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Below is the beginning of the world's first crowd sourced, class sourced novel ever written by High School Students. We have published 30 Days to Empathy through Amazon.com and released an ebook in March 2013.
Any teachers/parents/writing coaches/would be authors who would like to know more about this project and our similar follow up project should contact: Jay Rehak at jaycrehak@gmail.com.
Thirty Days to Empathy
A Crowd Sourced Novel by Jay C.
Rehak and others.
CHAPTER 1
"Why Isn't the World More Like Me?"
I woke up with the satisfying feeling that I was one day
closer to getting out of high school. I
rolled over and tore off the latest sheet of a handwritten calendar I had made
to survive. That morning I tore off the
sheet that read, “31 days left of meaningless drivel.”
Slowly, I rubbed my face and headed to the shower. My parents were just getting up, and although
I wasn’t hungry, I knew my mother would insist her only child eat something
before I made my way out into the cold Chicago winter. I grabbed a yogurt, a banana, and the lunch
my mother had made for me, and headed out to the family’s 2007 Honda
Civic. I was bored beyond belief, but I
had to go to school.
Although Sojourner Truth High School didn’t post class
rankings, I was at the top of my class, and I really hadn’t tried all that
hard. You might reasonably ask, if everything was so easy, why I wasn’t lined
up to be valedictorian in June. Well,
the answer is simple enough. It’s
because of the rigged playing field at my school. You see, I entered ST as a freshman; by then,
there were students who had attended the school for two years, in a 7th
and 8th grade program called “the academic center.” Since the school’s founding some thirty-five
years earlier, the school included not only a four-year high school, but also a
two-year intermediate school, which included the top 200 seventh and eighth graders
in Chicago. Those kids were called
“Ackies” and they had all earned high school credits before I ever got there,
so although my overall GPA was impeccable (I had never gotten less than an “A”
in any course I took, although a gym teacher once threatened me with a “B,” not
because of my athletic abilities but because of my “attitude.”) I had no chance
of being valedictorian. That “honor” was
annually reserved for an “Ackie.” It
bothered me in my freshman year, for about a day, until I realized that while
subjective truth might suggest that someone in the building was smarter than I
was, objectively, that simply wasn’t true. I’d have to endure.
And
so I did. I went through the first three
and one quarter years of high school doing what I had to do, taking the classes
I needed to take, and preparing myself as best as I could for the day that couldn’t
come soon enough: liberation from high school and what I hoped would be a more
challenging experience in college.
When
I arrived at ST that morning, I immediately headed for the tech lab and printed
my paper. It was an essay on
Existentialism and why Jean Paul Sartre and Albert Camus were on to something,
although, from my point of view, it wasn’t so much as “Hell is other people” as
Sartre had suggested, but more, as my thesis clearly articulated, “People
create their own Hell.”
I knew I had overwritten the assignment, but I was bored
the night before, and spent more time on it than I might have otherwise. To be completely honest, I was also trying to
impress my English teacher, Ms. Julie Glass, who was one of the few teachers
I’d ever had who challenged me in any significant way. She had sort of a
mystical hold on me. She was an older woman, probably about fifty-five, so it
wasn’t like I had some sort of puppy love teacher crush. She was old enough to be my grandmother, and
I had my own grandmother, so it wasn’t like I was looking for some parental
figure that was absent in my life. No, I
just wanted to impress her because I considered her some sort of intellectual
mentor, someone that, if she liked my work, somehow validated me. Not that I needed the validation; I got that
all the time. But if she liked what I
wrote, I knew it was legit; she actually read what students wrote and she
pulled few punches. If she thought you
were a slacker, she told you, in her own cutting way.
My second period math AP Calc teacher, Mr. Maskus, droned
on about differential equations until he got bogged down in a problem he
couldn’t answer. He looked around the
room for someone to rescue him, and when no one did, I volunteered, went up,
and solved the problem. When I returned
to my seat I pulled out George Bernard Shaw’s Man and Superman and waited for the bell to ring.
Third period AP French took forever, but since we’d met
in the tech lab, no one bothered me as I put on a headset and listened to news
from the BBC.
Fourth period lunch came and went quickly, as I went
around the corner from school and picked up a Starbucks on Taylor Street to keep
me awake through the rest of the day.
I
got to fifth period, a minute after the bell rang, and Ms. Glass gave me a look
of disappointment but did not write me a tardy.
I think she thought she was doing me a favor by not writing me, but the
truth was, I didn’t mind detention. At ST,
it meant giving up your lunch and sitting quietly in the library. Not a tragedy for me. But Ms. Glass never wrote me up. She liked me too much, I suppose, and I think
she wanted to be liked. So for her, to
give me a detention was to risk her best student suddenly not liking her. If
she only knew.
I
took my seat behind Nia, a girl I had a crush on. She seemed to be happy all
the time so I knew, as much as I liked her, we’d probably never get along. My discontentment ran too deep and she
probably had a boyfriend anyway.
I
handed my paper in with a hidden smugness that still oozed out of me. Students around me knew I considered my
writing to be above theirs. I suppose I
had a very standoffish attitude towards my fellow students, which I now regret,
but at the time seemed appropriate.
After most of us handed in our papers (3 students didn’t) I waited
patiently in the hopes that Ms. Glass might have something to teach that I
didn’t already know. She was my last
best chance of the day, as I’d heard my 6th period AP Chem teacher
was absent, and my 7th period AP Statistics class was essentially a
blow off.
“Today
we’re going to review ‘sympathy’ versus ‘empathy’ and all that implies,” Ms.
Glass began. I sighed.
“Oh, please” I thought. “Do we really have to go over this?”
“Now
some of you might be thinking, ‘do we really have to go over this?’ ” she said,
looking straight at me. I nodded in acknowledgement of her perspicacity. She
continued, “We need to review this because a number of you still seem confused
by the difference between “sympathy” and “empathy,” and too many of you want to
use the words interchangeably. So, can
anyone give me a working definition of both?”
Not
much of a response from the class, but I knew everyone knew the
difference. I didn’t want to get
involved even though no one was answering.
I’d bail Ms. Glass out if the silence kept up for more than a minute,
but my hope was someone would jump in and answer the softball question so I
could save my one class response of the day for later in the class. (For years I’d played an internal game called “Teacher
Rescue” where I promised myself I’d only save the classroom discussion from the
sound of crickets once per class. After
that, the teacher was on his/her own.)
Finally,
an answer came from the front of the room, and I was chagrinned when the
speaker clumsily misidentified both.
“Empathy’s when you feel bad for someone and sympathy’s when you’ve felt
their pain.”
“You’re on the right track, but not quite.” Ms. Glass responded patiently. How did she do it? How did she put up with people not knowing the obvious? More students answered and muttered, none quite on point until finally, from a classmate I didn’t know existed, “I think it’s the other way around. Sympathy is when we feel badly for others but we haven’t experienced their pain. Empathy is when we have experienced someone’s pain and consider ourselves very much in touch with that individual’s pain. In other words, sympathy has some distance between the person feeling the pain and experiencing the pain, while empathy narrows that distance and makes us understand someone else’s pain almost as he or she must experience it. It’s the difference between feeling an arm’s length sadness for someone and feeling a deep sense of oneness with another person’s pain.”
“You’re on the right track, but not quite.” Ms. Glass responded patiently. How did she do it? How did she put up with people not knowing the obvious? More students answered and muttered, none quite on point until finally, from a classmate I didn’t know existed, “I think it’s the other way around. Sympathy is when we feel badly for others but we haven’t experienced their pain. Empathy is when we have experienced someone’s pain and consider ourselves very much in touch with that individual’s pain. In other words, sympathy has some distance between the person feeling the pain and experiencing the pain, while empathy narrows that distance and makes us understand someone else’s pain almost as he or she must experience it. It’s the difference between feeling an arm’s length sadness for someone and feeling a deep sense of oneness with another person’s pain.”
“Wow,”
I thought. “Where did that come
from?” A bit late to be learning kid’s
names but I suddenly wanted class to end so I could go over and introduce
myself. But I never got the chance. Just before the bell rang, Ms. Glass asked me
to stop by her desk after class. I
forgot about my classmate and readied myself for what I assumed would be some
pleasant chat with an intellectual equal.
When the bell rang I took my time leaving my desk, watching a little
sadly as Nia left the room. I wouldn’t
see her again until tomorrow. I waited for everyone to leave and then headed to
the front of the room.
“Jake?”
“Yes,
Ms. Glass.”
“I
understand you’re leaving Sojourner Truth a semester early.”
“Yes,
I think it’s time.”
“What
about your AP tests?”
“I’ll
come back and take them in May. Doesn’t
really matter anyway, because most Ivy League schools don’t accept them for credit
anyway.”
“Oh,
then you’re set for college.”
“Well,
not exactly. All my applications are
in. I’m just waiting to see what
colleges accept me, and which one is the best fit for me.”
“I
see. So you don’t think another semester
in high school might provide you some modicum of learning?”
“No,
I’m good. No offense, Ms. Glass. I’ve enjoyed being in your class this
semester. I’m just done. Done with tardy
slips, asking to go to the bathroom, pointless fire drills, small talk at
lunch. I’m just done.”
“I
noticed today in class you didn’t speak at all.
Especially during the discussion about sympathy and empathy.”
“Yeah,
well, I didn’t think you needed me.”
“I
beg your pardon?”
“I
thought the discussion went well enough.
No need for my input when it’s going well.
“Ah, I see. You only answer questions in class when no one else does. You sort of feel sorry for me?”
“Ah, I see. You only answer questions in class when no one else does. You sort of feel sorry for me?”
“Something
like that.”
“I
appreciate the sympathy.”
“Well,
I don’t mean to come across as arrogant.”
“I
know. You try your best to hide it. Still…”
“You
don’t have a lot of respect for your classmates, do you?”
“Sure
I do.”
“Jake?”
“Okay,
well, maybe I don’t. I mean, I’m not
into the same things they are. I’m not
much of a partier, I like dating and all, but it’s not the be all and end all
of my existence. I don’t really obsess
about the Bears or who’s running for prom queen. I’m just interested in other things, that’s
all.”
“Really?
What kind of things?”
“Well,
things that are important. “
“Like
what?”
“Oh,
I don’t want to sound too philosophic, you might think I’m pretentious.”
“It’s
always a risk,” she said, gently nodding.
“Still, I’d like to know what you think is important.”
Somehow
I believed she really was interested, and so I blurted out, almost
involuntarily. “Elements of the human
condition.”
“Really? That sounds deep. What ‘elements of the human condition’ are
you interested in?”
“Everything. That’s what I hope to study when I get to
Princeton or Harvard or wherever I decide to go.”
“You
sound pretty confident that you’ll get into one of those places.”
“If
I don’t get into either one of those, I’ll go somewhere else, and it’ll be
their loss. But wherever I go, I hope to
dig a little deeper into the nature of what it is that makes us human and why,
as a species, we seem to be such morons.”
“And
you think leaving high school early will help you learn that?”
“Not
sure. But I can tell you one thing. Staying here isn’t going to get me
anywhere. I’ve learned everything I can
from this place.”
“I’m
not sure I agree, and I’m actually a bit disappointed in your certainty.”
I
wish she hadn’t done that. Said she was
disappointed in me. That’s not why I
stopped by her desk at the end of class.
The word ‘disappointed’ bothered me.
Especially coming from her.
“Well,
I guess I’m not 100% certain about anything.
Let’s call it 99.9 percent certain that I’m done here.”
“Okay,
good to know. Can I get a chance at that
one-tenth of a percent?”
“What
do you mean? What are you talking
about?”
“I’m
wondering if you’ll let me suggest to you the one-tenth of one percent learning
that Sojourner Truth can still teach you.
Can I suggest that to you?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Empathy.”
“Empathy?
What do you mean? I mean, I know what it
means.”
“Yes,
I know you know what it means, but do you feel it? Have you internalized it? It’s one thing to know the book definition,
but do you understand in your bones, the meaning of empathy?”
“Yeah,
sure, I know.”
“You’re
sure.”
“Ninety-nine
point nine percent.”
“But
you’ll let me have a crack at the one-tenth of one percent?”
“Go
for it.”
“Thank
you. I appreciate you giving me the chance to reach you on this. Look at me.
Tonight I want you to go home and think about being empathetic. And every night, until you leave this school,
I want you to think about it. Will you
do that for me?”
“Sure,
when I have the time. If it means that much to you. I mean, I can’t promise you
that I’ll spend that much time on it, but when I get the chance, sure, I’ll
think about it.”
“That’s
all I ask. Thanks, Jake. You’d better get to your next class.”
I
was going to tell her that I had a sub for my next class, but realized it would
only prolong the conversation. I was
spooked by the intensity of her stare when she was talking to me. It was as if she were hypnotizing me into
thinking about a part of the human condition I hadn’t fully considered. I got
out of there as fast as I could and vowed I wouldn’t dwell on it. But it was sort of like when people say
“Don’t think about elephants” and then all you can think about is elephants. I
was annoyed all day, my brain gnawing on what seemed to me to be a bit of an
insult and definitely a challenge. That night, just before I went to sleep, I
couldn’t stop thinking about it. What
the hell was she talking about, “Empathy”?
