NATIVENATIVENATIVE
STEREOTYPINGSTEREOTYPINGSTEREOTYPING

Fuels Invisibility and Erasure of Natives
Misrepresentation of Natives freezes cultures: makes it feel as though the only authentic
Native culture is from the past
As such, very little information is taught about contemporary Native peoples in K-12
education

Justifies and Hides Colonialism
Violent policies are regarded as helping Indigenous communities

Forced Adoption: Native children were forcefully taken from their communities and
given to white families based off the stereotype that they needed to be “saved from
being Indian” (Mazo 2018)

Ignores the existence of complex societies
Fuels Bias and Racism Toward Indigenous Communities

“Native Populations are Dwindling”
An estimated 78% of Americans
believe Native populations are
dwindling because they rarely see,
hear, or read about these
communities (Stereotypes –
Dennison 2020)
Historical representations/media
view Natives and modernity as
mutually exclusive, thus
perpetuating the idea that
Indigenous peoples are a thing of
the past (Thrush 2006)

Flawed Portrayals in Popular Media
Film and television often characterize
Indigenous peoples as “noble savages”—
uncorrupted by civilization with a strong
spiritual connection to nature and cultural
practices
Natives are also portrayed as “ignoble
savages”—uncivilized, brutal, and bloody-
minded

Examples of Flawed Stereotypes01.01.01.
Anabelle Manrique

American Indian Studies 102

“Natives are Fundamentally Primitive”
Belief that Indigenous peoples lack the
ability to take care of themselves or their
family due to their biology, character, and
intellect (Justice 2018)
Positions harmful federal practices such as
forced adoptions, land allotments, and
boarding schools as “helpful” toward Native
populations

[1] Cara Romero’s “TV
Indians” challenges
stereotypes by
framing four Natives
against the backdrop
of a pile of old
televisions displaying
films that remain
“somewhat beloved”,
despite their
stereotyping, racist
fixations, and use of
the white savior trope

Implications of Native Stereotyping 02.02.02.

Reclaiming Stories
Through photography:

Cara Romero², a photographer and member of the
Chemehuevi Tribe, uses complex and nuanced
images¹ to rewrite stories of Native identity, battle
cultural misappropriation, and confront stereotypes
—all while combining traditional motifs and symbols
with a modern perspective

Through music:
Indigenous musicians today push against the
stereotype that Native cultures are stagnant
In A Tribe Called Red³, Indigenous artists combine
modern music and narratives with First Nations
rhythms to emphasize how Native peoples/cultures
continue to persevere (A Tribe Called Red, 2018)

Through Native-led Initiatives:
IllumiNative challenges the negative narrative that
surrounds Native communities and promotes an
accurate and authentic portrayal of Natives in pop
culture and media.

Amplify Native Voices, Stories, and Issues
Supporting contemporary Native voices creates a more authentic portrayal of Native
peoples as they are able to shape their own stories

Education
Curriculum about Native Cultures can bring awareness to the existence and
ramifications of stereotypes. Students will then have the tools to correct misinformation
and expose their own biases

Natives in Mainstream Media
A poll of 450 Indigenous opinion leaders found that ~45% laid the blame of anti-Indian
sentiment on media stereotypes (Schmidt 2007)
Native people should have the most input in creating accurate and realistic Native
characters, allowing for a more positive portrayal of Natives in media
Mainstream media must be held accountable for sidelining authentic Native stories and
voices and for not hiring more writers, editors, and producers of color

03.03.03.

How to Support the Dismantling of Stereotypes

Challenging False Narratives

04.04.04.

[2]

[3]

[3]

ILLUMINATIVE NARRATIVE CHANGE
INSIGHTS AND ACTION PRESENTATION

STEREOTYPES

ILLUMINATIVE’S MISSION

Created and led by Native peoples, IllumiNative is
creating and amplifying authentic, accurate, and
contemporary portrayals of Native peoples in pop
culture, media, k-12 education, and other key sectors by
challenging invisibility and inaccurate toxic stereotypes
and stories.

WWW.ILLUMINATIVES.ORG

comprehensive literature reviews

focus groups in 10 state across the U.S.

message testing groups with Natives and non Natives

in-depth interviews

survey respondents

Facebook and Twitter posts on cultural appropriation analyzed

social posts on national narratives analyzed

2

28

10

45

+13 K
+240 K

4.9 M

THE RESEARCH WAS EXTENSIVE

A future where the self-determination
of Native peoples and tribal sovereignty
are respected and supported

Where Native children, families,
and communities no longer face the
devastating effects of discrimination
and racism

Where Native peoples shape, author,
and control their own story

WHAT ARE WE FIGHTING FOR?

WHAT STANDS IN OUR WAY?

INVISIBILITY

INSTITUTIONALIZED ERASURE
OF NATIVE PEOPLES

INSTITUTIONS PERPETUATE AND SYSTEMATIZE INVISIBILITY,
TOXIC STEREOTYPES, AND FALSE NARRATIVES

87%
OF STATE-LEVEL
HISTORY STANDARDS

FAIL
TO COVER
NATIVE PEOPLE’S HISTORY
IN A POST–1900 CONTEXT *

Citation: Reclaiming Native Truth • https://illuminatives.org/reclaiming-native-truth/

*Shear, S. B., Knowles, R. T., Soden, G. J., & Castro, A. J. (2015).

MAKE NO MENTION
STATES27

OF A SINGLE NATIVE AMERICAN IN

K-12 CURRICULUM *

WHAT ARE THE EFFECTS OF INVISIBILITY?

72%
OF AMERICANS

RARELY
ENCOUNTER
OR RECEIVE INFORMATION ABOUT

NATIVE AMERICANS

78%
OF AMERICANS POLLED
KNOW LITTLE TO NOTHING ABOUT

NATIVE AMERICANS
AND A SIGNIFICANT PORTION BELIEVE THAT NATIVE PEOPLES
MUST BE A DWINDLING POPULATION BECAUSE
THEY DO NOT SEE, HEAR, OR READ ABOUT NATIVE PEOPLES

Invisibility of Native people fuels bias and
racism in schools, the media, the courts, and
Congress

Keeps Native communities from having a seat
at the table

Dehumanizes Native peoples

“INVISIBILITY IS THE MODERN
FORM OF RACISM AGAINST
NATIVE AMERICANS.”
– Dr. Stephanie Fryberg (Tulalip), University of Washington.

TOXIC STEREOTYPES
AND FALSE NARRATIVES FILL THE VOID LEFT BY INVISIBILITY

“NATIVE AMERICAN,”

WHEN SEARCHING

95%
OF THE FIRST 100
GOOGLE IMAGES
ARE FROM THE
19TH CENTURY

0-.04 %

CHARACTERS
ONLY MAKE UP

BETWEEN

NATIVE AMERICAN

OF PRIMETIME
TV AND FILMS ***

INSTITUTIONS PERPETUATE AND SYSTEMATIZE INVISIBILITY,
TOXIC STEREOTYPES, AND FALSE NARRATIVES

Citation: Reclaiming Native Truth • https://illuminatives.org/reclaiming-native-truth/

*Shear, S. B., Knowles, R. T., Soden, G. J., & Castro, A. J. (2015).

ROMANTIC MYTHS, AND INACCURATE
PORTRAYALS IN MOVIES, TV, AND NEWS

OFFENSIVE HALLOWEEN COSTUMES

RACIST SPORTS MASCOTS

RIPPED FROM THE HEADLINES:
RACISM AND DISCRIMINATIONSTEREOTYPES JUSTIFY COLONIALISM

Natural/Primitive Peoples in Need of Civilization
• Ignores Complex Societies
• Hides Political Control of Land
• Freezes Cultures
• Makes Current Natives Feel/Look Inauthentic
• Further Erases Native Presence
• Denies Indigenous Futures

RIPPED FROM THE HEADLINES:
RACISM AND DISCRIMINATIONSTEREOTYPES HIDE COLONIALISM

• Violent Policies Represented as “Helping”
• Removal
• Individual Land Allotments
• Boarding Schools
• Forced Adoption

• Victim Blaming
• Disease, a result of massive disruption
• Alcoholism, a result of trauma

Most federal judges don’t understand sovereignty, have never taken an
Indian law course, yet routinely make major decisions affecting tribal
nations and citizens.

One American Indian law clerk said a law professor at a Top 10 law school
said, “tribes often call themselves ‘nations’ to puff themselves up.”

Policymakers and leaders described tribal governments as having a “poverty
mentality,” where they fail to plan ahead and are reactive versus proactive.

Congresspersons agree that invisibility, stereotypes, and deficit narratives
affect policy.

A significant number of Congresspeople don’t have Tribes in their districts
and see Native peoples as “somebody else’s problem.”

INVISIBILITY AND STEREOTYPES NEGATIVELY IMPACTS
LEGISLATIVE AND JUDICIAL DECISIONS

RIPPED FROM THE HEADLINES:
RACISM AND DISCRIMINATION

FOR TOO LONG WE HAVE BEEN TOLD
WE ARE INVISIBLE AND DON’T COUNT

and interrupt invisibility

contemporary, accurate Native
stories, voices & issues

toxic stereotypes

FIGHT BIAS AND RACISM WITH NARRATIVE

Narratives are cultural ideas or
stories that dominate and affect
how we view or understand the
world. These narratives are created
by perceptions, messages, myths,
stereotypes, and personal or
secondary experiences.

WHAT ARE NARRATIVES?

Narrative change happens when
various efforts combine to
shift the dominant narrative. It
happens when people receive
the right prompts and begin
to internalize a new way of
approaching an issue, which in
turn makes them act differently.

WE MUST REPLACE THE CURRENT NARRATIVES WITH CONTEMPORARY,
AND AUTHENTIC STORIES ABOUT NATIVE PEOPLES.

WHAT IS NARRATIVE CHANGE?

In April 2018, conducted a nationally
representative survey of 2,000 U.S. adults to
study whether various groups, given “new
narrative” messaging strategies, would shift
their opinions on Native specific issues such
as pop culture representation, the Indian

Child Welfare Act, and tribal sovereignty. 

OPPORTUNITY: NARRATIVE CHANGE

OF AMERICANS

IS TAUGHT IN SCHOOLS

ACCURATE
NATIVE HISTORY

TO ENSURE
SUPPORT CHANGING CURRICULUM

Educate yourself and share research with others.

Change the way you talk about Native
communities.

Seek out Native stories and amplify Native voices,
knowledge, issues, and contributions.

Make Native representation in your work or
industry a priority.

WHAT CAN ALLIES DO?

VISIT WWW.ILLUMINATIVES.ORG FOR MORE RESOURCES

Why Indigenous Literatures Matter
Daniel Heath Justice

Published by Wilfrid Laurier University Press

Justice, Daniel Heath.
Why Indigenous Literatures Matter.
Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2018.
Project MUSE. muse.jhu.edu/book/58046. https://muse.jhu.edu/.

For additional information about this book

[ Access provided at 18 Sep 2020 22:47 GMT from University of Washington @ Seattle ]

https://muse.jhu.edu/book/58046

/ 1

I have never forgotten a speech that was made by one of the
heads of the Department [of Indian Affairs and Northern Devel-
opment] when he arrived at the settlement. The Inuit had expect-
ed to hear something fantastic since he had come such a long way
especially to talk to them. The speech went something like this:
“I am very glad to be here and enjoyed my visit to your homes. I
am very pleased to see that they are so clean.” One old woman
came over to me and asked if he was really the head of the
Department, and if so, why he did not have the intelligence to tell
us something that we do not know, instead of telling us what our
houses looked like. We lived in them every day and we knew what
they were like. How could I tell my elder that he did not think the
Inuit have intelligence?

— m I n I a odL a f r e e m a n (I n u I T), L I f e a m o n g t h e Q a L L u n a a t

Introduction

Stories That Wound,
Stories That Heal

Why Indigenous Literatures Matter.text.FINAL.indd 1 2018-02-07 1:31 PM

Introduction / 2

T

here are many stories about Indigenous peoples alive in the
world today. Some of these stories are our own. They give
shape, substance, and purpose to our existence and help

us understand how to uphold our responsibilities to one another
and the rest of creation, especially in places and times so deeply
affected by colonial fragmentation. Sometimes they’re in our Indig-
enous mother tongues; sometimes they’re in English, or Spanish, or
French, or other colonial languages. But they’re still our good sto-
ries—not always happy, not always gentle, but good ones nonethe-
less, because they tell the truths of our presence in the world today,
in days past, and in days to come.

Other stories are not so good. These are imposed upon us from
outside. They belong to the colonizing populations that claim and
dominate our homelands—populations from which many of us are
also descended and with which we must navigate our complex rela-
tions as well. These stories are sometimes told with good intent.
More often they’re not. Sometimes they’re incomplete rather than
wrong, partial rather than pernicious. But sometimes the stories are
noxious, bad medicine, and even when told with the best of motiva-
tions, they can’t help but poison both the speaker and the listener.

Many of the stories about Indigenous peoples are toxic, and to
my mind the most corrosive of all is the story of Indigenous deficiency.
We’ve all heard this story, in one form or another. According to this
story, Indigenous peoples are in a state of constant lack: in morals,
laws, culture, restraint, language, ambition, hygiene, desire, love.
This story presumes that we’re all broken by addiction, or danger-
ously promiscuous according to pleasure-hating, Puritanical con-
cepts of bodily propriety. It insists that we have a lack of
responsibility, lack of self-control, lack of dignity; it claims that we

Why Indigenous Literatures Matter.text.FINAL.indd 2 2018-02-07 1:31 PM

Introduction / 3

can’t take care of our children or families or selves because of consti-
tutional absences in our character, or biology, or intellect. And it
goes even further. Rather than see lower life expectancy, employ-
ment, and education rates, and higher rates of homelessness, sub-
stance abuse, and suicide as being rooted in generations of sustained
and intentional colonial assaults on all aspects of our lives and iden-
tities, we’re blamed for our supposed lack of basic human decency.
Depressed? In despair? Can’t be due to centuries of sustained
oppressive social structures and racism—must be our supposed lack
of mental fitness. Come from a supportive and generally stable fam-
ily without many of the overt effects of wounding? Don’t assume
that it has anything to do with your family’s good luck or the
strength of your traditions or your particular capacity to overcome
major obstacles—no, it must be due to successful assimilation and a
gradual diminishment of “pure” Indigenous influence. In this poi-
sonous story, every stumble is seen as evidence of innate deficiency,
while any success is read as proof of Indigenous diminishment. In a
particularly cruel twist, even our strengths are presented as evi-
dence of our inadequacy.

There are all kinds of ways this story seeps into our bones and
eats away at our spirits, undermining our potential, eroding our
capacity to hold one another up and build affirming relationships
through and across difference. It hurts all of us, Indigenous and set-
tler alike, but it’s particularly damaging for Indigenous peoples, for
whom this unyielding stereotype of deficiency becomes the solid
object against which we’re so often slammed, the supposed truth
claim against which all our experiences are measured—and inevita-
bly found wanting.

This isn’t to say that there aren’t profound and challenging
social and political problems. Indigenous peoples are vastly overrep-
resented in all negative social indicators in Canada, the US, and
other settler states, and grossly underrepresented in the positive
ones. But acknowledging these problems and their impacts is not

Why Indigenous Literatures Matter.text.FINAL.indd 3 2018-02-07 1:31 PM

Introduction / 4

the same thing as insisting that they are a result of who we are. We
can’t acknowledge these problems without also directly acknowl-
edging the colonial violence in which they’re imbedded. Again, con-
texts matter, and it’s these contexts that anti-Indigenous
commentators so often refuse to engage or even acknowledge.
There’s a huge difference between the experience of deprivation as a
result of social, economic, and political oppression and having an
essential defect in one’s humanity that leads inevitably to sec-
ond-class status—and, not coincidentally, absolves the settler pop-
ulation of any accountability for the conditions they’ve created.
Having a clear and unromantic perspective about the many chal-
lenges that face Indigenous peoples is not the same thing as seeing
those challenges as an innate expression of our very nature.

The story of Indigenous deficiency seems to me an externaliza-
tion of settler colonial guilt and shame, and is all the more powerful
because of the broader society’s refusal to take real responsibility for
the story’s devastating effects. The story wasn’t of our making, but
we’re part of it now. Perhaps the most wounding way in which this
story of Indigenous deficiency works is in how it displaces our other
stories, the stories of complexity, hope, and possibility. If the sim-
plistic deficiency accounts are all we see, all we hear, and all that’s
expected of us, it’s hard to find room for the more nourishing stories
of significance.

So how do we find the strength and the trust to tell different
kinds of stories? Stories that are truthful about who we are, stories
that connect us to the world, one another, and even ourselves? On
this point, my colleague David Gaertner reminded me of a line in
Blue Marrow, by Cree poet Louise Halfe, where she refers to stories as
“wîhkês,” or “med-sins” in English, agents of both harm and healing.
Stories can be bad, bitter medicine and inspire people to bad actions;
they can be used to separate us, fragment us into pieces, leave us
bleeding and alone. Disconnection is cause and consequence of
much of this world’s suffering. We are disconnected from one

Why Indigenous Literatures Matter.text.FINAL.indd 4 2018-02-07 1:31 PM

Introduction / 5

another, from the plants and animals and elements upon which our
survival depends, from ourselves and our histories and our legacies.
When we don’t recognize or respect our interdependencies, we don’t
have the full context that’s necessary for healthy or effective action.

Yet stories can be good medicine, too. They can drive out the
poison, heal the spirit as well as the body, remind us of the greatness
of where we came from as well as the greatness of who we’re meant
to be, so that we’re not determined by the colonial narrative of defi-
ciency. We’re far more than that—though sometimes we need to be
reminded, for Indigenous people internalize the bad stories, too. I’ve
long been inspired by something my friend Alice Te Punga Somer-
ville, a Māori literature scholar in Aotearoa, used to tell her all-
Māori literature class at the start of the term: “Remember that you
are the descendants of gods.” Often when I tell this story I get a bit
choked up, for it’s a beautiful summation of a kind of certainty in
presence that’s sorely needed and far too rare. As I understand it,
Alice’s statement wasn’t primarily meant to build her students’
self-esteem, although it no doubt did that; rather, it was a clear
reminder that they were an essential part of something great, some-
thing dignified and strong, and worthy of reverence and respect. It
was a fundamental expectation that they would hold themselves
and one another to the highest possible standards. And they did.

Today’s Indigenous people in North America are the descen-
dants of those who survived the colonizing apocalypse that started
in 1492 and continues today. We are more than just “of descent” from
those initial survivors, however—we’re survivors, too, every one of
us. According to the settler stories of Indigenous deficiency, our peo-
ples were supposed to vanish into the sunset long ago; our families’
stubborn refusal to disappear has vexed and perplexed colonial
apologists for centuries, for, in spite of all their hopes and ambitions,
policies and practices, laws and customs, and assaults and editorials,
our peoples are still here, as are our relations, as are our stories. In
fact, our stories have been integral to that survival—more than

Why Indigenous Literatures Matter.text.FINAL.indd 5 2018-02-07 1:31 PM

Introduction / 6

that, they’ve been part of our cultural, political, and familial resur-
gence and our continuing efforts to maintain our rights and respon-
sibilities in these contested lands. They are good medicine. They
remind us about who we are and where we’re going, on our own and
in relation to those with whom we share this world. They remind us
about the relationships that make a good life possible.

In short, they matter.

Most often a story starts with words, and words carry meaning far
beyond themselves. When it comes to stories about Indigenous peo-
ples, words—especially those in non-Indigenous languages—bear a
particularly burdensome representational weight, usually encrusted
with hard, jagged layers of colonialist misunderstandings. So we
have to start at the beginning, with terminology, and clear away
some of those dead layers to find more fertile ground before we’re
able to continue with the rest of the story.

We begin with Indigenous. The capital “I” is important here, as it
affirms a distinctive political status of peoplehood, rather than
describing an exploitable commodity, like an “indigenous plant” or a
“native mammal.” The proper noun affirms the status of a subject
with agency, not an object with a particular quality. Here, Indige-
nous peoples are those who belong to a place—in most cases rele-
vant to this study, in what is now Canada and the US, or more widely
referred to, especially in the eastern part of the continent, as Turtle
Island—and it affirms the spiritual, political, territorial, linguistic,
and cultural distinctions of those peoples whose connections to this
hemisphere predate the arrival of intentional colonizing settlers
and conscripted and enslaved populations from Europe, Africa, the
Pacific, and other regions. It’s therefore no surprise that reactionary

Why Indigenous Literatures Matter.text.FINAL.indd 6 2018-02-07 1:31 PM

IndigenousIndigenous
Walking Walking
TourTour
at the University of Washingtonat the University of Washington

Dedicated to Indigenous students; past, present, and future.

This piece of work was written, created, and curated within
multiple Indigenous lands and waters. Not limited to but

including the Musqueam, Duwamish, Suquamish, Tulalip,
Muckleshoot, Tlingit, Haida, and Tsimshian territories

Written by
Owen L. Oliver
Illustrations by

Elijah N. Pasco (@the_campus_sketcher)

First Edition:
2021

The beginning of this tour starts with a testament of
knowledge. Specifically, Indigenous knowledge systems,
and how they are grounded in place on the University of
Washington campus. This is especially important as these
systems are not sprinkled around like many visitors and
guests to the land may view it. These knowledge systems

are rooted in the natural landscape that ties language
and sacred history into what we call ‘Place’. Place of the

first peoples has been intentionally and continuously
entangled with colonial assimilation and destruction.

What few people explain though, is how resilient
these Indigenous Knowledge Systems are. Ultimately,

forgetting to showcase how these Indigenous
communities alongside welcomed community members,

allies, and all peoples take action and responsibility to
prune out historical disenfranchisements.

Contents
Stop 1: Guest from the Great River
Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture

Stop 2: Longhouse Welcome
Intellectual House

Stop 3: A Changing Story
Miller Hall

Stop 4: Shoreline Connection
Union Bay Natural Area and Preserve

Stop 5: Rest and Relaxation
University of Washington Medicinal Garden
Stop 6: Building Coalitions, Inspiring others
Samuel E. Kelly Ethnic Cultural Center

Stop 7: Onward
Husky Union Building

Stop 1:

Guests from the Great River

I come from the people of the Lower Columbia River. This is a
sentence that states my ancestry to the Chinook people since time
immemorial. The Columbia River, or Great River, is one of the
largest rivers in North America. It weaves through several states,
international borders, and discharges into the largest ocean in the
world, the Pacific. I’ve been there – I’ve felt the changes in tide and
the rush of my family’s canoe spit-balling between the river and
the ocean. Few people get to experience the gravity of these forces
coming together. While commercial tankers and cruise ships get
the chance, I’d argue you’re a tad bit more connected when it’s just
you, nine other paddlers, and your skipper in a 36-foot canoe that
was made by a community of loved ones. The entrance into the
Pacific Ocean opens the curtains to Indigenous knowledge systems
of all the Indigenous people on the Columbia River and to the tens
of thousands of Indigenous peoples across the Pacific Ocean; each
with their unique languages, connections to land, and stories.

Imagine a canoe coming out of the Columbia River, paddling north
along the territories of the Washington Coast, turning the corner
of Neah Bay, continuing parallel strokes alongside Vancouver
Island and Washington, and entering into the Puget Sound.

The Guest from the Great River created by Tony Johnson and Adam McIssac photo by Owen L. Oliver

Imagine landing on the tide flats of the Southern Lushootseed
speaking Coast Salish people’s territory.

Imagine a canoe filled with Pacific Ocean treasures.

Imagine the declaration of intent upon these shores and what
Chinook people would be doing here.

Now look up, you don’t have to imagine, it’s right here.

The Guest from the Great River is a piece that describes the
intricacies of the land that the University of Washington was
built upon. This land wasn’t uniquely one peoples’. It’s an active
eco-region filled with relationships of peoples building on the
foundation of landscape learned knowledge. The land explains
the trade and movement of stories, language, and ceremony
throughout the region. Here, the artists Tony (naschio) Johnson
of the Chinook People and Adam McIsaac designed with these
elements in mind. This canoe, filled with ten paddlers and the
skipper at the stern, is landing at the Burke Museum of Natural
History and Culture . Each set of larger-than-life paddles cascades
a different story from the Chinook People. 3-D printed models
were cast in bronze to bring a futuristic vision to this landing. At
the back is a single paddle representing the skipper, who is depicted
as the matriarch leading this story, community, and canoe.

The tour begins here because Guests from the Great River is
a welcoming onto campus, and spatially pushes you into the
Burke’s collections to learn more about Indigenous knowledge
systems through artifacts and treasures. In the Burke, you’ll find
remarkable contemporary Native artists’ works in engaging spaces
that uplift the voice of the Indigenous people of the area. Look

for the portrait of Chief Seattle in the Burke to tie another visual
component to the welcoming of the Guest from the Great River.

Once you’ve landed and been welcomed into the community, you’ll
need a place to warm up, eat, and share your stories. Canoes serve
as a connection to water – a transporter of Indigenous knowledge
systems through physical movement and energy. Longhouses, on
the other hand, serve as a stationary place that welcomes these
systems into its halls and continues to saturate the floors and walls
with every dance, song, and conversation that occurs.

Chief Si’ahl painted by unknown photo by Timothy Kenney

Stop 2:

Longhouse Welcome

One of the largest longhouses in Coast Salish lands was in
Suquamish territory, across the water from where the present
day University of Washington stands. This longhouse was called
ulman, which translates from Chinook Wawa (trade jargon) to Old
Man House and was home to the Suquamish and Duwamish Chief
Si’ahl, who is Seattle’s namesake. However, due to assimilation
practices, Old Man House was burned down to the ground in 1870
after Chief Si’ahls death. Longhouses didn’t return to the Pacific
Northwest until a century later. The consequences of these actions
lie in the strained ties to culture and the washing of cedar walls
from previous generations’ traditions.

There was a dream in the Native community at the University of
Washington for a space dedicated to the original caretakers of
the land, promoting Native student wellness, and fostering the
continued of education of Native people. It took years upon years
to reach agreements and fight upon fights to reserve a space for
Native people to be on campus. Finally in 2015, 145 years after the
intentional destruction of Old Man House, the Intellectual House
was ceremoniously opened on behalf of the generations that
fought for this interjection of Indigenous knowledge systems into
everyone’s consumption. The celebration was a heartfelt renewal

for the Native community at the University of Washington. The
following years saw the Intellectual House become a staple for many
events and gatherings. Though it’s modeled after a Coast Salish
traditional longhouse, it’s not limited to Coast Salish traditions,
but built with the Coast Salish values of relationships, respect,
and reciprocity. With that in mind, throughout the decades of
having the Intellectual House as a dream, each and every piece
was thoughtfully examined and decided upon amongst the tribal
community and Elder consultant teams. On the University of
Washington campus, I challenge you to find a building with the
same intentions that the Intellectual house provides. (And, if you
do find that place, take the time to document it and share it with
everyone.) Within the next passages, I will be sharing my own
discoveries as a Native student on campus and my connection to
the Intellectual House.

“Potlatch at Old Man House” painted by Raphael Coombs, 1897

Longhouses are centralized Living in Place beings. Living in Place
is the notion that you are connected to a place through various
physical, emotional, and spiritual elements. Living in Place is
also the idea that you understand that the connection and intent
that goes into a place creates community and fosters healthy
relationships.

for example:
I don’t remember the first time I smelled cedar
it must have been my first time gifting a paddle
no, it must have been the first time I carved that paddle
no, it must have been the first time I went into the forest and
touched a cedar tree
no, it must have been when my father gifted me that paddle
no, it must have been the first time he carved me a paddle
no, it must have been the first time he smelled cedar

The smell of cedar is intergenerational, it’s connected throughout
all of our ancestors and throughout place. That’s why the longhouse
on campus serves as a safe place for all our people and kin. It
reminds us where we’ve come from and where we’ll go. We can
relate to it through time, reminding ourselves to live in place.

To build a place like the Intellectual House, you need a relationship
and a team that believes in each other. Building a place on Coast
Salish lands or Indigenous lands in general means listening to
those inter-generational connections. While the dream was in
motion, the Elders needed to be informed. The Intellectual House
‘House of Knowledge Elder’s Committee’ consisted of Ed Thomas,
Alma Chastain, Connie McCloud, Elaine Grinnell, Lillian
Chappell, Andy Joseph Jr., Marylin Wandry, and Vi Hilbert. Vi
Hilbert taqʷšəblu was one of most esteemed Coast Salish Elders
who spearheaded Lushootseed revitalization in Washington State

and beyond. Before her passing in 2008 she gifted the Intellectual
House with its honored name ‘wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ’. Lushootseed is the
language that Vi Hilbert learned as a child, the language her
Ancestors speak, the language steeped in Coast Salish lands,
and the language that Chief Si’ahl once spoke in his longhouse.
On April 10th, 2009 before any construction of wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ
began a Land Blessing Ceremony marked the beginning of this
intergenerational relationship. At this ceremony, roles were created
and responsibilities were ensured.

“In some ways, a land or house blessing is similar to a marriage
ceremony. The responsibilities of the various parties are spelled out,
and the people who are brought together promise to cherish and
protect this union. This is their responsibility as participants in the
blessing. Witnesses also have important responsibilities to carry on
the stories or legacy of the land for the future generations”(Spoken
at Land Blessing Ceremony, April 10th 2009).

The site of wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ had permission from the Elders and team
to begin construction and soon they were on track to open their
doors in the only way they knew how — by putting on a potlatch
and inviting witnesses to watch the Native communities’ successful
attainment of place.

Chief Si’ahl was no stranger to potlatches. It is without question
that potlatches were a factor in how large someone’s longhouse
was. Old Man House was told to be as long as 600 feet, which
meant it not only held many families, but hosted a wide variety
of potlatches and ceremonies. Outside could have been seen, on a
normal day as a canoe parking lot, just as you’d find transportation
outside a wedding or graduation. The longhouse was the final
destination for all in the area. The destination for exchange.

To understand the value of Old Man House and longhouses it’s
necessary to understand the potlatch system. Potlatching is a
crucial element of Coast Salish and Northwest Coast traditions
and economy. The word ‘potlatch’ is a gift from the great river,
specifically from Chinook Wawa, meaning to ‘give away’.
Potlatches in these coastal regions were the ultimate sign of wealth
through feast and display. Chiefs would be challenged by other
high-ranking members or chiefs outside their communities to
outdo their potlatches. Once they accepted, they understood the
commitment, the business, and distribution of wealth that would
occur. Within each potlatch, there might have been a different
agenda each night, followed by multiple days of feasting. They
all began with the discussion of business between the different
parties that were present. Friend or foe, there were always politics
involved. After business was discussed, dancing and songs were
performed followed by a gift-giving at the end. The gifts served as
a helping hand to everyone in the community, with the caveat that
if you accept the gift, you knew you had to repay it in the future.
Potlatches helped enrich a society that was based in hospitality.
Potlatches were so empowering for Indigenous people along the
coast that once Western settlers and institutions learned about
them they sought to ban them, destroy the regalia, and throw the
potlatching perpetrators in jail. This violence against Indigenous
people was another outcome of Western culture believing and
violently acting on the belief that Indigenous people couldn’t
be successful if they were ‘throwing away’ their resources. But
in actuality, Native communities were not ‘throwing away’ but
distributing resources across social ranks. The razing of Old Man
House represented the attempted extermination of culture and
stories that were once spoken into existence to teach the seven
generations. Opening wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ was nothing short of an act of
resistance in the most appropriate way, by putting on a potlatch
that would keep the fire lit.

In 2015, when wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ opened to the public, there was a
constant stream of engagement and community building. The
ribbon-cutting was inherently tied to the Indigenous connections
the campus has – it was no ordinary ribbon, but a cedar ribbon
woven by Elders and the caretakers of wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ. After the
ribbon-cutting, there were opening ceremonies to clean the floor.
This marked the ending of the business portion of the potlatch and
the partying began. Hundreds of community members conversed
while eating indigenous foods. At the opening, they reminisced
about old stories and friends. However, it was a hard time for many
because the opening of the wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ marked the realization
that some community members hadn’t made it to see the dream
realized. It’s our job as community members not to forget their
stories, but to pass them on to each generation of students and
faculty that interact with this place. One of our passed members
was Julian Argel. Julian, who comes from the Tsimshian and
Haida peoples, grew up with stories of longhouses and it was with

Photo by Owen L. Oliver

his intentions in mind that grew wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ into a reality. Julian
worked at the University of Washington for almost 20 years, where
he was an outstanding community member who recruited Native
students to campus and retained them by explaining the meaning
of higher education. I was able to hear Julian’s stories when I was
just a kid, spending time at the University of Washington while not
yet a student. His regalia now sits in wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ to remind us that
Native students and community members don’t do this work for
the individual gain, but the collective accomplishment.

This collective work is seen in the annual Tribal Leadership Summit
hosted by the University of Washington and the wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ staff.
Where tribal leaders from all across Washington State attend and
air their grievances and demands for the University of Washington
administration. The UW President and Tribal Liaison listen to the
tribal leaders on issues that affect their tribes, enrolled students,
and research that may be conducted on and off tribal lands. This
summit also provides a status update for all the American Indian /
Alaska Native focused constituents at the University of Washington
to talk about their struggles and successes. Equally as important,
Native students are encouraged to speak in an open forum, creating
a dialogue within the community and the intention of building a
stronger Indigenous presence on campus that relates to the Tribal
Nations that steward Washington State lands.

These are just a few foundational aspects connected to wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ.
There isn’t a limit to what happens in the longhouse, and each event
creates a stronger position for the second phase of the wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ
project. Initially, the University of Washington promised the Native
community a second phase that would be another subsequent
longhouse facility that would be solely focused on Native students,
Elders, and resource building instead of event hosting. As of 2021,
we haven’t seen the second phase of the longhouse completed.

The longhouse represents a stationary place of Indigeneity on
the University of Washington campus. A place to remember
Indigenous success, a place to forget colonial harms, and a place
to meet one another. Summed up, it’s a place of education. While
using this place remember who it was built for and why. Yet, don’t
stray away from using it yourself if you are non-Native. Continue to
learn more about Indigenous people in your community. Remind
yourself that the Native leaders that worked so hard to keep the
longhouse on track were rewarded. The students who longed for a
place that was their own were rewarded.

And lastly, the University of Washington needs to continue to
reward Indigenous knowledge and give these knowledge systems
the same respect as their Western counterparts.

Stop 3:

A Changing Story

After being in wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ, you should understand that the place
and harmonies of the longhouse represent a dream coming to life
and a continual story being written by students and mentors. Our
next stop on the tour is the ‘Aye-Aye-Esh Girl’ Mural in Miller
Hall. This will help us understand where these dreams and stories
are rooted.

On the 3rd floor of Miller Hall, in the Department of Education,
stands four panels seamlessly connected on the wall. Painted in
collaboration, Toma Villa (Yakama) and Roger Fernandes (Lower
Elwha Kallam) tell the Plateau story of the aye-aye-esh girl. The
story about the aye-aye-esh girl is about situating yourself with the
land as a teacher and a constant reminder that Western knowledge
isn’t the end-all result of progress, nor should it be the only qualifier
of success.

Sit in front of the mural, just like the girl, and discover the intricacies
that the artists created. Under further inspection, you find a girl
surrounded by the natural world and Ancestors that help guide her
learning. You see the aye-aye-esh girl sitting next to grandmother
Cedar tree after being sent away from her tribe for not knowing
anything. She sits and listens to the tasks that Cedar asks of her.

“Aye-Aye-Esh Girl” painted by Toma Villa and Roger Fernandes 2018

Slowly, but surely, grandmother Cedar teaches her how to weave a
basket and recognize designs in the natural world to incorporate
them into aye-aye-esh’s baskets. The symbols of rattlesnakes slither
across the top and the mountains are reflected in the base of her
basket. With a proud grasp of the basket, she dunks it into a nearby
stream to test if her work will hold water. Unsuccessful with her
first renditions of the basket, her third and final basket achieves
the skill of holding water. The girl goes back to her village to show
off what she has accomplished. At first, her community doesn’t
believe her, but as the girl tells her story, shows off her watertight
basket, and complexity the of the design, the doubt, shame, and
the name aye-aye esh are taken off of the girl. She isn’t shunned as
a less intelligent child, but welcomed as a source of knowledge. Her
dream of not being the aye-aye esh girl is realized in the land and
she’s transformed through telling her own story.

This story is about listening and realizing that we all have
something to teach each other and that just because something is
different doesn’t always mean it’s bad, or it should be discounted.
Throughout life, people learn at different paces and across various
mediums, yet we all come together to tell our own stories.

At wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ, we saw a dream come to life. The aye-aye esh girl
story teaches us how knowledge is transferred from the land. The
next stop on this tour is the land itself. Follow me along Stevens
Way to stop 4 of the tour to understand the Shoreline Connection.

Stop 4:

Shoreline Connection

Sit and listen to the birds and plants that sway within the wind
of the Union Bay Natural Area. Pristine and natural, isn’t it? The
aromas of seasonal change are carried throughout the wetland. As
a student, I felt myself drawn to the area, especially as a place for
meditation, sinking my thoughts into the natural world instead of
textbooks. Now close your eyes and imagine, you are placed back
a couple hundred years,

years before the Denny Party landed at present day Alki in 1851,

years before Governor Isaac Stevens stained the land with Indian
blood and the coercion of treaties,

years before the 1854 treaty of Medicine Creek,
years before the 1855 treaty of Point Elliot,
years before the 1855 treaty of Point No Point,
years before the 1855 treaty of Hellgate,
years before the 1855 treaty of Walla Walla,
years before the 1855 and 1856 treaties of Quinault,

years before you followed the street named after him to get here,

years before there were Western settlers and you feel like a guest on
Indigenous land for the first time in your life.

What do you see now?
Is it what you were expecting?
I hope you’re a good swimmer.

You are sinking downward as water rises around your peripheral
vision, closing the vacuum of visibility. Your feet are still where you
last stood on the earth now with nine feet of lake water above you.
You propel yourself upwards, into a glide, reaching the surface of
the water, but before you can press your fingers through the air
on the other side, a hand grabs your wrist, pulling you upward.
You see a woman, she pulls you up and you’re able to rest your
belly on the side of her canoe, pushing yourself up, turning over,
and laying on your back. You look up to the woman. Silky black
hair flows alongside her woven cedar tunic. You’re confused. She
brings her paddle to a neutral position resting it parallel to herself.
The woman readjusts space on the canoe, moving the various
containers holding materials, tools, and food. Pointing to an empty
seat, you know she wants you to sit down as she paddles the canoe
around what you thought was the Union Bay Natural Area.

She dips her paddle in and out of the water. Pulling forward with
a movement that seems foreign to you, the woman executes the
fluid motion swiftly. As you look back towards the stern of the
canoe, you can see gray smoke billowing towards the sky and
turning into the pulse of the clouds. Squinting, you’re able to trace
the longhouse settlement with your finger. The Indigenous people
like a mirage in the distance are smoking fish, drying clothes, and
preparing the youth. You realize, it’s an active settlement. You
blink, University Village flashes momentarily, then you fade back
into the People of the Large Lake’s world. As you lowering your

finger, the woman humbly says,

“sluʔwiɫ”
Understand that’s the name of the village site that bordered

Ravenna Creek and washed into Lake Washington. Now covered
up by concrete and capitalism, it may be your favorite destination

to eat, play, and shop.

You shake your head and take in the meaning, looking south
towards the bow of the canoe, it glides upon the water, the quietest
thing around you. The sounds of frogs ribbitting alongside the
marsh and red wing blackbirds with their distinct conk-la-ree act
as a foghorn into the large lake. You wonder where you are going,
but you aren’t in control. Slowing to a drift, the woman stops
paddling. She takes her paddle, flips the handle towards the water,
and inserts it into the muddy soil. This anchors the canoe next to
a bank of tule with cattail growing towards the sky. She paddles
towards the bank laterally until she can hold onto the land, digging
her right hand into the mud.

The woman opens the drawstrings of a woven cedar bag and
tosses it towards you. You catch it and keep it open. As the woman
straddles between the land and canoe, she begins to harvest tule
and cattail from the rich green marsh. While she is harvesting, she
exchanges it to her other hand and gives you the plants to stuff the
bag with. A while goes by and you notice that this woman is not
only fast at collecting, but strategically knows where to harvest.
Not in the same spot for too long, not the youngest ones, not the
oldest, not the ones hiding in the shade. An almost razor like
vision allows her to efficiently pinpoint the plants that need to be

harvested to allow more to grow in the future. After filling three
bags worth, you place them in the bow of the canoe. She takes
her paddle, pushes off the bank, and you both drift back into the
residual current of Ravenna Creek. Not too long after, she places
her paddle down, turns towards the marsh that you’d collected
from, and without saying anything, she nods and places her palms
in and upward, gesturing her appreciation.

Understand that Coast Salish people don’t always express ‘thank
you’ with words. Sometimes it’s the actions of stewarding the
land, renewing relationships towards non-human kin or they

simply put their hands up in appreciation.

Back on route to the mysterious unknown, you find friendship
with the woman. Unable to understand each other, you’re still
able to learn from her emotions. She seems to love this land and
care for you as a passenger. The silence in the middle of the lake
creates the feeling of a symbiotic environment you wish you’d
always had, but this is interrupted by a yell. You notice two men
dressed similarly to the woman ahead in the distance. She waves,
they wave, you wave. She begins paddling towards the men with
no paddles or canoe of their own, just baskets on their backs. The

Photo by Owen L. Oliver

village site seems so distant, but you can still see the smoke acting
as a way point. The woman slows her paddling, taking shorter
strokes each time, and lands the canoe along the pebbled shore.
She greets the men, conversing with them, and showing each other
the food and materials they’ve collected. Nodding to each other,
they work together and pull the canoe onto the land. The woman
digs into a berry basket and grabs the biggest salmon berries that
she can find and gives them to each person. Ripe and orange like
salmon eggs themselves, you hold them in your hands, admiring
the consistency of seeds throughout each one. Twirling it in your
fingers, the woman raises her hands and nods towards you.

The woman and the two men carry the canoe slowly and surely
on each side. The canoe is in the air and able to be transported.
Looking back down at your salmon berry, you decide to plop it
in your mouth. The combination of sour and sweet override your
senses, you close your eyes and savor the moment.

Water rushes away from you. The woman and men carrying the
canoe slowly disappear into the forest like watercolors fading. The
ground you stand on is exposing itself. The water is disappearing,
like being sucked through a straw into nowhere. You look around
in a daze, Husky Stadium returns, the 520 bridge reconstructs
itself back together, and the smoke of sluʔwiɫ disappears into a
sunny day.

The water is gone, the woman is gone, and you’re standing on top
of a concrete walkway, metal rails now guard your fall into the
Montlake Cut.

stəx̌ʷugʷił

Understand that this is the place called ‘Carry a Canoe’.
stəx̌ʷugʷił which is no longer. The opening of the Montlake

Cut in 1917 destroyed this place, lowering the water of the lake.
‘Carry a Canoe’ was shadowed by writers of history, traders,
businessmen, city planners, and instead of carrying a canoe,
they carried the misrepresentation of Native history forward.

Understand that the opening of the Montlake Cut caused a ripple
effect across Duwamish and neighboring lands. Stories are told of
Natives in their canoes at the time, sinking with the water miles

away from the Montlake Cut much like you had just experienced.
Understand that the opening of the Montlake Cut dried up the
Black River, rerouted Lake Washington’s aquatic system, and

changed the course of Seattle forever. Understand that this is just …