A few years ago, my partner and I helped organize a tenants’ union. Our elevator was out of order for three months, and many seniors and disabled tenants who lived on higher floors couldn’t leave the building. We knocked on doors and gathered in the lobby to build a list of complaints and draft a letter to the property manager.   

I’ve been in mutual aid groups and volunteering circles since high school—teams, clubs, writers’ unions. But, perhaps because I’m a millennial, this tenant union was the first time I connected with people based solely on proximity. We didn’t share hobbies, vocations, or even politics. We just lived in the same building and wanted someone to fix the elevator.

I butted heads most with a man on my floor. He advocated for cameras and security guards; sometimes my concerns about privacy and how hired muscle might treat our unhoused neighbors came out as passive-aggressive jabs. He would get defensive or say I was dismissing his thoughts. Sometimes I was. At home, my partner and I would collapse on our couch. What were we gonna do about this guy? 

Then we got to know him. We would pet his tiny, quivering dog in the hallway, check in about his chronic back pain; he asked us about our work. We would still get into heated discussions during our meetings. But our common goal became clearer. In time, we understood each other in good faith, in solidarity, with respect and honesty. I came to recognize him as a part of my community. 

Instead of simply hanging out with whoever is closest, we form many of our social groups online these days, building relationships around shared interests or values as opposed to geography—a godsend for isolated weirdo kids like me, who grew up in the woods far away from other weirdo kids. But our bespoke online worlds are not great places to learn to talk to strangers in the real world. 

This is a narrative often invoked when talking about everything from “cancel culture” to the Gen Z stare: the idea that we don’t know how to dive into the muck of challenging conversations, or even mundane ones. There’s a quote often attributed to journalist and Catholic social rights activist Dorothy Day that goes, “Everyone wants a revolution, but nobody wants to do the dishes.” An edit, based on my experience in mutual aid: “Everyone wants community, but nobody wants to tell their roommate to do the dishes.” 

This issue’s cover package is rooted in the idea that getting out there—getting to know your neighbors, your fellow Portlanders, in the real world—is good for you. That doesn’t mean it’s always easy, or fun. Sometimes it requires vulnerability, or uncomfortable boundary-setting. Sometimes it involves arguments, or compromise. Sometimes it means having tense debates in an apartment building common room. But I’ve found that collaborating to change my community for the better has helped me grip, white-knuckled, to the possibility of a better future.

BROOKE JACKSON-GLIDDEN
Editor in chief