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.

Background

She was born 65 years ago today, in a cold, long winter in the year 1928. She didn’t feel “old,” yet she was now considered by everyone around to be an “elder.” She was expected to be wise and sage now – a resource, and even someone to be revered.

Her people gave her special status – a cool jacket that said “elder,” a parking space and special seating at the bingo hall. She even gets special accommodation, away from the rest of her people, in elder’s housing. She gets all of this because she saw, in first person, some of the “old days” and the “old ways.” Her dad taught her many of the old ways, as did her auntie, who she went to live with when her dad died.

And today was her birthday. Aug. 16, 1993.

Her dad died when she was 10 years old as a much respected old man. He was a stalwart in the community and survived the Marias Massacre when he was 3 years old. He was living history. On that fateful morning of the massacre in the winter of 1870, her dad – small and naked – ran through the pile of dead women and children and dove into the icy waters of the Marias River, dodging bullets from the U.S. Calvary. Her dad stayed in the river for several hours until the winter’s early nightfall and somehow crawled back to the camp purple-colored and hungry, with frostbitten feet. When the men of the camp came back from hunting, they saw this little boy freezing to death amidst the many frozen stiff women and children and – in their mourning – were thankful that this little boy survived. They had to rescue him – he was a gift.

Wilma’s dad was a sign of hope to those heartbroken men. He symbolized “life” in the midst of senseless death.

Wilma is the daughter of that strong man. Her father outlived Wilma’s mother and her two younger brothers. They passed from a variety of maladies – his mom and a child brother from tuberculosis, and the other brother from cirrhosis. She remembers watching her dad later on as an old man, and the way people responded to him when he waved at them with his walking stick. He would limp into the mercantile store, his foot never quite-recovered from frostbite (he lost two toes on his right foot), flashing his toothless grin. He greeted everybody, not just those who greeted him first.

He was still the sign of hope to a lot of people – but now, he also represented elderly wisdom and strength.

Wilma’s dad had a way of getting involved in everyone’s life; he never waited for an invitation. One time, three years before he died in 1935, there was a group of teenage boys in the mercantile story looking hungrily at bins of candy. It was summertime, and the boys had just returned from a year away at school, their last haircuts of the year still very new. The white storekeeper looked at the four boys suspiciously, but kept dusting off the soda fountain. Wilma’s father paid for a handful of licorice for Wilma (and kept one for himself to gum on), and limped out the door.

He stopped outside the store and stood there in the hot June sun, waving to one of the few automobiles that rumbled down the street in front of the mercantile store.

Those four teenagers came outside laughing and grinning – they brushed briskly by Wilma and her dad who stood on the side of the road. The boys made their way to the corner of the building, anxious to do something mischievous. When the boys got to the corner, they leaned against the store’s outside wall and Wilma and her dad could see them dividing the candy, laughing and saying, “that stupid white storeowner will never learn!”

Wilma’s dad grabbed Wilma by the hand firmly and limped over toward the little boys. He got to the corner and spoke eloquent-yet-broken English in his loudest voice, “You smarty kids are gonna listen!” He pointed his walking stick in the area of the biggest kid’s nose, “You are going to return that candy to that white man right now! He may be plum stupid, and look rank, but no one deserves to be stoled from!” The old, fragile man leaned toward the other kids – strong teenagers who could have easily torn him into pieces – and they looked back absolutely terrified, eyes open wide.

They were shocked he was willing to put his life on the line to say what needed to be said.

And the boys did exactly what Wilma’s dad told them to. When they came back outside from returning the candy, Wilma’s dad rewarded the boys with some of the licorice he bought for Wilma. The boys loved him for it. Those boys were “somebody else’s problem” – her dad didn’t make them steal. Her dad didn’t raise them to think that stealing from others was ok. Somebody else did that – the correction should have been given by the boys’ parents. But it wasn’t, so her dad got involved.

Wilma then thinks about how her dad must have been terrified by those “iron horses” – cars – the first time he saw one. She thinks about how startled he must have been when he started seeing these young boys and girls come back from being gone all year with short hair and speaking English. Yet, he knew his role. He was supposed to be that voice of wisdom, that connection to those stronger people who made due with very little.

Now Wilma thinks about herself.

She thinks about how, at 65 years old, she has very little contact with this community. She never talks with kids. In fact, she only speaks to other elders. Like her dad, she doesn’t recognize the vehicles. She doesn’t recognize the music the kids listen to in their cars – it sounds like people barking. She doesn’t recognize the way they dress – why are their clothes so big? Don’t they have someone to dress them?

She sees many things she doesn’t like, but sees even more things she doesn’t understand. She sees her grandchildren wasting away on drugs they call “meth.” She goes to the store and sees young kids drop beer cans outside on the curb. She hears too much cussing. She thinks the kids are inconsiderate, rude and obnoxious.

Still, unlike her dad, she does not take the time to get involved in these kids’ affairs. She complains about the kids to the other elders at the bingo hall. But she would not think about ever getting into the faces of the kids who drop those beer cans; they are “somebody else’s problem.” She didn’t make them rude or inconsiderate. Yet, she knows that if her dad was around, he surely would correct these kids – be their instructor. He would get involved in their lives. He would not wait for an invitation.

Now

Wilma is evaluating her role as an elder within her community and wants input. Is her role to give instruction to the younger people and to allow those younger than her to learn from her successes and struggles? If so, does she have an obligation to actively get involved in the lives of the younger people?

Or is her job to enjoy her golden years in peace – enjoy the “tribal elders” jacket, separate housing, parking space and special seating at bingo?

Finally, she wonders if her tribe helped to create the separation between younger skins and elders. She wonders if making the elders separate from everybody else in the community – different accommodations for everything, from parking spaces to separate elders’ housing – is a form of glorified banishment?

What is the proper role of an elder?

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.

Once upon a time

A strong man, whose name roughly translated into English was “Smashes Rock,” led his village, named “Little Tree,” with a firm hand. Little Tree was prosperous and safe, even though they were a small group – approximately 150 adults and many children. Despite their small size, Little Tree hadn’t been involved in a major battle or lean time during Smashes Rock’s entire tenure as leader.

Smashes Rock was credited with creating peace. Prior to Smashes Rock’s reign, Little Tree fought a series of bloody battles against a neighboring band and suffered many deaths and casualties. On the verge of total loss, Little Tree’s former leader and many others had their throats slashed and noses cut off in the battle. Smashes Rock fought bravely, but saw the battles would inevitably end with every Little Tree citizen getting killed. Therefore, when the former leader was killed and Smashes Rock took over, he was able to come to a treaty with the opposition and stop the massive bloodshed.

The villagers appreciated Smashes Rock for creating peace – he literally stopped the village’s bleeding and ensured a peaceful future. In addition, they loved his bravery and work ethic; Smashes Rock was a “hands-on” leader and labored hard during the day with the rest of the men. He hunted, fished, helped maintain the camp and discipline the children. Naturally, there were some that felt the people in the village worked too hard – that Smashes Rock was somewhat of a taskmaster. Still, no one really complained because Smashes Rock was right beside them, sweaty, tired and working hard. And the village always had enough food, even in the coldest, harshest winters.

Smashes Rock’s people did not always understand his ways. He preferred solitude when he was not working; he usually stayed in his own camp with his family, where some of his close associates and relatives would come over. Whenever the seasons changed, he invited members of neighboring bands to come over for a dinner and songs, and it seemed as if they always had good times together. His fellow villagers did not like seeing him eat with the leaders of the bands that Little Tree warred with for so long. Still, they overlooked his relationships because he did such a fine job making sure their children were always safe and fed.

Plus, the villagers knew and appreciated that Smashes Rock was a fair man. Although he was very stern and decisive, he appreciated debate and did not wish to be a dictator. While he understood that many within Little Tree did not like his visitors or his foreign policy, he nonetheless concluded that they were entitled to their opinion. He was convinced of the importance of diplomatic relations and felt confident that his alliances made his villagers safer. Therefore, he was willing to tolerate the criticism for the continued safety of his people.

There was a particular group of young men in Little Tree who openly despised Smashes Rock. They were jealous of his rapid rise to power; these young men sought ways to gain power for themselves. After some time, they recognized that many of Little Tree’s people hated seeing Smashes Rock being friendly with the leaders of the neighboring bands. Realizing this was a possible opportunity to turn people against Smashes Rock, the young men complained loudly about his diplomacy to other people. The young men never told the other villagers how they would make Little Tree stronger and safer. Instead, their energy was committed to turning the villagers’ affections against Smashes Rock.

One young man said, “He’s too hospitable to our enemies,” and “Our neighboring band is wealthy and we could easily conquer them!”

“He forces us to work day and night so that he can eat and get fat!” said another.

And yet another, “I would never eat with our sworn enemies! They killed many of our ancestors! He insults Little Tree with his friends!”

Smashes Rock did not pay the young men any attention. He simply continued to do his job, keeping his people safe, storing surplus food and helping raise Little Tree’s children. In the meantime, the young men continued to raise the ire of the villagers against Smashes Rock. And Smashes Rock, rightly or wrongly, did not attempt to correct the young men’s lies other than to say that “This is the right thing to do. Little Tree’s relationships with its neighbors will keep us safe. We all see what war got us.”

Over the course of several moons, Smashes Rock began to notice the villagers’ attitude toward him changing. He was sure it was the result of the young men speaking horribly about him. He also knew what they said were lies. Still, he saw the young men’s lies must be working; he noticed people openly questioning his authority more and willing to be very short with him. It got to the point where he felt unsafe when he went hunting with other men from Little Tree.

One summer night while Smashes Rock and his family slept, he heard several voices outside his camp. He opened the doorway and, in the dark, saw a large group of men from his village approaching, their faces illuminated by the moon. Smashes Rock’s adrenaline rushed – as in the past, he was ready to prove himself in battle. Still, he looked back into his camp at his sleeping wife and children and realized that, while he would surely sacrifice his own life in battle, he had an obligation to protect his family. He quickly woke them up and scrambled away into the darkness, leaving all of their belongings behind.

Neither he nor his family ever returned to Little Tree. Smashes Rock took his family to a distant relation of his wife; he could not risk his family’s safety.

The young men who prompted Smashes Rock’s ousting were soon elevated into co-leadership roles within Little Tree. As summer turned to autumn, the leaders from the neighboring bands came for food and fellowship as usual. But instead of meeting with the leaders, the young men commanded a group of armed men to chase the foreign leaders off. The neighboring leaders tried to meet Little Tree’s new leaders one more time; again they were chased out at the tip of a spear. The neighboring bands soon surmised that Smashes Rock was no longer Little Tree’s leader, otherwise this would never happen. The neighboring leaders did not know whether Smashes Rock had been killed or he died naturally; the one thing they did know was that he was no longer there and Little Tree did not seem to want peace with the neighboring bands anymore.

Within two moons, the several neighboring bands coordinated a series of raids against Little Tree. During the raids, the neighboring bands made a point to slit every man, woman and child’s throat and cut off their noses. They did not want the children to grow up to be dishonorable, like their fathers and leaders. Other than Smashes Rock’s descendants, raised far away, no remnants of the Little Tree band exist to this day.

Smashes Rock focused on his people’s prosperity at the expense of his status and popularity.

The young men who followed Smashes Rock focused on their status and popularity at the expense of their people’s survival.

Now

Is a leader’s job to guide their people – sometimes into uncomfortable waters – and do what they feel is the right thing, even if that “right thing” is unpopular? Is a leader’s role to lead their people to long-term success and prosperity even if they have to endure criticism and possibly lose their public position?

Or is a leader’s job to find out what is popular and move their platform to conform to those popular positions? Is a leader’s job to ascertain the will of the people – even if that will is self-destructive – and make sure that the public will gets done?

What is the role of the people, the citizens, in this? Is it our job to call for our leaders head every time we do not agree with their decisions? Or do we try to look at the bigger picture?

Some possible examples of this:

What if an economist could show, with mathematic certainty, that monthly per capita payments will ultimately bankrupt most tribes? What if tribes – as a matter of provable fact – simply were not able to maintain paying a growing population base an increasing amount of money every month? Yet, the tribal leaders continued to approve payments because they understood that voting against per capita payments equaled political suicide?

Similarly, what if blood quantum rules, as they currently are, ensured that most tribes will literally breed themselves out of existence in the near future? What if, without pooling various tribes’ blood together, many tribes will be extinct in the next 80 years? Still, political leaders will not consider aggregating blood because of political pressure?

What would a good leader do in these examples? What is the proper role of a leader? What is the proper role of a citizen?

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.

PROBLEM

I think there’s a human tendency to be more scared of success than failure.

After my “freshman year in college” catastrophe, I returned home to the rez with my tail between my legs. School was tough and I really didn’t want to work that hard; my grades sucked, the weather was sticky and humid, and basketball wasn’t as easy (or as fun) as it had been in high school. I got homesick and craved “home” – good food, a comfortable bed, my girlfriend, sunny weather. So in May when school ended, I eagerly escaped thinking home was the answer to my problems.

Yet, when I actually got home, it was different than what I pictured while I was away. Yes, there was good food, but my family was still broke and we had a badly insulated HUD house which made it hard to sleep in the summer. Plus, my girlfriend and I argued all the time, my car broke down and western Washington’s weather was rarely sunny. And while I loved getting back to my close friends, family and familiarity of the Rez, I realized that I hated coming back to all of the “Rez drama” – the same dysfunction and apathy as before.

Home hadn’t changed a bit – and that wasn’t always a great thing. Heck, sometimes it wasn’t even “good.”

Still, after my freshman year debacle, I sometimes honestly didn’t even require “good.” My expectations were low – all I needed was to not feel like a miserable failure (e.g., the way I felt at college). The outside world was too unforgiving and my mom certainly didn’t want me to leave – she would have liked me to stay home forever. I told myself that I was “taking care of my family” to make myself feel better about settling for mediocrity. Understand that where I’m from adult children who live with their parents – assisting their elderly parents and grandparents – are not considered scrubs. It is honorable to take care of your family.

But I wasn’t being honorable. My reasons for staying, of course, were not to take care of my mom or my step-father or my little brother. Strong and stubborn to a fault, they were perfectly able to take care of themselves. In fact, they ended up taking care of me most of the time while I stayed with them.

The truth was that I was just plain scared to leave the stability of my mom’s house – free food. I was scared to leave the little rez that I call home – no mysteries, everyone knows each other’s business. I didn’t want to grow up. I didn’t want to pay rent. I was scared to get out into the real world. Plus, my grandpa had recently passed and a close friend left this physical world as well. The idea of another major life change was not comforting to me.

I covered up my fear by saying “I need to be at home.” I was a dishonest coward.

It took an especially honest friend to point out the obvious: I wasn’t staying to protect my family. He said that “I was full of beans,” and scared (his words), “like a little girl.” He said that I would never accomplish any of the things that I wanted as long as I was scared. He said that my fear of leaving the Rez was my “Fear of Flying.”

“We all have them,” he explained.

But just because we all have them does not make them “normal.” They are stupid and immature and have very real consequences – those fears would cause me to miss out on new and beautiful experiences. He said my fear of leaving the comfort of my predictable and dysfunctional surroundings would keep me from doing what I want to do and what my Creator intended me to do. He told me I needed to stop being a wuss, “This reservation will always be here. It’s not going anyplace. You can come back.”

The funny thing was, as soon as he told me that, I knew exactly what he was talking about. I also knew that he was 100 percent right – I saw it a million times growing up. Indian country is a fertile garden of amazing basketball players. I grew up watching and idolizing all these extremely talented Skin athletes that could have played at many colleges around the country. Still, they always seemed content to stay at home and run the “Native Circuit” and be rez ball legends.

I remember saying “that will never be me.” Now, I was doing exactly the same thing! And although I didn’t leave right then, that conversation planted the seed. One day I got the courage and finally left.

And eventually I came back. He was right – it didn’t go anyplace. And as much as I love my home, I think about how many opportunities I would have missed out on if I had simply stayed home. I think about friends I wouldn’t have met and foods I wouldn’t have eaten if I hadn’t gotten past fear.

I also realized leaving the rez wasn’t my only Fear of Flying. I have many.

For example, I’ve always had a fear of looking like a fool. I’ve used that fear as an excuse many times. That fear prevented everything from pursuing jobs that I knew that I would love to pursuing women in whom I was very interested. Who knows where I would be without that silly little fear?

Another fear – I always had a tendency to not try too hard at things that came naturally to me. So I would, for example, not work all that hard in basketball games just in case I really sucked. Then I would always have the built-in excuse, “Well if I woulda tried, I would have done better! I didn’t really try that hard.”

These are all Fears of Flying.

RESOLUTION

I resolve to not be such a wuss. I resolve to work on conquering these Fears of Flying in baby steps, like “What About Bob?” For example – believe it or not – this small, insignificant and silly little blog was a huge step of faith for me. I decided, “Y’know, I’m going to try to make some writings for people to judge and possibly enjoy. I will work hard to make quality content that Native people will enjoy and talk about. Even more, I’m gonna put my honest views – popular or not, insecurities and faults into the public eye for people to hate, pee on, or (hopefully) love.”

And let the chips fall where they may.

This is the result. I worked hard on it. And if someone doesn’t like the blog, it’s because it simply didn’t touch them or speak to them. Such is life – sometimes you fail.

But it’s not because I didn’t try hard. I want everyone to love this. I have no excuse.

More importantly than this blog, however, I resolve to work everyday to be a better lawyer, a better son, a better uncle, boyfriend, friend and father. I will not romanticize mediocrity or allow my fear of failure to prevent me from trying my hardest. I often used excuses to justify not being the kind of man that I should be. I’d joke, “I’m Blackfeet – I’m supposed to leave a bunch of kids around and wander from place to place.” That was stupid – there are many great Blackfeet fathers, just like any other group. Still, when I thought about it, my jokes were merely ready-made excuses in case I sucked at fatherhood.

I resolve to discover what I could accomplish without my crippling fears – what I could do if failure was not even a thought. Do you think you could accomplish more if fear did not exist and failure wasn’t a consideration?

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.