‘Tribe” is one of my favorite words. It’s an ancient word with a modern punch. The word “tribe” comes from the Latin “tribus,” one of the three political-ethnic divisions of the original Roman state. Today it’s often used to describe one’s peeps, one’s community and one’s friends.

To be part of a tribe seems like the goal. Finding your people, having a community, making friends is what it’s all about, isn’t it?

When considering writing about tribes, I thought about the fact that I am not of Native American descent or African descent or of much of any descent except for a mix of an English-Irish brew. I’m not even Italian. Can a mutt from central Maine be part of a tribe?

My great-great-grandmother was from Dublin, but during the potato famine she left for Australia, where she met a nice fellow from West Athens, Maine, who was there for the gold rush. They married, had children and then took a long boat ride back to the United States. If my history is correct, my great-grandmother was the only infant to survive the passage. She settled in Skowhegan, where she raised five children including my grandmother.

My maternal lineage qualifies me to be part of at least three tribes: the Irish tribe, the central Maine tribe and my hometown tribe, which I would not have grown up in without my great-great-grandmother from Dublin.

A tribe, after all, is just a group, and I belong to several: my neighborhood tribe, my family tribe and my political tribe, just to name a few.

At a recent birthday party for an elder from my hometown tribe, I was reminded of how often, in a small state like Maine, tribes collide. There’s just not enough of us to go around. We work, live and play on the same patch of green. If there are more than 100 people at a gathering, the odds are great that you will stand next to and chat with someone you disagree with.

Or maybe that’s just me.

The groups gathered for the massive celebration of my hometown elder included blood relatives, friends, political allies, political rivals and generational clumps, all setting aside personal agendas to honor a 90-year-old man who flew his own plane to the party. The guy will not grow up.

Among the 200 or more friends and relatives of the birthday boy was Gov. LePage. The governor and I are not from the same tribe, and yet I was drawn to him like a tick to a dog.

We exchanged pleasantries and toasted the man of the hour: our common friend. We were there to celebrate a man we each knew and who still calls me by my childhood nickname.

I didn’t ask Gov. LePage how he knew my friend, and it didn’t matter. Our focus was on the man in the center of the party, who lives his life like it’s just beginning. As handsome at 90 as he was at 40, he could stop a train with his smooth baritone voice.

When I was a kid, he was a committed Democrat while my own father was a staunch Republican. They were and still are best friends. They used to argue for hours, but somewhere along the trail, they switched political parties, which explains my chance meeting with Gov. LePage.

This I know: If someone or something had interfered with the success of this singular tribute, I’m certain we would have closed ranks to protect our newly formed tribe of well-wishers.

When the battle ended, we would have retreated to our separate tribes with our personal beliefs and agendas to support the causes and candidates of our choice until the next tribal gathering.

Jolene McGowan lives and works in Portland with her husband, daughter and dog and has no plans to leave, ever. She can be contacted at:

respondtoportcitypost@gmail.com