Paul Simon warbles “I am a rock, I am an island,” in his immortalized 70’s hit, contradicting the oft-cited adage, “no man is an island.” I think he’s being ironic (!). Well, some people may want to be islands, and maybe some merely peninsulas, but in my recent summer travels, it seemed to be that no man really is an island in the Isle of Man. Cute, cute, I know. Eastern coast of Isle of Man As it turns out, I have an ancestor that was born there (in 1811 to be exact) and my husband has many lines of ancestry originating from the Isle of Man. So we went on a trip there this summer with my husband’s family, a sort of visit to the ancestral homeland. The Isle of Man is situated between Ireland and England, and is currently an independent but-still-sort-of-part of-the-United-Kingdom-Commonwealth state. Only about 75,000 people live on this tiny island, which has an area of just 221 square miles. The Isle of Man is a most beautiful place to visit. But beyond its luscious green landscapes, picturesque Victorian boardwalks, and cool medieval castles, I was most struck by the Manx people. They were some of the friendliest, unpretentious lot I’ve ever met (and I’ve been to nearly 50 countries and about 30 states—telling you that is pretentious, I know!). The cabbies there, instead of rounding way up from what their meter reads in citing your fare, round DOWN (which incidentally made us want to tip them much more)! Museum guides show you the best parts of their digs without even asking for admission, just for the sheer pleasure of it. Bus drivers don’t mind taking you up a street or two off of their designated route so you can be closer to your destination. Old men (not naked, however!) having an afternoon drink together share treasured Manx stories with you, unsolicited; strangers open up their home so you can view a peak of your 18th-century ancestor’s residence. Everywhere we went people were as friendly and as accommodating as could be (and no, I am not getting paid to write this by Isle of Man’s Office of Tourism!). The rolling hills of Isle of Man So what does it take to have such a culture of mutual trust, respect; one that is unconfined by formal rules, abiding instead by unwritten rules of courtesy, honesty, and kindness? My armchair-sociologist answer? Community, and the empowerment of that community. Tiny as it is, the Isle of Man has a fascinating history. The Celts were among the earliest settlers, followed by the Vikings. During medieval times, the Isle of Man mostly just changed hands between the Brits and the Scots, until finally resting in the hands of the British (it still exists as a British Crown dependency, although it operates autonomously). Tynwald Hill, Isle of Man What most interested me was that somewhere between 850 and 950 AD, the Viking settlers established Tynwald, the oldest continuously-running parliament in the world (contrary to popular lore, the Vikings—at least some of them—were actually civilizers, not just marauders). Tynwald Hill is a terraced mound of earth, originally built by the Vikings, and formed with earth brought from all sections of the Isle of Man to symbolize its representative nature. Officially known as the High Court of Tynwald, it now convenes in an actual building, but every year, on Tynwald Day, government officials meet on Tynwald Hill to promulgate laws and hear special petitions. So there sits tiny Isle of Man, in the middle of the Irish Sea. I think the smallness of the island—both in geography and population—has a lot to do with its agreeable culture. In a community so small, it’s easy to know many people personally and be connected to the rest by only one or two degrees of separation. When people are connected like that, they are more likely to be friendly and courteous to each other (both for “stick” reasons: you don’t want to anger someone with whom your neighbor might be close, and for “carrot” reasons: you know people, genuinely like them, and want to be agreeable.) There is also a sense of bond and loyalty—“we are all Manx, and we love all things Manx, and everything Manx is good.” I also believe that the empowerment of this community—and the early (we’re talking 9th or 10th century!) empowerment of this community is important; when people feel their grievances are being heard and opinions are represented, they are more satisfied with, and content to live with, each other. It is in our own interest, as well as our community’s interest, to be connected to one another. And it is in the government’s interest to empower its people as well by giving them a voice. The Isle of Man has figured this out. But even if we’re not fortunate enough to live on this idyllic island, we can build small communities all around us, in our neighborhoods, in our schools, and in our churches. For no man should be an island! What kind of community do you live in? What does your community do to foster a sense of connectedness (town fairs, 4th of July fireworks show, community pools, etc.) Have you witnessed anything that contributes to negative-community building? What have you done to contribute to your community? P.S. So speaking of community, I have recently been appointed to our town’s Planning Board, which I anticipate will take up a lot of my “citizenatlarge” time, so I probably will be post even less frequently than I do now, if at all, for the next little while. Thanks for reading!
Have you heard of this place, the Isle of Man? You may have, if you ever saw the movie, Waking Ned Devine, which besides the clever plotline, mainly stands out because it features two old men riding on motorcycles, naked, on the Isle of Man.
Modern-day Tynwald Building, Isle of Man
