By: Isabel Brush-Mindell
The author’s vibrant and multicolored street.
As I absentmindedly spin my keys on the way home, I take in my multicolored street, illuminated in the mid-day sun. My eyes flick up to find the familiar sight of one of my neighbors, the gray-haired man whose lunchtime routine consists of sitting on his balcony, shirtless, music plugged in his ears. My keys slip into the door and I ascend two floors, throwing the keys on my bed as I shut the piso door. Outside air fills my room and I step out onto my balcony, drinking in Madrid’s summertime beauty.
I know all of the people that live across the street from me. I don’t know what their names are, but, like neighbors do, I get an intimate view of their silent lives, the routines I watch while living out my own. There is the woman around my age whose room is filled with red light in the evenings, occasionally performing DJ sets, silent for everyone but herself. There is the family with the two young kids who never open their balcony doors except to crack, tilt, and turn them, European-style. Or the older man with a slight beer belly who would come out only as long as it would take him to finish his cigarette, which was long enough to soak in the life of the street.
The neighborhood is infused with a sense of community that I find wrapped up in these people. They are people who live their lives parallel to mine, in the surrounding apartments and alimentaciones, the one-ways and the plazas. They are a “silent” community, a sort of nebulous group that experiences many of the same things that I do by function of the built environment. They use the same streets and shops and buses and metros that I do; I see them and I know that this is what my community looks like, that this is who they are.
I recently returned to the United States from my apartment on this colorful street in Madrid and noticed a marked change. Sometimes I see my neighbors out for a walk, but usually I see them as they drive by, or as I do. I can feel how much more isolated we Americans are. In fact, in May 2023, the U.S. Surgeon General issued an advisory on the American epidemic of loneliness and isolation. They found that, in our country, we are simultaneously spending more time alone and less time with friends than in the past. Between the years 2003 and 2020, the amount of time Americans spent alone increased by 24 hours per month (the dates here are crucial: this cannot be blamed on the pandemic). This is combined with a decrease in the amount of time spent in-person with friends (a decrease from 30 hours per month in 2003 to 10 hours per month in 2020). And loneliness brings along a whole host of health problems: it increases the risk of heart disease by 29 percent, dementia by 50 percent, and stroke by 32 percent. And the impacts don’t just remain in the private sphere. They impact businesses — employers spend $154 billion annually on stress-related absenteeism. And they impact countrywide systems — our tax system spends $6.7 billion annually in excess Medicare costs related to social isolation for older adults, primarily in increased hospital and nursing home spending. Framed another way, social connection literally increases our odds of survival and benefits our health, while also having the potential to redirect funds towards initiatives that benefit society instead of using funds to patch up a broken system.
In response to this epidemic, the U.S. Surgeon General developed six pillars for advancing social connection. The first pillar is to strengthen social infrastructure in local communities. They define this as designing the built environment in a way to encourage social connection, mainly through the construction of public parks, green spaces, art installations, or local establishments that are embedded in neighborhoods, as well as by investing in local institutions and programs such as libraries, sports groups, and volunteer organizations — all features that can help bring people together. Studies show that Americans who live closer to amenities, such as those listed above, are more content, less likely to feel lonely, and more likely to say their community is a great place to live. This is even after accounting for social class, education, gender, and race, albeit it is important to note that low-income areas — which tend to be made up of BIPOC residents — disproportionately lack such investments. Moreover, when creating such public places, city planners have systematically destroyed these communities and often neglected to take into account accessibility issues or gender nuances, such as a lack of wheelchair ramps or poor illumination, respectively.
People, however, rarely live in ignorance — they are taking issues into their own hands. Often projects are led, as is the case with many social movements, by the people who are disproportionately impacted. For example, Detroiters have started a buy back program that sells vacant lots back to residents (the vacant lots are a result of actions primarily driven by decisions of the automobile industry in the midst of an intense race and class struggle), many of which are being transformed into gathering spaces like art environments, parks, green spaces, and farms. The examples of people-driven projects are inspiring instances of grassroots work, and they also reveal the need for government action in the interests of their constituents.
Communities are finding ways to create spaces that allow people to slow down and talk with one another. And this is key to fostering more inclusive societies — it is much harder to dehumanize someone who mutually appreciates an art installation or plays on your sports team. As I drive through the urban sprawl of my American hometown, I can’t help but notice the ways the city has shifted over the years. Bike lanes now criss-cross the roads and, during the summer months, the streets of downtown are filled with music, art, and the sound of people laughing and chatting as they walk with their friends and family or enjoy a Main Street restaurant. It gives me hope.
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