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Dusty
never knew his father; he died when Dusty was a boy. When
Dusty was 4, Leslie was then married to Dusty’s stepfather,
but was homeless and struggling to care for her kids. Her
father and grandmother persuaded her to let them take Dusty, she
says. At age 10, he was adopted by his grandfather. Leslie
says the only time Dusty talks about her leaving him is when he’s
drunk. Dusty doesn’t share his feelings.
Dusty doesn’t
talk about his senior year in school either. After attending three high
schools, he dropped out just weeks before graduation.
Leslie says
she was worried about his happiness and safety, and if ensuring those meant no
school, then she wasn’t one to argue. Dusty says only that all it
took then to stop attending class was a push or pull from friends. He always
knew he’d go back and was bothered that others questioned it.
Dusty did
go back and graduate. Now he’s a freshman enrolled with his mom at Little
Big Horn College. But his goals, and his reasons for attending college,
are different than his sisters’.
“I don’t
want to work for a McDonalds,” he says. “I mean I don’t
mind working now, but seven years from now I don’t see myself making it
paycheck to-paycheck working there. But mostly I just get bored at home.”
Dusty gets
bored in classes, too. He admits to making it as far as his grandma’s
house, just three miles from campus, only to sleep through classes or play video
games. Or even going all the way to the school only to skip and play pick-up
basketball.
“Basketball
used to be the thing that kept my head on straight,” he says. “Rebellion. That’s
the way they’re brought up around here. If you’re good at basketball,
you’re spoiled, and your parents will let you get away with a lot.”
Dusty says
it’s hard to put school first, because that’s not what men are rewarded
for. Teachers are just as likely as parents to let school work slide if
things are going smoothly on the court.
His mom would
nag him about grades, he admits, but he didn’t care too much.
“I just don’t listen to her, ‘cause she gave me up to my grandpa
and grandma, so it’s like, ‘You’re not my mom,’” says
Dusty. “I mean, she’s my mom, but I don’t look at her
like my mom — more like a big sister I don’t always get along with.”
Dusty’s
grandpa was the one who pushed him, but when Dusty transferred to Pryor High
School and moved in with relatives there, his grandpa wasn’t around to
check on him. With “nothing to do” in the tiny town and no male role
model to monitor him, things began to slide. Basketball wasn’t as
important. School didn’t matter as much. He began to drink and party
more.
“He’s
really a bright, intelligent guy, but without motivation,” Leslie says. “He’s
totally unmotivated even to do things, like when we asked him to help pick up
leaves, he went inside to play video games.”
After some
thought, teachers, administrators and even the Plainfeather family agree that
young Crow men don’t have enough male role models. Many men have lost identity
and are filling it with anything but school.
A common thread
woven through the stories of successful Crow men — like John Small, principal
of Lodge
Grass High School;
Robert Howe, Little Big Horn College registrar, and Everall Fox, the college’s
academic dean — is a strong father figure. Each overcame challenges,
finished degrees later in life, and were motivated by a role model who instilled
a strong work ethic.
An absent
father takes a toll.
In the clan
system discipline belongs, not to birth parents, but to the father’s clan – most
especially “teasing uncles,” who kid to keep the child humble and
in line. The mother’s clan is meant to build self-esteem with praise
and affirmation.
But a lot
of Crow youths don’t have the family structure to support this disciplinary
system. The 2000 census shows almost 20 percent of households were run by mothers
with no husband present. 717 children were listed as living in households
with “other relatives.” Of the 2,476 children living in households,
1,807 had children of their own.
If the
father and his clan are missing, that sometimes means so too is discipline, role
models and identity.
“I see
a lot of kids raising kids,” says Small. “The morals and the
values that my generation grew up with, well, you don’t see those same
morals and values in these kids’ parents.”
Leslie isn’t
always sure how to talk to, discipline or lead her sons.
“My
girls talk about their feelings, tell me when they have a problem with me,” says
Leslie. “My sons, sometimes I feel like I hardly know.”
Leslie and
Tanya say it’s harder to discipline sons, because as Crow women, they don’t
feel equipped to do it.
“Boys
are babied,” Tanya admits. “They’re momma’s boys,
grandma’s boys. They don’t face consequences.”
Additionally,
many young Crow men feel the pressure to take available labor jobs over education. With
mouths to feed and bills to pay, quick cash is appealing. According to
the state’s 2004
Vital Statistics,
Native Americans in Montana are almost four times as likely to have children
between the ages of 15 and 17 than their white counterparts, though that rate
is falling.
“Some
students here have the luxury to think long term and plan ahead,” says
Falls Down. “Other Crow have matters pressing them in the moment. They
don’t have time to stop for school; they’re trying to survive.”
And some say
pride keeps them from asking for help.
“I would
do my work, but a lot of times I wouldn’t turn it in ‘cause I’d
get scared,” Dusty explains. “I don’t like to get embarrassed
by teachers who put you on the spot. At the end of every year, I’d
just have a stack of papers, done, in the back of my book that I never turned
in.
“Too
proud, that’s how they’re brought up,” he says.
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