“Schadenfreude is a combination of the German nouns Schaden, meaning "damage" or "harm," and Freude, meaning "joy." So it makes sense that schadenfreude means joy over some harm or misfortune suffered by another.” Merriam-Webster.
“I don’t hate anyone,” Al said last Saturday night, responding to an unusual question I had asked my wife and our four friends: “Is there anyone that you either know or know of whose death would bring you pleasure?”
Al and his wife Tracy have been dealing with issues that began when the marriage of their daughter, Becky and her husband, Marcus, fell apart. The two are divorced and share custody of their three children. Sort of. The thirteen year old daughter, Kaylee, changed her name to “Finn” some time ago because her father was the parent who named her. She hates her father. Even though Becky and Marcus share custody, a judge has ruled that Finn doesn’t have to see Marcus. She intends to select a different last name when she’s eighteen and can do it legally.
After a few moments, Al and Tracy both answered, “Marcus.” Imagine the pain that one person can cause to us, so much so that we would derive pleasure from his passing.
I tried to separate that feeling from hate. Like Al, I don’t hate anyone, either. Hating changes the chemistry in the brain. According to health experts, hate is associated with poor emotional well-being, feelings of anger, shame, and fear. Haters tend to experience poor mental health, including depression, anxiety, post traumatic stress and suicidal behavior.
When I asked my ex-neighbor Bob Frassetto after a neighborly disagreement if he was ever going to talk to me again, he replied, “You disgust me!” I was shocked. I didn’t hate him. But he hated me. He was the one carrying the burden. Bearing the weight of hate doesn’t make you stronger. It weakens you.
You don’t have to wish for someone to die to experience schadenfreude. A video shows a man walking across in front of a car and threatening the driver, giving him the middle finger. He’s so intent on looking at the driver and yelling at him that he walks into a telephone pole. A couple of weeks ago John was behind a driver who threw paper, wrappers, and a half-eaten burrito onto the left turn lane as we were waiting for the traffic light to change. John jumped out of the car, picked up the trash and threw it into the front seat, sending rice and sour cream over the driver and dashboard. “You dropped this,” he said. We loved it. A pastor in Florida preached that floods were sent by God to punish homosexuals. His house flooded. He escaped in a canoe. There are pleasures associated with schadenfreude. When someone gets his “just desserts” we do enjoy it.
I’m not innocent. I interchange the word “Schadenfreude” with “Karma.” A driver passes us at an excessive speed and two minutes later he’s on the side of the road with a black and white behind him. Yes!, we yell out, cheerfully.
When I heard that Trump had Covid I celebrated. I hoped that he would die. I don’t hate Trump. His image, his presence, his gestalt, though physically distant from me, has occupied so much of the space behind my eyes in the last five or six years, replacing all that I might have thought about, enjoyed, appreciated, and loved.
The choice was mine. With a more disciplined mind I could have sent him on his way, but I didn’t. I could have skipped over the political news when he appeared (Someone created an app that replaced his image with that of a cat. It was funny. For a while.). I could have avoided political conversations. Would I actually derive pleasure from his demise? His death would be like passing a kidney stone that was descending over a six year period—excruciating pain followed by blessed relief. Not happiness, just relief. sweet indulgent relief.
Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back--in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.
Frederick Buechner