LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
TRIBE |
by Shawn Noel |
A Tribute to Women's Tea Dances
The sound, the smells, the rhythm, the heat, the vibration, the sense that something is happening. Tribes: Distinctly different in their color, height, age, weight, costume, hair, and inhibitions. Drawn together for what purpose? The end of the summer growing season? The beginning of the new learning season? The midway point of the loving season? Or the celebration of the women's season? The end of the summer growing season: Young women, girls really, some of them just out of slumber parties, varsity sport, drama productions, high school band and art class. Fresh from loving from afar some woman, some female adult who made the difference in their lives. The woman who set the example, the female who did not judge, the person who liked them for who they were and did not judge them, the person who liked them for who they were and not who everyone else thought they should be. And now, the search is beginning for them, trying to get to know other young women, women who are like them. Women who love women, women who love dancing and women who care little about what others think. The first family of this TRIBE. The beginning of the new learning season: Grown women, with hope and fear in their eyes. Fear of being hurt again, and the hope of all women in this, our culture, the hope of emotional love. The hope of finding someone who understands and accepts them, who likes parts of what they like, and who loves them back full out. All with the new found knowledge that nothing really is forever in this TRIBE, and yet is always the same. This is the second family of our TRIBE. The midway point of the loving season: Women in love. Not looking, not cruising, just finding contentment in who they love. Leaving their lovers side, and then, like a toddler, searching across the room for them just because they love them and miss their companionship at this event of tribal dance. And the dancing, so rhythmic, a tambourine jingling in perfect harmony with the movement of the tribe on the floor. Beauty in tan, cocoa, nut brown, deep chocolate, women who feel nothing but comfortable with the rhythm of their bodies and music. Women who grew up with the sound of instruments, voices, hand clapping games, and the sense that the moving of ones body is nothing to hold back, but something to celebrate within the tribe. And women who have not danced in a long time, or when they did, it was always something that was awkward for them. Never finding a degree of comfort in the way the music felt and how it made them move. Something in their biorhythms just did not relate with that damned music and they knew it. Yet the music calls them out to the floor because they know it feels free and wild. So, this part of the tribe slides and turns with reckless abandon. They want to be part of this whole, this third family of TRIBE. These women who so silently accept each other at all family gatherings. They know that each of us has seen rejection and loss from others who just don't get that we love WOMEN. Full out. And celebrating the women's season; The women who have aged ageless, grown, found comfort in the way of friends, ex-lovers and new lovers. The community of females who look forward to the beach, the mountains, the city, or the lakeside. The totality of feminine, who have learned from our past victories that women are indeed capable of handling all that the world has to offer us. The storms, the sunsets, the hurricanes, the breezes, and the sweet scent of life each day. These women, tatted, tanned, and toned, free, laughing and full of love, these women of the fourth family of TRIBE. Our TRIBE. And thankful for them. Shawn Noel can be reached at gardenfences@aol.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 16, No. 5 May 19, 2006 |