The problem with community is all the people
That's also the joy
I have a confession. I believe very strongly in community, both its power and necessity, especially in times like these. We’ve seen it in the guerrilla carewar that erupted in Minnesota in the face of federal occupation and ICE terror. This massive outpouring of neighborliness was fed not only by recent community mobilizations in L.A., Chicago, and Portland, but by years of organizing that preceded the murder of George Floyd at the hands of Minneapolis police in 2020 and then continued. Years and years of community work which has enabled them to rise up and meet the current moment with gorgeous, loving ferocity.
I know down to my bones that building and working in community over time is the only way as many of us as possible will survive this horror. But here’s my problem: communities are made up of people and, honestly, I’m not a fan of people. I mean, have you met them?
Sure, all the valiant people helping and defending their neighbors in Minnesota (and Maine, and D.C., and, and, and…) are people. But so are the folks who don’t shovel the curb cuts at corners so it’s impossible for the disabled and elderly to navigate my snowy neighborhood right now. So are the folks who hold loud, private phone conversations on the bus. So is whichever asshole stole the peonies out of my yard this past spring, and the rose bush a few years before that.
Donald Trump. Pam Bondi. Stephen Miller. All of them are people. (Okay, I’m not sure about Stephen. I think he’s a lizard creature that’s gonna unzip his skin suit any moment.)
People conceived of and perpetuate racism, and sexism, and capitalism. They are the ism champions.
All the pedophiles and enablers in the Epstein Files? People.
I could go on (an on), extolling all the legitimate (and also petty) reasons that I’m at best skeptical, and more often wary, of people. I’m sure you probably could as well. People are frequently the best answer for why people are a very bad idea.
It’s important to practice our integrity so when life requires us to step forward courageously and risk it all we’ve built our clarity and capacity sufficiently. But most days, for me anyway, that nobility feels very far away. Instead, I’m just pushing through the persistent discomfort of living my values in the face of imperfections and inconsistencies (my own and other people’s). This feels maddening and humbling, occasionally even enraging, but rarely noble. Who wouldn’t want to retreat to the comfort of their own little bubble of known people, pleasures, and safe, non-confrontational socializing (or introversion, if you’re me) instead?
Truthfully, this is mostly what I’ve been doing for years now. Talking a great game about the beauty and power of community, of being in face-to-face relationship with real, imperfect people, while mostly sitting alone, safe and comfortable, in my house.
The uprising in Minnesota has pulled me up short, though, showing that it was past time for me to push past my discomfort and walk my talk. So, I decided to start hosting monthly community dinners at my house. Not a potluck, which is a great tool in established communities but provides barriers to entry for folks unknown to each other, in my experience. Instead, it would be dinner, which I would make, and just invite folks to come and eat.
Each month I envisioned a different Build Your Own meal, inspired by the magical curry feasts my mom would occasionally prepare when I was a kid. The base of these feasts was simple— a big pot of Basmati rice and another of chicken curry. But then there were dozens of little bowls of condiments— dried and fresh, cut fruit, nuts, fresh veggies, chutneys, my dad’s pickled jalapenos from the garden out back. It was abundant, wacky, colorful, and absolutely magical to me, how everyone was encouraged to build their own perfect plate with the balance of flavors and textures that suited them.
The same template would work, I figured, for chili, burritos, ramen, and what is a salad bar, really, but that? It would be super casual, I told folks— paper plates and bowls, the house not perfectly pristine. Just come.
I created a Facebook event and invited 45 people— close friends, social acquaintances, former co-workers. Anyone, really, who expressed vague enthusiasm when I first wrote about the idea publicly. Every time my resistance to having people I don’t know intimately in my house, or my fear of judgment, or my dread that if I invite connection people will suck the life right out of me reared up, I said to that anxious bunny, “You can come, too. There’ll be plenty of food. It’ll be okay.”
Y’all! It was lovely. Despite February weather, six whole people came— two close friends, two social friends, and two folks I barely know. Just enough to fit around my table. Lively conversation ranged from politics to astrology to kids to books and more. A friend talked about the course she taught this past fall on trans utopias and folks noted titles to read later. The same friend posed a question about local city government and another friend referred her to a video series on Instagram made by her partner, recently elected to our city council, that explained the answer. Many of us saved that link, so excited to get informed and engaged.
One friend brought wine, just because. Another brought blueberries. Another brought a container of Trader Joe’s peanut butter cups. It wasn’t a potluck, but people are gonna people, sometimes in the best ways.
We talked about the Minnesota uprising and one friend expressed concern that we aren’t ready here if ICE comes for our neighbors. I told her that’s why I invited everyone. Because it’s hard to organize in a crisis when you don’t know or trust people. That’s where it all begins. So, we are beginning. And we’ll get to the rest when the time comes. I have to believe that.
But first there will be dinner and conversation, laughter and hugs. And peanut butter cups!
I don’t think that we’ll be saved from fascism by tens of thousands of monthly small dinner parties. It might be running clubs, or meet ups at the dog park, or conversations in the school pick-up line, or coffee hour after church, or porch sitting and nodding at neighbors after the weather turns. All those uncomfortable, delightful, poignant ways that we meet, connect, and learn to show up and trust each other. That’s how we build the foundation for whatever fight comes our way, and for the future we want.
Next month I’m making curry. If you’re local, wanna come?
Some great things I read this week:
A wonderful profile on Mira Nair, Zohran Mamdani’s brilliant filmmaker mother. Also, a Substack, where profile author Rebecca Traister talks about how it all came together and what it meant for her.
A succinct history and explanation by Professor Nikole Hannah-Jones of the importance of white folks who are race traitors in garnering wide public outrage to defeat white supremacy.
A description of the defiant return of a pride flag to the Stonewall Monument in NYC after federal officials removed it.
Rebecca Solnit lists all the ways we are winning, including Bad Bunny’s joyful halftime show at the Super Bowl.
BAD BUNNY!
Your title made me chuckle and the rest did not disappoint. I have started going to my neighborhood association meetings and kind of want a medal for it, ha.
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️