Spaces Between Us
Designing cities that make room for strangers, solidarity, and shared care
I spend a lot of time on this blog writing essays that contemplate my own experience in space, my relationship with myself, and how a space makes me feel, but lately I have been thinking more about how spaces allow us to connect with one another.
As a city dweller, it is, quite obviously, unavoidable to encounter other people in our day-to-day. But what is the nature of those encounters, and what value do they have the power to offer us?
I read a book recently called Palaces for the People, a study on how social infrastructure can help heal divisions in our society. The author questions how we can design our cities to foster a stronger sense of connection between individuals, so that as we face increasingly common climate catastrophes, people feel that with more relationships or networks, they have more folks to rely on, and a greater probability of being okay.
Unfortunately, with the reduction of civic groups like rotary clubs, veterans associations, congregations, and bowling leagues, and the rise of internet “communities,” working from home, and organized religion—the first level of democratic idealism has eroded, and we’re left with an emphasis on the individual to make it on their own.
In the last few decades, as social inequality and wealth gap have widened, people have fallen into niches on the internet that support their own views, forming what the author calls ‘filter bubbles’ where people can find facts and opinions that confirm their beliefs instead of exposing themselves to differing perspectives. Investing in social infrastructure would allow us to foster a connection with strangers, which would ultimately make our cities a more accepting and peaceful place to live.
Eric Klinenberg, author of Palaces for the People, begins with the example of the train.
“The daily experience of spending time on crowded train cars rarely leads to long-term relationships, but it helps passengers learn to deal with difference, density, diversity, and other people’s needs. It fosters cooperation and trust. It exposes people to unexpected behaviour and changes stereotypes about group identity. The subway is not only New York City’s main social artery but also its largest and most heterogeneous public space.”
When I take the train home from work, I can’t always say it is a pleasant experience: crowded and hot, confronted with bodies close to my own, all desperately just wanting to be home. But on the quieter hours of the day, there is something special about sitting in close proximity to strangers, witnessing people’s kindness towards others, giving up a seat to someone older, or tapping someone on the back when their bag is open; these small interactions help us to develop feelings of trust among each other, and an awareness that we all share similar needs.
The experience on a train stands in diametric contrast to driving in Chicago. With highway construction and endless traffic, the city streets breed hordes of angry individuals, driving powerful machines. There is perhaps a danger within this buffered experience, not interacting directly with other people on the road, but instead seeing them as the cars that they drive. By living in this shell, we can move through the world as it exists within our own morality, and in a space to express anger without any retaliation.
To keep oneself buffered from the realities of other people, one can start to be poisoned into feelings of complacency and self-righteousness. Beyond internet niches, I speak mostly of the social infrastructure of the wealthy, buffers of separation that allow people to live unaffected by the lives of the masses. I call it poison because it makes one feel unburdened by the people in and near our communities who are suffering daily, developing a sense of remove from the greater picture. As Kineberg writes about being on a train, “even that exposure to people who are unlike us, can help us open our eyes to the fact that others exist. That our life is one of millions— that there are so many experiences we are blind to.”
But why is it important to open up to discomfort? To take on some of others' burdens? When we are tucked into our bubbles, our cars, why step out?
Another book I finished last month was called The Long Loneliness, the autobiography of Dorothy Day, founder of the Catholic Worker, who converted as an adult and lived a life driven by voluntary poverty and hospitality. It was a life completely given over to others, not only led by faith, but also her instilled commitment to socialism, fighting for the rights of the worker. All her life, it was “the drudgery that made the kingdom [of God] possible.” She wasn’t doing this out of a religious obligation, but out of common humanity.
Day explains her sense of responsibility to people of lower or no income:
“Every one of us who was attracted to the poor had a sense of guilt, of responsibility, a feeling that in some way we were living on the labor of others. The fact that we were born in a certain environment, were enabled to go to school, were endowed with the ability to compete with others and hold our own, that we had few physical disabilities—all these things marked us as the privileged in a way… We felt a respect for the poor and the destitute as those nearest to God, as those chosen by Christ for His compassion.”
We don’t have to believe in God or Jesus to see that there is a shared humanity among all people, that we each have goodness within us, and no matter our race, class, or status, we are all people nonetheless, with the same sort of questions and the same sort of needs. If we can look towards the infinite creative power of each person, each person has the same right to be uplifted, to be treasured. In her book, Day quotes Saint John of the Cross several times: “Where there is no love, put love and you will find love.”
But before the love, there has to be exposure, and within exposure, an openness to connect.
On the topic of openness to vulnerability, another example of civic design could be a greater investment in public swimming pools. In Iceland, there are public pools (hot tubs) that everyone goes to, which are a good place to meet neighbors and learn others' customs, but also to see other mostly-naked bodies. It becomes a place of social vulnerability — literally exposing oneself to strangers, in a space of relaxation and ease.
Social infrastructures serve as “safe spaces for members of excluded groups that are subjected to prejudice, discrimination, and violence. Oppressed communities often endure extreme social and economic pressures that inhibit the formation of stable, enduring relationships.” In the bubble of separate selves, there is greater instability and potential for manipulation. For groups that have experienced discrimination, green safe civic spaces are essential for fostering cohesion and support.
If our cities can prioritize social infrastructure— more skate parks, pickup sports fields, community centers, libraries— more third spaces to simply encounter each other, and build casual relationships, this not only forms a safer, more robust urban network, but also makes the city a better place to live, with more care floating among us.
Peter Maurin, co-founder of the Catholic Worker and a great influence to Day, said that no matter what one’s preferences are, each person has a responsibility to another—we are our brother’s keeper — we cannot rely on the state to enter into these realms, but “charity is personal. Charity is love.” This rings true now more than ever: we can’t trust our government to be there for us, and as private companies further monopolize every aspect of our lives, we must learn to be there for one another on a civic level. To do this, we need robust social infrastructure in place to cultivate these shared spaces and begin forming the networks that may ultimately be our saving grace.
How can we help people in our communities, or, if our communities are buffered, how can we expand what defines our community?
Loved this! I thinking about these “in-between” spaces I often come back to this quote from Hannah Arendt in The Human Condition:
To live together in the world means essentially that a world of things is between those who have it in common, as a table is located between those who sit around it; the world, like every in-between, relates and separates men at the same time.