Community is a Trust Fall

Read this when you need people.

A few weeks ago I saw a tweet about a business idea that would surely make whoever managed to accomplish it very rich. It said:

“The first person who can figure out how to build a 1) daycare 2) remote co-working space 3) coffee shop into a single building with a subscription... will become a billionaire in 2024.”

I replied, “I wonder what would happen if these ideas became neighborhood and community efforts instead of overpriced memberships that gate keep collective care.”

I knew I struck a nerve because my response got over a million views but the comments were chillingly polarizing. One section of the internet public seemed to think resources like this already exist but remain underfunded or defunded, i.e., libraries and community centers. 

Another reaction was that something on the neighborhood or community level would quickly crumble from a lack of structure. One woman even shared her business which she felt exemplified such a community effort, despite charging upwards of $1200 a month for membership.

After muting the tweet, I grappled with the sadness that found its way to my chest. Maybe we can’t see community if it isn’t branded, packaged, and presented as a subscription. Maybe we forget that community is grassroots, self-started, equitable, and most importantly incredibly simple.

The other day I shared my living room with a brilliant young person named Ismatu Gwendolyn (they/them), a writer, artist, and therapist among many things, whom I met on Instagram. They were visiting from Sierra Leone to attend the funeral of Sekou Odinga, a former Black Panther and member of the Black Liberation Army, whom Ismatu lovingly calls “Baba.”

The alignment that brought Ismatu and me to that moment is difficult to overlook. A few weeks prior, I was reading my way through Black Against Empire, the book I chose to follow The Hundred Years War on Palestine (because, parallels). Just as I finished the few pages that covered a small portion of Odinga’s legacy, Ismatu DM’d me to say they were going to be in town. Did they hear me?

We sat across from each other on a chilly Saturday afternoon slurping the beef stew I had made that morning and sipping red wine left over from the recipe. We set up a make-shift studio that failed miserably, resulting in Ismatu’s mic not recording and uneven sound.

When we realized our mistake just before Ismatu left, we laughed and accepted the mishap as part of the charm of our gathering — the audio is imperfect, but I’ll share some parts of it here.

Our conversation mostly centered around community. Community as a verb. One of the reasons Ismatu and I connected online, was because I expressed my deep admiration and respect for their choice last summer to stop accepting payments from their therapy clients.

There is something so human, about the act of service. Giving something of value and trusting that the ripple it creates will come back to you.

Ismatu said their mother’s fearless spirit forged their ability to dive so intentionally head-first into productive uncertainty. When they asked their digital community to support them by subscribing to their brilliant Substack, Threadings — which they call their “public-facing journal” — and donating to their calls for mutual aid, they were relieved to see that community show up. In return, Ismatu continues to offer therapy services without charge.

Ismatu talks about their decision to go fee-free:

We also talked about Palestine. About the Black Panthers and the glaring parallels between the two liberation efforts. About the form of community that the Panthers imagined and actioned and how those efforts were co-opted, diluted, and rebranded as public assistance. How some of the most prolific activists in our collective history have been labeled “terrorists” because they stood for people over governments. 

They shared what it was like to sit with Sekou Odinga before his passing on January 12th and on the importance of talking to our elders as a reminder that our radical “history” is still very present.

Ismatu remembers Sekou Odinga and the necessary presence of our elders’ stories.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been reflecting on the “radical” conversations I’ve had recently with “radical” people. And by “radical,” I mean sane.

Whether it’s sipping stew and talking about the Black Panthers with Ismatu, listening to discussions led by Joel Leon for his series “Let’s Get Free” or talking to my fellow single moms in the weekly Mothering While Single support group that I co-lead with therapist-in-training, Morgan Morrison — this feels more like freedom than the fleeting rights my government pretends to protect.

During the industry stillness of the late Fall and early Winter months, before LinkedIn rattled back into gear, initiating a wave of meetings, interviews, and Zoom calls, I had time to sit with this clunky, overused word: community.

When the talking heads drone on about their various platforms and initiatives, most of which will inevitably fall flat, lose momentum, or be mishandled into oblivion, I just kind of blankly nod. 

Even as we inch closer and closer to that inevitable question — who the fuck are we going to vote for — I hope we remember that there is no simple solution. There is no designated singular individual who will carry us into the uncharted future. No matter how the presidential pendulum swings, we have to stop using the word “community” as a meaningless buzzword and start putting it into actionable practice. 

Community is mutual aid. It’s, “I’ll pick your kid up today if you pick mine up Friday.” It’s sharing dinner with your upstairs neighbor. It’s transferring your womb care to a midwife. It’s volunteering at your local PTA, even if you’re not a parent or a teacher. It’s introducing a friend to a friend, so they can find a job. It’s offering your expertise for free or as a skill-trade. It’s asking, “How can I help” instead of saying, “Hope you’re well.”

When I think about what ails us, the collective us, I know the cure is community. 

If this moment in time does nothing else, please allow it to radicalize you. Allow hope to climb above the imaginary walls we’ve been forced to confine ourselves to and remember that generational trauma is not our legacy. Community is.

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