I watched a few minutes of Henry Louis Gates, Jr.'s PBS show, Faces of America, in which the family trees of various famous people -- e.g. Meryl Streep, Mike Nichols, Yo-Yo Ma -- are examined. As I already knew from being a librarian who has helped many people with their genealogical research, listening to other peoples' family history can be a bore. A detail or two that's interesting, maybe, but for the most part people marrying so and so, moving to so and so, having these children, one of whom died young, etc.
But even if one finds other people's family history boring, that of one's own family tends to fascinate, or at the very least, raise some curiosity (anybody famous? Anybody notorious? Any scandals?) And why is that? Indeed, this very question was asked...actually don't remember if it was on Faces of America or some other recently-seen PBS pro-gram...and the woman who responded said she thought it was because people wanted to connect. To find out who they are, where they belong. And they very much want to belong to something. And as she was speaking the thought that sprang to my mind was, "Our tribe. We want to know what tribe we belong to, and we want to know what it was like." (We know what it's like now, at least that part of it represented by our immediate extended family, with all the hopeless siblings, black-sheep cousins and weird uncles.)
Tribalism does indeed run deep in the human species. That is quite apparent in places like Yemen, where the various tribes are currently vying for power, as indeed they have been doing for some time. Our own Indian tribes cling to their heritage, and one of the problems the white man encountered, in trying to get Indians to assimilate into the white culture, was that most Indian tribes do not hold with the kind of individual competiveness encouraged by the white culture; they do not want to differentiate themselves from the other members of their tribe. (This is not true in sports, but there it is a matter of our-tribe-against-your tribe, more than an individual shining.)
I mused some time ago [Note of Nov. 6, 2010] about the mystery of fan hysteria over sports teams, the extreme identification with ones local team, even if it isn't made up of local folk. I even suggested then that it might be a form of tribalism, and I am more and more inclined to think it is. We need groups to identify with, to which we feel we belong. For most of us our immediate families are our basic tribe, even if we can't stand our relatives. As Ally McGraw's character said in Love Story, "Home is where when you go there, they have to let you in." Then come alma maters, school and local sports teams. For some people their state is a larger tribe to which they belong, Texans being the example par excellence of this mind-set. In England the multitude of private clubs served the tribal instinct well. And for most Americans, their country is their ultimate tribe, the one you sure as heck had better be loyal to. I confess that, as un-nationalistic as I tend to be, I feel very harshly toward Bradley Manning, and do feel he betrayed his country in leaking all the confidential information he (allegedly) leaked to Wikileaks. Public protests are one thing, putting people in danger is quite another.
But to get back to family trees. Most of the people who are very serious about genealogy are getting on in years (go on, Melody, say elderly). And why is this? When you are young you have lots of tribes to belong to, as suggested by the above list. But as you get older your children, if you have any, grow up, move away, are less a part of your life than they used to be. Friends die, as do parents, siblings. School and sports allegiances fade. If you have retired, you are no longer a part of whatever occupational tribe you once be-longed to, and identified with. So who are you? Well, you are the end product of all those marriages, all those off-spring, all those moves farther and farther west. And not only are those dead ancestors members of your tribe, but so, too, are all the third cousins once removed you discover who are researching another branch of your family.
You are a part of something bigger than your lowly, lonely self.
Showing posts with label belonging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label belonging. Show all posts
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Where's home 2
Well, I’ve already discovered something I don’t like about this blog business. The fact that the latest posting goes at the top of the page. With what I already detect as a tendency on my part to build on past “notes,” I fear that the logical progression of my thoughts...to the extent that there is a logical progression...may be lost. By profession I am a librarian, and order is very important to me. C should follow B which should follow A, not the other way ‘round. Wonder why They set blogs up in this way. Perhaps someone out there in Cyberspace will enlighten me.
I have been giving further thought to the idea of attachment to “home.” I have five brothers and sisters; all but one of us were born and reared in Texas. The one who was born elsewhere (Evansville, Indiana, during what I think of as our Norman Rockwell period) lived in Texas from toddler-hood on. She and one brother have remained in Texas for most of their lives – and I suspect they think of it as home, especially as my mother also lives there – but four of us have not lived in Texas for many years, and I think it’s safe to say none of us has any desire to live there. I don’t think any of us really thinks of Texas as home. For one of my brothers I think that is especially true since our mutual father and his mother (my stepmother) both died. Going back to visit them may have given him some sense of “going home,” but that’s gone now. For the rest of us, going back to visit our mother is a matter of going back to visit our mother, not a matter of going home.
Our homes were not a family-supplied given, but were the result of choices we made. One brother, decades ago, decided to try New Mexico, fell in love with it, stayed. One sister married someone who took her off first to Wyoming, then to Colorado. Although that marriage ended, when it did she had been living in Colorado Springs for some time and liked it, had a job as a middle-school art teacher, which she liked, and had a son with ties to the community – school, friends, his father. So she, too, stayed, and as retirement nears for her, she has every intention of remaining. It is her home.
Another brother is a cartoonist, and his work has pretty much dictated where he lived over the past twenty years. You can’t make much of a living as a cartoonist in Ft. Worth. So it was New York City, Los Angeles, then back to New York (but now having a wife and two small children, it was a house in Connecticut, rather than a loft in lower Manhattan). Actually, Bob may come closest to what I’m trying to get at here, because I suspect that for Bob – as for many people – “home” is where his family is. He is not so place-oriented, as people-oriented.
To a certain extent, I am, too. I would like to be able to say that Maine is my home. Certainly it is where I feel most “at home,” of all the places I have lived in the U.S., for all the reasons I mentioned in Note B. But I have no significant others here. The loss of my husband four years ago left a very large hole in my life, that nothing has come close to filling. This is true despite the fact that Micheal and I actually spent more of our 36 years of marriage living apart, than living together (we had what can only be described as a very unusual relationship). But I always knew he was out there, somewhere, loving me, just as I loved him – he was where I belonged, ultimately. So...I belonged somewhere! That seems to be what people need: a sense of belonging somewhere. Is that what the concept of “home” most represents? And if we don’t have that feeling, does it mean we have no home?
I have been giving further thought to the idea of attachment to “home.” I have five brothers and sisters; all but one of us were born and reared in Texas. The one who was born elsewhere (Evansville, Indiana, during what I think of as our Norman Rockwell period) lived in Texas from toddler-hood on. She and one brother have remained in Texas for most of their lives – and I suspect they think of it as home, especially as my mother also lives there – but four of us have not lived in Texas for many years, and I think it’s safe to say none of us has any desire to live there. I don’t think any of us really thinks of Texas as home. For one of my brothers I think that is especially true since our mutual father and his mother (my stepmother) both died. Going back to visit them may have given him some sense of “going home,” but that’s gone now. For the rest of us, going back to visit our mother is a matter of going back to visit our mother, not a matter of going home.
Our homes were not a family-supplied given, but were the result of choices we made. One brother, decades ago, decided to try New Mexico, fell in love with it, stayed. One sister married someone who took her off first to Wyoming, then to Colorado. Although that marriage ended, when it did she had been living in Colorado Springs for some time and liked it, had a job as a middle-school art teacher, which she liked, and had a son with ties to the community – school, friends, his father. So she, too, stayed, and as retirement nears for her, she has every intention of remaining. It is her home.
Another brother is a cartoonist, and his work has pretty much dictated where he lived over the past twenty years. You can’t make much of a living as a cartoonist in Ft. Worth. So it was New York City, Los Angeles, then back to New York (but now having a wife and two small children, it was a house in Connecticut, rather than a loft in lower Manhattan). Actually, Bob may come closest to what I’m trying to get at here, because I suspect that for Bob – as for many people – “home” is where his family is. He is not so place-oriented, as people-oriented.
To a certain extent, I am, too. I would like to be able to say that Maine is my home. Certainly it is where I feel most “at home,” of all the places I have lived in the U.S., for all the reasons I mentioned in Note B. But I have no significant others here. The loss of my husband four years ago left a very large hole in my life, that nothing has come close to filling. This is true despite the fact that Micheal and I actually spent more of our 36 years of marriage living apart, than living together (we had what can only be described as a very unusual relationship). But I always knew he was out there, somewhere, loving me, just as I loved him – he was where I belonged, ultimately. So...I belonged somewhere! That seems to be what people need: a sense of belonging somewhere. Is that what the concept of “home” most represents? And if we don’t have that feeling, does it mean we have no home?
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