I think it’s important to add my voice to the outrage.
I’m going to do it from another perspective. Lest people paint my sisters as a gang of combat-boot wearing, libber mental cases, I had to chime in as a woman who lives on the other side of the political divide. I jumped the chasm as a result of my ex-husband.
I don’t suffer the same fate—or share the same personal outrage—as my friends here; their pain is far beyond anything I’ve experienced. A helplessness that I, thankfully, did not have to live through.
Though I was primary caregiver for my two sons, my abusive ex-husband did threaten to take the children from me when I told him I was filing for divorce. He snarled in my face, “You’ll NEVER take the children from me!” In that moment, I understood how women abduct their own children. Just as he would never let me “take the children from him,” those are the same children he could never bother with. His indignation at having to experience their joy and laughter—we’re talking the good stuff of parenting, not the dregs here—and his anger at how the children wrecked his life, were suddenly important when I wanted to take them away from the abuse.
He realized that he could have his career and look like a fantastic dad while I did all the work, so he relinquished their care, assumed a miserable martyrdom at my leaving him. From that day forward, I had to hear from people who ran into him their weekends together how fantastic he was as a dad: how lucky they were! I smile through gritted teeth because I know the truth would never ring true to them.
No, my anger at my ex has faded to a pity of sorts. A sadness at a dream that was bigger—much bigger—than my reality has taken the place of anger. A resignation that in addition to my titles (wife, mother, ex-wife, sister, friend, co-worker, daughter), I could add the titles that sound so foreign to me: Victim. Survivor. Advocate. Vigilante.
My anger from my situation comes from having to defend and explain again and again.
There is a blame that falls to the women in a domestic abuse cases. At once, she is blamed for not leaving. She is blamed for not trying harder. She is blamed for exposing her children to abuse. She is blamed for creating a broken family. She is blamed for not conforming, for trying harder. She is blamed for standing up and speaking out.
As I read my dear friend’s rant about Sarah Palin, I think about how easy it is for us to find a woman (any woman will do) and paint a target on them. The Republicans have targeted Hilary since the last election. McCain sneaked his running mate into the running in a strategic move that nobody saw coming—and she was subjected to an immediate barrage of criticism.
As I watched Palin’s speech during the GOP convention, I was proud of her grace and eloquence. Just as proud as I was that Hillary was able to let down her shield a bit and shed a few tears on her campaign trail—Lord knows I wondered what it would take to make her shed tears if she didn’t during that whole horrid, very public Monica Lewinsky episode.
What I find difficult to swallow (if you’ll pardon that phrase so closely placed to the name Monica Lewinsky), is how quick women are set up to jump to the defense of a man, how quickly we’ll turn against our own. How quickly we “ewwwww” the semen-stained blue dress and let history embrace that detail, while the President behind it meanders off, scott-free.
Turning against our own is often how we end up in domestic abuse relationships in the first place. The abusive men are quick to eliminate the women that are most dear, strong in spirit, and most apt to call them on their crap, breaking down our defenses and support networks in one fell swoop. They alienate us from them, and leave us standing vulnerable, depending on them to be friend and lover. It’s a dangerous stance to take.
Making the decision to leave my ex-husband was difficult. Our relationship had been eroding, and what little remained was quickly washed away with the tears I shed alone, pregnant, watching the waves roll onto the shore of a Wisconsin lake one frigid January after he had finally crossed the line from verbal and emotional abuse to physical abuse. It’s textbook: they escalate when a woman is pregnant.
My friends—our friends—turned on me, too. I spent years contemplating what it would be like to leave him. We’d seen probably half a dozen counselors together and separate to resolve “our” issues. I tried everything I knew how to do. I gave up designs to have a career so I could cater to his. I gave up interests. Physical activity. Family. Friends. When he finally pushed me to give our children a hostile home environment, I knew I had to leave.
But my friends—our friends—didn’t see the man I lived with. They told me it was difficult to navigate a marriage with young children. They told me that he spoke highly of me, that he loved me and our sons very much. They asked me if I thought it through.
These were educated people. As the friends of my professor (then) husband, they were doctorate-holding professionals. They were liberal. They were feminist. They were pro-woman, pro-choice, anti-domestic violence, pro-programs to address all social injustices. These were women that I would attend domestic violence rallies with, before I knew that I was in such a relationship. They’d tsk-tsk the abusive offenders and embraced those women who didn’t know better than to leave.
Until they knew that I was one of them.
My democratic, green, pro-woman, feminist friends turned a blind eye to me when I confronted them with evidence of my “feminist” soon-to-be-ex’s emotional battery, verbal assaults and physical attacks. They swept it under the carpet of “He’s such a beloved and well-respected guy.”
When faced with the option of embracing a woman in need or embracing the abuser who was one of them….they chose him.
I left the party that supported women in theory, but not in action.
My conservative friends? Those who were supposed to hold the family together at all costs? The “Focus on the Family” people I sniggered about? They supported me and listened. They believed me. They stood by me. I was touched by how my republican friends rallied around me and my boys.
My anger comes from the party and people who were supposed to get my plight. Those people who looked through me (without a greeting) rather than at me, despite years of companionship.
So, love Sarah. Or hate Sarah. Love Hillary. Or hate Hillary. I’m looking past the politics to the women themselves. Women with husbands. Women with daughters. Women who are just as vulnerable as I was. As we all are.
1 in 4 women will suffer physical violence at the hands of their partner: husband, boyfriend, significant other. According to the U.S. Department of Justice, every two minutes a woman in the United States is raped. Approximately 28% of victims are raped by husbands or boyfriends, 35% by acquaintances, and 5% by other relatives.
The numbers are there. We women are here. They are one of us, regardless of the color political banner above their heads.
In our pearls and combat boots, with coiffed hair and tattoos, we need to begin to acknowledge our commonalities and stand together. The men have made it too easy for us implode.
