Gyasi Ross interviews Gyasi “Fancy Skin” Ross and gives insight about this blog, life and his plans for the future.

Gyasi Ross (“Gyasi Ross”): Hey, how’re you doing? Thanks for agreeing to do this interview with me. I appreciate you getting dressed up and looking sharp and handsome for this. Congratulations on successfully finishing a provocative and unprecedented 26 week series!
Gyasi “Fancy Skin” Ross (“Fancy Skin”): Hey, no problem. I’ll be completely honest though – I thought that you were a woman so I got all dressed up! Figured it had to be a chick with a name like “Gyasi,” but hey, whatever. … anyway, thanks for taking the time to interview me. As for the series – it was incredible and fun.

Gyasi Ross: Fair enough. I guess the first obvious question is: why do this series?
Fancy Skin: Well to be truthful, I wanted to create a series for Native people that was both good and honest. We don’t have a lot of good AND honest material floating around in Indian country – instead, we have a lot of Natives who create material that is supposed to appeal to a white audience and contains a lot of convenient “Indian” references that white people will “get.” For me, I could care less if white people “got” this – I didn’t write this asking for white people’s money – in fact, I turned down all money for this. I have a job, so I didn’t need to cater to anybody or anything other than the truth.

So you’ll notice that there is not an overabundance of references to “commodities,” “coyotes,” “spirituality,” or “Indian cars.” The only time I spoke about alcoholism was first-hand experiences, and my references to poverty were meant to be hopeful. What I’m saying is that I didn’t want to use my culture as a gimmick – I think that’s been done a million times already.

Gyasi Ross: And that was your theme? Truthfulness? Sounds very self-righteous.
Fancy Skin: No, “truth” wasn’t my theme, and I certainly don’t have a monopoly on it. A good portion of this series was, instead, based upon “insecurities.” I think talking about insecurities is healthy and helps with healing. I had many insecurities growing up – not just being poor or alcohol issues. But many things – I grew up with a full-blood mom and a mixed-blood father in a family of all full-bloods. My cousins teased me about being mixed blood and having holes in my shoes all the time!! And I’m not special; if I grew up with these insecurities, then I know that a lot of other Natives have exactly the same insecurities. Not just about blood quantum or poverty, but also about being pigeon-toed or not being smart enough or tough enough. Good God – Indian men are very tough! I was raised by all women – I didn’t know how to fight!

Gyasi Ross: And since a lot of Native men are raised by their mothers, presumably lots of Native men have that same insecurity, right?
Fancy Skin: Exactly! I can’t be the only one! But we have a lot of taboos and things that we don’t talk about – we just pretend that everything’s cool. So I decided to be the sacrificial lamb for people who would like to talk about certain things but KNOW that they will get beat up badly for their opinions and experiences. And since I was USED to getting beat up, it wasn’t so bad for me! For some people getting knocked down deflates their egos – for me it’s normal.

Gyasi Ross: Were there any of the columns that got more attention than others?
Fancy Skin: Definitely. And it wasn’t usually the ones that I thought. The “Fancy Skins” piece got probably 200 e-mails, in addition to the comments. I didn’t think it would cause that much of an impact. Conversely, I thought the “Smashes Rock” piece was going to get a bigger reaction. Still, I KNOW that’s one of the blogs that a lot of people pretended that they didn’t read, because it was so on-point. Natives are really “cool” people – we love to act like we’re not that into or passionate about something. “Oh, I didn’t notice that Hulk Hogan was standing right there.” There were certainly several columns that I know more people read based upon traffic, but folks acted as if they didn’t read so they could be cool, aloof and nonchalant.

Gyasi Ross: Did you have a target audience?
Fancy Skin: Kinda. It was intended for everybody and nobody at the same time. I knew that certain people would read it, but I didn’t want to change the content for the audience. Does that make sense? I mean, theoretically my goal was to write something that my mom would want to read. My mom usually doesn’t read Indian Country Today – not because she doesn’t read; she reads tons! But she like likes human stories, not just politics and protests and on-line petitions. She wants something for “regular” people. Like her and the rest of my family. Except for me. I’m odd.

Gyasi Ross: Then you didn’t really have a goal when you started this blog?
Fancy Skin: Oh, of course I had a goal. No question. I’ve always been a goal-oriented person – when I was 13, for example, I remember that there was this pretty lady who lived a couple of houses down. My goal for the entire summer was to figure out why all the older boys on the rez said that she made them think of lotion and things to do with the lotion. I appreciate well-lubricated skin, so I was curious. Keep in mind that this was before Wikipedia, so I had to go to primary sources. Eventually I ended up just asking her – I was a very shy kid. Turns out, it was also an awkward question. I didn’t know that at the time.

Gyasi Ross: We were talking about goals. …
Fancy Skin: Oh yeah, goals. Right. I digress, all that jazz. My goal was to kick Native people in the butt. I wanted to make the Natives like myself – the privileged ones – take inventory and realize that not everyone is as fortunate as we are. In our small professional circles, there are so many Natives who play the “Native card” merely to get business – “Native attorney,” “Native casting agent,” “Native musician,” or “Native artist.” For so many people, that caveat “Native” is merely a way to create a niche market and minimize competition. Now for the record, I don’t have anything against this as a business practice – I just want our business people to realize that there are many Native people out there who cannot afford to hire us or consult with us. … and so we should at least consider our less-fortunate people when we’re making all of our money from Native people.

Gyasi Ross: Interesting.
Fancy Skin: Hey chum, don’t interrupt me. As I was saying, my family is one that couldn’t afford any of these services from these professional people, and so my family was never invited to the soirees and events and museum openings. We were regular Indian trailer trash. So now – in my new privileged station in life – I want to make sure that I at least acknowledge that a lot of our “regular” Native people are struggling.

Gyasi Ross: Ok, this column was a wake-up call to your so-called “Fancy Skins” then?
Fancy Skin: Well, kinda. See, I also admittedly admire the professional skills and pocketbooks of many of the Fancy Skins. I think that Native people should aspire to be the best in whatever field we go into. Many of those Fancy Skins are incredible. … professionally. Many of them simply do not feel any need to be a part of the larger Native society. They cannot empathize with those who are not so fortunate. I want to remind them to think of all of our people – not just the rich casino tribes. God continue to bless them too.

I also think that NON-Fancy Skins need a wake-up call too! We all need to raise our level of expectation and accountability. So, yes, there’s no question that things are messed up in many of the communities that we come from. Still, can we honestly say that we’re doing everything possible to fix our communities? For example, on reservations where unemployment is over 50 percent, obviously there is a lack of job opportunities. Still, since when does being “poor” also mean that we have to be disrespectful to the land? Or why is there trash everyplace in our poorer communities? How come we find money for alcohol but not to buy a decent meal for our children or keep the lights on? It leads me to believe that poverty is more than just a financial state – it’s also mental and spiritual. This includes my family, by the way. So the wake up call applies to all of us.

Gyasi Ross: That’s a very ambitious goal. You don’t worry about the criticisms?
Fancy Skin: Our people worry too much about criticism. We don’t have anybody who says that we need to fix our own communities and not wait for Barack Obama or the federal government or white people or Jesus to fix them – even though that’s 100 percent true. That’s TRUE sovereignty! The reason that nobody says that is because they don’t want criticism. Me? I’m not egotistical enough to worry about criticisms. I know that it’s not personal when people lash out at me when I make a general statement. It can’t be personal – they don’t know me as a person. So I get over myself and realize that the negative things that people might say are not about me – instead, their criticisms usually only reflect their own fears and insecurities.

Gyasi Ross: Dr. Fancy Skin Freud, what’re your plans for the future?
Fancy Skin: My upcoming plans are ambitious. First and foremost is to continue to be an amazing dad. Professionally, I have a day job that also requires a lot of attention. Also, Lael Echo Hawk and my company, NativeSpeaks LLC, are booking clients. We have a great product that many businesses need. I’m actively booking speaking engagements – I’ve been fortunate that many places have already booked me. Thank you. We’ve torn the roof off of every place that I’ve spoke at. I’m learning more about the literary agent process. Slowly. I’m also working on an extended, more artistic presentation with Charles Deam and Wanbli Williams. Also, I hope people keep up with me at http://thingaboutskins.wordpress.com/ Finally, I hope that ICT will have me back at some point to have some more fun here.

Gyasi Ross: Any thanks to offer?
Fancy Skin: Of course. I already said “thanks” to most of the people that I wanted to in my “Influence and Inspiration” blog. Still, a few thanks: my biological dad. It was a rough year – lost my biological father; thanks for the lessons. Alison Bridges Gottfriedson – thanks for being an angel on this planet. Randi Rourke and ICT – thanks for the opportunity and the faith. Koodzi – son of a chief from above. Glenda Gilham and mom – you are my heroes. My “step” father – the dad who raised me, and my siblings. Most importantly, thanks to each and every reader – I thank you for playing along with this and I hope you enjoyed it. Whether you read to appreciate, enjoy, critique and be inspired, or you read merely to tell me how bad my picture was and to call me names, either way – thank you.

Gyasi Ross: Thank you.
Fancy Skin: Hail Galaxar.

Gyasi “Fancy Skin” Ross is a member of the Amskapipikuni (Blackfeet Nation) and his family also comes from the Suquamish Tribe. His Pikuni (Blackfoot) name is “Oonikoomsika.” He is co-founder of Native Speaks LLC, a progressive company owned by young Native professionals which provides consultation and instruction for professionals and companies. Gyasi is currently booking dates for his newest presentation, “Mother Lovers: Poetic (and Musical) Justice.” E-mail him at gyasi.ross@gmail.com.

PROBLEM
I’m a mama’s boy through and through. Nothing wrong with that, right?

See, I know the amazing power of a mother’s love to make a young boy feel secure and safe in the midst of any circumstances – from happiness and adoration to turmoil and tragedy.

All moms in general, and my mom specifically, are my heroes.

Native dads are getting better at long last. Finally. But we still have a long way to go to catch up to amazing Skin mothers. Consequently, oftentimes we simply are not involved enough with our children’s lives to be the “hero.” Therefore that title goes to the mother by default – and with that title, goes a special responsibility.

Therefore I – Oedipal to the core – have to be honest. As wonderful as Skin mothers have been in my experience, they also have a unique ability to stunt their baby boys’ developments if they’re not careful.

And many moms are not careful. Don’t get me wrong, I understand why. In single parent households where males are a commodity, many moms raise their boys to be lily-liver wussies to keep their precious boys out of harm’s way. It makes sense. Still, it doesn’t make it any less harmful.

For example, I remember when my older brother got killed – I think I was 6 years old. I can still picture my mom when she received the phone call that told her the bad news; I didn’t know it was bad news at first, of course. When she picked up the phone, however, within seconds I watched her face literally melt into a steady stream of tears. I wondered why she was crying so much; I didn’t really know what else to do, so I started crying too. I think that little boys just cry whenever they see their moms crying. I remember my dad kept trying to grab her and comfort her. She kept on jerking away from him though and couldn’t talk for the rest of the night. When she tried to speak, she just breathed really deeply – as if she was gasping for air – and cried harder. I didn’t know what else to do (she wouldn’t talk to any of us) so I cried myself to sleep on the couch.

I remember while I lay on the couch that night, for the life of me I truly couldn’t think of why I was crying. I tried to figure out why, but I couldn’t. I didn’t really learn why until my brother’s funeral and the pallbearers lowered the casket. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know my older brother that well – he was much older than me. I just knew that he had these beautiful long braids (like I hoped to have someday), that he loved motorcycles and the song “Shining Star” by the Manhattans.

Later on, I realized that his death – a Skin teenager that died on a reservation highway – while tragic, isn’t really surprising. My dad’s abusive and addictive behavior that caused the divorce also wasn’t really surprising. In fact, the surprising thing was that my mom dealt with it for so long.

Still, my brother’s death and my parents’ divorce shaped a huge amount of my relationship with my mom. Interestingly, my relationship with my mom is almost identical to the relationship that a lot of my close male friends have with their moms – beautiful, close and unhealthy.

Therefore with my brother dead and my dad gone, the men in the family were all absent. Hence, I instantly became the “man of the house” at the ripe old age of 6. I became – as my grandma put it – a “rooster in a hen house,” a commodity just like gas becomes a commodity during times of conflict in the Middle East.

Like oil during those shortages, there’s a scarcity of “good” men within Indian families. Therefore the women folk tend to cling extremely tight to the men they DO have in their lives, even when those “good” men are kids. I got used to being fussed about – mom raised me to be her husband. I was raised to be the man who would never leave. My mom would make sure I didn’t leave tragically like my brother – she would make sure I was never in a dangerous situation. Mom would also make sure that I wouldn’t leave angry like my dad – she’d do everything for me so that I wouldn’t have a reason to go.

My mom, understandably, did not want her commodity to leave again.

And like a woman who was used to tolerating less-than-worthy men, mom treated me as if my mistakes should be excused and my wounds should be kissed. I learned to braid my hair at a relatively young age. Still, if I needed my hair braided, she braided it. Similarly, I knew how to make my own peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches if I wanted one. But guess who made it? That’s right.

A kid learns to be quite spoiled in that household.

And as in most relationships where a person is desperate not to lose their loved one, my mom was pretty much willing to tolerate anything to make me feel comfortable and not leave her. She continuously inconvenienced herself. As mothers are wont to do, she allowed her needs to be secondary to mine and my little brother’s. She wore raggedy economy-brand shoes while we wore Nikes; she worked extra hours so she could buy me a Nintendo (with Duck Hunt) that cost more than her weekly paycheck.

Like mothers do, she sacrificed. Her comfort and continued development was an afterthought. I wish I could say that I was above taking advantage of her kindness, but that would be a lie.

As in most relationships where a person realizes that someone is desperate not to lose them, I learned that I could get away with anything. I could lie. I could manipulate. I could abuse trust. I could ask – with a straight face – for a Nintendo (with Duck Hunt) that cost more than her weekly paycheck. I could pout when she told me that she could not afford it. I could get her to eventually acquiesce.

My amazing and strong Skin mother – a fearless warrior in a cold world – was a fool for her son.

In her eyes, I could do no wrong.

Keep in mind that I was never a “bad” or “mean-hearted” kid – but I WAS infamously rotten in my heyday (my aunties and uncles and grandpa and grandma generally did not want me around). For example, one time when I was probably 8 or 9 years old, my cousins and I rustled up a cute little baby colt from the Connelly family. We led it all the way home with a rope. When we got home, we didn’t really know what to do with our stolen foal so we stuffed it (seriously) inside of a Ford LTD. The baby colt then broke his neck inside the Ford LTD. He died.

My mom found out about the poor colt and I got into a lot of trouble with her. Still, when Mr. Connelly came down, she got mad at him for getting mad at me. He hollered at me and told me that I needed to pay for the horse. My mom intervened and chased him off telling him that she would “pay for it!” Now, I definitely understand protecting your child; no one should allow their child to get picked on. However, I wasn’t being “picked on” – I deserved to be in trouble and realistically deserved a lot more than just “hollering!”

I deserved a butt-whipping; or worse. But she wouldn’t let that happen. Nothing could happen to her baby boy.

And although that sounds sweet, in retrospect I’m not sure if that’s such a good thing. Many would say that her amazing affection made me into a “punk” – that she kept me dependent upon her.

Eventually – much later – we both started to realize that her doing everything for me was not necessarily a good thing. It may sound obvious, but like most unhealthy relationships, we were the last to recognize how dysfunctional our relationship was.

Thankfully it happened at long last – we had what alcoholics refer to as a “moment of clarity.” Thank God we realized how unhealthy this relationship was and that I was taking advantage of the one person who would do anything for me. By doing that, I was perpetuating the same cycle of abuse and low expectations that existed between my mom and men – between Indian women and Indian men. I realized that her expectations of ME were dangerously low because of the behavior and failings of the men who were PREVIOUSLY in her life. Those low expectations prompted her to tell me that she would be proud of me “as long as I wasn’t in jail.” She dropped her expectations for me to an embarrassingly low level to make my mediocrity seem acceptable.

One day mom realized that mediocrity wasn’t the standard. Instead, mediocrity was, to quote a dear friend, an “abnormal norm.” And we both realized that I would have to break my mom’s heart by leaving in order to make her proud. I had to finally cut the umbilical cord. And I did.

And I realized that one day I would have to do the same thing.

RESOLUTION

I resolve to take tiny steps to help alleviate this issue within Native communities. I will help mentor young Natives within my own little community. Further, I will proactively make myself available to ensure that these young men always have a Native man to confide in or, alternatively, to be a source of stern discipline. I will do my best to give these young boys a good example of a responsible and involved community member. I will not judge single mothers, but try to assist them in the very difficult task of raising a boy to be a man without the father in the house.

Further, despite my abandonment issues, I resolve that I will not clip any of my loved ones’ wings to keep them close to me. I resolve that if I love someone, I will let them go, giving them the option to spread their wings and fly as high as they can. I think of my beautiful 2-year-old son – there’s a large part of me that would love to keep him just as he is right now: Innocent, playful, and completely loving and dependent upon me. I resolve, however, that I will do my very best to make him an independent and strong man that can move as far away from me as he chooses – should he choose to do so. I owe it to him to not let my fear of being alone stunt his development.

Have any of you ever had a fear of letting their loved ones fly away?

What do you Skins think?

Gyasi “Fancy Skin” Ross is a member of the Amskapipikuni (Blackfeet Nation) and his family also comes from the Suquamish Tribe. His Pikuni (Blackfoot) name is “Oonikoomsika.” He is co-founder of Native Speaks LLC, a progressive company owned by young Native professionals which provides consultation and instruction for professionals and companies. Gyasi is currently booking dates for his newest presentation, “Mother Lovers: Poetic (and Musical) Justice.” E-mail him at gyasi.ross@gmail.com.

Corporal punishment apparently was not enough in my family.

I was a very spooky kid, always hearing stuff and getting scared and quickly burying my head beneath the blankets, not wanting to look up. My family is sensitive to spooky things – some folks call us “superstitious.”

Now, my family is certainly spiritual – probably even religious. We believe in spirits, a Creator, and getting “ghosted.” Perhaps as a natural extension of those beliefs, the kids in the family tended to think spirits were responsible for some rather mundane scary things – e.g. things that go “bump” in the night; boogiemen. My sisters always told me these boogiemen would get me when I was bad.

As if the spirits/boogieman didn’t have more pressing business to deal with; like making pottery with Demi Moore.

Anyway, looking back I’m not sure which was the scarier proposition – that there 1) WAS a boogieman or that there 2) was NOT a boogieman. Sure, the idea that there WAS a boogieman lurking around, trying to bite our fingers off like Armour Vienna Sausages for no apparent reason was pretty terrifying. Still, I found the idea of some arbitrary and vindictive monster relatively comforting compared to the idea that I could somehow have caused my own discomfort and pain.

An example of this boogieman/non-boogieman duality were those terrifying trips to the outhouse. Or, as I like to refer to them, “the Outhouse Hauntings.”

STORY

When I was a kid we lived in an area simply called “the Bottom.” The Bottom was a river bottom near a place called Cut Bank Creek. Unlike much of the rest of the surrounding areas, it had a plethora of trees, and tall foliage. There were four homes in the area – our trailer, my grandpa’s trailer about 500 feet away, some cousins of mine who lived about half a mile away, and a family who lived directly on top of the hill looking down at the Bottom. They were the ones who did not have to contend with driving up the hill in the snow or flooding in the spring and had running water.

Yuppies.

We lived some ways off the main road and quite a ways outside of town, so it was always pitch black there at night. Additionally, there was also no irrigation. For drinking water, we made trips to a mountain spring at least once a week. For baths, we got buckets of water from the creek and bird-bathed (a term I learned off of MSNBC’s “Lock Up: Raw”) and would occasionally (VERY occasionally) take a hot shower at the pool in town. I was a little kid, so the less frequent the baths, the better.

Like many little boys, I truly liked stinking.

In any event (or scent), I think I can speak for my family by saying that we were comfortable with our lack of modern comforts.

Anyway, both my grandpa and our household shared an outhouse. The outhouse was about a quarter-of-a-mile of treacherous terrain from either of our trailers (gotta have a nice buffer of space because outhouses tend to smell), full of gopher holes and cow pies.

You learned to really control your diet when your bathroom was a quarter of a mile away. Especially during the winter months (cold seats AND a long walk in the pitch dark). Our dinners were always pretty early so everyone could do their business before it got dark. And, you know, that’s healthier than eating late. Forget the South Beach Diet or Atkins. The Outhouse Diet is the way to go.

Maybe there’s money to be made there?

But I digress.
Anyway, I remember one particular time that I didn’t follow the mantra of eating dinner by 4 p.m. I think we had spaghetti. My mom, at that point, was not a particularly good cook so her version of spaghetti left my stomach feeling somewhat volatile. And I procrastinated on communing with nature for hours – not really making my move to the outhouse hoping it was just some passing rumbling. But it wasn’t.

I asked my older sisters to walk with me over to the outhouse so I could release the hounds. As fate would have it, it was one of those days when a surprise snowstorm hit and we didn’t plug the car in the night before, so we were stuck miles away from the main road – no school! However, when there was no school, I had many more opportunities to get into disagreements with my sister. This particular time, I think I stole my sister’s money to buy a book at one of those Scholastic Book Fairs. Therefore, she didn’t have any real interest in helping me out by walking with me through that snow and cold and dark to listen to me whilst I caught up on some reading.

Darn spaghetti. I walked over to the outhouse, stomach hurting something fierce. It’s already spooky outside, wind howling. With every single step, the snow crunched and a little bit of the snow crept into my pant leg and made me colder. The snow, combined with my “spooky” chills, ensured that I had the chills the entire walk to the outhouse. Crunching snow in the dark always makes it sound and feel as if someone is following you. I kept looking back at the lights in our trailer to see if someone is looking out the window to make sure I made it safely.

They weren’t.

As I finally reached the outhouse ready to send some cigars back to Cuba, I took one last glance around to make sure nobody was following me. Darn boogiemen. I closed the door and tightened up my hind quarters to sit down – it was going to be very cold! Ahhhhhhhhhhh … relief!

Suddenly, I heard some running around outside, and whispers! I knew that nobody followed me from my trailer – I looked back many times IN HOPES that somebody came with me. I heard things pounding on top of the outhouse. BANG, BANG!! I KNEW the pounding on top of the outhouse couldn’t have been a joke. How could they reach up there to do that? It had to be eight feet tall.

Oh my God – I was terrified! My stomach violently seized up – I could no longer let the dogs out, no longer punish the toilet. But I also could not go outside – the boogiemen were waiting for me. I closed my eyes tightly and prayed that God did something to get me out of this stinky situation. And it WAS stinky.

ANTICLIMAX

I stayed in that nasty, stink little outhouse for three hours – freezing, praying and holding my breath – until my mom started calling for my sisters to leave me alone. Turns out, this was their opportunity to teach me a lesson about stealing and being dishonest. Both my sisters, the people I stole the money from, and my mom – whose spankings just weren’t as effective at that point – had a vested interest in making sure I learned a lesson and was scared. They bribed my cousins down the road to help with the sounds and throwing snowballs on top of the outhouse. It worked brilliantly, and my mom paid off my cousins with juice boxes. Brilliant and terrifying.

REFLECTIONS

I try to apply all my childhood lessons to life; even when they were stinky and terrifying. In the “Outhouse Haunting,” I created a situation where my sisters and mom wanted to teach me a lesson because of my bad behavior. I was responsible, ultimately, for them doing these horrible things to me. No one else was accountable. Me. My family realized they could use our earnest and honest belief in the supernatural (a belief we carry until this very day, mind you), for their own benefit. That belief was rooted in reality and something substantial. But like most beliefs, that belief can be exploited, abused, used as an excuse, etc.

For example, I realize that we as Native people often have boogiemen folks exploit for their own benefit. As a lawyer, I realize how we play into tribes’ collective fears and insecurities to make an easy buck. But it’s not just lawyers. Its tribal councilmen, consultants, parents who make excuses, who, like my sisters did to me, fill our heads with these scary stories of evil creatures that will destroy us. We are told that all these boogiemen – Slade Gorton, the BIA, National Labor Relations Board, “The White Man,” “the racist school district” – prey on the weak like us and there is nothing we can do about it. Like me in the outhouse, we’re told all we can do is pray and ask for mercy (and hire the lawyers, consultants, tribal leaders for a large fee).

The truth is, sometimes we really DO need to pray. Sometimes the spirits really DO mess with us, and sometimes there really are boogiemen out to get us. Sometimes Slade Gorton, the BIA, National Labor Relations Board, “The White Man,” and “the racist school district” are all out of line and we need help dealing with them. Sometimes outside forces really mess things up for our tribes. In those situations, we should certainly hire the best help we can.

And obviously certain people – rednecks, racists, Catholics, Christians, generals, presidents, etc – have historically hurt Native people. They have functioned as “boogiemen.”

But what if most of Native people’s problems TODAY are NOT caused by boogiemen, but the real culprits were our own people, our loved ones, our own elected official and those positioned closest to us? What if the most frequent boogiemen were our own people throwing snowballs on top of our outhouses and making a lot of noise outside.

Alternatively, what if it was us who created our own bad situations, like me stealing my sisters’ book money making my sisters want to teach me a lesson? Or blaming the racist school district for giving Native kids failing grades, but really it was lazy parenting and lack of supervision by us Skin parents? Or cursing our child’s father/mother as being worthless for not being a part of our child’s life, but not acknowledging that we made a conscious decision to have unprotected sex with that worthless person? Or what about the time when we blindly voted for our cousin – who we knew was unfit to be on council – and he robbed the tribe blind?

What about when the boogieman is us, and people who look like us?

Like me in the outhouse, if we just had the courage to walk outside – get our wits about us, take some accountability and think rationally – we could probably see that there’s not a whole bunch to be scared of.

What do you Skins think?

Gyasi “Fancy Skin” Ross is a member of the Amskapipikuni (Blackfeet Nation) and his family also comes from the Suquamish Tribe. His Pikuni (Blackfoot) name is “Oonikoomsika.” He is co-founder of Native Speaks LLC, a progressive company owned by young Native professionals which provides consultation and instruction for professionals and companies. Gyasi is currently booking dates for his newest presentation, “Mother Lovers: Poetic (and Musical) Justice.” E-mail him at gyasi.ross@gmail.com.

With every day that passes, I realize more and more that I have absolutely no clue how to be a dad.

I act like I know though. I try to look wise and comfortable/not-completely-awkward while I potty train my boy. “Don’t play with that – it’s not a toy! Wash your hands.”

I can read his mind though, “Practice what you preach, daddy.”

The truth is that I still feel like the 14-year-old who has no idea how to take care of his egg baby in Home Ec class; you know the kid who just kept his egg baby in his locker all week? My first inclination is to think “Who would really know if I dropped him and just replaced it with another egg?” Fortunately, his mother is much more responsible than I am, and that she keeps my Home Ec tendencies in check.

Still, please don’t tell my son (or any other children that I may have in the future) that I’m just making this up as I go. I mean, I am trying to learn from the masters. I steal a bit from my uncles, a bit from Mike Brady, a smidgen from Heathcliff Huxtable, and a whole lot from my grandpas.

I’ll go as far as to say that I’ll be a lot more effective as a grandpa than as a dad. I had incredible grandpas – both of them very involved, strict, and they both knew their ways around a belt. Ouch.

But being a dad? Eh, not so much.

And I don’t think I’m alone.

I look at most of my closer male friends, and most of them are fathers. Most of them are like me in that they never had a dad who potty-trained them or taught them to wash their hands afterwards; really, how can a woman show a boy the correct way to stand up, push his hips forward and NOT pee on his own leg?

Similarly, a lot of my male friends – like me – were spanked almost exclusively by a mother who was shorter than them by the time they were 11 years old; how can a mom have a man-to-man talk with a boy? How awkward is it for a mom to have the birds and bees talk with her baby boy? How strange is it for our single moms to try to teach us to block out on rebounds or shoot a gun? Still, our moms did it. To quote “Fight Club,” “we are a generation of men raised by women.” But without being raised by men, how do we know how to teach the NEXT generation to be “real men?”

It’s hard.

I know that I’ve spent a decent amount of time during this blog series chastising Skin fathers and praising Skin mothers. It’s not a hard thing to do – Skin mothers have consistently shown themselves to be amazing. The “neck” (remember that?). Skin fathers (myself included, certainly!) have consistently shown a much larger learning curve, taking a bit longer to learn the fine art of parenting.

I know that.

Still, as the title implies, I’m giving Skin fathers props on this one; lots of props. To me – someone who always looks for reasons to criticize – there is much cause for optimism for Skin fathers. I know that things are getting better – that there are more good and stable Skin fathers than at any time in recent memory. How do I know? It’s simple; because I see them. I go to powwows; I see more dads walking around with their boys in little matching Grass Dance outfits. I see the young dads walking around the powwow arbors showing off their Air Jordans and braids, but now they’re pushing around a stroller. Or I go to Skin basketball tournaments, and I see more dads that bring their families – dads that have to shoo their little guys and gals off the court because the kids keep trying to get on the court and play. Just like daddy.

Sometimes my “optimism” comes from the men I do NOT see at the powwows and tournaments and rodeos. I used to see them there, but they dropped out of sight. Now, they’re cooking breakfast for their family on Sunday morning, or taking their sons to church. Or maybe curled up on the floor on Sundays watching NFL football – which is “church” to some (myself included).

Of course there are still deadbeat dads. There are still knucklehead dads and absentee fathers. Many of us just haven’t learned our lessons yet and it would be a lie to say that all of us are responsible fathers. I certainly have times when I’ve prioritized things above my son. I work hard not to, but I’m very far from being an ideal father. Still, my suspicion – and it’s only a suspicion – is that there is a slightly more judgmental eye being cast toward those individuals who have tons of kids by tons of different mothers. I likewise think that our people are more critical toward fathers who never see their children nowadays.

It’s getting better. I can see it. I see it in my friends, who are generally incredible fathers and are my inspiration to be a better father.

Ironically, my friends are typically guys who many would consider candidates to be irresponsible fathers because they lived reckless childhoods and early adulthoods. They are the Skins that no one thought SHOULD have children, much less would actually be good dads.

They’re ex-car stereo thieves and marijuana peddlers and tramps and “in school suspension” veterans and ex-wannabe gang bangers (or all of the above). Many of them got involved in those activities largely because their fathers were not as involved as maybe they should have been, if at all. Yet, my friends realize they have an obligation to teach their children a better way. And I cannot help but feel encouraged and optimistic that the upcoming generations of Skin fathers will be better than our own.

Thank you to the Skin fathers who care and work to bring their children further than your fathers brought you. To the rest – are Skin fathers getting better, or am I delusional?

What do you Skins think?

Gyasi “Fancy Skin” Ross is a member of the Amskapipikuni (Blackfeet Nation) and his family also comes from the Suquamish Tribe. His Pikuni (Blackfoot) name is “Oonikoomsika.” He is co-founder of Native Speaks LLC, a progressive company owned by young Native professionals which provides consultation and instruction for professionals and companies. Gyasi is currently booking dates for his newest presentation, “Mother Lovers: Poetic (and Musical) Justice.” E-mail him at gyasi.ross@gmail.com.

I feel very fortunate to be a 30-something who still has a living grandparent; very lucky.

Since my father passed at a pretty young age, I tend to think of “aging” and “mortality” a bit more than the average bear. For example, I look at my 87-year-old grandmother and wonder, “When, exactly, did she become an old lady?”

Of course I’ve always thought of my grandma as “old” – even when she was in her 50s and 60s. She is my grandma, after all and all grandmas are “old,” right? Plus, for Skins 50s and 60s is “old!” For Skins who are members of larger/poorer tribes, 50s and 60s are ancient. A sad/real/funny story: One of my good friends – from Pine Ridge, where the life expectancy of a Lakota man is 48 years – called me up a few days after his 25th birthday and told me, “Bro, I just missed my mid-life crisis!”

Me: “Sucks for you!! Guess I won’t be sending you a Corvette and gift certificate for the, er, massage parlor!”

Sixty years old, however, is really not that old to the rest of world. Perhaps we Skins have a slightly skewed perception of age and health?

Anyway, that’s not the point (“I digress”). See, I always thought of my grandmother as “old” even though she never really acted “old.” Sure, she was a scary driver and ate dinner at two in the afternoon, but she rarely complained about arthritis, wore dentures or took Metamucil. Nope, she was vital and strong! In fact, up until I was 13 years old, she could beat me in a footrace – honestly. Granted, I was a chubby, pigeon-toed 13-year-old whose idea of exercise was playing lawn darts and Tecmo Bowl, but still, you would have thought that I was faster than an almost 70-year-old!

An embarrassing, but true fact.

Now, when I think of my grandmother’s transformation to old lady-hood I also start to wonder when I will begin that transformation. When do I officially become an old man? When do my good friends – whose current priorities are women, fantasy sports and South Park – technically become “old?” Further, when that magical day happens when all of us become “old,” is there a miracle pill that we newly-old folks take (no, not that pill! Dirty birds!) that will make us all wiser?? I mean, my friends and I will HAVE to be wise when we get old – we’re gonna be “elders,” right?

Yikes.

To tell you the truth, I am literally terrified of the day when my friends and I become the wise and sage “elders.” Unless there really IS a miracle “wisdom” pill, most of us just aren’t ready! I mean, I’m sure some of my friends will suffice as “elders”. … but the rest of us will just be “old.” We’ll be ancient and wrinkly little kids with very little wisdom – geriatric juveniles! My friends and I simply are not planning/training/preparing for the day when we are called upon to be elders in our communities. In fact, we’ve spent a good portion of our lives pretending that we will never get old.

Which makes me wonder if this current generation of elders – the elders that we admire, respect, and revere now – were goofballs like my friends and I? And if so, how did they become “elders?” Did they prepare or train to be elders? Or did they merely get older and confuse being “elderly” with being an “elder?”

Or maybe this whole elder thing is – in large part – a ruse. Can it really be that mere chronological age does not equate to wisdom, intelligence or good judgment? I mean, obviously there are some very wise and thoughtful elders – just like there are some wise and thoughtful younger folks. But for the most part, it seems like one could argue that most of us just get older without ever getting wiser. And now, it’s crazy because many tribes have gotten into the business of “officially” determining when someone is an “elder.” And you have to wonder: Is “wisdom” or “knowledge” really something you can legislate?

Let’s examine.

My family has always had certain men and women who have a certain amount of pull in the family. The thing is, it’s not always the oldest or an elder who has the most pull in my family. To wit, my beautiful oldest sister has always been a boss in my family. She simply reeks of authority and my siblings and I – even my mom and my aunties and uncles – kinda just do what she says.

The interesting part is that she’s been in that “matriarch” position since she was in her 20s. In fact, even before she was in her 20s – since her teens probably – my aunties and uncles gave her the nickname “Old Folks.” It wasn’t just because she drove slowly either; it was more because she always had a more serious and thoughtful demeanor to her. In fact, I’ve seen her go to a casino to eat – lots of excitement, lights and glamour around her – and she sinks her nose into a book and isn’t at all impressed by the shiny things. She’s an old soul, despite her young age. She has a presence that seems like she’s seen everything before, and will generally not be overwhelmed by any situation. She has been trained to have this sort of authority and wisdom from a very early age.

On the other hand, there are people like me. I follow a long line of folks in my family who have the erratic decision making of a teenager. My aunties and uncles knew better than to let their kids hang out with me – there was a strong possibility that we would all return in a police car. They also probably wouldn’t want me to go grocery shopping for them; I’m very likely to buy hot dogs, white bread, cheese and Shasta. Not that hot dogs, white bread, cheese and Shasta are “bad” things, mind you. I love the stuff; especially the strawberry Shasta. But God knows my family has too many problems with diabetes and high blood pressure – they don’t need to add me to the roster.

But the point – I am a 30-plus-year-old man with the decision making of Zack Morris. As the baby of the family for many years, it is safe to say that I never received any training on how to be an elder and/or make elders’ decisions.

Which raises the question: Should there be a formal educational process to teach tribal members the attributes and characteristics that will ultimately be expected of a tribal elder? That is, put a mentorship program in place – like any other vocation – that requires aging Skins to learn how to be an elder instead of rewarding and recognizing Skins for merely growing old.

Hmmmmmmm …

Is “old” synonymous with “elder?” Or is an elder something more than merely an old person – maybe someone that the local people can rely on to give wisdom in tough situations? Should “elder” be a title that one has to achieve through hard work and diligence instead of one an older person is simply handed?

What do you Skins think?

Gyasi “Fancy Skin” Ross is a member of the Amskapipikuni (Blackfeet Nation) and his family also comes from the Suquamish Tribe. His Pikuni (Blackfoot) name is “Oonikoomsika.” He is co-founder of Native Speaks LLC, a progressive company owned by young Native professionals which provides consultation and instruction for professionals and companies. Gyasi is currently booking dates for his newest presentation, “Mother Lovers: Poetic (and Musical) Justice.” E-mail him at gyasi.ross@gmail.com.