Coll Thrush
NATIVE SEATTLE was always about place: the power that places hold over our lives, the traditions within which our cultures interact with places, and the ways that we dwell concretely and often conflictedly with each other in those places. It was also always about stories: stories that were almost lost, others that have dominated popular historical memory, and the larger narrative of the interactions between the two. “Place-story” was a term I used to try and capture the conjunction between sites of history and the accounts we make of them, whether we are Native or newcomer. These stories necessarily braid together, they interact, and they entangle and inform each other in ways that are often difficult to make sense of.
Place-stories, meanwhile, are inherently plural. The subtitle of this book, Histories from the Crossing-Over Place, was intentional: there are multiple histories at play here. The first is the experience of the Duwamish, in whose territory the city sprang up. Accounts of local women and men living within the increasingly tight fabric of the city’s urbanizing landscape in the early twentieth century, for example, provide a link between ancient Duwamish presence on the land and their ongoing efforts for federal recognition, as well as kinship connections to other tribes in the region. Second, there is the history of Native migrations to the city: Makah encampments adjacent to what would become known as Pioneer Square at the turn of the twentieth century, Haida people living in Interbay in the 1930s, or the diverse occupiers of Fort Lawton in 1970. These other Indian histories in Seattle speak not just to the ways in which Native people and peoples made use of the city and its regional networks, but limn the very reaches of those networks to illustrate Seattle’s growing influence on the Northwest Coast. And lastly, there are the histories of the uses of Indian imagery in Seattle. These place-stories invariably use the Native to make sense of the urban. Pioneer daughters lamenting urban growth by using the Whulshootseed language, the imposition of north coast-style totem poles as civic icons, and of course the various non-Native deployments of the Chief Seattle Speech all speak to the ways in which, rather than being mutually exclusive, urban and Native histories in Seattle are in fact mutually constitutive. They have been created in conversation each other. They are the same place-story.
It is also a story that is ongoing. In the ten years since Native Seattle was first published, many of the themes and trends that I tried to bring together in the book have continued and in some cases deepened. That is to say, while the book ended with the sesquicentennial of the city’s founding, Seattle’s Native history has not come to an end. This new preface is an attempt to bring the story up to the present by first focusing on some of what has happened in Native Seattle since the beginning of the twenty-first century and then setting Seattle’s history in the context of the stories of other cities. An increasingly visible Native community in Seattle and a growing literature on Indian histories in urban places illustrate how the city’s place-stories continue to be told and to tell themselves in the inescapable histories of this city and others.
First, though, a comment on terminology. In Native Seattle, I deliberately oscillated between “Native,” “Indian,” and specific tribal designations to illustrate the fact that no single term holds unchallenged hegemony over discourse about the history of colonialism in what became the city. Upon moving to British Columbia in 2005, I encountered another set of terms: Aboriginal, First Nations, and others, specific to the history and nature of colonialism in that country. In the years since, consensus has begun to grow around another term: Indigenous (sometimes capitalized, sometimes not). Scholars, especially those who themselves identify as Indigenous, have in many cases settled on this word, and it has become the identifying term for major organizations in the field such as the Native American and Indigenous Studies Association. Meanwhile, on-the-ground activists have increasingly begun to use the word. For example, as I write this in the fall of 2016, land and water defenders from many tribes and nations are involved in a standoff against an oil pipeline at the Standing Rock reservation in North Dakota, and in the very active social media landscape attendant to the action, #IndigenousRising is one of the many hashtags. The language also appears in the United Nations Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, enacted in 2007 after decades of global activism and organizing.1
Today, I use Indigenous, signifying both the direction of the field and my own commitments to supporting the broader Indigenous rights movement. This is at odds with how the term appears in the original text of Native Seattle: there, it appears uncapitalized and refers only to traditional ways of living on the land in and around the city. Capital-I Indigenous, meanwhile, is a far more capacious term, one that speaks not only to traditional practices but to the ongoing presence and cultural and political vitality of Native communities in Seattle and across the world. It does not imply, as my earlier use of “indigenous” might be understood, that such things came to an end. Instead, “Indigenous” reflects the energy of a new turn in academic research and writing, and mirrors the rise of the modern global Indigenous rights movement. If I were to write Native Seattle again, it would be my term of choice, as it would demand not only an Indigenous past for the city, but also an active present and open future.
IT WOULD BE TEMPTING with Seattle’s Indigenous history to focus only on Duwamish place-stories like those that are featured in its atlas. Sites such as Rids the Cold, Herring’s House, and Tucked Away Inside speak to the ecological and other intimacies of life in Duwamish territory, while names like Greenish-Yellow Spine, Serviceberry, and Place of Waterfalls are virtual photographs of that territory. (For another mapping project that incorporates many of these places into a handy foldout map of the city’s Duwamish landscapes and environmental history, see the Burke Museum’s Waterlines Project at www.burkemuseum.org/static/waterlines.) Certainly, these are in many ways the most compelling place-stories in the city, having emerged out of thousands of years of inhabitance. However, there are additional maps we might create, relating to other Indigenous place-stories. Following a single Indigenous man’s life through the city, for example, emplaces another geography on the city. His name was John.
John T. Williams was a Ditidaht man from the west coast of Vancouver Island. As such, his story reflects the long history of non-Duwamish Indigenous presence in the city: Ditidaht people and their relatives, the Nuu-chah-nulth and Makah, have been coming to Seattle since the late nineteenth century. Indeed, Williams’s family had been in Seattle since the very beginning of the twentieth century, when his grandfather Samuel Williams carved for Ye Olde Curiosity Shop on the waterfront. John Williams was an eighth-generation carver, meaning that his profession’s genealogy ran at least as deep in time as the whole history of Seattle. He was a well known fixture of Victor Steinbrueck Park at the Pike Place Market, where he, his brother, and other Indigenous artists worked and interacted with tourists and locals. The Pike Place Market, then, holds a place-story of Indigenous migration, of the continuation of Ditidaht artistic traditions and the enfoldment of those traditions into an urban sense of place.
There is another place associated with Williams, however: the corner of Boren and Howell, just uphill from downtown, near I-5. It was there, on August 30, 2010, that Williams was killed by a Seattle police officer named Ian Birk. From his squad car, Birk had noticed Williams walking with a piece of carving cedar and his unopened working knife, the tool of his trade. Quickly exiting his vehicle, Birk shouted at the half-deaf Williams, and within seconds let loose a volley of bullets that hit the carver in the back and side. Williams died soon after.
Williams’s killing—or, as many described it, murder—shocked Seattle’s liberal sensibilities and galvanized the Indigenous community, who linked his death to much longer histories of violence and dispossession, as well as to the issue of police brutality against Indigenous people, people of color, and the poor more broadly. Hundreds of Indigenous Seattleites and their allies marched through the city in protest against the killing, calling for criminal charges against Burk and a review of the use of lethal force by Seattle police. A civil lawsuit, meanwhile, was brought by Williams’s family. Williams’s life and death also inspired new creative works both in and far beyond Seattle: Choctaw-Alutiiq artist Storme Webber performed poetry devoted to Williams at the Seattle Arts Festival while holding a talking stick crafted by John’s brother Rick, and the Canadian First Nations hip–hop group A Tribe Called Red released the song “Woodcarver” on their eponymous 2012 album. As for Ian Birk, a Seattle Police Department firearms review board ruled the shooting unjustified and a federal investigation drew attention to systemic problems in the police force. In the end, the Williams family received a large settlement from the city, and Birk resigned from the force without facing any charges.
But the story did not end there, and there is a third Seattle location associated with Williams’s life. In 2011, Williams’s brother Rick and other artists set to carving a memorial pole for the lost member of their family and community. The pole, featuring ravens and eagles and other important representations of genealogy and connections to traditional territories, was carried through the city and erected at Seattle Center near the iconic Space Needle. The pole, Alutiiq scholar Thomas Michael Swenson argues, “recuperates Seattle as an indigenous space that recognizes Williams’s social value as a member of the city’s community.”2 Pike Place Market, Boren and Howell, the Seattle Center: John T. Williams’s life marks a Ditidaht transect across the urban landscape, constellating place-stories of grief, anger, injustice, and healing.
The events surrounding John T. Williams’s death and memorial came at a time when Indigenous people and issues in Seattle achieved levels of public prominence and attention higher than at any point since the early 1970s. Local federally recognized tribes like the Muckleshoot and Suquamish continued to assert their treaty rights over fisheries and other elements of the urban environment, strengthening the government-to-government relationships that had developed in the decades since the Boldt Decision. The Suquamish, whose reservation is located across Puget Sound but whose members include some Duwamish descendants, also reclaimed part of their material heritage from the city. In 2013, they brought home cultural belongings from Old Man House, the location of Seeathl’s grave, which had languished at the Burke Museum since they were excavated some six decades earlier. As the objects’ human protectors carried them across the Sound on a Washington State ferry, a large pod of orcas circled the ship, which the Suquamish understood as a blessing. Meanwhile, local tribes have welcomed participants in the annual Canoe Journey, in which many tribes and First Nations, from up and down the Northwest Coast, visit the shores of Seattle as part of their weeks-long mobile celebrations throughout the region.
Beyond the federally recognized tribes, Seattle’s urban Indigenous community has also become increasingly visible in the decade since Native Seattle was first published. Performers like Red Eagle Soaring, a dance and theatre ensemble made up of Indigenous youth of many backgrounds, took stages across the city. Artists such as Seminole-Choctaw filmmaker Tracy Rector, whose “You Are On Indigenous Land” photography installation, made up of intimate portraits of members of her community taken by her and her colleagues, received praise from the local press. And in 2015, Blackfeet legal advocate and jurist Debora Juarez successfully campaigned for the city council, representing the city’s northernmost district. A far cry from the place of Indigenous people in the city’s consciousness in earlier eras—symbols of a vanishing race or threats to urban order—Indigenous women and men have become important players in the city’s cultural and political landscape.
Indigenous institutions are also on the rise. Daybreak Star cultural center, located in Discovery Park and founded by the activists who took over Fort Lawton in 1970, remains a crucial resource for many people in Seattle’s Indigenous community, including hosting the annual Seafair Days powwow. At the University of Washington, meanwhile, wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ (Intellectual House) opened in 2015, after years of organizing by activists both within and outside the UW community. It serves as a center for Indigenous concerns on campus and is already a much-sought-after venue for academic and other events. But wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ’s place-story goes deeper than that. According to Tseshaht Nuu-chah-nulth professor Charlotte Coté, “when you walk into Intellectual House, you really do feel the spirits of their ancestors. This is not just a building.” Designed by Cherokee-Choctaw architect Johnpaul Jones in a style reminiscent of the longhouses that once graced the nearby Duwamish community of Little Canoe Channel, wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ was described by organizing committee member Denny Hurtado of the Skokomish Tribe as “a home where we can share our culture with the non-natives, and build bridges amongst us.”3 And down at the Pike Place Market, Nooksack artist and entrepreneur Louie Gong has opened the famed market’s first Indigenous-owned business, Eighth Generation. Together, all of these new additions to Seattle’s Indigenous landscape speak to the ongoing work of the city’s Indigenous community to be seen, to create, and to flourish.
Seattle’s Indian-inflected self-image has also continued to grow and change. In 2008, for example, the city unveiled a new trail circling Lake Union that was named after Cheshiahud, the Duwamish man who had once lived on the lake’s shoreline. Nearby, at the Museum of History and Industry’s new location, the 1950s diorama of the Denny Party no longer serves as the starting point of the city’s history; instead, a gallery curated under the guidance of local tribal members reminds visitors that they, as was Denny, are on Indigenous land. In 2014, meanwhile, the city council ruled unanimously to rename Columbus Day as Indigenous Peoples Day, making Seattle one of the first cities to reorient itself in relation to a long-honored and much-excoriated commemoration of colonialism’s ultimate bête noir. That same year, the Seattle Seahawks won the Super Bowl, and even that victory was framed in part through Indigenous imagery: the Burke Museum displayed a Kwakwaka’wakw eagle transformation mask thought to the be the inspiration for the football team’s logo, while during the team’s victory parade, running back Marshawn Lynch received a drum from Lummi tribal member John Scott. Lynch’s beating of the drum received worldwide attention and once again highlighted Indigenous presence in the city. Finally, in the years to come, the city’s much-debated redevelopment of the waterfront will feature the work of Puyallup artist Qwalsius (Shaun Peterson), whose Coast Salish–style works will push back against the North Coast imagery so associated with Seattle’s public image.
In the midst of all this, with the deepest place-story of all, the Duwamish remain. Despite being denied federal recognition yet again in 2015—a decision the Department of the Interior described as “final”—the tribe’s members continue to fight for legal and cultural recognition. In the wake of the 2015 ruling, more than fifty Duwamish people and allies protested at the West Seattle home of Interior Secretary Sally Jewell, and in one newspaper account of the decision, tribal chairwoman Cecile Hansen stated firmly, “we’re not invisible.”4 This is true. As they had during the 2001 sesquicentennial of the Denny Party’s landing at Alki Beach, the Duwamish continue to make their presence known in very public ways while attending to their own cultural revival. Former tribal council member James Rasmussen, for example, is one of the leaders of the Duwamish Cleanup Coalition, whose goal is to continue the work of remediating the Superfund site that is Seattle’s only river, while the tribe’s dance group T’ilibshudub (Dancing Feet) often performs around the city and elsewhere. Most notably, the Duwamish opened their long-planned longhouse and cultural center in 2009, just across West Marginal Way from the site of their ancient town of Crying Face. The tribe has also been involved in documenting its own history, perhaps most importantly through the work of University of Victoria graduate student and Duwamish descendant Julia Allain who collected stories of many of the tribe’s leading families.5 These activities and others show that federal recognition, as a colonial legal framework, does not necessarily determine Indigeneity: as Indigenous people around the world have asserted, they can exist regardless of someone else’s rules.
None of the events described above have happened without significant Indigenous activism, as has been always been the case throughout Seattle’s history, in which Native people have had to struggle to claim a place in the city and to combat the stereotypical images of the doomed, vanished Indian. In doing, so, they have exhibited what Ojibwe journalist and scholar Gerald Vizenor has called “survivance.” Survivance, a neologism that connotes both survival and resistance, speaks to something beyond simple persistence:
Theories of survivance are elusive, obscure, and imprecise by definition … but survivance is invariably true in native practice and company. The nature of survivance is unmistakable in native stories … and is clearly visible in narrative resistance and personal attributes, such as the native humanistic tease, vital irony, spirit, cast of mind, and moral courage.
The character of survivance creates a sense of native presence over absence, nihility, and victimry. Survivance is a continuation of stories, not a mere reaction … survivance is greater than the right of a survivable name.6
Nothing captures this notion of survivance more than the 2015 protests against oil giant Shell, whose enormous drilling rig was anchored for a time in Elliott Bay. Hundreds of “kayaktivists” took to the water to speak out against drilling and block aquatic access to the rig, but this was more than the usual Seattle environmentalist action. There, among the brightly colored plastic watercraft, were tribal canoes, leading the charge in defense of the earth. Such is survivance; such is the truth that Seattle’s Indigenous history is far from over.
EVERY AMERICAN CITY was built on Indian land, but few advertise it like Seattle.” With that opening line, I wanted to point out something quite unique about the city: it is the largest urban center in the United States that sells itself using Indigenous imagery. Certainly, other places in the region—Spokane, Tacoma, Yakima—carry Native monikers, but it is Seattle that most fully embraces Indigenous history and imagery as central to its self-fashioning. Certainly, Seattle contrasts with other West Coast cities such as Portland, where Indian imagery is rarely used and is overshadowed by the ghosts of Lewis and Clark and the Oregon Trail, or San Francisco or Los Angeles, with their mythology of the Spanish colonial past.
Then I moved to Vancouver, a city that, even more than Seattle, has created an Indigenized identity for itself. Vancouver sits on the traditional and ancestral territories of three First Nations: the Musqueam, the Squamish, and the Tsleil-Waututh. More than just traditional and ancestral, though, these lands are also unceded: Indigenous title has never been extinguished by law. Instead, the land was simply taken via settler force of will. This is a key difference from Seattle, where the Treaty of Point Elliott is the law of the land and undergirds government-to-government relations between the city and the federally recognized tribes. At the same time, local First Nations in Vancouver have been able to wrest a significant amount of recognition from the city: at the 2010 Olympics, all three—plus a fourth First Nation, the Lil’wat—welcomed the world to Vancouver at the opening ceremonies as official hosts to the games. And in 2014, the city council officially acknowledged the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tseil-Waututh nations and the fact of the city’s presence on unceded land.
There are many similarities between Seattle’s Indigenous history and that of Vancouver, however. The dispossession of Indigenous land in British Columbia’s largest city often runs parallel to that of the American Northwest’s primary metropolis. For example, during the same decade that the Lake Washington Ship Canal was finished, lowering the lake and destroying the Black River where many Duwamish people lived, Vancouver city leaders “liquidated” the Kitsilano Indian Reserve adjacent to downtown (and five blocks from where I live). And popular imagery of Native peoples—in particular North Coast–style totem poles, which once again overshadow the artistic traditions of local Coast Salish peoples, and the inukshuk, a cairn-like stone figure appropriated from Inuit culture—has often threatened to overshadow the lived experience of Indigenous people in the city. For example, in the years running up to the Olympics, dozens of women, most of them Indigenous, disappeared from the Downtown Eastside, and were eventually discovered to have been murdered at a farm in the suburbs. It is this tension, between Indigenized urban self-images and the real experiences of Indigenous people, that often energizes Indigenous activism such as the Idle No More movement that sprung up across Canada in 2012. As in Seattle, urban and Indigenous histories, whether in the United States or in Canada, are intimately intertwined, and separating the two is an act of willful narrative violence.7
Beyond the shores of the Salish Sea, other urban Indigenous histories are beginning to emerge as scholars, both Indigenous and settler, go into the archives and engage oral tradition armed with new questions about the relationship between cities and Indigenous peoples. In Los Angeles, for example, researchers including Seneca Indigenous studies scholar Mishuana Goeman have been developing an interactive map of Indigenous LA, drawing both on the extensive records of the Spanish missions and the oral testimony of Tongva and other local peoples. This mapping parallels—and outdoes—the atlas to Native Seattle.8 In Chicago, meanwhile, historians John Low, Rosalyn LaPier, and David Beck have been reclaiming a particularly rich history of Indigenous activism going back more than a century. For example, Potawatomi chief Simon Pokagon famously critiqued the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, demanding that his people be allowed to represent themselves at the fair. Coming less than a decade after the Chief Seattle Speech, Pokagon’s statement is not so much elegy as it is activism, and later decades of organizing by the city’s multiethnic Indigenous community would build upon the work of Pokagon and others.9 Others have made comparisons between far-flung settler cities. For instance, Penelope Edmonds’s work on Victoria, British Columbia, and Melbourne, Australia, outlines methods of dispossession that would be familiar to anyone who knows Seattle’s history. In both cases, whether in the territory of the Songhees First Nation or that of the Kulin Alliance, racist discourses of civilization and savagery, stories about Indigenous threats to hygiene and morality, and even the material consequences of urban forms such as the street grid dramatically shaped both Victoria and Melbourne and look very similar to what happened in Seattle.10 Meanwhile, Maori researcher Melissa Matutina Williams’s work on migrants to Auckland in New Zealand/Aotearoa resonates closely with stories of Indigenous people who settled in Seattle, from similar governmental policies of relocation to the work of keeping traditional culture alive in an urban setting far from home.11 Back in the United States, Ho-Chunk scholar Renya Ramirez has collected stories in the Bay Area to describe the “hubs” created by a diverse Indigenous population that includes both descendants of local tribes as well as immigrants from Latin America.12 Other researchers have pushed urban Indigenous studies even further, taking it to the centers of empire: Nancy Van Deusen’s work on Indigenous legal activism in sixteenth-century Spain or my own recent work on Indigenous travelers to London prove that urban Indigenous history can be found even in the most unlikely of places.13
Other projects are scheduled to appear in the years to come: at least two studies of Detroit, one focused on the fur trade era and another on twentieth-century intersections of Indigenous and Black history; a history of Indigenous presence in the suburbs of Minneapolis and St. Paul; an in-depth and wide-ranging account of urban relocation across the country; and an Indigenous-centered history of Washington, DC, a city that played a central role in diplomacy between Indigenous nations and the government of the United States. Taken together, these studies, like the ones that have come before them, challenge the notion that Indigenous peoples represent the past and cities represent the future, and never the twain shall meet. Instead, they show how the urban influenced the Indigenous and vice versa. Like Native Seattle, they attempt to undo one of the most powerful storylines in world history.
SINCE PUBLISHING Native Seattle, I have often been asked about my position on the Chief Seattle Speech. Was it truly a powerful statement made by an Indigenous leader in response to settler incursion on Duwamish territories? Or was it primarily a fiction created by a Seattle doctor, which trafficked in the mythology of the vanishing Indian? My position, as was also stated in the original edition, is that it is somewhere in between. There is no question that Seeathl was a powerful orator, and other speeches he gave around the time of the 1855 treaties that have come down through oral tradition attest to this. I have no doubt that he said something that resonated long past his death in 1866. At the same time, the speech as written by Henry A. Smith in 1884, does indeed sound much like other Victorian accounts of a dying race that was doomed to haunt white society. In this sense, I think it is a situation of both-and rather than either-or. Like Seattle’s urban and Indigenous histories more generally, Duwamish oration and American fiction are deeply imbricated with each other in this almost singular text of Indigenous-settler relations.
At the end of many versions of the Speech, Seeathl is described as saying, “There is no death, only a change of worlds.” Whether he actually said those words or not, they are particularly apt for thinking about urban Indigenous histories in Seattle and beyond. While places like Seattle have been the site of enormous Indigenous suffering, they are also places of Indigenous survivance, of a vibrant community that continues to claim its place within the city’s political and cultural landscapes. In a broad sense, there is no death here. Meanwhile, sometime in the years immediately after the publication of Native Seattle, the world officially became urban: the majority of the Earth’s population now resides in cities. Indigenous people across the world are part of this story; in the United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand, for example, the majority of Indigenous people in each country now live in urban areas. Indigenous migration patterns around the world confirm this, whether in Latin America or northern Europe or Africa. In that sense, then, there has been a “change of worlds.” But despite powerfully influential ideas that Indigeneity cannot withstand urban modernity, that change has not erased Indigenous people from local places or global spaces. Whether in the form of traditional sites that continue to inform Indigenous identities, the movement of Indigenous people to (and from) urban places, or the uses of Indigenous imagery, urban Indigenous history across the planet, as in Seattle, continues apace. My hope is that, over the past ten years, Native Seattle has contributed to that continuation, and in doing so, has helped provide a context for urban Indigenous futures.
1. For some of the foremost thinkers and writers in the field, see Critical Indigenous Studies: Engagements in First World Locations, ed. Aileen Moreton-Robinson (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2016). For a history of the global Indigenous rights movement, see Sheryl Lightfoot, Global Indigenous Politics: A Subtle Revolution (London: Routledge, 2016).
2. Thomas Michael Swensen, “Forever Crossing Over: At the Intersection of John T. Williams’s Life and Memorial,” American Indian Culture and Research Journal 39:4 (2015), 1-18.
3. “Faculty Friday: Charlotte Coté,” www.washington.edu/wholeu/2016/07/22/faculty-friday-charlotte-cote/ [accessed 10/5/2016].
4. Paige Cornwell, “Duwamish Denied Federal Recognition but Vow to ‘Fight On,’” Seattle Times, 8 July 2015.
5. Julia Allain, “Duwamish History in Duwamish Voices: Weaving Our Family Stories Since Colonization,” Ph.D. dissertation, University of Victoria, 2014.
6. Gerald Vizenor, “Aesthetics of Survivance: Literary Theory and Practice,” Survivance: Narratives of Native Presence, ed. Gerald Vizenor (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2008), 1.
7. For accounts of Indigenous history and urban dispossession in Vancouver, see Jordan Stanger-Ross, “Municipal Colonialism: City Planning and the Conflict over Indian Reserves, 1928-1950,” Canadian Historical Review 89:4 (December 2008), 541-580; Jean Barman, “Erasing Indigenous Indigeneity in Vancouver,” BC Studies 155 (Autumn 2007), 3-30. For the Musqueam Nation’s perspectives on Vancouver, see The City before the City (www.thecitybeforethecity.com) and the Nation’s website (www.musqueam.bc.ca).
8. Mapping Indigenous LA website, mila.ss.ucla.edu [accessed 10/18/2016].
9. For two accounts of Indigenous history in Chicago, see John M. Low, Imprints: The Pokagon Band of Potawatomi Indians and the City of Chicago (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2016); Rosalyn R. LaPier and David R. M. Beck, City Indian: Native American Activism in Chicago, 1893-1940 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2015).
10. Penelope Edmonds, Urbanizing Frontiers: Indigenous Peoples and Settlers in 19th-Century Pacific Rim Cities (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2010).
11. Melissa Matutina Williams, Panguru and the City: Kainga Tahi, Kainga Rua: An Urban Migration History (Wellington: Bridget Williams Books, 2015).
12. Renya Ramirez, Native Hubs: Culture, Community, and Belonging in the Bay Area and Beyond (Durham: Duke University Press, 2007).
13. Nancy E. Van Deusen, Global Indios: The Indigenous Struggle for Justice in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Durham: Duke University Press, 2015); Coll Thrush, Indigenous London: Native Travelers at the Heart of Empire (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2016).