Author Deborah Jackson Taffa is a citizen of the Quechan (Yuma) Nation and Laguna Pueblo, and she is director of the Creative Writing Master of Fine Arts program at the Institute of American Indian Arts. Her debut memoir, “Whiskey Tender,” was a National Book Award finalist and is this year’s One Book Steamboat community read.

“Whiskey Tender” is a coming-of-age memoir that weaves together an essential regional history. And while Deborah emphasizes that Native country is not a monolith and memoir is not general nonfiction, she reminds us that, “Readers are paying for your subjectivity, your personal experience, the way it wounded you specifically. There is also artistry in how you put it together, rendering the way something was said 20 years ago, for example, is always a leap of the imagination.”

In the process of telling her family stories, Deborah wound her way through memory, research and evolving perspectives from different generations. “I have relatives on the left and the right. It’s okay for us to have narratives and counternarratives. It’s a healthy body of literature when cultures voice their differences,” she says. “My grandparents’ generation created the Congress of American Indians. They believed in change through legal measures. My father, uncle and aunts’ generation didn’t believe the courtrooms were in good faith, so they took a more militant approach to injustice via the American Indian Movement.

Below is an excerpted conversation with the award-winning author, who will be visiting Bud Werner Library in February to lead a memoir workshop and talk about her writing. She and her husband will also fulfill a dream to finally ski Steamboat (with big wishes to experience that legendary champagne powder)!

Jennie Lay: “Whiskey Tender” feels like both a personal memoir and a vital account of our national history. What sparked or inspired you to share your story in this way?

Deborah Jackson Taffa: As a young student in school, Southwestern histories were rather ignored. My teachers focused primarily on Plymouth Rock and the east-to-west trajectory of Manifest Destiny, but for many of us in the Southwest, our personal lineages ran south to north. The Americas are an Indigenous stronghold. Alta California, or the western United States, is rarely referred to as a Spanish colony, and the history of the various tribal nations, distinct in their languages, arts, culture and beliefs that preceded Spanish colonialism are even further ignored. There was no way to grow up in this country without feeling slighted by the erasure of my people, most especially their love and stewardship of these mountains, deserts, rivers and valleys we call home. They cared for this land better than any government or culture that has followed. As a young kid, and as a writer, it felt important to counter the mainstream story. I want all Americans to remember my ancestor’s sacrifices and contributions. This means I will never stop remembering, and I will never stop reminding people how many Natives in our region were killed and enslaved via invaders from the south, not the east. A country that does not know its own history is a country destined for doom.

JL: Did you know at the start that you needed to tell the broader story to tell your own?

DJT: I started as many memoirists start, from a place of confusion about my inheritance. Writers are rewarded by digging into family mysteries, hidden patterns and unexplained dynamics. I wanted to understand my childhood, which was raucous and fun loving, but also violent. I needed to know my place in the U.S. and decide how I could interact with the American Dream in a way that felt like it honored my ancestral values. It was only after the pages began to multiply that I understood my personal story was collective, that many people had lived my experience; that it was a uniquely American story.

JL: In addition to stories passed down from your family, what kinds of research – archives, oral histories, interviews – did you pursue for this book?

DJT: I lived in southern California, on the Yuma Indian reservation, in my late 20s. I was already interested in writing a book at that point, so I spent a lot of time in the archives at the Arizona Historical Society, at the Yuma Landing and in the Kwatsaan-Yuma Nation Museum on Indian Hill. My grandfather’s sisters were still alive at that point. Most of them were in their late 70s and early 80s, so I sat on their porches with them and gathered oral histories. A decade later, when I was studying at the University of Iowa to earn my MFA, my parents flew in for a visit and we went into the radio lab, where I recorded approximately 18 hours of interviews. All this was central to my telling.

JL: Did the process of researching and writing a memoir alter any of your understandings of yourself, your cultures or politics more broadly?

DJT: Absolutely. I understood, finally, how unfair I had been to my father, to his entire generation of Native men really, most of whom were manual laborers working in coal mines, coal-fired power plants and the oil fields. I was very bratty for a kid who was given the opportunity to go to private Catholic schools. I acted like he and his Navajo/Diné coworkers had chosen polluting industrial jobs. Rather, they were funneled into dirty work by the Indian Relocation Act. They took those jobs so their kids wouldn’t starve. There were other ways as well, in which I grew through the research and writing of this book. I came to appreciate the contributions my ancestors made to this country. They believed in democracy, even as they were not always treated fairly. I came to see how many U.S. politicians through the years fought on our behalf. There were always good people in government. Sadly, they were usually outnumbered by greedier factions.

JL: How did you parse which family or community stories were yours to tell, and how did you (or did you have to?) navigate responsibilities to your Laguna Pueblo and Quechan Nation?

DJT: For me, the book was written for future generations. If I’d had a book like this to read as a child, if I’d known it was normal to feel pain and shame and worry over how to fit in as a Native American, I would have felt less alone. I’m an elder now. I waited a long time to write this book out of respect for my own elders. If I can’t speak for myself (and I’m not speaking for all Laguna Pueblo and Kwatsaan-Yuman people) at the age of 56, when willI be ready to speak? To be clear, it was terrifying to think that I might disappoint anyone, particularly because my family is so well known on both of my reservations. (My uncle Mike Jackson was the president of the Yuma Nation for 12 years, and my grandfather was before him. My uncle John Antonio was Laguna Pueblo governor in the 2000s, and my uncle Harry Antonio is governor now.)

JL: You are working intensively with so many young Native writers – it’s exciting! Is there a new, distinct kind of storytelling we should look for from these writers? Something old or new?

DJT: There are a lot of intersectional stories. There are stories that come from tribal nations that don’t yet have a book on the shelves, which is exciting. We are seeing a lot of hybrid forms in poetry. Some of the alumni with recent sales include Lena Jawdat, Leah Altman, Chantal Rondeau, Jake Skeets and Ibe Liebenberg, to name a few.

JL: Did writing this book change your relationship to memory, making you trust your memories more or less?

DJT: The more you write, the more you remember. But many of the earliest drafts for this piece were written when I was in my 20s. I have piles of drafts, some of them written in pencil and/or pen. If I hadn’t written those drafts when I was young, soon after I left my parent’s house, I don’t know if I could have remembered all the details you find in the book. My second book, in progress, is the same way.

JL: Where and when did you learn to ski? Do you have an early memory to share?

DJT: My father took us to Purgatory in Durango, Colorado, when I was 9 years old. I hated it. He rented us skis and sent us up the hill alone. I maintained this rather judgmental attitude about downhill skiing until I met my husband, who grew up going to summer ski school in the Alps around his hometown of Milan. He insisted I learn when I was in my late 20s and I never looked back.

Meet the author and more. Learn about Steamboat’s community read, including a winter series of films and conversations featuring Native voices at Bud Werner Library, culminating in Deborah Jackson Taffa’s memoir workshop on Monday, Feb. 23, and her community book talk on Tuesday, Feb. 24. www.steamboatlibrary.org/events/one-book-steamboat.