Who Will Watch Out for Me?

On my work commute I enjoy listening to podcasts, and last week I listened to a conversation between journalists unpacking the Jane Doe v. Cornell University sexual assault case. Emily Bazelon, a host of the show and professor at Yale Law School, made a connection that struck my counselor's brain. She said, whatever your thoughts about the Cornell case, the situation that night at the fraternity house was a failure of a community of care. 

She went on to explain that students at a university like Cornell, regardless of gender, are part of a community, and as a community their calling is to care for each other. If Jane Doe was too drunk or doing things that seemed out of the ordinary or even dangerous, someone (male or female) should have pulled her aside and said, hey, you seem out of it, let’s get you home. This would be care. Instead, the lawsuit indicates that fellow students may have taken advantage of the situation in self-interest, whether that self-interest was egoic, physical, or social. 

I was intrigued by the phrase community of care because I recently wrote about conversation as care in the age of AI, and because, inevitably, this case is relevant news for our teenage girls en route to college and has come up in my counseling office, from students unpacking their own experiences to asking about help for a friend.

Our work as educators in school settings is not to blame or pick a side in a story about people we don’t know who did things at an event we did not attend. It seems to me instead the work is how we frame our conversations about these events with our young people, perennially answering the question–where do we go from here? Humans have always picked up the pieces after being disappointed, scared, or confused by our peers’ actions, and a news story about sexual assault is no different. In our political climate I yearn for conversations that are inclusive, so Bazelon’s assessment felt so true to me, inspiring me to revisit my conversations with students about taking care of themselves as conversations about taking care of their community as well.   

I was curious to learn more about the practice of community care and my research led me to the work of MLK, Jr. who used the term “beloved community” in his 1957 speech, “Birth of a New Nation.” Referring to his teachings on nonviolence, King said: “The aftermath of nonviolence is the creation of a beloved community. The aftermath of nonviolence is redemption. The aftermath of nonviolence is reconciliation. The aftermath of violence is emptiness and bitterness.” The phrase “communities of care” is often referenced as a social good, from a method of practicing collective health care in neighborhoods to a framework for non-profits working in low-income school districts. For example, the non-profit Prevention Institute defines communities of care as communities that support resilience and collective wellbeing. 

I suppose the basic question communities of care seek to answer is, who will watch out for me? 

For young people the question might specifically be who will watch out for me when I launch into the world, whether that be into a new high school, a university, or a job. Viewed through this lens, joining a smaller community within your new community, such as a fraternity or a union, makes sense. I wonder though how much of the answer to this question for individual young people lies in the communities of care that have been modeled for them across their formative years. When I wrote about conversation as care, I focused on presence and the way small, low-stakes conversations play an underestimated role in community building, and I think communities of care are just an extension of “keeping our humanity.” It sounds obvious, but do we cultivate a more self-interested mindset with our heads in our phones and our voices ringing out to like-minded folk in social media spaces? In our communities, caring for others probably starts quite small, with little questions that get us out of the virtual world and into our real one: Did you sleep well last night? Want to go for a walk? Care for a glass of water? Here, let me grab that door for you. Do you need a Kleenex? When I start thinking I am losing my mind for questioning if people take these caring steps enough, I pause and remember that rather than a small question or gesture of care, someone could say or do nothing at all, which I observe often. 

In our communities, caring for others probably starts quite small, with little questions that get us out of the virtual world and into our real one: Did you sleep well last night? Want to go for a walk? Care for a glass of water? Here, let me grab that door for you. Do you need a Kleenex?

For schools, I have always been drawn to restorative practices that center a community around care. Long ago I taught at a high school with a restorative justice facilitator, and I loved participating in restorative sessions with my students. Instead of a traditional discipline model, if a student broke a classroom norm the student and I met with the facilitator, who acted as a mediator, as the student and I both told our side of the story and explained the path to the event from our own eyes. Sitting down face to face and listening to my students in this way was beyond educational and changed how I view classroom management, reminding me of the invisible baggage we bring to every room we enter. As young people observe adults engage in restorative care, they see that even kids have a seat at the table, validating their humanity. The opposite is to feel unseen or uncared for, and for young people the repercussions may show up in a type of violence: cyber-bullying, self-harm, assault.   

And of course, we know that checking in with students using microaffirmations and kind language can help cultivate a community of care. Moving in and out of classes, meetings, and spaces can often feel chaotic and rushed and I have been guilty of being short, hurried, or focused on what is missing instead of what is right in front of me. I don’t know any of the classmates in Jane Doe v. Cornell, so I don’t know how often they hold the door for each other, or if they check in on friends, or how they choose their words, but I do know no one can consent to any sexual activity unless they are sober, which is another care conversation. 

Young people, especially girls, take on a lot of the blame and guilt when they do something they later regret, and countless girls feel singularly responsible for what happens to them, especially after being told they provoked others’ behavior, or took their hands off the wheel by having too many drinks at a party. I keep thinking about what more we can do to help them out. The community of care’s failure in Jane Doe v. Cornell is a timely reminder that where we go from here is largely dependent upon slowing down and being present to others, because taking care of others is counterintuitively taking care of ourselves.