THE INTERSECTIONS OF IDENTITY AND POLITICS IN ARCHAEOLOGY -Lynn Meskell

Why has archaeology been
reluctant to formulate these topics, to consider them integral to archaeological
praxis? The discipline is fundamentally social: social life, social history, social
meanings, even social theory. Theoretical time lag and lack of sociopolitical engagement might be justifications for our disciplinary profile; however, the political
is always personal.
Archaeology shares with anthropology that specific biographical lens through
which certain intellectual strands are prefigured—those that are inflected with our
own lifetime experiences and preoccupations. Yet part of the reason for our slow
development of identity politics might be the lack of personal narrative, such as the
above, and self-reflexive analysis of our own motives and practices. In the past two
decades, following the literary turn, anthropologists have produced a surfeit of introspective studies (Clifford 1997, Clifford & Marcus 1986, Geertz 1995, Gupta &
Ferguson 1997) and poetics of practice (Ghosh 1992). Presumably archaeologists
feel their subjects are dead and buried—as opposed to the conundrums faced by
fieldwork with participants—and that they are not implicated in the representation
and struggles of living peoples. The ethical dimension of our work is often overlooked or rendered mute by force of scientific objectivity and research agendas.
Fieldwork is still shrouded in mystique for ethnographers, whereas it is generally
considered mundane in our discipline (Lucas 2001). The tactics of fieldwork, its interventions and ramifications, have only recently been called into question (Fotiadis
1993; Hodder 1998, 1999; Meskell 2001b; Politis 2001). Western academics themselves could be characterized as a highly mobile, rootless group (often by virtue
of occupation), who are on the whole analytical and somewhat detached from politics, despite their leftist leanings. Perhaps by getting personal, archaeology has
finally entered the contemporary field of debate; Marxist, feminist, indigenous,
queer, disenfranchised, and politicized archaeologies are the most transparent examples. In the past 20 years these archaeologies have revitalized the field, made
it socially relevant and cross-disciplinary, and given some much-needed heart
and soul to an archaeology mired in systems, process, and disembodied external
constraints.
In this arena, archaeology as a discipline has something to contribute, other than
simply providing ancient fuel to the fire of land claims, ethnic superiority, or historical lineages. Identity issues in archaeology—be they studies of class inequality,
gender bias, sexual specificity, politics and nation, heritage representation, or even fundamental topics like selfhood, embodiment, and being—have the capacity to
connect our field with other disciplines in academe but more importantly with the
wider community at large. Theorizing identity forms a critical nexus in academic
discourse bringing together sociologists, anthropologists, political scientists, psychologists, geographers, historians, and philosophers (Jenkins 1996, p. 7). The
topic frames a diverse set of intellectual positions from Giddens’ (1991) notions
of modernity and self-identity, to those surrounding postmodernism and difference (Bauman 1992, Butler 1995, Derrida 1978), to feminist interventions (Butler
1990, 2000; Lennon & Whitford 1994) and the political struggles involved in the
global resurgence of nationalist and ethnic tensions (Barth 2000, Cohen 2000).
Bauman suggests that identity has come to operate as a verb, rather than a noun,
and occupies the ontological status of both a project and a postulate (1996, p. 19).
Subjectivity and human agency are also central. Following Foucault (1978, p. xiv),
this is not tantamount to a theory of the knowing subject or modern individualism
at its extreme but rather moves toward a theory of discursive practices.
REVEALING IDENTITIES IN THE PAST
As demonstrated by the enmeshed themes and evocative studies described below,
identities are multiply constructed and revolve around a set of iterative practices
that are always in process, despite their material and symbolic substrata. Who we
are, what we study, and the questions we ask are not simply trendy polemics of high
modernity: These formulations underscore the types of archaeology, the level of
political engagement, and the points of connection archaeologists experience. The
politics of location is central to our understanding of archaeological subjects and
affects us as practitioners today. Part of that locatedness, however, entails evaluating the historicity of our conceptual frameworks and challenging their seemingly
natural or foundational constitution. Identity construction and maintenance may
have always been salient in the past; taxonomic designations such as ethnicity, gender, or sexuality, for example, may not have existed as the discrete categories we
find so familiar (Meskell 1999, 2001a). Many of these domains are now being refigured in contemporary society (Yanagisako & Delaney 1995) and should similarly
be interrogated more fully before they are applied to archaeological or historical
contexts. If we fail to push these questions further, we risk an elision of difference,
conflating ancient and modern experience in the process. What makes questions
of identity so intriguing is how specific societies evoked such different responses
prompted by categorical differences in their understandings and constructions of
social domains.
Archaeology’s engagement with identity issues could be described as diffident.
If one charts the development of archaeology’s commitment to identity and/or
politics, as reflected in conference sessions at the Society of American Archeologists meetings, for example, the results demonstrate a relatively recent and gradual
growth in interest (see Figure 1). There has been a slippage between the epistemic subjects of study and the recognition of context, implication, and connectivity in
contemporary settings. Yet as many scholars have argued, archaeology as a discipline was forged in conjunction with the burgeoning national identity and state
formation in Europe and elsewhere, in itself a very specific and reductionist construal of identity. However, the particular study of identity in past societies has
followed several variant timelines. For example, ethnicity is a category that has
sustained interest since the nineteenth century, foregrounded by writers such as
Morgan, Kossina, and Childe (Trigger 1989), spurred on by the refashioning of
national boundaries, diasporic movements, and ethnic tensions within twentiethcentury Europe. We might look to the negative associations of early ethnic studies
and their political deployment to explain the subsequent time lag between the first
half of the twentieth century and its rather different articulation in very recent
scholarship. Additionally, interest in class or status has a longer history than the
study of gender or sexuality. Issues of class and status were deemed more relevant to social structure at large, albeit from an unreflexive male perspective. In
archaeology, specific vectors of identity reach their own historical moment when
the interpretive time and space make it possible—recent interest in sexuality is a
salient example—although archaeology has been out of synch with developments
elsewhere.
Gender archaeology arrived late on the theoretical scene (Conkey & Spector
1984), first through the lens of first-wave feminist theory (Claassen 1992a,
Engelstad 1991) and then by a flurry of substantive case studies outlining women’s place in the past (Gero & Conkey 1991; Gibbs 1987; Gilchrist 1991, 1994). Gender
remained, and in some circles still remains, the preserve of women, rather than
the more dialogic or holistic study of gendered relations, which considers men as
gendered beings with a concomitant construction of sexed identity (Knapp 1998,
Meskell 1996). Some earlier studies took more radical paths to sexed identity
(Yates & Nordbladh 1990); yet they were not seen as representing engendered
studies, owing to their lack of explicit focus on women as a monolithic category.
The stirrings of a third-wave feminist approach in archaeology were heralded by
Elizabeth Brumfiel (1992), although it took several years before these programmatic changes were enacted. Third-wave feminist studies positioned gender as
relational to a host of other identity markers such as age, class, ethnicity, sexuality,
and so on (Meskell 1999). Its positionality must also be contextualized through
other modalities of power such as kinship (Brumfiel 1992, Joyce & Gillespie 2000)
and at the nexus of other “naturalized” domains (Meskell 2001a). Identity, in its
various manifestations, operates under erasure in the interstices of reversal and
emergence and thus cannot be studied in the old ways (Hall 1996, p. 2). This entails interrogating the old taxonomies and categories that we have reified as doxic
and impermeable and happily projected across the spatiotemporal divide.
Part of this revisioning has already happened in what is traditionally thought
of as gender archaeology. Gender has been instantiated within the wider social
context of the life cycle (Gilchrist 2000, Meskell 2002) or linked to age (Moore
& Scott 1997), expanding the social milieu, rather than restricted to single-issue
polemics. More problematic is the separating out of special categories such as
children (e.g., Sofaer-Derevenski 2000), given their particular positioning within
recent Western history (Foucault 1978). Instead of falling into the trap of prior
gender archaeology, which privileged the female above all other gender constructions, studies of age-related phenomena could be more productively discussed
within frameworks of life cycle, life experience, and other constituents of social
difference.
After some 15 years of engendered archaeology it is finally possible to interpolate sexuality as a shaping constituent of social life (Schmidt & Voss 2000).
Sexuality is key in the formation and lived experience of an individual’s identity,
and, like gender, it should be integrated into a wider set of social vectors rather
than singled out as privileged terrain. The creation of specialty topics, like gender
or children, as discursive taxonomic entities has resulted in a predictable ghettoization, whereby the majority of scholars still consider such areas outside their
interpretive remit. Sexuality, like gender, should be seen as integral to studies of
social life and not simply the preserve of those who feel privileged to speak because
of their own construal of sexual difference (Dowson 2000). Moreover, sexuality
must be considered in all its variability rather than isolating queer sexualities as
the primary locus of study: This again leads to marginalization and leaves categories such as heterosexuality as unproblematized zones. Despite the recent flurry
of interest, queer theory and the centrality of Judith Butler have had significant
trajectories in archaeology (Claassen 1992b, Joyce 2001, Meskell 1996). Unlike gender, analyzing wealth and status has always been integral to the
archaeological project. Whether in culture historical, processual, or contextual approaches, the study of relationships between elite and nonelite has been key. Yet the
degree to which this has coalesced around social identity rather than simply examining exchange, bureaucracy, and power is debatable. Locating those connections
in the distant past, however, has not always necessitated or entailed a politicized
stance in the present. In fields such as historical archaeology (Hall 2000, Paynter
& McGuire 1991) or archaeologies of the recent past (Buchli & Lucas 2001),
our findings have sociopolitical valences, and many researchers feel impelled to
engage with living communities. Plantation archaeology is a salient example, situated within the larger framework of African-American archaeology—the latter
developing out of social, political, and intellectual movements such as black activism, historic preservation legislation, academic interest in ethnicity, and the role
of public archaeology (Singleton 1995, p. 122). The focus of study has moved
from the identification of slave quarters to more nuanced discussions of power
and identity and the complex machinations between plantation owners and their
slaves. The archaeology of racism is prefigured in all such discussions, and though
there might seem an obvious connection to ethnicity theory, the two should not
be conflated (Babson 1990; Orser 1999, p. 666). As Orser warns, whiteness must
be denaturalized. Moreover, archaeologists should consider the material dimensions of using whiteness as a source of racial domination, which is inexorably
linked to capitalism (Leone 1995). Historical archaeologists are, however, faced
with a complex mosaic of racial, ethnic, and class reflections in material culture,
which has proven difficult to disentangle. Brackette Williams (1992, p. 611) has
questioned how processual archaeologies “can interrogate the culturally ‘invisible’ that historical processes of contact produced, but which cannot lay claim
to cultural autonomy in a manner that allows their creations to be counted in an
inventory of ‘distinctive culture traits.’” She is similarly concerned that theories
of domination and resistance have focused on categories rather than the processes
by which production, reification, transformation, or ultimate elimination occur.
More recently, such theories have been displaced by multifaceted explanations
involving race, class, gender, religion, lineage, and representation (Mullins 1999,
Rotman & Nassaney 1997, Russel 1997, Stine 1990, Wall 1999, Wilkie & Bartoy
2000), and the recognition of contemporary sociopolitical relevance. There has
been an avid move to include descendants in the participation process and to advocate a wider responsibility and accountability for archaeologists and historians.
This also includes important work in the representation and “musealization” of
historic sites, such as Colonial Williamsburg, largely investigated by social anthropologists (Casta˜neda 1996, Handler & Gable 1997).
Historical archaeology has effectively bridged the study of identity issues—past
and present. The last decade of scholarship makes the connection across the flow
of discourses, as evidenced by a growing scholarship devoted to stewardship and
outreach (Franklin 1997; Jameson 1997; McKee 1998; Potter 1992; Singleton
1995, 1999). Exemplary here is Carol McDavid’s work (1997, 2000), which focuses on the Levi Jordan Plantation in Brazoria, Texas, and the use of new media
technologies for local community outreach involving descendants of both slaves
and slave owners. Inspired by pragmatist philosophers such as Rorty and West,
she has sensitively negotiated the divide between academic and other worlds, their
respective practices, policies, and writings, recentering the role of archaeologists
in both cultural and political milieus.
DIASPORIC AND ETHNIC IDENTITIES
The recent articulation of diaspora is an important, albeit late, development in archaeology as a direct offshoot from historical archaeology. Paraphrasing Agorsah
(1996, p. 222), the examination of diasporic cultures brings together compelling
issues beyond identifying ceramic sequences, namely family, gender, race, and
minority communities, and is enmeshed with issues of cultural interaction and
transformation, transfers, exchanges, race and power relations, and heritage development. This might be seen as a more theorized extension of archaeology’s
long-standing interest in migration, though imbued with a more critical stance
toward correlating assemblages and enclaves with specific groups. Archaeologists
have used the language of diaspora to circumvent the heavily ascriptive associations of ethnicity, while still allowing a discussion of community and identity that
crosscuts spatial lines (Goldstein 2000, p. 182). Others have linked archaeological discourse on places and landscapes to some central concerns within diaspora
studies, such as migration, displacement, and dislocation (Bender 2001). This has
obvious contemporary salience and offers a resonant critique of phenomenological
studies of place-making in the past.
Diasporic studies in archaeology have, in themselves, been highly localized. In
the Caribbean, a politicized archaeology is being forged through this analytic lens
(Haviser 1999, Sued Badillo 1995, Wilkie & Bartoy 2000). Prior to this emergence,
few studies sought to document the nexus between archaeology, transnationalism,
and political faction. Receptivity to social theory might form one explanation, and
in Cuba this was intimately connected to the 1959 revolution and the predominance
of Marxism (Davis 1996). Reports on diasporic sites in the Dominican Republic,
Jamaica (Agorsah 1999), Brazil (Funari 1995/1996, 1999), and the Americas (Weik
1997) have recently been published. However, the archaeology of the African diaspora still remains confined to studies of New World slavery, despite rich variability
in African experience outside Africa, whether in Europe, South Asia, or elsewhere.
Suffice to say, archaeologists have lagged behind historians and anthropologists, a
delay explained to some degree by a disciplinary reticence toward Islamic archaeology or that of the modern world (Orser 1998, p. 64).
The broader question of identifying ethnicity materially and symbolically extends back to scholars such as Montelius and Childe, through to Hawkes, Piggott,
the ethnoarchaeological work of Hodder (1982), processual approaches (Auger
et al. 1987, Emberling 1997), and contextual ones (Aldenderfer 1993, Wells 1998). Yet isolating ethnic specificities has proven to be elusive and potentially teleological in archaeological writing. From this perspective, racial and ethnic studies share
a common ontological terrain. As Upton (1996, p. 3) demonstrates, while archaeologists view slave culture as a product of racial experience and a response to the
social, economic, legal, and interpersonal conditions of the institution, we have
come to expect a particular material resistance. Slaves’ artifacts are supposed to be
distinctive, and we are suspicious when they are indistinguishable from those of
masters. Studies still focus on the articulation of difference in reductive terms by
examining ceramics, textiles, architecture, food, burials, etc. Looking for ethnicity mirrors the strategies of gender archaeology, which simply looked for women
as discrete and familiar entities. And theories of ethnicity, like those of gender,
have moved from a focus on the biological to the social, and from the category
to the boundary. The axial ideational, social, and subjective dimensions are lived
and potentially porous or changeable, yet often materially invisible. Assuming a
specific ethnic identification “must depend on ascription and self-ascription: only
in so far as individuals embrace it, are constrained by it, act on it, and experience it
will ethnicity make organizational difference” (Barth 1994, p. 12). Manipulation,
masking, and passing (Butler 1993, Fanon 1967) are tactics that inhere around
difference, problematizing notions of the “real” or “authentic,” both socially and
materially. Hall (1997, p. 4) reminds us that “identities are constructed within, not
outside, discourse” and are “produced in specific historical and institutional sites
within specific discursive formations and practices, by specific enunciative strategies.” The fluidity and permeability of those identities produce real problems for
archaeologists in contexts lacking historical documentation, and even text-aided
settings can be complex (Meskell 1999).
Influenced largely by Bourdieu’s concept of habitus, Jones’ study of ethnicity
provides a detailed account of the discipline’s engagement and its problematics.
She shows that teasing out ethnic difference from the complex fabric of identity
more widely is fraught with difficulties if not impossible for many archaeologists.
Her definitions are necessarily vague enough to stand for any vector of identity—
one could easily replace it here with status or religion:
Ethnicity is a multidimensional phenomenon constituted in different ways in
different social domains. Representations of ethnicity involve the dialectical
opposition of situationally relevant cultural practices and historical experiences associated with different cultural traditions. Consequently there is rarely
a one-to-one relationship between representations of ethnicity and the entire
range of cultural practices and social conditions associated with a particular
group. (Jones 1997b, p. 100)
How different is this statement from those made by Childe in works from the
1950s such as Social Evolution? This divide characterizes the theoretical impasse
archaeologists face. If indeed ethnicity is grounded in the shared subliminal dispositions of social agents and is shaped by practice, how might we approach this?
Historically, theorizing ethnicity seems to have either correlated pots with people or written material culture out of the record almost entirely. Other studies took tangential routes to cultural identity in an attempt to move beyond these isomorphic
and deterministic studies (Shennan 1994). Some studies argue that not all archaeologists can study ethnicity or that social structures may not indeed correspond to
our current classifications, which impels us to revisit anthropological and sociological literatures (Hegmon 1998, p. 274). Archaeology’s most compelling studies
of ethnicity emanate from historical (Staski 1990, Wall 1999, Woodhouse-Beyer
1999) or ethnohistorical contexts (David et al. 1991, Dietler & Herbich 1998),
where diverse sources are inflected with the nuanced valences that represent social complexity. Newer research has moved from ethnicity to crystallize around
issues of community, as a more localized perspective on identity (Canuto & Yaeger
2000). In many respects, theorizing ethnicity has not moved far from the position
set forward by Hodder two decades ago.
Research into the specificities of ethnic identity and constructions of place lies
at the intersection between the two fields of identity politics. On the one hand, investigating ethnicity answers questions about social difference in past societies–on
the other hand, in extreme circumstances, it forms a locus for extrapolation to contemporary questions about origins, legitimacy, ownership, and ultimately, rights.
That entanglement has singled out ethnicity as the dangerous vector of difference,
as opposed to gender or age taxonomies. The latter have not been mobilized by
contemporary groups in the same manner and magnitude to instantiate claims of
legitimacy, superiority, and territoriality.
ARCHAEOLOGY AND NATIONAL MODERNITIES
Over the past decade we have witnessed a proliferation of studies of archaeology
and archaeological narratives in the service of the state. This is, in part, an outgrowth of earlier studies that linked the rise of archaeology with the construction
of the modern nation state (McGuire 1992, Patterson 1994, Trigger 1989). Ensuing
studies focused more closely on European nation building (Atkinson et al. 1996,
D´ıaz-Andreu & Champion 1996, Graves-Brown et al. 1996), whereas more recent
work has brought this into wider global and contemporary perspective (Kohl 1998,
Kohl & Fawcett 1995, Meskell 1998, Ucko 1995). Questions of theory in specific
countries and the particular relationship between national concerns and theoretical development also emerged as important issues (Hodder 1991, Ucko 1995).
Philip Kohl has provided a useful summary of these processes by documenting
the development of archaeology in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries,
linking nationalism to considerations of ethnicity and identity. He argues (1998,
p. 225) that many cases demonstrate the manipulation of archaeological materials,
and though there are sensational examples of this (Hitler’s Germany, Mussolini’s
Italy), I would suggest that many national engagements are more complex, nuanced, and less deterministic in their relationships with the past (e.g., Atat¨urk in
Turkey; see Ozdogan 1998). Yet Kohl is correct in stating, following Hobsbawm, that “there are real limits to the invention of tradition” (1998, p. 233). In general, one can argue for a whole series of relationships between nations, regions,
and individuals and their respective pasts, and it is dangerous to assume that conscious construction and manipulation are the primary rationales. It is also crucial
to provide sociopolitical linkages: The twentieth century was rife with political
restructuring and ethnic/religious upheavals (e.g., Balkans, Soviet Union, Israel,
India), which sparked relationships with particular historical trajectories, nostalgia,
and commemoration, and with the forceful materiality of archaeological remains.
National modernities are constructed through dialogic relationships between archaeological materiality and heterogeneous narratives of the past that recursively
offer horizons of hybridization. We might question how cultural heritage has been
deployed in quests for specific modernities, sometimes at the expense or erasure
of others. How do political agendas inhere in monumentalized space?
A surfeit of papers has dealt with the national character of archaeology in
European countries (Shnirelman 1995). In the context of France, scholars have
discussed a national archaeology rather than a nationalist one (Fleury-Ilett 1993).
Here the discursive construction of archaeology is linked to wider developments
such as the loss of foreign colonies, sociopolitical change, and the role of collective memory in the shaping of national culture. Identity and unity are foregrounded and monumentalized, especially since the political upheavals of May
1968 (see Demoule 1999; Dietler 1994, 1998; Schnapp 1996). More substantial
studies have been undertaken for Germany, specifically its relationship to the Nazi
regime (Anthony 1995, Arnold 1990, Marchand 1996) and the divisive effects of
the Berlin Wall (H¨arke 2000, H¨arke & Wolfram 1993). European scholars have
also turned their attention to the deconstruction of field practices, the place of
local workers, and remnant colonial hegemonies (Fotiadis 1993; Given 1998; van
Dommelen 1997, 1998), reinforcing the suggestion made earlier that trends toward
self-reflexivity resonate more strongly outside Americanist archaeology.
Historiographical studies, such as the aforementioned, are certainly less volatile
than contemporary encounters or less susceptible to partisan politics or fierce argumentation by different interest groups. Many of these contributions dealt with issues of representation or memorialization, rather than addressing the more pressing
concerns over the results of war (Abdi 2001, Naccache 1998), the erasure of heritage (Chapman 1994), the residual effects of colonialism (Chakrabarti 2000, Hall
2000, Loren 2000, Reid 1997, Reid et al. 1997, Trigger 1984), or violence and persecution (Bernbeck & Pollock 1996, Meskell 2000). Although these themes unite
many groups across the globe, there has been a notable lack of cross-fertilization
between those writing on the topic from Europe, the Caribbean, Latin America,
North America, India, and Australia. For instance, there is a growing body of important writing on the politics of archaeology in Latin America, which is more
evocative and compelling than much of the literature on Europe (e.g., Mamani
Condori 1996, McGuire & Navarrete 1999, Paddayya 1995, Patterson 1995, Politis
1995, Ramos 1994, Vargas Arenas 1995). Chinchilla Mazariegos (1998) has outlined how excavations at Copan shaped the incipient independence of Guatemala, providing the new nation with its own ennobling history, and Higueras (1995)
has demonstrated the positive contribution of archaeology to Peruvian national
esteem. The iconicity of ancient remains, whether Machu Picchu or Chan Chan,
figures prominently in the collective consciousness, yet with little historicity. This
places more tacit responsibility on the role of archaeologists, both indigenous
and foreign, to promote current findings in the form of museums and community
outreach.
More familiar perhaps are the discussions of Mexican archaeology, for which
ethnicity, class, and race are crosscut through competing narratives and representations (Bernal 1980, Hyland 1992, Jones 1997a, Patterson 1995). Through displays
in the National Museum, “Indianness,” past and present, is privileged over other
identities. The end result is that Mexicans are presented as Aztecs. Despite the
evocative nature of archaeology and its political mobilizations, few archaeologists have seen the potential for linking heritage, national modernity, and tourism
(Hyland 1992; Meskell 2000, 2001b). Archaeological monuments lie at a powerful
nexus between ethnoscapes and finanscapes and so on. Alternatively, ethnographers have theorized the intersection between performing the past, potent tourist
locales, and divergent interest groups (Abu el-Haj 1998, Edensor 1998; but see
Odermatt 1996). This conjoins with Herzfeld’s (1996) call for more integrated
archaeological and ethnographic projects.
Geographically, there are clear imbalances in the scope of literature
produced, and this is undoubtedly linked to a perceived receptiveness toward
archaeological theory or the place of sociopolitics. For example, only a handful of available studies focus on Southeast Asia (Fawcett 1995, Loofs 1979, Pai
2000, Tong 1995, Tsude 1995, Von Falkenhausen 1995). Few studies have been
produced for African countries or, more importantly, by their respective scholars
(Andah 1995a,b; Jeppson 1997; Kent 1998; Lewis-Williams 1995; Schmidt 1995),
although Peter Ucko has been instrumental in supporting these ventures. From a
Sudanese perspective, Elamin (1999, p. 3) argues that cultural identity has recently
become a more appealing subject for academics, intellectuals, politicians, and the
media to debate. Martin Hall’s prolific output has done much to change perceptions about politicization, responsibility, and ethics in the archaeology of South
Africa (1992; 1994a,b; 1995). Most recently (2000, p. 160), he has documented
Johannesburg’s District Six, its destruction and subsequent rise with the success of
protest against the apartheid state, teasing apart the transcripts of domination and
resistance. His poetics of place and commitment to an archaeology of the recent
past have been groundbreaking.
THE COLONIAL QUESTION
Issues of nationalism and archaeology cannot be separated from larger global
processes such as colonialism and exploitation. Two decades ago Bruce Trigger
brought to the fore a certain frame of political discourse in archaeology. It has taken time to sediment, as this review suggests. Trigger sought to interrogate the
history of archaeology (1989), outline the contours of nationalist, colonialist, and
imperialist archaeologies from a global perspective (1984), and underscore the social milieus underpinning those discursive productions (1995). As an established
scholar, his contribution has had monumental effects in instantiating a responsible and ethical archaeology. In the more recent climate of postprocessual and
indigenous archaeologies, scholars have become more politicized and outspoken.
Central to this development has been a recognition of the politics of location, both
in regard to the effects of colonial hegemonies or transnational tensions, and in
terms of our own situated scholarship.
Yet the residual effects of colonialism have occupied distinct trajectories in
different countries. There has been an outpouring of literature on Native American issues in the past decade, specifically the problematics of archaeological
intervention, reburial and repatriation, representation, the place of Cultural Resource Management and museums, and so on (Dongoske et al. 1997, Echo-Hawk
2000, Goldstein 1992, Goldstein & Kintigh 1990, McGuire 1992, Schmidt &
Patterson 1995, Swidler et al. 1997, Thomas 2000). Significantly, the impetus for
this shift was initiated by indigenous activists, rather than being an emergent recognition for archaeologists. North American archaeologists were relatively slow in
acknowledging the rights of indigenous peoples, especially when compared to legislation on this issue in Australia. They “seem not to have recognized an emergent
pressing need to single out Native Americans for attention before such a course of
action was imposed upon them by interests which are not naturally sympathetic to
archaeological concerns and perhaps even middle-class concerns more generally”
(Lilley 2000, p. 113).
Yet the recognition of Native rights in the United States, accompanied by Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) legislation, has
ineluctably entered the slippery terrain of identity politics. On one side, there has
been a scientific desire to definitively answer the specificities of ancient identity.
Spurred on by a positivist ethos in archaeology that advocated a literal match between artifacts, human remains, and modern people, we have seen the results of
manipulation and misuse. Such trends, particularly in the search for ethnic origins,
have had a long and ugly history in archaeology, whether in Nazi Germany or more
recently with the Saami (e.g., Odner 1985). On the other side, archaeologists of
a more theoretical persuasion have spent decades problematizing the connection
between ethnicity and artifacts, thus arguing for a more fluid and ongoing constitution of identity. This perspective has been hijacked by high-profile anthropologists
who want unrestricted access to studying ancient human remains. Employing the
musings of social science as a vehicle for denying indigenous interests, the chair
of Anthropology for the American Association for the Advancement of Science
has argued (Clark 2001, p. 3):
Ethnicity, or identity-consciousness, is a fleeting, transient thing—constantly
changing, constantly being renegotiated, written on the wind. Anthropologists
have known for decades that discrete ethnic groups, rigidly bounded in space and time, have no existence beyond a few centuries (and even that is arguable).
Too bad this little nugget eluded most American archaeologists. : : : As the
position paper itself makes clear, claims of “pan-Indianness” are insufficient
to justify repatriation. Does the archaeology and physical anthropology count
for nothing here, or is oral tradition the only thing that matters? : : : Sadly, this
is what happens when politics takes precedence over disinterested evaluation
of the credibility of knowledge claims—in this case, knowledge claims about
the human past.
Because a literal identification and correlation has been touted as foundational to the questions of identity posed by NAGPRA, broadly defined as cultural
affiliation—a relationship of shared group identity—archaeologists have created a
tenuous and spurious connection between positivist assertion and political outcome. Kennewick Man is the most volatile example: Here experts attempt to
demonstrate cultural affiliation over some 9000 years with various tribal groups
vying for direct descent. NAGPRA’s acknowledgment of Native American rights
and concerns is not at issue here. Rather, it is the series of foundational claims
upon which connections between contemporary communities and ancient cultural
property are premised. These claims are dangerous because they are out of synch
with everything archaeologists have learned about identity from the work of Gordon Childe onwards. And this is what enables Clark to claim scientific primacy
over human remains, at the expense of all other groups—the logical outcome of a
positivist argument in today’s political climate. Surely a more politically responsible and engaged archaeology can be forged without recourse to such reductionist
science. With the recognition that other communities and groups have equally
legitimate claims to stewardship, the resolution of such disagreements requires a
clear understanding of the different standpoints, structures of power, and politics
involved (Patterson 1999). There has to be an epistemic shift, entailing the legitimation of other discourses, rather than simply returning to something called science
that privileges the desire for certain knowledge at all costs. “Cultural affiliation”
and “cultural patrimony” are separate in the language of NAGPRA, but they still
reside within a Western scientific purview, as evinced by Clark, which has yet to
be fully interrogated. Within this system, however, one could argue that emphasis
should be placed on the patrimonial relationship, which acknowledges that Native
peoples can show traditional or historic continuity of connection instead of linear
descent. Rather than trying to quantify past and present identities in the face of
significant methodological hurdles, it may prove more fitting to argue that specific groups constitute appropriate custodians because they have traditionally, or
historically, legitimate cultural or spiritual responsibility for the cultural property
at hand. This places more importance on living groups and reconciliation in the
wake of colonization, rather than attributing salience entirely to the archaeological
record; thus my earlier point returns that our subjects are not always dead.
A more liberal position toward indigenous issues has been central in Australian
prehistory for many years (Attwood & Arnold 1992, Hemming 2000, Langford
1983, Meehan 1995, Moser 1995, Pardoe 1990). Ian Lilley (2000, p. 109) has compared Australian legislation with that of other settler societies such as New
Zealand, Canada, and South Africa where indigenous claims are prioritized over
those of all other interested parties. This stands in contradistinction to the United
States, where many publics and multiple interests are acknowledged. Lilley believes that archaeologists and their institutional politics have been very different
in the United States as compared to the aforementioned Commonwealth countries, a situation tacitly linked to nation-building. He contends that “in Australia, if
not Canada or New Zealand, most archaeologists share a pervasive, middle-class,
postcolonialist view that our country cannot be considered a ‘whole’ nation in
the eyes of important others unless we achieve reconciliation with the continent’s
indigenous populations” (2000, p. 113; see also Pokotylo & Guppy 1999). Despite the progressive Australian legislature, racism runs deep, not only in terms of
aboriginal peoples but in terms of other immigrants, such as the Chinese, who accompanied white colonists into Australia. Given disturbing developments in recent
political history—staging racism against Asians in parliament and the media—the
entwined histories of the nation’s peoples have again come under scrutiny (Lydon
2000). But the penumbra of shame still haunts Australia, despite attempts by the
federal government to distance past atrocities from present situations: Repudiation
cannot simply be followed by loss of memory.
Colonialism, a topic of long-standing interest (Bhabha 1994, Chambers & Curti
1996, Dirks 1992, Thomas 1999), has also been revitalized through the incursion of postcolonial theory in archaeology (see Gosden 1999). Archaeologists are
now pursuing notions of hybridity and creolization in the construction of material
culture and social identity (Loren 2000; van Dommelen 1997, p. 309), moving
between notions of blended or reworked articulations and the hard realities of
repression. Though such studies make claims about past life experiences, they
are also redolent of contemporary struggles and oppressions. This is powerfully
evidenced in the resurgence of interest in South Asian archaeology, in terms of
religious factionalism, transnational tensions, and the colonial legacy (Chakrabarti
1997, 2000; Coningham & Lewer 2000a,b; Lahiri 2000; Paddayya 1995). Much of
this discussion has been mobilized around the destruction of the Ayodhya mosque
in 1992 (Bernbeck & Pollock 1996, Mandal 1993, Rao 1994). Archaeological data
have been deployed by opposing sides to prioritize specific historical moments and
foci in the site’s history, rather than constructing more encompassing narratives
that would account for multiple identifications within a wider religious landscape
(Shaw 2000, pp. 698–99). The multiplicity of religious traditions and connections
might be accommodated within more plural and consensual histories, and this
is where archaeology’s role may indeed be emancipatory. Though sentiment ran
high at the 1994 World Archaeology Congress meetings in Delhi, there has been
little follow up given the rash of continued violence and destruction of religious
sites across India. The fixity of monumentalized space is shot through with contingent histories and multivalent narratives, and though archaeologists can grapple
with heuristic and ethical agendas, we cannot hope to police or monopolize the
interpretive borders. CONCLUSIONS
At the nexus of identity and politics lies the crucial terrain of ethics (Lynott & Wylie
2000, Vitelli 1996). Part of our problem rests with the illusion that the subjects of
our research are dead and buried, literally, and that our “scientific” research goals
are paramount. It has taken time to convince archaeologists that ours is a subjective
enterprise that is far from agenda-free. And though some have been active in critiquing the metanarratives of Western scholarship, the micronarratives of scientific
method often go unchecked (Scham 2001). Recently, our role in national arenas
has fueled some rather outmoded and pointless arguing over relativism. Here the
recognition of subjectivity has been grossly caricatured as an “anything goes”
mentalit´e, ultimately leading to nihilism and fascism (see Lampeter Archaeology
Workshop 1997). Despite the difficulties in reconciling archaeology’s role in national constructions, most scholars now affirm that the active nature of material
culture precludes static readings of the past and that identity construction itself is
a fluid, fractured, and ongoing set of processes.
But what sets archaeology apart from other disciplines seeking to represent the
nation or culture, such as history or anthropology, is its materiality. The residues
of the past are often monumentalized and inescapable in daily life. Individually,
the past is memory—collectively, it is history. Both are constructs entangled with
identity issues. Though history and memory are imagined, this does not mean that
they are imaginary (Jenkins 1996, p. 28). According to Lowenthal (1985, p. 245)
“history and memory usually come in the guise of stories which the mind must
purposefully filter; physical relics remain directly available to our senses. This
existential concreteness explains their evocative appeal.” Archaeological materials could be said to operate in thirdspace (Soja 2000), a dialectical position that
recursively shapes individuals and is continually shaped by us. Their multivalency
and plasticity also result in “a diversity of icons” (Higueras 1995, p. 399) that
are prefigured in society through their residual nature. And though archaeological
remains iconically signify materiality, identity formation is alternately fluid—the
material and the immaterial in constant dialogue. Identification is always a process
of articulation or suturing, rather than a subsumption (Hall 1996, p. 3): It is neither
essentialist nor foundational, but strategic and positional. Meaning and identity
must be construed as projects, sometimes grounded, other times contingent, but
always ongoing.
It might prove productive to maneuver between levels of disciplinary engagement the lived experience of social identity and the wider political setting of
archaeological praxis: Both entail issues of power and difference, be it national,
racial, ethnic, religious, sexual, gender, class, and so on. Part of that engagement
necessarily entails getting personal and rendering transparent our own motivations
for pursuing different archaeologies. Constitutive identities are performed and iterated though the discourses of sameness and difference, as I outlined through
the example of Australian racial and sexual politics. Archaeology has traditionally
separated out studies of our dead subjects from the field’s contemporary valences; yet the two domains emerged in tandem and are epistemically interlaced. Although
slow to take root, owing to the intransigence of positivistic thinking, archaeologies
of identity, past and present, represent one of the most significant growth areas in
our discipline. They represent our contemporary engagement with other fields and
audiences and fulfill part of our ethical responsibility as public figures charged
with the trusteeship of the past (Bender 1998, Scham 1998). The increase in the
number of presentations and publications and the diverse perspectives represented
in the last decade are an encouraging hallmark of the discipline’s integrity and
theoretical maturation. It may be some time before we parallel the sophistication
of our sister disciplines, but the progression over the last decade has been exponential and promises to lead archaeology toward assuming a more engaged place
in the social sciences and toward other publics.

An Experimental Approach to Understanding Burnt Fish Bone Assemblages within Archaeological Hearth Contexts Martina Steffen,and Quentin Mackie

This paper describes an experimental
approach to the interpretation of
archaeological fish assemblages
excavated from the Richardson Island site,
Haida Gwaii,1 British Columbia. This
early Holocene archaeological site has a
well-defined, artifact-rich, and highresolution
stratigraphic sequence and has
produced one of very few faunal
assemblages from coastal British Columbia
dating to earlier than 9,000 years ago (14C
YBP).2 The Richardson Island faunal
assemblage consists entirely of burnt fish
remains concentrated within hearth
features. In the sample analyzed thus far,
the fish taxa appear to be represented
predominately by relatively small
individuals. The research presented here
investigates the possible taphonomic
reasons for the lack of large fish in the
Richardson Island hearth assemblages.
Archaeological and Geological
Context
Richardson Island is located in
southeastern Haida Gwaii, near the
northern boundary of the Gwaii Haanas
National Park Reserve/Haida Heritage Site
(Figure 1). The archaeological site3 is
situated on the west side of Richardson
Island and includes both inter-tidal and
raised beach components. Archaeological
investigations at the site have focused on
the highly stratified raised beach deposits
that are positioned approximately between
15 and 20 m above current sea level. Test
1 By request of the Haida First Nation, we refer to the
Queen Charlotte Islands as Haida Gwaii.
2 All dates are in uncalibrated radiocarbon years before
present (BP).
3 Parks Canada archaeological site designation 1127T,
found within Borden block FeTw, but not assigned a
Borden number.
excavations by Parks Canada in 1995 and
1997 established that the site had been
occupied between 9,300 and 8,500 years
before present4 (Fedje and Christensen
1999; Fedje et al. 2005c); additional
excavations were conducted by the
University of Victoria in 2001 and 2002.
The site consists of over 50 distinguishable
layers which can be grouped into 20
separate, well-sealed depositional units of
analysis. These layers have been dated by
sixteen AMS radiocarbon age estimates
(Fedje 2003:33), all but one of which fall in
sequence consistent with stratigraphic
ordering. In addition to numerous hearth
complexes, the site contains features such
as ash lenses and post-moulds. The lithic
assemblage from the site consists of
approximately 3,600 tools and tens of
thousands of pieces of debitage. Several
small, calcined bone tool fragments were
recovered from the hearths. The lower
Richardson component (pre-8,750 BP) is
assigned to the Kinggi Complex,
characterized by large core and flake tools
and bifacial technology. The upper
Richardson component (8,750 to 8,500 BP)
is assigned to the Early Moresby Tradition,
characterized by the addition of microblade
technology to the Kinggi Complex toolkit
(Fedje and Christensen 1999; Fedje and
Mackie 2005). The hearth assemblages
discussed in this paper are from the Kinggi
Complex component of the site.
From approximately 12,000 to 8,900 BP,
the sea rose by about 165 m at Richardson
Island, from 150 m lower to 15 m higher
than modern levels (Fedje 1993; Josenhans
4 More precisely, the youngest radiocarbon date derived
from cultural layers at the Richardson site is 8490 ± 70
14C age BP; this is a 9,440-9,530 calibrated age range.
The oldest date from cultural layers is 9290 ± 50 14C age
BP; this is a 10,640-10,260 calibrated age range.et al. 1995, 1997; Fedje et al. 2005a).
Consequently, the timing of human
occupation at the Richardson Island site
coincided with the final centuries of sea
level rise and the first several centuries of
sea level stability. Sea levels remained
quite stable at this high stand until
approximately 5,000 years ago, before
slowly receding to their present position.
Rising sea levels contributed to rapid site
formation, resulting in very deep and
highly stratified deposits. The matrix at
this site is composed largely of well-sorted
beach gravels, presumably aggregated by
long-shore drift from the prevailing southeasterly
winds that push through Darwin
Sound.
Subsequent storm toss and supra-tidal berm
development created an ever-rising flat
platform of well-drained and lightly
vegetated terrain along the otherwise steep
slope of Richardson Island, attracting
repeated human settlement. The complex
stratigraphic profile of numerous sealed
layers is the result of sea-level
transgression, supra-tidal berm building,
and occasional down-slope silt mudflows
mixing with upslope gravel storm tosses,
especially in the low, wet swale
immediately inland of the berm. Humans
revisiting the site would have occasionally
found a “refreshed” gravel surface capping
earlier deposits. All this has resulted in an
unusually high-resolution stratigraphic
profile spanning almost 4.5 vertical meters
of deposit, with each depositional unit
representing at most a few decades.
Despite these rapid depositional episodes,
there is evidence that site formation
processes have not dramatically disturbed
the integrity of spatial patterning at the
Richardson Island site. This evidence
includes many clearly defined, intact hearth
and post-mould features, a paucity of
water-worn artifacts, the association of
artifacts with occupation surfaces and
features, some lithics in close proximity
that refit with one another, the consistent
ordering of the radiocarbon age estimates,
and the presence of numerous A and B soil
horizon couplets.

The Richardson Island Faunal

Assemblage

The Richardson Island faunal assemblage
consists entirely of calcined bone, mainly
from the contents of sixteen hearths. The
hearth features span a relatively short
period of less than 200 radiocarbon years,
from approximately 9,290 BP to 9,120 BP,
with each hearth representing one or
several burning events. Hearths were
excavated following their composite
morphology, which typically included a
central area rich with calcined bone
surrounded by a charcoal halo and firealtered
sediments. The different hearth
components were classified as follows: “a”
for the calcined bone-rich central areas, “b”
for peripheral charcoal-rich areas, and “c”
for fire-altered sediments . All
identifiable bone elements and fragments
were removed from the hearth matrices
with the aid of magnification, with some
fragments smaller than 1 mm in size. This
study focuses on three hearth samples from
unit EU-13 (Q12-F1a, S22-F1a, and K26-
F1a), the analysis of which has been
completed. Full analysis of all hearth
fauna from the site is currently in progress
(Steffen 2006).

Table 1: Fish Remains Recovered from Three Richardson Island Hearths
Figure 2: Cross-sectional model of hearth component structure
Richardson K26-F1A Skeletal Element NISP MNI
greenling (Hexagrammos sp.) vertebra (caudal) 2 1
Irish lord (Hemilepidotus sp.) scute 1 1
lingcod (Ophiodon elongatus) vertebra 1 1
lingcod/arrowtooth flounder/hake/cabezon tooth, tooth row 7 -
sand lance* (Ammodytes hexapterus ) vertebra 3 1
prickleback (Stichaeidae) vertebra 2 1
rockfish (Sebastes sp.) (see Appendix A) 80 5
Richardson S22-F1A
dogfish (Squalus acanthias) tooth 10 1
flatfish* (Pleuronectiformes) scute 2 1
Pacific herring (Clupea pallasi) vertebra 1 1
Irish lord (Hemilepidotus sp.) gill raker, pterygiophore 8 1
great-type sculpin (Myoxocephalus sp.) vertebra (abdominal) 1 1
lingcod/arrowtooth flounder/hake/cabezon tooth, tooth row 22 -
rockfish (Sebastes sp.) (see Appendix A) 150 2
Richardson Q12-F1A
dogfish (Squalus acanthias ) tooth, vertebra 16 1
halibut* (Hippoglossus stenolepis) vertebra 1 1
lingcod/arrowtooth flounder/hake/cabezon tooth, tooth row 48 -
Pacific herring (Clupea pallasi) prootic 1 1
salmon (Oncorhynchus sp.) gill raker, parapophyses, vertebra 41 1
starry flounder* (Platichthys stellatus) scutes 5 1
rockfish (Sebastes sp.) (see Appendix A) 163 2

*tentative identification


A list of fish species and elements
recovered from the three hearths is
presented in Table 1. At least 13 taxa are
represented in the assemblages. In each
hearth, rockfish (Sebastes sp.) is most
abundant, both in terms of number of
identified specimens (NISP) and minimum
number of individuals (MNI). All fish
bones were assigned to a size class when
possible. This was done by visual
comparison with comparative specimens at
the University of Victoria. Rockfish
elements were divided into categories from
very small (total fish length of <15 cm),
small (15-30 cm), medium (30-50 cm),
large (50-70 cm), to very large (>70 cm).
Upon initial observation, the rockfish
specimens from the Richardson Island
hearths appeared to be noticeably smaller
than those recovered from the early
Holocene site of Kilgii Gwaay, 90 km to
the southeast. Subsequent examination
confirmed this assessment.
At Kilgii Gwaay (Parks Canada site
designation 1325T), which dates to 9,450
BP (Fedje et al. 2001, 2005b), the faunal
assemblage is dominated by fish remains,
which represent 72% of the total
assemblage NISP (Fedje et al. 2005b). As
at Richardson Island, rockfish remains
dominate the Kilgii Gwaay fauna,
comprising 83% of the fish NISP. When
assigned to size classes, the fish bones
from Kilgii Gwaay exhibit a different
pattern than Richardson Island, with larger
individuals represented (Table 2). The two
sites represent very different depositional
contexts. Kilgii Gwaay is an inter-tidal,
single component wet site with excellent
organic preservation,5 while Richardson is
5 There are also differences in faunal recovery
methods between these two sites. At Richardson,
a highly stratified raised-beach site with
fauna preserved within hearth feature
contexts. Despite their different
taphonomic histories, the two sites may
represent human exploitation of a similar
ecological niche during the early Holocene.
Both sites are located within protected
areas of coastline with immediate access to
near-shore fishes, although Kilgii Gwaay is
closer to the exposed west coast where
there may have been greater opportunity
for deep-water fishing for large rockfishes.
This difference in access may have resulted
in a greater number of larger rockfishes
being present at Kilgii Gwaay. Deep-water
fishing would nonetheless have been
possible from the Richardson Island site as
it is situated at the northern end of Darwin
Sound with good access to Hecate Strait.
Table 2: Size Comparison of Sebastes Elements
Richardson
Island
Kilgii
Gwaay
n 224 601
very small 1.3% 0%
small 73.7% 20.5%
medium 25.0% 67.0%
large 0% 11.5%
very large 0% 1.5%
Before the size difference in rockfish
between the two sites may be attributed to
ecology or human behavior, it is necessary
hearth samples were sieved through mosquito
netting to maximize recovery of small elements,
while 1/8 screen was used for faunal recovery at
Kilgii Gwaay. This may account for the relative
lack of small and very small individual specimens
identified at Kilgii Gwaay, but it does not account
for the absence of large individuals at Richardson.

to examine how taphonomic processes – in
particular, the burning of the fish bones in
the Richardson Island assemblage – may
have affected the size, preservation, and
subsequent quantification of the fish bone
specimens. Two experiments were
designed to address this issue. In the first,
a laboratory-based controlled burning of
fish bones was conducted to determine how
the size of fish elements is affected by
exposure to high temperatures. In the
second, a series of experimental hearths
was created to simulate those found at the
Richardson Island excavation. The hearths
were used to burn fish of various species,
abandoned, and then subsequently
excavated. An analysis of the experimental
hearth contents was conducted to determine
the influence of this depositional
environment on the survival, recovery, and
quantification of fish bones. In this paper,
we focus on fish remains because these
dominate the Richardson Island
assemblage and because most of the
literature on burnt bone addresses mammal
bone. (For studies of the burning of
mammal bone, see Andrews 1995; Binford
1981; Bonnichsen 1989; Coard and
Dennell 1995; Lyman 1994; Noe-Nygaard
1983; Outram et al. 2005; Rabinovich et al.
1996; Stiner et al. 1995; for fish bone
studies see Butler 1993, 1996; Lubinski
1996; Nicholson 1991, 1993, 1996; Richter
1986; Stewart 1991; Van Neer et al. 1992).
Experimental Program 1: Fish
bone size reduction from
exposure to high temperatures
As noted above, many of the rockfish in the
Richardson Island hearths are small in size.
This laboratory-based examination of the
effects of high temperatures on fish bone
was designed to investigate one aspect of
the size of burnt bone. Has burning
reduced the size of the fish bone in the
Richardson Island assemblage, and if so,
by how much? Does burning cause fish
bone shrinkage to a degree that may
significantly affect our size estimates of
archaeological samples? In studies of
mammal bone, Shipman et al. (1984) found
a mean percent shrinkage of about 15%,
while Gilchrist and Mytum (1986)
documented a range of shrinkage of 5% to
30% for bovine and sheep bones. Size
reduction of such magnitude would lead to
inaccurate assessment of live body size,
possibly biasing our understanding of fish
procurement and utilization. This study
looks at Sebastes fish bone size reduction
due to burning.
Methodology
This experiment was conducted in the
archaeology labs at the University of
Victoria. Four rockfish (Sebastes sp.) were
purchased, weighed, measured, and gutted.
To facilitate flesh removal, the fish were
poached slightly by placing them into a pan
of shallow water above a hot plate emitting
only enough heat to loosen the bone from
surrounding flesh. A variety of different
bone elements were selected for
measurement. Some were chosen based on
their frequency in the Richardson Island
assemblage and others for their inclusion in
the size regression formulae developed by
Orchard (2003). The bones included in this
experiment are the atlas, vomer, dentary,
pre-maxilla, epihyal, maxillary, second
vertebra, and basioccipital. Both left and
right sides of paired bones were removed
and measured. Measurements of the first
vertebrae (atlas), vomer, dentary, premaxilla,
and epihyal elements followed
Orchard (2003). These and measurements taken of the maxillary, second vertebra,6
basioccipital, and otolith elements are
listed in Table 3.
After measurement to the nearest 0.01 mm,
the Sebastes bones were placed on a flat
ceramic tile in a Fisher Scientific Isotemp
Muffle furnace, Model 182A kiln. The
bones were burned in two identical kiln
episodes with two rockfish individuals
each. In both episodes, kiln temperature
was brought to 900°C (1650°F) over the
duration of 35 minutes. This temperature
was chosen as it was the maximum
temperature recorded during the field-based
burning experiments, which will be
described later. It also approximates
maximum temperatures recorded in
previous experimental research (see
Shipman et al. 1984 for a review).
Subsequent to reaching maximum
temperature, the kiln was left to cool
overnight. The cooling rate was measured
the first half hour after the kiln was turned
off, during which the temperature fell
approximately 290°C (550°F). Identical
measurements of each element were taken
before and after kiln burning.
Results
Size Reduction After Burning
All elements showed some degree of size
change after burning. For those that
shrank, the average size reduction was
9.0%. There was some variability in
percent shrinkage between elements, with
parasphenoids displaying the least amount
of shrinkage at 7.6% and vertebrae
displaying the most at 10.9%. There was
also considerable variability in the size
6 The anterior measurements of the second vertebra were
taken as a proxy for the posterior measurement of one
first vertebra (atlas) that was lost during processing. All
other vertebral measurements are posterior.
reduction within each element type (Table
4).
Table 3: Measurements Taken Before and After
Burning
Vomer
1. Maximum width of toothed surface
2. Maximum anterior-posterior diameter of
toothed surface
Dentary
1. Maximum anterior-posterior diameter of
the body (superior margin)
2. Maximum height of the symphysis
3. Maximum anterior-posterior diameter
from the symphysis to the external
posterior incision
Premaxilla
1. Maximum antero-posterior diameter of the
body
2. Maximum height of the ascending process
3. Maximum height of the articular process
Epihyal
1. Maximum length of the ventral margin
2. Height of the posterior process
3. Maximum height perpendicular to the
ventral margin
First vertebra (atlas) and second vertebra
1. Maximum height of the centrum
2. Maximum width of the centrum
3. Maximum anterior-posterior diameter of
the centrum
Maxillary
1. Maximum length
2. Maximum width of the posterior margin
3. Maximum depth of the articular end
Basioccipital
1. Maximum height of the centrum
2. Maximum width of the centrum
Otolith
1. Maximum length
2. Maximum width


Table 4: Percent Shrinkage and Standard
Deviation (SD) After Burning
Skeletal Element Average %
Shrinkage SD
vomer 8.2 2.1
dentary 8.1 2.0
premaxilla 9.1 1.7
epihyal 8.8 4.1
first vertebra (atlas) 10.2 2.8
second vertebra 10.9 2.6
basioccipital 8.4 3.2
maxilla 9.4 2.6
parasphenoid 7.6 2.3
otolith - 4.5 1.8
Average 9.0 2.8
The six otoliths in the sample exhibited an
average of 4.5% size increase. Each
otolith was measured the day after burning,
and each specimen exhibited a number of
small fracture lines. This process of
fragmentation appeared to continue
unaided, and within a week of the burning
episode, all otoliths had disintegrated into
ash (Plate 4). This is an interesting
observation because, as noted below, no
otolith fragments have been recovered from
the Richardson Island hearths thus far.
Variability and Measurement
In addition to investigating the overall
shrinkage of fish bones due to burning, this
study was also interested in examining the
variability in shrinkage between elements
(Table 4). Some measurements were more
skewed after burning than others. For
example, even though the premaxillae have
the lowest SD, it was evident that the curve
of the premaxilla anterior-posterior length
had changed during burning. This would
introduce a slight skew into not only the
measurement of its length but also into the
maximum height of the extending
processes, with the original curvature
height being slightly modified through
warping. The maxillary and parasphenoids
have thin and fragile posterior edges, which
curled slightly during burning. This
change in shape could have increased
apparent shrinkage. Given that only two or
three measurements were taken for each of
a small sample of element types, the actual
range of variation in shrinkage between
elements may not be clearly defined here,
but it is important to note the existence of
such variation if burned elements are used
to reconstruct the live size of individual
fish.
Estimates of Richardson Island Fish Size
Size regression formulae have been
developed to estimate the size of different
species of animals, including fish, based on
measurements of various elements (e.g.,
Crockford 1997; Orchard 2003; Casteel
1974). We used Orchard’s (2003)
regression formulae to examine how an
approximate 9% reduction in the size of
elements due to burning would affect the
estimates of the length and weight of whole
fish at the Richardson Island site.
Calculations based on a vomer and epihyal
from hearth Q12-F1a and on five left
epihyals from hearth K26-F1a determined a
range of live fish lengths from 247 mm to
365 mm and live fish weight from 187 g to
870 g . If the percent size
reduction due to burning is incorporated
into these calculations, the estimated live
fish lengths would increase by
approximately 4-8% and the estimated live
weights by approximately 20-31%. The
adjusted weight estimates indicate that the
fish were small (mostly from 400-600g),
but qualitatively speaking, large enough to
be worth eating.

This experiment was designed to determine
if burning causes Sebastes fish bone to
shrink enough to bias our interpretations of
archaeological fish remains. The degree of
shrinkage documented is less than that
observed in the studies of mammal bones
noted above but may significantly affect
size (primarily weight) estimates of fish
individuals. It does not appear to explain
the size difference in Sebastes from the
Richardson Island and Kilgii Gwaay sites.
Table 5: Comparison of Size Estimates Based on
Measurements of Burnt and Unburnt Bone
Vomer Epihyal
1 1 2 3 4 5 6
A. Measurement of burnt specimen (mm)
8.5 1.2 2.7 1.8 2.1 1.9 2.2
B. Projected measurement (mm) if not burnt
9.3 1.3 2.9 2.0 2.3 2.1 2.4
Live length (mm, based on A)
286 239 346 283 305 292 309
Live length (mm, based on B)
307 247 365 296 320 306 324
% Difference
7.3 3.3 5.5 4.6 4.9 4.8 4.9
Live weight (g, based on A)
366 156 725 342 462 388 483
Live weight (g, based on B)
468 186 867 409 552 464 578
% Difference
27.9 19.2 19.6 19.6 19.5 19.6 19.7
To obtain “projected” measurements (B), values
for vomer and epihyal were increased by 8.2% and
8.8%, respectively (see Table 4).
Length = alpha + (beta*bone_measurement)
Weight = alpha * (bone_measurment^beta)
Experimental Program 2: Shortterm
use hearth replications
A field-based replication of short-term
single-use and multiple-use hearths was
conducted to examine additional effects of
high temperatures on fish bones and their
quantification. Two short-term use hearth
features were created to better understand
the formation processes affecting the
Richardson Island faunal assemblage.
While archaeological hearth features are
exposed to taphonomic factors not
replicable in this type of experiment (e.g.,
millennia of compression under four metres
of gravel overburden), this approach can
help us address a number of issues
concerning the interpretation of
archaeological fish bone assemblages. Our
objectives were to determine 1) which
skeletal elements of the fish species
observed within the Richardson Island
assemblage are most identifiable after
burning within hearths (see also Nicholson
1995) and 2) how burning and deposition
in hearth contexts affect the subsequent
quantification of fish remains (e.g., the
calculation of number of identified
specimens [NISP] and minimum number of
individuals [MNI]).
Methodology
“Short-term use hearth” is defined here as
the repeated use of a single hearth for fewer
than 10 burning episodes. The fish placed
in these hearths were caught at various
locations in southern Juan Perez Sound,
Haida Gwaii, near the field campsite on
southeast Wanderer Island where the
experiments were conducted. This camp is
approximately 50 km south of the
Richardson Island site. Two fires, each approximately 50 cm in
diameter, were assembled with wood
placed directly on beach gravel. No pit
was dug and no hearth lining used. A
variety of wood from the surrounding
beach was used, including alder, red cedar,
and yellow cedar. Fire temperature was
measured at regular intervals with a
thermocouple pyrometer, the probe tip of
which was placed in the centre of the fire
and at points along its periphery.
The first fire was a single-use hearth that
was lit only once and within which was
placed a single, filleted rockfish (Table 6).
This hearth was created as a general
reference for what one might expect from a
single burning event in terms of charcoal,
ash, and other fire alterations, as well as
quantity and condition of calcined bone;
clearly, there may be much variation
between such single-use events.
The second hearth was lit eight times.
Fauna were introduced during all but the
last of these burnings. Fish specimens
included eight rockfish (Sebastes sp.), two
lingcod (Ophiodon elongatus), one rock
sole (Lepidopsetta bilineata), one dogfish
(Squalus acanthias), and one kelp
greenling (Hexagrammos decagrammus)
(Table 6). These individuals were filleted
but not gutted before being placed
skeletally whole into the fire. Because of
the large size of halibut (Hippoglossus
stenolepis), only the ultimate seven caudal
vertebrae and the tail assemblage from one
individual was included in this experiment.
Each burning episode lasted from between
45 to 135 minutes, during which time the
fire was fed before being allowed to
extinguish naturally overnight.
Table 6: Fish Used in Hearth Experiments
SINGLE USE HEARTH Length Weight
copper rockfish (Sebastes
caurinus) 23.0 cm 140 g
MULTIPLE USE
HEARTH
rockfish (Sebastes sp.) 29.4 cm 365 g
rockfish (Sebastes sp.) 34.1 cm 725 g
rockfish (Sebastes sp.) 42.0 cm 1050 g
rockfish (Sebastes sp.) 49.0 cm 1800 g
rockfish (Sebastes sp.) 32.5 cm 500 g
rockfish (Sebastes sp.) 26.6 cm 225 g
rockfish (Sebastes sp.) 30.5 cm 320 g
rockfish (Sebastes sp.) 34.5 cm 635 g
lingcod (Ophiodon
elongatus) 67.0 cm 2,315 g
lingcod* (Ophiodon
elongatus) 62.0 cm no data
rock sole (Lepidopsetta
bilineata) 28.5 cm 225 g
canary rockfish (Sebastes
pinniger) 31.0 cm 450 g
greenling (Hexagrammos
decagrammus) 38.0 cm 590 g
dogfish (Squalus
acanthias) 76.0 cm 2,360 g
Pacific halibut**
(Hippoglossus stenolepis) 98.0 cm ~12,220 g
* Stomach contents included two small fish which
were also placed in hearth.
** Only 7 caudal vertebrae and tail were placed
into fire. Weight is estimated from length.
Temperature may be highly variable in
small campfires, with localized temperature
fluctuating considerably at any given
moment. Most hearths had a maximum
temperature around 760°C (1400°F), with
the highest temperature of 900°C (1650°F)
recorded during one episode that took place
on a particularly blustery evening. In
general, fire temperature increased quickly
after lighting. For example, in Episode 2
the first temperature reading was 260°C
(500°F), taken less than five minutes after
the fire was started. Four minutes later, it had risen to 730°C (1350°F). The hearths were excavated twenty days after the first
burning episode.
The methods used to excavate the
experimental hearths were identical to
those used in the archaeological excavation
of the hearth features at the Richardson
Island site, following the component
morphology of each hearth (Figure 2).
This morphology developed quite quickly.
After just two burnings of the multiple-use
hearth, the charcoal rich “b” component
had developed around the “a” component
which was centrally concentrated with less
charcoal. This pattern is comparable to that
observed in the Richardson Island
archaeological hearths and suggests that
they are not necessarily the result of
frequent re-use. Subsequent burning
episodes did seem to increase the visual
definition of the hearth structure.
Interestingly, portions of fish from burning
episodes sometimes remained charred, with
blackened fleshy components still visible at
the periphery of the hearth, while other
portions of the same fish placed in the
middle of the fire became completely
calcined. Also notable was the lack of
evidence or observation of any disturbance
of the experimental hearths by scavengers
such as eagles, ravens, raccoon, or bear, all
of which were present on the Wanderer
Island shoreline at this time.
Results
Skeletal Element Representation
Burning renders bones more susceptible to
fragmentation, resulting in a corresponding
reduction in identifiability (Stiner et al.
1995). It has been noted that, for
mammals, small dense bones of smaller
animals are more likely than other bones to
survive in identifiable condition in highly
fragmented assemblages (Klein and Cruz-
Uribe 1984). Our findings suggest that this
observation also applies to fish bones, but
on a much smaller size scale than for
mammals.
In order to better understand if smaller
bones survive more often in identifiable
condition in burnt fish bone assemblages,
we examined which skeletal elements from
burnt assemblages are commonly damaged
beyond recognition during burning (see
also Nicholson 1995). This is a primary
methodological consideration relevant to
the Richardson Island archaeological hearth
assemblages, keeping in mind that both
human behavior (e.g., species choice and
butchery practices) and taphonomic
processes (e.g., differential durability, soil
chemistry, coarseness of matrix, and
compression from overburden) have
influenced the assemblage composition.
This study obviously cannot replicate all of
the relevant, complex site-specific and
time-dependent taphonomic processes. It
attempts primarily to assess pre-burial
hearth formation processes to gain insight
into how fish bone elements are affected in
archaeological hearth contexts. Because
the “b” component of the experimental
hearths remains to be analyzed, only the
“a” components of the experimental and
archaeological hearths are used in this
comparison.
Sebastes: Appendix A lists the number of
Sebastes bone elements identified after the
two hearth experiments and three
Richardson Island hearth assemblages.
Elements from all regions of the skeleton
are present in both the experimental hearths
– in which whole fish were deposited – and
in archaeological hearths. There is no
complete absence of any skeletal region in
the archaeological examples, suggesting that all portions of at least some fish were
deposited in this context. In general, skull
elements, the suspensorium, and gill rakers
are fairly well-represented in all five
hearths. When assessing the presence of
specific bones, elements that appear in all
five hearth contexts include the nasal,
dentary, gill rakers, vertebra, and
pterygiophores. In many cases, only part
of the bone survived, but diagnostic
portions were present for identification.
The diagnostic attributes of bone elements
sometimes survived in unusual patterns.
For example, in hearth K26-F1a a total of
seven epihyal bones, five left and two right,
were recovered, resulting in a rockfish
MNI of five within a hearth containing
relatively few identifiable rockfish
elements overall (n=80).
Rockfish exhibit considerable discrepancy
in the relative representation of elements
between the experimental and the
archaeological contexts. Specifically, there
are 166 rockfish vertebrae in the multipleuse
and 16 in the single-use hearth,
compared to the three archaeological hearth
contexts, which produced only 4, 5, and 2
rockfish vertebral elements in total. There
has been considerable interest in the
variable frequencies of fish cranial and
vertebral elements in the study of food
processing and storage on the Northwest
Coast (e.g., Calvert 1973; Huelsbeck 1983;
Moss 1989). The paucity of identifiable
vertebral elements in the Richardson Island
hearths may be a result of cultural factors,
such as differential processing of fish
carcasses (Chatters 1984; Butler and
Chatters 1994). Butchery practices that are
dependent upon the size of fish are known
on the Northwest Coast and elsewhere
(Zohar et al. 2001). A particularly salient
example of this has been observed for large
Pacific halibut, which are often butchered
on the beach (Stewart 1977). The edible
fleshy parts of the halibut are then hauled
up to living areas, while the guts and the
remainder of the carcass, likely including
most bones, are left on the beach. Smaller
fish were more likely brought into camps
whole for processing and cooking (e.g.,
Binford 1981). Accordingly, it is likely
that the many smaller rockfish within the
Richardson hearths were brought into camp
whole, and the relative lack of rockfish
vertebrae may be indicative of a type of
fish processing or consumption that was
practiced within the vicinity of hearths.
The presence of gill structures (gill rakers)
and many bony head elements indicates
that the initial processing of small fish taxa,
including rockfish, may have taken place
here. Conversely, the lack of vertebrae
suggests that these elements, possibly
along with the fish fillets, may have been
used and deposited elsewhere.
Differential preservation of skeletal
elements can also contribute to
disproportionate representation of fish
vertebrae. Butler and Chatters (1994)
found that the density of salmon vertebrae
far exceeded that of most of their cranial
elements and are thus more likely to
survive over time, potentially skewing their
relative abundance in archaeological
contexts. In addition, experimental
modeling of the effects of cooking and soil
pH on various fish bones demonstrates that
the vertebrae of some fish are better able
than cranial elements to withstand postdepositional
degradation after cooking
(Lubinski 1996). It may be that Sebastes
vertebrae are also relatively dense,
although density values have not been
derived for this taxon. Other intrinsic
factors, such as bone shape and size, may have influenced element survival in the
archaeological deposits (Lyman 1994).
Overall, the paucity of rockfish vertebrae in
the Richardson Island hearths may not be
entirely attributable to differential
preservation. Any fragmentation of these
vertebrae renders them extremely difficult
to identify to species, and it is possible that
rockfish vertebrae were present but too
fragmentary to be counted.
Other Fish Taxa: Other than Sebastes, the
fish deliberately placed in the multiple-use
experimental hearth include dogfish,
lingcod, greenling, rock sole, and the
partial halibut skeleton. Fish elements
identified from the multiple-use
experimental context are compared to those
identified in the three Richardson hearths
in Appendix B. There are few identifiable
elements of taxa other than Sebastes within
the three archaeological hearths, making it
difficult to compare patterns in element
representation. However, the distribution
of elements of several species invites
comment despite their small numbers.
Dogfish occurred in two of the
archaeological hearths, represented by both
teeth and vertebrae. Because dogfish are
predominately cartilaginous, their dorsal
spines are the only other element that one
might expect to find (see Rick et al. 2002).
The absence of these dorsal spines appears
to be as a result of the peripheral location
of the dogfish within the experimental
hearth. The dogfish was burned near the
fire periphery during the last burning
episodes. Charred portions of the fish
remained apparent around the outside of
the hearth feature during excavation and
constituted much of the “b” component of
the experimental hearth, which was not
included in this study. This does not
explain the absence of dogfish spines
within archaeological hearths, but
placement of ancient fish remains within
different locations in the hearth may also
have biased the appearance of specific
skeletal elements within archaeological
hearths in general. Herring were
represented by vertebral and prootic bones
in two archaeological hearths and the
multiple-use experimental hearth,
suggesting that these elements were most
likely to survive. There was only one
herring element in each of the two
archaeological hearths, presumably because
their small bones do not survive well once
burnt (but see Nicholson 1995). Given the
paucity of herring elements, this taxon may
have been introduced as the stomach
contents of other fish, as was the case in
the experimental context. Vertebral
elements occurred for several taxa
including greenling, sculpin, halibut, and
salmon. A number of teeth and tooth row
fragments were identified as lingcod, arrow
tooth flounder, hake, or cabezon, as they
display a diagnostic “arrow”-tip tooth and
similar tooth row patterning. Halibut also
have a similar tooth row structure. It is
difficult to distinguish between these
species simply on the basis of teeth or very
small fragments of the tooth row alone. In
contrast, scutes, which are modified scales
or skin spines, can be relatively diagnostic.
Irish lord, flatfish, and starry flounder were
all identified by their scutes. This is
interesting for the archaeological samples
because it suggests that the skin of these
fish was deposited into the hearths, likely
as result of the clean-up of fish processing
debris.
Element Representation Summary: In the
current study, the survival of fish bone
after burning appears to have been
influenced by shape, size, and, perhaps, bone density. Flat and less “sculptural”
diagnostic elements tend to survive burning
and subsequent fragmentation less
frequently than diagnostic bones with a
more spherical or simple, robust shape.
Bone size is also a factor in survivability,
with smaller, more diagnostic bones such
as gill rakers and pterigiophores
fragmenting less than larger flat bones.
They are thus more likely to remain
identifiable despite – and perhaps because
of – their small size. In fact, very small
fish bones and fragments were identifiable.
In addition, smaller fish are more likely to
be brought into camps whole than large
fish, contributing more skeletal elements
per individual.
In archaeological fish bone assemblages
that have not been burned, the higher
density bones, including vertebrae and
robust head bones such as the angular and
maxillary, may be expected to survive after
burial more readily than less dense bones,
such as the ceratohyal (Butler and Chatters
1994). This is likely to be true of burnt fish
bone assemblages as well, although enough
of the specific diagnostic regions of bones
must also be present for elements to be
identified to a specific taxon. The relative
lack of rockfish vertebrae in the three
Richardson hearth samples may be due to
the high level of fragmentation, as very
small fragments of these vertebrae are not
identifiable to taxon. It has been noted that
burning causes some loss in the mechanical
strength of bone (Knight 1985 in Lyman
1994; Stiner et al. 1995). In the absence of
density data for these fish species, size and
shape may present a reliable but coarse
indicator of the potential of fish bone
survival within some contexts.
What is of particular interest is the fact that
no otolith fragments have yet been
recovered from the Richardson Island
hearths. Only a few, very fragile otolith
remnants were identified in the
experimental hearths. It appears that,
despite being extremely dense (Butler and
Chatters 1994), otoliths do not survive well
in burnt contexts (or in other archaeological
contexts [Wigen and Stucki 1988]).
Fragmentation, Identification, and the Size
of Skeletal Elements
In their analysis of how fragmentation
affects the identification of mammal bones,
Lyman and O’Brien (1987) concluded that
there is a minimum identifiable size of
bone fragment which varies between taxa
and skeletal elements. Beyond a certain
variable size threshold, the proportion of
identifiable mammal bone fragments will
decrease dramatically (Watson 1972; Hesse
and Wapnish 1985). Elements that occur
in an assemblage may not be identified and
quantified due to high levels of
fragmentation. Here we are interested in
examining the concept of a minimum
identifiable size for various fish bones.
It is apparent that there are few identified
elements in each of the three Richardson
hearths compared to the experimental
contexts (Appendices A and B), which is
likely evidence of significant taphonomic
attrition. The heavy overburden at this site,
consisting of over four meters of gravelrich
sediments, may alone have been
sufficient to cause loss of identifiable
specimens through high levels of
fragmentation. The level of fragmentation
and the paucity of element types identified
at Richardson Island suggest that the
number of identifiable elements has
decreased since deposition. Virtually all the identified elements from the
archaeological hearths are entirely calcined
and hence would be expected to have
turned to powder due to soil compaction
and, in some contexts, trampling and other
disturbances (Stiner et al. 1995). The
calcined fragments recovered from the
Richardson Island hearths may have
survived in the gaps between individual
gravels.
The relative difference in fragment size
between the experimental and the
archaeological hearths offers a coarse
comparison of degree of fragmentation (see
also Grayson 1984; Klein and Cruz-Uribe
1984). Three sub-samples of two hundred
fragments of unidentifiable bone were
randomly selected from both experimental
and archaeological contexts and then
weighed. The average experimental hearth
sub-sample weighed 2.9 g (0.015 g/
specimen), while the same number of
elements from Richardson Island hearth
K26-F1a weighed 1.3 g (0.007 g/specimen)
and those from hearth Q12-F1a weighed
0.9 g (0.005 g/specimen), showing the
average unidentified fragment in the
experimental context to be much larger. A
similar pattern holds true for identified
elements. During the identification process
the amount of each bone element present
was assessed and recorded on the following
scale of completeness: 1 (0-20%), 2 (20-
40%), 3 (40-60%), 4 (60-80%), and 5 (80-
100% whole) (Figure 3).
Statistical analysis shows that identified
skeletal elements were significantly more
complete in the experimental hearths than
in the archaeological hearths (Mann-
Whitney U=201105, p=0.0001). The
significantly higher level of fragmentation
in the archaeological samples has likely resulted in an overall reduction of the
number of identifiable skeletal elements. Quantification of Hearth Assemblages
There has been a longstanding debate about
the relative merits of number of identifiable
specimens (NISP) and the minimum
number individuals (MNI) as measures for
quantification of taxonomic abundance in
faunal assemblages (e.g., Casteel 1977;
Grayson 1973, 1984; Lyman 1979;
Marshall and Pilgram 1993; White 1953).
Highly fragmented bone assemblages
introduce additional interpretive challenges
(for reviews, see Grayson 1984; Klein and
Cruz-Uribe 1984; Ringrose 1993).
Considering the problems that arise from
the use of either NISP or MNI, it is
generally agreed that neither figure should
be used in isolation.
This portion of the analysis examines how
accurately the numbers of individual
specimens put into the fire are detected or quantified after burning. MNI was derived
through visual assessment of skeletal
elements, incorporating size comparisons
and the siding of paired elements. NISP is
the number of whole or fragmentary
specimens identified, not including
fragments that were unidentifiable beyond
the classification “fish”.
Table 7: Fish Introduced Into and Recovered
from Multiple-Use Experimental Hearth
Taxon
Number
placed in
fire
MNI
after
burning
MNI derived
from:
NISP
after
burning
rockfish 8 8 first vertebra
(atlas) 923
dogfish 1 1 vertebra, teeth 109
halibut 1 1 caudal
vertebra 10
herring 0 *1 vertebra,
prootic 41
flatfish 0 *1 vertebra 33
rock sole 1 1 posttemporal 8
lingcod 2 2 basioccipital,
quadrate 295
starry
flounder 0 *1 basioccipital 1
greenling 1 *2 basioccipital,
2nd vertebra 66
crab 0 *1 claw fragment 1
TOTAL 14 19 1490
* possible stomach contents of other fish
Table 7 shows the number of fish
individuals introduced into the multiple-use
experimental hearth as well as the MNI and
NISP of all species identified during
analysis. This analysis produced a number
of interesting results. Of note are the
elements from which MNI was derived for
each taxon. These elements were
considered to be the most reliable measures
of MNI because they were often the least
fragmentary. Other elements, such as the
dentary and premaxilla, which are
commonly used in calculating MNI in
unburnt assemblages, were in some cases
very fragmentary, making accurate visual
matching of fragments difficult. It has
been suggested by some researchers that
only a limited range of specific elements
need to be identified within fish bone
assemblages for the calculation of
measures such as MNI (Leach 1997). In
contrast, this study indicates that, when
calculating MNI within highly fragmented
fish bone assemblages, a wide range of
elements should be examined.
Some of the individuals identified in the
experimental assemblage had not been
documented as part of the original
experiment. A herring and a small flatfish
were observed to be part of the stomach
contents of the lingcod carcass. Because
taxonomic determination is often very
difficult when using Pleuronectiformes
vertebrae, the flatfish vertebrae that were
recovered were not identified to species
(Table 7). While both rock sole and starry
flounder were identified in the calcined
assemblage, the presence of starry flounder
is based on a single basioccipital element
which is morphologically quite similar to
rock sole. Elements of one greenling and
one crab were also introduced
unintentionally, either through stomach
contents of another fish or through
environmental contamination. This second
greenling was much smaller than the one
that was intentionally placed in the fire, and
it was most likely introduced as the
stomach contents of another fish. Butchery
practices that involve the gutting of small
fish at fires may result in the deposition of
non-food refuse into hearth features. In quantifying Sebastes remains recovered
from the multiple-use hearth, it was noted
that many bones were fragmented, resulting
in high NISP counts for specific elements
(Appendix A). Elements with long
diagnostic components, such as the
parasphenoid, the tooth row regions of the
premaxilla, and the dentary, are most
affected because a large proportion of these
bones are distinctive, resulting in the
identification of more fragments. At the
same time, other elements have become
unidentifiable through fragmentation and
thus are not counted toward NISP. The
NISP for Sebastes in the multiple-use
hearth is 923, which may seem fairly high
for the number of individuals (8) placed
into the fire. One might assume that the
relatively high NISP is a result of elements
being fragmented and counted multiple
times, but in this case, the major cause of
the high NISP was the identification of gill
rakers, which contribute 479 of the 923
identified specimens. The identification of
gill rakers within the hearths is a result of
our methodology, a process that
incorporated the assessment of very small
diagnostic elements. Sebastes have a large
number of gill rakers that seem to be more
durable than those of other species (Susan
Crockford, pers. comm.), and the
abundance of these elements may increase
the relative abundance of Sebastes NISP
when compared to other taxa.
Each individual fish that was intentionally
introduced into the multiple-use hearth was
represented in the recovered assemblage.
Therefore, while fragmentation of elements
in the experimental hearth may have
resulted in increased NISP for some taxa, it
had no effect on the quantification of the
MNI of taxa that were intentionally placed
into the fire. The implications of this for
the Richardson Island hearth assemblages
are unclear, partly because the sample size
of each hearth is so small. The use of MNI
with small sample sizes may result in the
exaggeration of the dietary significance of
less important species (Payne 1972).
While we cannot know the number of
individuals originally deposited in the
archaeological hearths, our experiments do
suggest that MNI values may not be greatly
affected by burning.
Species Representation
Species representation may offer insight
into economic activity when dealing with
highly fragmentary assemblages that are
from short-term contexts and contain few
identifiable elements, as is the case at
Richardson Island.7 Consideration should
be given to the fact that not all species
present will have direct economic
importance and may simply represent
discard of offal or other unintentional
occurrence. The experimental hearth study
presented here affirms the possibility that
some species or individuals recovered from
the archaeological hearth contexts may
constitute refuse (such as fish stomach
contents) and thus do not represent human
dietary items. Thus, it is not only
important to identify species but also to
understand their relationships within the
specific ecological niche being exploited
by people. In addition, for large faunal
assemblages, it may be possible to
investigate whether site occupants had
fished out the larger individuals from the
near-shore environment so that only small
individuals remained.
7 For example, one way of presenting presence and
absence data within a number of different contexts is
through the development of a ubiquity index of taxa (see
Dean 2005, McKechnie 2005). The Richardson Island assemblage
included small individuals representing
several near-shore fish species. This shows
that its prehistoric occupants were
exploiting the near-shore environment,
catching rockfish one day and greenling the
next, then processing and cooking the fish
and discarding the refuse from their catch
in their campfires.
Conclusions
The effects of human activity may be
difficult to distinguish from those of
natural taphonomic processes within
archaeological contexts. This presents
complications for the interpretation of
faunal assemblages, challenges that are
compounded by the added taphonomic
complexity typical of hearth contexts. Few
studies have focused on fragmentary burnt
fish bone within hearth features (but see
Hanson 1998), primarily because highly
fragmented bones are not easily identifiable
to skeletal element or taxon. The
importance of the Richardson Island site –
given its early Holocene age, its unusually
high-resolution stratigraphy, and its rich
lithic assemblage – and its lack of any
other faunal evidence led us to focus on the
study of the calcined fish assemblages.
Preliminary investigation of the Richardson
Island fauna has found that rockfish
(Sebastes) are by far the most abundantly
represented fish and that the rockfish
individuals from this site are small
compared to those from nearby Kilgii
Gwaay. This study investigated potential
reasons for the lack of large fish within the
Richardson hearth assemblages. Controlled
burning and hearth replication experiments
were conducted not to replicate the entire,
complex taphonomic history of the
Richardson assemblages, but to provide
insight into the specific characteristics of
the archaeological hearth features.
Our controlled burning experiment
demonstrated that burning causes a size
reduction of these fish bones that may
result in significant underestimates of live
fish weight. An average bone shrinkage of
about 9% was observed for the rockfish
elements in this study. Researchers
studying calcined fish bone may wish to
conduct similar burning experiments to
determine the degree of size reduction for
other taxa of interest. Our experiment also
showed that otoliths turn to ash after being
exposed to high temperatures (900ºC),
providing a viable explanation for the lack
of otoliths in the Richardson hearths.
The hearth replication experiments
demonstrated the complex taphonomy of
burnt fish bone assemblages. For example,
fragmentation affects NISP in two ways:
when specific skeletal elements (for
example the parasphenoid) are broken,
pieces of the same bone can be counted
more than once, resulting in an increased
NISP for those elements. More commonly,
fish skeletal elements were broken beyond
recognition, reducing NISP. This study
also observed that high levels of
fragmentation may result in an inverse
relationship between the body size of an
animal and the identifiability of its remains.
Large mammal and bird bones fragmented
into small pieces may be less identifiable
than fish bones broken into similarly sized
fragments. At the Richardson Island site,
not only were there very few identified
mammal and bird specimens, but there
were also very small burnt fish bone
fragments that were identifiable. In examining how MNI counts may be
affected by burning in hearths, we found
that all of the individual fish that were
placed into the experimental hearth were
accounted for in the recovered assemblage.
Of particular note was the fact that several
additional fish had been introduced into the
assemblage, likely as stomach contents of
other fish. Small fish in archaeological
assemblages may thus represent discard
that did not contribute directly to human
subsistence. This does not appear to be
entirely the case at Richardson Island.
Preliminary analysis of Sebastes skeletal
elements from two hearth contexts suggests
that the individuals recovered were large
enough to represent a food resource. It is
unlikely that all these fish were brought to
the hearth to be discarded in the fire or that
they only represented stomach contents of
larger fish. In addition, the large
proportion of Sebastes of all sizes in a
variety of contexts at the Kilgii Gwaay site
supports the conclusion that this taxon was
caught to be eaten.
The Richardson Island hearth assemblages
derive from a very localized and specific
hearth context. As a result, they represent
the material remnants of activities
conducted at or near the hearth. If
complete butchery and discard of bones
preceded arrival at the hearth, those
remains would not have been introduced
into these features. This is especially
relevant given that larger animals, such as
bear, albatross, halibut or seal, which
represented a major portion of the Kilgii
Gwaay faunal assemblage, are more likely
to be butchered prior to transport to
residential sites (Binford 1981).
While taphonomic factors may complicate
interpretations concerning the species that
contributed to the diet of the prehistoric
inhabitants of Richardson Island, the hearth
assemblages still provide behavioural
information about the activities of the site
occupants. The experimental hearths
suggest that their archaeological counterparts
represent a series of short-term events
– specific activities, such as logistical
forays into the environment. The hearth
contents thus illustrate the niches that were
exploited by humans across short time
spans in the distant past. Despite the
difficulties in working with such highly
fragmented faunal assemblages, they
provide a rich source of information that
may prove critical in our understanding of
the subsistence practices of peoples in the
past.