Tonight, I went to an open house for a small business that had recently expanded into a larger facility. It was a wellness business, and the new building brought together several other small businesses offering complementary services. Different owners, different specialties, but everything fit together.
Before the evening really got started, the owner talked about her vision for the new space. We live in a big city, and it can be hard to find community. She wanted to create a place where people with common interests could come together, get to know one another, and experience different approaches to wellness.
I loved the idea. And for most of the evening, it worked.
There was wine and cheese and fruit. People were warm. The business owners were excited to show off what they did. Everyone received a little scorecard, and you could wander around the building sampling the different services. Nothing elaborate, maybe ten minutes at each station. Try something, get a sticker, move to the next one. Complete the card and you were entered into a raffle. It was fun. More importantly, it created exactly what the owner had described. People talked. At a few stations there was a wait, but no big deal. You stood in line, met somebody you didn’t know, asked what they had tried, talked about the businesses. Community.
Then someone cut in front of me.
I was standing outside one of the rooms, next in line. A woman walked straight past me, into the room, and essentially took the next spot before the person currently receiving the service was even finished. Huh. Maybe I missed something. Maybe there wasn’t actually a line. Whatever. I moved on to another station.
This one had two rooms with two chairs outside. Another woman and I were sitting there waiting and having a nice conversation. Two people walked up and asked if we were in line. Yes. Pretty straightforward. They stood nearby and talked while we waited. Eventually, one of the doors opened, and the woman sitting next to me asked if I’d like to go first. No, ladies first. That’s how I was raised. She went in. So now I’m next. Except one of the two people who had just asked whether we were in line moved between me and the door, and when it opened, one of them walked right in.
Seriously? You literally asked if we were in line. We said yes. You knew exactly what was happening. And you jumped in front anyway.
I looked at the woman who was still standing there and said, “That’s really uncool. You asked if we were in line. We said we were, and then you jumped in front.” At that point, I was done. I got up and left.
And walking out, I kept thinking about the irony of what had just happened. We had started the evening talking about community, and community is a beautiful idea. But community isn’t a building. It isn’t wine and cheese. It isn’t a collection of complementary businesses under one roof. It isn’t a mission statement. Community is behavior.
I grew up in Texas. Maybe some of this is cultural. Maybe some of it is generational. But I was raised with a bunch of little rules that were never really presented as rules. You smile at people. You say good morning. You say good afternoon. You hold the door for the person behind you. You look people in the eye. You say please and thank you. You let someone go ahead of you sometimes. You wait your turn.
None of this makes you a good person, and I’m certainly not holding myself up as some model of human decency. Get behind the wheel with me. If the speed limit is 45 and you’re inexplicably driving 30, my commitment to kindness and community can deteriorate pretty damn quickly. And if you’ve been driving next to the merge lane for half a mile ignoring every opportunity to get over, then decide you’re going to squeeze in front of me at the last possible second, you may discover that my Texas hospitality has limits.
I’m a work in progress. We all are. But I do think the little things matter, maybe more than we realize.
I’ve always had a particular reaction to people who push their way to the front. Some of that probably goes all the way back to elementary school. I was one of the smaller kids. I had a speech impediment. I got picked on. I hated bullies. I also fought back. Maybe that’s why something as stupid as cutting a line still gets under my skin. There’s something about it that says what I want matters more than you do. And that’s the opposite of community.
The interesting thing is that almost everything else I experienced tonight communicated exactly the opposite. The woman sitting beside me offered me her place. I offered it back. Strangers talked while they waited. People smiled. Someone poured wine. Business owners proudly explained what they had built. People made room for one another. Tiny things.
So was cutting the line.
That’s what struck me. We tend to think about community in big terms. We build community. We create neighborhoods and organizations and memberships and groups. Companies develop community strategies. Cities invest in community spaces.
But maybe community isn’t something we build. Maybe it’s something we practice, one tiny interaction at a time. Holding the door. Waiting your turn. Making room. Saying hello and thank you. Acknowledging the person who got there before you. Giving somebody the benefit of the doubt. Looking up from your phone and smiling at another human being. None of those things costs much, but every one of them communicates something: I see you. You matter. I’m not the only person in the room.
And the opposite is true, too. A handful of selfish interactions can change the temperature of an entire experience. That’s the part that made me feel bad for the businesses tonight. They did nothing wrong. In fact, they did almost everything right. They created the space. They brought interesting businesses together. They welcomed people. They created an experience designed to encourage strangers to interact. They were genuinely trying to create something bigger than any one of their individual businesses. They created the conditions for community. But they can’t make us behave like one. That’s our part.
Maybe the woman at the first station didn’t realize I was waiting. Maybe the second person was distracted. (She wasn’t. It was malicious. Lol.) Maybe I misunderstood something. Maybe everyone was tired. Maybe I need to learn to give more grace. But maybe not to cutters. God knows I need to give other drivers more grace when driving around Dallas.
But every once in a while, the explanation is considerably simpler. Some people are just assholes.
