Navigating Difference: The Archaeology of Identities in an American Whaling Port By Emily Button, A.M. A dissertation submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the department of Anthropology Providence, Rhode Island May 2015 © Copyright 2015 by Emily Button This dissertation by Emily Button is accepted in its present form by the Department of Anthropology as satisfying the dissertation requirement for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Date _____________ _______________________________________ Patricia E. Rubertone, Advisor Recommended to the Graduate Council Date _____________ _______________________________________ Douglas Anderson, Reader Date _____________ _______________________________________ William Simmons, Reader Date _____________ _______________________________________ Nancy Shoemaker, Reader Approved by the Graduate Council Date _____________ _______________________________________ Peter M. Weber, Dean of the Graduate School iii This dissertation by Emily Button is accepted in its present form by the Department of Anthropology as satisfying the dissertation requirement for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Date _____________ _______________________________________ Patricia E. Rubertone, Advisor Recommended to the Graduate Council Date _____________ _______________________________________ Douglas Anderson, Reader Date _____________ _______________________________________ William Simmons, Reader Date _____________ _______________________________________ Nancy Shoemaker, Reader Approved by the Graduate Council Date _____________ _______________________________________ Peter M. Weber, Dean of the Graduate School iv CURRICULUM VITAE FOR EMILY BUTTON Brown University Department of Anthropology Box 1921, Brown University, Providence, RI 02912 DOB: July 31, 1985, Elmira, NY EDUCATION Ph.D. Candidate, Anthropology, Brown University (anticipated graduation May 2015) Dissertation Title: “Navigating Identities: The Archaeology of Difference in an American Whaling Port” Advisor: Dr. Patricia E. Rubertone, Professor of Anthropology Readers: Dr. Douglas Anderson, Professor of Anthropology; Dr. William S. Simmons, Professor of Anthropology A.M., Anthropology, Brown University 2011 Thesis: “Cutting Edge Technology: Ulus as Vehicles of Cultural Exchange” B.A., Anthropology & Russian, Williams College, magna cum laude, 2007 Phi Beta Kappa 2007 TEACHING & RESEARCH INTERESTS Native North America; African America; race and ethnicity; historical archaeology; labor, wealth, and inequality; public history, memory, and representation PUBLICATIONS SCHOLARLY ARTICLES: Button, Emily. “The Changing Lives of Women’s Knives: Ulus, Travel, and In Press Transformation.” Accepted for Historical Archaeology 49:3 (2015). Button, Emily. “A Family Affair: Whaling as Native American Household In Press Strategy on eastern Long Island, NY.” Accepted for Northeastern Historical Archaeology (January 2015). Button Kambic, Emily. “Reflections of the Past: Women, Work, and Community 2014 in 19th Century Eastville.” Suffolk County Historical Society Register. Grier-Key, Georgette, McGovern, Allison Manfra, & Button Kambic, Emily, 2013 “The Eastville Community: A Hidden Jewel in Sag Harbor,” Long Island History Journal 23(2). OUTREACH-ORIENTED WRITING: Button, Emily. “Plants, Prescriptions, and Placebos: 1535-present.” Exhibit and 2014 Research review, JCB Books Speak Blog: Occasional Notes from the John v Carter Brown Library, http://blogs.brown.edu/jcbbooks/2014/01/15/ plants-prescriptions-and-placebos-1535-present/. Button, Emily. “Keep on Minding Your Business.” Exhibit and research review, 2013 JCB Books Speak Blog: Occasional Notes from the John Carter Brown Library, http://blogs.brown.edu/jcbbooks/2013/12/04/keep-on-minding-your-business. Button, Emily, and Olly, Jonathan. “Carving Culture on the Northwest Coast: 2012 The Totem Pole.” Contexts: The Annual Report of the Haffenreffer Museum 38:8. CONFERENCE PAPERS Button Kambic, Emily. “Global Network, Native Node: The Geography of a New 2014 York Whaling Port.” Society for Historical Archaeology, Quebec City, QC. Matthews, Christopher, McGovern, Allison Manfra, and Button Kambic, Emily. 2014 “Labor, Settlement, and Race: Investigating ‘Plural’ Sites in Eastern Long Island, New York.” Society for Historical Archaeology, Quebec City, QC. McGovern, Allison Manfra, and Button Kambic, Emily. “Working through 2013 Inequality: Investigating Labor at ‘Plural’ Sites in Eastern Long Island, NY.” Theoretical Archaeology Group, Chicago, IL. Button Kambic, Emily. “Revisiting Women and Whaling: Household Labor and 2012 Leadership on Long Island.” Council for Northeast Historical Archaeology, St. John’s, Newfoundland. Button, Emily. “Global Commerce, Local Identities: Material Culture In, Of, and 2012 For Whaling Communities.” Society for Historical Archaeology, Baltimore, MD. Button, Emily. “Homeward Bound: Indigenous Diasporas in American Commercial 2011 Whaling.” Contemporary & Historical Archaeology in Theory, Boston, MA. Button, Emily. “Home and Away: Commercial Whaling and the Redefinition of 2011 Indigenous Places.” American Society for Ethnohistory, Pasadena, CA. Button, Emily. “From Northern Village to Southern Museum: Ulus as Paths of 2010 Cultural Exchange.” Contemporary & Historical Archaeology in Theory: North, Aberdeen, UK. INVITED LECTURES “Eastville: A Free Black Working Community, Patterns and Themes.” 2013 With Dr. Georgette Grier-Key, Suffolk County Historical Society: Black History Month Series. “Cutting Edge Technology: Ulus as Vehicles of Cultural Exchange.” 2011 vi Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology & the Ancient World, Brown University: Brown Bag Speaker Series. AWARDS & FELLOWSHIPS J. M. Stuart Research Fellowship, John Carter Brown Library 2013-2014 Dissertation Fellowship, Brown University Graduate School 2012-2013 Graduate Research Travel Fund, Brown University 2013 Paul Cuffe Memorial Fellowship, Munson Institute for American Maritime Studies 2012 Summer Research Travel Grant, Brown University Dept. Anthropology 2010-2012 Phillips Fund for Native American Research, American Philosophical Society 2011 Honorable Mention, NSF Graduate Research Fellowship Program 2009, 2010 Graduate Fellowship, Brown University Graduate School 2009-2010 Florence Chandler Class of 1945 Postgraduate Fellowship, Williams College 2007 Jane C. Waldbaum Field School Scholarship, Archaeological Institute of America 2007 Lansing Postgraduate Fellowship, Williams College Department of Classics 2007 TEACHING Instructor, Providence MET School Living History Program “Introduction to Archaeology” 2014 “Archaeological Sciences and Museum Careers” 2013 Museum educator (Proctor), Haffenreffer Museum of Anthropology “Linguistic Anthropology,” Department of Anthropology 2014 “Cultural Anthropology,” Department of Anthropology 2012 “American Publics,” Department of American Studies 2012 Guest lecturer, Brown University, Providence, RI “Indians, Colonists, and Africans in New England,” Dept. of Anthropology 2013 Instructor, “The Stuff of Globalization,” Brown Summer Studies 2012 Teaching Assistant, Brown University Dept. Anthropology “Cultural Anthropology” 2011 “Culture and Health” 2010 vii PUBLIC ARCHAEOLOGY & MUSEUM EXPERIENCE Research Assistant, Professor Catherine Lutz 2015 Brown University Department of Anthropology  Developed collections-based research project assignments and bibliographies for senior seminar “Anthropology of War”  Wrote guidelines for students on conducting researching with material culture 38th Voyager, Mystic Seaport, Mystic, CT 2014  Sailed on and documented voyage of restored whaling ship Charles W. Morgan  Developed public presentation and tour materials for the National Park Service and Mystic Seaport based on whaling history Graduate Curatorial Assistant (Proctor), Haffenreffer Museum of 2011-2012, 2014 Anthropology, Brown University, Providence, RI  Rehoused and inventoried human remains collection  Curated satellite exhibits on indigenous arts of North and South America  Facilitated student and class use of collections in CultureLab study center Park Ranger, Boston African American National Historic Site, Boston, MA 2012-2013  Designed special tours and talks on African American and Native American maritime history, in collaboration with Mystic Seaport and the Middle Passage Marker Project  Led historic tours of Boston’s Black Heritage Trail for visitors, student groups, and teachers  Delivered educational programs at Museum of African American History, Faneuil Hall, and Charlestown Navy Yard  Wrote articles on historical material for quarterly newsletter Volunteer, World Archaeology Day, AIA Narragansett Chapter, Providence, RI 2013  Conducted outdoor educational program “building” ancient house plans Program Coordinator, Eastville Community Historical Society, 2012-2013 Sag Harbor, NY  Collaborated with local descendant organization to plan community based dissertation research  Created, staffed, and supported educational and public programs  Disseminated research results in written reports and online resources  Wrote archaeological framework and significance statements for successful site preservation grant application to Archaeological Institute of America Archaeologist, Public Archaeology Day at Smith’s Castle, North Kingstown, RI 2012  Conducted archaeological survey for historic barn foundations  Invited visitor observation and participation Archaeologist, Nuvuk Archaeology Project, Barrow, AK 2011  Recovered burials on community archaeology project  Supervised local field school students and foreign exchange students viii Archaeologist, Territory Heritage Resource Consulting, Anchorage, AK 2010  Conducted archaeological survey for contract projects in southwestern Alaska  Consulted with indigenous groups and local landowners  Trained in oral history research Archaeologist, Skagafjordur Archaeological Settlement Survey 2008, 2009 University of Massachusetts, Boston, Skagafjordur, Iceland  Surveyed Viking and early medieval farmsteads PROFESSIONAL DEVELOPMENT Harriet W. Sheridan Center for Teaching & Learning, Brown University Certificate I: “Reflective Teaching” 2011-2012 Certificate III: “Professional Development” 2013-2014 Workshop: “Effective Discussions” 2010 Workshop: “Evaluating Student Writing” 2010 John Nicholas Brown Center for Public Humanities, Brown University Workshop: “Oral History – the Basics” 2013 Workshop: “Program Evaluation” 2013 National Historic Landmark Program, National Park Service Nomination Writing Webinar Series 2013 Eppley Institute for Parks & Recreation (NPS partner) “Fundamentals of Interpretation” training module 2013 “Causes of the Civil War” training module 2013 ix ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This dissertation project is much richer due to the wealth of scholarly and personal support I received during the research and writing process. First, I am grateful to my advisor, Dr. Patricia Rubertone, for her guidance and expert opinion from the project’s very conception to its conclusion. Working with Dr. Rubertone for the past six years has expanded and transformed my understanding of what historical archaeology can be and do. I also feel very fortunate that Dr. Douglas Anderson shared his extensive knowledge, balanced commentary, and perceptive questions to improve my M.A. and Ph.D. research. He has been a pleasure to work with and learn from, and I wish him the best for his retirement from teaching and continued research efforts. Dr. William Simmons has been a knowledgeable and kind member of my dissertation committee, and I appreciate his many reading recommendations and thoughtful comments. Historical archaeologists and anthropologists beyond Brown have also been generous mentors, interlocutors, and research partners, in particular those with expertise in whaling, Native America, and Long Island. I thank Dr. Nancy Shoemaker especially for sharing her experiences researching Native American whaling with me, letting me reference her database of Native whalemen as her book was on its way to publication, and, of course, conducting such relevant historical research. I was lucky to find myself conducting research parallel to the experienced and locally knowledgeable Allison Manfra McGovern, whose dissertation I look forward to reading soon, and I have enjoyed spoken and written discussions of Long Island archaeology with her and Dr. Chris Matthews. I also heartily thank Dr. John Strong, Dr. Russell Handsman, Dr. Jason Mancini, and Dr. Mark Cassell for early conversations about the archaeology and history of whaling that helped me navigate existing scholarship and figure out what contributions my own project could make. Additionally, in my year of research at the John Carter Brown Library, I had wonderful x opportunities for interdisciplinary conversations with visiting historians, art historians, and literary scholars too numerous to thank individually, many of whom gave me helpful advice about the research process and academic careers. Members of the Sag Harbor and Shinnecock descendant communities made this project not only possible, but enjoyable and meaningful. First and foremost, I thank Dr. Georgette Grier-Key for her interest and support for my research from the start: her influence helped to shape my research questions, introduce me to local organizations and community members, and make me feel at home and find applications for my work on Long Island. I also thank other members of the Eastville Community Historical Society who worked with me all year, including Michael Butler, Kathleen Tucker, Beryl Banks, Eugene Jackie Vaughn, Joanne Williams, and Audrey Brown. At the Shinnecock museum, David Martine facilitated and encouraged collections-based research, and Elizabeth Thunder Bird Haile conducted a wonderful oral history interview with me (we both brought the same recorder). Andrea Godoy, Matauqus Tarrant, and Tohanash Tarrant also helped me with the logistics of studying in the museum’s collections. Maura Doyle, Dr. Katherine Hayes, and Mac Griswold also shared their knowledge of history and archaeology at Sylvester Manor and its relationship to Sag Harbor. Finally, I thank Kayla Talmage and her family for opening up their homes to make me feel welcome. Last but not least, I am grateful to my family and friends for sticking with me through this long and sometimes difficult commitment. Robert and Jonah brighten my life on a daily basis, and I hope to make them proud in the future. xi TABLE OF CONTENTS Curriculum Vitae for Emily Button .................................................................................................................... v Acknowledgements .................................................................................................................................................. x Table of Contents ................................................................................................................................................... xii List of Tables ............................................................................................................................................................ xv List of Figures ......................................................................................................................................................... xvi Abbreviations ........................................................................................................................................................ xvii Introduction ............................................................................................................................................................... 1 I. Conceptual framework.................................................................................................................................. 3 II. Research area ................................................................................................................................................ 11 III. Organization and methods ..................................................................................................................... 15 IV. Contributions ............................................................................................................................................... 22 Chapter 1 Making Place, Making Wealth, & Making Race on the South Fork ............................... 24 I. Introduction..................................................................................................................................................... 24 II. History .............................................................................................................................................................. 25 III: Race and the division of people and property ............................................................................... 41 V. Residential demography on Long Island, 1790-1880................................................................... 50 VI. Contrasting and complementary geographies of labor .............................................................. 59 VII. Conclusion ................................................................................................................................................... 64 Chapter 2 Linking Land & Sea: Whaling in Household Life .................................................................. 66 I. Introduction..................................................................................................................................................... 66 II. Race and labor in the whaling industry.............................................................................................. 67 III. The families: nineteenth century household patterns................................................................ 84 IV. Women’s work: rising to the challenges of leadership ............................................................... 95 V. Conclusion.................................................................................................................................................... 101 Chapter 3 Creating Community in Sag Harbor ....................................................................................... 104 I. Introduction.................................................................................................................................................. 104 II. The rise of Sag Harbor ............................................................................................................................ 105 III. Wealth, race, and space in Sag Harbor ........................................................................................... 109 IV. From neighborhood to community: kinship, fictive and real ............................................... 121 xii V. Material reflections of community change ..................................................................................... 137 VI. Race, memory, and collaborative research ................................................................................... 142 VII. Conclusion.....................................................................................................................................................145 Chapter 4 Race, Wealth, and Belonging in Household Material Culture.......................................147 I. Introduction.................................................................................................................................................. 147 II. Race, poverty, and prosperity.............................................................................................................. 148 III. Research sources and questions ....................................................................................................... 153 IV. Whaling, mobility, and household material culture.................................................................. 157 V. Consuming respectability: ceramics and household Life ......................................................... 168 VI. Property and changing definitions of mobility ........................................................................... 172 VII. Discussion & conclusion ..................................................................................................................... 186 Chapter 5 Visualizing Personhood: Race, Space, and Materiality in Historic Cemeteries ... 191 I. Introduction.................................................................................................................................................. 191 II. Race and religion in the northeast..................................................................................................... 192 III. Research questions and approaches ............................................................................................... 200 IV. Burial data .................................................................................................................................................. 210 V. Discussion .................................................................................................................................................... 229 VI. Conclusion .................................................................................................................................................. 233 Chapter 6 Visible Ethnicity: Native American Performance & Politics ........................................ 236 I. Introduction.................................................................................................................................................. 236 II. Defining Indianness ................................................................................................................................. 237 III. Material survival: Mark Harrington, material culture, and salvage ethnography........ 246 IV. Persistence and change: Red Thunder Cloud’s records .......................................................... 254 V. Revitalization: old symbols in new contexts ................................................................................. 264 VI. Performing identity in the legal sphere ......................................................................................... 268 VII. Conclusion ................................................................................................................................................ 274 Conclusion: Race, Anthropology, and the Politics of Survival .......................................................... 278 I. Summary ........................................................................................................................................................ 278 II. Modernity and tradition in twentieth century racial politics................................................. 280 IV. Contributions ............................................................................................................................................ 287 III. Reflections on research and memory ............................................................................................. 288 xiii References ............................................................................................................................................................. 291 Appendix 1: Plato, Quaw, and Cuffee family trees ................................................................................ 325 Appendix 2: Households with probate records ..................................................................................... 328 Appendix 3: Images compiled by Red Thunder Cloud.........................................................................332 xiv LIST OF TABLES Table 1.1 Households headed by people of color in federal census records ................................ 53 Table 3.1 Eastville’s growth according to federal and state censuses .......................................... 113 Table 4.1 Probate and property records.....................................................................................................155 Table 4.2 General categories of ceramic sherds from Shinnecock collection.............................169 Table 4.3 Ceramic types within general categories...............................................................................170 Table 4.4 Serving vs. utilitarian wares from probate records...........................................................172 Table 4.5 Categories of goods in probate records (by listed item or entry)...............................180 Table 5.1 Gravestone materials......................................................................................................................211 Table 5.2 Gravestone shapes.......................................................................................................................... 212 Table 5.3 Distribution of stones by relationship type.. ....................................................................... 217 Table 5.4 Frequency of descriptive elements by cemetery ............................................................... 221 Table 5.5 Frequency of imagery by cemetery ......................................................................................... 226 xv LIST OF FIGURES Figure 1.1 1802 Dewitt map of English settlements on Long Island’s south fork. ..................... 50 Figure 1.2 Communities of color in East Hampton and Southampton, 1870................................ 54 Figure 2.1 The Phenix of Sag Harbor ............................................................................................................. 72 Figure 2.2 Shinnecock reservation map ....................................................................................................... 86 Figure 2.3 Freetown in relation to East Hampton village ..................................................................... 88 Figure 3.1 1854 Wall & Forrest map of Sag Harbor ............................................................................ 111 Figure 3.2 Growth of Eastville neighborhood...........................................................................................118 Figure 3.3 1859 Sag Harbor Corrector letter.............................................................................................124 Figure 3.4 Nineteenth century family networks in Eastvile...............................................................132 Figure 3.5 Mid-nineteenth century houses on Liberty St....................................................................139 Figure 4.1 [Black Methodists Holding a Prayer Meeting] .................................................................. 150 Figure 4.2 Bunn family home on the Shinnecock reservation ......................................................... 159 Figure 4.3 Shinnecock Museum ceramics................................................................................................. 171 Figure 4.4 Jane Perdue’s household inventory ....................................................................................... 183 Figure 5.1 St. David African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church, Sag Harbor, 2012 ................. 198 Figure 5.2 Cemetery research sites in Sag Harbor and East Hampton, New York .................. 204 Figure 5.3 Sample cemetery database entry....................................................................20 5 Figure 5.4 Death dates per decade by cemetery .................................................................................... 210 Figure 5.5 Nineteenth century marble headstone at Oakland Cemetery .................................... 213 Figure 5.6 Twentieth century granite headstone at the St. David Cemetery. ............................ 213 Figure 5.7 Headstone for Mark Dowdy at the St. David Cemetery. ................................................ 214 Figure 5.8 Marble obelisk family monument at the St. David Cemetery. .................................... 218 Figure 5.9 Marble obelisk family monument at Oakland Cemetery. ............................................. 219 Figure 6.1 Shinnecock basket (AMNH #50/3483) ............................................................................... 250 Figure 6.2 Shinnecock basket (AMNH #50/3484) ............................................................................... 250 Figure 6.3 Shinnecock basket (AMNH #50/3485) ............................................................................... 251 Figure 6.4 Shinnecock basket (AMNH #50/3486) ............................................................................... 251 Figure 6.5 Shinnecock basket (AMNH #50/3487) ............................................................................... 252 Figure 6.6 Montaukett scrubs (NMAI #20/5282) ................................................................................. 255 Figure 6.7 Montaukett broom (NMAI #20/5283)................................................................................. 255 xvi ABBREVIATIONS The following abbreviations are used for in-text citations, referring to the full institutional names listed in the bibliography. AMNH American Museum of Natural History, New York, NY ECHS Eastville Community Historical Society, Sag Harbor, NY EHLIC East Hampton Library Long Island Collection, East Hampton, NY GWB George W. Blunt White Library, Mystic Seaport Museum Inc., Mystic, CT NBWM New Bedford Whaling Museum, New Bedford, MA NMAI National Museum of the American Indian, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C. NYS New York Department of State USC United States Bureau of the Census xvii INTRODUCTION Contradictory ideas about ancestral identities abound in the United States today, from arguments about whether race has biological as well as social reality, to the use of DNA testing to connect with primordial ethnic “roots”, to the idea that culture can be lost through assimilation. Anthropology, with its refusal to reduce these issues to simple dualities, has much to contribute; race has been explored as the modern product of unequal histories, and ethnicity as a mode of primordial identity with changing boundaries. Because these categories have different origins and functions, at times the two can exist in tension. Issues of racial purity and “authenticity” have led to political battles over tribal membership and legal recognition for Native people in communities with members of African descent since the eighteenth century. This dissertation project in historical archaeology investigates how members of one such community, centered on the whaling port of Sag Harbor, navigated the ambiguity of race in everyday life. Where best to encounter these ambiguities than a place where people of African, Native American, and European descent worked together and passed each other in the streets, along with Pacific Islanders, Chinese Lascars, Cape Verdeans, and Azoreans? As in missions and plantations in previous centuries and other regions, people in whaling ports in the nineteenth century northeastern United States interacted intimately on a daily basis (Rediker 1987; Lightfoot & Martinez 1995; Epperson 1999; Hall 2000; Silliman 2006). The economic boom of the whaling industry created opportunities and modes of mobility that brought together men of many different ethnic groups on ships. When their families established communities on land, they subtly reconfigured categories of race, ethnicity, and class in ports. In Sag Harbor and southern New England, people of Native American and African backgrounds were especially likely to put down roots in these busy commercial centers. The problem that faced them both was their share experiences of economic and political disenfranchisement and 1 geographic marginalization (Feder 1994; Mandell 1998, 2008; Brooks 2002; Miles & Holland 2006; Orser 2007). The whaling industry’s rare economic opportunities for free people of color offered a chance for change (Putney 1987; Bolster 1998; Nicholas 2002; Johnson 2006; Grover 2009; Mancini 2009; Philbrick 2011). My research addresses how social identities and boundaries functioned in the growing nineteenth century Native American and African American networks of settlement, labor, and migration centered on the whaling port of Sag Harbor on eastern Long Island. Drawing on insights from critical race theory and postcolonial historical archaeology, I approach multicultural settings in and around Sag Harbor as sites where people of African and Native American ancestry simultaneously worked to create solidarity, maintain ethnic identities within broader communities of color, and seek prosperity and respect in the face of negative stereotypes. To understand how people negotiated these challenges, I analyze spatial and material patterns at the regional, neighborhood, and household levels. First, I reconstruct how ethnically diverse neighborhoods grew out of existing ethnic communities on eastern Long Island as a result of structural inequalities of wealth and opportunities that brought together people of Indian and African descent. Second, recognizing that identity and its expressions are complex, composite, and situational, I consider how uses of space and material culture expressed shared experiences of race and class in some contexts, and acted as modes of distinction in others (cf. Jones 1999; Mullins 1999; Rubertone 2001; Silliman 2010). I argue that individual and family choices in housing, cemeteries, and material consumption indicate shared commitments to maritime labor, economic mobility, and faith that brought people of color together across ethnic lines, while household structures and kinship-based regional networks remained avenues for the transmission of narrower ethnic identities between generations. The connection between broad structural pressures and contextual expressions of identity became newly visible at the turn of the twentieth century, when 2 the politics of Native American rights changed, and recognizably “Indian” pieces of material culture and bureaucratic proofs of tribal government became newly important markers of ethnic distinction. I. CONCEPTUAL FRAMEWORK Race and ethnicity are challenging concepts in American political and popular discourses because there is a widespread perception that they are natural, ahistorical, and biological, but in practice, they are ambiguous, overlapping, and historically contingent. This dissertation project takes this contradiction as its starting point, inquiring how non-white Americans in the nineteenth century negotiated this ambiguity. How did living at the intersection of categories of difference like “Indian,” “African,” “Black,” and “colored” shape their opportunities and limitations, and how and when did they form new affiliations and represent their experiences around these imprecise classifications? My theoretical approach to these questions engages with critical race theory to explore race as a historic structure that has created geographic, economic, and social divisions, while drawing on postcolonial archaeology’s perspectives on identity as flexible, situational, and often political to understand how people positioned themselves within, outside, and “in-between” these social categories in everyday life (cf. Bhabha 1996, Du Bois 2005 [1903]). Traditionally, race has functioned as a broad geographic, historical, and biological classification, while ethnicity has been considered a narrower political, social, and genealogical type of grouping with more space for self-definition. Ambiguity stems from the fact that the two are neither mutually exclusive, nor always complementary. Anthropology has been instrumental in building evidence that racial distinctions are social, rather than biological, without denying that both ancestry and inequality have physical and social consequences (Boas 1940; Epperson 2004). According to Orser, “racial distinctions can be based on any socially designated, totalizing attributes that 3 serve to separate people into different essentialized categories…the various ‘races’…are historically situated…such that the racial order structures social relations and is structured by them” (2004:199). To translate this definition into practical terms, racial classification systems in the Americas have historically lumped together diverse ethnographic, geographic, and social groups on the basis of phenotypical features and shared ancestral or geographic origins. The resulting racial categories were entangled with early modern European colonization efforts. In specific historical moments of cross-cultural interaction, the creation of new racial categories structured society in ways that helped to resolve ambiguities of status: for example, by defining who could be legally enslaved, or whether people with both European and indigenous ancestry could inherit wealth and and legal privilege, as in caste systems in the Spanish and Russian American colonies (Crowell 1997; Epperson 1999; Voss 2008b). Slavery, war, and indigenous dispossession were major stimuli for developing racial distinctions, since essentialized differences helped to justify violence and inequality in naturalized terms (Delle 1998; Lepore 1998; Epperson 1999; Orser 2007). In the English colonies and the early American republic, racial groupings solidified into three major categories of Black, White, and Indian by the eighteenth century, with “intermediate” labels such as mustee and mulatto describing those with mixed ancestries (Melish 1998; Nash 2000; Brooks 2002; Shoemaker 2004; Hayes 2013). These essentialized categories fostered systems of white privilege and accumulation of white wealth at the expense of Africans and Native Americans. Intellectual currents in European thought changed the basis of these distinctions over time: the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries saw relatively descriptive and unstable categories, while in the eighteenth century biological and phenotypical classifications emerged, eventually solidifying into the increasingly pseudo-scientific ideas about race of the nineteenth century (Baker 2010; Hayes 2013). Critical race theory, which examines how legal systems both institute and reinforce racial hierarchies, provides 4 important insight into how these historically constructed distinctions solidified into real experiences of race and racism (Harris 1993; Harrison 1995; Epperson 2004). Its focus on the legal institution of white privilege throughout American history provides a theoretical lens for for archaeology that seeks evidence of racial divisions in the material perpetuation of inequality. The association of social distinctions with ancestry can result in the misrecognition of both race and ethnicity as primordial, genetic realities. Classically, anthropologists have defined ethnicity as the relational expression of meaningful social boundaries between groups (Barth 1969). This line of thought has focused on how ethnic groups define themselves in relation to others, in particular through the recognition of chosen and changeable material, linguistic, and social “markers”. (The search for ethnic markers has been influential in the archaeology of identity, but it is problematic both because not all elements of material culture are chosen as significant for defining ethnicity, and because markers can gain and lose significance as their social context changes [Jones 1999; Rubertone 2000]). There is no consistent definition for the scale and boundaries of ethnic groups, and no clear means of distinguishing ethnicity from race or culture, which means that a variety of political and social associations can be framed as ethnic self-identifications. People of indigenous American descent, for example, can use specific tribe or group names as descriptions of either ethnicity or political citizenship, while the term “Native American” can refer to race or ethnicity. People of African descent born in the United States can use also “Black” as an ethnic and racial term on its own, or as a racial label in combination with a more obviously nationality-based ethnic category such as African American Native American, Barbadian, or Nigerian. Here, I do not propose any strict distinctions between race as attributed and ethnicity as self-identified, or race as structural and ethnicity as cultural, since these would fail in practice. Rather, I point out that despite different denotations and connotations, race and ethnicity are not easy to 5 separate in reality. When race, class, and ethnicity become intertwined, it becomes difficult to tease out any independent variables (Stine 1990; Ortner 2006). In some situations, but not universally, the interaction of multiple Native American, African, and European groups has sparked the formation of new identities from the transformation of old ones in a process called ethnogenesis (Blu 1980; Deagan 1996; Voss 2008b; Cipolla 2010). This framework has been particularly useful in tracing continuity and change in African American ways of life in the aftermath of slavery (Ferguson 1991; Singleton 1999; Fennell 2007). However, it can also connote a break from the past, implying the total disappearance of old identities in favor of new ones, which is particularly dangerous for Native American contexts because it feeds into stereotypes of cultural loss (Panich 2013). For this reason, the intimacy of cultural contact can lead to tensions in ethnically or racially diverse communities. When indigenous people have to prove racial and cultural purity to receive legal and social recognition, the incorporation of “outsiders” into native communities can create legal and social challenges (Campisi 1991; Brooks 2002; Wilkins 2002; Miles & Holland 2006; Mandell 2008). On the one hand, pan-Indianism and cross-tribal activism have grown out of the challenges of fighting for Native American political recognition (Brooks 2008; Mandell 2008; Cipolla 2010). On the other, the ideology of race as biological, oppositional, and binary has sometimes reduced people’s complex identities to an ahistorical notion of blood quantum in the legal sphere (McKinney 2006). The simplicity that racial ideologies enforced masked the complex heritage of many ethnically diverse communities of color, by which I refer to groups with combinations of African, indigenous, and European ancestries. In first state and federal censuses of the United States, terms like “Black,” “colored,” and “mulatto” served to institutionalize inequality by apportioning the rights and privileges of citizenship along a Black/white divide (Melish 1998; U.S. Dept. of Commerce 2002). These terms were commonly applied to people with any appearance of mixed heritage, and when they 6 were inscribed into government records, they justified the denial of rights such as freedom, property ownership, and voting to people presumed to have African ancestry, while contributing to the rhetoric of disappearance and legal termination for people of Native American descent (O’Brien 2010). By the mid-nineteenth century, the term “colored” was widely replacing “African” to describe dark-skinned Americans, a sign of both chronological and physical distance from African roots (Sidley 2009). When I discuss “shared experiences of race” in this dissertation, it is in reference to the lived reality of this umbrella classification. On Long Island, people of both Native American and African American ancestry embraced this term in some contexts, feeling that it described their multi-ethnic communities, shared experiences of marginalization, and for some individuals, their personal genealogies with roots in both groups (Brewster-Walker 2007; Tobier 2007). For the sake of clear contrast with this broad construct of race, I sometimes refer to the more specific affiliations of Shinnecock, Montaukett, Unkechaug, Native American, or non- indigenous African American as “ethnic” labels, but this should be read with caution as a non-definitive use of term for the sake of clarity. Issues of class further complicate self-representation in mixed communities. Class has even more modern origins than race. Unlike economic and social status, which have marked hierarchies in many different times and places, class divisions are closely intertwined with the history of global capitalism, defined broadly as an economic system based on the search for profit in a marketplace of commodities (Johnson 1996; Marx 2006 [1867]; Matthews 2010). Shared experiences of labor or ownership in capitalist contexts are the foundations of class identities (Shackel 1996; Silliman 2001, 2006). As Wurst (2006) defines it, class is the surface appearance of the social organization of production. This means that visible markers of class in a society can change in different ways and at different rates than its actual economic foundations (Wurst & Fitts 1999). 7 Class is not a precise reflection of economic status, but rather a form of social status with an uncertain and shifting relationship to wealth. In the United States, the loose relations between class and wealth, and between wealth and hard work, lead to the widespread assumption that class is an achieved status based on individual effort and ability (Stine 1990; Matthews 2010). In historical reality, class mobility has been restricted through the state, elite symbolic dominance, and associations of class with race and ethnicity. Legal slavery is a clear example of state restriction. Less formal divisions are perpetuated at the household level when daily habits and possessions become marked in associations with different classes (Bourdieu 1984; Delle et al. 2000). For the poor and minorities in Anglophone colonies, lack of permanent homes, cramped housing, and few possessions were viewed as the consequence of bad habits of work and domesticity that linked class, gender, and racial identities (Spencer-Wood 1994; Fitts 2001; Murray 2006; Lydon 2009). In this process, images of economically marginalized ethnic groups became linked to poverty, resulting in stereotypes that used racial essentialism to mask the results of structural inequality. Precisely because race is often a visible and apparently fixed marker of inequality, however, class markers have proven more ambiguous, flexible, and accessible as modes of resistance against oppression. Material culture that indexes high economic status can bring up positive associations that contradict negative racial stereotypes. For instance, African American households have used ceramics to assert both affluence and rejection of dominant ideology, making consumption an expression of a broader desire for equality (Mullins 1999; Wilkie 2003; Leone 2005). However, for Native Americans, this resistance presented a new danger. Widespread stereotypes explicitly contrasted them to Euro-American ideas of modernity, so indigenous engagement in wage labor and consumption fed into false narratives of disappearance and decline (Baron et al. 1996; Raibmon 2005; Deloria 2005; O’Brien 2010). 8 Archaeology provides a spatial and material approach to investigating how people adapted to and altered these complex, overlapping categories of race, ethnicity, and class through acts of boundary creation, maintenance, and transgression. In the Anglophone world, physical segregation, symbolic traditions that drew on classical sources, and architecture and landscapes that reinforced ideologies of hierarchy have all served to mark whiteness and wealth as dominant categories (Leone 1988, 1995; Mrozowski et al. 1996; Connah 1998; Hall 2000; Baugher 2010). Spatial separation along categories of class, race, and gender reinforces and reifies social distinctions, making them structural in the literal and theoretical senses. European colonial appropriation of Native American homelands often meant that indigenous people had to live on restrictive reservation lands or on the margins of white settlements (McBride 1990, 1993; Feder 1994; Den Ouden 2005; Mancini 2009; Reiser 2011). The enslavement of Africans in the New World was also fundamentally characterized by spatial control, whether in the labor sites and separate quarters of the American south and the Caribbean, or the household slavery and surveillance prevalent in the north (Singleton 1995; Delle 1998; Melish 1998; Armstrong 1999; Fitts 2001). While European spatial dominance was a defining feature of American colonialism, archaeology can also reveal how marginalized people created their own social landscapes within colonial geographies through their own practices of memory and mobility (Alcock 2001; Ruppel et al. 2003; Samford 2007; Rubertone 2008). Postcolonial archaeology highlights how, in landscapes built by the powerful, the ways less powerful people experience, move through, and commemorate places can alter social landscapes from the ground up (Byrne 2003; Leone 2005; Lilley 2006). Cemeteries are commemorative spaces with the potential to bypass, resist, or reimagine power relations in this way. As places where people represent and remember identities and interpersonal relationships in material ways, cemeteries are reflections of how survivors imagine their social worlds over generations, heterotopias that can 9 mirror social proximity, ethnic identity, cultural understandings of kinship and gender, or hierarchies of race and class (Foucault 1986; McGuire 1988; Garman 1994; Stone 2009; Cipolla 2010). They can also be sites for the reinterpretation, not mere reflection, of tradition and identity. Historical archaeologists have often looked to cemeteries for long term patterns of cultural distinctiveness within plural societies, but mortuary ritual and memorialization are also subject to cultural exchange, creolization, and religious influence (Rubertone 2001; Stone 2009; Davidson 2010). Eighteenth and nineteenth century Native American and African American cemeteries, for example, sometimes reflect changing cultural practices in contexts of strong religious belief, exchange and reinterpretation of symbols between groups, and adaptations of ritual practices over generations (Jamieson 1994; Hodge 2005; Davidson 2010). This research focuses in part on cemeteries as sites for interrogating race in the United States because they can illuminate both structural and experiential factors: structural factors of segregation and wealth influenced burial patterns, but people’s choices of gravestones also provide important insights into how they viewed their own identities and relationships. Archaeology also addresses how more habitual, daily practices within the home helped to shape and negotiate race, ethnicity, class, and identity in the modern world. Archaeologists commonly define households as any given society's smallest identifiable spatial and economic units, but their constitution and roles have variable, culturally specific meanings, reflecting the social organization of kinship, gender, and labor (Portnoy 1981; Rathje & Wilk 1982; Woodhouse-Byer 1996; Barile & Brandon 2004; Voss 2008a). According to practice theory, people internalize and reshape values and power relations through the unremarkable activities of daily life (Bourdieu 1977). Household divisions of labor reproduce culture through roles based on gender and age, and through uses of space and material culture that people learn to view as natural. Household practices sometimes made differences archaeologically and historically visible, e.g. through the persistence of foodways and household spatial use among 10 African Americans, practices of mobility and memory among Native Americans, and different valuations of women’s work along lines of class and race (Franklin 2001;, Ferguson 1992; Wall 1994; Phillips 1998; Wilkie & Hayes 2006; Silliman 2009). In multi- ethnic households, cultural exchange could also result in new combinations of foodways and material culture, often reflecting the significance of women’s domestic labor (Deagan 1996; Woodhouse-Byer 1996). Bhabha argues that these “in between” positions in colonial contexts are hot spots of cultural creativity and subversion of power roles (1996). This makes households rich sites for archaeological investigations of cultural persistence and change, particularly in cosmopolitan, diverse, and economically volatile contexts like nineteenth century whaling ports. In summary, critical race theory and postcolonial archaeology provide theoretical frameworks for studying race and ethnicity as both structural and experiential phenomena, and archaeological approaches to space, memory, and material culture in households and cemeteries provide the methods for understanding how people of Native American and African descent negotiated overlapping racial and ethnic categories in and around the port of Sag Harbor. II. RESEARCH AREA Sag Harbor, NY, is an important location for the archaeological study of race and social divisions in the whaling industry because its neighborhood of Eastville is the best preserved example of a working class landscape from a major American whaling port, and because the availability of supporting data on regional demographic and labor patterns, cemeteries, and individual households make it possible to approach Sag Harbor’s historical archaeology from regional, neighborhood, and household scales. Prior historical studies of African Americans and Native Americans in the whaling industry have primarily focused on ports and reservation communities in New 11 England, identifying the growth of communities and maritime labor practices through census records, crew lists, and other maritime historical sources from the major ports of Nantucket, New Bedford, and New London (Vickers 1983; Bolster 1997; Nicholas 2002; Johnson 2006; Grover 2009; Mancini 2009; Shoemaker 2013a, 2013b, 2014). There are strong historical parallels between early American cultural and social history on Long Island and in southern New England, and these works provide an important foundation for this study by establishing knowledge of working conditions and racial hierarchies in the whaling industry. In addition, two archaeological studies from New England have investigated individual Native American households from the Wampanoag communities of Mashpee and Aquinnah (Handsman 2010, 2011) and an African American household from Nantucket (Bulger 2013). I aim to test historians’ hypotheses about the positive economic impact of whaling for Native American and African American households through research on household structures and patterns in Chapter 2, in dialogue with Handsman’s (2011) household cycle approach. However, New England also presents limitations for the archaeological study of multicultural whaling communities due to issues of preservation. In New Bedford and New London, the waterfront areas and working class neighborhoods of the early nineteenth century were redeveloped in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries when cities reinvented themselves as industrial producers. Historians have identified the areas where communities of color settled, but these historic landscapes are no longer so accessible for archaeological survey due to more recent major construction (Arato & Eleey 1998; Grover 2009; Mancini 2009). The size of these ports also complicates comparative and regional studies of people of different ethnic backgrounds due to high rates of mobility amidst large populations (Bolster 1997; Grover 2009). These challenges make it difficult to approach community life in whaling communities from a material and spatial perspective in New England, but such a perspective has the potential to expand the historical focus on whaling as an individual 12 labor practice into an anthropological inquiry about how maritime experiences and networks related to social and economic changes at the household and community level. Fortunately, the port of Sag Harbor is more ideal for a case study of households of color in the whaling industry because its physical preservation, documentation, and active descendant communities make it possible to trace the histories of non-white whaling families in the port for generations and link them to communities across the entire south fork of Long Island. Sag Harbor’s neighborhood of Eastville is at the center of this study, as the neighborhood where a multicultural community of African Americans, indigenous Shinnecock and Montaukett people, and European immigrants settled. From the 1840s, the port’s most profitable decade of whaling, through the end of the Civil War, Eastville became home to 22 to 28 households headed by people of color. Thanks to the long term continuity of a Black descendant community and the activism of local residents since the 1980s, Eastville’s street patterns, the St. David AME Zion Church, its associated cemetery, and even a number of nineteenth century houses are well preserved today. This preservation makes it uniquely possible to study the formation of this neighborhood during the whaling era and its residents’ material choices in housing, gravestones, and other forms of material culture. Neighborhood-level analyses of household demography and labor practices, housing and property ownership, gravestone choices, and everyday material culture among people of Native American and African descent in Eastville provide the core data for the archaeological analysis of racial and ethnic differences and commonalities in a whaling port. Additionally, members of the active African American and Native American descendant communities in and near Sag Harbor became important partners in the formation of research questions, conduct of the study, and related public outreach and education efforts. The port of Sag Harbor did not rise out of a vacuum: it was also a site where larger regional ethnic communities intersected. Because the people who lived and 13 worked there were not confined to the village itself, a regional approach is necessary to understanding its growth and significance. Sag Harbor is split between the town of Southampton in the western half and East Hampton in the east and it is also historically connected to two indigenous homelands. Since the seventeenth century, the Shinnecock and Montaukett people living on the south fork of Long Island had faced land loss and economic change at the hands of English settlers in the villages of East Hampton and Southampton. By 1800, they were relegated to lands with little farming potential and limited grazing, which eventually became the Shinnecock state reservation in Southampton and the Montaukett communal land called Indian Fields. In an economy with limited resources, newly available material items, and changing ideas of wealth and status, men from many native communities began to work on whaling crews for trade goods, wages, or due to debt (Strong 1983b, 2001; Vickers 1983; Nicholas 2002; Philbrick 2011; Shoemaker 2014). Thus, when Sag Harbor began to rise as a major port in 1790, Shinnecock and Montaukett systems of gender, work, and kinship were all embedded into Suffolk County's landscapes, interpenetrating with Anglo-American legal and economic structures. By the nineteenth century, these landscapes overlapped significantly with those of the area's African American population. Both Native Americans and African Americans often used mobile labor as a tool of social self-determination, participating heavily in maritime trades, working in wealthier households to help support families elsewhere, and setting up hamlets on the margins of Euro-American settlements (Feder 1994; Deetz 1996; Bolster 1998; Reiser 2011). The economic and political contexts of the early 19th century brought Native and African Americans further together geographically and socially. Not only did African Americans, Shinnecock and Montaukett people travel regionally to work on whaling ships, in agricultural labor, and in household service, they also established multicultural hamlets, enclaves, and neighborhoods throughout the towns of East Hampton and Southampton (cf. Mandell 14 2008 and Chapter 1). These communities of color consisted of a total of about 1295 individuals over 90 years, whose names I compiled from the federal census and local church, land, and town records between 1790 and 1880. This modest population size makes it possible to map and trace the the settlement, labor, and burial patterns of African Americans and Native Americans surrounding Sag Harbor as well as within it. The regional approach inquires where ethnically diverse peoples of color interacted, how existing regional connections and shared experiences shaped the formation of new multicultural neighborhoods, and how Sag Harbor’s households compared to similar and even related households in nearby villages, rural locations, and reservations. Of course, people experience and act on the scales of individuals and families, not as communities, neighborhoods, or regions. These broader analyses are necessarily rooted in the cumulative decisions of individuals and household groups, whose names and family connections I piece together from census, land, whaling, and probate records and gravestone inscriptions. Individual examples and stories are integrated throughout the study, but in Chapter 4 I focus particularly on household life, consumption, and finances, approaching broader trends in material culture and property ownership as the products of people’s active decisions in response to shared experiences and variable individual circumstances. Through this multi-scalar attention to the material strategies of household life, the historical archaeology of Sag Harbor illuminates how Native Americans and African Americans navigated the tensions of economic and cultural survival in the whaling era’s context of change and possibility. III. ORGANIZATION AND METHODS This dissertation is organized into six chapters that address research questions on regional, neighborhood, and household scales: 1) Regional: What were the spatial distribution and demographic structures of Native American and African American households on eastern Long Island at the beginning and end of the nineteenth century? 15 2) Neighborhood: What were the intersections, shared experiences, and lasting distinctions between ethnic communities in plural spaces of dwelling and labor? 3) Household: How did individual households and their members negotiate shifting categories of race, class, and ethnicity in the contexts of global markets and plural communities? The first and second chapters address regional trends through surveys of historical demography, archaeology, and maritime labor practices. Tracing wealth and space on eastern Long Island from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries, they reveal how land and property became divided along racial lines, where the geographies of Native Americans and African Americans intersected, and how members of these groups sought economic mobility on land and at sea. Chapter 1 introduces the history and human geography of eastern Long Island, traces the growth of autonomous African American and Native American households and settlements, and explains how critical race theory provides a useful theoretical framework for understanding divisions of race, space, and wealth in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Related here in a brief literature review, the story of the colonial period on Long Island, between English settlement in 1640 and the first United States census in 1790 is one of conflicting ideologies of land use and ownership, broken treaties, and appropriation of Native American lands and African labor. This was also a period of changing ideologies of race in North America. I aim to show how the correlation of race and property in early American law created the geographic and economic inequalities of eastern Long Island that existed by the beginning of the nineteenth century. To make these inequalities visible, I conducted extensive demographic research in federal census schedules from 1790 to 1880, New York state census schedules from 1865, and state census tables without full schedules from 1845 and 1855, searching for the approximate residential locations of all listed households and individuals of color. I 16 sought evidence of economic mobility after New York’s emancipation law went into effect in 1827, noting a slow but steady growth of the number of independent households of people of color, and a slight but real decrease in the percentages of people of color who worked and resided with employers rather than families. In consultation with secondary sources, including Native American genealogical references and local histories, I also traced the growth of Native American and African American communities on reservations, in rural enclaves, and in English villages between approximately 1830 and 1870. This research establishes empirically that on eastern Long Island, people of color increasingly formed multicultural communities across ethnic lines, due to the common impacts of white privilege and racism. Chapter 2 focuses specifically on how the opportunities and idiosyncrasies of the whaling industry contributed to the formation of new households and communities, connecting the regional and neighborhood scales of analysis. This chapter draws on primary and secondary historical sources to reconstruct men’s labor patterns and their economic and social impact at home, including crew lists and databases from Sag Harbor, New Bedford, and New London, account books and papers from whaling firms, household probate records, and census data. Using Wilk and Rathje’s (1982) comparative framework for understanding household cycles and resource availability, I compare the social structures of households between 1850 and 1870 among Native American and African American families on the Shinnecock reservation, in the neighborhood of Eastville in Sag Harbor, and in the settlements of Indian Fields and Freetown in East Hampton. In the first two sites, whaling was a nearly universal occupation for men at some point in their working lives, and I argue that their labor patterns cannot be understood outside of the context of family and community life. Though household structures and land and resource availability varied at each site, both Native American and African American household demography indicate that the possible cash windfalls of maritime labor, in combination with kinship support 17 networks and the terrestrial labor of women and elders, enabled maritime labor to foster economic mobility through household formation on the Shinnecock reservation and in Eastville. Zooming in to the neighborhood of Eastville in Sag Harbor, in the third chapter I consider how people of Indian and African descent, brought together by racial inequality and economic opportunity in a growing whaling port, created a sense of multicultural community out of physical proximity. I use maps, deeds, mortgages, census records, and probate inventories to trace the growth of Eastville from its earliest settlement, to its expansion at the height of the whaling era around the St. David’s African Methodist Episcopal Church between 1840 and 1860, to its continuity as an anchor community for people of color after the Civil War and decline of whaling. Settlement patterns established a neighborhood, but connections between people made it a community based on shared experiences. I draw together historical and demographic sources to identify the most important sources of interpersonal connection that tied people together, such as family networks and marriages, maritime labor, and church membership. While recognizing the de facto geographic segregation that concentrated the port’s American-born population of color in one neighborhood, reinforcing critical race theory’s emphasis on the social impacts of legal racism, this case study of the Eastville neighborhood highlights how the agency of people of color shaped their own thriving community with a lasting legacy amidst those constraints. To understand the material and financial lives of members of these households, and to connect the regional, neighborhood, and household perspectives, I next focus on household space and material culture among people of Native American and African descent. In contrast to the problematic but common dichotomy of cultural authenticity or assimilation, in Chapter 4, I present a different framework for understanding household choices: the consideration of how people of color navigated the conflicting imperatives of appearing respectable and prosperous to combat stereotypes of laziness 18 and poverty, on the one hand, and to avoid excessive conspicuous consumption to maintain a sense of safety within a racially charged society, on the other. The main sources for this study are probate records and an archaeological collection from the Shinnecock reservation. To gain a broad sense of everyday household material culture, I searched Suffolk County probate records for all the last names of people of color that appeared in census research. This yielded 14 records from between 1807 and 1936 with information beyond names and dates of death, including rural Montaukett households from East Hampton, Native American and African American households from Sag Harbor, and one Montaukett and one African American household from Southampton. These probate records indicate a gradual increase in household wealth and space among people of color during the nineteenth century. A collection of 971 ceramic sherds from the Shinnecock reservation, with a mean ceramic date of 1835, provides an archaeological perspective on Native American household consumption to compare with items listed in probate inventories. My interpretation of both the ceramic collection and probate inventories focus on prosperity and belonging as important factors in household consumption choices for both Native Americans and African Americans living amidst racism. However, by the turn of the twentieth, financial and real property became much more significant sources of wealth than household goods, and in these areas the color line remained divisive. The fifth chapter provides a complementary analysis of material culture in cemeteries through these lenses of property, wealth, and self-representation. Gravestones link individuals with families and communities, commemorating kinship and other intimate relationships in public space, and they also shape local landscapes around distinctions of wealth and property. I conducted a field survey of 154 Native American and African American gravestones in publicly accessible cemeteries in the villages of Sag Harbor and East Hampton in February through April 2013. The five sites where I confirmed the presence of people of color include the St. David AME Zion 19 Church cemetery in Eastville, the one site established, owned, and used solely by people of color; Sag Harbor’s Old Burying Ground and East Hampton’s North End cemetery, two public burying grounds in use through the mid-nineteenth century with segregated sections for people of color; and Sag Harbor’s Oakland and East Hampton’s Cedar Lawn cemetery, two cemeteries established in the mid- to late nineteenth century following the spread of the rural cemetery movement. To collect data, I followed standard photography and recording practices outlined by Mytum (2000) and replicated by Cipolla (2010) to record all surviving gravestones of identified or suspected Native American and African American individuals from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. I also recorded the locations of individual stones using a Garmin ETrex handheld GPS, which I integrated with the GIS database I created to study regional and neighborhood settlement patterns. The Garmin ETrex GPS unit does not have sufficient accuracy for spatial analyses within cemeteries, but it does indicate density and distribution across larger areas. Through analysis of these existing Native American and African American gravestones in the five study sites, I explore how how the cemeteries of eastern Long Island constitute a body of self-representations by working class people of color in the American north. Memorials reveal direct evidence of how people represented their identities and social connections through the revelation or omission of kinship, marriage, and social links, individual histories of labor and military service, and other identifying characteristics such as race, ethnicity, tribal affiliation, or membership in faith communities. Analyzing the shapes, materials, inscriptions, and decoration of Native American and African American gravestones in these five cemeteries, I argue that the similar choices of members of both groups represent a shared approach to changing ideas about personhood, in which changing memorial practices paralleled the rise of possessive individualism as political ideology, and permanent gravestones became symbols of survival despite histories of exclusion. 20 In everyday life, race rarely divided Native Americans and African Americans and their material choices. However, around the turn of the twentieth century, Montaukett and Shinnecock people increasingly expressed their Native American identity in more public ways in response to the challenges of fighting for their land and legal status. The sixth and final chapter contrasts the previous two chapters’ emphasis on cross-cultural similarities with an exploration of the tensions inherent in being part of a community of color while maintaining Native American identity and autonomy. It also challenges the archaeological interpretations of the previous two by drawing on different sets of records, photographs, and museum collections. I use on the anthropological publications of Mark R. Harrington and Carlos Westez (Red Thunder Cloud), museum specimens in the American Museum of Natural History and National Museum of the American Indian, and early twentieth century photographs collected by Westez, to identify both evidence of “traditional” Native material culture and the transformation and reinterpretation of these traditions during and after the whaling era. Linking material and symbolic choices with official acts of self-definition, this chapter also discusses how Shinnecock and Montaukett forms of self-government and legal defense changed in response to the requirements of American law. I argue that these early twentieth century pressures forced people to distance themselves from African American neighbors and family members to argue for Indian authenticity, which could create social divisions within multicultural communities. Native people also limited the contexts in which this was necessary by creating particular ceremonial and artistic occasions for the celebration of Indian identity, which also helped unite Shinnecock and Montaukett people with Native groups from elsewhere in New England and around the country. This provides an important counterpoint to the discussions of shared experiences across cultures in the previous two chapters, highlighting that even in contexts of closely knit multicultural communities of color, the maintenance of ethnic distinction had a significant social and legal role for people of Native descent. In such 21 contexts, the ambiguity and flexibility of race, ethnicity, and citizenship became more visible as their social and legal boundaries shifted. IV. CONTRIBUTIONS This research makes an archaeological contribution to dialogues in history and anthropology about the emergence of race in the early United States by tracing how abstract ideologies about difference related to people’s material lives and experiences of belonging. Theoretically, by employing a multiscalar approach, I link together household, neighborhood, and regional data to better understand situational expressions of identity and the growth of new communities. One of the biggest challenges in nineteenth century historical archaeology is the similarity of material culture among different groups, which makes ethnic “markers” inappropriate for identifying social boundaries in pluralistic modern societies. I do not argue that more spatial and material analysis will yield definitive identifications of ethnicity. Instead, it can give us more nuanced understandings of how people took advantage of this ambiguity to represent themselves and to express aspiration and desire in contexts of inequality. My research shows that the discrimination and limitations that people of Native American and African descent lived with daily influenced their converging choices in settlement, housing, and material culture. Simultaneously, Native Americans faced the distinct legal and social pressure to perform cultural authenticity within multi- ethnic communities of color, making “markers” of ethnicity vital in other contexts. Drawing explicit connections between historical inequalities in wealth and the formation of new, ethnically diverse communities along racial lines supports a conception of race as not just a category rooted in genetics, culture, or both, but the historical product of, and vector for, persistent spatial, economic, and legal divisions. I also suggest that whaling communities, in particular, were significant locations for the negotiation of race and self-representation in the nineteenth century because 22 they were sites where larger maritime, religious, and cultural networks offered new and alternative forms of self-representation, cooperation, and affiliation. In maritime communities, people’s experiences of social differences were not bound by national borders, and dialogues about the meanings of race and ethnicity in the nineteenth century occurred within contexts of international labor, global markets, and cultural exchange. The variety of contexts in which Native Americans and African Americans argued and acted for greater equality in the 19th century, and the ways maritime labor and economic mobility expanded their opportunities and experiences, offered imaginative alternatives to unequal realities. Finally, I have also endeavored to contribute relevant work to descendant communities and organizations while seeking their consultation and guidance, through which I hope to live up to an archaeologist’s ethical duties to people in the present (cf. Watkins 2000; Epperson 2004; Wilcox 2009). The project would not have been possible without the contributions and partnership of the Eastville Community Historical Society, the Shinnecock National Museum and Cultural Center, and individual members of local Native American and African American descendant communities. In return, it has resulted in reports and programs designed to support the organizations’ conservation and research priorities. These products included neighborhood maps and brochures for historic tours at the ECHS, a cemetery conditions report on the St. David AME Zion Cemetery, and a successful application for the Archaeological Institute of America’s 2013 Site Preservation Grant for that cemetery, which has led to the development of conservation and stewardship programs at the site. I also provided a catalogue, photographs, and an analytical report for the Shinnecock Museum’s historic ceramic collection. The archaeology of eastern Long Island is uniquely valuable because these grassroots activists have worked to preserve the historic landscapes of communities of color and to act as stewards of their oral histories and local memory, and I look forward to maintaining relationships and dialogue with them in the future. 23 CHAPTER 1 MAKING PLACE, MAKING WEALTH, & MAKING RACE ON THE SOUTH FORK I. INTRODUCTION The South Fork of Long Island is known today as the province of America’s richest people, famous for the mansions, helicopters, and excesses of the Hamptons, but that wealth is, in part, the product of centuries of persistent economic and social inequality (Dolgon 2005). Tracing the demography of household formation and settlement among Native Americans and African Americans in the nineteenth century makes it possible to visualize how race and wealth divided those who lived there. Here, I explore how race and wealth became so tightly entangled on eastern Long Island by reconstructing Native American and African American settlement patterns and interpreting their significance through the lens of critical race theory. An overview of Native American and African experiences in the early colonial history of eastern Long Island up to the beginning of federal census collection in 1790 frames this analysis, showing that growing power differentials between Europeans and other groups correlated with the solidification of racial categories and the division of property rights along racial lines. Simultaneously, lingering ambiguities in the racial classifications of “Indian,” “Black,” “mulatto,” “mustee,” and “colored” both reflected and reinforced shared experiences of legal and economic marginalization among people of color. Next, I work to reconstruct the racial geography of the South Fork from 1790 to 1880 through census schedules, maps, and other primary source documents. First, considering residence, these data show that the growing number of independent African American and Native American households in the first half of the nineteenth century often clustered together in and near reservations and English villages. I interpret this pattern with reference to critical race theory’s insight that property and race are co- constructed through American history. As “colored” citizens, people of both Indian and 24 African descent faced similar legal limitations and economic hardships on nineteenth century Long Island, and by concentrating their households together, they created new communities around these shared experiences. Second, I compare the household data to historical evidence of Black and Native American labor practices, which show that people of color were vital workers in white houses, farms, and businesses. The combination of relative residential segregation at home and integration in places of work indicates that, first of all, the residential data specifically reflect racial differences in wealth within a landscape of constant cultural interaction, and second, the overall growth of independent households of people of color in the nineteenth century was a sign of hard-won economic mobility. II. HISTORY IIA. LONG ISLAND AS A NATIVE LANDSCAPE The first inhabitants of today’s Suffolk County were ancestors of tribes that historically included the Shinnecock and Montaukett of the south fork, the Unkechaug slightly further west, the Corchaug or Cutchogue of the north fork, and the Manhasset on Shelter Island (Bragdon 1996; Strong 2001; Hayes 2013). Prior to European settlement, these indigenous groups defined themselves in relation to each other without a sense of pan-Indian racial identity: these first residents organized their use of land and maritime resources through social ties based on kinship, local group distinctions, and widespread regional mobility. Bragdon identifies three types of New England environments with corresponding social models: coastal “conditional sedentism” and political hierarchy, riverine agricultural villages, and upland hunting and gathering groups with smaller populations (1996). Long Island’s inhabitants practiced the first model, living in small coastal villages but moving regionally to take advantage of seasonal resources, visit distant relatives, and engage in trade (Strong 2001). Their food sources included fish, 25 shellfish, waterfowl, and terrestrial wild plants and animals. This diversification helped to protect against failures of specific resources, but it depended on knowledge of a varied regional environment. As in New England, seasonal and periodic mobility were both means of maintaining such an environment (Cronon 1993). Europeans witnessed not only the continued importance of coastal shellfish resources and waterfowl for Shinnecock and Montaukett people on Long Island, but also their movements around the coast to seasonal fishing grounds, throughout the inland forests for deer, nuts, berries, and other terrestrial food sources, and across meadows for herbs and ground nuts. Shellfish and terrestrial plant cultivation and gathering, in particular, reflected the key role of women’s labor. Women disturbed colonial authorities in the seventeenth century by digging holes around the Southampton area, presumably to harvest the ground nuts available in spring and fall, which could be made into flour for a long-lasting food source (Strong 1983b). Even in the nineteenth century, historian Benjamin Thompson wrote, “They live principally by hunting, fowling, and fishing, their wives being the husbandmen, to till the land and plant the corn.” (1843: 80) The varied but overall reliable sources of food women produced were vital parts of their local economies. Men, on the other hand, often engaged in high-status, high-risk, often unpredictable hunting strategies, including offshore whaling, historically attested from 1605 (Strong 1983a). Waterways were not only subsistence resources, but also highways for trade and interaction (Ritchie 1965; Snow 1980; Brooks 2008). By about 1000 A.D., the beginning of the Late Woodland period, indigenous groups across New England were clustering in coastal regions, becoming more centralized and hierarchical (Bragdon 1996: 36). Within villages, leaders could accumulate prestige and power to distribute shared resources and negotiate with other groups (ibid: 46). The English who met these leaders knew them as sachems, if male, or sunksquaws, if female, but sometimes mistakenly equated them with tribal chiefs or kings. These positions could be hereditary, but did not necessarily follow lines of direct descent; wives, sisters, and nephews of sachems, for 26 example, have become heirs (Strong 2001; Richmond & Den Ouden 2003; Rubertone 2012). Beyond villages, residence and kinship shaped local identities. Cultural groups that we now know as Shinnecock, Montaukett, Unkechaug, Manhasset, Corchaug, Quinnipiac, Pequot, Narragansett, and Wampanoag defined themselves not in isolation, but in relation to each other. The breadth of this cultural sphere is reflected in ceramics, which show stylistic similarities across much of the northeast; in lithics, including long distance trades in Great Lakes chert; later, shell wampum produced on Long Island and traded far beyond Algonquian territories; and in ethnohistorical accounts of mobility and connection (Snow 1980; Bragdon 1996: 21; Brooks 2008). Although Algonquian territorial divisions were not without conflict, they were without fixed boundaries (Muir 2000). Archaeologists and historians argue that Native Americans in the northeast conceptualized regional territories in terms of use rights to resource use, rather than in terms of the possession of absolute space (Cronon 1993; Bragdon 1996). Johnson suggests redrawing maps to reflect this by removing territorial borders and including as many individual communities as possible, since intermarriage and kinship ties between communities gave individuals opportunities for flexible political and social affiliations within a mobile region (2005). This view corresponds with the argument that pre-contact senses of place involved strong social centers with fuzzy edges, defined by people rather than space (Bragdon 1996; Blu 1999). The archaeological record shows that memory enriched Long Island’s landscapes, connecting native Long Islanders to their past through place. At numerous sites on the North and South Forks such as Shoreham-Wading River, Montauk Lake, and Baxter, Archaic projectile points lay under Early to Late Woodland period occupations. At Sugar Loaf Hill, archaeologists also found a ceramic vessel that was a replica of a steatite predecessor at the exact same site (Strong 1983c). The reuse of these sites in later periods hints at how cultural memory helped to bind people to both the land and 27 their ancestors, much as ethnographers in other regions have documented the importance of culturally important places as sources of identity and moral teaching (Brody 1981; Basso 1996; Ferguson & Colwell-Chanthoponth 2006). Even though stereotypes of seasonally mobile groups depicted them as rootless and homeless, the recurring depositions of material culture on Long Island testify to the deep history that Native people preserved through this movement, returning to the same sites over centuries and honoring past traditions. As Bragdon writes, “mobility imposed a cosmological, moral, temporal, and social ‘grid’ on a familiar landscape” (1996:127). IIIB. NATIVE AMERICANS ON COLONIAL LONG ISLAND The social dimensions of land use, resource access, and group identity shifted dramatically for Native Americans after the sixteenth century. By the eighteenth century, the distinction between Europeans and Indians had become the primary dividing line. Many of the known indigenous place names on Long Island describe how it became a contact zone, valued for its maritime resources, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Native Americans from the New England mainland called Long Island “Metouwacs,” translated sometimes as a cognate of the Narragansett and Massachusett words for “ear shell” or “periwinkle,” the raw material for wampum (Tooker 1901: 15-18). Through wampum and its maritime and inland markets, Long Island’s native people became involved in regional and global networks, and their conflicts, over a century before Europeans encroached on their lands. Wampum production in coastal southern New England region probably began after 1000 AD as part of a ritualistic sphere of exchange, but its circulation became even more spiritually and socially significant in the western Iroquoian regions (Bragdon 1996: 98 after Ceci 1990). After European explorers like Verrazzano began writing reports of fur sources in New York and New England in the 1520s, demand for wampum increased to a boom among English and Dutch traders and the Iroquois who controlled 28 the fur trade further inland (Ceci 1980). As this shell product became source and symbol of wealth and power, native groups on the coast competed to control it. The Narragansetts and Pequots in southern New England became powerful producers and traders, and forts on Long Island may have been constructed as defensive responses to these coastal groups, protected places for wampum production, or both. Fort Corchaug, on the North Fork, is the best documented archaeological example of a Late Woodland period fort, but historical sources also report that Native Americans built similar structures on Shelter Island and within Shinnecock and Montauk territories (Stone 2006). By the early seventeenth century, political and military instability extending south from New England made Native groups on eastern Long Island see potential benefits from alliance with English traders and officials (Strong 2001). At this point, the Shinnecock, Montauk, and Manhasset people were full participants in the global trade network known as the European world system (Wolf 1982). They navigated a middle ground of shifting power relations, divided by local and regional rather than national or racial identities (White 1991). After the end of the Pequot War in 1637, this middle ground began to give way to the power differentials of colonialism. With Pequot control over tributary communities in southern New England and Long Island eliminated, Algonquian leaders around the region began to reconfigure their spheres of influence. Wyandanch, the Montaukett sachem, allied with English leader Lion Gardiner against the Niantics in Connecticut (Strong 2001: 12-13). The first English-Indian land transaction on eastern Long Island resulted. In 1639, Gardiner bought an island north of Montaukett territory, probably from Youghco, the Manhasset sachem of Shelter Island. In 1644, the Montaukett, Manhasset, Corchaug, and probable Shinnecock leaders met with the leaders of several English colonies in Connecticut. The Indian leaders agreed to become 29 English tributaries and give the English exclusive rights to purchase land on Long Island (ibid: 14). The resulting Hartford Treaty changed the contest for Long Island’s resources from one with many parties to one with only two. It shut the Dutch out of eastern Long Island, and it also promised English military protection for the Shinnecock, Montaukett, Manhasset, and Corchaug against further Niantic or Narragansett threats. It also established a colonial relationship between the English and Native Americans that resulted in centuries of indigenous land loss. The English founded their first settlements on the South Fork of Long Island after the Pequot War had made an example of the devastation Englishmen and their allies could wreak on uncooperative Indians (Strong 1983b 67). The first deed between several Shinnecock Indians and the founders of the town of Southampton in 1640 recorded the exchange of English coats, Indian corn, and military protection for the use of Shinnecock lands from Canoe Place (“the place where the Indians hayle over the cannoes out of the North bay”) on the west to a vague eastern boundary near today’s Wainscott (Pelletreau 1874: 12-14; Strong 1983b: 67). Although this deed described that the Indians granted to the English and their heirs “to have & to hold forever without any claime or challenge of the least title, interest, or propriety whatsoever of vs the sayd Indians,” a 1649 dispute over whether the Shinnecock were entitled to plant on uncultivated land within Southampton’s boundaries indicates that they still understood this agreement to be one regulating shared land use (Strong 1983b: 56). Following the establishment of Southampton, English merchants from Connecticut sought to purchase land further east from the Montaukett to shut out any Dutch settlement in the area. In 1648, the Montaukett sachem Wyandanch agreed to a deed allowing English settlement of East Hampton, defined by the Southampton boundary to the west and the narrow neck of land called Napeague to the east. The Montauketts received coats, mirrors, hoes, hatches, knives, and muxes (metal tools for 30 wampum production), which Strong posits they might have interpreted as gifts in exchange for land use. However, they also maintained some use rights themselves, including the rights to hunt, fish, collect shells, and receive the fins and tails from any beached whales, which were of religious significance (2001: 16). Given that this document laid out a framework for shared land use, it could have enabled the survival of a relatively egalitarian “middle ground” between Native Americans and English settlers. However, in both Southampton and East Hampton, English settlers found footholds for expansion by taking advantage of political and demographic instability within indigenous groups and by creating debt relations through legal proceedings. First, in 1647, when a settler’s wife died at the hands of a few Native Americans, to avoid forceful punishment the Shinnecock had to recognize Wyandanch as their “Grand Sachem,” which meant that an English ally from outside the group became an authority who could sell Shinnecock land (Strong 1983b: 55). Then, in 1657, when several houses in the village of Southampton were burned, the town fined the entire Shinnecock community the huge sum of 700 pounds; Wyandanch negotiated it down to 400, but this was still an amount the Shinnecock could only pay in land. Wyandanch unilaterally sold Shinnecock lands west of Canoe Place to pay the debt in 1658 and 1659 (ibid: 57). After 1660, land agreements became quickly and progressively worse for the Shinnecock and Montaukett. Smallpox epidemics began affecting indigenous people on Long Island, and outbreaks of disease disrupted families and communities throughout the rest of the 17th century. Wyandanch himself died at this time, and with the “Grand Sachem” absent, a Southampton settler named Topping independently purchased land west of Canoe Place and in Quogue from individual Shinnecocks in 1662. Niantic raids also threatened the Montauketts at a time of transition, when Wyandanch’s widow Quashawam had assumed leadership. The Montaukett found refuge within East 31 Hampton, but in return, Quashawam was pressured to thank the English with a “gift” of land at Hither Woods in Napeague Neck (Stone 2001). In 1664, when the Colony of New York was established, the colonial government tried to centralize Indian land transactions by requiring approval from the governor. This led settlers to solidify advantageous interpretations of previous deeds and expand holdings when possible in 1665. The town of Southampton bought out Topping’s 1662 deeds and collected Shinnecock signatures in confirmation, while other Shinnecocks protested that the signatories lacked authority to negotiate for the tribe. In East Hampton, English leaders met with Quashawam to discuss boundaries, confirming their exclusive purchase rights and agreeing to pay fees for grazing on remaining Montaukett lands. In 1670, the Montaukett were forced to sell more land on the south side of Montauk Point itself to pay a severe legal penalty, this time because they refused to turn over a member of their community who was accused of rape; he was sentenced to slavery in the West Indies (Strong 1983b 55-62, 2001: 28-35). In 1687, another deed gave English ownership of all land on Montauk Point apart from a portion known as Indian Fields. By 1703, English interpretations of clear boundaries and limited land usage for Native Americans were legally fixed in both towns. The final deed for Southampton gave the Shinnecock a 1000 year lease on their own ancestral lands in the Shinnecock Hills, although in 1859 this lease was canceled: the Shinnecock only maintained permanent ownership of the land base that is now their reservation (Strong 1983b: 62). In East Hampton, the 1703 agreement with the Montaukett confirmed 1687 boundaries, but also limited Indian holdings of domestic animals, forbid non-Montaukett women to marry in and cultivate land at Indian Fields, and prohibited the Montaukett community from living on both the North Neck in East Hampton and Indian Fields at the same time (Strong 2001: 59-60). This “agreement” was one of the first legal documents on Long Island to directly connect land rights to European definitions of racial purity, definitions 32 that became foundational to the denial of Native American land claims in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. These restrictions reveal the deep intrusion of English laws into indigenous family and community life. Raising domestic animals was an Indian adoption of an English economic strategy in response to the alienation of much of their hunting territory, yet English settlers still wanted to limit this economic and ecological competition. Seasonal mobility between sites like the North Neck and Indian Fields was traditionally a household-level choice, not community-level politics. Finally, in a small society suffering the effects of recent epidemics, restrictions on marriage could have severe consequences for Montaukett population levels. Fortunately, this agreement was unenforceable: Montaukett people continued to build wigwams at Three Mile Harbor in East Hampton despite their “official” residence at Indian Fields, and inter-tribal marriages remained common. On Long Island, as throughout New England, differing indigenous and European understandings of natural resource use and ownership were initially sources of ambiguity, but as English military and economic dominance increased in a given territory, biased judgments, force, and political maneuvering increasingly invalidated native claims. The dominant popular narrative is one of mutual misunderstanding, in which Native Americans believed that treaties traded access to resources for military protection or economic benefits, rather than giving away permanent rights to use and inhabit their ancestral lands (Cronon 1993). Meanwhile, Europeans wrote and read treaties to their own benefit, or simply disregarded them. This has shaped both Euro- American and Indian conceptions of American history as one of continental dispossession (Apess 1992; Wright 1992; Deloria 1995; O’Brien 1997; Greenwald 2002; White 2006). The key terms that colonial English people and their descendants used to describe their land tenure system were “settled,” “civilized,” and “improved.” All three of 33 these words derive a sharp contrast between land that is permanently and physically altered by English presence and “wild” land that is not so marked (Lepore 1998). Settlement in this sense depends on sedentary agriculture and pasturage: unlike in Native American agricultural societies, English villages and sometimes individual houses and farmsteads stayed in place for centuries (Cronon 1993). This meant that specific plots of land required clear boundaries to protect limited resource bases. Additionally, due to the importation of the English idea of legal title, “Americans came to see the ungoverned ability of individuals to dispose of land as a moral right” (Mandell 2008:21). The ideas of “civilization” and “improvement,” however, had roots as much in the colonies as in medieval and early modern England: they were concepts that justified the moral dispossession of Indian lands by creating a frame in which English settlement patterns were positioned as intrinsically superior (Cronon 1993; Lepore 1998; Gosden 2004). Lepore has argued that the opposition between cultivated English land and wild Indian land became increasingly fixed in colonists’ worldviews during and after King Phillip’s War, in which English houses and fields were likened to the clothing on English bodies that made them clean, godly, and civilized. In comparison, their enemies (and, by extension, all other Indians) and their lands remained in a naked state of nature (1998). These terms defined anything that was not a permanent house with fenced in fields as wilderness, and they established deforestation and the construction of fences and houses as “improvements” on wild land. With this linguistic frame, colonists marked Indian land use as illegitimate and incomplete, refusing to recognize shifting but relatively stable “patchwork landscapes” of Indian activity (Cronon 1993). This symbolic clearing rationalized “terra nullius” colonialism, in which Europeans claimed and profited from supposedly empty lands (Gosden 2004). As in Australia, settlers literally wrote Native Americans off of their maps, which colonial law and force made definitive (Jennings 1975; Byrne 2003; O’Brien 2010). 34 Eastern Long Island was isolated from the violence of King Phillip’s War itself, but the strong connections between Native Americans and English settlers across the Long Island Sound carried its cultural impact across the water. War disrupted the trading and alliances of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries and pushed English settlers to redefine themselves as radically different from native people, in part through contrasting ideas of land use and property. On Long Island, the history of indigenous land loss was connected with the growth of binary racial distinctions between Europeans and Indians from the sixteenth century onward. After King Philip’s War, English settlers on Long Island sought to negotiate with Native Americans on Long Island as a single group, instead of with leaders of individual societies; they penalized entire tribes for the crimes of individuals with fines that could only be paid in land, instead of accepting tribal justice as sufficient; and they recognized individual sales of communal lands as though one Native American could represent all. These policies show that despite the distinctive local identities of Montaukett, Shinnecock, and other groups, the English preferred to classify them according to race in order to treat all Indians as one whenever possible, especially when it could be advantageous for gaining land. Dispossession made Native Americans on Long Island members of a diaspora on their own ancestral lands (Lilley 2006). Shinnecock and Montaukett people created new regional landscapes of labor and kinship as they lost access to subsistence resources, faced restrictions on the number of domestic animals they could own, and sought access to imported goods and cash to participate in the colonial economy. Reports of wigwams scattered across seasonal fishing grounds in the towns of Southampton and East Hampton in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries suggest that unapproved movements were one way of dealing with land loss (Stone 1983; Strong 2001). As in New England, many people also moved into towns, taking up jobs including laundry and household service for women and children or day labor for men. Many forms of labor were themselves mobile, such as Shinnecock and Montauk men’s jobs as guides around 35 marshes and bays, the careers of many women as traveling craft producers and medicine people, and even the “cohort” whaling voyages of Indian men who sailed together with other men from their communities (Stone 1983; Strong 2001; Mancini 2009; Rubertone 2012; Shoemaker 2014). This frequent, decentralized movement of native people across reservations, rural areas, towns, and oceans enabled both social survival and economic diversification. Extended family networks enabled individuals to stay connected across these regions and maintain attachments to ancestral lands, but also to take advantage of opportunities across wider spaces by staying with relatives in towns, visiting with friends and kin on journeys, and bringing resources back to reservations. These adaptations to colonial land loss drew on the “ties of kinship and political, economic, and social cooperation [that had] crosscut and linked communities” for centuries (Johnson 2005: 160). This deep cultural continuity supports Lightfoot’s call to reintegrate “prehistory” and “history” (1995), and to view indigenous historical archaeology as an archaeology of continuity rather than rupture (Hart, Oland, & Frink 2012; Panich 2013). As this dissertation will argue, kinship and social connections remained organizing features of Native American life into the nineteenth century, fostering cultural survival in a colonial landscape divided along racial lines. IIIC. AFRICAN AMERICANS ON LONG ISLAND Africans and African Americans adopted some of the same strategies of economic survival and mobility as Native Americans in response to the particular forms of oppression they experienced, as they, too, played a fundamental role in building Long Island’s multicultural society. People of African descent unwillingly contributed work and wealth to households and plantations under the regime of slavery until 1827 (Berlin et al. 2005). Their experiences in slavery and in freedom reflect how the economic significance of unfree labor shaped ideas of race and divisions of wealth in the northern United States even after legal emancipation. 36 The first enslaved Africans on Long Island were brought to New York state by Dutch colonists further west in 1626, but they did not arrive in Suffolk County until the 1650s, when Nathaniel Sylvester transported his wife’s three slaves from the West Indies to work on his supply plantation on Shelter Island (McManus 2001: 4-6). Initially race neither restricted nor justified unfree labor on Long Island. People of African, Native American, and European descent all worked as enslaved and indentured laborers at Sylvester Manor and large farms on the North Fork (Hayes 2013). On the South Fork, enslaved Indians and African Americans were spread widely, as few households held more than one or two people in bondage (Marcus 1988). The Africans and African Americans who lived and worked on eastern Long Island in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries created families and communities out of a vast and diverse diaspora. Historians of the slave trade have documented that around 20 million Africans were shipped to the New World as slaves, taken into captivity from numerous West African societies, and constituting an internally diverse population within the Caribbean and European colonies in North America (Rediker 2012). It is likely that most who were transported to New York arrived via the West Indies, particularly before 1750, and many were born in West Africa (Blakey 1998; McManus 2001). Since the international slave trade continued until 1808, even many free African Americans of the nineteenth century experienced or heard personal accounts of life in Africa from their relatives (Jea 1800; Prince 1989 [1850]; Cuffe 2006). The experience of life in slavery, from the Middle Passage to life on plantations or in households, drove people from diverse African backgrounds to find common ground in their underlying values and traditions (Ferguson 1992; Fennell 2007). Drawing on autobiographies of enslaved people and slave traders, Rediker argues that this process began on slave ships themselves before they even left the West African coast, as the shared experience of kidnapping and imprisonment broke down cultural barriers between enslaved people, and the violent removal from their families inspired 37 the growth of bonds of fictive kinship (2012). Based on the material culture of the African diaspora across the east coast of North America, archaeologists argue that Africans and their descendants maintained broadly West African cosmological outlooks, religious practices, and traditional cooking methods and use of space for centuries (Ferguson 1992; Yentsch 1994; Singleton 1995; Ruppel et al. 2003). They adapted them to the material and social circumstances of life in their respective regions of North America in a process of cultural change as well as continuity that Fennell calls “ethnogenetic bricolage” (2007). The communities enslaved Africans formed in the Americas fostered the growth of pan-African and African American identities and cultural practices. As slaveholding expanded slowly on Long Island, by the eighteenth century unfree labor was increasingly reserved for enslaved Africans and “indentured” Native Americans (Gellman 2006; Hayes 2013). In the seventeenth century, on plantations and in homes along the eastern seaboard, English colonists enslaved Native Americans prior to and in parallel to the transportation of African Americans (Singleton 1995; Newell 2003; Gallay 2009). Additionally, many manual laborers were indentured servants of European ancestry. By the mid-eighteenth century, however, the enslavement of Native Americans had become demographically impossible or illegal in most parts of the British colonies (although their labor as indentured servants and “apprentices” continued), and far fewer English people signed into servitude. The decline of European sources of unpaid labor led Anglo-Americans to cast the growing African workforce as inherently inferior and appropriate for enslavement, while changes in Indian-white power relations cast many indigenous people into debt- based servitude. Slavery preceded the idea of a unified African race, but its continuity into the nineteenth century depended on the development of laws, court decisions, and dominant assumptions that made individual rights dependent upon race (Melish 1998). In New York, the colonial government first reinforced the bonds of slavery upon people 38 of African descent in 1682, making explicit the power of slaveholders, barring enslaved people from testifying against whites in court, and forbidding them from meeting in groups of four or more (McManus 2001). Yet on Long Island, at the same time as this racial ideology solidified around slavery, a free black community grew through self- emancipation, manumission, and intermarriage with free people in the years before 1827. In 1698, 21.5% of Suffolk County’s population was African, nearly all enslaved, whereas by 1790, 13.5% was of African descent, but only about half were enslaved (Marcus 1988: 15). Laws based on race often put free African Americans under constant white surveillance in the north as well: for instance, through curfews, work requirements, and the danger of being “warned out” as indigent (Herndon 2001; McManus 2001; Goldfeld 2009). The 1790s marked a turning point for the history of slavery in New York State. The Massachusetts Supreme Court had declared in 1783 that the institution of slavery violated the ideology of the American Revolution, and discomfort with the hypocrisy of owning slaves in a republic founded on the rhetoric of freedom was widespread throughout the north (Melish 1998). Concern among whites about the economic and political consequences of emancipation held up the process in New York. The state’s majority of Euro-American taxpayers and their representatives might have been willing to consider freeing people of color, but they were reluctant to grant them citizenship (Gellman 2006). They also feared that emancipating people without property would subject towns to significant financial burdens, since towns often provided minimal support for the poorest within their borders (Herndon 2001). This often took the shape of a paupers’ home or town farm, where residence could feel like a prison sentence of work, surveillance, and harsh living conditions, but towns still considered them costly (ibid; Garman & Russo 1999). The emancipation law that New York finally passed in 1799 took shape as a compromise. Like Rhode Island’s and Connecticut’s, it was gradual, noting that children 39 born to enslaved mothers after July 4 of that year would be free – after men worked until age 28, and women until 25. Slaveholders could abandon these children after birth, in which case the children would be supported at state expense, generally by being bound out into indentured servitude. Elderly slaves could be freed without restrictions, whereas some previous laws had required that their owners provide a sum to the town or promise to support them if they became destitute. Another law in 1817 mandated that all slaves should be freed by 1827, when emancipation was supposed to be complete (Marcus 1988; Gellman 2006; Manfra McGovern 2011). These measures attempted to balance the interests of taxpayers and slaveholders using the work of children as currency. Their benefits for enslaved Blacks were more mixed: freedom was promised, but not without the cost of up to 28 years of labor. Both dominant ideas about race and the actual wealth Euro-Americans had gained at the expense of African Americans meant that legally free people still faced serious barriers to social and economic equality at the turn of the nineteenth century. Among whites, the idea of blackness, and not only the legal condition of slavery, had come to be associated with servitude and dependence. These assumptions became the foundation of laws and legal interpretations that dispossessed even free African Americans of their own labor and wealth. Such policies included the use of indenture as a form of social control and the appointment of unrelated whites instead of family members as executors of wills (Melish 1998). Additionally, the emancipation bill did not explicitly deny Black citizenship, but since property ownership was required for voting, the centuries in which Euro-Americans had accumulated property in part through slave labor and indigenous dispossession created serious obstacles for the enfranchisement of people of color in practice (Gellman 2006). Even after the end of slavery in New York, African Americans were burdened by the persistent power of race. 40 III: RACE AND THE DIVISION OF PEOPLE AND PROPERTY During the first centuries of European colonization in the Americas, the legal categories of race became foundational organizing principles for wealth, power, and legal rights. Critical race theory’s direct historical relationship between race and property in early American law provides a theoretical framework for understanding the geography of race on Long Island. For people of African descent, both law and practice supported the connection between race and enslavement. Legally, race in eighteenth and nineteenth century America became defined as a biological and phenotypical classification based on a person’s appearance and ancestry, rather than actual individual origins in Africa. In New York cases over individual enslavement, for example, those who looked Black had to prove they were free, whereas those who looked white were presumed free (McManus 2001). The discourse of biological race hung upon descent and the imagery of blood. Despite the Anglo-American legal tradition that kinship and property followed along male lines of descent, the laws of slavery stipulated that children with parents of different races “followed in the condition of the mother,” which meant that the children of enslaved African-American women and free white or Indian fathers were themselves born into slavery and categorized as Black (Jacobs 1861). Harris (1993) identifies this diversion from tradition as the means by which slaveholders could use Black women’s bodies as tools for increasing their own wealth and property. Blackness also became something that could be passed down through generations. The language of colonial racial classification imagined blood as being tainted or diluted with race, as any traceable African ancestor, no matter how far back, tinted blood black (McKinney 2006). This “one-drop” rule, also called “hypodescent,” meant that blackness subsumed and incorporated more complex, mixed-race lineages and identities (Harrison 1995: 59). These legal principles of descent and blood also came to define Native Americans as a racial group in the English colonies. Laws like the 1680s agreement with the 41 Montauketts that forbid bringing in “foreign” Indian wives, or more frequently prohibited membership of African-American spouses, served English interests in keeping Native populations and threat levels low, while embattled Native Americans may have agreed in order to maintain community cohesion. Later English legal supervision of Native Americans under the trustee system often based access to tribal resources on descent, and any non-indigenous ancestors were considered “dilutions” that reduced claims to belonging (Mandell 1998; McKinney 2006). The “one-drop” rule held true for Native Americans as well, making them potentially Black in a hierarchy in which Blackness could cost freedom and rights to property. The division of Americans into “black” and “red” groups created legal advantages for “whites” in opposition to “others.” In a legal essay that became a foundation of critical race theory, Harris argued that the enslavement of Africans and alienation of Native American lands led to a conflation of race and negative legal status for these groups. In direct opposition, those who had the positive privileges of freedom and property ownership emerged as their own racial group, and that its defining feature, “whiteness,” was itself a form and key to property: Even in the early years of the country, it was not the concept of race alone that operated to oppress Blacks and Indians; rather, it was the interaction between conceptions of race and property that played a critical role in establishing and maintaining racial and economic subordination. The hyper-exploitation of Black labor was accomplished by treating Black people themselves as objects of property. Race and property were thus conflated by establishing a form of property contingent on race - only Blacks were subjugated as slaves and treated as property. Similarly, the conquest, removal, and extermination of Native American life and culture were ratified by conferring and acknowledging the property rights of whites in Native American land. (1993: 1716) Harris compares the dispossession of Native American lands to the enslavement of Africans because the former presumed that European land ownership and use should be the legal basis for rights and recognition, while the latter extended the system of private property to human beings. Whites were those who possessed the inalienable 42 rights to their own bodies, the qualifications to hold land and amass wealth individually, and the legal privilege of being at the top of a racial hierarchy, making and enforcing its laws. Whiteness itself became bound up with these privileges, and its exclusivity helped to maintain its value. Ancestral and biological distinctions of race helped to maintain the power of whiteness by regulating who could not, and who could never, take part. Race and its legal consequences were pervasive in everyday life, and this experiential reality in turn reshaped American subjectivities. Race became one layer of identity that coexisted with others like ethnicity, gender, religion, and occupation. Among eighteenth century writers and activists of African descent, “the African identity that they claimed was not an ethnic identity – like Temne, Igbo, Kongo, or Yoruban….It was instead a new diasporic identity that was founded on emerging European perceptions that residents of Africa shared a ‘racial’ essence” (Sidbury 2009: 7). Among indigenous people, local sociopolitical identities like Shinnecock, Montaukett, Wampanoag, or Narragansett continued to shape interactions within and between groups, yet as they recognized their shared realities of land loss and legal disadvantage within the English colonies, and the histories and worldviews that they held in common, the sense of shared Indian identity grew (Brooks 2008; Mandell 2008). Similarly, for English colonists, first European identity and later whiteness were constructed as the identities to which all others were opposed, the foundations for law and custom (Harris 1993). As the abolition of slavery spread throughout the north in the nineteenth century, whiteness became a category that explicitly reserved the privileges of citizenship for some. Whiteness prevented the erosion of the racial hierarchies of the slave state, which made emancipation more palatable to poor and middling whites, who otherwise might have felt dispossessed of social as well as economic capital (Roediger 1991; Melish 1998; Paynter 2001). These historically contingent racial categories structured the distribution of American bodies across American landscapes. In the early United States, physical 43 segregation, symbolic traditions that drew on classical sources, and architecture and landscapes that reinforced ideologies of hierarchy have all served to mark whiteness and wealth as dominant categories (Leone 1995, 1998; Mrozowski et al. 1996; Baugher 2010). Yet marginalized people created their own social landscapes within colonial geographies through multiple creative and distinct practices of memory and mobility (Brooks 2008; Rubertone 2008; Reiser 2011). The enslavement of Africans in the New World was fundamentally characterized by spatial control (Delle 1998; Epperson 1999). In the northeast, slavery often entailed shared space and surveillance, as enslaved people frequently lived in the houses of the families they served (Fitts 2001). On eastern Long Island, this entailed both frequent isolation from other people of color and intense visibility to white eyes. In northern cities like New York and Boston, as well as many smaller towns, minority residents faced strict curfews due to white fears about public safety (Melish 1998; McManus 2001; Goldfeld 2009). Places that were outside of European surveillance, like woods and swamps, became important spaces for African-Americans, whether as sites for meeting friends and family or opportunities for escaping into freedom. European colonial appropriation of Native American homelands also meant that indigenous people had to live in restricted areas, on reservations or on the margins of white settlements (Feder 1994; Mancini 2009; Reiser 2011). These racial geographies that European colonists created could become sources of common ground for those they left out. Frequently the shared work experiences and settlements of indigenous and African American people became foundations of communities of color with diverse ancestries (Barsh 2002; Nicholas 2002; Holland & Miles 2006). The growth of such communities shows how the spaces and experiences of daily life that people shared across color lines created room for new arrangements and alliances. The remainder of this chapter uses historical demography 44 to explore how people of color on eastern Long Island negotiated the ambiguities of race through their patterns of residence and labor. IV. REVISITING COLONIAL DOCUMENTS: METHODS AND CHALLENGES Reconstructing the demography of people of color is difficult prior to 1790 because of the marginality of Native American and African American communities in the eyes of European settlers led to a fragmentary and incomplete documentary record. In colonial New York, both the physical isolation of minority settlements and the illegibility of indigenous and enslaved people’s social relations to English observers meant that town censuses often failed to count or clearly distinguish individuals. For instance, in the earliest known enumeration of Southampton from 1698, 40 “negro Slaves men” and 43 “women negro Slaves” are listed by first name only; no free Black individuals or non- Black slaves are noted, indicating that these were mutually exclusive categories to English eyes. The enumerator, Matthew Howell, had even more trouble with indigenous people: 52 Native American men are listed by first names, some Algonquian and some English, and Howell explained the omission of others thus: “The squas and children few of whom have any nam…The Indians Informes there is about The same number of woomen and as many children….The hethen are So Scattered To and forw that they can neither be Summonsed in [manuscript torn]” (O’Callaghan 1850: 447). Major aspects of Indian life were simply out of the bounds of colonial understanding, from the native language of men to the names and life’s work of women and children. Africans and African Americans, when they appear in these accounts, are only identified by numbers or first names. In New York population counts prior to the Revolution, each county submitted numbers of white and Black inhabitants to the colony; they show a steady increase of overall population in Suffolk County, which included 558 Blacks in 1647 and grew to 13,128 Blacks in 1771. (Only one count, in 1731, notes the presence of 715 Indians.) The change in wording from 1723’s listing of 45 “Negroes and Other Slaves” to 1731’s “Blacks” may indicate the erasure of other racial categories in the institution of slavery, but it may also hint at the inclusion of a growing free Black population. (O’Callaghan 1850: 467-474) In 1790, the new federal government began working to make the American population legible through census-taking. The decennial census recorded households, identified by the names of their heads, and the number of individuals within them, classified according to whether they were white, free persons of color (which included people of both African American and Native American descent), or slaves. “Indians not taxed” were excluded from the general federal census until 1890 (U.S. Dept. of Commerce 2002). Their inclusion in Long Island’s census documents is extremely inconsistent, which makes population counts look more variable on paper than they may have been in reality: the Native residents of Shinnecock and Montauk Point were sometimes excluded, sometimes enumerated as mulatto or black (as in the 1865 New York State census), and occasionally enumerated as Indian (such as in the 1870 federal census). The published census records only summarize the numbers of people of each race and occupational category in each county, but from 1840 on, the handwritten schedules indicate household heads by name and note the numbers of people in each household engaged in each occupational category. These census schedules provide important clues about geography, since households are usually listed in the order in which the enumerator visited. Households that appear close together in the census likely shared physical proximity as well. Additionally, New York State censuses, recorded from 1825 to 1925 halfway between federal censuses, included summary tables with the total populations of people of color who paid taxes and those who did not (such as “non-citizen Indians”). The everyday cross-cultural interactions that shaped colonial geographies of race, from work on wealthy plantations and farms to residential life in ethnically diverse 46 hamlets and neighborhoods, also created ambiguities in colonial data collection. Historical sources cannot be taken at face value as records of people’s actual ancestries. Rather, they indicate how those in positions to make records, usually men with English backgrounds, perceived others in the racial and cultural hierarchies of their day. In the census, the label “mulatto” existed to identify people with “any perceptible trace of African blood” (U.S. Dept. of Commerce 2002: 14). This term described a subjective impression, not genealogy, failing to account for how people self-identified and privileging the opinions of those with legal authority over those with lived experience. For instance, an 1865 New York census taker recorded the entire population of the Shinnecock reservation in Southampton, NY, as “M” for mulatto, rather than “I” for Indian (NYS 1865). While this official apparently regarded the Shinnecocks as racially impure, residence on Shinnecock land has traditionally been reserved for those recognized as Shinnecock through descent or marriage. Most if not all of those individuals would have had a claim to being “Indian.” Such misclassifications contributed to the erasure of Native Americans’ visibility in the northeast in Anglo- American minds and government rolls (Baron et al. 1996; O’Brien 2010). Even as the law codified race through biology and genealogy in abstract terms, its reality on the ground proved shifting. Nineteenth century racial classifications were not so standardized that different officials would identify each individual in the same way. For example, census takers recorded some individuals in Southampton and East Hampton as “M” in some years and “B” (Black) or “I” (Indian) in others (USC 1860, 1870, 1880). Other scholars have noted that in New England legal records, the same individuals often appear with different labels in different transactions throughout their lifetimes (Mancini 2009; O’Brien 2010). Variations in identification might have reflected the opinions of different colonial authorities, the efforts of individuals to be recognized as members of groups with better legal protections, and idiosyncratic combinations of both. 47 In the maritime sphere, crew lists for whaling ships sometimes included physical descriptions, noting “light,” “dark,” or “black” skin, or “brown,” “black,” or “black, woolly” hair, adjectives that often did not line up with stereotypes matching the sailors’ (already problematic) racial identifications in the federal census. Such records were common in nineteenth century New England ports like New London and New Bedford (GWB 2007b; NBWM 2012). Other crew lists, including most account books in Sag Harbor, failed to mention race or appearance at all (Brown 2002). Others simply noted whether some sailors were members of the broad minority groups best represented in maritime commerce, whether “colored” (appearing African-American), “Portuguese” (usually Cape Verdean or Azorean), or “Kanaka” (Pacific Islander). Methodologically, tracing race through colonial documents and mapping race across colonial landscapes requires treating individual sources not as records of immutable fact, but as data points drawn from a social reality that looked different from different perspectives. To picture the racial geography of the East End in the nineteenth century, I identify people of color in the towns of Southampton and East Hampton primarily through census schedules. In future chapters, I attempt to navigate the ambiguities of racial classifications by triangulating census schedules with other sources including whaling records, Native American genealogies, and oral histories when possible to gain more information about individual ancestry and experiences. To map their households and locations of labor, I recorded all the households in East Hampton with “Colored,” “Negro/Black,” “Indian,” or “Mulatto” individuals, focusing analysis particularly on independent households of color. I estimate household proximity based on “house numbers” or “family numbers,” which recorded the order in which the enumerator visited houses. Households listed consecutively were probably next door, across a street, or otherwise adjacent, and households a few numbers apart were likely to be relatively close to each other. In the discussion of labor patterns, I also 48 estimated proximity between Black and Indian workers who lived with their employers based on the household numbers of those residences. In some cases, I was able to locate households more specifically within the Shinnecock reservation and English villages by tracing the locations of families who maintained continuous residences into the 1860s or 1870s, when there are maps, deeds, and property tax assessments available. This was not possible in rural locations. In Sag Harbor, the properties of a few household locations can be identified through maps and deeds, but since houses did not have individual addresses and many were not recorded in multiple sources, precise locations are not available for all. Chapter 3 will engage in detailed discussion of Sag Harbor’s settlement history. In the remainder of this chapter, I approximate the geography of race in a broader sense. The records that help to locate Native Americans and African Americans often failed to distinguish between them, or describe the identities of those who identified with both, but they do help to establish a sense of the division of wealth and space according to the logic of whiteness as property. 49 V. RESIDENTIAL DEMOGRAPHY ON LONG ISLAND, 1790-1880 Figure 1.1 1802 Dewitt map of English settlements on Long Island’s south fork Original in the collections of the John Carter Brown Library. VA. EARLY SOURCES Census and tax assessment records from East Hampton and Southampton show slow and steady growth of independent Black and Native American households during the nineteenth century. In Suffolk County, the 1790 census only listed one free person of color as a household head: Cade Moore of Shelter Island (Eichholz & Rose 2009). Much of Suffolk County’s black population was still enslaved, although this population had dropped during the British occupation of Long Island from 1776-1783, and Shelter Island held the largest slaveholding farms. Moore may not have been the only free person of color there, but census enumerators likely lacked the knowledge or motivation to seek out more free people of color where they lived (Gellman 2006; Hayes 2013). This census did not enumerate Native Americans within Suffolk County at all, which exemplifies its serious limitations. These deficiencies in recording mean that Black and Indian residents were underrepresented in early census records, but free people of color became more visible 50 in small numbers during subsequent decades. In 1800, 17 free Black households were listed in East Hampton and 12 in Southampton, according to Eichholz & Rose’s (2009) compilation of data. The census identified over half the household heads by first name only. Classical names like Scipio, Pompey, and Cyrus, which African Americans often gained through enslavement, were common, but colonial documents also mention Native Americans with such names, and by the nineteenth century, Plato had become a Montaukett family name (Stone 1983). For those with two names, English first names often served as last names among people of both African and Native American ancestry. The name Cuffe also began to appear. Although it has known linguistic origins in West Africa and appears among both African Americans and Native Americans across the eastern seaboard of the United States, including the African-born father of the whaling captain Paul Cuffe on Long Island it became a marker of Native American ethnicity (Stone 1983; Strong 2001; Brooks 2002; Cuffe 2006). Cuffee was by far the most common last name among Shinnecock and Montaukett families into the twentieth century. Names such as Cuffee and Plato can signify both emerging Black families and increasing land ownership among Native Americans away from reservations. The overlap in naming practices hints that interactions between these two communities had already begun to shape their traditions. Numbers indicate active growth and movement in these communities, while recurring names are signs of household persistence over decades (Table 1.1). In 1810 and 1820, East Hampton was home to twelve recorded free households of color, including four to five household heads who had been listed the previous year. In 1830, the number of households jumped up to twenty, including ten who appeared in at least one other decade (Eichholz & Rose 2009). These numbers likely reflect the growth of multi-ethnic neighborhoods in Sag Harbor and Freetown, which become possible to locate in later censuses. 51 In contrast, Southampton’s census records reflect better recording and possibly population growth among the Shinnecock population. In 1800, twelve known households of color were recorded, and about half of the household heads were identified by first name only. At least eight of them reappeared in later decades. Three household heads had the family names Bunn or Cuffee, both clear signs of Shinnecock ethnicity, and they probably resided on or near Shinnecock ancestral lands. By 1810, fourteen of the 27 households had heads with clearly Native American names, at least two of which had classical names that may have marked enslavement, and six of which had appeared in 1800. In 1820, the 31 households included eleven heads with definite Native names, such as Cuffee, Bunn, and Killis, six with either no last names or “Negro,” and eight who were listed in a previous census. In 1830, Southampton’s colored population of 40 households included sixteen heads appearing in a previous or later census, thirteen clearly indigenous names, and four classical names (Eichholz & Rose 2009). The apparent demographic boom Southampton experienced compared to East Hampton indicates the importance of the Shinnecock reservation as a population center. More people lived on or near the Shinnecock reservation than on Montaukett lands by the nineteenth century, including about a quarter of the Black and Indian household heads in Southampton’s 1830 census, based on their relative locations in later census years. Additionally, Southampton’s land base was large compared to East Hampton’s, and Southampton also had a Euro-American population that was about four times as large as East Hampton’s (NYS 1845). Sheer size created more opportunities for day labor and agricultural work, which could have contributed to the growth of Black and Indian communities and hamlets in Southampton and provided economic resources in the area. Shinnecock villages had existed in Southampton since before European settlement, but the Southampton population center only became legally and 52 demographically visible around 1800 because census takers began to enumerate Shinnecock reservation residents within the regular federal census. Significantly, they included Native Americans on the reservation as people of color within the regular census, rather than listing them separately as an Indian population as occurred on the larger federal reservations of upstate New York and other regions of the country. This made Shinnecock people more visible to state and federal governments, but it also set a precedent of refusing to consider them “real” Indians. Table 1.1 Households headed by people of color in federal census records East Hampton Southampton 1800 17 12 1810 12 27 1820 12 31 1830 20 40 1840 33 76 1850 43 77 1860 54 31* 1870 44 54 1880 41 41-43*† *Census collection did not include Shinnecock reservation †Household number unclear for two individuals VB. COMMUNITY CENTERS EMERGE Residential clusters of people of color become visible in the federal census’s location based household listings starting in 1840. Handwritten census schedules are available for Suffolk County after 1840. Starting in 1850, both state and federal census schedules became much more informative, including names of women and children. From 1860, they often locate settlements in or near specific village post offices within the larger towns of Southampton and East Hampton. The spatial organization that becomes apparent after 1840 shows that Native American settlements followed a pattern similar to eighteenth century Massachusetts, including two Native homelands, 53 enclaves in English villages, and rural hamlets or isolated households. African American and multi-ethnic households followed similar patterns (USC 1850-1880; McGovern and Bernstein 2013). I loosely follow Mandell (2008) in defining a Native homeland as a community located on land belonging to a Native American group (in this case, the Shinnecock reservation and the Montaukett settlement at Indian Fields), an “enclave” as a group of three or more households in a village, and a “hamlet” as three or more rural households.1 The geographical information in late nineteenth century census records makes it possible to trace back multicultural community centers based on households persisting over decades (Fig. 1.2). Figure 1.2 Communities of color in East Hampton and Southampton, 1870 1I apply this meaning for “homeland” for a practical reason: it is a useful alternative to “reservation,” which would not apply to Indian Fields, that maintains the connotation of traditionally Native American land. However, it is also important to remember that the homelands of the Shinnecock and Montaukett peoples spanned the entire South Fork under Handsman and Richmond’s (2010) definition of a homeland as a broader social and cultural space of Native American community, memory, and movement. 54 The Indian households listed from 1865 to 1880 under the Amagansett post office, the furthest east in East Hampton, were those of the Native homeland of Indian Fields on Montauk Point, which was home to 6-8 permanent families until a developer bought the land in the 1880s (NYS 1865; USC 1870, 1880). Officially, the Shinnecock reservation supported between 22 and 29 households from about 1850 to 1870, when census data is available, which made it the largest Native American homeland on the South Fork (NYS 1865; USC 1850, 1860, 1870). Two multicultural village enclaves stand out as the largest economic and social centers where people of color established communities and own property. First, Freetown, a neighborhood just north of East Hampton’s village center, gained its name as a site where John Lyon Gardiner purchased land for his freed slaves at the turn of the nineteenth century (McGovern 2014). Over the next few decades, people of Native American descent joined them, and it became a diverse area populated by white, Black, and Indian households (Strong 2001). Most of these families worked on their own small farms, in trades, or as agricultural laborers, although some also took to sea (USC 1850, 1860). Second, in Sag Harbor, the maritime neighborhood of Eastville grew around the St David AME Zion Church and the whaling industry (Zaykowski 1991; Rabito- Wyppensenwah 1993b, 1993f; Grier -Key, McGovern, & Button Kambic 2013). Native American and African American whalers had already been sailing out of the port of Sag Harbor since around the turn of the century, but the church was a major force in the growth of Eastville as a center of community for people of color. The St. David AME Zion Church split from the Sag Harbor Presbyterian Church over the issue of racially segregated seating in 1840 (St. David AME Zion Church 1840-1939). From 1840 to 1870, people of Shinnecock, Montaukett, Unkechaug (a.k.a. Poosepatuck, another Native American group, from the Mastic area in the Town of Brookhaven further west), and African American backgrounds moved near a few existing English and Irish immigrant 55 families, creating a neighborhood of 25-30 households (USC 1850, 1860, 1870, 1880; NYS 1865). People of color also lived in smaller enclaves within and around mainly white villages along the South Fork, and the late 19th century censuses help to locate these. One large enclave grew in the village of Bridgehampton, which was home to seven to nine Black and Indian households in 1860 (USC 1860). Bridgehampton is located in between the villages of Southampton and East Hampton and about halfway between the Shinnecock reservation and Sag Harbor. These seven to nine families may have lived in Bridgehampton much earlier, but most of the potential matches in earlier censuses are only listed by first names (Eichholz & Rose 2009). The Rugg, Cuffee, and Plato families who lived in Bridgehampton in 1860 were well-represented on Sag Harbor’s whaling crews, and well-connected to families in Sag Harbor (Brown 2002; New Bedford Whaling Museum 2012; Shoemaker [2012]). Near the western edge of Southampton, Quogue was also the site of a long lasting agricultural hamlet, located near an earlier Shinnecock village site (Stone 1983). The Shinnecock families living there may have been anchors for newcomers to the area. In 1860 and 1870, five to seven families identified as “Black” in the census lived there, although one extended family there identified themselves as Shinnecock (USC 1860, 1870; Stone 1983). At least two of these families had households there by 1840 (United States Bureau of the Census 1840). Quogue was a heavily agricultural community, but since it was coastal, many families also worked as fishermen. Additionally, it is possible that some of Quogue’s people of color had roots there dating back to slavery: many of Quogue’s non-white residents worked in other households as servants through the 1870s, and the households of large landowners were some of the most likely to own slaves before 1827, so members of the next generation may have established places there as free people (USC 1860, 1870). 56 In the village of Southampton itself, the 1860 census included twelve non-white families, while the 1870 census noted four, but these may not have constituted a village enclave because the distribution of households indicates that they were not clustered together. The Southampton Post Office covered a relatively large area in the town of Southampton beyond the village itself, and the twelve households in 1860 appear relatively spread out, rather than close to each other (USC 1860, 1870). Finally, the section of Southampton known as Riverside, just south of the town of Riverhead where the North Fork and South Fork separate, became the location of a Native rural hamlet. Elizabeth Thunder Bird Haile, a Shinnecock elder, recounts how one of her Montaukett ancestors and his family moved permanently to Riverside after the sale of Montaukett lands in the 1880s (2013). They had previously moved between Montauk and other sites following seasonal resources, but after the land sale and the burning of Montauk houses on Montauk Point, this was no longer an option. Along with the Titus and Best families, whom Haile identifies as Montaukett, six other households of color existed in Riverside as of 1870 (USC 1870). These residential concentrations on the South Fork create the impression that the racial landscapes of eastern Long Island were highly segregated along the American color line, even when people of color were present in English villages. Their larger settlements, the Shinnecock reservation, Eastville, and Freetown, were near but not central to the villages of Southampton, Sag Harbor, and East Hampton, while the prevalence of smaller hamlets and reservation settlements over isolated households indicates that people of color were unable or unwilling to live by themselves amidst exclusively white neighbors. This makes the physical reality of social marginalization visible, but also highlights the importance of both ancestral roots and continued community-building and placemaking in areas that were long parts of indigenous homelands. Meanwhile, the persistence of household clusters in Bridgehampton, Riverside, Quogue, and Indian Fields, and the existence of isolated households 57 throughout the towns of Southampton and East Hampton, illustrate the continuing overlap between the social landscapes of people of European, African, and Native American descent. VC. EXPLAINING DEMOGRAPHY: AMBIGUITIES AND POSSIBILITIES In addition to community formation on reservations, in enclaves, and in hamlets, one of the stories these statistics tell is the story of an increasing number of free households of color. In 1840, both Southampton and East Hampton recorded increases in their populations of color: Southampton’s census included 84 households, and East Hampton’s 33, compared to 40 and 20 in 1820 (Eichholz & Rose 2009). The doubling of Southampton’s households and near-doubling of East Hampton’s would be difficult to explain through population growth alone. However, it is important to remember that not all people of color were members of their own autonomous households, especially due to the continuation of slavery to 1827 and the persistence of indentured servitude after that. In 1825, the New York state census recorded 529 people as “colored persons, not taxed” in the town of Southampton, which would require an average household size of about 15 people given the 1820-1830 household numbers (NYS 1825; Eichholz & Rose 2009). In contrast, the average household size for people of color in 1840 was only around 4 people (USC 1840). It is much more likely that many of the 529 people enumerated in 1825 lived with white slaveholders and employers, and that the federal census undercounted people of color living outside of villages, than that household size drastically decreased in 15 years. In fact, the state census registers a drop in Southampton’s minority population between 1825 and 1845, when only 441 people of color were recorded (11 of whom, however, owned sufficient property to pay taxes) (NYS 1825, 1845). East Hampton enumerated 130 people of color in 1825 and 211 in 1845, four of whom paid taxes; this would have required an average household size of 6- 8, both of which are larger than indicated by the 1840 census (ibid; USC 1840). The discrepancy between the total population of color, which decreased after 1825, and the 58 number of independent households of color, shows that household growth must have been the result of more than just population increase. Instead, these census records build a map of a racialized geography in which African American and Native American families struggled toward autonomy and economic mobility in the face of generations of economic exploitation. In the first half of the nineteenth century, people of color were able to establish a growing number of independent households even when their overall numbers fell, creating new homes away from the eyes of slaveholders and employers. Yet they began at a disadvantage, for white settlers were the vast majority of property owners who had appropriated almost all of the land and productive resources of the South Fork, and people of color clustered together in smaller settlements. VI. CONTRASTING AND COMPLEMENTARY GEOGRAPHIES OF LABOR The link between whiteness and property also shaped space and power relations in the context of work, but the spatial history of labor blurs the racial divisions of residential space that we see in census records. African American and Native American labor cross-cut white space, yet often escaped official view. Census records, deeds, and maps operate as records of people fixed in place, sometimes missing people whose labor practices depended on mobility (O’Brien 2010; Reiser 2011). On the Shinnecock reservation, for example, around 30% of the inhabitants in 1865-1870 were whalers who spent part of their lives at sea; this means that census estimates certainly undercount the number of people who called Shinnecock home (NYS 1865; USC 1870). Focusing on residence alone also fails to recognize the amount of time people of color spent laboring in white-dominated spaces. Looking at this region through the lens of labor, we start to see a complementary picture that contrasts with the segregation of its residential landscapes, making the constant movement of people of color more visible. 59 Within the towns of Southampton and East Hampton, work crossed racial lines that permanent residence did not. Many people of color worked as agricultural laborers, caretakers of horses, cooks, and household servants in residence, living in the wealthier white households where they served. In 1840, for instance, 226 people identified as “free black” resided in white-headed households in Southampton and East Hampton, compared to only 355 in independent households (USC 1840). Across Long Island and New England, many of these residential workers were children who grew up in indentured servitude, whether to learn a trade and gain an education, as the adults who benefited from their labor argued, or due to the harsher circumstances of being born into poor or indebted families (Melish 1998; Silverman 2001; Herndon & Sekatau 2003). On eastern Long Island, 157 of 226 residential workers were children or young adults in 1840, with 27 under 10 years old and 130 between 10 and 24 years of age (USC 1840). The fact that such a high proportion of the area’s people of color, particularly youth, had to serve in other households illustrates how historical racial inequality led to intergenerational economic marginalization beyond the abolition of slavery. Were these residential laborers still closer to their communities of color than they might seem? Marcus writes, “The lengthy period of emancipation in New York and the limited opportunities for freed people produced a society in which the distinction between slave and free was not always clear.....Many slaves continued to work for their masters, either under a form of indenture or tied to their former owners by their indebtedness for basic goods and services” (1988: 18). Many workers would have continued to work on large farms with histories of slavery, which means that independent households in and near white villages may have actually grown around sites of former labor. Census schedules make it possible to explore whether workers in white households still lived near independent Native and African-American households, which would show that they were able to maintain geographical connections despite their economic limitations, or whether residential labor had a more diasporic nature. 60 First, I consider where workers of color who resided with their employers lived. In 1840, most white households that employed small numbers of African American or Native Americans were spread widely throughout Southampton and East Hampton. The vast majority of these households included only one or two people of color. Only six employer households were enumerated close to clusters of Black and Native households. This indicates that most non-white residential laborers were unable to find work close to their own communities (USC 1840). Strikingly, in five cases, three or four employer households clustered close together themselves, and in three of these clusters, the household heads shared last names. The dispersal of people of color between households signifies dispossession, while in contrast, the groups of related employer households illustrates the intergenerational nature of family wealth among whites. By 1860, only 55 out of 440 people of color, or 12.5%, were listed in the census as domestic workers, farm laborers, cooks, and hostlers in the households of wealthier Anglo-Americans, only ten were children under the age of 16 (USC 1860). The rates and absolute number of people who apparently lived in the households of their employers fell to 6.5% in 1870 and 10.8% in 1880. More were domestic servants, laborers, or farm hands whose work spaces were probably the residences of others, 22.4% in 1870 and 15.4% in 1880 (USC 1870, 1880). One of the advantages of living in a village enclave became the possibility of working near the homes of friends and family. Sag Harbor had clearly become a site with employment opportunities in wealthy households, particularly for young women, that were located relatively near the minority households in Eastville. Beginning with the 1860 census collection, “house number” and “family number” were separate categories, and women who served as “domestics” were listed as members of their actual families, but in the houses of their employers (USC 1860). Several young women belonged to families in Eastville, but worked elsewhere in the village. In Bridgehampton and Quogue, a handful of domestic workers also found work relatively near to Black and Indian 61 enclaves. In East Hampton, however, as well as more rural parts of Southampton, domestic workers and farm laborers appeared far from these enclaves, sometimes living up to fifty households away from other people of color. This meant some residential workers experienced significant geographical isolation from other people of color on a day to day basis. Behind these shifting numbers lay a limited but real history of African American and Native American economic mobility in the middle decades of the nineteenth century. Most people who worked and lived in employers’ households in 1840 apparently had little luck finding work very close to their families or ethnically similar neighbors, apart from on farms in Quogue. This supports Marcus’s argument that even after emancipation, preexisting distributions of wealth and power on Long Island continued to shape Black labor and household life, and shows that minority households, for the most part, did not cluster around sites of servitude. This geography of labor, when so many children, youth, and adults worked as only one or two people of color in white households far from their communities, created a regional diaspora that separated families. Even though the physical distances between households in a single town were not large enough to compare to transoceanic diasporas, this labor system must have created similarly painful senses of isolation from home and community, and inspired similar efforts toward travel and communication across networks of kin and coworkers. In light of this reality, the growth of minority enclaves in and near larger villages makes sense, since their greater population density and important roles in regional trade offered the best chances for finding work near family. In Sag Harbor, for instance, the major ship owner Charles T. Dering lived close to Eastville, and he employed both women as domestic servants and men as sailors (NYS 1865; Brown 2002). Additionally, despite the historical and social boundaries people of color faced in accumulating property and wealth, the numbers show that over time, more and more were able to succeed in supporting their families in independent 62 households and communities. The contrast between 1840, when 63.6% of recorded “free blacks” in Southampton and East Hampton, over half of them under 24, lived and worked in the households of others, to 1880, when only 10.8% lived in their employers’ households and children’s labor was much less common, shows that Native Americans and African Americans had made significant gains (USC 1840, 1880). The shrinking numbers of residential workers provides the data necessary to interpret the increasing numbers of autonomous Black and Indian households: rather than population growth alone, the numbers are evidence of independence. This labor history also shows that Black and Indian workers were present and productive forces in a variety of white-dominated settings in Suffolk County. In addition to viewing Native and African American presence as the few spots on a map where their households clustered, we must also imagine their activities shaded throughout. Labor created a proliferation of multicultural spaces despite the growing reality of residential segregation. Such spaces are less visible in an analysis of household formation and property ownership because the very availability of people of color for indentured and waged work was also a product of the racial wealth gap. Contrasting these distinct landscapes of labor and dwelling can create a sense of the gaps between presence and ownership of place, explained and predicted by critical race theory. As white privilege was written into law through the dispossession of Native lands and African and indigenous bodies, the corresponding disenfranchisement of people of color resulted in limited access to wealth, land, and even the products of their own labor (Harris 1993). In a nineteenth century residential map, Native and African Americans appeared to own little land or watercraft compared to the whites surrounding them. However, the breadth of their labor within the larger region was clearly a necessary ingredient in the accumulation of white wealth. Inequality in a capitalist context depends on those with capital having a pool of laborers to create their profits (Matthews 2010). The racial inequality that 63 indigenous dispossession and slavery produced created just such a pool for the wealthy landowners of Long Island to employ as their servants, sailors, and farm workers. VII. CONCLUSION The racial divisions in settlement and wealth that characterized the landscapes of nineteenth century Long Island had roots reaching back to the beginning of European settlement in the seventeenth century. Two hundred years of European dispossession of indigenous lands and theft of African American and Native American labor created massive imbalances in intergenerational wealth and economic opportunity that persisted beyond the apparent conclusion of Native American land treaties in 1703 and African American enslavement in 1827. In the colonial United States, the legal and social categories of race grew in concert and in support of these forms of exploitation. As critical race theory explains, law and custom defined whiteness, Indianness, and Blackness in opposition to each other. This process manifested on Long Island through English legal decisions that treated all Indians as a single class, restricted Native American marriage and land use practices to those with “pure” claims to Indian blood, and maintained the enslavement of people of African descent The analysis of household formation among Native Americans and African Americans from 1790 to 1880 shows that these racial categories were full of ambiguity, which fostered the formation of multicultural communities who shared similar experiences of racial marginalization. People of color frequently worked and lived in the households of white employers, and the wealth gap between white and non-white families thus deprived many Black and Indian workers of their own spaces. However, in the second half of the nineteenth century, people of color increasingly established 64 independent households in reservations, villages, and rural areas, often clustering together around accessible land to form neighborhoods that persisted for decades. This chapter’s demographic data show that the deep rooted history of inequality continued to define the landscapes of Long Island and restrict access to land, resources, and opportunities along racial lines into the nineteenth century. Still people of color worked hard to close the wealth gap by establishing independent households and eventually accumulating property. Furthermore these geographic circumstances and economic challenges are only a portion of what African Americans and Native Americas had in common in the nineteenth century. They also shared lived experiences – not only of the negative realities of racism, but of the positive and personal support systems of labor, faith, friendship, and family. The definitions and limitations of race and ethnicity that people of Native American and African ancestry encountered on Long Island were not always the same as the ones that circulated throughout the Atlantic maritime world. In this context of shared structural obstacles and social connections, it is easy to imagine why hundreds of African American and Native American men chose to turn from the land and search for better opportunities and potentially more egalitarian worlds of work at sea. In the next chapter, I consider how whaling provided a gateway for Long Islanders to experience a broader world of social and economic possibilities. 65 CHAPTER 2 LINKING LAND & SEA: WHALING IN HOUSEHOLD LIFE I. INTRODUCTION On ships to Chile, Hawaii, and Alaska, Native American and African American men experienced a far broader and more complex world than the racially and economically divided one they left behind on Long Island. Black and Indian mariners and their families did not merely survive the constraints of capitalism and structural racism in the nineteenth century. Rather, through participation in the commercial whaling industry, they found opportunities for experiencing different configurations of race and citizenship at sea and building new alliances in their multicultural communities. Whaling provided glimpses of different possible realities in which the American color line did not determine social status, which influenced people’s desire and demand for inclusion at home. In communities of color in Shinnecock, Eastville, and Freetown and Indian Fields on Long Island, maritime labor also became foundational in their search for equality through economic mobility. In this chapter, I link the regional and neighborhood scales by comparing the social and economic role of whaling in these three communities, showing the different ways in which people of Native American and African descent combined maritime labor with women’s work, kinship and household structures, and property accumulation to seek greater prosperity at home. The port of Sag Harbor provides excellent material for a case study of the impact of whaling on Native American and African American households because its voyage and census data make it possible to follow and compare non-white whaling households across the entire towns of Southampton and East Hampton, including neighborhoods in the port itself, two Native homelands, and the nearby settlement of Freetown. Drawing on demographic research on households of color and archaeological and documentary examples of household material culture, I argue that whaling became a successful 66 economic strategy in combination with the widespread existence of youth whaling cohorts, multigenerational households, and women’s labor and leadership at home in Indian and Black families. The Shinnecock community provides the strongest example of the connection between maritime labor, cohort whaling, and extended family households on a reservation, illustrating the role of whaling as a useful element of Indian household cycles. In comparison, the formation of new households in Sag Harbor’s neighborhood of Eastville illustrates how whaling fostered household autonomy, wealth building, and multicultural community among both Native American and African American families, complimenting cross-cultural patterns of close residence and support among kin. II. RACE AND LABOR IN THE WHALING INDUSTRY In the nineteenth century United States, the sea could offer more expansive opportunities for people of color than life on land. Maritime labor was extremely widespread among African American and Native American men in coastal settlements, which raises the question of how whaling households supported themselves during men’s absences, and whether their economic strategies differed along racial or cultural lines. This section surveys the history of Native American and African American participation in commercial whaling, with a particular focus on sailors and voyages from eastern Long Island, in order to provide necessary background information on labor practices and economic conditions in Sag Harbor’s whaling industry. This overview provides historical evidence for whaling’s potential economic contributions, which the chapter subsequently connects with household demographic and labor patterns in Shinnecock, Sag Harbor, and Freetown and Indian Fields. IIA. THREE CENTURIES OF NATIVE AMERICAN WHALING The first known whalers on eastern Long Island were Shinnecock and Montaukett people. Coastal Algonquians considered the beached whales that sometimes 67 washed up on the shores in the winter to be gifts from Moshup, a sea deity who provided them with food (Handsman 2010). The arrivals of these whales may have been occasions for communal feasting (Strong 2001). Some local traditions also hold that Native Americans developed methods of hunting whales from local waters and taught English settlers their methods. As a 1605 English account reported, Indian whalers rowed toward a whale in dugout canoes, surrounded it, and shot arrows and bone- tipped harpoons, fastening on to the whale with rope lines (Rosier 1930). In the seventeenth century, coastal whaling involved hunting whales in small boats with harpoons and holding fast to the harpoons’ lines until the whales tired and died. Thrashing to break free, whales could stove boats, injure sailors, and drag their pursuers for miles on what English settlers later called a “Nantucket sleigh ride.” Commercial whalers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries used larger boats and different types of harpoons, but the mode of hunting itself did not change until after the end of the American commercial whaling era in the early twentieth century. Industrial whaling ships of the nineteenth century sailed longer distances from larger boats and conducted processing on board, but when they lowered small whaleboats to chase the whales, the pursuit remained just as elemental and dangerous as it had been in dugout canoes. English settlers in Southampton and East Hampton recognized the importance of whales to their Shinnecock and Montaukett neighbors, writing Native American ownership of the fins and tails of whales beached on English land into early agreements (Stone 1983, 1993; Strong 2001). These may have been items of religious significance on Long Island and New England, where Algonquian people ritually devoted parts of beached or slaughtered whales to a deity named Moshup in thanks (Handsman 2010). A lack of later reports implies that these specific rituals may have ceased on Long Island after the seventeenth century, but the importance of whales and other maritime resources to Shinnecock and Montaukett cultural life did not. 68 By the 1650s, the settlers too saw whales as valuable, to the point that East Hampton legend recounts the use of whale oil as village currency (Thompson 1843). They organized commercial whaling companies for local offshore hunts, with English owners providing boats and metal harpoons for Montaukett and Shinnecock hunting crews, who received their pay in portions of the catch and trade goods. Indian labor was such an important ingredient of the colonial whale fishery that by the 1670s, Southampton laws set ceilings on profits for Native men and instituted legal penalties for whalers who left crews mid-season. One season, Native men formed a crew of their own, but the town soon made that illegal. In general, however, the capital needed to outfit a whaling crew itself proved a large enough obstacle for independent Indian crews (Strong 1983). English settlers not only dominated the market in boats, harpoons, and trade goods, their increasing control over Indian lands also made it possible for them to bolster their wealth at indigenous people’s expense, widening the gap between English and Indian property ownership of all kinds. Additionally, town officials often sentenced Native Americans to work on whaling crews to repay purchases of trade goods from wealthier neighbors, as punishment for minor crimes, or even to work off the costs of outfitting for a previous season’s whaling voyages. In the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, these practices often meant that whaling for Indian men on Long Island, Nantucket, and Mashpee, MA was an involuntary activity that reinforced cycles of debt (Vickers 1983; Nicholas 2002). In the nineteenth century, whaling became a more standardized form of labor for a financial payout (a lay, or share), but as account books from Sag Harbor will show, Indian mariners did not always profit. Still, whaling itself could be work with dignity and meaning. For Native Americans, whaling fit into cultural ideals of masculinity that involved long distance hunting trips and male camaraderie and leadership. The deep history of Native whaling as a spiritual and subsistence tradition might have made it a respectable career associated with strength and provision for families (Handsman 2010; Little & Clifton 69 2010). At the same time, agricultural work had a more feminine association due to Native women’s cultural roles as holders and cultivators of land, which meant that while men were at sea, complementary and important work was occurring at home (Guillaume 1998; Strong 1998). The high participation of Wampanoag, Pequot, Shinnecock, and Montaukett men on whaling voyages from northeastern ports also helped to keep regional native networks strongly connected. Such forms of labor themselves constituted cultural survival in the modern capitalist world. In the nineteenth century, Long Island’s Shinnecock and Montaukett whalers established careers in a context of widespread, intergenerational, and often communal trips to sea (“Long Island Material” 1802-1880; N.&G. Howell 1833-1847; “Crew Lists of Vessels Sailed” 1877-1881; Brown 2002; GWB 2007a; NBWM 2012; Shoemaker [2012]). Among 124 residents of the Shinnecock reservation in 1850, 39 signed on for at least one whaling voyage in their lives, meaning that the majority of Shinnecock men went to sea. Whaling became a communal practice that helped to define generations. Rather than signing on to crews individually, Shinnecock and Montaukett men often joined in groups with their brothers, cousins, or neighbors. This “cohort whaling” was common among Native Americans from the northeast; Handsman argues that it fostered strong bonds and a sense of democracy and cosmopolitanism among younger generations of Native men, which prepared them for leadership at home (Mancini 2009; Handsman 2010; Shoemaker 2013a). Whaling cohorts were informal but important men’s associations that cross-cut households and helped to define generations. In the Shinnecock community, cohorts formed out of two to three major generational whaling groups in the nineteenth century (N. & G. Howell 1833-1847; USC 1850, 1860, 1870, 1880; N.Y. Dept. State 1865; Brown 2002; GWB 2007a; Shoemaker [2012]). In one, men began sailing c. 1818-1830 through the early 1840s, a transitional group spanned the 1840s and 1850s, and the last began during or after the Civil War, ending around 1876-1880. Often, whalers began voyages in their teens, and some 70 continued for twenty to thirty years, which gave them the expertise and opportunity to learn from an older generation and teach the next. Most Shinnecock whaling cohorts were heavy on men in the prime years of their 20s, often brothers and cousins. Since the Montaukett community had a smaller, more dispersed population, it is more difficult to identify Montaukett whaling cohorts; the largest this research has identified is a group of three who sailed on the Thames in 1826. Shinnecock and Montaukett families were often closely related through generations of marriage, so crews like the Franklin’s in 1847, with two Montaukett and four Shinnecock whalers, probably included cohorts that crossed tribal boundaries (U.S. Dept. of the Census 1850, 1860, 1870, 1880; Stone 1993; Shoemaker 2013a). Even as Shinnecock and Montauk men built connections outside of these communities, they held on to their core relationships at sea. Kinship was a structuring principle of indigenous communities, as well as a key to tribal membership in the increasingly legalistic bureaucracy of recognition (Plane & Button 1993; Mandell 2008; Reiser 2011). Native cohorts were not evenly distributed across all whaling voyages. Long Islanders sailed in larger groups on voyages leaving from smaller, more local ports. On New Bedford voyages, cohorts could consist of two to five men (“Long Island Material” 1802-1880; Shoemaker [2012]). On a ship from Sag Harbor or New London, Shinnecock and Montaukett men might constitute half or more of the crew. For instance, the Panama in 1847 carried ten Shinnecock men out of Sag Harbor, while the Nimrod in 1853 enlisted seven; the Pioneer left from crew lists New London with six in 1862. Often the same ships from Sag Harbor enlisted large cohorts repeatedly, such as the Nimrod, the Hudson, the Hamilton, and the Phenix (Fig 2.1) (Log 207 1830-1831; Log 208 1831; Log 211 1836-1837; Log 212 1837-1839; Brown 2002; GWB 2007a). Others hired the same men for repeat voyages, such as the Abigail, which enlisted “black” sailors Joseph Killis, Isaac Cuffee, and Charles Miller on three consecutive voyages beginning in 1818 (Log 201 1818-1821). Miller began as a greenhand and became a seaman, while Killis 71 transitioned from cook to seaman. This hints that relationships with specific shipmasters who respected the abilities of Native American whalers influenced workers’ negotiations of the labor market. Figure 2.1 The Phenix of Sag Harbor enlisted local men of Native American and African ancestry. This drawing is from one of its logs in the EHLIC. Finally, the cosmopolitanism of nineteenth century Native whalers is a reminder that the common stereotype of isolated Native Americans fighting for survival against the modern European world did not define the experience of Long Island’s mariners. As their ships sailed further afield in the search for fresh and undepleted whaling grounds, Indian whalers came into contact with indigenous people in other parts of the world, including Greenland, Hudson’s Bay, the South Atlantic, the Indian Ocean, and the North Pacific (Bockstoce 1986; Eber 1996; Calabretta 2009; Handsman 2010; Shoemaker 2013a, 2013b). Honolulu was a major point of turnover for whaling ships, and some whalers left ships and signed onto new ones there, while Native Hawaiians often joined their crews. They also met with Inuit and Inupiat people when they wintered over in the Arctic, working together and sometimes forming long term intimate relationships. As the concept of global indigeneity did not exist at this point, Native whalers sailed the 72 world as modern American explorers, laborers, and participants in a growing commercial empire. IIB. WHY WHALING? THE DYNAMICS OF RACE AT SEA African Americans as well as Native Americans found economic opportunities and expanding social networks at sea. For African Americans, ships could represent routes from slavery to freedom and relative autonomy and dignity at work. The American north’s free Black population grew in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, and significant numbers of men originating from coastal Africa, the Caribbean, and North America worked on ships or in maritime industries (Gilroy 1993; Bolster 1997; Foy 2006). Northern ports also became connections in social networks stretching across the Atlantic coast. African American migrants arriving in northern cities could often find relatives, friends, or welcoming communities of strangers from their southern or Caribbean hometowns (Grover 2001; Johnson 2006). Sailors like those who sewed copies of David Walker’s 1829 Appeal to the Colored Citizens into their clothing, delivering forbidden copies into southern ports, helped social movements like Black abolitionism catch fire (Bolster 1997; Kantrowitz 2012). In the late eighteenth century, free African American communities grew around whaling in Nantucket and New Bedford, especially after Massachusetts courts decided two cases rendering slavery unconstitutional in the 1780s. Sag Harbor may be a less famous port with a small population, in a state that did not abolish slavery until 1827, but the economic boom of its whaling industry also attracted free African American mariners. At least thirty eight non-Native Black whalers from the south fork of Long Island sailed out of Sag Harbor, New London, and New Bedford between 1815 and 1865, in addition to many other people of Native American descent whom census enumerators classified as “Black,” “colored,” or “mulatto”. This most of the Black male population of the neighborhood of Eastville worked on ships at least once in their lives. 73 Whaling attracted so many Native American and African American men because in the broader context of life under colonialism, commercial whaling could be an avenue for agency and dignity. On eastern Long Island, the primary wage earning opportunities for people of color on land were agricultural day labor or servitude in wealthier households – occupations in which the racial and economic hierarchies that limited their choices were visibly reinforced. In contrast, maritime labor gave men mobility and independence. When the enslaved African John Jea signed on to his first voyage from Boston in the 1790s, he walked into a cook’s position with no experience, gaining the ability to earn his own passage on future voyages to Buenos Aires, Ireland, New Orleans, and more (Jea 1800). Maritime labor practices also enabled men to engage with different communities and power relations than on land (Rediker 1987; Bolster 1997; Grover 2001; Mancini 2009). Commercial whaling was known for its relatively egalitarian occupational culture, with hierarchies within crews based on experience and ability, and distinction achieved rather than ascribed. Shipboard status and pay were based more heavily on experience for sailors than agricultural laborers, although men of color still received lower wages and fewer posts as officers than white men. Maritime life presented extreme situations of tyranny and freedom. On board ships, sailors could spend weeks to months at sea, confined in small spaces, subject to strict hierarchies, schedules, and predefined tasks, and at risk of facing harsh physical discipline from captains and officers. Many Long Island mariners also sailed on a wide variety of voyages, and for those who served in the navy during the War of 1812 or the Civil War, they experienced military discipline – or worse: death in battle or capture by the enemy. For Silas Cuffee, an East Hampton sailor of Montaukett descent, this meant impressment into the British Navy during the War of 1812 (Bolster 2007). Cuffee wrote to his parents from within British custody, begging them to appeal to the United States government for his return. (The outcome is unknown, although two younger Silas Cuffees were born in East Hampton around 1821 and 1854, which shows that he was 74 not forgotten [U.S. Dept. of the Census 1860]). Civil War mariners who risked capture in southern battlefield faced the possibilities of execution and enslavement (Kantrowitz 2012). People of color who sailed into ports where slavery was legal, even during peacetime, feared kidnapping or violence (Prince 1989 [1850]; Bolster 1997). Ships themselves became symbols of escape, even to young boys like Isaac Cuffee, a Montaukett child who worked as an indentured servant on Sylvester Manor on eastern Long Island and scratched pictures of tall ships onto the wooden walls of his attic room. Most ports that whaling ships visited were places where sailors, both slaves and wage workers, claimed their freedom. The port of New Bedford was an active node on the Underground Railroad in the nineteenth century, most famously the site of Frederick Douglass’s escape from slavery as he disembarked from a ship traveling from Baltimore (Douglass 1851; Grover 2001). Long Island may have offered the same promise, based on local lore in Eastville that the St David AME Zion Church helped enslaved people escape north. When the Amistad landed on Montauk Point in 1839, the crew of Africans who had overwhelmed their captors on an Atlantic slave ship first asked whether it was “slavery country,” reacted with visible joy when they found out it was not (Rediker 2012: 88). The 1818 log of Sag Harbor’s ship Abigail provides a rare local echo of this promise: its crew list includes “Badfora, a runaway negro” (Log 201). Badfora only appears in the log in passing, with no hints about his origins or destinations on the voyage. Destination and resupply ports were the sites where self-emancipated men like Badfora, or free sailors who were fed up with tyrannical captains, could seize their opportunity to leave. Time on shore was called “liberty,” and many sailors did not want it to end, deserting their ships for warmer ports like Honolulu and San Francisco (Rediker 1987; Busch 1994; Shoemaker 2014). Montaukett whaler Jeremiah Pharaoh probably engaged in this strategy, for he wrote that he had spent nine years at sea in the 1790s, much longer than the average length of one voyage (Stone 1993). Two other 75 Long Island Native whalers continued this strategy on the 1844 voyage of the Nimrod. In early October 1845, somewhere in the Sandwich Islands, William Henry Cuffee and a few other men who took a whaleboat in the night and tried to desert their ship were charged $11 for the boat. It is unclear whether they succeeded in leaving, or were caught. Nevertheless, since they saw 40 or more ships in one nearby port, eight or nine from Sag Harbor, it would not have been difficult for dissatisfied sailors to find friends from home or new berths with better terms. On October 9, four men went to shore on liberty and never returned, and the log says, “thee men acts as if the Devil lured them” (125). On October 19, several others repeated the earlier plot. When a boatsteerer went to sleep, Henry Cuffee (possibly the same sailor) and seven others stole a boat and went to shore with all their belongings. The captain replaced these sailors with eight Sandwich Island natives and two greenhands, but had trouble at sea when these men were allowed to steer ([Whaling Logs of the Bark Nimrod] 1843-1846). This anecdote illustrates that although whalers could not control their labor conditions once at sea, the option of withdrawing their labor entirely gave them power over captains, who were desperate to fill berths as quickly as possible. One whaling ship from Sag Harbor, the Odd Fellow, made a singular voyage to California for the Gold Rush in 1849, and several “colored” sailors served as crew to pay for their passage, while a large number of white investors had bought in to the enterprise. Reading Captain Henry Green’s log, it is clear that the investors had no idea what they were doing, while the sailors could easily fend for themselves; after some unsuccessful weeks of attempting to find gold in California, and serious illnesses among the party, most of the healthy sailors chose to “part ways” (Log 983 1849) In general, high desertion rates drove whaling captains to seek local indigenous people to fill their crews, bringing Pacific Islanders back to New England for the first time, while American sailors stayed in port until they found a new voyage to join. 76 In addition to mobility and independence, whaling also gave Native American and African American men alternative experiences of race, citizenship, and identity, which sometimes contrasted with the political marginalization of people of color at home. Whalers’ experiences of diversity at sea could not be contained within familiar American stereotypes because constructions of race, ethnicity, and nationality varied across colonial geographies. For instance, when Elisha Apes, a whaler of Native American and African descent, settled in New Zealand, where the operative racial categories were “indigenous” and “white,” his status as an outsider to the islands meant he was classified as “white” there (Shoemaker 2013b). For African Americans and Native Americans who were officially denied the full rights and responsibilities of citizenship in New York, maritime contexts were among the only spaces in which they could be recognized as Americans. In foreign ports, they could apply to consuls for relief, and in circumstances of military captivity and impressment, they appealed to authorities as Americans (Bolster 1997; Busch 2001). When the United States began to issue seamen’s protection certificates as a measure against impressment, mariners of color treated these documents as American passports, which recognized their representation of the young nation abroad (Bolster 1997). For Shinnecock whalers Albert Walkus and Abram Cuffee, who registered for seamen’s protection certificates in New London in 1840, their race was only significant insofar as the certificates included descriptions of skin color (“tawny” and “black”, respectively) (GWB 2007b). In foreign ports, where the most salient distinctions were between locals and sailors, the exclusion they experienced as Native Americans in the United States was comparatively irrelevant. People of African descent used the contextual ambiguity of race and nationality in the maritime world to define broader affiliations that crossed national boundaries. Between the American Revolution and the Civil War, the position of Africans and their descendants as free people and citizens varied by state, but the construction of an “American” identity assumed white Anglo-Americans as normative. In the late 77 eighteenth century, Blacks in the United States often identified as “African”, reflecting both the ongoing international slave trade that transported many people directly from Africa, and the divisions their children continued to experience. At sea, men like John Jea, an African native, emancipated New Yorker, and traveling preacher, highlighted their transnational connections over their American residence. In French custody after the American Revolution, he refused to join a convoy of ships to fight the British, even as the American “counsellor” (likely the consul, rather than a lawyer) insisted he must. Jea wrote, “I told him with a broken heart, and crying, that I was an African, and that I was married in England,” and when he sought help from the local mayor, the mayor said, “You must not keep this poor black man in this manner; you have kept him already fourteen months without food or employment; and if he be an American, why do you not give him American support?” (Jea 1800) Jea’s race may have been the “counsellor’s” reason for denying him this support, but it was also at the core of his argument that as a formerly enslaved man, he was an African and not an American. In his preaching career, he also constructed an alternative form of global citizenship in Christian brotherhood, in which his work on ships to pay for passage across the Atlantic became a natural means of creating connection and shared identities across maritime borders. In the early nineteenth century, as more and more people of African descent were born in the United States, Black Americans began to use the term “colored” instead of or in addition to “African”. They adopted this language, first, to represent themselves as “colored citizens” of the United States itself, and second, to create symbolic space for multiculturalism within marginalized communities in the United States (Sidbury 2009; Kantrowitz 2012). This terminology allowed for people without African roots in living memory, and people with some indigenous and European heritage, to find common ground and to fit themselves into growing Black communities in the northeast. This term expressed the hybrid “in-between” nature of life in plural communities, where the shared cultural practices that developed integrated African, Native American, and 78 European influences (Bhabha 1996). Its use by both people of color and whites also reflected how the structural conditions of life in these communities were distributed along the binary American color line. Even into the mid-twentieth century, Montaukett elder Bob Pharaoh wrote that when he was young, Black and Native American families in Sag Harbor both simply called themselves “colored” (Tobier 2007). For maritime laborers, life on board necessarily required transgressing spatial boundaries between ethnic and racial groups, but the extent to which sailors built cross- cultural relationships along lines of shared experience is less clear. Maritime histories of shipboard life imply that tight quarters and established rituals enabled sailors to build bonds of fictive kinship. For example, the “Neptune” equator crossing initiation ceremony could involve shaving new crew members for their “marriage” to the sea and integration into the crew (Creighton 1995). However, the pattern of Native American cohort whaling implies that terrestrial social boundaries could be reproduced powerfully at sea. Crew lists also suggest that cultural differences between American and Portuguese-speaking sailors of color remained significant. In the account books of two of Sag Harbor’s major whaling firms, crews often included large cohorts of Native Americans or large cohorts of “Portugees,” but they rarely included both, which indicates that preexisting aspects of identity and community drove sailors’ choices of enlistment and later experiences on board. IIC. PROFITS AND PERILS: RACE IN SAG HARBOR’S WHALING INDUSTRY Through maritime labor, Indian and Black whalers and their families were intimately connected to global capitalism, wage labor, and urban growth. Despite its small size, Sag Harbor became one of the United States’ most successful whaling ports in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, part of the same regional network of maritime commerce as Nantucket, New Bedford, and New London. Members of its multicultural crews worked for all advancement the industry would allow for Native American and African American men: promotion to skilled crew and officer positions, 79 shares of the profits of successful voyages, and perhaps enough cash to establish and support a household. Whaling was dangerous, often poorly compensated wage labor. Sailors received their pay at the end of the voyages as shares of the total profits, or “lays,” minus the debts they had incurred on the voyage, which could include outfitting with clothing and equipment at the beginning of the trip and use of items from the slop chest throughout. Lay sizes decreased according to the ship’s hierarchy: captains and masters received the largest, or “shortest” lays, followed by officers, and skilled boat steerers (harpooners). Short lays ranged from ⅛ at the highest to 1/100 of the profits. Cooks, stewards coopers, and blacksmiths often earned around 1/100, common sailors generally earned 1/100 to 1/160, and the very “long lays” went to greenhands and cabin boys in fractions as low as 1/160 or even 1/250 (Hohman 1928; Norling 2000; Nicholas 2002). Among Black and Indian whalers from Sag Harbor, known lays ranged from 1/55 for an officer to 1/175 (“Long Island Material” 1802-1880; Shoemaker [2012], 2014). Whalers from modest backgrounds risked going into debt merely to sail, however. Sailors had to outfit themselves with proper clothing before voyages, and some requested advances on wages in order to support themselves or their families. In Sag Harbor, well established merchants lent money to such working class whalers. For instance, John Joseph, Henry Cuffee, and Jeremiah Cuffee, all men of Native American descent, borrowed sums ranging from $61.86 to $186.68 from the Gardiner firm before voyages in 1840 and 1841, paying off their debts in 1843 out of their shares of the profits (Gardiner 1840-1845). Sometimes seamen signed over their entire earnings before the voyage, as did Black whaler Watson Coney in 1856. An incomplete 1843 loan record from the firm Cooper & Jenings, which owned whaling ships and thus profited from the labor of mariners twice over, exemplifies the terms of these agreements (“Long Island Material” 1802-1880): "Whereas I owe Cooper & Jenings the sum of blank with interest until paid, for my outfits as seaman, on board the ship....I do assign to the said 80 Cooper & Jenings all such wages, share and proportion of money, oil and bone, as may be due me at the expiration of the voyage I am about to make in said ship: to have and to hold to their own use towards payment of the aforesaid debt, and also, for all necessaries they may furnish my family, during my absence, and all other moneys and mierchanize they shall advance to me, and for me, up to the time of the settlement of such voyage, the overplus, if any, to be paid to me. And I require and authorize the owners and agents of said ship to pay and deliver to the said Cooper & Jenings such wages, share, and proportion of oil and bone as may then be due me after deducting the ship's demands, and do hereby make the said cooper &Jenings my attorneys irrevocable to demand, sue for, and receive the same, hereby ratifying all his acts.” Cooper & Jenings’ accounts offer hints of how debts compared to profits for whalers who signed these forms. Henry Wright and Stephen Fowler, two whalers with Montaukett last names, earned lays of 1/110 for their voyages ending in 1848. They received pay of $86.90 and $92.55, respectively, but Cooper & Jenings received “in full share” $255 for Fowler’s work on the Huron, deducting their costs before paying him. On later New Bedford voyages, sailors often received advances on their expected profits, which they might spend outfitting themselves. In 1869, Shinnecock boatsteerer James R. Lee signed on to the barque Oriole with a 1/70 lay, receiving a $75 advance, and A.C. Ward, possibly a member of the Native American Ward family of Eastville, received $70 in advance of his 1/80 boatsteerer’s lay. Charles St. Clair, another probable relation of a Black Eastville family, signed onto the Ceylon as a seaman at 1/150, for which he and everyone else in the crew received a flat $60 advance (“Long Island Material” 1802- 1880). Although these individual loan agreements and advances required sailors to spend their wages before earning them, risking further debt if the voyage failed, the payments also cushioned the impact of mariners’ costs and absences on their families. There are darker hints that even two decades after the end of slavery, race and economic coercion remained linked in the whaling industry. In 1846, Southampton’s Albert Rogers wrote to whaling ship owner Charles T. Dering as though Black men on ships were commodities. In one letter, he wrote, "Further I have shiped Capt Howell's 81 Negro at 140th in the Novle he will be ready when you send up for him.” The reference to the man as “Capt Howell’s” implies that he might have been indentured, or indebted, to Howell; Rogers’ portrait of him as a passive object and ready laborer implies that he had little choice in joining the voyage. In another letter to Dering, Rogers wrote, "As to men they are very scarce. John White has a boy 17 years of age a stud nigger boy & well acquainted with an Oar He has fished throughout the summer in the sea on a man's share Mr White will not fit him but will sign his indenture over to me & I will fit him for the Nimrod if we can agree upon the lay.” Not only was this young man indentured to serve John White, exemplifying the household negotiations of economic marginalization detailed in Chapter 1, but White was willing to treat him as a slave rather than a free servant. His maritime knowledge and physical labor were valuable commodities, but since White, Rogers, and Dering were the only parties involved in deciding his activities and share in the voyage, it is likely they received all the profits of his work (“Long Island Material” 1802-1880). Even though such exploitative practices continued from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, by the mid-nineteenth century there was greater opportunity for men of color to rise through the ranks and bring back profits greater than their “expenses” (“Long Island Material” 1802-1880; Rabito-Wyppensenwah 1993b). Although no Native American or Black whalers from Long Island became whaling captains, several became officers. Shoemaker reports that among known Shinnecock and Montaukett whalers, eight are listed as boatsteerers on at least one voyage, eleven as mates, sixteen as seamen, one as a cook, and one as a greenhand (Shoemaker [2012]). On two voyages out of New Bedford in 1878, Shinnecock whaler Moses Walker served as first mate on the Niger in 1878, and Orlando Eleazer as second mate on the Ohio. In 1880, William Garrison Lee, a Shinnecock whaler named for a New England abolitionist, was first mate on the Abbie Bradford on a voyage to Hudson’s Bay, and his relative Milton J. Lee joined him as a seaman (“Long Island Material” 1802-1880). 82 Changing racial dynamics and stereotypes in New England at this period shaped both these opportunities and their limitations. Shoemaker (2013a) writes that a widespread stereotype that Native mariners were talented boatsteerers may have helped them advance into more lucrative officer positions, while African Americans were often limited to dead end positions such as cooks and tailors. Evidence from Sag Harbor seems to confirm this theory in the postwar period, when Black whaler William Van Clief worked as a steward and others like Luther Depth mainly served as seamen. Documentation of African American whalers from Sag Harbor after the Civil War is rare altogether and few if any held officer positions, in contrast to Shinnecock whalers. Bolster (1997) writes that in the late nineteenth century, the demography of American seafaring changed, and Portuguese-speaking sailors from the Azores and Cape Verdean islands began to fill more berths than native-born American sailors, whether white, Indian, or Black. Perhaps due to language barriers, captains often regarded these Lusophone sailors, Pacific Islanders, and other immigrant sailors as less skilled than others (even though they usually had strong maritime experience). The formation of mainly Portuguese crews, and the exodus of white sailors from the whaling industry, might have given Native Americans who remained a comparative advantage in competition for officer positions (Shoemaker 2013a). In Moses Walker and Orlando Eleazer’ 1878 voyages, for example, the crews they supervised were heavily Portuguese, hinting at an ethnic hierarchy within the supposedly egalitarian whaling industry itself. After retirement, whalers could occasionally move beyond codified racial stereotypes and ceilings: the Montaukett mariner Aaron Cuffee became captain and owner of a small boat out of Sag Harbor after he retired from whaling. So did Pyrrhus Concer, famously the first Black whaler to visit Japan, who retired to pilot a small boat around a lake in Southampton (Probate case file no. 14074 1897; South Side Signal 1897). Both primary sources from Long Island and the historical literature on Native American and African American whaling show that maritime labor could be a source of 83 independence, cosmopolitan experience, and economic advancement for men of color. From a purely economic perspective, whaling was a risky proposition: it required long absences of adult wage earners, guaranteed no profit, and sometimes resulted in debt, desertion, or death. Nevertheless, in communities like Shinnecock, whaling is remembered as a source of identity, leadership, and financial prosperity that enabled people to build new houses and enjoy higher standards of living. To reconcile these two perspectives, we must reintegrate the stories of men at sea with the social and cultural contexts of their labor and the economic strategies of the families they left at home. Native American and African American household structures, kinship networks, and gendered practices of labor and leadership fill in the necessary context for understanding whether and why men decided to go to sea and how their absences affected their households. An anthropological perspective on whaling households that brings women, children, and elders back into the conversation can, first, interpret men’s work with reference to the cultural and historical frameworks that structured it, and, second, provide empirical evidence of its economic impact. III. THE FAMILIES: NINETEENTH CENTURY HOUSEHOLD PATTERNS Household structures and gendered practices of labor and leadership among Native and African Americans helped to determine how men’s absences affected their households. The links between houses as physical structures, the social groups who use them, and the activities that take place within them are vary across cultures. As archaeologist Barbara Voss warns: Households are historically specific and produced through structured relations of power that include race, ethnicity, gender, and class. Archaeology that takes the household as its starting point will often unintentionally privilege normative, middle-class European American practices related to the family unit, property ownership, and refuse disposal. (2008a: 39) It may be tempting to assume that individual houses contain nuclear or extended family groups who own their land, are sites of feminine, domestic labor, and have one- 84 to-one relationships with archaeologically rich middens, but Voss and other archaeologists catalog variation among ethnic groups in the United States in the social construction of households and the material uses of houses and the space around them (e.g. Portnoy 1981; Barile & Brandon 1994; Voss 2008a). Changes in the broader social organization of production can also affect household formation, as when household sizes grow or shrink in correlation with the availability of land or wealth (Wilk & Rathje 1982). Additionally, economic change, colonial contact, and migration can alter social boundaries, as when households and communities form around families or co-residents from different ethnic groups (e.g. Deagan 1996; Crowell 1997; Woodhouse-Beyer 1999). Such broad social changes sparked re-negotiations of indigenous community in whaling- era Indian communities like Mashpee, MA. While many Wampanoag men were absent during long distance whaling voyages, Indian women often married African American men, leading to debates about tribal citizenship and inheritance rights for non- indigenous partners and children in these households (Plane & Button 1993; Mandell 1998; Nicholas 2002). The danger of taking individual buildings or census listings as proof of fixed single-family households is especially acute for studies of Native Americans in the colonial northeast, where ethnohistorical and archaeological research suggests a flexible model based on extended family connections (Mancini 2009; Reiser 2011; Stone 1983, 1993). Linking data on labor practices with census records as residential snapshots in time helps to identify more relevant social units of analysis and their extensions across space. Community-level analysis also reveals forms of association and cooperation that extended beyond individual households. The following survey of households in four Native American and African American communities reveals demographic patterns of compound households among indigenous families, adjustments of household size to land and resource availability, and the importance of strong kinship networks and women’s leadership in both black and Indian nineteenth century whaling families. 85 IIIA. SHINNECOCK LAND The Shinnecock reservation was home to between 22 and 29 families from 1850 to 1870 (Fig 2.2) (USC 1850, 1870; NYS 1865). Figure 2.2 Shinnecock reservation map (Beers 1873) Shinnecock households were frequently composite and multigenerational. They often included several adults of working age, including a middle aged or older head or couple, adult children and their spouses, and perhaps grandchildren. Households that did not fit this pattern mainly consisted of young nuclear families or multiple adults of similar ages. Few women are explicitly listed as household heads, but since Shinnecock family histories remember a number of women of the time as important community figures (cf. Stone, Johnson, & VanDeroef 1988), this says more about the assumptions of census takers than about indigenous attitudes. 39 of the men were known whalers, 86 many of them fathers, brothers, and cousins; most men under 50 were also identified in the census as mariners or fishermen, while many older men and former whalers became farmers. There is no glaring overrepresentation of working age women to indicate that women stayed on the reservation while men went to sea. Rather, it implies that perhaps absence from home during working years was common across gender lines, since many women (and some boys and men) with Shinnecock and Montaukett names appear in the census as residential household servants. These observations add up to a portrait of individual and household life stages. Young men and women often left their parents’ households as teenagers to work as servants, farm laborers, and whalers. These could be lonely years whether one spent them at sea or living in another household a few miles away. Many young parents continued to stay with their parents or move in with in-laws as they began to raise their families, while some started independent households. As they grew older, they could become matriarchs and patriarchs of their own multigenerational households, and men could take visible positions of responsibility as tribal trustees or council members. In middle age, even most career whalers retired and worked on local farms. For their children, the cycle started anew. This pattern of household cycles was an adaptation to the spatial and economic constraints of the colonial era. On the Shinnecock reservation, where only houses could be owned, land was allotted for three year leases and the land base itself was limited (Stone 1983). Wilk & Rathje predict that agricultural communities with insufficient land will often feature both large households, in which adults hoping to inherit remain with their parents, and the growth of a class of landless wage laborers. Shinnecock residents were resourceful in their use of land for pasturage, fishing, hunting, and gathering foods and raw materials for crafts (Stone & Cuffee 1983). The lack of land and need for cash still drove people to find work off of the reservation, whether on land or at sea. With large households in which adult women and men both worked for subsistence and 87 wages, men’s absence during whaling voyages would not have been as much of a hardship as if they were sole providers. Rather, it would have meant supporting fewer people under one roof. Whaling could also provide an important source of independent income and potential cash windfalls in large families in which adult children could not expect to inherit land. The limited duration of voyages prevented strict divisions between wage laborers who stayed off the land and farmers who stayed on, which could have led to greater inequality within the community. Shinnecock household structures encouraged maritime work: economic opportunity costs were low, young men voyaged together, and women, youth, and elders remained as laborers and leaders. IIIB. EAST HAMPTON: FREETOWN AND INDIAN FIELDS The communities of Freetown and Indian Fields in the town of East Hampton were built on extended family connections just like Shinnecock, but household sizes varied between African Americans and Native Americans, and they lacked the lineal descent pattern of most large Shinnecock households. The growing and diverse neighborhood of Freetown, just north of the village of East Hampton, was home to 22 distinct households of color between 1850 and 1880 (Fig. 2.3). Based on names, genealogy, and Figure 2.3 Freetown (upper left) in relation to co-residence, this research estimates East Hampton village (Beers 1873) 88 that twelve of these households were Native by descent or marriage by 1850, while ten were known as Black (USC 1850, 1860, 1870, 1880; Stone 1993). (However, these families became increasingly interconnected over generations during the nineteenth century, making distinction by ethnicity less relevant.) Further east, the settlement known as Indian Fields on Montauk Point was the Montaukett people’s last communal land. Census records recorded four households there in 1865, six in 1870, and two in 1880 (NYS 1865; USC 1870, 1880). This variation probably reflects indigenous practices of seasonal migration: Indian Fields was a permanent home to a few families and a seasonal refuge for more until the early 1880s, when a developer bought the land and relocated the remaining families to Freetown (Strong 2001). Due to people’s frequent movement between Montauk Point and Freetown during the whaling era, and the small population at Montauk, I consider these two populations together. Most Montaukett households in both of these settlements included multiple generations of working adults, but many were nieces, nephews, cousins, or boarders, unlike the Shinnecock reservation’s pattern of parents, adult children, and grandparents, and household sizes were often smaller than at Shinnecock. About twenty Montaukett men from Freetown and Indian Fields were known whalers in this period, but this may be an underestimation based on inconsistent enumeration of men at sea. Most other men and women worked as farm laborers and domestic servants. Between census collections, many individuals from different families moved between households within and around East Hampton, especially young children, women working in domestic service, and older women with relatives. Although only a few families owned property in Freetown, which can make them difficult to locate on maps, many remained in the area for generations (Beers 1873; E. Belcher & Hyde 1902; Stone 1993). Their houses were usually one to 1.5 stories with small footprints, but their lots were large and useful as gardens (Hefner 1990; Rabito-Wyppensenwah 1993f). 89 Women’s wage labor was a significant source of income in Freetown and Indian Fields, and Montaukett patterns of mobility and mutual support helped their community survive. Households were often smaller than on the Shinnecock reservation and composed of shifting configurations of relatives rather than direct lines of descent, perhaps due to the smaller Montaukett land base and more diasporic population. These factors made the inheritance incentive weaker and large households more difficult to support than on the Shinnecock reservation. However, family networks stretched far. Often, children lived with relatives miles away from their parents. While some Montaukett men were career whalers, in Freetown just as many were farm laborers. This could mean that long absence was more of a challenge for their households, that whaling itself was less attractive without larger cohorts, and also that Montaukett people’s presence was not well recorded due to their mobility and distance from town centers. Regardless, whaling among East Hampton Indian households fit into flexible economic strategies that depended on both men’s and women’s labor and kinship. Black households in Freetown also differed from the Shinnecock reservation. They were smaller: before 1880, most had only two to four members. Neighboring Native American household sizes ranged from one to eight, and neighboring Euro- American agricultural households also tended to be larger than five. A nuclear family structure was more common among Black than Indian families, and only four men from Freetown’s African American community were known mariners. These demographic trends point to the lingering economic inequality African American and Native American families suffered, but they also hint at different cultural strategies of response. According to Wilk & Rathje, differences in wealth among agricultural households would lead to a pattern of households with more resources supporting more members than those with less. This illuminates the difference in household size between Euro-American families, whose shared last names across households indicate the important role of intergenerational wealth, and Black families, 90 who experienced generations of economic marginalization due to the long term legal institution of white privilege. Native American households also faced strong economic pressures, but their households were sometimes larger, included more relatives outside of nuclear families, and often produced more whalers. This indicates that African Americans did not share Native households’ reliance on regional mobility, and the extended family households it often produced, in their family and community strategies of economic survival. In these smaller households, the presence of adults of working age might also have been more vital on a daily basis, which made whaling less viable. IIIC. SAG HARBOR: EASTVILLE In contrast to the previous case studies, Sag Harbor’s Eastville neighborhood shows that some Montaukett, Shinnecock, and African American whaling families living off of reservations were able to build wealth and adapt their household structures to circumstances of greater prosperity. Out of 41 men of color who lived and sailed out of Eastville at some point from 1840 to 1880, at least thirteen were whalers of Native American descent, and five were Native mariners whose voyages may have included whaling; eight whalers and seven other mariners were known as African-American; and the remaining six whalers and two mariners of color were connected to Native American families through marriage or co-residence. Maritime relationships often connected African American and Native American men in and near Eastville. From 1818 to 1837, several Native Americans and African Americans from eastern Long Island sailed together under whaling captain Henry Green, and three of them - Henry French, William Prime, and Francis Young – were early settlers in Eastville in the 1840s and 1850s (Log 201 1818-1821; Log 211 1836-1837; United States Dept. of the Census 1840, 1850; Zaykowski 1991). The 1847 voyage of the Franklin also reveals cross-cultural connections, with four men from the Shinnecock reservation, Abe Cuffee, Nathaniel Bunn, John Cuffee, and George Cuffee; two Montaukett men, Jason Cuffee and John Joseph; and two African Americans, George 91 Sherwood and Adam Rugg (Shoemaker [2012]; Brown 2002). All of these men either lived in Eastville or had relatives there (U.S. Dept. of the Census 1850, 1860, 1870, 1880; Beers 1873; E. Belcher Hyde & Co. 1902). These occurrences are not common enough to form a general pattern of cross-cultural cohort whaling, but the reflection of these personal connections in local settlement patterns suggest that relationships formed on board had social impacts at home. The demography of Eastville, Freetown, and the Shinnecock reservation also indicate that social change in the whaling era included the incorporation of many African Americans into Native communities, as occurred in Mashpee and Nantucket (Barsh 2002; Nicholas 2002; Johnson 2006; Philbrick 2011). Many women of Montaukett and Shinnecock descent in Eastville married African American whalers and Native Americans from other tribes in Eastville and Freetown. Of the six children of Montaukett-Shinnecock couple Lewis and Lucinda Cuffee, who inherited Montaukett tribal identity from their mother and resided in Eastville, two married African Americans (Eliza and Helen), two married Shinnecock men (Louisa and Frances), and two married other non-Montaukett Native people (Lydia and Jason). This makes it difficult to compare Native American and African American household sizes and structures to each other in Eastville, since many of them incorporated both labels. By the end of the 1850s, Eastville was home to almost 30 households of Irish immigrants and people of African, Shinnecock, and Montaukett ancestry (U.S. Dept. of the Census 1850, 1860; Grier-Key, McGovern, & Button Kambic 2013). Most of these households were nuclear families, with a few run by single women with children or parents. Large households containing numerous adults were far less common than in the other communities. While single adults and older women often lived with relatives, larger composite households appeared more among European immigrants than Native or African American families in Eastville. 92 The occupations of adult men and women also subtly differentiated Eastville. Most women are listed as having no occupation or “keeping house,” which signaled unpaid labor at home, in contrast to paid “housekeeping” (Folbre & Abel 1989). (Nevertheless, even women’s paid labor in can be invisible in documents when it involved work in informal settings.) Unlike in the other communities, over half of the men who went to sea were heads of households during or within a decade after their whaling years, and many of these men and their neighbors owned their own properties. Many of these men went whaling into the 1850s and then transitioned to farm labor, piloting local boats, or work in tourism as their families grew, while several of their young adult sons struck out on voyages themselves (N. &G. Howell 1833-1847; U.S. Dept. of the Census 1860, 1870, 1880; Brown 2002; GWB 2007a). Eastville stands out as the counterexample to easy narratives of egalitarian and communal values that encouraged men to go whaling due to large households and strong support networks at home. Many whalers in Eastville lived in single family homes, owned their properties, had wives who may not have worked outside the home, and passed land on to their survivors, just like their wealthier Euro-American neighbors. Several of these families had moved from the Shinnecock reservation to establish their own households, which indicates that they used income from whaling to break the cultural pattern of composite households and escape the land limitations of the reservation. The lots of early Eastville settlers were small, around 30 x 100’, with one to two story houses and outbuildings, and they were not sites of agricultural production (Beers 1873; E. Belcher & Hyde 1902; Rabito-Wyppensenwah 1993f). Smaller nuclear family houses made Eastville look different from many other Shinnecock and Montaukett households, but links of kinship tied its Native American community together just as strongly (Appendix 1). As I mentioned above, six separate households in the 1850s belonged to the children of Lucinda and Lewis Cuffee. These siblings all established their own families that linked them to both maritime networks 93 and communities of color: each household included one whaler of Montaukett, Shinnecock, Unkechaug, or African descent. Other connecting families included the Jupiters, African American siblings and in-laws with multiple households in Eastville, and the Platos and Quaws, whose members moved around the community in nuclear and composite household configurations (USC 1860, 1870, 1880; Probate case file no. 6560, 1859; Probate Case File no. 6497 1868; Probate case file no. 29527, 1927). Over the second half of the nineteenth century these households grew interlinked, with parents and children living nearby and neighbors marrying. African American, Native American, and ethnically mixed households all converged around a common nuclear family structure in Eastville, with larger household sizes among younger households and smaller sizes among families with grown children. This contrasts with both Shinnecock and Freetown and Indian Fields. In Freetown and Indian Fields, perhaps due to small population sizes and greater economic hardship, African Americans had smaller households than others and Native people often lived with relatives outside of lines of direct descent. On the Shinnecock reservation, where scarce land leases created a constraint, large multigenerational households based on direct descent formed. In Eastville, where whaling provided ready employment and many families were able to purchases houses and land, the Native American community apparently split into small nuclear family households. Still, the relationships between them show the continuity of kinship support beyond the walls of individual homes. Nuclear families lived in different dwellings, but many remained steps away from their adult siblings and parents. Perhaps Eastville’s household types converged across ethnic lines because for people of color with access to wages from whaling and available land, the combination of space, property, and independence in proximity to close family relationships, women’s leadership, and mutual support optimized all factors. 94 IV. WOMEN’S WORK: RISING TO THE CHALLENGES OF LEADERSHIP In Shinnecock, Freetown, Indian Fields, and Sag Harbor, despite different patterns of household organization, women’s labor was necessary in the work of supporting households and communities while men were at sea. Both the broad contours of census records and the individual circumstances of whaling families reveal the consistent importance of African American and Native American women’s wage labor and household leadership. Norling’s (2000) rich historical study of the wives of whalers on Nantucket and in New Bedford shows that despite the ideals of feminine domesticity and dependence prevalent among middle and upper class white families, women frequently took charge of family finances, sought their own sources of income, and relied heavily on relatives, friends, and church networks. In many ways, whaling made identical demands upon individual families regardless of ethnicity or income, and women responded in similar ways. Yet when viewed through the lens of race, similar practices of women’s leadership take on different meanings. Well-off white women who violated the ideal of the domestic sphere often did so in practice, while maintaining submission to their husbands’ authority in their written and legal communications. Working-class women of color, however, were not transgressing norms; rather, they adapted long-standing practices of women’s labor and leadership to changing modern circumstances of structural racism in a capitalist economy. The work of Black and Native American women was over- determined by the nineteenth century: it marshaled historically rooted practices of gendered labor to survive not just men’s absences due to whaling, but broader challenges of economic marginalization. In the Native American societies on and near Long Island, women’s labor in agriculture, household production, childcare, and knowledge transmission was valued on par with men’s (Stone, Johnson & VanDeroef 1988; Shoemaker 1995; Brown 1995; Roesch Wagner 2001). In Shinnecock and Montaukett societies, women were 95 traditionally “holders of the land,” which made them heads of households in indigenous terms (Haile 2013). In the twentieth century, this correlated with land use rights often passing along female lines, and descent and post-marital residence being determined through female as well as male ancestry. Practically, women were leaders in household life: in charge of food production from gardens and other local resources, knowledgeable about medicine and traditional arts, and active in community affairs and transmission of cultural knowledge to younger generations. Shinnecock elder Elizabeth Thunder Bird Haile (2013) reflects that men’s absences at sea during the whaling era were analogous to long hunts in previous generations, meaning that they were part of a long-established division of labor. While most people of English descent considered men responsible for earning wages and heading households, with women responsible for domestic affairs, Native Americans did not separate the domestic sphere from economic life (Brown 1995; Shoemaker 1995; Wall 1994; Norling 2000). English and American writers often commented on the seemingly masculine practices of Indian women, from being the primary agriculturalists in their cultures to their travels to sell crafts, which were often represented as “eccentric” or “crazy” (Denton 1845; McBride 1993). By the nineteenth century, many Native American women also faced the need to earn cash income, working for wages inside and outside the home. African women who were enslaved in the Americas were never granted a “domestic sphere” theoretically separating feminine family affairs from unsentimental market forces, unlike wealthier white women (Cott 1977; Battle-Baptiste 2011). They were producers, not dependents, their own children were legally defined as commodities, not sacred trusts, and their marriages were often unrecognized or forcibly broken. In northern free communities after the end of slavery, where the legal institution of white privilege made it difficult for African Americans to earn decent wages and accumulate property, most Black women worked for wages. Their most common occupations included taking in laundry or piece-work, working as domestic 96 servants and cooks, or performing manual day labor, and African American women on eastern Long Island engaged in all of these activities. This widespread reality of economic struggle may help to explain the small household size among the Black population of Freetown in East Hampton – men and women alike might have moved between households frequently in search of limited labor opportunities. While nineteenth-century stereotypes reserved true femininity for white women alone, due to its links with dependency and motherhood, Black women contributed vital labor to the economic survival of their families and communities (Franklin 2001; Wilkie 2003; Battle-Baptiste 2011). Nineteenth century sources such as census records, deeds, and atlases often failed to capture the extent of women’s leadership on eastern Long Island because state officials assumed and recorded that for any given couple, the man was the head of the household. Nevertheless, women of color worked, ran households, and owned property despite these limitations. Even when men were present, their own families might have divided authority differently. The probate record of a Shinnecock woman named Wealthy Cuffee, who lived in Eastville with her husband and several children, provides a rare example. Wealthy’s will granted her husband the right to live in her house until his death, at which point the land could be sold at auction and the profits distributed between her children (Probate case file no. 4913 1857). Wealthy’s husband William H. Cuffee was a whaler who presumably brought income to the household and census collectors considered him its leader. However, she was the owner of the land with power to determine its use and distribution. Wealthy Cuffee was the oldest woman in her household, and she performed a role of household leadership commensurate with her age. She died before the census listed women’s occupations, but in collections from 1860 to 1880, most other Native and African American women with adult children “kept house.” Meanwhile, Wealthy’s male and female young adult children worked outside the home. This was a common pattern 97 among nineteenth century Native American and Black households: the senior adult woman was responsible for “keeping house” while almost every other adult worked for wages (U.S. Dept. of the Census 1850, 1860, 1870, 1880). Younger women without children, or older women who did not live with adult children, were much more likely to work outside the home. (U.S. Dept. of the Census 1850, 1860, 1880). Many worked as domestic servants in other households. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, as the Hamptons tourist economy grew, an increasing number of women worked as cooks in hotels (U.S. Dept. of the Census 1880). Rather than reading “keeping house” as “not working,” it is more accurate to interpret the term as a reflection of both Black and Indian women’s physical and social labor as household leaders. “Keeping house” involved cooking, cultivating gardens and keeping animals, gathering plants and shellfish, sewing, teaching children, and perhaps managing the schedules and financial affairs of other family members (Stone, Johnson, & VanDeroef 1988; Rabito-Wyppensenwah 1993e). Many Black and Indian women who “kept house” also earned income through home-based work like laundry, sewing, and production of local crafts, which often went unrecognized because it was not formal employment (Wilkie 2003). A number of women were known in local memory as laundresses and seamstresses, common occupations for women of color who preferred to bring work into their own homes and control their own space (Stone, Johnson, & VanDeroef 1988; Rabito-Wyppensenwah 1993e; Tobier 2007). The intergenerational cooperation between older women who “kept house” and younger men and women who worked for wages meant most households did not rely on whalers’ incomes alone. Women’s economic roles within households enabled men to sign on to long voyages in large groups without endangering the survival of their families and communities. Herndon (1996) writes that women’s limited options led to poverty and hardship for many Native families of mariners in eighteenth century Rhode Island. This was less likely in nineteenth-century Long Island, where I could find no examples of 98 whalers’ spouses or children entering the home for the poor (Suffolk County 1871-1892, 1888-1896). Nevertheless, whaling’s ultimate dangers, death and disappearance, was still tragic and difficult for families like Moses S. Walker’s or Silas Plato’s. Mary Walker was one woman whose family’s fortunes rose and fell with whaling, and whose role required great independence and community support. During their successful times, husband Moses’s advanced in his career to an officer position, and in the 1870s, she and Moses were able to buy property in Eastville. Yet even before that, Mary had first purchased a sliver of land with a small house off of the property of John and Ann Jupiter (Suffolk County 1869 1875a&b). The 1869 deed reports that the Jupiters would help with her daily needs as she maintained the property. This arrangement likely meant that Mary was able to move from the Shinnecock reservation, where her husband’s family lived, to Eastville, near several of her own sisters, while Moses was at sea. As she raised and buried three children, this location would have given her access to help and company from family and neighbors. In the 1880s, Moses died on a voyage to the Arctic (Shoemaker [2012]). Even though Mary likely lived on a larger lot that the Walkers had purchased in the 1870s by that point, the support network she had developed must have helped her survive this final loss. Mary Walker was not the only whaler’s widow, nor the only mother to lose sons. In Bridgehampton, Silas Plato, the son of church founder Charles Plato, was lost at sea in 1863 on a voyage of the barque Eagle from New Bedford (probate 5845 1864). He left behind his wife Juliet and two daughters, sixteen year old Ursula Ann and twelve year old Harriet. The 1860 census indicates that the Plato family lived in their own house, which Juliet and Silas had fully furnished. Silas’s probate inventory listed his personal effects worth $29.40, $80 in cash, and $1000 owed by the Eagle, as well as household items exempted for the use of Juliet and the children. The list of items indicates that with Silas at sea, Juliet, Ursula, and Harriet might have performed all of the cooking, food storage, 99 cleaning, fishing, wood cutting, household repairs, and hunting required to maintain the household, though there is no record of their earning cash income. While Silas was at sea and after his death, they might have received assistance from their many relatives in the area: Juliet’s parents, a Montaukett couple named Peter and Triphenia Quaw in East Hampton; her sister and brother in law Clarissa and Henry Rugg and the larger African- American Rugg clan in Bridgehampton; and her niece and nephew Israel Quaw and Meribel Montgomery, also in East Hampton (Peter Quaw probate 6497, 1868). However, the three Plato women do not appear in local federal or state censuses after 1860. Does this imply that they left their home, perhaps moving to Brooklyn to join Juliet’s sister Sarah Tailor, or traveling between relatives’ households in the area? Juliet and her daughters may have been self-sufficient in connection with their relatives and neighbors while Silas was at sea, but these unanswered questions hint that his death was a serious blow to the family. Even when their husbands survived long whaling careers, a number of women ultimately became the final survivors in their household cycles during the decline of the industry. In 1880, six women headed households in Eastville, mainly widows, and by 1902, their number had doubled (U.S. Dept. Interior 1880; Belcher Hyde 1902). One of them, Eliza Consor, was the daughter of one sailor (Lewis Cuffee), wife, sister, and sister- in-law to multiple whalers, and mother to a son, George L., who died at sea. She kept three whale lines and a whale spade at her home in Sag Harbor until her death, years after the death of the last whaler in the family (probate case file 14199 1898). Eliza’s probate record, which will be discussed in detail in chapter 5, hints at how she may have supported her household, especially after her husband’s retirement and death. A clothes horse, significant quantities of clothing, small pieces of cloth and old clothes, and a “work basket” likely relate to work as a seamstress or tailor, a common occupation among women of color (Stone, Johnson, & VanDeroef 1988; Bowser 2007). Her significant number of dishes included 211 pieces of ceramic table and tea wares 100 (88.7%) and 27 utilitarian pieces (11.3%), as well as numerous glass serving bowls and jars (probate case file 14199 1898). With five sets of siblings and in-laws in the neighborhood, she likely cooked for major family and church events, but she may also have used her home as a restaurant or boarding house. There is no known documentation or oral history associating sizable boarding houses with whaling-era Native American families on eastern Long Island, but women commonly ran them in ports (Bolster 1997; Norling 2000; Mancini 2009). Eliza Consor’s quantity of serving and dining ware may be a material signature of one such home-based business. These households show the importance of women’s leadership at all stages of the household cycle: when men were at sea in young families like the Platos and Walkers, when young adult sons George L. Consor were setting off on voyages and women and parents remained home, and when older women survived the men in their families and maintained roots and family connections in port. The losses that the Walker, Plato, and Consor households experienced shows that women’s leadership could not entirely protect families from economic blows from the whaling industry (and, of course, their grief was another form of suffering entirely). Nevertheless, in many families, women combined their own and their children’s’ work with family and community support networks to maintain household autonomy, drawing on long histories of labor and leadership among Native American and African American to weather the new challenges of the whaling industry. V. CONCLUSION In Sag Harbor, Southampton, and East Hampton, New York, whaling was a risky but often profitable strategy for nineteenth century communities of color in combination with credit, household production, and women’s labor and leadership. Demographic and historical overviews of the Shinnecock reservation show that resource constraints, in the form of a limited reservation land base, shaped 101 multigenerational household structures that supported the tradition of cohort whaling in the mid-nineteenth century. This trend also supports historians’ claims that limited access to land and capital contributed to the growth of maritime wage labor in Britain and the American colonies in general, and to Shinnecock and Montaukett participation in whaling specifically (Rediker 1987; Strong 2001). In both Shinnecock and Eastville, whaling also supported the formation of new households because in comparison to terrestrial wages, it offered windfalls. Oral histories and the documentary record show that whaling voyages had unique potential to provide large one-time payments that could function in place of savings, allowing families to invest in housing and establish new households, both on and off the reservation. Some families maintained this property over multiple generations. For example, Eliza Consor’s sister and brother-in-law Helen and Miles Ashman, and her brother and sister-in-law Jason and Louisa Cuffee, both passed on properties to their children around the turn of the twentieth century (East Hampton Assessors 1883; E. Belcher Hyde 1902). For these families, whaling in the early years of household cycles helped foster long-term prosperity, and their descendants often moved on to work in agriculture and tourism after the decline of the whaling industry (USC 1880). Nevertheless, other household biographies illustrate the precarity of life in the whaling industry. Whalers risked death at sea, which was particularly dangerous for young nuclear families without many other adults supporting the household, and the tragedy of the Circassian shipwreck in 1876 also had a massive impact on the Shinnecock reservation community. Furthermore, Native American and African American whaling households still faced barriers to intergenerational economic mobility, such as reliance on credit that could result in the loss of hard-earned property. Bolster (1997) has found that among Black families in northeastern ports, maritime labor was an economic community pillar, but its unpredictability meant that many mariners were unable to maintain their own households. Families on Long Island had 102 parallel experiences of greater communal mobility, but faced serious individual risks. While the wages of whaling were usually worth their costs, they could not always counteract the economic inequality that drew so many men onto ships in the first place. The whaling industry’s fragile opportunity was one of the major factors that drove the growth of Sag Harbor’s neighborhood of Eastville, but given the financial risks whaling families faced, and the local decline of whaling after the 1850s, its persistence as a center of community throughout the rest of the nineteenth century demands further explanation. In the next chapter, I focus in on Eastville as a case study that shows how people of color combined multiple forms of social connection on land, not only at sea, to create a community with intergenerational persistence. 103 CHAPTER 3 CREATING COMMUNITY IN SAG HARBOR I. INTRODUCTION When Native Americans and African Americans settled together in the multicultural neighborhoods of eastern Long Island, the combination of structural racism and economic opportunity influenced residential patterns, but these abstract forces could not decide for people where to move, whom to live near, and how to shape social community out of physical proximity. These were matters of human agency. The settlement of the neighborhood of Eastville in Sag Harbor between 1840 and 1880 exemplifies this process of community creation out of the raw materials of available land and work opportunities. I show how this unfolded by tracing the growth of Black, Indian, and multiracial households in Eastville in the heyday of commercial whaling, and following their turnover through the decline of the industry and the Civil War. The case study of Sag Harbor shows that external social forces of wealth, racial divisions, and economic opportunities drew people to the port during the most active years of the whaling industry. However, connections within and between African American and Native American families, and the establishment of shared institutions, transformed the village from a transitory stopping point for whalers to the home of an active community of color. Kinship networks between early settlers in Eastville drew more households to the neighborhood from across East Hampton, Southampton, and Shelter Island. Shared experiences on whaling voyages connected men across households in the 1840s and 1850s, and the St. David AME Zion Church became a center of social connection. Women built church bonds while nurturing close family relationships, and marriages linked households and sometimes crossed ethnic lines. These overlapping connections built Eastville’s identity as a multicultural community of color, which drew new residents from southern states after the Civil War, Harlem in the early twentieth century, and diverse American and Caribbean origins today. 104 II. THE RISE OF SAG HARBOR Sag Harbor experienced a rapid rise from small village to bustling port, and descriptions of the town in the whaling era highlighted the multicultural, even international, traffic of its streets. In the decades after the Revolutionary War, Sag Harbor quickly became a busy port, home of the state of New York’s first customs house, and in its peak years of the 1820s-1840s, one of the five most significant whaling ports in the United States (Starbuck 1964). Local historian Dorothy Zaykowski introduces the village with the romantic imagery of global connection: Picture, if you will, a whaleboat sailing right up to the foot of Main Street – and this could be any day of the week or month of the year – loaded with several fortunes and God knows how many great stories, while at the next dock another hopeful is being outfitted with ten tons of bully beef for the captain alone, and all the hardtack they can eat for whatever rogues and dreamers, slaves and novelists (Melville was here), Queues and Ishmaels, the company has managed to con or dragoon into serving under him. It’s a small town, twenty-five hundred tops, but the number is forever being augmented by passing Fijians, Sandwich Islanders, and whatever else the wind has blown in. (1995: vi) Writers like Zaykowski imagined Sag Harbor as a contradictory space: a busy, cosmopolitan outpost where people of diverse cultures and nationalities met on the street, but at the core, a small town that faced the sea because there was little to turn toward on land. Yet the village took shape due to its terrestrial geography and economic history as well as its maritime power. Sag Harbor remained Indian land for longer than its neighboring English settlements, East Hampton and Southampton. It was a halfway point between colonial era Shinnecock and Montaukett village sites, as well as a short paddle south from Shelter Island, home of the Manhasset. Nineteenth century amateur archaeologist, historian, and photographer William Wallace Tooker identified the Sag Harbor area as part of Montauk territory (1889a). Sag Harbor’s sixteenth century topography featured tall bluffs, three hills looking out over the sheltered bays and islands between Long Island’s two forms, and two inland freshwater ponds. Tradition holds that its Indian name of “Weg-wag- 105 onuch,” derived from an Algonquian term for “the land or place at the end of the hill,” highlighted this privileged position (Tooker 1889: x; Zaykowski 1991:5). Tooker writes that this referred to the eastern part of the village, which he asserts was the site of a Native American village based on the location of a large shell midden. Most evidence of this village site was disturbed and destroyed when English settlers leveled Sag Harbor’s hills to establish solid ground for building in marshy areas nearby (ibid). At first, the English settlers of Southampton and East Hampton found the site hard to reach due to surrounding woods. As maritime commerce became more significant for these colonists in the eighteenth century, its promise as a harbor drew them in. When the local whaling industry and export of agricultural products grew, East Hampton’s earliest port at Three Mile Harbor proved insufficient for larger ships and more bustling trade, and in the latter half of the seventeenth century Sag Harbor surpassed it (Breen 1996). English settlement began in earnest in the 1740s. The village’s present location straddles the border of the municipalities of Southampton and East Hampton. Southampton settlers divided much of their town’s open land in 1738, which included 23 lots near the water in Sag Harbor, again with 17 lots to the south of the harbor in 1745, and further with 12 acres further south in 1761 (Zaykowski 1991). Much of the land in East Hampton was purchased and settled later. Not all of the land in either town was immediately developed because there were only two small roads connecting the harbor to Southampton and East Hampton, and much of the land was too marshy for building. Settlers leveled the two northern hills, moving soil into meadows, swamps, and low ground, in order to create sufficient stability for English houses and roads. They laid out the main thoroughfares of Main Street, West Water Street (now Bay Street), Washington Street, Union Street, and Cooper Street (now gone). And, of course, they invested in commercial infrastructure: in 1770 representatives from both East Hampton and Southampton purchased land to build a joint wharf known as Long Wharf (Zaykowski 1991: 19). Their joint company lasted until 1896, and 106 shareholders received dividends of up to 30% in the most successful years. Even by the Revolutionary War, when Sag Harbor was a young village on British-occupied Long Island, Irish midshipman Francis Vernon described the area as a wooded, rural outpost where widely spaced houses gave inhabitants an “independence of situation” (Vernon 1792: 41-42). Many of today’s major streets were not established until the nineteenth century, particularly those on the East Hampton side. Several of these roads established the borders of the southeastern sector where people of color settled during and after the whaling boom. A new road replaced the old one running eastward, first mentioned in 1809, and later known as Division Street later because it marked the border of East Hampton and Southampton (Zaykowski 1991: 12). Jermain Ave was built as South Street in 1838 (12-13). Sag Harbor’s growth after the Revolution was in part a legacy of its proximity to Shelter Island, where the colonial era plantation of Sylvester Manor connected Long Island with the Atlantic triangle trade by growing food and wood to supply the Sylvesters’ sugar plantation in the Barbados (Hayes 2013). After the United States became independent, Henry Packer Dering, son of a well-off English family from Shelter Island, became New York State’s first federal customs collector in 1790. The site of this newly respectable trade regulation was Sag Harbor’s Customs House, and its location made the village a popular place of arrival for international voyages (Zaykowski 1991). The whaling industry, too, played a significant role. Continuing the tradition of offshore whaling that Native Americans and settlers in East Hampton and South Hampton had begun a century earlier, Sag Harbor sent out its first three whaling ships in 1760 for short voyages around Long Island, and they brought back whale blubber to process in try-works near the waterfront (Zaykowski 1991; Breen 1996). However, these near-shore whale populations were disappearing, and cruises increasingly extended across the Atlantic and into the Pacific. From 1784 to 1812, ten vessels sailed 107 out of Sag Harbor to the Caribbean and South American coasts (Zaykowski 1991). The port shut down during the war of 1812 due to British occupation and disruptions of maritime commerce – during which Montaukett whaler Silas Cuffee was impressed into the British Navy and held in custody in England – but its boom years still lay ahead (Bolster 2007). From the 1820s to the 1840s, Sag Harbor’s whaling industry was at its height. In 1837, a record of 25 ships set sail to the South Atlantic, Indian, and Pacific oceans (Starbuck 1964). After 1848, Sag Harbor’s fleet and its sailors became divided between the whaling industry and the Gold Rush, and whaling voyages dropped back down to the single digits. Nevertheless, a persistent few continued to sail throughout the Civil War until 1871, and local career mariners still traveled to New London and New Bedford to embark on whaling voyages (GWB 2007a; NBWM 2012; Shoemaker [2012]). Whaling ports were sites of ethnic difference amidst shared labor. Like mining towns in the American west, they were towns that rose and fell to the rhythms of boom- and-bust extractive industries (Zaykowski 1991; Grover 2001; Philbrick 2011). At such nodes where people of diverse racial, ethnic, tribal, and national backgrounds interacted, the constant presence and proximity of difference gave rise to new geographies of separation and markers of belonging. In comparable sites like mining settlements and missions, space and material culture became flexible tools for creative negotiations of growing occupational identities and status differences across cultural lines (Lightfoot & Martinez 1995; Silliman 2006). In new industrial and colonial towns, local women and settler men had particularly significant influence in how these changing social worlds unfolded, and their intimate choices rewrote existing boundaries of culture and race (Stoler 1989; Deagan 1996; Crowell 1997; Woodhouse-Beyer 2001; Voss 2008b). These insights from the archaeology of colonial frontiers and contact zones apply on multiple levels in eighteenth and nineteenth century American whaling ports. They were historical contact zones in preexisting Native American landscapes and 108 maritime spheres: for instance, Nantucket had its own native population, New Bedford was in Wampanoag territory, and Sag Harbor lay between Shinnecock and Montauk ancestral lands (Macy 1835; Stone 1983, 1993; Handsman 2010; Philbrick 2011). After the American Revolution, Sag Harbor became a small but significant imperial city in its own right; home to New York’s first federal customs house, it represented American maritime commerce and its state seal of approval on the world market. Viewing Sag Harbor as a colonial center, its ships and crews become the venturers into new frontiers, while its citizens on land become the “local people” who encounter foreign sailors and migrants on the streets of their own home. Given the impact of the whaling industry on the local and national historical imagination, encounter with cultural “others” must have shaped local spaces and identities in the whaling era. Nineteenth century Sag Harbor was simultaneously a colonial settlement in Native territory, a frontier zone touching the edges of American empire through its whaling fleet, and a small town where families with deep roots in the area perpetuated long-lasting racial divides of political enfranchisement and wealth. Its history was a stage for illustrating American identity and American inequality. By exploring Sag Harbor’s geography through the lens of race and ethnicity, I show how intergenerational wealth shaped its early settlement, and how its role as a frontier zone in the whaling industry led to transience for some ethnic group and permanence for others. Native Americans and African Americans relied on a combination of family networks and community institutions to make a permanent impact on the port landscape. III. WEALTH, RACE, AND SPACE IN SAG HARBOR Whaling voyages required significant capital investments in specialized ships and equipment. Since long trips had to catch multiple whales to be profitable, holds had to be large enough to contain numerous barrels of oil; intermediate decks had to include sleeping quarters and kitchen space, however cramped; since it was not feasible to 109 return to port to process the blubber, try-works had to be built on deck; and since chasing and harpooning the whales themselves required close contact and maneuverability, hooks extended upward from the sides of the ships and wooden whaleboats hung down from them, poised to be lowered for the hunt. Due to this major investment, a few Anglo-American firms and families controlled most of the wealth and profit nineteenth century Sag Harbor, while working class white, Black, and Indian sailors and laborers provided most of its labor at sea and on shore. On a list of ship owners, the names Mulford & Sleight, S. & B. Huntting & Co., Mulford & Howell, N. & G. Howell, Charles T. Dering, Luther Cook, Thomas Brown, Huntting Cooper, and Gilbert Cooper recur over and over, naming both the leading industrial families in Sag Harbor and their increasingly intertwined business ventures (N. &G. Howell 1833-1847; Beers 1873; Breen 1996; Brown 2002). Mulfords were already significant landowners in East Hampton, two Mulfords were original shareholders in the 1770 Long Wharf Company, and Charles T. Dering’s prominence continued the family’s legacy from Shelter Island (Zaykowski 1991). 110 N Eastville Figure 3.1 1854 Wall & Forrest map of Sag Harbor. Image: EHLIC Wall & Forrest’s 1854 map of Sag Harbor (Fig. 3.1) shows significant overlap between the distribution of maritime and terrestrial wealth. Beginning from Long Wharf at the village’s northern tip, a few buildings marked “Howell,” “Cooper,” and “Hunttings Block” and a larger waterfront complex labelled “Hunttings Stores” show that maritime enterprise also required warehouses and business offices on shore. Moving south on Main Street, there are residential properties owned by Cooper, Howell, and Huntting families, with an impressively enormous house on the Huntting property on the corner of Main St & Gardiner St. There are additional Cooper, Howell, and Cook properties further south, a reminder that kinship networks were sources of prosperity and community for wealthy white Americans as well as people of color. To the west, an N.P. Howell large blocks of undeveloped land between Clover and Howard streets, poising the owner to profit in multiple ways from the port’s growth. Just east of Main Street, 111 Samuel Huntting owned almost as much undeveloped land. Much of the village’s residential core was located between Main Street and Division Street. On the East Hampton side of Division Street, there were fewer homes, but other major players in the whaling industry were highly visible. Just south of Burke St, W.R. Sleight, C. Sleight, and W.R. Mulford possessed a row of three substantial homes. To the southeast and directly east, the whaling firm Mulford & Sleight owned most of the village’s as-yet undeveloped land. In fact, Eleazer Latham was the only significant name in village real estate that was not directly associated with the whaling industry. Wealth in land helped to beget wealth at sea; maps of nineteenth century Sag Harbor show that in turn, wealth at sea shaped the legal divisions of space and power on land. The visibility of these prominent families in historical records results from their leadership roles in economic and political aspects of town life: they were ship owners, landowners, businessmen, creditors (cf. the firm Cooper & Jennings in Chapter 2), and government officials (Breen 1996). The power they exerted through the accumulation of generational wealth was not the only force shaping the growth of Sag Harbor. Its landscapes and social relations also grew from the ground up through the actions and decisions of people of color, women, workers, churchgoers, and small business owners. The formation of the neighborhood of Eastville exemplifies how working class people of color and immigrants created their own spaces within the geographical limits imposed by wealth and race. In the 1840s, Sag Harbor’s whaling industry was at its height, and the foundation of the St. David African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Zion Church on Eastville Ave put this southeastern corner of Sag Harbor on the map as a social center for people of color. A few white families already lived in the area2, and the Anglo-Irish Snooks family is identified as the first household in local memory, but people of Native American and African descent were beginning to move in, following this 2 Most of the households the census collector visited just after Snooks in 1840 were those of white agriculturalists and tradesmen who were not included within Eastville in maps or census records from the 1850s, so it is likely that these were distant houses. 112 combination of economic opportunity and social connection (USC 1840, 1850; Zaykowski 1991). In 1840, people of color headed seven households in Eastville. They were almost all small, young families of two to four people, and four out of seven included sailors. By 1850, their number had boomed to 24. In future years, the growth began to slow, with 29 households of color in 1860, 26 in 1865, and 22 in 1870 and 1880 (Table 3.1) (USC 1840, 1850, 1860, 1870, 1880; NYS 1865). Table 3.1 Eastville’s growth according to federal and state censuses Households Households with Households Total headed by members in New with households people of Eastville in a households maritime in Eastville color previous laborers census 1840 Up to 18* 7 n/a** n/a** 4 1850 29 24 3 21 7 1860 36 29 17 12 11 1865 35 26 21 5 n/a** 1870 28 22 16 6 7 1880 27 22 15 7 7 *See footnote 1 **Schedules or information not available. During these decades, Eastville transitioned from an active and growing settlement with high household turnover, to a more stable neighborhood centered on long-term residents and a church, to a shrinking area whose young people began to leave toward the end of the century. This neighborhood “life cycle” mirrored the fortunes of Sag Harbor’s whaling industry, but also the household cycles of core whaling families over two to three generations. Eastville’s survival and transformation in the twentieth century testifies to the sense of community they established that survived the industry’s decline. 113 IIIB. THE EARLY YEARS: 1840-1850 Three major factors shaped Eastville’s growth: race, access to income and credit, and kinship. Its early population makes the importance of race clear. Following several families from their previous locations, both within and outside of Sag Harbor, indicates that people moved to the neighborhood specifically to be part of an economically thriving community of color. By 1850, William H. and Wealthy Cuffee had moved to Eastville from the Southampton side of Sag Harbor (USC 1840, 1850). A deed indicates that another earlier Southampton-side resident, Samuel Solomon, had purchased land in Eastville prior to 1850 (Suffolk County 1850). Solomon’s first wife Mehitabel and daughter Elizabeth have red sandstone memorials surviving in the Old Burying Ground, behind the church where he and Mehitabel were married in 1803. The location of the burials of Samuel and his second wife Hannah are unknown, but as Hannah later sold land for the St. David’s cemetery in Eastville, it is possible that they rest there (Suffolk County 1857). Solomon also lived near, but not next to, two other people of color and their households, Achilles Prince and Benjamin Butler (Eichholz & Rose 2009); others with these last names, potential descendants or relatives, also lived and were buried in Eastville’s cemetery in the latter half of the century. Since they were already living in Sag Harbor, the only incentive for them to move to Eastville would have been to be near the church and growing community. Other early settlers migrated from nearby towns. Some, like Charles and Huldah Plato, Fina Stoves, Noah Williams, and Lucy Crook, had last names that appeared among people of color in East Hampton and Southampton, indicating regional roots (USC 1840). Historians of Shelter Island note an exodus of African Americans after the end of slavery in 1827, due perhaps to a hostile environment or a lack of available land, and Sag Harbor was one of their destinations (Griswold 2013). Elymus Derby and David Hempstead both moved to Sag Harbor as part of this regional migration (USC 1840; Griswold, personal communication 2013). 114 Derby had married a woman variously identified as “Hepsibah,” “Zipporah,” and “Tipporah” from Shelter Island, according to the records of landowner Comus Fanning, but moved to Sag Harbor (Griswold, personal communication 2013). By 1830, the Derbys lived on the Southampton side of the village with their four young children, Austin, Caroline, Margaret, and Jane (Probate case file 6691 1869; Eichholz & Rose 2009). By 1840, he lived in Eastville on the East Hampton side, moving across town like the Solomons and Cuffees (USC 1840). He soon became involved with the AME Zion church, serving as a trustee in the 1850s (St. David AME Zion Church 1840-1939; Suffolk County 1857). David Hempstead followed a similar path. He was the namesake of his father, who had been an enslaved man in Southold, emancipated in 1804. The will of his owner included “freedom and 10 pounds to negro David” (Wheat 1997 [1930]). The elder David then purchased a farm on Shelter Island and raised his family there. Hempsteads made up a significant portion of Shelter Island’s tiny Black population after 1827, with one family, James and Rachael’s, remaining there through the 1860s, and two younger households forming in the 1870s (USC 1850, 1860, 1870). David Hempstead the younger, however, moved south to Sag Harbor, becoming a major advocate and supporter of the AME Zion Church there (Van Buren [n.d]; USC 1840; St. David AME Zion Church 1840-1939; Zaykowski 1991). These stories indicate that for people of color living in white-dominated areas, from Shelter Island with its history of plantation slavery to the greater village of Sag Harbor itself, Eastville became a welcoming space for people of African and Native American ancestry. At the same time, the maritime economy remained an important factor that made household formation possible. According to the federal census, around one third of all households in Eastville included maritime laborers from 1840 to 1880. This number is a low estimate, given that whaling logs and crew lists identify additional men who went whaling, or show that some people listed in the census as “laborers” also went 115 sailing during their lives. Additionally, some men founded households in Eastville based on earlier careers in whaling that connected them to others in the neighborhood. For instance, Frank Youngs was an African American sailor who lived in Eastville with his wife Huldah and their young daughter in 1840 (USC 1840). In the early 1830s, he had sailed on multiple voyages of the whaling ship Phenix out of Sag Harbor, earning long lays as a cook and seaman. On one voyage, he sailed with William Prime, one of the first trustees of the St David AME Zion Church (Log 207 1830-1831; Log 208 1831). In 1850, sailor John Sterling lived with the Youngs, and whaler Amos Johnson lived with whaler Nathaniel Cuffee and his wife, before independent Sterling and Johnson households took root in the village (USC 1850, 1860). These maritime connections indicate that young whalers strove to build up enough wealth to set up their own households in Eastville, and that their economic strategies depended on building social ties on top of occupational ones. Sag Harbor’s whaling industry peaked in the 1840s, and during the first decades of its decline, Eastville’s population began to stabilize. The Gold Rush in 1849 was the turning point, after which ships began to sail out without returning, or to be sold to owners in New Bedford and other ports. Even though a number of men from Eastville continued sailing into the 1880s, with many switching to coastal shipping, the high but shrinking rates of turnover in households recorded in the decennial census between 1840, 1850, and 1860 likely reflect this instability (Table 2.1). I consider “new” households to be ones in which none of the members were living in Eastville at the time of the previous census. Households with members who were earlier residents are considered persistent even if other members were different or the recorded household head had changed, since family composition is likely to vary when measured in ten year increments, and new household heads from the same family are indicators of longevity rather than population turnover. 116 Only three of the Black or Native American households living in Eastville for the 1840 census stayed in the neighborhood until 1850 or 1860: the Platos, Youngs, and Lucy Crook (David Hempstead was not counted in 1850, but reappeared in 1860 and beyond). This meant about half of the families stayed during a decade in which 22 new households moved in. The decade from 1850 to 1860 saw slightly slower growth and lower turnover as the whaling industry began its decline, with seven households leaving, seventeen staying, and twelve new households appearing. These rates decreased even further in the next ten years, with seven fewer households in 1870 than 1860, sixteen from previous years, and six new ones established. The total number of 22 households of people of color held steady for the following decade, with fifteen persistent households and seven new ones. These numbers indicate that the neighborhood changed drastically as multiple factors attracted new settlers in the 1840s, and people continued to move in and out at high rates throughout the 1850s, perhaps following successes and failures in Sag Harbor’s quickly changing economy. However, from 1860 to 1880, most families had put down roots in Eastville and remained there even as the whaling industry dwindled (Fig. 3.2). Many had founded households during the boom years and raised children there who were becoming adults themselves, and they had made their neighborhood into a settled community. 117 Figure 3.2 Growth of Eastville neighborhood according to Wall & Forrest (1854), Beers (1873), E. Belcher Hyde (1902), and J. Edward Gay (1916) maps. Images: EHLIC, Suffolk County Clerk Historic Documents Room. IIIC. CREDIT, PROPERTY, AND PERMANENCE, 1850-1880 Mortgage records, real estate recorded in the census, tax assessments, maps, deeds, and probate inventories show that owning housing and land were significant factors in household stability over generations. These historical sources are not always consistent with each other, which indicates that each may be missing individuals or using different criteria, so it is necessary to draw them all together and weigh them against each other to try to put together incomplete histories of property ownership among African Americans and Native Americans. Nevertheless, taken as a group, they show people’s slow, steady, and not always successful efforts to make their households in Eastville more permanent through the purchase of land. Only a few people of color owned property in Eastville from 1850 to 1859, combining real property listed in the census and deeds: Elymus Derby, Esther J. Green, 118 Mary Jupiter, John Jupiter, Thomas Cuffee, Wealthy Cuffee, Sarah Cuffee, Charles Plato, and George Sherwood (Suffolk County 1850, 1851a, 1852, 1857b, 1857c, 1857d; USC 1850, 1860). In the 1860s, these sources indicate that fifteen additional people had real estate, and eleven more had joined them by 1870 (USC 1860, 1870). Taken alone, these numbers indicate that most households in Eastville were able to own their own properties, but that land ownership lagged at least a decade behind settlement. This reflects both recording practices and means of obtaining property. The census was most inclusive in its recording of real estate, while tax assessments included fewer households. In 1869, the town of East Hampton only assessed taxes on the properties of five Black and Native American households from Eastville,3 in 1873 only seven were taxed, and not until 1883 did eighteen households or individuals own taxable property (East Hampton Assessors 1869, 1873, 1883). This discrepancy may be an indication that the census counted people with mortgages as owners of real estate, while the tax collectors did not until the residents outright owned their houses or land. Searching through Suffolk County mortgage records, I was unable to locate any Hempsteads, only one Cuffee, and one Jupiter in any nineteenth century transactions, and indeed, heads of most households in Eastville do not appear. Clearly, some people did become land owners without mortgage loans, and some whaling families likely built their houses with cash. However, others were reliant on the availability of credit in Sag Harbor. Several families took out mortgages in Eastville years before other sources recorded that they owned property. For instance, Charles Plato and Samuel Butler both took out mortgages in the 1840s, but the census only listed them as property owners in 1860, and neither ever appeared on the tax assessment lists. These mortgages must have been investments in long term stability in the neighborhood, but their frequent renewal and exchange show 3The tax assessments also recorded a Black man named Thomas Davis as the owner of a house lot in Sag Harbor, but census records all indicate that he and other Davis households lived in the Freetown area of East Hampton, and I have found no other sources corroborating his presence, so I have excluded him from these numbers. 119 that housing was also subject to financial risk and insecurity. Butler was involved in five later mortgage transactions, the last in 1888, while Plato took out a second mortgage in 1855 (Suffolk County 1845, 1848, 1855, 1858, 1860, 1867, 1886, 1888). Plato and his wife later lived in Eastville with their daughter Harriet, her husband Solomon Brown, and at one point, the parents of another daughter’s husband. Solomon Brown owned the property by 1883, but he and Harriet were involved in over two dozen mortgage transactions between 1884 and 1892 with a number of different individuals and one bank (East Hampton Assessors 1883, Suffolk County 1884-1892). This flurry of activity indicates that the family experienced financial difficulties in holding on to their land. Without credit, they might not have been able to settle in Eastville at all, but without sufficient sources of income to pay off loans, credit created vicious cycles of debt. Nevertheless, mortgages enabled some of the Platos’ neighbors to establish greater financial security for their children and even grandchildren. African American whaler Miles Ashman and boatman Charles Atkins took out mortgages with the wealthy East Hampton landowners Arnold Van Scoy and Philander Jennings in 1856 and 1865, two of the four men who held most of Eastville’s land before it was settled (Suffolk County 1856, 1865). They were both present in tax lists by 1869 (East Hampton Assessors 1869). George P. Consor and his wife Eliza took out a mortgage in 1851 and were landowners in 1870 and 1873 (Suffolk County 1851b; USC 1870; East Hampton Assessors 1873). Mortgages help to explain some of the discrepancy between the census and tax lists and the slow growth of property ownership in comparison to residence. However, the records for mortgages in Eastville are so sparse, representing only 12 different families from 1843 to 1893, that they do not account for the low rates of property ownership in the tax assessments before 1883. This gap may simply indicate years of economic struggle involved in purchasing a house lot for most families, who may have rented housing or made more informal arrangements with landowners. It may also be a 120 sign of change in the community’s character that was associated with the rates of household turnover discussed above. Most of the households that remained in Eastville from 1850 through 1870, the years when the census recorded the most growth and change, were the ones in which household heads owned property by 1860, 1870, or 1883. Perhaps property ownership was not something everyone strove for when they were moving into a bustling city during the peak years of the whaling era, but rather, a multi-year effort that some families made consciously in order to invest in setting down roots in this community even after the port’s economy began to suffer. Both the short term attraction of economic opportunity, and the longer term importance of a community of color centered on the church, shaped the neighborhood’s early growth. It was the second factor that led to multigenerational persistence, along with important connections of kinship and faith. IV. FROM NEIGHBORHOOD TO COMMUNITY: KINSHIP, FICTIVE AND REAL Studies in the anthropology of migration show that cross-culturally, ethnic diaspora communities often develop around family anchors, rather than being randomly distributed across target nations or communities (Anthony 1990). The strong connections between the first Native American and African American settlers in Eastville, the church, and many of the households that formed there after 1840 intimate how ties of both real kinship and brotherhood in Christ drove the growth of the neighborhood. The following sections will provide examples of these links from Eastville’s history, including but not limited to three large families whose history paralleled and shaped their community’s. Members of the extended Plato, Quaw, and Cuffee families introduced here will reappear throughout this dissertation in discussions of kinship networks, maritime labor, and material culture. Appendix 1 lays out their family trees during the nineteenth century for easy reference. 121 IVA. FICTIVE KINSHIP AND FAITH COMMUNITY The families of the three founders of the St. David AME Zion Church, Charles Plato, Lewis Cuffee, and William Prime, exemplify the importance of kinship and faith in building a new community across ethnic and geographic lines. The church was an important source of connection between families in Eastville and between residents and people of color who traveled to attend. Founder William Prime’s family exemplifies these links. William Prime was most likely a man with African ancestry living in the town of Southampton, according to census records in which he is listed as “Black” (USC 1850, 1860). His surname might be related to Primus, the last name of two enslaved brothers mentioned in a local newspaper in 1824, when one of them attempted to emancipate himself and the other left to join him (Marcus 1988: 16). He also had a whaling background, appearing in the crew list of the Phenix as a “negro” in 1831 with Shinnecock cook Anaziah Cuffee (Log 207 1830-1841). Despite his residence in Southampton, he and his family traveled to stay involved in the church, and it appears that his son and namesake resided in Eastville around 1850 (USC 1850). The material illustration of this connection is the Prime “family” plot and monument in the St. David AME Zion Cemetery, which commemorates eleven people: seven Primes, including William, his wife, and their three sons, as well as four people with the surnames Nicoll, Denham, and Pierson. Rachel Pierson’s maiden name was Prime (St. David AME Zion Church 1840-1839), but I have not yet been able to trace the relationships of the Nicolls and Denhams to the Primes. A Dunham family lived on the Southampton side of Sag Harbor, and Nicoll was a common family name on Shelter Island and the South Fork. Their presence in the cemetery shows the importance of relationships in defining space in Eastville: non-residents became part of the community and permanently marked its landscapes through their membership in the church and their relationships with founder William Prime. 122 Church membership and activity linked people who were related by blood with their neighbors, as a pair of 1859 letters to the Sag Harbor Corrector illustrate with flair (Fig. 3.3). 123 Figure 3.3 Sag Harbor Corrector, Sag Harbor, NY, February 5, 1859, p. 5. 124 Eight women were responsible for the event these articles describe: the three sisters Eliza Consor, Helen Ashman, and Frances Cuffee, their Native American neighbor Wealthy Johnson, and three Black women, Mary Atkins, Ellen Copes, Phebe Jupiter, and Esther Green. They were members of the “Associated Sisters,” a women’s benevolent organization of the AME Zion Church. Wealthy Johnson’s brother James L. Cuffee had apparently insulted them, casting aspersions on the legality of their marriages, and in light of this “provocation, slander, and reckless abuse,” the women struck back (Consor et al. 1859). According to an anonymous writer, who said he was one of twenty or thirty bystanders sympathetic to the women, they had decided that Cuffee deserved “a good flogging” (“Spectator” 1859). As the women reported, they only used “weapons...such as ladies use in their skirts, some apple tree switches (previously prepared in the fire), a leather strap, etc” (Consor et al. 1859). Although Cuffee tried to defend himself with an eel spear, he was disarmed, and he held on to a fence while receiving his punishment like “an unruly boy” (“Spectator” 1859). Women and men of the church also worked together in numerous more positive endeavors, but this 1859 event exemplifies how church associations developed into relationships between neighbors that united Native Americans and African Americans across ethnic lines. Wealthy Johnson sided with the other women against her own brother James (probate case file no. 4193 1857). The end of the women’s letter also hinted at a grudge they held against King Ward for supporting James, calling Ward “that great big man...formerly known as the king of the north west swamp.” Three of the signatories were the sisters of Ward’s wife Lydia (Directory [1860s?]). This is not to imply that petty fights split families apart, but to observe that religious and gender- based associations helped to make the neighborhood into a community by cross-cutting blood and marriage relationships. The church also contributed to community growth during and after the decline of the whaling industry. From the 1860s through the 1880s, Eastville’s population 125 remained steady and its African American population in particular rose (USC 1860, 1870, 1880). The church welcomed ministers from a national (and in some cases international) religious organization of people of color, including one from Virginia and one from San Domingo (St. David AME Zion Church 1840-1939). After the Civil War, African Americans began to migrate in large numbers from southern states to the north, and as a port that was easily accessible on coastal shipping lines, Sag Harbor became a destination site for a few families. For instance, Smith, Lucinda, and Emma Langford moved from Virginia to the North Haven area of Southampton, where Smith worked in a fish factory; they moved to Eastville when they purchased the deceased Elymus Derby’s property in 1887 (USC 1880; Suffolk County 1887). Although a number of individuals who moved to Sag Harbor did not have preexisting family ties there, the existence of both the AME Zion Church and a permanent community of color created an attractive, safe space for African Americans setting up homes in the informally segregated north, while distributions of wealth and racial demography elsewhere in Sag Harbor might have constrained them from other areas. Similarly, in East Hampton, Robert Montgomery from Virginia and Thomas Banks from North Carolina found a place in Freetown’s existing community of color, and Montgomery married Mary or Meribel Quaw, a local woman of Montaukett descent who had spent time in Eastville as a child (USC 1850, 1870, 1880; Appendix 1). The Quaw-Montgomery family built new attachments to Eastville over this old one, since not only did some of Mary’s relatives remain in the neighborhood, but Robert became a trustee of St David’s in 1890 and 1904 (St. David AME Zion Church 1840-1939). These examples show the AME Zion Church and the community that it represented drew from a larger area than the developing neighborhood of Eastville itself, and that Native Americans aligned themselves with African Americans, due to shared experiences as people of color, to set up institutions combating the racism they both faced. Even in the early twentieth century, people’s experiences in Sag Harbor 126 involved such close associations between race, religion, and location that the church record itself referred to its members and the residents of Eastville as “colored people” without further divisions. IVB. FAMILY TIES AND HOUSEHOLD PERSISTENCE Charles Plato exemplifies the ambiguity of ethnic identifications and the stability that kinship connections provided amidst economic instability. All historical records identify Plato as “colored” or “black,” but Native American genealogical sources claim Plato as a Montaukett family name in East Hampton, and his son Silas married into the Native American Quaw family (USC 1840, 1860; Stone 1993; Appendix 1). Plato and his wife Huldah lived in Eastville from 1850 through 1870, where he worked as a laborer and they raised their daughter Harriet (USC 1850, 1860, 1870). When she grew up, they lived with her and her husband Sidney Brown, and in 1865, with their son-in-law’s parents Peter and Triphenia Quaw and their two children in the same house (NYS 1865; USC 1880). The earlier discussion of mortgages shows that the Platos, and then the Browns, likely had financial difficulties living in Eastville that they addressed through loans on their house. They may have adopted the compound household model in the 1860s and 1870s, during the aging phase of their household cycle, in part to combat insecurity through the cooperation of adults of multiple generations. Finally, church founder Lewis Cuffee became the patriarch of three generations of Cuffees living in Eastville, even though he lived on a farm in rural East Hampton himself (Appendix 1). The Cuffees are one of many Native American families whose identities the census clearly failed to recognize. Lewis and his wife Lucinda were enumerated as “persons of color” or “mulatto” (USC 1840, 1860, 1870). However, their surname is a Native American marker on Long Island (see p. 52), Lucinda had a definite Montaukett genealogy, and their children and grandchildren identified as members of both the Montaukett and Shinnecock tribes based on descent (Stone 1983, 1993). Lewis 127 also identified solidly with “colored people” more broadly, as the leader of the three local founders of the AME Zion Church (St. David AME Zion Church 1840-1939). Lewis and Lucinda had nine children (Directory [1860s?]; Probate case file 15695 1873; Probate case file 14199 1868). Seven of them spent their adult lives in Eastville, marrying within and across ethnic lines, voyaging on whaling ships, staying involved with the AME Zion Church, and establishing long-lived households that made up much of the core of Eastville’s nineteenth century community. Their son Jason, who worked as a whaler, married a Native American woman named Louisa4. They lived on Liberty St., at the center of Eastville, and raised seven children of their own: Ellen Brown, Christopher Cuffee, Lewis Cuffee, Melanathan Cuffee, Nathan J. Cuffee, Amelia L. Halsey, and Hannah J. Todd (Beers 1873; E. Belcher & Hyde 1902; probate case file 17143 1906). After Jason’s death in 1872 at age 53, Nathan remained in the family home with his mother Louisa for another decade. Louisa died in 1906, and she passed the house on to her descendants (ECHS historian Kathleen Tucker 2012, personal communication). Meanwhile, her daughter Amelia lived two houses down the street with her own family, and Amelia’s children Emma and Walter were active in Montaukett affairs in the early twentieth century (USC 1880; Stone 1993). Jason Cuffee’s brother Aaron lived in East Hampton and later on Shelter Island rather than in Sag Harbor. His sister Sarah had a light presence in documentary records – although a Sarah Cuffee was listed as an Eastville residence in 1850, it appears that she lived elsewhere in East Hampton in 1860 and possibly in Indian Fields in 1865 (USC 1850, 1860; NYS 1865). The other six sisters were all neighbors in Eastville (“Directory” [1860s?]). Frances Cuffee married Shinnecock whaler Nathaniel Cuffee, and they bought land in 4Sources disagree on whether her name was Louisa Cotton Cuffee and she was a Narragansett woman from New England (Stone 1993 after Red Thunder Cloud c. 1940s), whether she was the daughter of Sag Harbor resident Hannah Thomas (probate case file 5582 1863), or whether both are true. Her gravestone says h er middle initial was R., not C. 128 Eastville, where she was buried in 1883. Louisa, too, married a Shinnecock whaler and lived on Eastville Ave, near the church (probate case file 14199 1898)5. Helen lived on Liberty Street near Jason with her husband Miles Ashman, a whaler whom the census identifies as “Black,” and worked as a domestic servant and a hotel waitress while raising their children Charles and Maria (USC 1850, 1860, 1870, 1880; E. Belcher & Hyde 1902; NBWM 2012). Maria grew up to live on Liberty Street with her husband William Crippen and their children, a fourth generation of Cuffee descendants. A third sister, Mary Walker, was the wife of Shinnecock career whaler Moses S. Walker6. By their early forties, Moses and Mary Walker moved from the Shinnecock reservation to an independent household in Eastville (NYS 1865; USC 1870, 1880). Although Moses had a successful maritime career, rising to an officer position in New Bedford in the 1880s, he and Mary suffered a great deal of personal tragedy in Eastville. There, their two sons Frederick and William were buried in the cemetery of the St. David AME Zion Church as children, and their son Moses W. died at eighteen in 1884. Moses the elder himself was lost on an Arctic voyage in the 1880s (Shoemaker [2012]). Faith must have helped Mary to survive these losses, as she was received into the AME Zion Church “by letter” in the 1890s, and the church record describes her as “a consistent Christian” (St. David AME Zion Church 1840-1939). Family nearby must have also provided much-needed support and understanding. Her sisters Lydia and Eliza also lost children at young ages. Lydia had married Unkechaug whaler King Ward – previously introduced as “King of the Northwest Swamp” (Consor et al. 1859) - and lived on Hempstead St. at the north end of Eastville (Strong 2001). Her children Julia, Wilber, and Charles apparently lived to adulthood, but four others - Lewis, William, Hattie, and Frank – died young in the 1860s 5 Frances Cuffee only appears as related in one source, an undated post office directory for Sag Harbor. I include her here with these stated reservations. 6 The names and dates match, but Mary was a common name, there wer e multiple Shinnecock Walker families, and I have found no record of the marriage itself, so this identification is likely but not definitive. 129 and 1870s. They are buried next to each other in the Oakland Cemetery in Sag Harbor. Their plot is near the Consors’, which memorializes Lydia’s sister Eliza and her family. Eliza had married George Prince Consor, a whaler identified in historical sources as Black (possibly a relative of Pyrrhus Concer of Southampton, famous as the first African American mariner to visit Japan) (USC 1850, 1860, 1870, 1880). George and Eliza lived on a tiny lot on Hempstead St., several houses southeast of Lydia’s, and had several children. Sadly, none of their children outlived Eliza: John and Annie died under two years old in the 1850s and 1860s, Eddie died at 10 years old in 1862, Huldah and Sammie died around 5 in 1861 and 1872, Ellen died at age 29 in 1877, Mary died at 33 in 1885, William died at 30 in 1893, and George L., also a whaler, was lost at sea around 1890 (probate case file 11917 1891). George P. Consor himself lived until 1894, and Eliza survived him for three more years until 1897. All of them except for George L. are memorialized on a large marble obelisk in the Oakland Cemetery. Despite their large family, after Eliza’s death, her nephew Charles Ashman was the closest living relative who could administer her estate (probate case file 14199 1897). The stories of Lewis and Lucinda Cuffee and their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren all exemplify important ways in which kinship was a foundation of community in Eastville and an element of household longevity despite the decline of whaling. First, the roots that the founding generation established in the church, combined with the work opportunities of whaling in Sag Harbor, were strong enough to inspire three of their eight children – Jason, Eliza, and Frances – to establish households there by 1850. These family bonds were strong enough that another three followed by 1860. Relationships between women appeared especially important, as the three who moved after 1850 were all sisters moving close to other sisters, and Jason’s wife Louisa lived near her mother Hannah Thomas in Eastville for at least ten years as well. By 1883, all six siblings or their spouses owned taxable property in Eastville, indicating that they saw it as a permanent home rather than a place to move while good work opportunities 130 were available (East Hampton Assessors 1883). In the third generation, Amelia and Walter Halsey, Maria Crippen and her brother Charles Ashman, and Nathan Cuffee stayed in Sag Harbor after the deaths of their fathers, the men sailing into the 1880s and the women raising children near their mothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins (USC 1880). This pattern of residence near female relatives demonstrates the importance of women as stable family leaders in Shinnecock and Montaukett culture, a role they fulfilled through necessity in households with men at sea. By the close of the nineteenth century, most of the young descendants of this extended family were beginning to leave Sag Harbor, looking for better opportunities in bigger cities like New York, Hartford, and Boston, or setting down roots on the Shinnecock reservation (e.g. probate case file 17143 1906). The persistent presence of this family from the foundation of the church in 1840, through the establishment of young nuclear households in the 1850s and 1860s, to the birth and eventual dispersal of most great-grandchildren by the turn of the twentieth century, show that kinship played a major role in both attracting households to Sag Harbor and in keeping them there through decades of economic decline and shrinking opportunity. The Cuffee descendants were not the only extended family in Eastville, and the practice of living near relatives, especially female ones, was not limited to Native Americans (Fig. 3.4). The African American Jupiter family maintained three households in the third quarter of the nineteenth century. Brother and sister David Hempstead and Esther Green both moved to Eastville before 1850, and they passed on property to their daughters, Mary Hempstead, Mary Green, Sarah or Cynthia Green, Priscilla Green, Susan Green, Ida May Green, and Christina Stewart. Most of these women never married and remained in Eastville – as did Christina with her husband (USC 1850, 1860, 1870, 1880). Today there are living residents of Sag Harbor who still remember meeting Mary Hempstead and Christina Stewart in the 1940s (Tobier 2007; Shirley Ford, resident, personal communication 2012). In contrast to the Platos and Browns, who had strong 131 family and social connections in Eastville but had difficulty holding on to their home, the combination of nearby relatives and successful property ownership and transmission among these families made this intergenerational longevity possible. Figure 3.4 Nineteenth century family networks in Eastville This combination also enabled these families to put more permanent markers in graveyards than many others: they are responsible for three out of four of the family obelisks for people of color in local cemeteries (cf. Chapter 5). The Cuffees, Consors, and Wards all have adjacent family plots in Sag Harbor’s Oakland Cemetery, and gravestones for members of their family make up 19 out of the 22 monuments for people of color in that section. As described above, the Primes had a large group monument surrounded by individual markers in the St. David AME Zion Cemetery, and the Hempsteads and Greens also shared a family obelisk with seven individual markers surrounding it. Kinship shaped both the residential and memorial landscapes of Sag Harbor. 132 IVC. EXPANDING FAMILIES New families reshaped and expanded kinship networks in Eastville. Marital choice was another form of agency through which people of color negotiated American racial hierarchies and created their own complex family and individual identities. I do not offer a statistical overview of marriages by ethnicity because it would be inaccurate to assume people’s experiences of identity matched up with single historical or contemporary categories. First, the documentary record is unreliable and incomplete. Narrowing down race and ethnicity within households is difficult because most census enumerators always listed all people of color within a household with the same racial terms: in Eastville, this usually meant all “black,” or all “mulatto,” even for families of known Native American ancestry. Identifying people of Native American descent often requires historical back-tracking from twentieth century genealogies or the political statements of their children (especially those collected in Stone 1983 and Stone 1993), statements from living descendants (e.g. Pharaoh in Tobier 2007 and Haile 2013), or piecing together extended family histories from probate records. In contrast, people whom historical documents only refer to as “colored” or “Black” may be labeled “African American” by default. This is problematic because it requires positive evidence for Indian ethnicity and an absence of evidence for African Americans. Second, being conscious of this ambiguity makes it impossible to ignore an even more significant issue: that people’s lived experiences of race and ethnicity diverge from census records and other historical categories, or take shape in different ways according to circumstance. This means that simply listing households as African American, Native American, or racially or ethnically mixed misses out on the creativity and complexity of identity among people living in an ethnically diverse community of color. Returning to the example of the children of Lewis and Lucinda Cuffee, several of these Shinnecock/Montaukett siblings in Eastville married out of tribal or racial bounds. 133 While Louisa, Frances, and Mary married Shinnecock men,7 Jason married an Indian woman who may have been Narragansett, and Lydia married an Unkechaug man. One of Lydia’s descendants, author Olivia Ward Bush-Banks, also wrote about her identity as a woman of both Native American and African American descent (Page 2003). Many of her Montaukett cousins shared this biracial experience. Her aunt Eliza’s husband George Prince Consor is identified as Black in all historical records, and her aunt Helen’s husband Miles Ashman is variously described as “mulatto,” “black,” or in one crew list, “skin yellow, hair woolly” (USC 1850, 1860; NBWM 2012). The 1870 census says that Helen’s son-in-law William Crippen was a Black man from Virginia. Would Louisa, Frances, Mary, Jason, and Lydia all have felt they had married within their own group, despite different tribal affiliations? Marriages between different tribal communities have long been traditional among Algonquians in the region, which means that by the whaling era many Native Americans on Long Island had roots and relatives in multiple tribes. Would Eliza, Helen, and Maria have considered their relationships “interracial,” or would they have thought in terms of being people of color, i.e. racially similar albeit ethnically distinct? Was there any tension within this family, or in neighboring households, over the incorporation of African Americans into Native kinship networks? These questions are impossible to answer based on the spatial and demographic data available today, but it is clear that both they and their children formed their identities within the context of multiple forms of community. Cross-tribal marriages gave many people of Native descent membership in multiple tribal nations; Jason’s children Nathan and Amelia and Helen’s children Charles and Maria became advocates for both Shinnecock and Montaukett land claims and legal rights in the twentieth 7Haile (2013) describes exogamous marriage as the Shinnecock and Montaukett norm, and notes that tribal designations, often passed on matrilineally, might have been most helpful in preventing people from marrying too closely. Although the grandchildren of Lewis and Lucinda were active in both tribes, if they followed this guideline, they would have avoided Montaukett partners as too closely related to their mother. 134 century (Stone 1993). Family occasions and funerals were also likely settings for recognizing Native American roots. In Eastville, they were also were active in the church, and their husbands and sons went whaling through the 1880s with other Black and Indian sailors - public circumstances in which they might have recognized their affiliation with people of color in general (USC 1880; “Crew Lists” 1877-1881; NBWM 2012; Shoemaker [2012]). These cases of households containing more than one tribal, ethnic, or racial label are highly representative of nineteenth century Eastville. Continuing inter-tribal marriages in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries contributed to the growth of a regional pan-Indian identity (Mandell 2008). Inter-ethnic marriages resulted in the incorporation of African Americans into Native families. In households without known Native ancestry, some African Americans also married others with different geographical backgrounds and thus varying experiences of race. For instance, Sarah Jupiter Parker, daughter of an African American whaling family from Eastville, married John Parker, a minister from Maryland or Virginia, while a neighboring minister, James Ray from San Domingo, married a Black woman from Rhode Island (USC 1870, 1880). In general, marriages in Eastville did not cross the racialized white/non-white divide, and of course some people married others of similar backgrounds. However, the umbrella categories of “colored,” “black,” and “mulatto” could also mask significant multiculturalism within single lines of descent and across marital lines. The growth of families made up of people from different backgrounds created new and intimate contexts for people to work out the ambiguities of race and ethnicity. The intersection of different geographical, occupational, religious, and genealogical networks in Sag Harbor meant that social identity was especially flexible and layered there. Rather than giving a single racial or ethnic label primacy, residents could decide whether to identify as citizens of Sag Harbor, as Christians, as mariners or laborers, or with their racial or tribal communities in different company and contexts. In 135 everyday public life, common ground between neighbors, co-workers, church members, and friends may have taken precedence for most, while more diverse ethnic identities persisted at home and in contexts of tribal community leadership. IVD. MEMORY AND MULTICULTURALISM In local memory today, Eastville was both the “colored neighborhood” and a multicultural space in which white people and people of color lived together in community and in peace. The early settlement history of this neighborhood reveals that this convergence occurred during the neighborhood’s expansion around 1850, but the area played a different role within Sag Harbor for local Black and Indian families and European immigrants over the following decades. Just after 1850, the few English and Irish families in Eastville lived in the northern area of the neighborhood, on the north side of Hempstead Street (USC 1850, 1860; Wall & Forrest 1854). African American and Native American families were more spread out. David and Mary Hempsted, Eliza and George Consor, Lydia and King Ward, Samuel Butler, and one branch of the Ward family lived on the south side of Hempstead Street, in close proximity to the white families across the street. Many other people of color lived south of the the church and in the geographical center of the neighborhood, along Eastville Ave, Liberty, and Hampton Streets. There was no pattern of geographical separation between Native American and African American families. The neighborhood was never segregated, but even the weak dividing line of Hempstead Street ceased to serve as a de facto racial boundary within a generation. Between 1850 and 1870, the already small neighborhood filled out from these two connected northern and southern cores, confirming the local memory of Eastville as multicultural space (USC 1870; Beers 1873; E. Belcher & Hyde 1902). However, people of color and white families migrated to and from Eastville in different ways, indicating that the area played different roles that corresponded to racial divisions. In addition to the four original Euro-American families, census records show 136 that only three new white families moved to Eastville in 1850, and only one was still in residence in 1860. One more with an Irish name had arrived by 1860 and one Irish family by 1870; again, only one stayed a decade. Few Euro-American families moved in until the opening of the Fahys watch case factory in the 1880s, when Fahys hired numerous Eastern European immigrants over local people of color (Pine 1973). In contrast, the neighborhood clearly acted as an anchor for Native American and African American families in and around Sag Harbor throughout the late nineteenth century. Even though the neighborhood itself was racially diverse, patterns of household formation in Eastville reflected the “Black/White” color line that uniquely affected non- white families. V. MATERIAL REFLECTIONS OF COMMUNITY CHANGE Eastville’s houses and gravestones also reflect its life cycle as a growing, stable, and aging community of color during and after the whaling era. The neighborhood’s architecture differentiated working class households from the wealthier families who owned significant assets during the whaling period, and by the late nineteenth century, working class and wealthy housing styles diverged even further. In both residential streets and cemeteries, the families who remained in Eastville after the decline of whaling became its most visible residents in the material landscape by building additions to their homes and investing in family plots. Sag Harbor’s early architecture was considered modest, with an “appearance of thrift” (Gobrecht & LaFrank 1994: 26). The most common house type from 1800-1835 was the one to two and a half story, three bay “half house,” a more affordable and modest version of the classic symmetrical Georgian house (Pine 1973; Gobrecht & LaFrank 1994). Many had clapboard facing the street and shingles on the other three sides. Most early nineteenth century houses did not follow discrete styles or national chronologies. Instead, local architects and builders incorporated ideas from traditions 137 including local vernacular, Georgian, and Federalist architecture. Some houses included and mixed decorative elements like door frames, porticoes and fanlights, and pilasters from different fashions, while many attached these elements to more traditional local architectural forms (Pine 1973). Sag Harbor’s reliance on a few builders, and isolation from larger and more fashionable city centers, means that housing was a relatively weak marker of economic and social status compared to its role in other regions like Virginia, Maryland, or New York. Another factor confusing architecture and social status was the popularity of moving houses on the South Fork of Long Island. Moving houses from one location to another was popular and common until the early twentieth century (Tobier 2007). Purchasing a ready-made house could be cheaper than building a new one for those looking to establish homes, creating a local market for extra houses or even portions of houses (McDonald 2001). Local oral histories say that several of the nineteenth century houses in Eastville, including those of several Native American and African American whaling family homes on Liberty Street, were all homes or second floors of homes moved from elsewhere in Sag Harbor (Fig. 3.5) (Tobier 2007, Tucker personal communication 2012). These houses, which were first the homes of Miles and Helen Ashman, Louisa and Jason Cuffee, and members of Esther Green’s family, fit well with Sag Harbor’s modest vernacular architecture (Wall & Forrest 1854; U.S. Dept. of the Census 1870; Beers 1873; E. Belcher & Hyde 1902). They were shingled wood-framed houses of 1-1.5 stories. Most of these examples had pitched roofs, i.e. roofs running parallel to the main ridge of the house, and side entrances, while one was a three bay half house with the façade under the roof’s gable. This latter style only became popular in Sag Harbor after the 1830s. Other Eastville houses from the later nineteenth and turn of the twentieth century mixed traditional and popular styles (Gobrecht & LaFrank 1994). For example, the Hempstead family home on Hampton Street and a late nineteenth century home that belonged to Samuel and Clara Butler and later Jane Perdue were both examples of 138 shingled or clapboard three bay half houses with pitched roofs, while the Atkins house on the corner of Eastville and Hampton St was a shingled one story five bay house with a pitched roof (E. Belcher & Hyde 1902). Figure 3.5 Mid-nineteenth century houses on Liberty St. In contrast, the houses of wealthier families along Sag Harbor’s main street, and even on Division Street just north of Eastville, did differentiate whaling owners and merchants from other working and middle-class residents. After a major fire in 1817, which destroyed many homes along the waterfront, Sag Harbor rebuilt and expanded 139 with whaling profits in the 1820s through the 1840s. Greek Revival became the town’s most popular architectural style – though still mixed with older or newer elements – and shaped the town’s appearance even after the whaling period (Pine 1973: 23). Eastville’s homes do not reflect these changes in architectural fashion. While the mere existence of property ownership and household independence does illustrate the economic gains people of color made in the whaling era, their appearance would have contrasted the few but noticeable homes and mansions of whaling magnates to residents making frequent trips between Eastville and the docks, or to travelers on the turnpike connecting East Hampton and Sag Harbor. From the 1870s onward, Sag Harbor’s economic fortunes became tied to tourism, and it experienced a physical expansion of both working class and wealthy architecture. The Long Island Railroad reached Sag Harbor in 1872, and steamboats between New York City and Sag Harbor ran regularly beginning in the late 1860s, so summer travelers from New York drew population back to the struggling town both seasonally and permanently (Gobrecht & LaFrank 1994: 65-67). Many formerly wealthy whaling families rented out their large properties as boardinghouses, while people of middling and high income levels built summer homes. The more impressive examples of architecture included large summer homes and new boardinghouses in Italianate, Victorian Gothic, and Queen Anne styles (Pine 1973). Sag Harbor’s working class homes also expanded and changed in the last decades of the nineteenth century. Reflecting the importance of extended family support in the declining years of the whaling industry, many families in Eastville built porches, ells, and dormers onto their single-family homes (Gobrecht & LaFrank 1994: 88). Such additions transformed the original architecture of the Cuffee, Ashman, and Green homes, among others, marking the persistence of these extended families across generations. At the same time, the growth of Sag Harbor’s summer community meant that there was a large market for cheap, small houses to serve as “summer cottages,” and Eastville 140 residents at the turn of the twentieth century also built along these lines. Affordable mass-produced houses had become so desirable nationally that Sears Roebuck began selling houses in a number of styles by mail: it was possible to buy only the plans, plans and materials, or the entire house to be assembled in sections. According to descendants of the Johnson family, their house from the early 1920s on the corner of Hampton Street and Eastville Ave, now the Eastville Community Historical Society’s Heritage House was a mail-order home. It does not precisely match any homes listed in the Sears catalogues from the periods, but it is close in design to a few Sears & Roebuck models that sold for around $300 (Stevenson 1986). Household architecture in Sag Harbor divided people along lines of class rather than race, and additions to households after the decline of whaling allowed families to maintain the kinship networks that linked the community. Early in the whaling era, Eastville’s Native American and African American residents built their own homes (as Lewis Cuffee built the St. David AME Zion Church), or bought and transported existing houses from elsewhere in the village. In the 1860s to the early 1900s, they made additions and modifications to fit growing families, or purchased new homes in contexts of increasing access to standardized designs and mass-produced housing. These choices were similar to those of other working class people in the area, and they offered little opportunity to display economic distinction within the community. Often those with larger houses, like David Hempstead, used their additional space to house family members or ministers of the church (Zaykowski 1991; Gobrecht & LaFrank 1994). Families who added on to their small houses were often those with the longest histories and deepest social ties in the neighborhood. Some of these families were also the ones who invested in family plots or group monuments that show their permanent impact on local landscapes. In Oakland, the descendants of Lewis and Lucinda Cuffee are buried near each other in plots for the families of Jason Cuffee, Lydia Ward, and Eliza Consor that include gravestones from the 1853 to 1917. In the St. David AME Zion 141 Cemetery, seven Greens and Hempsteads, eleven Halseys and Johnsons (also related to Lewis and Lucinda Cuffee through Jason’s daughter Amelia), and eight Perdues all have individual or family monuments, attesting to their families’ presence and expansion over generations. These modest-looking homes and long-lasting family memorials demonstrated the roots and connections Native and African Americans in Eastville formed that ultimately gave Eastville its identity as a community, not just a place. VI. RACE, MEMORY, AND COLLABORATIVE RESEARCH Sag Harbor is unique compared to ports like New London and New Bedford because the whaling era street patterns, cemeteries, and even homes of many people of color have been preserved; in other cities, industrialization in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries eliminated working class landscapes from view. Eastville has survived physically and socially for over a century since the demise of whaling because its racial composition in the whaling era established a foundation for a lasting community of color to this day. Even though the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of whalers began moving to New York, Boston, and Hartford to find work around the turn of the twentieth century, they returned to Sag Harbor to visit family and enjoy the waterfront in the summers. Many put down roots in Harlem and brought connections from these new social networks on their trips east to Long Island (Tobier 2007). One Eastville resident, a Black woman named Virginia Davis, began to serve meals and take in boarders at her home on Hampton St, which became known as the Ivy Hotel. Others put up summer rental cottages on unused plots, including a number owned by the Butler family that still survive today (Kathleen Tucker & Michael Butler, personal communication 2012). By the early 1940s, Eastville was home to both long-term residents like the Hempstead and Green women and to seasonal visitors who returned loyally each year. In the early 142 twentieth century, Sag Harbor transformed into one of the only waterfront vacation communities that was open and welcoming to African Americans. Eastville’s demographics also transitioned from primarily working class to middle and upper class in the mid-twentieth century due to its transformation into a resort area. Increasingly, African Americans who traveled to Sag Harbor in the summer were wealthier, including many professional doctors and lawyers (and, more recently, a few famous names like B. Smith and Colson Whitehead). They built new homes in the historically black developments surrounding Eastville’s core, known as Azurest, Nineveh Beach, Chatfield’s Hill, Sag Harbor Hills, and Hillcrest Terrace. They also came from families with a wide range of cultural and geographic origins: for example, several community members who first arrived in Sag Harbor in the 1960s are from Jamaican, Barbadian, or southern American backgrounds. Even today, residents have strong connections to Harlem, where many grew up, and still have family. The links between the descendants of whalers, their new acquaintances in Harlem, and the people of color who call Eastville home today have given their community a long lasting identity. Today, social memory in Eastville is both diffuse and institutionalized: individual families and residents maintain their own histories of identity and connection, while a group of African American residents established the Eastville Community Historical Society in the early 1980s. It has become both a gatekeeping organization for collaborative research in Eastville and a de facto resource for more general questions about Black history on Long Island. In the 1980s, ECHS founder and historian Kathleen Tucker conducted oral history interviews with several local elders, which helped to reconstruct settlement and kinship in the neighborhood and contributed to the historical society’s focus on multiculturalism. Although the founders and current officers of the society are all African American, their historical interpretation and marketing materials present Eastville’s history as “linking three cultures,” i.e. Native American, African American, and Euro-American. Tours and written materials all mention 143 Shinnecock, Montaukett, Black, Irish, and English families as long-term residents who shaped the neighborhood’s history in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Their preferred narrative is one of cooperation and peaceful coexistence that celebrates the accomplishments and mobility of people of color and immigrants, which allows members of the community today to feel pride in their history without creating conflicts and tension over more negative interpretations. The society’s approach toward community engagement reflects this: at major events such as a 2012 charrette, or organizational planning meeting, they invite representatives from each of these descendant communities, as well as regional organizations and individuals with an interest in history. Leaders of the Shinnecock museum attend when possible and express strong interest in cooperation, even though there are no current Shinnecock descendants living in Eastville. At the same time, the ECHS has also come to serve as a regional center for questions about African American heritage in particular. This is because there are few other organizations on eastern Long Island that not only focus on this history, but actually have African American leadership. The ECHS’s director, Dr. Georgette Grier-Key, frequently fields general inquiries about slavery on Long Island, and in early 2014 she became one of the leaders of a local movement to prevent the demolition of the home of whaler Pyrrhus Concer in Southampton. African American historic resources tend to suffer from poorer and less frequent preservation than ones associated with wealthier Euro-Americans, due to lingering inequalities of wealth across racial lines today, and a formal institution provides a point of contact and center of organization. Even though the ECHS itself focuses on multiculturalism, it has also taken on the role of speaking on behalf of African Americans on eastern Long Island due to the scarcity of organizations available to play that role. In my discussions with the board and officers that shaped the direction of this research project, the themes of multiculturalism and mobility were important elements 144 of the story they hoped archaeological research would support. I must note here that Irish and Anglo-Americans were also long term residents who shaped Eastville’s community along with their Black, Indian, and multi-racial neighbors, and that the presence of their descendants into the 1980s significantly influenced the local identity of Eastville as a multiracial space. However, in the process of research, it became clear that a detailed comparative study of African American, Native American, and Euro-American households in Sag Harbor’s streets, whaling ships, and cemeteries would be far beyond the scope of a single dissertation, since the population of Euro-Americans was so high compared to people of color. Instead of “linking three cultures,” this study instead focuses on the connections between two. The strength of the links between African Americans and Native Americans that formed in Sag Harbor in the nineteenth century show that the pervasive influence of the Black/White color line in American society. Though Black, white, and Native American households were neighbors in Eastville for decades, and sometimes friends, race created particular geographic, economic, and social connections that did not always link them all. VII. CONCLUSION Structural racism and class subtly and significantly shaped settlement in Sag Harbor, but kinship and social connections among people of color defined a community that lasted through the port’s economic changes and defines neighborhood identity even in the present. These layers of interaction between people of Native American and African American descent, both within and between households, reflect the ambiguity of categories of race and ethnicity in nineteenth century America – but also the spaces of cooperation that this ambiguity opened up. In many contexts, people of Indian and Black ancestry moved through a society that classified them together as “colored,” with little regard for the complexities of their identities, and racial inequalities in wealth and labor shaped their opportunities and 145 options in similar ways. In Sag Harbor, many came together in Eastville due to the divides of wealth that correlated with race, the availability of land and mortgages there, and the maritime opportunities that were especially important to families of color. These settlers themselves altered and defined the neighborhood over decades by layering kinship networks over its basic geography, establishing new families that linked households and cultures, and finding common ground in the St. David AME Zion Church as an institution at the center of the community. Many of these connections were bridges between people of color with multiple Native American tribal affiliations and with African American heritage from the northeast, the south, and even the Caribbean. It was the power of the dominant Black/White color line that structured their lives so that they came together in Sag Harbor. How people were identified in records could differ from how they identified themselves, but clearly, members of a community with as much internal diversity as Eastville would not have considered themselves homogeneous. Rather, they would have been able to draw on a shared identity as “colored” in some contexts, while drawing on more particular self-identifications as Black, Indian, Christian, whaler, mother, or community leader, to name a few possibilities. They might also have experienced conflicts between and within families over these differences that are not reflected in census, property, and probate records. The full complexity of lived experiences of race in Eastville is yet untold, but the hints we can glimpse contrast with the increasingly rigid ways that American law and media defined race as blood. The identity of this community as both “colored” and “linking three cultures” in local memory speaks to the difficulties we Americans still have in discussing these socially constructed categories. In everyday conversation, we often elide the biological and the cultural, and use the terms race and ethnicity without a clear sense of their distinction and overlap. The stories of individual lives, which will be the focus of the next chapter, bring the social reality and descriptive inadequacy of these abstract categories to light. 146 CHAPTER 4 RACE, WEALTH, AND BELONGING IN HOUSEHOLD MATERIAL CULTURE I. INTRODUCTION Members of multicultural communities in and around Sag Harbor faced the pressures of transmitting cultural knowledge and establishing materially comfortable lives in environments of mass production, wage labor, and economic migration. Even though Native American and African American housing, labor activities, and cemetery landscapes on the nineteenth century South Fork often looked similar to those of working class whites, their household structures, understandings of gender and labor, and networks of extended family maintained their distinct ethnic and racial identities. Members of these groups used material culture to position themselves within American social hierarchies. I ask, how did household decisions and spaces enact everyday realities of race and class, and how did material culture fit into practices of self- representation? In this chapter, I zoom in from regional and neighborhood analyses to compare individual households across Southampton and East Hampton, using probate records and archaeological data to investigate how the material lives of people of color reflected and resisted the links between whiteness and property in the whaling era. These were fraught issues in the multicultural context of the United States, where everyday material culture was symbolically loaded with competing tensions. Choices that preserved or highlighted ethnic difference could conflict with choices that represented prosperity and integration into the American mainstream. Household practices sometimes made differences archaeologically and historically visible, e.g. through the persistence of foodways, use of space, material culture and mobility (Ferguson 1991; Wall 1994; Prins 1997; Franklin 2001; Silliman 2009). Material culture also can be a mode of self-definition and resistance in the associations it evokes (Wilkie 2003; Leone 2005; Camp 2011). At the same time, cultural exchange in colonial contexts complicated the identification of household goods with specific ethnic groups. Regional 147 and global histories of exchange make it increasingly difficult to associate artifacts with identities on a one-to-one basis. Multi-ethnic households often negotiated new combinations of foodways and material culture that reflected the significance of women’s domestic labor (Deagan 1996; Woodhouse-Byer 1996). Bhabha argues that these “in between” positions in colonial contexts are hot spots of cultural creativity and subversion of power roles (1996). In the overlapping cultural spaces of historic America, this meant that household life was significant as both the site of daily practice and a forum for self-representation and resistance. Comparing probate records for people of color from 1807 to 1936 and a collection of archaeological ceramics from the Shinnecock reservation, I show that both Native American and African American households saw an expansion of domestic space and everyday material culture in this period, with no quantifiable ethnic differences between them, which I interpret as the appropriation of consumer goods to establish cross-cultural images of prosperity. Echoing the trends in gravestones toward the end of the nineteenth century, and resistance to the ideology of whiteness as property, people of color also experienced a more modest increase in property ownership that represent a shared struggle for economic mobility. II. RACE, POVERTY, AND PROSPERITY Race in America has always had associations with property, and thus with legal status. Rights to possession of bodies, land, clothing, houses, and trade goods, were defining elements of identity and citizenship in English colonies from the seventeenth century (Harris 1993; Lepore 1998; Sweet 2003). Their specific associations have been historically contingent, however. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth century northeast, poverty rather than cultural difference had become the dominant white impression of Indian and Black material lives. This stereotype was rooted in part in the realities of inequality resulting from centuries of indigenous dispossession and slavery, 148 but it also reflected the increasing dominance of mass-produced English consumer goods in household material culture among all cultural groups (Rubertone 2000). This meant, first, that visibly “Indian” or “African” objects did not constitute the dominant images of daily life, and second, that Anglo-Americans judged other groups using their own lives as direct measures. While writers of the nineteenth century, and archaeologists early in the twentieth, believed that goods were defined by their cultures of origin, the dominance of European-style goods, housing forms, and land appropriation by the nineteenth century leads archaeologists today to seek more nuanced ways of understanding material culture as a flexible field of pragmatic decisions and contextual acts of self- representation (e.g. Rubertone 2001; Dietler 2010; Battle-Baptiste 2011). In the context of communities of color on whaling-era Long Island, I read everyday objects as tools for navigating ambiguous and changing ideas of race, class, and belonging. In eighteenth and nineteenth century historical sources by and about people of color, it is striking how often materiality is woven into arguments about personhood, citizenship, and the boundaries of social inclusion. Images of economically disadvantaged ethnic groups themselves became linked to poverty, resulting in stereotypes that used racial essentialism to mask the results of structural inequality. This began with Anglo-American representations of Long Island and New England Indians as passive victims of an inevitable destiny, excusing colonial land seizures and exploitative labor practices. Nineteenth century historian Benjamin Thompson wrote that that at Shinnecock, “A meagre remnant of the Shinecocks [sic] are found here, where they have a building for religious worship, but neither their ancient language or customs are preserved.” (1843: 362). Such descriptions linked perceptions of Indian disappearance with the reality of cross-cultural exchange that characterizes colonial societies in general, and multi-ethnic communities like Sag Harbor’s in particular. 149 Free African Americans and people of mixed descent also faced negative perceptions. After emancipation in northern states such as Massachusetts and New York between 1783 and 1827, widespread cartoons portrayed African Americans as poor because they were lazy, childish, and irresponsible (Rice 2009). Others caricatured popular religious movements, to which the AME Zion Church in Sag Harbor could trace its roots, as overly emotional and uncivilized (Fig. 4.1). Such representations helped to justify the prior enslavement of people of color and resist a movement toward equality that might threaten white wealth (Melish 1998). Figure 4.1 Bogosluzhenie Afrikanskikh Metodistov [Black Methodists Holding a Prayer Meeting] (Svin’in 1815) From the collections of the John Carter Brown Library But when law and custom uphold race as a visible and unchangeable dividing line, the fact that visible markers of class can simply be bought and sold makes them ambiguous, flexible, and accessible tools of self-representation (Wurst 2006). The incomplete overlap between categories of race and class provided opportunities for 150 members of minority groups to enact respectability, and to thus quietly make a case for their full inclusion as members of American society. Archaeologically, the use of material culture to establish an image of upward economic mobility is often recognizable through emulation of elite consumption practices (McGuire 1988; Wall 1994; Mullins 1999). Through ceramic consumption, for example, women of color in the nineteenth century south used the ideology of domesticity to construct home environments that could reject dominant ideologies of individualism – or that could reflect images of prosperity, femininity, and virtuous motherhood (Wilkie 2003; Leone 2005). Similarly, in nineteenth-century Boston, excavations at the African Meeting House and 44 Joy St apartment block indicate that African Americans purchased ceramics that, on average, had a higher price point than expected for members of an often struggling working class community. This analysis was interpreted as the effort of people who faced negative stereotypes to resist by representing themselves as respectable members of the middle class (Landon et al. 2007). In Maryland, African American households purchased factory produced canned goods instead of local foods as a way to avoid the racism of local white merchants and express their equality in the marketplace (Mullins 1999). For Native Americans, too, material evidence of prosperity could be a form of resistance to negative perceptions. Mohegan preacher Samson Occum, who married a Montaukett woman and later established the multi-tribal diasporic community of Brothertown (Cipolla 2013), understood this when he described the importance of appearance in fostering or countering stereotypes of Indian poverty. When speaking of alcoholism, he wrote, “God made us men, and we chuse to be beasts and devils; God made us rational creatures, and we chuse to be fools. Do consider further, and behold a drunkard, and see how he looks, when he has drowned his reason; how deformed and shameful does he appear?” (1801: 13). Although this description is behavioral, not material, the two are connected. In the same sermon, his mention of drunkards wearing “very mean, ragged, and dirty cloathes, almost naked,” echoes this imagery of alcoholics 151 as more like animals than as rational men, but it also uncomfortably reflects stereotypes of Indians as more closely connected to nature than to civilization and culture. In Native- European encounters, clothing, carriage, and possessions could mark one as “civilized” by English colonial standards (Loren 2001). Occum well understood the performative importance of bodily comportment and material appearances in changing perceptions of indigenous people. Evidence of material prosperity held its own unique dangers for Native people, however: these trends in material culture resulted in delegitimizing assumptions about acculturation and disappearance that persist to the present (Quimby & Spoehr 1951; Baron et al. 1996; Rubertone 2000; Silliman 2005; O’Brien 2010). In Chapter 6, I will address how Native Americans on Long Island navigated the additional challenge of performing "authenticity" for outsiders. Finally, for marginalized groups, too much visible differentiation could be dangerous. As Samuel Magaw explained at the opening service of the African Church in Philadelphia, humility and simplicity were especially important for people of color: In like manner [to Deut.26:5], when you are tempted to cherish the least pride, in your freedom - in dress - in your favourable reception among your fellow citizens,- and even in this stately building; - or in any of your civil, as well as religious privileges;- then check yourselves, by confessing privately and publicly, that ‘a slave ready to perish was my father’…. Circumspection in your conduct and intercourse with the world, is another duty that you are especially concerned in. ‘See that ye walk circumspectly; not as fools, but as wise.’ Remember, that you have enemies, as well as friends; that you will be narrowly watched; and that less allowance will be made for your failings, than for those of other people. (1794:21) This advice recognized that African Americans and Native Americans walked a narrow line between stereotypes of poverty and prodigality, which both held negative moral overtones and potentially dangerous effects. As Americans, people of color sought a comfortable standard of living, and the appearance of poverty could feed into negative stereotypes, while visible evidence of respectability was necessary to counter detractors 152 and fight for equality. Furthermore, in urban Black communities like Philadelphia, New York, and Boston, as well as in rural Indian communities across New England, economic upward mobility was closely entangled with better opportunities for education and civic participation (Landon et al. 2007, Du Bois 2005 [1903]). As Du Bois wrote, albeit critically, about Booker T. Washington: “So thoroughly did he learn the speech and thought of triumphant commercialism, and the ideals of material prosperity, that the picture of a lone black boy poring over a French grammar amid the weeds and dirt of a neglected home soon seemed to him the acme of absurdities.” (2005 [1903]: 46). This “spirit of the age” seemed to provide a path to greater equality. On the other hand, too much visible wealth or success could put people in danger of reprisals from insecure whites who might try to maintain a racial hierarchy through the restriction of labor opportunities, institution of racist laws, or even violence. Consumption that appeared excessive could also feed new stereotypes in free northern states that represented people of color as profligate, fascinated by baubles (with strong parallels to much older Native American stereotypes [Miller & Hamell 1986]), or too obviously ridiculous in modern clothing to be full participants in the modern state (Melish 1998; Rice 2009). All of these weighty considerations shaped the context of the Indian and Black material culture that makes up archaeological evidence from Long Island. III. RESEARCH SOURCES AND QUESTIONS Connecting case studies of individual households in Eastville with larger demographic patterns through the documentary sources discussed above, I consider how material expressions of identity and prosperity varied across rural, reservation, and port households, and how consumption and production of material culture changed at these sites between the eighteenth and early twentieth centuries. This focus on particular households allows for limited comparison and generalization across the individual, neighborhood, and regional scales. 153 This chapter relies primarily on analysis of probate records, other historic documents and photographs, and an artifact collection from the Shinnecock reservation. The archaeological collection was salvaged by volunteers during construction of the Shinnecock Family Preservation Center in 2004. It is now housed at the Shinnecock National Museum and Cultural Center. In March and April of 2013, I catalogued its 971 ceramic sherds and 59 other artifacts, and in spring 2014 I identified and analyzed the ceramics, yielding a mean ceramic date of 1835. The collection’s documentation is poor, and it has not been associated with a specific household. Nevertheless, in comparison with community-level demographic research, this collection can still illuminate Shinnecock consumption in the period of study. To gain a broader view of household material lives across the south fork of eastern Long Island, I analyze and compare probate inventories from other Native American and African American households in Sag Harbor, East Hampton, and Southampton. These probate inventories, which are records of the property of people who died intestate, are as complete a sample as I could assemble for people of color in the research area during the nineteenth century (Table 4.1) Historical research on the members of these households provides the “controls” for comparison of material practices and spatial organization (see Appendix 2 for detailed summaries). Due to limitations of time and resources, I have not yet been able to create a comparable cross- section of white households that would allow for a better understanding of class distinctions across ethnic lines, and this will be a priority for future research. 154 Table 4.1 Property and probate records Name Date Location Race/ No. in Value of Probate Property Ethnicity house- property contents values in hold at (real & other time of personal) sources death Jason 1807 East Native Up to 3 $30.17½ Inventory - Cuffee Hampton American ($10 unpaid (likely wages) Montaukett) Wealthy 1858 Sag Native 5-6 -$103.43 Will, Real Ann Harbor American debts, inventory estate Cuffee (husband $20.49 , debts, sold for Shinnecock) personal notices of $170 auction Silas 1863 Southam- Native 4 $200 Inventory - Plato pton American personal, (Montaukett) $1000 unpaid wages Peter 1868 East Native 2 or $190.35 Inventory $250 Quaw Hampton American more personal real8 (Montaukett) Elymus 1869 Sag African 1-2 $100 real & List of $500 Derby Harbor American personal heirs and real, notice of $200 property personal auction 9 Charles 1890, Sag African 2 - Inherit- $200 Atkins died Harbor American ance real10 1872 dispute letter Ann M. 1878 Sag African 1 $50 personal Inventory - T. Jupiter Harbor American Pyrrhus 1897 Southam African 1 $5675.31 Inventory - Concer pton American real and personal Eliza S. 1898 Sag Native 1 $124.86 Inventory House Consor Harbor American personal and and lot (Shinnecock/ notices of $15011 Montaukett), property husband auction likely African American Jane M. 1905 Sag Native 1 $750 real, Inventory - Perdue Harbor American $818.50 (Montaukett) personal Israel 1927 East Native 1 $320.54 Will House Quaw Hampton American personal and lot (Montaukett) $50 8 USC 1850, 1860 9 USC 1860 10 East Hampton Assessors 1873 11 East Hampton Assessors 1883 155 Mary J. 1928 Sag African 2 $6287.97 Will - Hemp- Harbor American stead Martha 1934 Sag Unknown Unkno -$660 debt Bill to - Perdue Harbor wn estate for elder care Maria 1936 East Native 2 - Will - Banks Hampton American (Montaukett) From the early to mid-nineteenth century, I draw on probates from the Montaukett household heads Jason Cuffee and Peter Quaw in East Hampton, and a Shinnecock female household head named Wealthy Cuffee in Eastville. Jason Cuffee’s household, in particular, is comparable in date to the collection from the Shinnecock reservation, although Cuffee lived in a rural household in East Hampton rather than on tribal lands. Probates from the late nineteenth century represent members of a generation who sustained households through the peak and end of the whaling boom. They include famed African American mariner Pyrrhus Consor in Southampton and four residents of Eastville and Freetown: Native American women Eliza Consor, Jane Perdue, and Maria Fowler Pharaoh Banks, and African Americans Ann M.T. Jupiter and Charles and Mary Atkins. Next, twentieth century records describing the assets of Mary Hempstead and Israel Quaw indicate how the financial and material circumstances of the generation who grew up in the late nineteenth century had changed in comparison to their parents’. Additional sources include financial and legal correspondence included in probate records that do not contain household inventories. I draw these sources together in order to consider how material culture indicates economic precarity or prosperity when read in comparison with other forms of documentary and material evidence. How evidence of household material culture and housing itself complicate and enrich the findings in chapters 2 and 3, which indicated increases in household formation and overall wealth among people of color in the whaling era? How does material culture relate to other forms of property: does it mask or make visible economic power and security? I also aim to understand the values that 156 guided people’s choices in everyday material culture, and whether and where differences emerge within communities. How did household wealth and material culture change over time, and how do these trends relate to household cycles and the rise and fall of whaling? Finally, how did households negotiate the competing logics of ethnic distinction, respectability, comfort, and safety? IV. WHALING, MOBILITY, AND HOUSEHOLD MATERIALITY IVA. CHANGES IN HOUSING IN THE EARLY NINETEENTH CENTURY Local histories and regional archaeological surveys indicate that Native American housing and material culture changed significantly during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. (Little comparable information exists for African Americans in same area.) While cash windfalls from whaling during Sag Harbor’s boom years contributed to this transformation, the comparison of two probate records show that the availability of credit to families in ports fostered greater consumption of Euro- American style housing and material culture among people of color. Ethnohistorical accounts identify the early nineteenth century as the period when Shinnecock houses changed from wigwams built of local materials to frame houses, in part due to the loss of the local plants traditionally used in house construction (Shoemaker 2014). Shinnecock lore holds that Wickham Cuffee, a Native American whaler born around the turn of the nineteenth century, received his first name due to its phonetic similarity to “wigwam,” as the last Shinnecock resident to be born in one (Stone 1983). On Montauk Point, two houses from the period 1790 to 1830 exemplify this transition. An earlier structure is round and bounded by fieldstones, evidence of indigenous construction techniques, while a later structure is larger and square, with a footprint more comparable to Euro-American houses of the time period (Johannemann 1993; McGovern 2014). 157 Though there have been few excavations and detailed studies of indigenous architecture on eastern Long Island, the archaeology of other northeastern Native American communities allows for a broad understanding of the material changes occurring in regional indigenous housing. Throughout New England, framed houses and wigwams coexisted together in the eighteenth century, but by the end of this period, wigwams had mostly disappeared (Sturtevant 1975; McBride 1993; Strong 2001; Handsman 2011). They were often replaced by Euro-American style framed houses, but sometimes succeeded by “intermediate “structures with frames built into the sides of hills, or small wooden houses without foundations” (McBride 1990; Silliman 2009). Although some non-native observers read the disappearance of wigwams as evidence of the disappearance of native cultures, this transition related to both colonial changes in access to land and indigenous preferences. First, land loss to whites meant a reduced number of seasonal sites for fishing, hunting, and resource gatherings, which meant that Native American families on reservations were increasingly sedentary, although many did continue to use local ecological resources, and some families did migrate seasonally between Montauk and points west until the mid-nineteenth century (Haile 2013). Second, by the end of the eighteenth century, many Native Americans saw Euro-American style houses as more secure, pleasant, and respectable than traditional architecture. The Reverend Samson Occum, who built his own two-story house in Mohegan, CT, spoke of the lack of such housing as a consequence of drunkenness: By this sin, we can’t have comfortable houses, nor any thing comfortable in our houses; neither food nor raiment, nor decent utensils. We are obliged to put up any sort of shelter just to screen us from the severity of the weather; and we go about with very mean, ragged and dirty cloaths, almost naked....And our poor children…in the cold weather are shivering and crying, being pinched with cold. (Occom 1801: 13) Although Occum blamed alcoholism and not structural poverty for lack of access to comfortable shelter, it is clear that to him, houses represented comfort, warmth, and safety, as well as the proper space to store the material requirements of everyday life, 158 including food, clothing, and even “decent utensils.” In contrast, lack of sufficient housing led to not only physical danger and discomfort, but to the erosion of individual dignity as demonstrated by dress, to moral irresponsibility toward vulnerable children, and even to negative stereotypes about Indian poverty. Thus, changes in housing were related to changing perceptions of decency, security, and baseline standards of living. According to local histories and oral traditions, Shinnecock and Montaukett people had completely transitioned to Euro-American style architecture by the mid nineteenth century, although some families still set up summer camps near fishing spots (Haile 2013). By the early twentieth century, the oldest house on the Shinnecock reservation dated to around 1850, just after the peak of Sag Harbor’s whaling industry. This house was a traditional New England saltbox, with two stories in front, one in back, and windows that are not aligned on the first and second stories (Fig. 4.2). Figure 4.2 Bunn family home on the Shinnecock reservation (EHLIC) 159 Red Thunder Cloud (1940s), the Catawba anthropologist who photographed the house, described it as the legacy of a late nineteenth century whaling family: It has an interesting history and many an old time full blood has gathered in this house to discuss tribal affairs. It is interesting to know that two ladies, who were sisters, also were raised in this home, Miss Ernestine Walker and her sister Mrs. Edna Eleazar. It is certain that these ladies were full blood Indians, as their father was a Montauk, and their mother a Shinnecock…David Walker, the father of the two sisters, was one of the ten Indians lost in the wreck of the Circassian in 1876. People of color living in Freetown and Eastville also bought or built frame houses that blended in with the Euro-American architecture of Sag Harbor and East Hampton in the early to mid-nineteenth century. Some occupants, like Montaukett whaler John Horton, continued to add extensions onto their houses throughout their lives. There are no published archaeological examples of Native American frame houses on Long Island (apart from Johannemann 1993), but two probate inventories from the mid-nineteenth century hint at their furnishings and layout. The earliest example is the probate record of Jason Cuffee, a Montaukett man living in rural East Hampton in 1807 (not to be confused with the younger Jason Cuffee who lived in Eastville in the 1850s in Chapters 2 and 3]). Jason’s probate inventory includes only major assets: a cow with an estimated value of $10, household items worth a total of about $7, and $13.42 owed by a Captain Prior, for a total sum of $30. ($30 in 1807 could be equivalent to $484 in 2014 [Federal Reserve Bank of Minneapolis 2014].) The household furnishings included a tea kettle, a stand, a coat, three chairs, a pair of shovels or tongs, two beds, and their bedding. This inventory is certainly incomplete, leaving out such obvious necessities as cups to use with the tea kettle or containers for milking the cow. These items may not have been recorded if the appraiser considered their value too low or if they were locally produced. Nevertheless, the presence of major items of furniture on the list hints that this category is probably complete. The furnishings are simple, but the three chairs, stand, and two beds and bedding would have provided places for all known members of the 160 family – Jason, his son Cuffee, and possibly his wife – to sleep, eat, and work in one or two rooms. Compare these to the belongings white Sag Harbor resident Nancy Beebe willed to her niece in 1834: “2 field bedsteads 1 mahogany beaureau [sic] 1 mahogany stand 14 fancy chairs, 1 set of chintzy curtains two looking glasses her large and small ones Cloak all my wearing apparel” (Nelson 1831-1848). Although the materials of Cuffee’s furniture were likely less expensive and the decorative elements and wealth of apparel are absent from his inventory, in function his bedsteads, stand, chairs, and coat were identical. These items provided the basic infrastructure for household life. The cow, Cuffee’s most valuable possession, is also a sign of some level of household production for milk or meat. Since English cattle were permitted by town law to graze on Montaukett lands in East Hampton, it is fitting that a Montaukett family could also take advantage of the resources of their homeland (Strong 2001). Cuffee’s account with Prior shows the importance of wage labor, as the shipbuilder owed Cuffee $13.42. Given the high value of this sum in comparison to the value of Cuffee’s other assets, his maritime work would have provided a significant income if he were paid on time. Wealthy Ann Cuffee’s 1858 probate inventory from Eastville, her extensive use of local credit, and the fact that she owned property all illustrate a changing standard of living in comparison to Jason Cuffee’s fifty years before. Her household exemplifies an early Native American whaling family in Eastville. She died in her home in Sag Harbor in 1857 at age 52, survived by her husband, Shinnecock whaler William H. Cuffee, and her children Wealthy Ann Johnson, Sarah Ann Cuffee, James L. Cuffee, and three minor sons, Cornelius, Isaac, and Stephen Cuffee. Following the common model at Shinnecock, Wealthy’s children lived with their parents as young adults (USC 1850), but by the time of her death, the younger generation became part of the expansion of young nuclear family households through whaling. Wealthy had married Black whaler Amos Johnson of Eastville, Eliza had married Sylvester Wright of Southampton, Isaac and Stephen were at 161 sea on the Odd Fellow, and James, also a whaler, was living at Shinnecock (probate case file 4913 1858). Her probate record is a snapshot of home life in a family spanning multiple generations of cohort whalers, soon after the peak of the industry in Sag Harbor in late the 1840s. She owned seven chairs, a stand, and a bed and bedding, which added up to a value of $6.58; a bureau, a walnut table, another kitchen table, a rocking chair, a chest, a looking glass, carpet, a mantle, window shades, and a cupboard, which were valued together at $10.58; and crockery worth $1.50. She also had books worth $3, the same value as her most expensive piece of furniture, which hint at ideals of cultural capital and education as a source of social mobility. These items show that growing complexity of household material culture in working class Native American households. With two tables and seven chairs, it is possible that Wealthy Cuffee’s house had more separate rooms than Jason’s, and each room contained more elements of storage and decoration, making her inventory more similar to Nancy Beebe’s than Jason Cuffee’s. The books also hint at ideals of cultural capital and education as a source of social mobility. Yet Wealthy’s belongings were appraised at $20.49 all together, a sum very close to Jason Cuffee’s $17 in material goods a half century earlier, but perhaps worth less due to inflation of currency. Most of the decorative items and additional pieces of furniture were appraised as 2, 3, or 4 for a dollar. The difference in the quantity of furnishings in these two households, and their similarity in overall value, combine to suggest that the cost of household goods in the Sag Harbor area was decreasing, which raised working class people’s purchasing power in the material sphere. Wealthy Cuffee’s probate inventory is the only one to show the importance of credit and debt for perishable goods and medical care, highlighting consumption practices that inventories rarely capture. Accounts with local doctors, merchants, and moneylenders were an integral part of her Native American household economy. Her 162 largest debt, $33.80, was to Edgar Miles, a Sag Harbor doctor known in particular for his use of traditional and herbal medicines (Zaykowski 1991). Between December 1856 and April 1857, dates that probably marked her last illness, she regularly purchased drops, tonic cordials, powders, laudanum, other medications, and house calls. She also owed Dr. B. Buck $11.11 for prescriptions. She purchased groceries from B. Brown & Co., with credit carried over from before February 1857, three months of purchases, and interest adding up to $25.36. The majority of her purchases were perishable goods like butter, sugar, potatoes, soap, lamp oil, and candles, purchased once or twice a week. The Cuffees treated the store as a source of staple foods, flavor enhancers, and goods that could not be produced at home. The majority of their fresh foods must have come from gardening, hunting, purchasing from other vendors, or food sharing with others. For unknown reasons, she also owed the estate of William H. Nelson $21.57, with steep interest of $11.59. Nelson was a Sag Harbor lawyer who lent money to whaling captains and crew members before voyages in return for shares of profits (East Hampton Library Long Island Collection 2013). Cuffee’s household may have taken advantage of this service. The registration of the loan in her name could indicate either that she required a loan for her own purposes, or that she acted as guardian for her two teenage sons at sea. Wealthy made a will stipulating that her land and house in Eastville should remain for her husband to live in for the rest of his natural life, at which point it should be divided between her minor sons Isaac, Stephen, and Cornelius. The Cuffees carried the Shinnecock tradition of women’s stewardship of land to the purchase of property in her name outside the reservation. This is also evidence of economic mobility for a whaling family: she was one of the first, if not the first, Native American woman in Sag Harbor to purchase land and obtain a residence without a mortgage. Perhaps access to credit at local stores, combined with windfalls from whaling voyages, allowed her to gain property in her earlier and healthier years. On the other hand, when she became ill, 163 her household struggled to pay those debts, and she was ultimately unable to pass on her land. It was sold at a public auction in October 1858 for $170 to pay her debts of $100.43. Only her children Wealthy Johnson and James Cuffee remained in Eastville. Whether this history of credit and debt, and the consumer goods and services it purchased, signified that Wealthy Cuffee experienced greater economic mobility or security than Jason Cuffee is less clear. On the one hand, Wealthy’s land was sold to pay her medical, financial, and consumer debts. On other hand, its overall value was still greater than the debts, her house was more full of furnishings and decoration than Jason Cuffee’s, and she was one of the first Native American women in the area to purchase land and obtain a residence without a mortgage. Perhaps access to credit in Sag Harbor was what allowed her to make long-term financial plans and gain assets in her earlier and healthier years. IVB. HOUSEHOLD MATERIAL CULTURE, FAMILY LIFE, AND RISK Toward the end of the nineteenth century and early decades of the twentieth, the sheer quantity of household goods detailed in probate inventories increased impressively, but material culture was not a good measure of financial security in the context of inequality and risk in which Native American and African American whaling families lived. The volatility of household economies in the whaling era was not limited to issues of inheritance. Returning to the example of Montaukett whaler Silas B. Plato, his young nuclear family experienced worse hardships when he died at sea in 1863 (Probate case file 5845 1864; also cf. Chapter 2 and Appendix 1). Plato had signed on as third mate on the Eagle of New Bedford in 1862 (Probate case file 5845 1864, NBWM 2012). His wife Juliet and daughters Ursula Ann and Harriet survived him at their home in the town of Southampton, which was likely located near Juliet’s sister Clarissa Rugg in the village of Bridgehampton (probate case file no. 6497 1868; USC 1870). Apart from a few objects that were specifically his ($80 cash on hand, $1000 due from the agents of the Eagle, his clothing, a wheelbarrow, and two table cloths), the rest 164 of the contents of the Platos’ home in Bridgehampton were set aside for the widow and children. His probate inventory reads as though the appraisers listed objects as they moved through the house, visiting at least four rooms. These rooms were furnished not only with sufficient furniture for the four members of the family to sit, sleep, and work, but with 18 chairs, two bureaus for storage, and several tables and stands that could have served as work, serving, and dining surfaces. The Plato house was divided into more multipurpose spaces than earlier Native American dwellings in the area, probably including Wealthy Cuffee’s (probate case file 781 1807; probate case file 4913 1858; Rabito-Wyppensenwah 1993f). The home was decorated with books and pictures, “ornaments,” curtains, and carpets. The chairs were all grouped in multiples of three to six, and so were the kitchen wares, which included six knives and forks, six plates, six tea cups and saucers, and twelve small plates. The Plato household inventory exemplifies how by the second half of the nineteenth century, people of color in the whaling industry were not only able to establish independent households around nuclear families, but they were also living in houses that were increasingly divided into more discrete spaces with different sleeping, work and leisure areas. The even numbers of table and tea wares show that preferences for matching sets, noted in white middle- and upper-class households in the late eighteenth century, were also part of their daily life (Wall 1994; Leone 2005). The material contents of this working-class minority whaling household looked, at least in the quality and type of belongings, significantly more like a white middle-class household than like Jason Cuffee’s 56 years earlier. At the same time, the Platos also had equipment for household production, including a clothes horse, carpentry tools, fishing tools, pistol ammunition, gardening equipment, and bushels of corn and potatoes. These items hint at Juliet’s self-sufficiency and reliance on local produce during Silas’s years at sea, as well as the likelihood that she made and mended clothes for outside income. 165 Unfortunately, the challenge of survival after his loss must have dwarfed the household’s financial and material resources. Although the agents of the Eagle owed the family $1000, there is no record of its payment to Juliet. Meanwhile, Silas’s listed possessions were appraised at under $120, his “cash on hand” came to $80, and I have found no record of his or his wife’s ownership of land. Additionally, it is possible that Juliet had household debts in her own name like Wealthy Cuffee. Material plenty was not necessarily an indicator of material security. Even if Juliet, Harriet, and Ursula produced food and earned income, three women might have had trouble supporting their household alone. Their disappearance from the census after 1860 indicates that this was the case. Even though whaling profits could enable couples like Silas and Juliet to establish their own homes, furnish them with matching consumer goods, and even save money, the very industry that enabled this upward mobility could destroy it. In contrast, Eliza Consor’s husband died at home after the end of his whaling career, and she was surrounded by family members in Eastville (cf. Chapters 2 and 3, Appendix 2). Despite these advantages, her example also speaks to the difficulty of creating intergenerational stability in nineteenth century Sag Harbor. When Eliza died in 1897, she was the last member of her immediate family; her husband had passed away a few years before, and all of her children died before age 30, according to the family monument in Oakland Cemetery. Her 1898 probate inventory lists extensive furnishings, household material culture, and possible work materials in an inventory stretching to 18 handwritten pages, detailing even “one postage stamp.” Unique highlights included 126 books, 10 rocking chairs, and 274 dishes and jugs, which lead one to imagine a life of collecting oriented around creating spaces of comfort and plenty. She had a whip, three guns, a powder horn, and a clam rake, but little gardening or fishing material compared to other probate records. As a woman living alone on a small town property near younger nieces and nephews, she relied less on her own household production than households on the Shinnecock reservation. However, she was highly 166 engaged with the local economy as a consumer and, most likely, an earner. As noted in Chapter 2, many household objects indicate potential sources of income, such as work as a seamstress or tailor, or even a home-based boardinghouse or restaurant. She had multiple sets of matching and “odd” plates and tea sets, which implies that she purchased entire sets of new plates to replace old, mismatched, incomplete, or unfashionable ones. With five sets of siblings and in-laws in the neighborhood, she likely cooked for major family and church events, but she may also have cooked for income. Throughout her adult life, Consor accumulated numerous possessions compared to the younger households of Wealthy Ann Cuffee and Silas Plato, and many of these items may have helped her to support herself through the deaths of her husband and children. Yet ceramics on archaeological sites can be poor indicators of household wealth in minority households in this period, in comparison to land ownership (Landon et al. 2007, after Bower 1986). All of Consor’s possessions were appraised at a total value of only $126.84. Her home and property in Eastville, valued at $150 in 1883, were auctioned off after her death (East Hampton Assessors 1883; probate case file 14199 1898). Perhaps if one of her children had survived through adulthood, the Consors would have been a successful example of economic mobility for a whaling family, passing down property through generations. Instead, their example illustrates the difference between plentiful material culture and wealth. In combination, these three household biographies show that credit and women’s labor fostered consumption in comfortable households that relied on a combination of mass-produced material culture, store-bought staples, and local products. For each of these families, whaling supported household expansion and consumption for only one or two generations. Native American and African American households on Long Island were increasingly able to access the housing and material culture that signified prosperity, but the financial stability that would have allowed them to build intergenerational wealth remained out of reach. 167 V. CONSUMING RESPECTABILITY: CERAMICS AND HOUSEHOLD LIFE Ceramic consumption choices among people of color on Long Island provide a more fine-grained glimpse into how they negotiated issues of social and economic status and cultural and class identities in everyday life. Mass-produced ceramics were significantly more affordable and available than housing or furniture, which meant that they functioned as an accessible field for navigating issues of status and self- representation through the household economy. An archaeological collection from the Shinnecock reservation and probate records from Native and African American off- reservation households provide distinct but complementary sources of data on nineteenth century consumption trends. An artifact collection of 971 ceramic sherds illustrates consumption choices12 on the Shinnecock reservation. The location of the site was near two households on an 1873 map (Beers 1873), but sources identifying the inhabitants or earlier households have not been found. The deposit was primarily a kitchen midden, and local oral traditions hold that multiple households shared middens until the 1970s. In addition to ceramics, it included a large number of clam shells, a smaller number of cow bones, and a few other artifacts including 22 sherds of bottle glass, five utensil fragments, and four pieces of broken pipe stem. This analysis focuses on ceramics because they were the bulk of the material excavated. Because there are no stratigraphic records, artifact analysis must provide an estimated date range. The collection’s mean ceramic date of 1835 is drawn from 747 sherds of pearlware, whiteware, ironstone and porcelain (South 1977; Samford 1997; etc.). This date marks the mean date of production for these styles. Analyses of other American historical sites indicate a 15-20 year time lag between production and deposition for durable mass-produced ceramics (Adams 2003), so the mean discard 12After Silliman & Witt (2010), I use the term “choices” to signify acts shaped by local limitations of cost and availability, in contrast to “preferences” existing in an ideal realm. 168 date may be closer to 1850, making the collection contemporaneous with the peak years of the whaling industry and the formation of off-reservation neighborhoods. The major types in this collection are 757 refined earthenware and porcelain sherds (78.0%) and 211 stoneware and redware sherds (21.7%). The refined earthenwares include shell-edged pearlware, transfer-printed and hand-painted pearlware and whiteware, annular and mocha ware, and undecorated whiteware and ironstone (Fig. 4.3). There are also 8 sherds of hand painted and undecorated English porcelain. Stonewares are primarily American salt-glazed gray fabrics, some with Albany slip and cobalt decoration. Redwares are primarily lead-glazed with few other identifying features, although a few sherds have yellow and blue slip-trailed decoration. The vast majority of sherds were too small too estimate a minimum number of vessels. (Table 4.2, 4.3) Table 4.2 General categories of ceramic sherds from Shinnecock collection General Categories Number Percent of Total Refined earthenwares 749 77.1% Porcelain 8 0.8% Stonewares 27 2.8% Redwares 184 18.9% Other or unknown 3 .3% Total 971 100% 169 Table 4.3 Ceramic types within general categories Types Number Percent of Total Refined earthenwares Shell-edged & undecorated pearlware 165 17.0% Transfer-printed pearl & whiteware 139 14.3% Hand-painted pearl & whiteware 119 12.3% Sponged and flow blue whiteware 36 3.7% Undecorated (transitional whiteware, 241 24.8% whiteware, & ironstone) Annular ware 49 5.0% Porcelain English porcelain 8 0.8% Stonewares Albany slip or imitation 8 0.8% Other 19 2.0% Redwares Imitation Jackfield 9 0.9% Glazed 153 15.6% Unglazed 6 0.6% Slip-trailed 16 1.6% Other or unknown Dipped earthenware 1 0.1% Unknown 2 0.2% Total 971 100% 170 . Figure 4.3 Shinnecock Museum ceramics. First row, L-R: shell-edged pearlware, transfer printed whiteware. Second row: hand-painted pearlware, mocha ware, undecorated whiteware. Third row: hand-painted porcelain, stoneware, slip-trailed redware. The majority of these ceramics are imported English styles mainly used for table wares and tea wares. Two hundred sixty six sherds had identifiable shapes: 149 plates, 49 bowls, 56 tea cups, and 1 saucer. However, most shell-edged, transfer printed, and hand-painted white ceramics were made for dining, so it is likely that the number of 171 table and tea wares is much higher. The redwares and stonewares, in contrast, were most likely storage and serving vessels. 14 are identifiable as pieces of jugs or pitchers, including 7 sherds of terra cotta imitation Jackfield ware and 16 sherds of yellow slip- trailed redware are pieces of platters. This collection is heavily skewed toward dining over preparation or storage, with 78% table and tea wares and 21.7% utilitarian types. English imports are also heavily represented compared to American made ceramics. How accurately does this represent nineteenth century material culture? The probate inventories of Peter Quaw, Silas Plato, Eliza Consor, and Ann Thompson Jupiter provide useful points of comparison (Table 4.4). These four households with enumerated ceramic items had proportions of table and tea wares ranging from 85.8% to 93.4% of the number of ceramic items listed, with only 6.6% to 14.2% utilitarian vessels (probate #6497 1868, probate #5845 1864, probate #8377 1878, probate #14199 1898). By these measures, the distribution from the Shinnecock reservation is realistic, and may reflect the increasing prevalence of metal and glass kitchenware over utilitarian ceramics. Table 4.4 Serving vs. utilitarian wares from probate records No. Total Proportion Number Proportion Source Location Date Table & No. Table & tea Utilitarian Utilitarian tea Peter & Triphenia East Hampton 1868 113 97 85.8% 16 14.2% Quaw Silas & Juliet Southampton 1864 28 25 89.3% 3 10.7% Plato Ann M.T. Sag Harbor 1878 61 57 93.4% 4 6.6% Jupiter Eliza Sag Harbor 1897 211 211 88.7% 27 11.3% Consor The high proportion of widely popular shell-edged, painted and transfer-printed dining wares indicates that Shinnecock and regional Native American households 172 shared mainstream taste. Of course, local availability and cost influenced their purchasing choices and limited the selection of mass-produced, globally traded English ceramics that were actually accessible (Silliman & Witt 2010). I have been unable to locate detailed inventory or purchasing records from stores in Southampton where Shinnecock residents likely shopped, but contemporary records from Isaac Van Scoy’s store show that Montaukett men and women in rural East Hampton bought plates and bowls in sets of one to four, with each item costing about the same as a pint of rum or a quart of vinegar, and less than all purchases of cloth, meat, or molasses (Van Scoy 1828)13. This account does not specify which ceramic types were available, and since Van Scoy did not record variations, his selection might have been quite restrictive. However, Sag Harbor merchant George N. Brown sold “edge plates,” “pearl dishes,” “fancy dishes,” and “teaware” in the 1830s, which likely describe shell-edged, plain, transfer printed, and hand painted table and tea wares similar to those in the Shinnecock collection. The wholesale prices for these goods worked out to about $2.25 for six dozen pearlware dishes, so even doubling this figure, retail prices for smaller sets would have been within the budgets or credit limits of working class families (Brown 1834; Frank Sorrentino, EHLIC researcher, personal communication 2014). The accessibility and low cost of English ceramics on eastern Long Island reflects the international trend of declining real prices for factory-produced ceramics in the early nineteenth century. Ceramics made up a small fraction of household expenditures, yet they play an outsize role in archaeological analysis because of their frequent breakage, disposal, and good preservation. They cannot stand in to represent all household consumption, but here, they add texture to discussions of holistic household 13Comparisons are provided rather than exact figures because the Van Scoy account book recorded transactions in pounds, shillings, and pence. This is because goods like ceramics were imported from England and required transactions with British merchants, while accounts for local goods and labor often relied on trade and credit rather than cash. 173 economies and major expenditures like housing by illustrating how people selected among more affordable goods with strong social symbolism. Miller (1980) found that for ceramics from the first half of the nineteenth century, costs correlated with decoration, with undecorated cream and pearl wares being the cheapest “first level,” simply decorated edged or sponged patterns being second, modestly hand-painted dishes being third, and transfer-printed patterns being the “fourth level,” initially more expensive than the others. By around 1850, however, transfer prints were significantly cheaper, and the new, plain “white ware” or “ironstone” was its equivalent in price (Miller 1980). Porcelain remained expensive, and there is little of it, only eight sherds, in the Shinnecock collection. Instead, the collection includes significant numbers of “first” through “third level” ceramics, particularly shell- edged pearlware, but even greater proportions of transfer-printed and white wares, most of which featured patterns or colors most common from 1820-1850 (cf. Table 4.2). Similarly, the probate files of Ann M. T. Jupiter and Eliza Consor also show that women in Sag Harbor were buying “stone china” (ironstone) and even gilded dishes as they became popular (Probate case file no. 8377 1878; Probate case file no. 14199 1898). People of color on the South Fork were purchasing from across the spectrum of costs, not only the cheapest goods, and as fashions and production methods changed in the second quarter of the nineteenth, they purchased new and more affordable dishes. Even though these women did not purchase especially expensive dishes, their attention to matched sets and replacements indicate that their consumption was aesthetically motivated. Tea wares were often sold in matched sets, whereas flat wares like dinner plates often had to be purchased individually, which means that it is appropriate to read the appearance of stylistically but not always physically identical plates as evidence of individual attempts to build matched assemblages (Landon et al. 2007). Matched or close to matched sets are visible in the 165 shell-edged and identical undecorated pearlware sherds from the Shinnecock collection. Probate inventories list 174 also dishes in sets, often with reference to style: Triphenia Quaw had “6 stone china plates” and “12 stone china tea plates,” listed separately from “6 cups and saucers, earthen” and “11 odd plates.” Regular multiples of 6 also appear in Silas and Juliet Plato’s household. These efforts to build matched and similar sets, while keeping old mismatched plates, indicates that these consumers were well aware that matching was associated with mainstream ideas of respectability and prosperity (cf. Leone 2005). The variation away from matching sets in archaeological and documentary evidence shows that these consumption choices were not homogenous, and that old and new dishes may have been used for different purposes. The Shinnecock collection contains a variety of blue transfer-printed and hand painted patterns in addition to the plain and shell-edged pearlwares; these might have been used by different individuals, in attractively “semi-matched” sets, or in either less or more formal contexts than the matching but simpler shell-edged plates. In the individual homes documented by probate records, the Quaw, Jupiter, and Consor families had multiple sets each of matching and odd plates and tea sets, which implies that they purchased entire sets of new plates to replace old, mismatched, incomplete, or unfashionable ones. Their families may have had separate sets of dishes, some informal or mismatched ones to use on an everyday or casual basis, and others to bring out when receiving guests, serving formal dinners, or celebrating special occasions. Such practices existed in households across racial lines: they echo the attention to formal dining practices among wealthy white families in New York, but Metis women in western Canada initially adopted English ceramics to display high social status to guests, and African Americans in nineteenth- century Maryland and Boston also differentiated between dishes for everyday and special occasions, and (Burley 1989; Wall 1994; Mullins 1999; Landon et al. 2007). On a small scale, these artifacts from Native American whaling households on Long Island mirror the national complexity of ceramic taste and consumption dynamics. Deetz considered the increasing popularity of individual table wares and plain white 175 ceramics in the American colonies to be an expression of the Georgian order, which Leone links with possessive individualism (Leone 2005; Deetz 2006). After independence, classical and Republican patterns and white Gothic shapes supported ideologies of cleanliness, purity, feminine domesticity, and even patriotism (Wall 1994). Mass-produced imitations became mainstays of American dinner tables at more middling income levels (Sussman 1977; Miller 1991; Samford 1997). Archaeologists often struggle to reconcile these dominant racialized and gendered meanings of ceramics with their presence in the homes of marginalized people. This research indicates how problematic it is that interpretations of ceramic consumption among African Americans and Native Americans often associate issues of inclusion with African Americans, but maintain a focus on cultural persistence (and therefore separation) for Native Americans. Leone (1995) reads the presence of mismatched plates in an African American household in Annapolis as a sign of resistance to the idea of racially exclusive citizenship. In contrast, Wilkie and Mullins interpret the consumption of mass-produced ceramics as opportunities for African Americans to express their desire for more inclusive concepts of femininity, respectability, and prosperity, opposing stereotypes in visible and tangible ways (Mullins 1999; Wilkie 2003). These distinct interpretations of opposing data both take ceramic consumption as a response to the problem of African American exclusion from white society. In the archaeology of Native American historic sites, however, the primary question often seems to be one of why indigenous people adopted European ceramics at all, and how to interpret them without supporting stereotypes of cultural loss. Stereotypes of acculturation still loom large for Native Americans, so the fact of indigenous survival must be reiterated against pervasive stereotypes of decline. One approach seeks to learn how European ceramics made their way into indigenous practices (e.g. Burley 1989; Marshall & Maas 1997). Another views indigenous uses of Euro-American material culture as mimicry, which enabled Native Americans to resist 176 stereotypes by emulating, but not becoming, the colonizers (Pezzarossi 2014). Finally, some archaeologists simply look at ceramic consumption as “making do,” recognizing that there is no reason to assume Native Americans should be making their own pottery using centuries-old methods when durable, cheap alternatives were available (Silliman & Witt 2010). Approaching Native Americans as modern consumers participating in American economic life avoids stereotyping them as stuck in the past, while offering a point of connection with African diaspora populations and comparison with other ethnic groups in the United States (Silliman & Witt 2010; Mullins 2011). Of course, since the Shinnecock ceramics were found on the reservation, they represent an adaptation of imported goods for internal audiences, an “indigenization” of European consumer goods (Turgeon 1997; Silliman 2009). They might have drawn cultural meaning from the possibility that multiple households shared the midden, or from being used to feed visiting friends and extended families following local traditions of hospitality and regional mobility (cf. Burley 1989; Pezzarossi 2014). At the same time, hospitality could be a point of connection between ethnic groups beyond the reservation. Among African American, Native American, and multi-racial families in Eastville and Freetown, table and tea wares would have been useful for hosting members of the kinship and church networks that tied communities together. I primarily interpret these ceramics in terms of connection because my analysis of artifacts and probate records finds such significant similarities between Native American and African American ceramic consumption choices on eastern Long Island: in the choice of dishes of middling affordability, in the construction of matched sets, and in the purchase of newer, more fashionable dishes along with reuse of old and mismatched sets. These similarities cannot be read through a lens of inclusion for African Americans and a lens of separation for Native Americans, especially since at least one example (Eliza Consor’s) is drawn from a multi-racial household. Instead, they show how both Black and Indian individuals and households were making strides toward economic 177 mobility throughout the nineteenth century, made recognizable to outsiders by property ownership and Euro-American material culture. Since members of both groups were concerned with establishing more comfortable and secure lives, it is most fitting to follow Mullins and Wilkie to read ceramic consumption choices from the perspective of the desire for greater social inclusion. Purchasing fashionable ceramics enabled people of color to furnish their homes in updated ways, entertain family and visitors, and display their everyday participation in mainstream American society. Their affordability may have provided this opportunity even at times when people like Juliet Plato and Eliza Consor were struggling economically: the cost of a new plate or tea cup set could likely fit into a regular grocery bill or credit account, even as wage earners were at sea or real property became unaffordable. Ceramics were affordable, everyday goods that symbolized affluence and respectability, and through use, they likely cemented the growing links between people of color. VI. PROPERTY AND CHANGING DEFINITIONS OF MOBILITY In some ways, archaeological collections, documentary sources, and oral histories all reflect that the nineteenth century whaling years were a period of economic and geographic mobility for Native American households on Long Island. Returning to probate records, it is clear that by the turn of the twentieth century, the material plenty households had worked hard to accumulate was becoming less revealing as a signifier of prosperity than intangible financial assets. As the following chart of household goods organized by enumerated type shows how both the recording practices and contents of probate inventories changed over the course of the nineteenth century (Table 4.5). From 1807 to the 1860s and beyond, probate records enumerated households with significantly more furniture and items of everyday material culture. The categories of kitchen and dining items, ceramic dishes, 178 outdoor tools, and other items show great variability between the most and least detailed records. This provides an important reminder that probate records were not standardized documents, and different enumerators had widely variable standards of thoroughness. On the other hand, the categories of furniture, especially tables, chairs, and beds, show greater consistency between households from the 1860s to early 1900s. This is a more reliable indication of the expansion of household space and furnishings because they would likely be distributed throughout a home. Late probate records, from the 1890s through 1930s, include less detail about household material culture, but they focus more on real estate and formal financial accounts, signifying definitions of wealth that were changing further. 179 Table 4.5 Categories of goods in probate records (by listed item or entry) Name Year Tables Chairs cupboards Bureaus, Stands linens Beds & bed Furniture* Other Sofas Stove Books Items** Decorative items*** dining Kitchen & dishes Ceramic Animals barrels) Food (lots, tools Outdoor scraps carpet & fabric/ work items Indoor Baskets Other**** Jason 1807 3 1 2 1 1 1 1 Cuffee Wealthy 1858 2 13 2 1 present 1 present 6 present Cuffee Silas 1863 4 24 2 4 4 2 3 present 20 39 28 11 23 2 1 12 Plato Peter 1 1868 3 24 3 1 5 18 3 15 17 76 97 4 239 5 25 103 Quaw 6 Ann M. T. 1878 15 2 1 4 8 1 3 present 11 45 61 3 1 6 8 Jupiter Eliza 1898 5 24 2 6 6 2 1 1 128 65 155 211 1 29 14 11 124 Consor Jane M. 1905 5 24 4 3 3 6 2 3 18 27 5 3 4 9 10 Perdue Pyrrhus pres 1897 3 20 2 3 4 5 2 2 8 10 present 4 Concer ent Maria 1936 1 6 2 3 3 1 present Banks *Includes washstands, commodes, couches, chests, trunks, hampers, desks, and a “wood fine board” . **Includes looking glasses, carpets, mats, curtains, pictures, ornaments, jewelry, watches, table cloths, and stand covers ***Includes all cooking, serving, and food storage items apart from listed ceramic dishes ****Includes items and raw materials that do not fit into above categories 180 The inventories of Wealthy Cuffee, Silas Plato, Peter Quaw, and Ann Jupiter, from 1858, 1863, 1868, and 1878, show that most of their wealth was in small house lots, household goods and other assets, summing to less than $200 of household objects and rarely more than $150 in real property. (This does not include the $1000 due to Silas Plato’s family from the agents of the Eagle, since it is unknown whether his widow received it.) Even Eliza Consor’s 1898 probate record spends six pages recording all of her household belongings in incredible detail, but they were appraised at a total value of only $126.84. Bower (1986) finds that ceramics on archaeological sites can also be poor indicators of household wealth in minority households in this period, while land ownership was a much more reliable and objective measure (Landon et al. 2007). House lots in Eastville and small farms on Freetown were valued at an average of $100-150 in the 1860s through the 1880s (East Hampton Assessors 1869, 1873, 1883). Probate records including information about the distribution of property indicate that only land was valuable enough to sell at auction: for instance, Wealthy Cuffee’s land sold for approximately $170 in 1859, while Elymus Derby’s lot was appraised at $100 ten years later, but the remainder of their belongings must have been distributed among family or otherwise dispersed without public announcements (Probate case file no. 4913 1858; Probate case file no. 6691 1869). Later probate inventories indicate that by the turn of the twentieth century, land and financial assets were becoming much more significant sources of household wealth than material objects. Even in the decades after 1850, Charles Atkins had invested in real estate with his stepfather Charles Brant, purchasing two parcels of land in different sections of Eastville in addition to his own house lot in the 1850s and 1860s, while Moses Walker owned two house lots valued at $1000 in the 1880s (East Hampton Assessors 1883; Probate Case File no. 11531A 1890). Nevertheless, this diversification was rare, and it appears that the entirety of their wealth was in land that was not yet as valuable as it would become. 181 The 1905, 1928, and 1897 inventories of Jane Perdue of Eastville, her African American neighbor Mary Hempstead and former Black whaler Pyrrhus Concer of Southampton help to establish a different picture of prosperity. Jane Perdue was a Montaukett woman with relatives on the Shinnecock reservation today. She left her husband Silas in 1848, as we know from his letter to the local paper: “Whereas my wife Jane, after robbing my house, has left my bed and board without cause, I do hereby forbid all persons harboring or trusting her, as I will pay no debts contracted by her” (1848). Whether or not they reconciled is unclear, but Silas died that year, and Jane continued working as a servant. In the 1880s, she purchased a house and land in Sag Harbor, which her probate record describes room by room (East Hampton Assessors 1883, Probate case file no. 16974 1905). Her home had a front hall, which she used for storage of linens and household tools; a front room, furnished for visitors with sofas and rocking chairs, cane chairs, stands, a bureau and a mantle, carpets, pictures, and books; a back room, which also had pictures and chairs, but otherwise more utilitarian items; a bedroom, with a bedstead, chairs, a wash stand, a bureau, and clothing; a pantry; and a kitchen, with dishes, a refrigerator, and a kitchen and chairs. This enumeration shows how these increasingly modern households were divided into spaces devoted to particular activities, in particular a front room for display (Fig. 4.4). 182 Figure 4.4 Jane Perdue’s household inventory (Probate case file no. 16974 1905) 183 Perdue’s probate includes a one page household inventory, but unlike earlier women’s, it primarily focuses on identifying financial assets, real property, and heirs. Perdue’s household property summed to only $90, but according to another page, she had a savings account of $728.50 in the Sag Harbor Savings Bank, as well as a house and lot valued at $750 (Probate case file no. 16974 1905). This lot had more than doubled in value since 1883, when it was taxed at a locally high appraisal of $350, hinting at the slowly building competition for land in the tourist-driven Hamptons area (East Hampton Assessors 1883). Similarly, Perdue’s neighbor Mary Hempstead, who had grown up in Eastville, inherited property from her father, and worked in domestic service, owned a $250 share in a house lot with her cousin Priscilla. She also owned three other pieces of land in Eastville valued at $3725, a savings account with $2244.90, and a savings bond worth $68.07 (Probate case file no. 30029 1928). Her household property is not enumerated, possibly because her other assets dwarfed its value. These women’s savings accounts represent a new financial strategy: earlier probate inventories recorded either cash on hand or none at all, rather than savings accounts. The increasing availability of formal banking tools for people of color created infrastructure for the accumulation of long-term wealth. Outside of Eastville, a few other households also drew on these wealth-building strategies, with mixed results. Pyrrhus Concer, famous for being the first Black American to visit Japan, had complex and diversified finances. These included shares in the Southampton Water Works and Southampton Bank worth $700; four savings accounts with $1970.67; loans due of almost $400; and a house, lot, and small boats valued at $2300. His total property summed to $5,675.31, of which only $40.15 was household furniture (Probate case file no. 14074 1897). Furthermore, his financial prosperity allowed him to act as a creditor to others who may not have been able to apply for formal loans or save significantly in banks. 184 Montaukett households in East Hampton also tried to build lasting wealth through land and savings, but their means were limited. The will of Maria Fowler Pharaoh Banks, who spoke in her autobiography about a difficult life, in which she did not receive the yearly income she expected from the sale of Montaukett fields, still emphasized land as a source of intergenerational wealth. Her will from 1931 directed for the payment of her debts and expenses, distributed the personal property in house among her granddaughters, granted bedding to husband in the room where he slept, and gave her house and lot in Freetown to her daughter Pocahontas Pharaoh (Probate case file no. 291P1936). Israel Quaw, whose land bordered Pocahontas’s, had two bank accounts as well as real estate. His savings totaled to $320.54, but his funeral and administration costs added up to $638.13 (Probate Case File no. 29527 1927). These examples indicate that archaeological and documentary evidence of plentiful material culture and participation in the consumer economy does not necessarily indicate economic security. Indeed, in the years after the Civil War, the whaling industry’s decline hit Sag Harbor’s economy hard: Shinnecock whalers had to sail out of New Bedford to continue working (NBWM 2012), and probate records indicate that younger generations of Native Americans from Sag Harbor were moving to larger cities like Hartford, Boston, and New York. Funeral expenses like Israel Quaw’s, or medical expenses like Wealthy Cuffee’s, could wipe out an individual’s savings and potentially burden their families. Individuals and families had to find new ways to weather economic precarity. Nevertheless, the work of men and women of color earlier throughout the nineteenth century had made real and financial property increasingly available for some Native Americans and African Americans like Perdue and Concer. Land was increasing in value, and people were increasingly able to save significantly through banking institutions. One example even indicates that social services sometimes provided a safety net: Martha Perdue received $660 in old age relief over the last three years of her life, whereas in the nineteenth century, the almost total absence of people of 185 color from the Suffolk County poor house hints that Native Americans and African Americans generally relied on family members for help (Probate Case File no. 40P93 1934; Suffolk County 1871-1892, 1888-1896). Wealth could help in weathering instability, adding a new resource to the set of strategies Native people could draw on to navigate the changing economic and social landscapes of the twentieth century. However, by the twentieth century, household material culture was no longer a useful measure of wealth or prosperity. Land and financial assets were much more valuable than stuff, which meant that most prosperous were not necessarily the most visible. The probate records that testify to these forms of wealth may also show signs of increasing inequality within communities of color. The small number of probate records available for residents of Eastville and Freetown form a sample of people who may have been better off financially than their neighbors. Charles Atkins’s probate file consists solely of correspondence regarding his sister’s petition to inherit his properties, despite the fact that his wife was still living, while a newspaper article mentioned disputes among Pyrrhus Concer’s surviving relatives about the disposal of his estate (Probate Case File no. 11531A 1890, Death of Phyrrus [sic] Concer 1897). Individuals like Atkins, Concer, Perdue, and Hempstead all worked toward real and measurable economic mobility within their lifetimes, but since their gains were not universal, they had the potential to create tension. VII. DISCUSSION & CONCLUSION This regional overview of Native American and African American whaling households in Sag Harbor, Southampton, and East Hampton, New York, indicates that indigenous and Euro-American whaling families managed their household economies in some similar ways, which included household production, reliance on extended family, and women’s financial leadership at home. Ceramic assemblages from the Shinnecock reservation and in probate records from East Hampton, Southampton, and Sag Harbor 186 also show that by the nineteenth century, the archaeologically preserved consumption habits of whaling families are not good sources of evidence for specifically indigenous domestic ideologies or labor patterns. One of the major challenges of interpreting material culture on nineteenth century sites is just how recognizably modern and unremarkably modest assemblages like this look. This is partially a symptom of the long history in archaeology and anthropology of associating culture with ethnicity, and ethnicity with visible difference: it can be hard to analyze our way out of unexpected similarities. This is not just an academic issue, however: this tendency is an inheritance from our various European and American forebears, who were themselves sometimes surprised by the prevalence of consumer goods in Native American and African American households. Nineteenth century white visitors to Native American households sometimes commented on specific everyday objects as unexpected evidence of civility and prosperity: for instance, matched stoneware dishes in a whalers’ home in Massachusetts, or a stained glass lamp in the house of Montaukett matriarch Maria Fowler Pharaoh Banks on Long Island (Rabito-Wyppensenwah 1993; Handsman 2011). It is not an exaggeration to say that these simple purchases became symbols of respectability that violated stereotypes (Mullins 1999; Wilkie 2003). It would perhaps be an interpretive stretch to call these consumption decisions active and intentional symbols in the battle for equal citizenship, but they must be framed in their particular historical context, in which people of color sought more optimistic models of citizenship, and followed the tradition of self-uplift championed by both early Black and Indian thinkers like Magaw and Occum, and later 19th century figures like Du Bois. Even in small towns like Sag Harbor, the reach of multiple alternative models of citizenship among people of color was significant. First, due to maritime labor, men like John Jea built a sense of a global, diasporic African brotherhood, while later mariners experienced relatively egalitarian labor 187 environments on whaling vessels, and ironically, treatment as fully American in foreign ports (Jea 1800; Bolster 1997; Shoemaker 2014). Drawing on religious traditions, preachers like Samson Occum and the later circuit preachers of the AME Zion Church spread ideals of Christian religious brotherhood to far-flung Native American and Black audiences (Occom 1801; Melton 2007). Finally, the very inadequacy of American citizenship for men of color inspired men from Sag Harbor, and across the north, to fight in the Civil War. While African American activists argued over how to pursue equal citizenship, Native Americans fought for their separate treaty rights, but for both, globally conscious maritime and religious experiences provided alternative models to systematic exclusion at home. The written records of these overlapping contemporary movements have provided rich material for historians and literary scholars – but how did the majority of ordinary people in towns like Sag Harbor engage with these movements toward self- definition? I have been discussing material culture in terms of self-representation, but not to argue that these ordinary-seeming choices were necessarily ones people intended as symbolic statements. Instead, I refer to the embodied and habitual ways of moving through the world that Occum and Magaw recognized as so important for their congregations in the late eighteenth century. The choices of housing, clothing, and everyday goods in question here are pragmatic ones. They are aimed not at ethnic distinction or symbolic preservation of difference, but at having a comfortable life and moving smoothly and securely through a discriminatory society. The Black and Indian residents of Shinnecock and Eastville had little need to mark racial and ethnic difference in the daily life of their households – space and legal privilege already did that for them, and material markers of Native American ethnicity in particular were increasingly reserved for symbolic or performative contexts. Instead, the significance of common consumer goods is in the shared communities they mark: between African Americans and Native Americans, between people of color and their working class white 188 counterparts, and between relatives and neighbors who shared a standard of living instead of allowing significant divides of wealth to growth between them. Probate records and tax assessments show a slow and steady rise in Black and Native American property ownership and valuation on eastern Long Island from the early nineteenth to early twentieth centuries, but little strong differentiation in amounts and types of wealth within these communities. This reads, to me, as the result of choices that valued community, modesty, and security over conspicuous consumption, much as Magaw would have advised. After all, these Indian, Black, and multiracial families lived under an exclusionary American reality. This situation lies at the intersection of theoretical insights in critical race theory and historical archaeology. Cheryl Harris’s classic law review article “Whiteness as Property” (1993) defines the historic co-construction of race, ownership, and citizenship. To rearticulate her argument, she asserts that first, the racialized institutions of slavery and Native American land seizure ultimately established a system of legal rights in which ownership of bodies and land were both associated with whiteness in colonial America. Second, whiteness itself became a form of property, in that its owners possessed the traditional rights of use and enjoyment, disposition, status and respect, and right to exclude that are associated with legal property. Third, the law in the United States has privileged whiteness as legal status, in part through defining citizenship as a category that did not include all natural-born Americans until Indian enfranchisement in the 1930s. This complements archaeologist Mark Leone’s articulation of “possessive individualism,” which he defines as the idea that “people own themselves and are solely responsible for themselves, stressing that “possessions means not only material goods but talents, traits, and anything learned” (2005: 35). This has archaeological implications, including, as Leone argues, the famous Georgian-era preference for matched sets of white dishes, one for each autonomous individual. Hicks and Beaudry characterize this ideology as “a particular form of personhood stressing 189 individual autonomy, consumerism, and individualization” (2010: 380). Leone argues that this became the dominant ideology of Revolutionary-era American citizenship because it defined individuals as the source and leaders of the republican state, drawing strong links between property, personhood, and citizenship. Later reflections of these patterns appear in these Native American and African American households in and around nineteenth century Sag Harbor in the prevalence of matching sets of popular dishes, the growth of display-oriented and personalized spaces in the home, and increasing quantities of consumer goods. For people enmeshed in this nexus of exclusion, material culture could make a subtle but meaningful intervention. Quite simply, when people who did not possess whiteness did own other valuable forms of property associated with this dominant ideal of personhood, they took pragmatic steps toward severing that foundational link between race and citizenship. In the nineteenth century, housing and household material culture were part of this struggle. By the early twentieth, however, its terms had changed. Probate records paid less attention to the details of material culture, and more to financial assets in real estate, banks, and investments, while land was increasing in price as eastern Long Island became the vacation destination of the rich. A number of people of color in Sag Harbor were able to build such assets, but in aggregate, wealth remained strongly divided along the “color line.” For a time, material evidence of respectability reflected a social and symbolic struggle for equality that aligned with economic mobility in the whaling era, but people of color began and remained at a strong disadvantage. As Du Bois wrote: “Without a cent, without a home, without land, tools, or savings, he had entered into competition with his landed, skilled neighbors. To be a poor man is hard, but to be a poor race in a land of dollars is the very bottom of hardships” (2005 [1903]: 12). 190 CHAPTER 5 VISUALIZING PERSONHOOD: RACE, SPACE, AND MATERIALITY IN HISTORIC CEMETERIES I. INTRODUCTION Parallel to the growth of independent Black and Indian households, gravestone construction reflected the economic advancement of people of color within the limits of racial inequality that shaped their multicultural communities. As critical race theory helped to interpret patterns of household formation and settlement among African Americans and Native Americans, illuminating how the Black/White “color line” shaped divisions in property ownership and residential locations, here it shapes analyses of space, visibility, and representation in historic cemeteries. The labor of Native Americans and African Americans helped build landscapes for the living in the villages, towns, reservations, ships, and industrial sites of eastern Long Island. Yet in the landscapes of the dead, the historic cemeteries of the south fork, the earliest gravestones for people of African and Native American descent only date back to the mid-nineteenth century. This chapter addresses their absence in historic cemeteries prior to 1800, segregation in nineteenth century cemeteries, and the significant increase in gravestones for people of color after 1850. I analyze reflections of race in these above-ground archaeological landscapes using data from a 2013 survey of 154 gravestones of people of color at five sites in Sag Harbor and East Hampton, New York. These gravestones from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries constitute an important body of self-representations by working class people of color in the American north. This chapter explores for whom these messages were intended, and what they said, by comparing the shapes, material, inscriptions, and imagery of gravestones in two public town cemeteries, two fee-charging multicultural cemeteries, and the cemetery of the St. David AME Zion Church, which was the only space created by and for people of color. Considering archaeological interpretations of graveyards as symbolic and status- laden versus emotional and memory-driven spaces, I argue that for people of color in 191 the nineteenth century, gravestones linked the intensely personal nature of loss and memorialization with the political implications of personhood in the early United States. II. RACE AND RELIGION IN THE NORTHEAST In American cemeteries, religion and social divisions shaped burial practices, and through religious organization, people of color contested racial inequality. By the time of the Revolutionary War, the vast majority of Native Americans and many people of African descent in the northeast were counted as Christians. In order to see beyond the hypocrisy of religion in a slave society, they made the faith their own (Silverman 1997; Mrozowski 2009; Fisher 2012). Christian missions to Indians on eastern Long Island had Puritan roots, in connection with John Eliot’s missionizing and translation efforts in New England. Early deeds to Gardiner’s Island included signatures of Checkanoe, Eliot’s interpreter, and Thomas James, the first minister of East Hampton, who reportedly spoke an Indian language. From 1660 to 1716, James received 10 pounds a year from New England’s Society for the Propagation of the Gospel to instruct the people of Montauk in Christianity (Fisher 2012). East Hampton’s early eighteenth century church included a gallery for Indians and Blacks (ibid: 166). This was characteristic of northeastern churches: although they officially served all members of their communities, they had segregated seating areas. People of color often found themselves seated in pews on upper floor galleries, or in reserved pews in the back in small churches like Sag Harbor’s (St. David AME Zion Church 1840-1939). Often people of color in white-dominated churches had to organize or attend separate, later services, Bible studies, and prayer meetings. This combination of Anglo-American outreach to people of color with their strict control of space was a form of white paternalism that maintained a racial hierarchy through ideals of virtuous behavior and practices of surveillance (Garman 1994; Fitts 1996). 192 Colonial cemetery organization reproduced this segregation. The early eighteenth century saw a significant increase in stone grave markers on eastern Long Island, mainly slate and red sandstone imported from New England (Stone 2009). Their westward orientation reflected the common Christian belief that death was a sort of sleep. East Hampton’s pastor Samuel Buell eloquently expressed the belief that death was simply the body’s rest prior to resurrection at the second coming of Christ: We do not use to bewail our friends because they are fallen asleep; and why should we lament over our friends in the bed of dust, enjoying their peaceful slumbers: who sleep but while the night of mortality endures; and if the night is a little longer, the morning will be immensely more joyous. If that formidable thing which we commonly call death, is not death to our pious friends; but the shadow and metaphor of death, a mere sleep and no more…if from this sleep our pious friends shall assuredly awake again in the glorious morning of the resurrection to life- everlasting, oh how unutterable the consolation from thence resulting! (1782: 19-20) In the eighteenth century graveyards of East Hampton and Southampton, gravestones had a typical east-west Christian orientation: the inscribed faces of headstones looked westward, with smaller footstones about six feet to the east. Upon resurrection, the people buried between these stones could rise directly from their “beds” to face the rising sun, the direction from which Christ was expected to summon their physically renewed bodies. Religious life in the northeast changed with the Great Awakening, a series of religious movements that spread from the 1730s to the 1760s. This wave of Christian “reawakening” stressed the personal, emotional power of repentance and trust in Christ, in contrast to the earlier emphasis on predestination, inevitability, and discipline. East Hampton’s Reverend Buell wrote a pamphlet commemorating the explosion of faith that shook his church in 1764: From day to day, I now saw many sinners of various ages, upon their knees, with hands extended toward heaven, and in flowing tears, begging and crying for the exercise of sovereign mercy in the name of Jesus, with as much earnestness and importunity, to all appearance, as tho’ the Lord Jesus Christ was then coming in flaming fire to the final judgment. They 193 seemed to be pressing into the kingdom of god, as if they would take it by violence. (1768: 18-19) Emotional, embodied religious experiences like these held special appeal for many people of color. In the mid-eighteenth century, Native American preachers began to take the gospel into their own hands, traveling across native homelands and connecting Indian congregations across states. Among them was the Reverend Paul Cuffee, a Shinnecock Congregational minister born around 1757 who lived and preached across Long Island until his death in 1812 (Township of Southampton 2013).14 Samson Occum, a Mohegan preacher who married a Montaukett woman, had significant influence across New England and Long Island, eventually leading a group of Native Americans from six Algonquian tribal nations to found their own Christian Indian settlement. (The Brothertown Indians, who included part of the Montaukett diaspora, first lived in central New York and then moved to Wisconsin. For more detail, cf. Stone 1993 and Cipolla 2010, 2013.) When Occum published a sermon he preached before the execution of Moses Paul, a Native American man convicted of murdering his landlord when drunk, he wrote that unlike other preachers, he shared the gospel simply enough that “the Indians, my brethren and kindred according to the flesh,” and even “poor Negroes” could understand it (1772: frontispiece). Although his words were suffused with exaggerated modesty, he stressed that Indians would trust the Christian message more hearing it from one of their own. He most frequently used the language of blood and kinship in relation to Indians, but also referred to Paul at one point as “our poor countryman,” calling on a sense of shared indigenous citizenship within the colonial context. His two references to “negroes” as listeners who also might have had little education and limited resources show the significance of shared experience among people of color. Occum and other indigenous preachers appropriated Christian 14Note to researchers: this Paul Cuffee was distinct from the famous New Bedford captain, the captain’s son and namesake, and the younger Shinnecock Paul Cuffee who lived on the Shinnecock reservation later in the nineteenth century. 194 teachings to lift up oppressed people and protest the inequality they saw daily. For instance, in Occum’s sermon for Moses Paul, he stressed that as men created by God, Indians were creatures of reason and capability, not naturally poor and deprived, despite stereotypes and widespread alcoholism. Although he only briefly mentioned the roles of Euro-Americans and economic injustice in a much longer appeal to Indians to solve their own problems with alcoholism, his message was ultimately one stressing human dignity and self-empowerment. Religious movements and leaders who addressed issues of injustice like these helped to build rhetorical and social foundations for ethnically plural communities and shared identities for Christian people of color. Africans and African Americans in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries also had ambiguous relationships with Christianity, as many experienced European Christian outreach in the context of slavery, which did not always inspire faithful adherence. In their autobiographies, Harriet Jacobs, Frederick Douglass, and other formerly enslaved people described the religious instruction slaves received as laughable and hypocritical, clearly intended solely to ensure their obedience (e.g. Douglass 1851; Jacobs 1861; Kantrowitz 2012). Simultaneously, other Africans and African Americans integrated Christian teachings with their own life experiences and cultural traditions, appropriating it as a powerful force for hope and justice (Melton 2007; Fisher 2012). Black preachers and writers interpreted the gospel through the lenses of comfort and liberation, often specifically naming the un-Christian actions of whites (Marrant 1785; Magaw 1794). John Jea, a man born in Africa and transported to the United States in the transatlantic slave trade, traveled the Atlantic preaching and asserting his identity as an African and a Christian after a religious conversion (1800). Read as a literary and religious account, it clearly protests injustice and inequality, arguing for a more universal form of citizenship in Christ. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, an attention to injustice, emotional appeals, and relaxation of social hierarchies attracted many people of Indian 195 and African descent to the Methodist evangelical movement. Early Methodists were primarily white, but their assembly was one of the first religious groups to denounce slavery, and their worship services were unusually welcoming to women and people of color who wanted to participate (Fisher 2012). The movement appealed to African Americans in part because it lacked a history of hypocrisy around slavery compared to other major American denominations, but also because its worship traditions grew to incorporate African religious elements like the ring shout, and to value themes of Christian salvation through popular music and tales of emotional experience. Methodism represented hope for inclusion to those who joined, reflected in the fact that until 1784, Methodist congregations were completely lay-led (Melton 2007). In 1784, the Methodists organized their own conference and formal church structure. Their most basic unit of organization was the class, a local group of members who met for Bible study and worship. People of color were often members of classes with whites, and sometimes they led their own classes. The two leadership roles were preachers and exhorters. Preachers traveled in circuits, visiting and linking multiple congregations over the course of a year, and were licensed by the centralized Methodist conference. Exhorters were chosen at the local level, as speakers who tailored traveling preachers’ messages for their local audiences, encouraging greater energy and devotion during worship services. In early Methodism, Black men could be appointed as class leaders, preachers, or exhorters at the local level, but women were excluded (Dodson 2002; Melton 2007). By the last decades of the eighteenth century, Methodism had become particularly popular among urban African Americans, but the religious idea of brotherhood could not entirely heal the racial divides in American society. Some people of color still experienced segregated worship services, and others witnessed debate among white leaders about their proper roles in the congregation and leadership (Melton 2007: 47). In the 1790s, Black Christians established the first formal church 196 organizations that served primarily colored congregations: the American Methodist Episcopal Church in Philadelphia, the African Methodist Episcopal Zion church in New York, and an African Baptist church in Boston. In Sag Harbor, the St David African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Zion Church was one of the first congregations to serve a community of color on the South Fork. A Methodist Episcopal church was established in the village in 1809 and attracted some members of Native and African ancestry, but it did not live up to the faith’s egalitarian promises. A Native American congregant, Lewis Cuffee, noticed “from time to time the desire of the white people to keep those of his race out of their church,” and once found “the pews allotted to them closed and locked,” which inspired him, Charles Plato, and William Prime to break off and found their own AME Zion Church (Fig. 5.1) (St. David AME Zion Church 1840-1939: 1). The church’s 50-60 AME Zion Church members made up about 14% of Long Island’s 387 worshippers in 19 AME Zion congregations, most of whom lived in the more populous counties closer to New York City (des Grange 1963: 5).15 15The only other church in Southampton or East Hampton that primarily served people of color was in Freetown (Sag Harbor Corrector, 24 August 1861: 2; Long Island Traveler 1892, 11 November 1892: 2). This research could not establish its date of establishment, denomination or membership, however, and according to local residents, the church building itself has been moved from its site to the grounds of a private hotel. 197 Figure 5.1 St. David African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church, Sag Harbor, 2012 According to the church record (1839-1940), St. David’s adapted Methodist practices and structures to its small town context. Its local leadership consisted of three trustees. Before 1900, almost every one of these trustees served until their deaths. There were no local preachers, only two exhorters, no stewards (although a few members are listed as “stewardesses” later in the record), four leaders (probably class leaders), and one “S.S. Supt”. A series of preachers served short terms in the church, usually 2-3 years, with the exception of the first minister, John P. Thompson. Thompson apparently served a longer first term in the 1840s, and then a second in the 1860s until his death, because he had stronger local links than many pastors appointed by the regional conference. He married a woman from the area, Ann M. Titus, with whom he was buried in Eastville’s cemetery. One minister, Alexander Posey, caused a schism in the church when he decided to join the AME Bethel denomination in 1858. Eastville resident David Hempstead purchased a nearby private house for the use of the AME 198 Zion congregation until they were able to purchase back the original church building, and two Black churches remained in the village until at least 1868 (St. David AME Zion Church 1840-1939; Zaykowski 1991: 184). Women played a significant role in the life of AME and AME Zion Churches from the start (Dodson 2002). Sag Harbor’s was no exception. St David’s membership records note that Huldah and Jane Youngs were received as “founders” in 1840 (St. David AME Zion Church 1840-1939). In the Philadelphia-based AME Church denomination, the position of “stewardess” was created in 1868 to give women a leadership role, which officially consisted of preparing for baptisms and confirmations, but in some contexts may have given women opportunities to preach (Melton 2007). Eastville’s AME Zion Church had at least two stewardesses. Between 1890 and 1904, the church appointed its first female trustee, Mary Atkins, followed by Mary Greene and Mary Jane Hempstead in 1905. Hempstead also served as the church’s only “S.S. Supt,” which I believe may refer to supervision of the Sunday school (St. David AME Zion Church 1840-1939). In the 1890s, Ella J. Rugg became the first female (and second ever) exhorter at St. David’s, using a rare and recently won right: women were only allowed to preach in the AME Church in 1884, and even then, male regional leaders were often reluctant to ordinate them (Williams 2004; Melton 2007). Women of color also made significant financial contributions, organizing women’s benevolent societies that raised money for the church and carried out its charitable obligations to help the ill, orphaned, and bereaved. Newspaper articles from the Sag Harbor Express advertised church fairs, performances, sales, subscription drives, harvest festivals, and lawn parties. Active female members of the church took the lead in organizing these activities, which aimed to raise money for Sunday school programs, ministers’ salaries, and payment of the church’s debts and renovations (Sag Harbor Express, 12 December 1889: 3, 31 July 1890: 3, 24 August 1893: 3, 15 October 1896:3; Zaykowski 1991: 185). 199 In Sag Harbor, and throughout the American northeast, African American and Native American men and women drew on Christian ideas to push for greater social equality. In the face of persistent segregation and resistance even in many churches, by the turn of the nineteenth century people of color were establishing their own religious organizations like the AME Zion Church. Such new institutions helped to turn shared experiences and shared neighborhoods into tight-knit communities with relationships of brotherhood and sisterhood among people of Native American and African descent. III. RESEARCH QUESTIONS AND APPROACHES People of color on Long Island lived and died in a society divided by the intertwined lines of race and class, and they created their own institutions and spaces like St. David’s to build community and solidarity. Cemeteries are important for reconstructing the archaeological record of the economic advancement of people of color and their self-representation in multicultural and community-owned spaces. This study explores patterns of affiliation and identification among people of color through the following research questions: 1. Does the presence and location of Native American and African American gravestones reflect the Black/White color line in similar ways to patterns of household and property ownership observed in earlier chapters? 2. How do gravestones function as statements about social position among people of color living in a racially divided society? To what extent are they consumer objects reflecting status or aspirations to status? What elements of identity to text and imagery on gravestones express? 3. Do gravestones located in different types of cemeteries – specifically St. David’s versus white-dominated town and fee-based cemeteries – differ materially in ways that indicate people of color made different choices of self-representation for different audience? Archaeological perspectives on historic cemeteries are traditionally focused on gravestones as either status markers or carriers of symbolic messages about identity and relationships. Little, Lanphear, and Owsley (1992) identify two dimensions of social significance for historical mortuary material culture: first, it provides evidence of 200 cyclical status display moving between elite innovation and non-elite emulation, and second, it is a repository of ideologically charged symbolism within its community of origin. Parker Pearson (1982) and McGuire (1988) note that gravestones do not directly reflect social status, but act as tools of self-representation and competitive display. Little et al. and Garman (1994) complicate this perspective by raising the question of how mass production and distribution of funerary and memorial goods in the nineteenth century disrupted status display by standardizing headstone material, size, imagery, and inscriptions. By creating a more homogeneous range of products available to most consumers, and increasing the economic accessibility of mass produced rather than local artisanal goods, this trend disrupted visible correlations between wealth and social status. In the mortuary sphere as well as other arenas of consumption, this opened up new avenues for self-representation among economically and racially marginalized people (cf. Mullins 1999 and Wilkie 2001 for comparisons to other consumption). Tarlow (1999) brings this discussion back to the realm of lived experience by pointing out the significance of mourning. Analyzing gravestones as structural and symbolic elements in social representation and class struggle focuses on social processes that may not be fully apparent to the actors involved. A more experiential approach takes account of the emotions, intents, and meanings that mourning and commemoration had for the bereaved. Personal relationships and social ties make up the most immediate experiences of bereavement and most pressing reasons for memorialization. The archaeological residues of these emotions and relationships include symbolic imagery on gravestones, the content of their textual inscriptions, remains of memorial practices, and documentary records of loss. Cemeteries can reveal direct evidence of how people represented identities and social connections through their revelation or omission of kinship, marriage, and social links, individual histories of labor and military service, and other characteristics such as race, ethnicity, tribal affiliation, or membership in faith communities. However, 201 tombstones rarely make explicit reference to all of these. The choices people made about monuments and inscriptions indicate not only the significance of included information, but the relative prominence of different facets of identity in different contexts and for different audiences. Garman’s research on a cemetery from colonial and early republican Rhode Island provides a useful example of how the content of gravestones differs depending on actors and their audiences: the gravestones of African Americans mentioned race when white slaveholders had erected them, but not when African Americans themselves were responsible. He hypothesized that these groups created the memorials to communicate different messages to different viewers (1994). Cipolla’s surveys of the Brothertown cemeteries of New York and Wisconsin illustrates both cultural differences in emphasis and diachronic ideological change (2010). Early Native American gravestones indicated more corporate conceptions of personhood than in neighboring white communities, but later nineteenth century inscriptions showed greater convergence around ideas of the “atomic” individual. Different media were also vehicles for different messages: first, burial practices themselves were based more around atomic individuality than inscriptions or ethnohistorical and archaeological examples might predict; and second, documentary records from Brothertown stressed shared Indian identities and different tribal affiliations to a much stronger degree than gravestones, the latter of which may have been designed mainly for consumption within the community. Due to the diachronic formation of cemeteries, the involvement of both producers and consumers of gravestones, and the multicultural social contexts in which Americans of color lived, Cipolla approaches historic cemeteries as “active” and “multi-authored” memorial landscapes (ibid). On eastern Long Island, reading gravestones through the lens of race has the potential to unite these approaches to cemeteries as sites of status display, relationships and emotion, and performance for distinct audiences by viewing identity and 202 community within the context of the social and economic advancement of minority groups amidst structural racism. IIIA. METHODS In this research, I used the Filemaker Pro database of people of color in the towns of East Hampton and Southampton, NY, that I created from census records and other historical sources. The database identifies 1295 people in the towns of East Hampton and Southampton, NY, who were identified as “Black,” “mulatto,” “Indian,” or “colored” between 1790 and 1880. Through historical research and consultation with local historians and officials, I identified publicly accessible cemeteries where people of color might be buried in these two towns. The town of Southampton recently engaged in a major preservation project in its historic town-owned cemeteries that established a searchable online database listing names on every known gravestone. However, searches of this database yielded only ten public gravestones matching names of people of color (Township of Southampton 2013). Field research therefore focused on locating gravestones for people of color in the villages of Sag Harbor and East Hampton. Pedestrian survey in seven cemeteries between February and April 2013 yielded positive identifications of people of color for 154 monuments at five sites (Fig. 5.2). I recorded each of these monuments using forms, definitions, and codes from Mytum’s (2000) handbook, which include categories for cemetery name, gravestone numbers, material, shape, size, direction, names, inscriptions, marginal and central decorations, and additional elements. I entered this data into a table in the Filemaker database (Fig. 5.3) and photographed each gravestone. A monument is defined as an above-ground marker of any material that memorializes an individual, couple, or family. These include traditional gravestones marking specific burial locations and monuments to families or multiple individuals within larger plots. When individuals are commemorated on both family monuments and small marble stones identifying their grave sites, both types of markers are counted 203 as separate monuments within this study. Multiple monuments that are clearly associated with one another based on names on shared family markers or inclusion within defined and bordered plots are recorded as belonging to family groups. Footstones, flags, flowers, other offerings, and borders such as concrete kerbs or posts and rails are considered supplementary elements to primary markers, not separate monuments themselves (although due to widespread damage and displacement at some cemeteries, it is possible that some stones recorded separately may have originated as supplementary elements that were separated from primary markers). Figure 5.2 Cemetery research sites in Sag Harbor and East Hampton, New York 204 Figure 5.3 Sample cemetery database entry 205 IIIB. RESEARCH SITES: ABSENCE AND PRESENCE Despite the consistent presence of people of color on eastern Long Island, there are almost no surviving marked burials from before the nineteenth century (Marcus 1988; Stone 2009). This may reflect burial practices among Native Americans and Africans early in the colonial period, poor preservation, and racial restrictions on access to public space. Absence, too, is a part of the archaeological record of race and exclusion. Earlier indigenous burial traditions may have lacked permanent markers, but they likely had religiously significant orientations and sometimes grave goods (Simmons 1970; Rubertone 2001; Cipolla 2013). In southern New England, Narragansett and Wampanoag burials from the seventeenth century most frequently ran along a northeast/southwest axis or had heads facing south (Simmons 1970; Gibson 1980; Brenner 1988; Rubertone 2001). This southwestern orientation reflected the direction of travel souls undertook from east to west to reach Cautantowwit’s house after death (Simmons 1970). On Long Island, historic period cemeteries have not been excavated, so orientation is unclear, but one cemetery with above-ground markers has survived. Most graves in the surviving Montaukett cemetery in East Hampton are delineated by circles of cobble-sized, rounded stones, with an isolated example of a carved headstone from the nineteenth century. These circular markers sound most similar to historic period graves on the Mashantucket Pequot reservation marked with single upright stones surrounded by smaller stones (McBride & Grumet 1996). Individual fieldstone markers are known among eighteenth century Native American communities in New England, but not on Long Island (Hodge 2005; Cipolla 2010). It is likely that outside of protected areas such as the Shinnecock reservation, if such individual fieldstone memorials existed, they may have been misrecognized as randomly placed stones and subsequently removed. Early African American practices in the area are unknown. African-derived and creolized memorial practices in the Americas included some traditions visible through 206 excavation, such as placing shells, white pebbles, glass bottles, and other bright, sparkly, and spiritually symbolic objects around graves; placing dishware and medicine bottles immediately above coffins; burying the objects of the last meal with the deceased; or placing bowls with salt over the deceased (Jamieson 1995; Davidson 2010). However, they often lacked surviving above-ground memorials. Accounts of slaveholding families on eastern Long Island discuss slave funerals and mourning, but known cemeteries have not yet revealed evidence of burial practices among people of color themselves. In the Tuthill family cemetery on the north shore of Long Island, enslaved people and slave owners were buried together with rough stone markers (Marcus 1988: 117-119). At the “Colored People’s Burying Ground” at Sylvester Manor, a plantation just north of Sag Harbor where enslaved and indentured Africans and Native Americans worked, a boulder marked an otherwise invisible cemetery for a century. Geophysical survey in 2013 and 2014 has revealed the presence of numerous unmarked burials (Ratini 2013; Hayes, personal communication 2014). By the nineteenth century, most known burials of African Americans and Native Americans in the northeast followed European Christian practices of burial in coffins, with stones oriented westward (Parrington & Roberts 1984; Hodge 2005; Baugher 2009; Cipolla 2013). The earliest marked burials of people of color in a public cemetery on the south fork are located within Sag Harbor’s Old Burying Ground. The village established this ¾ acre cemetery in 1767 as the town burying ground, associated with the Presbyterian Meeting House, and it was active until 1840 (Zaykowski 2003). In the front near the church, the cemetery is a forest of intricately carved slate and red sandstone grave markers imported from New England, featuring the names of prominent white families. The back southern and southeastern areas, where people of color were buried, look nearly empty. Zaykowski’s survey identified seven African American burials with surviving gravestones in the 1990s. In 2013, this survey identified eight stones in this area dating from 1798 to 1841 (one fragmentary), all with 207 a westward orientation. Additional burials may be present but unmarked: the Presbyterian Church recorded seventeen deaths of people of color between 1798 and 1832, but none of their names appear on these gravestones (Zaykowski 2003). East Hampton had two early town cemeteries, the South End and North End Burying Grounds. This survey only found African American or Native American names in the North End, which was established in 1770 near a Methodist Church (Rattray 1953). Here, tombstones are arranged in even north-south rows proceeding from the southern entrance near the church, all oriented toward the west. In the empty-looking northeastern portion, there are fourteen gravestones constituting a section for people of color. The memorials are heavily eroded, but visible inscriptions combined with census records indicate that they all date to the third quarter of the nineteenth century. Both the Old Burying Ground and the North End Burying Ground exhibit systematic spatial segregation and a low rate of permanent markers for people of color that does not reflect the extent of their population in the census. When these town burying grounds filled in the mid-nineteenth century, Sag Harbor and East Hampton established new graveyards. These still active “rural cemeteries” were designed as picturesque landscapes for contemplation, where families and individuals purchased plots within a planned layout (French 1974). Oakland Cemetery in Sag Harbor opened in 1840, and Cedar Lawn in East Hampton in 1893 (“Find a Grave” 2014; Zaykowski 1991). In early years, wealthy and prominent families established markers near the entrance of Oakland, while the Native American and African American families who erected 22 monuments for 29 people of color between 1853 and 1917 were isolated in the far southwest corner. Cedar Lawn includes thirteen monuments in two family plots for thirteen members of two African American and Montaukett families, with dates of death from 1918 to 1993.16 These are located in the midst of Euro-American plots. In both 16This study only recorded twentieth century gravestones if they were located in plots shared with people of color listed in nineteenth century census tables. It did not include all Native American and African American burials in Oakland and Cedar Lawn 208 rural cemeteries, gravestones are oriented with their inscriptions facing the nearest access path, regardless of direction, with more attention to visibility for visitors than to religious significance. In Oakland, the gravestones in the section for people of color are oriented eastward toward the road, while in Cedar Lawn, the two family plots are located across the road from each other, with stones in one plot facing approximately toward the north and the other approximately toward the south. The St. David AME Zion Church’s cemetery in Sag Harbor is the only publicly accessible cemetery on the South Fork established by and for people of color.17 The trustees of the church purchased land for its cemetery in 1857 (Suffolk County deed liber 92: 1857). Today, it contains 89 monuments memorializing at least 96 individuals, with dates of death from 1848 to 1997. The orientations of gravestones in this cemetery follow both traditional and rural cemetery models: 24 headstones dating from the 1860s to 1910s have a traditional westward (or slightly southwestward) orientation, while five are oriented to the north, 23 to the south facing the central path from the cemetery entrance, and 31 to the east, facing the road passing the cemetery. (Others have multiple engraved faces or unclear orientations due to displacement.) This mix of orientations shows the long term formation of St. David’s as a composite landscape, drawing on both traditional Christian and newer aesthetically driven orientation practices. In 2001, the AME Zion Church deeded the St. David’s cemetery to the Eastville Community Historical Society, an organization established by members of descendant communities in Sag Harbor. This research project was conducted in partnership with the historical society, and it provided an updated survey of gravestones, inscriptions, and conditions for the organization. This cemetery provides a unique example of African American and Native American self-representations in their own cultural institution to to the present. Stone (1993) lists several Native American whalers buried at Cedar Lawn in the late nineteenth century, but I was unable to locate these graves through pedestrian survey or database searches. 17 Cemeteries located on Native American land are not included in this survey. 209 compare to the white-dominated spaces of town burying grounds and fee-based cemeteries. IV. BURIAL DATA Figure 5.4 Death dates per decade by cemetery The burial dates within these five cemeteries fall into roughly three time periods: 1790-1849 (n=9), 1850-1909 (n=87), and 1910-1999 (n=43) (Figure 5.4). All of the burials in the Old Burying Ground fall within the earliest period, and all of the burials in Cedar Lawn fall within the latest. The burials in St. David’s, Oakland, and the North End are primarily from the middle period with many later outliers. There are also 27 gravestones with illegible or no dates, including the six in the North End with names that appear in census records from the third quarter of the nineteenth century. IVA. TEMPORAL AND REGIONAL TRENDS Following Garman (1994) and Cipolla (2010), I analyzed gravestone material choices, shapes, and size as physical factors that could signify differences of status or 210 ideology among individuals. At these sites, they were not sources of significant variation compared to evidence of interpersonal relationships in space, inscriptions, and decorations. The materials used for gravestones varied primarily over time, in line with regional and national trends (Table 5.1). Sandstone is found in the earliest burials at the Old Burying Ground. Marble is the most common material, appearing in 113 gravestones from every cemetery from the early nineteenth to early twentieth centuries. Granite became popular in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and it is present in 19 gravestones in every cemetery but the Old Burying Ground. Only St. David’s has small metal markers from twentieth century funeral homes. Table 5.1 Gravestone materials St. Old Burying North Cedar Oakland David's Ground End Lawn Sandstone 1 4 0 0 0 Marble 70 4 20 12 7 Granite 10 0 2 1 6 Metal (temporary marker) 6 0 0 0 0 Other (concrete, other 2 0 0 1 0 stone) Gravestone shapes include tall rectangular headstones with flat, round, slightly rounded, triangular, sinuous, or Gothic pointed tops (sandstone or marble); obelisks (marble); crosses (marble); monuments low or flush to the ground (marble and granite); wedge and desk shaped headstones (primarily granite); metal markers; and other unknown or badly damaged shapes (cf. Mytum 2000 for descriptions) (Table 5.2). 211 Table 5.2 Gravestone shapes Old St. North Cedar Burying Oakland David's End Lawn Ground Flat 25 1 5 7 2 Round 11 0 4 0 0 Slightly rounded 19 6 7 3 2 Sinuous 2 0 0 0 0 Gothic pointed top 1 0 1 0 0 Triangular 5 0 2 1 0 Desk 3 0 1 0 7 Low or flush to ground 3 0 0 1 1 Obelisk 4 0 1 0 1 Cross 0 0 1 0 0 Unknown/broken/other 4 1 0 2 0 Wedge shaped slab 6 0 0 0 0 Metal on stand with curved 6 0 0 0 0 top White marble slabs with a variation of top shapes were dominant in all cemeteries throughout most of the nineteenth century, and lower, wider granite shapes replaced them in the early twentieth in St. David’s, Cedar Lawn, and Oakland (Fig. 5.5, Fig. 5.6). 212 Figure 5.5 Typical nineteenth century marble headstone with triangular top at Oakland Cemetery, Sag Harbor, memorializing whaler William H. Cuffee Figure 5.6 Typical twentieth century granite desk-shaped headstone at the St. David AME Zion Church cemetery, Sag Harbor, memorializing Rose L. Johnson. 213 At St. David’s, some early traditions survived longer than in other cemeteries: white marble slabs remained the dominant type until the 1930s, increasingly anachronistic footstones appeared into the 1880s, and marble markers surrounded family monuments until the 1920s, showing a stylistic conservatism that may show respect for the past or an aesthetic goal of matching existing monuments. In both Sag Harbor and Oakland, a number of stones mixed styles and materials toward the last quarter of the nineteenth century, showing the slow adoption of new styles. For instance, in Oakland four small gray granite markers with curved tops, which look very much like traditional marble markers, attest to the short lives of four Ward children who died between the 1850s and 1870s. Solomon Brown in Oakland and Mark Dowdy in St. David’s both had marble headstones with heavy bases and thick, short panels more commonly executed in granite, identifying them as “husbands” “at rest”. These show the slow and experimental adoption of new styles in cemeteries that were active during a stylistic transition (Fig. 5.7). Figure 5.7 Headstone memorializing Mark Dowdy at the St. David AME Zion Cemetery, made of marble in a shape usually executed in granite. 214 In St. David’s, twelve gravestones also stand on marble or granite bases or pedestals, which increase their height and width significantly (e.g. Fig. 5.7). There are three pedestals present in Oakland, two in Cedar Lawn, and none in the two public burying grounds. This could be part of the same stylistic transition from tall, narrow marble stones to lower, more substantial granite ones, or it could be evidence of greater choice and economic resources among families buried at St. David’s. In comparison to each other, the gravestone shapes and materials in these five cemeteries do not show significant differences between St. David’s and the other four racially mixed cemeteries. Viewed in the light of archaeological studies of contemporaneous graveyards, they reflect broad trends in regional consumption rather than choices specific to ethnic or racial groups (cf. Little et al. 1994; Stone 2009; Veit 2009; Cipolla 2013). This is because Native American and African American consumers were choosing from the same limited set of options as Anglo-Americans: Long Islanders have had to import sandstone, limestone, and granite for headstones from New England or mainland New York since the seventeenth century. By the mid-nineteenth century, gravestones were increasingly mass-produced, which reduced some forms of earlier variation in size and decoration and resulted in the marble and granite trends seen here. Size is another factor that archaeologists have used to draw conclusions about social hierarchies, but in these five cemeteries, gravestone sizes differed only between adults and children; if this measure was meaningful here, it would indicate relative equality within communities of color. Children’s memorials are generally smaller than those for adults, but there are no patterns of physical differentiation between gravestones of men, women, adults of different ages, and people with known differences in ethnic background or occupations. Adult-sized marble headstones in each cemetery have nearly identical dimensions, and granite desk and wedge memorials are also uniform in size. In contrast, in Newport’s early nineteenth century Common Burying 215 Ground, African American women’s gravestones were the smallest of all adult racial and gender groups, while in some Brothertown Indian cemeteries, Native American women’s gravestones were the largest (Garman 1994; Cipolla 2010). Arguably, both of these trends reflected the impacts of race and culture on social experiences of gender: in a multicultural city like Newport, African American women experienced an intersection of oppressions, while women held relative positions of authority in Native American traditions compared to Euro-American ideals. The equal size of men’s and women’s gravestones on eastern Long Island shows an alternative trend, one of equal gender representation in a Native American and African American community, if only due to the equalizing force of mass produced consumer goods. IVB. RELATIONSHIPS IN STONE: SPACE AND SHARED MEMORIALS Above and beyond tribal, racial, religious, or other broad social affiliations, people of color on the south fork commemorated their close family relationships in the ways they organized and grouped memorials. Gravestones in the five study sites memorialized couples, immediate family members, and nuclear or extended families as well as individuals (Table 5.3). Nineteenth century family monuments often listed individual names on a central obelisk, marking surrounding burial locations with either full individual headstones or small marble markers inscribed with initials. Small marble markers were also used for juvenile gravestones, but these are distinguishable by their more extensive inscriptions. Sometimes small markers may have been used for adults, but here, this may only appear in gravestones without legible inscriptions in the North End. Small markers used as footstones are not counted as separate stones. 216 Table 5.3 Distribution of stones by relationship type Old St. North Cedar Burying Oakland David's End Lawn Ground Individual gravestone 44 5 7 3 5 Gravestone for married 5 0 1 0 0 couple Marker for 2 related 2 0 2 0 1 family members (including juvenile) Individual gravestone 0 0 2 0 5 associated with family monument Family monument 4 0 1 0 2 Small marker 22 0 0 0 0 associated with family monument Small marker not 2 0 2 5 0 associated with family monument Individual juvenile 5 2 7 4 0 marker Other or unknown 4 1 0 2 0 In the second half of the nineteenth century and into the early twentieth, Native Americans and African Americans often chose to mark family relationships as important sources of identity, but this option may have been economically or legally unavailable in the public cemeteries. At the two town cemeteries, the Old Burying Ground and the North End, all identifiable gravestones are for individuals alone. In contrast, at St. David’s, Oakland, and Cedar Lawn, around half of the gravestones are for individuals (57.3%, 63.6%, and 38.5%, respectively), and the remainder either memorialize multiple people or are associated with family monuments. At St. David’s, family monuments are surrounded by small individual markers engraved with initials, while at Oakland and Cedar Lawn, family monuments are usually associated with juvenile and full-sized adult headstones inscribed with names and dates of death (Fig. 5.8, 5.9). People were more careful to mark individual as well as corporate identity on every 217 stone in large, racially diverse rural cemeteries than they were in the smaller, church- affiliated space of St. David’s. Figure 5.8 This nineteenth century family monument is a typical marble obelisk with small marble markers surrounding it. It memorializes eleven members of the Prime family and others in the St. David AME Zion Church Cemetery. 218 Figure 5.9 This marble obelisk located in Sag Harbor's Oakland Cemetery memorializes members of the Consor family, with associated marble headstones of different shapes and sizes in the background. In Sag Harbor, this style of commemoration also reflects the permanent impact several founding families in Eastville had on their local community. The Primes, Hempsteads, Greens, and Cuffees (with their Consor, Ward, and Ashman descendants) settled in the neighborhood during its explosion of growth from the late 1830s to early 1850s. Both men and women from these families played leading roles in the church and were anchors of the community for generations. The Prime family established a family monument in St. David’s that memorialized eleven people, while the Greens and Hempsteads erected one surrounded by seven individual markers, and eleven twentieth century descendants of the Ashman family are buried in the Halsey & Johnson family plot. In Oakland, 22 members of the extended Cuffee family were buried in plots that ran together, and the Consor family monument included inscriptions for nine people. On the 219 other hand, most people who lived in Eastville or participated in the church for only one generation were memorialized as individuals and couples. People whose kinship networks shaped their living community represented these roots in their cemeteries. Finally, race is a spatial organizing factor in three out of five cemeteries, but African American vs. Native American ethnicity is not. Separation between people of color and whites is obvious when present: the Old Burying Ground and the North End Burying Ground are clearly racially segregated, Oakland’s early plots for people of color are relegated to a corner, and at St. David’s, only people of color are buried. However, within each of these cemeteries, when people identified as Black and Indian are present18, they are often buried next to each other. Gravestone groupings relate to kinship, but not to tribal or ethnic identity. Of course, these identities derive from kinship, but kinship also allowed for the incorporation of people from other groups. For instance, some members of Sag Harbor’s Montaukett and Shinnecock Cuffee family married African American or Unkechaug spouses (see chapter 3), and many of them are buried near each other in Oakland. In St. David’s, fifteen Native American individuals are buried throughout the cemetery amidst 81 African Americans and individuals of mixed ancestry. In Cedar Lawn, one of the two family plots memorializes the Horton and Montgomery families, united through the marriage of Montaukett Julia Horton and African American Robert Montgomery (Sag Harbor Express, 4 February 1886:3). In the North End, Montaukett resident John Joseph is buried immediately next to the African American Coles family (USC 1860; Stone 1993). In each of these cemeteries, family and shared experiences overruled ethnic dividing lines. This spatial integration shows the strong relationships Native Americans and African Americans forged in the multicultural communities of Long Island. 18 No known indigenous people are buried in the Old Burying Ground. 220 IVC. TEXT AND IMAGERY: REPRESENTING IDENTITY, REMEMBERING LOVE Beyond the organization of monuments and numbers of those commemorated, inscriptions and imagery reveal relationships and identities within these families and communities. Inscriptions are indices pointing at their survivors, and they can also indicate differential constructions of identity within groups (Tarlow 1999; Mytum 2000; Stone 2009; Cipolla 2010). Inscriptions on gravestones on Long Island identify the deceased as a member of a family, community, religious group, or veteran, describe them in more individual terms, or reflect on the meaning of death through epitaphs and symbolic imagery (Tables 5.4 and 5.5). Most markers list only basic information, but among those with epitaphs and descriptions, familial terms appear most frequently. Possessive language like “my” and “our” marks close relationships from a more personal perspective. The only personal information unrelated to kinship is documentation of military service in three out of five cemeteries, personal praise in the two town cemeteries, and mentions of hometowns on two stones in Oakland. Table 5.4 Frequency of descriptive elements by cemetery Old North Cedar St. David's Burying Oakland End Lawn Ground Initials, name, age, 66 2 13 6 6 death date alone Familial term 31 2 13 3 2 In memory 5 1 0 0 0 Possessive 3 0 1 0 1 (my/our/us) Military service 6 0 2 0 3 Religious text (Lord, 7 1 3 0 0 Jesus, God) Death and mourning 6 0 5 0 1 (non-religious) Mode of death 0 0 1 0 0 Location 0 0 2 0 1 Personal praise 0 1 0 1 0 221 The North End’s gravestones are the simplest, mainly containing basic information or the addition “child of” and no imagery. The Old Burying Ground’s stones contain plain, relational, and religious text. St. David’s, Oakland, and Cedar Lawn all have more variety, with examples of kinship and possessive language, religious text and imagery, symbols of mourning, and comforting or mournful reflections on death. Oakland has unusual examples of unique individual elements, such as birth locations, mode of death, or images of anchors and books, whereas St. David’s includes more inscriptions “in memory of” and botanical imagery. The small numbers of each type and different sample sizes make it impossible to identify statistically significant distinctions between these sites, but their similarities show that the three church-affiliated and fee- based “rural” cemeteries have a greater variety of textual and decorative elements than the two public cemeteries. In these cemeteries, familial terms show different social identities along gendered lines through mentions of marital status and parenthood. For example, at St. David’s, 19 women are identified by marriage or motherhood, while only one man is memorialized as a husband, and 12 youth of both sexes are remembered as sons, daughters, and children. The terms applied to women’s relationships also include greater variety than among other groups: “wife of,” “his wife,” “widow of,” “his widow,” “mother,” and for three mothers, “in memory,” “in loving remembrance,” and “mother of us all.” One woman in St. David’s is memorialized as a friend: the tombstone of Annie Smith, who died in 1897, notes the love of her friends Eliza Consor, Mary Walker, and Lydia Ward. First person possessive language is also a compelling sign of personal relationships between the deceased and survivors, which nineteenth century Victorian American mourning conventions emphasized. At St. David’s, inscriptions to “my mother,” “my son,” and “our little Ollie,” as well as more sentimental phrases like “gone but not forgotten, erected to her memory by her friends,” point toward not only the 222 relationships of the deceased, but the active emotional lives of those remaining. Three such inscriptions refer to mothers, two refer to sons who died young, and one to close female friendships. Four out of six are definite references to love of and by women, while the two inscriptions for sons could have been chosen by either or both parents. At Oakland, the one example of possessive language is for “our father,” and at Cedar Lawn, it is to “the mother of us all.” With a few exceptions, when these gravestones do hold personal messages, they are most often related to women’s relationships. The most common form of personal information unrelated to kinship is documentation of military service. Eleven men served between the Civil War and World War II, and their gravestones are located in St. David’s, Oakland, and Cedar Lawn. There is no evidence that any of these men served together, however, or that their veteran status brought them together back in Long Island: they are buried in different locations within these cemeteries, in plots with their nuclear and extended families, rather than near each other. The frequency and variety of familial terms on the gravestones of women indicates that women’s social identities were defined more by their interpersonal relationships than men’s. The importance of family in spatial organization reveals the creators and intended audiences of these memorials, and the appearance of familial language above other descriptions on gravestones shows that these interpersonal relationships were the most important aspects of identity in the minds of survivors. In memorials created by and for family, kinship overrules any number of other personal characteristics. Racial, ethnic, and tribal identifications are significantly absent from this sample, which also reveals the the internal audience for these gravestones. Garman’s (1994) study of African American tombstones in a colonial Rhode Island cemetery found that those erected by slave holders often marked the race of the deceased, but those erected by African Americans themselves did not. He argued that slave holders put up stones in 223 order to show their wealth and benevolence to other whites, whereas African Americans erected stones for their own families and communities, on which it was unnecessary and perhaps even dangerous to identify their race. Similarly, people of color on Long Island felt no need to mark race, ethnicity, or tribal status on memorials created by and for families and loved ones. More immediate, interpersonal relationships were much more emotionally significant to survivors, and religious or comforting inscriptions and symbols helped them to cope. Since St. David’s was affiliated with an AME Zion Church, it might be expected that its inscriptions and imagery would indicate stronger religious identities, but this was not the case; instead, religious inscriptions and imagery changed over time in similar ways regionally, signifying both shared cultural norms and strong market forces. The text of epitaphs from the 19th century is much more evocative of ideas about faith and death than in the 20th, hinting that African Americans and Native Americans on Long Island were part of the broader Anglo-American cultural transition that increasingly viewed death in terms of bereavement and emotion (Dethlefson & Deetz 1966; Tarlow 1999). In the Old Burying Ground, the North End, and St. David’s, every stone dating to the nineteenth century follows the formulation: Name of Deceased DIED [date] AE [years, months, days] This differs from the twentieth century inclusion of birth and death dates in that it focuses on the moment of death, measuring the life accomplished up to that point (Tarlow 1999; Cipolla 2010). Many stones include additional epitaphs that express ideas about the afterlife as and reunion with God. The epitaphs of men are usually short. In the Old Burying Ground and the North End, Brister Miller and John Joseph are described as 224 “the most Noble work of GOD”; in St. David’s, William Possels’ 1882 gravestone echoes Psalm 23 with “The Lord is my Shepherd,” while Samuel Butler’s 1880 memorial simply says, “He lives with God!” Jason Cuffee’s headstone in Oakland is an exception, with a seven line poem: Oh that without a lingering groan I may the welcome word receive My body with my charge lay down And case at once to work and live Walk with me through that dreadful shade And certified that thou art mine My spirit calms and undismay’d I shall in [illegible] Several women shared short religious epitaphs that also reveal the mass- produced nature of the tombstones people purchased. In St. David’s, four headstones share the same text: Louisa Jupiter and Hetty Swezey, Hetty’s husband Andrew, and Caroline Hasbrouck (also spelled Hasbrook) were all memorialized with the phrase, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.” An inscription near the bottom of Hasbrouck’s displaced headstone reveals that these memorials were carved in Beebe’s shop in Sag Harbor, though the material itself was imported. Neighbor Frances Cuffee’s fallen headstone was also the work of “Beebe S.B.,” and its inscription of rhyming couplets also appeared at the Old Burying Ground, St. David’s, and Oakland. It shows the late nineteenth century shift from explicitly religious text mentioning the Lord or Jesus to sentimental and comforting thoughts, such as: How sweet to sink in arms of death Without a sigh to yield one breath How sweet to think our sorrows over The [sic] we should sign and weep no more Shorter inscriptions from the late nineteenth and early twentieth century repeat this idea of death as relief, such as the popular “At Rest” in Oakland, Cedar Lawn, and St. David’s. 225 Table 5.5 Frequency of imagery by cemetery Old St. North Cedar Burying Oakland David's End Lawn Ground Religious symbol 3 0 1 0 4 Botanical imagery 15 0 1 0 3 (flowers, vines, wheat, wreathes) Geometric 3 0 1 0 1 imagery (scrolls, circles) Bird or angel 2 0 0 0 0 Anchor 1 0 1 0 0 Emblematic 2 0 0 0 0 capitals Other imagery 0 0 1 0 0 In contrast to religious text, imagery of any sort is relatively sparse in these graveyards, and it is completely absent in the Old Burying Ground and North End. It appears to be a late phenomenon: at St. David’s, only seven tombstones with decoration memorialize people who died in the nineteenth century, with death dates ranging from the 1860s to 1886, and in Oakland, there are three from 1872 to 1892. Crosses appear primarily on military headstones, while floral décor or birds and angels appear most often on children’s individual headstones, and other botanical imagery symbolizing mourning or eternal life is the most common decoration on adult memorials from the twentieth century. More unique decorations include two anchors at St. David’s and Oakland, a book at Oakland, and two marble headstones with emblematic capitals at St. David’s. These stones include two marble slab headstones for adults with emblematic capitals. These trends parallel Veit’s findings in late eighteenth and early nineteenth century New Jersey graveyards, where the urn and willow markers common in New England cemeteries were rare, but monogrammed initials were much more common (Veit 2009). Veit connects these letters to neoclassical styles found in other material media of the time, such as the obelisk shape of family monuments or federalist and Greek revival architecture, which some Americans connected to patriotism and 226 independence. He also relates these designs to a market in gravestones that was increasingly driven by marketing and consumerism, in which initials served as a form of personalization, rather than one closely connected to religious ideology (ibid). The imagery and text of these stones evoke two very distinct senses of the religious ideology behind them, indicating that people of color chose different media of communication for different messages or reasons. The pictorial content of the stones is quite limited, and draws more on symbols of mourning and individual identity than Christian faith specifically. The presence of two monogrammed initials, as well as the similar execution of many stones and the identification of Beebe’s shop on two, shows that families in Sag Harbor and East Hampton made their choices from within a set of options shaped by larger regional trends and filtered through the offerings of one or a few shops. On the other hand, epitaphs and inscriptions are more personalized, commemorating family relationships, pointing out the closeness of the deceased to God, or painting comforting images of the afterlife through metaphor and poetry. Still, the repetition of inscriptions is a reminder that these were not highly customized, commissioned gravestones; even ones with spiritual meanings were produced in standardized ways for a consumer market. IVD. SUMMARY OF RESULTS In these cemeteries, African American and Native American families drew from the symbolic and material repertoire of American consumer culture. Choices of expression on gravestones were shaped by the media available, which were selected by local stone carvers following broader consumer trends. Within these parameters of local and national trends, people of color above all designed grave monuments that communicated the importance of individual memory and family connections. Most importantly, their presence itself proved the continued presence and economic mobility of people of color in a racially divided society. 227 The presence and location of Native American and African American gravestones in public cemeteries on Long Island reflects the American color line in similar ways to patterns of household and property ownership observed in earlier chapters. The absence of gravestones for people of color prior to the nineteenth century parallels the low numbers of households recorded in the census, and their low visibility in graveyards echoes their low visibility on maps: further proof of the truth of “whiteness as property” (Harris 1993). The number of surviving gravestones erected for people of African and Native American descent in publicly accessible cemeteries in Sag Harbor and East Hampton increased significantly after 1850, around the same time as household formation and property ownership increased among people of color (see Chapter 1; Southampton Assessors 1800-1863; East Hampton Assessors 1869, 1873, 1883). Even as people of color became better represented in cemeteries, they were spatially segregated until the twentieth century along the Black/White color line. The North End, Old Burying Ground, and Oakland in the nineteenth century all relegated people of color to marginal corners. In these sections, African Americans, Native Americans, and people of mixed ancestry were buried next to each other, indicating that as with residential patterns, binary racial divisions brought people of different non- white ethnicities together. The cemetery of the St. David’s African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church contains the largest number of nineteenth century burials of all of these cemeteries, and it was the only cemetery that was not segregated by race in this period, which shows the importance people of color placed on participating in their own religious and cultural institutions that were founded in resistance to pervasive racism. The choice of whether to memorialize people individually or through family memorials differed between town cemeteries and fee-based or religious ones. The two town cemeteries, the Old Burying Ground and North End, include only individual headstones and markers. Family monuments and associated individual stones became popular at the church-affiliated and fee-based St. David’s, Oakland, and Cedar Lawn 228 cemeteries. Gravestones at these sites also feature a greater variety of textual and decorative elements than those in town cemeteries. This may indicate that families of those buried in the town cemeteries had fewer choices due to regulations, or fewer economic resources than those who chose other cemeteries. The popularity of group monuments implies that gravestones, as representations of status and identity, could express not only individual personhood, but also the presence and impact of family as the most important social unit. In all five cemeteries, gravestones with additional content beyond basic personal information most often mention family relationships, particularly for women and children. In this context of survivors memorializing loved ones, most inscriptions and imagery focused on messages of family, faith, comfort, and mourning. The authors of these messages were clearly loved ones, writing for themselves and other members of their family and communities. In that context, intimate relational identities were more significant than broader social categories of race, ethnicity, tribal affiliation, or occupation. The most notable difference between St. David’s, the cemetery established by and for people of color, and Oakland and Cedar Lawn, which were larger and racially mixed, is in the type of markers associated with family monuments. In St. David’s, individual stones associated with family monuments are often simple markers with initials, but in the other two cemeteries, the individual stones are more likely to have full inscriptions. This may indicate that in the context of racially mixed cemeteries, people intended these individual stones for audiences outside of as well as within their families and communities, and chose different types of markers for these wider audiences. V. DISCUSSION The cemeteries of eastern Long Island constitute a body of self-representations by people of color in the American north. The intensely personal nature of family and 229 communal responses to death met with larger political implications in the spatial organization and material forms of gravestones in these five cemeteries. Gravestones, like other forms of material culture, are simultaneously individually meaningful and socially symbolic. As forms of public, conspicuous, and ritualized consumption, they can be objects of status display and social competition, representing the prosperity of their purchasers; reflections of broader ideological changes; and statements about social identity and belonging (Dethlefson & Deetz 1966; Parker Pearson 1982; McGuire 1988; Little et al.1992; Cipolla 2010). Reading the symbolic vocabulary of standardized, purchased tombstones has a distinct significance in African American and Native American contexts of historical dispossession. These monuments combine statements about status and belonging within the broader language of widespread American ideologies of personhood. In the earliest historic cemeteries of the colonial period and early republic, the absence of above-ground markers for people of color is evidence of the constellation between property, citizenship, and whiteness in early America. As Lever (2009) writes, the traditional focus on existing headstones leaves those without invisible, but absence itself is a part of the archaeological record. In these cemeteries. The absence of African Americans and Native Americans parallels the patterns of household formation and property ownership that earlier chapters explained through critical race theory. The low visibility of people of color in historic cemeteries mirrors their underrepresentation in maps and deeds. The low number of tombstones before the mid-nineteenth century is a testimony to the Euro-American domination of wealth and public space. Yet there is another message in the areas where absence is marked by open spaces. The corners of Sag Harbor’s Old Burying Ground and East Hampton’s North End cemetery, which appear mostly empty, could be read as space reserved for, and potentially occupied by, people of color. These spaces are testimony to their physical presence and cultural survival despite segregation and oppression. The few gravestones 230 that do identify these spaces show the increasing economic ability of Native Americans and African Americans to mark their contributions and shape local landscapes of memory. The samples of nineteenth and early twentieth century gravestones for people of color that have survived in the St. David AME Zion, Old Burying Ground, Oakland, North End, and Cedar Lawn cemeteries draw on popular Euro-American models: the media of slate, marble, and granite headstones and family monuments, the symbolic lexicon of text and imagery that communicated messages of kinship, faith, and comfort, and the organization of plots around individual identities within family groups. How, and why, should we read race into these gravestones’ statements of family, love, and faith? The parallels between possessive individualism in political ideology and individualism in memorial practice provide an entry point for understanding African American and Native American gravestone choices in the nineteenth century. As in the previous chapter, I draw on Leone’s (2005) argument that after the American Revolution, Euro-American consumption of quotidian objects like plates was rooted in the socially pervasive idea of ‘possessive individualism.’ The intersecting logics of capitalism and republicanism shaped this idea of the citizen as property-holder: the owner and disciplined steward of material and immaterial possessions including his own body, his time, his labor, and his political responsibilities. This ideology of individualism and physicality mirrors Ariès’s (1974) historical thesis on changing relationships to death in the west and Tarlow’s (1999) archaeological study of its material effects. Early modern Europeans viewed death from the perspectives of individual biography and communal loss, which made the location of burials important as sites for future resurrection and social memory. According to Aries, by the 1760s, “the accumulation of the dead within the churches or in the small churchyards suddenly became intolerable….On the one hand, public health was threatened by the pestilential emanations…on the other hand…[it] constituted a 231 permanent violation of the dignity of the dead” (70). In the American colonies, following the European experience, graveyards expanded in the eighteenth century so that individual gravestones could protect individual burials, making space for the resurrection of the just upon judgment day. In turn, the crowding in early American public graveyards later led to the nineteenth century rural cemetery movement. Individual graves were the sites and subjects of commemoration in these cemeteries, and by the nineteenth century, memorial practices were overwhelmingly oriented toward interpersonal relationships. As Aries writes, “People went to the tomb of a dear one as one would go to a relative’s home, or into one’s own home, full of memories. Memory conferred upon the dead a sort of immortality which was initially foreign to Christianity” (1975: 72). Simultaneously, the economic and social developments of the last century had fostered individual autonomy, and the rise of couples’ stones highlights the significance of relationships chosen through shared emotion rather than social duty (Tarlow 1999: 139-140). In the United States, the popularity of sentimental inscriptions and floral or urn motifs was one symptom of this ideological and social change, and the growth of rural cemeteries as sites of visitation, pleasure, and reflection for members of living families was another (Dethlefson & Deetz 1966; French 1974; Tarlow 1999). The emotional significance of individual grave sites harmonized with the contemporary ideology of possessive individualism in the United States. All of these ideologies originated in European or Euro-American contexts, and possessive individualism aided in the persistence of racial and economic inequalities in the early American republic, so people of color sometimes rejected them symbolically and materially (Leone 2005). Nevertheless, their dominance made them symbolically powerful and available for appropriation to all Americans. In a social and religious context in which monuments and burial plots were symbols of individual personhood, for African Americans and Native Americans, the erection of gravestones could be an act 232 of humanization. Read through the lens of possessive individualism, the absence of individual gravestones for people of color before the nineteenth century implies that their presence on Long Island could be made invisible, and their remains might not be afforded the dignity of preservation and commemoration. Bodies, plots, and gravestones were the forms of property necessary to be recognized as a person even after death. Their presence showed that people of color were not defined by dehumanizing aspects of enslavement, dispossession of land, and political marginalization in their histories. Rather, they shaped their own lasting images as family members and citizens. The presence of individual and family gravestones and burial markers, as well as the establishment of the separate St David AME Zion Cemetery itself, is significant because it is so simple and predictable in light of broader American mortuary trends. Rather than resistance and corporate identity, gravestones express individual dignity and social respectability. They are positive statements of personhood in the language of American possessive individualism. While the geography of segregated and separate cemeteries are yet further evidence of the significance of the “Black”/”White” color line in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the monuments they contain make symbolic efforts to show that people of color were equal members of society in spite of it. VI. CONCLUSION The presence of individual and family gravestones and burial markers, as well as the establishment of the separate St. David AME Zion Cemetery itself, is significant because it is so simple and predictable in light of broader American mortuary trends. Rather than resistance and corporate identity, gravestones express individual dignity and interpersonal connection. They are positive statements of personhood in the language of American possessive individualism. While the geography of segregated and separate cemeteries reflects the long persistence of racial inequality in the early 233 American north, the monuments they contain are the symbolic efforts of people of color to represent each other as important, respected, and loved. Exploring the subsurface dimensions of these cemeteries should be an important direction for future research, since the historical archaeology of cemeteries has identified a number of culturally significant mortuary practices invisible from the surface. Since the cemeteries in the study area are currently either active interment sites or preserved historic resources, both with local and active descendant communities, excavation to identify material objects like shells, dishes, or shoes buried on graves is not recommended (cf. Parrington & Roberts 1984; Davidson 2009). Geophysical survey, however, could begin to address the absence of identifiable burials for the majority of people of color known from Southampton and East Hampton’s census records before 1900. Most importantly, were people of African and Native American descent present in these known historic cemeteries prior to, and in greater numbers than, their surviving monuments suggest? How would the unmarked physical presence of additional burials complicate the theoretical discussion of gravestones as artifacts of possessive individualism? The segregated corners of early town burying grounds, which appear nearly empty, seem particularly rich with possibility as sites of unknown burials. In 2014, Dr. Katherine Hayes and a field school from the University of Minnesota conducted ground penetrating radar surveys of the Colored Burying Ground on Shelter Island and the St. David’s Cemetery in Sag Harbor. Results from these surveys, and further research in the two segregated cemeteries in the research area, could indicate numbers and locations of unmarked burials and show how widespread use of these cemeteries was among people of color versus how economically accessible gravestones were within their communities. It could also show the frequency of multiple internments, which were common before the nineteenth century, and which members of the First African Baptist Church in Philadelphia practiced it into the 1840s due to limited 234 cemetery space (Parrington & Roberts 1984). Understanding when and where people of color practiced multiple interments and burials without permanent markers would add another variable to analyses of space and racial difference, expanding and complicating this analysis of presence versus property. 235 CHAPTER 6 VISIBLE ETHNICITY: NATIVE AMERICAN PERFORMANCE & POLITICS I. INTRODUCTION In the previous chapters, I have argued that in everyday life, race rarely divided Native Americans and African Americans in the multicultural communities of eastern Long Island. The material and historical records reflect shared daily practices and experiences, and most material culture showed their participation in a larger American social collective, contradicting the stereotypes of poverty and ethnic difference that people of color encountered on a daily basis. However, around the turn of the twentieth century, Montaukett and Shinnecock people increasingly expressed their Native American identity in more public ways, which are preserved today in anthropological works, museum collections, portraiture, and historical and legal records. In contrast, people of African descent in the same communities were not simultaneously highlighting their own heritage as members of the African diaspora in ways that entered the historical record. This divergence complicates the reading of the archaeological record as one expressing shared solidarity and personhood. I argue that this difference in how Native Americans and African Americans expressed ethnic identity was rooted in the particular political stakes of retaining Native American distinction. Euro-American stereotypes and legal requirements created the need for performances of Indianness. The records of Long Island Indians at the end of the whaling era show that even though their cultures and communities were continuous and uninterrupted, they had to prove their survival in Anglo-American legal terms. They also defied widespread stereotypes of disappearance with visible markers of Native ethnicity. These markers shifted as they worked to “de-museumify” elements of well- known Native material culture and practices in order to give them relevant meanings in modern contexts and communities. They drew on their local heritage, their value systems, and the symbolic resources of a growing pan-Indian movement to combat 236 threats to their land and legal existence. In some cases, these efforts created tension within communities of color, but in others, they simply added visible diversity to these already diverse areas. II. DEFINING INDIANNESS The United States government, state-level courts, and popular representations have historically held Native Americans to an extreme standard of cultural purity and authenticity just to receive their due legal status and privileges (Raibmon 2005). Throughout the twentieth century, tribes have raised land claims and put forth petitions for federal recognition in order to begin achieving restitution for these land losses (Simmons 1986; George-Kanentiio 2006; Mrozowski et al 2009). Some have been successful in achieving new laws regarding native land rights, such as the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act or in gaining individual federal recognition or financial restitution (Price 1976; McBeath & Morehouse 1980; Hauptmann & Wherry 1993; Wilkins 1991; Philp 1995). However, in the northeast, histories of mobility that made survival in colonial contexts possible, such as diasporic dispersal over larger territories, whaling and seasonal movement, and work in Euro-American settlements, conflict with the European concept of uninterrupted residence on bounded territories. This continues to create an unrealistic standard of proof for tribal land and recognition claims, which require of their continued political existence on specific pieces of land from colonial contact to the present (Campisi 1991; Calloway 1997). Native Americans on eastern Long Island have had a difficult time meeting such standards of proof due to their long engagement with Euro-Americans, lack of treaties with the federal government as sovereign nations, small population numbers, and limited land bases. These challenges are well-documented in the historical and archaeological literature for Algonquin groups in New England, but less well-studied on Long Island, where Shinnecock and Montaukett people made related efforts to contest 237 stereotypes of disappearance and gain back land and recognition rights. This research investigates their attempts to balance indigenous rights with the preservation of unity in their multicultural communities. The political challenges of legal recognition and land claims are deeply entangled with the history of Native American land dispossession, persistent narratives of Indian “disappearance,” and indigenous participation in colonial society. On eastern Long Island, narratives of disappearance and decline of Native Americans began in the seventeenth century, when European diseases such as smallpox and measles drastically reduced the indigenous population of the island, land sales gave English settlers increasing territorial control, and bans on Native settlement in English owned areas all made the Indian population of the south fork seem increasingly scarce to outsiders. Nineteenth century historian Benjamin Thompson wrote of the decline of Native American populations on eastern Long Island as a reduction by the “hand of God” (1843: 89). Historian Peter Ross called the Shinnecock the “survivors of this once prosperous tribe,” writing, “They have lost their ancient tongue and most of their ancient customs and ideas, and are reported to be practical, hard-working, and fairly prosperous body, a body which has adopted the customs and ways of the now dominant race, but is steadily decreasing decade after decade” (1903: 18). These descriptions portray Native disappearance as the predictable and progressive result, as though Indian blood and culture were both weaker than the African or European influences they encountered during the colonial period. Histories and popular accounts that recognize past Native American ownership also shape such narratives of disappearance by portraying modern places as sites of cultural erasure (Thrush 2007; also cf. Kazimiroff 2009 [1982]). The presence of Indians in Euro-American settlements, wearing up-to-date clothing, working in multicultural settings, and participating within broader American society, violates stereotypes about how “real” indigenous people should look, act, and live (Deloria 2004). The discourses of 238 disappearance and authenticity are also heavily tied into ideologies about race: specifically, the definition and measurement of “Black” and “Indian” legal status (Hicks & Kertzer 1972; McKinney 2006; Mancini 2009; O’Brien 2010). As previous chapters explored, forces of economic, social, and legal exclusion often brought together people of African and Native American descent in colonial America, leading to the growth of multi- ethnic families, households, and communities. As Hayes (2013) posits, many of these exchanges and interactions began long before ideas about separate races solidified, meaning that many groups identified as solely African American or Native American by the eighteenth century already had multicultural genealogies going back for generations. The growth of ideas of racial essentialism masked this complex reality. In this ideological system, races are considered biological and mutually exclusive, which reduces complex identities to an ahistorical notion of blood quantum. In eighteenth and nineteenth century New England, for example, Euro-Americans often believed that the integration of people of African descent into Native communities meant that those communities were no longer truly Indian, but merely “settlements of mixed race non- whites” (despite the persistence of ethnic identity within those communities themselves) (Plane & Button 1993: 589). The logic of laws like the Massachusetts Indian Enfranchisement Act questioned aspects of Native American law such as communal land ownership and tribal status on grounds that indigenous communities were no longer pure due to this legacy of integration, and actors in the American legal system sought to terminate tribes or treat Indians in the same way as other citizens of color on these grounds (ibid). The legal termination of some tribes, such as the Narragansett, drew on this logic of impurity as an excuse to limit or entirely extinguish tribal sovereignty and land ownership. This requirement of racial and cultural “purity” to receive legal and social recognition meant that the incorporation of “outsiders” into native communities was considered contamination in both stereotypes and the law (Campisi 1991; Nicholas 2002; Miles & Holland 2006; Mandell 1998, 2008). 239 Long Islanders faced the same stereotypes, even from their supposed champions. William Wallace Tooker, Sag Harbor’s avocational Algonquian linguist and archaeologist, published several books and pamphlet on local and regional Indian place names (e.g. 1889, 1901). He also collected Indian artifacts he found in the the Sag Harbor area19. According to a local newspaper, “He cultivated the acquaintance of the last of the old Algonquian families. King David Pharaoh of Montauk patiently answered his endless questions up until his death in the 1870s. The Bunn, Cuffee, and Kellis men of Shinnecock shared their traditions with Tooker” (Bullock 2014). Nevertheless, Tooker spent much of his time referencing sixteenth and seventeenth century documents that recorded vocabulary in Native American languages, and not merely out of an interest in historical linguistics. Despite his personal acquaintance with Shinnecock and Montaukett people – in fact, despite living directly down Sag Harbor’s Hampton Street from Native American families including the Ashmans and Halseys – he bought into the narrative of cultural decline and disappearance. For instance, he wrote: In regard to the degenerated remnant of the [Montaukett] tribe now residing within the limits of the township, recognized by their characteristic aboriginal features, mixed with negro, we would say that they have no knowledge of their native language, traditions or customs, all have been lost or forgotten years ago. (1889: iv) Tooker’s description of these familiar and present households and individuals as a “degenerated remnant” of a tribe “mixed with negro” links the ideas of cultural loss and racial purity. He implies that the tribe’s blood and traditions have been equally diluted, dissolved into a weak solution by racial mixing and cultural exchange. The metaphorical language of illness, weakness, and disappearance points toward a predictable end: death. A succession of newspaper articles provided this 19Unfortunately, his papers are held at the John Jermain Memorial Library in Sag Harbor, and they have been in storage and inaccessible for the duration of this dissertation project due to major renovations at the library. Many of his artifacts were donated to the Brooklyn Museum of Art, which no longer possesses them. I have been unable to track artifacts from this collection down today, but there is a published catalog of his finds, mainly prehistoric lithics (East Hampton Free Library 1993). 240 conclusion...repeatedly. An 1877 article in the Brooklyn Eagle proclaimed that the Shinnecock Indians were “A Wasting Race,” “dying out” after the 1876 deaths of ten Shinnecock men in the effort to rescue the shipwrecked Circassian. The paper mourned that the disaster was “a fatal blow to the existence of one of the relics that links the present time with the history of Long Island in the days when the white man first set foot on its shores.” After all, the Long Island Indians were not of the “fierce and restless race of savages” compared to the Iroquois of upstate New York. In terms of population, the 1656 epidemic had “left them in a poor condition to cope with the advancing flood of civilization”; in terms of racial purity, “there is a large admixture of African blood in the tribe, as it now exists, and only one or two families are pure Indian.” The article’s grim conclusion: “Of the Montauk Indians only twelve remain, and whisky will soon blot them out of existence, and the name and memory of the tribe will be all that is left of them” (1877: 4). Notably, although this article was written supposedly in reference to the Circassian wreck, the event is not pinpointed as the true cause of this decline. Rather, it was a supposedly final step that fit into an existing and widespread narrative of progressive decline, a story that provided a convenient frame for linking current events to the seventeenth century. Beyond implication, it directly states that the Shinnecock and Montaukett people were “relics” that belonged in the past, rather than contemporary and extant participants in modern society. As an 1874 article in the same paper opined, “The poor savage is in the white man’s way, and must be put out of it. Under the waves of preceding civilizations he would have disappeared long ago” (1874: 2). It is unclear whether this reference relates to the “Indian Troubles” further west, or to the political agitation of Native groups on Long Island, but the elision of all Native Americans into one weak race is itself a sign of teleological and racialized thinking. As the existence of Long Island’s Native Americans continued, their precarity had to be regularly stated for this narrative to hold. Newspapers also contributed 241 through a series of obituaries of the “Last Indian” genre. These obituaries were common across New England, and they regularly stated that a recently deceased individual had been the “last full-blooded,” or simply the last, member of a given tribe (O’Brien 2010). Of course, many of these individuals had numerous relatives and children; in most cases, their existence was simply ignored, but in the Montaukett case, this meant the articles could form a series. David Pharaoh, Stephen Pharaoh, John Hannibal, and Wyandanch Pharaoh were all memorialized as the “last king of the Montauk” in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and their deaths were occasions to reflect on the inevitable decline of the tribe (Brooklyn Eagle 1894; Stone 1993). In a similar article titled “Shinnecock Chief Dead,” the South Side Signal wrote that “Many traditions of the red man are gone with the passing of John Waters...believed to be the last of the Shinnecock full bloods” (1903: 2). The article also notes that Waters had Mohawk ancestry, yet in deeming him a “Shinnecock full blood,” the logic of race as Indian biology overruled the logic of tribal identity. Anthropologists, too, flirted with racial essentialism. The first anthropologist to write about the Shinnecock was Mark Harrington, who made a 1902 visit to the Shinnecock reservation while excavating a village site nearby because he heard “many conflicting reports...some to the effect that the tribe was extinct, that the people on the Reserve were all negroes....Other reports were more favorable” (1903: 37). He was satisfied to find that the reservation was, indeed, an Indian reservation, a conclusion that he arrived at based on a phenotypical examination of people he saw. He noted distinctly Indian facial features mixed with “black and woolly” hair, or straight hair and light coloring, with African facial features, among many people. However, he also pointed out a few older men who were “typically Indian,” whose assertions of full- blooded descent he nevertheless doubted, and a number of “pure or nearly pure blooded” Indian women. Although Harrington did decide to trust the “more favorable” reports he had heard, having ascertained the appearance of Native American blood in 242 the tribe, his focus on physical features and pure blood status drew on the same assumptions of racial dilution that led to attacks on Shinnecock authenticity. For now, he implied, the level of admixture was acceptable – but much further, and it might become the “negro settlement” that it appeared on first glance (ibid). In a more subtle display of the logic of disappearance, Long Island’s Native tribes were also excluded from early federal efforts toward documentation and legal management of Indian populations. Shinnecock and Montaukett lands were not federal reservations – in fact, Indian Fields was not legally classified as reservation land even within the state. No indigenous groups from Long Island were included in the federal Indian census, which did include Haudenosaunee populations from western New York, and the Bureau of Indian Affairs had no involvement or jurisdiction in the area until tribal recognition efforts began toward the end of the twentieth century. Thus, even in a nation with a recognizable and closely monitored indigenous population, Long Island’s Native people were legally invisible. This widespread stereotype of disappearance was multifaceted, with both cultural and legal manifestations, and thus difficult to combat. First, popular perceptions drew on low population numbers as objective proof of decline, in comparison to rising populations of whites. Second, both legal and popular ideas of Indian identity relied on visible markers of difference, particularly language and other unidentified “customs,” as proof of cultural survival. Third, even when Native people were both present and insistent about their identities, the ideology of biological race entered the picture: only phenotypically identifiable “full bloods” truly counted, and any hint of African ancestry was a visible sign of decline just as surely as speaking English. Native Americans’ efforts to protect the character of their societies as sovereign dependent nations could have the effect of pitting historically marginalized groups against each other as a result of these stereotypes (McKinney 2006). In southern New England, tribal policies in the eighteenth century were often codified and constricted 243 with the aim of protecting the rights of membership to people of specifically Native descent (Plane & Button 1993; Mandell 2008). The legal exclusion of racial “outsiders” could be a strategic move toward maintaining or reclaiming corporate sovereignty, even though people of mixed ancestry could be as culturally “Indian” as anyone. This put Shinnecock and Montaukett people in racially mixed families and communities in an awkward position because when they wanted their Native American heritage to be recognized, they had to publicly distance themselves from the category “colored.” They also had to perform an ideal of authenticity that was legible to Euro- Americans, even if it diverged from their own definitions and traditions of belonging. The modes of cultural persistence most meaningful to Native Americans themselves did not contribute to broader perceptions of Native survival and authenticity among outsiders. Within Native American communities themselves, cultural persistence and ethnic distinction remained vital sources of identity, and material culture and reservation residence were not the most meaningful factors defining belonging. Plane and Button identified ethnic markers of communal land and assets, group labor, resistance to state aid, a tradition of Indian identity, shared folklore, group meetings, recognized criteria for membership, and distinctive economic pursuits as significant features of Indian self-definition in mid-nineteenth century Massachusetts (1993: 597). Most of these elements were present across Algonquian communities in the northeast (Stone 1983, 1993; Simmons 1986; McMullen, Handsman, & Lester 1987; Mandell 2007). Montaukett and Shinnecock people, too, maintained ethnic identities and communities in a series of ways that were not visible to newspaper writers and census enumerators. They supported communities through labor practices rooted in gender roles and cultural history, which included men’s participation in whaling and other forms of seasonal labor, and women’s labor in agriculture, waged occupations, and cultural leadership. They sustained relationships across colonial space through networks of kinship that stretched between reservations, villages, farms, and ships, and 244 through the establishment of new community centers in Eastville and Freetown. They maintained internal standards for group membership, and senses of Indian identity that they passed down from generation to generation. Further fitting with Plane and Button’s (1993) list, they also performed some communal labor, e.g. in cohort whaling voyages, and maintained communal funds of land, albeit increasingly limited. However, the significance of these defining practices was not legible to the Anglo-American outsiders who controlled so much of the region’s legal and economic life. Only ownership of communal land and labor practices that engaged with the economy beyond reservations were materially evident; recognizing the other elements required insider knowledge. Fighting stereotypes of disappearance and decline instead required strategies of performance that recognized and attempted to fulfill the expectations of outsiders. Common strategies included legal performances of genealogical documentation, personal testimony, and legal action against individuals and the state, all of which were efforts to regain sovereignty over Indian lands and communities in terms of English law (Plane & Button 1993; Sweet 2007; Brooks 2008). They also included material modes of increasing visibility through stereotypically “Indian” dress, ritual or performative activity, and production and sales of material culture (McMullen 1996; Rubertone 2008, 2012). For instance, the nineteenth century florescence of Native basketry in the northeast was a source of both economic and cultural opportunity. It was a traditional art form that men and women continued to practice, with patterns and techniques that expressed both localized identities and individual creativity, yet it also appealed to the taste of Euro-American consumers in search of local flavor and hand-crafted souvenirs in the growing tourist industry (Phillips 1998; McBride & Prins 2010). At the same time, the categories, boundaries, and markers of Native American identity were changing. Mandell (2008) argues that the diasporic nature of indigenous communities in New England, as well as their increasing awareness and activism about 245 similar issues of land-self-governance, and recognition, created shared awareness across the region among groups who had previously defined themselves as more discrete. In short, although indigenous societies had been linked by kinship, trade, and warfare long before the English landed on American shores, the common experience of colonialism in the northeast helped to create a sense of shared history. This was another layer in the complex social identities of people with existing tribal affiliations, rather than a replacement for more localized attachments. This meant that in some ways, changing definitions and markers of Indian identity could draw on broader regional and national discourses as well as local traditions. As narratives of disappearance in the northeast took hold, the great American Indian drama of the nineteenth century became the battles over indigenous homelands in the Great Plains and further west, and in the imagination of many Americans, that was how “real Indians” looked. Nineteenth and twentieth century pan-Indian events and revitalization movements across the country, including in the northeast, drew on these perceptions in ways that sometimes transformed local material culture in highly symbolic ways. The following sections illuminate how people of Shinnecock and Montaukett descent drew on local traditions and regional and national movements to fashion a set of connected and changing strategies of visibility through the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. As the accounts of anthropologists Mark Harrington and Carlos Westez (Red Thunder Cloud) and early twentieth century government records show, their multifaceted approaches included the maintenance and creation of material traditions that stressed Native American roots, cultural performance for outsiders, and legal and bureaucratic efforts for formal recognition. III. MATERIAL SURVIVAL: MARK HARRINGTON, MATERIAL CULTURE, AND SALVAGE ETHNOGRAPHY Knowledge of some Shinnecock and Montaukett craft traditions survived well into the twentieth century in the production of baskets, scrubs, and decoys. On 246 reservations themselves, these became props in the performance of indigenous authenticity. Across New England and New York, Native Americans became known in the nineteenth century for their utilitarian and decorative woodsplint baskets (McMullen, Handsman, & Lester 1987). The popularity among Victorian consumers made these baskets ambiguous signifiers, with some meanings available to outsiders, but others best known to the artists, their families, and other members of Native communities who understood their cultural symbolism or personal touches (Phillips 1998). They were both “authentic” souvenirs and authentic forms of cultural production. Basketry and scrubs make up the majority of the sparse collections of Shinnecock and Montaukett material culture in museums today, even though craft work on Long Island never received the popular or academic appreciation that it did in New England. Shinnecock and Montaukett craftspeople produced woodsplint baskets and related objects called scrubs, which were small handheld brushes carved out of white oak. In the twentieth century scrubs could be differentiated by their handles: Shinnecock scrubs had flat handles, while Montaukett handles were round (Westez 1945: 41). Makers of baskets and scrubs sold their wares while traveling from house to house or town to town. David Kellis produced scrubs for the Hildreth’s General Store for everyday use in local households (Stone 1983). Eastern Long Island began to develop as a tourist destination in the third quarter of the nineteenth century, but the tourist market for craft products never grew to the extent it did further north, so neither did the elaborate production of fancy baskets. When anthropologist Mark Harrington visited the Shinnecock reservation in 1902, their craft traditions constituted visible proof of their cultural survival in his eyes, establishing a relatively successful performance of Indian authenticity. Harrington’s article “Shinnecock Notes” describes several local tools he saw. First, there were large and small wooden mortars, the latter of which were still in use, and the former of which he had to work to locate and haggle to purchase. Second, he saw woodsplint baskets 247 made out of oak and maple, which were either rectangular or oval in form. He wrote, “Fancy baskets, into whose composition sweet grass entered, were formerly made, but this art has become extinct. The only basket manufactured to-day is the cylindrical type identical with those made by the whites....The ‘pack basket’ was frequently used half a century ago for transporting burdens of all kinds.” (1903: 38). Scrubs, which he described as brushes for cleaning pots, were quick to make: they involved splitting the ends of a white oak stick into smaller splints, which took about half an hour. He also noted that oak splints were used for making eel traps, which probates recorded in the households of Montaukett individuals Peter Quaw and Eliza Consor (Probate Case File # 6497 1868, Probate case file #14199 1898). Finally, he noted a few other tools that were not in common use by his day, which included large brooms made in the same way as scrubs, large, flat wooden ladles, and hickory bows “as long as the men who used them” (Harrington 1903: 39). He concluded on a hopeful note, recommending more time to “unearth many ethnological treasures from among the musty contents of the old garrets and lofts of the Shinnecock Indian Reservation” (ibid). His own ethnographic collection from the Shinnecock reservation, now in the collections of the American Museum of Natural History, consisted of four baskets, four maple splints used in basketry, a wooden mortar and pestle, a wooden stirring paddle, three broad wooden ladles, two scrubs (in addition to an old one from the Poosepatuck reservation), and a white oak stick and refuse from scrub-making (AMNH 1902, 2015a&b). David Kellis demonstrated scrub-making in front of him, producing one from a stick in half an hour; Harrington collected the new scrub itself, an exemplary stick, and wood shavings from Kellis’s work. A few post it notes from the museum’s accession file deem one of the baskets a “fancy basket,” possibly item 50/3484 (Fig. 6.2) due to its open hexagonal weave, and note the presence of one Shinnecock and one Poosepatuck “primitive broom,” perhaps but not certainly in reference to two of the three scrubs (AMNH 1902). 248 The collections records for these items at the American Museum of Natural History bring more of a personal note into his broad generalizations: he recorded the names of those from whom he purchased objects and any other information they gave him. He purchased his baskets from elders David Kellis, Mary Brewer, and Mrs. Waters. According to David Kellis, basket 50/3483 (Fig. 6.1), a broad, low “tray form, was old. Harrington bought 50/3484, the open-work basket, from Mrs. Waters, but she told him that Charity Kellis had made it, leading one to wonder whether it had been a gift to Mrs. Waters, something passed down, or a simple purchase as well. Baskets 50/3485 (Fig. 6.3), also from David Kellis, was a plain cylindrical basket with tall sides, perhaps of a more utilitarian nature. Baskets 50/3486 (Fig. 6.4) and 50/3487 (Fig. 6.5), purchases from Mary Brewer and Mrs. Waters, were both of “modern form” with handles (AMNH 2015b). By “modern,” Harrington might have referred to Yankee baskets, which differed from Native American baskets in that they often had warps and wefts of the same widths and thick looped rims at the top (McMullen & Handsman 1987). None of these baskets were decorated. Their variation illustrated stylistic variation on the reservation itself, but they also hinted at Shinnecock participation in basketry as a regional form of Native American cultural and artistic exchange. 249 Figure 6.1 Shinnecock basket (AMNH #50/3483) Image: AMNH Figure 6.2 Shinnecock basket (AMNH #50/3484) Image: AMNH 250 Figure 6.3 Shinnecock basket (AMNH #50/3485) Image: AMNH Figure 6.4 Shinnecock basket (AMNH #50/3486) Image: AMNH 251 Figure 6.5 Shinnecock basket (AMNH #50/3487) Image: AMNH Eugene Cuffee and David Kellis’s family collections, in addition to five baskets in the collections of the East Hampton Historical society, offer more information on local styles in Shinnecock and Montaukett basketry. Baskets for local use were made in different forms and sizes to hold a variety of food items, such as bread, eggs, or clams. According to Stone and Cuffee, Montaukett weavers also made tourist items such as bottle covers, hanging letter holders, and cradles (1993: 570). The Kellis family had a particular “trademark,” a carved and notched handle (Stone 1993: 292). Members of both tribes used a variety of weaves, including checker plaiting, wicker plating, and hexagonal plaiting, which gave different appearances of openness, and in combination, could create stripes (ibid; McMullen & Handsman 1987). They also used colored splints, rather than stamping, to create lively patterns. Few other examples exist. The Shinnecock National Museum of Cultural Center displays several examples of nineteenth century Shinnecock basketry and scrubs, often with the names of the artisans who produced them, and most are on long-term loan from the Suffolk County Historical Society in Riverhead, NY (Amy Folk, collections 252 manager, personal communication, 2012). The historical society itself only possesses a small display case of scrubs and beaded leather that was the work of Pocahontas Pharaoh, a Montaukett woman from the Freetown neighborhood in East Hampton who was active in the local Native American community in the early twentieth century. It is unknown why collectors did not value the material legacies of Shinnecock and Montaukett craft work the way others did in New England, but the simplicity of Harrington’s basket collection may be a clue. Since the tourist economy of Long Island did not develop as much as northern New England’s in the mid-nineteenth century, a robust market for decorative “fancy baskets” failed to develop along with it, which meant that Long Islanders took the artisanal work of their Shinnecock and Montaukett neighbors for granted as ordinary and utilitarian instead of respecting them as crafts. Despite this lack of appreciation, Native Americans on Long Island continued to produce their traditional crafts for local use into the twentieth century, and they may have shared these traditions with anthropologists in order to support their tribes’ ongoing efforts for social and legal recognition. This was only partially successful, since Harrington saw himself capturing knowledge that was quickly fading away as Shinnecock traditions died with their elders, but he failed to recognize changing elements of identity, less visible aspects of belonging, or even the existence of Shinnecock people outside of the reservation. He looked primarily for forms of technology that different from white norms, assuming that when traditions changed, they died out. He also tried to collect vocabulary, recording thirteen Shinnecock and two Poosepatuck words, although he wrote that the Shinnecock language had died out around the 1840s or 1850s, and it had last been spoken by the parents of elders Wickham Cuffee and Mary Ann Cuffee. This approach of “salvage ethnography” was common among early anthropologists, who saw their mission as preserving and documenting cultural difference before it disappeared under the onslaught of white imperialism (Wolf 1982). However, it also ultimately fed into stereotypes of inevitable 253 disappearance because it failed to look for any new forms of cultural production within changing material traditions – and failed to predict revitalization movements such as today’s, in which after school and weekend programs at the Shinnecock Museum give youth opportunities to learn traditional skills like basketry and woodworking. It took an anthropologist of Native American descent to recognize and document how change meant that the Shinnecock and Montaukett cultures were living, not dying. IV. PERSISTENCE AND CHANGE: RED THUNDER CLOUD’S RECORDS Harrington’s focus on “tradition” as something uniform and materially visible missed its relational nature, as something passed on between individuals, negotiated within and between generations, and subject to variation and change. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Native Americans on Long Island reinterpreted and recontextualized traditions through their everyday lives and social interactions. Through relationships with Red Thunder Cloud, alias Carlos Westez, some documented and shared their folklore and photographic images, recording the role of Native American cultural signifiers in modern contexts. Red Thunder Cloud was an anthropologist who worked primarily in the 1930s and 1940s, but his records of early twentieth century life can help to make links between the earlier whaling generations, their descendants whom he knew, and the Shinnecock and Montauk communities today. He presented himself to anthropologist Frank Speck as a young Catawba man who had completed high school on the Shinnecock reservation and was interested in becoming involved in anthropological studies of Native American languages and cultures (Red Thunder Cloud 1938-1945). Shinnecock elder Elizabeth Haile remembers that he was heavily involved in Shinnecock life, with unrequited interests in several young women of the reservation, but generally accurate observations in his published works (personal communication 2013). Westez became one of Speck’s students, collected ethnographic data, published on his findings with 254 Speck and other students, and collected of photographs of Shinnecock and Montaukett people and sites. He also collected artifacts for the Heye Foundation, and six scrub brushes and one longer broom made by a similar technique from Montauk from these efforts are now part of the collections of the Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian (Figure 6.6, 6.7) (NMAI 2015). Figure 6.6 Montaukett scrubs (NMAI #20/5282) Image: NMAI Figure 6.7 Montaukett broom (NMAI #20/5283) Image: NMAI In 1945, he wrote “An Ethnological Introduction to the Long Island Indians” expressly to counter narratives of the disappearance of the Matinecoc, Poosepatuck (Unkechaug), + never slept in their homes, and whose observations were made without 255 even so much as a fireside chat with any descendants of the Long Island Indians” (1945: 39). Instead, he could testify that they maintained folklore, herbal practices, and traditional crafts based on six years of residence, not information “solicited from taxi drivers in hasty visits to Indian settlements” (a harsh reference to Harrington) (ibid). He and Lloyd G. Carr, an ethnobotanical student of Speck’s, also published “Shinnecock Lore” in the journal of American folklore, which mixed anthropological tropes about cultural decline with perceptive observations of survival and change (1945). They wrote that the men of the community were hunters and fisherman, using the salt-marshes and seas as subsistence resources. In terms of stereotypically traditional material culture, they noted that some Shinnecock people participated in beadwork and scrub-making, but did not mention basketry or other forms of craft work (114). By the 1940s, beadwork was apparently much more widely practiced than basketry, when only the Kellis family continued (Westez 1945). As was typical for northeastern anthropologists of their period, the authors noted “the tendency to live as Indians becoming less and less,” yet in the next sentence they hinted at a broader pan- Indian identity, referring to intermarriages with other Native American groups, from Long Island’s Poosepatuck and Matinecock tribes to the Apache (Carr & Westez 1945). Red Thunder Cloud collected folklore and ghost stories for the article, while Carr surveyed botanical knowledge. Both relied on the expertise of elders Stella Arch, Lillian Harvey, Fredrich Arch, and Anthony and Eliza Beaman (a Montaukett woman from East Hampton, living on the reservation with her Shinnecock husband). The ghost stories are tales of specific occurrences, e.g. the clanking sound of scissors in the home of Charity Kellis years after her death, or Lillian Harvey’s sighting of a woman in a doorway at night that foretold the death of former whaler Andrew Cuffee. These stories are interesting because they are rooted in personal relationships: rather than fixed items of lore passed down from generation, the explanatory power of ghosts and omens was the cultural legacy here, but people reinterpreted and reinvented them through lived 256 experience. This gives a much more personalized and dynamic sense to “shared folklore,” one of Plame and Button’s (1993) elements of shared Indian identity in New England (also cf. Simmons 1986). The section on “botanical cures and their efficacy as medicinal agents,” also stresses variation and cultural exchange, rather than singular, unchanging traditions. According to the authors, the herbal treatments were taken commonly and without fuss, as though they were meals, and indeed, the line between food and medicine is hard to draw (Carr & Westez 1945: 117-119). Seventeen of thirty-six herbal cures were from plants of European origin, and several were also known to Mohegan and Narragansett people, which reflects Native American appropriation of imports for their own purposes on both Long Island and New England. Although the tropes of disappearance and salvage appear in the introduction to Carr and Westez’s article, the content itself tells a different story: one of centuries of Native American creative experimentation with natural resources, not only those native to eastern Long Island, but the ones from Europe that transformed American landscapes. Different individuals also gave different explanations of the curative properties of the same plants, which meant that a complete survey would require talking to a large number of people. This illustrates how traditions are actually passed down: not in a centralized way, but from person to person in more intimate settings, and with experimentation and different experiences creating differences in practice. Red Thunder Cloud also collected images and took photographs of Shinnecock and Montaukett individuals at home, in community settings, and in ceremonial circumstances. These visual records display the materiality of everyday Indian life on Long Island, and when, where, and how people deployed the symbols of identity that were becoming most meaningful by the early twentieth century. Each image discussed here is included in Appendix 3. 257 Images of Shinnecock reservation life communicate cultural persistence not through visually striking architecture, but through captions detailing the importance of place in local memory. Modest, regionally unremarkable buildings have personal stories and communal significance: David Bunn’s home from c. 1850 was the oldest home on the reservation, associated with the whaling boom; the Presbyterian church, under restoration after the hurricane of 1938, was a Shinnecock institution; dozens of students studied at the Shinnecock school, established in 1825 and reconstructed in 1875; and a dugout root cellar exemplified local construction techniques in the twentieth century (Appendix 3: Red Thunder Cloud, “Shinnecock Man and Indian Cellar” [1900s?]; “Shinnecock Church” [1938?]; “Old Home” [1940s?]). Were these wood-framed, shingled, one to two story structures transported off the reservation to a street in Sag Harbor or East Hampton, they would have fit perfectly well, but the memories associated the homes of elders and whalers, and the church and school as sites of cultural memory and community gathering, give them a significant Shinnecock identity. In individual portraits of elders, text rather than imagery marked Indian identity through story and memory, while younger generations introduced more visual elements of ethnic distinction. Several portraits are of elders who had grown up in the mid- to late- nineteenth century; members of households considered in the demographic and labor research in chapters II and III. These people had been whalers in their youth, or whalers’ daughters, wives, mothers, brothers, sons, fathers, and cousins. Many of them became prime informants for Harrington and Red Thunder Cloud because they had witnessed many of the material and social changes Harrington was most interested in, but the stories they passed down through generations highlighted increasing prosperity with cultural change, not a one-sided view of cultural loss (cf. Stone 1983; Shoemaker 2014). It is most likely that Red Thunder Cloud collected these portraits from families, rather than taking them himself, since his own photographs of younger individuals are much less formal in composition and sharper in quality. While they are not studio 258 portraits, they are more sedate and formal than candid shots of everyday life, communicating the dignity and longevity of their subjects. The portrait of former whaler Wickham Cuffee, probably in his seventies or eighties around the turn of the twentieth century, focuses on his head and shoulders, showing a dignified dark wool suit, bow tie, and short white hair curled around his ears (Red Thunder Cloud “Wickham Cuffee” [1900s?]). A portrait of his wife Ellen (or Helen) Killis Cuffee, who “knew how to prepare all of the old tribal foods of former days such as Samp, clam chowder, corn bread and succotash,” shows her looking pensively into the camera in a black dress with ruffles on the front and a simple tied-back hairstyle (Red Thunder Cloud “Helen Killis Cuffee” [1900s?]). A 1915 portrait of Wickham, Ellen, and Fanny Cuffee shows Wickham and Fanny seated in front of a wooden house, and Ellen behind standing with a broom or walking stick in hand. Wickham and Ellen are wearing white shirts and thick vests, but look relatively informal, while Fanny is wearing a black dress with a white bow at the collar. Wickham wears a hat, and both women have their white hair neatly tied back. The portrait is more reminiscent of “American Gothic” than of popular illustrations of Native Americans – although Red Thunder Cloud’s later caption implies that the elders’ features spoke for themselves, and younger generations had not inherited such clear Indian looks (Red Thunder Cloud “Cuffee, Bunn, and Killis” 1915). Similarly, among the Montaukett, a photograph of Maria Pharaoh Fowler Banks and a sketched portrait of her family in 1879, including husband David Pharaoh and his mother, also show her and her relatives standing posed in semi-formal skirts, dresses, and suits (Red Thunder Cloud 1879, “Queen Maria” [1900s?].) These relatively formal and traditional choices of dress and pose had much in common with African American photographic trends of the time. After the daguerreotype became widespread in 1839, and the carte de visite in 1861, many people of color sat for portraits in which they sat seriously in formal clothing and displayed attributes of middle-class prosperity (Wallace & Smith 2012). Many saw such 259 photography as a project of positive self-representation, which presented an opportunity to show incontrovertible proof of inherent human equality and dignity in the age of emancipation (Wexler 2012). Frederick Douglass spoke of photography as the “visual catalyst for social change” (Wallace & Smith 2012:6), necessary for making political progress and correcting scientific racism. Parallel to the analyses of gravestones and household material culture in chapters 4 and 5, portraits of Native Americans who came of age in the mid-nineteenth century also show the pursuit of dignity and respectability among people of color across ethnic lines. The specifically “Indian” nature of these photographs comes from memories of individuals depicted, whether in oral histories or in written captions, and not in the content of the photographs themselves. In the early twentieth century, the children and grandchildren of this generation situationally emphasized Indian and broader American identities in a variety of candid and formal photographs. In snapshots of daily life, such one in which Christopher Cuffee fell asleep on his wagon, or another in which he was playing with his granddaughter and a poodle, people wore everyday work clothes (Red Thunder Cloud “Christopher Cuffee Sr.” 1900, 1919). Other formal portraits republished as Montaukett genealogical sources show young people in mainstream American clothing, sometimes more fashionable dresses and suits, useful reminds that expressions of ethnic identity did not drive all of people’s daily decisions (Stone 1993). Other photographs communicated both Indianness and modernity, in keeping with the lives they represented. For example, in 1938 Charles Sumner (or Somers) Bunn posed for a photograph in a suit and hat, but he held a crossbow that indexed his work as a guide for hunters on the coast, a role which drew heavily on local ecological knowledge and fit well into Shinnecock traditions of masculine labor (“Charles Somers Bunn” 1938). Bunn later became famous for his white pine carvings of decoy ducks, an art form valued in the twentieth century Shinnecock community. Recent research suggests that a decoy that sold at auction for $464,500 in 2000 should actually have 260 been attributed to him, which would make it the highest price ever paid for a piece of American Indian art at the time (Mead 2005). Many more photos from the 1920s onward show the situational revitalization and reappropriation of Indian clothing and material culture, choices that both related to personal and community identities and resisted powerful public perceptions of disappearance and degradation. For instance, Anthony Beaman (Chief Running Bull) appeared in a photograph striding forward in a tall and full feathered headdress and leather pants and tunic, flanked by a woman in a white sundress and a young girl in a similar dress and a small headdress. Beaman knew a great deal of Shinnecock folk and herbal lore, but according to Red Thunder Cloud, he was one of the most culturally conservative in the tribe in his day and opposed marriages to people of African descent (he married a Montaukett woman himself). This created tension within his community and made others less likely to visit or draw on his knowledge (Carr & Westez 1945; Red Thunder Cloud “Anthony Beaman” [1940s]). Nevertheless, Beaman was interested in welcoming and learning from Indians from other tribes, such as Westez, and this commitment to cross-tribal exchange must have contributed to Beaman’s Plains- influenced choices in ceremonial dress. Montaukett individuals and families also posed for portraits at home in Eastville, creating rarer records of material prosperity and symbols of identity for Native Americans living off of reservations. Red Thunder Cloud wrote that in the early twentieth century, the Montaukett community in East Hampton had become politically split into two groups who identified as the Eastville and Freetown bands, due to long- term fallout from Maria Pharaoh Fowler Banks’ 1882 sale of Indian Fields to a developer (1942). She was the head of one of the three families who lived there year-round, and the developer argued that she had authority to sell the land because she was the widow of former Montaukett chief David Fowler and mother of his heir Wyandanch. However, Montaukett families living elsewhere on Long Island protested that she did not have the 261 standing to make that decision for the tribe, either because the land should have been treated as communal, or because they disputed her and Wyandanch’s claim to leadership (Strong 2001). The Pharaoh and Banks family was relocated from Montauk Point to Freetown, forming the core of the Freetown band, while the Cuffee, Ashman, and King families in Eastville maintained their own Montaukett social core, recognizing James Waters, who was of Matinecock, Shinnecock, and Montaukett descent, as their political leader (Red Thunder Cloud “Mrs. Emma King” [1900s?]). Photographs of Native Americans from Eastville show that probate records left out information about material symbols of identity in household life, creating an incomplete image of pan-ethnic similarity through consumerism (see chapter 5). In the caption for a portrait of Amelia Halsey and her daughter Emma, descendants of Lewis and Lucinda Cuffee, Red Thunder Cloud pointed out elements of material culture with ethnic significance within Mrs. Halsey’s well-furnished sitting room: The homes of the Long Island and New England Indians, around the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, all had reminders of their former culture and glory such as, tintypes of relatives in costume, old mortars and pestles, baskets, as well as, photos of the family in the latest dress of the period. In many homes there were Indian statues on mantelpieces and upon pedestals such as, the one in the background of this photograph. It appears to the right of the clock. This is a most interesting photo of Amelia Halsey and her daughter Emma, who ever mindful of their Montauk origin had braided her hair and crowned it with a headband and a feather. The mother appears to be holding a bible in her hands. Note the poodle on the bed. (“Amelia Halsey and daughter Emma” 1900) Mrs. Halsey’s home blended the material culture evident in probates, such as pictures, clocks, and mantelpieces, with reminders of family members and the very baskets and old mortars and pestles that anthropologists were so interested in collecting. Why did items like Mrs. Halsey’s Indian statue fail to appear in probate records? Perhaps such items were precious enough to become valued heirlooms, removed from the household by family members before appraisers could record them. Perhaps they were present but hidden: for instance, Eliza Consor’s “work basket and 262 contents” (probate case file no. 14199 1898) could have been of local, Native manufacture, and the enumerated pictures in the Consor and Perdue households might have shown relatives in Indian regalia. In keeping with the generational trends noted above, it is Emma, the younger woman, who chose to braid her hair and wear a headband, highlighting Native American stylistic influences; her mother wore a plain black dress with her hair tied back simply, much like the contemporaneous elders of the Shinnecock reservation. Emma also appeared in full Native regalia in other photographs, such as one from 1906, in which she posed standing, looking out in the distance, with a feathered headdress, a long, tasseled dress with strings of beading, and moccasins. Red Thunder Cloud annotated: “The Montauks of both bands often resided far away from the old habitats of the tribe. Whenever the occasion demanded, they appeared in costumes in parades, fairs and pageants” (1906). However, the occasion for this photograph was much more private in nature: Emma had it taken for her brother Walter’s birthday. He was a tribal councilor in Eastville who is now buried in the St David AME Zion Cemetery. These visual records testify to the performative elements of preserving Indian identity in a modern, diasporic context, but they are also reminders of its roots in family relationships. Red Thunder Cloud editorialized that such clothing choices were historically inaccurate. Regarding a similar photograph of Emma’s aunt and Amelia’s sister Ann Todd Cuffee, he wrote: “Like other Long Island Indians of the period, around the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century, Ann Cuffee made attempts to recreate what she and others thought were copies of ancient tribal regalia. In many cases these costumes only faintly resembled the clothing of their ancestors” (Red Thunder Cloud “Ann Todd Cuffee” [1920s?]). However, reading these garments as mere historical throwbacks misses their twentieth century social significance. Anthony Beaman’s, Ann Cuffee and Emma Halsey’s ethnically distinct clothing drew on a distinctly modern symbolic language of identity, in which a growing national sense of pan-Indianism 263 combined influences from the Eastern Woodlands mixed with those from the Great Plains and other areas further west. Shinnecock and Montaukett people’s choices of self-representation through photography created a window into their negotiation of the competing pressures of respectability and ethnic distinction as Native Americans. Portraits of members of the nineteenth century whaling generation as elders show an approach similar to the Black employment of photography, which stressed prosperity, dignity, and American identity among people of color. In contrast, early twentieth century images of their children and grandchildren in Native regalia show that photography also provided an opportunity to express Indian identity in contexts of family relationships, tribal politics, and narratives of disappearance. Studies of early anthropological photography stress how the technology was a western import that viewed Native Americans through a western gaze and setting indigenous people in opposition to white men as cultural Others (Edwards 1992; Faris 1996). Perhaps this effect was exactly what some Native Americans on Long Island were looking for: proof, in western terms legible to the western gaze, that Shinnecock and Montaukett people were indeed culturally distinct Indians. Since they were were fluent in the languages and symbols of Anglo-American society, they could even make these photographs welcome tools of cultural persistence. V. REVITALIZATION: OLD SYMBOLS IN NEW CONTEXTS Shinnecock and Montaukett people did not only have their own pasts and traditions to draw on in the creation of material culture, clothing, and commemorative photography: they also engaged with wider indigenous social networks and cultural repertoires through new tribal and inter-tribal organizations and celebrations in the early twentieth century. Red Thunder Cloud documented and participated in this larger regional trend toward revitalization. 264 The earliest example is of a gathering of Shinnecock women at a tribal pageant in 1920 (Red Thunder Cloud 1920). The six middle-aged and older women depicted are all standing in front of a grass wigwam wearing braids, simple headbands, and clothing that they had made themselves. Red Thunder Cloud noted that the women’s clothing was not historically accurate, but the variation in patterns, dresses, shawls, and jewelry the women all wore indicate that their outfits were concerned with personalization and creativity in their own era, not in directly copying the past. The Shinnecock held tribal pageants in 1912, 1914, 1915, and 1938. One of the two 1915 pageants was for the 275th anniversary of the founding of Southampton, and Shinnecock celebrants joined villagers dressed as Pilgrims. Tribal ceremonial occasions became more institutionalized in the 1940s, when the Shinnecock tribe began holding a yearly powwow on Labor Day weekend, as well as the yearly June Meeting around Memorial Day. The June Meeting was a festival unique to the Shinnecock, originally established by the Rev. Paul Cuffee in the early 19th century as a religious celebration (Laudin 1983; Haile 2013). It grew and flourished from 1939 on as Shinnecock relatives and friends traveled back to the reservation for worship and reunions (Laudin 1983). June meetings were primarily religious and family events, without Indian regalia or dancing, and Red Thunder Cloud reported that this could disappoint visitors (1945). The powwow was, from the start, an intentionally symbolic entrance into greater participation in New England pan-Indian life. Although it had long history on eastern Long Island as a name for both performers and rituals of religious and healing ceremonies, it fell out of use in the eighteenth century, and when it was resurrected, it had a new form and meaning. Chief Thunderbird mobilized the community for the first powwow in in 1943 on his own land, inspired by the Narragansett dancing he witnessed in several years of visits to Charlestown, RI. He told anthropologist Harvey Laudin that he wanted to “put Shinnecock on the map,” and that he hoped the sound of Indian drums 265 could be heard in the village of Southampton (Laudin 1983). Red Thunder Cloud, however, believed that the 1944 powwow was the first at Shinnecock: The occasion was the signing of a peace treaty between the Montauks and their one time enemies the Narragansetts of Rhode Island. The Federated Eastern Indian League sponsored the affair and the go between's were Chief Swimming Eel, lately deceased Schaghticoke Sachem of Connecticut and Red Thunder Cloud, author of these series....Holes were dug five feet apart and Chief Roaring Bull buried the tomahawk for the Narragansetts and Chief Buckskin for the Montauks, while 200 interested spectators watched the proceedings. Roaring Bull then performed the Narragansett war dance and Poniute III, of Montauk offered the Montauk version of the war dance. Members of both tribes then sat down to a meal of quahog chowder and corn bread prepared by Prophet Eagle Eye of the Narragansetts. (Red Thunder Cloud 1944) The powwow has continued yearly from the 1940s until the present, when the attendance reaches the tens of thousands, and Native dancers, vendors, and visitors from across the northeast participate. According to Laudin, dress, dancing, and protocol at the Shinnecock powwow is an amalgamation of local traditions and intertribal cultural exchange. Some participants, like Princess Chee Chee Thunder Bird (aka Elizabeth Haile), worked hard to make clothing that reflected regional Algonquian traditions, even conducting research at the American Museum of Natural History. Others were “eclectic composites,” handmade expressions of personal taste that drew on multiple tribal traditions in creative and individualized ways (Laudin 1983: 356). Photographs show that costumes became more ornate throughout the twentieth century, and in the 1970s, women’s clothing tended to be more conservative and concerned with Algonquian traditions than men’s, which drew on more gaudy and eye- catching elements from other cultures (ibid). Montaukett and Shinnecock people were also participating in intertribal organizations and traveling to other celebrations at the turn of the twentieth century. The tribes were members of the Long Island Council of the Federated Eastern Indian League in the 1940s, and they celebrated American Indian Day with this organization with a clam-bake (Westez 1945). One of Red Thunder Cloud’s photographs caught the 266 “Accabonac (Bonac) Indian Dancers of East Hampton, LI” in action, capturing a moment in which Montaukett Robert Butler of Freetown, a “Carib Indian” known as Little Feather, and Red Thunder Cloud danced together. The caption noted that the troupe “appeared at hundreds of schools, camps, pow wows, and children's theaters all over the east. The Bonac Indian Dancers have also performed at Columbia University, Brooklyn College, Rhode Island State College and the University of Pennsylvania” (Red Thunder Cloud [c. 1945]). These photographs testify to a wealth of cultural activity in the early twentieth century through the 1940s, but information for the previous century, the height of the whaling era and the Civil War is much scarcer. It is likely that members of earlier generations marked their Indian identities at family rather than public occasions: for instance, Red Thunder Cloud wrote that before the rise of the June meeting and powwows, the only opportunities for Shinnecock and Montaukett people to come together were at funerals, where members of other groups showed up to pay their respects (Westez 1945: 40-41). However, there are a few telling clues that a broader American Indian consciousness was influencing Shinnecock and Montaukett life on eastern Long Island as early as the 1870s. Maria Fowler Pharaoh Banks, for example, gave her children with David Pharaoh both Indian and English names: Wyandank, Samuel Powhatan, George, Maggie, Ebenezer Tecumseh, and Pocahontas (Stone 1993: 363). Wyandank was named after a contact-period Montaukett leader, but Powhatan, Tecumseh, and Pocahontas clearly connected to more nationally recognizable figures of Indian fame in the United States. Perhaps this was an assertion of authority, as Maria was holder of the land in a highly diasporic community, and she had pride in her position as wife of a chief, or perhaps it was simply an expression of ethnic pride. Her choices were unusual for formal, legal names, but they are logical precursors to the twentieth century adoption of second names, such as Westez’s identification as Red 267 Thunder Cloud, Anthony Beaman’s title Chief Running Bull, or his wife Eliza’s alias, Princess Occum. Nathan Cuffee, a Montaukett man who grew up in Eastville in the second half of the nineteenth century, also published a novel called Lords of the Soil, which was described as “a romance of Indian life among the early English settlers” (Jocelyn & Cuffee 1905). Indeed, the novel was a romance, full of overdramatic descriptions of dignified and noble Indian figures, with stereotypical illustrations echoing the language. Stylistic complaints aside, the book’s plot reimagined the English settlement of eastern Long Island with a wealth of local and historical detail from the Native point of view. Passages in which Englishmen plotted to wear down Native leaders, as “these savages are never proof against the seductions of the bottle,” exemplified the double consciousness of people of color in the United States (ibid: 3; Du Bois 2005 [1903]). Cuffee could view historical events and stereotypes through the dominant perspective of whites, but he could also retell familiar stories with references to his own cultural heritage and experience. While this novel does not fit neatly into ideas of pan-Indianism or everyday practices of ethnic distinction, it is an impressive example of intentional Native American self-representation in the public sphere, using a narrative form that was accessible across ethnic and racial lines. Unfortunately, the combination of the written word, communication of recognizably material culture and lore to anthropologists, and performances of Indian identity in public and private events were still not enough for Shinnecock and Montaukett people to gain the recognition they needed for the legal rights associated with being Native American. VI. PERFORMING IDENTITY IN THE LEGAL SPHERE To argue for access to ancestral territories and status as Native American in state and federal law, Montaukett and Shinnecock communities had to organize to meet American law on its own terms. In the legal sphere above all others, definitions of racial 268 authenticity pushed Native people to publicly distinguish themselves from African Americans or people of mixed racial ancestry, arguing for their own cultural survival through the Euro-American traditions of bureaucratic self-monitoring, appeals to Congress, and formal lawsuits. The ways Native Americans themselves determined cultural citizenship and tribal membership rights sometimes came into conflict with Euro-American legal standards of proof. Restrictions on residence, membership, and access for families with non-local members, such as the 1719 restriction on “strange Indians” at Montauk or later limitations on people of African descent in Massachusetts communities, were results of this legal insecurity (Strong 2001; Handsman 2011). As a form of self-defense in a colonial legal environment, many groups also developed more formalized record- keeping, recognition of leadership, and standards for membership based on recorded genealogies. The Shinnecock elected three tribal trustees from the men of their tribe every April, starting in 1792. Under a 1703 agreement, the town of Southampton leased the Shinnecock reservation itself to the tribe for a thousand years; Shinnecock people did not formally own their land until 1859. The tribal trustees could approve three-year land leases for tribal members to use plots of land on the reservation, while the authority to grant grazing or cultivation privileges to whites lay with the town (Strong & Holmberg 1983). Both men and women received equal allotment rights (Hayes 1983). This trustee system developed as a compromise to give Shinnecock people greater control over leasing to Native individuals, which the Shinnecock accepted because of its similarity to their own modes of self-governance. The elected trustees had to be approved by justices of the peace from Southampton, and the town clerk recorded the minutes of their meetings for inclusion in the town records (Strong & Holmberg 1983). Shinnecock land use rights in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries developed under direct colonial surveillance, and their selection of leaders was also observed and 269 recorded in ways that were legible to Euro-Americans. The trustee system became the tribe’s primary mode of formal self-governance into the twentieth century (Westez 1945). Today, the board of trustees has expanded to seven officials, including a chairman, vice chairman, treasurer, two council secretaries, sachem, and sunksquaw (“Shinnecock Indian Nation: Council of Trustees” 2014). The Montaukett who lived in Indian Fields were not subject to such explicit control from the town of East Hampton, insofar as there was no formalized, written process for approving residence on communal lands. However, by the 1740s the Montaukett also experienced reduced access to their own land, as East Hampton’s town trustees began leasing Montaukett land to settlers for grazing (Strong 2001: 61). Montaukett appeals and petitions to the town of East Hampton were met with the claim that they were no longer Indian and had no rights associated with that identity. In 1806, the Montaukett response took a Euro-American bureaucratic form. The Pharaoh family conducted a census of their community, identifying 117 people whom they presented as “true blooded natives,” without African ancestry, although a few counted European ancestors. They took this census to the New York State Assembly, which sent a committee to Montauk to investigate and met with Montaukett and East Hampton representatives in 1808. The senate proposed that Indian Fields should be established as a reservation so that it would be preserved for the Montaukett community, but the proprietors of East Hampton refused to comply, even insisting that the Montaukett complaints were the results of “strangers” who visited Montauk point to stir up trouble (Strong 2001: 86-87). In the 1870s, the formal aspects of Montaukett leadership became interesting to Euro-American observers for the first time, perhaps because after the death of chief Sylvester Pharaoh, political divisions between families became more visible. Supposedly, succession was supposed to follow direct lines of patrilineal descent, but this did not always occur without question. According to reports of the time, the selection of a new 270 chief and three councilors followed indigenous methods: Montaukett elders met and elected a sachem by consensus, and it was said that David Pharaoh, Maria’s husband, won by campaigning in Freetown and beyond Indian Fields (Strong 2001: 96-97).20 After their 1870 election, Pharaoh and the three councilors, Elisha Pharaoh, George Pharaoh, and Elijah Wright, immediately sued the Trustees of Montauk. The Trustees were an East Hampton group incorporated in 1852 to manage white legal affairs on Montauk Point. The suit charged that they were allowing wood-cutting on Montauk Point that endangered Indians’ ability to fence their lands and provide firewood. The New York State Supreme Court judge recognized the standing of all three Pharaohs, but ruled that Wright was not a legitimate member of the tribe, and ultimately ruled against the Montaukett, even charging them for the Trustees’ legal costs (Strong 2001). In 1878, when two East Hampton proprietors tried to force the sale of Montauk lands, a judge found that the Montaukett still maintained their tribal organization and affirmed the membership of the three Montaukett representatives. These cases both set a precedent in which state authorities could rule on the tribal status of both individual Montaukett people and the tribe as a whole, which proved disastrous for Montaukett, Shinnecock, and other Native American groups alike in the twentieth century. From 1897 to 1909, the erosion of Native American legal rights on Long Island reached a new extreme, as courts refused to recognize indigenous people’s rights as either individual citizens or tribal bodies. In 1895, members of the Montaukett community began a lawsuit claiming that several corporations, including the Long Island Railroad, illegally possessed Montauk lands from Napeague Beach to Montauk Point (ibid). The state court ruled that the Montaukett people had no standing to sue in court: they were not recognized by the state or federal governments as a legally defined group. 20As mentioned previously, internal conflicts between families and settlements grew in the early twentieth century. David Pharaoh’s successor Stephen Talkhouse Pharaoh died after only a year in 1879, and after the sale of Indian Fields to developer Arthur Benson. Montaukett families living in Eastville refused to accept David’s son Wyandanch as chief. 271 Eugene Johnson then tried to file the suit as a citizen, but the New York State Court of Appeals invalidated it in 1900, claiming that it was in fact a tribal matter, and that tribes were “wards of the state” with only rights granted explicitly through the legislative process (Court of Appeals 162 NY 462 1900). The Shinnecock and Montaukett faced this legal paradox together in 1900, when they teamed up to file a claim for unambiguous title to their lands and recognized tribal status. They sent representatives to members of the United States Senate Subcommittee on Indian Affairs, making the case that since the state of New York recognized Brothertown as an Indian tribe, and many founding members of Brothertown came from their tribes, the original tribes also deserved recognition. The senators questioned them extensively about their claims to tribal membership. In the end, however, the subcommittee concluded that these Native Americans were legally constrained, with no rights in court whatsoever. Their tribes were not recognized as sovereign entities, which made them wards of the state. However, as Indians without recognized tribes, they also lacked the rights of full American citizenship, so even if the state was not protecting their interests, they had no legal standing to defend their own (U.S. Senate Subcommittee 1900). The tribes that had suffered the earliest land loss in the eventual United States, ones who had signed treaties and contracts with individual townships and colonies before the state and federal governments existed, were effectively barred from representation in later state and federal courts. Despite this egregious disenfranchisement, the Montaukett leadership continued to pursue their earlier land claim case. In 1904, four men staged a protest, building a wigwam at Montauk Point and staying there to hunt birds until they were arrested and charge with malicious trespass. They refused to speak in court. (Strong 2001: 104). In 1906, a New York act finally gave the Montaukett permission to file their suit, while stipulating that their existence as a tribe should be determined by the court. 272 In the subsequent 1909 trial, the defense’s main argument hinged on their assertion that no Montaukett tribe existed, merely a community of no longer Native individuals seeking to profit (Stone 1993). The defense lawyers claimed that tribal status should require full political autonomy, which included military and police action, recent recognition as a tribe in a state context, and a continuous record of meetings and leadership. They asserted that these criteria no longer held for the Montaukett, and furthermore, their blood and culture had been diluted by racial mixing. The defense brought in witnesses and asked leading questions about whether people recognized as Indians had any African-looking features, while a town clerk testified that Montaukett people lived, worked, dressed, and acted like their Euro-American and African-American neighbors in towns. The defense also argued that the lack of written records establishing elections of tribal leaders, and a system of leadership that relied on persuasive rather than absolute political authority, showed an absence of true tribal organization. The judge ruled in keeping with the U.S. Senate Subcommittee’s decision, saying that the plaintiffs had not convinced him of the existence of a Montaukett tribe that deserved legal reification. In his view, they were an assimilated group of Indians, wards of the state rather than citizens of either their own tribal nation or the broader American political body. In 1919, James Waters was elected Montaukett sachem, promising to pursue the case further. He stressed the need for formalized record-keeping practices: I note the extreme carefulness of the White race in making records, gathering data, informing the young to hand down to children’s children the glory of their race...Now, our tribal life should be just as important to use as Indians. It is our genealogical tree. In it lies the glory of fathers and forefathers, our precious heritage before the civilized world today. (Montauk Tribe 1993b: 484) During this period of legal struggle, Montaukett self-monitoring became more active, maintaining membership roles that included several hundred members of the diaspora in New York, New England, and Brothertown (Miller & Cuffee 1993). A 1916 273 annual report explained the progress of their legal appeals and exhorted members of the tribe to take care of struggling elders. Officials requested annual dues, which were a “Tribal Law” and required to meet expenses (Montauk Tribe 1993a). A committee also formed to create a constitution for the tribe, which they presented in a 1919 tribal meeting. They also discussed official roles and rules, such as the establishment of a quorum and the instatement of a tribal historian (Montauk Tribe 1993b). Simultaneously, the tribal leadership continued to pursue unsuccessful appeals to the state and federal governments until 1924 (Stone 1993). This period was demoralizing to Montaukett activists and their families. They were in legal limbo, neither American citizens nor members of an Indian tribe. The same arguments and internal divisions of the early twentieth century have worked against the possibility of Montaukett federal recognition into the present, although the Shinnecock were able to achieve recognition in 2010, in part because unlike the Montaukett, they had the advantage of a community with continuous geographic roots on a state reservation (“Shinnecock Indian Nation: Government” 2014). Yet in response to the question of blood quantum and tribal membership, Waters simply said, “the call of the blood is strongest in the Indian’s love for kindred” (Stone 1993: 483). As both groups struggled to reconcile their own traditions of communal organization and leadership with Euro-American standards of documentation and political control, they did so with the guidance of their own values and deeply rooted identities. VII. CONCLUSION The turn of the twentieth century was a “moment of danger” (Matthews 2010) for Native American rights on eastern Long Island due to land loss and legal disenfranchisement. While Native American traditions and senses of identity always remained alive through individual relationships and activities, by the late nineteenth century, Shinnecock and Montaukett people increasingly had to combat stereotypes of 274 invisibility by making their traditions and identities more visible, material, and recognizable. The surge of symbolic material culture in Red Thunder Cloud’s collected photographs from this period, such as Emma Halsey’s, Ann Thompson’s, and Chief Running Bull’s Plains-influenced clothing, were individual efforts to present themselves as proud American Indians living off of reservations in the modern United States. In both Montaukett and Shinnecock contexts, the adoption of Euro-American standards of documentation for tribal affairs was also a reinterpretation of indigenous political traditions, with the goal of preserving local autonomy despite colonial pressures. The invocation of tradition is not just a strategic political performance. Simultaneously, it can be a sincere and meaningful tool for preserving group identities in times of major social change (Matthews 2002). For instance, Maria Pharaoh’s choices of Wyandank, Samuel Powhatan, Ebenezer Tecumseh, and Pocahontas as names for her children during periods of instability in Montaukett leadership made pride and identification with their Native American heritage a core element of her children’s individual life stories. Similarly, material embodiments of tradition can simultaneously constitute political statements, important sources of collective self-definition, and strategies for economic survival in times of change (Phillips 1998; Matthews 2002; Uriarte 2007; Cattelino 2008; Comaroff & Comaroff 2009). Shinnecock basketry and carving practices had this wide variety of meanings for cultural insiders and outsiders. For Shinnecock elders, basketry gave them a sense of cultural continuity through embodied skill, while for makers like David Kellis, it was also a way to make a living. At the same time, for a white anthropologist like Harrington, it was proof of a disappearing yet still extant Indian identity. Wood carving and other crafts also followed a trajectory of multiple and changing meanings: wooden mortars and bows and arrows became Shinnecock and Montaukett family heirlooms in the late nineteenth century, while other forms of technology replaced them in daily use, and the creativity of Native artisans found new 275 avenues in the twentieth century, such as Charles Bunn’s incredibly lifelike duck decoys for sale to hunters. The growth of fairs, powwows, and June Meetings on eastern Long Island were also visual public statements of presence and cultural vitality, but within and between Native American communities, they were simultaneously family reunions, celebrations of shared heritage, and occasions for building relationships of friendship and solidarity across tribal lines. Today, the Shinnecock powwow brings together thousands of performers, vendors, and visitors from Long Island, New England, and beyond; it is both a source of publicity and revenue for the Shinnecock tribe, and a massive celebration of memory and sovereignty for its members. These strategies of self-representation that began at the turn of the twentieth century continue to give people of Native American descent opportunities to use their changing traditions to define themselves both within American modernity and outside of Eurocentric ideas of what that means. This change amidst continuity in Shinnecock and Montaukett cultural and material traditions shows that each generation modified the traditions of their parents to fit their own contexts and needs. Despite unrealistic standards locating Native American cultural authenticity before European contact, Native people’s lived experience of tradition occurred on the scale of individual lives, and this is the scale on which they changed (Silliman 2009). Because these symbolic, instrumental, and visible elements of Native identity coexisted with the multicultural spaces of daily life, especially households, churches, and neighborhoods that were also homes to people of African descent, they could be sources of tension. The pressure of maintaining a racial standard of authenticity could create different factions within tribes. For instance, the Montaukett maintained loudly and publicly that they had avoided intermarriage with African Americans. Yet Wyandank Pharaoh himself, as well as many of the Eastville band, had married Black spouses (Stone 1993; Strong 2001); how must these public declarations have made his wife, Florence van Houten, Eliza Consor’s husband George, or Helen Ashman’s husband Miles 276 feel? On the Shinnecock reservation, several tribal members also married African Americans, such as Roxana Bunn’s husband James Lee; Red Thunder Cloud writes that “conservatives” like Anthony Beaman, who opposed interracial marriages, found themselves isolated from younger members of the tribe, who perhaps wanted to express solidarity with families like the Bunns (Red Thunder Cloud “Anthony Beaman” [1940s]). Outside of reservations, members of Native American households and African American neighbors rarely expressed divisions in public, and oral histories from the 1980s recount that in the early twentieth century, most Eastville families attached great importance to the experiences they shared as people of color (Tobier 2007). Missing evidence, such as the absence of indigenous heirlooms in probate records, or silences aiming to keep disputes within families and communities, may distort this impression from reality on the ground. Nevertheless, the preponderance of material evidence from settlement patterns, cemeteries, and probate records echoes this emphasis on community over ethnic difference, particularly in the whaling era, before the intensification of legal and social battles for indigenous recognition at the turn of the twentieth century. Shinnecock and Montaukett people navigated treacherous waters as they figured out how to balance cross-cultural belonging and cooperation with cultural continuity and battles for recognition. Many sources indicated that for the most part, their strategies of contextually variable self-representation succeeded in transmitting cultural knowledge across generations through kinship and gatherings, and creating new forms of tradition in the material sphere, while maintaining strong relationships with their African American relatives, friends, and neighbors. 277 CONCLUSION: RACE, ANTHROPOLOGY, AND THE POLITICS OF SURVIVAL I. SUMMARY The tensions between living in a multicultural community, united by the American color line, and preserving ethnic distinction within the broader category of “colored,” became most visible for Native Americans facing challenges to their authenticity and rights in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In these years, people of Shinnecock and Montaukett descent on eastern Long Island made material, linguistic, practical, and social decisions that balanced belonging and cooperation within diverse communities like Eastville with the maintenance, representation, and defense of their Native American identities. The photographic, archaeological, and historical evidence of these choices shows that they drew on ethnically distinctive material culture in a limited range of situations, while most everyday practices stressed belonging to a greater American social collective. As probate records, ceramics, and photographs show, in the contexts of home, church, and work life, people of both African and Native American ancestry purchased and used consumer goods that would have been familiar to nineteenth century citizens across ethnic lines. Gravestones and records of domestic space also indicate that both African Americans and Native Americans were more concerned with establishing property and prosperity in mainstream material ways than in resisting dominant norms. However, in particular categories of material culture, including basketry, beading, and decoy making, Native traditions of craft production continued to flourish into the twentieth century, and simultaneously, Shinnecock and Montaukett people created new forms of ethnically distinctive Native American clothing and material culture for display in family photographs, parades, and powwows. The restriction of material “markers” like these to a few categories of material culture meant that indigenous people could fit them into meaningful niches in their materially modern and culturally Indian lives. 278 In this research, I have empirically explored shared geographies, material similarities, and ethnic and symbolic differences among members of multicultural communities of color on Long Island. Here, I aim to identify the roots of these overlapping and diverging choices, and why symbols of Native American distinction changed in the early twentieth century. The material similarities between diverse people of color have roots in the structural inequalities that affected life for people of African and Native American descent in similar ways, and their efforts to build community ties and seek household economic mobility in response. By 1800, over 150 years of European colonialism on Long Island had left both African Americans and Native Americans with significantly fewer resources and limited opportunities than Anglo-Americans. In the first chapter of this dissertation, I use critical race theory to explain the growth of multicultural communities of color on eastern Long Island as active responses to this history of marginalization and signs of economic mobility. In the second chapter, I highlight how work in the whaling industry was an important engine of growth for households in these communities due to its pay structure, potential for advancement for people of color, and entanglement with women’s labor and kin support. In the third chapter, I focus on Eastville as a case study of how in diverse households and communities, choices of common material culture and affiliations like church membership may have helped people avoid potential tensions by focusing attention on their shared experiences and desires for greater social and economic equality. In the fourth and fifth chapters, I argue that domestic space, household material culture, and gravestones are all evidence of the importance of this struggle: people of both African and Native American ancestry made similar choices to accumulate wealth and real estate when possible, build gravestones and homes that matched widespread styles on Long Island, and take advantage of increasing purchasing power in the consumer economy. Portable material culture, architecture, and cemetery monuments, all constituted forms of property that proved 279 people of color were active consumers, workers, and property owners. This is significant because in the context of early nineteenth century America, dominant ideas of whiteness, citizenship, and property ownership were interlinked and mutually constitutive. By illustrating the possibility of property ownership as separate from whiteness, people of color subtly destabilized the link between whiteness and citizenship, making a practical case for greater inclusion by example. II. MODERNITY AND TRADITION IN TWENTIETH CENTURY RACIAL POLITICS In the final chapter, I note the dangers this shared strategy could present in relation to the political challenges of Native American life: to white observers, these familiar American material lives, and connections with people of African descent, contradicted the possibility of true Native American identities. Strong writes about Montauketts who married African Americans: The whites, however, did not distinguish them from African Americans and subjected them to the same residential restrictions and humiliations. The assertion of Indian identity often caused tensions between the Indians and their African American neighbors. As a result of the ridicule from whites and the resentment from African Americans, many Indians refrained from overt public expressions of their Indian identity (2001: 89). My study has relied heavily on demographic and material evidence, legal records, and discussions with descendants, none of which have been effective sources for finding evidence of these intra-community tensions, but their existence would not be at all surprising. This is because the widespread legal and popular arguments that Native Americans were actually Black were often modified with words like “mere,” “just,” or “only.” Acceptance of Indian identity in the public sphere hinged on both perceptions of deep cultural difference and the fact that local, state, and federal governments had particular relationships and responsibilities toward Native people. On the other hand, African Americans lacked the right to be treated as either an 280 independent group or fully equal citizens. Contemporary intellectuals viewed them as racially distinct but culturally lacking, having lost their African traditions due to slavery and learned degenerate versions of white customs (Du Bois 2005 [1903]). In spite of the discrimination and stereotypes Native Americans faced, in some contexts there could be positive rights associated with assertions of Indian over African ancestry. This meant that in contexts such as the church, neighborhood, and even extended family settings, where people erected gravestones, chose clothing, and shared household material culture, decisions about self-representation were safest when they did not contradict ideals of cooperation and community. However, other contexts called for stronger statements. Pressure from non- Native groups also made visible and bureaucratic proof of Indian identity an important element of self-preservation, entailing sharing traditions with anthropologists, appearing in special clothing in public events, presenting evidence of racial and cultural purity in courts, and even the reorganization and careful documentation of tribal self- government. These efforts were certainly performative, yet pragmatically, performativity was not necessarily opposed to authenticity. Rather, it was another contextually specific strategy of self-representation. Unfortunately, these efforts often failed to convince legal authorities and popular media that the Montaukett and Shinnecock people were, indeed, “real” Indians. Popular and academic ideas about race and culture posited Indian authenticity and cultural difference as as a pre-colonial state, incompatible with modernity, multiculturalism, or combination with African heritage. (Rubertone 2000; Deloria 2004; Raibmon 2005). These ideas were also rooted in the development of American anthropology in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Anthropology, with its interest in culture, most often looked for examples of diversity and variation among the indigenous and small scale societies who seemed most culturally distant from Euro-Americans. For Boas and his protégés, anthropology was an anti-racist project that resisted 281 evolutionary hierarchies of humanity and separated race as a biological category from language and culture as distinct historic phenomena (Boas 1940). Nevertheless, they did not treat all racial or cultural groups equally, focusing almost exclusively on American Indians and indigenous people around the world as examples of more authentic and undisturbed cultures (Trigger 1980). Baker also writes that the earliest anthropologists were primarily interested in Native American cultures and languages, while their studies of people of African descent focused more on brains and bodies, setting up (or perhaps reflecting) a popular dichotomy that defined Native Americans for their cultural production and Africans and Black Americans by their phenotypical and biological characteristics (2010). On the other hand, the simultaneous growth of sociology created an academic division of labor in which sociologists instead studied American internal diversity. They were particularly interested in inequality and social problems, and in early studies of African Americans, the idea of biological race dominated their analysis more than questions of culture. Sociologists, too, saw their work fighting stereotypes, but through the reasoning that inequality was only correlated with biology through history, and not through inherent mental or cultural differences between racial groups. Scholars like Park, Frazier, and Johnson encouraged assimilation and racial uplift as the solutions for Black poverty and oppression, believing that the more minorities could become integrated into white society, the more inequality would become an artifact of the past (Baker 2010). Frazier wrote that “Negro folk culture” was the result of “incomplete assimilation” due to legal and economic mistreatment, rather than a blend of African, European, and localized cultural influences (1927: 166, quoted in Baker 2010: 27). African American activists and teachers also widely promoted the idea of racial uplift after the Civil War. Booker T. Washington was the most famous proponent of this strategy, urging African Americans to learn trades, work diligently, accumulate wealth and security, and prove to whites that they were deserving of legal equality by being 282 successful members of society (Moore 2003). The program of cultivating civilization among African Americans implied that differences between African Americans and whites were pathological problems that discipline and education could eradicate. These two avenues of thought sometimes came together among both scholars and Black and Indian activists. For some Boasian anthropologists and African American writers who drew on their work, the idea of culture required viewing African American social life as more than just an incomplete or degraded version of white models. Herskovits (1990 [1941]), for example, sought to show that not all elements of African cultural heritage had been lost in the Middle Passage, and that cultural continuities still existed in the United States, while Boas himself described southern and Caribbean Black traditions as a “peculiar amalgamation of African and European tradition” (1978:x, quoted in Baker 2010: 25). Du Bois, the most significant African American public figure who opposed Washington’s program of racial uplift, presented folk elements of African American culture as honorable legacies of cultural survival (2005 [1903]). Nevertheless, Du Bois’s political program still fought for equality in terms of legal and social treatment identical to that of whites, which implied the need for integration on cultural as well as economic and political levels (2005 [1903]). Baker describes this as the tension between uplift and heritage, which continues in African American cultural discourses today. He places Moynihan’s (Moynihan et al. 1967) famous report on the pathology of African American family models and Bill Cosby’s much more recent echoes squarely on the side of uplift, while the recent surge of DNA analysis services promising to identify African roots are modern iterations of the search for heritage (2010). Despite this tension, proponents of African and African American heritage never feared the complete elimination of African American identity and cultural difference. This model could not translate to the Native American experience due to the distinct legal relationships between indigenous nations and the federal government. Instead, 283 indigenous activism increasingly stressed Indian heritage over American integration. Federal legislators approved of the logic of racial uplift because it justified and facilitated the seizure of Indian lands in the west, and the abdication of legal responsibilities toward Native American societies as sovereign dependent nations (Wilkins 2002). Because racial uplift supported the idea that inequality and social problems among Native Americans could be solved if they lost their cultural distinction and assimilated to white society, it tied directly into projects of cultural and legal termination (Plane & Button 1993; Philp 1995; Mandell 2008). Some early twentieth century intertribal organizations promoted political cooperation and self-determination while encouraging Native Americans to be respectable according to Euro-American standards (Baker 2010). However, by the 1920s and 1930s, both anthropologists and Native activists saw the dangers inherent in this approach and began arguing in favor of cultural preservation and difference. The only way they could attempt to preserve Native American treaty rights, lands, and other elements of sovereignty and survival was by proving that Native people were substantially and continuously distinct from other Americans (Hicks & Kertzer 1972). Heritage had a vital political purpose for Indians that it did not have for African Americans in this era, in part because of the standards of authenticity that the field of anthropology established; fighting for indigenous rights required different strategies. As the legal experiences of the Shinnecock and Montaukett tribes show, even drawing on heritage in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries could fail in the legal sphere. Popular ideas about culture and temporality made many non-Native people unwilling to accept that Native Americans could exist in the modern world at all. Anthropologists like Harrington with interest in Indian cultures often treated documentation and preservation as a “museum process,” in which elements from before European colonialism and industrialization were valued most as authentically Native, and elements of change, adaptation, and modernity were associated with cultural loss 284 and homogenization (Raibmon 2005; Deloria 2006; Baker 2010). In some ways, these anxieties echo colonial writers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, who frequently lamented the apparently inevitable replacement of indigenous ways of life with European technologies and governments (N. Thomas 1996). Romantic colonial representations of “others” highlighted the simplicity and “happy poverty” of their lives, an innocence the authors felt was sure to end in time, and anthropology owes its very existence to these concerns about cultural homogenization (Morgan 1851; Sahlins 1999). However, this narrative of global change, whether positioned as progress or decline, was a manifestation of modernity, not an explanation of its ascendance. Recent theorists have pointed out that self-consciously modern ideologies organize people and places along a timeline according to linear notions of progress and social evolution – and those furthest or least in control of the centers of Western capitalism are symbolically relegated to the past, even when they themselves recognize their entanglement in global systems of inequality (Thomas 1989; Donham 2002; Trouillot 2002). According to Baker, due to this “temporal confusion,” popular and intellectual representations of Native Americans located them out of time, exotic and far from everyday American realities. In contrast, African Americans were dangerous and close: “The consumption of a pacified and out-of-the-way Indian in Wild West shows, World’s Fairs, and museums needs to be juxtaposed with the consumption of a dangerous and in-the-way Negro in blackface minstrelsy, professionally promoted lynchings, and buffoon-saturated advertising” (Baker 2010: 16). While whites portrayed Native Americans as outside of modernity, many associated African Americans with the exact problems that early social theorists laid at the feet of modernity, such as crime, poverty, and alienation. When outsiders attacked Shinnecock and Montaukett authenticity by saying that they were African American rather than Indian, this move was doubly significant. Not only did it draw on biological ideas of racial purity, but it also juxtaposed 285 stereotypical ideas about Native Americans who did not belong in the modern world with opposing images of African Americans who were a clear and threatening part of it. The opposition between modernity and tradition gives shape to a discourse that can be twisted to fit numerous and diverse situations. On the one hand, relegating Native Americans to the past by associating them with vanishing traditions instead of modern adaptations was often a successful strategy for Euro-American rationales that denied legal claims like the Shinnecock and Montaukett cases at the turn of the twentieth century. On the other hand, Shinnecock and Montaukett efforts to document, reinterpret, and perform tradition through engagement with anthropologists, clothing and craft work, photography, ceremonies and gatherings, and formalization of tribal governance procedures also drew on this dichotomy to garner recognition of their Indian identities. It was no coincidence that some especially visible forms of tradition, including ceremonial Native clothing, the Shinnecock powwow, and the formalization of Montaukett tribal rolls and meetings, changed and developed at the time as newspapers and state and federal courts were promoting narratives of disappearance and decline in the early twentieth century. Tradition gains symbolic valence in just such “moments of danger” (Matthews 2002). Tradition implies cultural cohesion on large human and temporal scales, either eclipsing or reinterpreting hybrid and partial identities in order to support perceptions of cultural “worth” on national and international scales (Bhabha 1996). When power and representation are in flux, people mobilize specific practices, places, or ideas as “traditions” to make implicit arguments that they are important enough to deserve a place in the emerging social order (Erikson 1999). The critique of tradition as “invented” is recognition of this pattern, in that it recognizes the new symbolic valence that practices can gain on grounds that they are “old,” but it can sometimes stress disjuncture to the point that it fails to recognize continuity through transformation [Hamann 2002]). Traditional elements of daily life can become symbols 286 of “alter-native” political positions or forms of citizenship in the midst of modernizing and homogenizing national projects (Jonsson 2004). They can also create links between past ways of life and changing present circumstances that foster cultural survival (Pauketat 2001). For Native Americans on Long Island, the resurgence of ethnically distinctive clothing, material culture, and pan-Indian celebrations in the twentieth century were reminders that despite stereotypes of assimilation and unsuccessful struggles in court, Shinnecock and Montaukett people were citizens of unrecognized but present and persistent Indian nations. III. CONTRIBUTIONS The similarities between African American and Native American spatial and material choices in the nineteenth century were responses to modern manifestations of racial and economic inequality in the context of early American economic expansion, industrialization, and exclusionary citizenship. Looking at evidence of their material lives through the lens of survival and resistance to nineteenth century legal and social formulations of white privilege makes it clear that instead of maintaining anachronistic standards of living based on older traditions, people of color were naturally interested in establishing socially connected and materially comfortable forms modern American family and community life. This is why, in historical archaeology, time matters. Race, ethnicity, and class had different meanings, and structured different experiences, in the seventeenth and the nineteenth centuries, so the interpretation of material traditions and ethnic or racial differences must always be framed in reference to contemporary contexts and struggles. Even as new communities formed based on the structural force of the American “color line,” people did not treat categories of race and ethnicity as mutually exclusive in everyday life the way Euro-American observers and anthropologists did. Terms like “Black,” “Indian,” “colored,” and “mulatto” were powerful but ambiguous. Living within 287 this ambiguity, people of color were able to recognize different scales of identity in the different contexts of community and church, home life, and Native American ceremonial and political activism. This may seem like an obvious result, given that living people today can and do articulate multiple facets of identity, yet it directly contradicts the ideology of racial essentialism that shaped the nineteenth and early twentieth century politics of Native American and African American rights. The impact of this ideology continues to create difficulties for Native American federal recognition claims and intra- tribal debates over membership rights. Archaeologists, and the stakeholders and publics with whom we engage, need to focus less on categories and more on contexts. The practices of daily life in the past and present are not always practices expressing difference: sometimes they are practices aiming toward belonging. IV. REFLECTIONS ON RESEARCH AND MEMORY As this research project took shape, the ambiguities of race in the historical record pulled it in unexpected directions. At first, I intended to make direct comparisons between whaling and non-whaling families, and between Native American and African American households. It quickly became obvious that these were not the discrete categories I had imagined. Whaling was woven so deeply into the economic life of families of color that my “non-whaling households” sample was woefully small. The biases of historical sources made me distrust the ethnic labels I did find, recognizing the gulf between ascribed identity and self-representation. Finally, Long Island’s entangled colonial history made it impossible to regard Native Americans and Africans as entirely separate communities prior to the nineteenth century. Early conversations with the Eastville Community Historical Society helped me to find a new focus, as the leaders of the organization were interested in research into cross-cultural interaction and community growth in Sag Harbor. This led me to look instead for new forms of community in space, material culture, labor, and religious and 288 social networks, and then to consider whether and when these affiliations paralleled divisions of race and ethnicity. In 2015, Sag Harbor remains a site where different experiences of race, ethnicity, and place continue to intersect. Eastville and the surrounding African American developments are primarily Black communities with some white residents and one Native American family, but it is also a node in larger regional networks of both Native Americans and African Americans. Shinnecock and Montaukett people maintain broader connections with Native American groups elsewhere on Long Island and throughout the United States through powwows, June meetings, festivals, national Native church and educational networks, and connections with other indigenous groups at heritage sites like Plimoth Plantation. African Americans in Sag Harbor remain linked to larger networks as well, both through family and friendship connections between Long Island, Harlem, and the Caribbean, and through the ECHS’s growing role as a regional host for events and inquiries relating to African American history on eastern Long Island. For Native Americans and African Americans with ties to Eastville, there is still no contradiction between local ties and broader group affiliations. Finally, people of color in Eastville have also maintained friendships and neighborly relations with the Anglo-American, Irish, and Eastern European families who had moved to the area during and after the nineteenth century, shaping the sense of local identity that the Eastville Community Historical Society describes as “tricultural,” i.e. Black, Indian, and European. A thorough comparison of relationships and material practices between Native American, African American, and Euro-American groups throughout the South Fork was beyond the possible scope of this project, so I have focused on common and divergent choices among people who were classified on the “colored” side of the American color line. However, previous studies of Irish experiences under English colonialism and diaspora have made significant contributions to the historical archaeology of race and inequality. Future research involving direct 289 comparisons between people of color and Irish families in Sag Harbor could yield interesting insight into the workings and limitations of white privilege. Completing this dissertation has given me a healthy sense of modesty in regard to how fully historical archaeology can help us to understand the past. My historical, demographic, and material sources, as well as a limited number of oral histories, have led me to a narrative that stresses the importance of the Black/white color line in American history, highlights the shared experiences and new forms of community that resulted in the nineteenth century, and ends with a twentieth century divergence. Other types of sources can create different narratives. For instance, the ECHS’s focus on “linking three cultures” in Eastville draws on living residents’ memories of harmony and interest in maintaining communication across ethnic lines today, while histories of racial tension in Native American communities might be restricted to discussions within tribes and families (and only rarely blabbed to outsiders by people like Red Thunder Cloud). Even though an archaeological approach only brings one narrative to light, it is possible for all of them to be true, for each way of knowing to offer us a view to a distinct facet of the past. 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Sag Harbor Historical Society, Sag Harbor, NY. 2003 The Old Burying Ground at Sag Harbor, L.I., N.Y. Heritage Books, Incorporated, Berwyn Heights, MD. 324 APPENDIX 1: PLATO, QUAW, AND CUFFEE FAMILY TREES 325 326 327 APPENDIX 2: HOUSEHOLDS WITH PROBATE RECORDS These brief biographies describe people of Native American and African American ancestry whose probate records are available in the Suffolk County Clerk’s office. These records provide the primary data for Chapter 4 and supporting data for discussions in other chapters. Jason Cuffee died in rural East Hampton around 1807. His probate record, which includes a limited household inventory, lists his son Cuffee Cuffee as administrator and heir. Based on his location and name, it is very likely that he was of Montaukett descent. This document is the only record I have located mentioning this individual, although two younger men of the same name (one born around 1806, and one born around 1816- 1820) were known whalers in the early nineteenth century. However, this Jason Cuffee may have been involved with Sag Harbor’s whaling industry in its earliest days: his probate record counts among his assets $13.42 from Captain Prior. A Captain Prior had leased land near the Old Wharf in Sag Harbor in 1795 to build ships, and his debt to Cuffee indicates that the Montaukett man had either worked in the shipyard or on one of Prior’s ships (Ross & Pelletreau 1905: 328-329). Wealthy Ann Cuffee was a member of a Shinnecock family who died in her home in Sag Harbor in 1857. She was the wife of Shinnecock whaler William H. Cuffee, and her surviving children were Wealthy Ann Johnson, wife of Black whaler Amos Johnson of Eastville; Sarah Ann Cuffee; Eliza J. Wright, wife of Sylvester Wright of Southampton; James L. Cuffee, who lived on the Shinnecock reservation at that point, but later moved to Eastville and married a Montaukett widow named Helen Ashman; and three minor sons, Cornelius, Isaac, and Stephen Cuffee. All of Wealthy’s sons except for Cornelius Cuffee and Sylvester Wright signed on to whaling voages in the nineteenth century; her daughter Wealthy Johnson remained in Eastville for her adult life. Wealthy Cuffee’s probate record includes her will, a limited inventory, accounts of her debts, and newspaper clippings relating to the auction of her property. Silas B. Plato was a whaler who lived in the town of Southampton and died at sea on December 28, 1863. Plato must have been a career whaler, since he signed on as third mate on the Barque Eagle of New Bedford in 1862, the only Long Islander on board (NBWM 2012). He drowned in 1863, and his wife Juliet and daughters Ursula Ann and Harriet survived him. Juliet Plato was the daughter of Montaukett couple Peter and Triphenia Quaw from East Hampton, and Silas was the son of the St. David’s trustee and founder, Charles Plato, a person of color with a surname associated with both Native Americans and enslaved African Americans on Long Island (Stone 1993; Marcus 1988). The probate record notes that they lived in the town of Southampton, but the precise location of their home is unclear; it is possible that the household was rural, but it may also have been located in the village of Bridgehampton, where several households of Black whalers clustered together, including Juliet’s sister Clarissa Rugg’s relatives by marriage. Peter Quaw was a Montaukett man who died in rural East Hampton on August 19, 1868. Peter and his wife Triphenia lived in a household relatively isolated from other Montaukett families. Peter was born in the late eighteenth century and was the head of a rural household by 1830; in 1840 and 1850, the census recorded that he worked in 328 agriculture and as a laborer, respectively, and as a fisherman in 186021. The document shows that Peter and Triphenia’s children were scattered across the South Fork in 1868, with Juliet and her sister Clarissa Rugg living in Southampton (probably the village of Bridgehampton, where several of the Ruggs lived), daughter Sarah Tailor in Brooklyn with her husband Peter, and grandchildren Israel Quaw and Meribel Montgomery living in the Freetown neighborhood of East Hampton. Elymus Derby was an African American resident of Sag Harbor who died in Southampton on August 26, 1869. He was one of few known migrants to Sag Harbor from Shelter Island around the time of New York’s gradual emancipation, and he lived in the Southampton part of the village until moving to Eastville in 1840. He was one of the early founders of the church. His heirs included his son Austin, a whaler, and daughter Margaret, a servant, who both lived in Hartford, CT at the time of his death; his daughter Caroline Cuffee of Birmingham, CT; and his daughter Jane and her husband John Youngs of Southold, NY, on the north fork of Long Island. This northern link extended to Greenport, at the eastern tip, with his relatives Margaret and Keturah Derby, which illustrates the diasporic spread of African Americans from Shelter Island. Elymus Derby’s probate record does not include an inventory, but it does include a valuation of his property and newspaper clippings that provide information about its distribution. Charles Atkins was an African American man who died at his home in Sag Harbor on March 31, 1871. Atkins, whom the census identified as a Black boatman in 1860, was part of an extended family rooted in the Sag Harbor area. Born around 1825, he married Mary Etta Atkins. He bought multiple plots of land in Eastville with Charles Brant, his mother’s second husband, which his sister Ann Eliza Clark attempted to inherit by proving herself his only legal heir after his death. However, his wife survived him by 25 years, and they are buried in the St. David AME Zion Cemetery with his mother, Jane Eliza Brant. His probate inventory includes descriptions of his real estate and Clark’s petition. The present owner of his home in Eastville has offered research access to the household architecture and surface collections from the yard, but the archaeological material consisted primarily of nineteenth and twentieth century glass, which did not provide a relevant comparison to other data sources. Ann M. Thompson Jupiter died in Sag Harbor c. 1878, and her tombstone in the St. David Cemetery notes her marriage to the first pastor of the AME Zion Church, J.P. Thompson. However, since that married name is listed first and the heirs identified in her probate record are both named Jupiter, it is likely that she remarried a member of that extended family of Black whalers who lived in Eastville after Thompson’s death in 1862. The identified heirs are Matilda and Isaac Jupiter, but the census lists a Susan Jupiter as her adopted daughter; I have been unable to trace these individuals further. Her probate record includes a detailed listing of her household possessions in Eastville. Pyrrhus Concer was a well-known Black whaler who died at his home on Pond Lane in the village of Southampton on August 23, 1897. Concer became famous for being the 21 In 1865 the New York census located his household in Eastville, living with possible granddaughter Harriet Brown, her husband Sidney, and their child William; Harriet’s other grandparents Charles and Huldah Plato; and another young son, William Quaw. However, three years later Peter’s probate record again identified him as a resident of East Hampton, and it is most likely that the probate inventory recorded the contents of his household in rural East Hampton rather than the compound household in Sag Harbor. 329 first Black sailor to visit Japan in the 1840s, and reports of his reception there highlight the curiosity and novelty of his appearance (Zaykowski 1991). In addition, he was a crew member on a voyage to San Francisco with a company of Long Islanders during the Gold Rush (Log 983 1849). After his retirement from whaling, he became a local boatman, piloting small craft around Southampton. His probate inventories his house, his boats, his savings and investments, and his loans to others: he was one of the most economically successful mariners of color of his era. Eliza S. Consor was a woman of Montaukett and Shinnecock descent who died at her home in Eastville in February 1898. She was one of the several children of Lucinda and Lewis Cuffee, who established households in Eastville based in part on maritime labor. She and her husband, Black whaler George Prince Consor, had several children of their own, but the family plot in Oakland Cemetery indicates that none of them lived past age 30. Eliza Consor was also active in the AME Zion Church: newspaper articles note her participation in the Associated Sisters benevolent society and her fundraising efforts. After she died in 1897 as the last living member of her immediate family, her probate inventory reached a level of detail that surpasses almost all others from the research area, reaching 18 pages of household items. Jane M. Perdue was a Montaukett woman who owned property in Sag Harbor and died in Riverside on February 17, 1905. She was the daughter of a man whose family had “walked off Montauk” and settled in the Riverside neighborhood of Southampton in the late 19th century (Haile 2013). She married a Silas Perdue in her twenties, had three children who did not survive to adulthood, and left Silas in late 1848, shortly before his death (Perdue 1848). Jane worked in and around the Sag Harbor area as a servant in the following decades, and by 1883 she had purchased her own house and house lot. Her probate inventory is organized by room and also details financial assets and real estate. Mary Jane Hempstead was an African American woman who died in Sag Harbor c. 1928. She was the daughter of David Hempstead, whose father had been enslaved, and who moved to Sag Harbor from Shelter Island as the Eastville neighborhood was growing. The entire Hempstead family was active in the church, including Mary Jane. She never married, but she remained close to her female cousins in Eastville, the Green sisters, and she purchased property and lived with her cousin Priscilla. Recent oral histories (2007) remember Mary Hempstead and her cousins as fixtures of the neighborhood in the early twentieth century, when it was first slowly growing into a summer community. Hempstead’s probate record includes information about her heirs, her will, and her real estate and financial property, but it has no household inventory. Martha Perdue was an Eastville resident who died in October 1933. She and her husband William Perdue are buried in the St. David AME Zion Cemetery, and they may have been related to earlier generations of Perdues in Eastville, but definite connections are not yet known. Martha Perdue’s probate record consists of a bill to her estate for old age relief from Suffolk County – the only one this study has located for a person of color from this community. Israel Quaw, previously resident of Sag Harbor, lived and died in the Freetown neighborhood of East Hampton in the early 20th century. Israel was the grandson of Peter Quaw, and members of his extended family stretched across Southampton, East Hampton, and Sag Harbor (Probate case file no. 6497 1868). He went on one whaling voyage as a youth, but mainly worked as an agricultural laborer. He married a woman 330 named Amelia, and his probate inventory mentions heirs in Connecticut and New York and property in East Hampton, which he purchased in 1900. Maria Banks, a Montaukett woman, died in the Freetown neighborhood of East Hampton on May 8, 1936. She is well known by her previous name, Maria Fowler Pharaoh, under which she recorded her autobiography as wife and mother of Montaukett chiefs (Rabito-Wyppensenwah 1993e). In the early 1880s, she signed the agreement that sold the Montaukett lands at Indian Fields to a developer, and she and her family were moved to Freetown in East Hampton. She had several children, with whom she is buried in the Cedar Lawn Cemetery in East Hampton. Her probate inventory includes her will. 331 APPENDIX 3: IMAGES COMPILED BY RED THUNDER CLOUD These images are presented in the order in which they are discussed in the text of Chapter 6. They were originally Shinnecock and Montaukett family pictures and photographs taken by Red Thunder Cloud, a.k.a. Carlos Westez, and his full captions are included here. The images and captions are digitally available from the East Hampton Library Long Island Collection and reprinted in Stone’s (1993) History and Archaeology of the Montauk. _____________________________________________________________________________________________________ “Old Home on the Shinnecock Reservation” Caption on back of photograph reads: This is the oldest dwelling on the Shinnecock Reservation, near the well known village of Southampton, Long Island. It was probably built around 1850. It has an interesting history and many an old time full blood has gathered in this house to discuss tribal affairs. It is interesting to know that two ladies, who were sisters, also were raised in this home, Miss Ernestine Walker and her sister Mrs. Edna Eleazar. It is certain that these ladies were full blood Indians, as their father was a Montauk, and their mother a Shinnecock. In 1938, I was hired by these two sisters to come and cut down some tall bushes which had grown up around the front yard. I had brought my blowgun along with me, and curious, the ladies asked me what it was. I told them that my people, the Catawba, used the blowgun to hunt small game. They both expressed doubt that anything could be killed with such a weapon. Sighting a bird in a tree, I asked the ladies to watch, and I quickly shot the bird down much to their amazement. David Walker, the father of the two sisters, was one of the ten Indians lost in the wreck of the Circassion in 1876. 332 “Shinnecock Church” Caption on back of photograph reads: The Great Hurricane of 1938, which swept eastern long Island and took the lives of two Shinnecock women, also wreaked havoc upon the Old Shinnecock Presbyterian Church. Members of the tribe were considerably upset because of the damage done to their beloved church, but they quickly got things organized. With the help of the Long Island Presbytery, work of rebuilding the church began. Notice the scaffolding around the steeple. On this particular Sunday, members of the tribe coming to attend services stood around discussing the progress that was being made. The author who was living on the reservation at the time, while conducting an ethnological survey for the Department of Anthropology of the University of Pennsylvania, is the young man with long hair, fourth from the right. 333 “Shinnecock Man and Indian Cellar, or Barn” Caption on back of photograph reads: This study shows a Shinnecock man standing in front of a native type of cellar or barn as the Shinnecocks called them. This cellar was made by digging holes four or five feet deep and roofing them with poles, thatch or huge chunks of sod, and braced on the outside with poles. A framework of poles inside held the sod in place. Early Southampton colonists used to complain that deserted Indian cellar holes were a menace to their cattle who often fell in the holes and broke legs. John Henry Thompson, an excellent Indian type, was part French. His family have had a tendency to preserve their Indian blood in a tenacious manner. One daughter Lillian, married Ernest Harvey, a Shinnecock. Another Alice, married James Philips, who represented the strongest Indian strain among the Poosepatuks of Mastic. Two sons, Harry deceased, was a strong believer in Indian tradition and married a Shinnecock of Connecticut while August, is married to a Shinnecock of the Carl family of strong Indian stock. Two of John Henry Thompson's great granddaughters have married white men and live away from the reservation. His granddaughter, Effie, married a Wampanoag Indian from Mashpee, Cape Cod. 334 “Wickham Cuffee, 1826-1915” Caption on back of photograph reads: Wickham Cuffee, born in 1826, was the son of Sarah Bunn and Vincent Cuffee. He came from the purest stock of the Shinnecock Indians. In this large family there were also Wickham's brothers and sisters, Nathan, James, Maria, Nance, Emmaline, Caroline, Louisa and Frances. Wickham Cuffee was well versed in the traditions of his people and his memories of earlier Shinnecock life were of much value to ethnologists and historians. He was a famous whaler and clearly remembered when the Shinnecock's used to live. 335 “Helen Killis Cuffee” Caption on back of photograph reads: This very famous Shinnecock Indian was the wife of Wickham Cuffee. She was a member of the well known Shinnecock family formerly known as Killis, and now spelt as Kellis, by present day members of the family (1963). Elliot Kellis, a well known member of the tribe whom I talked to in 1944, informed me that the name Kellis came from the Shinnecock name Chillis. I think that he was misinformed since, these are descendants of early Scotch settlers in Southampton today bearing the name Kellis. It does not seem to be of Algonkian origin. Ellen Cuffee knew how to prepare all of the old tribal foods of former days such as Samp, clam chowder, corn bread and succotash. She was born in 1839 and died in 1916, one year after the death of her husband. 336 “Cuffee, Bunn, and Killis (Kellis), the Three Original Shinnecock Families” Caption on back of photograph reads: This is a very interesting study which shows Wickham Cuffee as he looked shortly before his death in 1915. Seated next to him is Fanny Bunn. The woman standing is Ellen Killis (Kellis) Cuffee, the wife of Wickham Cuffee. It was from these three families of Cuffee, Killis and Bunn that the more than 600 descendants of the Shinnecocks of today sprang. Increasing inter-marriage with negroes has almost obliterated the Indian blood and present day Shinnecocks bear no resemblance to these old people, with few exceptions. In 1937, when I first visited among the Shinnecocks, few of the grandchildren showed the Indian blood of their grandparents. Their children today show even less. 337 “The Royal Family of the Montauk Indians, sketch, 1879” Caption on back of photograph reads: "This very rare sketch of the Montauk royal family was made in 1879 by an artist who visited King David Pharoah and his family at their cabin in Indian Field, the old reservation. King David was on his deathbed at the time and refused the artist permission to sketch him but allowed him to sketch a photo at the foot of the bed from which this sketch was taken. The woman on the left is King David's mother. King David is seated in the middle, his wife Maria is on the right. In the rear standing is his son Wyandank who, upon his father's death became the king of the tribe. Wyandank was nine when this sketch was taken. 338 “Queen Maria Pharaoh at Montauk Lighthouse” Caption on back of photograph reads: This beloved lady was the wife of King David Pharoah of the montauk tribe. Her mother and father were both Montauks and members of the famous Fowler family. The majority of the Montauks moved to Oneida, New York in 1775 where, together with the Narragansetts, Mohegans, Pequots, Nehantics and Tunxis Indians they formed the first Town of Brothertown. In 1832 because the whites were crowding them out, they moved again, this time to the state of Wisconsin, where they bought 28,000 acres of land from the Winnebago tribe and founded the second Town of Brothertown where, members of the Montauks and other tribes still survive. Queen Maria was one of those Montauks whose parents chose to remain in the hunting gronds of their ancestors. 339 “Christopher Cuffee Sr., c. 1900” Caption on back of photograph reads: The conflict of the Eastville Montauks with the Freetown Montauks, and other matters of tribal interest, seem the furthest things from the mind of Christopher Cuffee Sr., one of the councilors of the Eastville Montauks, as he snoozes in the shade of the ice wagon, sometime around mid-summer in 1900. Assisted by other tribal councilors such as Walter Halsey, Mrs. M.L. Cuffee, and Israel, Christopher Cuffee performed his duties well. However, the sun was apparently too much for him on this day and forgetting tribe and customers as well, he pulled the wagon off the road, tied the horse in the shade, and decided to get away from it all, at least for a little while. 340 “Christopher Cuffee Sr. and granddaughter Doris, 1919” Caption on back of photograph reads: Christopher Cuffee Sr., member of the tribal council of the Eastville Band of the Sag Harbor Montauks, was born in the old Cuffee homestead, which still stands in Sag Harbor. He moved when he became older and went to Hartford, where he was an employee of the Travellers Insurance Company for many years. He is pictured here playing with his poodle, whose attention seems to be focused on Doris, the granddaughter. In later years the Cuffee's all returned frequently to Sag Harbor to spend as much time as possible in the old Cuffee home. 341 “Charles Somers Bunn, 1938” Caption on back of photograph reads: Hunters who came from all parts of New York, to hunt the Black Duck and other marsh fowl on the edges of Shinnecock bay, many years ago, sang the praises of Charles Somers Bunn, who many claim was the finest guide on Long Island. A farmer with his heart only faintly submerged in that occupation, Charlie Bunn was by choice a guide, hunter and fisherman. To watch him at work in his garden was to view a man bored to the gills but, to glimpse him walking along the edges of the bay at Shinnecock, with rifle in hand, one saw the true personality of the Long Island Indian come to the fore. Here he is shown with a crossbow in shooting stance. This was used by boys on the reservation many years ago and the construction of crossbows among several eastern tribes is in itself an interesting study. 342 “Anthony Beaman (Chief Running Bull)” Caption on back of photograph reads: Anthony Beaman (Chief Running Bull) in his later years was given the title of Medicine Man of the Shinnecock Pow Wow Council. He was a conservative Indian who was very much against the intermarriage between his people and the Negro race. He did not hate anyone but wished to see the Shinnecock strain remain as much Indian as was possible. He himself, married Eliza Beaman (Princess Occum), a member of the Montauk tribe from the Freetown Band of Montauks in East Hampton, and he was one of the few Shinnecocks who had any contact with the neighboring Montauks at all. Indians from other tribes were always welcome in his home. He loved to talk with other Indians about tribal affairs, and about the reservation as he remembered it when he was a boy. Unfortunately, a man that held his viewpoints was not popular among the majority of the members of the tribe. So much of the knowledge that he had of weather lore, hunting, trapping, farming and his vast knowledge of tribal herbals, was virtually unknown to other members of the tribe. When engaged in conversation concerning things that were close to the Indian heart, Running Bull was a storehouse of knowledge. When I remember him, I recall that in all of my visits to his home, I never saw younger members of the tribe visit he or his wife. The result was, that since I was always interested in traditional matters, he always found me a willing and avid listener. His untimely passing meant that another conservative member of the tribe had gone to join his forefathers in the land of the hereafter. 343 344 “Amelia Halsey and daughter Emma, c1900” Caption on back of photograph reads: The homes of the Long Island and New England Indians, around the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, all had reminders of their former culture and glory such as, tintypes of relatives in costume, old mortars and pestles,baskets, as well as, photos of the family in the latest dress of the period. In many homes there were Indian statues on mantelpieces and upon pedestals such as, the one in the background of this photograph. It appears to the right of the clock. This is a most interesting photo of Amelia Halsey and her daughter Emma, who ever mindful of their Montauk origin had braided her hair and crowned it with a headband and a feather. The mother appears to be holding a bible in her hands. Note the poodle on the bed. 345 “Emma P. Halsey, 1906” Caption on back of photograph reads: The Montauks of both bands often resided far away from the old habitats of the tribe. Whenever the occasion demanded, they appeared in costumes in parades, fairs and pageants. She had this photo taken and sent to her brother, Walter Halsey, one of the tribal councilors of the Eastville Band, as a birthday gift. On the back of the photo the following message is written: "From your sister, E.P. Hall, April 1906, to her brother on his birthday, April 15, 1906." 346 “Ann Todd Cuffee” Caption on back of photograph reads: This is a very clear photo of Ann Todd Cuffee who was the sister of Christopher Cuffee Sr., and Amelia Halsey. Her mother was Louisa Cotton Cuffee. Like other Long Island Indians of the period, around the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century , Ann Cuffee made attempts to recreate what she and others thought were copies of ancient tribal regalia. In many cases these costumes only faintly resembled the clothing of their ancestors. It must be borne in mind that early English missionaries on Long Island did all that they could to discourage the Indians from using their native languages, dances and ceremonies, thus convincing the Indians that the only proper way was to adopt the ideals and customs of Christianity. Thus it was, that much of the culture of the people was lost, and among them ideas as to what really constituted tribal costumes were most vague. The situation was not the same in upper New York State where the fiercely independent Iroquois tribes, even when many adopted the garb of English settlers, they still treasured old regalia and handed them down from one generation to another. 347 “Shinnecock Women at Tribal Pageant, 1920” Caption on back of photograph reads: The original home of the Shinnecocks was a grass wigwam, round in structure, and bore no resemblance to the reconstructed model shown here. However, the model itself is one of interest because it shows that there was some attempt to reconstruct something of the former culture, at this pageant, of the tribe in the year of 1920. Grass was used in the older Shinnecock wigwams but it was tied together in bunches, rather than placed on the structure as illustrated here. The women shown here had taken part in one of the tribal pageants and had used whatever materials they had at home, in an attempt to create some Indian costumes, although they are a far cry from what the ancient Shinnecocks wore. However, the women in this photo represent good Indian stock and the blood of a past generation. From left to right they are, Mrs. Addie Cogsbill, Mary Emma Bunn (who many think was a full blood), Rose Kellis Williams, Anna Kellis, Mrs. Cuffee and Mrs. Adela Santoya. Mrs. Santoya was of Matinecock, Poosepatuck and Shinnecock heritage. Older Indian looking types such as these women are rare among the tribe today. 348 “Shinnecock and Montauk Tribes at the 1944 Pow Wow” Caption on back of photograph reads: Though living only fourteen miles apart, the Shinnecocks and the Montauks have rarely intermingled socially. The Shinnecocks accepted Negroes into their midst and inter-married freely with them. The Montauks as a tribe, rejected inter-marriage with Negroes, and have always remained aloof from the Shinnecocks. In August of 1944, the first pow wow was held at Turtle Back near Springy Banks in East Hampton. The occasion was the signing of a peace treaty between the Montauks and their one time enemies the Narragansetts of Rhode Island. The Federated Eastern Indian League sponsored the affair and the go between's were Chief Swimming Eel, lately deceased Schaghticoke Sachem of Connecticut and Red Thunder Cloud, author of these series. The Narragansett delegation consisted of Chief Sachem Night Hawk, Chief Roaring Bull, Mrs. Minnie Dove, Princess Teatta, Princess Pretty Flower, Prophet Eagle Eye, Owl's Head and Chief Pine tree. The Montauks were represented by Chief Buckskin, Charles Butler, Princess Occum (Eliza Beaman), Poniute III (Robert Butler) and Olive Pharoah, daughter of Samuel Wiuncombone Pharoah. Holes were dug five feet apart and Chief Roaring Bull buried the tomahawk for the Narragansetts and Chief Buckskin for the Montauks, while 200 interested spectators watched the proceedings. Roaring Bull then performed the Narragansett war dance and Poniute III, of Montuak offered the Montauk version of the war dance. Members of both tribes then sat down to a meal of quahog chowder and corn bread prepared by Prophet Eagle Eye of the Narragansetts. Chief Thunder Bird, wife and daughter are in the center, two other daughters are kneeling in the foreground. Second from right is Olive Pharoah, Montauk, Mrs. Eliza Beaman, Montauk and the lady between is Mrs. Samuel Pharoah, Shinnecock who was Olive Pharoah's mother. 349 “The Accabonac (Bonac) Indian Dancers of East Hampton, L.I.” Caption on back of photograph reads: This inter-tribal troupe of fourteen dancers was organized by Red Thunder Cloud, author of this photograph series, in East Hampton in 1944. The troupe practiced tribal dances in the woods near his home on Abrahams Path in Three-Mile-Harbor. They have appeared at hundreds of schools, camps, pow wows, and children's theaters all over the east. The Bonac Indian Dancers have also performed at Columbia University, Brooklyn College, Rhode Island State College and the University of Pennsylvania. The young man kneeling is Robert Butler. His grandmother, Princess Olive Butler, was a member of St. Luke's Church in East Hampton, L.I. Youth in the center is Little Feather, a Carib Indian of Central America and the author, A. Catawba, appears on the right. He has made East Hampton his home since, 1942. 350