This is a very long, very well-researched article. It's one of those accounts that is so annoying, because there has been a steady trickle of people saying "something isn't right here" and they have been largely ignored by the mainstream publishing world. The fact that most of those ignored voices were Indians and scholars (Indian and otherwise) and that the story only makes news when told by a mainstream white (?) writer is a classic problem in American Indian literature scholarship.

Here is a link to this very long piece. I'm running just the beginning of it here.

Navahoax
Did a struggling white writer of gay erotica become one of multicultural literature's most celebrated memoirists — by passing himself off as Native American?

By MATTHEW FLEISCHER
Wednesday, January 25, 2006

"So achingly honest it takes your breath away."
—Miami Herald on The Boy and the Dog Are Sleeping

In June of 1999 a writer calling himself Nasdijj emerged from obscurity to publish an ode to his adopted son in Esquire. "My son is dead," he began. "I didn't say my adopted son is dead. He was my son. My son was a Navajo. He lived six years. They were the best six years of my life."

The boy's name was Tommy Nothing Fancy and Nasdijj wrote that he and his wife adopted Tommy as an infant and raised him in their home on the Navajo reservation. At first, Tommy seemed like a healthy baby, albeit one who consistently cried throughout the night. "The doctor at the Indian Health Service said it was nothing. Probably gas."

But it wasn't gas. Tommy suffered from a severe case of fetal alcohol syndrome, or FAS. Though Tommy looked normal, his crying continued and as he grew older he began to suffer massive seizures. "I thought I could see him getting duller with every seizure. He knew he was slowly dying."

Nasdijj knew too, and he tried to give his son as full a life as time would allow. Fishing was Tommy's favorite thing to do and they went often — sometimes at the expense of his medical care. "For my son hospitals were analogous to torture. Tommy Nothing Fancy wanted to die with his dad and his dog while fishing."

Nasdijj's wife wanted Tommy in the hospital receiving modern medical treatment. "She was a modern Indian... She begged. She pleaded. She screamed. She pounded the walls. But the hospitals and doctors never made it better."

Though the conflict tore his marriage apart, Nasdijj continued to take his son fishing and, true to his last wish, Tommy died of a seizure while on an expedition.

"I was catching brown trout," Nasdijj wrote. "I was thinking about cooking them for dinner over our campfire when Tommy Nothing Fancy fell. All that shaking. It was as if a bolt of lighting surged uncontrolled through the damaged brain of my son. It wasn't fair. He was just a little boy who liked to fish... I was holding him when he died... The fish escaped."

The Esquire piece, as successful as it was heartbreaking, was a finalist for a National Magazine Award and helped establish Nasdijj as a prominent new voice in the world of nonfiction. "Esquire's Cinderella story," as Salon's Sean Elder called it, "arrived over the transom, addressed to no one in particular. 'The cover letter was this screed about how Esquire had never published the work of an American-Indian writer and never would because it's such a racist publication,' recalls editor in chief David Granger. 'And under it was... one of the most beautiful pieces of writing I'd ever read.' By the time the piece was published in the June issue, the writer (who lives on an Indian reservation) had a book contract."

The contract was for a full-length memoir, The Blood Runs Like A River Through My Dreams, published by Houghton Mifflin in 2000 to great acclaim. It was followed by two more memoirs, The Boy and the Dog Are Sleeping (Ballantine, 2003), and Geronimo's Bones: A Memoir of My Brother and Me (Ballantine, 2004). As if losing a son was not enough, the memoirs portray a lifetime of suffering.

Nasdijj was born on the Navajo reservation in a hogan in 1950, he claims, the son of an abusive white cowboy "who broke, bred, and bootlegged horses" and a Navajo mother. "My mother," he writes, "was a hopeless drunk. I would use the word 'alcoholic' but it's too polite. It's a white people word... There is nothing polite about cleaning up your mother in her vomit and dragging her unconscious carcass back to the migrant housing trailer you lived in."

Nasdijj says his father would sometimes pimp his mother to other migrant workers for "five bucks" and that she died of alcoholism when he was 7. Though their time together was short and turbulent, Nasdijj says his mother instilled in him the Navajo traditions that now inform his work.

His father, he says, was a sexual predator who raped him the night his mother died. Because his father was white, Nasdijj says he was treated like an "outcast bastard" on the reservation. Like Tommy Nothing Fancy, Nasdijj claims to have fetal alcohol syndrome and to have been raised, with his brother, in migrant camps all over the country.

Nasdijj knows how to pull heartstrings. Both The Blood and The Boy revolve around the lives and deaths of his adopted Navajo sons. "Death, to the Navajo, is like the cold wind that blows across the mesa from the north," Nasdijj writes in The Blood. "We do not speak of it." But Nasdijj does speak of it. In fact, he speaks of it almost exclusively. Death and suffering are his staples.

"My son comes back to me when I least expect to see his ghostly vision," he writes. "He lives in my bones and scars."

But Nasdijj hasn't built his career purely through the tragic and sensational nature of his stories. His style is an artful blending of poetry and prose, and his work has met with nearly universal critical praise. The Blood "reminds us that brave and engaging writers lurk in the most forgotten corners of society," wrote Ted Conover in The New York Times Book Review. Rick Bass called it "mesmerizing, apocalyptic, achingly beautiful and redemptive... a powerful American classic," while Howard Frank Mosher said it was "the best memoir I have read about family love, particularly a father's love for his son, since A River Runs Through It."The Blood was a New York Times Notable Book, a finalist for the PEN/Martha Albrand Award and winner of the Salon Book Award.

The Boy and the Dog Are Sleeping was published to more glowing reviews — "vivid and immediate, crackling with anger, humor, and love" (The Washington Post) and "riveting... lyrical... a ragged wail of a song, an ancient song, where we learn what it is to truly be a parent and love a child" (USA Today).

Shortly after The Blood came out, Nasdijj writes, he moved back to the Navajo reservation, where word of his book and his compassion spread. One day while fishing, a Navajo man and his 10-year-old son approached him. The man took Nasdijj aside and explained that he, his wife and their son, Awee, had AIDS. "They were not terrific parents," Nasdijj wrote "but they wanted this child to have a chance at life." Nasdijj was that chance. For the next two years Nasdijj cared for Awee until his death from AIDS-related illness.

The Boy won a 2004 PEN/Beyond Margins Award and helped solidify Nasdijj's place as one of the most celebrated multicultural writers in American literature. But as his successes and literary credentials grew in number so did his skeptics — particularly from within the Native American community. Sherman Alexie first heard of Nasdijj in 1999 after his former editor sent him a galley proof of The Blood for comment. At the time, Alexie, who is Spokane and Coeur d'Alene, was one of the hottest authors in America and was widely considered the most prominent voice in Native American literature. His novel Indian Killer was a New York Times notable book, and his cinematic feature Smoke Signals was the previous year's Sundance darling, nominated for the Grand Jury Prize and winner of the Audience Award. Alexie's seal of approval would have provided The Blood with a virtual rubber stamp of native authenticity. But it took Alexie only a few pages before he realized he couldn't vouch for the work. It wasn't just that similar writing style and cadence that bothered Alexie.

"The whole time I was reading I was thinking, this doesn't just sound like me, this is me," he says.

Alexie was born hydrocephalic, a life-threatening condition characterized by water on the brain. At the age of 6 months he underwent brain surgery that saved his life but left him, much like Tommy Nothing Fancy, prone to chronic seizures throughout his childhood. Instead of identifying with Nasdijj's story, however, Alexie became suspicious.

"At first I was flattered but as I kept reading I noticed he was borrowing from other Native writers too. I thought, this can't be real."

Indeed, Nasdijj's stories also bear uncanny resemblance to the works of N. Scott Momaday, Leslie Silko and especially Michael Dorris, whose memoir The Broken Cord depicts his struggle to care for his adopted FAS-stricken Native Alaskan children. Although there was never more than a similar phrase here and there, Alexie was convinced that the work was fabricated. He wasn't alone.

Shortly after his review of The Blood came out in The New York Times Book Review, Ted Conover received an Internet greeting card from Nasdijj chastising him for his piece. Conover, an award-winning journalist whose 2003 book Newjack: Guarding Sing Sing was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize, was taken aback. Not only is it highly unusual for an author to attack a reviewer, but it is especially unusual when the review in question was overwhelmingly positive — Conover's flattering words would grace the paperback cover.

Conover's main critique was that Nasdijj was "stingy with self-revelation." He questioned certain inconsistencies in the author's background, noting that Nasdijj sometimes said his mother was "with the Navajo," sometimes she was "Navajo, or so she claimed," and other times she was just "Navajo." Conover never accused Nasdijj of lying, he merely suggested that the writer be more forthcoming. Nasdijj, however, rejected this suggestion and sent the angry letter, which Conover characterizes as a sprawling diatribe.

"The whole thing was just really bizarre," Conover says.

Conover sent a copy of the card to Anton Mueller, Nasdijj's editor at Houghton Mifflin and an acquaintance. "I wondered if he might shed a little light on this," he says. Mueller, however, never responded and the incident left Conover wondering whether he should have been more thorough in investigating Nasdijj before writing his review. It didn't take him long to find an answer. Several weeks later, Conover was contacted by an expert in fetal alcohol syndrome who had read his review. She informed him that while she sympathized with the plight of Nasdijj and his son, the symptoms described in The Blood are not actually those of FAS.

Says Conover, "I immediately thought, 'Oh no, I've been duped.'"

[This story is quite long and the rest is at the link above]