Every four years at the
summer solstice, world clans gather in a friendly competition. They huddle beneath
banners bearing symbols like heraldic devices: Three Lions, Black Stars, Super
Eagles, the Red Fury, the Samurai Blue.
The games are like a
quadrennial family reunion where some years one clan makes it, some years
another but always the same perennial core. Some clans bring only a small
contingent, some are downright massive. We recognize many of the same players,
the same coaches, sometimes the same fans. There are fresh faces mixed in among
the familiar. In the interim, a venerable handful have gone missing while a few
noted mercenaries have switched allegiances entirely.
Each clan has its own
tradition. Europeans sing, South Americans drum and whistle, Africans dance
while warlocks throw magic on the field. Our native contingent prefers to
chant. But they all don brightly-colored party clothes and smile for the camera
whenever one pans by.
Most Americans don’t understand
this clannishness. I do. Clans provide a sense of the familiar in a strange new
world. Their presence comforts us so far away from home. More importantly,
should someone throw a road flare (as they sometimes do), these are the people
who will guard your back.
We have an instinctive need
to identify the people we know and know that we can trust. We mark each other
to set ourselves apart. Totems and tribal colors form a secret language shared
only by the select.
We are creatures drawn to
symbolism. We festoon ourselves with ornaments and trinkets, shiny baubles,
items imbued with meaning only to ourselves and the ones who know us best. We
adorn ourselves in these emblems to express our ancestry and individuality all
at once.
My mother’s family collects such
symbols spanning at least three generations. From a young age, we were each
encouraged to choose our totem, the marker of who we are. For our matriarch it
was elephants. For my aunt and my mother, teddy bears and whales. For me, it
alternated between wolves and dragons. Owls, angels, mushrooms, musical notes,
cats and hearts could all be found scattered throughout the family field.
This was an enforced pattern
of behavior, the family marking us with its brand. If you did not pick a symbol,
one would be chosen for you. Your choice needn’t be permanent. You were allowed
to change, though not too often. As long as you didn’t choose nonparticipation.
Then a default choice would be reinstated based on what the others thought
suited you best.
We made our choices
carefully. Our chosen symbol would decorate our bookshelves and bedroom walls. These
were the gifts we would receive for the rest our lives. It’s the way that we relate,
the shorthand by which the rest of the family could identify and interact. I
can’t help but remember my grandmother when I see any representation of an elephant.
I can’t help but think of my aunt and cousin when I see a teddy bear or Winnie-the-Pooh.
I’m not a natural collector.
I’m quite particular in my taste in symbols. Nothing too cute or with too much
popular appeal. I don’t even logos visible on my clothes. Though I must admit that
when I was growing up and Izod shirts were all the rage, one department store
countered the alligator with an off-brand dragon. I couldn’t wear those shirts enough,
in a semi-ironic, pre-hipster, fantasy counter-culture kind of way.
At this stage of my life, the
only symbols I collect are griffins. They capture the three distinct facets of
my clan: family, tribe, and individual. It is the device that graces my
father’s family crest, though only one uncle ever paid much attention to it. It
is a lesser known symbol of our Welsh heritage. I was drawn as much by that as the
creature’s fantasy nature. It also serves as the banner of my brand.
Griffins are notoriously hard
to come by in this country. To my knowledge, no one prints a griffin calendar.
I’ve never seen any stuffed toys. I’ve haven’t run across any foreign coins or
jewelry. Even pewter figurines with any decent artistry are difficult to find.
Most of the griffins in my office were custom-made: a banner, a pair of stained
glass bookends, a leather notebook and paperback cover, a ceramic tile. All but
the last were made by my wife. Some date back from our time in college. Since
we’ve been married, she identifies the symbol as another aspect of her heritage
just as she adopted my surname as her own.
Clans, by nature and
necessity, are exogamous, taking in through marriage only with outsiders. But
once those strangers don our tartan, they become accepted as one of us. That
doesn’t mean they have abandoned their connections to their first families. Our
clan just becomes another face on their polyhedron die. Another charm on their
mental Pandora bracelet.
So, if you catch even a
glimpse of a game crowd this summer from the corner of your eye, remember that
web of diversified acceptance. If you’re lucky, you might witness a Brazilian
samba band drum and whistle their way through an entire match. Or watch the
tribal-clad women from the Ivory Coast dance and sway in unison, then turn to shake their
backsides toward the field as a taunt. Or hear thousands of voices
spontaneously erupt in a chorus of La Marseillaise or Rule, Britannia. Or see
the players weep openly as the stadium plays their national anthem. For many,
this is the only positive recognition their country will ever get.
Some say Americans learn
geography only through our wars. If so, the rest of the world learns theirs from
the clans attending the beautiful game. As we bask in the light of the summer
solstice, which would you say provides a better model on the world stage?
© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III
© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III
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ReplyDeleteNotes and asides:
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A clan is a division of a tribe tracing descent from a common ancestor. In that, it is a familial designation rather than a national one, people defending a common genetic interest. There is a meme going around the internet that says your cousins are your first friends. Once upon a time, in a pre-modern, pre-migration world, there was a lot of truth in that. Even now, if you look hard enough through your family tree, into your great aunts and second cousins, you will find someone who you can identify with, someone whose personality or outlook resonates with your own, or someone who eerily reminds you of someone else you love in likeness or in mannerism.
Anyone who knows me knows that every four years I take a month-long summer vacation to watch the World Cup. 32 teams, 64 games, 6-8 hours a day. For my wife and me, it’s a multicultural affair. We watch the matches on Spanish-language television, listen to commentary on Aussie radio, catch internet analysis from a pair of English expats who’ve taken up residence in our country. We eat game food and sample from an international selection of wine and beer. For us, it’s a month-long party. Though we keep a referee’s cards and notebook on the coffee table in case the celebration gets out of hand.
I made these bookends for Edward shortly after we moved into the house, in 1992. The wings of these griffins is still one of the sharpest curves I've ever cut in stained glass. They rest on a bookshelf in Edward's office. Sometimes the light strikes them just right. I had a picture of them, but is wasn't in focus, so the other morning while working at home, waiting for World Cup to start the days games, I tried again and got a picture I like.
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