On Finding & (Re)defining Community
America and us, reimagining ourselves.
HI
In this place we call America that is once again reimagining itself, hello. How is your heart today? What shapes has it taken since you last surveyed the territory? How are you taking care—of yourself, of the people in your community? And how, exactly do you define your community these days?
These questions are pulsing neon signs in my brain most days, and especially post-election. I live in a state that is both very liberal (Hawaiʻi is solidly Blue, though Democrats lost 5% majority in the popular vote this year) and very rural. And yet, by nature of its rural proclivities, the legacy of colonialist missionary presence, economic over-reliance on tourism, and the status quo-rejecting free-thinkers who are often drawn to the fantasy of Hawaiʻi, some political identities here also lean Republican or Libertarian.
Perhaps this is a good time to define my own politics as progressive, liberal, Democrat. While I know my share of tried-and-true Republicans, those folks are of less interest to me in this election, and within this question of community, than the Libertarian or third party-inclined. There are also a fair number of people—or at least men on dating apps—here who would like to think of themselves as apolitical; to be addressed another time.
While some third party-inclined voters were swayed by U.S. involvement in Gaza, these folks are in a Venn diagram crossover with COVID (or otherwise) anti-vaxxers drawn to RFK, Jr. And this fall, many of those individuals were drawn rightward by RFK’s newfound liaison with the president elect. This shift in voting preference within what some describe as the “wellness” / “crunchy granola” / “totally fed up with American politics” demographic, though it didn’t shock me, began to fiddle with my sense of community.
I struggled in similar ways during COVID, too. Unlike many friends who live in relatively airtight ideological bubbles in coastal cities and on social media, I find myself interacting with a range of political identities. And over the past years, I began to explore good-faith conversations with friends who held beliefs to the left and the right of my own—though many also considered themselves Democrats, either currently or at some time in their lives.
These conversations felt important to me because I wanted to understand viewpoints beyond my own. Where I felt judgment and criticism and fear, I wanted to locate a shared sense of humanity, a feeling that even if we disagreed on certain things, we were still bonded by a desire for the common good. That when the time came to vote, we would do so based on shared values, and a common compass of purpose.
To be clear, I have no desire or expectation to solely participate in a community where everyone’s beliefs are just like mine. There’s another word for that, and it starts with f and ends with ascism. I relish few things more than changing my mind based on new information (*coughs* from reliable sources). It’s not some simulacra of shared belief that I’m looking for. It’s a bedrock foundation of shared values that translate into thought, speech, action, policy, governance: a fundamental orientation to kindness, care, and interconnectedness with people and planet.
But my search for shared values often left me puzzled as I sought to understand different points of view. Were the ethics I thought (or sometimes knew) I shared with these people actually…not there at all? Or did they simply mean different things to each of us?
This puzzlement was especially present as I talked with people who voted like me in previous elections, but whose beliefs were changing this cycle. I also spoke with folks who had never before voted Democrat, but were choosing to this year for the first time—because of aforementioned values. And then there were those whose values I knew aligned with my own in certain ways—because I’ve seen them in action over many years—who made very different choices than I did in the voting booth.
Dear reader, believe me when I tell you that many times—in exploring issues from women’s health and reproductive rights to vaccines to LGBTQ rights to climate to intersectional identity politics to SCOTUS and beyond—I was tested. The testing was not so much external: there have been no shouting matches. But internally, post facto, I was often left with a sense of disappointment. A creeping fear that I might be losing respect (or just understanding) for someone I held in esteem. A heart-hurting distance.
Conversely, I’m aware that the humans on the other side of these conversations might have felt the same disconnect.
In a time when we, undeniably, need each other—need community—more than ever, what is the next right step? How, then, do we define community?
Many of us, myself included, think of community as defined by the joint interests held by a people. Merriam-Webster describes community as a “unified body of individuals”. Immediately, my mind splits in two: ha, one part of me sneers, imagine a group of people agreeing upon anything these days. The second part chimes in: but we all fundamentally want the same things: safety, connection, basic care.
Both are valid. We know, given the results of this most recent U.S. election—and the entirety of this country’s history—that polarization is rampant. We may want the same basic safety, sustenance, shelter, connection, and care, but we often disagree on how to get those things, what they look like, or who deserves them. Even the (dis)informational siloes created by fine-tuned news and social media algorithms can’t keep us forever within our ideological bubbles.
And so: We live together, in geographic communities, with people who hold beliefs different from our own. We are in blood (and sometimes even chosen) family communities with people who think about divisive issues differently than we do. We work and grocery shop and expect labor from people who vote differently than we voted. It’s likely that we want many of the same things as these folks, though we may see a totally different path to getting them.
We are, by definition, supposed to be a United States of America. A community united by belief. By common will. And by purpose.
But what happens when belief, will, and purpose no longer feel common, or communal—even in our close circles? For many Americans outside hegemonic class and identity lines, who do not benefit equally from this country’s systems, that commonality has never felt real or true. But while it’s easy to roll eyes at the idea of the U.S. of A. as one community, the reality is that we are primed to want togetherness.
We are, after all, animals; animals that have relied on each other for survival for many millennia. We want to belong. We want to feel safe amidst those we live with, and as subjects to a government that is supposed to care for us.
Which leads me to consider that much of the grief and disorientation felt post-election—the loss, the fear of what lies ahead, the disenchantment, the disgust projected within and outside party lines—is actually the experience of losing community. Losing the connection to a belonging that once felt certain, defined by mutually held values and ideas about how best we can be human, here, together.
Which is also the beginning of questioning what it means to be part of a community in the first place.
Below Merriam-Webster’s initial definition of community comes the following:
a: the people with common interests living in a particular area
b: a group of people with a common characteristic or interest living together within a larger society
c: a body of persons of common and especially professional interests scattered through a larger society
d: a body of persons or nations having a common history or common social, economic, and political interests
e: a group linked by a common policy
f: an interacting population of various kinds of individuals (such as species) in a common location
While definitions a through c apply to smaller community segments based on shared interests (or experimental utopian living communities and assisted living facilities; a topic for another day), definitions d, e, and f are closer approximations of the communities most of us live within.
These describe people joined by common socioeconomic or political histories, affected by common policies, or simply people who live in the same place without sharing other commonalities.
I’m reminded of the “In Community” chapter of Rebecca Walker’s and my interactive journal What’s Your Story?: A Journal for Everyday Evolution, where we share so many prompts that feel especially relevant now. These are questions to guide an awareness of what community means to you, for you, around you, of why community matters, of what and who you stand for.
There are many more in the book, but I’ll leave you with these:
What community or communities do you consider yourself a part of? What parts of yourself do you bring to each? What parts do you leave behind?
What are your assumptions about what each of your communities should do for you, and what you should do for them?
Which people, places, and ideas in your various communities do you really care about? Who and what do you leave behind?
I’d love to hear your thoughts. And, for what it’s worth, I so appreciate this community of readers, in all your diversity and your sameness.
SOME HOT LINKS
To read.
I just learned about Ground News, and am excited by the concept: It’s a breaking news platform that tracks media bias by aggregating stories and showing how different platforms cover the same story in distinct ways. Very cool!
In the mood for something delicious? I want to eat literally everything in Erin Alderson’s cookbook The Yearlong Pantry: Bright, Bold Vegetarian Recipes to Transform Everyday Staples.
To listen.
I’m devouring the Didion & Babitz audiobook, read by its author, Lili Anolik (plus Emma Roberts). It’s immersive, thrilling, and zomg I just learned that I lived one block away from Eve Babitz my first five years in LA?!?
To watch.
Literally anything but the news.
STAY SANE
Thanks for being in community with me.
Love,
Lily