Abstract



The Audit: Perils and Possibilities for Contesting Oppression in the Heritage LandscapeBy Catherine D'Ignazio, Wonyoung So & Nicole Ntim-AddaeAbstractThe killing of George Floyd on May 25, 2020, in Minneapolis led to sustained protests, rallies and public outcry against systemic racism in the US People turned out in public spaces, and they also took action to contest and transform those public spaces both literally and symbolically: Muriel Bowser, the mayor of Washington D.C. renamed a two-block street section in front of the White House to “Black Lives Matter Plaza.” A statue of Christopher Columbus in Boston was beheaded and another in Baltimore was hurled into a river. Protesters and right-wing militia men clashed in New Mexico in front of a statue of conquistador Juan de O?ate. What these recent flash points have in common is that they are using the heritage landscape of the city—its collection of commemorative street names, places and monuments—as a site of contestation. Why has the heritage landscape, typically part of the unobtrusive backdrop of urban space, become such a locus of collective attention? Drawing from literature on critical toponymies and Black and Indigenous feminism, we connect the heritage landscape in the US to larger patterns of settler colonialism, white supremacy, and heteropatriarchy. We introduce the idea of “auditing” the heritage landscape—creating databases, lists and visualizations which highlight and quantify unequal public memory as well as the persistent elevation of perpetrators of violence in the landscape. Three case studies, including one about the co-authors' work, demonstrate the variation of existing auditing practices and raise critical questions about the feasibility of audits, their means and ends, as well as what they hope to achieve and for whom. We conclude that audits are provisional tools for settler institutions to denaturalize the heritage landscape and begin to reckon with their role in the on-going disruption of Black and Indigenous people's relationships to the land. IntroductionThe killing of George Floyd on May 25, 2020, in Minneapolis, US, led to sustained protests, rallies and public outcry against systemic racism. People turned out in public spaces, and they also took action to contest and transform those public spaces both literally and symbolically: Muriel Bowser, the mayor of Washington D.C. renamed a two-block street section in front of the White House to “Black Lives Matter Plaza.” A statue of Christopher Columbus in Boston was beheaded and the Columbus statue in Baltimore was thrown into the river. Protesters and right-wing militia men clashed in New Mexico in front of a statue of conquistador Juan de O?ate (Stein 2020). And the reverberations continue. In December 2020, the US Congress passed a bill to rename ten Army bases which commemorate Confederate men leaders. Many of these contestations have been simmering for decades. The most recent flash point was in 2017 in Charlottesville, Virginia, when counterprotester Heather Heyer was killed by white supremacists protesting a statue removal. In the wake of this tragic event, New Orleans, Baltimore, and Lexington all removed statues (McLean 2020). New York City initiated a commission on monuments and public art (Mayoral Advisory Commission 2018) which called for “comprehensive assessment of its current collection of public art, monuments, and markers in order to gain an understanding of what and who are represented and left out; and consider making such an assessment publicly accessible.” And one year later the City of Cambridge, MA, called for reviewing ties to slavery in the landscape (discussed later in our case study).What these institutional responses have in common is that they are treating the heritage landscape as a collection of sites to be assessed, reviewed, contested and possibly transformed in the process. Following Alderman, Dwyer, and Brasher, the heritage landscape is a spatially bounded collection of material cultural elements. It includes all of those sites associated with collective memory, including “street signs, historical markers, landmarks, statuary, preserved sites, and parks” (Alderman, Brasher, and Dwyer 2020, 40). Together, the heritage landscape represents a kind of “memorial infrastructure” which is “designed to facilitate remembering and forgetting of the past” (Alderman, Brasher, and Dwyer 2020, 40). But whose past is remembered and whose is forgotten? Because of their elevation and legitimation of official, hegemonic history—the values and worldviews of the dominant social groups, heritage landscapes tend to exclude marginal and minoritized histories. Yet, Alderman et al. caution against concluding that the heritage landscape is static and determined. Instead, they say, “Heritage is inherently dissonant or open to discord or disagreement” (Alderman, Brasher, and Dwyer 2020, 44). It is an open-ended symbolic system, one that has roots in the present as much as it does in the past, and one that is constantly being challenged and transformed by struggles over public history and power.In this chapter, we are focusing more on the collection of commemorative place names in a given geography, and less on the collection of monuments, memorials and statuary in a given place, although some of our case studies will touch on monuments. Commemorative place names—places named for "great" people or events—are ubiquitous in European colonial societies and constitute a layer of public history overlaid onto space. For this reason Azaryahu and others assert commemorative place names convert history into geography. But whose history becomes spatialized into everyday infrastructure? The literature on commemorative place names and the centrality of power to their processes of contestation and reform is increasingly discussed as a body of work called “critical toponymies” which we review in the next section. However, while all scholars of critical toponymies center the role of unequal, hegemonic power in producing unequal toponymic landscapes, and they allude to the idea that that power is gendered and raced, they have less to say about how and where that power comes from and how that power works. In response, we offer concepts from Black and Indigenous feminisms that bring more precise taxonomies for how forces of settler colonialism, white supremacy, and heteropatriarchy surface in land and property regimes in the United States, and, as a consequence, in US heritage landscapes. Specifically, we draw from Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang to show how land acquisition through theft, displacement and dispossession is the central driving force of settler colonialism. We situate the heritage landscape as part of the “hegemonic domain”—the domain of culture and ideology—of Patricia Hill Collins’s matrix of domination. The heritage landscape is but one aspect of a deeper settler colonial apparatus that systematically works to deny, disrupt and erase Black and Indigenous relations to land.This conceptual examination of power begs the question – how might we reckon with these forces of structural oppression in the landscape? First we have to ask and answer, who is “we”? We are a team of one professor (D'Ignazio), one PhD student (So) and one research staff member (Ntim-Addae) who came together in summer 2020 with a shared interest in commemorative place names and their contestation. We benefit from settler institutions—we are at an elite institution on unceded Wampanoag land in a department of urban planning. D'Ignazio is descended from settlers and Italian immigrants to the US. So and Ntim-Addae bring lived experience of other postcolonial contexts (Korea, Ghana) to the study of the US heritage landscape. Because we are writing about nation, race and gender-based oppression, we believe our own identities matter in our study—we identify as a white cisgender woman, an asian cisgender man from Korea who has emigrated to the US as a student, and an African American cisgender woman who is a first generation Ghanian immigrant. Our lived experiences shape our interests, research questions, and methods. So, how might we reckon with these forces of structural oppression in the landscape? It is important to note that minoritized groups are reckoning with these forces of oppression in the landscape all the time, in ways both large and small. These might include toppling monuments, campaigning to change place names, refusing to use an institutionally-given name for a place, collecting oral histories of a shared experience of a place and more. In this chapter, we are interested in exploring a particular form of reckoning: the audit of the heritage landscape. Audits create accountings, lists, databases, and visualizations which reckon with official commemorative names in the landscape as a collection and seek to demonstrate, through quantification and aggregation, the extent of the public celebration of perpetrators of violence as well as the extent of the public erasures of minoritized groups. We introduce three case studies to demonstrate the wide variation in existing auditing practices: A call by a city councillor to review ties to slavery in the heritage landscape of Cambridge, MA; The work of a non-profit group, the Southern Poverty Law Center, to catalogue the iconography of the Confederacy in the American South; And our own emerging effort from academia to provide a public data portal for auditing commemorative names and places in the US. In our synthesis of these cases, we raise critical questions about the feasibility of audits, their means and ends, as well as what they hope to achieve and for whom. We end by synthesizing these case studies into reflective questions, challenges and tensions for future instigators of audits of public space. Critical toponymiesToponymy is the study of toponyms, the origin of names and meanings. It has been traditionally understood as a subfield of linguistics that is focused on the origin and meaning of place names, comprising “etymological and taxonomic concerns” (R. Rose-Redwood, Alderman, and Azaryahu 2009, 445). In recent decades, scholars have turned their attention to the political struggles surrounding naming, in order to understand naming practices as a spatialization of power (R. Rose-Redwood 2011; R. Rose-Redwood and Alderman 2011; Vuolteenaho 2009; Whelan 2005). Such critical perspectives on understanding toponymies have also been applied to studies about other aspects of the heritage landscape including monuments, street names, neighborhood names, and memorials, and so on (Alderman and Inwood 2013; Azaryahu 1996; Ferguson 1988; Madden 2018).In particular, studying how place names interrelate with systems of hegemonic power—a power that justifies certain norms and ideas of dominant groups over others (Rosamond 2020)—is crucial to understanding how political and ideological orientation of states affects spatial contexts and governs their territory through naming. Place naming has played a role as a “strategy of nation building and state formation” (Manucharyan 2015, 123). In particular, Western and European states use namings to manifest their territory and manage their places and space, thus fulfilling states’ desire for legibility (Scott 1999) and contributing to building a national identity. Through this process, as Rose-Redwood and Azaryahu noted, history and geography are conflated as we witness through street names like Martin Luther King St or Columbus Road (Azaryahu 1996; R. Rose-Redwood, Alderman, and Azaryahu 2009). Regarding such identity-building processes, many scholars have detailed how commemorative streets and places are renamed and monuments are removed after a regime is changed. For instance, after World War II ended, post-Nazi Germany renamed their commemorative streets as an effort to either restore the pre-Nazi republic or envision the future of their regime (Azaryahu 2012). Indeed, scrubbing the landscape of colonial influence is a common practice in postcolonial contexts, such as the removal of the Japanese General Government Building in Seoul and the geographical name conflict between the East Sea and the Sea of Japan (Short and Dubots 2020; Son and Pae 2018). Naming is a powerful mechanism for colonial nations to assert ownership and dominance over others' land, and scholars have demonstrated how "Indian" names in the US are actually products of the settler colonial gaze on the landscape (Herman 2015).Scholars and practitioners have also highlighted the importance of naming as a battlefield for “symbolic resistance,” studying the history of the contestation of naming practices and renaming campaigns that originate outside of institutions. Non-dominant groups have challenged the notion that naming can be only exercised by powerful entities. Their projects and campaigns show how naming can be “a political strategy for addressing their exclusion and misrepresentation within traditional, white-dominated constructions of heritage” (R. Rose-Redwood, Alderman, and Azaryahu 2009). For instance, the Institute for Infinitely Small Things held “renaming parties” where local people were invited to propose new names for any public place in Cambridge, MA. Although the new names were non-binding, engaging people in acts of civic imagination enabled them to exercise the role of author in naming streets and places, in order to collectively imagine an alternate heritage landscape (D’Ignazio 2016). Another challenge to conventional naming practices is Coming Home to Indigenous Place Names in Canada, a map by Margaret Pearce that depicts only Indigenous names on the territory conventionally called “Canada.” Through this map, the Indigenous names “express territorial rights and describe the shapes, sounds, and stories of sovereign lands,” thus appreciating Indigenous territories and sovereignties as a result (Pearce 2017). In a similar vein, the Ogimaa Mikana project restors Anishinaabemowin place-names to the streets and trails in Gichi Kiiwengigng (Toronto) by placing Indigenous names into the landscape on signs. These contestations from outside institutions suggest the possibility of opening “closed” questions within the settler colonial symbols that dominate the heritage landscape of US and Canadian cities. Black feminist and Indigenous feminist theories of land and power While critical toponymies engage with commemorative names and their relationship to hegemonic power, particularly state power, this literature does not fully tease out the specifics of how that power works or what it consists of, especially in relation to place-based histories of domination and resistance. For example, in Cambridge, MA, white, English-speaking, heterosexual, Christian, landowning, cisgendered men represent an estimated 10% of the current population. So how does it come to be that 90% of the commemorative names in Cambridge, MA, honor this tiny (demographically-speaking) group of elite white men? (So 2020) Or how does it come to be that only three percent of the designated US National Landmarks represent people of color and/or women and/or members of the LGBTQ+ Community? (Frey, 2019 cited in McLean, 2020)In this section we weave together the work of scholars coming from Black and Indigenous feminisms to analyze the heritage landscape in relation to three intertwined forces of domination at work in the US context: settler colonialism, white supremacy and heteropatriarchy. The work of these forces begins with the rise of European colonial power in 1492, and with the desire of the colonial powers for land as a form of wealth above all others. Tuck and Yang (2012) assert that settler colonialism is different from conventional scholarly distinctions between internal colonialism—which happens within the domestic borders of a nation-state—and external colonialism —in which a foreign power dominates and exploits another nation for land, goods and/or labor. In settler societies like the United States, the settlers come to stay, permanently, and the most important concern of the domestic, permanently colonizing power is land acquisition and control: “Land is what is most valuable, contested, required. This is both because the settlers make Indigenous land their new home and source of capital, and also because the disruption of Indigenous relationships to land represents a profound epistemic, ontological, cosmological violence” (Tuck and Yang 2012, 5).European settlers imported a foreign conception of land as private property—as a “resource” that could be possessed. In her landmark essay “Whiteness as Property,” legal scholar Cheryl Harris explains how white settlers were unable to recognize the way that Native peoples related to their land—they did not till it and farm it and carve it into plots in the conventional European way (Harris 1993, 1722–23). It is at this moment that white supremacy and land (as property) begin to intertwine, because colonial governments only recognized white land practices as legitimate acts of land possession/relation and upheld these relationships in laws, courts, and settler governance. Race, before race is even quite invented, becomes the defining factor in who may claim and retain their relationship to land, and whose relationship to land is disrupted through dispossession, expropriation and exile. At the same time, European settlers required large amounts of labor to work the newly "owned" land, particularly as the landed class struggled to maintain control of the white labor population (Harris 1993, 1717). This led to the intensifying demand for the forced labor via chattel slavery and the specific linking of that labor to race, color and white supremacy (Harris 1993). In this case, the labor of human beings becomes property, but the human part of the being is an excess: "the slave’s very presence on the land is already an excess that must be dislocated." (Tuck & Yang) As Silva states, “racism is an invention of colonialism” (Silva 2007). White supremacy evolved as a tool for settler colonial plunder. The result is that Indigenous people and enslaved people are kept landless and placeless, by design. The colonial encounter was not only the beginning of white supremacist and settler logics of elimination. It was also a site for enacting and enforcing heteropatriarchal norms, including the gender binary (which is really a hierarchy), the erasure or pathologization of LGBTQ and two-spirit people, women as "belonging" to men, and the normalization of sexual violence. These norms are deployed as tools specifically for securing land through the disruption of land relations for all non-white populations. Sarah Deer (2009) and Leanne Betasamosake Simpson (2017), among others (Sovereign Bodies 2020), assert that heteropatriarchy must be theorized as central to all discussions of colonial dispossession and locates attacks on Indigenous body sovereignty as central to attacks on Indigenous land sovereignty: “Gender violence is part of a long history of white men working strategically and persistently to make allies out of straight, cisgendered Indigenous men, with clear rewards for those who come into white masculinity imbued with heteropatriarchy and violence, in order to infiltrate our communities and nations with heteropatriarchy and then to replicate it through the generations, with the purpose of destroying our nations and gaining easy access to land” (Simpson 2017, 41–42). Heteropatriarchy, like white supremacy, is an ideological tool that accompanies and aids the expansion of settler colonial land acquisition.Let us pause for a consideration of how settler colonialism is not in the past—how and why it is still alive and at work in our present heritage landscape. Here we introduce the matrix of domination—a Black feminist conceptual model that describes how oppression works at multiple scales. Developed by sociologist Patricia Hill Collins, there are four domains of power to be considered: (1) the structural domain—consisting of laws and policies that codify oppression; (2) the disciplinary domain—consisting of the bureaucratic management of oppression; (3) the hegemonic domain—which circulates oppressive ideas, stereotypes and culture; and (4) the interpersonal domain—how the individual experiences the effects of structural oppression (Collins 1999). Reading the dramatically unequal heritage landscape of Cambridge, MA, in relation to the matrix of domination we can locate the overrepresentation of landed, white, settler men in names and statues as part of the hegemonic domain. This is where cultural expressions of dominance, exclusion and erasure are sited. In her history of US preservation organizations, McLean demonstrates how heritage and preservation fields are dominated by landed, white interests and prioritize the preservation of (white) land, buildings and properties over other forms of memory (McLean 2020). As we have established the racialized nature of land relations under settler colonialism, this bias towards property constitutes a form of racialized memory violence. Those who were denied land through exclusion are denied history and memory through preservation. Surrounding ninety percent of the population with symbols of the dominance and violence of ten percent of the population symbolically demonstrates the on-going strength and enduring persistence of the settler colonial project to sever all other groups' relations to the land.This oppression in the hegemonic domain – the suffocating stamina of inert material to fail to fade – would not be possible without all of the other apparatus from the other domains of the matrix that disrupted and continue to disrupt Black and Indigenous people's relations to land; and women's and LGBTQ+ persons' experiences within that. In the structural domain, centuries of legislation worked to deny land to Black and Native people by ruling against them or by forcibly removing them from their land (Harris, 1993), and enshrined the rights of white people to possess property. Primarily it upheld property rights for men. Under the "doctrine of coverture" imported by English colonists, women became property of men upon marriage. Likewise, inheritance of assets was almost always ruled to be patrilineal except in cases where one was inheriting status as an enslaved person – this came from the mother so that white enslavers could sexually exploit Black women and profit from it (Harris 1993, 1719–20). In the disciplinary domain, land is tied to whiteness and heteropatriarchy through practices of redlining and racial covenants (Silver 1996), and later, through practices of credit scoring, loan granting, and undervaluing the land of Black owners (Glantz and Martinez 2018; Rothstein 2018; Taylor 2019). Today, these are accelerated by "big data" approaches which seek to include all individual data available as an input into credit scores (Hurley and Adebayo 2017). Centuries of white supremacist, heteropatriarchal actions in the structural and disciplinary domains have led to extensively documented wealth and wage gaps in the United States (Darity and Mullen 2020; Lui et al. 2006).Finally, in the interpersonal domain, there is the well-documented risk and danger for Black and Indigenous people to drive their cars (Philando Castile, Olivia Lone Bear), to go jogging in their neighborhood (Ahmaud Arbury), to hang out in a park (Rekia Boyd), to rent a hotel room (Amanda Webster) or to be at home (Breonna Taylor, Jessica Alva). Even these most mundane, temporary ways of inhabiting space, place and land use are surveilled, policed and infused with violence. As Tuck and Yang explain, "The settler's wealth is land," so the present structural gaps in wealth and wages literally quantify the impact of the centuries-old settler colonial, heteropatriarchal project to hoard privately-owned land for a small elite by disrupting land relations for all others. This is the settler colonial logic of elimination in operation in all four domains of the matrix: eliminating attachments to land, eliminating memory and history, eliminating wealth and wages, eliminating individual people and whole nations. The logic is historic and the logic is present. It is this apparatus that explains why we are surrounded by virile, white military men on horses, what trans activist and philosopher Paul B. Preciado has called it "a patriarchal-colonial amusement park” (Preciado 2020, para. 7).The audit as applied to the landscapeIn this section, and for the remainder of the chapter, we explore the tension and potential of the audit as a way to reckon with the violently unequal heritage landscape in the United States. The term "audit" originates from the Latin audībilis, meaning "to hear" and shares its root with words like audible and audience (Hoad 2003). In contemporary usages, the audit is often used in the context of finance and accounting to mean the official inspection of an individual or organization’s financial accounts by an independent body (external audit) or an internal body (internal audit). The audit consists of scrutinizing the accounts to create a "true and fair view" of the business (Moles and Terry 1997). Audits in the field of finance and accounting are themselves the subject of a long literature and whole journals like the Accounting, Auditing & Accountability Journal (Matthews 2013; Roussy and Perron 2018). More recently, the term "audit" has been expanded to entail field experiments to detect discriminatory behaviors in the social sciences (Gaddis 2017), as well as attempts to quantify discrimination in algorithms and machine learning systems (Buolamwini and Gebru 2018; Davidovic, Brown, and Hasan n.d.; Diakopoulos 2014; Sandvig et al. 2014). Audits have also been applied to land in South Africa, where land audits undertaken by the government are used to highlight race, ethnic and gender disparities in land ownership among other things (Stephenson et al. 2015).Auditing methods are increasingly being used when there are asymmetries of power, for example when journalists want to examine proprietary algorithms for racialized impacts (Angwin et al. 2016). In these cases, where insider access to records and systems is often not possible, the audit consists of reverse-engineering the outputs and impacts of systems. In 2013, for example, the group Stop LAPD Spying undertook a "People's Audit" of the Los Angeles' police department's data-driven tactics of citizen surveillance (Stop LAPD Spying Coalition 2013). Scholars in both algorithmic fairness and geography have re-introduced the anthropological idea of “studying up”—using the tools of research, data science and cartography to undertake sociocultural studies of powerful, dominant actors (Barabas et al. 2020; Huntley 2020; Nader 1972). Studying up, as well as “mapping up,” represent a way to turn the academic gaze away from marginalized groups and towards institutions that consolidate and maintain unequal power structures. Audits, in the context of asymmetrical power, represent a way to “study up.”In a similar vein, recent calls have been made to "audit" statues, buildings and street names for connections to slavery, colonialism and patriarchy. Some of these endeavors are being undertaken by the institutions that manage the heritage landscape such as national and city governments (BBC News 2020; Moore 2020; Rath and Beland 2019). Others are being undertaken from the outside-in, by artists and cultural workers (Concepcion 2020; Monument Lab 2020), nonprofits (Southern Poverty Law Center 2016a), activists (Geochicas 2018; Take Em Down NOLA 2020) and academics (So 2020). In all cases, the audit is place-based, encompassing a specific geography of interest. Generally speaking, it entails creating a systematic catalogue of items of interest, tracing their origins, and connecting them—as a collection—to racial and social injustice. The fact that the audit encompasses a systematic collection of items is important to distinguish them from case studies that focus on a single monument or place name. While most projects share these general characteristics, there is much variation in existing auditing practices in relation to the heritage landscape. In the next section, we introduce three short case studies to explore the diverse motivations and challenges entailed in conducting place-based audits of the heritage landscape. We chose these cases to be able to reflect on their different institutional starting points (municipal government, non-profit advocacy, academic), distinct geographic scopes (city, region, nation), and variations in proposed goals, audiences and impacts.City of CambridgeIn April 2019, Cambridge City Councilor E. Denise Simmons introduced an ordinance to compile a list of city streets and places with ties to slavery. It ordered that “the City Manager hereby is requested to direct the appropriate City personnel to compile a full accounting of streets, schools, and public buildings that may be named in honor of those who have ties to the American slave trade, and to work towards renaming all of these streets, schools, and buildings as soon as possible.” (Simmons 2019). News about the ordinance was widely reported in the local press and Councilor Simmons spoke in interviews about Cambridge's need to recognize its legacy of slavery and to begin to reckon with its racist history (Rath and Beland 2019). While slavery was effectively abolished in Massachusetts in 1783, the choice to commorate perpetrators of white supremacy continues. Stated Simmons, “[Slaveowners] basically built their empire on the backs of free labor, and we...go on later on and name buildings and streets after them.” (Sharples 2019). Recognizing these unequal histories represented in the Cambridge heritage landscape, Councilor Simmons has moved not only to catalogue connections to slavery but also to discover and uplift Black heros as well. The Cambridge Historical Commission (CHC), established in 1968 to preserve the historical legacy of Cambridge, was charged with carrying out the "full accounting" that the ordinance outlines. Since the ordinance was adopted, their small staff has worked with Grace Woodward, a graduate student researcher, on the audit.Auditing the landscape for ties to slavery, and to surface stories of enslaved people, is not without challenges. For example, it is difficult to ascertain information about enslaved people as their stories were often transmitted through oral histories or brutalized and minimized in white supremacist narratives (Ntim-Addae 2020a; Azaryahu 1996). However, as slavery was part of an economic entreprise, it is possible to track which white settlers had connections with the slave trade through taxes on human cargo and the 1790 Census. Even then, verification is difficult as slave owners potentially hid enslaved people to avoid taxes (Hardesty 2020). One unignorable pattern in the Cambridge heritage landscape is the commemoration of white, Harvard-affiliated men who owned land and owned people. Harvard University, founded in 1636, is the oldest institution of higher learning in the United States and among the most prestigious in the world. It also has some of the deepest ties to slavery of any instition. Much of the wealth used to build Harvard University comes from ties to the slave trade and the oppression of Black and Indigenous people, whether it is through alumnus donating estates funded by slave labor in the West Indies or scientific support of the inferiority of non-white people (Beckert and Stevens 2011). There are many examples: John Collins Warren actively supported scientific racism and was the founder of Massachusetts General Hospital and the first dean of Harvard Medical School. Louis Agassiz, professor of zoology and geology at Harvard, commissioned the first daguerreotypes of enslaved people (now the subject of much controversy and lawsuits) and used them to support scientific racism. A street and a neighborhood are still named for him, though a Harvard building and a school have subsequently been renamed. Thorndike Street in East Cambridge is named after Israel Thorndike who funded his large contributions to Harvard through his profits trading goods and enslaved people in the West Indies. Brattle Street is named for William Brattle, a Harvard alum turned minister at the First Church of Cambridge who enslaved at least one person. Isaac Royall Jr. inherited enslaved people from his father and was known for his cruelty to them. He donated his estate to Harvard and his family crest was imitated in Harvard Law School's crest. Throughout the early 1700s, university presidents Increase Mather, Benjamin Wadsworth, and Edward Holyoke all enslaved people. Andhere are many more names that perpetuate the legacy of slavery in Cambridge. While Cambridge's audit is still in progress, Woodward, the graduate student researcher with the CHC, hopes that the results will engage the community to continue and expand the ways in which they collect their own histories. “[Telling] your stories in places increases interest,” she explains. She looks for oral history projects that demystify archives and decolonize the colonial structure that is historical preservation. Presently, Councilor Simmons and the CHC continue to work together to move the audit forward as part of a public process. As of this writing, the City Council is currently awaiting a report about forming a working group to continue the audit process (Simmons 2020). Councilor Simmons has been successful in unveiling Prince Hall, a African American freemason and orator during the Revolutionary War era. In Woodward's estimation, these are small steps towards a larger end goal. However, she wonders whether an audit of space is "enough" to confront institutional complicity in the systematization of oppressive structures. We return to this question in the Discussion section. Whose Heritage? By Southern Poverty Law Center On June 17th, 2015, a 21-year old, self-proclaimed white supremacist attended the Bible study at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, SC, then committed a mass shooting. Known as “Mother Emanuel,” the church was one of the oldest African Methodist Episcopal churches and was a communal space for organizing events related to civil rights and Black Lives Matter. Nine people were killed and all of them were African Americans. The perpetrator’s blog was filled with racial hatred, accompanied by a Confederate Battle Flag. This tragic event sparked a nationwide debate to remove Confederate symbols from public space and rename streets and place names that commemorate the Confederacy. For instance, Nathan B. Forrest High School in Jacksonville, FL was renamed Westside High School and a J.E.B. Stuart portrait at the courthouse grounds in Stuart, VA, was removed. However, even though these debates took place in the former Confederate states, many monuments still stand and street names remain the same.The Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) is a nonprofit legal advocacy organization specializing in civil rights and racial justice based in Montgomery, AL. As a response to the mass killing at Mother Emanuel, they decided to audit the heritage landscape to monitor which Confederate memorials still stand vs those that have been taken down or renamed. SPLC's objective is to audit the “iconography” of the Confederacy by creating a database to “assist the efforts of local communities to re-examine [Confederate] symbols.” In 2015, they did an initial audit and since then they have been actively updating the status of Confederate monuments and places, including whether they have been removed, renamed, or relocated. In terms of data sources, the SPLC uses various databases to surface Confederate monuments. These include the National Park Service, the National Register of Historic Places, and various crowdsourced databases like Waymarking, a crowdsourcing platform of places people visit, and the Historical Marker Database. From this work, they launched "Whose Heritage?", an interactive map of Confederate-related monuments and place names as well as a community action guide that allows users of the map to take direct action by providing instructions on how to build a campaign to remove monuments and/or rename streets (Southern Poverty Law Center 2016a). Both the map and the community action guide are part of a larger report, Whose Heritage?: Public Symbols of The Confederacy, that analyzes the SPLC’s findings (Southern Poverty Law Center 2016b). From the initial audit, they first identified 1,861 Confederate symbols in the states. In 2016, they checked and showed that 114 had been removed but 1,747 symbols were still located in the same places. In total, by last count, there are 780 monuments, more than 300 of which are concentrated in Georgia, Virginia, or North Carolina. In particular, 103 public schools and three colleges named for Robert E. Lee, Jefferson Davis, and other Confederate men leaders. There are 80 counties, 10 military bases, and 9 observed state holidays commemorating Confederate icons. Following the Charleston shooting, many Confederate monuments were removed. 52 of the 777 Confederate public monuments known to the SPLC were removed, with Florida, Tennessee, and Maryland conducting the most removals and renamings. The final report contains a timeline that shows trends in the erection of monuments and the naming of places after Confederate figures. In particular, the SPLC identified two historical periods where there was a major uptick in the commemoration of Confederate figures in the heritage landscape: the beginning of the 20th century and the Civil Rights movement. The former period was the time when states were enacting Jim Crow laws to disenfranchise the newly freed African Americans and re-segregate society, and it also marks the resurgence of the Klu Klux Klan (KKK). During the Civil Rights movement, the increase in Confederate monuments was associated with the backlash against de-segregationists. It is interesting to note that in the Jim Crow period many monuments were erected on courthouse grounds, and many schools were renamed to commemorate Confederate men. After George Floyd’s death, they rechecked their data and showed that 64 Confederate symbols including 60 monuments, 1 state flag (MS), 1 holiday (VA), and 2 Confederate flag emblems were removed, 10 were relocated, and 19 were renamed (Southern Poverty Law Center 2020). However, there were also protests by white supremacist groups and legal challenges originating from the United Daughters of the Confederacy (UDC). In particular, during its 124-year tenure, the UDC has been responsible for fundraising for and erecting 69% of the existing Confederate monuments logged in the database.The fact that white supremacist protests and legal challenges are still happening helps point to the impact of the audit work done by the SPLC. While critics have argued that the symbolic devices like the Confederate flags and monuments are a historic legacy and worthy of preservation, the SPLC retort is that they are symbols of hate, terror and violence. The SPLC’s work challenges the normalization of these symbols, and provides pragmatic geographic evidence to take further actions towards their removal. They make their data open and available online, do re-audits in order to check on the status of monuments and names, and publish reports about their findings. Using the result of the audit, as they described in the community action guide, people in their community can do further research and organize and raise awareness. Additionally, legal advocacy groups, like the SPLC themselves, can use their data to support their legal efforts to challenge state laws that protect Confederate monuments, such as the Alabama Memorial Preservation Act which prohibits local governments from removing or renaming monuments that are more than 40 years old. The SPLC's audit provides a starting point for rolling back the normalization of Confederate symbols and thus connecting the missing links between the history of slavery and normalized geography. Audit the Streets Figure 1: Places where Jefferson Davis, president of the US Confederacy during the Civil War, is commemorated. Audit the Streets is an early-stage project created by the authors of this research paper along with contributions from students at the Data + Feminism Lab at MIT. The work began in Spring 2020 when we digitized records from the Cambridge Historical Commission (Kenney 2018) and created a dataset of place names in Cambridge, MA, linked them to the historical figures they commemorate, and identified the presumed race and sex of the person being commemorated, as well as whether they are a landowner (So 2020). This city-scale audit provoked our curiosity to explore the feasibility and utility of undertaking a national-scale audit. While clear patterns of commemoration are evident in Cambridge (the preponderance of white property-owning settler men linked to Harvard University, for example), we don't know how representative these patterns are of nearby places, of the state of Massachusetts, or of the nation as a whole. Database NameCollected byOpenStreetMap Roads, POIsCrowdsourced datasetDomestic NamesThe US Board on Geographic Names Whose Heritage?: Public Symbols of the ConfederacySouthern Poverty Law Center City of Cambridge StreetsCambridge Historical Commission, coded by Data + Feminism LabTable 1. Built environment datasets that are used for the Audit the Streets database.In order to initiate our national-scale database, we collected place names from four different data sources (Table 1). For street names, we collected road data from OpenStreetMap (OSM). OSM is the largest crowdsourced geographic database where people voluntarily contribute to the natural and built environment, like roads and buildings. For place names, we collected three datasets: Domestic Names published by the US Board on Geographic Names (USGS), Points of Interest data from OSM, and location data on places that commemorate the Confederacy collected by the Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC). Each dataset complements the others because their characteristics are diverse and collected in different contexts. As evidenced in Figure 1, the Audit the Streets platform allows users to link a place (such as Jefferson Davis High School in Montgomery, AL) and a person it commemorates (Jefferson Davis, president of the US Confederacy during the Civil War). It will infer people-place linkings when a full name is present— hence the list in figure 1 of "Verified Street and Place Names" for Jefferson Davis. One challenge of linking places and people is that naming conventions in the US use only the person's last name as the moniker. Thus, in the case of Figure 1, the system will denote other place names that only contain "Davis" (without a first name) as "Unverified Street and Place Names" until a human being verifies them with source material. For example, Davis Square in Cambridge, MA, was named after Pearson Davis, a State Representative in the 18th Century, though it shows up as possibly linked to Jefferson Davis (Figure 1). In the future, we aim to incorporate other characteristics about these historical figures, including presumed sex, presumed race, and whether they owned land, as a way of documenting the extent of race, class and gender inequities in the landscape.Another significant challenge of this project is that the data will never be "complete", in the sense that every place in the US will be correctly linked to the historical figure it commemorates. It will always be impossible to collect "all the data" and indeed much of the information does not exist and may not be known. Those places, like Cambridge, MA, which have systematic information on the origin of place names tend to be those with "an antiquarian class" (Nelson 2020), that is to say they are comprised of wealthier, land-owning settlers who have class- and race-based interests in preserving and documenting their connection to the land. Because of these known archival inequalities, the platform encourages participation from the public. Indeed, we imagine that the information will be filled in, verified, and contextualized in a piecemeal, non-comprehensive fashion as people use the system for specific investigations, projects, stories and campaigns. Which begs the question: who are the potential users of this system? At this early stage, we envision supporting place-based investigations into the heritage landscape. These might be undertaken by other academics, urban planners and preservationists, journalists, government agencies, activists and community organizations, librarians and educators. Such investigations may use our data as a starting point for historical research that contextualizes their audit for their community and their audience. In this, we are borrowing from models like ProPublica (Syed 2020), a journalistic outlet that collects data at a national scale and then makes it available for place-based reporting and deeper contextualization by local reporters. During Fall 2020, for example, we invited eight MIT students to create data-driven stories about the heritage landscape using the Audit the Streets data (Ntim-Addae 2020b). Their stories included research into where suffragettes are commemorated, the national prevalence of Christopher Columbus and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, gender and sex-inequities in San Francisco places, community contestations of places in Philadelphia, PA, and more. Overall, Audit the Streets is designed to be a pedagogical and informational starting point to aid efforts that are tackling long-standing inequities in the heritage landscape due to settler colonialist disruption of land and place relationships, as well as the subsequent infusion of white supremacy and heteropatriarchy into the built environment. In this way, those who use the platform can (potentially) work to denaturalize the raced and gendered histories that were selectively transformed into geography and provide a basis for taking action towards more just heritage landscapes. That said, the project is in its early stages and there are still many lingering questions.The Perils and Possibilities of AuditsThe three cases we have introduced undertake audits from different sectors: a city government, a non-profit organization, and our own academic research project. Each aims to create a catalogue of places and their relationship to unequal histories. These audits have different geographic scopes, different audiences, and aim to interrogate different facets of oppression. In this final section, we analyze these case studies in relation to the literature on critical toponymies and Black and Indigenous feminist theories of land and power as a way of exploring our on-going questions about the utility of audits as a form of cultural and political action. First we must ask, for whom is the audit of the heritage landscape? People whose ancestors and communities have consistently been denied land due to settler colonialism already know the scope and the scale of oppression in the heritage landscape because they walk it and live it and feel it and resist it everyday. An audit reveals nothing these communities do not already know. We previously detailed a handful of projects of cultural resistance in the heritage landscape, such as the Ogimaa Mikana project, which represent ways of interrupting settler domination in the landscape and reclaiming connections to land and place. Indeed, McLean calls for “restorative preservation”—expanding the lens of historic preservation beyond simply buildings and property. Because land relations have always been enshrined for white Americans, this leads to the indisputable prevalence of the preservation of whiteness (through preserving property) at the expense of all other groups. Instead, McLean suggests preserving the soundscapes of streets, oral histories of neighborhoods, and public housing buildings, among other sites of Black memory (McLean 2020). But the audits that we discuss in this chapter reckon with the “official” landscape—the landscape that authors from critical toponymies would call "hegemonic" and that Black and Indigenous feminists help us see as specifically and precisely shaped by the forces of settler colonialism, white supremacy and heteropatriarchy. The City of Cambridge's audit is for the city to reckon with itself. Councilor Simmons' goal is to uncover all places and landmarks in Cambridge with ties to chattel slavery so that the city government—and the broader public—can have “a discussion about how we correct history in a way that takes people whose blood sweat and tears made this city but were never honored, thought about, or in any way memorialized” (Rath and Beland 2019, para. 13). The SPLC's audit is also for themselves, in the sense that it supports their legal advocacy work, using settler institutions like the courts and legal system, to remove symbols of hatred in the American south. Like Cambridge, the SPLC is working through institutional gatekeepers to make changes in the heritage landscape. But the fact that they make their data freely available opens the possibility that the information may be used by a variety of other place-based efforts to take action in their locales. In fact, Audit the Streets uses the SPLC's data, among other sources. Audit the Streets, originating out of academia, is the newest project and most open-ended in terms of audience. We plan to use our platform for our own research and we have aspirations to provide information to the place-based efforts of planners and preservationists, activists, journalists, librarians and educators who may want to conduct their own investigations into their heritage landscape. By creating an open access database for the public, we seek to avoid trying to own the story of the heritage landscape and instead support the multiplication of many alternate public histories. In this sense, building on other work in auditing, the goal is to encourage these groups "study up" – to turn their settler institutions' gazes upwards and inwards in order to investigate how dominant groups secure and maintain unequal power and prominence in the hegemonic domain of the matrix of domination. As Audre Lorde famously wrote, “the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house” (Lorde 1984, 110). Here, we ask the question, might the master's tools be used to study, quantify, subjectify and objectify the master's house? Second we ask, what actions are taken (or should be taken) based on audits of the heritage landscape? Is changing a name and removing a monument ever "enough"? Faced with the simultaneous, on-going operation of settler colonialism, white supremacy and heteropatriarchy disrupting relationships to land across the four scales of power in the matrix of domination, it is no wonder that theorists express doubt about the political efficacy of monument-toppling and name-changing in the heritage landscape. Simpson (2017), for example, writes that movements to remove offensive slurs, like “squaw,” from maps have her respect but also her worry: "It is not acceptable to call Indigenous women 'squaws' but it is acceptable to maintain all of the systems that target Indigenous women's minds, bodies and spirituality...In a sense, it is like the colonizer saying to me that colonialism, colonial gender violence and Indigenous dispossession are now so entrenched in North America that we don't even have to use racist stereotypes to maintain these systems. They perpetuate themselves” (pp. 113–114). Changing the heritage landscape – as but one domain of the matrix of domination, and primarily the domain of culture, ideology and symbol – does not rewrite the Indian Act, grant reparations, return land or abolish the carceral state.In this sense, there is a root-level tension between liberal-leaning projects that might seek to make the heritage landscape "more equal" by renaming a couple of places for Black women or putting up a statue of a white suffragette, in relation to those projects which seek decolonization, an entirely more fundamental transformation of the landscape. The full meaning of decolonization, articulated by Tuck and Yang (2012), is the following: "Decolonization eliminates settler property rights and settler sovereignty. It requires the abolition of land as property and upholds the sovereignty of Native land and people" (p. 26). In short, decolonization is "land back" full stop. Naming places for people, is itself a practice imported by European colonists (Azaryahu 1996; R. S. Rose-Redwood 2008), intimately intertwined with land theft, settler nation-building, and regimes of private property, and incompatible with Indigenous sovereignty. This begs the question, how do audits of the heritage landscape relate to decolonization? Indeed, none of the auditing projects we survey here aspire to return stolen land. Cambridge seeks to possibly eliminate the commemoration of enslavers in the landscape, and recuperate and elevate the stories of the enslaved. SPLC takes action to mount legal challenges against individual monuments as well as against laws that perpetuate Confederate symbols. And Audit the Streets seeks to provide a baseline of information and evidence so that others may educate their communities, run campaigns, and "study up" on how relationships to land have been disrupted in the hegemonic domain of the matrix of domination. These actions and outcomes, while important, are more preliminary and less visionary than decolonization. They are a compromise to work within settler systems for small changes that take great effort to achieve. In this sense, we determine that audits of the heritage landscape, in themselves, cannot be considered to be decolonial tools. And yet, Simpson also describes powerfully how stereotypes are weapons of oppression, and calls for Indigenous people to "viciously throw off the lies fed to us through schools about the foundations of Canada and struggle to understand and feel the violence and pure evil that took our lands from us" (Simpson 2017, 118). Understanding how ideas, culture, and iconography have been weaponized to disrupt people's relations to land matters. Otherwise said, there is much work to be done in the hegemonic domain of the matrix of domination. We end by advancing the idea that auditing the heritage landscape might be a tool for a more limited reckoning, a preliminary method for beginning to hold settler structures accountable for past and present violence in the hegemonic domain. Audits represent a way to turn these institutions' attention to the on-going colonial violence and exclusion that they are enacting in the landscape as well as a method to de-naturalize what philosopher and trans activist Paul B. Preciado has called the "ubiquitous corporeal public praise of the values of white, masculine, and heterosexual supremacy" (Preciado 2020, para. 7). In that sense, audits are for settler institutions to reckon with themselves. But still, an audit will never be "enough" in the sense that counting and classifying alone do not effect change, even small change working through settler institutions. Information doesn't take action. Databases represent latent political potential that can only be actuated by constellations of people, communities and institutions. And audits might be used as excuses for inaction by the official stewards of the landscape. For example, audits have happened where very little is done with the information collected. New York's 2018 commission on monuments was charged with reviewing "all symbols of hate on city property" but ultimately voted to remove only one statue (Mayoral Advisory Commission 2018). Where we see more space for political actuation of audits is in the narrative change work undertaken by data journalists, educators, activists, and students who may use audits of the heritage landscape as a baseline of information to craft new stories and interpretations of our not-so-public history (Ntim-Addae 2020b). And, using these, to build political will towards Preciado's clarion call that "all statues must fall."ConclusionIn this chapter, we have explored the potential and the limitations of audits as a method for settler institutions to reckon with unequal heritage landscapes. It is not a surprise that US memorials, monuments and streets that commemorate perpetrators of violence have become a flash point in recent months following the murder of George Floyd. We outlined literature from critical toponymies and Black and Indigenous feminisms that aid in situating inequalities in the heritage landscape as the work of settler colonial oppression, aided by its accompanying ideological tools such as white supremacy and heteropatriarchy. We document the growing conversation around the idea of "audits" as a way of quantifying and cataloguing inequality and discrimination in a variety of fields and explored three case studies where different organizations are auditing the heritage landscape for diverse purposes and outcomes. We conclude that audits are not decolonial tools, but they may function as a form of provisional reckoning for settler institutions to denaturalize the violence hidden in plain sight in their everyday landscapes.ReferencesAlderman, Derek H., Jordan P. Brasher, and Owen J. Dwyer. 2020. “Memorials and Monuments.” In International Encyclopedia of Human Geography (Second Edition), edited by Audrey Kobayashi, 39–47. 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