscape” (p. 46). This is what my great-grandfather’s telling of our stories to anthropologists continues to do for us Katzie today: it maintains and reestablishes our connection. My great-grandfather’s telling of our origin story to Jenness was a way of reconnecting us to our sacred geography. It was a mapping and integrating of our key 92 relationships with all aspects of our territorial landscape for our ancestors, for the people at the time of the telling, for us, his progeny, and for the lands and waters and life entities that continue on. Along with Archibald’s storywork principles, Cajete’s concepts of metaphoric mind (which I discuss later in this chapter), in-space, and cognitive mapping, connected to specifically Indigenous perceptions of places that are storied, contributed to my understandings of the work before me. Indigenous Knowledge Requires Preparation by Making Space for Looking Inward The way I understand it, Indigenous knowledge connected to land/water requires travelling to what Cajete (2000) calls the “in-space” and what Willie Ermine (1995) calls the “inner space.” By travelling to this inner space, one can prepare one’s mind, heart, and spirit, and strengthen one’s ability to be aware and receptive to the knowledge that exists in the outer world, along with the knowledge located in the inner space and metaphysical dimension. In his chapter entitled, “Aboriginal Epistemology” in First Nations Education in Canada: The Circle Unfolds, Willie Ermine (1995) focuses on the idea of transformation in Indigenous epistemology and education. The transformation Ermine is talking about happens through looking inward to an inner space. It is an educational transformation, a way of learning. Ermine sees knowledge as coming from within an individual. Since transformation is not comfortable, a learner needs to prepare and equip herself with inner and outer strength, in order to come through the process in a holistically healthy manner, which is itself a significant core goal of the learning. Ermine notes that one must go inward to understand the outer space and must go outward to understand inner space. The “in-space” and the “inner space” were valuable concepts I drew from Cajete and Ermine’s works, respectively. This journey to the inner self forges 93 vitality and has implications for contributing to living a good, holistic life in relationship with the rest of the universe and beings. Ermine asserts that it is critical to Indigenous identity and therefore survival that education include these foundations of Indigenous epistemology, including the continued practice of traditional ceremonies that enact, and support, Indigenous epistemology and thus are fundamental to Indigenous education. These concepts from Ermine are another major strand or weft of my research blanket. Ermine speaks to the critical importance of remembering elders’ and ancestors’ knowledge, when we engage in education so that Indigenous identities flourish. Ermine (1995) notes there is humility in being a knower. I returned to Ermine’s words often, throughout my research journey, and his articulation of the concept that “the universe is personal” (p. 107), struck a chord repeatedly with me. I connected that idea to the work of other scholars, and it was like a compass point for me when I waivered during the arduous Ph.D. journey. At different junctures, I was reminded, by Ermine’s words, to go inward to the inner space. Through this practice, I gained the mental, temporal, and physical space to reflect inwardly on my experience as an Indigenous Ph.D. student researcher. Important to understanding Indigenous systems is learning to be relatively comfortable with what one cannot know. Ermine (1995) states that the trickster/transformer exemplifies the unknown, “guides us around the inner space,” and has the “capacity to assist with self-actualization” (p. 105). The trickster character reminds us of this reality in a way that is embodied and affective, and therefore memorable. The trickster character also offers opportunities to hone our skills of staying or getting back on course. Scholars such as Cajete (2000), and Simpson (2011), comment 94 on the teaching opportunities that trickster characters offer. The trickster’s adventures illustrating human foibles, make us rethink what we think we know on our path. This, in turn, helps us adjusts our path. Transformation occurs through identity re-affirmative learning processes based on subjective experiences and introspection. Aboriginal people seek to understand the reality of existence, and harmony with the environment, by turning inward, and thus have a distinct incorporeal knowledge paradigm for their epistemology that reaches beyond the corporeal level. Metaphysical places and physical places both need to be visited, and understood, made sense of, for the learner to experience holistic education and health in every aspect of life. The optimal metaphysical idioms are recognized traditionally and contemporarily in the form of dreams, chants, rituals, ceremonies, dances, and meditation (Ermine, 1995, p. 108). Modes like dreams are usually experienced while asleep, but can be induced through fasting and being outdoors with limits placed on physical resources; ceremonies and rituals are often accessed through the prescription of sparse physical resources such that one is divested of normal day-to-day activity and concerns in order for all of the senses and intuition to be focused on the inner or metaphysical dimension. Experience is a form of knowing and knowledge. Rituals and ceremonies are corporeal sacred acts that give rise to holy manifestations in the metaphysical world, and the metaphysical then constructs meaning in the corporeal realm. Physical cues to conceptualizations are found in modes, such as stone medicine wheels, that survive from the time when more of our people actively explored the inner space. During my research, I kept returning to our Coast Salish spindle whorls, and the 95 meaning that their design and creation had for our ancestors who invented and used them. I wondered about the physical cues that our Coast Salish spindle whorls had for us. I started reading and asking questions about them and started using their function and meaning for my methodology (Chapter 4). The cyclical nature of life journeys was represented by medicine wheels by some plains peoples. Together, power (being the “living energy that inhibits and/or composes the universe”), and place (being “the relationship of things to each other”), produce personality (Ermine, 1995, p. 107). Ermine states that “the universe is personal” and that this “demands that each and every entity seek and sustain personal relationships” (p. 107). Aboriginal epistemology is grounded in the self, the spirit, and the unknown. Further, Ermine recognizes the spiritual dimension as a place of knowledge and story. He explains that the spiritual dimension is an actual place and state of being that marks the endpoint and also beginning of Native science. Indigenous Knowledge Connected to Land/Water is Holographic A part of why I imagined, and created, this research project is in order to make a case for more outdoor, experiential engagement and learning and teaching opportunities (i.e., pedagogy) in education for the benefit of Indigenous students. I hope that an Indigenous and phenomenological approach to education, where students and teachers are fully attuned to being engaged, embodied, and heart fully, mentally, and spiritually looking inward to the in-space, as well as outward to the out-space, will become woven through curricula, content, and pedagogy. Hopefully, these concepts and approaches trickle into mainstream educational consciousness and application. Cajete discusses the parallels between a recent turn in Western science toward chaos theory, which he says Indigenous peoples have understood for millennia, and 96 Indigenous perspectives of reality. Chaos creates opportune moments or points where a pattern comes together even briefly, creating a bifurcation point, and there is a shift that radiates outward and changes/affects everything in the universe, or even in one person’s reality or experience. Examples include the “butterfly effect” or the “tipping point.” This phenomenon, as Cajete points out, is something the trickster or fool shows us. He asks us to think of the moment when certain forces—e.g., containment by a pot, heat, and other conditions—permit water almost to boil, and then not to boil. In that in-between state of almost boiling and not quite boiling, a swirling pattern appears at the surface of the water in the pot. This reminds me of my own research, of the whirlpools that some participants mentioned and of the spiral that one elder in particular invoked as a pattern of life’s processes. A spiral process circles back, but not to the same place. That is, it doesn’t circle back to the exact same spot it started from, but rather moves forward or backward in whatever given space it moves through. This chaos theory process, along with Cajete’s assertion that in Native science the perspective is that we are the microcosm of the macrocosm and vice versa, resonates with Meyer’s (2013) concept of the holographic universe. From my readings, I learned that there are perspectives of Indigenous knowledge that include a conception of time that is more spatial. There is a conception of time that is more spiral or holographic, allowing for more possibilities or variables in terms of directions to take or answers to be found. Another scholar whose work I felt was energizing, inspiring, and supportive to my work and goals, was Manulani Meyer. Meyer is a Harvard-educated professor of education who has taught in Hawaii at the University of Hawaii in Hilo and at Maori University of New Zealand/Aotearoa. Her book, Ho’oulu: 97 Our Time of Becoming, Hawaiian Epistemology and Early Writings (2003), is an edited version of her doctoral thesis, which explores Native Hawaiian epistemology through her work with Hawaiian elders. It illustrates her process of learning that the epistemology is from the land, from the elders and from her own relationships with elders, the land, the ocean, and her family. Her sister did the artwork in the book at each chapter based on the Polynesian koru, both a wave and a fern frond, an ocean and earth symbol. It reminded me of the yin yang symbol, but also brought me back to thinking of our Coast Salish spindle whorl and wondering what extended meanings the spindle whorl could hold for my research project. I experienced Manulani Meyer’s loving aloha, relational pedagogical approach, first hand when I attended a workshop she co-hosted at the World Indigenous Peoples Conference on Education (WIPCE) in Hawaii in 2014. She warmly invited the participants to greet the people next them and to get to know them like relatives in the workshop, she told us that we don’t need to be separate from one another but instead can relax and feel safe and get to know each other. Among the things I found most helpful for my research journey from Meyer’s (2003) Ho’oulu was the koru (ocean wave and fern frond) symbol that appeared throughout the book, because it connected me to the surfing culture of the west coast of Vancouver Island, where I lived for a year and a half while preparing for my comprehensive exams, and the writing of my research proposal. I was an aspiring surfer during this time, and I could relate to the way Meyer summed things up in surfing terms—e.g., don’t talk about surfing, show me your surfing on the back of a wave—which emphasize the doing required in Native Hawaiian epistemology. Indigenous epistemology is not just abstract, it is embodied. In fact, Meyer lists “doing” 98 (p. 148) as one of the components of Indigenous or Native Hawaiian epistemology. I found doing to be a major component of Indigenous epistemology and ontology that recurred in the work of the other scholars. Epistemology and ontology, in Indigenous terms, mean you do something by combining abstract thinking with some form of embodiment, whether it be surfing, growing taro, doing artwork, or spinning wool. You make something happen with your knowledge, and you do so with the intention of making things right, balanced, and better not just for yourself but for all life, rather than at the expense of life. If life is given up, it is for a good purpose, not for the sake of greed, ego, or accumulation. I also realized from reading Ho’oulu that to compare Western philosophy with Indigenous worldviews is a huge, complicated, and detailed task and that it would be too much for me to do in this dissertation even though the temptation was always there to make more comparisons. Meyer (2003) does an amazing job of comparing the two streams of thought and action or inaction. I decided to try and keep to my focus on specifically Katzie Indigenous cultural knowledge, rather than use up the space I had to work with in comparing these with Western philosophy, values, and systems, which other scholars have done a thorough job of already. What needed saying, and therefore decolonizing and identifying, was about Coast Salish, and in terms of my project and goals, I had identified a gap in the scholarship about Katzie, from Katzie people’s perspectives, and led by a Katzie scholar. This kind of work could not only begin to fill a gap, but could also pave the way for more Katzie and other Coast Salish scholars to make space for their people’s identity, stories, and rightful place in academia and beyond; so, that was the purpose of my project. I also found helpful Meyer’s detailed description of 99 Native Hawaiian terms, which served as a wonderful model for my own work. For instance, the term ike means knowledge, but there is a whole list of types of ike. Similarly, the term pono, meaning right/truth, is followed by a list of various types of pono. I learned that, for Native Hawaiians, ike and pono and epistemology and ontology go back to the ancestor taro root, rooted in the earth, and that there are 300 varieties of taro (p. 233). Meyer’s inclusion of her sister’s artwork throughout the book also showed an attendance to the value of art, and family, that she espoused in the book. Manulani Meyer’s work is located in the Pacific Ocean, with which I feel akin, because many of us Coast Salish share that ocean too, albeit quite far across it from each other. In fact, oral history says that Hawaiians used to travel by canoe, using the star systems as maps, and reading the ocean, to come visit Coast Salish territories not so long ago. There are many Coast Salish people, especially those close to the ocean around Vancouver, and on Salt Spring Island, whose ancestors were Hawaiians. Some of them even have Hawaiian surnames, and there are some places that have Hawaiian names, like Kanaka Creek in Katzie territory. Kanaka means “human being” (Meyer, 2003, p. 232) in Hawaiian. Manu Meyer generously and kindly sent an article to me via email several years ago, when I reached out to her to see if we could meet during a brief visit she was making here to present at a conference I could not attend, and this article, titled “Holographic Epistemology: Native Common Sense” (Meyer, 2013) was also pivotally supportive of my work and goals. There are two aspects of Meyer’s work that I feel most strongly supported and inspired my own work and goals as a researcher. One is her work with the taro plant and the land as relatives, and the stories of the taro; stemming out of this is her 100 relationship ethic of love and affection among relatives that she brings to education and applies in her pedagogical approach. The other is her holographic model of Indigenous epistemology, which I find very exciting. In the article where she discusses this holographic model, she uses three terms to describe three concurrent aspects of reality happening simultaneously, bringing together in a condensed and metaphorical way concepts which I have seen articulated not quite as understandably by other scholars—viz., that our everyday reality is in fact made up of three concurrent aspects: the physical, the mental, and the spiritual. I was inspired by the way she describes these various aspects using three Polynesian Pacific Ocean people’s languages—Maori, Hawaii, and Fijian. In Hawaiian, they are manaoio, manaolana, and aloha. I consider many Coast Salish to be not only river people but also an ocean people too, and I would love to find out more about what future connections might be made with other Pacific Ocean people who our ancestors once engaged with. The Indigenous holographic model of epistemology and ontology is similar to the new Western science of quantum physics—new, that is, to Western science; for Indigenous people, much of it is common sense. The idea that the whole is inseparable, multidimensionality, the notion of fuzzy logic, and the concept that there is not one right answer but rather many variables and variable answers have emerged as areas in which Indigenous students exhibit strong skills in math classes, according to at least one study (Battiste & Barman, 1995). To my thinking, the holograph model, with its three beams of oscillating, multicolored light particles, would allow one to start anywhere. The holographic trilogy is an event that happens simultaneously and holographically, Meyer tells us. The hologram may be constructed using modern techniques—it is a three- 101 dimensional image created through the use of a laser beam—however, Meyer (2013) says, “its implications are best understood with an ancient mind: the whole is contained in all its parts” (p. 94). Meyer quotes quantum physicist David Peat to explain that, “the ground out of which matter emerges is also the source for consciousness” (p. 94). She goes on to provide a table showing three metaphoric laser beams of the hologram, which represent facts, logic, and metaphor, to help us get to this “‘inseparable whole’ we have known all along exists” (p. 94). In the table, she shows how so many philosophers and spiritual leaders across cultures and time have also put forth similar or the same three aspects of reality in their own terms and languages, including Buddha, Vedic texts, mystic Hawaiian elder Hale Makua, Maori peoples, Henry Giroux, Rumi, Eckhart Tolle, the Tao Te Ching and many others (Meyer, 2013, p. 95). She goes on to explain in detail and with copious examples from across cultures and thinkers that, “matter is not separate from spirit” and “the whole of life is found in all parts” (p. 97). She refers to “deep ocean knowing,” and explains that “Native intelligence” with the support of quantum sciences puts forward “the notion that a realm of unseen connecting patterns exist and we are the causal linkages that alter its capacity” (p. 97). Meyer asserts that Indigenous simply means “that which has endured” to help with what is occurring now. She ends the article with the statement that the holographic universe’s beams of energy are “teaching us in separate ways about wholeness: everything is alive and we are all relatives” (p. 98). She says that Indigenous world-views will continue to survive: Tides come in and they go out again. Nouns have always been verbs. It has been like this for a long time. The Big Three exist: See the science in it, think it through carefully, and then inspire the 102 world with the quality of your participation. Please, most of all ulu ka le’ale’a – create joy in the process. (p. 100) As Native people, we often do not start with a linear temporal concept; that is, we do not start at a beginning, we start at a specific place—we start with the land. One reason for this is because the land is spatial and contains all times: past, present, and future. Therefore, it makes sense that Hawaiian creation starts with the land in the form of the taro plant ancestor. For Hawaiians, the land and gods encourage each human to seek knowledge to lead a good life for all. Indigenous Knowledge Connected to Land/Water is in Relationship Manulani Auili Meyer’s words at the WIPCE in 2014 have resided in my consciousness, particularly at times when I am at a loss as to what to do: “The universe is self-organizing.” To me at those times, these words meant that everything—those things that are out of my control and even those that are within my control, since I am doing my best possible efforts—will work out. Cajete has also talked about the universe as self-organizing and self-actualizing. My daughter and I also met Gregory Cajete during the WIPCE 2014 conference, at the shoreline of a beach where the opening ceremony was about to begin. We introduced ourselves and mentioned how valuable we had found his book to our work, telling him that we cited his book, in most, if not all, of our papers. He replied that he thought the book would appreciate that. Then he mentioned, to my daughter and me, how the shoreline, at that place, had receded a few feet since his last visit there, from the ocean water rising, due to polar ice caps melting. I had considered the self-organizing of the universe as an intuitive organizing, but now I think of Meyer’s words together with the brilliant Tseneca scholar John Mohawk’s (2008) statement that, 103 from an Indigenous perspective, there is no such thing as an individual intelligence, but rather one is gifted, and honored, to be a part of a system that has intelligence. This reminds me of our Coast Salish Xe:xals, as an energy, that is personified as a creator, a siem, and/or as a transformer. Xe:xals may be perceived as an intelligence energy, system, law, and pattern of effect, that is best understood as personified. Mohawk (2008) reminds us, An individual is not smart, according to our culture. An individual is merely lucky to be a part of a system that has intelligence that happens to reside in them…. The real intelligence isn’t the property of an individual corporation—the real intelligence is the property of the universe itself. (p. 52) The idea of intelligence being the property of the universe is an important distinction from the idea of knowledge as residing in the individual. I think that what Meyer and Mohawk are saying means that the universe has its own intelligence; that moves things together as a conscious, collective intelligence, like Cajete’s (2008) example of when groups of birds suddenly fly in patterns that appear as a synchronicity in the sky. We do not know how or why that happens, nor do we need to; it is happening. Cajete mentions that the body has a mind that engages with the world with its own intelligence. I think Cajete, Meyer, and Mohawk’s discussions on this topic mean that this intelligence has the best interests of all life in “mind.” A mutual caring relationship exists between life entities such as human beings and the universe as a whole. In the literature, the land as teacher can be a trickster who is located in the land, and in other life forms, and who shapeshifts according to the lessons needing to be learned. The trickster teacher privileges the land’s needs. There is always the danger that 104 if humans take shortcuts in their responsibilities, and do not show respect through care of the land, then the land may, at times, have to teach through catastrophe, giving us what is colloquially known as a “wake-up call.” Examples of the trickster teacher in action can be found in the scholarship that I examined, and also in a fictional narrative I read to provide an example of the teaching aspects of story in action. Indigenous storytelling, as George Clutesi and many other Indigenous writers, scholars, and elders, tell us, is “not meant to be documentary.... It is meant for the reader [listener] to feel and to say I was there and indeed I saw” (Archibald, 2008, p. 21). Fiction can be viewed as an example of the oral tradition put into print, and can offer an affect-connecting example that a non-fictional academic text cannot provide. Eden Robinson’s novel, Monkey Beach (2000) foregrounds places in the natural world, but also the supernatural dimension of the world from within a northwest coast Indigenous peoples’ context and perception. According to all of the literature reviewed Indigenous perspectives of land and place embedded in Indigenous knowledge systems include the supernatural dimension. In Monkey Beach, the sacred, the transformative, the trickster, the interstitial “space” between physical and metaphysical, are represented by memory, time, and nature, i.e., specific places on the land, water and shore and crows, and by the supernatural, i.e., the sasquatch. The first part of Monkey Beach, entitled “Love like the Ocean,” starts with nature having agency and speaking in the form of six crows: Six crows sit in our greengage tree. Half-awake, I hear them speak to me in Haisla. La’es, they say, La’es, la’es. I push myself out of bed and go to the open window, but they launch themselves upward, cawing.…. A breeze coming down the channel makes my curtains flap limply.… La’es—Go down to the bottom of 105 the ocean. The word means something else, but I can’t remember what. I had too much coffee last night after the Coast Guard called with the news about Jimmy. (Robinson, 2000, pp. 1-2) Monkey Beach offers a spiritual and agentive character in the landscape and in the Sasquatch being, which appear in the protagonist’s story where present action crisscrosses with past memories. The Sasquatch is attached to the land and to the spirit world; it is spirit and physical, animal and human, and has an animacy, and the agency to whistle and talk, to appear or to go, unseen. The notion of the land as a conscious being permeates Monkey Beach. While the Sasquatch and the protagonist’s absent brother act as haunting presences in a novel that contains few human characters, the natural landscape takes on an active cognizant character. Robinson (2000) captures in her text, a consciousness shared among Indigenous people living here in this particular northwest coastal landscape, with our generations-old relationships, and with our particular expressions and history. Robinson’s story is a sister’s search for her brother, who was lost at sea while fishing. Many west coast First Nations families are very familiar with the perils of fishing at sea. Robinson’s protagonist acquires her inner strength by going to the specific places in their territory that she and her brother visited in their youth. She goes into this wilderness via memory and through corporeal means. Desperately navigating in a small speedboat, the sister travels to the places that her family told stories about, and where she and her brother saw the Sasquatch during visits as children. Her brother might be lost at sea, but possibly he has crossed over to the spirit world. The Sasquatch is at the liminal space between the spirit world and the physical world. 106 This novel gives me hope that our particular land consciousness will increase in contemporary stories written and published by Indigenous storytellers. Gifted, intuitive, imaginative authors such as Robinson provide documents where land/places/water are foregrounded to the extent that these living animate beings (including animals, sea creatures, plants, hills, mountains, and rocks) are teachers. These kinds of stories are transformation catalysts, reminding and showing us just how intimately interrelated we are with nature. The water, river, the sea and the wind, bring knowledge with them, from the places they have been. Kinship/Relationship I found similar notions of kin relationship, kinship, kinocentricism, and biophilia recurring throughout the literature I read. The Western concept of biophilia resonates with the kinship concept of Indigenous perspectives of place and land discussed by Friedel and other scholars (referred to later in this chapter). Biophilia in this context means that all things in nature are attracted and drawn to each other and care for one another. Knowledge is embedded in and expressed in nature through nature’s “mind.” Unlike the Western idea of evolution, development, and a guilt-ridden creation, Indigenous ideas hold that all life is born whole and perfect. Further, rather than attempting to make life patterns static and constant, an Indigenous perspective is that change, flux, and transformation are the only constants and that these are necessary for life on this planet, in the cosmos, and in the spirit world. Change, flux, and transformation create new experiences, knowledge, and skills fostering adaptability and resilience. Further, the knowledge that exists is never lost. Neither is matter; it just transforms into a different form. 107 Further, knowledge comes into being when it is needed. An example of this is when we noticed a plant at the UBC Indigenous garden sprouting up suddenly where it had not been planted. After some discussion ensued, we realized it had sprouted up because it was needed for a medicine for an ailment that we had been asked to find. The concept of biophilia or kinship and seeing the land and humans as interrelated collaborators is a key perspective of land and place for Indigenous peoples. Indigenous perspectives of land and place are well explained through an ethic of relationality. Tracy Friedel (2011), in her work with urban Indigenous youth in Alberta, terms this relationality “kinocentric.” Everything has life and is included in relationship. Friedel’s ethic of relationality does not presume what is traditional or what tradition looks like for urban Aboriginal youth. Her findings tell us that relationality is perhaps more important than the place itself. In public school environmental programming context, if students do not already have a relationship with a place, taking them there is not enough, there needs to be a place where the kinds of relationships happen that the youth consider to be valuable and meaningful to them. The idea of tradition as connected to just being outdoors is not enough;25 rather, relationship needs to be considered as key to place. Instead of the focus being on the land, Friedel says the youth she worked with were more interested in relationship: “The youth in this study were keenly aware of the importance of such interrelationships in a Nehiyawi (Cree) and Aihtawikosisan-Nehiyawai (Metis-Cree) landscape, evident in comments concerning their preference for Native teachers in the summer program” wherein the youth noted that “a place is where 25 This is one of the ways where environmentalism and outdoor education is lacking; they lack an understanding of the importance of deep relationship. 108 you belong” (Friedel, 2011, p. 203). Creating and engaging in relationships was important to the Aboriginal youth in the urban contexts, as well as rural and remote contexts. Friedel related that when asked what place they had visited that was most significant to them, the youth answered that it was the van that took them there, and back—in other words, it was the kinship relations honed during the travelling. One of Friedel’s major points was that urban Aboriginal youth are agents with power and social capital—what regular literacy scholars call “funds of knowledge” (Moll, Amanti, Neff, & Gonzalez, 1992). Friedel pushes back against stereotypical representations of the youth with whom she worked. She says the fact that these youth had perfect attendance and expressed eagerness to join the program in the first place, calls into question misinterpretations of urban Aboriginal youth as essentially disinterested in schooling values and activities. Friedel says the youth also resisted the programmers’ design of the outdoor education program to place them back in nature as a way to assuage the destructive psychological effects and consequences of colonialism. Friedel refers to the youth’s resistance as epistemological persistence—a way of negotiating learning contexts in ways that disrupt ideas that repress Indigenous peoples by stereotyping them as noble savages, as tragic figures, or as suffering from a knowledge deficit. Friedel says environmental education curriculum also needs to be carefully monitored for its potentiality to enact “oralcide,” as “processes of modern schooling,” rather than building on “inherited practices of knowing in Indigenous non-formal learning,” all too often “actively work to kill [them]” (p. 203). By using the strongly stated term “oralcide,” Friedel means that in outdoor education planning, care needs to be taken to not dismiss, or ignore (essentially killing off of) the inherited 109 practices of knowing that Indigenous peoples engage in, through kinship and through orally transmitted stories in the oral tradition. Friedel suggests that Indigenous communities may wish to exercise increased control over the content and process of outdoor education programming. This increased leadership and control by Indigenous communities would re-align with their relational and spiritual place-based literacies, and enhance the potential of youth to see themselves as knowers within communities of knowers. In identifying for themselves, urban Aboriginal youth produce and embody a transformative counter-narrative that can serve to disrupt the troubled dominance of mainstream curriculum, where both the curriculum itself and its pedagogical deployment tend to stereotype Indigenous urban youth. If mainstream schooling did not stereotype Indigenous peoples and misrepresent Canadian history, and if the pedagogical approaches employed fit with the experiential reality of Indigenous families and youth, then many more youths would likely see substantial benefits to schooling. Friedel points out that this process of identification also connects their lived experience to larger social, cultural, and spiritual processes in Indigenous societies. In reading the literature, I came across some discussion on the Western phenomenon of thinking in terms of binaries. Marker and Friedel (2015) make a very important and striking point when they state that there is a difference between writing about the land, in the head, and writing from the land, in the body. They say that modernity’s binaries are a real problem, creating a head/body split, a human/nature split, and a physical/metaphysical split. When people engage in binaries and separations, it results in an othering and incurs violence on their own landscape. Binary thinking escalates so much into a polarity of this versus that, that there becomes a danger that 110 eventually there is nowhere to go; binaries cannot exist together, therefore one must seek to obliterate the other. Binaries create hierarchy, which is dangerous for Indigenous peoples. Within the colonizing context, there has been a tendency to think of and put Indigenous peoples in a lower evolutionary or developmental place in the hierarchy. Binaries refuse relationship or relationality through their excluding and polarizing. They create an us/them. Coming out of the tension created by binaries is the dialectic, where a healthier debate, discussion might occur. With the relatively recent, very public, Truth and Reconciliation of Canada Commission listening to the experiences directly from the Indigenous people who survived residential schools, we are now entering the era of dialogue. The dialogic will provide space in which to know and appreciate others and our differences as well as our similarities. Herman Michell (2013), in Cree Ways of Knowing and School Science, lists principles of Indigenous knowing and science education from a Cree people’s perspective. Again, land is a place of knowledge. Several things stood out to me in Michell’s work. For my study, I was particularly interested in the idea that memory is located in places on the land. In Indigenous science, we are prepared to adapt when change occurs. Michell writes, “I invite other Cree educators to think back and write about their own land-based experiences” (viii-ix). Michell says that he was taught that the land is watching and listening to humans and that the water and ice is alive. Michell (2013) also shares that science is usually taught in “stuffy” classrooms indoors, “completely detached from the land,” and that teaching occurs hierarchically there with the teacher standing at the front of the room and students “seated in rows, military style,” with students “seen as being devoid of bringing any prior knowledge and 111 understanding of science especially from an Indigenous perspective” (p. 70). He goes on to talk about how this memorizing of fragments of knowledge and testing “violates” the “wholeness of life” and leads to alienation and incomplete learning. He says teaching that separates subject matter into categories like social sciences, humanities, science, and arts is only offering parts of a whole, and spirit and human aspects are missing. This synchronizes with one of the goals of my project to make a case for education to happen outside of the classroom, and on the land, like some of my classes did on occasion during my elementary school years. Echoing the works of Archibald, Basso, Cajete and Cruikshank, Michell (2013) also writes about interconnectedness and relatedness through spirituality, saying, The land experiences us when we walk on her. We personify the earth as being conscious, aware, and imbued with Kitchi Mantu’s breath…. We also refer to bears as our grandfathers and wolves as our brothers. The land knows who you are. It is there to teach you when you are ready and willing to listen. One must observe carefully the signs and the underlying meanings behind the patterns, cycles and rhythms, as this is the way of nature. (p. 20) Michell writes about the inevitability of flux and change. “According to the worldview of Nihithawak Ithiniwak,” he says, “everything is in a constant process of change and transformation” (p. 20). “On the land,” he tells us, “there is always something to see and experience” (p. 20). For Michell, “motivation is looking forward to the unexpected” (p. 20). In sharing his experiences of the land, Michell also shares the story of his mother, who would teach him and his sister through storytelling. “My mother had a unique way of using her voice, facial expressions, and body movements to keep us connected to the 112 story” (p. 18), he recalls. She would also teach her children while hunting, teachings that stayed with Michell in vivid, sensory memories. The north is a beautiful place in the morning…smelling the nice crisp clean air, the wind brushing against my face, and the methodical sound of snow crunching beneath our footsteps. As I reflect back, I was privileged to have experienced life and nature in this way…in tune with the natural world as we walked alongside my mother. The rules were to observe very closely, listen actively, and keep quiet so as not to disturb and scare off the animals. From the corner of my eyes, I would watch my mother’s hunting behavior and etiquette. She taught us through example. She modeled every move so very carefully, knowing we were watching and learning. When she spoke, every Cree word that came out of her voice was gentle, respectful, almost in a whisper but firm, well-thought out, precise and to the point, while leaving room for further thought. Learning Nihithawatisiwin is practical, experiential, participatory and fundamentally spiritual. It was through the doing and through the seasonal and daily practical activities that we come to know our fundamental relationship with the natural world. Learning is contextual and experiential…. My mother taught us to stay calm in the face of adversity. We were taught to embrace the flux and unexpected as this is the way of the land. Things always happen for a reason. She taught us to look for meanings in the patterns of events and the unfolding of the world, as this is where answers are found. … For Nihithawak Ithiniwak the land is our classroom, our laboratory and our library. 113 The fresh air, the sights and sounds of nature always leaves a person deeply connected and whole. (p. 19) Relationships of caring and remembering occur in Indigenous perspectives and approaches to knowledge in attitude, ceremony, ritual communing, and experiencing holistically. Each of the above scholars say this attitude of attending with care in all dimensions of experience is a major aspect of Indigenous perspectives of epistemology and ontology in connection with places, land, and environment. This ethic of caring is also a part of Indigenous language, ways of speaking, rhythm, tone, and melody of voice. Our languages speak the language of the land. The Language of the Land - Indigenous Peoples’ Literacy Language is very connected to how we think about Native science because, as Cajete said, Native science is a storied science. Native science refers to all thoughtful endeavours since Indigenous epistemology, ontology, pedagogy and research is holistic and inclusive and interrelated. Cajete talks about how we think and our multimodal literacy forms and practices within his discussions of Native science. Cajete (2000) talks about the concept of what he calls the metaphoric mind. The metaphoric mind is the oldest mind of humans. Cajete says the metaphoric mind creates the rational mind. He writes: Native science practice tries to connect the “in-space,” our human intelligence, a microcosm of the intelligence of the earth and the universe, with the heart and mind. Art and language, through story, song, and symbolic dance are used to simultaneously explore relationships to the in-scape and the land. (Cajete, 2000, p. 71) 114 Cajete’s identification and explanation of “the metaphoric mind” as “the mind without or before words” (p. 71) indicates a mind that is engaged with multimodal forms of literacy. What Cajete is talking about reminds me of what French psycho-analytical language theorist Jacques Lacan, as well as French feminist language theorists such as Simone de Beauvoir (1980), Hélène Cixous (1997), semiotician Julie Kristeva (2000) and post-structural language theorist Jacques Derrida (1998), refer to as “the semiotic” and “the symbolic order.” Dominant Western European-based education focuses on reading and writing language. These theorists say, much of language—including all Western languages—has, to a large degree been dominated by patriarchal systems, and this patriarchal language (“the symbolic order”) can serve to disconnect us from our pre-language (“the semiotic”) ability to experience things. The status quo is thereby upheld as we are separated from our connection to, and understanding of, the world outside of these dominant systems, especially from experience and knowledge that would come to us in embodied, multi-sensate, spiritual, emotional, and psychological ways. Thus our current dis-connected state, our separation from the experiences of our bodies and our feelings, inhibits our ability to create and perceive anything new or divergent from the status quo. Similar to these concerns of the French feminist language theorists above, Cajete (2000) says, “When language is developed and used extensively, holistic experience of the metaphoric mind begins to get chopped up and labeled, until, eventually, it recedes into the subconscious” (p. 28). Despite this, the metaphoric mind is still very important in a child’s development because, in effect, the metaphorical mind makes possible the perceptual, creative, and imaginative experience of our inner worlds. Cajete says that a Western scientific perspective is one where “maps of places are drawn to symbolically 115 represent a place based on previously agreed upon criteria that are logical and measurable with regard to the discipline of cartography” (p. 181). A map, however, “is always just a kind of symbol for a place, it is not the place it is meant to describe” (p. 181). We need to go there with our bodies, hearts, and spirits to really know the place, even mentally. Cruikshank (2005), in Do Glaciers Listen? Local Knowledge, Colonial Encounters, and Social Imagination, looked at how the discourses of traveler visitor records and of Indigenous peoples’ oral narratives, shape, and are shaped, by geographical conditions and understandings of them. She looked at the social conditions interconnected with geographical entities along the Yukon Alaska border in Tlingit- and Athapaskan-speaking peoples’ territories and the travel pathways of culture and trades. A settler ethno-historian, Cruikshank listened to Tlingit- and Athapaskan-speaking elders, like Annie Ned and Kitty Smith, and credited them for their conversations, teachings, and assertions regarding how they perceive, and are related to, the land, and specific land formations in their territories. Cruikshank (2005) examines dialogues between discourses—the written discourse of settler travelers, visitors, residents, prospectors and the oral discourse of Indigenous residents—regarding perceptions of land formations as sentient agents, concepts of social imagination, and local knowledges. I appreciated that Cruikshank gave, and shared, space in the book for the elders’ direct quotations and her interpretations of their context. Through Cruikshank’s work with the elders, the reader is able to hear both from the elders’ voices directly and through Cruikshank’s contextualizing voice, that the land/water are sentient. The conceptual perception of a land feature having sentience is built within the language of the Tlingit and Athapaskan speakers. Oral narratives of Indigenous “residents” “provide rich alternatives to 116 normalized values that now conventionally frame nature as a redeemable object to be ‘saved” (Cruikshank, 2005, p. 258). Elder Annie Ned says, “You people talk from paper. I want to talk from Grandpa” (Cruikshank, 2005, p. 76). Indigenous people’s perception of Nature as subject is in tension with the settler people’s perception of nature as object. Annie Ned brings 90 years, almost a century, of life relationships and experiences of being with and on the land. She brings an understanding of how knowledge is embedded in land and how the oral tradition of Indigenous peoples’ kinship with land extends to relating to certain meaningful, storied, land features as ancestors and grandparents. Cruikshank (2005) explains how “memories of the Little Ice Age are sedimented both in physical processes studied by scientists – the strata of rock and the bands of grit carried by glaciers – and in memories of long-term residents” (p. 258). Asserting her deep connection to land and place, during a meeting on climate change with mainly out-of-town participants, elder Kitty Smith exclaims, “My roots grow in jackpine roots!… I’m born here. I branch here” (p. 67). When the elders and Cruikshank visit old campsites together, Annie Ned comments: “You don’t know this place, so I’m going to sing it for you” (p. 67). These women take it as a given that to form and maintain social relationships among people without reference to place, or to speak of place, without explaining how people who lived there were in relationship and connected, is impossible. Cruikshank (2005) sees the area’s designation as a World Heritage site, with four parks, as a place where, unproblematized representations of nature as “aesthetic landscape,” “endangered/pristine wilderness,” or even as a giant jungle-gym for eco-tourists 117 now compete with conceptions held by Aboriginal residents who once lived and hunted in these parks. (p. 14) Cruikshank found that the experiences of Tlingit and in-land Athapaskan speakers “reinforced a vision that humans and nature mutually make and maintain the habitable world, a view now echoed by environmental historians” (p. 3), and supported the idea of places being mutually constructed. She asserts that “glaciers appear as actors in this book” (pp. 9-10). In speaking about memory and the social imaginary, her choice of wording, such as references to the “permanent problem of strangers” (p. 18), is an example Indigenous perspectives, acknowledging that strangers/Xwulunitim come in various forms, more recently in the form of the mining and oil industries, and the governments who support them, is still a problem from the vantage point of Indigenous peoples. Cruikshank (2005) shares, “As the [Yukon elders] reached their mid-eighties, each expressed concerns about difficulty remembering the names of once-familiar places and the need to revisit them in order to recall names and associated stories and songs” (p. 67). The glacier stories conceptualize time as a place. “For Tlingit,” writes Cruikshank, memories are part of the record etched on the landscape” (p. 141). Places on the lands and waters are an archive of endangered stories and memories. One of the elders’ stories shows that “features of the land were molded by the world-maker, Raven, who left evidence of his travels as he worked his way along the coast, transforming geographical features” (p. 141). This reminds me of our Katzie story told by my great-grandfather, θƐ’ɬǝctǝn/Hawkltin, about the four siblings called Xe:xals travelling across the land and water, transforming beings to teach them and those who witness the resultant 118 transformations, life lessons. It is important for us to consider that for the Tlingit, their “oral traditions are national histories” and that “in these histories, the primary units are intermarrying matrilineal clans, rather than artificially bounded states, and they regulate cooperation as well as the exchange of ritual services that accompany life’s transitions” (p. 141-142). Echoing the kinship perspective discussed earlier, Cruikshank notes that “kinship is the idiom of social relations” and that “no sharp distinction between animate and inanimate” is in effect because the Tlingit and Athapaskan languages emphasize activity (p. 251). Thus, Tlingit and Athapaskan languages and English do not correspond, since English is relatively noun rich and verb sparse, and consequently distinguishes more aspects of existence as being lacking in relationship, inanimate and objectified. Tlingit and Athapaskan languages, being verb rich, distinguish more aspects of existence as being animate, life full, and thus relatable, having relationship qualities. “Hence, mountains, glaciers, bodies of water, rocks, and manufactured objects all have qualities of sentience,” (p. 142) explains Cruikshank. A discussion of Indigenous people’s perception of the land as sentient would not be complete without including Keith Basso’s (1996) groundbreaking work in the area of sentient landscapes in Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language Among the Western Apache. Basso had spent two decades studying and visiting the land and the Western Apache people at Cibecue before he undertook a project that took 18 months over 5 years with the support of a national research grant. The project was initially undertaken at the direction or suggestion of the Western Apache chairman at the time, whom Basso was visiting. The chairman asked him to create a map of Western Apache 119 places using Western Apache names. This map is not a part of the book, because the Western Apache people involved did not want the map to be made public. The book is a richly deep and detailed account of Western Apache perceptions and conceptions of land, language, story, and knowledge, and their interrelationship. This account presents the complicated teachings Basso learned while talking, and spending time doing things on the land, with Western Apache elders—like Dudley Patterson, with his sister Ruth Patterson who was often nearby, encouraging and supporting the contexts of the stories. The topic of the Western Apache perception of the land as sentient is reflected in the title of his book, Wisdom Sits in Places. One of the most interesting stories Basso (1996) tells is of his experience regarding his perception of a tree, the location of which he had some familiarity with, both before and after, Dudley told him a story that involved the tree. Basso said he realized after the telling of the story that when he saw and thought of that tree, and its name, and location, his perception of the tree grew because of the increased meaning that the tree and its location now had for him based on what he had learned from hearing Dudley tell the story. I am keenly aware that my perception of the tree has changed. The stories…make its impressive size seem decidedly less important, and what strikes me as never before is its standing in the Cibecue community as a visible embodiment of myth, a leafy monument to Apache ancestral wisdom. I am also aware that the place-name identifying the tree’s location…has taken on a vibrant new dimension. Formerly nothing more than a nicely descriptive toponym, it has acquired the stamp of human events, of consequential happenings, of memorable times in the 120 life of a people. As a result, the name seems suddenly fuller, somehow larger, endowed with added forces. (Basso, 1996, p. 120) It was as if his world had shifted. Out of the experience of a story Dudley tells him, Basso starts to question: what is wisdom? He asks Dudley, and Dudley tells him another story, but Basso still does not quite understand, so upon the suggestion of Ruth, Dudley’s sister, Basso is invited to go riding with Dudley on a certain day. However, it turns out Dudley can not go riding that day due to an accident, and the ride is postponed another two weeks, thus prolonging the time of reflection and desire for the answer by Basso. The journey of the story, the next story, the invitation to go riding on the land with Dudley and hear the stories at the places there, and the time Basso spends musing over his question and sensing how the new knowledge he has gained in story form, linked to how a place on the land feels for him, all make the reader keen to find out the answer to Basso’s question. A story that Dudley’s sister, Ruth, tells Basso (1996) to answer the question of what is wisdom is one that was told to her to teach her. In the story a mother tells her daughter to keep a clear mind and not to “only think of yourself” (p. 124-125). She is told to remember a mountain’s name in order to remember what happened there long ago and what resulted from it and that this will help “make you wise.” Place names hold stories of events that happened. When the daughter is very tired of doing a task—collecting firewood by herself to bring back—she starts wishing she could get the task over with sooner, and quickly loads herself up with a far too heavy load of the heavy oak wood; as a result, she loses her balance and trips and falls on her head. The mother later says “you were only thinking of yourself. That’s why this happened to you” (p. 124). As a reader, I 121 found myself wondering, how was this girl thinking of herself, since being tired is beyond one’s control is it not? I sensed myself beginning to understand the fuller meaning of the mother’s statement as the process of learning and answering unfolds between Dudley and Basso. When Basso had initially asked the question what is wisdom, Dudley’s answer was “wisdom sits in places” (p. 121). Basso does not understand this answer, and so the learning and teaching process continues as Dudley and his sister Ruth arrange for things to proceed in a way that they hope will help Basso understand (p. 124-135) while going horseback riding on the land. As I wondered intently about the two questions—what is wisdom and what does not thinking about oneself involve when hunting or performing a task?—a third question arose in my mind. That was, what does it mean to have a clear mind? Why is it important? Is it even possible, and if so, how is one expected to obtain it once or ongoingly? I learned some very important, life-changing things while reading this book, imagining the scenes described within it, and reflecting on what was said. I learned that if one is able to cultivate three kinds of minds simultaneously, then one can be wise, or have wisdom. These kinds of minds, from the Western Apache words in translation, are 1) “a smooth mind,” 2) “a resilient mind,” and 3) a “steadiness of mind” (Basso, 1996, p. 130-142). Added to this is the teaching to never think of yourself above anybody else; do not be self-interested or focused on yourself or your own ego, fear, anxiety, or discomfort, as this can cause confusion and take up valuable space in the mind. Related to this is not over-explaining things, including stories. Only say what is absolutely necessary and no more. Leave space and silence for the other people to imagine, to fill in, 122 and to contribute to with their own minds. This is considered the polite and respectful thing to do. Stories like the ones Dudley Patterson told to Keith Basso teach that it is important for survival and a good life that one aim to cultivate a smooth, resilient, spacious, steady, and calm mind, and in this way, prevent what Dudley and Ruth call “trouble”—to avoid danger in the environment such as contaminated water one might be tempted to drink when thirsty, and to prevent aggressive reactions that might result in discord with other people. A smooth mind, a resilient mind, and a steady mind support each other so that one’s mind can then be aware of the important things, like prescient signs pointing to bad things that could happen in the future if one does not take action before they occur. This state of mind allows one to be present, and think about the stories, pointing one’s thoughts to ways one could be practicing, learning, honing, and nurturing skills in order to become wise. It means, committing to memory more and more cautionary narratives, dwelling on their implications at … deeper levels, and visiting the places with which they are associated as opportunities arise.…As people move forward on the trail of wisdom, their behavior begins to change, and these alterations, which become steadily more apparent as time goes on, can be readily observed by relatives and friends. Most noticeably, inner strides toward mental smoothness are reflected in outer displays of poise and equanimity—signs of nervousness fade, irritability subsides, outbursts of temper decline. There is also to be detected a growing consistency among attitudes adopted, opinions expressed, and judgments proffered.…. And always these people are thinking—thinking of place-centered 123 narratives, thinking of the ancestors who first gave them voice, and thinking of how to apply them to circumstances in their own lives. (Basso, 1996, p. 139-140) The answers Dudley Patterson gave to Basso’s question of what is wisdom, as well as the ways and processes by which he gave them, was a part of the wisdom. The wisdom sits in places and one must go there in mind, body and sometimes in spirit. Places become places through the memories of things that happened there. Things that happen occur, and are remembered, if there is relationship. Relationship is meaningful, and therefore memorable. There is value in asking about the names of places and what their stories are, from elders and knowledge holders. Most of all, it is important to regularly make time to look within, to find out this wisdom for oneself and consequently for others’ benefit and wellbeing, to forecast and to prevent any trouble in the world. Basso (1996) closes his book by sharing a story about how a youth had an accident at a place in Cibecue, and the community immediately put a sign there naming it as the place where this specific accident had occurred. This, Basso says, is a new story, and thus new stories are continuing to be born for present and future generations in places on the land. Indigenous Literacies Hare (2005) and Korteweg (2009) provide a focus on Indigenous perspectives of land and place related to language and literacy. Indigenous literacy as a field is very nascent, and at the time of my study, there was only one scholar who was officially in this field of study—Jan Hare, who teaches in the Language and Literacy Education Department at The University of British Columbia on unceded Musqueam land in Coast Salish territories. Hare’s (2005) work was very helpful to my research project in being a 124 forerunner and creating a path in the field, or forest, of Indigenous literacy work. Hare worked with elders around questions of language, and how their literacy was connected to reading the land. Hare’s work took place in Saulteaux territory in mid-eastern Canada. The Saulteaux are very different peoples culturally and in language from Coast Salish, and their stories are much different from ours since their landscape and geography are very different. That said, we do share similarities when it comes to worldview and experience of life during the centuries of colonialism we are all living in. Hare’s (2005) work calls for a realization of the educational value of Aboriginal ways of knowing and learning, through what Saulteaux elder Alfred Manitopeyes calls “good talks” and “good walks” (p. 243). Hare contends that “the nature of their literacy…was a matter of learning to read symbols and inscribe meanings across landscapes within the family, which served as the primary medium of cultural continuity and the context for their literacy experiences” (p. 245). The knowledge of the environment, including weather patterns and “time indicators,” Hare asserts, is “a form of literacy because it is imbued with a sense of reading what is written over the land” (p. 247). It is, Hare states, a productive, sustaining form of literacy out of which their lives were shaped by the dimensions of the environment, inscribed by memories of life on the land and with their families, toward a way of thinking to which Western literacy has paid too little attention. (p. 247) We read and experience the land to know our stories, songs, dances, and emblems. In addition to being an archive of knowledge, the land teaches through engagements of outer and interior experience and observation and through processes of transformation and patterned change. Knowledge is alive and embodied on the land. 125 Hare (2005) emphasizes that approaches need to “include Aboriginal people’s connection to the natural world as a legitimate text from which to learn alongside the print traditions learned in school, particularly as we attempt to define new traditions of living with the land” (p. 257). She states that creating space for including Aboriginal forms of literacy offers both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal students a wider range of choices and orientations related to “acquiring Aboriginal languages, developing Aboriginal narrative traditions, or learning about relationships to the land and environment” (p. 261). In an Ojibwe context, Korteweg, Gonzalez, and Guillet (2009) find that within Aboriginal traditional perspectives and processes, the term “environment” does not exist…as it is not a place, but rather a concept of being. There is no word for environment in Ojibwe [Anishinaabe]. Environment is everything, so attempting to define a place it exists in, is not possible. We are creatures of the space and land we occupy, not caretakers of it, removed from the land. The land owns us, we do not own the land. (p. 343) In Archibald’s (2008) work, one of the elders from the Coqualeetza elders circle, Mary Lou Andrews, remembers: “Walking…if you went to gather fruit or food, or if you were just going from point a to point b, there was a story told about the area [its placename] or [a historical story of] what happened at that place’” (p. 127). The teachings in the stories are multi-faceted and interdisciplinary: there is history, social studies, and science in the stories—information about how to take care of plants, medicines, and the environment. There is also a spiritual dimension. Archibald learns from the elders that in these contexts, storytelling was not a public event, but one that was more individualized and which emphasized connections and responsibilities to the land. 126 Again, values and respectful practices were intertwined with the place name stories. (p. 130) Being in harmony with nature and with oneself requires respecting the gifts of each entity and the establishment of respectful, reciprocal relationships with each knowledge that comes from nature. Respect is also shown in learning by listening to elders’ ways of teaching, by seeking out elders for knowledge, and by taking time for reflection. In reciprocity, the elders also have responsibility for teaching. The interrelatedness of all my relations requires compassion and is also a part of being a good relative. Cajete (2000) says, “Native cultures talk, pray, and chant the landscape into their being” (p. 306). Like elders Annie Ned and Kitty Smith (Cruikshank, 2005), he says that Indigenous peoples’ perspectives of land and place include “‘talking the land,’ that is, naming its places, singing its virtues, and telling its stories” (p. 184). Not as a social imaginary in terms of contestation, but rather in terms of creation and construction, Cajete (2000) uses the term “collective conscious” and says that “metaphorically, learning the language of place and using that language to talk that place into being, in both the individual and the collective consciousness of the community, is one of the essential functions of Native languages” (p. 306). The idea of our language being connected to the environment tells us how intimately we are imbricated with the lands and waters where we live. The book, Original Instructions, edited by Nelsen (2008), contains articles based on 10 years’ worth of presentations at annual Bioneers conferences. The term “bioneer” is a neologism combining the words “biological” with “pioneer”. The Bioneer conferences bring together people from multiple disciplines to create new solutions to environmental, 127 cultural problems and social justice26. These talks offer a range of valuable insights into Indigenous perspectives of land and place. Particularly helpful for my research were ideas I found there regarding language, sound, relationship to land, and our multi-sensate remembering bodies, which I find are too often forgotten in the consumerist environment of media and city. Rebecca Adamson (2008) explains that the language of the Sans people in Botswana and Nambia sounds like elements of the natural environment in which they originally lived. She hypothesizes that all of our languages originated through listening to, and imitating, the natural environments in which we lived and live. This reminds me of when I heard an elder woman at a conference in the early 1980s tell conference participants that her language sounds like the rushing river and the wind rustling through the pines in her south Okanagan homeland. Since that time, I have listened for how language sounds like the environments I am in. Our cognitive and linguistically articulated memories and our sensate body, heart, and spirit memories are all holistically embodied within us, beyond the mind-brain as the dominant cognition location, and these are attached to places through our senses and our languages and through our spirit connections beyond our bodies. Rhythms of the environment or nature are mirrored in our languages, our speech, our songs, and in our movements such as dances. Sounds, grammars, and words, all work together to express these land/body experiences. Thus, in these ways, the land speaks through our languages, and through us. Another form of knowledge, and a kind of future memory, can also occur in the form of prophecies, which are also stories that are obtained through dreams, flashes, 26 For more information on Bioneers, refer to their website at: https://bioneers.org/ or Wikipedia at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bioneers 128 ceremonies, and rituals. Prophecies are a way of reading the pulse of our connection with the land. Heart Knowledge I found Holmes’ (2000) work helpful in terms of explaining an Indigenous—in this case a Native Hawaiian—perspective of the sentience of land, and also for further understandings of what an embodiment of knowledge means. For Holmes, knowledge is conveyed through heart knowledge and blood memory. Through an emotionally engaged and attached relationship, knowledge is located in the heart. Leanne Simpson’s (2011) work, Dancing on the Turtle’s Back, which focuses on resurging stories and connecting them to land, elders, language, and sovereignty, is located in a Nishnaabeg context of mid-eastern Canada. Simpson’s work with elders, who explain the language, tells us that the Nishnaabeg term “(o)debwewin” means “the sound of the heart,” and also one’s own independent and unique truth. When there is no “o” before the word “debewewin,” the meaning is “truth.” So together, it would mean the sound of my truth, which has the strength and power of one’s own physical beating heart. I found the heart metaphor that Holmes and Simpson bring to the discussion explains the profoundly intimate connection between individual truth, embodied knowledge in land/water places, and emotional attachment to story and language. This I found to be important to my work, as I believe that teaching and learning should include the whole human being, because this results in an increase in compassion, wellbeing, and vital strength for all. The heartbeat of our mother that we heard, invitro, before we were born, may be our first language. The heart is a place of blood knowledge that is emotionally carried and pumped through the veins 129 of our bodies. Therefore, through this integral and intimate memory of our ancestry is an expression through us of the voice of the land. Holmes’ (2000) work focuses on three particular elders and their words. She states that through the kupuna/elder stories, it is apparent that the earth is a presence, and as a subject it has agency. Through Kalo’s27 (taro plant and first ancestor) talk and that of her kupuna (elder), “the voice of the land is articulated” (as cited in Holmes, 2000, p. 46). Holmes says that “Feelings of connectedness entering the talk of the kupuna may make this knowledge more memorable than “book learning.” (p. 46) Holmes says that through “practices as touch, gesture, embrace, expression, and the sharing of good do we ready the body to contain memory” (p. 47). She talks about lokahi (together as one) (p. 47). Lokahi finds parallels in what other Indigenous peoples say regarding an understanding of unity, a perception of reality and the universe as an ecology. For example, the related Nu-chah-nulth concept as explained by Atleo (2011) is Tsawalk, which means oneness or unity. Lokahi and Tsawalk are also similar to a term used in my Coast Salish nations: in the Katzie language, the concept of šxʷqʷeləwən (pronounced “shewalewen”) means we are one, and simultaneously refers to our lifeforce. In all three terms are the concepts of holism and unity, core concepts in Indigenous perspectives of land, place, and knowledge, showing how we understand ourselves to be unified with the land. Based on my readings of some other scholars, my own experience, and reflection on my own relationships with land and water, I think that relevance, reliability, reflection, memory, and love could also be added to the seven principles of Indigenous storywork. This would create a total of 12 theoretical principles for approaching Indigenous 27 Kalo is the Hawaiian name for the taro plant which is considered to be the first ancestor. 130 storywork in personal life and in education where there are activities such as teaching, research, and curriculum and pedagogy development. I learned through the readings that storytelling can be said to be a form of pedagogy; being on the land is also a form of pedagogy and literacy context, and the more the two are connected, the stronger both the pedagogy and the literacy become. All of the above scholars could be said to be advocating for this kind of pedagogy in their explications of what it means to be connected to the land from Indigenous perspectives. I discuss pedagogy further in Chapter 6 and in the Introduction to this dissertation. Knowledge comes from active, experiential learning—a process of learning by doing that engage one’s whole being. This involves being in our bodies, using our senses, and kinesthetically moving through places on the land and water, in relationship within ourselves in our inner-space and also with our relatives—emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually. Many of the scholars I read talked implicitly or explicitly about how the commodification of culture limits understandings of Indigenous knowledge and obscures its damaging effects on nature. This commodification of culture—and really every aspect of Western capitalist society—is a deep concern for me on a daily basis in my life beyond scholarship. One of my goals is to raise awareness of other choices, options, and ways of being in the world that are healthier. This literature review demonstrates that Indigenous peoples value, and center, their experience and understanding in the land/nature/environment as teacher, text, knowledge producer, story holder and teller, language co-creator, and moral story archive, with crucial teachings, arising out of real storied events, that happened there in that place on the land or water. If we listen with our hearts, minds, bodies, and spirits as 131 all of these scholars ask us to, we can hear the stories and teachings there. The land and waters constantly form the backdrop of our consciousness, whether acknowledged or not. However, as Cajete reminds us it is also important that we talk, sing, pray, and tell the stories of the land into creation. In closing this chapter, I hope this work contributes to identifying a set of unifying principles and salient features that constitute the heart of Indigenous perspectives of land, water, and place for a theory of Indigenous place-conscious and place-based literacy education, and informs a theoretical framework or backdrop for the chapters to come. 132 Chapter 4: Methodology – Xé:ls28 and the Spindle Whorl: A Rematriatist Transformative Coast Salish Research Methodology A spindle whorl designed out of stone, wood, earth, bone, spinning threads from animals, sheep, mountain goats, threads spinning out like water streams. Like the ocean currenting up the river to my home territory of Pitt Lake, the only tidal lake in the world. An ocean saltwater wedge beneath, meets the depths of Pitt Lake. Tunnels. Sturgeon. Currents of thought, of learning /research/teaching/life journey. Sometimes Xé:ls the sister, sometimes a salmon, I was swimming upstream along the current home. Belly full of salmon eggs (See Figure 8). Waiting to be released into the home territory to grow into new salmon babies, people of knowledge, action, wisdom, dreaming their dreams, activating their gifts. - Xé:ls the Sister’s Story 28 Xe:xals are transformer siblings (three brothers and one sister) in the form of bears who travel through the landscape and transform humans into land features Xe:xals has many different spellings according to dialects and individual speakers and sources. Xé:ls is the singular term. Figure 8. Musqueam Coast Salish Artist, Joe Becker’s Salmon with Eggs. A spindle whorl design. A balance of the female (above) and the male (below) salmon. The Salmon eggs are red lights that light up. Located outside the front entrance to the University of British Columbia Museum of Anthropology. Photo credit: Author. Personal Collection. 133 In this chapter, I describe the methodology that I developed for my research project. I introduce the methodology learning process, and discuss its relationship to my academic research goals, and to my identity as a Coast Salish Katzie descendent and educator. I wanted to develop a specifically Coast Salish/Katzie methodology for this research project. In order to do so, I developed a list of 10 core principles upon which to ground this methodology. They are as follows: Principle 1: Decolonizing is tribally specific. Principle 2: Love is the key relationship. Principle 3: Researching knowledge/being Xwulmuxw (the people of this place) is experiential, active doing, with all of our senses engaged. Principle 4: Researching knowledge is story/storied/Indigenous storywork. Principle 5: Metaphor – The material cultural object is the tip of the iceberg of a worldview, paradigm shift, transformative journey, and cosmology. Principle 6: Researching is placed – The key to decolonizing is emplacing Indigenous futurity. Knowledge is placed in a physical, spiritual, and mental interstitial, tribally specific geography that recognizes, and honors, learning by engaging with land, ocean, and ancestors. Principle 7: Wisdom/reflection is generative through inner and outer reflections and relationships and conceptions of circling back and spatiality. Principle 8: Rematriating – Women respecting, honoring, remembering, and revering ourselves as Coast Salish Katzie women in all our esteem and wisdom. Principle 9: Research can be a Transformative pedagogy. 134 Principle 10: Cultural ceremonial practice is a key to a knowledge generation that takes into account, respects, and honors our twinned physical and metaphysical reality. Later in this chapter, I will offer an in-depth exploration of these 10 principles, as well as an explanation of how I gathered them together from relevant literature, family history, and my personal and professional experiences in life and in teaching. The Methodology Journey Like the spinning of Xé:ls the sister’s spindle whorl, she travelled on her research journey to find and transform knowledge through working with wood, wool, and nettles, or appearing at the surface of the waters, or in minds. A whirlpool can take you beneath the surface where grandmother sturgeon spins tunnels that reverberate to the surface. There are tunnels of knowledge. There are dreams. These operate like the whirlpool. There is ceremony. These are portals transporting us to experience and gain knowledge, and hopefully to acquire wisdom. Learning moments occur out on the land, or in the water, in a classroom, or out at sea, or in a conversation among friends, acquaintances, or strangers. - Xé:ls the Sister’s Story The direction and the timeline along which my methodology developed was not a straight line. My methodology started evolving, developing, and transforming from the start of my research project and continued to do so throughout the research process. I had done some work toward developing my methodology before the participants joined my research study, but I expected and hoped my methodology would be validated, influenced, and fine-tuned by the new knowledge and inspiration gained from listening to 135 what the participants told in their stories for my research. It turned out that their stories both validated and influenced my methodological ideas, allowing me to flesh out those ideas substantially (i.e., participants’ unexpected mentions of whirlpools connected with the spindle whorl metaphor I had in mind). My methodological approach took form through my goals, values, ancestry, stories, experiences, and from my readings of the most relevant methodological literature. The following is a description of my methodology – that is, the approaches I took to answer my research question, the methods I used to generate the kind of knowledge I wanted to generate, how I actually went about the research and how it unfolded, and what, upon reflection, were the strengths, and any weaknesses, of my approach as a tool for generating knowledge. I identify what I found to be most valuable in specific literature for my methodological purposes and goals. I also discuss what I consider to be uniquely Coast Salish aspects of a place-based methodology, and why that is important. I also introduce the significance of the spindle whorl as a metaphor to pattern our thinking with. I talk about its importance and about conceptions, education, and art re-emerging among Coast Salish and at the interface with university institutions through the spindle whorl today. Methodological Purpose and Goals My methodological purpose was focused on obtaining data through my research work with participants; it was also equally important to me that my methodology be similar to a pedagogical approach. This methodological articulation was also an opportunity to articulate my pedagogical approach. The process undertaken in research is itself a teaching practice, in that the researcher must learn, and gather understandings, in order to 136 share the results of the research. Further, the researcher role guides and informs participants about the goals of understanding sought, and in turn, the participants share their understandings. Researchers and teachers can be agents of change. For me, Indigenous research is meaningful as a form of activism; likewise, teaching in an Indigenous context can also be a form of activism done for decolonizing purposes. Decolonizing, for me, means engaging in our culture whenever and wherever possible, and whenever opportunities and teaching/learning moments arise. Decolonizing, for me, also means educating the Xwulunitum, settlers, or immigrants, to listen in ways so that they can hear us. Teaching is transformative for both the teacher and the student. Being a teacher is like being a midwife for the knowledge that the students are birthing through their own bodies of knowledge, their values, goals, and experience. When I look to my Coast Salish teachings, stories, and the material belongings of our culture, like the spindle whorl, or blanket, I see that transformation and giving life, is a core value of our worldview, that goes all the way back to our origin stories. Xe:xals, the transformer siblings (three brothers and one sister) who take the form of bears and travel through the landscape transforming humans into land features, is a useful Coast Salish metaphor and story for thinking about the transformative nature of methodologies that Indigenous scholars are developing. Like Xe:xals, Indigenous methodologies often have the purpose of transforming and reminding our communities in ways that uphold our worldviews, values, and identities as peoples whose continued intimacy with the land and with life beyond human forms is paramount to who we are as, for example, Katzie. Xe:xals stories are also useful in understanding our core concept of consequences for actions. Xe:xals, 137 the transformers, change or transform humans, animals, and supernatural entities into other entities to materialize consequences/lessons for not being wise, i.e., for thinking only of one’s self, or opportunities for becoming wiser. Sometimes it is not about wisdom but about what works best for the health and the balance of the whole system. Sometimes change happens and it reminds one to develop one’s gifts and to contribute one’s gift, or to develop character. Cultural Rebirth and Decolonizing: Emergence of an Indigenous Feminist/Rematriatist Process Xe:xals stories have existed since the beginning of our times, however, those stories documented since colonization have portrayed Xe:xals as a solo powerful male hero. There are, however, hints of more Xe:xals stories left unspoken, unheard, and undocumented. Xe:xals were considered to be originally plural, multi-gender, transformative, agentive beings or bears, three brothers and a sister. I started to wonder where those multi-gender, and in particular, female heroine Xe:xals stories were? During my research project process, my thinking evolved and I realized that the Xé:ls sister was much like my grandmother. In my story, Xe:xals/Xé:ls is a she, and one of the ways she effected transformation was by giving birth. I feel that it is important that Indigenous women be remembered, that our stories be told, and that our voices be heard. It is vital that Xe:xals, the sister’s voice be heard, her stories told, and her feats remembered; it is important that our heroines be held high. Indigenous women are returning to our place of high esteem, value, presence, and agency—of safety and protection, power and strength, reverence and respect. I would like to decolonize our Xe:xals stories by beginning to tell the sister’s stories of Xe:xals the transformers. Colonial officials refused to communicate, 138 acknowledge or negotiate with Indigenous women. Cree Métis scholar Maria Campbell29 has read the original documents of Jesuits and government officials from the early days of Canada and found evidence of their demand for Indigenous men to browbeat and control “their” women. Coast Salish Musqueam councilor, and former Musqueam chief, Wendy Grant-John30, interviewed by the Georgia Strait, spoke about an upcoming international Women Deliver 2019 conference in Vancouver, British Columbia. Wendy Grant-John spoke of how colonialism shattered the relationships between Indigenous men and women. She spoke of how the colonial Canadian policy, starting in the 1800s, served to demote and demean First Nations, Inuit and Métis women’s powerful leadership roles. Grant said, A senior government official and a priest were talking about the difficulty they were having in our communities to get people to a place of acceptance…this is the government person talking to the priest in writing—‘You need to teach Indian men how to treat their women. Their women have too much power.’ (Smith, 2019) This attitude continues in some places today, especially in the old boys’ club of Canadian politics. One just has to look as recently as the early months of 2019, to see this attitude towards women and especially towards Indigenous women at work, when ex-justice minister Jody Wilson-Raybould31 was demoted and then exiled from the federal Liberal 29 For more refer to: Campbell, Maria (2016). Maria Talks About the Effect of the Jesuits on Indigenous People. Urban Native Girl. http://urbannativegirl.tv/portfolio-items/maria-campbell-our-history-part-1. Wabunganung Film Company. Accessed: April 10, 2019. 30 Smith, Charlie. (2019). https://www.straight.com/news/1246791/wendy-grant-john-reveals-how-colonialism-destroyed-relationships-between-indigenous-men Accessed: June 5, 2019. 31 Jody Wilson-Raybould is a member of the We Wai Kai Nation which is on Quadra Island off the coast of Vancouver Island, and one of the daughters of politician Bill Wilson, who was a very 139 party. I invoke the Xé:ls the sister’s story as a useful way of thinking about the transformative nature of metaphors in methodologies that Indigenous scholars are developing. Xe:xals importantly work to make the world a balanced place for the well-being of all, whatever gender(s) one manifests. This rematriation is to me an important and meaningful part of my methodology. Methodology and Cultural Pedagogy in Relationship Of course, according to the Western academy’s research formula, my specific purpose for creating my methodology was to facilitate my research in order to answer my research question: What does a Katzie pedagogy connected to land, water and place look like? If we circle back through the spindle whorl to the above description of what I consider to be the most meaningful purpose of methodology for me—that is, decolonization, rematriaton and rebirth—then the methodology itself begins to spin into threads of Katzie pedagogy, the purpose of which is to continue practicing our cultural beliefs, worldview, practices, and goals on our lands, waterways and places. I looked to the literature to see what other scholars in Indigenous education and research were finding in the area of methodology, and I found some connected themes and principles that fit with my imagined approach to the research. It was important to me that my approach be aligned with goals that were aligned with our Katzie community cultural goals. I believed it would become apparent how well my project aligned with Katzie community cultural goals by how willing people were to volunteer to participate—and I was much relieved when people did come forward. It was outspoken politician during the 1970s through 2000s. For more information refer to: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jody_Wilson-Raybould 140 also apparent that research regarding Katzie education was something the band chief and council accepted as important, since the Katzie chief and council, at the time, had secured some funding that they had put toward hiring two Xwulunítum/non-Indigenous educators to develop K-7 Katzie curriculum. The curriculum was very content-oriented around seasons, animals, plants, and geography. The Katzie chief and council at the time (they have two year terms) and the two curriculum developers, aimed to present the curriculum to local school boards with the goal of implementing it in the public school systems situated within Katzie territories. I attended two meetings of the curriculum developers, chief, education coordinator, and one of the school district’s representatives, and was able to suggest that they look at the curriculum (i.e., the content), but also at the pedagogy (i.e., how the content is presented). They were amenable to, and appreciative, of the suggestion, and took down some of the literature on Indigenous pedagogy that I recommended. I was informed that, while they had tried in the past to include Katzie people in the schools, it had been difficult due to the fact that few Katzie people in these kinds of cultural leadership roles had the time to take on this work. They were already spread thin with requests to attend and participate in community, family, and public events. Unfortunately, I was not able to attend any further meetings as they didn’t fit with my work schedule, and I had also moved to a remote location which made it impossible to get to Katzie for the meetings. As a part of my Ph.D. program I was required to obtain the University’s Research Ethics Board’s approval, which I did. Because of my own ethics as an Indigenous and Coast Salish scholar I also wanted to get Katzie leadership approval as well. I thus inquired at the band office and submitted an application which the chief and council 141 approved. This approval noted that I could gain access to Katzie band office papers that might be relevant, and it asked that I present my dissertation orally to the community at a community meeting at the conclusion of my Ph.D.—a request I had included in my application. I never did gain access to the band office papers that might have been relevant, because of excessively long periods of time involved in any communication with the band chief and council proved too much of a barrier. It often took many months to receive any acknowledgment of my communications, never mind an answer or result in response to requests I made. More important to the research was hearing from the participants and learning from their stories and so I directed my energy in that direction. 10 Methodological Principles In forming my methodology, I looked to some of the key Indigenous scholarship published since Linda T. Smith (1999), whose focus was on Indigenous research methodology. I looked to Jo-ann Archibald’s (2008) Indigenous storywork methodology for a model of Coast Salish story- and place-based methodology, methods, and metaphors. I read samples of recent relevant graduate doctoral dissertations, and reflected on my own personal and professional teaching experiences. I selected the most relevant studies for the valuable insights they offered into cultural and tribally specific research processes. I selected doctoral dissertations to read that were recently defended (within the last 10 years). Below is a detailed explication of the 10 principles that guided my methodological approach to my research project. In undertaking to explain my methodological principles, I asked myself the following questions: How could these principles guide my methodology, methods, and use of metaphor? How did I use a given 142 principle to generate and organize knowledge for my study? How could a given principle influence/affect my choice of method used to gain data? What characteristics of a given principle are specifically Katzie/Coast Salish place-based? My exploration in answering these questions follows below. Principle 1: Decolonizing is tribally specific. I wanted my research to do more than simply acquire a body of knowledge by capturing the content of Katzie stories. I wished for the research process to reflect and actually enact the values in the stories connected to culture, lands, and waters. I believe that one must enact one’s beliefs and values. I value research that can do more than acquire data as an owned or commodified object. I believe in doing research that will serve my communities, my family, and me as a whole person. I also believe that to decolonize that my research methodology reflect an enactment of tribal sovereignty corresponds with what I read in many other Indigenous scholars’ work on methodology. Most pronounced in the literature was Linda Smith’s (1999) call for communities to create their own research ethics and methodologies. The other nine principles or themes of my methodology flowed out of this belief. Integrating tribally specific practices in our lives makes us stronger as the people we are, the people we were meant to be, and the people we are becoming. Like all of the 10 principles, this principle is connected with, and flows from, the next principle in the list—the principle of relationship that stems from the emotion of love. Principle 2: Love is the key relationship. Relationship is a central theme salient across all of the studies I read. One should have an approach of reverent humility (gifts), esteem (confidence), reciprocity (giving 143 back), respect (presence, appreciation), and care of self and of other beings. In fleshing out the relationship principle for my methodological approach, I chose to focus on a key emotion involved in relationship and life and which I believe can also be pivotal for research and education—namely, love. Many of the scholars mentioned love in their work, whether in passing or more explicitly. Simpson (2011), Holmes (2000), Meyer (2003), and Archibald (2008) all discussed love substantially, including its role as a kind of knowledge. As discussed in the literature review, in her work, Simpson (2011) discussed the Anishinaabe concept and term debewin—the heart beating. There is a deep connection of heart beating love and to life force, and to the drum and the drum beat, that all peoples have in their cultures. Meyer (2003) spoke of the heart in terms of the aloha of the ohana (family), that includes relationship with ancestors, grandparents, and important plants and life on the land and ocean. Holmes (2000) wrote that “heart knowledge, blood memory, and the voice of the land constitute an ancestry of experience that shapes dreams, desires, intentions, and purposeful activity,” (p. 46). The kupuna state that, “self-determination is tied to the notions of lokahi (together as one), aloha ‘aina (love of the land), and malama ‘iana (protection of the land)” (Holmes, 2000, p. 47). In Indigenous Storywork, Archibald (2008) identified how deep feelings of connection, which she termed heart knowledge, pass through generations. Heart knowledge was like a blood memory, and referred to being in harmony with nature. The process requires respect for the gifts of each entity involved whether human or not, and the establishment of respectful, reciprocal relationships with each kind of knowledge from nature. Indigenous storywork also involves recognizing the interrelatedness of all 144 my relations, including the non-human, and having a compassionate mind. I received very valuable guidance from Archibald’s (2008) discussion of heart knowledge and listening and speaking, and this guidance helped me feel more confident in embarking on my research journey with my own research participants, many of whom were elders. Listening to elders with my heart and with a compassionate and loving mind, and keeping the questions and conversations open-ended to allow a two-way engagement aligned with my values and was the approach I wanted to take. I really appreciated the above scholars’ recognition and inclusion of love in academic work, and the ways it offered much guidance and inspiration for my own research. During the process of reading recent graduate theses and dissertations, I had the honor of being invited to Quill Christie-Peter’s final presentation of her Master’s thesis at an art gallery space in Vancouver, and was inspired and keenly interested in what she shared. I particularly appreciated the fact that the project turned out to be centered around Quill’s painting entitled, “Self-Portrait: Kwe loves herself despite all odds,” which represented the artist herself and the universe, and was connected to the concept of self-love. The strong message came through that it was healing, decolonizing, and revolutionary for the artist to paint this picture of herself, an Anishinaabe woman, loving herself on her own terms. Later, when Quill sent me her thesis, I was further energized and inspired by reading about how her project included creating a safe, protective, space for Anishinaabe youth to paint, around the themes of relationship and love, themes that formed the core of the project. Quill’s concept of omnipresence (and omnipresent kwe) is the fullest expression of being, and can be achieved through our creating safe spaces so that we can be our fullest selves. Quill offers an alternative to the constriction, the 145 shrinking of our being, and the fear, that comes from being in colonial spaces with the encumbent colonial misperceptions of us and the colonial aggressive drive to constrain, minimize and erase our existences. Through loving ourselves, through the space of art, and through our going to the land and waters of our territories to visit and to practice our traditions, and to just be there, we are doing more than acts of resistence to colonial erasure. More importantly, loving our selves and creating safe spaces for us to be able to unfold ourselves, to blossom and to be wholly in our bodies, doing art, going to the lands and waters of our territories, and connecting with our ancestors, reminds us of how omnipresent we actually are. Loving ourselves in safe spaces strengthens and reminds us how present we actually are as Indigenous peoples through time (ancestors, future generations) and through space (in urban spaces, in our bodies, in our territories, and beyond into the star systems), so that when we are back in colonial spaces, we can feel stronger to weather them, and most importantly, so that we can revive, resurge and implement the strength of our ways of being and knowing. In doing this, we can heal ourselves, and continue to create and nurture our relationship with the lands, waters, ancestors, and with ourselves and our families. Through reading Quill’s work, I learned to see that our bodies have stories (knowledge), they are our archives, like the lands and waters are our archives that have stories. Like the land, our bodies are a place where our ancestors live. Our bodies should be treated with reverence and respect and with care. Reclaiming and protecting our bodies is an act of resistence and an act of love. Love is an emerging theme coming out of Indigenous scholarship and community engagement. I am also noticing a thematic arc through time and space, as our scholarship shifts from expressing our feelings of anger and pain at the injustices of recent colonial 146 history, to now our expressing our feelings of love, esteem and pleasure in loving our selves, and each other. This loving of our selves and each other is a form of taking back our practices and our homelands. These expressions have been courageous, revolutionary, and healing, as for decades our anger was outlawed in that it was illegal for status First Nations to meet to organize politically from 1927 until amendments to the Indian Act in 1951. Yet, I am seeing that there is space for our emotional current to be now more in the forefront, flowing from the places of love we have always maintained for our ancestors, children, grandchildren, and unborn children – to our families, communities, nations, lands, and waters – and importantly to ourselves. We have tens of thousands of years of history as loving peoples. I put the heart at the center of my research project because, to me, the heart— encompassing feelings of love for ourselves, our families, our communities, and natural life on the land/waters—is a fundamental approach to everything we do as Xwulumwx people. Everything I have learned in life, I learned because there were hearts involved—the good, loving intentions of a teacher, and of me, as a student, of a grandparent, and me as a grandchild. This faith and hope was imperative, especially when my grandmother became blinded. This, having love and faith, is a major teaching in our family that makes miracles happen. My love for my grandmother, most of all, is what drove this project, and kept me resilient physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually, through this process. My love for my extended family, some of whom I was getting to know in a renewed way. I was impressed by the deep love participants expressed for their loved ones in their stories. My love for my daughter. The love for her dog, Moon, tested my resilience, when Moon 147 passed over in tragic circumstances. At this time, the curtain to the other side became gossamer thin, and I felt my world very close to the spiritual world. Yet, like the Japanese sword metal that is tempered and tested in order for it to become even stronger steel, my desire and my focus on my project became stronger during that time. The only way I could continue was to make the work more meaningful to my world, and to include the spiritual world within it more, allowing my project to take on a new kind of life and my writing turned into a weaving of multiple narratives. The spindle whorl entered the picture and so did Xé:ls the sister, and my education auto-ethnography. Upon reflection, I see that a great deal of love emerged during the course of this journey, sometimes from unexpected places and people and beings. And I am eternally grateful for that. Without it, I would not be here writing this today—I know that for certain. I learned through this journey that self-love was also critical for a Katzie Coast Salish researcher to survive and maintain the resilience, stamina, and strength required to push through the many obstacles that arose on the long road to the Ph.D. There is a term in Anishinaabe (Simpson, 2011) that means “thank you for taking care of yourself,” so you can be here with us, because we love you, and enjoy your company, and so you can continue contributing your existence and your gifts to our family, community, and world. We must always remember to take care of our self, and remember that self-love is paramount to doing good work. I found a similar term in Hul̓q̓umín̓um̓ (Island language) that means “care • laĺuḿuthut means to be careful, to take care of oneself, to watch out for oneself, to look after oneself” 32(Gerdts, p.201). My friend Jane Alcorn, a 32 For an Hul̓q̓umín̓um̓ (Island language) orthography refer to: http://www.sfu.ca/~gerdts/papers/HulquminumWords.pdf 148 Hul̓q̓umín̓um̓ speaker and language technician who is from Penelakut off the south eastern side of Vancouver Island, told me she has heard this term, laĺuḿuthut (pronounced “lala-muth-ut”) to also include the meaning of a warning, like the English language colloquial saying to “watch your back,” or protect yourself, from any unforeseen trouble. Principle 3: Research as Xwuxwílmuxw (the people of this place) is an experiential, active doing. All of the scholars I read spoke of an understanding of an Indigenous concept of “doing,” that is a requirement, if one is considered to know something. This concept of doing means actively going out and performing or practicing what one is talking about. One must go beyond abstract thinking to a cognizant embodiment that incorporates all of one’s senses. Thus, doing is a holistic experiential way of knowing. In her 2009 videoed talk (The Kohala Center, 2009) entitled Ike 'Āina: Sustainability in the Context of Hawaiian Epistemology, Manulani Meyer explains that research is in the doing, in the embodiment, in the ocean, in the taro, in the way we do things, in community. Only through the doing are people considered to know. Thus, in an Indigenous research paradigm, methodology is knowing only in so far as researchers are bodily engaged in an experience based doing. In the video, entitled Hawaiian Epistemology, Manulani Meyer says, “It’s the body. It means you know something because you have experienced it. It highlights the problem with modernity” (The Kohala Center, 2009). Meyer gives an example of the Hawaiian term mana’oio, which translates roughly as thought in flesh, or knowledge in the flesh. She says,“Show your knowledge of surfing. Where? In the water, brah. Don’t just say you surf, brah.” She says one is wrong to use the word “understand” to describe 149 how one relates to something after reading an article about it. That kind of understanding is a knowledge that floats, but is not mana’oio, not deep in the flesh experiential knowledge. An “emotional transmission of an accurate message,” says Meyer, “is what is going to transform the planet.” During her talks, Meyer sings. I tried singing along while at a workshop of Meyer’s that I attended at the WIPCE 2014, and then again while I viewed her 2009 video talk cited above. I realized while singing along that singing is not just making the words sound different; rather, one’s body is more wholly engaged than when one is just speaking. One feels the sound vibrate throughout one’s whole body and being. Further, there is a different sense of emotion and a stronger connection and consciousness within oneself, and with others, during singing. Learning or researching experientially by doing things with my whole being was an approach I included in my methodology. I would go to the land and take note of my senses in my being and doing things there. I hoped to engage in meaningful, whole being (emotional, physical, mental, spiritual) activities such as ceremony in learning cultural skills. Over the course of my research project, I did things like fishing (cleaning sockeye salmon); berry picking (picking blackberries and tasting blackcaps my daughter picked during visits to our elders, and to special places, in our traditional home territory of Pitt Lake); nettle gathering (going nettle picking twice with my friend and Musqueam elder Jeri Sparrow); blanket weaving (witnessing the MOA exhibit of our visiting but not repatriated blankets, and getting to weave a bit while participating at our second Katzie Feast for Change33 at a traditional place on Alouette Lake); contributing my knowledge 33 The inspiration and model for the Katzie Feast For Change came from a program started by a nutritionists on Southern Vancouver Island called Feasting for Change and the first one was held by T’Sou-ke First Nation: For more information refer to: https://www.indigenousfoodsystems.org/content/feasting-change 150 of soapberries when at the Feast for Change, I brought a jar of gifted soap berries, and I demonstrated how to make swooshum (“Indian ice cream”) and offered servings of it and found out that many people had never tried it before). I spun wool with a spindle whorl (at the MOA blanket tour for interested local Indigenous and non-Indigenous spinners in the community, and I had a lovely telephone conversation with a Lummi elder, Bill James, Tsi’li’x, about the spindle whorl and spinning techniques34); and I did many other cultural spiritual things including talking, singing, and praying. Principle 4: Researching knowledge as understanding and transforming is storied. Story also includes conversational and narrative methods of sharing and relational engagement. This principle is how we conceptualize what we know in a meta/overarching sense as story, while we are going about our lives. Archibald (2008) found in her work that there were Indigenous ethical protocols that were expressed in seven principles. These seven principles included three of the principles put forward by Barnhardt and Kirkness (2001), who wrote about the Four Rs: respect, responsibility, reciprocity and relevance. Archibald found that there were three more principles included in Indigenous storywork methodology: holism, interrelatedness, and synergy and instead of relevance, she included reverence. Principle 4 of my methodological approach includes these Indigenous storywork principles of respect, responsibility, reverance, reciprocity, holism, interrelatedness, and synergy, all of which are involved in relationship. 34 For more on elder Bill James’s spinning work refer to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UhgM8HBelJg and https://www.burkemuseum.org/collections-and-research/culture/contemporary-culture/coast-salish-art/coast-salish-weaving-tools 151 I kept these seven Indigenous storywork principles in mind from the very beginning of my research. I found that they were interrelated and informed one another in that if one observed and engaged in a given principle, then this made it possible to implement the other principles, since together they form the values, worldview, and goals that teach us how to be in the world as Indigenous peoples. When people and beings work together, we arrive at a state of synergy, where our individual energies, working together, are increased exponentially, and miracles can happen. Navigating relationships is a central activity of storywork methodology. As stated above, storywork methodology is circular and interconnected, based on a network of relationships. This network includes relating and listening to ancestors. It is said that ancestors used to say, “sit down and listen.” One of the key points illuminated by Archibald’s (2008) study is that proper relationships with elders and story are the key to good research. Archibald forges a new kind of relationship in the context of research with the elders, already known to her in other contexts, and learns that to sit down and to listen is still relevant today. I followed this principle and sought to forge proper relationships with elders, especially since my grandmother, grandfather, great-aunt, and great-uncle were so important to me in my upbringing and I missed them. Indigenous storywork comes full circle in that the publication of Archibald’s text is a story “basket,” adhering to the protocol of giving back to communities. These research relationships happen in the context of the “heart knowledge” (Archibald, 2008) that passes through generations. I found that Archibald’s (2008) mention of heart knowledge and the value of having a compassionate mind were threads that resonated with the heart center of my medicine spindle whorl metaphor. My dissertation is like a story blanket spun with the heart- 152 centered spindle whorl. I hope this spindle whorled and woven blanket dissertation will contribute to the restoration of honor, the increasing and ongoing reclamation of a major ancestral line of women, medicine, and grace that is being enacted by the Coast Salish and Katzie people. Archibald’s (2008) storywork methodology also includes various types of conversations. She noticed different kinds of oral tradition arising in her research with elders. Her interviews were more like conversations35 than “interviews” at times, and then there were times when, for example, Chief Simon Baker was doing all the talking. This kind of “chat research,” characterized as storytelling, occurs when the researchers are very familiar with participants. For example, Chief Simon Baker would tell stories of his life and experiences to illustrate leadership and political strategies that had implications for the research. Research as conversation is characterized as an open-ended interview with opportunity for both sides to talk. I found this concept helpful in approaching my communications with elder participants. I was able to be at more ease with the different ways the interview might unfold. I was prepared to give up some control and expectations of procedures and outcome, and to allow more or less time than I may have originally allotted. I kept in mind that it was important to provide conversational space for the elders to lead the communication if they so chose. I ended up being surprised when some of the participants who were a bit younger seemed to prefer to simply answer interview questions rather than engage in conversation about the questions. They seemed familiar with the interview process, and engaged with the questions in a timely way, even when I tried to engage in a more conversational back and 35 Also see Kovach’s (2010) work on conversation as methodology. 153 forth dialogue. I then realized that my wish to have the interviews be more of a conversation could have been made more explicit, or the difference explained ahead of time. In any case, all of the interviews did lead to a synergy and open-endness and generated research moments where new and renewed knowledge could appear, unexpected or unasked for, in the conversation/interview. I also found that some of the elders sometimes brought along their copies of the questions with them, and read down the list as they answered each one. I was surprised that, after each lengthy answer, they returned to the question sheet to answer the next question on the list, before being asked the next question. Other elders did not bring the question sheet, and did not wish me to provide them with another copy at the interview. They said they preferred to speak without the question sheet or paper. My methodology includes learning by listening to elders’ ways of teaching. Archibald’s (2008) storywork principles also reminded me that important to the process is the recognition that elders have a responsibility to share knowledge in proper relationship and that they take this seriously. I felt that the elders who participated in my study, as well as the younger participants, all felt the weight of responsibility to share their knowledge in participating in this project. I also felt a weight of responsibility to share their knowledge in a good way, one that aligned with the seven storywork principles (Archibald, 2008), and which also aligned with Coast Salish protocols regarding acknowledgement of our land and water and ancestors; respect for one’s ancestry and ancestral knowledge; and protection of our private, sacred, spiritual experiential knowledge, including a consciousness of when, where, and with whom to share it. Some sacred things cannot be shared. 154 A part of research story-weaving includes engaging with a trickster character in a Coyote story. Archibald (2008) is in conversation with this Coyote story through the course of her storywork journey; she thinks with this story and considers its implications as a departure point/metaphor. Associated with the story of the Coyote trickster character having one small eye and one big eye is the concept of two-eyed seeing. Like the trickster with two different eyes, it can be helpful for us to be able to see from a Western philosophical perspective, as well as an Indigenous or tribally specific philosophical perspective; yet, we must be careful when looking through these two different lenses that what we are looking at is appropriate to the lens and thus being seen as it really is. Learning to see though Indigenous perspectives, or eyes, or lenses, is helpful to understanding Indigenous ways of knowing and culture. Another useful concept I took from Archibald’s (2008) work is that of “hands back, hands forward.” “Hands back, hands forward” is a specifically Coast Salish concept, most recently handed down as a teaching from Musqueam elder Dr. Vince Stogan (Archibald, 2008, p. 50). The teaching is that when we look forward, we must also look back in history to our ancestors’ work and its ramifications. Looking forward in this context also means continuing our ancestors’ work and considering the future ramifications of what we do now, because soon we will be the ones who are the ancestors, and our children and progeny for generations to come will have to deal with the ramifications of what we are doing today, and the choices we are making. The choices we are making, in research, as well as, in our personal lives, can have far-reaching implications for discord, trouble, unbalance, dis-ease, and unhealthiness. Alternatively, and sometimes simultaneously, they can also have far-reaching 155 implications for peace, connection, unity, balance, holism, ease, and health. I kept this in mind when considering what my research project would be, and what goals I wanted it to fulfill in the future, connected with my ancestral and familial past. Archibald’s Indigenous Storywork (2008) was beyond influential and directive in terms of showing me fundamental principles for Indigenous methodology, particularly in a Coast Salish context. Archibald’s storywork methodology uses the metaphor of a story basket that holds, shares, transforms, and brings forth “knowing” or knowledge. This metaphor is very apt since Coast Salish women were prolific basket, mat, clothing, and blanket makers just two short generations ago, during my great-grandmother’s time and many Coast Salish people have continued these practices, in some degree, quietly under colonialism. This continuance occurred especially in the form of knitting. My grandmother was a knitter and her mother was a prolific weaver of rush mats. In the 1970s, a group of Stó:lō and Musqueam Coast Salish women started reviving the cultural practices and returning to blanket weaving. As noted, Archibald’s family is from the upriver Stó:lō people and geography, while my family is from the downriver Katzie people. My maternal/mitochondrial line is from Tsawwassen through my great-grandmother Katherine Pierre. I had been considering the spindle whorl as my metaphor, and Archibald’s story basket was a perfect example of how a specifically Coast Salish cultural metaphor could be utilized in Indigenous research and writing. In the Coyote story, Archibald (2008) weaves the story of her research process, including going within one’s self to identify meaningful knowledge and to gain an understanding of knowledge. The concepts of holism and unity in Archibald (2008) and holography in Meyer (2013) and Cajete (2000) resonated with my goals for my research 156 methodology. In the downriver Coast Salish that Katzie speak, we say “nə́c̓aʔmat tə šxʷqʷeləwən ct” (“we are one heart and mind”).36 I often felt that we were one with our territory while speaking with participants, and while being in our lands and waters during my research, as well as before and after it, thinking of my ancestors living there. I also feel like Archibald’s Indigenous storywork principle of reverence was relevant as reverence is connected to our ancestors and spirituality, and is shown through the respect of practices such as ceremonies and prayers to ancestors in the landscapes and waterscapes. We take care of our ancestors, and we give back to them and to future beings in reciprocity (another Indigneous storywork principle). These are the ways I wanted to approach my research work. Principle 5: Metaphor – The material cultural object/belonging is the tip of the iceberg of a worldview, paradigm shift, journey, and cosmology. This section offers an introduction to the value of metaphor in Indigenous research and explains how I came to my choice of research metaphor for this dissertation. The spindle whorl as a metaphor shaped my research, thesis writing process, and thesis structure. I found all of the metaphors in the studies I read interesting, valuable, and effective. I wanted my writing and research work to be culturally grounded, concrete, and experiential, and bringing a metaphor into the writing seemed to me like an excellent way to make the writing more aligned with those goals. I looked to see how established 36 I first remember hearing “nə́c̓aʔmat tə šxʷqʷeləwən ct” spoken and explained by Musqueam cultural knowledge worker, Shane Point, when he was a guest lecturer for the course on culturally competent approaches to Indigenous healing that I co-taught with Alannah Leon Young at UBC in the summer of 2014. Once I had an ear for it, I heard this term spoken in speeches and by my daughter after she had taken the two levels of hən̓q̓əmin̓əm̓ Musqueam language courses taught by Musqueam elder Larry Grant and Patricia Shaw. I am pretty sure I heard my grandmother say this phrase on occasion as well, because I can hear the sound of her voice in my mind saying “šxʷqʷeləwən”. 157 scholarship and recently graduated scholars were using metaphor in their research work. Due to the limits of a dissertation, I selected studies that spoke to my goals most influentially, deeply, and expansively. I appreciated Cajete (2000) and Meyer’s (2013) use of the circular spiral holograph in their work to represent the way in which the small mirrors the large and vice versa. The holograph model speaks to how the things we do, the choices we make, and what we observe in nature reverberate, and are replicated, in larger and smaller scale phenomena. I also found the circular logic represented in the medicine wheel, talking circle, or story basket as they appeared in the work of other scholars, I read valuable for my project. I found Archibald’s (2008) use of the story basket and Coyote story to be a relevant model for developing a cultural material metaphor to pattern and ground my conceptual thinking. I also found Absolon’s (2011) use of the flower as a metaphor for a research framework relevant to what I had in mind. All these scholars’ uses of cultural metaphors were encouraging, validating, and inspiring. I also found a trend of cultural metaphor use in recent graduate dissertations by local Indigenous students in education, including Martin’s (2014) drum and Parent’s (2014) bentwood box. I knew I wanted to find a Coast Salish and Katzie metaphor for organizing reality and my cultural worldview, as well as, my methodology and findings. I found the Coast Salish spindle whorl kept coming back to me as having a power and a story beyond what had been documented up until now. Coast Salish artist Susan Point’s amazing and prolific 2- and 3-dimensional prints, civic, public and private installations, exhibit catalogues, and books of spindle whorl works, were an inspiration. Other than Susan Point’s work, there were some archeological findings of spindle whorls in the BC Provincial Museum, and a 158 woman spinner named Selisya was photographed at Musqueam with a large spindle whorl. Recently, I noticed a public invitation to an exhibit at the Acheringa art gallery in Victoria. The exhibit featured the recent works of three Coast Salish, Vancouver Island-based artists. The exhibit’s title put a spin on the term “spindle whorl,” calling their works “spindle whorlding.” I was very excited to see that spindle whorls were being thought of not simply as an object but also as a way of thinking. Further, items such as spindle whorls are considered to us to be “belongings”. I heard Wendy Grant-John, former Musqueam chief and councilor – and also one of the women who lead the blanket weaving revival in the 1970s – speak at the opening of the “c̓əsnaʔəm: the city before the city,”37 exhibit at the Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia in 2015. She said that to the Musqueam Coast Salish, items such as the blankets, spindle whorls, rattles, and so on are not considered to be merely objects or artifacts, but rather they are considered to be cherished “belongings” and relatives to be taken care of. On a personal familial level, my grandmother had told me she had used a spindle whorl, but switched to a treadle sewing machine that was adjusted for spinning. Researching the spindle whorl further, I learned of the thousands years old Makah peoples’ village site of Ozette, and how in the 1970s, an archeological dig, that occurred for over 11 years there, uncovered over 55,000 Makah belongings that had been buried in a mud slide several hundred years earlier. The spindle whorls found at Ozette were the most found in one place to date. The uncovered Ozette village had a large number of wood and whale vertebrae bone spindle whorls dating back several 37 For more on c̓əsnaʔəm and the exhibition, please refer to: https://moa.ubc.ca/exhibition/c%CC%93%C9%99sna%CA%94%C9%99m-the-city-before-the-city/ 159 hundred years. There have been spindle whorls found all over Coast Salish territory, including around Victoria, B.C. where whale vertebrae spindle whorls have been found, as well as in Musqueam. The spindle whorl is a stone or wooden disc often carved with a design on the side that faces the spinner. The whorl is spun with a wooden dowel, and the wool or nettle or cattail fiber is pulled, with tension, through the disc into strings and sometimes wound around the dowell; the more they are spun and the smaller in size the spindle whorl disc is, the finer the strings become. The whorl can be dropped to spin or it can be turned by turning the dowel. The Coast Salish spindle whorl is a relevant metaphor, as the connection between it, our history, and land/water pedagogy, I believe, reflects our worldview. The more I learned about it, and the more I reflected on it, the more I became confident in my choice of a research metaphor. I heard some of the participants in my study talk about whirlwinds and whirlpools in our territories and in other areas up the coast where they had gone fishing; they said that these special places were known for this kind of formation and powerful things happened there. I noticed on a Coast Salish map that a place near Katzie territory, on the Coquitlam side, marked a spot named “whirlpool seer”. The way knowledge came to me during my research journey was like a spindle whorl in that I would read things such as articles, books, and participants’ interview transcripts many times, and each time, more or different information would come to me. I see this rereading as part of a circular way of generating knowledge. Like a spindle whorl generating spun threads of wool that can be made into a belonging such as a mat, blanket, or sweater—and in this case, into a written dissertation document. The going back is not like a circle in that I do not go back to the same place of knowing or the same knowledge; 160 rather, each time I move to a slightly new place, like a spiral, that turns to a place ahead of or back from its starting point. Like the tunnels beneath the surface of a place where whirlpools are found in our territory, there are depths of knowledge or story to be found in going back to re-read, re-think, or re-feel a story, teaching, or experience, or to going ahead, and reading a new article or book, experiencing something new, or hearing a new story. My dissertation writing process was also a spindle whorl process in that sometimes I would work on one of the beginning chapters, and then go to a middle chapter, or an end section, and then go back again when new ideas or ways of thinking about something previously considered came to mind. I also shaped my methodology into a spindle whorl motif representing the 10 principles with which I approached my research work, and I put a heart at the center of my motif to signify that the heart, and emotion of love, is at the center of everything we do, and how we approach our holistic vision of life, and the universe as resilient Coast Salish Katzie people. Further, I see the heart at the center of the spindle whorl representing decolonizing in the way that Tuck, McKenzie, and McCoy (2014) describe their concept of “land education” as centering Indigenous futurity: Environmental justice can only take place with Indigenous peoples and epistemologies at the center.… Land education de-centers settlers and settler futurity as the primary referents for possibility. Land education seeks decolonization, not settler emplacement. Land education is accountable to an Indigenous futurity.…In our use, futurity is more than the future, it is how human narratives and perceptions of the past, future, and present inform current practices 161 and framings in a way that (over)determines what registers as the (possible) future…. Settler futurity, then, refers to what Andrew Baldwin calls the “permanent virtuality”…of the settler on stolen land. (pp. 16-17) As Baldwin points out, “such an assumption privileges an ontology of linear causality in which the past is thought to act on the present and the present is said to be an effect of whatever came before” (as cited in Tuck, McKenzie, and McCoy, 2014, p. 16). The above concept of Indigenous futurity fits with a Coast Salish spatial and spiral ontology, and with my long-held belief (arrived at through life experience and through family teachings) that change must first come through imagining something different—a vision. An Indigenous futurity, has been imagined by Tuck, McKenzie, and McCoy, that de-centers the settler’s erasure of us, and re-centers us around our lands and waters. My spindle whorl metaphor seeks to disrupt an ontology of linear causality and teleological temporality, and, instead, centers spatiality—with the past in the present, and the future turning back to the past and present, propelled and patterned by a whirling spiral of past, present, and future, connected with land- and ocean-based places and spaces. In this understanding, our hearts are the point of departure at the center of a holistic, ontological and epistemological cosmology, that includes the physical and spiritual dimensions of Coast Salish and Katzie realities. Principle 6: Researching is placed – The key to decolonizing is emplacing Indigenous futurity. Knowledge is placed in a physical, spiritual, and mental interstitial, tribally specific geography that recognizes and honors learning by engaging with land, ocean, and ancestors. Places are storied. There are geographical and socially significant places in nature that include the presence of human, non-human, and part-human/part-animal/part-spirit beings (i.e., Sasquatch, transformer entities, Xexa:ls, the sky people, and others more 162 commonplace such as ravens). In reviewing relevant literature, I found that the text which connected most directly with my vision and understanding of Coast Katzie places was my great-grandfather Peter Pierre’s quoted cosmology of Katzie and Coast Salish people, since time immemorial, as recorded in and Wayne Suttle’s (1955) ethnographic work entitled Katzie Ethnographic Notes and Diamond Jenness’ (1936) The Faith of a Coast Salish Indian. This book is the fundamental text for all scholarship on Coast Salish peoples. It is cited in all scholarship on Coast Salish, surpassing the preliminary anthropologists, at the outset of colonialism in Canada, who set about studying First Nations, such as “academic anthropologist” Franz Boas, and “English immigrant farmer and schoolmaster” Charles Hill Tout38. Particularly relevant to my work was my great-grandfather’s story of Xexa:ls, with the story’s spiritual teachings embedded with the lands and living entities there. Other impactful stories included Cajete’s (2000) references to holography and to a specific mountain in articulating the relationships among place, learning, and knowledge; the synergy between the elders’ elucidations and Basso’s (1996) reflections on his experience of what was told to him about how “wisdom sits in places”; the Yukon elder “singing the places,” and sentient glacier entities capable of smelling a traveler’s bacon and responding with an avalanche in Cruikshank (2005); and Meyer’s (2003) descriptions of ocean, taro, and poi as grandparent first ancestors. I also appreciated, and was inspired by, ideas of land talking or teaching such as in Holmes’ (2000) work. Holmes (2000) states that through the kupuna/elder stories, it is apparent that earth is a presence and as a 38 See Kew, M. (1993-1994) Anthropology and First Nations in British Columbia. BC Studies, 100, 78. 163 subject it has agency. I was inspired and energized by reading Tuck and Calderson (2014) and Patrick Wolfe (2006) because they spoke about land and education using powerful terms that were new to me: emplacement, settler capital, and rematriation. Among the relevant works I read, I was grateful to find a study by Marker (2015) that discussed pushing against borders and displacement in a Coast Salish context. He discusses the parallel but very different education policies affecting Coast Salish students, families, and communities on either side of the colonially constructed American and Canadian borders that cut through the un-bordered sacred geography of Coast Salish territories. He notes, that unlike the horrific experiences suffered at the hands of priests and nuns by Coast Salish students in Canadian residential schools, Coast Salish youth attending boarding schools in the USA experienced some support for cultural revival and language retention; he also mentions that Coast Salish students experienced racism and erasure in public schools in the United States which sounded similar to my own experiences. In discussing historiography, in his article entitled “Borders and the Borderless Coast Salish: decolonizing historiographies of Indigenous Schooling,” Marker notes that a “discursive move by an American settler public to erase the contemporary meaning of the past presents history as a kind of phantasm” and thus ends up relegating Indigenous peoples’ presence to a “ghostlike condition” (p. 497). I often felt like a ghost in the schools I attended—unseen and sometimes noticed in the negative, with the exception of being seen and appreciated by the occasional compassionate and curious teacher. Of the many eloquently articulated understandings of how the history of Coast Salish peoples has been constructed and constrained into a colonial captivity, particularly 164 in Canada, I found the quotations of Coast Salish elders to be especially relevant to my study. Marker notes: It must be asserted that viewing Indigenous knowledge systems without an accompanying archaeology of colonization renders the past as two-dimensional and surreal. Meanwhile a history of educational policies and their effects within exclusively Western narrative structures brushes past Indigenous relationships with place.…Willie Jones, Lummi elder and former tribal chairman, told me that to understand time and the Coast Salish mind, “you have to think in circles of eras: the pre-contact era, the recent past when we were forced to be civilized, the circle of now, and the circle of the future. All of these circles touch each other. You have to hold them all at once. (p. 501) Lummi elder Willie Jones’ explanation of how we think of past, present, and future in circles that touch each other is a spiral model that fits with my spindle whorl metaphor for understanding Coast Salish Katzie pedagogy and research connected to stories and places on the lands and waters. Marker concludes, The Coast Salish, perhaps more explicitly than any other North American people, have made it clear that historians who write about Indigenous education are implicated in the projects of the present moment, or, as Willie Jones puts it, “the circle of now.” This is a circle that brings the knowledge of place in time into a critical consciousness towards healing and restoration; a decolonization. For the Coast Salish, this circle of knowledge contains the hope for the survival of their communities and the possibilities for healing themselves and the ecologies of their homeland. (p. 501-502) 165 While colonization policies have sought to separate Indigenous peoples from land, adherents to Indigenous epistemology’s way of seeing and being, firmly and persistently, see Indigenous peoples and their knowledges as inseparable from the land. Even if humans are separated from their places on the land and ocean, the knowledge in that place is not lost if stories about it continue to be told. Ideally though, we go to those places. The concept of place is as unique as the individual locales and people who think about them. Place-based education is a method and includes experiential learning and local natural and social settings. Principle 7: Wisdom/reflection is generative through conceptions of circling back and spatiality. Following Cajete’s (2000), Burkhardt’s (2004), and Ermine’s (1995) concepts of in/inner-space and Archibald’s (2008) inclusion of time for reflection in her Indigenous Storywork study, I reminded myself that it would be important to allot time for reflection for myself as researcher, as student and as teacher, as well as ensuring there would be time for the participants to reflect on the interview questions asked of them before, during, and after the interviews. I learned that it is wise to regularly take time to take care of one’s well-being, even as a researcher. As discussed elsewhere in this dissertation, wisdom comes from reflection, as well as from places. Stories are a kind of place and space for reflection. Elders talk about the good, healthy traditional way of life that is engaged with nature and the supernatural. This way of life requires wisdom obtained through looking, sensing, and being inward, as well as through stories and being in places. It also requires relationship based on 10 principles; keeping a smooth mind, and thus preempting “trouble” (as per the elder’s definition of wisdom in Basso’s (1996) Wisdom Sits in Places); and avoiding conflict with others. This kind of wise wellbeing 166 brings balance and health that is key to good work even in research contexts. Self-care is important. Self-care involves recognizing the need for space for the reflection, ceremony, and the cleansing of self of any unease and burdensome energies that may have attached to us— physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. We need to go to the land and ocean and let stuff go. We need relationship with those who take care of us and teach us—our elders, our ancestors, the lands and oceans, and the spirit world/entities who teach us how to take care of ourselves, as well as, how to take care of each other and the life around us. Principle 8: Rematriating – Women respecting, honoring, remembering, and revering ourselves as esteemed Coast Salish Katzie women. My particular take on rematriation was not drawn directly from any of the literature, or recent graduate dissertations that I read. Rather, it comes from Xé:ls, the sister’s story, and the reality of our rebirth, esteem, and reverent return. My grandma often said that despite, beyond, and before the imposition of the colonial system, our family women were nobility in Coast Salish terms. She would often chuckle or laugh lightly along with this statement, but I heard an undertone of truth and seriousness in her words. During the time I was doing my research and writing my dissertation, there was a lot of talk in speeches made at the University of British Columbia and other post-secondary institutions, as well as in the media and in government across Canada about “Truth and Reconciliation.” During this time, I noticed people speaking about “repatriating.” They spoke about repatriating our belongings—for example, blankets, house posts, memorial posts, canoes, masks, and other belongings, such as the spindle 167 whorls I saw in 2018 at the “Fabric of Our Land: Salish Weaving”39 exhibit on Coast Salish blankets at the Museum of Anthropology—back to our homelands. Around this time, I also began to hear the next generation of voices of First Nations women on social media talking about recent revivals of doula, traditional midwifery, and birth work. I had a job as an education manager in Indigenous Health at UBC, and my student assistant had added me to new Facebook and Instagram forums where a younger generation of Indigenous women were discussing and celebrating a concept of Rematriation. Their concept of rematriation was also in part a response to the machismo of the warrior politics among Indigenous men and scholars. This concept captured my imagination. Eventually, I came across Eve Tuck’s land education work and then found works by Tuck (2011), Calderon (2011, 2014) and Wolfe (1999), discussing a concept of rematriation as returning to the land, and in terms of education and critiquing/resisting heteronormative settler capitalism. For these authors, rematriation is a return to our cultural belongings and activities, and to recognizing tribally specific places in tribal territories. To me, rematriation is a return of the feminine, and of our women, back to our families, communities, and homelands. My daughter, who has been a doula since she was 18 years old and is in midwifery school, is a part of this movement, along with many of her friends, and proudly wears a t-shirt that says “rematriation.” To me, rematriation involves the return of our love, of our bodies, of our empowerment as Indigenous women to our homelands, to our communities and to loving ourselves in every way. Instead of adopting the hate toward ourselves taught to us by settler colonialism, we love ourselves, 39 For more refer to: https://moa.ubc.ca/exhibition/the-fabric-of-our-land-salish-weaving/ 168 and we protect ourselves.We take care of our hearts, minds, spirits, bodies, and we remember our ancestors whose love continues, and we visit or live on our homelands in our traditional territories and we love those homelands that we live in, in our bodies, and we acknowledge, return to, honor, remember and are grateful for our mitochondrial DNA of our female ancestor from time immemorial. I had been thinking since the beginning of my Ph.D. program that my research project would be a way of going home—of maybe being accepted back in my grandmother’s home community. At the beginning of my program, Bill C-3 was passed which enabled me to gain status as an “Indian”; I then found out I could apply to my band for membership, which I was granted through vote. I embarked on making my research project a reality. I was also thinking about my grandmother’s story and wondering how I could include it in this dissertation. I then realized that, in a broader sense, her story is also my story, my daughter’s story, my extended family’s story, my nation’s story, and reverberates with the stories of all Indigenous women and men in Canada and beyond. Colonization affects us all. I realized that what I wanted to do, and what I was doing, was rematriating myself, my daughter, my grandma, and our women back home. Everything started to fall into place. The metaphor of the spindle whorl, a traditional Coast Salish women’s tool and art motif that I felt intuitively was important, suddenly made sense to me in terms of how it fit with my project. The spindle whorl was designed and used mostly by women, and men would often make the tool upon a woman’s request. Women have been rising up and rematriating themselves and their lineages since and toward time immemorial. The 169 spindle whorl twirls, bringing us, and the pieces of ancient and new knowledge gifts we hold within us, back to the present. Challenges to gender discrimination, enforced by the Indian Act 1876, were initially brought forward by women. In the 1970s, protests arose, led by a group of Mi'kmaq women in Nova Scotia, and the federal government was taken to court by Bedard and Lavell, both of whom sought to challenge section 12(1)(b) of the Indian Act (the 1876 amendment removing Indian status from women who married non-status men) (Robinson, 2006). This first challenge to this law discriminating against Indigenous women was lost, however, in 1975, Sandra Lovelace also took the government to court, fighting her case all the way to the Supreme Court. Lovelace also took her case to the UN Human Rights Committee, which found Canada in breach of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights in 1981 (Robinson, 2006). The issue of discrimination against Indigenous women gained widespread media attention at the time. However, it was not until 1985, when Section 15 of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms came into effect demanding that all Canadians be treated equally under the law, that amendments were made to remedy some but not all of the gender discrimination contained in the Indian Act (Robinson, 2006). Thus, more court cases were required to try and remedy outstanding issues of discrimination. It was as a result of the decision in the 2009 case of Sharon McIvor v. Canada, which forced the federal government to amend the Indian Act to end discrimination against wives, children, and grandchildren of non-status Indians (“6 Landmark Rulings,” 2013) and those of Indigenous women who had married non-Indigenous men, that I gained my status. 170 First Nations men who married non-First Nations or Settler/Xwunitim women had the benefit of status conveyed not only to the non-Indigenous wife but to all of their children and progeny into the future. However, First Nations women, like my grandmother, who married Settler men lost their status, and the status of their children and progeny from there on in was also lost. First Nations women’s families were not permitted to live on the reserve once she married a non-First Nations spouse while First Nations men’s families remained intact. Recently, Stephane Descheneaux, a father of three daughters in Quebec, took the government to task after learning he could not pass on his status to his daughters because he had obtained it through his Indigenous grandmother, who lost her status when she married a non-Indigenous man. As a result, in December 2017, Bill S-3 was passed in order to end that level of gender discrimination contained in the Indian Act (“Ottawa to Change Indian Act,” 2016). Now, the next generation can gain the status they should have been entitled to at birth. Whether they can pass on the status to their children remains to be seen. The government is currently undergoing a consultation process with Indigenous nations and organizations and related groups to hear feedback regarding how best to provide for the additional status demographic; this consultation process runs until 2020. To me, rematriation is the core for decolonial and anti-colonial work and is critical for the strong Coast Salish peoples and communities. The fact that out of my 11 participants, only two were women, speaks to the fact that the return of the voices and power of women in all aspects of Coast Salish realities has a way to go. As one example, the fact that there are no progeny with my great-grandmother’s mitochondria DNA still 171 living at Katzie on our traditional lands and waters is a huge loss to the flourishment of our lands, waters, life and to the honor of our ancestors and their work. I am confident that the energies of our matriarchs, and grandmothers, continues to live within us, and empowers us, as we are moving toward wholeness and fullness again. Efforts are being made, to restore feminine voices of honor and decision making that Coast Salish women in my family, and other families, embodied, in our culture, prior to colonization, and the heart of which has continued to beat softly since. Rematriation is necessary. Principle 9: Transformative pedagogy. Sandy Grande’s (2004, 2008) discussion of “Red pedagogy” helped support my methodological quest, with aspects of her work serving as validation of, and model for, what I was already feeling about my methodology. I had been feeling very much aligned with Brazilian scholar Paulo Friere’s 1970 work entitled Pedagogy of the Oppressed, which argues for collaborative learning in literacy practice. I felt that conceptualizing and emphasizing pedagogy in methodology was important. I believe learning is more confidence-building and effective when students can lead themselves, and when teachers honor, respect, and build upon the knowledge that students already have when they arrive in a learning environment. On Grande’s (2004) research quest, she realized that her methodology was actually pedagogy, a Red pedagogy, and that her method was engagement at the intersections of the tensions among Indigenous knowledge and critical education theory. I also found it helpful that Grande sees Indigenous scholars and peoples doing research as being in a process of reinventing themselves. To me, this means that we are reinventing notions of research, and its processes and approaches such as methodology, methods, and goals. Grande thus provided me with latitude for what might 172 be defined as a methodology. I come from an education, language, literacy, and literature background where pedagogy is frequently talked about, while Grande comes from a political field where ideas of pedagogy would be a new topic of discussion. Yet, both of us are expanding notions of pedagogy within an Indigenous decolonizing, educational, and reinventing context. My inspiration and understanding of the synergy aspect of transformative pedagogy came from the stories of the trickster figure in Archibald’s (2008) Indigenous Storywork, and also from my great-grandfather’s story of Xe:xals in his book. Transformations that had been in my consciousness all my life were emerging from me, my grandma, my daughter, our DNA. It also came together through reflecting on this, as I analyzed the literature, and the participants’ stories, and my life and my grandmother’s life, and thought about our family and our land. The Xé:ls , the sister, story arose in my mind, and I started to imagine her, and bring her to life and the transformation she brought with her. We learn from the transformers/tricksters that transformation can be done while negotiating and engaging, travelling on the land, sky, water, and wind, and at the liminal edges of tensions among humans, nature, and the supernatural. This engaging at the liminal edges of these three aspects of reality is a very Coast Salish phenomenon, because we live this way in our consciousness every day. This can be called a spiritual way to live. These three realities are integrated. There is an organic flow between them. Ideally, pedagogy also operates organically, with flow and integration among these dimensions of reality in a Coast Salish context, whether the pedagogy is connected to education, to research, or to both. 173 Xé:ls the sister spins timeless narratives, spins stories, pulls out threads of thought, of knowledge. She transforms the world through her spindle whorl movements across the sky, land, and water. And sometimes, what she does comes through text. Principle 10: Cultural ceremonial practices are a key to knowledge generation that takes into account and honors our multi-reality. We are transported through portals such as ceremonies, sacred and everyday rituals that we do at certain times, in certain places, in certain ways: for instance, through prayer, artwork, or through spinning with a spindle whorl, where the design on the front of the spindle whorl was said to take one into a trance or spiritual state. These portals take us to that place between or at the interstitial space where the spirit world and the physical world meet, connect, and relate to one another, reminding us that we live in both the spirit world and the physical world simultaneously. Dream is an interstitial space. Like some of the other scholars I read, Archibald (2008) accessed knowing through dream. In her writing, she returns a number of times to the topic of her dream that she had at the outset of her storywork methodology journey. In speaking with the elders, Archibald (2008) discovers that her dream helped her realize that she needs to learn how to listen to her dreams. One of the dream’s functions is to nurture her relationship with the elders, in that she seeks counsel from them about the dream itself.40 Archibald’s movement from inward reflection and dream awareness outward to the outer space was meaningful, contributing to her research process and directed the pathway of her journey at pivotal times. Witnessing Archibald’s (2008) 40 Archibald’s (2008) dream work is similar to the work that Greg Sarris (1994) did while he was engaged in a research/learning journey with Elder Mabel McKay, the Pomo basket weaver and medicine woman. Elder Mabel McKay wove baskets according to dreams she had. She had a prophecy dream that Sarris would arrive, many years before he actually arrived, in her life, seeking relationship and understanding. 174 process was helpful to me because during my upbringing, I was taught that dreams were important and meaningful and to listen to them, and also because it validated bringing this important knowledge mode into our work in the academy. I felt I could include dream and reflection in my methodology, and that this was a Coast Salish, Katzie, and Pierre and Charnley family thing to do; thus, I was able to bring my home knowledge modes and identity into the academy. I had some pivotal dreams during the research journey. There were many times—especially during one particular 8-month period, when, after having to manage the constant pain, crackling skull and neck stiffness, and limits in range of motion from the injuries from the out of control car crashing into my van the year before, things had become much more difficult to cope with. This had depleted my already stretched energy and resources, and having lost my eight year education job shortly thereafter, and finding comparable full time work that accommodated the full school workload, on top of physical pain and energy limitations of the whiplash, was impossible. This all lead to an increasingly dire situation: where I was in a vulnerable financial situation, and where keeping a roof over my head in Vancouver was a serious challenge. Then a work colleague passed away tragically, and when our family dog died in a house fire—the balance tipped and I fell into a deep depression. I felt I was working on this dissertation at the very edge of the physical and spiritual world. During this time I often looked at the four walls, observed the opaquely lit curtains of the four windows of my rented studio apartment, feeling very conscious of the gossamer-thin veil between physical life and the spirit world, that we unconsciously or semi-consciously live with every day and night of our lives. I wondered if I would 175 survive this Ph.D.—if I would have to give up on it, or if some tragic death might befall me in my attempt to continue against all financial, physical, mental, and emotional odds. I turned to the spirit world and asked for help. I learned how to help myself spiritually. This sustained me until some compassionate people came through who were able to help me find funding to pay my rent and expenses long enough for me to find some employment and to get me further along in the Ph.D. process. I see this learning how to take care of myself spiritually and do practices and ceremonies on my own—that I gained through having to be secluded for that dark period from December through April—as part of my methodology too. Upon reflection, I find it interesting that this period from December to April is the period when our sacred winter dances are done. This is one of our most sacred periods, and seclusion is part of the process of learning that is required of dancers, spiritual and medicine people, as told to me by my grandmother and other relatives. There are very sacred, meaningful, precious, and even dangerous (because so powerful), processes, and involve particular sacred, ceremonial, cultural belongings, that we have as Katzie and Coast Salish people, that I cannot and would not want to share here because they are so very precious to our people. They are gifts from the spirit world. That winter I was in a similar seclusion with my dissertation work. Methods Embodied Story: Interviews, Ceremony, Reflection, and Auto-ethnography The methods employed for my research involved embodied storytelling on the land and waters, in the health center, and in homes. Stories were shared, recorded, and learned through interviews, ceremony, reflection, memoir, and auto-ethnography. 176 Interviews The interviews occurred in November and December 2016 and were dependent on the availability and schedules of the volunteer participants. I had planned to interview participants, right after the ethics approval was given by both the university process and the band council process. That process took a few months before my research proposal was approved and by mid-summer, I was able to start publicizing invitations for participation in the study. My research proposal stated that I would use posters in the Katzie First Nation band office trailer and also in the new Katzie First Nation Health Centre and also publicize in the Katzie First Nation newsletter. I also visited three of the Katzie First Nations elders’ meetings to invite elders to participate. After the first month, I revisited this process as I had only one inquiry and no actual volunteers yet. I found out that my email address at the University had not been in operation during that time and the University fixed it. Another month went by and I discovered that the email was still not working and the University Information Technology staff gave me a new email. I had to re publicize the invitation for each of those changes in my contact information. Another month went by and although many of the elders expressed interest in participating, I still did not have any confirmed participants. By now it was September. During those summer months I heard on two or three occasions that some of the elders in my family were organizing a family meeting. It was vague what this family meeting was for but I was interested and looking forward to attending. I received word in September that a date was being set and my daughter and I were to travel to the meeting that was taking place on our ancestral territory on a special place at the mouth of the Pitt Lake where the Pitt River and the Pitt Lake meet. It was where there is a park, called 177 Grand Narrows, a wharf and a canoe rental. There was a small parking lot for vehicles but is mostly filled with boats. The wharf was for the launching of pleasure boats and boats taking people who live in cottages on the shoreline of the Pitt Lake that was not accessible by road. Here my cousin Ed Pierre, along with his wife Yvonne, worked as the caretaker of the park. Ed Pierre is my grandmother’s eldest brother Simon Pierre’s grandson. He and Yvonne were hosting the meeting. October came and went. November arrived, along with a confirmed date. It turned out, I learned just days beforehand, that this family meeting was for the purpose of participating in my research study. I felt excited and thankful. I brought along letters and consent forms and my sound recording device. My daughter, thankfully, brought along some cultural gifts of salves she had made. I heard that Ben Pierre was travelling down from Sechelt, which is up the Sunshine Coast and a ferry ride and long drive a way. He is one of my grandmother’s brothers’ Xavier Pierre’s oldest sons, and he married into Sechelt First Nation which is also Coast Salish. Ben Pierre’s younger brother Cyril Pierre was also there, as was one of Cyril’s sons, Terrence Pierre. The three elder Pierres, Ben, Cyril and Ed planned to participate and be interviewed. They had also expected to be videoed as was my original plan, but I could not find a volunteer videographer to do so, and I had no funding to hire a videographer so this plan was tabled. We made the best of it with the voice recording device. After the three elder Pierres had been interviewed and Terrence sat and listened, I asked him if he would like to be interviewed too. He said he had not planned on it but after listening to the questions and interviews of his father and uncles, he said he had thought of some things that he would like to say, and so he was interviewed too. I am 178 very grateful for the heartfelt participation of the elders Ben, Cyril and Ed Pierre and also I am very grateful to have the point of view of Terrence Pierre as a young person in this research project. We started off with a prayer and a ceremony at the water for our ancestors. Then proceeded to sit in the shade of the trailer at the site. Yvonne mostly busy cooking, cleaning and organizing things inside of the trailer. My daughter Keisha walked down the trail behind the trailer and came back with some blackcap berries. I had never had these type of berries before. They were warm, delicious and sweet, much like a small intense blackberry but with a soft moss like surface texture. My grandmother often spoke about the tasty blackcap berries. Interestingly after this family meeting and the ceremony to start things off with, other participants, relatively quickly and with ease, began one by one committing to participate and setting dates and places to be interviewed. These mostly happened with family members from the small Katzie Indian Reserve that is on Barnston Island. Nine of the 11 participants were blood relatives. Two were directly related to a relative who married into my family. Three interviews happened on the Katzie First Nation Indian Reserve on Barnston Island. Four interviews happened on Indian Reserve number one in Port Hammond. One interview of a Barnston Island resident occurred at the Katzie Health Centre. One interview of a participant who lived at the Katzie Indian Reserve number one in Port Hammond happened at the Katzie First Nation Band Offices that were in a trailer at the time on that reserve. Two other interviews happened at the Katzie First Nation Indian Reserve number one in Port Hammond in the married participants’ home there. Four interviews happened at Pitt Lake. There were 11 participants in all. They were interviewed partially outdoors on Pitt Lake, in Port Hammond at the band 179 office, at the health center and in a participants’ home, on Barnston Island in the community hall and in a participant’s home there. Once the interviews had been completed, I gave it a month longer to see if any further volunteers might come forward. I had spoken with three who seemed interested but who ultimately did not commit or set a date to be interviewed. Because there had been keen interest in having the story circle workshop I tried one more time to organize a story circle workshop for the participants to get together to share stories connected to the land and waters. In March I posted a notice and included a post on the Katzie First Nation Facebook page as the Katzie First Nation reception told me that is the best way to reach people. I surveyed the participants to see what date would work bes
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UBC Theses and Dissertations
Embodying Indigenous Coast Salish education : travelling with Xé:ls the sister, mapping Katzie/q’iċəy’… Charnley, Kerrie 2019
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