• “He only has three days to live,” he said. Typed, rather. My friend (whom I will refer to as SD), along with several others and I, were conversing on MSN when he suddenly left for who-knows-how-long, leaving a message saying that “something urgent came up”. The remaining MSN participants shrugged it off. After all, it was SD the drama queen.

    “Bet he’s lying,” typed one.
    “Probably went to the washroom,” typed another.

    When SD reappeared on MSN, our suspicions evaporated into thin air. His father, who was working in Japan for the past twelve years, was dying from illness as we sat casually in front of our computer screens, with not a care in the world. SD explained the situation, at first in a taciturn, matter-of-fact manner. SD’s façade, however, was shattered in a matter of moments. Whether he liked it or not, his emotions were an open book, and that proved true even in his instant-messenger typing.

    As he typed, I could imagine a sort of half-crazed face. While recalling what little he could remember of his time with his father, SD would laugh it off too. It was discomforting, and extremely uncharacteristic of him. The SD I knew never spoke of the past, and certainly never laughed in such a sad way.

    Although I could not see SD’s face, I never discerned his emotions better. SD was upset. I knew it. SD was nostalgic. I knew it. SD grew up the past twelve years without his father.
    I knew it. Yet I never understood it.

    I was baffled by how much he cared for someone he barely knew. The “but he’s your father” crap never worked on me. Biologically, he may have been SD’s father, but what about emotionally? What purpose had he served in SD’s life?

    The incident triggered a memory from several years ago.

    My mother received a phone call from relatives in Hong Kong, and discovered that her father was in a weak condition from lung disease. Nearing the end of the school term, my family and I rushed back to Hong Kong to visit him in what my mother believed to be his last moments.

    Her predictions were correct.

    A few weeks after we arrived in our home city, my grandfather died. My usually optimistic, joyful, and outgoing mother was in a state of hysteria during his funeral. A wall barricaded between us and his body, and all my mother could do was pound on the window, tears rushing down her face like a waterfall, as she saw his corpse laying still as a doll on a table surface.

    Simultaneously, I stood beside her, nonchalant about the loss of a relative.

    To me, like SD’s father to SD, he was a stranger.

    Why? Why was it that our feelings differed? Why could I not feel the same pang of sadness and nostalgia? Why was it that I could not think similarly, given such a similar situation?

    Why could I not cry, as SD had?

    What is empathy?

    You’ve probably heard the phrase “empathy is being able to stand in someone else’s shoes” from parents, teachers, and the like. I experienced the loss of a relative. Was that not empathy? I stood in SD’s shoes, didn’t I?

    Yet, what if someone couldn’t fit in another one’s shoes? How would massive, hairy Bigfoot fit into Cinderella’s glass slippers? I pondered. Given the size of his feet, will he ever be able to slip daintily into her footwear? Would he ever comprehend her?

    My thoughts stopped short. Why would Bigfoot, a total stranger to Cinderella, know how to wear her glass slippers? Strangers know nothing of another’s background and personality. Bigfoot would need to live with Cinderella, before Cinderella will ever a) permit him to wear her shoes and b) recognize him capable of doing so.

    First, Bigfoot would need to make friends with Cinderella. Can’t really wear a stranger’s shoes, now can he? After the initial awkward bonding, Bigfoot would need to watch Cinderella gently slip her miniscule feet in. After that grand feat, he would need to further investigate the way Cinderella moves in them. Diligent observation is required as Cinderella dances elegantly with the prince in her glass slippers. Bigfoot would need serious training if he wanted to wear her shoes without shattering them.

    Likewise, strangers will never understand each other until friendship forms, blossoming like orchids in spring. One would never understand another’s emotion and thoughts without analyzing their unique (or maybe not so unique) personalities. You wouldn’t know how a person thinks and feels without knowing them well, right?

    As luck would have it, I knew innocent SD extremely well. He was a close friend, one whom I confided secrets to. We may not have been best friends, but we shared our laughter together. Guess what happened after I turned my computer off?

    I cried.

    Tears streamed down my beet-red face. As much as I attempted to brush them away, more would pour onto the back of my hand. It was strange. I could not cry for the death of my own grandfather, yet I could cry for the loss of my friend’s father.

    No. That wasn’t it.

    Sadness. Nostalgia. Pain. I experienced all these emotions before. Losing friends was not something unfamiliar to me. Giving away pets was practically my parents’ hobby. Changing schools? Been there, done that. Nine times.

    I knew what sadness was. I knew what nostalgia was. I knew SD well enough to feel his pain, think his thoughts, and relive his experience. I cried, not because of the similar events, but for SD.

    This is empathy.

    Empathy is not emotions alone, but emotions accompanied by friendship. Empathy is not simply comparing similar past experiences, but weeping for similar emotions brought by different circumstances. Empathy is not simply standing in someone else’s shoes.

    I am Bigfoot, and I am dancing in Cinderella’s glass slippers.