LEARNING THROUGH THE LANGUAGE:

A CRITICAL AUTOETHNOGRAPHY OF A NON-NATIVE AMONG TWO INDIGENOUS

LANGUAGE COMMUNITIES

by

Kristine M. Sudbeck

A DISSERTATION

Presented to the Faculty of

The Graduate College at the University of Nebraska

In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the

Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

Major: Educational Studies (Teaching, Curriculum and Learning)

Under the Supervision of Professor Elaine Chan

Lincoln, Nebraska

May 2016
 ProQuest Number: 10104384

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 LEARNING THROUGH THE LANGUAGE:

A CRITICAL AUTOETHNOGRAPHY OF A NON-NATIVE AMONG TWO INDIGENOUS

LANGUAGE COMMUNITIES

Kristine M. Sudbeck, Ph.D.

University of Nebraska, 2016

Advisor: Elaine Chan

This dissertation features a personal narrative of a Non-Native researcher learning two

Indigenous languages, Ho-Chunk and Omaha, in northeast Nebraska. Presented in the three

publishable pieces format, the first manuscript features an argument for expanding Critical

Language and Race Theory (LangCrit) to encompass the unique circumstances that have

contributed to the current context of Indigenous languages. After problematizing the three

reified concepts of race, language and identity, the author argues that three key factors

differentiate the experiences of Indigenous language communities: colonization, dual-

citizenship status, and the perception of (dis)appearing languages. The second manuscript

focused on the complexities of the research process. Provided the historical trends of

dehumanizing research in Native American communities, the researcher illustrates the efforts

she took to address the complexities of interactions that underlie research between Non-Native

and Native communities. Drawing on the five tenants of Critical Indigenous Research

Methodologies (Brayboy, Gough, Leonard, Roehl & Solyom, 2012), she discussed her experience

with the research process as it revolved around three key themes: ongoing negotiations, getting

it wrong, and adapting the research process. Within this work, the author attempts to provide a

transparent lens into the research process by naming the privileges she has within this context

and working towards transcending this power. The final manuscript featured in this dissertation

was a critical autoethnography of the author’s own experience as a Non-Native researcher

learning two Indigenous languages. Using LangCrit (Crump, 2014) as the theoretical lens, the

author explored the complex intersections of her visible and audible identities in the context of
colonization. Together, this dissertation yields social and educational implications. First,

schools, teachers, and teacher education programs should consider language as a way to develop

culturally sustaining pedagogical methods, particularly for those serving Indigenous youth.

Second, by reframing our understanding of individuals’ unique idiolects (rather than bounded

languages), we may be more likely to recognize, and appreciate, the translanguaging practices

that occur within the classroom, the home, and the community. This paradigmatic shift has the

potential to move beyond the terminal narrative of Indigenous language death and affirms the

linguistic survivance occurring within Indigenous language communities.

 iii

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Acknowledgements ...............................................................................................vii
INTRODUCTION ..................................................................................................... 1
Language Policy Defined .................................................................................................................. 2
Historical Linguicism ....................................................................................................................... 3
The Expedient Tolerance Era ...................................................................................................... 4
The Restrictive-Repressive Era ................................................................................................... 5
The Null-Tolerant Era .................................................................................................................. 9
Are We Entering The Promotion Era?...................................................................................... 10
Safety Zone Theory ......................................................................................................................... 13
Context............................................................................................................................................. 18
Rationale for Dissertation Format.................................................................................................26
References ...................................................................................................................................... 30
MANUSCRIPT # 1.................................................................................................. 35
Critical Language and Race Theory (LangCrit): Problematizing the Case of Indigenous languages
Critical Race Theory in Education ................................................................................................ 38
(1) The centrality and intersectionality of race and racism: .................................................39
(2) The challenge to dominant ideology: ................................................................................ 40
(3) The commitment to social justice:....................................................................................... 41
(4) The centrality of experiential knowledge: ......................................................................... 41
(5) The utilization of interdisciplinary approaches: ...............................................................42
Critical Language and Race Theory (LangCrit) ............................................................................44
The Reification of Socially Constructed Concepts ........................................................................46
Race .............................................................................................................................................46
Language..................................................................................................................................... 51
Identity ........................................................................................................................................ 54
Transforming LangCrit: The Role of Decolonization ................................................................... 57
Colonization ................................................................................................................................ 57
Dual-Citizenship ......................................................................................................................... 59
(Dis)appearing Languages........................................................................................................ 61
Conclusion .......................................................................................................................................62
References .........................................................................................................................................64
MANUSCRIPT # 2 ................................................................................................ 68
 iv

Towards Decolonizing the Research Process:

One Non-Native’s Experience
Locating the Researcher’s Subjectivity ..........................................................................................70
Critical Self- Reflexivity within Context ........................................................................................ 72
Proposed Plan ............................................................................................................................. 79
The Research Process ..................................................................................................................... 81
Ongoing Negotiations ................................................................................................................ 81
Getting It Wrong ....................................................................................................................... 84
Adapting the Process ................................................................................................................. 88
Seeking Transformation in the Research Process ........................................................................92
Relationality ...............................................................................................................................92
Responsibility..............................................................................................................................94
Respect.........................................................................................................................................96
Reciprocity ..................................................................................................................................96
Accountability ............................................................................................................................. 97
Conclusion ...................................................................................................................................... 98
References ..................................................................................................................................... 101
MANUSCRIPT # 3 ............................................................................................... 106
Learning through the Language:
A Critical Autoethnography of a Non-Native among Two Indigenous Language Communities
Theoretical Framework ................................................................................................................ 109
Methodological Approach ............................................................................................................ 110
Context ....................................................................................................................................... 113
My Language Learner Identity .................................................................................................... 114
My Visible Identity ....................................................................................................................115
My Audible Identity.................................................................................................................. 122
Conclusion: My Tapestry of Identities ........................................................................................ 130
References ..................................................................................................................................... 134
CONCLUSION ..................................................................................................... 137
Educational and Social Significance ............................................................................................ 140
Colonization .............................................................................................................................. 141
Dual-Citizenship Status ........................................................................................................... 143
(Dis)appearing Languages...................................................................................................... 145
 v

Moving Forward: My Role in Linguistic Survivance ............................................................... 147

References ..................................................................................................................................... 149
APPENDICES .......................................................................................................151
APPENDIX A................................................................................................................................. 152
Permission from Omaha Tribal Council
APPENDIX B................................................................................................................................. 153
Permission from Tribal IRB and Winnebago Tribal Council
APPENDIX C................................................................................................................................. 154
Nį Xete haruce ra/ Crossing the Mississippi
APPENDIX D ................................................................................................................................ 155
Omaha Pronunciation Guide
APPENDIX E................................................................................................................................. 156
Hoca\k Wowagax Ra/The Ho-Chunk Alphabet
APPENDIX F ................................................................................................................................. 157
A note to those about to dissertate
 vi

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 1- Safety Zone Theory ............................................................................................................. 14

Figure 2- The Siouan Language Family ........................................................................................... 20
Figure 3- The Five Forced Removals of the Winnebago Tribe of Nebraska ...................................22
Figure 4- Map of Nebraska Indian Reservations and Service Areas ...............................................24
Figure 5- An Intellectual Genealogy of Critical Race Theory ..........................................................43
Figure 6- The Siouan Language Family ............................................................................................ 73
Figure 7- Map of Nebraska Indian Reservations and Service Areas ............................................... 74
Figure 8- Introduction in Omaha ..................................................................................................... 117
Figure 9- Reflection on Standing Out ............................................................................................. 118
Figure 10- Handwritten Tavern Recipe from My Mother.............................................................. 123
Figure 11- Verb Conjugations Template in Spanish and Ho-Chunk ............................................. 125
Figure 12- Omaha Pronunciation of ‘bth’........................................................................................ 126
 vii

DEDICATION

To Wagigųs Hara, Wagonze Wiwita inthinge,

and the Ho-Chunk and Omaha language communities

I will forever remain your student.

 viii

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The first note of thanks goes to the Omaha and Ho-Chunk language communities. Your hard
work and dedication to language survivance should be honored, commended, and supported.

In addition, I am grateful for the overwhelming and ongoing support from my advisor, Dr.
Elaine Chan, and the rest of my doctoral committee: Dr. Edmund (Ted) Hamann, Dr. Theresa
Catalano, Dr. Wayne Babchuk, and Dr. John Raible. Your guidance throughout this process,
accompanied with constructive feedback, has contributed to shaping me into the scholar-activist
I continue striving to become. You have been an unimaginable source of support. In addition, I
also owe a debt of gratitude and thanksgiving to other faculty and professional mentors: Dr.
Alison Crump, Dr. Mary Hermes, Nancy Engen-Wedin, Dr. Beth Lewis, Dr. Jenelle Reeves, Dr.
Loukia Sarroub, Dr. Guy Trainin, Dr. Jim Walters, Dr. Susan Wunder, Dr. Lauren Gatti, Dra.
Marie Trayer, Dr. Karla Jensen, Dr. Zahava Doering, Dr. Kathy Ernst, Sra. Becky Buckmiller,
Mrs. JoAnne Hamilton, Sra. Ismene Jaén, José Alemán, Annie Rojas Rodriguez and Dra.
Esmeralda Sánchez Duarte. I am also thankful to have a great group of fellow graduate students
that have challenged and encouraged me along this journey: Dr. Jessica Sierk, Dr. Jennifer
Stacy, Andrea Flanagan Borquez, Tricia Gray, Jia Lu, Emily Suh, Dr. Carolina Bustamante, Rita
Hermann, Jill Fox, Bonodji Nako, Kristine Earth, Karen Tyndall, Brenda Hunter Murphy, Amy
LaPointe, Michele Blackbird, Edna Stoeklen, Drew Johnson, Ana Margarita Rivero Arias, Dwi
Riyanti, Jeff Espinelli, Abe Flanagin, Sarah McBrien, Jeff Beavers, Jenna Cushing-Leubner,
Melissa Engman, Kathryn Stemper, and Gaya Jayaraman. I also wish to thank those
administrative duties help streamline the process of my graduate studies: Jess Hustad, Andrea
Quimby, Shari Daehling, and Kathy Hellwegge.

I am honored to be a recipient of the Warren F. and Edith R. Day Dissertation Travel Award,
and am grateful for this financial support from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln’s Office of
Graduate Studies. Throughout my doctoral program, I had the opportunity to present at
conferences and am thankful for the financial support I received to do so from the College of
Education and Human Sciences, the Department of Teaching, Learning and Teacher Education,
and the Center for Great Plains for which I was named a Graduate Student Fellow. Through
these conference travel experiences, I have been able to network (and in some cases,
collaborate) with like-minded colleagues from the American Educational Research Association
(AERA)’s Division G and CESJ special interest group, Critical Race Studies in Education
Association (CRSEA), Invisible College, National Association for Multicultural Education
(NAME) and the Multidisciplinary Approaches in Language Policy and Planning Conference.
These critical conversations have informed my own research and practice.

My parents, Robert (Bob) and Karla Sudbeck, have been a constant source of love, support, and
inspiration to me. I am who I am largely because of them. Thank you for believing in me, and
encouraging me to do nothing but my best. I wish there were words sufficient enough to express
my gratitude to all my immediate and extended family members who have put up with my
absence or presence with laptop and books in tow, even on holidays. Heartfelt appreciation goes
to my siblings, Monte and Jen, my sister-in-law Cassie, my niece Lexi, and three nephews
Easton, Porter, and Cooper. You give me the sustenance to keep going. My Great Aunt Agnes (or
 ix

as I learned in the Omaha language, my adoptive grandmother) continues to inspire me. For
that, I am forever grateful. In addition, my partner has kept me sane. Thank you Josh for loving
me unconditionally, even at times when I may not seem so deserving. You have been a most
patient listener and cheerleader, coaching me towards the dissertation finish line. Further, I
want to thank everyone who walked beside me, carrying me through various parts of this
journey when I felt like another step might not be possible: my friends- old and new, Renee and
Keith along with the rest of the river family, Marilyn and the bowling league ladies, and even my
dog Rudy.

Finally, to those in the Ho-Chunk and Omaha language communities who continue to teach me,
especially my primary language instructors—Phyllis Armendariz and Alice Saunsoci inthinge. I
wish to honor the work you have already done in revitalizing these languages and am forever
grateful for this humbling experience.
 1

INTRODUCTION

“I wasn’t allowed to talk my native tongue or practice my native ways. Numerous times I
put on this big ol’ white […] cone that said on there… ‘dunce’. I didn’t know what it meant. I
didn’t know English. They put it on me, made me wear it all over. Kids would laugh at me.
(Pause). They took me away from all of that and punished me for talking in what was my
first language. I didn’t know any other language. So whenever I would talk, it came out…
Cree would come out. Whenever I would talk, I would get hit. (Pause- shedding tears). I got
hit so much that…. I lost my tongue. I lost my native tongue.”

This interview excerpt, taken from the documentary Our Spirits Don’t Speak English, features

the story of Andrew Windy Boy, a Chippewa Cree who attended two boarding schools during his

childhood in the mid 1960s to early 1970s (Heape & Richie, 2008). Andrew Windy Boy’s

experience is just one example of the historical linguicism and linguistic genocide that occurred

for many Native Americans in the United States. As Lomawaima and McCarty (2006) argue,

“[w]e cannot understand the present divorced from the past” (p. 10). Some of these traumatic

experiences from the past are still lived today, and can be illuminated through the lived

experiences of language policy.

In this introductory manuscript, I will first define language planning and policy and

more specifically educational language policy. Then, let us navigate through the different waves

of policy that have impacted Indigenous languages at the macro-level. These fluctuations of

Indigenous language policies can be more fully understood through the lens of Safety Zone

Theory (Lomawaima & McCarty, 2006; McCarty, 2013a). The anguish experienced by Andrew

Windy Boy in the excerpt above has also been endured by other Indigenous communities, but in

unique ways dependent on their own sociopolitical histories. Therefore, the specific

sociopolitical context of the Ho-Chunk and Omaha language communities will be explained.

Following this, I will provide a rationale for my dissertation format, which is different than the
 2

conventional model. Finally, a road map will be provided for the three publishable pieces

featured in this dissertation.

Language Policy Defined

Drawing on the contributions of several scholars (Cooper, 1989; Haugen, 1959; 1965;

Johnson, 2013; McCarty, 2011; Tollefson, 1991), I have reconceptualized language planning and

policy (LPP) to consist of “the complex sociocultural processes which influence the function, use,

structure, and/or acquisition of language varieties” (Sudbeck, 2015, p. 76). There are three core

LPP activities (i.e., status planning, corpus planning, and acquisition planning) that occur

through a variety of means (e.g., top-down and bottom-up, overt and covert, explicit and

implicit, as well as de jure and de facto). Here, policies are conceptualized as a verb, which

involves the agency of multiple actors at multiple levels through the processes of creation,

interpretation, appropriation, and instantiation.

Educational language policy, in particular, consists of the official and unofficial policies

that are created across multiple layers and institutional constructs (Johnson, 2013). These

official and unofficial policies may be practiced in formal classroom and school settings (e.g.

medium of instruction or subject) as well as informal venues. As Johnson (2013) notes, these

educational language policies are then “interpreted, appropriated, and instantiated in

potentially creative and unpredictable ways that rely on the implementational and ideological

spaces unique to that classroom, school, and community” (p. 54). These have the potential to

impact language use and the formation of students’ language ideologies.

Historically, educational language policies have been utilized in order to eradicate,

subjugate, and marginalize Indigenous languages (as well as other minoritized languages).

Therefore, they have become “instruments of power that influence access to educational and

economic resources” (Johnson, 2013, p. 54). More recently, educational language policies have
 3

also been used to develop, maintain, and promote Indigenous languages. That is, educational

LPP can be used as a mechanism for dominant groups to establish and maintain a hegemonic

language hierarchy, or as a tool for individuals/groups to use their agency to resist such

hegemonic structures. As McCarty (2013a) notes, “[e]ducation represents the most extensive- if

contested- public domain for contemporary Native American language use” (p. 28). Together,

the past and present educational language policies also contribute to shaping the future for

generations to come.

Historical Linguicism

To better understand Native American language planning and policy (LPP) necessitates

one to first, and foremost, recognize the unique legal and political status of Indigenous peoples i

in what is now considered the United States (McCarty, 2013a). At the core of the Native

American identity, from a legal-political perspective, is the principle of tribal sovereignty: the

“right of a people to self-government, self-determination, and self-education”, including the

right to linguistic and cultural expression abiding by local languages and customs (Lomawaima

& McCarty, 2006, p. 10). Similar to the sovereignty of U.S. states and the federal government,

“tribal sovereignty is not absolute” (McCarty, 2013a, p. 2). That is to say, “competing

jurisdictions, local histories, circumscribed land bases, and overlapping citizenships” co-exist

with one another and in turn constrain the exercise of sovereignty that each recognized tribe has

(Wilkins & Lomawaima, 2001, p. 5). It has been argued that this relationship is unlike that of

any other U.S. ethnolinguistic group (Lomawaima, 2003).

In what is now considered the United States, there are 4.5 million people who identify as

having American Indian and Alaska Native ancestry and 1,118,00 who identify as having Native

Hawaiian lineage, who together constitute 1.5% of the total population (DeVoe, Darling-

Churchill & Snyder, 2008; Romero-Little, 2010). Linguists estimate that of the estimated 750
 4

languages prior to European contact, only 169 distinct languages indigenous to the U.S. are still

spoken, each with varying degrees of vitality (McCarty, 2013b; McCarty & Zepeda, 2014;

Romero-Little, 2010; Siebens & Julian, 2011). This dramatic language shift has left every

remaining language characterized as endangered, with 90% spoken by only the parent

generation or older (Krauss, 1998). The number of speakers of these 169 distinct languages

numbers less than half a million, and the size of Indigenous language users is “dwarfed by the

60 million people speaking a different non-English language and the 227 million people who

speak English only” (Siebens & Julian, 2011, p.1). Provided this harsh reality, it is vital to

investigate the historical trends and shifts in LPP as it pertains to Native American language

communities. These shifts in Indigenous LPP can be categorized as (1) the expedient tolerance

era, (2) the restrictive-repressive era, (3) the null-tolerant era, and (4) the possibility of a

promotion era.

The Expedient Tolerance Era

Prior to European invasion, the North American continent regarded multilingualism as

both common and necessary. It was used as a mechanism for trade and intertribal

communication among Indigenous peoples, as well as a tool for the diffusion of Christianity and

European ideals (McCarty, 2013a).ii While Native American languages flourished, several

colonial languages were introduced and thrived as well (e.g. Spanish, French, English, Dutch,

German, and Russian).iii Due to this multilingual landscape and the need for communication

across language varieties, regional lingua francas were widely used both among Native

American peoples and between them and settlers (Silverstein, 1996 as cited in McCarty, 2013a).

Print literacy then became a colonizing tool of conquest. One of the earliest examples of

this comes from the ruling principle of the Spanish Catholic Church, which Spicer (1962) asserts

was the “obligation to civilize” (p. 281 as cited in McCarty, 2013a, p. 49). The “indoctrination of

children” was a large component in the missionaries’ efforts, through teaching reading, writing
 5

and arithmetic in Spanish; however, Indigenous languages were also considered an essential

element for Spaniards. Significance was placed on missionaries’ ability to acquire Native

American languages, particularly among Jesuit missionaries (McCarty, 2013a). Utilizing

Indigenous languages as media of instruction and creating writing systems for Native American

languages to translate religious texts became common practice, which was continued by the

English and French Jesuits in regions inhabited by Algonquian-speaking communities.iv The

language policies from initial invasion to the early 1800s, therefore, can be characterized as

those of expedient tolerance (Kloss, 1998; Wiley, 2013), a weaker version of promotion laws that

are designed to meet the needs of the government (not the needs of the minoritized language

speakers) and include short-term allocations that do not actively promote the maintenance

and/or development of the minoritized language.

It would be a distortion of lived experience to not consider the complexities of the larger

colonizing agenda. After two centuries of contact with European settlers and the ongoing legacy

of Manifest Destiny, Native American communities were greatly impacted. For example, Sandy

Grande (2015) purports, “The United States is a nation defined by its original sin: the genocide

of American Indians” (p. 49). Sometimes the impact came even before seeing the European

settlers, as unfamiliar diseases spread quicker than the Europeans themselves. “Corruption and

brutality among state and church officials was rampant” (McCarty, 2013a). For that reason,

language policies were but only one aspect of a much larger, complex project of cultural

transformation from multiple layers and sources of competing colonial forces.

The Restrictive-Repressive Era

This era of expedient-tolerance policies was followed by that of “explicit policies

intended to eradicate Native languages” (McCarty, 2013a, p. xxv). As Joel Spring (2013) reflects

on the role of missionaries, he notes the power the missionaries held in this context for using

Indigenous languages for their own gains: “Missionaries wanted to develop written Native
 6

American languages not as a means of preserving Native American history and religions, but so

they could translate religious tracts to teach Protestant Anglo-Saxon culture” (p. 26). Similarly,

Warren (1998) notes the continuum of linguistic researchers present in the Pan-Mayan region,

critiquing members of the Summer Institute of Linguistics (also referred to as the Wycliffe Bible

Translators) whose goal was to provide bible translations as “part of a power structure bent on

alienating Mayas [in this case] from their own communities, religions and forms of authority”

(p. 81). The work of missionaries often moved beyond evangelization, extending to educational

institutions.

In addition to the role of missionaries, the U.S. government also recognized a sense of

responsibility in the education of Indigenous peoples. These restrictive, repression-oriented

policies (Kloss, 1998; Wiley, 2013) emerged from efforts made by Indigenous activists and later

through members of Congress in 1802, which provisioned for the expenditure of funds not to

exceed $15,000 per year to promote “civilization among the aborigines” (as cited in Leibowitz,

1971, p. 67). These provisions became a catalyst for the Civilization Fund Act of 1819 (Leibowitz,

1971; McCarty, 2013a; Spring, 2013), which authorized the president to “employ capable persons

of good moral character, to instruct them [Indians] in the mode of agriculture suited to their

situation; and for teaching their children in reading, writing and arithmetic” (as cited in Spring,

2013, p. 24). English is not explicitly mentioned in either of these provisions; however, both

attempt to promote “civilization”. As Leibowitz (1971) notes, “That the English language is the

‘civilized’ tongue and the Indian language ‘barbaric’ is implied in these provisions, but not

stated” (p. 68).

However, the explicit mention of the English language in federal legislation was soon to

follow. Educational policy was seen as a means to civilize the “savage” as well as permit the

taking of his land (Leibowitz, 1971). Derived from the initiative of President Andrew Jackson,

Congress adopted the Indian Removal Act in May 1830, which “authorized the president to set
 7

aside lands west of the Mississippi for the exchange of Indian lands east of the Mississippi”

(Spring, 2013, p. 28). In addition, the president was to provide assistance to the tribes for this

removal and resettlement. During this time, personnel instructed by the federal government

forcibly removed entire nations of people from their homelands with many dying along the

journey. Some took this infamous act in human history (commonly referred to as the Trail of

Tears) to become the impetus for tribal-controlled governments and school systems, some of

which experienced great success (e.g., Choctaw and Cherokee Nations) (Spring, 2013).

Manifest Destiny (i.e., the perceived God-given right for White settlers to take over

Indian lands) drove land-hungry settlers to push beyond the Mississippi, the border from the

Indian Removal Act of 1830. The Homestead Act was passed in 1862, opening the advancement

of White settlers to the Great Plains region. Following this legislation, the Indian Peace

Commission explicitly mentioned the role of the English language. In its report of 1868, it states,

“Schools should be established which children should be required to attend; their barbarous

dialects would be blotted out and the English language substituted” (as cited in Leibowitz, 1971,

p. 70, emphasis added). Motivated by a combination of humanitarianism, militarism, and

expansionism, Leibowitz (1971) notes that the Indian Peace Commission’s report “sparked a

heated controversy on the use of English in schools” (p. 71). Many religious educational

institutions promoted bilingual practices; however, as a result of this report, all Native American

school instruction was required to be in English. After the Appropriation Act of 1871,

government schools, conducted exclusively in English, were established (Leibowitz, 1971),

gradually displacing a large number of mission schools and their bilingual approach.

The replacement of Indigenous languages with English became one of the major

repressive educational policies of the U.S. government toward Indigenous peoples during the

latter part of the nineteenth century (Lee & McCarty, 2015; Spring, 2013). During this time, off-

reservation boarding schools were perceived as the “ideal facility to Americanize Native
 8

individuals” (Lomawaima & McCarty, 2006, p. 47). Lee and McCarty (2015) affirm the trauma

experienced by Indigenous children who were “forcibly removed from their families and

compelled to attend distant residential schools where they faced physical and psychological

trauma for speaking their mother tongue” (p. 410). The first off-reservation boarding school was

built in Carlisle, Pennsylvania in 1879. Conceived by former Army officer Richard Pratt, the

school was to provide “equal educational and vocational opportunities in order [for Native

children] to excel as American citizens” (Lomawaima & McCarty, 2006, pp. 48). Pratt was noted

for perceiving Native capabilities to be equal to those of White Americans (Lomawaima &

McCarty, 2006), while also attacking the Native way of life as “socialistic and contrary to the

values of ‘civilization’” (Spring, 2013, p. 33). Carlisle Indian School directed the future of Indian

education for the next five decades (Leibowitz, 1971).v In addition, the federal Indian school

system constructed on-reservation boarding schools, as well as day schools. A minute

proportion of Indigenous children attended public schools during this time.vi As the vignette of

Andrew Windy Boy at the beginning of this manuscript illustrated (Heape & Richie, 2008),

these deculturalization efforts stripped many children of their native tongue (see also

Lomawaima & McCarty, 2006; Suina, 2014).

While the “language issue” was noted earlier as having received little attention in

legislation, Leibowitz (1974) recognized that it had transformed to being “mentioned in almost

every [federal] report concerned with Indian education” (p. 17). This became even more

apparent in 1887, when the Commissioner of Indian Affairs John D. C. Atkins asserted “There is

not an Indian pupil… who is permitted to study another language than our own” (as cited in

McCarty, 2013a, p. 53). He further articulated the ‘one nation- one language’ policy, which

remained influential for six more decades. These repression-oriented policies during the

boarding school movement illustrate active efforts to remove Indigenous children from their

families and prepare them in such a way that they would never return to their people (Leibowitz,

1974). Language, therefore, became a critical element in educational policy. Instruction in the
 9

colonial English language and abandonment of one’s native tongue, as Leibowitz (1974) notes,

“became complementary means to the end” (p. 17).

The Null-Tolerant Era

Following some of the most restrictive and repressive language policies in Native American

LPP history, was an era that has been characterized as “benign promotion of now-endangered

Indigenous mother tongues” (McCarty, 2013a, p. xxv). One of the first recognitions of the abuses

undergone by Native Americans in the boarding school movement came in 1928vii, when The

Problem of Indian Administration, also known as the Meriam Report, was published

(Lomawaima & McCarty, 2006; McCarty, 2013a; Meriam et al, 1928; Spring, 2013). This

independent survey publicly scrutinized the boarding school conditions as “grossly inadequate”

(Meriam et al., 1928, p. 11). The team of investigators argued that those who wished to “merge

into the social and economic life of the prevailing civilization of this country should be given all

practicable aid and advice in making the necessary adjustments”, while also recognizing that

those who wish “to remain an Indian and live according to [their] old culture should be aided in

doing so” (Meriam et al, 1928, p. 86). This team of researchers, which included Winnebago

educator Henry Roe Cloud, “rightly grasped the principle of choice—the ability ‘to remain an

Indian’ as an essential human right” (Lomawaima & McCarty, 2006, p. xxii).

In the next few decades to follow, the Bureau of Indian Affairs relaxed restrictions on the

use of Native languages in schools, allowing for the development of some teaching materials in

Indigenous languages. Drawing on the work of Indigenous activists, the Commissioner of Indian

Affairs under Franklin D. Roosevelt’s presidency (1933-45), John Collier, facilitated the

development of the Indian ‘New Deal’ (McCarty, 2013a; Spring, 2013). This served as a catalyst

for corpus planning activities, as well as tribal economic development, self-government, and

cultural freedom (McCarty, 2013a). At the spawn of larger events going on in the nation (i.e.
 10

Civil Rights Movement, Bilingual Education Act), Indigenous peoples were inadvertently

allowed more flexibility in teaching/learning native tongues in school settings.

Are We Entering The Promotion Era?

In the midst of other global recognition for minority language rights, a paradigm shift

took place in 1990 when the Native American Languages Act was passed by Congress (NALA,

1990/1992). In 1991, the United Nations Declaration on Rights of Persons Belonging to National

or Ethnic Minorities, Article 4 stated that “States should take appropriate measures so that,

whenever possible, persons belonging to National or Ethnic minorities may have adequate

opportunities to learn their mother tongue or to have instruction in their mother tongue” (as

cited in Spring, 2000, p. 31). This policy was “unprecedented” for a variety of reasons (Warhol,

2012). First, much of the previous federal LPP had attempted to eradicate these same languages;

second, it affirmed “the connection between language and education achievement and

established an official, explicit federal stance on language” (Warhol, 2012, p. 236). This

legislation was amended in 1992 to encompass a larger spectrum of Native American LPP

activities, including provisions for community language programs, training programs, material

development and language documentation (NALA, 1990/1992). Overturning more than two

centuries of Native American LPP in the U.S., NALA established the federal role in preserving

and protecting Indigenous languages. In 1996, federal legislation extended to include Native

American language survival schools and language nests as well as other language restoration

programs (Esther Martinez Native American Languages Preservation Act, 2006).

In 2007, the United Nations General Assembly officially recognized the universal

linguistic human rights of the world’s 370 million Indigenous peoples. However, two of the

Assembly’s “most powerful member states, Canada and the United States- both with abysmal

records of treatment of indigenous peoples- rejected the Declaration” (McCarty, 2012, p. 544).

While neither of these federal governments took the initiative to sign the supranational
 11

Declaration, the United States has continued to take steps within their own national legislation.

More recently, the Native American Languages Reauthorization Act and the Native Language

Immersion Student Achievement Act have been brought to vote in Congress. Both were

unanimously approved by the Senate Committee on Indian Affairs on June 18, 2014, and these

pieces of legislation have “gained bipartisan support in both houses of Congress” (Linguistic

Society of America, 2014). It should be noted, however, that there currently are no congressional

representatives from the state of Nebraska that support either of these bills.

Some may perceive that with the passing of NALA (1990/1992) and the Esther Martinez

Native American Languages Preservation (2006), and the recently introduced Native America

Languages Reauthorization Act and the Native Language Immersion Student Achievement Act,

that we have entered the promotion era of Indigenous languages (Wiley, 2013). Promotion-

oriented policies are those in which “the government, state or agency allocates resources to

support the promotion of specific languages” (Wiley, 2013, p. 71). That is, federal legislation now

exists to support the maintenance and revitalization efforts that are taking place within

Indigenous communities.

However, McCarty (2013a) purports that from the federal perspective, “NALA might be

considered merely symbolic” (p. 61). She continues to argue that this perception is “buttressed

by the legislation’s meager funding”, with approximate allocations averaging at “2-3 million per

year, an amount that, if distributed equally among the 565 federally recognized tribes, would

represent between $3500-$5300 annually—hardly sufficient for the task at hand” (p. 61).

Beyond funding disparities, these potential promotion oriented policies continue to face other

challenges. For example, the No Child Left Behind (NCLB) legislation in 2001 has had a negative

impact on Indigenous language education. Wilson (2014) notes “NCLB recognizes the right of

Puerto Rico to use Spanish as an official language of education, but does not recognize the right

of states, territories, or Native American governments to declare Native American languages

 12

official and use them in education” (p. 226). viii Now with the passing of the Every Student

Succeeds Act (ESSA) in December 2015 by the Obama Administration, Native American

language schools are grouped together with those in Puerto Rico. Despite this, Native American

language schools are still not able to provide standardized assessments in their own languages,

even though Puerto Rican schools can test in Spanish (NCNALSP, 2016).

Additionally, Evans and Hornberger (2005) note that since NCLB legislation, there has

been a shift in how to perceive the role of the learner’s native language:

“In the No Child Left Behind Act, English language development is taken as the sine qua

non of academic achievement and a child’s native language is assigned less of a

facilitative role in promoting English language development. Indeed, it may be viewed as

a crutch in subject area study that prevents children from making adequate progress

toward English language proficiency” (p. 89).

The paradigmatic shift that took place with NCLB legislation emphasizes solely on the

development of English literacy, without taking into account the documented cognitive

advantages of additive bilingualism (e.g. metalinguistic awareness, divergent thinking,

communicative sensitivity, and the ability to learn multiple languages) (García, 2009).

Further, Wilson and Kamanā (2014) recognize the incongruence apparent between the

goals of the federal government under NCLB for students to graduate from school ready for

college and work, yet the high stakes standardized testing that occurs as a result of NCLB

reinstitutes the forced assimilation of Indigenous students. They continue, “Such forced

assimilation has historically led to negative academic outcomes in the very goals that the federal

government is claiming to seek” (p. 194). Therefore, despite the fact that the seemingly

promotion-oriented policies of NALA (1990/1992) and the Esther Martinez Native American

Languages Preservation (2006) have been passed, the NCLB legislation has restrained these
 13

Indigenous language promotion policies from meeting their full potential over the past fifteen

years. With the ESSA legislation passing two months prior to the writing of this manuscript, the

impact of this new legislation on Indigenous language policies has yet to be determined.

Safety Zone Theory

These historical and current shifts in Indigenous LPP (i.e., (1) the expedient tolerance

era, (2) the restrictive-repressive era, (3) the null-tolerant era, and (4) the possibility of a

promotion era) can be more fully understood through the lens of Safety Zone Theory

(Lomawaima & McCarty, 2006; McCarty, 2013a) (See Figure 1).ix In other words, the changes in

Native American LPP have been conceptualized as “contests over what constitutes as ‘safe’ vs.

‘dangerous’ difference is human social life” (McCarty, 2013a).x Examining the sociopolitical

history of LPP development in the United States overtime, Leibowitz (1974) posited that

language policies are implemented “when an ethnic group [is] viewed as irreconcilably alien to a

prevailing concept of American culture” (p. 1). Lomawaima and McCarty (2006) support this

notion with regard to Indigenous languages, as when Native languages are perceived by

dominant groups as instrumental or non-threatening (i.e. safe), those differences have been

tolerated and even supported. An example of this might include the passing of federal legislation

such as NALA (1990/1992) and the Esther Martinez Native American Languages Preservation

(2006) during a time when the dominant society considers Indigenous peoples as non-

threatening. However, when ‘dangerous’ expressions of Indigenous difference are manifested

throughout dominant society, Native languages have been systematically suppressed (McCarty,

2013a, p. 43). This was apparent during the boarding school movement as a result of settler-

colonialism, especially during the stages of early contact and westward expansion.
 14

Figure 1- Safety Zone Theory

As demonstrated in the shifts between language policy orientations above (i.e. promotion,

expedient, tolerance, restrictive, null, and repression (Kloss, 1998; Wiley, 2013)) as well as in

Figure 1, the boundaries between ‘safe’ and ‘dangerous’ perceptions have been central to

American Indian education history. This metaphorical safety zone is conceived as “a physical,

social, psychological and pedagogic space in which federal officials and other colonizing agents,

through education policies and practices, have deliberately and systematically sought to

distinguish ‘safe’ from ‘dangerous’ Indigenous beliefs and practices” (McCarty, 2013a). This

perceived threat or benefit continues to affect how Indigenous language policies fluctuate today.

Despite some of the challenges faced by promotion-oriented Indigenous language

policies, there are several examples in the literature where bottom-up, grassroots programs

occur. Others have called this “subverting the safety zone” (McCarty, 2013a) and locating the

“implementational and ideological spaces” (Hornberger, 2002, 2005) for community led

revitalization efforts to take place. Two of the most thoroughly developed examples of Native
 15

American educational LPP in the literature are among the Navajo and Hawaii language groups.

The Diné (Navajo) language has been categorized as an “A” language based on the language

vitality scale developed by Krauss (1998), signifying that it has speakers of all generations

(Warhol & Morris, 2014). In the 1960s, bilingual education was introduced on the Navajo

Nation (Spolsky, 1971; Warhol & Morris, 2014). One foundational example from the literature is

Rough Rock Community School, established in 1966 (Holm & Holm, 1995; McCarty, 2002),

while more recent literature has also documented Puente de Hózhó Trilingual magnet school

(Fillerup, 2011). Community control has been the keystone in Navajo language development.

The Navajo have a long history of written language, atypical for many languages indigenous to

the United States; this presents an additional opportunity in using print literacy as a resource in

reversing language shift (McCarty, 2013a). While the Navajo may be the largest Native American

nation in the U.S. (both in population and land) (Warhol & Morris, 2014), they are still

experiencing language shift and continue to be a leading topic for Native American LPP

research.

The Hawaiian language has also been of key interest for Native American LPP scholars.

The state of Hawai’i is unique in the fact that “no other state is as strongly identified with a

particular Native American people or culture” (Wilson, 2014, p. 219). The distance and isolation,

once used to its advantage, became narrower as European missionaries and other settlers began

arriving in 1778 (McCarty, 2013a, Wilson, 2014). A missionary-introduced orthography was

implemented at the turn of the 19th century, and 90% of the population was documented as

literate in Hawaiian, “the highest print literacy rate recorded in the world at the time” (Grenoble

& Whaley, 2006, p. 95). The Hawaiian language was officially banned in 1896 (Wilson, 2014).

Status language activities established English officially on the islands, and a language shift took

place resulting in Hawai’i Creole English (referred to as Pidgin by many of its speakers) (Wilson,

2014). Hawai’i gained state status in 1959, and almost two decades later the Hawaiian language

was named a co-official state language along with English (Wilson, 1999; Wilson, 2014). xi In
 16

1983, a small group of parents and language activists established the ‘Aha Pūnana Leo

(Hawaiian language nest) non-profit organization and preschools with guidance from Māori

language activists in Aotearoa/New Zealand (McCarty, 2013a). This grassroots initiative has

expanded in the last four decades, as it is now possible to attend Hawaiian medium schooling

from pre-school through graduate school (Wiley, 2014). The case of Hawaiian is unique, as it

was the first example of language nests and total immersion programming for Indigenous

languages in the U.S., and remains to be the only Native American language with total

Indigenous-language-medium education through grade 12 (Wilson, 2014). This exemplary

model of language regenesis illustrates ways in which new “ideological and implementational

spaces” (Hornberger, 2002, 2005) have been “pried open as individual family language planning

efforts such as these interact with wider social, cultural, educational, and political processes”

(McCarty, 2013a). LPP research on Hawaiian language revitalization continues to illuminate

counter-hegemonic possibilities.xii This language-nest model has even been recommended to the

Omaha language community to adapt for their own needs and context (Awakuni-Swetland,

2003).

While the previous two examples have long, well-documented histories of language

revitalization efforts, others are just beginning. For example, the Myaamia Project began in the

1990s at the community level and now has a partnership with Miami University, with the

intention of reclaiming the Miami language and culture (Baldwin, 2014; McCarty et al, 2013).

Even though the last native Miami speakers passed away in the 1960s, the language was never

“extinct” as Leonard (2008) argues that there are language documents spanning three hundred

years beginning with the work of Jesuit missionaries. The Wôpanâak language of the

Wampanoags in Massachusetts had similarly already lost its last native speakerxiii; however,

through the Wôpanâak Language Reclamation Project, linguists reconstructed the language

from written documents 170 years since it had last been spoken (Makepeace, 2011; McCarty,

2013).
 17

While the Myaamia Project and Wôpanâak Language Reclamation Project represent

perhaps some of the most dramatic efforts to revitalize languages quite literally from ground

zero, several other programs are worth noting. In California, approximately 18 different

indigenous language families rely on elders as a main resource, as there is not a large corpus of

written materials as compared to the aforementioned language groups (McCarty, 2013a);

therefore, revitalizers have implemented a Master-Apprentice program which utilizes inter-

tribal networks and university partnerships. Switzler and Haynes (2014) examined the work of

revitalization efforts among the Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs Reservation in Central

Oregon. In a similar shortage of written material resources, the Kiksht, Ichishkiin, and Numu

languages have relied on collaborative efforts from a variety of community members. Despite

the fact that these are three separate languages, the Language Program on Warm Springs

Reservation is noted as taking an “integrated approach” to developing resources, “declaring that

any effort made for one language should also be made for the other two languages in order to

ensure fairness among the three Tribes” (Switzler & Haynes, 2014, p. 234). The Pueblo

languages of the southwest (e.g. Zuni, Keres, Tewa, Tiwa, Towa) have a strong oral tradition, and

recent efforts have been made to implement preschool and early childhood language initiatives,

as well as to offer alternative certification processes for Native speakers in the state of New

Mexico (Romero-Little & Blum-Martinez, 2012; Sims, 2014; Suina, 2004).

Other notable community-based language programs are taking place for the Mohawk

language in upstate New York, a variety of languages indigenous to Alaska, the Cherokee Nation

in northeastern Oklahoma, the Euchee language project in Oklahoma, an immersion program

for the Blackfeet Nation of Montana, and an Ojibwe immersion school (Waadookodaading) in

Minnesota (Hermes, 2005, 2007; Hermes, Bang & Marin, 2012; Hermes & King, 2013; Louellyn

White, 2015; McCarty, 2013a). Many of these indigenous revitalization programs are still in

their infancy, therefore much of the research remains to be descriptive about the contexts,

histories, and programs being implemented. McCarty (2013a) describes many of these
 18

programs as exemplar cases of “grassroots, bottom-up language planning undertaken in

response to particular sociocultural and sociohistorical contexts, and to contemporary local

needs and desires” (McCarty, 2013a, p. 153).

Context

“Colonial attempts to dominate Indigenous peoples and their lands have historically

utilized repressive language education policies as a primary means of containment and control”

(Lee & McCarty, 2015, p. 422). This colonization of language remains part of the history

throughout states across the country. However, as illustrated above, there are variety of

examples that are “subverting the safety zone” (McCarty, 2013a) and locating the

“implementational and ideological spaces” (Hornberger, 2002, 2005) for grassroots

revitalization initiatives to take place. While other studies on educational language policy have

examined Indigenous groups with larger populationsxiv, large scale national studies xv, and

differing sociopolitical histories than the region in questionxvi, minimal research to date has

examined educational language policies affecting Indigenous populations in what is now

considered the state of Nebraska (John, 2009; Rudin, 1989; Sudbeck, 2015). Much of the

previous research conducted about the Omaha and Winnebago peoples has a historical aspect to

it (Barnes, 1984; Fletcher & La Flesche, 1911/1992; La Flesche, 1900/1963; Marsh Brown, 1992;

Radin, 1923/1990; Smith, 1997), while not much emphasis has been placed on current members

and practices (Awakuni-Swetland & Larson, 2008; Fikes, 1996; Summers, 2009). Each of these

groups has long and complicated histories that mirror similar challenges of groups in other

states, yet also reflect the unique sociopolitical context of Nebraska.

The state of Nebraska is also an understudied location for language policy (Sudbeck,

2015), as the bulk of U.S. language policy research has taken place in California, New York,

Florida, Arizona, and Texas (Johnson, 2013). This research will contribute to existing knowledge
 19

by diversifying the settings in which we attribute our understanding of educational language

policies and the experiences of Indigenous populations in the U.S. Additionally, this research

aims to deepen our understanding about the availability and complexity of linguistic resources

for indigenous language groups in Nebraska, with particular consideration to Omaha and Ho-

Chunk language communities. Therefore, the purpose of this study is to explore the

appropriation of language policy in schooling environments located on two neighboring

reservations in the state of Nebraska.

This research took place among two neighboring Indigenous language communities in

northeastern Nebraska that remain relatively faint in the literature: Hocąk/Ho-Chunk of the

Winnebago Tribe and Umonhon/Omaha of the Omaha Nation.1 Both of these languages have

been categorized under the Mississippi Valley-Ohio Valley branch of the Siouan language family

(Lewis, Simmons & Fennig, 2015) (See Figure 2).

1While the first spellings are written in their respective Indigenous language (i.e., Hocąk and Umo nhon),
the second spelling of each language is in the Anglicanized version (i.e., Ho-Chunk and Omaha). This
would be comparable to writing Español and Spanish.
 20

Figure 2- The Siouan Language Family

Mandan

Missouri Crow
River
Siouan Hidatsa

Ho-Chunk

Siouan Chiwere-
Winnebago Iowa
Language
Oto
Family
Assiniboine
Mississippi
Valley- Dakota
Ohio Dakota
Valley Lakota
Siouan
Stoney
Kansa

Osage

Dhegiha Quapaw

Ponca

Omaha

As Awakuni-Swetland (2007a) observed, linguistic families are used as a device “by placing

languages and dialects into groups that exhibit features suggesting a common linguistic origin at

some time in the past” (p. 111).xvii Will and Spinden (1906) claim that there were probably four

Siouan migrations west from the Mississippi Valley and Ohio Valley prior to contact with

colonial settlers: the Winnebago peoples during the second migration and the Omaha peoples

during the third (as cited in Radin, 1923/1990). While the potential for common origins is worth

noting, it is beyond the scope of this manuscript.xviii

It is, however, important to recognize that “[n]ot all languages can be so easily

categorized” (Awakuni-Swetland, 2007a, p. 111). For example, at the time when the Winnebago
 21

peoples first encountered colonial settlers in the early 1600s, Radin (1923/1990) notes that they

inhabited a region near Green Bay, Wisconsin and were noted to have been

“ … entirely surrounded by Central Algonquian tribes. To the north of them lay the

Menominee on the shore of Green Bay, to the southeast the Miami, to the south and

southwest the Sauk and Fox, and to the west the Ojibwa. The nearest of their kindred

were in southern Iowa, western Wisconsin, and eastern Minnesota” (p. 4).

Provided these circumstances, it is not out of the ordinary to consider the influence that Central

Algonquian languages and peoples may have had on the Ho-Chunk language.

With the potential history of common origins long ago and the history of migrations

away from one another, the Winnebago and Omaha peoples came in close proximity with each

other once again as a result of colonization. As Fletcher and La Flesche (1911/1992) observed at

the turn of the twentieth century, “The Omaha tribe has never been at war with the United

States and is the only tribe now living in the State of Nebraska that was there when the white

settlers entered the country” (p. 33). The Omaha people, who have inhabited the lands near the

middle Missouri River since the early 1700s, were pressured to sign a series of treaties in the

1800s which relinquished much of their lands (Awakuni-Swetland, 2007b). The 1830 Treat of

Prairie du Chien ceded their claims to land in what is now considered the state of Iowa; then in

an effort to protect future generations they signed a treaty in 1854 which exchanged the

remainder of their Nebraska lands to establish a reservation (Awakuni-Swetland, 2007b). By

selling claim to their lands in northeast Nebraska, they settled on a 302,800 acre reservation in

the Blackbird Hills (Wishart, 1994). “The Omaha watched as first the Pawnee, then the Ponca,

and finally the Otoe-Missouria were pressured out of their reservations and dispatched to Indian

Territory” (Wishart, 1994, p 232). In comparison to other tribes originally residing in Nebraska

at the time of colonial settlement, the Omaha were the only ones to completely withstand the
 22

forces of removal and to more or less keep their reservation intact, until allotments were made

(Wishart, 1994).

While the sociopolitical context of Omaha Nation remaining on their traditional

homeland remains unique in the state of Nebraska, the Winnebago had quite a different

experience (Wishart, 2007). Federal order mandated the forceful removal of the Winnebago to

the Great Plains region (Wishart, 2007). The Winnebago Tribe (2016) traces the history of these

removals as follows:

The Winnebago signed their first treaty with the United States in 1816 and signed

boundary and cession treaties in the 1820's and 1830's. These treaties resulted in the loss

of most of the tribal land. The Tribe was moved from what is now northeast Iowa, to

Minnesota to South Dakota, and finally to their current location in Nebraska where the

Winnebago Indian Reservation was established by treaties of 1865 and 1874. Following

this displacement to the treeless plains of South Dakota, a nocturnal gravitation occurred

during which many of the dispossessed Winnebago, under cover of darkness, traveled

down the Missouri River to rejoin remnants of their tribe in Nebraska.

After five forced removals from Wisconsin, they were pushed to the current Winnebago

Reservation in Nebraska (See Figure 3).

Figure 3- The Five Forced Removals of the Winnebago Tribe of Nebraska

(Picture of school’s mural, photo taken by author)

 23

It is worth noting, however, that the formation of the Winnebago Reservation did not

come without tension. In 1874, Omaha chiefs “reluctantly agreed to sell 12,348 acres to the

Wisconsin Winnebago” (Wishart, 1994, p. 234). This reluctance was traced to primarily two

reasons:

“First, most Omaha were opposed to the sale: they did not get on well with the

Winnebago who were already there, and the Wisconsin Winnebago were even more

problematic. They were rebellious—they had simply refused to be moved to Indian

Territory, and when they arrived in Nebraska, at least one-half of them would not settle

down on the designated allotments. […] The second reason for the sale’s unpopularity

was that the land lost to the Omaha—a twenty-section strip running back from the

Missouri River—contained the best timber on the reservation” (Wishart, 1994, p. 234).

Even after both tribes had established reservations in Nebraska, the U.S. federal

government continued to strip possession of land following the General Allotment Act of 1887.

For example, by 1913 the Winnebago Tribe of Nebraska (2016) lost about two thirds of their

reservation due to this legislation, with approximately 120,000 acres of cropland, woodland and

pasture remaining. Driven by poverty and forced by an aggressive government program

imposing individual ownership, the Omaha began selling some of their allotments to Non-

Native settlers (Wishart, 1994). “By 1910 fully 50,000 acres of the land base they had fought so

hard to preserve had been lost in this manner. By 1955 the figure had risen to 107,297 acres,

leaving only 28,405 acres in Omaha hands” (Wishart, 1994, p. 238). While both the Winnebago

and Omaha were able to avoid forced removal to Indian Territory and keep their reservations,

the federal allotments policy largely robbed both groups of their land.xix Both of these tribes are

federally recognized, and their current location and size can be viewed in Figure 4.
 24

Figure 4- Map of Nebraska Indian Reservations and Service Areas

(Adapted from Nebraska Commission on Indian Affairs, 2014)

Now after tracing the potential common origins and history of migrations away from one

another, the Omaha and Winnebago peoples came back in close proximity with each other again

as a result of colonization. Despite the close proximity of neighboring reservations (See Figure

4), however, each language community has unique sociopolitical histories.

The Ho-Chunk language is classified under the Chiwere-Winnebago branch of the

Mississippi Valley-Ohio Valley Sioux, along with two others: Iowa and Oto (See Figure 2).

UNESCO has categorized the Ho-Chunk language as “severely endangered” with just over 250

fluent first-language speakers (Moseley, 2010). There have been two relatively recent language

revitalization efforts for the Ho-Chunk language community. In the early 1990s, the Hoocąk

Waazija Haci Language Division developed in Wisconsin (John, 2009). While the Wisconsin

variety of Ho-Chunk is quite similar to the Nebraska variety, some orthographical conventions

and vocabulary differ. Despite these minor differences, some materials are shared between the
 25

two groups (Armendariz, 2014; Johnson & Thorud, 1976). At the turn of the century, Ho-Chunk

Renaissance was developed by the tribe in Nebraska to center language revitalization efforts

(John, 2009). This organization offers a Master-Apprentice model of training new language and

culture teachers, and experienced a change in leadership in August 2015. Those employed by

Ho-Chunk Renaissance travel to educational institutions on the reservation to teach the

language (e.g., Educare, Head Start, K-12 public school, K-8 private school, tribal college). In

addition, there are teachers and paraeducators employed through Title VII grants that also

facilitate culture and language classes in certain educational settings.

To the south of the Winnebago Reservation is the Omaha Reservation (See Figure 4).

The Omaha’s language is classified within the Siouan linguistic family, under the Dhegiha

branch (Fletcher & La Flesche, 1911/1992; McCarty, 2013a). Within the Dhegiha branch, the

languages of the Osage, Quapaw, Kaw/Kansa, Ponca, and Omaha are closely related (See Figure

2). UNESCO has classified the Omaha language as “critically endangered” with fewer than 50

fluent first-language speakers, with the youngest at approximately 60 years of age (Moseley,

2010). During the mid-1990s, the Umonhon Language and Culture Center was developed

(Awakuni-Swetland & Larson, 2008), and in the early 2000s the Umonhon Language Center of

Excellence was established at the tribal college (Summers, 2009). The Omaha language is being

revitalized at the community level as well, with much of the work being completed through

collaboration with elders in the community. An online bilingual Omaha-English dictionary is

being developed through a partnership with the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Areas where

formal Omaha language teaching and learning is taking place include two K-12 public schools

located on the reservation, one K-8 private school on the neighboring reservation, at the tribal

college, and at Head Start.

 26

Rationale for Dissertation Format

“Research is expected to lead to social transformation. The critical question for

indigenous communities is that research has never really demonstrated that it can benefit

communities—because the benefits never reach indigenous peoples or are used as a ploy

or tactic to coerce indigenous communities into sacrificing their cultural values, leaving

their homes, giving up their languages and surrendering control over basic decision

making in their own lives. In other words, research exists within a system of power”

(Smith, 2012, p. 226, emphasis added).

In the particular sociopolitical context I am conducting my research, I feel that it is

absolutely necessary to avoid writing in the conventional format. The fact that research exists

within a system of power is one of my biggest concerns, particularly with regard to who benefits

from the research conducted.

Much like the quote by Linda Tuhiwai Smith provided above, I have had several

conversations with community members about negative experiences they have previously had

with outsiders coming into their communities, with the primary benefactor being those same

outsiders (e.g., publications for tenure, monetary gains from book sales, dissertation research that

contributes to a doctoral degree).xx As Smith (2012) contends, “[w]hen undertaking research,

either across cultures or within a minority culture, it is critical that the researchers recognize the

power dynamic that is embedded in the relationship with their subjects. Researchers are in

receipt of privileged information” (p. 178). She goes on to illuminate the power researchers have:

"They have the power to distort, to make invisible, to overlook, to exaggerate and to draw

conclusions, based not on factual data, but on assumptions, hidden value judgments, and often
 27

downright misunderstandings. They have the potential to extend knowledge or to perpetuate

ignorance” (p. 178).

With regard to research about Indigenous language revitalization in particular, Romero-

Little (2006) argues that “[f]ew disciplines […] working with Indigenous communities to renew

and strengthen their languages, have questioned the validity of the conventional theories and

paradigms that dominate and guide past and contemporary Indigenous language revitalization

efforts and marginalize Indigenous community perspectives” (p. 400). It is here that I am

attempting to disrupt the power dynamics of research, by turning inward and critically examining

my own personal experiences with learning the Ho-Chunk and Omaha languages while

recognizing the privileges that I have as a Non-Native. This will be featured in three separate

publishable pieces.

The first manuscript features the need to expand Critical Language and Race Theory

(LangCrit) to encompass the unique case for Indigenous language communities. Beginning with

an examination of the historical progression of Critical Race Theory (CRT) in education along

with the offshoots that have developed under the “CRT family tree” (Yosso, 2006), I propose

that LangCrit should be further explored as a means for understanding the three reified

concepts of race, language, and identity. I then problematize these three concepts for the distinct

sociopolitical context of Indigenous language communities, with whom I am not a member but

wish to serve. In particular, I address three key factors that differentiate the experience of

Indigenous language communities: colonization, dual-citizenship status, and the perception of

(dis)appearing languages.

The second manuscript is a methodological piece, which addresses the complexities of

interactions that underlie research between Non-Natives and Native communities. Here, I

examine my own research process integrating into two Indigenous language communities as a

Non-Native researcher and as a learner of the Omaha and Ho-Chunk languages. More
 28

specifically, this critical lens offers insights into some of the tensions underlying the research

process. Drawing on the five tenants of Critical Indigenous Research Methodologies (Brayboy,

Gough, Leonard, Roehl & Solyom, 2012), I will discuss my experience with the research process

that revolve around three key themes: ongoing negotiations, getting it wrong, and adapting the

research process. The aim in this manuscript follows Keet, Zinn and Porteus’s (2009) call for the

vulnerability of the researcher, so that the researcher will “find their power not in their

‘knowing’ but in their ability to transcend the power they are exercising” (p. 115). That is, I will

name the privileges I have as a researcher within this context, and work towards transcending

this power.

The third manuscript features a critical autoethnography of my own language learning

experiences, drawing on LangCrit as a theoretical framework to understand the intersections of

my visible and audible identities. I will illustrate the development of understanding the nuances

and complexities of my identity as a Non-Native and learner of two Indigenous languages in

northeast Nebraska. Drawing on my experiences learning Omaha and Ho-Chunk, I will explore

how I was learning through the languages in the context of colonization. I will also offer a new

metaphor with which to understand the intricacies of my lived experiences of language learning.

These three manuscripts, while prepared separately, remain related. While I must write

and defend a dissertation on original research to satisfy the academy’s qualifications for earning

a doctoral degree, I am actively trying to deconstruct the normative practices of dissertating. The

rationale for using this style of dissertation format is supported by a decolonizing methodologies

perspective (Smith, 2012) and Critical Indigenous Research Methodologies (Brayboy, Gough,

Leonard, Roehl & Solyom, 2012), whilst simultaneously following the paradigmatic shift from a

damage-based orientation to a desire-based framework (Tuck, 2009). That is, it is important to

recognize and affirm the damage that has been done in the past, while also acknowledging the

hope and desires for the future (Tuck, 2009).

 29

Reflecting back on the experience shared by Andrew Windy Boy (Heape & Richie, 2008):

“I hope someday, somebody will hear me. I hope nobody has to go through this. We have to

have our own language.” It is with this message that I would like to illuminate the grassroots

efforts of language revitalization already occurring within the Ho-Chunk and Omaha language

communities in northeast Nebraska.

 30

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 35

MANUSCRIPT # 1
Critical Language and Race Theory (LangCrit): Problematizing
the Case of Indigenous languages

Abstract

Critical Language and Race Theory (LangCrit) was recently introduced as a theoretical
lens with which to understand the fixed and fluid identity formations at the intersections of
language and race (Crump, 2014a; 2014b). This manuscript illustrates the need to expand
LangCrit to encompass the unique case of Indigenous language communities. Beginning with an
examination of the historical progression of Critical Race Theory (CRT) in education along with
the offshoots that have developed under the “CRT family tree” (Yosso, 2006), LangCrit will
further be explored as a means for understanding the three reified concepts of race, language,
and identity. These three concepts will then be problematized for the distinct sociopolitical
context of Indigenous language communities. In particular, I will address three key factors that
differentiate the experience of Indigenous language communities: colonization, dual-citizenship
status, and the perception of (dis)appearing languages. Expanding LangCrit to recognize these
factors has implications for educational language planning and policy, particularly for those with
Indigenous heritage.

Key Words: Critical Language and Race Theory, Indigenous languages, decolonization
 36

The Indigenous sociolinguistic landscape of what is now considered the United States is

“diverse, dynamic, and characterized by the mirrored experiences of linguistic endangerment

and revitalization” (McCarty, 2014, p. 189). How then do we begin to understand the lived

experiences of individuals in relation to Indigenous languages? For Indigenous languages in

particular, Safety Zone Theory was offered as a theoretical model for analyzing the fluctuations

in Indigenous language planning and policy based on changing dominant perceptions over time

(Lomawaima & McCarty, 2006; McCarty, 2013a).xxi That is, the sociopolitical context

determines the perception of Indigenous languages as either ‘safe’ or ‘dangerous’. When Native

languages are perceived by dominant groups as instrumental or non-threatening (i.e. safe),

those differences have been tolerated and even supported. However, when ‘dangerous’

expressions of Indigenous difference are manifested throughout dominant society, Native

languages have been systematically suppressed (McCarty, 2013a, p. 43). While helpful in

understanding orientations to Indigenous languages, this macro-theoretical framework does not

specifically address the lived experience of the individual.

At large, current trends in language education research have been pushing the

theoretical boundaries of language planning and policy. Bilingual education research (e.g.,

Collier, 1992; Cummins, 2007, Gomez, 2015; Valenzuela, 1999, 2005; Wong Fillmore, 2001) has

repeatedly illustrated differential learning outcomes for learners in marginalized positions as

compared to members of the invisible and audible majority. This is despite the fact that research

has repeatedly shown that the maintenance of one’s first language (L1) supports additional

language development (Crump, 2013; Cummins, 2007; Hornberger & Link, 2012). This is

particularly relevant for Indigenous students, who have often experienced widespread language

endangerment and academic disparities due to centuries of colonial schooling and repressive

language policies (Lee & McCarty, 2015; Lomawaima & McCarty, 2006; Spring, 2013). Simply

stated, the socially constructed meanings of language, race, and identity have real implications

for the lived experiences of individuals.

 37

While former language policy theories have not affirmed the intersectionality (Crenshaw,

1989; 1919) of how one looks and how one sounds, Critical Language and Race Theory

(LangCrit) was recently named to account for this gap in the literature (Crump, 2014a; 2014b).

In essence, LangCrit challenges assumptions that the experiences of language policy can only be

understood through language alone. LangCrit, in contrast, provides an analytical frame with

which to understand the lived experiences of language policy across the intersection of a variety

of social categories. In this way, LangCrit illuminates the intersectionality of one’s multiple

identities (i.e. both fixed and fluid) as it pertains to language policy, which are lived by

individuals and do hold meaning.

This manuscript responds to and builds from the call for language studies scholars to

critically look for and identify ways in which “race, racism and racialization intersect with issues

of language” (Crump, 2014a, p. 207) with regard to the unique case of Indigenous language

communities. I begin by examining the historical progression of Critical Race Theory (CRT) in

education along with the offshoots that have developed under the “CRT family tree” (Yosso,

2006), which provides a means for critically examining the racialized experiences of a variety of

social groups. One such offshoot is Critical Language and Race Theory (LangCrit), which will be

explored in depth on the three reified concepts of race, language, and identity. These three

concepts will then be problematized for the unique context of Indigenous language

communities. In particular, I will address three key factors that differentiate the experience of

Indigenous language communities: colonization, dual-citizenship status, and the perception of

(dis)appearing languages.

I come to this manuscript as a Non-Native who began learning two Indigenous languages

(i.e., Ho-Chunk and Omaha) in the fall of 2014. At first, this was in an effort to better support

my students/mentees in the Indigenous Roots Teacher Education Program at the university

where I serve as a graduate teaching assistant and doctoral student. It was an intentional choice
 38

to enroll in classes with elders at the tribal colleges, in order to learn more about their cultures,

ancestral languages, and histories. This is an unearned privilege to access and opportunity that

not all individuals have, particularly for those with Indigenous heritage. These language learning

experiences have since evolved into something I envision as a long-term collaborative project, to

support the grassroots initiatives that have already begun taking place within these

communities. Within this manuscript, my experiences as a learner of Ho-Chunk and Omaha

languages will be woven throughout to support the call to extend LangCrit to encompass the

unique case for Indigenous language communities. Here, it is also important to recognize and

address the privilege I have as a member of the audible and (in)visible majority. I wish to ask

forgiveness for my shortcomings and patience for me to learn more, particularly from elders

within these language communities, as I am a student and still have much more to learn. In

writing this manuscript, I wish to work in solidarity with members of Indigenous language

communities working towards “linguistic survivance” (Wyman, 2014) so that language planning

and policy (LPP) stakeholders at all levels may have a deeper understanding of the lived

experiences for those learning (or those who seek to learn) Indigenous languages. It is my intent

that the expansion of this theoretical framework will facilitate the development of

conscientization or “critical consciousness” (Freire, 1970) to occur about the intersections of

one’s audible and visible identities through exposing the hegemonic practices evident within

Indigenous language communities, including the two communities from which I continue to

learn.

Critical Race Theory in Education

In order to understand how LangCrit can extend as an analytical framework for

Indigenous language communities, it is important to first draw on the preceding intellectual

work from which it stemmed. Critical Race Theory (CRT) in education primarily developed as an

attempt to theorize race and racialization as it pertains to inequitable outcomes for students
 39

(Ladson-Billings & Tate, 1995). This theoretical framework is derived from the work of scholars

in Critical Legal Studies (See Bell, 1980; Delgado & Stefancic, 2001; Matsuda et al., 1993), and

builds on the expansive literature base of critical theory in areas including but not limited to:

sociology, anthropology, history, ethnic studies, and women’s studies (Dixson & Rousseau,

2006; Kumasi, 2011; Ladson-Billings & Tate, 1995; Levinson et al., 2011; Yosso, 2006). With

concern to education in particular, CRT serves as a “theoretical and analytical framework that

challenges the ways race and racism affect educational structures, practices and discourse”

(Yosso, 2006, p. 172). Five tenets of CRT in education have been identified that have the

potential to and should inform research, theory, curriculum, pedagogy and policy: (1) the

centrality and intersectionality of race and racism, (2) the challenge to dominant ideology, (3)

the commitment to social justice, (4) the centrality of experiential knowledge, and (5) the

utilization of interdisciplinary approaches (Solórzano, 1997, 1998; Solórzano & Yosso, 2001).

(1) The centrality and intersectionality of race and racism:

Ladson-Billings and Tate (1995/2006) note that if racism were “merely isolated,

unrelated, individual acts, we would expect to see at least a few examples of educational

excellence and equity together in the nation’s public schools”; however, many of the outlier

success stories for students of color tend to be “outside the public schools” (p. 18). Rather than

holding a deficit perspective on the child and his/her family or culture, these scholars argue that

these minoritized students are experiencing “institutional and structural racism” (p. 18). This

acknowledgement is vital for CRT scholars in education, as it recognizes the historical and

current role of schools in perpetuating racism and other forms of inequality (Labaree, 2010;

Nieto & Bode, 2012; Spring, 2013; Valenzuela, 1999). Race and racism are endemic and

ingrained within U.S. society.

This tenant also explores the intersectionality of race with other forms of subordination.

Hardiman, Jackson and Griffin (2007) note that “our various social identities interrelate to
 40

negate the possibility of a unitary or universal experience of any one manifestation of

oppression” (p. 42). Therefore, it is imperative to explore how individual manifestations of

oppression are experienced in the larger context of each person’s mosaic of multiple social

identities.

(2) The challenge to dominant ideology:

The second theme is the challenge to the dominant ideology. Serving as a critique to

societal inequality, CRT scholars in education challenge dominant sociocultural assumptions

through research, pedagogy and practice (Solórzano & Yosso, 2001). Part of this critique is

calling into question the hegemonic structures that have been socially accepted as the norm

(Gramsci, 1971/2014; Gross, 2011). For those who wish to resist this dominant ideology, some

experience a contradictory double consciousness, through which individuals may experience

both push and pull factors that can either accommodate or resist the status quo (Gramsci,

1971/2014; Kumasi, 2011). Through misrecognition (Bourdieu, 1991/2003), those subordinated

through the system of oppression experience self-deprication derived from the internalization of

the dominant ideology which subordinates them (Freire, 1970/2012; Levinson, 2011b).

Additionally, this theoretical framework argues that “traditional claims of objectivity and

meritocracy camouflage the self-interest, power, and privilege of dominant groups within U.S.

society” (Solórzano & Yosso, 2001, p. 2). As such, CRT scholars in education bring into question

the principles of whiteness and interest convergence. In doing so, they “challenge White

privilege and [refute] the claims of educational institutions to objectivity, meritocracy,

colorblindness, race neutrality and equality opportunity” (Yosso, 2006). Here, it is especially

important to recognize the concept of reflexivity. “Being reflexive in critical theory means always

keeping ourselves honest about getting real, too” (Levinson, 2011a, p. 14). CRT scholars reject

the notion that knowledge construction can be conducted without influences from one’s own

sociopolitical context.
 41

(3) The commitment to social justice:

As put forth by Matsuda, Lawrence, Delgado and Crenshaw (1993), critical race theory

“works toward the end of eliminating racial oppression as part of the broader goal of ending all

forms of oppression” (p. 6). That is, this theoretical framework is committed to an active

struggle for social justice and concomitant methodologies, offering a liberatory and

transformative response to multifaceted systems of oppression. The combination of theory and

practice (i.e., praxis) to CRT’s commitment to social justice in education is paramount (Parker &

Stovall, 2004; Stovall, 2006). In education, this means that CRT scholars should strive to

develop praxis that “involves engaging in critical reflection on the policies and structures that

shape the educational system” (Stovall, 2006, p. 232). Lawrence (1992) suggests that “the

relationship between social action and reflection is so symbiotic that if one is sacrificed, the

other immediately suffers” (as cited in Dixson & Rousseau, 2006, p. 49).

This premise also seeks to employ an activism component. In discussing his work in

facilitating the literacy among peasant farmers in Brazil, educational philosopher Paulo Freire

(1970/2012) recognized the significance of acknowledging that the oppressed “cannot enter the

struggle as objects in order later to become human beings” (Freire, 1970/2012, p. 68). Rather,

those subordinated through the system of oppression must be actively involved as agents in

their own liberation. In addition, he argued that both targeted and advantaged groups

experience dehumanization through the process of oppression (Freire, 1970/2012). Therefore,

individuals among both advantaged and targeted groups have a critical role in “dismantling

oppression and generating visions for a more socially just future” (Bell, 2007, p. 13).

(4) The centrality of experiential knowledge:

Another tenet central to CRT demands the “recognition of the experiential knowledge of

people of color” (Matsuda et al., 1993, p. 6). The affirmation of voice is particularly important in

the context of education as it serves as a mechanism for challenging claims of neutrality,

 42

objectivity, colorblindness and meritocracy in an institution which has historically served to

suppress these same voices through deculturalization and assimilative forces (Ladson-Billings &

Tate, 1995/2006; Spring, 2013). CRT scholars in education have employed tools such as

storytelling, family histories, biographies, scenarios, parables, cuentos, testimonies, chronicles,

and counternarratives to expose, analyze, and challenge the dominant narrative and disrupt the

status quo (Solórzano & Yosso, 2002; Yosso, 2006).

It is of upmost importance, however, to recognize that CRT scholars are not making up

stories; Rather, “they are constructing narratives out of the historical, socio-cultural and

political realities of their lives and those of people of color” (Ladson-Billings, 2006a, p. xi).To

that end, experiential knowledge should be considered a legitimate source of data from which to

understand and critically analyze the lived experiences of racially minoritized students.

(5) The utilization of interdisciplinary approaches:

The final theme identified by CRT scholars in education is the use of interdisciplinary

approaches. CRT proponents strive to transcend the disciplinary boundaries to analyze race and

racism by drawing on scholarship from other disciplines, such as anthropology, ethnic studies,

sociology, history, women and gender studies, law, psychology, film studies, and theatre (Yosso,

2006). In doing so, CRT scholars challenge ahistoricism in their research by drawing on

historical and contemporary contexts through transdisciplinary perspectives (Kumasi, 2011;

Stovall, 2006; Yosso, 2006).

In sum, five themes have been identified within the realm of CRT in education: (1) the

centrality and intersectionality of race and racism, (2) the challenge to dominant ideology, (3)

the commitment to social justice, (4) the centrality of experiential knowledge, and (5) the

utilization of interdisciplinary approaches (Solórzano, 1997, 1998; Solórzano & Yosso, 2001). It

is worth noting that in the beginning, however, the main focus of CRT scholars was to critically
 43

examine the sluggish pace and unrealized promises of civil rights legislation, and to produce

meaningful racial reform. Consequently, many of the critiques were conveyed through black vs.

white terminology. However, Ladson-Billings (2006a) purports that the “real issue is not

necessarily the Black/White binary as much as it is the way everyone regardless of his or her

declared racial or ethnic identity is positioned in relation to whiteness” (p. vii, emphasis in the

original). Hence, through interdisciplinary perspectives, CRT scholarship in education has

extended beyond this black/white binary to include a variety of experiences and perspectives

(See Figure 5).

Figure 5- An Intellectual Genealogy of Critical Race Theory

Critical Race Theory

(CRT)

AsianCrit LatCrit TribalCrit WhiteCrit FemCrit QueerCrit DisCrit LangCrit

As illustrated in the figure above, overtime the “CRT family tree” (Yosso, 2006) has continued to

grow to provide a means for critically examining the racialized experiences of a variety of social

groups: AsianCrit (e.g., Chang, 1993, 1998; Teranishi, 2002), LatCrit (e.g., Delgado Bernal,

2001, 2002; Solórzano, 1998; Solórzano & Delgado Bernal, 2001), TribalCrit (e.g., Abercrombie-

Donahue, 2011; Brayboy, 2005; Haynes Writer, 2008), WhiteCrit (e.g., Delgado & Stefancic,

1997), FemCrit (e.g., Matsuda, 1989; Wing & Weselmann, 1999), QueerCrit (e.g., Arriola, 1994;

Hutchinson, 1999), DisCrit (e.g., Annamma, Connor & Ferri, 2013) and LangCrit (e.g., Crump,

2014a, 2014b). These many branches of CRT are not in controversy with one another, nor are

they mutually exclusive. For “[n]aming, theorizing, and mobilizing from the intersections of

racism need not initiate some sort of oppression sweepstakes—a competition to measure one
 44

form of oppression against another” (Yosso, 2006, p. 170). Rather, these multiple branches

serve as a form of dialogue whereby one can recognize the growing discourse on struggles for

social justice.

Moving beyond the black/white binary, this paper will derive primarily from the

perspectives of LangCrit (Crump, 2014a), while also drawing on Tribal Critical Race Theory

(Brayboy, 2005), Red Pedagogy (Grande, 2014), Indigenous methodologies (Smith, 2012), and

the growing field of Critical Indigenous Studies as a means for illuminating the nuanced

experiences within Indigenous language communities.

Critical Language and Race Theory (LangCrit)

Extending on the work of Ladson-Billings (1998) critically examining the role of CRT in

education, Crump (2014a) argues that “[p]erhaps we have been overlooking an important piece

of the theoretical and analytical puzzle [with regard to language], perhaps being too nice” (p.

216, emphasis in the original). In 2014, Alison Crump introduced the theoretical framework of

Critical Language and Race Theory (LangCrit) which “challenges fixed assumptions related to

categories such as language, identity and race and argues that these categories are socially and

locally constructed” (p. 220). As others have noted, cultural and linguistic differences have

evolved to become the proxy for racial discrimination and prejudice (Kubota, 2010; Lippi-

Green, 2012; Matsuda, 1996; Okun, 2010). Linguistic oppression, also known as linguicism

(Nieto & Bode, 2012; Phillipson & Skutnabb-Kangas, 1996), is noted for its frequent

intersections with racism. One example of this is illustrated through “backlash practices” that

“use race as a screening device to categorize and marginalize sectors of the population… creating

surrogates, such as language and ability for the larger category of race” (Gutiérrez, Asato,

Santos, & Gotanda, 2002, p. 343). Despite the ambiguous nature with which linguistic/racial
 45

discrimination has been dealt with in the past, this critical theoretical framework brings

language at the forefront.

Essentially, LangCrit challenges the notion that local experiences of language policy can

be understood through language alone. Rather, it should be noted that individual experiences of

language planning and policy cross a variety of social categories. LangCrit, therefore, provides a

means for understanding these intersectionalities, which are lived by individuals and do hold

meaning. It is worth noting that while Crenshaw (1991) and other critical race theorists (See

Collins, 1990/2000; Dixson & Smith, 2010; hooks, 1981/1995) focused primarily on the

intersections of race and gender, and others focused on race intersections with class and age

(Calasanti & Slevin, 2001; Leondar-Wright & Yeskel, 2007), LangCrit is the first to focus on the

explicit link between race and language with its multiple fluid dimensions of identity.

Four tenants have been identified specifically for LangCrit. Similar to the larger realm of

CRT, LangCrit scholars perceive racism as endemic to society and having real social

implications. Additionally, LangCrit overtly embraces and seeks out the intersectionality of

different dimensions of one’s mosaic of multiple identities which coincides with other CRT

scholars (Crump, 2014a; Hardiman, Jackson & Griffin, 2007). Expanding on the component of

hegemony (Gramsci, 1971/2014) in CRT, LangCrit scholars acknowledge the existence of

“socially constructed and negotiated hierarchies and boundaries among social categories, such

as language, identity and race, which constitute a continuum of possibilities from fixed to fluid”

(Crump, 2014a, p. 220). Finally, LangCrit emphasizes how local language practices and

individual stories are intertwined with the broader sociopolitical context of practices and

discourses within the web of social relations (Crump, 2014a). Here, stories and counterstories

are seen as legitimate sources of data, similar to other CRT colleagues.

As a theoretical lens, LangCrit offers a way to more fully understand the full spectrum of

identity possibilities based on the intersections of audible and visible identity (Crump, 2014a,
 46

2014b; Sarkar, Low & Winer, 2007). That is to say, LangCrit is “centrally interested in identity,

and how identity is shaped by intersections of the subject-as-heard (language) and subject-as-

seen (race)” (Crump, 2014b, p. 104). This theoretical framework serves as a model with which to

understand the interplay between socially constructed meanings and language practices. It

provides a means for critically examining “how individual social practices and identity

performances are connected to a larger ecosocial system of discourses, policies and practices”

(Crump, 2014a, p. 219). Further, boundaries surrounding language and race also come under

examination with particular interest in the processes of production, negotiation, resistance, and

maintenance (Crump, 2014b). It is important to note that while the work of critical language

scholars has been building in the last decade, LangCrit has only recently been named. As an

emerging theoretical framework, it is necessary to explore how the intersections of subject-as-

seen and subject-as-heard (Sarkar, Low & Winer, 2007) apply to different social groups.

The Reification of Socially Constructed Concepts

Falling in line with the work of LangCrit, it is necessary to (re)define three socially

constructed concepts: race, language and identity (Crump, 2014a, 2014b). These three

constructs will be further developed with special attention to the case of Indigenous languages.

Race
“Race is not a biological category but an idea, a social construction—created to interpret

human differences and used to justify socioeconomic arrangements in ways that accrue to the

benefit of the dominant social group” (Bell, 2007, p. 118). One should note that race has no

significance biologically (Fluehr-Lobban, 2006; Goodman, 2010; Gould, 1996; Haney-Lopez,

2013; Spring, 2013). As human beings, we are all members of the same species Homo sapiens

sapiens (Fluehr-Lobban, 2006). There are four sources for change in genotype, which

contributes to change in physical appearance (phenotype): mutation, natural selection, genetic

drift, and gene flow through migration (Molnar, 1983 as cited in Fluehr-Lobban, 2006)xxii;
 47

separate racial categorization is not one of them. Rather, it has been documented that there is

more human genetic variation within races than between them (Fluehr-Lobban, 2006;

Goodman, 2010). Haney-López (2013) argues that this is an instance of “racial fabrication”,

highlighting four vital components of the social construction of race: (1) humans rather than

abstract social forces produce races; (2) as human constructs, races constitute an integral part of

a whole social fabric that includes gender and class relations; (3) the meaning-systems

surrounding race change quickly rather than slowly; and (4) races are constructed relationally,

against one another, rather than in isolation.

With that being said, race and racism do have real social implications (Tatum, 1992). It

has been affirmed that “… race is a powerful idea that affects our lives in psychologically and

materially consequential ways” (Bell, 2007, p. 118). It is also important to recognize that

“Despite prevailing views that we have become a ‘color-blind’ society and have moved

‘beyond race’, constructed racial categories determine to a large degree where we live, who

we marry, how much we earn, with whom we worship, the quality of health care we receive,

how long we will live, who represents us in the government, how we are portrayed in the

media, how much wealth we accumulate and pass on to our children, and other factors that

affect life opportunities and well-being in significant and enduring ways” (Bonilla-Silva,

2003; Feagin, 2001; Lipsitz, 1998; Marabel, 2002; Oliver & Shapiro, 1997 as cited in Bell,

2007, p. 118).

This is significant in education for various reasons. While the school-age population in public

schools is increasingly becoming more racially and linguistically diverse (Suárez-Orozco et al.,

2008), their teachers remain overwhelmingly white and monolingual in English (Nieto & Bode,

2012), less likely to be knowledgeable about culturally diverse families and communities

(Ladson-Billings, 2009) and blissfully ignorant to the challenges of the racism that their

students face (Pipher, 2002; Spring, 2013; Valenzuela, 1999).

 48

Particularly for Indigenous populations, race and racism become even more complex.

During the nineteenth century and developing into the twentieth century, the sciences held

monogenist and polygenist attitudes towards the concept of race. Whereas monogenists

recognized a single origin of humans, polygenists argued for multiple origins of humans with

relative ranking of said races according to degrees of cultural evolution (Erickson & Murphy,

2013; Fluehr-Lobban, 2006). This was illustrated on a spectrum of “savage” to “civilized”. In an

effort to prove on anatomical grounds that four separate races exist, polygenist Charles White

(1799)xxiii offered the following racial categorizations in descending order (as cited in Fluehr-

Lobban, 2006):

1) Europeans

2) Asians

3) Americans (Indians)

4) Africans

As Fluehr-Lobban (2006) notes, the “savage” was concocted as the antithesis of a “civilized”

person in the racialized tradition of Western thought.xxiv The term “savage” became especially

relevant in the context of “Red Indians” in the New World (Fluehr-Lobban, 2006). This is

despite the fact that evidence exists which supports the existence of highly complex and

organized societies (e.g. Cahokia civilization and the Haudenosaunee confederacy) before

colonization. An incentive was proposed for settlers to combat against these “savages”. Colonial

authorities initially offered bounties for the heads of murdered Indigenous people, later only

requiring their scalps which were easier to transport in large quantities (Dunbar-Ortiz, 2014). It

is noted that later “settlers gave a name to the mutilated and bloody corpses they left in the wake

of scalp-hunts: redskins” (Dunbar-Ortiz, 2014, p. 65). Additionally, Samuel Morton

commissioned Cavalrymen to collect skulls of Indigenous peoples for anthropomorphic

 49

measurements, which he later used as “evidence” to support his claims for ranking races

(Fluehr-Lobban, 2006).

These racial, and arguably racist, ideologies pervaded educational practice for

Indigenous youth. For example, in 1922 researchers from the University of Kansas tested

students from Haskell Indian Institute, and concluded that intelligence decreases “with

increasing amount of Indian blood” as well as defining Native Americans as inferior to whites in

mental processes (Hunter & Sommermier, 1922, p. 259 as cited in Lomawaima & McCarty,

2006, p. 153). Therefore, not only did colonial officials and settlers “appropriate the land, labor,

and resources of indigenous inhabitants, but also sought to dispossess them of their children”

(Jacobs, 2005, p. 455). In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, white maternalists

such as Estelle Reel, believed in taking the Indigenous children from their homes in order to

raise them themselves, as she believed that “the Indian child must be placed in school before the

habits of barbarous life have become fixed, and there he must be kept until contact with our life

has taught him to abandon his savage ways and walk in the path of Christian civilization” (as

cited in Jacobs, 2005, p. 462). In an effort to extend this “civilization” of Indigenous youth,

Richard Pratt also believed that schooling would circumvent the “Indian problem”. Pratt urged

that the boarding school movement, of which his Carlisle Indian Industrial School served as a

model, provided a means to “kill the Indian, save the man” (Satterlee, 2002).xxv

In the context of these deculturalization and assimilation practices through education

(Spring, 2013), it is also important to note that there have been historical discrepancies between

how one identifies oneself racially and how others identify the same individual, and these racial

categories can change overtimexxvi (Goodman, 2010; Ladson-Billings, 2006b). One example of

this can be drawn from the process of deculturalization through schooling. Choctaw and

Cherokee tribes were noted for having high literacy rates, some even higher than their white

counterparts in neighboring states (Spring, 2013). This perceived process of civilization

 50

temporarily elevated such individuals to “honorary white” status. Additionally, one should

consider the dynamic complexities of multiracial identities. There are an increasing number of

people identifying as mixed race, biethnic, multiethnic, biracial, and multiracial, which serves as

“a reminder that words cannot totally describe the multifaceted identities of human beings”

(Nieto & Bode, 2012, p. 274). This holds true for Indigenous persons as well, coming into

contact with an array of other “races” (e.g. French fur traders, Spanish conquistadors, French

Huguenots, African slaves, etc.) (Loewen, 1995; Spring, 2013). Pochedly (2015) further

illuminates the complexities of Indigenous identity construction, by affirming individuals who

are affiliated with multiple tribal nations and cultures throughout Native America.

In the most recent census (2010), there were approximately 9 million out of the 309

million individuals in the U.S. that identified having two or more racial backgrounds. “Many

native people have multiethnic backgrounds and must negotiate these identities as well as their

native and dominant culture ‘selves’” (Henze & Davis, 1999, p. 8). Due to the historical

subjugation of Indigenous heritage, some have kept their Native ancestry hidden. One example

of this is the erasure of one’s Indigenous roots through the problematic constructs of mestizo/o,

Latina/o and Hispanic identities (Urrieta, 2012). Others may make claims to Indigenous

ancestry, which may or may not be recognized by other tribal members. These instances

represent the complexities of racial categorization.

In U.S. society, “race becomes ‘common sense’ – a way of comprehending, explaining,

and acting in the world” (Omi & Winant, 2004, p. 17). However, Dunbar-Ortiz (2014)

emphasizes that “Native peoples were colonized and deposed of their territories as distinct

peoples—hundreds of nations—not as a racial or ethnic group” (p. xiii). Similarly, while the term

“Indigenous” is used throughout this manuscript, it encompasses hundreds of distinct nations

and groups (Grande, 2015; Haynes Writer, 2008; Smith, 2012). It is not to assume that these are

shared experiences for all. Furthermore, LangCrit theorists are “firmly opposed to the biological
 51

view of race” (Crump, 2014, p. 211) and strive to thoroughly examine the role that languaging

plays in racial formation.

Language

Critical language scholars informed by a poststructural and sociocultural perspective

have argued that languages “were, in the most literal sense, invented” (Makoni & Pennycook,

2007). García (2009) takes language as a social construction one step further, and notes that it

was accompanied by the construction of the nation state. It has been argued that this process

should be viewed as a dialectical co-construction (Makoni & Pennycook, 2007). Some of the first

instances of the “one nation-one language” ideology solidifying into policy took place in France

and Germany beginning in the late 1700’s (Wright, 2012). As Bourdieu (1991/2003) notes, “In

order for one mode of expression among others … to impose itself as the only legitimate one, the

linguistic market has to be unified and the different dialects (of class, region or ethnic group)

have to be measured practically against the legitimate language or usage” (p. 45). This notion of

language becoming autonomous and homogenous within the nation-state is an historical

product which has been reified in the wider politics of nationalism and imperialism even in

recent decades (May, 2014; Phillipson, 1992). These language ideologies become naturalized,

establishing a hierarchical positioning of language users with those who have power and those

who do not. In my own research, English has been and continues to be the dominant language

with power. This positions Indigenous languages, such as Ho-Chunk and Omaha, in a

minoritized status within the linguistic hierarchy. The endangered linguistic vitality status of

many Indigenous languages may have an effect on how others position Indigenous languages on

this hierarchy.

Through the dialectical co-construction of languages and nation-states, it is important to

note that languages have been naturalized as separate entities. Postructuralist language scholars

disagree with this assumption, arguing that “there is no such thing as a fixed, stable entity in
 52

linguistic terms” (Crump, 2014a, p. 209). Rather, as Bakhtin (1981) observed “languages do not

exclude each other, but rather intersect with each other in many different ways” (p. 291).

Through this disinvention of language (Makoni & Pennycook, 2007), critical language scholars

now focus on what people are doing with the language (i.e., language practices and languaging)

rather than constraining oneself to understanding languages only as monolithic systems.

Otheguy, García and Reid (2015) clarify this further by arguing that “a named language cannot

be defined linguistically”; therefore, “it is not, strictly speaking, a linguistic object; it is not

something that a person speaks” (p. 286). They continue, arguing that instead of a language,

each individual speaks their own idiolect, which they described as “the system that underlies

what a person actually speaks, and it consists of ordered and categorized lexical and

grammatical features” (p. 289). Translanguaging, therefore, refers to the deployment of one’s

idiolect (i.e. full linguistic repertoire) without regard for socially and politically defined language

labels or boundaries (Otheguy, García, & Reid, 2015). Here, it is worth noting that due to the

socially constituted values placed on the variety of ways people language, the term varieties may

better encapsulate the nature of languaging social practices that people do with different

linguistic features assembled within their full linguistic repertoire (García, 2009).

With this disinvention and reconceptualization, the word ‘language’ may seem to lose all

sense of meaning. However, “… that language, as socially constructed, has real implications for

children’s education is a most important reality” (García, 2009, p. 40). Bourdieu (1991/2003)

further asserts:

“The position which the education system gives to the different languages (or the

different cultural contents) is such an important issue only because this institution has

the monopoly in the large-scale production of producers/consumers, and therefore in

the reproduction of the market without which the social value of the linguistic

competence, its capacity to function as linguistic capital, would cease to exist” (p. 57).
 53

In effect, educational institutions secure the “profit of distinction” for those already holding

power through their linguistic capital (Bourdieu, 1991/2003). Education has been documented

as perpetuating linguicism through studies of historic trends in teacher education (Austin,

2009), the erasure of student’s identity in the classroom (Ibrahim, 2009), schools as sites for

denial and symbolic subordination (Lippi-Green, 2012), the role of media in construing the

narrative on which emergent bilinguals to serve (Catalano & Moeller 2013), and the conflicting

language ideologies at home and at school (Delpit, 2008). However, Bucholtz and her colleagues

(2014) challenge educators to reconsider their role in disrupting the dominant narrative of

language-deficit perspectives and embrace “all language users [as] linguistic experts” (p. 148).

While the (re)conceptualization of language is significant for all in education, it is also

worth considering the unique position of Indigenous languages in school in particular. In an

effort to quicken the process of assimilation in the late 1800s, Native American children were

forcibly removed from their homes and brought to boarding schools (McCarty & Zepeda, 2014).

As Lippi-Green (2012) notes, “[v]ery astutely, the commissioner [of Indian Affairs] pinpointed

the matter of language as crucial” (p. 86). xxvii In 1887, Commissioner Atkins wrote, “[t]heir

barbarous dialects should be blotted out and the English language substituted. […] fuse them

into one homogenous mass. Uniformity in language will do this- nothing else will” (as quoted in

Crawford, 1992, p. 48-49). Sicangu Oglala Lakota author and activist Joseph Marshall III (2001)

affirmed that “the federal government and Christian missionaries knew that the quickest way to

destroy a culture is to eliminate its indigenous language” (220). Marshall then shared that many

in his parents’ and grandparents’ generations “don’t have a positive opinion about education”,

which he finds understandable given the “negative experiences they had in the church and the

government boarding schools, where education was a method of taking away their language and

culture” (p. 221). It wasn’t until the early 1970s when “that instrument of forced change became

a way to maintain language and culture” (Marshall, 2001, p. 222). The naming of these

experienced deculturalization truths need to be both told and affirmed. Now just over two
 54

centuries later, most Native American students continue to receive all their instruction in

English (Mead et al., 2010; Stancavage et al., 2006 as cited in McCarty, 2012). This was

prevalent at my research site as well, where English was the primary medium of instruction.

Although Native American children increasingly enter school speaking English as a

primary or sole language, McCarty and Zepeda (2014) note the unique situation of Native

children’s linguistic repertoires. First, “they often speak a variety influenced by the grammar,

phonemic system, and pragmatics of the Native language, subjecting students to deficit-driven

school labeling and remediation practices” (p. 114). In addition to their marginalized variety of

English, Indigenous children possess varied language abilities. While some students may be

considered bi/multilingual, others may predominantly speak their Native heritage language.

Other students may have only receptive abilities in their Native language, yet still others may

have no exposure to their Native language at all (McCarty & Zepeda, 2014). These varied

linguistic repertoires represent a myriad of possibilities regarding one’s linguistic identities.

In addition, language learning for Indigenous language communities is also quite

distinct from other ethnolinguistic groups. Schools are the same institutions that were

historically used to eliminate Indigenous languages (Dunbar-Ortiz, 2014; Lomawaima &

McCarty, 2006).xxviii The purpose of education, Tippeconnic (2015) argues, “remains to

assimilate Indigenous peoples into the mainstream without serious consideration to cultural,

linguistic, values, and the devastating and disrespectful treatment of Indigenous peoples since

colonization” (p. 39). As sites of historical (and some may argue current) linguistic genocide,

schools are increasingly appropriated for linguistic and cultural survivance (Lee & McCarty,

2012), which is “a cross between survival and resistance in which ongoing processes of cultural

continuity and change unfold” (Hermes, Bang & Marin, 2012, p. 385).

Identity
 55

Humans were born with the innate desire to categorize the many aspects of their life into

groups. This sorting mechanism, in terms of identity, shapes one’s sense of belonging and not

belonging. Identities have been conceptualized as “social, discursive, and narrative options

offered by a particular society in a specific time and place to which individuals and groups of

individuals appeal in an attempt to self-name, to self-characterize, and to claim social spaces

and social prerogatives” (Pavlenko & Blackledge, 2003, p. 19). The concept of identity is formed

not only by the individual who self-identifies with a particular group but also by the society as a

whole. Therefore, Raible (2005) argues that identities should be considered as “mutually

constructed narrative understandings of selves” and ultimately they are “negotiated

identifications” (p. 2). That is, like race and language, the concept of identity is a social

construction.

Pavlenko and Blackledge (2003) make the distinction between three types of identities:

imposed, assumed, and negotiable.xxix Imposed identities are those which are not negotiable

within a particular place and time. These are perceived as fixed categories, binding the meaning

of identity within the individual. Put another way, Crump (2014 b) states that this type of

identity is “something someone has, and it is static, uniform, and countable” (p. 62 emphasis in

the original). Second, assumed identities are those which are accepted and not negotiated. These

may be influenced by the Bourdieuan process of “misrecognition”, which considers the symbolic

domination occurring as legitimate. Third, negotiable identities are those actively contested by

both groups and individuals. Similarly, Gee (1999) coined the term “situated identities” which

refers to “performed identities that are either accepted and recognized or rejected by others in

one’s social group as one tries to establish one’s place in a given community or group”. In this

sense, Gee (1999) views the term identity as a verb, as it is something that is “performed”. Raible

(2005) furthers this definition by recognizing “identifications in specific contexts… are

 56

situational, flexible, creative, and idiosyncratic” (p. 18). This flexibility is in part shaped by the

context the individual is in, but not always. The idiosyncrasy of identity display allows for the

individual to exhibit any piece of his/her identity that he/she wishes to within any context. That

is to say, despite the situation or context one may be in, he or she may choose to display

individual characteristics that seem unique rather than conforming to a group identity. To

encapsulate the complexities of all three types of identities, scholars have argued for the

recognition that individuals enact and negotiate both fixed and fluid identities (Crump, 2014b;

Otsuji & Pennycook, 2010). It is from this constant negotiation of meaning that one reifies their

own identity.

This discursive view of identify formation is pertinent to Indigenous communities for

several reasons. First, as recognized by TribalCrit theorists, “Indigenous peoples occupy a

liminal space that accounts for both the political and racialized natures of our identities”

(Brayboy, 2005, p. 429). In addition, racialized identities for Indigenous persons are highly

complex and nuanced, especially in the context of colonization. Next, the complexity of

identifying as members of sovereign nations becomes intensified when some tribes are not

recognized by the federal or state governments, tribal enrollment is determined differently by

each tribe and may change overtime, and clan membership depends on a variety of factors for

each specific group (Spradlin & Parsons, 2008).

It is worth highlighting, however, that “the notion of fluidity has never worked to the

advantage of Indigenous peoples” (Grande, 2015, p. 158). The perception of one’s identity as

fluid fails to provide the grounding for Indigenous communities to assert their claims as

colonized people with particular rights as sovereign nations. “[W]hile there may be support for

the notion of coalition within the Indian community, there is also a great deal of expressed

concern over the potential for its mediator—transgressive subjectivity—to ultimately mute tribal
 57

differences and erase distinctive Indian identities” (Grande, 2015, p. 163). With that being said,

it is necessary to recognize and affirm the tensions between both the interdependence and the

distinctiveness of Indigenous peoples.

Transforming LangCrit: The Role of Decolonization

Because LangCrit is “centrally interested in identity, and how identity is shaped by

intersections of the subject-as-heard (language) and subject-as-seen (race)” (Crump, 2014b, p.

104), it is important to revisit the four tenants of LangCrit as it pertains to Indigenous languages

in particular. Indigenous language communities should be considered unique within the frame

of LangCrit for three core reasons: (1) colonization, (2) dual-citizenship, and (3) (dis)appearing

languages.

Colonization

The first tenant of LangCrit regards racism as endemic to society and having real social

implications (Crump, 2014a), much like others under the CRT family tree (Yosso, 2006).

However, for Indigenous language communities it is not only racism, but first and foremost it is

colonization (Brayboy, 2005). I remember several instances when my Omaha language

instructor stated, “We were colonized.” The stories that she shared during our classes together

in relation to this statement continue to make me become more cognizant of the power

colonization had and continues to have on Indigenous languages and schooling. Bringing

colonization to the forefront is consistent with proponents of TribalCrit theory (Brayboy, 2005),

Red Pedagogy (Grande, 2015), and others in Critical Indigenous Studies. Colonization is the

defining factor when making the differentiation between sovereignty versus democracy. That is,

tribal identity is distinct, because as Grande observes

“American Indians have been engaged in a centuries-long struggle to have what is legally

theirs recognized (i.e., land, sovereignty, treaty rights). As such, Indigenous peoples have
 58

not, like other marginalized groups, been fighting for inclusion in the democratic

imaginary, but rather for the right to remain distinct, sovereign, and tribal peoples” (p.

144).

When utilizing LangCrit as a frame to examine Indigenous language communities in particular,

it also becomes apparent that Indigenous language education must be understood relative to the

issues of cultural survival, sovereignty, and self-determination (Lee & McCarty, 2015), all of

which stem from colonization. Through the rise of Indigenous activism in recent decades,

schools have become sites of appropriated grassroots language policy. However, Lee and

McCarty (2015) have identified several challenges that still persist for Indigenous language

education: societal level racism, economic equality, and a limited number of Indigenous

teachers and teaching materials.

Several of these challenges were evident in my research site. While many world language

teachers have access to a variety of curricular materials and support networks, teachers of the

Omaha and Ho-Chunk languages are largely left with the task of creating the curriculum on

their own.xxx For example, my Ho-Chunk language instructor developed many of her curricular

materials from scratch. Some of my favorite assignments were the personal stories and

historical tribal narratives that she would weave into our assignments (See APPENDIX C), first

by writing it in Ho-Chunk with the English translation to follow. She explained the nuances of

the spoken language as each student took turns reading aloud in class, and provided room for

me and my classmates to develop our own biliteracy. Each week, students were required to turn

in a list of sentences in Ho-Chunk accompanied with English translations based on our

vocabulary list for that unit. For one of my final projects, I translated a children’s book into Ho-

Chunk. The projects made by me and my fellow classmates, could in turn be used as potential

curricular materials for future students.

 59

Grassroots efforts, such as those mentioned above, continue to resist colonial forces. It is

important to note, however, that while some might consider decolonization as the antithesis to

colonization, the imperialistic notions of colonization are difficult to, if not impossible to

completely erase. Goldstein (2015) articulates decolonization as “a shifting configuration of

strategies and actions, not an event, even as it is nonetheless eventful. Decolonization may be

interpreted as a means without end. It is a creative response that necessarily exceeds legibility

and reconciliation from the perspective of the conditions from which it arises” (p. 46). That is to

say, decolonization is not a goal with an endpoint, but rather an ongoing process. With that

being said, the role of language in the process of decolonization is paramount. As Grande (2015)

notes, “just as language was central to the colonialist project, it must be central to the project of

decolonization” (p. 73). In sum, when using LangCrit as a lens with which to understand

experiences of Indigenous language communities, it is vital to affirm that the colonization of

language, race and identity is endemic to society and has real social implications.

Dual-Citizenship

In addition to overtly bringing the role of colonization into LangCrit as a theoretical

frame for understanding the full spectrum of audible and visible identities possible, one must

also consider the potential dynamics and complexities of dual-citizenship for Indigenous

peoples. Drawing on the work of Lumbee scholar Bryan McKinley Jones Brayboy (2005), the

larger umbrella of CRT, and consequently LangCrit, is incomplete with regard to Indigenous

populations, as “it does not address American Indians’ liminality as both legal/political and

racialized beings” (p. 429). The Indian Citizenship Act of 1924 extended the rights of full

citizenship to American Indians born within what is now considered the United States. This

dual-citizenship positions American Indians in a “wholly unique and paradoxical relationship

with the United States” (Grande, 2015, p. 145). Similarly, Pochedly (2015) argues for the

importance of Indigenous peoples “to understand they are not simply a racial minority group
 60

within America” (p. 291). He notes further that to deny this distinction (i.e., of the history of

colonization) “serves a larger, continuous project of settler colonialism and cultural genocide. By

losing site of our lands, cultures, governments, and languages, there is an attempt to deprive

Native Americans of the opportunity to fully realize who they are and who they can be as

individuals and nations” (p. 291). Through recognizing and affirming this dual-citizenship status

for Indigenous peoples, LangCrit scholars would be drawing on the third tenant of embracing

and seeking out the intersectionality of different dimensions of identity (Crump, 2014a). Here,

intersectionality would be used as a tool for exploring beyond language, race and identity, to

also consider (dual) nationality, albeit with an added layer of sovereignty and domestic locale.

This complex identity formation constructs a relationship unlike that of any other U.S.

ethnolinguistic group (Lomawaima, 2003). This is distinct from other minoritized linguistic

communities who may experience subtractive/restrictive language policies in the United States.

For example, I have no known Indigenous ancestry and many of my ancestors came from

Germany. Therefore, I do not hold dual-citizenship status so my full citizenship identity is

realized and under these circumstances advantaged. As noted above, however, the dual-

citizenship status of many with Indigenous ancestry is often overlooked. In part, this diluted

perception of dual-citizenship status for Indigenous peoples can be attributed to historical

legislation. Following the ruling of Cherokee Nation v Georgia in 1831 , U.S. Supreme Court

Justice Marshall referred to sovereign Indigenous nations as “domestic dependent nations”,

which implied the role of tribes as “wards” of the United States who were “incompetent to

handle their own affairs” (Prygoski, 1998, p. 3). It is argued that this “finding” established a

relationship comparable to a landlord and their tenants, which persists even today (Deloria &

Lytle, 1984; Grande, 2015).

It is worth noting, however, that contradictions of this dual-citizenship status remain in

modern society. There is a paradox of “having to prove ‘authenticity’ to gain legitimacy as a

 61

‘recognized’ tribe, while simultaneously having to negotiate a postmodern world in which all

claims to authenticity are dismissed as essentialist” (Grande, 2015, p. 145). In essence, these

contradictions can lead to the erasure of one’s dual-citizenship identity (Gal & Irvine, 1995). The

underlying complexities of dual-citizenship for Indigenous peoples, therefore, goes far beyond

allegiance to two (or more) nations (e.g., language rights and language policy). This is consistent

with the second tenant of LangCrit, whose supporters account for socially constructed and

negotiated hierarchies and boundaries among social categories (Crump, 2014a). For those of

Indigenous heritage in particular, the continuum of fixed and fluid identity possibilities as it

pertains to dual-citizenship status should be named explicitly, especially as it relates to the

intersections of their audible and visible identities.

(Dis)appearing Languages

Building on the complexities of colonization and dual-citizenship status as it relates to

Indigenous language communities, it is also necessary to problematize the terminal narrative of

Indigenous languages. As McCarty (2014) observes, “Recent census counts place the number of

Native American languages at 169, with approximately 397,000 speakers among 6.7 million self-

identified American Indian, Alaska Native, Native Hawaiian, and other Pacific Islander peoples”

( p. 189). One should be critical of census data, however, as it obscures a variety of speakers who

may be excluded, such as: ‘rememberers’ of the language, ‘ghost speakers’ who deny knowledge

of a socially stigmatized heritage language but whose linguistic abilities might be reactiviated

under conducive circumstances, and ‘neo/new speakers’ who are (re)learning their ancestral

language as an additional language- as children, youth or adults (Grinwald & Bert, 2011;

McCarty, 2014).

Despite the shortcomings of census data and similar surveys, these numbers are used to

categorize languages according to anticipated longevity based on the remaining number of

identified speakers. These language vitality/endangerment schemas (Fishman, 1991; Grenoble &
 62

Whaley, 2006; Krauss, 1997, 1998) may be perceived as helpful in illustrating the sense of

urgency for language revitalization efforts; however, these same categorization efforts may

inadvertently have negative effects on language ideologies. That is to say, there is no question to

the magnitude of the time-sensitive actions that must occur to revitalize these languages;

however, it is the “eminent crisis, or certain death” discourse associated with language

revitalization that should be examined more closely (Hermes, 2012; Kroskrity, 2009).

When problematizing the perspective of (dis)appearing Indigenous languages, LangCrit

scholars may draw on the fourth tenant, by emphasizing and recognizing local Indigenous

language practices and individual stories within the broader sociopolitical context of practices

and discourses embedded in social relations (Crump, 2014a; 2014b). Skutnabb-Kangas (2008)

asserts that to hold the idea of language death as a natural phenomenon “glosses over the entire

social political history of empire building that has given rise to really a ‘no contest’ choice to

retain and use an indigenous language” (as cited in Hermes, 2012, p. 138). McHenry (2002)

sheds light on a presumed dichotomy between modernization or not modernizing, through

which Indigenous languages are stereotyped to be “frozen in the past” along with its people.

Moving beyond this terminal narrative, LangCrit scholars should reframe the discourse on

Indigenous language revitalization and documentation to encompass languages as central to a

sustainable future rather than relics from a dying past. That is, “Indigenous languages are

actually tools needed for our sustainable future” (Hermes, 2012, p. 140), and should be

considered as such in contemporary classrooms and communities. In contrast to the terminal

narrative, language revitalization efforts should be considered instances of survivance.

Conclusion

In this manuscript, I have argued that LangCrit as a theoretical framework to understand

language, race, and identity should be problematized for the unique context of Indigenous

language communities. Each of these terms are socially constructed and have real social
 63

implications through the process of reification. Complexities underlie the visible and audible

identities of Indigenous language communities, namely the role of colonization, dual-citizenship

status and the perception of (dis)appearing languages. Through deepening our understanding

for Indigenous language communities to encompass these three key components, there are

implications for many stakeholders in the LPP process. For example, overtly naming the role of

colonization in language learners’ experiences provides a depth to understanding the schooling

environments which may otherwise consider students of Indigenous heritage deficient,

linguistically and culturally. Through the affirmation of dual-citizenship status for Indigenous

peoples, it is recognized that sovereign nations have the right to self-determination. The

implications of this right to self-determination are profound for communities who are engaged

in language revitalization, impacting students, their families, teachers, and communities.

Additionally, to ground our understanding in individuals’ unique linguistic repertoires rather

than bounded “languages”, we may be more likely to recognize, and appreciate, the

translanguaging practices that occur within the classroom, the home, and the community. This

has implications for stakeholders in the educational LPP practices, transgressing from the

negative connotation held by some with code-switching practices to the concept of

translanguaging, thereby disrupting the socially constructed language hierarchies that are

responsible for suppressing language communities (Otheguy, García & Reid, 2015). As an

emerging theory, LangCrit has been applied to the unique conditions pertaining to Indigenous

language users and should continue to provide a critical lens for understanding the intersections

of subject-as-seen and subject-as-heard.

 64

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 68

MANUSCRIPT # 2
Towards Decolonizing the Research Process:
One Non-Native’s Experience

Abstract:

As Vine Deloria, Jr. (1992) observed, “For most of the five centuries [of U.S. colonization],
whites have had unrestricted power to describe Indians in any way they chose” (p. 398). Given
the historical trends of dehumanizing research in Native America, the methodological approach
and research methods one uses to conduct research (i.e., the research process) are argued to be
far more important than the outcome (Smith, 2012). In an effort to address the complexities of
interactions that underlie research between Non-Natives and Native communities, I examine my
own research process integrating into two Indigenous language communities as a Non-Native
researcher and as a learner of the Omaha and Ho-Chunk languages. More specifically, this
critical lens offer insights into some of the tensions underlying the research process. Drawing on
the five tenants of Critical Indigenous Research Methodologies (Brayboy, Gough, Leonard,
Roehl & Solyom, 2012), I will discuss my experience with the research process that revolves
around three key themes: ongoing negotiations, getting it wrong, and adapting the research
process. The aim in this manuscript addresses Keet, Zinn and Porteus’s (2009) call for the
importance of recognizing the potential of the vulnerability of the researcher, such that the
researcher may “find their power not in their ‘knowing’ but in their ability to transcend the
power they are exercising” (p. 115). That is, I will name the privileges I have as a researcher
within this context, and work towards transcending this power. This research has implications
for those interested in collaboration of Non-Native and Native populations despite colonialism.

Key words: research process, critical reflexivity, researcher vulnerability

 69

“ [T]he term ‘research’ is inextricably linked to European imperialism and colonialism. The

word itself, ‘research’, is probably one of the dirtiest words in the indigenous world’s

vocabulary (Smith, 2012, p. 1).

I begin with this quote from Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s (2012) book Decolonizing Methodologies to

draw attention to the historical relationship that Indigenous peoples have had with research and

researchers. As several scholars have argued (Battiste, 2008; Brayboy, Gough, Leonard, Roehl &

Solyom, 2012; Deloria, 1992; Erickson, 2011; Smith, 2012; Tuck, 2009; Tuck & Fine, 2007;

Vidich & Lyman, 2000), this relationship is one that has traditionally involved the exploitation

of Indigenous peoples, their culture, their knowledge and their resources. Vine Deloria, Jr.

(1992) observed, “For most of the five centuries [of U.S. colonization], whites have had

unrestricted power to describe Indians in any way they chose” (p. 398). For example, Tuck and

Fine (2007) recount “Stories of teeth counting, rib counting, head measuring, blood drawn,

bones dug up, medical treatment withheld, erroneous or fabricated ethnography, unsanctioned

camera lenses, out-and-out lies, empty promises, cover ups, betrayals; these are the stories of

our kitchen tables” (p. 159). Aleutian scholar Eve Tuck (2009) adds, “For many of us, the

research on our communities has historically been damage centered, intent on portraying our

neighborhoods and tribes as defeated and broken” (p. 412).

In an attempt to address this issue of exploitation, it is paramount to expose my own

identity as a Non-Native researcher and learner of two Indigenous languages, Ho-Chunk and

Omaha. Throughout this manuscript, the main focus will be on my research process. Provided

the historical research trends in Native America mentioned above, the methodological approach

and research methods one uses to conduct research (i.e., the research process) are argued to be

far more important than the outcome. Smith (2012), for example, argues for the expectation that

research with and for Indigenous peoples should strive “to be respectful, to enable people, to

heal, and to educate (p. 130). To do so, I seek to provide a transparent lens to my own research
 70

process within this context in an effort to be “ethical, respectful, reflexive, critical, and humble”

(p. 140).

This research process begins to become transparent as I draw on the paradigmatic shift

from objective neutrality to critical self-reflexivity, particularly in qualitative research. I then

provide my own critical self-reflection within the sociopolitical context of my research site.

Drawing on the five tenants of Critical Indigenous Research Methodologies (Brayboy, Gough,

Leonard, Roehl & Solyom, 2012), I will discuss my experience with the research process that

revolve around three key themes. The first theme reveals the ongoing negotiations present

throughout the research process. The next theme exposes my interpretation of an account of

“getting it wrong”. The third theme illuminates the steps I took to adapt my research process.

The aim in this manuscript addresses Keet, Zinn and Porteus’s (2009) call for the importance of

recognizing the potential of the vulnerability of the researcher, such that the researcher may

“find their power not in their ‘knowing’ but in their ability to transcend the power they are

exercising” (p. 115). In other words, I will name the privileges I have as a researcher within this

context, and work towards transcending this power.

Locating the Researcher’s Subjectivity

As Smith (2012) observes, several methodological approaches assumed the researcher

was an outsider, “able to observe without being implicated in the scene” (p. 138). However,

drawing on the work of Clifford and Marcus (1986) who questioned the established modes of a

single authorial voice, Hammersly and Atkinson (2007) note a “crisis of representation” during

the 1980s which originated in American cultural anthropology. During this time, the stance of

reporting objective neutrality in research came under scrutiny. Similarly, Wolcott (1988)

revoked the stance he once held for neutrality in his own ethnographic research: “For a long

time I harbored the misconception that neutrality was another essential element in descriptive

research” (p. 19). Elsewhere, he argued that “[p]osturing in qualitative research is not something
 71

to avoid; it is something to approach with studied deliberation. No one can be ‘above’ or

‘beyond’ method” (Wolcott, 1992, p. 42). The manner in which research was presented and

written now called for debunking the myth of the “omniscient, distanced qualitative writer”

(Creswell, 2013, p. 214). In ethnography, for example, Vidich & Lyman (2000) contend that

deeper understanding occurs only if the ethnographers are aware and are willing to confront the

sources of the ideas that motivate them. Stemming from the transcendental phenomenological

approach, researchers can bracket their experiences to “mitigate the potential deleterious effects

of unacknowledged preconceptions related to the research and thereby to increase the rigor of

the project” (Tufford & Newman, 2010, p. 81). Others have called on researcher reflexivity,

where the writer acknowledges the biases, values, and expectations brought with them to the

study (Creswell, 2013). Newman (2011) recognizes these efforts as a postmodern perspective to

research, and argues that the researcher needs to be unambiguously evident in the manuscript.

Language studies scholars have begun to take this postmodern perspective into account,

critiquing when the researcher is absent from the report, “looming behind the text as an

omniscient, transcendental, all knowing figure” (Canagarajah, 1996, p. 324). Norton and Early

(2011) sought to address Canagarajah’s claim, by illuminating their own researcher identities

attending to the following through narrative inquiry: reflectivity, dialogic engagement, situated

nature of programs and practices, responsiveness to learners, and praxis. Pennycook (2010)

contends that a crucial component of work in critical linguistics is to problematize one’s

naturalized assumptions, implying awareness to the limits of one’s knowing. It is important to

keep in mind, however, that “critical research calls for a more sustained and rigorous

exploration of the ways the researcher’s subjectivity influences the research process”

(Canagarajah, 1996, p. 325).

In addition to language studies, moving beyond the notion of objective neutrality is

particularly relevant in research with and for Indigenous peoples. Smith (2012) draws attention

to the role of the researcher in Indigenous contexts:

 72

“Researchers are in receipt of privileged information. They may interpret it within an

overt theoretical framework, but also in terms of a covert ideological framework. They

have the power to distort, to make invisible, to overlook, to exaggerate and to draw

conclusions, based not on factual data, but on assumptions, hidden value judgments, and

often downright misunderstandings. They have the potential to extend knowledge or to

perpetuate ignorance” (p. 178).

Hill and May (2013) support Smith’s contention, and argue that non-Indigenous researchers in

particular need to recognize and address the historical imbalances evident in much previous

research conducted in these contexts. Even researchers with Indigenous heritage have found

benefits in examining their own experiences with language reclamation (Chew, Greendeer &

Keliiaa, 2015). Reflecting on this post-modern critique, this manuscript will attempt to

decolonize the research methodology by moving beyond objective neutrality.

Critical Self- Reflexivity within Context

As Smith (2012) argues, “When undertaking research, either across cultures or within a

minority culture, it is critical that researchers recognize the power dynamic that is embedded in

the relationship with their subjects” (p. 178). This reflexive space should include a “concern for

our common humanity alongside a concern for inequality and power” (Cousin, 2010, p. 16). As

such, it is of upmost importance that I recognize my own role as a researcher in this context. I

come to this manuscript as a Non-Native who began learning two Indigenous languages (i.e.,

Hocąk/Ho-Chunk of the Winnebago Tribe and Umonhon/Omaha of the Omaha Nation).2 Both of

these languages have been categorized under the Mississippi Valley-Ohio Valley branch of the

Siouan language family (Lewis, Simmons & Fennig, 2015) (See Figure 6).

2While the first spellings are written in their respective Indigenous language (i.e., Hocąk and Umo nhon),
the second spelling of each language is in the Anglicanized version (i.e., Ho-Chunk and Omaha). This
would be comparable to writing Español and Spanish.
 73

Figure 6- The Siouan Language Family

Mandan

Missouri Crow
River
Siouan Hidatsa

Ho-Chunk

Siouan Chiwere-
Winnebago Iowa
Language
Oto
Family
Assiniboine
Mississippi
Valley- Dakota
Ohio Dakota
Valley Lakota
Siouan
Stoney
Kansa

Osage

Dhegiha Quapaw

Ponca

Omaha

With the potential history of common origins long ago and the history of migrations away from

one another, the Winnebago and Omaha peoples came in close proximity with each other once

again as a result of colonization. The Omaha people, who have inhabited the lands near the

middle Missouri River since the early 1700s, were pressured to sign a series of treaties in the

1800s which relinquished much of their lands and established a reservation (Awakuni-

Swetland, 2007). “The Omaha watched as first the Pawnee, then the Ponca, and finally the Otoe-

Missouria were pressured out of their reservations and dispatched to Indian Territory”

(Wishart, 1994, p 232). In comparison to other tribes originally residing in Nebraska at the time

of colonial settlement, the Omaha were the only ones to completely withstand the forces of

removal and to more or less keep their reservation intact, until allotments were made (Wishart,

1994).
 74

While the sociopolitical context of Omaha Nation remaining on their traditional

homeland remains unique in the state of Nebraska, the Winnebago had quite a different

experience as they were removed to the Great Plains region by federal order (Wishart, 2007).

After five forced removals from Wisconsin, they were pushed to the current Winnebago

Reservation in Nebraska. Both of these tribes are federally recognized, and their current location

and size can be viewed in Figure 7.

Figure 7- Map of Nebraska Indian Reservations and Service Areas

(Adapted from Nebraska Commission on Indian Affairs, 2014)

Now after tracing the potential common origins long ago and history of migrations away

from one another, the Omaha and Winnebago peoples came back in close proximity with each

other again as a result of colonization. Despite the close proximity of neighboring reservations

(See Figure 7), however, each language community has unique sociopolitical histories that

reflect their unique past.

The Ho-Chunk language is classified under the Chiwere-Winnebago branch of the

Mississippi Valley-Ohio Valley Sioux, along with two others: Iowa and Oto (See Figure 6).
 75

UNESCO has categorized the Ho-Chunk language as “severely endangered” with just over 250

fluent first-language speakers (Moseley, 2010). There have been two relatively recent language

revitalization efforts for the Ho-Chunk language community. In the early 1990s, the Hoocąk

Waazija Haci Language Division was developed in Wisconsin (John, 2009). While the

Wisconsin variety of Ho-Chunk is quite similar to the Nebraska variety, some orthographical

conventions and vocabulary differ. Despite these minor differences, some materials are shared

between the two groups (Armendariz, 2014; Johnson & Thorud, 1976). At the turn of the

century, Ho-Chunk Renaissance was developed by the tribe in Nebraska to center language

revitalization efforts (John, 2009). This organization offers a Master-Apprentice model of

training new language and culture teachers. Those employed by Ho-Chunk Renaissance travel to

educational institutions on the reservation to teach the language (e.g., Educare, Head Start, K-12

public school, K-8 private school, tribal college). In addition, there are teachers and

paraeducators employed through Title VII grants that also facilitate culture and language classes

in certain educational settings. (Please see APPENDIX E for a Ho-Chunk alphabet and

pronunciation guide.)

To the south of the Winnebago Reservation is the Omaha Reservation (See Figure 7-

Map of Nebraska Indian Reservations and Service AreasFigure 7). The Omaha’s language is

classified within the Siouan linguistic family, under the Dhegiha branch (Fletcher & La Flesche,

1911/1992; McCarty, 2013). Within the Dhegiha branch, the languages of the Osage, Quapaw,

Kaw/Kansa, Ponca, and Omaha are closely related (See Figure 6). UNESCO has classified the

Omaha language as “critically endangered” with fewer than 50 fluent first-language speakers,

with the youngest at approximately 60 years of age (Moseley, 2010). During the mid-1990s, the

Umonhon Language and Culture Center was developed (Awakuni-Swetland & Larson, 2008),

and in the early 2000s the Umonhon Language Center of Excellence was established at the tribal

college (Summers, 2009). The Omaha language is being revitalized at the community level as

well, with much of the work being completed through collaboration with elders in the
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community. An online bilingual Omaha-English dictionary is being developed through a

partnership with the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Areas where formal Omaha language

teaching and learning is taking place include two K-12 public schools located on the reservation,

one K-8 private school on the neighboring reservation, at the tribal college, and at Head Start.

(Please see APPENDIX D for an Omaha pronunciation guide.)

While I began learning these two Indigenous languages in the fall of 2014, it is worth

noting that neither of these languages were my heritage language. Growing up, I always loved

listening to family stories. My mother has done extensive work as a genealogist over the years,

so I became privy to a lot of these shared stories that directly related to my own relatives. I also

became very close to my Great Aunt Agnes, who shared with me the lived experiences of my

ancestors with regard to, among other things, language and education. From Agnes I learned

that her father, my great-grandfather, moved to northeast Nebraska to become a German-

English translator. Even during Agnes’ lifetime, she and her immediate family witnessed the

transition between German and English as the medium of instruction in schools. During the

time of the world wars, Anti-German sentiment spurred the prohibition of German and other

“foreign” language instruction in Nebraska schools (Meyer v Nebraska, 1923). Despite the fact

that this ruling was overturned almost a century ago, the German language was lost at such a

rapid rate that my grandparents (and I) were not able to learn our heritage language. German

was no longer passed down to each generation, and English became the dominant language in

my family and community. While German was no longer offered as a world language of study at

any of the schools surrounding my community, I still recognize that the acquisition of German

language is still much more accessible in comparison to other minoritized languages through

alternative venues such as technology (e.g. Rosetta Stone, DuoLingo app) or tertiary educational

institutions.

Though much of my genealogical ties are in Germany, I also have Dutch, Scottish, Irish,

Danish, French, Polish, and Bohemian heritage. Most notable here is that I have no known
 77

ancestral ties to Indigenous heritage. I am four generations removed on my paternal

grandmother’s side and at least seven generations removed on my maternal grandfather’s side

from my ancestor’s original European homelands. Instead, I grew up on a working-class family

farm in rural northeast Nebraska, which is located approximately 80 miles from this (also rural)

research site. The land we farm also happens to be situated on the traditional hunting grounds

of the Omaha, and approximately ten miles west from the former Omaha village of To nwonpezhi

(Fletcher & La Flesche, 1911/1992).

Despite the relative proximity of the Winnebago and Omaha Reservations to my

hometown, my interaction with Indigenous peoples remained quite minimal throughout my

childhood. As a second grader, my class was visited by representatives of the Ponca and Santee

tribes who offered a cultural presentation. In the eighth grade, we studied Nebraska History

with what I recall were very outdated textbooks, culminating with a group project where we built

small-scale earth lodges (i.e., traditional Omaha housing structures) out of mud and sticks.

During high school, neighboring schools competed against reservation schools during athletic

events. In American History class, we learned about how some of the Native populations

assisted Lewis and Clark during their journey up the Missouri River, some meetings taking place

in close proximity to where I was raised. Ultimately, I felt very uneducated when it came to

Indigenous issues, particularly for groups living so near. After studying abroad in Costa Rica and

later interning at the Smithsonian as an undergraduate student in college, I found myself

learning more about other Indigenous groups around the world. This stemmed my curiosity to

seek out more information about the Omaha and Winnebago peoples which were so close to

home.

In January 2013, I had the opportunity to act upon this growing interest when I became

involved as a mentor for graduate students in the Indigenous Roots Teacher Education

(ROOTS) Program at my university. The ROOTS program is a federally funded teacher

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preparation program that provides support to interested Native American students. Members of

the program can then work in educational settings that predominately serve Native students.

Since 1999, the U.S. Department of State grant funded program was designed so that students

could learn, practice, and teach using culturally relevant methods and approaches that

emphasize Indigenous languages and cultural traditions. Students are able to live in their home

communities while they complete certification and degree requirements, as the curriculum is

taught in a distance education hybrid format. With my role as a mentor for graduate students in

the program, I have met several individuals from the Winnebago Reservation and Omaha

Reservation in northeast Nebraska. I began by making monthly visits with these students in

2013, and later moved to a small community located on one of the reservations in July 2014. As

a result, I have become acquainted with their families, co-workers, and other community

members. We have welcomed each other into our homes, shared meals together, provided

updates on the health of our family members, set aside fruit and vegetables for each other from

our gardens, and had long conversations that touch upon the complexities of the cultures and

communities on our two hour drive to and from the university where we often travelled for

classes and meetings.

Through these relationships, I became fascinated by the stories shared about the

grassroots revitalization efforts already taking place within the Ho-Chunk and Omaha language

communities. Educational language policy had been one of my interests for quite some time,

and until this point I had known relatively little about the efforts being made by the Omaha and

Ho-Chunk language communities. Therefore in the fall of 2014, I chose to enroll in language

classes at the tribal colleges. Each language class was guided by a team of instructors, led by a

fluent elder. At first, my choice to enroll in Omaha and Ho-Chunk language courses was an

effort to better serve my mentees in the Indigenous Roots Teacher Education Program at my

university, by learning more about their cultures, ancestral languages, and histories. This

learning experience has since evolved into something I envision as a long-term collaborative
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project, to support the grassroots initiatives that have already been taking place within these

communities. Additionally, I wish to ask forgiveness for my shortcomings and the patience for

me to learn more, particularly from elders within these language communities, as I am a student

and still have much more to learn. In writing this manuscript, I wish to work in solidarity with

members of Indigenous language communities working towards “linguistic survivance”

(Wyman, 2014) so that language planning and policy (LPP) stakeholders at all levels may have a

deeper understanding of the lived experiences for those learning (or those who seek to learn)

Indigenous languages.

Proposed Plan

After witnessing what has happened and continues to happen to minoritized languages, I

have become an advocate for sociolinguistic justice, which is the belief in “self-determination for

linguistically subordinated individuals and groups in sociopolitical struggles over language”

(Bucholtz, et al., 2014, p. 145). With these language learning experiences as a starting point, I

began designing a Participatory Action Research (PAR) project to involve middle and high

school students as co-researchers. Fine (2008) explains that PAR is not a method, but rather an

epistemological perspective.

“Participatory action researchers ground our work in the recognition that expertise and

knowledge are widely distributed. PAR further assumes that those who have been most

systematically excluded, oppressed, or denied carry specifically revealing wisdom about the

history structure, consequences, and the fracture points in unjust social arrangements. PAR

embodies a democratic commitment to break the monopoly on who holds knowledge and for

whom social research should be undertaken” (p. 215).

As a critical epistemology, PAR should be distinguished from traditional research as it relies on

multiple perspectives redefining knowledge as “actions in pursuit of social justice” (Cammarota

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& Fine, 2008, p. 6). Those employing PAR as an epistemological approach to research have the

ability to emphasize the role of democratization and the redistribution of power.xxxi

The time-sensitive nature that Indigenous languages, such as Ho-Chunk and Omaha,

face towards revitalization efforts necessitates that research preserves current language

practices and searches for those grassroots efforts that push back. One area of particular interest

is students’ willingness to learn the language. As McCarty, Romero and Zepeda (2006) argue,

youth perspectives are a critical component to language planning and policy research in Native

America as these individuals play a vital role in continuing the language and culture for future

generations. Therefore, my study actively involves middle and high school students from area

schools, who participate as focal students and co-researchers.

My role in this project includes initiating the project, and later facilitating dialogue.

During the project’s infancy, I also provide student participants with research training. Fine and

her colleagues (2001) described this process as “creating the conditions for collaboration” and

“building a community of researchers”. Reflecting on the role of K-12 schools, Stovall (2006) has

described this as a space that offers “an alternative reality to the sensibilities of the ivory tower”

(Stovall, 2006). These spaces provide the student co-researchers and I place to critically

examine ideologies and challenge the status quo. The premise here is to have young people

“question, explore, and respond to the world in which they live by participating in the creative

opportunities to wrestle with the tangled complexities of self, other and difference” (Stovall,

2006, p. 233). As Stovall (2006) notes, “[r]arely do we give young people credit for being experts

on their lives” (p. 235). This PAR project for sociolinguistic justice embraces these lived

experiences of young people as legitimate resources in the research process within their own

language communities.
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The Research Process

One guiding assumption in this manuscript draws on the work of Keet, Zinn and Porteus

(2009), who contend that researchers should “find their power not in their ‘knowing’ but in their

ability to transcend the power they are exercising” (p. 115). In doing so, researchers not only

acknowledge the hegemonic structures in place that privilege them, but also attempt to

deconstruct those same hierarchies. After having offered a critical self-reflexive lens to my own

identity within this research context, I will now provide a transparent lens to my own research

process. This is particularly significant in the context of Native America, where the

methodological approach and research methods one uses to conduct research (i.e., the research

process) are argued to be far more important than the outcome. This is supported by Smith

(2012) who argues, “[p]rocesses are expected to be respectful, to enable people, to heal, and to

educate (p. 130). The research processes explicated here include three overarching themes: (1)

ongoing negotiations, (2) getting it wrong, and (3) adapting the process.

Ongoing Negotiations

As Clandinin (2013) reflects on the role of researchers in the midst, “Entering the field

begins with negotiation of relationships and the research puzzles to be explored. Negotiations of

purpose, transitions, intentions and texts are ongoing process throughout the inquiry” (p. 51). I

found this evident in my own experiences as a Non-Native working with and for two Indigenous

language communities. Due to the sovereign status of American Indian tribes, “Tribal

governments are the only ones with authority to ‘speak for’ the tribe as an entity” (Harding,

Harper, Stone, O’Neill, Berger, Harris, and Donatuto, 2012, p. 7). Provided this context, I sought

permissions from both tribal councils separately before submitting my research proposal to the

Institutional Review Board (IRB) at my institution. Because elections were being held for both

tribal councils in November, I began contacting each tribal council to set up a meeting the first

of December. It took two months before we could schedule a meeting where at least five tribal
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council members could be present. During each of these meetings, I brought food for council

members as a token of my appreciation. I also brought documents with a brief description of my

proposed project and a sample timeline. I gained permission from one tribal council on the day

of our meeting. The second tribal council requested an additional step be taken with their Tribal

affiliated IRB.

Tribally affiliated IRBs are necessary “to ensure against potential adverse impacts to

tribal individuals or governments that may be overlooked by academic IRBs” (Harding, Harper,

Stone, O’Neill, Berger, Harris, and Donatuto, 2012, p. 9); therefore, these separate and

simultaneous processes are not redundant. For the second IRB process with the tribe, I provided

a letter of support from an elder in the community for my project. I then met with the IRB

coordinator, and later with the whole tribally affiliated board in person. Together, we drafted a

Memorandum of Understanding. One topic discussed throughout this process pertained to

issues of copyright and intellectual property. The verbiage pertaining to these rights was

collaboratively decided as follows: “Copyright of these materials will be held by the

authors/creators of materials (i.e., participating middle and high school student co-researchers

and Ms. Sudbeck). Each tribe (i.e. the Winnebago Tribe of Nebraska and the Omaha Tribe of

Nebraska) shall retain ownership of the cultural artifacts, images, narratives, and other

intellectual property.” After four drafts, the final document was approved. This tribally affiliated

IRB process lasted approximately five months.

After having a collaboratively authored Memorandum of Understanding, I contacted

representatives of the language revitalization programs for each language community. Upon a

meeting with one of the language revitalization programs, I sat down with two members who

purified the space and the document through a smudging ceremony. One of the members was

my former language instructor, who by that time I had known for over two years. These
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representatives shared stories of the significance of revitalizing the language within their

community, and I thanked them for the opportunity and honor to be studying the language.

I contacted the second language revitalization program, who at that time had just

undergone a leadership change. Upon arrival at their building, I visited with my former

language instructor and her daughter. I then met with the new interim director (who is now the

permanent director) in his office, sharing the ideas of my proposed project. With his recent

promotion, he requested more time to look over the materials and consult with members of the

tribal council. He later contacted me to decline participation at this time, since there were many

changes occurring with his new leadership and several new hires.

Once I had gained approval from each of the tribal councils (one five months earlier than

the other), I immediately emailed community members requesting guidance on working with

students as co-researchers. During this time, I contacted teachers, fellow classmates, parents

and other community members to seek feedback on my proposed project. I then began seeking

permissions from school administrators at four separate schools. After several meetings, emails,

and phone conversations, six administrators from the four schools participated in these

exchanges. Permission was obtained from three schools.

In total, there were 32 people involved in this process of gaining two IRB approvals (i.e.,

one through my own institution and another affiliated with one tribe). With the IRB process at

my own institution, there were 79 drafted documents, 51 of which have since been deleted. The

total remaining documents attached to my IRB application numbered 28. After eight rounds of

revisions with IRB at my own institution, there were seven informed consent forms with the

stamp of approval to be used in my study: (1) focal student assent; (2) focal student

parent/guardian consent; (3) teacher; (4) administrator; (5) non-focal student assent; (6) non-

focal student parent/guardian consent; and (7) community member. From the time I originally
 84

submitted my proposal to my own institution to the time it was officially approved, the process

of gaining IRB approval took 9 months and 11 days.

Something important to note is the significant changes in personnel that took place

during the duration of gaining IRB approval. Elections were held for each of the tribal councils

(November and May), with new faces representing each tribe. With the transition of academic

school years, there were also personnel changes among members of the tribally affiliated IRB, as

well as newly hired administrators and teachers at the schools. In addition, each of the language

revitalization programs experienced personnel changes, due to changes in leadership, new hires,

retirements, and deaths.

With so many personnel changes, I began questioning who has the authority to approve

my project. If I succeeded in obtaining permission from one person, does that permission

remain even if this person later leaves that position of authority? Will my project approval be

withdrawn at a later date? These concerns were ongoing. I realized the extent to which the

process of negotiating entry had become an ongoing continuous practice, lingering throughout

the duration of the research process.

Getting It Wrong

During the process of obtaining IRB approval, I was finally able to contact the

superintendent from the fourth school with whom I had hoped to work.xxxii Of the four schools I

was proposing to recruit students from, this school was probably the least familiar to me. I had

only been in this school twice before. One teacher I knew was no longer working at the school,

another served the school in an area outside of language/culture classes, and the third was a

language/culture teacher who I only knew peripherally.

This meeting took place during October in the administrator’s office with the streaks of

warm sunshine beaming in between the crevices of the window shade. While we discussed
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details of the proposed project, I provided copies of the letter of permission from the Tribal

Council, a signed Memorandum of Understanding with the language revitalization program, and

a letter from the tribal college consenting that no additional tribal IRB was requested. Overall,

our meeting sounded promising, though the administrator wished to consult one of the language

teachers before granting permission for their school to participate. This teacher was not

available to join us at the time of our meeting, as she was away at a conference. I remember

trying to reach out to her months before, asking for feedback on my proposed project.

*****************************************************************************************

(Name of teachers),

I met with the Tribal Council about a project I am proposing to complete as part of my
dissertation research. After receiving their permission, I would like to share some materials
with the both of you about my proposed project working with middle and high school students
(as co-researchers) with hopes of simultaneously creating more resources for
language/culture teachers and potentially a documentary.

I would love to hear back from you on any suggestions that you might have. My next step is to
approach the schools, as my research protocol requires me to also obtain permission from
superintendents at each of the schools.

Any suggestions you have will be greatly appreciated!

(Email 2/18/15)

****************************************************************************************

I followed up with two more emails to the same teacher, but I did not hear back. I again tried to

email the teacher immediately after I arrived home from my meeting with the administrator,

with hopes of trying to set up a meeting to discuss things further. I still did not hear back,

though I knew she had been attending a conference and would need time to travel and catch up

on work once she returned. Six days following the meeting with the school administrator, I

received an email which stated that after consulting with staff in the culture department, they

thought it would be best not to participate at this time. The administrator shared that the

culture department had already committed to several projects this year.

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After reading this email, disappointment was painted all over my face. I immediately told

myself that I had to respect their wishes. Despite this, in the back of my mind I began

questioning what more I could have done. If only I could explain to the culture department that

my intention was for the role of the teachers to actually be quite minimal. It was an intentional

choice not to require too much of the teachers’ time, as I was already aware of the limited time

and resources available to teachers in similar positions. How could I reassure them that I was

hoping to work primarily with middle and high school students? I had hoped the

language/culture teachers would nominate students from their school to participate voluntarily

as co-researchers. The teacher could then voluntarily participate in the study individually once

reading through and signing an Informed Consent Form, knowing that they could withdraw

from the study at anytime. Specific tasks for those voluntarily participating would be to

participate in an interview, grant permission for observations in his/her classroom where the

student co-researchers were present, and consent for samples of student work to be available. I

had hoped that the teachers would also benefit from this project, by gaining more teaching

materials as a result of the projects conducted by the team of student co-researchers and myself.

I felt disheartened that the teacher did not respond to my emails. I could have explained

so much more about what I was proposing to do with the students as co-researchers. I also

began questioning what I did wrong. I could have called to set up an in-person meeting with

them. I could have brought food or a small gift with me during this meeting. I could have asked

one of the ladies with whom I was working more closely to join us in this meeting. But I didn’t.

So many questions remained in my mind, but I needed to respect their decision.

In hindsight, I realize that the frame through which I had been socialized was different

than those I had with whom I tried to connect. Here, I was seeking a more time efficient manner

to set up a meeting, rather than taking the time to build a trusting relationship with someone I

only knew peripherally. I believe this is a colonized way of thinking. Yes, I had tried several
 87

times through email to reach out for feedback from language/culture teachers at this school, but

perhaps I could have gone beyond my email efforts.

However, I also felt very confined as to how much contact I could make with teachers

about the project before receiving IRB approval. In a voice memo, I reflected on this

contradictory relationship.

“It is really frustrating, because IRB says that I can’t ask permission from the teachers

[with an approved Informed Consent Form] until I have consent from the school. Which,

with the consent of the school… means that it must come from higher up, the

administrator of the school” (11/18/2015).

Yet, in this instance the administrator was seeking insight from the teachers before granting

permission for the school to participate. I felt as though it became a conundrum similar to

asking which comes first, the chicken or the egg?

Upon critical reflection following a conversation I had with another community member,

I also learned that there were different perspectives in whose permission I should be obtaining

and in what order. My first instinct was to contact the tribal councils and request permission. In

my mind, this would affirm tribal sovereignty and self-determination. In addition, I would take

any additional steps necessary if the tribal council requested that I go through their separate

IRB in addition to my own university. However, the community member also questioned if the

tribal council’s permission was even necessary. Then I began to wonder, do the tribal councils

have jurisdiction for research conducted in the schools? Does it depend on if it is a BIA school, a

public school or a private school? Is there a difference on if the tribal council provides funding

for the school’s language programs?

Another part of my process that I continue to question pertains to the Memorandum of

Understanding, which was co-authored through multiple drafts with members of the
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neighboring Tribal IRB. With the projects produced by the team of student co-researchers and

myself (one of which I hoped would be a documentary film), I requested that there would be

some type of advisory council to provide constructive feedback. For example, were there

components that were not represented accurately? Were there pieces of the story that were left

out? Yet, I am left wondering who has the authority within these language communities to say

what is correct or incorrect. With the documentary as an example, I intended to offer a

community viewing of the film before it was in its final state. I planned to feast the people and

do a giveaway during this time, in accordance with cultural protocol. In the Memorandum of

Understanding, I had hoped that members of the identified language revitalization program

would attend along with other community members. I had intended to allow the constructive

feedback to come from multiple layers of the community, ultimately with those interested in

revitalizing and maintaining the language. However, how does one determine who the governing

authority is? I realize that the language revitalization program in this particular scenario did not

account for all stakeholders in the language community. More specifically, it did not include the

aforementioned language/culture teacher that preferred her school not participate. Was this

perhaps another reason that contributed to the choice of the fourth school not to participate?

Adapting the Process

With the IRB process taking much longer than I originally anticipated, I still began to

recruit students to participate as co-researchers upon approval. However, due to the time and

contextual constraints, it made sense to separate this participatory action research project for

sociolinguistic justice from my dissertation. In doing so, I wanted to take into account Battiste’s

(2008) concerns: “As outsiders, non-Indigenous researchers may be useful in helping

Indigenous peoples articulate their concerns, but to speak for them is to deny them the self-

determination so essential to human justice and progress” (p. 504). This is quite similar to the

words of educational philosopher and social justice advocate, Paulo Freire (1970/2012) who
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noted “They [the oppressed] cannot enter the struggle as objects in order later to become

human beings” (p. 68, emphasis in the original). That I cannot speak for them is a guiding

assumption in what I later chose as the current representation of my dissertation research.xxxiii

“So why not observe the observer, focus on turning our observations back on ourselves?

And why not write more directly, from the source of your own experiences?” (Ellis & Bochner,

2000, p. 747). Though I realize I had been doing this all along, I wanted to explicitly present to

my dissertation committee how I was critically turning inward. This turn inward with the

researcher as subject has developed through many methodological approaches. In anthropology,

we see Denzin’s (1994) Interpretive Ethnography, Van Maanen’s (1988) Confessional Tales,

and Behar’s (1996) The Vulnerable Observer as prime examples of emphasizing the personal

narrative within ethnography. Others may refer to this reflexive work as an autobiographical

narrative inquiry (Cardinal, 2013; Clandinin, 2013), while still others refer to this as an

autoethnographic approach (Boylorn & Orbe, 2014; Chang, 2008; Ellis, 2004; Ellis & Bochner;

2000).xxxiv Autoethnography has been described as a cultural analysis through personal

narrative, which is ethnographic in its methodological orientation, cultural in its interpretive

orientation, and autobiographical in its content orientation (Boylorn & Orbe, 2014; Chang,

2008).

For my own research purposes, I chose a critical autoethnographic approach to my own

language learning experiences. Boylorn and Orbe (2014) conceptualize critical autoethnography

by centering it with three key components of critical theory: “to understand the lived experience

of real people in context, to examine social conditions and uncover oppressive power

arrangements, and to fuse theory and action to challenge processes of domination” (p. 20). The

aim in autoethnographic research, and I would argue even more so in those featuring a critical

lens, is “to encourage compassion and promote dialogue […] The stories we write put us into

conversation with ourselves as well as with our readers” (Ellis & Bochner, 2000, p. 748). As
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Cann and DeMeulenaere (2012) observe, critical autoethnographic research is “messy and

complicated; it would be disingenuous to write a sanitized version of it from a falsely objective

and dispassionate distance” (p. 2). This methodological choice reflects the aforementioned

postmodern turn in qualitative research, with the researcher (i.e., myself) as subject.

In utilizing critical autoethnography as the means for presenting my research, it is also

worth noting its significance in the context of my research topic in particular (i.e., a Non-Native

learning two Indigenous languages). Battiste (2008) argues that Non-Native researchers must

acquire Indigenous languages in order to understand the worldviews held by said Indigenous

groups.

“Language includes ways of knowing, ways of socializing, and non-verbal

communication. […] Indigenous languages have spirits that can be known through the

people who understand them, and renewing and rebuilding from within the people is

itself the process of coming to know” (Battiste, 2008, p. 504).

This orientation to Indigenous language learning by researchers (particularly those who are

Non-Native) is supported by Hermes (2015) who recognizes the ability to think “through an

Indigenous language, and supporting others in that, is the ultimate act of resistance” (p. 273,

emphasis added). It is worth noting here that to learn Omaha and Ho-Chunk languages is a

privilege that I have been afforded.xxxv The fact that I have the access (i.e., enrolled college

student with access to student loans) and the opportunity (i.e., courses offered at tribal colleges)

to study Ho-Chunk and Omaha is something that I do not take for granted.

Though not as I had originally planned for my dissertation research, time, and

contextual constraints lent me the opportunity to explicitly address how I positioned my own

identity within this particular context prior to initiating the PAR project. While others have

examined their language learning experiences of dominant world languages (Bell Sinclair, 1997;
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Fallows, 2010), limited studies have focused on Indigenous language learning experiences. One

example comes from the work of Chew, Greendeer and Keliiaa (2015), who embraced their own

subjectivities through a collaborative autoethnography by presenting personal accounts of

language reclamation efforts in their respective Indigenous languages (i.e., languages of the

Chickasaw, Wampanoag, and Washoe peoples) during their graduate studies. In addition, Meek

(2011) included a description of her personal, social, political and ideological positions as a

Native researcher and student of Kaska in her ethnographic work in a northern Athabaskan

community. As a Non-Native learning two Indigenous languages, my study features a unique

component. In contrast, this critical examination of my own identity with regard to subject-as-

seen and subject-as-heard (Crump, 2014; Sarkar, Low & Winer, 2007) is pertinent to the task of

decolonizing the research process at hand.

As I critically turn inward, it is important to be cognizant of the PAR framework I set out

to do in the first place. Though not to the entirety of the PAR as complete collaboration, I still

sought to do a “deep analysis of the researcher in context” (Smith, 2005, p. 90) through the lens

of others. In order to do so, I drew on the critical ethnographic methods of Foley and Valenzuela

(2005), who committed to a dialogic style of interviewing; intimate, highly personal informant

relations; a community review of the manuscript; and writing in a more accessible way. Here,

the analysis is grounded in my participants’ understanding as well as my own (Ellis, 2004).

Additionally, since I am presenting the critical autoethnographic presentation first, this

approach allows me to challenge the hegemony of objectivity prior to reporting on the PAR

project with student co-researchers. In doing so, I am able to intimately analyze my researcher

self, my innermost thoughts, and personal information, which are topics that usually lie beyond

the reach of other methodological approaches (Chang, Ngunjiri & Hernandez, 2013).
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Seeking Transformation in the Research Process

Provided the problematic ways in which Western research has been conducted in

minoritized communities, researchers working with and for Indigenous peoples should seek

“culturally congruent research methodologies” (Chew, Greendeer & Keliiaa, 2015). Indigenous

ways of knowing, being and doing should be privileged in this process (Denzin, Lincoln & Smith,

2008; Grande, 2015; Smith, 2012). Brayboy, Gough, Leonard, Roehl and Solyom (2012) refer to

these culturally congruent approaches as Critical Indigenous Research Methodologies, which are

rooted in relationships, responsibility, respect, reciprocity and accountability.

Relationality

Brayboy and his colleagues (2012) conceptualize relationality as the means in which

relationships are enacted and connected in the context of research.xxxvi With implications for the

ownership, utility and sharing of knowledge, relationality offers the perception that “knowledge

is not a commodity; instead, it is information gained or accumulated in order to serve the needs

of those with whom we are in relation” (p. 433). In other words, the knowledge generated

through research with Indigenous communities is intended to serve others.

In creating and maintaining relationships during the research process with and for

Indigenous peoples, Wilson (2001) recognizes

“As a researcher you are answering to all your relations when you are doing research

[…] you should be fulfilling your relationships with the world around you. So your

methodology has to ask different questions: rather than asking about validity and

reliability, you are asking how am I fulfilling my role in this relationship? What are my

obligations in this relationship?” (p. 177)

In essence, proponents of Critical Indigenous Research Methodologies (CIRM) suggest that

researchers move away from “ivory tower intellectuals” (Smith, 2003, p. 213) to become
 93

community-serving, community-rooted intellectuals (Brayboy, Gough, Leonard, Roehl &

Solyom, 2012).

In my own research, I have yearned to take this relational ontology into account. For

example, I began meeting people within these communities over three years ago (at the time of

this writing) and have developed sustainable relationships with several community members

and their families. As illustrated in the “Getting It Wrong” excerpt above, I continue to question

the manner in which I negotiate my relationships with others in this research context. CIRM

supporters posit that knowledge is both relational and subjective, thus it is not owned by the

individual (Brayboy, Gough, Leonard, Roehl & Solyom, 2012). The manner in which I view

knowledge production and expertise also draws on the collaborative epistemology framework of

PAR, in which I am committed to “plural and subjugated expertise” which honors and develops

these “varied bases of knowledge” to explicitly problematize the “hegemonic and hierarchical

assumptions about who is the expert” (Fine, 2008, p. 222-3).

Despite my efforts to begin a PAR project with adolescents and young adults in area

schools that reflect this collaborative production and sharing of knowledge, I did run into some

obstacles. That is, as a researcher it is necessary to “comply with the legal and procedural

aspects of the ethics held by institutional review boards” (Clandinin, 2013, p. 198). In order to be

truly collaborative in nature, the PAR design should be collaboratively negotiated and co-

constructed, research questions should be co-constructed, the research process should be

transparent on all matters, analysis should be co-constructed, and research products should be

collaboratively crafted (Tuck & Fine, 2007; Tuck, 2008). However, the IRB protocol required me

to submit a list of research questions and proposed projects with a timeline before I could even

begin recruiting students to participate. From the project initiation stage, the research was not

allowed to be collaborative. It is also worth noting that “the requirement to obtain ethical

approval of our research proposals prior to beginning to negotiate our inquiries works against
 94

the relational negotiation” that is part of the research (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000, p. 170).

Additionally, the choice to adapt my dissertation to a critical autoethnography due to time

constraints (although it follows more of a dialogical approach) limits the collaborative nature I

had hoped to conduct my research. Similar to Cardinal’s (2013) work, the ontological nature of

relationality has guided me into alternative ways of thinking about my research inquiry space,

holding me accountable for the necessity to benefit “all my relations” (Wilson, 2001, p. 177).

Responsibility

There is an inherent link between relationships and responsibilities from the CIRM

perspective. That is, research is situated within “complex relationships that necessitate multiple

responsibilities on the part of the researcher” (Brayboy, Gough, Leonard, Roehl & Solyom, 2012,

p. 438). Drawing on culturally congruent methods, CIRM researchers have the responsibility to

care for the ideas generated and the living beings influenced by the research through careful

thought, consultation and collaboration. Further, Chilisa (2012) recognizes the responsibility for

those conducting research through a postcolonial Indigenous paradigm, requiring the

researcher to “critically reflect on self as knower, redeemer, colonizer and transformative healer”

(p. 174).

Because I am a Non-Native working with and for two Indigenous language communities,

it is also my responsibility to disrupt the silence that secures my privileges. Tuck and Fine

(2007) have critically discussed the nature of those who cloak and overshadow colonizer’s guilt

by acknowledging the oppression exists but simultaneously retreating from taking responsibility

for change. In their critique, they assert

“These responses of white guilt and colonizer’s guilt distract from what a real/ an ethical

conversation about ongoing colonization and ongoing decolonization requires:

preparedness, listening, reflection, and reparation” (Tuck & Fine, 2007, p. 155).
 95

Hence, I have an ethical responsibility to not only name the privileges I have and share this

knowing (Cardinal, 2013), but I also have the responsibility to move beyond white/colonizer’s

guilt.

Throughout my research process, attention has been brought to these principles of

preparedness, listening, reflection and reparation (Tuck & Fine, 2007). For example,

preparedness involves an intimate epistemological shift which I have been developing over time,

but even more explicitly through the coursework in my doctoral program, attendance at social

justice oriented conferences, and ongoing dialogue with other likeminded colleagues.

Developing critical consciousness (Freire, 1970) stems not only through formal educational

experiences, but also through listening. Listening has been present through the ongoing

negotiations I have had with members from each language community. Proponents of Tribal

Critical Race Theory (TribalCrit) make the distinction between listening to stories and actually

hearing them; whereas listening is “part of going through the motions of acting engaged and

allowing individuals to talk”, hearing stories signifies that “value is attributed to them and both

the authority and the nuance of stories are understood” (Brayboy, 2005, p. 440). Hence, my aim

in this research is to continue hearing the stories of my participants and work towards social

change. Finally, critical reflection and reparation work in tandem with one another. Keet, Zinn

and Porteus (2009) argue for the key principle of mutual vulnerability – “that can disrupt and

rupture normative frames and at the same time spread the burden of self-consciousness more

substantively equal” (p. 115). Substantive equality, here, recognizes that past patterns of

oppression have resulted in some segments of society to be disempowered and unable to

compete and interact on an equal footing (Keet, Zinn and Porteus, 2009). In other words,

vulnerability on account of the researcher (or other powerful role) offers more equitable

conditions aimed towards reconciliation. This critical reflection of self is presented in part

throughout this manuscript and more thoroughly in the third accompanying manuscript.

Critical reflection allows the possibility for reconciliation, where reparations can then begin.
 96

Respect

Naturally stemming from responsibility and relationships is the significance of respect in

research with and for Indigenous peoples. Mutual and ongoing respect is the foundation from

which relationships must be built, otherwise the research cannot be conducted ethically

(Brayboy, Gough, Leonard, Roehl & Solyom, 2012). Smith (2012) links respect as being

organically woven with ethical research conducted with and for Indigenous peoples:

“From indigenous perspectives ethical codes of conduct serve partly the same purpose as

the protocols which govern our relationships with each other and with the environment.

The term ‘respect’ is consistently used by indigenous peoples to underscore the

significance of our relationships and humanity. Through respect the place of everyone

and everything in the universe is kept in balance and harmony. Respect is a reciprocal,

shared, constantly interchanging principle which is expressed through all aspects of

social conduct” (p. 125).

As a reciprocal, shared, constantly interchanging principle, I have found respect as a condition

for research ethics within my own research context. Examples of this were displayed through my

efforts to abide by cultural protocols (Archibald, 2008; Awakuni-Swetland, 2003; Cardinal,

2013), such as providing tribal council members with food during our meetings, smudging to

purify the space and document while signing the Memorandum of Understanding, not looking

directly in someone’s eye while listening/speaking (especially with elders), and bringing small

gifts to meetings with community members. I admit, however, that I still continue to learn

cultural protocols that pertain to each group separately.

Reciprocity

Stemming from the three tenants to CIRM mentioned thus far (i.e., relationality,

responsibility, and respect), comes reciprocity. What we receive from others, we must also offer
 97

to others (Rice, 2005). Emerging from reciprocity is a clear sense of relatedness. That is,

“whatever is received makes its way back around to others” (Brayboy, Gough, Leonard, Roehl &

Solyom, 2012, p. 439). In my own work, the materials I have developed as a student of Ho-

Chunk and Omaha, I have gifted back to several teachers, fellow classmates, and students. For

example, in order to study for my Omaha language oral exam during the first semester, I

recorded myself to review vocabulary, commands, my self-introduction, common classroom

phrases, etc. I listened to this CD in my car during my drives to and from class. I later shared a

copy of this CD with one of my fellow Ho-Chunk classmates who had Omaha ancestry on his

mother’s side. He mentioned that he had never studied Omaha, but had always wanted to. This

was my small gift of giving the language back, sharing what I have learned.

As Stewart-Harawira (2005) observes, “Reciprocity recognizes that nothing occurs

without corresponding action. Reciprocity means deeply acknowledging the gifts of the other

and acting on this recognition in ways which deeply honor the other. At its deepest and most

fundamental level, reciprocity requires that we acknowledge and honour the ‘being’ of the other”

(p. 156). To be able to study the Omaha and Ho-Chunk languages was a gift that I received, and I

continue to work with three teachers in area schools by sharing curricular materials that I

stumble upon, adapt from other language teaching resources, or develop from scratch.

Throughout this ongoing process, I continue to question myself what more can I do?

Accountability

Drawing on the four preceding tenants of CIRM, the final seeks to hold researchers

accountable. Smith (2000) argues that a level of accountability is necessary to assure

researchers are in fact developing the transformative outcomes for Indigenous communities that

they purport to be serving. The original PAR project involving middle and high school students

is something that I am still working on, though it remains separate from the material presented

in this manuscript. In its place, I am doing a “deep analysis of the researcher in context” (Smith,
 98

2005, p. 90) through the lens of others by drawing on the critical ethnographic methods of Foley

and Valenzuela (2005): a dialogic style of interviewing; intimate, highly personal informant

relations; an oral review of the manuscript by community members; and a more accessible style

of writing.

The more accessible style of writing is of particular interest, as it deviates from the

conventional dissertation model. With research with and for Indigenous communities scholars

argue, researchers must be held accountable within the academy and within Indigenous

communities (Hill & May, 2013; Windchief, Garcia & San Pedro, 2015). “This moves us from

research, teaching, and service to a kind, humble, thankful, and courageous way of being. […]

This kind of thinking breathes new life into our work, thus Indigenizing the process” (Windchief,

Garcia & San Pedro, 2015, p. 281). Therefore, while the first two manuscripts are written with

academic audiences in mind, the third manuscript features an accessibility and readability for

wider audiences which include the Indigenous language communities I seek to serve. This type

of text “repositions the reader as a coparticipant in dialogue and thus rejects the orthodox view

of the reader as a passive receiver of knowledge” (Ellis & Bochner, 2000, p. 744). In order for

the research to lead to social transformation (Smith, 2012), we must continue to ask who it

benefits.

Conclusion

In this manuscript, I have provided a critical reflection of myself as a Non-Native

researcher and learner of two Indigenous languages, Ho-Chunk and Omaha. In addition, a

transparent lens has begun to illuminate the intricacies and complexities underlying the

research process. In particular, discussions of the research process included three themes:

ongoing negotiations, getting it wrong, and adapting the research. Seeking to transform the

research process, I then examined these research processes through the guiding principles of

CIRM, which includes relationality, responsibility, respect, reciprocity, accountability.

 99

Stemming from this critical reflection on my research process, there are implications for

future research to be considered. As Smith (2005) contends, “Negotiating and transforming

institutional practices and research frameworks is as significant as the carrying out of the actual

research programs” (p. 91). As such, I ask for an ongoing critical dialogue to continue

surrounding research ethics as it pertains to research conducted with and for Indigenous

communities. Some of this critical dialogue has already begun. On behalf of the American

Anthropological Association (AAA), Lederman and Dobrin (2016) have recently submitted a call

to dramatically overhaul the federal regulations that are currently in place to protect human

subjects. These critical conversations need to continue. As a system that was originally designed

for medical research (Bosk & deVries, 2004; Goode, 2015), ethical procedures to prevent harm

to human subjects may be incompatible for certain types of social/behavioral research studies.

In particular, “institutional bureaucracy often places limits on community participation, an

element vital to the success of language programs” (Chew, Greendeer & Keliiaa, 2015). The

difficulty and inefficiency of gaining approval for my own PAR study for sociolinguistic justice

with student co-researchers, as documented above, provides testament lending to the factors

that contribute to why there is such a large gap in the literature.

In addition, ongoing critical dialogue is needed between tribally affiliated IRB and the

IRB from larger research institutions in order to educate one another about culturally congruent

research methods. This was particularly relevant to my study, which featured two neighboring

groups with two very different research protocols. There is no one-size-fits all, and we should

seek what Tuck and Fine (2007) conceptualize as the “deep particularities of history, colonized

spaces, and minds” for each sovereign nation (p. 147).

Throughout my research process, I found many similarities to Steigman and Castledon

(2014)’s paradox between Indigenous autonomy and institutional oversight, where they found

themselves stuck, feeling a sense of “"damned if we do" the minutia (privileging academic
 100

protocols over respect for Indigenous jurisdiction and community autonomy) or "damned if we

don’t" (thus not getting [IRB] approval to proceed with our research)” (p. 4). Within this

predicament, I neither want to lie to the university nor completely disempower the communities

I am serving. Unmistakably, I support the goals of our institutional ethics committees that are in

place to prevent the harmful research done in the past (Goode, 2015). However, if we are to

move towards decolonizing the research process, more is necessary. As Smith (2005) observes,

“Research is not just a highly moral and civilized search for knowledge; it is a set of very

human activities that reproduce particular social relations of power. Decolonizing

research, then, is not simply about challenging or making refinements to qualitative

research. It is a much broader but still purposeful agenda for transforming the

institution of research, the deep underlying structures and taken-for-granted ways of

organizing, conducting, and disseminating research and knowledge” (p. 88).

With this in mind, we should strive to ensure that institutional ethics support the kind of

“community-driven, capacity-building, empowering research that Indigenous communities,

Indigenous scholars, and non-Indigenous scholar allies are demanding becomes the norm”

(Steigman & Castledon, 2014, p. 4) Critical dialogue needs to continue in order to enable these

transformative research processes, not disable them.

 101

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MANUSCRIPT # 3
Learning through the Language:
A Critical Autoethnography of a Non-Native among Two
Indigenous Language Communities

Abstract:

In an effort to critically examine her language learning experiences, the author utilizes the
theory of experience (Dewey, 1928) and critical language and race theory (LangCrit) (Crump,
2014) as a framework for understanding the intersections of her identity. The author self-
identifies as a white woman who began learning two Indigenous languages in northeast
Nebraska: Umonhon/Omaha (Omaha Tribe of Nebraska and Iowa) and Hocąk/Ho-Chunk
(Winnebago Tribe of Nebraska). In reflecting on her visible identity, she recognizes the
development of her own understanding about what it means to be white/waxe/mąįxete and
Non-Native in the context of colonization. The critical examination of her audible identity
revealed nuances in how she was learning through the languages. Through the development of
understanding the complexities of her audible identity, she recognized that she was drawing on
her entire linguistic repertoire through the process of translanguaging. She offers the new
metaphor of a tapestry to illustrate her lived experiences of language learning. The author
argues for Indigenous language study to be a necessary component of teacher preparation
programs, with potential implications for fostering “critical culturally sustaining/revitalizing
pedagogy” (McCarty & Lee, 2016) among teachers serving Indigenous youth.

Keywords: LangCrit, Critical Autoethnography, Indigenous language, Hocąk/Ho-Chunk,

Umonhon/Omaha
 107

In the fall of 2015, I was asked to guest lecture for an undergraduate course I had

previously taught for the three preceding years. I excitedly jumped at the opportunity, as I had

missed teaching Multicultural Education. My colleague asked that I speak of my identity in the

context of my own research and why I am an advocate for social justice.

I opened my PowerPoint slides, the background of which is my favorite color- a soft, sage

green. Students filed into the classroom, seating themselves in small groups at the tables. Class

began punctually at 9 o’clock, and my colleague introduced me to her class of 34 students. The

slideshow began with a picture of my hometown population sign, citing a population of 190

people. This was accompanied by a map of where my hometown is located, which is

approximately three hours driving distance from the university where I was giving this guest

lecture.

This slide was followed by a series of photos. One picture depicted me as a five year old

with a red sweatshirt and matching stocking hat next to my dad in his coveralls, as we stood in

front of farm machinery. Another photo portrayed my maternal grandmother standing beside

two of her acrylic paintings of landscapes, taken two years before her cancer came back. An

additional photo represented a memory of the day I adopted my Miniature Pinscher, bringing

the companion I later named Rudy home for the first time.

After several slides, covering concepts such as systems of oppression, social identity

categories, and intersectionality, I offered the class an example of working towards social justice

using my own identity as a Non-Native learning two Indigenous languages (i.e.,

Umonhon/Omaha and Hocąk/Ho-Chunk).xxxvii Within this example of language learning, I

shared that I moved to a community on the Winnebago Reservation, which neighbors the

Omaha Reservation. I then asked students in the class,

Kristine: Have any of you heard of the Winnebago or Omaha peoples?

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Male student: Winnebago, you mean like the RV campers?

Female student: I’m from the city of Omaha. Does that count?

I clenched my jaw to keep it from dropping. With my lips pursed, I felt my head swarming with

frustration. The university where this guest lecture was taking place was only two hours driving

distance (approximately 100 miles) from the reservation communities I had mentioned. Were

my expectations too high to believe these college students, many of which in this class will be

future educators themselves, should have at least some knowledge of these sovereign nations

located within the same state as this university?

This was not the first, nor was it the only time, that this frustration occurred. On several

occasions, I felt myself having to bite my tongue. I had to acknowledge that many of us came

from different learning experiences. For example, in the fall of 2014, I formally enrolled in

Omaha and Ho-Chunk language courses at the tribal colleges located on these two

aforementioned reservations (Please see APPENDIX D for a guide to Omaha pronunciations

and APPENDIX E for Ho-Chunk pronunciations). Since I was working with students from both

reservations I chose to study both languages simultaneously, so as not to privilege certain

students (or one language community) over others. Each language class was guided by a team of

instructors, led by a fluent elder. I successfully completed levels I and II for each language, and

continued to explore informal language learning opportunities within and outside of the

communities. Through the study of Omaha and Ho-Chunk languages, I began learning more

about alternative versions of history, as well as more about the current sociopolitical context. In

the past, however, I grew up reading my fair share of white-washed, sugarcoated history books

(Loewen, 1995). This seems to be a shared experience with many of the undergraduate students

I teach, perhaps also including those present during this guest lecture. It seems as though it

wasn’t until after I began college that I became exposed to alternative, sometimes even

conflicting, tellings of the same history. Were so many of us miseducated?

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In the text that follows, I will first introduce you to Critical Race and Language Theory

(LangCrit), the theoretical lens with which I delved in to understand the complexities of my own

identity as a Non-Native language learner of two Indigenous languages. Next, I will guide you to

consider the methodological approach of critical autoethnography featured in this piece as it

intersects with the phenomenon and context of this study. Stemming from my experiences as a

language learner within these two Indigenous language communities, I will explore the

development of my own understanding with regard to the complexities of my visible (subject-as-

seen) and audible (subject-as-heard) identities. I conclude this piece by offering three areas that

I believe should be considered explicitly in order to more deeply understand the complexities

and nuances of lived experiences of Indigenous language learning and their implications:

colonization, dual-citizenship status, and the perception of (dis)appearing languages.

Theoretical Framework

In order to more critically engage with my own experiences learning two Indigenous

languages as a Non-Native, I draw on the lens of Critical Language and Race Theory (LangCrit),

which Crump (2014a) explains is a theoretical framework which “challenges fixed assumptions

related to categories such as language, identity and race”, arguing that these categories are

“socially and locally constructed” (p. 220). At its core, LangCrit challenges the notion that local

experiences of language policy (e.g., national, institutional, educational, familial, etc.) can be

understood solely through the lens of language. LangCrit illuminates the intersectionality of

one’s multiple identities, both fixed and fluid, which are lived by individuals and hold meaning

in ways unique to their own circumstances.

Four tenants have been identified specifically for LangCrit. First, LangCrit scholars

perceive racism as endemic to society and having real social implications. Second, proponents of

LangCrit overtly embrace and seek out the intersectionality of different dimensions of one’s

mosaic of multiple identities (Crump, 2014a). Third, LangCrit scholars acknowledge the
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existence of “socially constructed and negotiated hierarchies and boundaries among social

categories, such as language, identity and race, which constitute a continuum of possibilities

from fixed to fluid” (Crump, 2014a, p. 220). Finally, LangCrit emphasizes how local language

practices and individual stories are intertwined with the broader sociopolitical context of

practices and discourses within the web of social relations (Crump, 2014a). Here, stories and

counterstories are seen as legitimate sources of data.

In essence, LangCrit challenges the notion that local experiences of language policy can

be understood through language alone. Rather, it should be noted that individual experiences of

language cross a variety of social categories. LangCrit provides a lens to more fully understand a

wider spectrum of identity possibilities based on the intersections of audible and visible identity

(Crump, 2014a, 2014b; Sarkar, Low & Winer, 2007). I use this theoretical framework to capture

and document the development of my own visible and audible identities through learning two

Indigenous languages. I write this work in an effort to more fully comprehend the interplay

between socially constructed meanings and language practices within this particular context.

Methodological Approach

As a Non-Native learning two Indigenous languages, I must address the historical power

dynamic present within this research context. As several scholars have purported (Battiste,

2008; Brayboy, Gough, Leonard, Roehl & Solyom, 2012; Deloria, 1992; Smith, 2012; Tuck,

2009; Tuck & Fine, 2007), the relationship between Non-Native researcher and Indigenous

populations is one that has traditionally been interpreted as exploiting Indigenous peoples, their

culture, their knowledge and their resources. For example, Vine Deloria, Jr. (1992) described

this relationship as follows - “For most of the five centuries [of U.S. colonization], whites have

had unrestricted power to describe Indians in any way they chose” (p. 398). Battiste (2008)

urges Non-Native researchers to understand that “to speak for [Indigenous peoples] is to deny

them the self-determination so essential to human justice and progress” (p. 504). In his critique
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of postmodern rhetoric through which whites speak of deconstructing their dominance, Howard

(2006) observes “Whites often speak of ‘giving voice’ to marginalized groups, as if their voice is

ours to give” (p. 66, emphasis in the original). For these reasons, a guiding assumption within

this manuscript is that I cannot speak for members of these Indigenous language communities. I

seek, instead, alternative ways in which to describe my own experiences of learning.

With this guiding assumption in mind, Toyosaki and Pensoneau-Conway (2013) consider

the ‘doing’ of autoethnography as the praxis of social justice: “We live in a world we need to

change. We need a way to understand ourselves critically and carefully, for us, for others, and

for all of us together” (p. 558). This turn inward with the researcher as subject has developed

through many methodological approaches. In anthropology, we see Denzin’s (1994) Interpretive

Ethnography, Van Maanen’s (1988) Confessional Tales, and Behar’s (1996) The Vulnerable

Observer as prime examples of emphasizing the personal narrative within ethnography. Others

may refer to this reflexive work as an autobiographical narrative inquiry (Cardinal, 2013;

Clandinin, 2013), while still others refer to this as an autoethnographic approach (Boylorn &

Orbe, 2014; Chang, 2008; Ellis, 2004; Ellis & Bochner; 2000).xxxviii Autoethnography has been

described as a cultural analysis through personal narrative, which is ethnographic in its

methodological orientation, cultural in its interpretive orientation, and autobiographical in its

content orientation (Boylorn & Orbe, 2014; Chang, 2008). Autoethnographic texts reposition

the reader as a “coparticipant in dialogue” (Ellis & Bochner, 2000, p. 744). While

autoethnographers vary in their emphasis on three components: self (auto), culture (ethnos),

and research process (graphy) (Chang, Ngunjiri & Hernandez, 2013; Ellis & Bochner, 2000),

this mode of inquiry allows the researcher to blend cultural and interpersonal experience of

everyday interactions with others and to recognize the intersectional elements of one’s identity.

For my own research purposes, I chose a critical autoethnographic approach to examine

my own identity through experiences of learning two Indigenous languages. Boylorn and Orbe

(2014) conceptualize critical autoethnography by centering it with three key components of

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critical theory: “to understand the lived experience of real people in context, to examine social

conditions and uncover oppressive power arrangements, and to fuse theory and action to

challenge processes of domination” (p. 20). The aim in autoethnographic research, and I would

argue even more so in those featuring a critical lens, is “to encourage compassion and promote

dialogue […] The stories we write put us into conversation with ourselves as well as with our

readers” (Ellis & Bochner, 2000, p. 748). While the idea of self-study for social justice may seem

contradictory to some, Toyosaki and Pensoneau-Conway (2013) argue that the

autoethnographic approach “entails an examination of the self who engages in social

justice/responds to social injustice” (p. 560) through the examination of three ontological

contexts: becoming (the self), relating (with relational others), and making community

(together).

The purpose of this critical autoethnographic study is to examine the intersections of my

own identity through lived experiences as a Non-Nativexxxix beginning to learn two indigenous

languages in northeast Nebraska. While others have examined personal accounts of language

learning (Bell, 1997; Fallows, 2010), limited research to date focuses explicitly on personal

accounts of Indigenous language learning (Chew, Greendeer & Keliiaa, 2015). This study may be

particularly relevant for members of Indigenous language groups who are interested in language

revitalization and who may seek to collaborate with Non-Native individuals (Hermes, 2012).

Permission to conduct this research has been approved by the Omaha Tribal Council

(See APPENDIX A). An additional Tribal IRB was requested through the Winnebago Tribal

Council, and was later approved (See APPENDIX B). As a doctoral student at a midwestern

university, authorization to conduct this research was granted by the university’s Institutional

Review Board (20151014159 EX). All three sovereign government entities have protocols aimed

at the protection of human subjects and the pursuit of ethical research.

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My field texts are constructed through a collection of several data sources: journal

entries, field notes, a dialogic/interactive style of interviews, videotaped oral exams, audio

recorded voice memos, and other artifacts (Chang et al., 2013; Clandinin & Connelly, 2000; Ellis

& Bochner, 2000; Ellis, Kiesinger & Tillmann-Healy, 1997; Foley & Valenzuela, 2005). Field

texts were analyzed using MAXQDA software, by utilizing coding strategies of continuously

questioning the meaning and social significance of the findings (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000;

Clandindin, 2013) and systematic sociological introspection (Ellis & Bochner, 2000). Member

checking was utilized as a way to confirm accounts when others were present. Oral and written

versions of the manuscript were then reviewed by several members from each language

community. Additionally, peer review was conducted by several committee members and

academic colleagues.

Within autoethnographic research, it is also important to recognize the ethical issue of

protecting “involuntary participants”; therefore, composites and collapsing events (Ellis &

Bochner, 2000) were utilized for the protection of other actors who happen to be part of the

author’s story. Those participating in the larger research project did so voluntarily by signing

informed consent forms. Pseudonyms were used for those wishing to protect their own identity.

Throughout this exploration of my own language learning experiences, two actors xl in particular

will be recurring throughout this manuscript based on their relationship to me as my lead

language instructors during formal language learning experiences. My lead Ho-Chunk language

instructor will be referred to as Wagigųs Hara (my teacher, in Ho-Chunk) and my lead Omaha

language instructor will be referred to as Wagonze Wiwita (my teacher, in Omaha).

Context

My presence within these language communities began in 2013 when I began mentoring

students in the Indigenous Roots Teacher Education Program at my university. As a mentor for

graduate students in the program, I began traveling monthly to the Omaha and Winnebago
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Reservations to meet with the students in person. Through these relationships, I became

interested in learning more about the cultures and ancestral languages of my students. In an

effort to better serve the students I was mentoring, I chose to move closer to them and formally

enroll in language classes at the tribal colleges. With a growing interest in language planning

and policy, I was also interested in learning more about the present reality of Indigenous

language communities within the same state in which I was raised and had lived most of my life.

While the Omaha and Ho-Chunk languages are both categorized under the Siouan

language family (Lewis, Simmons & Fennig, 2015), it is important to note that they are distinct

languages. Nonetheless, there are some similarities. I discovered, for example, that some

vocabulary words were similar across both languages, such as the word ska signifying the color

whitexli in each language.xlii With regard to the structure of a basic sentence, the subject is

followed by the object, then the conjugated verb in both languages. Adjectives follow nouns in

both languages as well. These grammatical rules differ from English, my first language. In

addition, Ho-Chunk and Omaha languages were traditionally spoken differently by women and

men, and some adhere to these rules even today.

My Language Learner Identity

With English as my first language, I needed to come to terms with my own identity as a

language learner of Omaha and Ho-Chunk. As previously mentioned above, LangCrit offers a

way to more fully understand the spectrum of identity possibilities based primarily on the

intersections of audible and visible identity (Crump, 2014a, 2014b; Sarkar, Low & Winer, 2007).

According to the existing literature, those who add a critical lens to autoethnography are

invested in the “politics of positionality” (Madison, 2012), which assumes the “inevitable

privileges we experience alongside marginalization” and that we should “take responsibility for

our subjective lenses through reflexivity” (Boylorn & Orbe, 2015, p. 15). As such, it is of upmost

importance that I recognize my own role as a researcher in this context. I self-identify as a white
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female in my late twenties. Much of my genealogical ties are in Germany. English is my first

language, while I also formally studied Spanish for eight years. In this sense, my linguistic and

cultural identities seem very different from the language communities from whom I sought to

learn. Nonetheless, in the fall of 2014, I enrolled in Ho-Chunk and Omaha language courses at

the tribal colleges to embark on my own journey of learning two Indigenous languages. Here, I

wish to ask forgiveness for my shortcomings, particularly from elders within these language

communities, as I am a student and recognize that I still have much more to learn. Through this

experience, I also have begun to grasp the complexity of my own language learner identity, both

visibly and audibly.

My Visible Identity

Among the types of social identities that I call my own, one of the first recognized by

others is my visible identity (i.e. my race and ethnicity). With my visible identity as one of the

first social identities recognized by others, several phenotypic features signal to others that I am

a member of a particular group. That is, my blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin signal to others

that I may commonly be categorized as white. Being a member of the dominant race in U.S.

society and growing up in a relatively homogenous white community, my race had largely been

invisible to me. I did not have a hard time finding role models who looked like me, represented

through media, teachers in my school, or others who were deemed successful in my community.

Others did not ask me to speak for my whole race. For the most part, I was able to easily locate

makeup and hair products that suited my needs. Peggy McIntosh (1988) recognizes these

unearned advantages based on phenotypic features as “white privilege”.

During my childhood, despite the relative proximity of the Winnebago and Omaha

Reservations to my hometown, my interaction with Indigenous peoples remained quite minimal

growing up. As a second grader, my class was visited by representatives of the Ponca and Santee

tribes who offered a cultural presentation. In the eighth grade, we studied Nebraska History
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with what I recall were very outdated textbooks, culminating with a group project where we built

small-scale earth lodges (i.e., traditional Omaha housing structures) out of mud and sticks.

During my adolescence, neighboring schools competed against reservation schools during

athletic events. In American History class, we learned about how some of the Native populations

assisted Lewis and Clark during their journey up the Missouri River. Ultimately, I felt very

uneducated when it came to Indigenous issues, particularly for groups living so near.

One of the first instances that I became more aware of my visible identity was my first

day entering Ho-Chunk I class. That September morning, I recall feeling rushed. I arrived at the

main campus searching for my classroom, only to realize that my class was being held at the

college building on the north side of town. After I finally found the building, parked my car, and

entered the building, I walked into a room filled with people already seated. I entered the room

late, signed in on the paper near the classroom entrance, and quickly found an empty seat. After

sitting down on a table facing the front of the classroom, I pulled out my binder and placed it on

the table. I looked up and apologized for running late. The lead instructor was sitting at the back

of the classroom, and her assistant began handing out the syllabus and going over the basic

sentence structure in Ho-Chunk. We were prompted to turn to page 9, then insert our name into

the sentence in order to introduce ourselves in Ho-Chunk to our fellow classmates. I hurriedly

began to write down names of classmates on a scratch piece of paper as they stood and

introduced themselves. I also found myself sketching out a diagram of where everyone was

sitting, so that I could begin remembering their names. I stood up and introduced myself using

the formula provided to us in the syllabus. “Kristine ga wa’ųa je na.” As soon as I sat down, I

took a deep breath in and slowly breathed out. I scanned the diagram I had sketched on my

paper, then looked up and scanned the room. I was the only blonde hair, blue eyed, pale skinned

student in the classroom of fifteen people. In this context, I was definitely in the numeric

minority.
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While the above example was an eye opening experience for me to come to terms with

my previously invisible identity, I began learning more about my racial and ethnic identity

through the eyes of others. For example in my Omaha language class, we also began learning

how to introduce ourselves (See Figure 8).

Figure 8- Introduction in Omaha

“Ebe bthin the uwibtha taminkhe. “Let me introduce myself.

Umonhon izhazhe onthinge. I have no Omaha name.
Waxe izhazhe wiwita-the Kristine Sudbeck.” My White (English) name is Kristine
Sudbeck.”
(Course work, 9/10/2014)

To my knowledge, I have no ancestral ties to the Omaha (or any other) tribe; therefore, I have no

Omaha name. The term waxe in Omaha was originally used to describe a white man (Cook,

1997). It has since encompassed dominant (white) culture. Hence, my white/English name is the

one provided to me from my parents.

During the first semester studying Ho-Chunk , our Unit 2 vocabulary list included the

term wąkšik which originally was the term used to describe people/human beings. It later

evolved to signify Native Americans and was distinguished from the term mąįxete, which

literally translates to big knives. The connotation of big knives is derived from the cavalrymen

coming from the east and the Spaniards who brought swords with them. Therefore, the term

mąįxete is one I would use to describe myself being Non-Native/white. The terms white, waxe,

and mąįxete are all socially constructed within the context from which they are derived. Each of

these is historically associated with settler colonialism, yet in the English language this historical

association may be covert. Howard (2006) notes that the “luxury of ignorance, the assumption

of whiteness, and the legacy of privilege have for centuries functioned together to support and

legitimize White dominance” (p. 67). It was through learning these socially constructed words

used to describe people who look like me that this association became more vivid.
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My visible identity became very apparent as I negotiated entry within these Indigenous

communities. One February afternoon, a Ho-Chunk teaching apprentice expressed that he

thought I should become one of the new apprentices. I really questioned my qualifications, not

only because of the seemingly short amount of time that I have been studying the language thus

far, but also because I envisioned myself visibly as an outsider (See Figure 9).

Figure 9- Reflection on Standing Out

“Despite my efforts to blend in, I had to come to terms with my own identity. I am a blonde
haired, blue eyed, pale skinned woman. I was going to stand out no matter what, especially
in such a small, tight-knit community where everybody knows everybody. So of course, I
should not have been shocked when one of the ladies at lunch sat next to me and asked, “So,
who are you? You are new.”
(Field Notes, 2/21/2014)

As a Non-Native attempting to learn two Indigenous languages, I have definitely sensed others’

skepticism of me… And rightfully so! I have read and even taught to my undergraduate students

about the boarding school movement and historical legacy of racism and linguicism experienced

by Indigenous populations, much of which was caused by people who look like me (Dunbar-

Ortiz, 2014; Lomawaima & McCarty, 2006; Spring, 2013; Wishart, 1994). As Lomawaima and

McCarty (2006) argue, “[w]e cannot understand the present divorced from the past” (p. 10). It

was clear as I entered each of my language classrooms that I felt like an Other. I was the white

girl. It is important to note that I not only position myself here as white/waxe/mąįxete. As I

negotiate my identity within this sociopolitical context, I also have a new label that applies to my

visible identity: Non-Native.

In addition to positioning myself as white and Non-Native, it was necessary to

problematize my visible identity further through the context of colonization. Approximately one

month after entering the Ho-Chunk I classroom, Wagigųs Hara and her assistant handed out

copies of ‘Nį Xete haruce ra/ Crossing the Mississippi’ (See APPENDIX C). After going over the

new vocabulary, my classmates and I were instructed to take turns reading sentences from the
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story aloud in Ho-Chunk. Wagigųs Hara would then repeat and correct any mistakes that were

made, followed by her translation of the sentence in English. I reflected on this reading exercise,

in the passage that follows.

Today, Wagigųs Hara shared the story of ‘Nį Xete haruce ra’ about the massacre that

took place while the Winnebago crossed the Mississippi River in the late 1800s. As

written in the story, “History never tells of the three hundred Ho-Chunks killed there.

But if three settlers were killed, it was big news.” I found myself thinking of the Wiseman

Monument, a memorial to children killed near where I grew up. I remember this being

referred to as a massacre. Not to discredit the events affecting the Wiseman family, but

there is truth in this statement [from the story we read in class]. I have never even heard

of the massacre on the Nį Xete of 300 Winnebago. Yet the killing of four or five children

was referred to as a massacre, and commemorated with a monument? xliii

(Field Notes, 10/1/2014)

I was left pondering, what exactly constitutes a massacre? Is it the number of deaths that were

involved? Does it depend on the perceived brutality of the event? As I looked around the

classroom, only a handful of my classmates seemed to react. I contemplated if others had heard

this story before. I also wondered if my presence as the only Non-Native in the classroom had

affected the way other students reacted to the story.

The massacre of three hundred Winnebago while crossing the Mississippi in the late

1800s took place approximately 370 miles from where I grew up. Yet, it is something I had never

heard about until that day in class. I began questioning other events that I did not remember

learning about in school. In addition to this massacre, I learned of another horrendous event.

Wagigųs Hara provided an account that was passed down to her of a mass hanging that took

place near Mankato, Minnesota. Then president, Abraham Lincoln signed off on this mass
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hanging, killing 38 Dakota and Ho-Chunk men. Upon reflecting about this sitting in my car after

class, I recounted:

Why am I hearing about this for the first time just shy of three decades on this earth? My

hometown was located just under four hours’ drive [250 miles] from where this massive

hanging took place.

(Voice Memo, 10/1/2014)

In my schooling experience, former president Abraham Lincoln was memorialized for his role in

signing the Emancipation Proclamation which by law made slavery in the United States illegal.

He was also revered with great respect after being assassinated by James Wilkes Booth in Ford’s

Theatre. I continue to see his face represented on the copper penny and the five dollar bill in my

wallet. His name is commemorated by several cities and street signs across what is now

considered the United States, and is even memorialized through the capital of the state I inhabit.

How come I had never heard about Abraham Lincoln’s role in signing off on “the largest public,

mass execution in the United States” (Valandra, 2015, p. 1)?

This was an important event for Dakotas and Ho-Chunks, significant enough that

Wagigųs Hara was sure to include it as part of our curriculum in the first semester. Once I

returned home after class, I found myself searching online for other sources of information

about this massive hanging. One account read: “On December 26, 1862, 38 Dakota men were

hanged at Mankato.”xliv They were hung by whom? With the use of the passive tense in historical

accounts such as this, details are overlooked for so long, and we are left not knowing who did the

actual hanging. This is one of the ways that responsibilities for these actions might be erased.

Dakota scholar, Edward Valandra (2015) recognizes that “[s]uch whitewashing, among other

things, blurs the distinction between the perpetrator and those people whom the perpetrator(s)

has harmed” (p. 2). He goes on to offer a counternarrative about the 1862 Dakota-US War and
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this mass hanging in particular, where he notes “Whites carried out the mass hanging of 38 + 2

POWs” (p. 20).xlv This is a concrete example of how the history has been white-washed, to the

extent that people just a few hours away do not have recollection or even knowledge of the event.

Not only are these past events significant to the work of students and teachers now, as

illustrated in my own learning experiences mentioned above, but it is also necessary to discuss

issues of responsibility and the “erasing” of certain details about some of these same events.

The visible identities I came to know as my own became even more complex upon a visit

to one of the area schools one morning in January 2016. A guest speaker entered the culture

classroom, and during his introduction he shared that he descended from two Indigenous

groups. He then asked each of the eighth graders, seated around in a circle, to introduce

themselves by name, tribe, and where they were born. Some students noted having descended

from one Indigenous group, while others revealed up to six Indigenous group affiliations. After

each student in the circle shared their introduction, adults seated outside of the circle

introduced themselves. Then, it reached me.

Kristine: Hello! My name is Kristine Sudbeck, and… I have no tribe.

Guest speaker: But who are your people?

Teacher: Your last name, isn’t that German?

Kristine: Yes, most of my ancestors are German.

Guest speaker: Well, then that’s your tribe.

With my head tilted to the side and eyebrows furrowed, my face remained puzzled. I had never

thought of my German ancestry as “my tribe” before. Though much of my genealogical ties are

in Germany, I also have Dutch, Scottish, Irish, Danish, French, Polish, and Bohemian heritage.

Most notable here is that I have no known ancestral ties to Indigenous heritage. I am four
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generations removed on my paternal grandmother’s side and at least seven generations removed

on my maternal grandfather’s side from my ancestor’s original European homelands. Howard

(2007) recognizes that European Americans (including my ancestors) are a diverse people;

however, “the farther our immigrant ancestors’ cultural identities diverged from the white Anglo

Saxon Protestant image of the ‘real’ American, the greater was the pressure for assimilation” (p.

2). In turn, Howard (2006) argues that whites have “collectively destroyed other cultures,

buried our own, and denied the histories of both” (p. 25). I considered ways in which this

statement might be a way of interpreting some of the cultural and ancestral influences in my

own life.

I have never been to the European homelands of my ancestors. Instead, I grew up on a

working-class family farm in rural northeast Nebraska, which is located approximately 80 miles

from these (also rural) reservation communities. The land we farm also happens to be situated

on the traditional hunting grounds of the Omaha (among other Indigenous groups), and

approximately ten miles west from the former Omaha village of To nwonpezhi (Fletcher & La

Flesche, 1911/1992). The historical legacy of the Federal government forcefully removing

Indigenous peoples from their lands and selling said land to settlers (Spring, 2013; Wishart,

1994), therefore, is also part of the personal narrative that I have inherited from my ancestors.

My Audible Identity

As I problematize my visible identity, I also seek to understand my audible identity as

others (expect to) hear me. I grew up in a small farming community centrally located in what is

now considered the United States, where almost all of us speak English as our first language and

a particular variety of English at that. We call carbonated beverages pop. Our linguistic

repertoires also include words like tavern that signify a particular type of loose meat sandwich

(See Figure 10), in addition to a place that serves alcoholic beverages.

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Figure 10- Handwritten Tavern Recipe from My Mother

In addition to taverns in the region where I grew up, we have tasted foods such as runzas,

Dorothy Lynch salad dressing, kolaches, and Valentino’s pizza. The words ant and aunt were

pronounced differently in my household, though the words bag and beg sounded the same.

Since I was born and raised on a farm, I can also tell you the difference between a boar, sow,

barrow, and gilt when referring to different types of pigs. When the baby calves were weaned off

of their mother cows, we referred to the loud mooing sound they made as bellering.xlvi The term

yield was not only something found on a red triangle sign while driving, but was also used to

refer to the amount of crops harvested. These terms, used and understood by inhabitants of the

community in which I grew up, also symbolize a sense of belonging.

My ancestors did not always speak English, however. Having a mother as a genealogist, I

am privy to a lot of information about the generations that came before me, many of whom came

from Germany. For example, I learned that my great grandfather even moved to my hometown

as a German-English translator to work for the lumber yard and neighboring railroad. Due to

the xenophobic tendencies towards Germans in the United States surrounding World War I and

II, however, the German language became forbidden in many schools across the state and

nation (Meyer v Nebraska, 1924; Sudbeck, 2015). German was no longer passed down to each

generation in my family. In fact, the only German words and phrases I heard growing up were

curse words that my grandmother would let slip out when she burned her hand in the kitchen.
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With German lost as my ancestral language, I began studying Spanish as a second

language when I reached high school age. This was the first opportunity I had to begin learning

another language in school. I studied Spanish for all four years of secondary school, and four

more years in college. During this time, I had the opportunity to study abroad in Costa Rica and

travel to other Spanish dominant countries such as Spain, Nicaragua and Panama. While

enrolled at La Universidad Nacional, I lived with a host family and all of my courses were in

Spanish. My language skills developed over time and I even began thinking and dreaming in

Spanish. Despite my developing Spanish fluency, many people I met and interacted with for the

first time while living in Costa Rica would look at me, and then begin conversing in English.

Sometimes, I would respond in Spanish despite their assumptions. I was disheartened by these

interactions because I wanted to practice my Spanish as much as possible. But in this context,

others saw my blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin to signify that I was an English-speaking

gringa. They weren’t wrong, I suppose… English is my first language.

With my previous experience learning Spanish, I recognize the primary focus initially

was to develop my reading and writing skills. For example, during my first three years studying

Spanish in high school, quizzes and exams were written documents. There were limited

instances where we were tested over oral skills. One example of this was listening to an audio

recording on cassette tapes, then matching the vocabulary word or command written on our

exam to what we heard on the tape. Reading comprehension was also stressed, through

assignments in our text book as well as materials created by our teacher. During the third and

fourth year of study, we had daily journaling exercises to develop our writing skills. It wasn’t

until my fourth year of studying Spanish in high school and fifth and sixth years in the college

setting that I noticed the transition to extensively develop oral language skills (i.e., speaking and

listening).
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As I began to learn Ho-Chunk, I found so many similarities in the ways I learned

Spanish. For example, I found a similar framework through which I learned to conjugate verbs

depending on the subject of the sentence (See Figure 11). As highlighted in the table below, the

present tense of the verb to write is conjugated in the first person singular as escribo in Spanish

and pagax in Ho-Chunk, each of which are translated into English as I write.

Figure 11- Verb Conjugations Template in Spanish and Ho-Chunk

Spanish Example Ho-Chunk Example

escribir: to write wagáx : to write
I write escribo We escribimos I write pagax We pagax
write write wi
You write escribes You all escribís You write šawagax You šawagax
write all wi
write
She/He/It escribe They escriben She/He/It wagáx They wagáx
writes write writes write hire

This diagram (of six conjugation choices according to pronoun) was a tool that I used in my

language learning of Ho-Chunk, as well as in Spanish. I later discovered that Wagigųs Hara,

whose first language is Ho-Chunk, used to be a Spanish teacher. She revealed her preference to

teach Ho-Chunk “like a foreign language” (Personal conversation, 2/10/2015). From my own

personal understanding, to teach like a foreign language here meant to teach without the

assumption that students would have access to the language at home. This was the case for me,

as well as several of my other classmates. Stemming from my own language learning

experiences, therefore, languages taught as a foreign language seemed to stress the westernized

view of literacy (i.e. reading and writing) above oralcy (i.e., listening and speaking).

In contrast, however, my experience learning Omaha was quite different. During class,

Wagonze Wiwita asked me to put my notes away for a bit and just listen. This was a struggle for

me, as I had now been a student for so many years, used to the expectation of taking notes

during class. However, it was when I put my notes away and just listened that I began to hear
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the nuances in her voice as she spoke. For example, the sounds of the consonants bth together

(See Figure 12) sounded to me more like b + short rolled r sound.

Figure 12- Omaha Pronunciation of ‘bth’

“Tapuska zhinga bthi. “I am a student.

Wabthi-pi konbtha.” I want to learn.”
(First semester oral exam, 12/15/2014)

In retrospect, learning Omaha was likely the most challenging of all four languages for me. This,

I believe, is not because the language is more difficult, nor is it because I began learning it as an

adult. Rather, learning Omaha was more challenging for me because Wago nze Wiwita stressed

the oral nature of the language so much more than I was used to. For a language which at first

was primarily an oral one, I now realize that the deficiency is not on the teaching method, but

rather on the way I have been socialized to think about language learning. No particular

teaching method is the necessarily the “correct” way, they are just different.

In addition to re-examining the manner in which I was learning languages, I also began

to realize how much I was learning through the languages. There are different ways of knowing

and understanding the world and our relations that I had not begun to understand until I

started learning the Omaha and Ho-Chunk languages. On one blistery afternoon in November

2015, I stopped by the tribal college to transfer credits to my primary university. The man

helping me fill out the paperwork asked what I thought of the language classes. I recall telling

him, “I learned much more than just the language.” And I believe there was a lot of truth in this

response.

One example of this stems from my Omaha language learning experience. During my

first semester studying Omaha, Wagonze Wiwita guided me in developing my own self-

introduction. While some Omaha consider self-introductions as a way to communicate with

ancestors when we leave this earthly life and join the spirit world, others consider the self-
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introduction in one’s ancestral language important to acknowledge those that came before us in

the language of our ancestors. In doing so, those listening to someone introduce themselves

could make connections with their relatives and perhaps have a deeper understanding if the

speaker was of a particular clan. Since I am not Omaha and have no clan, I still filled in the

blanks on my assignment for the names of my ancestors who came before me. For example, I

wrote down on my paper, “Indadi wiwita akha Robert Sudbeck” to tell those listening who my

father is, and that he is still living. When I got to my grandmother, I would recite aloud “Ikon

wiwita khe Ethel Rothluebber inthinge”. The combination of the word khe (long- to signify the

person is lying down in the earth) and inthinge signifies that the person of whom we speak is

deceased. My grandmother passed away in 1997 from cancer, though I believe that she still visits

me when I have cardinals sitting outside my office window as I write this.

Over the course of studying with Wagonze Wiwita, our conversations grew deeper with

time. She shared that, like my grandmother, she too was diagnosed with cancer. During the time

I studied with her, however, she was in remission. I shared with Wago nze Wiwita that my sister

was similarly diagnosed with breast cancer just months before I started her class. She was very

accommodating for me to meet her outside of our scheduled time when my sister had surgery,

and she continued to check in to see how my sister was doing with the new round of chemo or

radiation treatment. Even after I completed two semesters of coursework with her, I continued

to visit her and her children every so often at the tribal college. One day, I brought freshly baked

banana bread with me and went over the corrections I needed to make on my final project- a

short story that I created in Omaha/English about gardening. I had several errors in spelling

and verb conjugations, and I wanted to make sure that they were correct so that she could use

this document as a teaching tool for future students thereafter. I later learned that not long after

this meeting, her cancer came back.

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The power of learning through the language became extremely evident to me upon

having a conversation with a community member in November 2015. Three days prior to this

conversation, I had received devastating news that Wagonze Wiwita had fought a courageous

battle with cancer and passed away, surrounded by her family and loved ones. As she began her

spirit journey, the community member and I were talking about the impact that she had as an

elder in the community and as a teacher of the Omaha language. During this conversation, as

the community member referred to her, he followed her name with the Omaha word inthinge. I

couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, and they just came streaming down my face. The man

passed me a tissue to soak up the tears and blurred mascara under my eyes, and I recalled the

days sitting across the table from her at the tribal college. The words that I learned to talk about

my deceased ancestors, like my own grandmother, was now being used to describe my teacher.

I’m not certain there is a direct translation in English, but I understood deeper than the Omaha

words I had memorized for the test.

Reflecting on the passing of Wagonze Wiwita, I recognize that I would not have been able

to come this far in my Omaha language development and learning through the language without

her guidance. The first time I met her, sitting across the table from her at an event held at my

primary university, she welcomed me into her classroom in order to learn Omaha. During that

first semester, I sensed her uncertainty about me. I continued to show up in her classroom each

Monday and Wednesday throughout the fall. I finally began to feel accepted once I returned to

study with her again in the spring semester. Now, I sit here and remember the way she bounced

in her seat when she laughed. I recall the way she would rub her thumb across the tips of her

fingers, where she lost feeling from chemotherapy. I now find myself unconsciously rubbing my

thumb across my finger tips, and each time the memory of her smile resonates in my mind.

I hung a picture of Wagonze Wiwita in my office, as a constant reminder to keep striving

to learn more through the Omaha language. The loss of her life, did not only impact me,
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however. Those closest to her lost a mother, a grandmother, an auntie, a close relative, and a

friend. Wagonze Wiwita was also one of the few remaining elders within the community fluent in

the Omaha language. With her passing, the total number of those considered “fluent speakers”

was now less than 20. Here, UNESCO’s linguistic vitality classification of the Omaha language as

“critically endangered” (Moseley, 2010) became very real to me. I refuse, however, to only think

that the Omaha language (and others similarly classified) will inevitably die. The urgency for

language revitalization efforts to take place now was reinforced for me with the passing of my

language instructor.

However, what if we were to reconsider language not as a bounded system of codes, but

rather as fluid languaging practices? García (2009) argues that “languages are not fixed codes by

themselves; they are fluid codes framed within social practices” (p. 32). Otheguy, García and

Reid (2015) recognize named languages (e.g., Omaha, Ho-Chunk, English, and Spanish) as a

social construction, which are defined by the social, political, and ethnic affiliation of its

speakers. They go on to elaborate:

“a named language cannot be defined linguistically, that is, in grammatical (lexical and

structural) terms. And because a named language cannot be defined linguistically, it is

not, strictly speaking, a linguistic object; it is not something that a person speaks”

(Otheguy, García & Reid, 2015, p. 286).

In this sense, people do not speak one or multiple languages. Rather, individuals speak their

own idiolect. This perspective views language from an internal point of view, whereby one’s

idiolect is comprised of structured lists of grammatical and lexical features. xlvii

Using myself as an example, my own idiolect features words such as pop, tavern, beg,

bag, aunt and ant. In addition, I draw on my experiences while living in Costa Rica to employ

phrases such as ¡Qué lindo! when looking a photo of my adorable nephew. My dog Rudy has also
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learned commands such as “venga aquí” when I want him to come here. When on the

Winnebago reservation, I now understood that when someone spoke of their tega, they were

referring to their uncle. I could also share stories with Wagigųs Hara of my gaga and coka, when

remembering the lessons I learned from my grandma and grandpa. I began labeling foods in my

garden hinbthinge pezhi tu the where I planted seeds for green beans, ponxe zi the where I planted

carrots, and manzhonxe the where I planted onions. I have added conventions such as the use of

inthinge to my linguistic repertoire to denote if someone I speak of is deceased. I draw on

different resources from my linguistic repertoire to adapt my speech based on the audience and

social situation at hand.

With this perspective of deconstructing named languages, I am no longer just an

English-speaker, or learner of Spanish, Ho-Chunk and Omaha. The conceptualization of

idiolect, or an individual’s entire linguistic repertoire, is the cornerstone for understanding

translanguaging. Differentiating itself from code switching, translanguaging has been

conceptualized as “the deployment of a speaker’s full linguistic repertoire without regard for

watchful adherence to the socially and politically defined boundaries of named (and usually

national and state) languages” (Otheguy, García & Reid, 2015, p. 281). As illustrated throughout

this manuscript, my audible identity now encompasses the dynamic, discursive practices that I

use by employing my entire idiolect. I am translanguaging.

Conclusion: My Tapestry of Identities

Using LangCrit as the theoretical lens with which I began to understand the complexities

of my own identity as a Non-Native language learner of two Indigenous languages, this critical

autoethnography drew on my experiences as a learner of Ho-Chunk and Omaha languages to

explore the complexities of my visible (subject-as-seen) and audible (subject-as-heard) identities

(Crump, 2014a; 2014b; Sarkar, Low & Winer, 2007). Through this process, I navigated the

depths of developing an understanding of my visible identity by questioning what it means to be

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white/waxe/mąįxete as well as Non-Native. In addition to positioning myself as white and Non-

Native, it was necessary to problematize my visible identity further through the context of

colonization. My visible (i.e., racial and ethnic) identity remains largely invisible due to the

power I am afforded in the global society. Whether I am in my relatively homogenous

community in northeast Nebraska, at the bus stop in Costa Rica, or living on the reservation--

my visible identity is positioned in a hierarchy of power. And with that perceived and reinforced

power, comes unearned advantages known as “white privilege” (McIntosh, 1990).

Interestingly enough, the power that comes with my blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin

, as recognized in the literature and reinforced through interactions in society, may also be

presumed by others to mean that my linguistic identity should also hold the same privilege. This

was true during the time I was living in Costa Rica, when others assumed that I was an English

speaker based on my visible appearance. In my small farming community in the center of the

United States, my ancestral language of German was lost at the expense of the dominant

colonizer’s language (i.e. in this context, English). In this way, it could be perceived that a part of

my linguistic identity was also erased (Sudbeck, 2015). My ancestors were forced to assimilate,

due to anti-German sentiment of both world wars and what was commonly expected at that time

by those with whom they interacted in their community, and so my first language became

English.

With English as my first language, there are unearned privileges that inherently come

with speaking, reading, and writing the Standard American English in most contexts (Scott,

1999). As Moore (2008) observes, “language not only develops in conjunction with a society’s

historical, economic, and political evolution; it also reflects that society’s attitudes and thinking”

(p. 166). Machin and Mayr (2012) note the use of representational strategies in language, by

observing “In any language there exists no neutral way to represent a person” (p. 77). Further,

linguistic tactics and strategies are used (e.g. hedging, metaphor, metonymy, passive tense,

suppression, etc.), whether consciously or not, to convey meaning which similarly may not be
 132

neutral (Machin & Mayr, 2012). Moore (2008) contends that if one accepts the dominant white

culture as racist, then one would also expect our language to be racist as well. In the context of

the United States, Moore (2008) argues that racism has been concealed through language,

including choices in terminology, symbolism, politics, ethnocentrism, and context. Moore

(2008) quoted a 1967 editorial, where racism in the English language is discussed: “it is

metabolized in the bloodstream of society. What is needed is not so much a change in language

as an awareness of the power of words to condition attitudes. If we can at least recognize the

underpinnings of prejudice, we may be in a position to deal with the effects” (p. 169).

In the processes of reflecting upon nuances of my linguistic identity, I came to recognize

more deeply the privileges that come with English being my first language. There were also

some parallels I could draw with my experiences of learning another colonial language (i.e.

Spanish) while living in Costa Rica, a Spanish dominant country. I consider ways in which my

fluency and association with English and Spanish informed the way I closely examined my

Omaha and Ho-Chunk learning experiences. This critical examination of my audible identity

revealed nuances in how I was learning through the language and how I was translanguaging.

Previous LangCrit literature has called on researchers to reflect on the “mosaic” of

identities that an individual has (Crump, 2014a; 2014b). Here, I offer a different metaphor.

While a mosaic elicits the notion that multiple social identities exist for each individual, a

tapestry is a “hand-woven textile. When examined from the back, it may simply appear to be a

motley group of threads. But when reversed, the threads work together to depict a picture of

structure and beauty” (National Association of State Boards of Education as cited in Nieto,

1994). I find this metaphor resembling my own language learning experiences. After critically

examining my visible and audible identities (Crump, 2014a) through the experience of learning

two Indigenous languages, I am left with more questions than I am answers. Why must everyone

conform to learning English? While I realize the importance of having a common language as a
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lingua franca to be able to communicate across these differing linguistic backgrounds, must it

always be to privilege the already privileged? These questions reflect the complexities associated

with language revitalization within the language communities featured in this study. This

perspective of language learning resembles the “motley group of threads” in this tapestry

metaphor, signifying the critical lens I take to my own personal identities as a white Non-Native

whose first language is English. However, it is when we flip this tapestry over that we see the

rich colored threads come together as a work of art. This is the basis from which collaboration

despite colonialism for Indigenous language revitalization can begin (Hermes, 2012).

Reflecting back on these experiences, I have begun to grasp the complexity of my own

identity, both visibly and audibly. Within this context, I continue to ask myself about the role I

have in linguistic survivance (Wyman, 2014) which encompasses the use of “communicative

practices to connect to community knowledge, express Indigeneity, and/or to exercise self-

determination in the face of societal inequities and related challenges including language

endangerment” (p. 94). I believe that I inherently must honor the work of Wagigųs Hara and

Wagonze Wiwita inthinge, by giving the language back. Additionally, I recall the story I shared at

the beginning of this manuscript where I felt myself biting my tongue at the frustration of

ignorance. Otheguy, García and Reid (2015) argue,

“The struggle is not to preserve a pure, well-bounded and essential collection of lexical

and structural features, but rather a cultural-linguistic complex of multiple idiolects and

translanguaging practices that the community finds valuable. It is toward the affirmation

and preservation of these complexes, and not of named essentialist objects, that

maintenance and revitalization efforts are properly directed” (p. 299).

I am no longer biting my tongue; instead, I believe it is my responsibility to educate others about

what I have learned. And I can do so by drawing on multiple resources in my linguistic

repertoire, through languaging.

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CONCLUSION

It was a cold day nearing the end of January that my partner and I attended a high

school basketball game. As we walked into the entrance of the school gymnasium, bleachers

lined the east and west sides of the gym floor. My partner and I found a seat next to his

grandmother on the bottom row of the bleachers. We had just missed the tip-off of the girl’s

varsity game, and both teams had already put points on the board. I glanced down at the

program and scanned the list for names that I knew. My partner’s cousin was a senior for the

home team, so she was a familiar face. I also recognized several names and faces on the

opposing team, a high school on the reservation where I had been working and studying. One

of the coaches was a close friend of mine, and two of her daughters were also playing that

evening.

As I prepared to attend this game, I made sure not to wear any of the school colors for

either team. Although I was sitting on the side of the home team, I was clapping and cheering

for the individual girls that I knew, which ended up being for both teams. I felt torn, almost

afraid for others to see that I was cheering on one team or the other. Would they question me

about for whom I was cheering? Would they criticize me for clapping for the “wrong” team?

The vignette above captures some of the tensions of how I positioned myself, not only

between two basketball teams this past January, but also as I problematized my own identities

throughout this research process. As I compiled and analyzed data to write this dissertation, I

drew on a perspective informed by decolonizing methodologies (Smith, 2012) and Critical

Indigenous Research Methodologies (Brayboy, Gough, Leonard, Roehl & Solyom, 2012), whilst

simultaneously following the paradigmatic shift from a damage-based orientation to a desire-

based framework (Tuck, 2009). That is, it was important for me throughout this dissertation to

recognize and affirm the damage that has been done in the past, while also acknowledging the
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hope and desires for the future (Tuck, 2009). I highlight below some of the complexities that I

identified and explored in the process of learning about language revitalization in this work,

through brief descriptions of each of the three manuscripts that form this dissertation.

The first manuscript of this dissertation sought to expand Critical Language and Race

Theory (LangCrit) to encompass the unique circumstances that have contributed to the current

context of Indigenous languages. Drawing on the strengths of LangCrit to explicitly examine the

intersections of one’s visible and audible identities (Crump, 2014), I problematized the three

reified concepts of race, language, and identity for the particular case of learners of Indigenous

languages. Provided the sociopolitical context of Indigenous communities (with whom I am not

a member but wish to serve), I argued that three key factors differentiate the experiences of

Indigenous language communities: colonization, dual-citizenship status, and the perception of

(dis)appearing languages.

The second manuscript of this dissertation was a methodological piece, in which I

focused on the intricacies within the process of doing research among two Indigenous language

communities in northeast Nebraska. Given the historical trends of dehumanizing research in

Native American communities, Ngati Awa/Ngati Porou scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith (2012)

argues that the methodological approach and research methods one uses to conduct research

(i.e., the research process) are far more important than the outcome. I illustrate the efforts that I

took in this second manuscript to address the complexities of interactions that underlie research

between Non-Native and Native communities. That is, I examined my own research process

integrating into two Indigenous language communities as a Non-Native researcher and as a

learner of the Omaha and Ho-Chunk languages. Drawing on the five tenants of Critical

Indigenous Research Methodologies (Brayboy, Gough, Leonard, Roehl & Solyom, 2012), I

discussed my experience with the research process as it revolved around three key themes:

ongoing negotiations, getting it wrong, and adapting the research process. This work, conducted
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in part in response to Keet, Zinn and Porteus’s (2009) call for the vulnerability of the researcher,

recognizes that the researcher [I] find power not simply in ‘knowing’ but through my ability and

willingness to transcend that same power. More specifically, I attempted to provide a

transparent lens into my own work by naming the privileges I have as a researcher within this

context, and exploring complexities as I worked towards transcending this perception of power.

The third and final manuscript featured in this dissertation was a critical

autoethnography of my own experience as a Non-Native individual learning two Indigenous

languages. Using LangCrit as the theoretical lens with which I began to better understand the

complexities of my own identity, this critical autoethnography drew on my experiences as a

learner of Ho-Chunk and Omaha languages to explore the complexities of my visible (subject-as-

seen) and audible (subject-as-heard) identities (Crump, 2014a; 2014b; Sarkar, Low & Winer,

2007). Through this process, I navigated the depths of developing an understanding of my

visible identity by questioning what it means to be white/waxe/mąįxete as well as Non-Native.

In addition to positioning myself as white and Non-Native, it was necessary to problematize my

visible identity further through the context of colonization. My visible identity is positioned in a

hierarchy of power, and with that power comes the “invisible knapsack” of unearned advantages

known as “white privilege” (McIntosh, 1990).

Interestingly enough, the power that comes with my blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin,

may also be presumed by others to mean that my linguistic identity should also hold the same

privilege. This held true in my experience as a gringa studying abroad in Costa Rica, where

people automatically assumed that I spoke English based on my appearance even though I

wanted to speak in Spanish. My family’s history with language loss also influenced my position

on this language learning landscape. In my small farming community in the center of the United

States, my ancestral language of German was lost at the expense of the dominant colonizer’s

language (i.e. in this context, English). In this way, it could be interpreted that a part of my
 140

linguistic identity was erased (Gal & Irvine, 1995). After recognizing the privileges that come

with English being my first language (Sc0tt, 1999), I shared my experiences of learning another

colonial language (i.e. Spanish). Then, I considered ways in which my association with both

English and Spanish informed how I closely examined my Omaha and Ho-Chunk learning

experiences. This critical examination of my audible identity revealed nuances in how I was

learning through the language and how I was translanguaging.

Educational and Social Significance

Throughout this research process, I have problematized LangCrit (Crump, 2014) as a

theoretical framework to more fully understand the unique case for Indigenous languages. This

was particularly relevant for my study, where two Indigenous language communities in

northeast Nebraska were already engaged in language revitalization efforts. Next, I attempted to

provide a transparent lens to my own research process. This illustrated the complexities and

nuances of the power dynamics that became apparent in the process of learning the languages

and about their efforts in revitalizing the languages. Then, I applied LangCrit as a theoretical

framework to more fully understand my own experiences as a Non-Native learning Omaha and

Ho-Chunk. This critical autoethnography shed light on the development of how I came to

understand the metaphorical tapestry made up at the intersection of my visible and audible

identities These three manuscripts not only illustrate the deepening of my own understanding as

a Non-Native learning two Indigenous languages, but also expand to impact other stakeholders

in the educational language planning and policy (LPP) process within these language

communities as well. Implications for this research are presented in three areas below:

colonization, dual-citizenship status, and the perception of (dis)appearing languages.

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Colonization

Through the explicit naming of colonization in association with language and race, I was

able to deepen my understanding of the complexities and nuances of lived experiences for those

learning Indigenous languages. Romero-Little (2010) notes that one of the key consequences of

the colonizing experience has been the attrition of Indigenous languages. As she observed, the

majority of children with Indigenous ancestry enter school as primary speakers of English. “At

the same time, they are likely to speak a variety [of English] influenced by the grammar, sound

system and use patterns of the Indigenous language, which may still be spoken by parents and

grandparents in their communities” (Romero-Little, 2010, p. 273). Sociolinguists often refer to

these varieties as Indian English or Reservation English, or more specifically by their association

to a particular Indigenous language.

Another characteristic which distinguishes many Indigenous languages is their long

tradition of oralcy, with a relatively new written tradition or not one at all. xlviii This relatively

recentxlix written tradition is true for both Ho-Chunk and Omaha languages, whose alphabet

and orthography were determined by missionaries and linguists around the turn of the 20th

century (Dorsey, 1886; 1891; 1907; Fletcher & LaFlesche, 1911/1992; Radin, 1923/1990). Worth

noting here is that the alphabet and orthography were determined by outsiders of the language

communities. In his study of the Omaha language community, Awakuni-Swetland (2003)

illustrated some of the consequences by reflecting on the variations in orthography that persist

even today.l While linguistic variation exists among all “languages”, corpus language planning

remains particularly distinct for many Indigenous languages due to its relatively recent or non-

existent written tradition.

Provided these colonizing effects on Indigenous language communities, there are added

challenges in place for what Hermes (2015) refers to as “second language learner warriors” (p.

274). While reclaiming their Indigenous languages would be highly desirable for a number of
 142

Indigenous peoples, life circumstances may not lend this opportunity. From my own personal

experience, I recognize the privileges I have that allowed me to be able to study Omaha and Ho-

Chunk. For example, I had access to student loans to fund my tuition at both tribal colleges, and

elders who were willing and capable to teach me. Not everyone has those same privileges of

access and opportunity. For other language learner warriors, particular for those of whom it is

an ancestral language, colonization has impacted us all in different ways. To include the role of

colonization in one’s own understanding of their identity development reminds us of the legacy

of race, racism, language and linguicism. While race and language are social constructions, they

have real social implications: racism and linguicism. Colonization is endemic to society

(Brayboy, 2005), and it needs to be confronted in order for efforts to be made in Indigenous

language revitalization and maintenance.

With these language learning opportunities, I also recognize how much I was learning

through the language. I gained access to historical events that I had never heard of previously. I

began questioning the method of restorying, what gets told and retold. Ultimately the story is

shaped by the person telling the story, which can account for multiple perspectives. As Awakuni-

Swetland (2003) noted in a previous study of the Omaha language community, “the school, as a

state institution of mainstream hegemony, has an agenda that does not readily accept

divergence from the core colonial curriculum” (p. 193). I found this in my own upbringing, with

schools providing a sugarcoated, white-washed account of history. I had never heard of the

massacre of 300 Winnebago as they crossed the Mississippi River until I was an adult sitting in

my Ho-Chunk class. I was not aware of former President Lincoln’s role in the largest mass

hanging in the United States (Valandra, 2015). As Wilson and Yellow Bird (2005) purport, “[t]he

current institutions and systems are designed to maintain the privilege of the colonizer and the

subjugation of the colonized, and to produce generations of people who will never question their

position within this relationship” (p. 1). Haynes-Writer (2008) argues, however, that teachers

must be challenged within their training and professional development to teach appropriate and
 143

accurate representations of Indigenous peoples. Similarly, Castagno and Brayboy (2008) believe

in the potential in implementing culturally responsive schooling for Indigenous youth.

With only 1% of the teachers of Native students identifying as American Indian, Alaskan

Native or Native Hawaiian (Stancavage, et al., 2006), how might teacher educators facilitate

future teachers to develop the skills necessary to develop a culturally sustaining environment for

Indigenous youth? Oxford (2010) puts forth the argument, “Learning not only language but

culture and societal conditions of other peoples can build bridges and new relationships” (p.

300). In Hermes’ (2005) work with Ojibwe immersion programs she argues that language

reclamation has the potential to “propel the gains of the culture-based movement far beyond

superficially adding fragmented pieces of cultural knowledge to the existing structure” (p. 53).

That is, she recognizes the interconnections of teaching culture through the language. Further,

Hermes (2015) believes that “thinking through an Indigenous language, and supporting others

in that, is the ultimate act of resistance” (p. 273). With Hermes’ perception and my own personal

experience learning through the language in mind, might teacher educators consider language

training as a necessary component in teacher preparation programs? What if language

education would be considered a venue for producing culturally responsive schooling

environments for Indigenous youth (Castagno & Brayboy, 2008) and other minoritized groups,

and beyond to what others have called “culturally sustaining pedagogy” (Paris, 2012), or more

specifically “critical culturally sustaining/revitalizing pedagogy” (McCarty & Lee, 2016).

Dual-Citizenship Status

In addition to colonization, dual-citizenship status also needs to be affirmed for those of

Indigenous ancestry. Individuals may hold citizenship status with the United States in addition

to the citizenship status they hold with a sovereign nation located within the U.S. boundaries. li

As Harding and her colleagues (2012) note, “[t]his sovereign status is a defining feature of

American Indian tribes” and it differentiates them from any other groups. This was relevant in
 144

my own research, especially in the process of obtaining Institutional Review Board (IRB)

approval. As sovereign nations, both tribes have the right to self-determination, and “[t]ribal

governments are the only ones with authority to ‘speak for’ the tribe as an entity” (Harding, et

al., 2012, p. 7). Hence, I sought permission from each individual tribe. As illustrated in the

second manuscript, one tribal council granted permission on the day of our meeting, while the

other tribal council requested I submit an application within their own tribally affiliated IRB.

Through this process, a memorandum of understanding was co-authored with members of the

tribally affiliated IRB. With each tribal council, I had two very different experiences despite their

close proximity. That is to say, there is no one-size-fits-all approach.

In addition to self-determination regarding research conduct, sovereign nations also

have “inherent rights to determine the nature of schooling provided to their youth” (Castagno &

Brayboy, 2008, p. 949). Despite these rights to self-determination, many Indigenous students

are still subject to U.S. federally mandated rules that overlook the right to self-determination,

with over 90% of Indigenous youth attend public schools and the remaining 10% attending

federally funded schools operated by the Bureau of Indian Education or parochial schools

(Moran, et al., 2008). It is within these environments, however, that some “implementational

and ideological spaces” where heritage language education co-exists (Hornberger, 2005). For

example, Title VII programs exist under the No Child Left Behind (NCLB) Act within the K-12

schools within these reservation communities, which create a space for language and culture

learning. Castagno and Brayboy (2008) recognize the strong sense of connection between the

education in tribal communities, sovereignty and self-determination; however, “these

connections are rarely recognized among mainstream educators or educational policy makers”

(p. 949). Through affirming the rights to self-determination for these sovereign nations, more

of these “implementational and ideological spaces” can be generated to preserve the language

and culture of Indigenous peoples through local community control.

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(Dis)appearing Languages

Building on the complexities of colonization and dual-citizenship status as it relates to

Indigenous language communities, this study necessitated for the perception of disappearing

languages (i.e., the terminal narrative of Indigenous languages/language death) to be

problematized. Recalling from the story I shared in the third manuscript with the passing of

Wagonze Wiwita inthinge (one of the limited number of Omaha elders considered “fluent” in the

language), UNESCO’s linguistic vitality classification of the Omaha language as “critically

endangered” (Moseley, 2010) became very real to me. I refuse, however, to think that the

Omaha and Ho-Chunk languages (and others similarly classified) will inevitably die. These

language vitality/endangerment schemas (Fishman, 1991; Grenoble & Whaley, 2006; Krauss,

1997, 1998) may be perceived as helpful in illustrating the sense of urgency for language

revitalization efforts; however, these same categorization efforts may inadvertently have

negative effects on language ideologies. That is to say, there is no question to the magnitude of

the time-sensitive actions that must occur to revitalize these languages; however, it is the

“eminent crisis, or certain death” discourse associated with language revitalization that needs to

be examined more closely (Hermes, 2012; Kroskrity, 2009).

There is no doubt that there should be a sense of urgency for language revitalization

efforts to take place now. If we understand language as a social construction, however, and

instead shift our focus to the unique idiolects of each individual, what implications might that

have in language revitalization efforts? For example, Otheguy, García and Reid (2015) contend,

“The struggle is not to preserve a pure, well-bounded and essential collection of lexical

and structural features, but rather a cultural-linguistic complex of multiple idiolects and

translanguaging practices that the community finds valuable. It is toward the affirmation

and preservation of these complexes, and not of named essentialist objects, that

maintenance and revitalization efforts are properly directed” (p. 299).

 146

Would this shift from the “inevitable language death” discourse to the affirmation of “a cultural-

linguistic complex of multiple idiolects and translanguaging practices” impact students’

willingness to learn Omaha and Ho-Chunk? Might this shift in perspective affect the way we

consider language planning practices, such as orthography and variations in pronunciation? If

we frame our understanding around individuals’ unique idiolects, which are comprised of

structured lists of grammatical and lexical features from the internal point of view, then we may

be more likely to recognize, and appreciate, the translanguaging practices that occur within the

classroom, the home, and the community.

Moving beyond the negative connotation held by some with code-switching practices, the

concept of translanguaging—where individuals indiscriminately draw on their entire linguistic

repertoire—helps to “disrupt the socially constructed language hierarchies that are responsible

for the suppression of the languages of many minoritized people” (Otheguy, García & Reid,

2015, p. 283). That is to say, Otheguy, García and Reid (2015) believe we can “graduate from the

goal of ‘language maintenance’, with its constant risk of turning minoritized languages into

museum pieces, to that of sustainable practices by bilingual speakers that thrive in spatial and

functional interrelation with the sustaining linguistic practices of other speakers” (p. 283), by

generating a more complete understanding of what is meant by translanguaging and

deconstructing the boundaries of named “languages”.

To reframe our understanding of Indigenous language revitalization efforts to

encompass the concepts of “idiolect” and “translanguaging” practices, what might this mean for

schools serving Indigenous youth? Here, we draw on the aforementioned work of Romero-Little

(2010) who observed English varieties “influenced by the grammar, sound system and use

patterns of the Indigenous language, which may still be spoken by parents and grandparents in

their communities” (p. 273), as well as varied linguistic competencies in the Indigenous

language(s). Teachers and schooling environments should affirm the presence of “language
 147

hybridities, heteroglossia, and innovation in diverse sociolinguistic contexts” and these dynamic

linguistic repertoires should be used as “resources rather than liabilities in heritage-language

reclamation” (Wyman, McCarty & Nichols, 2014, p. 2). Crump (2013) supports this notion, by

contending that language teachers (and I would include content area teachers) need to work

with learners to build on the linguistic resources they bring with them into the schooling

environment. All these implications and real world suggestions for practice in the classroom

bolster future work to be conducted in these and other Indigenous language communities.

Moving Forward: My Role in Linguistic Survivance

Building on Vizenor’s (1994; 2008) concept of survivance, Wyman’s (2014) notion of

linguistic survivance encompasses the use of “communicative practices to connect to

community knowledge, express Indigeneity, and/or to exercise self-determination in the face of

societal inequities and related challenges including language endangerment” (p. 94). As a Non-

Native individual learning Omaha and Ho-Chunk, what then is my role in linguistic survivance?

Following Tuck’s (2009) call for a paradigmatic shift from a damage-based orientation to a

desire-based framework, it is important to first recognize and affirm the damage that has been

done in the past, while also acknowledging the hope and desires for the future.

With this shift towards a desire-based framework, I sought to transform the research

process by attempting to provide a transparent lens, as was illustrated in the second manuscript.

In this effort, I drew on Battiste’s (2008) concerns: “As outsiders, non-Indigenous researchers

may be useful in helping Indigenous peoples articulate their concerns, but to speak for them is

to deny them the self-determination so essential to human justice and progress” (p. 504).

Similarly, Freire (1970/2012) believed, “They [the oppressed] cannot enter the struggle as

objects in order later to become human beings” (p. 68, emphasis in the original). Therefore, a

guiding assumption throughout this dissertation is that I cannot speak for them. I am only

speaking for myself.

 148

With this contentious issue pertaining to voice in mind, I am beginning to work with the

middle and high school students that I had originally set out to do. After the long process of

obtaining approval from my institutional IRB and the tribally affiliated IRB, I began recruiting

students to participate from two schools. That participatory action research (PAR) project for

sociolinguistic justice is now underway, and remains separate from this dissertation. The

materials we produce will be given back to the language communities, so that they can be used

as curricular resources within the language classrooms, the schools, the homes, and throughout

the communities. In addition, I am currently collaborating with two Native teachers from each

language community on a conference presentation and paper about our own language learning

and teaching experiences of Omaha and Ho-Chunk. As Hermes (2012) contends, “Collaborative

work that is happening in communities can yield insight to move beyond the narrative of a

language life and death, while also providing models of collaboration that value diversity in a

deep and meaningful way” (p. 134). It is through this “collaboration despite colonialism”

(Hermes, 2012) that I am attempting to honor the work of Wagigųs Hara and Wagonze Wiwita

inthinge, by giving the language back. I also accept the responsibility that I still have much more

to learn.

Gleaning from the vignette about my experience as a spectator at the basketball game, I

recall:

I felt torn, almost afraid for others to see that I was cheering on one team or the other.

Would they question me about for whom I was cheering? Would they criticize me for

clapping for the “wrong” team?

It is much more complex and nuanced than simply taking sides. In essence, I wish to work in

solidarity with Indigenous (and other minoritized) language communities. Equity is the means

and equality is the outcome for which I advocate. It is through language learning that we can

honor each other’s humanity.

 149

References

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Omaha: Omaha language choice, 1971-2001. (Unpublished doctoral dissertation).
University of Oklahoma, Norman, OK.

Battiste, M. (2008). Research ethics for protecting Indigenous knowledge and heritage. In N. K.
Denzin, Y. S. Lincoln, & L. T. Smith (Eds.) Handbook of Critical and Indigenous
Methodologies (pp. 497-510). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications.

Crump, A. (2014). Introducing LangCrit: Critical Language and Race Theory. Critical Inquiry in
Language Studies, 11(3), 207-224.

(2013). Fostering multilingual spaces in second and foreign language classes: Practical
suggestions. The Journal of Language Teaching and Learning, 2013(2), 65-71.

Fletcher, A.C. & La Flesche, F. (1911/1992). The Omaha Tribe, Volume I. Lincoln, NE:
University of Nebraska Press.

(1911/1992). The Omaha Tribe, Volume II. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press.

Freire, P. (1970/2012). Pedagogy of the Oppressed, (30th anniversary edition). New York, NY:
Continuum.

Gal, S., & Irvine, J. T. (1995). The boundaries of languages and disciplines: How ideologies
construct difference. Social research, 967-1001.

Grande, S. (2015). Red Pedagogy: Native American Social and Political Thought, 10th
anniversary ed. Boulder, CO: Rowman & Littlefield.

Hermes, M. (2015). Mii gaa-izhiwinag: And then I Brought Her Along. In S. Grande (Ed.)
Pedagogy: Native American Social and Political Thought, 10th anniversary ed., (pp.
273-276). Boulder, CO: Rowman & Littlefield.

(2012). Indigenous language revitalization and documentation in the United States:

Collaboration despite colonialism. Language and Linguistics Compass, 6(3), 131-142.

(2005). “Ma’iingan is just a misspelling of the word wolf”: A case for teaching culture
through language. Anthropology and Education Quarterly, 36(1), 42-56.

Hornberger, N. (2005). Opening and filling up implementational and ideological spaces in

heritage language education. The Modern Language Journal, 89(4), 605-609.

Lomawaima, K. T. & McCarty, T. L. (2006). To Remain an Indian: Lessons in Democracy from

a Century of Native American Education. New York, NY: Teachers College Press.

McIntosh, P. (1990). Unpacking the knapsack of white privilege. Independent School, 49(2), 31-
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Moran, R., Rampey, B. D., Dion, G., & Donahue, P. (2008). National Indian Education Study
2007 Part I: Performance of American Indian and Alaska Native students at grades 4
and 8 on NAEP 2007 reading and mathematics assessment (NCES 2008-457).
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Sciences, U.S. Department of Education.

Oxford, R. (2010). Second language education: With liberty and languages for all. In T. K.
Chapman & N. Hobbel (Eds.), Social Justice Pedagogy across the Curriculum: The
Practice of Freedom, (pp. 299-308). New York, NY: Routledge.

Radin, P. (1923/1990). The Winnebago Tribe. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press.

Romero-Little, M. E. (2010). Best practices for Native American language learners. In G. Li & P.
A. Edwards (Eds.), Best Practices in ELL Instruction (pp. 273-298). New York, NY: The
Guilford Press.

Sarkar, M., Low, B., & Winer, L. (2007). “Pour connecter avec le peeps”: Québéquicité and the
Québec hip-hop community. In M. Mantero (Ed.), Identity and Second Language
Learning: Culture, Inquiry, and Dialogic Activity in Educational Contexts (pp. 351-
372). Charlotte, NC: Information Age Publishing.

Scott, A. (1999). The privilege of speaking, reading, and writing the English language. In S. Nieto
(Ed.), The Light in Their Eyes, (pp. 134-136). New York, NY: Teachers College Press.

Smith, L. T. (2012). Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples, 10th

anniversary edition. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield.

Stancavage, F. B., Mitchell, J. H., Bandeira de Mello, V., Gaertner, F. E., Spain, A. K., & Rahal,
M. L. (2006). National Indian Education Study Part II: The educational experiences of
fourth- and eighth-grade Americna Indian and Alaska Native students. Washington,
D.C.: U.S. Department of Education Institute for Education Sciences. Retrieved 11 Oct
2015, from nces.ed.gov/nationsreportcard/pubs/studies/2007454.asp.

Tuck, E. (2009). Suspending damage: A letter to communities. Harvard Educational Review,

79(3), 409-427.

Valandra E. C. (2015). “Forgive everyone everything”—For what? 1862 Dakota-US War

Sesquicentennial, A case study.

Wyman, L. T. (2014). Youth linguistic survivance in transforming settings: A Yup’ik example. In

L. T. Wyman, T. L. McCarty and S. E. Nichols (Eds.), Indigenous Youth and
Multilingualism: Language Identity, Ideology, and Practice in Dynamic Cultural
Worlds, (pp. 90-110). New York, NY: Routledge.

Wyman, L. T., McCarty, T. L. & Nichols, S. E. (2014). Beyond endangerment: Indigenous youth
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 151

APPENDICES
 152

APPENDIX A
Permission from Omaha Tribal Council
 153

APPENDIX B
Permission from Tribal IRB and Winnebago Tribal Council

APPENDIX C
Nį Xete haruce ra/ Crossing the Mississippi
Hocąk
Ha\p tani\ ni\z`u na.
Mas`ja\ ni\z`u na\ga z`ige pi\hi\ ni\z`u na.
Ni\z`u ra rus`ja\ z`e yare gaja\, egi z`ige ni\z`u ra kiri na.
Ni\s`ana\k ra hana\c ha\\ks`ire naga ma\ na p;a\p;a\c s`a\na\.
Ha\p ra takaci\ haraire ge pac hosini\ na eja ca[giwa wi
na.
Ni\ Xete ra hatuce ragu\ wi ge ni\ hicec ra hirona\k
ma\ni\ wi na.
Ca\ge[re ni\ge haruce[ pi \ ya;e wi na.
Ni\kja\k ra egi s`;ak ra hikoroho waha wi na.
Na\xa hikirusgic hihak eja hin\uk s`;ak ra egi xunu\ik ra
mi\na\k harucaire na.
Wa\k ra egi wacek ra hisge ni\p harucaire na.
Wa\k ra hota wacowe hani ne na.
Ni\ hokisak eja hahi wi gaja\ hiz`uk hiz`a\ na\xgu wi na.
Hake ni\ge nu\xa\wa\ pi\ni\ na.
Ma\i\xete hiz`uk xete hani\ ni\ hice ceja waca wi na.
Žige gucire gaja\ hinu\k ra egi xunu\i\k ra hisge wa;oire
na.
Na\xa hihak eja ;u\ na\k ra hana\c wa;oire na.
Ma\s`ja\ hani\p wi nu\i\ge ke sagre ;u\ pi\ni\ na.
Hisge higuana t;aire naga hana\c wa;oire na.
Ni\ eja ;u\ na\k ra his`ge wa[oire na\ga t;e wahire na.
Sani\k eja hagi wi na\ga wa;oire ra egi t;aire ra wotuca\
wi na.
Ma\i\xete ra hake hiroina\k hira wi na.
Cowes`ge, hana\c eja hat;a wi na.
Sto haki\ wi na\ga hagias wi na.
Ke wa]kiza wi ni\ na.
Wa\ks`i\k ra hogihi tani\ eja t;e wahire na.
Co]ka e] ra te horak s`unu\ na.
Wenona eja as`ge cire s`unu\ na.
Wa\ks`i\k ra roha\ eja t;e hire ra kaga horakira ni\ na.
Ma\i\xete ra tani\ t;e wahire gi worak xete ;u\i\ne na.
Hagaira ha\te s`is`ik hi\;u gi te yaha\te s`unu\ na.
Hagias na;i\ Ni\ Xete ra hatuce na\;i\ ma\s`ja hani\p yaki\
s`unu\ na.
Pez`e ga hinux\e gi ke yaperes ni\ na.
Ni\ eja hona\]z`i\ nu\wa\k na\ga ma\s`ja\ hani\p nu\i\ge ke nige
hagi\p tuxuruk ni\ na.
154
English translation
It rained three days.
It rained hard, then it rained gently.
Just when I thought it was done, it started again.
The creeks were high and the ground became
spongy.
The days became hotter, so we headed back to the
cool forest [of Wisconsin].
We followed the river looking for a likely place to
cross.
At last, we found a good place to cross.
We got the children and the elders ready to cross.
The elders and children crossed on logs lashed
together.
Some crossed by canoe.
Some young who were able swam across.
When we reached midstream, we heard gunfire.
There was no place to hide.
We could see settlers on the river bank with
firearms.
They fired another time.
Some women and some children were wounded.
All those on board were wounded.
We swam hard but couldn’t make headway.
Some were killed outright and all were wounded.
When we reached the other side, we tended the
wounded and the dead.
The settlers didn’t follow after us.
We almost all died there that day.
We gathered together and fled.
We didn’t fight back.
Three hundred [Ho-Chunk] people died there that
day.
My grandfather used to tell this story.
They used to live near Winona, Minnesota.
History never tells of the three hundred Ho-
Chunks killed there.
But if three settlers were killed, it was big news.
Sometimes I have nightmares.
I try to escape crossing a big river, swimming hard
and I wake up swimming hard.
I don’t know who is chasing me.
I’m standing in deep water running and
swimming but I can’t get anywhere.
 155

APPENDIX D
Omaha Pronunciation Guide
 156

APPENDIX E

Hoca\k Wowagax Ra/The Ho-Chunk Alphabet

Letter in Pronunciation Similar Sounds in English Examples in Hoca\k
Hoca\k
a ah father, all, apart a (arm), ska (white), as`ge (close
by/ near)
a\ ahn (nasal) Tonka (toy) wa\k (man), ha\p (day), ha\he
(night)
b ba box, boy, band bik (playing cards), bojas`
(marble, billiard)
c cha child, church, touch ce (cow), ca (deer)
e ay say, okay, they hena (second son)
g ga go, gold, glad gaga (grandma), gipi\ (like)
g` g`a (gargle sound) hopag`uk ( I wear)
h ha hi, hiccup, horse hu (leg), harí (far)
i ee me, see, key, leave i (mouth), si (foot)
i\ eehn (nasal) sing, ring, ducking pi\ (good)
j ja jog, jump jagu (what), hajá (see)
k ka kick, king, kangaroo ka’ (no), kení\ (before)
m ma man, me, monkey ma\ni\ (walk), megi (here)
n na no, nap, net ni\zu (rain), na\ni\ (mom)
o oh open, okay, hippo ózi (wrist), ho (fish)
p pa police, pie, part pec (fire), pa (nose)
r rda (rolled) (like rolled rr in Spanish) ra (the), ras` (name), rus (take)
s sa see, song, send si (foot), sagre (fast), siní\ (cold)
s` sh shoot, treasure, application s`a\na\ (only), s`u\k (dog)
t da hundred, dog takac (hot), tani\ (three)
u oo boot, loot hu (leg), ruc (eat)
u\ oohn (nasal) tune, spoon s`u\k (dog)
w wa winter, wind wa (snow), waní\ (meat)
xa xa (like German ch/ cat hissing xeté (big), xunú\ (small/ little), xe
sound) (hill)
y ya yes, you, yell yagé (I call him/her)
z za zebra, daze zi (yellow)
z` zh Asian, corrosion, vision z`ená\ (all gone), z`e (that), z`ura
(money)
; (stop) (like the middle of “uh-oh”) Ka; (no), hi;a\c (father), hi; u\ni\
(mother)
*Note* The HoChunk alphabet does not use the letters d, f, l, q or v. The language has three nasal vowels: a\, i\, and
u\. The hacek over a letter (e.g. g`, s` and z`) indicates a different sound associated with that letter. The glottal stop ( ;
) is part of the alphabet. In the Nebraska variety of Hoca\k, long vowel sounds (e.g. a],a\],e], i], i\], o], u], u\]) are
symbolized with a long line across the top of the vowel. This HoChunk alphabet and pronunciation guide has
been adapted from the work of Phyllis Armendariz.
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APPENDIX F
A note to those about to dissertate…

Scholars are human.

One of the most important messages that I received from one of my former professors, who
remains a very influential person in my life, is that scholars are human. During my residency at
the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Wayne Babchuk’s lectures and personal conversations
helped me envision myself in the role of a professor and researcher for the first time. The reason
for this was that he told stories of each researcher before he gave a lecture about their work.
Each of these scholars had a story. They may be famous for their work in (insert field of
expertise here), but… they are still human beings just like the rest of us. To me, it makes the
knowledge seem more accessible. I now find myself doing the same thing for my own students.

Find your passion.

When discussing the process of grading with my mentor John Raible, he advised me to provide
projects for students that are fun to grade. It makes it seem less like work and provides a more
enjoyable experience for all involved. To that same notion, I recommend researching something
that you are passionate about. A dissertation involves a lot of commitment, a lot of time and a lot
of effort. Research something that actually holds purpose for you in your life, for it will definitely
make the dissertation process less painful. Topics that I am passionate for researching continue
to excite me.

I feel isolated.

The perception of feeling isolated can make the dissertating process seem long and lonely. I am
a first-generation college student and the first in my extended family to seek a doctoral degree.
Three of my grandparents completed their educational careers in the eighth grade. I graduated
with a class of 36 students, with only a handful of them seeking education beyond a Bachelor’s
degree. Writing a dissertation with future aspirations for a career in academia is unfamiliar
territory to many of the people I grew up knowing.

Therefore, it is important to actively seek out others who are going through a similar process. It
may seem like hell when you are in the midst of it, but recognize that others are having similar
hellacious experiences too. You are experiencing it together! It is also important to remember
that others have come out on the other side, with a diploma in hand and a new funny cap on
their head.

In addition, find ways to remain in contact with people on campus. I moved two hours away
from campus to conduct my dissertation research, and one of my coping strategies for no longer
taking classes on campus was to start emailing articles/chapters that I read to fellow graduate
student colleagues and professors. Through this process, I felt like I was still part of the campus
community, continuing the conversation. One of my professors and mentors, Theresa Catalano,
actually began referencing me to others as her “personal librarian”.
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Some weeks I found myself putting so many miles on my blue Toyota Corolla gathering data,
while others I stayed in my pajamas writing and working from home for several consecutive
days. Just remember that when you do decide to go out in public, 1) shower, 2) brush your teeth,
and 3) remember to put on a bra.

Life happens.

During the summer of 2014, my sister Jen was diagnosed with breast cancer, just shy of her 31 st
birthday. This was also during the time that I was taking a travel-study course at the university,
presenting at the CRSEA conference in Nashville, teaching an undergraduate level summer
course, moving to my research site, and working on my comprehensive exams. Luckily, I was
blessed with Elaine Chan, a very supportive advisor who understood that I needed to be with my
sister on this journey. Consequently, we adjusted the timeline for turning in my first
comprehensive exam question, and I am forever grateful.

Be your own advocate and actually talk to people about what is going on in your life. There is a
difference between complaining just for the sake of hearing your own voice, and acknowledging
that there may be huge changes going on in your life that you need to process.

Keep your sanity.

In my own personal experience, I have made a conscious effort to remain sane through a
balanced consumption of coffee and pinot noir. Jimmy Fallon and the cast of New Girl appeared
regularly in the comfort of my own living room. They reminded me to laugh. Other outlets for
stress relief for me were gardening, playing the piano, singing and painting.

Another word of advice-- get a pet (or a human)-- someone that will remind you of their
unconditional love every time you walk in the door, even when you may seem not so loveable. I
adopted my dog Rudy upon moving to my research site. This was one of the best decisions I ever
made. His former owners kept him in a cage a lot, and it was a true inspiration to see him learn
how to play with toys for the first time. It helped me develop a new lens into my own living
situation. I was not alone. We were there to support each other.

Stay connected.

Another way to keep your sanity is by staying connected to the people important to you. For me,
this happened by getting schooled regularly by my grandpa and Great Aunt Agnes in online
Scrabble. Group messages were one of the best inventions ever, as this allowed for me to remain
in constant on-going contact with friends, even if we lived miles (or oceans) apart. I also made a
point to schedule regular sushi dates with my close friend and colleague Dr. Jessica Sierk,
especially when it involved getting the free chocolate cake for our birthdays. It was important to
go see live bands perform with my friends. Oh, and also, it was important to dance at said live
performances.

I also (re)discovered that there are endless possibilities for a cardboard box when playing with
my nephews Easton and Cooper. I used FaceTime to connect with my brother’s family out in
Colorado and saw my niece Lexi show me her dance moves that she was practicing for her next
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recital. While I still rely on the wall to stop me when ice skating, my nephew Porter informed me
that he got a hat trick as his last hockey game. He was four at the time, and he still continues to
skate circles around me.

I also found myself reminiscing about my roots, so I traveled back to the farm where I grew up.
When I needed some peace and quiet, I would drive our four-wheeler out to the west pasture to
listen to the songs of bull frogs while watching turtle heads bob up and down in the water. I
enjoyed seeing the new calves born in the spring. While the mother cows lined up along the
fence line feed bunks to eat, calves would race around the yard with their tails up in the air
chasing each other. My sister would laugh at me while I used my perfected cow call, which in
turn directed baby calves to come start licking our hands with their rough, scratchy tongues. I
helped mom weed the flower bed and fill up the bird feeders with seed, so that the finches and
cardinal would return. The aroma of fresh cut alfalfa was and still remains one of the most
calming scents to me. After sunset, I sat on the porch swing and drank a beer with my dad. We
would discuss our never-ending lists of things that still needed to get done (usually kept on an
ongoing trail of sticky notes), and then finally rest for the day.

Just write.

Some days, it can be very easy to try to find other things to do instead of writing. I found myself
saying, “I could be doing laundry right now” or “I would much rather be at my nephew’s game”.
A dissertation does not write itself, however. I was grateful for the advice I received from a
fellow doctoral student, Emily Suh, who told me how she encourages her students to “Puke all
over the page.” Then, you can always go back and edit, but at least you have something written
down.

In writing this dissertation, I also gleaned from the advice of one of my professors, Ted Hamann,
who at my comprehensive exams defense prompted me with the following question: “Of these
stories I could tell, which is the most compelling?”

This story, I believe, is my most compelling.

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i As Smith (2012) notes, the term ‘Indigenous’ is used here to internationalize “the experiences, the issues and the
struggles of some of the world’s colonized peoples” (p. 7), while the term ‘peoples’ signifies the identities of distinct,
self-determining peoples (p. 119).
ii For example, one linguist documented dozens of languages spoken in the Northwest during the 18 th and 19th

centuries, which encompassed a language considered to be derived from outside the region such as Cree, Iroquois,
Hawaiian, and Plains Sign Language (Philips, 2011 as cited in McCarty, 2013a).
iii It is important to note that Spaniards held a virtual “monopoly over the southern half of [the present-day United

States] for one entire century before the arrival of other Europeans” (Castellanos, 1992, p. 14 as cited in McCarty,
2013a).
iv One such missionary, John Eliot, translated the Bible into Massachusett in 1663; he adopted the ideology of White

supremacy like many other Puritan missionaries, deeming Native Americans to “have no principles… nor wisdom of
their own” (Eliot, 1651 as cited in McCarty, 2013a, p. 49). One of his main objectives was the construction of “praying
towns”, which were small, self-governing Indian villages where children were removed from their families and
communities to be instructed in English, Christianity and the ‘civilized’ arts.
v Other examples of off-reservation schools include: Chilocco (Oklahoma), Genoa (Nebraska), Haskell (Kansas),

Phoenix (Arizona), Salem/Chemawa (Oregon), and Sherman (California) (Lomawaima & McCarty, 2006).
vi As Lomawaima and McCarty (2006) note, “… little is known about early Indian experiences in public schools, and

many public schools denied Indian enrollment until well after World War II” (p. 47).
vii It is important to note that this report came shortly after all Native Americans were granted citizenship in 1924.

viii It is worth noting that some may find testing in the Indigenous language may not be feasible in certain
circumstances; however, the point being made here is regarding rights to access and opportunity that extend beyond
testing.
ix It should be noted that the metaphor of the Safety Zone for this theory is not Native-centric or decolonizing. Rather,
it privileges the experiences of the colonizers because safety is defined from their perspective.
x This mirrors general widespread trends in how various immigrant groups have been perceived and treated
historically in the U.S.
xi The new state constitution also mandated the promotion of Hawaiian history, language, and culture.
xii This model has not been without its challenges. For example, some may use linguistic identity as a weapon of proof

for authentic Native Hawaiian identity, creating another hierarchy.

xiii Fidelia Fielding passed away in 1908, the last native speaker of Mohegan-Pequot, a dialect of Wômpanâak.
xiv See McCarty (2002/2010) and Warhol & Morris (2014) for the Navajo/Diné language community; and Sims (2014)

for Pueblo languages such as Zuni.

xv See Krauss (1998), McCarty, Romero & Zepeda (2006) and Romero-Little, McCarty, Warhol, Zepeda, Ramanthan,

& Morgan (2007).

xvi For example, see Baldwin (2014) and McCarty with Baldwin, Ironstack & Olds (2013) for Myaamia/Miami

revitalization; Hermes (2005) and Hermes and King (2013) for Ojibwe revitalization; Meek (2010) for Kaska and
other northern Athabaskan language revitalization; Makepeace (2011) and McCarty (2013) for the Wôpanâak
Language Reclamation Project; Switzler & Haynes (2014) for Kiksht, Ichishkiin, and Numu language revitalization in
central Oregon; and Wilson (2014) for Hawaiian revitalization.
xvii These categorizations have largely been conducted by outsiders informed by Western social scientific viewpoints.
xviii For more information on common origins, please see the ethnographic work of Alice Fletcher and Francis La

Flesche’s (1911/1992) two volume series The Omaha Tribe and Paul Radin’s (1923/1990) The Winnebago Tribe.
xix It is worth noting, however, that not all tribal members reside on the reservations.
xx There is no sole authored book that will come from this dissertation. Rather, co-authorship is sought with
community members, and any funds accrued from the development of language resources is going back to the
language revitalization programs, as stated in the Memorandum of Understanding co-authored and signed by
members of each language community. Additionally, the dissertation presented here focuses on a critical examination
of the researcher. This is in an effort to avoid earning a doctorate through research about the language communities
without members having agency in the process.
xxi It should be noted that the metaphor of the Safety Zone for this theory is not Native-centric or decolonizing. Rather,
it privileges the experiences of the colonizers because safety is defined from their perspective.
xxii Some might also add crossing-over or recombination.
xxiii This is similar to Blumenbach’s typology.
xxiv This is similar to the work of the unilineal evolutionists of Tylor and Lewis Henry Morgan who wrote
anthropology’s first ethnography in League of the Iroquois.
xxv Similar instances have occurred in places such as Australia and Canada.
xxvi This is both in terms of how an individual self-identifies and how viewed in a particularly social-historical context.
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xxvii Inadvertently, the boarding school movement also served as a means for forging alliances between diverse tribal
groups (McCarty, 2012).
xxviii For Omaha examples, see Awakuni-Swetland (2003) and LaFlesche (1900/1963). For a Ho-Chunk example, see

Fikes (1996).
xxix Also see Suárez-Orozco’s work on ascribed and avowed identities, as well as Kottak’s work on the situational
identity of social identity.
xxx It is worth noting that many community members view the lack of resources as an obstacle, however others might
view this as an advantage where the community has control in producing its own resources.
xxxi It is worth noting that those who discuss utilizing Participatory Action Research, as an epistemology or method,
do so on a continuum of full or peripheral participation of community members.
xxxii Part of this delay was due to uncertainty with interim status, but also having incorrect contact information.
xxxiii In the larger project, I am collaborating with students, teachers, and community members as co-researchers and
co-authors.
xxxiv For a more comprehensive list on terms associated with this particular genre of research, please see Ellis and

Bochner’s (2000) handbook chapter “Autoethnography, personal narrative, reflexivity: Researcher as subject”.
xxxv This became very evident through a conversation that took place at a research conference, where a member of the
audience was an undergraduate student with Indigenous ancestry who was not afforded the same opportunity and
access to learn her ancestral language.
xxxvi This also extends beyond the social human realm, including other relations such as environmental, plant, animal

and spiritual realms (Brayboy, et al., 2012).

xxxvii While the first spellings are written in their respective Indigenous language (i.e., Hocąk and Umo nhon), the

second spelling of each language is in the Anglicanized version (i.e., Ho-Chunk and Omaha).
xxxviii For a more comprehensive list on terms associated with this particular genre of research, please see Ellis and

Bochner’s (2000) handbook chapter, ‘“Autoethnography, personal narrative, reflexivity: Researcher as subject.’
xxxix Non-Native here refers to those without Indigenous heritage. In other disciplines, the word may be used to

connote a non-native speaker of a particular language.

xl This is the terminology used by others in autoethnography (Ellis & Bochner, 2000).
xli The translation of the color white remains distinct from the term used in association with the white racial identity
for both languages.
xlii Following APA Guidelines, I will use italics to indicate letters, words, phrases, or sentences as citations of a

linguistic example (p. 91 in the manual). Consistency will be provided throughout this manuscript for all linguistic
examples, whether in Ho-Chunk, Omaha, English or Spanish.
xliii The monument bears the following inscription: “This memorial is erected to the memory of the children of Phoebe

Ann and Henson Wiseman. Arthur age 16 years, Hannar age 14 years, Andrew age 9 years, William age 8 years, Loren
age 4 years. Massacred by Yankton and Santee Sioux Indians. July 24, 1863 between 9 and 10 o’clock A.M.”
xliv Derived from http://usdakotawar.org/history/aftermath/trials-hanging#
xlv Included in this commentary are the two prisoners of war hung in Ft. Snelling.
xlvi Some of these words are not even recognized by the word processing software I used to write this manuscript.
xlvii Worth noting here is that common features perceived to be shared across idiolects emerge “only after the idiolects

have been classified on a cultural basis as belonging to the same named language” (Otheguy, García & Reid, 2015, p.
294).
xlviii Some Indigenous languages groups believe that the language must remain an unwritten language, maintaining

the tradition of oralcy (e.g., Cochiti-Keres in Romero, 2003).

xlix This is relative to how long the language has been transmitted orally.
l “The current orthography used by many linguists is the Americanist version of the International Phonetic Alphabet.

[…] There have been several Omaha people, both past and present, who have developed personal writing systems.
These are largely base upon the English phonetics system and are generally non-standardized. […] With an eye
towards making it more accessible to non-Omaha speakers […] the following changes have been rendered: replace the
c-cedilla / ç / with the corresponding / s / or / z /, add a superscript / h / to show aspiration, and use the / ? / with, or
without the under-dot to indicate the glottal stop” (Awakuni-Swetland, 2003, p. 69-70).
li This becomes even more complex, as individuals may have ancestral ties to more than one Indigenous group, which

may or may not have federal or state recognition. Rules on tribal enrollment also vary across groups, so what may
apply to one group may not with another.