Empathy’s New Tilt for Erik

Vulnerability’s Bonus

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The steps were broad. The railings on both sides were sturdy. Erik slid his hands along the railings, pulling himself up one step at a time, always putting his left foot first and then his right.

Each step up in the dark took him closer to Denise's second-floor apartment, which still had light coming from its street-side window, even though it was past 1:00 a.m. and he had said good night to her 45 minutes earlier.

Eric's confrontation with Denise was now inevitable. There was no turning back. He had driven 10 miles, almost back home, and then turned around in the middle of a country road to return to town during the dewy, moonlit September evening.

As he reached the top of the stairs, his chest started heaving to get more of the still night air. The landing opened into a broader space than he had first anticipated from ground level, where he left his crutches propped up against the railing at the first step.

Erik tried to walk straight to the door by placing his left foot and then his right in front of him, but, without his crutches, he wobbled and lost his balance. He caught the post behind him with his left hand, regained his stability and started angrily clawing at the stoop's railing, using it for balance in a hand-over-hand series of embraces, to get to the doorway.

Erik had first noticed Denise at a picnic for a Bible study group at his cousin's home. Although he was not part of the study group, his cousin had invited him, and Erik sat on the lawn, obliviously munching potato chips, and watching the group play volleyball in the backyard.

Every time Denise would jump to connect with the ball, she would punctuate her punch with a grunt. Her blond hair, styled like Gloria Steinem's, would flip sensually to the left side of her face.

A daughter of a Lutheran pastor in Indiana, Denise conducted the choirs at the local high school and at Erik's church, where she was also a frequent soloist. She had a raspy speaking voice, which converted surprisingly into a superb soprano on Sunday mornings.

Although Erik did not introduce himself to Denise at the picnic that day, he did call her one night a couple of weeks later and asked her if she wanted to attend "Music Man," a production of the local theater group. To his surprise, she said yes.

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Over the next six months, they would discuss an entire range of topics over quiet dinners which usually preceded a concert or play: the subtleties of Chagall's paintings ... the importance of the feminist movement ... the theology of President Carter ... the discrimination against singlehood. 

Since they were both 33, being single in a coupled world and Betty Friedan's latest volley in the battle between the sexes were their favorite topics, particularly since they liked to haughtily pass judgment on the current stereotypes of women at work and people with disabilities.

Educated in parochial schools and at Luther College in Decorah, Iowa, Denise was a Lutheran feminist, which was an oxymoron in 1976. It was a confusing time for men and women. With little satisfaction, Denise and Erik tried to sort out, during their dinner conversations, the differences between need and dependency, between responsibility and commitment, between empathy and love.

They were learning to share the cost of meals and tickets, although Erik would drive his car when they would go out together. The issue of who opened doors was no problem for them. It was the first one to get to the entrance or exit. That was usually Denise, since Erik walked more slowly with crutches due to a childhood fall that permanently injured his back.

Denise would extol the virtues of her father as a rural pastor and the accomplishments of her musical family. She liked to remind Erik that, on any given Sunday, there were probably three members of her family (including her mother, also a choir director, and her brother, a professor of music at St. Olaf College) singing in church.

Such a religious family, Erik thought, would receive him as someone who was different but accomplished -- someone it could learn to shower with Christian love -- just as it did in adopting Denise's younger brother.

Or, would they? Denise was quick to judge others as well as herself against her principles, which valued intelligence, knowledge, doctrine, and propriety. Maybe that was part of being a preacher's kid -- growing up with the propensity to judge. Rigid judgment, in Denise's case, seemed to overshadow forgiveness, reconciliation, acceptance, empathy and love -- qualities Erik admired in his agnostic acquaintances as a student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.

At the time, one of Mahatma Gandhi's famous quotes was, "I call him religious who understands the suffering of others." Erik liked to match that with what Plato wrote: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."

Yes, Denise was intelligent and accomplished. But she could also be cold -- something Erik didn't first suspect in watching her play volleyball in his cousin's backyard.

Why did she seem so bored when they went out? Why did she fall asleep and sometimes snore -- in the front seat next to him with her mouth open -- on their trips back from concerts or plays in Madison? It was only a 45-minute trip. Erik needed to find out. After all, he knew she dated other guys – like Allen, a lawyer in town.

That night, Erik was in unfamiliar and forbidden territory, for he had never climbed the stairs to Denise's apartment before. He knocked on her door and cringed at the hollow, lonely sound. No answer. He waited, trying to put his thoughts into words that made sense. He knocked again, this time a little harder.

The porch light went on and the door finally opened halfway. Denise peeked around the door. Her blond, shoulder-length hair, normally flowing gently on both sides of a clearly defined part, formed a strange crisscross pattern down the middle of her head.

"Erik?!" Denise said sternly and looked at him strangely. "Where are your crutches?"

"Downstairs," he numbly replied. "Sorry to bother you, but I just need to ask you a question that's been on my mind a long time. How do you view our relationship?" It was the best way he could put it without degrading himself or Denise.

"Can't we talk about this some other time?" Denise said coldly with a squint in her eyes. "It's late, and I'm in my nightgown."

"I know," Erik said firmly, "but I need you to be upfront with me."

Silence.

"Well, ... OK," she finally agreed and opened the door wider. "Come in."

Erik walked stiffly into her kitchen after placing his left hand on the door and his right hand on the door jamb to keep his balance.

"Have a chair," she offered, uneasily. Her blue eyes, normally cold and uncaring, darted back and forth between Erik's arms and legs in a concern he had not seen in them before.

"No, it's OK," he declined, righting himself and standing on two legs that felt like wood. Denise leaned against her kitchen table, her arms folded across her white, floor-length nightgown.

"I just need to know where we stand, and I ..."

"Erik ...," she interrupted, "I have no empathy for you -- no feeling." She shook her head.

"I'm not looking for empathy," he caught himself saying, mistakenly concluding she was talking about sympathy instead of rapport.

"I know I should, but I don't," she quietly said, ignoring his denial. She bowed her head and rubbed her brow with the palm of her right hand. "And I feel guilty about that."

"Why should you feel guilty?" Erik asked, sadly recognizing in her, for the first time, the agony he had seen under similar circumstances when he did not live up to the expectations of others.

She didn't answer.

"You don't have to feel guilty about this," he again tried to assure her.

"... It's just that I plan never to get married," Denise admitted flatly. Both of her open hands, small and nimble, shot out toward Erik. "But everybody expects ..."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't understand. I didn't want to put you through this. I won't call you again."

She said nothing. Erik opened the door to leave.

"Can you make it down the steps OK?" she asked calmly in an obligatory sense of concern, as if Erik were leaving after a casual call.

"Yes," he said firmly. Denise had again just demonstrated why he was both attracted to her and repelled by her. Captivated by the women's movement, she had a limited capacity for compassion, amusement, or wonder. Steeped in theology, she was not free from guilt. Not yet freed from her church's assumptions, she was also trapped by society's expectations. But Eric knew he was not the right person to explore those paradoxes with her.

She closed the door behind Erik but left the porch light on. He made it to the step's railing unaided. In the cool, clammy night, he took a deep breath and started down the stairs, one step at a time, first the left foot and then the right, until he reached his crutches at the bottom.

As he snapped his arms into his crutches, the porch light went out.

Some 48 years later, Erik has a broader sense of his 1976 version of what it means to be open to vulnerability. He cites Brené Brown, who writes:

"Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity. It is the source of hope, empathy, accountability, and authenticity. If we want greater clarity in our purpose or deeper and more meaningful spiritual lives, vulnerability is the path."

Erik's takeaway tip from his story: Join fellow travelers who are comfortable with vulnerability. There you'll find empathy.