Empathy’s New Tilt for Erik
Vulnerability’s Bonus
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Erik climbed the dark steps to Denise's second-floor apartment, his heart pounding. It was past 1:00 a.m., but light still streamed from her window.
He’d driven almost home before turning back, the confrontation now unavoidable.
Reaching the top, he felt winded. He'd left his crutches at the bottom, and without them, he wobbled, steadying himself by clawing at the railing, inching toward her door.
He’d first noticed Denise at a Bible study picnic, captivated by her blonde hair and punctuated grunts as she played volleyball. A high school choir director and church soloist, her raspy speaking voice transformed into a superb soprano on Sundays.
Weeks later, he called her, inviting her to "Music Man," surprised when she accepted.
Over the next six months, their quiet dinners before concerts and plays became a forum for wide-ranging discussions: Chagall, feminism, President Carter's theology, and the discrimination of singlehood. Both 33, their shared single status in a coupled world, along with Betty Friedan's feminist writings, were frequent topics.
They would haughtily judge societal stereotypes of working women and people with disabilities. Denise, a Lutheran feminist in 1976 — an oxymoron at the time — struggled with the distinctions between need and dependency, responsibility and commitment, empathy and love.
They shared costs, and doors were opened by whoever reached them first, usually Denise, as Erik's childhood back injury slowed him with crutches.
Denise often praised her musical, religious family, implying their acceptance of his differences, much like they had with her adopted, younger brother.
But Erik wondered. Denise, a preacher's kid, often judged others and herself against her strict principles of intelligence, knowledge, doctrine, and propriety. This rigid judgment seemed to overshadow forgiveness, reconciliation, acceptance, empathy, and love — qualities Erik admired in his agnostic university friends.
That night, Erik knocked on her door. Silence. He knocked harder. The porch light flickered on, and the door opened halfway. Denise, her hair askew, peered out.
"Erik?!" she exclaimed, bewildered. "Where are your crutches?"
"Downstairs," he mumbled. "Sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you something. How do you view our relationship?"
"Can't we talk about this another time?" she said coldly, squinting. "It's late, and I'm in my nightgown."
"I know," Erik insisted, "but I need you to be upfront with me."
After a pause, she finally agreed, opening the door wider. "Come in." Erik walked stiffly into her kitchen, using the door and jamb for balance.
"Have a chair," she offered uneasily, her normally cold blue eyes darting between his arms and legs with an unfamiliar concern.
"No, it's OK," he declined, standing rigidly. Denise leaned against the kitchen table, arms folded over her white 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 blurted, misunderstanding her to mean sympathy.
"I know I should, but I don't," she said quietly, ignoring his denial. She bowed her head, rubbing her brow. "And I feel guilty about that."
"Why should you feel guilty?" Erik asked sadly.
She didn't answer.
"You don't have to feel guilty about this," he tried to assure her.
"... It's just that I plan never to get married," Denise admitted flatly. "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, a perfunctory concern.
"Yes," he said firmly. He was both attracted to and repelled by her. She was motivated by the women's movement yet limited in compassion, amusement, and wonder. Steeped in theology yet not free from guilt or societal expectations. He now knew he wasn't the one to explore these paradoxes with her.
She closed the door but left the porch light on. He reached the railing unaided. In the cool night, he took a deep breath and descended, one slow step at a time, until he reached his crutches. As he snapped them on, the porch light went out.
48 years later, Erik understands vulnerability more deeply. He likes Brené Brown’s explanation. She writes:
"Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity. It is the source of hope, empathy, accountability, and authenticity.
Erik's takeaway tip from his story: Join fellow travelers who are comfortable with vulnerability. There you'll find empathy.
Here’s to mature-adult living!
Jim Hasse, ABC, GCDF retired, author of “52 Shades of Graying”
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In 2004, the financial picture looked bleak for the nonprofit in Manhattan, where I served people with visual impairments as senior content developer for the organization’s website.
We had laid off 13 employees. And despite our hard work, our fundraising efforts were not paying off.
I was one of only three remaining employees, and my pay was out of line with the other two senior staff members, even though I had worked there for only four years.
So, in December 2004, Pam, my wife, and I decided to take a voluntary 40 percent cut in my pay to save that work-from-home job in New York City. Our plan was to have Pam start drawing her Social Security at 62 in January 2005 to cover the 40 percent cut.
We soon discovered there was a problem with my pay-cut offer to the nonprofit’s board of directors. Pam couldn’t start taking out her Social Security until August of 2005 – not in January like we had planned.
The president of the board of directors paid me $6,000 out of his own pocket to make up for the unanticipated shortfall. He made that decision final after flying me to Manhattan for a weekend planning meeting, giving me access to a “car” (New York City’s usual Lincoln Continental) at no charge and, of course, checking me out to see if I was “legit.”
I had found the soft side of the Big Apple.. And I kept my job with that nonprofit for seven more years.
* When have you seen empathy from others grow out of your apparent vulnerability?