Entry 7︎︎︎ How Does Empathy Endure?
Written by Isabel Romero
Empathy is as titular as oxygen for me; to live without it is to asphyxiate.
I am often asked how my empathy does not run dry, how it does not diminish. I spend Monday through Friday, writing and talking about the horrible state of multilateral institutions, with colleagues in the field desperately trying to deliver services to growing numbers of people in need from preventable causes, and studiously learning what new daily provisions and legislations are targeted at minorities and humanitarian action groups. On Saturday’s, I spend a few hours of my time with neighbors preparing to feed hundreds of neighbors in need of warm meals for the day, teaching them strategic and safe ways to wrap hundreds of sandwiches efficiently, and learning from those more experienced than I on how to protect and creatively lead people that are under fire from the racist and cruel police state that is rampant in this country. On the train and in the moments of reprieve, I read to survive. Stories, fantasies, statistics, theories; anything I can get my hands on to learn more of what I don’t know yet.
How does my empathy not deteriorate? It’s not my own. My life became infinitely less boring when I stopped caring solely about myself, my family, my circles. What a shame would this life be if it was spent in echo circles, chambers, cages. Confined to thought I thought was indisputable. I am energized by others with empathy, not those whose backgrounds or livelihoods are identical to my own, but who have hope in empathy’s shape.
I was recently introduced as a voracious reader in an introduction, and while flattering, it created a realization that there is a direct line between empathy and reading. Postmodernism in this surveillance, technological landscape has normalized debating and “rage-bating,” as it’s so aptly named. I think these are a byproduct of the fear of not being seen or heard, so we increase our volume and refuse to see or hear. With reading, this philosophical sparring is not plausible. A dwindled, quiet bias is a requirement to digest someone else’s voice. It’s simple, it’s empathetic, it’s human. This skill can quickly atrophy when neglected or misused in this aforementioned nonpersonal, technologized state. Reading is empathy’s inexchangeable lifeline.
A response to and in conversation with the May 19, 2023 essay.
I am often asked how my empathy does not run dry, how it does not diminish. I spend Monday through Friday, writing and talking about the horrible state of multilateral institutions, with colleagues in the field desperately trying to deliver services to growing numbers of people in need from preventable causes, and studiously learning what new daily provisions and legislations are targeted at minorities and humanitarian action groups. On Saturday’s, I spend a few hours of my time with neighbors preparing to feed hundreds of neighbors in need of warm meals for the day, teaching them strategic and safe ways to wrap hundreds of sandwiches efficiently, and learning from those more experienced than I on how to protect and creatively lead people that are under fire from the racist and cruel police state that is rampant in this country. On the train and in the moments of reprieve, I read to survive. Stories, fantasies, statistics, theories; anything I can get my hands on to learn more of what I don’t know yet.
How does my empathy not deteriorate? It’s not my own. My life became infinitely less boring when I stopped caring solely about myself, my family, my circles. What a shame would this life be if it was spent in echo circles, chambers, cages. Confined to thought I thought was indisputable. I am energized by others with empathy, not those whose backgrounds or livelihoods are identical to my own, but who have hope in empathy’s shape.
I was recently introduced as a voracious reader in an introduction, and while flattering, it created a realization that there is a direct line between empathy and reading. Postmodernism in this surveillance, technological landscape has normalized debating and “rage-bating,” as it’s so aptly named. I think these are a byproduct of the fear of not being seen or heard, so we increase our volume and refuse to see or hear. With reading, this philosophical sparring is not plausible. A dwindled, quiet bias is a requirement to digest someone else’s voice. It’s simple, it’s empathetic, it’s human. This skill can quickly atrophy when neglected or misused in this aforementioned nonpersonal, technologized state. Reading is empathy’s inexchangeable lifeline.
A response to and in conversation with the May 19, 2023 essay.