Masking the Truth: False claims on tribal ties, degrees tarnish counselor

ALBUQUERQUE, N.M. — The slight figure in neon orange moccasins hits a hide drum cradled in his arms.

His voice soars in the cavernous auditorium as he spins the tale of Dashkayah, a thick, hairy creature who hunts and devours children in the night. Only when the cannibal’s youthful 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.

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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 one hundred events a year — most of them funded at least in part by public dollars.

His one-hour keynote address in Albuquerque earned him $Two,500 plus expenses. Earlier that week the federally funded Northwest Youth Network paid him more than $Trio,000 to provide training in Boise, Idaho.

His resume looks awesome — commencing 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 train psychology from one thousand nine hundred eighty five 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 Hookup, Gender and Reproduction at Indiana University and is considered to be an accomplished in gay and lezzie 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 experienced on mental health and substance manhandle issues — evidently 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 supplies 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 expose a hidden mask within.

It’s a fitting pic for the public and private versions of the storyteller’s childhood.

Tafoya’s tale goes like this: He says he’s the third of twelve 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 very 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 petite town near the Fresh Mexico border.

Terry’s father, Jose Tafoya, had eight children with his very first wifey. After she died in childbirth, he married again and had a 2nd set of kids, including Terry.

Fighting to support his family, Jose agreed to let one of his older sons, Joe, adopt infant Terry. Joe and his wifey, who couldn’t have children of their own, raised Terry in Pompano Beach, Fla.

But the adults held taut to the secret of Terry’s birth. Not until Terry was a teenager did he detect that Joe wasn’t his real father and that "cousin" Jack, who lived nearby, was truly his nephew.

At Pompano Beach High School, classmates taunted the brainy but socially inept Tafoya because of his "effeminate" appearance, Jack says. "I indeed feel kind of sorry for him," Jack says. "He was a confused kid, with his sexiness."

Kids also made joy of Jack and his brothers because of their dark skin. "There was slew of prejudice. They’d say, ‘Where are you from — are you Chinese or Mexican?’ " Jack says.

The family stiffly 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 indeed is," says Jack, a retired airline pilot. "He very likely wishes he grew up there, rather than in Pompano with all the ridicule and discrimination."

Terry insists he "infrequently eyed" 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 rigorous rules about who can enroll in the tribe, including proving ancestry that is at least twenty five 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 switched it to "evade income tax." The proof he provides is a faxed copy of a one thousand nine hundred seventy seven 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 thirty years ago. "He had a Dutch boy haircut with bangs and was a skinny little man," 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 Crimson 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 "linked 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 attempting 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 collective 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 individual," Katchia said.

THE ACADEMIC

Tafoya very 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 unlikely. As a student, he invoked a federal privacy law to block the university from providing out any information about him. About eighteen percent of UW students now have a similar block.

There’s no record of his Ph.D. in the one thousand nine hundred eighty five 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 abandon, then filed a lawsuit against Tafoya in two thousand four claiming he owed more than $24,000 in wages and loans. Tafoya denied that, alleging that Goodman stole from him. The case was lodged in trussing 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.?"

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 determined to go public with what he’d discovered.

"People work indeed hard for their degrees," said Goodman, clinical director of Seattle Counseling Services. "It’s indeed disrespectful."

Tafoya accuses Goodman of seeking vengeance because of a individual relationship that went bad.

"He’s attempting to systematically ruin 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 embark 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 two thousand four 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 worried 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 suggested this advice: "He said, ‘Use it.’ "

THE VOLUNTEER

Click on the Web site for Tafoya’s consulting business, called Tamanawit Unlimited, to see a list of his accomplishments. 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 one thousand nine hundred eighty one 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 very 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 ruined.

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 instructing assistant.

Records from his Evergreen personnel file expose a more complicated picture.

In 1988, Tafoya left on a leave of absence without completing evaluations for his counseling students. One student complained that the missing evaluation had left the student one credit brief 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 activity.

Tafoya submitted his resignation in February 1989. Olander responded in writing to "Dr. Terry Tafoya," telling he was "saddened and perplexed" that students had been left in the lurch.

Evergreen officials reject 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 freshly formed National Native American AIDS Prevention Center in 1988. Less than a year later, he abandon to embark 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 commenced it." Rowell ran the group until 2000.

But Rowell isn’t astonished at Tafoya’s success on the speaking circuit given his "talent for spectacle." "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 two thousand three 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 two thousand one U.S. Department of Health and Human Services grant.

The University of Washington social work school has employed "Dr. Terry Tafoya" since two thousand two as a consultant on a five-year federal grant surveying health issues among gay and lezzie 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 shows up.

The headquarters of Tamanawit, at "Suite 575" on Pike Street in Seattle, is a mailbox in a postal services store.

Tafoya now has to bounce 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, telling many substance-abuse experts have struggled with chemical dependency.

His friends agree, telling 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 very 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 proceeds 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 defenseless 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 talks with each one, his head tilted ever so slightly upward, suggesting a remarkably slack handshake. The crowd scatters and he lodges 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 stand against comparing himself to Oz, the Fine and Terrible.

"I tell people they have a brain and a heart and courage, and then I go home," Tafoya says.

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