What Is the Extent of Empathy?

I-15 Northbound

 

After Lee was done reading Becca was unsure what to think or feel about this man, Richard, and his motivations and personal history.

“Crazy, right?” said Lee.

Becca didn’t know. She felt awful for everyone involved. Was she supposed to feel sympathy this man? A white male terrorist? Because that’s what this man was. Or was she supposed to hate him? After all, white men were always getting more “story” and narrative than the average criminal of the brown or black or Muslim variety. Even the Trib article had a sort of sadness to the portrayal of the “Zion Shooter,” aka Richard Smith. Becca didn’t know what to feel. The man seemed deranged, confused, and pitiable all at once. The two of them sat there in the car for another minute. Silence.

“So, this shooter,” Becca began, finally deciding to talk to Lee rather than hold it all in. “That article, it makes me wonder, should we feel empathy for terrorists?”

“Empathy for terrorists?”

“Yeah, like, empathy or sympathy, supposing that people who cause violence to others are in some type of pain themselves, which I believe they are, should we empathize with them? Not their actions, of course; there’s no excuse for inflicting harm to others, but for them? The confused person inside? The pain inside them that’s so deep that makes them want to do something so drastic, how they feel forced to resort to violence? But also, I mean this guy, to some extent, definitely committed an act of terrorism.”

“I agree,” said Lee. “And I think that’s a really good question, babe.”

Lee had started to use the word “babe” more in the last couple days, which Becca found endearing, but also a bit strange.

“I think how you answer that says a lot about what your philosophy of life is,” Lee replied. “Are people ultimately good or bad? Can people redeem themselves? Do we give grace to those who are evil? I mean Jesus did say to love your enemies, which honestly, if you think about it in the terms of terrorists, is fucking crazy.”

“I know, but like, this guy in Zion, what was he thinking? Even though the article said he wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, but was just trying to make a point, what the hell kind of point was he trying to make? Did he expect people to consider his list of demands sane as he acted out insanely?”

“I don’t know. He was crazy. You can’t derive logic from crazy people.”

“I don’t like that word.”

“What?”

“Crazy.”

“Why not?”

“Because you, I mean, society, writes a lot of people off as ‘crazy,’” said Becca. “But mental illness is a serious thing. Trauma and addiction and abuse and all that go into a person’s ‘craziness.’ So, it feels, I don’t know, too easy and reductive to just write people off as ‘crazy.’ It’s a way to label and separate us from them. There are the ‘mad’ and then there are us and thank god we are not like them.”

Becca made a lot of air quotes with her index and middle finger. Lee nodded in agreement, “Yeah, I see your point, but still, we read the same article and you don’t think the guy was a fuckin’ nut job? I mean, what did he expect, to shoot up some wedding, leave a diary and a suicide note, hope that his death would mean something and change society? The police said the diary and note were a bunch of incoherent ramblings.”

“I don’t know. But how lonely is that, though? To feel like your only option in life is to do something so horrible? Make a name for yourself through violence.”

“You know, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if the guy was black or Hispanic or Muslim, right? We always try to excuse the white terrorists in America.”

“I know, I was thinking the same thing, like, just a second ago, but then I was thinking about what our response should be.”

“I’m just glad my uncle and Dylan were there to handle the guy. Took the dude out before the police even showed up.”

Becca felt like Lee was reverting to his old red-state self.

“So, you’re glad he’s dead?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“But, I mean, see? Should we really be glad that anyone is dead?”

“Why not? Some people are pure evil. You think we shouldn’t be glad Bin Laden and Hitler are dead?”

“I don’t know. That’s my question.” Becca stared out the window. “I literally don’t know what to think. It seems that evil saturates this world. Maybe it’s time for it to end.”

Silence settled over them. As they drove on, Becca began to feel despondent at the thought of returning to “normal” life. Her mom’s accident, she almost felt guilty admitting this to herself, and the intense care her mom had needed for the last week, had given her life purpose, meaning. And now that was gone. There was no more conflict, no purpose, besides slowly and gently raising a daughter. She loved Analise, but she also knew that she needed something else to keep her frantic mind at bay. Perhaps knitting? Writing? Music?

They were driving north now, the blackness covering everything outside. The passing headlights of oncoming traffic and the red brake lights in front of them provided the only light. The heater was lightly turned up as the air outside was now cold and brisk.

Becca wondered whether conflict itself gave humans a purpose that peace in modern life did not. Perhaps we preferred conflict to peace. War and violence to boredom and existential angst. Maybe that was the whole problem. Perhaps we secretly wished for volcanos to explode, wars to start, car accidents to happen, and dare one say, events of terrorism or viruses to occur. Perhaps they focused life in a way nothing else could. Gave us some intense reason for existence in an otherwise claustrophobic, meaningless, and numbing secular world.

Rather than feeling vaguely existential, however, Becca now wanted to get involved. Act. Do something. Sure, there was the raising of Analise, which she was now looking forward to, and the support of Lee as he finished his Master’s, but she felt like she needed to do something else in her life. Something of value, purpose, meaning. Fuck some shit up. In a good way, of course.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Lee asked Becca.

“Tomorrow? You know, hanging out with her,” Becca motioned with her head to the backseat. “Why?”

“I don’t know, I don’t want to go home. I want to keep driving, go somewhere. I wish we could go to Yellowstone.”

In twenty minutes, they would take the exit for Salt Lake City, where they would turn off to stay at Lee’s parents’ house until the thermal activity settled back down and experts deemed it safe to return north.

They drove in silence.

“Are we okay?” asked Lee, struggling to get out the words.

Becca didn’t know how to answer the question. They still hadn’t really unpacked their conversation in the woods from last week. What the next steps were. Whether or not you could brush something so sharp and hurtful aside and continue about your life together.

“I can leave, I mean, I know we haven’t talked but, if you need some time,” said Lee. “I understand. And well . . .”

“It’s okay,” she said. Not wanting to say it, wanting him to suffer some more, but knowing in her heart she would now and would always take him back. “I forgive you.”

Lee looked like he was about to cry.

“Do you forgive me?” she asked him.

“What? For what?”

“It’s a two-way street you know. I may not have acted out the same way you did, but well, I thought about leaving you, I thought about leaving our entire life, I even thought about leaving our daughter. Just getting on a bus and going. I’ve thought some pretty horrific things. And I’ve been a mess this past year. I couldn’t have gotten through this past year without you. Deaths, shootings, or pregnancy aside.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” said Lee.

They continued driving. Their exit would be here soon.

“What do we do now?” asked Becca.

“I don’t know,” said Lee.

Music played softly from the speakers. Analise slept. The air whipped against the windows. The tires rumbled.

“I’m sorry we can’t leave our lives behind like we used to be able to,” Becca said.

“It’s okay.”

Lee was driving now and Analise continued sleeping while Becca began to drift off.

I understand now, thought Becca. What, exactly, she understood, she could not quite put into words. An inner peace of some sort. Perhaps it was acceptance. Acceptance of both the mundanity and brutality of life, the prosaic and the sublime, the duality of humanity and herself. She did not know if there was an answer to it all. But for once, she felt okay with not knowing and felt resolute in doing her part, however small and tedious and possibly meaningless it would amount to. She felt compelled to live and to live well. Whatever that meant. And as Lee drove and Analise murmured sweet goos and gahs and baby chuckles and grunts in the backseat, she felt a love of Analise welling up within her like she never had before.

Outside in the dark, she saw a herd of elk gathered under a full moon. The air whistled, and the tires rumbled beneath them. Becca’s favorite type of white noise.