Against Community
I want actual relationships, not to be part of a mob.
I want actual relationships, not to be part of a mob.
I’ve belonged to a lot of communities over the years. Or at least a lot of groups that billed themselves as communities. These communities were activist groups, political campaigns, and academic networks; they were theater companies, writing groups, comedy collectives, queer scenes, and friend cliques. They were all different; they were all maddeningly the same.
Each of these groups harbored a shared mythology that they were particularly tight-knit, and especially supportive. Most promised their members a strong and abiding sense of connection, as well as material resources: mutual aid, community care, mentorship, and mediation to name a few. Many claimed to be committed to restorative justice, or adopted formal anti-harassment policies. In the majority of these groups, it was claimed there was no hierarchy at play, that we were a voluntary network of equals.
What made each of these groups “communities” is not quite clear, because they were all so different. Some were formally organized. Some weren’t. They existed in the real world, or they operated online. Some had rules and bylaws; others were held together by little more than a group chat. Some required members jump through specific hoops or achieve certain accomplishments before they truly belonged. Others were a loose gaggle of people who didn’t all know one another.
The only thing these communities had in common (other than claiming to be “communities”) was the falseness of their promises. They never actually pooled resources or provided emotional or social support. They rarely lasted long enough to give members any true sense of belonging or consistency. They didn’t ‘show up’ for people the way their mythology said they would. And they certainly didn’t recognize everyone as equals. That always became clear the moment a leader got accused of abuse, or anytime rumors circulated about a marginal member committing a cancellable offense.
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I am especially wary when communities call themselves families. I haven’t ever been part of a group that considered itself a family that wasn’t haunted by all the same problems families-of-origin have: a fear of open conflict, a silencing of those who name abusive power dynamics, and most of all, a crushing pressure to affirm the mutually adopted illusion that we are different, we are special, we get along like nobody else. Which, of course, carries with it a frightening implication: if this community rejects you, you will wind up alone.
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I always love my new community when I first join it. I feel peace when the members envelop me in their good humor and warmth. When someone at the center of the group gives me a knowing smile, and makes me feel like I’m part of all the in-jokes, and my heart soars. I enjoy studying and learning new norms, adopting new language, forming new friendships and memorizing facts about each person and how they relate to everyone else.
But then I see someone repeatedly being mistreated and mocked. Or I realize I’m being pressured to do something I don’t want to do. I notice shared glances and soft, mocking laughter whenever certain people speak. I start to feel disillusioned, or begin to worry I am crazy, because I see pressure and exploitation at work that others don’t find troubling.
Eventually I reach a breaking point. A longstanding member’s bigotry is excused, because “that’s just how he is”. Someone who asks too many questions gets punished for not really believing in our shared cause. Neurodivergent members get mocked for being “awkward” or “weird”. A sexual assault allegation gets covered up. A victim gets isolated from all of her friends. A truth can’t be aired. It would fray the “community”.
At some point, it always becomes clear to me the group is not a functioning space. In order to maintain its illusory status as a positive and uplifting “family”, it has ground down far too many people, and driven even more away. So I leave. And I’m alone. Until another community presents itself, enticing me yet again with promises of acceptance.
I don’t want to fall for this anymore. I don’t want to be a rube to another exploitative “family”. I need connections to other people, but I don’t think I need community anymore. It’s been nothing but a dangerous fiction to me. A fantasy that gets me pulled into manipulative dynamics time and time again.
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Recently, the creator of the digital queer “community” Queer Appalachia was outed for having siphoned and misappropriated donations. For several years, QA was beloved for providing LGBTQ Appalachians and their allies with a place to discuss their shared culture, rally against the homophobia in the region, and raise funds for things like needle exchanges and microgrants. QA had a reputation for being a vibrant, massive, and diverse network. On its website, photos of Black and brown microgrant recipients were prominently displayed. When you emailed QA to volunteer or to apply for funds, you’d hear back from a number of people, of a variety of backgrounds.
In the past few months, it’s become clear that all of this was a lie. QA was not a rich community of volunteers; it consisted of just two people, the founder and their romantic partner. QA had not given money to most of the people they‘d claimed to. In the rare instances where money was given, it was far less than promised.
As the Washington Post’s report revealed, QA’s founder Mamone had used donor funds to buy themselves a new car and a house, and to grow their net worth to nearly a million dollars. They had solicited automobile donations, and requested money and land deeds be given to them, so they could return land to tribal ownership. None of these donations were ever distributed. Their social media accounts had blocked dozens of Black and brown community members over the years, as well as anyone who raised questions about where money had gone.
The community Mamone had built was a lie, a cardboard cutout of a crowd propped before a gaping maw that forever demanded more funds. At its height, QA was a digital ‘community’ over three hundred thousand people deep, but apparently many of their early followers were purchased bots. For those of us who genuinely believed in the project, it was jarring to discover the community we’d been following for years was nothing but a manipulative farce.
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After the Washington Post ran an article exposing Mamone and QA, a new community popped up: former victims of Mamone. Ex-volunteers and deceived grant recipients connected and traded notes. The outrage developed into a fever pitch. Someone hacked Queer Appalachia’s social media accounts and locked Mamone out of them. A new post announced the hacker was “decolonizing” QA. They did not identify themselves, saying only that they were a radical Black activist.
Members of the old QA community had questions. Did the hacker have access to QA’s Venmo and Paypal accounts? Would the misappropriated funds be returned? Was the hack even real, or another scam on Mamone’s part? The community told everyone to be patient. They said demanding urgent results was a sign of white supremacy in action. Weeks passed and no updates were provided. Still, anyone who requested information was loudly and publicly criticized for their entitlement.
Throughout this process, Indigenous followers criticized the use of the term “decolonize”; they said the hacker and the community of survivors could not use this term if they were not Indigenous. The community bemoaned nosy white people for asking this, though most of the people asking these questions were not white. How dare you assume that a Black person isn’t Indigenous, a white activist said. We didn’t assume, the Indigenous critics responded, we are asking.
Eventually, most of the newfound “community” dropped off the map. Its most vocal and public members stepped away, providing no updates. The hacker lost access and Mamone took it back. Today, QA’s social media accounts are a digital graveyard. Former followers drop by occasionally to ask questions or request updates, but they receive no information. The mask of community has finally dropped; the record of a years long, multi-million-dollar social media spectacle is all that’s left behind.
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I am nonbinary and neurodiverse, so I’ve always known loneliness. I exist on the fringes of the gender binary. To many people, I will never make sense. Because I am Autistic, I exist in a world beyond social norms; my mind cannot adopt the beliefs or follow the rituals of polite society no matter how hard I try. I will never fit into the mainstream communities of the world, the neighborhoods and parent-teacher associations and cishet families that so many seem at ease within. I’ve mourned that, and accepted it.
Yet I have always longed for a community. I’ve always fantasized about entering a space where I got to be one of the normal ones. This yearning is common among queer people, who talk often of choosing their own families, or of joining the much-discussed, rarely observed “queer community” that supposedly unites us all.
Autistic people gather within the Autism-acceptance community, though it’s rare that I encounter a space where all Autistics are truly accepted. If you can’t speak, or if your intelligence is too low, you’re likely to be ignored. If you can’t afford a formal Autism assessment, or you don’t “look Autistic” enough, somebody’s gonna push you out.
The theater community has the same problems. So do some writing groups I’ve joined. The furry community struggles with it too. As does the academic community. And from what I’ve seen so does the kink world. And any other group of people I’ve had even tertiary contact with. So many people on the fringes. So many communities swallowing people whole.
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Most people carry within them a deep desire to belong. When you’re marginalized in some way, that desire for connection may go unfulfilled for a very long time. Many of us are desperate to be loved and accepted. We don’t always know what makes a group healthy or what makes it exploitative. We don’t always know how to advocate for ourselves. We may be terrified of seeming too negative, or ever saying “no”.
When I was young, I got into abusive relationships because I didn’t know how to look out for red flags. Truth be told, I was so isolated I didn’t want to look out for them. I wanted somebody to love me even if that love was sick. Looking back, I can see that my membership to dysfunctional groups was much the same.
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I have a friend named Hex who talks often about “Late Onset Popularity Syndrome”. They say that when someone who was a lonely nerd their whole life finally gets ahold of social power, they often wield it just as recklessly as a preteen child would. A bullied and marginalized person learns to bully and marginalize. Becoming socially aggressive can feel like a form of revenge, even if the people you are hurting are not the ones who hurt you.
Hex used to be part of a niche kink community. This community was ruled by an inner circle of “popular” members. They imposed a whole host of rules on everybody else. People in the community were frequently reminded that they were lucky to have friends who shared their rare kink, that getting to go to conventions and annual meetings was a rare blessing that few with their fetish ever got to enjoy. When someone stepped over the line and offended one of the community’s leaders, they were made an example of. If you didn’t play by the rules, you’d be denied the connection you’d yearned for all your life.
Hex eventually was ostracized by this community. They openly questioned the sexual consent policy of one the community’s upcoming conventions; the policy had a few problems Hex thought could be pretty easily fixed. For this they were pilloried. People conspired to get them removed from subcommittees; a whisper network developed, casting Hex as aggressive and irrational.
Hex didn’t back down. They pointed out the abuse being inflicted on them. Then someone outed Hex at their work. Hex lost their job and had to move across the country and rebuild. They’ve told me they don’t join communities anymore. There is too much ego wrapped up in the running of them; too many self-identified martyrs conspire to silence anybody who makes the family look less than perfect.
Hex says they only invest in individual friendships now. Close ties to specific people matters more to them than community. Individual people you can work through conflict with. Conformity-loving groups you can’t.
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I have left groups for a panoply of reasons. Sometimes I’ve been judged for failing to befriend the “right” people. I’ve been rejected for being unable to attend a single event. I’ve been criticized for being too passive, and also for being too argumentative. Some groups come to see me as a social-justice-obsessed killjoy; others see me as a fake ally who is too cowardly to truly live my values.
If I had to find a common thread that connected all these experiences, it would be this: I am unable to go along to get along. I can be agreeable and accommodating for a few months, even a few years, but once I can tell a group is manipulating its members and taking advantage of them, I refuse to maintain the happy-family charade. I trust my own judgement more than I trust leaders or collectives. Sometimes my confidence verges on arrogance. Sometimes it saves me from getting swept up in a mob.
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I am tired of trying to belong to communities that will never love the real me. I’m not even sure flourishing, truly interconnected communities really exist. I have never seen one grow in its diversity and acceptance over time. I’ve only ever seen communities get smaller, more insular, more prone to rejection and self-contradictory rules. I have seen the idea of community get co-opted by people who wish to hoard power, influence, and sometimes even wealth. I am sick of being a mark.
In the past few months, I have become more and more like my friend Hex. I have started avoiding “communities” in favor of cultivating more genuine, personal connections. I am digging deep into the bonds I have with the people I love. I’m trusting the friends who respect me enough to tell me when I’ve hurt them. I am cherishing the people who’ve have apologized to me when they’ve done the same. Real connections develop over time. They allow for failure and learning. They approach disagreement with a spirit of good faith.
I’m trying to be more present for the people who have shown that they love me. I’m sick of trying to curry favor with the groups and leaders who withhold their approval from me, as if I were a child they have decided to neglect. I am my own person, and I am not alone. I do not need a community in order to find belonging. All I need is a few good friends and a whole lot of trust in myself.
An Injustice!
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