F the Clique -- I Got a TRIBE

05/13/2015 06:27 pm ET | Updated May 13, 2016

My homegirls. My Hens. My TRIBE.

Yes. I have one. It is made up of women that I've known since I was 8, and women I met last week. We talk occasionally on Facebook, and we talk every morning on the phone. We tweet, we text, we Facetime and comment. We commiserate over husbands that want too much sex, and husbands that don't want it enough. Children that break our hearts with "I hate you! It's your fault I'm fat/skinny/ugly/sad/everything awful in the world!" and children that turn us into useless, non discipline enforcing piles of mush with doe eyes and chubby cheeks and "mommy, I'm weally, weally saawwy." We toast to babies being born, weight gain and weight loss (because all weight is good weight -- DUH!), new shoes/hair/panties/mascara/love and the return of old love, dropping of bad love and finally getting great love. We cry and scream and wail and moan collectively over babies lost/parents lost/siblings lost/friends lost/weight lost/spouses lost/shoes lost -- loss in general. We feel it all. As a tribe. If one hurts, we all hurt. If one bleeds, we all bleed. (No seriously. That same cycle shit is real.) Because we are a tribe, inhaling the collective breath of love and sisterhood, loyalty and trust.

We are a tribe.


In my tribe we admit to being kinkier than your average dominatrix because my tribe doesn't believe in judgement. We also admit that there was a time when we didn't want the kinky, but we did it anyway because we thought it would bring us love. Sometimes we even admit that the kink was forced on us, and we didn't like it, but we weren't brave enough to say so, and we regret it to this day. My tribe is wildly honest. Even if you're new to the tribe, honesty is the unspoken but obviously established rule. We lay our souls bare. We speak the unadulterated truth. We don't pull punches and we don't sugar coat the shit. We also don't play the role of "Salt" when a fellow tribeswoman is playing the role of "the wounded." When that happens we are the Neosporin, the band-aid, and the vodka. Or the gin. Or the wine. And if the wound is particularly deep, we're the tequila. We swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help us God/Allah/Yaweh/Mother Earth/Universe/Fellow Tribeswoman.


Because we know. We know that there are rules in the world that say we're not supposed to. We know that there are rules and norms and people and places and a myriad other things that tell us we should be prim and proper and compliant and ladylike and sweet tongued and know our place. But us? We know better. We are women that curse, and women that drink, and women that pray (to whomever and whatever the hell we wanna pray to) and women that want it all, will do it all, and will get it all. And when we get it all, we'll find a new thing to do and be and get... because we can't be stopped. We are a force to be reckoned with. We support each other's whims because who are we to tell a fellow tribeswoman that she can't do/be/get whatever the hell she wants? We sprinkle fairy dust and sunshine, and glitter bomb everything and anything because we know that the best cheerleaders are the loudest cheerleaders, even if we're the only ones that can hear them. We beat our drums. We stomp our feet. We yell and scream and shout our mutual adoration for eachother. We are mothers, almost mothers, should have been mothers, occasionally regretful mothers, and never want to be mothers. We are grandmothers and aunts and godmothers and sisters. Wives, girlfriends, partners, and friends with benefits. We are anything and everything to everyone and to eachother.

We are a tribe.

Not because we HAVE to be, but because there's no effin' way we COULDN'T be.

*This post originally appeared on Adiba Nelson's blog, The Full Nelson*

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