Citizen engagement

“What” Before “How”

September 11, 2012 By Otis White

Many communities fight the same old battles over and over. And even when there’s something new to consider—a solution that could improve the downtown, say, or a big economic development opportunity—the city can’t seize it because everyone is squabbling about the details. How do places get stuck in such unproductive debates?

There can be many reasons, some involving deep unresolved conflicts (dealing with race and class or other social and political divisions). But a surprising number of times, the reason is simpler: The community is talking about the issue in the wrong way. Leaders have jumped into a discussion of “how” before talking thoroughly about “what.”

Confused? Bear with me. Most leaders are problem solvers by nature. Show them a problem, and they’ll work through as quickly as possible to a solution, then pour their energies into selling that solution. On one level, it’s refreshing to be around such quick thinkers. And if the leaders are extremely powerful and can bulldoze opponents (think of Mayor Daley at his zenith in Chicago), it might work. Otherwise, it’s a recipe for disaster.

Here’s a better way: Spend at least as much time talking with other leaders and the public about the problem and why it’s worth solving as you do on actual solutions. Help everyone agree on “what” (the problem and the benefits of its solution) before moving to “how” (the solution itself).

Yes, this requires quick thinkers to show some patience, but it will pay off in two ways. First, it will dampen divisions. Most of the big battles in communities are over “hows,” not “whats.” (People generally agree on the need for better mobility, just not on that road in that place. They agree on the need for city services, just not on that tax at this time.) If you start with a thorough discussion of “what” (mobility and its benefits, city services and their benefits), you make it easier later on to accept the sacrifice of the “how.” Second, spending more time with “what”—and inviting many people into that discussion—may open the door to a better “how.” In complex environments like cities, thinking about problems from many perspectives usually improves solutions.

Let’s use an example: how to help your downtown. Let’s say that you’ve been thinking about this for a long time and have decided your downtown needs a business improvement district, which allows commercial property owners to tax themselves for special improvements such as streetscaping and security. If you do what many leaders do and simply announce your solution, you open a free-fire zone. Property owners may not like it (why should they pay for additional services the city ought to provide?), citizens may be suspicious (isn’t this just privatizing our downtown?), downtown residents may object (why don’t we get a seat at the table?), and on and on. Six months from now, you may still be bogged down in the debate . . . if the idea isn’t already dead.

Why not take those six months for a discussion of what downtown could be if its biggest problems could be solved? How it could look and feel. Which new businesses or attractions could be there. How young people or older citizens might use it.

After—but only after—a vision is in place, then move to the problems standing in the way (we need streetscaping and better security) and how they could be solved. The groups you’ve assembled might quickly take up the idea of a BID, or they might choose another solution. But they’ll come to it with a far better idea of what they’re trying to solve and why it’s important, and they’ll come to it collectively. You won’t have to argue with property owners, citizens, or downtown residents about why it’s important to take a first step. They’ll be among those demanding it.

And they’ll be demanding it for the best of all possible reasons: They own the problem. They believe in the benefits of solving it. They’ve thoughtfully explored the solutions.

And they’ve done it in the right order.

This is part of a series of brief postings called Rules for Reformers. For an introduction to the series, please click here.

A Formula for Change

September 6, 2012 By Otis White

Is there a way, before starting out on a change process, to know how much change the community will accept? Not really, because, as in card games, luck and your skill as a player will have a major bearing. But there is a way of thinking about what causes communities (or organizations or even individuals) to accept change. And if you use this simple formula as a guide, it should increase the odds that, luck and skill aside, the change should be significant.

It’s called the Harvard Change Model, and it has three elements:

Dissatisfaction with the status quo
A model or vision of how things would work if the issues were fully resolved
A plan for getting to that vision

When written as a sentence it looks like this: The level of change (that’s the delta symbol above) is equal to the amount of dissatisfaction times the clarity of the model (or vision) times the acceptance of the plan for achieving the model. Change = D x M x P

I’ll explain in a minute how the formula works, but first a note about how I learned about it. It was from David Connell, who was head of corporate education at a large utility company based in Atlanta. We had started work on a regional economic development project when he took out a marker and, on a flip chart, wrote down the formula and explained it to me. He had learned it from consultants from the Harvard Business School; hence, the name. We used the formula in that civic project and several others in the next few years, and I’ve used it ever since. (By the way, David is now the president and CEO of the Cobb Chamber of Commerce in suburban Atlanta, so civic work apparently agreed with him.)

Now, about the formula: It is based on the commonsense notion that no one accepts change unless he’s unhappy with the way things are, has faith that things could be better, and knows what will come next (and what might be asked of him). So the work of those who want change is to:

Increase the level of dissatisfaction (push up “D”).
Help people arrive at an appealing model of the future (push up “M”).
Win broad acceptance of a plan for reaching the model (push up “P”).

But what’s with the multiplication? It’s there, David explained, because each element amplifies the others. The greater the level of dissatisfaction, the greater the desire to find an appealing vision. The clearer the vision, the more people are motivated to take the first steps toward it. And so on.

If you plug in some numbers, you can see more clearly how it works. If you have significant dissatisfaction (7 on a scale of 1 to 10), but don’t get much buy-in on a vision (2) or a plan (again, 2), here’s how much change you’ll get: 7 x 2 x 2 = 28.

But let’s say you could somehow double the acceptance of the vision and plan (that is, from go from 2 to 4), here’s what you’d get: 7 x 4 x 4 = 112 or four times as much change. And if you could do equally as well with the vision and plan as with the dissatisfaction? 7 x 7 x 7 = 343, which raises the level of change by a factor of more than 12.

The numbers, of course, are illustrative. I’m not sure I could distinguish what separates people at level 6 dissatisfaction from those at level 7. But the point is that each element is important and connected. And by working hard on each part, you multiply your effectiveness.

After David explained it to me, he wrote down another version of the formula. This time, he said, let’s imagine you had the highest level of dissatisfaction possible along with an almost universal acceptance of how things could work in the future . . . but had no plan for achieving it. In other words, 10 x 10 x 0. What level of change would you get, he asked me.

It has been a long time since I learned algebra, but even I knew the answer. When you place a zero in an equation, you get . . . zero. And if you neglect any element of the change process, that’s what you can expect: zero change.

This is part of a series of brief postings called Rules for Reformers. For an introduction to the series, please click here.

Smart Citizen Engagement . . . and Dumb, Dumb, Dumb

March 29, 2012 By Otis White

I am a fan of governments reaching out to citizens for ideas and participation for two reasons. It’s good for government officials to work side by side with citizens, and it’s good for citizens to work side by side with governments. But there are smart ways of doing this, and there are dumb, dumb, dumb ways.

I’ll talk about the smart and the dumb in a moment, but first a few words about why citizen involvement is important. Start with the basics: Citizens know some things better than government officials, and government officials know some things better than citizens. Citizens know things that begin with the word “what”—what the problems are (particularly in their own neighborhoods), what they want their city or neighborhood to be, and what they are personally willing to contribute in time and taxes to make these things happen. In other words, citizens are good at vision and judgment. Government officials are good at the “how” parts—how to deliver the things the citizens want, how to pay for them, and how to be sure things work as planned when they’re in place.

When you put these competencies together, with the citizens taking the lead—but not having exclusive say—in the “what” parts, and government officials taking the lead—but not having exclusive say—in the “how” parts, you get a strong partnership . . . with a little creative tension. The tension comes from not totally ceding either part. On the contrary, it helps if the parties look over each other’s shoulder. Citizens sometimes have great ideas about getting things done. And public officials can often suggest things the citizens ought to be thinking about but, for some reason, aren’t. How do you let one side take the lead without ceding control? You act with respect for what the other party does best, the way you would toward any valued colleague or partner.

Here’s another principle of citizen engagement: The goal shouldn’t be a new set of ideas or goals but a long-term sharing of responsibilities. Alas, that’s not the political reflex. The reflex, upon hearing a complaint or an idea, is to take the problem away from the person who’s complaining. I understand why this happens—many elected officials believe the path to re-election is paved with credit for getting things done, and most appointed officials think it’s important to appear in control—but by taking problems away from people you diminish them and limit a government’s effectiveness. The best way to deal with community problems and opportunities is through partnerships, where everyone does his part: government, businesses, nonprofits, and citizens.

By taking the time to plan and act as partners, two wonderful things happen. First, resources multiply—not just financial resources but human labor and creativity. Second, solutions become virtuous cycles, where each partner’s contribution rewards the others’ efforts, increasing the rewards and making the effort easier with each turn of the cycle.

You see this most clearly in business improvement districts, where landowners tax themselves to make commercial areas safer and more attractive. The virtuous cycle for BIDs works in two ways. As they make improvements, property values rise and revenues to the BID increase, enabling it to do more, which makes property values rise even more . . . and on and on. But the real secret to BIDs isn’t the money they raise and spend on their own. It’s the partnerships they forge with governments. Over time, smart and focused BIDs learn how to ask intelligently for things, and governments like working with them. The money they raise, then, becomes not replacements for government services but enhancements, which helps everybody. The commercial district looks good, citizens are happy, businesses prosper, property owners see their investments rise in value, tax revenues grow for government and the BID, and the cycle goes round and round.

This, then, is the power of partnership, and it ought to be the aim of every government—not to coddle citizens or push them out of the way, but to plan and work with them as respected equals.

OK, then what’s a smart way of doing this? You start by asking citizens what they want, plan the “how” parts together—so citizens learn the cost of public goods and can decide if they truly want them—and then you ask those working alongside you to lend a hand in making them happen.

I have two examples of smart citizen engagement, both from older cities dealing with major crime problems. First is from Philadelphia where Mayor Michael Nutter has created a small agency called PhillyRising. It’s a handful of government workers who are good at talking with citizens and enlisting them as partners. Not long ago, a newspaper reporter sat in on a PhillyRising meeting in a Southwest Philadelphia neighborhood plagued by crime. The meeting began with a top city official saying something you don’t hear enough from government leaders. “The city doesn’t have all the answers,” he said. “We know you guys,” referring to neighborhood residents, “know the problems in the community better than anybody else.”

And that was pretty much the end of the speeches. For the rest of the meeting, the PhillyRising staff facilitated the 35 or so who came in talking about the neighborhood’s issues—not just the crime problems, but things like neighborhood schools and adult literacy problems—as others took notes on large flip charts. At the end, staffers invited the residents to come back in two weeks to work on plans for changing the things they had identified—with the city playing a supporting role. As the PhillyRising director told the reporter who was there, “The idea behind it is, instead of doing things for people, we’re trying to do things with them and teach them.” Precisely.

The second example is from Detroit, and it’s not about government doing smart things with citizens but citizens doing smart things with government. (Remember, it’s a partnership.) I don’t have to explain much about Detroit’s problems—they begin with a horrifying homicide rate and go from there. But not every part of Detroit suffers equally. There are a few neighborhoods that have kept crime at bay.

How did they do it? By organizing, watching things carefully, and working seamlessly with the police. These aren’t vigilantes. In one of the neighborhoods, North Rosedale, neighborhood volunteers don’t chase criminals; they photograph things that look suspicious and call the cops. They are so close to the police that, as neighborhood watch volunteers start their evening rounds, they check in with a nearby precinct to find out who’s on duty and what to keep an eye on.

As the Detroit Free Press reported, police and other city officials love these smart, organized, involved volunteers. “The cooperative effort that you have shown with the police department has just been super,” a police commander told one of the neighborhood groups at its regular monthly planning meeting with police and city officials last year. “The arrests that are being made are all with interaction with the community. A lot of other communities don’t offer that. It is a big tribute to you, and it’s very much appreciated.” The appreciation is mutual. One of the volunteers told the newspaper: “We believe it is important to work very closely with the police department.”

Let’s pause for a moment and review what’s right about these efforts. They create partnerships, not dependence. In each case, government knows its limitations. It appreciates what the citizens can do and stands ready to help but not direct. In one case, the government is reaching out to the citizens, in the other the citizens are reaching out to the government. The results of both will be smarter government (specifically, more effective policing) and smarter, more involved citizens.

So if these are examples of smart citizen engagement, what does dumb engagement look like? I have two examples of this, as well. The first involves the Pittsburgh police department, but instead of being partners of the citizens, the police have cast themselves as adversaries. The problem in Pittsburgh is a familiar one for urban police departments. Ethnically the police force doesn’t look much like the city today; it’s overwhelmingly white in a diverse city. The suspicion among African-American leaders is that the hiring process is rigged against black candidates, so they lobbied the mayor to open up the hiring process by allowing some community members to sit in on interviews.

Reluctantly, the police agreed. An organization called the Pittsburgh Interfaith Impact Network offered the names of some volunteer interviewers to the police department, which forwarded them to other city departments for screening and training. In time, the interview panels including civilians were assembled . . . until someone noticed that one woman who was asking questions was wearing an electronic monitoring device on her ankle. Turns out, one of the police interviewers was a convicted felon who had pleaded guilty a year before to felony firearms charges.

The panels were abruptly cancelled. The police chief blamed city bureaucrats for fouling things up by not running background checks. Everyone was embarrassed and angry. But take away the embarrassing revelation—the woman with the ankle monitor—and you see this for what it was: a shallow and ineffective substitute for citizen engagement. It was shallow because it substituted a handful of people on city hall interview panels for genuine partnerships with citizens in their neighborhoods. And it was ineffective because it asked this handful of citizens to do something they weren’t equipped to do—judge what makes a good police officer. Actually, the citizen member who might know something about effective policing was the woman with the ankle monitor. At least she could claim experience with the criminal justice system.

What would have been better? It would have been much, much better if the department had taken the time to engage citizens in discussions about what they wanted from officers in their neighborhoods. If they had listened carefully and worked collaboratively to find better ways of recruiting, training, and retaining officers who fit the new profile. Afterwards, if some involved in the planning process wanted to serve on the interview teams, they should have been welcomed and would have come to the panels in a completely different way—with knowledge of what police officers do and an understanding of how the hiring process was changing. In short, they would have been seen as partners in making a better police department—and not as intruders or nuisances.

But it isn’t only local governments that make a mess of citizen engagement. Sometimes citizens do, too. This brings me to the worst citizen engagement process I’ve ever heard of, designed by a group in Pinellas County, Florida called FAST, which stands for Faith and Action for Standing Together. As the name suggests, it’s an interfaith group, and its heart seems to be in the right place. Founded in 2004, FAST wants to improve low-income parts of the county, which includes St. Petersburg and Clearwater, and has taken on important issues from crime and drugs to transportation and education.

But if its intentions are good, its methods are atrocious. After FAST members (who number in the low thousands) settle on an issue and decide—on their own, with no government officials involved—what the correct solutions are, they haul public officials before them, force them stand on a stage and say only “yes” or “no” to FAST’s agenda. As a final indignity, elected officials are not allowed to touch the microphone, for fear they might . . . you know, try to explain something. A FAST member stands with the microphone in hand, ready to snatch it away.

By this point, most responsible elected or appointed officials will not participate what amounts to one of FAST’s public shaming sessions. Not long ago, though, several Pinellas County school board members came to one of the meetings, where they were told that the best way to instruct children was by using something called “direct instruction.” Would the school board members, on the spot, commit to changing the school system’s entire instructional approach? Yes or no? The answer, thankfully, was no. “I will not yield to pressure,” one board member told the group . . . presumably just before the microphone was snatched away.

It doesn’t have to be this way. It doesn’t have to be hectoring or patronizing. It doesn’t even have to be adversarial. In my experience, most government officials are perfectly willing to work alongside citizens; they just don’t know how to get started. And most citizens are far more interested in practical solutions than in venting their spleens and would welcome the opportunity to learn more about how government works.

There’s a marriage to be made here between governments and citizens, but like all good marriages it must come with some values. The two most important: respect for each other’s contributions and a belief in the power of partnerships.

Photo by Bytemarks licensed under Creative Commons.

Why You Should Learn to Think like a Politician

January 17, 2012 By Otis White

In his engrossing new biography of John F. Kennedy, Chris Matthews tells us that, in 1958, after he won re-election to the U.S. Senate and was preparing to run for president, Kennedy dropped by Congressman Tip O’Neill’s office. He wasn’t there to talk about public policy; he wanted to know from the congressman’s political aide, Tommy Mullen, precisely how neighborhoods in O’Neill’s Boston district had voted.

Together, Kennedy and Mullen went over the vote totals from Irish, Italian, and Jewish neighborhoods, precinct by precinct. Years later, O’Neill was still amazed by the sight of the future president and his own aide combing through the numbers. “I’d never seen anybody study the voting patterns of ethnic and religious groups in a systematic way before,” O’Neill told Matthews, “and I don’t think that most people realized then, or appreciate now, that Jack Kennedy was a very sophisticated student of politics.”

The key word is “student,” because Kennedy wasn’t a natural politician the way that, say, Bill Clinton was. Before running for office in 1946, Kennedy’s social world was pretty much confined to Harvard, Palm Beach, Hyannis Port, and London. He knew little of working class Boston and, surprisingly, not much about Irish Americans. He also knew next to nothing about how people got elected to office. So he set about learning by visiting local politicians and asking their advice.

Along the way, Kennedy wrote what he heard in a notebook. Here are some of the things he jotted down:

“In politics, you don’t have friends, you have confederates.”
“You can buy brains but you can’t buy loyalty.”
“One day they feed you honey, the next (you) will find fish caught in your throat.”
“The best politician is the man who does not think too much of the political consequences of his every act.”

Of all of the things that made John Kennedy a compelling figure, perhaps the least appreciated was his devotion to the craft of politics, something that became, in Matthews’ words, “an essential part of him.”

What does this have to do with cities and leadership? Just this: As we’ve grown in recent decades in our knowledge of urban economies, street-level planning, city design, the value of diversity, government finance and management, we’ve lost an essential leadership skill—the craft of city politics. Put another way, we now have a great storehouse of what ought to be done, but less and less knowledge of how to do it.

We’ve tried to fill in for that missing knowledge with citizen engagement, by asking citizens what they want, and how they’d like it delivered. (I know. I’ve been part of a number of citizen-engagement projects.) But while engaging citizens is helpful, it’s not enough. That’s because, at the end of the day, we still need someone—elected officials, mostly—to put together specific initiatives, explain these proposals to the public, sell the initiatives to other decision makers, work through the details with bureaucrats, make compromises, get the initiatives enacted, and oversee their implementation. You can use any term you want, but I’m pretty sure that JFK would have called this “politics.”

I’ll offer some ideas about dealing with our political knowledge deficit, but let me begin with two caveats. First, city government is not the same as a city. Cities are complex human environments made up of many dynamic parts, from economics and demographics to technology and culture. And cities are themselves nodes in much larger environments—regional, national, and global.

But if local government isn’t the sum of a city, it is surely the most influential part. That’s because only government has the mandate, platform, and most easily mobilized resources for addressing the issues facing a community. Think of government, then, as the rudder of the ship and some of the sails. And politics? That’s how we decide who gets to be helmsman . . . along with a good portion of the crew.

My second caveat is that politics is about two things. First, it’s about electoral politics, which is what brought Jack Kennedy to Tip O’Neill’s office in 1958. In other words, how people get elected. But second, politics is about legislation, which is how groups of elected officials, government regulators, and other decision makers come to consensus (or don’t) about what to do.

Everyone who wants to be a serious civic leader at the neighborhood, city, or regional levels needs to know both kinds of politics: How people get elected, and how government decisions are made. And not in a textbook way. You need to know how your current mayor ran for office, how she put together a winning coalition, and who was part of the coalition. And you need to know how your city’s most important ordinances were crafted, who was part of the discussions, and how the proposals changed as they moved through the process.

Why is this knowledge important? Because you need to be involved in picking the right helmsman to steer your city. And if you’re going to serve on the crew—along with people from government—you better know how they work so you can do your part.

But how can you learn about the two kinds of politics in your city? First, you can learn it as JFK did, by visiting politicians and asking them. (You’ll be surprised by how candid they’ll be if they trust you.) Second, you can hope for more media attention to the craft of politics. This probably won’t come from the traditional media but it might from new media, such as civic websites, podcasts, or even some alternative weekly newspapers.

Finally, you can create your own discussions. I have some experience with this. For a number of years, I moderated a panel of mayors for the annual International Downtown Association conference called “Everything You Ever Wanted to Know about Politics But Were Afraid to Ask Your Mayor.” We got together three or four mayors from around the country and let downtown executives ask them difficult questions.

My favorite came from a woman in Iowa who said, “Our new mayor ran on a platform of putting our organization out of business. How should we deal with that?” I was amazed by how candid the mayors were, offering advice for dealing with politicians, advancing ideas, talking with the public, and a hundred other practical tips on politics. They were so candid that I worried a little about how it might affect their careers. (I’m happy to report that, of the 20 or so mayors who appeared on my panels over the years, two are now governors, one is a U.S. senator, and several are still mayors. To my knowledge, no one suffered from participating.)

Every civic organization could do something like this—put together panels that teach politics to people who don’t want to run for office but want to be effective in their communities. And let me make a distinction here. This is not the same as candidate forums at election time or issue forums at other times. These forums are more like seminars in practical politics, where three or four elected officials talk about how politics really works—and civic leaders learn how they can work better with their elected officials. (If your current political leaders are too cautious, invite some former politicians.)

And it’s not just civic leaders who need to know how politics work. So do people who work in city halls, many of whom are surprisingly uninformed about their mayor and city council. Every college planning department and government management school ought to have seminars with politicians who explain how they got elected and how they put together legislation. And every government professional organization (yes, I’m talking about you, American Planning Association) needs to offer refresher courses at its annual conferences.

Finally, it would be a good idea if politicians talked more about politics among themselves. The thing I noticed about the mayors on my panels was how attentive they were to each other’s stories and advice; it was as if they were taking notes. This kind of peer learning is important because, if we had better politicians, we’d have better cities. And it’s particularly needed on the legislative side of politics because it’s hard to get big things done in communities. Many well-intended politicians aim too high and fail—or too low and accomplish little. Get the politicians together, let them talk about what worked and what didn’t, and they’ll improve each other’s winning percentages—and that of their cities.

John Kennedy would have understood the value of peer learning. For all his eloquence and glamour, JFK was a cautious politician who left little to chance. If someone said he’d vote with Kennedy on a major bill, JFK wanted to be absolutely sure he could depend on it. Apparently, this was something he had learned early in his career from talking with Boston politicians. Something about being fed honey but winding up with a fish in your throat.

The Montana Study and the Untapped Capacity of Communities

July 6, 2011 By Otis White

We need to remind ourselves from time to time that most of what we know about communities and leadership isn’t new; it’s relearned. Here’s an example: a project called the “Montana Study.” The name is misleading, since it wasn’t really a study. Rather, it was a civic experiment that took place in small, windblown towns in Montana during and just after World War II.

By the time it was finished, some of its sponsors consider it a flop —or, if not a flop, not of much interest. But on the contrary, the Montana Study showed us something inspiring and important: that average people living in unexciting places could do remarkable things in behalf of their communities. It was the first and one of the most important large-scale demonstrations of community citizenship ever mounted in the U.S. Only problem was, once it was demonstrated, it was almost entirely forgotten.

That may have been because of where it took place: in tiny towns scattered across a large and remote state. Or the timing: There was a lot on Americans’ minds in the mid-1940s. Or it could have been a result of its academic origins and the confusion caused by its name. Whatever the reason, it’s a shame the Montana Study faded in memory because there was nothing academic about its aim, approach or results, and the lessons learned apply just as well to communities large and small today.

The Montana Study was the brainchild of Ernest O. Melby, the energetic chancellor of the University of Montana system. (An admirer called him “the crusadin’ist educator this state had ever seen.”) Melby was worried about many problems facing Montana, but one of the most worrisome was what would happen to its small towns after World War II. The war was in its third year for Americans, and people like Melby were looking forward to the soldiers’ return. But would they come back to the cattle towns of Montana they had left in 1941 and 1942? And it wasn’t just the soldiers; others had left for work in urban war factories. Would these men and women come back to Saugus once they’d seen Chicago?

Melby thought the best way to bring back the young—and hold on to future generations—was for the towns to make themselves more interesting. So he approached the Rockefeller Foundation with an idea: Help us put together an experiment in engaging citizens in small Montana towns in improving their communities through study, discussion and action.

He must have been persuasive. The foundation approved a three-year grant, Melby put together a small team of professors to design the program and work with communities, and, in September 1944, the team started looking for towns willing to participate. The first place that asked for help was the west Montana farm town of Lonepine, a place so small, one professor wrote, that “the one-man cheese factory just back of Ted Van der Ende’s home makes up the industrial section.”

The approach was simple, unhurried and open-ended. The professors asked the community to organize a group of people who more or less matched the community’s demographics and were willing to devote 10 weeks to study and discussion. Then they offered a framework for the discussions: The first week was “Why Are We Here,” a look at town history. The second was “Our Town and Its People,” a discussion of demographics and origins. Another week was a look at the local economy called “Our Town and Its Work.” Another was “How to Make Life Better in Our Town.” And so on.

Each study group member was asked to research and write a paper to guide one of the discussions. At every session, a member took notes. The professors took the notes back to Missoula, where they typed them up and (using the technology of the day) mimeographed and returned the notes to the group as a record.

Looking back, you might call these discussions consciousness-raising exercises. They were a way of showing citizens how to see problems and opportunities with a fresh perspective and talk about them in new ways. But then what? At the end of the 10 weeks, the professors asked if the group wanted to do anything more than talk, if they wanted to take on some kind of improvement project.

Of the 15 communities that the Montana Study worked in, most did. And as they did, something wonderful happened: The academics stood aside and the citizens took charge. In Lonepine, members of the study group organized their fellow citizens to build a community library. In Conrad, they rallied neighbors to build a recreation center. In Lewistown, they started a folk festival. Some places even went on to create permanent citizens’ committees. The Greater Libby Association stayed together for years, lobbying for a new hospital, tourist attractions and two school bond referendums.

One town, Darby, created a pageant, “Darby Looks at Itself,” that was built around the things the study group had learned about the town. It had a cast of 125 people, plus members of the high school orchestra—in all, better than a fifth of the town’s entire population. A central figure in the drama was the Devil, who represented “outmoded thinking” about natural resources. At the end of the play, a group of woodsmen, worried about forest depletion, threw the Devil off the stage.

By the end of its three-year life, the Montana Study had awakened citizens in more than a dozen towns to their communities’ possibilities, moved most of these places to take action and started attracting attention around the country. (In the years shortly afterward, educators in 12 other states and five foreign countries borrowed the Montana Study’s guidebooks to begin community study programs. Leaders in one Kansas town wrote, asking how they could “do a Darby” and organize their own community pageant.)

Unfortunately, the Montana Study no longer had Ernest Melby, who had moved from Missoula to, of all places, New York to be a dean at New York University. And for all the good it did in these communities, the Montana Study’s organizers neglected to build institutional or political support. After Melby left, academics at Montana’s colleges made it clear they weren’t interested in tromping around the state, helping people with community problems. The Rockefeller Foundation declined to fund the project any longer, and the Montana Legislature said no as well.

Because it didn’t endure, some associated with the Montana Study thought it really hadn’t accomplished much, but others saw it for what it was: an astonishingly successful experiment in citizen engagement—and a remarkable instrument for energizing communities. One who was involved in the project, Richard Waverly Poston, wrote a few years later:

. . . The Montana Study is of the greatest significance to America’s small communities themselves, no matter where they may be. For here is a technique through which ordinary men and women can coordinate for their own welfare the forces of education, religion, government, economics, culture, and democratic neighborliness, and by this simple means can lift the whole level of living in America. And, as the people of Conrad and Libby have shown, it can be done without the presence of outside experts. Any group of civic-minded men and women in any small community who desire to improve their own town, and are willing to take the trouble, can of their own initiative utilize the techniques of the Montana Study.

When I learned of the Montana Study a few years ago and got hold of the two books about it and the handful of academic papers, it was like finding my own community work—and the work of others I’ve admired—sealed in a time capsule from another era. All the elements of modern-day citizen engagement are there: Seek a cross-section of the community, offer them a structured approach to learning, put them in charge of their own research and discussions, don’t direct but seek only to facilitate. In the end, ask them if they want to go further—and accept if they don’t. But know this: Once most people have been awakened to new possibilities and new ways of thinking about their towns, cities or neighborhoods, they won’t be comfortable with the old ways. And most times they’ll want to turn that new understanding into action.

That’s what happened in Lonepine and a dozen other Montana towns in the 1940s. It could happen in your city too.

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“What” Before “How”

A Formula for Change

Smart Citizen Engagement . . . and Dumb, Dumb, Dumb

Why You Should Learn to Think like a Politician

The Montana Study and the Untapped Capacity of Communities

About Otis White

The Great Project

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