Thoughts on pity
Somewhere—on a podcast I think, although I unfortunately cannot remember which one—I heard the guest comment that “pity maintains the power structure.” That resonated with me, and I’ve pondered on the quote for a while. Might as well finally set down some thoughts on it.
Pity can be defined as “the feeling of sorrow and compassion caused by the suffering and misfortunes of others.” But the word has long since taken on a pejorative usage, and it’s often expressive of a kind of condescension (for the sufferer) and a feeling of superiority (for the observer). As such, Aaron Ben-Zeév takes exception to conflating pity and compassion. He instead argues: “Compassion involves far greater commitment for substantial help. Compassion involves willingness to become personally involved, while pity usually does not. Pity is more spectator-like than compassion; we can pity people while maintaining a safe emotional distance from them. While pity involves the belief in the inferiority of the object, compassion assumes equality in common humanity.”
Working with that better definition, it becomes clear how pity can maintain a power structure. (By the way, the definition of a power structure is “an overall system of influence relationships between any individual and every other individual within any selected group of people; a description of a power structure would capture the way in which power or authority is distributed between people within groups” such as a nation or a society.) So when we pity someone—say, a homeless person or a victim of disaster—not only are we typically not offering them any tangible help, but we are also diminishing their dignity and denying them self-respect. Yes, we feel bad for them, but although that makes us feel like “moral” individuals, it is self-serving and doesn’t do anything to alleviate the suffering of the other, or offer them any dignified means of lifting themselves out of their situation.
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To offer a personal example: several years ago I took part in one of those “adopt a kid” projects where you agree to get a Christmas gift for a child from a needy family. Sometimes you will actually get access to a wish-list from the kid, and the list typically includes electronic devices, or the latest cool sneakers, or any number of “luxury” items. I remember talking with some friends who were also participating in this (or similar) schemes, and we all kind of bitched about how these kids wanted such fancy, expensive stuff, when they would be much better served with new school clothes or some books, etc.
But as that evening wore on I kept thinking about the situation, kind of arguing with myself as I often do, and damned if I didn’t change my own mind. I started asking myself, “Who am I really trying to serve here? Is my giving meant for the kid, to make his or her Christmas a special one, complete with a gift that would ordinarily never have appeared under the tree? Or am I using this experience for selfish reasons, to make myself feel more virtuous and charitable?” I realized that my frustration with the kids’ requests was that it made them sound just like any other kid in America, especially those like me—middle-class suburbanites who thought nothing of asking for such luxury gifts when we were young. The problem was that this kid wasn’t acting poor enough and that put a damper on my self-congratulatory egotism.
I quickly began to understand that I was feeling pity for these kids, not real compassion. I wanted to look down on them, because it made me feel better about myself. By not treating these kids as I would my own children (or any children in my general demographic), I was insulting them. A utilitarian gift would only remind them that they lack the basics that I casually enjoy; it would be a way of emphasizing to them “you are poor” instead of recognizing them as real human beings.
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I hate being pitied, don’t you? We can all tell when we’re being pitied, and it irritates us because it negates our dignity. Ben-Zeév notes that “when others pity them, people understand that they lack something and are therefore regarded as inferior.”
So perhaps the world can do with less pity, because that pity often just reinforces a person’s perception of themselves as “poor” or “helpless.” It reinforces existing power structures instead of challenging them. By contrast, compassion literally means “to suffer together.” And when you genuinely try to put yourself in another’s shoes and understand their suffering, you realize that the best way to treat them is as you yourself would want to be treated: with dignity and equal worth.
Postscript:
I think the story of Frodo and Gollum is a good illustration of pity versus compassion. While it was “pity that stayed Bilbo's hand” in The Hobbit—he spared the creature’s life because Gollum was so sad and pathetic—Frodo’s approach to Gollum in The Lord of the Rings is much more thoughtful. He recognizes the former humanity (hobbit-ity?) in the creature, and insists on calling him by his original name: Sméagol. His commitment to treating Gollum with dignity and basic kindness indeed begins to change the creature for the better. If it weren’t for Frodo’s unfortunate (but necessary) betrayal of Gollum’s trust later in the story…who knows how far Gollum could have progressed in his recovery?
