Tag Archives: decolonizing

Decolonizing family history: essential, or missing the point?

A few months ago I took “Co-Resolve”, a Deep Democracy course with Aftab Erfan. As a part of that course we explored a decision-making process that involves pulling on two poles of a question, and building empathy and understanding for each of those two poles.

I decided to try this in writing with the question I’ve been avoiding the past few months. Enjoy!

Top reasons NOT to continue my ‘decolonizing family history’ project

  1. What is ‘decolonizing’ anyway? Just another way for the dominant voice/academics to re-write the colonial narrative…
  2. We live in a colonial state on stolen land: we need to unpack power dynamics and policies that go much deeper than any one family history
  3. Writing that tells the stories of early settlers only helps to build empathy for the colonizers
  4. Inevitably, deep elements of the sources and framing of this kind of narrative will only reinforce colonial/white supremacist ways of thinking.
  5. We don’t need more settlers writing about indigeneity: what the world needs is strong Indigenous voices telling the story of this work

Top reasons TO continue my ‘decolonizing family history’ project

  1. In the wake of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, it’s time for all Canadians to begin to really grapple with the implications of what we now know in our personal lives: this story is one way of doing so
  2. Telling stories of where I come from both in terms of ancestry and place is one way to reconnect with lineage and with land; making those re-connections is a key part of accepting relationality, responsibility.
  3. Finding ways to make colonization personal is one of the key ways for settlers to come to an awakened understanding of the colonization process: if I can share my process, I can inspire others to also make this history and story personal.
  4. I made a commitment, as part of my masters’ degree, to complete the family history research I had begun, and to share that in some way with my family. Finishing this project is a way of honouring that commitment.
  5. This work of connecting personally to place and to history is inspired in many ways by Elizabeth Henry’s thesis: continuing to write honours her memory.

The next step of the process of deep democracy is to identify the ‘arrows that hit home’ – the insights that come from delving deep in this way. I think for me what hits home is this realization that the project is in so many ways a very personally meaningfully endeavour: perhaps rather than focusing on the ‘objective’ or abstract rationale or need for this work, I can just name that truth.

Mali

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Writing about Not Writing

For the past many months I have ben unable to write about colonization, family history: I’ve been paralyzed.

This spring I took a writing course with an inspiring, thoughtful group of participants. I re-wrote, revised, updated the cobbled-together pieces of writing I’ve been letting percolate for years. The piece of writing I’ve been working on continued to develop and be shaped: until one piece hit home, in a very personal way. What I interpreted from the feedback was that the piece I’ve written is still colonial, still caught up in the paradigms I’m trying to erase.

One of my favourite quotes around the challenges of this thing we call ‘decolonizing’ is from Marie Battiste. She says that as settlers, as residents of Canada, we are ‘marinated in colonization’: we are so deeply embedded in the ways of thinking and doing that are a part of colonization that it is woven into the deepest elements of the way we see the world. I am one of the pieces of tofu sitting in that marinade, wanting to write about the colonization that pervades my ways of seeing the world. And once in a while, just when I think I’m on a path to freeing myself from the patterns and ways of thinking – I realise just how far I have to go.

My great-grandfather Will Bain was ‘given’ land by the government in Ranfurly, Alberta. In exporing my family history, I learned a bit more about that land: treaty 5 territory – and wrote this:

The ‘Indian’ signatories to this treaty signed, for the most part, with an ‘x’. Signed what – if they can’t read a statement that are they signing? Curious to understand more, I found a copy of Treaty 5, replete with long finely penned lines of English legalese:

Inherent in what I wrote the assumption that those who signed with an ‘x’ were illiterate and unable to read the treaty. Once named, the layers of assumption became obvious: not all First Nations at the time were illiterate; those who were unable to read may have had the treaty read and/or interpreted. I also don’t know the meaning of signing with an ‘X’: perhaps rather than being a sign that the person wasn’t able to write, an ‘X’ is symbolic or even a sign of protest. And the critique is broader: in my summary I hadn’t included or even referenced any of the oral traditions that document the treaty from a perspective other than that of the government of Canada.

Exploring colonization with the intention of ‘decolonizing’ seems almost like an impossibility: if I’m using the English language, the tools of analysis and comparison I’ve learned in my colonial upbringing, to what extent am I truly ‘decolonizing’? The names I use, assumptions I make, the ways I name the land I’m on, the sources I rely on for the ‘history’ I share: these all are a part of the colonial mindset.

And on a personal level, the realization that my process was in fact re-colonizing has been deeply ‘unsettling’. I have experienced emotions of shame, guilt, frustration. I have been deeply frustrated at myself for not knowing better. After all the ‘unlearning’ I’ve been doing, it’s hard to see myself caught in repeating the very miconceptions I’m trying to point out.

And this I think is a large part of the journey of being ‘unsettled’. It is unsettling, emotional, fraught with unexpected turns. I’m tracking down the narratives of colonialism in my & my family’s lives: and just when I’ve tracked a few more steps I look back and see traces of my own steps beside those.

So I’ll stop for now, pause and take stock of who I am and where I’m going. I have questions yet to answers, stories yet to share: and those will come soon enough.

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A first step: Bain family history, 1800-1940

After weeks of holiday time and considerable procrastination, I’ve finally had the opportunity to follow a few more of the many rabbit-holes of research available through ancestry.com. I’ve written those down, mixed in some of my thinking / process around colonization, and come up with a ‘something’.

This first piece is a start of what I see as a larger project – a project that races back the many roots of my ancestry, not just through the patrilineal line that gave me the name ‘Bain’ – but through the many branches that lead back through my great-grandmothers to others before me.

This is a very new and fresh first-draft, and open to editing. If you happen to stumble across this page and have some interest, please do send your frank feedback and comments!

Family History – 1800 – 1940 Bains – First draft

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A British Settler

Harry Foote: A British Settler

He arrived on the dock with a single bag, leather clasp closed carefully. A cold wind blew raindrops onto his face and soaked the corners of his hair. Piled high in burlap-covered stacks was the precious cargo – a cast-iron stove, two stacks of wood, roofing tin. Mary had the box with his lunch, two slabs of bread and ham, an apple from the pantry polished and clean. Today was the big day, the journey day.

In the next year he planned to build a house, a home, a place to call his own, on a small island off the coast of BC. It had been one of his first purchases, a whim of a moment – arriving fresh from the prairies, crisp black top hat on head and cash in hand. Mr. Stubbins, an early contact, said “It’s practically free – a chance to really start fresh”. Small enough to walk across, large enough to feel like home. A few conversations later, Harry made the buy – 3 islands ‘up the coast’, with the promise of fresh soil, untilled land with a gentle rise and resident goats. Mary called it his pipe dream – an irrational purchase at a time when the children needed clothes for school and Cecil’s shoes barely fit anymore. But time passes, and things change – just over 15 years after purchase, it was time to finally build.

Harry Foote wasn’t the only BC resident to build a house in rural BC at the time. British Columbia – the ultimate Western paradise for those who chose, those who qualified, those escaping elsewhere. Up the coast in Sointula, a small group of Finnish coal miners had purchased land and set up a utopian commune. Further up the coast, the colony of Cape Scott, with a school house and dance hall. By comparison, Harry’s dream was small and rather private – just a small island, just a single home, a mere day’s journey up the coast.

Yet here’s the question: who was he to stand on the dock as if he owned it, board a ship for another peoples’ land? What gave this man the privilege to go from place to place with ease? By what right did he own land and build homes on the territory of others? After thousands of years of Indigenous care for this land, the story was disrupted by a young man with a utopian dream, a man who in his own way was settling his imagined frontier.

Who was he? An early settler with a funny name. Who was he? Yet another white settler in early BC. It’s British Columbia, a British settler colony, and this British man was my great-great grandfather. His act of settlement started my family’s story – and that is the story I’m beginning to tell.

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