Tribalism

One of the wages of getting old is getting up early,

even when too many hours of the night have been spent

lying awake, stirring about in the detritus of the day.

I see my doctor this morning, for a semi-annual checkup.

He will say I am in great shape for someone in such shambles

as I am.  He always says I should see some of my cohorts;

that I should be glad that I can pay my bill.  What does he know?

"The nurses will roll up my sleeves", I thought.  

"I think I will wear a short-sleeved shirt!"

I am, if nothing, an anticipater.  

I am nothing.

Hanging there in the closet is a shirt I was given 65 years ago.

My father bought it in Canada during World War II, 

when it was difficult to buy high quality wool shirts in the U.S.  

It is blue-black, with patches on the sleeves.  It is a veteran.

"Maybe I should wear it," I thought,  and those old bib overalls,

once owned by Jan Heikes' father, and given to me.  

"I could slip them up and down faster than a physician's finger."

I settled on a golf shirt and cargo pants.

"Costumes!", I thought.  "We wear costumes!"

I have some Scandinavian costumes, if the term can be satisfied

by a few sweaters and fewer shirts.  I belong to the tribe 

of frozen northerners who dress themselves in the colors of autumn,

hoping to remember, all winter long, another summer and fall.

When I lived in Norway, I was under less suspicion than most

of the invaders who came to visit and to live.  I was a descendent.

Some of our friends, whose friendship was fierce and fine, 

encompassed us with a warmth and kindness beyond our hope.

It was painful to look about, though, and see how difficult it was

for genuine immigrants to the land be lost and left out.

We walked about Oslo one holiday evening, and the only people

on the streets were the non-tribal residents of the city.

Everyone else was home, wearing a bit of a costume, eating

ethnic foods, remembering and doing what tribes do together.

This nation, this patchwork nation, is an experiment in quilting

tribes together, and sometimes it is a very painful here, as well,

to see how difficult it is to become something together that

we have never been, without having to throw our old shirts away.

We take turns scorning those whose tribal clothing, language,

food, color, religion, noses, shirts, shoes, and celebrations

are different than those we have become accustomed to.

We have taken turns scorning Native Americans,  Southerners,

Irish, Puerto Ricans, Germans, Scandinavians, Chinese, Japanese,

Mexicans, Muslims, Italians, Presbyterians and pacifists.

The Most Reverend Terry Jones is taking his turn, now.  

It is a spectacularly misguided scorn.  It is not just the pot

calling the kettle black, but soot scorning the ashes.  

Those millenia-long suspicions that kept us alive in the presence

of strangers--strangers identified by the oddities of their clothing,

and the food they ate, or how they ate it, and by the peculiar

things they seemed to see and think, endure like old shirts.

The suspicion served us, made us wary, until we trusted each other.

It takes time.