Our culture seems to be caught up in an epidemic of rudeness: Fights on airplanes, belligerent diners raging at stressed-out servers, school-board meeting attendees outraged over mask mandates, bullying bosses, a quiet comment that escalates into a red-faced, clenched-fist exchange of insults. I’ve been lucky so far, just an observer to the incivility, but the questions keep nagging: What to do about this? How to respond?

Research shows that being on the receiving end of incivility, or even witnessing it, amps us up and makes us want to respond in kind. That might give us a momentary sense of satisfaction – repaying rudeness with harsher rudeness so that we’re not bested in this toxic contest – but that’s like tossing a match in a gas can.

A friend here on the hub, Ashwin Budden, recently tipped me to Hidden Brain, a podcast that explores why we do what we do and probes the hard questions that ride the deeper rhythms of our lives. In a recent episode, How Rude!, behavioral scientist Christine Porath speaks about her research that offers an effective way to keep incivility from hijacking our minds and our behavior. It’s not reactive, but rather preventive.

Instead of waiting to experience rude behavior and then figuring out what to do about it, she suggests that we focus on ourselves and engage in whatever activities help us develop a sense of thriving, of moving forward; activities that build hope, vitality, and resilience. The point is to strengthen in us a kind of immune system, she says, so that we’re far less likely to be triggered when others are uncivil and either respond in kind or simply leave the encounter feeling shaken.

So I’m curious: Have you found effective ways to respond to public incivility and perhaps calm the other person? Do you confine your actions to yourself and employ self-calming techniques? Do you just walk away, or does that simply give license for more bad behavior? What’s our responsibility if our goal is weaving a more life-giving culture?

Thanks in advance for your responses.

In this post I want to talk about how we can regain our national sanity. It starts by making a conscious choice to stop reacting in fear.

We know from studies in neuroscience that threats to our strongly held opinions and beliefs can trigger our fight/flight/freeze survival drive. The reason for this, says the late physicist David Bohm, in a mind-blowing little booklet called On Dialogue, is because we identify with our opinions and beliefs, and therefore defend them “as if we are defending ourselves.” He goes on:

“The natural self-defense impulse, which we got in the jungle, has been transferred from the jungle animals to these opinions. In other words, we say that there are some dangerous opinions out there — just as there might be dangerous tigers. And there are some very precious animals inside us that have to be defended. So an impulse that made sense physically in the jungle has been transferred to our opinions in our modern life.”

Now, we can all agree that some opinions, beliefs, perspectives can, over time, become dangerous to us physically. The mistake we make is assuming that the self-defense impulse we learned “in the jungle” to avoid physical harm from an attacking tiger, can also help us avoid physical harm from an attacking ideology. An abundance of evidence suggests this is not so. Dangerous ideas, unlike dangerous tigers, cannot be trapped, caged or killed. Trying to do so seems only to make them stronger.

Let’s take the anti-vacine movement as a case in point.

According to a recent article, the anti-vax movement really got going in 2014-2015, following the swift and rather vicious public reaction to a small outbreak of the measles (125 people). The outbreak was traced back to “mostly unvaccinated visitors at Disneyland in California.” (Note the use of the word “mostly.”) Of those unvaccinated visitors, 28 of them — 18 children and 10 adults — were intentionally unvaccinated.

28 people. That was enough, apparently, to “[wake] up the nation to the threat” of those who questioned or were resistant to getting vaccines. Fearful of what might happen should this anti-vaccine mentality spread, a campaign of public humiliation soon followed, “with everyone from soccer moms to late-night television hosts lambasting parents who refused to vaccinate their kids.” And in California, nonprofits and state legislators worked together “to push for a bill that would remove all non-medical exemptions for school vaccine requirements, which had grown in recent years to allow pockets of low vaccination coverage to spring up.”

In other words, an aggressive, all-out attack on those who questioned vaccines had begun.

So what happened next? Now under threat themselves, those “pockets of low vaccination coverage” transformed into a mobilized national movement. They organized, fundraised, grew, developed sophisticated and targeted messaging, and formed alliances and political action committees to help elect politicians sympathetic to their cause. Everything the pro-vaccine folks most feared.

Did it have to be this way? Might there have been a different reaction back in 2014-15 other than drafting laws and engaging in public humiliation — which Amanda Ripley in her book, High Conflict, calls the “nuclear bomb of emotions” and the driver of “all manner of conflict”?

What if in 2014, instead of “waking up to the threat” of those resistant to getting vaccines, we simply “woke up” to the existence and consequences of people who had chosen not to get vaccinated, and then, without fear, got curious and made an effort — before everyone’s defenses were raised — to understand their mindset so that we could come up with creative, respectful and effective responses?

Would that have made a difference? Well, I don’t know about you, but personal experience tells me the answer is yes. It’s just common sense that people are more receptive to talking and listening when humiliation bombs are not being dropped on their head.

So what can we do now? For starters, we can refuse to act out of fear, refuse to take part in the vilification of the other. None of that helps. It just feeds the conflict. Another thing you could do is help spread this meme:

“Fear ends where conversation begins.”

Dear Weave Community,

In our Community Hour dialogue this week, we were talking about how our political divisions play out in our small towns and rural communities. Another weaver was interested that my step-father is reluctant to share his political affiliation, because he values his relationships with other farmers who vote differently. I mentioned how in my parents' town, the one thing that opened dialogue was when I shared my novel, Sweet Burden of Crossing, at the library to spark conversation about interracial friendship. Mary Ellen, an  89-year-old woman, talked about working at the Woolworth's counter as a young woman and learning from her Black customer about enforced segregation.  The customer has asked for coke in a to-go cup, but Mary Ellen served it to her in a glass. "I can't have that," the customer said. "I'm not allowed to sit here with you." Mary Ellen responded, "Of course, you can sit here with me."

It's heart-warming when these stories surface from talks and readings with book clubs.  In his book,  Stolen Focus: Why You Can't Pay Attention--and How to Think Deeply Again, author Johann Hari tells about a professor of psychology at the University of Toronto, Raymond Mar, who studies the impact reading has on our consciousness. With his mentor, he did a three-state process to measure how good readers were at capturing the subtle signals that reveal another person's emotional state and the ability to read social cues. When they got their results, it was clear: the more novels you read, the better you are at reading other people's emotions. Reading non-fiction books, by contrast, had no effect on your empathy.

Now consider this: between 2008 and 2016, the market for novels fell by 40 percent.  In one year, 2011 paperback fiction sales collapsed by 26 percent.

There are very few books on interracial friendship, but all kinds of non-fiction books about anti-racism to engage our intellect. What then happens to our hearts?

As a fellow weaver, I humbly invite you to read my work. Perhaps it might spark some interesting dialogue in your own community. In this era of Zoom, I can easily join you anywhere around the country/world to talk about its themes which include:

• What it means to honor—and find reciprocity—in a relationship with someone whose ancestors and family live with historical trauma and marginalization.
• The day-to-day things that allow women to deepen their friendship, born on a Twin Cities college campus.
• How our historical blindness to suffering still impacts and hurts both descendants of people who were enslaved and whites today.
• The challenges current teachers-in-training face as they piece together our authentic cultural history.
• How this blindness leads to the sanctioned incarceration of innocent and caring people.
• What it means to have a friendship before cell phones and racial justice terminology such as white privilege.

It would bring me joy to help surface these dialogues in your own community.

Yours in weaving solidarity,

Kate Towle

I have recently interviewed Stephan Helary, founder of Terres D'Afrique, a cosmetic brand based on rare African botanicals and care for these indigenous plants and the communities that live among them.

Stephan tells us how the Himba tribe in Namibia behaves, how they are connected with nature, and how they "think together" when answering questions or proposals.

You can find the podcast interview with Stephan here.

It's worth listening, since Stephan has direct experience with the tribes, and share some of their wisdom and culture.

I write about listening. One day, I asked myself, “Why do we need to listen to people? Never mind the practical stuff like coordinating efforts to build bridges, or finding out what your spouse needs from the supermarket. I mean ants and bees can tell each other where to find food. What’s the deep, human reason why we need to be heard?”

We humans experience life with more understanding and emotion than any other animal. We love and have soaring ideas. We also hate and are acutely aware of mortality (other’s and our own).

Loneliness then is having to deal with our thoughts and feelings on our own. It is yearning, and not able to share and have it reciprocated. It is fear and hopelessness, without relief. It is anger, isolated. It is humor, with no audience. It is concerns, with no acknowledgment. In a more general sense, it can also be dealing with a tough work situation with no help from your colleagues nearby, or facing discrimination, when others don’t even realize you feel separate and not welcome. In some ways, life is too much for one soul to bear.

How do we “fix” loneliness? We all know what it’s like to not be heard. Our experiences not being heard harden us to the external world. They make us less trusting, less open. That’s one reason I define listening as putting someone else’s speaking, thinking, and feeling needs first. Good listeners earn the speaker’s trust. They bring their best to a conversation while fully respecting the speaker’s story. They allow the speaker to speak with candor, insight, and dignity. To feel less lonely, find a good listener.

But something interesting also happens to the person who listens. A quick story illustrates this.

Meghan watches her mother finish a telephone call.

“Mommy, why are you crying?” she asks gently.

"I'm okay,” mommy sighs, “I’m okay.”

Meghan leaves the room and comes back moments later.

“When I'm sad, I hold on to Mr. Brown,” she says, handing over her prized teddy bear to her mother.


We often find it meaningful and rewarding when we sacrifice (eg. share our treasured toy) and make a difference in the world. Our own problems are put in better perspective. We see deeper truths. Perhaps Meghan understands that pain does not have to lead to suffering, that our generous and vulnerable selves don’t always have to be protected and withheld. We see the common struggles of life.

Share our best selves often enough, and we get better at doing it under different situations. We become more aware of our incredible capacity to help, and also learn how to take care of ourselves. We share cautiously, but unreservedly. We gain strength and compassion. We feel more connected with others. We are healthier and happier.

Fixing loneliness is therefore not just more people being heard, but also more listeners. Yes, listening deserves prime attention because conversations (including electronic ones) are such an important part of human interactions. We are only alone if we fail to respect and listen to each other’s stories, if we force interactions to be superficial because of poor listening. We give up on opportunities to grow and connect when we don’t rise to the challenge of supporting others, through listening or other means.

Did I say life is too much for one soul to bear? Life is also a shame not to be shared and uplifted by all.

Hi All. I am an American therapist, living in Sai Gon (Ho Chi Minh City) Vietnam on diplomatic mission with my partner. We have to move every few years for his job, so creating community is always a priority as soon as get to our new place. I see there are some consultants & other therapists who seem to be also using their skills and knowledge of humans to build community. I have a private practice and I just started dabbling in consulting, which focused on improving well-being overall (increasing community, inclusion, and conflict skills). I'm super excited that more people are recognizing the power of community and finding ways to create it. Community is a priority in my house and work. I do some structured events and some less structured ones. We host open hours every Tuesday where any of our friends are welcome to stop by.

I'll be going back to Washington DC in a year or so, for a year or two and then we'll head to a new country. I'd love to find ways to deepen my community building skills and to bring community everywhere I go. I've signed up for a circle, and I'm excited to get more involved with WEAVE as I move around. I've never lived in DC before, so I'm super excited to be able to connect with that chapter while I'm there.

Image description: Downtown Sai Gon at sunset. There is a river and some foliage in the foreground and skyscrapers with lights on in the background.

As a kid in the ‘60s, I learned to duck under my desk in the event of a nuclear attack. As a young man in the ‘80s I got my first taste of social action, working to help educate the public on the folly of nuclear war and the imperative to end the Cold War conflict. When the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, I remember the intense sense of relief, and the joy of anticipating a brighter future. I also became a believer in miracles, of sorts — the kind that come after a lot of hard work.

Now in a different 60s — my own — I’m helping to tear down another wall, this one entirely of America’s own making and on America’s own soil: the wall between liberal and conservative. Like the Berlin Wall, this wall too serves as a symbolic dividing line between two seemingly incompatible worldviews. It too is buttressed by a growing mutual certainty that the other side wants nothing less than the total defeat of its adversary. And it too obstructs and distorts our perceptions, provoking serious miscalculations that could end our democracy as we know it.

But perhaps the most important parallel between our wall and the Berlin Wall is the dynamic that built it: A psychological construct called the Image of the Enemy.

The image of the enemy

The Image of the Enemy is a phenomenon where each side in a conflict sees in themselves the exact same virtues, and in their enemy the exact same vices. Once created, this mirror image becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy: Convinced that survival requires responding in-kind to the other’s hostile actions, each side manifests behaviors that fulfill the other’s worst expectations. This explains why, in our conflict, both sides claim the mantle of patriotism while labeling their adversary seditionists, and why each can point to credible evidence of the other side’s anti-democratic activities.

Eventually the psychology of the Image of the Enemy undermines trust, corrupts channels of communication, exacerbates tribalism, distorts truth, justifies dehumanization, and finally leads to violence. Clearly, we’ve reached this point. And while it’s legitimate to claim that the violence so far has been mostly one-sided, that obscures a more salient fact: The dynamics of the Image of the Enemy require the participation of both sides, and any outcomes, negative or positive, are owned by all.

So what can we do? Now that we’ve built the wall, how do we tear it down? Here’s one critical lesson from the Cold War that can help.

Humanize the enemy

At the height of the Cold War, citizen diplomacy — efforts outside US government channels to build relationships between the peoples of the US and USSR — helped each side deconstruct their Image of the Enemy by creating opportunities to humanize the “other.” Well-documented though rarely acknowledged, the impact of these efforts changed each side’s perceptions of their adversary and built critical public support for ending the Cold War.

Thankfully, the humanizing spirit of citizen diplomacy is alive and well today, evident in numerous organizations like Braver Angels, Living Room Conversations, and my own Difficult Conversations Project, which takes a deep dive into the art and science of difficult conversations, and how the tools of self-awareness can help us stay present and creative in any interaction.

Having the tools to engage the “other” in a spirit of respect and openness is, in my view, the greatest need of our time. Before I started the Difficult Conversations Project, I set out on a road trip across the country to talk to those who held views different from my own. I discovered the power of listening and genuine curiosity. These simple conversational strategies opened minds. They led to insights on both sides. Most importantly, they created an opening for more conversations in the future.

One obstacle facing many organizations working to bring liberals and conservatives together is the relatively low engagement of conservatives. And no, this is not evidence that liberals are more open-minded. Both groups show equal intolerance of opposing views. The hesitancy of many conservatives to engage, it turns out, may have more to do with perceiving dialogue as a liberal activity — indicating that the very idea of coming together to “talk things out” is itself part of the cultural divide.

While this obstacle can be overcome, it's also an important reminder that most opportunities to connect with the “other” don’t require structured settings or liberal-friendly formats. Unlike citizen diplomacy during the Cold War, where relationship-building required visas, travel, translators, and other complex logistics, our “ideological other” is often a relative, friend, neighbor, or co-worker — people we see frequently, if not every day. And that means the opportunity to connect and humanize the “other” comes to us regularly and in the most neutral and mundane settings. To increase participation of everyone, it’s important to be ready, willing and able to take advantage of these opportunities when they arise.

Then what?

At this point you might be thinking, “So we’re successful at humanizing the enemy. Then what? Our differences and divisions will remain.” In many cases that’s no doubt true. But energy no longer invested in sustaining our Image of the Enemy will become available for more creative and collaborative purposes. Fear and antagonism, like other negative emotions, narrow our perspective, force us to miss critical information, and limit our range of responses to not much more than fight, flee or freeze. In contrast, empathy, compassion and other positive emotions broaden our perspective, open us up to new ideas, and encourage novel thinking — potentially leading to new, breakthrough solutions. Solutions that might just seem like a miracle.

Photo by Donnie Rosie on Unsplash

This is an article I wrote for Spiked online, a British publication I contribute to sometimes. I have been grappling with  origins of our hyper individualist culture and how we might rebuild a sense of common purpose for a while now. My book about parenting culture turned out, quite unexpectedly, to be a book about how we lost the ability to raise children with a sense of being part of to something greater than themselves. As I was thinking it all this though, and trying to imagine what a connected society would look like, I kept casting my mind back to the Frank Capra film, It’s a Wonderful Life. It wasn’t history by any stretch, but there was something about it that rang true. With the book finally out of the way, I decided to spend more time looking at the film and trying to figure out what it is about it that seems to resonate so strongly.

The responses to the article on social media were predictable. There were people who didn’t read it but wanted to express their belief that Die Hard is not a Christmas movie, and there were those who see the small town America of the past as entirely beyond redemption or even consideration. But there were also people who sent me little notes though the magazine because it struck a chord with them. They were the people I wrote it for.

It’s so easy, with the pandemic and our extremes of polarization to lose hope of every being able to do anything. When I’m feeling that way, I watch It’s a Wonderful Life and feel gratitude and hope again. I know it’s not Christmas but if you know the film, maybe this will add another dimension to it.

Nancy

It’s Still a Wonderful Life

It is a strange Christmas, a corona Christmas without guests or parties or carols. And yet there are some things that will remain the same. There’s a Christmas tree decorated with several generations of handmade ornaments. There’s the music: Etta James singing ‘Merry Christmas Baby’, and ‘Winter Wonderland’. And, in the run-up to the big day, we as a family always make a point of sitting down together to watch our favourite Christmas movies: Home Alone, Elf, Die Hard. But of all the films we watch there is one favourite we reserve especially for Christmas Eve: Frank Capra’s 1946 classic, It’s a Wonderful Life.

Each year, we watch George Bailey’s rise, fall and redemption. We scowl at Mr Potter, feel a lump rise in our throats when George finds Zuzu’s petals restored to his pocket. We laugh and cry with relief as the well-wishers crowding George’s living room break into song and a jingling bell confirms that Clarence the angel has finally earned his wings. Truly, it should be the most schmaltzy movie ever made, but somehow it manages to deftly skirt the edges of light and dark, veering from the hokey slapstick of Uncle Billy to the utter despair of wishing – not for death – but to have never been born in the first place. It is unlike anything in contemporary culture. George Bailey is definitely not living his Best Life. He is at the mercy of fate: his father’s death, the run on the bank, and Mr Potter – who never gets his comeuppance. In the end, there are no promises of easy solutions. The building and loan will squeak by, the finial on the bannister will remain broken. George will never build skyscrapers. But it is still a wonderful life because he has friends.

No matter how many times we see it, or how many years have passed since we watched it with our own parents, it never grows stale. If anything, it seems to resonate more deeply as we grow older – especially now when we cannot be close to our friends and families. It is as American as can be, and yet people the world over watch it and understand. Perhaps this is why it is regularly listed as one of the best films ever made. But It’s a Wonderful Life is special to our family for another reason: we live in Bedford Falls.

I don’t mean this in the sense that all Americans live in Bedford Falls. I mean we literally live 15 minutes down the road from Seneca Falls, New York, the most likely model for the Bedford Falls of the movie. We know the bridge over the canal where George contemplates suicide and the lock keeper’s house where he and Clarence dry off under blankets. We know the glass factory referred to in the movie, and we know how long it takes to drive to Elmira where the bank official is eager to return for Christmas. The divided Main Street with its trees and shaded benches looks just as our own did before it was widened to make room for more cars. The Brignalls, Wileys and Pietrocarlos who people our town are the close cousins of the Gowers, Wainwrights and Martinis of Bedford Falls. There are even still a few Mr Potters – everyone knows who they are – pushing their weight around, just as there are still Baileys defying them.

The story the film is based on is somewhat different. In The Greatest Gift, by Philip Van Doren Stern, the protagonist George Pratt stands on a bridge wishing he had never been born. A mysterious stranger grants his wish and allows him to see what the world would be like without him. Though the story is set in Bedford Falls, there is no building and loan, no Mr Potter, no Italian immigrants and no angel. Mary does not remain a spinster, but marries a different man who treats her badly and chases George (who is pretending to be a brush salesman) from the house. In the end he runs back to the bridge and begs the stranger to give him back his life.

As compelling as the story was, Capra, who bought the rights to it in 1945, understood that it would need work to become a film. In order for Bedford Falls to be everyplace, it first needed to be a real place with real people. Seneca Falls in the Finger Lakes region of New York seemed to fit the bill. Perhaps the name reminded Capra of the story, or maybe he felt an affinity for an area where thousands of Italian immigrants like himself chose to settle (Capra’s aunt lived in a neighbouring town). Whatever the reason, the imaginary town of Bedford Falls bears more than a passing resemblance to Seneca Falls. Most poignantly, it was the scene of a tragedy in 1917 when a young Italian labourer, Antonio Varacalli, jumped into the canal after a woman threw herself off the bridge in an attempt to commit suicide. He saved her but was himself drowned. The people of town were so moved by his sacrifice that they renamed the bridge in his honour, and, in an effort reminiscent of the final scene of the film, they came together to contribute enough money to realise Varacalli’s dream of bringing his family over from Italy. Though most of this is conjecture, it is still great fun, and Seneca Falls has made It’s a Wonderful Life its own, with a museum, an annual festival and a ‘George Bailey’ award given to honour an individual for improving the lives of his or her neighbors.

And yet, driving through Seneca Falls and surrounding towns today, it is sometimes hard to imagine the scenes that inspired Capra. Like so many places in America, the downtown areas seldom bustle with anything approaching the energy of the fictional Bedford Falls. There are a few shops, tobacconists, a craft brewery or pizza place, but lots of empty storefronts. The pharmacy with its apothecary jars and soda fountain is long gone, replaced by a tattoo parlor.

There are a few factories left, but most of the old mills have been converted for other purposes, or left to the pigeons. The rolling farmland near Seneca Falls has given way to a great stinking landfill and mountains of trash have replaced orchards and cornfields. There is a new casino, and a prison. Mobile-home parks have sprung up on the edge of town. Many of the once-prized, bricks-and-mortar homes closer to the centre have been bought up by slum lords who rent their ramshackle properties to anyone who qualifies for the federal section-eight housing assistance programme – a more reliable source of rent than their tenants’ meagre wages.

Opioid addiction has left its mark on the region, too. Overdoses are frequent and deadly, and everyone knows of someone who bounces from one rehab centre to another, between brief fits of sobriety. Families, especially those with young children, have become so fragile that the local elementary schools are locked up, not for fear of school shooters, but because of the problem of noncustodial parents slipping their kids out the back door. It is, in a word, ‘Pottersville’.

How did this happen? The economy changed but the local economy did not evolve alongside it and towns found they could no longer shape their own destinies. Rural communities became expendable to the people born in them and to the nation as a whole. In a strange way, It’s a Wonderful Life foreshadows the fate of America’s small towns, and perhaps the fate of the nation, because it shows what happens in a world without Georges.

It’s a Wonderful Life was made when America stood at a crossroads. When ‘the cataclysmic aftermaths of war’, wrote Capra in his autobiography, were breeding ‘gnawing doubts in man’. GIs returned to sweethearts or wives they married in haste and to children who scarcely knew them. Couples lived with their in-laws in fraying Victorian homes, or depression-era bungalows where family members rubbed elbows but felt worlds apart. It was as if all the time-worn obligations and duties that bound people together, that sketched out the parameters of individual lives and gave them meaning, were falling away. Americans were beginning to ask themselves if their sacrifices had been worth it.

Frank Capra understood this disillusionment all too well. Capra joined the army after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, and spent most of the war making the ‘Why We Fight’ series of propaganda films. Though lauded – Winston Churchill praised the first, Prelude to War, as the ‘most powerful statement of our cause’ – he returned to Hollywood to find that his reputation had faded. ‘It was disconcerting’, he wrote, ‘to be introduced to an upcoming actress or director and have them ask “Frank Who?”‘. To make matters worse, the Cold War was ramping up to what would eventually become the witch hunts of the McCarthy era. Even by 1945, it was becoming difficult to work with old collaborators, like the screenwriters Dalton Trumbo or Clifford Odets, who were under investigation for their involvement with the Communist Party. Capra was especially sensitive because, in addition to having been born in Italy, his film, Mr Smith Goes to Washington, which took a stand against government corruption, had come under attack from none other than Joseph P Kennedy (the patriarch of the famous Kennedy clan). Kennedy claimed Mr Smith had caused ‘inestimable harm’ to American prestige. Even with his war record, Capra knew he was not immune to investigation.

It was against this backdrop that Capra began work on It’s a Wonderful Life. He seems to have intuited that how Americans would answer the question ‘was it worth it?’ would change the destiny of the country. The worst thing, he thought, would be for them to draw the conclusion that their sacrifices didn’t matter. The film was his answer.

Capra offers up two visions of America’s possible future. In one, George is thwarted at every turn, but comes to realise that in spite of all his troubles, he is the richest man in town because he lives a life connected to others through sacrifice. The other is a world without George. No one is saved because George is no longer there to change the destiny of other people so that they (like his brother Harry, who saves his fellow airmen) can save others. There is no ripple effect. In Pottersville it is every man for himself.

In reality it happened slightly differently. After the war, Americans decided that their sacrifices had not been worth it. They began to resent the obligations and connections that once made life meaningful. Instead they shook the dust of their crummy little towns off their feet. They let the building and loan go to the wall, went to college and never looked back. The ethos of connectedness, of being part of a ‘We’ that animates It’s a Wonderful Life, gave way to an ethos of ‘Me’.

Still, It’s a Wonderful Life gets us in the gut every year. Maybe living for ourselves isn’t all it’s been cracked up to be. Maybe we’re just tired of Pottersville. Or maybe on some level we understand that life may not be perfect, but when we are deeply, hopelessly, inconveniently entwined in the lives of other people, it’s still wonderful.

© Nancy McDermott 2020

As Weave: The Social Fabric Project has highlighted, there is a crisis of community in this country. More than ever, Americans feel lonely, disconnected, and lack robust relationships with their neighbors and coworkers. As a result, we are more distrusting of each other, stressed, and less likely to have support systems for life’s ups and inevitable downs.

At first glance, a modern-day college campus is bursting with community: Thousands — if not tens of thousands — of young people are gathered together. Campus is filled with “third places” like libraries and coffee shops. Students’ lives are woven together through overlapping classes, extracurricular clubs and activities, meals at communal dining halls, and (at large state universities like mine) a passion for collegiate sports teams.

Campus “third places” are where conversation, community, and social integration should flourish. But take a slightly closer look and you will find that the outward appearance of community is not quite what it seems, with real impacts on students’ well-being and ultimately the ability for society to function at large.

I am a rising senior at the University of Michigan, and after three years of school, I am deeply concerned about a lack of community among my generation. 63% of students reported feeling very lonely and that was before COVID-19 moved classes and extracurriculars online.

Why, despite all of the seemingly built-in advantages of a college campus, are young people struggling to truly connect with each other? Three reasons stand out to me.

(I should take a quick moment to say that I, of course, do not speak for all 40,000 young people at the University of Michigan or on college campuses elsewhere. There are many students who, like the individuals Weave has highlighted, are fighting against the current and developing caring relationships and communities.)

1. A hyperfocus on career success and material goods: A graduate from the University of Michigan with a degree in business will certainly be prepared to analyze market trends and evaluate the economic impacts of inflation. But that is because, from the moment students step foot on campus, they are surrounded by a highly pressurized, competitive environment that rewards transactional relationships and temporary commitments. Academics and extracurriculars quickly become insular. Freshman students, at the expense of joining community-oriented clubs (the Michigan Backpacking Club, intramural sports leagues, or the Michigan Cooking Club to name a few), hop from investing/consulting club to investing/consulting club in hopes of padding resumes. By the time graduation arrives, one’s entire college career has been spent in competition with peers and in pursuit of a singular goal: analyst at fill-in-the-blank consulting firm.
2. The omnipresent nature of smartphones and electronic device: Allow me to paint you a picture: a large college auditorium filled with 200 students in the few minutes before their class starts. Except, instead of the audible buzz of chatter as they talk about each other's lives or the course content, the auditorium is silent. Students sit alone as we ‘arm’ ourselves with electronics. Students open laptops, put headphones in, and take smartphones out of their pockets. The same phenomenon occurs in dining halls and residence halls. After being raised with electronics our entire lives, (devices that are optimized to take advantage of deep-seated human psychology to grab attention) even the shortest moment of inaction in the physical world triggers a knee-jerk reaction to grab the nearest screen. In the electronic world we are being raised in, as Anne Applebaum recently wrote in The Atlantic, “conversation is ruled by algorithms that are designed to capture attention, harvest data, and sell advertising. The voices of the angriest, most emotional, most divisive—and often the most duplicitous—participants are amplified.”
3. A lack of counterbalancing classes, speakers, and spaces: University of Michigan students are passionate. They routinely fill auditoriums or Zoom rooms to hear from invited speakers and guest lecturers. Yet the vast majority of those speakers and lecturers, while discussing different topics, are speaking the same language of career advancement. We regularly hear from consultants about how best to prepare for case interviews, but not from local nonprofits about ways to get involved in our community. We hear from partners at law firms about how best to get a head start on preparing for the LSAT (early and with private classes!), but not about mentoring programs with local elementary school students.

Of course, a central goal (maybe even the primary objective) of higher education is to graduate with the skills needed to be an employable adult. But, of equal importance, is learning to be a compassionate and engaged member of society. The balance is off.

What is to be done?
As the Weave project has sparked nationally, we need an ongoing and extensive conversation about the best ways colleges can equip students with the skills to build community and repair our social fabric. Ideas can be directed at any level, from individual students reaching out to each other, to a wholesale, university review of curriculum requirements. I certainly don’t have all the solutions, but here are a few ideas to get that conversation started:

1. Display discussion prompts at the beginning of class: As mentioned above, the few minutes before a college lecture are often completely silent, without conversation between students. But what if professors were encouraged to display a “discussion prompt” on the whiteboard for students to engage with? These could be related to course content, or not at all. Are you at a life crossroads? What is it? What is a talent that you have that most people don’t know? What historical figure would you most like to have dinner with? Students can, of course, choose to ignore the prompt and have the few minutes to themselves. But the presence of the prompt (and the underlying endorsement and normalization of sparking up a conversation with your neighbor) might encourage many to turn and talk to the student sitting next to them, behind them, in front of them, or maybe even after class — it might change a student’s habits and develop a skill for life.
2. Foster common spaces at dining halls: Coming together for meals has long been a key way to build community. College dining halls could have designated “conversation tables” where another student — even a complete stranger — can sit down next to you and have a casual conversation. There might be discussion placards sitting on the table or themed tabletops (e.g., the outdoors, sports teams, book and movie covers) that encourage commonalities. Small changes to a student’s everyday environment will incrementally build a new kind of campus community.
3. Connect students with local organizations and nonprofits: College students are a transient group, jumping back and forth between their hometowns and school. One activity that has provided me with an unconditional sense of community is volunteering with an Ann Arbor nonprofit — my only regret is that I didn’t discover this wonderful organization and make that outreach until the end of my second year. Beginning with freshmen orientation, universities should promote off-campus volunteer opportunities for their students. Starting this practice early on will build upon or further strengthen the habit of volunteering and community service — a skill that will serve us and our communities for life.
4. Bring in speakers and organizations that speak to rebuilding our social fabric: Michigan students do not hesitate to attend speaker series or Zoom events. The University should make a concerted effort to bring in speakers and organizations who speak to building worthwhile relationships and resilient communities. We will always have career fairs for financial services and computer science, but we should also have fairs for nonprofits and community service organizations. In addition to job opportunities, these fairs would speak to weaving as a way of life.

This is a unique time to have this conversation and act. As students return from over a year of online school, many will be yearning to reconnect with their peers and to rebuild and improve their communities. Now is the time to try some new ideas and strategies to encourage students to put their phones down and see their peers for who they are. Just as students have gotten used to ‘6 feet for social distancing’ signs around campus, they might be more open to ‘Sit here to meet someone new’ signs. The ideas I have laid out might not be perfect or even the right answers… but let’s 'sit at one of those tables' and discuss.

Meanwhile, I was looking for a bright and colorful family space where the kids and their parents could spend time together during their visit. As a teacher, I was used to bright colors, photos of kids and families, child sized tables and chairs and educational materials for each family to use during their time together. Instead, we were ushered into a dismal looking room without toys. I understood the value of designing family gathering spaces that promote interaction. The kind that families have access to at Children’s Museums, Science Museums and Aquariums.

As I stood in the doorway to the Family Visitation Room I wondered, “Does anyone else notice the lack of resources here?" That’s when I began Re-Envisioning Foster Care in America. I was an educator, a business woman and a seasoned mom. I wanted to understand everything about our public foster care system so that I could become an outstanding Everyday Mom (aka Foster Parent) and knowledgeable advocate for the kids placed in our home.

I began reading everything I could get my hands on about our child welfare system. Then I reached out to social workers, teachers, parents, foster care alumni, lawyers, researchers and others who had frontline experience with the kids, youth and families the system was designed to serve.

What I learned first is that we have set our child welfare system up to fail. We have given it a mandate to keep all children safe saying, “Here are some of the most vulnerable children and families in America. Watch over them. We’ll pay attention when something goes wrong.” Then, we consistently underfund the work, turn our backs and walk away

When there’s a crisis, newspaper headlines slam the adults in charge. When outcomes are positive they rarely make the news. I also learned that most Americans think there are only two ways to support a child experiencing foster care: become a foster parent or adopt a child. This is too much to ask of most people.

The result: millions of Americans are not connected to the kids in their communities who need them the most. We all pay the price for this disconnection. Every year in this country nearly 25,000 youth “age out” of foster care without a family and/or community resources. They are at risk of becoming homeless, unemployed and incarcerated - our next generation of poor and homeless Americans.

There are three things that we can do to change this foster care narrative: 1. Consider the nearly half million children & youth living in foster care worthy. 2. Ensure they are rooted in permanent, loving families and communities. 3. Invest in their hopes and dreams, their lives and futures.

These three actions require us to change the national conversation about our kids placed in foster care. Language is important. Let's begin by erasing the stigma that families needing help from child welfare face.

Instead of calling their kids "foster kids", let's refer to our nation's youngsters in foster care as kids, children, young people and youth: Kids living in foster care. Children placed in foster care. Young people experiencing foster care. Youth who have spent time in foster care. Let's honor their lives. Lift them up. Give them the dignity they deserve.

Next, we must invest in the success of our child welfare system. Our child welfare system belongs to us. Our tax dollars fund it. We know that it can only be successful when it is engaged in a variety of vibrant public/private partnerships. The kind that invest in foster care innovation and help us better serve kids in communities from coast to coast.

This requires an engaged citizenry: Americans standing together under the Banner of Social Responsibility alongside social workers, mental health professionals, educators, pediatricians and child welfare leaders. In addition to foster and adoptive parents, we need non-profits, state legislators, colleges, universities, civic groups, business leaders, philanthropists, educators, mental health professionals, faith based organizations and the federal government to step up to the plate to help create a compelling new menu of engagement options so that it’s easy for Americans of all ages and backgrounds to support kids in their backyards until being a resource to kids experiencing foster care becomes a new national norm.

Once we have an array of options for becoming connected to kids, we will get to know them and care about them. Then it will be much easier to invest in their hopes and dreams for their lives and futures. I’ve seen this over and over again over the past 20 years. People want to help. They want to be of service. They just don’t know how.

Giving them something concrete to do makes all the difference in the world. Over the past two decades, the Treehouse Foundation and our partners have created opportunities for people of all ages to become resources to kids, youth and young adults. Some examples are:

1. Become an honorary grandparent in an intergenerational Treehouse Community.
2. Spend time in our intergenerational community garden.
3. Volunteer in our summer enrichment programs.
4. Be a Homework Help tutor.
5. Host a holiday gathering. Improve Family Visitation spaces.
6. Teach photography, cooking, piano, dance, art, baking, knitting, financial literacy, etc.
7. Celebrate life: birthdays, graduations, adoptions, dance recitals, sports events, new jobs.
8. Volunteer to be a camp counselor.
9. Collect brand new suitcases and duffle bags for The Suitcase Project.
10. Host an Infant Clothing/Diaper Drive.
11. Be a Gift Card Donor.
12. Lead a Winter Coat Drive.
13. Become a Visiting Resource.
14. Be a Birthday Party Host.
15. Send a Kid to Camp (summer, horseback riding, school vacation week, computer, drama.)
16. Make Comfort Quilts for kids of all ages.
17. Help furnish a young person's first apartment.
18. Host a Back To School Backpack Drive.
19. Be a Computer Angel.
20. Provide iPhones and data plans.
21. Donate a first car.
22. Offer a job internship/training.
23. Create a college scholarship fund

There are many ways to become a resource to our nation’s kids and help ensure that they are rooted in family and community so they can thrive. Making sure there are small, medium and larger size options is key to engagement.

Reach out to a local non-profit organization that serves children and youth living in foster care in your region. If you don’t have time to spend with a young person, you can always make a meaningful donation to support their ongoing programs.

Join Us! The Treehouse Foundation is inspiring a Re-Envisioning of Foster Care in America. Sign up to make a difference in the life of a child who needs an Everyday Hero. Thank you for your time and consideration.

We are honored to have Triston B. Black, a citizen of the Navajo Nation and community member of Tsaile, Arizona, share his thoughts in our newsletter and blog for National Mental Health Awareness Month.

Ashinéé’ shiyázhí, or “I’ve missed you my grandchild,” are the first words you hear when your grandparents see you. The love and comfort of our elders give us strength, warmth, and a sense of belonging. Our elderly women hug us and talk about how much we have grown, and our elderly men are glad to catch up with us and see what we have been up to. The COVID-19 pandemic has had a devastating effect in our tribal communities.

It has taken parents, grandparents, and extended relatives. It was heart aching to hear of loved ones taken from us, but now is the time to take care of our mental health. Now is the time to reconnect with our family, friends, neighbors, and continue to be a good relative to all in our community.

In the Navajo language, our relatives tell us, “Nitsíkees baa áháyą́” which means take care of your mental health. After a good conversation or a chance meeting at the store, we always hear “Ádá’ahwołyą́”, or “Take care of yourself.” Self-care is very important to be a good relative and nurtures our mental well-being. There may be things we are going through or times we need to talk to someone, and it’s always good to hear our relatives out and take the time to listen to them.

Every time I leave home, my grandparents and mother remind me to keep in touch with them and always pray for a safe journey. As Indigenous people, we are always being watched over by the Diyin Dine’é or the Holy People. Everywhere we go, we are constantly protected and blessed with emotional, social, physical, and spiritual strength.

We breathe the sacred breath of life and acknowledge our surrounding environment. For instance, when we go for a walk, we may cross paths with birds, plants, trees, and the natural elements. All these essential beings greet us, sing to us, and weave throughout the landscape. They are happy to see us, just as our elders are happy to see us.

One of the first steps in improving our mental health is taking care of ourselves. I encourage you to take time and breathe. Call or video call an elder, parents, or an extended relative. Take time to remember that our community members are our relatives. You may not know them, but you may make someone’s day by giving them a smile.

These past two years have been tough, but now is the time to heal and continue to be a good relative. Our Indigenous youth prioritize their mental health and build our communities up. What is your call to improve mental health for your community? I say to you, - Ádá’ahwołyą́ - take care of yourself.

Artwork by Joelle Joyner (Meherrin, Cherokee Nation, and Blackfeet) Creative Native Call for Art Category Winner.

I'm Michael Brown and I live in San Marcos, TX. I'm an educator and am committed to the well-being of my family and community. My immediate goal is to become more familiar with Weavers and to help connect my wife and a couple of neighbors. We'll see how it goes from there.

Here are some of the ways my mother taught me to live, love and lead during a crisis.

The other day I was on a daily check-in call with my mother, reminding her to stay in as much as possible and a little parenting my parent.  The conversation shifted and I began to complain about being locked in my condo in DC alone, how I had gone through everything in my Netflix queue and how I was in desperate need of a visit to a barber.

My mom, who often reminds me that our roles have not shifted, she is indeed my parent, and that I’ve not always had a privileged life, then went on to say, “Well, son, I’ll tell you, life for me ain’t been no crystal stair” – which is a line from the Langston Hughes poem “Mother to Son.” She went on to remind me of my childhood and some stories of hers and how life for some has and will always be a crisis and how you learn to manage.

Here are some of the ways she taught me to live, love and lead during a crisis.

1. Sharing & Caring: We hear stories of people stockpiling tissue and paper towels.  My mother reminded me that she and her sisters would often share food stamps and food from already near bare freezers and pantries.  She reminded me that she often worried how she and my siblings would eat, but those acts of kindness and solidarity made her feel as if she’d accomplished something and it gave her value in very trying times.

2. Perspective: As a kid my mother would remind us that, even though we had some hardships, it was indeed worse for other people. I grew up in Saginaw, MI and experienced food insecurities, evictions and much more, but there were still those amongst us with bigger problems. She reminded me that others are experiencing COVID-19 different from me and I should be thankful for the luxuries that I have, instead of worrying about those I don’t have.

3. Find the Lesson: I was reminded that for every great finish line crossed, there was a race that had to be run. There are societal, individual and personal lessons that we must all grapple with during this time. Spend some time going inward, finding opportunity to grow and come out better because of this time.  Rainbows only come after rainfall.

4. Faith: As a kid growing up you could often find me in church throughout the week. It was a way of life and a sense of security in a life that often felt insecure.  Although I rarely participate in organized religion as an adult, I firmly believe in a higher power as the guiding force in my life and the lives of others. Whatever your faith or non-faith, spending time quietly connecting with god or the universe can ground you at a time when life’s foundation feels rocked by the force of an earthquake.

5. Family: My childhood, although marred with crisis, was filled with much love and family.  I don’t remember a time during my childhood that wasn’t filled with Sunday dinners spent with aunts, uncles, cousins and friends who became family. Family was how we made it through. We pooled resources, shared emotional strength and showered love abundantly. Although physical distance is the best way to stop the spread of COVID-19, phones and videocalls allow us to strengthen the relationships that our busy and selfish lives allowed to wane.

Crisis affects each of us differently. There are tons of stories of human kindness and selflessness, but also those of selfishness.  We need to decide how we want to come out on the other side of COVID-19. Over the next few weeks, I will find ways to share and care, think about the perspectives and plights of others, search for lessons of growth, strengthen relationships with family and friends, and dig deeper into my faith.

We will all come out of this differently and changed. Let’s figure out how we can come out on the other side of COVID-19 better because of it.

by Andrea Smardon

Twenty of us gathered in a spacious living room at the base of Utah’s Wasatch mountain range to start healing our nation. As we introduced ourselves, it became clear we were all of a kind – well-meaning, educated white people curious about new ideas. We were drawn here to wonder together how Americans might build trust again in our deeply-divided country.

I was skeptical. How could small groups in living rooms be the path to transform society? Then Jacob Hess, who describes himself as a religious conservative, shared his story. While in graduate school, Jacob received a call that his 21-year-old brother was going to die from cancer; the doctors could do nothing more to save him. When he hung up the phone, he realized someone else was in the room.

“She was a lesbian classmate of mine,” Jacob said as he teared up. “She didn’t see the world the same as me, but in that moment, she just held me as I sobbed. It didn’t matter that she saw sexuality or God or the universe differently, it didn’t matter. What mattered is that she was there for me.” That was the beginning, Jacob said, of his learning to let go of the rhetoric he had heard about liberals “trying to destroy America.”

Jacob works with Living Room Conversations, a group that has a network of hosts around the country who invite people into their homes for structured conversations about big questions, from gun violence to climate change. This evening, he explained to us, they were testing a new conversation guide about how to weave our communities together at a time when isolation, division and loneliness seem the norm and our social fabric is tattered and frayed.

Our conversation was inspired by David Brooks, the New York Times columnist, who has written about his own journey out of loneliness and isolation toward a life of “thick” relationships. Brooks argues that American culture in general has become hyper-individualistic, valuing self-centered achievement and social freedom over relationships and a shared commitment to our communities. He cites rising rates of suicide, mental illness, violence and political gridlock as a sign of our disconnection and isolation.

Brooks joined the Aspen Institute last year to start Weave: The Social Fabric Project to celebrate and support the thousands of people quietly working locally to build strong relationships and connect their communities. He calls them Weavers.

Jacob Hess attended the first national meeting of Weavers in Washington, DC last May, organized by the Weave project, and helped write the discussion guide that brought our group into this living room.

Hess, a psychologist and mindfulness teacher, said he has seen how anger isolates us, especially now. He wondered aloud how best to hear and respect people’s anger, while also finding a way to move towards constructive conversation with those who think differently. A woman named Miriam Hyde spoke up. She felt anger was getting in the way of meaningful connection in her life. After a divorce, she has lost friends and support and feels very isolated.

She is trying to understand why the only interactions she has with her family are personal attacks about politics on Facebook. “My family doesn’t love me because I’m a Democrat,” Miriam told the group with a laugh. “The anger is so thick, that wall is so thick, that you can’t talk.”

The group agreed that something has shifted in the country, that things weren’t always this bad. Grethe Peterson – who described herself as “the relic in the room” – remembered being raised by her Democrat parents in a conservative community and living in harmony with those they disagreed with.

“Something has deeply changed,” Peterson said. “We were not tearing each other apart; we were not accusing each other of destroying the world.”

A thunderstorm moved over the valley, and we could hear the rain on the roof and occasional roars from the sky. It’s a rare sound in this dry mountain region, but seemed to mirror the social storms gathered over the US that would unexpectedly erupt in a Charlottesville or El Paso or at a family Thanksgiving dinner that turns to politics.

Working from the Weave discussion guide, Jacob asked the group questions. What are the impulses inside of you that resist connecting with those who are different? Where do you see yourself wanting to weave more? What connection, if any, do you see between what is happening in our nation and what is happening in our neighborhoods or communities?

People shared the ways they each reach out to people who are different from them in their own lives, and where they struggle with this. They talked about ways of diffusing anger, and how to break through an impasse. They talked about the way it changes your perspective if you can be of service to others. At the end of the evening, Hess challenged the group to bring someone they disagreed with to the next meeting.

Afterwards, mingling over snacks, our host asked guests to sum up their takeaway from the evening in a sentence.

“There are ways to create conversation and dialogue that have the potential of changing hearts,” said Mark de St. Aubin.

“Relationships trump ideology,” said Rick Casady.

“I realized how small my life has become, not having family connections, friends, stability,” said Miriam Hyde. “You go into survival mode. Your life becomes very small. I’m living in a fear-based life, but I can change my attitude. I can stop being afraid, and open myself to people.”

A dozen community conversation groups plan to hold these Weaver Conversations in homes and community centers across the US in the spring, as part of the National Week of Conversation, April 17-25. If you follow the Weave project’s newsletter, you can hear about them – and even start a conversation in your own community.

Stepping outside into the rainy Utah night, I realized I was still holding onto some of the skepticism that I came with – that tonight’s conversation would illuminate a path that could somehow heal the significant ills of our society. Yet I also had a newfound appreciation of the importance for each of us to open up, rather than close off in the face of uncertainty and change.

We all must find whatever it is that helps us be more connected… and do it more, even if the first step pushes us out of our comfort zones. The forces today that divide and conquer are strong. Yet no matter our politics and backgrounds, many of us sense deep down that our communities, and our country, need us to work together.

Twenty-two years ago, I became a foster parent. The experience changed my life. It all started one night when my husband handed me a newspaper article about a five month old baby who had been kidnapped from his crib in a foster home. 
 Our family discussed how we could help children living in foster care. We decided to become a foster family and called the Department of Children & Families. Two little sisters were placed in our home. That experience was a catalyst.

After reading everything I could get my hands on about our child welfare system, speaking with foster parents, birth parents, kids living in foster care, foster care alumni and an array of professionals who serve them, I decided to sell my business and become a full time advocate for the nearly half million young people in foster care.

l met many people already working to change the child welfare system from the inside: legislators and non-profit leaders who were interested in enhancing the lives of kids in foster care, researchers who were documenting the effects of foster care and folks who wanted to change the foster care narrative.

There were only a few philanthropists and foundations funding foster care innovation ("foster care isn’t sexy" is a phrase I heard often.) One reason is that, in 1999, our nation’s children and youth living in foster care were highly stigmatized. The media only paid attention to them when something went wrong.

In addition, it was challenging for concerned people to become involved. It felt as if the children, social workers and families were on the inside of a fortified castle and the drawbridge was locked tight. The only way inside was to become a foster parent or a foster/adoptive parent, which was a lot to ask of most people. That meant millions of caring Americans turned and walked away from kids in their communities who needed them.

In 2002, I established the Treehouse Foundation to re-envision foster care and open the locked drawbridge so Americans of all ages and backgrounds could easily support kids. In 2006, we opened our first Treehouse Community in Massachusetts - an intergenerational neighborhood designed to bring together and provide support to families adopting children from foster care and older Americans who act as “honorary grandparents”.

In 2010, we launched the Re-Envisioning Foster Care in America Movement to inspire many more people to take part in foster care innovation. We are making it easier for people to get involved through our national conferences and soon-to-be-launched podcast called INNOVATE!

Join us! Be the change we so desperately need. Show our nation’s kids experiencing foster care that they matter to our communities. No one should grow up away from love.


You can learn more at https://www.treehousefoundation.net/

Here are the Weavers I'm remembering this Black History Month.

For as long as I can remember, Black History Month has been joyful. As a kid in Saginaw, Michigan, the month was filled with school plays and programs about great historical figures who challenged an unjust system, like Frederick Douglass, Rosa Parks, and Martin Luther King, Jr. I marveled at the obstacles they faced and the courage they showed.

My family joined town celebrations honoring national and local heroes who had made lasting contributions to the world. I loved knowing people like me could be heroic. Yet I was secretly afraid—afraid that I didn’t have greatness in me. That I would end up just another Black man trying to navigate in a hostile world. And then I met Mrs. Sharon Floyd.

Mrs. Floyd was my high school English teacher. She carried herself with an air of grace and dignity and anyone who has ever taken her class knows she’s tougher than nails. I will forever remember, with a chill, her scolds and corrections. Proper English grammar did not come naturally to me. She knew I could be the first in my family to attend college and she never missed a chance to remind me of my weighty responsibility.

Yet with all her reprimands and strictness, her looks of disappointment, and her reminders that I had to fight for my place in the world, she also delivered love, kindness, and guidance. She led me through a foreign world of college tests and applications. And once I made it into college, I would call again and again, saying I needed advice on punctuation and grammar, but really needing to learn the grammar of that foreign culture.

She’d follow up each phone call with a letter enclosing some explanation of grammar to answer my questions, and always enclosed a check. She knew other students took college for granted, as an assumed rite of passage. She knew they had spending money. She knew my path was uncharted and it would be easy for me to get lost. And while I assumed I was her favorite, I later learned that she had treated many other kids like me in the same way.

My life has been blessed with people like Mrs. Floyd—examples of greatness so much closer to my life than the historical heroes we typically honor during Black History Month. As a small child, my pastor Reverend Roosevelt Austin was the most important person I had ever met. He made me feel important just by talking with me in his deep voice. I wanted to be like him when I grew up. I thought it was because of his skill sermonizing, his beautiful suits, wingtip shoes, and the Fleetwood Cadillac he drove.

Yet as I matured, I saw it was his kindness, love, and generosity that dazzled me. After he died this past summer, my mother divulged that over my childhood, he showed up for us in ways that I never knew. She indicated that he silently filled our dwindling food pantry, paid for boy scout uniforms, and even gave me spending money for a rare middle-school trip to London, warning her to tell no one of his help, because no one need carry the indignity of not being able to afford things. During his memorial, I found out he had done the same for many others.

These are the unsung Black heroes I’m now thinking about, honoring, and striving to copy. They don’t get Black History Month parades or statues or newspaper articles. Yet they fought the same injustices and prejudices of our society—not on a grand scale, but on a human scale. They showed the same love and strength, day in and day out, by serving one person at a time. They made it possible for me to be where I am.

Now, more than at any time in my life, I am surrounded by people like Mrs. Floyd and Rev. Austin. One year ago, I joined the Institute to lead Weave: The Social Fabric Project. At Weave, we see a deeply broken and increasingly lonely world, where people don’t trust, support, or find joy in each other. A world where suicide, violence, and drug addiction are rising, and where inequality is deepening. And we see the answer.

In every place we look, we find people who are quietly showing up for others, linking their success to that of their neighbors and friends, weaving a social fabric that welcomes and includes everyone. They are Black and white and brown, urban and rural, immigrant and citizen, conservative and liberal. We call them Weavers and our mission is to connect and support them. Our mission is to inspire new generations of Weavers to follow in their footsteps and to lift them as celebrated leaders. We believe Weavers are transforming their neighborhoods and will heal our broken nation—and ultimately the world.

Before now, I have never had a word to describe the network of people on whose shoulders I stand, but they are and should be remembered as Weavers. Their work, love, and generosity show up each day in the threads of my life, a well-worn quilt that is still in need of more stitches, but I am here because of them.

There is an old African Proverb that says, “I am because you are and, since you are, therefore I am.” I am keenly aware that I am because so many Weavers have come before me, touched my life, and helped me and others along this journey.

These are the heroes in my life that I remember this month. The beautiful thing is that they are not extraordinary, bigger-than-life figures credited with changing the course of history. They are the not-so-ordinary people who live among us, right now, and who are quietly changing the course of my life and yours. We can join them. We can all be heroes.

You can find the original blog post on the Aspen Institute's website.

What qualifies as success as a weaver?

Our mission is pretty clear: to weave inclusive communities (currently virtual) and help end our national predicament of isolation and hyper-individualism. It’s a huge and excellent project, so it’s important to have a metric of progress that we can embrace. That had me stuck for quite a while because it was intimidating to think I had to reach out and change hearts and minds in observable ways. Impractical, I know, and unstated, but the impression was there, and it was keeping me on the sidelines.

But then I remembered the Butterfly Effect. Remember that one? A part of Chaos Theory, it’s the principle that says that tiny variations in one place can have enormous effects in another. Theoretically, a butterfly flapping its wings sets into motions air molecules, which in turn sets into motion other air molecules, and so one, until at some point that initial flapping of the butterfly’s wings results in massive changes to whole weather systems on the other side of the world.

If we’re going to create a culture of connection maybe it’s enough that we simply make the attempt to reach out and let what happens, happen. Flap our wings. If the data from Pew Research are accurate, this is a very opportune time to do exactly that.

First, we’re polarized. No news there. Pew’s studies show that just a month before this last election roughly 80 percent of both registered Democrats and registered Republicans said their differences with the opposing side were about “core American values,” and 90 percent said they believed this country would sustain “lasting harm” if the other side won. However, again according to Pew, this is a yawning divide that no one really wants. Large majorities of both Donald Trump (86 per cent) and Joe Biden (89 per cent) supporters surveyed this fall said their candidate, if elected, should prioritize addressing the needs of all Americans, “even if it means disappointing some of his supporters.” So we’re divided, and don’t want to be.

This fundamental discontent motivates me, and I hope it does you too, to risk making contact and not worry about “success.” No matter how effective it appears to be at the time, the smallest attempt can yield significant results far beyond our horizons. Remember those butterflies.