#10 - What do I mean by community?

A shared sense of responsibility and shared experiences

I've been writing about community for a few months now, but what community is still feels hazy. Community is certainly a vague term that can mean different things to different people. Looking at the three types of connection, I've honed in on "The Middle Layer," somewhere between close confidantes and your fellow citizens, for this blog. But what constitutes this Middle Layer? When is a circumstance, environment, or group of people a community rather than some other social structure?

For me, what distinguishes community from other social structures is a shared sense of responsibility and shared experiences. It's not about the people you spend the most time with or the people with whom you share the most interests. It goes deeper than that. The shared sense of responsibility contributes to a certain level of commitment. This is the glue that holds your community together. And shared experiences, when integrated, are how our communities come to eventually define our identities.

To explore this concept, I want to show rather than tell what I mean by shared responsibility and shared experience. I'll share how I've integrated into my neighborhood of Greenwich Village here in New York over this (first? hopefully last?) year of the pandemic. This isn't a community with which I'm extremely close. But I think the metaphor works, and it gives me an excuse to use my new camera to highlight some of the mundane yet precious parts of daily life.

I. Life in a new city

When I first moved to New York, I felt like an outsider. I had spent the 7 years prior living in San Francisco on the other side of the country. I didn't have any summer or winter clothing. My wardrobe consisted of white sneakers and thin sweaters. I actually made a list of all the things that I didn't like about New York, including when our real estate agent told us the apartment we ended up renting faces South when it actually faces East (we realized after we signed the lease) and when I got scammed trying to sell an old laptop.

Before the pandemic, I'd take the subway to work. Through this ritual, I began developing an affinity with the other people that rode the subway. I didn't talk to any of them but shared in the experience of swiping my metro card, walking to the exact spot on the platform that would land me in front of my desired exit staircase on the other end, and either sitting or standing in a spot that would enable as many others as possible to also sit or stand comfortably.

Then the pandemic struck.

I started spending more time at home. Initially, many restaurants in my neighborhood closed, not even offering takeout. On multiple occasions, I waited hours outside Trader Joe's for the privilege of scouring half empty shelves.

An interesting transformation gradually took place. My role shifted from observer to actor. At Washington Square Park, I would often see The Piano Guy. At first, I would just watch. Then, slowly, furtively, I summoned the (courage? motivation?) to drop loose bills into his bucket after enjoying a performance of one of his signature pieces: Claire de Lune or La valse d'Amélie. I think I even asked him a question about himself.

One of my favorite managers at work helped me become more aware of the stories I was telling myself. Who, was I telling myself, am I? What, was I telling myself, am I capable of? In that context, it was about challenging myself in my career. But it applies in this context as well.

The story I told myself gradually transformed from "I am from San Francisco and I happen to be living in New York" to "I am a New Yorker." I stopped feeling like a tourist in my experiences. I stopped feeling like I was looking through a glass screen. I started seeing my experiences as part of the fabric of something larger, where I was an active participant whose actions had consequences and whose experiences were shared by a community of people.

Now, when I walk through Washington Square Park, I always pause to appreciate the informal gathering of people from the neighborhood. I'm a New Yorker who stayed and stuck it out through the pandemic. I've started wondering how the park is kept clean, whether it's possible to volunteer or donate to support it, and whether my tax dollars are contributing.

II. Responsibility and commitment

Responsibility and commitment. Phew, talk about heavy words. What do they mean and do you really need these to enjoy a community?

First, responsibility and commitment don't have to be heavy. I'm committed in the sense that I signed a lease and plan to be in New York for the near future. I am responsible in the sense that I don't throw trash on the ground. I try to give older folks the right of way particularly at curb cuts. I think these are things most of us do for our cities. And if you do, you're showing responsibility and commitment.

In the context of friendships, I would expect a close friend to respond if I made it clear that I was having a bad day and needed to feel supported. And I would gladly do the same for them in return.

In the context of book club, commitment is showing up when it's a little inconvenient or when you're feeling a little tired. And responsibility is doing the reading, listening attentively during the conversation, and contributing back ideas that others might find interesting. It might also mean getting curious about who the other members are outside of book club.

Second, yes I do think responsibility and commitment are what make a community. In this day and age, we're so willing to invest in ourselves. We buy gym memberships, listen to podcasts, try to eat healthy, undergo lasik and invisalign, book self care days, and meditate. But we don't always invest as much in the world around us. How often do you clean something that isn't your own home or volunteer your time? How much do you contribute financially to causes? The bible instructs giving 10% of your income, and there was a time when many felt comfortable with this amount. Nowadays, most of us are not close enough to any organizations to do this.

I read somewhere and it stuck with me that, "Community is what you put into it." If we don't take responsibility, if we don't make a commitment, "we check out when it isn’t immediately satisfying," then we're merely consumers. We're tourists. And by ducking out too soon, "we end up losing the most precious experiences of life." (Quotations from The Great Unbundling — thanks Lulu for the tip to read this essay!)

III. Shared experiences and identity

The "shared experiences" component of community is, I think, less controversial. But it's hard to measure because I don't think it's quite as objective as time spent together or number of shared activities, skills, and hobbies. I think it's the story you tell yourself. It's what you consider the defining aspects of your identity. The people that you think share those experiences form a community, particularly if that feeling of sharing an experience is mutual.

For example, you might've had life changing experiences in college. The friends that lived through that with you continue to form a community even a decade later. It’s ok if you haven't spoken in years and no longer have much in common, provided you still consider those shared experiences a part of your story.

IV. Is it a community?

I was inspired to write this essay by a friend who posed the "what do you mean by community" question to me. Is it a group of people who all do yoga? Can it be coworkers? I think the answer is yes to both, to the extent that the people involved feel a mutual sense of shared responsibility and shared experience. The more you feel these, the stronger the community.

I'm not sure if community can be purely an economic exchange. If I'm paying $15 for a drop-in yoga class, and I don't support the community outside of showing up, that's a pretty weak sense of community. The times I don't feel like it, I don't show up. Some people experience yoga more deeply. Maybe they show up a bit early to say hi to people. Or maybe they do a teacher training and go on retreats with the senior teachers. These people show up consistently. They're more present and engaged when they're there. They might even donate to the studio or the teachers if something terrible happens, like a global pandemic.

Coworkers are a bit trickier. Work deliverables are primarily driven by an economic exchange. To the extent that people go above and beyond what they need to do, that's real responsibility and engagement. When that happens, I do feel a sense of community. It's an even stronger feeling if we're willing to listen to each other and support each other with our longer term career ambitions, our personal lives, or our hobbies.

Admittedly, the line here is fuzzy. I'm curious to see more borderline cases.

V. Close

Maybe all it takes to feel more community in our lives is a little reframing. The next time you're with a group of people, think about how your shared experiences are contributing to your identity. Is this part of the story you tell yourself about who you are and how you fit in? Also, think about the ways in which you'd be willing to take more responsibility. What are the contributions you can make? How will you show up when the going gets tough?

With that reframing, I hope we can all summon the courage to say, "I've seen you around here before, what's your name?"

I'd love to hear from you: What does community mean to you? What committed relationships do you have, beyond family and significant others?