Indigenous Motherhood in the Academy 9781978816411

Table of contents :
Contents
Introduction
PART I East–Thinking
Chapter 1 An Indigenous Boy Occupying the Academy: The intergenerational (motherly) teachings that led him there
Chapter 2 “She Had No Use for Fools” stories of dibé Łizhiní mothers
Chapter 3 Nine Months of Indigenous Motherhood in the Academy: A rainbow journey from the islands to na’neelzhiin
Chapter 4 M(othering) and the Academy
Chapter 5 My Children Are My Teachers: lessons learned as a kanaka maoli mother-scholar
Chapter 6 Dreams of Hózhó within the Womb: A navajo mother’s letter to her newest love
PART II South–Planning
Chapter 7 Hollo Micha Oh Chash: drawing from our choctaw ancestors’ wisdom to decolonize motherhood within the academy
Chapter 8 Mvskoke Eckvlke (Muscogee Motherhood) in Academic Spaces
Chapter 9 The (Time) Line in the Sand
Chapter 10 Protection and the Power of Reproduction
Chapter 11 A Glint of Decolonial Love: An academic mother’s meditation on navigating and leveraging the university
Chapter 12 Honoring Our Relations: collective stories
PART III West–Living
Chapter 13 Widening the Path reflection of two generations in academia
Chapter 14 Mothers and Daughters Are Forever
Chapter 15 A Journey of Indigenous Motherhood through the Love, Loss, and the P&T Process
Chapter 16 Indigenous Motherhood in STEM
Chapter 17 Kuhkwany Kuchemayo ‘Aaknach, an Iipay Mother’s/ Teacher’s Story
Chapter 18 Impact of a Pandemic on Indigenous Motherhood: collective stories
PART IV North–Assuring
Chapter 19 Our Journey through Healing
Chapter 20 Motherhood, Reimagined
Chapter 21 Weaving Fine Baskets of Resilience: Resilient mothering in the academy as kānaka nation building
Chapter 22 Hā‘ena-i-ku‘u-poli: a letter to my daughter
Chapter 23 A Hidden Cartography: matrilinealizing the terrain of academe
Chapter 24 Berries and Her Many Lectures: the work of storywork
Tying the Bundle
Acknowledgments
Notes on Contributors
Index

Citation preview

Indigenous Motherhood in the Acad­emy

Indigenous Motherhood in the Acad­emy

Edited by R o bi n Z a p e -­ta h-­h o l -a h M i n t h o r n Chr istine A . Nelson H e at h e r   J . S h o t t o n

rutgers u niversity press new bru nswick, camden, and newark, new jersey, and london

 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Minthorn, Robin Zape-tah-hol-ah, editor. | Nelson, Christine Angela, editor. | Shotton, Heather J., 1976– editor. Title: Indigenous motherhood in the academy / Edited by Robin Zape-tah-hol-ah ­Minthorn, Christine A. Nelson and Heather J. Shotton. Description: New Brunswick : Rutgers University Press, [2022] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021050389 | ISBN 9781978816381 (hardback) | ISBN 9781978816374 (paperback) | ISBN 9781978816398 (epub) | ISBN 9781978816404 (mobi) | ISBN 9781978816411 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Indigenous women—Education. | Education—Parent participation. | Motherhood. Classification: LCC LC3715 .I4593 2022 | DDC 371.19/2—dc23/eng/20220422 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021050389 A British Cataloging-­in-­Publication rec­ord for this book is available from the British Library. This collection copyright © 2022 by Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey Individual chapters copyright © 2022 in the names of their authors All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is “fair use” as defined by U.S. copyright law. Cover: Kristina Maldonado-­Bad Hand is a Sicangu Lakota and Cherokee artist from Taos, New Mexico. Kristina states that the book cover art draws inspiration from her personal experiences as a ­mother to one and a stepmother to five. The art combines ledger art with digital art, which represents the merging of history with f­ utures of Indigenous p ­ eoples. As a frame to the art piece, Kristina pulled notable quotes from contributors’ chapters and handwrote the passages on the ledger paper. The central image is of a ­mother holding her baby. The ­mother’s hair represents the night sky. The baby represents the dawn or the beginning of a new day. The blanket represents the sunset and the design is inspired by 8th Generation, an Indigenous-­owned textile business. References to internet websites (URLs) ­were accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Rutgers University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared. The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—­Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992. www​.­rutgersuniversitypress​.­org Manufactured in the United States of Amer­i­ca

 For Emery, Roxie, Olin, Sloan, Sophie, and ­those unborn. For Indigenous ­mothers—­past, pre­sent, and ­future.

Contents



Introduction ​ ​ ​1 Christine A. Nelson, Robin Zape-­tah-­hol-ah Minthorn, and Heather J. Shotton PA R T I

East–­Thinking

1 An Indigenous Boy Occupying the Acad­emy: The Intergenerational (Motherly) Teachings That Led Him ­There ​ ​ ​19 Christine A. Nelson (K’awaika/Diné)



2 “She Had No Use for Fools”: Stories of Dibé Łizhiní ­Mothers ​ ​ ​29 Tiffany S. Lee (Diné/Lakota)



3 Nine Months of Indigenous Motherhood in the Acad­emy: A Rainbow Journey from the Islands to Na’Neelzhiin ​ ​ ​37 Leola Tsinnajinnie-­Paquin (Diné)



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5 My C ­ hildren Are My Teachers: Lessons Learned as a Kanaka Maoli Mother-­Scholar ​ ​ ​49 Nicole Alia Salis Reyes (Kanaka Maoli)



6 Dreams of Hózhó within the Womb: A Navajo ­ Mother’s Letter to Her Newest Love ​ ​  62 Nizhoni Chow-­Garcia (Diné)

M(othering) and the Acad­emy ​ ​ ​47 Susan C. Faircloth (Coharie Tribe of North Carolina)

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viii C o n t e n t s PA R T I I

South–­Planning

7 Hollo Micha Oh Chash: Drawing from Our Choctaw Ancestors’ Wisdom to Decolonize Motherhood within the Acad­emy ​ ​ ​73 Michelle Johnson-­Jennings (Choctaw), Alayah Johnson-­Jennings (Choctaw, Quapaw, Sac & Fox, Miami Nations), and Ahnili Johnson-­Jennings (Choctaw, Quapaw, Sac & Fox, Miami Nations)



8 Mvskoke Eckvlke (Muscogee Motherhood) in Academic Spaces ​ ​ ​83 Dwanna L. McKay (Mvskoke)



9 The (Time) Line in the Sand ​ ​ ​92 Miranda Belarde-­Lewis (Zuni/Tlingit)



10 Protection and the Power of Reproduction ​ ​ ​104 Shelly Lowe (Diné)



11 A Glint of Decolonial Love: An Academic ­Mother’s Meditation on Navigating and Leveraging the University ​ ​ ​111 Tria Blu Wakpa (Powhatan Descent)



12 Honoring Our Relations: Collective Stories ​ ​ ​125 Indigenous Mother-­Scholars PA R T I I I

West–­Living

13 Widening the Path: Reflection of Two Generations in Academia ​ ​ ​137 Symphony Oxendine (Cherokee/Choctaw) and Denise Henning (Cherokee/Choctaw)



14 ­Mothers and D ­ aughters Are Forever ​ ​ ​143 Renée Holt (Diné and Nimiipuu)

15 A Journey of Indigenous Motherhood through the Love, Loss, and the P&T Pro­cess ​ ​ ​151 Robin Zape-­tah-­hol-ah Minthorn (Kiowa/Apache/Umatilla/Nez Perce/Assiniboine)



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17 Kuhkwany Kuchemayo ‘Aaknach, an Iipay M ­ other’s/Teacher’s Story ​ ​ ​169 Theresa Gregor (Iipay/Yoéme)

Indigenous Motherhood in STEM ​ ​ ​162 Otakuye Conroy-­Ben (Oglala Lakota)

Contents



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18 Impact of a Pandemic on Indigenous Motherhood: Collective Stories ​ ​ ​177 Robin Zape-­tah-­hol-ah Minthorn, Heather J. Shotton, and Christine A. Nelson PA R T I V

North–­Assuring

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Our Journey through Healing ​ ​ ​201 Sloan Woska-­pi-mi Shotton (Otoe-­Missouria/Iowa/ Wichita/Kiowa/Cheyenne) and Heather J. Shotton (Wichita/Kiowa/Cheyenne)



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Motherhood, Re­imagined ​ ​ ​217 Pearl Brower (Iñupiaq/Armenian/Chippewa)



21 Weaving Fine Baskets of Resilience: Resilient Mothering in the Acad­emy as Kānaka Nation Building ​ ​ ​220 Erin Kahunawaikaʻala Wright (Kānaka ʻŌiwi)



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23 A Hidden Cartography: Matrilinealizing the Terrain of Academe ​ ​ ​238 Charlotte Davidson (Diné/Mandan, Hidatsa and Arikara)



24 Berries and Her Many Lectures: The Work of Storywork ​ ​ ​247 Stephanie J. Waterman (Onondaga/Turtle Clan)

Hā‘ena-­i-­ku‘u-­poli: A Letter to My ­Daughter ​ ​ ​231 Kaiwipunikauikawēkiu Lipe (Kanaka Maoli)

Tying the Bundle ​ ​ 257 Heather J. Shotton, Christine A. Nelson, and Robin Zape-­tah-­hol-ah Minthorn Acknowl­edgments ​ ​  263 Notes on Contributors ​ ​ 265 Index ​ ​ 271

Indigenous Motherhood in the Acad­emy

Introduction Christine A. Nelson, Robin Zape-­tah-­hol-­ah Minthorn, and Heather J. Shotton To our Indigenous m ­ other scholars, your acts of re­sis­tance, reclamation, and resurgence, so deeply rooted in love for the ­people, carry us forward—­and for that, we offer our collective prayer for you, our relatives, and ­those yet to come.1

For Love of Indigenous M ­ others Proclaimed in Native worldviews as “the backbone of the ­people,” Indigenous w ­ omen have the capacity to create, carry, and citizenize Indigenous c­ hildren, an embodied challenge to the settler state. Ina, is the Lakota word for mom. Unci is grand­mother. Lakota ­women are strong, descendants from White Buffalo Calf W ­ oman, chiefs and warriors, boarding school survivors, settlers/immigrants. Our presence is in itself is a challenge to the machine of the acad­emy and the good health of our Indigenous m ­ others in the acad­emy is a radical act of survival We no longer hang our heads, but look up and straight into the colonial eyes, Si­mul­ta­neously reclaiming, relearning, and reliving our lives as Indigenous ­women. Indigenous women/people/communities . . . ​have values attached to standards and phenomena that mainstream society and academia do not attach value to. I want it all. And, I feel guilty when I c­ an’t do it all. Am I enough for her? Am I enough for the acad­emy? How w ­ ill I know? I do not have to behave in that Western-­academy approved way . . . We nurture other scholars, like my parents did with our f­ amily and the land, the berries, and our garden.

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N e l s o n , Z a p e - ­t a h - ­h o l -­a h M i n t h o r n , a n d S h o t t o n Dibé Łizhiní ­mothers taught us how to be strong, how to be critical thinkers, how to love our ­family, how to love our homeland, and how to pass on that knowledge to our own c­ hildren. They are us, and we are them. Our c­ hildren are our greatest gifts and remind us that our ancestors’ legacy lives in them. They are our medicine. Mvskoke Eckvlke (Muscogee motherhood) is not a burden, role, or job but rather a sacred space that grounds and connects the ­people within a larger culture. [We see] so much mana in Indigenous m ­ others’ ­w ill to create and to raise new generations against efforts to colonize and destroy Indigenous life. The power of Hollo, or love, from m ­ others to babies begins prior to conception. A Native ­mother’s/academic’s life is in a constant state of creation: gestation, birth, and growth and through this pro­cess we become who we are as w ­ omen and who we are as ­human beings. Your movements remind me to keep good thoughts and steady actions and to see the world as one of beauty, of hózhó. [We] invite love and joy and ‘ohana into a university that aspire[s] to ­t hose values, but [are] not often truly felt on campus Nine months of Indigenous motherhood in the acad­emy is a love story beginning in my m ­ other and her ­mother’s soul. We are connected in heart to fill a ground for our c­ hildren and their babies to come.

This book was birthed and breathed to life during a time when Robin was on parental leave with her first living d ­ aughter and holding her on her chest while she slept. The seed for this book was planted during a dream that came to Robin about writing about her angel baby, Emery, and navigating the tenure pro­cess. Robin reached out to Heather about her dream, and we began envisioning a book that would honor the stories and lived experiences of Indigenous motherhood in the acad­emy. As our visioning began, we invited our ­sister Chris to join us on this journey, and we have engaged in a collective pro­cess of dreaming this work into existence over the past three years. We acknowledge in the space of creating, writing, and transforming this book into its textual existence that Emery and all of our ­children have been with us on this journey, inspiring us, urging us forward, and blessing us with their presence and love. The book’s growth paralleled some monumental times in our academic and personal lives. Academically, this book continued to thrive through a mid-tenure review, a relocation to a new university, new leadership roles, and a change in academic departments. Personally, this book continued to grow during times when a child left for college, moving across the country, partners’ ­careers changed, and homes ­were purchased. In early 2020, ­under the COVID-19 pandemic, our understanding of what a book on Indigenous motherhood in the acad­emy could be became more intimate and gave us a space to cut through the facade of being good academic producers and perfect moms. Our new real­ity of physical distancing to ease the spread of the virus has put us on our heels.

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During one of our editors’ meetings, we found ourselves questioning the core purpose of this book, probing our narratives and asking the hard questions of what ­matters in life and how t­ hose values align with the demands of the acad­emy. ­After sharing our most personal strug­gles during physical distancing, we found that we needed to create space for our contributors to share, vent, or pro­cess their new realities. We do not see the inclusion of COVID-19 reflections as an opportunistic or consumptive sharing of stories. Instead, we feel that COVID-19 has amplified the Indigenous mother-­scholar realities in which we have always lived. The narratives of the contributors, both pre-­and mid-­COVID-19, highlight the complex, the beautiful, and the difficult realities of what it means to be an Indigenous ­mother in the acad­emy. Through vari­ous methods, like storytelling, letter writing, and poetry, the contributors invite you into their lives to understand what the Indigenous motherhood in the acad­emy journey means for dif­fer­ent tribes, dif­fer­ent communities, and even dif­fer­ent generations. As Indigenous ­mothers, we are not homogenous, but we are connected by our journeys, including finding a spiritual balance and nurturing our ­children, who have been given to us and who carry our/their ancestors’ bloodline and legacy with them. Our intention with this book is to tell ­t hese stories from a complex place where Indigenous mother-­scholars are fostering and sustaining mothering/nurturing spaces while si­mul­ta­neously challenging the colonial structures of the acad­emy. Before diving into the contributors’ narratives, we outline our shared (and ever-­changing) definition of what we mean by Indigenous motherhood in the acad­emy.

A Shared Definition of Indigenous Motherhood in the Acad­emy From the time of Eu­ro­pean contact, ­there has been a concerted attempt to diminish the role of indigenous w ­ omen. But even with the sustained efforts by the federal government and vari­ous religious groups to totally assimilate them, ­women continue to play a critical role in many indigenous communities in formal and informal leadership positions in ­every sector of tribal society and the larger culture around them. (Mankiller, 2004, p. 9)

Indigenous motherhood can be defined in a variety of ways. Our goal is not necessarily to name all ­t hese definitions or even position this book as offering a concise definition. Rather, we start by deconstructing how Indigenous motherhood has been presented to us through a variety of mediums, ranging from personal experiences to prolific Indigenous w ­ omen scholars. We, as the editors of the book, recognize that we are of similar age, all born before 1980, and our generational experiences inform how we conceptualize Indigenous motherhood in the acad­emy. We also recognize that our current experiences and realities have been ­shaped by the generations of Indigenous w ­ omen who came before us, who made space so that we could engage with this work in the ways we have chosen to. Broadly, we have defined motherhood as a paradoxical space between loss and reclaiming. We know

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our realities of Indigenous motherhood have been and continue to be impacted by settler colonialism. This means that we need to consistently and thoughtfully interrogate the construct of our motherhood realities. Through a settler-­colonial narrative, the concept of mothering has been primarily defined as a cis-­female experience, where the female births a child and therefore is a child’s biological ­mother and engages in the acts of mothering. From an Indigenous perspective, ­mother and mothering extend beyond biological connections to include and value axiological and ontological orientations that defy the settler-­colonial narrative of what it means to be a ­mother. L ­ ater in this chapter, we explore how settler colonialism disrupted how motherhood and mothering are understood and came to be. The settler disruption is prudent to note ­because existing research on motherhood in the acad­emy rarely discusses motherhood through a settler-­colonial lens. Rather, existing research emphasizes motherhood through the settler-­colonial gaze, which is that lived experiences of mothering are not connected to historical injustices and oppressive colonial forces. In upholding our values as Indigenous scholars, we acknowledge the writings on academic motherhood and how they have laid a foundation for which we are centering Indigenous narratives in motherhood and the acad­emy. Prior to any books written on academic motherhood, ­t here was a foundation laid on the journey of Black motherhood and academia (Hinton-­Johnson, 2006). This lived experience and counterstorytelling provide an understanding of the journey of Black motherhood and of how the literary works of Morrison provided a glimpse into the complex histories of mothering experiences for Black ­mothers. Evans and Grant (2008) began providing space for motherhood narratives in Mama, PhD. This first edited book on academic motherings provided perspectives on navigating motherhood in academia as a gradu­ate student, as a nontraditional scholar, while navigating the tenure pro­cess. Since then, more academic motherhood scholarship has emerged and has broadened the narrative so that o ­ thers can see themselves in t­ hese lived experiences. Ward and Wolf-­Wendel (2012) take us on a journey as academic ­mothers navigate the tenure pro­cess and begin pushing against the patriarchal influences on tenure and promotion. Both of ­these books, though impor­tant to the foundation of academic motherhood from a U.S.-­centered context, are still situated within a settler-­colonial framework of binary lived experiences. O’Reilly and O’Brien Hallstein (2012) and Castañeda and Isgro (2013) begin to deepen the narrative of motherhood in the acad­emy through complicating the narratives and lived experiences of single parents and ­w idows, navigating relationships within the home outside of the normative nuclear framework. ­These books also include more w ­ omen of color and gendered structures, further pushing against the patriarchal standards embedded in higher education and the promotion and tenure pro­cess. Téllez (2013) provides a Chicana perspective on the impact of being a single ­mother in the acad­emy and having to push against the racial microaggressions and ste­reo­t ypes navigating a settler-­colonial institution. Herrera (2019) adds to this through her testimonio of navigating the acad­emy as a Latinx gradu­ate student

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despite the ste­reo­t ypes and assumptions that motherhood and being Latinx bring. Caballero et al. (2019) provide a deeper narrative through a call to justice, addressing areas such as separation, migration and state vio­lence, mother-­activists, intergenerational perspectives, loss, reproductive justice, and holistic approaches to pregnancy. In t­ hese testimonios, ­t here is not a separation of our lived experiences as ­mothers of color; they are who are inside and outside the acad­emy. Henderson et al. (2020) provide a deeper narration and understanding of mothering through a feminist lens as well as push against gender norms in the acad­emy and how we understand mothering in the acad­emy and beyond. ­These last pieces are intentional acts of disrupting patriarchal norms in the acad­emy and inspired us to extend this conversation and center Indigenous motherhood experiences in the acad­emy. We identified three broad areas that required our attention as we moved forward with this storytelling proj­ect. In the following sections, we address how Indigenous motherhood has been influenced by settler colonialism to be transparent in how our positionality helped shape this book. We then introduce the concept of Indigenous community narrative as a methodological tool to tether and weave individual stories together to create a stronger community narrative that values and centers Indigenous lived experiences—­followed by a discussion of “decentering the acad­emy,” which focuses on the ways that Indigenous motherhood disrupts the motherhood-­academy binary. In this, we both refuse this imposed binary and assert that Indigenous mothering predates the acad­emy. Naming the influence of settler colonialism on Indigenous motherhood, introducing Indigenous community narrative, and disrupting the motherhood-­academy binary are three areas that began as tensions. However, when discussing our Indigenous mother-­scholar experiences, we likened our growth to a birthing process—­ where time is needed, where preparations are made, where prayers are offered to the Creator, and where healing and growth happen. We frame three areas as sites of re­sis­tance leading t­ oward the rematriating of Indigenous motherhood. Rather than centering rematriation as a noun, we assert rematriating to remind ourselves and the readers that rematriation is not a destination but a continual pro­cess that requires intergenerational efforts. Rematriation as a pro­cess seeks to “re-­story” knowledge that forwards Indigenous sovereignty and well-­being (Tuck, 2011). Specifically, rematriation rejects the reductive notion of the return of objects, as with repatriation, and instead focuses on “returning the Sacred to the ­Mother” (Rematriation, n.d.). We do not strive for this book to bring our understanding of what Indigenous motherhood in the acad­emy means to a single definition or point in time. In fact, we actively reject any attempts to essentialize Indigenous experiences. This book begins to imagine how rematriating can allow us to begin not always with the story of settler colonialism but with a story grounded in place and motherhood. In par­tic­u­lar, rematriating Indigenous motherhood means we are refusing the settler-­colonial definition of ­family and community. In our efforts to refuse, we turn to Audra Simpson’s (2014, 2017) framing of the politic of refusal. Simpson (2017) asserts that “refusal rather than recognition is an option for producing and

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maintaining alternative structures of thought, politics, and traditions away from and in critical relationship to states” (p. 19). For us, Indigenous motherhood means that we center an Indigenous community narrative as an act of refusal to unsettle the settler-­colonial definition of knowledge and real­ity. Rematriating Indigenous motherhood means our motherhood predates the settler-­colonial acad­emy, and it ­w ill remain long a­ fter its undoing. Ultimately, we assert the acad­emy comes to motherhood, and not the other way around.

Settler Colonialism Imposing Foreign Constructs on Gender, ­Family, and Community When non-­Indigenous colleagues find out that I (Chris) live in a multigenerational home, I am always reminded how settler colonialism informs the construction of gender, ­family, and community. Colleagues are often impressed with how my ­family operates and often say, “you are lucky to have your m ­ other to help.” The tone from my colleagues reveals a sense that somehow my life as a mother-­scholar is easier ­because I have “live-in” help. What is not seen is that ­because I live in close proximity to my ­mother and stepfather, my relationships are more complex and require intentional care and time for each person. So, while I have help, I also have dif­fer­ent responsibilities. I was reminded that my ­family construct is not seen by academic policies and practices when my f­amily and I relocated across state lines for a tenure-­track position. To help our ­family make the move, I negotiated for higher relocation assistance. I was labeled a “tough negotiator” but in real­ity, I was moving four adults, one child, one cat, and my partner’s art studio. When I inquired about spousal hiring policies, it was assumed that I was in a heterosexual relationship. I remember the university HR never saying partner, when referring to my spouse, but saying he or husband. In retrospect, I took that language for granted b­ ecause I ­didn’t realize how my cis-­hetero life was being honored while systemically disenfranchising ­others.

When colonizers came to the land currently known as the United States, they imposed foreign values that disrupted ways of life for Indigenous ­peoples that ­were informed by our complex creation stories and egalitarian lifeways. Settler colonialism, rooted in white supremacy and heteropatriarchy, sought to “dis­appear the Indigenous ­peoples” of this land in its efforts to establish the nation-­state (Arvin et al., 2013, p. 9). The elimination of Indigenous p ­ eople was largely perpetrated through gendered vio­lence that sought to disrupt Indigenous understandings of gender, f­amily, and specifically the role of Indigenous w ­ omen. As Tanana Athabascan scholar Dian Million (2013) argues, “Gendered vio­lence is perpetuated by individuals and polities in times when heteronormative order is threatened, and likewise when ­there is a threat to the power still invested in a racialized white male universal subject” (p. 177). Indigenous feminist scholars have discussed at length

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the central and sacred roles of w ­ omen in traditional Indigenous socie­ties (Gunn Allen, 1986; Kame’eleihiwa, 2001; Mihesuah, 2003; Risling Baldy, 2017, 2018). Mihesuah (2003) points to the focus on balance in gender roles in largely egalitarian Indigenous socie­ties, reminding us that Indigenous ­women traditionally had “religious, po­liti­cal and economic—­not more power than men, but at least equal to what men had” (p. 2). This relational influence can be seen across how gender and ­family ­were understood in tribal communities. Many Indigenous knowledges teach that ­t here are more than two genders, and beyond the construct of gender, how we relate to each other is more salient. Unfortunately, observations and scholarship on gender and ­family in Indigenous communities have historically been constructed through the settler gaze, reinforcing the heteropatriarchal roots of settler colonialism. When considering the identities of the authors of this book, we feel it is impor­ tant to note that most contributors pre­sent as cisgender, and some authors ­disclosed they are in heterosexual relationships. The missing narratives from non-­ heterosexual Indigenous mother-­scholars, Indigenous trans* mother-­scholars, and nonbinary parent-­scholars are impor­tant to unpack. As editors of this book, we employed our professional networks to seek a nonhomogeneous collection of voices and experiences. When we realized that contributor narratives largely presented as cisgender and heterosexual, we sought input from trusted colleagues/scholars and relied upon existing trends in higher education to understand how we ended up with narratives primarily from a cisgender/heterosexual perspective. Patriarchy informs who is accepted and not accepted into spaces of privilege. The acad­emy values hetero c­ ouples with biological ­children, and folks who live across the spectrum of gender and sexuality are systemically excluded. Evidence of this can be found throughout the existing lit­er­a­ture, which demonstrates the systemic vio­lence and oppression faced by queer-­and trans-­spectrum scholars (Garvey & Rakin, 2018) when navigating both everyday life and the acad­emy (LaSala et al., 2008; Singh & McKleroy, 2011). Additionally, we see this in institutional policies that reflect and reinforce heteronormative frameworks (e.g., pregnancy and parental leave policies). Research also shows that coming out or sharing your non-­heterosexual relations can negatively impact job opportunities and tenure outcomes (Bilimoria & Stewart, 2009; Garvey & Rankin, 2018; Sears, 2002). The existing patriarchal systems in the acad­emy inherently make bringing stories and experiences of non-­cis/non-­hetero mother/parent-­scholars much more difficult. However, ­after grappling with existing research to help us more intentionally reflect on the noticeable absence of non-­cis/non-­hetero mother/parent-­scholars, we had to contend with our own complicity and assumptions. We viewed this as an invitation for deep reflection on our own privilege as cisgender ­women in hetero relationships, to interrogate the multiple and nuanced ways that we have benefitted from and unintentionally perpetuated our privilege, and to think together about our responsibilities to disrupt t­ hose privileges within the acad­emy. Why was ­t here an absence of trans* and nonbinary stories in this work? What did this tell

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us about our own relationships within and outside of the acad­emy? How ­were we complicit in the othering of our trans* and nonbinary relatives? What are our responsibilities? We found ourselves working through multiple conversations, pushing one another in our thinking, contending with our own understandings and assumptions, and seeking guidance from our tribal teachings. Th ­ ese ­were not easy conversations, but they ­were necessary to this pro­cess; they are necessary to upholding our responsibilities as relatives in t­ hese spaces. We found that through this book we did not want to replicate harmful narratives by essentializing, misrepresenting, or tokenizing across the spectrum of ­gender and sexual orientation (e.g., including an Indigenous trans* mother-­scholar only as tokenization). Nadal (2019) also points out that existing scholarship on LGBTQ faculty does not address faculty of color, furthering the point that ­f uture inclusion of non-­cis/non-­hetero mother/parent-­scholars should be done in partnership. We realized that our own networks and recruitment within ­those networks could be another reason why our authorship represented a certain population. So what we realized is that our authorship repre­sen­ta­tion also said something about us, particularly that between the three of us we could not professionally identify potential collaborators/contributors who identified as an Indigenous non-­cis/ non-­hetero mother/parent-­scholar actively working in the acad­emy. This required us to look inward and understand that our narratives come from a specific location and context that does not allow us to understand what it would mean to be a non-­cis/non-­hetero Indigenous mother/parent-­scholar. Respectfully, we consulted with our authorship to share our concerns to come to two conclusions. First, we actively resist conforming to the notion that one book should represent all Indigenous mother/parent-­scholar experiences. Second, we envision this book as creating a space where the next Indigenous mother/parent-­scholars book ­will be in collaboration with Indigenous parents who identify along the diverse continuum of gender and sexual orientation.

Indigenous Storytelling Tethered to an Indigenous Community Narrative I have always been perplexed by the insistence of the acad­emy and ­those within it to dismiss stories as inferior sources of knowledge, labeling them as myth and lore, as something that ­doesn’t constitute “real” knowledge. Each semester I hear this type of rhe­toric regurgitated in class as my students strug­gle to situate the power of story and we work to deconstruct their notions of “ formal knowledge” and tendencies to place stories outside of acceptable knowledge. Our stories are power­ful and serve as locations of knowledge, love, healing, and collective memory. They bond us in par­tic­u­lar ways that transcend generations, space, and time. Our stories do not exist on the peripheries of academic spaces, nor are they meant to serve only as a c­ ounter to the settler-­colonial narrative. Our stories predate settler spaces and narratives; we have always understood the power and centrality of our stories in our collective knowing.

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As I think about the power of story, I am reminded of the blessings of sharing motherhood stories with other Indigenous ­women, particularly as a site of strength and survival. The stories we share when we gather together, often marked by the distinct laughter that emanates as beautiful song from our bellies, carry a par­tic­ u­lar power that serves to affirm, uplift, and heal. The power and honesty of opening ourselves up to vulnerability, admitting our fears, sharing our frustrations, learning from our missteps, laughing at our adventures, and reveling in the love that we all share—­with our c­ hildren, our families, and one another. When I engage in the pro­cess of sharing motherhood stories, I am reminded that when we share our stories with one another, each story carries generations of knowledge and experience and ­there is strength that emerges from our collective knowledge.

This book is framed through an Indigenous community narrative. Through the collection of motherhood stories in this book we seek to develop a collective voice that helps advance the broader Indigenous community, more specifically Indigenous ­mothers. As such, we refuse the categorization of ­t hese stories and this book as a counternarrative to the colonial framings and Western experiences of the acad­ emy, which center colonial knowledge and structures as the authority, and we center the authority of our own Indigenous understandings and values of collectivity. In this refusal, we turn to Grande (2018), who instructs us that “one of the most radical refusals we can authorize is to work together as one . . . ​where the work of the collectivity is intentionally structured to obscure and transcend the single voice, body, and life.” (p. 62). As such, we purposely chose to employ an Indigenous community narrative. An Indigenous community narrative diverges from a counternarrative b ­ ecause we assert that our Indigenous (motherhood) narratives existed prior to the Euro-­dominant (motherhood) narratives that solely value patriarchy, the notion of one truth, and the siloing of knowledge. An Indigenous community narrative, first coined by McCarty et al. (2006), describes how Indigenous language acquisition is more than just a tool of communication; it is a cornerstone experience that binds Indigenous communities together. This collection of motherhood stories moves beyond points of data and carries energies of agency to deconstruct the oppressive patriarchal norms found in academic lit­er­a­ture. Considering how the acad­emy continues to devalue Indigenous ­people and knowledge, we find that an Indigenous community narrative through motherhood directly challenges ­t hose not willing to see Indigenous narratives as valid knowledge and research that belongs in the halls of academia. An Indigenous (motherhood) community narrative decenters the acad­emy and centers collectivity and interconnectedness, while healing and advancing the vision of honoring motherhood in the acad­emy.

Decentering the Acad­emy Decentering the acad­emy means not inviting oppressive and colonial praxis into how we experience and begin our academic journeys. An example of this is in the

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N e l s o n , Z a p e - ­t a h - ­h o l -­a h M i n t h o r n , a n d S h o t t o n approach that was used to welcome and start Indigenous doctoral students’ journeys. We (Robin & colleagues) started our very first interaction at the university with an opening prayer in Diné. This was essential in how we center ourselves and the students who ­were mostly Diné in this doctoral cohort. This prayer was said by a Diné scholar from the university. We continued on in our day talking about starting their doctoral journey, building community within the cohort and inviting them to write a letter of resilience. This letter would be something they could visit in the ­future as they encounter barriers and life challenges to push forward and through their doctoral education. To close out their day, the NALE (Native American Leadership in Education) doctoral cohort was encouraged to invite their ­family to a reception at the end of this orientation day. I (Robin) was unsure of how this would unfold and who would show up from the cohort’s families. It was a power­ful testament of the support each of the doctoral students had when grandparents, parents, aunties, b­ rothers, ­sisters, partners, c­ hildren, and grandchildren would arrive. We welcomed their families with the students to start their doctoral journeys together. We invited them to introduce and name their families. We gifted them medicine (cedar) to take with them as their journey began. This was our way, my way, of decentering the acad­emy and infusing an Indigenous approach that was relational and communal. Most Indigenous doctoral students ­don’t experience their families coming to campus ­until they are at the end of their respective academic journey. This time, we started it off by bringing them on campus their first day. A ­ fter that, we would have many of t­ hese same f­ amily members on campus at least once a semester to have a potluck. This decentering of the acad­emy created an Indigenous community and relational connection for the students, their families, the faculty who would attend, and my own f­ amily. L ­ ater on, I would bring my niece and d ­ aughter to t­ hese gatherings and they would know they are a part of this Indigenous doctoral experience.

In decentering the acad­emy, we are choosing to center our refusal in how we place value in our experiences and connect our experiences as Indigenous ­mothers. Through this act of refusal we recognize our value and place in academia is not defined by settler narratives and commit to centering our experiences as Indigenous m ­ others (Simpson, 2014). As Indigenous m ­ others, we recognize our responsibility is not just to our c­ hildren but to cocreate more power­ful ­futures that recenter and reclaim our Indigenous identities and ways of being (Lavell-­Harvard & Anderson, 2014). The conversation and acknowl­edgment of our roles as w ­ omen started when we w ­ ere born (and even before that). We became a s­ ister, ­daughter, grand­ daughter, cousin at birth and transitioned into more roles as we moved through the life cycle to auntie, ­mother, and grandma. We acknowledge that we learn the teachings of what it means to be in t­ hese roles through the stories of lived experiences and survival of our matriarchs in our communities (Anderson & Campbell, 2011) Stories might be shared ­behind closed doors or through written reflection in how Indigenous w ­ omen have showed their strength and centered culture and perseverance in their daily interactions (Settee, 2011). It is impor­tant for us to remem-

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ber and acknowledge that many of our grandmas and aunties have been teachers to us as we have grown and moved through our life’s journey to embody the values from our Tribes and broader Indigenous communities (Jacob, 2020; Schweitzer, 1999). Decentering the acad­emy also calls for us to be mindful that as Indigenous ­mothers it is a privilege to be in the space we are and that colonization has deeply impacted our families and communities in ways that have redefined the roles of Indigenous parenting (Bourassa et al., 2017). As Indigenous w ­ omen, we ­weren’t always in a space of articulating the legacy and impact of colonization. We are at a place now where we are empowered with the understanding that the generations of historical trauma have had on shaping our Indigenous ­women’s roles that ­will aid in the healing of generations that come ­after us (Anderson, 2016). This healing has begun through the action of reviving ceremonies that have been stripped from us that used to be a way of teaching young ­women the responsibilities and values they now hold in that life transition (Risling Baldy, 2018). We acknowledge that our decentering the acad­emy is a way of honoring space and place as well as refusing to center Western and colonial narratives of academia as central to our own identities. Our responsibility is in the multifaceted and generational roles we hold through being good relatives and pushing against colonial norms and values. Grande (2018) in her chapter on refusing the university offers strategies for us to move ­toward a refusal of the university where we are committing to collectivity, reciprocity, and mutuality. This means what we do as Indigenous m ­ other figures and relatives is embedded in our values and ways of being and that we are not separating roles and identities. Instead, we call for a centering of Indigeneity and refusing expectations of the university and settler-­colonial narratives. Our hope is that through our shared narratives one can connect to a story or all stories in varied ways and know what we have shared is an effort to center Indigenous narratives in how motherhood is perpetuated in the acad­emy.

Book (Co)Creation When we outlined the book proposal, we understood that the final format of the book would be ­shaped by the contributors. As the book unfolded, we saw opportunities to engage in collective learning and dialogue to live out a collective approach to birthing this book. Beyond individual chapters, we have included three additional components that speak to the complexities we encountered when trying to shape an Indigenous mother-­scholar narrative.

Indigenous Motherhood at the Time of a Pandemic When we w ­ ere finishing up with edits for the book and beginning the closing pro­ cess, we ­were in the midst of a global pandemic.2 The COVID-19 pandemic added many more layers of responsibility, as we balanced motherhood and navigated space that pushed against values embedded in community and relationships. As we w ­ ere working through this, we thought it was impor­tant to engage our contributors in a pro­cess that addressed the pandemic and provide a collective space

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to share, to pro­cess, and to write. We held a virtual gathering to share what living in a pandemic means as Indigenous m ­ others, scholars, and relatives. What we share in this chapter is a collective story that unfolded from this gathering, including some individual excerpts from contributors and editors.

Anonymized Contributions Each time we (as editors) met to discuss the next steps in editing the book, we created a space for us to connect and check in with each other. During one of our discussions, we talked about how our stories and experiences are not just our own. We collectively agreed that Indigenous motherhood embodies complex, and often competing, notions of what being a mom is. We acknowledge the beauty and honor it is to be a ­mother; how being a ­mother is rooted in our ancestors’ prayers and resilience. However, we also acknowledge that motherhood, as it operates within the colonial state and the acad­emy, invokes experiences of strug­gle, trauma, and pain. In our discussion about the latter, we agreed that ­t hese stories are difficult to share ­because often they are tethered to whom we most love and care for in our lives. The two questions that arose w ­ ere “How do we share difficult stories without harming t­ hose we have relations with?” and “How do we not dismiss difficult stories ­because of the restraints the acad­emy places on us?” The complexity of sharing ­t hese difficult stories often ignores the fact that the colonial state and the acad­emy are not separate from our motherhood. To honor the “hard-­to-­tell stories,” we invited the contributors to offer Indigenous mother-­ scholar narratives that w ­ ere impor­tant to their stories but e­ ither ­were unable to be included in their chapter or needed to be anonymized. We have included four dif­ fer­ent themed narratives to match the four dimensions covered in this book. ­These four dimensions are relationships, loss, partners and parenting, and stigmas surrounding motherhood.

Voicing a Collective Prayer In our efforts to honor the collective love and wisdom shared so generously by the generations of Indigenous ­women represented throughout this book, we sought to carefully gather their thoughts to offer a collective sending forth, which emerged as our collective prayer for Indigenous m ­ others and ­f uture generations. Recognizing the power of the love, vulnerability, pain, healing, joy, and collective teachings offered throughout this book, we gathered t­ hese thoughts with care and reverence, recognizing that ­t hese words, ­t hese stories, serve as medicine. We invited the ­women in this collection to join us in gathering our shared intentions. We did this through selected sharing of knowledge from each story as well as a virtual gathering (via Zoom) of the authors to bring together our shared lessons. What resulted was a tying together, or bundling, of our conversations and shared wisdom. Through this pro­cess we envisioned the final piece of this book not as a concluding chapter but as a collective tying of the bundle and a sending forth with prayer and intentions. In this we offer to our readers, to our communities, to ­f uture generations that bundle and our collective prayer.

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Organ­ization of Chapters ­ fter all final drafts of chapters w A ­ ere received, we discussed in detail how the chapters would be presented. Immediately, we felt tension in presenting our stories in a linear fashion. We wanted the order of the stories to have meaning. In our discussion, we shared how our stories ­were tethered to each other and how each contribution resonated with dif­fer­ent points in our lives. We talked about how the linear pre­sen­ta­tion of the book would not sufficiently demonstrate how we cared for each story. How we cried, how we reflected, how we changed a­ fter reading each story. We are in relation to each story. While a normative ­table of contents begins our story, we vehemently deny this is how we connected to ­t hese stories. To rematriate our stories, we visually pre­sent our stories in a circular shape. This visual pre­sen­ta­tion weaves our tribal worldviews together. At first glance, the circular pre­sen­ta­tion reminds us of a bird’s-­eye view of a tipi and being in ceremony. Each contributor’s name has a place in the

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tipi and is facing other contributors. The titles of the chapters wrap us, just as the poles and tipi covering protect us from the ele­ments. All our stories converge in the m ­ iddle and represent the connections we w ­ ill always have with each other. The order of the chapters follows a par­tic­u­lar pattern as well. We have divided the circle into four parts to represent the four directions, which are impor­tant in many Indigenous communities and are tied to dif­fer­ent teachings or stages of life. As we spoke about ­these four steps in the learning pro­cess, we found that contributors’ stories ­were aligning with planning, pro­cessing, living, and reflecting. Chris likened this pro­cess to Diné philosophy (Sa’ah Naaghai Bik’eh Hozhoo), so we used this loosely to help us or­ga­nize each contributor’s narrative. Thus, we began the delicate pro­cess of placing contributors’ stories in a meaningful order. Each section is fluid and imperfect, as we realize that dif­fer­ent moments in time can lead us to interpreting experiences based upon contextual ­factors that may be internal and external to the reader.

Notes 1. ​This collective prayer is composed of excerpts from each of the Indigenous ­mother scholars in this book. The excerpts w ­ ere woven together from their narratives as an intentional act of centering our collective voice. We chose to begin this book in much the same way we begin all impor­tant endeavors, with reverence, prayer, and good intentions. 2. ​Amid one pandemic (COVID-19), the “pandemic of racism” became part of mainstream media reporting as well. We reject the notion of racism as a “pandemic,” which denotes the spread of a new disease, an outbreak.

References Anderson, K. (2016). A recognition of being: Reconstructing Native womanhood. Second Story Press. ­ omen: Memory, teachings, Anderson, K., & Campbell, M. (2011). Life stages and Native w and story medicine (Vol. 15). University of Manitoba Press. Arvin, M., Tuck, E., & Morrill, A. (2013). Decolonizing feminism: Challenging connections between settler colonialism and heteropatriarchy. Feminist Formations, 25(1), 8–34. Bilimoria, D., & Stewart, A. J. (2009). “­Don’t ask, d ­ on’t tell”: The academic climate for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender faculty in science and engineering. NWSA Journal, 21(2), 85–103. Bourassa, C., McKenna, B., & Juschka, D. (2017). Listening to the beat of our drum: Indigenous parenting in con­temporary society. Demeter Press. Caballero, C., Martínez-­Vu, Y., Pérez-­Torres, J., Téllez, M., Vega, C., & Castillo, A. (2019). The Chicana motherwork anthology. University of Arizona Press. Castañeda, M., & Isgro, K. (2013). ­Mothers in academia. Columbia University Press. Evans, E., & Grant, C. (2008). Mama, PhD. Rutgers University Press. Garvey, J. C., & Rankin, S. S. (2018). The influence of campus climate and urbanization on queer-­spectrum and trans-­spectrum faculty intent to leave. Journal of Diversity in Higher Education, 11(1), 67–81. Grande, S. (2018). Refusing the university. In E. Tuck & K. W. Yang (Eds.), ­Toward what justice: Describing diverse dreams of justice in education (pp. 47–65). Routledge. Gunn Allen, P. (1986). The sacred hoop: Recovering the feminine in American Indian traditions. Beacon.

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Henderson, L., Black, A. L., & Garvis, S. (2020). (Re)birthing the feminine in academe. Springer. Herrera, P. (2019). A Latinx testimonio of motherhood in academia. In M. Whitaker & E. A. Grollman (Eds.), Counternarratives from ­women of color academics: Bravery, vulnerability, and re­sis­tance (pp. 137–145). Routledge. Hinton-­Johnson, K. (2006). Choosing my best life: Black motherhood and academia. In T. Berry & N. Mizelle (Eds.), From oppression to grace: ­Women of color and their dilemmas in the acad­emy (pp. 155–167). Stylus. Jacob, M. (2020). The auntie way: Stories celebrating kindness, fierceness, and creativity. Anahuy Mentoring. Kame’eleihiwa, L. (2001). NaWaHine kapu: Divine Hawaiian ­women. In  P. Grimshaw, K. Holmes, & M. Lake (Eds.), ­Women’s rights and h ­ uman rights: International historical perspectives (pp. 71–87). Palgrave Macmillan. https://­doi​.­org​/­10​.­1057​/­9780333977644​_ ­5 LaSala, M. C., Jenkins, D. A., Wheeler, D. P., & Fredriksen-­Goldsen, K. I. (2008). LGBT faculty, research, and researchers: Risks and rewards. Journal of Gay and Lesbian Social Ser­vices, 20(3), 253–267. Lavell-­Harvard, D., & Anderson, K. (2014). ­Mothers of the nations: Indigenous mothering as global re­sis­tance, reclaiming and recovery. Demeter Press. Mankiller, W. (2004). ­Every day is a good day: Reflections by con­temporary Indigenous ­women. Fulcrum. McCarty, T. L., Romero, M. E., & Zepeda, O. (2006). Reclaiming the gift: Indigenous youth counter-­narratives on Native language loss and revitalization. American Indian Quarterly, 30(1), 28–48. https://­doi​.­org​/­10​.­1353​/­aiq​.­2006​.­0005 Mihesuah, D. A. (2003). Indigenous American w ­ omen: Decolonization, empowerment, activism. University of Nebraska Press. ­ uman rights. Million, D. (2013). Therapeutic nations: Healing in an age of Indigenous h University of Arizona Press. Nadal, K. L. (2019). Queering and browning the pipeline for LGBTQ faculty of color in the acad­emy: The formation of the LGBTQ scholars of color national network. Journal of Crit­ rg​/1­ 0​.3­ 1274​/j­ ctp​.­8210 ical Thought and Praxis, 8(2), 27–46. https://­doi​.o O’Reilly, A., & O’Brien Hallstein, L. (2012). Academic motherhood in a post–­second wave context: Challenges, strategies, and possibilities. Demeter Press. ­ other. https://­ Rematriation. (n.d.). Rematriation magazine: Returning the sacred to the m rematriation​.c­ om. Risling Baldy, C. (2017). Mini-­k ’iwh’e: n (for that purpose—­I consider ­t hings): (Re) writing and (re) righting Indigenous menstrual practices to intervene on con­temporary menstrual discourse and the politics of taboo. Cultural Studies↔Critical Methodologies, 17(1), 21–29. Risling Baldy, C. (2018). We are dancing for you: Native feminisms and the revitalization of ­women’s coming-­of-­age ceremonies. University of Washington Press. Schweitzer, M. (1999). American Indian grand­mothers: Traditions and transitions. University of New Mexico Press. Sears, J. T. (2002). The institutional climate for lesbian, gay and bisexual education faculty: What is the pivotal frame of reference? Journal of Homo­sexuality, 43, 11–37. http://­d x​.­doi​ .­org​/­10​.1­ 300​/J­ 082v43n01​_­02 Settee, P. (2011). The strength of w ­ omen: âhkamêyimowak. Coteau Books. Simpson, A. (2014). Mohawk interrupts: Po­liti­cal life across the borders of settler states. Duke University Press. Simpson, A. (2017). The ruse of consent and the anatomy of “refusal”: Cases from Indigenous North Amer­i­ca and Australia. Postcolonial Studies, 20(1), 18–33.

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Singh, A. A., & McKleroy, V. S. (2011). “Just getting out of bed is a revolutionary act”: The resilience of transgender p ­ eople of color who have survived traumatic life events. Traumatology, 17(2), 34–44. Téllez, M. (2013). Lectures, evaluations, and diapers: Navigating the terrains of Chicana single motherhood in the acad­emy. Feminist Formations, 25(3), 79–97. www​.­jstor​.­org​/­stable​ /­43860705 Tuck, E. (2011). Rematriating curriculum studies. Journal of Curriculum and Pedagogy, 8(1), 34–37. Ward, K., & Wolf-­Wendel, Lisa. (2012). Academic motherhood: How faculty manage work and ­family. Rutgers University Press.

PA RT I

East–­Thinking

chapter 1

An Indigenous Boy Occupying the Acad­emy the intergenerational (motherly) teachings that led him t ­ here Christine A. Nelson (K’awaika/Diné)

Traveling to the Blanket Wrapping Ceremony Recently, our f­ amily was making the thirty-­plus-­minute drive from our h ­ ouse to the University of Denver campus. I was invited to offer remarks at the university’s Native student graduation ceremony, also known as the Blanket Wrapping Ceremony. Despite having copious amounts of notes and ideas of what to say, I felt unsure of my topic. On our drive to campus, I did a quick practice run-­t hrough of my speech. Straying from my notes, this practiced run turned impromptu. Olin was sitting in the backseat of our car, and I could feel his eyes fixated on me as I finished practicing my talk out loud. Me: ​So, how did that sound? Olin: ​That sounded g­ reat! Me: ​­Really? You think so? Olin: ​Yes! Me: ​It w ­ asn’t too hard to understand? Olin: ​Nope! [smile on his face]

His smile was impor­tant b ­ecause about ten minutes ­earlier, I had a mini-­ meltdown. The end of the academic year demands had never felt so overwhelming, and I was feeling regretful for not having enough time to prepare for my talk. A ­ fter all, the Blanket Wrapping Ceremony was a way to honor the accomplishments of our Native students and to commemorate the ­family and friends who supported their student to graduation. In the flurry of trying to get to the event on time, while feeling underprepared, I began to act snippy to t­ hose around me. I was snippy with Olin. I was snippy with my partner, Johnny. ­After a few deep breaths during our drive, 19

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I apologized for my be­hav­ior. As I apologized to my kats (my term of endearment for Johnny and Olin), I began to reflect on how my apologies are meant to indicate not regret but a commitment to try to be a more considerate person to t­ hose I love the most. I also realized that I needed to spend more time making better sense of being a mama scholar so I can be more intentional with how we, as a ­family, can navigate the acad­emy by centering the knowledges and experiences of our matriarchy. I’ll admit when I get overwhelmed by the demands of being an academic, I am not the best version of myself. I can be distant, annoyed, tired, and overly sensitive. ­These are not characteristics that I want my son to associate with the work I am trying to do in the acad­emy. I want my son to see that spaces, like the university, can be used for re­sis­tance by displaying values that our ancestors have taught us and how ­those values still flow through our blood. This perspective may romanticize what it means to be a mama scholar b ­ ecause I know I do not always display that in my moments of academic fury and rush. However, it is an ideal that I hold close to help guide me through the triumphs and challenges of academia. So when I reflect upon what it means to be a mama scholar, my f­amily and ancestors are my grounding and guiding force. I know being a scholar is just one dimension of who I am, but my passion and commitment to enacting change in the Indigenous communities come to fruition through this significant vessel called being an Indigenous mama scholar. I ­w ill be the first to admit that being a mama scholar employed at a private, predominantly white institution is filled with contradictions. One contradiction is evident by me trying to seek tenure at an institution that was historically never meant for me or any Indigenous folks. And when I say that this institution was not meant for me, I am not making an oversimplified argument. The University of Denver’s founder was found culpable for the Sand Creek Massacre (Clemmer-­Smith et al., 2014), the murder of over two hundred Cheyenne and Arapaho men, ­women, and c­ hildren for the sake of land dispossession and greed. This massacre happened the same year the institution was founded. So when I say this institution was not meant for me, I am simply framing a real­ity that I work for an institution with a horrific past. Being a mama scholar takes on a dif­fer­ent meaning, and that meaning became more evident when I found myself delivering my talk at the Blanket Wrapping Ceremony.

My View from the Lectern at the Blanket Wrapping Ceremony Performing the Blanket Wrapping Ceremony is seen as ser­vice for the tenure pro­ cess, yet one should prob­ably say no when academic demands are overwhelming. The Blanket Wrapping Ceremony for me is one reason why I am in the acad­emy and why I center being a mama scholar at the core of what I do. I have had g­ reat mama scholar mentors who have shown me that bringing a mothering aspect to the acad­emy can be both healing and empowering. The Blanket Wrapping Ceremony is a time when I get to see the f­ amily and kinship that propelled Indigenous students to graduation. By being at the Blanket Wrapping Ceremony, I am pre­sent for Indigenous students and their ­family and friends. They may not know that I am

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also disrupting the notion of what ser­v ice means to the tenure pro­cess. Ser­v ice is not just 20 ­percent of my workload; it is the kinship and relationality that are key to occupying the acad­emy and asserting what an Indigenous mama scholar centers when navigating tenure. When I am introduced at the Blanket Wrapping Ceremony, I walk to the lectern excited and ner­vous. My son, partner, mom, and stepfather are in the audience, and when I begin my introduction I am happy to see my ­family pre­sent to witness the number of Indigenous students graduating and the possibility that I have made some impact on the graduating students. The speech outline that Olin approved was nicely being translated to a larger group of folks. Before I ended my talk, I publicly thanked Olin for helping me to refine my thoughts. I scanned the room of about seventy-­five ­people and saw him contentedly playing with his stuffed animals, respectfully named Mama Kitty, Baby Kitty, MewShoe, and Kitty Pop. He was also chatting with two other Indigenous boys at the same t­ able. When I acknowledged him he d ­ idn’t seem to give me any indication he heard me. But it was at that moment, I quickly realized that he was at ease during t­ hese events and the university setting was his norm and, at times, even his playground. He is seeing me navigate the acad­emy and my ­career, but he too is already navigating the acad­emy. It is a part of his life too. His real­ity is so dif­fer­ent from my childhood. My childhood norm was that ­t here was no ­career, just a job. I knew my dad would wake up at five o ­ ’clock to head to the local coal mine. I would never see his place of employment. The only experience I had with his ­career was the coal mine dust on his long-­sleeved shirts and rough hands covered in grease. One generation ­later, my son, a nine-­year-­old K’awaika and Diné (Laguna Pueblo/Navajo), is occupying the university space that was historically meant to erase his Indigenous identity. While he plays and runs in the halls of academia, I write to him to remind him of his journey that got him t­ here, which has been in creation before he physically entered our Glittering World. The remaining parts of this chapter highlight three stories to explain Olin’s journey to the acad­emy. ­These stories are highlight through three generations of ­mothers and elucidate a journey through educational systems. I write t­ hese stories to and for Olin so that he s­ hall never forget how he arrived in the space of academia.

Great-­Grandma Is a Bad­ass So, Olin! Great-­Grandma is pretty awesome you know that? Including Grandma Kay, she had seven c­hildren! Grandpa Stan, Grandpa Tim, Grandpa Barry, Grandma Donna, Grandpa Warren, and Grandpa Nathan. That’s a lot of ­people and from ­t here you have so many aunties and u ­ ncles and brother-­and sister-­ cousins. And that’s only Grandma Kay’s side, I’m not even talking about Papa Wally, Papa J-­J, or Grandma Ruby’s ­family. Every­one in your ­family has made a positive mark in our lives, but Great-­Grandma is special. She used to work at the Aztec Dormitory, now called Kinteel Residential Campus, as a h ­ ouse ­mother. Before that, she worked at Manuelito Hall in Gallup,

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New Mexico. I think she worked in t­ hose jobs for nearly forty years. The dorms are where Native kids stay during the week and go to high school. Many of the Native kids come from the rez and are t­ here for many reasons, but it was Great-­Grandma’s job to make sure the kids ­were taken care of. As a ­little girl, I remember visiting the dorm and seeing all the older Native kids ­t here and being excited to see older kids lounging, playing pool, or ­doing homework. While ­there I would see kids come up to Great-­Grandma and say, “Ms. Dixon, can we go to the store?” She would give them a side-­eye and pause. I think she was trying to decide if she should let them go. She would ask a few questions, like, “did you do your homework?” or “did you clean up your area?” ­After a few follow-up questions, she would check them out and tell them how much time they had. In my childhood observation of the dorm life, I never realized how much of a role Great-­Grandma played in ­t hese students’ lives. It ­wasn’t ­until I worked at a college did I run into so many Native students in college or completed college, who would say in an excited tone, “Ms. Dixon’s your grandma?” Former dorm students would reminisce about their experiences at the Aztec Dorm. A few times, she was called a “bad­ass” or “one cool lady.” She knew how to provide a comforting space while still expecting the students to behave and do their chores. I also learned from Grandma Kay that Great-­Grandma was a leader in the community. She served as a parent advocate for the Johnson O’Malley program in Aztec. The Johnson O’Malley program, or JOM, was a program that was meant to help Native kids in school. The schools would get extra money to buy school supplies, hiring teachers, and hold special programs, kinda like the programs you attend at Tall Bull Memorial Grounds. One time when we ­were driving between Albuquerque and Farmington, I asked Great-­Grandma why she became a JOM parent advocate and she said it was b ­ ecause she knew the school was not ­doing enough for the dorm kids. She knew that no one ­else was speaking up for them and she de­cided to be that voice. I never knew Great-­Grandma held this role ­until I saw this paper clipping. I got excited to know that she took this role and felt like it was her duty to speak up. Great-­grandma was ­really dedicated to her job. She often worked the swing shift, which means she was often not home with Grandma Kay and her b ­ rothers and ­sister at night. So Grandma Kay and o ­ thers had to work r­ eally hard to cook their own meals and stay safe. I imagine it was quite lonely for them. ­Don’t you think? Well anyway, I asked Great-­Grandma what she thought about leaving Grandma Kay and ­others at home by themselves. She just told me that she needed money and had to work. She knew that Grandma Kay was strong and could help. I could tell that Great-­Grandma had some sadness with that ­because she quickly changed the topic. I imagine it was a hard decision for Great-­Grandma to leave her kids at home. But I also see how she helped so many other Native kids at the dorms and gave them a space to feel safe and cared for. I gathered from her stories that she was teaching us to be good p ­ eople in our society. Great-­Grandma’s Teaching: To always help o­ thers.

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Partial news clipping of ­Great Grandma Kathryn Dixon’s leadership with the Aztec School District’s Indian Education Committee, Daily Times, March 3, 1976.

Grandma Kay’s Love Did you know that Grandma Kay went to college when she was eigh­teen years old? Yeah, she was ­going to school in Las Cruces, which is about four hours from Albuquerque. She has always been a g­ reat student and very smart . . . ​just like you! When I was younger, her stories about her time at Las Cruces made me excited for college. She d ­ idn’t finish her degree at Las Cruces, but I know when I was younger she tried g­ oing back to finish.

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I imagine though it was hard trying to go back to college. She was taking care of me, ­Uncle Mike, and ­Uncle Darren. She was also known to help out my sister-­ and brother-­cousins, or your aunties and ­uncles. She always seemed to put us, the kids, first. She did this by being home for us, teaching us how to cook and bake, and making sure we w ­ ere happy and safe. I think she does the same for you, right? She is always making sure you have a snack or dessert. She hugs and kisses you all the time. I love it when I get hugs and kisses from her . . . ​and you too! I do know that balancing school and being a mom to us was hard. I remember one time Grandma Kay was taking classes and she had to read t­ hese books that looked so huge to me. It’s like the chapter books you read but smaller print and longer. I guess the course she was taking was a reading course, where she had to read lit­er­a­ture or impor­tant stories written by p ­ eople who are now dead. I remember seeing this book called Plato: The Republic on the t­ able ­counter. I had no idea who Plato was other than a man that used to think about ­t hings. I used to grab this book and try reading it. It was so confusing and I ­don’t remember anything from it. I think I felt grown-up when reading it. Like I was g­ oing to college to be like my mom. While I d ­ on’t remember anything from the book, it did influence my life. When I was in ­middle school, we named our cat, Plato. We named him Plato, with a nickname of Pudda, ­because he was the quiet­est kitten of the litter. We used to say that this kitty was thinking about life. It’s funny b ­ ecause as he got bigger, he became the most talkative kitty. He was always meowing and trying to get our attention. So again, that book reminds me of always wanting to learn and how Grandma Kay always made sure we ­were learning. I hope you know that d ­ addy and I try to make sure you are learning, but I think you also do that for yourself, too. I say that ­because I remember this one time I left a book in the backseat with you when you w ­ ere about three years old. It was called the Review of Higher Education. It had a blue cover and was filled with a lot of big words. As I was driving I noticed you w ­ eren’t being your normal chatterbox self. I turned around to find you flipping through the Review of Higher Education. The pictures remind me of when I was small and would read Grandma Kay’s books. It made me smile inside ­because I felt the teachings of Grandma Kay ­were being passed along to you. Grandma Kay’s Teaching: To be curious and always challenge yourself.

Mommy’s Move When I finished high school, I had big plans to move away and go to college in another state. But when it came down to actually moving, I got scared. I was unsure about moving to a big city and being away from Grandma Kay, U ­ ncle Darren, and Auntie Audrey. I de­cided to stay home and go to a local college for one year. That year went by r­ eally fast and I did ­really well in school. I then de­cided that I would go to another college in Albuquerque that next year.

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Book cover of The Republic by Plato.

But prior to g­ oing to Albuquerque, Auntie Audrey and I de­cided we would move to Phoenix for the summer. We had friends that lived t­ here and planned to stay with them. We w ­ ere nineteen years old and we thought this move would be easy and fun. Auntie Audrey and I spent a few weeks plotting our move. We had a date and saved up money for food and gas. We d ­ idn’t tell anyone what we ­were planning. I think deep down inside we knew Grandma Kay would not be happy with our decision so we kept quiet about it. And guess what? She was not happy at all when she found out about our plan to move to Phoenix.

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Olin playing with the Review of Higher Education. Photo credit: Jonathan Nelson.

She tried to tell me that it would be better if I stayed home and worked at my job to save up for college in Albuquerque. I think we got into several arguments, but I was adamant that I was ­going. When the big day to move came, I packed my clothes and a few other items. In my mind, it felt like we ­were just ­going on a weekend out of town trip. I ­didn’t think of any of the items I would need to live. Like towels, dishes, food, or even blankets or a bed to sleep on!

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I remember feeling excited, ner­vous, and scared. I was excited to be moving to a new place. I was ner­vous ­because I knew Grandma Kay was not happy with my decision. I was scared ­because I ­didn’t know what it would mean living on my own. ­After the car was all packed, I remember telling Grandma Kay, “Okay, we are ­going now.” I could see she was still upset and concerned about my decision. As I began to walk out, she rushed to the kitchen. Over the sound of the cabinet doors opening and shutting, I walked out wondering what she was d ­ oing. I was ready to hop into the car and bounce! Auntie Audrey was already in the car when Grandma Kay came out and handed me four bags of food. She had filled the bags with cereal, chips, fruit, crackers, and other items. My feelings of being ner­vous and scared went away. I was unsure what to think, but years ­after I now know it was her way of caring for me and Auntie Audrey. She ­didn’t ever say it was okay to go but I felt she still wanted me to know that she loved us and cared for us. So, while we did not agree or see eye to eye on this, I learned a lesson that I would like to pass onto you. Mommy Teaching: To know that no m ­ atter what moves you make, mommy ­will always love you.

Olin, as you grow and learn about new t­ hings, I hope you never forget about the stories and experiences that influence who you are ­today. I now want to share one more story about you and me.

Lessons We Are Creating You may not remember, but when I was creating this chapter, you and I went on several visits to local coffee shops to share e­ ither a bear claw or a vanilla Frappuccino. During our visits, I talked to you about what you thought I did in my job as a professor. You always asked insightful questions and shared such clever observations. I often credit your intuition and elevated speech to the fact you ­were in my womb during my first semester of doctoral coursework. The most memorable conversation we had was in early March 2019. I d ­ idn’t know how to bring up the conversation I wanted to have but somehow you brought it up. Casually you asked, “Mom, what does it feel like to have a sibling? . . . ​and I ­don’t mean my cousins in Farmington and Hogback.” I sat with that question for a moment b ­ ecause it brought on a flood of emotions as I was about to share loss and pain to answer your question. I answered by saying, “You do have siblings. They are just not in our world.” You d ­ idn’t quite understand what I meant by that, but I proceeded to tell you that before you w ­ ere born, I had a miscarriage and then ­after you ­were born, I had two additional losses. I asked you to remember when we moved from Albuquerque to Denver and how Grandma Ruby and your aunties came to help you, me, dad, and Grandma Kay pack our stuff. You d ­ idn’t remember but I told you that I was unable to lift anything heavy ­because I had to get surgery. I told you that sometimes when a mom gets

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pregnant unexpected t­ hings happen that can hurt. In this case, the baby was growing in the wrong place and I had to get emergency surgery to make sure I was okay. Id ­ idn’t share too many details, but in short, I also had to get a fallopian tube removed. ­There was a lot of scar tissue inside me and the doctors had to make some tough decisions to make sure I stayed healthy. So, ­here I was recovering from surgery and pro­cessing this sad loss. ­Daddy was also r­ eally sad too. I think sadder than I realized. I’m still sad about that too. We had to move to Denver to start my assistant professor position. I knew I should be happy and celebrate this ­great accomplishment but I was just sad. Sad ­because I felt like my body was failing and all I wanted was for you to have a sibling to play with and have the connections that I have with U ­ ncle Mike and ­Uncle Darren. As I shared this experience with you, I began to tear up. You put down your cup and bear claw, slid across the bench seating, and came to my side of the t­ able. You put your arm around my waist and we just sat in silence. You then looked up at me and said, “I think they are my ­sisters.” At that moment my heart sank, but also healed. You somehow brought me closer to your star siblings. You have taught me so much and it is impor­tant that you remember you are brilliant and strong. And together, we ­will always be sharing lessons with each other. Our Teaching: We w ­ ill always be stronger together when we listen with love and attentiveness.

­These four teachings ­w ill hopefully show you that while I may be stressed out and traveling for work, I do this work with you by my side. When I drag you to the university for another event, it is b ­ ecause I want you to see your mommy ­doing what she loves and that when I care for the DU Native students, I try to be what Great-­Grandma was to the dorm students. When I have to sit for hours in front of the computer, typing away, try to remember that knowledge is something to be shared and inspired. Just like Grandma Kay shares her knowledge with me, I hope to do that for you. When I have to say goodbye for a few days, I want you to remember that even though you may be at home with D ­ addy, Mama Kitty, Grandma Kay, and Papa BB, I w ­ ill always be with you and ­will always love you. When I push you to do better . . . ​a nd you give me attitude, I hope we w ­ ill remember that no checklist item is as impor­tant as being ­t here for each other and to listen with attentiveness and love. In 2020, you may not know the meaning ­behind this chapter right now. But hopefully one day, you w ­ ill know that through t­ hese stories you can see what being an Indigenous mama scholar looks like.

Reference Clemmer-­Smith, R., Gilbert, A., Fridtjof Halaas, D., Stratton, B. J., Tinker, G. E., Wadsworth, N. D., & Fisher, S. (2014). Report of the John Evans Study Committee. University of Denver. https://­portfolio​.­du​.­edu​/­downloadItem​/­286858

chapter 2

“She Had No Use for Fools” stories of dibé Łizhiní m ­ others Tiffany S. Lee (Diné/Lakota)

Around 1978, my ­mother and I went to Portland, Oregon, to visit some of her close friends from college. It was a hard time for her. She had been undergoing chemotherapy treatment and was worn down from being sick for many years. However, she always found the energy to do some traveling. She loved to travel and was very adventurous. I was about ten years old at the time. She was about forty-­four. We took a drive to the beach along the Pacific coast for a day trip with her friends and their kids. We all took off our shoes and walked to wade in the w ­ ater that was ankle deep. The waves started to break with force and speed close to where we w ­ ere walking, so we all started r­ unning t­ oward the shore. I looked back to find my m ­ other. She was laughing hard as she ran, but she could not outrun the fast approaching ­water. The waves swelled over her ankles with her feet and pants from her calves down immersed in the ocean w ­ ater. I remember being scared to see that happen to her. It frightened me that I could not help her run faster and to see her in this fragile state. I think now that it was symbolic of the cancer taking over her body. She had to succumb to the ­water as she was succumbing to the cancer. Yet, she was laughing. Her spirit was strong and happy despite the w ­ ater engulfing her—­despite the cancer. My m ­ other’s name is Marian Dodge Lee. She is one of the strongest, smartest, and funniest ­women I have ever known. When I asked one of my ­uncles about his memory of her, the first ­thing he said was, “She had no use for fools.” He explained that she was quick-­w itted and would often joke with her ­family about p ­ eople who behaved “like fools” in her opinion. I use this quote in the title of the chapter ­because I feel it is representative of the line of Dibé Łizhiní ­mothers in my ­family. Dibé Łizhiní means Blacksheep in Diné language. Diné culture is a matrilineal clan-­ based society, so all my m ­ others before me ­were Dibé Łizhiní. My m ­ other lived to the age of forty-­seven, raised four ­children, had a fulfilling ­career, and loved her large extended f­ amily. I am writing this chapter in her honor, and in that re­spect, in honor of the Dibé Łizhiní m ­ others she and I come from. In 29

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reflecting on Indigenous motherhood in the acad­emy, I am framing this chapter around the stories of ­t hese m ­ others who had a strong influence on their ­children’s educational goals. Their influences, like most m ­ others, and our lived experiences with our families shape our perspectives on the world. They shape what questions we ask about the changes we see happening in our communities. In that sense, they shape our research questions and define our positionalities. The m ­ others in my life influenced my choice to become a high school teacher and to eventually earn a PhD. My m ­ other was working on her PhD but was unable to complete it when she became ill. I de­cided to pursue a PhD for that reason ­because like the other Dibé Łizhiní ­women in my life, I am an extension of my ­mother, and I wanted to fulfill that goal in her life. This chapter is dedicated to their lives and their stories. I begin the story with my great-­great-­grandmother—­Asdząąłchíí’.

Asdząąłchíí’ I began an oral history proj­ect with my ­family to learn more about our history and the influences in my extended f­ amily’s lives. All of the relatives who I have talked to so far discussed the profound influence of Asdząąłchíí’. Her name means Red ­Woman in En­glish. She was likely born in the mid-1870s and came from the Crystal area of New Mexico, which is in the northwestern part of the state along the Chuska Mountains. Her life was rooted in Diné cultural practices and tradition. Along with many ­children of her own, she raised her grand­daughter (my grand­ mother) and her great-­grandchildren who simply referred to her as másání (grand­ mother). She was very well known for her weavings, and many photos of her rugs ­were featured in an illustrated, color, mail-­order cata­logue published by J. B. Moore in 1911. He was the trader at Crystal Trading Post, and while I could do a separate analy­sis on his relationships with Diné ­people at Crystal and this cata­logue, it is fascinating to see ­t hese photos of Asdząąłchíí’, her ­family, and her amazing rugs. One of the captions u ­ nder a photo of her reads, “The Navajo weaver who set a standard of excellence at once the admiration and despair of all other weavers” (Moore, 1911/1986, p. 25). My u ­ ncle remembers when he was a child moving between their summer and winter hooghan (a Diné traditional one-­room home). They moved with their livestock. My relatives said they remember feeling much love from her and receiving many teachings about how to live one’s life. They also remember her being very stubborn, as my grand­mother said was true of all Dibé Łizhiní w ­ omen. My u ­ ncle shared a story that exemplified this stubbornness. He said his ­mother asked him to make his másání, Asdząąłchíí’, a walking cane as she could tell she needed one from her many years of herding sheep. My ­uncle said he found a nice branch, removed the bark, and smoothed it out for her. When he presented it to her, she took the cane and threw it aside on the ground insulted and scolded him for presenting her with such a t­ hing. His ­mother told him to just leave it ­t here on the ground and not to worry about it. A few days ­later, my ­uncle said he saw his másání Asdząąłchíí’ using the cane proudly as she walked and paid no attention to him. She would accept

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such a ­t hing only on her own terms. She lived into her late eighties and was always involved in the lives of my aunts and u ­ ncles.

Margaret Margaret was one of Asdząąłchíí’s ­daughters, and she was my great-­grandmother. She was born in the 1890s. She became a young ­mother when she had my grand­ mother, and she was not ready to take on that responsibility. This is when her m ­ other, Asdząąłchíí’, stepped in to raise my grand­mother. Margaret came back into the f­ amily’s lives not too much l­ ater in life. She had more c­ hildren and matured. When my aunt was a young ­woman, she remembered taking care of Margaret in her older age. When I was a child in the 1970s, I remember often seeing my grand­ mother Margaret at ­family gatherings. Her only language spoken along with my grand­mother and Asdząąłchíí’ was Diné. I remember her being a ­woman of small stature but strong in her nature and personality. She lived into her nineties.

Agnes My másání Agnes was born in the 1900s to 1910s. This was a time when c­ hildren ­were being sent to boarding schools. In fact, t­ here was a lot of disagreement during that time about school. My aunt said two of our grand­fathers disagreed to the point that they had a gun fight over their dif­fer­ent beliefs out at Round Rock, Arizona, around that time period. No one was hurt, but it is telling of the strong feelings at the time. Agnes never went to school, however, b ­ ecause she was considered very smart and in­de­pen­dent and so she was needed at home to help take care of the sheep and f­ amily. It was common for families to keep some c­ hildren home for ­these reasons. She spoke only Diné, but my u ­ ncle said he thought she could understand more En­glish l­ater in life than she let p ­ eople know. She was known for her sassiness when she was a young w ­ oman, and this was one of the reasons my grand­ father was attracted to her. ­After she married my grand­father Ben, she had eleven ­children. Her first child died as a baby. She then went on to give birth to ten more healthy c­ hildren. My ­mother was her fourth child. My relatives said másání Agnes was very traditional in her beliefs, cultural practices, and knowledge of Diné philosophies and life ways. This was in large part b ­ ecause she was raised by her grand­mother, Asdząąłchíí’. Her knowledge was based on her grand­mother’s teachings. She was also a weaver and modeled many of her rugs ­a fter Asdząąłchíí’s weavings. One of my ­u ncles remembered the f­amily participating in ceremonies year-­round, and t­ here ­were often two medicine men, which is not a common practice ­today. He remembered her sitting with them often before, during, and ­after ceremonies to talk and share knowledge. Another ­uncle spoke of trying to learn the depth of knowledge she had with some of the most meaningful and complex princi­ples of the Diné. He shared that when he would try to explain in depth a princi­ple to her as he was understanding it, like Sa’ah Naagháí Bik’eh Hózhóón (which in very simplistic terms is a

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philosophy for living harmoniously with the natu­ral world and universe), she would tell him he was getting closer each time, but she would never say he had full understanding. She would not say that about her own understanding. This story illustrates the modesty and cultural humility she embodied. She was very ­humble and often criticized her c­ hildren if they wore too much jewelry or flashy clothes. She raised sheep all her life, and that relationship was strong and necessary for her. It was not a sentimental relationship but impor­tant in how the sheep provided for the ­family. She controlled the ­family sheep operation, and when some of them wanted to move to having ­cattle when she became more el­derly, it took quite some time to convince her. While my grand­father was a strong presence in the ­family, my grand­mother’s presence was equally strong. When he passed away, she became the spokesperson for the f­ amily. Growing up, my u ­ ncle remembered the f­ amily visiting other extended f­ amily frequently. They would travel up and along the mountain making visits and helping f­amily with vari­ous ceremonies and events. This is known as the practice of k’é, which is a term for kinship, but it is also the cultural practice of supporting, sacrificing, loving, and contributing to one’s f­ amily, clan, and community (Benally, 1994). My u ­ ncle said he remembers his ­mother being fairly strict, and they always had chores or duties to complete ­every day. He said that when they would get into trou­ble with her, they would run around her skirt, circling her, trying to avoid a whipping or spanking. He said he and his siblings would laugh about that ­later in life ­because they never tried to run away from her; they only ran around her skirt. Perhaps they knew they could never r­ eally get away and w ­ ere just avoiding the inevitable punishment. I remember her very well from when I was a child. I was a ­little intimidated by her, perhaps ­because she spoke only Diné and my primary language was En­glish. ­Because of our language barrier, I felt a sense of isolation in my relationship with her. But I have vivid memories of sitting next to her on her bed while she played the card game solitaire. She loved to play that game. While we did not verbally talk to one another, I remember feelings of love and warmth in ­t hose moments. I won­ der now if she longed for more communication with her grandchildren and if she had a sense of isolation as I did. My relatives shared that both their m ­ other Agnes and their másání Asdząąłchíí’ encouraged them to “go to school” to prepare for the changes they observed happening in their society. While they passed on their Diné-­centered traditional knowledge and educated their c­ hildren in ­those beliefs and practices, they saw the importance of a Western education. Their f­ ather and grand­father shared t­ hose beliefs as well. As a result, their generation of siblings all went to boarding schools and eventually higher education. Which brings me to the story of shímá, my ­mother, Marian.

Marian My ­mother’s first language, like with all her siblings, was Diné. They all eventually became bilingual when they went to school. But when I was young and used

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to hear them as adults talking and laughing in the kitchen of their ­mother’s home, the language they preferred was Diné. When they ­were young, my ­mother, along with the other three oldest siblings, ­were often put in charge of taking care of the sheep. My ­uncle, who was closest to her in age, said they would often “goof off” ­until they w ­ ere caught by their older siblings. He remembered they would tie their red wagons to the donkeys and make the donkeys run while they rode in the wagons. They ruined a lot of wagons in ­t hose days. He also said they would tease their younger ­brother often. He loved pretending to be a cowboy and always carried his rope with him. They would tell him, “Well if ­you’re a real cowboy, you’ll go jump in that pond.” So he would do just that and become immersed in mud. He would do what­ever they said to prove he was a cowboy. My aunt and ­uncle said they all spent most of their days outside, ­doing chores, playing in the hills and with each other. While they may not have had a lot in materialistic terms, they ­were not poor and never felt poor (by Western standards), even when times w ­ ere leaner in terms of food provisions. My ­mother went to vari­ous boarding schools all of her life. ­These ­were schools run by the Bureau of Indian Affairs or by Catholic missions. She graduated from St. Michael’s high school, a Catholic boarding school, and went to a Catholic college in Michigan. Th ­ ere was more desire by Diné p ­ eople to attend school a­ fter World War II. The demand was so high that t­ here ­were not enough teachers or space in school buildings. This was a time a­ fter the Depression, and many Diné p ­ eople had experienced living away from their homelands so school was seen as a necessity. My u ­ ncle said he remembered sitting around the kitchen t­ able as teen­agers all talking about how school was difficult. Difficult in terms of being away from home, the culture of the school, which included harsh treatment for speaking Diné, and learning En­glish. My ­mother highly encouraged her siblings, especially her younger siblings, to do their best in school. One ­uncle said she was their main cheerleader. My relatives each commented that my ­mother was very intelligent. She was known for her quick wit and sometimes biting critique, hence why “she had no use for fools.” Boarding school was not always the most challenging for her. My ­u ncle shared a story about when she and her older ­sister w ­ ere sent to Sherman Indian Boarding School in Riverside, California. They ­were in eighth and ninth grades. One day ­after school, when my ­mother returned to the dorm room, she told her s­ ister (which I paraphrase h ­ ere), “This is the strangest school. The teacher gives her instruction in En­glish, and then a male instructor interprets the lesson for us in Diné. But he got it all wrong!” She understood more En­g lish than the instructors realized and felt she could have interpreted the lesson better. They stayed at that school for one year before returning back to Crystal and attended other boarding schools. My m ­ other became a teacher ­after graduating college. She spent her entire professional life in American Indian education. She was a teacher, principal, and superintendent for the Bureau of Indian Affairs. When she first started teaching at Navajo Nation schools, my aunt said she would return home to Crystal on the weekends and bring food and snacks. Life was a ­little harder during this time period

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for the f­ amily, and my aunt referred to her as a “lifesaver.” She would or­ga­nize the younger siblings with chores to keep them busy and teach responsibility. She owned a 1960s Volks­wagen at the time, and they would all pile into it to go on trips to town or camping. This was the time my aunt said while life was difficult at home, she never felt “poor” or “without.” I remember from about the age of five, I would travel with my m ­ other to meetings across New Mexico. We moved back to New Mexico when she became the superintendent, what is known t­ oday as an educational line officer for the Bureau of Indian Education. We would travel to mostly Pueblo community schools, and she facilitated ­t hose meetings, while I played in classrooms nearby. I believe ­t hese early experiences in schools and being among many educators definitely had an impact on my ­f uture life choices to become an educator. Another impor­tant memory from my time with my m ­ other was our regular trips from Santa Fe to Crystal almost e­ very weekend so we could spend time with ­family. (She could not wait for me to turn sixteen so I could do the driving.) It was during this time when the Diné language was so pre­sent in our lives, or I was old enough to recognize it more. She would always speak to her relatives on the phone in Diné; it was the language of laughter at home at Crystal; it was the language of love expressed to me, her d ­ aughter; it was the language of commands telling me to “hurry” or “come eat” or “get busy.” When I was about nine years old, I remember riding in the car with her around town, and she told me she regretted not raising me with and teaching me Diné language. Of course, this is the sentiment of many parents her age, and blame does not rest solely with our parents. But I knew she felt saddened by that. She passed away in 1981. I was thirteen at the time and moved in with her older ­sister and f­amily. My aunt Agnes (aka Agnes 2) and u ­ ncle Wayne w ­ ere living in New Zealand at the time on a Fulbright Fellowship working with Maori schools on language education. They have their own legacy through their work at Rock Point Community School and its renowned approach in bilingual education and community control (see Holm & Holm, 1990). They and my m ­ other have been the strongest influences for me to pursue higher education and to become a m ­ other myself.

Tiffany: My Story My Dibé Łizhiní ­mothers set the bar high for me in terms of the type of ­woman and ­mother I hoped to become. My ­mother and most of my aunts pursued ­careers in education as teachers and administrators. I never assumed early in life that a ­career in education would be my life’s path, but it is not surprising now that this is the path I chose. Their influence, and my m ­ other’s influence in par­tic­u­lar, provided me with a strong sense of cultural identity and led me in a direction t­ oward supporting other Native youth and young adults through education. The grounding of my cultural identity as a result of my ­mother’s influence strengthened my resolve and determination when I was faced with choices and obstacles about what to do

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with my life. For example, I attended a small, private, liberal arts college whose students came from all over the country to attend as well. It was my first encounter with students who came from privileged backgrounds in terms of their wealth and the type of high school education they received. So it was shocking when I encountered their high level of ignorance about Native American ­people, communities, and nations. I also learned that my own high school education did not include the history and perspectives of diverse groups, including other Native American communities. It was ­after this experience that I became passionate about becoming a teacher so I could contribute to dismantling a con­temporary U.S. educational system that excluded Native American knowledge, perspectives, and stories. This was the beginning of my journey to becoming a professor in the Native American Studies Department. When I became a ­mother, I knew that would be my most impor­tant role, and like many new m ­ others I was very ner­vous and anxious about being a good mom. I looked to the examples of my Dibé Łizhiní ­mothers once again for guidance. I have three ­children, who are all boys—­Joseph, Aaron, and Ben. I am my first son Joseph’s second mom (he is the biological child of my husband, but not myself), and he is my bonus child. He is an adult, married, and about to make me a grand­ mother. My m ­ iddle son Aaron is in college, and my youn­gest Ben is a se­nior in high school. When they ­were growing up, I worked hard to ensure they felt happy, loved, safe, and I wanted to always feed their curiosity and intellect. The one area I knew I could not provide the same level of richness as I had in my life was a strong presence of Diné language. My husband and I used as much Diné as we could in their lives, and I feel fortunate for how much Diné I can understand and speak. But I do feel the strug­gle for learning that I know many Native youth feel in learning their heritage language. Th ­ ose strug­gles include having access to learning, having ­people to speak with in natu­ral ways on a consistent basis, and the challenge of other life’s work that gets in the way. I have tried to improve my Diné language skills by taking courses, ­doing an immersion camp, and using Rosetta Stone. But it w ­ ill be a lifelong endeavor. My ­children’s first language is En­glish. They can speak some Diné and a l­ittle Cochiti Keres language. When they ­were young, we lived in Cochiti Pueblo and they attended the Pueblo’s language nest and summer language programs. But several years a­ fter we moved back into Albuquerque, I can remember my m ­ iddle son getting visibly upset when he realized he could not remember the Keres language he had learned e­ arlier in life. It was heartbreaking for me, and I felt a sense of failure. But I know reasons for language change in Native communities, such as what my Dibé Łizhiní m ­ others and f­ amily experienced, are complex and families cannot just blame ourselves and each other. Both of my youn­gest sons ­were able to reinforce and expand on their skills in Diné language at their school. They have been fortunate to have access to one of their heritage languages through school. They also still experience a language rich environment among f­ amily in Cochiti and Crystal. I remember my youn­gest son acknowledging that for me once. About a year ago, my husband’s f­ ather had been

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staying with us in Albuquerque. His first language is Diné. He would chat on the phone with his relatives quite a bit in Diné. He would also talk with us in Diné, and then translate when we needed it. Ben commented that this was the most Diné he had heard spoken in a natu­ral, ­family setting ever. He was in such awe and admiration of his grand­father. It made me feel that I have taken for granted how much Diné I have heard growing up among my m ­ other, aunts, ­uncles, grand­mother, and my peers at Rock Point. My ­children have not had this same experience, except with the minimal Diné that my husband and I speak. It was another reminder for me of the importance of our language and how much our youth want access to their heritage language. I love that Ben appreciates his grand­father for this and loves his language, regardless of how “fluent” he is at speaking it himself. He told me, “Grandpa is speaking with ease the most difficult language in the world.” It is moments like this one that make me very proud of my ­children, and I feel their Dibé Łizhiní ­mothers would be extremely proud as well. Overall, I am strengthened by my m ­ other’s dedication to my life and to her own life working full-­time, raising me, working on her doctoral degree, and taking care of and loving her ­family. I am strengthened by all my Dibé Łizhiní ­mothers who had tremendous influence in their f­ amily’s lives. They taught us how to be strong, how to be critical thinkers, how to love our f­ amily, how to love our homeland, and how to pass on that knowledge to our own c­ hildren. They are me, and I am them.

References Benally, H. J. (1994). Navajo philosophy of learning and pedagogy. Journal of Navajo Education, 12(1), 23–31. Holm, A., & Holm, W. (1990). Rock Point, a Navajo way to go to school: A valediction. Annals of the American Acad­emy of Po­liti­cal and Social Science, 508(1), 170–184. Moore, J. B. (1986). The Navajo. Avanyu. (Original work published 1911)

chapter 3

Nine Months of Indigenous Motherhood in the Acad­emy a rainbow journey from the islands to na’neelzhiin Leola Tsinnajinnie-­Paquin (Diné)

My m ­ other once wrote: “Thinking I was an ‘island girl’ that would prob­ably end up with an ‘island man’ for the rest of my life, I de­cided to follow my ‘itchy feet’ back to New Mexico” (Tsinnajinnie, 2014, p. 37). Before she passed in 2007 at the age of fifty-­eight, my m ­ other authored a book chapter on education in The Filipino American Experience in New Mexico by the Filipino American National Historical Society Rio Grande Chapter (Alcantara et al., 2014). When she became a butterfly/spirit, I was an aspiring academic on a long eight-­year journey to complete my PhD and my heart wanted more than anything to find balance for myself so that I could become a ­mother just like her. In 2014, the day ­after returning from our honeymoon in Hawai‘i, my Pueblo husband and I attended the cele­bration of the long-­awaited publication of the book with our ­family. The event took place on the campus of the University of New Mexico (UNM) where I am now an assistant professor in Native American Studies. In my m ­ other’s chapter she shared the intergenerational stories of herself and her best friend Helen Manzanillo, whom I consider my Auntie-­Mom. Our families immigrated to Hawai‘i from the Philippines in the 1940s; found a way to make a living through hard l­abor in the sugarcane fields and entrepreneurship while maintaining cultural grounding; and essentially made college education and ­careers in New Mexico Native education pos­si­ble for f­ uture generations. I hope that this piece w ­ ill honor what my m ­ other wrote over ten years ago as a continuation of her story through the legacy she left to my siblings and me, just as she set out to do in honor of her parents. Essentially, this story is my day-­to-­day narrative of how I am guided by her spirit and core values during a very sacred time in my life. ­Today, I have made it to the summer as I sit in my Rio Rancho home located on the traditional homeland of the Tamayame. The Pueblo nations in this area 37

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neighbor Na Neel’Zhiin, the land of shinálí (maternal grand­mother), the community where my parents taught, and the earthly resting place of my mom. I am married to Dominic “Bow” Paquin of Tamaya, where I have been traditionally accepted as “Rainbow.” We have a young son Josiah (“Shell” & “Arrow”) Jerald Paquin who is now two and a half years old. Bow and I are expecting another son next month. My ­little boys have a cherished big s­ ister Mia (“Flower”). At the age of fourteen, she has far surpassed my critical consciousness at that life stage as she regularly supplements public school curriculum with her version of Indigenizing education. We are an especially close duo as I have been in her life as far as she can remember. I feel connected to my grandma Iola through Mia b ­ ecause of the boundless spirit I feel I have inherited from shinálí in being a second ­mother to someone I care for as my own.1 In terms of my life in the acad­emy, I have just completed my third year at UNM in the Native American Studies department.2 I share a special bond with my colleagues, two of whom have also contributed to this book: Robin Minthorn (co-­editor) and Tiffany Lee. We are celebrating the growth of our programs that now include an online option for the bachelor of arts degree and a new master of arts. I dreamed of my late mother-­in-­law Geraldine Paquin-­Coriz last night, and I try to calm my nerves thinking of how she and my mom w ­ ill look over us as we approach the birth of our Baby-­Baby. They are incredibly power­f ul grand­mothers who find ways of making their presence known. I know they ­were ­t here for the birth of Josiah at the exact moment my w ­ ater broke and that they w ­ ere responsible for his first laugh as he chuckled out loud while he was taking a nap. In ­t hese very warm summer days of reflection and breath, I would like to share a narrative of Indigenous motherhood in the acad­emy by presenting the course of my current pregnancy as a Native ­mother and wife and the vari­ous roles of responsibility I do my best to contribute to. The heart of this story ­will now rewind to the beginning of my pregnancy and be told in pre­sent tense from one month to the next.

November 2017—­Month 1: Revisiting Roots and Planting Seeds The second day of the month begins before sunrise on All Souls morning at Tamaya. I pray that our beloved spirits know how much they continue to be sources of inspiration in my ­family’s everyday life and that our hearts fully embrace the journeys that they have been chosen to take. As the morning wraps up, I head home to prepare for my own travels that day to return to Tucson for a cele­bration of twenty years of the MA in American Indian studies (AIS) at the University of Arizona. I must take this quick road trip alone, so Dominic sends me in his Tundra for added protection. In the same vein, I remember my parents buying me my first mobile phone when I was a young freshman in 1996 as I insisted I could drive to and from Tucson to Albuquerque on my own. The trip ­today means so much to me. I am able to meaningfully reconnect with professors and gradu­ate school colleagues. I needed this experience to remind myself that as far as I have come personally, I have so much more I want to give back for the kindness of o ­ thers. The University

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of Arizona is where I was introduced not only to the scholarship in AIS but to the spirit of Indigeneity and ­family in the acad­emy. ­Later this month on another pre-­sunrise morning, Dominic and I wake up to prepare to travel together to the University of Notre Dame, where I have been invited by Professor Brian Collier (Institute for Educational Initiatives) to give a pre­sen­ta­tion to a group from the American Indian Catholic Schools Network at their Leadership Summit. I de­cided to take a pregnancy test before venturing out. My heart leaps. I thank Creator for the positive result and pray. I know the delicacy of this miracle and this pro­cess. Dominic and I have an emotionally charged and fulfilling trip. We are able to catch both a ranked men’s basketball game and a football game, experience campus life, see South Bend, and network. En route to the football game we pass a Knights of Columbus tailgate party and share a laugh ­because my previous day’s very anti-­Columbus pre­sen­ta­tion on “Decolonization for Educational Sovereignty: Considerations for Native Catholic Education” was well received and I am tentatively invited to be the graduation speaker by an attendee who is president of a Native Catholic school! We return home on Sunday the 19th, which is Josiah’s second birthday. We had hosted his mixed martial arts–­themed party the weekend before. My siblings cared for him while we w ­ ere gone, and he got to enjoy a birthday cake cele­bration at Chuck E. Cheese with his cousin-­sister Melelana (Lela), whose birthday is near his. ­Because I taught two online classes that wrapped up midsemester, I seem to have a very flexible November and December. I take Josiah to Garcia’s Kitchen for breakfast and the Albuquerque Zoo for Mommy and Sonny time the following day. Dominic and I decide to try to wait u ­ ntil Christmastime to share the news of our Baby-­Baby with every­one. In the weeks to come, I dream of my mom and the ocean. We are gathered in a ­house on the shore and she is fully pre­sent as grandma to Josiah, my niece Lela, and my nephew Jei. She is taking on the role of tending to the new Baby while also creating a festive menu for the week that she is ­going to prepare for us just like she always did when she would visit. My dad, back in our dimension meanwhile, as­suredly announces that he is ­going to be a grandpa again ­because he dreamed it. Both dreams give me a peaceful mind that our l­ ittle one is well on their way.

December 2017—­Month 2: Extended Practices of Motherhood December brings the arrival of key Native Studies deadlines, including the abstract submission for the American Indian Studies Association (AISA) and the American Indian Studies Section of the Western Social Sciences Association (AIS WSSA). I end up having an intensive work session in my office with my student Jessica Benally, who is an NAS math scholar and the chair of the Native American Studies Indigenous Research Group (NASIRG). We both submit AISA abstracts and move full pace into finding travel support. Although I strug­gle, I also manage to assist in the proposal se­lection pro­cess of AISA (as part of the Council) and AIS WSSA (as a volunteer co-­coordinator) before the month ends.

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Meanwhile I am d ­ oing the best I can to support fund­rais­ing activities for NASIRG’s trip to AISA and my Paquin nephew whose team has qualified for the Ju­nior Olympics Cross-­Country Championship in Florida. We make raffle prize donations to each and sell tickets for both, and I eventually buy eigh­teen tickets for the NASIRG raffle in hopes that I win a relatively large Ricardo Caté painting. By December 9, our nephew has successfully competed in Florida. At home, I have won not only the Caté painting depicting a r­ unning rabbit as fast food but also a set of earrings! In both instances of supporting youth, I think of motherhood not only as what you do for your own ­children but how you give of yourself to your students and nieces/nephews. It is certainly natu­ral to overlap Native American Studies with ser­v ice to Native communities and families, but I also think it is a true tenet of Indigenous motherhood in the acad­emy to extend practices of motherhood in all ele­ments of our professional and personal lives. The g­ rand finale to the fall 2017 term comes with the completion of the “Research Methods in Native American Contexts” online core course that I have developed, which needs to pass a team of evaluators for quality review to be able to be taught as part of our Managed Online Program (MOP) in the spring. The pro­cess is high-­ stakes, and the review team is extremely critical of the state of my course. I hustle to add and fix e­ very detail, and I find a morning to shoot eight videos for the course’s eight modules with a professional videographer. That morning Josiah has a health issue that prevents him from g­ oing to child care, and I have to take him with me to campus to shoot the videos. He is a fairly good sport as long as I give him snacks, but he can be heard in the background in a few videos. The videographer is kind enough to keep an eye on him each time I step aside to change my clothes. She also gets a glimpse of my jeans that can no longer button as she helps me with the microphone. I share my secret news with her and she is touched. Although she is swamped, she kindly uploads the videos to my courses in time to pass final review. Josiah and I have made it through another semester!

January 2018—­Month 3: Social Justice Contributions and My Community As ­human beings, I believe we are all called upon to ensure we and our ­children ­w ill be treated as such. As residents/citizens of the United States, on behalf of all our b ­ rothers and s­ isters, we must also critically reflect upon and stand for the demo­cratic values and rights the country strives t­ oward. American history is built upon the resiliency of ­t hose who have fought for sovereignty, equality, and freedom of being. Despite the po­liti­cal rhe­toric of t­ hose who hold office or other positions of power, it is institutions such as the American Civil Liberties Union that hold governments accountable to honoring true individual and group freedoms.

In early 2017, I made the above statement in support of my nomination and appointment to serve on the New Mexico ACLU Board of Directors. In the interview

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portion of this pro­cess, I made clear my highest alliance would always be to my home community. A ­ fter serving on the board for nearly ten months I now have the opportunity to pre­sent Brayboy’s (2005) TribalCrit tenets in the context of New Mexico’s Indigenous ­peoples and the current state of Native affairs. My pre­sen­ta­ tion is followed by a dynamic discussion. I believe we have propelled movement ­toward how the ACLU might address civil rights prob­lems facing Native Americans in New Mexico. Carrying Baby-­Baby in my womb and considering the care I provide to my toddler, I have to be safe and strategic in how I make my social justice contributions to my communities beyond what I do in the classroom. At this point in my life, and in U.S. politics, one way I opt to confront the devastating issues we are facing in the midst of the Trump dictatorship is through my ser­v ice with the ACLU. Immediately ­after my pre­sen­ta­tion, I make my way to Tamaya to join my ­family and be a part of the events taking place.

February 2018—­Month 4: American Indian Studies Association The AISA Conference, “Unsettling American History: American Indian Studies in the Time of the Trump Administration, White Supremacy, and Settler Nationalism,” has arrived and returned to its home at Arizona State University. My pregnancy is fairly vis­i­ble now as Baby-­Baby and I make our way over to Arizona while Josiah again stays with his D ­ addy. We also once again depart our home before sunrise. We travel with my Tamaya ­sister and fellow scholar Daphne Littlebear. I am ner­vous to pre­sent my new work to the field on the first day, but my pre­sen­ta­tion on “TribalCrit as an Instrument for Native Nation Building: ‘We ­Will Continue to Outlive Any Racial Remarks That Are Said Against Our Nation’ ” goes well. Jessica Benally and NASIRG have also arrived. I am proud of their panel pre­sen­ta­tions on “Decolonization in Prevalent Structures from the Perspective of Resilient Indigenous W ­ omen Scholars,” including Jessica, Nalleli Reyes Garcia, Lorilei Chavez, and Navalyn Platero. I am especially touched b ­ ecause my ­brother Belin Tsinnajinnie (Indigenous mathe­matics scholar) delivers his first pre­sen­ta­tion at a Native Studies conference and garners the attention of some of the most prominent professors in Native education. A ­ fter the business meeting at the end of the day, Belin and I make our way over to a closing reception where we enjoy a home-­cooked Tamaya feast in the ­middle of the Sonoran Desert.

March 2018—­Month 5: Indigenous Centered and Community Inspired Professor Mommy Tsinnajinnie-­Paquin manages to complete an article during spring break.3 Immediately a­ fter the writing frenzy, on the Thursday of spring break, I travel to Torreon (Na’Neelzhiin) and Ojo Encino Chapter Houses. My fellow UNM Institute for American Indian Education (IAIE) scholars and I are garnering feedback on what we can do to support education in our communities. My

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dad and aunts Anita and Lenora come to the Torreon meeting. I do my best to help facilitate, although both sessions are conducted largely in Navajo thanks to Vincent Werito and the speaking of our beautiful language by our participants. We start at Torreon and run a l­ ittle long on time out of re­spect for the local leaders, so we have to hustle to make our forum at Ojo Encino. A caravan of three full-­size trucks of Native academics speeds through the reservation roads. I follow Vincent carefully as he knows where each and e­ very pothole is located. By the time we are done for the night, it is late and I go the long but safer route around the border town of Cuba as I am traveling alone. Vincent and his ­brother follow me all the way to Rio Rancho. Once home, my head is pounding but my heart is complete. In the next two days, my body starts to ache entirely, but on Saturday I am able to play taxi for Mia’s recital practice and make Navajo-­Filipino-­Pueblo tacos (frybread with red chile beans and toppings made by my hands) for my husband a­ fter he completes his ditch work at the Pueblo. By Sunday, I am worse and I resign myself to sleeping on the couch so as not to pass on what seems to be a bad cold. On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday I miss very key meetings on campus; lose most of my voice; and cannot breathe through my nose. My medi­cation options are ­limited due to Baby-­Baby. I decide to go to urgent care and must find a way to return to work on Thursday as I am slated to pre­sent in this year’s Viola F. Cordova Memorial Symposium, “Indigenous ­Women’s Perspectives on 21st ­Century Indigenous Community Building.” It turns out I actually have a bad allergy cold! I make it to the symposium and deliver my pre­sen­ta­ tion on “Decolonizing Pathways through Indigenous Education: Native Student Conceptions of Nation Building” in a horrendous voice but am able to complete it thanks to the help of the end-­of-­t he-­day audience.

April 2018—­Month 6: Indigenous F ­ amily in the Acad­emy I am excited to travel as this time Josiah and Dominic ­w ill be joining me via road trip to San Antonio. Since Josiah is not the best road warrior, we plan to leave a­ fter dinner and drive overnight while he is asleep through New Mexico and Texas using the quickest current route according to GPS navigation. It is near midnight, and in the darkness I suddenly realize that we are in the town of Fort Sumner and t­ here are signs leading to the Bosque Redondo Memorial. I was not expecting this, and tears well up in my eyes thinking about passing through such a place of suffering for our ancestors. I feel uneasy passing through carry­ing my developing l­ ittle one in my womb while my toddler is in the back seat. I pray for ancestral healing and our safe passage. We make it to San Antonio in the morning and are able to check in to the beautiful conference ­hotel located on the River Walk. It is always a mixed feeling of guilt and excitement to stay at such a place of luxury and privilege. This is my first time in San Antonio, and the River Walk is more incredible than I had i­ magined. I think about a time years ago when I visited students at Torreon and I happened to mention traveling as part of being an academic. They completely lit up and asked

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me to share more. I remind myself to stay grounded and to continue to create better ground for our students. The AIS section of the conference is very intimate and collegial. I enjoy visiting with friends, hearing extraordinary pre­sen­ta­tions, as well as meeting established and upcoming scholars. I attend the majority of the sessions as a volunteer but have just as much fun in the downtime with my ­little ­family. My pre­sen­ta­tion is a repackaging of the “Decolonizing Catholic Education” piece I did at Notre Dame, and I have a lot of anxiety sharing this with a Native studies audience. Nonetheless, many directly connect to what I have to share. We make it to a Spurs game and eventually return home safely at two o ­ ’clock on a Monday morning. Josiah wakes up and runs toddler laps around our h ­ ouse in excitement. My objectives for this trip are achieved. The next week during another IAIE Community Forum in Shiprock, New Mexico, while peaking at my phone, I learn that my s­ ister’s boyfriend is g­ oing to propose. He texts me asking me to help him find her ring size. I contain my tears of happiness in the midst of deep educational discussion. ­Earlier that day I convinced Lloyd Lee to go to the mutton stands, so I am especially content. I get home long ­after Josiah has gone to sleep, but I hear him wake up in the m ­ iddle of the night. He walks on his mattress over to where I sleep in a bed adjacent to his crib. I feel him place his two ­little hands on my back before walking back to lay himself down to sleep. At that moment, I think to myself I must share this day in my book chapter. I find a way to get Lani’s ring size, and on April 27 my s­ ister accepts the marriage proposal. She also learns that she has been selected to join the Community and Regional Planning Faculty at UNM specializing in hydrology. We are ecstatic!

May 2018—­Month 7: Honoring Our M ­ other’s Hands May brings more Lani excitement. She successfully defends her dissertation and is hooded at the New Mexico Tech Commencement. I am overcome with emotion at a photo in which she is standing in the center wearing her rug-­style dress, moccasins, and a tseeyiilth. Appearances-­w ise, her colleagues surrounding her are a sea of towering biligaana men. She is stunning. Lani is my baby ­sister but has filled in for my mom’s loving hands during my graduation and my wedding and while preparing for my faculty position and ultimately for Josiah. I take all of the energy she radiates and do my best, with countless o ­ thers in our ­family, to host the best reception we can in her honor. Days l­ater I am in Downtown Los Angeles (LA) for the Native American and Indigenous Studies Association (NAISA) conference, where I pre­sent alongside my colleagues in a panel on “Strengthening of Native Nations and Communities through Indigenous Community Building.” I share my work on “Indigenous Education, Community Core Values, and Decolonizing Curricular Pathways for Native Nation Building.” In between attending sessions I am having a blast trying out the local restaurants with the “nerds” and trying to finish writing a commencement

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address. I leave LA late Friday night and arrive back to my f­ amily in Rio Rancho ­after one o ­ ’clock the next morning. ­Earlier in the year, I enthusiastically accepted the official invitation to be the commencement speaker at St. Michael’s Indian School. I graduated from St. Catherine Indian School in 1996 (closed in 1998), so I was invited as an honorary alumnus of St. Mikes. Flexing my qualitative research skills, I gather the knowledge of my circle of high school friends and weave our words together. I do not have time to practice the speech, but I assume I can do so on the long road trip over as I envision my husband driving us to Arizona while I focus and prepare. I assume wrong ­because he is overcome with food poisoning! Somehow, I manage to get every­one and every­t hing in our vehicle and complete the drive. Once we arrive, I have one chance to read through my emotionally charged speech in the lobby, and I cannot get through any phase without crying. The moment and the words are ­running straight from my heart given the sacrifices that w ­ ere made by my mom, our families, our ancestors, our educators, and all who literally gave their lives to make our education pos­si­ble. As the time for me to speak draws near I am tempted to ask a f­ amily member to stand with me at the podium ­because the pregnancy amplifies every­t hing I feel. I remember that my ­mothers ­will give me strength and that Baby-­Baby ­will be the one to stand with me. While I choke up momentarily during the speech, I complete the address without a fallen tear. Afterward, key representatives (including a parent leader) from the audience thank me and I celebrate with my ­family as we take pictures. We eat lunch in Gallup and go swimming at our h ­ otel, and I can breathe once again.

June 2018—­Month 8: Reaching Our Nation(s) My goal was to make it through to that moment in May. However, I de­cided to squeeze in what I think is one more conference as I pre­sent at the Diné Education Research Conference at the Navajo Nation Museum. One morning as we eat at the ­hotel restaurant, we spot President Russell Begaye having a solo working breakfast. This inspires me more than my visit to the White House a few years prior. Lani and Josiah accompany me on the trip and are able to visit the zoo and see the Treaty of 1868 while I am busy with my pre­sen­ta­tions. During this month, I also begin teaching two summer online courses. I start to plan ahead for the final weeks of the courses ­because that is when Baby-­Baby is due. My doctors inform me that they ­will make sure I have the baby a week prior to his due date as my age (thirty-­nine) and my gestational diabetes are ­factors. Dr. Jeanine Valdez (Isleta/Laguna Pueblos) has taken excellent care of us throughout our journey, just as she did when Josiah was born. I have one on-­campus workday scheduled this month, and Josiah wakes up with a cough and bloody nose a­ fter a weekend of recovering from a stomach bug. He and his dinosaur join me for two faculty meetings and a meeting with a student. Once again, we finish the month together.

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July 2018—­Month 9: Baby-­Baby’s Pueblo Convocation By early July my days are spent eating a low-­carb diet, testing my blood sugar, walking about five miles a day, and keeping up with my online NAS students. Tamaya Feast Day is quickly approaching, and I am trying to plan but not overplan how every­thing w ­ ill work out for us. I end up receiving an invitation to pre­sent my work with Bernalillo Public Schools at the 2018 Pueblo Convocation held at the Tamaya Hyatt Resort and hosted by the Leadership Institute at Santa Fe Indian School. While I am nearly thirty-­eight weeks pregnant and potentially ready to give birth, I enthusiastically accept the invitation as I feel it would truly complete my Indigenous motherhood academic rainbow to be with my extended Pueblo ­family. Furthermore, the Tamaya Hyatt is nestled in the homeland of my husband and ­children. A ­ fter each meal at the convocation, I take walks with Dominic, Mia, and Josiah around the grounds, and we take pictures at our favorite spots along the Bosque while we share memories of our wedding reception from 2014. They go swimming with all of the other attendees’ families while I breathe in the inspiring work of Pueblo leaders, educators, students, advocates, and elders. The pool becomes a sea of brown joyful Natives splashing around. Dominic and I laugh wondering what all the tourists staying at the h ­ otel might be thinking. When it is my turn to pre­sent, I bring Mia with me so she can hear what I have been working on as well as absorb the presence of her aunty Daphne Littlebear who is presenting in the same session as me. My UNM-­Mom Glenabah Martinez (Taos/Diné) is the leader of our session, so this moment is deeply fulfilling. All the hugs, well wishes, and warmth from my Pueblo relatives draw a blessed ray of love into my womb. A week ­later, it is nine ­o’clock at night and I check into the hospital to be induced for birth to ensure safe delivery for our Baby-­Baby. I am expecting a long delivery pro­cess, so I encourage Dominic and Mia to go see a movie while I let the medicine kick in. Mia refuses to leave ­because she does not want to risk missing the birth, so they try to get comfortable for the night. Almost immediately ­after my first dose of medi­cation, my ­water breaks. Soon ­after that the contractions begin. I already know that I w ­ ill eventually request an epidural, but I try to wait as long as pos­si­ble. By the early morning, Dominic encourages me to make the request if I need it. I do and I am initially relieved of pain. By the time the sun rises I am feeling the contractions again, but the nurses and midwife tell me to hold off on more pain relief. I do not remember their reasoning, but I go with it. I am writhing, and they keep asking me if I feel pressure. I do not ­really understand what they mean, so I say I do not think so. Every­one in the room is cheerfully chitchatting as I lose my mind. I look at Dominic and yell at him with profanity. Every­one jumps up, and he runs to me. The midwife on call decides to check me and proclaims, “She’s plus two!” They tell me I can start pushing, and I mentally prepare myself for an hour or two of pushing. I ask Mia to play my favorite soothing Hawaiian songs. Soon a­ fter, I hear someone yelling: “Page pediatrics! Page pediatrics!” My favorite f­ amily song, “White Sandy Beach,” performed by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole, begins to play, and I start crying b ­ ecause I feel so connected to my m ­ other and my

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entire f­ amily. Just like in a movie montage, scenes from our most precious memories fill my soul. I see the pictures of her dancing that we shared at her funeral reception slideshow. I see the opening of my ­brother and sister-­in-­law’s wedding as every­one gasps at Leona’s beauty and the purity of their love while she walks down the aisle. I see my siblings and our ­children hula dancing for Dominic and me at our wedding. I see my freshly born Josiah move his tiny arms as if he was joining the dance as the same song was playing exactly thirty-­two months ago in the same moment. The next ­t hing I know (two minutes according to the nurses) they tell me to stop pushing ­because Baby-­Baby has arrived! He is placed on my chest while Dominic and Mia help me greet him. We all cry together as Jeremiah Elan Paquin has completed our ­family. We give him the ­middle name Elan in honor of my m ­ other, whose ­middle name was Eleanor. His Paquin aunties also give him names: “Flowing W ­ ater” and “Corn Tassel.”

Conclusion Nine months of Indigenous motherhood in the acad­emy is a love story beginning in my m ­ other and her m ­ other’s soul. We are connected in heart to fill a ground for our ­children and their babies to come. Our story is a rainbow journey from the Philippine and Hawaiian islands to Na’Neelzhiin and Tamaya that radiates within and beyond the Indigenous acad­emy. In sharing my day-­to-­day adventures of life as a scholar mom and community member, for myself and my f­ amily, I hope this piece w ­ ill serve as a shared time capsule for the seeds I planted during this time. I hope for readers that our story w ­ ill illustrate that no m ­ atter what role I and my colleagues are literally playing as academics, we operate in the light of our ­mothers and live our au­t hen­tic community-­engaged scholar selves for the light of our ­children.

Notes 1. ​My Grandma was a stepmom to my Grandpa’s ­children from his previous marriage. 2. ​I was able to take leave the spring semester ­a fter Josiah was born. 3. ​The term “community inspired” is borrowed from IAIE.

References Alcantara, A. N., Jojola, T., Dagucon, A., Arnaiz, L. D., & Filipino American National Historical Society (Eds.). (2014). The Filipino American experience in New Mexico. Filipino American National Historical Society, Rio Grande Chapter. Brayboy, B. M. K. J. (2005). T ­ oward a tribal critical race theory in education. Urban Review, 37(5), 425–446. Tsinnajinnie, M. M. (2014). Helen Manzanillo and Myrna Tsinnajinnie: The continuation of a journey from Hawaii to New Mexico—­A story of two New Mexico educators from sakada families. In A. N. Alcantara, T. Jojola, A. Dagucon, L. D. Arnaiz, & Filipino American National Historical Society (Eds.), The Filipino American experience in New Mexico (pp. 32–40). Filipino American National Historical Society, Rio Grande Chapter.

chapter 4

M(othering) and the Acad­emy Susan C. Faircloth (Coharie Tribe of North Carolina)

The phone rang It was the call we had been waiting on The call that made us parents and me a m ­ other Six hours ­later we ­were on a plane, headed to Oklahoma to meet our ­daughter Freezing Fog, Rain, Snow, and Sleet delayed our arrival The next day we met our beautiful ­little one I could hardly breathe My eyes filled with tears No longer was I just an auntie, now I was mommy, mom, Dr. Mom Was this moment real or just a dream? I held her, but quickly handed her back I was afraid this moment w ­ ouldn’t last Would she love me? Would I love her? Could I still be a scholar? A good scholar? Ten years l­ ater, she’s a fourth grader and I’m still fearful that I ­won’t get it right That I w ­ on’t be the ­mother she deserves, the protector she needs, the friend she wants That I w ­ on’t be able to write, teach, serve, or lead enough or good enough Struggling to balance my work as a scholar with my work as a m ­ other Never enough time to do it all, to do it right, to do it well enough If I must fail at one, which one ­w ill it be? Can I do it all? Do I want to do it all? ­There are times when I’m not sure Torn between the desire to think and write and the desire to play, to snuggle, to simply sit and stare at her I want it all And, I feel guilty when I ­can’t do it all Am I enough for her? Am I enough for the acad­emy?

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S u s a n C . Fa i r c l o t h How w ­ ill I know? If one must suffer, which one ­w ill it be? When ­w ill ­t here be time for me? Time to sit, to be, to not be . . . Yes, I do want it all—­mothering, scholaring, just being me I need it all I love it all But does it love me? Does it want me? Does it need me? How w ­ ill I know?

chapter 5

My C ­ hildren Are My Teachers lessons learned as a kanaka maoli mother-­scholar Nicole Alia Salis Reyes (Kanaka Maoli)

In the acad­emy it seems that motherhood and scholarship are often placed at odds with one another. Scholars who are m ­ others often find themselves caught between two ideal types, the ideal professor and the ideal ­mother. The ideal professor is someone who is dedicated solely to his scholarly work (Ward & Wolf-­Wendel, 2012). Unfettered by his personal life (or, perhaps, without one), he is always in the pursuit of knowledge. “He” and “his” are used intentionally h ­ ere as this ideal type is based on a traditional view of professors as men (Ward & Wolf-­Wendel, 2012). Along ­these lines, as with systems of job evaluation in other types of organ­izations, pro­cesses of hiring, tenure, and promotion tend to ­favor male characteristics and preferences for work (Acker, 1990; Ward & Wolf-­Wendel, 2012). The ideal ­mother, on the other hand, is dedicated solely to the care of her c­ hildren (Ward & Wolf-­ Wendel, 2012). She is naturally caring and nurturing. Always putting the well-­being of o ­ thers first, she has l­ittle time for herself and yet does not see this as sacrifice. With such ideals in place, “the general narrative suggests that both faculty life and parenthood are all consuming and irreconcilable, and that only a fool would attempt to balance a tenure-­track academic ­career with the desire for ­children and a ­family life. Any encouragement usually falls in the form of a warning: You can have a faculty ­career and a ­family, so long as you time every­t hing perfectly, perform at an unreasonably high level, learn to function without sleep, neglect any personal needs, and forgo happiness and sanity—at least u ­ ntil you get tenure” (Ward & Wolf-­Wendel, 2012, p. 1). As a result, w ­ omen receive the message that if they want to be taken seriously as scholars, they should delay having ­children at least ­u ntil ­a fter achieving tenure (Armenti, 2000; Drago & Colbeck, 2003; Tierney & Bensimon, 1996; Ward & Wolf-­Wendel, 2012). But ­because ­women often do not achieve tenure ­u ntil an age when female fertility significantly declines (Varner, 2000; Ward & 49

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Wolf-­Wendel, 2012), some may receive the message that they should not have ­children at all. I write this not to suggest that all w ­ omen faculty necessarily want to have ­children. However, t­ hose who do hope to be both scholars and m ­ others often find themselves in a difficult situation. ­Either consciously or unconsciously, they often internalize gendered norms of work in the acad­emy, feeling as though they must work all the time or find ways to silo their personal and professional lives (Acker, 1990; O’Meara, 2015). In many ways, ­mothers in the acad­emy are positioned to feel as though they are failing to meet the expectations of both the ideal scholar and the ideal m ­ other, often leading to the same result, intense feelings of guilt (Sutherland, 2008). While Indigenous scholars face their own challenges with having their scholarship, values, epistemologies, and very existence taken as legitimate within the acad­emy (Brayboy, 2005), I believe that, in many ways, my sense of Indigenous, and more specifically Kanaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian), identity anchored me as I developed si­mul­ta­neously into a scholar and a m ­ other. For me, Indigenous motherhood and Indigenous scholarship w ­ ere forms of re­sis­tance. I saw so much mana (power and strength) in Indigenous ­mothers’ w ­ ill to create and to raise new generations against efforts to colonize and destroy Indigenous life. And while education and research have been implicated in efforts to colonize, I saw possibilities also in Indigenous scholarship to contribute to decolonization (Brayboy, 2005; Salis Reyes, 2018). I think that ­because I was grounded by ­t hese ideas, conceptions of the ideal m ­ other and the ideal scholar held a bit less weight for me. This is certainly not to say that I have been impervious to societal expectations of motherhood and scholarship or that my journey into academic motherhood has been easy. This journey has brought with it stress, calm, pain, absolute joy, guilt, and love. However, through it all, I have learned that I cannot be ­either or both an ideal m ­ other and ideal scholar, at least not by the standards noted above. I did not want to pursue my scholarship at the cost of my f­ amily, and I did not believe that being a good ­mother meant that I should sacrifice my scholarship. Rather, I had to find ways to perform both roles in ways that aligned with our ­family’s needs and fulfilled my senses of kuleana (responsibility) in both arenas. This was dually impor­tant ­because I believed that I could also fulfill impor­tant kuleana to ka lāhui Hawaiʻi (the Hawaiian nation) through my roles as both a m ­ other and a scholar. In this sense, it has been impor­tant for me to consider the ways that I have met (or not) the expectations of scholarship and motherhood not in isolation from one another. Instead, I have sought to understand who I am and who I could be as a Kanaka Maoli “motherscholar” (Matias, 2010), to make connections between how my motherhood critically informs my scholarship, how my scholarship critically informs my motherhood, and how my academic motherhood critically informs my sense of kuleana lāhui (responsibilities to nation building). In this essay, I share some of my stories of being a new ­mother and an emerging scholar and consider how t­ hese experiences shape who I am as a Kanaka Maoli ­mother in the acad­emy.

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My Journey into Indigenous Academic Motherhood My journey into Indigenous academic motherhood began during my time as a doctoral student. For almost the entirety of five years, as I trained to be a higher education scholar, I was also e­ ither hāpai (pregnant) or nursing. As I reflect on ­t hese beginnings, I cannot help but to do so in relation to my keiki (­children).

Anelaliʻiliʻi Two pink lines. One was dark, almost magenta. One was so faint, we had to squint to see it. But both ­were ­t here. My husband, Patrick, and I took a deep breath. We first met when w ­ ere just kids in college, and nearly a de­cade ­later we w ­ ere about to become parents. In an instant we ­were overcome with joy, excitement, and fear. We always knew that we wanted to raise a ­family together, but ­were we ­really ready? Only a few weeks ­earlier, I had begun another journey, taking my very first courses as a doctoral student. How would this work? Would I be able to continue on in my studies with a baby on the way? Sadly, only a c­ ouple months l­ ater, we lost that first child, our Anelaliʻiliʻi (­little angel). My husband and I ­were devastated. While we may have had our fears, we also had made room in our hearts and in our intentions for this dear ­little one. Though sweet Anela was still too small for me to feel him kick, I somehow still felt him. He was a part of me and I was a part of him. As I read about or­ga­nized anarchies, type I and type II errors, and validation theory, I i­ magined that he was learning with me. When I needed a ­little nudge of encouragement during a classroom pre­sen­ta­tion, I touched my belly and ­t here he was. When my doctor told my husband and I that our baby’s heart had s­ topped, mine almost did too. I stared at the ultrasound screen for that l­ittle rhythmically flickering light that we had seen before. That l­ ittle light, that l­ ittle heartbeat was gone. A l­ ittle piece of me wondered if maybe it was my fault. Maybe I worked too much. Maybe I should have taken care of myself—of us—­better. Maybe. It took me days to heal physically a­ fter we lost Anela, but it took me months to heal emotionally and spiritually. During that time, I buried myself in my coursework and in my responsibilities as a doctoral fellow in my program. I thought that focusing on t­ hese ­t hings might help me to keep my mind off of the loss.

Mariano Keolapono Maybe we w ­ ere crazy, but my husband and I thought that we should try to time getting pregnant again so that I would give birth just a­ fter completing all of my doctoral coursework. By then I would no longer be beholden to anyone e­ lse’s schedule and would be working on my own time. With rose-­colored glasses, I envisioned myself sitting at home writing my dissertation with a baby sleeping peacefully next to me. Although a part of me still worried if we might miscarry again, another part of me yearned for this vision to come to fruition. I wanted desperately to have a child whom we could hold and care for, one whom we could nurture and watch grow. Thankfully, we soon became pregnant again.

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During our first prenatal appointment, we discovered that our ­little one was due to be born exactly on my thirtieth birthday. It felt like such an incredible blessing. For the next several months, I continued to chug away at my last course requirements while also caring for my physical, emotional, and spiritual health. I read, I wrote, I prayed, I ate, I slept, and I spent as much quality, quiet time with my husband as I could. Fi­nally, in the m ­ iddle of the night a­ fter my birthday, I went into ­labor. I nudged my husband that it was time to go to the hospital. ­Things ­didn’t happen exactly as we planned, though. Almost two painstaking days ­later, our son fi­nally arrived. He was beautiful. As we got to know him ­t hose first ­couple of days, we settled on naming him Mariano Keolapono. Mariano, in honor of the Virgin Mary, who we believed had heard our prayers and interceded on our behalf. Keolapono, meaning the good, balanced life in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi. In Hawaiian culture, names are power­f ul. They give your life meaning. We hoped that we had chosen wisely. ­Those first days, weeks, and months a­ fter coming home from the hospital w ­ ere difficult. A ­ fter several complications during childbirth, I was in pain and felt weak. It was incredibly frustrating. How could I care for another new life when I could barely care for myself? I had to learn to be patient with myself and with the healing pro­cess. With time, I got stronger. Patrick and I also began to get into more of a groove with caring for Mariano. It was an incredible learning experience. However, I quickly began to realize that that picture I had in my head of working at home with my sleeping baby next to me was more than a ­little naïve. Initially, finding a balance between my responsibilities as a m ­ other and an aspiring academic was difficult. Since I was Mariano’s primary caretaker at the time, I had to figure out how to manage my studies and my work as a gradu­ate student with him by my side. While I managed to squeeze in time to work at home as he slept or played, ­t here ­were also times when I had to come to campus to meet with my mentors and peers. It was not unusual for me to come to campus for meetings with Mariano in tow. Each time, I remember hoping that he would fall asleep on the car ­ride over so that I would be able to participate actively in discussion. When he was not lulled to sleep, however, I tended to apologize for Mariano’s interjections. Looking back, it saddens me to think that I felt the need to apologize. I was a scholar who also happened to be a young ­mother, and Mariano was a curious infant who needed me, his mama. In some ways, I seemed to be apologizing for us simply existing in the acad­emy. My impulse to apologize, in some ways, seemed to stem from my internalization of the expectations of an ideal scholar. According to this norm, college campuses should be considered serious places of study that demand separation from the personal (Acker, 1990). This comes from a history in U.S. higher education where both professors and students ­were privileged young men largely without familial responsibilities (Thelin, 2019). Thus, in large part, ­mothers and ­children have not been pre­sent on college campuses. However, even ­today, as student bodies and (to a much lesser degree) the professoriate has become increasingly diversified according to gender, race, and other markers of difference, college campuses

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largely remain child-­f ree zones. Even the physical features of campus echo the notion that c­ hildren are not welcome. At my own doctoral institution, for instance, ­there w ­ ere no lactation rooms or even bathroom changing t­ ables readily available. Fortunately, however, I had mentors and peers who did not fault me for being a ­mother or Mariano for being the baby that he was. I distinctly recall one of my male colleagues encouraging me not to be sorry for my or Mariano’s presence on campus. We belonged ­t here as much as anyone e­ lse. Therefore, campus, including its faculty, staff, and students, would have to adjust to accommodate us. At that time, I think that it fi­nally clicked for me in a personal way that, if we in higher education ­really cared about our ­f uture generations, then campus should not have to be a no-­child zone. According to ‘ōlelo noʻeau (Hawaiian wise and poetical saying), “He lei poina ʻole ke keiki” (A lei never forgotten is the beloved child) (Pukui, 1983, p. 82). Our c­ hildren are precious and are the reason why we do what we do. From that time on, although I did not take Mariano with me ­every time I went to campus, I s­ topped apologizing when I did.

Keahi Clemente When I found out I was hāpai for the third time, Mariano was just over a year old, and I was fi­nally fitting into some of my pre-­pregnancy clothes. I had also recently realized that I needed more help. My husband and I humbly asked my mom if she could come live with us to help care for Mariano so that I would be able to work on my dissertation and gradu­ate within the next year and a half. We w ­ ere so blessed that she said yes. With the extra support, I was starting to make good pro­gress on my comprehensive exam and dissertation proposal. Before then, it seemed that I could never read enough and t­ here was never enough time for all that I read to sink in. But fi­nally my own words and ideas, built upon ­t hose of o ­ thers who came before me, w ­ ere ready to leave my head and make it onto the page. ­Those two ­little pink lines again came as a surprise. Being a new parent was exhausting the first time around. We d ­ idn’t know if we w ­ ere ready to do it again so soon. I also worried that having another baby might throw off the graduation timeline that I had set for myself. We always knew that we wanted another child though and thought that we could figure out a way to make it work. As our baby grew within me, I continued writing. Slowly but surely, I continued to make pro­g ress. I passed my comprehensive examination. I successfully defended my dissertation proposal. And, ­after a few minor edits, I applied for and received Institutional Review Board approval. B ­ ecause of the circumstances of Mariano’s birth, we expected to welcome our second child into the world through C-­section. So, as our pregnancy progressed, we also had a good idea of when we would schedule his arrival. My next task was to complete data collection before then. In some ways, as my belly grew larger and larger, our coming child helped me to remain balanced. I ­couldn’t just burn the candle at both ends to get t­ hings done. I also had to rest, to put his and my health and well-­being first. Yet, in many ways, our coming child pushed me to move forward with my research. He was with me

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through this ­whole pro­cess. He motivated me to keep ­going—­not only ­because of the compressed deadline that he created for me but also ­because I wanted to do him and his ­brother proud. As I spoke to participants about how and why they strove to give back to Native ­peoples, his ever-­present beingness in my body reminded me of why it was all worth it. Our c­ hildren needed us. Almost a month before he was due, I woke up in the m ­ iddle of the night feeling contractions. They w ­ eren’t strong, but they w ­ ere steady. Eventually, they w ­ ere frequent enough that I knew we needed to go to the hospital. I laughed to myself. I had a plan. I was supposed to have at least three more weeks to conduct interviews before his arrival. I was supposed to go in for my C-­section before the onset of birthing pains. Our sweet, dear one had his own plan, though. We named him Keahi Clemente. In ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi, Keahi means “the fire.” It seemed so fitting in dif­fer­ent ways. In our faith, fire represents the Holy Spirit, which we believed had been with us through our son’s coming. Fire also seemed to represent the way that he came into our lives, quickly and on his own terms. Even the ʻehu (reddish tinged) hair he was born with seemed fitting. Clemente, meaning “mild and merciful,” we thought, might help to balance his fiery side. Of course, like with other fires, Keahi’s arrival was a time of ­great change in our f­ amily. Yet, with this change also came renewal.

The Lessons My Keiki Have Taught Me Through all of ­t hese experiences and countless ­others, my sons have taught me so many lessons about how I can live as a Kanaka Maoli motherscholar. They have been my greatest sources of learning, which brings me to my first lesson.

Learning Comes from Many Sources Sometimes ­there is a tendency to think of only ­those in authority as having the power to teach. According to a banking concept of education, learning occurs unidirectionally, from teacher to student (Freire, 2003). Similarly, in parent-­child relationships, parents are charged with teaching their c­ hildren and ­children are expected to listen. However, as a parent, I have come to realize that I must also listen to my ­children for they have so much to teach me. They see the world with such innocence. Patrick and I recently started asking Mariano and Keahi each week about the ­things that they are most thankful for. I love hearing their answers. Sometimes, they talk about being thankful for t­ hings like pizza or ice cream, but, other times, they talk about being thankful for the time that they have been able to spend with one another, with us, with their grandparents, and/or with their ­uncles, aunts, cousins, and friends. In ­these instances, they have reminded me to look at the world through a child’s eyes, to be grateful for all that we have, g­ reat and small, and to cherish e­ very minute that we have together. Our keiki are our most precious gifts, and even in their innocence, they may convey g­ reat wisdom. As the ‘ōlelo noʻeau goes, “ʻAʻohe pau ka ʻike i ka hālau hoʻokāhi” (All knowledge is not taught in the same school) (Pukui, 1983, p. 24). In other words, “one can learn from many sources” (Pukui, 1983, p. 24). While faculty are often revered

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as receptacles of knowledge and m ­ others are expected (or perhaps respected) to always be right, I recognize that I, as a faculty member and as a m ­ other, most certainly do not know it all and often do not even know it best. Rather, like a child, the more that I am open to learning from o ­ thers and from the world around me, the more that I am able to grow and to develop. My task then is to keep listening.

­There Is No One Right Way to Get Th ­ ings Done As my husband and I prepared to become parents, we read several books and took several classes on what to expect at childbirth and during the first year of infancy. We also turned to other parents, especially our own, for advice. It seemed that every­one had dif­fer­ent ideas of how best to parent and every­one believed that they ­were right. But, we learned that what worked for o ­ thers did not always work for us. In the professoriate, following from the ideal scholar trope, ­t here seems to be less variation regarding how to be a so-­called successful academic. The master narrative suggests that when you are on the job market, you should cast a relatively wide net and accept a position at the most prestigious institution pos­si­ble. Next, once you are on the job, you should spend minimal time tending to your teaching and ser­v ice responsibilities and maximum time researching through the use of widely accepted methodologies and theoretical frameworks. Moreover, you should publish completed research primarily in the most well-­respected journals with the highest impact ­factors. Fi­nally, only a­ fter you have achieved tenure and gained national and international status as a scholar through following ­t hese steps may you begin to devote more time to the research, teaching, and ser­v ice activities that you might care most about but are least rewarded in the acad­emy. This master narrative upholds the experiences and intentions of white and male faculty as normative (e.g., Baez, 2000; Delgado Bernal & Villalpando, 2002; Stanley, 2007). Speaking to this, Stanley (2007) explained, “Master narratives are often ­mental models of how voices of the dominant culture have justified systems and rules in educational research, in such a way that makes t­ hese models ‘the standard’ ” (p. 15). While ­these norms are pervasive in the professoriate, I have learned that, as with parenting, this normative approach to the professoriate does not work for me. It does not align with my goals for entering the acad­emy or with who I am at my core. What would be the point of being in the acad­emy if I am no longer striving to reach my goals or if I can no longer even be myself? As parents, my husband and I have taken many opinions, as well as our own intuitions, into account as we have de­cided how we would care for and raise our keiki. We have had to reflect on our own lives and our own values to find what was right for us as an ‘ohana (­family). I have tried to take a similar course in navigating my way through the acad­emy. Meyer (1998) has posited that “to know something is to consider it via your emotions, your mind, and thus Hawaiians point to their stomach region when speaking of something of substance. Hawaiians use their bodies as an instrument of communication, a tool in which to understand their world” (p. 26). Taking heed of emotions then is essential in seeking wisdom and in working t­oward what is pono (right, just, harmonious). With this in mind, while taking in advice from

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­ thers, I have also tried to listen to my naʻau (gut, center of being) regarding how o to work t­ oward tenure in ways that complement my f­ amily life and align with my original goals for entering the professoriate—to Indigenize the acad­emy and make higher education work for Indigenous and other racially and ethnically minoritized communities. As Brayboy (2005) and Meyer (2001, 2008) suggest, scholarship must have some utility if it is to have a place in Indigenous communities.

Some Th ­ ings Come Together in Their Own Time and in Their Own Way For as long as I can remember, I have been a planner. I like to know where I am headed and when and how. I have learned, however, that even the best-­laid plans can change. Sometimes t­ hings come together in their own time. In some cases, it seems that change cannot come soon enough. We could not wait for Mariano’s arrival. In fact, we w ­ ere sent home from the hospital twice before we w ­ ere fi­nally admitted into delivery. My l­ abor with him seemed to go on forever (it lasted nearly two days), and all I wanted to do was to meet him for the first time outside of my body. But, he seemed just to need more time. In the end, he was so worth the wait. In other cases, change comes before you think you are ready for it. When we found out that we w ­ ere pregnant with Keahi, we worried that it was too soon to become a f­ amily of four. I thought I was crazy to have not just one but two c­ hildren over the course of my program. I was not sure if I could h ­ andle caring for a newborn and a toddler while finishing my dissertation and entering the academic job market. However, Keahi, our ­little fire, burst into our lives at just the right time. He came when it was right for him. Eventually, we realized that it was right for us too. Our ‘ohana would not be complete without him. ­These experiences have helped me as a scholar to accept when even my scholarly endeavors do not happen according to plan. When it comes to writing, I often need a lot of time for ideas to marinate in my mind before the words w ­ ill come to me. This was especially the case for my comprehensive examination and proposal (and even this chapter). Although I was a l­ittle embarrassed, I had to ask for two extensions before my ideas fi­nally began to come together in written form. In the end, t­ hese extensions allowed me to build a stronger foundation for my dissertation study. I have learned that sometimes I need to be patient with myself and with my thoughts. In other instances, I have learned that I need to be resilient and willing to take on new challenges. Over the past year or so, new writing opportunities have come up that I did not initially anticipate, but, by saying yes, I have been able to push myself in new ways.

I ­Can’t Do It All and I C ­ an’t Do It All Alone All of this is not to suggest that motherscholars should say yes to every­t hing. Despite what Sandberg (2013) might say, “leaning in” often seems to be a r­ ecipe for burnout. In the acad­emy, this may be especially true for w ­ omen faculty of color who are often taxed with additional burdens and responsibilities due to their multiply minoritized race-­and gender-­based identities (Conway-­Jones, 2006; Hirshfield & Joseph, 2012). Some of this identity taxation includes being expected to act

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as nurturing caregivers; to advise all ­women students and students of color, lifting the burden from male and white colleagues; to offer expertise related to diversity and equity on vari­ous institutional committees; and to serve as a marketable face for institutional diversity to boot (Conway-­Jones, 2006; Hirshfield & Joseph, 2012). All the while, ­women faculty of color often face discrimination from colleagues and students and receive ­little to no recognition for their unique contributions (Conway-­Jones, 2006; Hirshfield & Joseph, 2012). Taken together, ­t hese burdens can be draining. Reflecting on their own experiences as ­women faculty of color, Nicol and Yee (2017) stated: “We know that we cannot sustain ourselves if we are physically exhausted, emotionally drained, and spiritually dead. Therefore, when embarking on our c­ areers as ju­nior tenure-­track faculty—­assistant professors— we made commitments to each other to resist sacrificing our health and fulfillment as holistic beings and to ‘not let this job kill us’ ” (p. 135). Their passage points to how the burdens of “the job” can “kill you” over time and how impor­tant it is to not let it happen. As I became further socialized into academia as a doctoral student, I heard from vari­ous ­women faculty and faculty of color that the professoriate could take and take and take all that you have to give if you do not learn to draw bound­aries and protect your time. In this way, they seemed to advocate early on for a practice of radical self-­care, as a means of taking control over “with whom, how, and how often we engage in our nested, interconnected worlds so that we can be unapologetically ourselves in the face of unrelenting pressure and expectations to be other­wise” (Nicol & Yee, 2017, p. 134). I began to take to heart that I would need to learn how to practice radical self-­care if I wanted not only to survive but to thrive in the acad­emy without losing myself or my sense of purpose. When I was hāpai, other parents would often tell Patrick and I about how much life would change once our ­children ­were born. Before Mariano’s arrival, they told us that we should get as much sleep as we could ­because soon we would not be getting any. They told us that every­t hing we do would soon revolve around this tiny life and that being a parent was both the most challenging and most rewarding job we would ever take on. While I think we took their advice in stride, we still could not fully appreciate it ­until we ­were living it. However, once Mariano was born, we fi­nally understood. Parenting was amazingly beautiful yet absolutely exhausting, especially since we had no idea what we ­were ­doing. Th ­ ose first weeks with Mariano, we both woke up for night feedings, we regularly checked to see that he was still breathing, we worried about w ­ hether or not we ­were bathing him correctly, and on and on and on. We ­were zombies. I had not officially taken off any time from my program or gradu­ate assistantship at that time, but I quickly realized that if I tried to keep up with all of my tasks and expectations as both a ­mother and a doctoral student full force, I could wind up ­running myself into the ground. Honestly, I already felt like I was halfway ­under. Realizing that I could never get back that precious time with Mariano during t­ hose first few months, I de­cided to slow down on my preparation for the dissertation pro­cess so that I could focus more energy on caring for him. Then, eventually, when I felt ready to spend more time with my research, I realized that I was ­going to need

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more help taking care of Mariano. Coming to and accepting this realization was not easy ­because ­t here was still a part of me that thought I should be able to do it all, but I learned to let that go. We coordinated times when our local f­ amily members could pick up Mariano around their work schedules, which gave me a bit more time to work and gave them time to develop a close bond with their grand­son and nephew. Eventually, once we also knew Keahi was coming and I got closer to when I hoped to complete my dissertation research, we asked my mom if she could stay with us to help watch the boys ­until I could defend and gradu­ate. For months, she lived with us in Texas while my dad stayed home in Hawaiʻi. It was such a sacrifice. We w ­ ere so very fortunate to have our ­family’s love and support through this time. With their help, our sons received excellent love and care and I was able to complete my program while also preparing for the professoriate. This did not mean that once our ­family stepped in, I washed my hands of my f­ amily life and focused solely on my research. Rather, it meant that I was better able to practice radical self-­care, to devote time to my f­ amily and to the scholarship that I had grown so passionate about. In the end, the time that I spent in study refreshed me for the time that I was able to spend with my keiki and vice versa.

­Things D ­ on’t Begin or End with Just Me Perhaps the greatest lesson of all for me is that my work as a m ­ other and a scholar has never begun or ended with just me. I am ­here b ­ ecause of countless ­others who have come before me to make my life pos­si­ble. As such, I am also ­here to be a good ancestor (Kupo as cited in Salis Reyes, 2019), to ensure the survivance of ­f uture generations. The traditional Kanaka ʻŌiwi concept of nā piko ʻekolu (the three piko, body points, or centers) represents this intergenerational bond that transcends space and time, where the individual serves as the link between her or his ancestors and her or his descendants (Blaisdell, 1996; Pukui et al., 1972/2002): • The piko poʻo, head piko or posterior fontanel, connects the individual’s spirit with the spiritual realm, including her or his ancestors and ʻaumākua (deified ancestors who take on forms in nature) since time immemorial. • The piko waena, ­middle piko or navel, connects the individual with her or his parents, especially m ­ other, and other relatives in the con­temporary world. Its location on the body, over the naʻau, is impor­tant given that the naʻau is believed to center us in knowledge, wisdom, and emotion. • Fi­nally, the piko maʻi, genital piko or genitals, connects the individual to her or his descendants into the perpetual f­ uture. ­These piko ʻekolu highlight the importance of our moʻokūʻauhau (genealogies). While moʻokūʻauhau is most simply translated as genealogy, Wilson-­Hokowhitu (2012) explains that its meaning in ‘ōlelo Hawaiʻi is much more complex. While moʻo refers to tradition and lineage, kū refers to standing and stopping, and ʻauhau refers to the femur and humerus bones of the body, “the kaona and deep significance [of t­ hese words strung together] in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi refers to the bones of our

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ancestors that connect us, as Kanaka Maoli, to our islands. The succession of our ancestors, and mana within their bones buried in the ʻāina (land), establish our place to stand tall, our place to protect and defend” (Wilson-­Hokowhitu, 2012, p. 138). In other words, moʻokūʻauhau situates us with our places in the world and, thus, calls us to action. It signifies our kuleana both to our ancestors and to our descendants, to make use of the gifts that we have been given and, with them, to stand tall in protection of our f­ uture generations. While I have always believed in the importance of protecting ­future generations, my keiki have made this kuleana all the more concrete, all the more urgent for me. From the first moments that I felt them in my womb, to the first moments that I held them in my arms, to t­ oday and ­every day that I wake up to their smiling f­ aces and boisterous laughter, I have wanted nothing more but to ensure their safety and happiness. I have wanted nothing more but to give them all the best that I could give. Sometimes this impulse manifests itself in my tendency to want to do too much for them, to overprotect them. Yet, while I might strug­gle with this, I think that my ultimate task as a ­mother is to prepare Mariano and Keahi with the values, knowledge, skills, and opportunities that they w ­ ill need to realize and to fulfill their own kuleana. This is the task of e­ very generation, to prepare the next generation to find their place in moving our lāhui forward. For me, ­t hese notions of moʻokūʻauhau and kuleana have also carried over into the way that I think about my purpose in academia. Along t­ hese lines, Wilson-­ Hokowhitu (2012) has discussed how an impor­tant part of her research pro­cess involves recognizing how other Kanaka Maoli academics have inspired her in her thinking and knowing. Like her, “I find that I am an extension of a long line of Kanaka Maoli seeking to protect, defend, and re­spect our ancestors and the ʻāina in which they reside” (Wilson-­Hokowhitu, 2012, p. 139). In my field of higher education, my purpose is to develop scholarship (broadly defined) that w ­ ill contribute to higher education being more responsive and accountable to the needs and interests of Kanaka Maoli and other Indigenous p ­ eoples, to make better experiences and outcomes pos­si­ble for my keiki and ­others in their generation and beyond. I must also help to provide a scholarly foundation for f­ uture generations of Kanaka Maoli and other Indigenous scholars to build on. As such, what I do as a motherscholar is not about me, it is about perpetuating a cycle of giving back. It is about improving my community. It is about the survivance of my lāhui.

Concluding Thoughts He keiki mea makua. ([It shows] that the child has a parent.) Said in admiration of a child whose parents show affection by making beautiful ­things for his use or compose songs and chants in his honor. (Pukui, 1983, p. 77) While a ­grand narrative might suggest that motherhood and scholarship are each all-­ encompassing and mutually exclusive, this has not been the case for me. I cannot

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easily separate who I am as a ­mother from who I am as a scholar, nor do I want to. As I have alluded to throughout this chapter, I have found g­ reat meaning in thinking about the connections that exist between my motherly and scholarly roles. Being a ­mother gives me a greater sense of purpose as a scholar and being a scholar helps to inform what I hope to offer my c­ hildren as a ­mother. While I am not sure if I could call my work “beautiful,” I do hope that someday my keiki and their generation ­will know that I have cared for them by the scholarship that I create and the changes I am able to contribute to making higher education a better place for them. In a personal way, I believe that some of this change must be in pushing back against the way that academia attempts to silo and to separate. Th ­ ere is much that we can offer when we are not only allowed but encouraged to be our ­whole selves.

References Acker, J. (1990). Hierarchies, jobs, bodies: A theory of gendered organ­izations. Gender and Society, 4(2), 139–158. Armenti, C. (2004). May babies and post-­tenure babies: Maternal decisions of ­women professors. Review of Higher Education, 27(3), 211–231. Baez, B. (2000). Race-­related ser­v ice and faculty of color: Conceptualizing critical agency in academe. Higher Education, 39(3), 363–391. Blaisdell, K. (1996, April). Historical and philosophical aspects of lapaʻau, traditional Kanaka Maoli healing practices. In Motion Magazine. http://­w ww​.­inmotionmagazine​.­com​/­kekuni​ .­html Brayboy, B. M. J. (2005). T ­ oward a tribal critical race theory in education. Urban Review, 37(5), 425–446. Conway-­Jones, D. (2006). Being all ­t hings to all ­people: Expectations of and demands on ­women of color in the ­legal acad­emy. In T. R. Berry & N. D. Mizelle (Eds.), From oppression to grace: W ­ omen of color and their dilemmas within the acad­emy (pp. 121–130). Stylus. Delgado Bernal, D., & Villalpando, O. (2002). An apartheid of knowledge in academia: The strug­gle over the “legitimate” knowledge of faculty of color. Equity & Excellence in Education, 35(2), 169–180. Drago, R.  W., & Colbeck, C. (2003). Final report from the mapping proj­ect: Exploring the  terrain of U.S. colleges and universities for faculty and families. Alfred  P. Sloan Foundation. Freire, P. (2003). Pedagogy of the oppressed (M. B. Ramos, Trans.). Continuum. Hirshfield, L. E., & Joseph, T. D. (2012). “We need a ­women, we need a black ­woman”: Gender, race, and identity taxation in the acad­emy. Gender and Education, 24(2), 213–227. Matias, C. E. (2010). Critical race dialogue [Paper pre­sen­ta­t ion]. American Educational Research Association, Denver, CO. Meyer, M. A. (1998). Native Hawaiian epistemology: Sites of empowerment and re­sis­tance. Equity & Excellence in Education, 31(1), 22–28. Meyer, M. A. (2001). Our own liberation: Reflections on Hawaiian epistemology. Con­ temporary Pacific, 13(1), 124–148. Meyer, M. A. (2008). Indigenous and au­t hen­tic: Hawaiian epistemology and the triangulation of meaning. In N. K. Denzin, Y. S. Lincoln, & L. T. Smith (Eds.), Handbook of critical and Indigenous methodologies (pp. 217–232). SAGE. Nicol, D. J., & Yee, J. A. (2017). “Reclaiming our time”: W ­ omen of color faculty and radical self-­care in the acad­emy. Feminist Teacher, 27(2–3), 133–156.

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O’Meara, K. (2015). A ­career with a view: Agentic perspectives of ­women faculty. Journal of Higher Education, 86(3), 331–359. Pukui, M. K. (1983). ʻŌlelo noʻeau: Hawaiian proverbs & poetical sayings. Bishop Museum Press. Pukui, M. K., Haertig, E. W., & Lee, C. A. (2002). Nānā i ke kumu (Look to the source) (Vol. 1). Hui Hānai. (Original work published 1972) Salis Reyes, N. A. (2018). A space for survivance: Locating Kānaka Maoli through the resonance and dissonance of critical race theory. Race Ethnicity and Education, 21, 739–756. https://­doi​.­org​/­10​.­1080​/­13613324​.­2017​.­1376632 Salis Reyes, N. A. (2019). “What am I d ­ oing to be a good ancestor?” An Indigenized phenomenology of giving back among Native college gradu­ates. American Educational Research Journal, 56, 603–637. https://­doi​.­org​/­10​.­3102​/­0002831218807180 Sandberg, S. (2013). Lean in: ­Women, work, and the ­will to lead. Knopf. Stanley, C.  A. (2007). When c­ ounter narratives meet master narratives in the journal editorial-­review pro­cess. Educational Researcher, 36(1), 14–24. Sutherland, J.-­A. (2008). Ideal mama, ideal worker: Negotiating guild and shame in academe. In E. Evans & C. Grant (Eds.), Mama, PhD: ­Women write about motherhood and academic life (pp. 213–221). Rutgers University Press. Thelin, J. R. (2019). A history of American higher education (3rd ed.). Johns Hopkins University Press. Tierney, W. G., & Bensimon, E. M. (1996). Promotion and tenure: Community and socialization in academe. State University of New York Press. Varner, A. (2000). The consequences and costs of delaying attempted childbirth for ­women faculty. Department of ­L abor Studies and Industrial Relations, Pennsylvania State University. Ward, K., & Wolf-­Wendel, L. (2012). Academic motherhood: How faculty manage work and ­family. Rutgers University Press. Wilson-­ Hokowhitu, N. (2012). He pukoa kani ʻāina: Kanaka Maoli approaches to moʻokūʻauhau as methodology. AlterNative, 8(2), 137–147.

chapter 6

Dreams of Hózhó within the Womb a navajo ­mother’s letter to her newest love Nizhoni Chow-­Garcia (Diné)

On a recent Tuesday eve­ning, I picked up my toddler from day care and headed back to campus. Along the way I got not one, but two Happy Meals to keep him busy and made sure he had his favorite shows at the ready. At sixth months pregnant, I trudged across campus with my ­little companion complaining of the cold and his tired feet. And so ­t here I was, carry­ing two babies, two Happy Meals, and one tired mama to an after-­hours work event. ­Children are an unusual presence on my campus, and regrettably this is the case at most institutions of higher education. I have wondered about this missing perspective and link—­the void of ­future generations who are altogether excluded from the acad­emy. I have felt guilty about my motherly obligations—­the need to leave my office at a reasonable hour, the weekends spent at the park rather than at the computer, and the ways in which some colleagues question my professional priorities. It is not easy being a m ­ other, let alone an Indigenous m ­ other, in the acad­emy. ­There are ste­reo­t ypes and expectations made of me that layered on top of the daily, nonstop business of drop-­offs to pick-­ups, potty training, cooking then cleaning, work meetings, and academic deadlines, leave me all together exhausted. Yet, it is in being an Indigenous m ­ other, and in living and pushing beyond such gendered and racialized bound­a ries in the acad­emy, that I find meaning. Motherhood has centered and continues to center my personal, professional, and academic experiences. And so, in the hopes that this provides some insight into what it means to be an Indigenous m ­ other in the acad­emy, I share with you a letter to my newest love and second son, penned just prior to his transition into this world and full of wishes for a f­ uture of hózhó. 62

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A Letter to My Son To My Newest Love, In ­t hese last few days before your arrival, I reflect on our journey together. You, blossoming within my belly, have changed me both physically and metaphysically! In the science world, this is known as microchimerism and t­ here is substantive research that shows that fetal cells linger in the m ­ other’s blood, bone, and even brain for years to come (Philips, 2012). Such life-­bearing and life-­giving powers are transformative; and we, as past, pre­sent, and f­ uture Indigenous ­mothers, continue to honor this power in our thoughts, in our prayers, and in our ceremonies. In 2014, while pregnant with your ­brother and in the beginnings of my dissertation research, I went to visit ­family on the rez. I was embraced by aunties and admonished to direct only good thoughts and practices ­toward you while in the womb. Although I agreed to their admonitions, it was the physical preparations for your b ­ rother that took pre­ce­dence. Now pregnant with you, the m ­ ental preparations are at the forefront, and I realize that my journey to you and by you has me far more prepared than at any other point in my life. Hózhó: A Central Guide For the Diné, knowledge is neither inherently known nor casually given; rather, it is sown, nurtured, and developed over time. Pain and suffering birth love and meaning into this fourth world and so as I write this, late in my second pregnancy, I embrace the deep thought and reflection such sacred life-­bearing space opens up to me. During my first pregnancy and while dissertating, I had uninterrupted time to think and write and with it came my first dance with hózho iina’ (the beauty way of life). Hózho iina’ is a prayer that embodies the essence of Diné life—­hózhó1— to live in beauty, harmony, balance, happiness, and good health. A prayer to recover from all that is painful, from what is broken. A prayer to walk in beauty. Hózhóogo Iina’ (The Beauty Way of Life) Hózhóogo naasháa doo (In beauty I walk) Shitsiji’ hózhóogo naasháa doo (With beauty before me I walk) Shikéédéé’ hózhóogo naasháa doo (With beauty ­behind me I walk) Shideigi hózhóogo naasháa doo (With beauty above me I walk) T’áá altso shinaagóó hózhóogo naasháa doo (With beauty around me I walk) Hózhó náhásdlíí’ (It has become beauty again) Hózhó náhásdlíí’ (It has become beauty again) Hózhó náhásdlíí’ (It has become beauty again) Hózhó náhásdlíí’ (It has become beauty again)

The Navajo purpose is to reach hózhó, which is a state of peace, happiness, and plenty where balance and harmony can be achieved, and to learn be­hav­ior applicable to hózhó (Benally, 1987). Hózhó represents the world of the Holy ­People, the

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diyin diné’é, who created the Earth and its ele­ments (McNeley, 1981). The Navajo ­people are instructed that they have unlimited potential, even to the extent that they may become Holy P ­ eople, who represent harmony and balance. T ­ oward this purpose, the stories instruct us to look to the knowledge imparted by the creators that are found within the ele­ments of the Earth, parts of the day, and placed in the four cosmic directions. Accordingly, I have or­ga­nized this letter using a hózhó framework. In this manner of imparting gish,2 it is my hope that this letter may serve as a guide for our interconnected pathways t­oward hózhó, and bring to light and life a new way of being, my awéé’ (baby), a Hózhóogo Iina’.

Hayoolkáál (Dawn) and Nitsáhákees (Thinking) Our stories begin in the East guided by hayoolkáál (dawn) and light where one begins this directional journey through nitsáhákees (thinking) or the “conceptualization of mind and realization of self for positive outcomes” (Werito, 2014, p. 37). This is represented by my childhood and early adulthood and as your shimá (­mother), I begin by recounting who I am by where I come from. Yá’át’ééh! Nizhoni Chow-­Garcia yinishyé. Tódích’íi’nii doo Bina’adaaltzozi bá shishchíín. Áadoo To’tsohnii éí dashicheii doo Bina’adaaltzozi éí dashinálí. Greetings! My name is Nizhoni Chow-­Garcia. I am of the ­Bitter ­Water P ­ eople born for Chinese. My maternal grand­father’s clan is Big ­Water P ­ eople and my paternal grand­father’s clan is Chinese.

We, as Diné, situate ourselves in relation to other Diné by identifying the clan we are born into (­mother’s clan) and born for (­father’s clan), followed by our maternal grand­father’s clan and fi­nally, our paternal grand­father’s clan. Our clans, ­family, and community connection ­matter, and it is in this relational spirit that I have come to understand myself. In many ways, I am a reflection of your shimásání (grand­mother). Although she has since left this world, I am still often mistaken for her and with my long dark hair, high cheekbones, and similar stature, I am undeniably my m ­ other’s ­daughter. Yet, for so long, as young ­daughters so often do, I denied this. I thought I was nothing, both inwardly and outwardly, like my ­mother. As life progressed, I graduated from college, married, returned to gradu­ate school, and became a ­mother. With this time came retrospect, and I now see my ­mother, and myself, more clearly. My educational and professional pathway is very much connected to my ­mother, your shimásání. At fifteen, shimásání left her home on the Navajo Nation, a place our ancestors have lived for hundreds of years, married my ­father, and moved to California in an attempt to better her situation. Shimásání grew up in an impoverished h ­ ouse­hold broken by the per­sis­tent legacy of colonization. Neglected and abused, by the age of seven, shimásání lived near her grandparents in a small shack with neither r­ unning w ­ ater nor electricity. She would spend her days herding sheep

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with her grand­father, moments she trea­sured and spoke of often. It was during this time that shimásání recounts her eve­ning wish to the dark night sky, a wish for love and for happiness. She recalls that on one par­tic­u­lar eve­ning, a vision of her ­f uture lay scattered amongst the stars. She saw that she would have ­children and that they would be her love and her happiness. Holding tight to this dream, by early adolescence shimásání had put herself in a foster home. By fifteen, during a trip to visit her older ­sister in California, shimásání met my dad and fell in love. She, of course, lied about her age but by then, my dad was smitten. Shimásání married my ­father at the ripe old age of sixteen. Despite not graduating high school (or rather in spite of), shimásání vehemently insisted that I be academically successful. More specifically, she was emphatic that my ­sister, your auntie, and I “be nothing like her.” She wanted us to go to college, and she wanted us to delay marrying and having kids ­u ntil our thirties. In our ­middle and high school years, your auntie and I would cringe at her comments, wondering why she would nag us about life events that felt an eternity away. As we became increasingly in­de­pen­dent, it seemed as though shimásání’s sense of purpose began to fade. She was our biggest cheerleader, ever-­present at sporting and academic events, but she was also falling into a deep depression. Grandpa encouraged her to earn her high school diploma and find work or hobbies, anything to make her happy. But, nothing helped and nothing would help. Her depression would become so all-­consuming that the air in our home grew heavy, ­every exertion of breath labored. Th ­ ere is truly nothing like a parent’s depression to create an empathetic and hopeful child, desperate to please. ­Whether it was the desire to make shimásání happy or b ­ ecause I hoped to avoid the volatile climate manic depression breeds, I maintained an exhaustive schedule of advanced placement coursework and extracurriculars. Upon graduation, I de­cided to attend UCLA, which involved significant adjustment. I had never before been confronted with so much privilege. My parents had no money and I was attending college entirely dependent on financial aid, multiple scholarships, and a work-­study job. I attempted to navigate a sea of white wealth and I was desperate to fit in. With a student body of well over 40,000, of whom fewer than 0.5 ­percent are self-­identified Native American, I met each year feeling lost and without direction (UCLA, 2015). It comes as no surprise to me now that throughout college and even upon graduation, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I was simply trying to gradu­ate. I am ashamed of how desperate I was to fit in then—­how I cared so much about appearances to my privileged peers that I pretended to be anything but a poor mixed Native w ­ oman. Upon graduation, I de­cided to move across the country to New Haven, Connecticut. My partner, your dad, had just begun his doctoral work at Yale and with what seemed like slim options, I enrolled in gradu­ate school to pursue a master’s degree in education and began teaching at an inner-­city charter school. I felt awkward and inept. I was far from being a skilled and proficient teacher, but so very few are in t­ hose early years. I realize now that I was harsher and far more critical of myself than I should have been.

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Still, it was not ­until a trip to Upstate New York for your ­father’s interview at RIT that my journey seemed to find its course. I was approached by a tall guy with a long ponytail who stated rather than inquired, “­You’re Native, right? Navajo, right?” It turns out that he was Coquille Indian and a faculty member at the university. We chatted for a few minutes and he mentioned that he was involved in the university’s Native American student support program and that they had an open position, which he encouraged me to apply for. Shortly afterward, I was working in higher education with Native American students and would find myself on a road trip to the Onondaga Nation with three Native American faculty members. A warm and friendly group, they goaded me into returning to school for a doctoral degree. Before then I had not thought of myself as capable—­t hose degrees ­were for clever, highly intelligent types—­not me. Given such low expectations of myself, I was surprised to see the ac­cep­tance letter and even more surprised to have it accompanied by a full fellowship opportunity. A year l­ ater, u ­ nder the advisement of one of t­ hose three Native faculty members, I began the doctoral program. That Native faculty member would support me as an Indigenous academic ­mother, urging me south on a path t­ oward Nihodootlizh and Nahat’á.

Nihodootlizh (Blue Twilight) and Nahat’á (Planning) From the East we move South, guided by nihodootlizh (blue twilight) and w ­ ater, where we engage in nahat’á (planning) or “achieving critical consciousness through the pro­cess of achieving and planning life goals” (Werito, 2014, p. 37). In my first thirty years, censorship and self-­doubt w ­ ere my cage; and so, the palpable tension and ongoing challenge between my sense of identity and its intersections with my research have become key to my critical consciousness.

Such critical liberation began in the summer of 2015. It was the best time of year in Upstate New York—­t he warmth and smell of summer bidding neighbors and friends outdoors to celebrate—­and I d ­ idn’t want to miss that. And so, despite being annoyed at your dad for his summer military training, I trudged down to ­Virginia, the car packed to the brim with toddler toys and my shideezhí (younger ­sister) as a moving companion, and parked outside the military ­hotel ready to begin a decidedly dif­fer­ent summer. We would be physically isolated from extended f­ amily and friends, and by extension and your dad’s buttering claim, I could be mentally focused on my research. My goals that summer w ­ ere to submit my second comprehensive exam and to draft my dissertation proposal, which at that point, seemed overwhelming and unattainable. Nevertheless, I progressed. ­There is something about being displaced that brought focus and schedule to my days. I found im­mense comfort in the no-­ nonsense day care providers, the quipping baristas, the h ­ otel ­house­keeper, and the cheerful librarians. They became, in that order, my routine. I began by dropping your ­brother off and then proceeding to Starbucks to work for the morning. I would

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then head “home” to the ­hotel for lunch where I would chat with the ­house­keeper and then walk across the street to the military library to spend the rest of the after­noon. Initially, the extended solitude was jarring. I had never before been allowed the opportunity to set my mind f­ ree—to read, to reflect, to write of my, and only my, volition. I grew to appreciate such freedom, the luxury of intellectual exploration, and through this pro­cess, I fell into my brain-­optimal 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. routine. I recall reading my advisor and other Indigenous colleagues’ dissertations and thinking deeply about conceptual frameworks. I was at a loss in this department. I had never before taken a course that discussed nondominant paradigms and my formal understanding of such notions ­were ­limited and misinformed. I had also never been encouraged to critically question nondominant paradigms and so my understanding and application of methodological terms like paradigm, epistemology, and positionality w ­ ere not only ­limited, but lacked autonomy of action. ­After what felt like endless reading, writing, and, yes, despair, I was prompted to reflect upon the Diné concept of hózhó and how it might assist me in organ­ izing and interpreting my dissertation data. It was around this same time that I attended a conference pre­sen­ta­tion on a Diné scholar’s methodology of beauty. Her forename, being the same as my own m ­ other’s, as well as the power of her words spoke to me, and we remain connected, my shadí (older ­sister) and I. McAlpin (2008), an Anishanaabe scholar, describes this phenomenon as Biskaabi, or “a return to oneself.” I did not plan this return, and in fact, I felt initial anguish and exhaustion at “stepping back” before I realized that this is part of the process—­ and that it should more readily be viewed as a “side-­step” and a way in which one works t­ oward a state of balance. That summer of critical consciousness was one of healing. I spent the bulk of my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood ashamed and critical of myself. I lived in a world where I thought that success meant blending into the dominant culture, to assimilate. Such pressures to assimilate took their toll on me—­t he implicit devaluing of my culture, of who I am and where I come from—­which led me to lack confidence in my abilities. For so long I felt lost and directionless and it was not ­until surrounded by mentors—­Native American faculty mentors—­t hat I found my strength as a Diné ­woman. Rather than a poor mixed Native ­woman desperate to fit in, my worldview has shifted to one that values and celebrates my cultural integrity. Your shimásání used to say that I am a younger, prettier, smarter version of her. I would suffice her by saying that I am my m ­ other’s d ­ aughter. I am striving to live my life according to hózhóogo iina’, the Beauty Way of Life, and in some small way working to carve out a path for Native ­children who, like your shimásání, lack the opportunity and the guidance to pursue a higher education. On a personal level, that summer was the beginning of my and your shimásání’s return home. On a broader level, that summer marked the beginning of my work t­ oward disrupting and dismantling a hegemonic, Eurocentric system that has actively devalued and

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worked to destroy Native p ­ eoples. In my wishes for you, shiyáázh, may your critical consciousness be an ­earlier and larger flame than my own, one that illuminates the Nihootsoii (Eve­ning Twilight) sky.

Nihootsoii (Eve­ning Twilight) and Iiná (Living/Implementing) From the South, we continue along this circular path West guided by nihootsoii (eve­ning twilight) and wind where we engage in iiná (living/implementing) or “developing an awareness and responsibility to act for self and ­others.” (Werito, 2014, p. 37)

Such responsibility comes hand-­in-­hand with motherhood, and despite the two years since my dissertation defense, a move back west, two h ­ ouses plus a renovation, two jobs, and an impending second child, I am challenged to continue working ­toward ­those personal and broader level goals. Still, I strug­g le with the how—­how, in the midst of life’s fervor, does one work ­toward t­ hese goals and what does that look like? Right now, it is through writing. I must reflect and write, lest I forget. Writing, as ceremony, has become my source of sustenance and healing. It is the manner in which I pause, pro­cess, and perpetuate my Indigenous ways of knowing beyond the acad­emy and to ­f uture generations. I want you, shiyáázh, to know and to learn from my words, whose physical presence ­w ill long outlast my own. This means that I intentionally integrate the personal (being an Indigenous ­mother) and the professional (being a diversity administrator) with the academic (being a teacher and scholar) through my writings. With that intention, I have engaged in a number of collaborative writing proj­ects, one of which explores the experiences of Native ­women serving as diversity leaders in higher education (Chow-­Garcia and Davidson, forthcoming). In this par­tic­u ­lar proj­ect, that same Diné scholar—my shadí—­and I explore how we, as Diné ­women, navigate the challenges and opportunities of integrating princi­ples of Hózhó (harmony) and K’é (kinship) into the administration of diversity efforts in higher education. Th ­ ese princi­ples inherently cultivate a womb-­based space within which we not only feel safe but are encouraged to share, to pro­cess, and to heal from our stories through our writings. My older ­sister, my shadí, has modeled such princi­ples and by ­doing so has encouraged me to take on such personal, professional, and academic ventures. Together, we engage diversity work from our Diné female understandings of relationality. In this new and empowered form, articulated through my writings, I have been able to pro­cess my experiences in higher education. I understand this chaos—­these “tears of education”—­w ithin the context of the Diné creation story.3 Embedded in the structures of hózhó and k’é, I now see most clearly how our ancestors did—­ with an unencumbered faith in the affirming power of relational beings. A world seen through a web of relationships or kinship (k’é), delicate like the spider’s thread, yet strong enough to hang a bridge on would be a world of beauty and balance, a

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dance of hózhó. In this ongoing challenge and affront to my identity, I turn to the princi­ples of hózhó and k’é. Armed with ­t hese princi­ples and the support of relatives like my shadí, I am able to fully assert myself as a Diné mother-­scholar-­ practitioner and overcome the multifaceted challenges in the administration of diversity efforts at an institution of higher education. Such traditional teachings focus on bringing ­t hings into balance and correcting the disharmony that has occurred. In my wishes for you, shiyáázh, may your iiná (living/implementing) or “developing an awareness and responsibility to act for self and o ­ thers, provide guidance for a lifetime of meaning, of hózhó.”

Chahalheel (Darkness) and Siihasin (Reflecting/Assuring) We are then blown North guided by chahalheel (darkness) and the black wind where we engage in siihasin (reflecting/assuring) as “an ongoing pro­cess of self-­awareness and reflection for the good of self, ­family, community and the natu­ral world.” (Werito, 2014, p. 37)

Being an Indigenous m ­ other in the acad­emy is not easy; t­ here have been meetings left and days upended by negative words, differing expectations, and po­liti­ cally charged power dynamics. Yet, it is you, in my womb, that has sustained me. Your movements remind me to keep good thoughts and steady actions and to see the world as one of beauty, of hózhó. Thus, it is in being your Indigenous m ­ other in the acad­emy, that I find my locus of control, my balance in a world so ever-­ charged and ever-­moving. On this path t­ oward hózho iina’, I have prayed for balance and in so many ways this letter embodies ­those prayers and gives birth to your name, SQ’ah Naagheí. We are blessed to have your ­father and older b ­ rother as the strong-­willed, active dimensions in our familial universe and so it is that I wish for you, SQ’ah Naagheí, to bring balance to our f­ amily. Together, you and I may represent peace, tranquility, and long life. Whereas bik’eh hózhó is the active dimension and the source of beautiful and power­ful actions, SQ’ah Naagheí represents the static dimension of the universe and is the source of beautiful and power­f ul thought. It is only through the ­union of ­these two dimensions that life is birthed and a world of hózhó created. Although our hózhó pathways w ­ ill differ, my story is your story and it begins with nitsáhákees (my childhood and early adulthood), progresses through nahat’á (my critical consciousness and first dance with hózhó) and into iiná (my integration of the personal-­professional-­academic spheres). Ultimately, what links t­ hese life pro­cesses is siihasin and the advice and reflection I offer to you and f­ uture generations. This cyclical pro­cess ­will renew; and I hope that you ­will hold tight to who you are and where you come from and that your path ­w ill forever be guided by hózhó. Love, Shimá

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P.S. And a’he’hee (thank you), my awéé’ (baby), for holding tight in my womb u ­ ntil the last word.

Concluding Thoughts This is a love letter of hózhó wishes for my shiyáázh (son). It is also a love letter to all t­ hose past, pre­sent, and ­f uture Indigenous m ­ others who live and push beyond such gendered and racialized bound­aries in the acad­emy to redefine what it means to be an Indigenous ­mother in academia. My ­mothers extend beyond my shimá to include the many Indigenous ­women who have taken the time to “­mother” me. They have played and continue to play significant roles in each of my hózhó phases and to them, a hearty a’he’hee (thank you). We are strong, we are resilient, and although our pathways differ, we are forging something new and meaningful for generations to come. “We are, therefore I am” (Burkhart, 2004).

Notes 1. ​See Benally (1988, 1989, 1994) for a rich discussion of hózhó and the Navajo philosophy of learning. 2. ​Gish, for the Diné, refers to a bundling of knowledge. 3. ​See, for example, Zolbrod (1987) for Diné bahane’, or the Navajo creation story.

References Benally, H. (1987). Diné Bo’ohoo’aah Bindii’a: Navajo philosophy of learning. Diné Bel’iina’: Journal of Navajo Life, 1(1), 133–147. Benally, H. (1988). Diné philosophy of learning. Journal of Navajo Education, 6(1), 10–13. Benally, H. (1992). Spiritual knowledge for a secular society: Traditional Navajo spirituality offers lessons for the nation. Tribal College Journal, 3(4), 19–26. Benally, H. (1994). Navajo philosophy of learning and pedagogy. Journal of Navajo Education, 12(1), 23–31. Burkhart, B.  Y. (2004). What coyote and thales can teach us: An outline of American Indian epistemology. In A. W ­ aters (Ed.), American Indian thought: Philosophical essays (pp. 15–26). Blackwell. Chow-­Garcia, N., & Davidson, C. E. (forthcoming). Indigenizing the profession as an agent of hózhó. McAlpin, J. D. (2008). Place and being: Higher education as a site for creating Biskabii—­ Geographies of Indigenous academic identity (UMI No. 3314841) [Doctoral dissertation, University of Illinois]. ProQuest Dissertations and ­Theses. McNeley, J. K. (1981). Holy wind in Navajo philosophy. University of Arizona Press. Philips, M.  L. (2012, September  26). Bearing sons can alter your mind. Science. www​ .­sciencemag​.­org​/­news​/­2012​/­09​/­bearing​-­sons​-­can​-­a lter​-­your​-­mind UCLA. (2015). UCLA undergraduate admissions: Quick facts. https://­w ww​.­admissions​.­ucla​ .­edu​/­campusprofile​.h ­ tm Werito, V. (2014). Understanding hózhó to achieve critical consciousness: A con­temporary Diné interpretation of the philosophical princi­ples of hózhó. In L. Lee (Ed.), Diné perspectives: Revitalizing and reclaiming Navajo thought (pp. 25–38). University of Arizona Press. Zolbrod, P. G. (1987). Diné bahane’: The Navajo creation story. University of New Mexico Press.

PA RT I I

South–­Planning

chapter 7

Hollo Micha Oh Chash drawing from our choctaw ancestors’ wisdom to decolonize motherhood within the acad­emy Michelle Johnson-­Jennings (Choctaw), Alayah Johnson-­Jennings (Choctaw, Quapaw, Sac & Fox, Miami Nations), and Ahnili Johnson-­Jennings (Choctaw, Quapaw, Sac & Fox, Miami Nations)

Colonization can take an insidious role that purposively interrupts our original instructions—­passed to us from our creator and instructed through our relationships with the land, w ­ ater, air and spirits, which can be most evident in academic environments, especially among Indigenous m ­ others. Historically, academia has been used as a tool to perpetuate cultural ethnocide; and through colonization and accompanying misogynistic worldviews, a hostile environment can emerge within the academia for Choctaw and other Indigenous m ­ others. In fact, academia, or education, has often been a tool to disconnect and smother our Choctaw womanhood and health. For instance, educational pamphlets on motherhood and academic papers attacked Choctaw ­women’s extended breastfeeding beyond age five, cosleeping, nurturing, and positive parenting for their c­ hildren, claiming that they w ­ ere harming their c­ hildren with our ancestral wisdom. Across generations, Choctaw ­women w ­ ere instructed to assume harsh, authoritative parenting styles, b ­ ottle feed, and even spank or physically abuse their c­ hildren, and had to suffer as their c­ hildren ­were abused by o ­ thers from infancy onward through colonial practices and boarding schools (Dejong, 2010). They ­were to raise c­ hildren who fulfilled an ethnocentric, individualistic notion of Western society whose peculiar, often violent, child-­rearing notions w ­ ere deemed superior to Choctaw original instructions of motherhood, ceasing cultural teachings of motherhood. Meanwhile, Choctaw child deaths soared, mother-­child attachments suffered, and the f­ uture generations often suffered from increased trauma and vio­lence (Tjaden & Thoennes, 2006). This colonial disruption did not cease with one generation but flowed into subsequent generations of Choctaws, making reconnecting with our teachings more difficult to access. This river of disconnect often harmed ­those Indigenous persons 73

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who became less connected. It further had a spurious effect of creating cultural hoarders, or t­ hose who retained some sacred knowledge but ­were afraid to share in fear they would be stolen and not freely sharing their cultural jewels with ­others. While greed or holloabi, literally “kill love,” m ­ others are the continued link to hollo (i.e., love as guided by our ­mother’s womb), and many cultural wisdom keepers have continued to share our ways, e­ ither through recordings, writings, or oral traditions. This wisdom has guided ­mothers’ successes and has even supported indigenization in the acad­emy through hollo. Our ­family is but one tale of Choctaw motherhood and daughterhood that has emerged and flourished within the confines of academia. We found our hollo, or love, as guided by oh chash, or calling upon our ancestors, and their original instructions have led to us thriving t­ oday.

Ohoyo Hosh Chisba / Ohoyo Chanspo Ohoyo Hosh Chisba and her power have often been erased, just as our other Choctaw female leaders have been ignored or erased from much of white colonial history. Colonization has crept into our culture and even perverted hollo for many Choctaw ­women and families. Yet stories, such as the following, still persist, guiding our ways. One day a wise and strong Choctaw w ­ oman, Ohoyo Hosh Chisba, was walking along with hollo. Loksi, the turtle, took notice, or so they say. Loksi had always known the power­ful knowledge and wisdom that ­women carried, and that their powers increased during their moon time, or hollo. He knew that when a strong ­woman stepped over someone while she was with hollo, this person would be blessed, protected, or could even receive just a bit of wisdom. Loksi dreamt of hearing the secrets of the ancestors, being blessed like Ohoyo Hosh Chisba, but he knew this was not his wisdom. He also knew that Ohoyo Hosh Chisba would not knowingly choose to bless Loksi, as he had not earned her re­spect. Nonetheless, he slowly crept near to Ohoyo Hosh Chisba. Hoping to remain unnoticed, he began to peer u ­ nder her skirt. They say that Ohoyo Hosh Chisba noticed Loksi and immediately stomped his shell into pieces. Loksi cried in pain and repented at once. ”Please forgive me! I only wanted to be blessed or learn of ­women’s knowledge. I want to help you if I can in all that you do, for you are power­ful and wise as a ­woman. Please spare me!” cried Loksi. Ohoyo Hosh Chisba knew what Loksi did was wrong, but at the same time she knew that he truly valued the power of hollo. She de­cided to take pity on Loksi, and s­ topped short of stomping him to death, or that’s what they say. She told Loksi, “I ­will grant you the privilege to carry some of w ­ omen’s sacred knowledge. However, this does not come without costs.” Loksi gratefully agreed. Based on her pity, she implored the ants to rebuild his shell. During which Loksi continued to state remorse and offer his ­humble help. As guided by her hollo wisdom, she asked the ants to reconstruct his shell to represent the thirteen lunar months and twenty-­eight calendar days for w ­ omen’s typical cycle with the moon. She explained to Loksi, that “the moon cycle was relegated to the

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­ omen, and the knowledge flows from the ancestors to her and onward to ­future w generations. This power culminates during their hollo.” In return, Loksi would sacrifice his shell to the w ­ omen during their sacred stomp dance ceremony. In ­doing so, Loksi would nurture the p­ eople through his shell, just as the w ­ omen do. Ohoyo Hosh Chisba explained, “the hollo, and moon cycle, includes invaluable knowledge regarding planting the crops, starting new adventures, ­etc. Hollo was not only love but connected Choctaws to the animals, plants, their ancestors, and ­future generations, and ­mother earth.” Loksi was honored and grateful to assist with the sacred and protective hollo, or so they say, and so I believe ­today. —­Choctaw story retold by Choctaw Dr. Michelle Johnson-­Jennings

The Choctaw Green Corn, and/or stomp dance, story was told to the first author as a cautionary tale of the power of hollo and the need to re­spect such. This story has been retold within the Johnson-­Jennings ­family as a guide to womanhood, motherhood, and ohoyo/women’s role within gaining and maintaining knowledge. As can be seen in this old Choctaw story, hollo si­mul­ta­neously means to love at a profound level, while at the same time it refers to ­women’s menstrual blood, which contains im­mense power. A ­ fter colonial warfare, intrusion, and failed efforts to convert Choctaws to Chris­tian­ity (Pesantubbee, 2005), we can only imagine the French priests’ confusion when Choctaws tried to explain our meaning ­behind the word for love. Our hollo teachings ­were passed on through our ancestors, within the Green Corn Ceremony. This was one of our most impor­tant ceremonies centering our spirituality, demonstrating the power­f ul belief of sacredness of w ­ omen and celebrates fertility and guiding ceremonies for our community’s spirituality. Thus, even the mere state of having hollo was revered. Choctaw ­women are/­were often referred to lovingly as ishthullo, literally with blood/love; yet only men who earned a ­g reat standing and reverence ­were ever referred to as ishthullo (O’Brien, 2005). Oftentimes, the turtle’s shell story is told among Choctaw without the critical component of why Loksi’s shell was stomped and/or why the ants would assist him to repair it. The authors ­were raised hearing “chi holloli,” relating a deep familial love from one to another. Choctaw ­women’s menstrual blood was not to be despised or whispered of in secrecy; it instead represented and transmitted our deep love and connection from our ancestors to our infants and onto the ­f uture generations. ­There is nothing as sacred and beautiful than our life-­giving blood that guides us into this world. The power of hollo, or love, from m ­ others to babies begins prior to conception. Upon birth, we depart from our ­mother’s womb with a rush of sacred fluids and bloods that guide our path and offer us strength. Hollo was touted to even be protective; hence many Choctaws in the author’s ­family still believe that a red bandana or fabric is protective against any evil. W ­ omen w ­ ere always in charge of deciding whom to bless and responsible for transmission of hollo as love throughout and careful to share with only ­t hose who ­were worthy. ­Those cultural memories often lie beneath the surface of our consciousness, seeking a moment in which to impart their sacred knowledge, and guide w ­ omen

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through motherhood. Hollo cyclically reminds us to recall the ancestors’ presence, look ­toward the ­future, and protect the pre­sent. This is not without sacrifice, as Loksi experienced. We know that t­ here ­will be a sacrifice of pain, at times, and sacred giving. Yet we also know that contributing to the past, pre­sent, and f­ uture generations is our honored position and responsibility as w ­ omen. The braiding of my motherhood, Choctaw womanhood, and c­ areer have provided a strong balance and teachings applicable to my life and f­ amily. The authors propose that this story also provides a framework for our roles as Choctaw ­women who attain academic knowledge and share with ­others. It further has guided the first author’s stage in becoming a m ­ other and experiencing motherhood within the acad­emy and her ­daughters’ rise to womanhood through a Choctaw w ­ omen’s worldview.

The First Author’s Motherhood Tale: Michelle Johnson-­Jennings, PhD, EdM Hollo remains sacred life blood. I, the first author, never realized the deep meaning of hollo nor the power b ­ ehind its synonymous meaning with to love, ­until I gave birth. As a ­mother in the acad­emy, the power of oh chash, or calling upon my ancestral teachings, around motherhood has been illuminated, as well as the dire need to protect and revitalize our ancestral teachings. Motherhood from conception to birth arose like a fierce waterfall, one that may have hummed unnoticed in the distant background, but once you stood ­under the falling ­waters, you fi­nally experienced the full force ­behind the source. Each time, it was overwhelming, bringing tears and emotions; but at the same time, t­ here was a profound sense of connection, creating a sense of calm and purposefulness and teachings. While gazing at each of my babies’ eyes, I felt this fierce devotion to my child, my ancestors, and my f­ uture grandchildren. I saw all in each babe and my hollo, or love, continues to be more than I could ever explain. I experienced motherhood e­ arlier than most academics—­but l­ ater than most Choctaw community members. E ­ arlier, I had left my community, arriving with my garbage bags full of clothes, or as I liked to call them at the time “Indian suitcases,” at the University of Oklahoma. While academia seemed like a foreign country far from home, I knew college would be my path. My ­family, parents, and grandparents had continually supported me in what I did well—­which was to digest, analyze, and regurgitate knowledge. It was not cooking . . . ​not sewing . . . ​not beading . . . ​not athletic prowess . . . ​actually not a lot ­else. My siblings and cousins ­were brilliant, each in their own way, whereas my strength was being inquisitive and loving to read and learn. Being a first-­generation college student, and never knowing another person who attended college, I initially experienced difficulty integrating my cultural norms into an academic setting. Yet I soon recognized the overlapping commonality between me and other Indigenous ­women who sought to further the Indigenous community through indigenizing academic knowledge and practice. While gaining my bachelor’s degree, I visualized the acad­emy as a place in which I could interrupt the colonial

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pro­cess of disrupting Choctaw culture. This led me to delve into seeking and sharing Choctaw knowledge and promoting cultural continuity through intellectual endeavors while maintaining community connections. I further met and partnered with Dr. Derek Jennings (Sac & Fox and Quapaw), who supported Indigenous motherhood throughout raising all four c­ hildren. Once I obtained my master’s from Harvard University at the age of twenty-­two, I was thankful and honored to become a ­mother of the second author, Alayah (Choctaw for caring), while in Oklahoma, which is our Choctaw removal homelands. Her birth caused a cataclysmic awakening within. While gazing into her eyes and viewing the twinkle of her grandchildren, I traveled from the mist of my ancestors’ hollo into being immersed in the ever-­flowing stream of love. Returning to work full-­time for the Association of American Indian Physicians a few weeks l­ ater, I began motherhood with my d ­ aughter in my office, wrapped in a sling and breastfeeding upon demand. I was a dedicated employee who would happily stay late to write health grants with my d ­ aughter at my side. This seemed natu­ral and more productive and echoed to my ancestors who continued their daily lives incorporating their babies into all they did. My apprehension t­ oward public reactions to nursing evaporated as I realized that t­ here was nothing, or anyone, who would deter my nurturing my child and decolonizing feeding practices. Realizing the limits of grant writing without thorough research or adequate culturally grounded health interventions, I began exploring psy­chol­ogy doctorate programs. During my first semester of my doctoral work at the University of Wisconsin–­ Madison, at the age of twenty-­five, I gave birth to my Ahnili (Choctaw for I am dreaming or wishing). Again, the incredible hollo was just as intense, encouraging me to work even harder for our ­f uture generations to live as strong Choctaws and pave a path for our ­f uture generations to do the same. Ahnili attended my classes a week ­after birth. She also quietly nursed as I provided counseling/therapy sessions. All the while Ahnili continued to reaffirm my commitments to cultural continuity; but at the same time, I learned yet another invaluable lesson with my second d ­ aughter. She encouraged me to never apologize for my motherhood in the acad­emy. She was my doctorate program baby, and we made space for her as such with her being attached to my side for the first year and half. As I sought to strengthen my tribal community’s health through training as a clinical psychologist, I also sought to ground my work in Choctaw ancestral knowledge and return to our original instructions and wise practices from our ancestors, especially around motherhood and health. With my son Koii (panther), I experienced the easiest of all births. It was the first time that I reflected on my role as a Choctaw m ­ other of a son. My hollo for him immediately overwhelmed, especially as I viewed my ­daughters’ hollo for him. Tears flowed, reconnecting me to my ancestral instructions as I immediately saw and called him Koii. Despite agreeing upon the name Pela (light) with my partner, I have rarely, if ever, referred to him as anything other than Koii. Shortly a­ fter his birth, I stumbled across a historical document that stated Choctaw ­women

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wrapped their sons in a koi / panther fur upon birth. Somehow the birth of my son awakened this connection, which taught me to remain aware and open to more than book knowledge. Dr. Greg Cajete has argued that several forms of knowledge are both valid and useful in the acad­emy: (1) traditional knowledge that is handed down and stems from knowledge and experiences; (2) empirical knowledge that is gained through tested observation and practices over time; (3) con­temporary knowledge that is gained through t­ oday’s prob­lems and prob­lem solving; and (4) revealed knowledge that reconnects us to our ancestral knowledge through vision, ritual, or ceremony and is knowledge that cannot be learned in books (Cajete, 1994, p. 36). Through motherhood and my son’s birth, I realized that our academic teachings and understandings must also embody all of the Indigenous knowledges. My Koii continues to teach me to be open to dif­fer­ent forms of knowledge and ways of being, as his creativity and artistic spirit soar about me. Over the next de­cade, motherhood became an area in which I was confident. All of my ­children ­were my pride and joy and ­were ­doing phenomenally well. I was beginning to decolonize my research through codesigning health interventions based on ancestral or original practices, including with my Choctaw tribe, NIH R01 Yappalli. I codeveloped, pi­loted, and obtained grants to rewalk our and other tribal trails of tears using land-­based healing to transform narratives of trauma into hope and resilience, while conducting health promotion leadership. I did so as a m ­ other, involving my ­children in my work and valuing their feedback and with the betterment of my c­ hildren’s and grandchildren’s f­uture in mind. I made it through tenure, founded and ran an Indigenous Research Center, Research for Indigenous Community Health, and felt good about the community-­engaged work that I was ­doing. At the same time, I had found the healing powers of ­running on earthen trails. ­Running has become my form of meditation and preferred healing method, reconnecting and praying with my ­mother earth with each step, while being re­oriented into balance. I also became aware of the beauty that surrounds me while trail ­running, hoping to exceed my 50Ks soon, the power of our land and the interconnection of our plant and animal beings. Furthermore, I fi­nally had the wisdom to enjoy each moment of motherhood, as time began to cata­logue itself into de­cades rather than years. My eldest was quickly approaching the end of her high school ­career, and all three of my c­ hildren ­were exceeding my wildest hopes. My partner briefly suggested a fourth, which I initially scoffed. Yet the thought took root and became my Iaya (Aiaya). My post-­tenure child, Iaya (roughly translates to reach a place of success), came ­later in my life. During my forties, I felt stronger and healthier than I ever had during the de­cade of my previous births ­taking place during my twenties. Knowing the strength and importance of reconnecting with ­mother earth, I ran steep and precarious trails during my entire pregnancy ­until he was two weeks past due. I continued to spend hours a day praying with my m ­ other earth on the trails. The baby’s w ­ ater popped with such a force I could hear it outside the womb. However,

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for four days he waited for the full moon to rise before he emerged. I was delirious with no sleep, suffering from non-­remittent back pain. Yet, four is a sacred number for us, and the full moon is the best of all days to be born. He was born when the time was right, and I had the strength to hold on for ­t hose many days. Again, as my two ­daughters cut his umbilical cord and my Koii gushed his hollo for our newborn, my hollo for all of them soared. I realized how blessed I have been that each of my ­children has chosen me as their ­mother. My sense of responsibility to them and f­ uture generations and imparting hollo also r­ ose. Birthing my second son taught me to be patient in my work and life and to remember that we must sacrifice for ­great returns. He also taught me to remember that motherhood does not begin with the baby, but that I should be reconnecting with our earthen m ­ other for guidance through all stages of my life. In return, he has given me the happiest, loving, and most content baby that I could ever ask. My hollo and wisdom t­ oward savoring the time that we have with the f­ uture ancestors has only since increased. My hollo for my c­ hildren has thrust me into imparting and creating space for motherhood, including learning as many Choctaw teachings as I could. One colleague asked me how I approached bringing my baby along to nurse, and I replied it was never a question. The baby sleeps and eats; and as all of my c­ hildren grew, they remained content—­quietly listening, remaining engaged but not disruptive, attending child care once they w ­ ere older toddlers. Yet, I had found a way to perform motherhood and child-­rearing as our ancestral ­mothers had done prior, and I attribute my success to them. Bringing my babies was my way to indigenize our ­family’s experience in academia and to create a space for us, and myself, as a Choctaw M ­ other. Motherhood has further fed my hunger for learning more about our ancestral original instructions throughout all phases of my academic journey as a student, doctor, professor, and continual Choctaw ­woman and knowledge seeker. My hollo continues to guide my motherhood and my c­ areer goals.

The Second Author’s Daughterhood Tale: Alayah (Caring) Johnson-­Jennings (Choctaw, Sac & Fox, Quapaw, Miami) At the end of ­every term, one of my professors asks me, “Alayah, do you want to go into academia?” I always reply, “It’s all I know, so most likely, I guess we w ­ ill see what happens.” I’m eigh­teen years old and have just finished my freshman year at Dartmouth College. The last eigh­teen years of my life have consisted of sitting in college libraries, waiting for my parents to get done with classes, meetings, or work. Once in college myself, I started reading the work of professors who had taught my parents or who w ­ ere their colleagues. Conversations I had all throughout my childhood w ­ ere appearing in my college reading assignments, and I began to think more of the privilege I held being the ­daughter of not one but two Native academics. My earliest memory in a college library was watching the Disney movie Anastasia at UW–­Madison on a VCR. My fin­ger started bleeding ­because I was playing with a hangnail too much as my parents w ­ ere in class. I think about this

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e­ very time I enter a library. I also think about my childhood ­every time I am asked, “Who is your biggest role model and why?” B ­ ecause of my upbringing, my m ­ other is my biggest role model. Her story of her educational path, as mentioned before, has shown me I too can do it all. Having a m ­ other in the university means having a m ­ other who works as hard as you do on her education. Growing up, I always knew my mom had defied the odds. We all are part of a society that used Western education as a form of colonization against the Indigenous ­peoples whom I call my ancestors. The fact that my ­mother has used education to decolonize society through her success and academic work has been one of the biggest influences on my life. I have been ­t here through her application pro­cess, her classes, her writing, her research, her graduation, her first job as a professor. Though she w ­ asn’t t­ here physically, I have had the privilege of citing my own ­mother’s work in my college papers. Seeing the development of her education has taught me that motherhood is being t­ here for your kids, someone they can look up to and someone they can call on at any time. My mom was able to complete her degree while raising three kids, and as a young child I could never imagine the lack of sleep she got. Even when she traveled, my mom would make an effort to call us e­ very night to check in. I knew from a young age that no ­matter what I did as an occupation, I needed to give back to the community. I learned that having a female role model is impor­tant when growing up, and I learned that success takes time and patience. Through my mother, I have someone who has presented me with so many opportunities ­because of the value she has placed on education. I understood at a young age I needed to do my homework and work as hard as I could for success. I have been talking about college since preschool. Since kindergarten I have been saying that I was ­going to Dartmouth College. This dream came true ­because of my ­mother’s support and her understanding of how education has helped her. My ­mother in the acad­emy has taught me that Indigenous motherhood is ­doing what needs to be done to support your f­ amily and encourage your c­ hildren to meet their dreams. Indigenous motherhood is inside and outside of the h ­ ouse, and Indigenous motherhood teaches your f­amily to support one another in all capacities. Choctaws are traditionally matriarchal, and my m ­ other is just that, the head of the ­house­hold. Indigenous motherhood is strong; it has roots in re­spect and perseverance. In an Indigenous society, motherhood is ­doing what you love but sharing the passion with your kids to allow them to break off and create their own passion based on what you go through together. And with a ­mother in the acad­emy, I have done just that. Furthermore, I look forward to decolonizing the Western education system as I carry on my education and professional c­ areer. I look forward to teaching my f­ uture sons or d ­ aughters my passion and the importance of education, as my ancestors had hoped for me during their times of forced removal. I hope that I serve as a good role model for ­t hose who ­w ill view me as an ancestor as we take back t­ hese academic spaces that w ­ ere created to assimilate us. We are resilient as Indigenous p ­ eoples in e­ very capacity and form, and the strongest part of Indigenous motherhood is teaching our c­ hildren that.

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The Third Author’s Daughterhood Tale: Ahnili (I am Dreaming for ­Others) Johnson-­Jennings (Choctaw Quapaw, Sac & Fox, Miami) Growing up in the acad­emy has made me aware of the role that Indigenous ­women play in my life. Being Indigenous means that I am power­f ul. It means that I am a person with strong ancestral roots, who can impact a large community. Through being involved with my m ­ other’s research, I have learned that Indigenous p ­ eople are resilient, have strong faith in their traditional practices, and are educated in the ancestral knowledge of their p ­ eople. As I have grown, I have faced many ­people who questioned my identity, who questioned my race, my looks, my ancestors, but luckily I know who I am. I live in ah ­ ouse­hold in which my ­mother teaches me to be loud and strong concerning who I am. Once my ­mother took me to the hospital for a broken bone when I was in fourth grade. The clerk asked me my race. I replied, “American Indian.” She paused, looked at me, and asked, “Anything e­ lse?” Obviously, she was already placing her racist ste­reo­t ypes onto me. I strongly replied, “No, I am all American Indian” and walked away. Even at a young age, I knew who I was and knew not to accept being categorized by ­others. As I have grown, I have had the opportunity to be a volunteer for my m ­ other’s research proj­ect, Yappalli. My m ­ other is the co–­principal investigator with Dr. Karina Walters for this NIH R01 health intervention that focuses on rewalking our Choctaw Trail of Tears, camping outside, and getting back in touch with our ancestors’ dreams for us to become good ancestors. Through this opportunity at ages twelve and sixteen, I had the opportunity to see that Indigenous ­women have always been power­f ul. We have been resilient throughout history, and we have changed our own fates. We have cared for our ­children and ensured their survival. Also through the acad­emy and research, I have seen that we can empower each other to be strong leaders and strong individuals. To be Indigenous is to be a part of a womanhood in which we stand for our ancestors in all areas of life, including the acad­emy and as scientists. My experiences have led me to stand for other w ­ omen and girls and help them rise up, or wakaya, for ­f uture generations. However, I also know that colonization has caused much harm on Indigenous ­women and our m ­ other earth. For instance, health disparities significantly increased for Indigenous men and ­women due to colonization and its effects. With Indigenous ­women’s leadership roles directly attacked and eroded by the white settlers, their health in terms of mind, body, and spirit, both pre­sent and that of their families, faced severe impairment. For instance, Indigenous ­women are two and a half times more likely to suffer from sexual assault than other ­women in the United States (Tjaden & Thoennes, 2000). Even upon contact, Indigenous w ­ omen suffered from sexual vio­lence and rampant sexual diseases from the settlers, and this has increased their pre­sent risks. Presently, Indigenous ­women hold a precarious role within white mainstream society; they are ­either invisible or objectified for the delights of men, as can be seen in “Indian maiden” Halloween costumes, the Land O’Lakes butter girl, Pocahontas, high rates

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of sexual victimization, and so on (Crossland et al., 2013). This is not the dream of our ancestors. My passion lies in reducing the vio­lence committed ­toward and upon Indigenous ­women. I have committed myself to working with reducing the murdered missing Indigenous w ­ omen and girls, and hope to continue my involvement in college and beyond. It is my responsibility and the calling of my ancestors to do so. We all need a chance to become strong Indigenous ­mothers and w ­ omen.

Conclusion Choctaw, and other Indigenous, w ­ omen have long held a deep connection to the ancestors, land, and knowledge, during and a­ fter childbirth. For the first author, the intensity of hollo always was surprising with each birth, renewing her commitment to amazing c­ hildren, ancestors, and ­f uture generations. The Choctaw sacred Green Corn Ceremony, which was passed on through our ancestors, demonstrates the power­ful belief of ­women and celebrates fertility. This sacredness does not dissipate once a Choctaw ­woman enters academia. But yet we propose that through ceremony and returning to our ancestral original instructions, all of the ­family has grown in gaining Indigenous knowledge and sharing with ­others. Furthermore, the first author’s motherhood has transmitted t­ hese teachings to her ­daughters while in an academic environment, away from their tribal homelands and ancestral bones. While colonization had sought to disrupt our practices, the authors have sought, and continue to seek, to reestablish their ancestral hollo connections through meta­phor­ically and literally using Oh Chash—­calling upon their ancestors and creating space for Indigenous motherhood and w ­ omen.

References Cajete, G. (1994). Look to the mountain: An ecol­ogy of indigenous education. Kivaki Press. Crossland, C., Palmer, J., & Brooks, A. (2013). NIJ’s program of research on vio­lence against American Indian and Alaska Native ­women. Vio­lence Against ­Women, 19(6), 771–790. https://­doi​.­org​/­10​.1­ 177​/­1077801213494706 Dejong, D. N. (2010). “If you knew the conditions”: A chronicle of the Indian Medical Ser­vice and American Indian health care, 1908–1955. Lexington Books. O’Brien, G. (2005). Choctaws in a revolutionary age, 1750–1830. University of Nebraska Press. ­ omen in a chaotic world: The clash of cultures in the Pesantubbee, M. E. (2005). Choctaw w colonial Southeast. University of New Mexico Press. Tjaden, P., & Thoennes, N. (2000). Prevalence and consequences of male-­to-­female and  female-­to-­male intimate partner vio­lence as mea­sured by the National Vio­lence Against ­Women Survey: Vio­lence Against ­Women, 6(2), 142–161. https://­doi​.­org ​/­10​.­1177​ _­10778010022181769 Tjaden, P., and Thoennes, N. (2006) Vio­lence and threats of vio­lence against w ­ omen and men in the United States, 1994–1996. https://­doi​.­org​/­10​.­3886​/­ICPSR02566​.­v 1

chapter 8

Mvskoke Eckvlke (Muscogee Motherhood) in Academic Spaces Dwanna L. McKay (Mvskoke)

I am Mvskoke (contemporarily spelled and pronounced Muscogee), and motherhood has s­ haped most of my life. I was only sixteen when I gave birth to my ­daughter, Dena, at 2:31 on the morning of October 13, 1979, at the Okemah Indian Hospital in Okemah, Oklahoma. I often think of the doctor laying Dena on my stomach with the umbilical cord still attached. She was s­ ilent and blinking, and I remember being astonished by her big blue eyes and dark hair. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of her and what her life meant to me and my ­people. From the moment Dena came into the world, my life choices became more precious and destined me to become the faculty member that I am t­ oday. This is not to say that it has been easy. Working in higher education requires me to navigate white supremacy and patriarchy, which are the founding ideologies of the con­ temporary institution of education in the United States. I endure legitimized racism against Native P ­ eoples perpetuated in everyday conversations with students, administrative staff, and other faculty.1 I manage the systematic dismissal of my cultural responsibilities as a ­woman and ­mother to my tribal communities by non-­ Natives. I also often confront the stigma of teen parenthood as part of Western society. My academic goals are to include Native persons in conversations about institutionalized identity politics and the abysmal population statistics used to describe us and to disrupt the ste­reo­t ypical and racist assumptions about Indigenous ­Peoples. This essay offers insight into my life’s journey before and within the acad­emy as a Muscogee individual, child, ­woman, and ­mother while negotiating Western notions of womanhood and motherhood. Separate sections describe dif­fer­ent phases in my life, but, honestly, ­t here can be no separation of my past from my pre­sent or ­future. I celebrate motherhood as an este cate (Indigenous person). I rely upon the wisdom of my Elders to survive incidents of tokenism, disrespect, and racism in my professional life. I hope this work provides context for my ability as a Muscogee person and m ­ other to not only cope but thrive in the unwelcoming and exclusive spaces of the acad­emy. 83

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Muscogee Culture and Coping with Anti-­Indian Racism Hundreds of Indigenous Nations/Peoples rightfully claim the geographic area currently known as the United States of Amer­i­ca as their original homelands.2 Moreover, each Indigenous nation contains its own unique ceremonial traditions, governance systems, beliefs and values, languages and dialects, and shared histories. The lack of awareness about the existence of a multiplicity of Indigenous cultures and our sovereign governments creates problematic and politicized spaces in academia that privilege individualism and Western ideologies. My life’s journey speaks to the cultural strength and resilience of my ancestors who then passed it to me. Early interactions with racism influenced the way that I raised my ­daughter and continue to inform my ­career as a professor and researcher. Within higher education, I commonly encounter a lack of knowledge about the histories of Indigenous P ­ eoples and the impact we have suffered b ­ ecause of anti-­ Indian racism. Social myths about benevolent settlers and uncivilized savages replace historical truths of physical and cultural genocides against Native P ­ eoples by settlers and soldiers alike. But I cannot remember a time of being unaware of the history of my p ­ eople. My p ­ eople are originally from the southeast woodland areas currently known as Georgia, Florida, and Alabama. Eu­ro­pe­ans and Americans called us the Creek ­people (i.e., Creeks) ­because we lived near rivers and streams that we used as waterways for commerce, trade, and travel. I do not recall when I first heard my nation labeled as one of the “Five Civilized Tribes.”3 In 1832, Creeks w ­ ere forcibly removed and relocated to our new homelands in Indian Territory, which became Oklahoma in 1907. I have always felt sure of my f­ amily’s connection to the original homelands of the Mvskokvlke (Muscogee ­People). My ­family’s p ­ eople originated from the Alabama area. The collective knowledge of our suffering and loss when we ­were forcibly removed to Indian Territory, which most ­people know only as the Trail of Tears for the Cherokee, seems to have always been with me, abiding deep in the marrow of my bones. My great-­grandmother passed the knowledge to my grand­mother, who passed it to my ­mother, who passed it to me. The practice of teaching revisionist history at the elementary, secondary, and postsecondary levels obscures the brutality and injustice of settler colonialism and its impact on the First ­Peoples of this land. My childhood continues to inform who I am ­today and gives motivation for my work. I am the youn­gest of eight ­children. My ­family lived in abject economic poverty, relying on Indian commodities to eat and Indian Health Ser­v ices for health care. I often felt fearful of getting sick or hurt b ­ ecause the nearest Indian clinic was an hour from home. I lived and attended school in Henryetta, a former sundown town, located just nine miles south of Okmulgee, Oklahoma, capital of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation. During my childhood, Henryetta was a predominantly white town with a population of fewer than six thousand p ­ eople with very few families of Native or Mexican heritage and no residents of African or Asian descent. We lived ­t here, instead of neighboring towns where more ­people of color resided, ­because we had to live where my ­mother could work. My ­father had become

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disabled when I was a toddler, and for my entire childhood my m ­ other, who completed only eighth grade, worked at a nursing home. Non-­Native students, faculty, and administrative staff often lack fundamental knowledge about Indigenous ­Peoples and their traditional cultures. But I was nurtured in the cultural ways of my ­people—­drinking sofke, eating grape dumplings, wearing handmade ribbon skirts, and singing hymns in our language. During the late spring and all through the summer, my ­family attended stomp dances on Saturdays at the Arbeka ceremonial grounds.4 During the fall and winter, we attended Sunday ser­vices at the Silver Springs Indian Church on Tiger Mountain.5 Pictures of my great-­grandmother and grand­mother as founding leaders still hang on the walls of that church. I enjoyed the com­pany of other Brown and Black ­people alike as we celebrated our annual cultural festival in Okmulgee. My childhood memories are juxtaposed between cultural development and experiences of overt white racism ­toward me, my ­family, and other nonwhites. One of my earliest memories of racism occurred on a sidewalk outside a small store in Henryetta. I am not sure how old I was at the time, but I remember skipping around and playing while my ­mother shopped inside. A white man approached me and said, “Hello. Y ­ ou’re a pretty ­little girl. Are you an injun or a spic?” Not knowing what ­either of ­t hose words meant, I replied, “I’m not sure. I know I’m Creek!” My ­mother walked out of the store about that time and took me by the hand. As we walked to the car, I told her what the man had asked me. Mama’s face tensed and then she said, “­You’re neither of ­t hose bad words. Y ­ ou’re Creek Indian and that’s a good ­t hing.” I also learned that day that being “Creek Indian” meant that I should expect to be treated differently by the citizens of that small rural town. When I began attending elementary school, I quickly ascertained that I would be treated differently by the white parents of my peers and the white teachers who taught me. I was called denigrating names for being dark-­skinned and big-­nosed in elementary school. I was taunted on a church bus by a white girl for being “so black that your teeth shine in the dark.” I was not allowed to walk down the football field with a white boy as part of the homecoming court in ju­nior high. Anti-­Indian racism is still prevalent, and ­t hese early learning experiences taught me how to exist and prevail in spaces that w ­ ere not meant for p ­ eople like me. My experience as a teenage ­mother also prepared me for dealing with oppressive regimes.

Muscogee Teenage Motherhood As part of a matrilineal culture, Muscogee m ­ others w ­ ere traditionally considered the head of the h ­ ouse­hold and w ­ omen possessed full rights to their ­children and to the lands and ­houses in each town. Within Muscogee culture, motherhood is not a burden, role, or job but rather a sacred space that grounds and connects the ­people within a larger culture. Mvskoke Eckvlke (Muscogee motherhood) organizes the lives, ceremonies, and histories of our p ­ eople, marking where and to whom we belong. Our m ­ others determine our clanship, which is passed down from ­mother to child. I am Nokvsvlke (Bear clan), as was my m ­ other, as is my d ­ aughter.

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As a Mvskoke hokte and ecke (Muscogee ­woman and ­mother), my life is defined by motherhood. Being Dena’s ­mother gave meaning to my life and motivated me to achieve my dreams. Dena brought the ­f uture to me and promised another generation of Muscogee life would continue. Being a Muscogee teenage m ­ other created bound­aries for my time, influenced my personal and professional choices, and guided my life decisions. Caring for Dena and teaching her to be strong, in­de­pen­ dent, and proud of her ancestry became my priority and primary blessing. Being an Indigenous teenage m ­ other also meant dealing with an exponential impact of intersectional oppression and multiple stigmas (Wiemann et al., 2005). In con­temporary American society, Native w ­ omen navigate the framing of our bodies as sexual objects through the Pocahontas or Indian Princess label and the dehumanizing effect of the dirty, lazy Squaw ste­reo­type (Robertson, 2015). Furthermore, teenage ­mothers are ste­reo­t yped as being sexually permissive and socially irresponsible (Chambers & Erausquin, 2015). On the contrary, I was not sexually permissive, nor was I raised within my culture to be objectified or embarrassed by h ­ uman sexual activity. My pregnancy was never labeled as shameful or deviant by ­family or other Muscogee ­people. Cleanliness was taught and expected by my ­family and community.6 Fi­nally, Muscogee culture teaches that we are all dependent upon and responsible for one another. ­Every Muscogee member that I grew up knowing worked hard—­from the youn­gest to the oldest. We worked to provide sustenance and shelter for our families as well as to maintain our cultural ways. I worked to help my ­family, and the money I earned was placed in the ­house­hold fund. This was not considered exploitive of my childhood ­labor but rather was a communal expectation that all contribute to the well-­being of the h ­ ouse­hold. When I was a very young child, my ­family and I worked as seasonal farm laborers, traveling to harvest crops in dif­fer­ent towns and states. In elementary school, I rode my second­hand bicycle to deliver daily newspapers on two dif­fer­ent routes and sell the eggs collected from the chickens we raised in our backyard. As a teenager, I washed dishes and waited t­ ables at a truck-­stop café. ­These memories stand out as essential to my development of work ethic, self-­confidence, and familial and community bonds.

Navigating the Western Acad­emy Western understandings of both indigeneity and Indigenous motherhood are ­limited, particularly in institutions of higher education. A ­ fter high school, due to structural constraints like poverty and racism, I had fewer resources and less opportunity to attend college than my white counter­parts. I am a first-­generation college gradu­ate—­a common trait among most college-­educated Native professionals (Guillory & Wolverton, 2008). I also took a nontraditional path to academia and my current position as a tenure-­track professor. A ­ fter working for the first nine years of Dena’s life, I took my first college course at the age of twenty-­five. With the help of my f­ amily and community, I raised my d ­ aughter as a single parent, both working and attending college full-­time. Being a Muscogee ­mother does not require

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being a biological parent. Muscogee p ­ eople do not differentiate between relatives in the same way as non-­Natives; therefore, ­children do not represent additional work for our culture. For example, my grand­mother and her s­ isters ­were all considered grand­mothers to me. My ­mother’s s­ isters are also considered my m ­ others. My cousins are my ­sisters and ­brothers, not just extended relatives. In this way, we understand that we are all closely connected and responsible for one another. Consequently, no single ­mother bears the entirety of parenting or mothering their ­children. ­Because I was solely responsible for my ­daughter’s financial support, I attended classes when my work schedule allowed and at any location con­ve­nient to my job. But I hold precious memories of Dena as a third-­grader quizzing me with flashcards for an upcoming test in physics and practicing my memorization of a speech for an acting class. Dena attended classes with me on summer and no-­school days and during eve­ning classes. Dena would always listen intently, and then she and I would discuss what we had learned. I recognized the benefit of her seeing her ­mother attend college. With t­ hese experiences, Dena understood that my time away from her was well spent. She witnessed my desire to represent our ­people well. I did not have the luxury of choosing the best college or renowned program. I realized this negatively impacted my ability to receive the economic support, social capital, and l­ egal standing commensurate with a prestigious university. My undergraduate degree in po­liti­cal science was completed during the ten years I worked in consumer finance. I received a master of business administration degree and a master of science degree in sociology during the twelve years I worked as an executive man­ag­er at several national and international hunger relief organ­izations in the nonprofit sector. Only a­ fter Dena reached adulthood was I able to focus on a par­tic­u­lar highly rated program and pursue my doctorate. I de­cided to seek a PhD in sociology, with focuses on critical race studies, work and occupations, and Indigenous studies, at the University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Amherst. Settler colonialism imbued Western values and concepts into the foundation of U.S. educational systems,7 displacing Indigenous systems of knowledges and approaches to learning and being in the world. My decision to attend a highly ranked program proved to be incredibly difficult b ­ ecause I knew it would greatly impact my relationship with Dena. It meant that I would be living thousands of miles from her for several years. As Indigenous ­mothers, our responsibility to our ­children does not become less just ­because our ­children leave our homes as adults. For example, Dena speaks of my absence during her treatment for cervical cancer. As a m ­ other, I wanted to be t­ here. As an Indigenous m ­ other, I needed to be t­ here. As an Indigenous scholar, I was too poor and without resources to be ­there. Dena speaks of this time without me as her necessary sacrifice for my success. Living in Mas­sa­chu­setts also meant being away from my m ­ other. During our daily calls, I often cried when my ­mother asked when she would be able to see me again. My ­mother supported my dreams and honored my determination, but being away from her and the rest of my ­family invoked feelings of loneliness and isolation. Even though my tribal communities supported my decision, they found it hard to

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understand why I would choose to be far away for so long. ­There ­were few Indigenous ­people in Amherst to support me through ­t hese times. Consequently, I pushed ahead and finished my doctoral program and finished my PhD in just three years. My m ­ other died in 2014, just one year a­ fter I defended my dissertation. I still regret the lost time with her. The cost for my accomplishments, even for the good of my p ­ eople and f­ amily, felt too high, then and now. Being an Indigenous m ­ other and faculty member in higher education requires me to navigate multiple structures of oppression, including white supremacy, patriarchy, and ideologies of individualism and capitalism. ­Because of the common ac­cep­tance of media ste­reo­t ypes, Indian mascots, and cultural appropriation, all Indigenous students, staff, and faculty navigate legitimized racism.8 Throughout my twenty-­two years of working as a well-­educated executive in prestigious organ­ izations and attending gradu­ate programs at three public universities, I tolerated and coped with racist language and inequitable treatment as an Indigenous ­woman and ­mother. In gradu­ate school, I dealt with racial jargon without recourse. One faculty member asked w ­ hether he should send “smoke signals” instead of an email to set up a meeting with me. Another suggested that I should “just smoke a peace pipe” when I objected to the use of a racialized term by a gradu­ate student peer. A college administrator asked about my “­little papoose.” As a tenure-­track faculty member, I have dealt with legitimized racism and lack of community from other ­women of color. When I objected to unfair ser­v ice expectations, one department head commented on my “disruptive be­hav­ior” since I was from “one of the civilized tribes.” Another time, a tenured ­woman of color claimed that ­because I am an enrolled citizen of a federally recognized tribe, I cannot truly be Indigenous; that is, I was accused of adhering to an assimilated system, which meant in her mind that I no longer understood what it means to be Indigenous. I chose to leave that racist institution, which meant delaying my tenure-­track c­ areer by two years. Unfortunately, ­t hese difficult experiences and extraordinary choices remain quite common for Indigenous m ­ others working to achieve extraordinary accomplishments in predominantly white institutions of higher education. Non-­Native ­people in the United States know and understand ­little of communal cultures and matrilineal socie­ties like the Muscogee. Colleagues have often expressed shock that my ­daughter is only sixteen years younger than me. For Western cultures, motherhood is understood as the social normalcy of ­women, of an appropriate age, giving biological birth and then parenting another person to adulthood (Castañeda & Isgro, 2013). Thus, colleagues sometimes adopt an attitude of pity as they ask how I managed; other times, they express judgment t­oward my ­mother, me, or both of us. Within the United States, motherhood designates the embodiment of a role, one that is defined by the age and ability of a w ­ oman to birth, nurture, and rear a child. B ­ ecause of deeply entrenched patriarchy, Americans are socialized from childhood to believe that, ultimately, ­women are natu­ral nurturers and bear sole responsibility for raising their c­ hildren to be good p ­ eople and contributing members of society. Consequently, motherhood represents the bulk of the work and responsibility of child-­rearing. Tellingly, I have never been ques-

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tioned about Dena’s ­father and his role or responsibility. Men are expected to procreate and assume economic responsibility for their c­ hildren’s welfare but hold ­little social accountability for the development of their c­ hildren to adulthood. Research shows that ­women faculty, in an attempt to balance motherhood and academia, all too often suffer anxiety-­ridden and stressful ­careers (Mason et al., 2013; Ward & Wolf-­Wendel, 2012). In addition to the pressures of work in the acad­ emy and cultural responsibilities, Indigenous ­mothers also navigate colonized, patriarchal spaces that rely upon racialized indicators of indigeneity—­from racist ste­reo­t ypes and expected phenotypes to federally originated criteria for tribal membership. My experiences in higher education include being ignored, silenced, disbelieved, or dismissed as an Indigenous person, ­woman, ­mother, and faculty member. Furthermore, I am often disregarded as a ­woman of color by whites and by other p ­ eople of color. Indigenous ­people are left out of conversations about racism. Indeed, overt racism against Natives is often overlooked (Robertson, 2015). I am exposed to ignorant and often racist remarks in purported safe spaces in institutions of higher learning. I am subjected to incredulous looks and flippant comments by students and colleagues when I correct historical errors, provide additional information about U.S. history, or give more nuanced statistical information about Native populations. I am questioned about the legitimacy of tribal sovereignty. Furthermore, at a moment’s notice, I must be prepared to discuss federal recognition of tribal nations, tribal practices of blood quanta, and tribal politics. Thus, as an Indigenous scholar, I face an additional barrier in higher education of embodying a racialized and gendered existence with an expected depth of all-­encompassing knowledges for not only my field of sociology but also a multitude of other disciplines, including law, biology, po­liti­cal science, psy­chol­ogy, demography, and history from both Indigenous and settler-­colonial perspectives. Muscogee culture teaches that the purpose of our lives is to bring honor to t­ hose who came before us and to prepare for t­ hose who come ­after us. I often share with students, staff, and colleagues stories about the resilience of community among Indigenous ­Peoples as well as personal stories about my grand­mother, ­mother, ­daughter, and myself as Muscogee ­women. Yet, in my experience, non-­Native ­people find it hard to believe what they have not already been taught. Furthermore, being a Muscogee ­woman and ­mother in academia means that I strug­gle to belong in any space. Within patriarchal structures, my Muscogee hokte trait of forthrightness is framed as belligerence or arrogance. Among feminist groups, my humility and collectivist approach has been questioned as adhering to hegemonic masculinity and heteronormativity. Within diversity and inclusion dialogues, I must continuously remind o ­ thers that Native P ­ eoples are often excluded as racialized groups even from ­t hese progressive arenas. Ultimately, being a Muscogee m ­ other influences my work as an Indigenous scholar. My research builds on work about Indigenous persons as both racialized subjects within dominant society and sovereign beings within Indigenous Nations. But my mere presence in academia also m ­ atters. A few years ago, I was at an event at my college where over thirty Muscogee ­people had traveled from Oklahoma to

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Colorado to participate. An aged, Elder ­woman approached me and asked if I taught at the college. I nodded. She put her bent and wrinkled hand on my face and said, “It makes my heart happy to see our young ­people ­doing so good.” My eyes filled with grateful tears. My greatest desire is that, as a Muscogee m ­ other and faculty member, I might someday provide that same joy and hope to my d ­ aughter and all the Muscogee youth.

Notes 1. ​I capitalize the “p” in Indigenous ­Peoples throughout the chapter to indicate the sovereignty of dif­fer­ent nations, p ­ eoples, groups, and cultures that practiced self-­determination long before imperialistic colonization—­a sovereignty that is not reliant on the ­w ill of modern nation-­states to recognize them as such. Indigenous ­Peoples is equivalent to First Nations, American Indians, Native Americans, Eu­ro­pe­a ns, Asians, and so on. 2. ​According to the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs (2021), as of April 9, 2021, ­t here ­were 574 federally recognized tribes. ­There are also more than 200 other tribal entities that are recognized or seeking recognition at the state or federal level. 3. ​The “Five Civilized Tribes” is a moniker used by the U.S. government in federal Indian policy to describe the Cherokees, Chickasaws, Choctaws, Creeks, and Seminoles. It is a decidedly racist term that delineates between Indigenous p ­ eoples who transitioned to Eu­ro­pean models of government and lifestyle as a means of survival and ­others who resisted assimilation tactics and ­were thereby designated as primitive. 4. ​“Stomp dance” refers to ceremonial and religious dancing counterclockwise around a sacred fire. Dancing begins a­ fter dark and continues u ­ ntil dawn. ­There are currently sixteen active stomp grounds within the Muscogee (Creek) Nation. 5. ​A large hill and unincorporated area on the south side of Interstate 40 between Henryetta and Checotah, Oklahoma, Tiger Mountain is located within the po­liti­cal jurisdiction of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation. The Dawes Act of 1887 took communal lands from tribal nations and created private allotments of forty to eighty acres for individual Indians. My u ­ ncle Curt still lives on some of my ­family’s original acres of allotted lands on Tiger Mountain. 6. ​Indigenous ­people bathed daily as both hygienic and ritual practice. Roxanne Dunbar-­ Ortiz (2014, p. 17) provides written testimony that Eu­ro­pean settlers “marveled at the frequent bathing even in winter in cold climates” of Indigenous ­people. 7. ​Dunbar-­Ortiz (2014, p. 2) defines settler colonialism as “the founding of a state based on the ideology of white supremacy, the widespread practice of African slavery, and a policy of genocide and land theft.” 8. ​I define “legitimized racism” as a social phenomenon where overtly racist forms of social beliefs and interactions against Indigenous ­peoples become socially invisible through social norms, institutions, and systems that legitimize blatant racism, such as Indian mascots, revisionist U.S. history, and so on. For a comprehensive treatment of legitimized history, see my 2015 article “Invisibility in the Color-­Blind Era . . .” (Robertson 2015).

References Castañeda, M., & Isgro, K. (Eds.). (2013). ­Mothers in academia. Columbia University Press. Chambers, B. D., & Erausquin, J. T. (2015). The promise of intersectional stigma to understand the complexities of adolescent pregnancy and motherhood. Journal of Child and Adolescent Be­hav­ior, 3(5), 1–5. Dunbar-­Ortiz, R. (2014). An Indigenous ­peoples’ history of the United States. Beacon. Guillory, R. M., & Wolverton, M. (2008). It’s about ­family: Native American student per­ sis­tence in higher education. Journal of Higher Education, 79(1), 58–87. Lewis, D., & Jordan, A. T. (2008). Creek Indian medicine ways: The enduring power of Mvskoke religion. University of New Mexico Press.

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Mason, M. A., Wolfinger, N. H., & Goulden, M. (2013). Do babies m ­ atter? Gender and f­ amily in the ivory tower. Rutgers University Press. Robertson, D. L. (2015). Invisibility in the color-­blind era: Examining legitimized racism against Indigenous ­peoples. American Indian Quarterly, 39(2), 113–153. U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs. (2021, April 9). Indian entities recognized and eligible to receive ser­vices from the United States Bureau of Indian Affairs. https://­w ww​.­federalregister​.­gov​ /­documents​/­2021​/­04​/­09​/­2021​-­06723​/­i ndian​-­entities​-­recognized​-­a nd​-­eligible​-­to​-­receive​ -­services​-­from​-­t he​-­united​-­states​-­bureau​-­of​-i­ ndian Ward, K., & Wolf-­Wendel, L. (2012). Academic motherhood: How faculty manage work and ­family. Rutgers University Press. Wiemann, C., Rickert, V. I., Berenson, A. B., & Volk, R. J. (2005). Are pregnant adolescents stigmatized by pregnancy? Journal of Adolescent Health, 36(4), 352e1–352e7.

chapter 9

The (Time) Line in the Sand Miranda Belarde-­Lewis (Zuni/Tlingit)

May 2018 I sit in my office, thinking back on the road to get ­here. The web of ideas surrounding my research rests on the whiteboard to my right, patiently waiting for me to give them life on paper, to blend the theories of my mentors and academic (s)heroes with the documentation of my actions and interventions in the museum field. The web of ideas remind me of the insights I’ve stumbled upon and the discoveries that made themselves known to me with a whack over the head—­not just in the realm of research and teaching, but also as a person, as a Native w ­ oman, as a ­mother. In my brightly colored, windowless office, tiny but per­sis­tent waves of imposter syndrome try to creep into my consciousness, reminders of the inherently colonial, sexist, and racist ways of the acad­emy. I was hired as a tenure-­track assistant professor in the same R1 university and department I achieved my PhD in, a rare case of “academic incest” that I’m sure ­will rear its head in both subtle and blatant ways. The questions and comments repeat themselves in similar forms: “oh wow, that never happens,” and “how did you manage that?” carry with them needling connotations that question my credentials and insinuate preferential treatment ­because of some affirmative-­action-­type designation. The questions work in other ways that serve to remind me that the widely accepted norm to move across the country for an academic job is what we as academics are “supposed to do” to cross-­ pollinate our ideas and to subject ourselves and our families to the harsh transition of entirely dif­fer­ent towns, neighborhoods, schools, friends, cultures of research, and institutional politics. I humbly offer a scattered timeline of events and p ­ eople that lead to me, but also defined my path through, away from, and back to the institution I was “raised” in. It was a difficult decision to come back. What makes this time around dif­fer­ent is that now I enter the acad­emy empowered with the knowledge that ­t here is a clear line that I refuse to cross. That costly line protects my health and helps to keep my f­amily a priority, but in ­doing so also protects my tribal communities as well. 92

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Early 1960s–1990s My dad was born in Winslow, graduated from Zuni High School, and was drafted. ­After his tours in Vietnam he set his sights on college. My mom was born and raised in Juneau and left for the Lower Forty-­Eight for college in Seattle. Their paths converged at Fort Lewis College in Durango, Colorado. They ­were ­there when the students occupied the campus, fighting for tuition waivers for Native students. My dad was on the GI Bill living in poverty but thankful to be home and to be alive. My mom was the vice-­president of the AIM Ignacio, Colorado Chapter. She was teaching, and he was an undergraduate. ­After he graduated they traveled and lived in dif­fer­ent places: Juneau, Alaska, near my Hotda, my m ­ other’s mom; Cambridge, Mas­sa­chu­ setts, for advanced studies at Harvard; and then Zuni, New Mexico, to start a school. My b ­ rother and I grew up in Zuni, at the end of a red dirt road on the north side “outskirts” of the Pueblo, less than thirty feet away from my paternal grandparents. Sometime a­ fter 1985 My maternal grand­mother, Sue Brown Belarde, had slipped into Alzheimer’s by the time I was in eighth grade. That’s the last time I remember her recognizing me. When she passed in 1997 she h ­ adn’t remembered any of us for several years. In 2018 my Aunt Daphne shared with me a letter my Alaska Gramma wrote—we d ­ on’t know when she wrote it except that it was ­after 1985. We ­don’t know who it was to, perhaps it was to herself? The letter was in her belongings written in cursive penmanship that resembles my m ­ other’s. Even though we visited ­every summer since I was born, and we loved each other dearly, I did not r­ eally know my Hotda. We visited the way elders and youngsters visit when they d ­ on’t ­really know each other. We spent summers in southeast Alaska spending most of our time at our ­family’s fish camp. Most of our parents and the other adults t­ here worked in the fish cannery. The land is our traditional territory but had been annexed by the U.S. Army during World War II, then sold to private land o ­ wners in a sad yet familiar story of Indigenous land theft. Th ­ ere was a w ­ hole ­gaggle of us cannery kids. We would r­ ide bikes up to the lake, engage in firework wars down by the abandoned concrete military structure, the Echo House, and raid the cannery’s break room during the workers’ fifteen-­ minute paid breaks. My Hotda worked in the fish cannery at Excursion Inlet for de­cades; she modeled hard work during all of my early years. Her hard work was one of the reasons I d ­ idn’t get to know her as well as I could have—­summertime was for working in the fish cannery, a job I also took for several summers while in college. The letter my aunt found gave me a glimpse of my Hotda, how she spoke and how her handwriting looked. In the letter my Hotda gushed about her three ­daughters and their achievements: Linda was born may—­Edna—­july Duffy—­april Their ­father died when Duff was 1 year old and the eldest

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was 4 years old, the ­middle girl was 3 years old— They have all done so much more than I expected!!! They all graduated from high school—­something I hoped that they would do. I ­didn’t think they would keep ­going— They ­were awarded scholarships and all three graduated from college and then took gradu­ate courses at Harvard university— They earned work—­summers—­and all of them won scholarships— The two older girls ­were awarded scholarships for post gradu­ate courses at Harvard University in Boston. ­People ask me if I pushed them to keep g­ oing—­I d ­ on’t think so—­I wanted them to get enough education to get an office job. I ­didn’t think they would keep g­ oing—­a ll 3 girls have gradu­ate degrees— in Education—­Duffy graduated with a 4.0 Now Linda, the eldest, is teaching on a reservation in New Mexico—­She’s the princi­ple of the high school. The second girl is in charge of director of Indian Education in Anchorage, and the youn­gest is teaching 3rd grade in Hoonah. I’ve been surprised at how much ­t hey’ve done— so much more than I expected. I guess you can read between the lines—­t hat I am very proud of them all— sue belarde I know my Hotda is proud of me too.

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Octoberish 1997 A dorm-­mate at the University of Arizona asks where I’m from. “Zuni, New Mexico,” I reply. “­There’s another girl from New Mexico ­here!!” she squeals. I ask if it was Kim or Carolee, the friends from Zuni who w ­ ere also in our dorm, also in their freshman year at the UofA. “No, her name is Marisa. She’s cool. I’ll introduce you.” Thus began one of my closest friendships. September 2006; June 2007 I showed up to the first day of Year 2 of my master’s program five and a half months pregnant. A friend who was also in the program knew, but it was a shock for every­ one ­else. My classmates did not bring “it” up much, and I appreciated that. I needed to focus. I enrolled in in­de­pen­dent study credits for Winter Quarter, which did not require my presence on campus, and my son arrived exactly on time in January 2007. I did not realize how big a deal it was to gradu­ate ­after having a child. But I did it, on time and with a completed master’s thesis. Many of my classmates and advisers have complimented me; ­t hey’ve asked me since then how I got it done, as if being pregnant during gradu­ate school was some insurmountable obstacle, larger than the challenge of gradu­ate school itself. The truth is it was a practical reason, no SuperMama ethos ­going on; I was already substantially in debt for the MA and I needed to minimize how much I was ­going to owe. S­ imple economics. January 2007: On the Birth of the Amazing One I gave birth to my son Likoodzi on January 14. An excruciating forty-­nine-­hour ordeal of pre-­labor, false l­abor, several trips to the hospital before they would admit me, and then the confusing and devastating realization that I was in back ­labor—­both of our f­ aces ­were pointed in the same direction. Not as life-­threatening as a breach ­labor but one of the most painful sensations I have ever had the privilege to live through—­a baby skull pressing directly on my tailbone during ­every, single, contraction. He arrived at four in the morning, just moments before the nurses and doctors ­were about to vacuum him out. The vacuum was ­there, in the room, and prob­ably provided the final motivation I needed to push his incredible self into the world. Maybe some part of me knew that he was ­going to face hostility and be subjected to the injustices of the world soon enough without having to face the indignity of having to be vacuumed out of his m ­ other’s womb. Maybe I d ­ idn’t want that to be my story. He has asked me about it since then. “What was it like when you had me, Geetah?” (Geetah was his toddler pronunciation of Tsida, the Zuni word for mom, and has stuck as my name). “It hurt, Son-­son.” “How bad did it hurt?” “It hurt very bad.”

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December 2007: Text­ing with the Bestie about Applying to a PhD Program Me:  Are you g­ oing to send in your application? Marisa:  I c­ an’t send it til I get to some wifi, I’m about 2 hours from my mom’s ­house. Me: OK Marisa:  I bet ­t hey’re not ­going to take both of us. Me:  Prob­ably not. (thinking to self: but they ­w ill definitely accept you) Marisa:  Are you ­going to send in your application? Me:  Yeah I think so. Marisa:  Do it! Me: OK

March 2008: Install in Brooklyn I was participating in my first group art show in NYC. My son was on the verge of walking. As I was chasing my son around and trying to figure out how to install my piece on blood quantum as pie charts, my cell phone rings—­a University of Washington number. The voice on the other end was Allyson Carlisle, the w ­ oman who recruited me to apply. She smiled across the country into my ear as she extended the school’s invitation to be a PhD student in the Information School. I calmly thanked her, chased a­ fter baby son, and called the inner circle. Excitement all around, especially b ­ ecause Marisa also got accepted! So who won the bet? Maybe we both did. Or maybe we both lost? Sometimes it’s still unclear. August 2008 During the first few months of the first year of the PhD program, my husband was working in a dif­fer­ent state on what would become Barack Obama’s historic presidential campaign. The quarter started, and that first week all my babysitters fell through. Some ­were sick, some ­were busy, some ­d idn’t answer the phone . . . ​a familiar story for many busy moms. I packed up my twenty-­month-­old and took him with me. If the feeling that I was not cut out for the program—or not “PhD material”—­was not already pre­sent, walking in frazzled with my toddler in tow during the first research-­related event of the school year made me question if I had made the right life decision. When we entered the program, I was the only parent in my cohort, and I had a hellishly long commute. I rationalized the commute to myself. “I have such a strong support system with my many in-­laws and f­amily friends! Why would I move?”

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When they all fell through that first week, I had to be honest with myself and ask the hard question if I ­really had the support structure that I (a) thought I had and (b) required in order to successfully pursue a PhD. That first week I seriously had my doubts that I had ­either. Marisa’s mind went to work. Like the master or­ga­ nizer and brainstormer that she is, we went through the list of ­people who could come help. “What about TJ?” she asked. #lightbulb October 2008 TJ asked so few questions. I asked him to move to Washington to help me, he got his affairs in order and made the move. We have known each other since Head Start and have been through both incredible and horrible times together, in Zuni, in college, and in life. We have been ­there for each other when we ­were at our most vulnerable and in our younger days have partied and laughed our asses off at the hilarity of it all and cried at the cruelty of the world together. He moved to Suquamish, moved in with us, and started taking care of both me and my son, no questions asked, just the faith that it would all work out. I would not have made it through that first year without him. The peace of mind he provided and the love and care he provided for my son is not an act I take lightly, nor is it one I’m sure I can ever repay. Elahkwah, #1. Ho’t dom i:chema, hom ku:wai’yeh, hom ba’ba’. February 2009: The Lifeline I had switched fields and was up to my eyeballs in catch-up reading. I would wake up early, read, commute/read, go to class, commute/read, come home, hang out with my son, husband, and friend, and then read or write. It was getting to be too much. Most of the reading did not seem relevant to my life or my research and was a dry style of academic prose that was a slog to get through. As I made my way through a particularly painful class proj­ect, and at the suggestion of my Americans for Indian Opportunity (AIO) s­ ister, Noelani Lee, I began reading the work of Manulani Aluli Meyer. Her writing called out to me as I read deep into the night. The clarity of her words and her commitment to her home community through her academic work was the life raft I needed at that point in time. I sent her an email thanking her for publishing work that prioritized her Kanaka Oiwi heritage, for having the courage to release it into the world for other Native and Indigenous scholars to use as a guide post as we found our voice. I was shocked when she responded, and was filled with tearful gratitude as I read one of the most encouraging emails I have ever received. She validated ­every sentiment I sent to her and reaffirmed that ­t here was not only a place for voices, research and ­people like us in the acad­emy, but that our presence was needed. Perhaps most importantly, she reminded me that the acad­emy needed us, not the other way around. For her words written in that journal article, and her words directly to me, for her inspired scholarship, I am still thankful.

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July 2010: Journey to Makah ­ very year the annual Tribal Canoe Journey travels to a dif­fer­ent destination. In E 2010 the final destination was to the Makah reservation. I promised myself that I would take a break from school work while on the Journey. I settled into camp crew duties and assisted our canoe pullers in camp. ­After all the canoes arrived in Neah Bay, Washington, the weeklong cele­bration and cultural sharing of dances, songs, stories, and giveaways commenced. I soaked it up, dancing when asked, singing with our canoe ­family, sitting and witnessing other communities cultural sharing. As I sat and observed one of the Vancouver Island communities explain the significance of their masks, they granted permission to take photos, yet instructed the thousands of us in the audience that t­ hese photos w ­ ere for personal use and that their ancestors did not belong on the internet. Even though I promised myself I would take a break, the researcher’s brain is hard to turn off once activated. I asked Charlotte Coté, a professor friend from Vancouver Island what she thought of me writing a paper about that statement in relation to other Native communities fighting to protect our cultural knowledge from unnecessary exposure to the outside world and our efforts to keep the ancestors off the internet. Charlotte was entirely supportive and graciously offered feedback when I did write that paper. Thus began what is now a huge component of my long-­term research and considerably informed my dissertation. The subsequent paper earned me my first Best Paper award. The award was validation, not only that the subject m ­ atter was impor­tant “enough” to be recognized in a non-­Native conference venue, but that I did not have to write in academic jargon to be taken seriously as a scholar. May 2011: In the Thick of PhD Life In the last five months I had attended and presented at three international conferences (including the Tribal Journey paper), written and defended my comprehensive exams, successfully completed my course work, and tried to ignore the warning signs of a relationship in decline. I knew I was losing weight, but I was consciously trying to eat better. The “Freshman Fifteen” seems to be multiplied in gradu­ate school, and I prided myself on having gotten my weight u ­ nder control. But a­ fter I got it u ­ nder control it kept on g­ oing. I lost more and more weight. The bags u ­ nder my eyes got darker as my stress took over and started to regulate my emotions instead of me regulating them. Sleep was elusive, my face thinned out. I dismissed a few concerned voices who tried to talk to me about how I ­didn’t “look good” as patronizing and inappropriate—­ even though in some cases they w ­ ere—­and kept pushing through. The new puppy we got at Christmas was stubborn when it came to ­house training. His fourth accident in two days sent me over the edge. I stood in the living room sobbing at how tired I was. How the dog ­wouldn’t learn or listen. Confused at why I ­couldn’t make my heart calm down and how anxious I was all the time. Hurt ­because my husband ­d idn’t understand how hard I was working or that I ­wasn’t sleeping. But how could he know if I d ­ idn’t tell him? I rationalized that if I

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ignored it, if I kept on ­going, that it would eventually be okay. Every­t hing always is . . . ​right? June 2012 I sat in the doctor’s office a­ fter having been referred to an endocrinologist. She looked at my chart, at the results on the screen. She asked ✓ If I notice a difference in my eyes. ✓ If I had noticed my heart beating faster. ✓ If I had chronic headaches. ✓ If I was having trou­ble sleeping. ✓ If I had noticed any weight changes. ✓ If I noticed a difference in my skin and nails. ­ very answer was yes. She looked at the results of my blood work and then told E me that I had textbook symptoms for hyperthyroidism. I was not expecting her to say that. I think she said that the most affected population is w ­ omen in grad school. But did she say that? I d ­ on’t know. I had been having a hard time remembering ­t hings. She said that the symptoms mask themselves as “regular stress,” especially in ­women, and that the thyroid disease can be pre­sent for years before symptoms manifest. She said that it is usually a particularly stressful event that triggers the disease, but many times it is a pregnancy that activates it. She said I had options. Immediately ­a fter that appointment I attended the NAISA conference and roomed with Ally. I told her about being hyperthyroidic, expecting sympathetic sounds. She said as only a good friend can: “I know. Remember I told you get it checked out?” I did not remember, but I do not doubt she said it. Th ­ ere’s a lot I ­don’t remember during the years I was sick. October 2012: Overdrive Several rounds of tests and results and weird drinks that ­were tests and the results. If the thyroid gland provides the energy for e­ very cell in the body and e­ very cell is working overtime but the thyroid does not respond to “take five” it only responds to “make more energy” and maybe ­t here are other ways of managing it but yours is the most overactive thyroid the elder French doctor has seen in his entire c­ areer and thank goodness for all the cardio y­ ou’ve been d ­ oing b ­ ecause it means your heart is in good condition ­because you could have had a heart attack with how hard your heart is working right now but the prob­lem is that if your heart already thinks ­you’re ­doing cardio all the time even in your sleep and you also do cardio while ­you’re awake then it’s no won­der ­you’ve lost so much weight and that explains why you have dehydration headaches it’s ­because your heart thinks ­you’re always ­doing cardio and the best option is to ablate the thyroid. Wait, what? What is ablation? What do you mean, shut down the thyroid? I thought I had options. . . . ​preparation and tests and explanations of why this is the best option go by . . .

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The nurse suited up in a face mask and a lead gown—­t he kind they make you wear in the dentist office—­and heavy gloves. She holds out her hand and produces a thick metal medicine b ­ ottle with a single pill inside. She dumps the pill into a tiny paper cup and hands it to me. As she hands me a tall plastic cup of ­water she says “­don’t touch the pill, just swallow it.” “Well that ­doesn’t make me feel better,” I ­mumble as I take the paper cup. “­Don’t let it get stuck in your throat” she says. I take the pill of radioactive iodine without touching it and drink down the ­whole cup of ­water. I ­can’t be around c­ hildren or pets for forty-­eight hours. I have to flush the toilet twice when I go pee. I ­shouldn’t prepare food for ­others for fear that the radioactivity in the pill I just swallowed might adversely affect them instead of my hyperactive thyroid in my throat causing so much upheaval in my health. I stayed with friends in the city, away from my f­ amily and our dog. January 2013: Ally Our dog jumped into my bed in the m ­ iddle of the night. He is a muscular pit bull and does not sleep in our rooms. He licked my son’s face like he had the antidote and scared the sh*t out of me. He licked my son’s face like he was never ­going to see him again. I was shocked. He never did that. The dog got yelled at for it as I chased him back into the living room. He came ­running back in and licked my son’s face—­again! Our dog did get in trou­ble for that trip. The next morning I received the devastating news that our ­sister scholar and fellow PhD student had passed during the night; the cancer had fi­nally won. A few weeks l­ater we had a small ceremony around a baby cedar tree. The tree was planted to honor the grand­mother cedar tree Ally had advocated for on the UW campus—­a tree that was cut down despite our efforts to save it. The tree was sick too. It was during the heartfelt and heartbroken conversations about her passing that I learned that she had come to visit other friends in dif­fer­ent ways at the same time as her transition from this side of life to the other. She loved my son as much as she loved her own boys. She loved my dog. I believe she was communicating love to them both the night she passed. She remains a guiding inspiration for t­ hose of us who knew her and ­were witness to her infectious curiosity, her brilliant mind, her playful spirit, and her passionate, unwavering commitment to the Anishinaabe ­people—­her p ­ eople. June 2013: PhD Graduation My best friend and I walked up onto the stage with all the other gradu­ates, dressed in our academic regalia of flowing deep purple velvet and Harry Potter berets that marked us as doctors of philosophy. Two eve­nings ­earlier we had worn our Zuni and Yoeme regalia. We w ­ ere with our families at the twenty-­fifth annual Raven’s Feast dinner, a cele­bration of the Native gradu­ates of all three University of Wash-

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ington campuses hosted by the Native professors of the UW. At both events we could not believe we had reached this point. As we sat onstage and half listened to the remarks being made we kept telling each other and reaffirming to each other that this was it. We had done it. We ­were hooded by our fierce and loving mentor, Dr. Cheryl Metoyer. We w ­ ere g­ oing to be PhD’d. We are Native PhDs. I am thankful to share that moment with her, a moment that added to the incredible number of surreal moments we have shared as Indigenous ­women all across Turtle Island, on multiple reservations and tribal homelands, cities, college campuses. The im­mense privilege of being friends with such a strong Yoeme ­woman, such a brilliant and conscientious scholar, of being able to call her my best friend since we ­were eigh­teen years old. We have witnessed each other’s growth as ­women and as scholars and now we are witnessing each other’s growth as Native ­mothers and professors, ushering in the next generation of Indigenous scholars dedicated to using the tools of the acad­emy ­toward the uplifting of Native communities and ­peoples. March 2014: Nephew Son One after­noon my sixteen-­year-­old nephew’s life was upended. He came to live with us that day and ­didn’t move out ­until he left for college three years ­later. Our son gained a big ­brother, and we have gained a Nephew Son. It ­hasn’t always been easy, but he has blessed our lives with his presence and I am so thankful to be his Mauntie (mom/auntie). April 2014: Diagnosis Doctor:  The thyroid disease has revealed and activated a ge­ne­tic mutation which is just now presenting, the damage happened for too long, blah blah blah, early and pre-­menopause . . . Me:  Excuse me? Doctor: (Glances at the nurse’s aide also in the room) I’m very sorry to inform you that y­ ou’re in early menopause. Me:— Doctor:— Me:— Nurse’s Aide:— Me:  (Insert devastated and broken hearts for me and my husband)

I’m still not over it. Most days it is not pre­sent in my mind. However when I’m at Cele­bration in Juneau, Kok’a:wiya’ba’ in Zuni, powwows anywhere, Tribal Canoe Journey in Washington, scrolling through social media, pretty much any place Native babies are rolling around in their gorgeous mama’s bellies, r­ unning around dusty with bushy braids, my heart hurts for t­ hose who could have been my biological c­ hildren, t­ hose who ­w ill not get a chance to be h ­ ere with us in this world. I pray ­we’ll meet in our next lifetime.

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August 2014: The Snowball Effect A few months prior, I was sent for soy sauce by my u ­ ncle—he was waiting for a heart transplant. I had a chance encounter with Preston Singletary, an artist friend in the lobby of the hospital. The chance encounter resulted in an invitation to curate his next major exhibition.* The following year a proposal to curate a two-­woman show in Vancouver BC was accepted and ­later shifted to become one of the artists’ first solo exhibition.** The year ­after that I was approached to curate two exhibits*** in 2017, which I did to both critical and commercial success for the artists and the institution. I reflected on the ask I made of the universe ­after graduating with the PhD: to meaningfully reenter the museum field. The lesson? To be mindful of what you ask for b ­ ecause if ­you’re in a place ready to receive, the universe provides. The pro­cess of curation development and the subsequent research conducted for each of ­these proj­ects has informed and continues to inform my research agenda and priorities. February 2017 I applied for an assistant professorship in the subject area of Native North American Indigenous knowledge. I was not ­going to b ­ ecause I know what the acad­emy is like and was not sure I wanted to participate in it. An ­uncle who helped with my dissertation, who is familiar with the field, bluntly asked me why I was hesitating. He reminded me that when we (we being Native ­people who are boundary-­spanners between our home communities and the acad­emy) have worked hard and sacrificed to be credentialed in the eyes of the non-­Native world, we have a responsibility to show up. He reminded me how few Indigenous information scientists ­t here are in the world, and how the universe had provided, even when I did not ask for it. He reminded me that when the universe provides, we have an obligation to accept its gifts. This is one of the differences between us and our non-­Native colleagues, the obligation to accept gifts and to reciprocate when it’s our turn to give back. April 2019 We welcomed two siblings into our home, ages four and seven. They are relatives, my husband’s grand-­nieces who ­were in foster care. They have experienced more trauma in their young lives than I have in my four de­cades of living. We are wholly invested in building good habits, love, and trust. The time and energy expended challenges the line I have drawn and my patience for academic drama. I know that our love and consistency have changed their life path for the better.

* Preston Singletary: Raven and the Box of Daylight opened at the Museum of Glass in October 2018 and began traveling the country in 2019. ** Sho Sho Esquiro: Doctrine of Discovery opened at the Bill Reid Gallery in October 2021 *** Storme Webber| Casino: A Palimpsest and Alison (Marks) Bremner: One Gray Hair both opened at the Frye Art Museum in Seattle.

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January 2022 I sit in my office, thinking back on the road to get h ­ ere. Writing this has been difficult, but it is impor­tant that we learn from each other. That we learn how to succeed in academic spaces, but not at the expense of our physical, ­mental, and spiritual health.

The web of ideas surrounding my research rests on the whiteboard to my right, patiently waiting for me to give them life on paper, to blend the theories of my mentors and academic sheroes with the documentation of my actions and interventions in the information, museum, and arts field. When first charting out the web of ideas, the enormity of it all overwhelmed me. It has taken me several months to remember that I have time. This is a tenure-­ track position and the goal is to make steady pro­gress t­ oward the development and distribution of ideas. When considering that this is the goal and the task, and remembering how long it took to develop the ideas and the writing for the PhD, the enormity seems a ­little bit smaller. As I entered into this position of assistant professor I know exactly how much I have paid to get to this point. I enter this job with explicit goals to contribute to the Native and Indigenous scholarship in the field of information science, to gradu­ ate more Native PhDs in this field, and to keep my physical and m ­ ental health while d ­ oing so.

The web of ideas remind me of the insights I’ve stumbled upon and the discoveries that made themselves known to me with a whack over the head. As I reenter the acad­emy, I walk in with open eyes, acknowledging and embracing the multiple strengths provided by my families, my communities, my c­ hildren, my husband. I learned painful but valuable lessons by losing control of my health, and the lasting effects that has had. By looking back on this timeline, I know exactly where I stand, that ­there is a clear line in the proverbial sand that I refuse to cross. Learning from friends and colleagues who have gone through the tenure pro­cess has been critical to my decision making but learning from myself and knowing what is too impor­tant to lose is trea­sured and hard-­won knowledge. I know that I have an obligation to be pre­sent for my ­family, to conduct research on behalf of and for the benefit of my Pueblo and my Tlingit village, and to serve as a mentor and example for f­ uture generations of Native folks in the acad­emy. I know we are worthless ­toward any attempts to decolonize, indigenize, or other­ wise if we are not in optimal health. Our presence is in itself a challenge to the machine of the acad­emy, and the good health of our Indigenous m ­ others in the acad­emy is a radical act of survival.

chapter 10

Protection and the Power of Reproduction Shelly Lowe (Diné)

“We did it!!” Three words. Followed by a forwarded email: ——    —­Forwarded message— ——   From: Date: Wed, May 2, 2018 at 3:30 p.m. Subject: IAIA Ac­cep­tance Notification And I start to cry, sitting in a symposium, in a room full of Native nation builders, I look at my phone and I cry. Motherhood. I won­der if ­there can ever be words enough to describe the emotions that so easily and thoroughly overtake you as a ­mother. Emotions good and bad, sometimes so intense you almost won­der what is wrong with you. I’ve been a ­mother for a long time. I was a young ­mother, at an age ­people frown upon, and I’m a ­mother to quite a few c­ hildren (insert h ­ ere the comment I always get when I tell anyone I have five c­ hildren), “You d ­ on’t look old enough.” But that’s not this story. I have another story. Told often, but never written to be read forever. It is time to share part of that story with you.

­ fter completing my doctoral coursework I applied for a number of jobs in instituA tions across the country. Most responses to my applications ­were very courteous and appropriately worded rejection letters, which w ­ ere received with relief. I’ve never lived outside my home state before. Then, I received that one phone call. “We’ve looked at your application and we want to bring you out for an interview. Are you still interested in the position and would you be willing to come out for a campus visit?” Of course I’m interested, this was a prestigious university, at least as far as my l­imited knowledge under104

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stood. I hang up the phone, immediately google the location of the university, where the heck am I g­ oing? A c­ ouple weeks l­ ater I’m ­doing a full day visit on the East Coast at an Ivy League university. I’m not intimidated. I’m intrigued. I r­ eally ­don’t know any better. This kind of institution is completely new to me. Then I meet them, a handful of Native students who are trying to call this institution home. We eat, we laugh, we share, we smile, and we commiserate, while enjoying the presence of an adorable two-­year-­old, the child of one of the students—­ almost like w ­ e’re not in a university setting, almost like w ­ e’re f­amily spending time together. They watch over me, giving me tips, and ensuring I can get back to my ­hotel room safely that night. They linger, and I linger. The day ended too soon it seemed. The next day I’m back on an airplane, campus visit and interview over. As the plane begins to take off I start to pray, and I start to cry. ­These students are so brave, they are so strong, and they are so lonely. They just wanted one ­t hing, and it was so ­simple. They wanted a Native administrator in the institution to support them, to be a voice for them, to be a representative for them. I cried and I prayed, and I asked that they be given someone to support them, to protect them, to continue to strengthen them. Deep down I was so afraid. I was afraid to leave them in that place, so far away from home. I was afraid I was ­doing the wrong ­t hing by g­ oing home while they still had to be t­ here. I was afraid they would not get the love, support, and protection they should constantly have as our Native youth, our ­f uture.

Protection, a ­woman’s body is created to protect. Blood, oxygen, fat, fluid, ­every organ in a ­woman’s body provides protection to a growing and developing fetus. Double duty, the body kicks in naturally. From that point on, protection becomes a central tendency that d ­ oesn’t ever seem to go away. It gets transferred on and shared. It becomes part of our professional world. Prayers for our ­children are never ending. Please protect them when I am away from them, please watch over them when they are away from home, please help them to be strong and resilient, please help them be focused and work hard, please help them to maintain and grow in their language and culture, please help them be good leaders and support ­others. Supporting o ­ thers is the power of reproduction. Reproduce opportunities and ave­nues for success. Reproduce a community’s strength and resilience. Reproduce positive leadership and empowerment. Reproduce knowledge. Reproduce a Native space on campus for all who come a­ fter. Reproduce a sense of home. I am a m ­ other. This means my place and identity in the world is never singular. Who I am is tied to my ­children, to my grand­daughter, to my grand­son, and my ­f uture grandchildren. E ­ very action and decision I make reverberates down to them. M ­ other is home, in both good and bad ways. Home, in e­ very sense of the

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word. I am the centrality of home. It’s the biggest responsibility any one person can have. ­There is no way to divorce this identity from my work in higher education. Higher education is where I build and make my home. Make that home welcoming, make that home comforting, make that home a safe place, a place to think of fondly, a place to want to return to. I’ve always been intrigued by this idea of “in loco parentis.” Not an idea r­ eally, but a l­egal relationship debated in universities and in courtrooms (Lee, 2011). But it is in­ter­est­ing to think that an institution, a college or university, would consider itself the parent of its students. Responsible for overseeing not just the academic development of that student, but the moral and social development of that student. And that ­every employee in that institution should be mindful in fulfilling the duties of “in loco parentis,” or what is now considered to be providing a “duty of care.” I ­don’t need a ­legal term to tell or allow me to be mindful of how I care for our students. I have aunties and u ­ ncles, grandmas and grandpas, moms and dads, tribal leaders and tribal elders, all coming up to me at national meetings and community visits, saying to me, “Thank you for being ­t here and for taking care of our student(s).” I know I have to be responsible to ­every student’s ­family, extended and immediate, and e­ very student’s tribal or home community. I know how impor­tant it is for e­ very Native student to succeed, but to also remain w ­ hole while d ­ oing so. I hear the f­amily and community prayers being said and repeated for t­ hese students. I see ­t hese prayers around our students as they walk through campus, as they walk into the classroom, as they or­ga­nize events, and as they go about their days simply being a college student. This comes back to the story I shared. I cried b ­ ecause I knew the parents and the tribal communities of the students at that Ivy League institution did not want or intend for their child, their ­children, their student(s) to ever feel alone or in need. They want the complete opposite. They want their ­children to grow, with knowledge and experience, with expertise that can be used in good ways, that can be brought home. They want their c­ hildren to be in balance, balancing the new knowledge they are learning with the cultural understandings that make up their Native identities. One t­ hing about being a good parent and providing a comfortable home, or working in higher education for the benefit of Native populations, is the fact that no one person can do it alone. But, as a ­mother, and as a higher education administrator, I often found myself in a position where I was alone, a position similar to how many of our students feel in institutions of higher education. I often had to find my own support network to help me get through difficult situations, to provide with me sound advice, or to just listen and give empathy. That skill of finding support when needed, and thank goodness I was able to develop that skill, did not come easily. I developed that skill as I got older, simply b ­ ecause I needed it and I had to admit and understand, I c­ an’t do it alone, not if I want to stay in balance

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and be the support for my c­ hildren and for the students (­don’t forget their families and communities) that I intended to be.

Let’s be clear, seeking support when needed and being given advice do not always equate to being the same ­thing. In providing a duty of care, ­there ­will be plenty of ­people who want to tell a parent what is the best way to care for your child. The child’s pediatrician, the child’s dentist, the child’s caregivers, the child’s teachers, even neighbors, in-­laws, ­family members, and strangers. The real­ity is, a good parent is the best person to provide care to a child. I realize good parenting ­isn’t always what is taught, learned, or given in far too many instances. I also realize that how some p ­ eople perceive good parenting is far dif­fer­ent from how I might perceive good parenting. Case in point, for years I lied to my ­children’s pediatrician. ­Every well-­child visit we went to, the pediatrician would ask (yes, e­ very time, with each child) if my child slept in his or her own bed. My answer was always yes, he/she sleeps in his/her own bed. My response would always be followed with another inquiry from the pediatrician confirming my child does not sleep in the same bed as me. Again, I would say no, my child does not sleep in the same bed as I do. Proper parenting, to this pediatrician, was to never allow a child to sleep in the parents’ bed. My mind always wondered, but what about when the ­family slept in a tipi, or in a hogan, on in a wetu, in the m ­ iddle of winter? Not to mention sleeping in an igloo in the arctic. My c­ hildren always slept with me, from the moment they w ­ ere born, ­until their younger sibling came along, or u ­ ntil they ­were too rambunctious and would kick or hit me throughout the night. The point is, we did what was right for us. I found in my work that someone, almost always someone non-­Native, although a ­couple of times someone Native, would always want to tell me the best way to work with and support Native students. They had this “idea” of what my students needed, usually based on gross misperceptions and ste­reo­types that presented some kind of constant prob­lem or difficulty, and the solution to Native students’ needs was s­ imple, do it the way it would be done for other populations. Other populations would almost always equate to African American students. ­There always seemed to be this idea that b ­ ecause African American students are a minority and have a certain experience in non-­Native colleges and universities, it would be the same for Native students and the solutions could be the same. Of course, solutions w ­ ere also suggested that w ­ ere the standard way of practice for the majority student population as well. What was always, and I mean always, lacking in ­t hese conversations ­were inquiries into what I thought might be ­going on, how I thought about confronting the issue, how the students’ tribal communities might think about the situation and the pos­si­ble solution(s) to the prob­lem, and what I might need to bring about the best pos­si­ble solution. As a parent, I understand that knowing a child’s needs as well as knowing a parent’s needs go

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hand and hand. Making assumptions just ­doesn’t work. Neither does prescribing actions that ­don’t fit the situation.

Difficulties arise. Challenging situations are a part of the deal when you are a parent, and when you are a higher education administrator. Sometimes, “challenging” is not quite the right word, it’s just not strong enough to describe the ­mental, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual strength needed to confront and move through certain situations. I have thoroughly enjoyed watching my c­ hildren grow, and I enjoy seeing who they are ­today, the paths they have chosen to take, and the strength they have each come to know. I know they are still growing and still learning, as am I, and I know forgiveness and ac­cep­tance is one of the most difficult strengths to own. ­Children ­w ill do ­t hings that are wrong and hurtful, and ­mothers, as good as we might aspire to be, w ­ ill undoubtedly do t­ hings that are hurtful and wrong. Working through ­those situations takes time, and unconditional love. Helping our ­children work through situations where someone e­ lse has wronged and hurt them is no easier. Forgiveness is painful at times. It is also a pain that can linger.

When do we choose to forgive? I was eventually offered and took that job at the Ivy League institution. I was re­united with the students, and I was honored to be with them. But when I told my home institution and f­amily I would be g­ oing, not one person was happy for me. I was asked or told over and over again, “Why would you go t­ here?,” “Why c­ an’t you stay h ­ ere?,” “You are needed ­here, t­ here are more p ­ eople ­here who need you ­here,” and, my favorite, “Do you know what happens to Natives who go out t­ here? They ­don’t come back.” It ­didn’t take me long to learn how ill-­informed and poorly intentioned this institution was. It d ­ idn’t take me long to learn that I had to confront tragedies, mishandling, prejudice, racism, and outright ignorance soon ­after I arrived on campus. I was given the smallest office, the by far smallest bud­get compared to other “underrepresented” populations, the most secluded and incon­ve­nient student space, and the ever-­present racist “unintentional” treatment by colleagues (ask me sometime to talk about the office “Yankee Swap,” which included a VHS copy of one of John Wayne’s most iconic racist movies, The Searchers). Welcome to my first administrative role in Native higher education and welcome to the Ivy Leagues. I strug­g led to persevere, not just as the only Native administrator, but as a ­mother who relocated her c­ hildren to a location with no f­amily presence within two days’ driving distance. I encountered, not for the first time, but in much more articulated ways, anger and resentment ­toward the university from the alumni I needed to work with, the alumni I needed to support the students who ­were currently at the institution. I learned about tragedies within the Native student group. Tragedies that w ­ ere quickly smoothed over and hushed by the institution. Tragedies that continue to affect the community to this day ­because they ­were not handled correctly.

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As a ­mother, I did what I was expected to do. I showed up. I listened. I observed. I cried. I got angry, ­really angry. I found the one person I could commiserate with, a Native faculty member on campus. I learned she was in the same boat, but had been dealing with this for years before me. And, I spent time with the students. I got to know them more. I listened to them. I encouraged them. I was awed by their talent and intelligence. And I hope I gave them some sense of foundation and strength. I know without them, I would not have had the strength to be a productive administrator. I reflect back to that experience all the time. It was so incredibly painful being confronted by ­those difficulties, but not when I was with the students, and not when I was home with my c­ hildren. Every­t hing I learned and hoped to embody as a ­mother played out in my professional role at that institution. I was so angry for a long time. Angry that an institution would treat Native students so poorly. Angry that their needs had been discarded so easily for so long, and that I was supposed to be an easy fix for the poor support, or even lack of support, that was being given to the Native students for years.

I wish I could say I made t­ hings monumentally better. Just t­ oday I spent time talking to a Native gradu­ate student about a professor in her program who asked her to be part of an international education panel ­because “tribal schools are not part of the U.S. system.” This student is a member of a Southwest tribe, who has taught in tribal schools in the Southwest, urban New E ­ ngland schools, and schools in Hawai‘i. This faculty member received her undergraduate degree from a small liberal arts college in Pennsylvania and her PhD from a university in Michigan. This faculty member is from the northeastern United States and has never lived or worked anywhere except in the United States. How do we accept that level of ignorance, that level of poor education? How do we even start to forgive that kind of be­hav­ior from an Ivy League professor? How do we forgive t­ hings that are painful and too hard to even think about? You d ­ on’t have to be a parent to feel the damage many of our students endure. One ­t hing we can do is believe in the power to laugh. We are Native ­people. We laugh. We have to laugh. We ­can’t have an event or a ­family get together if we ­aren’t laughing. Who ­hasn’t listened to Matika Wilbur’s infectious laugh, or waited for the powwow MC’s inappropriate jokes, or betted on when the elder conducting a ceremony would fi­nally crack a joke before talking for thirty minutes more? We have to laugh at the complete cluelessness of certain professors. We have to laugh with our students. We have to laugh with our c­ hildren. Even when they roll their eyes at us. We have to laugh at the unbelievable policies and practices of our institutions. Then we have to remember to be serious. Parenting is serious. Serving Native students is serious. Sometimes a joke is the best way to get a serious real­ity heard. I was commiserating with another colleague at one point and she said, “Oh no, watch out for mama bear.” She was talking about me and my protective owner­ ship of my students. I had to laugh, ­because as a Navajo, I ­can’t be called a bear. It

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was funny at the moment, thinking of that saying, that image, and how it relates to dif­fer­ent Native populations. Funny to think of myself literally as a bear on campus, shielding and protecting students from harm. Then I thought, I can only hope every­one ­else sees how serious this mama bear is about the treatment of her c­ hildren, and her students, b ­ ecause I am a protector. Sometimes we ­don’t choose our roles.

“We did it!!” My first reaction was to email back and explain that no, it was not we. College ac­cep­tance, college success is all on you as the student. Yeah, I ­will be ­there, but I ­will not earn your grades, I ­will not take your exams and score the good points. I w ­ ill not fill your extracurricular list. I w ­ ill not fill your leadership roles. That’s all on you. You put the hard work in. My job is to help you understand why you do it, how to do it, and why it is impor­tant to be in higher education. My job is to support you, to encourage you, and to tease out t­hose strong qualities I know you possess. My job is to be ­here, to listen, to advocate, to be a voice that ensures higher education institutions know you are not just an individual, that you are part of ­a family, a community, a tribe, and that your success affects generations. My job is to be the emotional crying one when you succeed. My job is to be proud. Protective and proud. Then I think again, about that motherly protective side I ­can’t ever not own. Yes, we did it. I was a part of that, and I always ­w ill be. I ­w ill be the serious face, the wrinkled eyebrows and questioning eyes when the institution, its administration, its faculty, its “support” staff ­don’t hold up their part of the bargain. The part I expect them to be accountable for. Their duty of care that your ­family members, community members, tribal members, and sovereign governments expect to be provided. Their support for your success. We did it, and “we,” you and I know, is way more than you and me. That’s the power of our reproduction. It’s been playing out for generations, for centuries even. They said, “We did it,” so we could have a place for you h ­ ere ­today.

Reference Lee, P. (2011). The curious life of in loco parentis in American universities. Higher Education in Review, 8, 65–90.

chapter 11

A Glint of Decolonial Love an academic ­mother’s meditation on navigating and leveraging the university Tria Blu Wakpa (Powhatan Descent) What if we focus on ­these tiny ­little victories where love and connection win, even if that win is temporary? What if we amplify t­ hese ­little islands of decolonial love? What if they grow? What if we start to weave them together into the fabric of our collective lives? —­Winder (2014)

In December 2019, a Lakota elder currently serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole arranged for me to be given the Lakota name Tasunke Olotapi Win, which in En­glish is interpreted as Horses Borrow Her W ­ oman. I was given this name in ceremony at the fifth powwow that I attended for Native ­people who are incarcerated at the South Dakota State Penitentiary, located on occupied Lakota lands in what is often referred to as Sioux Falls.1 Acts of Indigenous cultural reclamation—­ such as bringing Lakota ceremony, dance, language, and song into spaces of settler-­ colonial confinement—­can create “­little islands of decolonial love,” as writer Leanne Betasamosake Simpson describes, “­bubble[s] where for a few minutes at least, we learn what it feels like to escape the chains of colonialism” (Winder, 2014). Such “islands of decolonial love” can bring ­humans and more-­than-­humans into stronger relationships with one another—­even from within the state’s most repressive institutions (Winder, 2014). I define more-­than-­humans as nonhuman animals, air, land, w ­ ater, and the cosmos. Forging human-­to-­human and human-­to-­more-­than-­human relationships is vital work given that settler-­colonial structures and institutions have often operated in ways that attempt to sever ­these connections—­particularly in the Indigenous context (Blu Wakpa & Blue Bird, 2021). This chapter ties together my work as an assistant professor of dance studies and “ina,” the word for “­mother” in Lakota and Tagalog. Like Native Americans, Filipinos have also endured U.S. colonization (Burns, 2013). Of Filipino, Eu­ro­pean, and tribally unenrolled Native ancestries, I am married to Makha Blu Wakpa, PhD—­a 111

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Lakota citizen of the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe—­the ­mother of our two ­daughters, and connected to Native communities through my roles as ina, wife, and researcher. Our ­family lives on the unceded land of the Gabrielino/Tongva ­peoples in what is frequently called Los Angeles, California. Claiming Native ancestry and receiving a  Native name can be viewed as “­going native” (Huhndorf, 2001) and/or “settler moves to innocence” (Tuck & Yang, 2012), strategies that problematically center settler narratives and interests without exposing or combating the injustice of ongoing colonization. At the same time, claiming Native ancestry and receiving a Lakota name can also pre­sent possibilities for respectful, reciprocal, and sustained relationship building. In this chapter, I meditate on the mélange of politics, tensions, and blessings—­including “love and connection” (Winder, 2014)—­I have experienced as an academic ina who is both complicit in settler colonialism and dedicated to building mutually beneficial relationships with Indigenous ­people, communities, and nations. I argue that despite structural challenges in the acad­emy, ­there are still glints of decolonial love worth celebrating, and one’s lived experiences can provide impor­tant insights into identifying ave­nues for structural change. Creating “islands of decolonial love” (Simpson, 2013)—­even if they are fleeting terrains—­continues to be critical for the well-­being and survival of Indigenous ­peoples and practices given the ongoing proj­ect of U.S. settler colonialism. Although most universities, like prisons, are settler-­colonial institutions, ­t here are ways to navigate and leverage ­these institutions for decolonial purposes. This chapter traces my intertwined journeys of academia, identity formation, marriage, and motherhood, its challenges and gifts. Recognizing that vital knowledge production and theorizing occur not only in scholarship but also in other genres of writing and community discourses, I rely on a wide variety of sources. I first delineate how for me the politics of love and blood have intertwined in complicated ways that are both complicit with and in re­sis­tance to the vio­lence of settler colonialism. Then, I discuss the challenges and blessings that I have experienced as a pregnant ­woman and/or m ­ other in gradu­ate school, on a postdoctoral fellowship, and in my early years as a tenure-­track ju­nior faculty member. I describe how I have leveraged my professional privilege and developed tactics to support Indigenous visibility and relationship building. I conclude by considering what an “island of decolonial love” (Simpson, 2013) might look like for me as an academic ina while si­mul­ta­neously recognizing the need for structural change.

The Politics of Love and the Politics of Blood A poem I published, based on my lived experiences, is titled “The Politics of Love and the Politics of Blood.” In it, I ask: How to sort the stories, the silences the disavowal and reclamation of blood? The politics of passing and the politics of love? [. . .]

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The truth is that some blood bears the burden of proof. Should we interrogate elders? Dissect identities. Demand a document that certifies the mea­sure­ments of memory correspond with the mea­sure­ments of blood? Perhaps it is as the colonizer intended settler-­skin crawling in submission searching their documents for recognition, Deluding blood diluting love. When are the politics of identification detrimental to the Nation? (Blu Wakpa, 2018)

In the poem, I grapple with the tensions of claiming Native ancestry in part based on familial stories. On my maternal grand­mother’s side, our ­family has oral histories and written documentation about our “Indian” ancestors, often tribally unspecific, but also specified as Cherokee. Through my paternal grand­father, I am a direct descendent of Matoaka, the courageous Powhatan w ­ oman often referred to in settler-­colonial discourses as Pocahontas. Having Native ancestry has been an impor­tant entry­way into the personal and professional choices that I have made and the sustained responsibilities that accompany them. I entered academia so that I could further study, expose, and challenge structural inequities while illuminating the agency, resilience, and critique that Indigenous and ­people of color bodies and voices enact, which can articulate power­ ful possibilities for moving beyond current structures. T ­ oday, in academia and the arts, claims to Native ancestry and identity when a person is not a citizen of and/or connected to a tribal nation are perhaps particularly controversial ­because ­people can gain vari­ous forms of capital from their claims. Although as a ­woman of color of Native ancestry I try to navigate ­these politics in ways that contribute to Indigenous survival and futurity, individual actions are no substitute for structural change. Since settler-­colonial discourses often conflate Native ancestry and identity, claiming Native ancestry can take away opportunities meant for Native p ­ eople. Recently, actress Kawenná­here Devery Jacobs (Kanien’kehá:ka) has clearly and usefully articulated the differences between Indigenous identity and ancestry and how “funding bodies can [implement structural changes] to ensure au­then­tic Indigenous [­people] are being hired and uplifted,” such as “ask[ing] the person if they are Indigenous, or if they have Indigenous ancestry” and “ask[ing] which community claims them back” (Jacobs, 2020). Although Jacobs’s recommendations are in regard to the arts—­ specifically, the entertainment industry—­they are also applicable in academia. Beyond academia, the politics of love and blood have also informed my journey in motherhood and marriage. ­Because settler colonialism is a fluid structure (Wolfe, 2006)—­which is in part what makes it successful—in other situations, contributing to Native survival and futurity has required that I identify as Native American. Shortly a­ fter I gave birth to our oldest d ­ aughter, my husband and I

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learned that California would not recognize her as Native American on her birth certificate ­unless we each identified solely as Native American and not indicate any of our non-­Native ancestries. Recognizing that the settler state’s genocidal logics impacted our ­daughter basically from birth, in this case, my husband and I both elected to represent ourselves only as Native American. Prior to my meeting my husband, I knew that I wanted to have ­children, and ­because of the politics of love and blood—­t hat is, my positionality, po­liti­cal commitments, and the challenging and lifelong ­labor that motherhood entails—­I wanted to create c­ hildren of color or Native c­ hildren with a person of color or Indigenous person with politics and experiences similar to my own. I realize some readers ­will take issue with this statement, but this sentiment is often not unfamiliar to w ­ omen of color and Indigenous w ­ omen (Nelson, 2003). This desire is also not racist b ­ ecause racism cannot operate in reverse of structural power (Roussell et  al., 2017). In the genocidal context of settler colonialism, producing Native ­children—­the embodied ­future of Indigenous nations—­takes on even greater importance. Having c­ hildren therefore is not only a personal but also a po­liti­cal proj­ect ­whether one acknowledges that or not. Critical ethnic studies discourses likewise recognize love as a po­liti­cal act (Collins, 2004; Lorde, 1984); this ­counters settler-­colonial conceptions of romantic love, often prefigured in heteronormative terms, which can conceal the at times difficult work that love and marriage require. Conversely, bell hooks (2000) underscores that love requires action: “The word ‘love’ is most often defined as a noun, yet all the more astute theorists of love acknowledge that we would all love better if we used it as a verb” (p. 4). Similarly, Leanne Betasamosake Simpson’s definition of “decolonial love” requires “amplify[ing] and weav[ing]” (Winder, 2014). At the time that my husband and I met in our mid-­t hirties through our Indigenous activist work on Ohlone lands (the San Francisco Bay Area), we ­were both in the latter stages of our doctoral programs in fields related to Native studies, shared critical perspectives on love and marriage as an alliance and lifelong commitment, and w ­ ere hopeful to start a f­ amily soon. We w ­ ere both raised in relative proximity to one another on Patwin and Wappo lands (California’s Northern Bay Area) and had even attended rival high schools in the same city around the same time. We also shared a perhaps eclectic array of interests, including Native and Lakota dance, movement modes, and cultural revitalization; martial arts; spoken word; and yoga. We ­were strongly attracted to each other and quickly became best friends. Five months ­after we met, we ­were married. We fell in love quickly, but I would also emphasize that we fell in love thoughtfully, guided by our politics and vision for how we could contribute to and carry forward Indigenous ­f utures.

Reclaiming That Cherished Part of Yourself: Being an Academic Ina In a January 2017 Facebook post—­when our oldest ­daughter, Hante, was six months old—­I wrote: “Some mornings you are awake a­ fter you have nursed the baby and

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you lie in the darkness listening to your baby’s short breaths and husband’s longer ones. And part of you longs to be lulled back to sleep with the ones you love the most. But you also know that if you ­were to rise now, you could be alone, without a baby at your breast, without having to mea­sure time or other­wise worry ­because you know your loved ones are safe and warm and content and right where you left them. And so, like a long line of t­ hose who came before you and t­ hose who ­w ill come a­ fter, you slip out of bed in the darkness and the cold to reclaim that cherished part of yourself: a w ­ oman who writes” (Blu Wakpa, 2017b). In my experiences, the blessings of being an academic ina are immea­sur­able; at the same time, they are not without challenges. In academia, as in settler colonialism, the white male is the normative subject, which disadvantages ­others structurally marked as aberrant. Indigenous ­women and w ­ omen of color in patriarchal, settler-­colonial society endure, at the very least, the double bind of race and gender oppression, and academics who are m ­ others face even further discrimination. Scholar Mary Ann Mason (2013) writes, “­Women pay a ‘baby penalty’ over the  course of their academic c­ areers. . . . ​­Family formation negatively affects ­women’s—­but not men’s—­careers. For men, having ­children can be a slight ­career advantage and, for ­women, it is often a c­ areer killer.” ­Because statistics show that ­people of color, ­women, and ­mothers are less likely to obtain tenure-­track positions than their white male counter­parts (Flaherty, 2016; Mason, 2013), gaining tenure as a ­mother who is a Native ­woman or a w ­ oman of color requires im­mense discipline, fortitude, and even luck, as ­there are not enough academic positions for qualified applicants. As a pregnant PhD candidate at the University of California, Berkeley, I quickly learned how precarious my position in academia was. Given that I did not have a fellowship or gradu­ate student instructor position at the time that I would give birth, which was prior to the beginning of the fall semester, I had the option of taking parental leave. However, parental leave did not provide income or benefits, which seemed to assume that a pregnant gradu­ate student would have a husband or partner with employment that provided health insurance for herself and their baby and enough income to support the ­family. Fortunately, UC Berkeley offered a relatively substantial grant for gradu­ate student parents that was awarded based on economic need and distributed in the fall. I received the grant in full, which I used to pay for my fall tuition and much of our f­ amily’s living expenses, and luckily, I was able to secure a teaching position the following spring, which included tuition remission along with the salary. Although I was told at the time that using the grant to pay university tuition was not recommended, it seemed to me the best use of the funds for my circumstances. In an equitable society, pregnancy and motherhood would not compromise a gradu­ate student’s ability to continue a doctoral program. The challenges continued ­after I gave birth to our oldest ­daughter and are particularly taxing for gradu­ate student ­mothers, who do not necessarily have a guarantee of employment or a private office space. As Mason (2013) writes, ­because of a lack of university support and discouragement from their mentors, “­women who

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have babies while they are gradu­ate students or postdoctoral fellows are more than twice as likely as new f­ athers or single w ­ omen to turn away from an academic research c­ areer.” Insufficient university support materializes in many forms. ­Because ­t here was no lactation room in my department nor a refrigerator in the lactation room on campus, I had to walk—­sometimes three times a day—­from my department to the lactation room and back to my department lounge to refrigerate my milk, before walking all the way to the opposite side of campus to teach. As a lifelong athlete, I take pride in my endurance and stamina, but carry­ing my teaching materials and breast pump and parts throughout my workday left me exhausted. The lactation room that I used as a gradu­ate student ­mother, which was a converted closet, exemplifies how modifications to existing spaces can be insufficient in meeting the needs of groups marked nonnormative. The lactation room had no Wi-­Fi or phone access, which would have allowed me to continue working while I pumped or call our baby. ­There ­were wipes in the room to clean up spills, but no trash can. I recall one sign concerned with dripped milk on the way to the bathroom down the hall, but if the lactation room simply had a sink, that would solve the prob­lem. Such barriers indicate the ongoing obstacles that m ­ others experience in the acad­emy and can communicate that we do not belong in university spaces. The vulnerability and challenges that I faced as a m ­ other in gradu­ate school motivated me more than ever to complete my PhD and secure a postdoctoral fellowship and/or tenure-­track job, which would provide health insurance and financial stability for our ­family. Less than a year ­after our d ­ aughter was born, I received a UC President’s Postdoctoral Fellowship and a tenure-­track job offer as an assistant professor in dance studies from the University of California, Los Angeles’s Department of World Arts and Cultures/Dance. In many ways, it was a success story. However, I absolutely could not have completed the rigorous work necessary to receive the fellowship or job offer without a relatively easy pregnancy and delivery and an extremely strong network of professional and familial support, which I am very aware is not available to ­every academic ­mother. Given the oppressions that ­mothers endure in the workplace and home—in which many bear a disproportionate amount of ­labor—at least some gradu­ate students desire mentorship regarding how to balance their professional and personal lives, which is rarely offered. However, in my first year as an assistant professor, gradu­ate students in our department invited me to give a talk about some of the hurdles that parents in academia face and how I navigated t­ hese challenges. I offered insights that I wished I had received during my doctoral program, and the gradu­ ate students who attended—­a ll ­mothers—­expressed that they found my talk helpful. Yet, much greater structural support is necessary to overcome the in­equality that in some cases pushes parents—­and in par­tic­u ­lar ­mothers—­out of academia. Understanding the way that the system is stacked against me as a w ­ oman of color and m ­ other, I operated and to some degree still operate out of fear, which, as Michel Foucault (2012) tells us, serves institutions by bolstering workers’ productivity. Although I have given birth to two c­ hildren—­one at the start of my final

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year in gradu­ate school and the other during the course of my postdoctoral fellowship—­I have yet to take a maternity leave, and both times have begun working again less than a week following delivery. I do not feel that returning to work so soon has compromised my ability to bond with my babies or enjoy the precious newborn and toddler time, ­because I think the flexibility of academia also affords a schedule that in general allows me to be more pre­sent in my ­children’s lives than the jobs of most working ­mothers. Yet, I did not make the decision to return to work so soon ­after giving birth in a vacuum. I am also concerned that my ability and decision to return to work so quickly can set an unhealthy standard that disadvantages other m ­ others in the acad­emy, who may not have the birthing and postpartum experiences and professional and familial support that I did. As a tenure-­track professor, I do feel more secure in my position, but I am also well aware of the ongoing challenges that ­mothers in academia face even with more structural support than at the gradu­ate and postdoctoral levels. As I am still conducting fieldwork on Lakota lands for my book proj­ect and must allot over half of my salary to child care expenses, university reimbursement policies—­which often take over a month to process—­f requently cause our ­family financial hardship. ­Because our ­children are still so young, I almost always take them with me on research trips, so we pay additional expenses for child care, flights, and food. I am grateful that UCLA offers an annual monetary award for assistant professors with dependents to lessen the additional travel expenses that we incur, but in my experience, it does not come close to covering the costs. I made the decision to stop my tenure clock in my first year as an assistant professor ­after the birth of our youn­gest ­daughter, whom I nursed on demand for the first twenty months of her life, often waking up to feed or soothe her three or more times a night. I feel that as the primary caregiver for two young ­children, I very well might need an extra year to meet tenure requirements at a Research 1 institution. At the same time, I have felt anxiety that my decision to take “time off the clock” may be misconstrued as an attempt to shirk my academic responsibilities. Academic culture rewards professors for ­going far above and beyond their duties. In my experience, it is not unusual for a professor to mention in their merit review materials that they taught and/or did ser­v ice for the university while on sabbatical. This is admirable work and should be rewarded. Yet, ­because ­mothers and other caregivers may have additional familial responsibilities that can inhibit us from taking on extra work for the university, we may be (mis)perceived as less dedicated to our work than our colleagues. In other words, even if ­mothers do not face de jure discrimination in academia, de facto discrimination remains. In online forums for m ­ others who are academics, I have read debates about how best to frame a “gap in research productivity” (Morgan et al., 2021) on their CV—if at all—­because they gave birth to and cared for a baby. Our patriarchal society predictably views the experience, knowledge, and strength that p ­ eople—­mostly w ­ omen—­gain with pregnancy and motherhood as detrimental to one’s ­career. However, Indigenous and ­women of color feminisms recognize that one’s lived experiences are a way of knowing and theorizing. Also,

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Lakota epistemologies articulate that c­ hildren may have power­ful insights, a blessing that their ­mothers and other caregivers benefit from.2 Directly illustrating how my insights as a ­mother have informed my academic work, I recently published a peer-­reviewed article that concludes with our youn­gest ­daughter’s profound words; she was two at the time (Blu Wakpa & Blue Bird, 2021). Although “time off the clock” can provide benefits, I am also aware that one aspect of earning tenure is a merit increase, so it would financially benefit our ­family for me to achieve tenure as early as pos­si­ble—­particularly given the expense of child care coupled with the fact that we live in a city with a high cost of living (Smith, 2018). Unfortunately, research also indicates that b ­ ecause ­women frequently bear the greatest brunt of domestic and reproductive ­labor, “the biggest beneficiaries of [stopping the tenure clock] are male faculty members, and . . . ​t he odds of a female faculty member earning tenure could go down when institutions enact [­these] policies” (Jaschik, 2016). This demonstrates that even when structural mechanisms are in place to aid m ­ others in academia, they can still fail them by reinforcing the privilege of dominant groups. Although this is indeed discouraging, I still find hope in the ways that we can leverage the acad­emy to create “islands of decolonial love,” again “tiny l­ittle victories where love and connection win, even if that win is temporary” (Winder, 2014).

Choreographies of Care In January 2019, I shared a post on Facebook, hashtagged #academicmotherhood and #choreographiesofcare. Our ­daughters Hante and Azilya ­were ages three and one at the time, respectively. I wrote: I wake up at 4:45 a.m. ­because Azilya wants to nurse. She’s teething and fussier than usual. I nurse her and decide to get up and work—­even though my alarm is set for 6 a.m. I have emails to catch up on, and this week in addition to my writing and teaching, I have to evaluate applications for undergraduate auditions. It’s still dark, and I’ve evaluated one application when Azilya wakes up again. I bring her to where I’m working at the kitchen t­able, use one arm to cradle and nurse her back to sleep while typing with my other hand. Over the years, and especially before we had a nanny, this is how I do much of my work. I lay Azilya down and cover her with a blanket. On to another application and Hante calls out, “Ina!” from the bedroom. I try to kiss her, tuck her in, and get back to work, but she ­w ill have none of it. She wants me to lay down beside her, so she can scratch my arm for comfort ­until she falls asleep, which she has done since she was a baby. I do, closing my eyes and lengthening my breath, so she w ­ ill feel at ease. It’s 6:40 a.m. now, both of my babies are sleeping again & I am back to work at the kitchen t­ able, but I know not for long, b ­ ecause Azilya is already stirring. This is what it means to be an academic m ­ other: the ability to perform turning

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off and on one identity in an instant, to do both at once, to never ­really turn off ­either. (Blu Wakpa 2019)

This post illuminates the ways that my roles as a caretaker and academic are interconnected; I also try to enact choreographies of care through my work in the acad­emy, which ­counters the ways that academic research has often been extractive and exploitative (Smith, 1999). My conceptualization of “caretaking” is in conversation with the work of Kim TallBear (Sisseton-­Wahpeton Oyate) on “caretaking relations,” which emerges from an “everyday Dakota understanding of existence that focus on ‘being in good relation’ ” with ­humans and more-­t han-­humans (2019). I view my work as a “caretaker” in the acad­emy not in the paternalistic sense, but in a way that aims to use my privilege as a professor to support and help bring visibility to Indigenous p ­ eoples, issues, and sovereignty. Although Native p ­ eoples are incredibly diverse, many of the Native ­people I work with are also caretakers on multiple levels, of the land, of other more-­than-­humans, and of their ­human relatives. For some Native p ­ eople, Indigenous dance—­one of my areas of expertise—is one way that they enact caretaking for h ­ umans and more-­than-­humans in the past, pre­sent, and ­future. By caretaking in collaboration with Native p ­ eople, nations, and organ­izations, we can create “islands of decolonial love” in and beyond the acad­emy (Winder, 2014). In Summer 2014, while conducting research on the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota, I volunteered co-teaching a course titled “Lit­er­a­ture of the Rosebud” at Sinte Gleska University. Since beginning research on the Rosebud Reservation in Summer 2011, I also have volunteered to teach yoga at Wanbli Wiconi Tipi (Ea­ gle Life Center), a tribal juvenile hall ­t here and one of the primary research sites for my book proj­ect. At Wanbli Wiconi Tipi, I interviewed incarcerated youth about their experiences, which is information that administrators ­t here can use to apply for grants and asses their programming. In Summer 2016, while I was several months pregnant with our first d ­ aughter, my husband and I also codesigned and facilitated a two-­week-­long Native studies curriculum for Native young p ­ eople who ­were incarcerated at Wanbli Wiconi Tipi. The classes we taught allowed us to gather their critical insights while giving back. As an assistant professor at UCLA, I have continued and expanded my community-­engaged work with Native ­people, communities, and nations. Recognizing that I benefit daily from living on lands that the Gabrielino/Tongva ­people have been the caretakers for since time immemorial, I have begun building relationships with them. In Winter 2020, the “Dance: Colonization and Confinement” course I created coupled with action the Gabrielino/Tongva Land Acknowl­ edgment, which UCLA a­ dopted university-­w ide in 2019. This class collaborated with esteemed Tongva and Chumash artists, dancers, performers, and singers to host a series of four workshops on “Illuminating Tongva Embodied Knowledge and Sovereignty,” which ­were open to and well attended by the public. My commitment to public pre­sen­ta­tions and workshops that bridge the acad­emy and off-­campus communities is also a part of my commitment to caretaking.

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For more than a de­cade, I have conducted community-­engaged work with Lakota p ­ eople, which has resulted in mutually beneficial outcomes. In October 2019, a few months prior to the naming ceremony that occurred at the prison powwow, I curated an art exhibition at a community studio on Gabrielino/Tongva lands that collaborated with Native nonprofits, run by Native ­people who are/­were imprisoned at the South Dakota State Penitentiary and the South Dakota ­Women’s Prison. The art show featured the beadwork, drawings, and words of Lakota and other Native ­people who are/­were imprisoned. Each artist received an honorarium for ­every piece that they submitted. ­Because prison policy prohibited me from sending the art back to the detention facilities, a­ fter the show I mailed the beadwork and drawings to a relative or friend whom the artist designated. Publishing articles and op-­eds in news sources, which Native p ­ eople who are imprisoned have access to and stand to benefit from, is also a part of my commitment to caretaking. As an example, I published a short piece about the art show in Native Sun News (Blu Wakpa, 2019b), which some of the Native artists who are/­were imprisoned ­were able to read. On a more personal level, my husband and I have each benefited from educational opportunities that have allowed us to (re)connect with non-­Eurocentric practices and languages, which, in some cases, U.S. colonialism has estranged our families from for generations. While an undergraduate, my husband obtained an in­de­pen­dent contract—­for which he received academic credit—to conduct a quarter-­long inquiry into his Indigenous Greater Southwest ancestry. Likewise, while a doctoral student, I received a Fulbright Scholarship to the Philippines, where I lived for nine months writing a collection of creative texts that illuminated the connections among Filipino and Native American experiences ­under U.S. colonialism. During the course of the scholarship, which was my first trip to the Philippines and experience living abroad, I met and visited with ­family members, traveled to my grand­mother’s birthplace, and studied Tagalog. My research with Lakota p ­ eople on Lakota lands has also provided the means for our c­ hildren to engage at a young age in meaningful ways with their Lakota community, culture, and language. While conducting research on the Rosebud Reservation for over a de­cade, I have regularly stayed with one f­ amily. B ­ ecause I bring our ­children with me to Lakota lands while I conduct fieldwork throughout the year, they are growing up with the ­family’s grandchildren and great-­ grandchildren. The opportunity for our ­daughters to connect with Native cultures and languages at such a young age largely departs from my husband and my childhood in which we had ­little knowledge about or experience with Native histories, cultures, or languages. Interestingly, my husband and I have both noticed that (re)connecting with our Native—­and in my case Filipino—­ancestries has not only impacted our ­children but also increased our ­mothers’ interests in learning about their non-­Eurocentric heritages. In some ways, opportunities to meaningfully (re)connect with non-­Eurocentric ­people, communities, cultures, and languages in U.S. educational institutions contrast with the aims of U.S. assimilation, both on Turtle Island and in the Philip-

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pines (Arday, 2018). Yet, the experiences that my husband and I ­were fortunate to have in the acad­emy, which have had intergenerational benefits, are frequently not accessible to every­one or are offered only once one enters higher education. They are also often competitive and secured in the form and rhe­toric that the university dictates—as an example, a grant proposal. Although some Native ­people have been working to share their practices and languages in educational institutions and community settings for generations, t­ hese efforts can still be inaccessible to many ­people given the injustices caused by ongoing colonization.

Conclusion: The Littlest Jingle Dress Dancer and the Chains of Colonialism This chapter has focused on my experiences navigating the acad­emy as a ­woman and ina of Filipino, Eu­ro­pean, and tribally unenrolled Native ancestries. I articulate the contested politics of Native ancestry and identity and how I have represented myself in disparate ways as an attempt to contribute to Indigenous survival and futurities given the fluid nature of settler colonialism. My experiences in the acad­emy as a pregnant ­woman and/or ­mother illustrate how universities have much work to do in alleviating the inequities that ­mothers endure and in making universities more welcoming spaces for them. I highlight that gradu­ate student ­mothers without a guarantee of employment while they are pregnant or a paid maternity leave are in particularly precarious positions. Although I am able to perform turning on and off my identities as an ina and academic, together ­t hese roles are the heart of who I am and are mutually informative. I also consider how I can enact what I term “choreographies of the care” in the acad­emy by leveraging my privilege as an assistant professor to support and help bring visibility to Indigenous ­peoples, issues, and sovereignty. The experiences that I have gained as a ­mother also fuel my research proj­ects, and I view writing as a way of caretaking b ­ ecause it can move p ­ eople to understanding and perhaps even action. In part, my current book proj­ect challenges the “commonsense” notion of prisons (Davis, 2003; Thomas, 1987). Although settler-­ colonial discourses purport that prison punishes an individual, we are all connected, and hence it is impossible to incarcerate p ­ eople without also hurting their relatives (Levin, 2019). At the conclusion of one prison powwow that I recently attended at the South Dakota W ­ omen’s Prison, I watched young c­ hildren collapse onto the floor crying, a w ­ oman tightly embrace her adult child in her arms, whispering intently into his ear, and a preteen girl guided to the door by a relative while looking back at her m ­ other with an expression that read to me as absolute anguish—­ fear in her eyes, mouth agape—at being separated from her m ­ other. As a m ­ other myself, I cannot imagine the pain and terror of being separated from my young ­children who need me. Research reveals not only that Native ­women are overrepresented in detention centers, but also that 80  ­percent of ­women who are incarcerated are ­mothers (Sawyer & Bertram, 2018). Indigenous w ­ omen—­frequently proclaimed in Native

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worldviews as “the backbone of the ­people” (Ea­gle, 2012)—­have the capacity to create, carry, and citizenize Indigenous c­ hildren, an embodied challenge to the settler state. In the context of Native genocide, Indigenous motherhood assumes an even more critical role (Blu Wakpa, 2016). The disproportionate repre­sen­ta­tion of Native ­women in prison illustrates their enduring vulnerability and by extension that of Indigenous communities and nations. Many moments at the prison powwows I have attended exemplify “islands of decolonial love” (Winder, 2014). In the gym at the South Dakota State Penitentiary, I can picture a Native m ­ other—­wearing state-­issued scrubs and a fancy dance shawl, embroidered with brightly colored flowers—­dipping her shoulders from side to side and prancing lightly on her feet. She joyfully smiles down at her preteen d ­ aughter, dancing beside her, mimicking her m ­ other’s movements. Such “islands of decolonial love” (Winder, 2014) can be meaningful and even vital in creating opportunities for Native ­people who are incarcerated to nurture connections with their culture and their families and communities. Yet, structural change to support Indigenous survival and futurity is also necessary. Leanne Betasamosake Simpson attributes the concept of “decolonial love” to Junot Díaz (Winder, 2014), the Dominican American author, who, more recently in the context of the #MeToo movement, was criticized for his mistreatment of ­women writers (Flood, 2018). Settler colonialism is a fluid, messy, and violent system in which we are all complicit, and yet Simpson has theorized that it is still pos­ si­ble “to escape the chains of colonialism”—­even if it is only “for a few minutes” (Winder, 2014). What might this look like for me as an ina in the acad­emy? On my first research trip to Lakota lands as a postdoctoral fellow, when our oldest ­daughter was a year and a half, my husband and I brought her to the Lakota Nation Invitational’s annual Teca Wacipi Okolakiciya (­Children’s Pow Wow). The littlest jingle dancer amid a roomful of Lakota and Native ­children practicing their culture, she wore a brightly colored dress and beaded moccasins, with room to grow, that my parents had gifted to her. Without any training, she found the rhythm of the drum, joyfully and energetically danced her way into the circle, stomping her tiny feet with determination, her knees bending, her hands clapping, circling, circling at a fantastic pace, the jingles on her dress flying, amusing the other dancers and the audience. With her s­ister still nestled in my womb, I watched this child that my husband and I had created with awe, dancing in Lakota ways, on Lakota lands, an opportunity in part funded by the settler-­colonial university, and I felt hope. ­Today, two years l­ ater while on another research trip to Lakota lands, I am revising this chapter and preparing for tomorrow’s Teca Wacipi Okolakiciya at the Lakota Nation Invitational, where both our ­daughters ­w ill dance together. ­Will their dancing tomorrow be another “decolonial island”? A glint of one? Could it be that t­ hese islands are “amplify[ing],” “growing,” “weav[ing]” (Winder, 2014)? I would like to think so. And can we “amplify,” “grow,” and “weave” t­ hese islands of decolonial love further, inspiring social movements and structural change so

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one day all Indigenous ­children and ­children of color have such opportunities to connect with their cultures outside of the “chains of colonialism”?

Notes 1. ​I was told that the name Tasunke Olotapi Win “speaks of eloquence and eternal compassion. This is a right that is embedded in your life. Tasunke Olotapi Win comes from Lakota strength, confidence, gratitude, honor, and elegance” (G. Blue Bird, personal communication, January 4, 2020). 2. ​Heȟáka Sápa, or Black Elk (1863–1950), states: “Grown men may learn from very l­ittle ­children, for the hearts of ­little ­children are pure, and therefore, the ­Great Spirit may show to them many ­t hings which older ­people miss.” See Brown (1953).

References Arday, J. (2018). Dismantling power and privilege through reflexivity: Negotiating normative whiteness, the Eurocentric curriculum and racial micro-­aggressions within the acad­ emy. Whiteness and Education, 3(2), 141–161. Blu Wakpa, T. (2016). Culture creators and interconnected individualism: Rulan Tangen and Anne Pesata’s Basket Weaving Dance. Dance Research Journal, 48(1), 107–125. Blu Wakpa, T. (2017a). Native American embodiment in educational and carceral contexts: Fixing, eclipsing, and liberating [Unpublished doctoral dissertation]. University of California. Blu Wakpa, T. (2017b, January 8). Some mornings you are awake ­a fter you have nursed the baby and you lie in the darkness listening to your [Status update]. Facebook. https://­ www​.­facebook​.­com​/­tria​.­blu​.­wakpa​/­posts​/­10157961254535363 Blu Wakpa, T. (2018, August 15). The politics of love and the politics of blood. Lit Hub. https://­ lithub​.­com​/­new​-p ­ oetry​-­by​-i­ ndigenous​-­women​-­3/ Blu Wakpa, T. (2019a, January 25). I wake up at 4:45 a.m. ­because Azilya wants to nurse. She’s teething and fussier than usual. I nurse her [Image attached] [Status update]. Facebook. https://­www​.­facebook​.­com​/p ­ hoto​?­fbid​=1­ 0161250859380363&set​=a­ ​.­10152002301540363 Blu Wakpa, T. (2019b, October 22). Illuminating settler (in)justice: A Native American prison art show. Native Sun News. https://­w ww​.­nativesunnews​.­today​/­articles​/­illuminating​ -­settler​-­in​-­justice​-a­ ​-n ­ ative​-a­ merican​-­prison​-­art​-s­ how/ Blu Wakpa, T., & Blue Bird, G. (2021). Zintkala woihanbla (bird dreams): Drifting and other decolonial per­for­mances of survival and prison abolition. Urdimento, 3(39), 1–35. Brown, J. E. (1953). The sacred pipe: Black Elk’s account of the seven rites of the Oglala Sioux. University of Oklahoma Press. Burns, L. M. S. P. (2013). Puro arte: Filipinos on the stages of empire. New York University Press. Collins, P. H. (2004). Black sexual politics: African Americans, gender, and the new racism. Routledge. Davis, A. Y. (2003). Are prisons obsolete? Seven Stories Press. Ea­gle, K. (2012, January 30). Lakota ­women are held to high standard. Native Sun News. https://­w ww​.­indianz​.­com​/­News​/­2012​/­004404​.a­ sp Flaherty, C. (2016, August 22). More faculty diversity, not on tenure track. Inside Higher Ed. https://­w ww​.­insidehighered​.­com​/­news​/­2016​/­08​/2­ 2​/­study​-­finds​-­gains​-f­ aculty​-­diversity​ -­not​-­tenure​-­track

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Flood, A. (2018, July 2). Junot Díaz says alleged sexual harassment “­didn’t happen.” Guard­ iaz​-­says​-­sexual​-­harassment​ ian. https://­w ww​.­theguardian​.­com​/­books​/­2018​/j­ ul​/­02​/­junot​-d -­a llegations​-­didnt​-­happen​-­zinzi​-­clemmons Foucault, M. (2012). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison (2nd ed.). Vintage. hooks, b. (2000). All about love: New visions. William Morrow. Huhndorf, S. M. (2001). ­Going native: Indians in the American cultural imagination. Yale University Press. Jacobs, D. [@kdeveryjacobs]. (2020, December 18). My response to the CBC exposé written by @Kanhehsiio & @JorgeBarrera about Michelle Latimer’s Indigenous ancestry. [Tweet]. Twitter. https://­t witter​.­com​/­kdeveryjacobs​/­status​/­1339960923218391040​/­photo​/­2 Jaschik, S. (2016, June 27). Unintended help for male professors. Inside Higher Ed. https://­ www​.­i nsidehighered​ .­c om​ /­news​ /­2 016​ /­0 6​ /­27​/­s topping​ -­t enure​ -­c lock​-­m ay​ -­help​ -­m ale​ -­professors​-­more​-­female​-­study​-fi ­ nds Levin, D. (2019, December 28). As more ­mothers fill prisons, ­children suffer a “primal wound.” New York Times. https://­w ww​.­nytimes​.­com​/­2019​/­12​/­28​/­us​/­prison​-­mothers​ -­children​.h ­ tml​?s­ mtyp​= ­cur&smid​= ­fb​-­nytimes&fbclid​=I­ wAR37ZKmaE9w7​-­k n3mJkHT SgWy2zC1tG383cOKx9mW4bYC​-­oVMCO3uV8​-C ­ qc Lorde, A. (1984). ­Sister outsider: Essays and speeches. Crossing Press. Mason, M. A. (2013, August 5). The baby penalty. Chronicle of Higher Education. https://­ www​.­chronicle​.­com​/­article​/­The​-­Baby​-­Penalty​/­140813 Morgan, A. C., Way, S. F., Hoefer, M. J. D., Larremore, D. B., Galesic, M., & Clauset, A. (2021). The unequal impact of parenthood in academia. Science Advances, 7(9). www​.­science​.­org​ /­doi​/­10​.­1126​/­sciadv​.­abd1996 Nelson, J. (2003). ­Women of color and the reproductive rights movement. New York University Press. Roussell, A., Henne, K., Glover, K. S., & Willits, D. (2017). Impossibility of a “reverse racism” effect: A rejoinder to James, James, and Vila. Criminology & Public Policy, 18(1), 5–16. Sawyer, W., & Bertram W. (2018, May 13). Jail ­w ill separate 2.3 million ­mothers from their ­children this year. Prison Policy Initiative. https://­w ww​.­prisonpolicy​.­org​/­blog​/­2018​/­05​/­13​ /­mothers​-­day​-­2018/ Simpson, L. B. (2013). Islands of decolonial love: Stories & songs. Arbeiter Ring. Smith, K. (2018, March 13). It’s pricey to live in Southern California—­here’s the proof. Los Angeles Daily News. https://­w ww​.­dailynews​.­com​/­2018​/­03​/­13​/­its​-­pricey​-t­ o​-­live​-­in​-s­ outhern​ -­california​-­heres​-­t he​-p ­ roof/ Smith, L. T. (1999). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and Indigenous p­ eoples. Zed Books. TallBear, K. (2019). Caretaking relations, not American dreaming. Kalfou, 6(1), 24–41. Thomas, W. (1987). Common sense corrections. U.S. Department of Justice, Office of Justice Programs. Tuck, E., & Yang, K. W. (2012). Decolonization is not a meta­phor. Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, 1(1), 1–40. Winder, T. (2014). Falling into decolonial love: An interview with Leanne Simpson, author of Islands of Decolonial Love: Stories and Songs. As Us. https://­a susjournal​.­org​/­issue​-­4​ /­interview​-­w ith​-l­ eanne​-s­ impson/ Wolfe, P. (2006). Settler colonialism and the elimination of the native. Journal of Genocide Research, 8(4), 387–409.

chapter 12

Honoring Our Relations collective stories Indigenous Mother-­Scholars

As we developed our understanding of this book, we collectively agreed that Indigenous motherhood embodies complex and often competing notions of what being a mom constitutes. We acknowledge the beauty and honor it is to be a m ­ other. How being a ­mother is rooted in our ancestors’ prayers and resilience. However, we also acknowledge that motherhood, as it operates within the colonial state and the acad­ emy, invokes experiences of strug­gle, trauma, and pain. In our discussion about the latter, we agreed ­these stories are difficult to share ­because our stories are tethered to ­t hose we most love and care for in our lives. The two questions that arise are “How do we share difficult stories without harming t­ hose we have relations with?” and “How do we not dismiss difficult stories ­because of the restraints the acad­emy places on us?” The complexity of sharing ­t hese stories often ignores the fact that the colonial state and the acad­emy are not separate from our motherhood. Instead, the acad­ emy comes to us as Indigenous m ­ others. Therefore, Indigenous motherhood supersedes the acad­emy in existence and priority. Trigger warning: These stories deal with sexual assault, domestic violence, and child and pregnancy loss.

Relationships My mom lives with us, and she has since before my partner and I started a f­ amily. We have been a multigenerational f­amily since I was twenty-­five years old. I have my mom to help me with dinner, to pick up my son if a meeting runs late. I know I’m lucky to have this support, but for some reason, I still strug­gle to find balance. I feel guilty for struggling ­because most ­mothers in the acad­emy do not live in multigenerational homes. I strug­gle ­because I ­don’t want my mom to feel like she is a live-in maid.

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I think of what it means to have a relationship with my own m ­ other and how beautiful it looks on the outside, but I also d ­ on’t talk about how my own relationship with my m ­ other involved a long journey to forgiveness. My own m ­ other exposed me to her infidelities. I knew it was ­going on ­because she took me with her as she visited her other partners as I sat in the car and waited on her. My ­mother never hid who she was and her infidelities. In her new singleness and being left separated from my f­ ather thousands of miles away (­after their divorce), she also left me wandering on the weekend, wondering ­whether she would be at home and when she would be home. Was I responsible for my own food or how to grow into being a teenager? It took me over ten years to forgive her for all of this. I was grateful that I had a grand­mother who became more of a ­mother figure in t­ hese years of uncertainty. This is when I promised myself I would not put my child in this situation and that I would be forthright in my ­future relationships. In the end, I guess my ­mother taught more about who I wanted to be.

I remember my ­mother’s perfume, so heady and dark. I used to won­der if that’s what men wanted. My mom married my dad at sixteen, and I’m not sure if it was ­because she had never been loved or if she wanted to escape the reservation. My mom used to say I was the younger, prettier, smarter version of her; she told me not to be anything like her. It confused me. She confused me. I spent the bulk of my childhood and adolescence trying to understand her—­Why would she abuse herself? Why would she let herself be abused? Now that I’m a m ­ other, I understand a l­ ittle more. I hear the stories of my mom who, as a small child, lived mostly alone in a shack on her grandparents’ land. Our tribal lands and thereby ­people have been stripped of our humanity, of love. Nevertheless, I am my m ­ other’s ­daughter. I am love.

My partner and I both love the places that we are from. ­These are the places that raised us and raised our families. ­These places are essential to who we know ourselves to be. But, ­these places that we come from are miles and miles apart, separated both by vari­ous lands and ­waters and by cultural ways of knowing. By virtue of being together, we have always known that at least one of us would have to be apart from that place that made us. Through the years, we have taken turns living in each of ­these places, each of us learning and growing to love where our partners are from. Yet, even through that, we still experience pains of separation. At times it seems impossible to maintain close relationships, both h ­ uman and other­wise, across the expanse. They are never quite what they could be if we w ­ ere just t­here—­and it hurts. But, especially for our ­children, we try, we try, and we ­will continue to try to bridge the distance.

My m ­ other birthed me when she was seventeen in the m ­ iddle of her se­nior year of high school. She was beautiful, thin, part of the school pep squad, and she was

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desired by many men, including the man who would become my ­father (her stepdad, my grand­mother’s third baby d ­ addy, and the ­father of my three youn­gest aunts and u ­ ncles). I was told that my mom was promiscuous and that I was a bastard child. The name of my f­ather is not listed on my birth certificate. When I asked my mom who my ­father was, she would tell me that it ­didn’t ­matter, that I was hers and hers alone. But I always wanted to know who he was. I would ask my aunts and cousins if they knew, and they would tell me to leave it alone, which made me think that the circumstances of my birth w ­ ere somehow unsavory and needed to be kept a secret. When I was twenty-­two, I started to put the missing pieces of the story together quite by accident. I was g­oing through a terrible breakup, trying to figure out who I was, where I fit in the world and on the reservation, and the kind of ­woman I wanted to be. I broke off an engagement to my high school sweetheart, moved off the reservation and closer to my university campus. I enrolled in feminism classes, took w ­ omen’s lit­er­a­ture classes and multiethnic studies courses to try to make sense of my life and the circumstances I was raised in. My ­mother lived with abusive men; my ­brother and I grew up as witnesses to the vio­lence against my mom. It was common for my mom to wear sunglasses and heavy makeup to conceal the black eyes and bruises on her face. I could never understand how she could continue to live with, let alone profess to love a man that treated her so badly. During a visit to my great-­aunt, I confessed that I was afraid that I would end up like my mom—in failed and controlling relationships with men despite my academic success and drive. I told my aunt that I also feared that I would end up like my stepdad—­unable to let go of the past and unable to r­ eally love the ­people closest to me. I remember her words so clearly. She did not defend my mom or explain her actions to me; instead, quite shockingly, she blamed my mom for her life and her choices. She told me that my mom was a drunk and a liar; that she was promiscuous with men, then lied about her relationships. I was stunned. This was not the ­woman who raised me—or the ­woman who would crawl into my childhood bed in the m ­ iddle of the night a­ fter being beaten, crying, cradling me, apologizing to me for her hurt, the pain she was causing me and my ­brother. When I defended my mom, my aunt proceeded to tell me that she knew for a fact that my mom was a liar when she told my grand­mother that my biological ­father was her stepdad. I shook my head and said my mom would never say that if it was not true. When I pressed her and asked if my mom’s stepdad abused her, my aunt grew s­ ilent. She changed the conversation entirely, and I left her ­house never to return again. As I drove home that after­noon, I realized that my aunt, far from convincing me that my ­mother was a liar, revealed to me the truth that my mom tried to shield from me. Her stepfather molested and raped her, and I was the product of that assault. This knowledge forever altered my relationship with my mom. Instead of questioning why she stayed in abusive relationships, I began to see the patterns in her life that quite literally beat her down and broke her spirit. I realized how strong and brave she was to have me and raise me. I also realized too

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that the abuse she grew up with and lived with was something that left her feeling less than deserving as a w ­ oman and a ­human being, yet she survived, protected me and my ­brother to the best of her ability, and continued to care and support us in every­t hing we wanted to do. For a while, I questioned how she could love me, thinking that I was somehow this primal trigger of the trauma she experienced as a teenager. Without formal counseling, and with sometimes many margaritas between us, we have come to an understanding about my birth. I am hers and hers alone; no man, especially him, ­w ill ever have power or control over us again. The truth set us f­ ree, although it was painful to admit. I determined then that I would never love or fear a man, his influence in my life or my ­children’s, and that I would stay in school, finish my degree, and become completely in­de­pen­dent. That is the greatest lesson she taught me—­not to hide in shame or drown in fear, but to keep moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other to walk out of and away from the darkness.

My ­daughters know that I constantly work to engage with my students as relatives. Oftentimes that means taking on the role of auntie or mom, and over the years, I’ve developed very close familial relationships with some of my students. I’ve always thought of it as expanding our ­family, reminding my d ­ aughters that when I take on the responsibility of being an academic auntie/mom that they gain ­brothers and ­sisters in t­ hose relationships. One of my ­daughters wrote this to me in a ­Mother’s Day card: “You ­really are your students’ mom away from home. I ­don’t like sharing my mom, but I w ­ ouldn’t want ­those students to feel lost.” When I read that I realized I had never considered how they might feel about my mothering of my students or what I might be asking them to sacrifice in sharing their mom. I hope Ih ­ aven’t asked them to sacrifice too much; I hope that I am showing them how to love.

Loss (Across Dif­fer­ent Facets of Motherhood) ­ very month I have my period, I realize another month has gone from creating E another child. I check the calendar each month to see how “if I get pregnant” w ­ ill map onto the academic calendar. I strug­gle to know that I ­can’t control the calendar or if/when I w ­ ill get pregnant again. I’m over forty years old, and I c­ an’t shake the idea that I may never have a second child.

One ­thing I ­don’t talk about in my journey of child loss was that I also grappled ­after losing our d ­ aughter with suicidal ideation and what would make me feel the loss more deeply in hurting myself. I was able to overcome this in other ways in honoring her life. I learned l­ater on that traditionally my tribe did actually cut off body parts in their grieving pro­cess. So, I ­wasn’t far off in my own feelings. No one

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prepares you for losing a child. Rather our focus in Indigenous motherhood has always been on how to prepare us to give birth and give life.

I recently experienced a miscarriage two and a half weeks into a monthlong research trip. The bleeding was light at first, so I was still somewhat hopeful. But, the second day, while I was having lunch at a diner, I bled through my pad and pants. When I stood to clean up the mess on the bench, where I was sitting, blood pooled on the floor beneath me. I’ve been so busy scrambling to keep up with work and our other c­ hildren—­who ­were on the trip with me—­t hat one month l­ater, I still d ­ on’t feel like I’ve had a chance to properly pro­cess the loss.

One month before my ­family and I ­were to relocate to another state for my tenure-­ track position, I had a slight twinge in the lower left side of my abdomen. It was Fourth of July weekend and I found myself in the ER. I knew I was pregnant—­a nd to be honest, I was a ­little ner­vous beginning a tenure-­t rack position while pregnant. Nevertheless, we ­were happy to see what another addition would mean for our f­ amily. It was a whirlwind eve­ning, but I soon found myself ­going into emergency surgery b ­ ecause I had an ec­topic pregnancy. A ­ fter the surgery, I was told t­ here was a lot of scar tissue, and the doctor had to remove one of my fallopian tubes. I was crushed. We had been trying to get pregnant for several years, and this was the third loss my partner and I experienced. Following the surgery, I ­couldn’t lift a box over ten pounds, so I had to ask my in-­laws and friends to help us move. It was hard telling them why I c­ ouldn’t load the U-­Haul and why I was distant. Eventually, the moving truck was packed and I found myself in a new city, with a nice office with a nameplate that had my name followed by “Assistant Professor.” While I should have been celebrating this milestone, I was grieving inside. I never told anyone in my department or college I was ­going through this.

I have often thought about what the acad­emy has taken from me, what I have sacrificed to it as my price for admission into this space. In the first five years of my journey as a faculty member, I had three miscarriages. The last one was a very public and painful experience that occurred in my faculty office and resulted in my gradu­ate assistant taking me to the emergency room. I had to undergo an emergency medical procedure that day. I was scheduled to leave in two days for a national conference where I was supposed to receive an award. As I was in the recovery room and coming out of anesthesia, I probed my doctor about the possibility of my still making my trip. For some reason, I still felt

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the need to put on a brave face and move forward as if I w ­ asn’t experiencing this tremendous loss, as if my body and spirit ­d idn’t need space to heal. Luckily, my partner anticipated this and canceled my trip before I had a chance to convince the doctor to give me permission to travel. My allotted time for healing lasted about a week. By the next week I was back in the classroom, and the following week I was on a plane to a conference for a national organ­ization where I served in a major leadership role. The pressure and pull (­whether external or self-­i mposed, real or i­ magined) to once again be strong, put on a brave face, maintain my academic presence, and not lose momentum as I approached the critical third year in the tenure pro­cess was too g­ reat. So I tucked away my pain, left my healing for another time, and abandoned my well-­being for an institution that never loved me in the first place. I still ­don’t know if I’ve ever fully recovered.

Partners and Parenting: How Partners Have Influenced Motherhood in Academia My partner as a w ­ hole is the best gift I could have in navigating the acad­emy and my own professional journey. One of ­those gifts is sharing our traumas with each other and knowing we make our decisions together on how we parent and navigate our ­futures. He has been substance-­and alcohol-­free his ­whole life ­because he d ­ oesn’t want to replicate what he saw on his own reservation and with some of his own relatives. To honor this, I also became alcohol-­and substance-­ free. I am happy we collectively can make this decision for our d ­ aughter to have a life like that. What has been hard to navigate in the acad­emy is that most of the socialization that many of my Indigenous scholar friends/relatives have participated in a culture that centers alcohol and g­ oing out in our conferences and gatherings. I hope we can start to revisit what it looks like to decolonize that socialization that is found in Western conferences and campus culture to acknowledge that type of culture inadvertently contributes to a layer of the assimilation/genocidal tactics of our own communities (both historically and presently).

I love my partner, but “partner” is ­really a misnomer, as the person I am with is not particularly helpful or supportive, given, at least in part, the trauma that they have endured. I prob­ably do about 90 ­percent of the ­labor when it comes to raising our ­children. Most of the time, I am accepting of the unequal distribution of l­abor ­because I love the ­children we have created so much, and it seems to me that my partner is d ­ oing the best that they can. Other times—­particularly when I feel overwhelmed with the responsibilities of academia and motherhood—­I feel enraged at the patriarchal structure of our ­house­hold. The acad­emy evaluates us according to a “normative” model, but with the disproportionate responsibilities that we frequently have as m ­ others, I often feel overworked. In other words, to meet the demands

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of being an academic and a ­mother, I feel that I have to consistently sacrifice my well-­being.

I feel so fortunate to have a partner who shares equally (though still differently) in the emotional and m ­ ental l­abor of raising a f­ amily. We talk over and make nearly ­every decision, big and small, together. We do our best to listen to one another and to compromise as best as we are able. ­Because of this, we sometimes take comically (or painfully) long in making even the simplest of decisions. For me, our active partnership is well worth the time. We truly share in this journey through academic parenthood—­making the ever-­elusive balance between scholarship and motherhood feel pos­si­ble. Yet, in spite of all of my partner’s best efforts to break from norms that toxic masculinity might impose on him, we still sometimes cannot seem to escape the patriarchy that is embedded in our larger f­amily structures. This became abundantly clear when I received my first tenure-­t rack position in the acad­emy. My father-­in-­law blamed me for tearing his f­ amily away from him and did every­t hing he could to wield his power as head of the f­ amily to make us stay. Still, my partner stood by me. Though I hope that t­ hese relationships w ­ ill continue to heal over time, I still strug­gle in knowing that the joy of completing my doctoral studies and entering the tenure track was stolen from me. And I hate that my partner had to go through so much with his own ­family just to be able to support me. This would not have happened if the roles ­were reversed—if I was a man and if my partner was a w ­ oman.

Recently, I was asked by a colleague in the acad­emy, “How do you do it?” My colleague lives the demands of the acad­emy, and for them adding the role of m ­ other to the mix seems impossible. I told them, “It ­isn’t about being a ­mother that has been impossible. Somehow it gets done. It’s never pretty, but it gets done. The most challenging aspect has been how do I not replicate negative parenting styles I experienced as a child.” I remember my mom always being stressed out when I was a child. I was a perfectionist as a child to make sure I d ­ idn’t add to her stress. I would clean the bathroom without being asked, I would vacuum when she went to the grocery store. I would wait for her to come home to see the smile on her face and ask, “Who cleaned?” The other day my son came to me and said, “Mom, I love you. I ­will try harder so you ­aren’t so stressed.” My heart sank, and at that moment I felt like I was failing as a parent.

I know that my own grand­mother d ­ idn’t have the parenting skills/experiences ­because her m ­ other passed away early, but I also realize that maybe my own m ­ other ­didn’t have parenting skills ­because of that. I remember when I was ­little writing in my journal that my mom seemed so unhappy she would always come home yelling.

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I know she loved us, but maybe she ­didn’t know how to cope with the stress of being in her multiple roles. So, I promised myself that I ­will not yell in my ­house. We are not a fighting ­house­hold. We talk through our arguments and disagreements. My child is still young, but I hope and pray I can help her have a childhood that has more memories of love and happiness than yelling and worrying about what’s g­ oing to happen next.

Stigmas Surrounding Motherhood: How the Acad­emy Continues to Discriminate Against M ­ others In the acad­emy, axes of oppression include race, gender, and motherhood. A ­couple of my colleagues w ­ ere discussing a staff person’s pregnancy. B ­ ecause the person who was pregnant already had a young child, one male colleague joked, “Sounds like she’s making a hobby out of it.” Such a comment exemplifies how w ­ omen who elect to have c­ hildren—­and in par­tic­u­lar, more than one child—­are viewed as not serious about their work. It is difficult to imagine someone making a similar comment about their male colleague.

I was flattered to receive the tentative offer for an epi-­based postdoctoral position at my highly esteemed alma mater. I had met with the principal investigator (PI) of the proj­ect, which involved a productive discussion about when and how I would arrive to campus. We both seemed to think this was a ­great match that grew from a serendipitous meeting at a weeklong retreat. I phoned home to discuss the opportunities, and my partner was fully on board. He began looking for housing, while I prepared for my retreat’s ending pre­sen­ta­tion. My new “mentor” was to attend my pre­sen­ta­tion. In my talk, I wove my love for my ­children and f­uture generations into my ­career motivations and research. Upon conclusion, the PI walked over and gave me a hug. Being a fellow ­woman of color, I assumed this was out of sincere re­spect. She then said, “Let’s just forget this postdoctoral and let you just focus on your c­ hildren, who should be most impor­tant.” I went on to explain how the research that I do is for my c­ hildren and grandchildren, which is why I seek rigorous training and how I’ve accomplished all that I had. She had been previously impressed by my CV, ­after all. It fell on deaf ears, as the condescending grin reminded me of several other withdrawn opportunities, even from Indigenous mentors—­male and female—­who would make paternalistic decisions to withdraw or skip over myself, an Indigenous w ­ oman with ­children. This discrimination seeps in from t­ hose who should know better. In fact, I’ve had cases that would have made strong l­ egal arguments if I had the time or energy. But, as my partner reminds me each time, would you r­ eally want to work for that type of person anyway? ­Women, p ­ eople of color, Indigenous mentors must come to realize that by not wanting to involve Indigenous ­women who have ­children, they are missing an invaluable colleague, who not only is working for her community but engages with our f­ uture ancestors on a daily basis. She knows the

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importance of her research for the f­ uture, which is fed by a power­ful source of passion to make changes as soon as pos­si­ble for her child and grandchildren. It furthers fuels a passionate commitment that is unparalleled.

Perceptions of Strong, Native ­Mothers Very often, well-­meaning ­people tell me how strong I am to be a single parent while juggling a demanding c­ areer as an academic and living in a multigenerational home. Most days, I laugh it off and tell ­t hose kind ­people I’m so fortunate (which I am). My ­family is supportive, so I ­don’t have to worry like “real” single parents, and my job is far easier than the laboring of my parents and grandparents. Yes, we academics ­labor, but we do not experience work in the ways I have been witness to in my ­family, dealing with racism and sexism while standing for ten hours amid the deafening sounds of a fruit cannery or digging up streets in ninety-­degree heat while tourists complain about the noise ruining their vacation. Yes, I have an awesome network of support, even though trying to or­ga­nize my ­family to help me with my kid feels like planning a major event, so most times I feel like it’s better to stay home, less drama. Many days, I feel grateful for the perception ­people have of my ability to be productive, be a good parent, be a good friend, and be a good f­ amily member. It feels nice. Like a warm, cozy blanket on a chilly night, their words surround me with some comfort and a fleeting moment of contentment like maybe I am ­doing something right. Many days, though, t­ hose compliments contribute to my anxiety of feeling like I’m one thread away from my blanket completely unraveling. The grace I so readily give to ­others is curiously absent when I think about myself. Most days, I feel like the least competent person I know. Many days, I am so frustrated and angry with our heteronormative society that I want to scream or close my office door and cry over a stupid email from my kid’s school that assumes t­ here are two parents or reading a story about the high numbers of trans* kids committing suicide or being murdered and thinking about the f­ uture of my own beautiful, compassionate, gender-­fluid kid. Some days, I am even resentful then feel livid at ­t hese oppressive structures for making me feel like an ungrateful assh-le. Most days, I d ­ on’t get to say I feel like shit b ­ ecause that’s not what I’m supposed to say as a strong, “progressive,” able-­bodied Native working single m ­ other surrounded by a strong support network. When do I get to say how I feel inside? When can I say this shit is hard? Most days, I tell myself, “First world prob­lems. Get over it.” Yet, the weight I bear with ­t hese outward perceptions/projections sits in my guts, undigested and heavy. However, I am blessed to have an eleven-­year-­old kid who is emotionally intuitive. They are aware of their feelings and able to readily express them. So, I am learning from them. ­Every day, the first question they ask me when I come home from work is, “How was your day, Mom?” I know they mean it ­because they look away from their device(s), hug me, and wait for me to answer. So, when I have a

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shit day, I share that; when I have a good day, I share that. They even remember my work as a way to encourage me to share, “Did you turn that paper in on time?” “How did your meeting go?” “How was that student’s defense?” Even though most days are a strug­gle, I aim to work ­every day to slowly rid myself of the heaviness. ­Every day, I look to a small coin on my desk given to me by a dear friend inscribed with “I am enough” and endeavor to embody its message. ­Every day, my kid tells me they love me and they ­w ill do their best. ­Every day, I strug­gle to be more like my kid and do my best—­even when my best is to simply share how I ­really feel in the moment. ­Today, as I write this in my office, I feel like shit.

PA RT I I I

West–­Living

chapter 13

Widening the Path reflection of two generations in academia Symphony Oxendine (Cherokee/Choctaw) and Denise Henning (Cherokee/Choctaw)

Indigenous ­women of North Amer­i­ca take educational journeys with intentions of gaining a better life, accruing knowledge, and fulfilling dreams. Understanding colonization in our experience in the acad­emy came directly from the dichotomies we have experienced in our personal education journeys. It takes g­ reat courage for us ­women to step on this road and follow this path due to the historical implications of the colonizers using methods to remove our identities, our traditions, our languages and destroy our cultures, education being one of the most devastating. This chapter reflects on the intergenerational healing of my d ­ aughter, Symphony, who has taken a similar journey as myself, her ­mother Denise, and how the journey has impacted our lived experiences as ­mothers. We share small glimpses into navigating the world of “acad­emy” through letters written to each other where we touch on our roles as Indigenous ­mothers first—­who also happen to be Native academicians. ­These letters explore our perspective of the sacrifices we have taken as ­women and as ­mothers to come to this place, to be recognized as scholars, researchers, and professional academicians, and how our identity, our extended ­family and existence, the very core of being a Cherokee m ­ other, continues to be compromised. Momma, I wanted to write you this letter as you know I am finishing up my first year as a tenure-­track faculty in higher education. I have to tell you that I laugh when p ­ eople ask me how I ended up working in higher education, b ­ ecause it always takes me back to that moment when I de­cided to enter the higher education leadership program for my master’s degree and how excited I was to share this with you. I explain that you are a college president and started out your ­career in student affairs as an Intercultural Program director. Then I tell the story about how, during the summer 137

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before my se­nior year of college, I came to the realization that I could have a ­career working with students in college and it was called “student affairs.” I had looked up gradu­ate programs in student affairs and was so excited when I came to you and said “Mom, I found out what I want to do for a c­ areer. . . . ​It’s called student affairs.” Then you turned your head sideways and gave me that look and said “­Hmmmm. . . . ​That sounds in­ter­est­i ng Symphony, why d ­ on’t you tell me more about that.” It’s r­ eally funny that you have been a role model to me, but I seem to have missed some key . So, I ended up in student affairs ­because of your educational journey even though I d ­ idn’t recognize it at the time. The decision to become a faculty member ­wasn’t ­really in my plans when I got my doctorate but as soon as I stepped into the classroom and started teaching I knew the Creator had set me on a new path. Last year, when I found out that my Visiting Lecturer position was not g­ oing to be renewed I was sad, worried, and disappointed that I may not be able to continue d ­ oing this work given all the complicating circumstances. I strug­gled b ­ ecause I have been socialized about what the progression of my ­career in higher education should look like and how you are supposed to achieve ­t hose ­t hings. The one ­t hing that sticks with me the most is that in order to move up—­you have to move out, in other words if I ­didn’t move our ­family to follow the next “bigger” position then I ­won’t be successful (according to the ideals of other faculty, my chair, and peer colleagues). Throughout our ­careers, Derek and I have had many conversations about what our ­future looks like as a ­family given the many ­factors in our lives. When we talked about where we would live and raise our ­children it was pretty clear that both of us w ­ ere committed to staying in Robeson County and we wanted to be surrounded with f­ amily and community that shared the same values and worldview. We wanted to raise the girls in this community and enroll them in the Lumbee Tribe. We wanted them to be immersed in the Lumbee community so that they learned the values, customs, beliefs, and language of the Lumbee ­people, as well as your teachings about our Cherokee belief system. Even though this has always been our priority, I still strug­gled with how that has affected my c­ areer choices and is perceived in higher education. I have been told by colleagues and seasoned professionals (both in student affairs and faculty) that I s­ houldn’t choose to stay in North Carolina ­because it would be seen as “being comfortable.” It’s pretty clear to me that ­others d ­ on’t understand why I am sacrificing my mobility for faculty positions in a student affairs / higher education program so that our ­children can be raised ­here, and Derek can continue to work at the university in his home territory. I have even been told, “Your kids are ­going to be Native no ­matter where they are raised so why does it ­matter?” But, for me, it does ­matter! You brought us up to know the importance of relationships to our community, to our f­amily, and connection to our homelands. As Indigenous women/people/ communities, we have values attached to standards and phenomenon that mainstream society and academia do not attach value to. I continue to educate the “acad­ emy” that ­t here is “value added” to my practice as a faculty ­because my worldview is reliant upon my Cherokee values. So, giving back to my ­children by making the

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decision to live in my partner’s homelands is a value added to my life as a Cherokee ­woman, to the girl’s life and that makes me better as an Indigenous ­mother and faculty member. My decision has deeply engrained my belief in utilizing Indigenous methodologies and perspectives of so many who have set the path for us to be ­here; and to pass it on to ­t hose who are currently and ­t hose in the ­f uture who ­will navigate this journey in the acad­emy. Ultimately, my ­career path may look like I took a divergence if you compare it to other young and up-­coming faculty members, but by choosing to stay ­here has allowed me to contribute more in certain areas in my life b ­ ecause I d ­ on’t have the strug­gle of not living in a community that shares the same values I have. My values and beliefs influence my worldview and shape my ­career, so I would hope that knowing why Derek and I made our decisions (which has ­limited opportunities for us as academicians) should be seen as a valuable t­hing! Indigenous ­people, especially ­women, in academia have not had role models to help us identify, but I am very lucky ­because I have been able to have you as a role model in life and in higher education. You and I represent multiple generations of Indigenous ­women and ­mothers with c­ areers in higher education. We are two generations and are raising a third who ­w ill someday raise a fourth. I know that making ­t hese decisions and following what looks like a divergent path for my ­career i­ sn’t actually divergent ­because I am finding ways to maintain and strengthen my Indigenous worldview in my identity as a faculty member, Indigenous scholar, w ­ oman, ­mother, and a Cherokee. I also know that ­t here may be other Indigenous ­women and ­mothers who do not have role models to help identify, pro­cess, and then articulate ­these values and how they impact our ­career decisions within academia. We need more Indigenous ­women and m ­ others as sources to tell their story that w ­ ill give us the tools to think through ­t hese ­t hings. We need scholarship to help us learn to articulate what we already know, to help contribute to how Indigenous w ­ omen could think about taking what the world tells us is “the way” for our c­ areer path and expand t­ hose ideas to include Indigenous perspectives. It was impor­tant to me to write you and let you know how grateful I am that you sacrificed many ­t hings in your life to help make our ­family better. I look at your life and know you pushed so hard to make your way in higher education, that now I d ­ on’t have to push the way you pushed, and I can raise my c­ hildren in the tribal community and reach the successes you did b ­ ecause you did not give up. Also, since I have made this decision maybe my ­daughters ­will have the option to achieve what I achieved, or even more, without having to sacrifice leaving our tribal communities to be successful and contribute to our p ­ eople. Lots of love, Symphony Hello Baby Girl: I know you ­really have enjoyed your role at the university ­t here, I knew the Creator had good ­t hings in store for you! Choosing to be a faculty and being in the

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classroom is such a joy and carries ­great responsibilities and impact in the lives that you touch. I do know that you are an excellent teacher ­after being a guest in your class when I was ­t here two months ago. Your students shared how rich their experience has been in the class and how au­then­tic you are b ­ ecause you share stories about growing up, your f­ amily and the kids. You and Derek are ­great parents and making decisions like raising the girls in Derek’s tribal community has been the hardest part of working through your dual ­careers. I feel privileged to have been born and raised in my tribal community in Oklahoma and spending so much time with our extended ­family and I know that foundation was so impor­tant to the values and princi­ples that I have t­oday. This made the decision that I came to, to leave Oklahoma and start my educational journey, the scariest t­ hing I had ever done. Not only was I leaving the support of ­family and community I had known my w ­ hole life, but I was taking you and your two s­ isters away from them as well. Back then, I had a scholarship opportunity that provided so much more than the universities in Oklahoma could do and I knew that finances would be the biggest hurdle to overcome. I remember how sad and confused your grandparents ­were about why I was ­going so far away. I had no idea how dif­fer­ent other places ­were and how much I felt like an outsider and alone when I arrived. Making the trek home ­every few months held me together, even though the f­ amily ­really did not know how to support my decision to get a degree much less a master’s and doctoral degree. I ­don’t know how I was able to make that decision to live eight hours away from home, without your f­ather paying any child support, but now reflecting on it, it was b ­ ecause I was a m ­ other and ­because of wanting to make a better life for you three girls, that I had the courage to move forward. I am grateful that you and Derek are in a position to raise the girls t­ here and to ensure their identities as Lumbee/ Cherokee ­children. It is so easy for non-­Native ­people in our institutions to see our decisions as tribal p ­ eople in such dichotomous ways. This is why I connected with the tribal ­people and communities wherever we lived. It was not only impor­tant to take you girls back home to Oklahoma as often as pos­si­ble, to maintain strong connections with your relatives, but to also ensure you had ceremonial life even if it was with other nations that ­were not Cherokee. I remember while in my doctoral program—­following a presentation—my professor gave me feedback stating, “you ­w ill have to assimilate to the values of the acad­emy, if you want to be successful.” This was in direct response to my referencing ‘we’ when talking about Indigenous research and methodology in my pre­sen­ta­tion. This experience was a critical moment of feeling I did not fit in the world of higher education. This was further emphasized ­later from my lived experiences with my faculty colleagues who saw their advancement and tenure as the end-­all of every­thing they do and at times ­doing so in ways that conflicted with the values I carry from my community. I was raised to know that I carry a promise to better the next seven generations and I personally carry the responsibility to influence this f­ uture by the way I raise my ­children.

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Understanding t­ hese cultural dichotomies, was the first real step ­toward my personal experience—­k nowledge and understanding of colonization, which then led to more study, research, and writing on colonization and decolonization. In my opinion my girl, this is what we are r­ eally dealing with when we talk about our identities and our tribal communities. In that, our non-­Native colleagues in the acad­emy c­ an’t connect the cultural aspects of our worldview when it comes to decision making around our ­careers and that they are, in fact, meshed within our roles as m ­ others, grand­mothers, ­sisters, aunties, e­ tc. . . . You remember that I have a colleague, Dawn Sutherland? We published some science articles together. She and I wrote in one of ­t hose articles which comes to mind for me as I am writing you back. It said, “It’s so very clear that we as educators who w ­ ere trained and ‘brought up’ so to speak from a foundational viewpoint of Western approaches and concepts, the decolonizing experiences I have been embracing as an Aboriginal scholar and researcher have transformed my life and my worldview. Our current knowledge and understanding of education is based on colonization where white is considered ‘normal’ and ­others [or nonwhite] as ‘dif­fer­ent,’ which is more often than not, considered ‘lesser.’ ” It is always impor­ tant that you remember that as Indigenous w ­ omen scholars, you are walking on the bones of many that have gone before both of us, so that we can be h ­ ere now. You my d ­ aughter carry that forward to all the upcoming w ­ omen who follow you on this journey. I always try to remember that compared with mainstream academicians we have a dif­fer­ent epistemological tradition which frames the way we see the world; many epistemologists also need to justify t­ hese knowledge traditions, yet again, in the colonized way that has made up this ­human system we call education. It is my hope that as Indigenous w ­ omen, Indigenous m ­ others, and Indigenous scholars that you and all the newer and younger Ageyv Dideyohvsgi (­women scholars or teachers) that are walking this journey continue to challenge and continue to bring our worldviews into focus, so we can have a sustainable f­ uture. I feel this is the responsibility we carry. As always, you are loved My Girl. Do na da go hv i. Love to Derek and the Girls, Mom

Closing Thoughts We saw the opportunity to contribute to the discourse about being Native and our choice of ­career in postsecondary education as monumental ­because this is the start of the conversation of what it means to be an Indigenous ­mother in the acad­emy. We need scholarship that articulates what we already know, what we have already been d ­ oing, and most importantly to help contribute to the conversation of how Indigenous ­women can think about their life as an academic without threat of our positions in the acad­emy and our roles within our communities and families. Our experience shows that it’s not only functioning as an academic in mainstream society but reclaiming and operating in our Indigenous space. ­Every day we are

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battling axioms, two very dif­fer­ent cultural paradigms, but as we continue in this journey we are contributing to a movement into making it become one path. It is our hope that the f­uture for Indigenous ­mothers in academia w ­ ill be one where our energy is channeled into helping our ­future generations of Indigenous students to be successful by showing them and helping them think through how to maintain their culture and values in school and in their f­ uture ­careers, rather than spending our energy struggling for legitimacy in the acad­emy.

chapter 14

­Mothers and D ­ aughters Are Forever Renée Holt (Diné and Nimiipuu) What would happen if one ­woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open. —­Käthe Kollwitz by Muriel Rukeyser

In thinking about what to write for this essay, I found myself circling back to my role as a m ­ other, and during the reflection I revisited my childhood and the mothering I received. As a parent, I thought deeply about the most memorable times in my childhood and the ­women who helped shape my worldview. As I went down memory lane, I reflected on the cultural activities and events I witnessed as a child and how I was influenced by gendered f­ amily roles. The roles of extended Indigenous f­amily kinship systems w ­ ere a highlight that included ceremony. My healing involved g­ oing away to come home and talking story with both my ­mother and aunties. I realized how healing generational cycles helped me to address and spark the reparenting and healing of my own inner child. Looking back at the parenting I was influenced by, I recognized how it affected my ­children. As a young ­mother, I viewed motherhood differently and not in the same way that I do ­today. During this introspection, I thought back on how with each degree, I experienced healing while mothering in the acad­emy. It was through formal education that I learned about the social be­hav­iors as a result of settler colonization and the residual and generational effects of unresolved historical grief and loss, not to mention the trauma associated with the interruption of Indigenous ways of knowing and ­family kinship systems. I fondly remembered s­ imple life lessons from my grand­mothers and journeyed through memories of my formal education and Indigenous motherhood. From the personal and extended ­family kinship stories, I experienced the beginning of a collective (­family) healing. For me, the unlearning, relearning, and (self-)discovery occurred for me as an Indigenous m ­ other (while in the acad­emy) and began with 143

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an Indigenous inquiry that transformatively evolved into healing through story, song, and ceremony. Due to the violent nature of settler colonialism, and based on my own personal experience, I believe Indigenous motherhood while in the acad­emy is a disruption to settler colonization among Indigenous families. Personally, this essay is partly about healing unresolved historical grief and loss of culture as an Indigenous ­mother. The other parts are about celebrating the ending of generational cycles of disrupted ­family kinships, and understanding the traumas associated within my ­family, but Indigenous communities at large. ­Today, we have Indigenous education female researchers who have disrupted the past five centuries of settler colonialism in the acad­emy through their work (Battiste, 2013; Child, 2000; Deer, 2015, Smith, 2012). Historically, settler colonialism violently disrupted Indigenous parenting practices grounded in cultural knowledge and kinship systems that w ­ ere passed down from generation to generation. It is widely known that federal assimilation policies worked to intentionally erase Indigenous ­family practices that directly affected Indigenous ­children who ­were forcefully removed from their families. The erasure of cultural knowledge encapsulated the intent and entire existence of settler-­colonial policies with residential boarding schools. The violent disruption affected three generations of Indigenous kinship systems and motherhood that had previously been anchored in cultural knowledge for my ­family. What was culturally and traditionally a community responsibility of raising and educating c­ hildren was intentionally erased with residential boarding schools where ­children ­were neglected, emotionally (or verbally) abused, and kept from forming healthy bonds with parents (Battiste, 2013; Child, 2000). As a result of the disruption, besides my ­mother, the parents (and families) of the ­children who ­were forcefully removed experienced loss, grief, and missed opportunities for relationship bonding and cultural teachings to be passed down to next generation ­children. The reflective pro­cess took me back, and ­after twenty-­t hree years, I recognize I am still evolving as a m ­ other. Thinking back to the precious first days of motherhood, I d ­ on’t think I was as prepared as I would like to believe to become a ­mother. As a young twentysomething, I had yet to learn my own story. While writing this essay I interviewed my mom and two aunties. Between my personal understanding and their interpretation of motherhood, I feel like I learned more about our ­family and clan. The essence of Indigenous motherhood, from my personal experience, involves a lot of reconnecting to our ancestral teachings and is ultimately rooted in the goodwill of ­mothers and grand­mothers who w ­ ere once ­daughters. Since the birth of my firstborn child, I have thought of mothering differently. In the same light as the late Sto:Loh author Lee Maracle (2000) shares, ­mothers are essentially “living in a saga of reclamation of our womanhood” (p. 2). A ­ fter five hundred years of settler colonialism, I believe the “saga” we are in is a prophetic millennium of ­women. During this time of po­liti­cal, social, and restorative justice, t­ here is a rematriation and reclamation of Indigenous cultural lifeways that

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centers ­women. Although it is challenging patriarchal dominance within settler society, within Indigenous communities, it is accepted as a part of Indigenous beliefs where the role of w ­ omen brings restorative justice and the scales are balanced with cultural practices. The transformative pro­cess, in my understanding, is setting a course for the unlearning of settler colonization within Indigenous communities and significant to restorative justice for Indigenous healing and wellness. In recentering the role of ­women, Indigenous ­children and families experience a return to ancestral practices of motherhood. Culturally w ­ omen ­were empowered and enhanced the Indigenous collective prior to the arrival of the settler colonialism with their traditional practices of child-­rearing. As a Diné/Nimiipuu ­woman, I found Diné scholar Kulago’s (2012) article on kinship systems in community relatable especially during my doctoral program. The awareness of Indigenous f­ amily and kinship systems helped me to create opportunities with extended ­family to provide support especially when research papers and exams ­were due. Personally, the journey of mothering while in the acad­emy was not easy for me as a single m ­ other. At times, I missed impor­tant events, such as violin recitals or taekwondo matches. In this reclamation of womanhood, I found myself addressing my own relationship with my ­mother and how it influenced the way I mothered my c­ hildren while in the acad­emy. I wanted my ­children to know their grand­mother and invited her to come live with us at a time when I needed the support in finishing my doctoral program. During that time stress levels ­were high and I often questioned my ability to finish my program as a first-­generation PhD student. I was a first-­generation in the department and program and lacked Native faculty support and had to seek outside Native faculty mentorship. I also leaned in t­ oward my m ­ other who was a retired administrative assistant for a university doctoral program. We grew closer in the pro­cess and began to experience the beginnings of healing. The healing helped us both to understand more about residential boarding schools and how they affected our ­family directly. Due to Child’s (2000) research, I became acutely aware of how the settler-­colonial proj­ect was deliberate and intent on separating Indigenous ­children from their families since the era of the Carlisle boarding school and federal assimilation. My ­mother recalled memories of her formative years spent in a parochial school, then onto a residential boarding schools. It was saddening to learn her early childhood memories ended and at the tender age of eight, was sent away for schooling. She learned about her first menses while away and felt shame. At times she felt sadness for not having parents come visit or have new clothes at holiday time. As she storied parts of her life, we both realized how deeply colonization had affected her ability to m ­ other us and how she had wanted to be mothered and to reconnect with her m ­ other. Listening to my ­mother share her story helped me to understand my own desires and needs as a child. She held similar childhood desires, and when she became a ­mother for the first time, much like me, she had no idea on how to parent. As we talked more about her experiences, I began to reflect on how my own approach to motherhood influenced the reparenting of my inner child which resulted in

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therapeutic counseling and my journey ­toward healing and wellness. To reparent with compassion and forgiveness has taught me that my parents (and grandparents) had no agency in refusing residential boarding school. C ­ hildren ­were literally forced to attend residential boarding schools, and parents experienced loss and grief during separation. As I listened to my m ­ other, I was reminded of stories from ­children found in Child (2000), who researched residential boarding schools from 1900 to 1940. Across reservations, boarding school agents would drive wagons around the reservations in search of Native c­ hildren to be schooled. My mother, her siblings, and neighboring Diné ­children w ­ ere literally herded like livestock and sent to area boarding schools. During this part of our healing journey, I began to rethink what I believed Indigenous parenting involved. My ­mother shared she was not allowed to leave and come home during the summer months and that her parents w ­ ere off working in Idaho during seasonal potato harvests. Understanding this about my m ­ other was critical to my own understanding of Indigenous motherhood while in the acad­ emy and healing, especially for me and my c­ hildren. I relate the buried pains of my ­mother similarly to Indigenous c­ hildren t­ oday who are separated from their parents. While some scholars might believe that settler colonialism is in the past and a historical event, for Indigenous families colonialism continues to persist. The settler colonization of Indigenous families and interruption of parenting models has historically been violent ­toward Indigenous ­children and was established through the cultural genocide of separating ­children from their parents. T ­ oday, we see systemic vio­lence continues to interrupt the cultural traditions of Indigenous p ­ eople and their c­ hildren (and families) across the borderlands of the southwestern United States. Indigenous ­people historically ­were seen and continue to be seen as less than ­human by the settler colonization, which has worked to devalue the lives of Indigenous w ­ omen and ­children. While I wove this story building on historical realities, and despite the past five hundred years of genocide in the western hemi­sphere, I also wanted to weave in how Indigenous ­women have survived the generational effects of settler colonialism. Breaking generational cycles, the historical event of colonization set forth in motion Indigenous ­women to persevere. Although at times it was challenging to maintain my ties to the university community, as an Indigenous ­mother in the acad­emy, participating in cultural or community events on my Rez was paramount for my success. Instead of attending the planned university program events, I returned back to my homelands, especially when I felt overwhelmed. To help myself, I would return to the homelands for ceremony, food, and cultural practices. I did not anticipate loneliness and isolation as I navigated the acad­emy. I made time and returned back to my homelands and recalled Trask (1993/1999), who taught me to view homelands as a place where I could return for protection and belonging. The mere smell of my homelands and river w ­ aters helped ease the stress and worries. My homelands reminded me the academic journey was temporary and surviving the unforgiving and structurally violent academic walls was a small sacrifice. While I lived closer to my Nimiipuu homelands, it was a bit

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harder to get back to Dine bikeyah as often, and getting back out into the Pacific NW wilderness off the grid was where the reconnection to land occurred. As a single ­mother in the acad­emy, I felt the need to reconnect to ancestral land when times ­were tough, and much ­later I understood it was my culture and the ancestral land I belonged to that called me home. My doctoral program was a challenge, and at times the isolation was difficult, and I had to lean into Indigenous knowledge systems. When visiting f­ amily, I felt a sense of belonging that helped ease the feelings of isolation while in the acad­ emy. I found that balancing the responsibilities of ceremonial life was impor­tant to my ­family and community cultural life. When I returned to ­either the motherland or fatherland, w ­ hether it was for the annual mecca for my Diné f­amily or gathering in the usual and accustomed places of my Nimiipuu ancestors, it was self-­care. As self-­care, a return to homelands fed, nourished, and satiated my emotional, spiritual, ­mental, and physical health and wellness while mothering in the acad­emy. As a single ­mother, I chose to attend a university that was close to my homelands and would allow me to continue cultural responsibilities so that my ­children would also learn and know their cultural heritage. As an Indigenous m ­ other in the acad­emy, my role as a parent was enriched, and through cultural teachings, it was my child who self identifies as a nonbinary person who also taught me about the unlearning of internalized misogyny and the concerns for young girls and ­women among Indigenous communities. ­A fter googling the definition, I found Deer’s (2015) publication on vio­lence against ­women in Native communities and reflected on how deeply forced assimilation and the replacement of Indigenous lifeways with the settler colonialism proj­ect had erased Indigenous ­people memory over five centuries. As I reflected on being a ­mother while in the acad­emy, my ­mother’s own story of childhood trauma helped me to understand the importance of healing through health and wellness. Our ­family story of generational trauma and ending a generational cycle of unhealed pain was big. I learned and experienced forgiveness and in the reconciliatory pro­cess had to also educate myself on being a parent to nonbinary c­ hildren. What I have come to learn is that becoming a m ­ other (and mothering) is an ancient role and belief system among Indigenous socie­ties. Collectively, Indigenous ­women survived five hundred years of the settler-­colonial model of patriarchy. Despite the historical onslaught of settler colonialism and the emphasis on patriarchal authority, Indigenous w ­ omen assert their leadership and reclaiming f­ amily value systems that w ­ ere not completely erased. When thinking about my journey, I realized healing was critical to my self-­ discovery and role as an Indigenous m ­ other in the acad­emy. As a part of journey work, I began the work to address my own unhealed pain. While in the acad­emy, I discovered Black feminist scholar Patricia Hill Collins (2000), who addressed “­mothers, d ­ aughters, and socialization for survival” in her critical scholarship. I recognized myself as a ­mother to my own ­children and our significant bond and relationship.

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Contrary to how formal education may be perceived, education helped me to learn more about myself, my f­ amily, my community, and my nation. Reading Mihesuah (2003) and Trask (1993/1999) helped me to understand victimhood and the unresolved historical grief and trauma that affected Indigenous p ­ eople throughout the world. I learned Indigenous ­people of North and South Amer­i­ca ­were negatively affected in the same way Indigenous p ­ eople in Australia, New Zealand, Mongolia, and Africa ­were also affected by the cap­i­tal­ist, corporate, settler-­colonial patriarchy. I had read briefs on healing only while working in the private sector, and it was not ­until I returned back to the acad­emy for my doctorate that I learned through critical cultural studies scholarship and activism about the academic-­industrial complex and its influences on the marginalization of nonwhite communities. For my doctoral program, although I found myself immersed in writings by Stuart Hall, who created a landmark critique of cultural studies in society, I noticed immediately how he overlooked and dismissed Indigenous p ­ eople throughout his entire scholarship. While in the acad­emy, I became acutely aware that Indigenous repre­sen­ta­t ion ­w ill never be the job of allied or non-­Native faculty and administrators. As I reflected more on this, I could not recall having very many, if any at all, Indigenous female scholars at any of the universities I attended. I had a conception about the issues and concerns I would have related to tribal and education sovereignty, let alone the critical cultural studies of society. Looking back, I dropped out of college twice in my undergraduate years and did not return immediately. When I de­cided to return, I came back as a m ­ other and was determined to gradu­ate with my bachelor’s degree. Upon completing that goal, I went into a gradu­ ate program for my master’s and graduated in 2001. Up to that point, I still had not reached critical consciousness and d ­ on’t think it truly happened ­u ntil I re­entered the acad­emy for my doctorate degree in 2009. Over t­ hose years, mothering while in the acad­emy has not always been easy, and as a single mom it was a challenge at many junctions. It was my firstborn who pushed me to finish my bachelor’s, and for my gradu­ate program, it was my secondborn who pushed me further, and for my doctoral program, it was my third child who taught me I needed to learn how to balance. Mothering while in the acad­emy is a challenge for me due to the complexities of the many roles of Indigenous w ­ omen. Although it was not impossible to finish, at times I did not know if I would be able to complete my program. With each of my ­children, I knew that I had to complete my educational goals and think (and believe) it was my Diné cultural upbringing and f­amily value of education that kept me ­going and plugging away at my educational goals. As I was raised in a matriarchal society, my ­family belief system values education as a way of life and is in part a reflection of our daily work to give back to our home communities. As a student of the acad­emy, I took breaks from school when I absolutely needed them, which explains why completing each of my degrees seemed to take longer than planned. I learned to rely on ­others and believed in what I wanted to com-

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plete. Schooling in itself has its ups and downs; however, when we add the role of parenting and its responsibilities, the juggling becomes tricky and quite stressful. As ­mothers, I think we learn to negotiate our roles and responsibilities in the acad­emy; and culturally, we find redemption from within our community cultural ties. The age-­old practice of Indigenous motherhood brings w ­ omen together, and when we begin to heal ourselves, we also learn to listen and celebrate one another’s stories. Storying the Indigenous ­women experience in the acad­emy is a narrative of disrupting Western education systems. The disruption, through the liberation of Indigenous womanhood, thereafter challenges the status quo of the settler-­colonial patriarchy. The love felt in a war caused by painful memories of intergenerational trauma left residual scars for generations of Indigenous ­women, and ­today we see more and more w ­ omen pursuing doctoral degrees (Shotton, 2018). It was while on my journey of healing that I began to read and learn about decolonization and the effects of settler colonialism and the residual effects of unresolved historical grief and trauma (Mihesuah, 2003). I emerged from the acad­emy with a PhD in 2016. Mentally taxed and emotionally drained, I experienced letdown in the fall and went through a depression. Not only did I feel exhaustion, but I felt depleted from the tears, pain, and emotional stress I had felt while mothering in the acad­emy. Although I was finished, I had community responsibilities and fell right into seeking a job and working as an adjunct faculty member at our local tribal college. Working in my home community brought forth the opportunity to put healing into practice. Despite federal assimilation policies, cultural genocide did not succeed entirely, and Indigenous p ­ eople are reclaiming and relearning how to speak ancestral languages through survival schools. Nations are rediscovering the role of Indigenous ­women who are also reclaiming their role among the ­people as matriarchs of their families, communities, and nations. Indigenous ­women are rematriating, and land that was dispossessed is alive with song and ceremony. Land is life. The ancestral grounds that the academies we attend sit on ancestral Indigenous homelands. Images of our ­mothers, grand­ mothers, aunties, ­daughters, ­sisters, nieces, and First ­Woman come back to life when we arrive at the acad­emy. As Indigenous ­mothers are reborn, I believe we are in an awakening and releasing ourselves from the generation cycles of shame taught to us through settler colonialism. We no longer hang our heads, but look up and straight into the colonial eyes, while si­mul­ta­neously reclaiming, relearning, and reliving our lives as Indigenous ­women.

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The Words Courage, Strength, Resilience, and Compassion Come Through as I Think about ­Mothers: ­Mothers Are ­Daughters of ­Mother Earth Building on Lee Maracle (2002), “­Daughters are forever.” I have a lived experience as an Indigenous ­woman, and the circle of sisterhood began for me with the first ­mother of my f­ amily. As a matriarch, an Indigenous w ­ oman has an infinite tie to her first m ­ other: “­Women, the keepers of cultural survival, passed on stillness as the ultimate way to protect their ­daughters. ­Daughters are forever. D ­ aughters never leave. Sons are temporary: they belong to ­f uture families. When they marry, they leave. Sons are dispensable, but e­ very d ­ aughter is needed to re­create the villages” (p. 22). In this same light, my ­mother is also my grand­mother, and we are both ­daughters of the earth, reclaiming, relearning, and reliving our lives so that we can heal. To me, Indigenous mothering while in the acad­emy taught me to read through Indigenous and feminist scholarship and to learn about Indigenous m ­ others in the acad­emy and the sacrifices that m ­ others make for their schooling.

References Battiste, M. (2013). Decolonization education: Nourishing the learning spirit. Purich. Child, B. (2000). Boarding school seasons: American Indian families 1900–1940. University of Nebraska Press. Collins, P. H. (2000). Black feminist thought: Knowledge, consciousness, and the politics of empowerment. Routledge. (Original work published 1990) Deer, S. (2015). The beginning and end of rape: Confronting sexual vio­lence in Native Amer­ i­ca. University of Minnesota Press. Harris, H. (2002). Coyote goes to school: The paradox of Indigenous higher education. Canadian Journal of Native Education, 26(2), 187–196. Kulago, H. (2012). Theorizing community and school partnerships with Diné youth. Journal of Curriculum Theorizing, 28(2), 60–75. Maracle, L. (2002). ­Daughters are forever. Polestar. Mihesuah, D. (2003). Indigenous American ­women: Decolonization, empowerment, activism. University of Nebraska Press. Rukeyser, M. (1968). The speed of darkness. Random House. Shotton, H. (2018). Reciprocity and nation building in Native ­women’s doctoral education. American Indian Quarterly, 42(4), 488–507. Smith, L. T. (2012). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and Indigenous p­ eoples (2nd ed.). Zed Books. Trask, H. K. (1999). From a Native ­daughter: Colonialism and sovereignty in Hawai‘i. University of Hawai‘i Press. (Original work published 1993)

chapter 15

A Journey of Indigenous Motherhood through the Love, Loss, and the P&T Pro­cess Robin Zape-­tah-­hol-­ah Minthorn (Kiowa/Apache/Umatilla/Nez Perce/Assiniboine)

This chapter tells the story of loving another ­human deeply in the role of auntie and the journey of coming into motherhood, navigating a pregnancy that was painful and beautiful, all at the same time g­ oing through the mid-­probationary pro­ cess to promotion and tenure. The next journey is finding balance a­ fter the death of a baby and miscarriages while creating space in the acad­emy for o ­ thers. The final journey is entering motherhood of a rainbow baby while g­ oing through the promotion and tenure pro­cess. ­These are the intricacies and lived realities of Indigenous motherhood.

Embodying the Role of Auntie and Dr. Brylee Rayne Williams I never knew being an auntie could be such a sacred role that would cause me to love more deeply u ­ ntil I became one. My entrée into being an auntie started when I was much younger and an undergraduate in college. I did my best then to start off in a good way to be connected to my nephews. I would go back to Oregon and spend some summers ­t here including working at the tribal day care they went to so they would know who I was. I love them very much. Fast-­forward to about twelve years l­ater, I found myself welcoming my first niece into the world. The year she was born was also the beginning of my final year of my doctorate program, when I would be working on my dissertation and conducting research. Thinking back, I ­don’t know how I managed to balance every­thing including navigating how to be an auntie, being ­there for her the day she was born, ­there for her during her baby shower, when she got her ears pierced, and many other moments that first year of life. In t­ hose moments of her life, I also was spending time with my grand­mother 151

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(I ­didn’t know it was her last year of life). Meanwhile, I was completing my dissertation research in four dif­fer­ent parts of the United States and working full-­ time as a student affairs professional. This speaks to the multiple roles we find ourselves in, the ability to balance being ­there for our families and navigating academia as professionals and doctoral students. This balancing becomes a l­abor of love and centering of who we are as Indigenous ­women. The balancing at this time of being an auntie was giving me a foundation of what to build on in the ­f uture as I added mothering as one of the most essential roles in my life. The following year, I would work with my b ­ rother to help him gain full custody of my niece and to also start my first year as a tenure-­track faculty member in another state, eight hours away. I knew then it would take a village to support and be ­there with my ­brother in his pro­cess to raise his beautiful and strong ­daughter. I would end up driving back and forth to Oklahoma many times by myself my first two years in the tenure track, almost once a month. I knew how impor­tant it was to be t­ here to support my niece, my b ­ rother, and my mom. That’s what it means to be an Indigenous scholar, auntie, and good relative. ­Later on, my niece would come to visit us during the summer for a few weeks to get to know New Mexico, and she would also come to live with us for the rest of her kindergarten year to help her start her own educational journey in a good and better way than ­earlier that year. She would be able to finish kindergarten in New Mexico, and we (my partner and I) would learn what it was like to have a five-­year-­old living with us. We would do our best to help support her and give her what she needed at that time. Now, we have many funny stories to tell her that w ­ ill fill her heart and belly full of love and laughter, like when she first came to stay with us and brought some pajamas that w ­ ere too small but she still wanted to wear them so we cut the feet off and she wore the pajamas and feet, still worried that her grandma would get upset (but r­ eally it was just a funny picture we now have to keep) or when she was getting in trou­ble for d ­ oing something and she got mad at our dog and told him “It’s not smile time!” Many times Brylee came to campus with me. One time some of my colleagues/friends and I ­were recording an interview in my office, trying to be serious talking about our experiences in Indigenous methodologies, and we w ­ ere reminded by something funny Brylee did that she was sitting in t­ here with us listening and waiting for auntie. We love our niece so much, and now she is a sister-­cousin to our d ­ aughters. Brylee has taught me what it means to be more mindful of what we do is for ­f uture generations. She helped fan the flame of my heart work with Indigenous students and communities. She is in my top five in best friends and my favorite niece.

Love and Loss at the Midway Point Emery Rose Minthorn It was April 30 when I found out we w ­ ere expecting our first child. It was also the second year on the promotion and tenure track at UNM. We knew we wanted to have ­children at some point and that I ­wasn’t getting any younger. So it surprised

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us when I was able to get pregnant so quickly. We ­were grateful and began to imagine what it would look like to expand our ­family and circle. I also knew that meant that I had to get ready by being more “productive” before we had our baby. It was ­after our twelfth week of pregnancy when we saw it. Our ­daughter had a thickened nuchal translucency (finding this via ultrasound ­behind the neck is usually associated with a chromosomal abnormality). They wanted us to get tested for any abnormalities. We had a blood test and waited the time it took to get our results, and still t­ here ­were no results and it was undeterminable. So we did another one. By this time, we ­were almost fifteen weeks along. The second time we still could not get any results. So they de­cided to wait u ­ ntil we did our anatomy scan to see what we could find out and give the baby time to develop. I w ­ ill share Emery Rose’s Trisomy 18 awareness post ­later on. Throughout the time we ­were pregnant with Emery, we never ­stopped praying and never ­stopped hoping she would be okay. Our hope and prayers ­were not answered directly, ­because our ­daughter was meant to live not a long life but a very short life of ten minutes on Earth. And honestly, all of my work while pregnant with Emery and in the spring a­ fter her passing is a blur. Somehow, I still got work done and somehow still was able to have my first edited book released in early 2015. I was able to be t­ here with the Kiva Club as they proposed and advocated that Indigenous ­Peoples’ Day of Re­sis­tance and Resilience be changed at UNM. When you lose a baby or child it takes over you. Somehow, ­t hings worked out where me and my husband w ­ ere able to muster up the strength to make Emery’s life more meaningful. We ­were able to bring awareness for Trisomy 18 awareness on March 18, 2015, by handing out blue ribbons and asking ­people to wear blue for her. ­There ­were over fifty p ­ eople who did this. We ­were honored to have had a scholarship in her name for that spring semester from the General Board of Higher Education and Ministry. We w ­ ere able to do the March for Babies walk with another friend in honor of her son and raise over fifteen hundred dollars. We ­were able to start honoring our ­daughter on her first birthday by giving out bags full of toiletries and snacks to unsheltered relatives, whose families we know are missing them. Each year during Christmas we also provide gifts and donations to a child who is the same age Emery would be that year to honor her in our life. In our loss of Emery’s life, we have tried to honor her memory and name. It has not been easy to share this loss or her story; I would much rather be experiencing her first steps, her first day of school, her first words, all of her firsts. So instead we s­ ettle for this and do so with as much good intention and love for her as we can. Below, I offer some of the social media posts I have shared in honor of her e­ very year. We love you Emery Rose Minthorn. ­Every October 8, I share Emery Rose’s diagnosis story: emery’s trisomy 18 diagnosis story: Four years ago t­ oday, I was about to walk into my midwives office and I got a 505 phone call and I knew it might be the ge­ne­tic counselor with the news we ­were waiting to hear about. Two weeks ­earlier, I had gotten another amnioinfusion and they ­were able to extract some amniotic fluid from my uterus. It was the ge­ne­tic counselor, she said we know it is

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R o b i n Z a p e -­ta h -­h o l -­a h M i n t h o r n full Trisomy 18 that your baby has. She also asked if we wanted to know if we had a boy or a girl (­because at 27 weeks we still ­weren’t sure what we was having due to low amniotic fluid). She told me we had a baby girl. My heart sank and I had to try to pull myself together to go into my appointment. When my midwife asked me how every­t hing was g­ oing, I just said okay. I told her what I had just found out and she just hugged me and we cried together. I appreciate her letting me do that and her showing how much she cared. I left the office and called and told my mom. I had to wait all day ­until Gabe Minthorn got home to tell him. It was like the air was taken from my lungs, but I had to remain strong. So, I tried to go through my day as usual and was able to tell Gabe when I saw him. That night ­a fter pro­cessing what this meant, that our ­daughter had a 50 ­percent chance of being stillborn and with this diagnosis any fetal medical doctor would not want to do any intervention to help her lungs develop (­because of her kidneys not working). Regardless, we loved our d ­ aughter and it was that same day we de­cided to name our ­daughter Emery Rose. Emery ­because it means “brave” and that’s exactly what she was to us and Rose a­ fter our friend Natalie Rose Youngbull who introduced us. That is how we found out about her Trisomy 18 diagnosis and how we named our d ­ aughter. She certainly showed her strength and bravery for the next nine weeks. She made it in my belly u ­ ntil she was 36 weeks and I had to have an emergency c-­section. She lived for ten minutes in this world. We greeted her with our voices and her ­daddy got to meet her and talk to her. We miss our ­daughter ­every day and share her story of survival to inspire o ­ thers who might go through something similar. You are not alone. Love

you Emery Rose. ��

I remember that day or the next day (it was a blur) I was in the midst of putting together my midpoint dossier for promotion and tenure, trying to act normal and having a meeting with the associate dean to go over my files. I know her words ­were not meant to be scrutinizing, but they echoed in my ears, and I remember overreacting to her. I ­later told her what had happened, and she understood. I somehow managed to finish updating my files and getting them submitted within that week. I chose to continue to push forward as much as pos­si­ble. I remember continuing to serve on the Diversity Council at UNM and support events on campus like Race, Power and Repre­sen­ta­t ion at UNM just a week before I gave birth to Emery. That same fall semester, I had managed to get my grades submitted the morning we found out we would give birth to Emery. ­Every December 9, I share Emery Rose’s birth story: One year ago, on this day at this time, I was laying on the hospital ­table. I ­couldn’t feel my legs or see over the drape that was put up ­because I was having a c-­section. ­Earlier that day, I had a weekly check-up at 36 weeks to see how Emery was ­doing via ultrasound. According to their checkpoints, Emery d ­ idn’t pass, and they ­didn’t want to chance her not making it in the womb and giving her the best chance, she could have to make it. To live. They ­were sending us to the hospital to check in and be monitored and decide if we wanted to have an emergency

A Jou r n ey of I n digenous Mother hood c-­section. ­Needless to say, we w ­ eren’t prepared. Our bags ­weren’t packed. So, we had to run back to our apartment and pack up what we could. In the meantime, we called who we could, packed and headed to the hospital. We checked in and had to decide what to do. We prayed about it and de­cided to have the c-­section and not wait another day. We told our pastor, f­ amily and friends that we might have a c-­section that night. It went by so fast. I remember being in my hospital gown and getting up to go to the bathroom and I could feel Emery kicking me. Our pastor and his wife prayed with us and they wheeled me off in the surgery room. I was immediately prepped and then given the epidural. I remember how scared I was starting to feel as I ­couldn’t feel my legs. I just prayed and tried to remain calm for Emery. Emery was breech and I ­didn’t want to take any chances on her getting stuck or not having e­ very opportunity to live. We fought to get her good care and hoped that when she was born she would just need some assistance for her breathing and eventually just help with her kidneys, as that was all that was spotted on the ultrasound, even with her Trisomy 18 condition. I remember Gabe coming in and her Auntie Kristin being t­ here to take pictures. Thankfully they gave her the clearance to be ­there and take pictures, just in case Emery ­d idn’t make it. So, they was cutting me open and moving t­hings around, I ­couldn’t actually feel it but I could feel the tugging. I remember Gabe telling me he could see her starting to come out. Her butt was wiggling out and he says they pushed it back in took her feet out. We talked her into this world. Told her hello and that we loved her. We wanted her to hear our voices. Once she was out they whisked her off to the NICU room next door. They w ­ ere g­ oing to try to give her a breathing tube. At that point it was just the doctors, nurses and maybe Auntie Kristin. I was laying ­t here while they continued putting me back together and sewing me up. They came back and asked if we wanted them to try the breathing tube again ­because Emery w ­ asn’t taking it. They said that Gabe could go in ­t here with them. We both c­ ouldn’t believe it. Up u ­ ntil this point, we had hope. Hope our prayers would be answered and some miracle would be given. Gabe got to talk to her and see her alive. He talked to her and told her we loved her. She opened her eyes to his voice. She still w ­ ouldn’t take the breathing tube. She ­wasn’t g­ oing to make it. But, she did live for ten beautiful minutes on this earth. Him and Auntie Kristin ­were ­t here in the room with her. Meanwhile, I was laying t­ here waiting to see what happened and they came and brought her in and told me she ­didn’t make it. Gabe ­didn’t hold her yet, he wanted me to hold her first. I was able to have her on my chest while they finished ­doing what they needed for me. Once they ­were done, they said we could take her with us to our room. Gabe held her. We went back to our first room and our pastor had waited for us. They bathed Emery and then he baptized her for us. At this point it was past midnight. We got to keep her in our room with us for two nights. She stayed with us. We ­didn’t tell every­one about her Trisomy 18 condition ­because we d ­ idn’t want her life to be focused on that, we wanted her life to be one of love, strength and hope. This is Emery’s birth story. Her story started at conception and before that. We prayed for a baby, we prayed for her ­every day she was in the womb, we

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R o b i n Z a p e -­ta h -­h o l -­a h M i n t h o r n prayed continuously for her during the time we had her with us. She knew how much we loved her and she has touched the lives of many. We are blessed for having had her and that she is a part of our hearts, life and story. We love and miss you Emery Rose Minthorn.

A few days a­ fter Emery was born and we went home from the hospital without her, I asked Gabe (my husband and partner) to cut my hair so I could bury it with my ­daughter, which he did (just like he cut my hair when my Grandma Roxie had passed away so I could bury my hair with her). In addition to honoring Emery’s life with all of our love and actions, I also ­couldn’t imagine not honoring her our cultural way of cutting my hair off in mourning for her life. ­Every October 15 for National Pregnancy, Infant and Child Loss Awareness Day, I share this: ­ oday is National Pregnancy, Infant and Child Loss Awareness Day. I’ll admit I T ­didn’t pay attention or know about this day u ­ ntil ­a fter we lost Emery. Then you find ways to honor your ­daughter. In the ­matter of less than four years, Gabe and I had Emery with us in the womb for 36 weeks and then she lived for 10 minutes on Earth December 9th, 2014. It was the most heartbreaking moment we could live to understand yet try to educate o ­ thers. In September 2015, when we w ­ ere not trying to, we found out we was pregnant and within a few weeks we started having a miscarriage. It was disappointing and hurtful but, we continued to have hope. We started trying to conceive in January of 2016 and found out on ­Father’s Day weekend in June that we ­were pregnant. We felt so much joy and hope and then within five weeks we found out the baby did not have a heartbeat. I ended up starting to miscarry on my flight from London to the United States in late July 2016. It was a painful one, physically and emotionally. It took weeks to start to feel hopeful and think about us continuing on to try to conceive. Then, in October 2016 we found out we would be expecting our rainbow baby, Roxie Amariyah. Though we w ­ ere so happy to have our chance for a baby we could keep, the anxiety of something g­ oing wrong was always t­ here and I admit even now I worry about her health and well-­being all of the time. Now, we decide on a daily basis ­whether to share how many ­children total we have including Emery to acknowledge her life or to spare the feelings and uncomfortableness of strangers. I share this, not b ­ ecause it’s easy it is painful, but ­because I want ­others to know they are not alone and pregnancy loss and infant loss happens. It happened to someone you know. We are the one in four to have a miscarriage (twice), we are the one in five thousand whose baby was diagnosed and born with Trisomy 18. Yet, Gabe Minthorn and I still love, we still live, and still have hope for ­others. Love you Emery Rose. #EmeryRose #BreaktheSilence#Na tionalPregnancyInfantChildLossAwarenessDay

The year ­after Emery’s loss, I continued to use her name and share pictures of her. In some of my tribal cultures, you are not supposed to do that. I chose not to honor ­those ways so that ­others would not forget her and find my own way of heal-

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ing. This may not have been culturally acceptable for some, but when someone is deep in mourning we have to find our ways to heal and just continue to live with loss on a daily basis. However, we did not dance or participate in any cultural ceremonies, as protocol does call for when you are in mourning. ­After Emery had passed away her Auntie Chris gave us a pueblo spirit bowl. We ­didn’t know at the time the significance of this, as we knew we honored the lives that have gone on to be our ancestors and spirits by giving them some food at each meal. The emptying of that spirit bowl has become a healing pro­cess for us. So, ­t here was a balance of honoring her and our ways of being. ­Every March 18 I share this, in honor of Trisomy 18 awareness day:

Our Trisomy 18 Story with Emery Rose �� On October  8th, 2014, we received the news that our ­daughter was being diagnosed with full Trisomy 18 and that we w ­ ere having a girl. I learned this over the phone just before I was walking into my midwife’s appointment. We knew that Emery’s kidneys ­weren’t working the way they needed to starting at twenty weeks along. Once a Pinon Perinatal doctor identified her kidney condition he speculated a trisomy condition. I had one failed attempt ­t here at having an amniocentesis which is scary to know a needle is ­going through your stomach into your uterus, with potential to harm your baby. We knew that ­t here ­were doctors at, Pinon Perinatal, telling us we should terminate and ­t here would be no interventions, some doctors even told us she would most likely be stillborn. I wanted a second opinion and that is where I found Dr. Izquierdo, he wanted to make sure we found out what was ­going on and tried an amniocentesis the first visit. Emery remained calm during this pro­cess and I did too. He was able to extract some amnio fluid and add saline so he could see Emery better. I am grateful for his good care and although he d ­ idn’t want to do any interventions, b ­ ecause of her Trisomy 18 condition, he cared and wanted to do all he could to help us feel comfortable and have good care a­ fter she was born. We saw our l­ ittle girl who was fighting to be with us. She had a strong heartbeat, every­t hing ­else about her told us she would live. We had hope, we never ceased praying for her and unlike most parents, I had to advocate for my ­daughter to be seen as ­human and valued enough to receive health care. ­There ­were some good doctors and nurses. I visited two NICU doctor’s one at Lovelace and one at UNM hospital and saw a pediatric nephrologist on what care would be offered and what they could do to help Emery. But, the stigma of Trisomy 18 is that they are doomed to death. Meanwhile, ­t here are many stories of ­children defying the odds. Our ­daughter, Emery Rose Minthorn, was not stillborn she lived. She kicked her mommy before I went in for an emergency c-­section and then came out wiggling her butt (as Gabe saw her) while ­daddy and I talked to her but she de­cided she lived her purpose ­here and only stayed with us for ten minutes. I’m so glad her d ­ addy got to talk to her for us, touch her and see her open her eyes twice. I never knew I could love so much. I would have done anything for Emery Rose.

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Our beautiful first d ­ aughter, Emery Rose Minthorn. Her life has touched so many ­others, and it continues to. We ­w ill do our best to breathe life into your memory.

We want the stigma to be broken, increased education and Emery’s life to be honored. I ­w ill continue to share her story for ­others who might go through this situation and hope they receive better care and find Dr’s like Dr. Izquierdo. When we see Emery, all we see is her beauty and strength and most importantly our ­daughter. We are her proud parents, and still miss her e­ very day. Love, the Minthorns. #WT18D #WeAreTheirVoice #Trisomy18 #EmeryRose

Rainbows Emerge and the Promotion and Tenure Pro­cess Roxie Amariyah Minthorn I remember before Roxie was conceived, I kept on seeing rainbows around me. I remember one time I saw the end of a rainbow on my car. I d ­ on’t know if it was a coincidence or if it was ­really a sign from Creator that we ­were meant to trust that we would have a baby. You see, a­ fter Emery was born and we lost her in this world we also had two miscarriages between fall 2015 and summer 2016. I thought it was a sick joke from what we had endured with Emery. Somehow, I managed to have a miscarriage the week before I went to Portland, Oregon, to finish out my duties and responsibility as an National Indian Education Association (NIEA) board member. I am so glad Gabe was already g­ oing with me. Then, in summer 2016, I found out that what we thought was a baby ­didn’t have a heartbeat and that I would have a miscarriage soon. I also had planned to participate in a writing retreat in

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­ ngland. While I tried to write and enjoy being in Cambridge, ­England, I also was E expecting my miscarriage to happen. Th ­ ese are the t­ hings many w ­ omen ­don’t talk about. But, ­t hese are the ­t hings we learn how to deal with and continue to push forward. So to say I needed ­those physical signs was an understatement. Then, one night, I laid in bed and de­cided I was ready for another baby. Maybe I ­wasn’t truly ready to be pregnant ­after Emery had passed. I remember praying that night and put it in Creator’s hands. I ended up finding out I was expecting the morning that my ­family from Oklahoma was ­going to arrive and the day before my husband’s birthday. What a wonderful gift for him and all of my f­ amily. We d ­ idn’t know what journey would lay ahead, but we knew we would be prayerful and hopeful that Roxie would be given to us and picked out by her big s­ ister Emery. All of the signs for Roxie to be healthy and for me to have a normal pregnancy ­were ­there. We ­were grateful to know we would have our rainbow baby. During the second trimester of my pregnancy, I found out from my ­brother and mom that my niece Brylee was having a hard time in school and that we needed to think of a solution for her. I talked with Gabe and we offered for her to come to live with us and find her a school in New Mexico to finish out her kindergarten year. It was a quick decision but easy in regard to being t­ here for her to support her in her first year of schooling that could impact her ­f uture. We ­were grateful to get her into NACA (Native American Community Acad­emy) to finish kindergarten. This ended up being a blessing, though ­t here was a transition for us in learning to be her guardians and not her fun auntie anymore! I laugh at our many stories we now have together. The blessing was that I would have to be on campus more than I had planned but that it required me to also be more “productive” and focused scholarship-­w ise and that I could prepare my dossier for promotion and tenure ahead of time and on a timeline. Brylee ended up graduating kindergarten successfully, Gabe and I survived taking care of a five-­year-­old, and I survived being pregnant while preparing for promotion and tenure. Flash-­forward, I got my promotion and tenure documents in the week before giving birth or having my planned c-­section. I was able to have a c-­section, and we had our first living child together, Roxie Amariyah Minthorn. Roxie came out with a strong and beautiful cry. Roxie is named a­ fter her big s­ ister (Kiowa way), my grandma. My grandma was every­t hing to me, my best friend and role model. So, it is fitting that Roxie carries her name b ­ ecause now she is my every­t hing. We love her so much, and she has changed our lives forever as we have found some healing in her presence and yet also want Emery to know we w ­ ill never forget her. As we figure out how to ­handle the firsts with Roxie, we are also reminded that we ­didn’t have t­ hose with Emery. In Roxie’s first year of life, she got sick in November (she was five months old) and then was hospitalized three more times that year. She would be on oxygen each time, and we would take oxygen home with us each time for almost two weeks ­every time. It was tough and yet reminded me why I am so glad to be a professor with schedule flexibility. This meant that I took care of Roxie in the daytime and

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This is Wechumyus Kus Kus, our rainbow baby.

then would work when my husband got home and then once she fell asleep. We ­later found out that our ­daughter has craniofacial microsomia. She has mild hearing loss, has to wear glasses, has to have her liquids thickened, and has to take medicine ­every day for her reflux and breathing. As m ­ others we do our best to advocate for our ­children, including providing health care and giving the best of ourselves. Roxie is also strong, fierce, brave, intelligent, and beautiful. I can see the best of myself in Roxie. I found out a few days before Roxie’s first birthday while driving to the aquatic center for my niece’s birthday that I received promotion and tenure. On Roxie’s first birthday she received her Indian name, Wechumuyus Kus Kus (Rainbow baby). She has brought so much color and life to us. This past winter when we ­were driving from Washington State through Oregon at the Columbia River Gorge, I saw the most power­ful act of ­Mother Earth (though t­ here have been many I have seen since Emery passed). Rainbows followed us all along the gorge

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from beginning to end. I had just interviewed for my current position not knowing what our ­f uture would be. As an Indigenous ­mother I ensure my ­daughter has connections to her tribes, so now we live closer to her f­ amily in the Pacific Northwest. We recently moved to Washington State. I am so grateful to see her face light up when she sees her Kuthla, mema, papa, u ­ ncles, aunties, cousins, and other ­family. That makes anything we do to sacrifice for her worth it. Our ­children are our greatest gifts and remind us that our ancestors’ legacy lives in them. They are our medicine. Roxie’s medicine is strong.

chapter 16

Indigenous Motherhood in STEM Otakuye Conroy-­Ben (Oglala Lakota)

Titakuye Ota Win, Many Relatives ­Woman Indigenous motherhood in academia is a complicated and rewarding duality. I am a ­mother to two beautiful ­daughters. I also have a motherly role to my gradu­ate students. I have two homes—my ­house, where cherish my ­family and escape external pressures, and my office/lab, where I can be creative, develop theories, mentor, teach, research, and write. I have two budgets—­t he bills have to get paid. Not only did I maintain ­house­hold bills as the sole income provider while my husband completed his PhD, but I often worry about how to fund my gradu­ate students through their gradu­ate programs. My story of motherhood as an Indigenous ­woman in academia is the story of any m ­ other: love, grief, insecurity, adventure, and perseverance. However, as a tenure-­track underrepresented faculty member in STEM at an R1 university, academic expectations are attainable, but only with compromise in other areas. As an Indigenous ­mother, I’ve adapted a parental role for my students in education and research, expressed through effective mentorship. Much of support comes from my traditional upbringing in the Lakota culture and g­ oing through my own strug­gles as a first-­generation college student. Students come in with challenges and obligations, such as imposter syndrome, finances, ­family, and home life, and ­t here is no need to discourage them by being a difficult and stuffy faculty member. A supportive faculty member is the key to a student’s success.

Becoming a M ­ other I learned motherhood from my grandmas, aunties, ­sister, and ­mother. Ina is the Lakota word for mom. Unci is grand­mother. Lakota w ­ omen are strong, descendants from White Buffalo Calf ­Woman, chiefs and warriors, boarding school survivors, settlers/immigrants. I pull from their strength to get me through the rigors of academic success and the joys and heartache of motherhood. I know my ancestors have gone through far worse than anything I could imagine with 162

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genocide and colonization, yet I know I have centuries of support and hope ­behind me. Much like other Indigenous ­women, I come from ­humble beginnings, and I make sure my ­children know that they are fortunate for every­t hing they have. In spite of growing up very poor, I was lucky to come from a loving, caring, cultured, often strict ­house­hold. My parents are drug-­and alcohol-­free, are hard workers, and are always ­t here for me. They both came from complicated homes and ­were part of the boarding school era. Lakota was their first language, and while it was spoken in the home, I did not learn it. Traditional Lakota values ­were instilled in me at a young age: re­spect, humbleness, wisdom, compassion, honesty, re­spect, and generosity. I was told stories of their lives—­tough experiences common among this generation. But their strength shone through and led to their survival. Intergenerational trauma does exist, but a single generation of hard work and opportunity can change poverty and disadvantage into legacy. I suffered from multiple miscarriages during my first academic position. Colleagues who have gone through similar experiences of infertility attribute their loss to the stress of academia, and I agree. My first miscarriage was traumatic. I spoke to a nurse about some pressing health concerns early in my pregnancy, and she said they ­were common. But I insisted on a physical exam, and t­ here they verified that I ­couldn’t sustain the pregnancy. The pro­cess was incredibly physically and emotionally painful; my world was shattered. My second miscarriage was ­after a college football game, while traveling. Subsequently, I was referred to a recurrent loss specialist, one of the best in the country, who had done a thorough workup. He had no bedside manner and lacked empathy, and I was okay with that ­because I had an incredible support system in my f­amily and friends. In his workup, the physician said stuff that made me chuckle, like, “­Women have been ­doing this for thousands of years, go ahead and eat that junk food.” In all the tests, ­t here was nothing that stood out in my health as abnormal. I had my first ­daughter one year ­later and was thrown into the whirlwind of motherhood. We ­were blessed. The only ­t hing that mattered was her; she was my priority, and academic productivity declined, but I d ­ idn’t think twice about it. Our ­family was almost w ­ hole, as we longed for another child. Then, a third miscarriage. The toll on my body was demanding during ­these losses. ­Later that year, we became pregnant with our second d ­ aughter, while I was g­ oing through a very stressful workplace situation. This pregnancy was exciting and nerve-­w racking during the transition to a new academic institution. I was closely monitored by the obstetrician. It was soon discovered that both the baby and I had complications; I was g­ oing to be on bed rest, and the baby would be referred to a renal specialist when she was born. Upon delivery, a thorough ultrasound verified an abnormally structured kidney, and a mass was discovered on her liver. A year of surgeries, invasive procedures, and daily antibiotics added to the already strict work-­life balance, but out of the complicated and rewarding grew unconditional love for my c­ hildren. My kids are my priority, and t­ here is a delicate balance during the tenure pro­ cess at one of the top programs in the country in environmental engineering. Any

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time I wish to devote to myself occurs a­ fter ten o ­ ’clock, when the kids are asleep and the ­house is tidied. At ­t hese late hours I can grade, prepare lectures, exercise, and just sit if needed. With no f­amily nearby, we are left d ­ oing every­t hing ourselves and have l­ ittle time for other activities. I often hear of other academic moms hiring nannies and ­house­keepers to get through tenure. For a period of time, we ­were a single-­income ­house­hold while my spouse completed his dissertation, and additional help was simply not pos­si­ble. I know I am sacrificing needed writing and research time and would be more productive other­wise, but as a ­mother who has strug­gled with fertility and miscarriage, I cherish and prioritize quality time with my young ones. As an Indigenous ­mother, I desire to raise strong, compassionate, intelligent, caring, honest, ­humble ­women, knowledgeable of their culture. I was raised to be a good w ­ oman by my parents: believe, d ­ on’t judge or partake in gossip, be grateful, honor your wedding vows. I w ­ ill pass on ­t hese values to my ­daughters, hoping they see the world and experience wonderful opportunities. I wish for my ­daughters a stable ­future: clean ­water; re­spect for culture, elders, and loved ones; taking value in the differences in ­others; and freedom to choose their passion. I would not encourage my ­daughters to enter academia, though if they choose the field I ­will support them.

The Academic Trajectory t ­ oward Tenure As a first-­generation doctoral student, I ­didn’t ­really know what academia entailed and was unsure of my c­ areer trajectory, so I applied to jobs in vari­ous sectors related to environmental engineering: tribal colleges, mainstream universities, consulting firms, and government. I was offered positions in all, and ultimately de­cided to work as an engineer for Los Angeles County Sanitation Districts. While I enjoyed learning about government utilities and always encourage students to gain real-­ world experience, I missed the flexibility and freedom of academic research. Thus, I applied and accepted a postdoc position in biochemistry and environmental science. A two-­year position at the University of Arizona was the start of my academic ­career. I look back fondly at t­ hose years, as they w ­ ere the least stressful during the academic pipeline, with my only duties being research and writing and occasional teaching at the local community college. Subsequently, I applied to tenure-­track positions, as the research, teaching, and mentoring drew me to academia. My ­decision also has roots in my Indigenous identity and desire for a sustainable environment for f­ uture generations. Unci maka, or Grand­mother Earth in Lakota, is a term often coupled with protection of ­water, clean air, and antipollution efforts. I think of unci maka as my ­mother, and I look to protect her in my c­ areer, in guidance of my d ­ aughters, and in instruction of my academic c­ hildren, my mentees. I’ve always had a desire to protect unci maka, growing up in a pristine environment, drinking groundwater straight from a well with no added disinfectants. I can still taste that w ­ ater, earthy with a hint of weathered metal. I recall having to haul buckets and to conserve when

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needed; using an out­house due to lack of plumbing; bathing occasionally. I also saw the downside of hazardous waste and air pollution. With l­ ittle municipal infrastructure on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, we w ­ ere left with hauling our garbage to an open dump that was routinely burned to control volume. The odor of charred plastic was distinct and pungent, and in my developing knowledge of the world I thought it was a terrible practice. Thus, I’ve made it my life’s work to protect our Earth through education and outreach. ­Today, I teach and research the protection and restoration of unci maka. I have taught Introduction to Environmental Engineering, W ­ ater Chemistry, Environmental Organic Chemistry, ­Water and Wastewater Engineering, and Soil and Groundwater Remediation to both undergraduates and gradu­ate students. In each course, I interject my experiences from the reservation and from my c­ areer in urban areas. Students are aware of environmental injustices of the Flint, Michigan, drinking w ­ ater crisis, the Dakota Access Pipeline and effects of an oil spill, the Superfund site ­under Scottsdale, Arizona, and the remnants of uranium mining on the Navajo reservation. Students learn that freshwater sources ­will likely become polluted by wastewater, oil and gas development, mining, agriculture, and industry, and that increasing carbon dioxide is irreversibly changing the climate. My research is in the area of emerging contaminants in wastewater, endocrine disruption, multidrug re­sis­tance in bacteria, environmental ­factors in type 2 diabetes, drug abuse in tribal communities using sewer epidemiology, and pollutants in urban agriculture.

Tenure Demands at a Research 1 Institutions My work as an academic in STEM is quite dif­fer­ent than in other disciplines. I have a 45/45/10 appointment on a nine-­month contract, meaning 45 ­percent of my time is spent on research, 45 ­percent on teaching, and 10 ­percent on ser­vice. My research appointment involves setting up and ­running a lab with sustainable funding, writing grants and manuscripts, offering pre­sen­ta­tions, recruiting gradu­ate students, holding regular research meetings, conducting research with data analy­sis, mentoring students, and networking. Due to the nature of my research, I have annual protocol approvals in biosafety, blood-­borne pathogens, environmental health and safety, and tribal research review boards. Annual and final reports for funded proj­ ects are required. Travel to funding agencies is also necessary, as is dissemination of research findings at conferences. Course preparation is involved, as engineering lectures require extra effort. I come prepared for class, having drafted practice prob­lems and handouts, equation derivations, and real-­world applications, and I provide my own input from life experiences. Tenure requirements within my school are not clearly articulated, however positive promotion reviews reveal emphases on federal funding award amounts, doctoral student gradu­ates, patents, and authorship in peer-­reviewed journals during a five-­year probationary period. Teaching is traditionally less emphasized, though excellent peer and student reviews are impor­tant. Ser­v ice is self-­selective, but the

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expectation is to contribute to the field of environmental engineering in the form of peer-­reviewed journal reviewing and editing, technical session organ­ization, and grant review panels. My pretenure package encompasses all points thus far, though t­ here is always a nagging feeling that it is still not enough, which adds to academic anxiety. My research team has remained small: two to three PhD students, one to two MS students, and one or two undergraduate students per year. I have published in top journals, assembled a diverse grant award portfolio, and broadened my research focus. A number of students have won awards while working in my lab, a sign of effective mentoring. With the effort I have devoted to lectures, attending teaching seminars, and reading on STEM pedagogy, my teaching evaluations are above average. I’ve received excellent teaching ratings in departmental annual reviews, something rare for assistant professors in my department. As one of the only female Native engineering faculty in the country, I have a number of ser­v ice requests. It is difficult to turn them down ­because I feel it is impor­tant as an American Indian w ­ oman to have a place at the t­able in faculty hiring, scholarship awarding, grant reviewing, and mentoring of our own. What I often ask myself, and encourage other assistant professors to consider, is w ­ ill this help me with tenure? While this may be a selfish approach, too much time devoted to ser­vice could jeopardize the retention and promotion review, which is well documented in STEM and non-­STEM fields. However, as an Indigenous ­mother and a first-­generation student, I understand that role models and compassionate faculty are essential to student success, particularly in science and engineering. I personally see the value in understanding and supporting students who are navigating an often harsh environment designed from Western philosophy. In response, I do mentor Native and non-­Native students, ­women and men, with an open-­door policy. We discuss life and the acad­emy, how to succeed, and how to learn from failure, and importantly, I can relate to Indigenous students’ responsibilities to f­amily and culture. This, coupled with a supportive institution that ­doesn’t burden me with ser­v ice, creates an environment where I can target mentoring and volunteer opportunities.

The Acad­emy and Motherhood Also playing into success in the acad­emy is institutional support of working parents. Academic institutions are required to provide ­family medical leave, which is often coupled to an extension of one year on the tenure clock, subject to approval. In conversations with other academic moms, we agree the extension ­doesn’t benefit ­t hose in the STEM fields, and I have opted not to extend the clock. During ­family leave with my second child, I was held to my teaching contract, which meant that ­after the six-­week allowable leave of absence, I was required to teach a course during a summer session, optimum time to conduct research. ­There are institutions that have excellent family/medical leave. For example, at a previous university where I was employed, research-­active tenured and tenure-­track faculty are

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given a reprieve of a semester of teaching while retaining 95 ­percent of their salary, with benefits. A ­ fter the arrival of my firstborn, I took advantage of this opportunity. While out for the semester, I ensured a good research team was in place, led by my lead PhD student. During this time, research continued; however as I was lead principal investigator, ­t here ­were gaps in meetings, leadership, and dissemination. In your personal statement in the tenure packet, you are not allowed to address the reason for the leave or extension. In fact, the gap in productivity raises flags related to the sustainability of your research program. I left my first tenure-­t rack academic appointment ­because of lack of support heading into the tenure pro­cess. A new department head informed me, in his opinion, I would not get tenure. The decision was still over a year before I would submit my tenure package. I had not done anything to jeopardize my position; in fact, I was well liked by colleagues and students in the department. My teaching and ser­v ice ­were excellent, but I did lack in publications and had noncontinuous productivity due to the health issues discussed previously. I had received funding from federal agencies and private foundations, and I felt I had met the minimum requirements outlined in the College of Engineering research-­tenure-­promotion guidelines. So it was a surprise when engineering leadership told me not to put my application forward, as they would not support it. As an alternative, I was offered a career-­line lecturer position effective the next academic year when I would have submitted my tenure packet. This action essentially ­v iolated my tenure-­track contract. Unfortunately, I was not made aware by any institutional representative of my legally bound options, including letting my contract, with two years left, expire. I was heartbroken, that as a minority w ­ oman I ­wasn’t allowed due pro­cess. I believe a man would have been given the opportunity to pre­sent a tenure packet, and he would have fought for it. In fact, a fellow colleague received an award ­after his tenure packet was submitted and was likely in jeopardy without it. I know of other male faculty who did not receive tenure the first time but did during the next year. I was deeply upset for a very long time that I had been pushed out of a position and had not been given a fair opportunity and did not have the vocal support of fellow departmental faculty and university administrators. With plans to run my own lab, serve American Indian students in higher education, mentor promising gradu­ate students, and reach out to tribal communities in ­water pollution and health, I knew their decision ­wasn’t the end of my ­career. As soon as I was notified of the college’s position, I applied to other tenure-­track faculty positions, knowing that a career-­line lecturer job was not in my ­future. I found an institution that values my work and effort in research, teaching, and ser­v ice. The academic and research support is highly evolved, while the school is collegial with exciting research programs. I’m able to focus on the science and proj­ect deliverables, while receiving assistance with bud­geting, grant application initiation, and submission. ­There is a large Native American student population and ample opportunity to work with tribal communities. The collegial atmosphere is entirely dif­fer­ent than my previous institution, which is impor­tant for both ­family life and the pursuit of associate/full professorship.

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Reflection I often won­der if another c­ areer trajectory would be a better fit, and I think not, ­because this is what I have been training for, even if I did not realize the opportunity. In addition to ­running my own research program and the rewards of teaching and mentoring, I enjoy the flexible schedule, the travel, and essentially being my own boss. This job has allowed me to attend scholarly activities, be pre­sent for my ­daughter’s elementary school events, and tend to my toddler’s health issues. However, my own health and well-­being have taken a toll, and I would love to spend even more time with my f­ amily. I’m an older m ­ other. I had my first d ­ aughter at the age of thirty-­six and the second at thirty-­nine. I felt how my body had aged over the three-­year span, and the second pregnancy was definitely challenging. I often am asked by female scholars at the gradu­ate level when a good time is to start a f­amily. Every­one is dif­fer­ent, and you have to do what works in your best interests. Personally, I wanted to ensure I had a c­ areer and caring partner and stability. But starting a ­family during the tenure-­track pro­cess requires patience and strength. The academic setting is generally supportive, but planning is necessary when it comes to managing research proj­ects and courses. What assistance can be provided to an Indigenous ­woman in academia to ensure ­career longevity? Child care assistance, ­whether it be support from the tribe, the institution, or a special fund, would recognize the dual motherhood roles Indigenous w ­ omen carry in academia. Child care programs at national conferences are a benefit, as I often have to travel with small c­ hildren, and they can be distracting during professional sessions. Native American national conferences are family-­ friendly, and I would like to expose my ­daughters to academics, success stories, and bridging culture with c­ areer. If institutions want to invest in female faculty, they must make resources available to sustain a work-­life balance. This investment ­will benefit the university and department and ­will support the health of the female faculty. Trying to succeed in the male-­dominated engineering university setting has required sacrifices on all fronts. I wish I could give 100 ­percent in any area—­ motherhood, marriage, c­ areer. While pretenure academia is an uphill pro­cess, I intend to put my best foot forward in my second faculty position. W ­ hether I am promoted or not, I know I contributed to engineering education and research as a first-­generation American Indian ­woman. The support of my husband, parents, in-­ laws, mentors, and many o ­ thers has allowed me to live my dream of teaching, conducting research, being a m ­ other, and protecting unci maka.

chapter 17

Kuhkwany Kuchemayo ‘Aaknach, an Iipay ­Mother’s/Teacher’s Story Theresa Gregor (Iipay/Yoéme)

Rumination Why does being Native make mothering dif­fer­ent? How did mothering impact my experience in academia? As I start this essay with ­t hese questions in mind, I am humbled and grateful to embody the par­tic­u ­lar experiences, histories, and intersections that being an Iipay/Yoéme w ­ oman, m ­ other, and assistant professor entails. To be sure this existential trinity forms the core of my identity as a ­human being in deeply spiritual, emotional, intellectual, and physiological ways. This essay reflects my earnest attempt to voice my experiences in academia and motherhood and the impacts of each on my overall identity and sense of self. I birthed two ­children and raised my niece and nephew during my ­career as a gradu­ate student, as a newly minted PhD, and as an adjunct lecturer / associate researcher. At each par­tic­u­lar step on my journey, I refused to sacrifice one aspect of my life in order to achieve and maintain the other. ­Don’t get me wrong, I did not set out in academia with the intention of si­mul­ta­neously starting a ­family while completing my advanced degrees in En­glish, but the twin journeys have irrevocably ­shaped the ­woman I am as I learned, largely through trial and error, how to navigate each role in my life. I did not know then that it would take me ten years to complete my dissertation, or another eight years to land a tenure-­track job. Per­sis­tence and perseverance w ­ ere definitely keys, but so too was my refusal to allow ste­reo­t ypes about who or what kind of American Indian ­woman, gradu­ate student, professor, scholar, and m ­ other I should and could be. Just as ­there is not a monolithic definition of indigeneity, ­there is also not a singular delineation of motherhood. In my f­amily, my grand­mothers and great-­ grandmothers had large families, often bearing children in their teens and remaining pregnant for over a de­cade. My grand­mother bore eight c­ hildren from three dif­fer­ent men with my mom being the eldest d ­ aughter. My ­mother had me 169

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during her se­nior year of high school, enduring a pregnancy forced upon her with an untold source of strength and courage that few ­women can sustain. As an unwed teenage ­mother she was summarily dismissed from school and told that she did not have enough credits to gradu­ate. Years ­later she learned that this was not true, and she was granted her high school diploma in her early thirties. By the time she was twenty, she had a tubal ligation that she says was voluntary, but in 1976 at the age of twenty, how could she make such a life-­a ltering decision to foreclose her option to have more c­ hildren? This was the era of the sexual violation of American Indian and other brown ­women’s right to procreate through forced sterilization. In ­later conversations with my mom, I explained this history to her, and now she believes that while she was not “forced” to consent, she was definitely “coerced” and “convinced” that sterilization was her best method of birth control. Her rapid and young entrée to motherhood is shared by several of my female cousins and my sisters-­in-­law, who all started and s­ topped having c­ hildren between the ages of eigh­teen and twenty-­four, some of them also opting to have tubal ligations to prevent further births. For other ­women in my ­family and tribal community, they did not choose to have a baby. Their bodies ­were ­violated, and at the time ­there was no recourse or resources to protect them or provide options to birth the child or not. The traditional practices and methods used for birth control and abortion ­were dormant, and the methods from Western medicine ­were often too expensive and hard to access due to the rural location of the reservation. In The Autobiography of Delfina Cuero (Cuero and Shipek, 1970), Delfina Cuero narrates her first pregnancy ending in a miscarriage due to her lack of knowledge and understanding about womanhood. “One day I was a long way from Ha-­a looking for greens. I had a terrible pain. I started walking back home but I had to stop and rest when the pain was too much. Then the baby came, I c­ ouldn’t walk anymore and I ­didn’t know what to do” (p. 43). In the Autobiography, Shipek reminds readers that the United States banned the practice of American Indian religious ceremonies and practices in 1883, which resulted in the prohibition and subsequent decline of the Kumeyaay puberty ceremonies. Cutcha Risling Baldy (2017) explains that “the continued dismissal of Indigenous menstrual customs as primitive and/or oppressive of ­women is built from a settler colonial desire to make Indigenous knowledges obsolete and Indigenous ceremonies and cultures primitive remnants of the past” (p. 22). The last puberty ceremonies for Kumeyaay girls and boys ­were held in the early part of the twentieth ­century in secret. The Kumeyaay ceremony, the a-­keel or tunak, which means to “tie together,” consisted of tests of endurance, strength, and purity for young ­women that included restricting bodily movements, fasting, and cleansing the body/spirit. During the often weeklong ceremony, visitors would come from neighboring villages to dance, sing, and pray for the initiates. Delfina Cuero (1970) again reminds us of the significance of this event when she explains, “All that a girl needed to know to be a good wife, and how to have babies and to take care of them was learned at the ceremony, at the time when a girl became a ­woman” (p. 43). The entrance to womanhood was sacred and celebratory, in con-

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trast to Western beliefs about menstruation and puberty that inculcate w ­ omen to believe that their bodily changes are sinful and shameful. Understanding the genealogy of motherhood in my ­family eventually helped me reframe my experience and situate it along—­not outside of—­t he experience of my female relatives ­because the moment I learned I was pregnant I was self-­conscious about how I ­imagined ­others would perceive me. As a cisgender Native ­woman, I knew that I wanted to have c­ hildren. I dreamed about having a boy and a girl and a third child whose gender did not concern me, but my vision was to start a ­family ­after I completed my PhD and began working in a tenure-­track job. But all of t­ hose plans flew out the win­dow as quickly as the three home pregnancy tests I took registered a “plus” sign in the win­dow (which took seconds, not minutes, to appear by the way). How could I make what seemed to be an impossible “choice” between bringing a life into the world and fulfilling my academic dream? How could I manage to finish my PhD and have a baby? What w ­ ere my options? Did I even want to have a baby? If so, how would I raise a baby and finish my PhD? As I analyzed all pos­si­ble outcomes for each scenario, I heard the voice of an ex-­boyfriend who once told me that if I wanted a PhD that I would have to give up my desire to also have a f­amily. I was a ju­nior in my undergraduate program, and he was finishing his master’s degree. At the time, I ­didn’t argue back and tell him what a patriarchal pig I thought he was for saying such a ­t hing to me; but three years ­later, I found myself contemplating this very question. Thankfully, one of my friends erased his words for me when she said to me, “Hey, being a feminist means that we do not have to choose our ­children over our ­career; being a feminist means you choose what is best for you.” While her words calmed me at the time, my choice was still abstract and theoretical. Living with my choice to have a baby while starting a doctoral program would have a ­ripple effect on my life in praxis. As days, weeks, and years passed by her words would indeed prove true, but with critical differences. Her perspective and definition of feminism was one that I supported intellectually, but at the time, I w ­ asn’t even sure that Native w ­ omen w ­ ere feminists, which I felt was the privilege of white w ­ omen. It ­wasn’t ­until I read Devon Mihesuah’s work two years l­ ater that I began to see myself as a “tribalist” first and a “feminist” second.1 Could I have both, or was my ex-­boyfriend right—­t hat I would have to give up academia? As I reexamine my existential crisis, I can see now the multiple layers of historical, cultural, and social forces that w ­ ere si­mul­ta­neously pressing down on me. I was paranoid and worried that I was contributing to the ste­reo­t ype of many American Indian ­women: that my pregnancy would signal that I was promiscuous, feeding into what Rayna Green calls the “Pocahontas Perplex”—­the dual image of American Indian w ­ omen as ­either Indian princesses or Indian squaws. Th ­ ese images emerged from complex and confining imperial, national, and racial narratives. Green argues this duality makes it impossible for American Indian w ­ omen to be “real” ­because our roles are defined by narrow, romanticized, and sexualized subjectivities vis-­à-­v is men. Thus, in national narratives and culture, we are e­ ither Indian princesses, like Pocahontas, who rescue wayward white men, or we are

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Indian squaws, “the darker, negatively viewed s­ ister” whose exotic beauty, sexuality, and desire threaten white heteropatriarchy. Green explains: Both her nobility as a Princess and her savagery as a Squaw are defined in terms of her relationships with male figures. If she wishes to be called a Princess, she must save or give aid to white men. The only good Indian—­male or female, Squanto, Pocahontas, Sacagawea, Cochise, the ­Little Mohee or the Indian Doctor—­rescues and helps white men. But the Indian ­woman is even more burdened by this narrow definition of a “good Indian,” for it is she, not the males, whom white men desire sexually. ­Because her image is so tied up with abstract virtue—­indeed, with Amer­i­ca—­she must remain the M ­ other Goddess Queen. But acting as a real female, she must be a partner and lover of Indian men, a ­mother to Indian ­children, and an object of lust for white men. To be ­Mother, Queen and lover is, as Oedipus’ ­mother, Jocasta, discovered, difficult and perhaps impossible. The paradox so often noted in Latin/Catholic countries where men revere their ­mothers and ­sisters, but use prostitutes so that their “good” ­women can stay pure is to the point h ­ ere. Both race conflict and national identity, however, make this par­t ic­u ­lar Virgin-­W hore paradox more complicated than ­others. The Indian ­woman finds herself burdened with an image that can only be understood as dysfunctional, even though the Pocahontas Perplex affects us all. (pp. 703–704)

Green’s analy­sis contextualizes the historical, cultural, and social crossroads I found myself navigating as a Native w ­ oman, new m ­ other, and burgeoning academic. Growing up on the Santa Ysabel Indian Reservation, I was always keenly aware of my identity as an Iipay person. The reservation bound­aries, marked with ­cattle guards at the entrance to signal your arrival and departure, was a place that I knew was very much foreign and exotic to other ­people. I can recall numerous sympathetic and oftentimes pitiful reactions from teachers, coaches, bosses, and other individuals that came in and out of my life when they learned that I was from the rez. Their pity and sympathy would turn to charity—­which would sour the relationship for me b ­ ecause I never wanted to be given anything or any special treatment simply b ­ ecause I was Native. Th ­ ese relationships and early interactions created an intense drive in me to prove myself capable and deserving of my accomplishments on my own. This may sound foolish and stubborn, but outliving the ste­reo­ types and expectations that ­others placed on me has been a lifelong strug­gle, in part b ­ ecause as Native p ­ eople and Native w ­ omen specifically we carry t­ hese social and cultural histories with us as we walk in two worlds. ­These pressure and worries became heightened at the end of my first year of gradu­ate school. I felt like I was living out a reservation tragedy, realizing a self-­ fulfilling prophecy that my aunts and the naysayers on the reservation warned me my fate would one day be if I did not stay in school, keep my head on straight, and, most importantly, keep my legs closed. I would be pregnant, single, and living a hand-­to-­mouth life on the rez. It ­d idn’t ­matter that I was twenty-­four, a college gradu­ate, and in a renowned doctoral program; I could still hear all the old aun-

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ties and cousins warning me about the fate that awaited me once I became pregnant. The under­lying message of this cautionary tale was that college, and especially gradu­ate school, was not meant for Natives, let alone a Native w ­ oman. The other more egregious belief was that living a life on the reservation and raising a f­ amily was somehow a punishment for transgressing social and cultural bound­aries. Sadly, I internalized their messages, and only now, twenty-­plus years ­later, can I see that this was the real tragedy. Despite the uncertainty of my f­ uture, I fatefully de­cided that I would not choose between motherhood and a doctorate—­I would do both, have both, be both. I would live in both worlds and transform my place in each.

Praxis Fast-­forward twenty-­one years a­ fter I gave birth to not one but two c­ hildren and raised two more while completing my gradu­ate degree, and I am deeply troubled by the level of guilt and shame that I internalized about what should have been the most exciting and transformative time of my life. Instead, I wrestled daily with feelings of inadequacy, thinking that I was disappointing my f­ amily and mentors ­because I was pregnant and raising a growing ­family while I was supposed to be this stoic and starving gradu­ate student. Yet I persisted, fueled by one part pride and one part refusal to live a life prescribed by ­others’ expectations of who or what I should or could be. Putting my life into practice, living with my choices meant that I had to find a way not only for myself, but for my f­amily to overcome any issues or barriers that stood in the way of me finishing my degree and entering the job market. Two of the key challenges I faced as a Native m ­ other in academia are both in the “Audre Lordean” sense of the personal and the po­liti­cal. The personal barriers that arose (and still arise) emerge primarily in the domestic space of my life. Although I wanted to be both a m ­ other and a PhD and consciously made t­ hese choices, t­ here was not a road map or guide for me to follow. At the time, none of my peers or mentors had ­children and none of my Native friends and ­family members w ­ ere in academia. I managed to juggle both roles on the daily in large part due to the fact that we moved back to the reservation ­after I advanced to candidacy. Th ­ ere I was surrounded by my immediate and extended f­ amily, in my homeland, able to reintegrate into my tribal community.

Creations Although becoming a ­mother was one of the most profound experiences of my life, so too was founding a nonprofit for my tribal community, finishing my PhD, and being hired in a tenure-­track job in American Indian Studies. None of my choices, in the end, ­were detrimental to my well-­being or that of m ­ y children (I hope). Both of my pregnancies occurred during gradu­ate school, with my d ­ aughter arriving in the ­middle of my second year and my son entering the world five years l­ater a­ fter I advanced to candidacy. In between life presented other twists and turns—­relatives passing on, other ­family members checking out ­because of addiction and substance

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abuse, my parents divorcing, my husband deciding to switch c­ areers, our h ­ ouse­hold growing to include us raising our teenage niece and nephew, me working for my tribe and tribal community (as I continue to do t­ oday). This period in my life was perhaps the most fulfilling and the most challenging—fulfilling b ­ ecause I realized the limits of myself: physically, emotionally, psychologically, and intellectually. In my journal entries during this time, I was consumed by my daily ­house­hold schedule, the lack of control I felt over my body (namely, losing stubborn baby weight), and worry about the lack of time I could dedicate to my research and writing. In her memoir, The Blue Jay’s Dance: A Birth Year (1995), Louise Erdrich writes, “Growing, bearing, mothering or fathering, supporting, and at last letting go of an infant is a power­ful and mundane creative act that rapturously sucks up ­whole chunks of life” (p. 3). I read The Blue Jay’s Dance one year a­ fter I had my second child. This line has stuck with me over the years, especially when I find myself stunned by how quickly time passed, and somehow, I am where I am now: in my fourth year of a tenure-­track job marveling at the in­de­pen­dence of my now twenty-­one-­year-­ old ­daughter and sixteen-­year-­old son. How did I manage to keep it all together, finish my degree, and get a job? The short answer is that I had amazing help from the w ­ omen in my f­ amily so that I could carve out large chunks of time to write on the weekends, over holidays, and during the summers. Although my dissertation writing was drawn out over the course of four years, I finished my degree, then sought out work with a flexible schedule so that I could continue to raise four ­children. With counseling and the support of my peers and friends, I learned to set schedules to track my daily work and home needs, so that I could actively participate in my ­children’s educations. ­After I graduated and began lecturing, I still managed to coach tribal youth sports, serve as a tutor for the youth program, and help start a tribal nonprofit ­after our reservation suffered through a catastrophic wildfire. I also believe t­ oday that my success is directly related to my sense of who I am as an Iipay/Yoéme, the grounding of my life on the reservation, the expansion of my life and ­family during my time in academia. During my formative years, I was mothered by many dif­fer­ent ­family members. My mom had me in the ­middle of her se­nior year of high school. As a teenage m ­ other, she was ill equipped to take on the role of primary parent, so my grandma and l­ater my great-­aunt w ­ ere my first caregivers. I did not live with my mom full-­time u ­ ntil I was five. My early childhood was spent with a ­gaggle of cousins in a home that was always bursting at the seams with relatives coming in and out. My aunt’s stove was always on, and she was always cooking, cleaning, and ­doing laundry. I loved her tan, leathery skin, and her squishy hugs. She drank Olympia beer almost ­every day, and on Friday nights she and my ­uncle, a World War II veteran and a janitor at the local school, would walk to none other than the Teepee Room, a local bar and grill, to have drinks and dinner. They raised a ­family of twelve in addition to me and the numerous cousins left ­under their care. ­These early memories of mothering and homemaking ingrained this be­hav­ior in me, and I tried to replicate her self-­sacrificing

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persona for many years ­until I realized that to do it all plus obtain a doctorate would mean admitting that I could not do it all the time by myself. As a Native ­woman, I know that I constantly seek out kinship relations. Fortunately, many of my relatives and friends have mothered me in vari­ous periods of my life, and thus became models for how I, in turn, mothered my ­children. My ­mother network expanded considerably in gradu­ate school when I met new colleagues, mostly women of color, who unconditionally supported me both intellectually and personally; and my circle continues to grow ­today with colleagues who have become soul ­sisters to me and adoring aunties to my kids. When I completed my dissertation in 2008, I reflected on all the influences and support that I received directly and indirectly from f­amily and friends in the acknowl­edgments. I wrote about the early childhood literary influences s­ haped by my parents’ interest in reading ­women’s romance and western novels that would inform the central tenets of my research about American Indian repre­sen­ta­tion in popu­lar American literary forms. I thanked my husband for his support, faculty for their intellectual inspiration and guidance, my peers for their friendship, kinship, and collegiality, and my aunts, cousins, and other relatives for their kindness and support throughout my course of study. I ended the acknowl­edgments with words of gratitude and love dedicated to my two ­children, Emelia and Evin, whom I birthed along with my dissertation. I stated that their arrival in my life “helped me realize the possibilities of my body for creation, the bound­aries of my being, and my infinite capacity to love and be loved” by them. I closed by stating that “all of my work was for [them]” (Gregor, 2010, p. iii). This is both true and untrue ­today. Now that I am in my fourth year of my tenure-­track appointment, I am in an intense new period of growth and creation. I work to support my c­ hildren; they inspire me in miraculous ways—­compelling me to wake up early, stay up late, and synchronize what seem like incommensurate schedules, needs, and demands that truly do make me feel like a superwoman at times; yet I know in my core spirit that my work is for me, although my ­children are both muses and beneficiaries to my productivity. The demands and duties of motherhood are still pre­sent, but they have shifted from constant care t­oward setting bound­aries, providing tools and support, and watching my son and d ­ aughter navigate the world on their own. With one child completing college and the other completing high school, I realize that a Native m ­ other’s/academic’s life is in a constant state of creation: gestation, birth, and growth, and through this pro­cess we become who we are as ­women and who we are as h ­ uman beings.

Note 1. ​Mihesuah (2000, p. 1250) defines “tribalists” as w ­ omen who “believe they are disadvantaged by the colonialist ideologies power their race and contribute to dysfunctional tribal no interest in white feminist theory b ­ ecause they know that white ­women have enjoyed the power privileges white at the expense of ­women of color.”

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References Baldy, C. R. (2017). Mini-­k ’iwh’e:n (for that purpose—­I consider t­ hings): (Re)writing and (re)righting Indigenous menstrual practices to intervene on con­temporary menstrual discourse and the politics of taboo. Cultural Studies↔Critical Methodologies, 17(1), 21–29. Cuero, D., & Shipek, F. (1970). The autobiography of Delfina Cuero. Malki Museum Press. Erdrich, L. (1995). The blue jay’s dance: A birth year. HarperCollins. Green, R. (1975). Pocahontas perplex: The image of Indian ­women in American culture. Mas­sa­chu­setts Review, 16(4), 698–714. Gregor, T. (2010). From captors to captives: American Indian responses to popu­lar American narrative forms (Publication No. 3403573) [Doctoral dissertation, University of Southern California]. UMI ProQuest Dissertation Publishing. Mihesuah, D. (2000). A few cautions at the millennium on the merging of feminist studies with American Indian w ­ omen’s studies. Signs, 25(4), 1247–1251.

chapter 18

Impact of a Pandemic on Indigenous Motherhood collective stories Robin Zape-­tah-­hol-­ah Minthorn, Heather J. Shotton, and Christine A. Nelson

Our Collective Story In the midst of finalizing our manuscript for this book, the COVID-19 pandemic erupted, forcing educational institutions to close in the name of safety, creating circumstances where we as m ­ others had to quickly adjust teaching modalities and research timelines while caretaking for our ­children and ­family. ­These unavoidable times have given us time to reflect upon our histories, our communities, and our relatives. We fostered this space ­because we recognize the pandemic has impacted our tribal communities at substantially higher rates than elsewhere and has exposed the inequities that exist in our tribal communities. The glaring examples of inadequate health care and testing, the lack of public health and safety, and insufficient access to clean ­water resonate with our families and us. And amid one pandemic, the “pandemic of racism” became part of mainstream media reporting, where Americans, many for the first time, ­were largely forced to contend with the realities of systemic racism. We reject the notion of racism as a “pandemic,” which denotes the spread of a new disease, an outbreak. Manley (2020) reminds us that racism as a pandemic is a misnomer: “Racism is not new. It’s unceasing with no treatment or vaccine in sight. A more appropriate diagnosis would be racism as a chronic disease, like cancer or diabetes.” The realities of colonial vio­lence, rooted in imperialism and white supremacy, have always been known within Black, Indigenous, and ­People of Color (BIPOC) communities.1 But in the summer of 2020, the world was collectively forced to witness the realities of racism and anti-­Black vio­lence through the murders of Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Tony McDade, Nina Pop . . . ​and the demands for racial 177

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justice that followed.2 While BIPOC communities also acknowledge that ­t hese demands and protests against state-­sanctioned police vio­lence impact our Indigenous communities in dif­fer­ent ways, we affirm that Black Lives ­Matter. We stand in solidarity with our Black relatives in this strug­gle. We also recognize the importance of reflecting on the varying ways anti-­Blackness permeates our tribal communities. This anti-­Blackness is an intentional function of settler colonialism that seeks to divide and undo Black and Indigenous communities, ultimately rooted in our entangled and inseparable histories with the structures of settler colonialism (Tuck & Yang, 2012). The interwoven nature of our histories, experiences, and identities, while still uniquely situated, presses us to understand that our relatives include community members who identify as both Black and Indigenous. We uphold our relational responsibilities and tend to our teachings and practices of being good relatives. As Indigenous w ­ omen, we call out the nuanced and blatant ways that patriarchal systems situated within settler colonialism erase Black ­women and Black trans* p ­ eople from the broader Black Lives ­Matter dialogue,3 and we are reminded of our responsibility to answer calls to #SayHerName (African American Policy Forum, 2014). Though our conversations did not specifically address ­t hese lived realities, we have a responsibility to hold space and stand in solidarity with our Black relatives. As such, we honor the Black ­women at the center of the Black Lives ­Matter movement, the lost lives of our Black and Indigenous relatives, the m ­ others of c­ hildren whose lives ­were stolen by state-­sanctioned vio­lence, and our shared strug­gles with the Black community. As we explore the impacts of a pandemic on the storytellers in this book, we take a moment to pause, to reflect and hold space for our collective experiences and the pain, strug­gles, and loss we have endured during t­ hese times. The remaining part of this chapter shares our collective story(ies). We felt it necessary to carve out time to have a virtual collective gathering to visit, share, and talk story as an alternative vessel to share how this pandemic has impacted us as Indigenous ­mothers and scholars. The “Our Story(ies)” section is a transcription of our virtual gathering. Each paragraph represents what contributors shared. Following the “Our Story(ies)” section, we highlight contributors who opted to provide short narratives of how Indigenous motherhood lives through a pandemic.

Our Story(ies) Prior to our conversation “officially” beginning, we started off with sharing about our l­ittle ones g­ oing down for naps or by our sides. Another contributor talked about working on making masks and mentioned that she listened to one of the editors’ podcasts. ­There was also talk of virtual background helping us cover up our messes. Th ­ ese are many of our lived realities. “Knowing that t­ hings have changed in our families and our communities in how we approach motherhood and just taking care of relatives. We just wanted to give

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this as an opportunity for t­ hose that feel comfortable to share, anything around the impact on your own motherhood, or your own caretaking responsibilities. That way you also d ­ on’t have to write anything. But we can offer that again, w ­ e’re inviting that within the chapter. So that we could make sure that ­we’re honoring and capturing the voice of your experiences and all of our experiences.”

To recognize that ­women are carry­ing an inequitable load and ­we’re burdened in dif­fer­ent ways by the pandemic . . . ​­women are experiencing this differently. As our universities developed their return-­to-­campus plans, the lack of humanity and disregard for h ­ uman life in the name of capitalism became glaringly apparent. ­There was a real lack of flexibility to accommodate for child care issues or the complications for t­ hose of us with school-­aged c­ hildren ­were facing with schools moving to virtual learning. While some p ­ eople ­were recognizing that w ­ omen faculty ­were carry­ing the bulk of ­t hese burdens, t­ here ­were no real actions or policies taking place to address ­t hose issues that ­women on campus or ­women faculty are taking on. I think that w ­ e’re definitely feeling that across campuses. It was kind of in­ter­est­ing in that ­t here’s been at least a ­couple emails that have been sent out by administrators that are acknowledging the pandemic. You know, what y­ ou’re saying about the inequities and it’s especially for w ­ omen or m ­ others or p ­ eople who are even caretaking other ­people in the f­amily. I think one of the ­things t­ here was a follow-up letter [from my institution] that I also signed. Acknowl­ edgment is nice, but it’s not enough. What does this actually look like in practice when it comes to tenure? Some of the t­ hings that this letter was asking for are child care pods, or you know for t­ hose ­people who are unable to find child care, to have maternity leave, and to have active ser­v ice or modified duty so y­ ou’re not teaching or so that you can focus more on your research and other responsibilities. Then I’ve also been thinking about the relationship with Indigenous ­peoples and settler colonialism. A lot of scholars have picked up on this as well as the way that this pandemic is caused by the lack of having good relationships with more than ­humans. And so thinking about what that means g­ oing forward. The pandemic has solidified for me that ­these institutions ­don’t love us and they w ­ ill exploit us and at this point I think I’m feeling ­really strongly about this. For my campus we essentially have to return to campus without consideration for faculty voices and concerns for health. And so it’s the realization and feeling that they ­will not only exploit us, but we are disposable and replaceable. I think that that has been solidified for me in multiple ways. During this time, ­because of the way that the institutional administration has continued to exploit our work and demands that we produce. We are living, and even hearing all of you say this, w ­ e’re living in this uncertainty and also fear of what happens if we ­don’t produce. But, I think ­there’s also this piece of recognizing that the institution ­doesn’t love me. And so it’s not worth killing myself for the institution or killing my spirit or my soul for this place. And so it’s been a tension that is always ­t here, but it’s been amplified and I’ve ­really been wrestling with that and thinking through that. And it’s also, I think, allowed me to reflect on ­t hings that I’ve sacrificed with my ­family for an

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institution that ­doesn’t love me and so I guess the good that’s come from that has been that space to reflect or being forced to reflect on that, so that you know I can think about that a ­little bit differently. I feel privileged, on the one hand, but then to your point about tenure and I would go up for tenure next year, but I’ve had so much additional work. And also helping like my d ­ aughter, she ­will be a se­nior in college. She’s still trying to figure out what’s happening. My son w ­ ill be a se­nior in high school. And even with them being older and, you know, I d ­ on’t have to get up and change their diapers, or do any of that. It’s still like a lot to manage and pro­cess. And then on top of that, just you know, personal issues, like I’m getting divorced. I’m supposed to sell my ­house and move—­just all ­these ­things that have been disrupted and same with what would have been my schedule for the summer. And so I have to evaluate w ­ hether I [go up]. I think I have u ­ ntil September 4 to submit my letter to extend my probationary year by one more year and I ­haven’t had the conversation yet with my chair. . . . ​ I’m r­ eally grappling with that real­ity as well but archives are closed. Right. None of our traditional spaces and gatherings that we would normally go to where we would interact and network and interview, t­ hose spaces a­ ren’t open, you know, not every­body has Zoom. Or, you know, access to Zoom and laptops and the internet. So I just feel like a lot of my work that I plan to do this summer in terms of community engagement has just been completely derailed and all I’m d ­ oing is professional development in terms of curriculum and teaching online. I’m supposed to also go up and submit my documents next spring, and have been in that same kind of limbo of w ­ hether to power through. You know, to get it done and you just kind of have all t­ hese p ­ eople all their opinions kind of coming at you and ­you’re like [makes distressed facial expression] that. I ­don’t know if this is right for me. So I’m ­really feeling that uncertainty and luckily for our institution they are giving us ­until September 1st to let them know if we want to extend. I can definitely relate in terms of that timeline of having to make the decision ­because y­ ou’re also making decisions, you ­don’t know what the ­f uture is ­going to look like, right? You ­don’t ­really know if you are g­ oing to be able to push through and write something to get it submitted, ­because then ­t here’s no guarantee that the article is g­ oing to get through the publication system. So, t­ here’s so many t­ hings that I’m thinking about, from a tenure point of view. But I also want to just affirm that the personal aspects of ­t hings that are also happening are a lot to carry on its own, you know, just to kind of think about our ­children—­t hinking about what their f­ uture is g­ oing to be. It’s r­ eally daunting right now. I think in terms of whenever you start layering on all t­ hese t­ hings that I do for me. I just kind of push it aside and like I’ll worry about it next week, you know, but they d ­ on’t. I feel just a lot of heaviness and weight. And what’s ­really been on my mind is how higher ed institutions support families and the familial unit. I’ve just been ­really aching, feeling ­really far away from my own ­family. As I’m trying to figure out how to, you know, manage child care. I have a two-­year-­old right next to me. I have a six-­year-­old, increasing work responsibilities and just wishing my mom was h ­ ere, who’s no longer with us, and that’s what’s ­really difficult right now.

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So I started coordinating our doctoral program this semester and picked a g­ reat semester to start. It’s been a fun r­ ide and still teaching three classes and so you know, luckily, ­we’ve already been a hybrid program. So most of our classes ­were already on Zoom. So that ­really ­wasn’t the transition. It was kind of every­t hing ­else and homeschooling ­children to, you know, two girls and also our neighbors sent their kids over to us ­because they ­were both essential employees. So it was prob­ably about the end of April. And so my husband and I are both working at home, both in higher ed, you know, kids are trying to homeschool, you know, virtually. So w ­ e’re kind of taking turns on who’s like downstairs, helping them at any given time with what ­t hey’ve got to do online. Then also coming up h ­ ere [to office space] and you know meetings and faculty meetings. I’m also spending so much time that you know we d ­ on’t have any bound­aries, like it was like work just flowed into every­thing ­else. But what was in­ter­est­ing is, even though we w ­ ere home. My ­daughter, my youn­gest came up and said, “Mommy, I r­ eally miss you.” This was the end of April, we had been home for two months already, and it hit me that, you know, ­people think ­we’re at home so that w ­ e’re having good old f­ amily quality time together. What they d ­ on’t understand is that the time that we w ­ ere with our kids during the day when we, you know, w ­ e’re taking time out of what we would usually be ­doing at work was to help them get their work done for school. And then trying to come back up h ­ ere at night and finish the work that we ­didn’t get to do when we ­were helping them, which meant that they ­were on their own. At nighttime ­after dinner when we would normally be having time together to do something, go bike riding or what­ever. One of my male colleagues in one of our department meetings said, “You know, I only have three days, three hours a day that I can r­ eally work b ­ ecause my wife has to help take care of the kids the rest of time so I only get three days, three hours a day to work.” And I was like, I’m unclear as to what’s happening ­here. And it made me realize that I think that ­there’s a very big difference in how we think about being accountable to the p ­ eople that we help our students that I c­ an’t just, you know, if I only work three days, three hours a day. I would never get anything done. And so it just made me won­der how dif­fer­ent perspectives are of being Indigenous and being in a home that you know we feel a collective responsibility, not just to our f­ amily, but also to the students ­because ­they’re also trusting us on their journey. Does that make sense? Am I undoubtedly taking on more than I should? I have been saying it as work invading home b ­ ecause it feels like an invasion and an intrusion into our space. And so the very act of being able to have ­t hose bound­aries of physically walking out of the door and ­going somewhere ­else and then returning home. It’s in ­every space. We are stealing away moments, and we ­stopped to take a break to do dinner or what­ever. And then we go back and so it’s just invaded. I think for many of us as ­mothers, it’s invaded and intruded in this space. So, what ­you’re saying resonates. My ­daughter gets mad at me, she’s like, “Do you have meetings t­ oday? How many meetings do you have t­ oday?” And if I have a day full of meetings. I think they all feel it and she is not happy when I have a day full of meetings and she ­doesn’t even necessarily want me to do anything with her. She just wants me to be pre­sent and I’m not.

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With every­t hing coming out. It was in­ter­est­ing ­because I felt like a lot of folks ­ ere talking about ­whether we take an extra year or not? ­There was a time where w I thought well maybe now it makes more sense to take the extra year but then we have my campus and maybe a ­couple weeks a­ fter every­t hing started happening. We started hearing news about pay cuts for all state employees. We thought we heard ­t hings about travel freezes and it’s just a lot of ­t hings that made me feel like wow next year is ­going to be even more uncertain than this year. So what happens if I pause or if I take an additional year? This past year, I had no conferences, no publications, ­because of the current conditions. I’m having a ­really hard time writing and you know how many p ­ eople are able to complete [journal] reviews. Right now, and you know the review pro­cess, I think, is prob­ably taking longer. What if they start cutting positions, am I g­ oing to be more vulnerable, if I h ­ aven’t already made tenure. So with all of that I ended up deciding to go ahead and go up this year a­ fter all I have to turn in my dossier and every­t hing in October. . . . ​Trying to figure out how to be ­t here and get ­t hings done and working in a ­whole new way. ­Because what I found is that during the day, I ­really ­can’t do ­t hings that involve a lot of heavy thinking. It’s like which emails can I answer or like what, you know, ­things I can kind of do quickly and then kind of step away. So I’m working depending on what time the kids go to sleep, which is l­ ater and l­ ater. ­These days, I w ­ ill work from maybe ten or eleven at night and go to sleep at like two or two or three and then, you know, start every­thing e­ lse again the next day. So, it’s just hard. ­We’re constantly being pulled in dif­fer­ent directions and that notion of, like, do you have meetings t­ oday? My niece is like, do you have meetings t­ oday or how many meetings do you have? It’s also satisfying when I know my meetings are done. So ­today I have six hours or seven hours of meetings on Zoom and I know that I have to run to the bathroom upstairs. When I go downstairs, I know my ­daughter ­will say, “Mama, mama.” Then it’s just back to the ­mother role ­until they go to sleep. So it’s always a constant balance of that. I d ­ on’t know if some of you all have experienced this. But even with my role and the ­house, me and my husband did a ­really good job of alternating who cooked. For some reason, when the pandemic started, I started cooking 85 to 90 ­percent of the time and I have no idea how that took place and then a transition of cooking more. I’m like, what the hell, why? The dynamics have changed a ­little bit in the home, since this started, it’s just in­ter­est­ ing to see all of that. I think that w ­ hole balancing has to also include taking care of your relatives from a distance. If y­ ou’re not able to be t­ here with them. It becomes an extra layer worrying about p ­ eople when t­ hey’re not pre­sent with you ­because you d ­ on’t know what t­ hey’re ­doing. But, you want them to be healthy and safe. I think all of ­these extra t­ hings that are a part of who we are. It’s just layered into all of that responsibility that we have. It also reminds me of how dif­fer­ent a space w ­ e’re in, in terms of our partners, you know, they have a lot of work. They have a lot of stress, but I think they carry it so differently that it’s to the point where it’s irritating, but it’s also a reminder ­because I sometimes won­der, why am I getting irritated. Why am I getting frustrated? And I think part of it is ­because I admire that he can turn off work and just

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sit t­ here and play video games and do what­ever it is. I’m like, how the f-ck did you do that? I am sorry but you know you say you have so much work to do, but y­ ou’re not working right now. He made a comment, a few weeks ago about it seems like ­you’re working even harder than you ­were before. I’m like, yeah. I was like, ­because who makes the lunches? But he ­doesn’t think about ­t hose ­t hings like checking in with the kids or like that. It’s four ­o’clock kids. you have one kid. I ­don’t know. I said, kids, but it’s like four ­o’clock in the eve­ning and I’m already thinking about dinner. I need to make sure that we have t­ hings in order. He could go to seven ­o’clock at night and not even realize that he ­hasn’t even eaten yet. It’s just so amazingly confusing at times of how dif­fer­ent our brains pro­cess ­t hings. So, I’ve been kind of obligated to just, ­we’re eating soup. To­night, ­we’re not getting a full on meal, sorry and just being okay with that too. I’m like, y­ ou’re the parent, you wanted to be in this h ­ ouse and fought for it, but you should be stepping up and being the parent. He’s an essential worker. He still has to go work. But he’s been home. Most of the time ­after work. And it’s like, that’s not her role. What’s the role ­going to be with our son when you have him 50 ­percent of the time. Are you ­going to let him just fend for himself? Especially if he’s online, you know, through school distance learning how to sleep ­until eleven and not eat ­until three, you know, and just have junk food, you know, and not think about a balanced meal. So I feel like that’s another, it’s just a weird dynamic. Then when I’m h ­ ere, I usually cook but my d ­ aughter likes to plan t­ hings and do it too. So unfortunately I feel like that’s a role she stepped up to fill, not only ­because of COVID that in addition to COVID but ­because of the divorce too. It’s just kind of scheming every­t hing in ­here. Even early on my ­daughter approached me and told me that. She wanted me to miss her. She’s almost four and I ­didn’t know exactly what she meant ­because I’m like w ­ e’re together 24/7. But what she meant is when I go to the office, she misses me and she wants me to miss her as well. I just feel the emotional energy. When I do, I’ll open the office to go to the bathroom or get a drink of ­water and they run in and then I’m having to carry them out and t­ hey’re two and four. ­They’re making themselves ­really heavy and or if ­there’s something that goes wrong in the other room, you know, and I hear something and someone’s crying like immediately stopping what I’m d ­ oing. If I look at the clock and it’s twelve thirty and no one’s eaten and no one’s prepared lunch yet. I’m g­ oing to stop what I’m d ­ oing and prepare lunch. So, I just feel ­t here’s so much emotional energy that goes into it and no ­matter what responsibility of motherhood is ­going to trump our academic responsibilities. I’ve always worked from home. Then once I had ­children, I started working from a coffee shop nearby. Other­wise, any cry I’d s­ topped what I was ­doing to attend to that. I think it’s ­really challenging. Allowed me to reflect on ­things that I’ve sacrificed with my ­family for an institution that ­doesn’t love me, and so I guess the good that’s come from that has been that space to reflect or being forced to reflect on that. I can think about that a ­little bit differently and remember that you know my worth ­isn’t tied up in this place or in articles or you know what­ever impact. I ­don’t H index, what­ever it is,

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and that, you know, I think it’s open space for the girls and I particularly ­because I forgot who was saying that talking about like the emotions and the heaviness of the emotions and every­thing that’s g­ oing on like in my h ­ ouse. I tend to be the more feeling partner and parent. And so when what­ever the girls are feeling I take that on and carry that, so if t­ hey’re having a r­ eally hard time or feeling r­ eally anxious or depressed then I absorb that too. But it’s also allowed us to be more in tune with one another and it opened up some r­ eally critical spaces for us to deal with t­ hings that maybe we might not have dealt with other­w ise. And so you know, while it’s all of ­t hese ­t hings I’m also recognizing that this time has allowed for some reflection that I might not have had other­wise. This tension with feeling able to ask for help and being vulnerable to my colleagues that at this point, I feel like it’s been like the Groundhog Day of semesters never ended. I feel like I’m still in the spring like it’s never ended. I just had to be honest and say at this point I’ve taught both summer sessions, coordinated, and done all of this stuff. And I know that I’m not g­ oing to be mentally refreshed when we start the fall and I ­don’t know how to do that. Like you know all the ­t hings that I would normally do to mentally recharge are not options right now. And even my partner was like, “So y­ ou’re ­going to take some time and try to get away from work where you d ­ on’t log on to Zoom you d ­ on’t check your email. Are you g­ oing to try to do that?” And I’m g­ oing, okay, so like July 27 through the 30th, when I actually have grades turned in. And I ­don’t have to start planning for fall yet. I started taking days off at least once a week, and I just put that on t­ here [my calendar] like two weeks ago, or three weeks ago, I took my first full day off without any meetings, not responding to emails. I just responded to one email at ten ­o’clock at night, but that was it. But I turned off my email notifications. And so now, I’m trying to do that once a week and that has helped me out. And not feeling guilty about not working ­because I teach on weekends, too. So, I teach this Saturday and Sunday. I taught last Friday and Saturday. So I took off Monday and I ­didn’t do it. I had one meeting, but ­after that I ­didn’t do anything. And I think it’s just hard to feel guilty, like y­ ou’re missing out on d ­ oing something. But it’s still ­going to be t­ here, even if you do or ­don’t notice it. You know, for many of us, ­we’ve been ­doing this work uncompensated ­because many of us are off contract. And so I’ve reminded my colleagues that in preparation for this transition that I need to have that space to not deal with anything that is not an emergency. And when I say emergency, I mean like something needs to be on fire kind of emergency. I need to be with my f­ amily and just have space and that might be at home. Many of the ­t hings that we do during the summer months are what we do to recharge and take care of ourselves and recenter. But our dances ­aren’t happening. So during the times that our dances would happen in July, we got up early and went down to Mount Scott to hike and just to be in connection with place. Just as a reminder that you know t­ hings are, we keep saying t­ hey’re canceled but ­t hey’re not canceled, they w ­ ere just on pause. Well, I think that to your point about trying to find the moment of self-­care. I mean, I think one of the t­ hings for me, just in general, is walking my dog. You

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know, ­every day. She’s a handful. And so I’ve tried to stick to that when I’m home with the kids. But the backpacking trip [I am planning]. I was like, “What am I ­going to do?” No phone, no computer, so I’m planning just to take my note­pad and some pencils and pens and kind of get back to basics. I tried to back out of it r­ eally honestly ­really hard, but my girlfriends ­were like, “I think ­you’re ­going to come back stronger and we planned it for like a year and we should just go.” So, I’m ­going to do it. But I think for me, just being able to get outside for like an hour a day or go on a walk or a ­little bike ­ride. This is the t­ hing that kind of gives me a ­little bit of breathing room and let some of the noise release from my head. So I would encourage that. Somebody I know you said it’s hard to get away with, with your kids and I d ­ on’t know how dense your community is and how restricted your area is but I think that helps the most. I was just telling myself, I can walk, at least I can walk to do anything, but I can walk. ­There was a time when I was trying to finish up the spring and then parts of the summer when I was teaching when I would get like less than two thousand steps in a day, which is horrible ­because I’m just inside this apartment all day long. And ­there’s so much to do. I ­can’t. ­There’s no breaks, right. And so one of the ­things ­we’ve been trying to do as a f­ amily is look for places where we can hike, places where we can go to the beach during the week that are not so crowded, that ­we’ll go for maybe like an hour outing. So w ­ e’ve been trying to do that for the last c­ ouple of weeks g­ oing, a c­ ouple times a week and it’s been r­ eally, ­really helpful. The ability to move my legs. But also just connecting back to the ‘āina and I feel grounded and to be able to do this with the kids has been r­ eally ­great. And I’m hoping that ­we’ll figure out a way to continue that on some level. I think what I’m realizing is that it’s less crowded on weekdays, so if that means maybe moving my schedule around so maybe I work more on the weekend, and we get to do t­ hose t­ hings on the weekdays it may be worth it. Well, it is worth it. I just got to figure out how to do it. Yeah, but I think just for ­mental, spiritual, and physical health, trying to figure out how to fit that it has been super impor­tant. I’ll block off a w ­ hole day. And I call it “Olin time.” Unfortunately, I’ve only been spending like half the day maybe with my son but one ­t hing that I do is I ­don’t feel that pressure to get online. At times, I just sit in the living room and watch TV and try to disconnect and it’s actually helped, I think, even though it might just be for a c­ ouple hours and then just maybe mosey on over to my desk and work for a ­little while. We just moved into our h ­ ouse in January. And so we have this huge, pretty-­good-­sized backyard. It’s just like a mess. So I try to go out ­there and I work the heck out of my back in my arms for like forty-­five minutes and just take all my aggression and anger out in that space. And then I come back in and that’s my exercise ­because I also feel like I’m making a contribution to do some ­house­work or something that’s a l­ ittle bit more like you can see the pro­g ress. It’s been helping me to feel a l­ittle bit more accomplished and in other aspects of my life and not just like seeing that I’m only accomplishing working in the academic space. ­Because I have a tendency to value or to only think of my contributions as being that final research proj­ect or that paper and not valuing all the other ­t hings that

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I’m d ­ oing in dif­fer­ent spaces. Like ­those contributions in my backyard is a reminder of the work that I am d ­ oing and how to value t­ hose t­ hings outside of the acad­emy. “I acknowledge every­body’s time and now we kind of have mentioned an hour; we can stay on longer, we can close it out. But I also want to acknowledge every­body’s words and all of that ­you’ve shared with us. But we have seen the cross connections that we have in our experiences and just appreciate your sharing again and being vulnerable to share. And just know that ­we’re all ­here, a part of that journey together, even if w ­ e’re not in the same h ­ ouse or the same state, or the same place, but that we can at least know that ­we’re all together and our experience and what w ­ e’re ­going through right now.” “So I’m gonna go feed my ­children now. They ­were coming out like, ‘Where’s dinner?’ ‘Where’s ­daddy?’ So thank you all so much. I r­ eally appreciate it.” “For all your work, every­one. Thank you.”

Personal Narratives In this portion of the chapter, we share personal narratives offered by the contributors. Th ­ ese testimonies include reflections and lived experiences over the course of the pandemic. They share how it has impacted their travels, their relationships, their parenting, and their caretaking responsibilities. They also share the impact it has had on their scholarship and their role as an Indigenous scholar. Contributors ­were given f­ ree rein for how to share their perspective in the way they felt was most fitting. Some testimonies are anonymized, some include photos, but all are power­f ul and demonstrate how Indigenous mother-­scholars are navigating the acad­emy in a pandemic.

Once Two Choctaws Visited an Island and upon Return They Saw through the Eyes of Their Ancestors, or That’s What They Say

By: Michelle Johnson-­Jennings Her billowy golden ­etched robes flowed into the night—­drawing my attention away from my serene dream. While I tried to ignore her intrusive presence, I ­couldn’t help but steal a glance ­toward the face of one who yields such power. As I gazed further I realized that her face was a swirl of darkness with opulent greens. It was as mesmerizing as frightening. And ­there I saw it, the connection of galaxies held within one locale. Individuality is but a myth as we are connected within this power­ful surge of authority. Not just in our community, not just across our ­Mother Earth, but beyond within the greater cataclysm occurring within our universe. She reached for me, and my heart sank. I felt that I too would share in this mystical journey in the near ­future. (dream March 15, 2020)

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The above dream pervaded my slumber upon arriving home from Thailand, and my worries as a ­mother of four grew exponentially. Worries of my ancestors who suffered such plagues enveloped me as my COVID-19 quarantine began. Last year, my eldest ­daughter, a ju­nior at Dartmouth College, and I ­were thrilled to be accepted to jointly pre­sent at a conference in Thailand on our shared passion of land-­based healing. She was coming from her W ­ omen and Gender Studies program in India and I from Canada. We had planned a few latter days to visit a remote island; we ­were willfully blind to the crisis that would unfold in our absence. With tickets purchased and registration paid, I signed up for the local travel clinic and consented to injecting/swallowing a host of diseases that had once decimated my ancestors (i.e., cholera, typhoid, flu, ­etc.). This colonial narrative of disease was ever pre­sent in my mind. My ­peoples had survived the ravages of disease and genocidal attacks; surely the blood that flowed in my veins could withstand this new COVID-19. ­After all, ­we’ve seen this before and had made it through. I tried to quell the meddlesome thought that we had also lost so many young and elders throughout the pro­cess. . . . Near the end of our trip, we ­were surprised to see my partner’s message about all Canadians need to return as soon as pos­si­ble. Luckily we w ­ ere already on our way back to the city to begin the few days of travel to reach home, and my other ­daughter had returned home from Dartmouth as well. With masks adorned, we departed for home. Once in Saskatoon, I could not wait to embrace my f­ amily! When I had departed no COVID cases existed in Toontown. In fact, my ­daughter’s immigration agent explic­itly told her that she prob­ably ­didn’t have to worry about COVID—­“as no one goes to Saskatoon.” We felt once we arrived that we would be safe. Well my partner was quick to burst our ­bubble with conflicting information. I knew he was simply concerned and worried. He had stockpiled for us plenty of food and had even found toilet paper for our mandatory fourteen-­day ­family quarantine. He pulled up to the airport, lovingly extending our once discarded coats. We jovially departed for self-­isolation through the ­bitter cold. With the girls being evicted from college, this would mean that ­t here would be six loud ­people in our home. Not the ideal location to take a conference call or teach . . . ​ but definitely the safest move. My eldest and I w ­ ere thrilled to bestow gifts on our f­ amily who had maintained our home while away. We strung long elephant and monkey tales—­reenacted the fire. The ­family was enthralled. Then my partner informed us of the new COVID cases in Canada and Thailand—­brought in by travelers, he emphasized. We again defended our protective mea­sures and how we ­were ­doing our part to lower the curve. ­After all, when we had departed travel was not ill-­advised. Besides, we each felt fine—­t hough we knew this was no guarantee. Though I worried for each of us. That night my fever, body aches, and dry cough began and lasted for over two weeks—­t hough never an unrelenting cough. My COVID-19 results w ­ ere negative, but I was one of the lucky ones to have been actually tested. Even if my results had been positive, the public health officials said no other ­family could receive testing ­unless they had severe symptoms. The negative results did l­ ittle to quell my fears.

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My ancestors knew this feeling well. I worry for my f­amily more than myself. I worry for ­t hose whom we cannot visit should they fall ill in the United States and Canada. I worry for my tribal members and friends and colleagues. For our health care workers, grocers, and other essential workers who tirelessly expose themselves on our behalf. I worry for the o ­ thers who do not have adequate health care—­t hose in the United States included. I worry for our f­ uture generations. Yet within this worry arises a feeling of connection—to my ancestors who suffered far worse, to the f­ uture generations who w ­ ill spin tales of t­ hese days and lessons learned, and to the world as a w ­ hole. I feel the committed desire to do better for o ­ thers. Now I more fully understood why my Choctaw ancestors would walk the Trail of Tears, incur such massive starvation and strife, and then send all the money that they could to Ireland during the Potato Famine. It returns to hollo, to love.

Untitled By: Anonymous As pollution decreases and ­Mother Earth blossoms, I ­can’t help but won­der if we are each being taught a lesson. C ­ hildren ­were/are largely being spared. W ­ ill their mission be to learn and carry forth transmitted wisdom? W ­ ill ­others dream of golden robe-­clad figures beckoning to them? Is she beckoning us to come together for our own good? Is she calling us to return to our shared love and connection? I hope for the ­f uture that we heed ­t hese warnings and continue our love.

To Stop or Not to Stop the Tenure Clock? By: Christine A. Nelson Shortly before the COVID-19 outbreak, I made the overdue decision to start therapy. I met my therapist only twice in person before we had to move our sessions online. I started therapy ­because I felt I needed some perspective on how I was navigating the tenure pro­cess at the intersection of being a mom, wife, and ­daughter. Navigating the last six months at my institution has physically and emotionally drained me more than I realized. The physical separation from my institutions, a private, predominantly white institution, has led me to a dramatic shift in my perspective around tenure and academic work. Prior to physical distancing, I was experiencing a high amount of unpaid ­labor related to Indigenous issues on campus, coupled with me being the only Indigenous repre­sen­ta­tion on a top diversity hiring committee. The first two weeks of being away from campus w ­ ere an adjustment. I was required to revisit my workspace, set new schedules, speak with my ­family about our personal and professional needs, and strategize the educational needs for my son. It is now week 5 that I have not stepped on campus, and just yesterday I had a conversation with my therapist about potentially pausing my tenure clock for a year. Our institution is granting folks who are on the tenure track to extend con-

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tracts for a year. With my therapist I shared how I was unsure if I should take advantage of this pause. I also shared how when I shared the news with my mom and relayed that if I took this pause it would delay some larger decisions that would impact our ­family, mom nonchalantly said, “Well that’s just how it might need to be.” Mom’s comment made me frustrated, and I immediately thought, “She d ­ oesn’t get it.” Among many follow-up questions, my therapist asked me one question that was hard for me to answer. What is my rationale for not pausing my tenure clock? A ­ fter ­going through many experiences (both recent and from childhood), I realized that the tenure pro­cess is not just about demonstrating that I made scholarly contributions ­t hese past four years. It represents five years of challenging the colonial constructs of scholarship and emotional and physical sacrifices my f­ amily and I have made. So, when I hear mom say with ease “that’s just how it might be,” I am triggered by the past four years of trauma and emotional ­labor we (in par­tic­u­lar my son and partner) have endured. And the thought of having to wait another year to be promoted to associate professor seems impossible. I realized that I began to see “associate professor” as me meta­phor­ically arriving to the acad­emy, where tenure protection would magically solve the unpaid l­ abor and emotional/physical toll of the acad­emy. Being away from campus has shown me that gaining the title of associate professor ­will not solve my strained relationship with my institution. Rather, I need to continue to pro­cess how I emotionally got to this point in the tenure pro­cess. I need to heal from the trauma and begin restructuring how I want to navigate the acad­emy—­most importantly, how I want to navigate tenure when physical distancing ends and I have to physically return to the colonial, white spaces of my institution. Have I de­cided ­whether to pause or move forward with my tenure clock? Not yet, but one t­ hing for sure . . . ​without this mandated physical distancing from my institutions, I would have powered through the tenure pro­cess and never paused to disrupt my ­imagined utopia of associate professor.

I Blame COVID . . . By: Pearl Brower It’s funny how now I seem to blame every­t hing on COVID. I chuckle to myself as I write that ­because in many ways it’s a joke. However, it ­isn’t always funny. I was just on a virtual call with my entire team at the college, and we said a ­great many times, oh that’s ­because of COVID. Commencement postponed—­COVID. No high school summer camps—­COVID. ­Can’t travel anywhere—­COVID. Low enrollment numbers—­COVID. I feel as if I’ve gone through many emotions during this time of “hunkering down.” (What a ­g reat term by the way . . . ​I find it the best one yet.) I’ve ­really enjoyed some parts of what this quarantine, and social isolation has brought into my world. On the other hand, I’m finding that I have ­t hese bouts of strug­gle, of

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anxiety, of total exhaustion. One of my best friends told me it’s okay—­t hat every­ one burns out. I know it’s true. I know this a new normal for us all. Somehow that ­doesn’t always seem to help. I blame COVID. I have been hunkered down, in isolation, with my husband and our two ­daughters, eight and one and a half, for ten weeks now. We have juggled both of us adults working from home, getting Isla through her last quarter of second grade, anxiety over bringing Sindri our toddler to her sitter when every­one was saying to stay home, and not having any additional help or visits from grand­mothers, or ­family and friends. The true savior was the fact that we had the luxury of bringing Sindri to her sitter, who just had a few kids and was uber on top of cleanliness and wearing a mask. I would not be nearly in as good of shape as I am t­ oday if I had both girls home with us all day long, e­ very day. I blame COVID. Perhaps one of the biggest changes for us was my travel schedule. The only time in my adult life that I h ­ aven’t traveled for this long was both times I gave birth. Other­wise, in the time I’ve been a mom and a professional, I have never been home for this long of a stretch of time with my f­ amily. I have enjoyed this time. I have enjoyed not having to think about the next time I need to pack, or how to manage making sure my husband had help around the ­house when I was gone and he had one or now two kiddos to harangue. But I strug­gle b ­ ecause being home means that I am not able to go in to the office (we had made the move to Anchorage this w ­ inter, and I was telecommuting to Barrow to finish out my contract through the m ­ iddle of summer). I am not traveling to connect with colleagues or being able to be in person interacting with all of the amazing board and proj­ects I’ve had the privilege of serving on in the capacity of president of my college. On one hand I’m fine, but on the other I ­really miss it. I long for that time away that I would get in which I could recharge. Have alone time . . . ​me time. I blame COVID. I began by keeping a log, as I have found that life seems to whiz by in the blink of an eye, so I am trying to journal to capture a bit more of what each day brings. So I began this log in my journal. I called it COVID Conversations. I wanted to think about the pros and cons of COVID. What I appreciated (my sitter *smile*) and what I accomplished in all this time that I have had at home (I finished the rest of the Kate Shugak Mystery series by Dana Stabenow and completed a cross-­ stitch proj­ect I had started more than five years ago). My f­ amily and I purchased a travel trailer last year, and ­we’ve already taken three ­great trips and the summer is just starting. But maybe most of all, what truly did surprise me was that my ­family ­were amazing. And not that I ­didn’t know that already . . . ​but more the surprising ­t hing was just how resilient my eight-­year-­old was being home with her mom, dad, and baby ­sister for weeks without g­ oing anywhere, and ­really for the absolute love I have for my husband and my two girls. I am a mom . . . ​but I always think of myself as a professional first. I knew when I had kids I’d never be a stay-­at-­home mom. Believe me, that ­hasn’t changed. I ­can’t wait for school to start again, and ­every day I look forward to Sindri g­ oing to her sitter, but I love being a mom. And I’m so grateful for being able to be a part of a loving, dynamic, resilient f­ amily. I blame COVID.

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Supermom Dreams By: Renée Holt As I reflect on the last two months of COVID-19, I remember how challenging it was to be an all-­around supermom while also maintaining work as a grant admin and adjunct faculty. Although my sixth-­g rader’s school year is not quite over, we are in the final stretch, and it has been one of the most trying times of our lives. I used to sit and dream about how I wanted to homeschool my youn­gest. All of that changed since COVID. I had no conception or idea of the work K–12 schoolteachers did in a full day and learned how much time goes into lesson planning and curriculum development for an entire academic school year. I found moments of grief, wonderment, and worry about w ­ hether or not my kid was learning. I felt inadequate not knowing the new math exercises. So much that on any given day, I felt frustration and realized, although I was a teacher educator, I was most certainly not a K–6 teacher. It was humbling to say the least. Being a teacher educator helped me to see how much work goes into teacher training. More importantly, it has shown me t­ here is also so much more that we can include in a teacher preparation program. COVID revealed how l­ittle we have prepared teacher candidates to deal with the need for empathetic, compassionate, and relationship-­based teaching in public school classrooms. Working from home, while managing my son Nataani’s daily routine, was more challenging than I had i­ magined and nothing like I thought homeschooling might be. I learned timing our day together and working out a schedule we could manage required setting up a routine and structured learning. Although it was not what he was accustomed to, I had to figure out how to be a sixth-­grade teacher and create cultural activities that would also suffice for science-­based learning. One after­noon, through tears of frustration, he stated, “I thought you w ­ ere a teacher?!” I replied, “I am, but I teach college-­aged students.” His reply, “Well, ­you’re a terrible kid teacher!” Not only did that quiet my own frustration with not knowing how to be a sixth-­ grade teacher, it helped me to see I was in fact not a supermom. I ­couldn’t explain math, and Nataani believed I should learn (new) math along with him. I smile back on that day b ­ ecause it ­wasn’t u ­ ntil we had that meltdown before we started to get on track for his schooling. Prior to that it was a strug­gle for me. As I look back, it seems like I found myself constantly apologizing to my colleagues when I could not join a Zoom ­because my kid had class scheduled at the same time. Being home together 24/7 was trying, and we had moments where frustration loomed; however, gardening became a refuge and a g­ reat place for us to reconnect.

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Although cultural events w ­ ere canceled, we w ­ ere still able to get out on the land to gather wild mushrooms and target practice. The fresh air and beautiful mountain scenes helped take away the fact that we w ­ ere indeed needing breaks when it came to math. In thinking about what I wanted to share and add to my story of Indigenous motherhood while in the acad­emy, I found myself reflecting on how difficult it is to maintain my role as grant admin and faculty to twelve teacher candidates. I had accomplished goals I had set for myself ten years ago and am now looking forward to what I would like to create and ask, if I had to do this all over again, how would I practice mindfulness and patience? I learned COVID helped me and my son’s relationship grow as we talked more than we had before and on some days spent time enjoying breakfast together, whereas prior to COVID, we did not. ­Today, I am looking back on the last three months of COVID and I am thankful for the safety of my ­children and ­family, but also grateful for the fact that we ­were able to get out on the land for fresh air and first food gathering. Despite COVID, it’s helped me see how much I appreciate the ­family time and how nice it is to spend time together getting to know each other. Showing him how to cut salmon has been the most recent highlight, but so was planting a garden. I shared we would sow the seeds and have a harvest l­ater this year, when we w ­ ill also look back on this time. I pray all the other ­mothers who had to learn how to be a teacher and ­mother also find balance. Finding balance took some time, and although it required some inner work on my part, the end result was a fine-­tuned understanding of what it takes to be a sixth-­grade teacher.

COVID-19 Impact on My Life and Mothering By: Anonymous • Ramped up ser­v ice and outreach from a small nonprofit that I run to assist tribes with disaster preparedness and recovery. Managed to raise about $80,000 in cash contributions for tribal aid, including $10,000 to a tribal ed center to purchase tablets for youth to access their course materials, and I helped coordinate the receipt and distribution of over 150,000 PPE (gloves, masks, and gowns) to SoCal tribes. • But very l­ ittle information came from our campus leadership ­until about forty-­eight hours before we shut down, although I held conversations in my classes about what the shutdown might mean. At the time students ­were skeptical and felt like a shutdown was an overreaction, but their mindsets changed by the end of the semester and they w ­ ere grateful that I tried to prepare them for it. • ­Daughter was in Spain, studying abroad; she flew home the day a­ fter Trump banned Euro flights (she flew from Heathrow to the United States);

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my son was practicing five hours a day a­ fter school in preparation for his debut per­for­mance in his school’s spring musical; the musical was slated to open on March 18, and his school shut down on March 17. • Marriage: finalizing divorce and we w ­ ere preparing to list our ­house, planning to physically divide our ­house­hold in two, and find a new place to live for me and my kids, but now that is on hold and we have to continue cohabitation while we adjust to being coparents and not married parents. • Work plans for summer derailed: complete archival work and conduct interviews to finish writing two articles; trying to deal with the changes, transitions, and transformations in community engaged work (archives closed and difficult to conduct interviews). • Extended ­family: dealing with seventy-­year-­old ­father who was suffering from seizures and recovering from knee surgery; dealing with m ­ other who was laid off work, denied unemployment, and trying to find a new job while adjusting her lifestyle to not working (she is sixty-­four and worked her entire life); dealing with b ­ rother who was fighting a wrongful termination while his wife (a grocery clerk) was designated as “essential” and was working more than seventy hours per week while also trying to homeschool two ­children. • Feeling privileged and guilty in some ways to have my tenure-­t rack job and nonprofit work, but also am overwhelmed by the work and feeling like my family/friends ­don’t understand the pressure I am u ­ nder and my fears about failing.

­These Institutions ­Don’t Love Us By: Anonymous “­These institutions ­don’t love us.” I d ­ on’t know how many times I have uttered t­ hose words throughout the pandemic. Each time I receive an email that begins with some version of dismay about “­t hese unpre­ce­dented times,” only to be followed by a request for more material production from faculty, it is a stark reminder of how our value and worth are mea­sured in academic institutions. It is a constant reminder of the extractive and exploitative nature of the acad­emy for BIWOC. Even during times that call for more humane approaches in the acad­emy, for recognition of the uneven and inequitable burdens that w ­ omen, particularly BIWOC, carry during a pandemic that has upended e­ very aspect of our lives, the acad­emy still places extraordinary demands on us and insists on exploiting our l­ abor. During the late spring I was asked to join a special university committee that was formed to address issues of racism on campus. Despite the multiple challenges and additional ­labor that came from the sudden, and constantly changing, shifts in teaching in our response to COVID-19, I agreed to join the work. I agreed ­because it is impor­tant and necessary work, and b ­ ecause it is work to which I am deeply

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committed. As I, along with a group of other faculty from marginalized groups, engaged in the ­labor of the committee work, we found ourselves sharing a deep commitment to carry­ing the work forward beyond our brief committee appointments. We also recognized that we ­were being asked to engage in ­labor that is couched as ser­v ice but that extracts from our collective expertise as uncompensated ­labor, ­labor and expertise that institutions willingly pay for with con­sul­tants. Unsurprisingly, when we proposed a plan for deeper and more long-­term involvement with the university in a way that included appropriate compensation, our committee was summarily dismissed. In our conversations that followed, some ­people expressed shock and outrage. My response to it all was neither, b ­ ecause once again I was reminded that ­t hese institutions ­don’t love us. Throughout the pandemic we have been asked to take on additional ­labor and engage in business-­as-­usual practices that continue to deny our humanity and insist on continued production. Each time I am met with another request or demand from the institution—­a request to serve on another committee, to contribute to another university statement, to engage in strategic planning—­I am reminded that within ­t hese neoliberal institutions t­ here is no such ­t hing as love.

Protecting and Loving Relatives in the Midst of a Pandemic and Balancing Heartwork By: Robin Zape-­tah-­hol-ah Minthorn I can remember the day we started social distancing and staying at home. The last day for me to take our ­daughter Roxie to day care was Friday, March 13. I had just returned from Oklahoma from a trip to do a talk and to see ­family. It was around this time that I remember hearing COVID-19 being referenced more. I ­didn’t know that morning that I would drop my ­daughter off for the last time. I ­didn’t know that would be my last time leaving my office and not returning since then. It’s been four months that we have been staying at home. From March u ­ ntil June it felt like a roller-­coaster r­ ide of taking care of our d ­ aughter full-­time while my husband and I balanced his teaching job and my job at the university. We are both fortunate to have been able to work from home but also have heard countless times from our ­daughter wondering about school and asking for her teacher and friends. We have also had to balance taking care of our d ­ aughter’s medical needs by ­going to doctors’ appointments in Seattle and Federal Way, where we live. The fear of ­going to the doctor and making sure she is safe and keeps her mask on is another layer of stress. We c­ an’t prolong her specialist doctor’s appointments for fear of harming her development or needing to know more about her condition. So we have prepared her to wear her mask while g­ oing in and out of the hospital. We w ­ ere able to create a schedule with our ­daughter during the school year that included learning time in the morning with reading books and language videos and then checking in with f­ amily, ­going outside in the backyard, taking naps, and more ­family check-­ins. How do you ensure your c­ hildren stay connected to their ­family and to who they are culturally in a socially distanced world?

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Finishing out the spring quarter was a relief. But then I remembered that I had signed myself up to teach three classes this summer. This was in order for me to be able to get to know all of our doctoral students in all of our cohorts a ­little more. As I have gone through this summer teaching, I realize how crazy that was. But when I made that decision I had thought I would be able to go into the office to work at least three days a week to focus on teaching and prepping. I ­didn’t realize my days would now be spread out with Zoom meetings. Some days I have only two Zoom meetings, but o ­ thers I have six. When I d ­ on’t have countless Zoom meetings, I help put our ­daughter down for a nap and work during her naptime and then pick up work at night. On t­ hese days I am able to get in about five hours of work. I realized a­ fter weeks of d ­ oing this I was exhausting myself and have recently given myself permission to take one full day off a week, with no emails and no heartwork. This is my focus on f­ amily time. All the other days it’s like holding multiple plates in my hand and making sure my f­ amily is safe and taken care of. Adding into the mixture of balance, I had reached out to my ­brother who is a single ­father and asked if he needed help and wanted his ­daughter to come stay with us for part of her summer. So for five weeks this summer we took care of our eight-­ year-­old niece. This increased my re­spect for families with more than one child and what they might be facing when sheltering in place. I love our niece so much, and we miss her now that she is gone. But she added an extra layer of care and balance. Somehow, we all have managed to take care for our families (in our ­house and from afar). Somehow, I managed to cocreate an Indigenous-­based doctoral cohort virtually. Somehow, the heartwork still gets done. I am not sure what the f­ uture holds in the midst of this pandemic, but I know that we are adaptable and that what we do in caring for ­others and balancing out our heartwork requires more of us than we could imagine. I just have to remind myself of what my ancestors survived and that we are capable of d ­ oing the same.

Untitled By: Tria Blu Wakpa Initially, I thought that working from home ­because of the pandemic might be a relief. A way to avoid my commute to work, which in typical Los Angeles rush hour traffic would sometimes take two hours to travel approximately fourteen miles. It seemed to me that less traffic and travel would help to heal the earth and ease the ongoing anxiety I have about climate change, the well-­being of our more-­ than-­human relatives, and relatedly, the world we are leaving to our ­children and ­f uture generations. But although the air quality in Los Angeles improved somewhat a­ fter the initial shelter-­in-­place ­orders, overall it has remained at unhealthy levels. Some days, I feel optimistic. I enjoy the leisurely mornings, sipping a cup of coffee and waiting for our ­children—­who are ages two and almost four—to awake and call me to their bedside to kiss and snuggle them. A ­ fter they are calm, happy, and ready to start their morning, I go to our home office, shut the door, and begin

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working. My husband watches the ­children. When he makes them breakfast or a smoothie, he also brings one to me. This is a routine that we developed during shelter-­in-­place in the spring quarter while I was teaching. Now that it is summer and the pace of my work is more relaxed—­a lthough not any easier, as I am now focused on research and writing—­I enjoy taking a break from work to prepare a ­simple lunch for our ­family, chatting with our ­children over mealtime, and helping them to prepare for their nap. Throughout the day, while working from our home office, I can hear my husband interacting with our ­children. Although I am often focused on my work, I have a general sense of what they are d ­ oing throughout the day, which I find comforting. When one of our ­children is crying or upset, I sometimes try to remain in the office working, reminding myself that my husband can also care for them. But almost always, I inevitably stop what I am ­doing to go to them. I feel our c­ hildren’s cries sharply in my body, and often they are accompanied by “Ina [Mom], hold you!” In large part, this tangling and disentangling myself from my c­ hildren throughout the day is what I find so emotionally draining and difficult. Before, when I went to work at UCLA or even a nearby coffee shop, I would say goodbye to our ­children once. But now, when working from home, I go to the kitchen for a cup of ­water and both c­ hildren run into the office and cling to the furniture, begging to be with me. I also miss in-­person chats with girlfriends, playdates, birthday parties, powwows, and ­going to the gym, all social activities beyond our nuclear ­family that contribute to my/our emotional well-­being. Our ­family often goes for walks together in the eve­nings, and on occasion, on day trips to the ocean, which I find enjoyable. But r­ eally it is our c­ hildren’s developmental milestones and my checking off of work deadlines that help me to feel like I’m not living the movie Groundhog Day, experiencing the same day over and over again. I also found the initial transition to teaching online classes challenging. Like many other professors, I had never taught online before, and at UCLA we w ­ ere given approximately one week between the winter and spring quarters to adapt our courses for online instruction. I was also teaching two classes for the first time, one of which I had never taught before. To transition to online teaching, I worked about two and a half weeks straight without a day off. ­Because we ­were encouraged to maintain our original teaching schedule, one of my classes was three hours long and held in the eve­ning, which was, in my opinion, less than an ideal length of time to meet online. To avoid our c­ hildren bursting into the office while I was teaching or crying outside the door—­which had been my previous experience whenever I worked from home—­I opted to teach outside. My first eve­ning teaching, the sun started setting about thirty minutes before the class concluded, and for some reason the light by our garage did not come on. Via email, several students complained about the lack of light at the end of the class and asked if ­t here was a more apt place I could work from. ­Because I was so physically and emotionally exhausted from all of the additional hours of preparation for online teaching and had yet to have a day off, I burst into tears reading their emails. Given the pandemic, I know that many students are also experiencing additional challenges.

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Although I have found that some students have been sympathetic to the challenges of teaching from home, this has not always been the case. Understanding my relative privilege compared to vulnerable groups and the gravity of the pandemic has helped me to practice gratitude even in less-­than-­ideal circumstances. My ­family and I are healthy, and my husband and I are both working. Through the community-­engaged research that I do with Native communities on Lakota lands who are imprisoned, I am aware that they are enduring many challenges. To prevent the spread of COVID-19, the ceremonies in the prisons—­ which ­people who are incarcerated depend on for their well-­being, and in par­tic­ u­lar to ease the stress of incarceration—­have been canceled. In violation of cultural protocols, the sweat lodge at the men’s prison was temporarily locked down with a steel cable while no one was using it. Opportunities for visitation, which helps ­people who are incarcerated to maintain vital bonds with f­ amily members—­such as prison powwows—­have also been prohibited. Only recently did officials begin allowing volunteers and visitors back into the prisons. Notably, Andrea Circle Bear, a citizen of the Cheyenne River Sioux tribe, was the first ­woman who was incarcerated to die from COVID-19. The m ­ other of five was only thirty years old. ­Because of the relationships that I have built over the years with the Native ­people with whom I do research, my work has fortunately not come to a standstill in the pandemic. I visit weekly on the phone with Lakota elders about the writing I am d ­ oing, and I try to give back in ways that are meaningful to them, at times with the support of a gradu­ate student researcher. For example, as an attempt to alleviate the lack of cultural activities currently offered at the prisons, I recently sent several DVDs to each of the three state prisons in South Dakota for officials to play on their respective “prison channels” for p ­ eople who are incarcerated. Th ­ ese DVDs feature Native culturally relevant videos that I was given permission to download and share in the prisons. The gradu­ate student researcher and I are also currently working with the Native American Council of Tribes—­t he nonprofit founded and run by Native ­people who are incarcerated at the South Dakota State Penitentiary—to register an Indigenous Prisoners’ Day and an International Prisoners’ Day; this was an idea that members of the organ­ization shared with me and asked me to help create on their behalf. ­These days would help build bridges between incarcerated communities and the outside world and recognize the many p ­ eople who are/­were imprisoned as a result of structural injustices. Although it is difficult to know now how I ­w ill recall the pandemic years from now, perhaps the most precious time in our daily routine is when our f­ amily gathers in the kitchen before bedtime to pray. My husband hands each of our d ­ aughters the smoldering cedar bundle. He instructs them to direct the smoke like splashing w ­ ater on their f­ aces, and they carefully cleanse themselves. Our oldest d ­ aughter always prays that every­one in the world w ­ ill have ice cream. Our youn­gest usually prays for her favorite cousin, her grandparents, and her immediate ­family. Sometimes, I w ­ ill encourage our c­ hildren to pray for our more-­t han-­human relatives, the land, the w ­ ater, and nonhuman animals. Then, the youn­gest might pray for a dog or a tiger. I pray for t­ hose who are/­were imprisoned: my friend, George Blue

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Bird, and Andrea Circle Bear. I pray for the strength to move bravely into a ­f uture that is both hopeful and bleak.

Our collective story and personal testimonies speak to the lived realities of caring for sacred beings with the weight of the communities in our hearts and spirits. We are ever mindful of ­those who have lost their lives to the pandemic and who ­will not be with us at our next ceremony and f­ amily gathering.

Notes 1. ​We specifically use the term “BIPOC” to note the distinct experiences of Black and Indigenous ­peoples with settler colonialism and white supremacy. 2. ​ The ellipsis is purposely used to show that our list of names is incomplete as it is tragically continually growing. Additionally, we are saying the names of some of the individuals whose lives ­were violently taken by state police vio­lence. We also recognize we are contending with dif­fer­ent knowledge systems and beliefs. Some tribes do not say the names of loved ones/ancestors who have gone on for a period of time a­ fter departing. We acknowledge that we are grappling with visibility and cultural protocols. 3. ​We turn to Nicolazzo’s (2017) framing of the use of the term “trans*” within higher education, which draws from Tompkins (2014) to explain the use of the asterisk in “trans*” as a “textual repre­sen­ta­tion of the malleability of gender identities, expressions, embodiments, and per­for­mances” (p. 8).

References African American Policy Forum. (2014). #sayhername: Black ­women are killed by police too. https://­aapf​.­org​/s­ ayhername Manley, H. (2020, June 12). Racism: Not a pandemic, but a chronic disease. Policywise. https://­blogs​.­bcm​.­edu​/­2020​/­06​/­12​/­racism​-­not​-­a​-­pandemic​-­but​-­a​-­chronic​-­disease/ Nicolazzo, Z., Renn, K. A., & Quaye, S. J. (2017). Trans* in college: Transgender students’ strategies for navigating campus life and the institutional politics of inclusion. Stylus Publishing. Tompkins, A. (2014). Asterisk. TSQ: Transgender Studies Quarterly, 1(1/2), 26–27. Tuck, E., & Yang, K. W. (2012). Decolonization is not a meta­phor. Decolonization, 1(1), 1–40.

PA RT I V

North–­Assuring

chapter 19

Our Journey through Healing Sloan Woska-­pi-­mi Shotton (Otoe-­Missouria/Iowa/Wichita/Kiowa/ Cheyenne) and Heather J. Shotton (Wichita/Kiowa/Cheyenne)

­ e’re driving west on I-40 leaving Oklahoma. As we approach the Texas border W I look over and notice her eyes welling up with tears. She looks out of the passenger-­ side win­dow, hoping I ­don’t notice the sadness, the fear, the uncertainty of what this new chapter brings, about leaving home. I think about all of the moments w ­ e’ve shared driving in vehicles, traveling highways together. Our connection through road trips began when she was barely a teenager, driving countless miles on highways to practices, games, and tournaments. It was often just the two of us, so along each mile we developed a cadence to our relationship and settled into our own rhythm. Along ­t hose miles we shared serious talks, tense moments, life lessons, tears, laughter, and inside jokes; we solidified a special bond that feels accessible only to ­mothers and ­daughters. But this trip is dif­fer­ent—­our world recently shifted. I hold back my tears, hoping she d ­ oesn’t notice my sadness, fear, and uncertainty about letting go and what the ­f uture holds. This ­isn’t the usual sadness and uncertainty that come with the pro­cess of leaving the nest and starting a new chapter in life, of leaving home and ­going to college. ­There is an extra heaviness that clouds our excitement, a sense of knowing that we can never return to the time before and uncertainty about what healing looks like and if it is pos­si­ble.

We want to pause h ­ ere and acknowledge that the story we have chosen to share is painful and addresses issues of trauma and sexual assault. This story is also one of healing and reclamation, and we share it as a way to hold space for survivors, for other Indigenous ­women—­mothers, ­daughters, ­sisters, aunties, grand­mothers, grand­ daughters—­for the ­women who have told their stories, for t­ hose who ­aren’t yet or ­were never able to tell their stories, and for t­ hose still journeying to and through healing.

Heather: Two months before this trip, two months before she left for college, Sloan was able to share her story with us and revealed that halfway through her 201

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se­nior year of high school she was sexually assaulted. As a m ­ other, witnessing my ­daughter’s pain, knowing that I h ­ adn’t been able to protect her from this vio­lence, reconciling my feelings of failure, and the constant state of uncertainty felt overwhelming and all-­consuming. It was hard to see a way through this and I had no idea how to begin to help my d ­ aughter heal. Sloan: Two months before this trip, I reached a point where I could no longer carry my pain alone. Two months before I left for college I found the strength to say the words and tell my parents that I was sexually assaulted. As a d ­ aughter, I w ­ asn’t ­really concerned with my feelings, I was more focused on my parents’ feelings. I was worried about what they would say, how they would react, if t­ hey’d make me go to the police. Th ­ ere was a new uncertainty, and I felt so overwhelmed. Before, when I held the secret of my assault alone, I knew that I would be upset but life would keep g­ oing, but telling my parents meant that I was faced with the real­ity of moving forward, of facing my trauma and pain. It is the hardest t­ hing we have ever faced as a f­ amily. Heather: We want to address our decision to share this story and how we arrived at this place. As one of the editors for this book, I was in the midst of working with Robin and Chris on preparing and pulling together this volume while all of this was happening, as my ­daughter was suffering and as our world broke in half. We ­were each editing dif­fer­ent chapters and working with vari­ous ­women on their contributions; we w ­ ere also writing our own chapters to contribute. As I read through the beautiful collection of narratives about Indigenous motherhood, I ­couldn’t find the strength to share my own. I strug­gled for an entire year to put something in writing. I lost count of how many times I started, erased, and restarted my chapter; nothing felt right. As I read the stories shared, all so honest, raw, and beautiful in their own ways, I was plagued by feelings of inadequacy and failure and a fear of being inauthentic, unable to move forward with my own contribution. We had invited Indigenous ­women to share their stories, and in ­doing so invited them to embrace vulnerability, the beauty and messiness of motherhood, and the complexities of navigating the acad­emy as Indigenous m ­ others and to come into this space as authentically as they could. I strug­g led to reconcile how I could ask of ­others what I was not prepared or able to do myself. Every­t hing I wrote felt dishonest and like a betrayal to my d ­ aughters, my s­ ister scholars (Robin and Chris), and the w ­ omen who agreed to join in this work. So this chapter sat unstarted for an entire year, constantly rejecting me in its refusal to be inauthentic, and I strug­ gled to navigate my feelings of failure as a m ­ other and a scholar. Sloan: As this book was being written, I was struggling through my first year of college. Moving away from home and my support system was harder than I thought it would be. When I got to college I w ­ asn’t able to emotionally connect with p ­ eople, and I ­couldn’t maintain lasting relationships; this made my freshman year so much harder. I am a college athlete, and softball has always been my escape and where I

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felt most myself, but I found that I had difficulty connecting with other players on my team. Outside of softball I was scared to approach p ­ eople, so it was hard to make friends. I dealt with constant fear. My assault shifted my world. As an athlete I’ve always been a bit of a tomboy, and most of my friendships w ­ ere with guys and up ­until this point most of my best friends ­were male. But ­after being assaulted by a male friend, I ­didn’t know how to trust men and I had to figure out how to trust again and make friends. I put up a wall to protect myself emotionally, not just with friends but with my counselor. One of the first t­ hings that my mom did when I got on campus for orientation week was to go with me to the counseling center so that I could set up regular counseling appointments. The office happened to be closed when we went by, so I promised her that I would make an appointment the first day of classes and start regular sessions. The first day of class was September 3; I d ­ idn’t go to my first counseling session ­until the beginning of October. Even when I was in counseling sessions I had a wall up, and I would share only what was on the surface with my counselor—­I was dealing with immediate issues but never the deeper issues. While it was a ­really impor­tant step for me, I ­wasn’t getting every­thing that I needed out of counseling ­because I ­wasn’t ready. I strug­gled my first year of college—­I was uncomfortable in study groups or d ­ oing group proj­ects that required me to engage with dif­fer­ent or new ­people, I was depressed, I w ­ asn’t eating well, I c­ ouldn’t sleep—­and my grades and overall m ­ ental health suffered. On top of that, having a mom as a professor put more pressure on me. Every­one knew my mom is a professor (my friends, professors, teammates), so the expectations w ­ ere immediately high and added to my insecurities; I felt like I crumbled u ­ nder that pressure. And then March came and every­thing turned upside down again when COVID-19 hit, school closed, and I had to abruptly move home. Both the abrupt move to college just as we started to face this trauma and begin the work ­toward healing as a ­family and the abrupt move home from college just as we w ­ ere starting to identify what healing and support might look like opened up a new space for us. As we w ­ ere in the midst of a global pandemic that upended our lives once again, while college and work collided with and invaded our home space in unfamiliar ways, we found that we ­were blessed with an opportunity to return to healing together. During this time Creator provided us with a path to healing through the story of another survivor. A dear friend blessed us with her own story and experience as a rape survivor and the pro­cess of writing that she engaged as an act of forgiveness and release.1 It was in this story that we found both the inspiration and the courage to share our story, for Sloan to share her story as a survivor, for Heather to share her story as the m ­ other of a survivor, and for us to share our story of healing. We embraced the opportunity to be vulnerable and honest about our strug­gles, to release our shame, to engage in reclamation of our healing, and to hold space for other survivors and families. We share ­here the story of our journey through trauma and healing as a conversation between m ­ other and ­daughter. Sloan: H ­ ere is the account of my assault. As a student athlete in high school I never ­really partied or anything like that. I mainly just stuck close to my teammates,

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f­amily, and a few close friends. Some of my friends did go to parties and drink, and once I got my license I always told them to call me if they needed a r­ ide. During my se­nior year one of my friends did call me; she was r­ eally drunk, and I was worried about her and d ­ idn’t want anything to happen to her so I went to go pick her up. Once I got to the party she w ­ asn’t answering her phone, so I went into the party to try to find her. I was wearing sweats and a sweatshirt. I know it sounds weird for me to mention what I was wearing, but I’m saying this ­because so often we hear ­people blame victims for their assault ­because of what they ­were wearing. My point is that it ­didn’t ­matter what I was wearing! I ­couldn’t find her in the front of the ­house so I went to the back rooms and ­didn’t find her ­t here ­either. I did find one of my guy friends, and he was r­ eally drunk so I went to help him. He seemed like himself at first, making jokes and stuff, but soon he started scooting closer to me, and I kept moving away. I felt r­ eally uncomfortable, so I de­cided to leave. He is twice my size, and when I tried to leave he yanked me back in the room. That’s when I realized what was about to happen. I remember being so mad, punching, kicking, and screaming, but nobody could hear me. It got to the point where I ­couldn’t fight anymore and I just gave up. I’ll never forget him whispering in my ear saying, “If this night goes well maybe I’ll follow you to college.” My heart shatters e­ very time I think of that moment. A ­ fter every­t hing ­stopped, ­after he finished raping me, I fi­nally got to my phone and saw that my friend had texted me that someone e­ lse took her home. I went to the bathroom and was puking and sobbing. I just wanted to go home, but felt I ­couldn’t, so I called a friend for help. I told her what happened, all she said to me was “Man, boys suck.” That’s when I de­cided not to tell you and Dad. It ­wasn’t that I c­ ouldn’t tell you or that I d ­ idn’t think you would believe me, it was more that I ­didn’t want you to see me like that, I ­didn’t want you to see me in the same way that I felt about myself. I was scared to tell anyone what happened, mainly b ­ ecause my assaulter was a popu­lar athlete that every­one saw as perfect, the nicest guy in the world. I was quiet and ­really stuck with my close group of friends. I ­d idn’t know if anyone would believe me or if anyone would be in my corner. I knew that if I told ­people that the school would be in an uproar, that every­one would be talking about it and judging; I ­didn’t want to be in the ­middle of that. I had seen how girls at my school who reported being sexually assaulted and harassed ­were not only not supported but actively attacked by “friends,” particularly male friends. Guys tried to use scare tactics, telling girls that they d ­ idn’t have enough evidence and if they reported their assaults that they would “take them down.” I had heard how p ­ eople talked about assaults before, justifying or defending boys who raped or assaulted girls: “What was she wearing?,” “Well, he was drunk,” “He would never do that,” or “That could mess with his scholarship/future.” My body felt gross, that feeling was constantly t­ here, and having p ­ eople that ­don’t believe you or d ­ on’t care made it worse. I felt isolated, like a constant weight on my chest. This was my se­nior year; I wanted to have fun, but I ­couldn’t bring myself to do it. You and Dad traveled a lot, so at home it was easy to isolate and I ­didn’t have to worry as much about you seeing that something was wrong. In the

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beginning I was angry that you ­couldn’t tell that anything was wrong, like “How are they missing this?” But, as time went on, I realized that it was ­because I was hiding it and trying so hard to act like myself. I would make sure that no one was home if I had to cry or I would make excuses not to be in the same room with y’all if I was having a hard time. ­After my assault at first I was constantly sick to my stomach, and then I was ­really depressed, and even suicidal at times. I would be driving and I would think about how to commit suicide, the dif­fer­ent ways I could do it. And then I would remember our ­family’s experience, how we lost my ­uncle to suicide, and my experience with friends or kids at school who committed suicide, how hard that was. I would think about conversations I had with friends who strug­gled with depression, reminding them that ­there are a lot of ­t hings to live for. It’s the lowest I’ve ever been. I felt like every­one around me c­ ouldn’t see me, no one saw my pain, and I felt so alone. I wanted so badly to feel like someone cared, so I would cling to unhealthy relationships. I wanted someone other than you and Dad to care about how I was feeling. The longer I held it in the more I started to deal with it in completely unhealthy ways, and the worse ­t hings got at school. It was like I had only a ­limited amount of happiness ­every day and I would use it at school or in public for other p ­ eople, to help other ­people, and then I would get home and it was like I was sinking in a hole. As the year went on and spring came, that’s when baseball season started. Being the man­ag­er for the baseball team helped me in some ways. I was able to develop positive relationships with a few guys on the team, and I was fi­nally able to open up to someone about my assault that believed me. I remember that feeling of relief knowing that they believed me. In my experience, most guys at my school ­wouldn’t believe me, so confiding in a guy friend that not only believed me but supported me was impor­tant. A l­ittle bit of that weight lifted and that’s when t­ hings started to shift. Knowing that someone believed me was an impor­tant step in beginning my healing; I ­don’t know what would have happened other­wise. The buildup of watching myself not succeed the way I was used to got harder and harder to deal with. I was in the ­middle of travel ball, two weeks from nationals, and I still ­wasn’t playing like myself. That summer I felt like I ­couldn’t control my emotions any more. When I was on the field I ­couldn’t control my anger or my tears, and that ­wasn’t like me. That was r­ eally hard for me b ­ ecause softball had always been my escape, it’s what helped me relieve stress or let go of negative emotions. It got to the point that I had so many emotions I ­couldn’t deal with. I honestly ­don’t remember most of the summer of my se­nior year, but ­t here is one point where my memory starts to come back. I remember that you and I had a huge fight b ­ ecause I had gone out of town and accidentally took your car keys; you had an impor­tant meeting and ­were stranded at home. I felt like a worse ­daughter than I already did and every­t hing just snapped; that’s what fi­nally led to me telling you about my assault. Heather: I remember that argument, it was a r­ eally intense argument. I was so frustrated b ­ ecause I had felt like something was off with you for quite a while, but I ­couldn’t put my fin­ger on it. You ­were more forgetful than usual, you ­weren’t

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yourself, you ­were acting out, and I felt this growing distance between us that ­really scared me. Looking back now, it makes sense and I can see more clearly that you ­were living through this trauma. I feel a tremendous amount of guilt about not being able to see it then, and I’m still working through that. That year I was hyperfocused at work, which resulted in me being distracted at home, and I missed some impor­tant signs. ­There w ­ ere so many transitions happening in our lives; you w ­ ere graduating, I was negotiating a promotion and transition at work, and your dad and I w ­ ere traveling more than usual for work. Every­t hing that was happening in my ­career felt r­ eally impor­tant at the time, but the real­ity is that none of it was. When you told me about your assault and that it happened when your dad and I ­were out of town, I immediately started to put the timeline together in my head and I knew that it was when I was away for a conference. All I could think about was that while I was off at another damn conference you w ­ ere experiencing this horrific act of vio­lence and I d ­ idn’t protect you. Not only did I not protect you, I failed in my responsibilities to you as your m ­ other in the months that followed. And for what, for the acad­emy? All of the sudden it all felt so pointless, all of the academic work and the sacrifices to be in t­ hese spaces, the cost felt too high. When I look at you now as you tell me your story more openly than ever before, all I can say is that I’m sorry I ­didn’t see you when you needed to be seen. I’m grateful that in talking through this with you that w ­ e’ve been able to piece ­t hings together, to work through some of ­t hose feelings for both of us, and to see how we started to find our way to healing. Th ­ ese conversations have opened up an impor­tant space. You said that every­t hing just snapped and that’s what led to you opening up to me and telling me about your assault. What do you think happened that compelled you to share your story with me? Sloan: The night that I fi­nally told you about my assault we ­were having a serious talk a­ fter our argument and you kept asking me what was g­ oing on with me, what was wrong. It’s not that I actually de­cided to tell you, it was more of an intense feeling that I c­ ouldn’t hold it in any longer. I remember my body shaking; I was scared but I knew I c­ ouldn’t hold it in. It had been bottled up for so long. I h ­ adn’t ­really cried to anyone e­ lse about it, I always cried by myself, so being able to cry with someone ­else made it easier to let go. I remember not wanting Dad in the room; I ­d idn’t want him to hear ­t hose words coming out of my mouth. I c­ an’t explain why, but I just d ­ idn’t want him to hear me say that I had been raped. So you asked Dad to leave the room. I was sitting on the floor and you ­were sitting on your bed, and I c­ ouldn’t ­really form the words to say to you “I was raped”; I c­ ouldn’t bring myself to say ­t hose words. It was like we had to guide each other through what I wanted to say, what I needed to say, but ­couldn’t. So when we got to that point and I fi­nally said the words out loud to you it was so painful. Telling an adult made it real for me. Before, I could avoid it ­because no one ­really knew, I was in denial. But then you came and sat on the floor and held me and I just let it all out, that’s what let me release. That night when I went to bed I was so exhausted. It took a lot out of me to let it go, but letting go of ­t hose negative feelings was a relief.

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Heather: For me, as we worked through that conversation I distinctly remember this intense feeling that kept building somewhere deep inside of me. I knew you ­were holding something back and I had this gnawing feeling that every­t hing was about to change for us. When ­you’ve experienced trauma in your life ­t here is this odd feeling, a sort of telling or knowing, a shift in the atmosphere right before your world is turned upside down. That’s what I was feeling. When you told me that you ­didn’t want to talk about it in front of your dad, I knew. I wanted you to be able to say it, to name it so that you could begin the pro­cess of releasing and reclaiming your power, your self-­worth. I ­can’t describe the pain of hearing ­t hose words from you, of seeing the physical, emotional, and spiritual pain you ­were in. It was like I was split open, it was an intense pain that I felt in the depths of my soul; I hurt for you. As m ­ others, we carry a special connection with our ­children. We carry you in our wombs for nine months, sharing an umbilical connection that bonds us in a dif­fer­ent and sacred way. I remember sitting on the floor with you and holding you, sobbing with you, I wanted so badly to lift your burden and carry your pain for you. I asked you if you wanted your dad to know, and you told me that you wanted me to tell him. You d ­ idn’t have to tell me why, I understood. I knew that you d ­ idn’t want to have to say t­ hose words to him, that you d ­ idn’t want him to look at you differently. To be honest, I felt some trepidation about telling him. How was he ­going to react? Would he go into protection mode and do something dangerous or careless? ­Later that night when I sat him down and shared with him that you had been sexually assaulted, we had to work through our initial feelings of anger that someone had harmed you in such a violent way. We had to get past our instincts to protect you in ways that required retribution. So, we spent a lot of time talking about the importance of centering you and your healing and how we w ­ ere ­going to support you. Your dad wanted to make sure that you knew how much he loves you, to reassure you that this was not your fault, that this ­didn’t change how he saw you, and that you ­didn’t have to go through this alone anymore. Sloan: Dad came into my room l­ater that night and said “I’m sorry this happened to you and that ­you’ve been ­going through this alone.” You know that Dad’s not a super affectionate person, but I remember him sitting on my bed holding me; we ­didn’t r­ eally talk a lot, he just held me for a while. I think he started to tear up, and we sat t­ here for a while and then we said our goodnights. But, it gave me a feeling that every­t hing was ­going to be alright. Heather: I was not prepared for what followed that night, the simultaneous pain and initial relief of telling and knowing. I knew we needed to develop a plan that centered on you and what you wanted and needed, but I ­didn’t know how to begin that pro­cess or what it looked like. On top of that, I strug­gled with knowing that you w ­ ere at an impor­tant time in your life, a time that was supposed to be about celebrating major milestones of graduating high school and ­going to college, and this vio­lence had robbed you of that joy. I wanted so badly to provide some

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happiness for you, to give you some small moments of joy. I think in many ways I tried to overcompensate for that and d ­ idn’t focus as much as I should have on your healing. The fact that you w ­ ere leaving for college three states and twelve hours away in two months presented some unique challenges to how we began. I ­didn’t know if you w ­ ere ready for counseling yet or if it would be more harmful for you to start counseling and then disrupt that when you left for college. I felt like we ­were in a holding pattern ­until you ­were settled into a more permanent space and a consistent routine. Sloan: For me it was like, “Okay I said it, now how do I talk about it?” I was so tired of being upset and hurt. Even when I got to school and started counseling I was so tired, I just wanted someone to take it away. I wanted it to be like when you go to the doctor and they examine you, tell you what’s wrong, and then how to fix it. I wanted to be able to let it go, but I ­couldn’t. With most ­t hings in my life, I’ve dealt with negativity or bad experiences by letting them go, but I ­couldn’t just let this go. Heather: When I think about the drive to take you to college, when it was just the two of us, I remember being so scared. I ­didn’t know how I was supposed to just leave you ­t here while you ­were in such a vulnerable space. I felt like I was abandoning you and leaving you to figure it out for yourself. On the other hand, I felt that it was impor­tant for you to have agency in this pro­cess and take control. Since I knew I w ­ ouldn’t physically be t­ here with you, I tried to make sure that I destigmatized asking for help. So, during orientation week I made sure that you felt supported in asking for help by helping you look up how to access counseling on campus, how you could make an appointment, and then walking with you to find the counseling center. I made you promise to make an appointment as soon as classes began and to start ­going to counseling regularly. I knew it ­wasn’t the only answer, or maybe even the best answer, but it was the best answer I could think of at the time. I say all of this knowing that I have worked in and studied higher education as both a student affairs professional and professor for a long time. I work closely with the director of our Gender + Equality Center on my campus, I have trusted colleagues that I’ve turned to when helping students with sexual assault, but this was dif­fer­ent, this involved my d ­ aughter. I wanted to protect your privacy ­until you w ­ ere ready to share your story and I d ­ idn’t know how to ask for help or guidance without revealing that it was my f­ amily. The pain was still so raw and I ­didn’t trust myself to not break down when asking for help, even if I framed it as asking for “one of my students.” I fully acknowledge the hy­poc­risy of that, but I think I was terrified of breaking your trust or re-­creating harm for you. So, I tried to give you as many tools as I could and let you guide the pro­cess. I still ­don’t know if that was the right ­thing to do or not. In this pro­cess I’ve also had to learn to come to terms with understanding that ­t here are likely a lot of wrong ways to go about this, but t­ here also ­isn’t a singular “right” way.

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Sloan: I’m glad you d ­ idn’t out me before I was ready, I’m not sure how I would have handled that. I’m comfortable sharing my story now, but I feel like it took me a lot longer than I thought it would to get t­ here. Even though you encouraged me to go to counseling, it took a lot more than you just telling me to go for me to fi­nally go. When it came to counseling I knew that it was impor­tant but I d ­ idn’t know what to do with it. I d ­ idn’t know if I could trust that the counselor would believe me. It was the discomfort of the unknown. It took having a lot of m ­ ental breakdowns and ­people around me noticing that I was slipping deeper into depression for me to fi­nally go to counseling. Before that I was masking a lot, trying to keep myself busy and distracting myself from my feelings, but I eventually ran out of energy and ­couldn’t keep that up. It was hard for me to trust p ­ eople or make a lot of friends, so I felt r­ eally lonely. ­There w ­ ere a lot of times that I just wanted to be home where it felt familiar. It’s not that I d ­ idn’t like my college, but ­t here was so much unfamiliarity and uncertainty. I liked my classes, I liked what I was learning, I liked my school, but it was bittersweet ­because I ­couldn’t fully enjoy it. I felt like every­t hing that I should be enjoying about college was disrupted. I felt so helpless. The other t­ hing I strug­gled with was that I felt like I d ­ idn’t have a space (physical or m ­ ental) to reflect on or deal with my emotions. I was sharing a tiny dorm room with a roommate who ­didn’t understand or re­spect that I needed space, I had an extremely busy schedule with class, practice, workouts, and games, and sometimes I just needed to be alone to have space to reflect and calm my mind. My bed was lofted and I had a good amount of space ­under it, so one day I hung up some blankets around my bed, put my throw pillows on the floor, and made myself a fort ­under my bed; it became my l­ ittle cocoon when I needed space. I laugh about it now and it sounds funny or silly, but that’s seriously what helped me through some ­really tough days. Sometimes I would sit ­under my bed in my makeshift fort and listen to the Native American Church (NAC) song that U ­ ncle Pat made for me, holding the medicine he gave me before I left for school. I drew strength from that. Heather: It makes me feel good that your song brought you solace. That song was made for you, it’s a prayer for you. I remember your ­uncle giving you that song on your sixteenth birthday at your NAC meeting. Your dad and I wanted to have that NAC meeting for you ­because we wanted to put down prayers for you, for your life, your ­future. As parents, sometimes the most power­ful ­thing we can do, sometimes the only t­ hing we can do for our c­ hildren is pray for them. Throughout all of this, especially while you w ­ ere away at school, t­ here w ­ ere many times that I felt so powerless and I knew that all I could do for you was pray for you. I remember one day we w ­ ere talking on the phone and I could hear it in your voice that you ­weren’t okay, so I sent you that song and told you to play it when you ­were having a hard time, when you w ­ ere feeling lonely or sad, when you needed some strength. Hearing you talk about your strug­gles that first semester, I’m reminded of the unexpected ways that pain would creep up on me. Sometimes it was you not being

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at home and the natu­ral feelings of missing you, other times it was the constant realization of how prevalent sexual vio­lence is in our communities. As an Indigenous scholar whose work is centered on, engages with, and is responsible to Indigenous ­women, I knew this. I know the statistics and stark real­ity of sexual vio­lence against Indigenous ­women, about Missing and Murdered Indigenous ­Women (MMIW), I am very familiar with that scholarship. It has always been painful to engage with that scholarship; as an Indigenous w ­ oman it’s not easy by any means to teach about vio­ lence against Indigenous ­women. But the real­ity of that vio­lence invading my ­family deepened that pain. That semester I was co-teaching a special course on the rematriation of Indigenous epistemologies in education. In that course we read vari­ous writings from Indigenous ­women with our students. One of the books we read was Sarah Deer’s The Beginning and End of Rape: Confronting Sexual Vio­lence in Native Amer­ i­ca (2015). I had read that book before and have assigned it in previous classes, but this time was dif­fer­ent. I w ­ asn’t sure how I was supposed to facilitate class discussions about sexual vio­lence as if my ­daughter, my f­ amily, was removed from the statistics. I usually embrace vulnerability as an impor­tant practice in my teaching, but I was not ready nor was I willing to be vulnerable about this part of our lives. At that point I ­wasn’t willing to give anything ­else to the acad­emy. I had reached a dif­fer­ent level of pain that manifested as anger. I was pissed off! I was pissed at your unnamed assaulter and the protection of his anonymity, I was pissed at a patriarchal society that protects assaulters and abandons victims, I was pissed at the constant vio­lence against Indigenous w ­ omen, I was pissed at the ways that I witnessed some of my own students endure the pain and harm of sexual vio­lence, I was pissed at the callous and irresponsible ways that their peers responded to that vio­lence, I was pissed at the acad­emy for demanding so much of me while denying my humanity, and I was pissed at myself for being a willing participant at the expense of my f­ amily. Sloan: And for me, I strug­gled with being in classes that dealt with sexual assault and vio­lence against w ­ omen. In one of my classes, Sociology of Sports, we learned about sexual assault in sports. We had to watch a documentary that deals with sexual assault among high school athletes. We had to watch it outside of class on our own and t­ here was a major assignment attached to it. ­There was no trigger warning before this assignment, t­ here ­were rarely trigger warnings in any of my classes when we ­were dealing with the topic of sexual assault. So I started watching the documentary for my assignment not knowing that it dealt with sexual vio­lence and it trigged a lot of my trauma. I ­didn’t do very well on that assignment so I had to talk to my professor about it. I remembered that you and I had a conversation that helped me to understand how I might talk to my professor. You told me about your experience with teaching about MMIW and the way that you learned from your own m ­ istakes in the classroom when talking about sexual vio­lence, how you have to make sure that you are prepared to provide support for students when addressing t­ hose topics in class. That helped me to trust that my professor might actually be understanding. A ­ fter that assignment I went to my professor and told her that I am a sexual assault survivor and asked her to give a trigger warning in the ­f uture

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well in advance before she gave us an assignment that dealt with sexual assault. She was way more understanding than I thought she would be, and she actually ended up providing me with a safe space on campus. She also ­really showed a lot of care for me and encouraged me to go to counseling. Heather: Throughout that time it seemed like you ­were slowly starting to pro­cess and find healthy ways to work through your trauma. As a ­mother that is also a professor, I know how impor­tant support is for students when t­hey’re working through trauma. One of the t­ hings that I hoped for when you went to college was that you would find good ­people that cared for you in intentional ways, that you would encounter professors and staff members that viewed their work with students as a sacred responsibility. So hearing that you found a professor that provided comfort and support to you when you needed it most eased some of my fears. And then when you got a new coach and you told me that you w ­ ere able to open up to her about your assault and that she supported you by encouraging and making space for you to prioritize your counseling, it gave me some hope. It felt like you ­were finding ways to expand your support system, that you ­were learning to trust again. I was so grateful that ­there ­were ­women who ­were supporting you when I ­couldn’t physically be with you, or that ­were able to support you in ways that maybe I ­couldn’t. Sloan: Yeah, at the end of my first semester we w ­ ere interviewing for a new head softball coach, which was super stressful to begin with. But, I remember in the interview with the ­woman who ended up being our new coach we asked her how she would help us with m ­ ental health issues. Her response eased my discomfort and helped to destigmatize seeking help. She told us that m ­ ental health was a priority for her and that she would help us get the help that we needed. That was ­really impor­tant for me and helped me to feel like I could trust her. So when she got to campus in the spring and our practice schedule got ­really intense I realized that I had to open up to her and let her know that I was in counseling so that I d ­ idn’t start sacrificing counseling sessions for practice. I had to let her in and let her help me. That was a ­really good ­t hing ­because it let me know that I had someone ­else to support me. When I told her about my assault and that I was in counseling, her reaction was actually a lot like what I would have expected you to say. That response kind of surprised me. She told me if I ever need someone to pray with me, talk with, or walk with me to a counseling session that I could call her. That made me feel so much better ­because I ­hadn’t had anyone ­else offer to pray with me besides you and Dad, so it was a dif­fer­ent spiritual connection. Heather: I’m grateful to your coach for providing that space for you and for treating you in a loving way that honors familial sensibilities. Sloan: Another t­hing that ­really helped me was being outside, in the mountains, ­u nder the stars. Sometimes I would drive into the mountains and pull off

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somewhere and just sit, sometimes for hours. That was one of the benefits of being in Colorado, at a school that sits in the mountains. ­There was something about being in that place that was healing, I c­ an’t ­really explain it. E ­ very time I was able to connect to the land it felt like I released a l­ittle more of the emotions that w ­ ere built up, I released some of my pain. Heather: When I hear you talk about that it reminds me of the power of place, the deep connections that we have to land and place, and the ways that it offers healing for us. Our ancestors have provided us with teachings to guide us when we need prayer and healing. Th ­ ose teachings became more apparent to me this year as we have been navigating t­ hese difficult times. This summer when our tribal dances ­were canceled ­because of the pandemic I think we ­were all feeling a ­little disconnected. When July came and it was time for our annual Kiowa Gourd Clan dances, your auntie Courtney and I ­were missing being with our Kiowa relatives and de­cided to make a trip to Mount Scott, which is an impor­tant place for our Kiowa ­people. On our drive down we talked a lot about you and I told her about us writing this chapter together and my hopes for your healing. That morning when we made it to the top of Mount Scott, we put down tobacco and said prayers for you. I was once again reminded that our ancestors made a way for us and the teachings they gave us are power­f ul, that t­ here is power and healing in our connections to place. So, it makes sense that you found healing in the mountains and I hope you carry ­t hose prayers and teachings with you. Sloan: Back in the spring semester when March came every­thing felt like it started to fall apart. ­There was a global pandemic, ­things ­were changing e­ very day, and I ­didn’t know what was ­going to happen. I d ­ idn’t know if my softball season was ­going to be canceled or if school was ­going to close. On top of that, Dad was in the hospital and I wanted to come home to be with y’all. And in the m ­ iddle of all of that my assaulter contacted me through Twitter and told me that he was considering coming to my college in the fall. I saw the name in my DMs (direct messages), and was shocked, thinking “What the hell could he have to say to me?” I had already blocked him, so this meant that he had to create a new account just to contact me. That initial shock felt like it sent me ten steps back in my healing. It was like reliving my assault. I started to hyperventilate, I d ­ idn’t want my roommate to see me freak out so I told my roommate I had to go to my car ­really quick. I sat in my car and just let it all out. It was a punch in the gut. I had made all this pro­gress to get through this, and then this happened. But it also helped me ­because I started to recognize and embrace my anger. I responded to him and told him to f-ck off and never come near me or contact me again. In that moment I recognized that I have power. Now that I think about that moment, the stress is gone, using my power was a relief. Before that I felt uncomfortable about coming home. What if I came home and was hanging out with my friends and he was t­ here? That fear had kept me from d ­ oing a lot of t­ hings before, the fear of ­running into him. In that moment though, I felt like I reclaimed my power

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and I w ­ asn’t afraid anymore. When campus closed and my classes moved online and I had to come home, it was easier. Plus, I knew I would be stuck at home in quarantine so I w ­ ouldn’t run into him anywhere. So, ­there was some safety in that. Heather: Yes, then COVID-19 happened and in the midst of working through your healing you had to make a number of major adjustments within a short time—­ leaving school, having your season canceled, shifting to online classes, and abruptly stopping your counseling sessions. I think this added another complicated layer for us. Now we ­were dealing with a global pandemic, isolating at home, navigating multiple frustrations and even more uncertainty, and the complexity of all of the emotions that came with that. But I feel like it forced us to confront our emotions and it ultimately opened up a space that allowed us to navigate healing together. It seemed like you started to find your voice and that it became easier for you to identify and articulate your triggers, emotions, and needs. What do you think shifted for you and helped you with that? Sloan: Honestly, when I came home I had already identified dif­fer­ent triggers and I was trying to be more aware of them and work on how I responded to them. Up ­until that point Sophie d ­ idn’t know about my assault. She’s my l­ittle s­ ister, I felt like I needed to be tough for her, to protect her. I feel like she sees me as this person that bad ­t hings ­don’t happen to, so I ­didn’t want to freak out or have an anxiety attack in front of her if something triggered me and she w ­ ouldn’t understand why b ­ ecause she ­didn’t know about my assault. I d ­ idn’t want her to feel like she had to walk on eggshells around me. Through my counseling and just having time to pro­cess over the last year, I was able to identify some of my triggers and that ­really helped with my anxiety. I started to share about my assault with more ­people when I came home, I think ­because I ­wasn’t in denial anymore. I became more comfortable with telling my story. I also worried that p ­ eople would be upset with me and start distancing from me if I was depressed or if my anxiety was high, so I felt like it was impor­tant to let p ­ eople close to me know what was g­ oing on. With one of my friends I told her b ­ ecause she knew my assaulter and I knew she would support me. With my ­sisters, Sophie and Layney, it got to a point that they needed to know ­because I ­couldn’t hide it anymore and sometimes I ­couldn’t control my emotions. I just w ­ asn’t okay with possibly hurting other ­people ­because I was hurting. And having to stop counseling so unexpectedly when I came home in March was hard. My counselor at school did offer phone sessions but that d ­ idn’t ­really work for me. Over the phone I ­couldn’t see my counselor’s face, so I ­couldn’t gauge her reactions to what I was sharing. It just d ­ idn’t feel right for me. My coach knew that I was struggling so she encouraged me, almost insisted, that I try a virtual counseling resource she found. I tried that but it was so awkward ­because I ­didn’t know this counselor, I had never met them, so it was like starting all over with the added awkwardness of FaceTime. So, without counseling I needed an outlet, I needed to be able to talk with ­people about what I was ­going through.

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Heather: I think as you started to talk more openly with us at home and when you ­were able to share with your ­sisters, it destigmatized your assault a ­little more and the weight and burden of the secret you had been carry­ing, that we had been carry­ing, was lifted. ­There was both a freedom and reclamation that occurred each time you shared your story. For the better part of this last year we have largely kept your assault private, for many reasons, but mainly to protect you and to honor your agency. It was a major step when we de­cided to write this chapter together and for you to share your story so publicly. When I talked to you about my friend and her pro­cess of healing through writing, I ­wasn’t sure how you would feel about the invitation to write about this together. ­You’re a pretty private person and not exactly inclined to talking about your emotions in such an open way. Why did you decide to share your story? Sloan: It felt like a gut feeling that I needed to do this. As soon as we started writing together and talking through all of this I felt so much better, it broke a lot of barriers that I h ­ aven’t been able to get through. As we got further into this pro­cess of writing together I started to realize how this could help other Indigenous ­women that have gone through this, who are e­ ither survivors of sexual assault or have loved ones who are survivors. It felt like an impor­tant opportunity to destigmatize sexual assault and to embrace healing and shift how we think about asking for help. Heather: I have such im­mense gratitude for your bravery in all of this, for your willingness to be vulnerable and speak truth to power, and for the care and compassion you continue to demonstrate for other ­people—­for survivors and their families. I am especially grateful for the space this has provided for you and me, for what we ­were able to discover in our own relationship as ­mother and ­daughter. Talking and writing through this has opened up a space for me to share more honestly with you and to embrace my own vulnerability. I’ve been able to reflect on the importance of engaging a practice of vulnerability as a m ­ other, and rather than “protecting” you from my truths it invited me to share with you some of my own trauma and pro­cesses of healing. That was a space that I ­didn’t know ­either one of us needed. But through our conversations, I am able to better understand why that is impor­tant for you. I feel like Creator led us to this pro­cess, through the beautiful sharing from my friend and colleague, so that we could find our way to a space of healing. As we come to the conclusion of this proj­ect and continue on our journey to and through healing, I think it’s fitting that we find ourselves back where we began, on another road trip. As we drive down the highway, the majestic mountains of southwestern Colorado in front of us, ­we’re bringing you back for your sophomore year of college so much stronger. I d ­ on’t sense the same uneasiness, our laughter comes a l­ittle easier, and w ­ e’re adjusting to the new cadence of our relationship. You are in a much better place, ­you’ve already found and connected with a new counselor, and while I feel the expected sadness of not having you at home it’s not the same sadness and fear that we felt last year. Y ­ ou’re excited, you feel confident, you have a plan, and you remain committed to your healing. Despite the continued threat of a global pandemic, I feel a new sense of ease and like I can

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breathe this time when we drive away. I’m still ­going to cry, I’ll cry a lot, but this time I trust that ­you’re ­going to be okay. More importantly, if ­t here comes a time when ­you’re not okay, I trust that you know how to better navigate that space and utilize the healing tools you carry with you. The main reason that I approached you about writing this chapter together was ­because I hoped that writing would be healing for you. As we navigated this pro­ cess a new hope emerged that by inviting other Indigenous ­women to bear witness to your story, to our journey as m ­ other and ­daughter, that we might open up a space to destigmatize trauma, be honest about the complexities of healing, acknowledge the beauty and messiness of motherhood, and to honor the strug­ gles and lessons. Sloan: Yeah, I feel like all of that is so impor­tant. When o ­ thers read my story, our story, I want survivors to know first and foremost that it is not their fault. That they d ­ on’t have to carry the burden of their trauma alone, and not to take on that pain by yourself b ­ ecause it ­w ill eat you alive. Th ­ ere is someone somewhere to turn to. For ­mothers, I want to encourage them to be open with their ­children and talk to them about their own strug­gles. I feel like if I knew about your own strug­gles and trauma, what ­you’ve been through in your life, then it would have been easier to open up to you about my assault, I ­wouldn’t have assumed that you would see me differently. But most importantly, I want survivors to know that they are loved.

We thank you for bearing witness with us, for holding our story with care and love. When we began this pro­cess of healing through writing together we ­weren’t sure what the pro­cess would look like or where this journey would lead us. We knew that it was an opportunity for Sloan to share her story as a survivor, for Heather to share her story as the ­mother of a survivor, and for us to share our story of healing. We understood that as it is with all of our stories, it is impor­tant to share so that we can reclaim and learn from our narratives. Our stories are power­ful. Our stories carry medicine. Our stories are healing. As we began this pro­cess we sat down together at our dining room ­table unsure of how to begin. So we returned to our teachings and we began with prayer and story. We had a shared document that allowed us to write together as we talked. I invited Sloan to begin by writing her story—­unedited, unburdened, and without the impositions and judgements of grammar—to write the words as they came from her heart to her mind. So she let the words flow and told her story. From that point it was like a dam broke for both of us and the flood of emotions, lessons, and reflections rushed forward. Throughout this time we engaged in a pro­cess of sharing and writing that began with prayer and burning of one of our sacred medicines, took pause when we needed it, honored our truths, and ended with our im­mense gratitude and love for one another. We ­were attentive to setting our intentions in our writing and to offering prayers of healing for not only ourselves, but our relatives near and far.

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Throughout this pro­cess we worked to embrace the opportunity to be vulnerable and honest about our strug­gles, to release our shame, and to engage in reclamation of our healing. It was si­mul­ta­neously beautiful, painful, heavy, and freeing. Some days we would talk and write together for hours, other days we honored the invitation to pause, taking space to breathe and gather our strength. We cried and laughed a lot, and through both we found strength and deepened our connection as ­mother and ­daughter. This pro­cess has allowed us to share our story as a pro­ cess of healing and reclamation. As we explained in the beginning of this chapter, we share our story as a means of holding space for survivors, for the w ­ omen who have told their stories, for t­ hose who ­aren’t yet or ­were never able to tell their stories, and for ­t hose still journeying to and through healing. We share our love and gratitude for Indigenous w ­ omen—­mothers, d ­ aughters, ­sisters, aunties, grand­ mothers, grand­daughters—­and the stories of strength, survival, and healing that we all hold.

Resources for Survivors If you or someone you know is a victim of sexual assault and needs assistance, below is a brief list of available resources. National Indigenous ­Women’s Resource Center—https://­w ww​.n ­ iwrc​.­org National Sexual Vio­lence Resource Center—https://­w ww​.­nsvrc​.­org RAINN National Sexual Assault Hotline—1-800-656-­HOPE or https://­hotline​.­rainn​.­org​ /­online RAINN Resources for Sexual Assault Survivors—https://­w ww​.­rainn​.­org​/­national​-­resources​ -­sexual​-­assault​-­survivors​-a­ nd​-­t heir​-­loved​-­ones StrongHearts Native Helpline—1−844-762-8483 or https://­w ww​.­strongheartshelpline​.­org

Note 1. ​We offer our deepest gratitude to Dr. Susana Muñoz for the inspiration that she provided us. Your bravery and willingness to openly share your own story as a survivor, to lovingly share your own healing pro­cess, offered us a lifeline and gave us the strength to reclaim our narrative and embrace destigmatizing the experiences of sexual assault survivors.

Reference Deer, S. (2015). The beginning and end of rape: Confronting sexual vio­lence in Native Amer­ i­ca. University of Minnesota Press.

chapter 20

Motherhood, Re­imagined Pearl Brower (Iñupiaq/Armenian/Chippewa)

I never expected to be a “mom.” Well, for that ­matter, I never expected to be “in the acad­emy” ­either. I’ve always been Indigenous, but it took me a long time to nurture what that meant as well. I believe this is an impor­tant trifecta—­mom, in the acad­emy, Indigenous—­which has completely ­shaped who I am ­today. As I grew up I always had a plan for my life. What I was g­ oing to do, what I was g­ oing to see. None of that included kids, and none of that included me in a setting that was anywhere near academics. Growing up I ­didn’t see myself in an academic setting. I went to school in two very small communities growing up, and while the school I attended in my Indigenous community of Barrow, Alaska, was one where I saw teachers who looked like me, and who ­were ­family, when I moved to Northern California, the school ­t here was very small and no teacher looked like me. I also think the teachers w ­ ere a ­little surprised that someone who did look like me was a good student. I graduated top of my class as valedictorian, much to the surprise of many of the teachers at my high school, overcoming accusations of cheating with another student, and being “just that one Native girl.” As I left high school, I c­ ouldn’t wait for what was next. Along came g­ reat and real opportunities that changed my life. Still not thinking about c­ hildren, I enrolled in community college. Due to my being a freshman, many of the classes I wanted ­were not available, so I enrolled in a course called “Cultural Anthropology.” ­Little did I know that one class would change my trajectory and, through a few dif­fer­ent loops, find me working for Iḷisaġvik College, Alaska’s only tribal college, in the mid-2000s. This was my entrance into the acad­emy, as a professional. Still not thinking that ­children ­were a part of my story, I met my now-­husband, Jesse, in 2010. It is easy to say that that was the first time I even considered that I could be happy in a long-term relationship, and perhaps c­ hildren might be a possibility sometime in the ­future. That sometime in the ­future came a ­little faster than we originally planned, and we became pregnant. What a trip that was. I went from not wanting a relationship or ­children to having both be a real­ity for me in the span of a c­ ouple of years—­talk about changing a trajectory. 217

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Jesse and I had our ­daughter Isla, and professionally it was an in­ter­est­ing time at Iḷisaġvik College. I had been working in administration but was considering a change when Isla was born. However, the world did not think that was in the cards yet. When Isla was just weeks old, while on maternity leave, I was contacted by the college and asked to return as interim president. I had been at the institution for four years overseeing development, student ser­vices, marketing, and, as always, other duties as assigned. Jesse and I had one of ­those impor­tant conversations that thank goodness do not have to happen that many times in a relationship; we de­cided we would return to Barrow and take on this role. So truly began my journey as an Indigenous ­mother in the acad­emy. ­Going back to work, in a leadership position at the college with a three-­month-­ old in tow, was impor­tant for me. I strug­gled with postpartum depression ­after Isla was born. It was never diagnosed, but many of us know what it is. Having a baby changed the entire world around me, and I ­really missed how it was before. Digression: ­after Sindri was born Isla kept asking how it was that Sindri was “just so cute!” I told her babies are so cute so you ­don’t give them back. At the beginning I felt a lot of times like giving Isla back, and then felt guilty for having ­t hose thoughts to begin with. The opportunity to return to work a month before I was scheduled, in a position such as president, was r­ eally a saving grace. It reminded me that I was a professional, and it helped me be the best mom I could be ­because I was able to have my time away from my baby, but got to love her up all eve­ning long. This is one reflection of motherhood in the acad­emy. Before I was a ­mother, I ­d idn’t know what it meant to love and care for someone—to always want the best no m ­ atter what for someone—to constantly be aware of some other person. Th ­ ese feelings both ­were comforting and ­were a strug­gle. I have found that it has been hard for me b ­ ecause as president of a community college, of Alaska’s only tribal college, I am expected to be in many dif­fer­ ent places at many dif­fer­ent times. This took me away from my f­amily on many occasions—­but being a parent, being a ­mother, it was always hard ­because no ­matter where you are, or what you are ­doing, you are still responsible for this other being, who needs you and needs your care. ­There is difficulty in juggling all of the responsibilities of a professional, academic position and ­t hose as a ­mother. ­There is also a responsibility as an Indigenous m ­ other to connect yourself and your child with your culture, to maintain the generational teaching that you are responsible for now as a m ­ other of another being. When I reflect upon my time being a mom, and being the president of Iḷisaġvik, I feel a lot of joy that my d ­ aughter grew up knowing me as the president of a college. She has spent all eight years of her life being a fixture on campus, and every­ one knows her. Jesse and I recently had a second child, another girl, Sindri, who by the time this book is published w ­ ill be more than a year old. I am just finishing up my tenure as president of the college, with this as my last year. I won­der how Isla and Sindri ­will be dif­fer­ent ­because they ­will grow up in very dif­fer­ent settings—­ Isla in a close-­k nit, rural community, being able to have the run of an institution

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like Iḷisaġvik, where every­one truly “knew her name,” and Sindri, who at this point we ­aren’t sure what the first five to ten years of her life ­w ill look like yet. Isla to this day says one day she wants to be president of a college. I ­can’t wait to see her ­t here! But I suppose that is always a part of being a parent—­hoping for the very best for your ­children and trying your best to make their life the best it can be. Jesse, Isla, and Sindri have already moved to Anchorage, and I am g­ oing back and forth between Anchorage and Barrow for t­ hese last six months of my contract. That in itself is hard—­juggling being away from my ­family along with the responsibilities I feel to my organ­ization. This eve­ning I sit and write this, thankful for once that my flight is delayed so I can actually focus for a few minutes to get some of t­ hese words down on the page. I reflect upon my time being a m ­ other, and my time being a ­mother while also being in academia. I reflect upon how being an Indigenous ­mother in academia has molded me. ­These three separate pieces of my life are in fact every­t hing that makes me who I am t­ oday. I do not know what the next five, eight, or ten years have in store for me, my girls, our f­amily. What I do know is that my life has forever been ­shaped by my opportunity to be a m ­ other, the opportunity I have had to lead an amazing Indigenous-­centered college, and the honor I have to be Indigenous. What an amazing trifecta! What I do know is that I have grown while my girls have grown, and while my institution has grown. Together w ­ e’ve come this far; the f­uture is bright.

chapter 21

Weaving Fine Baskets of Resilience resilient mothering in the acad­emy as kānaka nation building Erin Kahunawaikaʻala Wright (Kanaka ʻŌiwi)

“­Don’t Get Pregnant” “­Don’t get pregnant.” This is the advice I received as a young adult that reverberates in my mind as I contemplate Kanaka mothering in the acad­emy.1 My maternal grand­mother, Dorothy, a teen m ­ other herself, advised me to “live my life” before I had c­ hildren. Her aspiration was to become a psychologist, but instead she became pregnant at fifteen, dropped out of high school, married my grand­father, Benjamin, and at sixteen birthed their first child, Benjamin, Jr. Not completing her high school degree and continuing her education was a lifelong regret she often shared with me as I lay in bed with her as a child. The second time ­t hese words crossed my path was while I was a college student huddled with a group of my Wāhine ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian w ­ omen) peers listening to our kumu (teacher, source), Dr. Haunani-­Kay Trask. Actively avoiding pregnancy and prioritizing our education and kuleana lāhui (Native nation building) w ­ ere much more impor­tant than motherhood as young Hawaiian ­women, she advised.2 Having made a ­career in higher education for two de­cades now, “­don’t get pregnant” is sage advice for ­women pursuing many c­ areers, including the professoriate. For w ­ omen faculty, for example, pregnancy and mothering adversely affect tenure and promotion given the antiquated (patriarchal) tenure, promotion, and leave policies governing faculty in the vast majority of higher education institutions (American Association of University Professors, 2001; Cooper & Stevens, 2002; Marcus, 2007; Young, 2015). Even though my grand­mother and my kumu pursued divergent life paths, both understood the uneven demands of a white heteropatriarchal society that professionally, eco­nom­ically, socially, and physically/psychically penalizes w ­ omen for childbearing and child-­rearing (Kahn et al., 2014; Nelson & Burke, 2018). 220

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Unlike for many of the w ­ omen in my life, motherhood was not a natu­ral inclination or aspiration for me, though it was a thought I never openly expressed since motherhood was an expectation. My college experience ignited my kuleana lāhui fire, and I invested my energy into tending it. By the time I was a young adult, my kaikuaʻana (elder sibling), Lani, had three ­children I was already close to and my role as the “cool aunty” was firmly integrated into my identity. My nieces and nephew w ­ ere appraised of their caregiving duties for me should I be fortunate enough to transition into the Kūpuna (Elder, grandparent) realm, telling them their care for me was my return on my investment in helping to rear them. Becoming pregnant was not a concern for me ­until I was actually (and completely unexpectedly) pregnant at thirty-­four. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, birthing and raising Kamakea in my multigenerational h ­ ouse­hold on my ʻohana’s (extended f­ amily) kulāiwi (homeland) in Kaluaopalena, Kalihi, Oʻahu, has been nothing short of transformative.3 ʻO ia is my Māui, kolohe (mischievous), clever, creative, and caring with, as their Aunty Noe said admiringly, an incredibly strong sense of self.4 ʻO ia has pushed me to critically reflect on my own sense of self, challenged my convictions, and clarified my role in supporting their growth as an individual Kanaka and member of our lāhui Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian nation). As a single parent, mothering has also inspired me to consider the multiple meanings and diverse practices of mothering in my own life, particularly coming from a place of privilege as a Kanaka mother-­scholar.5 This essay was inspired by Trask’s (1999) poem “Sons,” where she boldly writes against our heteronormative understandings of what constitutes motherhood by calling her work in the acad­emy as a teacher, scholar, and mentor “slyly reproductive.” ­These last lines of her poem are particularly resonant with me as she reflects upon her role as “­mother” for her Kānaka wāhine students, I stay ­behind weaving fine baskets of resilience to carry our d ­ aughters in. (p. 56)

Although this ending is a declaration of her love of “our d ­ aughters” and commitment to resilient mothering, it is also tinged with fatigue (“I stay b ­ ehind”)—­t he same tiredness m ­ others caring for ­children or caregivers caring for their loved ones also experience. It is this feeling—­profound love coupled with exhaustion (or other kinds of limitations)—­t hat inspired me to consider more intimately as well as expansively the ways mothering reveals itself in my own life. To get a broader sense of “mothering,” I searched through several dif­fer­ent kinds of publications and came across a report from the National Collaborating Centre for Aboriginal Health (2012), titled The Sacred Space of Womanhood: Mothering Across the Generations. A National Showcase on First Nations, Inuit, and Métis ­Women and Mothering. The report provides a definition of mothering that resonates strongly with me: “Mothering is not ­limited to relationships between a female

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parent and her biological offspring. Mothering, as a relationship and practice, is a social and cultural act that occurs between multiple configurations of ­people of many generations—­individually and communally. . . . ​Mothering, understood in this way as a complex web of relational practices, was and is fundamental to life. This is perhaps also why mothering has often been so threatened while si­mul­ta­ neously holding the potential for (re)building the inherent strengths in our communities” (p. 3). Who are our ­mothers along ­these journeys? How have they woven fine baskets of resilience for us to exist and persist in the places we are?

Contemplations on Resilient Mothering In their study of resilience among Native Hawaiian and non-­Native Hawaiian youth, Carlton and colleagues (2006) define resilience as the “capacity for individuals to withstand adversity and maintain health and well-­being” (p. 292). Further, they write that resilience research is used to “identify f­ actors that predict a positive outcome for ­those who experience increased risk, emphasizing beneficial, rather than pathologic, pro­cesses and outcomes” (p. 292). So, for example, the researchers found that ­family and physical fitness encouraged resilience among Native Hawaiian youth. Similar to Kanaʻiaupuni’s (2005) Native Hawaiian strengths-­based educational research framework, Kaʻakālai Kū Kanaka, resilience foregrounds stories and strategies in which Native Hawaiian individuals, families, and communities have sustained themselves in the face of “historical trauma” (Brave Heart, 2003) in ways that do not “[gloss] over prob­lems in ­favor of a rosy picture” (Kanaʻiaupuni, 2005, p.  35) but, instead, work ­toward just social change broadly and, in my mind, Kānaka nation building specifically. So when I write of “resilient mothering” I am referring to the practices of mothering (intentional acts of loving, compassionate nurturing) that contribute to building resilience (withstanding adversity and building/maintaining well-­being) for individuals, ʻohana, and lāhui. Resilient mothering is discernment and action: assessing the kind of basket needed to encourage and build resilience—­bestowing, restoring, creating—­and then actively engaging in that pro­cess. Recently, the Office of Hawaiian Affairs released its report Haumea—­ Transforming the Health of Native Hawaiian ­Women and Empowering Wāhine Well-­Being, providing an enlightening and sobering mix of ʻIke Kūpuna (ancestral wisdom) and con­temporary ʻike (see, know, experience) related to Wāhine ʻŌiwi well-­being. The statistical portrait of our Wāhine ʻŌiwi reveals our continued collective strug­gle with realizing well-­being in our own homeland, a strug­gle familiar to our Indigenous ­sisters around the world given our achingly similar experiences with historical and cultural trauma. However, the report does not leave us to merely be survivors of this vio­lence. Rather, it is replete with success stories of resilient mothering, w ­ omen committing their lives to (re)cultivating healthful pathways to (re)building and strengthening our own well-­being and the well-­being of Native Hawaiian communities. For example, Dr. Jamie Kamailani A. Boyd, a nurse practitioner and professor I have had the honor of working with through her award-­winning Pathway Out of

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Poverty program at Windward Community College, talks about the role of hānai (adoptive, to nourish, provider) ­mothers in her arduous journey as a teen ­mother to becoming a nurse practitioner and then the first Wāhine ʻŌiwi to earn her doctorate from the School of Nursing at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa (UHM). Dr. Boyd points to the constellation of acts of resilient mothering—­gentle discipline, gifting, support with navigating spaces—­t hat enabled her to not only manage the challenges but also imagine her life beyond the challenges, enabling her to fully embody her aspirations. Now, as a kumu, she enacts resilient mothering for her students who are predominantly low-­income, first-­generation, nontraditionally-­ aged Wāhine ʻŌiwi ­mothers through the Pathway. The Pathway provides a culturally grounded educational approach to ­careers in health care in which students train to become certified nursing assistants and finish as registered nurses. The other Wāhine ʻŌiwi featured in the Haumea report as well as the moʻolelo (stories, histories) from our ʻIke Kūpuna provide shining examples of how Kānaka can engage in resilient mothering in our communities. Being surrounded by ­t hese inspirational and instructive moʻolelo has also led me to reflect upon the ways resilient mothering surfaces for me as a Kanaka scholar and now m ­ other and, eventually, grand­mother to “our d ­ aughters” in the acad­emy (Trask, 1999). For many Indigenous ­peoples, the acad­emy is a paradoxical space. It is a physical and cultural reminder of historical trauma and Indigenous epistemicide. However, it also holds, through the p ­ eople who transgress or upend its oppressive norms, the potential to redress/address ­t hese traumas through nation building (Mihesuah & Wilson, 2004). I am an exemplar of this paradox, an adequately intelligible performer in Butler’s (1990) “matrix of intelligibility” (p. 17), even as a Wahine ʻŌiwi mother-­scholar. As such, my position has allowed me to engage in nation building by supporting Kānaka on their journeys to identify and/or prepare themselves to fulfill their kuleana lāhui through my work in student affairs and now as an associate professor. Even though I am overtly and covertly continuously reminded of my place as a Kanaka mother-­scholar, I love my work. It allows me to attend to my kuleana lāhui and my ʻohana in ways other kinds of work would not. Thus, how has resilient mothering supported my journey as a Kanaka mother-­ scholar thus far? What lessons of resilient mothering have I learned from my ­mothers’ moʻolelo? How can I utilize resilient mothering to support our f­uture generations of Wahine ʻŌiwi scholars? In this essay, I explore aspects of resilient mothering through two of my m ­ others’ moʻolelo.

E kolo ana nō ke ēwe i ka ʻiewe: Matrelinial Familial and Intellectual Moʻokūʻauhau Recently, two ­women have occupied significant space in my mind as I reflect upon the ways resilient mothering has brought me to the acad­emy and sustained my ea (life breath, sovereignty) in this space.6 The first, Leilehua Kamakea, is my maternal great-­great-­grandmother. She passed into the ao aumākua (guardian realm) shortly ­after my ­mother was born in 1946, so I knew her as the ­mother figure who

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raised my maternal grand­father, Benjamin. The second is Dr. Haunani-­Kay Trask, an influential kumu and mentor for me. Haunani-­Kay is one of our Lāhui Hawaiʻi’s most brilliant and brave wāhine koa (­women warriors) (Goodyear-­Kaʻōpua, 2019) who helped to create spaces in the acad­emy for Kānaka.

He lāʻau kū hoʻokāhi, he lehua no Kaʻala: Leilehua Kamakea Leilehua was born in Mākua, Waiʻanae, Oʻahu, in 1881.7 Her d ­ aughter and second eldest child, Elsie Kelupaina, was the m ­ other of my maternal grand­father, Benjamin. In traditional style, he was raised by Leilehua and her s­ ister, Ana Kamakea Pulaa. Leilehua and her siblings w ­ ere part of the generation of Kānaka youth who bore witness to the overthrow of the in­de­pen­dent Hawaiian Kingdom and Queen Liliʻuokalani in a coup d’état or­ga­nized by Hawaiʻi-­and foreign-­born sugar businessmen with the backing of the U.S. Marines. They also saw Hawaiʻi “annexed” to the United States in 1898 against the w ­ ill of the majority of the kingdom’s citizens and nearly 100 ­percent of the Kānaka population (Silva, 2004). At the dawn of the twentieth ­century, Leilehua herself became a m ­ other and then reluctant citizen of newly formed U.S. territory of Hawaiʻi. Clearly, she lived through a time of tremendous change in the sociopo­liti­cal and cultural landscape of Hawaiʻi. Leilehua captured my young imagination through the moʻolelo shared with me by my maternal grand­mother, Dorothy. Dorothy was also born and raised in Kalihi near my grand­father, so she knew Leilehua and Ana her w ­ hole life, speaking often about hearing her m ­ other, Yin Tai, herself a first-­generation Chinese w ­ oman born shortly ­after annexation, conversing in Hawaiian with them. However, Dorothy became close with “the old ladies,” as she called them, once she was hāpai with Benjamin’s first child and moved into their ­house. I asked endless questions about this impor­tant but enigmatic, slightly built ­woman who chewed up food and fed “Peni” (her name for Benjamin) from her very own mouth, carried him as a child ­until she could not, and even adorned his chubby baby hand with a beautiful gold ring, the same ring Dorothy gave to me when I brought Kamakea home to Hawaiʻi to start my new job at UHM. Leilehua and Ana ­were also responsible for naming my ­mother (who then bestowed her name to me) and, most importantly, establishing our ­family homestead in Kaluaopalena, Kalihi, Oʻahu, where we have continued to live now for six generations. Benjamin was her punahele (favored child), yet he rarely, if ever, spoke at length about her, only adding to this mystery. “Go ask your Grandma” was his refrain whenever I asked. And I would. It was through my grand­mother I learned of Leilehua’s generosity to strangers and ­family, her favorite foods, her love of cele­brations and imbibing alcohol, her very dramatic and complex f­amily dynamics, and all the many ways she spoiled my grand­father throughout his life. Having the fortune to grow up with my grandparents also imparted kuleana (responsibility, burden, privilege) to me. In their late eighties and early nineties, they became more reliant on me, especially as my keiki and I (re)occupied the room next to theirs when I moved home from California. One day a­ fter ­running them around to doctor appointments, they wanted to have lunch at their favorite neigh-

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borhood joint. Sitting in a small booth with a scratched-up ­table top and cracking brown vinyl seats, Leilehua’s name came up in a conversation, and once again I asked. Sighing loudly, my grand­father fi­nally started sharing about his life with Leilehua. By the time we w ­ ere done eating, I learned my grand­father spent much of his youth traveling with her to the Neighbor Islands on steamers and all over Oʻahu by bus, trolley, and train. No ­matter where they traveled, Leilehua would tell my grand­father they ­were visiting ʻohana. Unlike me, he did not question his grand­ mother about where they ­were ­going or what they ­were ­going to do. Benjamin, simply, went along for the r­ ide ­because he enjoyed his time with her visiting dif­fer­ent places around Hawaiʻi. Only as an older child did he discover his grand­mother was a well-­known, much sought-­after healer, a healer who used not lāʻau lapaʻau (medicine) but pule (prayer). During lunch, he and my grand­mother talked about the glimpses they had into this work, my grand­father telling me a few stories from his own experience. Stunned into temporary silence on our way home, I remember glancing over at his still very formidable ninety-­year-­old form sitting quietly in the passenger seat nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders at me as if to say, “Believe it or not, it’s what happened.” For a number of reasons, I have found Leilehua’s moʻolelo not only personally compelling but also emblematic of resilient mothering. Born in the in­de­pen­dent and sovereign Hawaiian Kingdom, she witnessed and experienced U.S. Manifest Destiny firsthand through the overthrow of her nation, its eventual annexation, cultural upheaval, and two world wars, even seeing her Peni, her beloved handsome punahele, sent off to fight for a foreign country in another foreign land in World War II. While she continued to practice traditional healing and spoke Hawaiian ­until her death in 1949, well into the Americanization of Hawaiʻi, she never bestowed her ʻike to my grand­father or anyone e­ lse in her f­amily. Yet she used her ʻike to amass a wealth of land from the early twentieth ­century as a divorced single ­mother. She acquired enough property, in partnership with Ana (a h ­ ouse­wife), to provide for her four surviving ­children, my grand­father and his ­children, to sell, and even to be seized by the U.S. government to build military housing during the territorial period. Like Ka Hei a Haumea (Nuʻuhiwa, 2012; Salis Reyes & Wright, 2020), Haumea’s net of potential, Leilehua meta­phor­ically tied a hīpuʻu (knot) with her decision not to pass on her ʻike and ended this part of her hei. Si­mul­ta­neously, she also created the beginning of a new maka (eye, spaces in a net) in this hei for the potential of her ʻohana to be resilient in a new era by creating a kulaīwi for us.

Strug­gle Teaches ­People They Can Control Their Destiny if They Try: Haunani-­Kay Trask Together with my hoaaloha (friend) and ­sister scholar, Noelani Goodyear-­Kaʻōpua, ­we’re working on an intellectual biography of Dr. Haunani-­Kay Trask, tracing the evolution of her ideas from her time as a student at Kamehameha Schools and the University of Wisconsin–­Madison to her professional life as a teacher, scholar-­ activist, poet, public intellectual, and administrator at UHM.8 So for the past

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three years now ­we’ve been carefully sifting through the bounty of her rich intellectual legacy—­her writings, speeches, interviews, photo­g raphs, and media coverage—­and interviewing numerous individuals from varying points in her life trying to deeply analyze and articulate her legacy. However, as her haumāna (students), ­we’ve also spent endless hours sharing our memories and bits of Haunani-­ Kay inspiration along the way via talk, text, email, and social media ­because even ­after nearly four de­cades since she began her c­ areer, her ideas continue to teach us. While Haunani-­Kay is not a ­mother in my familial moʻokūʻauhau (genealogy), she is certainly the foremother of my scholarly one. I chronicled my first substantive meeting with Haunani-­Kay in a previous publication citing it as a “critical moment” for me, and what I had come to think of my moʻolelo, ended up being a moʻolelo shared by several other Wahine ʻŌiwi, including Noe (Wright, 2015). Her indelible impact as a kumu and scholar on haumāna like me is clearly illustrated by this shared story of taking each of us wahine aside to have a one-­on-­one talk about our f­ uture, which, more often than not, focused on encouraging us to attend gradu­ate school. W ­ ere it not for her confidence in and nurturing of my potential in words and deeds, I know I’d not be in this place of privilege. Thus, when she writes about “weaving fine baskets of resilience,” I am fortunate to have been one of her many d ­ aughters to directly benefit from her resilient mothering. Her role modeling has taught me so many crucial lessons about resilient mothering, definitely much more than I have the capacity to even write about. However, one of ­t hese lessons has helped to sustain my ea as a Kanaka mother-­scholar by deepening my understanding of my positionality in relationship to nation building, that is, the complexities of intersectionality. “Intersectionality” is a term I originally learned in gradu­ate school in 1997 from an article by Kimberlé Crenshaw (1989) in Professor Danny Solórzano’s class as I was first learning about this relatively newfangled approach to education research he was using called critical race theory. Crenshaw’s analy­sis was illuminating for me b ­ ecause she clearly articulates the inherently discriminatory nature of the U.S. ­legal system by demonstrating the ways in which laws differentially impacted ­women of color. Her analy­sis was made even more impactful for me as it also brought together pieces of Haunani-­Kay’s work like “­Women’s Mana and Hawaiian Sovereignty” or Eros and Power and her style of mentoring wāhine in ways I had not fully understood, much less appreciated, as a young Wahine ʻŌiwi student. Haunani-­Kay’s praxis embodied intersectionality. Fighting the B ­ attle of Double Colonization: The View of a Hawaiian Feminist (Trask 1984) is an early-­career piece she authored analyzing intersectionality in a Hawaiian context. It is a deeply personal po­liti­cal analy­sis of her lived experience as a Native Hawaiian feminist working with the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana (PKO, 1978–1980), a Hawaiian organ­ization originally dedicated to stopping the bombing of the island of Kahoʻolawe by the U.S. military and its allies and offering Hawaiʻi an alternative approach to living with “aloha ʻāina,” love of the land, and “aloha ka poʻe,” love of the ­people (Goodyear-­Kaʻōpua, 2018).9 Haunani-­Kay played a central role for the two years she was actively involved in PKO, negotiating with

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the U.S. Navy to stop the bombing, testifying on behalf of PKO at a number of hearings, and managing much of the press strategy. She foreshadows the profoundly complicated nature of this relationship, which Goodyear-­Kaʻōpua (2018) beautifully calls “loving against vio­lences at home,” when she writes, “It was not u ­ ntil I left Amer­i­ca for home that I started on the long path back to my culture. The aura of Hawaii, her spirit of beauty and plenty reminded me of my true heritage as ‘keiki hanau o ka ʻaina’—­child born of the land. With my return home came a total commitment to the strug­gles of my p ­ eople. It was a commitment to be burdened with pain” [sic] (p. 4). Her words, full of aloha, hope, and ʻeha (hurt, pain), articulate the contradictory relationship many of us Wāhine ʻŌiwi have with our Lāhui Hawaiʻi, one that is far more complicated than our experiences with haole (white foreigner) heteropatriarchy in the acad­emy. In one sense, we are “fully committed” to the liberation of our Lāhui Hawaiʻi and dedicate ourselves to our p ­ eople, only to experience gendered vio­lences while we do so. Haunani-­Kay helped me to understand the complexities of intersectionality in a Western context but, more importantly, in a Hawaiian context ­because it is essential to nation building in antioppressive ways. She writes, “For ­women like myself, educated but indigenous, ­there is ­really no question of choosing to fight. In the language of Third World analy­sis, I am a colonized ­woman of color. If I wish to survive something of my integrity and that of my ­people, I have no choice but to fight, and I have no other vehicle than the cultural solidarity of my p ­ eople. But liberation does not come all at once. To be doubly colonized—as a ­woman and as an indigenous nationalist—­means to strug­gle twice as long” (p. 15). She reminds us that the arc of justice extends over time and is fraught with difficulties as Native Hawaiian ­women. However, ­because the ea of our lāhui is at stake, we must continue to work through ­these complexities and ʻeha. From this perspective, gendered vio­lence is yet another challenge to restoring pono (balance) to our lāhui as it is another consequence of colonialism from which all our Kānaka deserve liberation, “Yet, I w ­ ill not leave my p ­ eople—­women and men—in the face of their oppression. But neither w ­ ill I cede to my Hawaiian b ­ rothers the sovereignty of my Hawaiian ­sisters” (p. 15). Her words teach me that our collective ea hinges on a f­uture f­ree of oppressive structures including heteropatriarchy. Consequently, we learn to navigate ­these complexities while also establishing kīpuka (shelters, oasis) and puʻuhonua (place of refuge) in places like the acad­emy ­because it is crucial for our collective survivance (Vizenor, 1999). And to engage in nation building in a pono way, we must continually keep one another accountable to avoid reproducing oppression.

Weaving Fine Baskets of Resilience for Our ­ Daughters and Grand­daughters Kameʻeleihiwa (1999/2016) encapsulates the importance of resilient mothering for the f­ uture of our Lāhui Hawaiʻi as she writes, “As Hawaiian w ­ omen, we are the intellectual as well as the physical descendants of our female ancestors, and in turn we ­will be ancestral inspiration for the generations to come” (p. 1). Kameʻeleihiwa captures the essence of t­ hese two ­mothers; they are role models for resilient mothering

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navigating and persevering oppressive societal structures and building empowering infrastructures for f­ uture generations of Kānaka. First, their moʻolelo inspires me to be brave. Both w ­ omen lived in times far less outwardly tolerant of “unruly” w ­ omen (Petersen, 2017). They dared to transgress American heteropatriarchal conventions by getting divorced, buying land, speaking out, and perpetuating “heathen” ways with the full knowledge of the negative repercussions. Yet they unapologetically and strategically did so, ultimately, for the love of their Lāhui Hawaiʻi. Second, their moʻolelo teaches me to build infrastructure for f­ uture generations. Leilehua established our kulāiwi so our ʻohana would always have a place in Hawaiʻi. I embrace her intentions in my own ʻohana by passing on her moʻolelo and also extend it by seeing my ʻohana as my Lāhui Hawaiʻi. Haunani-­Kay took the h ­ umble foundations of Hawaiian studies and built them into a permanent center for generations of Kānaka to (re)connect and strengthen their ties to their Kūpuna for the ­f uture of our Lāhui Hawaiʻi, Hawaiʻi, and the Pacific while also establishing a fertile intellectual foundation for us to continue to cultivate four de­cades ­later. ­These examples, in part, helped me discern my own kuleana lāhui, which then led me to establishing a ­career in student affairs. For me, student affairs was a direct pathway to bring Kānaka to higher education to support them in their journey to identify and/or gain ʻike to enact their kuleana lāhui. It also afforded me the opportunity to build a student support infrastructure for Kānaka through Native Hawaiian Student Ser­v ices. In my current role as a professor, I continue to engage in infrastructure building by actively participating at all levels in our campus community endeavors to become a “Hawaiian place of learning” (University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, 2011), including supporting the educational journeys of pre­ sent and ­f uture education scholars, professionals, and administrators. My m ­ others have taught me to pass and trespass (Lawrence, 2015) into this place of im­mense privilege to become Collins’s (1986) “outsider within.” In one way, I  am upholding oppressive, hegemonic structures through my participation as a professor, but my position also places me in close enough proximity to see “white supremacy demystified” (Collins, 1986, p. S14) and, in turn, engage in transgressive acts against white supremacy through nation building with Kānaka and collaborating with non-­Kānaka accomplices. Resilient mothering has prepared me for this liminal existence, living in one world but also focusing my energy on helping to build the world of my ­daughters and grand­daughters. For t­ hese lessons of my ­mothers and their loving sacrifices for me, I am thankful.

Notes 1. ​I use “Kanaka” (plural, “Kānaka”) and “Native Hawaiian” interchangeably to refer to the autochthonous ­people of Ko Hawaiʻi Pae ʻĀina (Hawaiian archipelago). I use “Wahine ʻŌiwi” (plural, “Wāhine ʻŌiwi”) to refer to female-­identified Kānaka. 2. ​Rich (1976) distinguishes “motherhood” from “mothering,” saying the former is an “institution” created by a patriarchal system to control w ­ omen’s bodies and practices and the latter is the “experience” of mothering, which is defined by ­women with the potential to transgress patriarchy.

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3. ​My keiki (child) is gender-­fluid in their life ways. So instead of using gendered pronouns for Kamakea, I use “ʻo ia.” In my oversimplified explanation, the Hawaiian language has only one pronoun (ia), and “ʻo ia” refers to a subject pronoun. Mahalo nui to my very dear friend and Hawaiian language scholar Dr. Kapā Oliveria for her help with ­t hese concepts. 4. ​Māui is a demigod for many Pasifika (Pacific) cultures, often cast as a mischievous yet loveable trickster. In our tradition he is credited with slowing the sun, fishing up islands, and giving fire to ­humans. 5. ​“Mother-­scholar” is a term borrowed from Lapayese (2012) to describe my positionality in academia as a person raising a child and a scholar of higher education. Also, mahalo nui to Alyssa Kapaona for generously sharing her resources on mothering in the acad­emy with me. 6. ​In a slightly modified version of an ʻōlelo noʻeau (#322), Pukui (1983) writes, “The rootlet ­w ill creep ­toward the rootlet,” or the navel string (ēwe) ­w ill follow the placenta (ʻiewe), as in ­family w ­ ill seek out one another. 7. ​Pukui (1983) writes, “An expression of admiration for an outstanding person, unequaled in beauty, wisdom, or skill” for the translation of this ʻōlelo noʻeau (#714). 8. ​“The Sand Island Story raw footage,” Victoria Keith Productions, dubs 22–24, 1981. 9. ​For more information on Kahoʻolawe and PKO, please see Osorio (2014).

References American Association of University Professors. (2001). Statement of princi­ples on ­family responsibilities and academic work. https://­w ww​.­a aup​.­org ​/­fi le​/­Family​_ ­a nd ​_ ­Academic​ _­Work​.­pdf Brave Heart, M.Y.H. (2003). Natives and its relationship with substance abuse: A Lakota illustration. Journal of Psychoactive Drugs, 35(1), 7–13. Butler, J. (1990). Gender trou­ble: Feminism and the subversion of identity. Routledge. Carlton, B. S., Goebert, D. A., Miyamoto, R. H., Andrade, N. N., Hishinuma, E. S., Makini, G. K., Jr., Yuen, N. Y. C., Bell, C. K., McCubbin, L. D., Else, I. R. N., & Nishimura, S. T. (2006). Resilience, f­ amily adversity, and well-­being among Hawaiian and non-­Hawaiian adolescents. International Journal of Social Psychiatry, 52(4), 291–308. Collins, P. H. (1986). Learning from the outsider within: The so­cio­log­i­cal significance of Black feminist thought. Social Prob­lems, 33(6), S14–­S32. Cooper, J. E., & Stevens, D. D. (Eds.). (2002). Tenure in the sacred grove: Issues and strategies for ­women and minority faculty. State University of New York Press. Crenshaw, K. (1989). Demarginalizing the intersection of race and sex: A Black feminist critique of antidiscrimination doctrine, feminist theory and antiracist politics. University of Chicago L ­ egal Forum, 140(1), 139–167. Goodyear-­Kaʻōpua, N. (2018). Aloha ʻĀina, Aloha ka Poʻe: Loving against vio­lences at home (1978–1981) [Paper pre­sen­ta­tion]. Native American and Indigenous Studies Annual Meeting, Los Angeles, CA. Goodyear-­Kaʻōpua, N. (Ed.). (2019). Nā Wāhine Koa: Hawaiian ­women for sovereignty and demilitarization. University of Hawaiʻi Press. Kahn, J. R., García-­Manglano, J., & Bianchi, S. M. (2014). The motherhood penalty at midlife: Long-­term effects of ­children on ­women’s ­careers. Journal of Marriage and the F ­ amily, 76(1), 56–72. Kameʻeleihiwa, L. (1999/2016). Nā Wāhine kapu: Divine Hawaiian ­women. ʻAi Pohaku Press. Kana‘iaupuni, S. M. (2005). Ka‘akālai Kū Kanaka: A call for strengths-­based approaches from a Native Hawaiian perspective. Educational Researcher, 34(5), 32–38. Keith, V. & Rochford, J. (1981). The Sand Island story raw footage [Video]. Victoria Keith Productions. Lapayese, Y. V. (2012). Mother-­scholar: Reimagining K-12 education. Sense.

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Lawrence, C. R., III. (2015). Passing and trespassing in the acad­emy: On whiteness as property and racial per­for­mance as po­liti­cal speech. Harvard Journal on Racial and Ethnic Justice, 31, 7–30. Marcus, J. (2007). Helping academics have families and tenure too: Universities discover their self-­interest. Change, 39, 27–32. Mihesuah, D. A., & Wilson, A. C. (2004). Indigenizing the acad­emy: Transforming scholarship and empowering communities. University of Nebraska Press. National Collaborating Centre for Aboriginal Health. (2012). The sacred space of womanhood: Mothering across the generations. A national showcase on First Nations, Inuit, and Métis ­women and mothering. Public Health Agency of Canada. Nelson, D. L., & Burke, R. J. (2018). Gender, work stress, and health. American Psychological Association. Nuʻuhiwa, K. (2012). Haumea—­Establishing sacred space, female ceremonies and heiau [Video]. YouTube. https://­w ww​.­youtube​.­com​/w ­ atch​?­v​=­Z8x7dpp3IME Office of Hawaiian Affairs. (2018). Haumea—­Transforming the health of Native Hawaiian ­Women and empowering wāhine well-­being. Osorio, J. K. (2014). Hawaiian souls: The movement to stop the U.S. military bombing of Kahoʻolawe. In N. Goodyear-­Kaʻōpua, I. Hussey, & E. K. Wright (Eds.), A nation rising: Hawaiian movements for life, land, and sovereignty (pp. 137–160). Duke University Press. ­ oman. PLUME. Petersen, A. H. (2017). The rise and reign of the unruly w Pukui, M. K. (1983). ʻŌlelo noʻeau: Hawaiian proverbs and poetical sayings. Bishop Museum Press. Rich, A. (1976). Of ­Woman born: Motherhood as experience and institution. Norton. Salis Reyes, N. A., & Wright, E. K. (2020). Embodying Haumea: Wāhine scholars cultivating Kanaka in­de­pen­dence/ts in the acad­emy. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 33(2), 240–249. Silva, N. (2004). Aloha betrayed: Native Hawaiian re­sis­tance to American colonialism. Duke University Press. Trask, H. K. (1984, March). Fighting the b­ attle of double colonization: The view of a Hawaiian feminist (Working Papers on ­Women in International Development 52). Office of ­Women in International Development, Michigan State University. Trask, H. K. (1999). Sons. In Light in the crevice never seen. Calyx Books. Ulukau. (n.d.). Nā puke wehewehe ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi. http://­wehewehe​.­org University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. (2011). Achieving our destiny: Strategic plan 2011–2015. https://manoa.hawaii.edu/wp/wp-content/uploads/2020/11/achieving-our-destiny.pdf. Vizenor, G. (1999). Manifest manners: Narratives on postindian survivance. University of Nebraska Press. Wright, E. K. (2014). Kuleana acts: Identity in action. In R. S. Minthorn & A. F. Chávez (Eds.), Indigenous leadership in higher education (pp. 127–135). Routledge. ­ other: Re-­envisioning motherhood in the acad­ Young, A. M. (Ed.). (2015). Teacher, scholar, m emy. Lexington Books.

chapter 22

Hā‘ena-­i-­ku‘u-­poli a letter to my ­daughter Kaiwipunikauikawēkiu Lipe (Kanaka Maoli)

Dear Hā‘ena, I have been wanting to write this letter to you for a long time. The invitation that your aunties have gifted me—­aunties you ­don’t yet know well, but who are indeed part of our larger circle of Indigenous f­ amily across the ocean who help me be a better mommy to you—­feels like the right opportunity to share with you some impor­tant stories. Their invitation was to share a story of being a m ­ other and also working in a university. For me, ­doing the work I do at our university has always been about motherhood: about Grandma Kathy1 and Tutu;2 about Tutu and me; and now about you and your ­brother. ­Those are generations of connections that have led me to my work, including many kūpuna who came long before them. But the special spark for me came from you. This is the story of you and your name and I want to make sure you know it well. I remember when our kūpuna3 sent me your name. I was at hula4 practice at Hālau o Haumea5 and ­Uncle Ma­nu6 was chanting: Hā‘ena i ke kai kolo I ka ulu hala a‘o Kea‘au ‘Au i ke kai Nalu kani ka‘a Pae i ke kula One kahakaha . . . ​7

He kept a constant kū-­pā beat with his ipu and his voice ­rose and fell as the waves of Hā‘ena do. Our skirts swirled back and forth in the repetition of ‘aikāwele,8 replicating the ocean movement and also the curvy lines of the black-­and-­white kahakaha sand.9 The images ­were clear to me as we danced. And while I was dancing, already knowing that the miracle that would be you was growing in my belly, 231

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it was whispered to me that your name would be Hā‘ena. It was so clear. As I recall that moment now, it takes my breath away. I was first introduced to Hā‘ena, Kea‘au through Tutu’s stories of Hi‘iakaikapoliopele10 when I was a l­ittle girl. That has always been my favorite story. In 7th grade at Kamehameha Schools, when I had the opportunity to choose any story for a final proj­ect, I chose Hi‘iaka’s story. Early on in college when ‘Anakala Puakea was working on the translation of Hi‘iakaikapoliopele,11 I jumped at the invitation to work on the proj­ect, even for the short time I was able to. And when ­Uncle Ma­nu asked me if I had any special interests for my mele12 for Miss Aloha Hula,13 Hi‘iaka was my natu­ral first choice. Of all the wahi pana14 in the Hi‘iaka story, Hā‘ena, Kea‘au was always my favorite. As you know, Hōpoe teaches Hi‘iaka her first hula ­t here and that’s where Tutu Pele15 goes to sleep and travels in her spirit form to Hā‘ena, Kaua‘i.16 As a young girl, I r­ eally ­couldn’t think of a more magical place! And b ­ ecause my m ­ iddle name, Ka‘ūlāleoa‘ohā‘ena connected me to Hā‘ena, Kea‘au, and Hā‘ena, Kaua‘i, I was even more captivated. Having grown up with all of t­ hese stories and images in my mind, you can imagine how excited I was the first time I went to Hā‘ena, Kea‘au, with my hālau.17 It was even more beautiful than I could have i­ magined, more magical than ever described. I was completely mesmerized. And in that moment when I was dancing with you in my womb, I already knew all t­ hose same qualities to be true of you. You ­were undoubtedly Hā‘ena. I was only twenty-­four years old when you w ­ ere born. In a sense, I was very young. But it was almost as if D ­ addy and I yearned for you, not just any baby, but you in par­tic­u­lar, even before we knew you. And then the first time I held you, I pulled you close to my poli. I looked into your big brown eyes and you w ­ ere already more alert than I thought was pos­si­ble. ­There you ­were, my Hā‘ena, in e­ very sense of the word. Somehow, in that moment, every­t hing changed for me. Though I was young, you brought me a sense of clarity, direction, and fire. I stayed home with you for the first six weeks a­ fter you ­were born. I would have loved to stay home longer with you, but ­because we ­don’t have maternity leave at the university, my options ­were ­limited. D ­ addy and I ­were also living on our own, so I c­ ouldn’t quit my job ­because we had to pay rent. And if I’m being totally honest, ­t here was a part of me that also wanted to go back to work. The beginning of the school year was quickly approaching and I worried about my students, especially my new students, not having their advisor ­t here when the semester started. So I did what I thought was the only sensible ­t hing to do: I took you with me. It never occurred to me to ask permission to bring you to work. I think t­ here ­were three main reasons for that. First, I was raised with Tutu at the university in much the same way. My earliest memories of the university are of eating bentos as a tiny girl from the ­little Japa­nese food kiosk outside East-­West Center,18 where Tutu had an office when she was writing her dissertation. I also have a picture in my office of Tutu and me when I was a baby. I ­don’t remember that moment, but I know it was taken when she was teaching hula to her friends from East-­West Center. I’ve

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heard stories of her taking me to hula practice and me playing on the baby blanket they made me for my first birthday. You see, I r­ eally did feel like the university was my home away from home, from the time I was just a baby. So when it came around to your turn, I just naturally took you to the university: a place I had always considered home. The second reason why I so confidently brought you to work with me was ­because I worked in a Hawaiian-­focused department. I naturally assumed that ­because ‘ohana is so core to being Hawaiian, that having you—­t he most precious and tiny member of my ‘ohana—­would not only be accepted, but expected. I felt ­really blessed to be in such a good space at this moment of my life. The third reason I was sure about bringing you to work with me was ­because I was adamant about nursing you. I knew how impor­tant it was to nurse you b ­ ecause of how healthy it was for you and also for me. But more than anything ­else, ­every time I held and nursed you at my poli,19 it felt like the most impor­tant, necessary, worthwhile ­thing I could be ­doing with my life. The closeness I felt in our embrace, the way we locked eyes in that intimate proximity, the manner of you falling into peaceful serenity: t­ hose w ­ ere some of the most unforgettable moments of being your mommy and ­there was no way I was ­going to cut them short. Hā‘ena i ku‘u poli.20 Having you with me at work was definitely an adventure. Sometimes you would cry. Sometimes you would have explosive diapers in the m ­ iddle of a student meeting. Once, while I was nursing you, my milk leaked on the other side and my entire shirt was soaked. I learned to bring extra clothes not only for you but also for me! I was a first-­time mommy and I was learning a lot, usually right in front of my students. But they never judged me. In fact they always wanted to help me clean you up or hold and play with you. Actually, something changed when I brought you to work. Students would come around even more. They also started bringing their own ­family. One student brought her w ­ hole ­family to a meeting with me, including her mom, her dad, and her b ­ rother. They thought it was just ­great that you ­were ­t here. Another student, who was pregnant at the same time as me, began to bring her ­daughter and wife to my office. Sometimes they ­were ­there to discuss school ­matters. Other times they would come just so that her ­daughter and you could play and so that they could share mommy stories with me. You invited love and joy and ‘ohana into a university that aspired to ­t hose values, but ­were not often truly felt on campus. Hā‘ena—­ you w ­ ere transforming that space. Your ‘ena 21 was the spark and warmth and life that so many needed. I want to explain to you a ­little bit about why I became an academic advisor. In many ways, when I went to college, I was r­ eally lucky. Tutu and Grandpa Jim22 both went to college and even had their PhDs! This was ­really rare for a Hawaiian girl, or any local girl from Hawai‘i, to have two parents who went to college. Perhaps most significantly, I grew up at the university b ­ ecause Tutu is a professor t­ here. The same way you spend time with me at the university now, that’s how it was for me growing up with Tutu. That meant that when I started as a student at the university, it ­wasn’t as scary for me as it was for many students who had never

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been to the campus before or who ­were the very first in their ­family to ever go to college. ­Don’t get me wrong. My time at the university w ­ asn’t always easy. I had my own challenges. ­There ­were many places on campus where I ­d idn’t feel comfortable. Most of the campus d ­ idn’t have any Hawaiians and most teachers could not say my name. But at least I always had Tutu and all the aunties and ­uncles at Hawaiian Studies.23 That was more than a lot of other students had. ­After a while, the more I thought about it, the more I got r­ eally mad that it was easier for me to go to college ­because Tutu was a professor. I wanted my friends whose parents w ­ ere bus d ­ rivers, secretaries, police officers or anything e­ lse to be just as comfortable on campus as I was. Or even more! That’s the reason why when a job opened up for an academic advisor whose job was to help Hawaiians get in and go to our university, I applied. At the same time, I also applied to my master’s degree program in counseling ­because I wanted to make sure I had as many skills as I could get to provide the most support to my students and their families so that they could reach their goals. In October of 2005, I started my new job as an academic advisor and also my master’s degree program in counseling. You came two years ­later as I was making sense of all t­ hose new pieces in my life. What an adventure! Much of my approach working with students came from watching Tutu interact with her students. She always cared so much about her students. I’ve seen her hold students while they cry, feed them when they are hungry, and also get upset when they are not reaching their full potential. Sometimes I c­ ouldn’t understand why she cared so much and held them so close to her heart. It was as if they w ­ ere her own c­ hildren! I soon understood that love when I began working with students. But it was r­ eally enhanced when I became your m ­ other. ­There was something that changed within me when you w ­ ere born. I think they call t­ hese “maternal instincts.” I became stronger, more confident, and more willing to stand up for t­ hings—­especially for you—in ways that I was previously much more shy and fearful. ­Those feelings poured out onto my students, too. Years ­later while I was teaching Hawaiian language to the kūpuna group, I was explaining to them the dif­fer­ent terms like makua,24 keiki,25 and mo‘opuna.26 I explained to them that in traditional Hawaiian society not too long ago, r­ eally—­makua referred to any person of the parent’s generation, not just the parent. ­There was no word for aunty and ­uncle. That helped us to see that all ­those who ­were of the parent’s generation had kuleana to take care of the ­children, regardless if that was their biological child or not. This made me realize that the way Tutu cared and nourished her students and the way I followed in her footsteps, was all part of the ancestral ways of our kūpuna that flowed through our blood. It was activated most clearly within me when you w ­ ere born. Again, you w ­ ere the hā‘ena27 28 that literally breathed new life and awakened a kuleana within me. I want you to know that I ­really loved my job as an academic advisor. Between bringing you with me e­ very day and working with my students and their families, it was my dream job. I felt like I was making a difference in their lives, one by one. I helped students get money to go to school, get into gradu­ate programs, get jobs

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when they graduated, stay in school when they felt like quitting, figure out what they ­really loved, and even tutored some of them when they needed a ­little extra help. As time went by, however, I began to notice that single individuals ­doing this work (I was one of ­t hose individuals, but surely not the only one), ­wasn’t quite enough. We c­ ouldn’t help e­ very single student b ­ ecause ­there ­were so many of them and not enough of us. I also noticed that not all p ­ eople who worked with students 29 showed the type of aloha that o ­ thers of us ­were accustomed to giving. Aloha made a real difference, especially for our Hawaiian students. I started to won­der: How can we change the university so that the entire campus functioned in a way that was more closely aligned with aloha and ‘ohana?30 While I was involved in all of t­ hese thoughts and work at the university, one day, when you ­were six months old, I was told that I was no longer allowed to bring you to work with me. The decision d ­ idn’t have anything to do with you, or me r­ eally. I was in the m ­ iddle of a po­liti­cal war. I’ll explain this part of the story when you are a ­little older. The main point is I was devastated. I was still nursing you and did not want to stop. Up u ­ ntil this point I was also able to raise you in ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i. Th ­ ere ­were few, if any, babysitters who spoke Hawaiian. But most of all, you ­were still so tiny. I cried for a long time. I cried b ­ ecause you ­were my Hā‘ena-­i-­ku‘u-­poli and I could not imagine you away from me. I cried for my beloved university: The university that valued aloha and ‘ohana on paper but did not know how to value it in real life. And I cried b ­ ecause I could not afford to quit my job and still pay the rent. I slipped into a place of despair for a ­little while. But then as our families have always done, we found a way. We de­cided to send you to D ­ addy’s office across the campus from me. Throughout the day we would meet halfway so I could nurse and spend time with you. I pumped my milk between our visits so that I could maintain my supply for you. It was hard, but it was much better than sending you to a babysitter. Somehow, the ­people in ­Daddy’s office never complained. They loved you. Meanwhile back in my office, students ­were shocked not to see you anymore. They w ­ ere worried, even angry. Having you ­there r­ eally made them feel at home. I think you represented the b ­ rothers and ­sisters, nieces and nephews, and baby cousins they left at home while studying at the university. Your presence allowed them someone to connect with and show love for when their other ‘ohana was not around. My deep sense of disappointment in the university pushed me to look for answers. A ­ fter you left my office, it took me a year to quit my job. Thankfully, D ­ addy was able to keep you with him that entire time. The students whom I had bonded so closely with ­were graduating that year and I wanted to see them through that impor­tant step in their lives. As we planned for me to quit work, we de­cided to move in with ­Uncle Lehu so our rent ­wouldn’t be so expensive. ­There w ­ ere t­ hings that ­were more difficult by not having our own ­house. Living in Ka‘a‘awa was also a much longer drive to the university. But we figured it was all worth it. I was able to take care of you u ­ ntil you went to pre-­school and I started my PhD journey. All of that has now led me to the work I do ­today. I never ­imagined that I would be working in the chancellor’s office d ­ oing exactly what spoke so closely to my heart: helping our campus actually become that place of aloha and ‘ohana.31 This is

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hard work ­because for so long the university has been about other ­t hings. But becoming your mommy has allowed me to feel the joy and witness the success of living aloha and ‘ohana in the university. Becoming your mommy has also allowed me to feel the pain and sadness when aloha and ‘ohana w ­ ere stripped away. Both of ­those types of feelings have been r­ eally impor­tant for me b ­ ecause I hold on to them in my memory and in my na‘au32 and I use them as a guide for the kind of university I work ­every day to transform. This work was sparked by you. This week you are turning eleven years old. You are becoming a young lady. As your mana wahine33 grows and I can visibly see it more each day, I want you to know how power­ful you are. I want you to know that your hā‘ena—­your fire, your light, your potentiality—­has already lit the pathway for many, including me. I want you to know that you and your name comes from a long genealogy of won­der, amazement, strength, and intelligence. I’ve chosen to share this letter publicly ­because I also want the world to know how impor­tant you are to me and how impor­tant motherhood is for the work we do in universities and in education. You should know that, too. Happy eleventh birthday, Hā‘ena. I c­ an’t wait to see the many ways you continue to illuminate the world. Me ke aloha pau ‘ole, Mommy Ka malama ‘o Hinaia‘ele‘ele, Ka pō mahina ‘o Māhealani34

Notes 1. ​Grandma Kathy: The author’s grand­mother. Full name: Kathryne Leilani Labonte. 2. ​Tutu: A loving term for grandparent. In this case, the author’s ­mother: Professor Lilikalā Kame‘eleihiwa. 3. ​Kūpuna: Elders, ancestors. 4. ​Hula: Hawaiian dance. The author is referring to her hula practice in her traditional hula school. 5. ​Hālau o Haumea: Literally translates to the space of Haumea. Haumea is the primal female energy source in Hawaiian culture (Beckwith, 1951; Kame‘eleihiwa, 1999; Lili‘uokalani, 1897). This is the name of the space in which the author dances hula with her hula school. 6. ​­Uncle Ma­nu refers to Ma­nu Boyd, the author’s hula teacher. 7. ​­These are original lyr­ics by Ma­nu Boyd (2006) that ­w ill not be translated ­here. 8. ​‘Aikāwele is a hula step. 9. ​Kahakaha refers to the black-­a nd-­white-­striped sand of Hā‘ena, Kea‘au. This is a consequence of not only the white sand created from coral but also the black sand created from the la­va rock of Hawai‘i’s active volcanoes. 10. ​Hi‘iakaikapoliopele: The name of a famous Hawaiian female goddess. 11. ​Professor Puakea Nogelmeier led the translation of the epic tale of Hi‘iakaikapoliopele (Nogelmeier, 2006). 12. ​Mele: A song, chant. 13. ​The author is referring to a hula competition that she entered in 2005. For more, visit www​.­merriemonarch​.­com. 14. ​Wahi pana: Legendary places. 15. ​Tutu Pele, or Pele, is the name of the goddess of the volcano and is the older ­sister of Hi‘iakaikapoliopele, who was described above.

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16. ​To be clear, Hā‘ena is the name of several places in the Hawaiian Islands. In this piece, two are referred to: Hā‘ena, Kea‘au on the island of Hawai‘i and Hā‘ena on the island of Kaua‘i. For the reasons described throughout this letter, the author named her ­daughter Hā‘ena. 17. ​Hālau: Hawaiian term for school. In this case, the author refers to her hula school. 18. ​East-­West Center (EWC) is both a center and the name of a building located on the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa campus. The author’s m ­ other was a gradu­ate fellow at EWC along with many other scholars from across the Pacific. 19. ​Poli: Bosom. 20. ​Hā‘ena i ku‘u poli: Hā‘ena in the intimate embrace of my bosom. 21. ​‘Ena: In this context, ‘ena refers to the intensity and red-­hot glow of fire or la­va. 22. ​Tutu and Grandpa Jim refer to the author’s m ­ other and ­father: Professor Lilikalā Kame‘eleihiwa and Dr. James Anthony. 23. ​­Because the author grew up with her m ­ other’s colleagues, she refers to them as aunties and u ­ ncles. 24. ​Makua: parent, someone of the parent generation. 25. ​Keiki: child, someone of the child generation. 26. ​Mo‘opuna: grand­child or any or the generations to follow grandchildren. 27. ​The word hā‘ena can be divided into two words: hā and ‘ena. Hā refers to the long breath of life. ‘Ena refers to intensity and a hot glow. 28. ​Kuleana: Responsibility, right, and privilege. 29. ​Aloha often refers to love, but it is so much more. Aloha is active reciprocity that calls on two entities to turn to one another and help each other sustain life. It is a constant giving and receiving. 30. ​‘Ohana: The common En­glish term is f­ amily. More specifically, Handy and Pukui (1998) describe ‘ohana, par­tic­u ­lar to the area of Ka‘ū on Hawai‘i Island: “The fundamental unit in the social organ­ization of the Hawaiians of Ka‘ū was the dispersed community of ‘ohana, or relatives by blood, marriage and adoption, living some inland and some near the sea but concentrated geo­graph­i­cally in and tied by ancestry, birth and sentiment to a par­tic­u­lar locality which was termed the ‘āina” (p. 2). Handy and Pukui continue: “The term ‘ohana was likewise a figure essentially belonging to a ­people who ­were taro planters. ‘Oha means “to sprout,” or “a sprout”; the “buds” or offshoots of the taro plant, which furnished the staple of life for the Hawaiian, are called ‘oha. With the substantive suffix na added, ‘oha-na literally means “offshoots,” or “that which is composed of offshoots.” This term, then, as employed to signify the ­family, has, precisely, the meaning “the offshoots of a ­family stock” (p. 3). 31. ​The author is currently the Native Hawaiian Affairs Program Officer at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. She is tasked with the job of leading efforts to make the university a Hawaiian place of learning. 32. ​Na‘au: Heart and soul. 33. ​Mana wahine: Female essence and power. 34. ​This piece was finished in the Hawaiian month of Hinaia‘ele‘ele, on the night of the Māhealani moon (full moon).

References Beckwith, M. W. (1951). The Kumulipo: A Hawaiian creation chant. University of Chicago Press. Boyd, M. (2006). Hā‘ena i ke kai kolo. Unpublished document. Handy, E. S. C., & Pukui, M. K. (1998). The Polynesian f­amily system in Ka‘ū, Hawai‘i. Mutual. ­ omen. ‘Ai Pōhaku Press. Kame‘eleihiwa, L. (1999). Nā wahine kapu: Divine Hawaiian w Lili‘uokalani. (1897). An account of the creation of the world according to Hawaiian tradition. Lee and Shepard. Nogelmeier, P. (2006). The epic tale of Hi‘iakaikapoliopele. Awaiāulu Press.

chapter 23

A Hidden Cartography matrilinealizing the terrain of academe Charlotte Davidson (Diné/Mandan, Hidatsa and Arikara) This chapter is lovingly dedicated to the two Holy moccasined male figures, who at one time inhabited my womb, and through their respective creation and emergence, have given voice, agency, and new life to the terrain of my belly, research, and scholarship.

Giving voice to a uniquely lived capacity, such as operating as an Indigenous ­mother in the acad­emy, is a task that can create conditions of love, hope, and restoration. As a Diné, Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara w ­ oman, I was not always acquainted with t­ hese possibilities. While I have achieved a par­tic­u ­lar understanding of this identity, I have come to recognize that this manner of beingness is a living pro­cess that derives its historical and ­future meanings from my strug­gle to be the ideal Diné, Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara academic m ­ other. Maternal striving is an active strug­gle with a distinctive aim; it is an effort that cannot be essentialized given the innumerable ways it can be ­shaped and defined, a phenomenon I have witnessed within my own f­amily and communities. Throughout the years, what has become increasingly more audible for me is a dif­fer­ent kind of intellectual voice, regenerated by time and place and transformed by bodily surrender. A voice often isolated from the terrain of the acad­emy—my belly.

Mapping the Maternal From the onset of becoming a m ­ other, I have waded hip-­deep in the confluence of two thought streams: the maternal and academe. Experience has shown me that this convergence is not always a natu­ral, graceful, or welcomed event. To unearth the roots of this understanding, I have anchored my recollections to par­t ic­u ­lar strug­gles, such as recognizing how my maternity changed the ecol­ogy of my class238

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rooms as an undergraduate student in that my ill-­fitting clothes and the abandonment of my eldest son’s biological f­ather resulted in intense gazes and malicious chatter about “how did that girl get herself into that mess?”; fearing the consequences of asking to pump my breast milk during an on-­campus job interview, but choosing to endure the painful engorgement of my breasts, which caused me to wear a milk-­ drenched blouse for most of the day; pathologizing myself as a shitty mom when I have found myself floundering at maintaining a sense of harmony between my obligations as a ­mother and my professional ser­vice to institutions of higher education; and being told by some in the acad­emy that I need to extricate my identity as a ­mother from scholarly efforts, as this was seen as “me-­search” and “not real research.” Accordingly, I have sincerely questioned and reflected on how ­these and other encounters have given direction to my most current thinking about this topic. To do this, I turned to Mishuana Goeman’s (Tonawanda Band of Seneca) (2013) powerfully written understanding of mapping, as mediated by Esther Belin’s (1999) poem titled “Directional Memory”: “While many current maps produced by Native nations use technology to mark places of importance to the well-­being of the community, the knowledge they collect to make ­t hese maps is often the ‘directional memory’ of elders and ­people who possess knowledge of the land—­but they are not absolute. Each generation w ­ ill have to find a map to reconcile the vast changes among generations, however, as time and space are not stagnant for Native ­people, or anyone for that ­matter. The pro­cess of (re)mapping is not final, but always in pro­gress” (p. 116). What Belin and Goeman offer me is a way to think about academic motherhood as a dynamic and nonlinear mode of knowing, continually being (re)constructed by historical, theoretical, and material encounters and how ­t hese intersect to map my pre­sent and ­imagined ­f uture. To enliven this thought by way of mapping, I have chosen to employ the method of “directional memory.” Directional memory—as I have come to experience it in the writing of this ­chapter—is a pro­cess of remembrance that introspectively configures the pains and pleasures of being and becoming a m ­ other. “Directional memory,” thus, reveals new forms and functions of the Indigenous maternal spirit, which can lead to teaching, learning, and leading in a manner unimagined by academe. To offer context for, and insight into, what has given my cartographic pro­cess flesh, I look to the terrain made invisible by my everyday attire: my belly. Radically altering this part of my body are the distinctive markings of maternity known as striae or stretch marks. At one point in my life, I viewed t­ hese crude and lingering paths carved into my stomach as having no mea­sur­able beginning and end or, for that m ­ atter, having no real purpose. I have since become deeply conscious of how they not only intersect with already made pathways but do lead t­ oward new geographies of thought. As such, my belly—as well the bellies in my m ­ other’s and ­father’s families that w ­ ere maternally marked by pro­cesses of h ­ uman development and emergence—is an agentic terrain that contains a chronicle of knowledge. Darder (2018), in her writing of the pedagogical primacy of the body, brings this understanding into further focus:

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Our histories of survival are witnessed and revealed in our skin, our teeth, our hair, our gestures, our speech, our emotional expressions, the movement of our arms and legs, and the multitude of gazes that inform the physicality of our responses. The ways we use and remake our bodies as power­f ul sites of counter-­ hegemonic re­sis­tance demonstrates the organic quality and significance of the body to identity formation in all its manifestations. As such, bodies are living “maps of power and identity,” which offer meaningful information and power­ ful insights into the tensions, strug­gles, anx­i­eties, ambiguities, as well as aspirations and dreams. (pp. v–vi).

And so, as I trace my journey from its original direction of thinking to where I currently locate this knowledge, I hope that each turning point provides a sense of how I have become a more intentional participant in mapping this consciousness. That said, I ­w ill not reveal every­t hing. From a cartographic standpoint, the motivation to make or not make mention of ­every historical, po­liti­cal, and cultural site of knowledge is that some information is meant to remain hidden and unknowable. At the same time, other locations have yet to be explored or reclaimed. In this vein, maps are not always complete. It is essential to recognize, ­here, that my discussion does not integrate the intellectual insights of my Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara relations, as this is an area I am in the midst of fully exploring. Having said all that, I kindly invite you, the narrative traveler, to return with me to vari­ous locations of fear, suffering, promise, and liberation, by retracing some of the lived experiences that have helped me craft the hybridized identity of an Indigenous mother/academic.

Traversing the Terrain of Our Bellies “From ­Here to Th ­ ere” My entrée into motherhood began over twenty years ago, as an undergraduate student at Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, Kansas. With that statement, I am summoned back to how I attended to the new real­ity of becoming a ­mother: I r­ ose with the sun to walk the perimeter of the campus; I became vigilant about refreshing my thinking with good thoughts; I had become mindful of what I chose to consume; and I prayed (a lot). All I knew in that historic moment—­ which was scant—­was that I needed to be healthy. As I became increasingly disciplined about living t­ hese practices, layers of aberrant be­hav­iors (directionless thinking and a wicked penchant for believing I was nothing special, sacred, or worthy of loving regard) ­were being ­gently sloughed off, separating me from how par­tic­u­lar circumstances conditioned me to understand who I was as a w ­ oman. In more specific terms, the bad relationship I had with myself ended. While I was primarily alone in this experience, I felt the nurturing com­pany of someone or something leading me in a new direction. My instinct was to trust and re­spect this unlocatable source. In the absence of the language to describe this shifting sensibility, I relied on nonverbal communication. As such, I would use

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my right arm and index fin­ger and move them forward in the air to create an imaginary arc. Much l­ater, I would learn that the animation I used to describe how the range of my h ­ uman faculties—­reason, perception, ­will, intuition, imagination, hope, and love—­had gone from “­here to ­there,” was the notion of seventh-­generational thinking. I am not ­going to pretend that I knew William’s growing presence had called this ideological dimension forward. What I w ­ ill admit, however, is that I never fathomed how this ­little Earth surface person would have the propensity to awaken an epistemological foundation that would challenge the par­ameters of identity, culture, and education.

“Womb-­Based Knowing” Twelve years ­after the birth of my first son, William, I again thought through what sort of path I needed to plot, as I prepared to welcome my second son, Matthew, into this world. At this time, my life had significantly changed: I was engaged, a doctoral student, and beginning to dissertate; and it was in the culmination of ­these experiences, along with being pregnant, that an entirely new location of contention had come into view. A site ­shaped by this question: How does a meaningful embodied activity, such as academic motherhood, affect my relationship to knowledge and how it is reproduced? If I am to participate more integrally in the pro­ cess of creation, my belly had to be inextricable from my academic identity. This epiphany was one of the most profound and embodied insights in my academic identity development. The idea of living my work in this way caused a reverberation throughout my body, so much so that I could feel myself undergoing a paradigm shift. With my eyes newly opened, I began to re-­see the dual aspect of creation—­ research and pregnancy—as cultural pro­cesses where the maternal is made central to knowledge production. This understanding is connected to my under­lying history of vio­lence. As a ­woman, I am well acquainted with the bodily pain and resulting disequilibria that come from the violent penetration of the body and mind. B ­ ecause this is so, I wanted to design the pro­cess and outcomes of my educational investigative experiences in a way that would not dematernalize my study of phenomena in the world and that could strug­gle readily against colonial masculinist forms of oppression, power, and privilege. It is in this spirit that “womb-­based knowing” (Davidson, 2018, p. 40), as I have to come to call it, blossomed. Womb-­based knowing is driven by the principled obligation to engage forthrightly in maternally experiencing the world, an incredible ability c­ hildren endow their m ­ others. Efforts to enact womb-­based knowing require an accompanying language wherein the speaker consistently strives to umbilically connect their lingual capacity to practices that balance, heal, and restore. One of the ways in which womb-­based knowing was made tangible for me was being si­mul­ta­neously pregnant and dissertating. As Matthew’s small body gradually extended the normal limits of my belly, I considered the similarities between his and my dissertation’s inevitable release into a new real­ity. While each originated in a par­tic­u­lar way, they are both of me. Given this recognition, I did my very best to craft them both into

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beings that would bring forth positive generative consequences—to balance, heal, and restore—­not only in the acad­emy but in the world. As I persist in asking “How does a meaningful embodied activity, such as academic motherhood, affect my relationship to knowledge and how it is reproduced?” I have come to recognize how this understanding is influenced by a succession of matrilineal knowledge. Thus, inherently sharing the power with me to map meanings related to this inquiry is Shimásání (Diné term for maternal grand­mother), Sally Yazzie. What this tearful and happy recognition exposes for me is that memory can function as a significant learning context in one’s efforts to renew a lineage of thought, which, in turn, activates a pro­cess of “rematriation” (Maracle, 1996). Rematriation—as I have come to engage it—­seeks to honor the historical influences, and ­t hose of the current moment, that change the form and personality of the female belly from m ­ other to m ­ other to all. Shimásání modeled this embodied cultural literacy well.

“­Mother to All” On August 13, 2013, I, as the eldest grand­child of Shimásání, was asked by my ­mother’s ­family to deliver her eulogy. This task required me not only to offer a perspective of her life from the standpoint of a grand­daughter but to express to my matrilineal relations how her passing represented a qualitative change in our f­ amily structure. To do this, I shared that it was up to us, as a ­family, to consider how we apply the lessons that we inherited from her and to do so in a way that was consistent with her sensibilities as a Diné rug weaver—­sensibilities richly influenced by her interpretations of beauty and harmony. Admittedly, I uttered that pedagogical plea aloud more so for myself, as I strug­gled to keep my deeply felt grief rooted in a discourse of hope and possibility. A ­ fter her burial, several p ­ eople approached me, saying that they wanted to meet “the grand­daughter that spoke.” I was more than willing to oblige, mainly ­because while some ­faces ­were familiar, most I had never seen. In a ­matter of two hours, I became moved by how each of my relations designed their thinking about Shimásání. A “­mother to all” was the prevailing theme collectively narrated that day. Helping clarify the basis for this view was a multitude of accounts that framed how a “­mother to all” was how she made her presence felt. Most commonly told was how Shimásání acted upon this as a kinship practice, in preparation for, and departure from, summer ceremonies. Typically, this would entail leaving home well before dawn, driving for several hours across Diné Bikeyah, and fi­nally arriving at the location of the ceremony with an abundance of groceries, ahead of every­ one e­ lse. Despite the sweltering heat, Shimásání was often outdoors in a cooking shack where she helped prepare and serve food for all t­ hose in attendance. She positively affected ­people in her presence, for she was known to lead a loud chorus of laughter among the ­people around her. As ceremonies came to a close, her exit—­ behind every­one else—­from ­t hese healing contexts was marked by the condition in which she left the cooking shack and other areas: in order and harmonious. Deepening the depth of t­ hese tearful remembrances was Shimáyázhí (my m ­ other’s

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s­ ister), Joanne Roan, who remarked that we needed to honor her by living the way she loved, for Shimásání was a “­mother to all.” While I strive to look for learning in every­thing that I experience, I was not actively seeking new knowledge in that precise moment. Nevertheless, an unplanned consequence of that day was identifying how a “­mother to all” functioned as a deeply embedded discourse of love. Let me say quickly that this familial-­generated analy­sis of Shimásání is not to say she was an unflawed being. She was ­human. It can be assumed, then, putting this into practice was what she sometimes did well, other times not. To be honest, I was not always tolerant of her being a “­mother to all” b ­ ecause it often competed with my strong expectations of her as Shimásání, at the core of which was to feel her presence around me, continuously. Yet this contention is reconciled by happier feelings, for, in retrospect, I bore witness to how a “­mother to all” was intergen­er­a­tion­ally birthed and named. My pedagogical plea from ­earlier that day had been answered. What has become more evident to me is how a “­mother to all” is an aspirational mode of participating in the world that gives additional meaning to my own identity as an Indigenous woman/mother/academic. A “­mother to all,” as I have been trying to develop it, is a matrilineal sensibility that consistently seeks to shorten the distance between locations of suffering and healing, a sensibility that requires us, as Indigenous/women/academics, to embrace the strug­gle to be more pre­sent in understanding how our bellies are implicated in the pro­cess of growing communities, materially and theoretically. I am a less-­disciplined version of Shimásání, so serving as a “­mother to all” is no easy task. Indeed, t­ here have been occasions when I have thought, spoken, and acted in ways that betray the fundamental definition of being a “­mother to all.” What this has meant for me, however, is taking care to honor ­t hose errant moments. What I mean ­here is that part of what enlivens this mode of participation is learning how to return from t­hose times of unsteadiness. By grappling honestly with the challenges of working the path of Indigenous matrilineality, what has become more apparent is how strug­g le has been and continues to be a consistent ­factor in not only sustaining but shaping new bellyscapes from within the acad­emy.

Understanding Strug­gle “With ­every ascension you experience in life, you ­will be tested.” This phrase was calmly uttered to me by Shimá (Diné term for my m ­ other), Nora Horseherder-­Yazzie. Several years ago, she witnessed my frenetic pace to perform and balance cleaning, cooking, food shopping, and other tasks, along with my roles as mom and wife and a new position as a senior-­level higher education administrator. I did not act in the immediacy of her words. Instead, I chose to consider what she was trying to intimate “­later” when I had more time. Of course, “­later” never came, and so Shimá—­who, for a week, was still serving as a witness to my hurried and clumsy maneuverings—­added, “Life teaches you. Offer up a prayer.” Fi­nally, heeding her counsel, I prayerfully and introspectively retraced my steps and remapped what the real story was for me.

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At this juncture, I must point out that “with e­ very ascension you experience in life, you w ­ ill be tested” has manifested itself many times over in my existence as an Earth Surface Person:1 in becoming a new ­mother, in preparation to defend my dissertation, in beginning a new job, and in the temporal moment I just described. As I allowed ­t hose memories to recirculate my body, I arrived at a sober certainty at that moment. Functioning like a reset button, “with e­ very ascension you experience in life, you ­will be tested” has since caused me to reevaluate how I choose to experience my strug­gle as an Indigenous female/mother/academic. The choice to strug­gle, thus, constitutes a crucial aspect of being an Indigenous woman/mother/academic. For me, to live actively with strug­g le has meant to uncover, name, and challenge conditions that dehumanize our relationships with one another and the world. Strug­gle has educated my heart to readily engage in such a way, so as to never forget the feel of urgency needed to create a world where my ­children—­and their c­ hildren, and their c­ hildren’s ­children, and so on—­can have a less ambiguous and more robust relationship with love, hope, and possibility. Also, undeniably linked to the act of choosing strug­gle is unconditionally operationalizing this sensibility on behalf of other ­people’s ­children, and their ­children, and their ­children’s c­ hildren, and so on. Strug­gle has, now, become a relative in the sense that it has given back much more than it has borrowed from me and, as such, has served as a terrain upon which vari­ ous forms of sustenance and medicines are made available, but only with the relational expectation that one is willing to ­labor for them prayerfully. This outlook has been significant for me in that strug­gle has made my journey in academe less oppressive. Nonetheless, I am not alone in living my commitment as an Indigenous female/ mother/academic. To this point, I cannot resist linking this understanding to a final location, one caringly encircled by the bellies of Indigenous w ­ omen who are a part of a more expansive community of strug­gle: Indigenous scholar sisterhood.

Indigenous Scholar Sisterhood: Forging New Lineages of Strug­gle Relationships in the acad­emy, or lack thereof, have led me to consider how enacting, negotiating, and maintaining an academic identity are traditionally hinged to a pro­cess of individuation. That is, efforts to critically and consciously engage research and scholarship are seldom collective and, even less so, relational. This is acknowledged among ­those whose academic identities, like mine, are purposefully centered in epistemologies that privilege the primacy of our relationships to ­people and places. Such epistemologies are rooted in our lived sensibilities. For example, questions such as “Where are you from?,” “What tribe or community are you?,” “What is your clan?,” and “Where is your umbilical cord buried?” are often used to establish kinship relations and are common among ­t hose of us who strive to embody t­ hese relational practices. What is more, it is a line of inquiry we are never asked by academe. Said another way, academe does not seek to be a relative to us and, in effect, our research and scholarship.

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Central to this understanding is how the dialectical tensions of connection and disconnection can wittingly or unwittingly birth spaces and new epistemologies that interrupt the cultural isolation Indigenous p ­ eoples, particularly ­mothers and ­women, may experience. For me, Indigenous scholar sisterhood has been one such spatial manifestation. As has been written elsewhere, Indigenous scholar sisterhood is a counterhegemonic site where “love, vulnerability, prayer, re­sis­tance, and protection sustain and help us to survive and thrive through the tensions that we may encounter” (Shotton et al., 2017, p. 643). Ways of relating, thus, figure strongly in how Indigenous scholar sisterhood becomes mapped into the acad­emy. Refusing to wait for the acad­emy to become consistent with our beliefs, Indigenous scholar sisterhood complicates the colonial notion of “­mother” in that the ­women who compose such groups often make a social commitment to actuate the cultural kinship princi­ple “­mother to all.” The maternal and matrilineal is a relationship of solidarity. Every­one in this sisterhood—­whether they have or have not carried a being in their belly—­becomes another mom to each other’s ­children and, by extension, another relative to each of our families. This is also true of the students we serve, support, and teach. Associated, then, with this view of relatedness is womb-­based knowing. Identical to how a maternal belly possesses an expansive ability to hold someone protectively, so, too, does the space of Indigenous scholar sisterhood. Given that it functions within a context of solidarity, womb-­based knowing serves as a vital restorative h ­ uman sphere. Th ­ ere have been countless times I have sought the counsel and encouragement of t­hese w ­ omen to recalibrate and to cultivate, again, the strength to strug­gle. Another distinctively positive feature of Indigenous scholar sisterhood is attending to the notion of “from h ­ ere to ­t here.” Challenging the colonizing impact that the acad­emy has had on obscuring our pasts and imagining our ­futures, “from h ­ ere to ­there” proposes that we affirm our bellies as decolonizing interventions in the strug­gle for our humanity, a tangible outcome of which is an Indigenous scholar sisterhood. Indigenous scholar sisterhood is a dialogical space committed to birthing new intellectual genealogies. From a matrilineal standpoint, Indigenous scholar sisterhood promotes the continuity of cultural paradigms, such as “from ­here to ­t here,” “womb-­based knowing,” and “­mother to all.” As a living landscape, Indigenous scholar sisterhood w ­ ill as­suredly continue to give new characteristics to the endless and courageous methods of mapping.

Conclusion I hope that you, the narrative traveler, experienced this writing as a geo­graph­i­cal compendium of bellyscapes and, in that experience, delighted in traversing fertile terrains contoured by feminine sensations and physiological changes. My belly continues to influence my articulation of how it has been, and continues to be, culturally inextricable from my strug­gle as an Indigenous woman/mother/academic. This vital bodily alliance serves as my decolonizing epistemological foundation. For all

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of us, what is inevitable and necessary is contending resolutely with punitive and threatening forces that seek to estrange us from the tools and languages that have long given Indigenous p ­ eoples a directional memory from which to operate. Accordingly, mapmaking should be entered into as per­for­mance, at the heart of which are restorative intentions that not only work to soothe our material and theoretical pains but give our embodied knowledge the loving space to be created and survive. Excitedly, as Indigenous ­peoples, we all carry maps that refuse to be reticent. When and how w ­ ill you choose to engage yours?

Note 1. ​Ni’hookáá’ Diyiin Dine’é, or Earth Surface ­People, is one of many terms Diné use to define themselves. This term connotes that Diné are of this place called Earth.

References Belin, E. G. (1999). From the belly of my beauty. University of Arizona Press. Darder, A. (2018). Preface: Reflections on pedagogies if the flesh. In S. Travis, A. M. Krahe, E. J. Hood, & T. E. Lewis (Eds.), Pedagogies in the flesh: Case studies on the embodiment of sociocultural differences in education (pp. v–­x). Palgrave Macmillan. Davidson, C. E. (2018). A methodology of beauty. In R. S. Minthorn & H. J. Shotton (Eds.), Reclaiming Indigenous research in higher education (pp. 36–46). Rutgers University Press. Goeman, M. (2013). Mark my words: Native ­women mapping our nations. University of Minnesota Press. ­ oman: A Native perspective on sociology and feminism. Press Gang. Maracle, L. (1996). I am w Shotton, H. J., Tachine, A. R., Nelson, C. A., Minthorn, R. Z., & Waterman, S. J. (2017). Living our research through Indigenous scholar sisterhood practices. Qualitative Inquiry, 24(9), 636–645.

chapter 24

Berries and Her Many Lectures the work of storywork Stephanie J. Waterman (Onondaga/Turtle Clan)

Nya weñha Skannoh. My name is Guy yon di saye, Stephanie J. Waterman, Onondaga, Turtle Clan from the homeland of the Haudenosaunee in what is currently called Central New York. I acknowledge that I am a guest of the Mississauga of the Credit River, that the territory in which I now work is subject to the Dish with One Spoon Wampum covenant between the Haudenosaunee and Anishnaabek ­peoples of this area, as well as the Huron-­Wendat, Petun, and other First ­Peoples. I greet you in peace and Thanksgiving and approach this work with a good mind.

One of ­These Days You’ll Look Up from That Book and Realize ­You’re on Vacation When my m ­ other said this to me, it only then occurred to me that vacation meant immersing myself in the ­water and in a good book. I might have been thirty years old when she said this! My ­mother, Ada (Onondaga, Turtle Clan), lived a long, not always easy, life. Her parents attended Thomas Indian School, a residential school that instilled a patriarchal cruelty in the f­ amily. Yet, my ­mother and my ­father, Louis (Mohawk, Wolf Clan), who also had residential school influences, literally built a home, cared for nine acres, parented five of us, and refused to continue the boarding school legacy in their home. Despite that boarding school legacy of hard physical ­labor, she made work fun. Through my ­mother’s many “lectures,” she refused to continue the lies she was taught—­t hat we ­were “just Indians,” that we ­were savage, that we w ­ ere not worthy—­and reeducated, restoried our legacy (Ross, 2009), and rematriated our lives. She refused patriarchy in her ­family so as to not continue settler colonialism. She modeled this be­hav­ior in addition to her, what I called for many years, lectures. 247

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Picking Berries My m ­ other, ­sister, and I w ­ ere picking blackberries (more commonly known as blackcaps) in the brush on the small hill that was cut out to make old Route 11A across the road from our ­house at Onondaga. It was July, very hot; we had on long sleeves, jeans, knee socks, and sneakers. We ­were poked and scratched and saw snakes. The berries w ­ ere plentiful, but the hillside was rocky and the vines and underbrush made our steps unsteady. We reached far into the bushes to pick rather than take a step on an unstable rock, sometimes balancing on one leg or using the bushes themselves to support us. I heard my ­mother fall. She laughed ­after she tumbled onto the abandoned road holding up her plastic bucket, triumphantly declaring that she h ­ adn’t lost a single berry. We did a lot of berry picking, not only around the ­house, where they w ­ ere in abundance, but at vari­ous farms in Central New York. My ­mother and ­sister have a story about picking berries at Watkins Glen State Park, in which my m ­ other jumped down to a rock ledge over the gorge to get the perfectly ripe berries with no worry about the danger u ­ ntil she realized she had to get up off the ledge. She was well into her seventies at the time. They ­weren’t ­t here to pick berries, but ­were on vacation. When they saw the beautiful berries, they felt the need to pick, putting the berries into their sun hats. We made jam and pies, froze berries for the ­middle of winter, and canned tomatoes. We dried beans for storage. The large vegetable garden is now being cared for by my ­sister and ­brother, and I help when I am home. ­These stories of berry picking and gardening are more than stories about agriculture. ­These w ­ ere opportunities for my m ­ other to talk, to share, to challenge dominant narratives about us, and to work through that conflict of her upbringing, what she was taught and how it should be, how our ways of being should be centered. We had our hands in the dirt; we worked the land. She talked about “them,” centering us. “They,” settlers, ­were dif­fer­ent. As a youth I called my ­mother’s lessons “lectures,” not recognizing the counterstory (Brayboy, 2005) and the work I had to do with ­t hese stories (see storywork; Archibald, 2008). My m ­ other’s lectures ­were intentional, to teach, to share (Tachine, 2017). I witnessed my m ­ other work through and ultimately refuse the residential school legacy and re-­store Onkwehonwe, the real p ­ eople, ways of being. I discuss lit­er­a­ ture regarding that push back with an emphasis on our Indigenous voice (Simpson, 2007). What my m ­ other modeled for me was to overcome, in a very real sense, to decolonize. My ­father was her partner in this work. To decolonize is to recognize the oppressive patriarchal systems in place, ones that I discuss in the acad­ emy. My m ­ other was a trailblazer—­refusing residential school indoctrination and ­doing so with few role models. This was not an easy journey for her, and she was not always successful. Being a part of her life work informed my work as a scholar and how I mentor o ­ thers. A short contextual grounding of the residential school is necessary.

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Boarding or Residential Schools Many books (Adams, 1995; Carney, 1999; Lindsey, 1995), ­t heses (Hamley, 1994; Quigley, 1991, Waboose, 2016), articles (Almeida, 1997; Sanchez & Stuckey, 1993), and reports (Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2015) expose the brutal federal assimilationist, removal policies of the residential school. Th ­ ese schools w ­ ere designed to harm, to damage, as a solution to the “Indian Prob­lem,” to obtain lands, based on a policy expressed by Richard H. Pratt as to “kill the Indian in him, and save the man” (as quoted in Carney, 1999, p. 52). ­There is enough documentation for this topic to be included in the curriculum of e­ very school in North Amer­i­ca. That it is not is evidence of continued settler-­colonial efforts to silence and deny. My maternal grandparents attended Thomas Indian School in Western New York, and we know that my grand­father also attended Carlisle Industrial School in Pennsylvania. They returned practicing the Christian faith, although one that was not inclusionary nor based on love and forgiveness. My grand­father, in par­ tic­u ­lar, devalued Haudenosaunee traditions. His dominant patriarchal views silenced my grand­mother, my aunties, and my m ­ other. The boarding school legacy included hard physical ­labor. Work was highly valued in the schools. My ­mother was the “son” (she was the m ­ iddle child; a ­brother was born many years ­after her) in a ­family based on residential school gender definitions; she did hard physical work at a young age. She recalled stories of getting wood from the top of Big Hill at Onondaga, riding the large wooden handmade sleigh down the hill in winter with her ­father, hauling the wood and ­water, and the hard work associated with a time of no electricity, r­ unning w ­ ater, or vehicles. To get to the top of Big Hill is an hour and a half hike up but only ten minutes down in the sleigh. My m ­ other sprawled on top of the wood in the shape of an x. ­There ­were no safety straps, she wore no helmet, and we can question ­whether she should have been ­doing such dangerous work at such a young age, not yet a teenager. Her ­sisters did not have the same experience of hard physical work. The ­family was not warm and loving, at least t­oward her, and t­ here was physical and emotional vio­lence. My m ­ other had bad vision, but her parents did not purchase eyeglasses for her. When she was about nine years old she fell off the raf­ters in a barn. Such is the boarding school legacy that she could not tell anyone. Instead she somehow made it back to her bed, where she stayed for two weeks; no one checked on her well-­being during that time.

Refusal Simpson (2007) wrote about the nationhood of her home, Kahnawake, and their refusal of “the authority of the state at almost e­ very turn” (p. 73). Pushing back against federal definitions of Mohawk identity and membership, she wrote about this refusal that she observed in “everyday encounters to enunciate repeatedly to ourselves and to outsiders that ‘this is who we are, this who you are, ­t hese are my

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rights’ ” (p. 73). As Indigenous ­people we embody the racialized and gendered policies of governments based on resource-­and land-­g rabbing interests. Refusing external definition “accounts for history” and “tell us something about the way we cradle or embed our repre­sen­ta­tions of notions of sovereignty and nationhood; and they critique and move us away from statist forms of recognition” (p. 78). Refusal and decolonization are collaborative. Refusing ste­reo­t ypes (Sunseri, 2007) and deficit or damaging forms of research (Tuck, 2009), refusing objectivity and distance (Sunseri, 2007), refusing to be s­ ilent of settler-­colonial trauma (Vega, 2018, refusing Western endorsed forms of writing as the only valid form (Cisneros, 2018, and refusing to accept that only valid knowledge is found in a Western classroom (Chandler, 2018) are some of the many ways we resist, refuse, and center ourselves.

I Told Him [My F ­ ather], We D ­ idn’t Have to Continue That Way of Living When my parents married, they made a pact; they would not continue the residential school teachings and dysfunction they experienced in their own families. For example, my m ­ other did not want screaming, and my f­ ather wanted to be generous. When crimes ­were reported on the news, my ­mother would explain how in our way the setting might have been dif­fer­ent and how that might have influenced the criminal. For example, in incidents of domestic vio­lence she would explain the responsibilities of families to each other in the community to speak up. ­There was an older man, who was very poor, likely with ­mental health issues, who lived in a small shack near us. My ­mother would take him meals, especially during the holidays, and check in on him periodically. That’s how our community was supposed to be, and she modeled that for our ­family. My ­father, too, was a ­father figure to many young men as he was a lacrosse stick maker and renowned lacrosse coach. I witnessed grown men respectfully ask my f­ ather permission to miss a practice or a game. My f­ ather had rules for the team that they had to abide by. “Star” players ­were benched if they did not follow his rules, which sometimes made him unpop­ u­lar; we lost many a mailbox to vandalism. He had three equal lines of players. ­There was no line 1 of the best players or line 2 of second best. He used colors to name the lines. A player was never so good that he could skip practice; every­one had to practice. The goalies in their bulky pads ran laps during practice like the other players. When our team was down one player due to a penalty, my ­father had a play in which our goalie came out to help run down the clock; goalies could not sit back and wait. Refusal and decolonization are closely related as both deconstruct to enable restoring. Restoring and restorying (San Pedro et al., 2017) are dynamic. Chandler (2018) writes, “Ancestral knowledges are all around us no m ­ atter where we are; evident and valued in ­every setting, ­whether out on the reef or in a four-­walled classroom” (p. 178). Ancestral knowledges, what are often termed Indigenous knowledge systems, have been a part of our lives for as long as Onkwehonwe have been a ­people

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of the hills and other original ­people have been in relationship with Turtle Island, for as long as berry blossoms have bloomed and berries have ripened. My parents taught my ­brothers and the male cousin who was living with us how to cook, clean, sew, fish, and garden. Although the bulk of the clothes ironing fell to my ­sister, every­one knew how. I do not recall shouting when my parents had disagreements, but I remember strong feelings being expressed. What­ever issue about which they ­were disagreeing, it felt as if they had their own valid arguments and evidence to support each side. They disagreed, but I was never in fear that it would escalate. Over time my ­mother became more vocal and stronger. ­There ­were many times when they did not agree, as she did with o ­ thers, and I can clearly hear her say, “Well, [pause], that’s what I think” as she ended the conversation. She sometimes summed up the conversation for me l­ater. I do not recall asking her to. She provided me the context and talked to me as an adult, an equal. I am many years younger than my siblings, having many years alone with my parents, like an only child. The acad­emy is founded upon, comfortable with, and dependent upon the Western, Eu­ro­pean ideology that benefits and maintains the status of white males of a certain class (Lucas, 1994; Waterman et al., 2018). I experienced the individualized nature of the acad­emy especially in my doctoral program as well as during the bulk of my professorship. I saw scholars shout at each other during conferences, witnessed a female doctoral student run crying from her defense ­because two male committee members began arguing, felt isolated in my program, and had to find my own Indigenous-­centered lit­er­a­ture. My m ­ other defined, through her many lectures, how we w ­ ere not like non-­ Natives—we ­were responsible to each other and forgiving; we ­were to listen, feed each other, and work the land. I work very hard to mentor, I say ­because I was not mentored, but it is also true that I mentor b ­ ecause it is my refusal to be like “them”: the impersonal, competitive, individual, sink-­or-­swim, singled-­author-­ privileged model of the acad­emy. I do not have to behave in that Western-­academy approved way.

The Acad­emy, Particularly Historically White Institutions (HWIs), Can Be a Hostile Place for Aspiring Faculty and Especially ­Women of Color The Western-­academy-­approved way is gendered; to paraphrase Audra Simpson (2016), it is male. I would add that it is ableist. Postsecondary education was quite literally developed for men, particularly white men of a certain social economic class based on a Christian foundation (Lucas, 1994). While ­t hese institutions ­were founded long ago, Western assumptions and philosophies still inform the acad­ emy. This foundation rewards patriarchal systems that include narrow concepts of scientific research, quantification, competitiveness, and individualism. Despite the fact that more ­women than men earn doctorates, more men than ­women are full or associate professors (National Center for Education Statistics, 2018). Most

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boards of trustees and administrations are occupied by a majority of white men. As an Indigenous cisgender ­woman, I am raced and gendered. As a student I was identified as “at-­risk” simply b ­ ecause I was female and Indigenous. And ­because I am Indigenous and female, I am, like Black, Latinx, and other ­women of color scholars, subject to “academic vio­lence” (Sinclair-­Chapman, 2019, p. 52). Academic vio­lence is deeply connected to gender and race. Casselman (2015) wrote about vio­lence against Indigenous w ­ omen as a way to objectify, destroy, and ultimately control Indigenous communities. B ­ ecause Indigenous communities tend to be matrilineal and w ­ omen held po­liti­cal power, destroying Indigenous ­women disempowered our communities and led the way for imposing gendered Western hierarchies. Laws w ­ ere passed that further stripped ­women of power and of bodily integrity. Indigenous w ­ omen w ­ ere not like white Eu­ro­pean ­women who w ­ ere literally powerless; hence, Indigenous w ­ omen needed to be destroyed. Simpson (2016) also links vio­lence against Indigenous ­women to “a rule by men,” a patriarchy (Canadian federal government) that must also “destroy what it is not” (p. 1). Settler governments must destroy in order to s­ ettle. Simpson writes, “States do not always have to kill; its citizens can do that for it” (2016, p. 2). Sinclair-­Chapman (2019), a Black ­woman scholar, writes about a painful tenure denial at a top-­ranked institution. “I landed in a place where power was unapologetically white, male, and wealthy. I felt both bigger and smaller, alone, vis­i­ble, silenced and vulnerable. I was black, but not a man, in a place where ­women’s power was mostly not a t­ hing, where not a single black w ­ oman had successfully completed the tenure pro­cess” (p. 3). She wrote about the academic vio­lence she experienced as the only Black person in her building, not being mentored and having to confront racial microaggressions, including ­those from her colleagues. Being isolated, having no one in her department who knew anything about her discipline, not being privy to the tenure pro­cess, she stated, “Academic vio­lence rarely plays out in a direct assault; instead, it is executed in the seams, around the margins” (p. 3). The institution did not have to assault her, deny her, nor exclude her; her colleagues could do that. Like Simpson’s statement that the state does not have to do its own killing, patriarchy is so embedded that academic and gendered vio­lence is normalized. Settler-­colonial conceptions of time can also be discussed in the context of maleness and control. Sinclair-­Chapman (2019) noted that when she earned a prestigious fellowship, her ­mother had a stroke. A gradu­ate program and a tenure-­track faculty position come with time limits regardless of your personal life. Neoliberalism works with institutions of higher education in ways that limit our time to care (Grande, 2017). Only recently has higher education provided f­ amily time leaves and extensions for tenure. In the past, men did not have t­ hese concerns regarding time. In t­ hese ways the acad­emy is male, a place where Indigenous w ­ omen are not supposed to be.

Academic Auntie Auntie is a respectful term often used by many Indigenous ­people for older ­women. I have been referred to in this way by some of my Indigenous scholar colleagues. I am

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very aware that I am considered a role model and that my age garners re­spect among my colleagues. One time I approached some younger Indigenous scholars at a dance party at a conference. Their composure immediately changed from carefree bopping to the ­music to straight postures and paying attention to me. I understood though, as I am prob­ably the same age or older than their ­mothers; they w ­ ere showing re­spect. And I am a ­mother, grand­mother, and auntie. I also am aware that Academic Auntie is a gendered term related to age, which also implies the emotional ­labor and additional care assumed of a female academic (Turner & Myers, 2000). At the 2005 ASHE conference in Philadelphia I met Heather Shotton, who was then a gradu­ate student. I went to her pre­sen­ta­tion and she came to mine; we have “been together” ever since, inviting other scholars in to meet with us at conferences, to follow-up and network, and to or­ga­nize meals. When we met it was such a relief; it was like meeting long-­lost ­family. We have formed a f­ amily through the years, one that at the 2018 ASHE conference filled a restaurant ­table for twenty! We nurture other scholars, like my parents did with our ­family and the land, the berries, and our garden. My s­ ister scholars (Shotton et al., 2018 and I have developed a support network that transcends distance and borders. (We have ­brother scholars, too.) I marvel at how many of us ­there are now and how other networks are produced and expanded. We resist, by being h ­ ere, by not being s­ ilent, we resist. Our Indigenous scholar and ally network is expanding, and we can celebrate and share our work. We invite in (San Pedro et al., 2017), we are being good relatives.

Her Berries My m ­ other did not plant the berries around our h ­ ouse, I believe they came to her. (A small red raspberry patch was intentionally planted.) The berries ­were so plentiful we had berries for jam, for pies, and to give away all year round. She invited ­others to pick. We had a severe drought the summer my ­mother passed. The grass was brown everywhere and the berries shriveled. My siblings and I ­were caring for our ­mother; we ­didn’t have time to pick and pro­cess the berries. The following summer t­here w ­ ere few berries. I cannot help think her passing and the diminished berries are related, but I also know that the berries did not receive care. Kimmerer (2013) writes that when sweetgrass is not carefully harvested, when it is left alone, it does not thrive. The berry season a­ fter my ­mother passed yielded a few berries but not like years past, and this saddened me; however, the berries have since returned, and we still pick, make jam and pies, and put vegetables up for winter. ­Earlier I noted that I mentor ­because I was not mentored. My ­mother was not cared for in her youth, yet she was strong and thrived, and laughed. I did not feel cared for as a gradu­ate student or in my early years as a faculty member. I w ­ ill not repeat that normalized notion of faculty be­hav­ior. I have made m ­ istakes and w ­ ill continue to as I am h ­ uman; I strive to learn from them. Th ­ ere are Indigenous scholars who came before me, and I am grateful that they have created a path for ­others; however, in the field of higher education, especially student affairs, t­ here are very few. My colleagues often have joint appointments: Native studies and/or

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­ omen and gender studies and higher education or educational leadership. Th w ­ ese appointments pull their attention in two places; for example, publications for tenure have to impact both academic disciplines, and ­career advice for scholars who have joint appointments is dif­fer­ent, creating multiple ave­nues of stress. Now when I’m home and pick berries it is a more solitary action. One of us w ­ ill usually pick: my ­sister, my ­brother, a ­daughter, or I. Rarely do we pick together. ­There are other chores to do, and I always have academic work. However, solitary time is also necessary. I can listen to the birds, the rustle of wind, dogs barking somewhere on the rez. I can hear the highway as trucks gear up to climb the hill. I’m surrounded by my green and leafy relatives. I can think about my work and be in my own thoughts. Sometimes the shop cats ­w ill annoy me. When we drive to a farm to pick, my eldest and her ­children come along. It’s fun and I can hear my ­mother’s many lectures.

References Adams, D. W. (1995). Education for extinction: American Indians and the boarding school experience, 1976–1928. University Press of Kansas. Almeida, D. (1997). The hidden half: A history of Native American ­women’s education. Harvard Educational Review, 67(4), 757–771. Archibald, J. (2008). Indigenous storywork: Educating the heart, mind, body, and spirit. University of British Columbia Press. Brayboy, B. M. (2005). ­Toward a tribal critical race theory in education. Urban Review, 37(5), 425–446. Carney, C. M. (1999). Native American higher education in the United States. Transaction. Casselman, A. (2015). Injustice in Indian country: Jurisdiction, American law, and sexual vio­lence in Native Amer­ic­ a. University of Minnesota Press. ­ ecause of the trunk: Chandler, K. L. (2018). I ulu no ka lālā I ke kumu, the branches grow b Ancestral knowledge as refusal. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 31(3), 177–187. Cisneros, N. A. (2018). “To my relations”: Writing and refusal t­ oward an Indigenous epistolary methodology. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 31(3), 188–196. Grande, S. (2017). Aging, precarity, and the strug­gle for Indigenous elsewhere. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 31(3), 168–176. Hamley, J. L. (1994). Cultural genocide in the classroom: A history of the federal boarding school movement in American Indian Education, 1875–1920 [Unpublished doctoral dissertation]. Harvard University. Kimmerer, R. (2013). Braiding sweetgrass: Indigenous wisdom, scientific knowledge, and the teachings of plants. Milkweed Editions. Lindsey, D. F. (1995). Indians at Hampton Institute, 1877–1923. University of Chicago Press. Lucas, C. J. (1994). American higher education: A history. New York: St. Martin’s Press. National Center for Education Statistics. (2018). Fast facts. https://­nces​.­ed​.­gov​/­fastfacts​ /­display​.­asp​?­id​= ­61 Quigley, K. A. (1991). Implications of residential schooling for a First Nations community. [Unpublished master’s thesis]. University of Guelph. Ross, L. (2009). From the “F” word to Indigenous/feminisms. Wicazo Sa Review, 24(2), 39–52.

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Sanchez, J., & Stuckey, M. E. (1993). From boarding schools to the multicultural classroom: The intercultural politics of education, assimilation, and American Indians. Teacher Education Quarterly, 26(3), 83–96. San Pedro, T., Carlos, E., & Mburu, J. (2017). Critical listening and storying: Fostering re­spect for difference and action within and beyond a Native American lit­er­a­ture classroom. Urban Education, 52(5), 667–693. Shotton, H. J., Tachine, A. R., Nelson, C. A., Minthorn, R. Z., & Waterman, S. J. (2018). Living our research through Indigenous scholar sisterhood practices. Qualitative Inquiry, 24(9), 363–645. https://­doi​.­org​/­10​.­1177​/­1077800417744578 Simpson, A. (2007). On ethnographic refusal: Indigeneity, “voice” and colonial citizenship. Junctures, 9, 67–80. Simpson, A. (2016). The state is a man: Theresa Spence, Loretta Saunders and the gender of settler sovereignty. Theory & Event, 19(4). Sinclair-­Chapman, V. (2019). Rebounding on the tenure track: Carving out a place of your own in the acad­emy. PS: Po­liti­cal Science & Politics, 52, 52–56. https://­doi​.­org​/­10​.­1017​ /­S1049096518001270 Sunseri, L. (2007). Indigenous voice m ­ atters: Claiming our space through decolonizing research. Junctures, 9, 93–106. Tachine, A. R. (2017). Grand­mothers’ pedagogy: Lessons for supporting Native students’ attendance at universities. In J. Frawley, S. Larkin, & J. A. Smith (Eds.), Indigenous pathways, traditions and participation in higher education (pp. 151–167). Springer. Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. (2015). Honouring the truth, reconciling for the f­ uture: Summary of the final report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. http://­w ww​.t­ rc​.­ca Tuck, E. (2009). Suspending damage: A letter to communities. Harvard Educational Review, 79(3), 409–427. Turner, C. S. V., & Myers, S. L. (2000). Faculty of color in academe: Bittersweet success. Allyn and Bacon. Vega, C. (2018). Othermotherwork: Testimonio and the refusal of historical trauma. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 31(3), 223–230. Waboose, V. G. (2016). Re-­living the residential school experience: An Anishinabe Kwe’s examination of the compensation pro­cesses for residential school survivors [Unpublished doctoral dissertation]. Trent University. Waterman, S. J., Lowe, S. C., & Shotton, H. J. (Eds.). (2018). Beyond access: Indigenizing programs for Native American student success. Stylus.

 Tying the Bundle Heather J. Shotton, Christine A. Nelson, and Robin Zape-­tah-­hol-­ah Minthorn

Through our connections with each individual story offered, and the collective power of t­ hose stories coming together, one lesson became evident to us throughout this journey; our work as Indigenous ­mothers in the acad­emy is a constant act of love. Love for our c­ hildren, relatives, communities, land, teachings, ancestors, and ­f uture generations. Our love is enacted through our efforts to claim intellectual space in the acad­emy, honor ancestral knowledge and teachings, raise strong and loving ­future generations, reclaim academia as a familial space, and engage in upholding the collective well-­being and healing of our communities. We honor the love offered by ­those Indigenous ­women who endeavor in this work ­every day—in the l­abor of re­sis­tance, refusal, reclamation, and resurgence. We honor Indigenous ­women who willingly strug­gle and sacrifice for their love of relatives, community, the p ­ eople, the land, and creation, whose presence in the acad­emy serves to honor ancestral knowledge and lift up our communities but, above all ­else, is rooted in love for our p ­ eople, our ancestors, and ­future generations. As we found ourselves nearing the end of this book we grappled with the tensions of writing a “concluding” chapter. We wanted to move beyond colonial norms of neatly categorizing chapters, the impositions of our own interpretation of themes, and the extractive nature of takeaways. We found ourselves constantly pushing back against the implications of a concluding chapter, where we as the editors are positioned as experts with the final say. This felt antithetical to our collective approach throughout this work, to our teachings, and to our efforts to honor story. Beyond this, we acknowledged the tensions we felt with the notion of concluding. ­There is a par­tic­u­lar finality that is felt with a conclusion chapter, an indication that the work is finished. But we did not feel like the work was finished, or that it should be for that ­matter. Again, we found ourselves resisting and turning to our traditional teachings. As we grappled with ­these tensions, we began to have conversations about our dif­fer­ent tribal teachings and shared examples of 257

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not concluding. For some of us, ­t hose lessons are reflected in the ways that our elders send us forward from ceremonies, telling us that “­we’re g­ oing to take a pause” rather than saying “­we’re done” to indicate that ­t here is more to come. Other lessons ­were shared through teachings from pottery and beadwork and urgings to embrace the imperfections. We turned to the work of Amanda Tachine (2018) and her framing of the story rug and the lesson to “leave a strand out” when weaving (p. 73). Tachine shares with us that “Navajo weavers often say ‘leave one strand out,’ meaning that you never close your rug. Alta [my mother-­in-­law] told me that while weaving, all your thoughts go into the rug, the good thoughts and even the bad ones. Thus, when you are done with your rug, you should leave one strand out ­because you do not want ­t hose thoughts to be trapped. They need to go, to be ­free. That way you are able to focus on your next rug” (p. 73). Drawing from Simpson’s (2017) articulation of refusal as a practice, a technique, that embraces the possibility of “­doing ­t hings differently” (p. 29), we let our collective teachings guide us, and we embraced the idea of an unconclusion as an act of refusal. We reflected on the offerings in this book as a connection to our ancestors, so that even when we leave we are never done, our connections remain. We chose to frame this chapter as a sending forth, as an engagement with the contributors and readers in a pro­ cess of reflection and intention setting. We do not seek to provide answers; rather we invite each reader to engage with their own questions and take the lessons that are intended for them. As a part of this pro­cess, we invited each of the contributors to join us in bringing together the collective wisdom shared through our narratives.1 We sought to honor the love and wisdom shared so generously by the generations of Indigenous ­women throughout this book; as such we took care to gather their thoughts and bring them together in our sending forth—­what emerged was our collective prayer for Indigenous m ­ others and ­f uture generations. Recognizing the power of the love, vulnerability, pain, healing, joy, and collective teachings offered throughout this book, we gathered t­ hese thoughts with care and reverence, recognizing that ­these words, t­hese stories, serve as medicine. Each of the contributors was invited to identify a lesson that they wanted to share from their chapter through a sentence or passage. We gathered their shared lessons and wove them together through a pro­cess of poetic transcription (Glesne, 1997; Wright, 2018; Wright & Balutski, 2013), which is presented as a collective prayer at the beginning and sending forth of this book. In the second part of this pro­cess, we invited the contributors to join us in gathering our shared intentions and a collective tying of the bundle. We did this through a virtual gathering (via Zoom) of the authors where we came together to share the collective prayer that was created through our poetic transcription and to collectively set our intentions for the sending forth of this book and its emergence into material production. Heather’s d ­ aughters, Sloan and Sophie, joined us for this pro­cess as representatives of our ­children and ­future generations. Sloan was provided one of our sacred plants that Sophie helped the f­ amily to gather in

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the days before. She was asked to hold this medicine as each of the contributors shared their intentions for this work. As t­ hese words w ­ ere spoken—­giving thanks for our ancestors, honoring t­ hose in the pre­sent, and offering prayers for t­ hose yet to come—­our daughters/nieces tied the bundle of medicine for us, bearing witness to the intentions that w ­ ere set for them and f­uture generations. As we honor this pro­cess, we take our pause h ­ ere and send our readers forth in the same way that we began, with reverence, prayer, and good intentions. We offer to you, our communities, ancestors, and f­ uture generations, this bundle and our collective prayer. To our Indigenous ­mother scholars, your acts of re­sis­tance, reclamation, and resurgence, so deeply rooted in love for the ­people, carry us forward—­and for that, we offer our collective prayer for you, our relatives, and t­ hose yet to come. Our Collective Prayer for Indigenous ­Futures Prayers for our c­ hildren are never ending. . . . ​The way Tutu cared and nourished her students and the way I followed in her footsteps, was all part of the ancestral ways of our kūpuna that flowed through our blood. As h ­ uman beings, we are what we place value to, we have an opportunity in our con­temporary society and responsibility, in fact, an obligation in the acad­emy to walk the walk of what your institutional values state. What I do know is that I have grown while my girls have grown . . . ​and while my institution has grown. Together ­we’ve come this far . . . ​t he ­f uture is bright. I do hope that someday my keiki and their generation w ­ ill know that I have cared for them by the scholarship that I create and the changes I am able to contribute to making higher education a better place for them. Resilient mothering has prepared me for this liminal existence, living in one world but also focusing my energy on helping to build the world of my ­daughters and grand­daughters. A “­mother to all” . . . ​is a matrilineal sensibility that consistently seeks to shorten the distance between locations of suffering and healing A sensibility that requires us, as ­women, to embrace the strug­gle to be more pre­sent in understanding how our bellies are implicated in the pro­cess of growing communities, materially and theoretically Indigenous m ­ others’ grounding and guiding force are through our ­family and our ancestors being a scholar is just one dimension of who we are but our passion and commitment to enacting change in the Indigenous communities come to fruition through this significant vessel called being an Indigenous mama scholar It is our hope that the f­ uture for Indigenous ­mothers in academia w ­ ill be one where our energy is channeled into helping our ­f uture generations rather than spending our energy struggling for legitimacy in the acad­emy

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Note 1. ​This pro­cess draws on the previous work from Robin and Heather in their edited book Reclaiming Indigenous Research in Higher Education (2018).

References Glesne, C. (1997). That rare feeling: Re-­presenting research through poetic transcription. Qualitative Inquiry, 3(2), 202–221. Simpson, A. (2017). The ruse of consent and the anatomy of ‘refusal’: Cases from indigenous North Amer­i­ca and Australia. Postcolonial Studies, 20(1), 18–33.

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Tachine, A.  R. (2018). Story rug: Weaving stories into research. In  R.  S. Minthorn & H. J. Shotton (Eds.), Reclaiming Indigenous research in higher education (pp. 64–75). Rutgers University Press. Wright, E.  K. (2018). “It was a pro­cess of decolonization and that’s about as clear as I can  put it”: Kuleana-­centered higher education and the meanings of Hawaiianess. In R. S. Minthorn & H. J. Shotton (Eds.), Reclaiming Indigenous research in higher education (pp. 18–35). Rutgers University Press. Wright, E. K. & Balutski, B. J. N. (2013). The role of context, critical theory, and counter-­ narratives in understanding Pacific Islander indigeneity. In S. D. Museus, D. C. Maramba, & R. T. Teranishi (Eds.), The misrepresented minority: New insights on Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders and their implications for higher education. Stylus Publishing.

Acknowl­edgments

We recognize that we do not engage in this work alone; rather we do so in community and relationship with generations of Indigenous scholars—­past, pre­sent, and emerging. We are deeply grateful to the Indigenous w ­ omen scholars who joined us on this journey, and whose generosity, vulnerability, wisdom, and love made this book pos­si­ble. Thank you for allowing us to care for your stories. We want to thank Johnathan Nelson for helping bring to life our vision for the organ­ization of this book and creating the visual repre­sen­ta­tion of our t­ able of contents. Thank you to Kristina Maldonado-­Bad Hand for capturing Indigenous motherhood by creating the beautiful artwork for our cover. Thank you to Tamah Minnis for her generous support in helping us to or­ga­nize, format, and bring together the final manuscript. We want to thank our grand­mothers, ­mothers, and aunties for their love and patience—­for we pass along their teachings to our ­children. Fi­nally, we want to thank our c­ hildren, Emery, Roxie, Olin, Sloan, and Sophie, who w ­ ere our inspiration for this book. They each journeyed alongside us throughout this pro­cess: loving, encouraging, and always teaching us. We express our gratitude to our life givers for their roles in our upbringing; they have given us the strength and love we need to be ­here ­today. We love you.

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Miranda Belarde-­Lewis (Zuni/Tlingit) is an assistant professor and the inaugural Jill and Joe McKinstry Endowed Faculty Fellow of Native North American Indigenous Knowledge at the University of Washington’s Information School. Her research focuses on the ways knowledge is documented and transmitted through Native art, and how information institutions are working to protect and respond to Indigenous data concerns. She is an in­de­pen­dent exhibition curator who works with tribal, state, federal, and international institutions and organ­izations to promote Native artists and their work. Her writing has been extensively published in numerous exhibition cata­logues, art publications, and scholarly journals. Tria Blu Wakpa is an assistant professor in the Department of World Arts and Cultures/Dance at UCLA. She is a scholar and practitioner of Indigenous dance, North American Hand Talk, martial arts, and yoga. Her forthcoming book, Settler Colonial and Decolonial Choreographies: Native American Embodiment in Educational and Carceral Contexts, theorizes Indigenous per­for­mances in and beyond institutions of confinement. She has taught interdisciplinary and community-­engaged classes at public, private, tribal, and carceral institutions. At UCLA, she is also affiliated with the American Indian Studies Center and the Center for Community Engagement. Her greatest joy is being a m ­ other. Pearl Brower is the se­nior advisor for Alaska Native Success, Institutional Diversity and Student Engagement at the University of Alaska (2021). She was president of Iḷisaġvik College, Alaska’s only tribal college, from 2008 to 2020. She holds a master’s degree in Alaska Native and rural development and a PhD in Indigenous studies. She grew up in both Barrow, Alaska, and Northern California, practicing a subsistence lifestyle in both areas. She has two young d ­ aughters, and along with her husband, Jesse Darling, lives in Anchorage, Alaska. She serves on numerous boards and commissions supporting culture, community, the state of Alaska, and tribal colleges. 265

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Nizhoni Chow-­Garcia, PhD, is Diné, born to the Tódích’íi’nii (­Bitter ­Water ­ eople) and To’tsohnii (Big W P ­ ater ­People) clans. She earned her undergraduate degree from UCLA and her PhD from the University of Rochester and now serves as the director of inclusive excellence at California State University, Monterey Bay. Her work, broadly supporting Natives in STEM and critical Indigenous frameworks, has been recognized as the 2017 NASPA Melvene D. Hardee Dissertation of the Year Award and the 2017 ACPA Marylu McEwen Dissertation of the Year Award. She can usually be found r­ unning and swimming with her two boys, beading, and learning the ukulele. Otakuye Conroy-­Ben, Titakuye Ota Win (Many Relatives ­Women), is an assistant professor of environmental engineering in the School of Sustainable Engineering and the Built Environment at Arizona State University. She received a BS in chemistry from the University of Notre Dame, and an MA in chemistry and a PhD in environmental engineering from the University of Arizona. Her research interests include tribal w ­ ater quality, wastewater epidemiology and wastewater treatment, and emerging and un­regu­la­ted contaminants. A descendent of Oglala Chiefs Smoke and Red Shirt, she is the first in her ­family to receive a college degree. She proudly represented the Lakota on the powwow cir­cuit as fancy shawl dancer and as Miss Black Hills Nation, He Sapa Win. Charlotte Davidson is Diné and a citizen of the Three Affiliated Tribes, also known as the Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara Nation. ­After receiving a BA in American Indian studies from Haskell Indian Nations University, she earned an MEd and PhD in educational policy studies from the University of Illinois at Urbana-­ Champaign. She possesses over fifteen years of progressively responsible experience across institutional types and functional areas. Her scholarship and practice are deeply influenced by Diné matrilineal pedagogies and focus on po­liti­cal questions and epistemological concerns linked to the participation of Indigenous womxn in higher education. Susan C. Faircloth (Coharie) is professor and director of the School of Education at Colorado State University. Her research interests include Indigenous education, the education of culturally and linguistically diverse students with special educational needs, and the moral and ethical dimensions of school leadership. She has published widely in such journals as Educational Administration Quarterly, Harvard Educational Review, Journal of Special Education Leadership, International Studies in Educational Administration, Values and Ethics in Educational Administration, Tribal College Journal of American Indian Higher Education, Rural Special Education Quarterly, and Journal of Disability Policy Studies. She resides in Fort Collins, Colorado, with her husband Lee, ­daughter Journey, and a host of animals. In her spare time, she enjoys cooking, thrifting, and gardening. Theresa Gregor (Iipay/Yoéme) is an assistant professor in American Indian studies at California State University, Long Beach (aka Puvungna). She is from the Iipay Nation of Santa Ysabel. She is currently writing and editing an anthology

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about California American Indian W ­ omen: Their Lives, Stories, and Contributions. Her scholarly work includes American Indian lit­er­a­ture and writing studies, California American Indian studies, gender, Indigenous philosophy, traditional cultural knowledge, and resiliency. Denise Henning, PhD, is Cherokee/Choctaw from Oklahoma. Her ­career in higher education spans thirty years in the United States and Canada, also serving as gradu­ate faculty in New Zealand. She has served as president/CEO of two community colleges, president and vice-­chancellor for University College of the North, and VP of academic/research at First Nations University of Canada. She directs the UNCW/3C Collaborative and is faculty in education leadership at the University of North Carolina Wilmington and coordinates community college leadership. She works internationally hosting W ­ omen Honoring Other ­Women (WHOW), a 501(c)3 nonprofit, supporting and advancing w ­ omen leaders and ­women of color in higher education Renée Holt, PhD, is Diné from the Tse’naha’biłhni clan and enrolled with the Nez Perce Tribe. A ­mother of three, she grounds her work in Diné K’é and Nimiipuuneewit himyuuweet frameworks that are land-­based and culturally sustaining. Her research interests center restorative justice as a means ­toward healing and wellness, and she serves on the faculty at Northwest Indian College. She uses Indigenous storywork as methodology and the princi­ples of relationality, re­spect, reciprocity, responsibility, and re­distribution for her work and research in community. With a background in Native teacher education and working with public school teachers and administrators on and near reservations, she works in her home community on the Nez Perce reservation. Ahnili Johnson-­Jennings is a third-­year college student at Dartmouth College majoring in Native American studies and government. She is a Quapaw, Sac & Fox, Choctaw, and Miami ­woman who is dedicated to addressing ­legal issues in American Indian communities, specifically including the Missing and Murdered Indigenous W ­ omen crisis. She plans to attend law school directly a­ fter college graduation with hopes to become a federal Indian ­lawyer. Alayah Johnson-­Jennings (Choctaw, Quapaw, Sac & Fox, and Miami) is a current master’s of public health student at the Gillings School of Global Public Health at the University of North Carolina–­Chapel Hill. She is pursuing the health equity, social justice, ­human rights concentration. She recently graduated from Dartmouth College with a degree in Native American studies and sociology. She hopes to contribute to improving health equity for Indigenous ­women and ­children in the near f­ uture. Michelle Johnson-­Jennings, PhD, EdM (Choctaw Nation), serves as a University of Washington full professor and director of the Division of Environmental Health and land-­based healing at the Indigenous Wellness Research Institute. As a clinical health psychologist, she has partnered with and received large-­scale

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funding from many international and national Indigenous nations, organ­ izations, and communities. Together they have codeveloped health interventions entrenched in ancestral guidelines to encourage a renewed commitment to health and the revitalization of land-­based healing practices. She is a first-­generation college student, born and raised in Oklahoma, and ­mother to four amazing ­children. Tiffany S. Lee (Diné/Oglala Lakota) is a professor and chair of Native American studies at the University of New Mexico. Her research examines educational and culturally based outcomes of Indigenous language immersion schools, Native youth perspectives on language reclamation, and socioculturally centered education. She is a former secondary social studies and language arts teacher and a ­former volleyball and track coach. She is currently involved with colleagues on proj­ects to open a Diné language nest in Albuquerque and to prepare Diné speakers into becoming Diné language immersion educators. Kaiwipunikauikawékiu Lipe is a Kanaka Maoli ­mother, ­daughter, wife, educator, and hula dancer. She is the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa’s Native Hawaiian Affairs Program officer and leads the Native Hawaiian Place of Learning Advancement Office; the Truth, Racial Healing, and Transformation Campus Center; and the Institute for Hawaiian Language Research and Translation. Her research and praxis focus on utilizing Indigenous knowledge for individual, group, and institutional healing and transformation. She lives in Koʻolaupoko, Oʻahu, with her ʻohana. Shelly Lowe is a citizen of the Navajo Nation and grew up on the Navajo Reservation in Ganado, Arizona. Her c­ areer in higher education has included administrative roles as executive director of the Harvard University Native American Program, assistant dean in the Yale College Deans Office, and director of the Native American Cultural Center at Yale University. Prior to t­ hese positions, she was the Gradu­ate Education Program facilitator for the American Indian Studies Program at the University of Arizona. She has served on the board of the National Indian Education Association, as a board trustee for the National Museum of the American Indian, and as a member of the National Council on the Humanities, an appointment she received from President Obama. Dwanna L. McKay is a citizen of the Muscogee Nation, the ­mother of Dena Costello, and an assistant professor of race, ethnicity, and migration studies and Indigenous studies at Colorado College. As a sociologist, she focuses her qualitative research on the inherent institutional in­equality of Indigenous identity in the United States and centers Native persons and/or their narratives in her work. She is the youn­gest of eight ­children and a first-­generation college student and the first in her immediate f­ amily to earn a college degree, including an MS, an MBA, and a PhD. She also works to engage a nonacademic audience to create awareness about Indigenous histories, narratives, and experiences to disrupt ste­reo­t ypical and racist assumptions about Indigenous ­peoples.

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Robin Zape-­tah-­hol-­ah Minthorn is a citizen of the Kiowa tribe of Oklahoma and descendant of the Umatilla/Nez Perce/Apache and Assiniboine Nations. She is a grand­daughter, ­daughter, s­ ister, auntie, wife, and ­mother to Roxie and Emery. She is an associate professor, director of the Educational Leadership Doctoral Program, and director of Indigenous Education Initiatives for the School of Education at the University of Washington Tacoma. Her heartwork is to cocreate spaces that honor tribal sovereignty and build reciprocal relationships with tribal communities within Indigenous higher education. Most recently she has been a cocreator of Indigenous doctoral programs at the University of New Mexico and UW Tacoma. Christine A. Nelson is from the K’awaika and Diné tribes and grew up in the border town of Farmington, New Mexico. As a first-­generation college student, she started her higher education journey at a community college and slowly worked her way to the University of Arizona, where she earned her PhD in higher education. As a faculty member at the University of Denver–­Morgridge College of Education’s Higher Education Department, she centers Indigenous perspectives and practices in her work to ensure communities are empowered and well represented in their communal efforts. When she ­isn’t sitting in front of the computer, she is a ­mother to Olin, a partner to talented artist, Johnny, and a cat mom to Lucky Cat. She is an avid player and spectator of soccer since she was four years old. Symphony Oxendine, Cherokee/Choctaw, is an assistant professor in higher education at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. She was a student affairs practitioner prior to becoming faculty. Her research centers the social and institutional issues that affect the educational per­for­mance and institutional support of Indigenous ­people in higher education, appreciative inquiry, engagement and leadership, historically Native American fraternities and sororities, and pathways into student affairs. Her concentration on ­t hese areas ­w ill help shape the direction and development of higher education by contributing to the understanding of vari­ous institutional, psychosocial, and po­liti­cal pro­cesses to develop the capacity for change. Nicole Alia Salis Reyes was born in Honolulu and raised on dif­fer­ent parts of Oʻahu and the U.S. continent. She currently lives in Mānoa with her husband and two ­children and is an associate professor of higher education at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa. Her research broadly considers how communities of color, especially Indigenous ­peoples, define postsecondary success for themselves and how institutions of higher education can better support ­t hese forms of success. She is particularly interested in thinking about what relationships between higher education and kuleana lāhui (nation building) could and should look like. Heather J. Shotton is a citizen of the Wichita & Affiliated Tribes and a Kiowa and Cheyenne descendent. She is associate professor and chair of the Department of Educational Leadership & Policy Studies and the director of Indigenous education initiatives in the Jeannine Rainbolt College of Education at the University of

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Oklahoma. Her scholarship and praxis have been dedicated to bringing visibility to Indigenous p ­ eople in higher education and transforming higher education as a site of reclamation for Indigenous communities. She is m ­ other to Sloan Woska-­ pi-mi and Sophie Mąngrida Wajimi, auntie/mom to Melayna, and partner to John. Sloan Woska-­pi-­mi Shotton is a citizen of the Otoe-­Missouria Tribe (Owl Clan) and a descendent of the Wichita, Kiowa, Cheyenne, and Iowa tribes. Her Otoe name, Woska-­pi-mi, means “­woman with good character.” She is a ju­nior at Fort Lewis College, where she is majoring in exercise physiology and Native American & Indigenous studies. She is an accomplished student athlete and plays softball for Fort Lewis College. She is d ­ aughter to Heather and John and s­ ister to Sophie and Melayna. Leola Tsinnajinnie-­Paquin, PhD (Diné/Filipina and accepted into Santa Ana Pueblo), is an assistant professor at the University of New Mexico (UNM) in Native American studies. Her research and ser­v ice activities focus on Indigenous educational sovereignty. She is an associated faculty member with UNM’s Institute for American Indian Education, has cochaired the UNM Diversity Council Curriculum Subcommittee, has been an Academic Affairs General Education Faculty Fellow on Race and Social Justice, and is a former president of the American Indian Studies Association Council. Most recently, she has been focusing on Indigenous education initiatives with the school districts of her home communities. Stephanie J. Waterman, PhD (she/her), Onondaga, Turtle Clan, associate professor at the Ontario Institute for Studies in Education/University of Toronto, in Leadership, Higher & Adult Education, coordinates the Student Development / Student Ser­vices program stream in the lands of the Huron-­Wendat, Seneca, and Mississaugas of the Credit. She is co-­editor with Heather J. Shotton and Shelly C. Lowe of Beyond the Asterisk: Understanding Native Students in Higher Education (2013) and Beyond Access: Indigenizing Programs for Native Student Success (2018) and with ­D.-­L . Stewart of a Journal of College Student Development special issue on “Race, Indigeneity & Relationship in Student Affairs and Higher Education” (2020). Erin Kahunawaikaʻala Wright is Kanaka ʻŌiwi (Kānaka ʻŌiwi) and fifth-­ generation resident of Kaluaopalena, Kalihi, Oʻahu, with genealogical roots also in Waiʻanae, Oʻahu, South Kona, Hawaiʻi, and Southern China. She is a mom to Kamakea, now an eighth grader. Currently, she is an associate professor of educational administration (higher education) at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa. Her research and teaching reflect her professional background in student affairs, primarily working with Kānaka ʻŌiwi students in higher education, and her commitment to building collaborative, critical, and generative educational environments as part of her kuleana lāhui (Native nation building).

Index

Aboriginal scholar, 141 academic anxiety, 117, 166 Academic Auntie, 223 academic identity, 241, 244 Acker, J., 49, 50, 52 Adams D. W., 249 Africa, 148 African, 84, 90 African American, 107 African American Policy Forum, 178 ʻāina, 59, 185, 226–228 Alcantara, A. N., 37 Almeida, D., 249 aloha, 227, 235–237 American Association of University Professors, 220 American Civil Liberties Union, 40, 41 American Indian Studies, 38, 39, 41, 173, 265, 266, 268, 270 American Indian Studies Association, 40, 41, 43, 99, 270 Americanization of Hawai’i, 225 ancestors’ prayers, 12, 125 ancestral knowledges, 250 ancestry and identity, politics of, 121 Anderson, K., 10, 11 anti-­Blackness, 177 anti-­Indian racism, 84, 85 anxiety, 43, 89, 133, 156, 190, 195; attack, 213 Apache, 151, 269 Arbery, Ahmaud, 177 Archibald, J., 248 Arday, J., 121 Arikara, 238, 240, 266 Armenian, 217 Armenti, C., 49 Arvin, M., 6

assimilation, 90n3, 120, 130, 147; federal assimilation, 144, 145, 149, 249 Assiniboine, 151, 269 Audre Lordean, 173 Australia, 148 Baez, B., 55 Balutski, B. J. N., 258 Battiste, M., 144 Beckwith, M. W., 236 Begaye, Russell, 44 Beginning and End of Rape, The (Deer), 210 Belin, Esther, 238 Bellarde-­Lewis, Miranda, 265 Benally, H., 32, 63, 70n1 Benally, Jessica, 39, 41 Bensimon, E. M., 49 Bernal Delgado, D., 55 Bertram, W., 121 Bilimoria, D., 7 BIPOC, 177, 178, 198n1 Biskaabi, 67 BIWOC, 193 Black Lives ­Matter, 177, 178 Blaisdell, K., 58 Blanket Ceremony, 19–21 Blue Bird, George, 111, 118, 197, 198 Blue Jay’s Dance, The (Erdrich), 174 Blu Wakpa, Tria, 111, 113, 115, 118–120, 122, 265 boarding school, 31–33, 73, 144–146, 163, 247, 249 Bourassa, C., 11 Boyd, A. Jamie Kamailani, 222 Boyd, Manue, 236n6 Brave Heart, M. Y. H., 222 Brayboy, Bryan, 41, 50, 56, 248

271

272 I n d e x Brenner, Alison, 102 Brower, Pearl, 265 Brown, J. E., 123n2 Burke, R. J., 220 Burkhart, B. Y., 70 Burns, L. M. S. P., 111 Butler, J., 223 Caballero, C., 5 Cajete, Greg, 78 Campbell, M., 10 capitalism, 88, 179 caretaking, 119–121, 177, 179, 186 Carlisle boarding school, 145, 249 Carlton, B. S., 222 Carney, C. M., 249 Cassleman, A., 252 Castañeda, M., 4, 88 ceremony, cultural, 13, 78, 100, 109, 146; role of, 143, 144, 198, 242 ceremony and land, 149 chains of colonialism, 111, 121, 122, 123 Chambers, B. D., 86 Chandler, K. L., 250 Chavez, Lorilei, 41 Checotah, 90n5 Cherokee, 90n3, 113, 137, 140, 267, 269; Cherokee ­woman, 139 Cherokee belief system, 138 Cheyenne, 20, 201, 269, 270 Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe, 112, 197 Child, B., 144–146 childhood trauma, 147 Chippewa, 217 Choctaw, 73–82, 90n3, 113, 137, 267, 269 Choctaw, w ­ omen, 73–76, 79; worldview, 76 Choctaw M ­ other, 79 Choctaw motherhood, 75–80 Choctaw womanhood, 76 choreographies of care, 118, 119 Chow-­Garcia, Nizhoni, 64, 68, 266 Chumash, 119 Circle Bear, Andrea, 197, 198 Cisneros, N. A., 250 Clemmer-­Smith R., 20 Cochise, 172 Cochiti Pueblo, 35 Colbeck, C., 49 Collier, Brian, 39 Collins, Patricia Hill, 114, 147, 228 colonization, 80, 111, 112, 119, 121, 163; impacts of, 11, 64, 73, 74, 81, 82, 145 colonization, imperialistic, 90n1 colonization, understanding, 137, 141 community inspired, 41, 46 community prayers, 106 Conroy-­Ben, Otakuye, 265

Conway-­Jones, D., 56, 57 Cooper, J. E., 220 Coté, Charlotte, 98 COVID, 2, 3, 187–194, 197, 203, 213; effects on motherhood, 11, 177, 183, 191, 192. See also pandemic Creator, 5, 138, 139, 158, 203, 214; giving thanks, 39 Creator’s original instructions, 73 Crenshaw, Kimberlé, 226 critical cultural studies, 148 Critical Race Theory, 226 Crossland, C., 82 Cuero, Delfina, 170 cultural appropriation, 88 cultural genocide, 84, 145, 149 cultural identity, 34 cultural kinship princi­ple, 245 cultural paradigms, 142, 245 Dakota, 119 Dakota Access Pipeline, 165 Darder, A., 239, 240 Dartmouth, 79, 80, 187, 267 Davidson, Charlotte, 68, 238, 241, 266 Davis, A. Y., 121 decolonial love, 112, 114, 122 decolonization, 50, 149, 77, 80, 245; decolonize, 103, 130, 248 decolonization, refusal and, 250 Decolonization for Educational Sovereignty, 39, 43 Decolonization in Prevalent Structures from the Perspective of Resilient Indigenous ­Women Scholars, 41 decolonization of research, 78 decolonization of society, 80 Deer, Sarah, 147, 144, 210 Dejong, D. N., 73 depression, 65, 149, 205, 209; post-­partum, 218 destigmatize seeking help, 208, 211; assault and trauma, 214–216 Díaz, Junot, 122 Dibe Łizhini, 2, 29, 30, 34–36 Diné, 21, 45, 143, 145–148, 238, 266–270; language, 29, 34, 35, 243, 246, 268 Diné Bikeyah, 242 Diné creation story, 68, 70n3 Diné culture, 30–38 Dine Education Research Conference, 44 Diné knowledge, 63 Diné matrilineal pedagogies, 266 directional memory, 239, 246 disrupting Western education systems, 149 Diversity Council, 154, 270 double colonization, 226

Index Drago, R. W., 49 dual motherhood roles, 168 Ea­gle, K., 122 Earth Surface Person, 241, 244, 246 energy, emotional, 183; ­labor, 189, 253 epistemological foundation, 241; decolonizing, 245 epistemological tradition, 141; concerns, 266 erasure of cultural knowledge, 144 Erausquin, J. T., 86 Erdrich, Louise, 174 Eurocentric, 67 Evans, E., 4 Faircloth, Susan, 266 feminism, 127, 171; Indigenous and w ­ omen of color feminisms, 117 feminist, 5, 89, 147, 150, 170 feminist, Hawaiian, 226 Fighting the ­Battle of Double Colonization: The View of a Hawaiian Feminist (Trask), 226 Filipino, 37, 42, 111, 120, 121 Filipino American Experience in New Mexico, The (Filipino American National Historical Society Rio Grande Chapter), 37 Five Civilized Tribes, 84, 90 Five Civilized Tribes, 90n3 Flaherty, C., 115 Flood, A., 122 Floyd, George, 177 Foucault, Michel, 116 Freire, P., 54 Frye Art Museum, 102 Gabrielino/Tongva, 112, 119, 120 Garvey, J. C., 7 genealogies, intellectual, 245 generational cycles, 143, 144, 146 genocidal logics, 113 genocidal tactics, 130 Gish, 64, 70n2 Glesne, C., 258 Goeman, Mishuana, 238 Goodyear-­Kaʻōpua, Noelani, 224–227 Grande, S., 9, 11, 252 Grant, C., 4 Gree, Rayna, 171 Green Corn Ceremony, 75, 82 Gregor, Theresa, 175, 266 grieving pro­cess, 128 Guillory, R. M., 86 Gunn Allen, Paula, 7 Hall, Stuart, 148 Hamley, J. L., 249

273 Handy, E. S., 237 Haudenosaunee, 247, 249 Haumea—­Transforming the Health of Native Hawaiian W ­ omen and Empowering Wāhine Well-­Being (Office of Hawaiian Affairs), 222 Hawaiian Kingdom, 224 Hawaiian society, traditional, 234 Hawaiian studies, 228, 234 healing generational cycles, 143 heartwork, 195, 269 Henderson, L., 5 Henning, Denise, 267 Herrera, P., 4 heteronormative, 221, 133, 114, 7, 6 heteropatriarchy, 6, 172, 227; heteropatriarchal, 7, 220, 228 Hidatsa, 238, 240, 266 Hinton-­Johnson, K., 4 Hirshfield, L. E., 56, 57 historical trauma, 11, 148, 222, 223 Hollo, 2, 73–77, 79, 82, 188 Holm, A., 34 Holm, W., 34 Holt, Renée, 267 hooks, bell, 114 Hotda, 93, 94 Hózhó, Diné concept of, 62–64, 67–70 hózhóogo iina, 63, 64, 67 Huhndorf, S. M., 112 Huron-­Wendat, 247, 270 hybridized identity, 240 identity, 50, 69, 106, 137, 137, 169, 243; as an academic m ­ other, 119, 238–241 identity, questions of, 81 identity and research, 66 identity as an aunt, 221, 152 identity formation, 112, 240 identity taxation, 56 Idigenous ­women, stories of, 201, 202, 215 iiná, 63, 68, 69 Iipay, 169, 172, 174, 266 Iḷisaġvik, 218, 219 Iḷisaġvik College, 217, 218, 265 Illuminating Tongva Embodied Knowledge and ­Women’s Mana and Hawaiian Sovereignty, 119 Ina, 1, 114, 118, 162, 196 Indian Maiden Halloween costumes, 81, 82 Indian mascots, 88, 90 Indian Princess, 86, 171 Indian Territory, 84 Indigenous community narrative, 5, 6, 8, 9 Indigenous cultural reclamation, 111 Indigenous feminist scholars, 6 Indigenous ­f utures, 114, 259

274 I n d e x Indigenous identity, 21, 113, 138, 164, 268 Indigenous kinship systems, 143–145 Indigenous knowledge, 82, 101, 265, 268; systems, 147, 250 Indigenous mentors, 132 Indigenous Mother-­Scholars, 3, 7, 125, 186 Indigenous narratives in motherhood, 4 Indigenous parenting practices, 144 Indigenous ­Peoples’ Day of Re­sis­tance and Resilience, 153 Indigenous scholars, 87, 89, 97, 103, 210; recognizing past pre­sent f­ uture of, 59, 101, 130, 139, 141, 152, 186, 253, 263 Indigenous scholars, values of, 4, 50 Indigenous scholar sisterhood, 244, 245 Indigenous survival, 113, 121, 122 Indigenous ways of knowing, 68, 143 Indigenous womanhood, 149 Indigenous ­women, 9–12, 76, 101, 114, 115, 132; ­mothers, 139, 141 Indigenous ­women, devaluation of, 146 Indigenous ­women, roles of, 3, 6, 147, 148, 152, 168; traditional roles of, 7 Indigenous ­women, vio­lence against, 81, 82, 210, 252 Indigenous ­women and educational journeys, 137; scholars, 141 Indigenous ­women as the backbone of the ­people, 1, 121 Indigenous ­Women’s Perspectives on 21st ­Century Indigenous Community Building, 41 Indigenous worldview, 139 in loco parentis, 106 Institutionalized identity, 83 institutionalized identity politics, 83 intergenerational trauma, 149, 163 intersectionality, 226, 227 intersectional oppression, 86 Iñupiaq, 217 Iowa, 201, 270 Isgro, K., 4, 88 Ishthullo, 75 islands of decolonial love, 111, 112, 118, 119, 122 Isleta Pueblo, 44 Jacob, M., 11 Jacobs, Kawenná­here Devery, 113 Jaschik, S., 118 Jennings, Derek, 77 Johnson-­Jennings, Alayah, 267 Johnson-­Jennings, Michelle, 75, 76, 186, 267 Joseph, T. D., 56, 57 Ka Hei a Haumea, 225 Kahn, J. R., 220 Kahnawake, 249

Kame‘eleihiwa, Lilikalā, 7, 227, 236n5 Kamehameha Schools, 225, 232 Kanaʻiaupuni, 222 Kanaka Maoli, 49, 50, 54, 59, 231, 268 Kanaka ʻŌiwi, 58, 220, 270 K’é, 32, 68, 69, 267 Keith, Victoria, 229 Kimmerer, R., 253 kinship, 20, 32, 68, 175, 242, 244 kinship, disrupted, 144 kinship and relationality, 21 Kiowa, 151, 159, 201, 269, 270; relatives, 212 Kiowa Gourd Clan, 212 Kiva Club, 153 Knights of Columbus, 39 Kulago, H., 145 Kuleana, 50, 59, 224, 234, 237 Kuleana lāhui, 50, 220, 221, 223, 228, 269, 270 Kumeyaay, Ceremony, 170 Laguna Pueblo, 21, 44 lāhui Hawaiʻi, 227, 50, 221, 224, 228 Lakota, 1, 29, 112, 114, 123n1, 163, 266; epistemologies, 118 Lakota, Oglala, 162, 268 Lakota ceremony, 111, 120 Lakota land, 111, 117, 120, 122, 197 Lakota language, 111, 164 Lakota Nation Invitational’s annual Teca Wacipi Okolakiciya, 122 Lakota w ­ omen, 1, 162 land theft, 90, 93 Lapayese, Y. V., 229 LaSala, M. C., 7 Lavell-­Harvard, D., 10 Lawrence, C. R., III, 228 Lee, P., 106 Lee, Tiffany, 268 Levin, D., 121 Lindsey, D. F., 249 Lipe, Kaiwipunikauikawékiu, 268 Lorde, Audre, 114 love, politics of, 112–114 Lowe, Shelly, 268 Lucas, C. J., 251 Lumbee, 138, 140 #MeToo, 122 mana, 2, 50, 59, 226 mana wahine, 236, 237 Mandan, 238, 240, 266 Mankiller, Wilma, 3 Manley, H., 177 Maracle, Lee, 144, 150 Marcus, J., 220 Mason, Mary Ann, 89, 115 maternal instincts, 234

Index Matias, C. E., 50 matriarch, 10, 149, 150; matriarchy, 20; matriarchal, 80, 148 matrilineal, 85, 88, 242, 243, 245, 252, 259; Diné, 229, 266 matrilineality, Indigenous, 243 matrix of intelligibility, 223 McAlpin, J. D., 67 McCarty, T. L., 9 McDade, Tony, 177 McKay, Dwanna, 268 Mckleroy, V. S., 7 McNeley, J. K., 64 medicine, 2, 10, 12, 161, 225, 244, 259; Western, 170 medicine, drawing strength from, 209 medicine as stories, 215, 258 Metoyer, Cheryl, 101 Meyer, Manulani Aluli, 55, 56, 97 Miami, 73, 79, 81, 267 Mihesuah, Devon, 7, 148, 149, 171, 175, 223 Million, Dian, 6 Minthorn, Robin Zape-­tah-­hol-ah, 260, 269 Missing and Murdered Indigenous ­Women, 210, 267 Mohawk, 247, 249 Mohawk identity, 249 Mohee, ­Little, 172 Mongolia, 148 moʻokūʻauhau, 58, 59, 223, 226 Moore, J. B., 30 Morgan, A. C., 117 Morrison, 4 motherhood, 68, 112–117, 143–145, 163, 170–179, 231; and scholarship, 49, 50, 59, 131 motherhood, academic, 4, 50, 51, 239, 241, 242 motherhood, colonization of, 73, 74 motherhood, Indigenous, 12, 45, 50, 162; explanations of, 62, 80, 82, 122, 125, 129, 144, 146, 149 motherhood, stigmas of, 12, 132 motherhood, Western understanding of, 88 motherhood and the pandemic, 11 motherhood in the acad­emy, 9, 30, 38, 40, 77, 130; understanding of, 2–5, 239 mothering, contemplations of, 3–5, 48, 87, 128, 144, 152; in the acad­emy, 20, 143–150, 169, 229n5 mothering, Kanaka, 220 motherscholar, 50, 54, 59 Muñoz, Susana, 216 murdered missing indigenous ­women and girls, 82 Muscogee, 83, 87, 88, 90, 268; culture, 84, 86, 89 Muscogee Motherhood, 2, 83, 85–90

275 Nadal, K. L., 8 National Center for Education Statistics, 251 National Collaborating Centre for Aboriginal Health, 221 national identity, 172 National Indian Education Association, 158, 268 National Pregnancy, Infant and Child Loss Awareness Day, 154 nation building, 41, 50, 220, 222, 223, 226–228 Native American and Indigenous Studies Association (NAISA) conference, 43, 99 Native American Church, 209 Native American Council of Tribes, 197 Native American Studies, 35, 37–40, 267, 268, 270 Native American Studies Indigenous Research Group, 39, 40 Native ancestry, 112, 113, 121 Native genocide, 122 Native Hawaiian Student Ser­v ices., 228 Native Sun News, 120 Navajo Nation, 33, 44, 64, 268 Nelson, Christine, 269 Nelson, D. L., 220 Nelson, Johnathan., 26, 114, 263 neoliberal, institutions, 194 New Zealand, 34, 148, 267 Nez Perce, 151, 267, 269 Nicol, D. J., 57 Nicolazzo, Z., 198n1 Nimiipuu, 143, 145, 146, 147, 267 Nogelmeier, Puakea, 236n11 non-­Eurocentric, 120 North Carolina, 47, 138, 267 Nuʻuhiwa, K., 225 O’Brien, G., 75 O’Brien Hallstein, L., 4 Office of Hawaiian Affairs, 222 ohana, 2, 55, 56, 222–225, 228, 233, 235–237 Ohlone, lands, 114 Okemah, 83 Oklahoma, 47, 84, 89, 152, 159, 194; leaving, 140, 201 ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi, 52, 54, 58 ‘ōlelo noʻeau, 53, 54 O’Meara, K., 50 Onkwehonwe, 248, 250 Onondaga, 66, 247, 248, 249, 270 oppression, 7, 88, 115, 116, 227, 241; axes of oppression, 132 O’Reilly, A., 4 Ortiz, Roxanne Dunbar, 90n7 Osorio, J. K., 229

276 I n d e x Otoe-­Missouria, 201, 270 overworked, feelings of being, 130, 131 Oxendine, Symphony, 269 pandemic, 12, 178–186, 195–198, 212, 214 pandemic of racism, 13n2, 177 Pathway out of Poverty, 223 patriarchal effects, 5, 9, 115, 145, 147, 247–249; systems and structure, 4, 7, 89, 130, 178, 228, 248, 251 patriarchal society, 117, 210 patriarchy, 7, 9, 83, 88, 131, 228, 247; settler-­colonial patriarchy, 147–149. See also patriarchal patriarchy, vio­lence of, 252 Patwin, 114 ­people of color, 89, 113, 115, 132, 174, 177 Pesantubbee, M. E., 75 Petersen, A. H., 228 Petun, 247 Philippines, 37, 120 Philips, M. L., 63 philosophy, Diné, 13 philosophy, Western, 166 piko ʻekolu, 58 place, Power of, 212 place and identity, 85 Platero, Navalyn, 41 Pocahontas, 81, 86, 113; Pocahontas Perplex, 171, 172 Pop, Nina, 177 Powhatan, 11, 13 prayer, 5, 52, 69, 153, 159, 209, 225; and scholar sisterhood, 245 prayer, collective, 1, 12, 13n1, 258, 259 prayer, Diné, 10, 63 prayer, healing and, 212, 215 Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana, 226 Pueblo, 21, 35, 37, 93, 103, 270 Pueblo Convocation, 45 Pukui, M. K., 53, 54, 59, 229 Quapaw, 73, 77, 79, 81, 267 Queen Liliʻuokalani, 224 Quigley, K. A., 249 Racism, 84–86, 89, 108, 114, 133, 193; Legitimized racism, 83, 88, 90n8 Rankin, S. S., 7 reclamation, 257, 259, 268, 270; of womanhood, 144, 145 reclamation and healing, 1, 112, 203, 214, 216 refusal and decolonization, 250 refusing ste­reo­t ypes, 250 relf-­care, 57, 58, 147, 184 relf-­discovery, 143, 147 (re)mapping, 238

rematriation, 5, 144, 210, 242; rematriating, 6, 149 repatriation, 144 repre­sen­ta­tion, Indigenous, 148, 188 reproduction, power of, 104–110 resilience of Indigenous w ­ omen, 81 resilient mothering, 220–228, 259 resources for survivors, 216 restorative justice, 144, 145, 267 Reyes, Nicole, 269 Reyes Garcia, Nalleli, 41 Reyes Salis, N. A., 50, 58, 225 Rich, A., 228n2 Risling Baldy, C., 7, 11, 170 Robertson, D. L., 86, 89, 90 Rosebud Reservation, 119 Roussell, A., 114 Rukeyser, Murial, 143 #SayHerName, 177 Sac & Fox, 73, 77, 79, 81, 267 Sacagawea, 172 Sacred Space of Womanhood (National Collaborating Centre for Aboriginal Health), 221 Sanchez, J., 249 Sandberg, S., 56 San Pedro, 250, 253 Sápa, Heȟáka, 123n1 Sawyer, W., 121 Schweitzer, M., 11 Scott, Mount, 184, 212 Sears, J. T., 7 Settee, P., 11 settler-­colonial conceptions, 114, 252 settler-­colonial effects, 111–115, 144, 145, 170, 249, 265; discourse, 113, 121 settler-­colonial institutions, 112 settler colonialism, 4–7, 84, 87, 121, 179; definitions of, 90n7, 112–115, 122, 178, 198n1, 247 settler-­colonialism, vio­lence of, 144–149 settler-­colonial perspectives, 89 settler-­colonial trauma, 250 settler colonization, 143–145 settler narratives, 4, 8, 10, 11, 112 sexism, 132 sexual assault, 81, 201–216; in sports, 210 sexual assualt survivor, 201, 203, 210, 214–216n1 Shipek, F., 170 Sho Sho Esquire: Doctrine of Discovery, 102 Shotton, Heather, 149, 245, 253, 260, 269, 270 Shotton, Sloan Woska-­pi-mi, 270 Silva, N., 224 Silver Springs Indian Church, 85, 90n5 Simpson, Audra, 5, 10, 248, 249, 251, 252, 258

Index Simpson, Leanne Betasamosake, 111, 112, 114, 122 Sinclair-­Chapman, V., 252 Singh, A. A., 7 Singletary, Preston, 102 Sioux Falls, 111 Sisseton-­Wahpeton Oyate, 119 Smith, K., 118 Smith, L. T., 119, 144 Solorzano, Danny, 226 South Dakota, 119, 111, 197 South Dakota State Penitentiary, 111, 120, 122, 197 South Dakota’s ­Women’s Prison, 120, 121 sovereignty, 5, 40, 89, 90n1, 121, 227, 269; education, 148, 270 sovereignty and nationhood, 250 Squanto, 172 Stabenow, Dana, 190 Stanley, C. A., 55 ste­reo­t ypes, 4, 5, 62, 81, 86–89, 107; refusing, 169, 172, 250 sterilization, 170 Stevens, D. D., 220 Stewart, A. J., 7 stigma of teen parenthood, 83; of Trisomy, 18, 157, 158 Sto:Loh, 144 stomp dance, 75, 85, 90n4 Stuckey, M. E., 249 Sunseri, L., 250 survival, 1, 9, 81, 90n3, 147, 163, 216; Indigenous, 112, 113, 121, 122 survival, cultural, 150, 154 survival, histories of, 240 survivance, 58, 59, 227 survivors, boarding school, 1, 162 Sutherland, J. A., 50 Tachine, Amanda, 248, 258 Tagalog, 111, 120 TallBear, Kim, 119 Tamaya, 38, 41, 45, 46 Tamayame, 37 Taos, 45 Taylor, Breonna, 177 teaching, online, 180, 196 Tellez, M., 4 The Beginning and End of Rape: Confronting Sexual Vio­lence Thelin, J. R., 52 Third World analy­sis, 227 Thoennes, N., 73, 81 Thomas, W., 121 Thomas Indian School, 247, 249 Tierny, W. G., 49 Tjaden, P., 73, 81

277 Tlingit, 92, 103, 265 Tompkins, A., 198 Tonawanda Band of Seneca, 238 Torreon, 41, 42 Trail of Tears, Cherokee, 84 Trail of Tears, Choctaw, 81, 188 Trask, Haunani-­Kay, 146, 148, 220, 221, 223–228 trauma, 12, 73, 78, 102, 223, 250; sexual assault, 128, 201–215 trauma, cultural, 222 Trauma, historical, 11, 222, 223 trauma and healing, 189 Tribal Canoe Journey, 98, 101 tribal communities, 87, 92, 106, 107, 139, 178; gender and ­family understanding, 7, 83, 141 tribal communities, effect of the pandemic on, 177 tribal communities, pollution of, 165, 167 tribal communities, relationships with, 269 tribalist, 171, 175 tribally unenrolled Native ancestries, 111, 120 Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 249 Tsinnajinnie, Belin, 41 Tsinnajinnie, M. M., 37 Tsinnajinnie-­Paquin, Leola, 270 Tuck, E., 5, 112, 178, 250 Turner, C. S. V., 252 Turtle Island, 101, 120, 251 UCLA, 65, 116, 117, 119, 196, 265, 266 Umatilla, 151, 269 unci maka, 164, 165, 168 University of Arizona, 38, 39, 95, 164, 266–269 University of California Berkeley, 115 University of New Mexico, 37, 38, 41–45, 152–154, 157, 268–270 University of North Carolina Chapel-­Hill, 267 University of North Carolina Wilmington, 267, 269 University of Oklahoma, 76, 270, 271 U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs, 90n2 Valdez, Jeanine, 44 Varner, A., 49 Vega, C., 250 Villalpando, O., 55 vio­lence, academic, 252 vio­lence, sexual, 81, 210 Virgin Mary, 52 Virgin-­W hore paradox, 172 Vizenor, Gerald, 227

278 I n d e x Waboose, V. G., 249 wāhine koa, 224 Wāhine ʻŌiwi, 220, 222, 223, 226–228 Walters, Karina, 81 Wanblie Wiconi Tipi, 119 Wappo, 114 Ward, K., 4, 49, 89 Waterman, Stephanie, 247, 251, 270 Wayne, John, 108 Webber, Storme, 102 Werito, V., 42, 64, 66, 68, 69 Western-­academy, 1, 251 Western approaches, viewpoint of, 141 Western beliefs about menstruation, 171 white feminist theory, 171 white supremacy, 6, 83, 88, 90n7, 198n1, 228; colonial vio­lence of, 177 Wichita, 269, 270 Wiemann, C., 86 Wilbur, Matika, 109 Wilson-­Hokowhitu, N., 58, 59 Winder, T., 111, 112, 114, 118, 119, 122

Windward Community College, 223 Wolfe, P., 113 Wolf-­Wendel, Lisa, 4, 49, 89 Wolverton, M., 86 womanhood, 75, 81, 83, 144, 145, 170, 221 ­women, Native, 68, 86, 171, 172; in prison, 121, 122 worldview, 67, 73, 138, 139, 141, 143; Native/ tribal/Indigenous, 1, 13, 121, 139 Wright, Erin Kahunawaikaʻala, 225, 226, 258, 270 writing as ceremony, 68 Yang, K. W., 112, 178 Yee, J. A., 57 Yoéme, 100, 101, 169, 174, 266 Young, A. M., 220 Ysabel, Santa, 172, 266 Zolbrod, P. G., 70n3 Zoom, 180–182, 184, 191, 195, 258 Zuni, 92, 93, 95, 97, 101, 265