There's a difference between being a resident and a consumer of a city. A resident is a part of something larger, something alive that she can tap into and affect. She contributes to the city with ease, often without making an effort to "make a difference." A city gains as much from the resident as she gains from the city.
A consumer of a city is a passerby, a purchaser and exchanger of goods that happen to be in the city at the time. He lives in a city in a temporary state, no matter the duration of the stay or the desire to become a part of something larger. A consumer is a number, a statistic—something minuscule in a machine maladapted to the human-scale. Living somewhere doesn't automatically make you a resident, no matter how long you've been there. A consumer gains much from a city, while the city remains the same.
This distinction became obvious to me three weeks after I moved to Atlanta. I already felt like a resident, a part of something larger, a contributor to so-called civic and public life as a result of just going outside. This is in sharp contrast to my stays in New Haven and Manhattan (note: not all of NYC). In New Haven, I was literally a consumer, another undergraduate spending eight semesters in a place my university happened to be located. Yale itself felt like a consumer of the city—a relationship fraught with the transactional tension of balance sheets. For all Yale pushed the history of the city, its contributions, and the do-good efforts of students, New Haven was a temporary place for most students, a place to deal with and get on.
Manhattan is also a city of consumers. At any given time, most people on the island aren't from there and don't plan to be from there in a decade or so. It's a place to enjoy the fullest, to make the most out of, and then leave with the fruits of your labor. Public places and civic life feel severely constrained, either as a result of density, worries about the homeless, or the pressures of monetization. Most things are pre-scheduled, cost money, are associated with your company, or just don't happen that often—as many will attest, it's hard to perceive a sense of community or to see that familiar face around Manhattan.
Manhattan is a behemoth. It feels too big to make your mark on the city; even the extraordinarily rich are often relegated to the dustbin of history in Manhattan. The city feels like a machine in perpetual motion, continuing its course with or without you.
These experiences are independent of how many people you know or how many friends you have in the city. Being a true part of a place—a resident—seems to involve the intangible. Architecture, culture, history, small businesses, political activism, parks, transport, cost of living, and the economy are all things that probably matter.
Being a consumer of a city feels passive and powerless, right down to the most local level. Humans have a desire to influence their immediate environment and to be a part of a colocated tribe. I'm confident that with the awareness of the rise of atomization and loneliness in American society, we'll figure out a way to return to human-scale places where everyone is a resident contributing, in whatever tiny way, to where they live.
A consumer of a city is a passerby, a purchaser and exchanger of goods that happen to be in the city at the time. He lives in a city in a temporary state, no matter the duration of the stay or the desire to become a part of something larger. A consumer is a number, a statistic—something minuscule in a machine maladapted to the human-scale. Living somewhere doesn't automatically make you a resident, no matter how long you've been there. A consumer gains much from a city, while the city remains the same.
This distinction became obvious to me three weeks after I moved to Atlanta. I already felt like a resident, a part of something larger, a contributor to so-called civic and public life as a result of just going outside. This is in sharp contrast to my stays in New Haven and Manhattan (note: not all of NYC). In New Haven, I was literally a consumer, another undergraduate spending eight semesters in a place my university happened to be located. Yale itself felt like a consumer of the city—a relationship fraught with the transactional tension of balance sheets. For all Yale pushed the history of the city, its contributions, and the do-good efforts of students, New Haven was a temporary place for most students, a place to deal with and get on.
Manhattan is also a city of consumers. At any given time, most people on the island aren't from there and don't plan to be from there in a decade or so. It's a place to enjoy the fullest, to make the most out of, and then leave with the fruits of your labor. Public places and civic life feel severely constrained, either as a result of density, worries about the homeless, or the pressures of monetization. Most things are pre-scheduled, cost money, are associated with your company, or just don't happen that often—as many will attest, it's hard to perceive a sense of community or to see that familiar face around Manhattan.
Manhattan is a behemoth. It feels too big to make your mark on the city; even the extraordinarily rich are often relegated to the dustbin of history in Manhattan. The city feels like a machine in perpetual motion, continuing its course with or without you.
These experiences are independent of how many people you know or how many friends you have in the city. Being a true part of a place—a resident—seems to involve the intangible. Architecture, culture, history, small businesses, political activism, parks, transport, cost of living, and the economy are all things that probably matter.
Being a consumer of a city feels passive and powerless, right down to the most local level. Humans have a desire to influence their immediate environment and to be a part of a colocated tribe. I'm confident that with the awareness of the rise of atomization and loneliness in American society, we'll figure out a way to return to human-scale places where everyone is a resident contributing, in whatever tiny way, to where they live.