I like that you like what I like

Do we join communities--or do they enjoin us?

Hello friends and readers. Welcome to the newbies. I’ve not been as prolific as usual—summer vacation has been active and outdoors and far away from my keyboard. I know you understand.

The political season always gets me thinking—and examining my feelings—around the madness. The word salad thrown at us from all sides is copious—but it’s also bland tasting. I want color and crunch and diversity in my salad—not just carrots or romaine. It looks and tastes all the same. My contrarian brain wants desperately to

Break it down again

No more sleepy dreamin’

No more building up

It is time to dissolve

Sorry for the momentary lapse of reason. I do that occasionally to music. (Squirrel!!!) In this case a lyric from Roland Orzabal—Tears for Fears—popped into my head. I’m back.

Here’s today’s offering on the meaning—or lack thereof—of Community.

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The words Community and Communities are absurdly overused and misapplied in today’s society.

"Greed is wanting the benefits of community without contributing to it."

James Clear

Communities today are marginalized, oppressed, pandered to, and exploited.

Communities are also vital, supportive, powerful, and necessary.

Or are they? Should we call them something different? Should they not be assigned to us—but rather joined by us? Would that make them seem less racist—less exclusionary—less exploitive?

Am I automatically in a community with others because of what I look like, how I talk, where I live, the sports team I root for, how old I am, whether I have a Y chromosome?

Yup.

But hey—shouldn’t I have a say in what communities I join or represent? What if I look like you, were born in the same Gen as you—but don’t think like you at all?

Too bad—you’re in. You’re a White Male Boomer.

If my name is Karen, do I have to lug that group around with me? If the foo shits.

If I march in a peaceful protest, am I part of the same community as the ones who aren’t so peaceful? You are if you’re alongside them.

What if I survived a violent auto accident that killed my wife and two kids—lost my VP job and house over the untreated trauma—never drank or used drugs—but ended up living on the street because the shame wouldn’t allow me to ask for help.

Am I in community with the heroin addict who is chronically overdosing—repeatedly being saved by Narcan—and sleeping one block down from me?

Yup. You’re part of the homeless community.

Do I need the same type of help that the government or NGOs are trying to provide?

Nope. But it doesn’t matter—you’re part of the asset—the political cudgel—the tax dollar-sucking bloc that is called a community.

How about the sober community?

Dana Leigh Lyons

and many other sober writers have written extensively about quit-lit and the wannabe-sober but not-actually-sober community. There’s that word again. Community.

Do I—as a man who has refused any mind-altering substance of any kind for 15 years need the same messaging—the same support—as a person who is flirting with drinking less but smoking a ton of weed and taking Benzodiazepines for an underlying mental illness? Are we part of the same community?

Yup—recovery.

But why?

Because we need labels. We can’t live without monikers and labels to define groups of us. Current language in our culture like inclusion, equity, diversity, making the tent bigger—all sound good and compassionate and touchy-feely. Evidence would indicate that it doesn’t work very well in practice. You may have nothing in common with those that you’re dragged into the tent with—except that you’re all now bigger by volume—which attracts more attention and money.

I like that you like what I like. Shazam—community.

Even here on Substack we’re often referred to as a community. We write—we publish—we opine—we comment and engage. A few get paid—most don’t. A few voices are huge—most aren’t. It would be really hard to draw a big enough line around everyone on Substack and call it a community.

What is a community actually?

The American Heritage Dictionary defines community as:

• A group of people living in the same locality and under the same government.

• The district or locality in which such a group lives.

• A group of people having common interests.

  "the scientific community; the international business community."

• A group viewed as forming a distinct segment of society.

  "the gay community; the community of color."

• Similarity or identity.

  "a community of interests."

• Sharing, participation, and fellowship.

  "a sense of community."

For the purposes of this discussion ai want to drill down on definition #4. It’s this one that seems to have gone awry—overboard—in our quick-to-label culture.

Republicans. Democrats. BIPOC. LGBTQ etc etc. Have I chosen it? Or has it been chosen for me?

We’ve made the broad-based definition of community terribly convenient—the broader the better. How much do the people labeled within categories actually share?

there’s two parts of this: internal choice around community—and conversely—external assignment of community.

Let’s talk about the former first. We join communities for all the right reasons. We feel empowered by them, aligned with them, a part of something bigger than ourselves with purpose and intent. I’ll share a couple of my own examples here. Eight years ago I joined a community—there’s that word again—radio station in my small town. I joined as a volunteer, as an on-air show host, and am now a part of a Board of volunteers that manage the day-to-day operations and financial viability of the station. The station’s message serves the local students, teachers, residents, and businesses within a 50-mile radius. What we all share is a sense of purpose in helping our small town. We also relish in the power of small-town FM radio. So yeah—I’m a part of that community—I signed up for this.

There’s also a larger community of low-power FM community radio stations in Texas and across the country. Am I a part of that community? Not really. I didn’t sign up for that. Do I care if they succeed in their efforts for their own small town? Only casually do I care because I know how tough it is and I wish them well. Do I spend any of my time or my hard-earned dollars supporting them? I do not. Would I wear a local KWVH Wimberley Valley Radio Proud Volunteer t-shirt around? I would and I do. Would I wear the same Support small-town radio t-shirt? Nope.

There’s a community of public radio stations—the NPR type. All different towns across the country but broadcasting much the same nationally-driven content. How is that a community instead of a network? Do I support them? Not so much. I prefer to give my time and treasure locally.

There’s a lot of commercial radio stations out there that are supported by businesses—local and national. Am I a part of that larger community? I listen to radio periodically—but mostly I listen to satellite radio—which I pay for—and I listen to music apps—which I also pay for.

Maybe I’m splitting hairs here—but I don’t think so. I don’t appreciate being put into a community by adjacency. I want to join and give and participate—that to me represents a community. I reject communities that I haven’t intentionally joined or vocally supported or sent money to.

I want to belong to a community that I’ve joined. I don’t want to be included in a community for the purposes of political clout or community activism—unless I do so intentionally.

Is inclusive always a good thing? Does the tent always have to be bigger?

We assign others to groups to satisfy our own fear and uncertainty. We join groups to satisfy a deeply held need on the Maslow hierarchy of needs.

Historically I’ve participated in a lot of groups that would otherwise be referred to by others as a community.

I was in the Methodist Youth Fellowship as a teen.

I was a Boy Scout.

In high school I was a Jock—but also a theater guy—and my girlfriend was a freak. Remember those labels? Talk about co-mingling.

I played Ultimate frisbee for a decade at the highest competitive level. There’s a community of Ultimate players around the world. Am I a part of that community? Because I played once—yes. But not because of any recent participation—and certainly not through any political alignment.

I ride Motorcycles—but I’m not a member of an MC. I don’t wear colors. I don’t ride a Harley.

I play golf. So what?

I’ve lived in San Diego, CA, Darien, CT, St. Louis, MO, Dallas, TX, Scottsdale, AZ, Reno, NV, San Francisco, Vail and Denver, CO, Wimberley, TX. Am I a Californian? Texan? Midwesterner? When I lived there I was a resident of those geographical communities. You could count me in the data.

Dog-rescuer. Drinker. Cokehead. Sober guy. Bachelor. Husband. Broncos fan. Cardinals fan. SMU alumnus. Music fan. You get the picture.

There are gangs. We seem to understand that label.

There are patrols, companies, battalions, branches of services. We seem to understand those.

Teams. Simple—at least in the traditional sense.

We seem to understand how to define cults.

Don’t get me started on the misuse of the word Tribes.

In todays’ culture—particularly in politics and media and social media—why is Community so misunderstood and mis-applied?