News (Media Awareness Project) - US WA: Masking the Truth - False claims on tribal ties, |
| Title: | US WA: Masking the Truth - False claims on tribal ties, |
| Published On: | 2006-06-21 |
| Source: | Seattle Post-Intelligencer (WA) |
| Fetched On: | 2008-08-18 08:42:10 |
MASKING THE TRUTH - FALSE CLAIMS ON TRIBAL TIES, DEGREES TARNISH COUNSELOR
ALBUQUERQUE, N.M. -- The slight figure in neon orange moccasins beats
a hide drum cradled in his arms.
His voice soars in the cavernous auditorium as he spins the tale of
Dashkayah, a huge, hairy creature who hunts and devours children in
the night. Only when the cannibal's young victims face their fears
will they escape her clutches.
"Ana kush iwasha: This is the way it was," says Terry Tafoya, known
across the U.S. and Canada as a pre-eminent American Indian
psychologist from Seattle.
Monsters don't steal our kids today, he tells the crowd. Addictions
do, the streets do. And storytelling helps reclaim them.
"A story becomes a script for how to live your life," Tafoya tells
the school counselors, nurses and social workers at a state-sponsored
event April 20.
The earnest crowd is captivated by the 54-year-old raconteur,
introduced as "Dr. Tafoya," a man whose graying temples and reading
glasses contrast with his waist-length, crow-black braids.
What no one suspects is that Tafoya has scripted his own life,
embellishing his academic credentials and past.
The storyteller has worked his magic, turning nuggets of truth into
pots of gold.
'Face Value'
A charismatic crowd-pleaser, Tafoya jets around the U.S. and Canada
appearing at up to 100 events a year -- most of them funded at least
in part by public dollars.
His one-hour keynote address in Albuquerque earned him $2,500 plus
expenses. Earlier that week the federally funded Northwest Youth
Network paid him more than $3,000 to provide training in Boise,
Idaho.
His resume looks impressive -- starting with the Ph.D. in educational
psychology from the University of Washington he says he earned in 1985.
That has opened doors at prestigious universities, making him a
sought-after speaker for continuing education at schools such as
Harvard University.
The Evergreen State College in Olympia hired him to teach psychology
from 1985 to 1989. He cites past work as clinical faculty at
Harborview Community Mental Health Center.
Tafoya sits on the board of the Kinsey Institute for Research in Sex,
Gender and Reproduction at Indiana University and is considered to be
an expert in gay and lesbian issues.
He's a speaker with the American Program Bureau that books
celebrities such as Archbishop Desmond Tutu and Jane Fonda.
The bureau's Web site recommends Tafoya as an expert on mental health
and substance abuse issues -- apparently unaware that Tafoya was
charged in January with drunken driving after he smashed into two
cars in his Capitol Hill neighborhood.
No one checks his qualifications. Not Harvard, not the Kinsey
Institute, not even the UW, where he consults on a federal grant. His
reputation precedes him and he delivers the goods.
"We weren't disappointed," said Dr. Howard Benson, organizer of a
Harvard University Medical School continuing-education event. Benson
paid Tafoya $1,000 plus expenses to speak in December. "We accepted
him at face value."
Behind The Mask
A master of metaphor, Tafoya shows his audience photos of
transformation masks, used by coastal Indians in ceremonies. Tug on a
concealed string and the wooden mask pops open to reveal a hidden mask within.
It's a fitting image for the public and private versions of the
storyteller's childhood.
Tafoya's tale goes like this: He says he's the third of 12 kids who
grew up in Taos Pueblo, N.M., the tribe of his father. When his
parents divorced, his mother moved back to her tribe of Warm Springs
in Central Oregon.
After leaving Taos Pueblo at age 15, he lived with his aunt in
Oklahoma City and then moved to Florida where his half brothers lived.
In this story, Tafoya says he is enrolled as a Taos Pueblo tribal
member and regularly visits his first cousins there. He says his
mother is Bernice Mitchell, who sits on the tribal council of the
Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs.
That bears little resemblance to the family history relative Jack
Tafoya recounts.
He says that Terry Nolan Tafoya was born in Trinidad, Colo., a small
town near the New Mexico border.
Terry's father, Jose Tafoya, had eight children with his first wife.
After she died in childbirth, he married again and had a second set
of kids, including Terry.
Struggling to support his family, Jose agreed to let one of his older
sons, Joe, adopt infant Terry. Joe and his wife, who couldn't have
children of their own, raised Terry in Pompano Beach, Fla.
But the adults held tight to the secret of Terry's birth. Not until
Terry was a teenager did he discover that Joe wasn't his real father
and that "cousin" Jack, who lived nearby, was really his nephew.
At Pompano Beach High School, classmates teased the smart but
socially inept Tafoya because of his "effeminate" appearance, Jack
says. "I really feel kind of sorry for him," Jack says. "He was a
confused kid, with his sexuality."
Kids also made fun of Jack and his brothers because of their dark
skin. "There was plenty of prejudice. They'd say, 'Where are you from
-- are you Chinese or Mexican?' " Jack says.
The family firmly believes that Jose, Terry's father, had blood ties
to the Taos Pueblo. Jose was from that area, visited often and spoke
Tiwa, the traditional language, Jack says.
Jack doesn't understand how Terry turned that into growing up in Taos Pueblo.
"He didn't want to acknowledge who he really is," says Jack, a
retired airline pilot. "He probably wishes he grew up there, rather
than in Pompano with all the ridicule and discrimination."
Terry insists he "rarely saw" Jack as a child and that he is "hardly
in a position" to comment.
Jack acknowledges they drifted apart after high school. He hasn't
seen Terry since a family reunion in 1996. One day he turned on the
TV and there was Terry doing an interview "dressed up like an Indian."
Taos Pueblo Connection?
The Taos Pueblo has strict rules about who can enroll in the tribe,
including proving ancestry that is at least 25 percent Taos.
The tribe's enrollment clerk, Alicia Romero, said she's never heard
of Terry Tafoya. "He's not enrolled here," Romero said. "If he's not
enrolled, he shouldn't be claiming he's Taos."
His father also was not enrolled, she said. "We don't have Tafoyas
here," she said.
Tafoya has an explanation for that. He says his grandfather had the
surname "Bernal," common in Taos Pueblo, but changed it to "evade
income tax." The proof he provides is a faxed copy of a 1977
affidavit from an 85-year-old woman named Pablita Giron. The
affidavit states that she is Taos Pueblo and is the daughter of Juan
Bernal, who is Terry's great-grandfather. It's signed with an "X."
Taos Pueblo Gov. James Lujan has heard of Tafoya because of
presentations he has made at local schools. Recently, someone
questioned whether Tafoya's ties to Taos were legitimate after
reading about him, Lujan said.
"If he's not enrolled, then he's not Taos," Lujan reiterated.
The tribe is offended when non-members use the Taos Pueblo name to
make money. "We've got a bunch of those out there," Lujan said.
Adoption
Randy Lewis, a member of the Colville Confederated Tribes in Eastern
Washington, met Tafoya through a friend more than 30 years ago. "He
had a Dutch boy haircut with bangs and was a skinny little guy,"
Lewis said.
Back then, Tafoya told Lewis he was of Apache and Taos Pueblo
heritage. "Nobody knew his family. Over the years I wondered about
that," Lewis said.
They both joined Seattle's Red Earth Performing Arts Company in the
mid-'70s, learning cultural ceremonies and songs with the troupe.
Lewis introduced Tafoya to his family, including his aunt, a Warm
Springs tribal member. "I know for a fact that he is not from (Warm
Springs)," said Lewis, now manager of a Seattle art-framing shop and
board member of United Indians of All Tribes.
Tafoya soon "attached himself" to another Warm Springs family, the
clan of Bernice Mitchell, lavishing them with gifts, Lewis said. They
responded by "adopting" Tafoya and gave him the Indian name "Eagle Boy."
Around the same time, Lewis noticed Tafoya began to mimic his dress
and twist broadcloth in his braids just like his friend. It was
peculiar, like Tafoya was trying too hard. "You feel like you're
being cloned," Lewis said.
The Mitchell family doesn't see it the same way. They don't mind that
Tafoya doesn't explain how he became a part of their family or that
he says Bernice is his mother.
"She adopted him in the Indian way," said Catherine Katchia,
Bernice's granddaughter.
Elders in the tribe shared traditional teachings and gave him
permission to use them. To her, it's irrelevant whether Tafoya's ties
to the tribe are by blood or by choice. "That's personal," Katchia said.
The Academic
Tafoya first moved to the Northwest after earning his bachelor's at
the University of South Florida in 1973. He came to the University of
Washington to attend a summer program for Indian graduate students.
In 1974, he received his master's in education from the UW, followed
by his master's in communication in 1975, according to university job
records and a commencement list.
His resume claims he earned a Ph.D. in educational psychology there in 1985.
Verifying Tafoya's academic credentials is almost impossible. As a
student, he invoked a federal privacy law to block the university
from giving out any information about him. About 18 percent of UW
students now have a similar block.
There's no record of his Ph.D. in the 1985 commencement book.
Unlike most doctoral graduates, he has no dissertation in the
university library. The library lists Tafoya as the author of only
one book: "Animal People: A Coloring Book," published in 1980.
Asked about his Ph.D., Tafoya replied: "I did the work. I didn't go
to graduation."
Pressed further, he said, "I did graduate."
That's not what he said during a legal deposition last year.
Unraveling
It began as a dispute over money.
Donnie Goodman, a social worker in the gay community, befriended
Tafoya when their paths crossed at professional and social events.
Goodman agreed to work part time for Tafoya to help sort out the
finances of his consulting business.
A year later, Goodman quit, then filed a lawsuit against Tafoya in
2004 claiming he owed more than $24,000 in wages and loans. Tafoya
denied that, alleging that Goodman stole from him. The case was
settled in binding arbitration. A judgment totaling $59,233,
including interest and attorney fees, was issued against Tafoya two months ago.
During a deposition given under oath Oct. 31, 2005, Goodman's
attorney questioned Tafoya about his UW credentials:
"Q: Did you ever receive a Ph.D.?"
"A: No."
At the end of the deposition, Tafoya said he had an "honorary Ph.D."
from the University of Alberta -- something university officials
there say is not true.
Falsifying academic credentials is now a crime under a state law that
took effect June 7. Goodman decided to go public with what he'd discovered.
"People work really hard for their degrees," said Goodman, clinical
director of Seattle Counseling Services. "It's really disrespectful."
Tafoya accuses Goodman of seeking revenge because of a personal
relationship that went bad.
"He's trying to systematically destroy my credibility," Tafoya said.
"I feel awful not in terms of credibility issues but having loved and
cared for someone. God, I'm a therapist. When something like this
happens you start questioning your own issues."
But Goodman, and those who know him, says the only romance was in
Tafoya's head. Goodman said he threatened to get a restraining order
in 2004 after Tafoya bombarded him with unwanted gifts and e-mails at
work. Instead, Tafoya filed for a protection order against Goodman --
an order that was denied.
"Having worked as a therapist for many years, I was concerned that
Terry was presenting as someone with a deep, unhealthy infatuation,"
wrote Jana Ekdahl, one of Goodman's co-workers, in a court document.
Even before all that, Goodman had wondered whether Tafoya was all he
claimed to be. He recalled Tafoya once asking if Goodman had Indian
blood because of his dark hair and complexion, then offered this
advice: "He said, 'Use it.' "
The Volunteer
Tamanawit, he says, means the direction of one's life in the Sahaptin language
of the Warm Springs tribes.
Prominently featured are references to his work as "clinical faculty"
at the Interpersonal Psychotherapy Clinic at Harborview Community
Mental Health Center from 1981 to 1988. His resume says he did
"primary treatment of couples and families."
What Tafoya doesn't mention is that it was a volunteer job about one
afternoon a week.
"He wasn't a paid employee," said Julia Heiman, a former clinic
director and now director of the Kinsey Institute. "He did not have a
clinical appointment."
Volunteers such as Tafoya treated patients under the supervision of
licensed professionals, Heiman said.
Tafoya also claims that he is a licensed "ethnic minority mental
health specialist" and was designated by the state as the first
recognized native healer. He sprinkles speeches with references to
himself as a "family therapist."
Yet state officials say he has never held a license to treat anyone,
either as a mental health specialist or psychologist. Treating
clients without a license is illegal.
Asked about the missing license, Tafoya said that fact "caught me by
surprise." In an e-mail, he said that the Harborview mental health
center director told him back then that his license had been issued.
When he left the clinic in 1988, Tafoya said he stopped treating patients.
Eleven years ago, Tafoya came to the attention of the state
Department of Health after a complaint of "unlicensed practice" was
filed against him. The case was closed after just two months for
"lack of evidence" and the file destroyed.
Minus a doctorate, Tafoya could end up in hot water with the state
licensing board for calling himself a psychologist -- a protected
title under state law. "We'd have to investigate," said Bob Nicoloff,
executive director of the Board of Psychology Examiners.
Those who have relied on Tafoya's expertise are stunned.
"I am shocked," said Jeremy Franklin, a program specialist with
Seattle-based Northwest Network for Youth that hired Tafoya to do
training in April. "It just undercuts everything he has done."
The Professor
A good storyteller puts his own spin on reality.
As Tafoya tells it, his three-year stint as a psychology professor at
The Evergreen State College ended when he resigned in frustration
over delays in assigning him a teaching assistant.
Records from his Evergreen personnel file reveal a more complicated picture.
In 1988, Tafoya left on a leave of absence without finishing
evaluations for his counseling students. One student complained that
the missing evaluation had left the student one credit short of
graduation. The student, whose name was redacted, criticized Tafoya's
"lack of commitment," said he gave "no feedback" and lost written
work. "This lack of respect for me and my learning appalls me," wrote
the student on Oct. 7, 1988.
Evergreen President Joseph Olander said in a letter to another angry
student that the situation was "totally unacceptable" and promised
disciplinary action.
Tafoya submitted his resignation in February 1989. Olander responded
in writing to "Dr. Terry Tafoya," saying he was "saddened and
perplexed" that students had been left in the lurch.
Evergreen officials refuse to discuss Tafoya's academic credentials,
citing state privacy laws.
Tafoya isn't talking about it.
'Peeling Back The Layers'
After Evergreen, Tafoya worked as training director at the newly
formed National Native American AIDS Prevention Center in 1988. Less
than a year later, he quit to start his own consulting business.
Former boss Ron Rowell said it has irked him over the years to hear
Tafoya take credit for being a "co-founder" of the AIDS group when
"frankly I started it." Rowell ran the group until 2000.
But Rowell isn't surprised at Tafoya's success on the speaking
circuit given his "talent for performance." "People do eat this stuff
up," said Rowell, of the Choctaw Tribe in Oklahoma. "It doesn't serve
Indian country. If you're playing stereotypes, I don't think it helps Indians."
Accolades for Tafoya have piled up over the last decade.
He was invited to speak at the 2003 American Psychological
Association convention in Toronto. As "Dr. Tafoya," he has written
chapters in books, including "HIV and Psychiatry" published by
Cambridge University Press in 2005. He helped write a cross-cultural
training manual for AIDS workers funded by a 2001 U.S. Department of
Health and Human Services grant.
The University of Washington social work school has employed "Dr.
Terry Tafoya" since 2002 as a consultant on a five-year federal grant
surveying health issues among gay and lesbian Native Americans. He is
paid $1,000 per year plus expenses for two days' work.
"I love the work I do," Tafoya says.
And his business has been profitable. He reported earning $116,179 in
1997, the year before he filed for federal bankruptcy because of
thousands of dollars owed in unpaid income taxes. He bounced back and
two years ago took out a $330,000 mortgage on a condo in tree-lined
north Capitol Hill.
But all is not as it appears.
The headquarters of Tamanawit, at "Suite 575" on Pike Street in
Seattle, is a mailbox in a postal services store.
Tafoya now has to juggle his hectic travel schedule with
court-ordered alcohol treatment because of the drunken-driving
charges. A Seattle Municipal Court judge granted him a deferred
prosecution last month.
He blamed the accident on taking Xanax to cope with stress. His
blood-alcohol level was 0.201, or more than twice the legal limit,
the prosecutor said.
Tafoya isn't worried, saying many substance-abuse experts have
struggled with chemical dependency.
His friends agree, saying Tafoya's gifts outweigh his flaws.
Karleen Wolfe said Tafoya supported her after her oldest son died
five years ago. "I've just treasured him as a friend for that
reason," said Wolfe, who first met him when they worked together
decades ago. "I think Terry gives people hope."
Not everyone is so generous.
The director of United Indians of All Tribes said Tafoya listed a
Ph.D. on his application when he was hired on contract several years
ago. "We expected that if he was going to work with children, he was
telling the truth," Phil Lane said.
Lewis, the board member, is more blunt: "I don't dislike Terry, I
dislike what he's done. ... It's (like) peeling back the layers on an onion."
The Wizard Of Oz
Onstage in Albuquerque, Tafoya moves from Dashkayah to Dorothy in
"The Wizard of Oz." He compares Dorothy to a kid who runs away and
joins a street gang. The audience laughs on cue. Then he continues in
a more serious vein, overlaying the familiar story with psychological meaning.
Like so many people, Dorothy doesn't believe in her own power. Good
Witch Glinda sends Dorothy on a journey to consult with the man
behind the curtain, the Wizard of Oz. Along the way, Dorothy faces
obstacles Tafoya compares to developmental stages, from helpless
orphan to wanderer to warrior.
Fans crowd around Tafoya after his speech. One woman tells Tafoya she
heard him a decade ago in Colorado.
He chats with each one, his head tilted ever so slightly upward,
offering a surprisingly slack handshake. The crowd scatters and he
settles into a plush seat near the front of the empty auditorium for
an interview.
As he talks about his work, the storyteller brings up the Wizard of
Oz again. He can't resist comparing himself to Oz, the Great and Terrible.
"I tell people they have a brain and a heart and courage, and then I
go home," Tafoya says.
For a moment, the curtains part.
Who's Hiring Terry Tafoya
Jan. 24, 2006: 27th annual Training Institute on Behavioral Health &
Addictive Disorders, The Institute for Integral Development,
Clearwater Beach, Fla.
Feb. 23, 2006: TRUE Research Foundation for the Advancement of
Military Medicine conference, San Antonio, Texas
March 21, 2006: Cross-Cultural Palliative Care conference, St.
Christopher's Hospice, London
April 3, 2006: Cultural Diversity Board, Mesa State University, Grand
Junction, Colo.
April 10, 2006: Saskatchewan Association of Health Organizations,
Regina, Saskatchewan
April 18-19, 2006: Northwest Network for Youth, Boise, Idaho
April 20, 2006: New Mexico Department of Health, Albuquerque
May 12, 2006: British Columbia Association of Social Workers, Kelowna, B.C.
June 26-27, 2006: 19th annual Convention/Retreat of American Indian
Psychologists, Bear Lake, Utah
Aug. 2, 2006: Clinical and Counseling Advances, Institute for
Integral Development, San Francisco
Sept. 26-29, 2006: 16th International Congress on Care of the
Terminally Ill, McGill University, Montreal
SOURCE: Web sites
AUDIENCE FEEDBACK
Audiences usually love Terry Tafoya. Feedback from participants at a
state Department of Health-sponsored conference in Albuquerque this
spring included these comments:
Awesome and very entertaining
Bring him back!
Did not address the topic
Great presentation but nothing to do with caring for the caregiver
I can never get enough of Terry. He's great.
I will rent "The Wizard of Oz"
Outstanding
Best presentation of the conference
Wonderful analogy using Wizard of Oz
Your concepts are from the book "Coyote Wisdom" series. You need to
cite source.
Source: New Mexico Department of Health
ALBUQUERQUE, N.M. -- The slight figure in neon orange moccasins beats
a hide drum cradled in his arms.
His voice soars in the cavernous auditorium as he spins the tale of
Dashkayah, a huge, hairy creature who hunts and devours children in
the night. Only when the cannibal's young victims face their fears
will they escape her clutches.
"Ana kush iwasha: This is the way it was," says Terry Tafoya, known
across the U.S. and Canada as a pre-eminent American Indian
psychologist from Seattle.
Monsters don't steal our kids today, he tells the crowd. Addictions
do, the streets do. And storytelling helps reclaim them.
"A story becomes a script for how to live your life," Tafoya tells
the school counselors, nurses and social workers at a state-sponsored
event April 20.
The earnest crowd is captivated by the 54-year-old raconteur,
introduced as "Dr. Tafoya," a man whose graying temples and reading
glasses contrast with his waist-length, crow-black braids.
What no one suspects is that Tafoya has scripted his own life,
embellishing his academic credentials and past.
The storyteller has worked his magic, turning nuggets of truth into
pots of gold.
'Face Value'
A charismatic crowd-pleaser, Tafoya jets around the U.S. and Canada
appearing at up to 100 events a year -- most of them funded at least
in part by public dollars.
His one-hour keynote address in Albuquerque earned him $2,500 plus
expenses. Earlier that week the federally funded Northwest Youth
Network paid him more than $3,000 to provide training in Boise,
Idaho.
His resume looks impressive -- starting with the Ph.D. in educational
psychology from the University of Washington he says he earned in 1985.
That has opened doors at prestigious universities, making him a
sought-after speaker for continuing education at schools such as
Harvard University.
The Evergreen State College in Olympia hired him to teach psychology
from 1985 to 1989. He cites past work as clinical faculty at
Harborview Community Mental Health Center.
Tafoya sits on the board of the Kinsey Institute for Research in Sex,
Gender and Reproduction at Indiana University and is considered to be
an expert in gay and lesbian issues.
He's a speaker with the American Program Bureau that books
celebrities such as Archbishop Desmond Tutu and Jane Fonda.
The bureau's Web site recommends Tafoya as an expert on mental health
and substance abuse issues -- apparently unaware that Tafoya was
charged in January with drunken driving after he smashed into two
cars in his Capitol Hill neighborhood.
No one checks his qualifications. Not Harvard, not the Kinsey
Institute, not even the UW, where he consults on a federal grant. His
reputation precedes him and he delivers the goods.
"We weren't disappointed," said Dr. Howard Benson, organizer of a
Harvard University Medical School continuing-education event. Benson
paid Tafoya $1,000 plus expenses to speak in December. "We accepted
him at face value."
Behind The Mask
A master of metaphor, Tafoya shows his audience photos of
transformation masks, used by coastal Indians in ceremonies. Tug on a
concealed string and the wooden mask pops open to reveal a hidden mask within.
It's a fitting image for the public and private versions of the
storyteller's childhood.
Tafoya's tale goes like this: He says he's the third of 12 kids who
grew up in Taos Pueblo, N.M., the tribe of his father. When his
parents divorced, his mother moved back to her tribe of Warm Springs
in Central Oregon.
After leaving Taos Pueblo at age 15, he lived with his aunt in
Oklahoma City and then moved to Florida where his half brothers lived.
In this story, Tafoya says he is enrolled as a Taos Pueblo tribal
member and regularly visits his first cousins there. He says his
mother is Bernice Mitchell, who sits on the tribal council of the
Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs.
That bears little resemblance to the family history relative Jack
Tafoya recounts.
He says that Terry Nolan Tafoya was born in Trinidad, Colo., a small
town near the New Mexico border.
Terry's father, Jose Tafoya, had eight children with his first wife.
After she died in childbirth, he married again and had a second set
of kids, including Terry.
Struggling to support his family, Jose agreed to let one of his older
sons, Joe, adopt infant Terry. Joe and his wife, who couldn't have
children of their own, raised Terry in Pompano Beach, Fla.
But the adults held tight to the secret of Terry's birth. Not until
Terry was a teenager did he discover that Joe wasn't his real father
and that "cousin" Jack, who lived nearby, was really his nephew.
At Pompano Beach High School, classmates teased the smart but
socially inept Tafoya because of his "effeminate" appearance, Jack
says. "I really feel kind of sorry for him," Jack says. "He was a
confused kid, with his sexuality."
Kids also made fun of Jack and his brothers because of their dark
skin. "There was plenty of prejudice. They'd say, 'Where are you from
-- are you Chinese or Mexican?' " Jack says.
The family firmly believes that Jose, Terry's father, had blood ties
to the Taos Pueblo. Jose was from that area, visited often and spoke
Tiwa, the traditional language, Jack says.
Jack doesn't understand how Terry turned that into growing up in Taos Pueblo.
"He didn't want to acknowledge who he really is," says Jack, a
retired airline pilot. "He probably wishes he grew up there, rather
than in Pompano with all the ridicule and discrimination."
Terry insists he "rarely saw" Jack as a child and that he is "hardly
in a position" to comment.
Jack acknowledges they drifted apart after high school. He hasn't
seen Terry since a family reunion in 1996. One day he turned on the
TV and there was Terry doing an interview "dressed up like an Indian."
Taos Pueblo Connection?
The Taos Pueblo has strict rules about who can enroll in the tribe,
including proving ancestry that is at least 25 percent Taos.
The tribe's enrollment clerk, Alicia Romero, said she's never heard
of Terry Tafoya. "He's not enrolled here," Romero said. "If he's not
enrolled, he shouldn't be claiming he's Taos."
His father also was not enrolled, she said. "We don't have Tafoyas
here," she said.
Tafoya has an explanation for that. He says his grandfather had the
surname "Bernal," common in Taos Pueblo, but changed it to "evade
income tax." The proof he provides is a faxed copy of a 1977
affidavit from an 85-year-old woman named Pablita Giron. The
affidavit states that she is Taos Pueblo and is the daughter of Juan
Bernal, who is Terry's great-grandfather. It's signed with an "X."
Taos Pueblo Gov. James Lujan has heard of Tafoya because of
presentations he has made at local schools. Recently, someone
questioned whether Tafoya's ties to Taos were legitimate after
reading about him, Lujan said.
"If he's not enrolled, then he's not Taos," Lujan reiterated.
The tribe is offended when non-members use the Taos Pueblo name to
make money. "We've got a bunch of those out there," Lujan said.
Adoption
Randy Lewis, a member of the Colville Confederated Tribes in Eastern
Washington, met Tafoya through a friend more than 30 years ago. "He
had a Dutch boy haircut with bangs and was a skinny little guy,"
Lewis said.
Back then, Tafoya told Lewis he was of Apache and Taos Pueblo
heritage. "Nobody knew his family. Over the years I wondered about
that," Lewis said.
They both joined Seattle's Red Earth Performing Arts Company in the
mid-'70s, learning cultural ceremonies and songs with the troupe.
Lewis introduced Tafoya to his family, including his aunt, a Warm
Springs tribal member. "I know for a fact that he is not from (Warm
Springs)," said Lewis, now manager of a Seattle art-framing shop and
board member of United Indians of All Tribes.
Tafoya soon "attached himself" to another Warm Springs family, the
clan of Bernice Mitchell, lavishing them with gifts, Lewis said. They
responded by "adopting" Tafoya and gave him the Indian name "Eagle Boy."
Around the same time, Lewis noticed Tafoya began to mimic his dress
and twist broadcloth in his braids just like his friend. It was
peculiar, like Tafoya was trying too hard. "You feel like you're
being cloned," Lewis said.
The Mitchell family doesn't see it the same way. They don't mind that
Tafoya doesn't explain how he became a part of their family or that
he says Bernice is his mother.
"She adopted him in the Indian way," said Catherine Katchia,
Bernice's granddaughter.
Elders in the tribe shared traditional teachings and gave him
permission to use them. To her, it's irrelevant whether Tafoya's ties
to the tribe are by blood or by choice. "That's personal," Katchia said.
The Academic
Tafoya first moved to the Northwest after earning his bachelor's at
the University of South Florida in 1973. He came to the University of
Washington to attend a summer program for Indian graduate students.
In 1974, he received his master's in education from the UW, followed
by his master's in communication in 1975, according to university job
records and a commencement list.
His resume claims he earned a Ph.D. in educational psychology there in 1985.
Verifying Tafoya's academic credentials is almost impossible. As a
student, he invoked a federal privacy law to block the university
from giving out any information about him. About 18 percent of UW
students now have a similar block.
There's no record of his Ph.D. in the 1985 commencement book.
Unlike most doctoral graduates, he has no dissertation in the
university library. The library lists Tafoya as the author of only
one book: "Animal People: A Coloring Book," published in 1980.
Asked about his Ph.D., Tafoya replied: "I did the work. I didn't go
to graduation."
Pressed further, he said, "I did graduate."
That's not what he said during a legal deposition last year.
Unraveling
It began as a dispute over money.
Donnie Goodman, a social worker in the gay community, befriended
Tafoya when their paths crossed at professional and social events.
Goodman agreed to work part time for Tafoya to help sort out the
finances of his consulting business.
A year later, Goodman quit, then filed a lawsuit against Tafoya in
2004 claiming he owed more than $24,000 in wages and loans. Tafoya
denied that, alleging that Goodman stole from him. The case was
settled in binding arbitration. A judgment totaling $59,233,
including interest and attorney fees, was issued against Tafoya two months ago.
During a deposition given under oath Oct. 31, 2005, Goodman's
attorney questioned Tafoya about his UW credentials:
"Q: Did you ever receive a Ph.D.?"
"A: No."
At the end of the deposition, Tafoya said he had an "honorary Ph.D."
from the University of Alberta -- something university officials
there say is not true.
Falsifying academic credentials is now a crime under a state law that
took effect June 7. Goodman decided to go public with what he'd discovered.
"People work really hard for their degrees," said Goodman, clinical
director of Seattle Counseling Services. "It's really disrespectful."
Tafoya accuses Goodman of seeking revenge because of a personal
relationship that went bad.
"He's trying to systematically destroy my credibility," Tafoya said.
"I feel awful not in terms of credibility issues but having loved and
cared for someone. God, I'm a therapist. When something like this
happens you start questioning your own issues."
But Goodman, and those who know him, says the only romance was in
Tafoya's head. Goodman said he threatened to get a restraining order
in 2004 after Tafoya bombarded him with unwanted gifts and e-mails at
work. Instead, Tafoya filed for a protection order against Goodman --
an order that was denied.
"Having worked as a therapist for many years, I was concerned that
Terry was presenting as someone with a deep, unhealthy infatuation,"
wrote Jana Ekdahl, one of Goodman's co-workers, in a court document.
Even before all that, Goodman had wondered whether Tafoya was all he
claimed to be. He recalled Tafoya once asking if Goodman had Indian
blood because of his dark hair and complexion, then offered this
advice: "He said, 'Use it.' "
The Volunteer
Tamanawit, he says, means the direction of one's life in the Sahaptin language
of the Warm Springs tribes.
Prominently featured are references to his work as "clinical faculty"
at the Interpersonal Psychotherapy Clinic at Harborview Community
Mental Health Center from 1981 to 1988. His resume says he did
"primary treatment of couples and families."
What Tafoya doesn't mention is that it was a volunteer job about one
afternoon a week.
"He wasn't a paid employee," said Julia Heiman, a former clinic
director and now director of the Kinsey Institute. "He did not have a
clinical appointment."
Volunteers such as Tafoya treated patients under the supervision of
licensed professionals, Heiman said.
Tafoya also claims that he is a licensed "ethnic minority mental
health specialist" and was designated by the state as the first
recognized native healer. He sprinkles speeches with references to
himself as a "family therapist."
Yet state officials say he has never held a license to treat anyone,
either as a mental health specialist or psychologist. Treating
clients without a license is illegal.
Asked about the missing license, Tafoya said that fact "caught me by
surprise." In an e-mail, he said that the Harborview mental health
center director told him back then that his license had been issued.
When he left the clinic in 1988, Tafoya said he stopped treating patients.
Eleven years ago, Tafoya came to the attention of the state
Department of Health after a complaint of "unlicensed practice" was
filed against him. The case was closed after just two months for
"lack of evidence" and the file destroyed.
Minus a doctorate, Tafoya could end up in hot water with the state
licensing board for calling himself a psychologist -- a protected
title under state law. "We'd have to investigate," said Bob Nicoloff,
executive director of the Board of Psychology Examiners.
Those who have relied on Tafoya's expertise are stunned.
"I am shocked," said Jeremy Franklin, a program specialist with
Seattle-based Northwest Network for Youth that hired Tafoya to do
training in April. "It just undercuts everything he has done."
The Professor
A good storyteller puts his own spin on reality.
As Tafoya tells it, his three-year stint as a psychology professor at
The Evergreen State College ended when he resigned in frustration
over delays in assigning him a teaching assistant.
Records from his Evergreen personnel file reveal a more complicated picture.
In 1988, Tafoya left on a leave of absence without finishing
evaluations for his counseling students. One student complained that
the missing evaluation had left the student one credit short of
graduation. The student, whose name was redacted, criticized Tafoya's
"lack of commitment," said he gave "no feedback" and lost written
work. "This lack of respect for me and my learning appalls me," wrote
the student on Oct. 7, 1988.
Evergreen President Joseph Olander said in a letter to another angry
student that the situation was "totally unacceptable" and promised
disciplinary action.
Tafoya submitted his resignation in February 1989. Olander responded
in writing to "Dr. Terry Tafoya," saying he was "saddened and
perplexed" that students had been left in the lurch.
Evergreen officials refuse to discuss Tafoya's academic credentials,
citing state privacy laws.
Tafoya isn't talking about it.
'Peeling Back The Layers'
After Evergreen, Tafoya worked as training director at the newly
formed National Native American AIDS Prevention Center in 1988. Less
than a year later, he quit to start his own consulting business.
Former boss Ron Rowell said it has irked him over the years to hear
Tafoya take credit for being a "co-founder" of the AIDS group when
"frankly I started it." Rowell ran the group until 2000.
But Rowell isn't surprised at Tafoya's success on the speaking
circuit given his "talent for performance." "People do eat this stuff
up," said Rowell, of the Choctaw Tribe in Oklahoma. "It doesn't serve
Indian country. If you're playing stereotypes, I don't think it helps Indians."
Accolades for Tafoya have piled up over the last decade.
He was invited to speak at the 2003 American Psychological
Association convention in Toronto. As "Dr. Tafoya," he has written
chapters in books, including "HIV and Psychiatry" published by
Cambridge University Press in 2005. He helped write a cross-cultural
training manual for AIDS workers funded by a 2001 U.S. Department of
Health and Human Services grant.
The University of Washington social work school has employed "Dr.
Terry Tafoya" since 2002 as a consultant on a five-year federal grant
surveying health issues among gay and lesbian Native Americans. He is
paid $1,000 per year plus expenses for two days' work.
"I love the work I do," Tafoya says.
And his business has been profitable. He reported earning $116,179 in
1997, the year before he filed for federal bankruptcy because of
thousands of dollars owed in unpaid income taxes. He bounced back and
two years ago took out a $330,000 mortgage on a condo in tree-lined
north Capitol Hill.
But all is not as it appears.
The headquarters of Tamanawit, at "Suite 575" on Pike Street in
Seattle, is a mailbox in a postal services store.
Tafoya now has to juggle his hectic travel schedule with
court-ordered alcohol treatment because of the drunken-driving
charges. A Seattle Municipal Court judge granted him a deferred
prosecution last month.
He blamed the accident on taking Xanax to cope with stress. His
blood-alcohol level was 0.201, or more than twice the legal limit,
the prosecutor said.
Tafoya isn't worried, saying many substance-abuse experts have
struggled with chemical dependency.
His friends agree, saying Tafoya's gifts outweigh his flaws.
Karleen Wolfe said Tafoya supported her after her oldest son died
five years ago. "I've just treasured him as a friend for that
reason," said Wolfe, who first met him when they worked together
decades ago. "I think Terry gives people hope."
Not everyone is so generous.
The director of United Indians of All Tribes said Tafoya listed a
Ph.D. on his application when he was hired on contract several years
ago. "We expected that if he was going to work with children, he was
telling the truth," Phil Lane said.
Lewis, the board member, is more blunt: "I don't dislike Terry, I
dislike what he's done. ... It's (like) peeling back the layers on an onion."
The Wizard Of Oz
Onstage in Albuquerque, Tafoya moves from Dashkayah to Dorothy in
"The Wizard of Oz." He compares Dorothy to a kid who runs away and
joins a street gang. The audience laughs on cue. Then he continues in
a more serious vein, overlaying the familiar story with psychological meaning.
Like so many people, Dorothy doesn't believe in her own power. Good
Witch Glinda sends Dorothy on a journey to consult with the man
behind the curtain, the Wizard of Oz. Along the way, Dorothy faces
obstacles Tafoya compares to developmental stages, from helpless
orphan to wanderer to warrior.
Fans crowd around Tafoya after his speech. One woman tells Tafoya she
heard him a decade ago in Colorado.
He chats with each one, his head tilted ever so slightly upward,
offering a surprisingly slack handshake. The crowd scatters and he
settles into a plush seat near the front of the empty auditorium for
an interview.
As he talks about his work, the storyteller brings up the Wizard of
Oz again. He can't resist comparing himself to Oz, the Great and Terrible.
"I tell people they have a brain and a heart and courage, and then I
go home," Tafoya says.
For a moment, the curtains part.
Who's Hiring Terry Tafoya
Jan. 24, 2006: 27th annual Training Institute on Behavioral Health &
Addictive Disorders, The Institute for Integral Development,
Clearwater Beach, Fla.
Feb. 23, 2006: TRUE Research Foundation for the Advancement of
Military Medicine conference, San Antonio, Texas
March 21, 2006: Cross-Cultural Palliative Care conference, St.
Christopher's Hospice, London
April 3, 2006: Cultural Diversity Board, Mesa State University, Grand
Junction, Colo.
April 10, 2006: Saskatchewan Association of Health Organizations,
Regina, Saskatchewan
April 18-19, 2006: Northwest Network for Youth, Boise, Idaho
April 20, 2006: New Mexico Department of Health, Albuquerque
May 12, 2006: British Columbia Association of Social Workers, Kelowna, B.C.
June 26-27, 2006: 19th annual Convention/Retreat of American Indian
Psychologists, Bear Lake, Utah
Aug. 2, 2006: Clinical and Counseling Advances, Institute for
Integral Development, San Francisco
Sept. 26-29, 2006: 16th International Congress on Care of the
Terminally Ill, McGill University, Montreal
SOURCE: Web sites
AUDIENCE FEEDBACK
Audiences usually love Terry Tafoya. Feedback from participants at a
state Department of Health-sponsored conference in Albuquerque this
spring included these comments:
Awesome and very entertaining
Bring him back!
Did not address the topic
Great presentation but nothing to do with caring for the caregiver
I can never get enough of Terry. He's great.
I will rent "The Wizard of Oz"
Outstanding
Best presentation of the conference
Wonderful analogy using Wizard of Oz
Your concepts are from the book "Coyote Wisdom" series. You need to
cite source.
Source: New Mexico Department of Health
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