Season 5, Episode 1: Traitorous
We're quickly approaching the four-year anniversary of this blog, and I can't think of a better way to celebrate that than with an over-analyzed literary case study, so here we are!
I think about justice a lot.
Uppercase-j Justice shows up every time I think about the Supreme Court, when I look in my mind for an image that represents equity, and pull out Justice herself, weighing the scales and holding the sword.
Lowercase-j justice is even more prominent, though. Ever since I was little, the concept of fairness has been at the forefront of my mind (I think I've mentioned before that I was the kid who wanted everyone to get the same amount of goldfish because it just wasn't fair if she got 13 and I got 11).
I'm a big advocate of punishments fitting the crime. But before we get too far into that, it's story time.
I went home a few weekends ago, and while in Illinois, I took the Metra from Chicago proper out to the suburbs. I disembarked from the train in a town I consider my second hometown, having spent the years from 5-14 there at my elementary and middle schools. I walked from the train station to a more convenient location for my mom to pick me up (and yes, I felt like a middle schooler waiting for my mom to pick me up from my date at the pizza place -- real story), and as I did, I started remembering different aspects of my childhood in the area. I got all nostalgic (no surprise there) and when my mom finally swung by to grab me, I was a bit sad to leave the area. Then my mom commented that my wallet was ugly (she's not wrong) and I jokingly suggested we could see if the Hobby Lobby nearby had anything up to her standards. Conveniently, as we pulled into the parking lot, she looked at the blank facade of what had once been a Hobby Lobby and then remembered that they had relocated. Instead, we decided to go to a thrift shop next door.
Now this is where the story gets fun for me. I'm a book girl, quite obviously. I've always loved reading, and this past summer I went through the Chronicles of Narnia all the way through for the first time (my first attempt, in elementary school, stopped after finishing The Silver Chair, which is really quite unfortunate). I had all of the feelings, and took a lot of notes with the intent of writing a blog post about it (for all those interested, it's currently at least 5 pages of notes on Microsoft Word, and will probably be posted shortly after this one).
These notes were almost exclusively about my favorite character, Edmund. I've always loved him, and if you read the second blog post on this, you'll find out why. Anyhow, big Edmund fan here, for a number of reasons. But when I finally went through the whole Narnia series last summer, in reading one of the "new" books (for me at least), I discovered a gem of a quote from Edmund, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.
For almost 10 months. (It's been that thought-provoking for me, I know, it's wild.) So I've gone out of my way to get different versions of the book, because it's quickly become my favorite.
The context of the scene (in an attempt to try and make a much longer story short) is that there's a man from another Kingdom courting Queen Susan. She doesn't want to marry him, but there have been threats made by this man's kingdom if she turns down his marriage proposal. Susan turns it down anyway, and the man devises some particularly wicked plans to fight and harm the Narnians and their neighbors. Ultimately, they all go to war. (Spoilers ahead, be warned) Narnians & Co. win, and the traitor is brought before the neighboring rulers, as well as the youngest two Pevensies, in order to decide his fate. One of the advisors turns to the room and states that anyone would certainly have the right to cut off his head, for his actions have amounted to those of assassins. Edmund considers this, and then says:
"It is very true, but even a traitor may mend. I have known one that did."
WILD. I get chills reading it, even now, for the who--knows--how--many-th time.
It shows such self-awareness, such introspection and humility, to not only understand that a traitor can be changed for the better, but to subtly acknowledge before a room of fellow rulers that he himself was once a traitor too. Edmund was already my favorite character long before reading this book, because of the patent humanity that C.S. Lewis paints him with. But with this quote, he solidified a place in my heart.
And it really shouldn't come as a surprise to me that my favorite character would be one that has an epithet of justice.
Lately, I've been learning about the complexities of justice, the vast and ambiguous grey space between the black and white of right and wrong. The space where some things aren't as clear cut as they may appear, where a "definitive" answer may be fluid, where eight different responses may all be correct.
That's what Edmund gets into here, and if unpacking him as a character from LWW isn't fun enough, this quote is even more thrilling to analyze.
First, we see that the determination of this man's fate is--at least partially--in Edmund's hands.
Edmund's advice is being sought out here, and he isn't shy with his words. See, Edmund is crowned "Edmund the Just" at the end of LWW, and I was always confused by that. Honestly, what had Edmund done in that book to prove he was wise enough, or temperate enough, or god-forbid, mature enough to administer justice. (Nothing, in my humble opinion.) And yet, Aslan chooses that name for him, not magnificent, or gentle, or valiant--just.
It seemed misplaced to me, but you see his justice, his fairness, in later books (The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is the one that immediately comes to mind, but it's evident in Prince Caspian and The Last Battle too).
Second, we discover that Edmund truly lives up to his name.
He chooses his words wisely, knowing they will affect the way his fellow leaders react to the issue at hand.
He considers--considers, rather than acts rashly--the decision at hand, he acknowledges the weight of this man's actions (And later on in the scene, acknowledges how furious he is with the man himself), yet still considers the possibility for change.
He's everything that he isn't in the first book where we meet him, he's measured, careful, considerate, quick to listen and slow to anger. It's amazing. Who knew that we would see such obvious character development?
It's something beautiful and brilliant and I love it. Maybe it's because I'm so partial to the idea of justice. Maybe it's because I like well-developed characters. Maybe it's because I like the reminder that people can change, no matter what they've been like before. I don't really know what's at the heart of my love for Edmund (maybe in the Edmund character study that's coming up next, I'll finally identify it, who knows?) but I know that every time I read any of the books or watch the movies, it gets stronger.
There's this scene in LWW (spoilers ahead if you haven't read the book/seen the movie, but honestly, you've had almost 60 years at this point, it's on you if you haven't interacted with the plot) where the Narnians are fighting, and all of a sudden Aslan returns, with Susan and Lucy (and a whole host of newly-freed Narnians) in tow, and ultimately kills the White Witch, the main antagonist of the book.
As Aslan reconnects with Peter, the eldest sibling mentions that the Narnian army wouldn't have made it as far as they did if it hadn't been for Edmund's intelligence. Edmund determined mid-duel that the destruction of the Witch's wand was far more important than mounting a direct attack on the Witch herself, so he successfully managed to destroy her wand, but also successfully managed to get himself mortally wounded (because what sort of a good plot line doesn't give a redemption opportunity for the worst of the protagonists?).
The siblings are, understandably, distraught. Lucy is reminded of her gift from Father Christmas, a healing cordial, and gives some to Edmund before scurrying away to help other wounded members of the Narnian army.
Edmund lives to tell the tale, and to be knighted almost immediately by Aslan.
I've always found this plot piece fascinating. First, Edmund is sentenced to death. Then he cheats it (or, more accurately, Aslan cheats it for him). Then he nearly dies, at the hands of the White Witch, no less, before being restored to his former glory (that is, a schoolboy who isn't spiteful and mean to his siblings).
It seemed like the White Witch had gotten what she wanted. It seemed like Aslan was dead, and Edmund was soon to join him. It seemed like all hope was lost.
But instead of receiving the comeuppance from the White Witch, Edmund lives. Aslan resurrects, as only someone who was intimately familiar with the Deep Magic could do. Hope returns, Spring is restored, there's laughter and light and warmth in the Kingdom again.
You guys, I love this. I love the illustration of Winter melting to Spring. I love the redemption (honestly, let's call it like it is, revival) of Edmund. Not only is he made new, he's made better than new in the knowledge of what he's seen and experienced.
I think that's why I love his character so much. He becomes wiser because of his past. By acknowledging the very real flaws he's exhibited, and the monumental mistakes he's made, he becomes a better man. Admittedly, there's definitely some aspect of this growth that we can assume came from Aslan's private chat with Edmund, but it's marvelous to see it in action.
If we're tying it back to justice, his penchant for fairness seems to come from empathy in one way or another.
In the case of A Horse and His Boy, it's pretty clear. The subtext of Edmund's comment basically reads:
A few years ago, for one of my Criminology classes, I was required to go sit in on a few court cases in the nearest District Court. I don't remember all that much about the cases I went to see, because on the whole, they seemed relatively minor violations to me. But what I do recall was the conversation one judge had with a defendant.
Throughout the case, I had sat in my seat frustrated at the flippancy of the man sitting on the bench. As the defendant mentioned his dream to become a pastry chef and open a bakery, the judge snidely remarked that "he didn't need another baker, he needed less criminals" which seemed a clear dismissal of this young man's desire to create a better life for himself. There were other examples, ones that infuriated me, but I was forced to sit through the trial, silently taking notes as I applied more and more pressure to the pen on my notebook paper.
But then, after all of the evidence had been presented, after the defendant had spoken his piece and members of his family and of the community had presented testimonies of his character, the Judge gave his decision, but not without a bit of dramaticism.
He went on for nearly 10 minutes about all of the reasons that this kid shouldn't get probation, or parole, but instead should be referred to the county jail, or prison. I was, again, livid, but then I heard the Judge start on a different line of reasoning. In his rationale for incarceration, the Judge had mentioned that allowing the defendant to walk free would be like "giving him the keys to the Kingdom," and asked why he would do that for someone who was bound to commit another crime.
But he paused for a moment, and instead of condemning the defendant then and there, decided that mercy was a better option. I believe the exact words were "I'm giving you the keys, son. Don't make me regret it."
Who knows what the judge saw in the defendant, but whatever it may have been, it was apparently enough to change his seemingly fixed stance on the issue.
That's not saying "well, I would've reacted differently" or "there was always a better option, he/she just didn't choose it" or "I understand what he/she is trying to say, but.." It's better than that.
According to the always-reliable internet, "pity acknowledges a person's suffering, sympathy cares about a person's suffering, and empathy feels a person's suffering", which is a lot of words to essentially say there are levels of concern.
It takes some time on your own evaluating yourself, your circumstances. It's praying, it's reading your Bible, it's journaling, or processing, or crying. It's allowing yourself a certain level of self-awareness where you can identify a pattern of pain or joy or any other emotion you've experienced when it manifests in others.
Empathy is neat, though, because it doesn't stop there, which already might feel like too much if you're not someone who loves processing emotions. Empathy is neat because it's basically emotional recall with a call to action tacked on. If a friend of mine is experiencing grief, I rifle through the file folders of my heart and my mind until I come across my last encounter with grief. How did I feel? What was my response? How was I comforted by others? Then, I analyze all of those factors, and apply some of the effective comforting methods. I ask my friend how I can support them. And whether that's just being present, or it's driving across campus at 1am to bring somebody a chocolate bar and listen to them as they explain what's been going on, then that's what happens.
The tl;dr of that is that you and I use our own experiences to shape our responses to others (classic psychology there, conditioning and what not), but that in doing so, we simultaneously remember that the other person isn't quite us, and that they may have different needs than ourselves. Truly, fully displayed empathy is wild. It's selfless and kind, it's compassionate (which, back to our always reliable internet again, is apparently the next level of concern up from empathy) and adaptable, and it's full of mercy and full of grace.
It knows that hard times make people bitter, and dismisses the unkind actions of a friend in crisis.
It knows that emotions are difficult, and it doesn't force discussion or action or ultimatums.
It sees hurt and comforts according to the recipients needs, rather than their own.
It bends over backwards to make a person know they are seen and loved and valued.
But back to the illustration earlier, empathy and justice. Empathy and Justice.
Justice is much more frequently considered a rigid master. Emotions aren't supposed to dictate actions, or laws, or court cases, because if they would, trials wouldn't be fair. The very consideration that someone could've committed a disagreeable action would condemn their guiltiness. So we've built this seemingly emotionless machine, this strict, logical chain of thought that says if x, then y, and attempts to ignore other distracting factors like p, q, and the other 22 letters of the alphabet. Justice is good for many things.
Justice determines right from wrong.
Justice ensures that actions have proper consequences.
Justice protects citizens and promotes the common good.
Justice provides legal and moral guidelines for a safe society.
But can you imagine a world where justice functioned without empathy?
I was a...precocious child, to say the least. I was inquisitive, active, fearless, and creative, and many times, those qualities led to the creation of messes around the house, or moral conundrums with my parents. I'm trying to imagine how I would've turned out if my mother's response to my ruining a section of her carpet when I was a kid was to throw me out of the house, or to permanently restrict my liberty to run around and play outside. Or if, every time I stole a cookie, I was confined to my room for hours on end as punishment for what I'd done.
From a justice standpoint, those consequences are relatively fair. I irreparably damaged property, it only makes sense that I not continue to receive the benefits of living among that property, especially when there was a risk I would do it again (and yes, I did it again). If I stole something, well, then the best response is to separate me from any similar items so I wouldn't do it again.
But if my mom did those things, we'd be frustrated with her. You'd say that I was just a kid, that I didn't know better, or that even if I did, I didn't deserve such treatment. You'd rally in my defense, empathy on high alert as you thought of all of the times you were treated unjustly.
And there's that intersection. Empathy and justice.
Empathy is the fluidity to Justice's rigidity. They're quality foils to each other, and maybe that's why it's so satisfying when we see this common scene in movies and books:
The final battle (real or metaphorical) is waging on, but our attention is drawn to the two characters dueling in the middle. One, our protagonist, is fighting for her life, but we can tell she's losing energy, speed, and strength. She doesn't have much fight left, but is giving her everything in the hopes of defeating the other character once and for all. Unsurprisingly, our other character, the antagonist, seems as if they're only just getting started. They're more skilled than our protagonist, they're faster, stronger, more agile. They don't fight for their life, they fight for revenge. They're out for blood, and if they see the kill shot, they'll take it, no hesitation.
The antagonist lands a blow to the protagonist. She's wounded now, but still going. Some twist occurs -- the antagonist is distracted by their own vengeful monologue, or a call to action from the protagonist's backup, or is caught off guard by the singular lucky shot the protagonist has managed to score in their battle -- and suddenly we're at a very familiar scene. The protagonist has her enemy on their knees, a sword or gun in her hand. The antagonist is suddenly at the mercy of our hero, and usually either gives some sort of line whose subtext is "do it, you won't", or continues to belittle the protagonist.
Throughout the movie, we've come to sympathize with the protoganist's plight. Maybe she's an orphan, maybe she was kidnapped, maybe she went to war -- because of this antagonist. We know that her emotions must be flying high now. For the first time since her cycle of hurt started, she's the one with the power over the antagonist. And what does she choose to do?
Nine times out of ten, the antagonist lives. Her moral compass won't let her do it for some reason (My guess: Making your protagonist into a murderer isn't the most popular option! People like depth, and inner turmoil, and if the protagonist killed the villain and moved on, there'd be no moral dilemma to unpack!) and instead she sends the antagonist off -- to prison, to someone else to handle the repercussions of his crimes, to another planet, etc.
We walk away still loving the hero, for obvious reasons, one of which being that she didn't stoop to the antagonist's level when she seemingly had both the chance and the justification to do so. She established herself as morally less corrupt than our villain, and we love her for it. All the while, it's assured to us that the antagonist is paying the consequences for his actions (just not at the hand of our hero).
Empathy and justice. A delightful paradox of the two not only coexisting, but actually being bettered by the other's presence. I'm all for it. And almost all of my favorite literary characters have been too (so now you know I'm going to be all for it).
If you've made it this far, thanks for reading this (slightly derailed) post about Edmund and justice and empathy. I'm kind of in love with this topic, so expect me to reference it again at some point in the future. Look out for another literary-inspired post about Edmund too, because if I never finally write all the stuff that's been in my journal for a year, I may cry.
Signing Off,
Amanda
I think about justice a lot.
Uppercase-j Justice shows up every time I think about the Supreme Court, when I look in my mind for an image that represents equity, and pull out Justice herself, weighing the scales and holding the sword.
Lowercase-j justice is even more prominent, though. Ever since I was little, the concept of fairness has been at the forefront of my mind (I think I've mentioned before that I was the kid who wanted everyone to get the same amount of goldfish because it just wasn't fair if she got 13 and I got 11).
I'm a big advocate of punishments fitting the crime. But before we get too far into that, it's story time.
I went home a few weekends ago, and while in Illinois, I took the Metra from Chicago proper out to the suburbs. I disembarked from the train in a town I consider my second hometown, having spent the years from 5-14 there at my elementary and middle schools. I walked from the train station to a more convenient location for my mom to pick me up (and yes, I felt like a middle schooler waiting for my mom to pick me up from my date at the pizza place -- real story), and as I did, I started remembering different aspects of my childhood in the area. I got all nostalgic (no surprise there) and when my mom finally swung by to grab me, I was a bit sad to leave the area. Then my mom commented that my wallet was ugly (she's not wrong) and I jokingly suggested we could see if the Hobby Lobby nearby had anything up to her standards. Conveniently, as we pulled into the parking lot, she looked at the blank facade of what had once been a Hobby Lobby and then remembered that they had relocated. Instead, we decided to go to a thrift shop next door.
Now this is where the story gets fun for me. I'm a book girl, quite obviously. I've always loved reading, and this past summer I went through the Chronicles of Narnia all the way through for the first time (my first attempt, in elementary school, stopped after finishing The Silver Chair, which is really quite unfortunate). I had all of the feelings, and took a lot of notes with the intent of writing a blog post about it (for all those interested, it's currently at least 5 pages of notes on Microsoft Word, and will probably be posted shortly after this one).
These notes were almost exclusively about my favorite character, Edmund. I've always loved him, and if you read the second blog post on this, you'll find out why. Anyhow, big Edmund fan here, for a number of reasons. But when I finally went through the whole Narnia series last summer, in reading one of the "new" books (for me at least), I discovered a gem of a quote from Edmund, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.
For almost 10 months. (It's been that thought-provoking for me, I know, it's wild.) So I've gone out of my way to get different versions of the book, because it's quickly become my favorite.
The context of the scene (in an attempt to try and make a much longer story short) is that there's a man from another Kingdom courting Queen Susan. She doesn't want to marry him, but there have been threats made by this man's kingdom if she turns down his marriage proposal. Susan turns it down anyway, and the man devises some particularly wicked plans to fight and harm the Narnians and their neighbors. Ultimately, they all go to war. (Spoilers ahead, be warned) Narnians & Co. win, and the traitor is brought before the neighboring rulers, as well as the youngest two Pevensies, in order to decide his fate. One of the advisors turns to the room and states that anyone would certainly have the right to cut off his head, for his actions have amounted to those of assassins. Edmund considers this, and then says:
"It is very true, but even a traitor may mend. I have known one that did."
WILD. I get chills reading it, even now, for the who--knows--how--many-th time.
It shows such self-awareness, such introspection and humility, to not only understand that a traitor can be changed for the better, but to subtly acknowledge before a room of fellow rulers that he himself was once a traitor too. Edmund was already my favorite character long before reading this book, because of the patent humanity that C.S. Lewis paints him with. But with this quote, he solidified a place in my heart.
And it really shouldn't come as a surprise to me that my favorite character would be one that has an epithet of justice.
Lately, I've been learning about the complexities of justice, the vast and ambiguous grey space between the black and white of right and wrong. The space where some things aren't as clear cut as they may appear, where a "definitive" answer may be fluid, where eight different responses may all be correct.
That's what Edmund gets into here, and if unpacking him as a character from LWW isn't fun enough, this quote is even more thrilling to analyze.
First, we see that the determination of this man's fate is--at least partially--in Edmund's hands.
Edmund's advice is being sought out here, and he isn't shy with his words. See, Edmund is crowned "Edmund the Just" at the end of LWW, and I was always confused by that. Honestly, what had Edmund done in that book to prove he was wise enough, or temperate enough, or god-forbid, mature enough to administer justice. (Nothing, in my humble opinion.) And yet, Aslan chooses that name for him, not magnificent, or gentle, or valiant--just.
It seemed misplaced to me, but you see his justice, his fairness, in later books (The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is the one that immediately comes to mind, but it's evident in Prince Caspian and The Last Battle too).
Second, we discover that Edmund truly lives up to his name.
He chooses his words wisely, knowing they will affect the way his fellow leaders react to the issue at hand.
He considers--considers, rather than acts rashly--the decision at hand, he acknowledges the weight of this man's actions (And later on in the scene, acknowledges how furious he is with the man himself), yet still considers the possibility for change.
He's everything that he isn't in the first book where we meet him, he's measured, careful, considerate, quick to listen and slow to anger. It's amazing. Who knew that we would see such obvious character development?
It's something beautiful and brilliant and I love it. Maybe it's because I'm so partial to the idea of justice. Maybe it's because I like well-developed characters. Maybe it's because I like the reminder that people can change, no matter what they've been like before. I don't really know what's at the heart of my love for Edmund (maybe in the Edmund character study that's coming up next, I'll finally identify it, who knows?) but I know that every time I read any of the books or watch the movies, it gets stronger.
There's this scene in LWW (spoilers ahead if you haven't read the book/seen the movie, but honestly, you've had almost 60 years at this point, it's on you if you haven't interacted with the plot) where the Narnians are fighting, and all of a sudden Aslan returns, with Susan and Lucy (and a whole host of newly-freed Narnians) in tow, and ultimately kills the White Witch, the main antagonist of the book.
As Aslan reconnects with Peter, the eldest sibling mentions that the Narnian army wouldn't have made it as far as they did if it hadn't been for Edmund's intelligence. Edmund determined mid-duel that the destruction of the Witch's wand was far more important than mounting a direct attack on the Witch herself, so he successfully managed to destroy her wand, but also successfully managed to get himself mortally wounded (because what sort of a good plot line doesn't give a redemption opportunity for the worst of the protagonists?).
The siblings are, understandably, distraught. Lucy is reminded of her gift from Father Christmas, a healing cordial, and gives some to Edmund before scurrying away to help other wounded members of the Narnian army.
Edmund lives to tell the tale, and to be knighted almost immediately by Aslan.
I've always found this plot piece fascinating. First, Edmund is sentenced to death. Then he cheats it (or, more accurately, Aslan cheats it for him). Then he nearly dies, at the hands of the White Witch, no less, before being restored to his former glory (that is, a schoolboy who isn't spiteful and mean to his siblings).
It seemed like the White Witch had gotten what she wanted. It seemed like Aslan was dead, and Edmund was soon to join him. It seemed like all hope was lost.
But instead of receiving the comeuppance from the White Witch, Edmund lives. Aslan resurrects, as only someone who was intimately familiar with the Deep Magic could do. Hope returns, Spring is restored, there's laughter and light and warmth in the Kingdom again.
You guys, I love this. I love the illustration of Winter melting to Spring. I love the redemption (honestly, let's call it like it is, revival) of Edmund. Not only is he made new, he's made better than new in the knowledge of what he's seen and experienced.
I think that's why I love his character so much. He becomes wiser because of his past. By acknowledging the very real flaws he's exhibited, and the monumental mistakes he's made, he becomes a better man. Admittedly, there's definitely some aspect of this growth that we can assume came from Aslan's private chat with Edmund, but it's marvelous to see it in action.
If we're tying it back to justice, his penchant for fairness seems to come from empathy in one way or another.
In the case of A Horse and His Boy, it's pretty clear. The subtext of Edmund's comment basically reads:
"Yes, of course, he's a traitor, and we mustn't forget that, but have you forgotten that I committed the most traitorous act a man could ever be guilty of? I abandoned my family for my own profit, and yet have been crowned a King. I have grown older and wiser and have turned from my childish dreams of power and glory. Do you not think that this man is capable of the same? If you have any respect or consideration for me, so too should you have for this man."It's empathy. It's recognition. It's Edmund looking in this man's eyes and seeing himself reflected there. So then, empathy and justice, walking hand and hand. What a mental image.
A few years ago, for one of my Criminology classes, I was required to go sit in on a few court cases in the nearest District Court. I don't remember all that much about the cases I went to see, because on the whole, they seemed relatively minor violations to me. But what I do recall was the conversation one judge had with a defendant.
Throughout the case, I had sat in my seat frustrated at the flippancy of the man sitting on the bench. As the defendant mentioned his dream to become a pastry chef and open a bakery, the judge snidely remarked that "he didn't need another baker, he needed less criminals" which seemed a clear dismissal of this young man's desire to create a better life for himself. There were other examples, ones that infuriated me, but I was forced to sit through the trial, silently taking notes as I applied more and more pressure to the pen on my notebook paper.
But then, after all of the evidence had been presented, after the defendant had spoken his piece and members of his family and of the community had presented testimonies of his character, the Judge gave his decision, but not without a bit of dramaticism.
He went on for nearly 10 minutes about all of the reasons that this kid shouldn't get probation, or parole, but instead should be referred to the county jail, or prison. I was, again, livid, but then I heard the Judge start on a different line of reasoning. In his rationale for incarceration, the Judge had mentioned that allowing the defendant to walk free would be like "giving him the keys to the Kingdom," and asked why he would do that for someone who was bound to commit another crime.
But he paused for a moment, and instead of condemning the defendant then and there, decided that mercy was a better option. I believe the exact words were "I'm giving you the keys, son. Don't make me regret it."
I was floored to say the least.
Who knows what the judge saw in the defendant, but whatever it may have been, it was apparently enough to change his seemingly fixed stance on the issue.
Empathy and justice. Empathy and justice.
That's not saying "well, I would've reacted differently" or "there was always a better option, he/she just didn't choose it" or "I understand what he/she is trying to say, but.." It's better than that.
According to the always-reliable internet, "pity acknowledges a person's suffering, sympathy cares about a person's suffering, and empathy feels a person's suffering", which is a lot of words to essentially say there are levels of concern.
My hot take of the day is this:
Anyone can have pity, and anyone can be sympathetic, but empathy takes work.
It takes some time on your own evaluating yourself, your circumstances. It's praying, it's reading your Bible, it's journaling, or processing, or crying. It's allowing yourself a certain level of self-awareness where you can identify a pattern of pain or joy or any other emotion you've experienced when it manifests in others.
Empathy is neat, though, because it doesn't stop there, which already might feel like too much if you're not someone who loves processing emotions. Empathy is neat because it's basically emotional recall with a call to action tacked on. If a friend of mine is experiencing grief, I rifle through the file folders of my heart and my mind until I come across my last encounter with grief. How did I feel? What was my response? How was I comforted by others? Then, I analyze all of those factors, and apply some of the effective comforting methods. I ask my friend how I can support them. And whether that's just being present, or it's driving across campus at 1am to bring somebody a chocolate bar and listen to them as they explain what's been going on, then that's what happens.
The tl;dr of that is that you and I use our own experiences to shape our responses to others (classic psychology there, conditioning and what not), but that in doing so, we simultaneously remember that the other person isn't quite us, and that they may have different needs than ourselves. Truly, fully displayed empathy is wild. It's selfless and kind, it's compassionate (which, back to our always reliable internet again, is apparently the next level of concern up from empathy) and adaptable, and it's full of mercy and full of grace.
It knows that hard times make people bitter, and dismisses the unkind actions of a friend in crisis.
It knows that emotions are difficult, and it doesn't force discussion or action or ultimatums.
It sees hurt and comforts according to the recipients needs, rather than their own.
It bends over backwards to make a person know they are seen and loved and valued.
But back to the illustration earlier, empathy and justice. Empathy and Justice.
Justice determines right from wrong.
Justice ensures that actions have proper consequences.
Justice protects citizens and promotes the common good.
Justice provides legal and moral guidelines for a safe society.
But can you imagine a world where justice functioned without empathy?
I was a...precocious child, to say the least. I was inquisitive, active, fearless, and creative, and many times, those qualities led to the creation of messes around the house, or moral conundrums with my parents. I'm trying to imagine how I would've turned out if my mother's response to my ruining a section of her carpet when I was a kid was to throw me out of the house, or to permanently restrict my liberty to run around and play outside. Or if, every time I stole a cookie, I was confined to my room for hours on end as punishment for what I'd done.
But if my mom did those things, we'd be frustrated with her. You'd say that I was just a kid, that I didn't know better, or that even if I did, I didn't deserve such treatment. You'd rally in my defense, empathy on high alert as you thought of all of the times you were treated unjustly.
And there's that intersection. Empathy and justice.
Empathy is the fluidity to Justice's rigidity. They're quality foils to each other, and maybe that's why it's so satisfying when we see this common scene in movies and books:
The final battle (real or metaphorical) is waging on, but our attention is drawn to the two characters dueling in the middle. One, our protagonist, is fighting for her life, but we can tell she's losing energy, speed, and strength. She doesn't have much fight left, but is giving her everything in the hopes of defeating the other character once and for all. Unsurprisingly, our other character, the antagonist, seems as if they're only just getting started. They're more skilled than our protagonist, they're faster, stronger, more agile. They don't fight for their life, they fight for revenge. They're out for blood, and if they see the kill shot, they'll take it, no hesitation.
The antagonist lands a blow to the protagonist. She's wounded now, but still going. Some twist occurs -- the antagonist is distracted by their own vengeful monologue, or a call to action from the protagonist's backup, or is caught off guard by the singular lucky shot the protagonist has managed to score in their battle -- and suddenly we're at a very familiar scene. The protagonist has her enemy on their knees, a sword or gun in her hand. The antagonist is suddenly at the mercy of our hero, and usually either gives some sort of line whose subtext is "do it, you won't", or continues to belittle the protagonist.
Throughout the movie, we've come to sympathize with the protoganist's plight. Maybe she's an orphan, maybe she was kidnapped, maybe she went to war -- because of this antagonist. We know that her emotions must be flying high now. For the first time since her cycle of hurt started, she's the one with the power over the antagonist. And what does she choose to do?
Nine times out of ten, the antagonist lives. Her moral compass won't let her do it for some reason (My guess: Making your protagonist into a murderer isn't the most popular option! People like depth, and inner turmoil, and if the protagonist killed the villain and moved on, there'd be no moral dilemma to unpack!) and instead she sends the antagonist off -- to prison, to someone else to handle the repercussions of his crimes, to another planet, etc.
We walk away still loving the hero, for obvious reasons, one of which being that she didn't stoop to the antagonist's level when she seemingly had both the chance and the justification to do so. She established herself as morally less corrupt than our villain, and we love her for it. All the while, it's assured to us that the antagonist is paying the consequences for his actions (just not at the hand of our hero).
Empathy and justice. A delightful paradox of the two not only coexisting, but actually being bettered by the other's presence. I'm all for it. And almost all of my favorite literary characters have been too (so now you know I'm going to be all for it).
If you've made it this far, thanks for reading this (slightly derailed) post about Edmund and justice and empathy. I'm kind of in love with this topic, so expect me to reference it again at some point in the future. Look out for another literary-inspired post about Edmund too, because if I never finally write all the stuff that's been in my journal for a year, I may cry.
Signing Off,
Amanda
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