The Fundamental Shift in the Definition of Community

When I was a kid my community was my family. My siblings, parents, grandparents. My aunts and uncles, cousins, and all that extended outward. Less a family tree, and more two very intricate and complicated mandalas that touched in only one point. My parents were married only briefly, and I was the only child produced. Both families have complicated histories, dark secrets, and uproarious laughter that is contagious, no matter what mood you are in. I love my family, and in many ways they are still my community, but as I have gotten older, I have drifted away in search of independence, and a place to find myself, and I have ended up roughly 3500 miles away from everyone save a scattered few that I share kinship with. When I was little, if I had a problem, I reached out to these people for love and comfort. For aid and succor. And while they didn't always deliver in ways that I expected, I never was left alone in my struggles. There was always someone, at least one person who would demonstrate compassion, and help me, even when the rest of them thought I was being a brat.

As I grew older through puberty and young adulthood, my friends, my chosen family became my community, as well as the groups I found myself in. Queer communities, artist communities, communities of people who were raised religious and chose to lead a secular life. People who loved the same bands, the same movies, the same plays. I found community through common interest, as so many of us do. I remember laying in grass with these people and thinking that I had never felt such a sense of belonging as I did following behind my friend Heather out to the place where we could smoke cigarettes in high school, the chain from her wallet tapping out an uneven tattoo on her thigh. Evenings spent in my friend Tammy's room listening to Korn albums on a tiny little tape recorder, and turning it up as loud as the tinny speaker would allow, whisper screaming lyrics we thought we identified with. The feeling of my first kiss, pressed against my mouth by my best friend in the sixth grade, when I was turning to ask her a question. These people, most of them anyway are still my community, they got me through suicidal ideation, the death of my first love, the trials of being a teenager. We did it with sneaked booze and stolen cigarettes. We did it with a lot of laughter and a lot of tears, but good god... did we do it. This is the community of a shared past, and even though I don't talk to all of them anymore, they will always be my people.

But now I am an adult my communities have become more isolated. The groups rarely intersecting. I have the groups I pal around with offline, my work community, full of the people I employ and love in equal measure. My kink friends, whom I laugh and joke with at munches six times a month. My friends from previous jobs in previous lives who we all decided mutually that we were important enough to keep around when we moved on. I love these people, they are mine to love and comfort, and share in exaltation and grief with simultaneously. Without them I would be lost.

But they are not my only communities. I have found a world that I never imagined possible. My perfect Utopia of socialist, feminist, forward thinking, imperfect, loving, humorous creatures more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. Most of them I have never so much as clapped eyes on in real life, and yet I know the most intimate of details. I know how their marriages are doing, how many kids they have and their names. I know what they feel insecure about, what books they are reading, what shows they are binging, and what their anxiety triggers are. I know what is making them cry, and laugh. I know what they like in bed. I have their kid's art work hanging up on my fridge. I know who is divorcing, who is getting married, who had what surgeries when, and what to put inside a care package if I wanted to send them one. They know all these things about me too. Where did I meet this lovely bunch of heathens? On the internet of course.

I have three words for you, my dear readers: Secret Facebook Groups

About four years ago I joined one, it was messy and chaotic, but I met some amazing people, and when the group got to big for it's britches and imploded, new groups spun off, and I found homes there, among these raging atheist activists, who spend their time equally between providing the best they can for their kids, and taking on huge social issues. There have been several such groups that I have since joined, but there is an amazing thing that happens when you get to be so raw with each other. You care, you figure out ways to help, to support, to hold together, to persevere.

Last year I was incredibly sick over the summer. I was out of work for four months, and the loss of my income was running me the risk of homelessness, and these people, these wonderful beings of magic, sent me money, and groceries, and presents. I got boxes of food, tea, and coloring books. I got movie tickets, and cross stitch kits, and daily messages checking up on me. And shortly after I recovered, my father passed away unexpectedly. A few family friends sent flowers to the funeral, but over 25 people from these secret groups of radical Atheists sent flowers for a man they had never met because they knew I was hurting. Between the flight there and the drive back across the country and got to meet some of them, and a more fulfilling experience, in the wake of so much pain I can't describe to you. Since then I have had so many opportunities to send love , support, letters, and money to people in those groups also struggling, and in this way I repay every act of kindness, by helping the group and it's members continue to lead lives a little less empty.

I was speaking about this to a friend recently and her eyes lit up, turns out she has had similar experiences with secret Facebook groups. Groups dedicated to fandoms of shows, podcasts, movies, and books. Groups about crafts, parenting, baby-wearing, and art. I never thought sitting in the basement of my childhood home drinking with my friends at 13, that so many of my friends now as a 31-year-old-woman would be found, conducted, and maintained on the internet, and yet, here I am.

The point is, it doesn't matter where you find your people. When you find them, keep them. Cherish them. Love them. Hold them. It takes a village to be a human, and we need others to confirm that we are right when we are, and gently remind us when we are wrong. We need a flock of people willing to jump in when a friendly debate over a political post on Facebook turns violent. We need open arms to fall into when we flee our toxic marriages. We need people who live 1800 miles away to order us pizza when our kids are being monsters, our husbands and wives are out of town, and oh by the way our periods just started. If you have that, know how lucky you are. I am lucky, so lucky I can barely believe it.

To all the people in my communities, I thank you so much. I am a better person for having you in my life, and I hope that even in the smallest way your lives are better for having me. I love all of you, in ways too deep to explain.