I AM ALIVE, UNFLINCHINGLY
I have really been vegetating this Saturday. I have not yet deigned to open my
door, or do anything more than list to NPR (it has been
A LONG TIME since I have had an NPR Saturday, which is neither good nor bad, it
just is). Also, I have been
Facebooking and it was a post on there that I found a spark of inspiration to
write about.
Overall I am doing very well. From the superficial, mainly in the form of a
boomin’ haircut by my girl Frankie the Barbette, to the more material and
meaningful, getting ready for school the week after next as well as my working
a full schedule, I have no complaints about where I am at or where I am
going. So I am just expressing myself
and “there is nothing to see, keep moving folks,” as on Face Book there was a
haunting tale of a woman and my takeaway from it, or one of them, was that her
mistakes in life did not invalidate her worth as a human being.
Domestic violence is an insidious creation in human
society. No matter how advanced or
supposedly evolved a people claim to be, the relics of superstition and sexism
still haunts how its men and women relate to one another. As I read the story, “Explicit Violence”, I
sat reading through it and struggling to keep myself from identifying with the
character and the feelings of déjà vu that were attached to her situation. I have always told myself that I cannot make
a full “claim” to any of the victimizations that are seem to be so common
today. There is no way in good conscious
I feel I can make the claim of being raised in a single-parent home, fatherless
and directionless, because my Mother worked super hard at making sure that we
did not feel as if we were “missing” anything; beside I did know and have a
father and to me that was that.
When it comes to observing classic domestic violence, there
was maybe one episode, and then I guess it was remembered that my Mom was the
youngest of 13, and there were several brothers who were BIG BROTHERS available
for her to call on. So most of my
exposure to men striking women was like so many of my social commentaries,
based on observation and not experience.
When we lived in the 48235 a cousin of mine had a girlfriend
who lived four blocks east from us. They
were in their teens, smoking weed together and drinking the occasional malt
liquor in the basement. But another
thing I can remember is his beating on her even as she tried to “love” him as
best as a child could love someone.
Whether it was verbally or physically, the abuse seemed to be codified
between them as she would wonder where “her man” was and she would call looking
for him. Eventually, after her
unsuccessful tracking efforts, he would come home and the two of them would
scuffle, presaging their crappy adulthood that was then yet-to-be.
Seeing the two of them interact seemed more as I was even
further removed from them, as though I was behind a third wall separating them
from any reality that I could have conceived as a young boy. It was like there was a disembodied voice
describing their association much the same way that sports announcers detail
the events that are taking place. And
though the each moment was spontaneous, it was also predicated on the
obvious. In the 70’s there was a method
to relationships that was, though changing, still based in the chauvinism of
the thousand of centuries that it took to allow women to have civil rights and
for them to emerge from the status of chattel, despite slavery having ended in
the United States hundreds of years prior.
This form of disrespect had begin to be choked off in greater society,
but a particularly virulent strain of this chauvinism apparently was resistant
to the intellectual and workplace advances the lower you stand on the societal
totem pole. Being solidly in the middle
and mobile classes as well as immature did not except one from relationship
that were from the past.
One of the reasons that this relationship has maintained the
effect on me that it has is due to the example that it did set. It was a “how not to be” primer on how to
relate to women. My cousin’s girlfriend
gave all that she could as a teen-age girl could, from putting up with his
abuse, both physical and emotional, and still striving to be everything she
could be to the young man she loved.
From the big things such as financing his senior trip to
Toronto, to the more mundane purchases she made for him, as giving him money
for a nickel-bag of weed and a quart of malt liquor upon request, she was there
for him. It seemed like she was
genetically programmed to wait on him, and she did her level best. But her best as that young an age, it was
never enough to please him, and he would treat her with an indifference that
was pathological.
Like many impressionable boys and young men, as influential
as the media is on a life, I always thought that an influence much more direct
played a larger role on how he would deal with women in his life. His parents, his Father and my Aunt, had the
kind of relationship that was typical of the era for African-Americans, where
their actual marital status was ambiguous, and his work history was more like a
fable of what a head-of-household should be.
I remember how “normal” it was for my Aunt to be the sole legitimate
wage-earner and for it to be accepted that her husband was man who takes
advantage of social engineering as well as the flaws of his fellow man to earn
a living.
His flaws, which included maintain a not-so-secret second
family, were all visible in his sons (the cousin of
which I speak also has a younger brother doing a lifetime bid in California). My cousin would try to hustle, but his was
one case where the Mark Twain suggestion of “Fail again, fail better”, would do
far more harm than good. If you blink
your eyes rapidly and count for 30 seconds, I would not be surprised if the total
would not be more than the amount of days he spent in gainful employment. He has had several stretches as a “guest of
the state” and the last that I knew of his status, he was a 12-cylinder Jaguar
from the era of that nameplate’s less-than-glowing quality ratings, now trying
to run on 3, with the spark dying in those remaining cylinders. The child in me misses him; the adult,
not-so-much. But watching his Father
maltreat my Aunt and his with his high-school girlfriend, I made sure that I
was going to bring something to the table so that I would have “earned my
position” and not simply try to assume a mantle that I had done precious little
to have given to me.
Those are but two examples that helped form my relationship
model. Watching “Phil Donahue” at the
time and knowing that the current tide was inevitably shifting between the
sexes and that “the sista’s would be doing it”, women asserted their newfound
power and their status in position in society growing constantly. It would be years of course before I would be
able to conduct “field experiments” that affirmed my attitudes about women and
the social shift in society, but there were those who would be slow adapters…
my starter wife was one such case.
1 comment:
Love the line about blinking rapidly for 30 seconds...
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