Customer Reviews

The Blood Runs Like a River Through My Dreams

5 star:		(16)
4 star:		(4)
3 star:		(3)
2 star:		(0)
1 star:		(7)

 

 

It's such a shame that this book turned out to be a work of total fiction. The author's real name is Timothy Barris. He was raised in a middle class home in Michigan. This is worse than the hoax perpetrated by James Frey since Barris uses the identity with the Navaho to garner empathy.

By the way, the name Nasdijj has no meaning at all in the Navaho language. Nothing less than a full apology is due the Navaho people from this imposter.

Unfortunately, it has been made abundantly clear that Tommy Nothing Fancy never had FAS, never died, indeed, never existed. Also, Nasdijj's mother was not pimped out, was not a drunk, and was not Navajo. It seems that Nasdijj's life, as chronicled here, simply didn't happen.

This book is seemingly full of poignancy, beautiful prose, and maybe even "agonizingly lucid" passages, but it is also apparently devoid of truth.

While viewing books in a bookstore in Boise, ID, Nasdijj's memoir caught my eye. The title drew me in, since I am a poet. The first chapter made me sit down. Chapter three brought me to tears, as he writes of Mariano Lake, which is home. I am Navajo and live next to the school. The wild horses Nasdijj wrote about are my uncles'. They are still there, running and creating dreams and fantasies in boys' eyes. And the goats and sheep are my grandmother's, my mother's and mine, they still graze around the school and in the baseball field. The school officials always tell us not to graze them there, but we tell them the goats were there before we permitted the school to be built. They leave us and the goats alone now, until new administrators arrive. My grandmother (the old lady in the book) died September 11th. My mother took her place with the goats and sheep.
I read the whole book in the bookstore, then I bought it. Now, the children in Mariano Lake are reading the book. I have to send five new copies, soon. Nasdijj has literally painted a picture of my community and Navajo life, in general, with words which is hard to do. This book is more than a treasure. The simple sight of it reminds me of home, with Nasdijj's empowering colorful words.

Entire book is a work of fiction, with many passages lifted from other authors' work. What made this book good, was knowing that Nasdijj experienced these events. Now, it is just a very poor work of fiction. After doing some research, "Nasdijj" turned out to be nothing more than a failed gay erotica writer with a jealous tint and a short temper. The previous life as a gay erotica writer shines through periodically in this book and adds a bitter tangent to a mundane piece.

Get a life man; your own, preferably.

I read this whole book in a day- it was one of the richest reading experiences I have ever had. The author has an ability to say so much with few words; he has an amazing talent. He writes about his childhood with a white, cowboy father and a Native American mother, the difficult life they led on the road, the death of his adopted son- Tommy Nothing Fancy- from fetal alcohol syndrome, and his pursuit of the writing life. Even though there were moments that I was reduced to tears, he writes with warmth and humor that don't leave you overwhelmed. This is a FANTASTIC book. Read it!!

I haven't read any of "Nasdijj"'s writings, and I don't expect to do so, but as a REAL Amerind (Cherokee), I am disturbed and indignant at Navajos being used as a publicity hook by a white sado-masochist. Don't take my word for it. Read an exhaustive exposé at

http://www.laweekly.com/index.php option=com_lawcontent&task=view&id=12468&Itemid=47

It's a shame that because of works like this, not to mention the Forrest Carter (Education of Little Tree) scandal a few years back, many unknown and undiscovered--but authentic--Native American writers will probably have to struggle that much harder to become published. Well-established American Indian authors are already naturally suspect of any newcomers on the scene; the sad fact is that for some reason Native American culture and identity is misappropriated by more misguided white writers--whatever their individual agendas might be--than any other race or ethnic group. The sad truth is that, for every Forrest Carter and Timothy Barris who manage to secure a publishing contract, there are dozens of truly deserving Native voices that are going unheard.And thanks to these imposters making the buying public- as well as agents and editors- increasingly suspicious of anyone claiming to be Native American-their chances to be read and heard are only going to diminish.

I read this book last year, and was moved by it, though I often found it rather fuzzy on certain details, and the chronology seemed to jump around. Now, I learn this guy is a total FRAUD: He's not Indian and Tommy didn't exist. He's apparently lazy, too: I've read that his descriptions of Navajo culture don't fit with reality, either. This is disgraceful, both his lying about his heritage, and inventing this sick child, as well as the other people he made up. What a waste of time.

So many literary frauds have been exposed this month (Jan 06). Now, I'm wondering about a few other memoirs that have been popular the last few years. I'm rather disinclined to buy any memoirs these days; and I bet I'm not the only one who feels this way. I bet these scandals hurt sales of this book genre.

This writer, this Navajo, this sometimes white man, was told he couldn't write. Never would. Shouldn't try. Give up. Forget it. But...

He writes, and writes, and writes. For revenge. So he says. But it is not for revenge. He writes to give his life and our lives validity in a world where value is placed upon money, success, things, and where you're from. He is a gifted writer.

His Navajo half sings, sings the history and tradition of his people. The history is not strung out like some pearl necklace, but compacted layer upon layer, like layers of stone, all that is and ever was of a people.

And now he sings to us in "White People Town". He gives us words. He doesn't know what white people want. He doesn't paint a picture, or give us a plot, or theme. He just tells us his story. But the telling belongs to everyone. He sings to all human beings.

His words are like rocks torn from the mountain. They're covered with blood and bits of bone like they were torn from flesh. His words are torn from the mountain with bare hands. The hands are raw and scraped. Blood from the mountain and hands, glisten on the rocks torn from the mountain. They are all forms and sizes, sharp-edged and round. But they are all torn from the mountain made up from everything that is a human being.

The words are not tossed or scattered, or layed out carefully. But if you turn and look, they show the way to a spiritual refuge, beyond the red orange shimmering haze on the horizon of the desert, beyond the stars. It is not a staircase. It is not a trail. But the words will lead you to a place where you open your eyes. You become awake. Nasdijj takes his fingers and spreads your eyelids wide apart. And now you can see what it is to be a human being, a Navajo, and even a white man. The barriers of culture are not broken down, but crumble to dust under the weight of the rocks.

His words do not fit together easily or "just so". They fit together like rocks torn from the mountain of everything that is human. They are not jumbled. It is not seeing the world or life through another's eyes. You are his eyes. He doesn't make you a Navajo. The Navajo are you.

I hold the book between my hands. It is not big. It is only paper, and ink, and some glue. But those pages between my hands have tears and sadness in them. The kind of tears that stream down your face and the pain seems unending. There is great beauty and happiness in these pages also. The kind of beauty that makes everything seem motionless and you are not aware of anything but the beauty. The book also has hunger, toughness, love, compassion, fear, loneliness, and songs. The book has no life of it's own. It doesn't hum, pulsate, or resonate. But everything is there, you do not have to search for any meaning. Read it and your eyes will open and you will see everything. It will make you feel whole and hungry for more at the same time.

Nasdijj tell us more. Pull some more rocks from the mountain. You are building a temple for us all.

This is a beautiful book, a real treasure.

Into the majestic desert landscape of the American Southwest, among the hard life of a Navajo reservation & into this angry man's life comes a baby boy with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome & an unrelenting & mystical would-be mother. With Tommy Nothing Fancy's arrival, the heart of this dry & sorry man is cracked open & out floods memories & all the love of the world & a father is born.

Yes, this is an angry book - there is no escaping the heartache of a people severed from their ancestry, confined to welfare misery & generations of intentional abuse by government & do-gooders. Children wrenched away to boarding schools where everything that made them who they were was systematically & brutally erased. Adults proscribed from eking out a living off their land & that ubiquitous & invidious palliative for all that pain. That assuager which brings the dread disease that destroys their children before they are born.

Read The Blood Runs Like a River Through My Dreams for the story Nasdijj has to tell, then read it again for his lyrical language. Like paintings of sunsets over desert mountains, Nasdijj's essays are fulgent with passions, paronomasias & revelations.

I could not put this book down until I'd read the last word & even then I sat, astonished & breathless with Nasdijj's thoughts & images. I urge you to check out my eInterview with this author & my full review at: [my website].