Neighborism

The word isn't in the dictionary -- But you know it

I recently listened to an interview with my friend and former beer industry colleague Lauren Bennett McGinty, the Executive Director of Explore Minnesota. She was speaking candidly about the challenges of leading a state tourism organization in a moment when national headlines haven’t been kind to her beautiful state. It was a thoughtful, honest conversation. But the thing that struck me was a single word.

Neighborism.

Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

It’s not in Webster’s Dictionary. It won’t autocorrect to anything. But the moment I heard it; I knew exactly what it meant. And I suspect you do too.

There is a particular kind of human behavior that doesn’t trend on social media. It doesn’t get covered in the news cycle. It happens over backyard fences, on front porches, and when a car slows down for a child wobbling by on a bicycle still learning to balance. It happens in the wave from across the yard, the hotdish left on the doorstep when it’s needed most, the shovel borrowed and returned without fanfare.

That’s Neighborism. And somewhere along the way, in the din of social media, the finger-pointing and anger -- Neighborism seems to have been forgotten.

It begs asking why. We are, by every measurable standard, more connected than any generation before us. We carry devices in our pockets that can reach anyone, anywhere, in seconds. We have more platforms for communication than we know what to do with. And yet the distance between us seems to grow wider every year. We know more about the political opinions of strangers on the internet than we know about the people who live three doors down.

It’s not accidental. Disconnection and discontent make an excellent business model. Outrage travels faster than kindness. Division is more algorithmically engaging than common ground. We have built systems that are extraordinarily good at reminding us of everything that separates us, and remarkably poor at surfacing everything we share.

Neighborism doesn’t play that game.

I grew up in a time and a neighborhood where kids ran feral in the streets from the moment school let out until the sun started setting, when it was time to wander home for dinner and homework. We roamed in packs. We scraped our knees on the same pavement. We fought and forgave with the speed that only children seem to manage.

What I remember most, though, is not the freedom itself but the invisible architecture that made it possible. The adults were always watching, but from the sidelines where we didn’t see. It was a distributed agreement, a collective understanding that these kids, all of us, belonged to all of us. A parent you barely knew would return you home if it got too late. A neighbor you’d never formally met would hand you a glass of water on a hot afternoon without being asked.

No one called it anything. It’s just how things worked.

That invisible architecture, that unspoken agreement to look out for each other, is what Lauren’s word captured for me. Neighborism isn’t a program or a policy. It’s a posture. A way of moving through the world that says: I see you. You are not invisible to me. Your presence in my community is something I honor.

What strikes me about Neighborism is how much it implies. It doesn’t require agreement on the big things — the politics, the values, the worldview. It operates at an entirely different level. The backyard fence is a remarkable equalizer. You don’t have to share a single opinion with the person on the other side of it to share a conversation about the weather, a complaint about the deer eating the garden, or a laugh about nothing in particular.

And those small exchanges matter — they are the foundation of community, of civility, of decency.

There is research to support what most of us already intuitively know — those casual acquaintances and nodding neighbors and familiar strangers contribute significantly to our sense of wellbeing and belonging. It’s not only our close friendships and family, but the everyday human contact. The barista who knows your order. The neighbor who waves. The person who holds the elevator door. It’s the kindness. That’s the healing effect of Neighborism.

It seems we’ve systematically undervalued this basic need for community. We’ve optimized our lives for efficiency and privacy in ways that have stripped Neighborism out of our lives. We drive into garages and close human contact out. We order everything to the door. We move through public spaces with headphones firmly planted in our ears. The message is clear — I am unavailable. None of these choices are wrong, but what’s the cost?

Lauren was talking about Minnesota, and about the challenge of inviting the world to come and experience a place where the headlines suggest otherwise. But what she was really talking about is something that belongs to every place and every community. It’s the difference between how we talk about each other from a distance and how we treat each other face-to-face.

Up close, most people are remarkably decent. Up close, the story of us is much better than the story we’re being told.

I don’t know if Neighborism will ever make it into Webster’s. Probably not. But I find myself hoping the idea spreads even if the word doesn’t. I find myself thinking about the backyard fence as a metaphor — the choice we have to turn toward each other or away. The opportunity is always there.

It starts small. Slowing down when the kid rides by on a bike. Learning the name of the person three doors down. Being a little more present in the ordinary geography of your own life. Kindness may travel slower than nastiness – but it means so much more.

Neighborism. Wow — we really could use more of that in our collective brains.

What does Neighborism look like where you live? I’d love to hear in the comments.