Fire in Me

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Fire in Me Page 31

by Dawn Mattox


  Continuing education is a necessary and often welcome, relaxing break for most professionals. Simultaneously, it can also be a time of stress and anxiety for the presenter. The PowerPoint slideshow was up and I did a quick head count, pleased to see so many agencies represented. I waved to Gina from Children's Services and nodded to Traci from the court. I ignored Marne from the SAFE Program but welcomed her excellent, dedicated co-workers. There were counselors from various countywide programs, representing both private and social services. I guessed about fifty to sixty people were there for the training and I was grateful to have the opportunity to teach on the “Impact of Domestic Violence on Children.”

  If it weren't for my faith, the traumatic events of my childhood would have been meaningless, just plain bad luck, and I might have grown up bitter and depressed. I do not believe that God created, designed, or intended for me to have the experiences of my youth, but that it is his joyful promise to make something good come out of the misery.

  I silently prayed, “Dear Lord, let this training touch at least one heart and save one child. And God, please don't let me burp, fart, or have food stuck in my teeth.”

  Cups full, plates down, the room grew quiet. All eyes turned my way as I gave my educational pedigree for an introduction. After all, being a victim does not make one an expert. But then, neither does just reading about domestic violence in books.

  “They were sleeping in the other room…”

  “They were playing, watching TV…”

  “They’re used to it…”

  “They see violence on TV all the time…”

  “Kids are resilient; they’ll get over it…”

  “They’ll forget…”

  “... just a baby…”

  “I’ve never heard them talk about it…”

  I had heard every possible variation of the same theme and I was sure that most of my audience had heard them too. We started out on common ground, and from there, I let the facts speak for themselves.

  “Preschoolers can become excessively clingy, fussy, fearful, and have digestive problems. By elementary school, they can become hyperactive or aggressive, or overly eager to please.” Next slide.

  I see myself as validation of my information. I was always trying to please my teachers with good grades. I clung to my neighbors, Joyce and Kenny, as surrogate parents. I felt guilty for loving my dad, yet submitted to Logan even as Starla had submitted to Lefty's abuse.

  “Many of the boys from violent homes end up in juvenile hall, and the girls begin to self-medicate to escape traumatic memories. Children grow up to become violent men and battered women. Boys explode, girls implode. Men go to jail, women seek mental health services. Both are more likely to abuse their own children.” My crowd stirred, glancing at their watches. Their minds were turning away from me and back to work. It was time to wrap it up.

  “Because these children can have radically different reactions, some professionals deny or minimize the impact of domestic violence.” Pause. “I want to thank you for your time and open the floor for discussion. Are there any questions?”

  I hadn't tripped and fallen on my face or left the zipper on my skirt open. My nylons didn't run and the computer didn't crash. My presentation had been articulate and my answers clear and concise. Whew…and thank you. But would my message make any difference?

  I mulled this over on the long drive home. As Chance would say, I hold more triggers than a gun safe.

  “I heard the presentation went well.” Travis popped a stick of gum in his mouth and chewed it with a slow deliberation that caused yet another rush of warmth. He seems to find my embarrassment amusing. I had my clothes on, but he still makes me feel naked.

  Travis hadn't asked me about my visit with Pastor Mac, and I was pretty sure he wasn't going to. He was back to being playful in his obnoxious, endearing way.

  “Who did you hear that from?” I asked with a grin, hoping it was Jack or Amanda.

  “Paige,” he said with a nod and a smile.

  “You lie,” I said, tossing my head with a laugh. “Even I can see through that one. You're pulling my chain.”

  “Nope,” he crossed his heart, “Boy Scout's honor.” He considered me for a moment before adding, “You don't know her.”

  “Yes, I do. You could say that Paige and I have a history with each other.”

  Travis tipped his head to one side. “Just because you've shared experiences doesn't mean you know somebody,” he said.

  I suppose he had a point. I really didn't know much about Paige, except for the list of reasons I despised her.

  “Her dad was a lot like yours,” Travis went on, as we lingered in the atrium.

  “I find that hard to believe. My Dad was a good man,” I declared with a dismissive wave as if Paige couldn't possibly have been the product of a good man.

  Travis stopped in mid-chew to evaluate me. “Her dad is Assistant director of ATF's Intelligence Division. Not too shabby.”

  I scowled. “And you know this, how?”

  “I asked and she answered,” he said with his chin up and a tight smile.

  Increasingly peeved, with mounting resentment and possibly a little jealousy, I rushed to my father’s defense. “My dad was a war hero. He was kind and good and I loved him.”

  “Sunny. Do you ever listen to yourself?” Travis reached out and took my hand. A leaf from the towering tree beside us, released its hold and fell, swirling and tumbling from a height that almost kissed ceiling, to land on the walkway at our feet. “I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, but from what you’ve told me, your dad was just another wife-beater.”

  I jerked my hand from his in righteous fury. “Get away from me.”

  “Calm down and get real. You told me your dad beat your mom. Didn’t you?”

  “I have work to do!” I turned away, almost knocking over an elderly couple who had come to pay their land taxes. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” I said to the old folks.

  “...or where you’ve been,” Travis added.

  “Screw you!” I said, to the horror of the white-haired seniors. “No, not you!” I hastened to apologize again.

  Travis let out a sharp laugh. “You have issues,” he said as he strode away. “Serious issues.”

  It’s hard to say which of us was more upset. But at this point, I had lost everything I had ever loved: Frito, my dad, my husband, and yeah, my mother too. All I had left were a few fragile memories, and I wasn't going to let anyone—and I mean anyone—take them from me.

  CHAPTER 31

  “Whatever you do, never use the word advocate!” Traci leaned forward, tapping her finger sharply on her desktop to reinforce her point. The court-appointed mediator for child custody was such a... witch.

  I had spent the night in the recliner and wasn’t in the mood.

  “Why? What’s wrong with ‘advocate’? I’ve only been one for three years.”

  Traci sighed, thoroughly bored at having to explain the obvious. “Public agencies hate advocates. The minute they open their mouths, our ears are shut.”

  “That’s ridiculous. What’s the point?” I was outraged and offended.

  “Because the word advocate means that you have a single point of view. My job as a mediator, and in fact, the entire court system, is to get the whole picture before making a decision.”

  Holier than thou, Saint Traci.

  “Stick with 'counselor,'” she advised. “After all, you do counsel. Besides, you’ll get further.”

  “Jesus is an advocate,” I declared in my defense.

  Traci leaned back and rolled her eyes. “Holy crap, Sunny! Don't ever say that again. God has no business here” Her eyes snapped, and voice oozed with disdain. She sat tall in her chair and fidgeted with the papers on her desk. “Keep your religion to yourself, or you will be out on your butt.”

  I was speechless, but she couldn’t shut up.

  “You want people here to hate you? You want them to t
hink you're an extremist? Keep tossing the J-word around like that and you'll find yourself on the God-Squad list.”

  Everyone knows about the God-squad list; rumored to be the brainchild of liberal administrators who want God out of the public system. It’s simple: Make the list—Lose your job.

  So now I am an undercover advocate. I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone had bothered to tell Victim Witness or the other allied agencies that their advocates are hated. I was politically ignorant about so many things... or perhaps innocent is a better word. I had written the grant that funded the first Special Victims Unit in California and was proud that Butte County was leading the state. But apparently, our system had remained in the dark ages. Or at least, I was.

  I attempted to set Traci straight. “Has it ever occurred to you that a woman who has just had her nose broken and two black eyes.... just might have a tiny problem speaking up for herself while sitting next to the guy who beat the crap out of her? I am her voice, so give me a break. Better still, give her one!” I turned to leave and then couldn't resist asking her the real question that had brought me to her office that day. I turned again and squared off with a hand on my hip.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “Why? Why do always side with the abuser? Why do you give good kids back to their mother-beating fathers?”

  “Unlike advocates, it's my job to be fair and impartial.” She sniffed with an air of superiority. “It's my job to listen to both sides before making a recommendation to the court.”

  Judges love mediators and will almost always utilize their suggestions. It saves them money they would otherwise spend on anxiety meds and adult beverages after listening to backstabbing, cutthroat couples duke it out through the justice system—eight hours a day, three-hundred days a year.

  “Very noble,” I said derisively, “but you didn't answer the question.”

  I had known Traci for years and believed she was susceptible to the charm that typifies wife-beaters. She raised her eyebrows and considered me for a moment. “Off the record,” she said deliberately, “I think most women play the system to get the kids.” She dropped her gaze and her voice, adding, “And a lot of them ask for it.”

  Clearly, I wasn't the only service worker with “issues.” After working closely with hundreds of women, I had yet to meet a single one who had ever “asked for it.”

  “You don’t understand! I don’t want to press charges. I don’t want to go to court. I just want her to get help.”

  There they were again. Same words, new face. This time the words belonged to a very masculine and extremely handsome Ethan Michaels. Ethan leaned forward on the sofa visibly upset, assuming an assertive, nonaggressive posture.

  “I hear what you are saying Ethan,” I said, looking at the bulky bandages that made one of his arms look twice the size of the other. “I know this can't be easy, but we both know it's the right thing to do.”

  At least I hope he knows it is the right thing to do.

  It wasn’t only his arm and shoulder that had suffered injuries. He had also suffered a major blow to his male ego. He had been stabbed in the back both literally and figuratively.

  Violence against men is probably the most under-reported of all crimes. Men—nice men—who would never hit a woman, have a hard time telling a jury “My wife beat me with a frying pan,” resulting in head trauma. Or, “My wife stabbed me with a steak knife,” as with Ethan. Kitchen utensils are the most common weapons used by women who assault men.

  The number of male victim cases have increased since hospitals became mandated reporters of domestic violence injuries. Hospitals and all medical practitioners, including dentists, optometrists, podiatrists, and chiropractors are all legally required to file a report with law enforcement whenever they treat a suspected domestic violence injury.

  “Triggers” are words or actions that provoke another person to act, or in my line of work, react. Some triggers are amazingly consistent. Most women can be called every obscene name ever created by man and still refrain from physical violence. But call her the “C-word” once, and she will react with violence almost every time. The same is true if a man calls her “fat” while she is working with lethal weapons in the kitchen, or he throws the food she has just cooked as she sits at a table armed with a fork and knife. He increases his chance of getting sliced and diced faster than a stalk of celery at a Benihana restaurant.

  Ethan had over thirty stitches on the arm he had used to block her thrusts and a dozen or more on his shoulder blade from when he had turned away. Still, God wired men to be protectors and Ethan was ashamed of his inability to protect himself. Had a man stabbed him, he might have gone to court to seeking justice, which is a legal way of way of striking back. But men consider it unmanly to be assaulted by a woman.

  Like women, men suffer lasting emotional wounds from domestic violence. But most men won’t discuss their wife’s violence, not even with their closest friend. They learn to suck it up and carry on. Much like a rock in a gas tank, such attacks are damaging and sometimes result in a complete breakdown.

  Violent women battering men is on the increase. There was a political slogan that promoted the concept of change as if change is is always good. Yet a healthy person can get sick, a family torn apart, or a job abruptly ends, all resulting in some kind of change. “Change” of itself, is not categorically good. I advocate for the right of women to protect themselves, and yet it saddens me when some devolve into acting out the very behavior they condemn.

  Cases like Ethan’s helped to break the old myth that only alcoholics beat women. Previously, the state ordered abusive and violent men to attend Alcoholics Anonymous. Men would sober up and attend the meetings, then go home and beat their wives. Finally, after someone noted that there are non-abusive alcoholics, the state changed from court-ordered AA meetings to Anger Management, and later to a more comprehensive Batterer's Treatment Program. Good change.

  When two women meet for the first time—say they are traveling on a bus across town—they will frequently learn everything about each other before arriving at their destination. “Are you married? Do you have kids? Do you work?” They may even draw conclusions as to whether the other woman is happy, and possibly exchange advice.

  It is different when men first meet. The interchange is limited to a nod, a word, or a mere grunt of acknowledgment. In the first weeks of batterer’s treatment, men mostly sit and observe. They are much slower to engage in interpersonal conversation.

  California's decision to sentence men to fifty-two weeks of batterer's intervention had excellent results. As time progressed, so did the men. Males naturally gravitate toward behavior that gains respect, and unofficial leaders consistently evolved within the groups.

  I suppose the same dynamics hold true for other groups of men. My father was a leader of men. He had been a hero in Vietnam. His friends said he never cracked under pressure, not even when the torture at Hanoi Hilton resulted in the amputation of his left hand. Men under his command had gravitated toward him and his inner strength because he had resolved to endure, adapt, and survive, no matter how painful.

  Starla said when Lefty came home from the war he threw his service citations and ribbons in the trash. I know that is true because I asked my dad once if he ever got any medals in the war. Lefty just laughed, shook his hook at me and said, “This is your daddy’s ‘metal’ of honor sweetheart, and don’t you forget it.”

  I guess the army is a club or a gang of sorts, and I suppose, later on, it was natural for a man like Lefty to join and rise through the ranks of the most notorious motorcycle gang in the world. I don’t know, but I imagine, his biker brothers had followed him for the same reasons the POW's had.

  Sitting across from me at a candle-lit table for two, Kissme licked her chops in anticipation. Okay, maybe this was a little weird, but I was moody and depressed. Things had gone well at the morning presentation. I was feeling really good before Travis had wrecked my day.

 
“Travis is a jerk,” I said to Kissme. She sat quietly and tipped her head in concern.

  “Paige is a snake.” Her low growl matched my own.

  “I saw Chance today, walking through the courthouse. He didn’t see me.” Kissme whined. Maybe it’s her way of saying she misses Chance too, or maybe she’s afraid I’m taking the last bite of food without saving some for her. I gave a little laugh and dangled a spaghetti noodle and watched her suck up doggie style, then tossed her a meatball for making me smile.

  Moving to the recliner, I tucked us under a throw and dimmed the lights, appreciating my dog but longing for human companionship as I chased my thoughts down a lonely trail. My mind wandered, traveling from childhood to children of domestic violence, and on to Braden. I remembered the case so clearly. Braden hadn't been a child, but he had been so young...

  Not all victims keep their appointments with me. Some come to court with advocates from the SAFE center or Rape Crisis. Some come with support from Victim Witness Advocates and others with family or friends. Many will arrive alone, rejected by their exhausted families, or sometimes, they just refuse assistance.

  “Sunny,” Chance would say back in the days when our marriage was still fresh and new, “the good Lord has placed you right where he needs you. There are no accidents. The people you touch are divine appointments.” I still believe that, even when they disregard my advice and increase the likelihood of harm. I respect their choices. Still, many of the cases that break my heart include people I have never met.

 

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