Union membership in the U.S. used to be strong, reaching nearly 35% of workers in the mid-1950s. Today, that number is below 10%. Similarly, regular church attendance has plummeted from 70% in 1976 to around 30%. Even friendships are changing; the number of Americans claiming they have no close friends has quadrupled since 1990. These stats paint a stark picture of my generation, even if we don’t often discuss it.
Last Sunday, I found myself outside a former union hall, now a CrossFit gym. I watched young people workout where elders once gathered to discuss serious issues. The walls that held the spirit of organized labor are now alive with music and fitness routines. I ran my fingers over the doorframe, once marked with “Local 542,” and wondered how we got here.
This year would have marked my father’s 93rd birthday. At his funeral, over 600 people came, but I only knew about half. Many were from his mail route and union. They shared stories of my father’s efforts in strikes and the quiet help he provided to families in need. The sense of community he cultivated feels like something from a distant past, not just a different generation.
I think about our neighborhood during my coffee chats with my neighbor. We sit on her porch and watch the daily routine of our street. Unlike years ago when everyone waved, now we barely know each other. When I moved here, I was on friendly terms with 17 families. Now, I only know three. My neighbor and I have turned guessing the residents of cars into a game, but we often get it wrong.
My thirty-two years teaching high school offered a unique lens on this decline. Parent-teacher nights used to feel like community events. Families knew each other through church, union picnics, and bowling leagues. Now, parents rush in alone, glued to their devices, missing the real connections with others who care about their children.
The bowling leagues disappeared quietly. Then, union halls started closing. Churches hung on a bit longer, but even they are waning. The church I remarried in once had 300 members; now, just 13 of us fill the space, our voices lost in the emptiness.
Volunteering at a women’s shelter revealed a harsh truth: many arrive without knowing their neighbors, even after years of living in the same place. “I didn’t want to bother anyone,” they say. It strikes me that asking for help is something we’ve forgotten how to do. After my own troubled marriage, a neighbor stepped up to help me when I had nowhere else to turn. That kind of support used to be second nature.
Today, my son works long hours in a job that once would have been union-protected. My daughter lives far away, unlike my mother, who always stayed close to family. Video calls connect us, but they can’t replace the warmth of physical presence and familiarity.
The pandemic made this isolation more apparent; we had already mastered the art of being alone. What we forgot was how to truly connect with one another.
In small ways, I’m fighting back. After losing my second husband, I joined a support group. Five of us decided to create our own community. Each Sunday, we gather for soup, not just to fill our stomachs but to feel the warmth of belonging, to share in person before news spreads on social media.
My little free library sees many visitors weekly, and I’ve seen unknown neighbors stop to browse. It’s not a union hall, but it’s a start. The community garden allows for diverse interactions—refugees and local families share not only vegetables but also recipes and stories, renewing the everyday connections we once took for granted.
Teaching adult literacy at the community center, I work with those who’ve hidden their struggles for years. In rooms that once hosted bingo nights, we rebuild not only skills but also connections. Recently, a student brought her daughter to meet me. They stayed to chat. It reminded me of the simple act of visiting—something that feels almost revolutionary today.
My morning routine of tea and journaling is a time for reflection. I write about my father’s legacy, the halls that once brimmed with life, and the leagues that fostered friendship. I also write about the new connections we are forming, whether through walking groups of women or my inviting garden that attracts neighbors for casual chats.
No, we’re not rebuilding a vanished community overnight, but we’re trying. The loss of those shared spaces is undeniable. Time is fleeting, and while some structures may be lost, the effort to foster smaller communities can still flourish. At 70, I’ve learned that some things may never be fully restored, yet it’s worth tending to the spark of connection. We can’t let it go out. It’s all we have left to remind us of what once was and what can still be.
