When I was around 10, my mother and aunt took me to the Choctaw Indian Fair in Neshoba County, Mississippi. No doubt they thought it would be educational, but it did something else, too. It made me gourd green with envy! When I saw those handsome amber skinned people with their shiny black hair and eyes, I thought they were beautiful. But more, I saw how proudly they celebrated their culture. I admired their uniqueness and separateness. They had their very own sport, their own arts like no others. Choctaw basket weaving was a big one, but the carving and beadwork, and even their traditional dress was so bright and lovely. I remember their dancing; how proud and celebratory of their culture they were as they stepped fancy footwork that their kind had been dancing for centuries and centuries.

I remember the Choctaw Indian Princess in her embroidered, beaded finery staring at me somewhat hautily. There was an unspoken "You are nothing like me. You are plain and ordinary." No doubt paranoid on my part, reflecting my feelings more than hers. I looked at my own pale, freckled skin, and my reddish-brown hair and felt somehow less. Much more than those physical characteristics, I wanted other things the Choctaw tribe had. Their smiles and laughter were due to their joy of not only being together, but to a completeness, a belonging to something wonderful and cyclic.

On the car ride home, staring at the landscape of Neshoba County flying past, I reflected on these things. I asked, "What kind of people are we?" The answer "American" didn't satisfy. Was she not far more "American" than I? So badly I wished I was her, dancing full of joy in that circle of wholeness with family and distant kin, to the drumbeat of history and tradition. I wanted a connection to something that wondrous. I wanted... something that would own me, and I it. Though I could not articulate it at that age, I wanted a tribe!

Fast forward about 23 years now, and I'm standing in a green field in the same Mississippi sunlight. I'm hearing the strains of bagpipes from Mississippi's own Father of Waters Pipe and Drum Corps and taking in a splendid view. I was noticing tent after tent with banners reading, "Grahams, McDonalds, Campbells, Maxwells... when I felt a tug at my sleeve. A little boy of about 3 was beaming up at me, eyes full of mischief. "Hey!" he said, grinning wide.

"Hey, yourself!" I smiled.
He was the perfect little Scots gentleman in miniature, kilt to the knee, hose and flashes, even his sporran was to perfect scale. I asked, "Where's Mama and Daddy?"

A lady behind me spoke up. "One thing about it, you dress 'em in their tartan and you know which tent to take them to when they run off!" Everyone in the vicinity erupted in laughter. "He's an Armstrong. C'mon little man, let's find Mama before she has a stroke."

Strolling on, I passed three venerable tartaned gents in heated discussion. "No! There's no way we're having Burn's Supper at that place again! Last year, they didn't have enough seating even at the high table."

"Translation: They ran out of his Ardbeg!" More uproarious laughter. I strolled further, passing some folks near my own age. "Hey, y'all going to the Ceilidh?"

"Yeah, you?"
"Yeah, are Katie and Will going?..."
"What time does Beyond the Pale go on?"
Two young fellows no more than 8 ran by at full tilt to take another by the arm. In great excitement, they panted, "Josh! You have to see this ole guy's sword! It's way cool! C'mon!" Off they tore to the opposite side of the field. I watched as a man carefully placed a heavy claymore replica into the child's hands, his own large ones over them protectively. I watched the little guy's eyes grow wide when his arms felt the sheer weight of it. They were all listening to every word the man said.

My deep thoughts were interrupted. "Kelly! There you are! Where have you been?"

It dawned on me finally, after all these years... I had my own tribe! I always had.

Kelly