Tag: conferences

Reflections on facilitating difficult conversations about Indigenous knowledge and settler accountability in drama in education research.

The Moment

We were supposed to end the workshop with collaborative visioning and clear pathways forward. Instead, some participants felt confused and tense. Some thought they should avoid teaching Indigenous perspectives altogether. In contrast, others were uncertain about how to move forward in a responsible manner. I spent months getting ready for the international workshop “Honoring Indigenous Roots, Forging Inclusive Routes: Reimagining Drama in Education.” My colleague, Vina Begay, works as the Assistant Librarian and Archivist at ASU’s Labriola National American Indian Data Center. Working with Vina is a privilege and responsibility. I value her deep knowledge of Indigenous Knowledge Systems, cultural protocols, and decolonial librarianship. This expertise shaped our approach. There is simply no way the workshop could have happened without her expertise, and she deserves so much of the credit.

We carefully created frameworks to shift from extraction to relationality. We also made detailed guidance for educators based on their positions. Plus, we designed an activity to help participants map their ethical tensions. Vina’s leadership in centering Indigenous sovereignty and cultural protocols shaped every aspect of our presentation. Her vision of “Information is Sacred” and commitment to supporting Indigenous communities’ ownership of their knowledge guided our work. Vina had also spent precious time educating me about cultural protocols, dedicating countless hours to helping me in my anti-colonial work as a curator.

Somewhere along the way, we lost our message about building relationships before developing the curriculum. A participant asked how to show the Indigenous perspective in their play. I shared my thoughts on the key difference between real partnership and academic extraction. The conversation turned defensive. The participant argued that non-Indigenous playwrights should include Indigenous perspectives. They believed this should happen even without direct input from the communities involved. 

This desire for empathy might seem harmless at first glance. But, as was the point of our workshop, empathy cannot be the sole driver or result of collaboration. Good intentions can often lead to more damage, especially when working with Indigenous communities.

The Vision vs. The Reality

Looking back at our presentation slides, I see how thoughtfully we designed the content. We’d outlined clear “Pathways to Repair” that contrasted extraction thinking with relational accountability. Vina shared frameworks based on Indigenous Knowledge Systems, focusing on six Rs: Respect, Relationship, Responsibility, Reverence, Relevance, and Reciprocity. She created guidance for “Metropolitan (Non-Indigenous) Educators.” It highlighted cultural protocols as “the driving force in your classroom lesson planning.””

Our slide on educator responsibilities was clear: 

• Avoid myths and legends.
• Focus on modern Indigenous literature.
• Center cultural protocols.
• Acknowledge your limitations.

We understood that this work meant, as one slide said, “sitting with discomfort instead of seeking quick solutions.” It also meant “prioritizing Indigenous community needs over our teaching goals.””

However, we then designed a workshop that did precisely the opposite. We tried to compress complex, relational work into a single session. We asked participants to share personal tensions around colonialism and appropriation without adequate time for processing or relationship-building. We reproduced the very extractive dynamics we were critiquing—taking people’s emotional labor and vulnerability without providing sufficient care and follow-through.

The workshop format itself unintentionally demanded that participants engage with difficult personal and political questions within the constraints of an academic conference schedule, only to end abruptly when time ran out.

The Shock of “No”

What struck me most at that moment was the participant’s genuine surprise that their community work might be subject to critique. Here was someone doing what seemed like thoughtful, partnership-based work, and they appeared genuinely shocked to hear boundaries around Indigenous knowledge or questions about academic-community relationships.

This reaction illuminated something I’d been thinking about but hadn’t fully grasped: how rarely non-Indigenous people in academic settings hear “no” when it comes to knowledge. Librarians are trained to believe that if information exists, is published, and we can access it, then it’s ours to use. The idea that Indigenous communities might have sovereignty over how their knowledge is shared, taught, or represented often comes as a genuine surprise. And how uncomfortable it is for white folks who are allies to analyze their relationship to information critically. We cannot assume that there is always a “better” way to be more inclusive; sometimes, it’s better to stay in our lane.

In our presentation, I highlighted a key difference. Extraction thinking assumes that “if it’s published, it’s public.” In contrast, relational accountability values Indigenous leadership and respects protocols. Shifting from the first mindset to the second isn’t just about thinking. It means building emotional strength to accept “not for you” as the final answer, not just a starting point for negotiation.

White fragility

The frustration in that moment stemmed not from being wrong, but from the shock of encountering boundaries in a space that had felt open and morally correct. They thought about what happens when people dedicated to social justice realize their good intentions may not be enough. They also considered how their methods might need major changes.

White fragility appears in decolonial education spaces like this: 

• People think good intentions protect them from criticism. 
• They believe that doing “better” work means they do not have to hold themselves accountable. 
• They assume that being on the “right side” spares them from facing discomfort about their actions and beliefs.

Ethical mapping

We planned to conclude the workshop with an “Ethical Mapping” activity that would help participants navigate exactly these kinds of tensions. The framework was simple but powerful:

• TENSION: What is the ethical dilemma or site of friction?
• RESPONSE: How did you navigate it—and what frameworks informed your decisions?
• SHIFT: What change is needed—in your system, methodology, or institution?
• LESSON: What did you learn?

The participant’s reaction would have been perfect material for this kind of collective processing. We could use that moment to ask questions like: What do we do when our wish to do good work clashes with Indigenous community protocols? How do we sit with the discomfort of having our approaches questioned? What does it mean to center Indigenous sovereignty even when it limits our pedagogical options?

Instead, we ran out of time. The workshop ended with raw emotions and no framework for processing them. We’d activated all the tensions without creating space to work through them relationally.

If we had time for ethical mapping, that participant’s experience could have been a lesson for everyone. We could have modeled how to receive critique as information rather than an attack and how to use discomfort as a starting point for deeper inquiry rather than defensiveness.

However, the workshop format didn’t allow for that kind of collective meaning-making. I returned to extraction. I took advantage of people’s vulnerability, stirred up their defenses, and then sent them off to deal with it alone.

The Deeper Structural Issues

This experience made me realize how abbreviated workshop formats often reproduce the very dynamics they’re designed to address. We critiqued extractive academic practices during a workshop. It took emotional labor but didn’t offer enough support. We were advocating for relationship-building while operating in a format that emphasized content delivery over connection.

The real problem is that academic conferences and professional development focus on efficiency. They often overlook the importance of building relationships. We cannot deliver transformative insights in 60-90 minute sessions, changing people’s fundamental approaches to their work without the time needed for genuine relationship-building or ongoing accountability.

Decolonial work takes time. It requires lifelong work: giving up power, questioning assumptions, sitting with discomfort, and following Indigenous leadership. It involves the kind of ongoing relationship that can hold complexity, conflict, and growth over time.

One-shot workshops, no matter how well-designed, can’t create the conditions for this kind of transformation. At best, they can plant seeds. At worst, they can create the illusion of change while reinforcing existing dynamics.

Lessons for Facilitators

This experience taught me several crucial lessons about my position as a white librarian trying to do this work responsibly:

First, good intentions aren’t enough. I spent weeks getting ready. I worked with a co-facilitator, Vina, who is Diné. She has over ten years of experience as an archivist and librarian. We also used frameworks created by Indigenous scholars. I still recreated extractive dynamics. I didn’t take into account the emotional and relational aspects of this work.

Second, the format is the message. You can’t teach about relationality in a format that prioritizes efficiency over relationships. The container matters as much as the content.

Third, white fragility will show up. Some people will see boundary-setting as an attack. They may view criticism as unfair. Also, they might think their good intentions should protect them from feeling uncomfortable. Building capacity to work with these reactions—rather than avoiding them—is essential.

Fourth, unfinished conversations can be more harmful than no conversations at all. Starting tough talks without enough time to think can make people more defensive and resistant.

Fifth, my learning is ongoing. I learned from this experience that I still had assumptions about what participants could handle. I also found that I was attached to others seeing me as a “good” educator who did things “right.”

Designing for Difficulty

If I were to redesign this work, I’d start with different assumptions:

Assume resistance. Create activities that help people see “no” as just information. Don’t be surprised by defensive reactions to boundaries. This way, they won’t feel the need to attack it.

Assume complexity. Don’t try to resolve tensions—help people develop the capacity to sit with them in a productive way.

Assume time—design for multiple sessions over time, with space between for reflection and integration.

Assume a relationship. Prioritize connection and trust-building over content delivery.

Assume accountability. Create structures for ongoing engagement rather than one-time events.

This might mean designing a 3-session series rather than single workshops. It may mean starting with relationship-building activities before delving into more challenging content. It might mean ending with commitments to ongoing learning rather than neat conclusions.

Most importantly, it means being honest about what can and can’t be accomplished in academic workshop formats and refusing to promise a transformation that the container can’t deliver.

The Work Continues

I’ve thought a lot about the participants who left quickly. Did they feel attacked for wanting to do good work? I wonder if our workshop caused more harm than good. I’ve drafted several follow-up emails, trying to find language that acknowledges the limitations of our format while still holding space for the critical questions we were trying to raise.

But I’ve also been thinking about what it means to center Indigenous sovereignty in these conversations, even when—especially when—it’s uncomfortable for those of us who aren’t Indigenous. The resistance at that moment might have been necessary. The discomfort might have been productive. The unresolved tension might be precisely what is needed to motivate a deeper inquiry.

This work isn’t supposed to be comfortable. It’s supposed to unsettle us, prompting us to question our assumptions about knowledge, ownership, and academic freedom. The goal isn’t to make white educators feel good about their diversity and inclusion efforts; it’s to support Indigenous communities’ sovereignty over their own knowledge and cultural practices.

Perhaps the challenge wasn’t that someone got upset but that we didn’t have adequate structures in place to help them—and all of us—work with that upset productively. Perhaps the lesson isn’t to avoid difficult conversations but to create more effective containers for them.

The ethical tensions we were trying to address through our mapping activity don’t disappear when workshops end. They live in our daily practices as educators, researchers, and practitioners. The question isn’t about fixing these issues forever. It’s about building our ability to engage with them thoughtfully and responsibly. We must also be accountable to Indigenous communities.

Work happens through ongoing relationships, and the complex journey of learning to accept “not for you” as a full sentence. It continues in designing educational experiences that honor the principles they’re trying to teach rather than reproducing the dynamics they’re trying to transform.

Decolonial work isn’t just a workshop topic. It’s a lifelong commitment. It involves building relationships, being accountable, and learning to unlearn.

Special thanks to Vina Begay for making the journey abroad for the conference and for patiently teaching so much. Your fierce protection and vulnerability inspires me.

Reconciliation Pole, Vancouver, BC.