Grass Roots: The Radical Potential of Hanging Out at the Park

Americans are lonely. Twenty percent of adults report feeling lonely “a lot of the day yesterday.” In fact, more than a third of Americans (36%) report experiencing "serious loneliness," with young adults (61%) being the hardest hit. The Surgeon General has gone so far as to call this situation as an “epidemic.”

Half of Americans (49%) report they are unsatisfied with the number of friends they have, and for good reason: the United States has seen a sharp “friendship recession” over the past three decades. In 1990, a third of Americans reported having 10 or more close friends; by 2021, this dropped to 13%. During this same time, the number of people reporting zero close friends has quadrupled. And it’s not just that we have fewer friends---we’re also spending less time with the ones we have. Americans now spend an average of less than three hours a week with friends, compared with more than six hours a decade ago.

The COVID-19 pandemic accelerated these trends, but it didn't create them. For decades, we've been witnessing the erosion of the spaces and practices that traditionally fostered connection. Union halls have closed. Religious attendance has declined. Community organizations have withered. Even our homes have become more isolated---front porches, once sites of neighborhood interaction, have been replaced by back decks. The “third places” that sociologist Ray Oldenburg identified as crucial to community life---cafes, bars, bookstores, community centers---have been squeezed out by rising rents or replaced by chain stores designed for speed and volume rather than community.

Believe it or not, this is destroying our health. People with close relationships tend to live longer than those who are socially isolated, with research showing that strong social connections reduce the risk of early death by about 50%. This means that social connections have a greater effect on lifespan than obesity or physical activity. In fact, social isolation has been linked to a 29% increased risk of heart disease and a 32% increased risk of stroke. Being lonely increases your risk of premature death as much as smoking 15 cigarettes a day.

Mental health benefits are equally significant---people with strong social support networks are less likely to develop depression and anxiety disorders. In fact, social support has an equal or even greater effect than antidepressants in improving mental health.

When we lose our social bonds, we also lose the very foundation of collective action. Every major social movement in history has been built on networks of friendship and community. The civil rights movement grew from the deep relationships fostered in Black churches and communities. Labor movements have always drawn their power from workplace friendships and gathering spaces like union halls. Before the Stonewall Riots, the LGBTQ+ movement had extensive underground networks of friends, chosen family, and social clubs that formed the basis for future political organizing. Even the American Revolution, as historian Gordon Wood reminds us, was organized through taverns and social clubs as much as formal political meetings.

Social atomization is the natural consequence of market forces that prioritize efficiency over community. When walkable neighborhoods are replaced by strip malls or public spaces shrink under the pressure of privatization, the result is an erosion of our ability to connect. And the effects ripple outward: it's harder to unionize when you aren’t friends with your coworkers. It's easier to scapegoat a group of people when you don’t know and care about any members from that group. It's harder to build any kind of collective power when people are isolated from each other.

Yet the depth of our disconnection reveals how hungry people are for genuine relationship. But where do we go from here? To me, the question isn't whether we can reverse every trend toward isolation---some changes in how we live and work are likely here to stay. The question is whether we can build new forms of connection that are actually deeper and more intentional than the ones we've lost. This requires understanding that the crisis of connection isn't just about individual choices or technology; it's about the systematic destruction of the social infrastructure that makes collective action possible.

The Willard Wednesday Project

According to communications professor Jeffrey Hall, making friends requires regularity---it takes about 50 hours of interaction to transition from acquaintances to casual friends, 90 to develop a real friendship, and 200 to form a close bond. Those numbers are daunting. In a world of long commutes, demanding jobs, and endless distractions, finding 200 hours to spend with someone seems almost impossible.

Thankfully, my friend Jen wasn’t discouraged. The idea behind Willard Wednesday is simple: modern society doesn’t have the infrastructure we need to develop meaningful connection, so let’s just build it ourselves. The goal was to find a space that was free to access and could provide regular contact and opportunities to meet new people. The solution Jen found was a public park---specifically, Willard Park in Berkeley, California.

Parks are one of the few remaining truly public spaces in our cities where people can gather without having to pay or consume. They're democratic spaces in the deepest sense. While coffee shops require purchases and community centers often charge fees, parks remain open to all. By choosing Willard Park as the meeting place, Jen wasn’t just picking a convenient location---they were making a statement about the kind of community they wanted to build: one that was open, accessible, and grounded in the commons.

At first, it was just a handful of us gathering every Wednesday after work. Someone would bring a blanket, another person would show up with snacks, and we'd sit in the grass talking until the sun started to set. I had just moved to San Francisco around this time, so I was exactly the kind of person who needed something like this---someone with a predictable schedule but no built-in community, hungry for connection but unsure how to find it.

What happened next was both normal and extraordinary. Week by week, our little group began to grow. Friends brought friends. Coworkers tagged along. Sometimes people visiting from out of town would stop by. The consistency was key---knowing that every Wednesday, rain or shine, someone would be there created a gentle rhythm that allowed relationships to unfold.

A unique culture emerged from the group. Our conversations would range from food to current events to the minutia of Zizian and TESCREAL ideologies (this is Berkeley, after all). We developed inside jokes and shared references. Some people came for the political discussions, others for the casual socializing, and still others just to sit in friendly company while working on craft projects. Not everyone clicked with the emerging culture, and that was okay---the group naturally settled into a core of regulars while remaining open to newcomers.

The first summer was glorious. Long, warm evenings meant we could stay until twilight. Winter proved more challenging. Berkeley winters aren't brutal, but they're dark and chilly enough to make sitting in the park uncomfortable. We tried coffee shops, but paying for space felt wrong after the freedom of the park. Someone's living room could host us, but that made it feel more like a private gathering than a public commons. We're still working on solving the winter question---maybe next year we'll find a community center or library meeting room that can become our cold-weather home.

But what strikes me most about Willard Wednesdays is how something so simple could become so profound. Those 50, 90, and 200 hours that seemed so daunting in the abstract accumulated naturally through our weekly ritual. Casual acquaintances became friends, friends became confidants, and somewhere along the way, this weekly gathering became one of the most meaningful parts of my life.

What started as an experiment in building social infrastructure has become proof that we don't have to accept isolation as inevitable. Sometimes all it takes is one person saying "let's try this" and showing up consistently enough to make it real. It's still a work in progress, but maybe that's the point---community isn't something you finish building, it's something you keep choosing to nurture and grow.

Now Go Touch Grass

In this moment of political upheaval, many of us feel a growing urgency to "do something." We want to organize, build resistance, and create alternatives to what’s happening around us. But sometimes our impulse to act immediately can lead us to skip the slow, essential work of building resilient communities. It’s easy to attend marches and wave signs, but what does that really accomplish? We try to jump straight to political action without focusing on the foundational work that makes lasting change possible.

Healthy communities are ones which are safe, affordable, and supportive to everyone. Think about what actually makes a community resilient: neighbors who check on each other during heat waves, informal childcare networks that help working parents, local businesses that hire youth, seniors who mentor children after school, religious and cultural centers that preserve traditions and provide gathering spaces. These aren't flashy political statements, they're the quiet infrastructure of community care that helps people thrive.

Consider how strong communities naturally resist harmful changes. When neighbors know each other, they're more likely to organize to address unsafe living conditions and protect local businesses. When people have strong local ties, they're less vulnerable to displacement. When communities have robust mutual aid networks, they're better able to weather economic downturns or natural disasters.

What if the most radical thing we could do right now is create spaces where people can genuinely connect? What if building community power starts with something as simple as regularly hanging out in a park? Not with an agenda, not with immediate political goals, but with the understanding that strong relationships are themselves a form of infrastructure that we'll need for whatever challenges lie ahead.

This isn't to say that hanging out in the park is enough on its own. But neither is it merely preparation for “real” political work. Building spaces for connection is itself political work. At a time where political machinations are designed to keep us isolated and afraid, creating regular gatherings where people can form genuine friendships is a powerful asset for community.

So yes, start a Willard Wednesday in your own community. Find a park, pick a time, and show up. But do it not just because relationships create safe, resilient communities---do it because it’s fun. Do it because in a world trying to keep us apart, coming together is itself an act of hope. Do it because the communities we build today aren’t just tools for creating the world we want; they’re already small pieces of that world, taking shape in the present.