Kelly Murphy: How sharing the stories of others helped me develop my empathetic side

Face buried in my parents’ pillows, six-year-old me cried my eyes out. It was so tiny, defenseless. Because I had gotten caught up in the adrenaline of the chase, it was gone. Although just a fly, now it was a dead fly.

I was the sole mourner at the funeral. I buried the fly next to our driveway, gingerly placing its body into the tiny hole my dad had prepared. Then, we tossed the dirt back in and marked the site with a pebble.

Thankfully, I’ve reached a point in my life when a dead bug doesn’t make me tear up. But that doesn’t mean I still don’t sob during Pixar movies, whenever I see someone else cry or anytime I hear “Redwood Tree” by Van Morrison. While some may view my empathetic nature as a weakness, I believe it’s one of my greatest strengths.

My desire to understand different perspectives carried over into my high school journalistic pursuits. To convince interviewees to trust me with their story, I connected with them and demonstrated that I cared about what they had to say by maintaining eye contact and asking follow-up questions. I made it my mission to interview students, parents, coaches, teachers and faculty members however many times it took to fully understand their points of view.

Looking back on the incident with the fly swatter, I realize how I took empathy one step further. I had understood that it’s not enough to just feel for others, you also have to do everything in your power to help them. After killing the fly, the last way I could help was by giving it a proper burial. 

I applied that same mentality of taking action and showing initiative to my Harbinger stories. When an aspiring firefighter I interviewed couldn’t stop talking about how much his late wrestling coach meant to him, I built the story around their close relationship instead. For a feature story, I recognized that the flamenco dancer was also passionate about theater, so I went to her play rehearsal. From my front-row seat of “Studio C Skits,” I watched her light up the stage in the same way that had added depth to her dancing.

Even though my parents probably laughed when I suggested holding a fly funeral, I’m grateful for that fly I swatted and the emotion it evoked in six-year-old me all those years ago. Without it, I wouldn’t have begun to appreciate my ability to understand different points of view. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t hurt a fly again.