Smile.

That smile of yours.
Seems to curve to the dent in my heart.
Your laugh
Resonates with my heartbeat.

fuckin hell. 

I wanna be like you: Mirroring Empathy between the U.S.A and Pakistan

 “Bebbee, beeebee, beebeee ooooo. Thought you’d alwahs buhminee..”

The new singing sensation from lower Punjab, ‘Justin Bibis’ belt out the famous and critically acclaimed Justin Bieber song “Baby” on a roadside, clad in traditional Pakistani attire, with their mother creating a beat on cooking utensils. Within three days this amateur video had over 1.5 million views and 68,000 shares on Facebook. The girls have now been stars of several morning shows, undergone intense makeovers and are currently surrounded with talks of making their own album. What surprises most is not the fact that they can sing—no, not the fact that their raw talent has been fine-tuned without any professional help. Rather it’s how two girls from an extremely poor Punjabi family, with just a primary education and command only over a smattering of English grammar made their claim to fame singing Justin Bieber.

Just like Justin Bieber, Hollywood, and icons from the west have made their way as far as small towns and villages in countries such as Pakistan. Their popularity is a testament to how popular culture today, one of the biggest shapers of cultural narratives, once combined with the power of social media, becomes a global language. Areas in Pakistan similar to where the Justin Bibis’ hail from, where sanitation can be a luxury, local barbers advertise haircuts seen on Tom Cruise and Channing Tatum, and posters of the Kardashians are put up. What is it about the lure of this popular culture that finds its way into the most conservative of cultures? How does a culture so different find space in Pakistani hearts? The formula Hollywood and the popular music industry follow is to create universal narratives, embedded mostly in the American lifestyle, embellish them with new technology and breath taking stunts, and then feed them to everyone, everywhere. The effect is such that, two teenage girls, Saania and Muqqdas who didn’t even fully comprehend the lyrics to a mainstream pop song were able to create their own version by sticking to the tune and emphasizing on ‘Babyyyyy’—a term made universally affectionate by a young tween from Canada. These girls had chanced upon Beiber in the affluent household where they worked as the help, and were lured in by the boyish good looks and dance moves of Justin Bieber. Hooked on to his songs but unable to understand any of it, they learnt the song by sounding out the words and transcribing them in Urdu.

Justin Bieber is neither the only nor first sensation to have made their way into the hearts of Pakistanis. Not too long ago, Titanic the movie, crashed into the tumultuous Pakistani society. There were few outlets for the movie to reach the public, after several cinemas still remained shut following the conservative dictatorship of General Zia. However, Titanic seeped in the Pakistani culture, largely through pirated videocassettes and the handful of cinemas that continued to screen the movie for over a year. Highly censored, yet highly coveted, the Titanic became a means for Pakistanis to connect to western narratives and traditions. Most Pakistanis glutted themselves on the romance of the ill-fated Jack and the stunningly curvy-in-all-the-right-places Rose. The female name ‘Ghulab’ translating into ‘Rose’ made its way on to the birth certificates of many females born that year. Products were launched bearing the name Titanic, including a very local kind of tamarind sweet being relabeled ‘Titanic Imlee’. I was drawn in as well; I remember bawling in a department store when my mother refused to buy me the ‘Heart of the Ocean’—a cheap imitation necklace packaged as Titanic merchandise. “My heart will go on” could be heard blaring on cheap tape recorders in rickshaws and wagons on both city streets and village roads. The movie Zinda Bhaag released in 2014, depicts this obsession accurately when in a local talent show, a man in his early thirties sings to the tune of Celine Dion—completely missing the lyrics—but managing to keep the essence of the tune. Like the Justin Bibi’s, he hums the correct tune to gibberish of words that only slightly resemble the correct lyrics. Perhaps this is another concept imperative to empathy—words hardly matter, different languages become insignificant; what makes its away across borders are the ideas and images that capture the imagination. The stories, without an understanding of words, reach the minds of people by using distantly relatable ideals propelled forward by the thrust of media. One of the Justin Bibi’s claims in these very words; “The tune touched my heart. I didn’t understand the words but I felt like he was singing for me. I liked the rhythm so much that I couldn’t sleep or eat until I had learnt the tune by heart.” 

Stories sung to tunes that match the rhythm of hearts. Music with words seems to transcend language barriers, gets people in different places to be able to relate, and become a necessary tool of empathy. Perhaps it is catchy tunes that make this work—but more than that, I believe that there are some human emotions, conveyed in imagery and sometimes in melodies, so universal that the guise of language and culture cannot mask the primal nature of these. Love, a broken heart, desire for fame and money, a desperation for sexual relations, moral dilemmas etc. are all examples of instincts and desires that tunes and song lyrics pick up on. These stories, coated with the mesmerizing glamour and beauty of celebrities and high fashion are then consumed hungrily by the masses. What has augmented this even more in recent times is the evolution of digital media and resulting the increased connectivity.

Take the instance of love. ‘Baby’ is just another example of popular culture successfully creating a modern day sing-along romance that strikes the tune of age-old love stories. Boy meets girl. Boy wants girl. Girl shows some hesitation. Boy is persistent. Girl gives in. They either ride off together to live happily ever after or perish in an untimely, heartbreaking fashion. Tales like Romeo Juliet, Laila Majnu, Shireen Farhad and now the modern Disney fairytales demonstrates how narratives that deal with heterosexual love remain the same across time though the packaging changes. Maybe there’s a reason why these tales carry a similar vein—love, a universal and natural feeling is perhaps a road sign to the path towards creating universal empathy. Though in modern times there is a definite stress on creating global empathy or an understanding and an egalitarian acceptance of different races, lifestyles and cultures, through narratives, love, that ‘warm, fuzzy feeling’ that stems from an ‘unexplainable’ attraction between two individuals, is perhaps the most natural and popular form of empathy that exists world-wide. Everyone knows what love is. Everyone at some point in their lives has experienced the pull and the warmth of love. This primal instinct is taken by Hollywood and translated into a combination of perfect visuals and dialogue ridden with emotion to tug at heartstrings throughout the globe. This ‘enculturation’ starts happening at a very young age. When I was growing up in the 90’s in Pakistan in an all-girls school, I remember how every girl I knew from school dreamt of a golden-haired Cinderella to a Prince Charming who just had to be out there. So powerful are the narratives distributed by Hollywood that a friend of mine, aged 9, cried in class one day upset about the fact that she felt that she wasn’t pretty simply because she didn’t have golden hair. The power of this popular culture notions of love, beauty, love and ‘happily ever after’s’ is reflected in the Justin Bibi’s; they are a testament to how almost every teenage girl-- doesn’t matter if she YouTubes in Pennsylvania or washes dirty dishes in ‘some area’ of the Punjab—believes that she can be the ‘Baby’ that Justin Bieber croons about.

What happens when Hollywood sensations make their way into little known areas? Facets of American culture weave their way into small towns such that two young Pakistani girls with no understanding of English can perfectly mimic a popular pop song, a dirt poor farmer will be supporting a Tom Cruise haircut, a Pakistani child will understand what it means when two people kiss on the lips even though his parents will not tell him that, everyone, regardless of what language they speak, will know how to say ‘I love you’ in English. Altered versions of burgers and fries make it into menus of street side cafes in Sindh. Imitations of Arnold Schwarzenegger sunglasses from ‘The Terminator’ will be selling for Rs.100 ($1) at the local stores. Yes, Pakistanis love and salute the Great Nation of America that promises a happy and successful lifestyle and love that transcends the banalities of human nature. The American Dream then becomes a global dream as people from a little known nation, strive to understand and adore a lifestyle that glares across Television screens. It is the case that an American enters the land of Pakistan and alcohol is made available to him, beverage menus in airplanes and Pakistani hotels clearly state ‘Alcoholic beverages available to UK and USA passport bearers only’. And no, this is not against the law—American’s are allowed to drink and that too in public. Popular culture (most probably in the form of James Bond) has made sure that people understand that if he is an American and chances are he needs his drink. Yes we Pakistanis understand and empathize with the men and women of the west. But what of the people of the Great Nation of America? Do they know or care the effect that their broadcasted lifestyles have on people in remote villages in the Punjab? Consumed in what their own media shows them of their own selves, will they make the effort to learn more about distant cultures and traditions?  Will the people who produced and wrote “Baby” be able to empathize with two girls from the Punjab singing this trademark song?

When I landed in Chicago 9 months ago, I was sure I knew how I could live here. I had seen enough television (including ten re-runs of the show Friends), stated Coldplay as my favorite band on all social media and preferred pizza and curly fries to curry and roti. I was excited and not at all nervous because I felt as if I knew the American way of living inside out and could easily mold myself to living happily, comfortably and successfully here. Coming here, I was thrown an over zealous farewell by my slightly jealous friends to wish me luck on my voyage here. Why jealous? The fact that I had made it to a highly ranked university? No, not really. It was the fact that I would be living independently in America—a land that they know through mainstream Hollywood to have no inhibition when it comes to human desire. Saddled with promises that I would go to strip clubs, go out on random dates, wear revealing clothes and stay out late with no parental supervision was a dream come true for many who were my age in Pakistan. Stories of how Pakistanis lose their heads when they go to America and end up breaking rules related to drinking alcohol, having sex and dressing modestly wafted in and out of the more modest social circles who frowned upon my parents for letting me, a young, vulnerable, impressionable woman to go and live in the ‘land of sin’ without the supervision of a parent, a brother or a husband alone in a city a four hour flight away from my nearest relative. But I was prepared. My familiarity with the American lifestyle through hours and hours of streaming free movies and television shows illegally online had prepared me for every aspect. An understanding of American romance and drama came through One Tree Hill. How snotty Upper East Siders live and an understanding of brands came through Gossip Girl. How a typical American office works in a small town came through The Office.  The skill of how to make socially acceptable yet bordering on inappropriate jokes came through Friends. An understanding of medical insurance and hospital emergencies came through the melodramatic Grey’s Anatomy. And so on.

I liked to think that with my media exposure and education, I was smart enough to remove the glitzy covers and exaggeration played out in popular culture to reveal actualities of the American lifestyle. I was prepared for America. But what I didn’t think about was whether America was prepared for me. Landing at O-Hare airport immigration, green passport in hand I was expecting a detailed security check. Instead, my stern looking, military uniform clad Immigration Officer snorted to express that he was impressed when he saw ‘The University of Chicago’ neatly lettered within my visa stamp. He asked me a few questions about what I was planning on studying and as he handed me my passport back, he expressed; “Wow, you do really great English. I just though there were bombs everywhere in Pakistan. Just speak slow next time, you’ll get through college.” At this cryptic statement, first I felt an urge to correct him to “you speak English very well”; next I felt the sting of insult. English is more or less the first language in the Pakistani middle-class and I, having grown up in English medium school and having majored in English Literature had to in fact take remedial classes for Urdu. I knew most forms of American slang and even had perfected the American accent, courtesy of the show Friends and various other media platforms. Hence, I felt slightly ridiculed that an Immigrations Officer, someone who supposedly stamped in hundreds of travellers every day, would be surprised that there was more than just bombs and terrorist attacks to Pakistan and that there could be a Pakistani woman who spoke fluent English. I was surprised but I let it pass over without much thought—the ignorance of one man was passable.

But then how to explain the ignorance of highly reputed academics studying at a prominent university? One of the icebreakers in orientation week involved a group study where we were to introduce ourselves and name the artists/songs we spent our summer listening to. While my counterparts belted out names that I was familiar to; Katy Perry, Maroon 5, Fallout Boy etc. I had to think and rehearse in my head. When the circle came to me, I answered confidently; “I spent my summer rediscovering Britney Spears and following the Coldplay tour.” Everyone moved their heads, nodding in vigorous approval and some even chuckled at the idea of ‘rediscovering’ Britney Spears. But that is not in fact what I spent my summer listening to. How was I supposed to explain I spent my summer listening to Coke Studio, a mesh of contemporary Sufi music, trending across South Asia? Would they even understand what Sufi music is? Would they understand that Coke Studio was the hippest thing in Pakistan at the moment? My fears were confirmed when a Chinese friend of mine voiced her favorite TV show-- in Chinese. When she was met with confused looks, she had to explain ‘It’s Korean anime’. People politely responded but confusion didn’t melt away as they moved on.

I’m not complaining or criticizing my new colleagues for not knowing about my favorite band. What I bring to attention is the dilemma that popular Western culture poses—by mass producing a single culture and putting it to a global formula, how will empathy work as two-sided procedure when all the American side sees is a mirror to their own culture? Throughout my time here, I found myself shaping the way I talk, the way I dress and the way I produced narratives from back home into a mold recognizable by most Americans. My romantic interest became my boyfriend to my American friends, even though because of Islamic regulations I would never call him that at home or have relations similar to what the title entails. To my American friends, I would announce myself to be vegetarian simply because I got tired of explaining to them what fell under the category of Halal and why I could only eat fish or salad when we were out to dinner. For my American friends it was impossible to comprehend why I wasn’t applying for a job in the States after graduation and why I had to return to live in my parents’ house until I married. When questions like “Don’t you feel oppressed?” and “Why do you have to do that?” became ominous and insulting, it just became easier to feed a narrative that they understood.

I do not pretend to know everything about the American lifestyle-- my time in the U.S. has been illuminating and I have learnt facets about American culture that popular culture does not advertise. However, my experience has demonstrated an alarming lack of understanding for my story and the stories of the 200 million people in Pakistan on the Western side. Empathy is a two-sided channel. Narratives from both ends need to feed into each other and flow abundantly and uninterrupted. While popular culture and social media ensures that the whole world gets a dose of Western/American cultural narratives, other narratives get lost in translation and their narration is restricted by the noise they’re able to make; whether it’s because of lack of interest, or lack of outlets in third world countries like Pakistan. As the 21^st century rolls on and girls like the Justin Bibi’s rise to fame in a matter of hours, it will be interesting to see if and how the transmission of global narratives morphs to fill this gap in empathy. 

Poem Number 12380380221213823802320

 That moment when the world doesn’t make sense.

When each breath you draw in is a gasp of self-loathe

When clicking aimlessly through F-ed photos

When scrolling down the loudly silent buzz of a T-wat feed

Each slip of a knuckle, each tap of the fingertip

Is testimony to your (incomplete) worth

That girl on a blind date at Café Des Croissant

That woman with the perfect crease in her shoulders

That boy with Proust on the banks of The Isis

That man with a paper published at 24

That, them, they, this, that.

The world looks at you, expectantly

Where is the ‘you’ in that sentence?

What will ‘you’ do for the world

That someone else hasn’t done already?

You wonder and ask.

Does the world even need me?

What is

My role in this quiet madness

Where screams are stifled into blinking dots

Where to cheat is to be cheated

Consume, and be consumed?

That is the way of the world.

Frenzied panic trembles through your fingers

Yet the addiction perseveres

Click through this, Tap through to that.

The neck permanently bows

That digital luminescence 

In such times, I think of you.

I think of you and breathe

Remember?

The taste of your thumb

The secret swirly sun on your cheek

Infinite calm?

If this is what they call love,

I’ll have more of it. The

Significance in your insignificance

The jovial jest. The pendulous passion.

 The concrete confidence

That is you and me.

Let me have sex.

I don't like America. Why? 
America is a land where sex is as casual as taking a sip of water in between meals-- not particularly necessary, not fully required, just a pleasant satiation. Sex is understood as a necessity but strangely not for procreation and not just for pleasure but as an act done out of sheer boredom.

Netflix isn't working tonight, let me have sex.
I'm feeling a little low tonight, let me have sex.
My dishwasher isn't working, let me have sex.
I got a bad grade today, let me have sex.
She seems to want it, let me have sex.

I have been told my entire life that sex is something that happens with one person. Sex is something that needs attention, time and a whole lot of affection. Sex is something that will change the way you function and attaches you even more closely to your partner. 
And I have waited for sex, waited for marriage simply because I believe so intensely that letting another human enter your body is something not to be taken lightly. 

Believe my shock when I learnt about sport fucking. Pick up a girl in a bar. Sleep with her. Bang her all night and then disappear, never to be heard from again. This is causal sex. Where the act of stripping and entering a person is something done for sport, for boredom, for a quick release to help you function better at work the next day. Something as necessary as a cup of coffee from Starbucks. 
Okay I see this. I know about this. 

And in response I am not afraid to say; 

Bullshit. 


For all those who argue that sex can be casual-- I ask you this. If sex were so casual, would we not be walking around naked? Wouldn't a casual hello be replaced with a quick grinding of the genitals and gasps of short lived pleasure? If sex were casual, why even create wisps of underwear that need to be delicately removed? If sex were casual, wouldn't we talk about it to our children as soon as they were old enough to talk? If sex were casual wouldn't we learn that as we learned to say hello? If sex were casual wouldn't rape be just a way of the norm? If sex were casual, why would it not be okay to fuck every moveable thing in sight? Trees, children, cats, dogs, goats, big enough flowers and if you really love them, butterflies?

America will drown simply because it teaches its citizens to be mere bodies that function on desire and consumption instead of persons with souls who let themselves believe in higher purposes. 

For me, the sexual act is an act of love. It is just enough love to take off your clothes, your armor, your identity and reveal yourself in the flesh to just another person. Take it. Take all of me. Take the sagging skin under my armpits and love it. Bite into the appendix scar on my belly and love it. Trace the stretchmarks on my lower back and love them. Run your fingers over the prickly hair on my upper thigh and love it. Press the tip of your thumb into the flesh of my heel and love it. Comb out the tangles of my hair and love it. Taste the salt of my lips and love it. Caress the bump on my bottom and love it. Press your body on to mine and love it insanely. I am giving myself to you. I reveal all my flaws, that I take such care to hide every day from the world and give them to you. And then I take your flaws.

And your flaws?

I see none. Just an unfaltering gaze that is impossible to look away from.. Slimmer than average legs that exude strength. A soft down of hair covering the entirety of your body. Shoulders that push back to carry you forward. A few spots under your chin. I take them all just for that damned smile that gives me heartache. That smile. That smile is anything but casual.

If sex was casual, nobody would have it. The genitals are the ugliest part of your body. Look at them. They protrude and wiggle unnecessarily, unattractively. Rather it's a flaw that you will accept during sex because of the very real, very overpowering feeling of love.

Fuck what they say. Sex isn't casual and it's never going to be.

Either that.

Or maybe this is just the ranting of a hormonal 24 year old virgin. 

Frustrated

Here I am, once more shamelessly blogging about my frustration, with another human, with my work life.
Basically frustrated with the choices that I make.
Which is supremely ironic based upon the fact that I make a living teaching people how to make more informed choices. Choices about their courses, about their careers, choices about the words that they use to write their crappy essays. I teach how to make choices but I fail myself when it comes to making those for myself.
Man is born free-- I can say that I believe that wholeheartedly. It is not religion or man's inner anxiety that ties him down-- it is in fact other humans. We are solely responsible for stripping away the other's freedom and leaving them to not be able to make choices for themselves.
Our parents for example. They raise us, or in fact they want us, to be informed individuals equipped to take on the world and it's myriad of challenges. Yet when it comes to making a choice, most of us inevitably, especially those blessed enough to be from South Asia, will make choices that please our parents. Because we are made to feel the burden-- we fed you, we clothed you, we paid for education, we clean up your shit when you can't-- you owe us happiness.
And just like that we make the choice that ultimately makes them happy.

How about you? Deliberately trying to strip away my choices? How about you being so unmoving and so rigid in your chase after freedom? How about you being inappropriate, being so blatantly unfaithful and being so ridiculously unfair? What gave you the right to suffocate me to the extent where I feel like I have no choice but to walk away? To ignore? To let it be?

The problem with frustration is that it demands release. And when the release is over, shame prickles down your back, pinching you uncomfortably as you hastily try and shake it off.
Next post may be called ashamed. 

lulz.

Why are all human relationships so hard. Why must they be so incredibly painful.
I don't word this as a question but rather as a statement because I know that there is no answer. 
There is no cure to the sickness of difficulty that seeps into relationships sooner or later. We wonder why we let ourselves get so affected. We wonder what is it that makes us so vulnerable, so weak, so miserable.
Whether it's your mother, your sister, your best friend or your lover-- all kinds of relationships are hard.
But the hardest? Opening up to a stranger. 
There is a certain joy in baring one's soul to a single other person. Baring your soul and then baring your body. Being naked, both spiritually and physically, is the most uncomfortable we have been raised to be. Because naked means that you are another insignificant human being with the million flaws that a well fitted black polo shirt or an Instagram filter cannot hide. The fact remains, consistently trying to be perfect, consistently trying to be the best possible version of yourself is extremely exhausting. All of us are self-employed in acting jobs. We act out different roles in our lives in different situations and then recuperate-- thinking without fail the seemingly innocuous question; Who the fuck am I?
And then when we meet that one person we want to be naked with and we say to ourselves, this is it, let me map onto this person, the one form of myself that I like best, the form that he/she likes best too incidentally. And then it happens. We get naked and we dive foolishly and completely into each other discovering facets about each other than resonate and get giddy over small things like Oh, you like blue colored toothbrushes? Me too. Out of the 8 billion people in the world, you like blue toothbrushes-- I am so lucky I met you.
The problem is. That one person can never satisfy you. Those different roles that you play during the day are parts of you that you cannot do away with. Those parts of you catch up and you realize that it is impossible for someone to understand you because you, yourself don't understand what it is you actually are.
Human beings are wonderful, weird creatures that are responsible for both the good things that  happen to them and the bad things. We create our own troubles and weep till dawn and then we create our own happiness and dance to rhythums that we have created. We manufacture love and feed it to ourselves greedily-- it can never be enough to wholly satisfy us.
Find that one person you want to be with. Forget what you want and spend your time trying to understand the other. It is easier to focus on someone else than unravel the turmoil inside because there is no end to it.

Empathy?

A set of questions to decipher how you feel about empathy. Empathy. Em. Pa. Th. E. Reminds you of pathetic. A set of questions asking you what empathy is. Can you empathize? Shudder. Put pen down to paper. Try to empathize.

When and why does your empathy fail?

Remember the time when you were taken to the children’s orphanage? The message above the front door clearly said ‘Time not Money’. Time. Maybe that’s what is needed for empathy.

You remember tried so hard. You sat with the children, tried to leave out the everyday snippets of English that slip into your conversations and talk only in Urdu. You wore your oldest clothes and you deliberately left your cellphone in the car. Because you knew families and even living mothers had abandoned most of them deliberately, you tried to avoid every topic that could somehow be related to talk of family. You thought you were being empathetic. It was hard. By the time you left, you slipped a considerable amount of donation at the head office—you felt undeservingly privileged and terribly, terribly sorry for the children.

The trick is the difference between empathy and sympathy. It is so easy to slip between the two. Empathy is understanding. Empathy is sidelining your emotions to allow for someone else’s feelings to consume you. Empathy is selfless. Empathy is beyond pity. You realize what you felt there was sympathy. Sympathy is giving into pity—that helpless feeling of not being able to do anything Give into sympathy and empathy fails.

Empathy can be challenging and to some extent unachievable. How is that you can empathize with those orphans or lets say a starving child in Africa, when you have no understanding of his situation save that of what the New Yorker tells you? That is not empathy—that is more believing what you are told. That is mass media ladling out excessive shots of empathy, feeding them to the masses until they sicken of the taste.

Sometimes you shut yourself to empathy completely. The day you heard that a 150 children had been shot in Peshawar, in their school, cowering under their desks as bearded, masked men set fire randomly at will, your thoughts immediately went to the mothers. Those mothers who unknowingly sent their children off to school that morning, expecting to see them that very afternoon. You thought of them; crumbling to their feet at the news, helpless and wounded beyond repair. You remember your eyes welled up and your shoulders shook. Just for five minutes. Then, your mind went blank and you pushed away thoughts of pain to the back of your head. Some things are so terrible, so brutal; you can’t bring yourself to terms with the thought of them. The limitations of human capacity to feel, the limited threshold of pain. That is when empathy fails.

 In what ways do you find empathy difficult? (in daily life or as a writer)

You stopped writing a while ago because you felt as if you were failing your subjects. Can a Pakistani writer only good at writing in English, write the narratives of her people, her people who speak Urdu, Punjabi, Pashto, Sindhi, Saraiki—everything but a smattering of English? Can you write their narratives so fully embodied in their everyday language in a foreign language? So much gets lost in translation, so much gets lost, that the flavor of authenticity lost in the garnishing of pretentiousness just doesn’t work. Not in fiction. Not in poetry. Can you even understand fully where they are from? They toil in the fields, they take public transport, they eat a single meal a day that costs as much as your daily cup of English breakfast tea. How can you tell the truthful narratives of those you hardly know anything about? Will you do them justice? You once wrote a story on your waxing woman once in second person. You remember being so proud of it, showing it off in a writing workshop, thinking you had finally captured the true essence of empathy--whatever that is:

“She wobbles dizzily to her mahogany dresser, her footsteps making a sticky crunch as remnants of wax stick to the marble floor.”

So proud until one person hesitatingly asked, “Can a woman with no education whatsoever tell what mahogany is?”

In that moment, as a writer, you knew empathy is a process that would require constant revision, rewriting and never being completely sure whether you had every facet covered.

A set of questions answered and you wonder whether you are some good at empathy or not. Wonder whether the very fact that you had to struggle to answer a set of questions asking you how you feel about empathy is in fact the failure of empathy itself.