What happens when you dig up the past and find yourself staring at the present?
The Quiet Reckoning in Archaeology
Lindsay Martel Montgomery does not look like a revolutionary. She is soft-spoken, deliberate, and precise. She teaches at the University of Toronto. Her field is archaeology. And for most people, that conjures an image: khaki pants, shovels, maybe a broken pot, maybe Indiana Jones.
But that’s not what Lindsay Martel Montgomery is doing.
Her work is less about what’s buried in the dirt, and more about the power behind who gets to name it, claim it, and interpret it.
“I came into archaeology with a curiosity about the past,” she says. “But it wasn’t long before I realized the past wasn’t the problem. The way we study it is.”
This is the beginning of her story, and possibly the beginning of something much bigger.
Why the Past Isn’t Neutral
Archaeology, as a discipline, was built alongside empire. Early archaeologists dug up lands that weren’t theirs and carried the pieces home. Museums filled with artifacts. Names were catalogued. Cultures were defined.
But who got to speak for those cultures? And who was silenced?
That’s the part Lindsay Martel Montgomery couldn’t let go of. “We like to think of archaeology as objective,” she explains. “But it’s always been shaped by power, by who funds the work, who controls the data, who writes the final story.”
She wanted to do it differently. So she did.
Rewriting the Rules at Picuris Pueblo
Take the Picuris Pueblo Archaeological Research Project in New Mexico. For decades, scholars studied the area, its ancient terraces, its irrigation networks, usually without involving the Picuris community.
Montgomery flipped the model. She partnered directly with the Picuris Tribal Council. They shaped the research questions. They controlled the data. They determined what got published.
“When we do fieldwork now,” she says, “we’re not just collecting data. We’re practicing consent.”
That means not removing artifacts unless invited to. That means returning results in formats that are actually useful to the community. That means saying no to grants, papers, or timelines that don’t align with tribal goals.
This isn’t just collaboration. It’s jurisdictional humility.
What Is Indigenous Data Sovereignty?
There’s a growing movement among Indigenous scholars and allies calling for data sovereignty. The idea is simple: communities should control information about themselves.
Montgomery is one of its strongest voices in archaeology. She integrates the CARE principles, Collective Benefit, Authority to Control, Responsibility, and Ethics, into every project she leads.
It’s not a buzzword. It’s a shift in power.
“Most archaeological data sits in archives, far from the people it’s about,” she says. “We have to ask why. And who benefits from that.”
In her work, especially with Picuris, data management plans are developed with the community. Files are stored locally. Findings are reviewed by the tribal council. Nothing moves forward without shared consent.
That takes time. And it takes trust.
“But the process,” she says, “is the point.”
Teaching Students to Sit With Discomfort
At the University of Toronto, Lindsay Martel Montgomery teaches courses with names like Indigenous Archaeologies and Fight the Power. But the titles are only the start.
She brings Indigenous knowledge holders into the classroom. She assigns readings by scholars often left out of mainstream syllabi. She encourages her students to question not just what they know, but how they know it.
“I want students to learn how to listen,” she says. “Not to speak over. Not to simplify. Just to sit with the complexity.”
It’s not always easy. But students respond. Many, especially Indigenous and racialized students, describe her classes as the first time they felt seen in an academic setting.
And Montgomery is honest with them. “This field has caused harm,” she tells her students. “We can’t pretend it hasn’t. But we can choose to do better.”
From Academia to Advocacy
Montgomery’s reach goes beyond the classroom. She consults with museums on how to handle Indigenous artifacts. She advises universities on decolonizing their research ethics. She writes for platforms like SAPIENS and speaks at conferences across Canada, the U.S., and Europe.
And still, her work returns to the same questions: Who holds the power? Who tells the story?
Recently, she co-authored a paper in American Antiquity titled “Questions Worth Asking.” The piece proposes a framework of reclamation. Not restitution. Not reconciliation. But reclamation, centering Indigenous authority over knowledge, land, and story from the start.
“Reclamation isn’t about fixing what went wrong,” she says. “It’s about reimagining how we work, from the ground up.”
The Tension in the Work
Of course, not everyone agrees with Montgomery’s approach. Some scholars worry about slowing down research. Others say it politicizes the field.
But Montgomery doesn’t back down.
“This work makes people uncomfortable,” she says. “And it should. If you’re not willing to be uncomfortable, you’re not ready to be accountable.”
It’s not defiance for the sake of it. It’s clarity. Her career isn’t about personal achievement. It’s about creating space, for others, for truth, for change.
Why This Matters Now
Archaeology is at a crossroads. The world is rethinking who gets remembered, who gets erased, and how we tell our collective story. In that space, Lindsay Martel Montgomery’s work is more than academic. It’s a mirror.
Her method is careful. Her questions are sharp. Her answers are still unfolding.
But her vision? That’s clear.
“True decolonization isn’t symbolic,” she says. “It’s systemic. It means doing things differently, especially when it’s hard.”
In a field obsessed with the past, Lindsay Martel Montgomery is showing what it means to build a more just future. Carefully. Collaboratively. And one conversation at a time.
