Empathy Is Wicked Hahd

I’m reading an Irish book about empathy; it’s called Ionbha: the Empathy Book for Ireland. The proceeds from the book support an empathy programme (as they like to spell it) and curriculum in the Irish schools that has data to show empathy can and is being learned. If you are wondering how to pronounce it, it’s eye-bah. Great, another language that only sounds out a fraction of its letters. I’m looking at you French.

But back to empathy. The book is a series of reflections of people all across Ireland from a postal worker to the president of Ireland, who by the way is also a published poet. That’s about as Irish as it gets, isn’t it? I can only imagine what the “Freedom Caucus” would make of that. The president is a poet and is grooming our children for literacy and beauty and having fun with words! Protect our kids!

See what I mean? One minute I’m tearing up over a moving poem by the Irish president/published poet, about brothers being different and losing connection, and the next minute I’m cursing the people in congress who seem intent on tearing down our democracy. Gah.

Empathy is wicked hahd to sustain, but sometimes I can grab a little piece. Riding the T in Boston is an opportunity for so many things: frustration, despair, joy when it actually works, practicing patience, tolerating sticky seats or people watching videos on their phones who seem to have left their earphones at home, and sometimes experiencing empathy. Not long ago, on my way home from a very frustrating day at work, an older couple got on. The woman sat next to me and the man stood. My head was filled with work nonsense, so it took a while for my thoughts to swim to the surface, and I became aware that he was shifting uncomfortably. I thought about offering my seat, but I’ve learned over the years most older men will say no, and then they stand a little straighter, and you can tell you’ve just insulted them. But I was spared further mental handwringing when the person on the other side of me left the train and the man sat down gratefully. I saw the couple make eye contact, actually their eyes were twinkling, and I offered to let them sit next to each other. They thanked me profusely, but he politely declined. After another stop, the seat next to her opened up, and he got up and sat next to her. We smiled at each other, and they both reassured me that they appreciated my offer very much.

[Ok, I have to interrupt my own story right here. I voice recorded this incident when I got off the train, because I was sure I would forget it in the 10 minutes it would take me to get home. In the transcription right here, it literally says “Shade of Manchester fuck you.” I can assure you I said no such thing. How is it that even when I’m trying to describe a beautiful human interaction, it still comes out sounding to Siri like I’m a yelling about the ridiculousness of the world?]

Anyway, back to my story. I told them I noticed the spark in their eyes for each other, and she said they have been together 45 years, so I said bless you, because I’m not a total jerk. Also, I believe being able to stay together 10 years is an achievement. Still liking each other after 45 years? These folks were at the top of their game. We start chatting, and she said “It’s something I observed, that at some stops there are no buses.” And we started joking that if you get off at that stop, you are out of luck and you are on your own. There was something in the way she said “I observed.” Such careful use of language that made my writer heart feel lighter, happier. Or maybe it was just basking in their contented sphere. When the train got to my stop, sure enough, it was one without buses or other train connections. I was on my own. They seem surprised that I was getting off, and like caring parents, told me to be careful and that there were a lot of crazy people out there. I thanked them and thought there is also our own crazy self in our own head. And if I can look up sometimes, observe, see a twinkle and connect with some fellow human beings, I won’t be on my own.