AI Can’t Linger Over Dinner

I recently attended a salon networking dinner for public policy professionals. The guests discussed the many ways artificial intelligence is threatening civic life in America. Many were worried that AI is fragmenting our shared lives and eroding our sense of community. But it was hard to miss the irony: we were sitting around a beautiful table, wine glasses full, reconnecting with old friends and meeting new ones, laughing and talking with people of varying backgrounds and perspectives. Our anxiety about AI’s social costs had, in the moment, done just the opposite—brought us closer together. That paradox says something about human nature and even more about the American experience. And it’s also why AI is unlikely to unravel a social fabric that two and a half centuries of change and disruption has not.

The widespread concern, even fear, about AI is understandable. In an extremely short period of time, AI has transformed how we learn, work, and engage with the world around us. Some of the dinner guests expressed dismay about schools over-relying on AI in the classroom, worried it might short-circuit the socialization and the struggle young children need to develop. Others confessed they’ve been tempted to replace the banter of a family text chain—where they might ask  questions about home improvements or car repairs—for the smooth efficiency of AI instead. And we’ve all seen the horror stories of women falling in love with their AI chatbots. 

A Nation of Joiners

Every American generation has feared that political, social, and technological shifts would fray our connective tissue in irreparable ways. Political scientist Robert Putnam, author of Bowling Alone, described the American story as one of “ups and downs in civic engagement.” But if the past is any indication of what’s to come, we have genuine reason for optimism. Despite wars, migrations, immigration spikes, industrial and technological revolutions, Americans have repeatedly demonstrated the ability to adapt and refashion their collective desire for social engagement. 

That history of civic participation stretches back to the time of the founding, when Americans took part in voluntary associations to engage with ideas, prepare for public life, and foster a culture of self-improvement. The eighteenth century’s mutual improvement societies—quaintly called gentlemen’s clubs—and its college literary societies are just two examples of the kinds of institutions that prepared young men for their roles in civic life. The nineteenth century’s lyceums constructed a vast network of literary and scientific associations to share “useful knowledge” that persisted for decades in antebellum America. As historian Louis Menand writes in his book The Metaphysical Club, about a 19^th-century intellectual network, “ideas are produced not by individuals, but by groups of individuals—that ideas are social.” 

And, of course, Alexis de Tocqueville famously captured this communal spirit, spurred by democratic equality, when he toured America in the early 1830s:

The rapid flow of immigration in the early twentieth century further buttressed the American impulse toward organized associations, and the increase in diversity and distinct subcultures created natural channels for new community organizations. Beginning in 1933, for example, the Rockefeller Foundation’s Refugee Scholar Program brought more than 300 scholars, many of them Jewish, out of Europe into the United States, saving them from brutal deaths. Having lost their homelands, positions at universities, and any wealth they may have had, many academic exiles in America recreated the intellectual societies they left behind on the Continent, such as the Entretiens de Pontigny, a series of summer gatherings held at Mount Holyoke College during the war. In the same distinctly American spirit that Tocqueville captured a century before, these refugees not only rebuilt the academic communities they had been forced to leave behind, but also helped invigorate knowledge and learning in their new land. 

It’s no secret that the vibrant civic life that long defined American culture has changed, and at times struggled. As Putnam argues, beginning in the mid-twentieth century, suburban sprawl, long commutes, and the rise of mass media drove a decline in civic engagement and by extension social capital and trust in one another. 

As my colleagues at dinner worried, AI now threatens to pull at that thread, further unraveling our social fabric. But despite the disruptions that have eroded certain aspects of civic life in the past, Americans have never fully abandoned their impulse to join. Tocqueville traversed the young nation to document America’s new democratic spirit, but we don’t need to go far to find so many different ways Americans are choosing civic engagement over retreating online.

From Then to Now

Historically, Americans have long turned to civic associations to tackle societal problems they couldn’t solve alone. Tocqueville observed this pattern, describing that large numbers of Americans, “frightened by the progress that drunkenness was making around them” banded together to address it. Nearly two centuries after Tocqueville, Washington, DC, residents have created a community organization to tackle a different collective action problem—the elimination of mosquitos. Because the insects travel indiscriminately between yards and neighborhoods, no single household can solve the problem on their own. It requires everyone’s participation. This was the logic behind the Itty Bitty Mosquito Population Committee, a voluntary association driving the non-toxic elimination of mosquitos from Capitol Hill and other parts of the city. The group uses online tools—sharing maps, assisting with coordination—to help organize, but the tools aren’t the point. It's a form of civic engagement that is addressing a problem while building neighborly goodwill and trust.  

Many other civic institutions today are animated by the same spirit of self-improvement that drove their counterparts in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Every summer, in a small New England town my family visits, a running club draws dozens of people—year-rounders and seasonal visitors alike—three times a week. What began as a way to log miles has grown into something more: a network that raises money for local causes, organizes community activities, and bridges the gap between those who live there during the winter months and those who only arrive for the summer. As the group’s unofficial motto puts it, “come for the run, stay for the beer.” It’s a small example, but it’s the kind of voluntary, cross-cutting association Tocqueville would have recognized 200 years ago, and it’s serving an equally important purpose today. 

In a similar American tradition, many civic organizations today continue to coalesce around religious values. In the wake of October 7^th, a group of Jewish parents at our children’s DC Episcopal school felt something that many American communities have experienced in moments of loss and tragedy: isolation, despite living side by side with one another. In response, they created a Jewish parents group—a monthly gathering, rotating among different families’ homes, providing a space to share concerns, celebrate holidays, and build friendships that hadn’t existed before. The circle has since widened to include parents from nearby schools as well as teachers. 

Not everyone shares the same politics or perspectives, but that’s one key point of civic institutions in America. Much like the bowling leagues of the twentieth century that Putnam described, these new associations remain a place where a shared interest trumps differences on other fronts, providing a healthy space for neighbors to engage with one another even so. 

Some of the most vital civic communities today have emerged out of a deep-rooted American concern over “idleness.” My mother, now 83, belongs to “The Women’s Group”—a weekly gathering where speakers are invited to share something about their professional or creative work. Largely attended by retirees, this group reflects what historian Cindy Aron described as “working at play”—a uniquely modern blending of recreation and self-improvement. It’s the same impulse that gave rise to intellectual retreats like those of the Chautauqua Institution. The Women’s Group has heard from newspaper publishers, poets, art collectors, early female venture capitalists, educators, and more. What’s particularly remarkable is the way it often bridges generations, giving older and younger women alike an opportunity to learn from one another and build the kind of social capital that so often atrophies in retirement years. 

Whether it’s the revival of mahjong parties for young mothers, the rise in hacky sack circles pulling students onto lawns across high schools, or even major media outlets hosting in-person dinner parties, the desire to gather is not only inherently human, but also deeply American. Just as they have throughout American history, civic groups like the ones described here can solve community problems, stave off loneliness, and create knowledge; but they also serve a larger purpose that should not be overlooked. By cutting across social networks and forging relationships among people with different backgrounds, politics, interests, and generations, voluntary associations have always been the building blocks of American self-governance. The Founders understood this when they participated in their literary societies, and Tocqueville documented it further: “from that moment they are no longer isolated men, but a power seen from afar, whose actions serve as an example and whose language is listened to.” In short, the neighbor you meet at the block party is, in a sense, your fellow citizen in training. 

Designing for the Encounter

Returning to my salon dinner, and the concerns raised that night, it’s clear AI is stress testing contemporary civic engagement. The question for Americans, however, is not whether they will continue to find ways to gather; 250 years of history suggests civic engagement will always be a fundamental part of American life. Rather, the question is whether we can be intentional about how we engage with this new technology, so that it strengthens, rather than frays, our social fabric. Now is the moment to pay attention to the areas where this technology risks undermining our community norms. We should consider how we can design the conditions, rules, and structures around AI that can support our pluralistic, civic-minded goals. 

Technology writer Virginia Postrel argues that people have agency in moments like this. She describes a tension between “dynamism” and “stasis”; her work suggests the answer to our fears about AI’s effect on society is not to shut it all down, nor to be complacent about the design. Rather, it’s to choose, deliberately, how we build. That’s very much in line with Pope Leo XIV’s recent encyclical on AI, in which he quotes 1 Corinthians: “Let each builder choose with care how to build” (1 Cor 3:10), a clear call for intentionality and accountability in how we construct and use this technology. Similarly, UK science writer Matt Ridley, author of The Rational Optimist, argues that society will benefit from a more dynamic approach to AI development—one in which “a whole ecosystem of different species of AI” can develop. As he puts it, “diversity itself is the safeguard,” helping Americans benefit from the technology while protecting their values and way of life.

AI has tremendous potential to revolutionize our world, but it can’t replace the conversation at a book club or the spirited debate at a salon dinner. These are the places where relationships are fostered and new knowledge is produced. They are the kind of encounters AI simply can’t provide. The solution is not to reject the technology outright; rather, it’s to remember our deep American impulse to gather, and to build the guardrails around this technology that let our civic life continue to flourish.