He appears to go by Harley Swift Deer, Star Warrior, Twisted Hair, Soke Reagan
contact them at:info@dtmms.org
From His Dojo Website:
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CONTACT |
PHONE |
EMAIL |
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Soke Reagan |
(480) 905-1779 | |
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DTMMS |
(480) 443-3851 |
DTMMS, the Deer Tribe Metis Medicine Society, is our parent organization, committed to the healing of Mother Earth and her children.
We invite you to visit the Deer Tribe Gun Club, also run by Soke Reagan as part of his commitment to providing complete self defense instruction.
Article that debunks Harley: http://www.mail-archive.com/native_american@topica.com/msg01503.html
Plastic Medicine People Circle:
Debunking of Swiftdeer Star Warriror:
From phoenixnewtimes.com Originally published by Phoenix New Times Jun 13,
2002 2002 New Times, Inc. All rights reserved.
Sacred Orgasm The followers of Harley Swift Deer Reagan call him a lot of
things ? a sex guru, a shaman, a Cherokee, a patriot. His critics have more
colorful names for him. By Susy Buchanan
Lucy didn't pay $1,200 and fly across the country just to watch naked
strangers in cowboy hats probe their anuses.
A widow and business owner from the Deep South, Lucy says that, since her
husband's death, she has been fascinated with spirituality and is intent on
exploring a variety of religions and belief systems.
"I believe there is a connection between our spiritual and sexual beings,"
she says, "not the way most humans interpret it, not through intercourse,
but a sense of being at bliss. That's what I was looking for."
It was that search that brought her and her then-fianc to Scottsdale this
spring, where they had enrolled in what was billed in slick brochures as a
seminar on "sacred sexual living."
But Lucy didn't find anything sacred about it. Day one was enough to make
her suspect that she and her fianc had unwittingly enlisted in a New Age
sex club. Day two, she says, confirmed it.
"The first night we were told to dress like we were on a hot date," she
says. "We walked in and there were all these ladies in negligees with their
breasts and a lot of other things exposed."
After attendees filled out extensive paperwork, including a nondisclosure
clause (Lucy is not her real name), the organizers spread towels on the
floor and placed a pipe and tobacco in the center of the room. Then, Lucy
says, the two female instructors quickly set the tone for the weekend. One
pulled her dress above her knees, sat on the couch "and totally flashed
everything. I mean everything." The other instructor was wearing a bra with
no cups. Lucy says she didn't know what to think.
"On one side were these breasts just hanging out there, on the other side
this woman who had never shaved in her life..."
Lucy tried to be open-minded. "I thought well, OK, maybe they're just
trying to make us more comfortable with being naked. I was trying to
convince myself there was nothing wrong with this."
Then came Saturday: Cowboy Day. Lucy and her fianc arrived late, with the
intention of asking for their money back and leaving. They walked into a
room full of people wearing nothing but cowboy hats and bolo ties. The
instructor from the previous night's cupless bra had switched to assless,
crotchless chaps. Lucy decided to wait politely until the exercise was over
and then ask for a refund. It wasn't easy, as the exercises were more
intense than the previous evening's warm-up session.
"The smell was terrible," she remembers. "They wouldn't allow anyone to
flush the toilet, and there was no air conditioning. Everyone was sweating
like you wouldn't believe. It was disgusting."
But before Lucy could talk to anyone, the class segued into the next
exercise chakra cleansing, which the instructor demonstrated with a male
partner. "The guy grabbed the lady, laid her on her back on the floor, took
her legs and made a figure four with them, putting the bottom of her foot
against her knee. She had her total crotch open, and you could see
everything."
Lucy remembers the instructor saying, "'Now we will clean chakra number
one. Put your finger in the first chakra, inside her vagina, and turn it
clockwise 21 times.'"
"She was explaining this; meanwhile, the woman was getting a great
masturbation right in front of us."
Lucy and her fianc tried to leave again but were coaxed into a back
bedroom, where they were told they could try the exercise in private. They
also were told that the only way to get their $1,200 back was to complete
the course.
Once inside the bedroom, Lucy and her fianc were weighing their options
when two bisexual women knocked on the door. "They asked us if they could
do us. They said they really wanted to have sex with us, right then and
there."
Lucy declined, only to be scolded by the couple. "They said, 'C'mon, you
have to be more open.' We walked out of the bedroom, and everyone was naked
on the floor with their fingers inside their butts."
Welcome to the world of Harley Swift Deer Reagan, leader of an
international empire of martial arts, guns, sweat lodges and sacred
orgasms, all headquartered in a quiet business park in North Scottsdale.
Reagan calls his followers the Deer Tribe Metis Medicine Society. He calls
their activities the Sweet Medicine Sundance Path. And he calls himself a
patriot, a sorcerer, a cowboy, a Cherokee, an alchemist, and an elder of a
mystical order, dating back to prehistoric times, called the Twisted Hair
Society.
His critics, who include just about every major figure in Indian Country,
call him a charlatan and a cult leader. They say he's more sham than
shaman, and that he appropriates Native American rituals and ceremonies and
markets them to New Agers.
Reagan's sex seminars which he calls Chulaqui Quodoushka, supposedly a
regimen of Cherokee and ancient Mayan methods of aligning spiritual and
sexual energies draw most of the fire. But there's more than sex seminars
to be concerned about. To his followers, Reagan is a near messiah. And he
may well have more in common with Jim Jones than with Hugh Hefner. Reagan
sees dark days ahead for America, and between orgasms he is quietly
training a tribe of warriors for the battles ahead.
"From 2004 to 2011 will be a time of real testing and a challenge of
people's hearts, minds, bodies and spirits," Reagan warns from his
Scottsdale dojo. "It's called the razor's edge." Reagan adds that he
intends for his warriors to be ready. "That's also why I include a lot of
firearms training. I see us moving toward a civil war."
And where Reagan goes, his Deer Tribe follows.
Reagan sits in a corner of his dojo behind a low table. He wears a
patchwork stars-and-stripes shirt and a baseball cap that shades his steely
blue eyes. He looks a little like Roy Clark with a bee up his ass. Reagan's
62 years have been rough on him, and despite the grit of his gravelly voice
and piercing stare, he looks much older than his age. His long arms are
dotted with liver spots, and his face is splotchy and bloated. But he's the
first to boast that he's lived more in his six decades than most people do
in six lifetimes.
"The day I was born was a very exciting day. My mother was riding a little
pinto pony; my dad was riding a little Morgan," he says as a twitch of a
smile flutters like a moth through the silver hairs of his moustache. "The
mare that my mother was riding was also with foal. All of a sudden, my
mother started going into labor pains, so my dad jumped off the horse and
went over to the shade. As soon as I was born, the little foal was born,
and consequently, my dad reached in his saddle bag and pulled out a Dr.
Pepper, poured it in a bottle and gave it to me. I jumped on the foal and
we rode off into the sunset."
He chuckles, reaching for a lighter concealed inside a red plastic shotgun
shell and lighting one of an endless parade of clove cigarettes, which move
seamlessly from his lips to a turquoise ashtray in the form of a
rattlesnake. Like any raconteur of tall tales worth his salt, Reagan
delights in the telling of the story, not in the truth behind it. And he is
a man with a lot of stories to tell.
Reagan is cantankerous and riveting. He is outspoken and outlandish at
times, grandfatherly at others. Turquoise and gold cling to his wrists like
scabs; his fingers bear chunky rings. There's an electric-blue
Para-Ordnance .45 pistol on his belt, the handle engraved with a red, white
and blue eagle and "Gunnie" in black gothic script. "Gunnie" is what he
goes by on the range, and nowadays he admits, "People call me Gunnie more
than they do Swift Deer."
He seems to have tired of the spiritual rhetoric with which he has filled
books and the heads of his followers for the past 20 years. He'll discuss
it, but he's much more animated when he starts describing some of his views
for which he is less well-known like the mess that the liberals have made
of the United States. Anger spits from his lips as he growls about the
government, the U.N. and the Latinos who are ruining this country for the
true patriots.
Reagan says he was born in Texas, of mixed Irish and Cherokee blood. He
straddled the two cultures, appearing white but raised Indian. His greatest
influence as a young man was his grandmother Spotted Fawn, a Cherokee
medicine woman.
It was she who arranged for Reagan to be sexually initiated by an adult
woman when he was 14 years old. It was this "Phoenix Fire Woman," or sexual
teacher, who showed Reagan the art of making love, the nine different kinds
of vaginas and penises men and women possess, the five levels of orgasm and
other ancient secrets, which, half a century later, his disciples are
hawking in seminars like the one Lucy attended across North America and
Europe.
Reagan says he joined the Marines in 1959 after being kicked out of the Air
Force Academy. His habit of staying up all night and sleeping during the
day plus his love of masturbation made it difficult for him to fit in
with the rest of the recruits. Reagan completed four tours in Vietnam as a
gunnery sergeant before being blown out of a helicopter by enemy fire and
tumbling 300 feet to the earth. He then was sent to recover at the Bethesda
Naval Hospital and was discharged in 1969.
Killing, he says quickly, didn't bother him at all. What did upset him was
the way he was treated upon his return. Reagan says he felt "betrayed, not
by my country, but by my government."
"I had dog shit thrown on me. I had people piss on my utility bag that I
was carrying my clothes and stuff in. I was called baby killer, child
killer, rapist, a war monger."
After his stint in the service, Reagan goes on, he became a Mormon, a
philandering husband, a father of five sons, a doctor of philosophy, a
world-champion martial artist, a shape-shifting sorcerer and, at some
point, a secret agent.
"I'd really rather not go there," he says solemnly. "Let's just say I did
black operations for the U.S. federal government, and that's all I'm
saying. I was recruited in the Marine Corps, and I had a great deal of
blame and shame about that not about my service as a Marine, but the
other things I was doing in covert operations. And I thought I was really
doing something for the country when I found out it had nothing to do with
the country, but the government and their own personal agenda."
About his roles as a husband and father, Reagan is candid. "I was a
horrible father, a horrible example, a very violent, rash, disturbed human
being. In fact, I was not a human being. I was a typical two-legged
animal."
What saved him, he says, although too late for his family, was a
relationship that would forever change him, a friendship and apprenticeship
with Navajo Shaman Grandfather Tom Two Bears Wilson.
Wilson taught Reagan to be a sorcerer. He taught Reagan how to shape-shift,
which he still does today as a party trick when he's feeling frisky. On one
occasion, Reagan claims, he and his girlfriend were high on peyote at his
house in California when his wife came in and caught him in mid-shift, with
black wings coming out of his head.