Tonight, the Violence Against Women Act passed the Senate. There were 22 male Senators who refused to vote in favor of the bill. And the first word that came to mind when I saw the voting result was, of course: "DOUCHE." Who would not vote for legislation to protect women from violence? (Answer? A douche.) But in an attempt at spiritual growth, when a relative asked the question, "Why do we need a separate law to not hit women? Do we need a law to not hit people in wheelchairs? Or Mid-westerners? Or Yankees fans?" (...while a smart-ass answer came to mind with regard to Yankees fans -- and I've suppressed it thus far -- but please note, I AM DYING over here!), I attempted to answer sincerely. Which was not easy. Because the answer was profoundly personal.
This is what I said:
We need a separate law because my dad hit my mom. And me. And my sister. And my brother. When I was in college and my father hit me enough that I needed to go to the hospital, the police -- rather than asking me if I wanted to press charges or arresting the man, as common sense would dictate -- asked me what I had done to provoke him.
I wish we didn't need a separate law, but because women still make $.77 on the dollar (and financial means is a deterrent to leaving) and because the "good old boy" mentality is alive and well in some places, we need a separate law.
I'm sure there are a lot more statistics, facts, numbers and what-not in the Congressional Record and elsewhere on the web -- cost of violence with regard to missed work...health care...mental health. My answer was personal and off the cuff. The relative who asked the question has known me all but 11 days of my life -- and had no idea this happened to me. ...well, why would he? Victims of domestic violence become really good liars. We make up stories. We hide facts. We shove our emotions way, way deep inside so that no one -- including ourselves -- can ever find them. This is why I went into acting. And politics. And law. Lying was a talent I had been refining my entire life.
It's interesting what we are able to remember, because I can tell you the exact moment I knew I had to lie. I was about five years old. I was standing in the dining room and I was about to be "punished" -- a.k.a. hit -- for doing something mundane like turning the T.V. volume up too loud or neglecting to pick up my Barbies. I said to my father something along the lines of, "I don't think this is normal. People on T.V. don't get hit like I do." And he responded to me (with a lot of malice in his eyes), " I hit you because you deserve it."
That's when I first learned what a horrible person I was. This did not happen to other people. This happened to me. Because I deserved it. So at this statement, I assumed that (a) other people knew I was hit; and (b) they did nothing to stop it. Which was why I had to hide the violence -- because I thought I was hiding the terrible secret that I was a bad person who provoked my father. It never occurred to me in the thirty-some-odd years that have since passed to think anything different. ...despite being a grown-up. Despite hundreds of thousands of dollars in counseling and anti-depressants...and alcohol. It did not occur to me that this initial conclusion might be wrong.
I assumed that my relative knew what happened to me. I assumed everyone knew. And I suppose that's the more profound reason as to why we need a separate law to protect women (and children) from violence. Because they take on the shame. I did something to provoke him. I deserved it. It was my fault. I did. And I've had many, many years of wavering between attempts at both perfection and self-destruction to prove it.
Tonight I realized that I was still holding onto an idea and identity that was created by a five year old. And it wasn't serving me. So allow me: I'm a survivor of domestic violence. I was just a kid and it was not my fault. And we need a separate law to address violence against women for many reasons -- but first and foremost, because no one -- whether five or fifty -- should be led to believe that it's her fault she was hit.
Silence allows this message to persist.
This is what I said:
We need a separate law because my dad hit my mom. And me. And my sister. And my brother. When I was in college and my father hit me enough that I needed to go to the hospital, the police -- rather than asking me if I wanted to press charges or arresting the man, as common sense would dictate -- asked me what I had done to provoke him.
I wish we didn't need a separate law, but because women still make $.77 on the dollar (and financial means is a deterrent to leaving) and because the "good old boy" mentality is alive and well in some places, we need a separate law.
I'm sure there are a lot more statistics, facts, numbers and what-not in the Congressional Record and elsewhere on the web -- cost of violence with regard to missed work...health care...mental health. My answer was personal and off the cuff. The relative who asked the question has known me all but 11 days of my life -- and had no idea this happened to me. ...well, why would he? Victims of domestic violence become really good liars. We make up stories. We hide facts. We shove our emotions way, way deep inside so that no one -- including ourselves -- can ever find them. This is why I went into acting. And politics. And law. Lying was a talent I had been refining my entire life.
It's interesting what we are able to remember, because I can tell you the exact moment I knew I had to lie. I was about five years old. I was standing in the dining room and I was about to be "punished" -- a.k.a. hit -- for doing something mundane like turning the T.V. volume up too loud or neglecting to pick up my Barbies. I said to my father something along the lines of, "I don't think this is normal. People on T.V. don't get hit like I do." And he responded to me (with a lot of malice in his eyes), " I hit you because you deserve it."
That's when I first learned what a horrible person I was. This did not happen to other people. This happened to me. Because I deserved it. So at this statement, I assumed that (a) other people knew I was hit; and (b) they did nothing to stop it. Which was why I had to hide the violence -- because I thought I was hiding the terrible secret that I was a bad person who provoked my father. It never occurred to me in the thirty-some-odd years that have since passed to think anything different. ...despite being a grown-up. Despite hundreds of thousands of dollars in counseling and anti-depressants...and alcohol. It did not occur to me that this initial conclusion might be wrong.
I assumed that my relative knew what happened to me. I assumed everyone knew. And I suppose that's the more profound reason as to why we need a separate law to protect women (and children) from violence. Because they take on the shame. I did something to provoke him. I deserved it. It was my fault. I did. And I've had many, many years of wavering between attempts at both perfection and self-destruction to prove it.
Tonight I realized that I was still holding onto an idea and identity that was created by a five year old. And it wasn't serving me. So allow me: I'm a survivor of domestic violence. I was just a kid and it was not my fault. And we need a separate law to address violence against women for many reasons -- but first and foremost, because no one -- whether five or fifty -- should be led to believe that it's her fault she was hit.
Silence allows this message to persist.
I too grew up in an abusive household (my dad beat my mom mercilessly; the kids less so) and it took me until I was forty to give up the child's perspective and see what happened from an adult point of view. We need VAWA because the things a man can't do to a stranger on the street or to the neighbor next door are permitted to be rained down about his wife.
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