If you are from the South, you likely have a tale in your familiy's oral tradition that great-grandmother-so-and-so was an Indian Princess. Or that your grandpa was half-Cherokee. There are many variations on how White People in the South and Southwest come to believe collectively as families that they have "Indian blood" running through their veins. This is an irony because of the prejudice (to say the least) against Native Americans in this country, both historically and present day. It seems that more people would be denying any Indian lineage rather than conjuring them up, considering that while there is a fascination with them and their "traditions" there is also an n-word factor associated with them. (This helps explain why it was often a "princess" or some other higher-up rather than just your run of the mill Navajo).
The truth is that there are very, very few Native Americans left relative to the the rest of the population. Their blood does run along the stream of white people's blood (and more commonly, black people's) but most family's legends are just that -- legends.
Well in the tradition of James Frey and J.T. Leroy (which is a tradition that I have long believed goes waaay back through the genre of the memoir -- people have always made shit up to make their memoirs interesting, because who cares about your boring ass life as is?) this guy is being disputed on his claims to Native American ancestry and being called out on fake-ass memoirs. A boring whitey's life story was morphed into a colorful tale of feather headdresses and tomahawks!
The moral of all these stories is as follows: 1) Your life may be interesting, but itis boring to read about. 2) All of the sudden you are in trouble for telling tall tales in your memoirs. 3) Therefor, if you write a "memoir" call it a "novel".
I mean, duh.
Meanwhile, check out the recap of James Frey's second appearance on Oprah. Piss off the O, and she'll rip your asshole into A Million Little Pieces!