The Agony of Empathy

"I hate that I care." 

Five simple words. Spoken to me by a dear friend during my first year of teaching. You see, my friend Brad and I were both social studies teacher who had chosen to work at the two lowest-performing schools in the district, he at the lowest-performing high school and myself at the lowest-performing middle school in Forsyth County, North Carolina. Our stories and our struggles were one and the same: how a lack of funding had put a strain on our schools and how our students of color were essentially penalized for their upbringing. Because, in a way, they were. School test scores were based not on where you started, but where you ended up. While Brad's and my students greatly improved throughout the year, they were starting from so far behind that they inevitably would end up failing to meet state proficiency standards. Failing to meet those standards led to our schools having a negative reputation. That negative reputation led to White flight. White flight led to our schools being populated by the local communities that were overwhelmingly low-income communities of color. And low-income students of color, having been denied resources their entire lives, came to school overwhelmingly behind in their education, often being two, three, or even four grades behind in their basic skills and therefore would underperform on state-mandated tests.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

Sadly, I couldn't help but shake my head when Brad said what he said. Because it was all too true. I did hate that I cared. I did hate that I was witness to a broken system that penalized those for being on the wrong end of the lottery of life. I did hate that our school was constantly getting one- and two- star reviews online simply because of our low test scores. I did hate the fact that a pair of White parents complained that a secretary spoke to them in both English and Spanish when they entered the office to drop off their daughter for her first day at school. And, most of all, I did hate that while Brad and I were there in the trenches, there were others in our very own profession who had no idea of the discrepancies and disparities that existed in schools less than a single mile away from their own.

Brad and I were not heroes. In fact, neither he nor I continue to teach in the trenches today. Brad went onto become as associate college history professor and I worked my way into community organizing. But his words have stuck with me to this day. I hate that I care. I feel this phrase in my bones. It jolts me to my core. It often keeps me up at night. Why do I care? Why does it bother me when I see a Syracuse police officer rough up a ten-year-old boy over a bag of chips? Why do I get riled up when immigrants are bused from Texas to Washington, DC? Why am I enraged when Florida bans the teaching of LGBT acceptance in its schools. Why am I saddened when the entire state of Oklahoma bans abortion? Where do all these emotions come from?

The answer is empathy.

Empathy is the emotion that makes action possible. Empathy is what allows those of us who were lucky enough to win the lottery of life by being White, male, cisgender, middle-class, and a non-immigrant care. Empathy is the driving emotion that separates us from the Republican Party. Because while this country is based on Enlightenment ideals, it's also built on the ideals that government and society were meant for White, Christian, land-owning men. It's based on the idea that slaves were 3/5 of a person. It's based on the idea that women didn't exist as they are not mentioned a single time in the United States Constitution. After all, they are our founding fathers not our morning mothers for a reason. It's why our most prolific speeches over the past two centuries have centered on this idea of a more perfect union. Because all our great leaders have known that despite our country's history of success, there remains a significant amount of work yet to do. 

This is why we care. We are all students of history. We know that an injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere, as Dr. King so eloquently put. We see ourselves in the pain and suffering of others. Whether it's our own lived experience, or faith in a higher being, or a moral compass passed to us from our elders, or a combination thereof, each and every one of us has made a conscientious decision to dedicate a significant portion of our lives to helping the less fortunate. It's the lens through which we view the world and it allows us to see what others may miss. We see the young gang member as troubled rather than trouble. We see the single mother as brave rather than a burden. We see the homeless man as dignified rather than disgusting. We see the transgender teen as glowing rather than grotesque. Our worldview is shaped by an understanding that people often end up in situations through no fault of their own. That systemic racism is part of the DNA of this country. That those who look different, or pray differently, or love differently, or come from a foreign land, will be unfairly judged by those who want to keep them down. Because keeping them down is much less work than raising them up. 

That right there is the difference. Democrats are willing to put in the work to provide a helping hand. Not a handout, mind you, but a hand in getting these individuals and these communities to the next rung of the social ladder. We understand the cards they've been dealt and why those cards are intentionally ones that put them at a disadvantage. Republicans would like nothing better to continue their centuries-old practices of oppression. But Democrats are speaking up. Voting rights. Women's rights. LGBTQIA+ rights. The most diverse cabinet in history. A total of 59 federal judges appointed with 3/4 of them being women. Reclaiming native lands. Reinstituting loan forgiveness for those who have gone into the nonprofit field. There is not a single non-White male group that hasn't had its quality of life significantly enhanced by this current Democratic administration. All because of an empathy emanating from Joe Biden, a man who himself has dealt with, and overcome, great personal loss. 

It feels overwhelming at times. Dare I say, often. But we are not alone in this fight. We are the army of the good. We're built differently. Some of us, like my friend Brad would say, probably have a screw loose. But, we're right. We're right in what we're doing. We're right to fight against these fascist Republicans who want to tear down everything we hold dear. We're right to go door-to-door to elect a school board member who isn't obsessed with CRT. We're right to peacefully counterprotest the White supremacists gathering on the local town square. We're right to go and speak out against the councilman who was caught on tape using a racially derogatory term at the local city council meeting. We're right to vote for Democrats each and every election and to do everything in our power to make sure Democrats are elected up and down the ballot. And we're right in knowing that deep down in our hearts of hearts, we are making a difference for those who have been intentionally left behind.

The work isn't easy. There is much more to do. But we're in this together. We care. We care about our friends and our families. We care about our communities, both physical and online. We care about the next generations, even though they have yet be born. We care because we're human and care and concern is at the heart of who we are as a species. Many of us have lost that sense of caring. But the majority haven't. The majority of us do care and we care about those we don't even personally know. It is through our empathy and our compassion that we will continue to strive to perfect our union. Because to admit imperfection is to admit there is more work that needs to be done. 

And it is an empathy in ourselves that allows us to do this work, even when it hurts.