Curtis SmithWe Care!
We care. Good God, how we care. Cruise any mall parking lot
and read the bumper stickers and magnetic ribbons on the cars
wedged into the white-lined spaces. We support our troops. We
pray for the USA. We fight for cures. Brad Pitt donated more to
tsunami relief than the average Joe grosses in five years, and
wouldn’t we if we had his kind of money? Sure we would. Or at
least we’d like to think so.
But there are limits to caring. Brad Pitt’s not going to sell
his Malibu estate and shuffle off to a teepee just to send his
remaining millions halfway around the world. Of course you
support our troops, but there’s no way in hell your son is going
to enlist. Knowing a coworker with inoperable cancer is a
cap-gun’s pop compared to the atomic bomb of waiting in the
doctor’s office to hear the results of your wife’s biopsy.
Empathy, our ability to care at a deep, meaningful level,
isn’t an inexhaustible aspect of our personalities. Even the
best of us who hold the supermarket doors open for a shuffling
old man and then help him wrangle a cart from the piggybacked
stack don’t want him to stalk us through the aisles as he
relates his rambling tales of children who don’t call, of
arthritis and cataracts and embarrassing wetting incidents.
Perhaps our study of empathy and caring needs to evolve from
the mushy vagaries of simple emotion into the realm of empirical
certainty. There must be a scale we could apply, one marked and
measured in appropriate units, a ratio along the lines of
Empathy Quota = Emotional Impact (rated on a scale of 1-10, with
ten being the highest) / Proximity (again rated 1 – 10, with one
being the closest). The median of EQ = EI / P would be named The
Threshold of Caring or – if the concept took root in the popular
consciousness – The Smith Point. Until this threshold is
reached, we are able to deliver blankets to the homeless, write
checks for worthy causes, visit distant aunts in their nursing
homes, but once this line is crossed, the selfless notions of
caring rapidly degenerate into a burden. If the dawdling old man
in the supermarket is still bending our ear by the time we reach
the produce aisle, we begin to regret our initial overtures of
kindness. If a friend calls us weeping hysterically on the night
her fiancé breaks their engagement, we would console her with a
whole-hearted support, but what happens when we find ourselves
entangled in the same conversation a month later? Six months
later? A year? Observe both variants of the equation and their
impact on the jilted lover and the supermarket geriatric. Each
new flight of conversation dulls their emotional impact, and the
longer they invade our personal space, the higher they rate on
the proximity scale. The ratio dwindles until we no longer care.
Accompanying EQ = EI / P is a sister formula which measures
the extent to which altruism rewards us on a purely self-serving
(and thus, publicly unacknowledged) level. I have labeled this
the Fulfillment Ratio, where Personal Satisfaction = Emotional
Yield (1 – 10, with ten being the highest) / Emotional Outlay (1
– 10, with one being the least intrusive impact on one’s life).
Consider PS = EY / EO in terms of the ubiquitous magnetic
ribbon. Is there a person who has applied one to their trunk or
tailgate who didn’t then step back and admire not the ribbon
itself so much as the ribbon’s inherent statement that yes, the
driver of this vehicle does care. The whole ribbon phenomenon is
successful because, through its extraordinarily low EO, it
produces an inflated Fulfillment Ratio. Or take last year’s
tsunami – once one wrote their check for fifty or a hundred
dollars and mailed it off, wasn’t it easier to watch the news
reports detailing the devastation, the commercials showing
crying orphans stranded amid the wreckage? You had given; you
had showed the goodness in your heart. If only everyone in the
world would do as much as you. . . . And then there is the
hushed flipside of the equation, where the PS of getting our new
pair of Nikes is greater than the thoughts of third world
sweatshops, where the at-hand luxuries of our SUVs are more
compelling than questions of pollution and Middle East politics.
Are we all alike in terms of caring and empathy? Of course
not. Look at Mother Theresa. Look at Albert Schweitzer. Brad
Pitt has moved on to crusading for the underprivileged masses in
Africa, his hunky party-boy image gradually fading, proof once
again that one’s Empathy Quota is, thank God, a fluctuating
value influenced by changes of perspective and soul. Perhaps
future generations will gaze upon water-stained walls and see
not images of Mary but Bono (Saint Bono?). Plant these good
folks and others like them at one end of the spectrum and anchor
the other with sociopaths and economic Darwinists; then
calculate your EQ, divide it by your PS, and find your place in
the gray scale of empathy, the bell curve of caring.
But there is a juncture where these competing concepts of
caring for others and caring for ourselves become all at once
unified and disarmingly complex, a situation where the bell
curve morphs into a logjam and the gray scale solidifies into a
single hue. Imagine your reserves of empathy as an old-fashioned
well. Empty the well a bucket at a time. Splash, you no
longer care about your job. Splash, you no longer care
about your car, your house, your dog, your friends . . . and
when you can haul up no more water, look deep into the pit.
Captured in the last, clinging puddles swim the reflections of
your sons and daughters, your husbands and wives, your sisters
and brothers.
Let us assume our capacities for empathy and our desires for
personal fulfillment are as unique as our DNA and that the
manner in which we conduct ourselves is often the result of
balancing these two formulas. And let us further assume that our
truest and deepest emotions are reserved for those select few at
the bottom of our wells. In this time of terrorism and war,
where body counts are part of each evening’s newscasts, let us
see each casualty not only as a hero or an ally, a zealot or an
enemy, but also as an irretrievable puddle in a well not all
that different than our own. Gone are the sons meant to give us
comfort in our old age. Gone are the daughters we longed to see
with children of their own. Gone are our parents, the only
people who knew us as innocents. Gone are the wives and husbands
we once kissed in the giddy euphoria of new love.
Let us care, yes, but not in the easy modes that bring us
comfort. Let us care by increasing our knowledge of the language
of grief. Let us question each bullet and bomb in the most
empathetic of ways, in the understanding of the sorrow they will
reap, of both the flesh they will violate and in the unhealing
wounds they will leave in lives far from the battlefield. Let us
care beyond the displaying of superficial tokens. Let us care –
quietly, in our hearts, for here is the fertile ground from
which all real change originates – for the blood of strangers
and for the tears of those who loved them.
Curtis Smith's
stories and essays have appeared in over thirty literary
journals including American Literary Review,
Mid-American Review, Blip Magazine Archive, CutBank,
Passages North, West Branch, and many others.
He is the author of two collections of short-short stories and a
novel, An Unadorned Life. His next novel,
Between Sound and Noise, will be released in spring 2006. |