58 Time April 6–13, 2020Once upOn a Time, abOuT six weeks agO, mOre Than 50 members
of o ur Cleveland neighborhood left the warmth o f o ur h omes on a snowy
weeknight to gather for a conversation about race.
We live in the largest development built i n t he c ity o f Cleveland since
World War II, with 222 homes. We call it an “intentional” c ommunity in
this deeply divided city. It is economically and racially diverse, and in-
cludes a n umber o f L GBTQ families. We a re white, b lack a nd L atino. We
are working parents, empty nesters and retirees.
We live in modest, well-tended homes. Our yards are small, and we
have lots of front porches and stoops. This is by design. We are meant
to be neighbors, not side-by-side strangers. An evening walk on summer
nights easily involves a dozen hellos and a few spontaneous conversations.
On this night in February, though, we had gathered to discuss what
many o f u s wanted to believe could never happen here, even as some had
always assumed it would. One exchange had led to another, and then an-
other a fter that, and it was becoming clear that even in our beloved com-
munity o f good intentions, racial tensions were bubbling up. Many white
residents had been unaware, which was part of the problem. My friend
the Rev. Kate Matthews, who is white and served o n the board of our home-
owners’ association, decided to do something about it.
Kate had recently read psychologist Deborah L. Plummer’s book Some
of My Friends Are ... about “the daunting challenges and untapped benefit
of cross-racial friendships.” As Kate explained it to me, it had increasingly
bothered her that despite the number of African Americans in her orbit,
none of them were her close friends.
Through her work on the board, Kate had grown close to several black
residents. Her conversations with them led her to reach out to Plummer,
who had recently moved back to Cleveland. Would she be willing to lead
us in a conversation on what it means to be a healthy, diverse community?
Plummer agreed. Kate and a team of volunteers
peppered the neighborhood with flyers. Nearly 60—
half of us black, half white—showed up.
For two hours, we explored the difference be-
tween “fellowship friends”—those people we know
in social or professional settings—and “friends of
the heart,” who are the ones who know our secrets
and love us anyway. We talked about racism, a lot. We asked questions of
one another and listened to the answers. Some of us winced. Others nod-
ded in the universal language of “It’s about time.”
At the end of the discussion, as the snow continued to fall, we wrote
notes to ourselves about what we planned to do to build relationships in
our community. We sealed them in self-addressed envelopes, and Plummer
promised to mail them to us in a few months. Seeing your own handwritingon an envelope addressed to you has a way of jolting
one into accountability, I suspect.
We took our time leaving the meeting that night,
lingering in our collective sigh of relief. We had
more work to do, and we knew it. But we had a plan.
“We can start by being kinder,” a woman behind
me said as we walked out the door. “Who doesn’t
need kindness?”
Like most Americans, we
had no idea what was coming.SometimeS it SeemS the
coronavirus has sidelined
everything but the will to
live. We are engaged in “social distancing,” which
is meant to protect us but sounds like the language
of suburban developments with big lawns and
guard booths at the gate. Grocery shopping has
become the 2020 version of food rationing. We
never know what will be available from one day
to the next. Some are hoarding, and those emptyWe a re yearn ing f or
the c onnection, even
if s ix f eet awayWE’VE A LWAYS
NEEDED O NE
ANOTHER
Finding community in the midst of a pandemic
By Connie SchultzILLUSTRATION BY SHOUT FOR TIME
UWR.Schultz.indd 58 3/24/20 10:37 PM