By Wendy Willis
I was just looking for someone who could see what I see,
feel what I feel.
Jobu Tapaki
in the film
Everything Everywhere All at Once
We’ve been at this for a good long time now. And as I say this, it’s hard to fully describe what this is, except for what it is not– this is not the bare-knuckles, winner-takes-all fracas of electoral politics. This is not the cold and barely endurable three minutes at a microphone at a Wednesday morning city council meeting. This is not a raucous townhall with one beleaguered member of the House of Representatives glancing over her shoulder to make sure she has identified the nearest exit. And this is certainly not a flaccid newspaper notice asking for public comment.
Usually, we call this—the practice of sitting down with our neighbors to talk and listen and wrestle with tradeoffs and then to make sure our voices are heard by decisionmakers—deliberative democracy. But that nomenclature is lifeless considering what it actually looks like on the ground. Over the past 20 or 30 or even 40 years, there have been a lot of us at organizations such as America Speaks, the Kettering Foundation, Public Agenda, Everyday Democracy, and my own Oregon’s Kitchen Table–as well as many, many other places–where true-believers and democracy innovators have been creating spaces for community members to grapple with high-stakes policy questions. There are city managers and mayors and council members, as well as legislators and county commissioners, who have been experimenting with innovative ways to hear from community members about the issues that affect their lives. We have generated and celebrated deliberative waves that have included everything from deliberative polling to participatory budgeting to citizen assemblies. Meanwhile, the National Civic League has been working to improve civic life for 130 years.
It’s all good work. Chaotic and experimental as it sometimes seems, it makes a difference in our states and our communities. It makes for better decisions. It improves people’s lives. And yet, as I walked to work a couple of weeks ago, I heard an NPR interview that made me reconsider my life choices. In that interview, Ruth Ben-Ghiat, author of Strongmen: Mussolini to the Present, and the On Point host, Meghha Chakrabarti, suggested that over the past decade or so, many Americans have been intentionally and successfully conditioned to believe that “democracy is failing” and that “democracy is inferior to something else,” making them susceptible to misinformation and the lures of authoritarianism.
We’ve seen signs of democratic recession for several years now. A 2020 study by the University of Cambridge conducted found that, globally, a majority of millennials are dissatisfied with democracy. And just this past October, 76 percent of Americans said that democracy “is currently under threat.”
And in some ways, it makes sense. A central tenet of the American dream is that, if we work hard, sacrifice, and do our part, our children will have better lives than our own. And yet, in a 2023 Wall Street Journal-University of Chicago poll, an overwhelming 78 percent of Americans said that they think their children’s generation will have it worse than they do.
Along with school shootings and fentanyl overdoses and road rage and declining life expectancy, many Americans are reporting chronic loneliness. According to a 2021 report by Cigna, nearly 60 percent of Americans report being lonely at least some of the time, with young people being one of the loneliest subgroups. 42 percent of high school students reported feelings of sadness or hopelessness last year, and 22 percent of high school students reported that they had seriously contemplated suicide.
If one looks around and follows the news even casually, it would be easy to conclude that overall, Americans are not well. Despite out best efforts, many people we serve are struggling, and they are down on democracy.
Human Flourishing
Here is where I turn to the political philosopher Danielle Allen for help. In addition to having authored several books on public life, Allen writes a regular column for The Washington Post on the regeneration of American democracy. I have heard her interviewed many times, and interviewers often ask her why she continues to advocate for democracy, despite evidence that suggests that American democracy might be fundamentally flawed. She usually gives a very simple answer along the lines of: “I still believe that constitutional democracy offers the world’s best hope for human flourishing.” In an interview with the Roosevelt Institute, she explained a bit more: “Each one of us, in seeking to thrive, we want to steer our own lives in our private spaces, but our lives are never just in private spaces. We share the world with others. In sharing the world with others, we are always subject to norms and constraints, rules, procedures, and the like.”
As we contrast Allen’s beliefs in the promises of democracy with the current state of Americans’ lives, it feels like either the democracy naysayers are right or that those of us in the democracy business better redouble our efforts.
More than One Thing at a Time
One of the things that has become clear to me over the past few years, particularly as we continue to recover from the pandemic, is that we must do more than one thing at a time. Yes, maximizing human flourishing can and should be the result of democracy, but we also need to support and promote human flourishing in the practice of democracy.
I know there is a lot to think about just to make our processes minimally fair, inclusive, and sufficient to ensure that citizens are heard by the government bodies that purport to represent them. But even if we meet those standards with flying colors, we also have a group of people in a room, and we have an opportunity – maybe an imperative– to try to ease some of the suffering they are experiencing and to contribute to their overall well-being.
For many years, we have talked about the beneficial secondary effects of good democratic process, and rightly so. But placing people’s experience at the heart of our work calls on us to be explicit about the experience of democracy and how it can and should contribute to human flourishing.
There are hundreds–probably thousands–of examples where community engagement and deliberative democracy practitioners have centered people and their well-being. The stories and suggestions that follow demonstrate a way of thinking more than anything else. They are intended to inspire us to consider not just the quantity and quality of the input to any particular decision, but also how the practice of democracy itself might leave people a little better off.
Welcoming and Belonging
In recent years, many people involved in community engagement, social justice, and good governance have begun to name “belonging” as a key indicator of social and civic health. I am a card-carrying member of the belonging movement, and I have written about it in this publication in the past. I will not attempt a comprehensive synthesis of the very important scholarship on belonging, but as we design community engagement processes, it is worth reminding ourselves that when we walk into a room, we all have an immediate reaction – is this a place I might belong? Or is it a place where I will feel like a misfit? Does it feel like a place that requires me to know something or someone to enter? Or do I feel like I am invited in even if I am a little nervous?
That is not to say that even if a person is new to the world of community meetings and they feel a little anxious at the beginning, that they might not develop a sense of belonging over time. But a hearty welcome might be the thing that gets them over the threshold – that can be a person greeting folks at the door or a hand-written sign in brightly colored markers or–in Oregon’s Kitchen Table’s case– a person sitting at a table sporting a red and white checked tablecloth and a wonky bouquet of crepe paper flowers.
And one more reminder is in order—once everyone is in the room, a sense of belonging must be co-created, which sometimes requires the organizers to step back from our best laid plans. Recently, members of our staff have taken to asking people (in job interviews, at staff meetings) to tell us about a gathering or an event where they felt like they belonged. The answers are fascinating and instructive. Some folks have shared a story about a time when they were with extended family or a cultural affinity group that provided ease and respite, giving them a break from feeling like an outsider. But a good number of people have told us about a time when something went “wrong” at a gathering, and they had to jump in to help problem-solve. That shared sense of purpose transformed the experience—they no longer felt like a guest at someone else’s party. Rather, they felt like a co-host of the gathering with personal agency in how it went and a stake in its success.
Earlier in my career and more recently than I would like to admit, I clung to the role of “superhost,” believing that we expressed respect for the community through impeccable hospitality, by making sure that everything was just so, by creating an environment where the “guests” didn’t have to worry about a thing, where all they had to do was eat dinner, share their ideas, and when time was up, go home.
And on occasion, some version of that ideal is necessary. Sometimes a community is just so worn out and depleted from the demands of life that an afternoon or an evening where creature comforts are entirely taken care of offers them what they need to be able to participate meaningfully.
But just as often, that is a distancing approach. To the contrary, if people have the a chance to jump in, move the tables where they want them, and trouble-shoot the little mishaps that inevitably pop up – even if it’s just helping clean up a spill–it transforms the space from our (as in the engagement team’s) space to our space, a space belonging to and stewarded by everyone in the room.
Reciprocity
We often hear that community engagement is “extractive.” When I was first exposed to that critique, it didn’t quite make sense to me. I could understand how consumer or even academic research might be characterized as extractive – asking community members to spend time and energy to serve the purposes of the researcher. But community engagement is intended to magnify the voice of the individual, it is intended to offer the community member the opportunity to exercise civic power. In theory, it seemed to be the opposite of extractive.
But after years in the field, I understand that characterization much better. In many cases, government decision-makers frame an issue, set the timeline, and ask community members to answer questions the decision-makers have written to inform their decisions. Though technically the purpose is different from market research, the experience is the same – someone coming into a community asking questions that may or may not have any relevance to what is happening in people’s lives.
There are a few ways to mitigate that dynamic. The first is the most purely transactional: Compensate people for their participation. We’re asking people for their time–even if in theory it is for their ultimate benefit–so we pay them for it. And there is no doubt compensation is helpful and necessary for folks who are already strapped for resources and have many demands on their time and attention.
That kind of reciprocity has the flavor of a true transaction: You give me this much time. I give you this much money. It feels like many of the other market-based transactions in our lives, and it ends satisfactorily once each party has met their obligations.
Another way of building reciprocity into the process is to spend time trying to understand how the government decision at hand is connected to the current needs and priorities of the community. For example, before we start any work in the field, we do a series of what we call community connector interviews. We talk to as many as 30 or more community members to better understand what is happening on the ground and to comprehend how community concerns and priorities are or are not connected to the decision the government entity is seeking input on. Sometimes the interests of the community and the interests of the decision maker converge. For example, the decision maker may be working on a policy related to nutrients seeping into groundwater, while community members are deeply concerned about the safety of their drinking water. The needs and experiences of the community can inform the policy under consideration by the government, and the policy can help assuage the concerns of the community.
Other times, the concerns converge in ways that are not identical but are complementary. For example, the decision maker is considering new high school graduation standards related to math, reading, and other academic subjects, while many members of the community are concerned about applied skills related to financial literacy and future decision-making. If that is the case, the decision maker can and should design the engagement to ensure that community members can explore their concerns as well as those originally framed by the decision maker.
And of course, there are times when the community has entirely different interests or preoccupations, and a decision-maker’s attempts to spark a community conversation about an unrelated issue will be both ineffective and disrespectful of what is happening in people’s lives. In those cases, it may be better for the decision maker to forego community engagement on that subject and—if possible—support the community in getting attention and resources directed toward the issues that they do care about at the moment.
Finally, as we design our engagement processes, we can and should consider how we might offer community members something else they need in their lives. Maybe one of those needs is rest – so we design a spacious event that includes time to walk or sit outdoors or take other unstructured time for themselves. Maybe the community needs opportunities for reflection – so we build in plenty of time for community members to read or think or talk with their neighbors. Or maybe there is a need for additional resources – so we create space for a resource fair or for roundtable discussions with organizations that might help meet community needs.
None of these approaches are exclusive. We can and should use all of them where appropriate. And we need to remember that–except for the straight exchange of cash–designing for reciprocity requires taking the time to build relationships with communities and community members and having the flexibility to meet the needs of the many people involved.
Connected and Embodied
As discussed above and frequently in the popular press, Americans are lonely. Many people feel they do not have anyone with whom to have an important conversation. Most people report having many fewer friends than similarly situated people in previous generations. And of course, formal and informal restrictions required during the pandemic exacerbated isolation and loneliness, particularly for vulnerable communities. As it became easier, cheaper, and more frictionless to conduct the business of our lives–including our civic lives–entirely, or at least mostly, online, it has become less and less likely that we might unexpectedly run into an old friend or make a new acquaintance out in the world. As a result, many of us are more comfortable dispensing opinions from behind the keyboard than dealing with the messy realities of talking with and listening to our neighbors.
Those of us who conceive of, and host in-person events are some of the few people in contemporary culture who have a frequent opportunity to help provide an embodied experience of citizenship.
It has almost become rote for community engagement practitioners to say that we need to provide “food and childcare.” We recognize that our meetings might conflict with dinner time or that adult family members with childcare responsibilities might not be able to participate in important community decisions.
But providing “food and childcare” is so much more than checking a box. Educators and experts in the built environment have long extolled the benefits of a “stimulus rich environment.” In other words, if the surrounding environment provides a variety of sights, smells, textures, and tastes, it enhances creativity and promotes joy for those in the space. Food has always been both stimulating and connecting. In a box-checking community engagement regime, it might be sufficient to put out a few plastic containers of grocery store potato salad or slices of quick-bake pizza on flimsy paper plates.
But in a system that is designed for human flourishing, food provides many more opportunities for stimulation and connection. For example, we commit to ordering from small local businesses, and one of our staff members has taken it upon herself to learn the story of the businesses, as well as the source of the ingredients and how they are prepared. She shares those stories with the whole gathering before food is served. And if she is not in the room, she makes sure one of us is prepared to do so. It increases people’s attention to the dishes being served, and it gives them an easy excuse to chat with one another and with the restaurant staff.
Giving people enough time to eat also allows them a chance to slow down, to see and smell and taste the food, and it gives them the opportunity to connect with others outside of the formal agenda. Making a meal a separate part of the event and not just a necessity to be rushed through creates space for people to be in their bodies and to be literally and figuratively nourished.
Similarly, the conscious programming of childcare brings the next generation into the conversation. In our projects, if we are talking about forests, we do a forest project with the little ones – painting mushrooms or drawing a map of a forest or inviting them to tell a story about a forest they know. 
Because we come supplied with “the good markers,” children often gather around our table at community events, sometimes coloring and drawing in a haphazard circle on the floor. While they draw, they tell us their thoughts about the forest or about water or about school. And then, sooner or later, adult family members wander over to collect them, and they begin talking with us as well.
That kind of intentional and connected programming—rather than simply sitting children in front of a movie that they have seen a hundred times before—not only increases the input we receive from children and their families, but it also contributes to the sense of aliveness in the meeting and plants the seeds of a multi-generational conversation to be had in the car or over the breakfast table.
All that is to say that even our most tried and true tenets of community engagement can be more intentionally executed in ways that both improve the quality of the input and meet some of the very human needs of people who are offering their time and attention.
What’s Next
How we end our meetings is almost as important as anything else we do. Of course, we need to thank people for their time, for their ideas, for their participation. And we need to let them know what next steps are. But it is also important to hear what has come up for them and what they hope to do next.
Sometimes they just need a moment to express appreciations to one another in the large group. Sometimes they need to hurry home and get their kids started on homework. Sometimes they need a few more minutes to mill about and connect and trade contact information. And sometimes, they have ideas for other gatherings and other conversations that it would benefit us to consider.
And, in the same way that creating a space builds belonging, that feeling is often reinforced by collectively breaking down the space. Sometimes people just intuitively start putting leftovers in containers and throwing away trash, but sometimes it is beneficial to explicitly invite people into the clean-up process. By the time we are done tidying up, participants don’t feel like customers who left a mess behind for someone else to deal with but rather like vital members of a pop-up community who trust one another to get it done.
In Conclusion
Of course, these are just examples of how we have and might design the process of democracy for human flourishing. There are dozens–hundreds, thousands–of other examples in which people like us conducted the important business of community engagement and also sparked reciprocity and connection and embodiment and aliveness and joy. When we say that democracy requires our urgent attention, of course that means protecting the rule of law and the integrity of elections. It means ensuring the stability and reliability of our institutions. But it also means working together to generate a felt sense of democracy–to create spaces in which we work with friends and strangers to help one another flourish and to recognize democracy for what it can be, in results and in practice.
Wendy Willis is the founding director of Oregon’s Kitchen Table, a program of the National Policy Consensus Center at Portland State University. She is also the author of four books and a board member of the National Civic League. Her next book, Kitchen Table Democracy, is forthcoming in 2025.
