Community is such an overused word, oversaturated with warm connotations of mutual aid and care. But the reality is that community is messy, blurry, not always the safe space we might want it to be.
The community I grew up in was very white, conservative, Christian. There were “community values” that people adhered to in theory: family, faith, fidelity. But the community was rife with transgressions, some more acceptable than others. The child molester that was a church elder. The unfaithful wife who taught Sunday school. The lesbian couple that came to every service but was not allowed to formally join the church. As a child mired in this hypocrisy, I yearned for a community that was more clear and open.
I thought I might find that community among queer people and sex workers. These were people who were “living their truth”, who proudly transgressed against the values held by society at large. Just like in the church, there were utopian ideals espoused, values that would supposedly prevent harm.
Of course, as anyone who has grown up must learn, I watched as my new community was thrown into turmoil after a sexual assault scandal. I was disgusted by the behavior of many of my peers, who had talked about how critical it was to hold people accountable but were quick to circle the wagons around their friend. I didn’t share it publicly, of course, but I had had my own experience with the accused that had almost turned into rape - but I was sober and expressed my no firmly enough that they had been scared off.
I hopped from “community” to “community” and observed the same thing happen over and over again, like clockwork. Someone with clout and power, often a gatekeeper of some kind, would try to have their way with a young newcomer anxious to fit in. Because of my firm personality, I managed to avoid the worst, but was never surprised when accusations reached my ears, either through a public call out or whispers from trusted peer to trusted peer.
Now I avoid scenes and “communities” like a pox. I don’t want to be in the clique, the group chat, the exclusive crowd at the gallery opening. I’m happy to be friends with the people I like, but the second I feel forced to spend time with someone who I can sense pushing my boundaries, I bounce.
Through this I’ve learned something: I just don’t like communities that are cliquish, transactional, rigid. I like communities that are open and flowing. I took the train into Zurich and found the Airbnb I was supposed to stay in was not a safe place to be; my friend let me crash at her place so that I could have time to find a hotel. She’s someone I met in New York, on OkCupid; since then, we’ve hung out in LA, Berlin, I’ve helped her out when she’s needed it and she’s helped me.
We don’t have a ton of mutual friends although there is some crossover. We might go months or even a year without speaking. But we’ve done more for each other than plenty of “friends” I’ve been in “community” with, all without expectations or loaded interactions.
I think this is what community really is; not the people you see at the club but the people who always have your back when you need it. Being raised in a rigid, inflexible social setting made me think that was the only option and that I had to engage with other people in this way, but growing up has shown me that the people who will mean the most to me are not the ones with a shared aesthetic, orientation, or occupation, but people who value and care for the friends in their life.
When you’re exiting a toxic, controlling community, it’s easy to leap for something that seems stable and idealistic. But the truth is that finding real community takes time, that it’s ever shifting, that people will move in and out of your life and back, and that at first it’ll feel scary and isolating to not spend every weekend with the same people, but in the end you’ll be left with a vibrant collection of incredible humans that each take care of you in their own way.
None of them will be perfect and perhaps at times you’ll feel let down or hurt, perhaps certain friendships will change or end. But you’ll be able to negotiate each relationship on its own terms, without the pressure and expectations that comes with the controlling inflexibility of a clique, and you’ll watch as friends slowly turn to family, real family, the type who will rally to take care of you when you really need it.
Your post was very affirming to me. Thank you. I'm considerably older than you and probably all of your subscribers but, even back in my day, so-called communities were very cliquish and predators came in all genders/sexualities/etc., often wolves in sheep's clothing.
Ever since grade school really I've disliked cliques, anything that excluded people. It is nice to hear my sentiments are shared by others and are still alive and well in the Great Digital Age.
This brought up a memory that I had never analyzed. One of my hobbies involves scooters and small bore motorcycles. The “scene” was vibrant in Philadelphia in the 2000s, and I joined a club. I liked the people, but always felt uncomfortable with the rituals and ceremonies. Another thing that was odd was that new female members never seemed to stick around. Then, I learned that the “president for life” was hitting on these women under the guise of taking them under his wing.
The final straw was a trip down Skyline Drive, which I led. I always like to plan such trips on paper maps and then program them into the gps on my phone. I look for scenic twisty back roads, and people generally like the trips I plan. Well, this president didn’t like the fact that I was leading and he was following. The trip down was filled with passive aggressive moves, but the last straw was being abandoned by the community in western Virginia while I was out with other friends. I like riding alone, but it was the idea.
I quit the community, but remain friends with some of the individuals.
Your essay reminded me of this situation and encouraged me to look at it again. Thanks.