“Haff Breed,” is a riveting tale, from author Leon K. Reval, of his journey as an elected tribal leader, navigating the brash world of tribal politics and negligent use of tribal sovereignty. Through trials of skepticism, accusations, and rejection, Leon confronts his own sense of identity and belonging, challenging allegations and will to still serve his tribe. “Haff Breed" is a captivating narrative that sheds light on the misguided realities of tribal leader control and Leon’s determination to challenge the perplexities of tribal governance.
“Haff Breed,” is a riveting tale, from author Leon K. Reval, of his journey as an elected tribal leader, navigating the brash world of tribal politics and negligent use of tribal sovereignty. Through trials of skepticism, accusations, and rejection, Leon confronts his own sense of identity and belonging, challenging allegations and will to still serve his tribe. “Haff Breed" is a captivating narrative that sheds light on the misguided realities of tribal leader control and Leon’s determination to challenge the perplexities of tribal governance.
I don’t think I ever planned on sitting in a cubicle, in a building that I helped plan and strategize both funding and empowerment of designing and constructing, in my early fifties, making $11 an hour, wondering if I have become to jaded, cynical, or just a killjoy. I reflect daily now on my life and question if I had done enough, could have done something different, or even maybe I was deserving of phase 2 of my life, now unemployed, single, raising three children, and now that my middle son turned eighteen, fully responsible now that I had filed and received full guardianship of him.
I accepted a very kind invitation to help a department that is and has changed the dynamics of the do-over for adults who had not finished high school, as well as also taking a more proactive approach of reaching younger students to begin to learn and apply the skills needed to finish school but also be prepared to secure employment or even attend higher education when they graduate. However, the more I sit idle in my cubicle, the self-reflection tends to grow deeper. I have thoughts that keep me wondering if I am giving myself per- mission to hoard and retain so much internal anger and negative thoughts, emotions as to try and find that internal inspiration, again, by demanding answers as to how I got here today! I had always felt confident that I could balance life’s twists and turns, like leaving my state of New Mexico to go to a technical school in Florida, gradu- ate, and then move back to the Southwest landing in El Paso, Texas, discovering that my academic career path would hit roadblocks, to working as a doorman/bouncer in a gentlemen’s club, which admit- tedly was very cool for about a month, then became the DJ, or more like a carnival barker, slinging drinks, reminding male patrons to tip and playing music for the dancers. I think that’s where I began to learn to watch how group dynamics applied in any setting. I would observe how girls hustled or just wanted to party; how customers would hand fists full of cash in the hopes of getting more than just a dance—that never happened, by the way; and how my presence, voice, and demeanor would help balance and in turn make money for the dancers and the club and for me, as I relied on tips every night. I lasted about a year and a half before I started feeling stale. I kept asking myself if the nightly partying and few dollars, sometimes handed to me from shoes, or from a dancer’s underpants, the places people keep their money, and it just felt it was time to do something different.
After being unemployed for a month, I found myself at the local college’s radio station. I can’t recall how I even was allowed to be on campus as I was not a student, but as nervous as I was, I had a show playing jazz music. It was pretty cool, and the stations pro- graming director, a young kid, asked if I wanted to do a show, and so I created and hosted a Friday night show called “The Rock and Roll Friday Night Metal Show”—not the best title but I was able to play the music I love and built up a small following. I did the show for three months and loved being able to talk and connect through the airwaves. I had a connection and then secured my first paying job as a radio jock at a Top 40s radio station. From there, I took another job at another local station and went from doing the afternoon show to hosting a morning show. I found my niche, and I was good, but as I look back at the end of my radio career, I was being demoted. My ego says it was because I didn’t pander to the stations manager. Maybe I should have, but there was no mutual respect. I later heard that manager embezzled and did jail time. I have to admit I smiled, but I try to keep my karma pure. During the radio days, I became a father and then had to make sure I could support all duties as a father and provider, both financially and emotionally, and yet what would that be? Do I take on any job, or do I find something that would be my white whale that would boost my personal life and career? I made a decision that would take me away from my new family but also would become my new muse and love, but I really think we need to revisit my youth so that you might see how that white whale could destroy one’s world.
I was raised to be made from stone, yet I began to see some con- tradictions in that parental life lesson. At the same time, their teach- able lessons were not verbal; they were based more through acts, and that is where I began to see the illogicalities of what I was supposed to be as a pawn piece of the family cohesiveness structure. Turns out, as much as my parents acted like they were made from stone themselves, their lack of understanding how to deal with their own issues became my childhood syllabus that would now mold me into a fearful, inconsistent emo, as the kids say.
Growing up, my parents would fight, argue, and usually because they were mad at each other, either because my father wanted to drink and my mother, I’m not sure if she hated that my father wanted to go, but maybe it was the constant cheating, which I absolutely understand could be a huge issue, although for me, I knew how bad it made my mother feel, which is why I never cheated in my rela- tionship. But anyway, when my parents fought, they would find the common denominator—me —and I became the golden child while they were mad at each other. I can’t remember exactly what age I was when I began to notice that I was a pawn in their game during their issues, but what I did know was when they fought, I would get what I wanted, and I was going to reap rewards, and boy did I feel like a spoiled prince. In fact, I became Pavlovian when I noticed my father getting antsy and needed a drink. That meant he would be leaving the house soon, and if I asked, I had a fifty-fifty chance that I would get to tag along. I say fifty-fifty because I needed to wait to see what kind of argument might ensue, and that could range from a yelling match to a go ahead and take him because it was a quick errand that needed to be done, like take the trash to the local dump. But I also knew it could end up with a full-fledged hangout party, and I wanted to be there. After all, I got to hang out with some older kids, and we played, ran around willy-nilly. There were times I got to sit on my dad’s lap and got to steer and feel like I was driving and, best yet, got snacks whenever a beer run needed to be done. I think I became addicted to junk food during that time as I could really put away the sodas and chips, but it was fun in my mind, and I was feeling some- what like the center of attention. By the time we got home, it was late, and as I began to wake up and make the walk from the truck to the front door, I might then have to be alert as to how I might have to intervene if there was a fight. If my mother was up, she would give that ninety-yard stare, and my dad would smirk, and he might try and give a snuggle, and she might say no, get away, or she might smile, embrace him, and I felt I could relax for the night. If on occa- sion my dad came home, and usually if I did not accompany him, then I knew things might get loud, even physical, and I would stew and began to loathe them both but at the same time also stand guard in the event I might have to be the peacemaker. I felt my father would never hit me if I got in between him and my mother when he would get aggressive, so I was fairly confident that in being the protector of my mother, I was safe if and when I heard what may be winches and/or punches and then needed to rush down the hallway, push the bedroom door open, rush in, and now be the referee. I found myself cringing if I saw my parents’ bedroom door closed. Didn’t matter if it was day or night, fighting or not because of my father’s haste to want a guys’ night out or not; if the door was closed, I would find myself sneaking up to it, leaning in close, all without giving away that I was just outside the door as to try and hear what may be going on. It was during one day that I had come in from outside, looked around for my parents, and noticed no one was around, but what I did notice was that their bedroom door was closed. I tiptoed down the hall and pressed my ear as gently as I could to the door and heard what I know now—was my youngest brother being conceived. I didn’t know too much about those pleasurable bedroom noises, if my mother winced or cried out. It was because my father was hitting her, so these noises were a bit different, and I remember being mad. In fact, I gave the silent treatment to my parents later that day.
The old silent treatment, an emotional tool I would master in life and still use today. I look back and wonder how I used that to cope with whatever, but I surmise it began with my parents as I began to notice that my rewards of being the golden child were now becoming excuses to allow behaviors to surface. My dad would say he wanted to go hang out with us, and he’d declare a fishing trip to which was his chance to drink the day away. My mother seemed to allow or ignore this pattern as she let us go but then would give comments or grill us as to my father’s actions. It was daunting being the reporter. I didn’t want to tell as it was fun hanging out with my father even though he would get drunk, and at the same time, telling my mother how great it was would make her seemingly feel like we were siding with my father and ignoring her, but it also seems at some point they would reconcile, and then I would be the guy pushed to the wayside. And as much as I wanted to state how crappy that made me feel, I kept my emotions and comments to myself and felt that was the proper thing to do. On the plus side, I always had good intuition. I may have not known exactly what I was seeing or hearing, but I knew if it was bor- dering on the positive or negative. By that I mean, if I was being told something like the rules, then I saw those who were telling me of the rules bend or to break the rules, I would think, how, why, and if I did question, I was told because! Because began to be the go-to word that would have a very detrimental effect on me in a way that would begin to feed my silent treatment defense mechanism. I would think, Why does my dad have to drink beer, if he had a six-pack? I would try and dispose of two beers, thinking that if he had two less beers, he would call it a day and would not be too buzzed when we got home, and things would be cool. That never worked; there was always a beer run, and there were always treats for my brother and I. As far as my mother, she would hold me, and together we would sit on the couch, seemingly waiting for my father to come home. And when he did, I would be discarded, or it began to feel like that after a while, I was noticing that I was being used, and when I wasn’t needed, I was left alone. Yet I remained on guard, waiting to save my mother from the abuse my dad would inflict on her. I didn’t know it at that time, but I was developing very crappy coping mechanisms. I would eat my emotions and again practice the silent treatment. I started feeling that if I questioned the statement of “because,” I would be scolded, and rather than be offered an open, honest opinion, I was met with, “Because I said.” I then knew it was time to shut down and pout. I say pout as that would seem to keep my anger from surfacing. I had a lot of anger and defiance but never was overly violent, maybe just enough to cause pain but not damage. I started becoming sarcastic, used humor as a way to feel like I could communicate my angst, stay witty, and be able to bend but not break. After all, if I did crack, I would not be able to be the kid who could save the day by waiting outside that bedroom door. In becoming the comic and eat- ing my feelings, I would be the target of nicknames from my father. He would call me Fats, Rollie-Pollie, and yet still feed me snacks from the many beer runs we went on. The names didn’t really bother me all that much. I mean, he would laugh, I would laugh, and my mom would say “stop” in a joking way, and that would make me feel good, which in turn made me feel like these names were acceptable. I started encountering personality shifts. I tried to lock up and hide my happy-go-lucky persona, maybe in an attempt to assimilate to the family dynamics, maybe for the purposes of trying to promote and accept harmony. I see now that what I was doing was trying to form myself into plaster casings that I knew I didn’t fit and, in doing so, squeezing to fit, would create cracks and chips that I think may have been my innocence. I don’t know if I felt guilty at that time, but I think I did ignore the fact that I was crumbling, and because I couldn’t conform fast enough, I would soon be plagued with the burden of craving acceptance and wanting others to like me, embrace me, just as I had felt I was doing with them. But at the same time, it began to feel one-sided, and I would soon feel lost and confused at the confusion of others not doing what they said they would do or are supposed to do what they are expecting from me and/or telling me what to do that, to this day, this one-sided feeling continually generates harsh criticisms of my inner child’s character and, in turn, continues to feed my silent treatment protocols.
I had no intention of wanting to write or share my life experi- ences, but the surprising part to this personal project was how my tri- als and tribulations of my life and maybe my own need of emotional and mental self-survival have now flung open the many closed doors of my mind. And now I find myself reflecting way back, trying to weed through my new current events, of no career, relationship, and how I will provide for my children. Sure things are different, life has been good, and I also have a different perspective as a fifty-two-year- old man, but yet I am still feeling like I am continually overcritiqu- ing myself way too much and by now should be more in control of my thoughts, feelings, and emotions. I thought I always felt I had a strong magnetic persona, had the ability to be able to adapt and not necessarily conform just because but to keep my standards high, ask questions as to make sure I and others were on the same page in order to establish a mutual understanding and outcome and that I didn’t have to fear confrontation or feel like I had to sit with my ear to the door as a child in an attempt to be the savior. I could just be me, that ride-or-die person till the end. But as I reminisce, I realize that many times I questioned my convictions because I felt that if I did not conform—case in point, the radio station manager I should have kissed more behind—I was not the savior to myself. Did I let my ego get the best of me? Did that set a new outlook in motion that would have me contributing to chaos rather than standing up against chaos, like I felt I needed to do with my parents’? When I felt alone, I guess could see how I would now begin to lock up my inner child, protect- ing him from being hurt, ignored, or used. I was learning to hide my true persona and in turn replace it with what I may have thought was a safer and more passive Leon. After all, if I fought or lashed out, I might have hurt those I valued, and that began making me feel like taking flight was the better solution to fighting, even something as simple but important as allowing myself to express my feelings. So I wonder if I should have never taken the high road in life and just fought to stand my ground rather than sequester my thoughts and concerns and allowing assumption to be my new gauge. What has become the finished product of this new creation, well, I rarely share anything personal and will shut down emotionally, even if I knew and felt that what was right was right and wrong was wrong. But the good news is, I always stand by convictions as a decision maker, board member, or political figurehead, and that is the one constant that has made me a vocal endorser of the rules and staunch advocate of policy and standards, and that would prepare me for a career where if I had a million dollars, I would have bet that I would have never moved back to the town that I left behind but would come back too and find myself in that position. Again, if I had another million dollars, I would have said I would never do, but I would discover that both of these two new changes in my life were why I was meant to be but at the same time would also feel like my defeat.
Leon K Reval, an enrolled tribal member, has more than 20 years of public service to the Jicarilla Apache Nation in New Mexico. In “‘Haff’ Breed,” Reval recounts his path to elected and appointed offices at the helm of decision-making for the sake of the tribe. Reval shares his humble beginnings growing up on the reservation as a mixed-race child. While his childhood was idyllic, it was not without worry. He cared about his mother’s safety, especially after his father’s bouts with drinking. He had a complicated relationship with a father he adored and feared simultaneously. Working as an accountant, he soon became curious about policies that affected the tribal community. Concern for his family soon translated to wanting the best for the community. Reval ran for office in 2002, changing the trajectory of his life and career.
Reval’s memoir is a testament to his resilience and determination, offering insights into the inner workings of tribal governments. Despite facing challenges due to his mixed-race heritage, Reval remained steadfast in his commitment to transparency, empowerment, and accountability during his terms in elected office and subsequent appointments to state boards. He candidly discusses the intrigues surrounding his years in service, including anonymous accusations of impropriety. His opponents and detractors, dismissing his authority due to his mixed-race heritage, claimed he did not understand the culture or how policies are created and enacted on the reservation.
Reval’s reflections, relayed in a reflective and self-aware tone, resonate universally. Reading the book from my perspective as a non-Native, I was struck by the challenge of changing the status quo in organizational settings steeped in tradition. Reval’s tenure was marked by his championing long-term resources in Indian Country beyond dependence on oil and gas activities, a vision often met with apprehension or outright resistance. His thoughtful reflections about the Jicarilla Apache Nation, an Indigenous sovereign nation asserting its self-interest to confront powerful corporations and the U.S. government, offer insights that transcend cultural boundaries.