In the Wilds of Maitland, Dads Change Tribal Ways

The women do not come with our tribe when we go into the wilderness.

It is not their place. They are incapable of not fussing over tangled hair and dirty clothes, not organizing activities, not immediately patching boo-boos with Band-Aids.

The dads not do these things for our princesses.

That is why our tribe, the Miccosukees, broke away from the YMCA’s Indian Princess nation years ago. Our ancestors decided that there was too much time spent on planning and organizing, of adhering to protocol, and too little time spent on letting girls be girls and dads be dads.

And so they formed a renegade tribe.

There are no directors, no headquarters, no merit badges, no popcorn sales and no uniforms, aside from the chief’s headdress. The tribe simply perpetuates itself. As daughters move into middle school, their dads drop out and new dads with younger daughters take their place.

Each year a new chief is chosen. Each year an old chief leaves.
We don’t need membership drives, because we live in a fantasyland called Maitland where good dads seem as plentiful as buffalo once were.

We take our tents to Disney, Wekiwa, Kissimmee and St. Augustine. We go wherever we can turn our princesses loose. The older ones go off to explore on bike and foot. They talk about things that girls on the verge of becoming teenagers talk about, things that perhaps dads best not hear.

At night they poke the fire and throw dried leaves and palm fronds on it to prompt an outburst of flames.

Lord of the Flies.

The young ones scamper about, darting into one tent after the next like raccoons, playing games they invent, getting their first taste of not asking an adult before they do every little thing. There are no arranged play dates. They discover new friends like they discover everything else out here, pretty much on their own. They come back with dirty feet and dirty cheeks, with scraped knees and stories to tell.

They chew on hot dogs. They smear the melted marshmallow that spills out of their s’mores on their shirts. They grin and want more, and of course the answer is yes. They smell of woods and smoke.

They look like feral children.

They look like happy children.

There is no squabbling and whining, because they understand we are not interested. And so they work things out themselves.

They are free to be children. We are free to be dads. We gather around the tribal television, set up in front of the tribal RV, and watch college football while drinking the tribal brew out of large, red plastic cups.

Those from the Clan of the SEC and the Clan of the Big 10 make their cases for superiority, while those from the ACC assume that good things will come to those who wait.

We divide the responsibilities.

Chief Meat is a partner in a boutique butcher shop and brings fillets that we cut with plastic utensils. Chief Headsoflat brings the salad.

It is good for daughters to see there are so many good dads in the world. It is good for dads to know there are so many like him sharing the duty of keeping an eye on his little ones.

It takes a tribe to raise a daughter.

It takes a dad to really raise her right.

Girls with good dads are much less inclined to do any number of dumb things, such as getting mixed up with drugs, sex and abusive boyfriends. In the woods, we help vaccinate them against such widespread diseases.

Long after princesses leave the tribe, Dad always will be with them as the model by which all men are measured. A dad who shows his daughter love, respect, attention and loyalty will create a woman who looks for men of the same sort.

Men who will treat her like a princess.

Native Floridian and longtime Orlando columnist Mike Thomas is a freelance writer.