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A part of me has always hated parades. I can understand why parents take their kids to them – it’s something free and different to do, a way to spend time together outside without having to plan or do much. But I don’t have kids, and my memories of going to parades when I was a kid are generally defined by being bored and uncomfortable.

I remember sitting in the sun as forgettable floats slowly inched by, the smells of sunscreen and sweat wafting in the air, surrounded by fidgety crowds, which inevitably led to at least some unwanted social interactions. All the while I could have been watching TV or reading a book or going to the beach — or potentially all three of those in the same time it takes for a parade to finish. And that’s to say nothing of traffic disruptions and litter left behind.

But lately I’ve been seeing videos and pictures on social media of the parades happening around the island, and it’s made me soften my position. I’ve seen friends and their young kids smiling and throwing shakas, jamming to music. I’ve seen former students performing music and dance for their communities, and getting celebrated for it. I’m starting to see the value of these parades in spite of the mild nuisances they pose.

True, I’m perhaps more sympathetic because I enjoyed the parades at a digital distance, which eliminated much of the stuff I hate about being at one. But I can also track a change in myself, an appreciation for something I had never noticed before: how people use public space.

During parades, people unfold lawn chairs and park coolers along the sidewalks in places where normally it would be seen as weird, if not inconsiderate. That’s a function of how so many of the roads here are designed: with ultimate deference to motor vehicles.

Anyone who regularly walks – whether for recreation, leisure or transportation – can attest to the narrowness of Hawaii’s sidewalks, the awkwardness of passing others or trying to walk side-by-side with someone, the perpetual closeness of the street. With some exceptions that are mostly in urban Honolulu, sidewalks here are essentially above-ground mole tunnels, the only use of which is to scurry from one place to the next. And that’s when there’s actually something there to walk on.

But public space is supposed to be for general use, to maximize our ability to live in this place and enjoy it. Instead, it’s often left untamed and unwelcoming, stapled onto the side of Where Cars Go, with all the flexibility and aesthetic forethought of a court order.

Growing up, I had never considered the idea that there could be a function for public space, because I had never experienced it. If I walked to 7-Eleven or skated to my friend’s house, I understood that part of the journey would take place on a sidewalk or grass, and part of it would take place on the street, because that’s how everything just is.

But when I lived in Seoul, I experienced for the first time what it was like to live somewhere that was designed for people first instead of motor vehicles. It was radicalizing.

Not only were there multiple paths for biking and walking to get to almost anywhere – often nowhere near automotive traffic – they were regularly dotted with benches, rest areas and exercise stations. On my walk to work, I’d see groups of elderly friends talking and eating together, grandparents getting some movement in while their grandkids learn to walk next to them, coworkers stretching their legs while on break. You know, people living their lives.

You don’t need to congregate in a park, because ordinary walkways are places you can be. It’s less restrictive, making communities more lively, and more human. And since cars aren’t given as much space to metastasize into, it’s rare to see someone driving a Hummer or Ford F-450, because they feel like the outrageous vehicles they actually are.

When we talk about communities coming together, we often think in terms of financial support, emotional harmony or social generosity: chipping in to the GoFundMe for the neighborhood aunty who fell on hard times, re-posting photos of the surfboard that got stolen or simply chatting it up with your neighbors.

Those are all important, but there’s a concrete dimension to communities coming together, without which the idea becomes a shapeless platitude. How can we come together in a cosmic, metaphorical sense when the physical realities of our public spaces are designed to make it difficult to actually be together?

Parades demonstrate how the physical and psychic intersect. They offer a vision, however imperfect, of how we can be, and be better.