The term ‘my people’ evokes ideas of indigenous peoples . . . politically correctly ‘first nations’.
Or perhaps aliens of the extraterrestrial sort . . . “take me to your people”.
For someone from the rural southern sector of the United States, a familiar drawl summons the urge to ‘take off your coat and stay awhile’.
Even amongst southerners, there are the more familiar regional accents that can illicit more familiar responses including taking off your shoes and engaging in certain circular dancing rituals.
Recently I’ve been expanding my idea of who ‘my people’ might be. I’m a Christian so, naturally, I’ve been joined to a group of people that are forever growing in diversity of ethnicity, culture, and interests. There is no cookie-cutter definition of this subgroup of society. And even though I consider myself to be a part of this group of ‘believers’, I’m not inclined to call everyone in this group ‘my people’.
There’s more to the term than membership in a social establishment or religious system. I can feel alone in a group that adheres to the same system of beliefs. I can miss that feeling of belonging which requires more than just understanding what the other person is talking about. I would like to say that it is about being loved or accepted, but the warmth of togetherness . . . the reality of ‘place’ transcends even these warmest of sentiments.
Recently, we returned to our little sub sect of society . . . a small Baka pygmy village that we have called home for many years now. We were gone for only one week, but when we returned there were shouts of joy and dancing as we pulled into our makeshift driveway. That felt good. There was celebration! There were hugs from our missionary teammates. There was ‘place’. It is not always as pronounced as when we returned from our trip, but it is always there.
Lately, we’ve been traveling some unknown ‘roads’ (if you can call them roads); perhaps more accurately pathways through the jungle. Some so narrow that the scratching sound of vines, branches, and leaves on the side of the car is in constant syncopation with the hum of the diesel engine. Last week, this particular symphony was an accompaniment to the songs being sung on the inside by the 14 adults and 7 children that went along for the ride with our family of four. That’s 25 people total in our 12 capacity Toyota Landcruiser. These were some of ‘my people’ that wanted to visit their family and ‘celebrate’ together on the one-year anniversary of the death of their sister. We are different in so many ways, most notably in appearance but even this seems less noticeable when compared to the cultural differences. Sometimes, though, I feel like these are becoming less and less prominent as I experience the commonalities of simply being human. There were those passengers in the back that were more prone to car-sickness and succumbed to that weakness in obvious ways. Ah, the joys of being living sardines when that happens! The trip brought with it memories of family excursions from long ago . . . ‘John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, his name is my name too’, but with a decidedly different beat and an incomparably different language.
Our destination that particular afternoon was ‘Intersection 11’; a fitting name considering how far it is from any other place in the world. It conjures up images of the Bermuda Triangle or Area 51 . . . mysterious and unknown. The ‘path’ we followed took us through villages where life was being lived by others and their own ‘people’. As we passed through certain of those villages, we were met with curious stares. In other villages exuberant shouting and gesturing. The road was longer than we were led to believe . . . and 50 kilometers and two and one half hours later we arrived . . .
More shouts, dancing, embracing, and reuniting. This time we ‘foreigners’ stood back and observed. For the first time we saw one of ‘our people’, an older Baka woman as she stood side by side with her very elderly (by Baka standards) father and mother. As she introduced them to us, I saw the eyes of a child emerge from the face of a woman who is old enough to be a grandmother herself. She beamed as she explained that she is the oldest sister in her family. Her mother also smiled with her entire face and I saw beauty in this toothless and wrinkled expression of joy. I feel like I know my friend Apuma even more now that I have seen them side by side. With pride I also shared with her family that she and her husband were family to me. Her father said that we were now one. Epic.
We made that trip back in the dark . . . with less people returning, but more living things including a chicken (with a previously broken foot) that was given to us as a gift, another chicken one of our passengers brought along, and a very tiny puppy belonging to the same lady. Our chicken was supposed to be food, but Brianna bonded with her on the way home and I broke. Now we have a new family member living in recently-constructed coop behind our house. Welcome to the family, Jewel Famous Abbott.
I’m enjoying the feeling of participation in this story. I think that this is the key to knowing who your people are. Who are the key characters in the story that is being played out around me? Realizing my part and entering into my own role and the roles of the other people in the story is paramount to recognizing who they are and who I am in relation to them. My story is made up of the present day to day interactions with my neighbors, but it is also comprised of those who know me best but are far away from me. They are also part of who I am. Warmth comes from knowing that I belong in their stories too. My people are sometimes near and sometimes very far away from me, but I am engaged, connected, defined by them like it or not. I like it.
It was a combined effort . . .
Did we mention the grill?!?
