Soup and pie and nobody left behind

Towards a politics of showing everybody a really good time

There is a debate happening in the wake of the U.S. election, but it feels like it’s been going on my entire lifetime. Basically, a lot of people who pride themselves on being smart Democratic Party thinkers have proclaimed that we have seen the enemy and it is wokeness. They have charts and graphs and exit poll results, these pundits. They are prepared to deliver harsh truths, about how Latinos actually love deportations and working class people of color are transphobic and how everybody loves the cops and doesn’t want them defunded, not one bit. The voters, we are told, have spoken.

Personally, I have very little interest in engaging in this debate. Other people have responded to the pundits, quite astutely. They have pointed out that Harris-Walz ran a campaign that had more in common with Bill Clinton than your average Oberlin co-op (“we’ll maintain the deadliest fighting force in the world”). They’ve noted that there were many more dynamics that impacted the election than just a single ad where Trump said “she’s for they/them:” inflation and misogyny and a global anti-incumbent wave, to name just a few. And they’ve even observed that it’s awfully convenient for privileged commenters to blame other people’s biases rather than their own for the situation in which we find ourselves (“Now I personally love trans people,” the pundits shout, “but it’s those working class Black men, you see! They’re not ready.”).

I agree with these arguments, but that’s the thing about jostling over what the Democratic party should do next. The Democratic Party is a an unholy amalgamation that roughly half of the country is jammed into, clown-car style, for lack of any better alternative. There are as many opinions about “what the Democratic party should do” as there are politically ineffectual stars in the sky. I’m just a dad in Milwaukee who runs trainings and writes newsletters. What do I think the Democratic Party should do? The same thing everybody thinks: cater more effectively to my belief system.

But more importantly, I don’t think the pragmatic pundits are fully wrong, at least not on one count. I have no doubt that a great many things I believe and am fighting for– a country where everybody feels safe, loved and protected regardless of race, class, gender identity and sexual orientation; income redistribution and a government that provides for all the basic needs of its residents; true community safety beyond the panacea of cops and prisons; a world without wars; restitution for colonization and the long tail of chattel slavery; an urgent reordering of our economy to prevent climate catastrophe, etc.-- are wildly unpopular. That’s the whole point of a politics rooted in expansive love. Our first step should always be imagination rather than triangulation. 

Of course new ideas are unpopular. Of course change is threatening, especially in a country where nobody’s needs are being met but we’ve all worked damn hard to find stability as the earth shakes underneath our feet. It’s frightening to imagine finding your bearings again if the guardrails of our imperfect but familiar world are removed. I wish desperately that so many of the things I believe– particularly those that have to do with the full dignity and humanity of people I love– were more popular. I’m livid because that’s not the case. But I’m not fooling myself about the amount of work that lies ahead.

The thing about existing power structures is, well, that they’re existing. They’re what we know. Even when we agree that American policing is a deeply fraught, imperfect entity, we have never experienced a world where cops weren’t the default offering for public safety. Even when cis people look to the past and bemoan how awful it was that previous generations scapegoated marginalized populations– women or gays or communities of color– when faced with our own opportunity to not take the bait, we fall into the same pattern as our forebears. Well, I wasn’t asked to respect trans people before, so surely this moment is different. This time they’ve come for women’s sports!

I’ll say it again: the pundits are right. I believe in so many unpopular things. I am unrealistic and pollyannaish and a proud member of multiple echo chambers. I don’t have my finger on the pulse of America. They’ve got my number, those pundits, just as past pundits were accurate when they opined as to the quixotic unreasonableness of the abolitionists and the suffragettes, of the labor and civil rights movement, of ACT Up and the few voices brave enough in the wake of September 11th to shout that the U.S. should not begin a generation of new wars. Every last one of them: dreamy, unrealistic, out of step.

Thank goodness, of course, for generations of radicals and activists who weren’t bothered by their profound unpopularity. Thank goodness, not just because they were right, but because of the lessons they offer us as to how we too can widen societal apertures of care and possibility.

Shortly after the election, I led a series of classes for would-be organizers about “what’s next?” They were an absolute delight, at least for me. I kept adding new classes because droves of people kept coming my way, which meant, in turn, that by the end of the run I had gotten to share space with hundreds of equally weary but eager fellow travelers.

The headline of the classes was that every time a progressive social movement has shaken the foundations of what’s possible, they’ve followed roughly the same equation. You can see this pattern at play in the U.S. civil rights movement, in nonviolent anti-colonial revolutions, and in the transformation of the Nordic countries from autocratic states to social democracies. Basically, in every case, the most radical members of a society– in particular at a local level– were also known for being the best neighbors. They were the people starting newspapers and social clubs, organizing labor unions and folk dances, citizenship schools and childcare centers, 

The both/and here is vitally important. There will always be agitators in most communities who can convene all those who already agree with them (this is not meant as a slight to your local Democratic Socialist chapter, but to cite them as an example– why would you show up for one of their meetings if you didn’t already consider yourself a socialist?). So too are there plenty of groups (churches, United Ways, various charities) holding the threads of society together, but not necessarily pushing anybody’s political imagination. Organizations that do one without the other— the visionary progressivism without the vital community space, or vice versa– are useful, but unlikely to be transformative. The point is to have community builders who both help their neighbors experience social cohesion first hand while also pushing them to imagine what more could be true.

If you’re interested in exploring this both/and more, I highly recommend Stephanie Ternullo’s How the Heartland Went Red, a case study of the political trajectory of three majority White rust belt cities over the past century. As Ternullo showcases, the key factor in whether those towns lean left or right today is what kind of institution served as the key community institution decades ago. In one of the three towns, a community in Indiana that didn’t have a strong union influence but did have a network of apolitical, service-oriented churches and nonprofits, residents drifted farther towards conservatism as their world started transforming. Without trusted local voices actively helping make sense of those changes, it was easier for demagoguery to win the day. By contrast, the Wisconsin town whose most trusted community institution was a particularly radical union (one that both offered members a sense of belonging and that kept their focus on the bosses rather than scapegoats), remains a populist Democratic stronghold to this day. 

Again, I loved offering these classes, and feel decently about the message I delivered in them. Because I was articulating many of these ideas for the first time, though, it all still felt a little like a rough draft. I wished I had used a less wonky word than “political education” to describe the way that groups that people trusted also helped them understand a confusing world. I felt like I was close to articulating that idea more plainly, but hadn’t quite nailed the landing.

But then, shortly after I finished the last of those classes, I turned to one of the many communities that fill me up the most (the online crew that’s coalesced around this newsletter). In one of our recent weekly discussions (about the best dishes to bring to a potluck, naturally), multiple readers reminded me about the small town Midwestern tradition (particularly common in Iowa and the Dakotas) of soup and pie suppers. There isn’t much more to explain about the concept that you haven’t surmised from the name, but what perfect branding. Do you like soup and/or pie? Would you like to be both fed, comforted and delighted at the same time? Then come down to whichever Lutheran church has called dibs on that tradition in your particular town, pull up a seat next to your neighbors and prepare to have one heck of an evening. 

My upper Midwestern bias aside, there’s nothing fundamentally different from a church soup and pie supper than a fire department pancake breakfast. The point isn’t the soup or pie (though I hope you agree that’s a perfect communal food combination). The point is the long tables and the neighbors wearing aprons and the reminder that your community has people willing to wake up early and tend to griddles and stewpots.

That’s all to say, I’ve been thinking about soup and pie suppers for a week now, about how every place in the country deserves so many spaces like that– open, welcoming, fulfilling– but that it matters who in any given community is putting them on. It matters if the people organizing the suburban cul-de-sac parties and the DIY basement shows and the Puerto Rican Day Parades and three-on-three streetball tournaments and the small town pancake breakfasts are also the people who fight for their trans neighbors and mobilize when the ICE raids begin and coordinate meal trains when the nurses at the nearest hospital go on strike. 

We need a movement, you all, but not just of like-minded politicos gathering for funereal meetings about “how we oppose fascism,” nor of the same small circles of friends self-caring away the fear in isolation. We need a movement composed of little dots across the country– in small towns and big cities and sprawling exurbs– where people put on events and hold spaces that their neighbors actually want to come back to, but with the same clear message, everybody is welcome here, in every single way.

Those of us who thirst for justice need to throw the best parties, is what I’m saying. We need raves and ciphers and open mics. We need wine and paint mixers and raucous book clubs and hot yoga and Latin dance. We need DJ nights and dinner parties. We need neighborhood clean ups and pickleball tournaments. And yes, we need soup and pie suppers, because we deserve food that is both hearty and delicious and easy to make in large batches. We need crockpots lined up on church basement tables. The DSAers, ACLUs and SURJs of the world should show up and tell about their next meeting, but only if they also enjoy a slice and laugh a little bit with a stranger. We need some of our events to be fundraisers for good causes, and others to be fully free. We need to publicize widely and welcome all comers. We need to fight for each other, but we also need to enjoy each other’s company.

We need soup and pie and nobody left behind. 

I’m writing this particular essay the week of American Thanksgiving, a lovely idea grafted onto a terrible idea. Like so many pillars of Americana, the trick is to lean into the loveliness while maintaining the healthiest possible relationship to the terribleness. In the case of Thanksgiving, the lovely idea is a fall harvest festival, a concept that is not unique to the U.S. and that I think we all deserve. The bad idea, of course, is the particular story we chose for our nation’s fall harvest festival and what that story proves about who is welcome at the American table and who isn’t.

That’s to say, this is a busy week for many of us here in the U.S. Many of us are cooking and traveling and hopefully gathering with people who love and accept us. For those of you for whom that hope is Sisyphean, I imagine that this is a particularly difficult holiday and I’m very sorry. Even for those of us who are looking forward to this week, it’s still exhausting. Obviously, I don’t expect anybody to plan and execute a community dance party or game night in the next two days.

What this week does offer, though, is an intimate reminder of what kind of gatherings sustain us or leave us wanting. This week, regardless of how your Thanksgiving goes, I encourage you to notice what kind of space you’re craving. What kind of event do you wish was happening in your community? Who do you trust to imagine it with you? How would people feel when they walked out at the end of the night?

And just maybe, in the midst of it all, you’re inspired to send a text to a few trusted friends.

“Want to organize a soup and pie supper?”

“Why? I mean, no real reason, but also for every possible reason.”

End notes:

1. If you’re intrigued by this call to organize something both fun and politically imaginative in your community, stay tuned. My next Barnraisers cohorts will be focused on how to do exactly that (while also building community with others who are trying their best as well). Dates, times and details are TBD, but as always they’ll be free. Sign up here to ensure you’re the first to hear as soon as information goes live.

2. Last week, I tried a new experiment where I made comments open to paid subscribers only. It was even more successful than I imagined— it might just be me, but it felt like the assurance of a smaller group commenting actually made folks more likely to do so, which made for a rich discussion. This may not be permanent, but I’m going to do it again this week, which means you’re in one of three boats:

   1. This helps inspire you to become a paid subscriber (a decision that I hope makes you feel good, because you’re not just supporting this newsletter but all those free Barnraisers classes/trainings/coaching sessions I run, to say nothing of the perks you get).

   2. You feel slightly jealous because you WANT to comment and join the online communities but you don’t have the cash. If that’s the case for you, just email me at garrett at barnraisersproject.org and I’ll comp you, no questions asked.

   3. You’re in neither of those categories, which is also understandable (in that case, I hope you know that I’m very glad that you’re here).

3. Listen, I’m just a random guy on the Internet, but if this holiday is lonely/fraught for you and you need somebody to talk to, reach out at that same email address: garrett at barnraisersproject.org. I’m still working through my post-election inbox, but I promise I’ll get to you. I also haven’t decided if I’m doing a weekly community discussion on Thursday/Friday but that doesn’t mean I’m not out here, happy to connect (my wife has to work all week so I’ll be just having fun with the kids on Thursday or Friday and then cooking dinner for us and some good friends on Saturday).

4. This essay is a companion piece to the one I wrote about the real helpers in your community. If you haven’t checked it out yet, I think it’s a nice chaser.

What if the most caring members of your community all knew each other?

5. Speaking of pancake breakfasts, if you haven’t already watched Joe Pera’s Pancake Breakfast Reviews, what a gift (for me) to be the one to bring it into your life. Like Joe, I too love short distance travel and community meals. Never forget the dollar increase that took place in 2011.