打印

作者

Deborah Cowen

来源

URBAN GEOGRAPHY,Vol.41,Issue4,P.469-486

语言

英文

关键字

Infrastructure,settler colonialism,cities,jurisdiction

作者单位

Department of Geography & Planning, University of Toronto , Toronto, Canada

摘要

This paper investigates urban life through the contested formation of settler colonial infrastructure. Trespassing nationalist narratives, it ‘follows the infrastructure’ across imperial space, time and struggle, illuminating the extraordinary power of cities both in and as infrastructural systems. It tracks a set of circulations through cities across Canada and beyond, to explore how the making of ‘national infrastructure’ holds together seemingly disparate archives of Indigenous dispossession and genocide, of the transatlantic slave trade, and of unfree migrant racial labor regimes. Infrastructure, almost by definition, reproduces material relations, although at times in very queer ways. With an eye toward a future for urban infrastructure otherwise, I ask: what does a map of infrastructure’s afterlives look like, and what is at stake in its refusal and in claims to repair? KEYWORDS: Infrastructuresettler colonialismcitiesjurisdiction Circulation as (starting) place In the winter of 2018, I traveled overseas for a short trip to a big bank archive. As I arrived in London, British newspapers carried an explosive story about the 20 million pound payment issued to slave holders in 1833 to compensate them for their financial loss when the Empire outlawed slavery. The story of these reprehensible “reparations” itself wasn’t new but reports had recently announced that this public debt wasn’t paid off until 2015, suggesting not only that British citizens generally carried its costs for close to two centuries, but that Black British citizens had long been paying this pernicious debt for vast sums paid to the country’s most elite families who once held their ancestors in chains (Malik, 2018). Debate ensued about whether that date was the right one, and how this public debt was over time bundled with others, making it difficult to discern its termination at all. The debate traveled the world – reanimating longstanding conversations in the Caribbean about colonial reparations. It was the Barings Bank archive where I was working in London as this story unfolded. Several generations of Barings received payments for the formal emancipation of enslaved people in St. Kitts and Guyana. Yet as I scrutinized these events further, I learned that Barings Bank had also financed the 20 million pound loan to the British government that enabled these payments. This was certainly not the first time that Barings would profit heavily off of heinous extractions of wealth; it was their signature enterprise. Francis Baring, the founder of the bank, was also director of the East India company, and proclaimed in 1793 that “from Bengal an ‘astonishing Mass of Wealth has poured into the Lap of Great Britain’.” In 1803, Barings financed the Louisiana Purchase, through which the United States paid France $15m for a vast stretch of North American Indigenous land. Estes (2016) defines the Louisiana Purchase as “one of the longest and most hotly contested struggles in the history of the world,” highlighting how the lack of consent from Indigenous peoples west of the Mississippi for the sale of their lands underlies the contemporary standoff at Standing Rock. The London-based Barings’ underwrote the transfer of funds to Napoleon in the midst of French war with Britain, putting company profits ahead of their metropolitan home’s imperial security. When emancipation got in the way of profit, Barings simply moved its dealings. As Brown (2010, p. 61) writes, “British abolition in 1833 was paralleled by Baring Brothers aggressively investing in slave-produced American cotton so that in the same year it represented a quarter of the bank’s total revenues.” Barings financed an extraordinary expansion of the Louisiana cotton plantation complex becoming Britain’s largest importer of cotton. “In fiscal year 1839–1940 alone,” Beckert (2014, p. 215) writes, they imported “the annual labour product of at least seventy thousand slaves.” In this way, Barings became the largest merchant bank in the world, at the center of the violent transfer of wealth from enslaved and colonized peoples to the imperial center. The Bank extracted wealth through these ghastly systems of accumulation and invested it directly into the imperial power and physical infrastructure of South London. Barings also left its mark in major infrastructure projects around the world, where they would spatially fix their capital in order to accumulate even more. Meanwhile, back in the settler state of Canada where I live, temperatures were rising in a seemingly unrelated struggle over lands, lives and empires. The TransMountain Pipeline, at the time owned by Texas Energy Corporation, Kinder Morgan, was provoking building conflict. The TransMountain pipeline struggle, billed by some as ‘Canada’s Standing Rock’, had been simmering for some time. Approved in 2016, TransMountain involves a $7.4 billion investment in a new 980km pipeline parallel to an exhausted existing one, almost tripling capacity for oil companies to ship up to 890,000 barrels of oil per day from the Alberta Tar Sands to the west coast of British Columbia (B.C). Fiercely defending the project, Canadian Prime Minister Trudeau asserted his government’s jurisdiction by deeming the project “national infrastructure”. Indigenous resistance has been fierce and creative with legal and direct action by peoples along the path of the pipeline, and across the continent. The Secwepemc Nation is a particularly significant force, with more than half the length of the pipeline planned to run through their unceded territory. The Secwepemc Women’s Warrior Society 1 has pledged to stop any TransMountain development on their lands, while the Tiny House Warriors 2 continue to assert jurisdiction through the construction of a network of little homes along the pipeline’s path. The Tsleil-Waututh and Squamish Nations, the Coldwater Indian Band, Two BC municipalities, the Province of British Columbia, environmental and student movements, among others, have all mounted direct actions or formal legal challenges. Demonstrations have taken place in cities across the country and beyond where Indigenous water and land protectors and their supporters have occupied ports and blockaded urban rail lines. Thousands have marched the streets of Vancouver and nearby Burnaby BC, where the pipeline is supposed to meet the sea, but actions have also taken place in Winnipeg, Victoria, Ottawa, Toronto, Montreal, Seattle, London, and New York (Mason). It is not just these demonstrations that are tied to cities. Land protectors and urban scholars point to infrastructures’ physical and financial urban geographies, as well as the political economies of a supply chain capitalism fueled by carbon and anchored in urbanism. These contemporary struggles are furthermore predicated on a much longer term imperial and infrastructural project that is itself fundamentally tied to the making of urban space. While these encounters took shape through cities thousands of miles apart, their long histories are intimately entangled. In fact, my travel to the Barings archive in London was prompted by its key role in financing the massive first experiment with “national infrastructure” that violently established the settler state of Canada, and which was the basis and instrument for its claim to jurisdiction over Secwepmec – and many other Indigenous peoples’- lands. The Canadian Pacific Railroad (CPR) that underpinned Canadian confederation and colonial dispossession, was built in part from wealth extracted from the Transatlantic slave trade. The CPR was not simply important – it is understood to have built the nation in terms of the material connections it forged across the continent, but also because it was the very condition for Canadian confederation (Cowen, 2018). The nascent settler occupation of British Columbia would join confederation only upon promises of the national rail. My interest in Barings emerged entirely out of this fact – the way it connects the building of “national infrastructure” and the making of the Canadian settler state to violent economies of enslavement and dispossession here and elsewhere. So significant was Barings’ investment that it still marks the infrastructure; Revelstoke, an important stop on the rail that stands on traditional Secwepmec lands – was named to honor Lord Revelstoke, otherwise known as Edward Baring, for his role in arranging his family’s bank financing. So, in 2018, I found myself in the Barings Bank archive in London surrounded by these controversies, moving between here and there and between now and then, looking at a map of Canadian Pacific Railroad, which is also a map of Canadian colonial space. This paper asks what can be gleaned – conceptually and empirically – about urban life and its imperial afterlives when we take infrastructure as both an object and method of inquiry. Crossing nationalist narratives, I ‘follow the infrastructure’ across imperial space, time and struggle, illuminating the extraordinary power of cities both in and as infrastructural systems. I track a set of circulations through cities across Canada and well beyond, to explore how the making of “national infrastructure” holds together seemingly disparate archives of Indigenous dispossession and genocide, of the transatlantic slave trade, and of unfree migrant racial labor regimes. I follow this particular infrastructure, the CPR, in its making of settler colonial space – a geography carved out of relations and circulations that well exceed this national geography and that are organized through cities and urban life. Infrastructure, almost by definition, reproduces relations, although sometimes in very queer ways. Here, I ask: what does a map of infrastructure’s afterlives look like, and what is at stake in its refusal and in claims to repair? Empire’s infrastructure Nationalist narratives are implanted in the story of the rail, painfully embedded and impossible to pry apart. Nationalist accounts inevitably tell a heroic tale of a benevolent nation-state triumphing despite hardship (King, 2012b). They enshrine the successes of elites as a common national heritage, even as those successes are stories of genocide. These narratives inevitably sideline the violence that all this was contingent upon – the dispossession, dehumanization, and exploitation. This style of storytelling is high stakes – to this day it works to refuse meaningful decolonization. In her recent engagement with the intimacies of imperialism, Lowe (2015, p. 3) offers: Liberal forms of political economy, culture, government, and history propose a narrative of freedom overcoming enslavement that at once denies colonial slavery, erases the seizure of lands from native peoples, displaces migrations and connections across continents, and internalizes these processes in a national struggle of history and consciousness. Indeed, official account of the building of the CPR tells the story of a fledgling nation state, maturing despite obstacles, emerging triumphantly by rolling out an iron road. The story usually figures a central struggle between the powerful United States to the south and the noble but vulnerable nascent Canadian nation holding strong in the north. In 1870, PM MacDonald gave this story teeth, and this has since become official heritage and popular pedagogy: The United States Government are resolved to do all they can, short of war, to get possession of the western territory, and we must take immediate and vigorous steps to counteract them. One of the first things to be done is to show unmistakably our resolve to build the Pacific Railway. (Cited in McDougall, 1968, p. 14) This story has become the official story of the rail and the formation of this settler state, but it hides others. The idea for a transcontinental rail across British N.A. colonial space predates “Canada”, and has a longer history in British imperial ambitions. Beginning in the 1840s, British elites pressed for the urgent construction of rail across the Dominion 3 . British military and merchant elites made a case for the transcontinental rail linking British colonies in the East and West of Turtle Island across a vast continental expanse to connect Britain to China. In a global context of dramatically expanding infrastructure under United States’ control, including the construction of the Panama Canal and the US transcontinental railroad, the “Canadian connection” could change the game. Wilson and Richards’ influential 1850 book (entitled, Britain Redeemed, Canada Preserved) makes a plea for the British Empire to save itself from decline by building rail connecting the UK to East Asia. The influential book made this case: If we should succeed in carrying out the Railway, we anticipate all these designs of the United States. We leave her and France and the rest of the world to battle for the passage of the Canal; whilst, in case of war by land or at sea, we possess another key to the East, a second entrance, still more grand and secure. These popular debates were followed by imperial action. A joint committee representing the British Admiralty, the Colonial Office, the Post Office, the Treasury, and the War Office was established to address the situation and central in the committee’s calculations was “the importance of this all-British route to Asia,” which was “shorter than the Suez or San Francisco routes” (Stewart, 1992). They continue: Canada, instead of being to some extent isolated as regards Imperial relations with European powers, will be brought into intimate contact … and will realize that the military importance of her position extends far beyond the defense of her southern frontier. Regular steamer service with the East via the Pacific once established, the whole empire will be firmly knit together and the chain of communications between British stations will literally girdle the world. (Stewart, 1992) The imperial calculations underpinning the CPR were inseparable from its racial logics. The entire project of colonization was premised on the dehumanization of Indigenous people, and elites premised their arguments for the transcontinental rail on the claim that Canada’s “finest portions” were otherwise “abandoned to the savage” (Wilson & Richards, 1850). In familiar liberal arguments about property, terra nullius and the spread of civilization, Wilson and Richards argue that Britain has a right, if not a duty to colonize North America and the world. In 1885, the mayor of Winnipeg – which would become a key continental rail junction – offered an imperial white supremacist rationale for the rail. By placing an “iron girdle” round the continent, he asserted, the CPR “brought a vast territory under the beneficent influence of civilization and commerce, thereby maintaining in British hands that supremacy, which would appear to be the heritage of the Anglo-Saxon and Celtic races” (quoted in Mathieu, 2010, p. 4). If the British Empire kickstarted the Canadian nationalist railroad, it was an American that would oversee its construction, and serve as general manager from 1882 and president from 1888. William Van Horne, descendent of a prominent family of Dutch slave traders who settled in New York City in the eighteenth century, was already an important figure in the United States railways (Williams, 1912). Records of runaway enslaved people that had been claimed as property by the Van Horne family can be found in fugitive slave archives and in the 1783 Book of Negroes 4 . Van Horne would establish himself in the CPR company and in Montreal’s Golden Square Mile, the neighborhood where the railway barons and bankers built extravagant mansions and “formed a tight community that ruled over Canada”. As the headquarters of the CPR and its labor management, Montreal was also profoundly shaped by railway workers and their housing. Whole neighborhoods – Black and working class – that came to define the political and social life of the city were built around the physical infrastructures of the rail yards, tracks and stations that constitute its physical form to this day. As Montreal became the official headquarters of the railroad, it also became a key node in networks of finance that linked this city’s financial institutions and London’s markets. Through his work on the CPR, Van Horne would make his mark well beyond Montreal. In 1884, Van Horne named the city of Vancouver and the rails became its “raison d’être” as it took its place as the western terminus of the CPR and a pivotal intermodal node connecting circulation on land and sea. Also in 1884, the CPR entered into secret negotiations with the BC provincial government and acquired over 6000 acres land on Coal Harbor – a land grant covering Vancouver’s downtown area and lands to the south of False Creek, making the CPR the largest land holder in the city (Mac Donald, 1977, p. 18). “Whether one considers the city’s waterfront, street layout, residential districts, parks, tax structure, real estate prices, economy, politics or social clubs” (ibid: 3). In the context of British imperial power, civilization was itself defined as almost interchangeable with urban life. Wilson and Richards (1850, p. 25) identify the city as the marker of colonial civilization, contrasting it to the life of the savage who is, “benighted in the darkness of brute ignorance, and degraded in the indulgence of barbarous propensities: he is exposed to the misery of imperfect shelter from the season’s vicissitudes, and is destitute of a thousand comforts and conveniences indispensable to the inhabitants of cities.” Making “national” space: financing dispossession If cities like Montreal were entirely remade by the rail and became the mustering stations in the flows of settlers westward, a new network of settler cities was also established through its construction. Settler cities across the west has their genesis in genocide enacted through the rail. The Dominion Lands Act of 1870, which provided legal infrastructure for the rail’s expansion, gave the railway companies the power to survey new townsites along rail lines throughout the West. Almost every substantial settler city founded after this point was founded directly by the rail company. A network of “railway towns” – critical hubs established entirely to support the construction, operation, and maintenance of the rail – became the infrastructure underpinning the assembly of settler colonial jurisdiction. These settlements were formed and their early lives fueled around the administration of land grants, and as outposts for colonial war. In 1881, the federal government negotiated the Canadian Pacific Contract with CPR executives which enabled the completion of the transcontinental track. The Contract secured an enormous transfer of resources to the company, including, an outright subsidy of $25 million – equivalent to nearly equal to 2 years federal revenue, all existing sections of the rail (valued at $38,000,000), exemptions from tariffs on imported material to build the railway, and a rail monopoly for 20 years. Perhaps most crucially the contract sanctioned a vast transfer of lands to the CPR – 25 million acres of land in the prairies, equivalent to the size of England. To manage the marketing and distribution of this land, the CPR created an internal Department of Colonization, like the rest of the CPR administration, headquartered in Montreal. Colonization of the railway corridor supported the massive infrastructure and settler state-building project in several ways. The enclosure of the lands – forced transfers from Indigenous nations to the railway corporation – served as the prime asset through which the CPR was able to raise money in the London financial markets, and it provided the immediate cash influx from land sales. The CPR directly recruited white settlers from Europe and the United States to help finance the ongoing investment in the rail. White settlers were supported in establishing farms so that the railway would have traffic in their cargo business, and were also understood as a key force in the protection of the infrastructure from Indigenous resistance and American invasion through their very presence and territorial attachments. By the first decade of the twentieth century, the CPR was spending more money on recruiting migrants than the Canadian government. Desirable populations were not only agricultural ones, but those understood to uphold white settlement. White Americans were actively recruited to settle north of the border and a whole CPR marketing campaign targeted this group. And yet, as communities of recently emancipated Black people looked north to escape racial terror in the newly formed states of Oklahoma and Missouri, Canadian officials worked actively to keep them out(Ito 2009). The Canadian agent recruiting settlers in Kansas City noted that he had refused to send Black applicants requested literature by mail. “Instead of securing their removal to Canada I have stood in the way, or there would have been not only a few hundred but many thousands of them.” 5 In 1909 the Edmonton Municipal Council circulated a petition that attracted thousands of signatures, which asserted that, “it is a matter of common knowledge that it has been proved in the United States that negroes and whites cannot live in proximity without occurrence of revolting lawlessness, and the development of bitter race hatred … ” 6 Immigration agents “refused African-Americans certificates verifying their status as bona fide farmers” while railway agents and medical examiners were actively enlisted in this racist bordering work (Pier 21). By August 1911, the federal government took matters into their own hands, formalizing anti-Black border control by passing Order-in-Council PC 1911–1324, banning “any immigrants belonging to the Negro race, which is deemed unsuitable to the climate and requirements of Canada” (Pier 21). In addition to the direct transfer of lands to white settlers, the CPR also sold land to speculators, who became key in the early decades of colonization. As Martin-McQuire (1998) writes, “blocks of lands were sold to other firms and speculators, who then resold them.” 7 Land speculators involved in smaller and shorter-term deals often lived in local settler towns and cities and offered legal, financial and real estate land settlement services there. But it was the large scale land speculators, based in cities as far away as New York, Montreal, Toronto, and London that amassed large capital to purchase enormous land blocks for speculation. These bankers and businessmen worked in partnership to raise sufficient capital to make large investments, and they were the major buyers of land up until 1913. In 1882, the president of the CPR arranged for the sale of 5 million acres (later reduced to 2.2 million acres) of prairie land to a group of New York City-based investors, who subsequently transferred their assets to the London-based Canada North West Land Company. The Ontario and Qu’Appelle Land Company was founded in Toronto in 1881, and in 1882 acquired CPR land with an initial capital investment of one million dollars. The Qu’Appelle and Long Lake Land Company worked closely with the CPR in land sales, and by 1904, had amassed over 800,000 acres of land. This company was owned by the same men as another, called the Qu’Appelle, Long Lake, and Saskatchewan Railway and Steamboat Company, and they sought to raise money in England for their railway and colonization endeavors. Much of the capital came from another firm – the Land Corporation of Canada- which incorporated in London in 1881. The Northwest Colonization Company, headed by Minneapolis businessmen also acquired CPR lands in these early days. 8 War for “home”: railroads as military logistics The project of land dispossession took on some of its most gruesome and organized form in the central plains. This did not start with the selling of land, but with the “clearing of the plains” (Daschuk, 2013a). This project of clearance and enclosure was a bloody one organized through the destruction of the animal life around which Indigenous life on the plains was organized. The buffalo provided clothing, shelter, food, temporality and spatiality to many Indian nations on the plains. In just a few short decades, settlers killed nearly 50 million buffalo that had roamed Turtle Island’s interior reaching north to Alaska and the Yukon Territories south through Georgia. At times, buffalo were killed for their furs and bones, but they were mainly killed in order to move plains peoples off their lands. Like the herds themselves, the buffalo hunt crossed settler borders. The destruction of the herds was a result of the actions of both American and Canadian settlers, in public and private form, with the bulk of the killing taking place south of the border in the earlier movement westward. This slaughter of the buffalo was the execution of a deliberate and improvised plan of military logistics in an imperial warfare against first peoples. The slaughter was “made possible by the railroad” (King, 2012a). The effects of the rail lines are actually visible on a map of the decimation of the herds. As the vast range was bisected by U.S. transcontinental rail the herd was split and thinned. The rail allowed for the slaughter of the buffalo, but the slaughter was also motivated by the rail and the desire to clear a path for the infrastructure. Daschuk (2013a) explains how as the buffalo disappeared, the Canadian government deliberately starved plains peoples, withholding promised rations to get them out of the way and into reserves. “Despite guarantees of food aid in times of famine in Treaty 6 territory,” Daschuk (2013b) explains how “Canadian officials used food, or rather denied food, as a means to ethnically cleanse a vast region from Regina to the Alberta border as the Canadian Pacific Railway took shape.” On the virtual disappearance of the buffalo, Prime Minister MacDonald, said, “I am not at all sorry that this has happened. So long as there was a hope that buffalo would come into the country, there was no means of inducing the Indians to settle down on their reserves.” By the late 1800s, plains buffalo no longer roamed north of the Medicine Line, and wood buffalo numbered just 200. The rapid decimation of the buffalo since the mid-1800s was compounded by the Canadian government’s 1870 purchase of lands granted to the Hudson’s Bay Company under a royal charter by the British Crown two centuries earlier. The 1870 land deal put the sovereignty and livelihoods of Indigenous people in further jeopardy, and provoked the 1869 Red River Rebellion and the 1885 Northwest uprisings. The Red River Colony (at present-day Winnipeg), was home to the Metis, who alongside Cree people refused to accept the dispossession of their lands and ways of life through a unilateral imperial real estate transaction. With the first of these uprisings, in 1869, it took the colonial government three months to deploy troops to the area. Yet, the 1885 uprising met a new military logistics enabled by the transcontinental rail, and mobilization took just a few short weeks proving ‘the national security benefit of the CPR’. In other words, it was outright war against Indigenous peoples using the rails on lands and against people that the state now calls “Canadian” that provided the rationale for the completion of the embattled and financially precarious Canadian Pacific Railway. The City of Winnipeg was created after the first uprising in 1873, when part of the Red River Colony was incorporated. At the geographic center of the east-west transect across the newly confederated country, Winnipeg became the capital of the western expansion of the transcontinental railways. With the completion of the CPR in 1885, Winnipeg entered a period of extraordinary growth and prosperity. The supply of capital through land sales, the influx of settlers, and high wheat prices together fueled this growth and transformed a small cluster of shacks into the center of western settler control, administration and trade. Winnipeg also became an important junction for the rail with east-west lines meeting north-south, creating a key node in continental networks that persist to this day. The density of rail infrastructure turned the town into Canada’s fourth largest manufacturing center by 1911, provoking radical workers actions like the Winnipeg General Strike of 1919. The labor of racial capitalism’s infrastructures Labor regimes for the construction of the rail, and service upon it, were profoundly racialized and operated at scales much larger than the settler state. 17,000 Chinese workers labored along the rail, recruited and managed through strategies borrowed directly from the United States (Day, 2016). Chinese workers were recruited from California and directly from China. As in the United States, Chinese workers on the CPR were paid as little as half the wages of white workers and had to purchase their own gear and provision themselves in work camps. On the treacherous 350 km stretch of track connecting British Columbia to the rest of Canada through the Rocky Mountains, 700 Chinese workers lost their lives. This stretch of track also holds the railway town of Revelstoke – which commemorates one of the Barings’ brothers and their capital born of theft. Chinese workers were given the most dangerous jobs, without access to medical care. These hazardous conditions of work were met by others. Extreme racism from white workers and the broader public circulated widely – along the tracks, but also within cities. Municipalities like Kamloops, Victoria and Nanaimo enacted real estate restrictions to segregate Chinese access to urban space. In Calgary, Winnipeg, Toronto and Montreal Chinese neighborhoods, businesses and people were the targets of formal and informal discriminatory acts and policies (Lai, 1988). Like the labor recruitment schemes, anti-Chinese racism was continental not national in scale. The Asiatic Exclusion League that became a powerful force in Vancouver and led as many as 9,000 in a white supremist riot against the Chinese community in 1907, had in fact formed several years earlier in San Francisco (Mackie, 2017). In 1882, Prime Minister Macdonald defended the controversial recruitment of Chinese workers, asserting that the completion of the rail relied on their exploited labor. “It is simply a question of alternatives,” MacDonald 9 exclaimed, “either you must have this labour or you can’t have the railway.” He reassured white settlers of the instrumental nature of this exploitation when just 3 years later with the completion of the CPR, he asserted that Chinese workers were, “valuable the same as a threshing machine.” For MacDonald, the Chinese worker was “a stranger, a sojourner in a strange land” who has “no common interest with us,” and immediately upon completion of the railroad, Canada imposed the first in a series of head taxes on Chinese immigrants. Initially set at $50 a person, then $100, and then $500, Chinese immigration to the settler colony was banned outright in 1923. While Canadian immigration policy made it difficult and then impossible for Chinese migrants to get to Canada, those who were already in the country worked to build community despite hostility. Chinese migrants traveled east from BC in large numbers and settled in Montreal. Here they met up with other Chinese people who had traveled and settled there by rail from the U.S. (Lai, 1988, p. 21). During the last decade of the nineteenth century, more than a thousand Chinese laundries were established in working-class districts such as Saint Marie and Saint Louis, while Montreal’s Chinatown took shape in the downtown core. Chinese residents continued to face discrimination in housing and work, with additional and prohibitive licensing fees instituted and targeted just for Chinese laundries in the early twentieth century, yet they also built community infrastructure and benevolent institutions. Black workers were also recruited to railroad labor before the CPR’s completion, but their prominence as a large and profoundly racialized labor force came with the introduction of sleeping cars after the completion of the transcontinental rail. The practice of recruiting Black men as rail porters had its genesis in the US south and the ties between slavery and the rails bind tight. Even before emancipation, enslaved Black men had built many of the United States’ railroad lines. After emancipation, American railroad companies hired Black men to service the rails as porters. Wages were low and conditions of work brutal, 72 hour shifts where they were often on call for 24 hours a day, allowed naps and meals around the needs of passengers. It was not only the lower costs of this labor regime that made it so appealing for the bosses. Railway barons imagined the rail could transport passengers into a fantasy of another time as it transported them across space, by providing them with a performance of Black servitude. Mathieu (2010) explains how “George Pullman profited from the use of African Americans in his sleeping cars after the Civil War because their presence reminded rich white American passengers of a bygone antebellum era. Canadian railway promoters trusted Pullman’s racialized recipe for success and imported his liners – as well as the archaic cultural archetype they upheld – as an infallible prescription for prosperity.” The demand for this performance furthermore persisted well into the twentieth century. In fact, Malcom X (1965, p. 88) describes his own experience working as a Pullman Porter in his autobiography. He describes how he and other Pullman porters “faked their Uncle Tomming to get bigger tips,” and performed as “both servants and psychologists, aware that white people are so obsessed with their own importance that they will pay liberally, even dearly, for the impression of being catered to and entertained.” Initially they recruited black workers from Canadian cities, but as demand grew they eventually turned to the US and the West Indies, despite Canadian immigration laws banning Black entry. As the headquarters for rail employment, Montreal became a particularly important site of both Black placemaking and anti-Black racism (Williams, 1999). Writing almost a century ago about this history, Israel (1928) asserts that, “with the coming of the railways to this city, there followed a new resident, the Negro.” There is a much longer history of Black people in Montreal, including a long and often unrecognized history of slavery (Nelson, 2016), nevertheless, it was with the rail that the Black population of the city substantially expanded. In places like Montreal, Calgary and Winnipeg, porters constituted as much of 90% of all Black men’s formal employment (Israel, 1928, p. 71; Williams, 1999). Alongside this “pull factor”, racism in real estate throughout the city pushed Black residents to settle in the neighborhood of St. Antoine. The relationship between the rails and the Black community was so powerful that by the 1920s, its geography came to be bounded “by the tracks of the Canadian National Railways on the south and extending north to those of the Canadian Pacific” (Israel, 1928, p. 29). The porters and the communities they were a key part of reshaped this urban place, even as they maintained highly mobile lives, in almost constant circulation. Canadian railway companies would travel to secure labor supply for the busy summer season to New York, Philadelphia and southern Black colleges. Porters with regular runs between cities like Montreal and Chicago, NY, Boston and Washington – cities connected through the rail – became temporary residents and infused local places with the fashions, news, and organizing strategies of other cities down the line. The rail workers’ “periods of residence were of short duration,” and he may have become “a citizen of Montreal only between trains,” but the movement also allowed him to encounter people and places, and so to became an agent of cultural and political circulation (Israel, 1928, p. 26). The porters became a key force in labor organizing. Black rail workers also had to deal with the violence and hostility of white workers who were responsive to the company’s divide and conquer tactics, initiating their own union. The economic improvements won by the union brought the porters the financial security to “buy houses and go out to restaurants,” (Foster, 2019, p. 53) as well as to establish community institutions such as the Toronto United Negro Credit Union. In the 1950s the Brotherhood joined forces with a number of other labor organizations to challenge discrimination in housing, public facilities, and employment. The Brotherhood also initiated legislative change, playing an important role in the passage of the Fair Accommodation Practices Act in Ontario, and in the enactment of the Federal Fair Employment Practices Act. They lobbied for the creation of a Human Rights Commission and for more liberal immigration policies through the creation of the Negro Citizenship Association. Indeed, the sleeping car porters became a crucial infrastructure of Black community organizing. Along with their families and communities, they sustained organizations and informal systems of social provision. In Montreal, the families of porters built the women’s auxiliary and the NCC. They organized communities and helped underpin the development of social infrastructure, that literally transformed cities and the settler state. Infrastructure’s urban afterlives I have suggested that following infrastructure illuminates the extraordinary power of cities both in, and as, infrastructural systems. Isin, 2002) has theorized the city in a genealogical register as a “difference machine” and treats space as the means through which groups relationally define and distinguish themselves, but what if its machinations are more than metaphor? What can be gleaned by approaching the city through the infrastructural systems that constitute its materiality (cf Browne, 2015; Graham, 2009; Jefferson, 2018)? Coward (2015) has argued that the “contestation of infrastructure throws into relief the locus of the political in an era of global urbanization.” To approach the question of infrastructure and the urban reveals the imperial and colonial contexts out of which cities emerged and expanded (cf Hugill, 2017; Simpson, 2016; Talaga, 2017, Tomiak, 2018). Gilmore (2007) shows how white supremacy is operationalized by “infrastructures of feeling” that organize affect and identification and is infrastructured through the carceral system, while Black and poor communities face “infrastructural abandonment” across the United States. Karuka (2019) has recently given us the language of “railroad colonialism” to describe the critical infrastructure of nineteenth century imperialism at a global scale. In this powerful work, Karuka (2019, p. 40) describes how “imperialists across the Americas, Africa, Asia, and Australia built railroads as infrastructures of reaction, as attempts to control the future.” We could invoke Lisa Lowe’s pathbreaking work alongside Gilmore and Karuka to perhaps consider the rail as the “intimate infrastructures of four continents”. Lowe (2015, p. 18) mobilizes the concept of intimacy “to develop a ‘political economy’ of intimacies,” to trace the “particular calculus governing the production, distribution and possession of intimacy.” She considers intimacies as residual effects of colonialism and slavery “that nonetheless continued as the practical conditions for liberal forms of personhood, society and government” (2015, p. 19). This approach builds on feminist and queer engagements that figure intimacy, “as a domain of power and a construct … a primary domain of the microphysics of power in modern societies” (Wilson, 2016). In contrast with the liberal tradition that locates intimacy within an already cordoned off individual self and private realm, these engagements see intimacy as a way to investigate how those powerful lines are drawn around subjects and spaces, and how they shift in ways that are integral to and constitutive of geopolitical economy. As Stoler (2006, p. 13) has argued, “to study the intimate is not to turn away from structures of dominance but to relocate their conditions of possibility and relations and forces of production.” For Berlant (2016, p. 394), infrastructure offers a distinct lens from structure, suggesting that structure “organizes transformation” while infrastructure, “binds us to the world in movement and keeps the world practically bound to itself.” Infrastructure, she suggests, is “necessary for any form of sociality to extend itself.” In her work and elsewhere, an engagement between these fields, is already productively underway. Wilson (2016) for instance, offers good reason to pair these concepts and discourses. Wilson writes, “what is a virtue of infrastructure for critical scholars is a source of frustration to some infrastructure professionals: that is, its unbounded meaning, rather like the term intimacy itself.” The pairing is powerful precisely because critical engagement with intimacy is “animated by analytical desires for ways to embed social relationships in fields of power that rely on complex, nonreductive understandings of materiality,” of the kind that infrastructure provides Wilson (2016, p. 249). Through infrastructure that is at once imperial and intimate, the city is assembled. The birth of the railroads of the nineteenth century transformed urban space – reconfiguring economic geographies, circuits of finance, social worlds, rhythms and temporalities, patterns of property ownership, and morphology. By bringing cities into infrastructural systems that spanned great distances, time and space were compressed and power geometries remade. In some places, entirely new urban areas emerged along with the iron tracks, while elsewhere, preexisting cities were completely reordered. Cities were not only linked to infrastructural systems; they were enveloped by its logics; they became logistical. Kellet (1969, p. 25) writes, “As soon as a city was attached to a railway network the streets in the environs of the station changed character overnight.” With the arrival of the rail “the localities were no longer spatially individual or autonomous, they were points in the circulation of traffic.” Cities also expanded tremendously in the era of the steam locomotive, and they grew around rail infrastructure. “Like flies in amber,” Kellet (ibid: 26) writes, “stations on the outskirts were encrusted by the rapid extension of building by the rapid extension of building.” In the context of the settler colonial track we have been following, we could say more. Through infrastructure, cities were constituted as spaces of intimate imperialism – the laying of the railroad tracks was also the laying of white supremacy, and these racial logics defined the boundaries of personhood and so the collective distribution of life and death. Across most of the Canadian settler state, the rail was the reason for cities, and their lifeblood once they were established. Across the prairies and all the way to Vancouver, the genesis of the city is the genesis of the rail. In established urban areas, the rail was revolutionary. We see this in a city like Montreal – founded as entrepot, forged through transport infrastructure, contours cut by yards and tracks and stations. Mansions and slums, elites and the unfree, whole communities had lives and livelihoods made by or wrenched from the rails. The CPR deepened connections between government(s), banks, land surveyors and speculators and refused to distinguish between the force of markets and militaries. Banks, bankers and banking cities accumulated wealth. Wielding the law, the rifle, and capital at once, the transcontinental rail literally built settler jurisdiction and cemented the constitution of Canada. Land was not simply cleared for the rail; settler state jurisdiction was asserted through its physical and legal infrastructures. The rail also killed. It rationalized and engineered conquest and genocide. It motivated and underpinned the destruction of entire ecologies. It carried white passengers into intimate fantasies of racial subservience and it carried racialized workers to premature deaths. The rail also relied on the influx of capital that came via London from enslaved labor across the Caribbean, United States, and well beyond. It did all this as it made “Canada” Following the rail takes us on a journey between and through cities that makes visible the violent colonial geopolitical economies of railroad modernity, and the specifically urban geographies of segregation and containment. But following the rail also opens space for the distinct subjects and spaces of refusal and survivance and for the possibility of infrastructure otherwise. Resistance to railroad colonialism took the shape of Indigenous uprisings and rebellions and everyday sabotage of the infrastructure, through labor actions against rail companies by workers of all kinds, and in the use of rail circulation for other-than-intended economies. It was also challenged in the railroads’ social factory – the settler cities – where Black and Chinese workers oppression continued, and where their communities organized against the virulent racism that constituted everyday life. Resistance and refusal also took shape through the strategic reuse of the rail as an infrastructure that might take the polity elsewhere. Despite the brute violence of railroad colonialism, porters still risked riding it on what filmmaker Roger McTair would term, a “Journey to Justice”. In 1954, the Negro Citizenship Association – founded by porters from across the rail companies, boarded an Ottawa bound train from Toronto. Their destination was the Canadian parliament and their mission clear. They boarded the rails to challenge the racism they faced within Canada by making direct connections to the denigration of Black migrants at the border. They made demands for the removal of racial restrictions in immigration policy, and in their success they provoked dramatic transformation of the settler state’s immigration system, while reasserting the actually existing geographies of migration and labor that the state depends on but denies. This kind of mobilization of settler infrastructure to contest the colonialism it has engineered was also powerfully demonstrated in another action on the rails – the 1980 Constitution Express. This legendary rail journey took place in response to Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau’s moves to ask the UK to repatriate the constitution to Canada. In doing so, Trudeau Sr directly threatened the treaties signed between the British crown, leaving Indigenous people without any designated rights or status. Protecting their lands, waters and jurisdiction for multiple generations, Kanahus Manuel’s father, Arthur, writes, “repatriation was seen as another attempt to achieve what the earlier 1969 White Paper on Indian Policy failed to” (Manuel, 2015). Arthur’s father George Manuel, then chief of the BC Union of Indian Chiefs, chartered 2 train cars that “left Vancouver on November 24th carrying between 800 and 1000 First Nations, Métis and Inuit. One train took the northern route through Edmonton while the other took the southern route through Calgary, then joining up in Winnipeg” (ibid). Not only was the Constitution Express able to change the Constitution to ensure the protection of existing treaty rights, but the organizing itself – and the form it took on the long journey on the rails help galvanize resolve and build infrastructure otherwise for ongoing assertion of Indigenous jurisdiction and sovereignty. Infrastructure otherwise? This paper opened with the idea that infrastructure connects us across time and space, and with a proposal for following its tracks. I have suggested that this is not simply a story of “then and there” but of “here and now”. So what do infrastructure’s urban afterlives look like today, and how might following infrastructure allow us to see possibilities for a future of infrastructure otherwise? My initial interest in the CPR in fact emerged out of completely contemporary curiosities. Today, infrastructure is experiencing a global renaissance, fueled largely by the interests of finance capital, smart city tech companies, and logistics and extractive industries. In this context of massive privatization and financialization, many states have also been active, for instance – China’s One Belt One Road initiative. The creation of the Chinese-led Asian Infrastructure Bank is remaking the map of global financial institutions. Older agencies like the World Bank now see infrastructure as the key to international development and uses infrastructural integrity as a metric for national competitiveness. Back “at home”, the (Justin) Trudeau government has committed $180 billion to infrastructure investment. In Toronto’s financial district now lives the “centerpiece” of the federal government plan: – the “Canada Infrastructure Bank”. This so called “Bank” takes its cues from the Asian one, with the purpose of facilitating transnational finance capital’s profiteering off of publicly facilitated infrastructure. As the world’s entrepot for extraction with 75% of global mining companies headquartered here, Toronto’s Bay Street has become an important site of command and control of the finance-extractive-infrastructure nexus. The Canada Infrastructure Bank’s mandate to privatize infrastructure and extend it deeper into Indigenous territories (Stanley, 2019) in the interests of extraction and financialization, is thus well housed in this particular corporate district. The Canada Infrastructure Bank is not only located in the city, it is also involved with projects that are powerfully remaking urban space. Earlier this year, reports revealed that the Canada Infrastructure Bank has been in conversation with Google’s enormous and controversial “Sidewalk Labs” project. This experiment in corporate “smart” city building (just a short jaunt from the CIB offices) has faced waves of successive controversy around surveillance, data protection, and the privatization of the city itself. “Smart Cities” initiatives more broadly, and their attendant technologies of targeted and predictive policing are entangled with the surveillance of Black people and communities (Jefferson, 2018). The recent struggle over “ShotSpotter” – a corporate audio surveillance system that “listens in” on predominantly Black communities in cities across the United States and beyond, is a case in point. In all this contemporary Canadian investment, it is the historical project of the transcontinental rail that is repeatedly invoked. The massive contemporary investment is over and over again billed as the “largest since the CPR” … “the largest in Canada since the last spike was driven, completing the Canadian Pacific Railroad.” Senior government ministers call on the CPR as the model for efficient infrastructure expansion. Criticizing resistance to contemporary pipeline projects by what he termed “environmental and other radical groups,” federal minister of finance, Joe Oliver, wrote in an open letter, “the Mackenzie Valley Gas Pipeline review took more than nine years to complete. In comparison, the western expansion of the nation-building Canadian Pacific Railway under Sir John A. Macdonald took four years.” 10 Oliver passes over the key fact that the Mackenzie Valley pipeline was eventually canceled is response to extensive organizing by Indigenous people and other environmental and social justice advocates. Contemporary politicians may conjure the CPR as a means to mark the significance of infrastructure in the present, but in doing so they also index the persistent coloniality of the settler state, as well as the scale of resistance and refusal underway. Today, Indigenous land and water protectors like Natalie Knight (2019) see the city as the key terrain of struggle over Indigenous futures and settler colonial infrastructures. “We urban Native people,” Knight writes, “are in the streets blocking ports, rail lines, speaking freely about our right to our land, our sovereignty, our nationhood … We are targeting sites of economic trade and exchange, like ports and railways, because we know that colonialism and capitalism are entwined forces that must be fought simultaneously.” Coulthard (2014: 176) issues a call for Indigenous people to reconceptualize “identity and nationhood in a way that refuses to replicate the ‘colonial divisions’ that contributed to the urban/reserve divide through racist and sexist policies like enfranchisement.” In solidarity with this work, in a recent paper on the urbanity of pipelines and their contestation, Kipfer (2018, p. 482) argues that, “resisting pipelines that link extraction sites to ports, metropoles and spaces in between offers the advantage of connecting multiple struggles.” Pipelines are indeed potent infrastructures of struggle today that connect across social locations and material ones. But perhaps it is a broader politics of infrastructure, not just of pipelines, that is needed to hold the long and large imperial contexts for infrastructural urbanism out of which cities emerged and expanded, and to honor the intimate entanglements of seemingly distinct struggles for justice and freedom. Indeed, if we follow infrastructure we might see the ties to contestation over other infrastructures of internal colonialism. As these struggles continue against pipelines that cross the country and the continent (Mazer, 2017), Black community organizers have actively and successfully challenged the expansion of infrastructures of racialized surveillance in Toronto. Black organizers contested city council decisions to deepen and extend infrastructures of anti-Blackness in Toronto, through “smart” audio surveillance technologies like “ShotSpotter” – already in use in predominantly Black communities in cities like New York, Chicago and Cape Town. Organizers asserted that these initiatives “further barricade and quarantine Black communities that are already under economic pressure from government policies ushering in an unprecedented era of unaffordable housing and meagre job prospects for young people.” These struggles around Black surveillance and containment should be located in the long urban afterlives of slavery, as Browne (2015) has argued, and are a compass for moving through and perhaps beyond the “smart city”. It is often repeated that infrastructures remain invisible until they fail. Yet it is the resistance and refusal of colonized people to submit to colonial infrastructures that is often what challenges their smooth operation and allows them to become apprehensible (Nelson, 2016). Racialized and colonized people continue to push back against particular technological systems and their attendant infrastructures of white supremacy. Infrastructure is not only a vehicle of domination – it is also a means of transformation. Taking infrastructure not only as object of study but also as method, diagnoses colonial intimacies of containment, premature death and division. Yet it also makes visible the struggles over infrastructure, and in doing so offers a glimpse at how infrastructure can be built otherwise so that reproduction can be redirected to underpin alternative intimacies based in alliance, mutuality and solidarity. Acknowledgments Thank you to David Wilson, Kevin Ward and the team at Urban Geography for the invitation to give the 2019 plenary lecture. I am deeply grateful to Malini Ranganathan and Kate Derickson for their generous and challenging interlocution. Dialogue with Alissa Trotz makes the best parts of this work possible. Disclosure statement No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author. Correction Statement This article has been republished with minor changes. These changes do not impact the academic content of the article. Additional informationFundingThis work was supported by the Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation.Notes 1. http://www.idlenomore.ca/secwepemc_women_warrior_society_say_no_to_kinder_morgan_pipeline. 2. See the Tiny House Warriors at: http://tinyhousewarriors.com. 3. The 1882 Report of the CPR Royal Commission documents the long trail of British advocates for a transcontinental rail between Britain’s North American colonies on the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. 4. Digital access to the Book of Negroes is now available here: https://novascotia.ca/archives/Africanns/BN.asp. 5. J.S. Crawford to F. Oliver, Winnipeg, 2 December 1910, File 72552 Pt 2. 6. Municipal Council of Edmonton to W. Laurier, Edmonton, 18 April 1911, File 72552 Pt 3. 7. Martin-McGuire (1998) “First Nation land surrenders on the Prairies, 1896–1911.” Prepared for the Indian Claims Commission. 8. All of these transactions are documented in Martin-McGuire, P. 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