The church basement is cold for April. I pull my sweater tighter, watching condensation bead on the windows. Outside, rain drums steady on pavement—the third day of it, warm and relentless, the kind of spring rain we never used to get. Someone's phone buzzes. The fluorescent lights hum their familiar complaint.

Forty-three people in folding chairs. My daughter sits to my left, notebook open, pen tapping against her knee. To my right, the woman who taught me to run a community garden in 2021, back when we were just trying to feed ourselves through the first bad summer.

The facilitator reads the terms again. Three years of state climate funding, renewable once. Enough money to expand solar to every block, build the greenhouse, pay stipends for work people do for free now. The conditions: quarterly reports, annual audits, state procurement rules, participation in a statewide learning network.

I've already decided how I'll vote.

Someone asks about negotiating the reporting requirements. The facilitator says probably not—standard grant agreement. Someone else asks what happens if we don't comply. They can claw back the funding.

My daughter shifts beside me. She's been writing applications for six months, trying to describe what we built without making it sound like we need saving. She wants this money. She thinks we can take it and stay ourselves.

I keep thinking about the food co-op.

We started it in 1994 in this same basement. Kept it running sixteen years before we got our own space. Made every decision together—slowly, arguing through what to stock, how to price it, who could shop there. We never had to explain ourselves to anyone outside the neighborhood.

The co-op still exists. It's bigger now, more efficient. But something changed when we got the community development grant in 2010. The money helped, we expanded, we served more people. Gradually the questions changed. Instead of "what does this neighborhood need," we started asking "what can we justify to grant reviewers." We stopped experimenting and failing and learning. We started replicating "best practices" from other funded projects.

I remember the meeting where we voted to stop carrying produce from Mrs. Okafor's garden because it wasn't certified organic, couldn't be documented properly for the reports. She'd been growing food for us for eight years. Her tomatoes were better than anything we could buy. But they didn't fit the reporting categories.

That's when I knew we'd lost something.

The facilitator calls for discussion. A young man stands—he's been coordinating mutual aid since the 2027 floods. He talks about paying people for work they already do, legitimizing what we've built, having resources for the next crisis.

He's right about all of that. The money would help.

We built this because no one was coming to help us. We learned to trust each other more than institutions. That started as survival strategy. Over time it became a different way of organizing life. We made decisions through consensus because we had to listen to each other. We shared resources because we couldn't rely on markets. We developed expertise because we couldn't afford consultants.

What happens when we don't have to anymore?

Someone asks about the learning network. The facilitator explains: quarterly calls with other funded communities, annual convenings, sharing data and strategies. Someone says that sounds valuable—we could learn from other places.

My daughter leans close, whispers: "We can do this. We can take the money and stay ourselves."

Maybe. I've watched institutions fund management. They fund replication of approved models. They'll give us money to adapt to climate change while maintaining the economic structures that made adaptation necessary. They'll celebrate our "innovative approaches" while leaving the systems intact.

The facilitator asks if anyone else wants to speak. The room is quiet. People are tired.

I raise my hand. Stand up.

"I think we should vote no."

My daughter closes her eyes.

Someone asks: "So we just stay small?"

"We've been struggling for fifty years. We're still here. We're still strong."

The facilitator calls for the vote. Hands go up. Hands stay down. Someone counts.

The room holds its breath.