Despite spending the majority of her childhood in America, my mother couldn’t vote until 2016.

Growing up, I learned how to be a community member in other ways. She made meals for food shelters, baked cookies for public service workers during the holidays, and was an involved parent at my school. When I turned 13, she brought me to a domestic violence shelter where she volunteered, and I supported their childcare program weekly for two years.

I was deeply concerned that these systems didn’t work well for everyone, yet I concurrently felt I had received much of what was owed to me.

When I grew increasingly dissatisfied with the paradigms and narratives I was presented–most recently regarding the ongoing genocide in Palestine–I struggled. I felt hopeless, disconnected, and disoriented.

The clarity I sought was rooted in recognizing that I come from a long line of people who wanted to make change in their communities and worked in and outside of institutional systems to do so.

My grandfather left his family and village to pursue secondary education, ultimately passing his qualifications to work in the East Pakistan government. Instead, he sought a professorship at Dhaka University, which became a hub of the Bangladesh liberation movement. My grandmother worked at an NGO supporting rural women in Bangladesh, providing public health resources amidst rampant government distrust.

I had to redefine how I embodied community care in accordance with my own values and perspective on social change. While I take on legislative work in a professional capacity, I also volunteer at an after-school creative writing program 1-2 times a week to honor my need for intimate and direct community action at the micro level.

I’ve also seen how being an engaged community member can take so many forms. I have a cousin who hosts gatherings that can consist of anything from sharing a peach pie to collectively watching the presidential debate. When I was new to the area, these spaces connected me to local events, protest efforts, and meaningful perspectives that I would not have encountered otherwise. 

These realizations have coalesced to maintain one of the most important things I’ve learned–community care can range from checking on your family, to being intentional about where you spend your money, to making dinner for your friend, to rallying at a protest.

I understand what it means to reconcile with political disillusionment, what it means to lose faith in the systems that underscore the way we live and the way we fight for a better future.

Despite and because of this, my invitation is to take stock of what is most meaningful to you, what feels most authentic, and what can ultimately result in tangible action toward building community.