“Give ’em hell, 54”

The Revelation

A quote I first heard in middle school—one that, some 30 years later, is still etched into my heart, mind, and subconscious. A quote that, to be honest, I still have a hard time saying out loud. I can only type it.

It was in that moment, watching Glory, that I first discovered something unique about myself—something that set me apart from my peers. My ability to see and observe something deeper about the human condition.

At that pivotal moment in the movie, I cried. I shed a tear, quickly wiped it away, and hid it just as fast as it fell. But my tears weren’t for the 54th Massachusetts Infantry.

I cried for the white soldier who shouted it.

He didn’t plan to say it. He was simply in the moment—feeling the weight of everything that had happened, knowing what the 54th Massachusetts Infantry was marching with pride toward on the sands of Fort Wagner.

The 54th Massachusetts had always been soldiers of the Union, despite every attempt to marginalize them. That cry wasn’t just encouragement; it was a reckoning. It was his way of saying, I was wrong. I see you. I stand with you now.

And then, there was Private Trip. He didn’t cheer, didn’t shout. He just smirked—as if to say, “I always knew this about my 54th brothers.” Because for him, nothing had changed. He had always known their worth.

Maybe that’s why I didn’t cry for the 54th—because they didn’t need my tears. They already knew who they were. But moments of reckoning happen in different ways.

When his commander was shot, the American flag began to fall. Private Trip picked it up. That flag—a symbol carrying both the ideals of freedom and the hypocrisy of those who denied it to men like him—became his burden in that moment. He didn’t hesitate. He lifted it high and charged forward, carrying all of that complexity with him.

And just like before, I cried. I cried for him the same way. His burden, his reckoning, became my own.

Only recently have I found the words for what I experienced that day…

Empathy. I am an empathetic person…

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The Rift

That empathy—both a strength and a talent—has shaped every relationship, every experience, and every step I take through life. But the thing about being empathetic is that I don’t always say what I feel. Many times, in many relationships, I don’t communicate or articulate how much I do feel.

I cry for them. I smile for them. I carry their emotions as if they were my own.

And in turn, because I don’t communicate that, from their perspective, our relationship is only on the surface—never lasting as long as I wanted or needed.

For years, I tried to suppress it. To downplay it. To put up a facade. I built walls to keep people at a distance. Humor became my shield. At an early age, I discovered I could use humor to deflect emotions I didn’t fully understand. I didn’t know why I was doing it—I just knew it worked. Humor was something I could control. Empathy wasn’t.

Letting my empathy show meant risking being seen as too sensitive, too weird, too weak, not “manly” enough. But cracking a joke? That just meant I might not be taken seriously.

That trade-off felt safer.

But that was never who I wanted to be. That facade I built—the one I’ve worn for so many relationships—has served its purpose…

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The Reconciliation

Now, I want to tear it down. Not just in words, but in how I show up for people—and how I let them show up for me. To let people know they matter—not just because of the things they do, but because of the things they are.

To say, in my own way, “I see you. I stand with you now.”

Maybe I just need to lean on the people who’ve always known the real me—the Lala Family, the Zimney Family, the Moss Family. The ones who, despite my efforts to hide behind jokes, have always, always seen me as the empathetic person who uses humor to uplift rather than conceal. Maybe I also need to lean on my Saint Andrew Lutheran Church family and the new friends who have entered my life—those I’ve grown closer to in recent months and years.

For I am on a quest where I no longer count how many relationships I have, but rather how deeply I can invest in the ones that truly matter. As an empathetic person, these are the relationships that center me, that calm me in the sea of chaos. The ones where I don’t just understand someone’s experiences—I feel them. Where I walk alongside them on their journey, and in doing so, they walk alongside mine. Where we don’t need to talk or explain much—for we feel, we know, we are here on the same road.

Maybe the way to break the facade is simply this…

Just be me. The empathic, witty me—

A beacon of whimsical wisdom about the human condition.

And maybe, that’s enough.