When I first opened the lid of the gray archival box at the American Heritage Center, I was both exhilarated and apprehensive, the kind of feeling you get when you encounter something that is both fragile and alive.
In it, buried under files thick with history, is a picture that takes my breath away. It translated into an image of Arapaho boys at a mission school in the late 19th century. At first glance, it appeared one of those black-and-white photographs you flip through quickly in history booksโclamped buttons on stiff collars, stiff postures, a missionary and a priest to one side, their power cordoned off. But the longer I looked at it, the weightier the image appeared. I observed boys whose eyes alternated between obedience and defiance, children trapped in a world not their own. That was when I realized that the archives werenโt just piles of paper. They were voices, waiting for someone to listen.

Arriving from Nigeria
I came from Nigeria to Wyoming to study for a masterโs in American Studies. I grew up in Nigeria, and this resonates well with our history, the influence of colonial legacies on our education. Most of Nigerian schools spoke Englishโ not my grandparentsโ indigenous languages. Our history books seemed as if they had been written from an outsiderโs perspectiveโby people who believed they understood our history better than we did. School was supposed to be free, but it often meant learning someone elseโs idea of who we were.
That background made me deeply curious about Native American history and education in the United States. What role had colonization played in shaping Indigenous schooling here? How had Native communities resisted? Could those archival recordsโthe letters, the photographs, the missionary diaries, the linguistic notesโpresent a more complete picture than the one most Americans learn in their classrooms?
When I encountered the John Roberts Papers and Zdenฤk Salzmannโs Arapaho linguistic collection at the AHC, my sense of connection was of a different kind. The contexts were differentโNigeria in West Africa and Indigenous communities in the American Westโbut the themes felt all too familiar: Cultures under attack and languages pushed to the margins as foreign ideas were forced onto the hearts of children, who were squeezed into an educational mold meant to erase them.
Reading Missionary Diaries
The diaries of Reverend John Roberts, who worked among the Arapaho people, were particularly striking. They carried the confidence of a man who believed in his missionโthat Native children could be โcivilizedโ through Christian schooling. I initially found the tone irksome. It reflected the colonial mindset of the time that considered cultural difference something to snuff out.
But as I read more carefully, I noticed something else. I noticed some cracks in the narrative. While Roberts wrote about discipline, conversion and instruction, he was also inadvertently penning persistence and survival among the people. What he encountered as challenges to his work, I saw as glimmers of agencyโtough reminders that the Indigenous identity could not so easily be wiped away.
Encountering a Language in Fragments
Salzmannโs linguistic research on the Arapaho language showed another side of the story. Box after box contained vocabulary flashcards, phonetic transcriptions, and grammatical outlines. Where the diaries often spoke of loss, these notes felt like seeds. They represented a determined effort to preserve and pass on a language at risk.
Looking at those materials, I thought about Yoruba, my own language. In Nigeria, many young people grow up speaking only English in schools. Local languages fade when they are not supported in classrooms. Salzmannโs notes reminded me that language is more than a tool for communication โ it is memory, worldview, and identity.
Building Lesson Plans
Using these sets, I created lesson plans for high school teachers. I had a simple goal: to bring archival materials out of boxes and into classrooms where they could inspire curiosity, empathy, and critical thinking.
The AHC doesnโt yet have a dedicated curriculum programโthere simply arenโt enough staff for thatโbut my lesson plans will soon be available to teachers through Brie Blasi, who oversees the Centerโs Education and Outreach Department. I hope the plans will help students do more than just memorize dates but instead encourage inquiry. For instance, students could compare a Native studentโs letter with a missionaryโs diary entry and look for differences in perspective. Or they can research Salzmannโs language charts and oral histories and consider what it means to lose (or save) a language.
The idea is not to tell students what to think, but to have them grapple with the complexities of the past. That kind of active engagement can transform how history feels: no longer distant or abstract, but deeply human.

A Personal Journey
For me, this project has always been more than just academic. It was personal.
As I combed through the archives, I was vexed by the specter of Nigeriaโof children like me who had grown up learning in a foreign language, of grandparents whose stories had never made it onto the pages of textbooks, and of the ways in which colonization continues to haunt our classrooms. The similarities we identified in the American West both broke and fulfilled our hearts. It reminded me that the fight to protect culture and to remember is not something that happens exclusively in one place.
And I also thought about what it means to be a visitor to these archives. As a Nigerian citizen, I am not an interlocutor of Indigenous histories in the United States. But that distance gave me perspective. I saw echoes across histories separated by oceans, and I could bring a sense of both humility and fellowship to these materials. In a way, working in the archives felt like a bridge between two worldsโa search for resonance between Nigeria and Native America.

Why Archives Matter
Before working on this project, I viewed the archives as dusty, behind-closed-doors repositories meant for academics. Now I see them differently. Archives are not neutral; they bear on memory, identity and justice. They carry the weight of colonial silences and the force of Indigenous persistence. When we open these boxesโwhen we also listen deeplyโthey can even transform the way we think of the pain of the past and the possibilities of the future.
Getting archives into classrooms amplifies that effect. It teaches students that history is not just what textbooks tell us Itโs not some abstract thing they only see from a distance; it is something upon which they can lay their hands, feel and raise questions about said mess. They find that a photograph, letter or vocabulary card can tell powerful stories that complicate the simpler narratives they might have heard in their youths. Most important, they develop empathy because archives arenโt just about dates and events, they are about people.
Carrying Stories Forward
I cannot forget that photograph of the Arapaho boys. Their faces are a reminder that history is not just the past; itโs the choices we make about whose voices we elevate and which stories we bring with us and which we provide for the next generation to remember.
Around the worldโin Nigeria, in Native American communities, and beyondโeducation has served as both a space of loss and a mode of resistance. Archives help us confront those histories honestly. They remind us that preservation is an act of care, and that teaching can be a form of justice.
Archives are not simply repositories of the past. They are bridges. And as I learned in my time at the American Heritage Center, we have a responsibility to cross them.
Post contributed by Joseph Egungbemi, graduate student in UWโs American Studies program and Summer 2025 American Heritage Center intern.


















































































