AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGIST
COMMENTARY
Where Have All the Anthros Gone? The Shift in California
Indian Studies from Research “on” to Research “with, for,
and by” Indigenous Peoples
Peter Nelson
University of California, Berkeley
I am Peter Nelson. I am Coast Miwok and an assistant pro-
fessor in Environmental Science, Policy, and Management
(ESPM) and Ethnic Studies at UC Berkeley. I have to say “Mi-
wok” or “Me-wuk,” which means “person” in the Sierra lan-
guage, so you will understand where I fit into the anthropo-
logical literature on our culture. It is certainly more specific
than “Indian,” but it is another tribe’s word that an anthro-
pologist applied to mine. Our word for “person” or “peo-
ple” is michcha (singular) or michchako (plural), tamal michcha
(coast person), or simply tamalko, referring to those peo-
ple along the coast of Marin County. There are many other
names for people living in other areas of our traditional and
unceded homelands, but through anthropologists’ eyes, we
are made into a derivative coastal variant of the Sierra-type
specimen. The inaccuracies are the anthropologist’s legacy,
but the story is my own. I may write it differently at another
time for another purpose, but this is how I live it at this mo-
ment in time and what I think is important for my colleagues
in anthropology to hear. My use of archival collections to
weave this story is a refusal to contribute more than is nec-
essary to published ethnography. In doing so, this piece is
positioned as an ethnographic refusal (Simpson 2007, 2014,
2016; Tuck and Yang 2014), the performance of which is
sometimes apparent and sometimes not.
In 1906, my great-great-grandmother Ruby Sandoval
has her first and only daughter, my great-grandmother
Louisa. That same year, C. Hart Merriam visits the Bay
to speak with Juana Bautista, the mother of Maria (Copa)
Frias (Merriam, n.d.). One year later, in 1907, Ruby is
stolen away from our family and community at Tomales
Bay, California, and is taken to Sherman Indian Boarding
School in Riverside. Her mother, Sevina, is left to care for
Louisa. We have a black-and-white photo of Louisa from
this time; she is barely old enough to stand on the east shore
of Tomales Bay, near their home. The picture is ripped and
her face obscured, but I imagine a smirk and eyes squinting
in the sun and wind. On May 6, 1908, Ruby is commended
in The Sherman Bulletin for her proficiency in baking pastries
AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGIST, Vol. 123, No. 3, pp. 469–473, ISSN 0002-7294, online ISSN 1548-1433. © 2021 The Authors. American Anthropologist
published by Wiley Periodicals LLC on behalf of American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/aman.13633
This is an open access article under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs License, which permits use and distri-
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and making doughnuts. Sevina writes a year later, on April
14, 1909, that she is too ill to take care of Louisa any longer
and pleads with the superintendent to let Ruby come home
to the Bay. The superintendent types a brief memo on April
20 releasing her. In the archive at UC Berkeley, I find Alfred
Kroeber’s notes in the script of a fountain pen: “2–21–10
betw. Fisherman and Marshall Tomales Bay Mrs. Mary Frias,
(born at S. Rafael)” (Kroeber, n.d.). This is followed by a
series of words in tamal machchaw, Spanish, and English as
Kroeber tries to decipher our language from one of the very
few remaining speakers. The area he mentions is just north
of where my family lives along the Bay. Merriam (1910)
publishes Dawn of the World, which includes stories from my
community. Declining in health, Sevina passes away in 1913.
Between 1906 and 1928, government agents establish
rancherias for the so-called homeless Indians in California
and consult the anthropological literature of that time to
inform their decisions about the formation of groups or
“bands” who will receive land (Field 1999, 197). The Gra-
ton Rancheria is established more than twenty miles north
of Tomales Bay in 1920, and about fifteen acres of land are
designated for Native American peoples of the surround-
ing Southern Sonoma and Marin County areas. This group-
ing conglomerates peoples from several different historical
polities spanning two distinct languages (Southern Pomo and
Coast Miwok). The fifteen acres of reservation land is hardly
enough to support a handful of families, a fraction of the en-
tire community from this area.
People do what they must in order to make their way
through life. Ruby convinces a rancher to build a house for
her by the Bay. She has more children. My great-great-uncle
Gil is born south of Marshall, and my grandpa Ben (Louisa’s
son) is born near Windsor-Healdsburg in 1925. That same
year, Kroeber (1925, 275) also publishes Handbook of the Indi-
ans of California in which he writes about Coast Miwok peo-
ple: “There remain a handful of scattered survivors. The mis-
sions have played their usual part… . Of the recent culture
… little has been recorded.” He then focuses the remaining
four of seven pages of the Coast and Lake Miwok chapter on
the historical account from Sir Francis Drake’s voyage in lieu
of other information. In this piece, Kroeber’s focus on Drake
470 American Anthropologist • Vol. 123, No. 3 • September 2021
suggests that the most salient point about our history is our
“discovery” by an Englishman rather than a Spaniard.
Between 1928 and 1933, an act of Congress (May 18,
1928: 45 Stat. 602) allows for a census to be conducted
establishing the California Indian Judgement Roll composed
of all Indians residing in the state on June 1, 1852, and their
descendants. Treaties were signed with California tribes be-
tween March 19, 1851, and January 7, 1852, but these
treaties were never ratified (Heizer 1972; Shipek 1989, 410).
The “Indians of California” file suit against the United States
for the seizure of land without compensation (Shipek 1989,
410). People at Tomales and Bodega Bays are living just out-
side of the property lines of ranches and farms, pushed to
the extreme western edge of our tribal lands after a history
of removal, slave trafficking, and genocide throughout the
last century (Dietz 1976; Ortiz 1993; Schneider and Panich
2019). You cannot put value on that. There is no apology or
amount of money that will make it right.
Between 1931 and 1932, Isabel Kelly receives funds
from the UC Berkeley Anthropology Department to sup-
port her research with elders Maria (Copa) Frias and Tom
Smith at Tomales and Bodega Bays (Collier and Thalman
1991). Despite Kroeber’s position that the missions had
played their part and not much cultural knowledge exists
in my community, Isabel Kelly produces copious notes in
eleven field journals on Coast Miwok language, culture,
history, and ethnogeography. She later organizes this body
of fieldnotes on about 8,000 3” x 5” slips of paper, which
she intends to publish as a manuscript. She never finishes
this manuscript, but Collier and Thalman (1991), two non-
Native women working outside of academia, will later edit
and publish a 544-page manuscript on Kelly’s work with
Coast Miwok people. They note stories from Maria Copa
Frias’s family that Tom and Bill Smith reserved information
from Isabel Kelly and advised Maria Copa Frias to do the
same (Collier and Thalman 1991, xxxix). This knowledge
remains within my community.
While Uncle Gil and I sip coffee and eat his favorite
berry pie, we look at photocopies of the old schoolhouse
records from Marshall that I brought. He turns over each
page delicately, reading every word and chuckling at his and
his friend’s bad grades. In the 1930s, they are always working
when there is work and have high truancy rates—some up-
wards of 100 to 200 days. He also tells me about the time in
his childhood when UC Berkeley researchers come to Toma-
les Bay to dig burials. There is nothing anyone up or down the
Bay can do. Indian people do not have rights, and there are
other issues threatening the livelihoods of our families. We
have to hide children with a quarter or more Indian blood
so they will not be taken to boarding school. Those without
a quarter do not receive government commodities, and it is
more difficult for their families to make ends meet. Uncle Gil
digs clams and gathers oysters. He is the baker in the family,
taking after his mother. He also works the ranches, as does
my grandpa. In 1934, S. F. Bryant conducts an archaeological
survey of Tomales Bay by boat. He talks to Coast Miwok peo-
ple, the Pensotti family, and Bertha Campigli, maybe others,
but he is not there to study the living (UCAS, n.d.). Every-
one knows what he is there to do.
In the 1940s, Coast Miwok men join other US citizens
and go to war; my uncle Gil and grandpa are among them.
In 1941, a young Robert Heizer digs more burials in Point
Reyes and finds porcelain and nails from Sebastian Rodriguez
Cermeno’s ship (Heizer 1941). Kroeber, as the supervising
professor, poses for the camera with Heizer. Each of them
supports one side of the wooden and glass case containing
artifacts taken from Coast Miwok sites. Kroeber makes a
statement for the Reno Gazette-Journal newspaper on Decem-
ber 24, 1941, that anthropologists “can now definitely date
the native culture of the Estero mound as of around 1595”
(Reno Gazette-Journal 1941). He notes that these findings
can be used elsewhere in California, where “the earliest pos-
itive dating of Indian-European contact material has been
from the beginning of the Mission period, about 1775. We
have now pushed chronology back almost two centuries be-
yond” (Reno Gazette-Journal 1941). These are the days be-
fore radiocarbon dating, and this finding is revolutionary in
terms of refining their version of our history, a taxonomic
cultural sequence for Central California that UC Berkeley
anthropologists are working to establish.
US Government officials in the land-claims cases from
1946 to 1959 use Kroeber’s (1925) Handbook of the Indi-
ans of California and other early anthropological works that
are viewed as definitive research on California Indian peo-
ples despite insufficiencies and outsider perspectives (Shipek
1989). Many California tribes in this body of early anthro-
pological literature are described as being extinct, especially
those along the coast of California under the influence of
the Spanish missions (Field 1999; Kroeber and Heizer 1970;
Panich 2013). Few of these tribes along the coast between
San Diego County and Sonoma County have gained federal
recognition status compared to tribes elsewhere in the state,
and the anthropological work is an accomplice to federal
agents of the Bureau of Indian Affairs and Bureau of Ac-
knowledgment and Research in this process (Field 1999;
Panich 2013). Very little additional ethnography is con-
ducted with communities in these decades associated with
land claims and federal acknowledgment (Shipek 1989), and
forty-six tribes, including Graton Rancheria, are wrongfully
terminated with the passage of the California Rancheria Ter-
mination Act of 1958, Public Law 85–671 (72 Stat. 619).
Kroeber and others offer expert testimony during the
land claims and try to recontextualize their earlier state-
ments about the “extinction” of many California Indian
tribes. As Kroeber and Heizer (1970, 2–3) state, “Anthro-
pologists sometimes have gone a step farther and when they
can no longer learn from living informants the speech and
modes of life of the ancestors of these informants, they
talk of that tribe or group as being extinct—when they
mean merely that knowledge of the aboriginal language and
culture has become extinct among the survivors.” Though
this statement recognizes some of the fallacies of their past

position on our supposed biological extinction, it doubles
down on their opinion that California Indian culture is ex-
tinct, which is not much better. It also highlights the fact
that anthropologists in any subfield are interested in Cali-
fornia Indian people as data, not as collaborators. If we have
no more data to offer anthropology or refuse to take part in
ethnography, anthropologists write us out of their research
as extinct and they move on to new fieldsites in other regions
of the world.
In 1969, Native American students from the University
of California system—including one of our California Indian
scholars, Edward Castillo—protest injustices at Alcatraz Is-
land in the wake of the governmental policies of termina-
tion (Castillo 1994). Vine Deloria (1969), a Lakota scholar,
publishes a critique of the obnoxious persistence of anthro-
pologists coming to the reservation to mine communities
for their research in Custer Died for Your Sins. This inspires
a Dakota singer and actor, Floyd Westerman, to write a sim-
ilar critique in a ballad, “Here Come the Anthros,” that be-
gins, “And the anthros still keep coming like death and taxes
to our land.” This was certainly true in the first half of the
twentieth century in California, as well. However, Heizer
(1978, 14–15) declares an end to the old-style ethnography
and an uncertain future for cultural anthropology because
of the passing of the older generation of California Indians.
He also predicts that some activity will remain in the areas
of linguistics and archaeology even though there may be a
decline in these disciplines because of fewer speakers of the
language and efforts by California Indians to pursue repatri-
ations of cultural materials (14–15).
Heizer’s (1978, 14–15) prediction of a future of contin-
ued loss and cultural extinction for California Indian peoples
is not new. It is steeped in settler perspectives that refuse to
acknowledge contemporary Native American stories, expe-
riences, and adaptations as legitimate or authentic compared
to those of our precontact ancestors. From this perspective,
Native American peoples are destined to or have already dis-
appeared from the land and resources that settlers want to
inherit. This extinction myth continues to be so pervasive
in publications, parks, and museums throughout the twen-
tieth century that Graton Rancheria has to host an exhibit
in 1993 literally called “We Are Still Here” (Ortiz 1993).
This exhibit challenges the public to see our people as living
in the present while our leaders diligently work to restore
our federal recognition status through congress. Our com-
munity and political efforts are successful, and on Decem-
ber 27, 2000, Graton Rancheria’s federal recognition status
is restored, days before President Bill Clinton leaves office
and President George W. Bush arrives. Federal recognition
enables us to reestablish trust lands or a reservation in Rohn-
ert Park, develop tribal business, protect our cultural her-
itage, and support our community with resources and staff
that were not possible or extremely limited before.
I think about Kroeber’s legacy and Heizer’s predictions
and wonder again: Where have all the anthros gone once the
regulations and ethical codes mandate that we be partners
Commentary 471
rather than data? I would extend this question to the entire
field and the academic institution in general, not a single de-
partment or individual. What epistemologies and modes of
knowledge production are acceptable and legible in a world
where the publication of research and data drive tenure? Do
we write about methods and relationships too much, refuse
to publish too much data to protect our relations and ensure
our knowledge is not used secondarily without our consent?
We helped you build your future, and you still use our data
from your archives. Will you help us rebuild ours?
As Heizer (1978, 14–15) predicts, the majority of an-
thropological research in California today takes place in
the subdiscipline of archaeology, not cultural anthropology.
However, I would argue that the slack in anthropological re-
search is actually being taken up by our own scholars from
California Indian communities in disciplines largely outside
of anthropology. Today, more than fifty California Indian
people are actively producing scholarship in a variety of dif-
ferent academic fields at several institutions in California and
abroad (e.g., Bauer 2009, 2016; Minch-de Leon 2021; Mi-
randa 2013; Nelson 2020; Risling Baldy 2018; Sarris 1993,
2017; Schneider 2015; Schneider and Panich 2019). I would
also argue that older generations of California Indian schol-
ars were doing this work long before our current genera-
tion of scholars (e.g., Costo and Costo 1987; Peri and Pat-
terson 1976, 1978). However, unlike what Heizer (1978,
14–15) predicts, the urgency of the current movement of
Indigenous-led scholarship is not solely motivated by the
close study of ethnohistory, archival materials, and museum
collections as vaults of pristine California Indian knowledge.
Nor is this work predicated on the harmful idea that our
cultures have somehow gone extinct. This movement comes
from the strength and survivance of our people who are cul-
turally grounded in our perspectives, values, and intellec-
tual traditions. We are reframing scholarship “on” to schol-
arship “with, for, and by” California Indian people. Our per-
spectives and relationships with our communities as partners
rather than informants are what drives this research. And
our many colleagues, mentors, supporters, co-conspirators,
allies, and accomplices join us in collaborative projects and
in celebrating the empowerment, health, and well-being of
our communities (e.g., Byram et al. 2018; Hinton 2001;
Lightfoot 2008; Lightfoot and Lopez 2013; Sowerwine et al.
2019). Together, we are recrafting our stories and our
futures.
Part of recrafting the story and making space for Indige-
nous futures is unnaming and reassigning value to reflect
who we are today. On January 26, 2021, Native American
students and staff of UC Berkeley speak about their efforts
to unname Kroeber Hall, as janitorial staff take down the
weathered letters from the building wall. I think back to the
Bay. It is time immemorial, and the story is ever-present.
The story is not the American anthropologist’s. The story is
ours. I feel good, proud to be an alumnus of the UC Berke-
ley Native programs and now returning to Berkeley as a
professor.
472 American Anthropologist • Vol. 123, No. 3 • September 2021
Being at UC Berkeley is an isolating experience for
California Indian and other Native people, even with sup-
portive colleagues. There are currently five Native American
professors, including myself, out of more than 1,400 total
tenured and tenure-track faculty at UC Berkeley. I am the
only California Indian tenure-track professor on campus—
maybe the only one in Berkeley’s history so far—and one
of only eight California Indian tenure-track professors in
the entire UC system. There are “world-class collections”
from California Indian communities delicately packaged
and cared for in folders, trays, and boxes in the Bancroft
Library and Hearst Museum for future study. These col-
lections house roughly 8,000 Native American ancestors,
far outnumbering the few hundred living Native American
students, staff, and faculty who have advocated for and gone
without a Center for Native Americans on campus until this
past semester, spring 2021. I hope that this move, as well as a
Native American faculty cluster hire and new UC policies on
repatriation and research with Native American collections,
is the beginning of reenvisioning a more inclusive campus
for Native American peoples. But there is still much more
work to be done.
I still remember the first time I arrived to talk to
Uncle Gil about old times over a decade ago. He brings out
the big blue book—the Isabel Kelly ethnography of Tom
Smith and Maria Copa Frias. He says, “Well, I don’t know.
Everything you want to know is probably in here already.”
This is what anthropology has done to generations of our
people, even some elders and those who have a great wealth
of knowledge. It has laid claim to our intellectual territory,
forced us to cite their publications of our stories to validate
and legitimate this knowledge as authentic, and portrayed
us as broken, divorced, and relocated from our history and
knowledge. It has stolen our authority to tell our own story,
even in our most intimate spaces. The book—a useful book
that I read often—threatens to silence Uncle Gil and eclipse
my family’s history in comparison to the “authoritative”
old-style Kroeberian or Boasian ethnography. We put the
book away, talk to each other, and in so doing, we unname
our story from all the authors—Kelly, Merriam, Powers,
Heizer, Kroeber, others—telling us what that history should
be. Once unnamed, it is ours again, and my uncle has so
much to share with us. Our story will live forever, beyond
these pages, beyond those names.
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