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The water we call home : five generations of Indigenous women's resistance along the Salish Sea Hallenbeck, Jessica Wynne 2019

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 THE WATER WE CALL HOME: FIVE GENERATIONS OF INDIGENOUS WOMEN’S PERSISTENCE   ALONG THE SALISH SEA   by  JESSICA WYNNE HALLENBECK  B.A. Honours, Queen’s University, 2005 M.A.P., University of British Columbia, 2007  A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES (Geography) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver)   December 2019   © Jessica Wynne Hallenbeck, 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: The water we call home: five generations of Indigenous women’s persistence along the Salish Sea.  submitted by Jessica Hallenbeck in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctorate of Philosophy in Geography  Examining Committee: Geraldine Pratt, Department of Geography Supervisor  Dory Nason, Institute for Critical Indigenous Studies  Supervisory Committee Member  Glen Coulthard, Institute for Critical Indigenous Studies Supervisory Committee Member Daniel Heath Justice, Institute for Critical Indigenous Studies University Examiner Juanita Sundberg, Department of Geography University Examiner  Additional Supervisory Committee Members: Leonie Sandercock, School of Community and Regional Planning Supervisory Committee Member Kate Hennessey, School for Interactive Arts and Technology, SFU Supervisory Committee Member      iii Abstract  This dissertation foregrounds that which has receded from view. On one hand, it is about the material effects of settler colonial logics of elimination; the disappearance of Indigenous women from settler archives and commissions and the separation of fish, water, and land. On the other, it is about the persistence of Indigenous relationships to fish, water, and family along the Salish Sea.  This dissertation is structured around two main questions. First: What are the logics and materialities of settler archives?  A second question follows: How is settler colonial occlusion and dispossession resisted and subverted by connections held by Indigenous women to water, fish, and family? To answer these questions, I develop a methodological approach that involves close collaboration with Rosemary Georgeson, a Coast Salish and Sahtu Dene fisherman, storyteller, and playwright. Much of the empirical work of this dissertation has centered on us finding her Indigenous grandmothers Tlahoholt and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh and reconnecting with their descendants.   In the first part of the dissertation I trace the disappearance of Rosemary's Indigenous grandmothers and of Coast Salish women from archives, Commission transcripts, and local histories. In the second, I turn away from the settler archive and the stories that it animates to argue for the importance of refusing archival recovery. Instead, I turn towards collaborating with Rosemary to share part of the story of her family in relation to water, fish, and urbanization. This turning away takes two forms; a film (Chapter 6) and a co-authored article (Chapter 7). Ultimately, this thesis develops a unique decolonizing methodological approach to archival research that reveals the endurance of connections and strengthens Indigenous futurities.      iv Lay Summary  This dissertation involves close collaboration with Rosemary Georgeson, a Coast Salish and Sahtu Dene storyteller, playwright, and fisherman. Much of the work described is about us finding Rosemary’s Indigenous grandmothers Tlahoholt (Emma) and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and ultimately reconnecting with their descendants.  In the first part of the dissertation I look at why Tlahoholt, Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh, and other Indigenous women disappear from archives, Commission transcripts, and local histories.  I find that their disappearance is connected to settlers gaining control over Tlahoholt and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh’s traditional territories.  In the second part I turn away from the archive and the stories told from it to collaborate with Rosemary to create a film and a co-author an article that tells part of the story of her family in relation to water, fish, and urban growth. I conclude by showing how this research led us to find Rosemary’s ancestors and connect with their descendants.       v Preface  A version of chapter 7 has been published. Georgeson, R. and Hallenbeck, J. (2018). We Have Stories: Five Generations of Indigenous Women in Water. Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society. Vol 7, No1, pp.20-38. The published article is co-authored with each author contributing approximately half of the research and writing to the publication. Each author’s contribution is clearly identified within the text of the publication. The work also includes a film entitled “In defiance of all that” directed by Rosemary Georgeson and filmed and edited by Jessica Hallenbeck. The rest of this dissertation is unpublished. It is an independent work by the author, Jessica Hallenbeck. Research was approved by the UBC Behavioral Research Ethics Board: Certificate H14-02046; Principal Investigator: Dr. Geraldine Pratt.      vi Table of Contents  Abstract ......................................................................................................................................... iii Lay Summary ............................................................................................................................... iv Preface .............................................................................................................................................v Table of Contents ......................................................................................................................... vi List of Photographs ........................................................................................................................x List of Supplementary Material ............................................................................................... xiii Acknowledgements .................................................................................................................... xiv Chapter 1: Introduction ................................................................................................................1 1.1 Beginnings and Endings ................................................................................................. 1 1.2 Overview ......................................................................................................................... 4 1.2.1 The Knowledge Holders, Lands, Waters, and Places Central to this Dissertation ..... 5 1.3 Dissertation Outline ........................................................................................................ 8 1.4 Theoretical Starting Points ............................................................................................ 12 1.4.1 Critical Indigenous and Settler Colonial Studies ...................................................... 13 1.4.2 Urbanization and Settler Colonialism ....................................................................... 17 Fish, Water, and Settler Colonial Urbanization ................................................ 25 1.4.3 Into the Archive ........................................................................................................ 28 Colonial Archives and the Archival Turn ......................................................... 28 Settler Archives ................................................................................................. 30 Indigenous Relational Geographies, Restorying, and Felt Theory ................... 37 1.5 Methodologies............................................................................................................... 42     vii 1.5.1 Positionality and the Two Row Wampum ................................................................ 42 1.5.2 Decolonizing Methodologies .................................................................................... 48 Refusal as Methodology ................................................................................... 50 Genealogical Approach and Relational Accountability .................................... 52 1.6 Methods......................................................................................................................... 57 1.6.1 Researching and Resources ....................................................................................... 57 1.6.2 Writing and Consent ................................................................................................. 62 Chapter 2: Settler Archival Occlusion and Material Erasure .................................................65 2.1 Occlusion as Methodology ........................................................................................... 68 2.2 Scotty’s Story ................................................................................................................ 70 2.2.1 Pre-emption ............................................................................................................... 73 2.2.2 Indigeneity ................................................................................................................ 77 2.2.3 Archival Occlusion and Material Erasure ................................................................. 83 2.3 Archival Narratives, Embodied Knowledges, and Willfullness Archives .................... 86 2.4 Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s Story .......................................................................... 95 Chapter 3: Gender, Occlusion, and the McKenna McBride Commission ...........................101 3.1 Background on the Commission ................................................................................. 104 3.2 Academic Literature on Royal Commission Testimonies .......................................... 111 3.3 Archival Slippages and the Commission .................................................................... 116 3.3.1 Gender ..................................................................................................................... 116 3.3.2 Health ...................................................................................................................... 125 3.4 Conclusion .................................................................................................................. 130 Chapter 4: Settler Archival Orientations ................................................................................133     viii 4.1 Beginning Orientations ............................................................................................... 135 4.2 White Settler Archival Orientations............................................................................ 136 4.3 Archival Knowledge: Coming to Know and Ownership ............................................ 139 4.3.1 Joanne ..................................................................................................................... 139 4.3.2 Marie ....................................................................................................................... 144 4.3.3 Jean ......................................................................................................................... 149 4.4 Interpretation and Translation ..................................................................................... 151 4.5 Inhabitance and Indigeneity ........................................................................................ 153 4.6 Conclusion .................................................................................................................. 163 Chapter 5: Archival Refusal .....................................................................................................164 5.1 Archival Refusal ......................................................................................................... 165 5.2 Everyday Encounters .................................................................................................. 174 5.2.1 Cedar Cottage Storytelling Night............................................................................ 174 5.2.2 Williams Lake ......................................................................................................... 176 5.3 Gathering Together ..................................................................................................... 181 5.4 Conclusion .................................................................................................................. 197 Chapter 6: In Defiance of All That ...........................................................................................198 6.1 ................................................................ 198 6.2 Makings and Meanings of “In Defiance of All That” ................................................. 198 Chapter 7: We Have Stories: Five Generations of Indigenous Women In Water ...............202 7.1 Five Generations of Indigenous Women, Fish and Water .......................................... 205 7.2 Licensing Salmon, Losing the Water .......................................................................... 216 7.3 Conclusion .................................................................................................................. 225     ix Chapter 8: Conclusion: Returning to the Water ....................................................................227 8.1 Summaries and Contributions ..................................................................................... 228 8.2 Reflections and Horizons ............................................................................................ 232 8.3 Now We Can Begin Again ......................................................................................... 233 Works Cited ................................................................................................................................236 Appendices ..................................................................................................................................257 Appendix A Map of the Salish Sea ......................................................................................... 257 Appendix B Map of Georgeson Bay, Active Pass, and the Lighthouse ................................. 258      x List of Photographs Photo 1: Index card for Caspar Jacobse Hallenbeck, written by Lewis Hallenbeck  ....................45 Photo 2: Map submitted by Scotty Georgeson showing his pre-emption of the land that became Georgeson Bay ...................................................................................................................73 Photo 3: Photo of Pre-Emption claims submitted by Indigenous people ......................................75 Photo 4: Daily Colonist article about Harry dying at sea  .............................................................78 Photo 5: Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and Scotty .......................................................................82 Photo 6: Book containing children’s names before and after baptism  .........................................88 Photo 7: George William Georgeson’s birth certificate, with mother’s name indecipherable…..93 Photo 8: Tlahoholt, William and their three children in Georgeson Bay ......................................94 Photo 9: George Georgeson’s death certificate, with “Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh” written into the margin ................................................................................................................................96 Photo 10: Sandheads Lighthouse Henry Georgeson sold 112 gallons of dog fish oil ...................98 Photo 11: “Exhibit B35” evidence submitted to the Commission. Albert Georgeson’s name bottom of page     .............................................................................................................118 Photo 12: Indigenous women’s names in Chilliwack replaced as “Wife” in the transcripts   from the Commission .......................................................................................................119 Photo 13: The McKenna McBride Commission meeting at Nanaimo I.R. 1 ..............................121 Photo 14: January 9th, 1915 letter submitted to the Commission by the women   of the Langley reserve ......................................................................................................123 Photo 15: At the home of “Qualicam Tom” one imagines that the woman in   the foreground is intently listening in on what is being discussed ..................................125     xi Photo 16: Emily Georgeson’s baptismal record ..........................................................................141 Photo 17: Boat schematic drawn by Scotty Georgeson from his diary .......................................146 Photo 18: Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh with and without Scotty Georgeson ..........................................165 Photo 19: Marie and Rosemary share stories on Galiano Island .................................................171 Photo 20: Public Talk Vancouver Public Library 2014 with Jessica Hallenbeck, Rosemary Georgeson and Dory Nason .............................................................................................174 Photo 21: Some of the creative team involved with “A Community Remembers”.....................176 Photo 22: Reaenne Elkins and Mason Rankin during the filming of  “A Community   Remembers” .....................................................................................................................177 Photo 23: Notes on a timeline that correspond to archival documents relating to Rosemary's family  ..............................................................................................................................178 Photo 24: An attempt at a family tree  .........................................................................................179 Photo 25: Rosemary holds a photograph of Annie ......................................................................188 Photo 26: Rosemary, Norman, Lila and Eva looking out to the lighthouse ................................188 Photo 27: Metal ring for tying up boats, Georgeson Bay ............................................................189 Photo 28: Rosemary watches by the shore ..................................................................................191 Photo 29: A boat cuts through the Inside Passage, Campbell River ............................................191 Photo 30: Rosemary with some of her Homalco relatives ...........................................................192 Photo 31: Bill Blaney holding preserved clams ...........................................................................196 Photo 32: The Georgeson Bay .....................................................................................................196 Photo 33: Jessica Hallenbeck filming from the ferry ...................................................................200 Photo 34: Rosemary at age 16 with a Halibut..............................................................................208 Photo 35: "Boating Seymour Creek" ...........................................................................................215     xii Photo 36: Rosemary sits by the shore on Galiano Island, looking out at Active Pass and the Lighthouse........................................................................................................................235                         xiii List of Supplementary Material  In Defiance of All That (Film)       xiv Acknowledgements  This dissertation is due to the support and generosity of many people who have thoughtfully shared their time, energy, and knowledge with me.  Thank you Rosemary Georgeson, for the beautiful gift of inviting me into this work with you.   My incredible committee, thank you. I felt such strong support throughout this journey. I’m grateful that you allowed me to take the time that was needed to do this work in a respectful way.  I am grateful to Geraldine Pratt for your thoughtful supervision and your support of a dissertation that uses a diverse range of methodologies.  Leonie Sandercock, your academic work has been the backbone of mine. Thank you for your work, wisdom, and friendship over the last 15 years. Dory Nason, without you this dissertation would never have happened. You have been integral to all of this, and Rosemary and I are both so grateful that you have been on this journey with us. Thank you for your brilliance and your generosity.  Glen Coulthard thank you for your critical insights into my work since the very beginning of my PhD propelling my work into new directions. Thank you, Kate Hennessy, for your always careful reading, and for making time to push me to think deeper about film and archives.  Thank you to the Elders who have generously shared so much with me over many years; Mary Jean Poole, Willie Poole, Johnny Poole, Emil McCook, Felix Charlie, Laura Seymour, Mike Abou, Larry Grant, Latash Nahanee, Delia Nahanee. I carry your teachings with me.   Friends and colleagues whose work and commitments both inside and outside of the academy have inspired me. Thank you: Lyana Patrick, May Farrales, Dawn Hoogeveen, Elanna Nolan, Andrew Shmuely, Dan Cohen, Lachlan Barber, Mike Krebs, Matthew Scobie, Genevieve Painter, Solam Mkhabela, Dallas Hunt, Lindsay Lachance, Kelsey Wrightson, Julia Christensen, Emily Rosenman, Craig Jones, Tom Howard, Corey Snelgrove, Natalie Baloy, Efe Peker, Dada Docot, Dani Aiello. Thank you for the generosity of your conversations; Phanuel Antwi, Johnny Mack, Michelle Daigle, John Friedmann, JP Catungal, Audrey Siegl, Bonita Lawrence, Dorit Naaman, Jean Barman, Melanie Yazzie.  Thanks for grounding me and for all the fun distractions; Yvonne Hii, Aviva Savelson, Jason Blackman, Thor Larson, Cathy Pasion, , the saltlicks, Gab Olah, Genevieve Jodouin, Henny Yeung, Felix, Am Johal, Giovanni Attili, Saleem Haddad, Tee Lim, Rob Turriff, Ahbya Baker, Ken Meyer, Ashleigh Allen, Kerriann Cardinal, Eli Puterman, Sarah Parkes, Allison Jones, Adrienne Eiser, Jason Schneider, Althea Thauberger, JP, Jessica Rampling, Chris Uyede, Jacob, Taylor, Zev, Kaz.  While doing my PhD I also co-founded Lantern Films, a documentary film production company with Dave Shortt. Dave, thank you for all your incredible support, generosity, and friendship. You made it possible for me to creatively build an iterative relationship between academia and     xv artistic practice. Thank you for supporting this balance, for all the beautiful films we have made together, and for all that you have taught me. I am filled with love and gratitude.   My film work brought me to people, organizations, communities, and Nations doing brilliant, critical work. The stories and knowledge they shared with me run through this dissertation. Thank you to the Kwadacha Nation, the Nuxalk Nation, Toquaht Nation, Kanaka Bar, the Urban Native Youth Association, and Inclusion BC. Mitchell McCook, Lena McCook, Craig McCook, Fay Seymour, Kathy Poole, Susan McCook, Cathy Warren, Sherwin Strong, Sharon Gregson, Amy Nugent, Diane Roberts, Renae Morriseau, Woody Morrison, Stephen Lytton, Banchi Hanuse, Marie Clements, Deblekha Guin, Helen Haig-Brown, Elle-Máijá Apiniskim Tailfeathers, Jordan Wilson, Kelsey Sparrow, Baljit Sangra, Cari Green.   Thank you to Rosemary Georgeson, your family, and everyone who helped find them. Rosemary Georgeson (the Great One), Jeannine Dawn, Fay Blaney, Bill Blaney, Darren Blaney, Correna Blaney, Johnny Georgeson, Gord Georgeson, Stuart Georgeson, Charlie Head, Lila Johnston, Eva Johnston, Norman Guerrero, Diane Roberts, who re-opened the door to finding  Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh and Tlahoholt. William AKA Billy and their children, Albert, Annie, Emily, George and Francis.   My large and beautiful family. Thank you Sadie Rabinowitz (Lovinger) for teaching me about connections to ancestors. Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa Pryor, for your rock shop and your love to create. Thank you, Anita Gellman, for still making me laugh. Thank you, Lew Hallenbeck, for keeping history. To Great Aunt Mary, for your extraordinary life and for bangle and bauble. To Coreen Hallenbeck, for showing me that life can be long and wise and beautiful. To my parents, Patrick Hallenbeck and Carole Gellman who proofread every undergraduate assignment and have always loved me unconditionally and never pushed me too hard. Thank you for always being there. Thanks to my brother Gaelen Hallenbeck for your love and friendship, for building me a computer, and for always reminding me of my mistakes. Thanks Dan Brittain, the most immensely supportive partner imaginable. Thank you, Julie and Mohammed, John and Marianne, Peggy, Brenda and Gerard, Tom and Kellie, Barbara and Randy, David.  Dulce Hallenbeck, Nina Basa, JD Basa, Matt Basa, Quinn Davis, AJ Noel, Benjamin Noel, Dan Brittain, ‘Una, Weldon Brittain, Carmen Brittain,   Thanks to the incredible staff in the Department of Geography; thank you for all the skill and patience you have shown in helping me navigate the often challenging administrative and financial systems at UBC. Sandy Lapsky, Stefanie Ickert, Suzanne Lawrence, Danny Wong, Connie Cheung, Jose Aparicio, Vince Kujala, Julie Ranada, Jeanne Yang. Thank you, Bret Petersen, for all your amazing A/V help, and friendship.    I was fortunate to have the support of several funding sources that made it possible for me to do this work over an extended period and to support brining Rosemary’s family together. Thanks for the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council for a Joseph-Armand Bombardier CGS Doctoral Scholarship, the University of British Columbia for a Four-Year Fellowship, the Liu Institute, the Public Scholars Initiative, the Department of Geography, the Decolonizing Water project and the Peter Wall Institute.  1 Chapter 1: Introduction  1.1 Beginnings and Endings It’s one of those west coast summer days. The sun casts a haze over everything. The tide out near Tsawwassen, British Columbia is low and the mud flats stretch out so far that you can barely see the saltwater. The air is filled with the smell of the ocean when the tide is out. As we drive to the ferry terminal, we pass the soon to open supermall. We cross over the remains of the Tsawwassen Nation’s longhouse, buried under asphalt and concrete in 1958, when causeway construction began on the ferry terminal. There are no fishing boats on the water, no one out in the tidal flats, just a long stretch of road leading to ferry terminals and container shipping ports.   We’re heading to Galiano Island, British Columbia. Today marks the culmination of three years of working together and a lifetime of research for Rosemary. Rosemary Georgeson is a Sahtu Dene and Coast Salish outreach coordinator in the arts. Earlier in her life she was a commercial fisherman, truck driver, and chef, and sometimes all of these things at the same time. Jessica Hallenbeck is a white (Dutch, Russian, Irish, Hungarian) settler filmmaker and PhD candidate in Geography. This is the first time in 120 years that some of Rosemary's relatives will walk in Georgeson Bay, the birthplace of their ancestral grandmother Annie and great grandmother Tlahoholt (Emma). Our work has been about reconnecting Rosemary and her family with their Indigenous grandmothers. It is about how family intersects with water, fish, and territory, revealing the ways that Indigenous women’s relationships have transformed and persisted, despite generations of erasure (Georgeson and Hallenbeck, 2018, p.20).   This dissertation begins with the above excerpt from “We Have Stories: Five Generations of Women in Water” an article co-authored by myself and Sahtu Dene and Coast Salish storyteller and playwright Rosemary Georgeson, who has been a central collaborator and friend and whose own questions have guided much of our work together. Our collaboratively written piece speaks to the many interconnections of our work; the interrelationship between settler colonial dispossession, archives, and memory amidst the urbanization of Coast Salish territories that is bound up with the capture of water and fish. This excerpt is also about the complex methodological and ethical terrain that we navigated in doing this work together, the contours of which are central to the structure and form that this dissertation takes.     2  Rosemary and I first met in Williams Lake, British Columbia in 2009. Rosemary was working with urban ink, an Indigenous and intercultural theater company on A Community Remembers: The Squaw Hall Project, a community based play in Williams Lake.1 While I was working as a planning consultant, facilitating youth conversations about racism and discrimination in Williams Lake, I heard about urban ink’s work on the Squaw Hall Project and reached out to see if there was a way that we could support each other. It was through this that I first met Rosemary.  A relationship developed and urban ink eventually asked me to support the creation of “A Community Remembers”, a youth driven documentary based on the play.2  After the project ended, I began volunteering and working as a filmmaker with urban ink and Rosemary invited me to help support her in the creation of We Have Stories: Women in Fish a documentary film based on Women in Fish: Hours of Water, a play written by Dene playwright Marie Clements.3 In an unpublished article, Rosemary describes the play: Women in Fish: Hours of Water was a play I co-wrote with Marie Clements. After it finished its run on Galiano Island, Marie and I realized how much more there was to this story of women and water. Because I was also the Indigenous and community outreach coordinator for the play, I interacted with the audience after the performance. It was through these discussions that we realized that a lot of things had been opened up by the play. There was a much larger story under the surface of ‘Women in Fish, Hours of Water’. There was an untold story about Indigenous women and our connections to water and how we have been extracted from it. Water gave us everything that we relied on for our survival. I invited Jessica to work with me to interview women I had fished with and to edit ‘We Have Stories: Women in Fish’, a short documentary film about Indigenous women in the fishing industry. (Georgeson and Hallenbeck, 2016, p. 20).                                                   1. To learn more about the project please see 2. You can watch the film at 3. Rosemary worked with Marie to weave together the stories of Eileen Lorenz, Rosemary’s own lived experiences, and voices of the women in her community on the water.     3   When I started my PhD, Rosemary and I were just beginning our work on We Have Stories: Women in Fish. At the time I had no intention of bringing this work into academia, but during the second year of my PhD, with the encouragement of Anishinaabe scholar Dory Nason, Rosemary and I submitted an abstract to present at the Native American and Indigenous Studies Association (NAISA) conference in Saskatoon. Our abstract was accepted, and this marked a turning point for us; it was the start of many conversations about bringing some of our work-and friendship--into academia.   Our drive from Vancouver to Saskatoon allowed ample time for conversation, lunch breaks in Chinese restaurants, and for singing along to Elvis and Johnny Cash. Yet, even with all the time on the road we struggled to figure out a structure for our NAISA talk. It was only once we were in Saskatoon that Rosemary suggested we each present our own thoughts about the Squaw Hall work. This is how we began to co-create a methodology of working together within the space of the academy.  Our talk went well, and at the end of the trip, when we were nearly back in Vancouver, Rosemary invited me to bring our work on fish and water into my dissertation.   Months later, I sat at Rosemary’s kitchen table with the freshly printed copy of my just defended research proposal. Rosemary and I had talked while I drafted the proposal, but our meeting that day felt weird. I was nervous.  With the proposal sitting neatly on the corner of the table, Rosemary and I began to talk.  I shared about the proposed research; canneries closing and the development of beaches and real estate in Vancouver. Rosemary discussed how important it was for her and her family to find each other again, after 100 years of separation. She wondered     4 if she was Coast Salish, and how that status might have been lost.  She felt before we finished, We Have Stories, Women in Fish that we needed to bring her family into our work together.   Rosemary stood up from the table and brought over two beautiful and brittle cedar baskets. We looked at the baskets for a long time, and Rosemary began telling me the story of her Indigenous great grandmother Tlahoholt (Emma) and great great grandmother Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie). She told me that she wanted to find out more about them; where they were from, what their real names were, and what happened to them and the rest of her family.  I was scared and a bit stunned. With no background in archival research, I had no idea how to support Rosemary in this process, nor any idea of how it connected with what I had proposed to undertake for my PhD. This dissertation is the story of our work together which ultimately led to Rosemary finding and reconnecting with her family.  In this sense, it is very much a story about collaboration and its limits, refusal, and decolonization in the academy.  1.2 Overview This dissertation foregrounds that which has receded from view. On one hand, it is about the material effects of settler colonial logics of elimination; the disappearance of Indigenous women from settler archives and commissions and the separation of fish, water, and land. On the other, it is about the persistence of Indigenous relationships to fish, water, and family along the Salish Sea. This work brings together knowledge shared in conversation and stored in people’s bodies with knowledge kept in paper archives.       5 1.2.1 The Knowledge Holders, Lands, Waters, and Places Central to this Dissertation As Rosemary and I worked to piece together the story of Tlahoholt and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh we met with many relatives who generously shared their knowledge with us.4 We are very grateful to Chiyalhiya (Elder Lila Johnston, Sḵwx̱wú7mesh), Setálten, Norman Guerrero (Sḵwx̱wú7mesh), T’uy’t’tanat-Cease Wyss (Sḵwx̱wú7mesh, Sto:lo, Irish-Métis, Hawaiian and Swiss),  Eva Johnston (Sḵwx̱wú7mesh), Bill Blaney (Xwémalhkwu - Homalco), Fay Blaney (Xwémalhkwu - Homalco), Darren Blaney (Xwémalhkwu – Homalco), for generously sharing their knowledge with us. We also met with three white women who have extensively researched the Georgeson family; Jean Barman, Marie Elliott, and Joanne Peterson and are grateful for the time and resources they shared with us.   In addition, Rosemary and I visited the Royal British Colombian Museum and Archives, read through McKenna McBride Commission transcripts at the Union of British Columbia Indian Chiefs, created an account on, read local histories, and consulted Sḵwx̱wú7mesh archives and well as the paper archives related to the Georgeson family.5   This story also unfolds around very specific Coast Salish lands, waters, and territories.6  Some of these places, like Active Pass and the Mayne Island lighthouse were known to me before I met Rosemary. The ferry ride between Vancouver and Victoria (on Vancouver Island) cuts right through Active Pass. Many people recognize it as the place where the ferry gets closest to the shore.  Like other tourists, I would climb to the top of the ferry to watch for the lighthouse                                                  4. Please see family tree of connections, Appendix A 5. We would like to acknowledge and thank Dr. Jean Barman who generously provided us with her own archive of Rosemary’s family, as well as copies of McKenna McBride Commission testimonies.  6. Please see Appendix “B” for two maps of the places frequently mentioned in the dissertation.      6 on Mayne Island, then turn around to look for seals and sea lions, sunbathing on a buoy near Galiano Island.  I have since learned that the route the ferry takes is hundreds of thousands of years old. Active Pass was a highway used by Coast Salish and Straights Salish Peoples, crucial for travelling between summer and winter villages, for fishing, and for visiting neighbouring Nations. It was a busy place, and the Islands around it filled with sacred sites, medicines, stories, and family. With colonization, Active Pass became a waterway that transported ships laden with supplies and weapons, and boats filled with gold prospectors travelling from Victoria to the Fraser River (near Vancouver). Through it all, Rosemary’s family was there, travelling between villages, caring for the lands, waters, and non-human animals and beings of the pass, signaling ships from the Mayne Island Lighthouse, and helping rescue boats caught in storms.  Her grandmothers and aunties would paddle from the Mayne Island Lighthouse to visit family who lived on Galiano Island, right by where the seal filled buoy sits today. That buoy marks the entrance to Georgeson Bay, a piece of land pre-empted by Scotty Georgeson but filled with stories from before his time that have been passed from many generations to Rosemary. During Rosemary’s lifetime she has seen Georgeson Bay and Active Pass dramatically change. What was once home to family, small fishing boats, orcas, and bull kelp is now the domain of BC Ferries, real estate investors, and tourists.7   It was in thinking about the many lives and stories held by the waters of Active Pass, that we were able to find and reconnect with Rosemary’s family. But water is not just an orientation for our work, but a way of thinking and represcencing histories, stories, memories, and ancestors connected with particular waters, like Georgeson Bay and Active Pass. Thinking in relation to                                                  7. Much of this story is told through images of Active Pass and Georgeson Bay in the film “In Defiance of all that” which makes up most of Chapter 6.      7 water, water becomes an orientation, a way of seeing.8  Melanie Yazzie (Bilagáana/Diné) and Cutcha Risling Baldy (Hupa, Yurok and Karuk) describe water view as “the act of (re)making our accountability in relationship to water and (re)claiming our relational theories of water culture remind us that we are water based, that we have water memory. So, our theoretical standpoint is one that foregrounds water view, (re)claiming knowledges not just for the people, but also for the water; not just looking at our relationship to water, but our accountability to water view” (Yazzie and Baldy, 2018, p. 2). Thinking of our accountability to the waters of Active Pass, of Rosemary’s knowledge of those waters, what they were like in different tides, storms, and seasons brought us to Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), Xwémalhkwu (Homalco), and Cowichan territories, all of which end at the Salish Sea. Visiting with relatives awakened stories about connections to specific places and waters. On the Homalco reservation in Campbell River (Vancouver Island) we learned about Surge Narrows, Bute Inlet, Church House, and Cape Mudge, and heard that Rosemary’s ancestors would travel from Church House to sell dried salmon under the Lion’s Gate Bridge, near the village of Sw̓aywi, by the Capilano River.9 We visited lCh’ích’elxwi7ḵw, flanked by land that Rosemary’s ancestors were born on, now transformed into highway interchanges, bus exchanges, and the Real Canadian Superstore.   Through centering water in our conversations, visits, and readings we began to pull together pieces of the lives of Rosemary’s ancestors. The stories shared about Rosemary’s ancestors led me to think about the ways that white settler archival logics animate public histories and academic scholarship, and how these logics are resisted and subverted through connections to family, water, and fish. In the first part of the dissertation I trace the                                                  8. In Chapter 4 I think more about orientations, after Sarah Ahmeds (2006) Queer Phenomenology. 9. This story is shared by Bill Blaney in the Chapter 6 film.      8 disappearance of Rosemary's own Indigenous grandmothers and of Coast Salish women from archives, Commission transcripts, and local histories. In the second part, I turn away from the settler archive and the stories that it animates to argue for the importance of refusing archival recovery (A. Simpson, 2014). Instead, I turn towards collaborating with Rosemary to write part of the story of her family in relation to water, fish, and urbanization. This turn away takes two forms; a film (Chapter 6) and a co-authored article (Chapter 7).   1.3 Dissertation Outline This dissertation is structured around two main questions. First: What are the logics and materialities of settler archives?  A second question follows the first: how is settler colonial occlusion and dispossession resisted and subverted by connections held by Indigenous women to water, fish, and family? To answer these questions, I develop a methodological approach that significantly contributes to work on critical Indigenous and decolonizing methodologies.  These questions drive me to new ways of working collaboratively while simultaneously embracing refusal as a generative methodological position. The methodology of the dissertation; its silences, refusals, and interventions mirror its theoretical intervention, where I argue that settler archives work through a logic of elimination (Wolfe, 2006), erasing Indigenous women from settler colonial historical accounts. I show how this erasure materially manifests onto which bodies get to belong in place and attend to how Indigenous women have continued to maintain connections to place, water, and family despite these erasures and disappearances.10                                                   10. I borrow erasure and occlusion as ways of thinking and as modes of inquiry “along the archival grain” (Stoler, 2002, p.272). In Durress (2016) Stoler elaborates on this way of reading along the grain of colonial arts of governance “Molten in their form, colonial entailments may lose their visible and identifiable presence in the     9  The dissertation structure is non-linear, seeking to connect seemingly disparate events through the lives of five generations of Coast Salish Indigenous women. The story of finding Rosemary’s ancestors and relatives is told throughout the seven chapters, as is the story of our research relationship and decisions about what to include or exclude from the dissertation. The choice to not reveal the complete story of what happened to Rosemary’s ancestors was discussed early on in our work together; this story of Rosemary’s family is hers to tell.   Chapter 2 “Settler Archival Occlusion and Material Erasure” thinks about the work performed by settler archives and the historical accounts that derive from them. Drawing on local histories about Rosemary’s ancestors, including the Dictionary of Canadian Biography, Lights of the Inside Passage, and The Gulf Islands Patchwork, I show how these accounts are bound up with material dispossession. Analyzing local histories, pre-emption records, and newspapers articles, I look at the disappearance of Rosemary's great great grandmother Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and how this connects to status, archival whitening, and settler claims to land. Uniquely arguing that settler archives and the narratives that are built from them are structured by a logic of elimination (Wolfe, 2006), I unpack occlusion as an important methodology for settler colonial archival work, showing how archives and the stories written from them legitimate settlement while dispossessing the Indigenous women of Rosemary's family of their traditional territories. In the final section of the chapter, I talk about our experience going to the Royal British Colombian Museum and Archives, revealing what a decolonial sensibility brings to archival work (Fraser and Todd, 2016).                                                                                                                                                               vocabulary, conceptual grammar, and idioms of current concerns. It is the effort of this venture to halt in the face of these processes of occlusion and submersion, to ask about how they work, their differential effects; and on whom they most palpably act” (Stoler, 2016, p. 4).      10   Chapter 3 “Gender, Occlusion, and the McKenna McBride Commission” moves from the scale of Rosemary’s family to trace gendered archival occlusions within the Commission and their relationship to settler modes of governance in the context of the lands and waters of Rosemary’s ancestors. I focus on two main sites of occlusion.  First, I look at how gaps in the Commission testimonies are replicated by those writing from them. Second, I turn to slippages between evidence submitted and what was transcribed into the colonial record in order to think about the gendered erasures that run through the parameters, testimonies, and legal orders of the Commission. I situate these occlusions within a settler mode of governance by elimination that is fundamentally gendered.   Chapter 4 “Settler Archival Orientations” is the final chapter that delves into the settler archive and the stories told from it. Specifically, I draw on Sarah Ahmed’s argument in Queer Phenomenology about orientation and path dependency. Ahmed writes of orientation as “how something becomes given by not being the object of be in this world is to be involved with things in such a way that they recede from consciousness” (Ahmed, 2006, p. 21). I put Ahmed’s work on orientation into conversation with occlusion and settler colonialism. I think about white spaces of archival knowing as an orientation and situate paper archives as objects where white, female bodies cohere and find orientation. I ask what it means for white bodies to be orientated by Indigenous bodies and Indigenous stories, and how this orientation to the settler archive is a settler orientation. Wapisewsipi Cree scholar Dallas Hunt (2016) writes “personal archives can illuminate the processes of settler colonialism in detailed and nuanced ways” (p. 27). In this chapter I bring together family trees on with DNA testing and personal archives to delve into the connection between settler paper archives and settler modes of inhabitance.  This chapter provides a jumping off point to turn away from the settler archive to     11 modes of belonging that lie outside of and alongside its logics, embedded in embodied knowledge about family, water, fish, and land.    In Chapter 5 “Archival Refusal”, I draw on work from critical Indigenous studies (Lomawaima, 2016; A. Simpson, 2014; Coulthard, 2014;  Tuck and Yang, 2014) as well as scholarship on the archives of slavery (Hartman, 2008; Sharpe, 2016; Antwi; 2011) to turn away from the paper archive and towards everyday encounters and connections between family, water, and fish. I underscore the relationships that endure despite settler archival occlusion and material dispossession. I connect the question of ethnographic and archival refusal to methodological issues of knowledge ownership and the academy, wrestling with ethical entanglements and my own expectations of being a white researcher, witness, and friend (J. Wilson, 2016).    Chapters 6 and 7 are based on the dilemmas and decisions articulated in Chapter 5. Both chapters center alternative forms of knowledge production. Chapter 6 includes brief explanatory text for the short film that follows. The film features conversations with Rosemary’s Homalco relatives about fish, water, dispossession and urbanization. This film makes an argument for the importance of visual methodologies and knowledge production that falls outside the conventional forms of academic writing. The film is intended to sit alongside We Have Stories: Women in Fish, the documentary that Rosemary and I initially worked on that began this project.   Chapter 7 “We Have Stories: Five Generations of Women in Water” follows the orientation that is opened up in refusing colonial archives, co-producing knowledge that centers the lives, lands, and waters of Tlahoholt and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh.  This chapter is largely from our article by the same name, published in a special issue on Indigenous Peoples and the politics of water co-edited by Dr. Melanie Yazzie (Bilagáana/Diné) and Dr. Cutcha Risling Baldy (Hupa, Yurok and Karuk) for Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education, Society, an open access journal.     12 This chapter lays out the interconnections between the commercialization of salmon and commodification of the fishery, the importance of Indigenous women to the early fishing industry, and the urbanization of Tlahoholt’s territory.   1.4 Theoretical Starting Points In Decolonizing Methodologies, Ngāti Awa and Ngāti Porou, Māori scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999) discusses writing, theory, and history as “key sites in which Western research of the Indigenous world have come together” (p. 72).  Smith argues that the Western academy claims theory as its own and sets the parameters for what qualifies as theory.  The overwhelming result has been the silencing of Indigenous voices (Smith, 1999).  As I discuss in much greater detail in the methodology section of this chapter, I consider the work with Rosemary and the thoughts shared by herself and her relatives to be theory building.  This is reflected in the choice to create a film (chapter 6) and co-author an article (chapter 7). In “Making Feminist Points” Sarah Ahmed describes citation as “a rather successful reproductive technology, a way of reproducing the world around certain bodies” (Ahmed, 2013, p.11). As I delve into the ways that settler archives have been taken up by those drawing on their holdings, I am keenly aware of my own citational practice in writing this dissertation.   In Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back (2011) Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg scholar Leanne Simpson describes western theory as useful in “diagnosing, revealing, and even interrogating colonialism…yet western theories of liberation have for the most part failed to resonate with the vast majority of Indigenous Peoples, scholars, and artists” (p. 31).  This dissertation draws from western theory to help diagnose and interrogate the settler archive and its logics.  Yet, in reaching towards theory that productively engages with what was shared by Rosemary and her     13 relatives, this dissertation centers the work of Indigenous scholars, creating an iterative conversation that foregrounds the theory building so generously shared by Rosemary and her relatives (L. Simpson, 2011).  Tanana Athabascan scholar Dian Million (2011) describes theories as “essentially social, in that they link certain ways of thinking toward things to other ways of thinking” (pg. 321).  In my own PhD journey, I have been incredibly fortunate to have developed friendships with colleagues across disciplines who in their professional work and in our private conversations have inspired and challenged me. I have made a conscious decision to cite their work in this dissertation, as they have been central to my thinking. In this sense, this dissertation approaches theory as social and conversational. The theory emerges from the research, from people we met while doing the work, from Rosemary and her family, and from my friends and colleagues.   1.4.1 Critical Indigenous and Settler Colonial Studies This dissertation is broadly in conversation with work from critical Indigenous studies and settler colonial studies. The term ‘settler colonialism’ first emerged in 1999, coined by the late white Australian settler Patrick Wolfe in his book Settler Colonialism and the Transformation of Anthropology (1999). Lorenzo Veracini published Settler Colonialism: A Theoretical Overview (2010). These two books, alongside Wolfe’s 2006 essay, “Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native” in the Journal of Genocide Research, launched an ostensibly new field of inquiry. Settler colonialism, defined by Wolfe was a structure rather than an event where “settler colonizers came to stay” (Wolfe, 2006, p. 388). Wolfe argued that settler colonialism was territorially acquisitive in perpetuity, and therefore the elimination of Indigenous peoples central to its logics; “the logic of elimination marks a return whereby the native repressed continues to     14 structure settler-colonial society” (p. 390).  The emergence of the concept of settler colonialism has given birth to the Settler Colonial Studies journal as well as an abundance of scholarship from a huge variety of fields, seemingly united under the banner of settler colonialism.    As the field of settler colonial studies has grown, so too have the critiques of its institutionalization within the academy.11 In “Unsettling Settler Colonialism”, Snelgrove et al. ask important questions about settler colonialism's relationship with critical Indigenous studies, pointing out that while the term has generated critical scholarship, that there is in fact a large body of work that has already been critiquing and working within the frame of settler colonialism (Snelgrove et al, 2014, p. 9). Macoun and Strakosch have discussed how settler colonial theory “is primarily a settler framework”, warning that the field (much like whiteness studies) places non-Indigenous voices at the center of conversations about colonization while marginalizing or eliminating Indigenous voices and any discussion of Indigenous resurgence and resistance (Macoun and Strakosch, 2013).12 I share the concerns expressed by critics of settler colonialism, and while I use the term in my dissertation, I center critical Indigenous studies as a theoretical framework for much of the work.   Critical Indigenous studies is an emerging discipline, intentionally separate from Indigenous studies which continues to largely be the domain of non-Indigenous scholars (Moreton-Robinson, 2016, p. 5). The ‘critical’ in critical Indigenous studies references the situated analytics of Indigenous Peoples. Goenpul (Minjerribah) Quandamooka scholar Aileen                                                  11. For an overview of these critiques see Lorenzo Veracini (2017). Decolonizing settler colonialism: Kill the settler in him and save the man. American Indian Culture and Research Journal, Vol. 41, No. 1, pp. 1-18.  12. Diné and Yurok scholar Natalie Knight argues that “the term “settler” can and does flatten those people who are relative newcomers to Turtle Island, especially ignoring the varied positions that these newcomers hold in relation to the Canadian and U.S. states in terms of race”.  (N. Knight, 2018, p. 170).      15 Moreton-Robinson writes, “Indigenous embodied knowledges means that non-Indigenous scholars can engage with Indigenous analytics but not produce them” (Moreton-Robinson, 2016, p. 4). As an Indigenous centered approach to knowledge production, critical Indigenous studies has been crucial to the work of this dissertation. Methodologically, the terms for my positionality within the field are clear; engagement with analytics that center Indigenous approaches to knowledge production “where the object of study is colonizing power in its multiple forms” while not producing Indigenous analytics (Moreton-Robinson, 2016, p. 5).  In reaching for theory that was generative, critical Indigenous studies provided a methodological and theoretical framework that placed Rosemary and her connections at the center. Moreton-Robinson notes that “Indigenous lives provide the starting point for asking new and critical questions about Indigenous living and our being, based on presuppositions of relatedness to place, people, and the earth. As such, the connections between Indigenous knowledges, relatedness, and embodiment distinguish and mark the epistemological ground of critical Indigenous studies scholarship” (Moreton-Robinson, 2016, p. 5). Critical Indigenous studies establishes a community of scholars and interlocutors to the theory building that Rosemary and her relatives do and provide an additional impetus for that work to appear, given the constraints of a dissertation, in a different form.  Citationality, as mentioned above, is critical to this dissertation as well. By putting multiple fields into conversation with critical Indigenous studies and by utilizing a range of methodologies, I attempt to center the intellectual and political work of critical Indigenous scholars engaging with their own histories and communities to, in the words of Chickasaw scholar Jodi Byrd “contravene in, respond to, and redirect European philosophies” that offer “crucial new ways of conceptualizing an after to empire that does not reside within the obliteration of indigenous lives, resources, and lands” (Byrd, 2011, p. 229). This pushes against     16 the often-totalizing tendency of non-Indigenous scholars working within the framework of settler colonialism. “Without centering Indigenous peoples’ articulations, without deploying a relational approach to settler colonial power, and without paying attention to the conditions and contingencies of settler colonialism, studies of settler colonialism and practices of solidarity run the risk of reifying (and possibly replicating) settler colonial as well as other modes of domination” (Snelgrove et al., 2014, p. 4).   This dissertation is about the material violences that interrupt and alter Indigenous women’s connections to place, and the inability of these violences to sever connections to water, fish, and family. It is about persistence in the face of ongoing occupation.  I look at how the absence of Indigenous women from settler archives maps onto the stories that we tell about place and who belongs there.  I follow occlusion in relation to Rosemary’s ancestors to draw out connections between archival absence, material erasure, and Indigenous women’s resistance. Emphasizing omission and occlusion as key modes of settler colonial governance creates space to center the relationship between Indigenous women, water, and fish, collapsing established settler colonial boundaries between the urban, the frontier, and fish.   This dissertation makes three important theoretical interventions. First, it foregrounds the role of Indigenous women and the importance of salmon within understandings of urbanization in the Pacific Northwest and along the Salish Sea, crucially bringing together work on urbanization and settler colonialism through the lens of critical Indigenous studies. Second, it puts scholarship from the archival turn into conversation with settler colonial studies and critical Indigenous studies, contributing to a small but growing body of literature on settler archives. Uniquely, I argue that settler archives follow settler colonial logics of Indigenous elimination; archival occlusion has deeply material effects. Third, I intervene at the level of method and     17 methodology, bringing the decolonizing methods literature into conversation with work on ethnographic refusal and Indigenous feminisms, demonstrating in the way that this dissertation unfolds, how refusal and decolonizing methodologies can be materially enacted, centering an Indigenous feminist methodological practice that refuses to narrate silences and absences.   1.4.2 Urbanization and Settler Colonialism In this great big city that everyone calls Vancouver, there is all these layers of this Indigenous Knowledge, and it is all right there. Everywhere in Vancouver has a place name. (Christie Lee Charles, xʷməθkwəy̓əm Nation, in c̓əsnaʔəm The City Before the City, Elle-Máijá Tailfeathers, 2017).   The University of British Columbia is on unceded, traditional, ancestral xʷməθkwəy̓əm (Musqueam) territory. As a PhD student, I attended many events where xʷməθkwəy̓əm Elders Larry Grant, Delbert Guerin, and Rose Point generously shared their knowledge with students and the general public. Through them, I learned about the origins of territorial acknowledgements and xʷməθkwəy̓əm’s ongoing work to strengthen relationships with the University, and the City of Vancouver. What they shared raised questions in my mind about being an uninvited guest on xʷməθkwəy̓əm territory and made me think about my responsibilities as a white settler on stolen and occupied xʷməθkwəy̓əm land.   In 2012, the City of Vancouver approved a development application for a condominium development on c̓əsnaʔəm, a xʷməθkwəy̓əm village and burial ground.13 Construction began,                                                  13. The Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia, in their description of the c̓əsnaʔəm, the city before the city exhibitions, states “over the past 125 years, archaeologists, collectors, and treasure hunters have mined the c̓əsnaʔəm village and burial ground for artifacts and ancestral remains. The land has been given various     18 and several graves were desecrated. As is well documented in Elle-Máijá Tailfeathers’ feature length documentary c̓əsnaʔəm The City Before the City, xʷməθkwəy̓əm responded by holding a 24-hour vigil at c̓əsnaʔəm that lasted over 200 days. I joined the vigil and the protests and was privileged to witness xʷməθkwəy̓əm protect c̓əsnaʔəm and learned from xʷməθkwəy̓əm members about some of the history and significance of c̓əsnaʔəm. xʷməθkwəy̓əm helped me to learn what Christie Lee shares above; Vancouver sits atop lands and waters that were never ceded, that this territory contains many layers of xʷməθkwəy̓əm knowledge, and that xʷməθkwəy̓əm connections to land, water, history, and culture are continually under threat. My thinking about settler colonialism and the city emerges in part from what xʷməθkwəy̓əm has shared, but I want to be clear that while my theoretical intervention into this literature as well as my methodological framing for this work is informed by what I have learned as a white settler on stolen, occupied xʷməθkwəy̓əm territory that, unless otherwise specifically cited, xʷməθkwəy̓əm knowledge is not reproduced in this dissertation.  I am very grateful to Elders Larry Grant, Rose Point, and Delbert Guerin who I had the opportunity to hear from and talk with over the course of my time as a student at UBC. I also want to especially thank Kelsey Sparrow, Jordan Wilson, Christie Lee Charles, Audrey Siegl, Rhiannon Bennet, Cecilia Point, Terry Point, Morgan Guerin, and Tammy Harkey who have shared their knowledge with me in personal                                                                                                                                                              names since colonialism, including Great Fraser Midden, Eburne Midden, DhRs-1, and Marpole Midden — a name under which it would receive designation as a National Historic Site in 1933. Today, intersecting railway lines, roads, and bridges to Richmond and YVR Airport obscure the heart of xʷməθkwəy̓əm’s traditional territory, yet c̓əsnaʔəm’s importance to the xʷməθkwəy̓əm community remains undiminished “.     19 conversations, filmed interviews, xʷməθkwəy̓əm tours, and public events. I learned that much from what they have generously shared.   Often in stark contrast with what xʷməθkwəy̓əm chooses to share, much of the academic work on settler colonialism and the city tends to emphasize urban Indigeneity. Some of this work can pathologize urban Indigenous bodies, framing Indigenous Peoples as biopolitical objects, often defined by census data that paints a bleak picture of urban Indigenous life.  In Gendered Racial Violence and Spatialized Justice: The Murder of Pamela George, Sherene Razack writes about the trial of Steven Kummerfield and Alex Ternowetsky for the brutal murder of Pamela George, an Ojibwe woman living in Regina, Saskatchewan.  Razack (2000), speaking about the racialization of urban space, argues “white innocence and Aboriginal degeneracy remained firmly in place as the conceptual framework through which this incident of gendered racial violence could be understood” (p. 128).  Scholarly work on Indigenous Peoples in the city often replicates this conceptual framing, turning Indigenous Peoples into populations. As David Hugill (2017) notes in What is a Settler Colonial City, “few researchers have sought to explicitly urbanize the insights of settler‐colonial theory, and only a very small number of studies have gestured toward theorizing the settler colonial city on its own terms” (p. 2). More work needs to be done on thinking through the connections between settler colonialism, urbanization, Indigenous dispossession and resistance (Porter and Yiftachel, 2017; Hugill, 2017).  Importantly, as Yurok and Dine scholar Natalie Knight (2018) argues, “urban and dispossessed Indigenous people embody particular subjectivities that contemporary Indigenous theory has not sufficiently recognized, understood, or theorized” (p. iii). This gap––in theorizing the settler colonial city on its own terms while centering the subjectivities of urban Indigenous Peoples––is what this dissertation and in particular chapters 5, 6, and 7 attends to.      20  Work that moves beyond pathologizing Indigenous Peoples in the city largely fits into three broad approaches: exclusion and forgetting in reference to Indigeneity and the city14;  cities as sites of settler colonial capital accumulation15; and Indigenous feminist organizing and modes of belonging.16 As planning theorists Libby Porter and Oren Yiftachel argue, the exclusion and forgetting literature takes as its point of departure “racist imaginary deployed by colonizers of Indigenous peoples has worked to render the urban as a place not Indigenous” (Porter and Yiftachel, 2017, p. 2) and investigates how and why Indigenous histories are actively forgotten.  Barman (2007) and Mawani (2005) show how settler law is used to forcibly remove and exclude Indigenous Peoples from the city.17  Mawani’s work details how liquor laws were used “to evict native peoples from white areas and from land deemed valuable for future settlement” (Mawani, 2000, p. 176). Anishinaabe scholar Julie Tomiak (2017) emphasizes that this exclusion continues in the present, with the policing of “Indigenous place-making and self-determination particularly aggressively in relation to cities” (p. 928). Dene scholar Glen Coulthard (2014) expands on this analysis, arguing that the Lockean rationale of Terra Nullius scripts urban space as another “frontier” of dispossession, where Indigenous urban spaces become “urbs nullius - urban space void of Indigenous sovereign presence” (p. 176).  As Harris (2002), Porter (2017), and                                                  14. Porter and Yiftachel,2017; Baloy, 2016; Mawani, 2003; Thrush, 2014; Barman, 2005; Edmonds, 2010; Freeman, 2010; Blomley 2004; Pitawanakwat 2008; Sandercock 2004; Stanger-Ross 2008. 15. Blomley 2004; Coulthard 2014; Harris 2002, 2004; Porter and Barry 2016; Ugarte et. al, 3. 16. Armstrong, 1997; Maracle, 1975; Lawrence 2004; Anderson 2004; Campbell 1982; L.Simpson, 2011; Talaga, 2017; Suzack, 2011. 17. Barman and Mawani both talk about  how changes to the Indian Act, led by Prime Minister Laurier, legislated the forced the removal of reserves found in close proximity to urban areas “where a reserve is in the vicinity of a growing town, as is the case in several places, it becomes a source of nuisance and an impediment to progress” (House of Commons Debate, 9 April 1911, quoted in Barman 2007:5).     21 Sandercock (2004) signal, spatial technologies of settler power like surveying, mapping, naming, and urban planning are “sorts of legal and/or violent arrangements and appropriations” that facilitate urban dispossession (Sandercock, 2004, p. 118).  c̓əsnaʔəm is a reminder that these spatial technologies of power are constantly at work; settler colonial dispossession is ongoing.   Recent work on settler colonialism and the city also takes a political economy approach, emphasizing questions of property, capital and gentrification. (Blomley, 2004; Coulthard, 2014; C. Harris, 2002; Porter and Barry, 2015; Ugarte et. al, 2017). While this dissertation rarely engages with this literature, the stories and life experiences of Rosemary and her family sit alongside questions of displacement, dispossession, and urbanization in relation to primitive accumulation and settler colonialism. In Edge of Empire, Jane M. Jacobs (1996) shows how the redevelopment of the Old Swan Brewery in Perth, Australia is bound up in “global economic transformations ... [which] negotiated a very specific local politics deeply marked by the historical legacy of the colonial dispossession of indigenous peoples” (p. 104). What Rosemary and her Homalco and Sḵwx̱wú7mesh relatives reveal is that the relocation of Indigenous Peoples and communities from their traditional territories worked in concert with restrictions to fishing licenses and urbanization. In the case of Homalco, their forced relocation to Campbell River, onto a landlocked reservation, opened up their traditional lands and waters to the massive international fish farming industry. After a century of urbanization, the land that Tlahoholt was from is now uninhabited, crisscrossed by water mains, bus exchanges, and bridges. Chapters 6 and 7 show how this process of dispossession from traditional territories and subsequent movement into urban centers is iterative, demonstrating the interconnections between fish, urban growth, and dispossession.  Libby Porter and Oren Yiftachel (2017) identify that much of the work on settler colonialism and the city tends to “consider the city as a spatial container for     22 Indigenous bodies and lives, rather than focus on the interaction between Indigenous lives, colonial structures and urbanization processes” (p. 2). By telling the story of Rosemary and her family within the lands and waters of their traditional territories, this dissertation attempts to address this gap by emphasizing the imbrication of their lives with colonial policies and urbanization.    Indigenous feminists have always insisted that the city is more than a spatial container, for decades articulating the nuanced interconnections between urban Indigeneity, Indian status, resurgence, and dispossession. Yet their work rarely appears in the conversation about settler colonialism and the city.  Importantly, this dissertation positions itself alongside Indigenous feminist theorizing about urban Indigeneity, and in so doing intervenes in settler colonial understanding of urbanization and dispossession.  Tonawanda Band of Seneca scholar Mishuana Goeman argues that settler colonial studies must move beyond representing the Indigenous as absent and look at embodied practices; how bodies are “written on in both historical and geo-graphical ways” (Goeman, 2017, p. 102).  Syilx scholar Jeannette Armstrong theorizes through her embodied understandings of settler colonialism and the frontier: Land bonding is not possible in the kind of economy surrounding us, because land must be seen as real estate [sic] to be ‘used’ and parted with if necessary. I see the separation is accelerated by the concept that ‘wilderness’ needs to be tamed by ‘development’ and that this is used to justify displacement of peoples and unwanted species. I know what it feels like to be an endangered species on my land, to see the land dying with us. It is my body that is being torn, deforested and poisoned by ‘development (Armstrong, 1997, p. 16).   Armstrong’s embodied critique of private property, the frontier and Terra Nullius importantly draws a relationship between development, the displacement of peoples and the removal of unwanted species. Likewise, Sto:lo writer Lee Maracle tells the story of growing     23 up on the North Shore of Vancouver, theorizing through her own family’s life what is was like to be poor, urban, and Indigenous. Mom did both jobs, working night and day, trapping and pounding. But after a while this got to be too much for her and she had to stop. We kids were getting older and started helping out. Ed got a paper route and made about eight dollars a month when he was only eight. When Roger reached that age they started caddying at Capilano Golf course. (Maracle, 1975, p. 24)   Like Armstrong and Maracle, Mi'kmaw scholar Bonita Lawrence’s work centers the diverse and multi-generational experiences of being urban and Indigenous. Lawrence’s pathbreaking book Real Indians and Others asks critical questions about ‘mixed-blood’ urban Indigenous identity in relation to Indian status and band membership (Lawrence, 2004). The urban theorizing in Armstrong, Maracle, and Lawrence’s work resonates with the embodied intersectional experiences and theories about urbanization, animals, and livelihood shared by Rosemary and her family. Lawrence’s work is particularly important to this dissertation, as questions of status and whiteness loom large in the stories told about the Georgeson family as well as the material realities of the loss of their Coast Salish status. In a crucial intervention to conversations about Indigeneity, resurgence, and status, Lawrence (2004) argues for the political importance of “urban mixed-bloods and tribal people to meet, from different current locations but with an acknowledgment of historic connections and to find ways of working together across current differences, could represent another stage of rebuilding the shattered hoops of different nations, a powerful process of decolonization” (p. 15). In a conversation between Rosemary and her cousin Fay Blaney, Rosemary talks about reconnecting with her relatives as part of her decolonizing process:  Rosemary: I love what Renae called it, my decolonization process.     24 Fay: Yeah, reclaiming our grandmothers Rosemary: I think that’s exactly what we’re doing. Bringing their voices out, because through this whole process that was the one thing, I noticed that was stripped away, was the voices of our grandmothers.   Bonita Lawrence (2004) details how frequently the people that she interviewed referenced ancestral memory, “being the conduit through which the silenced voices of their families must now be heard” (p. 11). As discussed in the methodology section below, I mobilized the time and financial resources that Rosemary and I needed to do this work, to ultimately reconnect Rosemary with her ancestors and relatives. In this sense, this dissertation embodies a decolonial methodology that politically aligns itself with the urban resurgent practices and futurities so carefully articulated by Lee Maracle, Natalie Knight, and Bonita Lawrence.  As Kwagiulth scholar Sarah Hunt and Cindy Holmes articulate “Indigenous peoples’ resistance to colonialism . . ..unfold[s] in daily acts of embodying and living Indigeneity, honoring longstanding relationships with the land and with one another” (Hunt and Holmes, 2016, p. 157).    Chapter 5 “Archival Refusal” underscores the important orientations enabled by urban life; Rosemary’s connections with Vancouver’s Indigenous theater scene, her attendance at Elders gatherings, and her decades of work in the Downtown Eastside built relationships centered in daily acts of embodying Indigeneity and lead to everyday encounters between Rosemary and her relatives. As Mishuana Goeman elucidates, settler colonialism establishes scales based on difference, “Indigenous feminist praxis, “upsets” this by offering a “scale based on connection” that collapses “the settler scale that separates humans, lands, animals, and so on” (Yazzie and Baldy, 2017, p. 8). This reinforces Natalie Knight's point that “the city is a tremendously vibrant, human space that affords so much learning and sharing, so much     25 production of new ways of being. I don’t think that the city can be abandoned, physically or in our conceptions and practices of land relationships.” (N. Knight, 2018, p. 175). What Knight, Baldy, and Yazzie advocate is what this dissertation centers; Indigenous women’s connections to each other, to water, and to fish that very much challenge Indian Act definitions of status18 and demonstrate the endurance of relationships to each other, water, and fish despite dispossession from territory. Fish, Water, and Settler Colonial Urbanization The Lower Mainland and the Peninsula of Vancouver was actually not a peninsula, it was a series of islands, and at the time of colonization they began to cover up those areas, reclaim the land, make it into a solid peninsula, and cover up over 50 salmon bearing streams. (xʷməθkwəy̓əm Elder Larry Grant in c̓əsnaʔəm,: The City Before the City, Elle-Máijá Tailfeathers, 2017).  When you kill a stream, you kill a salmon run (xʷməθkwəy̓əm member Johnny Louis in c̓əsnaʔəm: The City Before the City).  In the following section, I give an overview of the existing literature on fish, canneries, and Indigenous women along the Salish Sea.  Renisa Mawani (2016) argues that settler colonial theorizing can sometimes trade in crude binaries, including “imposed divisions between settler and native, colony and settler colony, and land and sea” (p. 113).  Binaries between the frontier and the city, land and water, and Indigenous peoples and the urban have often been reinforced by                                                  18. For a discussion about status and the Indian Act please see Lawrence, B. (2004). “Real” Indians and others: Mixed‐blood urban Native peoples and Indigenous nationhood. Lincoln: University Nebraska Press. In the conclusion I also discuss the possible political implications that centering family stories has in relation to the modern treaty process and conflicts over ‘competing claims’.       26 academic writing. For example, there is no academic work that connects Indigenous women to fish and urbanization along the Salish Sea.    As I discuss in greater detail in chapters three and six, most of the academic work on water, fish, urbanization, and settler colonialism in British Columbia has neglected to center the experiences, lives, and knowledges of Indigenous women (D. Harris, 2008;  Lutz, 2008; C. Harris, 2002).19   Scholarly work about Indigenous women and fish is almost exclusively about Indigenous women’s work in canneries. Alicja Muszynski’s Cheap Wage Labour brings canneries and Indigenous women’s labor into conversation with political economy, narrating the proletarianization of Indigenous women’s cannery labour (Muszynski, 1996). Muszynski concludes her analysis by stating “First Nations labourers were neither docile nor subservient” (p. 102).  Muszynski’s argument has since been expanded by other scholars who have looked at the centrality of Indigenous people in BC’s salmon canning industry and the importance of this labour within the context of seasonal activities (R. Knight, 1996; Lutz, 2008; Butler and Menzies, 2008; Newell, 1993).20   In her close reading of the experiences of Indigenous women working at the Canadian Fishing Company’s OceanSide Plant in Tsimshian territory, Prince Rupert, Gitwinksihlkw, Nisga’a scholar Mary Jean Morgan centers the employment practices and labour market                                                  19. For work that centers Indigenous women in relation to fish, water, and law outside of British Columbia please see; Zoe Todd (2016) 'From fish lives to fish law: learning to see Indigenous legal orders in Canada' in Somatosphere. Also Todd, Zoe. (2016). "This Is the Life": Women's Harvesting, Fishing, and Food Security in Paulatuuq, Northwest Territories in Living on the Land: Indigenous Women’s Understanding of Place. University of British Columbia.  20. Mary Jean Morgan discusses how income from the cannery would be then put towards traditional activities like Potlatches (Morgan, 16). Menzies and Butler discuss how Chiefs would recruit people for cannery work and would decide which cannery they worked at (Menzies and Butler, 2008; Newell, 1993).     27 segmentation at the cannery, arguing that racialization and gender logics  continue to devalue Indigenous women’s work at the cannery and that cannery employment has become more precarious.21 Arguing that fisheries policies have “marginalized Indigenous women and constructed them as seasonal, poorly paid cannery workers. Neoliberal policies and discourses ignore these broader contexts and focus on individual responsibility, reinforcing systemic racial inequalities within the labour market.” (Morgan, 2015, p. 27).   Morgan concludes by emphasizing the importance of reading Indigenous women’s community-based work as a form of resistance to neoliberal ideologies that prioritize the individual over the collective (Morgan, 2015).  Morgan and Muszynski’s work is careful and empirically rich, portraying in great detail what cannery life was like for Indigenous women in the context of neoliberalism and settler colonialism.  Both authors mention Indigenous fishers, but their attention is within the walls of the cannery. As Renisa Mawani (2009) notes “historiographies of the fishing and canning industries have been sparse and skewed. Those scholars who have chronicled histories of salmon fishing and canning on the west coast have focused their attention largely on economic developments and labor problems” (p. 38).22 Heiltsuk and Kitasoo curator Pam Brown notes                                                  21. Much of the work on canneries has also emphasized how settler colonial notions of race were used not only to devalue labor but also to construct a segregated working and living environment.  See for example; Mawani, R. (2009). Colonial proximities: crossracial encounters and juridical truths in British Columbia, 1871-1921. Vancouver: UBC Press. Friday, C. (1994). Organizing Asian-American Labor. Temple University Press.  22.  Mawani instead focuses on canneries as sites where race is made and remade, narrating the intersection of race and wage labor within the site of the cannery. There is another, rich body of work that connects fish, water, and Indigenous legal traditions. For this, please see Bedard, R. Keepers of the Water: Nishnaabe-kwewag Speaking for the Water in Simpson, L. B. (Ed.). (2008). Lighting the eighth fire: the liberation, resurgence, and protection of indigenous nations. Winnipeg: Arbeiter Ring Pub. Bedard connects Nishnaabe women to water and Indigenous     28 there are vast differences between how Indigenous fishermen and non-Indigenous academics narrate the history of the B.C. Fishery (Brown, 1993). “Non-Natives have particular trouble understanding how fish can be so important to us. There are two fundamental reasons for this misunderstanding. One is the inability of non-Native people to understand how an entire culture could be based on fish” (Brown, 1993, p. 48). The film that makes up chapter 6, as well as the film We Have Stories: Women in Fish. speaks to the necessity, articulated by Pam Brown, of understanding the centrality of fish to Indigenous Peoples along the Salish Sea.  The significant contribution that this dissertation makes to this literature is in tracing the interrelationship between fish, Indigenous women, and urbanization, insisting on the importance of reading the dispossession from fish alongside understandings of urbanization and the dispossession of territory. The connection to fish and water has been entirely neglected by work that looks at settler colonialism and the city. Crucially, it is a relationship that Indigenous Peoples have long articulated.   1.4.3 Into the Archive Colonial Archives and the Archival Turn The following section reviews some of the ways western theorists have defined archives, discusses the archival turn, and recent work on settler archives. Michel Foucault (1972) argues that the archive is a system of statements that differentiates between what can and cannot be said. Archives constitute “the system that governs the appearance of statements as unique events...  it defines at the outset the system of its enunciability” (Foucault, 1972, p. 145-146).  In Archive                                                                                                                                                              resistance and resurgence. Metallic and Claxton’s chapters from the same collection are also helpful as they speak to Indigenous understandings of treaties and governance in the context of water, fishing, and salmon.      29 Fever (1996) Derrida builds on Foucault and looks at the connection between law, power, and the archive, arguing “a science of the archive must include the theory of this institutionalization, that is to say, at once of the law which begins by inscribing itself there and of the right which authorizes it” (p. 9-10). Foucault and Derrida remind us of the power and pull of archives; their relationship with law, their ability to silence.   With Silencing the Past (1995), Michel-Rolph Trouillot, following Foucault, ushered in a new way of thinking about archival power and the silence of the archive. Trouillot situated the archive as actively produced, a process laden with the power to “prepare facts for historical intelligibility... they convey authority and set the rules for credibility and interdependence; they help select the stories that matter” (p. 52). Like Trouillot, Ann Stoler (2009) reads the fixity and stability that coheres around colonial narratives as a form of violence. In Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (2009), Stoler works with archives from the nineteenth-century Dutch West Indies to reveal the ontologies, anxieties, and practices of colonial bureaucrats, questioning what they knew and what happened when what they thought they knew was challenged. Stoler (2002) conceives archives as “epistemological experiments rather than as sources...intricate technologies of rule in themselves” (p. 87).23   Most work from the archival turn has focused on imperial rather than settler archives. This dissertation addresses what happens when the archival turn is placed within the context of settler colonialism.                                                     23. Stoler and Trouillot’s reading of the archive as a site of power, as actively produced gave rise to a large body of work that took the archive itself as subject of inquiry (Cram, 2016, 110).     30 Settler Archives In Along the Archival Grain (2009) Stoler’s empirical texts are two commissions of inquiry on European pauperism as social reform. Stoler finds that enumeration in the commissions ultimately justified imperial intervention into the lives of Indonesians. For Stoler, these colonial state projects are intimately concerned with distinguishing between bodies “affect was appropriately distributed, desire managed, and colonizer and colonized differentiated from one another” (Stoler, 2009, p. 25). Stoler attends to what is “not written”, distinguishing between “what was “unwritten” because it could go without saying and “everyone knew it,” what was unwritten because it could not yet be articulated, and what was unwritten because it could not be said” (Stoler, 2009, p. 3).  Stoler (2001) discusses the connections and divergences in approaches to Imperial and North Amercian historiography and theory in Tense and Tender Ties: The Politics of Comparison in North American History and (Post) Colonial Studies. Yet this chapter, published 7 years after Wolfe’s, fails to consider the structural differences in the comparative analysis between colony and settler colony. This is the gap to which this dissertation attends. My research shows that while settler archives are also marked by what is not written and are filled with uncertainties, they are not about differentiating and monitoring bodies, maintaining codes of conduct, or establishing the relationship between metropole and colony but about occlusion as a mode of settler governance. This dissertation brings the archival turn into conversation with writing on settler archives and memory. I do this to ask; how might settler archives and the stories they mobilize operate through different logics than colonial archives? How does archival recovery articulate     31 in settler colonialism?24  To help answer these questions, I turn to work  at the intersection of settler archives, law, and memory, aligning myself with a project of archival thinking that is both, as Kirstin Weld “a method of historical analysis, and...a frame for political analysis” (Weld, 2014, p. 13).  Ultimately, my reading of the settler archive leads me to a methodology that works with archival and ethnographic refusal.  Stoler’s recent publications set forth questions related to archival submersion and occlusion, asking about “their differential effects; and on whom they most palpably act.” (Stoler, 2016, p.4).25 Stoler (2016) theorizes “duress” as three ways of thinking about how colonial histories press into the present “the hardened, tenacious qualities of colonial effects; their extended protracted temporalities; and, not least, their durable, if sometimes intangible constraints and confinements” (p. 7). Occlusion and constraint are technologies of settler colonial rule. Scholars working at the intersection of the archival turn and critical Indigenous studies, including Métis / Otipemisiw scholar Zoe Todd and Gwich'in scholar Crystal Fraser state “it is essential that we continue to recognize archival spaces, especially state archives, for their original intent: to create national narratives that seek to legitimize the nation state by excluding                                                  24. With a few exceptions, work about settler archives and Indigenous Peoples has assumed that they function along similar logics to colonial archives; that “settler colonial administrations amassed an enormous archive of documentation relating to the regulation of Aboriginal people. Bureaucratic record keeping is a technology of control and settler colonial nations produce administrative records for national purposes in the affirmation of sovereignty.” (Luker, 2017, 112).  Adams-Campbell, Falzetti and Rivard (2015) argue that settler archives work through incorporation. I understand incorporation (after Tully, 2008) as an axis whereby Indigeneity is made to disappear within settler colonialism. In my dissertation I attend to these logics of absence in settler archives and their relationship with settler memory.  25. I am referencing Stoler’s work at the Palestinian Archive at the Ibrahim Abu-Lughod Institute of International Studies (IALIIS)   as well as Duress, Imperial Durabilities in Our Times (2016)  and “On Archiving Dissensus”(2018).      32 Indigenous voices, bodies, economies, histories, and socio-political structures” (Fraser and Todd, 2016).26 Phanuel Antwi (2011) describes the archive as “the vertiginous skin of the nation” yet this skin, in settler colonialism, follows logics of elimination, a point increasingly made by a number of scholars and to which this dissertation attends (p. 17).    In the introduction to their special issue in Settler Colonial Studies, Adams-Campbell et. al (2015) argue that while settler archives are similar to imperial archives in the ways they report on populations and land, they also “do a special type of work to maintain the story of the nation-state” (p. 110). The authors go on to argue that in settler archives dispossession is “subsumed within the story of the state. Because the story of Native peoples’ violent separation from their lands is not the righteous one that settler states desire, this story is obscured through collecting practices that prioritize settler history and belonging.” (p. 110). Trish Luker talks about settler archives as ‘betrayals’, looking at how the lack of evidence in the Australian archive resulted in a denial of legal claims for compensation of members of the Stolen Generations (Luker, 2017, p. 108). In “Nikîkîwân Contesting Settler Colonial Archives through Indigenous Oral History” Dallas Hunt (2016) affirms that in settler archives “Indigenous peoples are often either absent, depicted as ciphers of the real individuals they are meant to represent, or presented as always already disappearing from the landscape” (p. 26). Settler archives are differentiated from colonial archives in how Indigeneity is made to disappear, and the material impacts that this                                                  26. Perhaps the most often cited example of this in Canada comes from the work about the Delgamuukw v. British Columbia decision. See for example Adele Perry, 2005. "The Colonial Archive on Trial: Possession, Dispossession, and History in Delgamuukw v. British Columbia", Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions, and the Writing of History, Antoinette Burton, 2005. Duke.       33 disappearance has for Indigenous Peoples in the present. It is precisely this absence and its impacts to which this dissertation attends.   With the exception of the authors mentioned above, much of the work on settler archives hinges on questions of archival recovery (Helton et. al, 2015; Hartman, 2008) reading along the grain (Silva, 2004; Stoler, 2009), or whether (and how) they can be decolonized (de Leew, 2012; Luker, 2017; Fraser and Todd 2016, Smallacombe, 1998).27 Griffith (2018) argues that important work in critical Indigenous studies has successfully relied on Canadian state archives to expose “post-war food experiments on malnourished Indigenous children, including in boarding schools...James Daschuk’s work, which uncovered state-sponsored starvation on the prairies in the late nineteenth century” (p. 16).  Similarly, in Aloha Betrayed: Native Hawaiian Resistance to American Colonialism, Kanaka Maoli scholar Noenoe Silva (2004) traces how ‘reading against the grain’ reveals resistance to colonization and cultural preservation strategies missed by the colonizers view of history. Using a large archive mainly written in Hawaiian, Silva looks to petitions, print media, poetry and performance art as sites of both resistance and cultural preservation. With a particular attention to the role that women played in resistance to colonization, Silva demonstrates how reading against the grain can work to heal, allowing Hawaiians to begin to recover from the wounds of disjuncture caused by hearing resistance stories within their families but learning in school that there was no resistance. 28                                                      27. de Leeuw (2012) argues for the importance of white historians reading along the grain to recover and affectively identify with white settlers like Alice Rivell. 28. The question of decolonizing archives is often discussed vis a vis reconciliation This is especially the case in the context of the Canada’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission or Australia’s National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from their Families (Luker, 2017; Smallacobe, 1998). Discussions of archival access and working with Indigenous communities to change the organization and nomenclature used in     34  Renisa Mawani (2018) states that the archives of legal history are caught up in a similar conversation about recovery and decolonization “despite growing critiques of archives as partial, incomplete, and uneven sites of power/ knowledge, ‘the archive’ continues to operate as a site of retrieval and recuperation in legal history” (p. 1). Drawing on two decades of work from scholars of the black Atlantic, Mawani points to the important questions raised by scholars attending to the gaps and omissions as well as ethical and methodological quandaries of the archives of the middle passage (p. 2). In their introduction to “The Question of Recovery,” Helton et al. (2015) talk about the importance of the archival turn for scholars of the black Atlantic. “Acknowledging that the archival form itself often precludes recovery, some scholars have transformed archival lack into a methodological tool, which exposes the transformation of human beings into property that set black subjects outside the realm of history” (p. 22). While settler archives relating to Indigeneity work through different settler colonial racial logics than the archives of transatlantic slavery, what is perhaps held in common is the tension between archival recovery and refusal (Helton et. al, 2015). In Chapters 2, 4, and 5, I draw on scholarship from critical Indigenous studies and scholars of the Black Atlantic to think about archives in relation to recovery and refusal, specifically situating refusal in relation to Indigenous resistance, resurgence and the everyday as archive.  My dissertation is also concerned with the relationship between settler archives and settler memory. It asks how the past is remembered and recreated through historical research in settler archives (Schwartz and Cook, 2002).  I look at how local historians and scholars have drawn on settler archives, often replicating archival silences.  In Firsting and Lasting (2010),                                                                                                                                                              archives are becoming more prevalent, but as I explore in Chapter 5 “Archival Refusal”, these questions about archival access largely fall outside of the scope of this dissertation.      35 Anishinaabe (White Earth) scholar Jean O’Brien looks at how local histories written by nineteenth-century New Englanders are tethered to national narratives of the “vanishing Indian” (p. xiii). O’Brien argues that obscure, forgotten, local histories continue to perform important ideological roles in shaping how settlers think about Indigeneity. Jodi Byrd (2014) is even clearer than O’Brien on the ideological role that these stories play “the central first- person narrator in the story of America depends upon vanishing the Indian as part of its denouement.” (p. 55). Michel-Rolph Trouillot (1995) posits that to understand the production of history we have to look beyond professional historians to “artisans of different kinds, unpaid or unrecognized field laborers who augment, deflect, or reorganize the works of professionals” (p. 25). In tracking back and forth between settler archives, settler histories, academic scholarship, and embodied felt theory, I bring the question of archival affect and recovery to the fore, and in so doing, tie the archive to land and water in ways that push against archival silence.   Following O’Brien, Byrd, and Trouillot, in Chapter 2 and 4 I seek to understand how local histories – and the ways they narrate the history of Rosemary's family – map onto claims to land. To do this, I draw on work about stories and orientations. Emilie Cameron emphasizes that stories carry tremendous weight; “they are themselves material, and they have material effects on the lives we live” (E. Cameron, 2015, p. 24). The first four chapters of this dissertation look at the weight of different stories told about Indigenous women, asking questions about the workings of archives and public memory within settler colonialism. Here, I draw on scholarships about settler memory29 (Bruyneel, 2016) or settler common sense30 (Rifkin, 2014) which asks                                                  29. “Settler memory refers to the mnemonics – that is, the functions, practices, and products of memory – of colonialist dispossession and settlement that shape settler subjectivity and governmentality in liberal colonial contexts such as the USA” (Bruyneel, 2016, 351).     36 questions about the structures and practices that reinforce settler colonial logics; namely the claiming of land and the erasure of Indigenous women from it.  Coll Thrush posits that “settler and colonial societies have been transformed by this mix of remembering and forgetting, whether in terms of new national identities, a precarious territoriality, deep moral uncertainties, or practices as seemingly banal as ghost stories and “Indian” mascots” (Thrush, 2014, p. 608). Following Byrd, I read colonial agnosia as a form of governmentality “dynamically structured through an interplay of disavowals, forgettings, and other misrememberings that help redirect attention away from the historical consequences of dispossession, genocide, and slavery” (Byrd, 2016, November 10). Indigenous bodies are narrated as out of place, explains Goeman, as part of the settler colonial structure that relies on forgetting past violences to stabilize present claims to land, where Indigenous women’s bodies “are a locus of gendered colonial meanings and a site of contest” because they are “markers against territorial appropriation, Indigenous futurities and contestations of colonial politics” (Goeman, 2017, p. 108).   This dissertation puts this work on settler archives, stories, and memory in conversation with Sarah Ahmed’s Queer Phenomenology, thinking through how settler archives are homing devices “homes are effects of the histories of arrival” (Ahmed, 2006, p. 9). Following Ahmed, I think about how archival records become objects that are close at hand; they orient settlers to everyday modes of settlement, or, how “story-writing becomes history-writing” (Minh-ha, 1989, p. 120). In The Ethics of Criticism, Phanuel Antwi (2017) situates the practices of writing Black Canadian archives as “one that asks us to extend writing as a practice done on and to bodies just                                                                                                                                                              30. “The ways the legal and political structures that enable nonnative access to Indigenous territories come to be lived as given, as simply the unmarked, generic conditions of possibility for occupancy, association, history, and personhood” (Rifkin, xvi).     37 as much as a practice done with and in text? (p. 4). Writing the archive cannot be separated from the writing of and on bodies, into or out of archival existence. Indigenous Relational Geographies, Restorying, and Felt Theory “All I could think of was that she was the sum total of ledger books and laws. Some of her ancestors walked out of death, out of a massacre. Some of them came from the long trail of the dying, people sent from their world, “I can smell it” Old Man said. “I can see them. She is the house, the meeting place” (Hogan, 1995, p. 101).    In my dissertation I draw on the work of Indigenous scholars to trace the contours of Indigenous archives, intertwining relational geographies, stories, and felt theory. Sarah Hunt asserts “there is a danger in ghettoizing Indigenous geographic knowledge as ‘other’ or a curiosity, rather than engaging this knowledge in broader efforts to actively decolonize geography”  (S. Hunt, 2014, p. 31), I place Indigenous theory in conversation with what Rosemary and I experienced, what Rosemary and her relatives chose to share with me, and the methodological approach taken in this dissertation.  As discussed in the introduction to this first section on theory, Indigenous scholars have been working within and outside of the western academy to diagnose, critique, and resist the logics of settler colonialism for a very long time.31 Importantly, much of this work critically uses Western theory as a tool for analyzing settler colonialism, but puts this theory to work with Indigenous epistemologies and ontologies.  This dissertation began with Rosemary asking questions about who her great grandmothers were and where they came from. In this sense,                                                  31. See Winnemucca, 1883; Zitkala-Ša, 1921; Maracle, 1975; Armstrong, 1985; Campbell, 1982; Hogan, 1994. Recently, disorientatedness as an affective and material consequence of living under settler colonialism has been central to Indigenous theory building from a wide array of disciplines and approaches. (Coulthard; 2014; A. Simpson, 2014; Belcourt, 2017; L, Simpson, 2017).     38 disorientation was the starting point for our work. Cree Nation / Driftpile scholar Billy Ray Belcourt discusses disorientatedness by drawing on Butler and Ahmed, “phenomenology is suited for the study of reserve life, as it, according to Ahmed “allows us to theorize how a reality is given by becoming background, as that which is taken for granted....phenomenology might provide a thicker account of what it is to be in a body that does not feel like it belongs to you, a feeling that I would wager is also the feeling of Indigeneity” (Belcourt, 2018, p. 5). Similarly, in “Hoquotist, Reorienting Through Storied Practice” Toquaht Nation (Nuu-chah-nulth) scholar Johnny Mack, in conversation with Wickanninish about the Ahousat treaty process draws on the term Hoquotist as a Nuu-chah-nulth metaphor to describe this disorientatedness “[Hoquotist] refers to a person whose canoes is overturned. It apparently describes the disconnection that currently exists between the Nuu-chah-nulth people and their stories” (Mack, 2011, p. 295). To be disorientated in settler colonialism is to have survived it.   The details of the disorientation that in many ways required the work of this dissertation (how it occurred, and its impact) have been left out because it is Rosemary’s story to tell. What I show in the first half of the dissertation is how settler colonial logics have impacted and constrained ongoing relationships formed between Rosemary and her family with their traditional territories, water and fish. The second half of this dissertation cuts against the impulse of settler colonial studies to mobilize totalizing, traumatic narratives (Million, 2013) by centering the relational geographies and critical stories that have persisted through five generations of women in Rosemary’s family.32  These chapters are part of an ongoing conversation within                                                  32.  See Barker, 2011; Deer, 2015; Denetdale, 2006; Million 2013; TallBear 2017 for Indigenous feminist discussions about how therapeutic logics in relationship to Indigenous Peoples can reproduce liberalism, settler colonialism and heteropatriarchy.      39 critical Indigenous studies about the effects and reverberations of settler colonialism that cuts across multiple scales and timeframes and where the body, place and relationality are key ontological nodes, organizing Indigenous intellectual thought and resurgent practices (see for example Goeman, 2017; S. Hunt, 2014; L. Simpson, 2017).   “In some instances, Indigenous communities have lost memory of some aspects of their knowledge systems and land-based practices. Yet, by tracing the everyday lived practices of reclaiming these lifeways, we better understand the relational geographies that are cultivated by renewing Indigenous notions of self-determination versus spatio-legal identities and rights recognized by the state. For this reason, I prioritize relational geographies constituted through Indigenous kinship networks, including relationships with our kin the land.” (Daigle, 2016, p. 261).  Mushkegowuk (Swampy Cree - Constance Lake) scholar Michelle Daigle (2016) describes the importance of everyday resurgent practices that are based on renewing Indigenous, self-determining relational geographies – connections with kin and land- that are held apart from the politics of recognition so bound within settler state logics.33 Indigenous knowledge is situated, place based, and relational, requiring new modes of theorizing (S. Hunt, 2014).   Restorying is one response to the damage centered narratives so prevalent in the academy (Bishop, 1999; Archibald, 2008). Madeleine Whetung (Curve Lake, Nishinaabeg) asks “what if our Indigenous geographies were traced across the formations of what we have built in place, and lived in place, instead of what has been removed by our colonizers? Perhaps then, our places, our regions, our stories, our geographies would be defined on our own terms. (Whetung, 2016, p. 10).  Just as Sarah Hunt asks for the legitimization of new modes of theorizing, Dallas                                                  33. For an analysis of the politics of recognition see Coulthard, G. S. (2014). Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial Politics of Recognition. University of Minnesota Press.        40 Hunt wonders if a new vocabulary is also necessary, one “that can properly attend to lived Indigenous histories of resistance under colonization?” (D. Hunt, 2016, p. 36). Moving away from the imperial story, turning inward, argues Johnny Mack, “engaging in practices that ground ourselves in our own stories” is an important methodological and theoretical position vis a vis the settler archive and the narratives that spring from it (Mack, 2011, p. 293).  Jodi Byrd (2014), in discussing LeAnne Howe’s concept of tribalography, talks about “the power of Indigenous stories to create, to mnemonically connect past, present, and future, and to affectively and intuitively read through and beyond the colonial rumors that have been layered onto Indigenous lands” (p. 62). Byrd suggests that practices of critical reading are ways of resisting colonial narratives of erasure and work to restory the present. Stories that call attention to place and specific histories are an important cognitive (re)mapping that “threatens the worlding of colonial and imperial dominance” (Goeman (2017), in reference to Silko’s Almanac of the Dead, p. 159). Yet, as Johnny Mack attends to in “Hoquotist”, while “our stories are still with us, they are not in working order… we have become disconnected from the perceptual orientation and responsibilities that flowed from these stories” (Mack, 2011, p. 295).  This dissertation critically reads archives in order to resist their colonial narratives but also, in bringing Rosemary and her family together to share stories, has helped to reawaken these stories in a way that connects past, present and future. The stories shared represent critical Indigenous relational geographies and ontologies.   The importance and urgency of restorying relations in the context of archival absence has been met by Indigenous scholars from a variety of disciplines who are interested in connections between the body, memory, felt theory, and Indigenous archives.  Dory Nason analyzes Paul Buffalo’s story about her great grandmother Margaret, arguing      41 As an Indigenous feminist, this story resonates for me in a number of ways.  First, it is a story that demonstrates the importance of listening to your ancestors in whatever forms they choose to speak to you.  It is also a story about the importance of finding personal safety from intimate violence, even if it means leaving the only home you’ve known.  Most importantly, this story is about an Indigenous women’s love for her children, and significantly, the other women, alive and passed on, who love and help her during a time of great personal crises (Nason, forthcoming manuscript).    Reading the story about her great grandmother Margaret, Nason restories Indigenous women’s love, resistance, and connections to water. Nason’s talk reinforces the concept that Indigenous histories are felt and remembered through the body as well as thought (Million, 2009; Goeman, 2017). Dian Million describes felt theory and felt analysis as not just something experienced by individuals but by communities as well. “Felt analyses help individuals to theorize their own experiences, but they are also produced in conversation with our larger collective cultural contexts” (Million, 2009, p. 61). This is similar to what Mishuana Goeman recalls, in performance studies is called ‘living memory’, is something passed down “through the transmission of gestures, habits, and skills. I argue that it is also passed down through the continued onslaught of colonizing land and reconstituting of Native bodies” (Goeman, 2017, p. 114). As Goeman points out, and as discussed further below, living memory has long been articulated in Indigenous feminist writing.   Dory Nason asks what makes Indigenous feminisms different from other feminisms “it is that obligation to the deep cultural, political, and historical knowledge that Indigenous women have that is at the core of my answer” (Nason, 2016, March). Like Dory Nason, Bilagáana/Diné scholar Melanie Yazzie and Hupa, Yurok and Karuk scholar Cutcha Risling Baldy describe Indigenous feminisms as “part of radical relationality that collapses the perceived distance between scales of space that colonial knowledge fabricates” (Yazzie and Baldy, 2016, p. 101).      42 Indigenous feminist thought as radical relational knowledge collapses colonial binaries and scalar divisions, and as grounded knowledge, as I discuss below, is both a way of theorizing and a methodology.  1.5 Methodologies In the following section I situate myself in relation to my ancestors, settler colonialism, and archives. I do this by drawing on my family’s Dutch ancestry, our connection to the Two Row Wampum treaty, and my experience participating in a paddle to commemorate the 400-year anniversary of the Treaty. I then discuss how scholarship on decolonizing methodologies, relational accountability, and refusal guide the methodological approach of this dissertation.   1.5.1 Positionality and the Two Row Wampum  The ancestors of our society, even if not our biological ancestors, made treaties that we are responsible for honoring, and they committed depredations — including the refusal to negotiate treaties — that we are responsible for rectifying (Raibmon, 2008, p. 78).  The paternal side of my family left Holland in 1651. Caspar Jacobse Hallenbeeck travelled across the Atlantic Ocean to Haudenausaunee territory and sailed up the Mahicantuck (Hudson River), a huge estuary that stretches from what is now New York City north through most of New York State.  During the 1600s the Mahicantuck was a major thoroughfare for Indigenous Nations and colonial ships, and Beverwyck (now Albany, NY), the village that my ancestors helped to settle, was strategically located just below the confluence of the Mohawk and Mahicantuck rivers. When my ancestors arrived in Haudenosaunee territory in 1651, they were on treatied territory.  The Teioháte / Two Row Wampum Treaty, the first treaty between     43 Indigenous peoples (the Haudenosaunee) and non-Indigenous people (the Dutch) had been made 40 years before their arrival.34    The first Two Row Wampum treaty was between the Haudenosaunee and the Dutch and became the basis for treaties with the French, British, and the USA (Hill, 2008).  The Two Row Wampum belt is woven with purple and white quahog shells, which Susan Hill describes as depicting two boats on a river (2008, 30). The purple rows represent the paths that the boats make as they travel down the river. One boat is the European ship, the other the Haudenosaunee canoe. Although the boats travel next to each other, their paths do not cross. This symbolizes respect for autonomy and noninterference. The white background represents the river of life and a relationship that is based on peace, respect, and friendship (Turner, 2006). The fringe on the belt indicates that the relationship is unending. “This metaphor explains how the two nations would agree to exist, living side by side, but never interfere in each other’s government or way of life. So water is both the ‘river of life’ and importantly, the medium or backdrop of the Kaswentha” (King, 2006, 480). (Hallenbeck, 2015, 351).   2013 marked the 400-year anniversary of the Two Row Wampum Treaty. The Onondaga Nation and the Friends of the Onondaga Nation co-organized the Two Row Wampum Renewal Campaign which consisted of a series of public events set around a two-week paddle on the Mahicantuck / Hudson River.  I chose to participate in the paddle to better understand the Treaty and my relationship to it. I also invited my parents and paternal grandmother to join me on part of the paddle. My time spent with the Mahicantuck, the Onondaga Nation, confederacy members, Indigenous allies, non-Indigenous paddlers, and family members taught me profound lessons about my own family’s connections to the Two Row Wampum, water, archives, and settler colonialism.                                                    34. The Two Row Wampum is called “Teioháte (“Two Paths” in Mohawk language), Kaswenta (“Wampum Belt”), or Tekani teyothata’tye kaswenta (in Cayuga language)” (Hill and Coleman, 5).      44 Today, the Mahicantuck is one of the most polluted rivers in the United States.35  From 1947 to 1977, General Electric dumped approximately 1.3 million pounds of PCB’s into the river, contaminating 197 miles of the river (NRDC n.d).  Until 1986, 150 million gallons of raw sewage were discharged every day into the Hudson. In heavy rainstorms raw sewage still overflows into the river. Most parts of the river are not safe to swim in because bacteria levels are too high. It is recommended that pregnant women and children not consume any fish, and contaminants are still so concentrated that they affect the reproductive cycles of local species. Paddling along the muddy and murky river, its banks are littered with the remains of old industry, including brick foundries, tanneries, paper mills, and ice houses that were used to ship Salmon from Alaska to New York City. Today, the rail lines that follow the bends of the river carry crude oil, garbage, and other hazardous materials. A nuclear power plant (with the ironic and colonial name of Indian Point) sits on its shores, in operation. We camp on many former landfills and are warned against walking with our bare feet in the shallow water. In our canoes, we pass areas that are being cleared for pipelines. One calm and beautiful sunny day, we paddle past WestPoint, the US military academy. The legacies of dispossession, slavery, resource extraction, and militarization are physically written into the landscape of the river and are stark reminders of their expansion (Hallenbeck, 2015, p. 354).    It was while paddling down the Mahicantuck that I first realized how privileged I was to have access to so much colonial archival information about my ancestors. The Dutch were diligent record keepers and my grandparents are genealogists. I have access, on little cards carefully written and organized by my late grandfather, to all of the Dutch and American birth, death, census records of my ancestors dating back to before their arrival in 1651.                                                  35. Henry Hudson first sailed up the river in 1606 and soon after the Dutch West India Company erected a massive slave port where the Hudson River meets the East River.       45 Photo 1: Index card for Caspar Jacobse Hallenbeck, written by Lewis Hallenbeck36  It is because of this Dutch colonial archive, housed jointly in American archival institutions and the Dutch archives, that I am able to trace my ancestral connections to Beverwyck, the Mahicantuck, and the Two Row Wampum Treaty.37  While paddling down the river, Indigenous paddlers would ask me why I had joined them. I would reply that it was because of my family’s connection to the Treaty. Often people would respond by saying that they wished they could trace their families back that far. This response challenged me to think about white privilege in relation to colonial archives.   After the Two Row Wampum campaign I returned to my grandparents’ index cards and began searching for more information about my ancestors. I easily found my first ancestor on Haudenosaunee territory: Caspar Jacobse Hallenbeeck’s name appears in dozens of books written about early white settlers. Reading through these early histories, my attention was drawn                                                  36 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archives 37. For more on my relationship to the Treaty and Participation in the paddle please see Hallenbeck, Jessica. "Returning to the Water to Enact a Treaty Relationship: The Two Row Wampum Renewal Campaign." Settler Colonial Studies, vol. 5, no. 4, 2015, pp. 350-362      46 to what had been omitted from the index cards.  I learned that Caspar Janse Hallenbeeck was accused of the murder of his servant but was pardoned by the Dutch court in Albany. I was also struck by the fact that my paternal grandmother currently lives at Beverywyck, a senior care facility located close to where our ancestors settled 400 years before. While 400 years have passed, our family holds onto our early settler legacy but forgets the Two Row Wampum treaty.  Jodi Byrd (2016) puts forward the concept of colonial agnosia; those who are most complicit with ongoing dispossession and occupation pervasively fail to comprehend its existence. Manu Vimalassery argues “at stake in colonial agnosia is the profound investment in maintaining the failure to comprehend the realities of colonialism by those people who might most benefit from these conditions. Colonial agnosia refuses relationality” (Vimalassery, 2016, p. 2).  When white settlers like myself and my family forget the Two Row Wampum Treaty. we are engaging in a form of colonial agnosia that refuses the relationship described in the treaty. Recognizing this fact does not materially restructure the relationship between my family, the Two Row Wampum, the Onondaga Nation, the Haudenosaunee Confederacy and our occupation of their land. Rather, it simply situates my complicity. Sarah Ahmed reminds us that “complicity can be a starting point; if we start with complicity, we recognize our proximity to the problems we are addressing” (Ahmed, 2012, p. 6).38  I therefore undertake this work with Rosemary from a position of complicity, understanding some of the dispossessing work of my ancestors, and the relationships to water and to Indigenous territory that my ancestors agreed to honour and protect.                                                   38. For more on the limits of complicity and self-reflexivity see A. Kobayashi, GPC ten years on: is self-reflexivity enough? Gender, Place and Culture 10 (2003) S. Srivastava, ‘You’re calling me a racist?’ The moral and emotional regulation of antiracism and feminism, Signs: Journal of Women and Culture 31 (2005); S. Srivastava, Tears, fears and careers: anti-racism, emotion and social movement organizations, Canadian Journal of Sociology 31 (2006). A. Blunt, G. Rose (Eds), Writing Women and Space: Colonial and Postcolonial Geographies, New York, 1994.      47  Spending time with the river and sharing that experience with my grandmother and parents, listening to Haudenosaunee knowledge keepers, witnessing protocols and songs, feeling the rhythm of each day on the water, I began to understand my family’s responsibilities to the Two Row Wampum Treaty and relationship with the river. Importantly, the Two Row Wampum Treaty looms large in critical Indigenous studies, settler colonial studies, and Indigenous methodologies (Hansen, 1994; McGregor, 2002; Kimmerer, 2015; Hallenbeck, 2015; Edmonds, 2016; Hill and Coleman 2018; Stevenson, 2018; Jacobs, 2019). My experience on the river as well as scholarly work about the Treaty has helped me to approach the Two Row Wampum as “a guide for cross-cultural, cross-epistemological research relationships” (Hill and Coleman, 2018, p. 2). In the article I have written about the paddle I talk about how the rhythm of the paddling, and the changing texture and density of the water became intertwined in my body with teachings that were being shared with us by the Onondaga Nation. To paddle everyday with the feeling of the rhythm of the water and carrying these teachings while moving in two rows was a profound reorientation to thinking about embodied knowledge in relation to research and understanding.    It is in this space of understanding the treaty as a guide for our relationship that I negotiate this research with Rosemary.  Plains Cree and Saulteaux scholar Margaret Kovach writes “because qualitative research is interpretive, the stories of both the researcher and the research participants are reflected in the meanings being made” (Kovach, 2009, p. 26). The following sections on decolonizing methodologies, refusal, and relational accountability consider     48 how the stories carried by myself and Rosemary shaped the way we did this work, the methodological questions asked, and challenges along the way.39   1.5.2 Decolonizing Methodologies Western research has a long, interconnected history with racial capitalism and settler colonialism (Smith, 1999; Kovach, 2009). Western research from the Terra Nullius phase (see Martin and Mirraboopa, 2003) to the present has played a central role in the settler colonial project of land dispossession and Indigenous elimination (S. Wilson, 2008).  One only has to look towards recent work on the horrific legacy of experiments in residential schools to understand Western research as embedded in genocidal settler colonial logics (Mosby, 2013; Fraser, 2015). In the seminal book Decolonizing Methodologies (1999) Ngati Awa dn Ngati Porou scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith describes the word ‘research’ as “probably one of the dirtiest words in the indigenous worlds vocabulary” (T Smith, 1999, p. 1). Unangax scholar Eve Tuck and K.                                                  39. In 2013 I also participated in “The Arrivals Personal Legacy Process” created by Diane Roberts. I spent two weeks preparing for the workshop by researching my maternal great grandmother Sadie. I went through records from Ellis Island, posted to online forums, and spoke to many people in my family. Through this process of researching, I discovered many things about Sadie Rabinowitz, including that her real name was Szeren Lovinger. While I expected to learn a lot about Sadie, it was during the weeklong workshop that I discovered that I was learning a lot from Sadie about myself.  The Arrivals work began to transform the way that I saw my research and I started to dig deeper into my own family’s history, to begin learning about my connection with and my proximity to the problems I am addressing. Trinh T. Minh-Ha talks about how the body never stops accumulating. She says, “My story, no doubt, is me, but it is also, no doubt, older than me. Younger than me, older than the humanized” (Minh-Ha, 123).  I know that for Diane, the Arrivals work is about seeing these connections, about a reorientation towards looking back so that I, we, can move forward. Implied in this is not only knowing the history of my family but also taking the responsibility to educate myself about the history of colonization. This is about embodying a critical examination of the history of settler society (Maracle, 1988, 118).  This personal process also raises important questions about praxis, about forming relationships and maintaining those relationships.     49 Wayne Yang equate inquiry with invasion, an “imperative to produce settler colonial knowledge and to produce it for the academy.” (Tuck and Yang, 2014, 813). For Smith, Western science has been involved in what, Albert Memmi, has termed “a series of negations” (T. Smith, 1999, p. 29). The “complete disorder” wreaked by colonization, Smith asserts “was a process of systemic fragmentation which can be seen in the disciplinary carving up of the Indigenous world: bones, mummies and skulls to museums, artwork to private collectors, languages to linguistics, ‘customs’ to anthropologists…. For Indigenous peoples fragmentation has been the consequence of imperialism” (T. Smith, 1999, p.29). As Kovach argues, the ongoing theft of Indigenous knowledge and belongings is not simply about researchers lacking cultural knowledge, or institutions condoning appropriation and theft, but rather “seen from a decolonizing lens, ethical infringement through research is an extension of the Indigenous-settler colonial project” (Kovach, 2009, p.142). This structural understanding of western research as complicity in the dispossession and theft of Indigenous knowledge is another starting orientation for the work of this dissertation.   Emerging from this critique of western research is the broad field of Indigenous methodologies, defined by Kovach as “inherently and wholly Indigenous [...] the theory and method of conducting research that flows from Indigenous epistemology” (Kovach, 2009, p.20). Creek Cherokee scholar Craig Womack calls this the “new traditionalism” (2008) of Indigenous methodologies, while Opaskwayak Cree scholar Shawn Wilson (2008) describes three phases of Indigenous research: “early Aboriginal research, recent Aboriginal research, and Indigenist” (p. 45). For Smith (1999), Indigenous methodologies “bring back into existence a world fragmented and dying” (p. 30). Like the conversation earlier in this chapter about my own positionality vis a vis settler colonial studies, in working with different methodological frameworks in this     50 dissertation, I draw on the critiques of Western research from the decolonizing methodologies and Indigenous methodologies literatures but do not engage directly with Indigenous methodologies. Instead, I turn to ways of thinking and relating that sit alongside and in solidarity with Indigenous ontologies and epistemologies, including refusal and relational accountability. Refusal as Methodology Earlier in this chapter I wrote about refusal as a methodological approach for doing archival work. Refusal is central to this dissertation, not only in regard to the archive and the project of recovery, but also as an ethical position vis a vis questions of knowledge ownership, the academy, and dissertation requirements. Tuck and Yang (2014) describe refusal as manifesting at the research design phase, with a refusal to study people and a turn towards researching institutions and power (p. 815). The decision to largely omit the stories of Rosemary and her family from this dissertation was a conscious one made during the research design phase and emerged out of conversations between Rosemary and myself about knowledge ownership, the academy, and the responsibilities to tell certain stories but not others. Because of the requirements of the PhD dissertation, it was only possible for Rosemary to co-author a chapter, not the dissertation.40  The institutional reality of the impossibility of respectfully ascribing                                                  40. Rosemary and I had initially thought of co-authoring a series of published articles but our way of writing collaboratively-in our own voices- combined with the heavy emphasis on citations as a way of constructing new knowledge resulted in us being rejected from many journals and we therefore decided to not pursue this option for the thesis.  At the time of conceptualizing of this dissertation as collaborative I was told that it would only be possible for me to at most publish one chapter that was collaborative, as the PhD requirement is to make an individual contribution to research. Early on in my PhD studies Geraldine Pratt and Leonie Sandercock obtained approval for me to have a film as part of the dissertation.      51 authorship to Rosemary and her family’s stories and knowledges necessarily led us towards a methodology of refusal. We refused to narrate the story of Rosemary’s ancestors because those stories are hers to tell.  Instead, I turned my attention to the archives, logics, and settler stories told about, and around Rosemary and her family, tracing settler power and institutional practice as it affected their lives and territories while refusing to narrate the intimate contours of their impacts and resistances.   In Native American DNA (2013) Sisseton-Wahpeton Oyate scholar Kim Tallbear draws on Kahnawà:ke  Mohawk scholar Audra Simpson’s work on ethnographic refusal to help  “frame the silences in this book as not only against the ethnographic grain but as productive and supportive of indigenous self-determination” (p. 17).41 Like Tuck and Yang, I found refusal to be generative, “not just a “no,” but a starting place for other qualitative analyses and interpretations of data” (Tuck and Yang, 2014, p. 812).  As I discuss below, a methodology of refusal enabled me to practice relationships of accountability and work with alternate ways of ascribing ownership and disseminating research.   As Kim Tallbear (2008) and Dallas Hunt (2016) articulate, refusal is an act of Indigenous self-determination. In this context, the refusal to ventriloquize Rosemary’s family's story pushes up against the desire, articulated by Emilie Cameron (2015) in Far Off Metal River: Inuit Lands, Settler Stories, and the Making of the Contemporary Arctic to narrate Inuit “counter stories...the expectation that Inuit peoples must resist, talk back, or renarrate in direct response to Qablunaaq                                                  41. Dallas Hunt also employs refusal as methodology in Nikîkîwân: Contesting Settler Colonial Archives through Indigenous Oral History. “Throughout this piece, I have made intentional choices to share particular elements of my family’s story and not others, as a means of asserting intellectual sovereignty and honouring my relations.” (Hunt, 2016, p. 28).      52 stories. This is not only an exceedingly narrow framework within which to conceptualize Inuit subjectivity, it also reproduces colonial relations in that Inuit are called upon to respond to Qablunaat in modes, formats, and terms that are dictated by, and legible to, Qablunaat” (p.  25). In response, Cameron traces how the settler story about Samuel Hearne and the Bloody Falls Massacre continues to shape logics of dispossession and accumulation in Nunavut. Yet, as Cameron is keenly aware, and as critical Indigenous studies has articulated, the dilemma then centers on how to follow settler colonial power in ways that, according to Katherine McKittrick “foster a commitment to acknowledging violence and undoing its persistent frame, rather than simply analytically reprising violence?” (McKittrick, 2014, p.18). How do I trace the contours of settler colonial logics while pushing back on the tendency to reify settler colonial power and center settler stories?  How do I center, but not render legible the myriad stories that fall outside of the settler colonial dialectic highlighted by Cameron?  It is with these questions in mind that I turn to genealogical approaches and relational accountability as ways of working through some of the questions generated by refusal. Genealogical Approach and Relational Accountability This research follows a genealogical approach, described by Paige Raibmon (2008) in “Unmaking Native Space” as connecting people and places over time.  Moving between Rosemary and her ancestors to fish, water, and land enables us to see “the connections between widely disparate events and practices” (p. 59). This working with “minor history” centers what Ann Stoler refers to as “structures of feeling and force that in “major” history might otherwise be displaced” (Stoler, 2009, p.7). Raibmon explains that a genealogical approach charts the “apparent absences, disconnects, and non sequiturs” (Raibmon, 2008, p. 59). I use this     53 genealogical approach to hold up connections to water, fish, and family that persist in the face of ongoing occupation, pushing against the fetishization of colonial power. This follows Mishuana Goeman who emphasizes remapping as “not just about regaining that which was lost and returning to an original and pure point in history, but instead understanding the processes that have defined our current spatialities in order to sustain vibrant Native futures” (Goeman, 2013, p. 3). Remapping or recentering of Indigenous women and their connections raises essential questions about Indigenous resurgence in a context of control, scarcity and disappearance, emphasizing the importance of ancestral reconnection to Indigenous futurities.    xʷməθkʷəy̓əm scholar Jordan Wilson draws on this genealogical framework to discuss working with his community on the c̓əsnaʔəm: the city before the city exhibit. “The answers to our questions were not located in any one story in particular, but in the body of stories presented to us throughout an extended conversation. This also seems to be an aspect overlooked in the analyses of oral tradition and life history: the arrangement of stories in relation to one another, and how different meanings and interpretations are made available through this ordering.” (J.Wilson, 2016, p. 480). As elucidated below, this dissertation is strategically narrated. Different chapters reveal certain aspects of Rosemary's ancestors while refusing to ventriloquize their lives. The chapters are arranged to tell stories in relation to one another, and methodologically, the positionality of the reader and their interpretation becomes part of how the dissertation is understood. In reference to the published article that forms Chapter 7, Melanie Yazzie and Cutcha Risling Baldy describe the juxtaposition of oral traditions embedded with academic methodologies as resulting “in a powerful example of how to narrate water view in a way that challenges, balances, and displaces academic conventions” (Yazzie and Baldy, 2018, p.13).      54   Mounting critique from Indigenous scholars and communities about the exploitative and pernicious nature of the western research paradigm has resulted in major institutional changes to how research with Indigenous communities is done. Questions of ownership, protocol, consent, and access are now a formalized part of most University research ethics applications and approval processes.42 The mandatory Provincial Research Ethics Exam is clear that western research has had negative impacts on Indigenous peoples and communities yet it also appears that the critique of the western research paradigm is increasingly being responded to at an institutional level by a standardized set of questions that ostensibly ensure respectful, reciprocal research protocols; “How will your research benefit the community?” Is a commonly asked refrain in the academy.  Kim Tallbear critiques this emphasis on reciprocity, arguing   I and other researchers do not, in simpler terms, exchange data for aid or service to the communities we study. Most Indigenous researchers study topics that include Indigenous people, cultures, practices, and/or lands. In thinking about the ethics of accountability in research (whose lives, lands and bodies are inquired into and what do they get out of it?), the goal of “giving back” to research subjects seems to target a key symptom of a major disease in knowledge production, but not the crippling disease itself. That is the binary between researcher and researched – between knowing inquirer and those who are considered to be the resources or grounds for knowledge production. (Tallbear, 2016, p. 80).   I approached this dissertation by holding two things in my mind at all times; the requirements of the University, and the relationship and responsibilities to Rosemary and her family. The                                                  42. I don’t want to suggest that these questions, and those raised by Tuck and Yang (Who gets to know? Who gets known? Where is knowledge kept, and kept legitimated? What knowledge is desirable? Who profits? Who loses/ pays/gives something away? Who is coerced, empowered, appointed to give away knowledge?” (Tuck and Yang, 2014, p.812).  are fundamentally wrong, but I do want to suggest that they are perhaps co-opted within an Institutional framework that seeks to absolve itself of (legal) harm.      55 question that I first asked myself was How do I fulfill the requirements of the Institution and the degree while also ensuring that the Rosemary is supported in carrying out her research goals, namely finding and reconnecting with her family? A second set of questions emerges from this first: How do I ensure that my PhD is not based on knowledge shared by Rosemary and her family? How do I attribute authorship and ownership? Are there ways to compensate Rosemary for her labor? How will I know what to write? How does the review process work with my PhD committee, and how does this work with Rosemary and her family? Relational accountability guided the way that I approached these questions and the methods that I ultimately used in responding to them.    In Talkin’ up to white women Moreton-Robinson states “in Indigenous cultural domains relationality means that one experiences the self as part of others and that others are part of the self; this is learnt through reciprocity, obligation, shared experiences, coexistence, cooperation and social memory” (Robinson 2001, p.16).  I chose to begin this dissertation with a story about how Rosemary and I first met. Our friendship continues to be the basis of this work. The stories that Rosemary has shared with me about her ancestors and their lands and waters as well as our shared experience doing this work travel with me as I write this dissertation and speak about our research. When we first started our work on, We Have Stories Rosemary told me that we are all moving towards the centre of a circle, and that the centre is Indigenous. We are all positioned differently in relation to that centre. So, for me, when I think of reciprocity, I think of it in relation to being accountable to that vision. In Melanie Yazzie and Cutcha Rising Baldy’s introduction to the special issue of Decolonization that Rosemary and I contributed to, they talk about relational accountability and water “What we propose here is thus not a project of self-reflexivity that occurs at the site of individual consciousness raising or healing. Rather, it is a     56 project of inter-reflexivity, a struggle for decolonization premised on the accountabilities we form in lively relation to each other” (Yazzie and Baldy, 2018, p. 2). In From a Red Zone, Nimiipuu scholar Patricia Penn Hilden draws on the film Aatanarjuat the Fast Runner to emphasize how readings of the film, even those that are ‘sensitive’ to its politics, “retain a Euro-focus” that prevents “understanding this film on its own terms” (Hilden, 2006, p. 8). The mistake, explains Hilden, is that non-Indigenous reviewers of the film engage it by attempting to enter “the Indigenous world” (Hilden, 2006, p.8). Rather, Hilden suggests that non-Indigenous viewers should have realized that the film was inviting everyone into a healing ceremony.  This dissertation emerges out of Rosemary’s invitation into this work that heals us both, as we work towards decolonization that is premised on accountability to each other.   Tuscarora scholar and artist Richard Hill and Daniel Coleman describe the Two Row Wampum as a relational accountability framework, depicting “a relationship that is explicitly dialogical rather than monological” (Hill and Coleman, 2018, p. 8). Rosemary and I bring distinct epistemological and educational traditions. In our work we are in dialogue with each other (Hill and Coleman, 2018, p.8). The challenge of writing this dissertation has been in the necessity of leaving Rosemary's portion of the dialogue out of most of the text. Instead, we chose to co-author an article in an open source journal and that article makes up most of Chapter 7. The choice to create a film for Chapter 6 is also a reflection on the necessity of presencing the dialogical nature of our work and the knowledge shared by Rosemary’s family in a way that ascribes full ownership to Rosemary and her family for what they share.       57 1.6 Methods Coming to know the past has been part of the critical pedagogy of decolonization. To hold alternative histories is to hold alternative knowledges. The pedagogical implication of this access to alternative knowledges is that they can form the basis of alternative ways of doing things (T.Smith, 1999, p.36).  What sets Indigenous feminists apart from these other approaches are their commitments to Indigenous life and self-determination in all respects, as well as their popularization and impact within the realm of non-institutional (i.e. grassroots) (Yazzie and Baldy, 2018, p. 7).   At the start of this chapter I described arriving at this research by asking Rosemary what she wanted to know. In this section on methods I explain how we did the research, how decisions about what to include in the dissertation were made, and what the review process with Rosemary and her family looked like.   1.6.1 Researching and Resources I’m a documentary filmmaker trained in community engagement and decolonizing methodologies. Concurrent with this PhD I have helped to make dozens of short films and many of these have been with Indigenous communities and Nations. I often think of this work as all that happens under the guise of filmmaking. At the outset of a film I always ask questions about what connections can be built, what knowledges and skills can be shared, what resources can be reallocated in the process of making the film.  In some cases, this may involve hiring local filmmakers, training community members to co-create the film, facilitating film and animation workshops in local schools, purchasing film gear for the community, etc. I approached this PhD in much the same way, asking about what relationships could be fostered, what resources leveraged. The start of my PhD also coincided with Rosemary leaving her role as the Indigenous     58 community liaison at the theater company urban ink and beginning the launch of her career as an independent artist and storyteller, thus I also asked about how working together could support Rosemary in her career. Rosemary and I worked on her application for the Storyteller in Residence Program at the Vancouver Public Library. She was successful and became the 2014 Storyteller in Residence. This enabled Rosemary and I to begin to research together and we would meet at the ‘aquarium’, the panopticon-like glass ‘office’ at the Vancouver Public Library’s Downtown location and map out what Rosemary knew about her ancestors. We started researching the holdings of several archives and I began to get a sense of Rosemary’s family history. I began to identify local histories that had been written about the Georgeson family. We also created a website  and business cards for Rosemary.  I also identified and applied for a number of scholarships and grants to be able to pay Rosemary for her time. This was challenging, as there is a significant lack of resources available at the PhD level to pay ‘research participants’ for their time. In total I applied for six sources of funding and received two; the University of British Columbia’s Public Scholars fund, and the Liu Institute’s “Bottom Billion” fund. I used this money to pay for some of Rosemary’s time and also, as described below, pay for us and her family to travel and reconnect with each other on Galiano Island and for people to travel to Campbell River.  I have also used my own savings from my film work to cover the costs of our research and to bring Rosemary's family together on Galiano Island to review the draft of this dissertation.   Time is another resource that is often not available to PhD students wanting to do more collaborative, community engaged work. I was very fortunate to have the luxury of time because Lantern Films, the company I co-own, generates income that enabled me to do the PhD work at a     59 pace unconstrained by scholarships and other academic funding sources.43 This also meant that Rosemary could do this research alongside her myriad other work projects, and that she could have the time and space to reflect, connect, and build relationships that emerged as we were doing the work.  As Leanne Simpson articulates “Ultimately, we access this knowledge through the quality of our relationships, and the personalized contexts we collectively create. The meaning comes from the context and the process, not the content” (L. Simpson, 2011, p.42). Having time to ensure that this work was done in the right way was critical. Rosemary and I travelled together to the archives in Victoria, drove up Vancouver Island to visit a historian, spent a day on Mayne Island, and a week together on Galiano Island researching, analyzing what we had found, and planning where we would go from here. Spending time with each other on Galiano Island was so important to this work, enabling us to build relationships and emotionally connect with what we were learning.   Most of the films I create are client driven, so there is another parallel between my film work and the PhD insofar as the client / institution has one set of expectations that need to be fulfilled, while the community I am working with often has other priorities. Similar to the film work, it was important from the outset to be very clear about what the institutional constraints and parameters were of doing this research.44 Some of these constraints include authorship,                                                  43. I am also incredibly grateful to my PhD committee who always understood the nature of the research and never pressured me about deadlines and due dates.  44. This is a unique issue, in a sense, because authorship and resource questions can be dealt with much differently by faculty. Therefore, while a lot of great work exists that has been collaboratively researched and written (see Paul et al., 2015 and Roberston, 2013), the PhD at UBC offers its own unique set of constraints.      60 where a collaborative PhD is not considered to be a unique contribution to research.45 In approaching this constraint, I talked with various academics who do collaborative work, and received a number of suggestions about how to work through this major obstacle.46 Rosemary and I decided to co-author an article that would then be referenced in the dissertation, agreeing that a longer goal would be to co-author a book. We talked about the possibility of creating a play or film from the research, and we continue to explore these options.  Another important initial aspect of this research was related to status and fishing rights; as I elaborate on in Chapter 2, paper archives affirming status have deeply material effects. Another important part of this work has been finding and assembling the physical archives and belongings of the Georgeson family. This includes photographs, newspaper articles, logbooks and even a journal.  When we started to research I noticed that Marie Elliott’s online encyclopedia article about Scotty Georgeson included a citation for “Private arch., Marie Elliott (Mayne Island, B.C.), Copy of Henry Georgeson’s diary (original owned by Mary Ellen Harding”.47 Several years after first seeing this reference, Rosemary and I traveled to Mayne Island to meet Marie who let us look through and photograph Scotty’s diary and logbook.48                                                    45. The UBC Faculty of Graduate Studies website on the dissertation states “A student's doctoral dissertation is a substantial piece of scholarly work that contains a significant contribution of new knowledge to the field of study. It presents the results and an analysis of the student's original research, and should be significant enough to be publishable in the refereed literature” 46. I would like to acknowledge how grateful I am to the UBC Public Scholars initiative and to Efe Peker who provided me with so much lively discussion and sharing of experiences about public facing research.  47. ( 48. Importantly, the contents of the Diary are not discussed in this dissertation, even though they do contain a lot of information about Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie). Rosemary and I need to spend quite a bit more time with the diary and hope to bring it into the co-authored book that we aspire to create from this PhD.      61  Perhaps most importantly, this research has been about reconnection. It has reconnected Rosemary to Tlahoholt’s traditional name and territory, it has reconnected her with knowledge about Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and where she was from, and it has reconnected Rosemary with many stories about Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and Tlahoholt asserting the sovereignty over their bodies, families, and traditional territories. In our research we also found and reconnected with some of the descendants of Tlahoholt’s children and Rosemary’s cousins. In meeting Rosemary's relatives, we brought with us the physical archives we had assembled during our research and Rosemary shared family photographs, stories about Tlahoholt and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and life on Galiano. It was in reconnecting that we learned even more about the profound love that has held many generations of Rosemary's family together. We traveled with Rosemary’s relatives to Galiano Island to visit the birthplace of Tlahoholt.  I was there for the first moments of Rosemary meeting her family and when everyone traveled to Galiano. I had a camera with me most of the time, and I filmed, or audio recorded Rosemary and her family visiting with each other. This included filming discussions between Rosemary and her family as well as more formal conversation style interviews, some of which are used in Chapter 6. In total we filmed 12 conversation style interviews and recorded many more discussions. I had initially intended for this dissertation to have much more of this footage in it, but the amount of material and the sensitivity of what is shared requires a highly collaborative process between Rosemary, her family, and myself, something that is not possible within the resource constraints of a dissertation. It continues to be our intention to create a larger film or play from our work.       62 1.6.2 Writing and Consent I did not start writing this dissertation until Rosemary had connected with her family in Campbell River. This wasn’t something formal that Rosemary and I had decided on, rather it was a feeling that I think we shared about the unfinished nature of our work, and the certainty that we needed to go to Campbell River before the writing began in earnest. This dissertation is strategically narrated, each chapter reveals certain aspects of Rosemary's ancestors' lives while refusing to narrate their full story. The chapters are arranged to tell stories in relation to one another, and methodologically, the positionality of the reader and their interpretation becomes part of how the dissertation is read and understood.   Chapter 2 begins with a stand-alone piece written by Rosemary. It was Glen Coulthard who suggested this as one way to approach the questions I was having relating to authorship and ownership and is a suggestion that I have taken up in a few places where I felt it made sense to begin with centering Rosemary’s voice within the text. The excerpt that begins Chapter 2 is from an email exchange that Rosemary and I had when we started to do the research and I created an online folder for us to share research materials. I have included it to emphasize the dialogical nature of our work and our method of collaborating. Chapter 2 also features an excerpt from a conversation with T'uy't'tanat Cease Wyss about Indigenous women, colonial archives, and violence. In Chapter 2 I include some of my own writing and feelings about traveling to the Victoria archives with Rosemary, acknowledging the knowledge and protocols that Rosemary brought into our work and share how this shifted my own understandings of place, family, and archive.   Chapter 3 offers a close reading of the McKenna McBride Commission in relation to the territories of Rosemary's ancestors and relies on archival work I conducted at the Union of BC     63 Indian Chiefs. This chapter did not involve close collaboration with Rosemary or her family but unfolds in articulation with what Rosemary and her family has shared with me about the lives of her ancestors. Chapter 4 closely follows Rosemary and I as we interview three white women historians who have done research on the Georgeson family.  The chapter relies on conversations between Rosemary and the three women, as well as conversations between myself and Rosemary about the archive. I also felt, given that the chapter is about archival orientations, that it was important for me to presence my own learning process and research failures within the chapter. In Chapter 5 I similarly talk about how Rosemary reconnected with her family, drawing on audio recorded conversations that I had with Rosemary as well as conversations between Rosemary and her family. Chapter 6 is a short film featuring conversations between Rosemary and her Homalco relatives. Chapter 7 reflects the dialogical nature of our research and each section of this paper begins with Rosemary’s voice followed by mine.  Throughout the writing of this dissertation I have grappled with many methodological and ethical questions related to consent. I have also been keenly aware of not asking too much of Rosemary’s time during the writing stage, especially when it came to talking with Rosemary about my own ethical dilemmas about the work. The chapter that I found hardest to write was Chapter 5 because it was a narrative challenge to tell the story of our work, of archival occlusion and of what we found outside of the archive in a way that didn’t speak for Rosemary and her relatives. In writing and rewriting I finally called Rosemary and she suggested that it was important that I had been there, that I should share what I had witnessed. This was a very helpful suggestion at a time where I was really struggling. In terms of the consent process, everyone has given signed consent for the research.  I shared each chapter in person with Rosemary before sending them to my supervisor, Geraldine Pratt. I mailed the dissertation to Rosemary’s     64 Homalco relatives and highlighted the sections where I explicitly reference each relative. I also identified the highlighted areas with post-it notes.  I contacted Rosemary’s Squamish relatives and gave them the choice to either have the entire dissertation emailed to them or just the sections where I mention them. In late July 2019 Rosemary and I invited her relatives to a reunion on Galiano Island and we collectively talked about the thesis. I also individually spoke with each relative at the reunion and incorporated their feedback into the dissertation.        65 Chapter 2: Settler Archival Occlusion and Material Erasure Emma disappeared and so did her children.  Just gone, all of them, except my grandfather, kidnapped back to Galiano by Scotty. And my grandfather’s history seems sketchy as well. How can they fully disappear when you know that they were here and that so many cannot be accounted for? Just questions that come to me as I am looking at all of this and it is kind of haunting. As I feel us getting closer to Emma, I wonder if I am that disposable. It is almost like a nagging thought because it still happens. But today it is because of a different form of violence that Emma faced, or maybe the same violence. I don't know. As we go through this I am seeing more of the impacts of colonization and lies on my family. All stemming from a Scotsman that everyone, even his own grandchildren, were taught to idolize. People today still tell me how much I have to be proud of being one of the few that is directly linked to Scotty, and the only family that we know of that carries his name. And it’s all a lie. He did leave a legacy for us to be proud of through our connection to the water we have all been raised on, but his treatment of the women his sons married was horrendous, as so many histories out there were. Just some thoughts for today. July 3rd, 2014. Rosemary Georgeson, personal correspondence  In this chapter I think about the making of settler archives and trace their logics in connection with the erasures of Indigenous women from Rosemary’s family.49 What animates these archives, what questions do they generate, what occlusions have been replicated by researchers who have relied on primary documents housed in government archives? I show how settler archives, unlike colonial archives, follow a logic of Indigenous elimination. This runs through the stories that are told about Rosemary’s ancestors and the local histories that have been written about her family. Searching for Rosemary’s history in multiple colonial archives demonstrates how archival ‘slippages’ and ‘silences’ are imbricated with dispossession.                                                   49. “Archive, from the Greek, etymologically refers to “a public building,” “a place where records are kept.” From arkhe, it also means a beginning, the first place, the government...we might conclude that the archival, from the beginning, sustains power” (Taylor, p.19).      66 This chapter thinks of dispossession in relation to land and Indian status, the “identity-property-nexus” described by Brenna Bhandar in The colonial lives of property (2018).  Bhandar argues that Indian status is property, and that the “identity-property-nexus” emerged in British Columbia in the mid-1800s through the co-construction of Indian status and the reservation system (Bhandar, 2018, 151).  During this time “identity and property relations were explicitly bound to each other, constituting a core dimension of an apparatus of colonial knowledge and governance” (Bhandar, 2018, 150). Bhandar signals that race and gender are “fundamental to the identity-property nexus” and that “for a vast number of First Nations women, the status provisions amounted to a radical form of dispossession” (Bhandar, 2018, 160). In the following I read archives connected to Rosemary’s Scottish great great grandfather Henry “Scotty” Georgeson, for the stories they tell about property, status, and dispossession. I unravel how local historians have told Scotty’s story, and outline two key silences contained therein, showing that settler archives and settler stories work through occlusion to materially erase Indigenous claims to land. I then draw on work with Rosemary at the British Columbia Archives to discuss how knowledge and stories passed onto Rosemary enabled us to read the settler archive for its errors and absences.  This enduring parallel archive has been carefully assembled through generations of Indigenous women passing on knowledge and stories and through Rosemary's careful work in community where she has spent her whole life talking with people about her family’s story. It is through these lived experiences and the oral stories passed onto Rosemary, as well as several interventions made by Rosemary's ancestors into the paper archive that we come to understand more about Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and Tlahoholt.  This is a political project that centers the Indigenous women in Rosemary’s family, revealing their profound, inter-generational     67 resistance to colonial logics that seek to materially sever them from one another and from their lands and waters. This centering of relationships and resistances pushes back against the too often evoked “damage-centred” narrative fantasy imposed on Indigenous communities by outsiders (Tuck, 2009, p.412).                      Ashley Falzetti (Miami Nation of Indiana) reminds us “historical narratives produce the premises on which we understand the world and our place in it. Indigenous peoples are regularly taught histories that preclude their ways of life and even existence” (Falzetti, 2014, p. 2). Ann Stoler (2009) argues that intimate family histories map onto logics of empire; the fixity and stability that coheres around colonial narratives and the study of them is a form of violence (Stoler, 2009). In the next section I turn to the stories that circulate about Rosemary’s great great grandfather Henry “Scotty” Georgeson to think about how the public archive of Scotty Georgeson is interconnected with settler colonialism's territoriality.  I chart this how of settler colonial power in relation to slippages, silences, and omissions. This approach shares some similarities with Emilie Cameron’s Far off Metal River, where she asks what the Bloody Falls massacre story “makes possible and what it suppresses, avoids, and undermines” (Cameron, 2015, p.15). Cameron reads the story for its ideas about race, violence, witnessing and claims to the arctic. She looks at ways that the story has circulated, and the ways that it does not matter. Stories, Cameron reminds us, “are not separate from, nor merely representative of, the world around us; they are themselves material and they have material effects on the lives we live…. Stories matter, in other words, and not just in imaginative terms” (Cameron, p.12). Read as a colonial story about land and property, I argue that Scotty Georgeson’s story reveals how settler claims to Indigenous territory work, in part, through occluded family histories.       68  2.1 Occlusion as Methodology Settler colonialism is described as a structure predicated on the elimination of Indigenous Peoples (Wolfe, 2008). Patrick Wolfe defines settler colonialism as a project that is territorial in perpetuity (Wolfe, 2008). In places where the “settler comes to stay” like Palestine, Canada, the United States, Hawaii, New Zealand, and Australia, it is the accumulation of land and resources, rather than labour that is settler colonialism's organizing logic.50 This process involves violently removing Indigenous peoples from their lands, waters, and modes of being. The end point of settler colonialism is Indigenous elimination (Wolfe; 1999, 2006) (A. Simpson, 2014, p. 19) “the appropriation of the land, resources and jurisdiction of the indigenous peoples, not for the sake of resettlement or exploitation, but for the territorial foundation of the dominant society itself” (Tully, 2008, p. 39). Tully argues that the state works through either extinction or extinguishment (Tully, 2008, p. 40). Extinguishment operates by controlling Indigenous identity and eroding Indigenous political and self-governing authority (Lawrence,2004, p.17).  Crucially, the Indian Act historically has regulated Native identity along gender lines.51   As Audra Simpson states                                                  50. For discussions that expand on race and settler colonialism see Pulido, 2016; Antwi, 2011; Day 2016; Miles 2005.  51. In “Real" Indians and Others: Mixed-Blood Urban Native Peoples and Indigenous Nationhood., Bonita Lawrence traces the gender discrimination of the Indian Act, arguing that the Act directly undermined the power of Indigenous women. Examples include gendering Indianness in the colonial encounter, Indigenous women being refused voting rights, the right to own property, and the “legislation in1850first defined Indianness in gendered terms, so that Indian status depended either on Indian descent or marriage to a male Indian. With the Gradual Enfranchisement Act of1869, not only were wives removed from inheritance rights and automatically enfranchised with their husbands, but Section 6 began a process of escalating gender discrimination that would not be definitively changed until 1985” (Lawrence, 2004, 50). For a more recent discussion of gender discrimination and the Indian Act, see Jessica Deer, CBC News Article “First Nations women and their descendants need 6(1)(a) status 'all the     69 “Canada requires the death and so called “disappearance” of Indigenous women in order to secure its sovereignty” (A. Simpson, 2016, p. 1).  Settler colonialism as a fundamentally heteropatriarchal project uniquely targets Indigenous women’s, queer, two spirit, and gender variant bodies for elimination (Morgenson, 2011; Arvin et al 2013; Driskill et. al. 2011; S. Hunt, 2016). Audra Simpson argues that the state is a white man, and it moves through Indigenous bodies “with a death drive to eliminate, contain, hide and in other ways ‘disappear’ what fundamentally challenges its legitimacy: Indigenous political orders” (A. Simpson, 2016, p. 2). Audra Simpson goes on to explain that settler colonial state violence takes many forms; it is bureaucratic, economic, and violently indifferent.52   Given that settler colonialism is an ongoing project of elimination, state archives are important sites for tracing the logics of settler colonial violence. I argue that settler state archives ‘hinge’ on a dialectic of extinction or extinguishment; that settler archives bound and discipline proper archival subjects and this has material consequences in terms of which bodies get to be on the land.  Michel-Rolph Trouillot reminds us that “mentions and silences are thus active, dialectical                                                                                                                                                              way,' says advocate”. 52. Indifference has been identified as a primary structure of settler colonial governance. In “The State is a Man: Theresa Spence, Loretta Saunders and the Gender of Settler Sovereignty” (2016) Simpson, referring  to Canada’s unwillingness to launch an inquiry into the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women,  Audra Simpson locates indifference as state violence “the abusive indifference of the Federal government to the lives and lands of Indigenous peoples” (Simpson, 2016, 14). Sherene Razack’s (2012) article on the death of Frank Paul also frames indifference as a settler mode of governance “an astonishing indifference or callousness marks the settlers' response to Aboriginal people but this indifference occurs within intense, often daily, encounters between state officials (police, health care professionals, etc.) and Aboriginal populations in the city. It is an indifference practised alongside a familiarity, and even an intimacy, with the Aboriginal Other” (Razack, 2012, 909).  Also see McCallum, Mary Jane. Structures of Indifference: An Indigenous Life and Death in a Canadian City. University of Manitoba Press, 2018.     70 counterparts of which history is the synthesis” (Truillot, 1995, p. 48).53 Within settler colonial structures of elimination, silence is a central node of archive making. In this sense I follow Ann Stoler, who argues that “occluded histories are part of what imperial histories produce. Attention must be paid to ‘occluded histories of empire – ways of knowing that hide/ conceal. What fades out of focus, what has been disappeared from the final product. The violences that are less marked, less identifiable” (Stoler, public Talk UBC, 2013). Raibmon (2008) argues that within settler colonialism, following the “absences, disconnects, and non sequitors” is a necessary methodological and political project (Raibmon, 2008, p. 59).  I don’t want to suggest that I am arguing for “making visible, rendering comprehensible, or restoring to presence” (Vimalassery, 2016). As discussed in Chapter 1, I want to work with the settler archive to create a space for the re-presencing of Rosemary’s ancestors and relatives while simultaneously not speaking of them or for them. This means actively refusing to write their stories, not narrating their lives for the exigencies of a dissertation, and to carefully engage with this story so as not to resinscribe it within settler colonial logics of recognition and reconciliation.  2.2 Scotty’s Story Georgeson, Henry (Scotty), stopping-house owner, fisherman, lighthouse-keeper, farmer, and boatbuilder; b.17 July 1835 in Walls, Scotland; m. 21 Feb. 1881 Elizabeth Sophia (Sophy), a native woman, in Duncan, B.C., and they had four sons and one daughter; d.2 Feb. 1927 on Galiano Island, B.C”.  Marie Elliot, Dictionary of Canadian Biography.54                                                   53.Trouillot describes an archive as “  facts collected, thematized, and processed as documents and monuments” (Trouillot, 48).  54 Elliott, M. (2003). “GEORGESON, HENRY,” in Dictionary of Canadian Biography. Retrieved from     71   The above excerpt is from the Canadian biography entry on Scotty Georgeson, Rosemary’s great great grandfather. As an early white settler in Coast Salish territories, and the first lighthouse keeper of Georgina Point Lighthouse on Mayne Island, Scotty is a relatively well-known historical figure. Lights of the Inside Passage refers to Scotty as having established “a lightkeeping dynasty for five decades” (Graham, 1986, p. 12).  His birth and death certificates, obituaries, pre-emptions of land, pastimes, and demeanor are all well documented through census records, newspaper articles, several books, and public recorded interviews with family members.  A 1997 article in The Gulf Islands Driftwood reports that Andrew Loveridge, president of the Gulf Islands Historical Federation travelled to the Shetland Islands and spent a week researching the Georgesons and had just reported back on his findings. Several Georgesons were in attendance.55  Most of the accounts of Scotty describe him making his way to the west coast from the Shetland Islands in 1858.56  In 1862 he travelled up the Fraser to pre-empt land at Lightning Creek where he operated the Beaver Pass stopping house.57 Scotty came back a few years later and began operating the Sandheads Light Ship, at the mouth of the Fraser River (Georgeson, 1961, p. 8). A couple of years later, Scotty applied for a position as the first                                                  55. “Galiano Historian Researches Lighthouse Keepers Past” Allistair Ross for the Gulf Islands Driftwood. December 10th, 1997. 56. Marie Elliott, “GEORGESON, HENRY,” in Dictionary of Canadian Biography, vol. 15, University of Toronto/Université Laval, 2003–, accessed March 15, 2019, Census of Canada, 1901, Vancouver (H4: Victoria North, Mayne Island), household 17.  57. F.W. Laing, Colonial Farm Settlers on the Mainland of British Columbia, 1858-1871 (Victoria, 1929), 332.     72 lighthouse keeper of the Georgina Point lighthouse on Mayne Island, which sits at the entrance to Active Pass in the Gulf Islands (Graham, p. 1986). Scotty lived and worked at the lighthouse for thirty-five years and built a house on land that he preempted on Galiano Island at the opposite end of Active Pass.58 The land that he pre-empted carries his name and is known as Georgeson Bay.   Scotty’s story as I have just told it has not only been remembered in books by local historians, but also through family members and local Galiano Island residents. Mary Harding, his great-granddaughter, in a 1965 interview with radio/ archivist Imbert Orchard recalls “He was at the Mayne Island lighthouse for a long long while and very much respected. It is one the main regrets in my life that I don’t remember my great grandfather. I was 4 when he died. I don’t remember seeing him. He was a very gracious person”.59 Here, Mary, who admits to not having any memories of her great grandfather, regales Imbert Orchard for nearly an hour with tales about Scotty and life on Galiano. For Mary and many others, the mythology of Scotty Georgeson is bound up with the creation of Galiano Island as a settler place. In the following section I trace how an intimate family history becomes a settler connection to place, a claim to land, and an erasure of what was there before.  In this sense, Scotty’s Story is a scenario of discovery, an act of transfer (Taylor, 2003). Scotty’s public, settler archival story occludes in order to acquire and dispossess. It is a performance that invisibilizes the violence of preemption, and erases Indigeneity in multiple forms.                                                   58. Pre-emption records GR-0766.12.44 File 8 Dec 1873, British Columbia Archives.  59. Orchard, Imbert. Mary Backlund Interview. Sound Recording. B.C. Archives Accession number(s): T0792 Reference cassette copy available in container 000443-048.      73  2.2.1 Pre-emption Scotty preempted land on Galiano Island in what would come to be known as Georgeson Bay, in 1873.60 His preemption is marked by several erasures.   Photo 2: Map submitted by Scotty Georgeson showing his pre-emption of the land that became Georgeson Bay.61   One such occlusion is the case of “Indian Tom”.62   The case was followed at the time by the Daily British Colonist and later recounted in A Gulf Islands Patchwork (1983).  Henry Georgeson apparently gave evidence that led to the execution of “Indian Tom” who had been accused of the Clarke murder, a settler on land adjacent to Henry’s preemption. On April 30th, 1873 the Daily British Colonist reported that Henry has “been in constant danger from Tom’s                                                  60. Jean Barman estimates that more than 10,000 white men looked to pre-empt land after the gold rush ended in the mid 1860s (Barman, 2014, 164).  61 British Columbia Archives. Pre-emption records GR-0766.12.44 File 8 Dec 1873, British Columbia Archives 62. “Indian Tom” is a name that appears frequently in the settler archive, much like “John Doe”.      74 relatives who threaten Georgeson’s life...those Indians who reside at Chemainus have become more bold. A short time ago they fired two shots at Georegson’s wife, one of the bullets passing through her hair...for some time Georgeson has not dared to do any work on his ranch, fearing that he might be popped over by one of these prowling Indians. This is no romance – it is un-exaggerated fact”. The “Indian Tom” story has been infrequently picked up by historians and Scotty’s biographers; one exception is the Gulf Islands Patchwork that reprints the story from the Daily British Colonist. In Everything Becomes Island Patricia Rayner also discusses the story, but in the context of settlers telling stories that give them the chills – that perhaps hearken back to an earlier time of settlement (Rayner, 1995, p. 270).   Discussing the Indian Tom story with Rosemary as well as the fact that the land Scotty preempted was a burial site, it seems clear that there is likely more to the story than “Indian Tom” murdering someone on land directly adjacent to Scotty’s preemption. It’s also worth noting that at the time of Scotty’s preemption, there were no adjacent pre-emptions. Could “Indian Tom” have been living on the land? Could he have been there because, well, it was his land? Certainly, the article suggests that his descendants and relatives were still there, even after his execution.  At the time of Scotty’s pre-emption settlers were violently dispossessing Indigenous peoples of their lands in order to facilitate preemption; Paige Raibmon documents the array of genocidal actions taken by settlers who benefited from land that had already been ‘improved’ but not preempted (Raibmon, 2008).63 Initially there were no explicit rules excluding                                                  63. Raibmon discusses how legally, “Indian Improvements” could be legally preempted if they were “abandoned”. The result was that “White squatters in places as far-flung as the Cowichan and Nass valleys attempted to drive Cowichan and Nisgaa inhabitants from their land at gunpoint” (64) while Indian agents directly and indirectly participated in the destruction of villages (Raibmon, 64).  The Land Ordinance of 1861 made land available to     75 Indigenous peoples from preempting land, and as has been well documented by Bruce Stadfeld in “Manifestations of Power: Native Resistance to the Resettlement of British Columbia”, Indigenous peoples and Nations regularly resisted dispossession by, essentially, using the tools of the colonizer and applying for their own pre-emptions.64  Below are two Indigenous applications for pre-emptions, one from Lillooet and one from Theresa, an Indigenous woman. Both went unanswered.  Photo 3: Pre-Emption claims submitted by Indigenous people.65                                                                                                                                                              settlers and they, “could preempt any Crown-claimed land that was not an Indian reserve and did not contain “Indian improvements,” as long as they improved the land and resided on the land permanently without being absent for more than two months. Significantly, the majority of land was unsurveyed at the time of preemption. In such instances the would-be settler simply wrote a description and sketched a map of the selected land and submitted both to the surveyor general in Victoria for registration. Other than a small administrative fee, no payment was required until the land was surveyed, at which point four shillings and two pence per acres was due. For preemptors these conditions amounted, at least at the outset, to free land. Since this all operated on an honor system, it is not surprising to find that settlers frequently breached the preemption laws and that registrations were often inaccurate. There are many instances in which settlers preempted land that did contain Indian improvements. Aboriginal families would return from seasonal labor and find settlers occupying their houses” (Raibmon, 2008, 63). 64. In 1884 Chinese people were denied the right to preempt land and divert water (Raibmon, 2008, 69).  65 UBCIC, DIA, RG10, Vol 11022, File 571-A T3600034. May 13th, 1913, letter from Lillooet Chief Thomas Adolf to Commissioners. UBCIC, DIA, RG10, Vol 11022, File 571-A T39600029, Lytton, April 20th, 1915. Letter     76  Preemption, when applied for by Indigenous people, was either met with silence, or the suggestion that the Indigenous person enfranchise then wait three years to be issued a letters patent that would grant the fee simple land (Bandhar, 2018).66  When an application for a crown grant or timber license was received from an Indigenous person, it was simply “unavailable” (Raibmon, 2008, p. 65). Silence also blanketed the violence enacted by white settlers in preempting land. The silencing of the story about Indian Tom in narratives about Scotty, the lack of a proper identification of the Indigenous peoples whose land Scotty was occupying, and the erasure of Indigenous women from Scotty’s own family signals how intimate family histories map onto the logics of empire, and in the case of Scotty worked through whiteness to buttress his right to settlement via elimination.   In 2014, as part of the ‘Not Sent Letter Project’ settler artist Jeremy Todd wrote a letter to Scotty Georgeson “Dear Scotty…. How would you feel by the edge of that same shoreline, all those years before me, listening to the tide coming in and air pushing through cedar branches? You weren’t at home on the Shetland Islands (just deprived and desperate). Did you ever feel at home here? I was born in this new country, but I don’t belong here either... This                                                                                                                                                              Regarding Theresa’s Indian Improvements. UBCIC, DIA, RG10, Vol 11022, File 571-A T3600030, Theresa’s Indian Improvements. Lytton, 66 “Indian men and unmarried Indian women who were twenty-one years of age could apply to be enfranchised. After satisfying certain requirements, he or she would be granted a “location ticket as a probationary Indian for the land occupied by him or her” or such proportion as the superintendent general deemed fair and proper.42 At the end of three years, letters patent would be issued, granting the Indian the land in fee simple. This right to the land in fee simple, however, did not carry with it the power to sell, lease, or otherwise alienate the land without the sanction of the governor in council. Along with the letters patent would come the recognition of his or her enfranchisement” (Bandhar, 2018, 162).      77 country doesn’t belong here. There’s no belonging in the modern world.” (Todd, 2014).67  Todd questions Scotty’s right to settlement, to belonging to a place that is not his to call home, but in referencing only Scotty by name (the Indigenous peoples are only pejoratively named) it also reinscribes his presence into a written archive of settler imagination, a “settler replacement narrative” (D. Hunt, 2018). The letter about Scotty at once unsettles Galiano as Scotty’s home while simultaneously erasing Galiano (and Georgeson Bay) as an Indigenous homeland.  In a sense this letter is a settlement story that acts as a guidepost for white settlers, simultaneously unsettling notions of home and erasing Indigeneity though summoning the romantic figure of Scotty.    2.2.2 Indigeneity While Henry’s preemption is mentioned twice in “Gulf Islands Patchwork” (1961), there is no mention of Scotty’s wife Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie).  Markedly, the entry immediately after the article on Scotty’s pre-emption mentions that Findlay Murchinson and his wife are the first white couple on Galiano Island.  Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s absence is remarkable because we know from constructing a timeline of records found at the B.C. archives that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) was with Scotty when he pre-empted the land that became Georgeson Bay. Yet, similar to Jeremy Todd’s letter to Scotty, Indigenous presence is spectral, marked by traces left on the land.  “Beside his house there stood a large flat rock, pitted with round holes in which the Indians used to grind their corn. In the woods behind, sheltered from the wind, the Indians hung their dead. In recent years skulls and bones have fallen from the trees. Half-inch lead balls have                                                  67. (,     78 been found in rotted stumps near the water’s edge, indicating tribal warfare there in earlier times” (“Henry Georgeson” by Janet and G.W. Georgeson, in Gulf Islands Patchwork). Here, some of Scotty and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s decedents narrate a history that excludes Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie); whitening the story of Scotty while replacing Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) with an Indigenous presence still marked on the land. As Dallas Hunt reminds us, “personal archives can illuminate the processes of settler colonialism in detailed and nuanced ways” (D. Hunt, 2017, p. 27).   When Scotty and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s son Harry dies at sea, there are multiple newspaper articles written about the event. Photo 4: Daily Colonist article about Harry dying at sea.68                                                   68 Unknown author. (1894). Unidentified newspaper clipping Daily Colonist. Retrieved from       79 The above article mentions “Harry is the son of Mr. of the oldest and most respected settlers in the district,  and has brought up his family with every credit to himself”.69 There is no mention of Mrs. Georgeson, and the article infers that the excellent character of Harry and the rest of Scotty and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s children must be credited to Scotty. Yet, we know based on photographs and stories passed onto Rosemary that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) was there alongside Scotty, and that she was the primary caregiver, raising an extended family of six children and a handful of grandchildren while Scotty worked as a lighthouse keeper. Further, sympathy is extended to Henry Georgeson and his family who are called close but there is no mention of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie). In Framing the West: Race, Gender and the Photographic Frontier in the Pacific Northwest (2003) Carol Williams discusses Vancouver Island photographer Hannah Maynard’s gems of British Columbia series; annually published collages of all the white babies that Maynard had photographed that year  “the photographic realm of babies and children was not merely a personal or private expression; the visual representation of motherhood was a confirmation of their procreative contribution to colonial growth in British North America” (Williams, 2003, p.130). The death of a white child would have engendered a very different response from the news media. The racial logics of settler colonialism remove Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s role as a mother and deny her grief at the death of her son.                                                     69. Harry Georgeson was a younger son of Mr. Henry Georgeson of the lighthouse and a great favorite with everybody. Mr. Georgeson is one of the oldest and most respected settlers in the district and has brought up his family with every credit to himself.” From Plumper Pass (1894, June 9)  Daily Colonist, p. 2. Retrieved from      80  In “Archival Absence”, Ashley Falzetti argues that stories have material impacts on who gets to belong or inhabit a place “Historical narratives produce the premises on which we understand the world and our place in it. Indigenous peoples are regularly taught histories that preclude their ways of life and even existence” (Falzetti, 2014, p. 9). In the accounts about Scotty that mention Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie), it is as Scotty’s “Indian Bride from Lillooet” (Graham, 1986). Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s origins are constantly shifting, from Lillooet to Coast Salish, Knacken Lake, Comiaken, or xʷməθkwəy̓əm. Her name also changes throughout the paper archival record. At her marriage to Scotty in 1880 at the Cowichan Anglican Church she is listed as “Sophy” (quotation marks in the original) “Indian Woman”. Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) is mistaken for Katherine in 1891, Kitty in the 1901 census, and at her death in 1918 Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) is called Kitty. Dallas Hunt describes how his grandmother was misidentified in a photograph that appears in Sodbusters: A History of Kinuso and Swan River Settlement. “The ability of Indigenous bodies, especially girls’ bodies, to be read as so similar as to be substitutable for one another is troubling, and mirrors broader issues of the replaceability of Indigenous bodies in colonial contexts and environments” (D Hunt, 2016, p. 34). Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) was likely mistaken for Katherine Cook, an Indigenous woman who lived on nearby Mayne Island.   The silencing of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s role as mother, the denial of her grief at the death of her son, and her misrecognition are acts of settler colonial gender violence via indifference or ignorance. Indifference, identified by Audra Simpson, is central to the settler colonial death drive, and ultimately is aimed at the destruction of Indigenous political orders (A. Simpson, 2016, p. 4).  Likewise, ignorance as an act of ignoring, identifies Vimalassery, “is aggressively made and reproduced, affectively invested” (Vimalassery et all, p.1). Here, Sar-    81 Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) is either eliminated via her archival disappearance, or in marrying Scotty, enfranchised, “whitened” by the Indian Act through incorporation into the Canadian body politic (A. Simpson, 2016). But the disappearance of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) as a partner to Scotty, as a mother, and of her grief tells us that her body was still racialized, still perceived as “Indian” and signified “the land itself, or the dangerous possibility of reproducing Indian life and most dangerously, other political orders” (A. Simpson, 2016, p. 4). Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie), like many Indigenous women, especially during the time period of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s life, is rendered unintelligible through the settler archive.  Unintelligibility is a condition of colonial unknowing, where the multiple enmeshings of racializations and colonizations are occluded, cementing dispossession (Vimalassery et al.p.1). At the time of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) meeting Scotty, one in every ten Indigenous women was living with a non-Indigenous man (Barman, 2014, p.160). Jean Barman, writing in reference to the detailed and lengthy archival record of violence perpetrated by early white male settlers against Indigenous women reasons that “so long as white women were absent, Indigenous women could be used to satisfy what were perceived as men’s natural needs” (Barman, 2014, p. 161).  For white settlers like Scotty, intermarriage was a survival strategy until there were more white women in the Province (Raibmon, 2008, p.73). What can be assumed, without looking elsewhere for histories of resistance, is that at the very least women like Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie), following Dallas Hunt “acted within the small space of possibility circumscribed by the colonial state” (D. Hunt, p. 36).70 Jean Barman describes how                                                  70. It is interesting to note that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh only married Scotty once all their children had married. In fact,  Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh and Scotty got married on the same day, immediately after their last child married. In a conversation between Fay Blaney and Rosemary it was speculated that this decision to wait to marry must have been     82 the predatory and violent intentions of white male settlers are easy to trace in the colonial archive; what is far more challenging are the motivations of Indigenous women (Barman, 2014).   In a conversation with Rosemary and I, T'uy't'tanat Cease Wyss shared: In Katzie, a number of years ago, for Port Moody days, they were doing this big thing “Oh we want all the descendants of Moody to come up”.  Moody was this Indian Agent who travelled around and gave everybody the name Moody, and he made Moodyville and had his descendants and he went into Katzie and other Nations and he gave people names and he raped a bunch of women and they had children, and they continued to have this bloodline that went back to him. So they got really fed up and they showed up at the Port Moody centennial and when the descendants were asked to come up, all these native people got up on stage with the last name Moody, and they said “Oh but you were just given that name by the Indian Agent” and they were like “Oh no, we’re blood descendants. Your great great grandfather, your ancestor, raped our ancestor” …. It didn’t just happen in Port Moody…. and how long did they go? 100 years. 100 years of invisibility. You look at all the things, missing and murdered women and all of this goes back to contact.   Photo 5: Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and Scotty.71                                                                                                                                                              made so that  Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh could pass on status to her children; before 1951 unmarried Indigenous women passed on status to their children.  71 From Rosemary Georgeson’s personal archive.     83  2.2.3 Archival Occlusion and Material Erasure  Genealogies like Scotty and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s raise important questions about what Paige Raibmon refers to as “colonialism’s network of laws, attitudes, and practices that placed these families and their offspring at the center of the transformation and transfer of lands” (Raibmon, 2008, p. 72).  Scotty as “the ideal legal and political subject of the burgeoning settler state” is defined in antipodean relationship to the category of “Indian” (Bhandar, 2018, 157). Scotty’s pre-emption occludes Indigenous presence, but pre-emption is only possible through the co-creation of the juridical category “Indian” and reservation lands.  (Bhandar, 2018).  Occlusion is therefore material, and this presses onto the present.   Rosemary and her family’s status comes from her mother’s side who are from Fort Good Hope, Denendeh. This status does not allow Rosemary and her family to have access to the Coast Salish food fishery, as their status and its rights to hunting and trapping lie in Denendeh.72 For Rosemary and her family to obtain Coast Salish or Straights Salish status they must provide settler archival ‘proof’ in the form of an official paper (usually a birth certificate) confirming Rosemary’s father George, or his father George “Toughie”  as being Coast Salish or Straights Salish.73 As detailed below, this ‘proof’ has been difficult to locate in the settler record; an archival occlusion becomes a material denial of Indigeneity.74                                                             72. For a discussion about Status, the Indian Act, and gendered impacts see Bonita Lawrence, Real Indians and Others, 2004, U of Nebraska Press. 73. This is perhaps even more complicated, as Galiano Island is claimed by several different Nations, and the Salish Sea is home to many overlapping claims.  74.  Rosemary's Squamish and Homalco connections have been confirmed through a very different relational context, as discussed later in Chapter two and in Chapter 4.      84  In the context of British Columbia, absence vis a vis Indian Status can also, paradoxically, be an indication of status. British Columbia joined confederation in 1871 and jurisdictional responsibility for the documentation and archiving of records relating to ‘Indians’ was a topic of much dispute between the Provincial and Federal Governments, with British Columbia refusing to collect any data on ‘vital’ events of Indigenous peoples.75 In 1852, a year after confederation, Indigenous records were excluded. 5 years later, following the passing of the Indian Act in 1876, they were included, then excluded again from 1899-1916. Between 1916 and 1943 Indian Agents were under no requirement to collect census or vital information.76   The archival absence of a document – such as Tlahoholt and William’s marriage certificate, or the late registration of Rosemary’s grandfather’s birth in 1929, even though he was born in 1892 - could be indications of status.  The consequence of these years of archival exclusion are deeply material; resulting in a loss of status for many who cannot prove a parent or grandparent’s Indigeneity,  and an opportunity for others to strategically hide their status, choosing to pass as white in order to hold onto various form of property like oyster leases and fishing boats.77 Either way, the results are a whitening of the settler archive where Indigeneity is erased in both its archival and legislated                                                  75. My understanding, via one of the interviewees is that the Province felt that since Indigenous peoples were wards of the state under the Indian Act that the collection of vital records of Indigenous people was a Federal rather than Provincial matter.  76. Rosemary and I initially learned about this from Joanne Peterson who generously shared the dates with us, and was confirmed by a search on the B.C Archives website resource guide ‘Resources for First Nations Research” 77. One person we interviewed confirmed that ‘passing as white’ had been her own survival strategy as a single mom with an oyster lease. Another historian we spoke with confirmed that they knew of many Indigenous women who had chosen to pass in order to survive.      85 form. Importantly, this archival whitening via Indigenous absence is mirrored in the story of Scotty Georgeson and the silencing of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and Tlahoholt. While Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and Tlahoholt are both variously identified as “Indian Woman” or being from “Squamish” this is erased from the status of their children; Rosemary’s grandfather and great grandfather. It is erased to such a degree that Rosemary does not carry Squamish status which, “in the modern era…reflect[s] the articulation of abstract racial and gender characteristics with specific property relations (entitlement and access to land)” (Bhandar, 2018, 150). Yet, to make an appeal for Squamish status would be an appeal for recognition, demonstrating the coercion at work for “Native peoples to recognize themselves to be under federal power within federal terms” (Barker, 2011, 22).  This is the “lower frequency” of colonial violence identified by Stoler in Durress (2016) where “quotidian defamations of personhood [are]inflected at an insistent pace, or punctuated, mercilessly, in non- verbal registers” (Stoler, 2016, p. 7). The erasure of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) from stories about Scotty, despite the accessibility of archival sources about Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) signals that silence is “entrenched through the very acts of conducting research and the writing of historical narratives” (Falzetti, 2014, p. 593).78 Stoler argues for reading archives as epistemological experiments; they can be read as places inscribed by power that are also technologies of rule (Stoler, 2002b). As a process, the settler archive – its silences, erasures, inconsistencies, and commonalities – also reveals deep resistances shared across multiple generations of Indigenous women in Rosemary’s family. The detailed genealogy traced below charts some of these entanglements as “contrapuntal intrusions”                                                  78. I return to this point in Chapter 5 in a discussion of how the McKenna McBride archives have been interpreted and what has been omitted from stories of canneries, fish, and water along the Salish Sea.      86 (Stoler, 2009, p. 2) demonstrating how archival absence and silence, while “constitutive of the process of historical production” (Trouillot, 1995, p. 49) does not equate with disappearance.     2.3 Archival Narratives, Embodied Knowledges, and Willfullness Archives Rosemary picks me up at Scott Road Skytrain station and we drive to the ferry terminal. It’s early in the morning and we’re both excited and quiet.  We’re heading to the British Columbia Archives in Victoria, hoping to find out more about Rosemary’s Indigenous grandmothers Sophie and Tlahoholt. On the ferry we stand silently on the deck, looking out to the Salish Sea. Rosemary gives me some tobacco and I press it into the palm of my hand, not sure what to do with it. As the ferry cuts through Active Pass and rounds the lighthouse on Mayne Island, Rosemary offers the tobacco and I do the same. Looking out I realize that the lighthouse, Georgeson Bay, the water and even the whole Island has changed through Rosemary sharing stories with me. The ferry comes closer to where Tlahoholt lived and where she fled with her children.  We leave tobacco there too. The water has a chill to it that folds into the cold that’s in the air, just beginning to be warmed by a bright November sun.   Settler archives engender very different material and affective experiences depending on which bodies seek out their knowledge.  Dutch settler archives hold important information about my ancestors, including who they are, where they were from, and where they lived. By extension, I’ve learned about who I am through these archives as well as come to an understanding about some of my responsibilities as a settler. During a 2013 paddle to commemorate and enact the Two Row Wampum Treaty I was asked several times by Indigenous paddlers why I was there, and I would respond that I felt compelled to participate because my ancestors benefited from the Two Row Wampum. How people reacted to my answer has stayed with me since; many of the Indigenous people who asked me this question said that they wished they could trace their family connections back that far. Until that moment, I hadn’t given much thought to my ease with the archive and with my own family history. I hadn’t connected it with white settler colonial privilege.      87  In House of Glass, Minahasa writer Frederick Pangemanann sets the expected “heady rush” that comes with archival discovery “against the fact that for “the colonial, archives are the bitter aftertaste of Empire, the morsels left to us, their voracious contemporary readers” (Pangemanann in Stoler, 2009, p. 19). What I didn’t realize on the ferry that day as we headed to Victoria was that the archives, while holding some information about Rosemary’s family, would also open up a lot of pain and anger. In a talk on Indigenous feminist love in the archive, Dory Nason shared that there is an intense emotional impact that comes with the settler archive. “This is an archive created by colonial power, an archive that is incredibly revealing of the power that white men have to shape Indigenous women’s lives and futures” (Nason, forthcoming manuscript).  What I at first perceived as clerical errors; a name misspelled or unwritten, an incorrect birth date, a missing marriage certificate for Rosemary were violent absences (Stoler, 2009, p.6), signs of willful indifference (A. Simpson, 2016), a refusal of Indigenous ways of knowing (Stoler, 2009, p.22). Archives transmit traumatic memory; “trauma, like performance, is characterized by the nature of its “repeats” (Taylor, 2003, p.167). Lived experiences of trauma become traumatic voids in settler archives.   When Rosemary and I started our research, Rosemary thought she knew very little about her great grandmother Tlahoholt. She had heard that her name was Emma or Emily, and that she might have met her husband at a Potlatch in Stanley Park. She knew that Tlahoholt had lived with her husband William (Scotty and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s son) on Galiano Island. Rosemary also knew that William had died suddenly in 1897 and that Tlahoholt soon after left Galiano with their children, only to have Scotty kidnap one of the children, George William (Rosemary’s grandfather) back to Galiano, to be raised at the lighthouse. Census records show that 4 years later, in 1901 that George William Georgeson was living at the lighthouse with     88 Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and Scotty. George grew up apart from his mother and siblings.  Beginning with the information that Rosemary had shared, I searched through the census, birth, death, and marriage registrations. I found dozens of Indigenous Emmas from the mid to late 1800s. I narrowed the search to only the lower mainland and Vancouver Island and there were still too many Emmas to even be able to make an educated guess.  We later learned that the frequency of the name Emma was likely because of the Church. When Indigenous people were baptized, (often against their will), the church would give them a Christian name – and that they would often, as in the photo below, baptize a number of people at one time and give them all the same name – hence Emma as a common, if not unexpectedly common name for Indigenous women in the mid-1800s.79     Photo 6: Book containing children’s names before and after baptism.80                                                  79. Norman Guerrero and Joanne Pederson both told us about this practice. Conversations with them and other researchers and relatives appear in Chapter 4 and 5. 80 . From Joanne Peterson, personal archive     89 It wasn’t until we arrived in Victoria and began to go through what information there was on the Georgeson family that we were finally able to begin to stitch together Tlahoholt’s archival record. As we went through reels of microfiche, I grew increasingly frustrated by what we were finding – or failing to find. I could not follow any threads. Yet, Rosemary was intuitively working her way through the names, places, and territories that were illuminated on the screen. A name that I would associate as ‘fitting’ with the ‘story’, Rosemary would emphatically reject. Crystal Fraser and Zoe Todd argue “rather than decolonize the archives, the application of a decolonial sensibility is necessary to attend to the complex relationships between archives and Indigenous peoples” (n.d.). Rosemary was working with a very different archive to read the papers trails of Tlahoholt.   Rather than the archive corroborating Rosemary’s knowledge, it was her knowledge that pushed up against the settler archive. This is what Diana Taylor describes as “the rift”, a space “between the archive of supposedly enduring materials and the so-called ephemeral repertoire of embodied practice / knowledge” (Taylor, 2003, p.19).81 For Rosemary, an important methodology for accessing embodied knowledge came from “Personal Legacy” a physical / dramaturgical process developed by Diane Roberts. Rosemary and I have individually participated in Personal Legacy workshops with Diane, and Rosemary tells me that it was this mentorship in conducting research about Tlahoholt and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and using exercises to “awaken sense and memory” that she developed some of the skills essential to working with the memories stored in her body (Roberts, 2007, p.3). Guna and Rappahannock                                                  81. This tension in a settler colonial context carries an additional weight, as the archive of enduring materials is drawn on as evidence. For example, see Delgamuukw v British Columbia, where Gitksan and Witsuwit'en Oral testimonies were dismissed by the court.      90 artist and scholar Monique Mojica states; “Our bodies are our libraries—fully referenced in memory, an endless resource, a giant database of stories. Some we lived, some were passed on, some dreamt, some forgotten, some we are unaware of, dormant, awaiting the key that will release them” (Mojica, 2011, p.97). Rosemary would identify an incorrect birth date or remember hearing a story related to a wedding or funeral. These stories would puncture what we were seeing in the archival records.  As witness to this, I experienced Rosemary as accessing something that steered her in certain directions; as Mojica describes, a sense of “I’ve been here before” when I know I haven’t” (Mojica, 2011, p.4). Dallas Hunt writes about his grandmother’s encounter with inaccuracies and omissions in the Swan River archive “the multiple inaccuracies in the written archival text highlight the importance of oral histories, not only as alternatives to the inconsistencies in the narratives settlers often tell of themselves, but also as valuable historical texts that make claims to spaces of belonging that assert long-held notions of Indigenous community” (D. Hunt, 2016, p.35).  Rosemary’s memories, the knowledge that had been passed down to her, and her own ancestral work provided a counter-narrative to the settler archive.82   This is not so much the imagination freed by the constraints of the settler archive that Stoler advocates but is instead a filling in of the silences that exist between archival records and embodied knowledge. It is the traces that remains that have been carried by six generations of Rosemary’s family, from Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) to Tlahoholt to Rosemary. It is about                                                  82. For more on this ancestor work, please see the Arrivals Legacy. The process was developed by Diane Roberts and Rosemary and I both met her when she was the artistic director of urban ink, a Vancouver based Indigenous and intercultural theater production company.  Rosemary has done this workshop a number of times, and I have done it once. It is an amazing ancestor research and embodiment process that accessed much of the knowledge that Rosemary relied on at the archives.      91 generations of willful Indigenous women passing along information and knowledge. Sarah Ahmed (2014) describes this as a “willfulness archive” (Ahmed, 2014, p.19). As our time at the archives went on, the stories, memories, conversations and sensations that were embodied within Rosemary tore sharp edges into the settler archive. I was in many ways a supportive bystander; helping to load microfiche, sitting next to Rosemary, but completely unable to navigate the emotional, felt terrain of the world of archival analysis that Rosemary was immersed in. This is perhaps what Dian Million refers to as a felt archive “a narrative that appeals as history that can be felt as well as intellectualized” taking “down the barriers between the personal and the political” (Million, 2009, p.59). The archive was again part of a living archive of Rosemary’s life.   We learned, through Rosemary’s embodied navigation of the material archive, that Tlahoholt’s name changes throughout the settler archival record. In the 1891 census she is Emma, at the 1891 baptism of her daughter Emily she’s also listed as Emma. In 1920, on the marriage certificate of her youngest son (and Rosemary’s grandfather) George William Georgeson she’s listed as Emily Georgeson. At the second marriage of George William Georgeson she’s also listed as Emily Georgeson, born in Squamish. At her son Albert’s second marriage she’s listed as Cecile Jim, and at the death of Albert she’s Cecile Jim.83 When Tlahoholt’s daughter Annie died in 1973 the only fact recorded about her parents was that her dad’s last name was Georgeson.  Usually Tlahoholt has no last name, and on the registration of birth of her youngest son George William Georgeson even her first name is indecipherable.                                                     83. Fay’s daughter Corinna suggested that this name change could have been strategic, speculating that perhaps it was to hide from the government, or obtain something from them.      92 Photo 7: George William Georgeson’s birth certificate, with mother’s name indecipherable.84 This document is particularly telling of settler colonial indifference. Either the writer was unsure of Tlahoholt’s name, or too lazy to correct or clarify what was written. Yet, importantly, unlike Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) who is sometimes referred to as “Mrs. Georgeson”, Emma is only ever in reference to her Indigenous last name “Jim” (Barman, 2014, p.164).   We know from connecting these archival fragments to oral information and historical research that Tlahoholt had four children; Emily, Albert (often called Herbert in the archives), Annie, and George. Emily and Albert were connected with Homalco and Sliammon,                                                  84 BC Archives: Birth Registration George William Georgeson. Number: 1892-09-604537, BC Archives Mfilm Number: B13804, GSU Mfilm Number: 2115625. 1892-04-28      93 while Annie was Squamish. In the1891 census Emma (Tlahoholt) is part of family #16 which includes William, their son Alfred (4) (Albert), their unnamed daughter (2) (likely Emily) and William’s brother Henry. They are all living in a wooden house that has one floor and one room. It is likely the house in the photo below, which is the only known photo of Tlahoholt and William.  What we were unable to find in the settler archive was any information about where Tlahoholt was from, or what happened to her when she left Galiano, or why she left. We also were unable to find any information about how William died, or what happened to Emily, Annie, and Albert. The fragmentary archival record of Tlahoholt tells us nothing of her real (traditional) name, nor the things she said, felt, or refused to do.  That house in the pic of Emma is where her children would go to see her. The other old grandmas, maybe even Emma, would hang a white tea towel in the window and that is how they knew she was there. The old grandfather and his sons thought it was the women having tea. I used to hear this story from my uncles. (Rosemary Georgeson, Personal Correspondence, 2015) Photo 8: Tlahoholt, William and their three children in Georgeson Bay.85                                                  85. Rosemary Georgeson, Private Archive     94 There are similarities in how Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and Tlahoholt’s archival story is told; Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and Tlahoholt have names that change throughout their archival lives. This is likely because their Indigenous names, as well as their Christian names, inflected with their first languages, went misheard or unheard by the white ears of those that documented and archived.86  Yet while Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie), as discussed above, was sometimes referred to as “Mrs. Georgeson”, Emma in the archival record remains fixed to her Indigenous name “Emma Jim”.  Fraser and Todd argue when “Indigenous people are present in historical records, they are often depicted as passive bystanders, rarely free agents in their own right and far removed from narratives that highlight agency or sophistication” (n.pag.).   Yet there is also willfulness found in this settler paper archive. It is found in the interventions that Rosemary’s ancestors made into the archival record that changed how Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) was remembered. Ellen and Archie’s “contrapuntal intrusions” (Stoler, 2009) significantly shift the story that the setter archive tells about Scotty.87 These slippages are unique and extremely rare because archival access, as Trouillot reminds us, depends on access to colonial power (Trouillot, 1995, p.105).  Perhaps it was their proximity to Scotty that gave Ellen and Archie the power to revisit the archive, to willfully leave marks in the settler archive. For Ahmed (2014) approaching a willful archive is about “following a depositing rather than finding what is deposited...what is willfulness doing?” (Ahmed, 2014, 17).  In the next part of this chapter I follow these traces of willfulness found in the settler archive.                                                     86. It’s also possible in the case of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie), that she was mistaken for another Indigenous woman- Kittie, who lived on Mayne Island.  87. This shift inspired by the willfulness in the archive opens up another orientation, or path, as discussed in chapter 4.      95 2.4 Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s Story Sarah Ahmed describes assembling “a willfulness archive... documents that are passed down in which willfulness comes up, as a trait” (Ahmed, 2014, p.13).  Peering closely at the dimly lit microfiche, Rosemary and I notice something that is pressed into the margins of George Georgeson’s death certificate.88  George was one of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and Scotty’s sons; he took over the operation of the lighthouse when Scotty retired and we suspect he was perhaps feared by some of his family 89  So, it is especially significant that this particular intervention was physically written onto George’s death certificate. Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) is listed as George’s mother. Her name spelled out in clearly legible, elegant cursive writing is ‘Elizabeth’.  Alongside the margins of the certificate, typed text reads, in all capitals “INDIAN NAME – SAR-AUGH-TA-NAOGH”.90                                                   88. Death certificate 607552, British Columbia, Division of Vital Statistics, GR 2951. 89. Rosemary and I have talked at length about George and his role in the family, but this is not information that will be shared within the scope of the dissertation.  90. Death Certificate for George Georgeson. 007552, British Columbia, Division of Vital Statistics, GR 2951. BC Archives. Accession number(s): 90-1809. File location: Reel B09187, File 637/1949.      96 Photo 9: George Georgeson’s death certificate, with “Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh” written into the margin.91  Ellen Hawthorne, the witness to the death certificate likely asked that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s traditional name be included – a significant “contrapuntal intrusion” (Stoler, 2009, p.46) into the settler archive, especially since at Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s own wedding she is just described as “Sophie ‘Indian Woman’”, her traditional name typed onto the death certificate implies that her traditional name was known to her extended family. It is clear that Ellen understood the significance of the death certificate, of how it would carry the information                                                  91 British Columbia Archives. Death Certificate for George Georgeson. 007552, British Columbia, Division of Vital Statistics, GR 2951. Accession number(s): 90-1809. File location: Reel B09187, File 637/1949       97 of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s name with it.92  This intervention is vital; representing an action that is as critical to decolonization as blockades and protests (Hunt and Holmes, pp.157-58).   On October 6th, 1965 Archie Georgeson was interviewed by CBC radio producer Imbert Orchard who recorded over a thousand interviews about British Columbia’s early settlement history. He interviewed Archie about Archie’s grandfather Scotty Georgeson, and the early years of Galiano and Mayne Island. Rosemary and I knew going to the archives that we would hear the voice and words of Rosemary’s great uncle Archie. Rosemary has many memories of Archie from when she was a kid, and the experience of sitting there together, both of us wearing separate pairs of headphones, making it difficult to talk to each other while we were listening to Archie.  Archie’s interview, set against the narrative backdrop of  “Scotty’s Story”  is so powerful because, mapped alongside the dates that we know of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s life,  it tells part of a counter story where we glimpse Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s importance to Scotty’s survival, her deep knowledge of fish and water, and her incredible strength and resistance. The fact that this interview sits at the B.C. archives in the same space as Scotty’s preemption application and the myriad names for Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) is a significant archival counter narrative. Archie describes that in the early days, before Scotty got the lighthouse job, that Scotty would go hunting with his friend Johnny O’Brien, and would sell the deer in Victoria or New Westminster and adds that his grandmother Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) was there with him. Importantly, Archie confirms that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)                                                  92. Why it is typed out, where the name is from, or what it means remains unknown. Today, the phonetic spelling of her name is unrecognizable to hən̓q̓əmin̓əm or Sḵwx̱wú7mesh sníchim speakers.      98 was with Scotty before he pre-empted the land on Galiano, that she was fishing alongside Scotty in the Fraser River for dogfish. Photo 10: Sandheads Lighthouse Henry Georgeson sold 112 gallons of dog fish oil.93    “Oh yes. Of course, when she was younger, you know, when they first went there (Galiano or the lighthouse) or even before they went there (Galiano or the lighthouse), she was always in with him, you know – with the fish and that, helping him do this and do everything. Of course, besides, she had the kids to bring up too, you know”.   Given that Scotty was from the Shetland Islands he was likely knowledgeable about water, boats, and fish, but it’s likely that much of his knowledge didn’t translate into a Coast Salish context, and that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) shared considerable knowledge with him about fish, water, and how to survive on the Coast. Archie makes it absolutely clear that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) worked alongside Scotty, and therefore we can assume that she worked with him to catch fish, render down their oil, clear the land for pre-emption, and, despite a newspaper article claiming that “Scotty has brought up his family with every credit to himself”, it’s certain                                                  93 Sessional Papers of the Parliament of the Dominion of Canada, Volume 21, Issue 7, Sessional Paper 5. A1888      99 that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) raised all of their children, passed her traditional name on to them and taught them how to take care of the land and water of Georgeson Bay.     When Archie is asked if Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) took part in the lighthouse work, Archie responds “Oh, no. No, no. She never did that; she just did the cooking. Cleaning around – that’s all she did. She never did… she wouldn’t have anything to do with the lighthouse of course. She used to like fishing, smoking salmon – that’s about all she…. But that’s enough, anyhow, especially when you get as old as she was”.  In other words, Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) continued to go out and fish, to traditionally harvest and smoke fish like she had always done. As discussed in Chapter 5, this is remarkable given that it was illegal for Indigenous women to own boats or nets, and consequently it was rare, though not unheard of, for an Indigenous woman to go out fishing. As the wife of a prominent lighthouse keeper in a very busy thoroughfare, we can infer that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s fishing was not some clandestine activity, despite the intense machinery of surveillance and violence that was being constructed around the traditional food fishery at that time. In his interview, Archie catches himself “That’s about all she… but that’s enough, anyhow”, recognizing all the care work that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) did. We know that she fished alongside Scotty, cared for her many children and grandchildren, and that she hung onto her traditions. What we have been able to infer from her story; where she was from, her strategic preemption of land on Galiano, her well timed marriage to Scotty, and her connection to her homeland remains Rosemary’s story to tell.   The silences and gaps in the archive are violent and present an ethical question for me. In The archive and the repertoire (2008) Diana Taylor asks “how do those that have not suffered the violence come to understand it? And participate, in our own ways in further transmitting it?” (Taylor, 2003, p.164) Here there is a tension; I don’t want this chapter to be an     100 account of archival violence, but I also want to follow Saidiya Hartman who asks us to “respect the limits of what cannot be known” (Hartman, 2008, p.4). Telling all of what we know, or more precisely, what Rosemary knows of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s story here would trespass both the boundaries of the archive, and our relationship. Therefore, I engage in narrative “the refusal to fill in the gaps and provide closure” (Hartman, 2008, p.12). Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) and Tlahoholt are occluded in both Scotty’s historiography and in the settler archives, yet the archive also provided a key to releasing Rosemary’s ancestral memories and experiences. It was these pieces that led us to find the names of Tlahoholt’s children in the settler archive, to determine that Tlahoholt was likely from Squamish, and to eventually reconnect with her descendants.      101 Chapter 3: Gender, Occlusion, and the McKenna McBride Commission   This chapter draws on testimonies from the 1913 – 1916 Royal Commission on Indian Affairs (commonly referred to as the McKenna McBride Commission) to trace gendered archival occlusions as settler modes of governance. I begin with an overview of the Commission and then look at how the testimonies have been used in academic publications, identifying how silences within the testimonies have been replicated by those writing from them. I then turn to look at slippages between the evidence submitted to the Commission and what was transcribed into the settler record. Specifically, I tie these erasures to particular people and places within Rosemary's own family. I then move from this scale of family and traditional territory to think about the Commission and the gendered erasures that run through its parameters, testimonies, and legal orders. In so doing, I situate archival occlusion as a settler mode of governance that works through elimination, described by Audra Simpson as a settler colonial death drive “to contain, to hide, to otherwise disappear what fundamentally challenges its legitimacy, Indigenous political orders” (A. Simpson, 2016, p.3).  Simpson’s work details how this is a specifically gendered process, arguing “Canada requires the death and so called “disappearance” of Indigenous women in order to secure its sovereignty” (A. Simpson, 2016, p.1). Characterizing the state as a white heteropatriarchal man, Simpson goes on to detail how the state targets not only “fleshy bodies” but Indigenous political life itself, achieved through particular laws and legislation as well as “slow processes of forced geographic removals, assimilation projects and citizenship itself” (A. Simpson, 2016, p.10).  In this chapter I dig into the archives of the Commission as well as academic writing about the Commission to argue that silences and omissions are key sites of settler colonial heteropatriarchal governance by elimination. Importantly, in tying the testimonies     102 to the traditional territories and lands of Rosemary’s ancestors I reveal how the settler archive of the McKenna McBride Commission can be re-read through particular people and places.    When Rosemary and I began our research, one of the first places I turned was the testimonies of the McKenna McBride Commission. The recorded proceedings, referred to as “the extended evidence”, includes transcripts of testimony and evidence such as maps and reports submitted (Sanders et al, 2016). Many copies of the transcripts exist. For this Chapter, I rely on ‘Our Homes are Bleeding’, an online searchable database of the testimonies accessible on the Union of B.C Indian Chiefs website.94 I also accessed microfilms of the evidence submitted that are held at the Union of British Columbia Indian Chiefs archive. As discussed below, the Commission testimonies have been extensively used in academia to tell stories about the settler colonial dispossession of Indigenous territories. I too was pulled into the testimonies, which read as compelling and often devastating first-hand accounts of how Indigenous Peoples were experiencing and resisting dispossession of their lands and waters.    I read through the Commission testimonies that were from Skwxwú7mesh (Squamish) xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), and Xwémalhkwu (Homalco) territories; the same territories as Rosemary's ancestors. Initially I wanted to find out more about what was happening to the lands and waters of Rosemary’s great grandmother Tlahoholt’s (Emma’s) home and reveal why she might have left with her children. But in reading the testimonies I became drawn to thinking about the workings of the Commission itself, the gendered logics and legal frameworks that scripted very particular forms of justice, testimony, and in (action). In Chapter 2 “Settler Archival Occlusion and Material Erasure” I discussed how archival occlusions and omissions                                                  94.     103 within settler colonialism are key empirical sites.  In the context of the Commission I draw inspiration from Ann Stoler's question “What has been disappeared from the finished product?” (Stoler, 2013, p.5).  I look at how disappearance runs through the Commission testimonies and academic work that draws on them.  It is with an awareness of Indigenous research methodologies that I also read against the grain, push against the impulse to excavate the testimonies as an empirical site of Indigenous knowledge, carefully balancing this with the necessity of writing against the silences that others have reproduced.   In Chapter 5, “Archival Refusal”, I discuss archival refusal in relation to the settler archive. In this chapter, I take up the Commission because, as historian Kirsten Weld reminds us, “we recover the past in order to look to the future. As such, documents, archives, and historical knowledge are more than just the building blocks of politics— they are themselves sites of contemporary political struggle” (Weld, 2014, p.3). Commissions have always been sites of contemporary struggle, created to recuperate the Nation state.95 “By definition, commissions organized knowledge, rearranged its categories, and prescribed what state officials were charged to know...But commissions were not just pauses in policy and tactics of delay. Like statistics, they helped "determine the character of social facts" and produced new truths as they produced new social realities” (Stoler, 2002, p.104).  Insight into other commissions can be gained by my close reading of the McKenna McBride Commission. and   As I show below, the archive of the Commission contextualized through the lives, lands, and waters of Rosemary's ancestors pushes against the very occlusions within the Commission’s decisions and archives, “refusing settler colonial organizing of land, bodies, and social and                                                  95. Thanks to Glen Coulthard for insight into framing this chapter through signalling that the McKenna McBride Commission was part of this apparatus of governance.      104 political landscapes.” (Goeman, 2013, p. 3). This assertion of relationship to water, fish, and land not only comes up in Commission testimonies but stretches through generations, not just within Rosemary's family but through multiple families, communities, and territories. The 2019 exhibition Hexsa’a̱m: To Be Here Always at the Belkin Art Gallery connects testimonies made to the McKenna McBride Commission from Johnny Scow (Kwikwasuti’nuxw), Copper Johnson (Ha’xwa’mis), Dick Webber and Dick Hawkins (Dzawada̱’enux̱w), and Alec Morgan (Gwawa’enuxw) to the May 2018 Dzawada̱’enux̱w First Nation court challenge to extend Aboriginal title to the ocean.  Hexsa’a̱m presents the testimonies and the BC supreme court challenge as “two moments in a tangled timeline of resistance, these legal encounters bring forward the ways that cultural practices can bring new realities into being for a community experiencing ongoing social, cultural and ecological effects of colonization and globalizing economics”.96  3.1 Background on the Commission The Royal Commission on Indian Affairs, commonly referred to as the McKenna-McBride Commission, operated throughout the Province of British Columbia from 1913 – 1916.  The Commission emerged as a response from British Columbia and the Dominion to mounting pressure from Indigenous Peoples on the issue of Indigenous title.  Indigenous delegations had gone to Rome and London (1904), London (1906), and Ottawa (1908 and 1909) to bring International attention to the issue of title, and domestically the Nisga’a Land Committee, the Interior Tribes of British Columbia and the Indian Rights association were formed to secure                                                  96.     105 Indigenous rights and title (D. Harris, 2008). Amidst ongoing disagreement between the Province and the Dominion about responsibility and jurisdiction, the Commission was created to deal with the issue of reserves in British Columbia, with Commissioners traveling throughout the province to evaluate the size of existing reserves, hear from Indigenous leaders as well as white settlers and politicians and determine, with the consent of each Nation, if a reserve should be enlarged, reduced, or sold (D. Harris, 2008).   Based out of Victoria, Commissioners travelled by car, train, boat, wagon and packhorse throughout the Province to hear testimony from Indigenous Nations. Coll Harris (2002) narrates this journey “as they travelled, they conducted hearings, principally with Native people, but also with interested whites, particularly boards of trade and town councils” (C. Harris, 2002, p.279).  Indian Agents arranged their visits, and Commissioners would sit at tables covered in white linen and listen to testimonies, while stenographers and secretaries took notes.  A local translator would translate from the Indigenous language into English, and the testimony was transcribed.  The thousands of pages of transcribed testimonies have been called a “complex source of information” (D. Harris, 2008,  p.281), and it is clear that Commissioners were grappling with a completely unfamiliar political and cultural context as they tried to understand and unravel the meaning of what they were hearing (D. Harris, 2008, p.281). As has been well documented in the literature (K. Smith, 2009, D. Harris, 2008,  C. Harris, 2002), unlike most Commissions in the late 1800s and early 1900s, the McKenna-McBride Commission was not a comparison between bodies or things, wasn’t intimate and medical, but was rather a dividing of land and water, and an accounting of the value of land and its productivity. Essentially, as Smith argues, the ultimate goal was to free up “additional land for settlement and extinguish the Provinces claim to     106 reversionary interest by selling reserve lands determined to be in excess” (K. Smith, 2009, p.189).  Geographer Cole Harris has extensively documented how enumeration worked in the context of the Commission to flatten geographic space and facilitate decisions about land from the comforts of the Commission’s office in Victoria. “Like the simple cadastral maps, the Commissioners produced they could be moved to a “center of calculation” however distant. There, maps and numbers could be analyzed together” (C. Harris, 2004, p.176). The Commissioners were obsessed with enumeration – and without fail they made sure that each Chief gave them accurate population numbers – numbers of how many men, women, and children were in each reserve. In many cases, Commissioners also asked for further elaboration – how many people were married, how many were widowed, etc. They counted other things – how many houses were on each reserve, how many chickens, cows, cultivable acres, boats, licenses, etc. In my estimate, testimony related to counting – including clarifying what was included or excluded in order to make the above tables of data – amounts to roughly 70% of the Commission testimonies from the New Westminster and Cowichan agencies. The Indigenous epistemologies and ontologies present at the testimonies were largely incomprehensible and untranslatable to the Commissioners themselves, requiring a particular scientific approach to coding, classifying, and organizing what they had heard. (C. Harris, 2002).97                                                  97.This incomprehensibility with regard to commissions and Indigenous ontologies is the subject of  Krog, Antjie, N. L. Mpolweni-Zantsi, and Kopano Ratele. There was this Goat: Investigating the Truth Commission Testimony of Notrose Nobomvu Konile. University of KwaZulu-Natal Press, Scottsville, South Africa, 2009. The authors seek to undertand the seeming incoherentness of Mrs. Konile's testimony, yet they also grapple with the very idea that Mrs. Konile emerges as “incomprehensible” and the expectation that the authors disciplinary expertise might produce greater clarity.     107 It is also clear that Commissioners were not simply asking questions for the purposes of making decisions about land allocation – they were also surveying and policing Indigenous Peoples, enforcing laws related to fishing, counting and documenting weapons on each reserve -attempting to pacify the Indigenous Nations they visited. Robert Nichols describes carceral power as a state apparatus of capture, territorializating settler state sovereignty “governance, sociality, and ecology are bound up together in the settler colonial ‘death drive’ that in this case is warlike and terrorizing in its attack on everyday life” (Nichols, p. 453). Little work has been done on carceral power and the Commission, but it is important to consider it alongside the Indian Act, the development of the Canadian Pacific Railway and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police as a way of stabilizing a white population and sedimenting Canada’s sovereignty (Falzetti, 2014).    Dr. McKenna: Is there much potlatching among the Indians at Capilano?  A. I can hardly say. May be once a year, may be once in 2 years we call some of our people to eat with us. We buy grub maybe about $25. to entertain our friends with. We don't have a potlatch here in the summer, in the winter when a few friends come here, and we have an Indian war dance.  When McKenna in 1915 asks Skwxwú7mesh Chief Joe Mathias at Capilano Indian Reserve No. 1 about Potlatching, he’s asking about a practice that was banned in 1884 by the Federal government under the Indian Act.98  The Commissioners were very interested in                                                  98. ‘One of the most famous displays of resistance was an underground potlatch hosted by ‘Namgis Chief Dan Cranmer in Alert Bay. To celebrate a wedding, Cranmer hosted a six-day potlatch over Christmas, 1921. Indian Agents interrupted the potlatch and arrested approximately 50 people. The jail term was to be several months, but Indian Agents offered reduced sentences for anyone who would surrender their potlatch items, such as valuable     108 determining if the law had been broken and in maintaining it. In other portions of the Commission testimony, Indigenous Peoples are reprimanded for fishing in the closed season, or for not having the proper licenses. Testimony from Indigenous Peoples also shows their interactions with carceral power, whereby fisheries Commissioners and settlers both worked through modes of surveillance, regulation, and domination to dispossess Indigenous peoples of their ways of life. Prevalent in the testimonies is how white settlers worked hand in hand with formal state officials to ensure that Indigenous Peoples were pushed off of their lands and disconnected from fish. For example, when the Matsqui people meet with the Commission on January 11th, 1915 Chief Charlie addresses the Commission, saying I did not come here from another country or from other nations – I was always here and always will be. The principal thing I want to see you about is, anything that we want to do around here in the fishing, hunting, or cutting timber, we are always stopped from doing these things. Often, I start away from home with my gun on my shoulder and try to get a deer and some of the white people will see me and they want to have me arrested right away. This is all that we have been living on before and it is the same thing today.   The logics of war and social pacification of domestic populations are forms of state violence that are “constitutive of territorialized sovereignty in a colonial context” (Nichols, 2014, p. 471). Indigenous Peoples experience “policing itself as a force imposed externally by a government that the subjugated population does not recognize, authorize and/or does not have effective participation within” (Nichols, 2014, p. 447).  When the Commissioners persistently raise questions relating to how many people are on reserve, where they go, what they do, their                                                                                                                                                              masks, costumes, and coppers. 22 people went to jail for two months, and hundreds of potlatch items were confiscated, a devastating loss to the community’.     109 summary of this information in tables is a form of carceral power in action. It is subjugation “in a civil manner through lawfully sanctioned administrative surveillance” (Shewell, 2004, p.9). The very collection of data and information undermines Indigenous sovereignty, turning Indigenous Nations into Peoples and populations to be surveyed, monitored, documented, and tracked (Nichols, 2014, p.444). I discuss more of this in relation to fish and water in Chapter 6 and 7.   As legal scholar Douglas Harris documents in Landing Native Fisheries and Fish, Law, and Colonialism (2008) the testimonies also reveal the disjuncture between a settler legal regime of private property and reserve allocation and an Indigenous reality of political, social, and cultural life centered on fishing, and in particular salmon. Here, translation - not just between Indigenous Peoples testifying in their languages and the interpretation and translation for the archival record but also the very translation of legal orders - comes to the fore.  Doug Harris also underscores that the work of the Commission separated Indigenous title from fisheries, and in so doing, rendered Indigenous testimonies relating to fish and water indecipherable and inconsequential to the Commission and its legal orders. Harris cites McKenna’s comment “I have not touched upon the complaint of the Indians as to the regulations restricting hunting and fishing. That awaits investigation but does not at all stand in the way of the settlement of the land question”.99 As I discuss in Chapter 7, this legal separation between land, water, and fish continues to reverberate through the modern treaty process, supreme court decisions relating to title, and the fisheries licensing system. Yet as I show below it was not just fish and water that were rendered indecipherable and inconsequential to the Commission; Indigenous women were as well.                                                   99. McKenna to McBride, 299 July 1912, GR 441, box 147, file 1, British Columbian Archives (BCA).      110  The Commission resulted in a massive amount of ‘cut off land’:  land that was taken out of already allocated reserves. In some cases, reserves were eliminated completely. In Liberalism, Surveillance, Resistance, Keith Smith writes that the Commission estimated the value of the cut off lands to be worth $1,522,704, and the value of additional lands at just $444,838 (K. Smith, 2009, p.185). Ultimately, the Province of British Columbia was dismayed that so much reserve land remained. Meanwhile in 1919 the Dominion’s original provision requiring Indigenous consent before any land was cut off was eliminated from the Commission’s mandate as it had become clear that no Indigenous Nation would consent to land reductions, especially since most Nations had argued for increases to their land base (D. Harris, 2001, p.251).  Today, the Union of BC Indian Chiefs is using testimonies from the Commission as evidence to support the claims of Nations who are taking the McKenna McBride Commission’s decisions about cut off lands to the specific claims tribunal. Lake Babine, ‘Namgis, and Akisq’nuk are just some of the Nations and bands pursuing specific claims in relation to the McKenna McBride Commission. Lake Babine’s Taltapin Lake Claim argues the McKenna McBride Commission “failed to set aside this village in 1916, notwithstanding its mandate to allot Indian Reserves especially where lands were occupied by aboriginal people”.100  Through the special claims tribunal, testimonies from the McKenna McBride Commission are being mobilized by Indigenous Nations to argue for the return of land. The decisions made by the Commission and the resistance to them continues, 100 years later.                                                   100.“     111 3.2 Academic Literature on Royal Commission Testimonies Ann Stoler reads the fixity and stability that coheres around colonial narratives and the study of them as a form of violence, asking us to look at how these articulations may recede and / or emerge, how they come in and out of vision (Stoler, 2009; 2016).  In reading the work of other academics that have used the Commission testimonies, it becomes clear that certain things – like fish, water, land, dispossession, and law – have been a central point of coherence. For the most part, publications connected with McKenna McBride have been helpful in delineating the specifics of land dispossession in relation to the early 1900s in British Columbia. Yet, some of the writing based on the Commission archives has inadvertently reproduced its silences and occlusions. For instance, in almost all of the academic writing about the Commission, gender violence and its relation to modes of governance and the dispossession of water and land have receded from view, with barely a footnote for reference.  This fading out of focus is part of a settler archival structural imperative, as we have seen in Chapter 2, but with the Commission testimonies it is extended by the work of settler scholars and archivists who have often inadvertently reproduced the myopic views of the Commissioners and their structural biases (Stoler, 2013, p.5). As Trouillot states “the production of historical narratives involves the uneven contribution of competing groups and individuals who have unequal access to the means for such production” (Trouillot, 1995, xix). It follows that the labor that has gone into producing settler archives has been reproduced by the labor that has been spent reading and interpreting settler archives. “The ultimate mark of power may be its invisibility; the ultimate challenge, the exposition of its roots’ (Trouillot, 1995, p.xix). This matters in ways that are deeply material and very present, as Alshley Falzetti writes ‘How the story is told shapes how…places are imagined in the present and thus provides a sense of who belongs there” (Falzetti, 2015, p. 2).      112  In Chapter 2, I looked at the paper narrative of Rosemary’s ancestors, showing how in newspaper articles, census records, and histories written about the Georgeson family that the Indigenous women recede from view. I argue that this fading out of focus is part of a settler colonial logic that works through erasure and occlusion; that archival absence can translate into material erasure from band membership and traditional territory.  The disappearance of Indigenous women from the Commission transcripts and their subsequent absence from academic work about the Commission removes their narratives, protests, desires, and agencies from the actual events that occurred as well as shifts how we remember settler colonial history and Indigenous resistance. Below, I briefly review some of the academic work that has been written about the Commission in order to delineate my own work and positionality in relation to what others have done. This sets up the second half of the chapter where I look at the question of gender and gender violence in relation to the Commission’s work and mandate.   In Makuk: A new history of Aboriginal-White relations (2008), John Lutz looks at exchanges and misunderstandings between white settlers and Indigenous Peoples in the early period of colonization. For his chapter on the Tŝilhqot'in, Lutz draws on the Commission testimonies for information on Tŝilhqot'in economies and attitudes towards residential schools.  Elsewhere, the testimonies are used to understand how Indigenous Peoples were excluded from the labor market.  Generally, Lutz’s work treats the Commission testimonies as a source of archival truth, as genuine accounts that allow us to understand the lives and experiences of Indigenous Peoples in the early 1900s.  Missing from the pages of Makuk are how Indigenous knowledge holders and Nations would today narrate the story that he is telling.  In some ways, Makuk is similar to Klassens’ (2016) “God Keep Our Land: The Legal Ritual of the McKenna-McBride Royal Commission, 1913–16,” where she uses the testimonies to look at differences in     113 cosmologies between Commissioners, settlers, and Indigenous Peoples. While Lutz includes some discussion about Indigenous women in Makuk, they are sprinkled throughout chapters, such as the Lekwungen chapter where Lutz discusses Indigenous women in relation to their traditional roles as well as how they navigated the changing rules relating to fishing and canneries. The only instance that Indigenous women are talked about as an organized group is in the “selling sex” section of Makuk, where Lutz essentially argues that the selling of sex during the gold rush era was likely thought of differently, with white men considering it prostitution while the Lekwungen thought of it as engaging in the capitalist economy by selling their slaves (Lutz, 2008, p.180). Lutz then goes on to suggest, based on recorded accounts by non-Indigenous peoples that Indigenous women would sell sex in order to “earn wealth independently of men in order to potlatch and to enhance their own status within their communities” (Lutz, 2008, p.181). Nowhere in the section on ‘selling sex’ does Lutz actually look towards what Indigenous women have to say on the subject, effectively framing their agency entirely through what white men observed and recorded (Lutz, 2008, p.181).   “What the People said: Kwakwaka’wakw, Nuu-Chah-Nulth and Tsimshian testimonies before the Royal Commission on Indian Affairs for the Province of British Columbia, 1913- 1926” is a content analysis of McKenna transcripts from Kwakwaka’wakw, Nuuchahlnulth, and Tsimshian territories.  Like Lutz, Sanders et al. argue that “the testimonies stand as the best available sample of Aboriginal views early in the century. Unlike many historical documents it is not a summary written after the fact. The testimonies are a detailed record of "events" (Sanders et al. p.217). The authors rely heavily on block quotes from the testimonies as well as percentage breakdowns for each topic that they coded for. For example, “desire for new/additions to existing reserves” and “non-native territorial expansion” were identified by the authors as the most     114 discussed topics by the Kwakwaka’wakw and Nuu-Chah-Nulth.  The decision to code for “traditional fishing sites” or “non-native expansion”, is a decision that codes for topics that predominantly center Indigenous men. Topics that are predominantly connected with Indigenous women and frequently come up in the testimonies - access to healthcare, neglect by doctors, and cannery work- aren’t coded for.  This reveals an implicit gender bias in the selection of codes throughout the testimonies, again erasing Indigenous women and centering the words and experiences of Indigenous men.   Doug Harris’s Landing Native Fisheries draws extensively on the Commission testimonies to argue that settler law was unable to treat land, reserves, and fisheries as one entity and emphasizes that the fishery was just as important as land within the context of the Commission.   Harris builds part of his argument off of Alicja Muszynski's Cheap Wage Labour, Race and Gender in the Fisheries of British Columbia, a book that looks at Indigenous women’s work in the canneries. Yet, Harris eliminates all reference to Indigenous women, focusing on the importance of the fishery while neglecting the role of Indigenous women within their communities and within the commercial fishery. Ultimately, in Landing Native Fisheries the word ‘women’ only appears twice. The same is unfortunately true of Cole Harris, who has worked extensively with the testimonies of the Commission and asks, “how was colonial power deployed to achieve this geographical effect?” (C. Harris, 2002, p.168), yet neglects to frame this question within settler colonial heteropatriarchy, an oversight that is symptomatic of a deeper logic of elimination running through the settler archive and the academic work that draws on it.   In the master’s thesis “Reinscribing Colonialism: the Royal Commission on Indian Affairs in Nlha’pamux and Stl’atl’imx Territory, 1914” Nadine Schuurman (1998) identifies the relations of power within the Commission. Schuurman sets the testimonies within a broader     115 context of the Indian Act and legal orders of British Columbia. She also relies on archives outside of the Commission testimonies, like the field notes of Gilbert Malcolm Sproat, or minutes of a council meeting to fill in some details about Indigenous women at the time of the Commission. Schuurman spends some time detailing settler accounts about Indigenous women in Nlha’pamux and Stl’atl’imx territory, delineating a progression of Indigenous women leaving their communities in the 1880s to the creation of ‘half breed’ status. Yet, within her analysis, Schuurman relies entirely on the written accounts of white men to create a historical understanding of Indigenous women.101   Historian Paige Raibmon’s “Meanings of Mobility in the Northwest Coast” draws on the testimonies but does so in a way that is aligned more closely with Indigenous research methodologies. Rather than relying on block quotes from the testimonies, Raibmon carefully moves between testimony, summary, and critical analysis, avoiding the ventriloquism that so often comes up in work that uses the testimonies, emphasizing mobility, agency and resistance: Testimony from the McKenna McBride Commission is replete with examples of the inability or unwillingness of non-Aboriginal officials to hear what Aboriginal people were saying. Individual witnesses came from dozens of different First Nations from all corners of the province. Although they did not conspire at the time to present a unified front, read today, their testimony evinces a remarkable commonality of voice. (Raibmon, 2007, p.184).   Raibmon finds commonality in how Indigenous Peoples were articulating their understandings of their territories and Indigenous title. Her analysis opens up space for thinking about agency and assertions of Indigenous title based on mobility rather than continuous occupation, showing how                                                  101. For an analysis that uses similar archival records but reads more agency into the choices made by Indigenous women, see Jean Barman Indigenous Women and Feminism on the Cusp of Contact in Indigenous Feminism: Theorizing the Issues eds Cheryl Suzack, Shari M. Huhndorf, Jeanne Perreault and Jean Barman.      116 Commissioners were unable to understand what was being articulated (Raibmon, 2007, p.185). In a similar vein, Susan Roy’s article McBride of McKenna McBride (2011) focuses on McBride himself, arguing that in spite of his relative familiarity with Indigenous Peoples that he had an unspoken policy to never allow “reserve lands to impede economic development” (Roy, 2011, p.42).   Both Raibmon and Roy position themselves in relation to the Commissioners, asking questions about the underlying settler colonial logics guiding their decisions and what this says about settler rule at the turn of the 19th century.  3.3 Archival Slippages and the Commission In the following section, I briefly describe discrepancies between the evidence that was submitted to Commissioners and what was transcribed. I then turn to talk more broadly about the interconnections between archival slippages at the level of the family and what this means for our understandings of the gendered workings of the Commission as a whole. Methodologically, I want to follow Raibmon and turn away from ventriloquism and focus more on the structure and logics of the Commission itself.   3.3.1 Gender When Rosemary and I first began to look at the testimonies from the Commission I did a quick search for the name “Georgeson” on the Union of B.C Indian Chiefs searchable testimony database. Nothing came up. But as our work progressed, I returned again to the database, this time with the knowledge (as discussed in Chapters 5 and 6) of where Rosemary’s ancestors were from as well as conversations with their descendants. This new understanding led me to physically visit the UBCIC archives and look at the original evidence that was submitted as well     117 as to search through the transcripts. What I learned led me back to thinking about settler colonial gender violence and occlusion.   We now know that two of Tlahoholt’s children ended up in Homalco territory.102 The transcripts of the Royal Commission for Homalco list the following summary information: Statistics of Homalco tribe: Population: 123 Total acres of reserves including Surge Narrows 1455.5 ac. Married couples: 26. Single people (adults): 2 Children: 69 Houses (residences): 22 at Church House. Gasolines: 24 Land Cleared and Fruit trees: Church House about 24 acres, 176 fruit trees There are twenty-six families in the Homalco tribe.103    As Cole Harris has discussed, these numbers, laid out at the beginning of the Commission’s visit to Homalco territory were a way of flattening geographic space, translating, as Raibmon argues, Indigenous understandings of land, water, and title into a formula that the Commissioners could understand, and importantly, use as a rubric once back in Victoria to make decisions about reserve reduction and land allocation. Yet, as I discuss below, this ontological and epistemological flattening extends to the very bodies of Indigenous Peoples, a fact that has escaped almost all of the scholars who have written about the Commission. The UBCIC archive of evidence submitted, “Exhibit B35” is a list of all the families of Homalco, as requested by the Commission. Knowing that Tlahoholt’s children went to Homalco helped us to look at what evidence was actually submitted by Homalco.                                                   102. I discuss how we came to know this in later chapters.  103. McKenna McBride New Westmisnter Agency, meeting with the Homalco Tribe, p. 314.      118 Photo 11: “Exhibit B35” Evidence submitted to the Commission. Albert Georgeson’s name bottom of page.104  At the bottom of the page are the names “Albert Georgeson and Mary Georgeson”.  Knowing that Tlahoholt’s son Albert went to Homalco territory sometime after 1890, the list of band members written by Chief George Harry confirms that he was still living there at the time of the                                                  104 Royal Commission on Indian Affairs for the Province of British Columbia. RG10 Vol 11021 File 5201. Exhibit 35. Evidence Submitted to the Royal Commission, New Westminster Agency, Homalco.      119 Commission. Importantly, the erasure of their names through transcription indicates that decisions about omitting information were happening well before the Commissioners returned to Victoria for their deliberations. In the case of Homalco, the result was that only the names of band members who testified were entered into the transcripts, despite what Homalco actually submitted.105 Looking for other instances of this slippage between evidence submitted and what was transcribed and entered into the record, I found many examples of names never entered, or only partially entered. For example, in Chilliwack the names of every member were submitted to the Commission, but when they were transcribed into the record the names of the Indigenous women were removed and replaced with “Wife”, as shown below.  Photo 12: Indigenous women’s names in Chilliwack replaced as “Wife”.106                                                  105 When I discuss this erasure, I am specifically referring to the transcribed testimonies from the Cowichan Agency. This is a hard copy of testimonies found at multiple library and archival institutions. This particular copy was provided by Dr. Jean Barman.  106 Royal Commission on Indian Affairs for the Province of BC.  New Westminster Agency. Meeting with the Chilliwack Band or Tribe of Indians at Chilliwack, B. C. on Wednesday, January 13th, 1915.      120   The enumeration of the Commission – the counting of Indigenous bodies into constrained categories; husband and wife, men and women - is bound up with the production of modern sexuality and the making of settler subjects (Morgensen, 2011, p.117). Colville Confederated tribes scholar Chris Finley argues that “sex is produced as a quality of bodies and populations that are then targeted for life or death to enact and reproduce state power” (Finley, after Foucault, 2011, p.31). In many cases the Commission also grouped people together as families, imposing a system of organization that was not necessarily based on how people chose to self-identify or self-organize. For Finley, “heterosexism and the structure of the nuclear family needs to be thought of as a colonial system of violence” (Finley, 2011, p. 32). Gendering and the imposition of heteropatriarchal roles within the Commission can be thought of as producing Indigenous populations for surveillance, helping to “establish the masculinist and heteropatriarchical terms of colonial power” (Morgensen, 2011, p.112). Enumeration was a disciplinary logic that worked to “educate all modern subjects in their senses of self” (Morgensen, 2011, p.110). It determined the field of recognizability (Rifkin, 86). This authority to determine “what would count as reason and reasonable was colonialism’s most insidious and effective technology of rule” (Stoler, 2009, p.57).  Importantly, what and who counted to the Commission was also about what and who counted in relation to land and political authority.   Crucially, this disciplinary technique of gendering through enumeration was essential to the creation and enforcement of gender-based laws and occlusions; laws and exclusions that were essential to dispossession. The gender and sexual colonization of Indigenous Peoples is a key site “through which settler colonialism conditions the diversely racialized subjects produced within queer modernities” (Morgensen, 2011, p. 23).   Audra Simpson argues that the settler colonial death drive is fundamentally gendered and as such targets the bodies of Indigenous     121 women. “Because with all bodies these bodies were more than just flesh. These were and are sign systems and symbols that could effect and affect political life and choices that people were making around them, so they had to be killed or at the least subjected” (A. Simpson, 2016, p.9). In Therapeutic Nations (2009) Dian Million underscores that gendered, racialized sexual violence is constitutive of settler Nation states and settler judicial orders. Naming and misgendering creates an unrecognizability that determines who gets to live on in death (Belcourt, 2018).  We know, based on photographs like the one below, taken when the Commission visited the Snuneymuxw Nation that Indigenous women were present during the testimonies.  Photo 13: The McKenna McBride Commission meeting at Nanaimo I.R. 1.107                                                  107 British Columbia Archives. Royal Commission on Indian Affairs for the Province of British Columbia. Meeting at Nanaimo I.R. 1. H-07051      122 They witnessed what was said, and some, like Jane Constance Cook, acted as translators.108 Many Indigenous women submitted pre-emption claims and letters of protest.  Very few testified, and in many cases were likely prevented from doing so.   The rules around who could testify reinforced settler colonial gender-based exclusions to property; as women could not cultivate land, own property, own boats, own nets, or hold oyster leases their testimonies were treated as unnecessary to the work of the Commission. Importantly, the devaluation of Indigenous women’s testimonies maps onto laws that govern property ownership, naturalizing settlement and gender based racial violence, destabilizing the role of Indigenous women within their communities. This is part of what Stoler, after Rob Nixon, refers to as “slow violences and long dyings” (Stoler, 2013, p.22) and represents one element of the “unchecked violence perpetrated on aboriginal women’s bodies” (Million, 2013, p. 33). Nevertheless, Indigenous women found ways for their voices to be heard by Commissioners and to be entered into the transcripts of the testimonies. For example, at Katzie Indigenous women on January 9th 1915 submitted the following letter to the Royal Commission. Mrs. Joseph Gabriel here hands in a petition reading as follows:  Gentlemen of the Royal Commission: Excuse me Sirs as I am a woman and desire to ask a favour of you. What we desire most is a clean and healthful drinking water. Our, present drinking water is mainly from the Fraser river, and it is not very good to drink or for domestic use. Very often we would see a dead pig, horse or cow drifting down stream, and in summer the water is dirty and muddy so that no one can bear to drink it. Many people up the river have toilet houses and sewer pipes running down to the river. And our financial means is very limited - only enough for each family's                                                                                                                                                               108. For more about Jane Constance Cook’s role in the Commission, see Robertson and the Kwagu'l Gix̱sa̱m Clan (2013) Standing Up with Ga'axsta'las; Jane Constance Cook and the Politics of Memory, Church, and Custom. UBC Press.      123 food and clothing, and even this year is still poorer on account of the war. I am bold in asking you this favour because I think we have natural right, and we have money in charge of the Indian Department at Ottawa. Surely the Government can afford to supply the proper materials for a pure and healthful water, for good water is essential to the health of the Indians.  Signed Mrs. Joseph Gabriel, In the name of the women of the Langley Reserve.  Photo 14: January 9th, 1915 letter submitted to the Commission by the women of the Langley reserve.109  The letter begins “gentlemen of the Royal Commission: Excuse me Sirs as I am a woman and desire to ask a favour of you”; an appeal made to the men of the Commission to listen to the voices of  Indigenous women can be read as a strategic political move, conforming to white                                                  109 Union of BC Indian Chiefs. Royal Commission on Indian Affairs for the Province of British Columbia. New Westminster Agency. Evidence Submitted. B40 January 9th, 1915, Langley Reserve.     124 settler notions of sexuality and the role of women within settler society.110 The reference in their letter to “the war” can be read as a strategic appeal to Nationalism. In their letter the “women of the Langley reserve” skillfully critique settler occupation and link it to the degradation of the Fraser River “many people up the river have toilet houses and sewer pipes running down to the river.”  Mrs. Gabriel and the women also reveal that they are aware of money held for them in Ottawa, “we have money in charge of the Indian Department at Ottawa”. At the time of the Commission, Indigenous women were forbidden from owning most forms of property, so the assertion of their right to money held in Ottawa reveals a deep knowledge of fiscal relations between the Dominion and the Langley reserve as well as their central role in managing those relations. Importantly, the women of the Langley reserve frame their request for potable water through a health-based narrative “good water is essential to the health of the Indians”.  They are positioning themselves as stewards of the land and water as well as responsible for the health and economic well-being of their community.  This letter from Mrs. Gabriel and the women of the Langley reserve sits alongside dozens of photographs taken by Commission photographers of Indigenous women’s significant presence during Commission testimonies as well as their important role in hosting Commissioners. They were present during private discussions, as in the photograph below taken at the home of “Qualicum Jim”, presumably on Qualicum Territory in which the woman on the right appears to be outside of the conversation that is occurring but is perhaps listening in on what is being said.                                                   110. For more on this history within a Cherokee context see “But we are your mothers, you are our sons”: Gender, Sovereignty, and the Nation in Early Cherokee Women's Writing” Laura E. Donaldson in Indigenous Women and Feminism: Politics, Activism, Culture.      125 Photo 15: At the home of “Qualicam Tom” one imagines that the woman in the foreground is intently listening in on what is being discussed.111  3.3.2 Health  Because Indigenous women were not welcome to testify, it’s also important to read the testimonies from Indigenous men that speak about issues and concerns relating to Indigenous women. The issues raised, and the Commissions reactions to them, reveal the degree of gender violence being experienced by Indigenous women at the time of the testimonies. It also underscores the significance of letters and pre-emption applications like the ones discussed above as they serve to remind us of the complex and nuanced ways that Indigenous women resisted and allow us to see how we can read against archives for Indigenous women’s resistance.  At the Commission’s meeting in Langley on January 9th, 1915 Joe Isaacs gave evidence about medical conditions facing Katzie people.                                                  111 British Columbia Archives. Royal Commission on Indian Affairs for the Province of British Columbia. At the Home of “Qualicum Tom” 30 May 1913. H-07057       126 There is one thing that I want to speak about and that is about the medical people who are supposed to attend to the Katzie people, ie. Dr. Drew. When he is sent for by any of us he don't come. We have to take the sick people down to the Doctor and sometimes he or she is pretty low - Instead of the Doctor coming up we have to take them down and sometimes they die as a consequence of having to be taken down in an open gas- online boat; and in the case of one woman of the Katzie Reserve she died giving birth to a child because the Doctor would not come when we sent for him.  Q. Mr. Commissioner Shaw: Is there a Doctor living near the Katzie reserve.   A. Dr. Morris who lives at Maple Ridge about two miles away is the nearest Doctor.         Q. And do you believe if he was retained as medical man you would get more      efficient service?   A. Yes.    Q. And I suppose you often have to send for him when your regular Doctor does not come?   A. Yes.   Q. We will send a copy of what you have said to the Department at Ottawa and we trust their decision in the matter will be satisfactory to your people. In the case of the woman who died at childbirth was Dr. Drew sent for?   A. Yes, and his reply was when I phoned him that his agreement with the Government did not cover such cases and he had nothing at all to do with it.  Mr. Commissioner Shaw: When did this happen?   A. Six years ago.   Q. And did you ever report that case to the Indian Agent?   A. I reported it to Agent MacDonald.   Mr. Commissioner McKenna: And did he take any action in regard to it?   A. I reported it to MacDonald and he reported it to the Ottawa Government, and the    Doctor said he wanted an increase of salary in a case where he would have to attend a woman giving childbirth.       127 Q. Well, all I can say is that we will bring this matter to the attention of the proper   authorities.   This intertwining of health and Indigenous women is prevalent throughout the testimonies. Indigenous men from multiple reserves raise concerns about Indigenous women’s lack of access to medical care.  There are multiple mentions of women and children dying of childbirth because doctors refused to attend to them while they were in labour.   Above, Mr. Commissioner Shaw responds to Joe Isaac’s testimony by vaguely committing “to bring this matter to the attention of the proper authorities”. While Doug Harris has argued that the McKenna McBride testimonies must be understood in relation to the dividing of land and water, they must also be read for how the Commission worked to discursively reframe what bodies counted, what was within or beyond its scope, and ultimately, what violences fell outside of its mandate.   What falls outside of the mandate of the Commission has also largely fallen outside of the scope of academic work that draws on the testimonies.  The fact that health so often comes up in the testimonies but never comes up in academic work on or about the Commission tells us a lot about the overlap between gendered violence and settler rule by neglect or occlusion. Jenna Loyd reminds us that “struggles over health are also struggles over definitions of violence and ultimately over who has the power to organize and legitimate the use of violence.” (Loyd, 2009, p.870). While Indigenous women’s access to healthcare is deemed as outside of the Commission’s mandate, the health of reserves as a population to be managed is a topic frequently discussed between Commissioners, Mayors, and business elites.  For example, in a 1913 North Vancouver city council meeting with the board of trade, the chairman of the Commission asks the mayor of north Vancouver if the Dominion will give the foreshore that     128 currently exists within the Skwxwú7mesh reserve to the Harbor board. The mayor of North Vancouver responds: I cannot say as regards to that. My reason for bringing this matter before you is that I would like you to consider that it was our wish to have the dock built in front of this reserve. It is our hope that from the point of view of health that this Reserve will be eliminated from the Centre of the City. There is no sewer connections or drainage, and I have been informed by the Medical Health Officer that it is not good for the City because of the health of the people living on the Reserve. While doctors refuse to attend to Indigenous women in labor, medical officers declare that the poor health of Skwxwú7mesh Peoples is cause for concern and justifies the elimination of the Skwxwú7mesh reserve. Mrs. Joseph Gabriel and the women of the Langley reserve’s letter, Joe Isaac’s testimony, and the mayor of North Vancouver’s argument are but glimpses of moments throughout the testimonies that the (poor) health of Indigenous women and reserves becomes justification for their removal, concomitantly being treated as outside of the Commission’s mandate.  Billy Ray Belcourt (2018) draws on Achille Mbembe to argue that the reserve is characterized by the mismanagement of biological life, the death-worlds of biopower “where disease control has been avoided as a method of ethico-political abandonment. Sometimes negligence is the form that state power takes” (Belcourt, 2018, p.4). In this case, frail life maps onto dispossession through a liberal smokescreen of care on the part of the municipality. “Indigeneity and sickness are co-constitutive categories in a day and age where health is the biopolitical measure of a subject’s ability to adjust to structural pressures endemic to the affective life of setter colonialism” (Belcourt, 2018, p.3).   In Indigenizing Agamben: rethinking sovereignty in light of the "peculiar" status of Native Peoples (2009), Rifkin argues that “the exception is the originary form of law”, where the     129 sovereign decides “where, how and to what the formal ‘judicial order’ will apply” (Rifkin, 2009, p.78). In the case of the testimonies of the Commission, we see that Indigenous women are cast out as decision makers and violence against their bodies treated as an exception to white supremacist settler law. At the Skwxwú7mesh reserve, the Commission debates in front of the Nation if the entire Nation’s reserves should be sold because the mayor of North Vancouver argues that the reservations impede the development of the city. Police Chief Arthur Davies gives testimony in favor of the sale. A. Yes, I do. I think a great many white men when they get a certain amount of liquor, naturally go to look for a woman. We have no restricted district in this City. The white man will lead himself up with a bottle of whiskey and head for the reserve. The good men among the Indians, if they find this man on the reserve, will notify the police, but some of them do not.  The Chairman: There are no brothel in the City?  A: No. When we find one, we give them the tip to move on.  McKenna (in reference to all Skwxwú7mesh reserves) I think the City would be benefited by having them removed   Here, sexual violence against Skwxwú7mesh women is used to justify the dispossession of land. Additionally, the chairman responds to the Police Chief's testimony by wondering why there isn’t a brothel located in the city. Sexual violence is both normalized and instrumentalized:  the ultimate response is to eliminate the reserves entirely. In closely reading the testimonies it becomes horrifyingly apparent that the Commission treated the manslaughter and rape of Indigenous women as outside of their mandate; within the Commission, the actual death of Indigenous women––through the refusal of doctors to treat them, or from the sexual violence of     130 white settlers––is held apart from the allocation of reserve land. In so doing, the Commission helped to establish a white supremacist legal order that favored white law when it came to claiming property, and lawlessness when it came to violence against Indigenous women. The policing of Indigenous men––distinguishing between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ Indians–– is also used to paint a picture of a reservation that impedes urban development. The indifference of the Commissioners to testimony about sexual violence and the death of Indigenous women underscores the impressions that sexual violence against Indigenous women was / is managed by ignoring it.   3.4 Conclusion  Re-reading the above conversation and the Commission transcripts contextualized through Rosemary’s family and the lands that they are from opens up moments of refusal and resistance that are not immediately grasped on the surface of the Commission transcripts but are rather embedded in the details of people's lives and the decisions that they made. The conversation between the Police Chief and McKenna unfolded on the same land that Rosemary’s great grandmother Tlahoholt was from. At the time of the testimonies, we know that Tlahoholt’s father Seymour Jim was still alive, as his name is listed in the evidence submitted to the Commissioners.112 We also know that Tlahoholt’s daughter Annie was living in  Skwxwú7mesh territory, while her siblings had found their way to Homalco.113 The conversation between the Police Chief and McKenna offers us a glimpse into the brutal gender violence occurring on                                                  112. As described in a later chapter, Norman Guerrero shared the name of Tlahoholt’s father with us, as well as information about Annie.  113. We learned this information from connecting with and visiting Rosemary’s Homalco relatives.      131 Skwxwú7mesh territory at the time that Tlahoholt  and her children were living on Skwxwú7mesh territory. A conversation transcribed leads towards an understanding of the intimate and material ways that gender violence worked to dispossess, opening up a space for us to understand more of the context for the decisions that Tlahoholt and her children made, and a reading of their movements away from their traditional territories as profound moments of resistance and refusal.   Yet Indigenous women did find ways to speak in the Commission and were also careful to articulate their resistance to ongoing forms of settler colonial violence that move from Indigenous bodies to the land.  For Audra Simpson, this affective state is one of active antagonism with those that are being made vulnerable (A. Simpson, 2016).   In this chapter I have given an overview of the McKenna McBride testimonies and discussed how they have been used in academic research, looking at how many of the gendered occlusions within the testimonies have been replicated by those writing about the Commission. I pointed to work by Paige Raibmon and Jean Barman that generatively and critically works with the Commission testimonies.  Connecting the testimonies to the specific territories, waters, and names of Rosemary’s ancestors reveals omissions and errors of translation between evidence submitted and what was entered into the archival record. These slippages, omissions, and failures to act are gendered and reveal the persistence of their logics within the Commission which in turn opens up space for centering Indigenous women’s resistance, including the agency that Tlahoholt likely asserted in leaving Skwxwú7mesh territory.   In Chapter 2 I looked at the erasure of Tlahoholt and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) from the settler archive and tied this to the dispossession of land. I argued that the erasure of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) from stories about Scotty, despite the accessibility of archival sources about Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) signals that silence is entrenched through the very acts of     132 conducting research and the writing of historical narratives (Falzetti, 2014, p. 593). In centering Indigenous women and gender within my analysis I open up spaces for reading Indigenous women’s resistance in the evidence submitted as well as photographs taken. I’ve spent these first two chapters looking at textual archives held at the BC archives and have read them for their gendered occlusions that are bound up in the material erasure of Indigenous women from land and water. In the next two chapters I turn to look at how these paper archives have been taken up by amateur genealogists, public historians, and Rosemary's own family before turning, in the last section of the dissertation towards water, land, and story.                133 Chapter 4: Settler Archival Orientations Rosemary and I are sitting in the small glass ‘fishbowl’ room at the downtown Vancouver public library. It’s the summer of 2014 and Rosemary is the newly minted storyteller in residence. Rosemary plans to spend part of her time researching her family, and on this day, we have googled the name “Scotty Georgeson”, and come across Scotty’s biography in the “Dictionary of Canadian Geography".   Jess: Well, this one says, "Scotty and his partner George Buchanan operated a stopping House at Beaver Pass... Scotty sold his half interest for 2500 and along with his First Nation wife Elizabeth Sophia settled 146 acres on the south end of Galiano Island". Interesting, right?   Rosemary: Yeah   Jess (reading) hmm, hmm... So, weird look at these...references. Where did they get these references?  Rosemary:   I remembered that name for some reason. Maybe that's the one that was around way back in the 60s, 70s asking questions.   Jess: Yeah this is her, she is the one that wrote this. Looks at this - she has a copy of Henry Georgeson’s diary.   When Rosemary and I first began collaborating on finding her family, I had no idea how to begin doing archival or genealogical work. I suggested that a good place to start was in contacting several white historians who had done research on Rosemary’s family. We knew of them because they had published some of the online biographies and books mentioned in Chapter 2. These publications include microhistories of Galiano Island, lighthouses, and the Gulf Islands.  Eventually we manage to connect with three women; Jean Barman, a Professor Emeritus from the University of British Columbia’s History Department, Marie Elliott, a published public historian specializing in British Columbian History, and Joanne Peterson, who in her retirement became an amateur genealogist.     134  Rosemary and I were welcomed into the living rooms of these white women historians.  It was in sitting in these living rooms that Rosemary and I learned a great deal about paper archives, connections made on, DNA, and the remains of old logbooks and journals. These are personal archives created out of each woman’s individual research, including trips to the BC Archives, messages sent through, and information about family shared through friendships and research relationships. In a sense, these personal archives are like scrapbooks, often revealing as much about their creators as the archival pieces themselves.   In this chapter I think about the work of these white spaces of personal archival knowing.  I situate paper archives as objects in which whiteness coheres and finds orientation. I ask what it means for white bodies to be orientated by Indigenous bodies and Indigenous stories, and how this orientation to the settler archive is a settler orientation, in so far as ‘settler’ comes to be only via Indigeneity, and Indigeneity is emptied of its meaning (Rifkin, 2017).114 This speaks to the ways that archival occlusion functions (as in Chapter 2) as an assertion of settler sovereignty; an erasure on paper becomes an erasure from land. As discussed in Chapter 2, the omission of Indigenous peoples from the paper archives of Rosemary’s ancestors is bound up with and reproduces the logics of elimination at the heart of settler colonialism. Yet, this erasure is also an orientation, shaping “not only how we inhabit space, but how we apprehend this world of shared inhabitance, as well as ‘‘who’’ or ‘‘what’’ we direct our energy and attention toward” (Ahmed, 2006, 3). Settler colonialism structures orientations; knowledge of place and identity coheres differently around different bodies. The gathering together of textual documents is a materially different orientation than the gathering together discussed by Jordan Wilson in Chapter 5 about                                                  114. In the context of settler colonialism, Indigeneity only comes to be through settlement, and it is through settlement that Indigeneity is rendered as abstraction.     135 his work with xʷməθkwəy̓əm (J. Wilson, 2017). In this chapter I draw on conversations with Jean, Joanne, and Marie to think about how the settler state archive of Chapter 2 structures settler orientations to knowledge, interpretation, and inhabitance.    4.1 Beginning Orientations Rosemary and I are on the ‘Queen of Oak Bay’ ferry, heading back from Nanaimo to Horseshoe Bay.  We’ve spent the week in the archives and have just met with Joanne, an amateur genealogist with information on the Georgeson family. It’s November 15th, 2014, an early Sunday evening and the ferry is busy with people returning home after spending their weekends on Vancouver Island. We’re sitting at a table in the dining area, surrounded by the smell of White Spot burgers wafting off of grey plastic dinner trays. We are talking in hushed, excited voices, looking through all the archival documents we’ve gathered, a bit stunned from the past week. We are processing and writing down what we’ve just learned.  Jess: So, let’s get this down. Emma, Cecil / Cecelia... Jim. Squamish and Washington? Kids... Emily, Annie.  Rosemary: George  Jess: (writing) George  Rosemary: Albert / Herbert  Jess: (writing) Emily born  Rosemary: Birth about 1889  Jess: November 1889  Rosemary: In North Vancouver  Jess: 1889. North Van. Died 1964?  Rosemary: She didn’t live as long as the rest of the family.  Jess: Died 1964 in Campbell River. Ok. And, connection to Church House.  Rosemary: Yeah, Campbell River is still part of Homalco territory.       136 Jess: So, we can skip through some of this stuff for now. It just gives us clues for where to look for that baptism record, maybe.  Rosemary: There’s so much to come out of this. I know what the story is, I know exactly what it is. But it’s just getting it all out now.    The work described in this chapter of finding people, listening, and connecting took place over four years, requiring time and money.  We worked sporadically and sometimes halted altogether when our own lives got too busy with work contracts or family commitments. Over time we both got used to the pace of what it meant to do this slowly, with intense bursts of connection and discovery. We texted or called each other when we had an idea or a story to share. We also collaborated on other projects, sharing time together as friends without explicitly 'doing' the research. I tended to persist in asking pointed questions, despite 'putting away' my research questions. I would gravitate towards certain stories and ideas and fail to listen or hear what Rosemary and her family were sharing. Yet I also think that this affective feeling of being torn in several directions was essential to the ongoing project of locating myself in the work.   4.2 White Settler Archival Orientations “It matters how we arrive at the places we do” (Ahmed, 2006, p.2).   The Archive, Derrida reminds us, inhabits a blurred boundary between public and private. ‘Archive’ is derived from Arkhe, the Greek residence for magistrates who were exclusively permitted to file documents in their residence and interpret them. This is where men commanded, and where things commenced. The right to house and interpret fell on those who made law. The subjectivity of their access and their interpretation speaks to “ the trouble of secrets, of plots, of     137 clandestineness, of half-private, half public conjurations, always at the unstable limit between public and  private, between the family, the society, and the State, between the family and an intimacy even more private than the family, between oneself and oneself” (Derrida, 1996, p.57). In this sense, personal archives gesture towards the original meaning of archive; to commence, and to command (Derrida, 1996). Archives unnaturally reserve and save, they make law and / or make people respect the law “It is the force of the law, of a law which is the law of the house, of the house as place, domicile, family, lineage, or institution” (Derrida, 1996, p.2). In Firsting and Lasting (2010) Jean O’Brien looks at hundreds of local texts generated in New England during the 1800s identifying in the texts the archival power to materially dispossess. “The archival power of local texts transformed what happened (a long and continuing process of colonialism and Indian survival) into that which is said to have happened (Indian extinction)” (O’Brien, 2010, p. xxi). In chapter 2, I discussed the documents housed at the BC Archives and followed their logic of elimination through the archival record of Tlahoholt and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie). In this chapter, I look at how some of the same archival documents, duplicately housed in people’s homes, replicate narratives of elimination and replacement, following what Kevin Bruyneel identifies as a cycle in settler memory that “replays dispossession and settlement on a mnemonic loop” (Bruyneel, 2016, p.351). The conversations below reveal linkages between the state archive, knowledge, and home. They show how state archives are a “homing device” (Ahmed, 2006, p.9).  As “homes are effects of the histories of arrival” (Ahmed, 2006, p.9) I want to understand how white settlers who have gathered knowledge about the Georgeson family access archival knowledge, interpret archival records, and construct narratives of inhabitance. This matters to me in ways that are deeply personal. Does archival knowing, such as the knowledge shared by my own family of our ancestors, open up different ways of being in the     138 world, or is this orientation still a settler move to innocence?  I write this chapter from this personal connection, thinking about continuities between the past and present, between state archival records and the ways that we as white settlers situate ourselves. Settler state archives and settler archival knowing orients white bodies to settler modes of belonging. In Queer Phenomenology (2006) Ahmed argues that orientations are about path dependency, about following a point of view or a line.  “Depending on which way one turns, different worlds might even come into view. If such turns are repeated over time, then bodies acquire the very shape of such direction...To be orientated is also to be turned toward certain objects, those that help us to find our way” (Ahmed, 2006, p.15).  Might we also think of archives in a similar vein, in how archival records become objects that are close at hand, enabling historians and genealogists to create histories out of settler paper trails, often replicating, as discussed in chapter 2 and 3, the biases that cohered in their making?  In a sense this chapter is about being disorientated and the ways in which we become oriented – to paper, to place, to each other. “In order to become orientated, you might suppose that we must first experience disorientation. When we are orientated, we might not even notice that we are orientated: we might not even think ‘‘to think’’ about this point” (Ahmed, 2006, p.5).  The fact that white bodies are oriented towards knowing about the Georgeson family through the state archive is something that I find both engrossing and uncomfortable, as another white person who labors to think about Rosemary's ancestors.   The archives discussed in this chapter are finely grained, organized through family genealogy, the personal collections of women with an interest in Scotty Georgeson and the Georgeson family. These archives are complicated.  They tell certain stories about who people are and how they find their ‘place’ in Coast Salish territory, often replicating the silences within     139 the state archive. “Historical narratives are premised on previous understandings, which are themselves premised on the distribution of archival power.” (Trouillot, 1995, p.10). Yet, as Rosemary and I did this work together we also found clues in these personal archives that revealed connections to place and to family, telling us something about the relationship between state archives and settler orientations, about how certain bodies arrive and how they come to know through archival connections.    4.3 Archival Knowledge: Coming to Know and Ownership 4.3.1 Joanne115 After visiting the archives in Victoria, Rosemary and I travelled up Vancouver Island to meet with Joanne, an amateur genealogist. Rosemary had sent her a Facebook message after discovering that she had researched the Georgeson family. We arrived in the afternoon at Joanne's home. Joanne is about the same age as Rosemary.  We sat down in her living room and she shared a bit about who she was and how she became interested in genealogy. She told us that she was adopted and that when the adoptions act changed in the late 1980s, she began to research her biological family. Her interest grew into what she called an obsession, and she has spent much of the last two decades working as an amateur genealogist, following where curiosity and intuition has taken her as she makes connections between families up and down the pacific coast.  I mean I didn't intend to. I first met my aunt Molly, she's the one I got status for. She was my absolute favorite, I just loved her. She was one of those, she was pure. She could not tell a lie if her life depended on it. She was so sweet, and she                                                  115 Joanne was adopted from a family with Indigenous ancestry. Her biological parents trace their ancestry back to the Pierre line and to Katherine Cook. They do not have status and did not grow up with relationships to Indigenous peoples / communities.      140 was such a good storyteller and she started telling me stories about you know, Galiano and Mayne and stuff and so then I had to you know see if this was really true these stories she told. But then I was I was hooked and then it just took over. I say like I have no control over this (Joanne, personal interview)  Joanne is an active member of where she chats with people who are doing similar research, helps complete family trees, and sends online messages about potential resources and connections. She regularly travels to the Victoria archives and also accesses their archives online. She has an enormous amount of information, especially on people’s births, deaths, baptisms, and genealogies.  Her office is filled from floor to ceiling with filing cabinets, books, papers and a small old desktop computer.  As we talked, Joanne typed and clicked away on her computer, opening folders, searching for names, and entering more information into the family trees that she had stored on and on her desktop. She printed information and articles for us, and the sounds of the printer in the audio recordings sometimes eclipsed the excited chit chat.   Joanne:  I'll give you this so you can take a look at this. You said you knew that there were four kids, but you weren't sure what the fourth one is?   Rosemary: Yeah  Joanne: The fourth one is this child whose name is Emily.  I just love this. I found this because when Nicholas Cook died in 1817, they weren't doing registrations yet and so the only record of his death really was the church burial and he's buried at the Pioneer cemetery, the old burying grounds next to the cathedral in Victoria.  Even though he died on Mayne, they took his body over and buried him there. So, I was in these old old records from Christchurch and I happened to see the name Georgeson, so of course took a picture. But look at this, at Fort Vancouver it says, “River Columbia in the county of” which is crossed out “Northwest Coast of America”.  So, here's Emily who was baptized May the 3rd 1891 but born November 1889 to William and Emma Georgeson and he lived at the Lighthouse on Mayne Island and he was a farmer. It's not very clear I know but that’s Emily.  And I'm sure that this is the first child because she's named Emily for her mother.     141  Rosemary (reading) Emily Amelia Georgeson  Joanne: So that is Emily's baptism that is her story   Photo 16: Emily Georgeson’s baptismal record.  Joanne excitedly talked about finding Emily's baptismal record in the archives in Victoria.  She recalled seeing the Georgeson name and photographing it for future use. She printed out her photograph of the baptismal record and shared it with us. It is with this barely legible baptismal record we learned Emily's name and that she was born in 1889 to William and Tlahoholt.  For the construction of family trees, this is an important record. Yet Rosemary and I are left feeling that it doesn't really tell us anything about Emily. Where did she go? Did she live? Who are her children, where are they now? What stories did she pass onto them? What territory was she     142 from?  In reviewing the transcripts from our conversation, I am struck by the differences in how Rosemary and Joanne come to know.  For Joanne, the details of birth dates and death dates mattered a great deal and she often began to recite a date or name, and this would trigger a memory in Rosemary, who in turn would share a story.  Below, Rosemary and Joanne talk about Rosemary's ancestor Elizabeth Cornish, who had been married to William's brother John.   Joanne: She married Dan ... (sigh) I forget his name.  Rosemary: Yeah, she would come back to Georgeson Bay and see her kids and it would have been when Aunt Ellen was living in the Bighouse and they would have come in where William and Emma lived and  they would come over Montague way, over the mountain and  she would hang something in the window so that Ellen and her kids would see that she was in there and go and visit.  Joanne (interrupting) Dan Thomas – that’s who she married.  Rosemary: Oh, ok.   Joanne: now there's something about Elizabeth Cornish and Harris family too but   I don't remember that without looking it up.  While Rosemary shared a story about Elizabeth travelling by foot and boat to clandestinely visit her daughter and son in law, Joanne tried to remember the surname of Elizabeth's second husband.  Later, when we are upstairs by the computer, Rosemary and Joanne continued to talk about genealogy and shared stories.   Rosemary: Jim Nahanee said that she (Emma) lived to be really old. So, saying she died in 1903, don't think so. And my grandfather remembers her...  Joanne: (interrupting) Is that the same Jim Nahanee? (points to computer screen).   Rosemary: Yeah. Birthplace North Vancouver, then living at North Vancouver.      143  Joanne: I don't remember when he died, do you?    Rosemary: It was a while ago.   Joanne: (types this information into the Nahanee file).  I haven't connected him to the big Nahanee family yet obviously. You don't know who his father was do you?  Rosemary: No, I don't. Wes (Nahanee) would know, he keeps history.   Rosemary suggested that Joanne talk to Wes Nahanee who 'keeps history'. This points to the different kinds of knowing at work in these conversations. For Rosemary, keeping history involved knowing the stories and the people, for Joanne it was perhaps more about learning how people are connected, creating the family trees and writing in the dates.  Joanne:  I keep on thinking that I do all of this because I’m still trying to find out who Catherine is, then I remind myself that I have a document that I don’t know how many pages long, about Catherine.  Rosemary (interjecting, in background) wow  Joanne: (continuing) and, and once you start, you just keep adding to it, what people tell you, what you find, what you think, it doesn’t take long until it grows and it grows and it grows.  The accumulation of paper trails connected Joanne with her distant Indigenous ancestor – through these documents, she felt that she had in some sense come to know her. This collection of dates, names, notes, newspaper articles, marriage licenses and so forth enabled Joanne to feel closer to Catherine, and the ongoing desire to know Catherine fuels her research. Joanne's starting point was with the settler archives, with birth registrations and death certificates; these are the archives     144 that were closest at hand.116  In Silencing the Past (1995) Trouillot looks at how power moves through different phases of the archive, from the creation of documents to the narratives created from them. While Jean, Joanne, and Marie drew on similar, often overlapping state archives, they diverged in the stories that they told from them. While Joanne looked to find connections between families, Marie created a local historical narrative.  4.3.2 Marie Marie is a self-described social historian, born and raised on Mayne Island.  She fondly recalled that she was “born into the history...we lived; my mom inherited all the property. I lived at Springwater, at Bennett Bay. I can remember the Japanese before they left”.  Marie has a master’s degree in history from the University of British Columbia and her thesis is the published book “Mayne Island & the Outer Gulf Islands: A History”.  When Rosemary and I found out that Marie had Scotty Georgeson's diary we called her.117      Rosemary: Yes, I am, I’m the direct descendant of Scotty Georgeson, he’s my great great grandfather  Marie: Ohhh ok, so who was, which son was….  Rosemary: William was my great grandfather  Marie: William ohhh k                                                   116. I don't want to suggest that the colonial archives are entirely discrete from Rosemary's knowledge of her family, or that Joanne's work wasn't helpful.  As shared in Chapter 5, when Rosemary and I finally reconnected with Emily's descendants, we shared Joanne's information about Emily with them, and it helped to fill in some blanks.  117. I talk about this in the dissertation introduction as well as at the start of this chapter. Going through the archival sources for the biography Rosemary and I notice that Marie has Henry Georgeson's diary “Private arch., Marie Elliott (Mayne Island, B.C.), Copy of Henry Georgeson’s diary (original owned by Mary Ellen Harding)”.      145 Rosemary: His wife was Emma.  Marie: Emma, ok.  Uhhh, so ok, this family history will help you with your genealogy  Rosemary: Yes  Marie: Ya…. Um um, I’m afraid, just by going through the vital stat (couldn’t make out word)  you’ll  probably have kept, you’re familiar with the BC archives, online are you?  Jessica: Ya  Marie: And you got to a lot of stuff there…  Jessica: Ya… exactly.  But it’s been hard, it’s also very difficult for us to find anything  about Emma.  Marie: Oh Ya. What was Emma’s last name, I mean, maiden name  Rosemary: We don’t know anything about her, she only.  The only place in history where she enters into any archives or records was the five years, she was on Galiano.  Marie: Oh really   Rosemary: Ya.  When she met William and they went back there.  They had four kids there, and then William was killed, and she left and came back over here to North Van somewhere to her own people.  Marie: Ok   Rosemary: So, there’s no record of her before that or after that   Marie: Ok no, I don’t know anything about the family at all, that’s just not,  I, I never  knew Scotty, I didn’t know Scotty at all, I just had to put together his story with the help of Mary Ellen, and then Charles Groth's diary records visits to see Scotty and that kind of thing so I was looking more for the social history.   Much of Marie's social history work is about the lives of early settlers and Henry Georgeson. Contained within Marie's personal archives are; old postcards that she had made up with a photo of the Georgina Point Lighthouse, assorted copied photographs of Scotty Georgeson,     146 correspondence between Scotty and various government administrators, Scotty's logbook, his diary, and a play Marie wrote about Scotty and the Lighthouse performed by Mayne Island children.   Marie: You can get a sense of his personality through that little diary that you've got there. He was generous, friendly, he cared. There was a family just along the way that were related, Collinson's daughter was living with this fellow at David Cove beyond the lighthouse and David was not a good husband. Scotty kept an eye on them. He was very good.   Rosemary: There's lots of stories of Scotty keeping barrels of saltfish for people.   Marie: You'll see it in there, he's delivering herring. I think he was very intelligent.  He's got a diagram of the boat he was working on for somebody, he would sail all the way to Victoria.          Photo 17: Boat schematic drawn by Scotty Georgeson from his diary.118                                                   118 Rosemary Georgeson, private archive.     147 While we sipped our soup, Rosemary was consumed by the diary. She read certain passages aloud, amazed at the references to her grandfather William and to descriptions of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) travelling alone with her sons to Cowichan.   Rosemary: This is interesting, this little diary     Marie: I love it, love it.       Rosemary: It's personal, it's not about anything else, it's just his daily life.    Marie: I have no idea where I got it from, I must have been very young.    Marie couldn't quite remember where she got Scotty's diary, but she said it's possible that she got it from Mary Harding, who was a descendent of Scotty's. Marie also told us that Scottie's ledger from the lighthouse “came from a fellow who dismantled the lighthouse and he came across it and so he left it with me”. This is one example of how a state archive (all ledgers are supposed to be held Federally) finds a home in a personal archive. It also points to how documents make their way to specific bodies. Marie who is from an old pioneering family with a keen interest in the lighthouse was present during its partial dismantling and this positioned her to obtain something that would otherwise have possibly been destroyed or sent to the Federal archives.   Marie: If you like, I can make copies of that for you, if you'd like to have it with you.  Rosemary: I would love that. Please  Marie: Because it is special, I can see that. And I can recognize the people, the Hecks, do you come across Hecks? Sophie was friends with her, and you can imagine them visiting   one another.       148  For both Marie and Rosemary, the diary is special. For Rosemary it connects her to her family. It contains stories of her grandfather and of Rosemary's great great grandmother Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie). For Marie the diary is a cherished part of her personal archive of Scotty's life, a fascinating window into what life was like for early settlers on Mayne Island. The diary underscores an issue about access that came up many times in these conversations, our work together, and the writing of this dissertation.119  If white bodies are orientated towards settler state archival documents, does that mean that they own whatever they discover therein? Here is Joanne talking about how she finds people and how people are connected to state archives: Joanne: It just comes to me like I've got a magnet on me. And at one level I have no control of it, and I can take no credit for it and at another level I work, and it wouldn't happen if I wasn't making those connections. Nobody owns this stuff; it belongs to the families and, and I get really uptight by these people that do hold it tight and people that sell the information.  When a document like Scotty's logbook or information from a source on arrives, it is because it is on a path, it is following a line of orientation. Importantly, Rosemary's Indigeneity does not place her on this same path of documents. Often, Rosemary and I experienced this intersection of orientation, access, and ownership as withholding, a sense that the person holding the document wielded the power of the archives, of knowledge about Rosemary's family, ancestors and relatives. In these instances, I felt both outrage and a sense of being complicit in this asymmetry of power that still stands, despite generations of Indigenous scholars and even                                                  119. Accessing state archives relies on many privileges, including knowledge of how to do it, the time to do so, and the ability to make copies of documents.  Accessing requires time, knowledge, and resources to pay for a computer, the internet, and a monthly subscription. Archives still inhabit a domain that is both private and public, accessible to those that are in the know and able to pay.      149 more generations of Indigenous communities critiquing the exploitative foundations of the western research paradigm (T. Smith 1999; Zitkála-Šá 1924; Tuck and Yang, 2014).   4.3.3 Jean We were welcomed into everyone's homes, allowed to see, copy, and in one case take documents with us. A few days before visiting the Victoria archives, Rosemary and I emailed Jean, a Professor Emeritus in the History Department at the University of British Columbia. Jean is a well-known historian of British Columbia and has published “The Remarkable Adventures of Portuguese Joe Silvey”. The Silvies, like the Georgesons, were a well-known fishing family along the coast, and we guessed that in her research on the Silvies Jean might have also found some Georgesons. Jean responded to our email: I appreciate your email. The Georgesons matter far more than they have been given credit for, as do a whole range of similar coastal fishing families where women, be they indigenous, part indigenous, or not, have worked and still work mightily. I am attaching some Georgeson basic info I have collected, in part in connection with a talk I gave on Galiano a number of years ago. Rosemary, you probably know it all already, so I do so with apologies. I would be honoured to get together when it suits the joint you, Jessica and Rosemary. What are you thinking of?  We met with Jean the day before we went to the Victoria archives. We spent several hours with her in her living room. The tone of the conversation was light, Rosemary and Jean shared stories of people they know, of boats that have gone down in storms, and of families that fished along the coast. Going through the transcripts I noticed that Jean often affirmed Rosemary's knowledge and stories and encouraged her to write them or share them. Jean also offered suggestions based on what she knew through her own archival research or what she had heard in talking with others. Here, Rosemary had just finished telling Jean about     150 her work as the Storyteller in Residence at the Vancouver Public Library and how she focused on stories about strong women, Tlahoholt included.  Jean: Maybe you should be doing some kind of a blog or even a book with something like Strong Women Stories is a really good theme, a really wonderful theme. I suppose it can be strong men as well you know, of stories like that of people turning things around… it’s really great.  Rosemary: I never thought of it as turning things around.  Jean: Well...  Rosemary: But… it is  Jean: In a sense, in a sense it is… cause you know if you take well not everybody, but if you take a lot of us, you know, we’re in a pretty normal situation and how do you get out of it and figure out who you are?  Jean encouraged Rosemary to write about strong women and suggested that stories about people turning things around resonated widely. Jean also perhaps suggested that 'turning things around' is one way to think about Tlahoholt and her decision to leave Galiano Island with her kids. Most of the conversation between Rosemary and Jean flowed like this, with each person sharing stories and making connections. While it's clear from the personal notes that Jean emailed before our meeting that she has done extensive research on the Georgeson family, she took no notes during our talk, and mentioned no dates. Before we leave, Jean handed us a large cloth bag filled with everything that she had collected on the Georgeson’s. She welcomed us to make copies, and to return it to her at our convenience. Leaving her house, the bag felt heavy, filled with hundreds of pages of census records, research notes, interview transcripts, and even newspaper clipping about Rosemary's play Women in Fish.        151 4.4 Interpretation and Translation Archives are dependent on interpretation rather than facts, and as such are rife with problems of translation (Derrida, 1996, p. 90).   Interpretations are about how we orient ourselves and which knowledge we draw from.  Interpretation is not value neutral, and in settler colonial states it comes deeply embedded in the material realities of dispossession.  While the trend in academic literature has been towards the recuperation or recovery of subaltern / Indigenous voices, as Mawani (2012) points out, this has been less common in relation to Indigenous subalterns in the archives because they simply do not exist there.120   In this section I draw on conversations with Marie, Joanne, and Jean to think about the interconnections between knowledge access, ownership, and interpretation.    Joanne:  One of the things I always do is look up what names were people called when, and look at it as a sequence, and she starts being called Emma or Emily and then only much, much later does she get called Sicily and the Jim name gets associated with her. And I think that's often because people move on in their life or people later know different things. Yeah  Rosemary:  I heard it was a sign of respect when you took somebody's name to honor them. I know somebody else who took the name Jim.   And later,                                                  120. “In the colonial archive, translation unfolds on multiple registers. First, translation is manifest in the efforts of colonial agents who aspired to decipher the languages, histories, beliefs, and cultural practices of “inscrutable” indigenous and subaltern subjects. Second, contemporary readers of the archive also engage in processes of translation, interpreting archival documents outside their spatiotemporal and political contexts and often affording meanings to the past and to larger historical processes through present-day concerns. In contrast to debates in history and historical anthropology, the emergent deliberations on indigeneity and coloniality have been less concerned with the recuperation of subaltern/indigenous voices—which many have conceded are often irrecoverable not only from the historical record but also from the legal one—and instead have questioned how indigenous peoples and their traditional practices have been situated, referenced, represented, and effaced” (Mawani, 2012, p.252).     152 Jess: You have Katherine's actual traditional name now, right?   Joanne: I have two – I presume one is the given name and one of the family name.  Rosemary: Having Two traditional names wasn't that uncommon.   Joanne and Rosemary came to very different conclusions about why Emma (Tlahoholt's) name in the archive changed to Jim. Their divergent understandings can be thought of as different orientations “the constitution of a field of unreachable objects—are the indirect consequences of following lines that are before us: we do not have to consciously exclude those things that are not ‘‘online.’’ The direction we take excludes things for us, before we even get there” (Ahmed, 2006, p.15). Joanne inferred from her own experience as a researcher in the settler archives as to why Emma's name changed while Rosemary brought in her experience – rooted in her knowledge as an Indigenous person - as well as her connections to community, as to what she has heard from other Indigenous people about naming. In the above, Rosemary's suggestion failed to carry archival weight – the possibility of having two traditional names was not typed into a family tree or stored in a word document on Joanne's computer.  When a traditional name is recorded in the archive, as in the case of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)'s name (discussed in Chapter 2), the translation of that name into English characters is incomprehensible to contemporary language speakers.121 This indecipherability via translation is a reminder that “historical documents preserved in the archive cannot easily be recovered, decoded, and explicated”  (Mawani, 2012, p.352), underscoring Derrida's point that archives and law are co-constituted. The aftermath of the Delgamuukw v British Columbia [1997] decision                                                  121. Rosemary and I asked xʷməθkʷəy̓əm, Halq'emeylem, and Sḵwx̱wú7mesh sníchim speakers if they recognized the translated name and were not able to.      153 tells us that in settler colonial Canada, Indigenous oral histories and ways of knowing are accommodated within, but not understood as law (Napoleon, 2005; Perry, 2006; Mawani, 2012).  “As unwritten and thus unverifiable histories, situated outside and beyond law’s archive, oral histories are often not heard or received as challenges to law.” (Mawani, 2012, p.355). Oral histories and Indigenous governance systems are also regarded as outside of law's time, a logic that Elizabeth Povinelli terms the “governance of the prior” (Povinelli, 2011, p.17). In The Transit of Empire (2011) Jodi Byrd takes up this concept to think about Indigeneity in settler colonialism as something that “hinges on an unresolvable temporal paradox that produces the conditions of Indigeneity as prior to and a priority of the law at the same time that the law abjects Indigeneity from having any priority at all” (Byrd, 2011, p.216). As discussed below, settler archives orient Indigenous oral histories and place names outside of state archives, while the same archives are used to affirm settler imaginaries of Indigenous heritage.  4.5 Inhabitance and Indigeneity The work of inhabitance involves orientation devices; ways of extending bodies into spaces that create new folds, or new contours of what we could call livable or inhabitable space. If orientation is about making the strange familiar through the extension of bodies into space, then disorientation occurs when that extension fails. Or we could say that some spaces extend certain bodies and simply do not leave room for others (Ahmed, 2006, p.11).   I've outlined the connections between white bodies, archival knowing, and translation.  Yet, aside from suggesting that state archival access is a privilege and that knowledge of people's families be left with their descendants, I haven't brought Indigeneity into the conversation. In the final part of this section I want to delve deeper into how DNA, genealogy, belonging, and disappearance overlap with Indigeneity.     154  Reading over transcripts of our conversations, I noticed that while Indigeneity appears in the context of genealogy, it often disappears, as discussed in Chapter 2, in accounts of social histories. If Indigeneity is brought up at all it is consigned to the past, devoid of political relevance, and Rosemary is sometimes absented from the conversation or interrupted.122 In the stories told to us about early pioneering families on the Gulf Islands, there is a near total erasure of Indigenous women, and often an inability to recall the names of the Indigenous wives of white male settlers.  This is sometimes coupled with an inability to pronounce or remember Indigenous place names. Mishuana Goeman articulates how the disappearance of Indigenous bodies and the dispossession of lands are interlinked, “It is a violent use of the scalar form in which the Indigenous bodies are made absent or disinterred to lands now renamed and domesticated. Part of the structure of settler colonialism is to create amnesia around geographies and purport criteria of difference across vertical, as well as horizontal, scales” (Goeman, 2017, p.114). In Firsting and Lasting, O’Brien uses the term ‘ancestor worship’ to describe New Englanders gathered to commemorate an ancestor from two centuries earlier, and to ground the story of that ancestor in a specific place (O’Brien, 2010, p.xi). O’Brien looks to local history writing as “the crucial genre in defining Indians out of existence” (O’Brien, 2010, p.xii).  In the short play “Scotty” Scotty Georgeson gathers with other early white male settlers and their Indigenous wives at the lighthouse. They celebrate becoming landowners; their initial act of dispossession cast as necessary to “building the new”.  There is a parallel to the ancestor worship described by O’Brien in which settler narratives cast Indigenous peoples as acquiescing                                                  122. See Bruyneel, 2016 for more on the work of settler memory.      155 bystanders to white settler dispossession, reinforcing a Lockean narrative of improvement amidst a politics of consent.  Marie: Sophie apparently was really accepted, she would go to dances… my aunt ummm uhh uh, no I’m sorry a cousin who used to go, a little girl would go to the dances and Sophie would be there and she would always bring sandwiches or the midnight supper.  But she was a little girl and Sophie had a very wide mouth, and when she’d smile, she used to scare, scare Kathleen, umm, she was always scared of her smile.  But she said she was a very kind person.   On three separate occasions we were told that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) had a wide smile.  When Marie described her smile, she was partly aware that this comment could be construed as disparaging, so she countered it by suggesting that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) seemed to be accepted within the white settler community and that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) was a kind person. It at first seemed strange to me that Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)'s wide mouth was the detail that stuck.  In fact, it was one of the only things that we heard about Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) from the public record. While the detail of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s wide mouth was remembered, many of the names of the Indigenous women who Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) befriended on the gulf islands were forgotten. Take for example the infamous incident known as the “Clarke murder”.    Marie: Clarke was cutting shingles at Billy's Bay, where the ferry comes in. They were living there, and his wife was Native, and she had gone over to see Sophie, I think she’d taken the children. And so, this Native fellow had been beaten up, this is how he testified in court and so he was very angry and so he came over and took it out on Clarke, he shot Clarke.   Jess: So, Clarke’s wife was visiting Sophie?  Marie: Yeah. They were in Billy’s Bay where the ferry came in, there is a lovely beach.       156 Jess: Yeah.   Marie: And there’s a creek that comes in and there would have been lots of cedar there to make shingles from.  You could make a lot of money back then, making shingles and taking them to Victoria. And he, I think he was a goldminer up in Barkerville. Then he came down here. Anyways, she went to see Sophie over at Galiano and when she came back, she found that Clarke was murdered.  Jess: Hmmm. Do you know where she was from?  Marie: hmmm... no... I can’t remember anything about where she was from.   Marie easily recalled the details of what happened but cannot remember the name or Nation of Clarke's Indigenous wife who was visiting Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) while Mr. Clarke was murdered. The tendency to forget or simply not know the names of the many Indigenous women who were wives to pioneering families on Mayne and Galiano Island, mirrors their omission from state archives. “Power is implicated in each of these moments; which stories get told, which get forgotten, when, and by whom, is inextricably linked to the power to tell and to remain silent” (Caswell, 2014, p.10). The logics of the state archives create paths for settlers to imagine pioneering pasts, securing settler futures.  We are sitting at Joanne’s dinner table. She has made us canned clam soup. Bread rolls and butter sit on a lace tablecloth. The audio recorder is nestled next to napkins and soup bowls. Joanne is excitedly, hurriedly talking about her genealogical research, which has occupied much of her time since her retirement.  Joanne: I don’t know if you know my family history but my line, if you do my mother’s mother, goes to Katzie and the Pierre family over there, which then goes into Washington and that’s Peter Pierre, and Old Pierre, his father who gets called the last of the great medicine men. Lots of anthropologists studied them and I’m really lucky because I now have these wonderful family trees with their traditional names. But anyway, I can go quite far back with that line, but I don’t have the traditional names.      157 Joanne’s comment – about medicine men, anthropologists and traditional names reveals how white bodies come to 'feel at home' and in particular how they come to feel at home through studying Indigeneity and / or recovering Indigenous ancestry in state archives, family trees, and DNA.  Renisa Mawani discusses translation in the archive as “manifesting in the efforts of colonial agents who aspired to decipher the languages, histories, beliefs, and cultural practices of “inscrutable” Indigenous and subaltern subjects” (Mawani, 2012, p.252). The recovery of the subaltern becomes one mode in which settler colonial power operates, in the right and privilege of white bodies to know about Indigenous bodies and claim Indigenous ancestry.  Joanne's gratitude to the anthropologist who recorded her ancestors traditional names is a gratitude for the written record, for her ancestor’s having been subjects of the anthropological gaze123 In Native American DNA (2017) Kim Tallbear likens white people claiming Indigenous ancestry  “ in ways that mirror the kinds of claims that whites have made to other forms of Native American patrimony—whether land, resources, remains, or cultural artifacts” (Tallbear, 2013, p.136).  The recovery of Indigenous ancestry follows a line or orientation that imagines an inescapably Indigenous past that quickly disappears, sanctioning white ownership and preservation. Patricia Penn Hilden and Leece M. Lee discuss Indigenous feminism and the white suffragists sharing about the “Pocahontas loophole – which allowed the presence of a little Indian blood in white families to be represented as a heroic coming together of two great peoples, Native Americans (usually female) and Europeans (usually male) – skillfully transplanted the indigeneity of Native American women into the genealogies of white families” (Hilden and Lee, 2010, p. 60).                                                   123. In making this statement I don't intend to deny the importance that these anthropological accounts hold for Indigenous peoples and communities who draw from them to recover / reconnect. For more of a discussion of this, please see Glass, 2009. For ethnographic refusal as a response to Salvage Ethnography, see Audra Simpson, 2007)      158  Kim Tallbear describes an online listerv made up mostly of self-identified white Americans. Tallbear recounts being surprised that listerv participants with Indigenous DNA did not claim to be Indigenous. Rather, Indigenous DNA “is part of modern humans’ inheritance and a mechanism through which whites can both claim continuity with an aboriginal past and produce knowledge that is ultimately of benefit to all humankind. DNA research and other forms of scientific knowledge production are the twenty-first century civilizing and development project.” (Tallbear, 2013, p.138). The recovery of Indigenous ancestors, and the pre-settler colonial and settler colonial interconnections between Indigenous peoples and families, is congruent with a history of white people producing knowledge of Indigenous peoples. It is part of what O’Brien terms ‘firsting and lasting’ O’Brien defines ‘firsting’ as an assertion “that non-Indians were the first people to erect the proper institutions of a social order worthy of notice” (O’Brien, 2010, xii). For O’Brien ‘lasting’ is about narratives of Indigenous extinction (O’Brien, 2010, xxiv). This resonates with the early settlement stories of the Islands as well, and the rise of Scotty Georgeson as an important figure within local history.    Yet, recovering lost Indigenous ancestry, mending frayed connections in the archival record between Indigenous families, and obtaining access to clandestine archives can have material impacts. Joanne, in a conversation discussed earlier in this chapter, fondly remembered her research leading to her aunt obtaining Indian status.  Joanne points to this moment as what 'hooked' her on genealogical research. It is the possibility of recovering the subaltern from the archive that becomes the obsession.  Below, Joanne described contacting a Lummi man who was researching his family.  Joanne:  He was kind of freaked out by me. “Who are you, why are you asking me these questions, how do you know about me anyway”? And I thought “I don’t know… I found you somewhere” (laughs).  And we have actually tried to figure out     159 how I found him, and we never figured it out and, in the end, he said let’s just leave it – the ancestors meant it to happen, it happened. I don't understand what goes on down in Washington and he doesn't understand all of this stuff up here, but we just know the families are all interrelated and there is what I call this triangle between Washington often Lummi, Cowichan, and the Fraser. It's just like, this big triangle and there's links everywhere and it just kind of became my obsession.   The obsession described by Joanne is an obsession with tracing connections between families and places, of “bringing back to life...of reliving the other” (Derrida, 1996, p. 61). A reminder that the archive exists in the shadow of its potential erasure (Derrida, 1996, p.57).  Viewed through a logic of elimination,  this disappearance of connection – to one's ancestors, to ancestral homes, to lands elsewhere is palpable, and perhaps part of the reason why genealogical research is quite possibly “the most popular U.S. American pastime” with an estimated forty million Americans engaged in the hobby of genealogical research (Tallbear, 2013, p.105).  According to Tallbear, a relatively large percentage of these forty million researchers are likely searching for an Indigenous ancestor.  In all three of our conversations, we are told stories about white women reconnecting with their Indigenous ancestry.  Jean: the original… you know, the original female figure in the family came from Lillooet, but she couldn’t get any access and suddenly through umm, a cousin…. It’s a cousin or a niece I’m not sure which was in that area. She was up there and she was invited into, invited into the tribe, and all of these kinds of ceremonies etc. and phoned me, and phoned me a couple weeks ago just in tears… you know, it’s suddenly happening, it’s a, it’s really a moment, and they recognize her, people said, people kept telling her “you look just like great auntie so and so, you look just like this”, and gave her, showed her a picture. “You know, you look just like that, you take after everybody in the family” (laughing from Rosemary)   And she was, wow, it’s a really, it’s a really, for her it’s a really… she lives in White  Rock if you ever, get to the point where you want to sort of, that experience in some ways, for her it’s really fundamental.  In some cases, ancestry is discovered through family trees, in others it is linked to DNA. AncestryDNA, a database created by now boasts a DNA database of 4 million     160 customers.124 Researchers like Joanne are using DNA to fill in gaps in family trees and speculate on which ancestor may be shared between 'genetic cousins'.125 Joanne: Shirley dropping in on my life again and her being from the Georgeson line is incredible and she's, her DNA has now gone, and I won't be surprised if she doesn't test to the Georges in Cowichan.  I wouldn't be surprised, but we'll see.   Rosemary: I have to get that information from you, because I plan on doing it next month.  Joanne Not to worry, I will harass you! (uncomfortable laughter). It's the only way we'll ever know.   DNA offers certainty over a murky past – a DNA profile becomes a powerful marker of Indigeneity; Indigenous governance and citizenship practices become secondary to positively matching Y chromosomes to surnames (Tallbear, 2013, p.4). Indigeneity is therefore placed at the centre but entirely reduced to biological inheritance, and as Haraway reminds us, “biology is not the body itself but a discourse on the body . . . a linguistic sign for a complex structure of belief and practice through which I and many of my fellow citizens organize a great deal of life”. (Haraway, 1997, p.323).   Joanne and Rosemary's conversation about their mutual search for ancestors reveals the differences in approaches to understanding what it means to be Indigenous.                                                   124. From January to April 2017, AncestryDNA genotyped 1 million people. “So, on average about two people took a DNA test every time there was a marriage in the United States. With 4 million members, the AncestryDNA network would be the 2nd largest city in the United States based on population just after NYC. The AncestryDNA database grew from 3 to 4 million in the last three months. That’s about as fast as babies are born in the United States.” retrieved Feb 6 2018.  125. Tallbear uses the term “genetic genealogy,” to define research that “makes use of ancestry-DNA tests to fill in documentary gaps.  Genealogical research supplemented by DNA tests that connect Y chromosomes to surname studies.” (Tallbearr, 2013, p. 1).      161 Joanne: I'll tell you what was really exciting. Because I was adopted, and I mean I've known for a long time what my family line is because I've been working on it, but for the most part I've been working on it in isolation. Michelle got me started, giving me the first records and documents.... I really have only had access to the “out there documents”. I have not had access to the people and the stories, right? And that's a huge, that's the thread that pulls it all together. So, when Michelle got her DNA done and I got it done and mine came up, she's up at the very top, her and I share them, the highest centiMorgan or whatever those, those DNA thingies are, and she's at the top of my list and she said something about “look,  there you are!  You really are part of our family” and I thought “holy cow this really is my proof you know”. I mean, I can understand at one level people would look at me and say “so where the heck does, she come from and how did she get to be one of us? She was never around here before”.  I don't turn up until I'm well into my 50s mm-hmm.   Rosemary:  I can relate to that because I've been walking beside my family all my life,  and so, has my father and my grandfather, they've just been right there like we're travelling within meters of them for the last hundred and twenty years, and we don't know them, and I can't talk to them because I don't know them. But I know who they are, that they're there, and when I do talk to them, I have to be able to prove that I am.   Joanne: Yes.  Rosemary: Yes, I can't just go say “hey I'm your cousin”.   Joanne: Yeah yeah yeah.    Rosemary: They want to know why, especially with all the bands and stuff now and the status and...  Joanne: (interrupting) I understand the apprehension, I understand it totally. I didn't - No problem.   When Joanne tried to connect with Indigenous people who shared her DNA, she was met with apprehension. Joanne understood and was sympathetic to the apprehension.  Rosemary in turn described feeling similarly uncertain about approaching her relatives, in part because of the potential implications that this can have for status. Rosemary was trying to help Joanne understand where the apprehension came from. It seemed clear from our conversation that     162 Joanne was not after status but that she was interested almost exclusively in her Indigenous ancestry and often used the possessive “my” in front of an ancestor’s name, like “my Sarah Pierre” or “my Catherine”.  This echoes Tallbear who found in her survey of an online listeserv that people who discover they have Native DNA continue to identify as white / European / Caucasian; they are able to reconcile Indigenous ancestry while continuing to self-identify as white (Tallbear, 2013, p.234).  Tallbear admits that she was surprised at this outcome, yet warns that “through the biotechnosciences, Native American biologies become part of the property inheritance of whites, including the right to use DNA to control the meaning of group identity, or race. Thus, both law and the biosciences are preoccupied with in-group inheritance.” (Tallbear, 2013, p.136). Recognizing Indigenous ancestry via DNA is still a settler colonial orientation ending in elimination; Native DNA as inheritance and absorption into the white body politic, cementing settler claims to home and belonging (Bruyneel, p.352).126  State archives and their documents are objects that are close at hand for white settlers. They orient white bodies to particular ways of knowing leading to interpretations that follow logics of Indigenous erasure. Modern databases like can be thought of as homing devices for white settlers who, overtaken with archive fever, fixate on the recovery of Indigeneity in family trees, DNA, and the diaries of early settlers.                                                   126. Tallbear argues “the making of ancestral populations, the ordering and calculating of genetic markers and their associations, and the representation of living groups of individuals as reference populations all require the assumption that there was a moment, a human body, a marker, a population back there in space and time that was a biogeographical pinpoint of originality. This faith in originality would seem to be at odds with the doctrine of evolution, of change over time, of becoming” (Tallbear, 2013, p.6)      163 4.6 Conclusion This chapter on white settler orientations speaks to a diverse range of ways that white settlers—including myself—connect with ancestry, Indigeneity, and archives. I want to acknowledge that I learned a lot about relationships and responsibilities from Joanne, Jean, and Marie. They pushed me to think harder about how I carry the knowledge that Rosemary and her family have shared with me, as well as how I pass that knowledge on to Rosemary's descendants.       164 Chapter 5: Archival Refusal My great grandmother Tlahoholt had children with William Georgeson, Scotty and Sophie’s son. For a long time, all I knew about her was that her name was Emma or Emily. Meeting my Sḵwx̱wú7mesh relatives I learned that Emma's real name was Tlahoholt127. They said that she probably got her english name from the church, who would not recognize her ancestral name, and wrote ‘Emma’ down on a baptismal or marriage certificate.128  Tlahoholt left Georgeson Bay with her kids right after her husband William died.  She was able to leave Galiano with her kids because of the water. She got in a canoe and paddled out from Active Pass to Sḵwx̱wú7mesh territory. Tlahoholt would have had no problem getting out of the pass and paddling, navigating through rough waters.129 She knew the water so well that it was just like breathing.   Tlahoholt paddled across with her kids and went back to her home. But somehow Scotty the lighthouse keeper found her and kidnapped her youngest child, taking him back to Galiano Island. That was my grandfather.  Because we were separated from Tlahoholt, we never knew where she was from, where she went, or what happened to her children. Because my grandfather was kidnapped, my family didn’t have a direct connection with Emma and her kids. But we were always connected to each other through water and fish. We all knew how to clean it, catch it, preserve it, and celebrate it, and it was the center to all of our lives. (Georgeson in Georgeson and Hallenbeck, 2018, 8).                                                      127. Thanks to Norman for sharing this information from the Sḵwx̱wú7mesh genealogy archive with us.  128. Norman Guerrero states “the churches would not recognize the ancestral name but rather making the ancestral name a surname. And that was reversed when they had descendants, as the parents new “Christian name” would be given to their children as a surname. That’s how a lot of our peoples have first names as surnames now “George, Thomas, Jacob, Joseph, etc.’ (Personal communication, March 2017).   129. Rosemary talked about this with her cousin Faye who agreed that paddling those waters would have been just like breathing for Tlahoholt.     165  Photo 18: Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh with and without Scotty Georgeson.130  5.1 Archival Refusal “Those of us writing about these issues can also “refuse”; this is a distinct form of ethnographic refusal” (A. Simpson, 2014, p.11).                                                    130 Hallenbeck, J, and Georgeson, R. (2015). My name Is... in Terminus: Archives, Ephemera and Electronic Art, Grunt Gallery and Ethnographic Terminalia.     166 Previous chapters have traced the occlusions found in settler colonial state archives and mapped out how these occlusions materially dispossess Indigenous peoples, and in particular the Indigenous women in Rosemary’s family, of their lands and personhood. I’ve followed the paper documents of Rosemary’s family from their origins in state archives to the personal collections of women with an interest in the Georgeson family. Employing a genealogical approach (Paul et al, 2014), I’ve read the testimonies and transcripts of the McKenna McBride Commission to understand how occlusion works through different registers and scales. I now switch my focus, turning away from the paper archive towards Rosemary’s ancestors and the lands and waters that they were / are from. In this chapter, I underscore the relationships that endure despite archival occlusion and material dispossession, and in so doing share some of the process of how we found Rosemary’s relatives.   In Mark My Words: Native Women Remapping Our Nations (2013) Mishuana Goeman explicitly eschews (re)mapping as a project of recovery, arguing against bringing the past into the present, urging instead for a reading of Indigenous geographies and histories as material, creatively “represented in images, ideas, and imaginings” (Goeman, 2013, p.4). Indigenous geographies and histories are already and always here, constellations of belonging that exceed settler colonial logics. Zoe Todd and Crystal Fraser emphasize that settler archives cannot be fully decolonized; there is no escaping the settler institutions that house Indigenous archives, or the logics that produce them (Fraser and Todd, n.d). In this context, rewriting is only ever partial and offers but faint glimpses of possible reparations, promises of justice, or the reinstatement of status (Weld, 2014, p.3). Writing about the archives of Atlantic slavery, Saidiya Hartman calls the archive “a death sentence, a tomb, a display of the violated body, an inventory of property, a medical treatise on gonorrhea, a few lines about a whore’s life, an asterisk in the grand narrative     167 of history” (Hartman, 2008, p.2). Hartman follows the figure of Venus, knowable and narrated only through slavery, “hers is an untimely story told by a failed witness” (Hartman, 2008, p.2).  Similarly, Indigeneity as concept only comes into being through settler colonialism (Rifkin, 2017). Indigenous peoples serve “as traces within twenty-first-century articulations...even where they are always already foreclosed as already known, already completed” (Byrd, 2011, 9). Inclusion is therefore the dark side of occlusion, the exploitative and non-consensual appearance and misrepresentation of Indigenous knowledges, bodies, and traumas which are often on display in settler colonial state institutions (Lonetree, 2012; Clements 2010; Medak-Saltzman 2010). From the photographs of Edward Curtis to the sacred belongings housed in Museum collections throughout the globe, institutions and archives are “saturated with Indian voices. They were in some sense “published” – in federal superintendents’ annual reports or independent investigative committee transcripts, for example – but not usually with Indian intent or consent... Do we refuse them all?” (K.T. Lomawaima, 2016, p.65).  Faced with the impossible task of archival recovery, Lomawaima’s question “Do we refuse them all?” frames refusal as a methodological intervention.   In this chapter, I take up Lomawaima’s “do we refuse them all?” as a methodological question, bringing to the fore ethical questions related to knowledge ownership, intellectual property, and my positionality as a white witness to Rosemary (re)connecting with family and territory.  In the first part of the chapter, I turn to academic literature concerned with refusal as methodology and place it in conversation with the settler archive and academia. I then discuss the process of finding Rosemary's family while simultaneously refusing to tell Rosemary's     168 family story. 131 132 For Lisa Lowe refusal is not just about turning away from positivism but also eschewing “the promises of liberal political enfranchisement to emancipate and redeem, (which) risk subjecting the enslaved to the dominant terms under which they had so long suffered and within which they have been deemed lacking, indebted, or failed” (Lowe, 2015, p.85).  In Red Skin White Masks (2015) Glen Coulthard takes up this question of recognition vis a vis Indigenous peoples and a reading of the master slave dialectic through Hegel and Fanon. Coulthard argues for “empowerment that is derived from this critically self-affirmative and self-transformative ethics of desubjectification must be cautiously directed away from the assimilative lure of the statist politics of recognition, and instead be fashioned toward our own on-the-ground struggles of freedom” (Coulthard, 2015, p.48). Refusing recovery in official archives can “provide other versions of personhood and society, history and justice, and pleasure and possibility” that do not hinge on a politics of recognition by the settler state (Lowe, 2015, p.88).133In As We Have Always Done (2017) Leanne Simpson draws on Audra Simpson’s work to connect refusal with resurgence “a productive place of refusal is one that generates grounded normativity. If we mobilize around “fear of disappearance” rather than encoding that fear into                                                  131. This chapter has been a hard one to write. I have multiple drafts of it, moving in very different directions. This latest (and hopefully close to final) iteration owes a huge debt to Dr. Phanuel Antwi who was generous enough to talk with me about my work, our work, and this chapter in particular. Phanuel urged me to embrace the impulse I had to refuse to tell, and he also pointed to the interesting ways in which I interchanged “I” with “We”, suggesting that this was also a telling methodology for knowledge ownership and the nature of our work together.    132. What I share in this chapter has been discussed with Rosemary and her family and comes out of comments and questions from her family. It is also inspired by conversations that Rosemary and I have had with Indigenous students after guest lectures and conference presentations who have wanted to do their own family research and wonder about our process. 133. For more on the politics of recognition in relation to liberal politics and reconciliation see Coulthard,G.S. (2015) Red Skin, White Masks. Minnesota     169 policy...what does that mobilization look like?” (L. Simpson, p.176).  Refusal as turning away creates forms of belonging that don’t hinge on a politics of archival recognition or on ‘bringing to light’ a more ‘authentic’ account of Indigenous life. “Refusal generates, expands, champions representational territories that colonial knowledge endeavors to settle, enclose, domesticate. We again insist that refusal is not just a no, but is a generative, analytic practice” (Tuck and Yang, 2014, p.817). Refusal can be a regenerative resurgent practice.   Refusing archival recovery raises questions about knowledge ownership and the academy. I remember back to when Rosemary and I began doing this research and the first time I turned on the audio recorder. Rosemary and I were sitting at a cafe by the Vancouver Public Library.  I took out the recorder and placed it between us on the cafe’s small melamine table. I vividly remember the anxieties that I felt in that moment of beginning to record our conversations.  Recording moved our friendship closer towards institutional recognition, our conversations and knowledge became something partially produced for the academy. I was placed in a position of feeling like I needed to protect Rosemary's knowledge but also knew that I had to deliver a dissertation as an original piece of work to the academy. I was nervous, knowing that I had to balance the requirements of producing this dissertation as an original contribution to knowledge which also seemed like / is a denial of the material realities of our collaboration. For Lomawaima, archival refusal productively poses questions about responsibilities and relationships; “What and where are our archives? Whom and what might we refuse, and why? Where do we owe affection, respect, connectedness, and responsibility for scholarly diligence? How do we conscientiously carry out those responsibilities?” (K.T. Lomawaima, 2016, p.65). This chapter wrestles with these ethical entanglements and my own feelings of unease within what I understand to be my responsibilities as a witness and friend.      170  In Resisting Colonial Education: Zitkála-Šá and Native Feminist Archival Refusal (2011) Akwesasne Mohawk scholar Laura Terrance describes stumbling on a boarding school autograph journal at the library. Terrance writes “I am not going to tell you the name of the young woman the journal belonged to or even her tribe. I am not going to tell you which boarding school she attended, and I am not going to tell you which library I found it in or where it is now” (Terrance, 2011, p.621).  Terrance only very cursorily describes the document, refusing the reader / researcher’s desire to know its contents. Instead, Terrance turns towards the work of Sioux scholar and activist Zitkála-Šá who negotiated issues of ownership, control, and knowledge production during her own life, publishing about them in Indian Stories (1921) where she narrates her experiences while attending White's Manual Labour Institute and Earlham College. Her writing is a searing critique of white settlers and ultimately a refusal of white knowledge systems.   For the white man's papers, I had given up my faith in the Great Spirit. For these same papers I had forgotten the healing in trees and brooks. On account of my mother's simple view of life, and my lack of any, I gave her up, also. I made no friends among the race of people I loathed...At last, one weary day in the schoolroom, a new idea presented itself to me. It was a new way of solving the problem of my inner self. I liked it. Thus, I resigned my position as teacher. (Zitkála-Šá, 1921, p. 99).   Zitkála-Šá recognizes how much she has lost in order to receive a colonial / western education. She responds by turning away from her work as a teacher and returning to her community.  Zitkála-Šá wrote on a variety of topics, including her own experiences in Industrial school, stories told to her by her family, and traditional stories from her community. “I remember how, from morning till evening, many specimens of civilized peoples visited the Indian school. The city folks with canes and eyeglasses, the countrymen with sunburnt cheeks and clumsy feet,     171 forgot their relative social ranks in an ignorant curiosity. Both sorts of these Christian palefaces were alike astounded at seeing the children of savage warriors so docile and industrious”. Terrance reads ethnographic refusal into Zitkála-Šá writings because Zitkála-Šá chose what stories to publish and simultaneously critiqued the Indian school and the “Christian palefaces”.  What does it mean to write with refusal?  Hartman identifies a hunger created by lost stories, “it is tempting to fill in the gaps and to provide closure where there is none” (Hartman, 2008, p.8).  Hartman advocates for “narrative restraint” as a method of writing with refusal (Hartman, 2008, p.12). In “Nikîkîwân: Contesting Settler-Colonial Archives through Indigenous Oral History” (2016) Dallas Hunt suggests “treating stories as gifts also means confronting the danger that our stories will be used against us” (Hunt, p.35). Following Hartman and Hunt, I engage in writing with refusal by practicing narrative restraint and treating the stories shared with me as gifts. Importantly, writing with refusal pushes up against white settler desire for stories of Indigenous trauma; mainstream white society reads Indigenous stories “through thick pathology narratives” (Million, 2009, p.56). Working against this logic, I share some of the story of how we came to find Rosemary's relatives, emphasizing the centrality of the everyday and importance of gathering together.         Photo 19: Marie and Rosemary share stories on Galiano Island.134                                                  134 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive.      172  Rosemary and I spent six years working together. 135  Through our work we learned where Tlahoholt and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie) were from, what their traditional names were, and (re)connected with Tlahoholt’s descendants.   Rosemary has spent her lifetime gathering stories, talking with people, and listening for her family. She has shared some of this knowledge with me, and I now carry some of the stories of her ancestors. I take this knowledge and responsibility seriously. For me, this closeness has meant establishing boundaries between the work that Rosemary and I do together and what I share with people outside of the circle of Rosemary’s family. I’m made especially aware of this boundary when I am alone and talking publicly about our work. Boundaries are essential to this dissertation. They exist between what I witnessed, learned, and shared, between what Rosemary knows and chose to share, what we learned together, and what we have done with that knowledge. Tuck and Yang draw a parallel between academic claim making and colonization. “When we learn something from our data that may make a contribution to the field, we call that something a claim. To claim something is to mark it as new, and as newly mine. Claim (n.d.) has meant to call, to name, to describe (c. 1300), and later, “a piece of land allotted and taken” (c.1400). Claiming is an act of possessing, of making property, of enclosure.” (Tuck and Yang, 2014, p. 814). As I've discussed in Chapter 4, archival documents held in personal collections are part of this process of claim making – finding or coming across a document – allows a person to claim that document as theirs. It becomes property.    What I share or withhold in this chapter has been discussed and agreed upon with Rosemary and her family.  It is written with an understanding of the (constraining) dissertation                                                  135. Our work continues, as discussed in Chapter 1, as this kind of work is in many ways never complete.     173 requirements laid out by the University of British Columbia which require a single authored contribution to the creation of new knowledge. I’ve talked with Professors, administrators, and colleagues about how the single authored requirement stands in the way of genuinely collaborative work. What I have learned from these conversations was that our options were truly limited; Rosemary and I had the option of co-authoring a chapter of the dissertation, Rosemary could write a blog post that I could cite, or I could interview Rosemary and quote her at length throughout the dissertation. None of these options were appealing. Rosemary is a playwright interested in developing this work into a theatre or film piece, and the stories of her family are hers to tell. The bracketing of Rosemary's voice and the stories of her ancestors within a co-authored chapter, blog post, or interview facilitates their acquisition by the academy; ultimately her voice would be subsumed into a dissertation with my name on it.  I / We refuse these terms.  “These are efforts that expand the reach of the academy, which allows it to accumulate more and more territory. There are proper ways to share this knowledge, and we posit that social science publication is not one of them. This knowledge is powerful. It is already shared” (Tuck and Yang, 2014, p.816). While I was welcome to witness and film Rosemary reconnecting with her family, it was apparent that the story of Rosemary’s family wasn't mine to tell.  Instead, we have fashioned our own ethical protocol and process for our collaborative work. Rosemary and I have strategically co-published an article in an open access journal. Portions of the text below contain Rosemary's writing from that article; these are the pieces of her story that Rosemary has chosen to share and publish.       174 5.2 Everyday Encounters Below I share ‘Cedar Cottage Storytelling’ and ‘Williams Lake’, two vignettes that tell part of the story of how Rosemary found her relatives. These vignettes are intentionally told from several perspectives. I then situate them within my own reactions to what I was witnessing, putting them in conversation with my own expectations about research and genealogy.   5.2.1 Cedar Cottage Storytelling Night In 2014 Rosemary became the storyteller in residence for the Vancouver Public Library. The residency opened up time for Rosemary and I to research her family. At the same time, I received a public scholar award that I was able to use towards our collaboration.  Photo 20: Public Talk at the Vancouver Public Library, 2014 with Jessica Hallenbeck, Rosemary Georgeson and Dory Nason.136  Having a few months to consistently work together and the financial resources to do so was an incredible catalyst.  One evening, near the end of the residency, Rosemary gave a talk at Cedar Cottage. Rosemary: When I met Sheldon, just before Christmas there, I was doing a gig at Cedar Cottage, just up on commercial drive there, and it was a gig for the library and                                                  136 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive.     175 my project and research has been around our family, and Sheldon’s sitting there, and he’s the only dad in there with all his kids, and when I walked in I thought “I should know that man, he’s a big Indian” and he looked like me. So, I’m sitting there, and I introduce myself, and he goes “Hey, that’s my last name”. I tell him “I’m from Galiano Island, a place called Georgeson Bay. My grandfather was born there, and he had three siblings and I said “Herbert, Emily, and Annie’ and he says “Hey, my grandmothers name was Emily” and I go “ok”.137   Rosemary was at Cedar Cottage as the Vancouver Public Library’s Storyteller in Residence.138 By the time Rosemary gave a talk at Cedar Cottage we had already been to the Victoria archives and had learned the names of Tlahoholt’s children. That night, Rosemary shared this new knowledge at a library event that Sheldon attended. Sheldon and Rosemary figured out that they were related. Rosemary soon after met many more relatives through Sheldon, including well known activist and community organizer Fay Blaney, whom Rosemary had worked alongside in the Downtown Eastside for decades. Fay: I saw your name, because when I was working at the Downtown Eastside Women's Center. I always searched for any activities that would be empowering for the women and I saw this thing come up and it was you! And I thought ‘I bet she’s a relative’. And then a year later we somehow got in touch. I don’t know why it didn't happen sooner. It was a good year after that.   Rosemary: So, what do you think about all this newfound family stuff?  Fay: It’s so exciting. I’ve been so thrilled to meet you (laughter)  Rosemary: I find it fascinating that were just like a month apart  Fay: I know, and you’d think that we had known each other all our lives the way that we behave.139                                                   137. This is taken directly from a conversation that I recorded between Rosemary and Fay.  138. For more about this program see Baloy, 2016. 139. This is taken directly from a video recorded conversation between Fay and Rosemary.      176 5.2.2 Williams Lake Rosemary and I first met each other in Williams Lake in 2009. I had been working to have the city adopt an equity policy and Rosemary was there as a storygatherer and theatre artist with urban ink on  “the Squaw Hall Project: A Community Remembers” a film and theatre project about an old dancehall.140 I had contacted urban ink to see how our work might intersect and that’s how I met Rosemary. Shortly thereafter urban ink hired me to support youth in interviewing Elders about the hall.         Photo 21: Some of the creative team involved with “A Community Remembers”.141                                                  140. Urbanink is a Vancouver based Indigenous and intercultural theatre company. To learn more about the project please visit: 141 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive.     177 Photo 22: Raeanne Elkins and Mason Rankin during the filming of “A Community Remembers”.142  This began a long collaborative relationship and friendship. In 2016 Rosemary and I returned to Williams Lake at the invitation of Tsekene Elders from Kwadacha who had camped out in Williams Lake for the annual Elders Gathering.  On the first day of the gathering, Rosemary and I were standing on the outside edge of a hockey rink that had been transformed into a dining area for thousands of Elders.  A friend of Rosemary’s - Dr. Evan Adams – walked by and mentioned to Rosemary that there was an Elder she needed to meet.  Shortly thereafter Rosemary left with Evan Adams and returned a few hours later to where we were camped at the Chief William campground. Rosemary told me that she had just met Lila, one of her relatives. Rosemary told me that Lila “remembers hearing the story of someone being taken”.  When Rosemary told me about her meeting with Lila, I didn’t know how to respond. My first reaction was to think of it as                                                  142 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive.     178 an incredible coincidence, but I felt conflicted about this reaction as I knew that for Rosemary meeting Lila was not just a chance encounter.    Rosemary: In Williams Lake when Evan Adams introduced us, Lila just looked at me and started crying. I was really quite taken aback because she said, “I remember hearing a story that there was another one that was taken”.  Fay: Yeah and that’s exactly what uncle bill said too, because right after I met you, I picked up the phone and called him and said, “guess what?!” and I told him about meeting you and that story and he says “oh, I know that story”. Like he’d heard it before too, about one of the children being taken away.    Like Joanne, and perhaps also following in the footsteps of my own genealogist grandparents, I was oriented towards the dates and names found in the paper archives.  On a large piece of butcher paper, I'd written down all of the paper archival information that we had on Rosemary's family, identifying gaps or absences. I gathered the names of all the possible Emmas from the mid-1850s and charted out their lives on a colourful shared google docs spreadsheet.        Photo 23: Notes on a timeline that correspond to archival documents connected to Rosemary’s family.143                                                  143 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive.     179  Photo 24: An attempt at a family tree.144  I struggled to remember the names of Rosemary's ancestors (were Sophie and Sophy the same person, I wondered?) As I worked within the narrow confines of the state paper archives, Rosemary shared stories and memories with me about Georgeson Bay, Active Pass, fish, canneries, and water. She also told me about the snippets she remembered hearing from people about where her ancestors were from or who her relatives might be. I wasn’t sure how what she shared ‘fit’ within our research on her family. None of those stories made it onto pieces of paper or excel spreadsheets.  I felt uncertain about some of what Rosemary shared. It took me a while to move away from the census, birth, and death records, but when I did, that’s when the stories and memories started to cohere, and we began finding people. In the months after Rosemary’s conversation with Lila in Williams Lake, we met many more of Rosemary's relatives.   Rosemary's friendship with Evan Adams, her work in Williams Lake and in Kwadacha opened up a space for her to meet Lila. Rosemary's lifetime as a storyteller was recognized by                                                  144 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive.     180 the Vancouver Public Library who hired her to research her family and she shared that work one evening and met Sheldon. Sheldon in turn introduced Rosemary to Fay Blaney, whom Rosemary had worked alongside for decades. Fay Blaney connected Rosemary with more of her family. These encounters, stories and moments of (re)connection come out of everyday orientations that have been generations in the making. “Indigenous peoples’ resistance to colonialism . . . unfold[s] in daily acts of embodying and living Indigeneity, honouring longstanding relationships with the land and with one another” (Hunt and Holmes, 2016, p.157). Orientations to diesel fishing boats, Indigenous theatre, Elders gatherings, the Downtown Eastside. The “affective habits of everyday living” allow us to see “the complex regulation of bodily subjectivity and mak[ing] it possible for us to reimagine interpersonal interactions (violence, conviviality, attraction, dis/comfort, humour) and their entangled attachments to macro-histories of belonging, displacement and dispossession ” (Antwi, Brophy, Strauss, Troeung, 2013, p. 1). What I had read as an incredible coincidence was actually a profound orientation, decisions made in daily acts of reconnection structured through a deep resistance to macro histories of dispossession and settler colonialism.   In Chapter 4 I unraveled the interconnections between paper archives and settler orientations, asserting that white bodies are oriented by paper archives; the paths that are close at hand. What I witnessed working with Rosemary made me aware of my own blindspot in not paying attention to the power of the everyday or considering the everyday as archive. I had not thought about “the importance of lived experience, the intentionality of consciousness, the significance of nearness or what is ready-to hand, and the role of repeated and habitual actions in shaping bodies and worlds” (Ahmed, 2006, 2).  What had eluded my own archival research was that which was habitual and everyday for Rosemary. The accumulation of a lifetime of working     181 as a fisherman, truck driver, cook, storygatherer. Generations of Indigenous women in Rosemary’s family surviving, passing on stories, maintaining connections to each other and to water.   5.3 Gathering Together In our article in Decolonization, I write:  It’s one of those west coast summer days. The sun casts a haze over everything. The tide out near Tsawwassen, British Columbia is low, and the mud flats stretch out so far that you can barely see the saltwater. The air is filled with the smell of the ocean when the tide is out. As we drive to the ferry terminal, we pass the soon to open supermall. We cross over the remains of the Tsawwassen Nation’s longhouse, buried under asphalt and concrete in nineteen fifty-eight, when causeway construction began on the ferry terminal. There are no fishing boats on the water, no one out in the tidal flats, just a long stretch of road leading to ferry terminals and container shipping ports. We’re heading to Galiano Island, British Columbia. Today marks the culmination of three years of working together and a lifetime of research for Rosemary This is the first time in one hundred and twenty years that some of Rosemary’s relatives will walk in Georgeson Bay, the birthplace of their ancestral grandmother Annie and great grandmother Tlahoholt (Emma). (Georgeson and Hallenbeck, 2018, p.34).   Rosemary writes:  It was all because of water and fish. History, time, colonization did everything in its power to separate us. But the water and the fishing, the movement on the water, of following fish kept us together. Family, water and fish.  We don’t have the water anymore; we don’t have the fish. But now after one hundred years we have the family again. They passed on knowledge and it is still being passed on and being used. Because we’re writing this, that passed on inherited knowledge is still in use today, going out in the world in a different form. I’ve learned a lot from and Tlahoholt (Georgeson and Hallenbeck, 2018, p. 34)  I begin with these two quotes because they speak to the differences in how we talk about our work. I mention the weather and our drive to the ferry. I am precise about dates. My writing is     182 perhaps a little poetic but is primarily descriptive, informed by my positionality and shaped by my training as an academic.  While I mention facts; “Tsawwassen Nation’s longhouse, buried under asphalt and concrete”, I do not include my emotional response in my writing. I am aloofly present. Rosemary expresses gratitude towards Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh and Tlahoholt, emphasizing connections that have endured through 120 years. In the above excerpt, Rosemary and I are travelling together for the same purpose, but we are also thinking about it and sharing it in very different ways. We like writing alongside each other. Writing in our own voices is generative, enabling us to see connections and divergences in our work.  We bring the way that we write into our public talks and lectures; Rosemary and I speaking in our own voices. In writing this chapter I struggled with the loss of Rosemary’s voice running parallel with my own.  I reached out to Rosemary and asked her what I should do.  Rosemary explained that because I was present when her family (re)connected that I was positioned as a witness and that I should share from that perspective.  In Gathered Together Jordan Wilson describes the traditional role that witnesses played at xʷməθkwəy̓əm community gatherings.   I am thinking of how our community does its “work” in particular, where informally witnessing an event is a critical role fulfilled by multiple individuals hired as witnesses by those conducting their affairs (and whose responsibilities are distinct from the collective who also “witness” the events). As Larry Grant has previously explained to me, each witness observes the event from their own perspective. When they recount what they’ve witnessed to those who hired them, they do so by drawing on their own personal experiences and teachings. The practice of witnessing also serves a role in the biography of individuals, as important events in one’s life are recorded in this system. Witnesses must observe and listen closely, as they can be called upon at any point in the future to provide an account of what they observed at a particular gathering. Witnessing is one way of demonstrating how in our community (and in our neighbouring communities), knowledge, history, and life narratives are dispersed among many. Thus, gathering together as individuals is akin to bringing together components of a history (J. Wilson, 2016, p. 482).      183 Wilson’s description is helpful to me as I write this section, which is in many ways an account of what I observed, from my own perspective, based on my own personal experiences and teachings.145 I’ve already shared some of those personal experiences that have shaped how I have witnessed this gathering together of Rosemary’s family; the privilege that I have in tracing my family in paper trails that are hundreds of years old. I also think of the gift that I had of knowing both of my great grandmothers until my mid-teens. I have benefited immensely from teachings shared with me in the documentary film work that I have done.  In the introduction I talk about learning from xʷməθkʷəy̓əm through their relationship with the University of British Columbia and from conversations I’ve had with community members and friends. I have also learned a tremendous amount from Indigenous scholars, teachers, committee members and colleagues and am grateful for the Critical Indigenous Studies Institute at the University of British Columbia.  These are some of the personal experiences and teachings that I brought into the work of witnessing.   Unlike the census files found in state archives or DNA tests that help to complete family trees, finding Rosemary’s relatives has meant much more than confirming birth dates and filling in tree branches. Relatives gathered together and shared interconnected stories of ancestors, water, movement, and family across territories and generations.  In some cases, Rosemary and I travelled to meet people in the territory that they were from, in others, like in our cited writing above, we brought people home to Georgeson Bay where their ancestors were born.  Jordan                                                  145. Witnessing  as a laden subject position. Kwagiulth scholar Sarah Hunt suggests that non-Indigenous researchers position themselves outside of the role of expert and more as a witness or listener, allowing themselves to become “unhinged, uncomfortable” (S.Hunt, 2014, 29).        184 Wilson describes the important practice of xʷməθkwəy̓əm community members gathering together to share and listen as “a distinct form, or genre, of oral tradition, one deeply connected with biography” (J. Wilson, p.470).  In the following section I share some of what I witnessed as Rosemary and her family gathered together. I do this to reflect my responsibilities as a witness, to uphold the voices and experiences of Rosemary and her family, and to share some of our process so that others can use it to help find their family.  When Rosemary and I met with Joanne we learned that she had sent an email to Norman, another member, who was Sḵwx̱wú7mesh and had some information on Rosemary’s family. When we returned to Vancouver, Rosemary saw that her and Norman shared several friends on Facebook and sent him a message. Norman responded, and suggested that his friend and colleague Eva also meet with Rosemary. They agreed that my apartment in the West End would be the most comfortable and convenient place for everyone to meet. In anticipation of the reunion I cooked all afternoon. Once everyone arrived and we were sitting down, I introduced myself and the PhD research that I was doing. 146  I asked for permission and turned on the audio recorder. For the next few hours, Rosemary and her new-found relatives shared stories with each other. Eva talked about how she was related to Lila, the Elder that Rosemary had met in Williams Lake. Rosemary told Norman and Eva about Galiano Island and Georgeson Bay and shared stories about Tlahoholt that had been passed down to her from her grandmother. Rosemary also mentioned that over the years she had heard things about her family from friends                                                  146. I discovered in these moments that there was never a good time to introduce the research aspect of all of this, so I preferred to just talk about it immediately, ask for permission to record, and at the end leave the consent forms with everyone. At a later date, upon meeting again, I would ask how people felt about signing the forms and committed to returning to them at the end of the writing process with a draft that we could discuss together.      185 who were connected to the north shore. Rosemary talked about going to school in North Vancouver and hearing that she had a relative nearby. Rosemary’s stories wove together her own experiences in her lifetime with generations of knowledge and memories passed onto her.  Norman and Eva confirmed that Eva’s great grandmother was in a home for the Elderly near the school that Rosemary attended.  As Rosemary spoke, Norman and Eva completed details or clarified moments in what Rosemary was sharing.  “The biography of individuals, from my perspective, is also frequently distributed among many” (J. Wilson, p.481). We learned so much about Tlahoholt by gathering together and sharing stories.   In her discussion of Kiowa Novelist Scott Momaday, Natalie Harkin writes how blood memory brings together “many journeys in one, where racial memories, the stories of the old people, leap across generations. It is not a dying thing, but remarkably vital, and unending (Harkin, 2014, p.40). Rosemary’s knowledge of her family set within a relational context of connections to Sḵwx̱wú7mesh people and territory opened up a space for Norman and Eva to share what they knew. Rosemary shared her knowledge of her family, what she had learned over the years from Sḵwx̱wú7mesh friends, and her own experiences going to school in North Vancouver.    Rosemary: North Van High. And at that time, I can’t remember why I knew it, but remember at the bottom of third avenue, just the other side of Lonsdale, towards Deep Cove, there was that big old retirement home? Seniors home? And they said that’s where Annie was.   Eva: hmmm I don’t remember if she was there. Never heard of that. We’ have to find out. Because I know her house was right on Esplanade. Right where Forbes hits Esplanade. She was right behind. She pretty much raised my grandma. And my grandma’s firstborn. She had all of them.   Rosemary: Maybe that’s where he was talking about where he went. Alan said he used to go up there every Saturday to go over and see Annie.      186  Norman: That used to be the t’ala lodge down there.   Eva: oh, there was a t’aala lodge on Esplanade, just down the road.   Norman: Old folks’ home  Eva: I’d forgotten. I think she was there. Great grandma talked about having to take care of her in-law.   Norman: Vanessa said Annie was there.  Rosemary: I would walk by there just about every day after school. I always walked home because I lived at 16th and Pemberton.    At the start of this chapter Rosemary described her grandfather being kidnapped by his grandfather and taken back to Galiano Island.  Norman and Eva shared that the Sḵwx̱wú7mesh Nation kept their own archives but that there was nothing in them about Rosemary’s grandfather. Yet, because Rosemary talked about what she knew and how she was connected, Norman and Eva also shared what they knew from their own archives. “Part of being in a meaningful relationship with another being is recognizing who they are, it is reflecting back to them their essence and worth as a being, it is a mirroring.” (L. Simpson, 2017, p. 180).    Norman: We have stuff on Emma because Emma is Sḵwx̱wú7mesh.   Jess: We don’ t have that information  Norman: She was Sḵwx̱wú7mesh. So that was what I was talking about, because we couldn't find any documents on her. And what was custom for our people too, sometimes if people had been married out, and there was something going on, they would bring them home, if they were passing away. So, she might be home somewhere here as well...There really wasn’t much documented because if you were First Nations, they didn't really give a damn of what you had or what was going on. They brought her home. And I heard this from Auntie Stella.       187 Norman shared that Tlahoholt was Sḵwx̱wú7mesh. He also confirmed that there are very few documents pertaining to Tlahoholt, and that this was common for First Nations people because the state “didn’t really give a damn” but that he had heard through his Auntie Stella that Tlahoholt was probably “brought home”.  Norman also shared that Tlahoholt's traditional name was Tlahoholt. We learned what land Tlahoholt was from and the names of her parents.   Norman: He comes from that area. He was living in that area at that time which was why they called it Seymour. Because Seymour Jim, he had a home down there I guess and he was an Elder....So, Seymour Creek and that area. It was one of our places that had the biggest longhouse in Burrard Inlet.   In As We Have Always Done (2017) Leanne Simpson writes “when we start to link up with other individuals and communities engaged in everyday acts of resurgence by refusing the divisions of colonial spatialities, networks, or constellations, emerge.” (L.Simpson, p.199). Gathering together we learned about Tlahoholt and her children. What we learned expanded Rosemary’s connections to water, territory, and relatives. What I witnessed unfolding resonates with Leanne Simpson’s assertion that everyday acts of resurgence and refusal (re)create constellations of belonging.   The conversation in my living room was the first of many. A few months after meeting, Rosemary, Norman, Eva, Lila and I travelled to Galiano Island. It was a piercing blue and sunny day. On the ferry we all sat at a plastic table. Lila shared a photograph that she had of Annie, one of Tlahoholt’s kids.     188   Photo 25: Rosemary holds a photograph of Annie.147  When the ferry started to turn towards Active Pass everyone went outside to look across the churning water to the lighthouse. The moment of everyone being together looking out to the water, the lighthouse, and the Bay felt profoundly moving.  Photo 26: Rosemary, Norman, Lila and Eva looking out to the lighthouse.148                                                   147 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive. 148 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive.     189 Jordan Wilson describes working with an Elder from his community and learning that “our territory and its places continue to serve as a container of our community’s histories” (J. Wilson, 2016, p. 474). Active Pass, the Lighthouse, and Georgeson Bay reverberate with the stories that Rosemary has shared with me. On that trip they were also passed to Lila, Eva, and Norman. Our first stop was Georgeson Bay, where Scotty first pre-empted land and where Tlahoholt’s children were born.  Rosemary’s family no longer owns any part of the bay. We asked for permission from the current owner to be on the land and to visit. He warmly agreed and seemed to need to share some stories with us about Rosemary’s family.   Photo 27: Metal ring for tying up boats, Georgeson Bay149   Rosemary and her relatives gathered on the rocks near the shore and looked out onto the water. I kept my distance. I paid attention to the land. I noticed an old rusted metal loop still firmly set into a rock by the water. There was an old oak tree so close to the water’s edge that it must touch the water during storms. Rosemary walked along the shore.  Lila chatted with Norman and Eva.  Rosemary shared stories about her relatives. We stood in silence and looked                                                  149 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive.     190 out to the boiling water as it turned in the pass. After 120 years of separation, the descendants of some of Tlahoholt’s children were once again standing together on the land that their ancestors were from.  Knowledge kept and passed down was shared. “I believe the answers to our questions were not located in any one story in particular, but in the body of stories presented to us throughout an extended conversation. This also seems to be an aspect overlooked in the analyses of oral tradition and life history: the arrangement of stories in relation to one another, and how different meanings and interpretations are made available through this ordering.” (J. Wilson, 2016, p. 480). It was through (re)connecting with relatives who each held a part of Tlahoholt’s story that we were able to find her again and reconnect to the lands and waters that she was from.  “It is the telling of collective histories that offers the necessary medium through which an individual life is commemorated” (Robertson, 2012, p. 11). We left Georgeson Bay and visited the Cemetery where Tlahoholt’s husband was buried. Rosemary and Lila sat on a bench overlooking Active Pass and watched seals and sea lions get tossed from their comfortable lounging on a concrete buoy when the ferry hurried past. They chatted and I walked, camera in hand, doing some recording but mostly tried to keep my distance.  Rosemary had packed a picnic lunch and we went over to Montague Beach where I sat and listened, recording snippets of what Rosemary shared with her relatives. A few months after Rosemary’s Sḵwx̱wú7mesh relatives gathered in Georgeson Bay, Rosemary and I travelled to Campbell River at the invitation of Fay Blaney and her family.150 Rosemary and I arrived late in the evening. The cedar trees near the cabin we had rented made a                                                  150. Fay lives in Vancouver but, like our visit to Galiano, we were able to pay for everyone’s travel through a small public scholar research grant I had received.      191 slow whooshing sound as the wind pushed them around. From our cabin we watched the water in the Inside Passage as it began to boil, and a storm moved in.   Photo 28: Rosemary watches by the shore.151  Photo 29: A boat cuts through the inside passage near Campbell River.152                                                   151 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive. 152 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive.     192  A fishing boat cut through the heavy dark water. As rain fell, we headed to the Homalco reserve to meet up with Fay and her family. I left my camera, consent forms, and notebook in the car.  We walked into Bill Blaney’s house and up a short flight of stairs to a room that was painted a spectacular blue.153 There were long plastic tables set out that stretched across the length of the living room. Plates were piled high with smoked and dried salmon, herring eggs on cedar bows, potatoes, and bannock. It had been an especially bad year for salmon and herring. The generosity and welcome we received felt overwhelming.  As the night went on, we met a dozen or so of Rosemary’s relatives. It was a wonderful evening, being welcomed into Bill’s house, meeting everyone, and hearing so many stories.  “The relationship between past-present-future is not linear nor limiting, as we are engaged in the re-telling of the past, always transforming it, and our stories are without end (Harkin, 2014, p. 6). Photo 30: Rosemary with some of her Homalco relatives.154                                                  153. We later learn from Bill that he wanted the living room painted in the shade of blue that matched the colour of the water in Butes Inlet.  154 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive.     193  The next day, Rosemary and I headed to print off a bunch of photos, census documents, and letters that we had gathered from various archives. We arrived at Bill’s house with our arms full of Bristol board, markers, and paper. I set up a camera in one corner and pressed record. We had all gathered to spend the day talking about the work that Rosemary and I had done, to trace out the connections between everyone. We met someone from Rosemary’s family who also carried the name Georgeson. He told us he had never known where that name came from. Rosemary’s cousin Darren joked about his Scottish heritage. Darren: It's been curious. I mean, I run into a lot of Scottish people and I tell them I have some Scottish roots. I have that one eyebrow hair that's bright red. I tell them about that one. My wife doesn't like it, she just yanks it out of there. This really straight coarse red hair that sticks straight out and she comes and yanks it out so so it's, it's been interesting because I have been wanting to find out some more of that history.    Darren joked about his Scottish ancestry manifesting as a persistent unwelcome red eyebrow hair. What a contrast, I thought, to the celebratory tone we’re so used to hearing when people talk or write about Scotty. In fact, Darren’s eyebrow hair story is one of the only times that Scotty gets mentioned. Instead the day was filled with stories about Tlahoholt’s children. Rosemary and Bill talked about fishing and their grandparents. Fay described the beauty of Surge Narrows. Many conversations circled back to fish and water.  Others spoke of the long loss of land, water, fish, and connection that had been felt through at least five generations of Rosemary’s family.  Rosemary: It’s interesting, throughout all my travels and the places I wind up in on our Coast Salish territory, Elders that look at me and just smile and nod “oh, I know that story”. This has been a lifetime of hearing and trying to understand it and you know just by being here with all of you we've unraveled so much of it and unpacked it, taken away 120 years of separation.      194 Fay: Yeah, they sure worked hard at that. They worked so hard at the decimation of our families and our communities and in many ways, they were very successful, and a lot of us are going around with this shame like we don't really belong within our families. And this is in defiance of all of that, refusing to be separated. An act of resistance.  Rosemary: I love what Renae (Morriseau) called it, ‘my decolonization process’. We have a picture  of Scotty and Sophie together and then we have the picture of no scotty with her traditional name underneath her.   (laughter)  Fay: Yeah, reclaiming our grandmothers.  Rosemary: I think that’s exactly what we’re doing. Bringing their voices out, because through this whole process that was the one thing, I noticed that was stripped away, was the voices of our grandmothers. They gave birth to their children and I’m 5th generation you’re 6th from Sophie and there’s nothing out there about them but what we are doing here is giving them voice and bringing them back, they aren’t lost in history anymore.  Fay: They’re been invisible for long enough.  In Solar Storms, Chickasaw writer Linda Hogan narrates the story of Angel, a young woman who is trying to find her way home to a territory flooded by a hydroelectric dam. In her journey, Angel is aided by the voices and teachings of her grandmothers.  Mishuana Goeman describes the novel as “wrestling to find a place in which the spatial and temporal are not controlled solely by settler discourse and bodies and lands become conduits of connection rather than impermeable entities” (Goeman, 2017, p.101).  It is precisely this space of connection, narrated so beautifully by Hogan, that is centered with the reconnection of Rosemary and her family.  As a witness I felt the deep love that Rosemary and her family have passed on through many generations. It is a love that refuses to be fixed to Indian Act definitions of status or reservation lands and instead crosses over settler jurisdictions to shared connections built through labor, story, and deep relationships to water and place.       195  Narungga scholar Natalie Harkin argues that “state acts of surveillance, recording and archiving had the power to place our family stories in the public domain or obliterate stories within a broader history of erasure; filed away, silent and hidden until bidden. But our bodies too are archives where memories, stories, and lived experiences are stored, etched and anchored in our bloodlines deep. They ground our creativity in what become personal and political acts of remembering... Detective-like methods allow us to creatively re-map events and landscapes, piece together lives fragmented and heal our wounds” (Harkin, 2014, p. 4). Goeman talks about living memory as something passed down “through the transmission of gestures, habits, and skills. I argue that it is also passed down through the continued onslaught of colonizing land and reconstituting of Native bodies” (Goeman, 2017, p.114).  Harkin argues for considering the body as archive, and certainly as I mentioned in chapter 1, in the context of Delgamuukw v British Columbia [1997] it makes sense within a context of recognition to argue for the body as archive. Yet, I want to lean away from this understanding of embodied memory, oral history, and collective knowledge as archive. Diana Taylor talks about cultural memory as “a practice, an act of imagination and interconnection” (Taylor, 2003, p. 82). Rather than thinking of embodied memory and oral history as archive I want to suggest that embodied memory, blood memory, or ancestral memory are crucially imbricated in Indigenous resurgent practices and are necessarily importantly outside of the western paradigm of archive. It was precisely these resurgent practices that Rosemary was already engaged in that brought her to ancestral memory and material reconnection.   The stories of Rosemary’s ancestors do not need to be recovered in the settler archive. They live elsewhere. They live in the knowledge of drying and preserving clams that Bill Blaney shared with me during our time in Homalco. They live in a cedar canoe that rests under a blue     196 tarp on the Homalco reserve. They are in the land and water that Fay Blaney lived on with her grandmother who was Rosemary’s grandfather’s sister. They are in the stories passed onto Rosemary from her dad and his fishpacker named the Georgeson Bay.  Photo 31: Bill Blaney holding preserved clams.155 Photo 32: The Georgeson Bay156                                                    155 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive. 156 Rosemary Georgeson, personal archive.     197 Rosemary writes: I’m more connected now to Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh and Tlahoholt. The white side of my family, Scotty’s side doesn’t exist like it used to. Being descended from these women has settled in my body in a different way. It’s different now knowing and saying who I am and where I am from. There was always a part that was at odds within me over it. It felt like history had been denied, I can say with confidence who I am and what I am, and that’s come through this work that we have been doing. We were forcibly disconnected from knowing who we were. Knowing has been a decolonizing process. We’ve given them a voice and brought them back.  They aren’t lost in history anymore.  When we know the stories and the place, we know how to take care of it. Without the water we still come together we just are learning different ways of doing it. (Georgeson and Hallenbeck, 2018, p.33).   In the same article, I write: Zoe Todd, writing about her work with Indigenous women and fish in Pangnirtung states that ‘traditional subsistence pursuits provide more than food: they afford opportunities to share knowledge with children and to revisit places of personal and family significance (Todd, 2016, p.217). The work of finding Rosemary’s relatives has brought people together to share food and to share stories of ancestors and places that continue to be central in people’s lives. It has brought family together to physically visit the places where their ancestors are from.  It has been a privilege to be able to work with Rosemary to find her ancestors and to meet their descendants and to sit with Rosemary and her family and to witness this incredible work unfold. I am deeply grateful. (Georgeson and Hallenbeck, 2018, p.34).    5.4 Conclusion It was the smell, the smell that took them back. It didn’t have the scent of a sterilized institution. It was the smell of something wild, free and of a life well lived. They drank in that smell and held it. It was what they were made of. This is what they wanted their last breath to smell of. It proved that they were here, and their time was spent in the way that they wanted. Memories, family, loves, children, teachings that took them back to the most constant in their lives. The place where they were most comfortable and content.  It is in the same smell that has always been there since time began, a smell that is fading deeper into our memories as each generation moves on. (Rosemary Georgeson in Georgeson and Hallenbeck, 2018)      198 Chapter 6: In Defiance of All That  6.1  6.2 Makings and Meanings of “In Defiance of All That” The film is a direct response to questions raised throughout this dissertation. It is an intervention, a generative way of thinking about decolonial method as a practice. Submitting this chapter as a film created space for Rosemary and her relatives to theorize on their own terms about fish, water, and urbanization. As Sarah Hunt asks, “how can Indigenous ways of being and knowing become legitimized within theorizations of ontology, given the ongoing (neo) colonial relations that shape geographic knowledge production?” (S. Hunt, 2014, p.27). Sarah Hunt points out that Indigenous scholars have suggested that “stories, art, and metaphor are important transmitters of Indigenous knowledge”, representing Indigenous ways of thinking about the world that exist outside of “what is legible as western scholarship” (S. Hunt, 2014, p.27). “In Defiance of All That” intercuts conversations between Rosemary and her Homalco relatives with visuals of the lands and waters intimately connected with Rosemary and her family, insisting that despite dispossession from land, connections to water and fish have held together five generations of Rosemary’s family. As Melanie Yazzie and Cutcha Risling Baldy state  Indigenous peoples have always analyzed, critiqued, questioned, and dreamed theories of how to balance and rebalance our worlds. And these theories, ever                                                  157 The film was created from footage shot on five cameras over ten years. Rosemary was there throughout, directing me when to turn on the camera, asking questions of the people we visited, and over time entrusting me to film what I thought would narratively work. I edited a rough draft and Rosemary then suggested edits.      199 adaptable and ever changing, are built with a focus on the past, present and future. We argue that this multidirectional, multispatial, multitemporal, and multispecies theory of relationships and connections forms the terrain of decolonized knowledge production. (Yazzie and Baldy, 2018, p.1).  When I started this work with Rosemary and stories began to be shared with me, I felt great loss. Many of the lands and waters of Rosemary’s ancestors are now buried under concrete, crumbling into the water, owned by white settlers, emptied of fish and sea life. Canneries stand in ruins while the pilings of old jetties jut angrily out of the water when the tide is out. When the sun rises and sets there are no boats on the water, no families gathering at the end of the day. In Imperial Debris: On Ruins and Ruination (2013) Ann Stoler asks about “the uneven temporal sedimentations in which imperial formations leave their marks” (Stoler, 2013, p.2). Stoler thinks about the material and psychic imprints that imperial ruins leave behind on those still grappling with their effects. “In Defiance of All That” emerges out of this early feeling of loss, of thinking of dispossession as ruination.158  What I learned from Rosemary and her family changed how I visited, felt, and filmed the waters, lands, and places connected to her ancestors. Editing “In Defiance of All That” required me to call on my work as a witness, to remember the stories held in those places, to honor them in the narrative, but to withhold their truths from people not connected to them.159                                                   158 Yet  Stoler also insists that Imperial debris “urges us to think differently about both the language we use to capture the tenacious hold of imperial effects and their tangible if elusive forms” (Stoler, 2013, p.2). “In Defiance of All That” takes up this challenge to develop a language for capturing the elusiveness of the settler colonial present.  159. This withholding was a conscious decision because the history of visual representations of Indigenous peoples very much parallels the history of academic research and Indigenous peoples.  Visual representation has been “crucial to this dispossession, shaping ways of seeing, knowing and defining indigeneity that are predicated on     200  Photo 33: Jessica Hallenbeck filming from the ferry as the boat cuts through active pass.160 Because of this withholding, the film emerges from and brings the viewer to an accumulated sense of multiple centers, advancing an understanding of research as “the very act of relationality across time and space” (Yazzie and Baldy, 2018, p.1). Leanne Simpson reminds us “in the old days, stories connected our families to one another; they stitched together our collective consciousness; they stitched together our nation” (Simpson, 2011, p.105). For Rosemary’s family, the film is about this biographical stitching together, a gathering that overlaps story, place, and water. Jordan Wilson’s work resonates here.  As I have attempted to articulate, biography—the telling of lived experiences, life trajectories, life history—is inseparable from snəeyəɬ, from knowing who we are and where we come from….Biography, then, particularly in the spoken, shared form, is                                                                                                                                                              upholding settler power, privilege and resources, synchronised with interrelated systems of subjugation and governance.” (Hughs and Smith, 2018, 4). 160 Jessica Hallenbeck, personal archive.     201 an ongoing and integral practice happening in various settings. This practice is not restricted to the kitchen table; it also occurs on the water when the fish are running upriver, in the forest while collecting cedar bark, in the marsh during duck hunting season (Wilson, 2016, p. 488).  On a very warm weekend at the end of July 2019, Rosemary, myself, Darren, Fay, and Corrina Blaney traveled to Galiano Island. This occasion marked the first time in 122 years that descendants of William and Tlahoholt’s daughter Emily were gathered together on Galiano Island.  On the last evening Rosemary cooked a huge feast and invited her extended family to join us.  As the sun began to set and bats took flight, a small group gathered on a ridge on the north end of Galiano Island to watch “In Defiance of All That”. Dory Nason and Johnny Mack had helped tape a bedsheet to the cedar wall of a cabin, and I set up an old projector. Family who had just met for the first time gathered. Rosemary’s grandchildren sat, eagerly anticipating seeing their siblings, aunties and uncles, grandparents and great grandparents in the film. The film made it possible for Rosemary and I to share the story of our work. It brought the stories we had found of family and water to her children and grandchildren, to her family on the water, to her brothers and uncles, to her ancestors.  I realized that rather than an archive of ruination, the film is about the Salish Sea as an “archive of the enduring” (Mawani, 2018).                   202 Chapter 7: We Have Stories: Five Generations of Indigenous Women In Water    Chapter 5 “Archival Refusal” pushes against the prospects of recovering the colonized from settler archives. In Chapter 7 “We Have Stories: Five Generations of Women in Water” I follow the orientation that is opened up in refusing settler archives, co-producing knowledge that centers the lands and waters of Rosemary’s great grandmother Tlahoholt and great great grandmother Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh. As discussed in the introduction to this dissertation, Rosemary and I have thought deeply about decolonization, Indigenous methodologies, and knowledge ownership. Because we are both telling parts of this story, and are both part of the story, we felt that it was important to co-publish an article that shared Rosemary’s story in a way that was accessible and outside of the PhD context. Our article demonstrates our methodology of working together. This chapter is largely from our article “We Have Stories, Five Generations of Women in Water”, published in a special issue on Indigenous Peoples and the Politics of Water co-edited by Dr. Melanie Yazzie and Dr. Cutcha Rising Baldy for Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education, and Society, an open access journal.161 In some sections of this chapter I have expanded on the article to include more information about Homalco territory and used footnotes to indicate a corresponding interview included in the Chapter 6 film.162   Chapter 6 centres the daily acts of resistance and persistence within Rosemary’s own family in relation to the capture of salmon, the occupation of water, and the dispossession of                                                  161. I would have preferred to present the co-published article directly as it appears in the journal, but FOGS dissertation formatting requirements for published material in dissertations prohibits this.  162. I indicate this with footnotes denoting the added text.      203 land.  Putting the stories of Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh and Tlahoholt back into place and into relationship brings the strategic occlusions discussed in Chapters 2 through 4 into sharper focus, identifying the material violences that interrupt and alter people’s connections to place (Raibmon).The disappearance of Rosemary’s grandmothers from the settler archive is part of a larger disappearance of Indigenous women from the narrative of settler colonialism, salmon, and urbanization.  This separation between land, water, and fish is strategic and lies at the heart of the settler colonial project. The changed relationship to water and fish through five generations of Rosemary’s family signals the importance of intimate histories that interweave policies that targeted Indigenous peoples with policies that reinforced settler power, and settler practices that worked to unravel Indigenous places (Raibmon, 2008, p. 68). The capture of salmon and water altered family relationships. It changed the way people connected to each other, and it rendered Indigenous women dependent on men for survival and support. Yet tracing the shifting and occluded relationship between Indigenous women, water, and fish through five generations of Rosemary’s family enables us to reveal how these relationships persist despite attempts at their erasure (Stoler, 2016, p. 5).  As Fay Blaney, Rosemary’s cousin puts it   They worked so hard at the decimation of our families and our communities and in many ways, they were very successful and a lot of us are going around with this shame like we don't really belong within our families. And this is in defiance of all of that, refusing to be separated. An act of resistance... reclaiming our grandmothers. (Faye Blaney, personal interview).  As discussed in Chapter 3, “Gender, Occlusion, and the McKenna McBride Commission”, much of the academic work on law, water, fish, and settler colonialism in British Columbia has largely neglected to center the experiences, lives, and knowledges of Indigenous     204 women (C. Harris, 2004; D. Harris, 2001; Lutz, 2008).163 Alongside Zoe Todd (2016a) and Alificja Muszynski (1996), this chapter acts as a corrective, holding up, in the words of Dory Nason  “the boundless love that Indigenous women have for their families, their lands, their nations, and themselves as Indigenous people” (Nason, 2014, p.234).164 Re-centering Indigenous women enables us to understand their central importance in the settlement and growth of Vancouver and Indigenous women’s strategic resistance to dispossession.  Drs. Melanie Yazzie and Cutcha Risling Baldy discuss how the popularity of the phrase “water is life” is indicative of a widespread shift whereby “Indigenous people are (re)activating water as an agent of decolonization, as well as the very terrain of struggle over which the meaning and configuration of power is determined” (Yazzie & Baldy, 2018, p. 1). The refusal to disappear and sever ties to homelands is particularly catalyzed through struggles over water. Yazzie and Baldy insist that “water is theory; theory that is built from relationality to the land, the earth, everything” (Baldy, 2017). Chapter 7 and its film companion Chapter 6 enact what Yazzie and Baldy term ‘water view’. “(Re)claiming knowledges not just for the people, but also for the water; not just looking at our relationship to water, but our accountability to water view” (Yazzie and Baldy, 2018, p.2).                                                   163. For work that centers Indigenous women in relation to fish, water, and law outside of British Columbia, please see Zoe Todd. (2016). From fish lives to fish law: Learning to see Indigenous legal orders in Canada. Yates-Doerr, E., and C. Labuski (eds). Somatosphere: Ethnographic Case Series.   retrieved June 2018. Also, Zoe Todd. (2016). ‘This is the Life’: Women’s Role in Food Provisioning in Paulatuuq, Northwest Territories. Kermoal, N and I. Altamirano-Jimenez (eds). Pp. 160-185 in Living on the Land: Indigenous Women’s Understanding of Place. Athabasca: Athabasca University Press. doi: 10.15215/aupress/9781771990417.01.  164. February 12.  We hold our hands up on Indigenous Women’s Love and Resistance” [Decolonization Blog Post]. Retrieved from     205 7.1  Five Generations of Indigenous Women, Fish and Water165  Rosemary My great grandmother Tlahoholt had children with William Georgeson, Scotty and Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh (Sophie)’s son. For a long time, all I knew about her was that her name was Emma or Emily. Meeting my Sḵwx̱wú7mesh relatives I learned that Emma's real name was Tlahoholt.166 They said that she probably got her English name from the church, which would not recognize her ancestral name, and wrote ‘Emma’ down on a baptismal or marriage certificate.167  Tlahoholt left Georgeson Bay with her kids right after her husband William died. She was able to leave Galiano with her kids because of the water. She got in a canoe and paddled out from Active Pass to Sḵwx̱wú7mesh territory. Tlahoholt would have had no problem getting out of the pass and paddling, navigating through rough waters.168 She knew the water so well that it was just like breathing.  Tlahoholt paddled across with her kids and went back to her home. But somehow Scotty the lighthouse keeper found her and kidnapped her youngest child, taking him back to Galiano Island. That was my grandfather. Because we were separated from Tlahoholt, we never knew                                                  165. The published article begins here.  166. Thanks to Norman Guerrero for sharing this information from the Squamish genealogy archive with us.  167. Norman Guerrero states ‘the churches would not recognize the ancestral name but rather making the ancestral name a surname. And that was reversed when they had descendants, as the parents new “Christian name” would be given to their children as a surname. That’s how a lot of our peoples have first names as surnames now “George, Thomas, Jacob, Joseph, etc.’ (Personal communication, March 2017).   168. I talked about this with my cousin Fay Blaney who agreed that paddling those waters would have been just like breathing for Tlahoholt.     206 where she was from, where she went, or what happened to her children. Because my grandfather was kidnapped, my family did not have a direct connection with Tlahoholt and her kids. But we were always connected to each other through water and fish. We all knew how to clean it, catch it, preserve it, and celebrate it, and it was the center of all of our lives. Like Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh and Tlahoholt I grew up on fishing boats. My first memories are of being on the water on my dad’s fish packer the Georgeson Bay. I mostly worked with my dad, trolling from Galiano Island to Prince Rupert and back. Surrounded by the smell of saltwater, coffee, fish, and diesel, I loved to fish in the early morning. The sun was always the brightest then, and there would be a gentle roll in the boat. My brothers and I knew our life was part of the water that was around us, in our bay, around our island. It was our highway. We survived off it. It was our food source, our economy, our social structure. The water was a place where we connected with family and friends. It all came from the water around us.     207     Photo 34: Rosemary at age 16 with a halibut169  We used to all be fishermen. Some of us were trollers, some were gillnetters or seiners. I remember when I was a kid on Galiano there were times when pretty much every Seine boat on this coast was tied up between Whalers Bay, Miners Bay, and Sturdies Bay and they were still going through Active Pass all night long. As trollers, we had poles on the bow of our boat and on the mid-section that dropped down so that we could run our main lines, our deep lines, and our middle lines. Dad always ran 36-foot poles on his boat, which meant we were 81 feet from the tip of one pole to the other. And in those 81 feet we would have six lines at                                                  169 Rosemary Georgeson, personal archive     208 different levels. We would have our deep line, our main line that was a little shallower, and then our outside lines that we would fly what they used to call pigs on, which were Styrofoam blocks locked on our steel trolling line. If we were fishing sockeye, we would have 12 hooks minimum on each line, so we were flying 96 hooks. During spring fishing, we fished near the bottom so we would have a plug and above our bottom line we would usually fly a couple of spoons or flashers. Coho are surface fish, so we would shorten up and fly 36 hooks. We always knew that there was an art to trolling.   When I first went into the cannery, they put me on the bottom table. It was a really hard conveyor belt to work. There were no white women down there, they were all up on top because it was easier. We worked seven days a week. We would do 12 hour shifts six days a week and on the seventh day we would work eight hours. You would spend that whole time bent over the belt. After three weeks you had trouble straightening your back. I worked on the bottom belt for two years. This was at Norpac fisheries down at Commissioner street in Vancouver. There were more white women at that cannery. They did not have to travel with the fish. In 150 years, everything we had for thousands of years prior to that has been taken and destroyed. What had always been normal has been taken from us. There is a resentment in me around that. They have got our food, which is another form of genocide. There will always be fish for the sports fishermen, the tourists, and the foreign investors”  Jessica Fishing was a way of life and salmon was central to Indigenous economic and political orders, both along the coast of British Columbia and the interior of British Columbia (Claxton, 2015; Shreve, 2009; Harris, 2008; Fiske & Patrick, 2001). We know from speaking with her     209 descendants that most of Tlahoholt’s children quickly left Sḵwx̱wú7mesh territory to live in Church House, at the mouth of Butes Inlet, Xwémalhkwu (Homalco) territory.170 From talking with Rosemary’s Homalco relatives, we know that Tlahoholt’s daughter Emily would catch hundreds of salmon and travel in a small boat to Vancouver to sell fish by the Burrard Street bridge.171  There, Emily would meet with her sister Annie who had stayed in Sḵwx̱wú7mesh territory.172 Water facilitated Tlahoholt’s escape from Galiano Island, where she paddled all night with her children back to her territory. Water also enabled the return of Emily to Sḵwx̱wú7mesh territory to sell salmon and to visit her sister Annie. The story that emerges from the lives of five generations of Indigenous women in Rosemary’s family is of the critical importance of salmon and water for food, family, safety, and sovereignty. Yet, this is also a story about rapidly changing relationships brought about by the commodification of salmon in Tlahoholt’s territory. These shifts and what they meant in terms of survival reveal some of the reasons why Tlahoholt and most of her children did not stay in their traditional territory, and why Tlahoholt continues to be missing. Within Sar-Augh-Ta-Naog and Tlahoholt’s lifetimes, the canning industry sprang up, largely alienating Indigenous women from the traditional food fishery. This initial moment of accumulation would reverberate through subsequent generations in the form of racialized cannery work, increased control overfishing licenses, loss of reserve land for urban development, and finally the near total unravelling of the connection to fish and water.                                                   170. Spellings of Homalco names from Paul, E. Raibmon, P. Johnson, H. (2015). Written as I Remember It: Teachings (Ɂəms tɑɁɑw) from the Life of a Sliammon Elder. UBC Press. 171. This story is shared by Bill Blaney in the accompanying film that forms Chapter 6.  172. This story is shared by Bill Blaney in the accompanying film that forms Chapter 6.     210 Prior to colonization approximately 220 kilograms of salmon were consumed annually per person living along the Northwest Coast (Newell, 1993, p. 15). Further inland, the Lake Babine Nation averaged over one thousand salmon per year per family (Newell, 1993, p. 15). Fish, and in particular salmon, was central to the economies and ways of life of Indigenous peoples and separating Indigenous peoples from their ways of subsisting and from their traditional economies was central to the commercialization of fish (Butler & Menzies, 2007; D. Harris, 2001; Newell, 1993; Wright, 2008). In turn, the commercialization of salmon fuelled the industrialization and urbanization of British Columbia (Muszynski, 1986; Newell, 1993). Once a market was found in England, salmon canning quickly became the biggest industry in British Columbia and was essential to the early industrialization of British Columbia and the urbanization of the Metro Vancouver area. In 1870, a year after Tlahoholt was born, the first salmon cannery opened in Annieville (now North Delta). By 1883, there were 14,000 Indigenous people (likely all women) working in the canneries (Newell, 1993, p. 50). When Tlahoholt and most of her family left Sḵwx̱wú7mesh territory for Church House a million cases of sockeye salmon (the equivalent of 22 million kilograms of sockeye) were coming out of the Fraser River every year (Muszynski, 1996; Newell, 1993).   For the first thirty years of the salmon canning industry, Indigenous peoples made up almost the entire workforce. Salmon canning was seasonal and entire villages would travel to work near the canneries. Indigenous men would typically borrow money from the cannery to rent boats and nets and were paid based on their catch. Indigenous women were not allowed to lease boats or nets or receive any monetary advances. As a result, a large number of Indigenous women worked in the canneries (Muszynski, 1996; Newell, 1993). In the early days Indigenous     211 women were particularly valued for their labor in the canneries, and it is this labor that became the backbone of the industry (Muszynski, 1996; Newell, 1993).173    Due to the seasonal nature of salmon canning, labor shortages were common and there was much fear that this was holding back the development of the industry (Muszynski, 1996, p. 117). There was a need for laborers and as Butler and Menzies (2007) point out, Indigenous wage labor was created by inhibiting subsistence activities, undermining Indigenous economies, establishing male headed single family households, and segregating male and female labor (p. 13). Sarah Hunt (2016) details how the binary gender system laid out in the Indian Act created a male hierarchy while simultaneously erasing Indigenous roles that were non-gender binary. The imposition of colonial gender roles via the Indian Act went hand in hand with the dispossession of land. As Lawrence (2004) argues, “removing women, then, was the key to privatizing the land base . . . a central aspect of the colonization process in Canada would be to break the power of Indigenous women within their Nations” (p. 47).174  In the context of what is now British Columbia, disrupting Indigenous women’s connections with their Nations and families was necessary for the reconfiguration of Indigenous women’s labour. This shift facilitated the dispossession of water and fish while simultaneously ‘freeing up’ Indigenous women and children’s labor for cannery work. Cannery work was codified as women’s work. This codification served the dual purpose of transforming Indigenous women into wage laborers while also removing Indigenous women from their traditional roles                                                  173. I want to note that the disciplining of Indigenous bodies and relationships into bounded categories was and is manifest through the very gendered categories imposed by colonization that in turn extend and expand into prescribed spaces, roles, and work.  174.  Fay Blaney discusses this in more detail in the film that forms Chapter 6.     212 within their communities by establishing a white supremacist gender-based hierarchy. At the heart of this was control of the fishery, as fish and marine food sources were central to the subsistence of many Nations in British Columbia, and colonial control over fish and their commodification displaced (but did not eliminate) Indigenous economies and governance systems.  Indigenous men were given little choice but to fish for the canneries that had begun to line the Fraser River and the coast of British Columbia. Meanwhile, Indigenous women were prohibited from owning any property, including fishing nets, boats, and oyster leases, and were often forced to live off their reserves due to the gender provisions in the Indian Act.175 Indigenous women were increasingly drawn into cannery work as both a survival strategy and as a way of maintaining a connection to fish. As Chief Jimmy Harry (1913) put it, “the older men fish, and the younger people they do practically the same as those in [Mission] No. 1 reserve, they go to the canneries and fish for the market” (Royal Commission on Indian Affairs,  Affairs, New Westminster Agency, Seymour Creek No. 2 Indian Reserve, Saturday, June 21st, 1913. p. 51). The temporary migration of families and communities to the coast to work for the canneries opened up territory for settlers. In Chapter 3 “Gender, Occlusion, and the McKenna McBride Commission” I discussed the gendered omissions of the McKenna McBride testimony. One very central, but much overlooked fact was that the Commission only travelled in the spring                                                  175. Section 3 (c) from the 1876 Indian Act reads “Provided that any Indian woman marrying any other than an  Indian or a non-treaty Indian shall cease to be an Indian in any respect within the meaning of this Act, except that she shall be entitled to share equally with the  members of the band to which she formerly belonged, in the annual or  semi-annual distribution of their annuities, interest moneys and rents; but this income may be commuted to her at any time at ten years' purchase with the consent of the band.”     213 and summer; a time when Indigenous women and children would migrate towards the canneries along the Salish Sea and Fraser River. When Commissioners would arrive in a community and note the numbers of people who were on the land, they were likely drastically underestimating the number because so many were gone to work in the canneries. As Harris, C (2004) argues, “The social means of production and of subsistence were being converted into capital. Capital was benefiting doubly, acquiring access to land freed by small reserves and to cheap labour detached from land” (p. 172).  Because entire villages would relocate to the coast to be close to the canneries, when the Royal Commission on Indian Affairs travelled throughout the Province, they would use the low population numbers and lack of fishers to justify the expropriation of land.176 Massive migration to the canneries provided an impetus for services and commercial activity to grow around the cannery sites. Segregated worker ‘housing’ was needed, along with other infrastructure. Indian agents were initially responsible for policing the boundaries of residences and later moved inside the canneries, amid fears that unsanitary bodies would contaminate the canned salmon (Mawani, 2009). In this way, towns began to take shape around cannery sites, facilitating the expansion of a racialized and gendered urban settler colonial order organized around ensuring that white settlers were the central beneficiaries of the booming salmon canning industry.  The capture of salmon as a commodity for export led to significant changes in Indigenous women’s relationship to salmon. Indigenous women were removed from the water and cannery work coded as women’s work. The booming canning industry put massive development pressure on Tlahoholt’s territory. This came in the form of settler recreation, drinking water infrastructure,                                                  176. As mentioned above, the Commission only travelled in the summer to hear testimony, a time when many people were at the canneries.      214 industrial production, and bridge construction. Tlahoholt was from Sḵwx̱wú7mesh territory. She was born in 1866 and lived in eslhá7an, along the banks of Cch’ích’elxwi7kw stakw (Seymour River).177 A few years after her birth, Cch’ích’elxwi7kw stakw (Seymour River) was surveyed and a reservation created that included part of the river.  Photographs taken during Tlahoholt’s lifetime show white people hiking, boating, fishing, and picnicking on the river and its banks.178 The photographs underscore that early dispossession of the land that Tlahoholt was from was enacted in the leisure time of white settlers.179  Photo 35: “Boating Seymour Creek” shows A.W. Ross, Dr. McGuigan, Mr. Jackson, W.E. Gravely, and others at the Phibbs and Thompsons Milk Ranch House, May 24, 1886. Note the three canoes in the foreground and the cedar that has been harvested180                                                  177. As Tlahoholt was Sḵwx̱wú7mesh we are using Sḵwx̱wú7mesh spellings and place names. We thank Norman Guerrero from Sḵwx̱wú7mesh for providing the spellings of the place names.  178. These photographs include “Boating Seymour Creek” by H.T. Devine. City of Vancouver archives, part of the Major Matthews collection, reference code AM54-S4-2; “An Unidentified Man Fishing in Seymour Creek,” City of Vancouver archive, reference code CVA 371-2868; “Out P13 Prominent Citizens of Vancouver at a Picnic at Seymour Creek,” City of Vancouver archives, Major Matthews Collection, reference code AM54-S4-: Out P13. 179. Elsewhere, white wealthy families would enjoy summer holidays camping out on the beaches. This would quickly end in Vancouver due to the contamination of water by industry and raw sewage. 180. City of Vancouver Archives. Glass transparency (lantern slide), hand col., 5 x 8 cm CVA 371-2868.     215  By the late 1880s, and still during Tlahoholt’s lifetime, white settlers with boats and picnic baskets had been replaced by those pre-empting land along the Seymour river in order to first acquire and subsequently consolidate timber licenses (O’Donnell, 1998). At this time the reservation boundaries were changed to exclude the river.181 The Seymour River was subsequently chosen as a supplemental source for Vancouver's drinking water and an intake was built in 1907 (O’Donnell, 1998). Drinking water intakes and dams would continue to be constructed until 1925 (O’Donnell, 1998). Settler recreational practices and industrial development on land and on the water simultaneously appropriated land and shrank “Native space from its hereditary territorial boundaries to the confines of Indian reserves” (Raibmon, 2008, p. 58). Settlement in the form of recreation, pre-emption, and urbanization was significantly impacting Indigenous access to water along the Seymour River and the water itself was being contaminated with cedar shingles and logs from two working mills and a shingle company (Kahrer, 1989). In 1892, the same year that Tlahoholt’s son George William Georgeson was born, Keith Road was constructed through the Seymour reserve. In the following three decades, a license would be issued to J.A. Sinclair to dredge 42 acres of the foreshore for his sand and gravel company and the Vancouver Harbour Commission would obtain foreshore access to the Capilano, Seymour, Mission, and Burrard reserves (O’Donnell, 1998). The Sḵwx̱wú7mesh Nation were intentionally kept uninformed about most of the changes happening to their reservation and were poorly compensated, if at all. Tlahoholt’s son and Rosemary’s grandfather and his siblings would live to see the construction of the Second Narrows Bridge, an act that                                                  181. National Archives, Canada, RG 10, Volume 1022, Microfilm T-1459.     216 paved over more of the remaining land of their mother’s reserve and eventually the 45 1/2-hectare Seymour creek reserve would be left uninhabited. Currently, there are six water licenses on the Seymour River, all issued to the Greater Vancouver Regional District, diverting 80,457,315,000 gallons of water a year from the river to supply drinking water to Vancouver (Jolly, 1997). 182 The major rivers of Tlahoholt’s territory were initially transformed by white sports fisherman and outdoor enthusiasts, used to carry logs to the Burrard Inlet, then torn apart as pipes were put in to capture drinking water for the City of Vancouver. The river was irreversibly changed by the development of the Second Narrows Bridge. In many ways this reconfiguration of territory began out on the water. The capture of salmon and its subsequent commercialization led to the growth of Vancouver, putting increased pressure on the Seymour River which became choked with logging booms, drinking water infrastructure, and highway development. Within Tlahoholt’s lifetime, the relationship between water, fish, land, and family had been irreversibly altered. 7.2 Licensing Salmon, Losing the Water   Rosemary Diane and I around Christmas time, to make extra money, we would go and dig sacks of clams. One year we dug 700 pounds down in Montague Bay, in the rock piles there. We were sore. I                                                  182. In 1876, the Indian Reserve Commission reported twenty-two people living at the settlement. In 1891, thirty-seven people were living on the reserve. When the Royal Commission on Indian Affairs visited the reserve in 1913, only eighteen or nineteen natives were permanent residents. By 1982, however, no native residents were reported living on Seymour Creek Indian Reserve No. 2. (O’Donnell, 1998, p. 48)      217 had my daughter Jeannine in May and during her first, second, and third Christmas's we were out digging clams to make extra money. The first low tide would start around eight o’clock at night, and each night it was an hour later, and we would dig for about ten days, until we were going out at two and three in the morning for tides, and we both had little kids at home. It was cold, hard work. It was beautiful out there at night on the beach. Diane’s husband Kenny would come help us the last couple of nights because he could see that we were getting tired. And this just makes me sick. We would sell them to Jimmy Pattison’s nephew Brian. And he made our last load sit, said it was only good for bait. That’s when I punched him. “When you got them, they were fresh. We had them in sacks, there was nothing wrong with them, but you let them sit on the deck of the boat when you went out and partied for two days. Now you’re back and telling me they’re only good for long-lining bait.” I was tired, I’d had a couple of drinks, and I came right up from the ground and lifted him off his feet. That’s my little Jimmy Pattison story.  It always has been a very tiered system built to ensure that we are eliminated from it. I remember that extreme heavy presence of the fisheries officers. It was always in our faces. There was one fisheries officer that was so bad, people were threatening violence. He was a mean, violent, vile man. He was verbally abusive to us, he thought we were all liars and thieves, he was a very racist guy. Officers like him would hide in bays and come shooting out at full speed. If you drifted at all they were boarding your boats, everyone was getting ticketed. Any time I went to the Surrey courthouse their roster was full of names of my Indigenous family and friends. Everyone was there for fishing violations. There was a huge backlog in the courts. Your boat would get chained to the dock and you had to pay heavy fines to get it out.  My brother Gordon was coming over every few weeks for appearances in court. Everyone was getting pulled off the water and into court.     218 We switched to gillnetting and that was the beginning of the end. Put a drum on our boat, take off the gurdies and the spools and not do what we knew how to do. Quantity became more important than quality. That is the whole other layer of separation that we have. We still know how to do these things, how to move and run. The licenses got increasingly consolidated and all of a sudden what my brother Johnnie knew how to do came under scrutiny and the rules got changed. Costs went up and he needed thousand-dollar LED lights. All of us who were raised working on the water, it costs us to stay out there. We had to go back to school to get upgrading so that we could be out there. Thousands and thousands of dollars to have a working boat on the water. I remember one year my brother Gordon did not even get an opening to fish but he still had to pay for his license and boat lease. As time goes on there are more recreational boats on the water, but they are out there with bare minimum. No one can afford to own a boat to keep fishing even when we are allowed to fish. We do not live on the water because we cannot go out on it. There is no movement on the water anymore. No women out there. They succeeded in taking that away. Food and life and movement is gone. They were doing that then to my great grandmother Tlahoholt, and one hundred and twenty years later, they have succeeded. The separation is what we have inherited. 150 years ago, this was to be a place for tourists. They now come from all over the world to fish in our waters and our access to it is limited and cut off. And they are still polluting our creeks and our rivers, farmed fish, whatever they can do to disconnect us from the water we used to call home.        219 Jessica183 The consolidation of fishing licenses coupled with the heavy enforcement of fishing regulations significantly impacted Rosemary and her family’s connection to water and community. Despite the salmon canning industry significantly diminishing fish stocks and the increasing development pressure on Indigenous lands, Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh and Tlahoholt were still able to maintain some access to fish.184  As Rosemary shared, Sar-Augh-Ta-Naogh would go out in her canoe and catch fish. Tlahoholt’s daughter would catch fish and sell them by the Burrard Street Bridge. Rosemary’s father was a fish buyer, and Rosemary inherited the life of being on the water. Yet within Rosemary’s lifetime, fish would continue to decline, and increased policing of fishing regulations had an impact on Rosemary's relationship to water, fish, and community.   By the 1960s salmon populations were collapsing and canneries were beginning to close. Fishing licenses were becoming concentrated in the hands of a few wealthy entrepreneurs. As Haida scholar Woodrow Morrison puts it in We Have Stories, “people like Jimmy Pattison and a couple of other guys owned almost forty percent of all the licenses, so they didn’t even have to fish. They just leased their boats, leased their license, and raked in the profits” (in Georgeson, R. (Director). (2011). We Have Stories: Women in Fish [Motion Picture]). The Davis Plan, sanctioned by the Government of Canada and created by economist and minister of Fisheries and Oceans Jack Davis was introduced in 1969 (Robertson et al, 57). The Davis Plan was the first limited entry licensing program for the Pacific salmon fishery, ostensibly removing the public                                                  183. The first four paragraphs below have been added to what appears in our published article.  184. For more on the relationship between Indigenous commercial fishers, incorporation, and lifeways that exist outside of capitalism, see Hebert, K. (2015).  Enduring Capitalism: Instability, Precariousness, and Cycles of Change in an Alaskan Salmon Fishery. American Anthropologist. Vol. 117, No. 1. 32-46.     220 right to fish and assigning it to those who were already on the water and actively fishing.  (Swenerton, 1993, p.52).  The purported goal was to modernize the fishing fleet and increase incomes for fishermen by controlling access to the fishery by licensing boats rather than people.  Licenses were given to boats with a demonstrated ‘dependence’ on the salmon fishery (Swenerton, 1993, p.53). Boats that caught more than 10,000 pounds of salmon received an annually renewable “A” license, while boats catching less than 10.000 pounds received a non-renewable “B” license that had a ten-year expiry date. (Swenerton ,1993, p. 53). In 1969, the Government of Canada, under the Davis Plan, issued 6,932 limited entry licenses. 5,870 of these licenses were “A” licenses, renewable annually, while the remaining 1,062 were “B” licenses, set to expire within a decade (James, 2003, p. 1). The first phase of the plan issued different classes of licenses to boats and prevented any further entry into the salmon fishery.   The second phase of the Davis plan reduced the total number of fishing vessels by substantially increasing the costs associated with annual license renewal, simultaneously the government funded a buy-back program for boats with class “A” licenses that could not afford to renew their license (Swenerton, 1993, p 54). Between 1970 and 1973, 362 – or 7% of the total fleet – was taken off the water (James, 2003, p. 1). The buyback program essentially took smaller, more remote fisherman off the water while rewarding vessels that could capture a minimum of 10,000 pounds of salmon annually. Smaller scale trolling and gillnetter boats were retired, and seine vessels eventually made up a much greater percentage of the overall fleet, benefiting from no restrictions on the type of gear they used until 1977 (Swenerton, 1993, p 54).     221  Indigenous fisherman, leaders, and organizations have been clear that the Davis Plan has had devastating impacts on Indigenous fishers.185 Smaller boats that made fishing an accessible livelihood for Indigenous communities were eliminated, simultaneously, the push towards bigger boats and the consolidation of canneries and processing facilities further economically sidelined Indigenous People.  In the film We Have Stories: Women in Fish, Stz'uminus artist and fisherman Jane Marston (Kwatleematt) shares “they actually have these big draggers with a machine that will actually fillet the fish and can them right off the boat. And I think all those jobs, all those people.” As the Assembly of First Nations fisheries strategy bluntly states “In 1919 there were 97 canneries along the coast employing more than 9000 people, by 1970 there were 15 canneries left operating – all but 3 were in the Skeena and Fraser areas – only 1500 jobs remained for native shore workers. Now there are only 3 canneries left in the whole of the province.” (Assembly of First Nations [AFN] 2011, p.7-8). The Davis Plan led to the elimination of 1,500 fishing vessels while increasing the capital value of vessels by almost 500% (Swenerton, 1993, p 54). Licenses are now mostly owned by companies close to urban areas, with Ecotrust estimating that 70% of fishermen have been forced off the water.  Large industry pulls in approximately 75% of the profits (Robertson et al,). The Davis Plan resulted in a reduced fishing fleet with much greater capacity to capture salmon in an era of increasing scarcity (Swenerton,