Eric Johnson completed his PhD in Anthropology/Archaeology from Harvard University in 2021. His dissertation examines historic “wampum workshops” in Bergen County that were owned by Euro-Americans. He has worked in northern New Jersey since 2017, with a focus on the archaeology and history of colonialism and capitalism.
I first met Ramapough Turtle Clan Chief Vincent Mann and Clan Mother Michaeline Picaro across from a dining room table at their colleague Judy’s house. Our gracious host had provided an impressive spread of snacks at the table, but I wasn’t hungry. I had a bit of a knot in my stomach. I had just started working in New Jersey for my PhD in archaeology. I was investigating the untold story of Euro-American settlers who manufactured Native American shell beads (called “wampum”) after the Revolutionary War. When Chief Mann and Michaeline came across my “wampum workshop” project through a local newspaper article, they contacted me and insisted that we meet before I continue my work. For good reason.
For as long as there have been archaeologists in North America, they have been responsible for looting and destroying Native American sites, hoarding human remains and sacred objects, and presuming to speak for Indigenous peoples in the name of science.
I got the feeling that Chief Mann and Michaeline—descendants of original Munsee Lenape inhabitants of northern New Jersey— were dismayed that my work could take place without their consultation. I was too. Despite my intention not to disturb Native American sites in my work, I was still studying an important piece of Indigenous history. I knew that the only way to right the past injustices of archaeology is to respect the sovereignty of Native nations on whose land we work. Put one way, it’s as if I had started an archaeological project in Egypt without consulting the Egyptian government.
After we said our goodbyes in the driveway later that evening, I took a moment to breathe in the cool mountain air, feeling like a completely different person. I had started the meeting hoping to meet a professional obligation. And yes, we developed a protocol for consultation, data sharing, and consent moving forward. But something much bigger and unexpected was happening. In a few short hours, I had a much clearer understanding of history, as if a veil had been lifted. I began to see my work in a new light. Chief Mann and Michaeline patiently explained an abridged account of the history of the Ramapough Lunaape Nation: their pre-colonial ways of life, their labor as workers in the Ringwood Mines, the racism of everyday life in 20th century America, the environmental and health injustices caused by Ford Motor Company, and the continued struggle for the Ramapough to be recognized by the wider public for who they are.
We also spoke about my dissertation topic. Chief Mann explained that the story of white-owned wampum factories in New Jersey was painful, both for what it was – as an appropriation of a sacred object – but also because of how it had been celebrated by the public as a story of industrial progress and entrepreneurial invention. By the end of that week, I had re-written my dissertation outline. I adjusted my research strategy to focus on data that revealed the harmful side of wampum drilling machines and fur trade merchants of the Early Republic. Later that summer, before excavating on public land, I invited Park Ridge Mayor Keith Misciagna to meet with the Ramapough at the site for a ceremony and blessing. Here, Mayor Misciagna and Chief Mann opened a dialogue of political recognition that had not existed before.
Looking back, I wasn’t simply learning about Ramapough history from Chief Mann and Michaeline – I was learning a different way of doing archaeology. One that can’t really be taught in a book or a lecture.
I reached out again in 2021 when I returned to New Jersey to help teach a field school in the area. This time around, Michaeline invited us on a field trip to the rocky highlands of Sussex County. What began as a short midsummer hike became another turning point in my life. We followed Michaeline off the trail (or rather, on a different kind of trail) toward a large boulder. It caught the eye from a distance, perched over a cliff and propped by a smaller stone. A sense of awe, almost fear, came over me as I gazed up at it, feeling it could topple over at any moment. “It’s what we might call a ‘billboard’ feature,” Michaeline explained with a smile.
By the end of the hike, we had seen at least a handful of stone complexes, some large, some small, some obviously stacked or placed, others more ambiguously. After an hour or so of sitting with the landscape, listening to both Michaeline and the stones themselves, the archaeologist in me knew that these features were intentionally modified by humans. Some had strikingly aesthetic and meaningful (if not explicitly ritual or ceremonial) characteristics. I racked my brain, reflecting on nearly a decade of studying archaeology in the Northeast, but all I could recall from my classes and readings was a vague reference to the “elusive” and “controversial” stone piles of New England. Either I had a serious gap in knowledge, or there was a much bigger problem here.
Little did I know, these stone creations had been sitting quietly for centuries alongside other histories, including the histories of injustice – social, academic, environmental, and spiritual – that are outlined elsewhere in this book. Walking through the forest with Michaeline and puzzling over stacks of stone, I had the feeling that seeds were being planted to right these wrongs, to heal from these harms.
