An Anthropology of Remembering

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Title: An Anthropology of Remembering Queer Theory, Collaborative Archaeology, & the Apalachea past
Physical Description: Book
Language: English
Creator: Bloch, Lee
Publisher: New College of Florida
Place of Publication: Sarasota, Fla.
Creation Date: 2011
Publication Date: 2011


Subjects / Keywords: Native American Studies
Gender Studies
Collaborative Methods
Genre: bibliography   ( marcgt )
theses   ( marcgt )
government publication (state, provincial, terriorial, dependent)   ( marcgt )
born-digital   ( sobekcm )
Electronic Thesis or Dissertation


Abstract: This thesis examines the potential of queering and decolonizing archaeology with a focus on the Apalachee past. The first chapter examines the Mississippian-era Lake Jackson site, outlining queer and Indigenist critiques of Southeastern archaeology. Based on collaborative research with a Muskogee community, I further an interpretation of the so-called �Birdman� or �Birdwoman� of the SECC as a gender-neutral anthropomorphic moth. The second chapter discusses 17th century Mission San Luis, using engendered and historical archaeological methods. I suggest that jewelry found discarded in a trash pit reflects the identity politics of an Apalachee woman and her Spanish lover, situating this interpretation in a discussion of the conflicts over gender, sexuality, and kinship practices in multicultural San Luis. In the third chapter, I discuss my visits to the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki Museum, and the National Museum of the American Indian, drawing on self-reflective methods. I find that even in these spaces of Native heritage, hegemonic gender/sex paradigms are always encroaching. In breaking the gender binary and decolonizing history-making, this text explores alternative possibilities in the past as a means of emancipation in the present.
Statement of Responsibility: by Lee Bloch
Thesis: Thesis (B.A.) -- New College of Florida, 2011
Bibliography: Includes bibliographical references.
Source of Description: This bibliographic record is available under the Creative Commons CC0 public domain dedication. The New College of Florida, as creator of this bibliographic record, has waived all rights to it worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law.
Local: Faculty Sponsor: Baram, Uzi

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Source Institution: New College of Florida
Holding Location: New College of Florida
Rights Management: Applicable rights reserved.
Classification: local - S.T. 2011 B65
System ID: NCFE004364:00001

Permanent Link:

Material Information

Title: An Anthropology of Remembering Queer Theory, Collaborative Archaeology, & the Apalachea past
Physical Description: Book
Language: English
Creator: Bloch, Lee
Publisher: New College of Florida
Place of Publication: Sarasota, Fla.
Creation Date: 2011
Publication Date: 2011


Subjects / Keywords: Native American Studies
Gender Studies
Collaborative Methods
Genre: bibliography   ( marcgt )
theses   ( marcgt )
government publication (state, provincial, terriorial, dependent)   ( marcgt )
born-digital   ( sobekcm )
Electronic Thesis or Dissertation


Abstract: This thesis examines the potential of queering and decolonizing archaeology with a focus on the Apalachee past. The first chapter examines the Mississippian-era Lake Jackson site, outlining queer and Indigenist critiques of Southeastern archaeology. Based on collaborative research with a Muskogee community, I further an interpretation of the so-called �Birdman� or �Birdwoman� of the SECC as a gender-neutral anthropomorphic moth. The second chapter discusses 17th century Mission San Luis, using engendered and historical archaeological methods. I suggest that jewelry found discarded in a trash pit reflects the identity politics of an Apalachee woman and her Spanish lover, situating this interpretation in a discussion of the conflicts over gender, sexuality, and kinship practices in multicultural San Luis. In the third chapter, I discuss my visits to the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki Museum, and the National Museum of the American Indian, drawing on self-reflective methods. I find that even in these spaces of Native heritage, hegemonic gender/sex paradigms are always encroaching. In breaking the gender binary and decolonizing history-making, this text explores alternative possibilities in the past as a means of emancipation in the present.
Statement of Responsibility: by Lee Bloch
Thesis: Thesis (B.A.) -- New College of Florida, 2011
Bibliography: Includes bibliographical references.
Source of Description: This bibliographic record is available under the Creative Commons CC0 public domain dedication. The New College of Florida, as creator of this bibliographic record, has waived all rights to it worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law.
Local: Faculty Sponsor: Baram, Uzi

Record Information

Source Institution: New College of Florida
Holding Location: New College of Florida
Rights Management: Applicable rights reserved.
Classification: local - S.T. 2011 B65
System ID: NCFE004364:00001

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An Anthropology of Remembering: Queer Theory, Collaborative Archaeology, and the Apalachee Past By Lee Bloch A Thesis Submitted To the Division of Anthropology and the Gender Studies Program New College of Florida in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree Bachelor of the Arts Under the sponsorship of Dr. Uzi Baram Sarasota, Florida January 2011


Preface: Reflections on Anthropological Collaboration in Decolonizing Settings [ Mainstream scientific archaeology] relies on a colonial cultural milieu that allows archaeologists to practice an archaeology of the other' on Aboriginal people. This exclusionary pos itioning prevents Western archaeologists from perceiving the possibility of expanding their archaeological repertoire by utilizing alternative cultural systems and values. (Tara Million 2005:52) The Apalachee This project began my second year at New College as a final paper for a class in North American archaeology. In that paper, I explored the possibility that the Dancing Birdman plate excavated from the Lake Jackson site in modern day Tallahassee, FL did not represent a man or a woman, but another gender entirely. Dr. Uzi Baram suggested in my evaluation that I transform this paper into a twenty minute presentation. It was almost a year later that I presented a condense d version of my arguments to the Time Sifters Archaeological Society in Sarasota and then the Florida Anthropological Society (FAS) in Fort Myers (Bloch 2010). As I wrote that presentation I also began to think about my thesis. My focus was in cultural a nthropology and I was not interested in studying a dead past: but how could I tie this paper into the present? With the help of Dr. Baram and the senior archaeologist at Mission San Luis, Jerry Lee, I was able to contact an important descendent of the peo ple of Lake Jackson: Chief Gilmer Bennett of the Apalachee Tribe. As recently as 1988, John Hann was able to confidently write that the Apalachee tribe no longer existed. In the early seventeen hundreds the Apalachee left La Florida. In the following cen turies, the Apalachee avoided English and American expansionists and racists first by moving to French Louisiana, then by moving to marginal ecosystems, and


3 finally by passing as white when possible (see Lee n.d.; Horwitz 2005). After this long history of secrecy, the Apalachee leadership has more recently begun to announce their continued existence to a wider public. This situation is not unique (e.g., Handsman and Richmond 1995). However, this long silencing had left its mark. Many people who Chief Be nnett identifies as Apalachee descendents do not identify as such themselves (Raeke 2003). Many elders have carried the knowledge about their heritage to their graves or conversely, have only discussed it upon their deathbeds deeming it necessary to withh old the information even from their kin. While working on the Time Sifters presentation (Bloch 2010), I had read that the Apalachee were deeply involved in the long, bureaucratic process of receiving recognition from the United States federal government as a Native American tribe. I was able to get Chief Bennett's mailing address through Jerry Lee, the senior archaeologist at Mission San Luis (a reconstruction of the historic site once occupied by the Apalachee). I sent Chief Bennett a letter explaining w ho I was and requesting to do research with him and his people. I figured it would be a few weeks before I heard back from him. Yet it was only matter of days later when I was attending the All Power to the Imagination conference at New College when I g ot a call from an unknown area code. I rushed outside just before the next presentation began. Speaking in a thick Southern drawl, the elderly voice on the phone identified himself as Gilmer Bennett and we spoke for some time. He emphasized that other s cholars had successfully published works on his people, as if he needed to tell me that I would personally benefit from working with him. I was already unprepared and especially unsure of how to respond to these statements, but by the end of the call it w as clear that we could work together.


4 I began to formulate a research design: Perhaps I could spend the summer of 2010 recording oral histories, supplying greater qualitative depth to the genealogies already formulated. Besides creating valuable informa tion for the Tribe, I could address Apalachee history and continuity over three chronological periods (Lake Jackson era, Mission era, and the recent historical era) focusing on the potential of non binary analysis in engendering the past. I would situate my research on the past within the conditions of the Apalachee present, transforming my project about the dead at Lake Jackson into a discussion of how the past is used among the living (see chapter four for discussions of living heritage). Unfortunately, this project did not pan out. One day I received a call from Chief Bennett's wife, Jeannette, apologizing for having planned a family vacation over the summer. They wanted to see their children living out west and would not be able to accommodate my res earch. Despite the oncoming panic of not having a research plan for my thesis, I assured Mrs. Bennett that it was not a problem and wished her and her husband a happy and safe vacation. As Dr. Uzi Baram has often said, you can't force people to collabora te with you. I ended up traveling to three Native museums, analyzing representations of Indigenist and gendered identities. Another Collaboration Another collaborative project with a Native people surfaced later. I was intro duced to this community when contact that I had made at FAS passed a copy of my presentation on queering archaeology at Lake Jackson (Bloch 2010) to their leadership.


5 The thrust of my presentation was a critique centered on the intersections of heterosexi sm and ethnocentrism in archaeological production, focusing on the so called Dancing Birdman breastplate uncovered in Lake Jackson. The headwoman of the community, who I had known in my childhood as a family friend as well as a close friends' middle sch ool teacher, invited me to attend an upcoming Busk (a ceremonial gathering) at the end of the summer. She believed that I could gain much from some cultural experience with traditional Native peoples. I agreed. I was still disappointed about my failed plans with the Bennetts, so I was happy to know that I had successfully written something relevant and meaningful. This Creek group has asked that I obscure certain community information. They are dedicated to educati on and collective reflection on their heritage. Throughout the year, they hold community discussions about archaeology, iconography, ritual practices, and oral traditions. They maintain a low community profile yet often work with individual scholars. I worked closely with the elder of the principal medicine family, who is known by the ceremonial name Hakope. Hakope has spent much of his life consulting on Native American history, culture and language and has been cited by such renowned scholars as Georg e Lankford, Robert Hall, David Friedel, Linda Schele, Gloria Jahoda and Dorothy Downs. At the Busk, I was introduced to the headman or Micco Hakope. He asked me to speak on my paper. I'm not a very skilled public speaker when I improvise, but I summari zed my case. I had expected them to discuss my argument and its relation to their heritage without consulting me an outsider so I had not even prepared any notes to read from. I focused on symbolic interpretations of Falcon Hero iconography rather


6 than spatial attributes of gendered heterarchy or ethnohistorical records about third genders. Hakope tore my argument apart. He furthered a Muskogee way of seeing and interpreting the artifact, suggesting that the figure I discussed in my paper was not a falcon at all but actually a moth. I had not read anything like this in my research. In fact, to this date I have only found two mentions of moths in Southeastern art at all (Kehoe 2002; Knight and Franke 2007). At first, I was frustrated by this respon se. I was immediately amazed that so many archaeologists had simply assumed that the corpus represented bird people and had simply not bothered to ask the Native people about it. But throughout the discussion, I continued to feel that I could have made m y argument better. Looking back now, I think that my sensitive reaction missed the point of the critique. In retrospect, the discussion went perfectly. It impressed upon me the distance between Native traditions and dominant archaeological productions. By focusing on tangible mistakes in symbolic interpretation, I was better able to frame the more nuanced an d abstract components of my future research with the community. As more than one person present told me that weekend, the moth interpretation made sense because it was based on the traditional ecological knowledge of agricultural production in the Southea st. As Hakope suggested to me, the art must be approached from a Muskogee perspective, a statement that emphasized the inadequacy of archaeological interpretations made without knowledge of a Native worldviews. We set up a research project based mainly on phone and email discussions. Hakope is a wonderful teacher, a brilliant scholar, and a passionate individual. I was lucky, in that respect: all I had to do was listen and every now and then pitch in an


7 idea (although to be honest, I'm not completely s ure that he hadn't figured it out first and led me to it). At some point, I began to figure out the sorts of skills I could contribute. And if I even once contributed something novel or interesting to the discussions that happen in his community, I was a ble to produce relevant knowledge. In those moments, I came to realize the point of doing collaborative archaeology. On Collaboration These narratives speak to the process of doing collaborative resea rch. It can take many forms because it is less a stable state of affairs than a way of approaching research. Due to an unfortunate issue of timing, I was not able to maintain a close working relationship with Chief Bennett. When the specifics of research falter collaboration can take on a more informal form: I have consciously kept the living Apalachee in mind as I continued other projects so that they might find my conclusions useful. On the other hand, my experiences with this other Muskogee community have taught me that collaboration can create knowledge at the intersections of divergent worldviews. When including peoples who have been systematically denied access to intellectual production, collaborative knowledge can be boundary breaking. Luke Eric Lassiter situates collaborative research at the intersections of feminist, postmodern, and public anthropology (2005). He defines collaborative ethnography as the collaboration of researchers and subjects in the production of ethnographic texts, both fi eldwork and writing (2005:84). Feminist and postmodern scholars have outlined dialogical approaches to ethnographic production. These trajectories have critiqued the


8 contingency of knowledge and demanded that scholars address their own positionalities th at comprise intellectual production. As feminists have challenged the power relationships that constitute traditional anthropology, postmodern thinkers have produced innovative ways of representing the multivocality of cultural production. The powerful e mphasis on reflexivity in contemporary discourse has also contributed to the development of a discipline that actively theorizes the context that knowledge is produced through and within. Lassiter outlines six ways to do collaborative research: through ( 1) principle consultants as readers and editors, (2) focus groups, (3) editorial boards, (4) collaborative ethnographer/consultant teams, (5) community forms, and (6) coproduced and cowritten texts (2005:94). These approaches establish an anthropology t hat ensures that scholars are engaged with communities in producing public knowledge: Collaborative ethnography is a grassroots public anthropology that must go hand in hand with the larger project [of making anthropology socially relevant] (2005:97). A lthough only briefly touched upon in Lassiter's article, collaborative anthropology is in part a response to Native insistence on recognition for their contributions (2005:87). It also provides Indigenous peoples with systematic access to dominant forms o f representation. Collaborative research works towards an ideal of egalitarian mode of anthropological production: as such, it resonates with decolonizing practices adopted by many archaeologists. Joe Watkins (2000) argues that decolonizing archaeology r equires academics to communicate extensively with descendent groups and make space for active Native involvement in setting the terms and goals of research and publication. H. Martin Wobst writes: We are witnessing the emergence of a new form of archaeol ogy, an archaeology that is informed by Indigenous values and agendas. This


9 Indigenous archaeology moves beyond research about' Indigenous peoples to focus on research that is conducted with, and for, Indigenous peoples (2005:17). Claire Smith and H. M artin Wobst ask who controls the past, who benefits, and to what epistemological and practical ends is research practiced (2005). Historically, they assert, archaeology has served to protect hegemonic interests in the past and monopolize the past for sci entific interpretation by specialists in the dominant culture. A decolonizing archaeology must share the wealth that produced from the Native past and working towards Indigenous interests (2005:15). If decolonized anthropology rethinks its data, metho ds and theories through Native values and worldviews, this thesis is formulated to interrupt continuing colonial processes by helping some Native peoples reclaim their pasts and others to strengthen what they have maintained their ways all along. As I und erstand it, collaborative research necessitates changes in the relationships of anthropological production and correspondingly does decolonization within the context of academia. I understand collaboration to be a way of doing ethnography rather than a state of being for an ethnographic text (see Lassiter 1998). The value of knowledge does not only arise within academia and is not structured primarily for anthropologists. Rather, community members are constantly determining research directions so that the knowledge produced will be relevant to local needs. As I alluded to earlier, success takes the form of having positive effects in the communities that research is carried out within. Collaborative projects, Lassiter argues, are salient to the people who produced them and so they are subject to ongoing discussion. Often, such research produces knowledge that never becomes an academic text at all (see Basso 1996).


10 The distinction between being and doing is important here because power redistribution and equality is an ideal aspiration in doing collaboration, but such desires are always already grounded in a colonial materiality. That is, collaborative anthropology is meaningless when considered outside of an exploitative political economic system. W ithin traditional anthropology, intellectual integrity is determined by the anthropologist's ability to produce a narrative that speaks to academic concerns and is representationally authentic to the data (see Clifford 1988; Sanjek 1990). This mode of d iscourse articulates an anthropology that is ultimately controlled by anthropological minds and concerns. So how do anthropologists write about people in a world inflected with power from within a theoretical field dominated by intellectuals working withi n an emic/etic divide? Anthropology's potential to move beyond dominant discourse, even in non collaborative anthropology, resides in interaction and especially conversation between people with divergent understandings of the world. While anthropological culture does apply pressure in this regard through professional ethics and values, analysis and control over agendas continue to be fully rooted in dominant culture. Traditional anthropological knowledge is produced by an academic culture that consists o f a limited (in some ways systematic, in other ways randomly) diversity. Anthropology has limited itself by its own standpoints. Collaborative approaches are not only a way of doing decolonization within anthropological arena, but produce decolonized know ledge that is fundamentally different than traditional anthropological knowledge. Standpoint feminism has shown that knowledge is produced in contingency with socio political position (see Hartsock 1983; Hill Collins 2000). Collaborative anthropology can build powerful new


11 knowledge when it is used to examine culture and power across the diverse standpoints held within the research community. In short, it reaches beyond the standpoints of anthropologists writing in academic culture. I learned this when I began working with Hakope's community and realized that my initial position about the Lake Jackson plate (Bloch 2010) failed to adequately examine the ontological limits of my theoretical argument. In this way, collaborative research can interrupt the c olonial distinction and hierarchal production of (universal and valuable) anthropological knowledge and the (local and trite) knowledge of the subjects of study. Collaborative anthropology more effectively utilizes the dynamics of multiple perspectives to create exciting new knowledge. At minimum, collaborative anthropology systematically ensures representational validity and intellectual honesty and it helps to enforce ethical conduct. At its best, it is a method that makes use of multiple worldviews to analyze data in ways that would not be possible for either alone. Collaborative anthropology is exceptional when a group of passionate people coming from different perspectives put their heads together in a research environment. In my own experiences, m y research partners and I have thought really hard and talked about gender and Lake Jackson. They told me their ideas, and I told them mine. As we did this, I started to see what it is I can do best and what gets the best response from both (or either) c o collaborators and colleagues. I started to think about how what I say is received and why and how to bridge that with my own particular skills and interests. And in discussions, my co collaborators kept me in check so I didn't verge too off into someth ing irrelevant or worse, start creating things that don't make sense in their


12 worldview. I found that I could rely on others to counterbalance my weakness and as well as my constraints. We were able to play off each other's strengths.


Acknowledgements I'd like to thank my mother, Martha Caldwell, for her support and helping me come up with the resources I needed to continue my education and this project in particular. I'd like to thank the Ant hropology Department, the Council of Academic Affairs, and the Student Research and Travel Grant Program at New College for their financial support. I'd like to thank my baccalaureate committee: especially Dr. Uzi Baram for his excellent guidance and for urging me to write a professional presentation on queering archaeology at Lake Jackson and Dr. Emily Fairchild for allowing me to take a tutorial in queer studies after I was unable to take the regular course. I'd like to thank Hakope for all his effort s. His insights as well as his dedication were nothing short of astronomic, repeatedly exceeding what I would have ever expected. His community is so lucky to have him. I'd also like to thank him and his community for their collaboration. I'd like to th ank Hakope's community for allowing me to attend their Busks. I'd like to thank the matriarch, who invited me to their Busk. I'd like to thank the community members who, while not as directly involved in this project, continued to be essential to it in mu ltiple and varied ways. I'd like to thank the Bennetts, Dr. Dayna Lee, and Dr. Peter Gregory for their support and advice in developing a research program with the contemporary Apalachee Tribe. Although this particular project did not pan out, it was an vital stepping stone in this thesis. I'd like to thank Dr. David Dickel and his staff for showing me into the BAR vault, where I was able to view and take pictures of the copper plates from Lake Jackson. Dr. Alice Kehoe for her insightful correspondence. Jerry Lee for discussing research at Mission San Luis with me and putting me in contact with the Bennetts. Chris Kimball


14 gave my 2010 presentation to Hakope's community and furnished transportation to their Busks. Finally, I'd like to thank my mother, Hakope, Dr. Uzi Baram, Dr. Emily Fairchild, Dr. Gabrielle Vail, and Christina Chavez for proofreading various sections and stages of this thesis.


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An Anthropology of Remembering Lee Bloch New College of Florida, 2011 ABSTRACT This thesis examines the potential of queering and decolonizing archaeology with a focus on the Apalachee past. The first chapter examines the Mississippian era Lake Jackson site, outlining queer and Indigenist critiques of Southeastern archaeology. Based on collaborative research with a Muskogee community, I further an interpretation of the so called Birdman or Birdwoman of the SECC as a gender neutral anthropomorphic moth. The second chapter discusses 17 th century Mission San Luis, using engendered a nd historical archaeological methods. I suggest that jewelry found discarded in a trash pit reflects the identity politics of an Apalachee woman and her Spanish lover, situating this interpretation in a discussion of the conflicts over gender, sexuality, and kinship practices in multicultural San Luis. In the third chapter, I discuss my visits to the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum, and the National Museum of the American Indian, drawing on self reflective methods. I find that eve n in these spaces of Native heritage, hegemonic gender/sex paradigms are always encroaching. In breaking the gender binary and decolonizing history making, this text explores alternative possibilities in the past as a means of emancipation in the present Dr. Uzi Baram Department of Anthropology


Introduction: Silence, History, and Empowerment Think of this exhibition as an excavation site, where evidence t hat has been buried, ignored, and denied is finally brought to light. For us this evidence suggests that the history of this hemisphere is written in the lives of Native people. (Paul Chaat Smith, Ann McMullen, and Jolene Richard 2003, text panel in the National Museum of the American Indian) An anthropology of remembering, as I call it, explores people and things forgotten and examines social memory. Arguably, archaeology is a form of deep memory that potentially allows us to reconstruct the past, alt hough I argue that social memory is broader than academic practices. Remembering opposes itself to silences found throughout history ( sensu Trouillot 1995), although by definition it also creates its own. The act of remembering implicates both the past a nd present. James Deetz (1996) uses material things of the past that were letroilooft behind and often forgotten to reconstruct (and remember) lives that otherwise did not make it into history. Alexander Stille (2002) writes about the anthropologist Scod itti, who was named Toururwai, or the man who remembers, by the Kitawan peoples. Scoditti's ethnography played a major part in preserving Kitawan traditions in the modern world, although this is often a slippery word. Closer to my intention is the rememory of Tony Morrison's (1987) novel, Beloved Rememory is a process of revisiting a past that retains both a physical and metaphysical presence among the living. It can be invoked and controlled by objects, places, or spirits. Rememory has its counterpart in the verb, to disremember : in the context of this thesis this could mean a structured, if not intentional, forgetting. While memories tied to slavery and racism hold a haunting power over the characters in


23 Bel oved this thesis exemplifies that history can also be a means of empowerment (see also Saitta 2007). When Hakope read this, he thought of a word used in his community: recolmember. A combination of recollect and remember, Hakope tells me that reco lmember is an old word used primarily by African American and Native peoples (and a quick Google search of the term retrieves documents from the early 1900's). An anthropology of remembering involves the reflexive examination of power as it re collects an d (re)makes the past. Remembering only exists as it is performed. While it is sometimes personal, it is often publicly social and cultural (e.g., Basso 1996; C. Nelson 2008). As a performance, remembering produces temporary transportations and often las ting transformations in its subjects and audiences ( sensu Schechner 1985). Richard Schechner (1985) conceptualizes performances and especially historical performances as restored behavior. Restored behavior has a life of its own in the present, even as (in the case of remembering) it references the past. This allows it to be stored, transmitted, manipulated, [and] transformed (1985:35 6). Restored behavior is highly reflexive and symbolic: not empty but loaded behavior multivocally broadcasting s ignificances (1985:36). In his ethnography on Okinawan performance, Christopher Nelson (2008) argues that actors process and preserve memories of cataclysmic events, even as they are ambivalently incorporated into the Japanese state. He concludes: The will to memory is about the claims that the past makes on the present, and the promise that it holds for action in the now (2008:219). In one sense, memory is a process of cultural maintenance. In another, this text is an effort to explore the silences of history through


24 applications of decolonizing, collaborative, and gender queering approaches. In both cases, memory is a historical processes implicating past. Dean Saitta (2007) argues that an archaeology connected to descendent populations can be bo th explanatory and emancipatory, so this introduction begins with an outline of Apalachee history after the evacuation of Mission San Luis. This thesis contains chapters devoted to the Mississippian and Mission eras (ending in 1704), yet the Apalachee peo ple have continued to persist for centuries by avoiding white expansion and silencing their Native identities. Recently, the chief and many others have gone public and are struggling to obtain federal recognition as a Native tribe. The next section is a discussion of history as an engagement with power. Archaeology has potential as a counter hegemonic discipline that elaborates upon muted histories. The following discussion of Michel Rolph Trouillot's (1995) theorization of silences and the unthinka ble in historical process elaborates upon this potential. Throughout the course of doing collaborative research, I that research navigating the silences of history may stumble across an additional construct: the unexpected. From there, I turn to gender : outlining the development of feminist archaeology then discussing some tenets of queer theory and their implications for archaeology. This introduction ends with a summary of the body of this thesis. Following the Steps of t he Apalachee: San Luis to the Present I find that when non specialists talk about American history, they're only talking about a particula r group of Americans. The second and third chapters in this


25 thesis grapple with the ancient and colonial era history of the Apalachee people. The tribe was until recently believed to be culturally extinct (e.g., Hann 1988; Hunter 1994). The Talimali Ban d of the Apalachee Tribe has continued to survive as a people through the historic period and into the present. The last two decades have seen their public reemergence (Raeke 2003; Saraceni 1997), as the tribal leadership began to loudly proclaim their co ntinued existence and struggle to obtain federal recognition. Tribal meetings were held in secret and some Apalachee elders have engaged in a conscious act of forgetting as a means of surviving the colonial and racist conditions of the last three centurie s. As a result, the Apalachee have lost much of their history and tribal community. The tribal leadership and non native scholars are now working to recover their history and determine the best path for the future (e.g., Lee n.d.). Mission San Luis in th e Tallahassee Hills, Florida was the political center of the Apalachee Province until 1704, when an English, Creek, and Yamasee invasion led to the displacement of the Apalachee people. The Apalachee and Spanish warriors were demoralized, and James Moore, the leader of the invading forces offered freedom to any Apalachee who left the area with his forces. Thirteen hundred Apalachee accepted these terms in addition to the more than four thousand individuals enslaved by Moore's troops. After a second devast ating attack in mid summer, the Spanish governor authorized the evacuation of the province. The remaining Apalachee burned Mission San Luis before the invasion reached it (Covington 1972; Hann 1988; Hann and McEwan 1998). Little is known about the Apalac hee who were enslaved by Moore's forces (Hann and McEwan 1998). Among these were 600 women and girls, who were taken to the Boston colony and ransomed back to the Spanish (who had an interest in their exquisite


26 needle working abilities) (W. Harris 1958). Many of the free Apalachee who had voluntarily left with the invaders were resettled in Carolina and were located nearby to other Native peoples loyal to the English (Covington 1972). In 1711 12, many of the Carolina Apalachee fought on the side of the British against the Tuscarora uprising. Despite their willingness to fight for the English, slave raiders continued to harass the Apalachee. At least four Apalachee were sold as slaves and had to appeal to courts to reestablish their freedom. Others we re forced into sex work. Many Apalachee migrated back to La Florida to escape these conditions. Between migration, slave raids, disease, and intermarriage, the Apalachee population in Carolina declined by one half between 1704 and 1715. The remaining Ap alachee allied with other Native peoples against the English in the Yamasee War, a conflict in 1715 17 between an alliance of Native peoples against the colony of South Carolina. After the Cherokee sided against the Yamasee and Lower Creeks and militias r einforced white settlements, the Apalachee relocated their village 100 miles Southwest along the Chattahoochee River (Covington 1972). Many Apalachee, however, were able to escape Moore's forces. About 400 refugees migrated to St. Augustine after the e vacuation of Apalachee province. They suffered from attacks on the part of the Timucua, rebel Apalachee, and others. By 1711, their numbers had already been reduced by 90%. There were a disproportionate number of men among the survivors, which in the ma trilineal context of native La Florida meant that Apalachee identified people disappeared in a matter of generations (Hann and McEwan 1998). Yet according to Richard Milner and Gloria Jahoda's work with the tribal archives of Hakope's community, in 1763 t heir ancestors took in sixty seven


27 Apalachee units were taken in. This process was facilitated by pre existing kinship ties. Another 800 Apalachee turned west, heading to Pensacola and French controlled Mobile in order to avoid the English. These refu gees suffered from prolonged hunger, subsisting on half rations in Pensacola even after arriving at the Fort. Spanish officials established the village of Nuestra Senora de la Soledad y San Luis near Pensacola for the Apalachee refugees. According to Cov ington (1972), many eventually returned to Apalachee province, particularly to the Castillo de San Marcos de Apalachee. When the English arrived at Pensacola in 1763, they found around sixty Appalachian people living near the Spanish Fort. These famili es sold their land to the English and migrated to Vera Cruz with the Spaniards. Most likely, the few Apalachee that did remain in Florida were absorbed into other tribes (Covington 1972). After Moore's invasion, other Apalachee attempted to evade the Eng lish and the Spanish by settling in French controlled Mobile. There they maintained their own mission, church, and cemetery for at least several decades (Covington 1972). In the the Treaty of Paris of 1763 the Louisiana territory east of the Mississippi was ceded to the British. Seeking to avoid English expansion, the Apalachee were one of the first petites nations to petition the French for relocation. About 80 Apalachee resettled on the Red River in Rapide (present day Rapide Parish) along with seve ral other Native bands. However, the French had secretly ceded the Louisiana territory west of the Mississippi to Spain in 1762. The Apalachee of Red River were disappointed to find themselves once again under Spain's domain as it began to establish a pr esence in 1767 (Hunter 1994; Lee n.d.).


28 The Apalachee of the Red Hills acted as a sovereign nation. At one point, the Apalachee helped a group of Alabama to clear some land near their village. A French individual stopped them, saying he had purchased the land in 1764. A Spanish official, Layssard, did not take direct action and instead told the Frenchman to continue planting until he consulted with the governor. The Apalachee responded by cutting trees on Layssard's land. When questioned, the Apalac hee leader simply responded that if Layssard were going to take some of the Apalachee's land, they would take some of his (Lee n.d.). In 1803, the United States bought the Louisiana Territory. In 1802, a group of Apalachee and Taensa individuals met with Layssard, telling him that they had sold their communal lands on the Red River to American traders to pay off a debt. The traditional Apalachee leader was not present to represent his people and the sale triggered a legal battle that would continue for d ecades. Although several Apalachee moved upriver, others remained on their tribal lands denying ever having been in debt to the purchasing party in the first place. As if the conditions of the sale were not already questionable, in 1814 the Apalachee fil ed a formal complaint claiming to never have been paid for the land. The US land commissioners recommended that the title not be confirmed in respect to Apalachee lands (Hunter 1994; Lee n.d.). However, the commissioners auctioned off the tract rather than awarding the title collectively to the Apalachee tribe. Isaac Baldwin, a white attorney, bought the land. He established a plantation and began working to evict the Apalachee from their homes. His methods were violent, including setting fire to hou seholds and destroying crops (Hunter 1994). By 1826 Baldwin claimed to have removed all but five or six families. In 1827


29 an Indian agent stated that Baldwin had driven at least ten Native families into Texas (Lee n.d.). In 1832, a cholera epidemic hit the Rapides, killing many of the Native peoples in the area. The Apalachee and Taensa Indians petitioned relief from the president. Their complaints also included that they were owed money and did not have an agent to represent them in court. The War De partment stated that it did not have the authority to address the Apalachee and Taensa's grievances, which was the domain of Congress (Hunter 1994). The years that followed saw waves of white immigrants and a rise in racist violence against Native America ns. The Apalachee responded by moving into a more marginal environment: the Kisatchie Hills of Natchitoches Parish (Lee n.d.). An 1825 census found less than fifty tribal members (Hunter 1994). Baldwin's stolen land was eventually awarded to an Anglo Am erican married to a woman of Apalachee decent, but the Apalachee of the Kisatchie Hills never learned of this legal action (Lee n.d.). At the beginning of the 20 th century when land was no longer locally abundant, the Kisatchie Hills began to look attract ive to whites especially to railroad companies. Around 1901, federal agents removed many Apalachee to Indian Territory in Okalahoma. For those who remained in the Hills, racist violence and even raids increased. In the words of Chief Bennett of the Ta limali Band of the Apalachee Tribe: They really started in hard on them. An [sic] they got to where they were shooting the women because there were more women than men. They shot Marceline, my aunt, they caught her hoeing cotton in the field. They chase d Grandpa [Amos Bennett] down with the horses and dogs, hit him in the head with something and busted his brains out. Oscar Vallery was holding him, his half brother, when he died (Lee n.d.).


30 In 1915, the settlement known as Yay Yay Fields was abandoned. Over the next four years, many other families also left. However, these displaced families were able to maintain close relationships with the remaining Apalachee communities in the Kisatchie hills (Lee n.d.). As expansionist and racist violence increas ed more people abandoned or were forced to abandon their homes (Lee n.d; see Raeke 2003). The Apalachee also suffered at the hands of Jim Crow and Ku Klux Klan politics (Hor witz 2005; Raeke 2003). In 1940, an Apalachee man named McNeely Bennett married a white woman. He was accused of being black and, because interracial marriage was a felony, prosecuted. McNeely's children (including Chief Gilmer Bennett) were forced to put their bodies on display in court so that experts could determine their race The jury determined that the Bennetts were white (Raeke 2003). The decedents of Apalachee refugees who headed west after 1704 survived and maintained their community in the face of colonialism and racism by avoiding English and later United States peopl es. After it was no longer possible to hide from encroaching white violence, many Apalachee began to pass for white and entered the dominant culture. Dayna Lee writes: Years of persecution mad e the Apalachee wary in their dealings with outsiders. Rather than claiming tribal heritage on legal documents and in public, children were forbidden to talk about their ethnicity and were instructed never to ask about the land' or the lawsuit once filed against the government. Paper records were periodically destroyed and increasingly in civil and church records, members self identified as white when they were counted at all (n.d.). As a community, they survived by hiding their indigenous identity and history. Some went so far as to silence their Native identities from their own children and grandchildren


31 (Lee n.d). Chief Bennett's aunt, for example, denied being Apalachee her entire life. Her husband eventually revealed her heritage to her family af ter her death (Raeke 2003). Even those who are aware of their Apalachee identity do not always cooporate with the tribal leadership. In the words of tribal council member Alex Tall Torres: We've had so much trouble in the past that people don't trust th e government to help rat her than hurt us (cited in Hor witz 2005). Recently, however, Chief Bennett has made the continued survival of Apalachee decedents public. He identifies 300 individuals as Apalachee based on his genealogical records, although some of these people do not identify so themselves. Despite this tricky situation, Chief Bennett incorporated the tribe in 1995 (Saraceni 1997) as a step in the ongoing process of petitioning the federal government for recognition as a Native tribe. He has b een in this process for these last fifteen years. The Louisiana state government has refused to recognize the Apalachee unless they sign a pledge not to open any casinos for 99 years (Raeke 2003). Despite all of these silences and historical complexiti es, the local landscape is inscribed with the remnants of Apalachee homes and cemeteries from the previous centuries (see Lee n.d.; Raeke 2003). And the Bennetts' efforts at obtaining tribal recognition are beginning to mark new possibilities for the Apal achee. They have been included in pan Indian ceremonies and scholars working at Mission San Luis cons ult them on their projects (Hor witz 2005). After discussing the violence tha t the Apalachee have faced, Hor witz ends his article on a particularly optimi stic note. He quotes Chief Bennett saying: 'I'm not the wooden Indian, the dummy in the back of the class,' he says. Not anymore.'


32 Approaching the Past with an Eye to Power A short example will ill ustrate the epistemological power of collaboration (as research across difference). Members of Hakope's community were present at an excavation in Panama City led by Dr. Judith Bense (1991). They were about to call in the bulldozers when, according to Ha kope, we sorta blew the whistle, hollered and screamed and jumped up and down and made all sorts of noises and everybody came running [B]ecause this little obscure community was consulted culturally and took part in the dig we spotted a feature that they had seen before in many places and passed right over because they didn't know what it was they had no cultural background. In that port excavation we unearthed the first documented birthing hut ever found in the Southeast, because we had people who knew the culture and who saw this pile of debitage and realized that all these peculiar shaped flakes were not peculiar shaped flakes that just happened to just coincidently have something in common. We recognized them immediately as the peculiar shape of flin ts used to cut umbilical cords The end result was they discovered that a good part of this village site really was a women's camp, where women came to give birth. They would have never ever come upon that, would have never recognized that feature had it not been for the Native folks working there. But once we pointed it out then they started consulting the literature and reading about Bartrom and Hawkings and everyone else and the stuff we pointed out matched what they said (personal conversation, May 9 2011).


33 Barbara Little (2007) encourages historical archaeologists to pay attention to the discipline's social context and to ask the big questions about the ways we organize our world. Little's historical archaeology is a destabilizing practice that op poses itself to systems of domination and inequality by elaborating alternative histories. In a similar vein, Mark Leone (2005) argues that public archaeology has the potential to demystify ideology and expose systems of exploitation and violence. Such a critical archaeology can illuminate the historical and political origins of oppressive social structures. Presumably, if these structures are seen to be social constructions that naturalize exploitation, public audiences will be better prepared to mobili ze for social change. Michel Rolph Trouillot argues that historicity is a series of silences and mentions made by both actors and narrators (1995:2). Implicit in this statement is the distinction between two meanings to the word historicity : that whi ch happened, and that which is said to have happened. The difference between the two is fluid and sometimes they are conflated. Trouillot continues that a duality of silences and mentions exists at every level of historical production. They enter at th e moment of fact creation (the making of sources); the moment of fact assembly (the making of archives ); the moment of fact retrieval (the making of narratives ); and the moment of retrospective significance (the making of history in the final instance) ( i talics in original, 1995:26). In other words, power enters history at every possible moment and history is an expression of power knowledge. The act of making history (in either sense of the word) necessarily implies overpowering alternatives. As Trouil lot notes, t his may be political, but it is not always. However, he also contends that is possible to make the silences of history speak if approached on their own terms : as expressions of power


34 At their most extreme, silences structure what Trouillot calls the unthinkable. The unthinkable is not simply a problem of politics or epistemologies, but rather an ontological crisis in which events cannot occur as meaningful He argues that the dominant ontology of slavery in the late 18 th century preclud ed the possibility of black agency and by extension organized resistance (unless it was organized by whites). Thus when the Haitian revolution st ruck in 1790 it was formulated as a nonevent even as it happened: Official debates and publications of the times reveal the incapacity of most contemporaries to understand the ongoing revolution in its own terms. They could read the news only with their ready made categories, and these categories were incompatible with the idea of a slave revolution (1995:73) This thesis sits firmly within contemporary anthropological discourses that approach unthinkable instances, challenge their status as non events, and make these silences speak about the past and present conditions of historical production. Relevant ontological limits once placed on historical possibilities (at least within dominant discourse) include imaginaries of the mythical Indian (see T. King 2003; Trigger 1980; Wolf 1982), the devaluation and exclusion of Native modes of historical production ( see Cruikshank 2005; Handsman and Richmond 1995), and the striking absence of Native gender constructs from archaeological treatments of the Indian past (see chapter two). In each of these examples, alternative possibilities are obscured by loud and un re flexive mentions. Writing alternative histories makes use of the constitutive counterpart of the unthinkable: the unexpected. The unexpected is found in the incompleteness of silences when subalterned communities work to keep historical alternatives aliv e. Collaborative


35 research based on an egalitarian relationship between anthropologists and natives can confront the historical exclusion of muted groups ( sensu Little 2007) from intellectual production. In this way, it pushes the contemporary goal of anthropological research to subvert the domination of academic perspectives over those of the traditional subjects. Although this remained an incomplete process, the ideally egalitarian grounds of collaborative research can systematically restructure b oth asymmetries in intellectual production as well as the gaps of knowledge that these inequalities give rise to. As a result, I often stumbled across the unexpected. These events flew in the face of accepted archaeological discourse. Even as I read the works of Indigenous archaeologists (e.g., Watkins 2000; see also chapter 3), these instances reminded me of the social and historical distance between academics and Indigenous thinkers and situated the value of collaborative fieldwork. To participate in the collaborative production of knowledge, I allowed the unexpected to restructure my academic orientation as well as my conception of the field as a whole. In the preface, I suggested that collaborative research makes use of multiple standpoints to crea te radical new knowledge. Egalitarian communication between people of divergent standpoints contributes more possibilities (and conflicts) in worldview with which to think through the unthinkable. This dynamic allows for a more rigorous interrogation o f silences and instances of the unexpected. In this way, collaboration can create a more nuanced narrative about the past. Queering Archaeology: How Heteronormative Archaeology Get s Its Rocks Off


36 In order to collaboratively research the past, I had to think about what I could contribute to discussions. I thought about the communities I collaborated with, the Bennetts, and other communities that could stand to gain from this research. In contribut ing to the means of re telling history from the standpoint of a student within academia, I found some skills more relevant in working with different groups. Working in tandem with the leadership of the Apalachee Tribe, I believe that I can contribute most powerfully simply by emphasizing cultural continuity and the recollection of a once lost heritage. Working in collaboration with Hakope's community (who count many scholars among their members), I had more trouble defining my relevant skills. Although I certainly can contribute my familiarity with queer theory and my access to academic resources, I expect that I will become more in the future as I become more familiar with their perspectives and ways. But I have to write a thesis now, I maybe I will con tribute to the concerns of how Native history has been silenced by the intersecting hierarchies of the colonial culture. A queer archaeology can be situated within deconstructivist feminist trajectories in the discipline. Feminist archaeologists have both worked to formulate non essentialistic frameworks for engendering the past and contributed to a critical climate in rega rds to gender issues within archaeology. These scholars critique archaeological understandings of the past, interrupting the ideological structures implicit in many formulations. Three common objectives among feminist archaeologists include the critique of androcentric knowledge structures, the effort to include women and agency into archaeological interpretation, and the conceptualization of gender relations as a


37 historical process. These approaches contribute the development of nuanced understandings o f past peoples. Margaret W. Conkey and Janet D. Spector argue that archaeologists often draw upon implicit frameworks rooted in contemporary experience to engender the past ( (1984:1 2). The result was that androcentric perspectives dominated the field w ith the assumption that gender is static and essential. Treatments based in these assumptions did not acknowledge the complicated negotiations of gender relations. Conkey and Spector note that: One principal feature [of androcentrism in anthropology] the imposition of ethnocentric assumptions about the nature, roles and social significance of males and females derived from our own culture on the analysis of other groups Males are typically portrayed as stronger, more aggressive, dominant, more active, and in general more important than females (1984:4). Operating from a false notion of objectivity (1984:6, emphasis in original), archaeologists had failed to address the complicated dynamics of the past. Sarah Nelson (1997), for example, argues that the traditional focus on power and prestige have obscured gender dynamics (as archaeologists focused on relations between men), rather than illuminating the processes of gender formation. In silencing alternatives in the past and naturalizing a gender mytho logy, androcentric narratives imply that contemporary gender constructs are inevitable and that gender is beyond the reach of cultural processes and social change (Conkey and Spector 1984; Conkey and Gero 1991; S. Nelson 1997). Conkey and Spector argue w omen who are present in archaeological interpretation were often portrayed as peripheral in cultural production and lack agency (often coming across innovation rather than causing it, see


38 also Conkey and Gero 1991; Watson and Kennedy 1991). They raise thr ee concerns: the prevalence of implicitly gender specific treatments; the assumptions of an ahistorical rigidity to a sexual division of labor in which artifacts were associated with a gendered sphere; and the uncritical application of hierarchy onto these gendered artifacts and activities (Conkey and Spector 1984:7). Margaret W. Conkey and Joan M. Gero (1991) further develop gender as an analytic concept. Their work articulates three aims: to continue to expose gender bias in all phases of archaeological inquiry to find women in archaeological contexts and to identify their participation in gender relations, gender ideologies, and gender roles; and finally, to problematize underlying assumptions about gender and difference (1991:5). They explicitly re ject the biological determinism implicit in many models, rather conceptualizing gender as a constitutive element of human social relations, based on culturally perceived and culturally inscribed differences of differences and similarities between and amon g males and females (1991:8). Like Conkey and Spector (1984), they argue that gender is always in flux: Gender is taken to be an issue of history and is always in production' (1991:8 9). They argue that gender is a social system that intersects wit h other dynamics of social life: from status, to trade, to state formation. Although acknowledging that all people have gender, their book focuses on women: they suggest that taking a single (and usually neglected) gender as an entry point can be effecti ve, challenging, and supported by a now substantial interdisciplinary literature (1991:3). In finding women, they do more than just balance dominant narratives that are implicitly about men only: they show the various roles women have played in histor ical process.


39 Conkey and Gero (1991) argue that engendered archaeology shifts the archaeological lens from artifacts to people (and there are some interesting intersections here with the fourth chapter of this thesis). Spector (1996) expands upon this ca ll in her focus on archaeological writing. She uses narratives styles (which she opposes to the objectivist academic styles) to give a sense of real people using the objects in the archaeological record. She centers her project on a critique of the rami fications of excluding groups from the production of distribution of knowledge (1996:486). Recognizing that Native peoples have been excluded as well as women, she engaged Dakota peoples so that their visions, voices, and perspectives could be incorpora ted into her work (1996:490). Discussing archaeological writing as a matter of telling stories, Spector argues that humanizing styles illustrate emic perspectives that resonate more deeply with actual lives. Borrowing from E. Minnich, Conkey and Specto r write: Man and mankind are not general, but exclusive; they are partial, and so is the scholarship of man and mankind (1984:2, emphasis in original). Although finding and showing their contributions to cultural production was (and in many cases, sti ll is) an important objective, this does not fully address the exclusive dynamics of archaeological discourse. Such approaches can continue to operate at the expense of non binary accounts of gender identity ( cf Conkey and Spector 1984; Eastman and Rodni ng 2001; Nelson 1997). Sarah Nelson (1997) moves away from the goal of finding women in the past, instead attempting to examine the very categories of men and women. She argues that even the existence of gender, let alone its shape, should not be a ssumed (1997:16). She differentiates between gender and sex (although she holds sex to be a natural


40 category rather than a biopolitical organization). Her objective is to focus on gender relations in order to elicit all the rich variety of experienc es, behaviors, and symbolic systems, of social, economic, and political arrangements of many kinds (1997:17). This brings me to the goal of articulating a gender queer archaeology an archaeology that pushes engendered archaeology to break apart gender bin aries. Such an engendered archaeology pushes a non essentialist perspective to its logical extreme, beginning with the assumption of radical (even to unthinkable extents) gender diversity and then trying to explain any apparent coherence or organization b etween people as a queer phenomenon. Sarah Nelson and Myriam Rosen Ayalon (2002:6 7) articulate three domains that interrogate gender as something that must be actively constituted: gender ideology, gender roles, and gender relations. Although they artic ulate these concepts in terms of the monolithic categories of men and women, they get to dynamics at the issues at the heart of a queer anthropology of gender: institutions and beliefs, behaviors, performances, and subjectivities constituted in relatio n to social norms, and political engagements. Queer theorists argue that sexual and gender identities are socially disciplined, pragmatic performances: thus, they are inherently multiple and unstable (Seidman 1996). To become institutionalized, gender/sex systems must be continuously reinforced and policed. In the uneven constructs of Western society (and in archaeology specifically), dominant models of gender and sexuality rely on what the theorist Ingraham (1994) has called the heterosexual imaginary. This ideology naturalizes gender as causatively determined by biological sex. Both are defined as binaries male/masculine and female/feminine and these opposites charter a system of heterosexual normativity


41 The common sense notion that gender is the result of natural binary biological categories masks the functioning of gender and heterosexuality as an organizing social institution and marginalizes queer alternatives. On the contrary, both gender and sexuality are systematic and historical insti tutions that organize both society and individualized subjectivities. Queering archaeology implies destabilizing heteronormative and gender normative practice s in archaeological production In fact, contemporary westerners have themselves imagined and practiced radical alternatives to the heterosexual imaginary : from degendering (e.g., Lorber 2005) to g ender fluidity (e.g., Smith 2000 ). Not only are multiple genders possible, but other societies construct genders/sex norms differently altogether (e.g., Halperin 1989). For this reason, a queer archaeology does not simply search for u niversal homosexual or transgender subjectivities in the past: this would only reinforce contemporary constructions about the historical stability of gender and se xual subjectivities (see Namaste 1994). Rather, a queer approach questions the heterosexist assumptions informing our current models, methodologies, and theories and explores alternatives. Scholars in other disciplines have examined the ways in which the modern regime of sexual identity (privileging social identities based on the gendered sexual object choice) has been historically constructed in relationship to the rise of the psychiatric institution capitalism, and bureaucracy (Fo ucault 1978; Greenberg and Brystryn 1984). Gender is likewise a systematic and unstable social institution that produces and privileges particular subjectivities. Sara Crawley (2010) has modeled how gender is discursively and performatively reproduced. Following Judith Bul ter's (1999) work, Sara


42 Crawley (2010) argues that gendered subjectivities are not the product of biological sex but rather that the articulation of binary sex categories is a function of gender ideology. Gender and sex are things people do, not something they simply have. They reinforce their identity through discourse, performance, and bodily stylization or manipulation. Gender performances are repeated to such an extent the subject ceases to feel gender as isolated acts, creating a feeling of realness through reiteration. Both processes organize discrete kinds of actions as well as kinds of humans within a semantic framework of gender. Because scripts for doing gender are discursively produced, all gender performances (gender normal and ot herwise) are conceptualized through their relation to the binary terms of the heterosexual imaginary (masculine/feminine performances, male/female bodies) In turn, this state of affairs reinforc es the legitimacy of gender ideology that is, the heterosexu al imaginary. The gender feedback loop (figure 2) structures not only the hegemonic status of cisgender identities (that is, male bodied men and female bodied women), but transgender identities as well. People within this system negotiate their identi ties while committing acts that are alternatively scripted as masculine or feminine (if the act is not, then it is simply not relevant to gender because according to Crawley 2010, non binary gender performances have become unthinkable). Whether intentiona lly or inadvertently, male bodies often perform feminine acts and female bodies often perform masculine acts. In this sense everyone is already doing transgenderism. The central concept of surveillance illustrates that transgender performances must be continuously policed in order to maintain the legitimacy of the heterosexual imaginary. A boy may be called a sissy or a softball pitcher might wear her hair in feminine pig tails (the latter example


43 is from Crawley's 2010 presentation): these are b oth examples of policing transgender performances. Ironically, while such policing does ensure the dominance (and predominance) of cisgender subjectivities, it also reproduces the very conditions that create transgenderism. Thus, gender is always at risk from subversion and (as true to any far reaching hegemonic system) instances of resistance are everywhere. According to this model, gender is rendered as a labor intensive social project produced through tactical discursive positioning that alternately r einforces and resists the gender/sexual status quo. This theory, of course, is centered in explaining dominance in contemporary western society. While the feedback model offers important insights about gender cross culturally, it must be adjusted to for the specific discourses, means of surveillance, and ideologies of any given society. As a historically contingent hegemonic system, gender and sexuality intersect with colonialism and other axes of domination such as colonialism, race, and class. This the sis attempts to expose heteronormativity as colonially marked: at different times it may reinforce colonial hierarchy or, conversely, give shape to colonial silences that subsume difference and naturalize ideology. A queer archaeology examines queer proce sses cross culturally as well as cross cultural (i.e., anthropological) knowledge to expose the instabilities of gender and sexual organization. It involves rethinking archaeological assumptions as well as thinking through gender and sex as a socio histor ical process. If i dentity is something people do, sex, gender, and sex/gender conflict leave material residue ( see Ard r en 2008) Potentially, a rchaeologists can explore the 1) materialities of gender and sexual subjectivities that don't make sense wit hin


44 heteronormative ideology 2) how these expressions have been contingent upon specific cultural histo rical contexts, 3) how ideological and ontological systems have been contested and undermined, and 4) how the relationships between genders (normative a nd otherwise) have changed over time and between cultures. By seeking to understand how the limits and boundaries of sexual and gender categories have been formed and regulated in relation to each other, queer theorists assert that the marginal, the ambig uous, and the queer are, in fact, central to the functioning of society (Epstein 1994; Namaste 1994). In short, queer archaeology renders the discursive production of gender is seen as a creatively negotiated and systematically reinforced social dynamic h appening at every level of history ( sensu Trouillot 1995). As q ueer scholars and act ivists theorize and practice alternative ways of being in the world they engage with history and test its limits. Errington and Gewertz argue that anthropology and its i ntellectual toolkit prompt and enable us to stretch our imagination so as to understand not only an unfamiliar other but an all too familiar self (2004:255). Their project, as they envision it, is to show colonialism to be the workings of cultural, histo rical and above all human processes rather than a manifestation of a stable or insurmountable human nature (2004:258). Likewise, this thesis is intended to emphasize the historical constructedness of heterosexist and colonial hegemony and begin to theori ze alternatives while looking towards the future As such, this is also a praxis building exercise: By discussing the historical legacies these actors established, I explore the potential for engagement in the contemporary world. In challenging hegemoni c narratives about the past, this thesis simultaneously challenges similar ones about the present (see Leone 2005)


45 Outline of Thesis Chapter two examines the Mississippian era Lake Jackson site, centering on queer and Indigenous critiques of archaeology. This chapter re interprets a copper plate representative of a larger iconographic set in the SECC excavated from Mound 3. It begins by reviewing the archaeological discourse interpreting the figures' symbolic elements with a focus on its gender. The archaeological literature reveals a debate between whether the figure is a Birdman or Birdwoman, yet both these positions ignore the subtleties of gender and sex categorization within both Native and Western cultures. Drawing on my collaborative fieldwork with Hakope's community, I outline an argument that the figure from Lake Jackson actually represents an anthropomorphic sphinx moth. Discussions about Muscogee gender philosophy with this community also provided additional dimensions for understanding the figure as neither a man nor a woman. The moth figure may relate to ancient ceremonial performances of non gendered identities. Ch apter three draws on engendering methods in archaeology to discuss creolization in Mission San Luis, focusing on the production of destabilizing ambiguities and the policing of gender and sexuality. Jewelry found discarded in a Spanish Village trash pit may reflect identity politics between an Apalachee woman and her Spanish lover. To contextualize this conclusion, I explore the mise en sc Ž ne that this act could have been performed within. I analyze the landscape from the perspective of life on the gr ound as a means of making sense of culture contact and creole identity. I explore the


46 writings of Spaniards, which describe the anxieties over and policing of gender, sexuality, and kinship. I suggest that these institutions were contested and significa ntly destabilized in this multicultural context, forcing social actors to forge identities within highly politicized, if ambiguous, terrain. I conclude that the Apalachee woman who discarded the jewelry given to her by her husband symbolically rejected th ese colonizing/civilizing discourses and underscored her own sense of indigenized gender identity. On the other hand, Hakope does not buy all of my explanation. Although at this point in May I don't have enough time to fully rethink the argument here, I present his alternatives. Perhaps they might provide the grounds for future discussions. In chapter four, I discuss my visits to three Native museums: the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, the Ah Tah Thi Ki (Seminole) Museum, and the National Museum of th e American Indian. This chapter draws on self reflective ethnographic methods. It re approaches the earlier theoretical developments of the thesis. I discuss the exhibition of heritage and gender, deconstructing the hermeneutic processes of display that confront the present and historical reality. I draw upon the work of anthropologists working with heritage and Native theorists to theorize material culture as things with life. These museums represent ancestors, not simply the dead past, and confront t he traditional processes by which artifacts are alienated from descendent communities. Rather, they are arranged by peoples to tell stories about their past and the conditions of their continued personal and cultural survival. I then move to a discussion of exhibiting gender norms as a means of imagining tradition. Although the exhibits appear to be subscriptions to hegemonic norms of beauty and cisgender identity, I suggest that more complex dynamics may be occurring simultaneously. Throughout this ana lysis, I struggle with


47 coming to terms with processes of interpretation without imposing dominant culture's gender philosophy. In each of these narratives, I explore the intersections of gender and historical production. Each draws on different methods but six interlocking themes keep reappearing. The first is remembering, a hermeneutically centered analysis of past that can generally be written about in both the past and the progressive tenses. The second is gender ontology and ideology, which this thesis attempts to break up and denaturalize. The third is how queer theory can contribute to archaeological analysis. There are two major sub themes here: one is the conceptualization of gender as performance and use of transgender theory; the other is an expansion of Kath Weston's (1997) observation that the normative family is a racially and ethnically marked category. The fourth theme is collaboration. The fifth is a sense of place or how memories are inscribed onto objects and landscapes. The fina l theme is a critique of archaeology, which is alternatively deconstructed from feminist, queer, and decolonial standpoints. In order to get at the complexities of gender in the past, it is necessary to reconsider the ways archaeological writing performati vely textualizes gender possibilities. Such an archaeology must break apart the binaries of the present. From here I turn to a discussion of ancient gender ontology among the Apalachee.


48 Birdman, Birdwoman: Decolonizing Gender Ontology in Lake Jackson Gender is the repeated stylization of the body, a set of repeated acts within a highly rigid regulatory frame that congeal over time to produce the appearance of the substance, of a natural sort of being. A political genealogy of gender ontologies, if it is successful, will deconstruct the substantive appearance of gender into its constrictive acts and locate and account for those acts within the compulsory frames set by the various forces t hat police the social appearance of gender. (Butler 1999: 43 4) The academic controversy surrounding the gender of the Falcon Hero in the art of the Southeastern Ceremonial Complex may reflect our own assumptions about the bi nary nature of gender far more than anything about ancient Southeastern cultures. A review of the literature reveals a debate between archaeologists attempting to gender the figure as either masculine or feminine (e.g., C. Brown 1982; J. Brown 2004, 2007a 2007b; Jones 1982; King 2004; Koehler 1997; Thomas 2000; White 1999). Implicit in both perspectives is the assumption that the complex relationships between gender and sex categories are universal and static rather than multiple and historically varied. These scholars forget ethnohistorical records that describe the gender diversity of native societies across North America (Callender and Kochems 1983; Lang 1998). Sometimes called berdaches or two spirits, these individuals adopted identities associ ated with the so called opposite sex. These records show that Native gender systems do not necessarily operate according to the binary ideology assumed by archaeologists. In the 1975 1976 excavations of Mound 3 at the Lake Jackson site in Tallahassee ( belonging to the Fort Walton archaeological culture), Calvin B. Jones uncovered a copper breastplate depicting the so called Birdman or Birdwoman that archaeologists have struggled to gender. As summarized in the introduction to this thesis, queer


49 the orists argue that sexual and gender identities are institutionalized ideological constructs. A non essentialistic approach to the gender of this figure should treat it as part of larger, historically and culturally specific set of social institutions. Co llaborative interpretation with a community of Muskogee people suggests not only that this figure is not a cisgendered, but that it isn't a bird either, powerfully illustrating the marginality of Indigenous worldviews in archaeological discourse. Rather than looking at the figure as either masculine/male or feminine/female, I suggest that gender was more fluid and dynamic in Lake Jackson than we often assume today. The Lake Jackson plate may have been implicated in the performative production of a ritua l social complex and gender ontology that has been unthinkable from within the perspectives of heteronormative archaeology. The Lake Jackson Site: Material Memories of Gendered Selves The Lake Jackso n site belongs to the Fort Walton archaeological culture, which is defined as the emergence of Mississippian practices from within earlier Weeden Island (750 950) Wakulla culture (Milanich 1994:194, 355). The Mississippian era marked the combined expansio n of maize agriculture and understood to have complex social originations in eastern North America (Fagan 1991). Often located in river valley floodplains, these societies were ranked and participated in long distance trade reaching at least from the Gu lf Coast to the Great Salt Lakes. The largest of Mississippian sites, Cahokia, was located in modern day Illinois. It was a complex site by 900 AD and reached its peak between 1050 1250 AD. It consists of over one hundred mounds in a


50 carefully planned l ayout. The largest mound, Monks Mound, would have taken 2000 individuals about 200 days to complete (Fagan 1991:398). After Cahokia's decline, other mound centers across eastern North America such as Moundville, Spiro, Etowah, and Lake Jackson came int o prominence. Although these large scale societies continued trade in exotic goods and elaborate artwork as well as built massive mounds, the period between 1250 to 1500 or 1600 AD (depending on the region) marked an era of decentralization throughout the region. Timothy Pauketat uses the term Mississippianization to refer to the process by which localities in the Southeastern United States adopted life ways and ideologies disseminating from Cahokia, or: an uneven historical process in which people pol iticized maize based agricultural landscapes and cosmologies in ways contingent on their [local] pasts and on each other (Pauketat 2007:85). Hakope is often heard to say that expressions of (cultural) power are geographically specific. Mississippian p eoples were known for their artistic traditions. Due to its close associations with the Southeastern Ceremonial Complex (SECC), some scholars prefer to discuss the Mississippian Art and Ceremonial Complex (MACC), instead (e.g., Reilly 2004). So called B irdmen representations are prominent in this complex (Brown 2007a; Kehoe 2002). Some, like those from Lake Jackson, are on repouss Ž copper plates and others are etched on shells. Some have a possible breast motif (discussed below) while others lack such a feature. Different styles developed (Brown 2007b) and were traded across the southeast. In North Florida, increased agricultural production led to a significant population growth around the turn of the millennium. Maize, grown in large cleared field s, became


51 a major aspect of the diet relative to earlier societies of North Florida. The centuries following saw the development of settlement hierarchy, public mound constructions, and the use of SECC iconography, pointing to the Mississippianization of North Florida. Despite the prominence of Mississippian forms, pottery styles were almost entirely local or regional (Griffin 1950) and rural settlement patterns took a distinct form from other Mississippian societies (Scarry 2007). This affirms that loca l historical trajectories were important in the process of Mississippianization at Lake Jackson. John Scarry (1984; 1994) divides the following centuries into three chronological phases (see figure 3): the Lake Jackson Phase, the Velda Phase, and the San Luis or Mission Phase. The Lake Jackson site is known as Okeeheepkee or Disappearing Waters in Muskogee (Hakope, personal communication, September 16 2010). This name refers to the periodic drainage of the lake and the p marks conditional change, i.e., that the lake will later return. The site is situated in the Tallahassee Red Hills of North Florida and overlooks Lake Jackson. It consists of seven mounds and was a major ritual and/or political center in the region. Th e occupants of the site are recognized as the direct ancestors of the modern day Apalachee (see Lee n.d.; Scarry 1996). The region is extremely fertile, and archaeologists have found the remains of cultigens such as maize, beans, and sunflower in addition to many varieties of wild foods (Milanich 1994:364). Standard models of the Lake Jackson phase emphasize the development of social hierarchy. Jones (1982) suggests a three part social structure of elites, laterally ranked warriors, and commoners. Settl ement patterns have also traditionally been divided into four types according to hierarchical relationships (Bryne 1986). Moun d centers located near bodies of water are politically and ritually central : these sites are characterized by


52 grand public works of multiple mound constructions. The largest of these is the Lake Jackson site, which has seven mounds. Like Etowah, Moundville, and Spiro, the Lake Jackson site was the center of an independent regional polity that incorporated the surrounding landscape into its political sphere (Jones 1982; Milanich 1994; Morris and Milanich 2004; Scarry 2007). Indeed, the material goods excavated from Mound 3 are unparalleled throughout Fort Walton until the San Luis phase. Smaller centers with only one or two mound s were slightly more peripheral sites. Below that were villa ge hamlets, and then homesteads as the bottom tier. This hierarchical model may be androcentric (see Sullivan 2001; Sullivan and Rodning 2001). In the mid seventies, Calvin B. Jones conducted a salvage excavation of Mound 3 in the Lake Jackson site (Jones 1982). The excavation began after the resident found a copper celt when working in the yard of their new household. Upon investigation, Jones realized that the yard had been filled with dirt from Mound 3, land owned by Mr. Sam Crowder. The Florida State Park agency had initially planned to buy the land from Mr. Crowder in the 1950's, but had never followed through. In 1975, Mr. Crowder enlarged a mechanic shop next to the mound, removing par t of the mound. He thought nothing of it because local kids and others had periodically dug into the mound and found nothing (Jones 1982:7). Jones was able to gain permission from Mr. Crowder to excavate the remainder of the mound. Limitations were pl aced on Jones according to Crowder's business needs and in early 1976 Jones had to speed up his work so that Crowder could finish the construction on his shop (Jones 1982). Mr. Crowder's actions are not exceptional in fact, he was both willing to work wit h state archaeologists and was fairly flexible with Jones' excavation


53 Jones dated the construction of Mound 3 from about 1250 1475 AD, synthesizing radiocarbon dates with analogy to other Mississippian centers. Jones uncovered several copper plates fe aturing Falcon Hero iconography, one of which is breasted (see figures 4 and 5). Copper artifacts were found with traces of cloth wrapping around them, probably indicating that these artifacts were contained within medicine bundles (Gabrielle Vail, person al communication, January 2010). Jones excavated 24 burials and one feature labeled as a burial [that were] encountered during salvage work at Mound 3 (1982:10). Burials associated with copper iconography represent high status or at least high prestige individuals. Due to poor preservation Jones could initially sex only two individuals. Later studies, however, show that all burials that could be sexed were male except for two or three sexed as female (Scarry 1995). One of the female skeletons was a b urial accompanied by a gender ambiguous breastplate (figures 4 and 5). The ambiguous plate was interred in the ninth out of twelve floors, indicating that the artifact was buried fairly early in the history of Mound 3. The burial also contained beads, gra phite pigment, and traces of leather (possibly indicating a litter). A second female burial was interned with one of the unbreasted birdman icons. She or zhe (a transgender pronoun) was associated with the second highest level of Mound 3 (floor 2), sig nifying that she was one of the final high prestige individuals to be buried in Mound 3. There appears to be a disagreement over the sex of a third internment (associated with an unbreasted birdman ): one study sexed the skeleton as male while another sc holar believed it to be female (Shahramfar 2008). The skeleton could also be intersexed, a possibility rarely explored by bioarchaeologists who already struggle to fit diverse bodies into binary categories (see Geller 2005).


54 As with other Falcon Hero re presentations, most archaeologists have attempted to gender the figure as either masculine or feminine. Although I argue that this icon must be understood in relation to Native sex/gender traditions, it is first necessary to discuss prior archaeological i nterpretations of the figure. Deconstructing the Archaeological Discourse The Lake Jackson plate belongs to a larger iconographic set within the Southeastern Ceremonial Complex, or the SECC (e.g., figu res 6 and 7). So called Birdman iconography is generally found in association with prestigious burials within mounds. Upon death, leaders likely organized surplus community labor in the construction of mound earthworks, collectively commemorating the a ncestors ( cf. Kopper 1986) The creation of these physical spaces may thus have been a practice of cultural memory implicated in the naturalization of a social collectivity. Other scholars have argued that the iconographic set related to rituals that in which actors performatively forged elite identities, defining and legitimizing their position within the socio political structure (J. Brown 2007a; Pauketat 2005). James A. Brown (2007a) offers the most comprehensive symbolic argument to my knowledge for gendering the Birdman iconographic set masculine. He argues that Birdman symbolism is historically related to the Red Horn or Morning Star oral traditions told in early 20 th century Native descendent communities and breaks the icon down through a disc ussion of individual motifs. In this mythic cycle, Morning Star goes through a period of death and rebirth involving a lost chunkey game (the stakes were


55 apparently his life). His son or nephew (the difference in versions is likely an issue of translatin g matrilineal kinship into English terms) travels to the underworld to revitalize him Most figures hold a severed head in one hand and a mace or sword in the other. Brown believes that the head does not represent the head of an enemy (as other scholars have thought) because some have similar headdresses to the Birdman, denoting a common ethnicity. Rather, he argues that this is the nephew/son holding the head of the uncle/father. Brown argues that these stories and artwork chartered status positions They could have helped to legitimate succession after the death of a leader: Rising elites literally stood on the bones of their chiefly ancestors buried in mounds, discursively and performatively anchoring their rule through a history and a genealogy o f social hierarchy. If this view is correct, chiefs mobilizing Falcon Hero iconography performatively structured their elite identities and legitimated differentials in power through warrior ideology, Morning Star mythology, and rebirth cosmology. Further analysis of these myths, Brown suggests, emphasize themes of masculinity. Morning Star is also known by many other names, including He Who Wears Human Heads in His Ears. He is a powerful warrior and chunkey player who travels between the worlds. Workin g from recorded oral traditions, Brown (2007a) suggests that the Birdman's (1) long nose, (2) bi lobed arrow headdress, and (3) long braid of hair may have had sexual significance attesting to the Hero's masculine virility. 1) The name He Who Wears Hu man Heads in His Ears recalls the long nosed ear ornaments found in Mississippian sites. When Red Horn plays chunky against an underworld giantess, he distracts her by wiggling the noses in his ears. She giggles and


56 Red Horn is able to win the game. The comment made by the giantess's mother suggests that her daughter has been seduced. Indeed, after winning Morning Star takes the giantess as his wife. 2) The arrowhead headdress seems to be a symbol of hunting and/or warfare, both masculine pursuits that are also related to systems of prestige. Brown also believes the headdress to have phallic elements related to arrow symbolism (cf. C. Brown 1972). 3) The long braid of hair featured in the birdman figures may represent the protagonist's red horn (h orn can also be translated as braid in some languages). In a different myth, a man with a blue braid has four lovers. They become jealous, tie him up, and cut of his braid of hair, leaving him powerless. This concept may also be related to the value man y eastern peoples placed on scalps taken during warfare, which the historic Apalachee understood to hold a person's essence (see Hann 1988). Brown (2007a) concludes that elites chartered and legitimized their status in part by ritually associating themsel ves with the Falcon Hero's mythic and above all masculine sexuality. However, feminist scholars point out that some Falcon Heroes feature a pointed element that could represent a female breast (e.g., Brown 1982; Koehler 1997; Thomas 2000; White 1999). Although I have focused on James A. Brown's arguments, many archaeologists uncritically assume the figure represents a male body (Brown 1982). The pointed element also resembles other depictions within SECC art that clearly do represent women (Koehler 199 7). Archaeologists working with gendered space have often assumed that male burials in mounds represent warriors and elites while the female burials that are in fact present represent the kin of these important men (Sullivan 2001). Ethnohistorical docume nts contradict this andocentric assumption, recording that Native American women sometimes did take on the masculine roles of warrior and chief that


57 archaeologists associate with these mound spaces (Borne 1922, cited in Brown 1982; Clayton and Moore 1993, cited in Thomas 2000; Lang 1997). While it is possible that the pointed element represents a male pectoral (Brown 2007a; Koehler 1997), its presence among certain depictions and absence among others does suggest that the motif distinguished two iconographi c subsets (Brown 1982; Koehler 1997). It has been suggested that perhaps both a male and a female Falcon Hero coexisted as dual manifestations of this deity (Koehler 1997; Thomas 2000). There is a possible analogy for this in Etowah, were a male and fema le pair of statues was excavated from Mound C (see Figure 8; King 2004). These two trajectories gendering the Falcon Hero are often seen to be contradictory (see Koehler 1997; Brown 2007a): the supposed phallic symbolism and the male predominance in mound burials have yet to be aligned with a breasted figure. Latently normative models of Mississippian societies still claim warfare and chiefly power exclusively for men at the expense of more complex understandings of history. On the other hand, feminist r evisions do not address the specifically masculine meanings of the Falcon Hero or the role of a female deity found in spaces dominated by men. Neither trajectory has succeeded in synthesizing representations of masculinity with femininity or male predomin ance with female presence into a single history. As such, feminine and masculine interpretations of the Falcon Hero often remain binary and oppositional realms of thought. Yet this division is not intrinsic to the problem at hand. It reflects contempo rary assumptions about the binary nature of gender as well as a confusion of the relationship between gender and sex category. This model does not adequately explain the processes


58 of gender, even in dominant culture. Sara Crawley (2010) argues, We Are A ll Trans. In the contemporary world, actions are inscribed with masculine/feminine significance. However, because we are constantly doing or performing gendered meanings, we end up doing both masculine and fem inine performances in our every day lives. In the introduction of this thesis I drew on her example of the softball pitcher who wears her hair in pigtails as she hurls the ball with amazing physical power. The act of pitching is a masculine performance. The pigtails, on the other hand serve to stylize her physical body in such a way so as to undercut her masculine performance and stabilize her feminine identity. The heterosexual imaginary ( sensu Ingraham 1994) is in a sense subverted by everyday transgender performances, yet these ch allenges are marginalized symbolically or materially. Transgenderism, in Crawley's view, is simply the state of affairs for a two gender ontological system, and it must be actively mediated by both cisgendered and transgendered bodies in order to produce different sorts of gendered subjectivities. Heteronormative archaeological discourse has proceeded as if gender identities are and always were naturally and pre socially binary. Yet ethnohistorical records show that many Native American peoples had (and continue to have) long, powerful traditions of third and fourth genders (Ardren 2008; Callender and Kochems 1983; Eastman and Rodning 2001; Lang 1998). These individuals historically called berdaches took on the social roles and dress generally associat ed with the so called opposite sex. However, they did not become the other gender: they were seen to occupy distinct gender statuses.


59 The contemporary movement in American Indian gender diversity has critiqued the term berdache for having demeani ng connotations (Wesley and Jacobs 1999). The word has a long genealogy moving through the Persian, Arabic, French, and Spanish languages before entering English, originally meaning kept boy or male prostitute. Even in the modern usage, Berdache is a foreign concept to Native American peoples. In a conference held in 1990, Native LGBT activists decided on two spirit as an appropriate term to refer to a wide range of indigenous roles and identities. The term two spirit, of course, has its own histo rically specific meaning as a term uniting people across ethnic lines, through which activists assert an indigenous heritage of acceptance of gender and sexual diversity. Two spirit communitie s have sought to carve out a space in Native traditions for LGB T people (Gilley 2004; Wesley and Jacobs 1999). However, the term two spirit also has its own terminological limitations. It obscures considerable cross cultural differences between Native gender statuses (Epple 1998). For this reason, some people cho ose to identify using ethnically specific terms. The term two spirit also is rooted in the conception that two spirits are people who have both a masculine and a feminine soul that co exist within them. Ultimately, this reinforces a Levi Staussian dich otomy of Man/Woman that denies that people have the ability to think outside of binaries (Nancy White, personal communication, April 1, 2010). These critiques have important implications throughout this paper. Individuals from Hakope's community have discussed their memories of past members with non normative identities: a gay couple, a woman who transitioned from a man in her middle age, a woman who didn't menstruate and engaged in ceremonial activities with men. Although these individuals may be marginalized in heterosexual


60 culture, but Hakope's community emphasized that these individuals were important members of the group. Several stated that this perspective on diversity was a traditional value that marks a significant difference between the g ender ideologies of Muskogee and dominant colonial cultures. These individuals were not understood to have a third gender identity in line with the berdaches of anthropological discourse: rather many community members emphasized that these differences w ere simply not important to Muskogee rituals or other cultural practices. Although they recognize both sexual and gendered distinctions (and explain that most people tend to conform to masculine or feminine and have unambiguously sexed bodies), they a lso emphasize that individuals can act beyond their gender. One male member, Dr. Patrick McCaffrey, also talks about certain ritual dances in terms of personally recognizing his feminine side. It is important that archaeologists remember that ancient Fort Walton gender systems could have been quite different than those of the dominant culture today. Perhaps the individual buried with the copper plate was a two spirit, perhaps not. Matthew Looper (2002) has suggested that by gender mixing, Mayan eli tes and gods accessed different aspects of the supernatural. These rulers performatively reinforced their elite status as they asserted both masculinity and femininity to metaphorically associate themselves with creation. Perhaps something similar happen ed in Fort Walton. At minimum, SECC art and performance broadcast an ideology to the public through rituals (Alt and Pauketat 2001; Pauketat 2005): the breastplate in Lake Jackson could have standardized, defined, regulated, and politically empowered gend er norms distinct from those of today.


61 In what follows, I outline an Indigenous interpretation of the ambiguous Lake Jackson plate. This moves the conversation to the relationships between gendered subjectivities, institutions, and ideologies. A New Collaboration: An Introduction to Hakope's Community As I explain in the preface, I was invited by a Creek community to attend their late summertime August Busk in 2010. A few months earlier, I had prese nted an early version of this chapter in which I argued that gender was an h istorically contingent and culturally specific social institution and that Lake Jackson Falcon Hero, as I called it, may represent a two spirit identity. My interpretation was f irmly embedded in the traditional archaeological discourse as described above. The members of the community had invited me to discuss my interpretation, suggesting that I could benefit from a Muskogee perspective. We discussed my argument before dinner. I had my chance to talk, and then Hakope, the community's headman, began his critique. Hakope outlined a different interpretation of the figure as an anthropomorphic moth, claiming that archaeologists over the past decades had not adequately consulted wi th Native peoples in their interpretations. I began to consider that looking for a third gender category might be a step in the wrong ontological direction because it assumes a categorical system of stable and discrete subjectivities. In what follows I a ttempt to advance the decolonizing potential of a queer archaeology further than I was able with the resources I had when I gave my presentation. This has been possible through collaborative resear ch with this Muskogee community.


62 Hakope' s community maintains their ancestral traditions through ritual practices, oral histories (many of which are now recorded), and intensive scholarship. All of which are constantly and thoroughly communally discussed. In archaeological parlance, they are a descendent community of the culture that produced Lake Jackson. In Hakope's words, we acknowledge a shared culture and history with the peoples who occupied the Lake Jackson site among others and our oral history and stories would often alert state arch eologists to what they would most likely encounter in digs they were just initiating -we were usually right (personal communication, April 26 2011). Hakope's community played a central role in the formation of the Creek Confederacy (they maintain substant ial historical documentation of this fact ) and continue to maintain a close relationship with the Muscogee (Creek) Nation in Oklahoma. A community website documents history, records and discusses issues within or important to the community: Nowadays, they make use of modern materials readily available. They use them in expressions evolved from ancient forms. [Their] ancient foundation still flourishes. Its culture adapted, survived, and continues today. Hakope is the Mekko, a hereditary tribal town king w ho is also the medicine maker and teacher elder holding advanced degrees in anthropology, education and ethnomusicolgy. He has dedicated much of his life to teaching Muskogee language, ceremony, and worldviews. Hakope is a brilliant scholar able to recall significant details from research, and often even remembers page numbers when recommending sources. According the records of Creek N ation, Oklahoma he is the only eastern creek who completed the 16 years study required of ceremonial makers of medicine. The physical heart of their culture may be said to be their ceremonial gathering


63 place, or Square Grounds. Numbers of community members, although widely dispersed return to the Square Grounds regularly where Medicine is taken four times a year as part of their ceremonial cycle. Because of distance, some families attend only once every few years. Christian families and those who never participate in its activities turn to the traditional community Square Ground to mark events and life stages such as births, marriages and deaths in the same way Americans turn to their county courthouses for the same events. Community births, marriages and burials are duly recorded in the appropriate local courthouses. When I attended the 2010 August Busk, there were perhaps a dozen community members and two non Native anthropologists present Their oral history informed excavations such as the Ft. Brooke site in Tampa with thorough accuracy before an archeological work was conducted even to the number of remains that likely w ould be encountered. Members of the community also did initial excavations and verification of the DeSoto encampment site in 1966 67. In 1982, they took Calvin Jones, Dr Karl Nosse and others to the site. Cultural resource officers from Creek Nation ofte n visits and consultation. I was present for one such visit. Members regularly participate and attend activities in Oklahoma as well and are known to help out financially during hard times. Some members are called upon to assist in the funeral rites of high status individuals in Oklahoma such as Tema Tiger, Sarah McCombs and other well known individuals. Decolonizing the Birdman : Insects, Ritual Performance, and Degendering Collaboratively Written with Hakope


64 This section presents an alternative interpretation of the figure centered in what this community calls a Muskogee perspective. Although this section is collaboratively written, it is framed in the first person of Lee Bloch. I (Lee Bloch) initially wrote this section alone, drawing from conversations with Hakope. The bulk of this is a synthesis of a community discussion at the 2010 August Busk (or ceremony) and a phone conversation on September 27, 2010. Hakope suggested many of the sour ces used in this section. After I wrote a draft, I sent it to Hakope for review. He responded with edits on the 2 nd and 3 rd of October 2010. He integrated his comments into the paper, referring to himself in third person so as to maintain the stylistic unity of the paper. I have italicized Hakope's words to clarify who is speaking even though the entire section is written as if it were from my own perspective. Although the Bird in Birdman is accepted within archaeological discourse, Native thinke rs have reached different conclusions. In the fall quarter of the 1964 issue of the Native Newspaper, the Muscogee Crier editor J. Ray Daniel wrote : The iconography of the S E didn't have the unintended fortunate mishaps perpetuated by people such as Bis hop Landa who destroyed so much on one hand but documented much about indigenous writing systems and symbols. In the S E very few meaningful explanations were accurately written. Much of what survived is obviously filtered through a strong Euro centric rel igious perspective which often completely missed the mark in interpretation, meaning and relationship between object, user and the surrounding cultural milieu Most noted is the entirety of differences in what such [archaeological] objects evoke in the eye and hand of many modern researchers and the surviving native communities. At first glance, a particular item decorated with an engraved figure, appeared for all world to be a fine example of what Waring, Clarence Moore, Funderburke and others called a lo ng nose god, a hawk man, bird man or an individual mimicking the same. When shown to cultural practitioners and speakers of native


65 S E languages, the reaction was entirely different. They saw bugs, important bugs, bugs that ensured continuity and survival in their older lifeways. These engravings were visible lessons in cosmological agriculture, biology and entomology And, they had stories, lots of stories that made their case for them -stories recorded in centuries past but not clearly understood by those who recorded them. The first thing one researcher immediately learned was that he didn't know. The second thing learned was that he could learn to see the world through their cosmological eyes. What a difference it made (provided by Hakope, personal commu nication, September 25 2010). Daniel emphasizes how the powerful continuities between the Native past and present help to provide the needed context for successful archaeological interpretation. Few non Native anthropologists have written about moths o r butterflies among Native North American peoples. However, insects figure prominently in to many Native American mythological systems (Cherry 1993). In 2002, Alice Kehoe published a brief discussion of moths in the SECC. She argues that SECC centers on two figures, a bird and a tobacco moth figure. She argues: Hawks as symbols of bellicose power of course go back to Hopewell and continued in Cahokia; tobacco moths are large night flying insects that pollinate tobacco, which was cultivated in the Hopew ell as well as Mississippian eras Tobacco Moth was to Night as Hawk was to Day, a highly visible denizen of the air (2002:181). In 2007, Vernon James Knight and Judith A. Frank published on a previously unrecognized supernatural in Mississippian art: a moth or butterfly (2007:136). Their analysis begins with a gorget from Etowah (figure 9) and the Willoughby disk from Moundville (figure 10). They also find that other artifacts, such as pottery, bear similar designs to those found on caterpillars and m oth. Finally, they attempt to connect moth iconography with the Birdman corpus. They claim the moth is the Birdman's dualistic antithesis. They conclude by suggesting that the


66 elongated down curled snout of the Lake Jackson Birdman may represent a proboscis, but their analysis ends there. Hakope, and many of his community, strongly holds that the figure represents a moth. A t the late summer Busk, most suggested it was a sphinx moth in particular ( [known in Muskogee as] Tvffolvpv mokke; dust or pollen bearing moth) which they recognize as important to their agricultural pursuits (see figure 11). However, in a later conversation Hakope and I discussed that his people's language does not distinguish between species in th e same way as English does, and Alice Kehoe has emphasized via personal communication that the figure is a tobacco hornworm moth, or manduca sexta (September 30, 2010). The moth interpretation is based in two assumptions: 1) continuities in cosmological, philosophical, and ritual practices between Mississippian peoples and Southeastern peoples today; and 2) that Mississippian art would have been contextualized within a corpus of the traditional ecological knowledge (TEK) of an agricultural people in which insects were important as pollinators. Tobacco hornworm moths pollinate tobacco, an important medicinal product used in cerem onies throughout the Southeast. I'm told that the photo of the hornworm looks remarkably like many of the posts or other featur es showing spiral designs on them (I assume they mean the posts in their Square Grounds, Hakope, personal communication, May 10, 2011). Southeastern agriculture was ecologically dependent on both pollinating insects and birds that control caterpillar pop ulations: these interdependent processes must exist in balance. Emphasizing this dynamic, the community's worldview holds that some birds follow insects as the next part of a four stage life cycle (see appendix A). The tobacco hornworm caterpillar, for e xample, has chevron like markings that associate it


67 with the peregrine falcon, which has a similar marking around its eye. James A. Brown (2007a) notes that this marking is present around the eye in many Birdman plates, which is one of the reasons he be lieves the figures represent a falcon persona. Moths also have a prominent place in Muskogee cosmology. Moths and butterflies carry the souls of the dead to the Campfires of the Departed in the Milky Way. Hakope connected the image to a ritual dance performed during the Harvest Busk known as the Old Man Dance or Strangers From a Far Off Country. Hakope also noted that several writers, including Swanton, Howard & Lena, wrote about the Muskogean Old Man or Masked Dance occurring in the late fall a s part of the Harvest or Hunting Dance Dr. Robert Pullen, a member of the community, connected the Lake Jackson plate to a springtime ritual that he described as fertility blessings, as well (personal communication, October 1 2010). Hakope elaborate d on this in a later email, describing how a community leader enters the garden and holds aloft stone, wood or copper symbols they call the Horn Worms. In Sun Circles and Human Hands [(2001)] plates 5 [and] 85, Funderburke calls these reels. While hel d aloft, intensive formulae addressed to hornworms and other vegetative consuming caterpillars are solicited, praised and then admonished Finally, Hakope and Dr. Pullen noted that many of the constellations his people see have to do with insects and ance stors. James Mooney writes that the name of a particular species of yellowish moth in Cherokee impl[ies] that it goes into and out of the fire (Mooney and Ellison 1992:310). In the ceremony of Hakope's community, the fire is an aspect of the sun. Part icipants are reminded not to let their shadow fall upon the fire that is, not to interrupt the communion between the fire and the sun. One is also told to never pass between


68 another person and the Sacred Fire when near the center mound whereon the fire rests. When I asked Hakope about this, he emphasized that the fire is also the manifestation of Creator. Expanding on Kehoe's (2002) dualism, perhaps moth is to the fire as hawk is to the sun. The long nose of the Lake Jackson plate is a proboscis that contracts into a spiral, which is another common but important SECC icon The sphinx moth is known to have an especially long proboscis, which gives it the unique ability among insects to pollinate tobacco. Hakope understands the concentric circles on t he figure's shoulder to represent fragments of a chrysalis, suggesting that the figure is still in or has just finished the process of transformation. Hakope also sees the figure as showing the two parts of moth wings: two fore wings and two hind wings ma king four in total The so called mace could also be a profile view of a flower rat her than a weapon (see figure 12 ). This is Although B. Calvin Jones drew this element in detail in his publication (1982), I could not find all of these details in the a ctual copper plate. While there is a long, straight line that makes up the right edge of the mace/flower, I am not sure how Jones determined its exact shape. The so called maces from the Birdmen of Etowah, however, do look like a profile of a tobacco flower (figures 6 and 7 ). Besides the obvious importance of moths and flowers in agricultural production, Hakope related them both to Muskogee post mortuary beliefs. Moths are soul carriers: according to the Hakope's community who hold that all humans have two souls, a deep embedded cool soul centered in the liver, kidneys and abdomen which may take up to four days to vacate the body upon death and a warm breath soul centered in the heart and lungs that leaves immediately at death to prepare for its jo urney up to the milky way


69 [sic; and] to the stars When a person dies they say that one of these souls (which is very light weight) is carried to the Milky Way by these insects. This is also signified by the waving markings on the figure's wings, in whic h Hakope saw a stylized Milky Way. In the same email, Hakope suggested that some moths and butterflies have wings shaped like liver lobes and noted that the word for moth and butterfly ( tvffolvpv or tvffolupv ) is a combination of the word for a flying ins ect (including bugs such as grasshoppers) and liver ( lupv or lvpv ). Finally, Karl Taube (see 2004; 2006; 2010) suggests that Mesoamerican peoples believed that flowers where portals between worlds. According to Hakope, many Muskogee peoples share these b eliefs. The plate from Lake Jackson also has a wide belt like element around the figure's waist. Perhaps ancient Apalachee people made similar articles of clothing article of clothing out of beads that could be worn in rituals. Hakope, however, saw that it resembled the markings on the topside of a sphinx moth. In this light, the heart shaped apron may represent a moth's abdomen. It could also represent a wild turkey hide. Unlike their domesticated relatives, Hakope explained, wild turkeys are extre mely smart and difficult to track and hunt. They're wily and ferocious when threatened. Turkey pelts were one of the four traditional symbols of warriors and adorned [as a] dress of status Indeed, powerful symbols have multiple interpretations (see app endix A) The circular headdress represents a cross section of a corncob. On the inside of the cob is an ogee motif, which Hakope described a sym bolic vaginal opening through which life emerges. Then there is the decapitated head. This portion of the Lake Jackson plate was so badly damaged that I find it impossible to make out this portion. When Jones was making his drawing, however, he may have had his eye to the other plates.


70 Based on analogy to other Mississippian Birdmen (e.g., figures 6 and 7), Jones drew the head in. Because it is clearly a common element in other examples of similar iconography, this is worth considering. The glossary on the community's website website explains the symbolism here: SEED and TEETH, SKULL and CORN COB, LONG BONE and STALK, among others, are interchangeable in Formulary Speech of a LONG TALK and in SYMBOLS and ICONS used throughout S.E. native cultures. Hakope also emphasized that bones do not represent death but life to Muskogee peoples. Bones are the permanent remains that testify to a person's life. When I asked Hakope about the bi lobed arrow, he cited the journal of Thomas Nairne written in 1708 (1988). In one of the villages he encountered in his journey through Muskogee, Chickasaw, and Choctaw territories, Nairne witnessed a coming of age ceremony for boys. In this village, of age boys were welcomed into the plaza where they were presented wi th what he calls a bilobed arrow with a white feather attached to it. This object was placed in these boys' hair as a symbol of their entry into adulthood. Hakope asserted that the bilobed arrow was usually made out of wood and lithics or copper. The feather usually belonged to a turkey or another important bird. Hakope concluded: And we still do something similar to that when a male child gets to a certain age or a girl child. They are given a symbol like that and given a name on the square grounds (personal communication, September 27, 2010). Hakope understands the bilobed arrow as an aspect of boys right s of passage into manhood. He suggested that it represents a phallus, although he was careful to emphasize that this was a symbol of life cont inuity and should not be conflated with the associations it has in dominant culture. He also mentioned that some people see the four


71 stages of life in this headdress, although he continued: I'm not sure that I can see [this meaning] because I didn't list en carefully when they were explaining it to me. But that is what some people say more than one (personal communication, September 27, 2010). At this time of the year (its October now, actually) when fall begins its long melt into winter, one can look w estward in the late evening sky and see one of the great bilobes, a symbol we also associate with lungs, breath and the two souls and how life is transferred from parent to form an infant. Then you stand looking almost South and raise your head to see ano ther arrow. These symbols are really part of the icon found in both the Southeast and Mesoamerica that state motion or movement. Such [a] symbol can be further stretched to imply stages, turning of seasons, the passing of years and ceremonial cycles. C opper would be the natural matrix for all this Which brings me to the material. Copper, itself, say many, is important and sacred as witnessed by its change to green, and is associated with power, life and transition to other states a visual portrayal of duality and form shifting Like a moth undergoes a metamorphosis, so does the copper. Furthermore, many members of Hakope's community understood the Lake Jackson moth in relation to their ritual dances. This is a third aspect of d uality and transformation. The Moth Figure in Context: Gender and Ritual in the Southeast I wanted to understand the moth plate as it related to lived gender identities and social organizations of di versity. Following Butler (1990), if I am to interpret the moth plate in terms of Muskogee gender performativity, ceremony seems the best place to start


72 exploring the image as part of a broader context. Ceremonial practices are actions of memory. Hakope has told me that in his community, dances are not simply performed but brought forth (appendix A). They have an existence independent of the actors. Not only to dancers index the movement of prior ceremonies, but these are understood to exi st in a l ong, unb roken yet conti nuous chain of a single dance. I am even told that some dances keep counts on ceremonial objects that go back thousands of years. Some performances have embodied a gender philosophy distinctive from the heterosexist ideology of the dominant culture. By referencing and recollecting the movements of ancestors through dance, this community maintain this philosophy, even (for many of its members), while living and working in the dominant culture. These ritualized memories can illumina te some of the meanings of the moth figure. Hakope has written to me: frankly, [my community] and other s.e. [sic] groups have no religion as such -we certainly don't. W hat we do have is a highly symbolic and ritualized philosophy demonstrating and exp laining how we understand the natural world around us and relate to it -these patterns of understanding are not inflexible -to the contrary, they are anything but (personal communication, September 10, 2010). Art and dance exists not only as cosmological belief but within the terrain of ritual performance and embodied knowledge. As explained above, the members of Hakope's community were able to connect the moth plate with their ritual dances. Ann Brower Stahl (2002) argues that embodied knowledge is cre ated through practice and produces meaning that is not necessarily discursive. However, where she approaches matters of taste, I use the trope of embodied knowledge to get at the production of worldview and ontological relationships with the natural, soci al, and cosmological environment.


73 Hakope's statement implies that ritual practices habitualize an ontological framework by performatively inscribing the practitioner's mind and body with knowledge of human action in relation to the world. From my perspec tive, it is interesting that these rituals also prescribe sex and gender related practices. Although Hakope's community understands these rituals to not be about gender,' they are in practice closely related to gender performativity, through which these not gender' concepts become embodied. These interrelated practices constitute a cultural system ( sensu Geertz 1973) that encodes a model of and a model for the world In the community today, it also encodes memories of ancestors and teachings that can be applied to daily life. This community has preserved this knowledge in ceremonies, periodically bringing forth the memories of their ancestors. In our discussion at the August Busk Hakope argued that gender is not a productive way to interpret the figu re. It took me quite some time to begin to understand this interpretation. If the image contains gendered symbolism, it seemed unthinkable that the figure itself could be genderless I believed that the bilobed arrow headdress signifies that this figure has undergone a masculine life cycle. The turkey pelt symbolizes a warrior identity. The long proboscis may also be a phallic element manifested as the insect fertilizes flowers. It also has a breast. The moth is closely associated to agricultural pro duction, a historically feminine domain among Southeastern peoples. Furthermore other similar representations if not this one carry a decapitated head that signifies a cornco b or other vegetable product This would also suggest a link to agricultural pro duction as well as to warfare. Swanton suggests that the Muskogee Ribbon Dance (which is performed by women) may have once been performed with


74 scalps rather than ribbons (1928:609). Whether or not the Lake Jackson plate once depicted a decapitated head, perhaps the artwork where such imagery does exist represents this dance. That the being could engage in such gendered activities and symbolism, yet not be gendered itself, was beyond my comprehension. Muskogee pronouns are gender neutral (Hakope, personal communication, September 19, 2010). The term e or em bridges the English terms he, she, and it, and it, along with any other possibility available. On the other hand, Muskogee does have terms that roughly translate as man and woman Hakope claims t hat gender very seldom plays a role i n ritual and cosmological matters. Dr. Pullen described gender as polymorphic in Muskogee worldviews. He used the Hiyvhvlke the ancient Original Teachers, as an example: Are they male, are they female? Are they both, are they neither? Are they sometimes male, are the sometimes female? And the answer is all of the above; none of the above (personal communication, October 1. 2010). These statements contradicted my own experience at the Busk, in which the commu nity had maintained a rit ual separation between genders. Several members explained that women are co Creators. Women are able to bring new life into the world and give each individual their place in (matrilineal) society. For that reason, they are close r to Power and do not need this ceremony, which largely for the men.' In fact, menstruating women were considered so Power laden that the interface between their bodies and the Square Grounds could be dangerous. So h ow was it that these members coul d understand gender to be fluid or even unimportant at the exact moments that they materialized a dichotomous gender separation in space?


75 Both the men's Feather Dance and the women's Ribbon Dance involve symbolic play with gender duality. The Feather Dance included aspects that were seen to be feminine and the Ribbon Dance included aspects that were seen to be masculine. These are the dynamics that Dr. McCaffrey felt involved acknowledging his feminine side. This was not understood as a transgr ession because the separation served a symbolic function that transcended gender. Rather, these dances were seen as a gender play significant for the way they symbolized ideas about cosmology, as metaphorical concepts that render the indescribable Crea tion as something that could be embodied and discussed. Even as these symbolic practices take shape through gender performativity and, I would argue, thus are complicit in defining the nuances of and institutionalizing sex and gender as a social reality t he community locates these meanings in a discourse of cosmology, making it possible to speak about them as if they did not bear any primary relevance to either literal sexed bodies or gender performances. Ritual renders a social reality as something tha t could be talked about as dualistic metaphors for cosmology, as something to be used for signification. I was sure that somewhere in here was a key to understanding the relationship between the moth plate, ritualized gender performance, and a Muskogee org anization of sex/gender diversity. After months of consideration, I have concluded that the moth plate's symbolism signifies upon the idea of male and female as they relate to reproduction as metaphors, especially in regards to the ongoing process of Crea tion. Moths are not traditionally understood to be gendered beings, and these symbols do not actually signify any sex or gender in themselves. I am told that this is as good an approximation as any for an English speaker. For now, I will have to be sati sfied with


76 that. I am still not sure how these beliefs relate to the social organization of diversity. Although from my perspective, these beliefs sound heteronormative in that they privilege and ideology of reproduction, this does not seem to be the cas e based on my observations of Hakope's community. Clearly, these relationships are more complex than I had imagined. I can say that t he Lake Jackson moth plate would have been involved in the negotiation of a sex/gender ontology in relation to a complex ideology and worldview. It 1) represents a materialized aspect of a sex/gender ontology situated within a social and cosmological landscape and 2) was related to rituals through which this ideology was performatively embodied by sexed bodies in by the ancients. Embedded in such a network of meanings and performances (ritual and otherwise), it participated in delineating, semantically structuring, and regulating possibilities. Perhaps paradoxically, the maintenance of a physical separation creates the conditions for moving between and collapsing dualities. Given that most members of the community live their daily lives in the dominant culture and the radical difference between this gender paradigm and the heterosexual imaginary, it seems reasonable that these dances might maintain very old memories of ancient subjectivities. On September 21 st 2010 I suggested to Hakope that the female buried in Mound 3 with the moth plate might have been a two spirit. The individual was commemorated by a genderless symbol in death and buried in a mound of warriors. Perhaps, then, she was neither a man nor a woman in her everyday life. Hakope replied: What if the individual was the matriarch -the power behind the scene. In many S E cultures, women are in charge -that is, they have the power/authority but men, by kinship, are licensed to wield that power/authority. The head woman


77 would have directed all the agricultural pursuits including seed sorting, planting, tending, harvesting an d so forth. What better way to honor the passing of a head woman than symbols such as that plate Or the individual could have been so loved that such things were put in grave b y [sic] distraught grievers -we did similar for [two women in our community afte r they passed] (Personal communication, Sept. 21 2010). Disciplining Ontology: Gender as an Institution of Ritualized Knowledge Ancient gender ontologies material consequences that have yet to be adequa tely theorized, including ambiguous copper plates, biological females buried in mounds of predominantly male warriors, and stratified burial places that made use of different gendered goods (see Appendix B). Understanding sex and gender as discursive and performative phenomenon can open archaeology to new questions of human diversity. In fact, the question about the moth burial's everyday identity may already be too essentialist: it assumes that the person must have had a real and stable identity and thus ignores the specific frames in which these selves could be constituted. Teasing out these relationships is clearly a productive pursuit. This argumen t says just as much about the current state of archaeology as it does about prehistory. Traditional and feminist approaches have reinforced their own gendered meanings. Yet the emphasis placed on gendering the Moth Performance as either male or female re inforces the assumption that social reproduction is only possible given a homogenous population in which male/masculine bodies are attracted to female/feminine complements as if sex was an entirely biological, procreative drive. This approach treats the g ender of the figure as an essential construct rooted in biological sex rather than a performati ve and institutional production. In this way, heteronormative


78 assumptions project a highly contested Western institution onto other societies as the only feasib le mode of organizing gender and sexualit y and falsely imply that the bitterly contested politics over gender diversity today are uniquely modern event s with no past or history (see Voss 2009). In this context, gendering takes on multiple meanings. It collapses the distinction between gendering the Falcon Hero in Lake Jackson hundreds of years ago and gendering the very same object today albeit in dialog with different societies and discourses. A queer archaeology moves beyond normative narratives of c ulture, with homogonous peoples the extensions of a typological organization of data. Typological methodologies downplay change and variation within types and often resonate poorly with indigenous productive or organizational systems (Wobst 2005). Tara M illion theorizes how an I ndigenist archaeology might overcome these limitations: Aboriginal archaeology begins with the presumption that holism is the most logical and productive means of exploring the world. Therefore, this archaeology emphasizes connections rather than separations (2005:52). Gender, I have argued, must be understo od as socio historically situated and context specific performances. This more holistic model can account for the ways in which actors construct and stabilize the borders between types or social categories that is, how diversity itself is made and resonat es far more with a queer analysis of material culture. As particular viewpoints are materialized over others, people mark the difference between where things belong. For this reason, understanding the political and ideological processes of organizing dif ference is central to a queer archaeological project. By highlighting the functioning of power in defining and regulating heterogeneity, perhaps archaeology can illuminate histories of the very


79 production of difference and dominance, or construct what But ler (1999) calls a political genealogy of gender ontologies. From Disappearing Waters to Mission San Luis Lake Jackson was abandoned in the 1400's as the Apalachee entered the Velda Phase (Bryne 1986; Scarry 1994). The chronological shift is marked by changes in foreign ceramics and settlement patterns. They moved from mound centers adjacent to lakes to less dense villages in the inland Tallahassee Hills. John Scarry notes that the new kinds of cera mics mark a shift in privileged trade routs from Etowah further west. He suggests that perhaps a competing lineage usurped power from the Lake Jackson phase elite in part by mobilizing alternative trade connections. On the other hand, Hakope mentioned th at his people's oral histories contain memories of rampant flooding and disease that led to the abandonment of Lake Jackson (personal communication, October 15, 2010). The changes in the landscapes would also have been connected to changes in ideology. L arge lakes (probably passagesways into the other world) were no longer viable sites for habitation. In other words, perhaps the shifts in landscape tell a story about changes in gender and ritual power. De Soto reached the Apalachee war capital of Anhaica in 1539 (the peacetime capital was known as Ivitachuco). The Apalachee territory had a population of about 50,000 60,000. De Soto found the Apalachee to be skilled warriors whose arrows could penetrate Spanish chain mail. Yet he was able to take over a nd make camp at Anhaica for the winter of that year. He found large stores of food at Anhaica and was able to


80 comfortably sustain his troops. After the De Soto expedition, the Spanish had sporadic contact with the Apalachee and found them extremely hosti le and resistant to colonial expansion. The Apalachee were able to remain autonomous until deciding peaceful contact would be in their interests. The eventual peaceful contact led to the founding of Mission San Luis.


81 Standing on Unstable Gr ound: Intersections of Race, Gender, Sexuality, and Kinship in Late Mission San Luis The conquest, then, whether considered from the native or the Spanish point of view, must be judged as an expression of a will to unity. Despit e the contradictions that make it up, it was a historical act intended to create unity out of the cultural and political plurality of the pre Cortesian world. The Spaniards postulated a single language, a single faith and a single lord against the variety of races, languages, tendencies, and states of the pre Hispanic world. (Paz 1985:100) In 1608, Apalachee leaders asked the Spanish to send Catholic missions. The reasons for this are unclear, although some archaeologists and historians put forward sp eculations (e.g., Hann 1988; McEwan and Hann 1998). Tribal leaders were influenced by their Christianizing neighbors. There may have been an interest in the Spanish related to the royal sanction and funding for gifting systems after 1593. After the Span ish allied with their long time enemy, the Timucua, the Apalachee may have desired contact out of military interests. There were also serious epidemics ravishing the Apalachee. One friar estimated the population at over 36,000 significantly less than De Soto had estimated less than a century earlier. This may have led to a faltering in religious faith, and Apalachee chiefs might have sought to outsource religious authority to maintain their political status. Initially, the Spanish refused to missionize Apalachee, declaring that the province was too unstable. Apalachee people made additional requests during the following decades, and in 1633 the Spanish began sending in friars. This marked the beginning of the Mission Phase, which would last until 1704 when the province was evacuated following English invasion.


82 The Apalachee capital of Anhaica was moved to Mission San Luis de Talimali. It was probably one of the first missions, but the actual date of its founding is not specified in the Spanish records The village and its nearby satellites comprised a population of about 1400. Besides the Apalachee peoples, the province was home to Spanish friars, soldiers, officials, and ranchers. The transition to Christianity was not smooth. In 1647, many Apalac hee traditionalists revolted, gruesomely killing several Spaniards but letting several others escape. After engaging with a Spanish force and inflicting heavy damages, the rebels seemed to lose heart. They had expected more support within the region but found that many Christianized Apalachee supported the Spanish. In addition, the Apalachee did not traditionally practice extended warfare. As the planting season approached their warriors withdrew to their fields (see Meckley 1999). The Spanish were abl e to regain control over the region with a relatively small force. After this point, there were no major conflicts in Apalachee Province. Bilateral accommodation, social ascendancy, and negotiation characterized politics and life in Apalachee, with neith er the Apalachee nor the Spanish able to implement power through true domination (Hann 1988; McEwan 1999; Scarry 2001). Throwing Away Your Best Jewelry: Gender Conflict in Creole Households When archae ologist Bonnie McEwan dug a trash pit (deemed Feature 6) near a Spanish household, she mostly found the things one would expect to find in the trash: broken ceramics, bottles, gun shot, sewing tools, food remains, lithics, metal straps, tools, and hardwa re (McEwan 1993). However, interspersed throughout the trash were found


83 thousands of pieces of jewelry. In total, Feature 6 contained found 1417 beads, 7 jet higa pendants (small fists to thwart the evil eye), 13 ornamental glass fragments, 10 pendants a pewter stickpin, 3 rings, and 7 silver sequins. Further excavations revealed a second trash pit (Feature 74/80), which also contained beads and decorative glass. The assembly represents a household that had significant economic means, which they used to purchase a lot of jewelry (McEwan 1993). The jewelry does not form a stratigraphic layer, but was found interspersed throughout the trash (McEwan 1993). It was not discarded in a momentary, one time act, but a repeated practice. The jewelry does g ive the trash pit a secure terminus post quem of 1680 1700, and given that it was found throughout the trash, the pit must have been filled fairly quickly from this period to (at the very latest) 1704. It is hard to imagine that the jewelry was hidden wit h the intent of returning for it later (say, on the eve of San Luis's destruction): in this case we could expect the jewelry to be condensed in a small section so it would be easy to retrieve. This is clearly, like the rest of the materials recovered, tra sh. The jewelry doesn't seem to fit as a coherent assemblage within the spatial context of a trash pit. Why would someone throw away so much perfectly good jewelry? Why would they do it repeatedly? And how did they come to own so much jewelry that they didn't want? Why did they throw it away and not sell it, trade it, or give it away to someone who might find it more suited to their tastes? Why on earth would there be so much jew elry in the trash? I believe that an Apalachee woman either the wife, concubine, or servant of a Spanish man lived and/or worked in this house. I argue that it was she who threw these


84 objects away. Because this household is located in the Spanish Villa ge and built in the Spanish style, it is relatively safe to assume that the patriarch/employer was ethnically Spanish. He was probably a soldier or a rancher. The style of jewelry would have been considered effeminate according to normative Spanish taste s, whoever wore it was (at least to an extent) feminine identified (McEwan 1993). However, some types of beads (known as Cornaline d'Aleppo) found in fairly large quantities were extremely uncommon in spaces outside of the Spanish Village (Mitchem 1993). 163 were found in Feature 6 as opposed to six in the Council House and none in the Mission's burials (although this data is fairly old) (see McEwan 1993). Because these beads were difficult for natives to obtain, they were probably purchased by a Spaniar d (Mitchem 1993 suggests that the trade of these kinds of beads was restricted by the Spanish). The jewelry was purchased by a Spaniard and were intended to be worn by a woman, or at least someone feminine identified. The presence of Spanish toys (clay j uguete dolls) suggests that the couple had children (McEwan 1993). Artifact distribution can be linked to gender relations (Hastorf 1996). The vast majority of pottery found in the pit was cooking ware made in Apalachee styles: the rest were serving dish es were made in Spanish styles (McEwan 1993; Verdon and Cordell 1993). This suggests that an Apalachee person did most of the cooking (McEwan 1999). Assuming it was the same person who threw away the jewelry, she would be comfortable and familiar with in digenous wares and cooking styles. While there are some brass straps, building materials, projectile points, gunflints, and lead shot/pellets, the sheer numbers of artifacts are predominantly kitchenware (pottery, glass, utensils, and food remains) (see M cEwan 1993; 1991). There are also interspersed sewing materials found


85 in feature 6 (but not feature 74/80). The building materials and hardware can probably be explained by construction work which was largely the domain of Apalachee men and not the Spani sh man of the household (see Scarry 2001). Likewise, these construction workers probably did not actually live or regularly work in the Spanish village. This leaves only a few objects that can be clearly associated with a masculine domain of social life, yet even some of these the projectile points still seem to be the work of Apalachee men. Most of the trash can be associated with indigenous and/or feminine work. Given the predominance of Apalachee pottery and the types of beads found, I hypothesize th at an Apalachee woman received jewelry from a Spanish man and repeatedly threw it away. Considering richness of the jewelery and the presence of a child, this household probably represents a creole family. Interracial relationships at Mission San Luis co uld have created a queer situation that destabilized family structure and gender paradigms. The Apalachee were traditionally matrilocal and matrilineal (Hann 1988) while the Spanish were patrilocal and patrilineal. If Apalachee women and Spanish men had children (and vice versa), their children would have no clear place: kinship traditions would cease to appear natural or stable. Because Southeastern Native Americans were also matrilineal and matrilocal, the Spanish presence could have led to a moment of unprecedented kinship disorganization. Perhaps dual systems of identity competed within Mission San Luis: matrilineal clan membership and bilineal racial membership. I expect that race was in conflict with clan, since any offspring would struggle to ne gotiate their identity through competing lineages. When creole offspring grew up and had their own children, social place would become even more ambiguous. If the offspring were mestizo, he might


86 marry and continue a mestizo line. If the offspring were mestiza, however, then what would become of her? If she married an Apalachee man, would her offspring identify through a matrilineal or patrilineal model? As matrilineal and patrilineal patterns came into conflict traditional systems of identity and belo nging may have become ambiguous. This could have subverted their taken for granted status. Parents would also have to negotiate conflicts in gendered identity and ideology. Even if we were to assume that both cultures operated within a binary gender sys tem, there is no reason to expect that masculinity and husbandhood or femininity and wifehood meant the same things to Spaniards and Apalachee peoples. I will elaborate these ideological and role differences throughout this chapter. Rotman's (2005) sugge stion that there are always multiple femininities operating simultaneously is salient to this situation. It is analytically productive to consider that we are, at bare minimum, dealing with a family structured by a quadparte race/gender system. Even if t hese unions were between an Apalachee woman and a Spanish man, they were haunted by the specters of Apalachee manhood and Hispanic womanhood (let alone by the confusing expectations placed on the mestizo offspring). While many Spanish men probably expecte d to assert the patriarchical dominance that was traditional in European marriages, it is doubtful that women coming from a culture in which women were clearly important social actors would have accepted these terms. Rather, we should expect resistance a nd conflict on the parts of both men and women and that any sense of corporate family solidarity was a heavily contested ideological structure. The following sections move away from models of acculturation through marriage, instead examining the instabi lity of gendered identities in contexts of


87 creolization. The ideology of the family resonates with the active/passive dynamics of acculturation, implying an unproblematic and asymmetric union. This obscures drama and tensions as well as the destabilizi ng and creative experiences of competing gender systems. Following Barbara Voss's critique of models of domestic acculturation (2008b), I argue that gender should be understood as a realm of social and political conflict. Rather than treating gender and race as stable and differentiated axes of cultural mediation, I seek to understand the ways in which they were mutually (re)constituted through and against each other and practiced as a continuing historical process of creolization ( sensu Loren 2005). Bef ore discussing the creole family further, in the following sections I provide more context for racial formation, gender dynamics, and family structure in Mission San Luis. Rememories of Difference: Building (Multi)ethnicity at Mi ssion San Luis Paul Rainbow drawing on Foucault argues that architecture is not static but part of a shifting field of power and knowledge in which we can see the gradual self formation of a class, a nation or a civilization w hich is crossed in innumerable ways by power 2003 [1982]:355). Following Bourdieu's theory of habitus, social spaces pattern practice and transform complex social structures such as gender, race, and status into cognitive, common sense knowledge. In his treatment of the Berber house, for example, Bourdieu explores the links between the use of space and symbolic structures of gender differentiation (2003 [1971]). Landscapes are also functions of power. They betray an


88 ability to organize and direct surpl us labor and thus reflect hegemonic political and ideological structures. In his analysis of William Paca's garden in Annapolis, Mark P. Leone (2005) argues that landscapers made use of geometric theory to create an optical illusion of space. This had an ideological effect by appearing to discipline nature to the laws of science and society. Leone believes that this landscape was produced as part of the creation of an elite subjectivity. The repeated practice of gazing upon a scientifically ordered nature instilled a sense of control and superiority as Paca negotiated ideologies of democracy and political equality with his reality as a slave owner. In another chapter, Leone (2005:14) argues that the panoptic architecture of the capital building stru ctured a democratic subjectivity for the individualized citizen. Annapolis citizens imagined that the state could be watching and began to watch themselves and each other: extending regulation into their daily lives. Ellen Rose Savulis argues that the construction of Shaker landscapes (planned by elites) coded and demarcated relationships of spiritual hierarchy and gender, materializing an aesthetic of rationalization and order (2003). Patricia Mangan argues that following the shift from feudalism to c apitalism in Catalonia, Spain, space became viewed as a commodity (2000). People in power transformed public urban spaces into homes that could be rented to the emerging laboring class. These changes in architecture reflect shifts in a public/private dic hotomy as community symbols such as city walls and towers became private homes. Freestanding houses also began to divide the kitchen from other rooms, segregating women's labor. Like other examples of material culture, landscapes organize social life, co mmunicate cultural imaginaries, and naturalize


89 ideology. People who organize their lives around the materiality of landscapes participate in the formation and reiteration of these structures as well as the disciplining of selfhood. In this section, I aim to explore the implications of the racialized landscape of Mission San Luis. Bonnie McEwan (1991) argues that the San Luis landscape reflects a politics of accommodation on the parts of the Spanish and the Apalachee. The landscape reflects political neg otiations by which both groups maintained separate identities and materialized cultural difference. However, while McEwan discusses the politics of building the mission landscape, I focus on the embodied experiences of racial organization lived within thi s space. In doing so, I shift the analytical lens from accommodation to a performative dialectic of maintaining and subverting difference. This framework of performative identity and embodiment is equipped to theorize creolization as a historical process The San Luis plaza is a cleared circular field circumscribed by the Church, the convento the Council House, and a chiefs' House, and a single Spanish style house (figure 13; Hann 1988; Hann and McEwan 1998; McEwan 1991; 1993). The famous Apalachee b allgame was played in the plaza area. Bonnie McEwan argues that the Council House would have dominated the San Luis landscape (1991). When I visited the San Luis, today a reconstructed village, the landscape clearly illustrated McEwan's argument, althoug h the Church was quite prominent, as well. The chiefly house that had sat next to the Council House has not been reconstructed, which perhaps emphasizes a binary and heterarchical racial imaginary of San Luis. Living spaces had not been reconstructed eit her, except for the small friary and a single Spanish style building.


90 However, living spaces were divided between the Apalachee Village and the Spanish Village (Hann and McEwan 1998). John Hann and Bonnie McEwan (1998) argue these areas illustrate a di vision of traditional Spanish and Apalachee architectural styles. Spanish style buildings the Church, convento and Spanish Village dwellings were rectangular structures (see figure 14). Households were divided into two rooms. These structures were gene rally wattle and daub with thatched roofs. The Church's (figure 15) dimensions mobilize the concept of the Golden Ratio, a material memory claiming a classical heritage (McEwan 1991). It was filled with expensive furnishings such as silver provided by the Spanish state that would have been far outside the reach of indigenous means (Hann 1988). These objects of wealth must have reinforced the extensive resources and long distance connections that the friars were able to maintain, giving a certain mystique to the building. In my visit, I walked past paintings hanging from the reconstructed Church's walls. Although very large, the open doorway did little to illuminate the building's vast shadowy interior. Although there is no archaeological evidence for it, a wooden confessional sits to the right of the entrance (it may be based on a Catholic doctrine, Jerry Lee, personal communication, April 6 th 2010). During my visit I overheard a historical actor tell an elderly group that there had been no enclosure to ensure privacy in the confessional. Foucaultian theories of disciplining sin (specifically discussing sex) through discourse and panoptic reg ulation immediately come to mind (see Foucault 1978; Leone 2005). Apalachee style constructions the Council House, the chief's house, and the Village were circular (Hann and McEwan 1998). These buildings were conical, built out


91 of thatch, and were not di vided into proper rooms. The Council House (figure 16) was three times larger than any other excavated in the region (McEwan 1991). It was constructed by several enormous posts holding up a series of smaller wooden framework that was then covered in that ch. A large hole in the top would have let smoke escape from the fire that burnt in the center. Artifacts in the Council House were almost exclusively Native technologies. If various people rarely chose to bring Spanish objects into the building, this suggests that this space was involved in the production of an Apalachee Native identity defined as opposed to Spanish traditions (McEwan 1991). The Council House was used to house visitors, as a village jail, and as a space for ceremonial performances su ch as the pre ball game rituals (Hann and McEwan 1998; McEwan 1991). The presence of chert bifaces, shards, and fragments suggests that the Council House was also used for day to day activities (see McEwan 1991, Table 1). As I circumnavigated the recons tructed building, I could imagine groups of Apalachee avoiding the Tallahassee summer sun and socializing as they chipped away at projectile points. It must have constantly smelled of smoke from the enormous fire that, as a historical actor pointed out, w ould have had to been large enough to survive the Florida storms. During rituals, smells of burning tobacco and the caffeinated cacina (black drink) would have also filled the air. The sounds of beating drums and stomping feet marked it as a special spac e for performing of Indigenous traditions, even as those sounds would have resonated throughout the plaza and maybe even the villages. Racial differences are articulated through separate, built traditions articulated within a multicultural space. Both t he Apalachee and the Spanish were well practiced in maintaining an insider/outsider dichotomy reinforcing ethnic identity. Spain, of course,


92 was a colonial society, competing with other Europeans on a world scale for the control space and labor. The Apal achee were practiced warriors who were feared by many other native groups (Hann 1988). Bioarchaeology has also shown that pre mission era Apalachee were relatively phenotypically homogonous, suggesting sexual practices of endogamy (Stojanowski 2003; 2005) While these samples may be biased by a large sample of prestige holding males in Lake Jackson, endogamous sexual practices were at least privileged by those who had power or ascendancy. McEwan argues that the San Luis landscape reflects a politics of a ccommodation, in which Apalachee and Spanish maintained distinctive identities while negotiating these differences in order to live side by side (1991). The dynamics of accommodation, she makes clear, were multidirectional and highly political events. Of ficial Spanish mandates imagined a world of churches built with neat golden proportionality and gridded villages circumscribing rectangular plazas, perhaps reinforcing an ideology in which colonizers tamed both nature and natives with their superior, sci entific reason. However, the actual materialization of Mission San Luis deviated from this regulated imaginary. San Luis featured a circular plaza and even in the Spanish village residential structures shifted orientation over time rather than remaining fixed in a grid (McEwan 1991). John Scarry's (2001) argues that social and political organization in Mission San Luis reflects processes of social ascendancy and resistance, not domination. However, while accommodation addresses the politics of formation, is also important to tease out the complex relationships between landscapes and subjectivities. San Luis identities did not exist within a binary. Building styles coded multiple significations, including memories of traditions that rooted identity in th e pre contact past


93 as well as more recent negotiations between Apalachee and Spanish leaders. These competing memories, as well as later actions, directed but did not determine the course of the future. A binary perspective on identity frames the mainten ance of pre Colombian elements as resistance, and thus makes resistance reactive rather than proactive (Graham 1998:28). Rather, Elizabeth Graham argues that resistance involves the examination of diverse systems and realities and exercising praxis with in a changing world. It involves the engagement with multiple traditions and futures. Selfhood at Mission San Luis involved the remembering of heritage, which was reinforced by the material and spatial conditions of everyday life, as well as the iteratio n of new possibilities. The Church, and in fact all other Spanish buildings, would have been built with Apalachee hands using Apalachee technologies (see Voss 2008b). The vast majority of bodies filling the Church every Sundays would have been Apalachee. The Church was also an important site for burial rites. In other Apalachee missions, individual rows of burials were reserved for specific kinship groups (Stojanowski et al 2007). It seems likely that living kin groups would have also occupied these ro ws during services, literally worshiping on the ground of their ancestors. While the San Luis burial patterns do not seemed to be rigidly defined by clan organization (see discussion below), the spaces where ancestors were buried were almost certainly rem embered. And while these burials were extended with hands over their chests in a Christian style, the practice of burying the deceased with grave goods was strictly Indigenous (and forbidden by the Catholic Church, McEwan 1991:57). Even the Spanish Villa gers did not seem interested in or able to live out official doctrine for gridded settlement patterns. Processes of


94 diversity, resistance, adaptation, and ascendancy were not simply social divisisions, but a fundamental characteristic of frontier life for everyone. While there are clear spatial references articulating a binary of traditions, social practices point to the formation of a society that is neither simply Apalachee nor Spanish, nor even a mixture of these static elements. The concept of creolization as outlined by Diana Loren (2005) captures the ambiguity and the creativity of cultural contact, the production of new social identities and cultural forms, and the reiteration of old traditions and identities within new contexts informed by novel oppositions. Ann Stahl argues that colonial entanglements and creolization are perhaps best understood not as fully articulated linguist concepts but as extant practical knowledge (2002:832, emphasis in original). She argues that such knowledg e is embodied and perhaps best reflected in the concept of taste. Taste, like smell, may also have the potential to de center traditional archaeological texts' reliance on the visual knowledge, which is complicit with the sexist and heterosexist cultura l logic of the gaze (see Croucher 2009). I intend to move the discussion to the embodiment of creolization not simply as a racial concept, but as a cultural and spatial one as well. Richard Freeman (2001) borrows the concept of mise en sc Ž ne (staging an action) to argue that place is an important and active component of real life political drama. Prior practices inscribe places with social and political meaning, which in turn directs and limits the kinds of performances that can take place in the future. The very production of a racial binary in San Luis created the conditions through which was deconstructed. Social practices of selfhood were literally preformed from specific standpoints within this multi dimensional construct: physical position could re flect racial positionality. And if


95 space was coded with racial and cultural meanings, embodied experiences could only be located within the liminal space constituted by the dialectic between racialized structures and styles. Where one stood in the mise e n sc Ž ne structured and limited the kinds meaning that could be performed. While maintaining racial difference was clearly a concern in San Luis, Paul Rainbow argues that programs that aim to discipline society are never fully realized (2003 [1982]). The re are always counter programs, conflicts between multiple strategies, and unintended consequences. Ambiguities in practices and in race or kin identities may have constantly destabilized ontologies of difference and (at least from the perspective of the S panish) hegemony. In reality, action was not always situated within racially coded structures, but between them as well. Sex and Deviance: Regulating Sexuality and Gender at the Mission H istorical documents illuminate how Apalachee and Spanish leaders regulated conflicting sexual and kin structures through their social ascendancy ( sensu Scarry 2001), although friars also were known to use coercive violence, as well (see Hann and McEwan 199 8). Important Spanish authorities had their own views about Apalachee gender and sexuality. Although Apalachee frameworks of masculinity were organized within a matrilineal kinship system, the Spanish understood these relationships to reflect a failed ma sculinity inferior to Spanish. They often transcribed their ethnocentric evaluations of Apalachee gender and sexual behavior into the written records. I focus of the writings of two Spaniards: Antonio Matheos and Fray Paiva. These authors wrote about


96 mu lticultural tensions between alternative gender, kinship, and family norms with distaste. By writing down their evaluations and anxieties, they effectively and unintentionally preserved valuable information about Apalachee systems of kinship and sexuality. It is possible to reevaluate these writings and sketch a system of Apalachee gender and sexuality and competition between ideologies in San Luis. Antonio Matheos was known for his cruel treatment of the Apalachee and his outspoken contempt for native cu stoms (Hann and McEwan 1998). We know about Matheos both from his own writing as well as from the numerous complaints made against him by Apalachee leaders (Hann 1988). He made special (written) notes about the way Apalachee husbands react if they discov er that their wives have committed adultery: And not holding it as a matter of pride, they [Apalachee men] do not consider it an outrage that their wives commit adultery. And the most they do in that case is to advise the lieutenant, and, on punishing the delinquents, they return to their houses with their wives and often in the company of the offender, as I have seen and witnessed many times, with such calmness and lack of embarrassment that it is as if such a thing had never occurred (Matheos 1687, cited in Hann 1988:94). Matheos highlights cultural differences in understanding extramarital sex. Apalachee men do not react like Spanish me n would: presumably, a Spanish man would be outraged. Thus, Matheos elaborates upon different understandings of gende r and sexuality He implies a racialized gender norm in which a Spanish man would take the matter into his own hands rather than seeking an authoritative figure, and he would not as a matter of pride and masculinity forgive his wife as quickly. The Apala chee, on the other hand, seem to place relatively less significance on infidelity. That Apalachee women's


97 sexuality did not need to be controlled so strictly suggests that women had more power to define and practice their sexuality. Matheos, on the other hand, suggests that Spanish men play a bigger part in defining of their wives' sexuality, outlining a norm of patriarchal power. For Matheos, controlling wives was a key performance of Spanish style d masculinity: thus not having contro l reflected a threa t to manhood. T his is clearly not the case among the Apalachee. Since the Apalachee were a matrilocal society seeking an authority figure to deal with adultery is a rational option Husbands came from other clans, if not from other villages, to live wi th their wives' families. They would be outsiders, living in what was not quite their home. If a husband were to behave aggressively or violently with his wife, he would have to deal not just with her brother or father, but also with her entire kin netwo rk with whom he lived. Instead, Apalachee men could seek a figure with authority within the kin group and have his wife chastised in a public setting. In place of a Spanish official, I imagine these men sought the aid of chiefs, other leaders, or their w ives' own brothers or fathers While the normative Spanish ideal holds that husbands are the centers of power in their own homes and have the authority to define and enact justice on their own terms, Apalachee norms held husbands to be outsiders who had to go through public systems of authority to be considered legitimate. While the Spanish locate structural authority in the husband patriarch the Apalachee locate it in the matriclan and political structure. In both systems, however, women' s sexuality is under surveillance and regulated by men, although apparently to a lesser extent and with less dire consequences among the Apalachee.


98 In his manuscript (discussed below), Paiva also criticized how husbands, wives, and children went their sepa rate ways during ball game s Hann (1988:81) argues that according to Spanish norms, the patriarch should have a tight control over his wife and children's movements. These writings illustrate how many Spaniards failed to understand the social implication s of matrilocal kinship organization. These aspects of indigenous society appeared to be deviant (non normative) from the perspectives of dominant Spanish discourse. They emphasize the role that normative organizations of gender, kinship, and sexuality p layed in structuring Spanish identity as well as understanding Native peoples. Sexuality and Surveillance in the Ball Game: The Work of Father Paiva Friar Paiva took his role as a missionizer seriously seeing it as his responsibility to regulate Apalachee morality according to Spanish normativity. He is known for writing a manuscript about the Apalachee ballgame and its related rituals, which provides us with a detailed glimpse into Apalachee ritual t raditions (Hann 1988). The ballgame was an important ritual that like warfare produced hierarchies between villages and reinforced a politics of social segmentation. In his 1675 visit to Apalachee, Bishop Calder — n banned the ballgame until Paiva persuade d him that the game was harmless. However, after this encounter, Paiva began to study the game more closely. Two Apalachee informants were key in this endeavor: Diego Salvador, a government interpreter, and Juan Mendoza, a parish interpreter and San Luis leader. They researched the oral traditions that the ball game was based upon. From their findings, Paiva wrote a


99 manuscript treating the game, the related mythical narrative, pre game rituals, and the social makeup of game playing and game watching. In the process, Paiva changed his mind about the game and concluded that it was immoral and should be banned (Hann 1988; Hann and McEwan 1998). He critiqued the game for its violence, its implication with non Christian traditions, and its characteristic dev iances from normative Spanish gender and sexual behavior (Hann 1988). It is both ironic and telling that in the process of regulating Apalachee behavior, Paiva created what is very probably the most important single document for understanding the complex dynamics of Apalachee sexual traditions in the second half of the 17 th century. One interesting ritual in terms of gender performance was the raising of the goal post. Six women and six warriors raised the post with grapevines (Paiva 1988[1676]). It is safe to guess that the women involved might have held some special gendered status that could be seen as complementary to the warrior status of the men. However, st aying true to Silverblatt's (199 1) argument about the silences of gender in ethnohistorical documents, Paiva does not discuss this Nevertheless, it is clear that this specific ritual involved the performance of gender difference and complementarity. To structure ritual, men and women have to be declared different and sorted apart, in the proc ess inscribing bodies with binary gender. Since Paiva is silent on the matter, these gender performances probably matched sexed bodies. The raising of the post may be a practice of gender heterarchy, through which gender was 1) organized through a two category framework tied to sexed bodies (although the details of this relationship are missing) and 2) performed as different with both genders being necessary for the successful completion of the ritual.

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100 Paiva also noted that sexual taboos were lift ed during the rituals before the game. He writes: That the night before the day that they had to raise the pole, there was permission so that anyone whatsoever could touch and fondle, etc. anywhatsoever woman that was present [sic], whether married or sin gle, when she came to dance that night. That which [sic] was not to defend herself, because if she did not consent, they considered it all the games that were played on that pole that they were raising, they would be destined to lose. For which reason th e leading men went about solicitous, begging them not to defend themselves, that they might have pity on them and their husbands and brothers, etc. because they would lose what they had With all [this], I ask [you], Whose [sic] counsel is this? Oh powerfu l God! (Paiva 1988 [1676]:339 40). In a footnote, Hann states that when the A palachee leaders ask the women to take p ity on the men so they (the men) don't lose all that they have,' Paiva is referencing the custom of gambling on the game. Paiva does not view these sexual practices as part of a ritualized liminality, but rather as a culturally sanctioned affront to God. He rhetorically characterizes the event as deviant (opposed to normative) and challenges the legitimacy of Apalachee leaders In this w ay, he opens up space in which he can assume moral authority and the right (or duty) to regulate Apalachee sexuality. For Paiva, the sexuality of Apalachee women is a matter o f moral control framed within missionizing, colonizing, and civilizing narrative s T he dissolution of taboos within a specific temporal space also illuminates some of the workings of Apalachee beliefs and institutions We can infer from the manuscript that sexual taboos did govern normative sexuality outside of this ritual. In this ritual context, however, public and extramarital sex uality was licensed by the leadership as a practice that could enhance a team's chances of winning. We also learn a little bit about

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101 gendered imaginaries. Leaders go to women and ask th at they do not decline sexual advances by men Men are understood to initiate these sexual advances yet women ultimately control them. W omen, it seems, have a fair amount of control in sexual encounters: certainly enough that the (male) Apalachee leader s must work to negotiate sexual behavior. The importance of social ascendancy as outlined by John Scarry (2001) thus extends to sexual relationships. Furthermore, women's sexuality is marked as a powerful force that can determine the outcome of the ball game, which itself is an important ritual in rituals negotiating intervillage politics (see Hann 1988). The result is the production of a temporary and context specific system of sexuality that is understood as different from the o verarching system of nor mative behavior This system organizes gender difference and power relationships as well as prescribes sexual behavior But why are these taboos being lifted at this particular moment? First of all, these taboos do not seem to be sexual taboos generally but taboos governing male female sex. W hile other scholars have referred to this ritual as a lifting of taboos (e.g., Hann 1988; Hann and McEwan 1998; Scarry 2001), their language is imprecise and conflates sexuality with heterosexuality This slip lacks analytical utility and participates in the silences the processes through which sexuality is actively being constituted by the ritual T his moment is not just important because of the way it regulates sex, but the way it regulates the insections between gender and sexuality and how they produce the specific actions and meanings involved. A comparison with norms in the context of warfare is informative Europeans were endlessly surprised to find that Southeastern Indians did not sexually assault female captives (Meckley 1999). Historian Armstrong Starkey has argued that this is because

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102 Native American warriors avoid the unnatural mix of their warlike state with woman's life force (cited in Meckley 1999:247). The ballgame and warfare are clearly relat ed: among the Creek the game was called the little brother of war (Hann 1988). Both were important trajectories through which men could achieve prestige. Nicoguadca ( trans. Lightning Bolt) is also the highest title that can be achieved by warriors (H ann and McEwan 1988:35). Nicoguadca is also the protagonist of the ball game legend. To put it in a different perspective, the ballgame provided a mise en scene for performances of masculinity. According to the ball game legend, Nicoguadca leads a war party against and ultimately kills another character known as Nicoguadca, who at this point has gone into hiding (unsurprisingly, this part of the story gets confusing and it is sometimes unclear who is actually leading the raid; see Hann 1988). Before h e dies, Nicoguadca orders his followers to place his body in pots with water, fruit, and vegetables and boil him, letting the steam escape: This is for when you have your fields sown. I will remember you and give you water. And, accordingly, when you he ar it thunder, it is a sign that I am coming. Paiva continues further down on the same page: And up to the present, they, and particularly the old ones, continue to believe that when it thundered Nicoguadca was on his way to give them water (Paiva 1676 :343). Remembering that Nicoguadca's name means Lightning Bolt, there seems to be an association between lightning, rain, warfare, and masculinity. Given that this ritual is performed during the agricultural season, this ritual likely ensures a good ha rvest (Hann 1988). Returning to the lifting of taboos, this system of masculinity is also tem pered by the practices of women According to Paiva (1988 [1676]:339 40), Apalachee leaders

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103 believed that sexual denials could result in losing the game as w ell as the bets placed upon the outcome. I f the ball game ritual was related to the harvest, then the lifting of male female sexual taboos would have been a performance of reproductive fertility. If male female sexuality was tabooed during war times so a s not to mix life and death, during the planting season such a mixing of genders could operate under a symbolism of reproduction. In this way ball game rituals sanctioned sexual interactions between men and women, privileging this form of sexual practice within a cosmological system of meaning. What is immediately striking in Paiva's account is that Apalachee leaders had to practically beg women to engage with men. It seems that the women have forgotten (whether intentionally or not) the ritual traditions of their ancestors. Indeed Hann (1988) writes that Paiva's two Apalachee informants had to research the origins and stories behind the ball game The leade rshi p, on the other hand, maintained these memories and urged others to listen. While the leadership desired to organize sexual practices through ritual, t he symbolic systems behind these performances were faltering. The production of these meanings coul d not have continued without the ascendancy of the leadership seeking to control the social expression of sexuality. At the time of Paiva's writing, all other sources suggest that Apalachee were thoroughly and authentically Christianized (Hann 1988; Hann and McEwan 1998). Interestingly, lightning struck two different goal posts in the year of 1676. Paiva framed this as an intervention from God (Hann 1988). Despite the ritual's traditional association with rain and Lightning Bolt, Paiva's claim convince d quite a few Apalachee people T he old ritual traditions seem to have been lost from the majority's social memory, even as prestigious individuals worked to maintain

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104 these meainings. Yet o n the other hand, other rituals such as gender mutuality when rais ing the goal post apparently remained salient to the community. Kinship, Sexuality, and Gendered Power in Mission San Luis I have attempted to outline interacting systems of gender and sexuality that s haped life in Mission San Luis. These systems gave shape to what Barbara Voss calls ethnosexual conflict (2008a:196) Apalachee husbands were not patriarchs who exerted control over their wives' lives. Rather, sexuality was policed through matrilineal kinship structures. Although leaders certainly exercised influence within this structure, as well, this was expressed as ascendancy (see Scarry 2001). Masculinity and femininity took on symbolic meanings that were reinforced through ideologies about the natural and cosmic worlds and were thus formulated as distinct yet complementary. Ritual regulations governed acts of male female sex, which gave special meaning to procreative potential However, only traces of this gender and sexual ideology remained in the late 17 th century and had to be actively reinforced by Apalachee leaders. It is also important that Apalachee normative systems seem to empower women far more than many Spaniards thought proper. These images were shaped by competing structures of normative gender and sexuality that were negotiated by multiple authorities Friars, Spanish officials, and Apalachee chiefs and leaders fought to define how sexuality would be practiced in San Luis. These interpretations and dictates were inscribed o nto women's bodies. Yet these women also would have negotiated these competing narratives and apparently found

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105 none of them completely satisfactory. In fact, their positionality at the intersection of multiple sexualities might have been empowering in ce rtain circumstances. Although their voices did not make it into the historic record, doubtlessly they were producing their own versions of proper gender and sexuality, as well. Gender and Kinship in Creole Contexts Kathleen Deagan (2004) shows the analytic utility of gender in studies of culture contact in h er treatment of the Ta ’ no She demonstrates that at contact, interactions between the Ta ’ no and Spanish were predominantly between men and revolve d ar ound the Spanish labor draft. Women, on the other hand, were fairly isolated from face to face experiences with the Spanish Because gender roles were fairly unspecialized among the Ta ’ no, women maintained Ta ’ no traditions and were less likely to adopt Spanish. Creolization and the depth of cultural memory was thus mediated by gender. Deagan has also published work on the gendered dynamics of contact in St. Augustine. Her model (hereafter referred to as the St. Augustine Pattern) has been widely used by many historical archaeologists working in La Florida (Voss 2008b). Deagan argued that many native women became sexually involved with Spanish men, positioning themselves as the brokers of cultural exchange. This work was the first archaeological theory to seriously consider the importance of gender and interracial sexuality in processes of acculturation. Deagan argues: The donor culture in the 18 th century St. Augustine can be characterized by as an extreme ly reduced version of Spanish culture, consisting mainly of male, military, and frontier elements. Since the most effective, and prevalent,

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106 form of interaction with the aboriginal population was through the marriage with Indian women, the recipient cultur e can be viewed as a reduced version of Indian culture, consisting of female, domestic, and folk culture elements (cited in Voss 2008b:862). Since the Deagan's writing, the concept of a donor culture has been replaced with a theory of multilateral cultu ral change and accommodation if not creolization (Loren 2005; Voss 2008 b; McEwan 1991 ). Deagan also elaborated on a public/private pattern, arguing that Spanish men dominated outward (public) broadcasts of identity and culture and native women controlled less visible expressions within the home. Thus, Deagan's pattern suggests that interracial domestic spaces are shaped by: Native/private/feminine culture : Spanish/public/masculine culture I will problematize this model later: for now it is enough to say that gender is important to creolization in Spanish La Florida. Especially in the early period, Spaniards were almost entirely men (Hann and McEwan 1998; McEwan 1993; there are, however, written records of at least two Spanish women in Deputy Governo r Forencia's family, see McEwan 1993). These men were friars, soldiers, ranchers, and officials (e.g., deputy governors and lieutenants). During the third quarter of the century, the garrison fluctuated between twelve and twenty five soldiers, although i t did at one point reach forty (Hann and McEwan 1998). In 1975, there were nineteen men stationed at the St. Marks port down the river from San Luis. Only two of those men were long term residents, staying until at least 1695 (Hann and McEwan 1998). If soldiers were swapped regularly, this might have increased the

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107 overall number of interracial sexual relationships. During the 1680's English traders established a presence among the nearby Apalachicola peoples: the Spanish responded by strengthening the garrison. The solider population was fairly stable at around forty men, sometimes growing momentarily in preparation for expeditions. Soldiers were assigned new stations fairly regularly. In addition, as the province came to be seen as stable after the 1640s, an influx of Spanish ranchers settled the region (McEwan 1993). These Criollos were given parcels of land by the Spanish state and sought to establish themselves as landed gentry. These demographics show the Spanish cultural representations in Apa lachee were predominantly the expressions of male bodies. Spanish settlers were integrated into the Apalachee economy. In the Spanish village, colono wares (Spanish vessel shapes) using indigenous technology made up about 10% of the total ceramics found (Vernon and Cordell 1993). Imported ceramics only make up another 10%, leaving about 80% of pottery, which I deduce were vessels produced in Apalachee styles (although Vernon and Cordell do not mention I ndigenous styles specifically). In other words, the vast majority of pottery is indigenously styled, and half of the serving dishes made in Spanish styles were produced by Apalachee hands using Indigenous techniques The predominance of Apalachee styles suggests that N ative women were cooking for Spanish families (see McEwan 1993). These women would be most comfortable cooking cuisine in their own styles with their own dishes. After cooking, however, they might have served the food on the Spanish vessels, which the Spanish men would be most comfortable e ating off of. Thus, Spanish occupation areas should be seen as a site of intensive cultural contact that primarily took shape between

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108 Apalachee women and Spanish men (although some brought families to San Luis, as well) Rothschild argues that marriage w as only one way among many in which Spanish men appropriated I ndigenous women's labor and sexuality (Voss 2008 b ). Although there are no marriage records for San Luis, one document suggests that intermarriage may have created ties to the Spanish that could be used to achieve and reinforce status among the Apalachee (McEwan 1993). Scarry argues that Apalachee chiefs solidified their power through control over contact with the Spanish and the distribution of foreign trade goods (2001). Among other sites, me stizos also had increased political opportunities within the Spanish government based on their mixed race status (Jerry Lee, personal communication, March 25, 2010). An Apalachee family could perhaps increase their access to power if their daughter marrie d a Spaniard. Bioarchaeological testing has also shown that phenotypic variation increased in San Luis after 1650 or so, signifying a destabilization of the traditional endogamous marriage patterns (Stojanowski 2005). These finds suggest interracial rep roduction and creolization in the Apalachee community. Stojanowski also found a destabilization of the ways kinship patterns were reflected in burials (2003). In other Apalachee missions, burials within the same row show phenotypic similarity, suggesting that rows were stratified according to kinship. This pattern was not found in San Luis beyond the first couple of rows of high ranking burials. The historical records are clear that this disordering of kinship does not reflect social disintegrati on (see Hann 1988). Rather, conflicts over matri and patrilineality in a creolizing population could have led to ambiguities in kinship. Perhaps the wide spread of kinship disorganization in the

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109 cemetary implies that there were a lot of interracial relationshi ps (given that the garrison was constantly bringing new Spaniards into the area and the influx of ranchers), or maybe the significance of interracial procre ation was destabilizing beyond the confines of mestizo families Disposing of Dominance To return to the Spanish Village and the jewelry laden trash pit s we must consider how bodies were doing gender ( sensu Butler 1999) and how they were constrain ed from doing it differently. G ender in San Luis was an intensively social and political project that intersected anxieties about colonialism, sex uality, and kinship structure. Given a politics of sexualized creolization in San Luis, the term Spanish Village is perhaps a misnomer. Following Deag an's St. Augustine Pattern, the name implies that the village is Spanish because Spanish men dominated public cultural expressions. Deagan's perspective is supported by the architecture, which was a highly visible expression of Spanish tastes. Arguably these styles played an important role in setting the mise en sc Ž ne. However, Deagan's model supposes a binary of Spanish/Apalachee that silences creole culture and mestizo people. It essentializes archaeological categories, silencing the way in which o bjects that seem to be discrete were entangled in processes of negotiating social relationships (see Voss 2008 b for an extended critique). This assumption presumes that Apalachee wom en were unable to produce an effective social or material presence (at least in comparison to Spanish men)

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110 and it overestimates the universality of binary, monolithic ge nders that could subsume racial difference. Let's take a closer look. Scarry (2001) observes that pottery styles in the Spanish Village are marked by a dichotomy of indigenous and Spanish shapes (also see McEwan 1993; Vernon and Cordell 1993). As I explained above, serving vessels were Spanish, while the Apalachee vessels were made for c ooking. Based on this evidence, Scarry argues that family dinners were public events through which Spanish patriarchs broadcast their ethnic identities, subsuming their wife and children's Apalachee and mestizo identities. Indigenous pottery, on the othe r hand, would have been used in private work as women cook. The assumption is that women cook out of sight while families eat under the public gaze is untenable Spanish houses were tiny, two roomed buildings. The one I discussed above (where archaeolog ists found jewelry in the trash) was only about 6 meters by 9 meters (McEwan 1993). In fact, this house might be relatively large, judging by its location near the plaza (which suggests a high status) and considering that this construction had replaced a smaller house that was only 6 meters by 3.75 meters. Furthermore, cooking happened outside, in public : No hearths were found inside Spanish houses and later documentation shows that that metal braziers were used for indoor heating (Jerry Lee, personal com munication, April 6, 2010). Hearth s must have been located outside which indeed is how the Spanish dwelling was reconstructed at the San Luis reconstruction. Cooking was not a private practice, but was performed in public view. If cooking took place out side the home, it's reasonable to assume that it was also performed in company. As they cooked, Apalachee women must have looked around

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111 and saw other women cooking. They would have walked over to talk with their neighbors. In this way, c ooking may have structured a practice through which Apalachee wives, lovers and servants formed community. Apalachee womanhood was not maintained in isolation or in private spaces, but collectively and publicly. Adrienne Rich's (1980) concept of the lesbian continuum is useful to draw out the importance of this community. Patriarchal societies seek to control women's sexuality: thus compulsory heterosexuality works to ensure sexual relationships between men and women characterized by inequality and dominance. Rich argues that the divide between female homosociality and homosexuality blurry at best and redefines lesbianism as female female relationships that intrinsically resist patriarchal control. From this framework, Rich speaks of lesbianism not necessarily a s a sexual act but as a same gender relationship that undermines patriarchal dominance. While Rich believed that lesbian defined on a continuum would illuminate transhistorical and transcultural resistances to patriarchy, Evelyn Blackwood (2002) critiques this concept as somewhat essentialist. She argues (seemingly using a more sexual definition than Rich) that same sex relationships between women are not always resistances to patriarchy and can be understood as social formulations in their own terms (beyo nd simply oppositionary politics). In short, Rich assumes that patriarchal heterosexuality is universal and defines lesbianism as a political act opposed to this norm while Blackwood found that same sex sexual relationships in more gender egalitarian soci eties were not constructed as challenges to male female ones. However, Blackwood does find that in more patriarchal societies, communities of women often do form and resist heterosexuality by carving out a space that is under relatively less control by me n.

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112 I am not trying to say that Apalachee women in the Spanish village were having sex with each other: unsurprisingly, there's no archaeological or historical evidence either way. But Rich and Blackwoods' ideas move the discussion to how native women in San Luis were able to control space within the Spanish Village by forming collectives that both resisted the patriarchical desires of their Spanish lovers and bosses as well as created a performative community for the maintenance of distinctive traditions and identities as Apalachee women. How did these collectives reshape what it meant to be an Apalachee woman by redefining it against the backdrop of the Spanish Village, which in many ways did reflect the tastes and comforts of Spanish men? Powerful g ender imaginaries ( sensu Lorber 2005) in Spain that is, dominant cultural productions and representations of gender linked Spanish masculinity and sexuality with metaphors of conquest and colonialism. In the legends of Don Juan Tenorio (Zorrilla 2008 [18 44]), the protaganist is an adventurer and a masculine penetrator who conquers ( conquistar ) women's bodies and battles their husbands and fathers (the version cited here is the second written account to be published based on the oral narratives) Octavio Paz (1985) also writes about La Chingada (lit. the fucked ) Cort Ž s' mistress. Paz uses La Chingada as a metaphor for Mexican conciousness, which was created through the violation of the Indian. Narratives such as these link Spanish colonialism and patr iarchal dominance. A third gender imaginary dealing specifically with creolization are the Casta paintings of colonial Spanish America (figure 17). These portraits were commissioned by elite Spanish men with mixed race families. They traditionally depic ted the husband standing next to his Native wife and mestizo children. These paintings reflected racial

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113 anxieties and represented difference within the family, emphasizing race through visual signs such as skin color, clothing, and jewelry (Loren 2005). These paintings show a discursive concern to define and regulate proper place within a colonial world of racial ambiguity. One particular painting, De Espa – ol, y de India Produce Mestiso (circa 1725), is especially relevant to the problem at hand: Thus husband is depicted in a frock coat and ruffled shirt while holding a three cornered hat clothing that befits his social identity. His wife, while wearing what looks to be a hand woven dress, also wears the pearl jewelry more commonly worn by the women of the upper classes or married to men from the upper classes (Loren 2005:305). If Casta paintings organized race, gender, and family, they did this by marking Spanish and Native American subjects as well as a continuum in between. Yet symbols of Spanish class such as pearl jewelry clarified that the husband culturally influenced his wife but not the other way around. This reflects a racial sexual ideal of unilateral acculturation. To put it into the terms of Tenorio and Paz, the husband civilized and c olonized his wife's body. She was different, yes, but she was marked by visual signs of his occupation. W e can expect that many Spaniards in San Luis engaged with these imaginaries and probably performed them themselves. If a Spanish man gave an Apalach ee woman the jewelry found in the Spanish Village trash pits, he may have conformed to the above logic. That is, the jewelry would function as a visible sign, a prop attesting to the Spanish man' s influence upon his Native lover. It marked her body as his, and thus as an object of colonization. As discussed above, h e gave her goods and special beads that he had access to but Apalachee men apparently did not (Mitchem 1993). In mediating the raci al and gender differences between them he performatively identified himself as

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114 masculine, Spanish, and powerful. He declared himself the civilizer, the patriarch. If she were to wear these jewels around the village, she would publicly broadcast his mascu line, colonizer identity. For him, this matter may not have been fully or consciously articulated, but rather a reflection of taste that assumed political implications (see Stahl 2002). Yet she rejected this, discarding the adornments I suspect that sh e recognized that these gifts positioned her as the dispossessed and the colonized, and in rejecting these beads she also resisted Spanish style patriarchy as well as a more general attempt on the part of men to assert control over her body. Considering that she would watched many of her sisters, cousins, and friends entering into very different kinds of sexual relationships with Native men, her husband's desires probably seeme d unreasonable Maybe she also remembered stories of her feminine ancestors w ho had exercised a power that was not recognized in the historical writings of the Spaniards. In the process of throwing away symbols of dominance, she simultaneously exercised a performative identity on her own terms, even as it was structured in opposit ion to her lover. In other words, she might not only have reinforced her identity as an Apalachee woman desiring traditional gender relationships of relative empowerment, but she actively restructured and recontextualized what these traditions meant. H er husband bought her more pendants, more necklaces. He tried again to define her identity and to stabilize his own. And she continued to challenge this declarative act and threw the earrings, the rings, and the necklaces away once more. And this happen ed several times as they filled the trash pit in the Spanish Village.

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115 Alternatives In a recent conversation, Hakope disagreed with my interpretive explanation. He emphasized that many Native women valued beads and jewelry ve ry highly: to the point that many European traders would stock themselves with such items to ensure that they would be fulfilled sexually on their travels. He also didn't think that my term discarding jewelry spoke to the Native meanings of buried objec ts. Following this critique, he offered two alternative interpretations. The first was that the Spanish man may have ripped the jewelry off her body and thrown it into the trash pit as a means to assert his authority and control about Europeans. Such ta ctics of psychological warfare are common in the stories about Europeans told within Hakope's community. Moments such as these emphasize that domination as well as the identity projects that make such power plays (in both senses of play ) possible is an ongoing process that must always secure itself against threats of destabilization. And how might the Apalachee woman have responded? The second scenario was that the jewelry could have been contaminated somehow. In this case, the Apalachee woman might have buried the jewelry to contain its Power. Hakope's community also does this with important objects that have become corrupted. In this second explanation, it is interesting to wonder why the jewelry is so dispersed throughout the trash pit: how mig ht the jewelry have been contaminated so regularly? And what might the Spaniard have thought when she enacted an Apalachee worldview that literally buried his own claims to colonial manhood? Unfortunately, since I am working against a deadline I will not have time to fully explore these ideas

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116 here. However, I can speak to some of the dynamics of identity formation at Mission San Luis based on the common assumptions. Conclusions Natasha Sandraya Wilson illustrates that performances can make use of particular moments and stages (or, as I have used it here, a mise en sc Ž ne ) to actively explain the enduring disparities of their lives 2009). Focusing on queer communities of women in New Orleans, s he argues that whi le actors may desire to achieve an autonomous identity, their ability to performatively construct themselves are continuously undermined and destabilized by their social and political contexts. The discarded jewelry in San Luis does not suggest a harmonio us marriage, but conflicts and disjunctures in identity formation It would not have been an easy flow of masculine and feminine culture that neatly refits itself into a unified and coherent creole expression as the heterosexualization of opposed cultures It is no more a simple expression of patriarchical dominance through which the Spanish/man is able to materialize his own racial gender imaginary than the other way around. Rather, these materialities took shape through a politics of identity, in which matters of gender, race, and domination were performatively reinforced and challenged. In other words, difference would have been conceived through a unified performative process, one open to contestation and debate. Although both lovers may have sought to establish autonomous social identities, each of their performances were interrupted by the others' counter projects. Th ey continued a cycle in which each aspired to stabilize their own desires. The Spanish man was apparently willing to invest a consi derable amount of money into this project. And perhaps when she cooked in the

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117 outdoor fire, other native women of the Spanish Village came and they formed a c ommunity in which they declared themselves to be (and reformulated the category of) Apalachee w omen; and not passive, inert, and sexualized beings claimed by Spanish colonists. But this positive note perhaps obscures the complexities of identify formation. T he discourse on gender, sex, and family in Mission San Luis centered on women's bodies as the key symbol of cultural expression. Whether in the so called Spanish Village or in the pre game ritual, these issues were battled out in the realm not just (in Judith Butler's 1993 words) bodies that matter, but on female bodies specifically. The possibilities of complex conflicts over race, gender, and sexuality can only be elaborated upon after decentering subjectivity. This shifts analysis from essential and stable identities to a discussion of the historical organization of diversity. In the n ext chapter I turn to the intersections between colonialization and gender in the contemporary world. I examine three Native museums and the representations of gendered traditions inside, where some of the kinship dynamics addressed here are remembered an d exhibited. More importantly, however, in these spaces contemporary Indigenous peoples both reclaim their histories and continue to demand empowerment.

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118 Exhibiting Tradition in Three Native Museums: Decolonizing Tacti cs and the Representation of Gender Social reality is lived social relations, our most important political construction, a world changing fiction This experience is a fiction and fact of th e most crucial, political kind. Liberation rests on the construction of the consciousness, the imaginative apprehension, of oppression, and so of possibility. (Haraway 1991:149) Museums, as heterotopic spaces, collapse, reflect, and invert the idea of o ther times and places into the physical space of the exhibit ( sensu Foucault 1986). Museums exhibit a context that is actually found outside of the displays, creating spaces of multiplicity. In other words, a museum achieves significance not on its own terms but in reference to a specialized, outside context. The allegedly mimetic techniques of the museum mask both the labor of curation and the cultural work of signification and representation. Barbara Kirshenblatt Gimblett (1998) notes that successful museums must become destinations: in the sense of an attraction and. in the case of ethnographic museums, a transportation, as well. Ethnographic museums are intended to mimic an authentic culture that exists (or existed) outside of the exhibition space. Yet if ethnographers spend years learning about cultures, museums transform these experiences into consumable packages for a public audience that can be taken in within a matter of hours. In the previous two chapters, I reviewed some of the historical c ontexts of Apalachee gender identities. This chapter is an examination of performances of gendered Native identity enacted within Indigenously curated museum spaces. I examine two dynamics on display in three Native museums the National Museum of the Ame rican

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119 Indian (NMAI), the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, and the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum of the Seminole Tribe. I begin with a treatment of living artifacts, which can also be articulated as un or de alienated objects or objects of heritage. The exhibits at the NMAI clearly explained that the objects exhibited as heritage were testimonials to Native survivance. Gerald Vizenor coined the term survivance in his book, Manifest Manners: Postindian Warriors of Survivance (1994). The NMAI reiterates his defi nition: Survivance is more than survival. Survivance means redefining ourselves. It means raising our social and political consciousness. It means holding on to ancient principles while eagerly embracing change. It means doing what is necessary to keep our cultures alive. In another display, I learned that Survivance is found in everything made by Native hands, from beadwork to polit ical action. From there, I move to a discussion of exhibiting normative gender as a means of imagining community. When I visited these museums, I saw for the most part representations of traditional gender roles and subjectivities: that is, gender was mired in a discourse of what it meant to be traditionally of a given ethnicity. These exhibits represented tradition as a two part thing requiring the participation of masculine and feminine bodies. This discourse potentially obscures gender diver sity by articulating heritage through two monolithic categories. Yet, I also saw a few representations that were not quite so straightforward. These museums are constituted within a dialectic between self representation and representation to dominant cu lture. This tension may alternatively be understood as between Native museums as sites of cultural autonomy and as cultural embassies, or between material memories of heritage and tourism ( marketed heritage, see Rowan and Baram 2004). As I will discuss further below, these museums not only reproduce Native

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120 historical accounts, but also perform those histories to tourists traveling from the dominant culture. This chapter is an account of interpretation from my own touristic standpoint as a struggle to pr oduce meaning from museological performances within an ambiguous terrain of multiple hegemonies. In writing this paper, I experienced a certain level of discomfort because I felt I was playing queer approaches against Indigenist ones, perhaps subverting e ach. It is crucial that I am not seeing everything: my experience was limited by my standpoint in as a student writing about queer studies in the dominant culture. The Quechua exhibit in the NMAI proclaims that the world is composed of dualities: pa – a an d loq'ue right and left, dark and light, male and female, upperworld and lowerworld. Each museum also emphasized gender complementism, or how both men and women were necessary for a healthy culture. Although the material expressions of dualistic gender look similar to binary ones, they can potentially situate very different ontological and political systems (as discussed in chapter two). Representation, Disjuncture, Confrontation, and Representation It is an often told secret that living Native American people are often muted if not altogether absent in images of the Indian. Tom King writes: In the end, there is no reason for the Indian to be real. The Indian simply has to exist in our imaginati ons. But for those of us who are Indians, this disjunction between reality and imagination is akin to life and death. For to be seen as real, for people to imagine us as Indians, we must be authentic (2003:54).

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121 In one of King's stories, he discuss es Edward Sheriff Curtis (1868 1952): a man who traveled the United States photographing Native Americans. Curtis believed he had to preserve memories of the American Indians before they all died out, or assimilated, or vanished in some other way. Becaus e his objective was to create visual memories of Indianness before it was lost forever, Curtis brought props for people who he felt didn't look Indian enough. King points out that even before Curtis started his project, the idea of the Indian' was alrea dy fixed in time and space independently of living dynamics and changes happening in Native cultures (2003:37). Elsewhere in his book, King tells a story from when he worked on a ship. Upon learning that King was Indian, the cook told him, You're not t he Indian I had in mind (2003: 48). The cook then told King knew about the Indians because he had read novels by Karl May although May had apparently never seen an Indian, either. In another passage, King writes: Yet how can something that has never ex isted the Indian have a form and power while something that is alive and kicking Indians are invisible? (2003:53). Tom King, of course, was not the only person to notice. The Red Power theorist Vine Deloria Jr. writes: The American public feels most comfortable with the mythical Indians of stereotype land who were always THERE. These Indians are fierce, they wear feathers and grunt. Most of us don't fit this idealized figure since we grunt only when overeating, which is seldom (1969:2). And i n another passage: There appears to be some secret osmosis about Indian people by which they can magically and instantaneously communicate complete knowledge about themselves to these interested whites. Rarely is physical contact required.

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122 Anyone and ev eryone who knows an Indian or who is interested, immediately and thoroughly understands him (1969:5) Native invisibility is, in fact, one of the main foundations through which the Indian imaginary maintains its autonomy: the relations of ethnographic an d historical production both within the academy and in popular imaginaries has muted Native voices. King is careful to assert that interested parties can see real Indian subjects in Curtis' photos even if the subjects are simultaneously playing Indian. H owever, Native peoples cannot always recognize their people in the productions of the dominant culture. Patricia Riley recalls how when she grew up: Most of those [history textbooks and other books about Indians] had been written by men and women who, for the most part, had never even seen an Indian, much less known one I think a great deal about it today because the lives depicted in the books I read then bore absolutely no resemblance to the lives of my neighbors or friends (1993:22). In another passage, Deloria writes: People can tell just by looking at us what we want, what should be done to help us, how we feel, and what a real Indian is reall y like. Indian life, as it relates to the real world, is a continuous attempt not to disappoint people who know us (1969:1). Native voices are systematically muted as they are distanced from privileged modes of cultural production. When she was young Riley tells us, she didn't know of any books written by Native American authors. The library had shelved all their autobiographies and novels in the anthropology section, objectifying Native creativity by categorizing productions as objects of social sc ience. Implicitly, Native texts were organized so they existed outside of definitions of literature made by the dominant

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123 culture. Kristina Ackley summarizes the effects of this process: Non Natives have the power to hold Native Americans to unrealistic a nd damaging standards in determining what makes an authentic Indian' (2009:273). Native claims to empowerment operate within these conditions of historical and ethnographic production. Through the course of my research, I visited the National Museum of the American Indian (NMAI) in Washington, DC, the Museum of the Cherokee Indian in Cherokee, North Carolina, and the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum in the Big Cypress Seminole reservation. The Museum of the Cherokee Indian and the Ah Tah Thi Ki museums are tribal m useums. They represent tribal and ethnic communities and are produced and funded by tribal governments. On the other hand, while the NMAI is a Smithsonian museum located in the US capital, it is a product of collaborative curation. Indigenous people are explicitly employed as curators and exhibits representing specific cultures are designed by community co curators from these localities. In addition, NMAI staff traveled to these communities themselves and gained a fuller perspective on the local dynam ics and objectives. I visited each museum twice during the summer (June through early August) of 2010. Before and after traveling to each museum, I also explored the information on their websites. These museums are places for the institutionalized rem embering of the Native past and heritage. The exhibits in these museums are produced either exclusively by Native organizations (in the case of the tribal museums) or through collaboration with Native peoples (in the case of the NMAI). They are spaces in which Indigenous people represent themselves: where Native voices telling their own histories are articulated and empowered (Shannon 2009; Daniels 2009). Brenda J. Child (2009) goes as far as to

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124 argue that tribal museums are sites that reinforce sovere ignty. Barbara Kirshenblatt Gimblett (1998) discusses museums as performances: these three of these museums perform (in part) the mobilization of Native memory to confront colonialism and cultural dominance. Brian Isaac Daniels (2009) argues that while m useums have historically been apparatuses for imagining a homogenized national community, this institutional concept has been appropriated by tribal entities in ways that undercut the performative unity and legitimacy of the United States. Like their nati onalistic counterparts, tribal museums produce and discipline knowledge about social experience and reinforce claims to collectivity. However, they also must position themselves within a framework of American sovereign power and imagine difference with in a multicultural nation state (2009:300). In exhibiting difference, tribal museums define their uniqueness on their own terms and formalize their cultural representation to outsiders. As Daniels point out, this practice is not only valuable but also n ecessary as tribes seek federal recognition and protect culturally and religiously important sites from economic development. Tribal museums also provide sites of tribal pride and spaces for indigenous research and scholarship. In all of these ways, muse ums further the decolonial objectives of cultural autonomy if not sovereignty. Methods I visited each museum two separate days. I understood my role as a visitor within Native space: a member of the d ominant culture who had come to learn in an institution

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125 of public outreach and cultural exchange. I knew I was going to write about these museums from within a framework of queer gender theory. This chapter is about what I, as an educated white tourist, took from these museological performances of Indigenism. When there were suggestions about the order I should see the exhibits in, I followed these paths. The Cherokee museum was highly structured by a twisting path, enforcing an order for engaging with the displays. The NMAI had suggestions to begin at the top floor and make your way down, but the ways I could move through each floor was largely unregimented. The Seminole museum had somewhat of an intended order, although side rooms branched off from t he basic pathway and multiple pathways could be taken through a part. I took photographs of exhibits in the Museum of the Cherokee Indian and the NMAI for later reference. I did not take photographs at the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum because I traveled there vi a motorcycle and had no particularly good way to transport my large SLR camera. The first time I walked through each museum I took broad notes about the representation of indigenous and gender identities. Much of my observations were focused on accompany ing text about the explicit ways gender, cultural identity, and sovereignty was imagined and put on display. The interplay between specific communal and pan Native American identities formed a large part of these notes. The second time walking through th e museums, I focused more exclusively on gender displays. I privileged displays that were accompanied by texts that explicitly discussed gender (that is, displays of objects that were gendered by texts) because these were intentionally and explicitly abou t representing gender. Most of my notes were about the way material objects and texts stylized the subjects on display to represent

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126 gender and Indigenous identities. I focused on imaginary bodies usually two dimensional sketches, paintings, and photograp hs, mannequins, or clothing and jewelry items arranged in cases as they would be worn. I took photographs of each representation of human bodies and most displays of clothing in the Museum of the Cherokee Indian and the NMAI. Following my understanding of two spirit identities, I wondered if I would see exhibits discussing gender diversity. There was no textual discussion of third or fourth genders in any museum, although gender is at times undercut by cultural traditions, chronology, and age. For th ese reasons, my notes are limited to representations of men, women, and sometimes de gendered individuals ( sensu Lorber 2005). To a much lesser extent, I analyzed representations of sexed bodies that were not accompanied by texts. Sex was determined by t he presence or absence of breasts and facial features (genitals were not displayed except in an exhibit of pre contact human effigies in the NMAI). If I was unable to tell, I referred to these individuals as androgynous in my notes. This limits my note s to a three part system for analyzing sex. I also looked for representations of gender complementism (i.e., heterarchal relationships between genders, see Appendix B), hypothesizing that these performative moments would be implicated in an indigenized feminism that asserted a heritage of relative gender egalitarianism. I found representations of gender diversity were articulated within multicultural framework at NMAI, within a framework of warrior women in the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, and a story about a child gender crossing in the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum. There were also changes in the artifacts of gender stylization that were represented as temporal shifts in the Cherokee and Seminole

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127 museums and representations, and discussions of differences in gender roles at the NMAI. Information about gender roles was derived from informational text panels. These methods privilege explicit textual mentions that label and explain objects and images on display: in other words, English written words, and to a l ess commonly, recordings made in English. As such, this study risks overemphasizing interpretations situated in the ontological categories of the dominant culture, potentially obscuring the objectives of the museums. However, I would also argue that as t ourist destinations, this is a reality that the museums already engage in. A Native visitor would likely find different meanings when visiting each museum. Interpretation, and the production of knowledge generally, can only occur within structured, real world standpoints and social interactions ( Hartsock 1983; Hill Collins 2000) It is important to realize that this study simultaneously operates on two plains and that the distinction between them is not always clear. On the one hand, it is a study of Na tive museums. On the other, it is a study enmeshed within and framed within the discourse of academia of dominant culture. As such, I have tried to emphasize through my writing style that I am writing about what I saw in the museums: not because I can k now what is meant by these representations, but because what I saw can contribute to a reflexive discourse about representing and interpreting Indigenous identities in museum contexts. A Contextualizing Introduction to the Museums The Museum of the Cherokee Indian is located in Cherokee, NC. The area is home to the Eastern Band of the Cherokee, the decedents of those who evaded Removal.

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128 The Museum originally opened in 1948 and moved to its present location in 1976 (Museum of the Cherokee Indian n.d.). The town of Cherokee is in the Great Smoky Mountains, about fifty miles from Asheville. It is almost completely surrounded by national parks and forests. Despite that my visit was in June, I found t he forest air to be relatively cool at least compared to my un air conditioned house in Sarasota. The Museum's mission is [t]o perpetuate the history, culture, and stories of the Cherokee People (Museum of the Cherokee Indian n.d.). It has participated i n cultural revitalization beyond exhibition by creating the Cherokee Potters Guild, sponsoring the Warriors of AniKituhwa (a traditional dance group), and publishing the Journal of Cherokee Studies The Museum of the Cherokee Indian is part of a touris m economy and is significant in creating revenue for the tribe (Duggan 1997). In fact, the museum is located in what I assume was the tourism district, near the amphitheater and the craft corporative. If you go to the tribal website, there are links to h istorical and ethnographic attractions, crafts, nature experiences, and gambling (Cherokee, NC 2010). Images of Cherokee warriors dressed in war paint, jewelry, and feathers are played across the center of the page. The pictures are accompanied by text such as: Captivating dances, tomahawks, blowguns, drumming, peace pipes, ancient clan masks, stirring legends, bows and arrows are we there yet? and Most people don't realize that Ashville borders another country. The museum is one among many attract ions that has made tribal sovereignty into a profitable as well as educational tourist attraction, and Cherokee, NC into a destination for members of the dominant culture.

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129 Both of my visits to the museum were in middle of the week, yet there were still a large number of people walking through the museum. Most looked to me like non Native tourists, but looks can sometimes be deceiving. Within the museum, recordings spoke to visitors using the pronouns us and you, performatively creating an insider s peaker/outsider listener dichotomy that marked the visitor as other than Cherokee. Betty J. Duggan (1997) reminds anthropologists that before becoming a tourist destination, the reservation suffered from dire economic circumstances. Tourism has at least helped this situation, although unemployment rates soar seasonally. Duggan argues that tourism has produced the economic conditions predicating the shape of Cherokee survivance. According to the museum's website, it is a place for telling the story of th e Eastern Band, links the Cherokee past and present for non Cherokee visitors, and reaches beyond its walls to revitalize traditions such as stamped pottery, Cherokee dance, finger weaving with beads, rivercane basketry and more (Museum of the Cherokee Indian n.d.). The Museum also sponsors the Warriors of AniKituhwa, a group of dancers who also act as cultural ambassadors traveling across the US and overseas. Furthermore, the museum creates important tribal revenue that can be used to fund importan t services such as the tribal hospital. The Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum is in the Big Cypress Seminole Reservation in the heart of the Everglades. It consists of an exhibition space as well as a nature trail. The name translates as a place to learn (Ah Tah T hi Ki 2007). The exit for the Museum, Snake Road, is the only exit along Alligator Alley (a stretch of I 75 that crosses Florida between Naples and Miami). Big Cyprus is as humid and hot as the South Florida coast, but without the ocean breezes. Their mi ssion statement is: The Seminole Tribe of

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130 Florida's Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum collects, preserves, protects and interprets Seminole culture and history inspiring and appreciation of the Seminole people [sic] (Ah Tah Thi Ki 2007). The Museum also has an Ora l History Program. Because both of my visits were during the slow season for tourism in South Florida (the snowbirds having returned North for the hot summer months), I was one of only a handful of visitors present. Yet like among the Cherokee, tourism has played a central role in the Seminole economy. This trend goes back far in time with the marketing of women's crafts and alligator wrestling by the men (Cattelino 2004). In 1979, these attractions gave way to the first casinos, which is now the domi nant source of tourist income among the Seminole (indeed a much safer occupation than alligator wrestling). A script across a museum wall asks visitors to examine the ways that tourism has shaped and reshaped Seminole identity. Jessica Cattelino (2004) argues that the popular (dominant culture) conception that gambling (and tourism in general) is opposed to Seminole identity stems from the essentialistic assumption that Native cultures are static. Operating within this framework tourism Anglicizes the Seminoles, putting them in danger of losing their distinctive culture. This narrative resonates uncomfortably with earlier discourse about the disappearing Indians. Seminoles, for the most part, see gambling as a source of income distinct from yet enabling cultural production and sovereignty (Cattelino 2004:68). The very existence of the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum throws this colonial rhetoric into crisis: it is simultaneously a tourist attraction advertised on billboards and signs (an d in front of the only gas station in the eighty five mile stretch of Alligator Alley), but according to the executive director Billie Cypress, it is also a place for remembering and preserving

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131 Seminole culture and history (2001). Cattelino (2004) and the cattle raching exhibit in the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum (see appendix C) argue that practices of economic development have not only provided the material means for preserving Seminole culture, but have also been remembered in their own right by later generatio ns as a part of their living heritage. Indeed, the museum and its role in preserving Seminole culture is made possible by economic development such as casinos (Cattelino 2004). The National Museum of the American Indian is the sixteenth museum of the Smi thsonian Institution. It is located on the National Mall, just a short distance from the White House. As such, the museum takes up a prominent place in the national(ist) promenade. There is a location in New York besides Washington, DC, although I only discuss the Washington museum in this chapter. The NMAI was chartered by an act of Congress in 1989, although it did not open until 2004. Most of the NMAI's collection was assembled by an individual named George Gustav Heye (1874 1957) and contains cultu ral materials from across the Americas. Like other whites at the time, Heye thought the Indians were disappearing. He collected objects from across the Americas during the first half of the 20 th century. They were presented in the Museum of the American Indian before being transferred to NMAI. These objects signified cultures that were assumed to be almost dead and a past that had been terminated, yet in the NMAI they testify to continuing Native surviviance. The NMAI's mission statement reads: The Na tional Museum of the American Indian is committed to advancing knowledge and understanding of the Native cultures of the Western Hemisphere, past, present, and future, through partnership with Native people and others. The museum works to support the cont inuance of culture,

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132 traditional values, and transitions in contemporary Native Life (Smithsonian Institution 2010). Richard W. West, the first director of NMAI, (2010) links the initiation of the museum as a collaborative project empowering Native self re presentation to the anthropological crisis that was occurring simultaneously. The NMAI seeks to involve indigenous communities within their own representation and empower Native Voice. W. Richard West argues that the NMAI embodied a new kind of museu m, one that was dialogical and explored the ambiguities of knowledge rather than simply representing a supposedly stable and unproblematized knowledge structure (2010). In this way, West aligns the New Museology with an Indigenist agenda. When I visi ted the introductory movie informed visitors that while they might still be in DC, they had actually left statist space and now were in Indian Country. In the entranceway to the our Universe exhibit, a panel tells the viewer that they are about to lea rn how Native People situate themselves in the cosmos through daily practices. Like the Cherokee Museum, these moments performatively position the NMAI in discourse with someone from outside the Native community although it would be simplistic to assume that the museum only attracted or was even designed exclusively for a non Native audience. Jennifer Shannon (2009) argues that Native peoples who visit the museum especially those from the communities represented identify strongly with the displays. Thi s is a powerful comparative point juxtaposed against Riley's unfamiliarity with the Native peoples of the books of her childhood. NMAI exhibits are designed according to indigenous organizational systems to make the exhibits (Smith 2005). One of the man y difficult issues that the NMAI has had to contend with is balancing Indigenous diversity with pan Native American identities

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133 (Archuleta 2008). It is envisioned as an international institution (West 2010), but by the limitations of display, the NMAI has also been forced to represent specific culturally and spatially defined communities of Indigenous peoples while leaving out others (Smith 2005). W. Richard West argues that the NMAI is a site of self determination with important conceptual and civic impl ications (2010:3) and Claire Smith (2005) calls it a decolonizing museum. However, Amy Lonetree (2009) argues that the NMAI has failed to live up to its objective as a decolonizing institution. She critiques the museum for not presenting a hard hitting historical analysis of colonialism and genocide and for conflating Indigenous perspectives with postmodernist historiography. Because the museum does not adequately participate in what she calls truth telling, NMAI fails to call colonialism into questio n. Indeed, while at first glance the location of the NMAI in DC seems to represent a long awaited empowering of Native history within North America, Lonetree argues that the opening ceremonies avoided with the dirty facts of invasion, colonialism, and r acism and jumped straight into a celebration of multicultural incorporation and reconciliation. She asserts that the NMAI is a nationalizing museum that reinforces collectivity while subverting an honest engagement with colonial history. The tension be tween empowering Native perspectives and the nationalist tendencies of the Smithsonian Institution is just one of the many internal contradictions the NMAI faces. The Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum and the Museum of the Cherokee Indian face a similar tension in ima gining its audience. As I discussed earlier, they are sites of both heritage and of tourism. All three museums were restricted by the limits of dominant culture's discourse. This is sometimes a straightforward manner: how far can the museums push this d iscourse while maintaining its status as a destination ( sensu

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134 Kirshenblatt Gimblett 1998)? Other times, this relationship may be more complex. Are there elements that I can't put together, i.e., ethnographic fragments I can't contextualize, and thus narr atives that I do not understand? This is the role that historical silences, unthinkability, and their constituent element, the loudness of stereotypes play in representing Indianness. This becomes especially important in my later discussion on gender, bu t first I would like to begin with the basics: a discussion of the material culture and the modes of display. Exhibiting Memory in Living Museums These three museums created non traditional relationshi ps (at least, by the standards of the colonizer culture) with the objects and concepts on display. Ethnographic museums represent cultural contexts through a process of fracturing that context (Kirshenblatt Gimblett 1998). Objects are removed from the co ntext of their creation and use and transformed into an ethnographic object, becoming a tool of the trade for doing ethnography rather than a tool for cutting wood, or for play, or for ritual. Ethnographic fragments are arranged in museums along with other fragments so that they perform a coherent representation of something outside of or larger than the museum. In the NMAI, the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, and the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum, material culture was curated in subject to subject relations ( sensu Shannon 2009:226). These kinds of exhibits are idea and story driven: curating subjects speak to viewing subjects through the media of display. This shifts the focal point of museums from the authority of artifacts to the self representation of a people. Objects on display are made

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135 to testify to the ongoing vitality of Native American peoples. As the products of indigenous self expression, the museums elaborated the framework I call remembering through a museology without alienation. According to B arbara Kirshenblatt Gimblett (1998), objects of ethnography (i.e., those on display in ethnographic museums) are dead: their cultural life is over. Their meaning has become decontextualized and removed from its everyday use, instead becoming frozen and p reserved. Killing an object is a process of alienation. For example, a passing anthropologist or museum collector may see a Seminole child playing with a doll. Thinking it would make an excellent addition to some museum they know of, they acquire it and put it in a display case with other dolls made by other Native Americans. When an object is displayed as heritage, Kirshenblatt Gimblett (1998) continues, it is given a second life. The object is resurrected is by the virtue of its contemporary use, is implications of signifying the past through the present in this new kind of context. These objects are material memories that connect the actions of the present to the ancestors of the past. When that same doll is re integrated into Native communities e ven if it remains in a museum it no longer simply signifies a disconnected moment in the past but rather is implicated in the continuing articulation of what NMAI calls Native surviviance. In short, a museum object can become a part of a living heritage b y virtue of the kinds of stories it is made to perform. This dynamic extends to archaeology, where traditional methods kill their own database. In this way, H. Martin Wobst (2005) argues that mainstream archaeological theory and practice unconsciously f urthers a colonial agenda. Chronologies, for example,

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136 emphasize discontinuities in history and thus distance decedents from ancestors. Another concern is the choice of sites: archaeology systematically skews its data because viable sites are dead space. Wobst writes: One cannot usually put one's excavation units into a space that is actively used (2005:22). In fact, he continues, it is through this imaginary of the site as terra nullius that opens space (and especially the graves of Native peoples) up to archaeological appropriation. Killing the archaeological record distances descendent communities from intellectual frames of reference in the production of new knowledge, especially when scholars rely primarily on professional anthropological experience and discourse over Native voices (Wobst 2005). This kind of practice subverts Native participation in privileged forms of historical production. It structures a colonial relationship in which Native people make/are data and dominant culture scholars transform data into knowledge with value. These historically hegemonic conditions in the discipline have structured an ignorance of Native knowledge (e.g., chapter two). Scholars who explore the significance of living artifacts resist such colonial dynamics. Claire Smith and H. Martin Wobst write: [i]t is time to move beyond the colonial strategy of reducing the significance of Indigenous places to archaeological sites and artifacts as a wa y of circumscribing and containing Indigenous interests (2005:8). According to a text display in the Our Lives exhibit in the NMAI, the objects on display testify to Native surviviance cultural continuity and adaptation to new contexts. Roger Kennedy articulates the conditions of display at the NMAI: We will not find labels telling us which dead artist did what, or why a dead object is thought to be pretty, or how it has been authenticated by some expert as culturally significant' (cited in West

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137 201 0:7 ). A living object is an object of cultural memory that has not been removed or alienated because this historical production is an expression of self determination. Its value is not determined by a scholar working within a scientific framework, but by the memories it can be made to retell within a descendent community. Some archaeologists go further. In many Indigenous philosophies, the dichotomy between animate and inanimate is not inherently meaningful (H. Harris 2005). Heather Harris states: On e of the foundations of Indigenous worldview is that the universe is alive, has power, will and intelligence (2005:35). Similarly life and death are rarely opposed: the deceased remain present and in communication with the living. Archaeologist Tara Mil lion understands archaeology as a collaborative engagement animate archaeological record to recover memories of the past. She suggests that the archaeologist stands as an axis mundi linking the physicality of the archaeological record, deceased ancestors and living communities. The Our Peoples: Giving Voice to Our Histories exhibit in the NMAI is an excellent example of vitalized material heritage. This exhibit contains displays on eight groups of indigenous peoples arranged around a narrative type display discussing colonialism. The center display begins a large date: 1491. Countless pre contact effigies and masks arranged aesthetically in a sort of wave (figure 18). According to the text panel, diverse peoples across the Americas produced these human representations. Indeed, juxtaposed as they are, these artifacts depict diverse kinds of bodies. Many are highly stylized while others are more realistic. Some naked figures are pretty clearly male or female. Others are more ambiguous. Some are skinny and many are plump. Some faces are more rectangular, or circular, or oval, or triangular. They are painted in a

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138 variety of ways and made from a variety of materials. The sheer number and diversity was be overwhelming. Rather, I found that it is primarily the diversity of bodies (and representational forms) that has been put on display. Continuing through the room, the exhibit leads to a sun arranged from indigenously fashioned gold objects (figure 19). A text informs the viewer that gold was used for ideological and ritual purposes and to mark social status, but never as currency. As the textual narrative shifts into the contact era, swords are interspersed between gold artifacts. Coinage starts to appear, some of it arranged into the shape of what could either be crosses or swords (and does it really matter which?). On the surface of the display case is written a story of Pizarro holding Atahualpa hostage and murdering him, narratives of violent and indirect resistance, and powerful words like Wealth. Power. Abundance. The viewer is informed that museums and collectors not Indigenous people now hold almost all of what the gold that still remains fashioned into Native icons. Other displays in the central space in between the group spec ific displays include guns, bibles, treaties, the European invasion, historical production, and a symbolic piece titled Eye of the Storm. This narrative on colonialism is literally located at the center of the smaller exhibits arranged by specific cultu ral groups of Native peoples. As the NMAI website states: But the story of these last five centuries is not entirely a story of destruction. It is also about how Native people intentionally and strategically kept their cultures alive (Smithsonian Insti tution 2010). This part of the story is most fully elaborated in the displays dealing with specific cultural groups. These displays, constructed in collaboration community members break the room into eight

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139 smaller circles. As part of these mini exhibits co curators were asked to represent a handful of historic events that are especially important to their people. The objects on display are made to tell a story. Along the first display wall, for example, objects are juxtaposed with a textual narrative about Native Americans and colonialism. Representations of human effigies are made to speak about the sheer number of peoples and cultures and of the diverse cultural systems of beauty, taste, and modes of representation that lived in the Americas in pri or to contact. The swords were held in the hands of Spanish Men of Fortune, as the display calls them, as they strove to materialize their desires to hold the gold that is juxtaposed in the display case. The objects on the walls are the same ones that w ere held by ancient hands: they are made to speak about these memories. They testify to the lives of the past and the complex social discourses that flowed across the two continents at the time. Even their transformation into museum objects is part of these artifacts lifecycle and they are made to tell stories about the colonial conditions of their collection. A nearby display on historical production features a small space discussing George Gustav Heye, the collector whose collection formed the core of the museum. Like Edward Sheriff Curtis, he believed the Indians were dying and collected their material productions in order to preserve a part of their memory. Ironically, these roles are now reversed. Feminist archaeologists have argued that gende red analysis enables nuanced archaeological understandings that center on people, rather than simply artifacts, of the past (e.g., Conkey and Gero 1991; Spector 1996). From here I turn to a consideration of gender in the representation of heritage.

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140 Performing Gendered Heritage in Two Tribal Museums The following sections offer an interpretive account of gender representations in the Museum of the Cherokee Indian and the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum. Cli fford Geertz famously developed an interpretive approach to anthropology, framing culture as a text that could be read by properly trained individuals. Writing about Balinese cockfights, Geertz argues: What [the cockfight] does is what, for other p eoples with other temperaments and other conventions, Lear and Crime and Punishment do; it catches up these themes death, masculinity, rage, pride, loss, beneficence, chance and, ordering them into an encompassing structure, presents them in such a way as to throw into relief a particular view of their essential nature. It puts a construction on them, makes them, to those historically positioned to appreciate the construction, meaningful visible, tangible, graspable real,' in an ideational sense (1973:443 ). The danger, of course, is that anthropologists may impose themes from their own cultural frameworks that are foreign to the people studied. A number of tensions compounded this problem in respect to reading gender in these two museums. The firs t is that the binary between Native and dominant culture interpretive schemas is misleading. Cherokee and Seminole peoples have been in contact with non Natives for centuries. As outlined earlier, these museums in particular are also destinations for tourists in the dominant culture. Furthermore, they have historically been subjected to political domination and forced cultural assimilation (e.g., through boarding schools or land reforms). The second tension is that gender representations in these mus eums may seem to be binary prescriptions to the heterosexual imaginary ( sensu

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141 Ingraham 1994) within the dominant culture. Yet Hakope suggests they may represent something more complex These two dynamics are somewhat contradictory in the context of this argument, yet I believe that they operate simultaneously in these museums. Both histories of extensive cultural interaction as well as this power of appearances make misinterpretation easy, not just for myself but for any dominant culture tourist. I ap proached gender representations in these museums from this standpoint as well as that of an anthropology student interested in queer and decolonial studies. After my visits I also gained experience from doing collaborative work with Hakope's community foc using on gender, which further complicated my understanding of these museums. I found that representations of human bodies located in the past were stylized ( sensu Bulter 1999) according to gender as well as ethnic identity. These often took the form of monolithic Cherokee or Seminole manhood and womanhood, although individuals were sometimes included through photographs or narratives, as well. Gender as an imaginary concept was put on display: abstractions of man and woman worked to materialize tradition as a tangible (and exhibitable) thing. In this interplay between the tangible and the abstract, a two category gender system was located in the center of heritage and identity. These sections objectives relate to the museums' goals as well as archaeological theory: they are to reflect on the way gender can be read and misread in these contexts and to reflect on appearances that potentially obscure more nuanced understandings of gender diversity. The interpretations presented here are c onstructed within the ambiguities of appropriate semantic frameworks. What makes this a viable

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142 approach is this thesis's overall concern with viable interpretative constructs. Before continuing, I should raise three concerns: 1) The dynamics of representa tion are always already inflected with silences at every level that skew historical interpretation ( sensu Trouillot 1995). Specifically, displays represented two kinds of people Men and Women masking the diversity of a population undercut by the social an d psychological processes of gendering. These sections intend to explicate and destabilize the ways in which gender is and can be represented. 2) As tourist destinations, these museums are already places for making interpretations situated within the sta ndpoints of the dominant culture. The following sections explore the illuminate some of the complications of this process. 3) A focus on contingencies in interpretive analyses illuminates that although binary formulations of gender may appear to fit th ese exhibits, such gender normative imaginaries may obscure complexities residing just beneath the surface. Although in the citation above, Geertz argues that he can read themes of masculinity, such a frame may obscure the dissonances between culturally specific systems of organizing gender difference. These three points intersect in complicated ways that make the production of understandings in these museums a dynamic and shifting process. I found that objects of gender stylization were displayed in t wo ways, in context or in situ ( sensu Kirshenblatt Gimblett 1998). Artifacts placed in context are made meaningful by their relationship to other objects. Generally, this sort of display communicates a typological or historical relationship between o bjects. A collection of arrowheads or ceramics, for example, would be an in context exhibit. The relationships between in context objects must be elaborated upon via text or other discourse. Gender, when exhibited in context, can take two forms. Artifa cts (for example, jewelry) may be

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143 accompanied with gendering text (i.e., woman's earring ). Or they may be arranged around an imaginary person. These are quite literally displays of gender typology, in which natural numbers (in the mathematical sense) of gender statuses are solidified and juxtaposed (i.e., Cherokee Man Clothing and Cherokee Woman Clothing ). In situ displays, on the other hand, attempt to recreate or mime the context that the artifact might be used in outside of the museum. Dioramas are in situ displays because they show frozen simulations that mime cultural activity using ethnographic objects. However, Kirshenblatt Gimblett argues: [In situ installations] are not a slice of life lifted from the everyday world and inserted into the museum gallery, though this is the rhetoric of the mimetic mode. On the contrary, those who construct the display also constitute the subject, even when they seem to do nothing more than relocate [the subject] (1998: 20). Accompanying text may a rticulate gender typologies among in situ displays, as well, or the mannequins themselves may merely reference types exhibited elsewhere. However, these sorts of displays tend to focus more on gender roles. Such exhibits display gender imaginaries repres entations of cultural norms mobilized to illustrate a living heritage. In displaying gendered tradition, these museums represent a community and gender it along a masculine/feminine divide, collapsing diversity within these categories. Perhaps the proces s of condensing gender into monolithic categories is a limitation of exhibition a process that struggles to represent a cultural context through a limited number of fragments. In this sense, gender was not explicitly discussed outside of abstracted terms: norms were allowed to remain independent of people's lives. Yet while these norms were located central to tradition in each museum I visited, the museums found different ways of relating those constructs to

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144 living communities. In the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museu m, for example, textual and photographic representations of individuals grounded these imaginaries and illustrated their flexibility in Seminole culture. In this context, gender displays arguably discipline gendered life and heritage, even while signifyin g a living community in which gender was by definition far more complex. It is necessary to distinguish between the exhibition of gender norms and a system of (hetero)normativity. The museums exhibited tradition through the representation of gender norm s. Gender normativity on the other hand, is a network of institutions that organizes gender diversity within a hegemonic system. I quickly learned that it becomes quite complicated to discuss normativity in the context of decolonization, where instituti onal power takes the intersecting forms of tradition, tribal governments, colonialism, and tourism. In the colonial world system of the contemporary US, dominant culture's gender imaginaries stand in a hegemonic relationship to Native ones. In the multic ultural social context that these museums operate, this dynamic produces an interesting tension between contemporary normative gender and traditional gender. Because I came to the museums thinking about queer theory, I first saw representations of cisge ndered persons stand in for Native communities. However, this interpretation may be just as much a function of normativity as it is a critique of it. These representations differed from hegemonic norms in that they exhibited ethnically stylized as well a s gender stylized bodies. Julian B. Carter argues that (2007) argues that heteronormativity is a system that privileges white genders and sexuality. In a similar vein, Kath Weston (1997) writes about alternative family structures in the United States acr oss ethnic as well as sexual lines. She argues that normative ideology

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145 privileges white, middle class kinship structures and that GBLT people from other backgrounds often face their own, unique situations related to alternative family organizations. Cert ainly, as I will discuss further down, these museums displayed alternatives to hegemonic family structures. Although I do not address it fully here, the Museum of the Cherokee Indian and the Ah Tah Thi Ki museum put alternative kinship systems and feminin ities on display. In these exhibits, difference was linked to cultural difference. From here, I seek to explore the methods by which material objects and simulations of bodies were organized into a framework of gendered heritage. Imagining a Gendered Past in the Museum of the Cherokee Indian Driving through North Carolina's forests I approached the town of Cherokee. To the great annoyance of my GPS, I took a wrong turn upon my arrival and found mys elf on Cherokee's main tourist street. Here, billboards for Santaland competed with Live Indian Dancing advertisements for space. Other signs invited me inside stores where I might find Indian goods. Miz Chief was my favorite. When I returned the n ext day to browse through these stores crowded with tourists, I found blow guns, knives, dream catchers, painted images of Native Americans, wolves, and bears, motorcycle gear, confederate and Christmas iconography, full moons, old tyme portraits of cont emporary tourists, plastic spears with rubber points, tye dye, records, questionable effigies of African Americans and Indians, postcards, shot glasses, ceramics, and key chains (I bought a plaque for my mother that read: Jesus, how much do you love me?

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146 He said this much' and spread his arms out and died ). Driving on, I was eventually able to find Tsali Boulevard (named after a Cherokee hero who resisted Removal) and the Museum of the Cherokee Indian. The museum was located next door to the Qualla Art s and Crafts Cooperative. Just a short distance away was the amphitheater where the performance of Unto These Hills (which addresses Cherokee memories of history) is performed nightly. This space stood in contrast to the kitsch of the earlier street even as it was also explicitly a tourist destination. I entered the museum, bought a ticket, and began to make my way through the displays. I was about to finish the permanent exhibit in the Museum of the Cherokee Indian when an image of an elder lady was pr ojected on the wall. She began to speak, discussing the displays I had passed so far. It seemed important, so I listened to her tell her narrative a few times. I am not able to completely reconstruct what she said word for word from my notes. Doubtless ly, some details are missing. But it went something like this: Flutes and rattles are heard in the background as the elder woman begins: From the earliest time when life was simple to the time when we learned new ways [which, I learned in the first exh ibits, included sedentarily living, agriculture, and developments in hunting and pottery]. This gave us time for our culture to grow and to pray with other tribes. Then our lives changed: strangers came to our land.' A statement about the earliest Europ ean settlers followed. Contact led to trade, economic prosperity, and cultural changes. But then, [and I believe that this part is pretty much how it was spoken] more strangers came and they wanted land. You saw how we fought to stay, but many were

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147 for ced to leave. You saw how we became two nations and then how me made peace among ourselves.' Now many of us still live on our ancestor's land. In the legend of the burning belt which is a symbol of our traditions the belt was c onsumed by flames and yet still survived.' Suddenly, the elder lady transforms into a young woman and continues, and just as our belt survived, so do our stories, so did our land, and do we, Cherokee.' This woman's narrative breaks Cherokee Museum into a neat chronology. The central break is before and after contact. In the museum displays, the precontact period was further broken into the standard archaeological periods. But from the narrative, chronological separations are subsumed within cultural c ontinuity spanning from the archaic to the post Mississippian periods. H. Martin Wobst (2005) argues that chronological breaks emphasize temporal discontinuities, disruptions of otherwise homogenized cultures. This, he argues, inscribes colonial ideology into the archaeological record at the level of basic methodological schemas. The post contact period is again divided into more periods: an initial contact and trade period, United States expansion and Indian Removal, and resolution between the Cherokee peoples who left and those who resisted Removal. Implicitly, there is also a break between the historical and the contemporary. I noticed that little attention had been paid to recent history other than through audio and video recordings of Cherokee peop le telling stories about the displays (see also appendix C). Other than as history keepers, contemporary Cherokee life was mostly exhibited outside of the Museum through arts and crafts. Regardless, none of these chronological breaks in the woman's narra tive are represented as being as significant or divisive a demarcation as the contact line.

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148 Historic era exhibits were more likely to represent individual Cherokee, while the earlier exhibits almost exclusively represented people in the abstract. I opp ose representations of people in the abstract to representations of a person or individual. There are, of course, exceptions. Many mannequins in the historic era signified non specific Cherokee people. In the precontact exhibits, oral traditions were sometimes referenced to discuss mythic and historical characters. The distinctions I found in different kinds of representations were most likely related to the kinds of data available. I found that the contact break corresponded to different sorts of representations of gendered bodies. Likewise, these different kinds of representations contribute to different ways of exhibiting gender. Early in the museum, a panel discusses a Cherokee story about the Origin of Corn and Game. Kanati (Lucky Hunter ) and Selu (Corn) are the adult characters involved in this story about food and work. The story ends with Selu giving up her life to become the corn. In folklorist terms, this charters gender roles in food production and kinship structures. In fact, a later display about 18 th century society (discussed later) references this myth to explain gender relations: The Cherokee myth of the origin of game and corn clearly divides the worlds of men and women into hunting and agriculture. Both were essential to the survival of the people. Although I understand Native gender traditions to be more fluid and open to diversity than those of dominant culture, I had read that colonialism has greatly influenced these systems in many communities (Gilley 2004). I wa s not sure if I could expect obvious references to gender bending or alternative gender statuses in these tourist

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149 spaces, but I certainly did not expect to find accounts of rigid dimorphism, either. I read this exhibit to root dimorphic and intransmutable gender identities in the deep past. This two status system continues to define the limits of gender representations of sexed and gendered bodies throughout the entire museum. In the prehistoric exhibits, images of Native bodies were used to illustrate the concepts on display. A mannequin of a male shaman performs ritual. Sketches on the walls behind in context displays show the objects in use, e.g., a display about Cherokee games was juxtaposed to a sketch of a male body playing stickball, or an arra y of arrowheads sits alongside a sketch of a hunter (figure 20). Finally, a painted mural of Mississippian era life depicts men and women around a village palisade. Apparently, sex was a key element for remembering people (as opposed to just artifacts) of the past that cannot easily be done away with. Although a handful looked somewhat sexually ambiguous (by which I mean I was not fully confident in my ability to assign them a binary sex category), almost all of these images were clearly of male or female bodies. As far as I could tell, there were no gender inversions. Of course, this only means that I didn't see them: if such representations existed they were not discursive (i.e., textual or voice recorded), so I found no treatment of gender as a nuance d phenomenon. As I looked at the Mississippian mural, I saw images of Indigenized, sexed, and gendered bodies. Their skin was red. Some had mohawks or long braids of hair. Some wore headdresses. One person organized painted pottery vessels. One man was dressed in a feathered cape, a special bellows shaped loincloth, and a mask. Men wore loincloths and women wore skirts. A few wore more elaborate clothing, such as vests, capes, cloaks, or shawls. Some of the men were tattooed. All except for one woman had their

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150 chests entirely covered. This suggested that Mississippian people ascribed to different sexual mores than we do today, although I suspected that the curators had wanted most of the breasts covered so as to accommodate contemporary tourist ( and possibly Cherokee) tastes. I also began to notice that all these people looked like they could in a magazine. They were lean. The men were muscular and had strong jaws and the women were curvaceous. Looking at the representations of human bodies in the rest of the museum, I began to see that they were also very normatively bodied people. Different cultures have their own (and undermine their own) shifting standards of beauty. Rebecca Popenoe, for example, finds that Arabic women living in the de serts of Niger find beauty in obesity (2005). Indeed, the representations of gendered bodies we have from Mississippian artwork depict many different body types that are not reflected in the museum (figures 21 25 and 28). A flat chested Falcon hero drawn on shell from Craig Mound in Spiro appears to slightly pudgy or pregnant (see L. Thomas 2000). An elderly or deceased (Jones 1982) Bird Being has concave sides. Most of the Falcon Hero representations which represent females and maybe even intersexed people as well as males are generally skinny (see figures 4 7). The Resting Warrior (Morning Star, figure 21) effigy pipe from Spiro is relatively skinny, but lacks well defined muscles (even though he is a warrior). The Keller and Berger figurines (figu res 25 and 28) are certainly not fat and have clearly defined breasts but are not exactly curvy around the hips. The seated male and female figures from Etowah are skinny, but to judge from their sunken eyes they also represent the dead. Other female eff igies are obese (figures 22 and 24). There is a human effigy from Tennessee in a kneeling position which Larissa Thomas suggests is a

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151 feminine stance which is a little bit pudgy or pregnant and is extremely flat chested (2000). In order to represent a ge neralized and unnamed population, the Museum of the Cherokee Indian ascribed to contemporary norms as standards of beauty (and why wouldn't they?). Some hegemonic standards were reproduced, such as the gendered curvaceous/muscular binary of well toned bod ies. Other standards were subverted. For example, bodies with mohawks and tattoos, are not the privileged styles of contemporary dominant culture's power structure. Rather, these representations in the Museum of the Cherokee Indian push representations of an Indigenous past that is to an extent separate from hegemonic Western mores, yet in other ways it ascribes to a contemporary structure of what gendered bodies should look like. These dynamics are a relatively simple example of some of the complexiti es of representation and interpretation inherent to any historical process. These representations ran counter to Mississippian artistic tradition for representing human bodies. They also ran counter to representations of contemporary bodies present in th e museum, such as those who performed the Welcoming (War) Dance in a video presentation. To represent embodied heritage, these bodies had to be marked by gender, ethnicity, and beauty: anything else would be ontologically unthinkable. The process of imag ining an embodied past had operated through an ideal which posited populations of strong, beautiful, red skinned peoples. Why not? Idealized bodies give these representations a sense of being a celebration of the Native past. And the representations of people on display cannot be read from any other positionality other than the present: as such, contemporary conventions had to be negotiated. Rather than basing representations on

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152 living individuals or exploring Mississippian norms (which probably would b e meaningless to most tourists unless it was explicitly discussed), the Museum of the Cherokee Indian beautified the Native past. In the postcontact exhibits, on the other hand, there are representations of individuals with gendered bodies. These are mos tly cultural heroes: Nancy Ward, Major Ridge, Tsali, to name a few. As stated earlier, I believe that this is the product of the available data (or at least, traditional treatments of the available data). However, I actually wish to focus on an exception : a discussion of 18 th century gender that was explicitly linked to ethnohistoric narratives. Because this exhibit was about gender, it necessarily played off of abstracted imaginaries of community that subsumed diversity within a two category system. The exhibit is organized in circle around a model of a Cherokee town. Five of the display cases are about gender. Two vertical display cases exhibit traditional g ender roles. These are titled Cherokee Women and Cherokee Men. Another two house 18 th century clothing and jewelry: Cherokee Women Clothes and Cherokee Men Clothes. A final one discusses the traditional prestigious status of Beloved Women. These displays are accompanied by ethnohistoric texts. Most of these were written by the emissary Henry Timberlake and were about his visits to Cherokee territory in 1761 1762. The Cherokee Women and Cherokee Men cases display paintings of Cherok ee individuals, artifacts, and texts. Women, I learned, were in charge of agricultural production. Their ancestors had experimented to create improved strains of crops (possibly drawing on Watson and Kennedy 1991). This note is contrasted with a documen t written by Timberlake in which he states: The country being temperate,

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153 inclining to head during the summer season, and so remarkably fertile that the women alone do all the laborious tasks of agriculture, the soil requiring only a little stirring with a hoe to produce whatever is required of it. Images of plants were arranged within this case, as well. A block of text discusses the matrilineal and matrilocal organization of Cherokee clans before continuing: On occasion, women reportedly participated in combat, and determined the fate of war captives, deciding if they would live or die. The Cherokee Men case displays arrows, blow darts, and stickball and chunkey paraphernalia. Like the women's case, there are also paintings illustrating masculine domains. One shows two lean men competing at chunkey before a small crowd. In the Cherokee Women Clothing and Cherokee Men Clothing cases, gendered outfits are arranged as they would have been worn (figure 26). Gendered jewelry is juxtaposed alo ngside these outfits. The artifacts within gendered displays are already inscribed with a system of normalizing silences. They create the appearance of a gender binary before discursive discussion even begins. I had learned earlier in the museum that st yles of clothing changed significantly over the years, implying that it can be a fairly good temporal marker. Diana Loren (2005) argues that clothing is a way historians can see creolization. It is also a way to see gender. Because it is an object c ommonly used in to stylize gendered bodies, clothing offers a neat method for collapsing differences within genders and analytically emphasizing differences between genders. This gives the seemingly binary an additionally air of normalcy that is compounde d by the dimorphic opposition between display cases. These normalizing dynamics continue in the language of the ethnohistorical texts. In the Cherokee Women Clothing case, William Bartram

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154 is referenced as writing: The women of the Cherokees are tall slender, erect and of a delicate frame, their features formed with perfect symmetry, their countenance cheerful and friendly, and they move with a becoming grace and dignity. The text continues with a descriptive account of feminine Cherokee styles. Each of these displays creates a monolithic gender imaginary dividing the 18 th century Cherokee into two camps. The Beloved Women case, however, offers an insight into gender multiplicity. This case displays things like white goosefeather cape, a conc h shell, images, and texts. A selection from Timberlake's writings is shown: Old warriors likewise, or war women, who can no longer go to war, but have distinguished themselves in their younger days, have the title of Beloved. This is the only title tha t females can enjoy; but it abundantly recompenses them, by the power they acquire by it, which is so great, that they can, by the wave of a swan's wing, deliver a wretch condemned by the council, and already tied to the stake. Juxtaposed with this Englis h perspective is a letter written by a Beloved Women to Benjamin Franklin. In this letter, she tells Franklin that her people wish for peace. This text emphasizes the traditional power that Cherokee women can enjoy, a theme that was elaborated in multipl e exhibits. A reference to the story of the origin of corn emphasizes that Beloved Women still belonged to a two gender categorical system, disciplining this status as an essentially feminine one. However, the special title for warrior women emphasizes t hat gendered life trajectories are not as ridged (or at least as monolithic) as a viewer from the dominant culture might think. A superficial reading of these exhibits also may seem to confirm the ahistorical nature of a gender binary. Yet the displays on clothing suggest historical specificity (see Loren 2005). A panel elsewhere in the museum had discussed how kinship organization

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155 changed as a result of culture contact with Europeans. When I considered these things comparatively, I came to the conclu sion that Cherokee Manhood and Womanhood are rooted into tradition and memory and marked as different from dominant Euro American norms. Indeed, the museum arguably claims cultural continuity through a discussion of gender: it is through the reference to (and remembrance of) their oral traditions in the Beloved Women display case that contemporary gender understandings are located into the deep past. In this way, Cherokee Manhood and Womanhood orients a worldview that is beyond gender. The exhibit left m e feeling ambivalent. I am not sure if gender in the museum is an example of historical memory or a claim to heteronormativity. Gendered Heritage in the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum Almost eight hundred miles south of the forests of Carolina, I visited Seminole Tribe's Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum in the Florida Everglades. I rode down Snake Road and bugs peppered my windshield as I passed through miles of fields and then residential neighborhoods. Twenty miles or so off of I 75, the museum is located in the Big Cypress reservation. Signs off the interstate suggest that travelers go on the Billy Cypress Safari or walk through the museum. I visited the museum during the summer, when it is too hot for most tourists. After a warm greeting by the receptionists, I watched a preliminary film and entered the exhibits. The Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum is not organized according to chronology like the Museum of the Cherokee Indian. After the introductory movie, I walked through an exhibit on cattle ranching heritage, to one on marriage, to one on gendered lifeways more

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156 generally. From there, I walked through an interactive exhibit on storytelling to one exhibiting the annual Green Corn Ceremony (figure 27) Finally, I walked thro ugh exhibits about Seminole peoples and tourism, with walls covered in postcards. From here, I could either enjoy a boardwalk or leave through the museum's gift shop. My interest in queer studies drew me to an early diorama titled The Happy Couple, in which a man and his uncle stand before his future wife and her uncle. The young man and women, the text reads, are about to get married. When I first saw the exhibit, I understood it as a discussion about normative marriage that defines proper gender roles through the marriage process. The bride is given pots and pans while the groom is given a new gun, ax, and gardening tools. However, the diorama does this within a distinctive Indigenous framework: the groom on display, we learn, has just trave led to his mother in laws camp and [i]n a few minutes, the camp matriarch will appear and pronounce the couple husband and wife under gods plan. The uncles, and others in the camp, will look on during the brief announcement. These statements speak to traditions of matrilocality and matriarchy. The matriarch is also represented as the authoritative individual who controls kinship relations. Perhaps because I could o nly approach the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum from my own standpoint situated within dominant culture, this text implicitly distanced the Seminoles from the dominant, patriarchal culture. However, it does this within a normative framework. Like in the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, the diorama exhibits abstracted gender imaginaries: what is being put on display is the ideal of Husband and Wife. This imagines a typical, traditional Seminole society and opposes it to an equally typical imagined Anglo American norm This particular process of creating happy couples

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157 also carves out a space for the production of an autonomous Seminole culture. This presents a complicated dynamic: on the one hand, neither culture could really operate so simply. This narrative igno res specific conditions through which kinship and marriage can be forged, as well as its conflicts. However, this normative framework also simplifies complex historical processes in ways so that marriage can be put on display. It also makes comparison with other cultures (e.g., as I did with the dominant culture) easy. The exhibit following the Happy Couple is structured as circle. As I walked around the room, I gazed upon different aspects of gendered life in a traditional Seminole camp. As a camp the traditions on display were located in the past. The exhibitions along the room's outer circumference display clothing, jewelry, and village activities. Two glass cases representing gendered clothing are placed on either side of the exhibit's entran ce. On the right is displayed a Woman's Blouse and Skirt and a Men's Shirt ; to the left is Breech Cloth and a Man's Coat (to be worn over the breechcloth). Text panels nearby discuss changing styles over time and the interplay of European and Nat ive influences. I interpreted these displays as a dualistic discussion of both culture in the past and of analytical tools for historical production. They present and represent tools for understanding Seminole identity: the right side provides technologi es for organizing and analyzing two genders, the left for two sources of cultural historical influence (that is, Native and European). Traveling through the exhibit counterclockwise and facing the outer circumference, the next display is of jewelry. Tw o of the eight texts identifying the jewelry gender the objects: a Man's Silver Georgettes and a Pair of Women's

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158 Bracelets. A mannequin wearing a man's coat is frozen in the action of forging a silver plate, while black and white photos show Seminole individuals wearing and making the jewelry on display. The mannequin seems to represent an imagined and generalized act of silver production. The in context displays signify types of objects used to beautify and stylize the body (sometimes, but not alway s, along gendered lines). The photos depict the memories of individual people who actively did Seminole culture and helped to make it what it is today. These are people who I could imagine living lives more expansive than a simple normative narrative. I found that the interplay between these representations of Seminole culture and gendering collaborated to produce an imaginary of a gendered community and heritage. Abstracted concepts, the materialities produced, and representations of the lives of anc estors constituted a memory of a people that expanded upon the norms at the center and helped me to imagine a dynamic historical Seminole community. Continuing counterclockwise, the next display is a diorama of what appeared (i.e., I assumed) to be a fami ly Polin' Down the River. Four mannequins are stationed in a canoe caring bundles, a sewing machine, and a gun. A textual narrative informs the viewer they are watching a father power[ing] the canoe with a push pole on his way to a trading post. A w oman sitting in the center of the boat holds a child, and a young boy on the far end leans over to look at the fish in the water. This diorama, like the wedding display discussed earlier, is made to come alive through the production of a gendered family f ulfilling normative roles. In the next display, titled Child's Play, two boys fish using a bow and arrow and something called a gig. These skills, according to the accompanying text, will be essential to these youths when they take the role as meat

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159 providers for their future families. The final diorama is of two men and a woman eating and discusses food way manners. Like the images of precontact Cherokee, these mannequins do not represent individuals but rather Seminoles. They mime an extreme ly limited set of actions and roles, yet according to the logic of the museum, these performances are authenticated in relation to a culture and a history outside of the museum. Their mimed performances make them able to stand in for the center of a norma lized gender imaginary, which in turn makes them able to stand in for a normalized culture. This production of culture masks the functioning of power in producing normative systems and silencing the diversity inherent in any collectivity. Although photog raphs of real people balanced these norms to an extent, the major analytical tools were presented through these normalizing processes of display. In the center of the exhibit are three women, belonging to distinctive age sets, cooking. They sit around a hearth made by four large logs pointing to the four directions reminiscent of a Busk fire. Memories told by Seminole individuals are written on the text panels on the sides. They are of visiting other camps, sharing food and water, proper chores for each gender, and traditions of childhood, education, and discipline. I was particularly drawn to a Ruby Billie's story of treating her younger brother like a girl so that she'd have someone in her camp to play with. While boy's education is told to inv olve hunting trips medicinal treatments away from the camp at the age of 18, women's education takes place entirely in the camps. This could be read from the perspective of the dominant culture, as a representation of a patriarchal restriction of women to domestic space. Upon further

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160 reflection, however, I realized that this diorama emphasizes the centrality of womanhood in camp life and locates their work literally within a cosmogram. I interpreted the spatial composition of the exhibit as a represent ation of feminine authority within the camp: the men have to leave in order to perform their own gendered ceremonial rites. Furthermore, Ruby Billie literally determines the gender performances of her younger brother (at least at a young age). The other stories written around the display also illuminate some of the negotiations of gender by Seminole people, suggesting that there is more going on in reality than what the mannequins are able to exhibit. Interpreting Potentials As I have emphasized, these interpretations have been formulated from within the standpoint of a fairly well educated tourist from the dominant culture who is especially interested in theorizing alternative gender systems. Althoug h I rely on Indigenous theorists to make some of my arguments, the historically maintained distance between dominant culture and Native worldviews limits my interpretations. I have 1) attempted to articulate a poetics of exhibiting community and gendering traditions in two tribal museums and 2) understood those poetics from a particular semantic framework that speaks to Western touristic experiences of these museums. While my own perspective is far from hegemonic, it is situated within the dominant cultur e's logic of gender. Heather Harris (2005) argues that while Western philosophies often rely on dichotomies, Indigenous ones are holistic. Holistic philosophies reaffirm interconnectivity. Writing about the Judeo Christian binary of good/evil, novelist Tom

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161 King writes: But what [N. Scott] Momaday and other Native writers suggest is that there are other ways of imagining the world, ways that do not depend so much on oppositions as they do on cooperation (2003:111). It is worth noting that even as abstr acted, monolithic gender imaginaries, these museums articulated narratives of gender complementism. These narratives stand in contrast to the histories of the patriarchy of dominant culture. The Museum of the Cherokee Indian and the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum, for example, explicitly mentions important women and emphasizes interdependent relationships between genders. At a glance, these narratives are grounded within a framework of two monolithic gender imaginaries that silence cross cultural difference. That is, even as gender is ethnically marked, the semantic construct of Womanhood and Manhood conflate these gender imaginaries with the binary system of the dominant culture. In articulating Masculinity and Femininity, these museums exhibit Native trad itions of gender complementism: that is the interdependency and often heterarchal relations between gender dimorphous people. Celebrations of gender equality require the exhibition of dual and abstract gender concepts, often articulated through a framew ork of complementism. For example The Quechua exhibit in the NMAI proclaims that the world is composed of dualities: pa – a and loq'ue right and left, dark and light, male and female, upperworld and lowerworld. On one side of this text is a display of t wo human figurines with female genitalia; on the other side are two males. Elsewhere in the same exhibit, a panel reads: The relationship between male and female must be in balance, because one needs the other one. One of them can't be alone; they are al ways working together. These narratives emphasize interdependency over difference.

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162 There are also additional moments that, upon careful reflection, suggest that this organization is somewhat different than a binary. If I conflate representations of g ender with legitimating actual gender identities which would be supported by the role of the mannequins who embody these representations in dioramas then these representations appear to constitute a binary. Indeed, there was no explicit mention that these exhibits were about gender norms at all: this was a conclusion I came to after examining the ways in which specific representations reflected contemporary ideals. If, on the other hand, I understand these mannequins as imaginaries that inflect human perf ormances and social roles with gendered meaning, then I arrive at something closer to Crawley et al 's (2008) gender feedback model. Ruby Billie's story (outlined above) about treating her little brother as a girl suggest the latter may be more relevant to the Ah Tah Thi Ki museum. Indeed, this memory was deemed important enough to be textually represented in the museum space, and thus has some institutional backing. This interpretation suggests that even if gender norms do not meet reality on a one to on e basis, the knowledge that scripts their performance continues to define individual and collective selfhood as deeply felt, ontological ways. But such unambiguous statements are otherwise absent. The Beloved Woman in the Cherokee Museum also occupie s an ambiguous space in this schema: although explicitly a woman, her special display case suggests that she is not like other women. Hakope emphasized how this display illustrates multiple femininities and the flexibility of gendered subjectivities among the Cherokee (personal communication, October 14, 2010). In this interpretation, the third display case signifies fluidity and room is made for difference within a two category framework. At least two interpretations are plausible: Ruby Billie's story a nd the Beloved Woman could just as

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163 authoritatively be read as exceptions (i.e., marginal and abnormal) rather than elaborations (i.e., structural nuances) of the rule. Given the heterosexual imaginary's hegemonic status, the representation of monolithic g ender ideologies versus lived identities or even nuanced imaginaries may not be meaningful distinctions for many visitors without a clear cut explanation. They may focus on the display cases that suggest a framework of bounded subjectivities. In these ca ses, visitors simply reinforce binaries. I believe that in these moments, heteronormative ideology systematically structures ethnocentric misinterpretations of the museum exhibits. It is possible that in representing gender interdependency (rather than o pposition), these museums make room for diversity within the semantic framework of Masculinity and Femininity. Yet this conclusion has come as the result of lots of hard thinking and my experiences doing collaborative archaeology. These museums articulat ed gender within an English framework ( Manhood and Womenhood ) and exhibited gender as a typology. These aspects make it easy to interpret the displays through semantic frameworks of the dominant culture, masking the complexities outlined above. Exhib its were certainly coherent from a gender normative standpoint, assuming room was made for cultural difference in roles but not in subjectivities. Conclusions If Native museums are sites for telling N ative stories performed by living objects, dimorphic gendered imaginaries are articulated and objectified by virtue of exhibition. In these exhibitions, Indigenized Manhood and Womenhood are disciplined and performed.

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164 These museums mobilize these gender imaginaries as a means of representing tradition. Representations of gender in the abstract (as ideals or ideology) were often made central to exhibits on traditional lifeways. These processes of display objectify gender, packaging ideals into an exhibi t. If these ideals are conflated with a living group of people, culture is made ready for viewing as well as for comparison by tourists. In some cases, because they represent a living heritage, these ideals may simply be contemporary norms and values con structed in reference to a normalized past. The specific ways in which these exhibits participated in the constitution of gender ideology depends largely on the standpoint and worldview of the viewer. The shifts in my own conclusions emphasize that mul tiple interpretations are possible. I fully expect that a Native viewer would see very different things being exhibited than I. When contextualized within knowledge of living communities outside of the museums (rather than vice versa), these exhibits of gender norms could script diversity rather than homogeneity. Yet these nuances of gender present were not elaborated to the same extent as the abstracted imaginaries. However, such an account of interpretation situated in Indigenous places must take into account the colonial implications of heteronormativity. Just as I have argued that these intersections have historically silenced Native gender systems, and I propose that they continue to do so in the present context of these museum spaces. An approach situated in heteronormative logic can suggest two things: that Cherokee and Seminole heritage cannot be understood unless divided into (two) gendered kinds of Native peoples; but also that two kinds of people are more or less enough to understand the enge ndered past. Although visitors are asked to make room for a few exceptions, these

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165 can easily be understood as peripheral exceptions to an otherwise binary articulation of gender. Because heteronormativity is a hegemonic ontological (as well as political) system, I suspect that these readings predominate among tourist experiences. Simply put, the ways that these museums represent gender in the abstract lends itself to a reading according to the heterosexual imaginary ( sensu Ingraham 1994), in which ideolo gy is confused with the lives of actual people. In closing, I wonder if a more explicit and nuanced treatment of Cherokee and Seminole sex/gender systems could situate narratives of cultural autonomy and a complex explanation of change, memory, and contin uity. Perhaps such exhibits could further claims to tribal sovereignty. The previous chapters explored the explanatory and at times emancipatory potential ( sensu Saitta 2007) of queer theory, archaeology, and collaborative analysis in approaching the pas t. I have also outlined a history of a continuous and dynamic people over roughly eight centuries. I conclude by reflecting on this text, discussing the current state of affairs among the Apalachee, and the contributions gender queering can make to histo rical theory.

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166 Epilogue: Doing Gender while Remembering the Past History, especially Native American history, likes to play jokes on those of us who try and make sense of it. (David Arv Bragi 2008) This thesis analyzes an ambiguous copper plate, jewelry in a trash pit, and simulations of gendered bodies in Native museums. It is about how gender is made in Indigenous settings, written about in non Indigenous ones, and conveyed in both. It is about locating the ambiguities of gender at the center of analysis in order to examine gender as a function of power. It is an attempt to move beyond the binaries and instead treat gender as a nuanced historical phenomenon. Gender enters history in terms of bo th what happened and how we imagine what has happened. As an anthropological approach, this text mobilizes cross cultural and intra cultural knowledge to destabilize the hegemonic assumptions that have gone into making prior histories. In Bloch (2010), I gave a presentation situated in queer theory and ethnohistorical records. When the presentation paper made their way to Hakope's community, the community members there found that my arguments lacked a Muskogee perspective. Despite my high aspiration s, this paper had hardly tapped into a queer archaeology's potential. This collaborative relationship has furthered my argument on gender dramatically. These experiences illuminated some of the complex intersections between heteronormative and colonial h egemony. Hakope in particular has pushed me to deconstruct archaeological assumptions, resulting in a text that more fully addresses the cross cultural differences in paradigms and institutions of gender. This thesis is just a starting point in such a pr ocess.

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167 Apalachee Places in Modern Tallahassee's Landscape Like remembering, forgetting is an engagement with history that happens in the present. Most people realize that Native Americans have not all died out. Yet Native authors have noticed that life in dominant culture often continues as if this expansionist rhetoric had proven to be true (Deloria 1969; King 2003; Riley 1993). Colonialism is defined as a world system in which metropolises subordin ate and exercise control over distant peripheries (Osterhammel 2005). In a strictly physical sense, the United States is the exception to the rule. Today, most citizens of Tallahassee are able to go about their day to day lives without knowingly interact ing with Apalachee places. However, some memories of place have been preserved through history. Most of Lake Jackson is an archaeological park and a nature trail. When I was little, I threw my birthday parties there. Many of my friends can recall cli mbing the mounds or hearing rumors of children digging into the mound looking for arrowheads or other Indian things (if my friends ever participated in this, they do not admit to it). Admission to the park is only a few dollars, although I've never seen a ranger there to enforce it. Other parts of the site, however, have been lost to development (e.g., Jones 1982). The breastplates sit in the state Division of Historic Resources' archaeological vault. The continued control and often destruction of Nativ e history as a part of day to day life in the dominant culture underscores the continuing politics of colonization. Mission San Luis is a reconstructed historic site. Visitors pay five dollars to walk around the plaza and fort. They can also stroll thro ugh the gift shop and purchase trinkets

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168 to give their memories of their visit a little more materiality. The director of the institution, Dr. McEwann, maintains regular contact with Chief Bennett. Arguably, these sites serve a statist agenda by construct ing a tangible Florida heritage. Even though non Native residents understand that these histories are not about their ancestors, the production of heritage experiences contributes to the making of citizens. In this sense, the parks perpetuate memories of the Native past even as they simultaneously appropriate this past for the non Native state. The Mission San Luis site supports several full time archaeologists, and the traces that the Apalachee have left have made at least a few non Native careers. Stu dents like me can write papers on these sites as they pass through school. Maybe they will be more competitive applicants for higher status jobs. Maybe they will present on these papers and potentially make a name for themselves, even as recognition for this history is officially denied to the Apalachee people. One subject in the discourse of decolonizing anthropology is the treatment of human remains (e.g., Stapp and Longnecker 2005; D. Thomas 2001; Watkins 2000; 2005). Federal law requires that archae ologists consult with Native tribes before excavating human remains. It also requires the reparation of human remains and associated grave goods held by public institutions (such as museums). This legislation attempts to place control over Native human remains in the hands of Native peoples. Because the Apalachee are not recognized by the United States, they have no legal rights to their ancient ancestor's remains. Although even if they were, Christian burials like those in Mission San Luis are not cov ered by repatriation legislation (Jerry Lee, personal communication, March 26, 2010).

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169 It is ironic that the same state that appropriates and commodifies the Apalachee past is the same one that has failed to acknowledge their continuing existence. Even after the days of expansionism and Jim Crow, both state and federal governments assume the authority to deny the Apalachee people full rights to their ancestors and heritage. Archaeology as Story Telling Perhaps this text is best encapsulated as a series of narratives that discuss social memory as well as do their own share of remembering. They are just as much about historical imagination and archaeological process as they are about the past. The truth about stories, writes the Cherokee author Tom King, is that's all we are (2003:2). According to Clifford Geertz, narratives provide cultural models of and for engaging with the world (1973). T he stories people tell present the range and limits of what people consider to be possible courses actions. Frederick Errington and Deborah Gewertz argue: humans are influenced strongly by context and hence are motivated by a range of historical and cultural ideas about life's nature and possibilities (2 004:254). To use Errington and Gewertz's terminology stories guide cultural perceptions of what constitutes a desirable and feasible way of engaging with the historical moment. Keith Basso (1996) suggests that narratives about the past arise from the in teraction of historical memory and imagination. This thesis argues that the imaginative processes of dominant narratives operate through heterosexist and colonial logic. It furthers an alternative interpretation based on what I believe to be a more rigoro us assessment of both imagination and history.

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170 Each of the stories I tell is an engagement with human possibility, even as it is fully constrained by historical, archaeological, and anthropological theory, data, and methods. Dean Saitta argues that arch aeology can be both explanatory and emancipatory when it is engaged with descendent communities: explanatory, in the sense of producing casual knowledge of the past that respects accumulated data; emancipatory, in the sense of promoting reflection upon th e present in ways that can help realize human freedom, potential, and dignity (2007:3). Saitta accomplishes this potential by working with descendent groups. I expand this process to encapsulate what Barbara Little (2007) calls muted groups as well a s biological descendents. This more holistic approach can engage not only the Apalachee Tribe and Hakope's community, but LGBT communities within Native and non Native peoples, as well. Situated between systems of gender, sexual, and colonial hegemony, t his text constructs a history at the intersections of multiple struggles for empowerment. Archaeology as Place Making Remembering simultaneously signifies and inscribes places. Patricia E. Rubertone (2008) writes that landscapes are intricately interwoven with personal and collective memories. Archaeological sites participate in place making as they legislate what is wo rth remembering and how. Archaeologists transform physical traces left in the landscape into recollections: they are reminders, places intended to prompt memory and raise historical consciousness (or at least they should) about pasts most visitors have n ever experienced firsthand and know little about (2008:13 4). If not treated carefully,

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171 however, preservation can alienate the Indigenous past from its present, generat[ing] and condon[ing] narratives that may bear little resemblance to their own (2008 :14, see also Casta – eda 2001; 2005; Cruikshank 2005; Wobst 2005). Place, Rubertone argues, is an arena of power in which histories are built on top of and over each other. This engaged archaeological narrative connects the landscapes discussed here with the Indigenous people who inhabit or inhabited them. This is a deliberate challenge to the continuing appropriation of Native place. In addition, these landscapes are rendered as spaces of gender diversity. Finally, these narratives are also meant to s ubvert the projection of contemporary heterosexist anxieties into the past. Keith Basso argues: If place making is a way of constructing the past, a venerable means of doing human history, it is also a way of constructing social traditions and, in the pr ocess, personal and social identities. We are, in a sense, the place worlds we imagine (1996:7, emphasis in original). In the third chapter I use a theory of place as a mise en scene ( sensu Freeman 2001 ) to get at how social performances inscribe meanin g into the landscape and how inscribed landscapes guide social performance. In the fleshing out of historical materials, place worlds are made through the workings of cultural memory and portions of the past are brought into being (Basso 1996:5 6). A queer archaeology contributes to engendering history by suggesting new possibilities for understanding the complexities of past peoples. When archaeologists forget this, they write narratives that deny the intricate workings of other cultures and repeat the injustices rooted in colonial agendas that continue to resonate within (hegemonic) public realms (see Conkey and Spector 1984). This is a thesis that I hope will contribute to making Apalachee places and constructing collective memories that

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172 were onc e forgotten. At minimum, this thesis participates in commemorating Apalachee presence in North Florida's landscape and Indigenous presence back into the United States, transforming the world in which dominant culture exists into Native place. Gender as a Queer Historical Process In each chapter of this thesis, I have written about historical worlds of gender multiplicity and diversity within a given culture, across cultures, and over time. As queer vo ices are becoming louder in our own time, hetero and gender normative assumptions guiding our understanding of the past are becoming more and more untenable. LGBT scholars and activists alike are engaged with re theorizing the functioning of gender and s exuality within society. These voices seek to destablize and denaturalize heterosexist institutions and de center normative frameworks of being in the world. The cross cultural, comparative methodology of anthropology and the vast temporal scope of archa eology give the discipline the potential to contribute to the goal of denaturalizing oppressive systems within our own society besides constructing a more holistic understanding of gender, sexuality, and socio historical process. Archaeologists often do gender backwards by starting from Western ontology and dichotomously defined physiological sex categories (see Conkey and Gero 1991). These tactics effectively silence the extent of gender variance in the archaeological record. It is perhaps mantra that archeological possibilities are restricted by the limitations of our own imaginations. Sexual identities and heterosexist ideologies are rooted in the conflation of diverse human bodies into binary and monolithic gender categories. In each chapter, I

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173 sug gest that there is something more going on than dominant culture's concepts of cisgender normativity. Analysis shifts when archaeologists consider gender as a culturally specific institution. It is worth noting that once we move beyond binary narratives of gender, heterosexuality ceases to make sense as an ontological category. While some may think that gender is too intangible to be archaeologically visible, these scholars operate within a paradigm that treats gender as an internal essence rather than a n internalized subjectivity. Gender achieves its reality only as it is practiced and performed. My analysis of Native museums suggests that what makes gender appear to be materially invisible may be that it is being interpreted from inappropriate (univer salist) perspectives. If gender is truly culturally and historically contingent, there is no reason to expect an easy translation. Conceptual frameworks need to be developed to interpret these processes. A queer archeology analyzes gender ing as an acti ve social project in which heterogeneous actors imagine and manifest selves in relation to politics and tradition. A shift towards gender production not only contributes to feminist concerns in Southeastern archeology (e.g., Brown 1982; Eastman and Rodnin g 2001; Koeher 1997; Sullivan 2001; Sullivan and Rodning 2001; Thomas 2000; White 1999) and studies of culture contact and colonization (Deagan 2004; Loren 2005; McEwan 1991; Voss 2008 b ), but also resonates with the historical pr ocessual movement (e.g., Al t 2001; Alt and Pauketat 2007; Pauketat 2001a; 2001b; Rees 2001; Trouillot 1995). Such an alignment denaturalizes contemporary gender systems by giving gender a history and illuminating alternatives. The move towards gender production centers on diversit y and change, a social arena through which actors engage with society and history. Gender is rendered as a systematic

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174 institution governing the production of social subjectivities. Yet at the same time, gender is made into reality by people actively nego tiating divergent paradigms and ideologies. When histories ignore the particularities of history and silence gender diversity, academics participate in continuing colonization. These histories impose dominant culture's heterosexist ideology onto the Nati ve past. This is not a very different historical process than when Spaniards living in Mission San Luis found Apalachee families to be dysfunctional. Both place alien values at the center of analysis. On the other hand, when scholars self consciously en gage their work as a project of making and re making gender and are guided by Native co collaborators, archaeologists can write more powerful histories (de )centered on more rigorous accounts of social imagination. In reconstructing the memories of divers e pasts, queer and collaborative archaeologies illuminate alternative possibilities in the present. An Anthropology of Remembering James Deetz (1996) reminds us that archeologists have the unique oppor tunity to remember past lives. He argues that as archaeologists look at and hold Small Things Forgotten, they shed light onto the lives of marginalized (and forgotten) peoples. This thesis contributes to a body of literature denaturalizing systems of i ntersecting oppressions and testing human possibility by critically engaging the constraints archaeologists place upon the past (e.g., Conkey and Spector 1984; Leone 2005; Spector 1997). It also argues that archaeologists have not monopolized this role, t hat Native peoples have maintained memories of the ancestors often in far greater detail than

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175 archaeologists have imagined even though their insights are often ignored in the dominant culture. While queer, collaborative, and archaeological theory is centr al to this text's academic agenda, it only becomes meaningful as it is appropriated into the lives of people pushing to understand and (re)constitute themselves, their social environments, and their possibilities. In a collaborative queering historical pr ocess, remembering can be calibrated to inform an emancipatory praxis.

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Appendix A: Additional Notes for the Interpretation of the Moth Figure Sections Written by Lee Bloch, Hakope, Dr. Robert Pullen, and Dr. Pactrick M. McCaffrey Lee Bloch and Hakope on The Caterpillar to Bird Life Cycle and Ecological Interdependence Several members of Hakope's community independently told me that every symbol has at least four meanings. A rich symbol will likely have sixteen. They treat symbols like letters of an alphabet, combining, merging or separating (elements) to produce complex meanings and ideas According to their belief s some insects enter a third stage in their life cycle as birds. As briefly mentioned in chapter 2, insects and birds must exist in balance in order for human agriculture to be successful Caterpillars eat the plants, but transform into winged pollinators. Birds eat the caterpillars so that they don't eat too much of the plants, but if they eat too much there wont be enough insects to pollinate the fields, either. Hakope emphasized that birds and snakes belong to a semantic category in Muskogee language. In works of art, Serpents and Cats are often portrayed as one being with parts of both displayed At a later date, Hakope wrote: In a 1970 wedding between a traditional woman of the P anther Clan and a Christian man of the Bird clan, both their clan emblems were combined as ornamentation for the wedding accouterments. Napkins, dollies, wedding program and announcements featured the line drawing of a stylized panther with bird like claws instead of paws. The tail ended in a splayed fan of tail feathers. [Myself,] Pullen and others said this was once a common practice to denote a merged clan union (personal communication, August 10, 2011).

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177 Likewise, it is possible that some examples of the so called Birdman iconographic set represent conglomerates of birds and moths, although Hakope has not mentioned this. On the other hand, I am weary of conflating the Lake Jackson figure with the rest of the corpus. The Lake Jackson plate is the on ly one of the so called Birdmen set that faces to the right (Jones 1982) (the images printed here are actually of the plate's back side). Perhaps the plate symbolizes a ceremonial a dance in which dancers moved clockwise around the S quare G rounds (the o pposite direction of most ceremonial movement). At Green Corn and certain funereal practices, the line of dancers do indeed move in an opposite direction -clockwise. This is said to "close out," "isolate" or disempower the process or activity at hand ( D r. McCaffrey to ethnomusicologist Ryan Koons, provided courtesy of Hakope). H ere are a few more statements about cosmological and ecological matters concerning caterpillars, moths, and birds. Dr Pullen's Notes on Calling the Sun [Hakope] explained this at Soup Dance 1/15/10. He reminded us of the stone shaped like a dog bone with elongated wings (see Sun Circles and Human Hands pp. 85 86), which he sees as a stylized tobacco horn worm. It also traces the shape in the sky that the sun follows from solstice to solstice. The Shaman holds up a wood or stone shape that is a bit bigger than the palm of the hand and talks to the seed, insects, birds and the sun. Calling the sun back is the most important p art of the talk. The Shaman tells the sun that his pleasant journey is over and it is time to come back. If the sun has forgotten the way, the horn worm stone shows the sun the path back. The Shaman is dressed in a

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178 feather cape so could be seen as a bird man or perhaps as a moth man or perhaps both. A Poem by Dr. Pullen: Insect, Bird Cycle August 2009 8/2/09 Caterpillars eat plants and become Moths and butterflies some of whom become Birds who eat the caterpillars People spare some of the caterpillars so Moths and butterflies repay them by being soul carriers and Some become birds who eat the bugs and worms that eat the garden Star patterns appear on caterpillars On the wings of moths and butterflies And on the underneath of certain bird's wings No caterpillars in the sky? Moth and Butterfly circle The Great Bird

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179 Hakope on Insect/Bird Cycle Last year on the grounds, I reminded all present about another "loop" or "circle" of transformative life forces -AND, I hope Dr. Pullen will be able to match it up with phenomena he's uncovered and write us all his thoughts on the matter as I also hope tha t [an individual present] just might happen to remember some seemingly odd statements from her mother that would now make some sense to the "sun sickness" and gifted meat that wasn't taken properly. Anyway -following an INTENSE seed discussions you all heard: The Earth to Sky Pathway (or loop, circle) in synopsis... 1) Seeds are sorted, planted, sprout, begin their upward climb 2) caterpillars, horn worms, etcetra come forth with the munchies; also mice, voles, moles and other gnawers also c ome forth -plants are attacked from top and bottom. 3) after they get their fill (those who survive the birds, lizards and so forth) the flying things enshrine themselves in their cocoons (I forgot the [Creek] word for cocoon) but in circumlocution, the c ocoon is called cuk vholoce, cuko holoce {long "e"}, that is, a cloud house; shiney house etc. 4) moths, butterflies, dragonflies and all manner of flying things are soon seen all around. large fur bearers began garden onslaughts, too

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180 5) their season ends after a while and most disappear -HOWEVER, some flying things morph into hawks, owls, eagle, falcons who then began patrolling garden predators in thanks for the food they had in their earlier form; some of the gnawers morph into the various ethereals like certain large rats like creatures (see legend notes on ethereals for names and descriptions) who become protectors, guides, etc. they better they [would] feed, the more powerful their medicine for people is... 6) old ones say you c an't kill or pick off every bug in a garden, some have got to eat, too. bugs that move n to s, s to n, or w to e, may be picked off, killed or even eaten. Those that move east to west only are left alone -they are the ones who will eventually go through th e four stages and become certain birds etc that [return] to [earth] the things eating the gardens.... NOTE: most [birds] merely hatch from eggs in the next but wait -their are those special birds and this is their origin g olly, this is hard to put in [En glish] -do the best you can and those who remember the discussion -send me your take or explanations for the benefit of others. all this relates to the gender roles alluded to in Okvhvmpkv's notes.... mvto (the insects with the forked eye morph into bird s with the forked eye, etc,,,,spotted worms, caterpillars butterfly/moth wings become birds with similar markings.)

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181 Lee Bloch, Hakope, and Dr. Pullen on Gender in Ceremony In Hakope's community, women o ccupy a special role during Busks. They are under stood to be closer to creator and are referred to as co creators related to their capacity for childbirth. Likewise, menstruation is understood as a sacred act. Menstruating women, I am told, should not enter the ceremonial space (called the Square Grounds) because that amount of Power could be quite uncontrollable and dangerous. Some participants at the 2010 August Busk went so far as to assert tha t the ceremony was for the men, implying that the wome n did not need the special spiritual processes. However, I am told that this distinction is not about gender, even as it takes on gendered dynamics (Hakope, personal conversation, October 1, 2010). The difference, I believe, is gender performativity is c ast as a relationship to an ongoing Creation Ceremony isn't really about gender, but it does involve doing gender in a sense. Hakope suggests that this is easier to communicate in Muskogee. Other Muskogee communities do not always understand women to occupy such a powerful role. This was a common subject of discussion during the August Busk I attended since a few members had just recently returned from a trip to Oklahoma. It seemed to them that the Oklahoma Muskogees had adopted a patriarchal view in regards to the same ceremonial separation. Although women do not come onto the Square Grounds in Hakope's community because they are power laden (and they retain the right to enter the grounds or temporarily break the separation if they wish), Hapoke and Dr. Pullen suggested that Oklahoma women were unwelcome in and excluded from these

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182 spaces. They both attributed this to the legacy of colonialism, citing the writings of Benjamin Hawkings (Foster 2003:83 85) that suggest early Southeastern peoples lived in matriarchal societies. A few days later, Hapoke wrote an email explaining gender in Muskogee worldview further: but truthfully, in the old (ceremonial) language, the distinctions are of physicality and not gender. By physicality, I mean only the physi cal difference such as who has a vagina and who sports a penis -in some cases ( maybe more than the dominate culture) some folks had both or appeared to be physically one body type but with the sex organ of the other. Such individuals had a special place an d function if they wanted it. Dr. McCaffrey on Gender and Worldview I can understand anyone's confusion about gender in the context of the "Square Grounds" (one word or two? One seems more intuitive). My read is that the term connotes to me certain attributes relative to some parts or times of an individual's existence, but does not and need not define the entirety of th at individual's existence or life or role, on or off the Square ground. In my view of our view, we all seem to reach a place where gender is accepted more as a thing of the moment and of sexual import only in moments of intimacy. An important attribute of our view of gender is that it is not so fixed or exclusive as to trap people in anatomically prescribed or proscribed roles. That path leads to many evils that did not [exist] to Muskogee culture. Hakope on Space and Gender in Ce remonial Contexts

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183 Let me cite a couple of ceremonial actions that harkens back to the "old system" that may confuse some outsiders. When dances of extreme importance and/or power are brought forth...we bring dances forth -not pe rform them, because they are always there in the "some place"... the singer, that is, the one who controls the Sacred Breath thereof, will be isolated if he be physically male. That is, he draws or another person draws a circle around him on the Grounds. T his puts that individual in a separate space/place and assigns his Being to an opposite. This happens for the actual Berry (Empty Basket) Dance, the Harvest (Full Basket) and the Turtle (Re enacting Creation) Dance. All these dances deal with pure raw pow er in some way, the power of growth, the power of creating and so forth. Sometimes in the men's Feather Dance, leaders don women's Turtle Shell Shakers. During Ribbon Dance, women carry male associated blades. During that dance, the two singers are also i solated but their Beingness is assigned to an opposite because the dance is usually all female participation. Hakope on Sex/Gender Diversity and Ceremony Interestingly enough, a few years ago, we had a trans gendered individual who spent 50 years as a male but then went the "snip & tuck" routine. s/he danced Ribbon DAnce [sic] during the transition -no one thought anything odd about it except for a visiting Baptist friend -who immediately assigned us a ll to hell, BTW. Anyway, the two singers for this dance are seated in the West Arbor during their singing while all other men present stand.

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184 If its true the exception breaks the rule, here's one for you. Once (it was in my youth and I knew the person -a distant kin) a young woman failed to develop a menses cycle. By 19, she had been to every native doc and anglo expert available. She really did want children -never happened Yet, she never ever dance [sic] Ribbon Dance but always danced with the men. She hunted very expertly, too. Physically -she was quite womanly, take my word for that -as best a 16 year old judge. Ceremonially, she functioned as a male.

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Appendix B: An Al ternative Model of Gender and Authority in Lake Jackson The male perspective is taken to be representative of the culture, whereas the female view is typically portrayed as peripheral to the norm or somehow exceptional or idiosyn cratic. In the male centered view of culture, women are often described primarily in terms of their lack of male characteristics. They do not do certain things that men do or they do not hold certain beliefs or participate in certain social networks that m en do. Women in many ethnographies are described relative to men or primarily in terms of their relationships to men, for example, as sisters, wives, and mothers. (Conkey and Spector 1991:4) Heterarchy in the Mississippian Southe ast Just as archaeologists often assume that the so called Birdmen uniformly depict cisgendered men, dominant models of Mississippian societies over emphasize the centrality of males (Rodning and Sullivan 2001; Sullivan 2001) These models locate the center of hierarchical power structures in mound and plaza spaces and assume that these places were the exclusive domains of men. Both these assumptions reflect the prevalence of patriarchal and cisgender ideology in our own soci ety and do not adequately explain the complicated dynamics of the past. Lynne P. Sullivan argues that the Mississippian peoples of what is now eastern Tennessee were governed by a gendered heterarchical system (2001). Indeed, Hakope's community recognize s both a headman and a matriarch. Drawing analogies from historic era Muskogee and Cherokee societies, Sullivan argues that mound complexes only reflect one site for high prestige burials. Her model is analogous to similar s ystems recorded among historic era Cherokee. Mound based elites

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186 likely would have controlled intersocial contact, including trade as well as warfare. Looking at the archaeological record for the Toqua site (occupied from 1300 1600 AD), Sullivan found th at elder females buried in villages were more likely to be interned with associated artifacts. Making the assumption that status is reflected in the presence or absence of grave goods, she argues that this data reflects a matriarchal political structure t hat operated in conjunction with the mound warfare complex. In a later article that Sullivan published with Christopher B. Rodning, they expanded this argument to consider additional sites in the area (2001). The different kinds of graveyard spaces (vill age cemetery or mound) reflected the ways in which these political bodies inscribed the built landscape with gendered meaning. To understand the way that such systems were lived through and reproduced, it is important to understand how gender was manifest ed among different Mississippian peoples. The relationship between gender and sex category, I believe, is central to the misunderstanding how gender identities were disciplined and how gender ideology was regulated and lived among prehistoric peoples. In Lake Jackson as in other Mississippian centers, burial mounds are made up of predominantly male internments that belonged to chiefly and warrior classes (Scarry 1996 ). The specific genres of art accompanying mound burials such as ceremonial weapons and F alcon Hero iconography illustrates these individual's participation within a ritualized complex that played an important role in the development and maintenance of Mississippian social structure. However, archaeologists often assume that the female bodies that were buried in mounds do not reflect high status positions equivalent to the male interments, instead ascribing them the status of kin to important men (Sullivan 2001). In line with my reanalysis of the moth

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187 plate, I suspect that heterarchical polit ical structures were at least sometimes gender permeable. Lake Jackson was an independent polity that Mississippianized along its own historical trajectory, so Sullivan's model should not transpose neatly onto the data for Fort Walton (see Pauketat 2007). It should be understood on its own terms. Unfortunately, the acidic soil conditions of north Florida take its toll on bones, so many burials are difficult or impossible to sex or age (see Jones 1982; Shahramfar 2008). Historical records among the later Apalachee offer some insights. A re reading of the mission period historical record suggests that the Apalachee did practice ritualized gender complement ar ism: during the rituals preceding a ball game, the goalpost was raised though the cooperation of si x women and six male warriors (Paiva 1988[1676]). And while there are not historic analogies for women leaders among the Apalachee, this could be because the historical records come from the Spanish and reflect androcentric biases (see Silverblatt 1991). Another possibility is manifested in the archaeology of protohistorical Apalachee peoples. The Corbin Tucker cemetery (dated to the Velda and Mission phases ) included a female burial accompanied by a greenstone celt, a copper disk, and teeth (Shahramfa r 2008). The celt and disk may represent a duality, and the teeth (often a symbol for seeds, see chapter 2) may also reinforce that this symbolism was related to agriculture. The presence of non local materials (greenstone and copper), absence of weapon related artifacts, and the non mound location suggest that women were able to obtain status defined as outside of the warrior complex. Contrary to Sullivan's model, this female Fort Walton burial did have access to if not control over important non local trade networks

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188 Finally, it might be important that Fort Walton burial spaces do not seem to be sex segregated (see Figure 30) However, this method centered on sex category ascribes gender according to a narrow body typology and misrepresents the way gender is socially produced (see introduction): it is complicit with both the naturalization gender as a product of biology rather than a social production and the historical silencing of intersex and non cisgendered people (see also Geller 2005). Furth ermore, the sample size is too small and cove rs too broad a time span for sex ing method s to be truly illuminating, anyway. Although it seems that biological females were likely able to attain status, the methodology needs to be refined to reflect the ways in which gender is, in Judith Butler's (1999) words, a process of stylizing bodies into distinguished categories. Power and the Cosmic Landscape: Gendering Politics and the Supernatural Rather than c entering gender in binary sex categories, I propose to look for the institutionalization of womanhood as a social reality in Lake Jackson. Womanhood is here used in the sense of the embodiment of femininities as well as the production of feminized seman tics. Looking at renditions of femininity in Mississippian art, Larissa Thomas (2000) finds that women were important cosmological figures in their own right. She suggests that these objects, and by extension the ideologies they represent, were made with the active participation of women within ritual: clay figurines depicting females, for example, were probably produced by women as they materialized their own cultural imaginaries. Furthermore, the ritual use of these artifacts whether by men or

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189 women pr actitioners ideologically reinforced the importance of women to society. Fertility symbolism was a recurring theme in the artwork Thomas examined. For example, there is the Corn Mother, as she is called in so me myths: she was the mother o f all people; t he soil is her flesh, rocks are her bones, the wind is her breath, trees and grass her hair. A great goddess, Corn Mother personifies the earth's cycle of fertility (Townsend 2004: 30). Corn Mother both gives birth t o Morning Star and is his final resting place (Diaz Granados 2004) A ccording to Thomas (2000), SECC ideology systematically connected system femininity with human and agricultural fertility. This sketch is admittedly simplistic: consider, for example, that the historic era Apalachee e xercised various regulations on male female sexual acts during warfare and as well as fertility ritual (see chapter 3): fertility was not absolutely conflated with femininity but was far more socially and ideologically complex. However, Thomas's findings p rovide a good entry point. The Birger figurine (figure 28) found near Cahokia depicts a woman with a gourd vine growing up her back possibly Corn Mother hoeing the back of a giant snake (see Reilly 2004; Thomas 2000). This piece represents agricultural p roduction in the stylized language of SECC cosmology. It also has an analogy in the celt trade that developed during the Mississippian period. A celt is an archaeological term for an object that may function as either a hoe or an axe. Celts made of gr eenstone were produced and traded among Mississippian peoples as ritual hoes. Other materials were also used to produce similar ritual hoes. While most Mississippian era celts made from materials other than greenstone are hoes, they also could also have been used as weapons (Uzi Baram, personal communication, June 9 th 2010).

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190 In the Moundville area, celts are found only in cemeteries outside of mounds (Peebles 1971; Peebles and Kus 1977). In Spiro as well, celts signaled a political office distinct from Falcon Heroes (J. Brown 1971). James H. Howard (1968:76) links the celts of the SECC to the at ‡ ssa used in historical and contemporary Muskogee ceremonies. Howard describes these objects as war clubs that were painted greenish grey or dark green ( keep ing in mind that the war clubs held by the Birdmen may actually represent flowers, I am hesitant to rely on this term other than as a description of shape) Women carried the at ‡ ssa in the ceremonies that he witnessed. However, Howard was told that m en care for the at ‡ ssa among the Texas Alibamu and he cites ethnohistorical records to suggest that men once used at ‡ ssa in War Dances during Green Corn Busks. Given that skulls can represent corncobs, the relationships between war and fertility were prob ably very complex: even as a weapon these objects may have held feminized meaning even as they were used by men (much like in the feather dance in Hakope's community). Howard also does not distinguish between different colors of at ‡ ssa which may or may not be important.) When I discussed greenstone with Hakope, he asserted: in our community, greenstone and spatial stuff are associated with women's roles, large greenstone celt[s are] carried at [Berry] and Harvest Dance [it] has to do with planting. I n large ribbon dance, all women carried imitative blades sometimes greenstone, sometimes wooden. Green and grey green colors are very important in their associations with life, growth, stability and especially renewal (pers onal communication, September 21 2010). Perhaps greenstone celts were used in ritual performances that participated in the construction of gender and ideology They not only likely correspond to a gender performativity in ritual but may also correspond ed to a heterarchal political st ructure

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191 similar to those modeled by Sullivan (2001) and Sullivan and Rodning (2001) I expect that the mortuary landscapes where greenstone celt s are present were related to a symbolic practice that constituted a femininity concept and perhaps even a femi nine ritual political structure. C elts made from other materials may signify feminized ritual practices, but if these objects were axe celts they would signify ritual weapons associated with the mound warfare complex. The difference can only be conclusiv ely determined through microwear analysis (Baram, personal communication, June 9 th 2010). It is also very possible that some celts were used in both ways, playing off a symbolic dualism. A Spatial Analysis of Fort Walton Burial Goods Before continuing, it is important to note that I have simplified Thomas' arguments (let alone the complexities of the past) so that I am only looking for one kind of femininity in the archaeological record. While I belie ve that this femininity was privileged within a ritual institution, this approach silences diversity in femininities of the past, even within this single institution. I have also balanced my analysis of burial places with greenstone celts with cemeteries associated with weapon related artifacts. At a glance, this seems to reinforce an essentialized gender paradigm ( sensu Conkey and Spector 1984). However, this is not my intention. For one, as discussed in the second and fourth chapters, there were many warrior women in the Southeast. Many burials with weapon related artifacts could reflect feminine identities. Rather, my argument is about the spatial dynamics of ritual political institutions that were implicated in the production

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192 and organization of se x and gender as a performative political, ideological, and cosmological framework. I organized the data from Gabrielle Shahramfar's M.A. thesis (2008) by site according to celts and weapon related artifacts (see figure 30). In her thesis she organized s ite report data from fifteen Fort Walton sites and seven mixed Fort Walton/Pensacola sites. These are organized into burial mound and cemetery types. I did not include Lake Jackson in the table because the sheer number of artifacts excavated suggests that it belongs to a class in itself. However, b oth celts and ceremonial weapons were excavated from Mound 3. I do not distinguish between Fort Walton and mixed sites or between chronological periods in my analysis due to a lack of relevant data (that i s, sites with celts or weapons). Additionally, there is not a secure periodization for many of these sites. This makes it even harder to differentiate between Lake Jackson, Velda, and San Luis mortuary patterns. While the presence of European goods cle arly signifies a post contact occupation, it is impossible to tell whether these materials were collected via trade with the Spanish (signifying a San Luis period date) or from nearby native peoples during the Velda period occupation. A more secure chronology is needed to address shifts in gendered ideology and institutions over time. Obviously these are problems that further research should attempt to correct Greenstone celts were found in both cemetery and mou nd spaces. Likewise, weapon artifacts that would commemorate a warrior identity were also found in both types of burial grounds. This suggests that unlike in Tennessee, Fort Walton people did not divide graveyard construction types according to gendered political bodies or ritual

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193 ideology. Rather, both warfare and fertility symbolism is found in cemeteries and in mounds. However, none of these sites yielded both greenstone celts and weapon artifacts. Yet weapons almost always were found in the same gra veyards that yielded celts made from materials other than greenstone. It is unlikely that all of these celts were weapons. In Mississippian Tennessee, ritual and political careers were likely divided according to gendered trajectories. In Moundville and Spiro, celts and Falcon Heroes signified distinct political offices. The intracultural evidence from Fort Walton suggests some degree of physical segregation between gendered mortuary spaces. Fort Walton ceremonial centers can be divided into three type s: I: Lake Jackson; II: sites with greenstone celts; and III: sites with weapons and often, but not always, non greenstone celts. Judging by the unparalleled number of grave objects uncovered, Lake Jackson seems to have been the paramount ritual center fo r both warfare and fertility complexes. Elites in Type II sites seem to have been both interested in and capable of monopolizing long distance trade in greenstone celts. They did not, however, participate in warfare ritual (or at least bury their dead wit h weapon related goods ), likely forging a space within an exclusive political religious economy centered on a fertility complex Type III sites may have participated in fertility ceremonies, but were unable to or did not find it desirable to access the gr eenstone trade. Scarry (1996 ) argues that the presence of both celts and Falcon Hero iconography in Mound 3 may suggest the consolidation of the same political positions that remained distinct in other Mississippian centers. According to the stories told in Hakope's community, Lake Jackson was an important religious space that many different groups of

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194 people in the region visited sporadically That moth iconography was found with the skeleton of a biological female in a predo minantly male burial space suggests that gendering (individual bodies, politics, and cosmology) was a far more fluid process than archaeologists might assume. I have read the above data to suggest that Fort Walton society was divided into two political ritual structures. Burial grounds could h ave reinforced and naturalized gendered politics among Fort Walton peoples. This is not to say that these rituals did not involve complex symbolic play like those in Hakope's community. Unlike among other Mississ ippian peoples, however, spatial separation in Lake Jackson does not seem to have been absolute: some burial grounds seem to include individuals associated with both ritual structures. The ritual political division might have operated on a continuum and wa s implicated in the production of multiple genders. That said, I am left wondering why type II elites did not seem to perform masculine ideology. Why weren't they using weapons along with greenstone celts? To make an analogy to Hakope's community, biolo gical sex in the form of capacity to give birth may have played a larger role for men than for women. Indeed, those unable to give birth would not have access to privileged positions within a matrilineal kinship system, either. Interestingly, all but one of these spaces are clustered around the Apalachicola River, a little over fifty miles (perhaps a two days walk) from Lake Jackson.

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Appendix C: Living Artifacts in Big Cyprus and Cherokee Remembering the Seminole Cattlewoman The cattlewoman exhibit in the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum is an example of living heritage, which, in the context of the dominant culture, takes feminist overtones. According to the exhibit, cattle ranching was the major source of sustenance and wealth among the Seminole people's ancestors that continues to important to this day (although to a much less extent than before). Almost all of the images of ranchers displayed on the wall are of men, but a informational panel titled Seminole Cattlewomen informs us that women have always played a role. This role, I read further down, has been recorded for more than 80 years. The panel tells the names of several prominent women su ch as Arlene Johns, Ada Pierce, and Betty Mae Jumper. The panel continues: These women were seen as equals to men at a time when equality was not common throughout he rest of the country. The Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum frames cattle ranching both as an indus try and a tradition: The legacy of these early cattlewomen is still seen today. Today, more than half of the tribe's cattle owners are women. Their strength is shown through their determination to carry on the tradition of Seminole cattle ranching. Thi s industry/tradition has been maintained during times of hardship and has overcome serious obstacles: the museum gives the examples of English raids, the Seminole Wars, and the lone star tick epidemic. These narratives illustrate cattle ranching as a fram ework

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196 for representing cultural continuity. A movie plays nearby in which one woman articulates how proud she is to have learned these ways from her parents, how it has insured her personal independence, and her desires to some day teach her children. An other informational panel discusses how Seminole entrepreneurs are collaborating with other Native tribes and working towards producing a Native brand of beef. This seamlessly transforms the discussion of heritage and continuity into one of economic devel opment. As the viewer moves to the next exhibit, a final text panel thanks the living community of cattlewomen and men for maintaining the tradition of cattle ranching. The ranching objects on display (whether historical objects or recreations) perform a heritage that is very much alive, even as the artifacts themselves are removed from a context of use so that they may become objects of memory. I read this display an Indigenist feminist critique. As a tourist, I compared this exhibit to histories I hav e read articulating feminism through an ideology of progress. This exhibit illustrates that Seminole peoples have traditionally organized gender along more egalitarian lines than in the dominant culture. It also resists the misconception that traditional cultures are always patriarchal or that gender asymmetry is a human universal. This reading emphasizes the distance between Seminole and Western histories, reinforcing tribal autonomy from the dominant culture through the remembering of traditions. Performing Winged Beings in the Museum of the Cherokee Indian

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197 Living artifacts are also display case in the Museum of the Cherokee Indian. A male styled mannequin in the Mississippian era exhibit wears a cl oak made from feathers. This cloak was worn during the first production of Unto These Hills a play about Cherokee history in 1950. This outfit is an object used in a performance of cultural memory and identity that broadcast a reflexive and disciplined n arrative in part to a non Cherokee audience. To be sure, the context that such an object has changed dramatically. Its meaning within the museum comes both as an illustration a Mississippian era display as well as to commemorate the act of decolonizng me mory. It is likely that the ceremonial use of similar articles of clothing was implicated in an embodied performance of memory. The movements of rituals bring forth dances, recalling the stylized movements of ancestors that constitute the same dance. Of course, this is not to reduce the meaning of the dance to this single thing. Gwyneira Isaac (2009) argues that among the Zuni, reproductions of ceremonial art are not seen as inauthentic because they embody esoteric knowledge. In other words, object s, knowledge, and power were all sides of the same thing. Likewise, the cloak on display in the Museum of the Cherokee Indian was not simply a reproduction but a materialization of knowledge and a way of reproducing and distributing that knowledge. In th is sense, the Museum of the Cherokee Indian can be conflated with those of the Mississippian era as an expression of continuity.

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Appendix D: Hakope on the Apalachee and Apalachicola According to Hakope, the difference between Apalachee and Apalachicola translates roughly as this people here, on this side and those people, on the other side (personal communication, October 14, 2010). It's an edge, a boundary, a marker. The langu age is categorical, its not noun specific like English and it merely means something that you can identify where things are on this side or the other side. Like this side of a river, that side of a river; this side of a little hill, that side. La ter tha t day, Hakope suggested: Some of the tribal peoples were divided by the Anglos and conquerors when they really weren't separate peoples. For this reason, Hakope holds that the Apalachee and the Apalachicola have a shared heritage. If these were common names, this may imply the precontact existence of agreed upon borders between the Apalachee and Apalachicola (on the other hand, they could also feasibly represent a momentary description that was misunderstood, written down, and stabilized by the Spanish) However, Hakope does not believe that these names related to distinct ethnic identities in the precontact period. In the historic period, the Spanish refer to Apalachee Provenance. Unless there were significant misunderstandings on the part of the S panish, by this time the Apalachee and Apalachicola are clearly distinct ethnicities. Hakope states that the Spanish were at odds with the Apalachicola because they wouldn't Christianize.

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Appendix E: Post Conclusions and Re Thinking This Text Collaborative research is an ongoing process in ways that cannot be contained by a text (see Lassiter 2005). As Trouillot (1995) might argue, knowledge in production is always changing as we grapple with the interfacing duality o f historicity. When Hakope went over the final edits of this work with me, I often excused myself for poor word choice: Well yes, that's something I would have said a year ago (or even six months ago).' I find myself adjusting flawed interpretations, ad ding alternatives, incorporating new stories months after my baccalaureate exam. Seeing me struggle to make sense out of the always shifting terrain of assumptions (something that it seems to be an integral part of my experience doing collaborative resear ch ), Hakope has suggested that include a paper I recently presented at the Florida Anthropological Society annual meeting. The paper is titled On Collaborative Archaeology and the Decolonization of the Past: Re Imagining the Lake Jackson/Okeeheekpee Sit e and this post conclusion is meant to emphasize the processual nature of collaborative and decolonizing research. It is meant to illustrate that this text is not an ending point, a presentation of solidly known things, but rather an opening up of spac e for possibility, a destabilizing of dominating theories and practices. It is (to put a new spin on Haraway's [1991] terms) a reminder that the line between science fiction and social reality is an optical illusion; even if such illusions have a tendency to be somewhat inescapable in how they provide the very ground we can stand upon. But before letting you read my presentation, I'd first like to present a couple asides Hakope sent me today about my chapter on Lake Jackson. Although I have done the best I could to incorporate new ideas and issues into this text as they arise in the

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200 course of collaborative research, there is a time at which the text must be finished. That time, unfortunately, is before Uzi leaves this afternoon. "....of cloth wrapping around them, probably indicating that these artifacts were contained within medicine bundles (Gabrielle Vail, personal communication, January 2010 (This text:52). Wrapping do not indicate a Medicine Bundle necessarily but are suggestive of an isolation o f (assumed) power for the protection of others, specifically those not yet dead. This is still a common practice today among my community, Florida Seminoles ([see] Capron's Medicine Bundles of the Seminole [1953]) and the Oklahoma towns that maintain bundl es (Dr. Robert Pullen, Dr Patrick McCaffrey, personal communication, August Busk 2010). Dr. David Brose goes so far in his writing to suggest that genises of mounds may have been "to isolate or contain power" as quoted by Kopper (1986:132 135) in The Smith sonian Book of North American Indian: Before the coming of the Europeans. "....Native LGBT activists decided on two spirit as an appropriate term to refer to a wide range of indigenous roles and identities (This text:58) Many traditionally minded S. E communities regard humans as having two souls or at least one soul with two distinct parts. One of which is the warm or breath soul and the other is the deep embedded cool soul, one is associated with the Upper World in their three tiered cosmology while the other souls is related to the Other (they don't the connotations of Lower) World. Additionally, one soul is feminine and one is masculine,

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201 and, one is always dominant over the other except in certain ceremonial leadership where they are considered "bal anced." Which ever soul is seen by the community to be dominant informs the social gender of the individual. -------------------------------John R. Swanton, BAE 42nd Annual Report, Gov Printing Office, 1928; pp 178 188, specifically p 184. Elaborating on Square Ground ornamentation, he notes the elaborate, well proportioned fantastic drawing outlines of animals figures with human head -and human figures draw with animal heads or other parts. in a further back section on "misc beliefs" he note that mos t of the ethereals are spotted, striped, brindled, mottled etc but that most fly and are associated with the sky, especially night sky (hmmm -interesting. Also, note that all the writers acknowledge that after the move west there were no longer the great several mile long field of plantings, thus, there would not be a visible prominence of the insect world either and no longer a need for certain ceremony and dance now that the population was reduced to small family plots. Apply Swanton's observations to t he many "plates" and other icons and you can see what he was speaking about. A. E. Hitchcock (1909) noted much the same as he knew the Creeks in both the east and west. Washington Irving went to far as to describe the "ludicrous" drawing creeks made on t rees near the hunting and war camps. -just some idle thoughts). On Collaborative Archaeology and the Decolonziation of the Past: Re Imagining the Lake Jackson/Okeepeepkee Site

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202 Thank you for having me here. Today I' d like to talk about my work over the past year with a Creek community doing collaborative research. We focused on the Lake Jackson site, or, as they call it, Okeeheepkee. Luke Eric Lassiter (2005) models collaborative anthropology as a collective effo rt on the part of both academics and subjects. In archaeology, this creates a community dynamic with descendent groups. More than this, I understand collaboration as a collective effort between equal partners in knowledge sharing and knowledge buildi ng. Undercutting this presentation, although never addressed directly, is a question about the relationship between what Foucault (1994) calls subjected knowledges and social justice. Epistemologically, as it will illustrate, collaboration can bridge r esearchers across different positionalities or standpoints and illuminate realities that are often obscured by the workings of power. This Creek group has asked that I obscure certain community information. They are dedicated to education and collective reflection on their preserved heritage. They maintain a low community profile yet often work with individual scholars. I worked closely with an elder of a principal medicine family, Hakope as his ceremonial name is known. Hakope has spent much of his l ife consulting on Native American history, culture and language. He has been cited or consulted by such renowned scholars as George Lankford, Robert Hall, David Friedel, Linda Schele, Gloria Jahoda and Dorothy Downs. What follows, I hope, will i lluminate the potential of collaborative, decolonizing anthropology. I paraphrase dialogue in English throughout this presentation to give a sense of conversation, yet little is verbatim. The value of framing these ideas in

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203 Muskogee terms cannot be overst ated although I am just beginning to become acquainted with the language. H. Martin Wobst writes that if archaeologists want to learn about Indigenous pasts and extend their knowledge of human materiality beyond their own society, th ey need to anticipate Indigenous materialities that potentially are quite different from their own (2005:26). First, there was a problem to start with, specifically a problem about landscapes. There's a mound at this community's ceremonial center, called the Square Grounds. It's a large circular mound, roughly eight to fifteen feet in diameter. They call it the Bird Mound. The Square Grounds were visited twice. I never noticed the Bird Mound and must have stood right on top of it several times withou t knowing it! In fact, its existence was only learned of it incidentally. One day I asked Hakope about confusing radiocarbon dates from Mound 3 of Lake Jackson site (Jones 1982:20 21). One gave a pre mound occupation date of 1240 AD. A fire pit on th e mound cap dated to 1476 AD. Yet, two samples from the intermediate levels both yielded dates far earlier. A date of 944 AD came from floor 10, and another of 954 AD from floor 1. Well, Hakope told me, that's easy to explain. Our people often practice d secondary internment (see also Jones 1982) and still do. Or, he added, the mound builders might have re used wood from older structures. Wood supports take time and energy to make, he reminded me, and his community did the same thing years earlier when they had to move their Square Grounds. It helped them to maintain a feeling of continuity besides lightening the workload. And indeed, three of the radiocarbon dates from Mound 3 came from wood samples.

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204 You know, he said a moment later; our people will sometimes pick up whole mounds and move them. I chuckled to myself, imagining a community picking up a mound and carrying it off. The colossal reality of the task took a few minutes to sink in. With baskets? I asked. Of course, and that would explain the inversion of radiocarbon dates, Hakope told me. You should read about Bird Mounds on our website. Later, I did; it read: BIRD MOUND: This mound may be a physical presence at a Grounds or it may be a philosophical concept. As a conceptual feature it is never visible when present within the Square Ground boundaries. As the later at [this community's Square Grounds] the Bird Mound designation is usually in the NW corner of the ceremonial arena. Further down, I read that Bird Mounds migrate, that is, they are periodically moved to new locations. Bird Mounds could receive more attention in anthropological discourse, but because they are often transitory, if not invisible, their significance may be easily overlooked (for exceptions, see Howard 1968: 117; Howard and Lena 1990:138 141). The only material markings of the Mound would be a concentration of footprints, swept away minutes later. How does an archaeologist study landscapes that are part conceptual and part physical? How can archaeologists st udy that which is invisible? Let's leave that question open for now and approach the matter from a different direction. The landscape of Okeeheepkee (Lake Jackson) consists of seven physical mounds adjacent to the lake in the Tallahassee Hills. Six of t hese mounds were constructed in two parallel lines running east to west. The mounds were once divided by a stream, which has since been diverted. Below the mounds was a plaza, with village spaces to the north and south. The seventh mound is located some distance off to the

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205 north. Settlement patterns in the area include small farms, hamlets, single mounds, and multi mound centers. Most of what archaeologists know about Okeeheepkee comes from B. Calvin Jones' excavation of Mound 3 in the mid seventies (s ee Jones 1982; 1994). The mound yielded bushels of shell beads, celts, pipes, gorgets, and other prestigious goods. Many were manufactured from exotic materials such as copper and greenstone. Some of these notably the copper reppouss Ž plates depicting winged beings linked Lake Jackson to the artistic and ceremonial traditions of the larger Mississippian cultural era. Twenty five burials were also disinterred from 12 construction phases. Based on the distribution of artifacts, Jones believed he had foun d evidence of three status groups: chiefs, warriors, and a single individual he labeled a commoner. Truly, he and others believed, this must represent the center of an independent polity, just like Etowah, Spiro, and Moundville (e.g., Jones 1982; 1994; Sc arry 1996). Jones (1982) dated Mound 3's construction from 1240 1475 AD, which John F. Scarry (1996) later extrapolated to represent the complex chiefdom phase of the Lake Jackson period. Different community families have varying stories about the site bu t all agree it was mostly depopulation between 1500and 1525 due to the White String Sickness and weather. If you allow another quick diversion, Let me tell you how this project began. Last year, I gave a presentation about an ambiguous copper plate exc avated from Mound 3 (Bloch 2010). It critiqued the gender binary that had structured prior interpretations of the artifact as a Birdman or a Birdwoman (e.g., C. Brown 1982; J. Brown 2004, 2007a, 2007b; Jones 1982; A. King 2004; Koehler 1997; L. Thomas 2000; White 1999), calling this dominant ontology the heterosexual imaginary (borrowed from Ingraham

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206 1994) into question. Queer subjects (by today's standards) have been almost completely invisible in archaeological discourse (cf. Carocci 2009; Looper 2002; Schmidt 2002; Schmidt and Voss 2000). Perhaps the iconography, I believed, represented a third gender or two spirit identity. After the presentation, a copy of my paper made its way to Hakope's community via a community member who attended the con ference. A month later, I received an email from the headwoman. She believed I might benefit from a cultural experience with native peoples and invited me to attend an upcoming Busk. The email was quickly forwarded to my New College professor (who cele brated the opportunity) and began making plans. On a late afternoon in August, I set up my tent newly purchased from some few dozen meters away from the Square Grounds' edge. I was extremely nervous, but the few people present were friendly. Hakope would not arrive until the next day. When he did, he was busy. We didn't speak much right away. I helped with preparations and watched the dances until just before dinner. Then, Hakope called for a community discussion. He asked me to talk about my presentation, and listened respectfully as I did so. When I finished, he launched into a critique. His people, he told me, understood the copper plate not as a Falcon Hero, but as a genderless anthropomorphic moth. Moths, I was told, were very imp ortant to agriculture as pollinators. They also carry the souls of warriors women as well as men between worlds after death. Dr. Pullen a community member and a sociologist writing a book about Southeastern astronomy would later tell me that many constel lations in the night sky are insects in

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207 their cosmology. This moth in particular was a tobacco hornworm moth, an especially important insect that, as the name suggests, pollinates tobacco. Look at the proboscis, Hakope exclaimed, that curls into a spiral Look at the belt, and how it resembles the markings on the moth's abdomen. And that thing you call a mace? If you look at the plates from Etowah, it looks like a profile view of a tobacco flower and some are poplar leaves, yaupon berries and so forth. I wanted to know more about the figure's gender I didn't understand its apparent lack thereof but I was thrilled by the possibility. Well, Hakope said, in 1708, Thomas Nairne wrote about a bi lobed arrow that was placed in young boys' hair as a rite o f passage (Nairne and Moore 1988). We still do something like that, and the arrow represents a penis, among other things. Although, it has very different connotations than a penis usually does in the dominant culture today But the headdress, that's a c orncob. The curved symbol in the headdress, that represents a vagina; it represents where life comes through. Swanton suggests that the Ribbon Dance that's a women's dance was performed with scalps in ancient times (1928:609). This could be why the bein g is holding a decapitated head. Even so, it isn't gendered. I didn't understand: we just discussed its symbolism in gendered and sexed terms. In a later conversation about gender in Southeastern belief, Dr. Pullen asked: Are they male, are they female? Are they both, are they neither? Are they sometimes male, are they sometimes female? And the answer is all of the above; none of the above. I still didn't understand. I turned to the Haitian scholar Michel Rolph Trouillot and his idea of the unthink able (1995). The unthinkable is an event that cannot exist within an (dominant)

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208 ontological framework. For Trouillot, Europeans had found the Haitian Revolution unthinkable: dominant institutions were faced with explaining the impossibility of an uprisi ng on the part of property. Queer theorists such as Judith Butler (1999) theorize gender as a compulsory organization of social performances within a highly ridged and highly policed framework, a matter of ontology and power. So is it unreasonable that a s an archaeologist, I might have to grapple with something that I don't have the conceptual tools for? That I actually can't think it? Eventually, I would learn that with much time and effort, I could push past my own ontological limitations. Actually, it's not that different than grappling with advanced theory in a college class. A few months after the August Busk, I was reading Keith Basso's (1996) ethnography, Wisdom Sits in Places. I called Hakope, asking about the Muskogean name for Lake Jackson. Okeeheepkee, he said. It means descending or disappearing waters. The p' connotes conditional change and that the water will later return. True to the name, Lake Jackson drains periodically. What about stories, I asked? Are there stories about I p aused, embarrassed that I had already forgotten the name Lake Jackson? Oh yes, Hakope replied. Only a few people lived there permanently. Many different communities would come and stay for a short while. They might learn about medicines, or talk about philosophy and cosmology, or they might star watch: mounds are great places to star watch. Much like the medicine school gatherings we hold every few years. Not exactly like a complex chiefdom. It could be called a trade society. Cahokia, in fact, coul d have been called a trade city (see also Pauketat 2009). Sure, there were important and well respected individuals, and

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209 when they died we mourned and buried important things with them. We did the same for our late headwoman when she died. I'm not goi ng to tell you the whole story because it's long and honestly Hakope didn't tell me the whole thing, but the waters got up and walked around. This was followed by the White Sickness. Heavy rains fell for years on end, lasting from the beginning of spring to the first frost. The plaza remained, for the most part, underwater and it was exceedingly difficult to farm. In addition, new kinds of rats and mice appeared, different from those in older stories. People began to get sick and spat up whitish or cle ar phlegm (the word for the two is the same). When touched, infected peoples would bleed. They would die in fourteen days. No medicines could cure it, and relatives were forced to abandon their kin to avoid getting infected themselves. People began to abandon larger settlements near lakes. Hakope has checked this story with historical meteorologists and noted a small layer of alluvial deposits in the area's stratigraphy. Based on linguistic markers, Hakope believes this took place beginning around o r just after 1420 and ending between 1500 1520] AD. Their stories offer an explanation for shifts in Fort Walton settlement patterns, such as the move to smaller villages away from lakes that characterized the Velda phase. So to return to my earlier qu estion, how is it possible to do an archaeology of a conceptual landscape? In many cases perhaps the vast majority of cases this may be an impossible task. Too many histories oral and material have been destroyed in the wake of colonialism and imperialis m. In the most serious sense, these can never be recovered. There are, however, exceptions (e.g., Handsman and Richmond 1995).

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210 Actually, invisible worlds are extremely common. Most Christians can tell you that they stand on layers of rock surrounding a molten center of lava, and that beyond the sky lay other planets, other suns, other galaxies. Yet few will hesitate, if you ask them where heaven or hell is, to think about where to point. And in fact, archaeologists are perfectly comfortable imagining their own unseen realities. In this slide, you can see how ancient mounds have been reshaped and houses rebuilt alongside contemporary features such as parking lots, restrooms, and (imaginary) property borders. Although you may already know it, Mound 3 d oesn't physically exist anymore. It was destroyed in the 1970's when the landowner wanted to build a mechanic shop and when B. Calvin Jones conducted a salvage excavation of what remained. Well, that's not completely true: when Mr. Crowder built his shop the soil from Mound 3 was sold as fill. Hakope's community was able to obtain some for their Square Grounds whose lands were also owned by Mr. Crowder. From queer, feminist, and postcolonial studies, as well as in collaborative research, I have learned that the limits of imagination are often systematic. Each of the surprises I encountered in this research, each confrontation with the unthinkable, reflects an absence of Native voices from archaeological thought, if not a colonial disruption in historic ity. The question is not, how do archaeologists work with a conceptual landscape? but rather whose imaginations whose imaginaries do we include in reflecting upon these invisible realities? And with a whole new array of realities comes a whole new arra y of questions. Hakope tells me I have just scratched the surface and its a really deep itch!

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Images and Tables Figure 1: (Top) flag of the Apalachee Tribe (Wikipedia 2010a) Figure 2: (Bottom) the social reproduction of gender (Crawley et al 2008)

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212 Figure 3 : Chrono logy of Fort Walton (Scarry 1996 :195)

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213 Figure 4: (Left) reverse drawing of the so called "Dancing Birdman" plate excavated from Lake Jackson (Jones 1982:31) Figure 5: (Right) back of the so called Dancing Birdman plate (photo by author) Figure 5: Back of the so called Dancing Birdman plate (photo by author)

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214 Figure 6 : ( R ight) gender amb iguous repouss Ž copper plate from Etowah (King 2004:157) Figure 7 : ( Left ) gender ambiguous repouss Ž copper plate from Etowah, GA (King 2004:150)

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215 Figure 8 : (Top) seated male and female figures from Mound C in Etowah, G A (King 2004: 154) Figure 9: (Bottom left) anthropomorphic figure holding a moth or butterfly on shell gorget from Etowah, GA (Knight and Franke 2007:138) Figure 10 : (Bottom right) stylized moth or butterfly on Willoughby Disk from Moundville, AL (Knight and Franke 2007:137)

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216 Figure 11: (Top) sphinx moth (Wikipedia 2010b) Figure 1 2: (Bottom) t obacco flower (provided by Hakope)

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217 Figure 13: Mission San Luis (McEwan 1991:41)

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218 Figure 14 : (Top) reconstruction of a San Luis Spanish style dwelling (Friends of Mission San Luis 2008) Figure 15: (Bottom) reconstruction of church at San Luis (Friends of Mission San Luis 2008)

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219 Figure 16: (Top) reconstruction of the Council House at San Luis (Friends of San Luis 2008) Figure 17: (Bottom) De Espa – ol, y de India Produce Mestiso attributed to Juan Rodr ’ guez Ju ‡ rez (Loren 2005:307)

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220 Figure 18: (Top) display of human effigies in the NMAI (photo by author) Figure 19 : (Bottom) human effigies give way to a sun fashioned out of Indigenous objects in the NMAI (photo by author)

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221 Figure 20: (Top) drawing of a man firing an arrow behind an in context display of arrowheads Figure 21: (Bottom left) Mississippian Resting Warrior effigy from Spiro (Reilly 2004:132) Figure 22: (Bottom right) kneeling female effigy vessel from Arkansas (Diaz Granados 2004:138)

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222 Figure 23: (Top) Mississippian figurine from Illinois (Reilly 2004:133) Figure 24: (Bottom left) Mississippian figurine from Arkansas (Diaz Granados 1994:144) Figure 25: (Bottom right) Keller figurine from Illinois (Reilly 2004:133)

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223 Figure 26 : (Top) exhibiting gender in the Museum of the Cherokee Indian (photo by author) Figure 27 : (Bottom) gendered mannequins mime a dance at a Green Corn Ceremony (Ah Tah Thi Ki 2007)

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224 Figure 28 : (Top) the Birger figurine from the BBB Motor site near Collinsville, IL (Reilly 2004:134) Figure 29 : (Bottom) distribution of Fort Walton burial spaces Shahramfar 2008)

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225 Figure 30: Fort Walton Mortuary Patterns (data from Shahramfar 2008)

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226 Maps Figure 31: Map of Tallahassee (from Google Earth)

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227 Figure 32: Map of Lake Jackson Site (Jones 1982:24)

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2 28 Figure 33: From San Luis to today (from Google Earth)

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229 Figure 34: Map of Museums (from Google Earth)

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230 References: Ackley, Kristina 2009 Tsi niyukwaliho t the Oneida Nation Museum: Creating a Space for Haudenosaunee Kinship and Identity. In Contesting Knowledge, Museums and In digenous Perspectives. Susan Sleeper Smith, ed. Pp. 257 82. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press. Ah Tah Thi Ki 2007 Seminole Tribe of Florida Museum|Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum. Seminole Tribe of Florida. accessed September 30 th 2010. Alt, Susan M. 2001 Cahokian Change and the Authority of Tradition. In The Archaeology of Traditions: Agency and History Before and After Columbus. Timothy R. Pauketat, ed. Pp. 141 156. Gainesville, F L: University Press of Florida. Alt, Susan M., and Timothy R. Pauketat 2007 Sex and the Southern Cult. In Southeaster n Ceremonial Complex: Chronology, Content, Context. Adam King, ed. Pp. 232 250. Tuscaloosa, AL: The University of Alabama Press. Ardren, Traci 2008 Studies of Gender in the Prehispanic Americas. In Journal of Ar chaeological Research, 16: 1 35. Archuleta, Elizabeth 2008 Gym Shoes, Maps, and Passports, Oh My! Creating Community or Creating Chaos at the National Museum of the American Indian? In The Nati onal Museum of the American Indian: Critical Conversations. Amy Lonetree and Amanda J. Cobb, eds. Pp. 181 207. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press. Ardren, Traci 2009 Studies of Gender in the Prehispanic Americas. In Journal of Archaeological Researc h, 16: 1 35. Basso, Keith H. 1996 Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language Among the Western Apache. Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press. Bense, A. Judith, Principal Investigator 1991 Phase 2 and 3 Archaeological Assessment of the Tree Removal Area; Port of Panama City. Contract with the Port of Panama City. Blackwood, Evlyn

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