Martha's Vineyard's Indigenous Past & Present

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This is Fresh Air.

I'm Tanya Mosley.

Martha's Vineyard, just seven miles off the coast of Massachusetts, is an island known for its windswept beaches, clay cliffs, and cedar-shingled cottages.

It's a place synonymous with presidential vacations, affluent visitors, and shops selling pearls and polo shirts.

But beneath that postcard-perfect image lies a much older story, one that debut author Joseph Lee uncovers in his new book, Nothing More of This Land, Community, Power, and the Search for Indigenous Identity.

As a member of the Aquina Wampanag, Lee takes readers beyond the celebrity summer scene and into the heart of Noepe, the name his people have called the island for centuries.

Lee begins the book with the legend of Moshep, a giant whose toe is said to have carved the island from the sea, and whose whale hunts left the cliff in Aquinah stained deep red.

Beyond the myth, Lee takes readers on a deeply personal exploration of indigenous life around the world and what it means to belong to a land that is both a sacred home and a luxury playground, a place where tourism sustains families even as it threatens to displace them.

Joseph Lee grew up in a suburb of Boston and spent his summers on the family's land working at his parents' store on Martha's Vineyard.

He teaches creative writing at Mercy University and has written for several publications, including The Guardian, BuzzFeet News, Vox, and High Country News.

Joseph Lee, welcome to fresh air and congratulations on this book.

What a sweeping journey.

Thank you and thank you so much for having me.

There are many versions of Martha's Vineyard.

The description I just gave is this vacation spot for the wealthy.

But would you mind reading a section from your book where you describe the other parts, the people and the land and the feeling of this island?

The thing about Martha's Vineyard is that it's more complicated than people think.

There's a Martha's Vineyard where politicians and wealthy Democratic donors have private parties with catering and security guards.

There's a Martha's Vineyard that is filled with vineyard vines, polos, private beaches, and sailboats.

There's another for families who come over for the day to buy ice cream and keychains.

There are those who own a summer house, those who rent one, and those who might stay at a hotel or the youth hostel.

It has been home to fishermen, hippies, tribal members, Brazilian immigrants, working families, and so much more.

It may also be that people simply don't realize how big Martha's Vineyard is.

Unlike Nantucket, which is smaller and only has one town, Martha's Vineyard has six distinct towns, each with its own characteristics and town governments.

The island is divided into Up Island and Down Island, each with three towns.

The terminology comes from longitude, with the up island towns, Aquinah, Chilmark, and West Tisbury, on the western side of the island with its higher longitudinal coordinates.

The three down island towns are Oak Bluffs, Tisbury, and Angertown.

Up Island is much more rural, and while the Up Island towns do have smatterings of stores and businesses, We go down island to get groceries, pick visitors up from the airport or ferry, and go shopping.

And finally, at the western tip of the island, Aquina is the smallest and most remote town.

Sometimes, when tourists make it to Aquina, they say they can't believe how long it took to get there.

If they biked, usually they're exhausted and desperate for another option to go back down island.

Unlike other towns, we don't really have a town center.

Our only stores are the ones at the cliffs, which are only open seasonally.

We're also the only town without our own school.

Many people who visit the island spend their entire time in a single town.

While it's true that each town has its own unique characteristics, I also think it's a little game people play, as if to distinguish themselves from the other rich white people.

Thank you for reading that.

I thought it was really interesting to really see this from your vantage point, because your family owns a gift shop.

And right now, if I understand correctly, this is really a busy time of year for the island, right?

Yeah, this is the big season.

Take us there.

What is it like?

What do they sell in the store and the tourists who come into the store?

Yeah, they sell a lot of stuff.

I mean, like a lot of seasonal businesses, I think you're trying to maximize the season.

So you're trying to maximize the summer stuff and we have a pretty small store.

And so there's a lot of stuff really jammed in there.

And it's a range of t-shirts, sweatshirts, hats, you know, with Martha's Vineyard logos, lighthouses, different designs, things like that.

But then we have some local jewelry.

My mother makes jewelry.

We have jewelry made by some cousins.

And so it's a pretty big range of things.

And so the summer is structured around tourism.

You know, my parents work seven days a week.

They work long days.

You know, when they come home at night, they have to do the inventory.

They have to restock.

They have to order.

So it's a pretty short, intense season as these different groups of tourists are coming and going.

There was this moment right after you graduated from undergrad when Something shifted in the way that you saw the island.

So you spent that summer before grad school working at your parents' store, but this time that ritual felt different.

You began to see the seasonal rhythm through new eyes, that deeper political and social force, the forces that shape this place.

How did you begin to see it differently?

Yeah, I think after I graduated college and right before I started grad school, which was going to be in New York City, two things were happening.

One was personally, you know, you're leaving college, you're kind of embarking on what you've been told is your adult life and you're thinking about career and what you're going to do and where you're going to live.

And I was excited about that, but I also felt a small sense of loss that maybe as I was moving towards these things, grad school, career, that I was really excited about and excited to work towards, that I was sort of wondering if it was bringing me further away from the island and my tribal community.

And so this summer that I spent in between college and grad school almost felt kind of like this last hurrah moment.

And then the other thing that happened during that summer is my tribe was going through this big internal debate over whether or not we should try to build a casino on our tribal land in Aquina.

And that was the thing that really helped open my eyes to sort of these more political aspects of tribal community and being Wampanoag beyond kind of the cultural and community events that I'd been a part of growing up.

Give us a sense of the presence of the tribe on the island.

How big is the tribe currently?

And maybe even based on the history that you've learned through the research on this book and really what you learned growing up, at its height, the presence there on the island?

Yeah, I mean, at one time, you know, there was nobody else on the island.

It was just Wampanoag folks, and there are all sorts of different tribes and villages.

And unfortunately, Now, we have a much smaller community, and speaking for just the Aquino Wampanoag on the western end of the island, we're pretty small.

We have over a thousand members in the tribe, but only a few hundred of those live on Martha's Vineyard.

And then an even smaller percentage of those actually live in Aquina in our hometown.

And so the question of, you know, what is the presence on the island,

I think it depends.

I think for a lot of people, you know, for me, when I go home and I spend time there, It's a huge presence because I'm spending time at the cliffs, seeing cousins, going to tribal events, whether it's cultural gathering or a political meeting.

It's a huge part of my life.

But I think what I've seen and one of the things I write about in the book is so many people come to the island or talk about the island, are interested in the island, and it really doesn't register for them.

You know, they might not even make it up to Aquina.

And if they do, they might meet us and kind of be surprised, or it might just never come up.

So I think it's a really big range of how people experience the tribe.

So much of the tribe's effort to sustain that debate over the casino is a big part of that.

You know, so many people move away because, like you, you moved away for opportunity.

And so there was that real sense of tension around what can we have on the island that also helps sustain us and keep people here.

Yeah, I think that's a a really central tension for a lot of communities that live in some sort of area that has tourism or is a draw for tourists.

And yeah, for us, it's a really big question that, you know, you could ask the same question about the casino that you ask for the stores at the cliffs.

What are the choices that we have?

What are the options we have to make a living here?

What is that going to look like and how will that impact the community long term?

And

the other question, too, is I think who has the ability to decide that for the rest of the community?

And so I think it really bubbled up to the surface with the casino debate in a different way because, you know, one person starting a small business, whether it's a shop or, you know, a fishing business or something like that, it's part of this bigger picture, but it doesn't necessarily impact the whole community in a way that some people felt that this larger casino project might, not just now, but for many years in the future.

And so I think that's really why those questions that had always been there suddenly felt much more urgent.

It was really fascinating to read from your perspective, your view of the visitors who come to the island and how they view you and your family, your people.

Visitors often ask you the oddest things, Like, what kinds of questions and comments do they make?

Yeah, I mean, it's such a huge range.

I think for some reason, being behind a counter just like exposes you to anything anybody wants to say.

And then I think being in this unique place of Martha's Vineyard and then being a tribal member, being a Quinoampanog brings sort of an extra layer to that.

And yeah, people would ask all kinds of questions.

You know, I didn't think there were Indians anymore.

What are you doing here?

What do you wear?

What kind of houses do you live in?

Somebody once asked me if we use iPhones, which

was very specific, but also

are you talking about the newest iPhone or just smartphones?

So there's a lot of weirdness and you kind of have to

fight through it.

And it's something I wanted to talk about in the book because it's an important part of, I think, my experience, but our experience as a community more broadly.

But I also didn't want it to become this punching down thing where I was sort of focusing on these like bizarre and sometimes offensive comments I was getting, but sort of what's behind them.

Yeah.

I mean, I bet you learn so much about people's ignorance or naivete around Native people and their understanding by how they relate to you, because your dad is Chinese American and your mom is half Japanese.

And so you don't look like what maybe most people assume Native people look like.

What have those interactions revealed to you?

Yeah, I think it basically confirms a lot of what I grew up with and what a lot of people will identify as kind of these American stereotypes about what a Native person is, what they look like.

And I think there's just so much going on for people in their minds when they come to Martha's Vineyard expecting one thing.

And then they come to Aquina and it's a little bit different.

And then they meet us at the store and we're a little bit different and we have this different history that we're talking about.

And they're like trying to like find some stable footing.

And I think they're just like grasping on often to like, well, wait, but wait, like you're supposed to look like this if you're Native American and you don't really look like that.

And another kind of strange thing that happens in this space is sometimes people say, oh, you know, I'm so excited.

I've never met a Native person before.

Can I take a photo with you?

Sometimes it's just, can I take a photo of you?

And so sometimes I laugh a little bit, wondering, like, well, when they take these photos and go back and show it to people, are they?

Yeah, what do they do with it?

Are they confused?

Like, well, who's that Asian-looking guy?

And yeah.

You dealt kind of with those interactions, not just on the island, but in life in general, when you talk about your identity, I can imagine it's also shaped your own feelings about being native.

How did it in the ways that others relate to you affect the way you saw yourself, your own understanding of your tribe and your identity?

Aaron Powell,

Yeah, I think for a long time I kind of internalized a lot of what I was feeling externally about what it meant to be Native.

And I think in the absence of maybe

more nuanced positive models of what it means to be Indigenous, I felt like the only thing I had to fall back on was kind of these stereotypes or simplifications or assumptions.

And so I always felt a little bit like, well, am I maybe less native because I don't look the way people expect me to look or because I have these other parts of my background?

And that was something I think I wrestled with for a long time.

And it came with all these other factors that, you know, I didn't live full-time on Martha's Vineyard.

I saw other young Native people who I felt were maybe embracing their culture a little bit more.

They were speaking the language or they were competing at powwows or doing these things that I think to me and to maybe many other people seem so externally, obviously native.

And I, because I wasn't doing as many of those things or didn't have as many of these biographical facts that I felt like added up to, like that's a native person, I always felt a little bit insecure in that identity.

In some ways, you began to see yourself kind of

no different than the tourists.

Yeah, because my experience on Martha's Vineyard,

as much as I, you know, might try to deny it, in many ways mirrored theirs.

You know, I would go there in the summer and I looked forward to the beaches and getting ice cream and going to the agricultural fair at the end of the summer and going on rides and playing games.

And all of that was fun and I loved it, but it, to me, didn't feel like this sort of ideal of being Wampanoag or being indigenous that I had built up in my head.

And so I kind of wondered, like, well, am I just another summer visitor?

You know, what actually distinguishes me from these people that I'm sort of feeling this growing tension with over the years as they're asking me all these weird questions.

Land ownership is such an important component when it comes to identity

for most native populations.

Can you quantify how much land your tribe

currently owns on Martha's Vineyard?

We have a few hundred acres of land, which is not a lot.

It's certainly more than it has been

recently.

The tribe has been sort of steadily gaining back land, sometimes in like a little piece, sometimes a bigger chunk.

But yeah,

it's a pretty small piece of land.

I should also say that that's the land that the tribe as a government entity has.

There are also pieces of land owned by individual tribal members like my family.

So our house on the island is private land.

It's not

associated with the tribe at all.

We're just regular old landowners like somebody down the street.

We pay taxes like everybody else.

And so there are a lot of families on the island, especially in Aquina,

who are in that situation.

So the question of how much Wampanoag-owned land is there, there are kind of those two pieces of it, the privately owned land and then the tribally owned land.

Your mother has said that her goal is to leave the family land to you and your brother, which made you think

you thought of this very interesting

quandary.

If each of you has a couple of kids, the land will eventually have to be divided even further.

And some of them could decide to sell the land.

And that's something that you can't control.

And I think this is such an important point to pause on because so much of what it means to be native, as I was saying earlier, is so deeply tied to land, to owning it, to protecting it, to keeping it in your family.

And so this journey that you've been on is also asking yourself, what does it mean to be Wampanoag beyond Aquina, beyond the land itself?

Yeah, I mean, I think that land is such an important part of it, and there's no way to escape that.

And there's no way to say, like, well, if we lose the land, we'll be fine.

But I also think that, yeah, we need to find other ways while we're also fighting to keep and keep the land and get more of it back, to acknowledge the other ways that Wampanoag community can and I think must exist.

And so, for the example of my family, you know, my brother and I both don't live on Martha's Vineyard.

And my parents, they have one house on the island and we're fortunate enough to

own some land.

And, you know, my mother, as you said, has always had this dream of leaving each of us a home on the island.

And, you know, I feel extremely lucky and fortunate to be in that situation because so many people, especially in the tribe, just don't have that luxury.

But even with what I consider a very uniquely fortunate land situation, I can see, yeah, just one generation in the future, if

people decide to sell it or there's a financial disaster or something bad happens, there are so many things that can go wrong that even now feeling like we're doing pretty well, we have this land, we have choices, how quickly that can unravel.

So I think it's sort of two questions.

One is thinking about what are the creative ways that we can think about using and keeping the land, but then also how can we build and strengthen our community to ensure that even as land potentially continues to get lost, we don't lose our community.

Right.

There's also, I mean, medium home prices in Aquina are around 3.5 million.

I think you wrote that some over 8 million.

So even if

you all decided to move back, then you'd also have to factor in things like property taxes.

Yeah, and this is a huge concern,

which is why I think it's important to highlight that a lot of the land, and in my family in particular, is privately owned.

So yeah, we're paying the regular property taxes in the town.

And, you know, I think that's a stereotype about Native people that we get all these free benefits.

We don't pay taxes.

We get, you know, free checks from the government.

And that could not be further from the truth.

and yeah we're we're now paying these really really high taxes on land that's been in the family and been in the community for generations and generations and so it's not enough to just have the land you need to also be making enough money in your life to be able to keep the land and pay property taxes and so that's also something that i think a lot about you know you can't just be passive with the land and like well we have it this is great and we're gonna hold on to it forever you really have to work to hold on to it.

Our guest today is writer Joseph Lee.

We're talking about his new book, Nothing More of This Land, Community Power and the Search for Indigenous Identity.

We'll be right back after a short break.

I'm Tanya Mosley, and this is Fresh Air.

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Let's talk a little bit about sovereignty because as I mentioned earlier, you write quite a bit about it.

So Native American sovereignty refers to this inherent right of Indigenous tribes to govern themselves, to make their own laws, to manage their internal affairs, independent of the federal government.

And you spend a good portion of this book exploring it, what it means for your tribe, what it means for other tribes throughout the nation and the world.

What common threads surprised you?

I think one thing that surprised me is all the different ways that people think about and use sovereignty.

When I grew up in the tribe in the 90s, it was just a few years after my tribe, the Quinoampanog, had received federal recognition, which in the U.S.

is kind of like the U.S.

recognizing your sovereignty as a sovereign nation.

And so I grew up in this space where the tribe was really proud of this achievement and excited by it and excited for all the opportunities and for what we could do with it.

And also just, I think, happy that we were finally being acknowledged as a people, as a nation, which had been denied for so long.

And I think because of that, I felt like maybe the work was done.

You know, I knew that my parents and my grandparents' generation had achieved federal recognition.

And it felt in some ways like that was the finish line, like we did it and now we have it.

But what surprised me and what I've learned is that You know, it's not something you can just sit on, we achieved it, especially when we're talking about just the sort of US federal government version of it.

There are all these other ways that you need to practice it and employ it and defend it and build it.

And that was one of the really exciting things for me in the reporting I did, is traveling around the country and seeing tribes really using and flexing their sovereignty and using it.

to push back against some of these US structures.

And then along with that too, I think I also heard people talking about sovereignty as something that could exist outside of that U.S.

federal recognition structure entirely.

And to me, that was really interesting and exciting because I always thought of sovereignty as like just that, basically sovereignty equals federal recognition, but I came to learn it's a lot more complicated.

Give us an example of being outside of that structure of federal recognition that you learned.

Yeah, I mean, there are tribes, for example, that are not federally recognized at all.

And one of the tribes that I met on a reporting trip was the Shasta Indian Nation in Northern California.

They're not federally recognized and we were talking to them in the Klamath River Basin as the Klamath River dams, four of them which have now come down, but I was there right before they came down.

And

they were there trying to get their land back.

So when the dam would be removed, the the reservoir that the dam had formed would drain away and that was the land they were trying to reclaim.

And I was asking them, you know,

you guys aren't federally recognized.

Is that something you're trying to get?

And what they told me was, well, of course it is.

You know, we deserve that recognition.

We feel we deserve that recognition and we want it and we'll try to get it.

But right now our priority is getting the land back.

And that was really interesting to me because I think growing up, I always saw achieving federal recognition is like, that's the thing you should try to do.

Paramount.

Yeah.

Yeah.

Like you do that and then maybe you see what else you can do.

Trevor Burrus, Can you talk a little bit about some of the qualifications of being federally recognized?

Because your tribe actually gains sovereignty, if I'm reading this correctly, kind of by the skin of its teeth.

Yeah, the federal government has basically a list.

I believe it's seven criteria that you have to apply for and meet.

And there's an Office of Federal Acknowledgement.

in the Department of Interior that makes these determinations.

And my tribe applied and then were denied and then we had an opportunity to resubmit some documents, some additional information, and eventually we were accepted.

But I read back through those documents and it's kind of strange.

In the initial rejection,

there's a little bit of what I would read as kind of criticism of our community.

And, you know, the community is very dispersed.

Not everybody everybody lives on Martha's Vineyard, and they're kind of saying,

Well, that's you know, that's kind of a bad mark in our little scorebook here,

and that might mean they're not really legitimate.

And it's strange because they do acknowledge the historical reasons why that's happened, and they acknowledge historical reasons why, for example, we were not speaking our language at that time.

And so, it was this really strange thing where they're like, Yeah, these people are victims of colonialism because they were native, but because all that stuff happened, maybe they're not really native.

And then,

yeah, you mentioned kind of getting by by the skin of our teeth.

And the

eventual decision where we did receive federal recognition, there was almost this like chiding tone a little bit in one of the paragraphs where it sort of says, like, this was a really close decision, and it could have gone either way, but, you know, we'll give it to them.

And that was just so bizarre to me because, first of all, I feel that it should be unquestioned that we are the Aquinowampanog and we're a sovereign nation.

But also the fact that somebody felt the need to write that in this report to say like, you guys were really close, so it almost feels like a kind of like, we're watching you, you better be careful thing, which just to me is bizarre.

You know, once you have federal recognition, you have it.

As part of your research, you met with several tribes.

You met with the Shastas, you mentioned.

You also met with members of the Cherokee Freedmen.

They're descendants of African Americans who were enslaved by members of the Cherokee Nation, then emancipated and incorporated into the tribe after the Civil War.

And that inclusion lasted until the nation began tightening their enrollment requirements, basing them on blood quantum, those who are Cherokee by blood.

What did you learn from those conversations that maybe gave you a broader perspective or

a different perspective or layered perspective on sovereignty?

Yeah, talking to the freedmen was one of the earliest experiences I had that really, really challenged my own understanding of what it means, not just sort of culturally and personally to be Indigenous, but politically, what it means to be native in this country.

Because amidst all of my insecurity about being native enough, was I living up to these ideals?

I knew that I could always always cling on to this, like, well, I'm a tribal member.

You know, I have my tribal ID card, I'm enrolled, I can go to tribal camp, I can participate in these ways.

So I felt like, okay, well, I have that, so it's legit.

But meeting the freedmen was kind of really eye-opening because there are these people who've been a part of the community.

They've fought and died with the community.

You know, they're integral.

And then they're being told suddenly, you know, you're not one of us anymore.

And that really made me wonder, sort of, okay, if I'm placing all of this on just, you know, having the tribal ID card, being a member of the tribe, what am I missing or who am I potentially leaving out of this conversation?

Let's take a short break.

If you're just joining us, my guest is Joseph Lee.

His new book, Nothing More of This Land, is a blend of memoir, history, and investigative reporting, in which Lee traces his family's deep roots on Martha's Vineyard, as well as the struggles and resilience of the Aquinah Wampanag people.

The book also examines how indigenous communities across the country grapple with questions of land and belonging and sovereignty.

We'll continue our conversation after a short break.

This is Fresh Air.

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One of the more powerful sections of the book for me is when you explore the identity of Indigenous peoples from a global perspective.

you met Native people from all over the world through this United Nations Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues.

It's a two-week gathering held at UN headquarters in New York.

And language was something you talked quite a bit about with folks from other parts of the world.

For some people, it's very important for them in the defining of what it means to be Indigenous.

What is your relationship with the Wampanoag language?

Yeah, I grew up learning the Wampanoag language in our tribal summer camp.

At the time, a sort of many years-long, very ambitious effort to bring back our language was in a relatively early phase.

Our language was lost and we had no fluent speakers for a long time.

And around the time that I was growing up in camp and the language was coming back, people were working really hard to bring it back.

And so in camp, we would practice words and phrases and learn how to introduce ourselves in our language.

And yeah, as I grew older, I would attend classes here and there, but it was never really a consistent part of my life.

I never was able to prioritize it, but I know that there are a lot of people at home who are dedicating themselves to becoming fluent in the language and more importantly, becoming teachers in the language and learning how to pass along to others and help grow the language because we're still very much in this space where we're trying to bring back the language and help it grow and kind of nourish it.

When you were at the UN conference, you met and talked with people about language and also just the other ways of identification and building identity.

And there was a quote that came to mind for you from native writer Tommy Orange, who wrote his novel, They Are There a few years ago, that really speaks to this.

Can I have you read it?

We are Indians and Native Americans, American Indians and Native American Indians, North American Indians, Natives, Indians and Indians, status Indians and non-status Indians, First Nation Indians and Indians so Indian we either think about it, the fact of it every single day, or we never think about it at all.

I always thought I had to be a certain kind of Indian and wondered if that meant the kind that thinks about it all the time or never.

I wanted you to read that because

that realization that you had makes me wonder how much of identity comes down to choice.

And you write about this in the book.

How much identity comes down to choice, the choice to be involved and engaged with your culture?

And what have you come to?

Yeah, I think what I realized is that it really is a choice.

I think when I was growing up, you know, as a kid, you have a lot less choice in your life.

You have a lot less control.

You know, my parents kind of decided how much time we spent on Martha's Vineyard.

We would go to tribal summer camp.

And as you grow older, I kind of realized that those were choices that they made for me and for my brother.

And now I'm in a position where I need to make them for myself or I need to think about what those choices are.

And yeah, that line from Tommy Orange, I really thought about that.

You know, should I be thinking about it all the time every day?

Or should it be so internalized that it's like I don't even think about it at all.

It's just, you you know, who I am and I never have to think about it.

But I do think about it all the time now.

And

I realize that that's because I'm doing this work.

I'm making it sort of a personal mission to go out and gather and tell these stories and learn about it.

And I realize that that's a choice I've made.

And by making that choice, that's an aspect or that's a way of me embracing that side of my Indigenous identity.

You know, I'm choosing to spend this time doing this when I could be doing something else.

I could be choosing to ask different questions or be a different kind of writer or have a different job entirely.

And I think that that was really powerful for me to think about because for so long I had thought of identity as something that's imposed on you from the outside.

And it felt like I had a limited amount of choice in it.

But realizing like, well, I can control

this relationship.

I can control how much I engage with the Aquinoampanon community.

I can control what I'm writing about.

I can make these choices and in doing so it's a means of connecting with that community and a means of connecting with that part of who I am.

And that was really important for me.

Has it ever been a challenge for you to make your work both accessible while staying true to maybe Indigenous readers who already know a lot of this history?

I just know that writers from marginalized communities often feel pressured to explain their stories as if the audience is white and unfamiliar.

Thank you for asking this question.

It's something I've thought a lot about.

And one of the best compliments I've gotten from some Indigenous readers and Indigenous editors is that they really feel like some of the writing I've done is for them rather than, as you say, for a white audience.

But yeah, I do think it is important to be as accessible as possible.

One of the ways that I thought about that question is to not assume that just because somebody is an Indigenous reader, they already know everything.

Because as I saw with myself, I was an Indigenous writer and I didn't know that much.

And so my goal was really to kind of bring readers along with me.

And as I learn things, hopefully they're learning, they're asking questions.

And one of the things I wanted to do was help myself and hopefully help others ask better questions that lead to these interesting conversations rather than trying to sort of like, well, here are the answers.

Here's what I discovered.

And, you know, if you have this, it's this.

And so I didn't want to be prescriptive in that way.

Joseph, how do you feel about land acknowledgements at schools and events?

This is now a common, customary thing to do at the beginning of gatherings by recognizing Indigenous history of the land that we're on.

What meaning do these acknowledgements hold for you?

One way of looking at it is that land acknowledgements are correcting the record and acknowledging something that has been unacknowledged by a lot of people for so long.

I think you see this especially in like

university and other institutional spaces where they're saying, we're recognizing whose land this is, we're recognizing the history here.

I think the problem with land acknowledgements is, well, what are you doing about it?

What happens after the land acknowledgement?

And I think sometimes land acknowledgements can be one of those things that makes the people doing them feel better, but ultimately isn't really making any change.

This is such a sweeping book, and

you really set out to answer some big questions for yourself.

What it means to be Indigenous, what does home mean, what does identity overall mean if it's not tied to land?

What have you come to?

I think the answer is we just have to keep asking these questions and keep having these conversations.

I I think one of the mistakes that I made is thinking that you arrive at an answer and then it's over.

It's done and that's the answer forever.

But I think the real answer is that these things are always evolving and always changing.

And so I think land will always be important to Indigenous people and Indigenous community is based around land and solidarity.

But what that looks like will continue to change just as it's changed in my parents' and grandparents' life and lives and it's changed in my own life.

So I think we need to hold sort of these core values, but be really, really flexible and adaptive to changing situations.

Joseph Lee, thank you so much for this book and thank you for this conversation.

Thank you.

Joseph Lee is the author of No More of This Land, Community Power and the Search for Identity.

Coming up, our rock critic Ken Tucker reviews new music from Heim and Addison Ray.

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Summer is here, and our rock critic Ken Tucker thinks the sound of summer is the sound of women who've had it with problematic men.

He's focusing on the band Heim, consisting of three sisters, as well as a pop singer who emerged from TikTok fame, Addison Ray.

They all practice what Ken is calling emotional passive resistance.

Here's Addison Ray.

Put your headphones on.

Guess I gotta accept the pain.

Need a cigarette to make me feel better.

Every good thing comes my way.

So I still get older.

Guess I gotta accept the pain.

Need a cigarette to make me feel better.

Every good thing comes my way.

So I so I put on my headphones.

I

It may be that the mood of summer 2025, the vibe if you will, is defined by Addison Ray's song Headphones On.

Over a dreamlike swirl of keyboards and light percussion, Ray sings, guess I gotta accept the pain.

Then she puts her headphones on and uses the music to drown out all the bad stuff happening to her and the world all around her.

Addison Ray is a TikTok famous dancer who's parlayed her influence or influence into a pop music career.

And there are a couple of songs on her new album, called Addison, that capture the zeitgeist.

During a recent BBC radio performance, the three sisters who formed the band Hayim did a cover of Headphones On that both acknowledged Gray's cleverness and then surpassed it musically, which is only what I'd expect from Hayam, which has just released some of the best music of the group's career.

I lifted the keys,

I left all my lights.

I locked myself out

of the house.

I'm on the next flight,

you can't talk me out of it,

yeah.

From the window seat,

I can see the street

where we used to sleep.

It was all a dream.

You thought I would fall

back in your arms.

But I lost my heart

and the future's not gone

with it.

Oh,

I bet you wish it could be easy

to change my mind.

Oh no,

I bet you wish it could be easy, but it's not this time.

I come back.

That's Down to Be Wrong, which, along with the new album's title, I Quit, presents Haim's thesis that sometimes the most productive thing you can do is to decide to do nothing.

Over Alana Haim's thick guitar lick, Estee's pulsing bass, and Danielle's slamming drums, the band plays with the notion that letting a mediocre relationship die, not working strenuously to repair it, is healthy, its own act of assurance and assertiveness.

Like Herman Melville's Bartleby the Scrivener, Hayim finds power in simply saying, I would prefer not to.

Maybe that decision will prove to be a mistake, but as they sing, down to be wrong, don't need to be right.

And yet, I should hasten to add, it's not as if the Hayim sisters never feel any pain, as on this song, Cry.

Never gave me more than almost nothing, honey, hereafter here.

And I

just Just wishing I could hate you, I would want to, but baby, I can't.

So I just cry,

cry,

and I don't know why.

I just cry,

cry

when I realize

with its lush harmonic hook, Cry is classic rock.

It's like a great song by the Eagles, if the Eagles ever had one moment of genuine curiosity about women.

And it's not as though everything here is about sad, mad, or bad decisions.

Sometimes it's a celebration of things going romantically very right.

Hayim revitalizes that old slogan of baby boomer feminism, sisterhood is powerful, and extends it by reaching out to a young act like Addison Ray, offering encouragement and comradeship.

And so whether it's Addison noise-canceling her pain, or Hayim telling a useless boyfriend, I quit, this is the summer of emotional passive resistance, and it sounds very tempting.

Ken Tucker reviewed new music by Haim and Addison Ray.

Relationships.

What's all this talk about relationships?

Tomorrow on Fresh Air, actor Leslie Uggams.

She was first considered remarkable for starting her career at six years old and has sustained that reputation for decades, still acting at the age of 82.

We'll look back at her career from Broadway to roots to the Gilded Age.

I hope you can join us.

Our shared executive producer is Danny Miller.

Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham.

Our managing producer is Sam Brigger.

Our senior producer today is Roberta Shorak.

Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Anne-Marie Baldonado, Lauren Crinzel, Monique Nazareth, Thea Chaloner, Susan Yacundi, and Anna Bauman.

Our digital media producer is Molly C.B.

Nesper.

Teresa Madden directed today's show.

Our consulting visual producer is Hope Wilson.

With Terry Gross, I'm Tanya Mosley.

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