Habari gani, everyone?
When I joined the furry community way back in 1996, it was a vastly different place. The Internet was still kind of new in those days, and most of the spaces were owned by small(er) hosting companies or individuals. Personal-run websites were connected by themed web rings; art was spread out in curated galleries; we talked in real-time on MUCKs (multi-user character kingdoms), IRC (internet relay chat), and first-generation chat programs like ICQ or MSN Messenger. To teenager me, it was a mind-expanding place. I learned so much about so many people during those days. And it was my first real taste of self-determination. My first character was a tiny, five-inch-tall bettong (a kind of rat-kangaroo) wizard.
I didn’t think much about the people who had built and maintained my old stomping grounds. It was mind-blowing enough that I was speaking with actual people on the other end of the screen; the idea that anyone, anywhere, could build a space for people to gather, or that they would spend so much precious free time doing it, hadn’t even entered my mind.
Over time, I came to know some of the folks who do the thankless work of building or hosting websites; maintaining mailing lists or forums or chat servers in Discord and Telegram; running conventions; publishing books or making things. And, even with the frustrations of playing in sandboxes built by us, for us, I’m immensely grateful to all those people who contribute to this community and keeps its ethos as DIY as possible.
When I think about ujima, I find myself circling around the same questions again and again:
- What kind of communities do you want to be a part of?
- What are you, personally, doing to create or maintain them?
I have to admit — not much. While I have been convinced about the importance of community in these last few years, it’s been hard to turn those beliefs into concrete and steady action. It’s hard for me to feel like I’m part of anything enough to actively shape it, but the fact is we’re all shaping the world around us, every time we interact with it. And whether we like it or not, we’re all part of so many communities large and small. We belong to families, or friend groups, physical neighborhoods and apartment blocks, towns, organizations, departments, and so on and so on. And every time we interact with someone else, we’re not only relating to them on an individual level — we’re often doing so on a communal level.
Life certainly feels hectic enough as it is without making the choice to engage with a messy group of squabbling, disparate people. Even if we’re not in a position to volunteer our time or energy, we have the power to shape our communities simply by choosing how we express ourselves in shared spaces.
We all want to be in spaces that feel welcoming, engaging, like we belong. But have we thought about what that looks like in practice? In our homes, on our streets, our social media feeds — what do we want our common spaces to feel like? How do the people using that space make sure it stays true to that vibe?
In the United States, I think we prize individualism to the degree that we’re mostly focused on getting what we want out of common resources. When we’re in shared spaces at the same time, we want to make sure no one else is infringing on our rights. We’re often less attuned to how we’re fulfilling our responsibility to these spaces and the people we share them with.
I get that all of us, in various ways, are tired of eating shit. I know I am, too. But I also don’t think we change anything forcing others to eat shit too. I think about that when I think about how I engage with my communities. How can I make my communities more restorative, more open to free self-expression, better equipped to cope with what’s outside of them? Do some of the things I do make the community feel more angry, less hopeful, more harsh and judgemental? What can I do, with all of my limitations, to live up to the spirit I love within my community?
These questions are ones I tend to think about seriously. Up until recently, I didn’t feel like I had anywhere near the spoons to wrestle with them. But now that I am, it feels like joyous work. It reminds me that I am not alone, and that I am a part of something I believe in. It reminds me of all of you out there reading this, and the commitment we make to each other. We each believe in a better world, and we both know the only way to make it happen is with our own hands.
The work is slow because the task is enormous and never-ending. We owe it to each other to do what we can. We also owe grace to each other for the burdens we’re dealing with. Sometimes, that means taking it on the chin a little. Other times, it means modeling how to set firm boundaries while keeping a collaborative spirit. None of it is easy, of course. But it’s all in service to this beautiful thing we share together.
From the Desk of Jakebe T. Rabbit 