The Commons We Keep: Why Civic Spaces Matter

Not long ago, after a Commission meeting, I decided to take a stroll through Uptown. It was a warm evening, and Clearview Common was humming with life. A family played with their children on the grass. A couple walked their dog past a bench where two teenagers sat with ice cream and earbuds. No one owned that little triangle of land—and yet it belonged to everyone. There was no entry fee, no transaction, no agenda. Just a shared place doing what shared places do best: quietly holding us together.

It’s easy to overlook civic space. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t shout. It simply works—until it doesn’t. And when it disappears, a community loses more than benches or bricks. It loses part of its soul.

The Civic Heartbeat

Civic space is more than land set aside for leisure. It is the stage on which public life unfolds. It’s where we pass each other on the sidewalk, cheer for kids at the playground, hold farmers markets, rally for causes, remember our veterans, mourn our losses, and celebrate our wins.

These spaces take many forms—parks and plazas, libraries and firehouses, staircases and sidewalks. Some are grand, like a Carnegie Library. Others are humble: a shaded bench beneath a sycamore, or a quiet corner lot turned into a community garden.

But they all do something profoundly democratic. They give people the chance to encounter one another, to share space and time without filters or algorithms. In a world that often pushes us into private lanes, civic spaces remind us that we’re still part of a whole.

Under Pressure

And yet, these spaces are fragile. Too often, they’re the first things cut when budgets tighten or the last to be rebuilt after decline. They’re pushed aside for parking lots, walled off by design, or handed over to private interests who shape them for profit, not the public.

We see it in over-programmed public squares that leave no room for spontaneity. In sidewalks that end where the budget ran out. In playgrounds with broken swings, or community halls used only for rental income.

These are symptoms of a larger trend—a slow, quiet erosion of the commons. And if we’re not paying attention, we might not realize what we’ve lost until the spaces that once connected us are gone.

Why It Matters

Civic space isn’t a luxury. It’s foundational. And the data backs that up.

Well-designed parks and greenways improve public health and reduce crime. Civic centers and libraries are engines of education, equity, and inclusion. Safe, walkable streets aren’t just good for families—they’re good for small businesses, property values, and the environment.

Civic space is also where democracy gets practiced. You don’t build civic trust in a vacuum. You build it face-to-face—at the park, the fire station, the community center, the crosswalk. That’s where neighbors become collaborators, where disagreement finds context, where belonging takes root.

This is part of why I’ve been proud to serve on the Mt. Lebanon Mobility Board and help guide MoveLebo, our effort to rethink how people move through and inhabit our public realm. Sometimes the work is technical—adjusting traffic flow, proposing new bike racks, looking at curb design. But all of it is in service of something bigger: creating places where people want to be together, safely and with dignity.

The Places We Dream About

If you’ve ever strolled through a piazza in Italy, sat at a café on a French boulevard, or explored a German Christmas market, then you’ve experienced what well-designed civic space can do. European towns and cities are built on layers of public life—spaces that invite people to linger, to gather, to move at a human pace.

Americans flock to these places on vacation, not just for the architecture or the food, but for how it feels to be there. The rhythm of public life, the accessibility of beauty, the sense of shared ownership—it’s all part of what makes those places memorable.

And yet, we rarely build that kind of space here at home.

In the U.S., we’ve spent decades prioritizing throughput over place, speed over experience. Too many of our public spaces are designed for cars, not people. We’ve forgotten that the places we love most are often the ones built slow, for togetherness, and with care.

But we don’t have to import this idea. It’s already in our civic DNA—in the small-town greens, the neighborhood parks, the old trolley lines. We just have to remember how to build for people again.

Building for the Long Haul

If we want civic space to last, we have to design and fund it that way. That means resisting the temptation to think short-term or slapdash. It means choosing durable materials, inclusive layouts, and timeless design. It means planning for shade and rest and access. It means thinking about maintenance, not just ribbon-cuttings.

And yes, it means funding. Not just one-time grants, but long-term commitments. As someone with a background in public finance, I can tell you: good civic space pays dividends. But it requires stable partnerships—between agencies, across governments, and with the people who use the space every day.

There’s a reason some of the most beloved civic places haven’t changed much in decades: they were built with care, with intention, and with the long view in mind.

A Mirror and a Promise

Ultimately, civic space is a mirror. It reflects the values of the people who build it—and the people who let it crumble.

Do we believe in shared responsibility? In public beauty? In equal access? If so, our civic spaces should show it. They should be places of welcome, connection, and resilience. They should invite everyone in and ask nothing in return but respect and care.

This is the kind of community I believe in. One where we treat public space not as an afterthought, but as a promise. A promise that we are still in this together. That we still believe in neighbors. That we are willing to plant trees under whose shade we may never sit.

The Bench and the Blueprint

I sometimes think back to that bench at Clearview Common. It probably cost a few hundred dollars to install. But what’s the value of a place where strangers nod to each other in the evening light? What’s the worth of a space where people feel seen?

We don’t need more monuments to isolation. We need more places that bring us together. That’s not just a matter of design—it’s a matter of will.

And if we choose it, if we plan it, if we care for it, civic space will care for us in return.

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About Andrew Flynn

Andrew is a Mt. Lebanon commissioner, public finance and policy expert, volunteer firefighter, and community advocate committed to building safer, more resilient, and better-connected neighborhoods. Through public service and hands-on experience, Andrew works every day to make a positive impact in our community.

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