By Lyle Balenquah

Third Mesa Tep’wungwa (Greasewood) Clan, Village of Paaqavi, Arizona.

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The following chapter appears in the volume, “Working as Indigenous Archaeologists: Reckoning New Paths Between Past and Present Lives”. Edited by George Nicholas and Joe Watkins. (Routledge, 2024).

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“I know my story. But the only real, tangible evidence of the clans being here is the sites, the pottery, and the artifacts. These places make you ponder history.”

~Riley Balenquah, Third Mesa Tsu’wungwa (Rattlesnake Clan), Village of Paaqavi, Arizona.

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I will never forget the moment I told my Hopi family I was choosing to pursue archaeology as a field of study at Northern Arizona University. I was about 22 years old at the time and had come home to the Hopi Reservation for the weekend. We were gathered at my paternal grandmother’s house for dinner—a common occurrence at the time. Seated at the table were some younger cousins, aunts and uncles, my father, and my grandmother. There was a lot of talking going on, but I mostly sat there and listened to the conversations, which included both English and Hopi languages.

They all knew I was attending the university, and during the meal my grandmother leaned over and asked me what I was studying? I’ve always been the quiet one and never really liked discussing in detail what I was up to, and so I pretended not to hear her and looked deep into the bowl of stew I was hovering over. However, this was my grandmother, who had always been involved in the raising of her grandchildren. She knew my nature, and was also persistent, and so she asked again, this time louder and gaining everyone’s attention in the process.

I knew there was no way of avoiding the question and I straightened up in my seat and glanced at the faces looking back at me. I cleared my throat, averted my eyes downward, and quietly answered, “archaeology.”

There were a few gasps, followed by deafening silence. I knew then that I probably should have lied and said something like “business” or “education,”—anything but archaeology!

As I looked around the table, I could see the shaking heads and puzzled looks from my older relatives, until eventually one of my uncles asked me a very pointed question. “Why would you want to go and join those damn grave-robbers?!” It was the response I was expecting. I shrugged my shoulders and stared back into the bowl of stew, searching for a good response.

None came.

Thankfully, my grandmother came to my rescue and simply said, “Well, I’m sure you have your reasons” and changed the conversation. I glanced at my dad. He had a half-smile on his face and slightly nodded his head. And that was it. I was never again challenged in my decision or made to think that it was entirely wrong to be pursuing this path. I would, however, come to learn more about why my family held such a low opinion of the field and of those that identified as “archaeologists.” It would also take many years for my family, particularly my dad, to fully understand why I had made my choice. In truth, my family’s lifestyle centered around our farming, ranching, and ceremonies, all of which served as a major influence in my decision to pursue archaeology. I just didn’t fully realize it at the time.

However, it is necessary to explain why my family had the response they did, and why they perceived the field of archaeology as nothing more than, “those damn grave robbers.” Their bewilderment at my decision were not simply knee-jerk reactions. Their emotions are rooted in real-life history that has occurred to Hopi People as a result of interaction with Western science, particularly that of anthropology, archaeology, and ethnography during the 18th and 19th centuries.

We Hopi maintain vivid recollections of past exploitations and disrespectful treatment of our ancestral and, in some cases, present culture. This includes the tangible evidence left behind by Hopi ancestors, referred to as “artifacts”—ceramics, textiles, lithics—and burial sites. Much of this material was unearthed through excavations of ancestral Hopi villages, then analyzed, cataloged, and finally un-ceremoniously boxed and placed in storage at numerous institutions, museums, and universities across the country. Scientific inquiry often came as an intrusion, causing disruption to the Hopi way of life.

One of my maternal uncles related a story from his grandfather about a well-known Mennonite missionary who resided among and researched Hopi society in the latter 1800s. He was known for being very belligerent and demanding in his methods. This included physically forcing his way into religious chambers, known as kivas, during times when ceremonies were being held. Many of these ceremonies were not open to the public, and despite the protest of the Hopi priests in charge, he would seat himself among the practitioners to observe the rites and take copious notes. It was scenarios such as these that would leave a lasting stigma and suspicion within the Hopi mindset towards outsiders who came dressed as anthropologists.

Thus, my decision to pursue archaeology was not an easy one, and I would have to contend with my own struggles and uncertainties within the academic setting. In fact, at the time of my dinner-table announcement to my family, I was about to quit higher education all together, if not for the fortunate and lucky happenstance of a few events.

My first two years in college did not go as planned, and I struggled to find an area of study that made sense to me, switching from one major to another. Eventually, I was simply going through the motions of being a student, and I was placed on academic probation, in danger of losing my financial scholarship.

I figured this was the end of my academic career, and soon thereafter I announced to my parents that I was planning on dropping out. This did not sit well my mother who always wanted me to get a college education, and she asked me to reconsider. I half-heartily consented, and promised that I would think about it over the summer break.

I did have a fallback plan. At that time, I was working part-time in the construction field building custom-designed flagstone patios, fireplaces, and walkways. I was making good money and there were other tangibles of the work that appealed to me, such as the creativity of the projects we worked on, that I was working with my hands, and that I could see real progress at the end of the day.

During a week off work, I went back home to Hopi to visit my dad and do some work at our family’s ranch where we have horses and cattle, as well as our corn fields. These lands have been In my father’s lineage for generations, and I have known this area since I was born, as have many in our family. Out on this landscape, we often come across the remnants of our Hopi ancestors. The material culture of their existence is spread out from horizon to horizon, and encompasses the full spectrum of the archaeological record, including ceramics, lithics, rock art, and the scattered remains where ancient villages once stood.

When we encountered such sites while riding the range, my dad would tell us that we needed to respect these areas and tread lightly. He would also tell us that the “things” we found at these sites did not belong to us, and to leave them where found, although it was ok for us to pick them up and examine closer. In this manner, I learned to recognize them as significant parts of Hopi history.

The ranch wasn’t the only place where I would learn bits about my ancestral history. During summer vacations, my parents would take me to various national parks and monuments, such as Chaco Canyon, Mesa Verde, Wupatki, and many others. While visiting these places, my dad would often drop subtle hints to me, saying, “You are related to the people who once lived here.” Closer to home, my cousins and I would spend our days exploring the landscapes around our village. When we returned home, our relatives would ask us where we had gone, and what had we seen? They would listen to our descriptions and nod their heads when they recognized the locations. Sometimes, they would relate oral histories of the events that happened there in the past.

In this manner, I gradually learned who we were as Hopi people, and how we came to be in the place we now call home. Yet it would take many more years to fully understand what it all meant, and that long journey would unexpectedly begin during my existential crisis as a would-be college student.

While I was back at Hopi that summer, trying my best to forget the promise I had made to my mother, my dad told me about a project that involved the restoration of terraced, masonry gardens located in the canyon below our village. These gardens are watered by three springs from which our village gets its name, Paaqavi [“Reed Springs Place”]. These gardens have been used for over 1,000 years but had fallen into disrepair, and now only a small portion them were being farmed. The village members wished to rebuild the deteriorated sections of the stone walls and put them back into use.

The project was co-sponsored by the Hopi Cultural Preservation Office (HCPO) and the Anthropology Department from Northern Arizona University (NAU). I was impressed with the project, which included cutting and shaping sandstone from a local quarry. There were a few older village men skilled in traditional masonry techniques who were instructing the younger village members.

While I was on-site, I ran into one of the project coordinators, Dr. Miguel Vasquez, who was a professor of Anthropology at NAU. Through our conversation I told him I wasn’t having much success at the university. He asked if I had ever considered anthropology as a major. I probably gave him the same dumbfounded look my relatives would give me a few months later. He suggested that if I decided to return to the university that I should look him up, and maybe we could talk a bit more.

A couple of months later, I found myself back on campus—my mother had not let me forget about my promise to her about giving college one more try! We had reached a deal where I would return for one more semester to see if I could perform a miracle and find something that would be of interest to me. Not really knowing where to begin in this attempt, I recalled the previous conversation with Dr. Vasquez, and I went to see if he could make the case as to why I should consider pursuing anthropology. Well, he was successful!

With nothing to lose at this point, I enrolled in my first anthropology course, and he became my academic advisor while I attempted to figure out my new direction. My mother was happy with my decision, and breathed a sigh of relief that perhaps her son would earn a college education after all.

I persevered through the next year, and the following summer I was offered a position in a three-month program that was sponsored by the NAU Anthropology Department, the Hopi Cultural Preservation Office (HCPO), The Hopi Foundation (a non-profit organization), and the National Park Service (NPS) in Flagstaff, Arizona. The program focused on what was known then as “Ruins Preservation” and entailed recruiting and training a younger generation of skilled masonry workers who would endeavor to preserve and stabilize ancestral Hopi sites located within the parks and monuments of the NPS.

Due to my previous construction work, I was instantly drawn to the preservation program, and I had an eagerness to learn as much as I could about the skills. In addition, we were introduced to the sub-field of archaeology and the skills associated with that work, including artifact identification and analysis, field survey, and site mapping. We also visited many national parks and monuments, including sites that my parents had taken me to as a child, where I recalled some of the history I had learned during those early years.

Following this program, I was offered part-time student employment with the NPS, and I continued this work throughout my undergraduate and graduate years. Of course, not everything was as smooth as this account suggests.

The obstacles I faced within my academic training were many, and at times, presented real challenges that threatened to derail this new path I was on. To begin with, the field of Southwestern archaeology had an image problem for me. I could not identify with the early archaeologists that I learned about in my classes, many of them portrayed in field photos as these aged, white guys with long beards. It was also difficult to support their research methods, such as large-scale excavation of ancestral sites that resulted in the disturbance and removal of thousands of human burial sites. Their Western-based interpretations often de-valued the traditional knowledge and perspectives of Indigenous peoples. We were viewed simply as research subjects, rather than equals who might have their own interpretations on the matter.

These past practices, combined with research that placed priority on scientific interests, with no reciprocity back to Indigenous peoples, were issues that I had to find ways to reconcile. However, there was a source of encouragement that proved to be influential in my determination to continue my studies. That support came from the HCPO, established in 1989, and its then -Director, Leigh Kuwanwisiwma, who also happened to be my maternal clan uncle.

By the time I began my graduate studies, I was fortunate to have established a connection with the HCPO and my uncle often shared research with me that this office was involved in. This research was unlike any I had encountered in my studies, and it created a perspective of archaeology that I could I finally identify with. Through their efforts, this office was establishing and formalizing research methods in which the traditional knowledge and oral histories of Hopi people were given equal, if not higher priority, than that of Western perspectives.

The projects they sponsored endeavored to preserve and strengthen the traditional knowledge of Hopi culture through the active participation of Hopi people within the on-going research of our ancestral past. Working collaboratively with non-Hopi archaeologists and scientists, they produced research that offered a holistic perspective of Hopi history, including both Western and traditional perspectives. In turn, this research can be developed into educational curriculum, including cultural history trainings and presentations, and other media that can be used to teach Hopi students and community members. In this manner, there is respect and reciprocity built into the research process.

One unique way in which they achieved cultural preservation was to develop and form the Cultural Resource Advisory Task Team (CRATT), which is comprised of respected elders and individuals from all three Hopi mesas. This group provides in-depth knowledge and consultation on issues related to archaeology, museum studies, repatriation, language retention, and many others. Beyond their roles as CRATT members, they come from varied backgrounds, including ranchers, farmers, artists, teachers, parents, and grandparents.

With the assistance of the HCPO and CRATT members, archaeology became more familiar to me, and it was both meaningful and inspirational to learn Hopi history from those I trusted. I finally began to understand the stories and information that my family members imparted to me years before. It was through these collaborative efforts that I learned to view the archaeological record as more than mere vestiges of the past. According to Hopi perspectives, these were the “footprints of our ancestors,” and they served as tangible proof of the long and complicated migrations of ancestral Hopi clans across wide geographic regions.

The work of this office proved there is opportunity to reclaim our cultural narratives from the historical research that many Hopi people viewed as disrespectful. This early research, including the curation of ancestral Hopi “footprints” has proven useful, to some degree, in aiding contemporary Hopi studies that seek to illuminate traditional narratives, such as clan migrations. Through respectful analysis of historical studies by Hopi researchers, this information can be corrected and re-interpreted through a Hopi lens. In doing so, we also work to ensure that the physical items are properly and respectfully maintained and, in some instances, returned to the Hopi people. Through these examples, I learned how archaeology could serve greater advocacy goals for the protection and preservation of Hopi culture.

Eventually, I completed my academic career, owing much to my mother’s encouragement and support throughout those years. I continued working as an NPS archaeologist for a few more years. Following that position, I moved onto work for the HCPO as the Archaeology Program Manager before I made the decision to pursue Independent Consultant work, which I continue to this day. Since that time, I have been fortunate to work on many different projects involving Hopi history and culture throughout the Southwest.

At times, this work creates conflicted feelings for me and extends well beyond what I thought being an archaeologist would entail. This includes the repatriation and reburial of Hopi ancestors, the literal human remains, and funerary objects unearthed over half a century of archaeological excavations from across the Southwest. Most of these remains were then shipped to various museums and institutions across the country and overseas. Some were used for on-going scientific research; some were put on public display. Thousands of ancestors were removed from their final resting places, labeled as specimens, boxed up, and stored in forgotten corners of academia. This was yet another harsh legacy of archaeology that I had to confront, and maybe, find some sort of closure. However, when I told my family that I was going to be conducting reburials, they objected to it. They were afraid there could be negative consequences for me, both physically and spiritually.

While I respected their concerns, I viewed my participation as necessary, to correct the wrongs of the past and seek to initiate positive change. At times this can occur under difficult circumstances within the work I choose to do. Over the years, I have conducted reburials at Mesa Verde, Chaco Canyon, and other places. Of course, I was never alone in this work, having guidance and assistance from HCPO staff and our cultural advisors.

This process illustrates the complicated relationship that Indigenous peoples must contend with when trying to reconcile the history of archaeological research and our contemporary wishes to do the right thing. Personally, I would experience a flood of emotions and thoughts when conducting reburials. I was often left physically and mentally exhausted at the end of the process. It can reach deep into your psyche and test yourself.

I vividly recall the first time I unpacked an infant girl and placed her within the burial space. Unexpectedly, I felt tears roll down my cheek, and I had to compose myself. Thoughts of my own daughter at home, who was the same age as this child, crossed my mind. Through blurred vision, I gently arranged her along with a small ceramic bowl and turquoise pendant she was originally buried with.

This type of work can lead to frustration, wondering why my ancestors were treated with such disrespect —their bones labeled with a number and placed in storage containers, their final journey disturbed, and their souls left uneasy. What I hope can be gained through the reburial process is a sense of peace for all involved. Not just for those we are reburying, but also for those of us who remain. The Living. The Departed. Hopefully, we can all rest easier.

As I continue my career, 25 years now as of this writing, I strive to advocate for the inclusion and increase of Indigenous perspectives within the field of archaeology and related areas of study. The number of Indigenous peoples entering this field has increased significantly, and I have hopes that this trend continues. Within Hopi, we are fortunate to have at least a half-dozen Hopi tribal members individuals currently working as archaeologists, ethnographers, museum specialists, and even a Superintendent within the National Park Service. I am also involved in the training of younger Indigenous individuals who have an interest in this field. I realize that I am fortunate to have acquired skills and knowledge from many others that must be passed on.

Dispelling the negative stereotypes of archaeology remains a priority. In some ways, it is still an extractive science, often taking more than it reciprocates. Therefore, our Indigenous community members need to see the value in this work, and we can achieve this by involving them to a greater extent in research initiated through our own tribal efforts. In this manner, the practice of archaeology can become familiar to them, much like it did for me when I worked side-by-side with traditional knowledge holders. Perhaps then, perceptions will change.

In one very personal instance, I was successful in changing the perspectives of my own father. Although he never objected to my decision all those years before, he never fully embraced it. At least at first. Over the years as I studied and worked, he observed my willingness to learn more about our Hopi history and culture. This served as a way for him and me to have our own discussions, and eventually, he came to understand how the work I did was able to achieve positive results for our communities.

In due course, he was asked to join the CRATT members, and through this involvement, he found his voice and developed an eagerness to learn more about archaeology, some of it from me. I recall times when he would call me, direct from the saddle, barely able to contain his excitement about encountering petroglyphs at our ranch. In 2018, I was able to lead him and other CRATT members to sites in the Bears Ears region, where I was documenting and preserving ancestral dwellings. We spent a week touring sites and discussing Hopi history and culture as a unified group. Up until his passing in 2020, my dad and I would sit together and talk about his latest consultation trip or the project I was working on at the time. In this manner, he came to see how he and many other community and family members had unknowingly sowed these seeds in my head as a child.

Throughout my career and life, there are many teachers who have and continue to help me in this understanding. Some are named, while others are not. This writing represents my way of showing and giving gratitude to them. I think they would see it fit to be this way, as this knowledge is not solely theirs or mine, but represents the collective history, culture, and spirituality of many who have come before us. I consider myself fortunate to be included in their journeys, as well as finding meaning and purpose in my own personal migration through science and tradition.