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As a comedian, I spend nights on stage making people laugh. After I finish, I’ve hours aplenty to sit in hotel rooms waiting for my next show to begin.
As a project, I started writing letters to my children. These were meant to tell them where I was, why I wasn’t at home, what we did, and, on occasion, do my best to impart some form of information to them.
The following letter is written to my son, currently age 3.
I’m not sure when he’ll read it, but it’s a topic I refuse to shy away from or ostrich my head in the sand over.
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Hey Buddy…
I am in Minneapolis, thinking of my past.
When I started writing letters to you, I knew that at some point I would have to cover a few harsh topics. Tonight, I am tackling a very difficult issue.
I grew up not knowing what domestic abuse was.
I didn’t witness it in my home and didn’t hear much about it in my social circles or the media. Back then, it was “something people didn’t talk about.”
Thankfully, social norms are changing.
You will be fully aware of domestic violence, and furthermore (and more importantly) your role in preventing it. I want you to be ready to act if ever presented with a horrible situation, if only because I wasn’t.
I have been witness to two instances of domestic violence in my life. It is easily two too many, and at each occurrence, I probably failed in my duty to do the right thing.
The first happened when I was in college.
I lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin; my roommates were Jack—someone from my hometown—and Matt, a stranger.
Matt arrived via a vacancy in the apartment and a subsequent ad placed on the student housing board. Matt’s girlfriend, Susan, had seen the ad, contacted me, and basically done all the legwork for Matt.
She was, sad to say, his doormat.
Matt was affable enough but in a dimwitted way. By that, I mean he didn’t have his shit together. Matt got drunk nightly, his credit rating was in the toilet, and his car was about to be repossessed. He was both a waiter, and enrolled in the police academy; Matt wanted to be a cop.
To say Matt and Susan had an unhealthy relationship would be an understatement.
He cheated on her constantly, and a multitude of women called the apartment nightly. Back then cell phones didn’t exist, so they left message after message on our answering machine—an external, old-school version of “voicemail.” Since anyone could play/hear answering machine messages—the answering machine was in a public room in our apartment—Matt would try to delete any from his many side “girlfriends” before Susan came over.
When off cheating on Susan, he would stay out late, leaving her to call repeatedly into the wee hours, sobbing: “Matt… it’s three a.m., where are you?”
Matt would return home drunk, laughing as he listened to her growing ever-more-anxious voice.
When they fought, I rolled my eyes. I thought they were perfectly damaged and wonderfully stupid enough for one another. She pined for him, and he treated her like garbage. You could set your watch by their arguments, whether on the phone or in person. They were in the middle of a particularly heated argument in Matt’s bedroom when it happened. Both were yelling, and Susan was crying.
I remember it clearly; the sound of a slab of meat being slapped down on a butcher’s counter pierced the shouting.
The fighting stopped.
Everything went dead silent.
I froze.
He just hit her.
The certainty of that thought sat in my mind for about ten seconds, then I stood up calmly and walked to Jack’s room. I knocked on his door, and he opened it, innocently asking, “What’s up?”
“Matt just hit Susan,” I explained. “Do you want to deal with him, or take her home?”
Jack didn’t flinch. “I’ll get her out of here.”
There was no discussion between us, no wondering what to do or hemming and hawing. We went to Matt’s room and gave them no choice in the matter: Susan was being escorted out, and he was staying behind with me.
I sat Matt down, and if he said anything, I don’t remember what it was. Did he apologize, or feel guilty? The gray matter in my head hasn’t retained that knowledge. I told Matt he was done, that he had to be out by the end of the month. The sooner, the better, in fact. Whatever happened wasn’t going to take place under my roof again. I offered no second chance and waited for no penance.
Matt was gone shortly thereafter. I never heard from him or Susan again.
I did, unfortunately, learn something new while meandering down memory lane.
Wanting to get this story right, I emailed Jack and asked, “Hey, completely random, but do you remember if Susan said anything the night you gave her a ride home after Matt hit her?”
Jack responded, “Wow, that is random…” and then told me about a night he gave Susan a ride home after Matt had hit her.
Except it wasn’t the night I was asking about.
Jack described a night memorable to him involving Matt’s swinging fist, one I hadn’t known about. This means the ugly episode happened more than once.
How sad.
The second instance of violence I was witness to…
…the backstory is almost too long and convoluted to explain.
I was in love with, and sleeping with, a woman named Judy. Judy was in love and in a cohabitating relationship with a lout named Jim.
Judy and I worked at a restaurant together.
One weekend she called in sick to every one of her shifts. Because of our “situation,” she asked me to come visit her at home.
As it turned out, she wasn’t sick. She was hiding.
When I arrived, I knocked on the door with the innocence of ignorance and was greeted by horror. One of Judy’s eyes was a swollen, purple mess. I was stunned. She had given me no heads up.
Judy half-laughed at my surprise, because she had gotten so used to seeing herself in that condition. To her credit, Judy didn’t try to lie and say she fell or any such nonsense. She owned right up and admitted Jim punched her.
Judy did, sadly, brush aside my concerns with some of the ugliest words I’ve heard regarding domestic violence: “Oh, Jim never does this. I deserved it. I was egging him on…”
I deserved it.
The statement made me want to throw up.
At the time, I felt powerless. I wanted to kill Jim, to be a champion and protector of the woman I treasured. Judy warned me not to do anything because she loved Jim. She said she would never speak to me again if I went after him, and considering I was wrapped around her finger…
It’s a pathetic, albeit honest, excuse for my inaction. In the end, I did the only thing I could, which was to remain her puppet. That’s what made her happy, so that’s the role I retained.
I’m not sure there is anything you can do for someone determined to stay in an abusive relationship. Should I have called the police on Matt, or Jim? I don’t know. Considering neither Susan nor Judy would have pressed charges, it would have done nothing productive. I did the best I could at the time, even if it probably wasn’t good enough.
I do, however, know this: violence begins at home, and I have you.
Maybe I didn’t act as appropriately as I could have back then, but I can raise you to be better than the Matts and Jims of the world. You will be raised to respect women, to respect people.
You will understand that violence is an action of the weak, not a show of strength.
I can also make sure your sister knows that no matter what, no matter the heat of the moment or the passion involved, no hand should ever be raised against her. Furthermore, no matter what threats are made, she cannot be afraid to talk about violence or seek help, should something awful happen.
All lessons come from emulation. When you see me treating your mother with respect and love, you will expect and offer similar treatment in your relationships. You will watch conflict-resolution between your parents take place verbally, not physically. There may be raised voices from time to time, but never a raised hand.
Non-violence will be infused in your bones.
I will teach you the warning signs of an unhealthy relationship, so you may exit it before becoming mired in the disaster that was Matt and Susan, or Judy and Jim.
Which isn’t to say domestic violence is easy. You can’t just escape a harmful relationship; some people are possessive and dangerous. But with increased public awareness of what domestic violence is, the less I hope it happens.
Domestic violence used to be something you didn’t talk about. It was a “family issue.” Whatever took place behind closed doors stayed behind closed doors.
No longer.
My hope is that as you age, more and more people will add their voices, and domestic violence will be something you read about in the history books, not the news. My fear is that we are moving too slowly in the right direction.
The only way to change a behavior is to expose it. You have to share your stories, so people don’t feel so alone in the world.
The stories I have just told are my failure to do the right thing and my contribution to the conversation. Even if they don’t make a huge difference to others, they made a difference to me, and my experiences will help me raise you correctly.
Love,
Dad
This letter is now part of a compilation, titled Hey Buddy… Dubious Advice from Dad, which is available on Amazon.
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