We are so damn TRIBAL (Based on an actual experience)

My butt is numb from sitting and the tide is coming in. I need a walk. This is one of the things I love about my church, not just that it wasn’t created by human hands, but the ability to walk for hours if I choose, and still be in church receiving instruction.

I stand, my knees and lower back a little reluctant to move in their stiffness, how long I’ve been here this morning I’m not sure, slight hunger is my only clue. Maybe two hours, maybe a little more. I brush the sand off my shorts and hands, stretch my back a little, look to the North and then South. I don’t even know why it’s a decision, sand, sea and my persistent thoughts will be found in each direction. I think South feels right today. I glory in my free will for a moment, to the South I shall walk.

I wander down to the water’s edge, that spot where the water’s momentum abates and disappears, then the ocean pulls it back into it’s depths. The cool water feels good on my feet and ankles as it rushes in. As it is pulled back, the water removes the sand from under my feet creating a sinking feeling.

I can’t stop the information and new neural connections being made in my head. It’s organized thought, pure intelligence rushing to my mind, from where, I don’t know. Could this be a form of meditation I wonder? I’ve read so much about the power of meditation, but I’ve surmised from my studies that the goal is to have no thought, so its likely anti-meditation, I’m going with it, I’m practicing anti-meditation.

I’m so frustrated by the sheer number of agreements I’ve made throughout my life. The molding of my brain occurred with my permission, I realize this now. The good news is that even after nearly 5 decades of a very structured existence, I’m pretty sure the power is within me to eliminate them. As I eliminate them one by one, even past experiences take on new meanings for me, I’ve begin to see them in different light, with wisdom gained.

However most important to me right now, is my present experience and where my present decisions will lead me on my journey through life. There is so much risk in buying this boat, risk that, in the past has scared me into inaction, but the dissonance in my life is rising to a level of having no fear.

As I find myself lost in these thoughts, wandering south down the beach, sinking in the soft wet sand. I’m acutely aware of the rhythmic push and pull of the ocean on my feet and ankles. My thoughts break as an older, African American man, exerting a great deal of energy attempting to plow his heavy laden bicycle through the thick soft sand catches my eye. My instinct is always to help, but he’s making progress and may view me as a bother. He catches my gaze, fully aware of my stare, and I awkwardly smile at him.

“Could use some help here if it ain’t obvious,” words following his smile.

His image creates a striking contrast in my mind against the backdrop of the other beach goers here today. I smile and jog up to help him. He quickly offers me the handlebars and is panting from his workload. “Thanks son,” he says, “wasn’t sure I was going to make it.”

I return his smile, “Glad to help, where we going?”

“Just up close to the hard stuff will be fine.”

I maneuver his bicycle up to a private spot out of the soft stuff but still far enough away that the tide won’t reach him if he stays here for a while. “This work?” I ask.

“Sure, son, sure will. Thanks. Just lay it down right here.”

I lay his bike down gently, which with all the strapped-on jumble weighed quite a bit as I angled it down to the sand. I nod and start my get-away, looking forward to getting back to my anti-meditation. “Where you going?” He curiously asks.

“No place in particular, just down the beach.”

“You look like you could use some company, sit down with me a while.”

I hesitate, “I really should be going.”

“Son, you just told me you ain’t got nowhere in particular to go, sit down, I don’t bite, although watch out for my left hook, many a man been cold-cocked by this.” He pushed up his shirt sleeve slightly showing a skinny, flabby old wrinkled arm as he started laughing at his own joke. I actually didn’t have anywhere to go, but talking to a 117 year old fart wasn’t on the agenda today. I was going to argue, but he grabbed my arm in a friendly way, “sit down son, sit down.”
So I reluctantly sat as I laughed at myself internally, wondering what the hell I just got myself into and if he was going to keep me all day. I thought, “I could just run for it,” but I looked at him and thought that would make him and me sad.

He laughed a little more and sat down next to me. Instead of talking my ear off, which I expected, he just closed his eyes, breathed deep for maybe 5 breaths and then opened his eyes. He stared out to where the ocean meets the sky and smiled. “I love it here,” he said after a few minutes.

I turned and took in his comment. His wrinkled smile. He seemed peaceful, calm, with not a care showing. “I do too, it’s my church,” I offer.

“What’s your tribe?”

Tribe? Quickly rocking back to the fact that this guy might be a card or three short of a full deck. I just stare at him, trying to get my bearings.

He asks again, “what’s your tribe, everybody’s got a tribe they a part of. This is a damn tribal world.”

Finally, I respond, keeping it light, thinking he likely just needs a friend to talk to. “I don’t have a tribe, maybe I can join your tribe?”

“I hate fuckin tribes,” he retorts.

“Well, good,” I shot back, “I’m not tribal, so we should get along just fine,” trying to avoid a fight with some crazy old man on the beach. And with that, I was ready to move on. This guy was likely going to start in on how white slave masters yanked his ancestors out of their tribal traditions and made them pick cotton. I wanted to get back to my anti-meditation, not in the mood for this guy’s crazy rantings. Just need to make a polite exit and get back to my walk.

The old man gave me a grin that created even more wrinkles, which for what I guessed was about 75 years of sun on his skin, he reminded me of a Shar Pei, those little Chinese wrinkly faced dogs.

“Son, we are all tribal! Sit down here, you too old ta think you aint’ tribal.” His grin had turned to a warm smile, somewhat disarming me. I took a bit of a deep breath, wanting to get back to my walk, but then my “what the hell” inner voice made a grand entrance on my mind’s stage. After a 3 second battle between the two opposing desires in my head, I conceded to the old man’s smile.

I sat. “Good choice,” he said calmly as if he had watched the battle scene in my head from the front row. He offered me a drink from a bottle inside a paper bag. He obviously felt closer to me than I to him, I politely said no thanks. “Suit yourself,” he said, “opportunities for warring tribes to share a drink don’t come often, probably getting worse from what I can tell.”

I looked at him and he was staring out into the ocean’s expanse. I had expected him to expand further on that thought, but he went quiet. I felt the urge to break the silence with a question, but couldn’t connect the drink to what he had said, seemed muddled, so I just joined his contemplative stare toward the horizon.

As soon as I settled into my relaxed calm, he spoke. “I was born in tribe black man, you, in tribe white man. There are many color tribes, yellow man, red man.” He paused, then continued. “We had no choice in these tribes, you and me, God decided that for us. These are warring tribes, these races. Individual warriors can sit down and talk, have moments together, but the tribes, they don’t get along, never will. This nigga in the white house, he didn’t help none.”

I have never been completely comfortable talking about race relations and inequality, even in a group of white people, it was even more unsettling with people from a different race. But I could tell he wasn’t angry about it, in fact, if anything I sensed sadness. I still didn’t have anything to add, especially to his last comment, so I just let him move on, expecting to learn a little about his side of the issue. But he didn’t rest on race. “I was born into tribe Baptist, that be part of the bigger tribe Christian. Didn’t have no choice in that tribe neither.” He looked at me and asked, “what religious tribe you brought up in?”

The answer to his question has always been a bit a discomforting one for me. Even more so now, having left it for first agnosticism, and now for a spirituality that is difficult to define. I looked at him and sensed no judgment in his countenance, again, disarming me further. “I was raised devout in the tribe Mormon,” trying to align my response using his inverted sentence structure.

“Ah,” he said, “I know this tribe some. I told you we are all tribal. The whole world is tribal. There is tribe Catholic and Islam, tribe Hindu and the Buddha, tribe atheist and tribe ‘born again’. Lots of tribes…lots of tribes.” He appeared to have no interest in discussing the different tenets or dogma’s from each religion, and I had the feeling, he could have, but I sensed it was of little concern to him. He placed them all together in tribe religion. Another pause, then a laugh, “you what 40 year old?” I correct him, “48”. He laughed, “you be 48 year old and you think you not tribal.” This was quite amusing to him. He laughed for a good while on it. I smiled and returned a half hearted laugh back. His laugh subsided, then stopped. He took a sip from his bottle, then set it down next to him, digging a small impression with the bottom of the bottle into the sand to stabilize it.

“You tribe Ass or Elephant?”, he snuck a glance at me.

“Um…Excuse me?”

“Democrat or Republican. They is big warring tribes. Which tribe you be?”

“Complicated,” I tell him. “I was raised Republican, Dad thought Ronald Reagan was part God.” He nodded and laughed with me as I gave a little chuckle. Again, no instinct to tear down my political upbringing. I looked at him and beyond a stereotype neural connection in my brain, he gave no non-verbal or verbal indication that he was Ass or Elephant from his reaction. “I guess I’ve been tribe republican for most of my life.”

“Did you have a choice in this?” he asked with a hint of curiosity, but clearly already decided on the matter himself.

“I don’t know. I mean, not in my youth, well, I mean I guess I could have chosen.” I was distracted internally by my belief in free will. A man has free will, but I didn’t feel like I had it as a kid, or even teenager. I wondered when I actually would have had the free will to decide for myself. I know to this day, that my Pop wouldn’t look kindly on voting democrat. I remember his voting advice when I turned 18 years old. “Son, there is a box that says vote party line. Check the Republican box and it will vote for all the good guys. Easier and quick too.”

I continued, “you know, I don’t know if I really could choose this until I was older and more confident. “Na,” I said, “I don’t think I really had much of a choice in the matter, especially in the culture and area of the country I grew up in.”
He nodded. “Man is born in many tribes.”

“I don’t know exactly what political tribe I’m in anymore. I don’t think they have a box for me.”

“This is good,” he said, going back into his stare out at the ocean.

“You like sports?” he asked after what seemed like a few minutes.

I liked the lighter topic move. He really had my mind churning on this tribal talk and I think he sensed it and moved to some less stress inducing subject matter. “I used to eat, drink and sleep baseball in my youth. Played a lot of baseball. Was a good high school player, played Junior college ball, lost the fire to make it to the Bigs.”

“Ah, Baseball,” then asked, “who you like?”

“When I was a kid, I loved the dodgers, could name every starter at each position. Yeager at catch, the Penguin, Ron Cey at Third, Davey Lopes, Bill Russell and Steve Garvey. I had all their baseball cards. But I’m a Nats fan now.”

“Nats suck shit!” he said sternly. Catching me off guard, his demeaner flipping like a switch.
I quickly responded in defense mode, “who do you like?” Fully intending to tell him that his team “sucked shit” right back, no matter who it was.

“I don’t have a baseball tribe. But I can tell by your face and your voice, you do. You don’t like my answer they suck shit,” he started to laugh loudly again. “You see, the world is tribal my friend. Think about it. You in tribe Nats, tribe Christian, tribe Mormon…” I interrupted, “was tribe Mormon!” emphasizing the “was”.

He gave me a quick, curious look, then with a start, busted wide open in laughter which stimulated an uncontrollable cough. In my confusion and out of instinct, I move closer to him, fighting the natural tendency inside me to pat him on the back to help the cough. The cough settled and was replaced by laughter which took some time to settle. When he could talk again, he spoke. “Son, you don’t erase 50 years of tribal worship so fast.” He looked directly at me, and like Yoda, whispered, “that take time, son.” He paused as he studied me intently. After a few seconds of silence, he spoke again. “You don’t like that these tribes don’t leave us fast?”

Truth was, in my depths, I knew he was right, but I did not like hearing it. I had left this tribal shore, but I could still see it off in the distance. Sometimes I felt the pull of its safety and security. “No, don’t like hearing that,” I responded with a bit of frustration mixed with sadness.

“Son, it will always be part of you. It don’t mean it will control you, don’t mean you won’t rise above it, but unlearning fifty years gonna take time son.”

It wasn’t fifty years, it was 45, but I wasn’t going to correct him, it wasn’t the point. It is a process to dig up a mature tree, roots and all and replant it in new ground without killing it.

Perhaps sensing that my cup was full on this topic, he continued, “Ok, tribe Republican…” I wanted to correct him again, but I knew now he didn’t care about the complexity of my political tribe. He had a bigger vision for me to see.

He continued with his list, “tribe white man, tribe American, oh that’s a strong tribe with strong warriors, tribe American, kicking the shit out of tribe Syrian, tribe Iraq, and doesn’t like tribe communism. Oh we are so tribal, tribe democracy wars against tribe communism. My guess you are in tribe democracy. But it not stop there, no, tribe rich man and tribe poor man at odds for all history, tribe middle class against tribe poor and tribe rich. Tribe educated man against tribe dumb ass no schooling man. I won’t ask if you are tribe man-woman sex or man-man sex.” I sensed a little sadness in his voice now. “Those definitely warring tribes.” He stopped abruptly, letting it sink in with me now.

Then he spoke up again. “I don’t like tribal nature of us humans. Separates only. Creates division and hatred. Even sports stick us into warring tribes. World is on a dangerous path with these tribes. Don’t know answer, but know that tribes are big problem. Tribes make loving people hate. They make nice people mean. They make lovers of life, kill.”

He stood up, with more agility than I expected for his age. “Let me show you something,” he said. I stood, wondering where he would lead me on a beach. He took a small shuffle toward me, reached out with both arms and hugged me tightly.

Under most circumstances, I would have felt uncomfortable hugging a stranger on a public beach most would judge as perhaps a stinky old homeless man, but I couldn’t have cared less. This was a wise man who dared share his heart with a stranger. I hugged him back and as he sensed my squeeze, he hugged me even tighter. When he let go and took a step back, his eyes were glossed over with salty water that had not yet made their way out to form tears. Sensing this, he wiped them and said, “If we be tribal, let us choose tribe Love! You, me, we choose tribe love now.”

I smiled and said softly in return, “that offer still good for that drink?” He slapped me on the back and started laughing as he reached down to his paper bag. “What’s your name?”

“Roger.”

“Good strong name, Roger. My namez Moses. Moses and Roger, good friends,” he said enthusiastically, “we best friends now Roger,” as he handed me his bottle.

As I walked away, my thoughts were welded to the old man’s views. I had no conscious realization that the world was so “tribal”. As I observed the world with the new eyes Moses gifted me, I saw a world of people going through our rigid, routine days believing they were loving, caring, peace loving and peace promoting individuals, when in fact, we are all active participants in many warring tribes causing division in the world. We believe our tribe is right and if only everybody will see it my way, then the world will improve. However, the obverse is likely could be a part of the solution, which is to remove our proclivity to belong to tribes and declare war on other tribes.

I laughed inside my head as I thought about the whole political tribe mess as one example. What do we do if we don’t like Republicans or Democrats, we create more tribes…Independents, libertarians, socialists, constitutionalists, and who knows how many more. Could eliminating all the tribes make a better world? It might have a shot in politics, I could see it just being this guy against that woman and just voting for the one you like the most. But it wouldn’t happen in religion. Because my devotion to this tribe or that tribe is deeply personal and spiritually experiential. Perhaps we just need to work on peace treaties between tribes, I thought…but we know how that worked out for the Native Americans.

My thoughts continued…I’ve gained so much peace by removing myself from religious and political tribes, wouldn’t everyone gain the same peace? Or maybe it wasn’t my removal, but my increased respect for everyone’s needs and wants and the journey they are on to finding happiness? But did I gain that because of my removal? Who has the better chance of becoming fishing buddies?…a poor iranian muslim and a rich american christian or two middle class white protestant democrats? On the surface it seems obvious, but if the former had extreme respect for each other’s views with the knowledge that each of their individual views were creations of their culture and experience and they were each open to all new knowledge, perhaps they would be the most ideal of fishing buddies, full of interesting conversation and laughter. If this was so, how long would they remain in their current tribes? Would the future find these men pulling out of their tribes?

Time to give the ol’ noggin a break. The sun was now setting in the west. And that sunset was a much less serious and spiritual experience than my current thoughts. Strange how you can enjoy a sunset facing east. It can be breathtaking at times, and tonight I am able to take part in one of those few moments. Bright orange and red lit clouds against a deep blue background, streaks of light shooting up from the horizon as if the sun was setting in the east. Never ceases bring “awe” to my soul.