T
he social contract behind mutual aid is simple and elegant. It’s a system of engaging with one another rooted in the belief that survival is a communal project as opposed to an individual one. Six months deep into a pandemic, this is the value proliferating impactful reciprocal networks that match exigent needs with specific and timely responses. There’s very likely a network operating in your neighborhood, offering grocery and pharmacy runs and deliveries, mental health check-ins and other forms of support. Before COVID-19, the term might’ve only rung a bell in anti-capitalist circles, but these days, news outlets round up mutual aid projects as glimmers of positivity and ask if this mode of organizing will outlast the pandemic.
As both the term “mutual aid” and its mode of community engagement become mainstream, there’s the creeping risk of co-optation or rather, a corrosion to its meaning. Mutual aid is not a corporate medium nor can it live inside the charitable non-profit model. It’s not scalable or “productivizeable” by the tech economy. Mutual aid’s values live in a specific, non-hierarchical and symbiotic exchange of care for which capitalism makes no space.
I
n the realm of food, the most recent and visible mutual aid efforts come in the form of free community fridges maintained and stocked by volunteers in various cities across the country. These fridges showcase a different sort of social concern for others compared to the world of food-centered charity, where even giving away your leftovers could count as a gracious act. These fridges emphasize both quality and cultural specificity of the food stocked and offered by and for the community.
The first occasion I came across one was in early June when Zenat Begum, owner of Playground Coffee in Brooklyn, put out a free fridge in front of her coffee shop filled with colorful fruits and vegetables after downsizing her shop’s operations. A more recent effort in the Bay Area comes from Cheetah, a San Francisco based wholesale food supplier which exclusively supplied restaurants but has pivoted to include a direct-to-consumer grocery service since the pandemic. The company has put up several fridges across the region that are stocked from inventory it wasn't able to sell to restaurants and customers and that food pantries wouldn't take due to their own demands and restrictions. It reminds me of the Whitney Museum’s now-cancelled show wherein the museum planned to exhibit works by Black artists who sold their prints for $100 towards mutual aid funds. Cheetah rerouting its self-created food waste through a mutual aid model feels just as flagrant. When well-monied organizations like the Whitney or Cheetah, the latter which raised $36 million this spring rounding out its total investments to nearly $68 million, interact with mutual aid projects, they distort them. The mutuality is lopsided. It reads like publicity strategy rather than honest participation.
