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According to Navajo law, Navajo Nation presidents must speak the Navajo language to hold office. Chris Deschene is a strong contender for the position, but there's a problem: He's not fluent in the language.

The challenge to Deschene's candidacy has become a window into how the Navajo Nation views itself and its cultural future, as well as how Native people continue to define themselves in the face of cultural change.

In August, the Navajo Nation held primaries for candidates hoping to become the next Navajo president. The two men with the most votes were Dr. Joe Shirley Jr., a two-time former president; and Deschene, a military veteran and member of the Arizona State Legislature.

However, within weeks of clearing the nation's primaries with 19 percent of the vote, Deschene was challenged by another candidate who hoped to have him disqualified for lack of language competence.

Fifty years ago, almost 90 percent of Navajo first-graders spoke Navajo fluently. Now, just over 7,000 tribal citizens are monolingual Navajo speakers, and fewer than 30 percent of first-graders can claim some level of language fluency.

Today, the Navajo Nation, much like the rest of Indian Country, faces the prospect of language loss. While the Navajo language is still spoken widely across the Southwest, it's threatened, and Deschene has come to represent that fact for people on both sides of the language divide.

"It's a really personal issue to me," says Melvatha Chee, a Navajo language instructor at the University of New Mexico. "I would like to vote for [Deschene], but I feel like I'm voting against myself if I support him. If I support a nonspeaker, I feel like I'm voting against my own work."

Others feel that they can support their language and Deschene's candidacy.

"If Deschene is told that he can't be president because he's not Navajo enough because of language, that's like telling a lot of young Navajo people that they're not good enough either because they don't speak the language," says Meredith Moss, a doctoral candidate at Arizona State University who has focused her studies on Navajo language and sociolinguistics.

At the heart of the matter for Deschene, according to Moss, is the need to use English in the context of being a representative to other nations and groups, but also being an authentic, trustworthy voice at home who can represent the positions of the Nation's elders. It is a struggle between an older generation that is genuinely Navajo and a new generation of tribal members who may see themselves more closely represented by Deschene than by his opponent.

"I think many feel that the youth are being told they're not good enough," said Moss. "They're not Navajo enough, and supporting Deschene is kind of like moving toward the new guard and saying, 'We really are Navajo; we can have that authenticity while moving forward together.' "

For many, language is the embodiment of culture, and tribal languages contain history, cosmology, traditional values and identity. Supporters of the language requirement argue that without tribal languages, Native Americans are lost, and distant from the ancestors who came before them.

But for much of history, this loss of language was not a choice. For centuries, the policy of churches, educators and government officials has been to stamp out tribal languages, through education, abuse, and any other way possible. As the saying went: Kill the Indian, save the man.

By federal government standards, there's no question that Deschene is Navajo, regardless of language. He is a citizen by blood quantum standards. He was born, raised and lives within the borders of the Navajo Nation. He is a participant in cultural events, from social dances to ceremony.

Deschene is also a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy and a Marine Corps veteran. He has earned a law degree. Yet his lack of fluency in the Navajo language may disqualify him from becoming the next president of the largest Native nation within the United States. And people like Chee think that's fine.

"How do we approach teaching Navajo language to children so that we can actually produce speakers?" said Chee. "If I support a nonspeaker then I'm saying, 'You're invalid because Navajo language is not needed.' That there's no reason for it. It's not used."

Deschene himself has spoken out about efforts to disqualify him. "These decisions have sent a message to our young saying despite all your accolades, success and everything you've done to help our people, you're not welcome," he said. "It's separating, dividing and isolating ... and the people deserve better."

As of now, Deschene has been officially disqualified as a candidate by Navajo officials after a series of closed-door hearings. However, election officials have refused to remove his name from the ballot, and early voting is already in full swing in the Navajo Nation. A spokesperson for Deschene says it is unlikely the situation will be cleared up before Nov. 4 and that it's unclear what will happen should Deschene win the majority of votes for Navajo Nation president.

"The people get to decide what their standards are," said Deschene. "For me, as an individual, I know I'm a member of the Navajo Nation. I know I'm a member of our people."

Oscar-winning actress Geena Davis has played unforgettable roles in movies like Beetlejuice, Thelma and Louise and A League of Their Own, and she's been an outspoken advocate for female representation in cinema and TV.

But long before her acting debut, Davis had a surprising job at an Ann Taylor clothing store. She wasn't just selling the merchandise; she was displaying the clothes alongside the mannequins.

'An Uncanny Ability To Be Still'

"One time there was a window display where the mannequins were sitting at a table eating plastic food," Geena Davis tells NPR. "There was one empty chair and I kept looking at the window."

She asked her coworkers if she should go sit in the empty chair. They advised against it.

But Davis sat in the chair anyway.

"Somebody saw me do that and then he stopped to see what was now going to happen. But I just froze," Davis says. "I didn't know, but I had an uncanny ability to be still."

Eventually, a crowd gathered on the sidewalk outside the window display. She could hear the comments from the onlookers, who couldn't tell if she was real or fake.

"When I felt like their attention was drifting, I would move kind of like a robot," she says. "But then somebody said, 'Well, that's not an electric mannequin because it's not plugged in.' "

So the next time she sat in a window display, she put a tiny wire down her leg.

"Because it was really subtle, it really worked," she says.

The store eventually hired her to be in the window on the weekends.

"Yes," she says. "I was a live mannequin."

Casting Call

After her career as a mannequin, Davis signed with a modeling agency.

"At that time, the big models like Christie Brinkley and Lauren Hutton were getting parts in movies. I thought, 'Oh well, all I have to do is become a successful model and then maybe I'll get hired for movies,' " she says, laughing at her idea that becoming a supermodel would be a breeze.

Meanwhile, the 1982 film Tootsie, starring Dustin Hoffman, was going to shoot in New York.

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"There was a part as Dustin's dressing roommate for someone that's going to be in their underwear a lot of times," she says. "So the casting director thought, 'Let's call model agencies and see if they have any models who can act.' "

Sure enough, Davis was called in for her very first movie audition.

"They said, 'Wear a bathing suit under your clothes because if you read well, they're going to want to see you in a bathing suit to see how you would look in your underwear,' " she says.

But during the audition, they never asked to see her bathing suit and Davis assumed she didn't get the part.

"I put it completely out of my mind," she says.

'Perfectly lit, airbrushed, wind-blowing-in-your-hair photos'

Little did she know, director Sydney Pollack had reviewed her audition tape.

Since they forgot to get a picture of Davis in her bathing suit, Pollack asked if she could come back and take a photo. But Davis had since moved on from her audition and was on the other side of the world modeling at runway shows in Paris.

"My good fortune at that moment was that I had been in the Victoria's Secret catalog," Davis says. "So they sent over the catalog with these perfectly lit, airbrushed, wind-blowing-in-your-hair photos."

That's what did it. Geena Davis got the part as April.

"My big break was getting cast in Tootsie as my very first acting job and as a result of my very first audition," Davis says. "That's a ridiculous, ridiculous break to get. But that is exactly what happened."

models

actors

Moffie Kanneh is angry at the United States. When I meet the Liberian lawyer, he asks immediately where I am from. "Take this back to Washington," he says. "I am extremely furious."

In the days after the death of Thomas Eric Duncan — the Liberian man diagnosed with Ebola in Dallas last month — Kanneh was one of many Liberians who told me that case changed the way they see the United States. Many noted how different Duncan's experience in the U.S. healthcare system seemed from white patients who contracted Ebola, like Dr. Kent Brantly, who recovered from the disease last month, NBC cameraman Ashoka Mukpo, who is making progress in his treatment there, and most recently two nurses who treated Duncan, both of whom are doing well.

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Sitting outside a small caf in Monrovia, Kanneh explains that he feels U.S. attitudes toward Liberians are tinged with both racism and xenophobia. "The combination of African, black..." he shakes his head. "I still think if Eric was an American they would have given him preferential treatment."

Some people also see Duncan's case as evidence that the U.S. doesn't want West Africans to seek treatment in the United States. "It was a racist approach in a larger sense," explains Franklin Wesseh, who describes himself to me as an opposition party member and writer. He's referring to the slow response by the Dallas hospital that initially sent Duncan home despite a fever and weakness.

"I personally think [Duncan] could have been saved," he says, sipping coffee after church on a Sunday afternoon. "He was given less attention. It was a way of probably discouraging Liberians who contracted the disease and want to go there."

But while many Liberians I spoke to are frustrated by what they see as anti-African prejudice, some within the government urge less focus on race and more on fighting the epidemic.

"When we play the race card there will be problems," says Nathaniel Toe, the superintendent for Maryland County, Liberia. His county, in the southeastern part of the country, doesn't have an Ebola treatment center yet, and Toe is concerned that the U.S. could react to charges of racism by slowing down delivery of aid. One of the 18 U.S.-built treatment centers is planned for Maryland county.

"We are being distracted," he says. The real issue, he thinks, is not racism or American attitudes toward Liberia. It is access to healthcare. "I would like to see the intervention reach all of Liberia, [with] the same quality of service as in Atlanta, in Dallas."

"Take that to Washington," he says. "We need better hospitals."

Another government official I meet, Mitchell Jones of the Liberian Ministry of Commerce and Industry, echoes Toe's sentiments. "This is not a time for politics," he says.

Jones speaks poetically about unity and democracy. "We Liberians must be as one people," he tells me. As he talks, he slides away from me on the bench we share.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Now we are all afraid of touching, of the brushing of skin even."

He equates the Ebola epidemic in Liberia to the 9/11 attacks in the US. "This is the time that we all hold together. Like when Bin Laden attacked the United States, it was a time for every American to hold together to fight their common enemy. Liberians today, our common enemy is Ebola."

Despite such calls for unity, the Liberians I met were frustrated and angry at the U.S. And those emotions are coloring the way they view U.S. aid. Even after Thomas Eric Duncan's story fades from the headlines, Wesseh says he will think of it when the U.S. says it is committed to helping Liberia through the crisis.

That a Liberian citizen died of Ebola when American citizens have survived makes him feel that America may not be truly committed to helping the Liberian people.

"America protects its interests," he says. "Yes they are here today, making sure Ebola can be kicked out of Liberia, but only for their [business] transactions. I personally am disappointed."

Back in the U.S. this week, Duncan's nephew echoed some of the comments I heard in Monrovia. In an essay written for the Dallas Morning News, Josephus Weeks stated that his uncle did not have to die and that his treatment had been substandard.

Weeks brought up the issue of race in his opening paragraph: "He told the nurse he had recently been in Liberia. But he was a man of color with no health insurance and no means to pay for treatment, so within hours he was released with some antibiotics and Tylenol."

He went on to say that "Thomas Eric Duncan was a victim of a broken system. Some speculate that this was a failure of the internal communications systems. Others have speculated that antibiotics and Tylenol are the standard protocol for a patient without insurance. ... Their error set the wheels in motion for my uncle's death and additional Ebola cases, and their ignorance, incompetence or indecency has created a national security threat for our country."

Weeks captures what everyone I spoke to in Monrovia agreed with: that Duncan had not been treated with dignity and that his death was a tragedy.

Thomas Eric Duncan

Dallas

ebola

Liberia

racism

"It just felt like you were watching your life up on screen, it really did," said Kimiko Matsuda-Lawrence, a junior at Harvard majoring in History, Literature and African-American Studies. "I really related to a lot of the characters, especially Sam White. I was like, 'Oh my gosh, that's me, this mixed girl who is super militant with her own identity issues."

Simien says he was also Lionel his freshman year at Chapman University, a private college in Southern California. But he graduated as the militant Sam. In a Q and A with the students after the screening, he said he wanted to write characters and situations that were relatable to him. But in an earlier version of the script he took out the blackface party telling himself it was over the top. "I'm doing way too much, I need to pull back a bit," he told the audience. "But, a few months later that happened and I was like, 'Oh, okay. Got it, universe.'"

The universe brought Simien a string of real blackface parties at colleges across the country. Tiffany Loftin was an undergrad at UC Santa Cruz in 2010 and remembers them well. Loftin says it was affirming to see art imitate life at the screening, but she worries Simien might just be preaching to the choir.

"I would love to see a balanced body of white and black people in the theater," said Loftin. "If you have all white people, its problematic because they don't get it; if you have all black people, it's funny and we already get it." And she said, while provocative, the title Dear White People just might scare off folks who need to see it most.

In his question and answer session, Simien responded to that sentiment, saying that the title was provocative on purpose — to create buzz. And he told the Harvard audience they also need to do their part to get people to see it.

"If you are passionate about this and you want to see more complicated, interesting characters of color on the screen, if you want to see yourself represented and reflected in the culture, then you've got to drag your friends to see this movie," he said. "We don't get more of these unless we support it."