Reshaping the University: Responsibility, Indigenous Epistemes, and the Logic of the Gift 9780774813563

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Reshaping the University

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Rauna Kuokkanen

Reshaping the University: Responsibility, Indigenous Epistemes, and the Logic of the Gift

UBCPress . Vacouver . Toronto

© UBC Press 2007 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, or, in Canada, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), www.accesscopyright.ca. 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 09 08 07 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in Canada on ancient-forest-free paper (100% post-consumer recycled) that is processed chlorine- and acid-free, with vegetable-based inks. Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Kuokkanen, Rauna Johanna Reshaping the university : responsibility, indigenous epistemes, and the logic of the gift / Rauna Kuokkanen. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-7748-1356-3 1. Education, Higher – Philosophy. 2. Education, Higher – Aims and objectives. 3. Education, Humanistic. 4. Indigenous peoples – Education (Higher) I. Title. LB2322.2.K86 2007

378’.01

C2007-902109-3

Canada

UBC Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support for our publishing program of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), and of the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council. This book has been published with the help of the K.D. Srivastava Fund. The publisher also gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the Major Collaborative Research Initiative on Globalization and Autonomy, McMaster University, funded by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. UBC Press The University of British Columbia 2029 West Mall Vancouver, BC V6T 1Z2 604-822-5959 / Fax: 604-822-6083 www.ubcpress.ca

Contents

Acknowledgments / vii Preface / ix Introduction / 1 1 The Gift / 23 2 From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance / 49 3 The Question of Speaking and the Impossibility of the Gift / 74 4 Knowing the “Other” and “Learning to Learn” / 97 5 Hospitality and the Logic of the Gift in the Academy / 128 Conclusion / 156 Afterword / 162 Notes / 165 Bibliography / 195 Index / 212

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Acknowledgments

I want to acknowledge and say kukschm to the Musqueam people on whose territory much of this book was conceived. I would like to thank Margery Fee, Graham Smith, and Karen Meyer for their guidance, support, and constructive feedback in the early stages of this study; the International Feminist Gift Economy Network, especially Genevieve Vaughan, for her inspiration and vision of alternative paradigms and social justice; and Joyce Green for our fruitful conversations and for her committed, uncompromising, and stimulating scholarship. I want to give a special thanks to Kaarina Kailo for her invaluable mentorship and support since the early days of my academic life. Her role in opening up the doors of critical, engaged scholarship over a decade ago was pivotal in my intellectual growth and her staunch commitment to change and provocative academic activism continue to inspire and guide me. I also thank my many friends and colleagues around the world for our thoughtful, passionate, and engaging conversations, which have contributed to my understanding of the issues in and beyond this book. I want to express my gratitude to the Centre of Curriculum and Instruction (now the Centre for Cross-Faculty Inquiry) at the University of British Columbia for giving me an unconditional welcome without demands of translation; and to the UBC First Nations House of Learning, especially to Jo-ann Archibald, Alannah Young, and Richard Vedan, for the gifts of the Longhouse teachings. I also thank William Coleman and the SSHRC Major Collaborative Research Initiative on Globalization and Autonomy at McMaster University for the postdoctoral scholarship that made it possible to complete this book, and for the financial support toward publishing it. Thanks also go to Jean Wilson and Darcy Cullen at UBC Press for their assistance, efficiency, and professionalism. I want to say giitos eatnat to my family in Sápmi, whose patience and understanding supported and encouraged me while I was away from home. I thank my partner Philip for bringing balance, laughter, and love into my

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life and work. I also wish to recognize the various gifts that sustain us and make life possible: the gifts of the land, the sun, water, and air. I am grateful for these and many other gifts that I have been given, share, and give to others.

Preface Like a silver ribbon the swift river winds through its deep yet spacious valley. Uninterrupted birch forest gives to the slope a luxuriant air, reminiscent of the South; the river is something like a Rhine of the North.1

The Deatnu, often regarded as one of the best salmon rivers in Europe, is considered the border between Norway and Finland. For many of us along the river, however, the Deatnu is not a border but rather a bond that connects the families who live on its banks. The valley of the Deatnu is our home. Before roads were built along both its banks, the Deatnu was the main johtolat – a Sami word signifying passage, way, route, channel, connection – for people, news, provisions, mail, building materials, and so on. During the summer, people travelled by boat. In the winter, the river’s thick ice served as a road for horses and oxen and later for cars. In short, everyone and everything moved along the river, except during short periods in the spring and fall when the ice was too thin to carry weight or too broken to allow boat traffic. Besides being a significant salmon river, the Deatnu has been a source of physical and spiritual sustenance for generations.2 I want to start by situating myself with the Deatnu – a river that runs through my home in Samiland. As it flows toward the sea, it meanders and digresses, changing its rhythm with the seasons. Its physical features change, and so do the human activities along it (which so far have been relatively minimal). As they swim upstream every spring, the salmon find their own rhythm, resting behind big rocks and in deep pools. Countless tributaries feed the Deatnu. Its unceasing movement seems linear, yet because of the various currents, rapids, and eddies, that movement is also circular. The Deatnu’s fluid, shifting nature defies clear and fixed boundaries. This ambiguity is the river’s strength, which cannot be reduced to binary oppositions. Literally, the river – both as a physical entity and as a concept-metaphor – demands that we look beneath the surface if we hope to glean its various contexts and circumstances. Much of the thinking and research for this inquiry has been carried out at the University of British Columbia, on the estuary of another major salmon river, the Fraser:

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The Pacific Coast is a lacework of streams, rivers and lakes flowing into the inlets, fjords and deltas along the ocean front of the mainland. The waters flow down from the mountains and plateaus to drain the interior spawning streams through rapid and icy cold rivers, on to the delta estuaries, in one of the richest salmon habitation sites of the world. Salmon have come home to these rivers for over an estimated one million years. All species of salmon – the Chinook which live longer, the red-fleshed sockeye, the coho, the silvery chum and the numerous small pinks – follow life cycles starting in the rivers, going out to the ocean and, finally, returning to the rivers to spawn.3

As metaphors for multiple, complicated identities, borders between worlds – be they geographical, physical, political and/or colonial, racial, cultural, or any of these in combination – have long been a theme of literature. Sometimes such borders are not mere metaphors but concrete, lived experiences. Thomas King tells a humorous yet poignant story about a Blackfoot woman who tries to cross the Canada–U.S. border with her son. She runs into trouble when the border guard wants to know her citizenship: “Blackfoot,” my mother told him. “Ma’am?” “Blackfoot,” my mother repeated. “Canadian?” “Blackfoot.” ... “Now, I know that we got Blackfeet on the American side and the Canadians got Blackfoot on their side. Just so we can keep our records straight, what side do you come from?” ... “Canadian side or American side?” asked the guard. “Blackfoot side,” she said ... Most of that day, we wandered around the duty-free store, which wasn’t very large. The manager had a name tag with a tiny American flag on one side and a tiny Canadian flag on the other. His name was Mel. Towards evening, he began suggesting that we should be on our way. I told him we had nowhere to go, that neither the Americans nor the Canadians would let us in.4

Today, Samiland is also divided, by the borders of four nation-states. While crossing these borders has been made relatively simple as a result of Nordic cooperation agreements, including the Nordic Passport Union,5 I always feel somewhat ill at ease when asked which country I come from. I feel that replying “Finland” is incorrect in the sense that it says nothing about my Sami background – it does not adequately reflect my reality. Moreover, I feel

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the weight of that innocent question’s absurdity. Had the vagaries of history, such as the drawing of the border between present-day Norway and Finland, taken place, say, ten or twenty years earlier or later, my family might have been living on the bank of the river that became Norway, and I might today be carrying a Norwegian passport rather than a Finnish one. I would then have to reply that I was from Norway, and feel equally uncomfortable. I am grateful in some ways to the Nordic Passport Union, since at least I am not subjected to the same kind of nonsensical and (what’s more) hurtful questioning as was the Blackfoot woman in King’s story, who was travelling in her own territory. Yet even though I am not stopped every time I cross a border in Samiland, those borders are made visible in many ways both implicit and explicit. For Pueblo Laguna/Sioux author and scholar Paula Gunn Allen, living on the border refers not so much to physical and geographical boundaries as to “multiculturality, multilinguality, and dizzying class-crossing from the fields to the salons, from the factories to the academy, or from galleries and the groves of academe to the neighborhoods and reservations.”6 She calls this kind of existence “boundary-busting,” which is best illustrated in writing by people who belong to more than one community. This has generated a new “border literature,” that is, a “literature that rides the borders of a variety of literary, cultural, and ideological realms.”7 Living on both banks of the Deatnu has, for centuries, meant living on the border in the sense delineated by Allen. The people of the river have been multicultural and multilingual out of necessity – understanding other cultures and languages has been the key to daily survival. On the Finnish side of the Deatnu, the Sami lived in isolation from the rest of Finland until after the Second World War. Sami scholar Veli-Pekka Lehtola notes that some people even designated Finland’s northernmost district as a separate republic.8 After the return from the evacuation to central Finland,9 the Sami restarted their lives mainly with the help of their links with Norway. Unlike in many other places, there was no lack of food along the Deatnu, because it was available from nearby towns on the Norwegian side. People also relied on the health services available in those towns. In the school at Vuovdaguoika, on the Finnish side of the river, there even was a Norwegian hospital for a while, which admitted patients from both sides of the river. After the war, however, the border between Finland and Norway was patrolled more closely, mainly because the two countries were considered to belong to different “camps.” Northern Norway had been liberated from the German occupation by the Russians; in contrast, Finland had been a German ally at the end of the war. The first Finnish border post was established in the region in 1945; after that, formal connections with the other side of the Deatnu gradually weakened.10 After the war, people were required to

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settle down more permanently on one side of the Deatnu or the other, even though many families owned land on each side. New laws were passed to regulate land ownership. According to Norwegian law, “Finnish citizens” – that is, the Sami who happened to live on the Finnish side of the river when the border was first drawn (in 1752) – were no longer allowed to own land on the Norwegian side. My great-grandmother, though, who had married from one side of the river to the other, was permitted to keep her land on the Norwegian side. After she retired, she moved back there with her husband. Her situation was by no means unique, as illustrated by Sami poet Rauni Magga Lukkari: I row across my river Father’s river Grandfather’s river Row first to the Norwegian side then to the Finnish side I row across my river to Mother’s side Father’s side Wondering where homeless children belong11

The river is like a genealogy – in fact, it is a genealogy in a very concrete way, considering how many members of my family live on both sides of the river. It is like a genealogy also in that at the specific place I consider my home, there is always both an upstream, the river that comes before, and a downstream, the river that comes after. Besides being a small-scale farmer who raised cattle and sheep, my greatgrandfather was a trader who often journeyed to the ports of northern Norway. My grandfather, in turn, occasionally worked as a fisherman – again in northern Norway yet still in Sápmi. Cultural and linguistic mingling has a long history along the Deatnu and is still taken for granted by many local people. Our place – the birthplace of my mother and her siblings – continues to reflect this reality, especially in the summer, when various family members come to holiday by the river. Communication along the river takes place in various languages, and there are always people who do not understand all of the languages spoken. This is entirely normal, yet I paid attention to it only after my mother told me a story about a visitor from a completely monolingual part of Finland who expressed his uneasiness with languages he did not know. He had been resting upstairs when he realized that people downstairs were speaking at least a couple of different languages and that none of them was Finnish. Imagine, he thought, all of these “foreign” languages and so little Finnish even though this is Finland!12

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In her discussion of national borders, Pueblo Laguna author Leslie Marmon Silko maintains that “borders haven’t worked, and they won’t work, not now, as the indigenous people of the Americas reassert their kinship and solidarity with one another.”13 She points out that in Mexico and the American Southwest, indigenous peoples have always traded and shared cosmologies and oral narratives. In her view, these exchanges and human migrations cannot be stopped, because, like rivers and winds, human beings are also natural forces of the earth. It is easy for me to relate to Silko’s words and to her critique of the colonial borders, which have long threatened to shatter older communities and kinships. This is precisely why I find it difficult to fully embrace the notion of living on the border. In my case, to truly celebrate in-betweenness, I would have to accept the colonial borders of the nation-states that have split my family and divided my people among four different countries. I would have to recognize the borders that were established long after my ancestors settled along the Deatnu. For me, and for many other Sami, the Deatnu is a “borderless” river that even so must be treated as if it were a border. Besides sustaining us physically, the river nourishes us spiritually and mentally by linking us to a specific location as well as to our ancestors who lived along the river before us. Our activities and practices on and along the Deatnu connect us to the local stories and provide us with a sense of continuity and collectivity. For the Sami who live on its banks, the Deatnu is simultaneously an exterior landscape and an interior one. It shapes both our activities and our thoughts. It affects our daily lives as well as the stories that tell us who we are.14 Moreover, the constant motion reminds us that nothing is static. Every summer, for instance, we find that the riverbed has shifted slightly and that the main channel has moved since the previous year – never mind the seasonal changes, which in the Arctic are literally like day and night. Yet in spite of the constant change, the river never loses its basic features. Its constant motion is what Gerald Vizenor calls “transmotion” – a sense of native motion, active presence, native memories, and sovereignty. In his poetic rendering, he argues that “the sovereignty of motion is mythic, material, and visionary, not mere territoriality, in the sense of colonialism and nationalism. Native transmotion is an original natural union in the stories of emergence and migration that relate humans to an environment and to the spiritual and political significance of animals and other creations. Monotheism is dominance over nature; transmotion is natural reason, and native creation with other creatures.”15 The transmotion of the Deatnu alerts me to dualistic structures and helps me notice and sidestep the oppositions that characterize some scholarship relating to indigenous issues. One of the most common dichotomies is that of the colonizer/colonized, which remains largely unexamined. I am not

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suggesting that the relationship does not exist or that its legacy does not affect our lives today in many ways. However, we need to pay more attention to the shifting nature of this relationship and to the differences within the categories by recognizing our privileges and participations – albeit often marginal or minimal – in various colonial processes. I concur with Gayatri Spivak, who maintains that “our work cannot succeed if we always have a scapegoat.”16 At the same time, though, we must continue to critique the ever-changing encounters – historical, geographic, and gendered – between colonizer and colonized that we witness even today. In employing a deconstructive approach that reflects the fluidity of the Deatnu, I will try to remain cautious and vigilant with regard to the various tributaries, depths, and currents. This is, Spivak suggests, “all that responsible academic criticism can aspire to.”17 Deconstruction has proven helpful in its insistence that we pay attention to the exclusions and silences in narratives. It also impels us to recognize how we all participate in what we criticize. This “critical intimacy” – in contrast to the scholarly distance that is so often highly valued – does not allow me to conveniently forget that as I engage in this current critique of the academy, I nevertheless remain part of it, privileged and complicit in many ways. Critical intimacy also reminds me of Jacques Derrida’s insistence that we not speak in a language that is extraneous to what it seeks to contest.18 Even the logic of the gift – an alternative approach to considering epistemic relations and conventions in the academy – that I articulate in this book does not stand completely outside the form and logic of the market exchange paradigm it seeks to undermine. As far as I am concerned, recognizing this deconstructive principle of inevitable participation is the necessary first step in elaborating viable alternatives. To varying degrees, I am both an insider and an outsider to all of the discourses employed in this book – Sami, indigenous, and Western (if I may lump, however tentatively, vast and contested traditions into such homogeneous categories). This makes the project at hand unavoidably a process of constant negotiation. A great appeal of deconstructive practice is that it refuses to be “pure” and to accept binary oppositions and totalizations; in fact, it acknowledges and openly embraces ambiguity. Thus, instead of being deeply concerned about the possible impossibilities that my work may present, I am more interested in Spivak’s notions of productive crisis and interruption: the idea of bringing various, even opposing discourses together in such a way that they critically interrupt one another. With this approach, we aren’t required to keep one discourse and throw out the others. It is at the confluence of these various shifting streams – discourses and intellectual conventions – that I seek to locate myself. In that place, I am both curious and vigilant.

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Whether we recognize it or not (or want to do so or not), our lives are enmeshed in patriarchal global capitalism. As indigenous people, we can challenge this circumstance by critiquing it and by fostering alternatives within it such as different ways of expressing and living in our societies. Spivak has repeatedly paid attention to the complicity of academics, even those she considers sympathetic and well-meaning as well as marginalized themselves. She sees a need for us to look at the structure of complicity through a deconstructive investigation that will allow us to see especially those of our complicities which we least want to acknowledge and which we most strongly oppose.19 We academics are not a monolithic group; but we all participate, in one way or another, in the “business of ideological production.” Speaking of the role of academics within the institution, Spivak maintains that “so long as we are interested, and we must be interested, in hiring and firing, in grants, in allocations, in budgets, in funding new job descriptions, in publishing radical texts, in fighting for tenure and recommending for jobs, we are in capitalism and we cannot avoid competition and individuation. Under these circumstances, essentializing difference, however sophisticated we might be at it, may lead to unproductive conflict among ourselves.”20 When we ignore the ways in which we are implicated in academic structures, and when we assume that we can remain uncontaminated by outside influences despite our daily interactions with the academy, we are only contributing to our own marginalization and to the construction of a monolithic understanding of our projects. Tsimshian/Haida art critic Marcia Crosby rightly asks, “Isn’t pretending that any of our pasts survived untouched by colonialism itself a dangerous thing?”21 Crosby recognizes the enormous importance of recording indigenous oral traditions, histories, and languages; even so, she criticizes those who would in effect erase the inevitable gaps in historical memory in their efforts to produce coherent histories and traditions. Instead of buttressing ahistorical purist positions or ideas about unadulterated indigenous theory, we must recognize that even as marginal participants in the academy, we as indigenous scholars cannot avoid negotiating with the structures of cultural and economic imperialism. We cannot remain ignorant of our own roles, positions, and implications if we hope to convincingly analyze the ignorance of dominant epistemic conventions. When we lock ourselves into positions of binary opposition, we only freeze ourselves, in the same way that certain disciplines and research projects have frozen us into limited, stereotypical representations and modes of analysis. Instead of sharpening our analysis, we constrain and self-censor it. During this critical time of intensifying neoliberal ideologies and academic capitalism, we need to conduct incisive analyses and put forward equally

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incisive alternatives. If we can free ourselves from dichotomous thinking, new possibilities will emerge, including a notion of sovereignty that does not require the eradication of all outside influences (an impossible task anyway) but that does claim the right and responsibility to make choices, both individual and collective, regarding issues that pertain to us. The river encourages me to develop an epistemology that is grounded in concepts and metaphors derived from Sami cultural practices Natives are the run of seasons, the and circumstances but that also allows me to rush of rivers, and tricky creation move into other “waters.” My roots in Sami disstories, but natives are not analogies course open an opportunity for me even while by surveillance, by cultural substituthey set a challenge. They allow (and force) me tion, by social science remissions, or 22 to exist in several different discourses and to simulations of an ethnic originary. recognize their tensions, challenges, and possibilities. From this necessarily unstable position, I am able to look in various directions and at diverse intellectual traditions without being compelled to choose only one of them. The confluence of discourses presents us with new possibilities and challenges. The river Deatnu has been a site of confluences and epistemic transmotion for many generations, and this is perhaps why I share Spivak’s disinterest in being “pure,” theoretically or otherwise. What is more interesting and perhaps more constructive is finding ways to negotiate with dominant academic discourses – the goal here being to interrupt and intervene – since it is something indigenous scholars, as a marginalized group, cannot avoid doing anyway. Indigenous scholarship, with its multiple discourses, may not be constituted by modernity or by Western liberalism; that said, it does at least partly exist within the dominant academic discourses and is influenced by them. It follows that indigenous discourses and theories can never be free of “contamination.” Even approaches that claim to draw from and be entirely embedded in specific indigenous oral traditions or social practices cannot avoid negotiating with the structures of cultural imperialism. This, of course, does not deny the validity or possibility of indigenous theories and approaches. In fact, recognizing the constant and unrelenting process of negotiation can only reinforce indigenous discourses by rendering them more tenacious. According to Spivak, negotiation seeks to change something that we are already a part of, to change from within something in our location. Negotiation recognizes the impossibility of “a neutral communication situation of free dialogue” – a position suggested by Jürgen Habermas. A dialogue can never be neutral; it always occurs in specific historical circumstances and within certain structures in which each subject has a specific position. Just as indigenous discourses have no choice but to negotiate with dominant

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academic discourses, mainstream discourses cannot escape negotiating with indigenous discourses, even if this is not always acknowledged or if it takes place in the form of appropriation. This sort of “negative negotiation” occurs when the dominant forecloses the marginal and in doing so denies its significance – as, for example, in phallocentrism.23 For indigenous people, negative negotiation is manifested in Eurocentrism, which denies the contributions and knowledge of indigenous peoples, or appropriates their knowledge, or imposes its authority over them. The river Deatnu starts at the confluence of two smaller rivers, the Anárjohka and the Kárásjohka. It is intriguing to place oneself in such a flow of various currents, to feel the pull of approaching questions, and to attempt to deal with issues that seem utterly incommensurable. Intriguing but also challenging. One such challenge relates to the question of experience. In indigenous epistemologies, knowledge is derived mainly from, and is rooted in, individual and collective experience. In contrast, in much of academic discourse, it is considered suspect to regard such experience as knowledge. The general view is that to treat experience as knowledge can only lead to solipsism and reactionary self-referentiality. Poststructural theories in particular have been quick to point out that the notion of knowledge grounded in experience assumes a unified subject that has a direct access to “reality.” Even feminist theories, which have arisen largely from women’s experiences of marginalization, treat experience as a starting point for inquiry, not as knowledge as such.24 At the same time, ideas about experiential knowledge have been used to discriminate against marginalized groups in the academy. bell hooks contends that associating blackness with experience and assuming it is oppositional to or lacking in abstract thinking or theory merely reproduces racism. Yet the power of individual and collective experiences to inform and construct theory and analysis cannot be denied. Personal narratives and testimonies can give voice to painful personal and collective histories, and the power of this must not be underestimated. Many indigenous authors, among other marginalized groups in society, cite personal experience as one of the main reasons why they write. When they share their experiences – of, say, residential schooling – on the written page, many readers can better understand their own often unexpressed feelings and realize that they are not alone. It may appear at first that indigenous epistemologies, which emphasize personal and collective experience, may find it hard to defend themselves against charges like those above. But we must differentiate between having a system of knowledge rooted in experiences and practices that have accumulated over generations, and limiting one’s inquiry to personal experience and expressive self-referentiality. Indigenous epistemologies are not

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based on the experiences of one individual; rather, they are based on “a collective cognitive experience” established by combining personal experiences and sharing the results within a community.25 The intergenerational accumulation and communication of knowledge is central to indigenous epistemologies. Within an indigenous system of knowledge, final decisions as to the validity and usefulness of knowledge are made jointly, based on the diverse experiences of the community members. Also, indigenous knowledge is constituted in response to past circumstances and is shared with other members of the community through language, oral traditions, and ceremonies. My personal experiences were what prompted me to consider questions about the relationship between indigenous people and the academy, about hospitality, about the academy’s responsibility to the “other,” and about the legacy of indigenous epistemes. My experiences in the academy first seemed to be isolated incidents; but when I considered them more carefully, I began to understand that they pointed the way to broader questions about decolonization, and about methodologies; furthermore, they reflected criticisms now being voiced by indigenous scholars and students. As a graduate student at the University of British Columbia, I found myself repeatedly facing this question: What is it in indigenous epistemes that does not seem to fit dominant perceptions of academic knowledge and of the world generally? It became apparent to me that indigenous discourses are allowed to exist in the university, but only in marginal spaces or within clearly defined parameters established by the dominant discourse, which is grounded in certain assumptions, values, conceptions of knowledge, and views of the world. Furthermore, in conversations with other indigenous students, I learned that many of us found it difficult to truly express ourselves in the classroom except in indigenous studies courses. Many students expressed the same frustration that I, too, was experiencing more and more often: that it was so difficult to speak from a position of indigenous episteme/epistemology, and even more importantly, to be understood by others in the classroom. Indigenous students (myself included) are often left with two unsatisfactory options when dealing with these situations: either become a teacher of indigenous perspectives for the others in the classroom, or (worse) check those perspectives and understandings at the door and replace them, temporarily or permanently, with views informed by perspectives embedded in the intellectual traditions of the West (i.e., the assumed neutral framework through which I was also told to undertake literary criticism). The first of these alternatives is probably more noble, but it can easily become a burden and as a worst case can hinder the student’s studies. The second is easier but often leaves students feeling ashamed of themselves, as they consider it a sign of capitulation to prevailing paradigms. The Deatnu contextualizes the arguments I present in this book by giving

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readers a sense of where I come from, not only physically and culturally but also intellectually. It is not, however, the topic of my inquiry. Rather, it is a concept-metaphor the purpose of which is to assist my thinking and analysis, allowing me to move in and out of multiple discourses and intellectual traditions. It erases the borders of binary dualisms, reflecting the Sami worldview in which boundaries between nature and culture, human and non-human, are in constant flux. In short, the river allows fluidity or “transmotion,” which is absolutely necessary in my attempt here to bring multiple discourses and intellectual traditions together, even if only tentatively and temporarily. The river also allows me to fuse various theories and critical approaches without getting stuck in rigid categorizations or dichotomies. The river also allows an ongoing navigation – particularly in the sense of negotiation as discussed above – between and around discourses and theories. Reading Spivak has helped me understand that I can see the value of any theory only once I recognize its limitations and stop asking it “to do everything for me.”26 I have learned to focus on what various theories may have to offer and to use them as stepping stones – like rocks surfacing from a river I must cross. This approach has enabled me to combine aspects and insights from various fields of theory and criticism such as indigenous discourse, deconstruction, and – to some extent – critical theory. Both deconstruction and critical theory offer valuable insights and tools for analyzing indigenous issues and contexts; both, though, also contain problematic arguments and assumptions. Critical theory emphasizes the notion of emancipation and recognizes the need for change; it also acknowledges the value of visions, and even of utopias as goals. It also regards incremental victories as important to achieving goals. In education in particular, critical theory has emphasized the need to analyze inequalities and to develop strategies for addressing those inequalities. In this inquiry, I also acknowledge the serious need to pay attention to social and structural inequalities. Moreover, as with any research within the framework of indigenous scholarship, this consideration emanates from and is rooted in the recognition of the urgent need for transformation. While not necessarily explicitly deriving from critical theory, these aspects form an integral part of my inquiry. Deconstruction, for its part, tends to question the possibility of emancipation as well the notion of false consciousness, both of which have been central to much indigenous scholarship. A deconstructive impulse, however, is necessary for an inquiry dealing with questions of hospitality, simply because deconstruction is hospitality. Argues Derrida: “Hospitality – this is a name or an example of deconstruction ... deconstruction is hospitality to the other, to the other than oneself, the other than ‘its other,’ to an other who is beyond any ‘its other.’”27 At least for Derrida, deconstruction is a form of hospitality, a practice of welcoming the “other,” a “philosophy of

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‘the responsibility to the other.’”28 Not surprisingly, then, much of my treatment of hospitality in this book draws from Derrida’s arguments. In considering the institution of the university and its responsibilities, Derrida asserts the necessity of deconstruction: Precisely because deconstruction has never been concerned with the contents alone of meaning, it must not be separable from this politicoinstitutional problematic, and has to require a new questioning about responsibility, an inquiry that should no longer necessarily rely on codes inherited from politics or ethics. Which is why, though too political in the eyes of some, deconstruction can seem demobilizing in the eyes of those who recognize the political only with the help of prewar road signs. Deconstruction is limited neither to a methodological reform that would reassure the given organization, nor, inversely, to a parade of irresponsible or irresponsibilizing destruction, whose surest effect would be to leave everything as is, consolidating the most immobile forces of the university.29

This lengthy quote weaves together several strands that are central to this inquiry. First, it suggests that deconstruction may offer a new way of challenging conventional understandings of responsibility by seeking to move beyond traditional interpretations of politics and ethics. Second, Derrida calls for subtlety and responsibility in the process of transforming the university, arguing that proceeding in any other way would eventually backfire and merely too tight reinforce existing structures and discourses. In a way, these points amount to guidelines both for the reader, by giving them a sense of the way I wish to employ deconstruction, and for myself, by reminding me in particular of responsibility – of the need to avoid “irresponsibilizing destruction.” My relationship with deconstruction, however, is somewhat different from the one embraced in some of the more orthodox approaches. In this inquiry, my theorizing could be described as a confluence of various separate streams or tributaries, all of them flowing into the same river and forming an irregular, unsettled current. Injecting the work of critics who are (relatively) well known – especially within dominant discourses and scholarly circles – into an inquiry dealing with the gift of indigenous epistemes and the academic responsibility of hospitality, is a way for me to bring closer the two sometimes separate worlds of indigenous and non-indigenous scholarship.30 My method has resulted in a confluence of voices; but it has also resulted in a practice of reading – or even misreading – that has allowed me to be carried away by the ideas that various theories and approaches represent31 instead of seeking orthodox interpretations of them. In this way, it is possible for me to demonstrate the relevance of the two discourses to each other. It is also a strategy for summoning the attention of those scholarly

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circles which otherwise might dismiss considerations on indigenous issues as either irrelevant to their own fields or, worse, unscholarly. Instead of seeking the most correct interpretation or the ultimate meaning of the critics’ words, I have used their approaches and considerations as a source of inspiration, as intellectual and theoretical tools with which I can further elaborate and augment my analyses. In my view, this is the very essence of theory’s beauty, and links my project to the idea of the river: it allows me to be carried away by various streams and currents. The river, as an element that defies containment and control, also unfetters me when it comes to “correctly” interpreting philosophers’ theories and works. By relying on the river, I will be able to treat various approaches and critical practices as springboards for reflection, instead of limiting myself to speculations on the “real meaning” of particular theories or thoughts. My analyses and theoretical arguments are complemented by and interspersed with literary excerpts – especially poetry – from indigenous writers. These literary reflections serve a number of purposes. Most analyses of the experiences of indigenous people in the academy have to do with emotions. Often, poetry reveals these emotions more succinctly and more effectively than conventional scholarly explanations. This resort to the literary also reminds us that poetry is a theoretical discourse for many people, including countless indigenous people, whose cultures have always theorized through various forms of oral traditions. I leave the poems unanalyzed, allowing them to have whatever effect they may on the reader. The inclusion of poetry does not, however, imply a straightforward model of representation – I do not assume that I am allowing the “subalterns” to speak for themselves through the excerpts I have selected. Such an assumption would conceal my role as an “absent non-representer.”32 My use of literary excerpts is undoubtedly selective, strategic, and irretrievably mediated. I do not assume that these excerpts represent “authentic” voices of the native informant; I do hope that they offer a mode of theorizing on epistemic ignorance that engages the reader at levels that conventional, hegemonic academic discourses cannot reach. I started this preface with a discussion of borders and of how the Deatnu is perceived, depending on one’s perspective, either as a border river between the nation-states of Finland and Norway or as a “mother of all rivers” that unites and sustains the families living on its two banks. While for many Sami, the ideology embedded in state borders remains problematic and uneasy,33 these and other borders have nevertheless increasingly influenced our thinking and ways of life. Derrida has defined three types of border limits: “first, those that separate territories, countries, nations, States, languages, and cultures (and the politico-anthropological disciplines that correspond to them); second, the separations and sharings between domains of discourse ... [and] third, ... the lines of separation, demarcation, or opposition

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between conceptual determinations, the forms of the border that separates that are called concepts or terms.”34 As an analysis of borders – particularly of the second and third types – this inquiry is determined to reach beyond them. The ambivalent nature of the Deatnu – not only with regard to state borders but also as an element of transmotion – may help us cross all three types of borders, not least because the river is a gift to all of us. It keeps us in constant motion, reminding us of both fluidity and equilibrium – of our views and perspectives, of our arguments and interpretations, or of life in general. It also opens up the possibility of multiple perspectives – whether in the water like the salmon, or on a boat looking down, or farther away on the river’s banks. Even on the surface, the river is never the same.

Reshaping the University

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Introduction

As an institution, the academy supports and reproduces certain systems of thought and knowledge, and certain structures and conventions, that rarely reflect or represent indigenous worldviews. In this way, it silences and makes invisible the reality of many indigenous students. To a large extent, the academy remains founded on epistemological practices and traditions that are selective and exclusionary and that are reflective of and reinscribed by the Enlightenment, colonialism, modernity, and, in particular, liberalism. These traditions, discourses, and practices have very little awareness of other epistemologies and ontologies, and offer them heavily restricted space at best. Even in the academic spaces that consider themselves most open to “changing the paradigm,” individuals are often unwilling to examine their own blind spots. Nor are they willing to acknowledge either their privilege or their participation in academic structures and the various colonial processes of society in general. Today, there are many special educational initiatives aimed at creating culturally appropriate education for indigenous students; these include Native/First Nations/Aboriginal/Indigenous Studies faculties and Native education and teacher training programs. Culturally based educational initiatives can do much to make the academic world more hospitable and relevant for many indigenous students; however, these efforts do not reach indigenous people outside specific programs. Even more significantly, they do not address the core issue, which is the sanctioned ignorance of the academy at large. Various programs and services for indigenous students have been established on the premise that indigenous people require special assistance if they are to adapt to the world of the academy. The difficulties experienced by indigenous students in the academy are often framed in terms of differences between indigenous cultures and the mainstream cultures of the West. For example, knowledge in the Western universities is generally fragmented and compartmentalized, in contrast to

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the more holistic frames of reference in indigenous cultures. Also, Western conventions of thought typically emphasize individual status and competition; in contrast, indigenous cultures place more value on consensus, cooperation, and collective identity. When seeking solutions to challenges commonly referred to as “cultural conflicts,” the representatives of educational institutions usually focus on indigenous students; rarely do they examine themselves or the structures, discourses, practices, and assumptions that operate in the academy. The institutional response to the “problem” of cultural discontinuity usually involves accommodating indigenous students or “mainstreaming” them into the conventions of the university. Most often this is done by establishing support and counselling services as well as access programs. The intent of these is to bridge the gulf between the cultures of indigenous students and that of the institution – a gulf that is presumed to exist. Such services are also often intended to help students make the transition from their cultures to the academic culture with all its assumptions, expectations, and values. Generally speaking, the academy does not recognize the ontologies and epistemologies held by its indigenous students. Instead, it expects students to leave their ontological and epistemological assumptions and perceptions at the gates of the university and “assume the trappings of a new form of reality, a reality which is often substantially different from their own.”1 In this book, I set out to expose the ignorance and benevolent imperialism of the academy and to show how the academy is based fundamentally on a very narrow understanding of the world and human relationships. I will be focusing on the university itself rather than on the assumed problems of indigenous people. More specifically, I will be focusing on the academy’s role as a storehouse of knowledge and on its failure to fulfil its mandate in relation to indigenous people. I will be suggesting a new paradigm based on the logic of the gift as it is understood in indigenous thought. By applying this concept, I will be envisioning new ways of perceiving and relating to marginalized epistemes in the academy. I will be describing a logic that, if accepted, will make the academy more responsive and open in its pursuit of knowledge. The logic of the gift foregrounds a new relationship – one that is characterized by reciprocity and by a call for responsibility toward the “other.” As a criticism of narrow, selective epistemic and intellectual traditions of the academy, this book will argue that it serves little purpose to “mainstream” indigenous students to the academic culture and environment. What needs to be mainstreamed, if anything, is indigenous philosophies and worldviews. Mainstreaming in this context implies inviting indigenous philosophies and epistemes in from the fringes, so that they can be heard.2 In other words, this book will be calling for the indigenizing of the academy, and arguing that it is up to the academy to do its homework and address its own ignorance so that it will be able to recognize and give an

Introduction

unconditional welcome to indigenous peoples’ worldviews and philosophies. But before the academy can recognize the gift of indigenous epistemes, it will have to profoundly transform itself; it will not be enough merely to include indigenous epistemologies (i.e., indigenous systems of knowledge or ways of knowing) in pedagogies and curricula. First and foremost, the academy will have to acknowledge that it is founded on very limited conceptions of knowledge and the world. Because of this constrained perception, the academy cannot grasp or even hear views that are grounded in other epistemic conventions. To be a good host implies not only a commitment to responsibility but also infinite openness toward the “other.” It is to welcome all guests, including those whom the hosts may not know or whose language they may not speak. Many indigenous people contend that notwithstanding its rhetoric of welcome and hospitality, the academy is not a good host. Their experiences attest to the ways in which the academy is an inhospitable and sometimes even hostile host with only a weak commitment to indigenous people. Access and bridging programs have opened the doors to many indigenous students, but these are inadequate solutions to the central problem, which is that indigenous people are inevitably treated as outsiders. In the academy, indigenous epistemes need to be recognized as a gift according to the principles of responsibility and reciprocity that foreground the logic of the gift. But the recognition called for here is of a specific kind. It is not limited to the often fleeting moment of recognizing diversity in terms of “other” identities and cultures associated with multiculturalism. It also requires knowledge as well as commitment, action, and reciprocity – one must take action according to certain responsibilities. For example, in the same way that the various gifts of the land cannot be taken for granted – if they are, the balance of the world on which life depends will be disrupted – the gift of indigenous epistemes cannot be neglected. If it is, the university will have failed in its purposes. The gifts of the land must be actively recognized through expressions of gratitude and giving back; in the same way, the gift of indigenous epistemes must be acknowledged through reciprocation. Yet this reciprocation will never come about until those who are doing the reciprocating are able to understand the logic of the gift. So far, the academy has extended only a limited, often reluctant welcome to indigenous people; at the same time, it has ignored, overlooked, and dismissed their ontologies – in fact, the academy’s structures and discourses are built on the assumption that there only is one episteme, one ontology, one intellectual tradition on which to rely and from which to draw. At one time, colonial racial ideology postulated that indigenous peoples were intellectually inferior; now it is indigenous epistemes that are considered inferior, not worthy of serious intellectual consideration.

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This book is about epistemic dispossession, exclusion, and marginalization in higher education. I will be emphasizing conceptual analysis because I strongly believe, as does Luce Irigaray, that a change in the “real” is impossible without a simultaneous change in the “imaginary.” In other words, it is not enough to critique oppressive, discriminatory structures and practices; one must also envision alternatives. In the academy, there tends to be a lot of finger pointing, but very little discussion of future visions of the sort that would require entire institutions to participate (rather than random individuals or small groups, which can always be found). As a conceptual analysis, my project is less prescriptive and “concrete” than perhaps many would prefer. Another trend of the times is to expect readily available answers and simple solutions. I hope to illustrate, however, that such an approach goes against the very principles of the logic of the gift: there can be no ready-made to-do lists for those who write policies and curricula. The gift is not a model but a process. It is a participatory paradigm that requires long-term commitment. For some, this may seem hopelessly utopian or idealistic – too abstract and theoretical – in times characterized by problems in need of urgent attention. Many seasoned academics seem especially cynical toward utopias and visions of change. Reason – often white male reason – tends to sneer at discussions about alternatives and to argue that the only worthwhile intellectual project for our times is to analyze and dissect the New World Order. Only misguided “others” who do not know better – typically women, indigenous people, and those who live in the Third World – avoid the “real” issues and entertain wild-eyed dreams about alternatives to the present world. Yet it is worth remembering that today’s cynicism/fatalism is very much a product and manifestation of neoliberal ideology, which insists that there are no alternatives and that nothing can be done to change the world’s present course. As Paulo Freire argues, neoliberalism not only makes us lose our place in history but also “humiliates and denies our humanity.”3 Cynicism is a potent mechanism of control that reflects the logic of imperial rationalism. It can be employed as a weapon for dismissing entire worldviews, knowledge systems, and practices as unworthy of serious consideration – as primitive, archaic, simplistic, and gullible. In this book, I will start by exposing the sanctioned ignorance that prevails in today’s academy, which is unable and unwilling to recognize and hear other than dominant Western or mainstream epistemes. I will then call for the academy to accept its responsibility toward the “other” and to do its homework with regard to indigenous epistemes by engaging in the logic of the gift. This is not simply a call to end systemic racism, to support Indigenous Studies programs, and to create space for indigenous knowledge in the academy, although my argument touches on all three. As I will discuss

Introduction

in Chapter 2, the key issue I am raising is discrimination against indigenous ontologies and philosophies. There have been many excellent studies about marginalization, institutional racism, and indifference toward indigenous peoples and their epistemologies, histories, and concerns in the academy. There has also been research that demonstrates how academic practices and discourses are hegemonic, racist, patriarchal, and (neo)colonial. Yet intellectual discrimination is rarely addressed as an indication that the academy has failed drastically at its main objective, which is to produce knowledge. What is behind this ignorance and arrogance, besides the apparent desire to uphold a status quo that serves the interests of those in power and of society at large? And how does this indifference affect the objectives of higher learning? Is it acceptable for “a site of learning” to be so ignorant? Systemic indifference is built into the very structures of the academy, just as it is into the discourses of (sometimes) well-meaning academics. Before we can address this indifference, we need to examine the academy’s responsibility toward “other” epistemes. In doing so, we cannot simply act as critics, and we cannot simply play “blame the victim.” Rather, we must focus on showing the academy what it can do to confront its own indifference. As one approach, this book calls for a paradigm shift in the academy’s epistemic and intellectual relations. Based on the notion of the gift – a notion embedded in indigenous ontologies – it redefines and revalorizes the common concepts of responsibility and recognition in the hope of establishing new relations between epistemic and intellectual conventions. To take epistemic ignorance seriously is more than an ethical imperative in relation to “traditionally marginalized groups.” It is a way to draw everyone in the academy into the process of creating new knowledge. As long as the academy remains ignorant or dismissive of epistemes that differ from dominant Western ones, indigenous people will be voiceless – in the sense that their words will be misunderstood or ignored – and furthermore, the epistemological foundations of the academy will continue to be constrained as well as exclusionary. As long as the academy sanctions epistemic ignorance, it will be unable to profess its multiple truths.4 Thus, the issue I am investigating here is not simply what the academy can do for indigenous peoples; it is also what the academy needs to do for itself. To the degree that the academy is unable or unwilling to “profess multiple truths” notwithstanding its rhetoric, its double standards must be exposed and investigated. As long as it continues to ignore and shunt aside indigenous epistemes, individual academics and the academy as a whole will be continuing to support the imperialist project. They will also have failed in their objective of exposing students to a range of knowledges, perspectives, and experiences. By failing to open themselves to the “other,” they will have failed in their project of charting a path into the future.

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The prevailing ignorance in the academy has barely been examined in indigenous scholarship or in more general research on higher education. My concept of epistemic ignorance, which is informed by Spivak’s discussion of “sanctioned ignorance,” refers to academic practices and discourses that enable the ongoing exclusion of other than dominant Western epistemic and intellectual traditions. I use the term “episteme,” in the sense of “worldview” or “discursive practice,” because it is a broader and less restrictive concept than “culture.” Many different inequalities – including institutional, structural, power, economic, and epistemic – have helped construct and reinforce disparate relations in the academy. Although all of them overlap and are mutually reinforcing, I am especially interested in epistemic inequalities and exclusions. By examining epistemic ignorance, I will be able to elaborate on past discussions of racism and Eurocentrism in the academy. I will be able to advance indigenous scholarship on knowledge construction so that it becomes an analysis of how the academy’s exclusionary and limited discursive practices lead to situations where indigenous peoples are not “heard” even when they are welcomed to the institution and given the opportunity to express their views. William G. Tierney suggests that “one arrives at a picture of institutions and individuals that are not hostile to minorities, but indifferent. Officially students are encouraged; institutionally they find discouragement. Responsibility is partitioned and goals are elusive ... Overt acts of racist behavior may not be readily apparent, but the lack of understanding of minority issues is a constant theme.”5 Antiracist discourse has taught us that racism is not limited to individual or overt acts; it also operates – and much more effectively – at the level of structures, and to the extent this is so, it becomes naturalized. Indifference and lack of understanding are indications that systemic racism exists. Furthermore, systemic racism is much more difficult to observe and to argue against than is overt racism. Systemic racism hides behind the language of “cultural conflicts” and thus can be very difficult to detect. It is rooted in underlying power structures, and it manifests itself in mechanisms that enable and foster marginalization. Moreover, it ignores the question of who actually benefits from “benign” forms of discrimination.6 Yet antiracist discourse has not adequately addressed the issue of epistemic exclusion. Antiracism focuses on racial oppression and on the racialization of “non-white bodies.” Its main concern is race, not knowledge or intellectual conventions, which are the two main subjects of analyses of epistemic ignorance. I am not suggesting that systemic racism is no longer an issue in the academy or in society at large, nor am I suggesting that we “move beyond race” (a position taken by in some populist, conservative circles, which seek to replace issues of racism with those of pluralism and diversity).7 Rather, I

Introduction

believe the problem is that single-issue movements8 tend to isolate and fragment those complex, heterogeneous, and overlapping issues that weave through every sphere and stratum of society. This too often prevents us from observing the intricate ties between various forms of oppression. The main argument in this book is that indigenous epistemes remain an impossible gift due to the prevailing epistemic ignorance in the academy. There are several reasons that indigenous epistemes should be seen as a gift. The concept of the gift is integral to many indigenous worldviews and philosophies, which emphasize individual and collective responsibility for preserving the balance of the socio-cosmic order. I recognize that indigenous peoples are not homogeneous even internally and that their cultures, histories, and socio-economic circumstances are not the same. Having said that, I point out that underpinning these apparent differences is a set of shared perceptions of the world – perceptions relating to cultural and social practices and discourses that are driven by an intimate relationship with the natural environment. Indigenous people also share a number of experiences related to being colonized and marginalized by dominant societies. For indigenous people, the world’s stability, its social order, is established and maintained mainly through giving gifts and recognizing the gifts of others, including the land. The gift constitutes a specific logic that not only is different from that of the increasingly consumerist and careerist academy but also represents a radical critique of the logic of exchange. The gift logic articulated here is grounded in an understanding of the world that is rooted in intricate relationships that extend to everyone and everything. Because of these relationships, this logic emphasizes reciprocation with and responsibility toward all others. The current academy has embraced discourses and practices that sanction ignorance toward other ways of perceiving the world and constructing knowledge. It does not recognize its responsibility toward the “other,” nor does it recognize the gift (except when it comes in the form of corporate or philanthropic donations).9 Yet, as I will be arguing, the future of the academy, the “institution of knowing,” is going to depend on a recognition of the gift of indigenous epistemes. The recognition of the gift is also vital to the well-being of indigenous people in the academy, including those outside programs established specifically for them. Importantly, questions of the academy’s responsibility and calls for the recognition of the gift extend beyond matters of pedagogic practices and culturally inclusive curricula (which are, of course, also important), or cultivating a liberal understanding of Otherness. As Derrida suggests, the “politics or ethics of the university ... implies something more than knowledge, something more than a constative statement.”10 Moreover, recognition in this context implies more than a fleeting acknowledgment of the

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existence of indigenous knowledge; it requires active participation and ongoing engagement with intellectual and epistemic conventions other than one’s own. The questions this book asks include these: If indigenous ontologies and philosophies represent a radical epistemic challenge to the academy, how can we expect the academy to welcome them? What are the responsibilities of the participants of the established discourse individually – and of the academy as a collective – when it comes to listening to, responding to, and (most significantly) recognizing these epistemes? How can the academy, at the individual and institutional levels, prepare itself to respond to and reciprocate with these worldviews? When I call for the academy to recognize indigenous epistemes as a gift, I am not assuming naively that we will magically change things simply by adding indigenous epistemes to the academic rhetoric. As this book illustrates, neither “recognition” nor “gift” ought to be taken lightly. The gift foregrounds a value system that is radically different from the system within which the academy now operates. The logic of the gift requires a complete overhaul of the ways in which knowledge and relationships between epistemes are perceived. I will be reconceptualizing the notion of recognition according to the understanding embedded in this logic. The core concepts of this inquiry – the gift and responsibility – are known to indigenous and Western societies alike. The gift in particular has been extensively studied in anthropology, and increasingly in sociology and philosophy as well. As this book will show, the gift can also serve as a critique of the present day’s neoliberal, capitalist, and patriarchal structures, and as such can form the basis for an alternative paradigm. Moreover, as a concept, it is grounded in certain indigenous practices and worldviews. It represents a logic in which politico-economic and epistemic ethics come together in an inseparable whole. As such, it offers a compelling framework for envisioning alternative approaches to structuring and producing knowledge. The worldviews and practices of indigenous people form the foundation of my work. However, I will also be theorizing on the concepts of the gift and responsibility in terms of postcolonial readings and deconstructive practices. In picking up the tools of deconstruction, I will be using “the master’s own tools” to examine the “master’s house” (or perhaps more germane here, perhaps, the master’s ivory tower). Audre Lorde’s famous declaration that “the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house” is undoubtedly valid much of the time, but at other times it needs to be revisited. The same tools with which the house was built may well help undermine it (if not deconstruct it). As Spivak insists, “sometimes it is best to sabotage what is inexorably to hand, than to invent a tool that no one will test, while mouthing varieties of liberal pluralism.”11

Introduction

In applying deconstruction – often defined as a critique of Western metaphysics from within – I will be demonstrating to the Western university that it has still a long path to follow if it is ever to live up to its selfproclaimed ideals and, ultimately, its future. There is a need for rigorous analyses that will deepen our understanding of the more hidden dimensions of the hegemonic relations at play in the university. These relations are fuelled by the new forces of control and domination introduced by the globalization project, forces that affect everything and everyone in universities, not just indigenous people and their epistemes. This book also challenges some old assumptions made about indigenous scholarship. One of them is that the only way you can do indigenous research is to focus on your own community, or to write your work as a story, or to conduct empirical studies (as opposed to engaging in theoretical and conceptual discussions). Indigenous scholarship has advanced to the point where we can, need to, and want to take our work into new territories, both literally and figuratively. Intellectual autonomy must mean that indigenous scholars are entitled to do theory, engage with abstract ideas and other theories, and analyze concepts that are not related to “indigenous experience” (whatever that is). Similarly, questions about relevance need to be questioned. In my case, the yoke of relevance would steer me toward focusing my research solely on Sami issues. Yet I cannot arrogantly assume that I know what is relevant to the entire Sami people. Here, I am not ignoring questions of relevance – after all, ethics requires me to “give back.” I do, however, question careless arguments of the sort that too quickly assume that indigenous communities are static, homogeneous, and uncomplicated entities. The Concept of Indigenous Peoples and the Problem of Generalizations For some, the term “indigenous peoples” is highly problematic. More than once, academics from various disciplines have told me that the term is essentializing. A well-known American ethnographer has declared that “indigenous” is too vague and too universalizing a word to have any intellectual value. The ease with which some scholars dismiss another group’s collective identity is perplexing. It seems to be accepted and normal practice for mainstream scholars and academics to refer to themselves as “Western” – the scholarly literature offers countless examples of this – yet indigenous people are denied this collective self-identification. The term “international indigenism”12 refers to the global phenomenon of indigenous activism. An internationally recognized identity for indigenous peoples emerged in the mid-1970s and has had a strong impact on world politics and human rights. For several decades, international bodies

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such as the UN have been the focal point for indigenous rights, drawing indigenous representatives from every part of the world and generating various initiatives and investigations relating to indigenous peoples and their issues. The persistent work by indigenous representatives within a body established to represent nation-states – not peoples – culminated in the forming of the UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues in 2002. Obviously, there cannot be a single, fixed definition of “indigenous peoples”; that said, various working definitions have come to be broadly accepted by the indigenous community. According to the International Labour Organization’s Convention No. 169 on Indigenous and Tribal Peoples, a person is “regarded as Indigenous on account of their descent from the populations which inhabited the country, or a geographical region to which the country belongs, at the time of conquest or colonization or the establishment of present state boundaries and who, irrespective of their legal status, retain some or all of their own social, economic, cultural and political institutions.”13 It follows from this that indigenous peoples are not merely ethnic minorities; they remain in a colonial situation within or across the borders of nation-states that have not recognized their self-determination or sovereignty – which according to international law is an inherent right of all peoples. This is why indigenous peoples insist that they are peoples (in plural), not minorities, populations, groups, or something else that denies this status. A reflection of this status is, for instance, the preservation and continued practice of their particular social, economic, and cultural institutions and traditions. Another widely employed definition is that of the UN Special Rapporteur, José R. Martinéz Cobo. Cobo’s definition emphasizes four characteristics of indigenous peoples: the historical continuity of their societies on territories they have occupied and inhabited for generations; their distinctiveness from “mainstream” or dominant societies; their current non-dominant status in relation to the larger society; and their desire and willingness to defend, protect, advance, and pass on their identities, languages, cultural and social traditions, conventions, and philosophies.14 Furthermore, the concept of indigeneity (at least as it is used by indigenous peoples themselves) is grounded in and inseparable from the legacy and aftershocks of colonialism. This is clear both in the Cobo definition, which refers to present-day societies, and in statements which make it clear that to be indigenous is synonymous with being colonized today. To claim, then – as is often done – that “we are all indigenous” is either to be blind to this contemporary reality or to refuse to recognize the ways in which colonial history continues to affect not only indigenous peoples but also relations between states and indigenous peoples. The statement “we are all indigenous” reflects a reluctance to take responsibility for or engage with those issues which, far from belonging to the past, continue to keep

Introduction

indigenous peoples in a subordinate position and to deny them rights that peoples who belong to nation-states can and do take for granted. It is interesting that academics are often deeply troubled by generalizations and even more so by essentialisms, especially when these involve nondominant, non-mainstream peoples or issues.15 One can only wonder whether this is another sign of the continuance of colonial control over names and thus over people. Or is it simply academic arrogance? Or are these people fearful that they will lose sight of their disciplinary boundaries and their carefully defined specialties? “Academy” and “indigenous” are complex concepts with multiple internal divisions and conflicts. When constructing an argument or analyzing anything, however, one cannot avoid using certain generalized categories. As Spivak notes, the moment of essentializing is sometimes irreducible. In effect, she suggests, anti-essentialism can be a way of not doing one’s homework. She proposes that instead of pretending that we never essentialize or repudiate our practices, “let us become vigilant about our own practice and use it as much as we can.”16 Whatever their historical, political, social, economic, and geographical differences, the world’s indigenous peoples share certain experiences of colonialism as well as certain fundamental values and ways of viewing the world. Their immediate relationship with the natural environment has generated various cultural values and practices, some of which will be discussed in the following chapters. Instead of attempting an exhaustive explanation of what they have been in the past or what they are in the present, I will be focusing on certain underlying aspects and values. I realize that I will be doing this at the cost of addressing the specificities of indigenous peoples and communities. But it is these shared similarities that have inspired me to attempt a vision for change that does not rely on idealized or homogeneous actual indigenous epistemes (or peoples). Obviously, there are dangers to this approach, but at least we can acknowledge their existence and our complicity instead of pretending that if constructed in another way, we would be freed from all risk. Moreover, it is possible to discuss some of the common themes of indigenous philosophies without egregious generalizing. A central question in the present inquiry is the apparently irreducible differences between worldviews. This concern is what prompted me to engage in the current undertaking. It may sometimes seem that the worldviews that have characterized indigenous societies on the one hand, and modern Western societies on the other, are incommensurate. Yet I think that if we commit ourselves to examining our own assumptions, and reject the hegemonic will to know, and accept our responsibilities to the “other,” we will encounter possibilities of reciprocation at the level of different ontological understandings. This will require a different temporality, one that challenges today’s dominant preference for quick fixes and for cost-effectively

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mass-producing graduates within predetermined time frames. As Spivak’s example indicates, patience is the only viable option: a benevolent European campaigning against the irresponsible development of a mega-project seeks to interpret and translate the terminology of a subaltern but gets it wrong because of his impatience and inattention. Comments Spivak: “However sympathetic the intention, to rob the mother tongue of the subaltern by way of an ignorant authoritative definition that is already becoming part of the accepted benevolent lexicography is a most profound silencing.”17 Many who have been socialized into and trained within the Eurocentred, modern consciousness may sometimes find it difficult to fully grasp the meaning of the arguments and perspectives represented by indigenous thought. For one thing, indigenous thought often involves radically different modes of expression. Some might have found it helpful if I had provided plenty of definitions. However, I will be remaining attentive to the dangers of definitions. Certain concepts and issues are inherently difficult to discuss, as will be clear on those occasions when I attempt to explicate – while seeking to avoid sweeping totalizations – how certain taken-for-granted and apparently transparent concepts such as “responsibility” may have radically different meanings in different epistemes and systems of thought. We may agree that there are no fixed meanings – that any word or concept consists of a field of meanings rather than a single unassailable meaning. However, I do not think that in this particular case, the use of the same words with different meanings can be ascribed solely to poststructuralist “différance.” It rather reflects some of the differences in the ways in which people in indigenous and dominant societies perceive themselves in relation to others and to the world in general. So it will be necessary for me to inquire into concepts that are central to the main argument of my work. My sometimes long explanations will demonstrate how some of the most commonly employed concepts and notions can have altogether different meanings and contents in different epistemes and modes of social reality. They will also reflect the complexity of the current undertaking. Critiques of the Academy We can hardly assume that the West invented higher learning. However, the contemporary university shares many characteristics and values with Ancient Greece and Rome. The word “university” is derived from the Latin universitas, “guild,” signifying a union of scholars (as found in fifteenthcentury Europe). A key feature of the contemporary university is the notion of liberal education, eleutherios, which was intended to provide individuals with a holistic education and to encourage personal growth. The university as we know it today is founded on a key ideal of the Western intellectual tradition known as rationalism. The premise here is that truth exists independently of human perceptions of it.

Introduction

The academy is often defined as a community of intellectual inquiry that nourishes critical thinking (or “speculative contemplation,” as the Ancient Greeks put it) and that allows individuals to cultivate diverse ideas while specializing in a single discipline or field of knowledge. It is often suggested that the main function of the university is to preserve, advance, and disseminate knowledge – or that it is a place to produce and reproduce knowledge. Moreover, universities are perceived as playing a key role in the development of the social, cultural, political, and economic conditions of contemporary societies. Contemporary universities are commonly viewed as the inheritors of Immanuel Kant’s notion of the university. It was Kant who first distinguished between higher and lower faculties and who argued that universities must be established on the principle of reason. This is how philosophy – in particular, German philosophy of the late nineteenth century – came to be a central influence on the model of the modern university. Simply put, the academy denotes certain more or less taken-for-granted academic settings, scholarly practices, concepts, paradigms, and epistemological and theoretical traditions. It also refers to certain long-standing approaches to producing and reproducing knowledge. The university is rooted in a particular historical and geographic context; it is from this context that it derives its legacy and intellectual traditions. Some contend that the university is “an intellectual world that has been assembled from within an exclusively European tradition, which therefore organizes the work of classrooms, the resources of library, and the language, objects, and conventions of discourse as a centre defining others who are not represented as subjects of authorized speakers ... Women or students from histories or cultures that were and are discursively excluded as subjects, and who may today be finding themselves as subjects and speakers in specialized programs (Women’s Studies, Native Studies, and so on), are still absent or marginalized in mainstream discourse.”18 This is not to suggest that the university has been a monolithic entity through its centuries of history – one can talk, for instance, of British, German, Scottish, and American academic traditions and models. Yet these various traditions are founded on certain fundamental values and principles of Western thought, and they can all can be traced to the Greek humanist tradition.19 Edward Shils and John Roberts have pointed out that “the world’s idea of the university as it was shaped in the nineteenth century is ... a European one.”20 By and large, universities outside Europe have been established along Western lines. Thus the university can be viewed as a form of cultural and epistemic imperialism. Universities were both the products and the initiators of various intellectual and societal developments in Europe, such as the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, the Age of Reason, the Industrial Revolution, and (ultimately)

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Introduction

colonialism and imperialism. Universities have been established to support the historical processes of colonization; they have been founded on the denial of the collective existence of indigenous peoples. In this regard, Maori scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith notes that the University of Auckland benefited directly from the oppression of Ngati Awa people, whose land was confiscated in 1865 for the university.21 Writing in the Hawaiian context, Kanaka Maoli scholar and activist Haunani-Kay Trask discusses how the University of Hawaii is “a living symbol of colonialism”: “In many ways, the university is an educational equivalent to the American military command center in Hawai’i. Both serve as guardians of white dominance, both support the state economy, and both provide a training ground for future technocrats. Just as universities in other colonies function to legitimate and entrench the power of the colonizing culture, so the University of Hawai’i functions to maintain haole [white] American control.”22 Having participated historically in the displacement of indigenous peoples, today’s universities reflect and reproduce epistemic and intellectual traditions and practices of the West through discursive forms of colonialism. During the colonial era, universities, accompanied by the ideology of the superiority of European knowledge, were transplanted to various colonies, where they were assigned an emphatically stated civilizing mission. The metaphors employed in this context revealed the colonial attitude with great clarity. In some cases, the metaphor was that of a “family”: the British university was the parent, and the colonial universities were the children. Other metaphors related to land cultivation, for example, “tilled and untilled soil.”23 That is, a “civilized” person was the tilled soil. This particular metaphor evokes the colonialist ideology that no one could be said to own the land until it had been cultivated. Another ideological tool of the university system has been the formation of academic disciplines and the drawing of disciplinary boundaries. As mechanisms of social and political control, disciplines consolidate certain ways of looking at the world while excluding others. For Michel Foucault, “[a] discipline is not the sum total of all the truths that may be uttered concerning something; it is not even the total of all that may be accepted, by virtue of some principle of coherence and systematisation, concerning some given fact or proposition.”24 Rather, disciplines consist of “truths” but also of “errors,” and the latter have their own positive functions and valid histories, which cannot always be separated from the “truths.” For a proposition to belong to a discipline, it must fulfil certain conditions that are recognized to be “within the true,” that is, understood to be valid at a particular time or in a particular epoch. In other words, while one can always speak the truth in a void (i.e., remain unrecognized and unlegitimated by one’s peers and discipline), one is considered to be “within the true” only if

Introduction

one obeys the rules of a certain discourse. Disciplines, therefore, “constitute a system of control in the production of discourse.”25 The boundaries of a discipline are constantly being modified. Nevertheless, there are strict rules for determining the limits of the modification – rules that serve to deny access to other propositions and, it follows, to other individuals. Factions and disciplinary boundaries are neither natural nor inevitable; even so, they tend to circumscribe the limits of our thinking, and they often contribute to situations in which indigenous epistemes seem incommensurable with the dominant, academically recognized disciplines and discursive truths. In the academy, indigenous people and indigenous scholarship are confined within limiting and often oppressive structures – that is, within dominant Western or Eurocentric canons, standards, and notions of knowledge and research that serve certain values and interests while excluding and marginalizing others. Many indigenous scholars have argued that the intellectual and epistemological basis of the academy is thoroughly saturated by colonial (and also patriarchal and racist) assumptions and practices that define and characterize the conditions of academic and intellectual endeavours. Indigenous Studies programs (like other interdisciplinary “area programs”) are often viewed as a threat to conventional disciplines and their demarcated territories. Over the past decades, interdisciplinary studies have contributed to gradual changes in epistemological and discursive boundaries. Yet the negative effects of the academy’s ideological position can still be felt, especially by those who long have been and often still are marginalized within academic settings. Chippewa sociologist Duane Champagne and Jamestown Band S’Klallam scholar Jay Stauss have discussed the limitations for indigenous people of institutions built, by and large, around Western thought: “Mainstream academia reflects the goals, interests, values and institutions of Western civilization – that is, the community it studies. Applying the Western intellectual experience and categories of discourse and analysis to the study of Indigenous Nations puts the prospective scholar of Indian life at an initial disadvantage. Such modes of analysis may be helpful and illuminating within their own context, but they most often do not address or express the interests, values and goals of Native communities.”26 Like the critiques of colonial education and residential schools, the general criticism of the academy by indigenous scholars analyzes, first and foremost, the structural and institutional legacies of colonialism. In the university, the struggle is especially over the control of academic knowledge and the content of curricula: what is being taught and expected, from which perspective, for what purposes, in whose interests. Another key issue in indigenous scholarship is research ethics – conducting research so that

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Introduction

it follows indigenous protocols and guidelines for ethical and culturally appropriate research. Indigenous scholars have also criticized the Eurocentric bias that results in the questioning and undervaluing of the work of their research departments and colleagues. Research by indigenous scholars is deemed irrelevant or “revisionist” because often it either falls outside mainstream research or focuses on the personal experiences of those who belong to minority groups. Indigenous scholars who conduct research on their own communities are often accused of bias and subjectivity; consequently, their work is dismissed as self-serving. Lakota scholar Vine Deloria has observed that “the identification of scholars working in the field of Indian-white relations has this strange quality to it: proponents of the Indian version of things become ‘revisionists,’ while advocates of the traditional white interpretation of events retain a measure of prestige and reputation.”27 Michael Dorris contends that while Native American scholarship may be revisionist, one cannot automatically dismiss it as invalid: “Europeans and Euro-Americans have not felt shy in writing about their respective ancestors and are not automatically accused of aggrandizing them; why should native scholars be less capable of relatively impartial retrospection?”28 These concerns reflect the broader question of hierarchies of knowledge, for example, the way in which indigenous epistemologies are often perceived as inferior compared to Western scientific knowledge, which claims to be based on neutral and rational inquiry. As first pointed out by Frantz Fanon and Albert Memmi, colonialism signifies not only the occupation of territories but also a certain type of relationship between the colonizer and the colonized in which the latter is considered inherently inferior (“uncivilized,” “savage,” “primitive”). In the contemporary university, it is no longer non-Western people, but rather their systems of knowledge and their perceptions of the world, that are labelled inferior. Like other faculty belonging to groups traditionally excluded from the academy, many indigenous scholars and academics allude to the alienation and sense of irrelevance they must confront, as well as their frustration with various manifestations of institutional racism, discrimination, marginalization, and assimilation, all of which are rooted in the legacies of colonial history. Métis political scientist Joyce Green refers to her condition in the academy as a “never fitting in” phenomenon, commonly experienced by “women of all sorts.”29 Mohawk legal scholar Patricia MontureAngus talks about feeling homeless and in cultural peril in the university.30 Academic Freedom and Hospitality Is it possible to argue for hospitality and responsibility toward the “other” in an institution premised on freedom “to teach and to learn unhindered

Introduction

17

by external or nonacademic constraints”?31 The concept of academic freedom arises from the need to protect academics against unfair repercussions if and when their views are at odds with those of the university, the government, or society at large.32 The reality of academic freedom, however, is much more complex, problematic, and, above all, confoundedly relative. Academic freedom has never been absolute, nor has it ever been applied uniformly. One must not think that there exists some unproblematic, philosophically coherent conception of it.33 For example, it is quite clear that “what professors teach is not completely unregulated.”34 Jennie Hornosty further argues that “free expression of ideas is available only to those whose ideas fall within the parameters of the approved discourse; unorthodox critiques are ignored or dismissed as nonscholarly. Accordingly, academic freedom fails to protect those whose ideas and scholarship are deemed subjective, irrational, incompetent, and without merit.”35 This appears to be true especially with regard to traditionally marginalized people in the academy. Trask is only one academic who was told what to teach and what not to teach; the latter included sections on racism and capitalism that she had initially included in her course. “The chair pressured me to remove those sections and supplant them with units on the family and Christianity.”36 When she refused, the disagreement affected her professional relationship with her colleagues. The relativity of academic freedom is also visible in the variety of purposes to which it can be employed. Based on her experiences at the University of Hawaii, Trask maintains that academic freedom is largely controlled and decided by white men: “If they do not like what you say, they will try to shut you up by punitive actions and public vilification.”37 Academic freedom is usually raised very selectively and only in certain contexts. It does not protect indigenous scholars when they are Academic Freedom for Whom? faced with criticisms related to teaching content What Rights will I ever have and research methods.38 Academic freedom and in these Systems free speech have been used to justify racist reSystems meant to Confine marks and colonial attitudes toward indigenous Confuse people.39 More recently, it has also become a tool Conform Me for some to plunder indigenous knowledge.40 The Me and My Kind.41 increased need to protect indigenous knowledge and other forms of intellectual property from rampaging global capitalism has led to a challenging situation for indigenous scholarship. It is no surprise, then, that some indigenous scholars are now asking whether academic freedom has gone too far.42 For many scholars, academic freedom is first and foremost about the freedom to be critical.43 Critical interrogation is one of the backbones of intellectual inquiry. Thus, in order to retain its critical edge, the academy cannot

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Introduction

place “too strong an emphasis on harmony and consensus.”44 At their worst, however, defences of the right to be critical can turn into a backlash against pressures to create more inclusive universities. There have been suggestions that “postmodern academia” has abandoned the Enlightenment principles of intellectual inquiry in the name of relativism and mysticism; from this, it is clear that academic freedom often feels threatened by the heterogeneous student body. Michiel Horne, one of Canada’s leading scholars on academic freedom, contends that demands for inclusive curricula “on demographic or political grounds” pose a threat to the very core of academic freedom.45 Labels such as “political correctness” have served as convenient shorthand for dismissing equity initiatives and for reducing critiques of power relations to “anti-intellectual dogma unworthy of exploration or discussion.”46 The idea of “free and fearless pursuit of knowledge” is also sometimes used as an excuse to repress and silence emerging paradigms and to perpetuate the status quo. This status quo, “a mask for the will to power,”47 is commonly referred to as “standards”; but on closer examination it reflects the traditional Eurocentric, androcentric canon and curriculum. Graham Good suggests that “[a] new politics of feeling is emerging on campus, using nebulous metaphors like ‘chilly climate’ and ‘hostile environment’ for any incident that doesn’t ‘feel right’ or ‘feels uncomfortable.’”48 It is interesting that he dismisses so lightly arguments of “chilly climate,” which are based on a large body of research.49 Furthermore, Good himself seems guilty of practising the politics of feeling, when we consider that he devotes much of his article to his personal views on the assumed damage that gender studies are inflicting on universities and their principles. Moreover, his arguments are not supported by a single reference to an academic study. Derrida observes that “we can easily see on which side obscurantism and nihilism are lurking when on occasion great professors or representatives of prestigious institutions lose all sense of proportion and control; on such occasions they forget the principles that they claim to defend in their work and suddenly begin to heap insults, to say whatever comes into their heads on the subject of texts that they obviously have never opened or that they have encountered through a mediocre journalism that in other circumstances they would pretend to scorn.”50 When we consider academic freedom from the two different perspectives – that of the “white malestream” on the one hand, and that of indigenous scholarship on the other – we find ourselves faced with a profound question: Which of the two threats should be taken more seriously? The threat to academic freedom as a result of the pressure to diversify curricula? Or the threat to the existence of indigenous peoples through the continuation of a hegemonic academy? The academy has been guilty of (among other things) ignorance, erasure, silencing, and appropriation and theft of knowledge and culture. As Mi’kmaq scholar Marie Battiste notes, curricula modelled after

Introduction

Eurocentric thought have long had disastrous effects on indigenous peoples, whose fears of losing their languages, identities, and cultural integrities are very real. Many indigenous scholars deal with these concerns on a regular basis. The colonizing, Eurocentric mentality and its discourses “continue to erode the very identity and knowledge bases we seek to retain or restore.”51 How intellectually sound can the argument for academic freedom be, when that argument goes against creating curricula that would better reflect historical, political, social, cultural, and, yes, demographic realities as well as the very objective of academic freedom – free and fearless pursuit of knowledge? How ethically sound can an argument for academic freedom be if it is predicated on the erasure of indigenous epistemes? So, is the idea of academic hospitality – and of a responsible and responsive relationship, and of the recognition of the gift – at odds with the idea of academic freedom? Academic freedom is a concept that rests on and draws from liberal humanist assumptions, some of which share certain similarities with calls for hospitality within the academy and for responsibility toward indigenous epistemes. No doubt it is risky to draw parallels between liberal education and indigenous epistemes, when we consider how many liberal tenets are in fact complicit in the processes of colonialism.52 Moreover, from the perspective of indigenous peoples, liberal humanism and its values – equity, individualism, rationalism, progress, and democracy, among others – are inherently problematic in that in many cases they run squarely counter to key principles of indigenous philosophies and worldviews. The ideology of equal opportunity also ignores differences in circumstances arising from race, culture, class, gender, and other factors. It assumes a level playing field without acknowledging various structural inequalities and systemic barriers in society. Equality of opportunity implies that success and failure are solely individual responsibilities. Hornosty also notes that while equality of opportunity “opened universities to members of nontraditional groups ... [it] did not change the organizational culture or affect the traditional power structure of the institution.”53 Thus, with its blame-the-victim approach, the ideology of equal opportunity is an inadequate response to calls for hospitality within the academy. It might be worthwhile, however provisionally, to recall and emphasize one of the liberal principles – namely, openness to all ideas and knowledge. Whatever the arguments of some of the strongest supporters of academic freedom, liberal education involves more than reading “great books” and including them in curricula. As Amy Gutmann notes, when unfamiliarity with a topic leads to blind rejection, the central tenet of liberal education – the spirit of free and open inquiry – must have been forgotten.54 The ideal of liberal education is to cultivate the “whole” person, whose various sides – mental, emotional, and physical – must be balanced and integrated. The lofty goal of intellectual comprehensiveness and malleability – promoted

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Introduction

by liberal, humanist education but regularly ignored or forgotten by its defenders – corresponds to the goals of holistic education that are characteristic of most indigenous pedagogies.55 Openness to various kinds of knowledge is key to the notions of hospitality and responsibility. John Dewey suggested that the notion of hospitality signifies “an attitude of mind which actively welcomes suggestions and relevant information from all sides.”56 So is it possible to argue for hospitality and responsibility toward the “other” in an institution premised on academic freedom? The simple answer is “yes” – it is more than possible, it is necessary. Openness toward indigenous epistemes, and thus teaching and learning about them, is not at all a peripheral issue in the academy – it is part of the academy’s raison d’être. The Structure of This Book This book has three main sections. In the first section, I introduce the philosophy of the gift as a critique and vision for the future academy. I discuss the notion of the gift both as an aspect of indigenous ontologies and as a critique of current ideologies. I also examine how indigenous epistemes have been repeatedly silenced and erased. In the second section, I expose epistemic ignorance as a serious but little discussed concern in the academy. In the third and final section, I analyze hospitality of and in the academy. For some readers, perhaps, a more logical approach would have been to start with the second section, and I did in fact consider this. However, I decided that in order to articulate the gift logic so as to build on it, I would need to discuss the concept of the gift first. I hope that the fluid order of the sections is a reflection of the river as a guiding metaphor. If nothing else, the notion of the river has allowed me to remain flexible. I hope that in the end, all of this will make sense to the reader. In Chapter 1, I consider the concept of the gift, emphasizing how it reflects a particular worldview rather than a form of economic exchange (as it has been defined by many past theories and analyses). So that readers will be able to understand my argument as it relates to the gift of indigenous epistemes, I will critically examine past assumptions about the gift and offer a new perspective on it. In doing so, I will be showing how it is possible to build new relationships not only between humans but also between humans and the natural world. Many scholars of the logic and functions of the gift have noted the intricate and ambiguous nature of the gift, yet they have not been able to rid themselves of certain biases that influence their interpretations. Many of these analyses are laced with condescension; although the authors recognize the complexity of the gift, they treat indigenous systems as “primitive thought.” In Chapter 1, I discuss some aspects of the traditional Sami worldview and practices with regard to the gift. After redefining the concept of the gift – which forms the backbone of my argument – I delve into the question of indigenous epistemes in the academy.

Introduction

Chapter 2 outlines the current academic circumstances that drove my analysis. By drawing from various examples of the experiences of indigenous people in the academy (including some of my own “field notes”57), I hope to demonstrate the main issues – commonly referred to as “cultural conflicts” between the cultures of indigenous peoples on the one hand and the academy on the other – that underlie the inhospitable stance of the academy and its lack of responsibility toward the “other.” In the same chapter, I problematize the concept of culture and explain my use of the concept of episteme. I discuss how my analysis of epistemic ignorance and intellectual discrimination differs from common analyses of institutional racism and antiracist discourse. At the end of the chapter, I elaborate the notion of epistemic ignorance and analyze its principal mechanisms. I do so with the help of Val Plumwood’s findings on the logic of dualism and structures of control. In Chapter 3, I suggest, following Spivak’s argument, that considering the present circumstances, many indigenous people often cannot “speak” in the academy. In other words, they are neither taken seriously, nor heard, nor understood. Instead they are reduced to the position of native informants whose task it is to buttress the dominant individuals in the academy. The indigenous Other is allowed to appear only when he or she is needed for the production of hegemonic knowledge. I examine the common rhetoric of respect and argue that it is an inadequate response to epistemic ignorance. Also in this chapter, I return to the notion of the gift and explain why it has been perceived historically as a threat. This discussion foregrounds my argument that in today’s circumstances, indigenous epistemes remain an impossible gift in and to the academy. At the end of the chapter, I consider the notion of “recognition” and explain what I mean by calling for the recognition of indigenous epistemes as a gift. I suggest a specific form of recognition that is central to the indigenous logic of the gift. In Chapter 4, I analyze and problematize the idea of “knowing” other peoples and cultures. Obviously, one must have knowledge and understanding of indigenous peoples and their epistemic traditions if one is to rid oneself of ignorance. However, this project of knowing sets many traps for the unwary, including “unexamined nativism,” Eurocentric arrogance, and Romantic notions of the colonized “other.”58 Here, Spivak’s articulation of the need to do one’s homework is very useful. I link it to the notion of the responsibility toward the “other” as the crucial premise of the reimagined future academy. In this chapter, I also further explicate the concept of responsibility – a concept often evoked in academic circumstances but rarely defined or specified. How does this notion relate to the ways in which responsibility is often understood in indigenous contexts? I also examine whether the idea of responsibility toward the “other” is at odds with the idea of academic freedom. I discuss responsibility as a call for a specific form of action and knowing.

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In Chapter 5, I consider the possibility of a new relationship of hospitality between the academy and indigenous epistemes, based on indigenous thought and Derrida’s theoretical work on hospitality. First I delineate some initial encounters of hospitality between indigenous people and early colonizers as well as traditional perceptions of hospitality. Then I consider what an unconditional welcome to indigenous epistemes would look like. I link the idea of unconditional hospitality to some recent attempts to indigenize the academy. Finally, I examine the possibilities and challenges of reciprocity between epistemes in the academy, arguing that reciprocation is a process of decolonization that is negotiated and worked out between the parties involved. I conclude with the argument that the logic of the gift constitutes a necessary paradigm shift that promises to steer the university toward its future fully open to the “other.”

1 The Gift

There is no shortage of studies and theories of the gift. While practices of giving in “primitive” or “archaic” societies1 have been a popular topic in anthropological research since its early days, the gift has more recently also attracted interest in ever-widening circles, including those of philosophy, economics, theology, and sociology. It is a well-established argument that the gift functions mainly as a system of social relations, for forming alliances, communities, and solidarity. It is often ignored that in indigenous worldviews, the gift extends beyond interpersonal relationships to “all my relations.”2 It is a key aspect of the environment-based worldviews of many indigenous peoples, for whom giving entails an active relationship between the human and natural worlds, one characterized by reciprocity, a sense of collective responsibility, and reverence toward the gifts of the land. My particular focus in this book is on introducing a logic capable of teaching the academy that relations and interdependence are indispensable. The philosophy of the gift foregrounds the notion of responsibility as well as a recognition that gifts cannot be taken for granted or regarded as commodities. In indigenous gift philosophies, these responsibilities are observed through diverse ceremonies (such as the potlatch and various “give back” practices) and verbal and physical gestures of gratitude (such as the thanksgiving address). The academy has yet to realize that recognition of the gift is informed by responsibilities such as participation and reciprocation. However, all considerations of the gift, including my own, must be careful not to assume the existence of the “pure” gift or a clear demarcation between the gift and other paradigms. My intention here is not to present a “truly indigenous essence”3 of the gift; rather, it is to discuss a worldview with which some people still genuinely associate themselves as it differs from the worldview that dominates the world today. This is not to suggest that values and practices similar to the logic of the gift in indigenous thought do not exist in the “modern” world. I am saying that in mainstream society today, established hierarchies and gross inequalities are deeply embedded

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in most people’s everyday realities, and that as a result certain values are foregrounded and emphasized while the principles of the gift are overlooked. There is a need for a new interpretation of the gift that can force us to question our predominant values and that offers an alternative to the current paradigm of greed, self-interest, and hyper-individualism. In our examination of the gift and its logic, we must remember that the gift is not inherently new; rather, it involves a transformation of perspective, as well as a paradigm shift in the values we apply when critiquing our relationships in and with the world. A call for academic recognition of indigenous epistemes is not the same as a demand for an impossible nativist project for returning to precolonial indigenous practices. Rather, it is part of a growing trend among indigenous scholars toward reorienting our current practices and activities by seeking appropriate solutions within ourselves and grounding them in premises and values deriving from our own epistemic conventions rather than those of the West. Clearly, then, elaborating a logic of the gift in and for contemporary contexts is different from evoking “traditions” (which remain largely undefined) and formulating action plans grounded in cultural authenticity, nationalism, or separatism. Mohawk political scientist Taiaiake (Gerald) Alfred is one of the strongest advocates for a return to traditional values and a revival of traditional teachings in the name of preserving indigenous nationhood. Promoting what he refers to as self-conscious traditionalism, he suggests that “the answer to our problems [of cultural and linguistic erosion, poverty, economic dependency, political confusion and co-optation] is leadership based on traditional values.”4 Indigenous people have become distracted from their common goal of self-determination – a goal that, if it is to be achieved, will require pride in indigenous traditions, economic self-sufficiency, independence of mind, and a defence of indigenous lands. Developing pride in traditions was also one of the recommendations of the Hawthorn Report (1967) on Indian issues, which suggested that instilling pride and dignity among First Nations again would cure the problems of colonialism and the systemic racism of colonial institutions and policies.5 However, Spivak argues that attempts to evoke cultural pride amount to a form of “civilizationism [that] is good for gesture politics and breeding leaders” but not for much else.6 I agree with Alfred that indigenous philosophies are highly relevant to the present-day circumstances of indigenous peoples and that we need to identify the common aspects of indigenous thought and practice and shape them into a meaningful philosophy. That said, an uncritical invocation and reinscription of tradition is problematic, not least because of the real dangers of further marginalizing already disenfranchised groups within the society, such as indigenous women.7 Furthermore, endorsing concepts such as “the power of reason” – concepts that have long been highly destructive

The Gift

not only to indigenous people but also to women and the environment – can be counterproductive in the sense that they can generate new hegemonic formations. Before we raise concepts that derive from our own cultural framework but that have strong colonial, European (more specifically, Enlightenment), and patriarchal connotations in common parlance, we will need to carefully deconstruct and decolonize those concepts so that we will be able to employ them in ways that remind us to heed their oppressive origins in other cultural contexts. Moreover, Alfred’s idea of “the Rotinohshonni cultural imperative” of spreading the message of peace, power, and righteousness is somewhat ominous because of its echoes of past missionary aspirations in indigenous communities. It resembles what Cathryn McConaghy has called “Aboriginalism,” a process of constructing normative or prescriptive statements about being “real” Aboriginal.8 Furthermore, Alfred argues that many indigenous people are currently “living inauthentic lives” and that only by rejecting the values of mainstream society and by honouring traditional teachings will it be possible for them to recover from the current crisis “with [their] nations intact.”9 It is clear, however, that neither the contemporary lives of indigenous people nor their ontologies and systems of thought can be reduced to simplistic dichotomies of good/bad, authentic/inauthentic, real/false, colonizer/colonized. These and other binary categories can only reverse and thus reproduce colonial hierarchies and subjugation. Because colonialism continues to be the reality today, we cannot argue that indigenous nations can emerge from the current crisis intact.10 As a result of colonialism, contamination is our reality today. Whether we like it or not, it must be our starting point. Just as in the past, calls for remaining Native and for expressing our indigenous selves may end up creating more confusion, not less. What we need instead is a more nuanced language as well as a careful understanding of our various circumstances and situations. Having established these, we will be able to examine more closely certain common indigenous philosophical premises and principles. A prescription can only work in one specific context, leaving all the others unaddressed. Or as Spivak bluntly puts it, “repeating slogans, even good slogans, is not the way to go, alas. It breeds fascists just as easily.”11 I also contend that the significance of indigenous philosophies extends beyond indigenous communities; these can be employed in various nonindigenous contexts as well. Indeed, I believe that indigenous philosophies offer a timely alternative paradigm for the entire world, which is increasingly characterized by tremendous human suffering and environmental destruction. Alfred focuses on Native nationalism and advocates traditional governance structures and values; in contrast, I maintain that in addressing the well-being of indigenous people, we cannot limit ourselves to “indigenous communities,” which in the North American context are often synonymous

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with reservations. More and more indigenous people are living and working outside their communities (the off-reserve Native population in North America is well over 50 percent). This is but one of the many realities we must accept when we debate the future of indigenous peoples. Furthermore, indigenous people must be allowed to have communities outside their traditional ones (especially when somebody’s “traditional community” has never been where it is traditionally expected to be – on a reservation, or in a village or rural township). For example, the indigenous community in the academy is growing, however slowly. Besides generating respectful and responsible scholarship, the recognition of the gift of indigenous epistemes may also provide the academy with a deeper and better informed understanding of the contemporary relationship between human beings and the natural environment. When we consider the destructive agendas of neoliberalism and global capitalism (often labelled as “free trade”), and when we consider how life forms are rapidly and increasingly being commodified, we see all the more reason for the academy and for society at large to begin learning and embracing indigenous philosophies. Classic Gift Theories In anthropology, the gift is usually treated as a mode of exchange between groups (or individuals representing groups). The gift comes with certain obligations, countergifts, return payments, and debts. Classic gift theories regard reciprocity (or exchange) as the primary structuring principle of society. This is the central thesis of Marcel Mauss’s influential study of the gift, Essai sur le don, forme archaïque de l’échange, first published in 1924. Mauss argued that a gift comprises three obligations – giving, receiving, and paying back – and that it involves distinctive social rules. The gift is both required and “interested” even if it may first appear voluntary and disinterested. Moreover, gifts in archaic societies represent “total social phenomena” that encompass a society’s legal, economic, religious, aesthetic, and political spheres. There are two forms of “total prestation”: agonistic and non-agonistic. Mauss, however, focuses on the agonistic gift exchange, which in his view represents an alternative to hostilities, including war. This is apparent especially in the obligation to receive and accept the gift – to refuse it is to create a conflict.12 Building on Mauss’s agonistic notion of the gift exchange as a substitute for hostility, Pierre Bourdieu has analyzed the gift as symbolic violence, which according to him is “the most economical mode of domination.”13 For Bourdieu, the gift exchange ultimately leads to the accumulation of social capital of obligations and debts, which are then paid back in the forms of homage, respect, and loyalty (among other things).14 In this system, the gift implies power acquired by giving: “There are only two ways of

The Gift

getting and keeping a lasting hold over someone: debts and gifts ... or the moral obligations and emotional attachments created and maintained by the generous gift, in short, overt or symbolic violence, censored, euphemized, that is, misrecognizable, recognized violence.”15 For Bourdieu, gift giving is an observation of “moral obligations” and involves an active denial and misrecognition of the embedded symbolic violence. Material capital produces symbolic capital, which in turn is actively misrecognized as something else, such as obligations, relationships, and gratitude. He suggests that “the pre-capitalist economy is the site par excellence of symbolic violence.” In this system, the only way to establish and reinforce relations of domination is through strategies the true nature of which cannot be revealed – because doing so would destroy them – and that instead must be masked, transformed, and euphemized. It is interesting that Bourdieu should want to interpret a social order constituted mainly of non-adversarial relationships observed through mutual responsibilities as a site of violence. It serves no purpose to romanticize indigenous (or precapitalist) communities as non-violent; that said, we are doing no justice to the logic of the gift or to the indigenous social order, which depends heavily on negotiation, cooperation, and non-aggression, when we reduce one of its central structuring principles – the gift – to a form of violence, however subtle and symbolic.16 Generally, violence has not characterized indigenous societies in the same way as it has modern capitalist/patriarchal societies, which are rooted in violence.17 It seems that Bourdieu’s interpretation is informed by his own cultural notions of adversarial, competitive, and dominating relationships more than by anything else, and that this prevents him from seeing other functions and logic. Kaarina Kailo notes that “a scholar who has himself naturalized human self-interest rather than the nurturing impulse thus ends up projecting such a negative assumption on the cultures he is studying.”18 She also questions the often unquestioned view that Western assumptions of human nature are somehow more correct and legitimate than are those of indigenous peoples. Remember here that judgments of humanity or human nature are always mere interpretations in that they cannot be “scientifically” measured or evaluated. Bourdieu’s analysis of the logic of the gift ignores the giving and sharing that exist outside the system of indebtedness. This, even though he has at hand plenty of examples that indicate otherwise. “Threshold gifts” or “gifts of passage,”19 such as Sami “grave gifts,” are a good example of this. In the Sami tradition, the dead are given gifts, including food, tobacco, and items related to their livelihood. Also, tobacco is “placed on the earth for the departed” every time a person passes by a grave.20 The purpose of this kind of giving is profoundly social and spiritual: it is to ensure an ongoing good relationship between the deceased and the surviving relatives. Scholars have

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documented indigenous peoples’ customs fairly accurately, yet they have failed to analyze and understand them except within their own epistemic and cultural frameworks. One of Mauss’s themes in his essay is gifts to the earth’s spirits. Yet he does not advance a theory to account for these gifts, partly because he lacks facts in this area but also because of such gifts’ “strongly marked mythological element which we do not yet fully understand.” Similarly, most studies that have alluded to the giving of gifts “to nature” have paid only cursory attention to this practice. Moreover, these studies often view such gift giving as bizarre, not to mention primitive. Many scholars fail to extend nonWestern systems of thought the same rigorous attention as Western systems receive; in part, this is because of the commonly held view that “nonWestern peoples represent an earlier stage of their own cultural evolution – often that tribal cultures represent failed efforts to understand the natural world ... Non-Western knowledge is believed to originate from primitive efforts to explain the mysterious universe. In this view, the alleged failure of primitive/tribal man [sic] to control nature mechanically is evidence of his ignorance and his inability to conceive of abstract general principles and concepts.”21 Informed by the paradigms of modernity, many theories of the gift have failed to grasp the deeper meanings of giving gifts to the earth. Instead of viewing the giving of gifts to gods and nature as a reflection of indigenous worldviews founded on an active recognition of kinship relations that extend beyond the human realm, Mauss explains it as a “theory of sacrifice”; by his interpretation, people must enter into exchange contracts with the spirits of the dead as well as with the gods, who are the real owners of the world’s wealth. For Mauss, “the idea of purchase from gods and spirits is universally understood.”22 According to Mauss, the Toraya (or as Mauss spells it, Toradja) of the Celebes, Indonesia, are a classic example of people who believe that “one has to buy from the gods and that the gods know how to repay the price.”23 The Toraya, however, see this relationship quite differently. According to them, Deata (“Creator”) provides them with everything, and their gifts to Deata constitute thanks for the abundance they enjoy. Thus, for example, after the harvest, the Toraya hold a ceremony to express gratitude for the season. These practices are not considered purchases from the gods; rather, they are expressions of thanks and of respect for the natural world.24 Considering this, one can only wonder why Mauss, who himself was critical of economic interpretations of the gift, resorted to interpretations of this practice that were rooted in Western economic terminology (“exchange contract,” “purchase,” and the like).25 The economic bias seems to inform most interpretations of the gift. Jacques Godbout is critical of analyses that view the gift in terms of exchange. He

The Gift

contends that the gift constitutes a coherent, sui generis system and cannot be reduced to mere economics: “The gift forms a system with its own coherence, one that cannot be reduced to the market or anything else. Attempting to analyze the gift in terms of something else violates its nature as a system of its own.”26 He further argues that classic theories “all downplay the uniqueness of the archaic gift, on the pretext that in order to understand it we must see it as an expression of constraints or motivations that are universal in themselves: economic interest, the prohibition of incest, the obligation to exchange, substitution of peace for war through social contract, the necessary subordination of the imaginary to the symbolic, or the sacrifice of a scapegoat in order to reestablish order among all members of society.”27 Yet Godbout, like so many others, analyzes the underlying philosophy of the “archaic” gift only cursorily and in a somewhat condescending tone, referring to gift practices as “strange,” “curious,” and “primitive.”28 Like Mauss, he recognizes that “the gift represents the overall complex of relationships that brings together ... all the personalized powers that inhabit the primitive cosmos: human, animal, vegetable, mineral, or divine,”29 but he reduces the gift to “the strange law of alternation,” which suggests that in archaic societies, giving is only possible by taking turns. In his view, this is perhaps “a primitive democratic requirement” motivated by fears of revenge and destruction.30 This representation is inaccurate because it ignores the fact that giving to nature is grounded neither in “the strange law of alternation” nor in fear of revenge. Perhaps this is sometimes the case, but it can hardly be said to be the rule, at least in indigenous societies, past or present. In worldviews characterized by the giving of gifts to the land, the emphasis is not on fear of retaliation but rather on expressing gratitude for the gifts and kinship provided by the natural realm. The main purpose of gifts to the land is to sustain the relationships on which the socio-cosmic order is based. As Kailo argues, Godbout’s interpretation “consists of elements (values, structures, gender roles) which it has naturalized without heeding the animistic [sic] world’s own attitudes towards life.”31 In other words, giving to the land is not necessarily constructed along dichotomous, conflictual lines, which is what many theorists take for granted. What is more, Godbout’s analysis and approach “reproduce the values and biases of the exchange economy” in contexts where gift giving may not be marked by exchange (i.e., “giving in order to receive”). The ethnographic accounts of give-back ceremonies (such as bear rituals) do not explicitly discuss the underlying paradigms on which their interpretations are based; even so, one can observe the implicit ideology of nineteenth-century nationalism and its unexamined assumptions of “primitive” cultures and male interpretations that emphasize the primacy of self-interest, guilt, and

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aggression. These interpretations are rooted in certain colonial, Eurocentric, and patriarchal worldviews, ideologies, and values.32 Gift Paradigm as Alternative to Exchange From the perspective of feminist gift-economy theory and practice, the gift represents a radical challenge to the dominant neoliberal market ideology. Whereas mainstream studies see the gift as a form of exchange, Genevieve Vaughan argues that the gift and exchange are two distinct, logically contradictory paradigms with different values and objectives. These primarily economic paradigms are also complementary, even though the exchange paradigm, as it manifests itself in patriarchal capitalism, has rendered the gift largely invisible and undervalued in Western societies. For Vaughan, exchange – often defined as giving in order to receive – is ego oriented as well as prompted by self-interest. The exchange paradigm requires that what is given and what is received be of equal value; furthermore, it is based on the values of self-interest, competition, domination, and individualism. Gift giving, in contrast, is based on the values of care, cooperation, and bonding. It is other-oriented, and it gives directly to the needs of others. The gift paradigm is present everywhere in our lives, yet it is not only erased but also viewed as inferior and unrealistic compared to exchange.33 The current capitalist, patriarchal economic system is based on exchange. Although naturalized as the self-evident norm, exchange is built on the exploitation of cultural traditions and knowledge, of “free” or unilateral gifts of the land, and of cheap (even free) labour, especially in the Third World. Moreover, the exchange economy encourages artificial scarcity in that it wastes the wealth of the world in military spending (in 2004, global military expenditures exceeded $1 trillion) and funnels the gifts of many into the hands of the few. Markets are founded on the principle of scarcity (most obviously, to maintain high prices); in contrast, a gift economy is founded on abundance. Artificial scarcities thus make it difficult if not impossible to practise a gift economy. On top of this, capitalist ideology has declared giving and sharing to be irresponsible (except when practised within highly limited parameters, such as charity, which does not challenge the exchange logic).34 In contemporary society, the gift is being increasingly commodified and appropriated by consumer capitalism, within which it often takes a different meaning than in gift practices at the level of local communities, where networks of social support are still in place to a lesser or greater extent. The notion of the gift as a commodity is especially valuable (and profitable) for the advertising and marketing sectors. In today’s materialist and marketoriented society, the value of the gift is no longer measured in terms of its capacity to establish and maintain social relationships or (in the case of gift giving to the land) the overall balance of the socio-cosmic order, but rather

The Gift

in terms of its monetary value.35 This inflated and transformed definition of the gift has become the dominant one in the minds of many people in modern society. Genevieve Vaughan points out: In our society the gift paradigm seems to have many defects, even to be dysfunctional. I submit that its defects are all due to its forced coexistence with the exchange paradigm. For example, one consequence of the coexistence of gift giving and exchange is that the gift givers do not see that what they are doing is valuable. The exchange paradigm seems to be the “human” way to behave. Getting to the top of the heap appears to be the way to survive and thrive in “reality.” Actually we are creating the heap ourselves. Our validation of patriarchal competitive values only operates because we are inside the paradigm and therefore cannot see the exchange economy for what it is – an artificial parasite which derives its sustenance from the gift economy.36

As a response to the “New World Order” and the resulting ecological and human crises, Vaughan has called for the validation and restoration of gift giving as a basic human principle. Besides being part of the current economic model, hierarchy, domination, and violence are also elements of the dominant masculine identity. Vaughan points out that we are all born into the gift economy of mothering – nurturing mothers practise unilateral giving to their children. However, and as Nancy Chodorow and others have demonstrated, boys must then construct their male identities in opposition to their mothers.37 Put another way, they are expected to disassociate themselves from the values and practices of nurturing, care, and gift giving. Like women’s mothering and domestic labour, giving and its values have been rendered inferior in Western societies.38 Living in a market-based society makes us think of all bonds in terms of exchange, of debt and repayment; yet the fact is that the gift paradigm is present in all our lives. Once we foreground needs and their satisfaction, we can begin to see the bonds established through gift giving (which are often broken by the adversarial logic and process of exchange). Vaughan suggests that if everyone were giving to everyone else, there would be no need to exchange. What we must do is restore the principle of mothering as the basis of humanity and re-establish gift giving as the key social value. In other words, we must generalize the values of nurturing and care so that they apply to both men and women (rather than use the gift paradigm to justify the exploitation of women and their domestic labour). Also, we can reorganize the institutions and structures of society (which are often built around the exchange paradigm and its values) to reflect the principles of gift giving – for example, by eliminating the rewards that accompany dominance and hierarchy.

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Vaughan’s ground-breaking work on the gift as an alternative paradigm for exchange-based market economies has been further elaborated by other feminist scholars and activists.39 For Kailo, Vaughan’s theory and practice promises “renewal and ‘re-sourcement’ to counter the scarcity of solidarity, the freezing over of social responsibility.”40 Kailo envisions a “Gift Imaginary” that reunites the politics with the spirituality of everyday life and that dismantles the reductive dualisms that prevail in the master imaginary: “Whereas many materialist feminists ignore or willfully neglect the issues of ecology and sustainability, many ecofeminists do also ignore the concrete material differences of women around the world. Resurrecting the goddess religions and going back to nature may work for the chosen few; the majority of the poor in the world, however, are women in need of direct political and economic action, food, clean water, unpolluted surroundings and medicine. Yet, we also need the long-term transformation of values, away from profit-based greed towards the circulation of gifts and the reinforcement of all peoples’ economic, basic self-sufficiency.”41 The Gift Imaginary draws from various sources, including aspects of indigenous worldviews and gift practices. Kailo notes that if women are the most appropriate leaders of the new gift-based paradigm, indigenous women and women of colour may be even better equipped for this role. Many of them have a more nuanced understanding of oppression and exploitation; even more importantly, they have retained more of their gift-based, sustainable worldviews than have most white people. The Logic of the Gift in Indigenous Philosophies Instead of viewing the gift as a form of exchange or as having only an economic function, I argue that the gift is a reflection of a particular worldview, one characterized by the perception that the natural environment is a living entity which gives its gifts and abundance to people provided that they observe certain responsibilities and provided that those people treat it with respect and gratitude. Central to this perception is that the world as a whole comprises an infinite web of relationships, which extend and are incorporated into the entire social condition of the individual. Social ties apply to everyone and everything, including the land, which is considered a living, conscious entity. People are related to their physical and natural surroundings through their genealogies, their oral traditions, and their personal and collective experiences with certain locations. Interrelatedness is also reflected in many indigenous peoples’ systems of knowledge. These systems are commonly explained in terms of relations and are arranged in a circular format that consists mainly (if not solely) of sets of relationships whose purpose is to explain phenomena. In many of these systems of knowledge, concepts do not stand alone; rather, they are constituted of “the elements of other ideas to which they were related.”42

The Gift

It should be noted that when we talk about indigenous peoples’ relationship with their lands, it is not a question of whether an individual may or may not have a relationship with her or his environment. Obviously, it is important to distinguish between a philosophy or worldview and individual thinking and behaviour; the latter may not always reflect or comply with the former.43 Here, the question is about a worldview or an ethic, in other words, about a specific way of knowing and being in the world that is transmitted through values and cultural practices. Thomas King notes that “while the relationship that Native people have with the land certainly has a spiritual aspect to it, it is also a practical matter that balances respect with survival. It is an ethic that can be seen in the decisions and actions of a community and that is contained in the songs that Native people sing and the stories that they tell about the nature of the world and their place in it, about the webs of responsibilities that bind all things. Or, as the Mohawk writer Beth Brant put it, ‘We do not worship nature. We are part of it.’”44 In indigenous worldviews that foreground multilayered and multidimensional relationships with the land, the gift is the means through which the socio-cosmic order is renewed and secured. The gift is the manifestation of reciprocity with the natural environment; it reflects the bond of dependency and respect toward the natural world. From this bond, certain responsibilities emerge. In this system, one does not give primarily in order to receive but rather in order to ensure the balance of the world on which the well-being of the entire social order is contingent. Thanks are given in the form of gifts to the land’s guardians, who sustain human beings; but the gifts are also given for continued goodwill. According to this worldview, human beings are only one aspect of the creation; that is why their view of the world is marked by a clear sense of responsibility toward other aspects with which the socio-cosmic order is shared and inhabited. As Deloria notes, this “view of life was grounded in the knowledge of these responsibilities ... The human ceremonial life confirmed the existence of this equality and gave it sustenance.”45 Next, I apply an example from the Sami to clarify the gift logic and the gift-based worldview. The Sami Perception of the World Like many other indigenous worldviews, that of the Sami posits that the land is a physical and spiritual entity of which humans are one part. The Sami maintain their traditional relationship with the land through collective and private rituals, of which the gift and giving back are an integral part. This intimacy and interrelatedness is reflected in how they communicate with various aspects of the land – aspects that are often addressed directly, as if they were relatives. This close connection to the natural realm is evident also in the permeable and indeterminate boundaries between the human and natural worlds. A skilled individual can assume the form of

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an animal when necessary. There are also stories about women marrying animals.46 The porosity of the boundary between the human and the non-human is sometimes viewed as an attribute of shamanistic worldviews. In traditional Sami society, shamans in particular – noaidis,47 who were the spiritual leaders but also healers and visionaries of the community – were in contact with the spirit world, where they travelled in animal form. In a worldview in which survival depends on an intimate connection with the world, this kind of transformation is viewed not as supernatural but rather as a normal part of life. For the Sami, an important part of knowledge is an awareness of one’s responsibilities and of norms of behaviour. As “every geographical place was considered an entity in which the physical dimension was in balance with the spiritual one ... both aspects needed to be taken into consideration when making a living.”48 Gifts played an important role in maintaining this balance. A fascinating yet almost completely ignored aspect of Sami cosmology and “religion” is the key role played by the female deities in giving We still did not erect our lávvu49 the gift of life (to both human beings and dowithout the spirits’ permission mestic animals, mainly reindeer) and their conmoved lávvu if it chanced to be nection to the land. The Sami deity Máttáráhkká placed on a trail (“Ancestral Mother”) with her three daughters And when we left our winter camp may well signify the very foundation of the Sami we apologized if we had acted cosmic order, although the ethnographic literawrong ture has usually reduced their status to that of and thanked the camp because it wives of the male deities (reflecting the patriarhad fed us and our reindeer chal bias of these interpretations). These female And when came to the summer camp 50 deities of new life convey the soul of a child, some of us dressed in red gáktis create its body, and also assist with menstruaadorned ourselves tion, childbirth, and the protection of children.52 offered a libation as well to your Máttáráhkká and her daughters thus personify light beautiful camp the generative forces of the world: procreation, and asked it to open its embrace 51 giving birth, and sustaining life. for protection once again Traditionally in Sami society, one of the most important means of maintaining relations and the socio-cosmic order was giving gifts to various sieidis. Sieidi is the sacred place of the gift; it is where the gift is given to thank certain spirits for past abundance and also to ensure fishing, hunting, and reindeer luck in the future. Several centuries of Christianity deeply eroded the Sami practice of sharing with and giving gifts to the land; the missionaries viewed it as a form of pagan worship. Yet there is plenty of evidence that the Sami continue to practise sieidi gifting.

The Gift

Most sieidis are found near campgrounds, sacred sites, or fishing and hunting areas. Most often, sieidis are natural rock formations with unusual shapes, and serve as natural landmarks, especially in the mountains. Wooden sieidis are either trees with the lowest branches removed, or carved stumps or fallen trunks. The Sami practice of giving back to sieidis involves spirits and guardians of the elements (e.g., wind, thunder) as well as various aspects of everyday activities (e.g., animal birth, hunting, fishing). For the Sami, sieidis are alive, although many ethnographers have interpreted them as merely representing inert stones and structures. In the early twentieth century, Sami reindeer herder Johan Turi described the sieidi as follows: “Some sieidis were satisfied if they received antlers, and others were content with all the bones, which meant every single bone, even the most wee ones. Fish sieidi did not demand less than a half of the catch but then it directed to the nets as much fish as people could collect. Some sieidis wanted a whole reindeer which needed to be embellished with all kinds of decorations, cloth, threads, silver and gold.”53 Sieidis require regular attention, and when neglected, the consequences can be drastic: a loss of subsistence luck, illness, even death. It is interesting that in Turi’s description, the gift reindeer had to be decorated. As Kira Van Deusen suggests, for some indigenous peoples such as those in the Amur region of Siberia, decoration (more broadly, aesthetics) has a unique spiritual function – to protect humans from malevolent spirits.54 Thus, the decorations on the gift reindeer could be considered gifts in their own right, not simply a means to increase the gift value of the reindeer. Especially in ethnographic literature, sieidi gifts are almost invariably referred to as “sacrifices” and are usually defined as gift exchanges with gods and nature. As a forfeiture of something for the sake of receiving something else, a sacrifice is not voluntary; rather, it is made under certain pressures or conditions. Jacques Derrida notes: “Sacrifice will always be distinguished from the pure gift (if there is any). The sacrifice proposes an offering but only in the form of a destruction against which it exchanges, hopes for, or counts on a benefit, namely, a surplus-value or at least an amortization, a protection, and a security.”55 I argue that contrary to conventional interpretations, giving to sieidi cannot be completely understood through the concept of sacrifice. Sieidi gifts in some ways resemble sacrifices, but they are not and should not be regarded solely as such. They may have other dimensions that are just as significant as the sacrificial one, if not more so. At sieidi sites, bones are given back to the spirits and guardians of hunting, the catch is shared with those of fishing, and reindeer are given to those of reindeer luck. This sort of giving at sieidi sites is an expression of gratitude for the spirits’ goodwill and a means of ensuring future abundance. In this sense, giving to sieidis is involuntary, since it is done in order to protect the individual and the community and to secure the future of both.

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Yet sieidis are an inseparable part of the social order, which makes looking after them an individual and collective responsibility. It may seem at first glance that such a gift is an exchange and a mandatory forfeit (especially when viewed in outsiders’ terms); I would suggest, however, that in fact it is a voluntary expression of a particular worldview that reflects a respectful and also intimate relationship with the land. Like many other gift practices, the sieidi practices of the Sami contribute in concrete ways to the well-being of individuals and communities.56 When we analyze sieidis through the paradigm of the exchange economy, it can of course be suggested that giving is always a form of exchange, in that gifts are exchanged for collective well-being. But here we must do more than consider the act of giving; we must examine more closely the ethos, prevailing values, and ontological context of the gift practice, which can point to something very different from the spirit of gift for gift. Reciprocity and Responsibility: Ability to Respond Most gift theories consider reciprocity the condition of the gift as well as central to processes of creating communities. Reciprocity is often defined as giving back in kind or quantity. However, reciprocity is viewed differently in economic discourses than it is in anthropological ones. For economists, reciprocity represents a two-way market exchange. This economic discourse was first articulated by Adam Smith, who in The Wealth of Nations argued that there are three main reasons for exchange. 57 First, exchange increases productivity, which in turn increases the wealth of nations. Second, humans are inclined to barter and exchange. Third, humans are motivated by self-interest, which according to Smith is a good thing for everyone. Anthropological discourses on reciprocity focus on non-market practices of exchange. Marcel Mauss, for example, distinguished gift exchange from market exchange, arguing that the gift creates community and social ties whereas markets interrupt them. Mauss cited Bronislaw Malinowski’s work in developing his theory of reciprocity. According to Malinowski, reciprocity is limited to “primitive” societies.58 For Claude Lévi-Strauss, reciprocity is a reflection of basic forms of the human mind. It is the basis of the social contract, and without it there can be no society.59 Marshall Sahlins also developed a theory of reciprocity, largely built on the work of Karl Polanyi.60 According to Sahlins, there are three forms of reciprocity: generalized, balanced, and negative. Generalized reciprocity is found in “putatively altruistic” acts such as kinship obligations and mothering; balanced reciprocity is an equal exchange, a like-for-like interaction; negative reciprocity seeks to receive something for nothing.61 From the perspective of the gift paradigm, the difference between economic and anthropological discourses of reciprocity is fairly small, in that both are predicated on the notion of exchange and, it follows, the exchange

The Gift

paradigm. Genevieve Vaughan contends that reciprocity is problematic because it is “a way of maintaining the self-interest of both of the parties involved in the interaction.”62 The underlying logic of the exchange paradigm is that gifts cannot be given unless the receiving of countergifts is assured. Pierre Bourdieu, for example, contends that the gift can remain unreciprocated only when one gives to an “ungrateful person.”63 This kind of “binary give and take” emphasizes the movement inward and toward self, and seeks to maintain the independence of the self. It requires that gifts be “paid off” by giving exact value back. This allows the giver to remain self-contained and to avoid being obligated to anyone. Lewis Hyde suggests that there are two forms of giving: reciprocal and circular. Reciprocal giving is the simplest form of gift exchange; in circular giving one must give blindly, that is, “to someone from whom I do not receive (and yet I do receive elsewhere).”64 For Hyde, the condition attached to the gift does not involve constrained reciprocity, but rather circulation and an effort to keep the gift moving. The circulation of gifts is recognized also by Mauss, who points to the secondary importance of utility when goods are circulated in traditional societies.65 In reciprocity of the sort that Sahlins would call balanced but that is better described as “constrained,” the gift is best viewed as a “loan” or “credit.” Unlike limited, binary reciprocity, circular or loose reciprocity seeks to assert the bonds of relationships in the world simply because according to the worldviews from which these bonds stem, our very existence depends on it. In constrained reciprocity, dependence on others is seen as a burden. Constrained reciprocity reflects the Cartesian subject and the worldview of individualism, which is rooted especially in Renaissance humanism. It strongly emphasizes unique, self-sufficient, independent individuals whose possibilities and freedoms are viewed as limitless. This type of individualism manifests itself today in those economic ideologies which focus on individual rights, freedom, and choice; all of these conflict with those notions of collective solidarity that are so fundamental to indigenous value systems.66 According to the Western liberal norm of the individualist subject, dependence on other people is something to be feared. The common attitude of “no strings attached” or “even-steven” supports the existence of separate, self-contained individuals with minimal responsibilities toward one another. When this model is taken to its extreme, receiving gifts can only be a burden, because one then owes the giver something of at least equal value: “Behind every gift lurks the ulterior motive of the giver who expects a return, and it is the recipient’s perception of the giver’s ulterior motive that impels him to ‘give as good as he gets’ in order to be free of obligations or, conversely, to be locked into an ongoing relationship of reciprocal relationship of reciprocal exchanges over time.”67 According to this ethos, dependence

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and responsibility are bad, because they imply obligations and duties that are external to oneself, whether these involve other individuals or society at large. From this, it follows that responsibilities are unnecessary to the well-being of individuals and communities. Such a worldview inevitably weakens the connections between self and the world. Hélène Cixous argues that this view reflects the masculine economy, which distrusts displays of generosity. As an alternative, she suggests feminist economies, which do not imply a form of exchange and instead affirm generosity and the development of relationships.68 Radical exclusion and the hierarchization of the realms of the self and the world has a long history in the Western intellectual tradition, beginning with the Greek philosophers and articulated particularly by Descartes. It is beyond the scope of my project to discuss this in depth. Let it suffice that this point underscores a key difference between Western and indigenous philosophical traditions.69 Jeannette Armstrong notes that traditional Okanagan teachings and prophesies caution “that we are cutting ourselves off from the ability to live well by distancing ourselves from the natural world. This is what my generation has been told by our elders. We are cutting off the abilities that we previously had that gave us the best chance to be in a healthy relationship with ourselves as people and with the rest of the world.”70 Reciprocity is commonly viewed as central to indigenous thought. But it is very different from reductionist “binary give and take.” It often takes the form of circular reciprocity and sharing or “ceremonial reciprocity” – that is, reciprocity practised in life-renewing ceremonies and gift-giving rituals, of which the land is part. I am not suggesting, however, that the circulation of gifts (or goods) is carried out only in indigenous or precapitalist societies. The modern economy is also characterized by circulation. However, circulation in that economy is based on accumulation. Rodolphe Gasché maintains that this form of circulation “seems to be somehow deficient because a certain privilege of accumulation tends to produce absolute impoverishment. The privilege of accumulation makes closure of the circle of circulation as well as its compensatory action simply impossible.”71 Marx distinguished between the “simple circulation of goods” and “extended circulation,” aimed at producing surplus. Depending on the motive, then, circulation can be either a means of exchange or a form of reciprocity, which is different from equal exchange. In so-called traditional societies, the goal is usually to provide for the well-being of a community; in “extended circulation” the principal motive is to accumulate capital. In reciprocity as practised in terms of indigenous worldviews, gifts are not given primarily to ensure a countergift later on, but to actively acknowledge kinship and coexistence with the world; without this sort of reciprocity, survival – not just of human beings but of other living beings – would be

The Gift

impossible. Thus the main purpose of circular or ceremonial reciprocity is to affirm myriad relationships in the world; from these relationships arise an acknowledged collective and individual requirement “to act responsibly toward other forms of life.”72 This kind of reciprocity implies response-ability – that is, an ability to respond, to remain attuned to the world beyond oneself, as well as a willingness to recognize its existence through the giving of gifts. This sense of responsibility embedded in the gift is the result of living within an ecosystem and being dependent on it. Culturally, socially, economically, and spiritually, indigenous peoples, as collectivities, continue to depend directly on the natural environment that surrounds them. Such thinking is still central to indigenous philosophies; for many other peoples, this relationship with their physical surroundings has been almost entirely erased. For these groups, the connection once existed but began to erode generations ago as a result of modernization, urbanization, and other developments. This process began with the Renaissance and the Enlightenment and is continuing today, driven by the forces of neocolonialism, capitalism, consumerism, and globalization.73 An example of the capacity to respond to and remain attuned to the world beyond self, and of the will to recognize its existence by means of gifts, is the Sohappy case, which was heard in Oregon in the late 1960s. David Sohappy of the Wanapam Band fought for decades for the right to fish as part of his tribal rights as well as his identity. The Wanapams had never signed a treaty. In the early 1940s, Sohappy’s family was evicted from its home territory in order to make room for a nuclear installation. By that time, fishing runs were dwindling rapidly as a result of overfishing by nonNative fishermen, some from as far away as Scandinavia.74 When Celilo Falls, or Wyam (“Echo of Falling Water”), one of the most significant traditional fishing sites in North America, was inundated by the Dalles Dam in 1957, many Native people were forced to give up fishing, their traditional livelihood, and moved to the Yakima Reservation or to urban centres.75 Sohappy, however, moved with his wife to Cook’s Landing, which was above the first of many dams along the Columbia River. He and his wife built a small longhouse, and he continued fishing despite his father’s warnings. The game and fishing officials soon “raided his camp, beat family members, and, in 1968, put Sohappy in jail on charges of illegal fishing.”76 For the First Nations on the northwestern shore of Turtle Island, salmon is more than a food – it is the cornerstone of their culture. An annual “first salmon” ceremony is still often held to thank the salmon for returning. During the ceremony, the first salmon caught in the yearly run is cooked over a fire and shared with everyone: “The bones were saved intact, to be carried by a torch-bearing, singing, dancing, and chanting procession back to the river, where they were placed in the water with the head pointing upstream –

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symbolic of the spawning fish, to assure that there would be runs in the future.”77 The Sohappy case is a poignant example of conflicting worldviews as they relate to people’s responsibilities toward the natural world. The explanation that David Sohappy gave when asked why he had to keep fishing the river was never properly understood in courtrooms or by the media. Makah filmmaker Sandra Osawa notes: “He was speaking as a man with a unique relationship with the salmon and he knew that the salmon and his people were as one. Along with this relationship came a special duty and responsibility to remain on the river.”78 Westerners, though, were unable or unwilling to recognize and comprehend this relationship, which flowed from his tribal traditions. For them, Sohappy was simply poaching. He was not heard or understood because he was speaking from a different worldview. Because of their ignorance, those who upheld the legal system were unable to recognize that salmon is a gift that comes with a relationship and responsibilities. Sohappy served five years in prison for what Westerners considered poaching.79 In many indigenous worldviews, responsibility is regarded as integral to being human and as inseparable from one’s identity. In cultures and societies that emphasize reciprocity, children are raised to understand that as adults, they will be expected to act for others. Jeannette Armstrong articulates this in terms of her relationship to the natural environment: “I know the mountains, and by birth, the river is my responsibility: They are part of me. I cannot be separated from my place or my land. When I introduce myself to my own people in my own language, I describe these things because it tells them what my responsibilities are and what my goal is.”80 Armstrong’s notion of self is not limited to her as an individual; it inevitably entails a connection to a certain place on the land toward which she has certain responsibilities. As pointed out by Navajo/Yakima poet and scholar Elizabeth Woody, everyone must face this responsibility. Woody’s uncle once told her, “We are all in this together, except we, as tribal people, will not leave or neglect our responsibility. We don’t have that luxury. There is too much at stake.”81 Because their survival depends greatly on social and ecological stability, indigenous people have developed a worldview in which a key teaching is responsibility toward other beings. This suggests how important the concept of giving is to them: only through giving can they be human. Their very survival depends on it.82 Because she recognizes her responsibilities, Armstrong knows her location and role in her community; in short, she knows who she is.83 This notion of responsibility emphasizes the interrelatedness of all life forms – the well-being of the mountains and rivers is linked to her personal wellbeing as well as to the well-being of her community. In her community, the

The Gift

self and the world are not separate entities. It is inconceivable that humans can ever detach themselves from the socio-cosmic order. Thus “life depends on maintaining the right kind of relationship with the natural world,”84 and personal and collective responsibilities toward the natural environment are the necessary foundation of society. This understanding of responsibility is qualitatively different from Western ones. Gasché contends that “there is perhaps no theme more demanding than that of ‘responsibility.’”85 A normative definition in the West views responsibility “as a mechanical application of a framework of rules that simultaneously relieves the subject of the onus of decision and, hence, of all liability.”86 Yet responsibility implies a measured response that can be carried out “only if the decision is truly a decision, not a mechanical reaction to, or an effect of, a determinate cause.”87 Western liberal notions of responsibility are often constructed as a social Darwinist “burden of the fittest,” with the benevolent imperialist self-cast as “helping” those less fortunate (read “privileged”). In this discourse, responsibility soon becomes nothing more than a duty, as is apparent, for example, in the UN Declaration of Human Responsibilities, which seeks to establish philosophical foundations for a global ethic (1997). Such notions of responsibility often merely produce a hierarchy in which the “helper” enjoys moral superiority, which often manifests itself as patronizing attitudes and practices. Put another way, there is a “difference between ethics as imagined from within the self-driven political calculus as ‘doing the right thing’ and ethics as openness toward the imagined agency of the other.”88 Spivak calls the latter also a “predication of being-human as being called by the other, before will.”89 This sense of responsibility and ethics is also called for by the gift, and is what this inquiry calls for in the context of the academy. Tom Mexsis Happynook, Nuu-chah-nulth hereditary whaling chief and founding chair of the World Council of Whalers, contends that indigenous peoples’ practices reflect a sense of responsibility that is engrained in their culture: “When we talk about indigenous cultural practices we are in fact talking about responsibilities that have evolved into unwritten tribal laws over millennia. These responsibilities and laws are directly tied to nature and are a product of the slow integration of cultures within their environment and the ecosystems. Thus, the environment is not a place of divisions but rather a place of relations, a place where cultural diversity and biodiversity are not separate but in fact need each other.”90 Happynook further observes how in the colonial context, these cultural responsibilities have been forced into a framework of “Aboriginal rights,” which are to be defended usually “in an adversarial system of justice.”91 Yet these rights are responsibilities more than anything. The problem with “rights” discourses is that they allow privileged individuals to deny the existence of

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oppression in society. Sherene Razack contends that “rights thinking is based on the liberal notion that we are all individuals who contract with one another to live in a society where each of us would have the maximum of personal freedom. Starting from this premise, there then are no marginalized communities of people and no historical relations of power.”92 Furthermore, examining the international (but Eurocentric) human rights discourse, Spivak challenges the common assumption that there is an unbroken line that leads from rights to responsibilities. She argues that reinscribing rights as duties not only creates confusion (as pointed out by Amnesty International) but also allows continuing intervention on the subaltern.93 She suggests that the language of collective rights be replaced with a language of collective responsibility as rights. This reflects Happynook’s articulation that rights are in fact responsibilities practised by individuals and communities. As with many classic interpretations of giving to nature, analyses of responsibility in indigenous societies are often characterized by assumptions that are grounded in foreign worldviews and values, where they remain blind to other ways of knowing and relating to the world. For instance, Bourdieu contends that the circulation of gifts is nothing more than “mechanical interlockings of obligatory practices.”94 It is not incorrect to suggest that giving to nature is one of the many forms of socialization whereby an individual learns to conform to certain cultural norms and rules; yet, it is extremely reductionistic and dismissive to interpret indigenous (or any other) gift practices as mere rules to be obeyed through blind duty. Such interpretations betray a lack of awareness that there are other possible ethics and worldviews, and in doing so deny an ethical sense to other peoples and cultures. Giving to nature is far from a mechanically observed practice; it is, in fact, the basis of ethical behaviour among indigenous people, as well as a concrete manifestation of worldviews that emphasize the primacy of relationships in a world in which the well-being of all is contingent on stability. To discuss, then, relationships with nature as part of indigenous worldviews is not to romanticize them. The relationships that indigenous peoples have forged with their environments for many centuries are a consequence of living off the land and depending on its bounty. They are a result of a clear understanding that the well-being of the land is also the well-being of humans. As Annie Booth and Harvey Jacobs contend, the statement “we are the land” often expressed by indigenous people “goes beyond the romanticized lore of nature that modern-day environmentalists are said to indulge in.”95 Living off the land involves hard work, but in return, the land gives indigenous peoples their very being. Indigenous people understand the land’s bounty both as a gift and as a relationship made manifest, but they do so in concrete rather than romanticized terms. That is why so many of them continue to recognize their ties to the land in various ways.

The Gift

Once they learn to avoid romanticism and reductionism, Westerners will also start to understand how gift-based, reciprocity-oriented philosophies are linked to the land rights of indigenous peoples and to their very survival. Until Western governments recognize that indigenous peoples have title to their lands, it will be difficult if not impossible for these peoples to assert their identities and govern themselves, and to maintain their livelihoods and social and cultural practices – in short, to be who they are and to control their own lives and futures as peoples. Many will argue that it is not only unrealistic but hopelessly naïve and romantic to suggest that a logic based on the gift relationship be employed in today’s society and in places such as the academy. Clearly, the neoliberals’ “hard realities” have finally caught up with many academics as well. However, Veronica Bennholdt-Thomsen and Maria Mies maintain that the romanticization argument “is implicitly derived from the image of a lineal historic process in which Western industrial society is seen as the pinnacle and the inescapable image of the future for all ‘pre-industrial’ societies.”96 It is also a reflection of the epistemic ignorance that prevails in society at large toward different modes of organizing society. In this vein, Spivak reminds us that “the other side of romanticizing is censorship.”97 She urges a shift in perception “from the anthropological to the historico-political.” Such a shift may help us see how the cultural fabric of local and indigenous communities has been torn “from the dominant loom in a historical moment.”98 It is not that these “cultural scripts” no longer work in contemporary contexts because of their “simplicity” or “backwardness”; rather, it is that they “have not been allowed to work except as a delegitimized form forcibly out of touch with the dominant through a history that has taken capital and empire as telos.”99 There is nothing romantic about the logic of the gift; to describe it as such is to subordinate a paradigm that has never been given a chance. Without having been tried, the indigenous worldview has been delegitimized and made invisible by a system that privileges capital accumulation rather than giving and reciprocation. The logic of the gift continues to characterize indigenous peoples’ thinking and conventions in contemporary contexts. This is one reason that it is misleading and inappropriate to discuss the gift in “archaic societies,” especially when those doing the talking narrowly interpret the gift as economic exchange. The focus on archaic aspects also leads to a perpetuation of implicit and explicit assumptions about “frozen” cultures and may reinforce traditional/contemporary binaries. Yet as Brody asserts, “we are all contemporaries, whatever lands we live on and whatever heritage we rely on to do so. All human beings have been evolving for the same length of time.”100 An example of the gift logic in contemporary contexts is indigenous research practices and protocols.

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Scholarly “Give Back” A central principle of indigenous philosophies, that of “giving back,” forms the backbone of the research that is presently being conducted by many indigenous scholars and students. It expresses a strong commitment and desire to ensure that academic knowledge, practices, and research are no longer used as tools of colonization and as ways of exploiting indigenous peoples by taking (or, as it is often put, stealing) their knowledge without ever giving anything back. Deloria was one of the first indigenous scholars to call on non-indigenous researchers to recognize the need to “[put] something back into the Indian community.” He even questioned the need for further research into Native communities, especially by outsiders.101 After centuries of being studied, measured, categorized, and represented to serve various colonial interests and purposes, many indigenous peoples now insist that research dealing with indigenous issues must emanate from the needs and concerns of indigenous communities instead of those of individual researchers or the dominant society. Indigenous research ethics now requires academics – both indigenous and Western – to “give back,” that is, to conduct research that will be both relevant and helpful to indigenous peoples themselves.102 Researchers now face other responsibilities as well. For example, they are expected to share their research results in appropriate and meaningful ways and to recognize that sharing knowledge is a long-term responsibility that must involve more than simply sending a final report back to the community. Linda Smith distinguishes between “sharing knowledge” and “sharing surface information” and points out the importance of sharing “the theories and analyses which inform the way knowledge and information are constructed and represented.”103 The principle of “giving back” in research – whether it means reporting back, sharing the benefits, bringing back new knowledge and vital information to the community, or taking the needs and concerns of the people into account when formulating research agendas – is part of a broader process of decolonizing colonial structures and mentalities and restoring indigenous societies. The ethics of relevance and giving back also guide my work. My consideration of the relationship between indigenous epistemes and dominant academic discourses is an attempt to help decolonize scholarly practices that continue to exclude and marginalize various groups and their epistemes. With my work, I hope to “give back” to the growing body of indigenous scholarship by addressing a question that today faces many indigenous people in the academic community but that so far has received little scholarly attention. That question is: how can we convince the academy to sincerely accept the gift of indigenous epistemes? Indigenous research is recognized as unique for a number of reasons: it calls for participation by the communities being researched; it acknowledges

The Gift

traditional genealogical and other organizing structures; it supports research that is relevant to the communities being studied, as well as culturally appropriate methodologies and codes of conduct; and it is activist in the sense that it is committed to capacity building and to addressing the damage done by colonization.104 Most of the theories and methodologies embraced by indigenous scholars are rooted in the principles of reciprocity and responsibility, which are derived from indigenous protocols and cultural values and which are often incorporated into research ethics guidelines. Related to this acceptance of responsibility is the common practice among indigenous researchers of “decolonizing” the notion of generic “Indians” by indicating the tribal affiliations of indigenous individuals. This is a way of recognizing and respecting the fact that indigenous peoples vary in their social, cultural, historical, economic, and political contexts, however much they share with other indigenous peoples around the world. As this book will demonstrate, the principles of indigenous gift philosophies can also be applied in other spheres of academic inquiry. The gift serves as a powerful critique of the values and general ethos of the academy, which in at least some respects is going through its own “extreme makeover” as it evolves from a place of knowledge into a “lean and mean” corporation. The gift paradigm disrupts the global capitalist, patriarchal world order by not following its rules and values. It pays close heed to the problematic nature of individualism, which is not only a value opposite to that of the gift but is also linked to the colonization of indigenous peoples.105 Clearly, though, indigenous peoples are not the only ones who are suffering from the values being promoted by cut-throat market fundamentalism. The globalization ethos is causing problems for the entire planet, by endangering ecosystems as well as the very lives of individuals and communities from the Arctic to the global South. In this context, the ambivalence of the gift (as pharmakon, which has a double meaning: medicine and poison) is apparent: it may appear to be poison (i.e., a threat) to those who adhere to the global capitalist patriarchal agenda and who argue that there are no alternatives to the one they support; but it is medicine for those who envision alternative paradigms. Gift as a Threat Besides constructing the gift as symbolic violence, colonial and patriarchal authorities have interpreted it as a threat and in this way have demonized and pathologized it. One of the best examples of this is the construction of the potlatch tradition of the Northwest Coast as a threat to “civilization” and to the establishment of the nation-state. Scholars and theorists have long represented the gift as a paradox, enigma, aporia, simulacrum, or impossibility. Mauss, for example, concluded that the gift is an odd “confusion” that blends everything together

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into a hybrid. The ambivalence of the gift is also reflected in its double meaning. Etymologically, the word for gift in most Romance languages derives from the Latin dosis, a “dose,” as for instance in poison.106 In this sense, the gift is a pharmakon – a Greek word that means both “remedy” and “poison.”107 Christopher Bracken’s account of the potlatch shows us how the gift as practised in the indigenous societies of the Northwest Coast came to be perceived as a threat to the emerging Canadian nation-state – in particular, to the values the new nation wanted to represent.108 The potlatch was associated with excess and waste, and colonial administrators viewed those who practised it as the apotheosis of the “other.” In the potlatch, the earliest government agents on the Northwest Coast saw “a practice that Western civilization wants above all to exclude from itself: the practice of nonproductive expenditure as it is manifested in gambling and giving away.”109 At the time of First Contact on the Northwest Coast, the Europeans did not immediately oppose the potlatch. Antagonism increased, however, with the arrival of missionaries and government agents, for whom the potlatch and various other feasts were signs of moral degeneracy. Such practices marked the people who engaged in them as savages, as “barbaric,” and officials and other government representatives saw an urgent need to put an end to them – which turned out to be very difficult.110 As an example, the Kwakwaka’wakw on Vancouver Island were repeatedly defined by colonial agents “as a group incapable of integrating themselves into Euro-Canadian culture.”111 According to commissioner Malcolm Sproat, “the Patlach is a form of aboriginal self-government that stands in the way of the Canadian government and its civilizing mission.”112 Sproat also condemned the potlatch for producing “indigence, thriftlessness, and a habit of roaming about which prevents home associations and is inconsistent with all progress ... It is not possible that Indians can acquire property, or become industrious with any good result, while under the influence of this mania.”113 For the Europeans, then, gift giving in the form of potlatches was a threat to nascent civilization and progress. A former Hudson’s Bay Company trader named George Blenkinsop declared that until the local Indians could be cured of their propensity for potlatching, “there can be little hope of elevating them from their present state of degradation.”114 Note that in formulating his remarks, he resorted to pairs of oppositional terms: high and low, elevation and degradation, civilization and barbarism. From the perspective of the gift, it is interesting that the concept of “expenditure,” not “feast,” is what marks the boundary between these binary oppositions.115 Frustration over failed attempts to “civilize” those who practised potlatch and gifting led to calls for federal legislation that would prohibit these

The Gift

ceremonies. The first anti-potlatch law was passed in 1884, but was difficult to enforce because of its ambiguous language.116 The law was later amended, and following a large potlatch held at Village Island in December 1921, fortyfive people were charged under Section 149 of the Indian Act. Of those convicted of offenses including making speeches, dancing, arranging articles to be given away and carrying gifts to recipients ... twenty men and women were sent to Oakalla Prison to serve sentences of two months for first offenders and three months for second offenders ... For some years the potlatch went “underground” to evade further prosecution under the law. In Fort Rupert, for example, people favored stormy weather as a suitable time to hold potlatches, knowing that neither the police nor the Indian Agent could travel in such weather. The Kwakwaka’wakw continued to hope that the anti-potlatch law would be repealed. However, when the Indian Act was revised in 1951, Section 149 was simply deleted.117

Whether an event of pure loss that violated the principle of classical utility (as it was for Sproat), or a manifestation of the absolute “other” relative to the West (as it was for Franz Boas),118 the potlatch signified an aporia: “The northwest coast sits at the very limit of the Western European economy. The gift is the sign of this outer boundary. A pure loss without return, the gift marks the zone where civilization ends and barbarism begins.”119 For Europeans, the gift and the potlatch represented alien and entirely irrational practices of prodigality, in opposition to all the fundamental values of the Western world, which at the time was attempting to gain a foothold on the Northwest Coast. The practice made no sense to Europeans, and furthermore, it was viewed as a threat to the values and principles of Canada as an emerging nation-state. Clearly, gift giving in indigenous societies cannot be reduced to mundane and obligatory giving and receiving – that is, to a form of exchange that can serve as the predecessor of a modern market economy. Indigenous people’s relationships with their territories cannot be understood in only utilitarian, economic terms – that is, in terms of giving solely to receive. The early colonial authorities were keenly aware of the problems inherent in this kind of giving, which did not conform to either their values or their notions of progress. Ironically, had they interpreted the gift as merely a form of exchange, they might not have viewed it as so dangerous that it needed to be outlawed. But the colonial authorities saw the power of the gift of the potlatch, and furthermore, they saw how it represented a potential subversion. The only way for them to protect themselves from this threat was to forbid it by law.

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In light of the anti-potlatch law and the measures that preceded and followed it, it should not surprise us that the academy does not currently recognize the gift of indigenous epistemes. For some in the academy, the gift of indigenous epistemes amounts to a threat to the values that underpin the structures and discourses of the status quo. To paraphrase Hopi/Miwok poet Wendy Rose, some may be benefiting from not recognizing and receiving the gift and from not engaging in a new logic of reciprocal responsibilities. The gift, therefore, continues to be a pharmakon – both remedy and poison – in contemporary settings, including the academy.

2 From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance

The academic world often seems unfriendly and intimidating for new students; it can be especially so for indigenous students. Indigenous people who come to the university face many challenges and difficulties, including benevolent ignorance or indifference, misconceptions about their cultures, individual and institutional discrimination, and systemic marginalization. Statistics indicate that in many parts of the world, graduation and retention levels in postsecondary institutions are relatively low for indigenous students (although they are increasing). When I started to look more closely at the problem of what is commonly called the “cultural clash” in the academy, I came across two different approaches. I found a few articles by indigenous scholars and students discussing and analyzing their own not-so-hospitable encounters with the academic world. And I found a handful of studies on indigenous people and higher education, which tend to focus on indigenous students (and to a lesser extent, indigenous scholars) and their special needs. These articles invariably concluded with a call for attitudes to change and for faculty, administrators, and the study body to expand their knowledge of indigenous people. I recognize the importance of attending to the special needs of any marginalized group,1 but I am also convinced that it is at least as urgent to insist that the academy – that is, faculty, administrators, and other students, as well as academic structures, discourses, and traditions – embrace its responsibility for transforming itself in a way that addresses the “limitations, unjustices, and wastefulness of Eurocentric education on behalf of the exclusionary and/or assimilationist nation.”2 No doubt there are indigenous students whose “bumps on the academic road” are limited to those which most students experience at some point in their studies. And for some indigenous students the university is a place where they have learned, “discovered,” or become more aware of their identities; a place where (especially) the presence of other indigenous students, faculty, and staff has brought them a new perspective on their histories,

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communities, and cultural heritage. But my project here is to expose and analyze the epistemic and ontological ignorance and indifference of the academy toward indigenous systems of thought and knowledge. I also intend to propose a new paradigm or logic that will challenge the current limitations, imbalances, exclusions, and wilful ignorance of academic and intellectual conventions and discourses. I would add that it is not just students who must contend with the gulf between the values, requirements, and expectations of their own communities on the one hand, and those of the academic institution on the other.3 Patricia Monture-OKanee (Monture-Angus) notes that the conflict between her cultural values and those of the mainstream legal system was not reduced even after she became a professor, and even though she is now part of both worlds.4 She contends that as a Mohawk woman, she does not share the worldview of her colleagues, nor can she share a personal history with them. Because her colleagues view her only as a law professor, they typically do not notice this lack of common background.5 Conflicts between indigenous and mainstream societies relating to goals, expectations, and cultural values are among the most comI’ve walked these hallways mon causes suggested for uneasiness among a long time now indigenous students in the academy.6 It seems hallways pallored by that the highly competitive, institutionalized ivory-coloured environment of the academy can be a challenge thoughts for anyone. But for those who do not share the ... cultural, intellectual, and epistemic conventions I do my footnotes so well that the university represents and reproduces, nobody knows where I come from it is a different kind of struggle. For them, the hallways without sun challenge is to negotiate the fundamental valthe ologists can’t see ues and assumptions that underpin not only they count mainstreet the production of knowledge but also their very bodies behind bars perceptions of the world. they put Ama’s moosebones Yet the idea of “conflicting values” has its own behind glass problems. Mainstream society is always in conthey tell savage stories flict with itself over globalization, the environin anthropology Cree7 ment, gay rights, abortion, race, sexuality, and multiculturalism, to mention only a few fun8 damental issues. Within the academy, the tensions between corporatism and the objectives of liberal education reflect yet another conflict between values. In this inquiry, however, when I say “values” I am referring in particular to the cultural values of people who are defined as distinct from the rest of society and who in fact define themselves that way. These values are attached to and associated with distinct (albeit often implicit and taken for

From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance

granted) assumptions about and understandings of the order of the universe, so they are not necessarily directly comparable to various values and perspectives that circulate within the worldview of the dominant society. If a student’s values and basic understandings of the world are built on premises that are not recognized or appreciated by the institution, the processes of learning and producing knowledge will, no doubt, involve something more than the “minor scrapes and disharmonies” that all students experience. William Tierney maintains that “institutions and systems – be they schools or political structures – are imbued with cultural and symbolic meanings. Over the last 20 years, a wealth of literature has investigated the culture of educational organizations ... Obviously, the culture of an organization derives from the larger society in which it resides. A mainstream university will reflect the social and cultural values of the individuals who come from that mainstream. Minorities, by their very definition, will differ in some manner from the majority culture.”9 The term “culture clash” (or “cultural conflict”) is often used to describe situations in which indigenous scholars and students find themselves faced with values that differ sharply from their own. Many of the academy’s theories and practices are underpinned by the principles, values, and assumptions of the dominant culture, and these often conflict with those of indigenous peoples. Cultural conflicts and their outcomes have been studied quite extensively in the United States, especially in relation to high drop-out rates among Native high school students. Danielle Sanders has pointed out that as early as grade four, cultural conflicts can exacerbate the academic difficulties of Native American students. Summarizing a large body of research, she concludes that a significant factor in declining academic performance beyond grade four “seems to be a growing feeling of isolation, rejection, and anxiety felt by American Indian children as they confront the incompatibility of their cultural value system with that of their Anglo-American classmates.”10 This in turn may lead to alienation, a poor self-image, and withdrawal from school. Studies also point to a link between low self-esteem, of the sort related to group identity, and low educational achievement among Native students.11 The clash between mainstream and indigenous values is most evident in classroom discussions, yet it is rarely articulated and is practically invisible to non-indigenous students and professors.12 Indigenous students often choose to remain silent, and this is often misinterpreted as a lack of interest or even intelligence. When combined with the fear of being misunderstood by peers and professors, this conflict may foster a serious dilemma for some indigenous students.13 Navajo surgeon Lori Alvord’s account of her experiences at medical school poignantly illustrates these challenges:

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The very thought of exhibiting my skills and knowledge before others was disturbing. I could not bring myself to participate in class discussions and debates, or to volunteer answers to professors’ questions, although it was expected ... I didn’t feel comfortable raising my hand in class, I wasn’t competitive enough about test scores and projects, and I didn’t draw attention to myself. I lacked the “right stuff” that every med student needs: a competitive edge. Yet it was hard for me to behave any other way. Silence is a normal part of Navajo communication; words are used sparingly and weighed carefully. It took me a long time to be comfortable with the nonNavajo style of learning.14

Even though Alvord knew well that her grades depended on her participation in classroom discussions, she found it very difficult to switch from the Navajo way of learning to that of the Western academy. It is not that she was being openly (or even indirectly) discriminated against in the classroom because of her different approach to knowledge; rather, indifference and ignorance on the academy’s part made her appear (and feel) inadequate and ill prepared and threatened her success in the academy. The academy seems inhospitable, if not openly hostile, to many indigenous people for three main reasons: lack of relevance, lack of respect, and lack of knowledge about indigenous issues. The lack of respect relates to the problem of cultural conflicts, especially those which arise at the collective, cultural level. Put simply, the values and perceptions of indigenous cultures are generally not recognized or respected. Instead, students are often “expected to leave the cultural predispositions from their world at the door and assume the trappings of a new form of reality, a reality which is often substantially different from their own.”15 Furthermore, much of what is taught and discussed in the university has little relevance to indigenous students, whose cultural predispositions and aspirations are often linked to “much broader collective/tribal considerations, such as exercising self-government, or bringing First Nations perspectives to bear in professional and policy-making arenas.”16 Instead of teaching issues that are pertinent to the goals, needs, and circumstances of indigenous people, the academy often seems to be trying to draw indigenous people away from who they are. Students may be forced to develop arduous strategies to survive, as the following account indicates: When a Native student goes into a classroom, part of you is removed and sort of your Indian spirit is put apart from you, so you are separated so you can deal with the mainstream society values. When you try to talk about the Native matters that are in the text without using the eyes of your Indian spirit ... When you look at it with your wholeness all that emotional stuff wells up. You try to see it through their eyes. When you leave the room

From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance

your spirit is back. This is how I deal with pain. Remove yourself from your body. Your spirit is up there waiting for you. You are up there and looking at yourself. You look back and you see compliance. You comply.17

Most often, indigenous students learn to conform to the unwritten, unstated discursive and epistemic norms and rules of the academy, whether they want to or not. This may involve painful negotiation of their identities, cultural backgrounds, desires, and aspirations. They know that their academic success is going to depend largely on their success in integrating with and adjusting to the academic standards set before them. These standards are not longer explicit in university mission statements and other rhetoric, yet the operating principles of the academy are still based on them. Some students find that adaptation is too big a challenge and leave the institution. Tierney notes that “instead of appropriating the cultural capital of mainstream society, many minority students either decline to participate in higher education, or they resist the dominant ethos at work in white institutions and leave ... Rather than assimilate minorities into the organization, the conditions need to be created where alternative discourses can be heard.”18 The general lack of knowledge about indigenous peoples and their issues, cultures, and histories also plays a significant role in making the academy feel hostile. One common manifestation of this ignorance relates to the lack of understanding of indigenous practices and values among university faculty. Danielle Sanders lists some of the differences between the cultural values of Native Americans and those of Anglo-Americans, and remarks that Native American students enter the “school system with a background and set of values quite different from the educational system itself.” For these students, “school is an experience that runs contrary to the social norms, self-perceptions, and expected behaviours that they have learned at home and that have been reinforced in their own cultural community.”19 School experiences are not made any easier by paternalistic notions common among teachers and counsellors, who too often have limited expectations of Native students and perpetuate the problem as a consequence. But it is limiting to focus solely on the idea of conflicting cultural values; when we do so, we are not doing enough to expose the ignorance that prevails in educational institutions. Several scholars have questioned the “cultural discontinuity hypothesis” as the only factor in high drop-out rates among indigenous students. Instead, they argue, difficulties experienced by indigenous students must be examined in terms of various socio-economic factors that are not culturally specific. These scholars do not deny the role that cultural discontinuity plays in indigenous drop-out rates; but they maintain that this factor cannot by itself explain the phenomenon.20 Cultural discontinuity analyses are also insufficient because they tend to reproduce

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stereotypes and disguise existing power relations.21 In the Canadian context, Patrick Brady explains: “Both Native and non-Native dropouts share many of the same feelings of alienation from the educational system, feelings that have their origins in the same source: the failure of the system to accommodate students who come from backgrounds other than that of the mainstream middle class culture.”22 I suggest that cultural discontinuity is a consequence, not a cause. It is a result of two things: the wilful ignorance that is embedded in the mainstream middle-class culture; and the logic of Eurocentric rationalism, which denies the existence of intellectual conventions and perceptions of the world other than those rooted in the Enlightenment. So far, this form of sanctioned ignorance has not been discussed in terms of its impact on indigenous students in the academy. I refer to this sort of ignorance as “epistemic ignorance,” in the sense that it involves a lack of recognition for indigenous epistemes. I contend that this concept can be used to pay closer heed to the responsibility and role of the academy itself (instead of focusing solely on indigenous people). I also argue that we need to stop considering these issues solely in terms of culture. Critiques of “Culture” In a number of ways, culture is a difficult concept to master, not least because, as Raymond Williams argued several decades ago, “culture is one of the two or three most complicated words in the English language.”23 It is also suggested that culture “is multi-discursive; it can be mobilized in a number of different discourses.”24 In other words, a fixed definition of this term cannot be imported from one context to another; instead, its discursive context has to be identified. As a colonial construction, culture refers to Other societies – that is, to societies associated mainly with stasis and with material or physical aspects rather than with an intellectual life (societyculture dualism). Many scholars, both indigenous and Western, have discussed the role played by anthropology in fostering a certain understanding of a culture that focuses solely or mainly on artefacts. Johannes Fabian observes that “culture (and its predecessors such as custom and tradition) had the undeniable merit of getting us out of a morass of racist theorizing. Still, the concept deserves being castigated for its emphasis on integration, conformity, and equilibrium; for privileging identity over change; for advocating purity and authenticity over hybridity and syncretism; for being fixed on symbols and meaning rather than on performances and praxis.”25 Moreover, the problematic nature of the term is evident in the culture/ nature dualism.26 “Culture” and “cultivation” share the same etymological roots. The notion of culture, like the notion of cultivation, implies growth, but it also implies tending “a strain with selected, refined or improved characteristics.”27 When the idea of cultivation is applied to people and

From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance

conveniently combined with theories of social Darwinism, race biology, and the like, the conclusion is soon enough reached that some peoples are clearly more “cultured” than others; that some cultures “improve on” nature whereas others remain in a state of “raw” nature. In the mid-nineteenth century, culture came to signify the pursuit “of spiritual perfection via the knowledge and practice of ‘great’ literature, ‘fine’ art and ‘serious’ music.”28 Many of the implications of this elitist notion of culture prevail in contemporary society, though they are being seriously contested. Some scholars have argued that the concept of “race” has merely been replaced by more neutral “culture” – without, however, a change in the discriminatory ideology.29 There are also definitional problems to be dealt with when we consider the term “culture” in a “cross-cultural” context. Ojibwa scholar Dennis McPherson has discussed the definition of culture in a Canadian First Nations context. He points out the discrepancies between the ways culture is generally understood in English and French, on the one hand, and in Aboriginal contexts, on the other. He contrasts the views of Aboriginal presenters to the public hearings of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples with the abstract categorizations and definitions of non-Aboriginal societies in order to illustrate how the concept of culture carries distinct meanings for different peoples and yet, at the same time, is so all-encompassing that it may become meaningless.30 The term “culture” is too limited to denote a worldview. This is because it often ignores or pays less attention to immaterial dimensions such as cosmologies and philosophies about ways of being in and relating to the world. When the term is applied, it results in artificial concepts as well as a fragmentation of indigenous worldviews.31 Too strong a focus on culture may also result in “culturalism,” an approach that considers all indigenous issues in terms of culture. For example, when education becomes a cultural act, educational reforms frame the concerns only in relation to culture, which leaves the colonial structures of education intact and unaddressed.32 To shift from studying cultural conflicts toward considering epistemic ignorance would not simply mean framing the problems faced by indigenous people in the academy in terms of epistemes (or worldviews) rather than culture. To employ the concept of episteme in order to examine the academic ignorance that is sanctioned today would not be merely another form of culturalism that fails to address the colonial legacies of higher education. When we address academic ignorance, we are not just dealing with intellectual and epistemic conventions; we are also drawing attention to the various, often very subtle workings of continued colonial supremacy in the academy – workings that exclude all constructions of the self and the world except Western ones. We are confronting the exclusionary discourses and practices upheld by those who believe in the epistemological supremacy of Enlightenment-derived intellectual traditions; but we are also confronting

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benevolent forms of imperialism, such as practices of supposed inclusion in multicultural classrooms, and claims by well-meaning liberal professors and educators that they already respect indigenous worldviews. I do not intend to argue that culture has no significance when it comes to indigenous issues, or that studies of indigenous cultures have no place in contemporary scholarship (however, such projects must observe the ethics and protocols issued by indigenous people themselves). I am arguing that we need to engage in a rigorous analysis of the academy’s responsibility toward the “other,” and that such an analysis should not be framed in terms of culture, race, racism, or even only knowledge. Indigenous peoples have long been placed in the realm of (specific) culture as opposed to the realm of the universal. The dualistic logic of colonialism lives on in academic assumptions that encourage indigenous scholars to research their own cultures (conduct case studies or descriptive ethnographies) but that expect those same researchers to leave theorizing and abstract conceptual thinking to those placed within the universal. Culture, as a term, is commonly associated with minorities. As indigenous rights advocates have repeatedly pointed out, indigenous peoples are not minorities; they are peoples with the right to self-determination. Too often, discussions of culture serve to limit these rights. What is more, the term culture has been so heavily overused that it has lost its analytical utility. By now, it serves only to confine analyses to preestablished colonial dichotomies. More importantly, culture is neither the issue nor the solution when it comes to addressing the sanctioned ignorance that prevails in today’s academy. The real issue is the intellectual conventions of indigenous peoples and the practices and discourses that exclude, marginalize, and efface them in the academy. By focusing on the effects of the colonial legacy on indigenous peoples’ intellectual, ontological, and philosophical traditions – epistemes – we will be able to disrupt the colonial logic of dualisms that prevails in the academy. We will be able to ask questions such as these: Why is the academy, the supposed generator of knowledge, so disinclined to engage with indigenous ontologies and philosophies? Considering the endless number of studies on, and the voluminous information about, practically every imaginable topic dealing with the world’s various indigenous peoples, how can this general ignorance of indigenous epistemes continue to be so pervasive? The Concept of Episteme Episteme is a fairly broad and flexible concept that covers aspects of epistemology, philosophy, cosmology, ontology, and religion, as well as various practices stemming from these, without being limited by them. Especially in many indigenous contexts, these dimensions are all inseparable and inter-

From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance

connected. The concept of episteme is also broader than that of “epistemology,” which is commonly defined as the study of knowledge or (philosophical) theories, definitions, and identifications of knowledge. Epistemology is often used to denote a system of knowledge (or way of knowing) that may or may not include value systems, ontologies, and understandings of the universe – none of which can really be separated from knowing.33 Episteme, for its part, is neither a form of nor a single body of knowledge, nor is it a type of rationality.34 Moreover, epistemology seems to have several meanings and interpretations, some of which differ from one discourse to the next. For example, Western philosophical discourses and indigenous discourses differ in the ways they employ the concept of epistemology. In the former, epistemology usually denotes a (theoretical) study of knowledge; in the latter, the application is much broader – the word is commonly used as a synonym for system of knowledge, way of thinking, worldview, or traditional philosophy. I use “episteme” instead of “epistemology” in part because the former refers to and includes the notion of the worldview. “Episteme” allows an analysis that extends beyond theories or systems of knowing. Also, I want to use a term that does not carry the same connotations as “worldview,” as argued first by Walter J. Ong. He suggests that the term “worldview” is a product of technologized societies and that it is problematic because it privileges the visual sense over all others. In contrast, societies that emphasize orality tend to perceive reality in more comprehensive terms. The world of oral societies “is not so markedly something spread out before the eyes as a ‘view’”; rather, it is experienced and understood through combinations of senses.35 Ong argues that this difference can make analyses between different worldviews difficult if not impossible. “Episteme” is often taken to mean “of or pertaining to knowledge.” Michel Foucault, however, defines epistemes as “something like a world-view” and “the total set of relations that unite, at a given period, the discursive practices that give rise to epistemological figures, sciences, and possibly formalized systems.”36 He contends that an episteme is a period of history organized around a certain assumption about the world, an assumption that determines what and how a culture thinks, sees, and understands. Furthermore, an episteme consists of “the sum total of the discursive structures which come about as a result of the interaction of the range of discourses circulating and authorized at that particular time.”37 The episteme is a lens through which we perceive the world; we use it to structure the statements that count as knowledge in a particular period. In other words, it is a mode of social reality, a reality that is the taken-for-granted ground whose unwritten rules are learned (or as Foucault would say, “written” in the social order) through the processes of socialization into a particular culture.

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An episteme is “invisible” and taken for granted in the sense that it is constituted of (usually) unstated presuppositions. Individuals are not necessarily aware of these presuppositions unless they come into contact with other epistemes. Usually we are socialized into a certain episteme at an early age; at that time, it is the primary force behind our socialization and thus is foundational in terms of our values, attitudes, and perceptions of the world. Later, we may acquire other epistemes, which constitute the forces behind our secondary socialization. As an explanation of reality that gives meaning to the world and that produces certain concepts (and not others), an episteme is implicit in language and is reflected in knowledges, discourses, disciplines, institutions, rules, and norms of a society consistent with those statements. The concepts of knowledge, discourse, and discipline are intertwined in many ways, so it is not always possible to speak of one without another. Moreover, to speak of “knowledge” is to consider not only ways of knowing and things known, but also what gets defined as knowledge, who does this defining, and who benefits from the act of defining. Similarly, we must also examine the ways that knowledge acquires authority and legitimacy in realms other than those from which it springs. Foucault’s definition of an episteme refers to different periods of history. I would suggest that it is also possible to have concurrent and parallel epistemes based in different discursive practices, value systems, assumptions about the world, and perceptions of knowledge. This being so, we can talk about, for example, a Sami episteme or about indigenous epistemes in general to denote certain common and shared ways of seeing, understanding, interpreting, and relating to ourselves and the world. Furthermore, such epistemes can exist side by side with other, clearly different modes of interpreting the world. These shared characteristics derive above all from the kind of relationship indigenous peoples establish with the world in which they live. Just as it is possible to discuss the Renaissance, classical, and modern epistemes,38 I contend that it is equally possible to talk about indigenous epistemes in a way that does not imply essentialism, especially if we recognize that no episteme is a fixed, sealed, or self-contained entity but always is, to varying degrees, in contact with and influenced by other epistemes.39 Equally importantly, no episteme is ever isomorphous within itself – there are always internal lines of difference within an episteme.40 However, it can be argued that certain epistemes are characteristic of a predominant group within a people. It follows that to discuss indigenous epistemes is not to say that all indigenous worldviews are the same or that they can be generalized into a single taxonomy, or even that we can define an indigenous episteme, such as Sami worldview, once and for all. My intention here, with the help of the concept of episteme (while recognizing that any terminology is always unsatisfactory, unfinished, and open to tinkering), is to call attention to the fact that even today, notwithstanding the

From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance

legacy of colonialism, indigenous worldviews share certain core features from which the academy can learn something. Indigenous Epistemes Worldviews, ontologies, cosmologies, values, and systems of knowledge are dynamic and constantly evolving, so it is impossible to define an indigenous episteme (or more specifically, a Sami, Cree, Inuit, or Salish episteme). Different indigenous peoples have very different ways of articulating and identifying the world and thus practising their cosmologies.41 Yet many indigenous ontologies, however separate and distinct, share certain fundamental perceptions of the order of things, especially as these relate to the human relationship to and position in the world. Even if it can be argued that indigenous discourses, paradigms, or philosophies (whichever term is preferred) have been growing closer to the predominant modern episteme – in which various forms of colonialism, including our (neo)colonial presence, play a role – they are still not at all the same as the major epistemes of the West. To elaborate indigenous worldviews and philosophical traditions in this way is not to imply that these arguments and positions apply to every single indigenous individual in the world – suggesting such a thing would be like suggesting that, say, Cartesian thinking applies to every individual in the dominant society. When I discuss epistemes, it is not in terms of individual psyches and behaviour; rather, I am referring mainly to the beliefs, assumptions, and ways of relating to the world that have been dominant in certain societies and that thus have influenced the construction of predominant discourses in those societies. In a sense, epistemes are the invisible principles that regulate a society’s functioning. Obviously, centuries of colonial domination have eroded indigenous epistemes and estranged many indigenous people from them. The Sami, for example, have undergone a very subtle colonial process that has led to a situation where only traces of the Sami episteme are left; many Sami have internalized and adapted to modern consciousness. So when I talk about epistemes, I am not suggesting that all indigenous people possess the episteme of their ancestors or that those who still do possess it, possess it in full, that is, are completely versed in it. Even if there are countless contemporary indigenous individuals who have been socialized into the epistemes of their people, there are also a number who have had less than “full” access (assuming this is even possible) or even have had no access at all to them. But this by no means diminishes the scope of the problem pertaining to epistemic ignorance in the academy. Episteme is not something in which one must be fully versed (whatever that might mean) in order to be able to know the world, and think and speak through it. There is no question that discussing indigenous epistemes poses various problems. In attempting to explain indigenous epistemes in language that

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is foreign to them, we risk violating their integrity, because they are not easily translatable into other systems, nor can they be reduced to simple categorizations. So, even though this approach has its problems, I will be limiting my discussion to some of their aspects instead of trying to offer detailed or schematic comparisons. In discussing only some of their common themes or characteristics, I will be running the risk of reducing indigenous philosophies to taxonomies. I cannot avoid this; I can, however, emphasize that I do not mean to suggest that these philosophies can be viewed as mere shortlists of principles. There are certain key aspects and themes to many indigenous worldviews, but those worldviews are much more than that. Reflecting Ong’s critique of the term “worldview,” Tim Ingold suggests that in indigenous thought, “the world is not an external domain of objects that I look at, or do things to, but is rather going on, or undergoing continuous generation, with me and around me.”42 Engagement and participation are more than conditions of being; they are also knowledge. As an example, Ingold compares some aspects of mainstream Western and Ojibwa (or Ojibway/Anishinaabe) ontological premises: Mainstream Western philosophy starts from the premise that the mind is distinct from the world; it is a facility that the person, presumed human, brings to the world in order to make sense of it ... For Ojibwa, on the other hand, the mind subsists in the very involvement of the person in the world. Rather than approaching the world from a position outside of it, the person in Ojibwa eyes can only exist as being in the world, caught up in an ongoing set of relationships with components of the lived-in environment. And the meanings that are found in the world, instead of being superimposed upon it by the mind, are drawn from the contexts of this personal involvement.43

Ingold is writing about a specific North American indigenous episteme that cannot be generalized to other indigenous worldviews; but at the level of ontological principles, the Ojibwa way of relating to the world corresponds in many ways to that of other indigenous peoples. Hugh Brody casts light on the question of knowing about and being in the world from a slightly different angle, when he suggests that in order to understand radically different social systems, we need to understand that they are shaped largely by different origin stories, in terms of economics as well as values and beliefs. In his view, mainstream Western society reflects the social system of the farmer as established by Genesis and as characterized first and foremost by control – that is, the need to control and change the environment for one’s material well-being.44

From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance

It is a well-known fact that indigenous peoples in general have tended to adapt to their physical environments instead of radically remodelling them for the sake of controlling them, but it is overly simplistic to suggest that all farming practices are characterized by a desire to control the environment. Many indigenous societies, especially in the global South, have always been centred on agriculture. However, agriculture as it is practised by indigenous and tribal peoples is “based on biological diversity and careful attention to the relationship between and among different species.”45 Also, instead of “drawing a sharp dichotomy between field and forest, for instance, Aboriginal agriculturalists ... were inclined to see a continuum of interrelated life forms in the delicate relationships between forested areas and grasslands.”46 The quest for control has also been questioned by analyses of women’s traditional subsistence farming around the globe, including Europe.47 It seems that the desire to control nature is not rooted in farming per se, but rather in the teachings of Christianity, which are shot through with a patriarchal and colonial mentality. Brody notes as much; he points out that the desire for control originated in the Biblical creation story, in which humans were “instructed to go out into this new world, to use, subdue and rule over every living thing. They are to conquer and control the things of Creation (sixth day).”48 This patriarchal and colonial mentality continues to serve as the basis of modernity, which is predicated on progress and control. Ingold suggests that we consider the different ontological premises in the light of genealogical and relational approaches or models. The genealogical model, which is based on linear and static assumptions of ancestry and cultural memory, is not only fundamentally colonial but also deeply implicated in the discourse of the state.49 In Ingold’s view, the relational model better reflects the ways in which indigenous peoples’ knowledge, identities, and relationships with the natural environment are constituted. Borrowing from Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, he compares the relational model to the image of the rhizome, which makes it possible to conceive of the world and of life as in constant movement. The relational model of the world is premised on the idea that life is not an internal property; rather, it is immanent in the relations between persons and things.50 Interestingly, the metaphor of the rhizome has similarities with notions of textuality we encounter in deconstructive practice. Notwithstanding some common misinterpretations, textuality as discussed in deconstructive practice does not mean that everything is merely a text or that everything can be reduced to language. Rather, the notion of text and texture implies that “we are effects within a much larger text/tissue/weave of which the ends are not accessible to us.”51 Moreover, in arguing for a new notion of the “text,” Derrida suggests that it “is henceforth no longer a finished corpus of writing, some content enclosed in a book or its margins, but a differential network,

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a fabric of traces referring endlessly to something other than itself, to other differential traces.”52 In this view, “a text is never anything but a system of roots” that are endlessly interwoven together.53 In the project at hand, it is possible to draw parallels with this: both indigenous thought and deconstructive practice recognize that human existence is embedded in intricate webs that can never be grasped either fully or once and for all. I am not, of course, suggesting that deconstructionists would share or accept without challenge the basic premises of indigenous epistemes. On the contrary, many theorists of deconstruction are heavily invested in the West’s ontological and philosophical traditions. But perhaps it is productive to recognize that deconstructive practices have something to offer indigenous scholarship, which sometimes tends to ground itself in modernist views rooted in linear reality, and in assumptions that easy access to a neutral truth or the human consciousness is somehow possible. Institutional Racism and Antiracist Discourse Teun van Dijk defines institutional racism as either intentional or unintentional discrimination embedded in an organization’s procedures, practices, and operational culture. It is reflected in “research that subtly blames the victims, denial of racism, growing lack of interest in remaining inequalities, opposition against Affirmative Action, irritation about minority radicals who are seen as ‘exaggerating,’ and so on.”54 Institutional racism arises also if “a university’s standard pedagogical method is culturally congruent with the culture of White students but not with the cultures of students of color.”55 Battiste notes that institutionalized racism is difficult to confront precisely because it is so pervasive in all sectors of society. In her view, it cannot be addressed by classroom supplements or add-on courses; rooting it out will require “a holistic understanding of modern thought and the purpose of education.”56 There is no question that racism and race-related issues still exist in higher education but they have become further institutionalized, complicated, and less covert and, thus, more difficult to detect. Though less open and frequent, racist attitudes and views of society are still being expressed at the individual level in classrooms and other academic circumstances.57 Moreover, the professional authority of indigenous academics is sometimes questioned by students, who cannot accept that indigenous professors are teaching them general subjects such as Canadian law.58 The new, institutionalized, less overt, and more complex forms of discrimination are variously referred to as “colour-blind racism,” “aversive racism,” “symbolic racism,” and “elite racism.”59 The key aspects of new racial domination and discrimination include the covert nature of racial discourses, practices, and mechanisms that reproduce inequality, avoidance of racial

From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance

terminology, and inclusion of “safe minorities” as an indication of nonracist policies. While less visible, these new forms of racism are just as effective as are the more overt forms of the past.60 They enable mainstream people “to sincerely believe that they as individuals are no longer supportive of racism, while the numerous effects, old and new, of racism continue unabated.”61 In the academy (just as elsewhere in society), one of the main reasons for this kind of blindness is that “racism is seen as solely a function of what an individual consciously believes. Thus, if an individual faculty member consciously believes that she or he is not a racist, that is the end of the issue for that person and the end of her or his responsibility ... Consequently, as long as White faculty stop with an individual-level understanding, racism will be left to permeate the university deeply and pervasively.”62 In today’s society, academics have more influence and power than is commonly assumed and than they themselves realize. Van Dijk points out that scholars, especially in the social sciences but in other fields as well, outline theories and perspectives on ethnic relations that are applied at different levels of various institutions and bureaucratic structures. Racism has changed over the past decades in terms of its nature and manifestations, but these changes have not transformed the power relations founded on ethnic divisions. Old-fashioned notions of racial supremacy have given way to more subtle ideologies, which have found their way into political, social, and scholarly discourse.63 A discourse of antiracism has been developed as a response to and critique of various forms of oppression. This discourse focuses on social systems, structures, and relations of domination. It investigates and exposes society’s racist and racialized practices and structures. Antiracism discourse affirms that race is central to analyses of interlocking forms of oppression located in socio-political and historical contexts. It calls for systemic social change in the name of equality, and it seeks to establish strategies to address and eliminate race-based discrimination, including in institutions.64 It is clear that antiracism discourse has had a strong impact on contemporary analyses and practices. It cannot be emphasized enough that discrimination today is mainly social and institutional. We need to continue critiquing the liberal multicultural premise that discrimination is mainly the result of individual intolerance; it is systemic, and is mostly about exclusion and oppression. But discrimination in society cannot be defined solely in racial terms. When we focus on racism, we end up ignoring both colonial history and contemporary colonial, capitalist, and patriarchal relations that extend beyond racism and racial discrimination. There also seems to be a logic fault in some antiracist analyses – specifically, those which argue correctly for the primacy of systemic oppression but at the same time suggest that the new racism manifests itself mainly in everyday practices.65

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Many antiracist discourses fail to address effectively questions of indigenous land rights and self-determination, or questions about the collective rights of indigenous peoples. These fall outside the “discourse of equality,” as antiracism is sometimes referred to. Identity politics as narrowly defined does not address economic and ecological issues, which are related, and both of which are central to indigenous peoples’ rights. Indigenous peoples’ struggles and endeavours around the world centre on the right to selfdetermination rather than on social equality or good race relations. The difference is sometimes expressed by the statement, “We do not want to be equal, we want to be indigenous peoples.” Furthermore, a key term in antiracist discourse, “people of colour,” excludes many indigenous peoples and even more indigenous individuals. If antiracism discourse truly wants to develop “a more critical discursive practice,”66 it will have to be willing and able to openly question and discard terminology that excludes and dismisses people who are light-skinned but who are not part of the “white supremacy.” Antiracist discourse insists that “people of colour” does not refer to actual skin pigmentation but rather to the condition of oppression and discrimination; yet the reality is that if you are what people consider “white,” it is difficult if not impossible to identify yourself as a person of colour. To suggest that the Sami, for example, are a people of colour is almost as absurd and problematic as to suggest that they are white supremacists as a people (though some individual Sami certainly are). Eduardo Bonilla-Silva argues that whiteness is “the foundational category of ‘white supremacy’” and of “embodied racial power,” as well as “the visible uniform of the dominant racial group.”67 As a result, individuals considered white (or “near white”) receive systemic privileges by virtue of their whiteness. I myself, for example, am white (like the Sami in general) and thus enjoy white privilege, yet I personally cannot identify with the white mainstream either in Scandinavia or anywhere else in the world.68 In his map of the “triracial system in the United States,” Bonilla-Silva outlines categories for “whites,” “honorary whites,” and “collective blacks,” noting that the map is a heuristic tool and that “the position of a few groups may change.” The map divides Native Americans into two categories: assimilated, urban Native Americans are “white,” whereas Native Americans who live on reservations are “collective blacks.”69 Space does not allow an in-depth analysis of his categories, but I find them highly problematic and an obvious reflection of his ignorance of Native American issues. Clearly, when drawing his map he simply wasn’t thinking about Native Americans (not to mention indigenous peoples in general). To start with, what does assimilation mean here? And who are the “assimilated, urban Native Americans”? Most Native scholars have no choice but to be urban, because of the location of their work, but does this make them white and thus part of the “foundational category of white supremacy”?

From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance

The reservation population in North America is dwindling for various reasons, including poor social services, unacceptable living conditions, and a lack of economic and educational opportunities on reservations. Many Native American women leave their reservations to escape the violence in their communities. Do they become white once they find themselves in cities? And what about Native Americans who were born and raised in urban areas – are they always assimilated and white? My guess is that BonillaSilva’s answer to most of these questions would be “no.” My point here is that antiracist theorizing needs to do much more careful thinking before it seeks to include indigenous peoples in its analyses. To disagree with some antiracist stances is not to side with populist, reactionary, right-wing, and conservative views that have questioned the validity of antiracism discourse and have even denied the existence of race and difference in the name of (neo)liberalism. To argue for a critique of epistemic ignorance is to argue for the exposure of the white supremacy of intellectual conventions that manifest themselves as discriminatory practices and discourses, both of which have real-life effects. This type of white supremacy, however, does not necessarily follow the colour line.70 When we pay attention only to the colour line, we risk ignoring forms of exclusion that transcend skin pigmentation.71 In other words, some antiracist categories and terminologies are too dichotomous to reflect the realities of many indigenous peoples. There is a need for new language in antiracism – for a language that invites people to participate in creating a more critical, reflective, and effective practice that will address more explicitly the neocolonial, global capitalist contexts that result in inequalities. Without question, there is an immense need to learn about past and present systematic inequalities in society. Antiracist initiatives are often carried out by individuals or small groups rather than by institutions. Because they receive little or no institutional support, such initiatives tend to lack long-term effectiveness.72 The call for reciprocity and recognition of the gift of indigenous epistemes, however, is not limited to teaching race and ethnicity issues; it must also involve an institutional response at the level of intellectual, epistemic conventions. Epistemic ignorance – academic practices of ignoring, marginalizing, and excluding other than dominant European intellectual traditions – is not just a matter of discrimination based on race. It is clear that racism and race will continue to do their worst as long as universities are the inheritors of discourses of race biology, eugenics, and social Darwinism and of the naturalization of whiteness that these doctrines have encouraged in the academy. But epistemic ignorance is about more than discourses of race and racism. The language of -isms cannot adequately convey these forms of privileging.73 We must consider other exclusionary discourses such as Eurocentrism and colonialism and the effects of these not only on racialized, marginalized bodies, but also on

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marginalized epistemes, ontologies, philosophies, and intellectual conventions. The primacy of a specific form of reason and rationality has meant the privileging of Western epistemologies to the exclusion of others. Epistemic Ignorance in the Academy The concept of epistemic ignorance draws on Spivak’s “sanctioned ignorance” but is also informed by epistemological marginalization. For Spivak, sanctioned ignorance refers to the ways in which “know-nothingism” is justified and even rewarded in the academy. It is “of heterogeneous provenance,” and it manifests itself in various ways such as through academic practices that enable the continued foreclosure of “native informants” by not acknowledging their role in producing knowledge and theories. Borrowing from Lacanian psychoanalysis, Spivak uses the concept of foreclosure to talk about ways in which the native informant and her perspective are erased by the production of academic elite knowledge. She has defined this as “the interested denial of something.”74 What I call epistemic ignorance refers to the ways in which academic theories and practices marginalize, exclude, and discriminate against other than dominant Western epistemic and intellectual traditions. In the process of producing, reproducing, and disseminating knowledge, these “other” epistemic and intellectual traditions are foreclosed to the point that generally there is very little recognition and understanding of them. In other words, epistemic ignorance as a concept is not limited to merely not-knowing or a lack of understanding. It also refers to practices and discourses that actively foreclose other than dominant epistemes and that refuse to seriously contemplate their existence. Epistemic ignorance is a form of subtle violence. When other than dominant epistemes and forms of knowing are not seen or recognized, they disappear. By and large, the academy still operates as if there were only one episteme; it does not consider other epistemes in any meaningful way beyond a superficial, token acknowledgment. The academy practises “selective helplessness,” which serves “as a code for a more broadly sanctioned reluctance to act boldly and decisively on behalf of Aboriginal knowledge.”75 As long as epistemic, widely sanctioned ignorance is not adequately addressed – as long as the academy does not assume its responsibility toward the “other” – the relationship between the academy and indigenous epistemes will remain antagonistic: that of the master and the native, a newer version of the older master–slave relationship in which the master is the subject of knowledge.76 Operating on a more or less taken-for-granted set of values, norms, and expectations, the academy at large usually knows very little, if anything, about indigenous epistemes. This engenders various conflicts with, and perpetuates discrimination against, those indigenous people who speak through their own epistemes – that is, those who desire or attempt to express their

From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance

views based on epistemes that are foreign to mainstream academic conventions. The academy may be vaguely aware of the existence of “local narratives” and “native truths” (and possibly other epistemes), but it shows little or no understanding of their deeper meanings. This can make it difficult for the academy to communicate from within except in the dominant epistemes on which it was founded. Epistemic ignorance arises at both the institutional and individual levels and manifests itself by excluding and effacing indigenous issues and materials in curricula, by denying indigenous contributions and influences, and by showing a lack of interest and understanding of indigenous epistemes or issues. Students, faculty, and staff are all guilty of this. However, it must be emphasized that epistemic ignorance is not merely a matter of communication, nor is it only a question of individuals’ acquiring a multicultural perspective or a cross-cultural understanding. It is not limited to changes in the curriculum. It is a question of epistemological racism (i.e., what is considered legitimate epistemology in the academy)77 as well as of sheer indifference and ignorance of the sort that takes Western epistemes for granted as the only valid point of departure. Manifestations of epistemic ignorance are not random offshoots or isolated incidents; they are rooted in academic structures that are complicit in colonialism and that reproduce the inferiority of non-Western epistemes (in the same way that the inferiority of peoples was produced earlier) in order to protect the interests of those in power. It is a question of the legacy of colonial histories and power inequalities but also of understanding. As Spivak notes, “to ignore or invade the subaltern today is, willy-nilly, to continue the imperialist project; in the name of modernization, in the interest of globalization.”78 Epistemic ignorance is excused and sanctioned in many ways. For example, it is veiled in sentiments of political correctness (e.g., mainstream faculty are not permitted to teach issues pertaining to the “other”), concerns about colonialism (e.g., teaching about the “other” signifies colonization), and even “cannibalism” (e.g., the fear of “consuming” indigenous practices). Spivak has demonstrated how even critics and intellectuals of the sort she calls “hegemonic radicals” are guilty of sanctioned ignorance in the sense that they do not acknowledge that they themselves are implicated in historical and colonial processes.79 Sanctioned ignorance also occurs when simplified and partial accounts of indigenous practices are reproduced but the responsibilities and teachings that the stories and ceremonies are supposed to convey are ignored. Mainstream environmental discourse sanctions ignorance when it fails to recognize that colonization is a basic feature of the domination of nature. This denies settlers’ complicity in the historical processes that have led to the current ecological crisis; it also prioritizes ecological domination over other forms of subjugation. It also constructs two sets of distinct realities – the environmental present and the ethnographic

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past – which leads to a practice through which indigenous philosophies and epistemologies are viewed as alternative models without taking into account the contemporary socio-political conditions of indigenous peoples. Many Native scholars recognize that ignorance is a serious concern. At a more benign level, it results in situations where indigenous people are not understood by the white mainstream.80 At a deeper, systemic level, ignorance is political, in the sense that it results in inequality and exploitation. Furthermore, it enables intellectual practices to obscure contemporary concerns such as global capitalist and neocolonial processes.81 Wendy Rose maintains that there is no excuse for ignorance, nor is it an accident: “Somebody is benefiting by having Americans ignorant about what non-Europeans are doing and what they have done; what European Americans have done to them.”82 Ignorance thus is not merely an innocent lack of knowledge but an intentional not-knowing that serves the economic interests of the status quo. Persistent and deliberate ignorance means that there is also very little understanding and appreciation of indigenous peoples’ rights. Silko notes that although most Americans are not necessarily “anti-Indian,” those who benefit from the prevailing general ignorance know how to manipulate it “not as an end in itself, but as a means to ensure continued profiteering by special interests at the expense of Indian tribes.”83 Sanctioned ignorance as the violation of the rights of indigenous peoples is at work when indigenous rights are represented as “special interests” or as “race-based preferential treatment.” Mechanisms of Epistemic Ignorance Epistemic ignorance is the systemic exclusion and inequality of indigenous epistemes, philosophies, and intellectual traditions in the academy. Below, I analyze its manifestations in institutions of higher education. In considering the principal mechanisms of epistemic ignorance, I will be applying Val Plumwood’s concept of mechanisms of control, which she uses to elaborate a theoretical framework that integrates the critique of patriarchal domination with the domination of nature and the dualistic logic of colonization. The mechanisms of the colonial logic of dualism include backgrounding or denial, radical exclusion, incorporation, and homogenization. These mechanisms establish and define what Plumwood calls the master identity, “which lies at the heart of western culture ... expressed most strongly in the dominant conception of reason.”84 These mechanisms of control and domination are the basis of the dominant culture and identity. They are naturalized, and they are also often internalized by the “others,” that is, by the inferiorized groups. Dakota historian Angela Cavender Wilson notes that some of the strongest resistance against the reclamation of indigenous knowledge comes from indigenous people

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“who have internalized the racism and now uncritically accept ideologies of the dominant culture.”85 While conducting research in her home community, she came across views about the insignificance of indigenous languages, including her community’s own. These views, she argues, are a result of the legacy of the boarding school combined with “Euro-American society’s purposeful and complete denigration of our language.”86 Mechanisms of domination are powerful largely because they are invisible and “natural,” and because they mask themselves as individual views and behaviours, even though in fact they are systematically embedded in the structures and discourses of society. According to Plumwood, radical exclusion is a key indicator that the logic of dualism is at work. The “other” is considered not merely different but inferior, and for that reason mere separation is insufficient: the “other” must be “hyperseparated” through the amplification of differences and the disregard of any possible similarities. This polarization denies continuity between the two entities by ignoring, discouraging, and sometimes actually eliminating any shared characteristics.87 Systems of knowing that are not based on the superiority of Western reason are treated as unsound and illegitimate.88 Indigenous systems of knowledge are repeatedly excluded by being recognized only “as located in [their] difference from the privileged normative traditions.”89 Hyperseparation is a common practice in literary criticism; in that field, indigenous literatures are not regarded as “proper” compared to European literatures, with their centuries-old aesthetic and literary traditions. Because of differences in structure, format, story line, mode of expression, and even purpose, indigenous literary conventions are often looked down on as “folklore,” “myths,” and “legends,” or worse, as “primitive,” “childlike,” “overpopulated,” or “having no clear plot.” All of these terms denote inferiority. Wendy Rose’s account of her experiences represents another example of the dismissal of indigenous literature not only as different but also as inferior. When she was working on her dissertation on Native American literature, the only department that agreed to deal with her work was Anthropolnanabush is an english professor ogy; literary studies departments such as Comsitting in an ivory tower parative Literature or English refused, the latter looking down upon the masses making it clear to her that “American Indian who go herd-like to their literature was not part of American literature classes and therefore did not fit into their departwriting books that no one looks at ment.”90 Such views stem from ignorance about reading poetry on money literary conventions other than Western ones; drinking tea and eating crumpets they also reflect the Eurocentric perception that with the dead men who indigenous literatures are somehow not “literaturn women into bone91 ture” but rather “folklore” or “ethnography.”

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Indigenous novelists have made a theme out of the exclusion that arises from this assumed inferiority. In Spokane/Coeur d’Alene author Sherman Alexie’s novel Indian Killer, one of the main characters, a Native woman, encounters problems with her professor, who refuses to use books written by Native Americans in his course on Native American literature. Instead, he uses texts by frauds, biographies of Native Americans co-authored by white men, studies of Native spirituality written by white women, traditional Native poetry translations edited by a white man, and an Indian murder mystery by a man who claims to be a Shilshomish Indian.92 John Guillory argues that exclusion is not so much a matter of exclusion from representation; rather, it is a matter of exclusion “from access to the means of cultural production.”93 The exclusion of works by indigenous authors from course syllabi is, then, not just an issue of non-representation – of silencing those voices and not making space for them; more profoundly, the issue is that indigenous people are being blocked from various forms of cultural capital and the production of it. Guillory maintains that educational institutions regulate “access to literary production by regulating access to literacy, to the practices of reading and writing.”94 Backgrounding is a practice in which, as Plumwood puts it, the “other” becomes “the background to the master’s foreground.”95 The dominant relies on and benefits from the “other” but denies that it is doing so; for example, it insists on hierarchies and denies the importance of the contributions and realities of the “other.” “The master’s view is set up as universal, and it is part of the mechanism that it never occurs to him that there might be other perspectives from which he is background.”96 I have been arguing that the academy has a long history of denying the existence of indigenous intellectual traditions. Backgrounding manifests itself also in claims by professors that they do not possess enough knowledge about indigenous issues to be able to address them in the classroom. Some faculty members seek to maintain the privilege of normativity by arguing that they are teaching their disciplines, not culture, which according to them does not even belong in the academy. Some faculty members are openly indifferent and argue that “studying others” is an additional burden for which they simply do not have the time or the interest. As one professor maintained, “I should understand Indian culture. I also should understand Blacks, Hispanics, women, and everyone else, too. I also should read in my area, and get grants, and publish, and serve on committees. I’m not whining. But I may only have a couple of Indian kids in any class I teach. They just aren’t a high priority.”97 When expressed in this way, exclusion is a personal and academic priority, not a mechanism of hegemony and supremacy. Systems that sanction mechanisms of domination allow academics to remain negligent and

From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance

complacent in their ivory towers. George Sefa Dei argues that professors’ and teachers’ inability to “see why they should teach diverse histories and multiple forms of knowing the world” is an example of “racelessness” and an enactment of white normativity and dominance.98 Considering the role played by educational institutions in producing and reproducing the ways in which we understand, perceive, and construct our worlds, the consequences of prevailing ignorance and wilful indifference can be immense. Not only that, but these institutions are shortchanging their students, who remain ignorant about the histories they continue living in the present, not to mention the epistemes of the land on which they dwell.99 Jon Reyhner notes that this denial is not accidental but rather an active attempt to assimilate indigenous peoples into mainstream society – a project still being carried out today: “Cultural values and assumptions and societal norms permeate all facets of life, including university life. Thus, the curricula in American universities generally reflect ‘White Studies.’ College history courses, for instance, tend to concentrate on the development of white America and its European roots, not American Indian history; political science on federal, state, and county governments, not tribal governments; English on American and European literature, not tribal literature. Throughout American campuses, American Indian contributions to world civilizations tend to be ignored.”100 The invisibility of indigenous and other non-Western, non–Euro-American epistemes and epistemologies in the academy is made possible largely by hegemonic control. Hegemony, defined as domination by consent, is a subtle and effective form of symbolic violence; through various mechanisms and state apparatuses101 such as education and the media, it constructs and represents the interests of the dominant group(s) as the interests of everyone in society. The interests of the dominant group(s), then, become accepted as the common interest and are eventually taken for granted. When hegemony reproduces certain epistemes as norms, it usually does not even occur to many people that other epistemes exist. Those who are aware of the existence of other than dominant epistemes often see them as background, as a knowledge that cedes precedence to normative Western knowledge. “Incorporation” or “relational definition” refers to the practice of defining the “inferior” “other” in relation to the dominant as a lack, negativity, or absence. The dominant and the “other” depend on each other for identity, yet this relationship is not equal. In terms of the logic of the gift, for example, the “other” is constructed as archaic and premodern and is defined and perceived only in relation to the modern, which can be synonymous with reason, logic, or the free market. In extreme cases, the “other” is defined only in relation to the self, the master; in other words, the “other” does not exist independently. As Plumwood argues, “The other is recognized

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only to the extent that it is assimilated to the self, or incorporated into the self and its systems of desires and need: only as colonized by the self. The master consciousness cannot tolerate unassimilated otherness.”102 Normative knowledge is now being radically undermined in the name of local and particular narratives and forms of knowledge, yet many academic curricula and discourses still do not reflect this change except in “special area studies.” Spivak contends that “although references to (post)colonialism have become more frequent ... the story of reference remains unchanged.”103 Indigenous epistemes are represented as exceptions, deviations, and deficiencies, and thus as grounds for exclusion. They are still perceived as mere supplements, as the self’s shadow, and as relevant only to the extent that they have something to offer to existing theories and discourses.104 “Homogenization” or “stereotyping” refers to the common colonial discourse and practice of ignoring the multiplicity and diversity of indigenous peoples, cultures, and social organizations. It has long been an important mechanism for oppressing and disrupting indigenous societies, and it supports the other mechanisms of domination. Homogenization reflects the master’s perspective: “The colonised are all alike, and are not considered in personal terms or as individuals.”105 Homogenization renders all indigenous epistemes as uniform, “all the same,” as simple and ultimately knowable. Another characteristic of this mechanism is that the subordinated “lack the power to require recognition of their diversity.”106 Homogenization and stereotyping enable the dominant to keep the “others” in the margins instead of placing them at the centre of inquiries. Because the “others” (be they peoples or their epistemes) are fundamentally “all the same,” they cannot require much attention or consideration. In this way, the chaos of relativism caused by the existence of multiple epistemes is avoided, and academics needn’t fear losing control of knowledge and what can be known. As many accounts by indigenous scholars attest, members of the privileged group whose epistemes are taken for granted in the academy feel threatened when faced with perspectives and data that challenge their earlier knowledge and ingrained views of the world.107 A non-indigenous faculty member elaborates: “In my experience, when indigenous perspectives are genuinely included in the curriculum and the classroom, the epistemic and pedagogical changes involved are huge. I believe that is why so many otherwise forward-looking faculty resist it or don’t manage to ‘get around’ to it – because of implicit recognition that their epistemic and pedagogical power will be eroded.”108 At the same time, indigenous peoples are among the least understood groups in the academy – not only by scholars but also by administrators and policy makers. The general lack of knowledge about indigenous issues and realities perpetuates one-sided, superficial, and sometimes stereotypical or prejudiced views and notions; these in turn form the basis of misunderstandings and misinterpretations of current indigenous issues and

From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance

concerns, not just in the academy but in society at large. These biases and stereotypical perspectives and understandings then inform much of political decision making. For example, the public debate over Native rights and sovereignty has resulted in increased stereotyping and the demonization of Natives in society; it has also influenced students’ views of Native people and issues and resulted in “preconceived negative notions about Indian people.”109 This has created a vicious circle of ignorance and has further alienated many indigenous people, whose attempts to participate in the academy end up bouncing off a wall of indifference and not-knowing. “Instrumentalism” or “objectification” is a special form of incorporation that denies or diminishes autonomous value and agency.110 Besides defining the “other” as inherently inferior, it objectifies the “other” as a means to the master’s end. The “other” has no intrinsic value and is constructed only in terms of its utility to the dominant.111 Because the “others” have no value on their own, their boundaries can be permeated and violated, which in turn allows the imposition of dominant, colonial values and meanings. It has been repeatedly denied that indigenous people have agency, that they possess extensive knowledge of their environments; instead they have been represented as passive objects of colonial knowledge.112 For example, it continues to be generally denied that indigenous peoples have contributed much to Western science. Linda Smith notes: “Thus, indigenous Asian, American, Pacific and African forms of knowledge, systems of classification, technologies and codes of social life, which began to be recorded in some detail by the seventeenth century, were regarded as ‘new discoveries’ by Western science. These discoveries were commodified as property belonging to the cultural archive and body of knowledge of the West.”113 Today, instrumentalism continues in practices that construct indigenous people as cultural repositories or ethnographic curiosities, be it in research, in classrooms, or at public events. Instrumentalism ensures that they remain objects, not agents or subjects, of their own knowledge and epistemes.

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3 The Question of Speaking and the Impossibility of the Gift

This chapter elaborates the argument of epistemic ignorance and contends that it results in a situation in which indigenous people “cannot speak” in the academy. I also link epistemic ignorance to the concept of the gift by analyzing the impossibility of the gift of indigenous epistemes in the academy. The university is an institution of reason, and the gift is perceived to be not “of” reason. I engage with some of the critiques of reason and examine how it is possible for reason and the gift to coexist. I also suggest that we need a new understanding of recognition, one that derives from the gift logic of indigenous peoples’ philosophies. Owing to prevailing epistemic ignorance, indigenous people cannot “speak” in the academy. They are compelled to communicate within dominant epistemic paradigms represented by the academy, and they risk being misunderstood or dismissed if they attempt to express themselves through and from within their own epistemic conventions. Indigenous people might be encouraged to attend and work at the university, but many find it difficult to make themselves heard once they arrive. The doors and gates are open, but because the epistemic foundations of the academy are narrow, the discourses that control what can be said and what is understood are set to function only within certain parameters. “Speaking” is a broad concept that can be understood in several ways. We may speak in order to raise awareness or, as Paulo Freire calls it, to “conscienticize.” For example, conscienticizing can involve indigenous people’s speaking out in the academy in ways that increase the level of awareness of issues related to discrepancies between different ontologies and intellectual conventions. Alternatively, “speaking” as a term can be applied in relation to the practice of silencing and the systematic refusal by colonial institutions to hear the speech of marginalized peoples. In a deconstructive sense, the term can relate to the problematic nature of speech itself, in that its assumed capacity for direct, lucid, and transparent (self-)representation can be undermined by the imperfections of written communication. These are

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all important aspects of “speaking,” but they are not my main concern here. I employ the word “speaking” as a metonym for being heard or understood. As “a transaction between speaker and listener,”1 speaking requires not only that someone listen but also, more importantly, that the listener actually hear and understand what the speaker is saying. This sort of speaking cannot occur in a vacuum; it requires more than the one who speaks. It requires someone who is capable of receiving and responding to what is being said. It implies the possibility of speaking without the need to translate one’s own episteme into the dominant one. In short, the gift needs to be received, not just offered. The demand and desire that indigenous cultures and epistemes be translated into forms recognizable by the dominant colonial society is at least as old as colonialism itself. Colonizers have always used translation against indigenous peoples in an attempt to manipulate and displace them and thereby dispossess them of their land.2 In the neocolonial age in which we now live, demands for translation have not ceased, though perhaps they have been transformed into the expectation that indigenous people should translate their own epistemes – an activity that for the most part remains invisible. This implicit expectation is ever-present in the academy as well as everywhere else that indigenous people seek to explain their positions and advocate for their rights. Translation is no longer a prerequisite for entering or participating in academic and other So, by native names we were spaces, yet it is clear that those who do not speak distinctive, but we had arrived at the dominant episteme risk being misunderthe academic turnstile with the stood or misapprehended. In the present day, same stories as the students, in the name of diversity and multiculturalism, invented by discovery, removal, indigenous people are invited to participate in and reservations, and forever a the academy and to express their views; but translation of absence. Sadly, because of the general lack of recognition of many bright native students their epistemes, never mind the general lack of became the very aliens of their knowledge about them, they are not necessarown stories of victimry.3 ily understood as intended. It is one thing to express one’s individual point of view; it is quite another to explicate an understanding that is embedded in an episteme and ontology that is foreign to most of the listeners. The former is what Spivak calls “listening-as-benevolent-imperialism” – that is, listening through the dominant discourses and epistemes and therefore not hearing what is actually said.4 The question is not whether indigenous people are capable of translating between their own and other epistemes. Nor is it a matter of indigenous people’s wanting to cling to certain perceptions of the world for the sake of being different (though this is sometimes the case). Many indigenous people

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translate their epistemes all the time, even if only partially, strategically, temporarily, or involuntarily. The problem emerges when indigenous people seek to express themselves and their perspectives in a way that is grounded in their own epistemes and discursive practices, for this is when they are most likely to be miscomprehended or misinterpreted (as the example of the Sohappy case demonstrated in Chapter 1). The fact that there are many indigenous people who have not had the opportunity to be raised, even partially, within their indigenous epistemic traditions and who have thus learned about their epistemic traditions later in their lives does not diminish the importance of speaking about those traditions in their own terms and concepts. If indigenous individuals make a conscious decision to discuss their epistemes in their own terms, the likelihood of their being misunderstood is high, whether they grew up under the influence of those epistemes or not. In short, there is no epistemic, discursive space in the academy – except for Indigenous Studies programs – where indigenous people can be encountered on their own terms. As a result, many indigenous people either end up speaking in a vacuum, “learning an alien way to talk,” or “transcoding” their discourse patterns into the dominant ones.5 Hospitality is not possible when the guest is required to speak the language of the host. The Problem of “Speaking” in the Academy One of the key challenges that indigenous people face in the academy is that speaking through an epistemically different framework is too quickly interpreted as no more than a “difference.” This difference is then seen as requiring a translation into the “sameness” – that is, the language that makes sense in terms of the discourse that we are expected to share in the academy. It is based on the assumption that the difference resides only at the surface level, that there is a simple one-to-one correspondence between words as well as a straightforward route from “difference” to “sameness.” In other words, it is assumed that there is a shared ontological, epistemic foundation below the surface differences. What is more, those occupying the privileged position of sameness can afford not to see the epistemic violence that always occurs during these translations. Himani Bannerji dreams of having a discourse of difference in her classroom, but she also recognizes the challenges that such a discourse may pose: “If the classrooms I inhabit[ed] had a discourse of ‘difference,’ we would not be so frustrated, outraged or silent. We would be the direct producers within the discourse. But what would we speak about: How would we communicate our particular ways of being and seeing to others who do not share our experiences? And what finally would be the objective of our speaking?”6 Bannerji does not elaborate on what the discourse of difference would sound like, except to say that each participant would be its co-producer rather than a mere observer or someone who has been silenced by other

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people’s representations and discursive control. At the same time, she is fully aware of the dilemmas and contradictions of her proposal: if everyone spoke in and through their own particular discourses, would it amount to anything besides speaking in a void (with some more voided than others)? I would not call this a discourse of difference, because difference assumes a norm, however implicit, against which the different is juxtaposed and talked about (and it is always the marginal who represents the different). Even so, I believe that Bannerji’s project is similar to mine. It addresses the mixed sense of urgency and frustration that one feels when one is not heard (albeit not necessarily silenced, either) by others in a multicultural classroom. In my view, the first step toward an alternative discourse is the recognition and acknowledgment of the very existence of a multitude of discourses (or epistemes) on the part of those participants who have the luxury of not being aware of discourses other than their own. I would call this a “discourse of multitude,” if it needs a name. Not until hegemonic institutions and individuals have become aware of different discourses, once the multitude of epistemes is made visible, can we proceed with the project of decolonization, of deconstructing Eurocentric biases, of dismantling the hierarchies of discourses and epistemes. Let us assume that, by and large, the underlying structures and practices of the academy reflect and embody what Foucault would call the modern episteme, with its certain perceptions of knowledge and ways of knowing the world. If that is so, attempts at speaking through and from the framework of another episteme may prove challenging if not altogether impossible. In a setting that is relatively ignorant of and indifferent to indigenous worldviews, a person positioned within a different episteme is forced to negotiate with the structures of colonialism. That person is compelled to ask, “Do I check my cultural baggage at the doors of the university, or do I take my baggage in with me and risk not being heard?” Some indigenous people are aware of different epistemic conventions and how they operate and thus are able to make a conscious decision about this; but others may not realize that the academy’s cultural capital is different from their own. As Foucault points out, epistemes are the taken-for-granted and largely invisible foundations of seeing and knowing. Some indigenous people thus may not be able to do the transcoding that is necessary if they are to participate successfully in the academic discourse. In their analysis of cross-cultural communication, Ron Scollon and Suzanne Scollon argue that miscommunication results from different ways of organizing one’s discourse: “It is the way ideas are put together into an argument, the way some ideas are selected for special emphasis, or the way emotional information about the ideas is presented that causes miscommunication.”7 For others, the problem lies not merely in differences in the organization of discourse but in radically different perceptions of the

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world.8 Kiowa author N. Scott Momaday elaborates the issue: “I believe that there is a fundamental dichotomy at the center of [North American Native and White] relations, past and present. The Indian and the white man perceive the world in different ways. I take it that this is an obvious fact and a foregone conclusion. But at the same time I am convinced that we do not understand the distinction entirely or even sufficiently. I myself do not understand it sufficiently, but I may be more acutely aware of it by virtue of my experience than are most.”9 Different ways of organizing discourses appear to be a result of different ways of perceiving and knowing the world. So we must finetune the analysis and pay closer attention to the different ontologies and epistemes themselves rather than only to ways of organizing discourses. Scollon and Scollon posit that if we cultivate “deep and genuine respect for differences in individual and ethnic communicative styles,” we might solve the problem of miscommunication.10 Donald Fixico suggests the same: “Due to this difference in perspective, class instructors ... should ... respect the perspective of the American Indian student. To discriminate against a differing point of view, especially from the instructor, or even harboring prejudice against another viewpoint, is biased and disallows academic freedom. Furthermore, it is a negation of the cultural existence of the Indian intellectual.”11 The question of respect has been discussed in depth by indigenous scholars. Indigenous worldviews and systems of knowledge are founded on and derive from respect toward the surrounding environment and the sociocosmic order. In indigenous epistemes, respect is not an abstract principle or obligation; it is a practice, “a particular way of being in the world.”12 Lee Hester, Dennis McPherson, and Annie Booth suggest that “to survive in this world, and to live fully and well, one must be attentive. To impose agendas on the world – ethical, political, economic, scientific – is to some extent, to cease to pay attention.”13 In worldviews like these, respect is a way of engaging and being present in the world, a way of paying attention to the world around us. Cree educator Verna Kirkness and Ray Barnhardt discuss the need for respect as the first principle in creating a more appropriate higher education for Native people. They maintain that “the most compelling problem that First Nations students face when they go to university is a lack of respect, not just as individuals, but more fundamentally as a people.”14 Even when indigenous people are respected at an individual level by their peers and professors and by other university staff, their cultural and family backgrounds, knowledge, collective histories, and heritage often do not receive the same respect and recognition. Disrespect, when not expressed explicitly and directly, is conveyed through indifference or through demeaning or dismissive attitudes and views, which renders indigenous people invisible and implicitly proclaims their non-existence.

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Respect also plays a central role in arguments and efforts to build an inclusive university.15 Critical antiracist and feminist pedagogies and postcolonial analyses have emerged as a response to students’ demands that the marginalization and exclusion of minority students be addressed,16 that the curriculum show more respect for cultural differences, and that the links between racism, sexism, and class privilege be analyzed. But cultivating respect is not enough, especially when we recall that liberal relativism and respect for difference have often served to consolidate existing hierarchies and assumptions about the superiority of European values and beliefs. Alastair Bonnett points out that the twentieth century has its own examples – such as Nazism and Apartheid – of how “respecting difference” has been employed to legitimize the annihilation of peoples and cultures.17 As Tzvetan Todorov notes, it is the “absence of unity [that] allows exclusion, which can lead to extermination.”18 Moreover, in academic contexts, respect is often reduced to mere tokenism or, even worse, empty rhetoric. Respect on its own can lead only to superficial changes; it does not address the problem of ignorance or the lack of recognition and knowledge. Even if the “speaking” of indigenous people were respected, it would still not necessarily be heard or comprehended. As Métis scholar Emma LaRocque puts it, “I would like it, after I have spoken or written, to be understood. I mean in a sense of comprehension, not in a sense of emotional empathy but comprehension. There is still such a distance ... between Native and white. There is such a distance in comprehension.”19 Mere respect tends to create a climate of “repressive tolerance” in which indigenous people and their epistemes are allowed to exist in the celebratory spirit of different perspectives or points of view but are not recognized, heard, or understood except superficially and relativistically. I know you tolerate me, At the individual level, indigenous people and But you do not value me. their perspectives may be tolerated, but at the I know you permit me to speak institutional level, indigenous epistemes are not But you do not listen to what seen or heard. The official rhetoric lectures I say. about tolerance and diversity, but in practice I know you put up with my the repressive discourse of the academy imposes opinions, what Foucault calls “a general and studied siBut you do not respect them. lence” on other than dominant discourses.20 The I know you endure the history repressive tolerance of liberal academic institulessons I give you tions ensures that minorities remain powerless But you still can’t admire the collaborators within the system. In this way, instrength of those who struggled. digenous and other epistemes and discursive You may think it’s enough not to practices are efficiently managed, regulated, adcall me names, ministrated, and made invisible. The academy’s But it’s not ... 21 repressive tolerance is necessary in order to

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maintain prevailing hegemony that serves the interests of those in power. Indigenous people are welcomed and encouraged to speak, but they are not listened to in the way that indigenous people intend. Instead, their “speaking” is used for purposes other than their own interests and intentions – that is, it is placed in the service of colonialism and epistemic violence through the practices of the native informant and the self-consolidating “other.” If the West’s hegemonic, colonial thought is to consolidate its position, it must first foreclose the indigenous subject and block its access to the position of narrator. In her well-known (albeit often misinterpreted) essay “Can the Subaltern Speak?” Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak analyzes the problems of representation as well as the complicity of well-meaning Western intellectuals in constructions of the colonial subject as the “other.”22 To this end, she describes the circumstances that surrounded the suicide of a young Bengali woman. Spivak argues that the young woman had attempted to “speak” outside conventional patriarchal channels but failed – she was not “heard,” that is, understood or supported. From this, Spivak concluded that “the subaltern cannot speak.” Her complex argument has been interpreted in many ways – for instance, as an exercise in “terminal epistemological and political pessimism” and as an example of the silencing of the marginalized.23 But Spivak is not suggesting that the subaltern does not seek to express herself in many ways; rather, if speaking is “a transaction between speaker and listener,” it follows that subaltern talk cannot achieve the dialogic level of expression. Also, the subaltern cannot speak when she is represented by others. By claiming to represent or speak for the experience of the subaltern, the radical Western intellectual silences her in the same way as the claims of British colonialism silence the Hindu widow by rescuing her from sati, the selfimmolation on a dead husband’s pyre. Spivak also points out how the radical Western intellectual is guilty of conflating the two forms of representation, aesthetic and political; that is, the artistic or philosophical representation (as re-presentation) is taken as an expression of the political interests of the subaltern (as “speaking for”).24 What is especially relevant to questions of epistemic ignorance is the silencing of the subaltern as a consequence of the hegemon’s inability to hear discourses and (therefore) epistemes outside itself. Spivak contends that the level at which the subaltern might be heard or read cannot be reached because what is said is either ignored or forgotten, or simply “disappears from the official, male-centred historical records.”25 Whether it is muted by colonial authorities or by the liberal multiculturalist metropolitan academy, the intended message of the subaltern remains either unheard or misinterpreted.26 Spivak’s argument reveals how the historical and structural conditions of political representation prevent the recognition or hearing of

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the subaltern. Similarly, the academic conditions of intellectual representation (in both senses of the term) – liberal multiculturalism, tolerance, diversity – preclude the recognition and hearing of indigenous epistemes. The liberal view of diversity has always been culturally specific, and this has closed off any understanding of or tolerance for non-liberal ways of life that do not cherish the individualism that serves as the cornerstone of liberalism. Early liberal thinkers, such as John Stuart Mill, endorsed diversity but only within carefully confined parameters “of the individualist model of human excellence.”27 According to Spivak, subaltern is an abstract label for those who lack access to upward mobility. She warns against using the concept of subaltern too carelessly, as “a classy word for oppressed, for Other.”28 In her view, “just by being a discriminated-against minority on the university campus, they don’t need the word ‘subaltern’ ... They should see what the mechanics of the discrimination are. They’re within the hegemonic discourse wanting a piece of the pie and not being allowed, so let them speak, use the hegemonic discourse. They should not call themselves subaltern.”29 Put in another way, Spivak calls for more rigorous analysis of and engagement with the term minority. Because the academy is the location of upward mobility, the term subaltern requires extra care when applied in that context. Indigenous people in the university are within the hegemonic discourse, however marginally, and no doubt many want “a piece of the pie” (whatever that piece might be). Questions about whether indigenous people in the academy are subaltern or not are of secondary importance here. Even if they are not, the problem of epistemic ignorance and discrimination remains; therefore the resolution to the issue cannot simply be “let them speak” or “allow them to use the hegemonic discourse.” This is at the very core of the problems that arise when benevolent but indifferent (if not arrogant) imperialism embeds itself in academic practices and assumptions that promote liberal multiculturalism and diversity. As long as the conditions of intellectual representation remain unchanged – as long as the academy refuses to recognize other than the West’s dominant epistemes and to engage with them in a new relationship grounded in the logic of the gift – attempts to bring the gift of indigenous epistemes to the academy will fail. Too often, speaking in the academy is a monologue rather than a transaction between speaker and listener. Deborah Bird Rose argues that “much of what passes for conversation is actually a monologue because it is constructed around a self–other structure such that the “other” is the absence or reflection of self.”30 Instead of participatory discourse, the academy engages in hegemonic monologue in which there is no space, discursive or otherwise, for others. According to Rose, the monologue “is the narcissistic conversation that the West has with itself, a key feature of which

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is that the “other” never gets to talk back on its own terms.”31 As Plumwood suggested earlier with her relational definition, the monologue is a mechanism of power in that it excludes those who would interrupt the West’s selfabsorption. It is important to distinguish between questions about not being able to speak and questions about “speaking as” a representative of a particular group. According to Spivak, listening seriously means that the listener is able to go beyond the sort of benevolent imperialism that makes arrogant assumptions about the speaker and her background. Spivak suggests that one of the biggest problems with listening arises “when the cardcarrying listeners, the hegemonic people, the dominant people, talk about listening to someone ‘speaking as’ something or the other.” This enables them to cover over “the ignorance that they are allowed to possess, into a kind of homogenization,”32 which is one of the mechanisms of domination. “Speaking as” also assumes generalizing and distancing oneself, without recognizing that a person always inhabits many subject positions at once. To represent a voice is to assume an abstract terrain that always bears only a partial relationship to real, existing people. My focus here is not on the question of “speaking as.” To suggest that indigenous people “cannot speak” is not the same as to demand that more indigenous voices be represented in the academy. Even if more indigenous voices are allowed into the academy and are invited to be represented there – both as speakers for a group and as aesthetic representations, and both in classrooms and in curricula – they may still be listened to through a filter of benevolent imperialism when they are listened to at all. Having a voice does not guarantee that the subaltern will be heard or listened to seriously. As Mihesuah puts it, even if there were more indigenous scholars and writers, who would be there to listen to them?33 The problem of speaking is not about whether indigenous people are being allowed to speak in the academy. Often, the situation is quite the opposite: they are not just “given” a voice (whatever that might mean) but are urged to express their views and perspectives in the name of diversity and decolonization (though in official, public circumstances such as conferences and anthologies, they tend to remain tokens, as in “one indigenous person per event/publication”). Trinh Minh-ha aptly calls this phenomenon “the voice of difference that they long to hear.” She adds that “now I’m not only given the permission to open up and talk, I’m also encouraged to express my difference. My audience expects it, demands it – otherwise people will feel as if they have been cheated.”34 Native Informant A native informant is “the person who feeds anthropology” – that is, through whom information about “other” cultures and societies is made available.35

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The indigenous mentors of anthropologists are often referred to as “informants.” For Hugh Brody, the term and the method of collecting data suggest “espionage rather than social science.”36 LaRocque is also critical of this practice of appropriating indigenous knowledge and the double-standard embedded in it. She observes: if we serve as “informants” to our non-Native colleagues, for example, about growing up within a land-based culture (e.g., on a trap line), our colleagues would include such information as part of their scholarly presentations; it would authenticate their research. Yet, if we use the very same information with a direct reference to our cultural backgrounds, it would be met, at best, with skepticism, and, at worst, with charges of parochialism because we would have spoken in “our own voices.”37

Like other forms of subjugation, the use of native informants is constantly being reconstituted for new contexts of epistemic exploitation. Marcia Crosby points out the euphemism: indigenous people who were “once referred to as ‘informants’ are now called ‘consultants,’ ‘partners’ or ‘co-curators.’”38 The native informant’s name is omitted for the interests of the hegemonic production of knowledge. As Spivak contends, the informant is a figure denoting the practice of knowledge-gathering without individual acknowledgment, and the name of the native informant (i.e., the source of information) therefore cannot be identified or disclosed in order for the knowledge to flourish.39 The construction of the colonial subject depends on the indigenous “other,” who can only be represented by that subject. Spivak calls this process the conversion from “an incommensurable and discontinuous other into a domesticated other that consolidates the imperialist self.”40 Linda Tuhiwai Smith has illustrated how this process has occurred in the past, both in research practices and in the production of knowledge relating to indigenous peoples. Historically, the West has “domesticated” indigenous peoples by categorizing, collecting, and classifying them “alongside the flora and fauna.”41 Native informants are still found in various contemporary research projects, most recently in what are euphemistically called the “life sciences.” For indigenous peoples, research in the present day still often means being colonized, whether this involves knowledge collection, genealogical patenting (as in cell lines), or the commodification of social and cultural practices or even spirituality. All the while, their rights and even humanity continue to be denied.42 Spivak further argues that the production of “elite knowledge” effaces and forecloses the subaltern, whom the West then describes as the native informant.43 One of the results of this practice is that in the academy, indigenous people become stand-ins for contentious issues such as colonial relations, economic marginalization, land claims, racism, and cultural genocide.

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By including the knowledge of the native informant, whether in research or teaching, the dominant can be seen, indeed wishes to be seen, as having fully included the “traditionally marginalized,” that is, of having given them a voice. It is then let off the hook and no longer needs to inquire into these complex issues.44 Indigenous scholarship in the past decade has been a direct response to all this, that is, a means of countering the various practices of objectifying indigenous people and “establishing the ‘native’ as a self-consolidating other.”45 Now that indigenous scholars are beginning to define their own priorities and objectives and to develop their own research practices and methodologies, they are validating their own systems of knowledge and thought and carving out spaces for them. But how can we counter the inhospitality of the academy, which manifests itself not only through the processes of domesticating and devouring the “other” but also through the refusal to recognize and receive the gift of indigenous epistemes? In the present circumstances, is it possible to establish conditions in the academy in which the subaltern – in this context, indigenous people – can be heard and comprehended without turning them into either native informants or self-consolidating “others”? Spivak suggests that “when a line of communication is established between a member of subaltern groups and the circuits of citizenship or institutionality, the subaltern has been inserted into the long road to hegemony. Unless we want to be romantic purists or primitivists about ‘preserving subalternity’ – a contradiction in terms – this is absolutely to be desired.”46 Spivak does not elaborate on what she means by “inserting the subaltern into the long road to hegemony.” If she is suggesting that the subaltern joins the hegemonic structures because the only alternative is to be romantically preserved, then in the light of the erasure of indigenous epistemes in the academy, her argument is highly problematic. A desire to be heard when speaking from another episteme is not a romantic yearning to preserve subalternity. No one should want to preserve subalternity, but there must be an alternative way to foster conditions so that “alternative discourses can be heard” in ways that do not assimilate the marginalized into the institution. If epistemic ignorance – the arrogant and indifferent not-knowing in the academy – results in a situation in which indigenous people cannot speak in or are not heard by the academy, what would an alternative discourse look and sound like? I am calling for a paradigm in which indigenous epistemes are regarded as a gift. In the current context, the gift of indigenous epistemes remains impossible in the academy – it is refused, and its existence is not even recognized. As long as the gift remains invisible and impossible, indigenous people will continue to be inscribed and positioned as generalized native informants in the service of the production of hegemonic, elite knowledge.47 The gift will fail to be recognized and will be misconstrued,

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appropriated, and consumed as a commodity. In current circumstances, the gift remains impossible. Gift as the Impossible and the Institution of Reason More strongly than anyone else, Derrida has argued that the gift is impossible. He has referred to the gift as “the very figure of the impossible.”48 For him, the precondition of the gift is that it not be recognized, for once it is, it ceases to be a gift and becomes something else (a credit, or a loan, or an obligation): It suffices ... for the other to perceive the gift – not only to perceive it in the sense in which, as one says in French, “on perçoit,” one receives, for example, merchandise, payment, or compensation – but to receive its nature of gift, the meaning or intention, the intentional meaning of the gift, in order for this simple recognition of the gift as gift, as such, to annul the gift as gift even before recognition becomes gratitude. The simple identification of the gift seems to destroy it. The simple identification of the passage of a gift as such, that is, of an identifiable thing among some identifiable “ones,” would be nothing other than the process of destruction of the gift.49

Derrida maintains that a gift annuls itself as soon as it is recognized as a gift, because it immediately becomes an object of exchange – that is, something that requires gratitude, another gift, or a return of the favour. The gift is also made impossible in the academy by reason. Drawing from Kant and Leibniz, Derrida asks: “Could reason be something that gives rise to exchange, circulation, borrowing, debt, donation, restitution?”50 If exchange, circulation, borrowing, debt, donation, and restitution – all antinomies to the pure gift – are brought by reason, it must follow that reason contradicts the gift. He argues that reason – logos – is sent into crisis by the madness and the impossibility of the gift: “In giving the reasons for giving, in saying the reason of the gift, it signs the end of the gift.”51 If we need to give a reason in order to give, what is given is no longer a gift but something else. Reason seems to cancel the gift. Yet when we analyze the gift more closely, we can see that in fact the gift is not so much opposed to reason as passing and going beyond reason.52 The gift will always be without the border that is commonly associated with rationality: “A gift that does not run over its borders, a gift that would let itself be contained in a determination and limited by the indivisibility of an identifiable trait would not be a gift. As soon as it delimits itself, a gift is prey to calculation and measure.”53 Throughout its history, the academy has been viewed as an institution of reason.54 In Conflict of the Faculties, Kant reinforces this perception by asserting that the university must be governed by “an idea of reason.”55 How, then, is it possible to bring the gift to the academy, an institution that

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repeatedly requires that reasons be given for everything? Does reason inevitably contradict the gift? It seems ambiguous and unreasonable that a gift would be constantly crossing its own borders. If this were so, it could well present a threat to the academy, which does not necessarily welcome such ambiguity and unpredictability. Besides being impossible, would it be also futile to seek to bring the gift to the academy? Would such attempts inevitably fail at the borders of reason? Rationalist accounts of knowledge have created and continue to create epistemic and epistemological hierarchies that define forms of knowledge based on rationality, individualism, detachment, and the mechanistic worldview as “real” and “legitimate” and that elevate these forms of knowledge above others. The dualistic structures of the West’s rationalist philosophy also have played a key role in the exclusion of indigenous epistemes in the academy. These mechanisms of exclusion have their roots in dualistic assumptions of reason emanating from classical Greek philosophy. Plato separated higher spiritual realms from matter, space, and time; this represented the first step toward radical exclusion – that is, toward the hierarchization of realms of the self and the world. Centuries later, Descartes intensified this process of separation and made it more explicit. The empiricism of the Enlightenment marked a radical break from participatory, respectful relations with the world. The Cartesian view of the world became characterized by hyperseparation as well as by the fantasy that the world can be mastered. Plato’s account of reason as masculine has been criticized by several feminist philosophers.56 Irigaray’s central argument is that rationality in the Western philosophical tradition is conceptualized as male and has its roots in dualistic structures that exclude the feminine. Views of rationality as being male and of reason as the monopoly of men, however, have been questioned by some feminist scholars. Spivak contends that poetic, “irrational” style is not necessarily less phallocentric because it is less rational.57 Plumwood suggests that “it is not only a masculine identity as such which underlines the Platonic conception of reason and of the life of reason, but a master identity defined in terms of multiple exclusions, and in terms of domination not only of the feminine but also of the slave (which usually combines race, class and gender oppression), of the animal, and of the natural.”58 Hierarchical dualism and centuries-old assumptions that reason controls nature have helped create a fault line between the West (the sphere of reason) and indigenous peoples (the sphere of nature). Plumwood argues that hegemonic forms of reason – economic, political, scientific, and ethical/ prudential – are the basis of the planet’s current ecological crisis: “If ... a hubristic and sado-dispassionate form of economic and scientific reason is in charge that is exclusionary in focus and acts for a narrow range of interests, our ship has set a bad course, and we need to change our concepts and

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strategies of rationality.”59 Throughout history, Plumwood notes, reason has been made a vehicle for domination and death. Dominant forms of reason are leading to the collapse of the world’s ecosystems “because they are subject to a systematic pattern of distortions and illusions in which they are historically embedded and which they are unable to see or reflect upon. These blindspots especially affect the way we understand our relationships to nature and to one another, and they derive especially from the hegemonic origins of these patterns of thought, which have identified the biospheric Other as passive and without limits, its frontiers an invitation to invasion.”60 The crisis of hegemonic reason will soon require us to radically revise the distorted, abstract, and extremely reductionist rationality that dominates today’s world in order to make it more accountable to the world’s complex interdependencies. As Plumwood notes, we do not need more knowledge – what we need is to develop a different set of values that “fully acknowledges the non-human sphere and our dependency on it, and is able to make good decisions about how we live and impact on the non-human world.”61 Derrida maintains that “‘thought’ requires both the principle of reason and what is beyond the principle of reason.”62 Furthermore, he raises Levinas’s suggestion that reason is “hospitable receptivity”: “Reason in a position to receive: what can this hospitality of reason give, this reason as the capacity to receive ... this reason under the law of hospitality?”63 One could argue that reason as hospitable receptivity signifies a certain openness beyond control. Reason as the capacity to receive might also be able to receive the gift responsibly, with a response and therefore also reciprocity. In other words, receiving implies responsibility: “It is necessary to answer for the gift, the given, and the call to giving. It is necessary to answer to it and answer for it. One must be responsible for what one gives and what one receives.”64 In seeking ways to address the epistemic ignorance of the academy, we need not give up reason. Following Plumwood’s exhortation to revise the dominant forms of reason, I maintain that the logic of the gift can serve us as a mandate to decolonize hegemonic reason in order to rid it of its current distortions and narrow-minded selfishness and make it more encompassing and participatory. The ideology of imperial rationalism and the logic of colonial hierarchies must be replaced by the logic of the gift, which is characterized by principles of reciprocity, recognition, and responsibility toward others. The call for the logic of the gift is not for us to abandon reason but rather to engage in a profoundly different reason and logic. Whatever some might fear, this reason and logic will not compromise the demands set for knowledge and its production; in fact, it will radically enhance them. The logic of the gift calls for more responsible and responsive forms of reason. If the university is an institution of reason, and if reason implies the capacity to receive, must there not be something seriously wrong with an

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academy that cannot receive the gift? Without a logic rooted in responsibility and reciprocity, it is easy to exploit and misuse the gift, as has happened with indigenous epistemes. The latter have been increasingly commodified and appropriated by global capitalism, which has developed powerful new tools such as intellectual property regimes to further tighten corporate monopolies and to consolidate profits. Commodifying indigenous knowledge for corporate profit makes the gift impossible. The more fundamental reason for reducing the gift to a commodity, however, is that it makes it possible to discard the entire gift logic as obsolete, archaic, and unsophisticated. This has enabled the West to foreclose native informants merely for the purposes of consolidating the hegemonic self and “the persistent constitution of Other as the Self’s shadow.”65 The potlatch was once viewed as a threat to the emerging nation-state of Canada – a threat so serious that it was outlawed by the colonial authorities. In much the same way, the gift is seen as posing a threat to contemporary transnational capitalism. The gift has the potential to disrupt the agenda of “the new imperialism of exploitation.”66 As Derrida contends, “There is gift, if there is any, only in what interrupts the system as well as the symbol, in a partition without return and without division [répartition], without being-with-self of the gift-counter-gift.”67 The academy refuses the gift (and refuses to even recognize it) in large part because it fears interruption and ambiguity, loss of control, erasure of various boundaries (e.g., disciplinary), and an excess of relativity. The gift is seen as a threat to the hegemonic epistemes that have long served the interests of the status quo. But the academy also refuses the gift because it has committed itself so deeply to the ideology of the exchange economy. The dominant paradigm highlights the importance of exchange, and this has made it impossible for the academy to accept the gift of indigenous epistemes. The logic of exchange that underpins globalization and neoliberalism is the same logic that drives the production and reproduction of knowledge. Higher education and research are increasingly defined in terms of the market and pursued in the spirit of capitalism. The basic premises of the exchange paradigm manifest themselves in one-sided academic discourses, most of which are thoroughly self-oriented, and most of which pay no heed (i.e., extend no responsibility) to the “other.” The gift of indigenous epistemes is thus exploited in the same way that the exchange paradigm exploits “free” gifts such as women’s domestic labour. Academic discourses and practices are exploitative, hegemonic, asymmetrical, and patriarchal. This reflects a dominant neocolonial (and also often neoliberal) paradigm that continues to foreclose indigenous epistemes. The present-day academy finds it impossible to recognize indigenous epistemes as gifts. Instead, these epistemes have come to be perceived as intellectual property that can be appropriated and exploited for economic purposes or

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to fulfil the spiritual needs of others. Before indigenous epistemes can ever be recognized as an invaluable gift to intellectual inquiry and knowledge production, there will have to be nothing less than an overhaul of the value system that underpins today’s academic structures and discourses. When a university adds a course on indigenous studies or includes readings on indigenous issues, it is not building a new knowledge edifice – in terms of transformation, it doesn’t amount to much more than changing furniture in the classroom. This sort of cosmetic diversity in fact makes it less likely that discriminatory practices and discourses will be challenged. As long as the focus is on “providing opportunities to individual members of an underrepresented group [and on] equal access for a few, rules that exclude the many will remain intact.”68 The future of the academy – indeed, of the planet – will require a wholesale replacement of today’s value system by the ethics and logic of the gift. The present system is based on the exchange paradigm, which is fuelled by self-interest, possessive individualism, and accumulation of profit (one form of which is cultural and intellectual capital). At stake is much more than the well-being of indigenous people and the existence of indigenous epistemes in the academy. Today’s logic of exchange is affecting the entire culture of learning, education, and academic freedom by limiting the possibility of engaging in the pursuit of knowledge. If we are to be confined by market-driven interpretations of accountability and answerability, we might as well start referring to the academy in terms that better reflect this reality. That is, we should call the academy what it is: a corporation inhabited by privatized academics who manufacture a commodity called knowledge, which it sells in its “one-stop shopping area,” for example, in buildings that used to be called libraries.69 If the era of accountability implies preordained results and competition over who is able to attract the most funding, we should stop deluding ourselves that universities are communities of intellectual and critical inquiry. The commodification of all life forms and the shortsighted exploitation of the environment, indigenous peoples, women, the global South, and other vulnerable or marginalized groups remove everyone “from all connections except the circuit of capital accumulation.”70 The gift is impossible when it is located within the exchange economy, which has its roots in colonialism, capitalism, and patriarchy, all of which have ensured that too often only traces are left of indigenous epistemes and social and cultural orders. Conversely, the gift is possible only in certain circumstances untouched by the logic of exchange. The gift is truly possible only when the circle of exchange – in which the gift is returned to the original giver in the form of a counter-gift – is disrupted.71 In Derrida’s view, the gift is possible when there is “no reciprocity, return, exchange, countergift, or debt. If the other gives me back or owes me or has to give me back what I give him or her, there will not have been a gift, whether this

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restitution is immediate or whether it is programmed by a complex calculation of a long-term deferral or differance.”72 Indigenous gift philosophies do not limit the gift to mere exchange, countergift, and debt. To be sure, exchange and debt are not entirely foreign to indigenous epistemes and practices; the difference relates to the degree of primacy. Exchange, countergift (or profit), and debt do not foreground indigenous worldviews the way they do the thought and interactions of the West, with its dominant paradigm of global, patriarchal capitalism. As Lewis Hyde notes of “traditional” societies, “There is trade, but the objects traded are not commodities.”73 In gift-based indigenous philosophies, priority is placed on maintaining relationships and the well-being of the social order. The ethic of respecting, giving, and responding to land is not limited to rhetoric; it is fostered in real life, as demonstrated by various gift practices in indigenous societies as well as in other communities.74 In a system in which the logic of the gift does not imply “earning” the gift or “owing” something to the giver, and in which the formation of relationships through gift giving is not considered in negative terms (i.e., as a burdensome obligation, or as a loss of one’s individuality and independence), but rather as a condition of balanced existence and ultimately as part of one’s identity, the gift cannot be ignored or rendered into something else. A gift that is not recognized and received ceases to be a gift, and when this happens, the relationships formed through the gift are weakened and ultimately lost. Contrary to Derrida’s argument that the gift is destroyed when it is recognized, I maintain that in indigenous philosophies, it is recognition that makes the gift possible. This does not necessarily oppose Derrida’s argument. His explanation is valid, but it must be understood within the exchange paradigm, in which everything is perceived and received solely in terms of exchange value. When the gift is taken outside that narrow framework, it becomes possible. This requires, however, nothing less than an altogether new logic. The gift of indigenous epistemes remains impossible when located within the logic of exchange that prevails in contemporary society, including the academy. This is why we need to perceive indigenous epistemes in another framework, within the logic of the gift of indigenous philosophies, in which recognition is what makes the gift possible. In this logic, the practice of recognizing is different from and goes beyond the common understanding of recognition as a gesture of acknowledgment. Recognition and the Logic of the Gift Recognition has long been a topic of philosophical discussion. One of the first philosophers to consider the concept of recognition was Hegel, who in Phenomenology of Spirit developed the idea in relation to his model of the master–slave dialectic and who examined recognition within the family.75

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The work of Frantz Fanon and Jean-Paul Sartre introduced the question of recognition to the critique of colonialism. In discussing the context of the French colonization of Algeria, Sartre argues that within repressive regimes, violence becomes recognized as sovereignty; as a consequence, the oppressed is made to recognize himself and his people as the “other.”76 In Black Skin, White Masks, Fanon defines the colonial relationship as a struggle for recognition of the colonized.77 The colonizer refuses to recognize the subjectivity of the colonized; if he sees the colonized at all, it is only in relation to himself, through processes of objectification and inferiorization (which are, as Plumwood notes, central mechanisms of domination of not only the colonized but also of women and nature). Recognition is generally considered an “acknowledgement that must be given to human beings who are subjected to inquiries”; it consists primarily of remembering and knowledge.78 “Recognition-as-something” is a process of identifying and making sense of the world by placing the unfamiliar or new in pre-existing categories. We recognize an animal as a cat and not as a dog; similarly, we identify people according to their physical appearance, gender, behaviour, social class, background, and so on. This process of classifying, grouping, and (often) judging relies heavily on our previous, often entrenched ideas of the world, some of which may also be quite stereotypical and problematic.79 Recognition-as-something is usually based on certain preconceived expectations, be they realistic or not, such as the expectation that an indigenous person will look and perhaps even behave and live in a certain way. As Marc Augé argues, “By a short-circuiting of thought everywhere attested, people desire less to know the world than to recognize themselves in it, substituting for the indefinite frontiers of an ungraspable universe the totalitarian security of closed worlds.”80 Recognition can, therefore, also become a proxy for avoiding any responsibility for doing the homework of finding out about things that are unfamiliar – a way of closing the doors and windows rather than granting an unconditional welcome. In the academy, recognition is usually about having one’s achievements acknowledged in research, teaching, or service. At a more boorish (albeit unspoken) level, it tends to take the form of a competition for recognition as a “great scholar.” Acknowledging accomplishments is about giving credit for an individual’s work and making that work visible; in other words, it is about saying that the institution (or one part of it) values the type of work the person is doing. Yet at the same time, this sort of recognition is inevitably about exclusion and erasure. To recognize someone is always to misrecognize others and render them and their work invisible. Thus, recognizing someone’s work or accomplishments always involves conforming to certain predetermined norms, that is, to a set of prevailing assumptions about what is worth recognizing.

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Johannes Fabian suggests that recognition is part and parcel of ethnographic knowledge. According to him, recognition is “a condition that makes communication possible but ... it is an agonistic relationship; it involves confrontation and struggle. Recognition is not something that one party can simply grant to the other; Anerkennung is not doled out like political independence or development aid. Recognition may be defined by legal rights, but in situations in which ethnographers usually work, it is achieved through exchanges that have startling, upsetting, sometimes profoundly disturbing consequences for all participants.”81 Especially in earlier ethnographic contexts, however, mutual recognition has long been perceived as an undermining of the authority if not superiority of the ethnographer.82 More recently, recognition (including the quest for it) has emerged as a pressing issue because of the demands being made by multiculturalism, feminism, and various area studies. People and groups once marginalized in and by the dominant society are now calling for the recognition of difference – that is, of their identities, agencies, and subjectivities. This “politics of recognition” – a term coined by Charles Taylor (1992) – criticizes institutions for failing to recognize and respect particular cultural or gender identities.83 In “Multiculturalism and the Politics of Recognition,” Taylor argues that recognition is necessary for us to shape our identities. It follows that due recognition is not merely a courtesy we owe people but a vital human need.84 Seyla Benhabib, however, is critical of Taylor’s position, arguing that one of the greatest shortcomings in his argument is that he conflates the individual right to identity (or authenticity) with the collective self-expression of a group or a people.85 Too often, recognition (such as official academic acknowledgment) amounts to no more than lip service. At worst, recognition involves mere tokenism – for example, when those considered “minorities” or “the marginalized” are officially and publicly acknowledged but then quickly forgotten so that “business as usual” can continue. An interesting example of recognition is a practice that is fairly common in at least some circles at the University of British Columbia: the acknowledgment that the university was built on Musqueam territory.86 UBC students and faculty generally agree that this is an important gesture; others, though, question this seemingly benevolent but highly superficial engagement with the Musqueam people. One can also wonder whether this gesture of convenience is merely an attempt by a neocolonial discourse to fabricate its allies in a new way, as Spivak would suggest.87 Does such a discourse amount to an exchange (not a gift) in which the indigenous “other” is recognized in return for cooperation as native informants, “add-ons,” or consultants (and perhaps in the future, shareholders, now that universities are increasingly aligning themselves with corporations)? Or could it be argued that it is better than nothing and that it is a starting point? Spivak’s insistence that “‘one must begin

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somewhere’ is a different sentiment when expressed by the unorganized oppressed and when expressed by the beneficiary of the consolidated disciplinary structure of a central neocolonialist power ... If the ‘somewhere’ that one begins from is the most privileged site of a neocolonial educational system, in an institute for the training of teachers, funded by the state, does that gesture of convenience not become the normative point of departure?”88 Perhaps such gestures of recognition are necessary first steps in establishing or improving relations with the indigenous peoples of the area where the university is located. But we cannot allow such gestures to become proxies for ongoing repressive tolerance or benign neglect of indigenous issues, concerns, and epistemes. Recognition cannot be merely an item on a list that, once checked, requires no further consideration. Those who are in peril of becoming mere allies of the neocolonial discourse in the privileged and authoritative apparatus of the academy need to remain especially vigilant about gestures of convenience.89 Token recognition and meaningless gestures of acknowledgment must be questioned repeatedly: What is their purpose? What ends are they meant to serve? Do they merely represent what Vizenor calls “manifest manners”90 – that is, shallow adherence to political correctness? Behind these apparently good manners does there lurk the ideology of manifest destiny? The recognition of cultural identities is of profound importance to indigenous people. In Canada, the Report of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples contended that “recognition of the distinct place of Aboriginal nations in the Canadian federation and accommodation of Aboriginal culture and identity should be regarded as a core responsibility of public institutions rather than as a special project to be undertaken after other obligations are met.”91 The question of recognition as a form of validation is crucial for indigenous peoples everywhere who are fighting to prevent their rights from being erased by various colonial gestures, many of which have an impact to this day. The West’s failure to recognize indigenous rights has led to displacement, dispossession, and cultural genocide; it has also fostered a situation in which indigenous peoples remain colonized. When the valid legal rights of indigenous peoples to their lands and territories are ignored, in the same way that the gift remains unrecognized, those peoples are inevitably exploited and commodified. Delgamuukw v. British Columbia (1997), the landmark case involving the Gitskan and Wet’suwet’en First Nations of British Columbia, recognized for the first time in Canadian legal history that First Nations’ oral evidence has equal weight with written documents. This was an important step in validating indigenous forms of knowledge and transmission of knowledge; it also set an important precedent for other indigenous peoples around the world, for many of whom the reality of non-recognition has long smoothed

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the way for governments’ efforts to render them invisible. In the United States, for instance, there are more than two hundred tribes that the federal government does not recognize. A tribe that is not recognized is ineligible to receive services from the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs; furthermore, its tribal rights go unrecognized. It is of course highly problematic when a people must be officially recognized by a government in order to practise its culture and exercise its historical collective rights. That such situations can still exist highlights the continued colonial control and oppression that to this day enable the West to exploit indigenous peoples’ resources, including their knowledge and their bodies. In the United States, tribes that hope to achieve recognition must submit themselves to application processes – to legal “tests of nationhood” – that are utterly humiliating and that are based on Eurocentric misconceptions about indigenous social organization. These tests reflect non-Native notions of how indigenous peoples actually organize their societies.92 All this, even though as early as 1975 the International Court of Justice in The Hague ruled that “indigenous governments do not have to emulate European governmental structures to have sovereignty over their territory.”93 One example of the absurdity of the Americans’ recognition process is the Duwamish case. The Duwamish, a Coast Salish nation whose territory lies near Seattle, Washington (named after the Duwamish-Squamish leader Sealth), submitted a petition for federal recognition in 1976. Since then, the situation has only grown worse: In the period between 1996 and 1999, the tribe responded to each point in the negative determination and concluded that they would sue the Department of the Interior in the event that they were turned down again. The BAR [Bureau of Acknowledgment and Research, the U.S. federal agency responsible for federal recognition], in turn, delayed its response, seeking extensions, until Lee Fleming finally notified the tribe at 5:59 p.m. on January 19, 2001, that their recognition was approved. This was the day before the new president, George W. Bush, was sworn in ... Two more years had passed. Subsequently, the Bush administration suspended last-minute orders of the Clinton administration ... and the decision to recognize the Duwamish was reversed on September 27, 2001.94

As a result, the Duwamish are still landless and still have no access to tribal fisheries, which are vital to their economy and culture. This, even though that access was guaranteed in 1855 by the Treaty of Point Elliott. This example reminds us that for indigenous peoples, the quest for recognition is far more than a struggle for their cultural differences to be acknowledged. Yet however significant recognition can be for the survival of

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indigenous peoples, it can be a problematic notion. Elizabeth Povinelli notes that recognition is also “at once a formal meconnaissance of a subaltern group’s being and of its being worthy of national recognition and, at the same time, a formal moment of being inspected, examined, and investigated.”95 Indigenous people are misrecognized as one of the many categories of the state; in this circumstance, representatives of the hegemonic authority (including scholars) enjoy the right to conduct ongoing scrutiny and surveillance. Furthermore, “this inspection always already constitutes indigenous persons as failures of indigeneity as such.”96 Like instrumentalism, misrecognition denies the agency of the “other” and thus permits interference with their boundaries. Besides these forms of recognition, there is a need for yet another (which is not to deny the significance of other, more familiar forms of recognition). There is a need for an understanding of recognition that is embedded in the gift logic with regard to indigenous peoples’ relationship to the land. Within this framework, recognition is a condition for survival. It stems from the philosophy that underlines the primacy of individual and communal responsibility toward, and reciprocation with, the “other.” It follows that nothing can be taken from the land without an acknowledgment of the intricate relationships that are necessary to enable and sustain this stability. Thus, within the logic of the gift, recognition is a form of reciprocation and participation, not just among humans but among all living beings. Reciprocation is part of everyday activities: “If camas root is to be dug or bark taken from a birch or cedar tree to fashion a basket, ‘permission’ must be first sought. A prayer is offered ... If a hunter is to successfully track a deer, respect must be given, respect often shown in terms of ‘not taking too much,’ ‘using all that is taken,’ ‘or never boasting about the hunt.’ When such respect is shown, the deer, in reciprocity may offer itself to the hunter.”97 These and other activities on and with the land are informed by an understanding of the ways in which human beings are related to the natural environment. The result is behaviours that seek to sustain those relationships by not exploiting them or taking them for granted. When words of gratitude are offered or respect is shown, living beings and the relationships that people have with them (individually or collectively) are acknowledged. In other words, when people observe and act on their responsibilities, the existence of these beings and of their relationships with humans is recognized. These and other practices of recognizing, thanking, and honouring do not belong to the past, as is often contended during discussions of indigenous peoples and their cultural practices. Marcia Pablo, from the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes, spoke during a recent conference about the preservation of cultural sites and resources. She reminded her audience of the ongoing reciprocal relationships that her people have with the land.98

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She emphasized the responsibility of human beings to take care of the land, but she also pointed to the fact that the land takes care of “us” in a reciprocal relationship. What is significant (and perhaps challenging for some) in this recognition and reciprocation is that it is not a question of cause and effect (i.e., it is not a matter of “if I take care of the land [the cause], the land will take care of me [effect],” or the other way round). Rather, it is a radically different way of understanding and making sense of the world without the need for explanations of causality.99 It is an understanding grounded on the need for relationships and on an acknowledgment of human embeddedness and interdependence in the world. According to Fabian, recognition always implies an agonistic relationship and therefore does not apply in the context of the gift philosophy, in which recognition is based on an ethical relationship that seeks to maintain the social and cosmic order. Calls for recognition of the gift of indigenous epistemes in the academy therefore imply something different from the politics of recognition or the recognition of indigenous peoples’ rights. The gifts of the land cannot be taken for granted or exploited within this specific logic of the gift; in the same way, the academy should not ignore, appropriate, or misuse indigenous epistemes. To recognize indigenous epistemes as a gift, then, will require (among other things) learning about the gift logic.

4 Knowing the “Other” and “Learning to Learn”

I attend a talk, “Making Space for Indigenous Voices in Education: Engaging in New Conversation,” by Ethel Gardner and Lisa Sterling from Simon Fraser University. Lisa Sterling, from the Nlakapamux First Nation of Nicola Valley, gives a brief overview of the history of Aboriginal Education and discusses the present-day priority of legitimization and reaffirmation of indigenous knowledge in educational institutions. Ethel Gardner from the Sto:lo Nation tells the audience of mostly white women about the indigenous education programs and initiatives at SFU. She points out that what they as First Nations educators are dealing with today is the Canadian government’s legacy of assimilation and integration policies. She also notes how there is still very little awareness and understanding in the faculty about First Nations – that today, it still is possible to go through the education system without learning anything about Aboriginal peoples. Ethel concludes her talk by posing a question to the audience: “What is the role of non-Aboriginal society in relationship to Indigenous peoples as the conversation shifts to making spaces for Aboriginal voices?” I look forward to hearing what people have to say to such a challenging question, not least because it is closely related to my own work. People are eager to engage. Some express their gratitude for this kind of discussion and emphasize the need for further awareness-raising on these issues. One woman is spot on, pointing out that what needs to be done first is to “get the plain history out there,” though it is a real challenge when people usually don’t want to hear it. She also notes the problem of discussing various First Nations issues such as residential schools, land rights, and treaties separately, rather than in ways that would reveal the connections among them. “At the end of the day,” she concludes, “the question starts with the land.” Excellent start, but from there the discussion takes a plunge. A young woman wants to know what is the First Nations identity in 2004 because for her, it seems unavoidably bicultural, both Canadian and Aboriginal at once. I’m surprised, though I really shouldn’t be. “Identity” seems to be the basic issue in any discussion of indigenous matters. Once again I find myself wondering why such questions arise. Why is it so damned difficult to grasp indigenous identities as a contemporary reality? Is it because of diehard assumptions that indigenous identities are merely

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“traditional” and therefore separate, in terms of both time and space, from the society in which we live? Or does it reflect a conscious effort to delegitimize arguments that the current circumstances must be transformed – a tactic for demonstrating that because indigenous identities in the twenty-first century are moot, arguments concerning the legacy of assimilation and oppression aren’t valid? Or is it part of an ages-old effort to impose on indigenous peoples a fixed, authentic identity that would allow the hegemonic people to evade responsibility for their personal histories and to ignore how these histories have materialized today in the privileges they enjoy? The speakers themselves don’t get a chance to reply, as someone from the audience jumps in and reveals how all her First Nations friends are as different from one another as her mainstream friends ... Oh really. Not to worry, the worst is yet to come. A couple of people stand up to stress the need for education for all and to stop focusing on some groups because it leaves other cultural groups behind. We’re after all one human family who need to learn from one another! I’m dumbfounded – it’s not that it’s the first time I’ve heard this, but how can people come up with that after hearing what we’ve just heard? How do these people listen? Is it the deep denial or plain inability to hear what Ethel has just said – that it is the consequences of historical oppression and discrimination that we’re living as we speak – that makes it impossible for some to see the need for efforts to create spaces for indigenous voices in education and perhaps even more importantly, the need for people (including the commentator herself) to take their share of the responsibility for making it happen? Then comes the grand finale, the classic of anything indigenous: We’re all Aboriginal! We just need to know our own heritage and cultural roots to find out that all traditions are the same. Once we’ve done that, the spaces for indigenous education automatically happen! I should’ve guessed this was coming. I’m surprised that neither of the speakers interrupts and challenges these views as hegemony disguised in white liberal multiculturalism. Is it the luxury of naïve ignorance, lack of doing one’s homework, or a more deliberate strategy for curtailing decolonization, for keeping the subaltern in its place, that gives rise to ideas about everyone’s being an equal, hand-holding member of the happy human family? Or perhaps is it just an embellished version of the neoliberal parlance of level playing fields? Yes, we might all be indigenous, but some of us are more ripped off than others. To proclaim “we are all one human family” gives the representatives of the dominant culture and society the alibi they need to turn away from examining legacies of colonialism as reflected in contemporary social, political, and economic inequalities and in white privilege. Margery Fee poses a pertinent question about finding one’s indigenous roots: “Is examining my own Irish, Scottish, English ethnic heritage – or even my own Canadian ancestors – a productive move, or does it also simply add to my privilege, my ‘cultural capital,’ my power?”1 What is gained when somebody declares that we are all indigenous? Does it advance the decolonization of the academy or society? Who benefits, whose interests does it serve, if “we are all indigenous”? How does it contribute to indigenous scholarship and education?

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Can We Know the “Other”? It is a widely recognized fact that any attempt or claim to know (about) other peoples and cultures is loaded with problems and dangers. A wellmeaning but patronizing humanist-liberalist tradition is reflected in views according to which a mere cultivation of understanding or an increase in information will facilitate the encounter with the “other” and perhaps even eradicate systemic social and power inequalities. At its extreme, it asserts that liberal democracy is a “social strategy for enabling individuals to live the good life. It is unalterably opposed to ignorance. It trusts that knowledge and understanding have the power to set people free.”2 According to Gayatri Spivak, views like these represent the “Eurocentric arrogance of conscience” – that is, the simplistic assumption that as long as one has sufficient information, one can understand the “other.”3 Spivak uses Jean-Paul Sartre as an example of the “arrogance of the radical European humanist conscience.” In Existentialism and Humanism, Sartre argues that “every project, even that of a Chinese, an Indian or a Negro, can be understood by a European ... There is always some way of understanding an idiot, a child, a primitive man or a foreigner if one has sufficient information.”4 By assuming that epistemologies are universal and that any episteme or system of knowledge can be accessed, this view reflects the Eurocentric claim that Western or modern intellectual traditions are more sophisticated than are other kinds (assuming that the latter even exist). Another example of the Eurocentric arrogance of conscience can be found in Clifford Geertz’s Interpretation of Cultures, where he writes that “understanding a people’s culture exposes their normalness without reducing their particularity. It renders them accessible: setting them in the frame of their own banalities, it dissolves their opacity.”5 Not only does Geertz take for granted that understanding a people’s culture is always possible, he also lapses into the common traps of unexamined and problematic assumptions about concepts such as normality, transparency, and the accessibility of a culture. Over the past several decades, however, Eurocentric, hegemonic assumptions about knowing (inferior) others have been contested on various grounds by various discourses. In indigenous scholarship it is often argued that other peoples (or cultures) cannot be known from the perspective of cultures based on entirely different assumptions and worldviews. Postcolonial critiques denounce attempts to know the “other” through a colonial, imperialist bias, while feminist critiques remind us of the implications and legacies of the patriarchal gaze and criticize the androcentric bias of knowledge previously assumed to be gender neutral. Antiracist and critical race theorists contend that the very idea of learning about “other” people and cultures reflects a liberal strategy for strengthening control of difference. Many anthropologists and ethnographers continue to struggle with the crisis of

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cultural representation. Poststructuralists, in turn, ask how one can imagine knowing other peoples and cultures when no person can ever even fully know herself. The question of whether anyone can know other peoples and cultures is further complicated by the fact that knowing does not necessarily increase sympathy and mutual respect and may in fact result in violence. Consider, for example, Hernán Cortés, the Spanish conquistador who invaded the kingdom of Montezuma in what is now Mexico. Tzvetan Todorov argues that Cortés’ “knowing about” the Aztecs resulted in the annihilation of their civilization. Cortés understood the Aztec world relatively well. That understanding, however, not only did not stop him from destroying the Aztecs; it made that destruction possible. The conquistadors’ own accounts indicate that at least at a certain level, the Europeans admired the Aztecs. However, this admiration was by and large limited to the objects they produced: “Like today’s tourist who admires the quality of Asian or African craftsmanship though he is untouched by the notion of sharing the life of the craftsmen who produce such objects, Cortés goes into ecstasies about the Aztec productions but does not acknowledge their makers as human individualities to be set on the same level as himself.”6 “Understanding other cultures” in terms of material objects (buildings, artefacts, and the like) cannot be conflated with understanding different worldviews – that is, intellectual conventions. Separating a society’s material products from the people who produced them is a convenient way to avoid acknowledging and recognizing actual human beings at any level, be it individual or collective. This separation also enables one to appreciate the material culture (both in past and present) even while reducing indigenous people to a “social problem.” This attitude of sophisticated appreciation of art and cultural property of “other cultures,” which ignores the actual histories of actual peoples, continues today in contemporary museums and art galleries. Homi Bhabha argues that “the sign of the ‘cultured’ or the ‘civilized’ attitude is the ability to appreciate cultures in a kind of musée imaginaire; as though one should be able to collect and appreciate them. Western connoisseurship is the capacity to understand and locate cultures in a universal time-frame that acknowledges their various historical and social contexts only eventually to transcend them and render them transparent.”7 Furthermore, knowing is associated with power and control. Postcolonial criticism has long argued that producing and having (or claiming to have) knowledge of other peoples reflects the desire of the knowing subject to tame and consume, if not to possess or devour, the “other.” Knowledge – both producing it and imposing it on others – has also been a means for gaining control over indigenous peoples.8 Jean-Jacques Rousseau was among the first to point out, in Discourse of Inequality, that voyages to and colonial exploits in other parts of the world

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did nothing but serve Europeans’ “ridiculous prejudices.” He criticized explorers and colonizers for resorting to cultural relativism in order to maintain their sense of superiority and normativity.9 Spivak calls the process of containing the “other” for colonial, imperial purposes as “othering”; it involves domesticating an incommensurable and discontinuous “other” in order to consolidate the imperialist self.10 In this way, the “other” is conventionalized in the dominant discourse, and the epistemic discontinuity that might have existed is neutralized even while the subaltern is constructed as monolithic. Yet one cannot vanquish the desire to know and understand “others” or make that desire disappear simply by declaring it suspect. Even if one is sometimes tempted to embrace the more pessimistic view that modern and indigenous epistemes are incommensurable, the academy will move forward only by committing itself to responsibility and thus, responsiveness. And it will be able to do this only if it extends the dominant, Western intellectual conventions beyond their normative limits. Below, I examine some of the most common approaches to knowing the indigenous “other,” for the purpose of uncovering the challenges and strategies they pose. “Indianism” and Inclusion of Indigenous Voices “While the white people had much to teach us, we had much to teach them, and what a school could have been established upon that idea?”11 So spoke Luther Standing Bear, the first Lakota student to attend the Carlisle Indian boarding school in Pennsylvania when it opened its doors in 1879. His words are still relevant in the context of today’s academy. In November 2002, at the press conference for the release of the report “Learning about Walking in Beauty: Placing Aboriginal Perspectives in Canadian Classrooms,” the chair of the Canadian Race Relations Foundation, the Honourable Lincoln Alexander, stated that “clearly, Canadians know little but wish to know more about Aboriginal histories and cultures, which ought to be presented honestly and respectfully in school curricula.”12 The above-mentioned report highlighted the persistence of many of the same problems and concerns exposed several years earlier by the Report of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (RCAP), which stated that “the limited understanding of Aboriginal issues among non-Aboriginal Canadians” was presenting various obstacles “to achieving reconciliation and a new relationship.”13 The RCAP report also noted that while knowledge is very necessary and a prerequisite for any human relationship, it cannot by itself end deep-seated hostility or change fundamental attitudes, many of which are clearly prejudiced. Like Standing Bear, the report strongly recommended that public education be used as a means by which to eradicate such attitudes and to “move beyond policies that are the failed relics of colonialism.” According to the RCAP report, such a move would benefit all

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Canadians.14 The report, however, did not go into detail about what kind of education was needed or how this move would be achieved. The situation in Canada is hardly unique, whether the question is the lack of knowledge pertaining to indigenous peoples or the refusal and inability to address the multiple marginalization of these peoples and their communities – concerns that also have their uglier sides, in the form of indifference, studied ignorance, and institutionalized racism (see Chapter 3). Duane Champagne and Jay Stauss, for example, maintain that Native Americans in the United States are among the least understood groups, even by academics.15 A serious problem is that even when there is an interest in indigenous peoples and their issues, there is relatively little interest either in addressing those issues on indigenous people’s own terms or in grasping the deeper meanings of indigenous perspectives and values. Borrowing from Edward Said’s notion of Orientalism, David Newhouse, Don McCaskill, and John Milloy call this phenomenon “Indianism.” This refers to articles and studies that have been written in an “attempt to explain Aboriginal peoples” but that lack “voices of Aboriginal peoples or explanations posited using Aboriginal ideas.”16 This “anthropological mode of knowing” – what Laura Donaldson refers to as the “intertextual chain of information retrieval”17 – defers to mainstream expertise and dominant discourses and thereby perpetuates the undervaluation of indigenous perspectives and worldviews. Common suggestions for embracing and “finding indigenous voices” include calls for more information to be produced by indigenous people themselves and for more people to “listen to indigenous elders.” Both suggestions are valid and need to be taken seriously, but they fail to take into account some of the accompanying difficulties. The first fails to recognize that a fair number of excellent documents by indigenous scholars and writers – academic monographs, novels and stories, children’s books, coffee table books, and everything in between – are already widely available and accessible to various audiences. The problem is not that there are no books on indigenous peoples by indigenous people. The problem often seems to be instead that “non-Indians are still more comfortable with Indian books written by non-Indians than they are with books by Indian authors.”18 Books by indigenous people are usually rooted in unfamiliar epistemic conventions, and as a result, many non-indigenous people may find them too different, too challenging, or even too “simplistic.” The sad fact is that indigenous people’s writings usually do not conform to or confirm the stereotypes of indigenous people that many readers hold. The second suggestion – that people listen to and learn from indigenous elders, who are occasionally described as “traditional PhDs” – is very important for indigenous and non-indigenous people alike. It is also in line with the suggestion that people learn to listen in ways that are not characterized

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by benevolent imperialism. Taking this suggestion is not, however, as easy and straightforward as we might first think. We must not assume that a person who is unfamiliar with the epistemic, philosophical, and cultural assumptions and traditions embedded in elders’ teachings will be able to “get it” – that is, appreciate and understand what the elders are saying – since elders’ teachings often are in a format that does not conform, for example, to the linear logic of modern reason. The listener may also be unfamiliar with the socio-cultural references of the elders. Furthermore, considering the long history of such expectations by outsiders, it may be inappropriate to assume that indigenous elders would or should be willing to take on the task of teaching ignorant people. Indigenous Studies Programs and Indigenous Faculty Critiques of the academic world by indigenous scholars and attempts to address the educational needs of indigenous students have led, since the late 1960s, to the founding of various indigenous studies programs and departments in many universities around the world. For some, indigenous studies programs are a response to colonization and relations of oppression. For others, indigenous studies programs are no different from other academic disciplines “with an identifiable history, a unique subject matter, an integral literature, a distinct epistemology, and a rigorous pedagogy.”19 Also, many indigenous scholars maintain that improving the status and broadening the role of indigenous studies programs is an effective way of expanding knowledge and information about indigenous peoples and their issues.20 Choctaw scholar Devon Mihesuah contends that “the fundamental argument for a good Indian studies program is to educate students who are ignorant about Indians.”21 Along with frameworks for indigenous pedagogies and research methodologies, these programs are necessary in order for indigenous academics to validate their systems of knowledge, build capacity in their communities, and claim space for indigenous students and scholars. They are the hubs of indigenous research, scholarship, and capacity building both in intellectual terms and in terms of broader, communal self-determination in the mainstream academy. From within these programs, indigenous students and faculty can focus on their own priorities and issues according to their own premises and practices; they can disengage themselves from the “politics of distraction,” that is, from issues and questions that are of secondary importance to them because they arise from the needs and concerns of the mainstream academy and society.22 The politics of distraction are sometimes impossible to avoid even in indigenous studies programs, in which instructors often spend much of their courses “unteaching” the ideological baggage and past misinformation that many non-indigenous students bring to class.23 While important, this unteaching may shift the focus away from issues that

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indigenous people do consider relevant. So instead of allowing dominant, neocolonial, and repressive discourses to occupy and monopolize these and other spaces of indigenous knowledge and voices – thereby inducing indigenous academic homelessness – we need to hold the academy at large responsible for committing itself to hospitality beyond indigenous studies programs. Efforts to create space for indigenous scholarship have led to the founding of indigenous universities, including the First Nations University of Canada24 and three Maori universities, or Wananga, in Aotearoa/New Zealand. Discussions are ongoing about creating an indigenous university in the United States; the Sami University College in Guovdageaidnu/ Kautokeino, Norway, is in the process of becoming a “full” university, together with the Sami Institute. In response to some of the issues arising from these developments, the World Indigenous Nations Higher Education Consortium (WINHEC) was established in 2002 by indigenous peoples’ representatives from Australia, the United States, Canada, and Norway. WINHEC’s goals include advancing indigenous peoples’ endeavours in and through higher education and establishing an accreditation body for indigenous peoples’ higher education institutions and initiatives. Indigenous institutions of higher learning are a significant step toward indigenous sovereignty, including intellectual self-determination. They are also an important means by which to improve the well-being of indigenous people in very concrete ways, such as by providing them with avenues for meaningful jobs, strengthening their cultural identities, and building the capacity of their communities. But at the same time, they pose some serious challenges relating to cultural accommodation and the possible suppression of knowledge. In his discussion of the problems of Arab higher education, Edward Said notes that many Arab universities have become places of political conformity and self-preservation instead of sites for intellectual inquiry, the advancement of knowledge, and above all, critical freedom. Concerned that the Eurocentric norm could be overwhelmed by an Islamo- or Arabocentric one, he insists that “a single overmastering identity at the core of the academic enterprise, whether that identity be Western, African, or Asian, is a confinement, a deprivation.”25 Indigenous peoples’ institutions of higher education are being created to serve mainly indigenous people; as such, they are not an answer to the sanctioned ignorance that prevails in the mainstream, Western academy. In the same way, there are highly important epistemological, psychological, pedagogical, and ethical reasons for maintaining indigenous studies programs in mainstream universities, including the fact that they offer safe and culturally appropriate spaces for indigenous students. These programs alone, however, do not address the problem of epistemic ignorance in the academy, which is intellectually based in colonialism and patriarchy and which today is remodelling itself to suit corporate and neoliberal agendas.

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The unfortunate fact is that most indigenous studies programs are marginal (both intellectually and financially) within the academy. In spite of welcoming new fields of study, universities usually fiercely protect their intellectual traditions. Area studies are dismissed “as fringe programs of less merit and credibility,” an act which, according to M. Annette Jaimes Guerrero, amounts to discrimination and expresses Eurocentrism.26 The marginalization of indigenous studies programs means that they often are poorly integrated into the academy and are ignored by it. They are faced with challenges such as “gaining and maintaining institutional support, attracting and retaining [indigenous] students and faculty, and developing a coherent vision that balances all the important components of the program – teaching and research, student services, and community outreach.”27 Some indigenous scholars also point out that while Native Studies offer a space where indigenous students are not immediately marginalized, fragmentation of knowledge and objectification of Native peoples also occurs in Native Studies programs.28 Indigenous studies programs do not have the capacity to seriously challenge the hierarchical structures that maintain exclusionary practices in the academy at large. As a consequence, the underlying inequalities and marginalization are left intact. Ward Churchill argues that the separate programs have “accomplished little if anything in terms of altering the delivery of White Studies instruction in the broader institutional context.”29 Churchill is not talking about the fairly recent field of “critical white studies,” but rather the university’s hegemonic, dominant discourses, disciplines, and objects of knowledge. In his view, to transform academic institutions will require a permeation and subversion of the existing structures rather than a creation of parallel structures, as well as a conceptual rather than what he calls merely “contentual inclusion” of non-Western intellectual traditions: “Content is, of course, highly important, but, in and of itself, can never be sufficient to offset the cumulative effects of White Studies indoctrination. Non-Western content injected into White Studies format can be – and, historically, has been – filtered through the lens of eurocentric conceptualization, taking on meanings entirely alien to itself along the way.”30 The “add-and-stir” model is inadequate in many ways, not least because it does not help disempowered students overcome their marginalization. Also, the mere inclusion of indigenous issues in curricula will be problematic as long as the frameworks of interpretation and analysis remain unchanged. Viewing indigenous peoples’ philosophies and systems of knowledge through the lens of modern, Enlightenment assumptions results only in epistemic violence and biased, stereotypical (mis)interpretations. Moreover, indigenous studies programs cannot be expected to become places for educating ignorant non-indigenous students (and where would ignorant nonindigenous professors and instructors be educated if this were the answer?).

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Such programs usually focus on the needs and interests of indigenous students.31 Many indigenous people maintain that these programs must serve first and foremost indigenous people and be spaces where they can feel safe and find a sense of community and belonging that is usually absent in other academic departments. Should indigenous epistemologies be merely a subject to be taught, or should they be a means for organizing the curriculum? John H. Moore points out that “the fundamental problem is that undergraduate programs are organized and structured, spatially and temporally, according to principles about the world very different from the Native American principles that Native American studies programs would like to communicate.”32 This is a question of epistemic violence: an inclusive curriculum in a context of hegemonic discursive structures can only bring about surface changes and cannot address the systematically discriminatory epistemic foundations of the mainstream academy. Hiring more indigenous faculty or inviting them into classrooms as guest lecturers is another common and highly pertinent suggestion for addressing the academy’s ignorance. There is no doubt that it is extremely important to increase the number of indigenous faculty in most if not all academic institutions everywhere. But hiring indigenous faculty should not be seen as relieving non-indigenous academics of their responsibilities toward indigenous students. Universities need to be made more reflective of the population, and new forms of knowledge and practices need to be introduced; but at the same time, it is important to recognize that these reforms may also reinforce systemic racism and colonial, patriarchal hegemony. Systemic racism is perpetuated, for example, when “the faculty members are seen as Native Informants and/or as qualified to teach Aboriginal subject matter only; if they are assumed to be responsible for anti-racist work in the university, if [they] are used as evidence that the predominantly white faculty and the system they inhabit are not involved in systemic racism and that the ‘work’ is done.”33 In the same way, inviting indigenous faculty and faculty of colour as guest speakers may at first seem a reassuring and propitious gesture of inclusion. It is good that there is a willingness to be “inclusive,” to offer different perspectives, and to recognize the expertise of indigenous faculty, but this recognition may confine and ghettoize this expertise as belonging solely to those groups. This in turn may allow ignorance among non-indigenous academics to continue by relieving them of their “responsibility to do the cultural and historical homework necessary to teach the materials effectively.”34 When guest lecturers are invited to speak about race and ethnicity – about “difference” – it only sanctions the gaps in knowledge and ignorance of faculty members who are unmarked by such “difference.” Furthermore, relying on indigenous guest speakers may impede a shift in students’ focus away from indigenous people as exotic others toward

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indigenous–mainstream relations.35 Indigenous issues may become separated from the rest of society’s social, political, and historical fabric. It could also reinforce the idea that only indigenous people can and should teach indigenous issues. Mihesuah reminds us that “Indians are not the only people with knowledge about Indians.”36 This is not to suggest that hiring more indigenous people and inviting them as guest speakers is unnecessary. However, such gestures and practices of inclusion will be inadequate unless measures are also taken to address structures of domination. Without these additional measures, inclusive practices could end up actually foreclosing the “other.” Teaching Tribal Values Some indigenous scholars consider teaching their worldviews and philosophies to outsiders not only impossible but also inappropriate because both will inevitably be either rejected, misinterpreted, appropriated, or misused. Vine Deloria sees a problem in discussing ethnicity and Native cultures in generalized, abstract terms; he maintains that “we would be on very thin ice if we purported to teach what I regarded as the cultural context of Indian life.”37 In his view, it is more important to focus on training better policy makers for the future by teaching the history of the relationship between Native Americans and the federal government. In his novel The Trickster of Liberty, Gerald Vizenor alludes to the difficulty of teaching tribal values in the classroom. A character in the novel, the director of urban tribal education Marie Gee Hailme, confesses in “The Last Lecture” how she has been teaching “biased and amiss” tribal values: “‘My skin is dark,’ she whispered, ‘you can see that much, but who, in their right mind, would trust the education of their children to pigmentation?’ ... ‘Who knows how to grow up like an Indian? Tell me that, and who knows how to teach values that are real Indian?’”38 Hailme is an orphan who grew up in a boarding school. In the novel, she is placed in charge of developing classroom materials about “Indians,” and ends up lecturing about “Indian” values “to help white teachers understand how Indian students think and why they drop out of school.” Once in the classroom, however, a question from a student makes her realize the inherent problems of her position: “‘What kind of Indians are you talking about? There aren’t no Indians like that out here on our reservation.’ I realized that I was describing an invented tribe, my own tribe that acted out my hangups, which had nothing to do with being a person stuck in a public school.”39 Though humorous, Vizenor’s critique of the teaching of “tribal values” should be taken seriously in discussions of ways to address epistemic ignorance. First, as Vizenor notes, one can hardly say that there is a set of fixed “Indian” or indigenous values that would have remained unchanged through time or that would be exactly the same from one people (or tribe, nation) to

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another. Second, any articulation of a set of values is inevitably a generalization if not an idealization. It is always an invention or construct of some sort even when it is not a reflection of someone’s personal hang-ups. At the same time, it is not entirely wrong to argue that indigenous philosophies and worldviews share certain common principles – principles that could also be called values. Calling for the (recognition of the) gift of indigenous epistemes in the academy is not the same as teaching tribal values. To recognize that indigenous epistemes are valid ways of structuring knowledge and of understanding the world is not to call for teaching a fixed set of indigenous values to non-indigenous students. What is required is openness to and responsibility toward the “other,” and this in turn requires a certain level of comprehension of indigenous epistemes. As importantly, it requires that individuals and institutions commit themselves to a critical debate about “cross-cultural” education, and that this education involve more than just integrating new material into the curriculum. The academy needs to recognize that the logic of the gift calls for changes to the way knowledge is perceived and approached; moreover, well-intentioned individuals will need to be well equipped to deal with the complexities that emerge when different epistemes meet.40 It would be equally misleading to suggest that indigenous epistemes cannot be brought to the academy. They are not detachable objects that can be separated and packaged for delivery (notwithstanding the contemporary trend toward packaging and commodifying indigenous knowledge). That said, indigenous epistemes have been in the academy for as long as indigenous people have been attending universities. And considering how many universities are located on indigenous peoples’ lands, indigenous epistemes have always existed in the physical space of the university, however invisible or ignored. Without waiting to be invited, indigenous epistemes are already “in” the academy. The problem is not how to bring indigenous knowledge to the university, since it is already there. The problem is the epistemic ignorance that prevails because the gift of indigenous epistemes remains impossible in the academy. How can we begin to address ignorance as long as teaching and learning about “other” cultures seems suspect? Liberal Multiculturalism What actually happens in a typical liberal multicultural classroom “at its best”? On a given day we are reading a text from one national origin. The group in the classroom from that particular national origin in the general polity can identify with the richness of the texture of the “culture” in question, often through a haze of nostalgia. (I am not even bringing up the question of the definition of culture.) People from other national origins in the

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classroom (other, that is, than Anglo) relate sympathetically but superficially, in an aura of “same difference.” The Anglo relates benevolently to everything, “knowing about other cultures” in a relativist glow.41

The predominant liberal, hegemonic academic discourse maintains that universities are the most appropriate places to develop mutual respect and “an understanding and appreciation of ‘the other.’”42 This is especially because in this discourse, universities and colleges are considered “an intense, voluntary field of personal and cultural encounter” where “students are thrown together in close quarters with several thousand self-selected and usually friendly ‘others’ in a relatively safe environment where speech and thought are ideally free and intellectual stretching is encouraged by parents, faculty, and society at large,” and also because this intellectual stretching is carried out through philosophical inquiry.43 This kind of rhetoric echoes Spivak’s critiques of the Eurocentric arrogance of conscience. Such a view could only possibly be held by white male academics who have been blinded by their privilege and who thus cannot see, never mind experience, the barriers of inequality, the relations of domination, and the systemic discrimination that are all present in the academy. Meanwhile, arguments like James Axtell’s are repeatedly employed as the academy’s standard reply to calls for responsibility toward the “other.” Developing an understanding and appreciation of the “other” is not only an inadequate response but also an irresponsible one. It reflects a specific type of racism that enables the dominant to occupy the position of universality while consigning the “other” to a partial and particular one. Through distancing, the dominant takes the position of privilege and is able to dissociate itself from any active commitment to a relationship, to reciprocation. Especially in critical and antiracist pedagogy and theory, it is considered highly objectionable to teach the rules, values, and cultural codes of other people. Scholars in these fields point out that the shift toward cultural differences suggests that the history of oppression no longer plays a role in contemporary social relations. They argue that the idea of cultural sensitivity – of being aware of other groups’ cultural behaviour – only produces a “catalogue of cultural differences” and leaves systemic oppression unaddressed. When we focus on the cultural characteristics of the “other,” we are in effect suggesting that the “other” is “merely different, rather than oppressed.”44 Therefore, according to Sherene H. Razack, education for social change is more “about disrupting the hegemonic ways of seeing through which subjects make themselves dominant” than it is about absorbing new information.45 She maintains that “what makes the cultural differences approach so inadequate in various pedagogical moments is not so much that it is wrong, for people in reality are diverse and do have culturally specific

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practices that must be taken into account, but that its emphasis on cultural diversity too often descends, in a multicultural spiral, to a superficial reading of differences that makes power relations invisible and keeps dominant cultural norms in place.”46 This kind of “harmonious, empty pluralism” results in what Chandra Mohanty calls “the race industry,” a process that reduces collective, historical, and institutional inequities to matters of individual psychology.47 It implies that dominant discourses are not characterized by racism, sexism, and other attitudinal biases and that “with a little practice and the right information, we can all be innocent subjects, standing outside hierarchical social relations.”48 This is, of course, not the case. As was discussed in Chapter 2, systemic racism still exists in the academy, where it manifests itself through intentional or unintentional discrimination that is embedded in the institution’s discourses, structures, practices, and operational culture. Besides race- and gender-based discrimination and relations of power in the academy, we also must address intellectual discrimination, which is less visible and which is not necessarily limited to racism. Mere information and practice does not make individuals or institutions innocent subjects, nor does it dismantle social hierarchies. Yet, as so many indigenous people in the academy can attest, ignorance and epistemic exclusion are serious concerns and constitute a reality that must be confronted in academic settings. Because of sanctioned ignorance toward indigenous epistemes, and because of their histories and contemporary realities, indigenous people are not heard by the academy. It follows that the struggle for transformation in and of the academy and for the forging of a new paradigm that will reflect the logic of the gift must be joined at various levels; furthermore, this struggle must include finding ways to understand complex, multilayered hegemonic relations so that they can be dismantled. Because processes of not-knowing and structures of domination are mutually reinforcing and reinforced, tackling one can only take us so far, and in fact would only perpetuate exclusion by rendering the “other” invisible. Hopes for disruption hinge on the clash between the prevailing sanctioned ignorance on the one hand, and mechanisms of control and exclusion on the other. Moreover, liberal multiculturalism with its discourses of cultural diversity, tolerance, and respect are implicated in neoliberal global capitalism. Spivak contends that liberal multiculturalism represents “an important public relations move” in the process of economic globalization. She notes that in order “to question this distorting rationale for multiculturalism,” we must recognize how the current racist backlash has failed to grasp contemporary geopolitics. This failure has led to “a larger struggle where one side devises newer ways to exploit transnationality through a distorting culturalism and the other knows rather little what transnational script drives, writes, and

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operates it.”49 On the one hand, liberal multiculturalism is endorsed by contemporary global capitalism in the interest of economic exploitation of cultures and also of people through the international division of labour. On the other, multiculturalism ensures sanctioned ignorance by keeping “knowing” at the superficial level of liberal diversity and failing to make visible the connections between the cultural and the economic. Argues Spivak: “It is within this ignorant clash that we have to find and locate our agency and attempt, again and again, to unhinge the clashing machinery.”50 In terms of indigenous people, this “unhinging of the clashing machinery” must start with a recognition of how liberal multiculturalism and its colonial and capitalist legacies sustain unequal power relations. These relations of domination are upheld, for example, when structures are erected that require indigenous people to “identify with the impossible object of authentic self-identity,” that is, with culture and society.51 In other words, indigenous peoples enter as a topic of discussion only in the politics of culturalism, identity, and representation, not when contemporary geopolitics is being debated. Even in the most radical, cutting-edge circles, the word “indigenous” regularly elicits either averted gazes, audible gasps of silence, or elusive responses so obvious in their ignorance and indifference that they would be better left unsaid. Despite the radical shifts that have occurred in the field of anthropology over the past several decades, the persistent anthropological bias (supported by popular culture and media representations) continues to link “indigenous” to the past – or worse, to nostalgia for the past. Native informants are viewed as useful only in certain contexts – what they might have to say about contemporary forms of domination or exploitation is usually neglected. The present is conveniently ignored, although – or perhaps because – our current global political economy acutely needs indigenous lands and in many parts of the world (certainly in the Americas) we inhabit, live, walk, and talk on and from those lands. If those indigenous lands are literally the ground beneath our feet, then why is it so difficult to acknowledge that fact except in rhetorical statements and opening remarks? Is it perhaps because that recognition would threaten to destroy the very foundations of colonial nation-states? Furthermore, we need to pay attention to what is being left intact when respect for cultural particularities is being codified. Elaborating on Slavoj Z
iz
ek’s ideas about multiculturalism’s Eurocentric distance in respecting and tolerating the “other,” Meyda Yegenoglu calls attention to the particular form of racism that arises from multiculturalism. This racism does not reside in its being against the values of other cultures; rather, it resides “in respecting and tolerating the different, it maintains a distance which enables it to retain the privileged position of empty universality.”52 In this way, cultural relativism enables the West to remain aloof and to withdraw

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complacently from the mechanisms of domination that are embedded in its institutional structures as well as in the practices of individuals. We will never address epistemic ignorance, let alone undermine it, by teaching codes of cultural diversity or by promoting multicultural respect and (repressive) tolerance. Quite the contrary: it is clear that these practices sanction ignorance behind the scenes; on stage, meanwhile, the show is about how the “other” is valued and treated in an equal manner. Thanks to the studied innocence of the academy, hegemonic positions of respect and tolerance have consolidated the position of the privileged more firmly than ever. Sheila McIntyre posits that one of the most obvious dimensions of systemic inequality is that privileged academics tend to choose not to know. In this way, they are able “to assert their individual innocence of exercising the oppressive habits of systemic privilege.”53 Central to this sort of wilful not-knowing “is the right not to learn how systematic inequality operates.”54 McIntyre argues that the “systematically privileged” employ three fictions in order to avoid noticing their own complicity in structures of discrimination. The first fiction is that discriminatory behaviour and values are atypical incidents and that those who embrace them are not “us.” The second fiction is the one that enables privileged people to claim that they “do not benefit from the expression of bigotry by others.”55 The third is visible in the fact that in their desire to avoid being “bigots,” academics strive to “interact with Others as full equals, unencumbered by our immersion in a systematically unequal culture.”56 Because it forecloses colonialist structures and broader narratives of imperialism, sanctioned ignorance amounts to an excuse to continue with discriminatory practices. In this circumstance, one does not need to address or examine one’s own complicity in and involvement with those structures. An effective way to avoid examining one’s own complicity and involvement in the structures of unequal power relations and the status quo is by denying one’s responsibility. Some academics deny their responsibility by individualizing and personalizing a collective and systemic problem. This tactic is reflected, for example, in sentiments that conveniently disassociate the individual from her or his culture and society and the prevailing ethos of the dominant society. Individualizing systemic domination – that is, scapegoating individuals rather than examining structures – is a common mechanism of denial. Unpinning the individual from those structures is another effective way of absolving oneself of responsibility. This latter tactic elevates the individual above whatever problems there are in society through the simple claim that “just because I think differently (i.e., I disagree with discrimination and domination), I am exempted from the investigation, I am not part of the privilege.” This position, however, “is itself based on privilege, on a refusal to accept responsibility for one’s implication

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in actual historical or social relations ... the denial of one’s own personal history and the claim to a total separation from it.”57 By denying one’s complicity in studied ignorance, one negates not only the significance of primary socialization into the modern consciousness, but also the fact that epistemic ignorance is not a question of some individuals not knowing but rather a systemic problem that involves the epistemic foundations of the academy. Responsibility for Doing Homework Look, you’re an academic. Do your homework. If I weren’t supposed to teach you something, why are you in the class?58

Responsibility is a concept often used in academic discourse and regularly invoked by a variety of individuals and sectors, ranging from those who challenge the neocolonial, hegemonic structures of the academy to administrators who represent those structures and paradigms. Traditional notions of academic responsibility, which one can argue are central to the academic endeavour, are closely connected to the lofty goal of “pursuing truth.” Yet beyond the will to truth, it remains somewhat unclear what is generally expected and envisioned when we talk about academic responsibility. In Beyond the Ivory Tower: Social Responsibilities of the Modern University, Derek Bok discusses some of the social responsibilities that the university is considered to have in relation to society and the state. Social activists generally support the role the university plays in providing services to society; traditionalists promote academic rather than social responsibility and argue that “the wholesale effort to serve society’s needs has exposed higher education to pressures and temptations that threaten to corrupt academic values.”59 According to Bok, the academy’s responsibilities include basic scientific inquiry, humanistic scholarship, and the analysis of society and its institutions. All of these fall under the rubric of “contributions of lasting importance.”60 Since the early 1990s, there has been a trend toward demanding that universities be accountable to government and to society as a whole. The result has been performance indicators, new models of accountability, and task forces promoting a “trend that sees ‘ultimate responsibility’ for an institution reside in a board of governors that monitors the universities’ adoption of objectives set by outside political appointees.”61 This kind of accountability, Peter Emberley argues, “becomes little more than means to bring universities more under the direction of government.”62 Articulated this way, accountability seems to be a codeword for further consolidation of market solutions to the operating problems of universities. The responsibility I am

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calling for in this inquiry is of a different order. It is not responsibility as mere public accountability or a fixed set of obligations, but a form of ethics embedded in the logic of the gift-oriented worldviews and philosophies. Responsibility requires knowledge. It also requires knowing how to respond and act in a responsible manner. Derrida suggests that “not knowing, having neither a sufficient knowledge or consciousness of what being responsible means, is of itself a lack of responsibility.”63 If knowledge is a prerequisite for responsibility, it follows that ignorance presents a serious threat to responsible, response-able behaviour and thinking. Knowledge is not simply information. Information amounts to little more than a collection of facts; knowledge is the result of the ability to learn and perceive. For information to become knowledge, one must do something with it. There can be no responsibility in the academy when there is merely information. Besides knowledge, responsibility requires action: “If it is true that the concept of responsibility has, in the most reliable continuity of its history, always implied involvement in action, doing, a praxis, a decision that exceeds simple conscience or simple theoretical understanding, it is also true that the same concept requires a decision or responsible action to answer for itself consciously, that is, with knowledge of a thematics of what is done, of what action signifies, its causes, ends, etc.”64 Responsibility as action beyond theorizing poses the possibility of an interruption: “There is no responsibility without a dissident and inventive rupture with respect to tradition, authority, orthodoxy, rule, or doctrine.”65 Responsibility as a rupture of tradition may sound at odds with indigenous perceptions and practices of responsibility, which emphasize the continuation of tradition. However, tradition is never static; it always changes over time. Indigenous people are always emphasizing this point, especially when confronted with irresponsible demands for authenticity. There has always been a rupture, both inventive (usually from within) and intrusive, interventionist (usually from without). In the context of the academy, responsibility with inventive rupture implies more than anything else the capacity to interrupt the self, to move beyond the “I” as the ethical subject.66 According to Martin Heidegger, responsibility is “a response to which one commits oneself.”67 This idea of responsiveness or respondence is elaborated by Spivak, whose notion of responsibility also reflects Mikhail Bakhtin’s articulation of “answerability.”68 Spivak posits that response “involves not only ‘respond to,’ as in ‘give an answer to,’ but the related situations of ‘answering to,’ as in being responsible for a name (this brings up the question of the relationship between being responsible for/to ourselves and for/ to others); of being answerable.”69 Responsibility signifies the act of response, which completes the transaction of speaker and listener, as well as the ethical stance of making discursive space for the “other” to exist. She maintains

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that “ethics are not just a problem of knowledge but a call to a relationship.”70 If responsibility cannot be merely the mechanical expectation to answer, what does it mean, then, to call for a willingness to give a response and for the ability to respond? What is the response-ability of the academy? The academy’s first piece of “homework” amounts to an imperative if the logic of the gift is ever to be possible. The academy must learn to take responsibility as an institution, and so must the individuals within the institution. The academy typically lists its responsibilities in lofty vision statements that delineate the responsibilities of students and researchers;71 too often, though, the academy shows itself unwilling to respond, to be answerable, and to take action. Instead of opening up toward the “other,” representatives of the academy feel themselves implicated and become defensive or fall silent. Responsibility links consciousness with conscience. It is not enough to merely know one’s responsibilities; one must also be aware of the consequences of one’s actions. Without this awareness, there is a risk of the arrogance of a “clean conscience,” a stance of studied innocence by privileged, hegemonic academics who can afford to be indifferent and not-knowing. Spivak has argued that doing one’s homework implies unlearning one’s privilege and learning. This starts by addressing one’s privilege and the prevailing “ideology of know-nothingism” in a way that will make visible the various forms of elite racism. It requires the critical examination of one’s beliefs, biases, and assumptions as well as an understanding of how they have developed and become naturalized in the first place. With regard to indigenous epistemes, the critical examination of assumptions remains largely unaccomplished, even among many advocates of critical pedagogy and theory. If the “indigenous” has entered into these people’s analytical consciousness at all, it usually lingers at the margins; it appears only in passing or as an afterthought, perhaps after someone in the audience has pointed out its absence. Therefore, the academic responsibility for doing homework on indigenous epistemes must begin at an even more elemental level than examining one’s beliefs, biases, and assumptions. It must start with the acknowledgment that the “indigenous” exists, be it in terms of peoples, their epistemes, or how they have been configured in the geopolitical past and present. This necessarily includes recognizing how the global political economy is being fuelled by the accumulation of capital extracted from indigenous peoples’ territories. Derrida calls for “new ways of taking responsibility” in the academy – ways that go beyond and also critique the professionalization of the university. These new ways would signify a rethinking of the university as well as an examination of its disciplinary structures.72 Importantly, the “new responsibilities cannot be purely academic. If they remain extremely difficult

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to assume, extremely precarious and threatened, it is because they must at once keep alive the memory of a tradition and make an opening beyond any program, that is, toward what is called the future.”73 New ways of taking responsibility in the academy are linked to the question: What constitutes a “good” university? If the new responsibilities cannot be purely academic, the answers will not always be found in the academy; thus we will have to make an opening beyond the academy. We may approach the question by considering the Okanagan concept of En’owkin. This concept signifies a process of group commitment to find appropriate solutions through a respectful dialogue within a community. En’owkin is a collective process that seeks ways to include those voices that are in a minority; but this is not simply for the sake of inclusion. Rather, the concept of En’owkin recognizes that minority voices are necessary and that understanding them is vital to good governance and a healthy, viable community. As practised in community and extended family circles, En’owkin is not about making decisions but about hearing all voices. The premise of En’owkin is that no single individual can have all the answers and that if someone is arguing forcefully for his or her own point, there is no need to listen to that person. The point is not to stage an argument but to ensure that every perspective and view is heard. In other words, En’owkin implies that one is not participating in the process in order to debate or enforce one’s own agenda but rather to understand the view that is most oppositional to one’s own and to recognize its importance. In this way, difference becomes diversity, part of a multitude of perspectives that can be further debated. When these aspects of listening and dialoguing are not taken into account, there can be no rational outcomes and the following generations will suffer for it.74 The principles of En’owkin could be practised in the academy – for example, if those involved learn to hear what others are saying, especially those others who seem to be making the least sense. This can be a slow and challenging process if it involves also having to fend off the usual mechanisms of domination, such as the hegemonic monologue and incorporation, which often operate even when we are unaware of them. In other words, the real challenge is for us to learn to hear others without trying to incorporate what they are saying into what we already know and without constructing others either as absences or as reflections of the self. Furthermore, doing homework must involve analyzing the typical “moves of innocence” – that is, those claims to the right to not know – as well as the simplistic breast-beating that allows business to go on as usual.75 Instead of taking the position of the politically correct dominant, who argue that they can no longer speak, one needs to examine the historical circumstances and articulate one’s own participation in various forms and practices of silencing. As Spivak puts it, “rather than simply say, ‘O.K., sorry, we are just very

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good white people, therefore we do not speak for the [other],’” those who conduct hegemonic discourse need to de-hegemonize their position by learning how to occupy the subject position of the “other” and how to behave as a subject of knowledge within the institution of neocolonial learning.76 According to Spivak, doing homework is an ongoing practice that includes learning as much as possible about the areas where the academic takes risks.77 However, familiarizing oneself with areas one knows little about still amounts to hegemonic practice if we do not engage in the “home” part of the homework. Calls to scrutinize the historical circumstances and to articulate one’s own participation in the structures that have fostered various forms of silencing (including self-censorship) represent a shift away from the idea of fieldwork toward the idea of homework. Whereas fieldwork is more often than not elsewhere and “out there” – not least because for so many academics, it does not even cross their minds that universities and campuses are in fact physical places – homework starts from where we are, from our homes. In the context of the academy’s homework, home is a broader concept than just one’s house or apartment (or office or classroom, for that matter). For example, the traditional Sami concept of home knows no walls; rather, it encompasses the surrounding environment with which people interact on a regular basis and without which they would not be fully human.78 Sitting down to do homework thus compels us to examine that reality. Who is at home here? Who was here before “my” home? Are there others who are at home here? What and where are our academic homes? What are their historical circumstances, and what is and has been the institution’s role in participating in them? The responsibility of academics cannot be limited to neutral descriptions of who we are, as has become common practice at least in the more self-reflective, critical academic circles; it must also link itself to the concrete, physical locations of our enunciation. Instead of assuming that it is possible to know the “other,” we need to recognize the fundamental openness of learning. Epistemological curiosity, which is at the heart of the academy, demands fundamental openness to the world, toward the “other.” The will to know implies an enclosure, a hegemonic monologue, and the colonial logic of domination. Instead of thinking that “we must know” or that “we are entitled to know” – positions that, by retaining a sense of ownership as well as distance, allow very little room for hospitality, the gift, or reciprocity – we need to make a distinction, however provisional, between knowing and learning.79 This distinction marks a departure from the methodologies of disengagement and the politics of neutrality and impartiality, both of which are associated with the conventional practices of knowledge production, and both of which are characterized by the absence of responsibility and respect for what is studied and known. From this departure, we will arrive at an engagement with learning

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as participatory reciprocity, which acknowledges that “knowledge is a social activity, not the passive and ‘neutral’ reception of raw, ‘pure’ observational data by presocial individuals.”80 When we insist on disengagement, we create a “commitment vacuum” that is less resistant to economic forces. Plumwood contends that the “framework of disengagement is hegemonic, cloaking privileged perspectives as universal and impartial, and marking marginalised perspectives as ‘emotional’, ‘biased’ and political.’ The ‘valuefree’ stance will normally be taken to involve accepting the effects of power, since the powerful have the advantage of inertia, whereas the oppressed must act to disrupt the status quo from a passion for change.”81 Positions that assume impartiality perpetuate the status quo. Such positions seem neutral and apolitical because their interests and values correspond to those of power – that is, to hegemonic perspectives that have been constituted as belonging to everyone in society. Power in society has always aligned itself with economic interests, but in the present era of global capitalism, the focus on profits and the race to the bottom are stronger than they have ever been in the past. Privilege always comes with real-life, material effects and benefits. In the academy, the commitment vacuum created by disengagement has meant that global capitalism has converged with sanctioned ignorance, both endorsed by liberal multiculturalism. Instead of disengaged multicultural appreciation of the “other,” Spivak calls for ethical singularity and for a recognition of others’ agency. She elaborates: “We all know that when we engage profoundly with one person, the responses – the answers – come from both sides. Let us call this responsibility, as well as ‘answer’ability or accountability ... Yet on both sides, there is always a sense that something has not got across. This is what we call the secret, not something that one wants to conceal, but something that one wants desperately to reveal in this relationship of singularity and responsibility and accountability.”82 To establish ethical singularity with the subaltern requires painstaking effort that goes beyond speaking for the oppressed. According to Spivak, it is an intimate, individual engagement with the “other” that occurs in non-essential, non-totalizing, and non-crisis terms. I propose that this must occur also in non-salvage terms – the responsibility toward the “other” must not emerge from hierarchical relations that assume “rescuing” the “other” or knowing what is best for the “other.” Ethical singularity must remain vigilant not to let itself be co-opted in the service of the benevolent imperialism (such as the use of native informants) that characterizes much of the academy. Ethical singularity requires not only patience but also acceptance that there will always be gaps, that the “other” can never be fully known, that there will always be something that has not got across. The painstaking process of learning to receive and respond seeks to avoid the temptations of the colonial containment of the “other” (be it arrogant

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or benevolent), and to remind learners to guard against superficial and stereotypical cultural representations and constructions. Indigenous people who are familiar with their own epistemes and cultural and social practices are usually aware of the responsibilities that are embedded in their various relationships. They know what constitutes a responsible action in a given situation or context, and most probably they meet their responsibilities accordingly. Similarly, when discussing the hospitality of the academy, indigenous people have their own particular responsibilities. As Patricia Monture-Angus notes: “I must continually balance my sense of responsibility against feeling like I am perpetuating the silence around certain exclusions by deciding not to participate.”83 If the call for the recognition of the gift requires reciprocity and ethical singularity, then just like the rest of the academy, indigenous people cannot dissociate themselves from this process. Too often, indigenous people’s reluctance to participate has served as a convenient excuse to disengage, to blame the “other,” and (most of all) to fail to examine the reasons for such unwillingness. The idea of ethical singularity is nothing new to indigenous people. It is embedded in their epistemes, and it arises in their various gift-giving practices, which are based on active participation and on attending to one’s relationships in the world. The world is not an abstraction or a location “out there”; it is the concrete environment in which we find ourselves in our everyday lives and in whose processes we participate. For example, Sami sieidi giving is based on ethical singularity: a person engages with the sieidi on an individual and singular basis, addressing it directly and each time according to the circumstances. It is an ongoing relationship of giving and giving back (rather than giving and taking); and if it is well maintained, responses indeed flow in both directions. Similar “person to person” relationships with the environment can be found in many indigenous philosophies and practices.84 For academics, the concrete environment can be found, of course, in the academy itself and the relationships therein. What we are currently witnessing, however, is not an engagement with forms of ethical singularity but a further alienation from any sense of academic community and intellectual relationships. Because of the pressures of corporate accountability, we are in fact witnessing an opposite development: cut-throat individualism and academic anxiety for excellence are now precluding the possibility of ethical singularity as well as any commitments we might feel to engage with others in non-exploitative terms. In other words, the values underlying the market-driven, hypercompetitive exchange paradigm are simply not allowing ethical singularity to occur. The era of accountability looks very different depending on which logic – of the gift or of the exchange – we apply when defining it. This is why we need a new language to engender

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and evoke the alternative logic and to recognize how concepts can be understood in multiple, significantly different ways, depending on the lens through which we interpret them and on how we relate ourselves to the world. Learning to Receive the Gift There is no single, simple, exhaustive answer to the complex question of how we can know the “other.” I suggest that we must redefine the problem, not in terms of knowing the “other” but in terms of learning to “see” the existence of epistemes that have long been rendered invisible. We need to redefine the question in terms of a convergence of different epistemes. The gift of indigenous epistemes must be recognized and received appropriately, even if it may not be possible to fully grasp the logic of the gift. Full comprehension may prove impossible, and furthermore, to seek that comprehension may represent a colonizing, totalizing attempt to contain the “other.” Let us bear in mind that although historically, in academic discourses and practices, knowing indigenous peoples has been an integral part of colonization, there is now an urgent need to increase the awareness of indigenous epistemes. This awareness necessarily goes beyond the recognition of indigenous epistemologies (which is a related but different issue). Recognition of the gift of indigenous epistemes calls for a conceptual transformation and ongoing epistemic engagement rather than restricted representation in curricula (or worse, trivial and meaningless celebrations of cultural diversity). This does not mean that indigenous knowledge cannot or should not be part of academic curricula and pedagogies; however, that knowledge must be included in a way that respects and accounts for the ethics and concerns of indigenous communities. Yet “contentual” inclusion and considerations of indigenous epistemologies are not going to address the lack of responsibility in the academy toward “other,” called for by the ethics of the gift and by scholars like Derrida. The call for the recognition of the gift of indigenous epistemes implies that inclusion only at the level of content is not going to fix the academy’s indifference, sanctioned ignorance, and constricted, Eurocentric epistemic structures. More recently, Spivak has become somewhat cautious of the term “unlearning one’s privilege” because in her view, it can sound too pious and self-ennobling.85 Instead of unlearning one’s privilege, she argues, the privileged should use their privilege, make it downwardly mobile, and go where the subaltern feels normal.86 We also need to inquire, as Sara Ahmed suggests, into what we are actually learning when we learn to see privilege. Does learning to see one’s privilege imply unlearning it? And does this learning, by definition, result in equality and justice? If learning takes place in contexts shaped by privilege, such as the university, one’s learning about privilege may end up only increasing the cultural capital of the privileged.87

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More recently, Spivak has modified her call for unlearning one’s privilege as “learning to learn from below.”88 She argues that learning from below occurs through teaching: “Learning from the subaltern is, paradoxically, through teaching. In practical terms, working across the class-culture difference (which tends to refract efforts) ... the teacher learns to recognize, not just a benevolently coerced assent, but also an unexpected response. For such an education speed, quantity of information, and number of students reached are not exclusive virtues.”89 The dialectic between learning and teaching is also discussed by Paulo Freire, who argues that teaching is “part of the very fabric of learning.”90 He contends that there is no teaching without learning, because learning necessarily precedes teaching. Teaching is made possible through everyday processes and practices of learning. To learn from below also echoes the Okanagan principle of En’owkin: the goal is to learn and hear, not to process what one hears into what one already knows or to try to digest the material for academic production.91 Recognition, defined as the ability and willingness to recognize the “other” on her own terms, plays a key role here. Learning from below, then, becomes an active process of undermining mechanisms of domination and control. Shifting from the arrogance of “knowing the other” to “learning to learn from below” will require a radical revision of previously held conceptions about learning. As Freire contends, we are able to learn only when we recognize our “unfinishedness.”92 This understanding challenges the academy’s standard arrogance, will to know, and premise that the “other” can be known. In short, there is also a difference between learning about and learning from: “Learning about is an anthropological gesture that is often tinged with arrogance and an air of superiority. Learning from requires a high dose of humility tinged with civility. Learning about produces arrogant interrogators; learning from produces humble listeners.”93 Furthermore, learning from below implies “trying to learn outside of the traditional instruments of learning.”94 The academy, at the institutional and individual levels, must be willing to reconsider the existing, dominant modes of learning and ultimately to learn a new way of learning – that is, learning to learn from below without hegemonic assumptions of salvage, progress, or containment. This in turn will require a willingness to stretch into different modes of perceiving the human relationship to the world. It will depend on the recognition of the human responsibilities toward that interdependence. Ultimately, learning from below will require that the conventional modes of thinking and knowing be transformed, so that modern, Eurocentric epistemes, which are so often characterized by linearity and monocausality, can evolve into relational, participatory, and narrative modes of being in and knowing the world.95 Spivak maintains that the process of learning to learn from indigenous philosophies could constitute a powerful mobilizing discourse from which

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the entire world would benefit, not only the Fourth World.96 She argues that this process would require a deliberate changing of minds on both sides and that it would be attainable only through ethical singularity.97 Perhaps this is what Luther Standing Bear had in mind more than one hundred years ago. If “white people” (or “holders of hegemonic discourse”) were to learn about indigenous philosophies and epistemes, it would benefit not only indigenous peoples but also, and even more so, white people themselves, who are not usually forced (like so many others) to know other ways of thinking and perceiving the world. Environmental Discourse and the Land Ethic Learning to learn from indigenous epistemes could indeed become the strongest mobilizing discourse in and for the world. Besides dismantling epistemic ignorance, it might contribute to attaining the more mainstream goals of the contemporary academy, such as equity and sustainability. Equity or sustainability education should not, however, be conflated with learning from indigenous epistemes. For many, there is an apparent link between environmental and indigenous discourses, in that they share a concern for what Aldo Leopold has called the “land ethic,” that is, respect not only for other human beings but also for the “biotic” community.98 While environmental education is increasingly drawing from indigenous land-based philosophies and practices, learning to learn from indigenous epistemes is not simply about learning a land ethic or adapting indigenous peoples’ conceptions of the world in order to develop an environmental philosophy. The field of environmental education has expanded rapidly over the past two decades. A major factor in this growth was the publication in 1987 of Our Common Future, the report of the World Commission on Environment and Development (the Brundtland Report), which triggered events such as the UN Earth Summits of 1992 and 2002, the International Climate Change Convention, and worldwide Agenda 21 programs. The Brundtland Report called for global awareness of the enormous environmental problems facing the planet and for concerted global environmental action in the name of our common future. It also brought the concept of sustainable development into common parlance. The report proposed that human activities “meet the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs.”99 This suggestion echoed the traditional teachings of many indigenous peoples in North America, according to which we must consider our actions in light of the well-being of the next seven generations.100 Significantly, the report also recognized the sustainable ways of life of indigenous and tribal communities and the role that indigenous and tribal institutions and ideas can play in envisioning more sustainable futures for all humanity.

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The Brundtland Report broke new ground, yet too often, environmental and ecological education continues to ignore indigenous worldviews and philosophies. For example, David W. Orr’s Ecological Literacy altogether omits indigenous peoples’ perspectives on sustainable living; furthermore, it articulates its model of environmental education through the narrow lens of mostly white male scholarship and philosophy. Orr notes that “sustainability is about the terms and conditions of human survival, and yet we still educate at all levels as if no such crisis existed,”101 but he does not argue for a historical understanding of today’s environmental crisis. He calls for “a broad understanding of how people and societies relate to each other and to natural systems, and how they might do so sustainably,”102 but he himself does not seem to possess that understanding. He ignores indigenous societies and fails to address the role played by rural women in the global South, most of whom live according to the subsistence perspective. Clearly, he is not interested in lived examples except for Thoreau’s sojourn at Walden Pond; he does not consider the vast majority of the planet’s people for whom he claims to be making a case. It will not be possible to base a sustainable future on the denial of other peoples’ experiences. Similarly, in Educating for an Ecologically Sustainable Culture, C.A. Bowers focuses on the role played by education in recent efforts to foster a sustainable society. In particular, he engages with a challenge that has become the focus of many discourses, both academic and non-academic: How are we to change the destructive view of the world that prevails today? Among other things, Bowers (unlike Orr) suggests that we employ indigenous philosophies and practices as models in education for a more sustainable future. He calls on us to transform today’s taken-for-granted values such as materialism, consumerism, individualism, progress, and anthropocentrism as well as to embrace an ecologically based view of intelligence. He sees an urgent need to challenge “the cognitive principles that now guide the most recent educational reform efforts.”103 As Bowers’s analysis demonstrates, such principles only reinforce the modern-day cultural assumption that every technological innovation is an expression of progress and that tradition stands in the way of this development. While Bowers’s work is timely and presents important points, his project fails to analyze several important issues. It could be argued that his work is hobbled by its Eurocentricism (so prevalent in environmental discourse), which privileges the present. His discussions of the ecological crisis and environmental destruction are articulated in terms of the well-being of the West, not the socio-political conditions of indigenous peoples, who are suffering the greatest consequences of mainstream society’s weak “land ethic.” Although Bowers’s project is ultimately about the long-term sustainability of (supposedly all) ecosystems, he frames the problem in terms of “the survival

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of the culture.”104 He does not tell us specifically whose culture he is discussing, but clearly, he is talking about his own. So the question remains: Would the “ecological sustainability of cultural patterns”105 or a “land ethic” address the expropriation of indigenous peoples’ lands and recognize other peoples’ right to self-determination? If that question is not on the agenda, the framework of environmental discourse cannot be anything but problematic and hegemonic. This in turn allows the insidious continuance of colonial discourses. The environment cannot be separated from questions of history and politics. Because the environment cannot be detached from politics and history, any discussion of the environment and its destruction needs to start with this basic question: What and whose environment are we talking about? Some scholars have considered this link, and many indigenous people in particular have called for the world to recognize that colonization is a fundamental aspect of the domination of nature.106 Plumwood also points out that different human groups do not “have equal responsibility for and benefit equally from the destruction of nature.”107 According to her, human domination and human hierarchy are aspects of the same oppression: “Human domination of nature wears a garment cut from the same cloth as intra-human domination, but one which, like each of the others, has a specific form and shape of its own.”108 The apparent link between the accelerating loss and degradation of lands, on the one hand, and the worsening impoverishment and loss of livelihood of indigenous peoples, on the other, has been addressed by indigenous advocates in many documents and declarations, including the Dialogue Paper of Indigenous People for the World Summit on Sustainable Development.109 For the most part, however, environmental discourse seems to ignore this link, which for indigenous people is so central that it is inappropriate and irresponsible to talk about one without the other. Considered from this perspective, Bowers’s suggestion that indigenous philosophies or spiritualities be employed as models for sustainable education raises several problems. First, when we discuss indigenous worldviews without recognizing the effects of various colonization processes, we only ossify those worldviews as belonging to an archaic past (as also happens with many analyses of the gift). Second, there is a danger that these values and practices will be simplified once they have been detached from their social, political, and cultural contexts. Finally, when we fail to consider how indigenous philosophies have been negated, suppressed, and inferiorized by colonialism and denied by modern values, we are in effect denying the West’s complicity in this process. We will not find solutions to past injustices and present-day realities, or the path to a sustainable future, by retreating to the unproblematized and conflict-free past.

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Cherokee activist and scholar Andrea Smith’s critique of environmental and ecofeminist movements that lack an anticolonial dimension casts light on the tendency of environmental movements to appropriate indigenous peoples’ discourses. She argues that these movements quote indigenous peoples, pay tribute to them and to their land-centred ways of life, and use them as inspirational symbols, but then decline to join the struggle for survival of these peoples. They “do not adequately discuss the material conditions in which Indian people live, how these conditions affect non-Indians, and what strategies we can employ to stop the genocide of Indian people and end the destructive forms of resource development on Indian land.”110 Bowers seems to be doing the same – that is, employing Native Americans and other indigenous peoples as inspirations without actually responding to their concerns – when he considers “the use of these cultural groups as models for evolving our own ecologically sustainable form of culture.”111 The practice of using indigenous philosophies as models for the dominant discourse also often conveniently ignores the disparate access to this discourse. Put more simply, this practice ignores power relations in society, which consigns indigenous philosophies to the margins (as noted earlier, indigenous philosophies and epistemes do not “speak” as equals in academic and other discourses). Perhaps the biggest problem with using indigenous peoples as models for reconstructing modern metanarratives, however, is that such projects fail to recognize the reciprocity that is so much a part of indigenous philosophies. Bowers calls for society to acquire the land ethic of indigenous peoples, but he ignores or fails to recognize (let alone practise) a crucial aspect of that ethic: the principles of giving, of giving back, and of reciprocating. As a consequence, when he uses indigenous teachings as educational models, he is guilty of the same exploitation that he is criticizing, only at another level. The mobilizing discourse of learning to learn from indigenous epistemes, therefore, cannot be limited to increasing understanding, changing attitudes, or using indigenous philosophies as convenient models. Learning to learn from indigenous epistemes can result in a paradigm shift only if the process simultaneously addresses the systemic power inequalities that continue to prevent hospitality and that make the gift impossible. This discourse cannot turn a blind eye to the responsibilities of the academy. The homework that remains to be done by the academy must include a reconsideration of the epistemological and ontological assumptions, structures, and prejudices on which it has been founded. In terms of the logic of the gift, learning to learn must take the specific form of “learning to receive.” First of all, this calls for explicit attention to the act of receiving rather than arrogant, colonialist taking for granted. Learning to receive compels us to make the gift visible and to acknowledge that it

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exists. Second, it demands active participation in the form of responding and reciprocating. As Spivak reminds us, when we engage profoundly with someone, the responses come from all sides. This is the responsibility and answerability that is needed in the academy, not further commodification of the gift in the name of exploitative accountability. What is more, an indispensable part of this learning to receive is the ability and willingness to perceive indigenous epistemes and the gift ethic “not only as repositories of cultural nostalgia but also as part of the geopolitical present.”112 Indigenous philosophies such as the gift are not markers of archaic societies. They continue to shape people’s behaviour, practices, and thinking today; even more importantly, they offer new ways for us to enhance our critical understanding and to broaden our intellectual inquiry. The academy must learn to perceive indigenous epistemes as a gift. Only in this way will it be possible to forge a new relationship between dominant (modern, Western) and “other” epistemes. The logic of the gift teaches values that serve to undermine those of exchange, as well as those of corporatism (such as self-interest, accumulation, competition, and hyperindividualism). Recognizing that indigenous epistemes are a gift is the first step toward receiving that gift and understanding its logic. With the help of the logic of the gift, it will be possible to recognize certain concepts such as responsibility and reciprocity as perceived and practised in many indigenous epistemes. There are, however, certain dangers in suggesting that indigenous epistemes must be considered a gift to the academy. Recall from earlier chapters that the gift is not an exchange, a credit, or a form of limited give and take; rather, it implies unconditionality and other-orientation. However, in the context of the long history of appropriation, exploitation, and (more recently) commodification of various forms of indigenous knowledge,113 the idea that indigenous people might give their epistemes freely, without any expectation of return, is foolhardy. Furthermore, to propose a free gift may appear to squarely oppose the principles and codes of conduct formulated by indigenous scholars and communities for the protection of indigenous knowledge. One could even argue that it is entirely unreasonable to suggest that now that indigenous peoples have finally gained some control over their epistemologies and intellectual property through their own mechanisms and national and international laws and regimes, they should again start giving freely. In the present-day climate of accelerating commodification and of the corporatization of academic institutions, universities are failing to engage in and practise the logic of the gift. In fact, they are moving toward the other extreme by defining knowledge increasingly in terms of profit. This is one of many reasons that alternative paradigms and mobilizing discourses

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are not only welcome today but also absolutely necessary. The gift remains impossible in circumstances that do not observe and follow the logic of the gift, which is characterized by commitment to and participation in reciprocal responsibilities. As long as these circumstances do not exist, indigenous epistemes cannot be given as a gift. The gift remains impossible also as long as receiving and giving is framed in terms of owing (as in the idea that the academy owes to indigenous peoples) or earning (as in the idea that the academy must earn the gift of indigenous peoples). This kind of terminology distorts the idea of the gift by construing it in terms of the exchange paradigm. In the gift logic, gifts are not and cannot be earned. One is given a gift, which comes with a responsibility to recognize it – that is, not take it for granted – and to receive it according to certain responsibilities. When we understand the gift as an expression of responsibility toward the “other,” we foreground the law of hospitality. This understanding requires an acknowledgment that the present-day academy is embedded in a logic of exchange that exploits the gift. In such circumstances, one cannot give without being exploited. In short, only when the academy has embraced another logic will we be able to start giving freely. Hospitality, that is, an unconditional welcome, would certainly make a difference to indigenous people (and to their gift) in the academy. It would also affect and bind the academy itself. First, as a (self-proclaimed) host, the academy would have to act on its greater responsibilities toward the guest. Second, as Parker Palmer suggests, “hospitality is always an act that benefits the host even more than the guest ... By offering hospitality, one participates in the endless reweaving of a social fabric on which all can depend – thus the gift of sustenance for the guest becomes a gift of hope for the host. It is that way in teaching as well: the teacher’s hospitality to the student results in a world more hospitable to the teacher.”114 In the following chapter, we finally arrive at the threshold of hospitality, considering questions such as these: How should the gift be welcomed to the academy in a responsible and responsive way? And what is the principle of hospitality that would give an unconditional welcome that could begin to address the issue of epistemic ignorance?

5 Hospitality and the Logic of the Gift in the Academy

The hospitality of the academy needs to be informed by specific notions of responsibility and reciprocity, especially as part of being human and existing within relations of reciprocity defined as active participation (i.e., instead of taking these necessary relations for granted or ignoring them). The hospitality of the academy recognizes indigenous epistemes as gifts rather than in terms of the logic of exchange and the ideology of imperial rationalism. Besides emphasizing reciprocal responsibilities (which are not perceived as duties but as part of the subjectivities of the host and the guest), hospitality is an ongoing process and relationship rather than a binary, reductionist give and take. It shifts attention to and calls for the responsibilities of the dominant, instead of focusing on the special needs of the “other.” Hospitality is not something that can be implemented once and for all, after which the “problem” can be considered solved and the responsibility of the host-guest absolved. In the academy, it will require a new mindset that embraces epistemic pluralism and the principles of interaction and engagement.1 Hospitality is commonly understood as various practices of welcoming guests into a space that is considered to be somehow belonging to the host, whether the host is an individual or a group. Like the gift, hospitality implies a relationship and is other-oriented in the sense that host and guest are expected to look to each other’s needs and well-being. Mireille Rosello argues that it would be unreasonable to attempt to quantify hospitality or to reduce it “either to publically [sic] formulated definitions or to social practices that either confirm or contradict such definitions.”2 In her view, hospitality is “made up of the untotalizable sum of individual or collective social practices, as well as of the layer of statements that comment on and judge the practices in question ... Simultaneously, hospitality also exists through constantly reinvented practices of everyday life that individuals borrow from a variety of traditions – from what their parents have taught them, from what they identify as their own traditional background – and

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practices that are sometimes similar to, sometimes different from, a supposedly shared norm.”3 Like the gift, hospitality requires reciprocity as well as participation between individuals, groups, or entities. Both the host and the guest must meet certain responsibilities if hospitality is to be possible. Yet these responsibilities limit and prohibit the very idea of hospitality. We noted a similar paradox with the gift: “For it to be what it ‘must’ be, hospitality must not pay a debt, or be governed by a duty.”4 It is fairly well known, though inadequately acknowledged, that the early colonists – who were not only strangers but also absolute, unknown, and anonymous Others – when they arrived on the continent today known as North America, were often welcomed unconditionally by the indigenous peoples, who had been living there for generations. This hospitality, Delores Huff argues, formed the “bedrock of cultural pluralism” on the North American continent.5 The history of the earliest encounters between indigenous peoples and newcomers is quite similar throughout the world; typically, this history involved conflict, conquest, and trade, as well as intermarriage and “gift diplomacy” for sealing agreements and alliances with other peoples.6 Typically, the hosts welcomed the arrivants,7 the guests, and treated them according to their laws of hospitality, without which many newcomers would not have survived and prospered.8 For example, many indigenous peoples in Canada observed the law of hospitality, which “could be carried to the point of self-impoverishment,” as was the case with the potlatch.9 Often, though, this welcome was turned against the hosts. An advisor to the Aztec leader Montezuma observed that those who welcomed the strangers began to “suffer a great mystery” – mystery in the sense that the destructive behaviour and mentality of the newcomers was consistently at odds with the hospitality of those who welcomed them.10 Ron Ignace of the Shuswap (Secwepemc) Nation of Interior British Columbia points out how the hospitality of his people was ultimately abused and exploited by the guests: We invited [non-Native people] in freely and openly as guests to our house – we view the Shuswap country and Shuswap people traditionally as living in one house, one nation, one language, one culture. We felt that when a person came into our house, we treated them very specially ... We shared with them our riches, whether in the form of our cultural riches or the riches that come from our land ... Non-Natives were free to come in and share what we have. You can live on half of our land base, providing that you recognize whose house you are living in and respect that relationship. We will equally respect you and freely share our wealth. To come in and live with us and develop friendships and ties, just as countries develop treaties with other nations and other countries. That’s one fashion in which we would do that. This is why we’re very cautious because when we originally

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did that, somehow we wound up being kicked out of our house and being placed into the woodshed. We lost control over our house. Now we live in the woodshed while other people live in our house, and live well in our house.11

The Shuswap, like many other indigenous peoples, invited the settlers to share what they had. That welcome, however, was later turned against the hosts. The ethics of (infinite) hospitality were exploited and turned into politics of (finite) hospitality through the arrogance of the guest, the “absolute other,” who had been welcomed as a guest through a gesture of unquestioning hospitality marked by sharing “what we have.”12 The guests failed to comply with the local laws of hospitality, and offended their hosts through their greed as well as through their refusal to participate and reciprocate in the ceremonies.13 In many First Nations communities, to violate the laws of hospitality was usually considered a crime.14 This refusal to participate in welcoming and other ceremonies can also be seen in the first encounters between the Maori and the Europeans. The guests were welcomed according to the Maori welcoming ceremony, powhiri, which involves several formalities. For example, the hosts attempt to learn the intentions of the visitor, so as to welcome them if they are arriving with good intentions. The approaching visitors are first greeted by challengers performing the haka (a Maori war dance), the purpose of which is to intimidate. As Ann Salmond notes, while caution was necessary, such dances “were part of the traditional rituals of encounter and not necessarily hostile.”15 Europeans who were ill versed in these welcoming ceremonies often responded with gunfire. Furthermore, strangers who failed to engage in the ceremonies in an appropriate manner were viewed as enemies and attacked. Émile Benveniste examines the etymology of hospitality and notes that the Latin word for guest is hospes or hostis. The term “hospes goes back to *hosti-pet-s. The second component alternates with pot- signifying ‘master,’ so that the literal sense of hospes is ‘the guest-master.’”16 For Benveniste, the notion of guest-master is a peculiar one. But it does a good job of explaining indigenous–colonial relations: the colonizer as a (bad) guest who becomes an enemy and who eventually imposes himself as a colonial guest-master. Interestingly, the Latin hostis also signifies hostility and hostage – meanings with equal resonance for indigenous–colonial histories and relations. If one applies Benveniste’s etymological analysis to the contemporary academy, it is easy to see how the academy has become the guest-master who is not necessarily openly hostile toward indigenous epistemes but who, through various mechanisms of domination and control, ensures that indigenous epistemes remain hostage to the logic of colonial hierarchies. Rosello discusses cannibalistic forms of hospitality in which the host devours

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the guest.17 With indigenous epistemes in the academy, however, it is the other way round: the academy, the guest turned enemy, devours the host by taking over, by becoming the guest-master of the house. The arrogance of the guest transforms a welcome into a politics of finite hospitality. Hospitality has two different but inalienable dimensions. On the one hand, there are the laws (in the plural) of hospitality – the conditions, norms, rights, and duties imposed on hosts and guests. These laws mark the various practices and conventions that we usually think of when referring to hospitality.18 Laws of hospitality are often ethnically encoded and may clash, even violently, in situations where “individuals are represented as belonging to separate ‘cultures,’ separate ‘communities.’”19 The assumption that there can be a simple coexistence of different modes of monolithic hospitality – that forms of hospitality can remain separate and uninfluenced by one another – are, however, too simplistic. Laws of hospitality vary even within a cultural or national group along gender and class lines.20 Besides the laws of hospitality, there is the law of hospitality, the unconditionality that requires an unquestioning welcome. Absolute hospitality asks for opening up one’s home, for giving not only to the foreigner but to the “absolute, unknown, anonymous other ... that I give place to them, that I let them come, that I let them arrive, and take place in the place I offer them, without asking of them either reciprocity (entering into a pact) or even their names.”21 Infinite hospitality contradicts the laws of hospitality, yet it is inseparable from them. Without one, there cannot be the other.22 Indigenous peoples gave unconditional, infinite hospitality to the early settlers and colonizers. This is also what is needed in the contemporary academy: receiving and welcoming without invitation. This form of hospitality opens to the “other” infinitely. If the academy only welcomes what it is ready to welcome – that is, what it recognizes and what it considers it must welcome – it is not hospitality. It is not a welcome but rather a duty, a mandatory protocol, an act of superficial political correctness or token recognition without hospitality. Hospitality has to be rendered to the “other” before the “other” is known.23 Unconditional hospitality may seem a risk, but as Rosello argues, “hospitality without risk usually hides more serious violence. A perfectly gracious and generous host may be capitalizing on dark shadows, on ghosts that haunt his land, his house, his social position.”24 The academy represents itself as a welcoming host, but not without conditions. Indigenous epistemes are unconditionally welcome only to a handful of marginal spaces that are insignificant to the academy at large. The shadows and ghosts that haunt the academy in relation to indigenous epistemes are legacies of structures of domination and mechanisms of control, which deny the existence of other intellectual conventions and which continue the academy’s complicity in colonialism.

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The hospitality of the academy must consist of two critical components: a welcome of the “other” without conditions (such as translations or definitions) and openness to learning about the logic of the gift and indigenous epistemes. The latter must be given an unconditional welcome without asking their names; they must not be violated by demands that they be transcoded into the language of the host. Unconditional welcome also requires an openness to be taught and the ethical singularity of learning to learn. Emmanuel Levinas argues: “To approach the Other in discourse, is to welcome his [sic] expression, in which at each instant he overflows the idea a thought would carry away from it. It is therefore to receive from the Other beyond the capacity of the I, which means exactly: to have the idea of infinity. But this also means: to be taught.”25 Levinas argues for the ability to receive and to be taught. This is what many indigenous peoples extended to the foreigner and the “absolute other,” who was received as a stranger but also as a guest. (The foreigner was considered a stranger also because of his strange appearance and peculiar habits. The dominant discourse is saturated with explorers’ and settlers’ accounts of the strangeness of indigenous peoples; only recently has attention been paid to the fact that people from overseas seemed equally strange to their hosts.26) Indigenous people were eager to welcome the “other” because they wanted to learn from the stranger – to be open to the “other” and to be taught. Europeans were sometimes perceived as having a special relationship with the spirit world owing to their strange powers and novel material goods.27 Naturally, the hosts were keen to share the power and knowledge of their guests. By saying welcome, the academic institution, represented by various elected or chosen individuals, assumes the role of the host. By welcoming the “others” (current and prospective students, new faculty, visitors, and so on), the institutional apparatus of the academy not only perceives itself as at home and capable of giving hospitality but also appropriates the place of the host and the master of the house. The academy as an institution does not hesitate to impose itself as the host; this reflects the mentality of the early colonial period, when foreigner-guests seized the role of host. If we compare colonialism to a situation in which a stranger moves into your house and takes over and starts telling you how to live, the contemporary academy continues to be implicated in this scenario. Most universities located on indigenous peoples’ lands practise wilful amnesia in ignoring the presence of the original hosts.28 The academy’s refusal as an institution to address the history of colonial relations poses a serious obstacle to establishing contemporary relations of hospitality. This refusal also places indigenous students and faculty local to the area in a deeply antagonistic situation. They possess “a unique sense of the history of the institution and the community,” yet they remain the most profoundly problematic outsiders in the

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academy.29 That the university is their neighbour, if not a self-proclaimed guest-master on their lands, yet refuses to recognize them and (even less so) their epistemes, perpetuates the colonial relations of domination in a contemporary setting and makes reciprocity and the gift logic impossible. Some universities have attempted to make their ties to local indigenous peoples more visible. Usually these “progressive models” are initiated and implemented by a handful of committed individuals or by small sections of the academy, without much involvement from the university as a whole (such as from senior administrators). The University of British Columbia is a good example in this regard. In the spring of 1993 – which happened to be the UN’s International Year of Indigenous Peoples – UBC and the local and academic First Nations community celebrated the opening of the Longhouse on the university campus, the first of its kind in North America.30 The First Nations House of Learning or Longhouse is intended to serve mainly as a home away from home for First Nations students attending UBC. It has established a culturally sensitive gathering place and has thus made the university more accessible and responsive to First Nations. It is intended to facilitate First Nations students’ participation in academic life. The Longhouse is also a place where First Nations students do not need to experience epistemic ignorance or cultural conflicts.31 It does not offer academic programs, but there are other initiatives and activities for supporting First Nations students, such as the Leadership Program. A series of workshops, the Leadership Program explores First Nations leadership teachings and models founded on the principles of respect, relationships, responsibility, and reverence.32 This program is open to all students, but because it is not part of the mainstream institutional culture, it has had only a limited impact beyond individual perspectives and understanding. Through its practices and ceremonies, the Longhouse underlines the circumstance that it is located on Musqueam territory. The Musqueam people are acknowledged as the hosts, even if they are not always physically present in the Longhouse and thanked for allowing others to be guests on their land. The responsibility to be a good host is one of the teachings given by the Musqueam elders. The former director of the Longhouse, Sto:lo educator Jo-ann Archibald, says that “our Elders also teach us that everyone is welcome in the circle. Non-Aboriginal people are invited to share our space and to listen and learn with others. The Musqueam Elders have also given us the responsibility to be good hosts to those who visit us.”33 The Musqueam elders, who are the traditional owners and hosts of the land where UBC is located, have given the responsibility of being a host to those First Nations people who work at the Longhouse. This gesture highlights a protocol whereby the responsibility for being a host must be granted by the initial host who welcomed and received the guests when they first arrived. At the same time, the university – the guest-master – has neither

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asked for nor been given the role of host. It has assumed this role without asking anyone, and without following the protocols of the initial hosts, which remain in place and continue to govern the relationships between First Nations peoples and others who observe them (and which reflect the gift logic). Moreover, the Musqueam Declaration of 1976 states: “Our ancestors [sic] aboriginal right and our aboriginal right, is to live upon and travel over our aboriginal lands, seas and waters without foreign control or restriction.”34 UBC, having located itself on Musqueam land, has placed foreign control and restrictions on the Musqueam and their capacity to live and travel freely on their territory. Derrida contends that “anyone who encroaches on my ‘at home,’ on my ipseity, on my power of hospitality, on my sovereignty as host, I start to regard as an undesirable foreigner, and virtually as an enemy. This other becomes a hostile subject, and I risk becoming their hostage.”35 Does UBC, through its physical but also epistemic and institutional imposition, signify “foreign control or restriction” on the Aboriginal rights of the Musqueam? In other words, has UBC encroached on Musqueam sovereignty as the host and thus become a hostile subject, even an enemy? Most importantly, has it failed to carry out its responsibilities as a guest, and are the Musqueam at risk of becoming hostage to the guest-master? We know that the university does not portray itself in this way even if its role as guest-master is apparent. Rather, it claims to “explore ways and means of developing a closer relationship between UBC and the Musqueam First Nation.”36 But is it possible or responsible to consider developing closer relationships with the initial host on whose power of hospitality it has encroached for almost one hundred years? These questions need to be kept alive, especially in contexts in which the university is faced with its role as a host or guest-master (and thus as a hostile subject). These questions must be asked every time we consider the hospitality of the academy toward the gift of indigenous epistemes (or even hospitality in general), because they ensure that we will not ignore, forget, or erase the more difficult but clearly inseparable dimensions of hospitality (such as hostility). Complex and not always so comfortable discourses of hospitality keep the necessary historical consciousness alive. The ambiguity and complexity of hospitality is reflected in historical contexts and legacies as they manifest themselves in today’s power and structural inequalities. If UBC wants to enhance its relationship with the Musqueam people – and it must, in order to have a future – it will have to pay close attention to this complexity and avoid lapsing into popular (and populist) but utterly irresponsible (neoliberal) utterances of “level playing fields” and claims that “the past does not count today.” Currently there are a number of initiatives that could be viewed as part of UBC’s efforts to build relationships with the Musqueam people. These include Musqueam 101, the First

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Nations language program, and the Musqueam Museum School. Musqueam 101 is an initiative launched in 2001 that brings together the knowledge of the two communities, Musqueam and UBC. At its weekly sessions, which are held at Musqueam, speakers from UBC and elsewhere give talks on topics related to and of interest to the Musqueam.37 Also, the UBC Museum of Anthropology has developed a relationship with the Musqueam people through internships as well as through ongoing work with the weavers at Musqueam. The Musqueam Museum School, aimed at grades three to five, brings together schools, Musqueam resource people, and museum staff to teach students especially about Musqueam weaving and the importance of rehabilitating Musqueam Creek. Beyond its somewhat random attempts to acknowledge the Musqueam, and except for the fact that the university is located on their territory, UBC tends to disregard this relationship and the responsibilities attached to it. By not hesitating to say welcome, UBC has not only assumed but also monopolized the role of host. The present initiatives may reflect the willingness of certain sectors and individuals to engage with the Musqueam people; but in their current format, these initiatives do not challenge the implicit ways in which UBC has assumed the role of the sovereign, ultimate host. The Musqueam are recognized when it is convenient for the university; when it is not, they are ignored, neglected, and pushed aside, especially when the university wants to represent itself – walk in the spotlight – as the sovereign master to the outside world. Some recent events indicate precisely this. In November 1997, over the opposition of student groups, UBC hosted the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation Summit (APEC). The students contended that the meeting’s agenda ignored human rights issues and that its organizers had failed to consult with them about hosting the event on campus. They staged a protest that included, among other things, raising the Tibetan flag as a symbol of the human rights violations that the APEC meeting refused to address. The more violent skirmishes between the protesters and the police (which involved arrests and the RCMP’s use of pepper spray) were widely reported; the media, however, ignored some of the more subtle clashes, such as when the Chief of the Musqueam Nation was prohibited from addressing the delegates. Notes Wes Pue: “Many of the alleged actions are not easily supportable under either domestic or international human rights law. For example, the RCMP and/or the Canadian government have been accused of ... cancelling Musqueam Nation Chief Gail Sparrow’s scheduled address to the APEC leaders at the last minute because it had a reference to human rights.”38 In a similar vein, in October 2002, during a visit by Elizabeth II, the Musqueam were not among the hosts welcoming Her Majesty to the campus. The Musqueam were assigned the mere role of entertainers and representatives of a colourful culture,39 reflecting a disturbing but perpetually

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common variation of the native informant. Moreover, an interesting division of labour is often at work at these official events and processions. The Musqueam and other First Nations are graciously invited to do the welcoming (which usually takes the form of a prayer), but they do not have the power to initiate this welcome, nor do they have much say in or control over the ceremonies or the protocol. They are invited to say welcome and to bless the event, but usually not much else. As Meyda Yegenoglu contends, “the liberal imperative to tolerate and respect culture difference is far from displacing the sovereignty of the host.”40 This kind of division of labour reflects the unequal power relations and resource allocations between indigenous people and the academy – the real host and guest-master, who besides prescribing the role of the native informant has encroached on the sovereignty of the host. The academy has not only the finances but also the cultural and epistemic capital to make the necessary decisions as well as the necessary contacts and relationships – especially with the representatives of other sectors of society such as the government and the police – that enable the continued foreclosure. The third and most recent example involves UBC’s and the provincial government’s breach of their legal obligations to consult the Musqueam. In March 2005, the British Columbia Court of Appeal ruled that in 2003 the provincial government had breached its duty when it sold the University Golf Course to UBC. The sale would have made UBC the first university in Canada to own a golf course. The course is on traditional Musqueam territory, and according to Chief Ernie Campbell, the band needs that land for future housing and economic development as the present reserve is running out of space. The appeal court ordered the sale reversed, arguing that the consultation process had been flawed and insufficient because it “was left until a too advanced stage in the proposed sale transaction ... The Musqueam should have had the benefit of an earlier consultation process as opposed to a series of counter-offers following the decision by [a B.C. Crown corporation] to proceed with the sale.” Prior to the ruling, UBC and the provincial government maintained that the Musqueam had been adequately consulted. The court order suspended the sale for two years so that the parties could negotiate an agreement.41 It is not difficult to draw parallels between the token acknowledgment of the Musqueam people and their territory in official opening statements and other public rhetoric on the one hand, and on the other hand, the dismissive manner in which university representatives meet their legal responsibility to consult the Musqueam. It seems that when it comes to the Musqueam, the university’s long-term, patient host, UBC is only willing to do the bare minimum, to cross the fence where it is the lowest, in order to save face as well as legal costs. Such conduct hardly suggests an excellent institution (as the current rhetoric goes) or a good guest.

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For some indigenous people, the academy is a hostile subject not only because of its history (with which we live to this day) but also because the hostility of hostis (guest) is intertwined with mastery, possession, and power.42 Today’s colonizer-as-guest is not necessarily different from the colonizer-asguest of the past, even when the code of conduct seems somewhat different. The initial host may well be taken hostage through various gestures of convenience, through being turned into native informants, through silencing, or through employment of the old colonial tactic of breaking agreements and relationships (as the court case example indicates). Indigenous people must remain vigilant within hegemonic institutions, which as guestmasters either seek indigenous people’s consent but then turn their gifts into commodities, or simply exploit indigenous people unthinkingly. In present circumstances there is no hospitality in the academy. Generally speaking, the academy offers indigenous people only a limited welcome, and does so without even being aware of the gift of their epistemes. Because hospitality and an unconditional welcome are lacking, the “other” is erased by the demands of translation (of their languages and their epistemes). Derrida argues that the question of hospitality begins with the question of translation. For him, translation is among the serious problems of hospitality: “Must we ask the foreigner to understand us, to speak our language, in all the senses of this term, in all its possible extensions, before being able and so as to be able to welcome him [or her] into our country?”43 If a good host is one that has the capacity to grant unconditional hospitality without requiring the guest to speak the language of the host, the academy cannot be considered a good host. Too often, the academy – usually implicitly, sometimes explicitly, through its discourses and paradigms – requires its guests to understand and speak its language not necessarily prior to a welcome but definitely after the welcome. Indigenous people are forced to “ask for hospitality in a language which by definition is not his or her own”; as a consequence, they are faced with “the first act of violence.”44 Indigenous people arrive in the academy with a foreign “language” – that is, a different approach to understanding the world and to constructing knowledge and value systems. The subaltern might be able to speak, but she is not listened to except within the parameters of benevolent, distancing liberal multiculturalism and cultural relativism. In many cases, she remains the native informant, however euphemized. If the academy is the guest-master (or the self-identified host), are indigenous people inevitably the guests? And what sorts of guests is the academy as the host ready to welcome? Only “good” guests (well-behaving and predictable ones), while “bad” guests (considered parasites or illegitimate, clandestine guests) are expelled? Are only guests without risks welcome? In hospitality, the notion of a bad guest is merely a reflection of the host’s mistrust and intolerance and of the control that the host exercises. It is also

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a sign of the host’s desire to control ambivalence when it cannot be expunged. There is no hospitality without an unconditional welcome, without saying welcome to the foreigner and the ultimate “other” even if we do not know her language.45 Hospitality is characterized by a profound and immutable ambiguity. That ambiguity is reflected in the etymology that demonstrates the inseparability of the guest and the host (in French, both are hôte) and the short distance between hospitality and hostility. The latter, however, does not excuse us from our responsibilities of reciprocal relationships toward one another. This ambiguity implies that there cannot be only one host in the academy. It is impossible for anyone to claim a mastery or sovereignty over the role of the host. There are many hosts, and they are all different. There are many entities that can and do say welcome, but the welcomes of these different hosts mean and imply different things. They may all be important, but that does not mean they are necessarily equal or that they have the same access to institutional resources and discourses. There is the initial hospitality, and there are the initial hosts who continue to be hosts, even if at times it may appear that they have been erased or have become the hostage of hosti-pet-s, the guest-master, through benevolent imperialism, epistemic ignorance, repressive tolerance, and other mechanisms of control and domination. There is the guest-master, who also is a host and who says welcome. But this host must be aware of and recognize the gifts of the initial host – if not, he or she is an arrogant imperial hôte (host/guest) and does not deserve either the right to hospitality or the right to say welcome. Unconditional Welcome and the Profession of the University What does hospitality mean with regard to worldviews and discursive practices? It is one thing to welcome indigenous people to the academy, but what does it mean and what does it take to welcome their epistemes? Unconditional welcome calls for the academy to show responsibility for – to respond to, and be answerable to – indigenous epistemes by embracing the logic of the gift. This logic requires a new relationship that in turn requires both knowledge and action – a relationship that is ongoing and unending and in which “responses flow from the both sides.” Unconditional welcome requires a transformation in the way the dominant academic discourses and practices perceive and relate to other epistemes and epistemologies. The academy cannot disavow its responsibility for indigenous epistemes by according them mere respect and tolerance, by limiting itself to establishing “inclusive” curricula and course materials, or by ensuring special access or indigenous studies programs. Unconditional welcome must be propelled into action by a commitment to responsibility toward the “other,” be it a guest or a host. Unconditional welcome is not simply another

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academic policy, program, guideline, or perspective that can be forgotten once implemented; it must involve continuous engagement. Unconditional welcome implies changes in how indigenous epistemes are perceived and constructed in the academy. Those epistemes must not be viewed as archaic, premodern objects for study or as supplements and commodities. Rather, they must be approached as indispensable tools for the pursuit of knowledge; this is imperative if the academy is to profess its profession. Derrida has suggested that “the university professes the truth, and that is its profession. It declares and promises an unlimited commitment to the truth.”46 This is not to suggest that there is only one truth. In terms of epistemic ignorance, an unlimited commitment to the truth means a recognition of multiple epistemes by the academy. But before it can recognize those epistemes, the academy will have to examine its practices and discourses of exclusion and foreclosure, its narrow intellectual foundations, and its hierarchical, hegemonic structures of knowledge. An important aspect of professing the truth while remaining critical involves challenging and deconstructing various fantasies of sovereign mastery, including the fantasy of the sovereign mastery of certain epistemic traditions and assumptions. The profession of the truth cannot be limited to only certain (types of) truths, nor can it reduce itself to partial, one-sided truths (i.e., “non-truths”) in order to serve and benefit certain individuals or groups. When the academy sanctions ignorance, or excludes other epistemes from its discourses, discussions, and practices, it is professing its profession very poorly. To dismiss other than the dominant Western intellectual, philosophical, and epistemic traditions by appealing to academic freedom or tenets of liberal thought and education is to seriously misrepresent and distort both the profession and the very concept of the academy. In order for the academy to properly practise its profession, it must be unconditionally and absolutely free. This is not to suggest that academics can work without constraints or that the academy is autonomous in the Kantian sense. Instead, it is an urgent call for the academy to accept responsibility toward the “other.” This will require “the opening of the university on its outside, on its other, on the future and the otherness of the future.”47 Necessarily, the future of the university needs to be less enclosed in itself and more “open to the other as a future.”48 The “other” – in this context, indigenous epistemes – is the future of the academy as a place of learning, producing, and sharing knowledge (rather than as a place for exploiting knowledge for economic profit). The ethics and the future of the academy require hospitality. Without openness to the “other,” responsibility toward the “other”, there can be no future of and in the academy. The future of the university will be found in its openness to the “other.” This openness will have to involve more than

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merely opening doors to indigenous people while dismissing or failing to recognize their epistemes. As a good host (or guest-master), the academy will have to accept and claim its responsibilities for – it will have to respond to – indigenous and other epistemes in the name of knowledge but also in the name of ethics. The opening of the university to its “other” also implies opening up discourses that so far have remained selective and exclusive and thus discriminatory. Expanding the epistemic foundations is, therefore, a question of the profession of the academy; but the need for that expansion also points to the need for an ethical relationship with the “other.” As an institution with a colonial legacy that shows ongoing neocolonial complicity, the academy – at the institutional and individual levels – has a stake in dismantling these colonial structures and practices as well as an ethical responsibility to do so. Challenging the existing frameworks of systemic discrimination is “not just a task for the colonized and the oppressed; it is the defining challenge and the path to a shared and sustainable future for all peoples.”49 Erica-Irene Daes, the long-term chair of the UN Working Group on Indigenous Populations and Special Rapporteur, contends that both “the oppressor and oppressed are witnesses to the same cruel historical process – a process that denigrates the relevance and meaningfulness of individual human lives ... The tragic experience of colonization is a shared experience.”50 Even when the oppressors succeed economically and politically, “their external aggression returns to haunt them in a cycle of internal mistrust, domination, and violence,” causing them to “suffer their own spiritual deaths.”51 This is powerfully described by Leslie Marmon Silko in Almanac of the Dead, an evocative, explosive, and multidimensional novel in which she shows how the colonizers will continue to self-destruct if they do not confront their own violent histories.52 The transformation of the academy is a collective challenge – collective between indigenous and non-indigenous peoples – also because “it is only in this way that we can break the patronizing, parochial and colonial nature of our educational relations.”53 In opening itself to the gift in the name of its future and in the interest of knowledge, the academy will be challenged to think through its past assumptions of the process of knowing; in this way it will be pushed to its limits. At those limits, the academy will be required to face the world: “This limit of the impossible, the ‘perhaps,’ and the ‘if,’ this is the place where the university is exposed to reality, to the forces from without ... On this border, it must therefore negotiate and organise its resistance and take its responsibilities.”54 Derrida further suggests that “the crossing of the threshold always remains a transgressive step.”55 In terms of the gift of indigenous epistemes, this will mean transgressing academic hegemony and exclusivity and irretrievably changing it, however gradually. Having transgressed the threshold (which is internal to it), the academy will not be able to avoid responding, nor will it be able to disavow its responsibilities. In order to

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have a future, the academy will have to acknowledge the threshold; only in this way will it accept its responsibility and be able to respond. It will have to learn to be taught and to listen and to receive the gift beyond the capacity of the “I.” Hospitality occupies the liminal space in that it requires going beyond I and interrupting the colonial self.56 Levinas agrees that responsibility is not an external duty but part of one’s subjectivity: “To be an I then signifies not to be able to slip away from responsibility ... The putting into question of the I by the other makes me solidary with the other in an incomparable and unique way – not solidary as matter is solidary with the block which it is a part of, or as an organ is solidary with the organism in which it has its function. Solidarity here is responsibility ... which empties the I of its imperialism and its egoism ... The I before another is infinitely responsible.”57 The threshold is where the university comes face to face with the world. At this threshold, its arrogant Eurocentric assumptions and definitions are challenged and it is compelled to assume its responsibilities. But the world the academy is faced with is not external, “out there”; it is always already in the academy. Like homework, the world starts inside the academy, in the concrete location and material, discursive and structural conditions of the university. Once the threshold is accepted as a place where a new mindset and epistemic relationships can emerge, assumptions and systems of discrimination can be interrogated and colonial circumstances can be confronted in new ways. Instead of succumbing to a position that suggests irreconcilable discrepancies or mutual exclusivity and irrelevancy among epistemes, we can abandon binary oppositions in favour of more productive processes of engagement and negotiation, and we can do so in ways that address presentday structural and discursive inequalities, systemic racism, and privileged, sanctioned not-knowing. Let us here take heed of Rosello’s call for a continuum between host and guest. This continuum would keep hospitality alive, as she points out: “If the guest is always the guest, if the host is always a host, something has probably gone very wrong: hospitality has somehow been replaced by parasitism or charity.”58 Responsible action requires that a transgressive step be taken across the threshold, that we give up the quest for certainty, as well as for control over knowledge and knowing, including control over indigenous epistemes. At the same time, however, the hegemonic subject must resist premature urges to act. Ahmed suggests that the desire to act when faced with injustice or inequality is understandable but complicated: “It can be both a defense against the ‘shock’ of hearing about racism (and the shock of the complicity revealed by the very ‘shock’ that ‘this’ was a ‘shock’); it can be an impulse to reconciliation as a ‘re-covering’ of the past (the desire to feel better); it can be about making public one’s judgment (‘what happened was wrong’); or it

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can be an expression of solidarity (‘I am with you’); or it can simply be an orientation towards the openness of the future (rephrased as: ‘what can be done?’).”59 Whatever our motivation to do something, Ahmed argues, actually doing it can in fact prevent us from hearing what is being said. It can remove the hegemonic listener from the present and in this way either remove that listener from the present critique or place the hegemonic subject outside that critique. In short, an urge to act can foreclose what has been said. So before “something can be done,” the hegemonic subject must “inhabit the critique, with its lengthy duration,” and “recognize the world that is redescribed by the critique as one in which they live.”60 The answer to the question, “What can I/we do?” then, is first to actively hear what is being said, to make sense of it, and to try to see whether and how it relates to one’s own subjectivity and practice. Obviously, this must happen without any lapse into the common mechanisms of control and domination: seeking to deny or background the meaning at hand; acknowledging its significance only in relation to the dominant as a supplement; completely separating it from one’s own reality while defining it as inferior; or stereotyping it as homogeneous difference. Indigenizing the Academy Over the past several decades, indigenous scholarship has been striving to redefine and “indigenize” education in a number of ways and at various levels.61 According to Linda Tuhiwai Smith, indigenization is a multilayered enterprise that involves “researching back,” claiming, remembering, and rewriting, as well as celebrating survival.62 Like Derrida’s call for new humanities,63 which insists on opening up and on the academy’s responsibilities to the outside world, the indigenization project views education “not as about exclusivity and containment, but education as a leading out, a fanning out, a spreading out, a dissemination which is inclusive of communities and validates their concerns and their knowledge.”64 At the University of Saskatchewan, Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal scholars have developed the notion of indigenous humanities as “a set of intercultural and interdisciplinary theoretical and practical interventions designed to counter prevailing notions of colonial place.”65 As a postcolonial strategy for education, this calls attention to teachings and practices of human existence in the world, both of these rooted in a specific place and ecology. But instead of emphasizing cultural differences, indigenous humanities aim at an inclusive notion of humanity.66 Indigenous humanities also critique the violence of Eurocentric humanities as reflected in the delegitimation of indigenous rights, contributions, and systems of knowledge. Besides resisting the colonial mainstream and its persistent efforts to merely accommodate or tolerate “the Aboriginal perspective” in ways that only perpetuate

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the status quo, indigenous humanities seek to establish new communities of resistance and respect.67 Indigenous humanities also call attention to and challenge the discourse of neutrality in universities and their curricula.68 As a strategy for applying the master’s tools, indigenous humanities attempt to decolonize academic pretensions to epistemological superiority: “If the humanities were central to the cultural completion of colonialism, then they can be an important part of decolonization.”69 Historically, decolonization has referred to the decades after the Second World War when Asian and African countries achieved independence. Decolonization is closely linked to postcolonialism, both as practice and theory; however, it is often understood more broadly as the ongoing process of dismantling colonial regimes, structures, practices, and discourses. These processes have sometimes taken the form of ethnic nationalism and nativism and have at times led to violent conflicts. The Kenyan writer Ngugi wa Thiong’o has pointed out that decolonization must also include the decolonization of mind, a radical shift away from European values and structures, including the language that carries those values.70 For indigenous peoples who remain colonized, decolonization refers to the present struggle for political but also intellectual, economic, and cultural self-determination; it includes reclaiming their rights to autonomy, land, identity, language, and worldviews. In the academy, decolonization has meant reclaiming and validating indigenous epistemologies, methodologies, and research questions. Decolonizing research is also about centring indigenous people’s concerns and needs and establishing guidelines for ethical research. Some indigenous scholars, however, point to the dangers of some decolonization strategies, in that they either merely react to colonial agendas or display features of cultural fundamentalism.71 Cree/Métis educator Verna St. Denis has defined cultural revitalization as a system of true beliefs that “depends on a construction of Aboriginality as a timeless, unchanging essence.”72 It can also result in blaming victims (for not teaching or speaking their own language, for instance) and thus holding Aboriginal parents and grandparents accountable for colonization instead of examining systems of oppression. For these reasons, she maintains that cultural revitalization is a flawed and problematic cure for systemic social inequality.73 It is vitally important to remain cautious of (impossible) demands for authenticity and for the perfunctory reinscription of cultural traditions. That said, we do have to heed the subtle differences between the strategies and objectives of decolonization on the one hand, and projects for redressing social inequalities on the other. Cultural revitalization is not so much a strategy for countering inequalities as it is a practice of claiming the right to those aspects of indigenous humanity that were denied and excluded when not specifically outlawed over the centuries of colonialism. Claiming and reconstituting indigenous languages, identities, and cultural heritage is

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about the survival of indigenous peoples and about their need to take back control of their lives and futures. Cultural revitalization is also a key element in efforts to reclaim indigenous lands and in various struggles for self-determination. The difference between the two strategies goes back to indigenous peoples’ desire to remain indigenous instead of achieving equality as individuals in mainstream society. But this difference does not mean that indigenous people are not interested in or do not work toward broader social justice and change. There are other approaches to countering the social inequality and discrimination experienced by indigenous people, such as treaty and other self-determination negotiations at the regional, national, and international levels and the resort to international human rights instruments to redress colonial injustices. To misinterpret cultural revitalization as a strategy for curing social inequalities is to dismiss the collective quest by indigenous peoples for survival and decolonization as peoples.74 Decolonization, however, is not as straightforward a strategy as it may first seem; history has shown that it means different things to different people. Even in academic contexts, it poses questions with no easy answers. Several measures and processes count as decolonizing research, but at a more conceptual level, decolonization presents a challenge that must be taken seriously if we wish it to succeed. Deborah Bird Rose contends: “Not only is there no way to theorize in advance how decolonization should or ought to occur, but it would be morally reprehensible to try to do so. Decolonization is a form of practice that is worked at and worked out among the peoples and other living things whose lives have become entangled in the violence of colonization. As a path toward peace, decolonization must be open to continuing negotiations.”75 Efforts to prescribe decolonization – to formulate models and establish policies or programs – are doomed to fail; moreover, they run directly counter to the idea that decolonization must involve the participation and engagement of all parties. Rose’s emphasis on sustaining dialogue and listening attentively in the process of decolonization corresponds to the logic of the gift as well as to calls for reciprocation and responsibility toward the “other.” Reciprocation of Epistemes Reciprocity, commonly viewed as key to establishing and maintaining communities, can be understood either in narrow economic terms or in broader anthropological terms. According to the former, reciprocity is a two-way exchange, a constrained give and take. According to the latter, it involves exchange practices especially between groups and is opposite to market interactions. Economic anthropology – for example, Mauss’s essay on the gift – draws from both perspectives. Reciprocity is often placed within an evolutionary framework; when it is, it is equated with “primitive” or “archaic”

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societies (as opposed to modern market societies). Yet some anthropologists, such as Claude Lévi-Strauss, have emphasized the universality of reciprocity. Reciprocity has also been viewed as an “embedded” economy, in contrast to the ”disembedded” market economy.76 The approach taken by the feminist gift economy criticizes narrow interpretations of reciprocity and views of the gift as exchange. As a key element of exchange, constrained reciprocity is self-oriented and de-emphasizes (unlike the gift paradigm) the creation of relationships and the needs of others.77 In many indigenous epistemes, reciprocity is a key principle and practice; however, it is not practised or understood in constrained terms of give and take but rather in terms of giving back and circulation. Besides building and maintaining interpersonal or group-to-group relationships, reciprocity plays a key role in interactions between the human and non-human realms. Reciprocity among people often takes the form of circulation – one gives something to another, who in turn gives something else to a third person. There is not necessarily an expectation that one will receive something of equal value from the same person to whom one has given something; but because sharing and giving form the basis of the community’s well-being, receiving from others who have something to share is considered a normal part of life. This understanding is based on an ethical worldview that recognizes the importance of interdependence instead of prioritizing the independence of the individual. In these worldviews, the “strings” attached to gifts do not exist in the same way as in closed, two-way giving between two individuals. If there are strings, they are attached in an individual and collective sense that recognizes the need to look after others in the community. Reciprocation with the land and its gifts is foundational to indigenous worldviews. This reciprocity is usually perceived in terms of giving back rather than taking and receiving. This giving back can assume many forms; however, the principle remains that in order to maintain the balance of the socio-cosmic order, gifts of the land must be actively acknowledged through practices, acts, and ceremonies which express gratitude and which also recognize that the land is a living being that cannot be endlessly exploited. This relationship is not a mechanistic exchange; rather, it reflects a way of being in the world predicated on active participation in its processes. The gift logic of indigenous epistemes postulates an ethical relationship of reciprocation that cannot be grasped only in terms of exchange or narrow interpretations of reciprocity. It emphasizes circulation and giving back, both of which are principles and practices at the same time. Reciprocity is not an abstract concept but a specific behavioural standard. This means that when we consider how the logic of the gift can be practised in the academy, we must first examine the conditions of reciprocation between institutional structures and indigenous epistemes. The asymmetrical relations of power

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and privilege between the two, and the colonial legacy of the academy, place particular emphasis on the question of reciprocation in circumstances in which the logic of dualistic hierarchies has rendered indigenous epistemes largely inaudible and invisible. Can the logic of the gift occur in such terms, or would attempts to practise it only distort and exploit it? I argue that it can and must occur. We cannot wait to establish more symmetrical power relations and only then discuss reciprocity between epistemes. Reciprocation is part of the decolonization process, which seeks to unsettle the unequal relations of domination. There are already sufficient theories and analyses of colonial practices, discourses, and impacts that we can get the process started. The real challenge will be how to set the existing theories to work while remembering the possible traps of recolonization, of merely reproducing colonial relations, structures, and discourses. Engaging in the logic of the gift brings to mind Rose’s comments on decolonization: it cannot be formulated as preconceived models; it must be worked out in practice and then eventually inform the accompanying theory. Because the Habermasian “neutral communication situation of free dialogue” is an impossibility, reciprocation as a means of decolonization will need to negotiate with the structures and discourses of neocolonial privilege. Negotiation, Spivak notes, seeks “to change something that one is obliged to inhabit, since one is not working from the outside.”78 Reciprocation between epistemes is not a process that can be brought to the academy from outside once decolonization has taken place; in fact, the process of decolonization can only emerge from within those structures of domination, from inside the institution. The fact that the logic of the gift is shaped by indigenous philosophies and worldviews must not give rise to the assumption that it cannot operate in the institutional systems of domination. We must abandon the common (often unconscious) colonial ideas about keeping the “indigenous” (epistemes, peoples, or anything else) separate or uncontaminated to preserve its archaic nature and thereby extend its inability to intervene, dialogue, participate, and disrupt. It can and it must operate within those systems, because it is a theory and practice of transforming the academy at the level of its intellectual procedures and traditions. Those who suspect that the gift logic will not be able to function as a transformative strategy in the academy need to scrutinize their reservations – perhaps those have something to do with lingering sentiments about the archaic nature of the gift or with unexamined bias against the gift owing to its associations with anthropology. Without realizing it, do we think that the gift – especially when related to indigenous philosophies – is so quaint and antiquated that it cannot carry any weight in contemporary contexts, or that indigenous epistemes are so removed from current, complex structures of power they possibly have nothing to offer critical analyses? I argue

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that the commonplace dismissal of and indifference to indigenous philosophies by even some of the most progressive academics reflects the unexamined colonial logic of dualism, which sees indigenous peoples and their epistemes only through mechanisms of domination and control (see Chapter 3). This does not mean that the gift itself is beyond scrutiny. For example, the call for the logic of the gift and, thus, the need for epistemic reciprocation must pay heed to concerns relating to what Ahmed calls “the politics of bad feeling”: “What is presumed in the literature on restorative justice is that injustice is caused by the failure of the social bond. The restoration of the social bond (the family, the community, the nation) is hence read as a sign of justice. Justice is also assumed to be about ‘having’ good relationships. I would argue that the struggle against injustice cannot be transformed into a manual for good relationships. Justice might then not simply be about ‘getting along,’ but may preserve the right of others not to enter into relationships, ‘to not be with me,’ in the first place.”79 Justice is not achieved by merely establishing relationships, and having “good” relationships does not amount to either decolonization or transformation. We also need to remain wary about assumptions that harmonious relationships emerge from processes of reconciliation and restorative justice.80 The process of transforming, decolonizing, or indigenizing the academy cannot end with the formation of social or epistemic bonds; this can only be the first step toward change. At the same time, we must not idealize the notion of justice. When we examine the current dominant justice system, we find it strongly adversarial and see that it reflects and reproduces the exchange paradigm such that the notion of justice requires a pay-back, a “balancing of accounts,” and retribution. Vaughan argues that this model of justice only breeds more violence by generating endless cycles of vengeance and coercion.81 In fighting injustice, then, we must specify what is meant by justice. What are its objectives? What and whom does one’s notion of justice include? The gift logic that is rooted in indigenous philosophies does not presume harmonious relationships. When we examine practices of giving and giving back to the land, we find examples of gift relationships characterized by tension, asymmetry, and even antagonism. Similar tensions have existed between groups and individuals in giving relationships. Sometimes these tensions result in an end to the relationship. For instance, there are stories about Sami who became so disappointed with their personal sieidi that they destroyed them by dismantling them, burning them, or pushing them into the river. In other accounts, a Sami has displeased the sieidi to the point that it has stopped responding. We cannot and should not read the restoration of social bonds as a sign of justice; but at the same time, we do need to consider the formation of

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relationships as an approach to being in the world that acknowledges the interdependence of everyone and everything. Whether we call this mode of being in the world sustainable or ethical, the difference between the “justice” mode and the “relationship” mode calls attention to the often assumed opposition between justice and care. An increasing number of feminist theories of ethics in moral and political philosophy have led to examinations of the concept of justice as it relates to the autonomous, abstract, rational agent. Feminist theorists have been emphasizing the interdependence rather than the independence of individuals and have been arguing for a new conception of ethics based on caring and relationships.82 Simply put, the ethics of care seeks to switch the focus from abstract, generalized relations to concrete, particular relations. However, the ethics of care have been criticized on several grounds; for example, the apparent divide between justice and care has been pointed out. Central questions in this debate have been whether justice and care “represent two distinct types of moral thinking, and ... whether care, on its own, can adequately address all types of moral situations.”83 Some have called for an approach that combines both modes of thinking; others argue that the dichotomy between the two is artificially constructed and that justice and relationships are not mutually exclusive. The ethics of care reflect the logic of the gift. The significance of this ethics is related to the question of responsibility both as a practice and as an ability to respond to others rather than to “preset” moral obligations. Fiona Robinson contends that “the ethics of care undermines the individualistic moral logic that leads us to believe that rights and obligations are somehow disconnected from the networks of social relations in which actors – from individuals to states – are situated.”84 This subverts the very idea that justice exists independently of various forms of relationships. Once we recognize the embeddedness of justice and rights in social relations, we find it harder to deny systems of oppression. Instead of focusing on the implausible opposition between justice and care, then, we need to investigate the political, legal, economic, historical, and ethical bases of these relationships, as well as how these relationships are constructed and perceived.85 Nor does the gift logic rooted in relationships assume that justice is about social bonds. By establishing relationships with epistemes that it had previously foreclosed, excluded, and discriminated against, the academy will not suddenly be turned into a bastion of justice or even of just relations between groups of people. The logic of the gift is not a cure-all for oppression and discrimination in the academy. Any suggestion that it is would belong to the colonial, arrogant mentality of universalities. The gift logic is a strategy for addressing the specific circumstances of prevailing epistemic ignorance in the academy (i.e., practices and discourses of foreclosure and

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dispossession of other than dominant forms of intellectual and philosophical traditions) – that is, circumstances of the sort that lead to situations where indigenous people cannot “speak” and are not heard. In terms of epistemic relations, it is not proximity but distance and indifference that enable the dominant to establish its superiority. It is not proximity or relationships in themselves that constitute colonial containment; what does this, rather, is a certain type of relationship that Plumwood refers to as monological. Monological relationships based on notions of impartiality and disengagement, to the exclusion of care and engagement, assume “the closure of the knower to the known” as well as the possibility that the “other” can be known completely.86 Epistemic superiority is established through the sort of scholarly distance that is highly valued by convention. Therefore, instead of presuming separation, we need to foster critical intimacy as well as recognition of one’s own participation in what one criticizes or seeks to transform, because standing outside is simply impossible. We also need to remember that epistemic relationships are different from relationships between indigenous and non-indigenous people. Obviously, the two are related, but they should not be conflated. Epistemic relationships do, of course, develop between individuals and between groups of people, but they also exist and are acted out in institutional assumptions and conventions about knowledge and the world. Moreover, we should not confuse calls for epistemic relations with the idea of “partnerships,” an idea that the neoliberal, privatized academy seeks to promote among businesses corporations and through its own spin-off companies. When we look at history, we see that groups and individuals from differing social, economic, and political backgrounds have always reciprocated with one another, for better or worse. Symmetrical relations are not a precondition of reciprocity. Reciprocity took place in early colonial encounters, although it often turned into avarice and exploitation. Indigenous people gave shelter, food, guidance, and unconditional hospitality to the early colonizers – without this gift, in conditions so foreign to them, the newcomers would not have survived. The question is today, as it was then, what must the colonizer-guest and the guest-master academy give back? Discussions today about the logic of the gift and reciprocity in the academy need to focus on what the academy must give, in the name of knowledge and ethics but also for the sake of its future. As is the case with the trust relationship between First Nations and the Crown, those who traditionally have had superior power and position also have far greater ethical responsibilities.87 As I argued in Chapter 3, giving by the academy must exceed the standard, token, and superficial “giving of respect” to other cultures. It must go beyond this by taking responsibility for and responding to indigenous epistemes in ways that involve ongoing engagement and active

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participation. In the academy, giving back must above all take the form of extending recognition. But this recognition cannot remain at the level of statements (official or otherwise) or individual or collective confession, catharsis, and redemption.88 Recognition as understood and constituted in the logic of the gift is different from both the politics of recognition of individual and group identities and the call for recognition of indigenous peoples’ rights. In the logic of the gift, recognition is not a declaration or a verbal assertion but a series of ongoing practices that occur at various levels. It is not necessarily uttered, but it is always carried out through everyday or ceremonial activities. It is thus not an abstract moral concept, as in the Kantian ethics of obligations, but an act of engagement and participation in and with the world. Above all, the academy must recognize its colonial history and acknowledge that its structures perpetuate the practices and discourses of exclusion and foreclosure. In other words, the academy must acknowledge and address its ongoing denial of and studied ignorance about indigenous epistemes. To this end, it will have to examine its own institutional and individual beliefs, biases, and assumptions and achieve some understanding of how these developed and became naturalized in the course of history. It will have to investigate its own privilege as well as the “ideology of know-nothingism” that it has embraced. In recognizing systemic epistemic exclusion, the academy will also have to address its own various mechanisms of domination and control and ascertain how they have been entrenched in institutional and individual practices and discourses. And the academy also must give back power – the power to define and decide whose accounts and worldviews matter, but also the power to make actual decisions at the level of faculties, departments, committees, and boards of governors. If universities are to remain places of learning, they will have to stop filling boards of governors with corporate representatives. For example, is it more appropriate for the UBC board of governors to have CEOs of a machinery company and a mineral exploration company as members rather than a representative of the Musqueam nation? The academy also needs to give back epistemic authority and abandon its monopoly to decide which interpretations and values are accurate and appropriate. Employing Foucault’s “repression hypothesis,” Fiona Nicoll argues that “power does not simply repress Indigenous people through the agency of ‘racist’ white people. It also and simultaneously produces the contours, possibilities and privileges of white subjectivity.”89 While the various theories and analyses of power are too wide-ranging to discuss here, I want to consider a reconceptualization of power that might be useful here. But first, how can power be given up? Fiona Probyn, in responding to Aileen Moreton-Robinson’s call for feminist theorizing on the relinquishment of power, notes that there are hardly

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any models of disempowerment, even though models of empowerment abound. Probyn argues that “there is ‘no giving up power’ without power being taken/transmuted into another form; taking responsibility, taking a good hard look at yourself, taking care, taking part, taking on ressentiment, taking up the challenge, taking time, taking to task, taking over.”90 She also points out how complex a task it is to challenge power and privilege from a position of power. How can one question one’s privilege without at the same time minimizing, neutralizing, or even reconfiguring that privilege along the lines of the underprivileged? The last point refers to whites “recovering” their (ethnic) pasts and representing themselves as ancestrally colonized. Privilege is re-presented as at-one-time underprivileged; in this way, the privileged are absolved from owning their privilege or power. To unmask power and privilege, then, is to liberate oneself from something called privilege, “a liberation from disempowerment (of being an oppressor).”91 Other attempts at neutralizing privilege involve recontextualizing it, and specifying it through mitigating factors such as gender, class, and sexuality. The task of addressing power can also become caught up in perpetual unmasking, declaring, and confessing. As a result, it is not able to proceed to “the more difficult task of inquiring into what happens to the white critic after this performance because it is so heavily invested in the ritual of revelation ... [that] satiates an urgent need and makes it seem like we’ve arrived somewhere.”92 Probyn suggests that we conceive of power as a gift because, like the gift, “it is never given without being something taken.”93 This, however, is based on an inaccurate interpretation of the gift as exchange and as constrained give and take. Giving does not depend on taking and the gift is more than a repetitive moral duty. Even so, comparing power to the gift enables us to see how power is also always embedded in relationships. Moreover, if giving up power completely is impossible (as Probyn argues), equating power with the gift offers us another option: sharing. When we look at the etymology of the word “power,” we find that its Latin root, posse, means “to be able.” Power, then, is not limited to control, domination, and coercion. Lani Guinier and Gerald Torres advocate a notion of “power with,” “the psychological and social power gained through collective resistance and struggle and through creation of an alternative set of stories ... This power is generative, it involves sharing something or becoming something, not just giving or demanding or consuming. It expands in its exercise. It finds a way to call on people to connect with something larger than themselves.”94 At the very least, it is possible to find ways to begin sharing institutional power in the academy. And if it is the case, as Anthony Giddens contends, that the most intense and durable form of power can be found in the repetition of institutionalized practices,95 such sharing may amount to something more than merely unmasking and revealing. Denise Henning contends that it is

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imperative for universities to commit themselves to challenging the prevailing status quo in the name of equality. They need to evaluate their administrative structures, and administrators need to stop relying on scholars and students in “marginal” programs to take responsibility for change: “Indeed, doing so amounts to an abdication of responsibility, as this type of management does not question the power imbalances and structural inequalities built into the institutions of higher education in Canada and the United States, instead placing the responsibility on those suffering discrimination to fix the problem.”96 Besides examining its structures and practices of power and accepting responsibility for sharing it, the academy must scrutinize the history that has generated epistemic hierarchies and discrimination. This has to go hand in hand with individual academics’ ceasing to deny this history – a denial that as Donaldo Macedo points out, allows well-meaning liberals to “safely display their presumed benevolence toward a particular subordinate cultural group ... without having to accept that, because of their privileged position, they are part of a social order that created the very reality of oppression they want to study.”97 He then elaborates on the challenge to and responsibility of privileged educators: “The issue is not to give up or not give up a job. The real issue is to understand one’s privileged position in the process of helping so as not to, on the one hand, turn help into a type of missionary paternalism and, on the other hand, limit the possibilities for the creation of structures that lead to real empowerment.”98 Macedo is critical of romantic notions of empowerment, which can be more patronizing than helpful and which do not lead to any real transformation. He maintains that dismantling subordination and oppression is only possible when the “liberal colonialist” accepts the reality that transformation necessarily implies a transformation of the privileged position. Maori scholar Russell Bishop also rejects the idea of empowerment, calling it a misguided approach that sustains neocolonial sentiments. His view of the goals of indigenous scholarship corresponds to the intentions of the logic of the gift and to the call that the gift of indigenous epistemes be recognized in the academy. He contends that indigenous methodologies such as those of the Kaupapa Maori do not aim “to seek to give voice to others, to empower others, to emancipate others, to refer to others as subjugated voices, but rather to listen to and participate with those traditionally ‘othered’ as constructors of meanings of their own experiences and agents of knowledge.”99 This is what the logic of the gift also calls for: not merely giving voice to indigenous people or even their epistemes, but being able and prepared, institutionally and individually, to hear indigenous epistemes as sui generis but contemporary ways of organizing, structuring, and constructing understandings and knowledge of the world.

Hospitality and the Logic of the Gift in the Academy

The logic of the gift will not be possible in the academy until the academy gives up its control over knowledge and epistemes as well as the colonial mentality of superiority and supremacy. There can be no reciprocity or gift logic as long as (neo)colonial and patriarchal structures, discourses, assumptions, and claims of knowledge remain intact. When the academy, the guest-master, refuses to give up its supremacist structures and discourses, how can it argue that it is open to knowledge, to the production of knowledge, and to learning? How can it call itself a place of knowledge as long as the knowledge it produces and reproduces is based on a fraction of the understanding that is possible in this world? Derrida reminds us that the academy will find its future in its openness toward the “other,” the once marginalized. The logic of the gift is a matter of shifting mindsets away from the paradigm of exchange and the logic of imperial rationalism, both of which are based on the superiority of hegemonic, monological forms of reason as well as on Enlightenment intellectual conventions relating to competition, domination, and control. From this, it follows that the academy will have to do more than rewrite its mandates and vision statements or adjust its structures of funding. The logic of the gift would bring with it more than a new pedagogy, although pedagogical changes would follow as a result. Gift relations at the epistemic level are predominantly about transforming colonial, patriarchal, and supremacist mindsets, paradigms, and values. If that transformation does not happen, the logic of the gift will be impossible, and so will be hospitality and epistemic gift relations. The gift of indigenous epistemes cannot be given or received in hegemonic, patriarchal structures and discourses, which continue to determine the topics, issues, and questions worthy of consideration. In these discourses, indigenous people remain as native informants, objects of curiosity, add-ons, or tokens (if they feature at all); they are not seen as “somebodies” whom one would care to talk to or engage with. One can encrypt the logic of the gift in mission statements and university mandates, and channel funding into culturally sensitive or appropriate programs, but these gestures (of convenience) will neither transgress the prevailing epistemic ignorance nor allow practices of reciprocation and thus the logic of the gift. The reciprocity of the logic of the gift does not take the form of reductionist, binary give and take; that said, the one thing the academy must take is responsibility. Henning notes that the academy has for too long placed the responsibility for changing the circumstances and structures of discrimination on the shoulders of those who suffer from it most. It is not surprising, then, that despite so much work since the 1960s, there has been little real progress – that forty years later, despite various diversity projects, “the fundamental power balance remains largely unchallenged.”100 Responsibility

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implies response-ability, but responsibility of the academy also must go “beyond innocence.”101 In the academy, innocence takes a special form of choosing not to know in order to exercise patterns of systemic privilege. The logic of the gift cannot be reduced to prefabricated models of action or, to recall Ahmed’s admonition, to a manual for good relationships. Rather, the gift is a continuous process and practice of reciprocation, recognition, and negotiation without closure. But for those who are not quite sure where and how to start taking responsibility at an individual level, some rudimentary, provisional suggestions can be offered.102 These suggestions may sound somewhat flippant or impatient because I will be presenting them as imperatives. I do not wish to be or sound patronizing, but I do seek to convey the immediacy of the need to consider these points, which I direct at all who inhabit the academy. Naturally, these propositions are in addition to the imperatives of inhabiting the criticism, taking it in, taking part, giving recognition. First and foremost, as an academic, stop being arrogant about, indifferent to, or intimidated by other epistemes (and by those who represent them). If you are not in the academy to advance and impart knowledge, stop calling yourself an academic and go work for a corporation (the sad irony, of course, is that universities are increasingly being run like corporations). Second, reject the truism of academic disinterestedness. Academics should all know by now that the academy has never really been an ivory tower, detached from society and its interests. Academic disinterestedness has never existed, and this has never been so obvious as in the present era of the corporatization and privatization of universities. Even those who did not see it before are alarmed now, and bemoaning that academic impartiality is being jeopardized. But when was the academy ever impartial? Instead of cherishing unwarranted romantic notions of the detached academy, get over it and get involved. Find out where you are and engage with the epistemes you find in that place. Considering the increasingly unbalanced lives of academics (thanks to the academy’s current cut-throat values, which prioritize competition, individualism, and self-interest), connecting with the place – with the concrete and physical but also the historical, epistemic, social location of the university – may bring an added benefit. If more value were placed on community service, more balance (and meaning) might be brought to academic lives. Third, engage in dialogue at multiple levels. Remember that in indigenous thought, the gift and hospitality are practices, not merely conceptual abstractions; there is no rupture between values, concepts, and actions. In the classroom, allow different texts to dialogue with one another, but do not assume a context of neutral, symmetrical dialogue and do not attempt to smooth over the inevitable discontinuities. Above all, do not attempt to

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domesticate the “other” through analysis, categorization, comparison, or “multicultural consumption.” Instead of multicultural, relativist “appreciation of the other,” Spivak proposes “transnational literacy” that would allow a reading of “stylistically non-competitive” writings without attempts at forced comparisons.103 She suggests that transnational literacy is a slow, mind-changing process that “can be used to open the imagination to such mindsets.”104 In terms of the logic of the gift, we can speak of “multiepistemic literacy” with literacy understood in a broad sense, as an ability not only to read and write but also to listen and hear, to learn, reflecting Walter J. Ong’s argument of the multisensory world of “oral” societies (see Chapter 2). Learning from the logic of the gift is also a slow process that involves changing mindsets. It does not take the form of new programs or services, nor does it yield easy answers, because “there is an alternative vision of the human: those who have stayed in place for more than thirty thousand years. The tempo of learning to learn from this immensely slow temporizing will not only take us clear out of diasporas, but will also yield no answers or conclusions readily.”105 Without the ability to open up the imagination, the process will most likely fail. To imagine and thereby create something different requires overcoming, as Mies and Bennholdt-Thomsen put it, “the tunnel vision, the ignorance, the narrowness, the blockage of thought of our metropolitan arrogance.”106 Derrida defines reason as the ability to receive – as the responsibility to receive and (it follows) to remain open to the “other.” The academy, defined as an institution of reason, has the potential to receive the gift, if only it can overcome and dismantle its hegemonic forms of reason. The gift does not oppose reason; it goes beyond reason and opens it up for its hopefully less arrogant future. The gift, then, does not pose a threat to the foundations of the university but rather offers a possibility. Only by assuming and recognizing its responsibilities, however, can the guest-master – the academy – ultimately become, instead of a hostage to its own logic of imperial rationalism and colonial dualism, an hôte that may also receive.

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The university remains a contested site where not only knowledge but also middle-class, Eurocentric, patriarchal, and (neo)colonial values are produced and reproduced. As Althusser and others have shown, the academy is one of the main sites for reproducing hegemony. Not surprisingly, then, the studied silence and wilful indifference surrounding the “indigenous” continues unabated in most academic circles. In the same way that indigenous peoples (and their epistemes) remained invisible when the nation-states were being shaped, indigenous scholarship remains invisible and unreflected in most academic discourses, including that of some of the most progressive intellectuals. The politics of disengagement rooted in hegemonic forms of reason, as well as the corporatization of basic values – accumulation of intellectual capital, competitive self-interestedness – discourage many selfidentified critics of hegemonic discourses from seriously committing themselves to elaborating alternatives or engaging in the slow and demanding processes of ethical singularity. In the spirit of the times, they count on a revolution – a sudden rupture that appears from nowhere with little effort. The recent discourses of revolution from both the right and the left leave one somewhat wary of the potential of revolutions. If the neoconservatives can view themselves as revolutionary in their myth-making and in their battle against “evil” in the name of distorted notions of freedom and democracy, revolution has come too close to terror and hegemony. In such revolutions, there can be no transformation for most of the world’s people. Also, most revolutions are marked by gender bias, which only reproduces patriarchal, hierarchical models as the ideals for a new sovereignty.1 The concept of revolution is inconsistent with the logic of the gift. Revolution is always predicated on violence of some sort, be it physical and overt or in some subtler form – structural, symbolic, cultural, or epistemic. Revolutions take place to overthrow oppressive, hegemonic regimes. However, no transformation can take place if we are incapable of going beyond

Conclusion

the language of aggression. Maria Mies and Veronika Bennholdt-Thomsen correctly observe that “after so many failed or abrogated revolutions, we no longer have confidence in the power which comes out of barrels of the guns of the international warriors.”2 This is also true in terms of the language we use. Language mirrors but also constructs our reality and thus our values. We do not need to replicate and reinforce the language of violence; what we do need is a language of hope and new possibilities. Instead of opposition, we need participation and commitment. This is what I have attempted to provide in this book when I suggest the logic of the gift, which emphasizes the significance of relations and interdependence. The focus here has not been on exploring existing or future progressive models but rather on arguing that the academy will fail in its objectives as long as it largely excludes and forecloses indigenous epistemes. The gift also compels us to reconsider concepts such as responsibility, recognition, and reciprocity. It asks questions such as these: How can we collectively and individually begin to transform our values so that they will better reflect the basic principles of the gift logic, that is, participation and reciprocation, which are the conditions of being human? How can we practise these principles in our work, research, teaching, and daily academic life? What do we need to learn to ensure that indigenous epistemes can “speak,” that is, be heard by others in ways that do not require translation into dominant epistemes? Here it is important to remember that the concept of episteme is not synonymous with epistemology, and that the call to recognize indigenous epistemes is not a matter of “bringing different knowledges to the university and therefore, globalizing it,” as was suggested by a discussant at a recent American Educational Research Association conference at which I presented my work. Nor is it a matter of reducing indigenous epistemes, or the logic of the gift, to a handful of concepts or principles to be sprinkled into the academic (or any other) rhetoric. The call for the recognition of indigenous epistemes in the academy is a call for new paradigms and epistemic relationships that will transgress and subvert the prevailing logic of hegemonic rationalism and colonial superiority. As pervasive economic globalization has often demonstrated so painfully, the contemporary reality is that sites of separation are no longer possible. One way or another, all societies and communities are being affected by the forces of globalization, which seek to eliminate borders of all kinds. The pervasive nature of the neoliberal, corporate mentality is also reflected in the fact that many of its values have not only been adopted but also, by and large, naturalized – values such as competition, hyperindividualism, profit, and the externalization of social responsibility. The corporate ethos, according to which social responsibility is a distortion of business principles, is also increasingly influencing the academy, in which even “revolutionary scholars” prefer to point fingers and disavow their own social responsibilities

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instead of “walking the talk,” that is, living and practising alternatives in their own work. On the endless conference circuit, there is no shortage of self-indulgent academics telling us that we need a change, we need alternatives. Yet one rarely hears those alternatives articulated. Most scholars and intellectuals, including those who claim to be outside the mainstream, limit their thinking to existing, hegemonic paradigms and are content to ask questions about “minimum requirements” for their participation in current structures. Those few who do not limit themselves to telling others to develop alternatives and new visions and who instead attempt to elaborate them are ridiculed as utopian and idealistic. The very same people who call for transformation suddenly start talking about “harsh realities” that leave no room or possibilities for alternatives. The phrase “harsh realities” is uttered in such a way that the underlying message is loud and clear to everyone: don’t be naive, we cannot afford to ponder anything (be it unjust social conditions, economic inequalities, human rights, or ethical lifestyle choices) except what the current race to the bottom dictates. The TINA syndrome (“there is no alternative”) is widespread and contagious. The dominant system, Vandana Shiva points out, “makes alternatives disappear by erasing and destroying the reality which they attempt to represent.”3 Mies and Bennholdt-Thomsen make the important point that the current dogma, however, “is not the outcome of some immutable natural law,” but was constructed mainly by white men not too long ago and therefore can be changed, as have earlier ideologies and systems.4 Mies adds that the common reluctance to imagine alternatives is a result of the evolutionary perspective on progress that is embedded in Western thought: The difficulty of even thinking of an alternative in our industrial societies is due partly to the concept of linear progress which dominates Eurocentric thought. People cannot understand that “going back” and looking for what was better in the past, or in non-industrialized societies, might be a creative method of transcending the impasse in which our societies are stranded ... They are also reluctant to step out of their given mindset and dream of another paradigm, unless they are offered a fully fledged model of another economy. They fear to join a process, which is already under way, and contribute their own creativity and energy. They want security before they step out of their old house.5

We have to find the will and courage to participate in an ongoing, unfinished process. One sometimes hears that progressives and liberals need to learn from the New Right because its strategies seem to work so well. But what is fabricating lies, manipulating fear, and manufacturing myths and

Conclusion

hostility toward the “other” in the name of uniting the nation going to teach us except how utterly corrupt, savage, and unconscionable the New Right is? With its tactics and political manoeuvring, how viable, just, ethical, and sustainable would our alternatives be? Moreover, when we consider how the spirit of distrust and disillusionment generated by the right seems to have affected the spirit of the progressive contingent, clearly there is not much to learn from the right. In our search for teachers and for sources of learning, we need to look elsewhere, extending our imaginations beyond the immediately accessible, existing paradigms. We need to start learning from the gift. The gift is both a paradigm and a practice, and it is about forging a new logic grounded in responsibility toward the “other” and defined as the ability and willingness to reciprocate not only at the level of human interaction but also at the epistemic level. To call for the recognition of the gift of indigenous epistemes is to call for an epistemic shift grounded in a specific philosophy. As such, it is a more profound transformation than the ones offered through the current endeavours toward the inclusive university, which seek to “democratize” the traditionally Eurocentric curriculum and the canon. In the discourse of inclusion, the paradigm and the mindset remain unchanged. This dominant paradigm is characterized by one-way relationships in which the flow of knowledge is always unilateral (and thus hegemonic), whether from indigenous people to the academy (the site of the native informant) or from the academy to indigenous people (the site of Eurocentric, hegemonic intellectual foundations of the institution). The gift logic demands a change in mindset and in the academy – an opening up to a new way of seeing and conceptualizing knowledge as well as our relationships and responsibilities in terms of other individuals, groups, and epistemes. In this sense, it goes beyond critical pedagogy. In cultivating critical thinking and social responsibility, critical pedagogy emphasizes the political and emancipatory nature of education. Many also advocate “revolutionary critical pedagogy,” which foregrounds social class and is informed by Marxist theories. For the most part, however, critical pedagogy is a white male discourse that is not necessarily emancipatory for many groups and individuals.6 In articulating the primacy of social class or processes of democratization, revolutionary critical pedagogy usually ignores the fundamental question of expropriation of indigenous peoples’ lands.7 Scholars of critical theory and pedagogy often note that capitalism would not have been possible without the unpaid work of slaves, people of colour, and women, yet they are studiously silent on the usurpation of indigenous lands. Indigenous epistemes cannot be recognized as a gift within the prevailing neocolonial, global capitalist system. Epistemic ignorance in the academy and elsewhere in society is sanctioned in the interest of global capitalist

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relations. The language and values of market economics and patriarchal, hegemonic forms of rationality have permeated all spheres of life, including the ways that academics view their responsibilities. Universities are increasingly being run like corporations and embracing neoliberal values. Both directly and indirectly, this affects what is considered important and relevant in teaching and learning. By counting on the wealth and profit that the gift (such as “traditional knowledge”) can generate for the academy’s advancement, and by perceiving the gift as part of the exchange economy, this system exploits and commodifies the gift. Another reality of the neoliberal university is that it has become far more interested in the means (such as “innovative technology trends”8) than in the content of learning. The logic of the gift challenges the profit mindset and the empty discourse of excellence, both of which are prevalent in contemporary universities. The concept of epistemic ignorance paves the way for an analysis that exceeds cultural discontinuity theories and analyses. Epistemic ignorance refers to the systems and mechanisms of exclusion, domination, and control in the academy, all of which ensure that it remains impossible to hear indigenous epistemes. The concept does not suggest that the academy is only benevolently ignorant; it also refers to the many ways that the academy adamantly opposes indigenous epistemes because they do not conform to its learned views about knowledge, rationality, and the world in general. Epistemic ignorance thus refers not only to innocent not-knowing but also to structures of power, as well as to arrogant ideologies that seek to maintain the status quo, to consolidate native informants and keep them on the academic reserves. Importantly, epistemic ignorance is more than an “indigenous problem.” It is a problem of higher education generally, in that it threatens free and fearless intellectual inquiry and the pursuit of knowledge and cannot be solved by adding “Native content” to curricula or by incorporating the “indigenous” into critical pedagogy. Instead of focusing on what needs to be done for indigenous people in the academy, the academy must hold itself responsible. What must the academy do in order to be able to receive the gift? Its historic, cultural, and social foundations continue to be informed by patriarchal and colonial discourses and practices; this has created a situation in which “the conditions of intellectual life are circumscribed by these assumptions and practices.”9 Owing to the selective, discriminatory intellectual foundations of the academy, those coming from other epistemic traditions are forced to transcode their systems of knowing and perceiving the world to suit the dominant ones, lest they remain unheard or misunderstood. Creating indigenous spaces and asserting indigenous voices in the academy are generally insufficient measures because their scope is limited to specific programs and spheres of the academy.

Conclusion

Recognizing indigenous epistemes must go beyond the easy but irresponsible step across the threshold of embracing a “land ethic” (or the logic of the gift). This project must include addressing the contemporary realities of indigenous peoples. It cannot limit itself to viewing indigenous peoples as “nature folk” whose philosophies and cultures can be cherry-picked according to personal needs and preferences. Recognizing indigenous epistemes must involve more than simply paying occasional tribute to indigenous peoples and their land-centred practices or employing them as inspirational symbols without knowing and acting on the responsibilities set by the logic of the gift. Also, it is not enough, and in fact would be irresponsible, to cultivate brief references to indigenous peoples’ relationship with the land as a response to calls for the logic of the gift. Such approaches would only romanticize and perpetuate misleading stereotypes with regard to “traditional” versus “contemporary.” Neither gift practices nor the logic of the gift can be rendered as belonging only to archaic or traditional societies. All of us are contemporaries, although some of us have different ways of perceiving and relating to the world. It can be hoped that a commitment to openness and to “learning to learn” will help people in the academy see the links among issues such as the logic of the gift and indigenous land rights. From the perspective of the dominant, the latter issue often seems controversial and, above all, political. The gift reflects a worldview that emphasizes establishing and sustaining relationships with the land rather than taking it for granted. When there is no land to have a relationship with – that is, when land is expropriated or used for other, more “profitable” purposes, be it in the name of civilization or in the interests of the globalized economy – the gift is made impossible and so is the survival of the people. Not entirely unlike the anti-potlatch law of the early twentieth century and other similar policies, the current economic system and its accompanying ideologies make the conditions of the gift impossible. To turn Bourdieu’s theory of gift practices upside down: it is not the gift, but the World Trade Organization (WTO), that is the most effective form of symbolic violence. By making conditions of the gift difficult, if not impossible, the WTO is the new “anti-potlatch law.” Transformation, then, will require the dominant culture to change its values as well as the thinking and behaviour guided by those values. Otherwise – and indigenous people know this better than most – we will kill the planet and ourselves with it.

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Afterword

I am faced with having to write concluding words to something that must remain open by definition. One of Spivak’s remarks crystallizes this somewhat overwhelming endeavour: “If we want to start something, we must ignore that our starting point is, all efforts taken, shaky. If we want to get something done, we must ignore that, all provisions made, the end will be inconclusive. This ignoring is not an active forgetfulness; it is, rather, an active marginalizing of the marshiness, the swampiness, the lack of firm grounding in the margins, at the beginning and end.”1 Instead of a marsh, however, I want to think of beginnings and endings in terms of the fluidity of the river. I started my thesis with the Deatnu, by mooring myself in a specific geographical, cultural, and intellectual location. This encouraged me to approach the issues in this book like a river: with fluidity, mobility, and openness, and sometimes with the unexpected or even the disruptive. The river is also a site of reflection, continuation, and constant change – of “transmotion.” I am writing these words on the banks of another great river, the Grand River, or Tintactuoa, on Six Nations territory in Ontario. One of the most industrialized regions in North America, it is also the heartland of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, which has inspired countless people to learn from its highly developed democratic structures. It is also the home of the turtle of Turtle Island, if you will. The Mohawk origin story tells us that the earth was formed on the back of a turtle swimming in an endless ocean. A pregnant woman fell from the sky and landed on the turtle. Muskrats (or beavers) dived to the bottom of the ocean and brought back soil in their paws. This was the beginning of Turtle Island. As we paddle down a lush and beautiful stretch of the Grand, my friend tells me that the river is too polluted for swimming and that she would hesitate to eat fish caught in it. We see some people fishing on the banks, and one of them catches a trout as our canoe flows by. We also spot a few turtles basking in the sun and slipping into the water. I wonder about the

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health of the turtles. Along some stretches of the nearby St. Lawrence, the PCB levels of the fish and turtles are so high that they qualify as toxic waste. The Haudenosaunee acknowledge and thank the various aspects of life with Ohenton Kariwahtekwen, the Thanksgiving Address. Rendering the Thanksgiving Address can take several hours, during which those who attend recognize and express their gratitude to the people, Earth Mother, the waters, the fish, the plants, the medicinal herbs, the animals, the trees, the birds, the four winds, the thunderers, the sun, the Grandmother Moon, the stars, the enlightened teachers, and the Great Spirit. This Iroquois address or greeting, originally recited in the Mohawk language, is still used to open gatherings in order to bring the minds of the people together as one and align them with the natural world and its gifts. Becoming aware of and engaging in the slow process of learning to learn from the original philosophies would not only result in the recovery of the contaminated turtles (and Turtle Island as a whole) but also signify connecting with the world at an intellectual level, so that it is not an abstraction but instead surrounds us in the here and now. This world would include the turtles, the rivers, and the land, but also philosophies, epistemes, and the logic of the gift in its multiplicity of practices. This book could not be considered an exhaustive answer to the problem of ignorance or the question of indigenous epistemes in the academy. In suggesting otherwise, I would inevitably have been contradicting and negating the idea of hospitality, of fundamental openness to the “other.” The question of hospitality will never come to a close, nor should it – the moment we consider the problem solved, we arrive at a totalizing closure. I concur with Spivak, who asserts that we have to stop looking for a single global solution, that such a solution would be “deeply marked by the moment of colonialist influence.”2 Hospitality is a productive crisis in which we work constantly toward reconceptualizing our thinking and reconsidering our values – in other words, we move beyond the disruptive, hegemonic, and exploitative exchange paradigm and its priorities toward a new relationship in which the academy is compelled to recognize and accept its responsibility toward the “other.” We need to continue critiquing patriarchal global capitalism and its values in the academy, but even more importantly, we have to start practising the logic of the gift in the academy. The gift is a collective vision for a common future that is more reasonable – if we recall, the non-hegemonic form of reason implies the ability to receive – as well as more sustainable and just. The gift is not just about applying new tools for teaching, as is sometimes suggested. The logic of the gift is not merely about settling into existing paradigms, nor is it just about indigenous voices or spaces in the academy. It calls for a fundamental transformation of values with a measure of creativity, and for a radical break with past practices. This transformation goes beyond incorporating subjugated

164 Afterword

knowledges at the margins of an intact core of dominant knowledge. The implications of redrawing the boundaries of knowledge and what constitutes “within the true” may be far-reaching: the result may be new ways to organize and constitute knowledge, as well as the reorganization of faculties and disciplines far beyond the current trend toward interdisciplinary or integrative programs. At the heart of the logic of the gift we encounter the conceptual project of reimagining the academy as a site of responsibilities where epistemic reciprocation occurs. There is no single approach to doing this. Rather, the logic of the gift is embedded in practices that take into account the multiplicities and specificities of each individual context. The very core of the gift logic is that there is not a single set of practices – this is evident in the multitude of gift practices of indigenous peoples. The logic is shared but the practices vary from one context and situation to the next.

Notes

Preface 1 Reino Kalliala, Lumoava Lappi: Pohjois-Suomen Kauneutta – The Lure of Lapland, Photographs by Trond Hedström (Helsinki: WSOY, 1960), 51. While mostly correct, this description by a Finn reveals a desire if not to exoticize the river and the valley, then to reconstruct it to be “as good as” something that is recognized and valued by European sensibilities. Also reflecting familiar attempts to comprehend and represent the unfamiliar by means of the familiar, this description embodies “a systematic and revealing distribution of values.” Tzvetan Todorov, The Conquest of America: The Question of the Other, trans. Richard Howard (New York: Harper and Row, 1987), 128. 2 For many indigenous peoples, the salmon is more than an economic resource; it is also “a merging of economic and spiritual survival.” Michael Marker, “Lummi Identity and White Racism: When Location Is a Real Place,” Qualitative Studies in Education 13, 4 (2000): 410. Jeannette Armstrong notes: “Where salmon is the most important source of life and the outward expression of God, the spirit of a whole people become wounded beyond expression when that source is annihilated. I have seen that deep despair in the many river peoples who can no longer harvest salmon.” Jeannette Armstrong, “Unclean Tides: An Essay on Salmon and Relations,” in First Fish, First People: Salmon Tales of the North Pacific Rim, ed. Judith Roche and Meg McHutchison (Seattle: One Reel / Vancouver: UBC Press, 1998), 182. 3 Armstrong, “Unclean Tides,” 181. 4 Thomas King, “Borders,” in One Good Story, That One (Toronto: Harper Perennial, 1993), 140. 5 The Union dates back more than forty years and has meant the elimination of passport controls at internal borders. 6 Paula Gunn Allen, Off the Reservation: Reflections on Boundary-Busting, Border-Crossing, Loose Canons (Boston: Beacon, 1998), 166. 7 Ibid., 165. 8 Veli-Pekka Lehtola, Saamelainen Evakko: Rauhan Kansa Sodan Jaloissa (Vaasa: City Sámit, 1994). 9 Northern Finland was evacuated toward the end of the so-called Lapland War (1944-45), when the German army occupied the region and then burned what they could when they finally exited the country. 10 Ibid. 11 Rauni-Magga Lukkari, “I Row across My River,” in In the Shadow of the Midnight Sun: Contemporary Sami Prose and Poetry, ed. Harald Gaski (Kárásjohka: Davvi Girji, 1996), 141. 12 The “cosmopolitan” nature of the Sami is also discussed by Nils-Aslak Valkeapää, “I Have No Beginning, No End,” and by Kerttu Vuolab, “All Situations Were Occasions for Stories,” both in No Beginning, No End: The Sami Speak Up, ed. Elina Helander and Kaarina Kailo (Edmonton: Canadian Circumpolar Institute/Nordic Sami Institute, 1998).

166 Notes to pages xiii-xxii

13 Leslie Marmon Silko, Yellow Woman and a Beauty of the Spirit: Essays on Native American Life Today (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1996), 122. 14 Cf. ibid., 25-47. 15 Gerald Vizenor and A. Robert Lee, Postindian Conversations (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1999), 182-83. 16 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason: Toward a History of the Vanishing Present (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 307. 17 Ibid., 362. 18 Jacques Derrida, Writing and Difference, trans. Alan Bass (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1981). 19 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic: Interviews, Strategies, Dialogues, ed. Sarah Harasym (New York and London: Routledge, 1990). 20 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Teaching for the Times,” in The Decolonization of Imagination: Culture, Knowledge, and Power, ed. Jan Nederveen Pieterse and Bhikhu Parekh (London: Zed, 1995). Unlike some other post-colonial scholars such as Homi Bhabha, Spivak acknowledges “the privileged middle-class position that she occupies as a postcolonial intellectual in the western academy,” which is different from the experiences of many other postcolonial migrants, emphasizing the fact that the space she occupies “is produced by western higher educational institutions funded by multinational capitalism.” Cited in Stephen Morton, Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak: Routledge Critical Thinkers (London and New York: Routledge, 2003), 31. 21 Marcia Crosby, “Lines, Lineage and Lies, or Borders, Boundaries and Bullshit,” in Nations in Urban Landscapes (Vancouver: Contemporary Art Gallery, 1997), 29. 22 Gerald Vizenor, Fugitive Poses: Native American Indian Scenes of Absence and Presence (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 28. 23 Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic. 24 Dorothy E. Smith, Writing the Social: Critique, Theory, and Investigations (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999). 25 Marie Battiste, “Enabling the Autumn Seed: Toward a Decolonized Approach to Aboriginal Knowledge, Language, and Education,” Canadian Journal of Native Education 22, 1 (1996). 26 Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic, 134. 27 Jacques Derrida, “Hostipitality,” in Acts of Religion, ed. Gil Anidjar (New York and London: Routledge, 2002), 364, my emphasis. 28 John Caputo, “The Time of Giving,” in The Enigma of Gift and Sacrifice, ed. Edith Wyschogrod, Jean-Joseph Goux, and Eric Boynton (New York: Fordham University Press, 2002), 109. 29 Jacques Derrida, “Mochlos; or the Conflict of the Faculties,” in Logomachia: The Conflict of the Faculties, ed. Richard Rand (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1992), 23. 30 The critics that I particularly draw upon in this inquiry are Gayatri Spivak and Jacques Derrida, both of whom occupy a somewhat ambivalent position within Western theory (whatever that may mean). Spivak herself thinks that she was drawn to Derrida’s work in the late 1960s because she had felt that she “was resonating with someone who was not quite not French” in a similar way to how she was “not quite not British.” It was this kind of “insider/outsider” position that drew her to Derrida’s analysis of Western metaphysics. See Spivak, “Transnationality and Multiculturalist Ideology. Interview with Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak,” in Between the Lines: South Asians and Postcoloniality, ed. Deepika Bahri and Mary Vasudeva (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1996). Perhaps this partly explains why I am also drawn to their work. 31 Cf. Mieke Bal, “Three-Way Misreading,” Diacritics 30, 1 (2000). 32 Cf. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” in Colonial Discourse and PostColonial Theory: A Reader, ed. P. Williams and L. Chrisman (Hemel Hempstead, UK: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1994). 33 For example, a declaration of the Sami Council at the Sami Conference in 1980, an NGO and political body representing Sami organizations from all four countries, emphasizes that the Sami are one people despite the state borders that divide Samiland among four countries. See Sámi Konferánsa, “Sámepolitihkálaš Prográmma. Samepolitisk Program. Saamelaispoliittinen Ohjelma,” (Ohcejohka: Sámirád¯d¯i, 1980). 34 Derrida, Aporias, trans. Thomas Dutoit (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993), 23.

Notes to pages 1-13

Introduction 1 Verna J. Kirkness and Ray Barnhardt, “First Nations and Higher Education: The Four R’s – Respect, Relevance, Reciprocity, Responsibility,” Journal of American Indian Education 30, 3 (1991): 6. 2 The problem of mainstreaming, as in the well-known UN gender mainstreaming campaign, is that it often means a cooptation into the dominant – colonial, patriarchal, capitalist – structures. 3 Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of Freedom: Ethics, Democracy, and Civic Courage (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1998), 27. 4 Cf. Jacques Derrida, “The Future of the Profession or the Unconditional University. (Thanks to the ‘Humanities,’ What Could Take Place Tomorrow),” in Derrida Downunder, ed. Lawrence Simmons and Heather Worth (Palmerston North, NZ: Dunmore, 2001). 5 William G. Tierney, Official Encouragement, Institutional Discouragement: Minorities in Academe – The Native American Experience (Norwood, NJ: Ablex, 1992), 112. 6 Stephanie Wildman and Adrienne D. Davis, “Language and Silence: Making Systems of Privilege Visible,” in Critical Race Theory: The Cutting Edge, ed. Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2000). 7 Cf. bell hooks, Black Looks: Race and Representation (Boston: South End, 1992). 8 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic: Interviews, Strategies, Dialogues, ed. Sarah Harasym (New York and London: Routledge, 1990), 124. 9 In their race for “excellence” (often measured by how much money they can attract), universities are more and more interested and engaged in fundraising activities. As a consequence, they toss the intellectual endeavour aside and neglect long-running issues of institutional, systemic discrimination. McMaster University president Peter George, for instance, glows in his newsletter about the university’s “ambitious” fundraising campaign: “This four-year campaign represents the largest comprehensive fundraising campaign in the history of McMaster University.” “The essence of the Campaign for McMaster” is to ensure that the university has the means to “achieve our shared vision of excellence.” He does not further elucidate this vision of excellence. Peter George, “Redefining the Possible,” President’s Newsletter. McMaster University, May 2006. 10 Derrida, “The Future of the Profession,” 254. 11 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason: Toward a History of the Vanishing Present (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press), 9. 12 Ronald Niezen, The Origins of Indigenism: Human Rights and the Politics of Identity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003). 13 International Labour Organization, “Convention No. 169 Concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples in Independent Countries,” (1989), Article 1(b). 14 José Martinéz Cobo, “Study of the Problem of Discrimination against Indigenous Populations,” in Report for the UN Sub-Commission on the Prevention of Discrimination of Minorities (1986). 15 Taking issue with Diana Fuss’s Essentially Speaking, bell hooks, Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom (New York: Routledge, 1994), 81, notes that in Fuss’s account, “it is always a marginal ‘other’ who is essentialist. Yet the politics of essentialist exclusion as a means of asserting presence, identity, is a cultural practice that does not emerge solely from marginalized groups. And when those groups do employ essentialism as a way to dominate in institutional settings, they are often imitating paradigms for asserting subjectivity that are part of the controlling apparatus in structures of domination.” 16 Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic, 11. 17 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Responsibility,” Boundary 2 21,3 (1994): 64. 18 Dorothy E. Smith, Writing the Social: Critique, Theory, and Investigations (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999), 202. 19 For the history of the European university, see Hilde de Ridder-Symoens, ed., Universities in Early Modern Europe, 1500–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Hilde de Ridder-Symoens, ed., Universities in the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992); and Walter Rüegg, ed., Universities in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries (1800–1945) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004).

167

168 Notes to pages 13-17

20 Edward Shils and John Roberts, “The Diffusion of European Models Outside Europe,” in Universities in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries (1800–1945), ed. Walter Rüegg (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 164. 21 Linda Tuhiwai Smith, “Ko Taku Ta Te Maori: The Dilemma of a Maori Academic,” paper presented at the NZARE/AARE Joint Conference, Deakin University, Geelong, Victoria, 23 November 1992. 22 Haunani-Kay Trask, From a Native Daughter: Colonialism and Sovereignty in Hawaii (Monroe, MN: Common Courage, 1993), 151-52. 23 See, for example, Zane Ma-Rhea, “The Economy of Ideas: Colonial Gift and Postcolonial Product,” in Relocating Postcolonialism, ed. David Theo Goldberg and Ato Quayson (London: Blackwell, 2002). 24 Michel Foucault, “The Discourse on Language,” in The Archaeology of Knowledge (London: Tavistock, 1972), 223. 25 Ibid., 224. 26 Duane Champagne and Jay Stauss, eds., Native American Studies in Higher Education: Models for Collaboration between Universities and Indigenous Nations (Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira, 2002), 8. 27 Vine Deloria, Jr., “Revision and Reversion,” in The American Indian and the Problem of History, ed. Calvin Martin (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 85. 28 Michael Dorris, “Indians on the Shelf,” in The American Indian and the Problem of History, ed. Calvin Martin (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 104. 29 Joyce Green, “Transforming at the Margins of the Academy,” in Women in the Canadian Academic Tundra: Challenging the Chill, ed. Elena Hannah, Linda Paul, and Swani VethamanyGlobus (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2002). 30 Patricia D. Monture-Angus, “On Being Homeless: Aboriginal Experiences of Academic Spaces,” in Women in the Canadian Academic Tundra: Challenging the Chill, ed. Elena Hannah, Linda Paul, and Swani Vethamay-Globus (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2002). 31 University of British Columbia, “Academic Calendar 2003-4” (Vancouver: UBC, 2003). 32 Bernard Shapiro, “The Role of Universities in a Changing Culture,” in Academic Freedom and the Inclusive University, ed. Sharon E. Kahn and Dennis Pavlich (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000). 33 Louis Menand, “The Limits of Academic Freedom,” in The Future of Academic Freedom, ed. Louis Menand (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996). 34 Dorothy E. Smith, “Regulation or Dialogue,” in Academic Freedom and the Inclusive University, ed. Sharon Kahn and Dennis Pavlich (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000), 154. 35 Jennie Hornosty, “Academic Freedom in Social Context,” in Academic Freedom and the Inclusive University, ed. Sharon E. Kahn and Dennis Pavlich (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000), 42. 36 Trask, From a Native Daughter, 160. 37 Ibid., 178. 38 Devon Mihesuah, “Epilogue: Voices, Interpretations, and the ‘New Indian History’: Comment on the American Indian Quarterly’s Special Issue on Writing about American Indians,” American Indian Quarterly 20, 1 (1996); Monture-Angus, “On Being Homeless: Aboriginal Experiences of Academic Spaces.” 39 Michael Marker, “Lummi Identity and White Racism: When Location Is a Real Place,” Qualitative Studies in Education 13, 4 (2000): 401-14. 40 Marie Battiste, “Decolonizing the University: Ethical Guidelines for Research Involving Indigenous Populations,” in Pursuing Academic Freedom: “Free and Fearless”? ed. Len M. Findlay and Paul M. Bidwell (Saskatoon: Purich, 2001). 41 Fyre Jean Graveline, “Everyday Discrimination: We Know How and When, but Never Why,” in Women in the Canadian Academic Tundra: Challenging the Chill, ed. Elena Hannah, Linda Paul, and Swani Vethamay-Globus (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2002), 82. 42 Donald L. Fixico, The American Indian Mind in a Linear World: American Indian Studies and Traditional Knowledge (New York: Routledge, 2003). 43 See, for example, Jacques Derrida, “The Future of the Profession”; Edward W. Said, “Identity, Authority, and Freedom,” in The Future of Academic Freedom, ed. Louis Menand (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996); and Smith, “Ko Taku Ta Te Maori.”

Notes to pages 17-21

44 Marie Fleming, “The Inclusive University and the Problem of Knowledge,” in Academic Freedom and the Inclusive University, ed. Sharon E. Kahn and Dennis Pavlich (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000), 128. 45 Michiel Horne, Academic Freedom in Canada: A History (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999), 31. 46 Sheila McIntyre, “Studied Ignorance and Privileged Innocence: Keeping Equity Academic,” Canadian Journal of Women and the Law 12, 1 (2000): 193. 47 Amy Gutmann, “Introduction to Charles Taylor, Multiculturalism and the Politics of Recognition: An Essay,” in Multiculturalism and the Politics of Recognition: An Essay, ed. Amy Gutmann (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992). 48 Graham Good, “The New Sectarianism and the Liberal University,” in Academic Freedom and the Inclusive University, ed. Sharon E. Kahn and Dennis Pavlich (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000), 88. 49 “Chilly climate” was first pointed out and described in the mid-1980s by Roberta A. Hall and Bernice Sandler, The Classroom Climate: A Chilly One for Women? (Washington, DC: Project on the Status and Education of Women, 1984). In 1995 a Chilly Climate Campaign was started at the University of British Columbia in its Department of Political Science. Describing this campaign, Stephannie Roy, in “Is It Cold in Here? Experiencing the Chilly Climate at a Canadian University,” in Inside Canadian Universities: Another Day at the Plant, ed. Randle W. Nelsen (Kingston, ON: Cedarcreek, 1997), defines chilly climate as “a quiet, creeping, often subtle collection of negative experiences which as they continue to unfold, make those experiencing them feel that their academic contributions, and even their presence in the university, are not welcome.” See also Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, “Ivory Towers: Feminist and Equity Audits 2005,” (Ottawa, 2005); Chilly Collective, ed., Breaking the Anonymity: The Chilly Climate for Women Faculty (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1995); and Elena Hannah, Linda Paul, and Swani Vethamany-Globus, eds., Women in the Canadian Academic Tundra: Challenging the Chill (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2002). 50 Jacques Derrida, “The Principle of Reason: The University in the Eyes of Its Pupils,” Diacritics 13, 3 (1983): 15. 51 Marie Battiste, Lynne Bell, and L.M. Findlay, “Decolonizing Education in Canadian Universities: An Interdisciplinary, International, Indigenous Research Project,” Canadian Journal of Native Education 26, 2 (2002): 191. 52 See, for example, Bhikhu Parekh, “Liberalism and Colonialism: A Critique of Locke and Mill,” in The Decolonization of Imagination: Culture, Knowledge, and Power, ed. Jan Nederveen Pieterse and Bkikhu Parekh (London: Zed, 1995). 53 Hornosty, “Academic Freedom in Social Context,” 40. 54 Gutmann, “Introduction to Charles Taylor, Multiculturalism and the Politics of Recognition: An Essay.” 55 See Marie Battiste and Jean Barman, eds., First Nations Education in Canada: The Circle Unfolds (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1995); Gregory Cajete, Look to the Mountain: An Ecology of Indigenous Education (Durango, CO: Kivakí, 1994); Marlene Brant Castellano, Lynne Davis, and Louise Lahache, eds., Aboriginal Education: Fulfilling the Promise (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000); Lenore A. Stiffarm, ed., As We See: Aboriginal Pedagogy (Saskatoon: University Extension Press, 1998); and Karen Cayton Swisher and John W. Tippeconnic III, eds., Next Steps: Research and Practice to Advance Indian Education (Charleston, WV: Clearinghouse on Rural Education and Small Schools, 1999). 56 John Dewey, Democracy and Education 1916: The Middle Works of John Dewey, 1899-1924, ed. J. Boydston, vol. 9 (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1976-1983), 182. 57 In this regard – writing “field notes” from and within the academy – I could perhaps consider myself, with intentional self-irony, what Spivak, in The Post-Colonial Critic, 165, calls a “wild anthropologist,” that is, someone “who went out to do field work in the West.” I certainly hope to be able to say that “‘fieldwork’ for me has come to mean something else, working in the field to learn how not to formalize too quickly, for one’s own benefit in learning to resonate with responsibility-based mind-sets; rather than a generally hasty preparation for academic and semi-academic transcoding.” Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, 409. The reason I can only express my desire for such a position is that I am aware

169

170 Notes to pages 21-26

of the difficulty of it, and am constantly grappling with generalized taxonomies and arguments and sliding still too easily into the trappings of formalizations. 58 Cf. Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason. Chapter 1: The Gift 1 The term “archaic societies” is used by scholars to refer to indigenous and other nonWestern societies that maintain a vital and active link to their social and cultural practices. 2 The expression “all my relations” (or “all my relatives”) refers to the underpinning indigenous philosophy of the interconnectedness of all life. Thomas King, in his introduction to All My Relations: An Anthology of Contemporary Canadian Native Fiction, ed. Thomas King (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1990), ix, writes that besides reminding us of our various relationships, it is also “an encouragement for us to accept the responsibilities we have within this universal family ...” For Vine Deloria, Jr., Spirit and Reason: The Vine Deloria, Jr., Reader, ed. Barbara Deloria, Kristen Foehner, and Sam Scinta (Golden, CO: Fulcrum, 1999), 52, the phrase also “describes the epistemology of the Indian worldview, providing the methodological basis for the gathering of information about the world.” 3 Cf. Christopher Bracken, The Potlatch Papers: A Colonial Case History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 237. 4 Taiaiake Alfred, Peace, Power, Righteousness: An Indigenous Manifesto (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1999), xxiii. 5 In Verna St. Denis, “Real Indians: Cultural Revitalization and Fundamentalism in Aboriginal Education,” in Contesting Fundamentalisms, ed. Carol Schick, JoAnn Jaffe, and Alisa M. Watkinson (Halifax: Fernwood, 2004). 6 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Righting Wrongs,” South Atlantic Quarterly 103, 2-3 (2004): 560. 7 See Jennifer Nez Denetdale, “Chairmen, Presidents, and Princesses: The Navajo Nation, Gender, and the Politics of Tradition,” Wicazo Sa Review 21, 1 (2006); Joyce Green, “Cultural and Ethnic Fundamentalism: Identity, Liberation, and Oppression,” in Contesting Fundamentalisms, ed. Carol Schick, JoAnn Jaffe, and Ailsa M. Watkinson (Halifax: Fernwood, 2004); Emma LaRocque, “Re-Examining Culturally Appropriate Models in Criminal Justice Applications,” in Aboriginal and Treaty Rights in Canada: Essays on Law, Equity and Respect for Difference, ed. Michael Asch (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1997); Dawn Martin-Hill, “She No Speaks and Other Colonial Constructs of ‘the Traditional Woman,’” in Strong Women Stories: Native Vision and Community Survival, ed. Kim Anderson and Bonita Lawrence (Toronto: Sumach Press, 2003); and Andrea Smith, “Native American Feminism, Sovereignty, and Social Change,” Feminist Studies 31, 1 (2005). 8 Cathryn McConaghy, “The Flexible Delivery of Critical Adult Literacies in Postcolonial Times,” in Virtual Flexibility: Adult Literacy and New Technologies in Remote Communities, ed. M.J. Garbutcheon Singh, R.E. Harreveld, and N. Hunt (Rockhampton: Research Centre for Open and Distance Learning, Central Queensland University, 1997). 9 Alfred, Peace, Power, Righteousness, xii. 10 See also Green, “Cultural and Ethnic Fundamentalism,” for her analysis of Alfred’s project as a form of cultural fundamentalism. 11 Spivak, “Righting Wrongs,” 560. 12 Marcel Mauss, The Gift: Forms and Functions of Exchange in Archaic Societies, trans. Ian Cunnison (New York: Norton, 1967). 13 Pierre Bourdieu, “Selections from the Logic of Practice,” in The Logic of the Gift: Toward an Ethic of Generosity, ed. Alan D. Schrift (New York and London: Routledge, 1997), 218. 14 Ibid., 217, my emphasis. Here Bourdieu agrees with Malinowski, who regards the chief of a group as “a tribal banker” who accumulates wealth “only to lavish it on others and so build up a capital of obligations and debts.” In this way, Bourdieu argues, political authority is established: economic capital is converted into symbolic capital, “which produces relations of dependence that have an economic basis but are disguised under a veil of moral relations.” Bourdieu, “Selections,” 216. Material capital thus produces symbolic capital, which is actively “misrecognized” as something else – obligations, relationships, gratitude, and so on.

Notes to pages 27-32

15 Also Georges Bataille, who in An Accused Share: An Essay on General Economy, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Zone, 1988), examines gift giving as a form of acquisition of power. 16 Emma LaRocque, in “Violence in Aboriginal Communities,” The Path to Healing: Report of the National Round Table of Aboriginal Health and Social Issues (Ottawa: Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, 1993), 75, notes: “There are indications of violence against women in Aboriginal societies prior to European contact ... It should not be assumed that matriarchies necessarily prevented men from exhibiting oppressive behaviour toward women ... There is little question, however, that European invasion exacerbated whatever the extent, nature or potential violence there was in original cultures.” 17 For an account of violence as a root factor in modern capitalist societies, see Maria Mies, Patriarchy and Accumulation on a World Scale: Women in the International Division of Labor (London: Zed, 1988). 18 Kaarina Kailo, “Giving Back to the Gift Paradigm: Another Worldview Is Possible,” Athanor 15, 8 (2004): 43. 19 See Lewis Hyde, The Gift: Imagination and the Erotic Life of Property (New York: Random House, 1983). 20 Louise Bäckman, “The Dead as Helpers? Conceptions of Death among the Saamit (Lapps),” Temenos 14 (1978): 35. 21 Deloria, “If You Think about It, You Will See That It Is True,” ReVision 18, 3 (1996): 37. 22 Mauss, The Gift, 14. 23 Ibid. 24 E-mail communication, Rukka Sombolinggi, 3 February 2004. 25 The inability of economic models to deal with human activity and behaviour is addressed, for example, by John Ikerd, emeritus professor of agricultural economics, who notes: “Contemporary economics assume that society is nothing more than a collection of individuals ... It also assumes that these individuals naturally seek to maximize their material wellbeing; to acquire as much as possible while giving up as little as possible.” Cited in Richard Tarnoff, “Fair Trade Critiques Lack Common Sense,” Georgia Straight, 19-26 February 2004. This is, however, a relatively new position even in economics. Ikerd points out that the idea according to which the purpose of human activity is no longer the pursuit of happiness but the pursuit of wealth has emerged only within the past century in the economic thinking of the West. 26 Jacques T. Godbout with Alain Caillé, The World of the Gift, trans. Donald Winkler (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1998), 130. 27 Ibid., 129. 28 Ibid., 134. 29 Ibid., 135. 30 Ibid., 134. 31 Kaarina Kailo, “From the Unbearable Bond to the Gift Gaze: Women, Bears, and Blood Rituals,” in The Gift Gaze: Wo/Men and Bears – Transgressing Back into Nature as Culture, ed. Kaarina Kailo (Toronto: Inanna Books, in press). 32 Kailo, “Giving Back to the Gift Paradigm” (quote at 41). 33 Genevieve Vaughan, For-Giving: A Feminist Criticism of Exchange (Austin: Plain View Press and Anomaly Press, 1997). 34 Vaughan, “Gift Giving and Exchange: Genders Are Economic Identities, and Economies Are Based on Gender,” Athanor 15, 8 (2004). 35 See Linda Christiansen-Ruffman, “The Gift Economy in Atlantic Canada: Reflections of a Feminist Sociologist,” Athanor 15, 8 (2004). 36 Vaughan, “Jacob Wrestles with the Angel: Exchange and Giftgiving – The Struggle between Two Paradigms – and Why It Matters,” Crone Chronicles, Summer Solstice 1998, 36. 37 Nancy Chodorow, The Reproduction of Mothering: Psychoanalysis and the Sociology of Gender (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978). 38 Vaughan, “Gift Giving and Exchange.” 39 The International Feminist Network for the Gift Economy, consisting of feminist scholars, indigenous women, and social justice activists, was established in 2001. It is a loose network that holds informal gatherings as well as conferences, including the International

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172 Notes to pages 32-37

40 41 42 43

44 45 46

47

48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56

57 58

59 60 61 62

Conference on the Gift Economy on 12-14 November 2004 in Las Vegas, Nevada, and the 2nd World Congress on Matriarchal Studies, in San Marcos and Austin, Texas, on 1-2 October 2005. Kailo, “Giving Back to the Gift Paradigm,” 40. Ibid., 52. Deloria, Spirit and Reason, 48. Santa Clara Pueblo artist Roxanne Swentzell, “Hearing with Our Hearts,” in Surviving in Two Worlds: Contemporary Native American Voices, ed. Lois Crozier-Hogle, Daryl Bade Wilson, and Jay Leibold (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1997), 217, provocatively expresses her view on the current discrepancy as follows: “Most of the people here at Santa Clara don’t have anything to do with the land, with the place, anymore. They go off to work from eight to five just like everybody else and they want their new car and their TV and their VCR. What they really want is to be middle-class white Americans.” Thomas King, The Truth about Stories: A Native Narrative (Toronto: Anansi Press, 2003), 113-14. Vine Deloria, “Out of Chaos,” in I Become Part of It: Sacred Dimensions in Native American Life, ed. D.M. Dooling and Paul Jordan-Smith (New York: Parabola, 1989), 262-63. Jelena Porsanger, “A Close Relationship to Nature: The Basis of Religion,” in Siiddastallan: From Lapp Communities to Modern Sámi Life, ed. Jukka Pennanen and Klemetti Näkkäläjärvi (Inari: Siida Inari Sámi Museum, 2004). The Sami noaidi communicated with the spirit and natural worlds also with the help of the govadas, a drum depicting the Sami cosmos on its surface. The Sami cosmos consists of a complex, multilayered order of different realms and spheres inhabited by humans, animals, ancestors, spirits, deities, and guardians, all of whom traditionally have had specific roles and functions in the Sami cosmic order. As noaidis were among the most important members of the community, they were the first ones to be exterminated among the Sami by church and state representatives. See, for example, Kirsti Paltto, “One Cannot Leave One’s Soul by a Tree Trunk,” in No Beginning, No End: The Sami Speak Up, ed. Elina Helander and Kaarina Kailo (Edmonton: Canadian Circumpolar Institute/Nordic Sami Institute, 1998). Porsanger, “A Close Relationship to Nature,” 153. Lávvu is a temporary Sami dwelling similar to a teepee. Gákti is the Sami word for the traditional Sami costume. Nils-Aslak Valkeapää, Trekways of the Wind, trans. Ralph Salisbury, Lars Nordström, and Harald Gaski (Uddevalla: Dat, 1994), n.p. Gustav Ränk, “Lapp Female Deities of the Madder-Akka Group,” Studia Septentrionalia 6 (1955). Johan Turi, Muitalus Sámiid Birra (Johkamohkki: Sámi Girjjit, 1987), 108. Kira Van Deusen, The Flying Tiger: Women Shamans and Storytellers of the Amur (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2001). Jacques Derrida, Given Time: I. Counterfeit Money, trans. Peggy Kamuf (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1992), 137. See Rauna Kuokkanen, “Láhi and Attáldat: The Philosophy of the Gift and Sami Education,” Australian Journal of Indigenous Education 35 (2005), for a discussion of how the Sami philosophy of the gift can be employed in envisioning Sami pedagogical frameworks. Adam Smith, An Enquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations (London: 1776). Bronislaw Malinowski, Argonauts of the Western Pacific: An Account of Native Enterprise and Adventure in the Archipelagoes of Melanesian New Guinea (Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland, 1984). Claude Lévi-Strauss, The Elementary Structures of Kinship, trans. James Harle Bell, John Richard von Sturmer, and Rodney Needham, rev. ed. (Boston: Beacon, 1969). Karl Polanyi, The Great Transformation: The Political and Economic Origins of Our Time (New York, 1944). Marshall Sahlins, Stone Age Economics (Chicago: Aldine-Atherton, 1972). Vaughan, For-Giving, 58.

Notes to pages 37-40

63 64 65 66

67

68 69

70 71 72 73

74

75

76 77 78

79

Bourdieu, “Selections from the Logic of Practice,” 190. Hyde, The Gift, 16. Mauss, The Gift, 70. This is not to suggest that the notion of the individual is non-existent in indigenous communities. LaRocque, “Re-Examining Culturally Appropriate Models,” 87, asserts that the question of collective versus individual is more complex than generally perceived by many non-Natives and Natives alike. She argues: “The issue of ‘individual’ versus ‘collective’ rights is a perfect example of Natives resorting to a cultural framework when boxed in by Western liberal democratic traditions that are associated with individualism. Perhaps unavoidably, Native leaders have had to overemphasize collective rights to make the point that such rights are even culturally feasible. However, the fact that Native cultures were egalitarian in organization does not mean Native peoples acted on some instinct akin to a buffalo herd with no regard for the well-being of individuals!” Stephen A. Tyler, “‘Even Steven,’ or ‘No Strings Attached’,” in The Enigma of Gift and Sacrifice, ed. Edith Wyschogrod, Jean-Joseph Goux, and Eric Boynton (New York: Fordham University Press, 2002), 78. Hélène Cixous, “The Laugh of the Medusa,” in New French Feminisms, ed. Elaine Marks and Isabelle de Courtivron (Brighton, UK: Harvester, 1981). See Jerry Mander, In the Absence of the Sacred: The Failure of Technology and the Survival of the Indian Nations (San Fransisco: Sierra Club, 1991), 212-24; and Leslie Marmon Silko, Yellow Woman and the Beauty of the Spirit: Essays on Native American Life Today (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1996). Jeannette Armstrong, “The Ones from the Land Who Dream: An Interview with Jeannette Armstrong by Mary E. Gomez,” ReVision 23, 2 (2000): 7. Rodolphe Gasché, “Heliocentric Exchange,” in The Logic of the Gift: Toward an Ethic of Generosity, ed. Alan D. Schrift (New York and London: Routledge, 1997), 107. Deloria, Spirit and Reason, 51. The differences are not necessarily always absolute between the different systems of thought. Many “modern” concepts, for example, are imbricated with a Christian tradition of hospitality. Donald A. Grinde and Bruce Johansen, “Fishing Rights: The Usual and Accustomed Places,” in Ecocide of Native America: Environmental Destruction of Indian Lands and Peoples (Santa Fe, NM: Clear Light, 1995), 148. Ibid. See also Elizabeth Woody, “Twanat, to Follow behind the Ancestors,” in First Fish, First People: Salmon Tales of the North Pacific Rim, ed. Judith Roche and Meg McHutchison (Seattle: One Reel / Vancouver: UBC Press, 1998). Grinde and Johansen, “Fishing Rights,” 164. Ibid., 146. Sandra Osawa, “The Politics of Taking Fish,” in First Fish, First People: Salmon Tales of the North Pacific Rim, ed. Judith Roche and Meg McHutchison (Seattle: One Reel / Vancouver: UBC Press, 1998), 145. Ultimately, though, Sohappy v. Smith, resulted in “a landmark federal ruling that was supposed to prevent the states of Washington and Oregon from interfering with Indian fishing, except for conservation purposes ... [And] Sohappy became a symbol of native rights across the United States.” Grinde and Johansen, “Fishing Rights,” 164. Several similar accounts address the limits of understanding between two different worldviews that end up being contested in court. One of the most famous cases is the Delgamuukw, a landmark for Aboriginal rights in Canada. See Dara Culhane, The Pleasure of the Crown: Anthropology, Law, and First Nations (Burnaby, BC: Talon, 1997); Gisday Wa and Delgam Uukw, The Spirit in the Land: Statements of the Gitskan and Wet’suwet’en Hereditary Chiefs in the Supreme Court of British Columbia (Gabriola, BC: Reflections, 1989); Antonia Mills, Eagle Down Is Our Law: Witsuwit’en Law, Feasts, and Land Claims (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1994); and Stan Persky, Delgamuukw: The Supreme Court of Canada Decision on Aboriginal Title (Vancouver: Greystone, 1998). See also Linda Hogan, Power (New York: Norton, 1998), for a riveting story about the clash of worldviews that culminates in the courtroom.

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174 Notes to pages 40-45

80 Jeannette Armstrong, “‘Sharing One Skin’: Okanagan Community,” in The Case against the Global Economy, and for a Turn toward the Local, ed. Jerry Mander and Edward Goldsmith (San Francisco: Sierra Club, 1996), 461. 81 Elizabeth Woody, “Voice of the Land: Giving the Good Word,” in Speaking for the Generations: Native Writers on Writing, ed. Simon J. Ortiz (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1998), 171. 82 Jeannette Armstrong, “Whole Family Systems in Living Community on the Land and Sustainable Living,” paper presented at the International Conference on the Gift Economy, Las Vegas, NV, 13 November 2004. 83 Armstrong, “Sharing One Skin.” 84 Hugh Brody, The Other Side of Eden: Hunters, Farmers, and the Shaping of the World (Vancouver and Toronto: Douglas and McIntyre, 2000), 289. 85 Rodolphe Gasché, Inventions of Difference: On Jacques Derrida (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 227. 86 Ibid. 87 Ibid. 88 Spivak, “Righting Wrongs,” 541. 89 Ibid., 535. 90 Tom Mexsis Happynook, “Indigenous Relationships with Their Environment,” in Microbehaviour and Macroresults, ed. Richard S. Johnson, comp. Ann L. Shriver (Corvallis, OR: IIFET, 2001). 91 Ibid. 92 Sherene H. Razack, Looking White People in the Eye: Gender, Race, and Culture in Courtrooms and Classrooms (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998), 17. 93 Spivak, “Righting Wrongs.” 94 Bourdieu, “Selections from The Logic of Practice,” 198. 95 Annie Booth and Harvey Jacobs, “Ties That Bind: Native American Beliefs as a Foundation for Environmental Consciousness,” Environmental Ethics 12 (1990): 34. 96 Maria Mies and Veronika Bennholdt-Thomsen, The Subsistence Perspective: Beyond the Globalized Economy, trans. Patrick Camiller, Maria Mies, and Gerd Weih (London: Zed/ Victoria, NSW: Spinifex, 1999), 213. 97 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Transnationality and Multiculturalist Ideology: Interview with Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak,” in Between the Lines: South Asians and Postcoloniality, ed. Deepika Bahri and Mary Vasudeva (Philadelphia: Temple University Press), 87. 98 Spivak, “Righting Wrongs,” 544. 99 Ibid., my emphasis. 100 Brody, The Other Side of Eden, 7. 101 Vine Deloria, Jr., “Commentary: Research, Redskins, and Reality,” in The First Ones: Readings in Indian/Native Studies, ed. David R. Miller et al. (Regina: Saskatchewan Indian Federated College Press, 1992); and idem, “Our New Research Society: Some Warnings for Social Scientists,” Social Problems 27, 3 (1980). 102 However, Lakota anthropologist Beatrice Medicine with Sue-Ellen Jacobs, in Learning to Be an Anthropologist and Remaining “Native”: Selected Writings (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2001), 84, problematizes the common ideal of “wanting to help our people” by asking: “When we hear this utterance of benevolence, is it an echo of an often-articulated caveat of the expectations of members of the larger society, or do we truly believe that this is the most basic motivating factor in our lives?” Medicine suggests that this kind of benevolence might be a reflection of “new ethnocentrism” based on tribal chauvinism and tribal rivalry, which ultimately has a detrimental effect on Native education. 103 Linda Tuhiwai Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples (London: Zed, 1999), 16. 104 According to a commonly shared understanding in contemporary indigenous scholarship, “indigenous research” refers to research conducted by indigenous people according to these principles, whereas other types of research by indigenous scholars are often considered to fall outside this category. The main reference point for indigenous research is self-determination.

Notes to pages 45-50

105 As Anthony Hall suggests, the Enlightenment ideal of individualism was bent to serve the interests of Western expansion and linked to the notion of private property. See The American Empire and the Fourth World (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2003), 121-24, for his discussion of the convergence of possessive individualism, private property, and Western expansion in the United States. 106 Émile Benveniste, “Gift and Exchange in the Indo-European Vocabulary,” in The Logic of the Gift: Toward an Ethic of Generosity, ed. Alan D. Schrift (New York and London: Routledge, 1997); idem, Problems in General Linguistics, trans. Mary Elizabeth Meek (Coral Gables, FL: University of Miami Press, 1971). 107 See Jacques Derrida, Dissemination, trans. B. Johnson (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1981), 63-171, for his discussion on pharmakon in relation to Plato’s Pharmacy. 108 The potlatch is one of the most extensively studied indigenous gift institutions of all. See Margaret Anderson and Marjorie Halpin, eds., Potlatch at Gitsegukla: William Beynon’s 1945 Field Notebooks (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000); Franz Boas, The Social Organization and Secret Societies of the Kwakiutl Indians (Washington, DC, 1895); George Clutesi, Potlatch (Sidney, BC: Gray, 1969); Philip Drucker and Robert F. Heizer, To Make My Name Good: A Reexamination of the Southern Kwakiutl Potlatch (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967); and Aldona Jonaitis, ed., Chiefly Feasts: The Enduring Kwakiutl Potlatch (Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre, 1991). In this book, I have limited the discussion of the gift on giving to nature; thus it is beyond my scope to consider the various aspects and functions of the potlatch in detail. 109 Bracken, The Potlatch Papers, 39. 110 Ibid., 36. 111 Ibid., 46. 112 Ibid., 47. 113 Ibid., 48. 114 Cited in ibid., 39. 115 Ibid. 116 For further discussion on the anti-potlatch law, see Douglas Cole and Ira Chaikin, An Iron Hand upon the People: The Law against the Potlatch on the Northwest Coast (Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre/Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1990). 117 Umista Cultural Society, Potlatch Collection, at http://www.schoolnet.ca/aboriginal/ umista2/potlatch-e.html. 118 Bracken, The Potlatch Papers, 46. 119 Ibid., 39. Chapter 2: From Cultural Conflicts to Epistemic Ignorance 1 These needs are “special” only because of the white, middle-class, and male foundations of the university. 2 Marie Battiste, Lynne Bell, and L.M. Findlay, “An Interview with Linda Tuhiwai Te Rina Smith,” Canadian Journal of Native Education 26, 2 (2002): 91. 3 See William T. Cross, “Pathway to the Professoriate: The American Indian Faculty Pipeline,” Journal of American Indian Education 30, 2 (1991). 4 Patricia Monture-OKanee, “Introduction: Surviving the Contradictions,” in Breaking Anonymity: The Chilly Climate for Women Faculty, ed. The Chilly Collective (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1995). However, in “On Being Homeless: Aboriginal Experiences of Academic Spaces,” in Women in the Canadian Academic Tundra: Challenging the Chill, ed. Elena Hannah, Linda Paul, and Swani Vethamay-Globus (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2002), 168-73, Monture-Okanee notes that the experience and the shape of oppression is not necessarily the same for students and faculty. 5 While most of the examples here are drawn from the North American context, these experiences and concerns are not limited to North America. Similar sentiments can be heard among indigenous people elsewhere. Hardly ever documented, these sentiments are common topics of discussion in any formal or informal gathering of indigenous students and scholars. I have myself discussed these issues with First Nations, Native American, Sami, and Maori students and academics.

175

176 Notes to pages 50-52

6 Although cultural conflict is by no means the only challenge faced by indigenous people in the academic world, it is among the most recurrent themes in students’ accounts. See Joann Archibald et al., “Honoring What They Say: Postsecondary Experiences of First Nations Graduates,” Canadian Journal of Native Education 21, 1 (1995); Cary Michael Carney, Native American Higher Education in the United States (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1999); Andrew Garrod and Colleen Larimore, eds., First Person, First Peoples: Native American College Graduates Tell Their Life Stories (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997); Susan Guyette and Charlotte Heth, Issues for the Future of American Indian Studies (Los Angeles: UCLA American Indian Studies Center, 1985); Verna J. Kirkness and Ray Barnhardt, “First Nations and Higher Education: The Four R’s – Respect, Relevance, Reciprocity, Responsibility,” Journal of American Indian Education 30, 3 (1991); Richard C. Richardson and Elizabeth Fisk Skinner, eds., Achieving Quality and Diversity: Universities in a Multicultural Society (New York: American Council on Education and Toronto: Macmillan, 1991); Sheila TeHennepe, “Issues of Respect: Reflections of First Nations Students’ Experiences in Postsecondary Anthropogy Classrooms,” Canadian Journal of Native Education 2, 20 (1993); and William G. Tierney, Official Encouragement, Institutional Discouragement: Minorities in Academe – The Native American Experience (Norwood, NJ: Ablex, 1992). Other difficulties and challenges include a lack of funding of appropriate programs; high drop-out rates in earlier education; educational and socio-economic disadvantages; issues relating to family and community; academic setbacks; lack of encouragement, motivation, and role models; internalized oppression; and distrust of the institution. See Archibald et al., “Honoring What They Say”; Donna Deyhle, “Constructing Failure and Maintaining Cultural Identity: Navajo and Ute School Leavers,” Journal of American Indian Education 31, 2 (1992); D.W. LaCounte, “American Indian Students in College,” in Responding to the Needs of Today’s Minority Students, ed. D.J. Wright (San Fransisco: Jossey-Bass, 1987); B.J. McIntosh, “Special Needs of American Indian College Students,” (Mesa, AZ: Mesa Community College, 1987); Jon Reyhner, “American Indians out of School: A Review of School-Based Causes and Solutions,” Journal of American Indian Education 31, 3 (1992); G.E. Thompson, “Access Versus Success: The Native American Community College Student,” Community/Junior College Quarterly 14 (1990); and Bobby Wright and William G. Tierney, “American Indians in Higher Education: A History of Cultural Conflict,” Change 23, 2 (1991). 7 Emma LaRocque, “Long Way from Home,” in Native Poetry in Canada: A Contemporary Anthology, ed. Jeannette C. Armstrong and Lally Grauer (Peterborough, ON: Broadview, 2001), 161. 8 This debate over values, most heated probably in the United States, has been dubbed the “culture wars.” For a discussion on the tensions between values in the educational system, see Henry Louis Jr. Gates, Loose Canons: Notes on the Culture Wars (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992); James Davison Hunter, Culture Wars: The Struggle to Define America (New York: Basic, 1991); Gregory S. Jay, American Literature and the Culture Wars (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997); Ron Scapp, Teaching Values: Critical Perspectives on Education, Politics, and Culture (New York: RoutledgeFalmer, 2003); and Ira Shore, Culture Wars: School and Society in the Conservative Restoration, 1969-1984 (Boston: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1986). 9 Tierney, Official Encouragement, Institutional Discouragement, 46. Even if many indigenous people oppose being categorized as ethnic minorities, they currently are in a numerical minority in the academy. 10 Danielle Sanders, “Cultural Conflicts: An Important Factor in the Academic Failures of American Indian Students,” Journal of Multicultural Counseling and Development (1987): 81. 11 Ibid. 12 Jay-Lynne Makinauk, “Aboriginal Student’s Perspectives on University Life,” in Native Voices in Research, ed. Jill Oakes et al. (Winnipeg: Aboriginal Issues Press, 2003); and TeHennepe, “Issues of Respect.” 13 See Garrod and Larimore, First Person, First Peoples; and Tierney, Official Encouragement, Institutional Discouragement. 14 Lori Arivso Alvord and Elilzabeth Cohen Van Pelt, The Scalpel and the Silver Bear: The First Navajo Woman Surgeon Combines Western Medicine and Traditional Healing (New York: Bantam, 1999), 39.

Notes to pages 52-60

15 Kirkness and Barnhardt, “First Nations and Higher Education,” 6. 16 Ibid., 5. See also Garrod and Larimore, First Person, First Peoples; and Beatrice Medicine with Sue-Ellen Jacobs, Learning to Be an Anthropologist and Remaining “Native”: Selected Writings (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2001). 17 Cited in TeHennepe, “Issues of Respect,” 257. 18 Tierney, Official Encouragement, Institutional Discouragement, 51. 19 Sanders, “Cultural Conflicts,” 85. 20 See Patrick Brady, “Native Dropouts and Non-Native Dropouts in Canada: Two Solitudes or a Solitude Shared?” Journal of American Indian Education 35, 2 (1996); J. Hull, “Socioeconomic Status and Native Education in Canada,” Canadian Journal of Native Education 17, 1 (1990); S. Ledlow, “Is Cultural Discontinuity an Adequate Explanation for Dropping Out?” Journal of American Indian Education 31, 3 (1992); Jeannie Oakes, Keeping Track: How Schools Structure Inequality (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985); Peggy Wilson, “Trauma in Transition,” Canadian Journal of Education 19, 1 (1992); and idem, “Trauma of Sioux Indian High School Students,” Anthropology and Education Quarterly 22, 4 (1991). 21 Verna St. Denis, Rita Bouvier, and Marie Battiste, “Okiskinahamakewak – Aboriginal Teachers in Saskatchewan’s Publicly Funded Schools: Responding to the Flux” (Regina: Saskatchewan Education Research Networking Project, 1998). 22 Brady, “Native Dropouts and Non-Native Dropouts in Canada,” 8. 23 Raymond Williams, Keywords (London: Fontana, 1976), 87. 24 Tim O’Sullivan et al., “Key Concepts in Communication and Cultural Studies” (London and New York: Routledge, 1994), 68. 25 Johannes Fabian, “Culture with Attitude,” in Anthropology with Attitude: Critical Essays (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001), 88. 26 For a discussion on this dualism from a Native American perspective, see Jack D. Forbes, “Nature and Culture: Problematic Concepts for Native Americans,” Ayaangwaamizin: The International Journal of Indigenous Philosophy 1, 2 (1997). 27 O’Sullivan et al., “Key Concepts,” 69. 28 Ibid. See also Matthew Arnold, Culture and Anarchy (New York: Macmillan, 1899). 29 See, for example, Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, Empire (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000); and Teun van Dijk, Elite Discourse and Racism (London: Sage, 1993). 30 Dennis McPherson, “A Definition of Culture: Canada and First Nations,” in Native American Religious Identity: Unforgotten Gods, ed. Jace Weaver (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1998). 31 James (Sákéj) Youngblood Henderson, “Ayukpachi: Empowering Aboriginal Thought,” in Reclaiming Indigenous Voice and Vision, ed. Marie Battiste (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000). 32 Cathryn McConaghy, Rethinking Indigenous Education: Culturalism, Colonalism, and the Politics of Knowing (Flaxton, Queensland: PostPressed, 2000). 33 Cornelius Ryan Fay and Henry F. Tiblier, Epistemology (Milwaukee: Bruce, 1967). 34 Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, trans. A.M. Sheridan Smith (London: Tavistock, 1972). 35 Walter J. Ong, “World as View and World as Event,” American Anthropologist 71, 4 (1969): 634. 36 Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, 191. 37 Sara Mills, Discourse (London and New York: Routledge, 1997), 57. 38 On a broad and general level, Foucault has identified these three major epistemes that over the past four or five centuries have dominated the Western world and its thought. See Geoff Danaher, Tony Shirato, and Jen Webb, Understanding Foucault (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2000). 39 See, for example, Leroy Little Bear, “Jagged Worldviews Colliding,” in Reclaiming Indigenous Voice and Vision, ed. Marie Battiste (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000). 40 Cf. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Culture Alive,” Theory, Culture, and Society 23, 2-3 (2006). 41 See, for example, Samuel W. Corrigan, ed., Worldview: Readings in Aboriginal Studies (Brandon, MB: Bearpaw, 1995). 42 Tim Ingold, The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling, and Skill (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 108. 43 Ibid., 101.

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178 Notes to pages 60-62

44 Brody, The Other Side of Eden. See also Thomas King, The Truth about Stories: A Native Narrative (Toronto: Anansi, 2003). 45 Anthony Hall, The American Empire and the Fourth World (Montreal and Kingston: McGillQueen’s University Press, 2003), 107. 46 Ibid., 108. 47 See Maria Mies and Veronika Bennholdt-Thomsen, The Subsistence Perspective: Beyond the Global Economy, trans. Patrick Camiller, Maria Mies, and Gerd Wieh (London: Zed/Victoria, NSW: Spinifex, 1999). 48 Brody, The Other Side of Eden, 73. 49 According to Ingold, The Perception of the Environment, 151, the genealogical model “is the principal source of legitimation for the state’s sovereign entitlement to defend and administer its territory in the name of the nation. For the state, the land belongs to the national heritage, and is held in trust by each generation of citizens on behalf of their descendants.” The difference between genealogical and relational models could thus also be conceived in terms of an “opposition between people of and on the land.” Despite the problematic nature of the genealogical model, it is necessary for indigenous peoples to make their claims and assert their rights within contemporary politics and settings imposed by nation-states. Ingold maintains that “the official definition of indigenous status faithfully reflects the self-perception of the non-indigenous populations of nation-states, as descendants of settlers who founded the nations they represent on alien soil.” Therefore, “we are left with the question of why people should feel the need to articulate claims to indigenous status in terms that, by their own accounts, are incompatible with their experience and understanding of the world. The answer, I believe, is that these people are compelled to operate in a modern-day political context in which they are also citizens of nation states.” 50 Ibid. 51 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic: Interviews, Strategies, Dialogues, ed. Sarah Harasym (New York and London: Routledge, 1990), 25. 52 Jacques Derrida, “Living On: Border Lines,” in Deconstruction and Criticism, ed. Harold Bloom (New York: Seabury, 1979), 84. 53 Derrida, Of Grammatology, trans. Gayatri Spivak (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976), 101-2. 54 van Dijk, Elite Discourse and Racism, 195. 55 James Joseph Scheurich and Michelle D. Young, “White Racism among White Faculty: From Critical Understanding to Antiracist Activism,” in The Racial Crisis in American Higher Education: Continuing Challenges for the Twenty-First Century, ed. William A. Smith, Philip G. Altbach, and Kofi Lomote (New York: SUNY Press, 2002), 225. 56 Marie Battiste, “Maintaining Aboriginal Identity, Language, and Culture in Modern Society,” in Reclaiming Indigenous Voice and Vision, ed. Marie Battiste (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000), 195. 57 Delores Black-Connor Cleary, “Contradictions in the Classroom: Reflections of an OkanoganColville Professor,” in Women Faculty of Color in the White Classroom, ed. Lucila Vargas (New York: Peter Lang, 2002). See also Marker, “Lummi Identity and White Racism: When Location Is a Real Place,” Qualitative Studies in Education 13, 4 (2000); Reyhner, “The Case for Native American Studies,” in American Indian Studies: An Interdisciplinary Approach to Contemporary Issues, ed. Dane Morrison (New York: Peter Lang, 1998); and Haunani-Kay Trask, From a Native Daughter: Colonialism and Sovereignty in Hawaii (Monroe, MN: Common Courage, 1993). On institutional racism and Native American students in the American public and tribal schools, see Delores J. Huff, To Live Heroically: Institutional Racism and American Indian Education (Albany: SUNY Press, 1997). 58 Monture-Angus, “On Being Homeless.” 59 Eduardo Bonilla-Silva, Racism without Racists: Color-Blind Racism and the Persistence of Racial Inequality in the United States (Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield, 2003); Samuel L. Gaertner and John F. Dovidio, “The Aversive Form of Racism,” in Prejudice, Discrimination, and Racism, ed. Samuel L. Gaertner and John F. Dovidio (Orlando, Fl: Academic Press, 1986); David O. Sears, “Symbolic Racism,” in Eliminating Racism: Profiles in Controversy, ed. Phyllis A. Katz and Dalmas A. Taylor (New York: Plenum, 1988); van Dijk, Elite Discourse and Racism.

Notes to pages 63-67

60 Eduardo Bonilla-Silva, “‘New Racism,’ Color-Blind Racism, and the Future of Whiteness in America,” in White Out: The Continuing Significance of Racism, ed. Ashley W. Doane and Eduardo Bonilla-Silva (London and New York: Routledge, 2003). 61 Scheurich and Young, “White Racism among White Faculty,” 221. 62 Ibid., 221. 63 Ibid. See also van Dijk, Elite Discourse and Racism. 64 See Himani Bannerji, Thinking Through: Essays on Feminism, Marxism, and Anti-Racism (Toronto: Women’s Press, 1995); Alastair Bonnett, Radicalism, Anti-Racism, and Representation: Critical Studies in Racism and Migration (London and New York: Routledge, 1993); Benjamin P. Bowser, Racism and Anti-Racism in World Perspective (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 1995); George J. Sefa Dei, Anti-Racism Education: Theory and Practice (Halifax: Fernwood, 1996); Judy H. Katz, White Awareness: Handbook for Anti-Racism Training (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1978); Roxana Ng, Joyce Scane, and P.A. Staton, Anti-Racism, Feminism, and Critical Approaches to Education: Critical Studies in Education and Culture Series (Westport, CT: Bergin and Garvey, 1995); and Pnina Werbner and Tariq Modood, eds., Debating Cultural Hybridity: Multi-Cultural Identities and the Politics of Anti-Racism (London: Zed, 1997). 65 See, for example, Bonilla-Silva, “New Racism.” 66 George J. Sefa Dei, “Towards an Anti-Racism Discursive Framework,” in Power, Knowledge, and Anti-Racism Education: A Critical Reader, ed. George J. Sefa Dei and Agnes Calliste (Halifax: Fernwood, 2000). 67 Bonilla-Silva, “New Racism.” 271. 68 Moreover, in everyday politics and contexts, anti-racism discourse has the unfortunate tendency to turn into cut-and-dried identity politics and individuals’ or groups’ fixations with skin pigmentation. Let me illustrate this with an example of a hypothetical situation (hypothetical because I would dread placing myself in such a situation). If I was to chair or facilitate a session on anti-racism, I would be (correctly) perceived as white by others in the room, and thus my position and “credentials” as a chair/facilitator of an anti-racist session would be immediately questioned by many. Now, it is not the role of the chair/facilitator to waste the precious time that belongs to the speakers and others in the session by explaining their backgrounds. However, what is a white, indigenous person to do in such a situation if she wants to avoid generating complaints to the session organizers by allowing a “white” person to be a facilitator of an anti-racist session? In my case, at least in North America, simply stating that I am Sami would not suffice, for most people have never heard of the Sami people. What is it that matters most? My work, my politics, my ethics, my background, or my skin colour? And in which order? How much time and space am I allowed to spend on laying my cards? 69 Bonilla-Silva, “New Racism,” 278. 70 See W.E.B. DuBois, The Souls of Black Folk (Greenwich, CT: Fawcett, 1961). 71 For a constructive critique of whiteness studies, see Sara Ahmed, “Declarations of Whiteness: The Non-Performativity of Anti-Racism,” Borderlands 3, 2 (2004). Among other things, she points out that recognizing whiteness as a colour, too, can result in a situation where race becomes only a matter of surface and in which white privilege may in fact be perpetuated. 72 Mal Leicester, Race for a Change in Continuing and Higher Education (Buckingham, UK: Society for Research into Higher Education and Bristol, PA: Open University Press, 1993). 73 Cf. Stephanie Wildman and Adrienne D. Davis, “Language and Silence: Making Systems of Privilege Visible,” in Critical Race Theory: The Cutting Edge, ed. Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2000), 657-63. 74 Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic, 125. 75 L.M. Findlay, “Foreword,” in Reclaiming Indigenous Voice and Vision, ed. Marie Battiste (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000), xi. 76 Cf. Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason. 77 “Epistemological racism” is defined as racially biased ways of knowing in dominant epistemologies, which tend to distort the realities of people outside the mainstream or the dominant group. These epistemologies govern the current range of research paradigms and originate from a certain history and society (or a group), reflecting and reinforcing assumptions of that particular society or group and excluding epistemologies of other peoples

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180 Notes to pages 67-71

78 79

80 81 82 83 84 85

86 87 88

89 90

91

92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99

and societies. Epistemological racism ensures that all epistemologies except normative ones remain inferior and subordinate. Scheurich and Young, “Coloring Epistemologies.” Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, 290. Ibid. See also Gayatri Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” in Colonial Discourse and PostColonial Theory: A Reader, ed. P. Williams and L. Chrisman, (Hemel Hempstead, UK: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1994), 66-111, in which the author takes issue with Foucault and Deleuze, who, however “well meaning,” dissimulate their complicity in epistemic violence by constituting the colonial subject as monolithic and transparent. Elsewhere (see “Race before Racism: The Disappearance of the American,” Boundary 2 25, 2 [1998]), Spivak recognizes her own ignorance with regard to Native American issues. But as she notes, she seeks no sanction. Her ignorance of indigenous issues is also evident in her writings when she refers, in passing, to the Sami; she calls us “the Suomis of Northern Europe.” Spivak, “Afterword,” in Devi Mahasweta Imaginary Maps: Three Stories, Mahasweta Devi, trans. Gayatri Spivak (New York and London: Routledge, 1995); and Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason. When I pointed out to her that “Suomi” in fact means “Finland” in Finnish, she acknowledged her ignorance and responded that if there is a second edition of her Critique of Postcolonial Reason, she will be sure to correct the mistake. Emma LaRocque, “Interview,” in Contemporary Challenges: Conversations with Canadian Native Authors, ed. Hartmut Lutz (Saskatoon: Fifth House, 1991). Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics (New York: Methuen, 1987). Wendy Rose, “An Interview,” in Winged Words: American Indian Writers Speak, ed. Laura Coltelli (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1990). See also Henderson, “Ayukpachi.” Leslie Marmon Silko, Yellow Woman and a Beauty of the Spirit: Essays on Native American Life Today (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1996), 75. Val Plumwood, Feminism and the Mastery of Nature (London: Routledge, 1993), 42. Angela Cavender Wilson, “Reclaiming Our Humanity: Decolonization and the Recovery of Indigenous Knowledge,” in Indigenizing the Academy: Transforming Scholarship and Empowering Communities, ed. Devon Mihesuah and Angela Cavender Wilson (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2004), 72. Ibid. Plumwood, Feminism and the Mastery of Nature, 49-50. Cf. Ward Churchill, “White Studies: The Intellectual Imperialism of U.S. Higher Education,” in Since Predator Came: Notes from the Struggle for American Indian Liberation, ed. Ward Churchill (Littleton, CO: Aigis, 1995). Marie Battiste and James Youngblood Henderson, Protecting Indigenous Knowledge and Heritage: A Global Challenge (Saskatoon: Purich, 2000), 121. Rose, “An Interview,” 124. Wendy Rose’s account of her experiences in the academy closely reflects mine. While attempting to embark on a PhD program in comparative literature and to work on indigenous literary criticism, I was similarly asked whether I had considered doing my dissertation in anthropology instead of comparative literature. Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm, “Poem without End #3,” in Native Poetry in Canada: A Contemporary Anthology, ed. Jeannette Armstrong and Lally Grauer (Peterborough, ON: Broadview, 2001), 323. Sherman Alexie, Indian Killer (New York: Warner, 1996). John Guillory, Cultural Capital: The Problem of Literary Canon Formation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 18. Ibid., ix. Plumwood, Feminism and the Mastery of Nature, 48. Ibid. Cited in Tierney, Official Encouragement, Institutional Discouragement, 99. Dei, “Towards an Anti-Racism Discursive Framework,” 26. Cf. Frances V. Rains, “Indigenous Knowledge, Historical Amnesia, and Intellectual Authority: Deconstructing Hegemony and the Social and Political Implications of the Curricular ‘Other,’” in What Is Indigenous Knowledge? Voices from the Academy, ed. Ladislaus M. Semali and Joe L. Kincheloe (New York and London: Falmer, 1999), 325.

Notes to pages 71-78

100 Reyhner, “The Case for Native American Studies,” 103-4. 101 Cf. Louis Althusser, “On the Reproduction of the Conditions of Production,” in Lenin and Philosophy, and Other Essays (London: NLB, 1971). 102 Plumwood, Feminism and the Mastery of Nature, 52. 103 Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, 208. 104 Supplementation could serve as a useful strategy if there were no implicit hierarchies of value present. Spivak suggests that instead of placing two theories in competition with each other, we should supplement them with each other. In the case of indigenous epistemologies, however, this strategy remains problematic as long as unequal power relations are an issue. 105 Plumwood, Feminism and the Mastery of Nature, 55. See also Albert Memmi, The Colonizer and the Colonized (Boston: Beacon, 1965). 106 Val Plumwood, Environmental Culture: The Ecological Crisis of Reason (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 103. 107 See, for example, Black-Connor Cleary, “Contradictions in the Classroom”; and Devon Mihesuah, “Epilogue: Voices, Interpretations, and the ‘New Indian History’ – Comment on the American Indian Quarterly’s Special Issue on Writing about American Indians,” American Indian Quarterly 20, 1 (1996). 108 Personal communication, Pamela Courtenay-Hall, 14 May 2002. 109 Black-Connor Cleary, “Contradictions in the Classroom,” 187. 110 Plumwood, Environmental Culture. 111 Plumwood, Feminism and the Mastery of Nature. 112 Plumwood, Environmental Culture. 113 Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies, 61. Chapter 3: The Question of Speaking and the Impossibility of the Gift 1 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, The Spivak Reader, ed. Donna Landry and Gerald Maclean (New York and London: Routledge, 1996), 289. 2 See, for example, Sabine Fenton and Paul Moon, “The Translation of the Treaty of Waitangi: A Case of Disempowerment,” in Translation and Power, ed. Maria Tymoczko and Edwin Gentzler (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2002), 33, who discuss the translation of the Treaty of Waitangi. Comparing the English and the Maori texts of the treaty, they note: “The convoluted and technical English text is recast in simple Maori, with glaring omissions.” 3 Gerald Vizenor, Chancers (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2000), 16. 4 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic: Interviews, Strategies, Dialogues, ed. Sarah Harasym (New York and London: Routledge, 1990), 59. 5 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Translation as Culture,” in Translating Cultures, ed. Isabel Carrera Suárez, Aurora García Fernández, and M.S. Suárez Lafuente (Oviedo, Spain, and Hebden Bridge, UK: Dangaroo, 1999). 6 Himani Bannerji, “But Who Speaks for Us? Experience and Agency in Conventional Feminist Paradigms,” in Unsettling Relations: University as a Site of Feminist Struggle, ed. Himani Bannerji et al. (Toronto: Women’s Press, 1991), 84. 7 Ron Scollon and Suzanne B.K. Scollon, Narrative, Literacy, and Face in Interethnic Communication (Norwood, NJ: Ablex, 1981), 12. 8 See, for example, Vine Deloria, Jr., The Metaphysics of Modern Existence (New York: Harper and Row, 1979). 9 N. Scott Momaday, “Personal Reflections,” in The American Indian and the Problem of History, ed. Calvin Martin (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 156. 10 Scollon and Scollon, Narrative, Literacy, and Face, 4. 11 Donald L. Fixico, ed., Rethinking American Indian History (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1997), 15. 12 Lee Hester, Dennis McPherson, and Annie Booth, “Indigenous Worlds and Callicott’s Land Ethic,” Environmental Ethics 22, 3 (2000): 281. 13 Ibid. 14 Verna J. Kirkness and Ray Barnhardt, “First Nations and Higher Education: The Four R’s – Respect, Relevence, Reciprocity, Responsibility,” Journal of American Indian Education 30, 3

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16

17 18 19 20 21 22

23

24 25 26 27

28 29 30

31 32 33

34 35 36 37

38

(1991): 6. See also Sheila TeHennepe, “Issues of Respect: Reflections of First Nations Students’ Experiences in Postsecondary Anthropogy Classrooms,” Canadian Journal of Native Education 2, 20 (1993). For an illuminating discussion on the need for mutual respect and “respectful intellectual disagreement” in the academy, see Amy Gutmann, “Introduction to Charles Taylor, Multiculturalism and the Politics of Recognition: An Essay,” in Multiculturalism and the Politics of Recognition: An Essay, ed. Amy Gutmann (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992). The term “minority” is used here to signify groups and peoples that have been (and in many cases, still are) marginalized within the academy, which traditionally has been a white male institution. Alastair Bonnett, Anti-Racism (New York and London: Routledge, 2000). Tzvetan Todorov, On Human Diversity: Nationalism, Racism, and Exoticism in French Thought (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), 389. Emma LaRocque, “Interview,” in Contemporary Challenges: Conversations with Canadian Native Authors, ed. Hartmut Lutz (Saskatoon: Fifth House, 1991), 199. Michel Foucault, History of Sexuality, vol. 1: An Introduction, trans. R. Hurley (Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin, 1978). Anita Heiss, Token Koori (Sydney, NSW: Curringa, 1998), 18. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” in Colonial Discourse and PostColonial Theory: A Reader, ed. P. Williams and L. Chrisman (Hemel Hempstead, UK: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1994). See, for example, Benita Parry, “Problems in Current Theories of Political Discourse,” Oxford Literary Review 9, 1-2 (1987); and Spivak, “Gayatri Spivak on the Politics of the Subaltern. Interview by Howard Winant,” Socialist Review 20 (1990). Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” Stephen Morton, Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak: Routledge Critical Readers (London and New York: Routledge, 2003), 33. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason: Toward a History of the Vanishing Present (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 308. Bhikhu Parekh, “Liberalism and Colonialism: A Critique of Locke and Mill,” in The Decolonization of Imagination: Culture, Knowledge, and Power, ed. Jan Nederveen Pieterse and Bkikhu Parekh (London: Zed, 1995). Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Interview with Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak: New Nation Writers Conference in South Africa. With Leon De Kock,” Ariel 23, 3 (1992): 45. Ibid., 46. Deborah Bird Rose, “Decolonizing the Discourse of Environmental Knowledge in Settler Societies,” in Culture and Waste: The Creation and Destruction of Value, ed. Gay Hawkins and Stephen Muecke (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2003), 54. Ibid. Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic, 60. Devon Mihesuah, “In the Trenches of Academia,” in Indigenous American Women: Decolonization, Empowerment, Activism (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2003). See also Elizabeth Cook-Lynn, “American Indian Intellectualism and the New Indian Story,” in Natives and Academics: Researching and Writing about American Indians, ed. Devon A. Mihesuah (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998). Minh-ha T. Trinh, Woman, Native, Other: Writing, Post-Coloniality, and Feminism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), 88. Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, 142. Hugh Brody, The Other Side of Eden: Hunters, Farmers, and the Shaping of the World (Vancouver and Toronto: Douglas and McIntyre, 2000), 145. Emma LaRocque, “The Colonization of a Native Woman Scholar,” in Women of the First Nations: Power, Wisdom, and Strength, ed. Christine Miller et al. (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 1996), 12-13. Marcia Crosby, “Lines, Lineage, and Lies, or Borders, Boundaries, and Bullshit,” in Nations and Urban Landscapes (Vancouver: Contemporary Art Gallery, 1997), 28. For a different discussion of the ways in which the category of native informant is gradually changing, at

Notes to pages 83-88

39 40 41 42 43 44

45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56

57

58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65

least in some anthropological texts, see James Clifford, “Introduction: Partial Truths,” in Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, ed. James Clifford and George E. Marcus (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986). E-mail communication, Spivak, 10 September 2002. Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, 130. Smith, Linda Tuhiwai, Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples (London: Zed, 1999), 59. Ibid. Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, 66-7. Cf. Sherene H. Razack, “Racialized Immigrant Women as Native Informants in the Academy,” in Seen but Not Heard: Aboriginal Women and Women of Colour in the Academy, ed. Rashmi Luther, Elizabeth Whitmore, and Bernice Moreau (Ottawa: Canadian Research Institute for the Advancement of Women, 2001); Spivak, “Commentary: ‘Woman’ as Theatre. United Nations Conference on Women, Beijing 1995,” Radical Philosophy 75 (1996); and idem, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason. Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, 131. Ibid., 310. On the production of the generalized native informant, see ibid., 337ff. Jacques Derrida, Given Time: I. Counterfeit Money, trans. Peggy Kamuf (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 7. Ibid., 13-14. Jacques Derrida, “The Principle of Reason: The University in the Eyes of Its Pupils,” Diacritics 13, 3 (1983): 8. Derrida, Given Time, 148. Ibid., 77. Ibid., 91. While largely accepted, this claim has also been contested by some scholars. For example, Ernest Sirluck, “Readings: Purpose and Effect. University in Ruins. Responses to Bill Readings,” University of Toronto Quarterly 66, 4 (1997): 617, maintains that “Kant’s concept of reason was never made the referent of an actual university. Humboldt and others used it to develop the idea of culture, which was embodied in the founding document of University of Berlin and had much influence in Germany.” Robert Young, “The Idea of a Chrestomatic University,” in Logomachia: The Conflict of the Faculties, ed. Richard Rand (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1992), 99, also argues that, “no English university ... is founded on reason.” Kant, Conflict of the Faculties, trans. and ed. Allen W. Wood and George Di Giovanni (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). See, for example, Evelyn Fox Keller, Reflections on Gender and Science (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985); Luce Irigaray, This Sex Which Is Not One, trans. C. Porter and C. Burke (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985); Genevieve Lloyd, The Man of Reason (London: Methuen, 1984); and Nancy Tuana and Sandra Morgen, eds., Engendering Rationalities (Albany: SUNY Press, 2001). Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Maailma Tekstinä: Dekonstruktio, Marxismi, Feminismi ja Jälkikoloniaalinen Kritiikki – Gayatri Chakravorty Spivakin Haastattelu,” in Maailmasta Kolmanteen, ed. Matti Savolainen (Jyväskylä: Vastapaino, 1996). Val Plumwood, Feminism and the Mastery of Nature (London and New York: Routledge, 1993), 72. Val Plumwood, Environmental Culture: The Ecological Crisis of Reason (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 2. Ibid., 16. Ibid., 3. Derrida, “The Principle of Reason,” 18-19. Derrida, Adieu to Emmanuel Levinas, trans. Pascale-Anne Brault and Michael Naas (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 27. Derrida, Given Time, 63. Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” 75.

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184 Notes to pages 88-93

66 67 68 69 70

71 72 73 74

75 76 77 78 79

80 81 82 83 84 85 86

87 88 89 90

91

Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, 371. Derrida, Given Time, 13. Lani Guinier and Gerald Torres, “The Miner’s Canary,” Yes! Winter 2003, 30. This is how McMaster University advertised the future “extreme makeover” of its main library, in McMaster University, “Mills Extreme Makeover,” McMaster Times, Spring 2006. Kaarina Kailo, “From Sustainable Development to the Subsistence or Abundance Perspective: Back to the Gift and Give Back Paradigms in the North,” in Women’s Worlds Congress in Uganda, 21st-27th July, 2004: Conference Proceedings (in press). Derrida, Given Time. Ibid., 12. Lewis Hyde, The Gift: Imagination and the Erotic Life of Property (New York: Random House, 1983). Often we are not aware of these practices in our own lives because of the very fact that the exchange paradigm has made them invisible. For an example, see Christiansen-Ruffman, “The Gift Economy in Atlantic Canada: Reflections of a Feminist Sociologist” Athanor 15, 8 (2004), which illustrates this with regard to gift-giving practices in a rural Maritimes community. G.W.F. Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, trans. A.V. Miller (Oxford: Clarendon, 1977). Jean-Paul Sartre, Critique of Dialectical Reason, trans. Alan Sheridan-Smith (London and Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press, 1976). Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks (New York: Grove, 1967). Johannes Fabian, “Remembering the Other: Knowledge and Recognition,” in Anthropology with Attitude: Critical Essays (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001), 159-60. On the need for categories, and their existence in Native American cultures, see Nancy Shoemaker, “Categories,” in Clearing a Path: Theorizing the Past in Native American Studies, ed. Nancy Shoemaker (New York and London: Routledge, 2002). Marc Augé, A Sense for the Other: The Timeliness and Relevance of Anthropology, trans. Amy Jacobs (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998), 82. Fabian, “Remembering the Other,” 175. Ibid. Gutmann, “Introduction to Charles Taylor.” Charles Taylor, Multiculturalism and the Politics of Recognition: An Essay, ed. Amy Gutmann (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992). Seyla Benhabib, The Claims of Culture: Equality and Diversity in the Global Era (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002). This gesture at the University of British Columbia appears to be a quite uncommon practice; at some other North American universities, Native people have not even heard about such a thing. A quick informal “survey” at the indigenous graduate-student conference in Berkeley in May 2003 revealed that Native students and/or faculty from the Universities of California-Berkeley, Arizona, Saskatchewan, and Toronto (OISE) were not familiar with the gesture of recognizing the people on whose traditional territory the university was located. I was prompted to conduct such a survey because I was the only speaker at the conference to recognize the Ohlone and Coastal Miwok peoples and their territories (not even all the conference participants studying or working at Berkeley were sure who the Native peoples of the area were). Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, Outside in the Teaching Machine (New York and London: Routledge, 1993), 57. Ibid., 58. Ibid. Gerald Vizenor, Manifest Manners: Postindian Warriors of Survivance (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1994); Gerald Vizenor and A. Robert Lee, Postindian Conversations (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1999). Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, Gathering Strength: The Report of the Canadian Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, vol. 3 (Ottawa: Canada Communication Group, 1996), 515.

Notes to pages 94-102

92 Bruce Granville Miller, Invisible Indigenes: The Politics of Nonrecognition (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2003). 93 Sharon Helen Venne, Our Elders Understand Our Rights: Evolving International Law Regarding Indigenous Peoples (Penticton, BC: Theytus, 1998), 46. 94 Miller, Invisible Indigenes, 95. 95 Elizabeth A. Povinelli, The Cunning of Recognition: Indigenous Alterities and the Making of Australian Multiculturalism (Durham: Duke University Press, 2002), 39. 96 Ibid. 97 Rodney Frey, ed., Stories That Make the World: Oral Literature of the Indian Peoples of the Inland Northwest. As Told by Lawrence Aripa, Tom Yellowtail, and Other Elders (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1995), 41-2. 98 The International Forum on Indigenous Mapping for Indigenous Advocacy and Empowerment, 11-14 March 2004, Vancouver, British Columbia. 99 Cf. Fixico, Rethinking American Indian History, 8. Chapter 4: Knowing the “Other” and “Learning to Learn” 1 Margery Fee, “What Use Is Ethnicity to Aboriginal Peoples in Canada?” Canadian Review of Comparative Literature September (1995): 687. 2 Steven C. Rockefeller, “Comment,” in Charles Taylor: Multiculturalism and the Politics of Recognition: An Essay, ed. Amy Gutmann (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 91. 3 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason: Toward a History of the Vanishing Present (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 171. 4 Cited in ibid. (my emphasis). 5 Clifford Geertz, Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays (New York: Basic, 1973), 14. 6 Tzvetan Todorov, The Conquest of America: The Question of the Other, trans. Richard Howard (New York: Harper and Row, 1987), 129. 7 Homi Bhabha, “Interview: The Third Space,” in Identity: Community, Culture, Difference, ed. Jonathan Rutherford (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1990), 208. 8 See Linda Tuwihai Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples (London: Zed, 1999), especially Chapter 3. See also Spivak, “The Rani of Simur,” in Europe and Its Others, vol. 1: Proceedings of the Essex Conference on the Sociology of Literature, ed. Francis Baker et al. (Colchester: University of Essex, 1985), for her discussion of “worlding,” the process by which imperial discourse is inscribed on the colonized space by acts of mapping, naming, and colonial presence. 9 See Alistair Bonnett, Anti-Racism (New York and London: Routledge, 2000). 10 See Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason; idem, “The Rani of Simur.” 11 Luther Standing Bear, “First Days at Carlisle,” in My People, the Sioux, ed. Earl Alonzo Brininstool (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1975; reprinted in Voice of the Turtle: American Indian Literature 1900-1970, ed. Paula Gunn Allen (New York: Ballantine, 1994), 236. 12 Canadian Race Relations Foundation, “Survey Reveals Most Canadian Students Ignorant about Aboriginal History and Culture” (18 November 2002); available at http://www.crr.ca/ EN/MediaCentre/NewsReleases/eMedCen_NewsRel20021118.htm. 13 Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, Gathering Strength: The Report of the Canadian Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, vol. 3 (Ottawa: Canada Communication Group, 1996), 92. 14 Ibid., 92-93. 15 Duane Champagne and Jay Stauss, eds., Native American Studies in Higher Education: Models for Collaboration between Universities and Indigenous Nations (Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira, 2002), 6. See also Michael Marker, “Lummi Identity and White Racism: When Location Is a Real Place,” Qualitative Stuides in Education 13, 4 (2000). 16 David Newhouse, Don McGaskill, and John Milloy, “Culture, Tradition, and Evolution: The Department of Native Studies at Trent University,” in Native American Studies in Higher Education: Models for Collaboration between Universities and Indigenous Nations, ed. Duane Champagne and Jay Stauss (Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira, 2002), 78.

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186 Notes to pages 102-6

17 Laura E. Donaldson, “The Breasts of Columbus: A Political Anatomy of Postcolonialism and Feminist Religious Discourse,” in Postcolonialism, Feminism, and Religious Discourse, ed. Laura E. Donaldson and Kwok Pui-lan (New York and London: Routledge, 2002). 18 Leslie Marmon Silko, Yellow Woman and a Beauty of the Spirit: Essays on Native American Life Today (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1996), 165. 19 Patricia C. Albers et al., “A Story of Struggle and Survival: American Indian Studies at the University of Minnesota – Twin Cities,” in Native American Studies in Higher Education: Models for Collaboration between Universities and Indigenous Nations, ed. Duane Champagne and Jay Stauss (Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira, 2002), 148. 20 Early discussion of Native Studies programs include Vine Deloria, Jr., “Indian Studies: The Orphan of Academia,” Wicazo Sa Review 2, 2 (1986); Clara Sue Kidwell, “Native American Indian Studies: Academic Concerns and Community Service,” American Indian Culture and Research Journal 3-4 (1978); Russell Thornton, “American Indian Studies as an Academic Discipline,” American Indian Culture and Research Journal 2, 3-4 (1978); and idem, “American Indian Studies as an Academic Discipline: A Revisit,” in American Indian Issues in Higher Education (Los Angeles: UCLA American Indian Studies Center, 1981). 21 Devon Mihesuah, “Epilogue: Voices, Interpretations, and the ‘New Indian History’ – Comment on the American Indian Quarterly’s Special Issue on Writing about American Indians,” American Indian Quarterly 20, 1 (1996). 99. 22 Graham Hingangaroa Smith, “Protecting and Respecting Indigenous Knowledge,” in Reclaiming Indigenous Voice and Vision, ed. Marie Battiste (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000), 211. 23 John H. Moore, “Truth and Tolerance in Native American Epistemology,” in Studying Native America: Problems and Prospects, ed. Russell Thornton (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1998), 298. 24 The institution once known as the Saskatchewan Indian Federated College was founded as a result of the movement created by the 1972 declaration of the National Indian Brotherhood. The First Nations University in Canada is currently faced with a leadership and administrative crisis. In 2005, several administrators and faculty members were dismissed; this was followed by the resignations of others in protest over alleged political interference and infringement on academic freedom. There are also allegations of financial mismanagement by senior officials. See First Nations University of Canada, “Information Sheet: First Nations University of Canada February 2005 to June 2006” (Regina: First Nations University of Canada, 2006); and Winona Wheeler and Denise Henning, “What’s up at FNUC?” Canadian Dimension 40, 1 (2006). 25 Edward W. Said, “Identity, Authority, and Freedom,” in The Future of Academic Freedom, ed. Louis Menand (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 227. See also idem, “The Politics of Knowledge,” in Debating P.C.: The Controversy over Political Correctness on College Campuses, ed. Paul Berman (New York: Laurel, 1992). 26 M. Annette Jaimes Guerrero, “Academic Apartheid: American Indian Studies and ‘Multiculturalism,’” in Mapping Multiculturalism, ed. Avery F. Gordon and Christopher Newfield (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 58. 27 Lorie M. Graham and Peter R. Golia, “In Caleb’s Footsteps: The Harvard University Native American Program,” in Native American Studies in Higher Education: Models for Collaboration between Universities and Indigenous Nations., ed. Duane Champagne and Jay Stauss (Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira, 2002), 124. 28 Patricia Monture-Angus, “On Being Homeless: Aboriginal Experiences of Academic Spaces,” in Women in the Canadian Academic Tundra: Challenging the Chill, ed. Elena Hannah, Linda Paul, and Swani Vethamay-Globus (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2002). 29 Ward Churchill, “White Studies: The Intellectual Imperialism of U.S. Higher Education,” in Since Predator Came: Notes from the Struggle for American Indian Liberation, ed. Ward Churchill (Littleton, CO: Aigis, 1995), 254. 30 Ibid., 251. 31 On the other hand, there are also scholars who maintain that Native studies are a comparative field of study “with theories and methodologies that include but extend beyond local

Notes to pages 106-13

32 33

34 35 36 37 38 39 40

41

42 43 44

45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

58 59 60 61

cultural interests” and that the curricula of these programs need to serve and teach the widest possible student body. Albers et al., “A Story of Struggle and Survival,” 148. Moore, “Truth and Tolerance,” 293. Jennifer Kelly, “‘You Can’t Get Angry with a Person’s Life’: Negotiating Aboriginal Women’s Writing, Whiteness, and Multicultural Nationalism in a University Classroom,” in Creating Community: A Roundtable on Canadian Aboriginal Literature, ed. Renate Eigenbrod and Jo-Ann Episkenew (Penticton, BC: Theytus / Brandon, MB: Bearpaw, 2002), 155-56. Ibid., 156. Fiona Nicoll, “Are You Calling Me a Racist?’ Teaching Critical Whiteness Theory in Indigenous Sovereignty,” Borderlands 3, 2 (2004). Mihesuah, “Epilogue,” 103. Vine Deloria, Jr., Spirit and Reason: The Vine Deloria, Jr., Reader, ed. Barbara Deloria, Kristen Foehner, and Sam Scinta (Golden, CO: Fulcrum, 1999), 24, 25, 157. Gerald Vizenor, The Trickster of Liberty: Tribal Heirs to a Wild Baronage (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988), 109. Ibid. See, for example, Greg Sarris, Keeping Slug Woman Alive: A Holistic Approach to American Indian Texts (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), for a discussion of some of the challenges with regard to bringing traditional Native American stories to a classroom of Native American students. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Teaching for the Times,” in The Decolonization of Imagination: Culture, Knowledge, and Power, ed. Jan Nederveen Pieterse and Bhikhu Parekh (London: Zed, 1995), 183. James Axtell, “The Pleasures of Academe: A Celebration and Defense of Higher Education” (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 72. Ibid., 72-73. Sherene H. Razack, Looking White People in the Eye: Gender, Race, and Culture in Courtrooms and Classrooms (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998), 8. See also Roxana Ng, “Woman out of Control: Deconstructing Sexism and Racism in the University,” Canadian Journal of Education 18, 3 (1993). Razack, Looking White People in the Eye, 10. Ibid., 9. Chandra Mohanty, “On Race and Voice: Challenges for Liberal Education in the 1990s,” Cultural Critique 14 (1990). Razack, Looking White People in the Eye, 10. Spivak, “Teaching for the Times,” 183. Ibid. Elizabeth A. Povinelli, The Cunning of Recognition: Indigenous Alterities and the Making of Australian Multiculturalism (Durham: Duke University Press, 2002), 6. Meyda Yegenoglu, “Liberal Multiculturalism and the Ethics of Hospitality in the Age of Globalization,” Postmodern Culture 13, 2 (2003): n.p. Sheila McIntyre, “Studied Ignorance and Privileged Innocence: Keeping Equity Academic,” Canadian Journal of Women and the Law 12, 1 (2000): 147. Ibid., 174-75. Ibid. Ibid., 164. Biddy Martin and Chandra Talpade Mohanty, “Feminist Politics: What’s Home Got to Do with It,” in Feminist Studies/Critical Studies, ed. Teresa de Lauretis (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986), 208. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic: Interviews, Strategies, Dialogues, ed. Sarah Harasym (New York and London: Routledge, 1990), 93. Derek Bok, Beyond the Ivory Tower: Social Responsibilities of the Modern University (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982), 67. Ibid., 69. Peter C. Emberley, Zero Tolerance: Hot Button Politics in Canada’s Universities (Toronto: Penguin, 1996), 129.

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188 Notes to pages 113-21

62 Ibid. 63 Jacques Derrida, The Gift of Death, trans. David Wills (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 25. 64 Ibid. 65 Ibid., 27. 66 Derrida, Adieu to Emmanuel Levinas, trans. Pascale-Anne Brault and Michael Nass (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 52. 67 Cited in Rodolphe Gasché, Inventions of Difference: On Jacques Derrida (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 228. 68 See Mikhail M. Bakhtin, Art and Answerability: Early Philosophical Essays, ed. Vadim Liapunov and Michael Holquist, trans. Vadim Liapunov (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1990), for his philosophy of answerability. Bakhtin’s concept is discussed, for instance, by Greg M. Nielsen, The Norms of Answerability: Social Theory between Bakhtin and Habermas (Albany: SUNY Press, 2002), 136-37. Central to this concept is the creative dimension of action and the question, “How should we act toward other cultures?” Nielsen notes that for Bakhtin, “action is more than an intelligent reasoned response to a problem or situation. The act or deed has the two-sided form of answerability.” 69 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Responsibility,” Boundary 2 21, 3 (1994): 22. 70 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, The Spivak Reader, ed. Donna Landry and Gerald Maclean (New York and London: Routledge, 1996), 5. 71 See, for example, University of British Columbia, “UBC Trek 2010: The Green Paper” (Vancouver: UBC, 2004). 72 Jacques Derrida, “The Principle of Reason: The University in the Eyes of Its Pupils,” Diacritics 13, 3 (1983). 73 Ibid., 16. 74 Jeannette Armstrong, “Whole Family Systems in Living Community on the Land and Sustainable Living,” paper presented at the International Conference on the Gift Economy, Las Vegas, NV, 13 November 2004. I have asked and been given permission by Armstrong to use En’owkin as an example in my work. 75 Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic, 121. 76 Ibid. See also Spivak, “An Interview with Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak. With Sara Danius and Stefan Johnsson,” Boundary 2 20, 2 (1993): 25. 77 Spivak, “Maailma Tekstinä: Dekonstruktio, Marxismi, Feminismi ja Jälkikoloniaalinen Kritiikki. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivakin Haastattelu,” in Maailmasta Kolmanteen, ed. Matti Savolainen (Jyväskylä: Vastapaino, 1996). 78 Nils-Aslak Valkeapää, Trekways of the Wind, trans. Ralph Salisbury, Lars Nordström, and Harald Gaski (Uddevalla, Sweden: Dat, 1994). 79 Cf. Spivak, “Teaching for the Times.” 80 Val Plumwood, Environmental Culture: The Ecological Crisis of Reason (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 43. 81 Ibid., 43-44. 82 Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, 384. 83 Patricia Monture-Angus, Thunder in My Soul: A Mohawk Woman Speaks (Halifax: Fernwood, 1995), 55. 84 Sam Gill, “The Trees Stood Deep Rooted,” in I Become Part of It: Sacred Dimensions in Native American Life, ed. D.M. Dooling and Paul Jordan-Smith (New York: Parabola, 1989). 85 Spivak and Jenny Sharpe, “A Conversation with Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak: Politics and the Imagination,” Signs 28, 2 (2002). 86 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Where Is Europe? What Is Gender? Walking with Etienne Balibar” (public lecture at York University, 1 March 2006). 87 Sara Ahmed, “Declarations of Whiteness: The Non-Performativity of Anti-Racism,” Borderlands 3, 2 (2004). 88 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Claiming Transformation: Travelnotes with Pictures,” in Transformations: Thinking through Feminism, ed. Sara Ahmed and Jane Kilby (New York and London: Routledge, 2000).

Notes to pages 121-27

89 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Righting Wrongs,” South Atlantic Quarterly 103, 2-3 (2004): 537. 90 Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of Freedom: Ethics, Democracy, and Civic Courage (Lanham: MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1998), 31. 91 Spivak and Sharpe, “A Conversation.” 92 Freire, Pedagogy of Freedom. 93 Obioma Nnaemeka, “Obioma Nnaemeka Responds via Email to Shu-Mei Shih and Sylvia Marcos, December 20, 2000,” in Dialogue and Difference: Feminisms Challenge Globalization, ed. Marguerite Waller and Sylvia Marcos (New York: Palgrave McMillan, 2005), 159. 94 Spivak, “An Interview with Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak. With Sara Danius and Stefan Johnsson,” 25. 95 Cf. Jürgen W. Kremer, “Indigenous Science: Introduction,” ReVision 18, 3 (1996). 96 “Fourth World” refers to the world’s indigenous peoples. On the Fourth World, see, for example, George Manuel and Michael Posluns, The Fourth World: An Indian Reality (Toronto: Collier-Macmillan, 1974); Noel Dyck, ed., Indigenous Peoples and the Nation-State: “Fourth World” Politics in Canada, Australia and Norway (St. John’s: Memorial University of Newfoundland, 1985); Ray Barnhardt, “Higher Education in the Fourth World: Indigenous People Take Control,” Canadian Journal of Native Education 18, 2 (1991): 199-232; and Anthony Hall, The American Empire and the Fourth World (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2003). 97 Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, 383. 98 Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac (New York: Oxford University Press, 1971), 204. 99 Gro-Harlem Brundtland, ed., Our Common Future: The World Commission on Environment and Development (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 43. 100 See, for example, Linda Clarkson, Vern Morrissette, and Gabriel Régallet, “Our Responsibility to the Seventh Generation: Indigenous Peoples and Sustainable Development” (Winnipeg: International Institute for Sustainable Development, 1992). 101 David W. Orr, Ecological Literacy: Education and the Transition to a Postmodern World (Albany: SUNY Press, 1992), 83. 102 Ibid., 92. 103 C.A. Bowers, Educating for an Ecologically Sustainable Culture: Rethinking Moral Education, Creativity, Intelligence, and Other Modern Orthodoxies (Albany: SUNY Press, 1995), 14. 104 Ibid., 15. 105 Ibid., 49. 106 See, for example, Andy Smith, “Ecofeminism through an Anticolonial Framework,” in Ecofeminism: Women, Culture, Nature, ed. Karen J. Warren (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997). 107 Val Plumwood, Feminism and the Mastery of Nature (London and New York: Routledge, 1993), 12. 108 Ibid., 13. 109 Commission on Sustainable Development, “Dialogue Paper of Indigenous People for the World Summit on Sustainable Development,” report prepared by the members of the CSD Indigenous Peoples’ Caucus” (Geneva: UN Economic and Social Council, 2004). 110 Andy Smith, “Ecofeminism through an Anticolonial Framework,” 30. 111 Bowers, Educating for an Ecologically Sustainable Culture, 5. 112 Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, 402. 113 For an example of the commodification of indigenous knowledge and its packaging for an academic currriculum, see Graham H. Smith, “Protecting and Respecting Indigenous Knowledge,” which discusses this issue in the context of New Zealand. 114 Parker J. Palmer, The Courage to Teach: Exploring the Inner Landscape of a Teacher’s Life (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 1998), 50. Alan Bleakley, in “Teaching as Hospitality: The Gendered ‘Gift’ and Teaching Style,” in Gender, Teaching, and Research in Higher Education: Challenges for the 21st Century, ed. Gillian Howie and Ashley Tauchert (Hampshire: Ashgate, 2002), 82, also suggests a practice of teaching based on a gift economy and feminine ethics of care instead of the current model of a market economy and commodity exchange. According to this model, teaching is a gift given freely “through recognition of difference and resistance to totalising the other through identity.”

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190 Notes to pages 128-31

Chapter 5: Hospitality and the Logic of the Gift in the Academy 1 See John Dewey, Democracy and Education 1916: Middle Works, 1899-1924, ed. J. Boydston, vol. 9 (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1976-83); idem, “The Quest for Certainty: A Study of the Relation of Knowledge and Action” (New York: Putnam, 1960); and William James, Pragmatism: A New Name for Some Old Ways of Thinking and the Meaning of Truth: A Sequel to Pragmatism (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975). Dewey suggests “a radical epistemological pluralism” and hospitality as “open-mindedness,” an attitude of mind that calls for respect in approaching other perspectives and the existing epistemological diversity. Not surprisingly, the roots and central commitments of pragmatism derive from Native American epistemes and epistemologies. See Scott L. Pratt, Native Pragmatism: Rethinking the Roots of American Philosophy (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002); and Bruce Wilshire, The Primal Roots of American Philosophy: Pragmatism, Phenomenology, and Native American Thought (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2000). 2 Mireille Rosello, Postcolonial Hospitality: The Immigrant as Guest (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001), 6. 3 Ibid., 6-7. 4 Jacques Derrida, Of Hospitality: Anne Dufourmantelle Invites Jacques Derrida to Respond, trans. Rachel Bowlby (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 83. 5 Delores J. Huff, To Live Heroically: Institutional Racism and American Indian Education (Albany: SUNY Press, 1997), 154. 6 Olive Patricia Dickason, Canada’s First Nations: A History of Founding Peoples from Earliest Times (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1992). It is important, however, to differentiate between gifts and bribes, or early settlers giving to the Natives in order to make allies. As argued in the chapter on the gift, this kind of giving is informed by the ideology of exchange and is characterized by self-interest. 7 Jacques Derrida, in Aporias, trans. Thomas Dutoit (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993), 33, observes that “if the new arrivant who arrives is new, one must expect ... that he [sic] does not simply cross a given threshold. Such an arrivant affects the very experience of the threshold.” This certainly was the case with the colonizers, and I would suggest should, conversely, be the case when the arrivant is indigenous epistemes in the academy. 8 Sarah Carter, Aboriginal People and Colonizers of Western Canada to 1900 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999). 9 Dickason, Canada’s First Nations, 79-80. The idea that potlatching is “self-impoverishment,” however, needs to be re-examined because it places that practice in a foreign framework of analysis that values only the accumulation of material possessions (i.e., capitalism). 10 Jayme A. Sokolow, Great Encounter: Native Peoples and European Settlers in the Americas, 14921800 (Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe, 2003), 67. 11 Ron Ignace, George Speck, and Renee Taylor, “Some Native Perspectives on Anthropology and Public Policy (as Interviewed by Noel Dyck),” in Anthropology, Public Policy, and Native Peoples in Canada, ed. Noel Dyck and James B. Waldram (Montreal and Kingston: McGillQueen’s University Press, 1993), 174. 12 Cf. Jacques Derrida, Adieu to Emmanuel Levinas, trans. Pascale-Anne Brault and Michael Naas (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997). 13 Dickason, Canada’s First Nations; and Sokolow, Great Encounter. 14 Dickason, Canada’s First Nations. 15 Ann Salmond, Hui: A Study of Maori Ceremonial Gatherings (Wellington, NZ: Reed, 1975), 19. 16 Émile Benveniste, Indo-European Language and Society, trans. Elizabeth Palmer (London: Faber, 1973), 72. 17 Rosello, Postcolonial Hospitality. 18 Derrida, Of Hospitality. 19 Rosello, Postcolonial Hospitality, 65. 20 This does not mean that we should not compare practices of hospitality within or between groups. Rosello maintains that “as long as we do not assume that individuals are naturally, biologically bound to a given pattern,” generalizations can be useful in that they may help us

Notes to pages 131-37

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

29 30 31

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34 35 36 37

38 39

40 41 42 43

grasp radically different expectations with regard to hospitality. Furthermore, generalizations should not be dismissed as myths, not least because “myths are part of a national [or epistemic?] legacy that in practice determines what is acceptable or unacceptable.” Ibid., 66. Derrida, Of Hospitality, 25. Ibid., 147. Ibid. Rosello, Postcolonial Hospitality, 173. Emmanuel Levinas, Nine Talmudic Readings, trans. Annette Aronowicz (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990), 48. See Jonathan C.H. King, First Peoples, First Contacts: Native Peoples of North America (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999); and Sokolow, Great Encounter. Sokolow, Great Encounter. See Michael Marker, “Lummi Identity and White Racism: When Location Is a Real Place,” Qualitative Studies in Education 13, 4 (2000); and Smith, “Ko Taku Ta Te Maori: The Dilemma of a Maori Academic,” paper presented at NZARE/AARE Joint Conference, Deakin University, Geelong, Victoria, 23 November 1992. Marker, “Lummi Identity and White Racism.” Verna J. Kirkness and Jo-ann Archibald, “The First Nations Longhouse: Our Home Away from Home” (Vancouver: First Nations House of Learning, 2001). Renato Rosaldo, “Ilongot Hunting as Story and Experience,” in The Anthropology of Experience, ed. Victor W. Turner and Edward M. Bruner (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1986), 107, discusses how sharing a common history and set of cultural norms makes it easier to be heard by others. He notes that “people whose biographies significantly overlap can communicate rich understandings in telegraphic form. People who share a complex knowledge about their worlds can assume a common background and speak though allusion.” See also Keith H. Basso, “Stalking with Stories: Names, Places, and Moral Narratives among the Western Apache,” in Text, Play, and Story, ed. Edward M. Bruner (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984). First Nations House of Learning, Longhouse Leadership Program, http://longhouse.ubc.ca/ leadership.htm. Jo-ann Archibald, “Living the Dream,” in The First Nations Longhouse: Our Home Away from Home, ed. Verna J. Kirkness and Jo-ann Archibald (Vancouver: First Nations House of Learning, 2001), 94, my emphasis. Musqueam Nation, The Musqueam Declaration of 1976, at http://www.musqueam.bc.ca/ Rights.html. Derrida, Of Hospitality, 55. University of British Columbia, “UBC Trek 2010: The Green Paper,” 7. I remain grateful for the opportunity to have shared, at one of the Musqueam 101 sessions in the spring of 2004, my work, including my notions of the gift and hospitality and their implications for the relationship between UBC and the Musqueam people. This was a wonderful occasion of sharing and also giving back to the people and their community, on whose territory I have both lived and worked for several years. I was also able to share a bit about my background, including the Deatnu and the importance of salmon, with the audience of mostly Musqueam elders. W. Wesley Pue, ed., Pepper in Our Eyes: The APEC Affair (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000), 192. This point was made by Rose Pointe of the Musqueam Band at the 7 April 2004 session of Musqueam 101. It was further pointed out by the acting director of the Museum of Anthropology, Michael Ames, that while some people at the university were pushing for the Musqueam representatives to be among those welcoming the Queen, it was the provincial government that in the end did not accept the suggestion. Meyda Yegenoglu, “Liberal Multiculturalism and the Ethics of Hospitality in the Age of Globalization,” Postmodern Culture 13, 2 (2003). Jonathan Woodward, “UBC’s Purchase of Golf Course a ‘Flawed’ Process: Court,” Manitoban: Official University of Manitoba Student’s Newspaper, 30 March 2005. Cf. Derrida, Adieu. Derrida, Of Hospitality, 15.

191

192 Notes to pages 137-43

44 Ibid., 15. 45 Ibid. 46 Derrida, “The Future of the Profession or the Unconditional University. (Thanks to the ‘Humanities,’ What Could Take Place Tomorrow),” in Derrida Downunder, ed. Lawrence Simmons and Heather Worth (Palmerston North, NZ: Dunmore, 2001), 233-34. 47 Ibid., 255. I take it as an axiom that the future has always already begun, and that it is constantly beginning over and over again. In other words, the future is always here at this moment yet it starts with every step we take. 48 Ibid., 256. 49 Marie Battiste and James Youngblood Henderson, Protecting Indigenous Knowledge and Heritage: A Global Challenge (Saskatoon: Purich, 2000), 12. 50 Erica-Irene A. Daes, “Prologue: The Experience of Colonization around the World,” in Reclaiming Indigenous Voice and Vision, ed. Marie Battiste (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000), 6. 51 Ibid. 52 Leslie Marmon Silko, Almanac of the Dead (New York: Penguin, 1991). 53 Patricia Monture-Angus, Thunder in My Soul: A Mohawk Woman Speaks (Halifax: Fernwood, 1995), 96. 54 Derrida, “The Future of the Profession,” 247. 55 Derrida, Of Hospitality, 75. 56 Derrida, Adieu. 57 Emmanuel Levinas, “The Trace of the Other,” in Deconstruction in Context, ed. Mark C. Taylor (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986), 353. 58 Rosello, Postcolonial Hospitality, 167. 59 Sara Ahmed, “Declarations of Whiteness: The Non-Performativity of Anti-Racism,” Borderlands 3, 2 (2004). 60 Ibid. 61 This is most explicitly articulated in Devon Mihesuah and Angela Cavender Wilson, eds., Indigenizing the Academy: Transforming Scholarship and Empowering Communities (Lincoln: Nebraska University Press, 2004). 62 Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies. 63 See Derrida, “The Future of the Profession,” 240. The idea of “new humanities” has also been discussed elsewhere, independently from Derrida’s speculations. Kenneth K. Ruthven, ed., Beyond the Disciplines: The New Humanities – Papers from the Australian Academy of Humanities Symposium 1991 (Canberra: Highland, 1992), viii, for instance, discusses the fear in the late 1980s of losing humanities to economic rationalism characterized by reforms in higher education. He notes how humanities are, however, “alive and well,” with new research centres and an expanding field, including “new humanities,” “powered by transformative energies of people responsive to changes in the material conditions of intellectual life both here [Australia] and overseas.” This “new humanities” consists of fields such as cultural, multicultural, and cultural policy, feminist and gender studies, and postcolonial, subaltern, and legal studies. For some reason, indigenous studies do not make it into the “new humanities.” 64 Marie Battiste, Lynne Bell, and L.M. Findlay, “An Interview with Linda Tuhiwai Te Rina Smith,” Canadian Journal of Native Education 26, 2 (2002): 179. 65 Battiste et al., “Thinking Place: Animating the Indigenous Humanities in Education,” Australian Journal of Indigenous Education 34 (2005): 7. 66 Ibid. 67 Isobel M. Findlay, “Working for Postcolonial Legal Studies: Working with the Indigenous Humanities,” in Law, Social Justice, and Global Development Journal (2003). 68 Marie Battiste, Lynne Bell, and L.M. Findlay, “Decolonizing Education in Canadian Universities: An Interdisciplinary, International, Indigenous Research Project,” Canadian Journal of Native Education 26, 2 (2002): 83. 69 Findlay, “Working for Postcolonial Legal Studies.” 70 Thiong’o wa Ngugi, Decolonizing the Mind: The Politics of Language in African Literature (London: Heinemann, 1986).

Notes to pages 143-52

71 Graham Hingangaroa Smith, “Protecting and Respecting Indigenous Knowledge,” in Reclaiming Indigenous Voices and Vision, ed. Marie Battiste (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2000); Verna St. Denis, “Real Indians: Cultural Revitalization and Fundamentalism in Aboriginal Education,” in Contesting Fundamentalisms, ed. Carol Schick, JoAnn Jaffe, and Alisa M. Watkinson (Halifx: Fernwood, 2004). 72 St. Denis, “Real Indians,” 41. 73 Ibid. 74 When it comes to St. Denis’s argument about the danger that linguistic revitalization will turn into “blaming the victim,” I can only say that a careful reading of the several quotations that she provides as examples does not support her claim. The quoted individuals may lament the loss of their indigenous language, indicate how difficult it was to learn and “reclaim” the language, or describe how, because of residential schools and other factors, their parents did not see the value of their own language; but they never blame their parents or grandparents. I have come across countless similar stories of the loss of language by indigenous people around the world, but I have never heard or read of anyone blaming their ancestors. 75 Deborah Bird Rose, “Decolonizing the Discourse of Environmental Knowledge in Settler Societies,” in Culture and Waste: The Creation and Destruction of Value, ed. Gay Hawkins and Stephen Muecke (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2003), 54. 76 Karl Polanyi, The Great Transformation: The Political and Economic Origins of Our Time, 2nd ed. (New York: Farrar and Rinehart, 1944). 77 Genevieve Vaughan, For-Giving: A Feminist Criticism of Exchange (Austin, TX: Plain View Press and Anomaly Press, 1997). 78 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic: Interviews, Strategies, Dialogues, ed. Sara Harasym (New York and London: Routledge, 1990), 72. 79 Sara Ahmed, “The Politics of Bad Feeling,” Australasian Journal of Critical Race and Whiteness Studies 1, 1 (2005): 81. 80 Fiona Nicoll, “‘Are You Calling Me a Racist?’ Teaching Critical Whiteness Theory in Indigenous Sovereignty,” Borderlands 3, 2 (2004). 81 Genevieve Vaughan, “Gift Giving and Exchange: Genders Are Economic Identities, and Economies Are Based on Gender,” Athanor 15, 8 (2004). 82 See, for example, Nancy Chodorow, The Reproduction of Mothering: Psychoanalysis and the Sociology of Gender (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978). 83 Fiona Robinson, Globalizing Care: Ethics, Feminist Theory, and International Relations (Boulder: Westview, 1999), 23. 84 Ibid., 32. 85 Nicoll, “Are You Calling Me a Racist?” 86 Val Plumwood, Environmental Culture: The Ecological Crisis of Reason (New York and London: Routledge, 2002), 42. See also Evelyn Fox Keller, Reflections on Gender and Science (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985). 87 See Georges Erasmus, “The Lafontaine–Baldwin Lecture 2002,” in The Lafontaine–Baldwin Lectures, vol. 1: A Dialogue on Democracy in Canada, ed. Rudyard Griffiths (Toronto: Penguin, 2002). 88 See Nicoll, “Are You Calling Me a Racist?” 89 Ibid. 90 Fiona Probyn, “Playing Chicken at the Intersection: The White Critic of Whiteness,” Borderlands 3, 2 (2004). 91 Ibid. 92 Ibid. 93 Ibid. 94 Lani Guinier and Gerald Torres, “The Miner’s Canary,” Yes! (Winter 2003): 31. 95 Anthony Giddens, A Contemporary Critique of Historical Materialism, vol. 2: The Nation State and Violence (Cambridge: Polity, 1985). 96 Denise Henning, “Universities, Race, and Gender: How Can We Make the Academy More Inclusive?” Briarpatch (May 2006): 32.

193

194 Notes to pages 152-63

97 Donaldo P. Macedo, “Foreword,” in Pedagogy of Freedom: Ethics, Democracy, and Civic Courage, Paulo Freire (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1998), xxviii. 98 Ibid., xxix. 99 Russell Bishop, “Freeing Ourselves from Neo-Colonial Domination in Research: A Maori Approach to Creating Knowledge,” International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education 11, 2 (1998): 207. 100 Henning, “Universities, Race and Gender,” 32. 101 Jane Flax, “Responsibility without Grounds,” in Rethinking Knowledge: Reflections across the Disciplines, ed. Robert F. Goodman and Walter R. Fisher (Albany: SUNY Press, 1995). 102 Regarding other ways of taking responsibility, giving recognition, and learning from below, academics and others need to go and explore them in the name of learning and in the interest of knowledge. As Spivak advises, it is after all your job as an academic. 103 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Teaching for the Times,” in The Decolonization of Imagination: Culture, Knowledge, and Power, ed. Jan Nederveen Pieterse and Bhikhu Parekh (London: Zed, 1995). 104 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Righting Wrongs,” South Atlantic Quarterly 103, 2-3 (2004): 533. 105 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason: Toward a History of the Vanishing Present (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 402. 106 Maria Mies and Veronika Bennholdt-Thomsen, The Subsistence Perspective: Beyond the Globalized Economy, trans. Patrick Camiller, Maria Mies, and Gerd Wieh (London: Zed/ Victoria, NSW: Spinifex, 1999), 213. Conclusion 1 Cf. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Three Women’s Texts and a Critique of Imperialism,” Critical Inquiry 12 (1985). 2 Maria Mies and Veronika Bennholdt-Thomsen, The Subsistence Perspective: Beyond the Globalized Economy, trans. Patrick Camiller, Maria Mies, and Gerd Wieh (London: Zed/ Victoria, NSW: Spinifex, 1999), 20. 3 Vandana Shiva, Monocultures of the Mind: Perspective on Biodiversity and Biotechnology (London: Zed, 1993), 12. 4 Mies and Bennholdt-Thomsen, The Subsistence Perspective, 6. 5 Maria Mies, Patriarchy and Accumulation on a World Scale: Women in the International Division of Labor (London: Zed, 1988), xvii. 6 Elizabeth Ellsworth, “Why Doesn’t This Feel Empowering? Working through the Repressive Myths of Critical Pedagogy,” Harvard Educational Review 59, 3 (1989). 7 Sandy Grande, Red Pedagogy: Native American Social and Political Thought (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2004). 8 Peter George, “Out of the Ivory Tower and into the Chat Rooms,” McMaster Times, Spring 2006. 9 Joyce Green, “Transforming at the Margins of the Academy,” in Women in the Canadian Academic Tundra: Challenging the Chill, ed. Elena Hannah, Linda Paul, and Swani VethamanyGlobus (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2002), 88. Afterword 1 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason: Toward a History of the Vanishing Present (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press), 175. 2 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic: Intrviews, Strategies, Dialogues, ed. Sara Harasym (New York and London: Routledge), 15.

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211

Index

Aboriginalism, 25 abundance, 28, 30, 32, 34-35 academic: disciplines, 14-15, 58, 103, 164; freedom, 16-20, 78, 89, 139, 186n24; ignorance, 18, 53, 56, 65-68, 79; standards, 18, 53 academics: arrogance, 11; complacency, 70, 71; complicity, xv; cynicism, 4; and denial, 152, 154; and ethics, 44; hegemonic, 115; and homework, 117, 119; ignorance, 102, 106; and imperialist project, 5; indifference, 5-6, 49-50, 52, 111, 120, 147, 149; indigenous, 16, 62, 103; mainstream, 9; power, 63, 72; privatized, 89; privileged, 112, 154; progressive, 147; responsibilities, 106, 112, 117, 139, 160; role, xv; self-indulgent, 158; white male, 109 academy: careerist, 7; colonialism, 55-56, 67; consumerist, 7; as corporation, 89; criticism of, by indigenous scholars, xviii-xix, 6, 15-19, 49, 54-55, 103, 105; double standards, 5; epistemology, 1-9, 5; ethics, 139-40; fears, 88; future, 89; hegemonic, 18, 112-13, 115; as host, 3, 131; hostile, 3, 53, 130; as hostile subject, 134-35, 137; imperatives for, 15455; imperialism, 2; indigenizing, 2-3, 142-44; and indigenous discourses, xviii; inhospitality, 84; at its limits, 140-42; logic of the gift in, 149-50, 152-54; official rhetoric, 79; and the “other,” 7, 16-20, 66-71, 81-82, 84, 121, 132, 137, 139-40; perceptions of indigenous peoples, 3; and responsibility, xx-xxi, 66; self-examination, 150-53, 152; systemic racism in, 110; and upward mobility, 81. See also indifference, academic;

indigenous students; sanctioned ignorance; university, the accommodation, 2, 54, 93, 104, 142 aesthetics. See decoration Agenda 21 programs, 122 Ahmed, Sara, 120, 141, 142, 147, 154 Alexander, Lincoln (Hon.), 101 Alexie, Sherman, 70 Alfred, Taiaiake (Gerald), 24-25 alienation, 16, 51, 54, 119 Allen, Paula Gunn, xi Althusser, Louis, 156 Alvord, Lori, 51-52 American Educational Research Association, 157 Ames, Michael, 191n39 Amnesty International, 42 androcentrism, 18, 99 anthropology, 54, 82-83, 111 anti-potlatch law. See Indian Act, Section 149 antiracism, 6, 63-65 antiracist: analyses, 63, 79; categories, 65; discourse, 6-7, 62-66, 63-65, 179n68; initiatives, 65; pedagogies, 99, 109; theorizing, 65, 99 aporia, 45, 47 Arab universities, 104 archaic: epistemes, 139; gift, 29, 71, 88, 146; “indigenous,” 146; societies, 23, 26, 29, 43, 126, 144, 161, 170n1; worldviews, 4, 124 Archibald, Jo-ann, 133 area studies, 72, 92, 105 Armstrong, Jeannette, 38, 40, 165n2 arrogance of conscience, 99, 109 Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation Summit (1997), 135

Index

assimilation, 97, 98 assumptions: of the academy, 50, 56, 76, 81, 121, 140, 149-50, 153, 160; cultural, 50-51, 71; of dominant discourse, xviii; dualistic, 86; Eurocentric, 99, 149; hegemonic, 99, 121, 123; institutional, 149; liberal humanist, 19; racist, 15, 115, 179; Western, 27, 29, 42, 43, 51, 79, 97; and worldviews, 58, 59, 61, 62 Augé, Marc, 91 Axtell, James, 109 Aztecs, 100 backgrounding, 70, 71 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 114-15, 188n68 balance, 3, 7, 31, 33-34, 145, 154 Bannerji, Himani, 76-77 Barnhardt, Ray, 78 Battiste, Marie, 18-19, 62 benevolent imperialism. See imperialism, benevolent Benhabib, Seyla, 92 Bennholdt-Thomsen, Veronica, 43, 155, 157, 158 Benveniste, Émile, 130 Bhabha, Homi, 100, 166n20 bias: androcentric, 99; anthropological, 111; economic, 28-29; Eurocentric, 16, 77; gender, 156; imperialist, 99, 150; patriarchal, 34; and politics, 73; racial, 72-73, 105, 179 Bishop, Russell, 152 Blenkinsop, George, 46 blind spots, 1, 87 Boas, Franz, 47 Bok, Derek, 113 Bonilla-Silva, Eduardo, 64, 65 Bonnett, Alastair, 79 Booth, Annie, 42, 78 borders: and academic hegemony, 140; colonial, xiii; between Finland and Norway, xi-xii; and the gift, 85; and globalization, 157; between human and nonhuman, 34; literature, xi; types, xxi-xxii boundary. See borders Bourdieu, Pierre, 26-27, 37, 161, 170n14 Bowers, C.A., 123, 124, 125 Bracken, Christopher, 46 Brady, Patrick, 54 Brant, Beth, 33 British Columbia Court of Appeal, 136 Brody, Hugh, 43, 60, 61, 83 Brundtland Report, 122, 123 Campbell, Ernie, 136

Canadian Race Relations Foundation, 101 capitalism, 89; academic, xv; consumer, 30; global, 26, 88, 90, 110, 118, 159-60 (see also globalization); neoliberal, 110; patriarchal, xv, 90; transnational, 88. See also intellectual property Carlisle Indian boarding school, 101 Celilo Falls, 39 censorship, xv, 27, 43, 117 Champagne, Duane, 15, 102 chilly climate, 169n49 Chodorow, Nancy, 31 Churchill, Ward, 105 circulation, 32, 37-38, 42, 85, 145 Cixous, Hélène, 38 Cobo, José R. Martinéz, 10, 167n14 colonialism: and the academy, 67, 104-5, 131-32, 140, 143; assumptions, 16; concerns about, 67; continued, 94; and cultural revitalization, 143; discursive forms, 14; as epistemological practice, 1; and exclusion, 65; experience of, 11, 140; forms, 59; and the gift, 89; and government policies, 101; and indigenous philosophies, 124; and indigenous worldviews, 77; legacy, 15, 59, 98, 101; logic of, 56; mentality, 61; and nature, 124; problems, 24; processes, 19; reality of, 25; and recognition, 91; recognition of, xv; and relationships, 16; and silence, 80; and speaking, 80; and translation, 75; vs transmotion, xiii; and universities, 13-14. See also decolonization; imperialism; neocolonialism; postcolonialism commodification, 88, 89 competition, xv, 2, 30, 89, 126, 153-54, 157 complicity: of the academy, 131; of intellectuals, 11, 80, 112-13, 141, 180n79; neocolonialist, 140; recognition of, 141; and sanctioned ignorance, 112-13, 141; of settlers, 67; structure, xv; of the West, 124 contamination, xv, xvi, 25, 146 contentual inclusion, 105, 120 control: academic, 11, 15, 17, 72, 74, 134, 136-38, 160; and agriculture, 60, 61; American, 14; and Christianity, 61; colonial, 94, 130; of difference, 99; discursive, 74, 77; and the gift, 88; global, 9; hegemonic, 71; and knowledge, 100, 141, 153; of nature, 28, 61, 86; and reason, 86-87, 153; and self-determination, 43, 100, 126, 134, 143-44; structure, 21; and Western society, 60-61

213

214 Index

Cortés, Hernán, 100 critical: freedom, 104; inquiry, 89, 115; interrogation, 17-18; intimacy, xiv, 149; pedagogy, 79, 109, 159-60; practices, xxi, 64-65; theory, xix, 99; thinking, 13, 159; white studies, 105 Crosby, Marcia, xv, 83 cross-cultural: communication, 77-78; context, 55; education, 108; understanding, 67 cultural: capital, 98, 120; conflicts, 49-56, 55-56, 176n7; discontinuity, 53-54, 160; norms, 110; revitalization, 143-44; scripts, 43; sensitivity, 109 culturalism, 55, 110-11 culture: assumptions about, 99; clash, 4954, 51, 175n5; as a colonial construction, 54; critiques, 54-56; in a cross-cultural context, 55; and cultivation, 54-55; dominant, 51; of educational organizations, 51; elitist, 55; indigenous vs mainstream, 1; of learning, 89; mainstream, 51; as material products, 100; and rights, 56; wars, 176n8; vs worldview, 55 Daes, Erica-Irene, 140 Deatnu River, ix, xi, xiii, xix, 162 Declaration of Human Responsibilities (UN, 1997), 41 decolonization, 143-44, 146, 147 deconstruction: and ambiguity, xiv; definition, 8-9; as hospitality, xix-xx; and indigenous epistemes, 62; and responsibility, xx. See also Derrida, Jacques decoration, 34, 35 Dei, George Sefa, 71 Deleuze, Gilles, 61 Delgamuukw v. British Columbia (1997), 93, 173n79 Deloria, Vine, Jr., 16, 33, 44, 107, 170n2 Derrida, Jacques: on academics, 18; on deconstruction, xx; on ethics, 7; on the gift, 35, 85, 88, 89, 90; on hospitality, 87, 134, 137; on the Other, 153, 155; position, xix-xx, 166n30; on responsibility, 114, 115; on sacrifice, 35; on text, 61-62; on the university, 139, 142 Descartes, René, 38, 86 Dewey, John, 20, 190n1 dialogue, xvi-xvii, 16, 116, 144, 146, 154 Dialogue Paper of Indigenous People for the World Summit on Sustainable Development, 124 difference, 76-77, 106 discourse: academic, xvii, 88; alternative, 77, 84; anthropological, 36; colonial,

124; of difference, 76-77; dominant, xviii, 101, 110; environmental, 67-68, 124; of equality, 64; exclusionary, 55-56; hegemonic, 81, 105, 109, 153; of inclusion, 159; indigenous, xvi-xvii, xviii, 125; mainstream, xvii, 67-68; mobilizing, 122, 125; of multitude, 77; neocolonial, 92, 93, 104; of neutrality, 143; organizing of, 77-78; participatory, 81; patriarchal, 153; repressive, 79; of revolution, 156; rights, 41-42; theoretical, xxi; Western vs indigenous, 57; white male, 158, 159. See also antiracist, discourse discrimination: and alienation, 16; and area studies, 105; “benign,” 110; consequences, 98; gender-based, 110; institutional, 49, 62, 63; intellectual, 4-5, 21, 110; problem of, 81; race-based, 62-66, 110; and responsibility, 152-53; social, 63, 144; structures, 112; systemic, 63-65, 109, 112, 140-41. See also indifference; racism diversity, 75, 81, 89 domination: colonial, 59, 117, 133, 140; globalization and, 9; of nature, 67, 68, 124; patriarchal, 31, 68, 86; reason and, 87, 153; relations of, 63, 109-11, 146; subjectivity and, 167n15; and symbolic violence, 26-27, 71; systemic, 112, 146; value, 30. See also colonialism; mechanisms, of domination; racism Donaldson, Laura, 102 Dorris, Michael, 16 dualism: colonial, 21, 56, 68, 69, 147, 155; culture/nature, 54; hierarchical, 86; logic of, 21, 56, 68, 69, 147; reductive, 32; and Sami worldview, xix; society/culture, 54 Duwamish case, 94 Earth Summits (UN, 1992 and 2002), 122 ecofeminism, 32, 125 economy: capitalist, patriarchal, 30; exchange, 29-30, 31; feminist, 38; feminist gift, 145; gift, 30-31; global political, 111; market, 30, 47, 145, 189n114; masculine, 38; and reciprocity, 144-45. See also capitalism; exchange paradigm education: add-and-stir model, 105; colonial structures, 15, 55, 71, 101-2; commodification, 88-90; and critical theory, xix, 160; cross-cultural, 108, 109-10; as cultural act, 55; culturallybased, 1-2; environmental, 122-23; and epistemic ignorance, 5, 160; Eurocentric, 49; and exclusion, 4, 68, 142, 152; holistic, 12, 20; and indigenous people, 49,

Index

53, 62, 71, 78, 96-98, 103-4, 107, 124-25; liberal, 12, 19, 50, 139; postcolonial strategies for, 142-43; for social change, 109-10, 113, 122-23, 159 Emberley, Peter, 113 empowerment, 151-52 Enlightenment, the, 13, 39, 86, 153, 175n105 En’owkin, 116, 121 environmentalism, 25, 42, 122-23, 125 episteme, 6, 56-58, 77, 88. See also epistemology; indigenous epistemes epistemic: discontinuity, 101; ignorance, 5-7, 20-21, 49-73, 74, 80-81, 84, 104; marginalization, 66; paradigms, 74; pluralism, 128; reciprocation, 147; superiority, 149; violence, 76 epistemology: and academic disciplines, 1, 2, 3, 103; concept, 57; vs episteme, 157; indigenous, xviii, 16, 68, 71, 106, 120, 143, 170n2, 190n1; legitimate, 67; Sami, xvi; Western, 66, 99, 179n77. See also episteme; indigenous epistemes essentialism, 11, 58, 167n15 ethical singularity, 118-20, 122, 132, 156 ethics: of the academy, 7, 139-40, 179n68; of care, 148, 189n113; and deconstruction, xx; epistemological, 8; feminist theories, 148; of the gift, 9, 41, 89, 11415, 120, 149; global, 41, 42; indigenous, 56, 120; interpretations, xx; Kantian, 150; of obligations, 150; of relevance, 44; research, 16, 44-45 ethnography, 29, 34, 35, 69, 92 Eurocentric: arrogance, 21, 69, 99, 109, 141; bias, 16, 69, 77, 99; canons, 15, 18, 159; curricula, 18, 142, 159; discourse, 42; education, 49; epistemes, 120, 121; ideologies, 30; ignorance, 40, 94; mentality, 19; norms, 104; thought, 158; values, 30, 156; worldviews, 30, 105 Eurocentrism, xvii, 6, 65, 105. See also rationalism exchange paradigm, 30, 89, 119-20, 153, 184n74 exclusion, 13, 86, 167n15. See also radical exclusion exploitation: and the academy, 88; of cultural traditions, 30; environmental, 89, 95-96, 145; epistemic, 83, 88, 125-26, 139; of the gift, 88, 127, 137, 146, 160; and hospitality, 129, 130, 149; and ignorance, 68; imperialism, 88; of indigenous peoples, 44, 89, 93, 94, 125; and the market, 89, 111, 139, 160; and multiculturalism, 110; of women, 31, 32, 88, 89

Fabian, Johannes, 54, 92, 96 Fanon, Frantz, 16 Fee, Margery, 98 feminist: activists, 32, 172n39; critiques, 99; economies, 38, 145; indigenous women, 172n39; movements, 125; pedagogies, 79; philosophies, 86; scholars, 32, 86, 172n39; studies, 192n63; theory, xvii, 30, 148, 150-51 Fenton, Sabine, 181n2 fieldwork, 117, 169n57 First Nations: communities, 130, 133; context, 55; and the Crown, 149; dignity, 24; education, 133; educators, 97; identity, 97; issues, 97, 175n5; lands, 133-34; language program, 134-35; of Nicola Valley, 97-98; oral evidence, 93; perspectives, 52; students, 78, 133, 138; studies, 1. See also indigenous students; Native Americans; specific First Nations First Nations House of Learning (Longhouse), 133 First Nations University of Canada, 104, 186n24 Fixico, Donald, 78 Fleming, Lee, 94 foreclosure, 66, 107, 112, 136 Fort Rupert, 47 Foucault, Michel, 14, 57, 58, 77, 79, 177n38 Fourth World, 122 Fraser River, 9 free trade. See capitalism, global Freire, Paulo, 4, 74, 121 gákti, 34, 172n50 Gardner, Ethel, 97, 98 Gasché, Rodolphe, 38, 41 Geertz, Clifford, 99 genealogical model, 61, 178n49 genocide, 83, 93, 125 George, Peter, 167n9 Giddens, Anthony, 151 gift, the: as an ethic, 32-33; commodification, 30-31, 88; as commodity, 30, 85, 88, 89, 189n114; concept, 20; as continuous, 154; as critique, 8; as exchange, 26-30, 36; vs exchange, 30; in exchange economy, 89, 127; impossibility, 85-90, 127; of indigenous epistemes, xx, 3, 7-8, 120, 126; intentional meaning, 85; land as, 3; and law of hospitality, 127; and modernity, 28; obligations, 26; and the other, 2; paradigm, 30-32, 31; as a paradox, 45-46; as pharmakon, 45; philosophy, 20, 23, 45; as process, 4; and relationships,

215

216 Index

23, 32; and responsibility, 33; vs sacrifice, 35; and socio-cosmic order, 33; theories, 23-48, 26-30, 28, 29-30; as threat, 45-48, 86, 88; value, 30-31. See also giving; logic, of the gift; hospitality gifts: vs bribes, 190n6; to the earth’s spirits, 28; expressing gratitude, 28, 33, 35; free, 88, 126; and human/non-human balance, 34; to the land, 29; to nature, 28; of passage, 27; threshold, 27 Gitksan people, 93 giving: back, 44-45, 145, 149-50; circular, 37; reciprocal, 37; and relationships, 90; and violence, 27 global South, 45, 61, 89, 123 globalization, 9, 39, 45, 50, 67, 88, 110, 157. See also capitalism, global Godbout, Jacques, 28-29, 29-30 Good, Graham, 18 govadas, 172n47 Grand River (Tintactuoa), 162 Green, Joyce, 16 Guattari, Félix, 61 Guerrero, M. Annette Jaimes, 105 guest, 76, 127, 128, 132, 134-38, 141, 149 guest-master, 130, 134, 136, 137, 138, 153. See also hospitality Guillory, John, 70 Guinier, Lani, 151 Gutmann, Amy, 19 Habermas, Jürgen, xvi haka, 130 Hall, Anthony, 175n105 Hall, Roberta A., 169n49 Happynook, Tom Mexsis, 41, 42 Haudenosaunee Confederacy, 162-63 Hawthorne Report (1967), 24 Hegel, G.W.F., 90 hegemonic: authority, 95; institutions, 77, 137; people, 82, 98; perspectives, 109, 118; practice, 117; radicals, 67; relations, 9, 110; self, 88; structures, 84, 106, 118, 139, 153; thought, 80, 87; will to know, 11 hegemony, 70-71, 80, 84, 98, 106, 140, 156. See also academy, hegemonic; knowledge; rationalism; reason Heidegger, Martin, 114 Henning, Denise, 151-52, 153 Hester, Lee, 78 hierarchies: and backgrounding, 70; colonial, 25, 87, 130; of discourses, 77; dualistic, 146; of epistemes, 77, 86, 152; human, 124; of knowledge, 16, 139; and masculine identity, 31, 156; and responsibility, 41; social, 110

homework, 116-18, 141 homogenization, 72, 82 hooks, bell, xvii, 167n15 Horne, Michiel, 18 Hornosty, Jennie, 17, 19 hospitality, 22, 127; and academic freedom, 16-20; and the academy, 131; of the academy, 128-55; ambiguity, 138; cannibalistic forms, 131; complexity, 134-35; critical moments, 131; dimensions, 131, 134; etymology, 130; and host-guest relationship, 141; and hostility, 138; and indigenous epistemes, 131; laws, 131; liminal space, 141; and the logic of the gift, 128-55; and neoliberalism, 134-35; as open-mindedness, 190n1; and the other, xix-xx; paradox, 129; practices, 190n20; as productive crisis, 163; and reciprocity, 129; as relationship, 128; and respect, 129-30; and translation, 137. See also gift, the; guest; guest-master; host; welcome host, 3, 76, 127, 128-29, 131-38, 140-41. See also hospitality hostage, 130, 134, 137-38, 155 Howie, Gillian, 189n113 Huff, Delores, 129 Hyde, Lewis, 37 hyperseparation, 69, 86 identity: and academia, 104; authentic, 111; vs change, 54; collective, 2, 9; group, 51; indigenous, 19, 93, 97-98; masculine, 31, 86; master, 68, 71, 86, 104; politics, 64, 71, 111, 167n15, 179n68; and responsibility, 40; and rights, 39, 92, 143 ideology: capitalist, 30; colonialist, 14; of equal opportunity, 19; of exchange economy, 88; of imperial rationalism, 87; of know-nothingism, 115; tools, 194n102 Ignace, Ron, 129 ignorance. See academics, ignorance; epistemic, ignorance; Eurocentric, ignorance; sanctioned ignorance; studied ignorance Ikerd, John, 171n25 imperialism: academic support, 5; benevolent, 2, 56, 75, 81-82, 103, 118, 138; cultural, xvi; economic, xv; epistemic, 13-14; of exploitation, 88; of the I, 141; indifferent, 81; listening as, 75. See also colonialism; hospitality inclusion, 56, 63, 101-13, 120 incorporation, 68, 71, 73, 116

Index

Indian Act, Section 149, 47 Indianism, 101-13, 102 indifference: academic, 5-6, 49-50, 52, 111, 120, 147, 149; disrespect and, 78; and epistemic ignorance, 67; systemic, 5, 73, 102; wilful, 71, 156. See also discrimination indigenous: communities, 26; elders, 1023; faculty, 103-7; humanities, 142-43; identities, 97-98; issues, 106-7; land, 111, 144; literatures, 69; methodologies, 152; nationhood, 24; novelists, 70; Other, 21; pedagogies, 103; philosophies, 24-25, 25-26; research, 44-45, 174n104; research methodologies, 103; scholars, 143; thought, 12, 60, 61-62; universities, 104; value systems, 8 indigenous epistemes, 48, 65-73, 79, 84, 104-5, 107-8, 112, 138, 159-60; in the academy, 20-22, 108, 139; as arrivants, 190n7; discussions, 59-60; erasure, 84; and ethical reciprocation, 145-46; as a gift, 84; as intellectual property, 88-89; and new paradigms, 157; and reciprocity, 145; representation, 72. See also epistemology, indigenous indigenous peoples: in the academy, 72-73, 74; as category, 95; definition, 9-10; domesticated, 83; exclusion, 111; as hosts, 129-30; as minority, 176n9; relationship to the land, 95; reluctance to participate, 119; rights, 83; values, 11; and Western governments, 43; writings, 102 indigenous rights. See rights, Aboriginal; rights, indigenous; rights, Native indigenous scholarship: assumptions about, 8, 9; and colonialism, 98, 99; and contamination, xvi; and deconstruction, xix-xx; and global capitalism, 17; goals, 152; and indigenization, 142; and indigenous research, 174n104; and indigenous universities, 104; marginalized, 6, 15-16, 84, 156; reorientation, 24; vs “white malestream,” 18-19 indigenous students: academy’s expectations for, 2; aspirations, 51-52; challenges, 49-54, 176n7; drop-out factors, 53-54; drop-out rates, 51; educational initiatives for, 1; experience of, 49-50; and mainstream values, 51-52; and respect, 78, 79 Indigenous Studies, 76, 89, 103-7, 186n24, 192n63 individualism, 37, 81, 119, 173n66, 175n105 inequality, 6, 62, 68, 109, 112, 141, 143-44

Ingold, Tim, 60, 61, 178n49 interdependence, 23, 96, 121, 145, 148, 157 instrumentalism, 73, 95 integration, 41, 54, 97 intellectual property, 17, 88, 126 interdisciplinary studies, 15, 142, 164 International Climate Change Convention, 122 International Court of Justice, 94 International Feminist Network for the Gift Economy, 172n39 international indigenism, 9, 10-11 International Labour Organization: Convention no. 169, 10 International Year of Indigenous Peoples, 133 interruption, xiv, 88, 114 Irigaray, Luce, 4, 86 Jacobs, Harvey, 42 Jacobs, Sue-Ellen, 174n102 johtolat, ix justice: and action, 141; and learning, 120; and relationships, 147-48; and responsibility, 49; restorative, 147; social, 124, 144, 148; system, 141, 147 Kailo, Kaarina, 27, 29, 32 Kalliala, Reino, 165n1 Kant, Immanuel, 13, 85 Kaupapa Maori, 152 King, Thomas, x, 33, 170n2 Kirkness, Verna, 78 knowing: anthropological mode, 102; approaches to, 101-13; and colonization, 120; vs learning, 117-18, 120; the Other, 21, 99-113 knowledge: and bias, 99-100; as commodity, 89; and community, xviii; and control, 15-16, 72, 100; elite, 83, 84; and experience, xvii; hegemonic, 21, 83, 84; hegemonic production, 83; hierarchies, 16; indigenous systems, 32-33, 69, 88; vs information, 114; non-Western, 28; normative, 72; as profit, 126-27; rationalist accounts, 86; as social activity, 117-18; systems, 78; and Western conventions, 1-2 Kuokkanen, Rauna, 172n56 Kwakwaka’wakw people, 46, 47 land ethic, 122-27, 160-61, 178n49 language, 156-57, 193n74 Lapland War (1944-45), 165n5 LaRocque, Emma, 79, 83, 171n16, 173n66 lávvu, 34, 172n49

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218 Index

learning: about privilege, 120-21; about vs from, 121; from below, 121, 194n102; from the gift, 159; from indigenous epistemes, 125-26; vs knowing, 117-18; to learn, 97-127, 132, 155, 161, 163; as participatory reciprocity, 117-18; to receive the gift, 120-27, 125-26 Learning about Walking in Beauty (report), 101 Lehtola, Veli-Pekka, xi Leibniz, G.W., 85 Leopold, Aldo, 122 Levinas, Emmanuel, 87, 131, 141 Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 36, 145 liberal: democracy, 99; education, 19-20; humanism, 19; multiculturalism, 75, 81, 92, 98, 108-13, 118 liberalism, xvi, 1, 4, 81, 108-13. See also neoliberalism listening, 75, 82, 142 logic: of colonialism, 56, 87; of dualism, 68, 69, 147; of Eurocentric rationalism, 54; of exchange, xiv, 7, 37, 88, 89; of the gift, xiv, 43, 71, 87, 126, 145-47, 148, 157; of imperial rationalism, 4, 153; of modern reason, 103 Lorde, Audre, 8 Lukkari, Rauni Magga, xii Macedo, Donaldo, 152 mainstreaming, 2, 167n2 Malinowski, Bronislaw, 36, 170n14 Maori, 130 marginalization, 4, 49, 66, 83, 102, 105 Marker, Michael, 165n2 market economy. See economy, market Marx, Karl, 38 Marxist theories, 159 master and native relationship. See master-slave relationship master-slave relationship, 66, 90 Máttáráhkká (Ancestral Mother), 34 Mauss, Marcel, 26, 28, 36, 37, 45-46, 144-45 McConaghy, Cathryn, 25 McIntyre, Sheila, 112 McPherson, Dennis, 78 mechanisms: of control, 14, 110, 121, 130-31, 147, 150; of denial, 70-71, 112; of discrimination, 81; of domination, 68-69, 70-71, 72, 82, 91, 138, 142; of exclusion, 86, 110; of oppression, 72 Medicine, Beatrice, 174n102 Memmi, Albert, 16 Mexico, 100 Mies, Maria, 43, 155, 157, 158

Mihesuah, Devon, 82, 103, 107 military spending, 30 Minh-ha, Trinh, 82 minority, 81, 181n2 Mohanty, Chandra, 110 Momaday, N. Scott, 78 monologue, 81-82, 116-17 Montezuma, 100, 129 Monture-Angus, Patricia, 16, 50, 175n4 Monture-OKanee, Patricia. See MontureAngus, Patricia Moon, Paul, 181n2 Moore, John H., 106 Moreton-Robinson, Aileen, 150 multiculturalism. See liberal, multiculturalism multiepistemic literacy, 155 Museum of Anthropology (UBC), 135 Musqueam: Nation, 133-36, 150; people, 92, 191n37; territory, 133, 136 Musqueam Declaration (1976), 134 Musqueam Museum School, 135 Musqueam 101 (language program), 134-35, 191n37, 191n39 National Indian Brotherhood, 186n24 Native American studies programs, 106 Native Americans, 25, 26, 65, 102, 125, 172n43 native informants, 66, 82-85, 111, 135-36, 137, 153 Native scholars. See indigenous scholarship; specific scholars Native Studies. See Indigenous Studies negotiation: and the academy, 53; vs binary oppositions, 141; and decolonization, 144, 146; and the gift, 154; and indigenous social order, 27; from the inside, 146-47; as navigation, xix; negative, xvii; process, xvi, 141 neocolonialism, 39, 88, 113, 159 neocolonialist: age, 75; contexts, 65; education, 93, 113, 117; paradigm, 88; power, 93; privilege, 146; processes, 68; sentiments, 152; system, 159. See also discourse, neocolonial neoliberalism, 4, 26, 65, 88, 98, 104-5, 157-58 new ethnocentrism, 174n102 new humanities, 142, 192n63 New Right, 158-59 New World Order, 4, 31 Nicoll, Fiona, 150 Nielsen, Greg M., 188n68 noaidi, 34, 172n47 Nordic Passport Union, x, xi, 165n5

Index

Northwest Coast, 45, 46, 47 objectification, 73, 91, 105 Ohenton Kariwahtekwen (Iroquois Thanksgiving Address), 163 Ojibwa people (Ojibway/Anishinaabe), 60 Ong, Walter J., 57, 60, 155 ontology: of the academy, 1, 56, 60-61; indigenous, 2-3, 5, 8, 20, 25, 59 Orr, David W., 123 Osawa, Sandra, 40 Other, the: appreciation of, 109, 155; construction of, 71-72; and deconstruction, xix-xx; and ethics, 41; as future, 139; and the gift, 85, 89, 132; and the I, 141; knowing, 121; recognition of, 71-72, 92; as the Self’s shadow, 88 Pablo, Marcia, 95-96 Palmer, Parker, 127 paradigm shift, 5, 22, 24, 125 patriarchy, 61, 89, 104-5 people of colour, 64, 159 Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues (UN), 10 pharmakon, 45, 46 philosophical traditions, 38, 125 Plato, 86 Plumwood, Val: on disengagement, 118; on dualism, 21, 69, 71-72; on ecological crisis, 86-87, 91, 124; on master identity, 68, 70, 86; on mechanisms of control, 68, 82; on monologue, 82, 149; on reason, 86-87, 91 pluralism, 6, 8, 110, 128-29, 190n1 poetry, xxi, 69, 70 Pointe, Rose, 191n39 Polanyi, Karl, 36 political correctness, 18, 67, 93, 131 politics: of bad feeling, 147; of culturalism, 111; of disengagement, 156; of distraction, 103-4; of essentialist exclusion, 167n15; of hospitality, 130, 131; of ignorance, 68; of recognition, 92. See also identity, politics postcolonialism, 72, 143 potlatch, 23, 45-46, 88, 175n108, 190n9. See also Indian Act, Section 149 Povinelli, Elizabeth 95 power: of the academy, 63, 137, 149, 150, 152; effects, 118; generative, 151-52; as a gift, 26, 47, 151; of hospitality, 134; inequalities, 67, 99, 125, 134; and knowledge, 100; of language, 157; and privilege, 151; and racism, 6, 14, 63; relations, 64, 110-12, 125, 136, 145-46,

153-54, 181n104; relinquishment, 15051; and rights thinking, 42; in society, 98, 118, 125; structure, 160 powhiri, 130 privilege: of the academy, 93; of accumulation, 38; of capital accumulation, 43; of the dominant, 109; of educators, 152; of empty universality, 111-12; of normativity, 70; questioning of, 151; systemic, 112; use, 120; of Western epistemologies, 66; white, 151, 179n71; of white male academics, 109; of whiteness, 64, 98, 179n68 Probyn, Fiona, 150-51 Povinelli, Elizabeth, 95 Pue, Wes, 135 race biology, 55, 65 racism: and academic freedom, 17; aversive, 62-63; colour-blind, 62-63; and educational reforms, 106; elite, 115; epistemological, 67, 179n77; institutional, 62-66; institutionalized, 102; internalized, 68-69; and multiculturalism, 111-12; new forms, 62-63; and power relations, 63; and shock, 141; symbolic, 62-63; systemic, 6, 106, 110; and understanding the other, 109. See also discrimination; exclusion; genocide; marginalization radical exclusion, 69, 70-71, 86 rationalism, 4, 12, 19, 54, 87, 128, 153-57. See also reason rationality, 57, 66, 85-87, 160 Razack, Sherene H., 42, 109 realities: demographic, 19; everyday, 24; hard, 43; harsh, 158; of indigenous peoples, 65, 72, 110, 124, 161; opposing, 67-68; of the other, 70, 179n77 reason, 74, 153, 183n54; and domination, 87; hegemonic, 87; hegemonic forms, 86-87; and hospitable receptivity, 87; as masculine, 86; vs nature, 86-87. See also rationalism reciprocity: balanced, 36, 37; ceremonial, 38-39; circular, 37-38, 39; constrained, 37; and decolonization, 146; and epistemes, 144-55; forms, 36-37; generalized, 36; and the gift, 33, 87, 153-54; and the land, 145; with natural environment, 33, 87; negative, 36; principles, 87; and responsibility, 36-43; views, 144-45 recognition: -as-something, 91; defined, 90-91; of difference, 92; and ethnography, 92; gestures, 92-93; and gift logic, 8, 95; and giving back, 150; of identities,

219

220 Index

92, 93, 150; and identity, 92; of indigenous epistemes, 120, 160-61; of indigenous territory, 184n86; and logic of the gift, 90-96; and master-slave dialectic, 90-91; of others’ agency, 118; principles, 87; as reciprocation, 95; and relationships, 95-96; as threat, 111; token, 66, 93, 131, 138, 149; as validation, 93; and visibility, 91 reductionism, 42-43 relational model, 61, 178n49 relationships: of domination, 27, 111; between First Nations and the Crown, 149; Indian-white, 16, 78-79; monological, 149; vs partnerships, 149; of power, 110 relativism, 18, 79, 101, 111-12 Renaissance, the, 13, 37, 39 representation: forms of, 80 repressive tolerance, 79, 93, 112, 138 respect, 78-79, 95; for the “biotic” community, 122; multicultural, 112 respect for difference, 79 response-ability, 39, 114-15 responsibility, 112; and academic freedom, 20; of the academy, 49, 56, 113-20, 13842; vs accountability, 113-14; as action, 114; analyses, 42; and conscience, 116; and dependence, 37-38; and ethical singularity, 118-19; as ethics, 114; and ethics of care, 148; giving and, 87; and identity, 40; and indigenous cultural practices, 41; individual level, 154-55; and interdependence, 121; and interrelatedness, 40-41; legal, 136-37; to the natural environment, 95-96; new ways of taking, 115-16; of non-Aboriginal society, 97; and power, 151; in relationships, 119; as rights, 42; and subjectivity, 141; toward the other, 21, 66, 108, 138-39; understandings, xx; Western notions, 41 revolution, 156-57, 159 Reyhner, Jon, 71 rhizome, 61 rights: Aboriginal, 41-42, 134; and academic freedom, 17; collective, 42, 64, 94; and hospitality, 131, 138; human, 93, 96, 135; indigenous, 9, 64, 68, 83, 142-44, 150; individual, 37, 92; individual vs collective, 173n66; and justice, 147-48; land, 56, 64, 97, 161, 178n49; legal, 92; Native, 73, 173n66, 173n79; not to know, 112, 116; and responsibility, 42; to self-determination, 10, 56, 64, 124; tribal, 39, 94. See also selfdetermination

river, ix-x, 20, 39-40, 162, 163, 165n1. See also specific rivers Roberts, John, 13 Robinson, Fiona, 148 romanticism, 27, 42-43, 84, 152, 154, 161 Rosaldo, Renato, 191n31 Rose, Deborah Bird, 81, 144, 146 Rose, Wendy, 48, 68, 69, 180n90 Rosello, Mireille, 128, 130-31, 141, 190n20 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 100 Roy, Stephannie, 169n49 Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (RCAP), 55, 93, 101 sacrifice, 28, 35 Sahlins, Marshall, 36, 37 Said, Edward, 102, 104 salmon, 39-40, 165n2 Salmond, Ann, 130 Sami: cosmology, 33-36; episteme, 58, 59; epistemology, xvi; female deities, 34; grave gifts, 27; worldview, xix, 34 Sami Council, 166n33 Sami Institute, 104 Sami University College, 104 Samiland, x, 166n33 sanctioned ignorance, 66, 67-68, 104-5, 110, 118, 159-60 Sanders, Danielle, 51, 53 Sandler, Bernice, 169n49 Sápmi, xii Sartre, Jean-Paul, 99 Saskatchewan Indian Federated College, 186n24 scapegoating, xiv, 29, 112 scarcity, 30, 32 Scollon, Ron, 77-78 Scollon, Suzanne, 77-78 self-determination, 104, 124, 143, 144, 174n104; intellectual, 104. See also rights, to self-determination Shils, Edward, 13 Shiva, Vandana, 158 sieidi, 34-36, 119, 147 silencing: and hospitality, 137; indigenous authors, 70; the marginalized, 80; practice, 74-75, 116-17; the subaltern, 80-81 Silko, Leslie Marmon, xiii, 140 Simon Fraser University, 97 Sirluck, Ernest, 183n54 Six Nations territory, 162 Smith, Andrea, 125 Smith, Linda Tuhiwai, 14, 44, 73, 83, 142 social Darwinism, 41, 55, 65 socialization, 42, 57-58, 113 Sohappy, David, 39, 40, 173n79

Index

Sohappy case, 39, 40, 76, 173n79 sovereignty, xvi, 10, 94, 104, 134 Sparrow, Gail, 135 speaking: in the academy, 76-85, 98, 1067, 125; and antiracism, 179n68; “as,” 82; and being heard, 84, 149, 155, 157, 191n31; defined, 74-75; and epistemic violence, 80; “for,” 80, 117-18; the host’s language, 137, 143; problem, 82; as transaction, 75, 80, 114 special needs, 49, 128, 175n1 Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty: on arrogance of conscience, 99, 109; on beginning, 162; on civilizationism, 24; on deconstruction, 8; on Derrida, 166n30; on diligence, 11, 21; on elite knowledge, 83; on ethical singularity, 118; on ethics, 41; on human rights discourse, 42; on learning from below, 121-22; on liberal multiculturalism, 110-11; on listening, 75; on native informants, 83; on negotiation, xvi, 146; on “othering,” 101; position, 166n30; on (post)colonialism, 72; on privilege, 120-21, 166n20; on rationality, 86, 99; on responsibility, xiv, xv, 6, 41, 43, 114-15, 116-17, 118, 126; on sanctioned ignorance, 6, 66-67, 180n79; on slogans, 25; on solutions, 163; on “speaking for,” 80-82; on the subaltern, 11-12, 67, 80-82; on supplement, 181n104; on transnational literacy, 155; on wild anthropologist, 169n57; on worldling, 185n8 Sproat, Malcolm, 46, 47 St. Denis, Verna, 143, 193n74 Standing Bear, Luther, 101, 122 Stauss, Jay, 15, 102 stereotyping, 53-54, 72-73, 102, 142, 161 Sterling, Lisa, 97 stranger, 129, 130, 132 studied ignorance, 102, 113, 150 subaltern, 80-82, 83, 84, 101, 137 subject: Cartesian, 37; colonial, 80, 83, 180n79; ethical, 114; excluded, 13; hegemonic, 109, 141-42; hostile, 134; indigenous, 80; individualist, 37; innocent, 110; knowing, 100; of knowledge, 66, 73, 117; multiple, 82; unified, xvii subsistence, 35, 61, 123 sustainable development, 122 Swentzell, Roxanne, 172n43 Tauchert, Ashley, 189n113 Taylor, Charles, 92 teaching: in the academy, 25, 52; indigenous epistemes, 20, 107-8, 157;

indigenous humanities, 142; leadership, 133; and learning, 121; and logic of the gift, 127, 133, 160, 163; policy makers, 107; and sanctioned ignorance, 67, 70, 108, 112; traditional, 24-25, 122, 133; tribal values, 107-8 Thiong’o, Ngugi wa, 143 thought: Christian, 173; Eurocentric, 18, 158; indigenous, 2, 12, 20, 23-25, 38, 50, 84, 154; liberal, 139; modern, 173; nonWestern, 28; and reason, 87; Western, 2, 13, 15, 90, 158; and worldview, 60, 62 threshold, 140-42, 160-61, 190n7 Tierney, William G., 6, 51, 53 TINA syndrome, 158 Todorov, Tzvetan, 100 tokenism, 79, 92, 93 Toraya (Toradja), 28 Torres, Gerald, 151 transformation, 34, 147, 152, 156-57, 159, 163-64 translation, 75-76, 137, 181n2 transmotion, xiii-xiv, xix, 162 Trask, Haunani-Kay, 14, 17 Treaty of Point Elliott (1855), 94 Treaty of Waitangi, 181n2 Turi, Johan, 35 Turtle Island, 39-40, 162-63 unconditional welcome. See welcome, unconditional university, the: and accountability, 11314; as a contested site, 156; context, 13; definition, 12-13; discourses, 139; and exclusion, 13; foundations, 13; function, 13; future, 139-40; as guest-master, 13334; hostile, 3, 53, 130; as the institution of reason, 85-90; and logic of the gift, 138-39; neoliberal, 159-60; profession, 138-42, 139; and progressive models, 133; race for excellence, 167n9; and racist discourses, 65; and reason, 74; social responsibility, 113-20; and the status quo, 152; and unconditional welcome, 138-42. See also academics; academy; indigenous scholarship; indigenous students University of British Columbia, 92, 13336, 150, 169n49, 184n86, 191n37 US government, 94 values: of the academy, 89; corporatization, 156; cultural, 50-51; differences between, 53; of the exchange paradigm, 119; taken-for-granted, 123; tribal, 107-8 Van Deusen, Kira, 35

221

222 Index

Van Dijk, Teun, 63 Vaughan, Genevieve, 30, 31-32, 37, 147 violence: in the academy, 137, 142; of capitalism, 27, 171n17; epistemic, 66, 76, 80, 105-6, 180n79; hegemonic, 71; and hospitality, 131; and justice, 147; and knowledge, 100; language, 157; and masculine identity, 31; in Native American communities, 65, 171n16; of oppression, 140, 144; and revolution, 156; as sovereignty, 91; symbolic, of the gift, 26-27, 45, 161 Vizenor, Gerald, xiii, 93, 107 Vuovdaguoika, 11 Wananga (Aotearoa/New Zealand), 104 welcome: and academic hospitality, 13738, 169n49; and the Longhouse, 133-34; of the “other,” 132; and recognition, 91; rhetoric of, 3; unconditional, 2-3, 22, 91, 127, 130-32, 137-39; unquestioning, 131. See also hospitality Wet’suwet’en people, 93 white: American control, 14; dominance, 14, 71, 122; faculty, 63, 106-7; institutions, 53, 101, 106, 175n1, 182n16; interpretations, 16; male reason, 4; malestream, 18, 123, 159; men, and control, 17, 109, 158, 175n1; privilege, 98, 117, 122, 150-51, 179n68; students, 62; supremacy, 64-65; worldview, 78; writing, about indigenous people, 70

White Studies, 71, 105 Williams, Raymond, 54 Wilson, Angela Cavender, 68-69 women: of colour, 32; commodification, 89; domination, 91; exclusion, 13, 123; and gift economy, 31-32, 88-89; and hegemony, 25; indigenous, 24, 32, 65; marginalization, 4, 16; and nature, 61; and values, 32 Woody, Elizabeth, 40 Working Group on Indigenous Populations (UN), 140 World Commission on Environment and Development, 122 World Indigenous Nations Higher Education Consortium (WINHEC), 104 World Trade Organization (WTO), 161 worldview: vs episteme, 57; shamanistic, 34 worldviews: common principles, 108; differences between, 11; dominant, 23-24; ethical, 145; gift-based, 32-36; indigenous, 23, 28, 78, 124; individualistic, 37; and natural environment, 39, 42; Sami, 33-34 Wyam (“Echo of Falling Water”). See Celilo Falls Yegenoglu, Meyda, 111, 136
iz
ek, Slavoj, 111 Z

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