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Blog Oct. 20008

Tribes

By Shelley Mickle

I’ve been thinking about tribes lately. I don’t mean Native American tribes or African tribes; I’m talking about those groups we all belong to: Work-place tribes, religious-denomination tribes, political-party tribes, and well, you know, look at your own life and count how many groups of people matter to you. And when people matter to you, you want to please them and not lose them. And with that desire comes a curious exchange of power.

Actually, the fact that I’ve latched onto the word “tribe” is curious in the first place. Because, it’s a word older than mildew. Apparently it got its start when men in Greece walked around in those gorgeous gowns. Usually tribes had something to do with DNA and bloodlines. And yet I can’t think of a better word to describe how centuries later, I found myself joining up with a look-alike group of teenagers, and then finding other tribes to either get into, or BEG to get into, or break away from. Actually, belonging to tribes never really ends.

I also think about the day a little boy in our neighborhood stood outside the fenced backyard where my 4-year-old daughter and her friends were playing. He was mosquito-bitten, as pale as biscuit dough, and—I hate to say it—“but he was generally puny.” He also looked as lonely as an empty package of gum. Every morning for three days, he hung on the gate, watching the girls cook up mud pies and pop them in a make-believe oven made out of a shoe box.

“Why don’t you invite him in?” I asked the girls.

“He’s a boy,” they said.

“So?” I asked.

“He won’t like to play what we play, “they explained...

“How do you know?” I questioned.

“We tried him,” the oldest girl said. “And for maybe five minutes he did what we said, then he knocked down our playhouse kitchen and threw around the pots and pans.

Oh yes, it’s always a sad state of affairs when a boy won’t take bossing from a girl, and even worse when he doesn’t behave in the kitchen. But then again, tribes have rules.

The next morning I glanced out the window and was stunned speechless. There was the neighborhood boy sitting at the picnic table eating a mud pie with a spoon and wearing a look on his face that said he was purely loving it.

OH, the taste of belonging is always sweeter than the taste of what is on our spoon.

But then a week later, I watched that oldest girl lead the boy down the street to introduce him to some boys playing soccer. Now, some could say this was her way of getting rid of him. But I see it as practicing the best of tribe behavior. Because she empowered him to test his wings with her blessings for success and not with hidden hopes for failure. And, she wasn’t just thinking of herself. After all, he was the only person in the universe who could tolerate her pies.