ArcaMax

The other day, I had a conversation that stuck with me, not because it was unique, but because it was disturbingly common. I was speaking with a gentleman about safe use sites, places where individuals struggling with addiction can use substances under medical supervision, reducing overdoses and offering pathways to treatment. He was adamantly against them, declaring that he would fight any effort to establish one.

I told him that those presenting had a compelling argument and repeated one of their lines: "You can't help someone when they're dead."

His response? "I don't care."

Those three words landed with a thud between us. It's not that I hadn't heard something similar before. They were a refrain to what I had been seeing too often: The slow, steady erosion of empathy. The casual indifference to human suffering. The creeping acceptance of cruelty as policy.

It reminded me of a quote from "The Boondock Saints": "Now, we must all fear evil men. But there is another kind of evil which we must fear most, and that is the indifference of good men."

Empathy used to be the foundation of a functioning community. We didn't always agree, but we believed in helping our neighbors, lending a hand to those in crisis, and, at the very least, acknowledging each other's humanity. But somewhere along the way, something shifted.

Maybe the relentless onslaught of outrage-driven media has numbed us to pain. Maybe the political climate turns every issue into a war of us vs. them, where admitting compassion is seen as a weakness. Maybe it's the internet, where cruelty is rewarded with clicks and engagement. Whatever the reason, the result is clear: We live in a society where suffering is met not with concern but with apathy.

When people say they don't care, they really mean that they don't want to be bothered. They don't want to think about the mother who could lose her son to an overdose and can't find help for him. They don't want to support school lunches for children because their parents should be pulling on all the bootstraps they can find. They don't want to help pay into a system that allows a mom to return to work, maybe not when she's ready -- because sometimes we never are -- but at least when she's done bleeding.

It's easier to blame others than to understand them.

But apathy has a cost. It means more people will die preventable deaths. It means our communities become harsher, colder places. It means when the moment comes that we need empathy, when we face our own struggles, when we are the ones reaching out, we may find that no one cares for us either.

Empathy is not just a feeling; it is a choice. It is the decision to see another person's humanity, even when their struggles are foreign to us. It is recognizing that suffering is not a moral failing and that every life is worth fighting for.

If we want to change our course, we should reject "I don't care" as an acceptable response. However, I've wondered if you can teach people empathy or if there is a sickness in this society that may require a fever to burn it out.

We're on a course to find out.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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