How Universities Can Address False Claims to Indigeneity
A few years ago, at an airport in Texas, a boisterous man working at a sunglasses kiosk struck up a conversation with me. At one point he laughed and said, “I don’t know what you are, but I know you’re not white.” I often find myself thinking back to that exchange—in many ways, it encapsulated my existence. Throughout my life I’ve been mistaken for Iranian, Algerian, Spanish and other nationalities. I am none of these; rather, I’m an Ojibwe Anishinaabekwe, and a member citizen of Nezaadiikaang (Lac des Mille Lacs First Nation) in Treaty 3 territory, near Thunder Bay in northwestern Ontario. My Ojibwe nationhood comes from my mother. My father isn’t Indigenous; his family was part of the large wave of immigrants that came to northwestern Ontario in the 1950s. Experiences like the one in that airport have shown me that identity isn’t always straightforward—we are not always who we might appear to be.
Today I’m an anthropology professor at McGill University and the university’s first Associate Provost of Indigenous Initiatives. In my research, I’ve seen how this same complexity, and ethnic ambiguity, play out in how easily people can slip into false Indigenous identities. In the past few years, case after case of fraud has surfaced in Canadian academia, exposing people who’ve claimed Indigenous identity to advance their careers, accessing scholarships, grants and teaching posts meant to uplift Indigenous peoples.
They include Andrea Smith, an American professor, and Gina Adams, an artist who taught at Emily Carr University in B.C. Both built their reputations on their supposed Indigenous identities, despite lacking documented ancestry. Smith continues to claim Cherokee heritage; Adams resigned from her post in 2022. One of the highest-profile cases has been Carrie Bourassa, a renowned University of Saskatchewan professor who claimed Métis, Anishinaabe and Tlingit heritage. Several years ago, some of her Indigenous colleagues began doubting her claims and decided to investigate. In 2021, the CBC published a story reporting on their work, and in 2022 Bourassa resigned. I was shocked that someone achieved Bourassa’s level of prominence as an Indigenous academic without any evidence that they truly were who they said they were. I thought about the communities and people Bourassa had impacted—her colleagues, students and Elders had placed their trust in her, only to be misled.
Some people who pass as Indigenous are outright liars. Others exploit vague, tenuous ancestral connections to the groups they claim as their own. They reference unverifiable oral histories, DNA test results or broad geographic ties to indigeneity. Their stories often evolve over time, becoming more elaborate as scrutiny increases—standard operating procedure when people concoct false identities.
What these stories have in common is that in every instance, numerous Indigenous voices had tried to raise the alarm but were ignored, dismissed or even accused of “lateral violence” by attacking their fellow Indigenous academics. Consider the case of Bourassa: several First Nations and Métis scholars, all women, at the University of Saskatchewan raised concerns about her claims long before the truth came out. Some even filed a complaint with the university, but their efforts were overlooked for years.
Of course, this problem extends beyond academia. Take the recent controversy surrounding former federal employment minister and Edmonton MP Randy Boissonnault. The Liberal Party frequently described Boissonnault as Indigenous. But last year he resigned from cabinet after a National Post investigation revealed inconsistencies in his claims over the course of his career. He eventually admitted he was not Indigenous, clarifying he was adopted by a Métis mother.
In the aftermath of scandals like these, the calls for universities to crack down on this problem have grown louder. In my job, I’m responsible for overseeing McGill’s 52 Calls to Action, a framework to advance the university’s commitments to truth and reconciliation, including increased Indigenous representation and opportunities. In 2022 I was charged with chairing an Indigenous committee to develop a policy—one of the first at any Canadian university—to verify citizenship and membership.
The committee included Indigenous faculty and staff, as well as advisers from the Indigenous community outside the university. From our earliest conversations, everyone believed that the university needed to have a validation policy—it was integral to upholding its commitments to truth and reconciliation. Everyone agreed as well that the committee’s work had to be grounded in Indigenous values. It was about upholding the integrity of Indigenous spaces, more than it was about policing people or weeding out frauds.
With thousands of Indigenous communities worldwide, we knew we didn’t have the scope to address things globally. And, as an institution in Quebec, we have specific responsibilities to uphold the inherent and constitutional rights of Indigenous peoples of the land where we live and work. In the end, the policy addresses claims to First Nations, Inuit and Métis heritage, as well as certain communities whose territories intersect with Canadian border, in the U.S.
We also decided that the policy had to focus on demonstrable citizenship and membership, which are rooted in relationships: being claimed by a community, not just claiming a community for oneself. The big challenge was figuring out how to do that. Some members pushed for an approach that relied more on official documentation—and that went beyond just sharing a status card. They wanted a system that prioritized engagement with Indigenous communities, requiring candidates to prove ongoing relationships, participation in governance or cultural practices and recognition from Elders.
Others thought that official documentation alone was too limiting and risked overlooking non-status individuals, or those who had been displaced due to adoption or colonial policies—for example, people who’d been taken way from their parents as children and sent to residential schools and lacked documentation of their indigeneity. They argued that relationality—one’s lived experience and role within their community—was just as important as documents that evidenced membership or citizenship. Threading the needle between those two views was incredibly difficult. If we made the requirements too rigid, we risked excluding people who had lost official recognition due to colonial injustices. If we made them too broad, we risked extending awards and opportunities to people who shouldn’t receive them.
The final policy, announced in May of 2024, didn’t leave everyone fully satisfied, but it struck a balanced approach—setting clear eligibility requirements while allowing flexibility in how citizenship and membership could be verified.
The process begins at the application stage, where candidates voluntarily self-identify. They can do so with official documentation, such as an Indian status card, a Métis Nation citizenship card, an Inuit enrolment card or written confirmation from a federally recognized band or tribal authority. Alternatively, they can submit a written explanation, along with supporting letters from, for example, their First Nation Band Council or, in cases of disconnection from community, sworn affidavits from family members.
An essential aspect of this process is that it is overseen by McGill’s Office of Indigenous Initiatives, an Indigenous entity within McGill. This ensures that everything is carried out by Indigenous people. We take the lead in contacting applicants, requesting the information required and assessing the claim according to our policy. We then notify the individual and the McGill employee leading the process as to whether they’ve satisfied the requirements.
To date, we’ve facilitated several validations. Applicants have pursued different pathways, and though it’s too early to fully evaluate the policy, there haven’t been any red flags or major challenges yet, which is encouraging. We haven’t yet encountered an applicant who hasn’t passed the validation process. Importantly, if and when we do, we won’t label them as fraudsters—all we’ll do is note that their claims didn’t meet the policy’s eligibility requirements.
While this policy is groundbreaking, it still only scratches the surface. Universities have long struggled with reflecting the diversity of the communities outside their doors. Academic recruitment often gravitates toward people who reflect the dominant culture’s demographic and ideals, and Indigenous candidates who are racially or socioeconomically closer to their non-Indigenous peers may have an advantage. At the same time, other candidates can struggle with misidentification when it comes to their indigeneity—as I’ve so often experienced. That can be a huge blow to one’s sense of belonging. Addressing these dynamics will undoubtedly be uncomfortable, but they are necessary conversations that institutions must be willing to have.
So where do we go from here? Universities have to prioritize space for courageous, and sometimes uncomfortable conversations about honouring Indigenous presence, centring Indigenous voices in hiring and about what affects our sense of belonging as Indigenous peoples navigating academia. Funding for Indigenous initiatives must also continue and expand. Institutions need to rethink how they recognize and reward efforts that build inclusive cultures. This includes valuing contributions beyond research and publications, like mentorship and community-building, which are more vital to creating equity.
Finally, these conversations have to extend beyond academia. As Canada’s demographics change, it’s crucial for Indigenous communities to engage newcomers about their history and rights, taking the lead to build relationships with them and contribute to mutual understanding.
McGill’s policy is not perfect. But I believe it represents a necessary first step toward a more equitable future. This is about responsibility and accountability, at the institutional level and at a personal level. I shared that story at the beginning for a reason. It may be frustrating to me that people do not always see me as an Ojibwe-Anishinaabekwe, but I know I carry considerable privilege as someone who navigates settler-colonial spaces with ethnic ambiguity. Voluntary self-identification is a possibility for people like me, but it isn’t for many others, who are always viewed as Indigenous and bear the brunt of anti-Indigenous racism in Canada. At the end of the day, when my Indigeneity gets challenged, and I’m asked for proof, I’m fine with it—I have to stay accountable to the communities I’m privileged to serve.
