A Tribe of One
When cognitive dissonance causes us to move on
Hello my friend!
I hope you’re having a good week. I spent yesterday facilitating an MBTI/Temperament workshop for a group of art people in Nashville. First time on the platform in a year. I had a great time. Artists are a wonderful tribe.
Temperament NT Project. IFKYK.
Which brings us to this week. Let’s talk about tribes. What they are and why we join. More importantly, why we leave.
Let me tell you a little story…
It’s 11:05 on Monday morning, July 13, and Barb and I are driving home in our brand new Jeep Wrangler.
I didn’t realize we’d joined a tribe.
It all started when we bought an RV.
Before long, we discovered that RV people have a language all their own.
Black tanks. Gray tanks. Poop pyramids.
It’s like learning a foreign language centered entirely around human waste.
Then we discovered the social hierarchy.
The cool RV people tow Jeeps.
Barb grooming Phantom outside the pottery studio
Honestly, that wasn’t why we bought ours. Parking a 25-foot motorhome anywhere is a monumental pain in the ass, and the Jeep gives us a nimble way to explore once we’re parked. It also guarantees even worse fuel mileage than the majestic nine miles per gallon our rig gets on a good day.
Still, by virtue of having our asses planted in the fabric seats, we instantly became Jeep people.
Driving down Highway 48 toward Charlotte, Tennessee, I notice something.
Every Jeep driver waves.
Not a full wave.
Just two fingers lifted from the steering wheel.
“The Jeep Wave,” Barb informs me.
Of course she knew. She’d already done the research.
Apparently, the tradition dates back to World War II, when Jeep drivers acknowledged one another on the road.
There’s also another requirement.
Every Jeep needs a name.
This part surprised me.
Not because I name vehicles. I’ve done that for years. My Mazda CX-50 is named Christine, after Stephen King’s homicidal Plymouth Fury. If you could own a car willing to kill to protect you, why wouldn’t you?
Christine’s car badge. I’ll post a pic when I stick it on.
No, what surprised me was Barb.
She’s the practical one. Yet I didn’t see the eye roll when naming the Jeep was mentioned.
Yet here we were debating Navy-inspired names, with Phantom quickly taking the lead after the F-4 Phantom flown by the Blue Angels in the early 1970s.
Now we’re shopping for decals, ordering a custom spare tire cover with an aircraft carrier on it, and talking about Jeep rallies.
Yet another tribe.
I’ve learned something about tribes over the years.
I only enjoy belonging as long as I don’t experience cognitive dissonance.
That’s the uncomfortable feeling when the values of the group no longer match your own.
The Navy taught me that.
When I enlisted in 1983, I wasn’t trying to become a sailor.
I wanted paid experience as a dental lab technician, then I planned to leave.
Eventually, life changed. I got divorced. I was broke and without any goals.
Then Barb and I got married. We wanted a future.
I leaned into military life for the first time.
I got in shape.
Polished my shoes.
Kept my hair cut high and tight.
Earned promotions.
Won awards.
And finally felt like I belonged.
Until I didn’t.
A toxic command shattered that illusion.
I finished my enlistment, walked away after fifteen years, and spent months making sure nobody would mistake me for active duty again.
I grew a beard.
Pierced my ear.
Scraped the DoD parking decal off my windshield.
And happily left that tribe behind.
A few years later, we moved to Maryland.
Suddenly I was surrounded by another tribe.
Business people.
Consultants.
Political wonks.
Professionals in shirts and ties.
For a while, I fit in there too.
Until I didn’t.
It just wasn’t me.
Then Barb retired from the Navy, and we moved to Tennessee.
Finally.
I thought I’d found my people.
Duck Dynasty certainly helped the marketing campaign.
Long beards.
Camo.
Country roads.
Neighbors who waved.
People who loved God and each other.
I embraced it completely.
The beard came back. Large and completely unkempt.
I started wearing camo.
I even registered my Miata in Tennessee eight months before we moved, then drove it all over Maryland with Tennessee license plates.
I wanted everyone to know I wasn’t part of that tribe anymore.
For a while, it was wonderful.
Then something shifted.
Around 2016, people seemed angrier.
COVID poured gasoline on it.
The friendliness became suspicion.
Disagreements became identity.
Politics seeped into everything.
Even church.
The cognitive dissonance returned.
So I quietly left again.
The beard disappeared.
The camo disappeared.
The trucker hats disappeared.
I quit religion.
Now I shave every single day.
I wear flat caps.
I prefer looking like an outsider.
Not because I dislike the people here.
I don’t.
I just no longer want my visible identity wrapped up in belonging to any tribe that doesn’t align with my own values. It’s why I pulled back some from the competitive BBQ tribe. But I still love BBQ.
I want to be known for who I am, not who I represent. So I get to pick the uniform, I guess. I know it sounds silly. But I’m doing it anyway.
Which brings me back to the Jeep.
I’m sure I’ll end up loving Jeep rallies.
We’ll collect rubber ducks for our dashboard and wave correctly at every Wrangler that passes.
It seems like a safe crowd.
These days, my tribe mostly consists of a handful of sculpting friends taking classes with the great and powerful Nan Jacobsohn.
And honestly?
That feels about right.
They feel right.
We are relatively the same age, at similar life stages. Or we’re younger and quirky and work odd hours. But we connect so well together. And we dearly love each other.
I love my tribe.
But I’m also ok being tribeless.
It’s a funny thing, being tribeless.
Lonely, but liberating.
And strangely enough, it leaves just enough room for one more little two-finger wave.
And whatever new and exciting thing comes along, begging for me to be part of it.
Have an AWEsome week!
