[A provocative history of Indigenous America. How best to tell the
story of oppressed peoples? By chronicling the hardships they’ve
faced? Or by highlighting their triumphs over adversity?]
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CONTEST OR CONQUEST?  
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Daniel Immerwahr
October 11, 2022
Harpers Magazine
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_ A provocative history of Indigenous America. How best to tell the
story of oppressed peoples? By chronicling the hardships they’ve
faced? Or by highlighting their triumphs over adversity? _

“Never Forget,” by Nicholas Galanin © The artist. Courtesy the
artist and Peter Blum Gallery, New York City. Galanin’s work is on
view this month at the Van Every/Smith Galleries at Davidson College,
in North Carolina, Nicholas Galanin

 

Discussed in this essay:

_Indigenous Continent: The Epic Contest for North America, _by Pekka
Hämäläinen. Liveright. 576 pages. $40.

In the 1630s, the powerful Pequot Confederacy of southern New England
found itself beset by enemies. English settlers had recently arrived
and were joining with the Pequots’ Indigenous rivals. Soon, tensions
over the fur and wampum trade led to war. The fighting reached a
climax when the British and their allies besieged a Pequot fort and
set it aflame, hunting down those who fled. It was among the bloodiest
massacres in North American history, one that experts have described
as genocidal. At least three hundred Pequots, including noncombatants,
died that day (credible estimates reach seven hundred). The few left
alive—the war and massacre had killed perhaps as many as two thirds
of the Pequots—were scattered, many sold into slavery. “A nation
had disappeared from the family of man,” wrote the
nineteenth-century historian George Bancroft.

Yet the Pequots persisted and, eventually, rallied. Today, you can
learn their story at the Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research
Center in Connecticut, a gleaming $225 million edifice—roughly the
same size as the Tate Modern in London—that the Pequots built. It
looks onto Foxwoods Resort Casino, which the Pequots also own.
Foxwoods made the Pequots the richest tribe in the country for a time,
and by 1998 many members were earning more than a quarter of a million
dollars a year from it. “They are rich and powerful,” a lawyer for
the Pequots explained; they “can do what they like.”

Powerful Native Americans doing what they like isn’t the standard
story. Indians (the term is widely though decreasingly used by Native
peoples) fill the pages of most American histories, but usually only
in the early parts. By the twentieth century, they tend to shuffle off
the stage, having lost their lands and lives. Indigenous peoples once
lived here, now they don’t—so goes the myth of the
“vanishing Indian.”

That myth always rang false, but never more than now. The federal
government recognizes 574 tribal nations, and reservations
collectively cover an area the size of Idaho. Since 1960, the
population identifying as Native American has multiplied almost
twentyfold from about half a million to ten million. It nearly doubled
between 2010 and 2020 alone. The recent growth stems not from rising
birth rates or life expectancies but from an increased desire among
those with Native ancestry—and sometimes without it—to claim this
identity. Although Native peoples still face the worst poverty rate in
the country, energy sales and gaming have brought conspicuous
prosperity to some. There is, the Ojibwe writer David Treuer has
observed, “a sense that we are surging.”

As Indigenous peoples have grown more numerous and visible, academics
have attacked the “vanishing Indian” narrative. Since the
Seventies, historians, including Native scholars, have shown much
greater interest in seeing the past through Indigenous eyes. For some,
this means exposing the violence of Native dispossession, showing that
Native Americans didn’t obligingly ride off into the sunset. But for
other scholars, and especially recently, it means challenging the
victim narrative and stressing Native power.

A central figure in this school is Pekka Hämäläinen, a Finn with a
doctorate from the University of Helsinki. His first book, _The
Comanche Empire,_ published in 2008, maintained that, rather than
being subjugated themselves, Comanches built a violent empire, led by
“protocapitalists,” that subjugated Europeans on the
mid-nineteenth-century southern plains. It was fresh, powerfully
argued work—“one of the finest pieces of scholarship that I have
read in years,” wrote the reviewer for the leading journal in early
American history—and its many awards included the vaunted Bancroft
Prize. It also secured Hämäläinen the Rhodes professorship in
American history at Oxford University, making him arguably the
highest-placed historian of Native America.

Hämäläinen’s next book, _Lakota America: A New History of
Indigenous Power_ (2019), painted a similar portrait of the Lakotas.
Now comes _Indigenous Continent: The Epic Contest for North
America,_ his grand overview of Native history from the fifteenth
century onward. It is a provocative book, taking Hämäläinen’s
previous arguments and raising their volume. Yes, Europeans
established North American colonies, Hämäläinen writes, but their
“outlandish imperial claims” were often mere cartographic
fictions. Well into the nineteenth century, the continent remained
“overwhelmingly Indigenous.” And it did so because Native peoples,
rather than being docile innocents, were formidable fighters who for
centuries held the world’s most powerful empires at bay.

I_ndigenous Continent_ raises a pressing question: How best to tell
the story of oppressed peoples? By chronicling the hardships they’ve
faced? Or by highlighting their triumphs over adversity?

In writing African-American history, it was once common to foreground
revolts, resistance, cultural achievements, and hard-won victories, as
in Taylor Branch’s prize-winning three-volume history of the
civil-rights movement. Such themes still resonate, but the trend today
is toward grim accounts of unyielding oppression. The _New York
Times_’s 1619 Project described enduring continuities between the
days of slavery and the present. Emancipation, in the eyes of the
influential theorist Saidiya Hartman, wasn’t “liberation” but
merely a “transition” from one type of subjugation to another.
Hartman’s former student Frank B. Wilderson III, a founder of the
Afropessimism school of thought, puts it more starkly. “Blackness
cannot exist as other than Slaveness,” he writes. Anti-black racism
runs so deep, Wilderson insists, that to imagine black people free
would be to imagine “the end of the world.”

You can find similar outlooks on Native history. “North America is a
crime scene,” argues Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz in _An Indigenous
Peoples’ History of the United States,_ a popular recent overview.
“Somehow, even ‘genocide’ seems an inadequate description for
what happened.” Genocide is now a familiar charge in reference to
Native Americans. Another is “settler colonialism,” an especially
totalizing form of empire that seeks not to rule subjugated
populations from afar but to “permanently and completely replace
Natives with a settler population,” as the Lakota scholar Nick Estes
writes in _Our History Is the __Future._ “Indigenous
elimination” is “_the _organizing principle” of the United
States, a country that, Estes maintains, possesses a “death
culture.”

Such bleak views are understandable, given all that Native peoples
have endured. First came the European diseases, which started their
work even before the colonizers’ settlements took root. (When the
Pilgrims met Squanto in 1621, his community had already been wiped out
by diseases from European ships plying the North American coast.) Then
came the killing—centuries of it—sometimes as war and sometimes as
outright massacre. The United States government alone counted 1,642
military engagements against Indigenous adversaries. By the time those
conflicts ended at the turn of the twentieth century, the Native
population of what is now the contiguous United States had dropped
from perhaps five million at European contact (estimates vary widely)
to under two hundred and fifty thousand.

Deny any of this and you’re whitewashing. Yet focusing solely on
death and despair might not be right, either. Accounts of the
settler-colonial steamroller play into the colonizers’ sense that
conquest was inevitable, coming perilously close to replicating the
vanishing Indian myth. And they leave little room for the richness of
Native societies. “I want—I need—to see Indian life as more than
a legacy of loss and pain,” Treuer writes. Indians can’t just be
“ghosts that haunt the American mind,” defined by all that’s
been taken from them.

In recent histories, they’re not. At a time when stories of stark
oppression are on the rise, Native American history has largely gone
the other direction. So while, in public, talk of genocide and settler
colonialism is common, in history departments, the trend is toward
exploring Indigenous autonomy and control. Some historians are wary of
the widespread application of the “settler colonialism” concept,
given how ineffective early European attempts to displace Native
societies were. “Settler colonialism may be at most a minor theme
for continental North America” until the middle of the nineteenth
century, the historian Jeffrey Ostler writes.

Hämäläinen refers to settler colonialism only a handful of times in
his three books. His abiding interest is instead in Europeans’
inability to colonize North America. In his first two books, he
explored notable peaks of Native power, as many recent histories do.
But now, with _Indigenous Continent,_ he stitches them into a
sustained counterpoint to the conquest narrative. Five hundred years
of North American history appear in his telling not as the story of
colonization, but of a fierce and unsettled continent, bristling with
possibility.

Not all of the Americas held out against conquest. South of the Rio
Grande, the Spanish encountered large Indigenous empires: the Maya,
the Incas, and the Aztecs. These proved “remarkably easy” to
vanquish, Hämäläinen writes. Native civilizations “fell like
dominoes” because once Spanish conquistadors used their
“technological edge” to subdue Indigenous rulers, those rulers’
vast territories and extensive tributary networks fell in line.
Hierarchical structures made the largest American empires easy prey.

But things were different farther north. In the land currently covered
by the United States, colonizers encountered “dangerously
decentralized” societies. The “genius of their political
systems” was that they didn’t have hierarchies for Europeans to
seize. “Too many of the Native Americans were nomads and hard to pin
down.” Rather than winning a few battles or co-opting a few leaders,
colonizers would have to take North America acre by acre.

It can seem, reading conventional histories, as if they did so easily:
settlers arrived with guns, coughed a few times, and made short work
of any remaining Indians they encountered. However, “Native power”
historians like Hämäläinen have noted that this familiar narrative
only works if you skip lightly over early centuries and ignore most of
the continent. Get time and space in proper perspective, and things
look different.

The map certainly does. Most histories of North America deal solely
with the locales where Europeans lived. So, early American history is
“colonial history”—never mind that little of North America was
“colonial” then—and starts with Jamestown and Massachusetts. The
Great Plains enter the picture only in the late nineteenth century,
with the coming of transcontinental railroads. By spatially conflating
American history with settler history, such histories push the places
where Indigenous peoples lived to the blurry background.

“Native power” historians rightly insist that American history
must deal with the full map—starting by replacing “colonial
history” with “continental history,” as Michael Witgen puts it.
So, for example, what happened in 1776? That was when colonists on the
eastern seaboard sought to end their subordination to the British
monarchy. But for much of the continent, such developments meant
little. Hämäläinen is more interested in another event of the time:
the founding of the modern Lakota nation at present-day South
Dakota’s Black Hills, which the Lakotas, bearing guns and riding
horses, seized and claimed as their sacred homeland. This, he writes,
was “one of the most consequential moments in North American
history,” marking the inauguration of a massive land empire.

Did Europeans even know of it? On published maps, the Black Hills were
a European possession, owned by the Spanish and the French until they
passed via the Louisiana Purchase to the United States. On the ground,
however, this was risible—there were no Europeans to be found. When
Thomas Jefferson sent Meriwether Lewis and William Clark to explore
the territory he’d recently bought, they were “navigating an
Indigenous world that they understood only dimly,” Hämäläinen
writes, and in their naïve stumbling nearly got themselves killed by
Lakotas. Hämäläinen and other historians use Lakota winter counts,
pictographs drawn annually onto buffalo hides (and sometimes paper),
to reconstruct the politics of the Native interior. They have to, as
pen-wielding settlers were far away and often clueless about major
historical developments on the continent they claimed to own.

Traditional histories don’t have a place for Lakotas on their maps,
nor do they make room for Indigenous peoples on their timelines.
Although Europeans have been a continuous presence in the Americas
since the fifteenth century, most American history fast-forwards
through the early centuries, treating the era before 1776 as prelude.

Again, the effect is to minimize Indigenous power, as those were the
centuries when settlers were bunched up on the edges of North America
and Native peoples had the run of the vast interior. Play back the
tape at normal speed, and you see how long Europeans were confined to
narrow areas and how halting their expansion was.

By Hämäläinen’s clock, it took some four hundred years from
Christopher Columbus’s arrival before any colonizing power
“subjugated a critical mass of Native Americans” in North America.
That power was the United States, extensive in its reach yet late in
its arrival. The country still hasn’t existed for even half the time
that Europeans have been on the continent. “On an Indigenous
timescale,” notes Hämäläinen, “the United States is a
mere speck.”

Tribal Map,by Jaune Quick-to-See Smith © The artist. Courtesy Garth
Greenan Gallery, New York City
 

In considering the whole map and the whole timeline, Hämäläinen is
doing similar work to other historians of Native America. In other
ways, however, he goes further. Hämäläinen is particularly
interested in terminology. Too often, conventional vocabulary has
conspired to quietly diminish Indigenous politics. Descriptions of
people living in tribes, dwelling in villages, following the guidance
of chiefs, and sending forth braves to fight seem quaintly out of
step. Hämäläinen uses different language. Indigenous people, in his
writing, belong to nations, live in towns, are governed by officials,
and fight with armies and soldiers. Controversially, Hämäläinen
describes the largest Indigenous groups as empires bent on hegemony.
In _Indigenous __Continent_ he uses the twentieth-century term
“superpower.”

Not all agree. “This is post-modern cultural relativism at its
worst,” Estes has written of Hämäläinen’s _Lakota
America._ Jameson Sweet, a Lakota and Dakota historian, rejects the
idea that the Lakotas constituted an empire and sees them, rather, as
“a desperate people trying to survive and adapt to a turbulent world
brought on by settler colonialism.” In casting Native societies as
imperialists, Hämäläinen arguably relieves Europeans of
culpability—what was their sin, other than succeeding where their
Indigenous rivals failed?

Such criticisms, which have come especially from Lakota historians,
have not fazed Hämäläinen. _Indigenous Continent_ presents an
amped-up version of his earlier work’s argument, Tarantino-like in
its taste for Indigenous power and violence. Native people are
indomitable badasses: cunning, tactically brilliant, and terrifying to
their enemies. Europeans, by contrast, mostly appear as hapless
blunderers.

Sustaining such a judgment requires a heavy thumb on the scale. When
the settlers’ colonies are small, it is because they are
“cramped” and “curbed” by powerful Natives. Yet when
Indigenous polities are small they are “nimble,” using their size
as clever “camouflage.” Similarly, when the Iroquois trade with
their rivals, this shows the “genius of Iroquois foreign policy”:
a “principled plasticity” that allows them to navigate choppy
political waters. When the French do the same, it shows that they are
weak and reliant on Native peoples for survival.

Discussing the Lakotas, Hämäläinen describes their eschewal of
central coordination as a “sophisticated governing system” that
allowed them to “keep their power hidden from outsiders.” But when
United States settlers acted independently of their central
government, it merely reveals that their country was “poor and
weak” and “had failed” (an “administrative and military
midget,” is how Hämäläinen describes the post–Civil War United
States in _Lakota America_). Native people who make war without the
sanction of higher authority are shrewdly exercising decentralized
power. Settlers who do the same are “vigilantes” and “thugs.”

Nearly everything, in Hämäläinen’s world, can be interpreted as a
sign of settler incapacity, especially if you read violence—at
least, when perpetrated by Europeans—as stemming from insecurity.
When settlers make their first territorial incursions, Indigenous
societies are “carefully steering the Europeans’ course.” When
settlers strip Native people of rights and refuse to speak their
languages, it’s “spawned by fear and a sense of weakness.” When
they win a bloody war, it’s “a sign of weakness, not strength.”
Pushing Indigenous peoples off their land onto reservations is also
“a sign of American weakness, not strength.” And when the Seventh
Cavalry of the U.S. Army mows down at least two hundred and seventy
Lakotas at Wounded Knee? “A sign of American weakness,
not power.”

Hämäläinen uses the word “weakness” twenty times to single out
settlers—and just once to single out Native groups. The problem
isn’t the verbal repetition; it’s the analytical flatness. Even
when Europeans win wars, they’re weak, and, even when Indigenous
peoples lose them, they’re strong. By 1850, state-backed settlers
had expelled three quarters of Native Americans living east of the
Mississippi from their lands and started a series of exterminatory
campaigns on the West Coast. Hämäläinen, more taken with the
nomadic holdouts on the Great Plains, judges the mid to late
nineteenth century to be the time when “Indigenous power in North
America reached its apogee.”

The subtitle of _Indigenous Continent_ is “the epic contest for
North America.” In Hämäläinen’s view, it was a contest, not a
conquest, and the sides were, if not evenly matched, then at least
competitive. “Nothing in America was preordained,” he writes.

Challenging the inevitability of European expansion has been
understandably important to scholars. That’s because colonizers
frequently insisted that their attacks on Indigenous societies were
merely the unspooling of destiny. Native peoples were doomed by a
“law of nature,” Thomas Jefferson believed. Such views encouraged
genocidal campaigns by relieving white people of their compunctions.
If the universe itself was arrayed against Indigenous survival, who
were the colonists to fight fate?

Scholars have shown, contra Jefferson, that the supposed sources of
European dominance didn’t confer decisive advantages—or at least
not immediately. Colonizers arrived in America bearing “guns, germs,
and steel,” as Jared Diamond has memorably written, but they started
“losing their technological edge” quickly, Hämäläinen rightly
notes. Although Indigenous nations didn’t manufacture guns, they
nevertheless acquired them. Hämäläinen describes how Comanches
plundered Spanish and Mexican ranches, sold the loot and captives
through their extensive trading network, and turned their homeland
into a horse, slave, and weapons depot. Their claims didn’t appear
on European maps, but well-armed Comanches “carved out a vast
territory that was larger than the entire European-controlled area
north of the Rio Grande at the time,” Hämäläinen writes.

Neither did diseases decide the issue as conclusively as we often
suppose. Native peoples initially lacked defenses against European
pathogens, that’s true. Yet they had time to rebuild their ravaged
societies and develop resistance—the diseases they suffered later
were often caused by harsh living conditions as much as by pure
contagion. On the other side, the colonizers weren’t exactly
paragons of health. A smallpox epidemic during the American Revolution
“took many more American lives than the war with the British did,”
the historian Elizabeth Fenn has written. Indigenous peoples suffered
from diseases more than settlers did, but to suggest that European
conquest was merely the work of microbes defies much of what we know.

A video still of the Mirror Shield Project by Cannupa Hanska Luger.
From an action at Oceti Sakowin Camp, Standing Rock, North Dakota,
November 2016 © The artist. Courtesy Garth Greenan Gallery, New York
City. Documented by Rory Wakemup

So what does explain eventual European dominance? More than in
Hämäläinen’s first book, _Indigenous Continent_ soft-pedals
settler success, so he doesn’t tackle the question head-on. Yet
reading his new work, one source of the colonizers’ strength jumps
out: there were just more settlers than Native people.

A lot more. While French and Spanish populations in the Americas grew
at normal rates, the Anglo populations—enjoying congenial climates
and the backing of energetic British markets—exploded. By the middle
of the eighteenth century, Benjamin Franklin observed that,
astonishingly, the number of British colonists was doubling every
twenty-five years. This was a “rapidity of increase probably without
parallel in history,” wrote the economist Thomas Malthus.
Immigration played a part but so did birth rates, as Franklin well
knew. He was his father’s fifteenth child, and there were two more
born after him.

This doubling rate held, and the land covered by today’s contiguous
United States soon filled with Anglos. Already in 1800, U.S. citizens
and enslaved people outnumbered Indigenous people nine to one. A
century later, it was 320 to one. “Count your fingers all day
long,” the Mdewakanton Dakota leader Little Crow remarked, “and
white men with guns in their hands will come faster than you
can count.”

The volcanic burst of settlers puts Hämäläinen’s narrative in
perspective. Hämäläinen describes the Comanches as “the pinnacle
of Indigenous power in North America.” At the “zenith of their
power” in the late 1840s, he writes, there “may have been as many
as twenty thousand.” Which means their whole empire was then smaller
than the canal port of Troy, New York. And the mighty Lakotas, whose
late-nineteenth-century military victories represented the
“culmination of a long history of Indigenous power in North
America”? They never exceeded fifteen thousand. By the time of their
defeat in 1890, there were well over four thousand settlers for
every Lakota.

Hämäläinen observes that Indigenous peoples could still sometimes
triumph on the battlefield. Yet these conflicts had an important
asymmetry. Native powers faced existential threats to their homelands
and mustered extraordinary proportions of their populations. For the
United States, however, these were frontier skirmishes. Indigenous
forces could win battles, as when a western alliance famously wiped
out George Custer’s men at Little Bighorn in Montana Territory. But,
contrary to Hämäläinen’s claim that Native adversaries brought
the United States “to the breaking point again and again,” there
was no chance that they’d take Chicago, Boston, or any other major
city. To conclude from Custer’s defeat that the Plains Indians were
a superpower on par with the United States is like inferring from
recent events in Afghanistan that the Taliban’s military must be
among the world’s most powerful.

The Sauk leader Black Hawk, who fought the United States in
present-day Illinois and Wisconsin, learned this lesson the hard way.
Seeing only the outer edges of U.S. power, he was confident enough to
march what Hämäläinen calls “a multinational army of eleven
hundred soldiers” against the United States in 1832. Yet after his
defeat and capture, Black Hawk was taken east, where he gained a
humbling new perspective. “I had no idea that the white people had
such large villages, and so many people,” he gasped. “Our young
men are as numerous as the leaves in the woods,” Andrew Jackson told
him. “What can you do against us?”

Hämäläinen acknowledges the demographic dominance of settlers, yet
time and again he returns the focus to land. Seven of his chapters end
with a reminder of how much of it remained in Native hands. In this he
resembles the Republicans who point to county-by-county electoral maps
to show the strength of conservatism. Such maps feature islands of
blue in seas of red. This is misleading for the simple reason that
it’s not land that counts, it’s people. Similarly,
Hämäläinen’s acreage obsession risks overstating the
“persisting Indigeneity” of North America by conflating holding
land with holding power. Even today, the bulk of American Indians live
in rural areas and small towns; they are spread out widely. But, now
as then, living rurally doesn’t always mean you’re calling
the shots.

Hämäläinen is right that European expansion was slow and unsteady,
more so than colonizers liked to admit. And he’s right that European
arms and pathogens did not wipe Indigenous nations off the map. But
given the staggering growth of the Anglo settlers, is it at all
surprising that even the most adept Native armies eventually lost
their wars? White settlers arrived like a force of nature, a
“cyclone,” as the Potawatomi writer Simon Pokagon put it in 1893.
He imagined Indians as standing fixed to the shore while “the
incoming tide of the great ocean of civilization rises slowly but
surely to overwhelm us.”

Pokagon’s sense of North American history, offered in his published
talk, _The Red Man’s Rebuke,_ is virtually the opposite of
Hämäläinen’s. For Pokagon, Native America was sculpted by
settlers, who, rather than carving out a place for Indigenous life,
had “hacked to pieces and destroyed” it. For Hämäläinen, Native
peoples survived intact—and, indeed, were often the ones doing the
sculpting. Which is right? Is the real story how Indigenous peoples
have been pushed down, or how they have risen up?

Surely it’s both. Write only about the rigid structures of
oppression and you expunge any sense of possibility. But dwell too
much on the agency of the oppressed and you do the opposite: you fail
to appreciate the impossibility of the binds in which people found
themselves.

Hämäläinen turns the “agency” dial as far as it can plausibly
go, and then gives it another twist. This has benefits. You cannot
read _Indigenous Continent_ and retain the belief that Native
societies quickly and permanently collapsed. Hämäläinen’s book
not only exposes settler boasts of continental conquest as
self-serving fictions; it rejects the entire settler sense of what
constitutes American history. It is stand-everything-on-its-head
history, offering the thrills of a sharp perspectival flip.

Yet it is also caricatured history. Small groups appear big, and the
gargantuan United States appears implausibly small. Native Americans
are shown to be so superhumanly capable that the causes and
consequences of settler colonialism fade from view. So does the tragic
dimension of American history: the understanding that sometimes
historical forces outmatch our abilities. _Indigenous Continent_ is
full of fearsome Native warriors and agile Native politicians. What
it’s missing is the creativity, irony, and inner turmoil of people
facing an onslaught that, for all their resilience, was beyond
their control.

_DANIEL IMMERWAHR [[link removed]] is a
professor of history at Northwestern and the author, most
recently, of How to Hide an Empire._

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