REMARKS

Since in my own mind many of these posts have been "chapters," I'm splitting some of them out to separate blogs. But also, my audience is divided and quite different, one part from another. Many have dropped out and many have newly arrived. There are recognizable paper "book" versions of some of the posts that fit together.

I find that some people still assume that a blog is a sort of diary. This one is not. It is not for children, either in terms of subject or writing style. It's not written "down." Think academic magazine or column without footnotes.


SOCIAL MEDIA

My name shows up on google+ and twitter, but I only monitor and will not add you. I do NOT do Facebook though someone with the same name does. Please use plain email. My phone landline is in the phone book. I have no cell phone.

Other Blogs by me

IF YOU ARE LOOKING FOR INFORMATION ABOUT THE ART OF BOB SCRIVER, PLEASE GO TO: www.scriverart.blogspot.com.

Notes from Alvina Krause between 1957-1961 are posted at www.Krausenotes.blogspot.com


TWO REBLOGS:
Fiction about Indians at www.willowsticks.blogspot.com
Essays about Indians at www.siksikaskinitsiman.blogspot.com



Saturday, September 29, 2007

LOVE AND ABUSE

www.sbpoet.net is the url of a fine poet housebound by fibromyalgia in Missoula. One might say that she’s making lemonade from lemons, except that the product is much finer than just lemonade. Sometimes champagne and sometime strong medicine. One of her “disciplines” is subscribing to poetry prompter websites, which suggest topics. Last Thursday a prompter reminded her that Thursday was a day to address abuse, with people across the country choosing the type of abuse to confront. sbpoet at one time made her living as a group therapist for men who had been convicted of sexual abuse. Her poem is here.
http://www.sbpoet.net/2004/07/the_therapist.html I give you the url so you can go to the website because there are other excellent poems there.

This poem simply and straightforwardly reports what the therapist hears, rationalizations the perpetrators failed to understand were criminal, destructive, power-based, and painful. Put side-by-side, the claims are ridiculous as one can only hope the men realized in group. The end of the poem is the “snapper,” switching to the point of view of the victim and confessing that “I loved him.”

If you have experience with these situations, and I hope that few of you do, this truth (for some, not all) will ring true and reveal itself as -- what word will do? Ironic? Inscrutable? Infuriating?

At this Montana Festival of the Book, I spoke to Barbara Richard, whose book “Dancing on his Grave”, was a powerful reflection on her father, a man who embodies this poem, except that the abuse he doled out was not just sexual except in the way that our corrupted culture equates violence with sex with love. None of the respected writers who backed her last year (Lee Rostad, Mary Clearman Blew, Judy Blunt) were present. She was not on our panel about memoir, though her sort of memoir is a hot topic around the planet. I suspect that the Montana Festival of the Book does not seek “hot topics” but tries to be “nice” as a sort of Chamber of Commerce Event, thus risking boredom.

What Barbara said (http://barb-richard.blogspot.com/) was that those working to end sexual abuse are finding the perpetrators far too resistant and capable of denial to be changed. (This is pretty daunting considering how both the acts and the retribution seem to escalate.) Some are now going to a new strategy: addressing the victim, the person who says “I loved him.” What is it that makes a person say such a thing after being abused? Barbara said that her own mother, even after two episodes that nearly killed her and being smart enough late in life to earn college degrees with excellent grades, still insisted that she was in love with her violent husband, that they would reunite and live in bliss.

When I was young, I thought the way to cope was to face everything, to confront, to know the truth -- all that Walt Whitman stuff. But then as I grew older, I discovered some truths. One of them is that a person can prevent themselves from facing the truth -- just never think it. You can't know that you're missing something because your own head tricks you -- an outside person has to help you see things.

A therapist once asked me to tell her concrete evidence of love on the part of my ex-husband. I told her about him brushing my hair. She scoffed. I think that one of the truths is that even a therapist can take a point of view that prevents them from admitting evidence. Many people would think the only evidence of love is financial: if he gives you diamonds, he loves you, even if he blacks your eyes. What IS evidence of love? Fidelity? Support and protection? Tenderness? Seen any movies about those things lately? Does Philip Roth write about those things?

One of the responses to SBpoet’s poem was from India where women are often no better than animals, maybe not as good as cows. Financial instruments, heir producers, family slaves, the women there suffer through social consent, even though that country is the source of many ideas about compassion, nonviolent reform, and respect for all life. No matter how bad something is, there is always something worse.

No matter how easy your own life is, it doesn't always mean you can help others. It just doesn't come out even. But you can try. If you can figure out how to do it. I went to our little village clinic for a blood test. The only other person was a woman who had plainly been beaten up. She walked past my yard daily and I always spoke to her, so I said something about my daylilies. She barely responded. Now she never walks on my sidewallk -- she goes up the alley, she walks on the other side, she drives. If I went to her house, she would ignore my knocking.

Confronting things, having insights, doesn't change things. You have to do something differently than before. But to people who have been assaulted, asking for help just means losing more control -- people intervene, but they might not have the same values, they might hurt the assaulter who is loved by his victim, they might cut off the last sources of income.

The nature of bonding is mysterious. When I was little, an oldest girl followed closely by two brothers, I was “dethroned” by a mother struggling to keep track of a household growing faster than the income from a husband whose job took him on the road. At least this is what I figure, looking back from adulthood. I was often a bad girl, throwing tantrums and disobeying to the point of earning a spanking. Because that was contact. That was attention. No one figured this out at the time. At school my strategy was different: I did everything right, I curried favor, I got good grades. My teachers, older women, gave me lots of attention. (My classmates were unimpressed.)

Barbara Richard will agree with me that “blaming the victim” is no help and will not change the situation. What victims need is new strategies that are often counter-intuitive but that will build new relationships outside the abusive one, people who support, protect, listen, suggest things never thought of before in the way a good therapist or group leader will do.

We need a new society that is not based on obsessive ownership of people and objects. I looked up “abuse” in the dictionary. We tend to equate it with something like torture, pain, destruction. But at root it simply means ab - use, to not use something properly. Sexual abusers often have the idea that it’s not abuse if love is present and that sex IS love. Not so. The whole culture needs to realize “not so.” When people used to sneer at teenaged suicides in Browning, saying they were just looking for attention, Bill Haw used to say, “Oh, yes. They’re dying for attention.” And quite a few more were fucking for attention. Shocked? Good. NOW you’re paying attention, which was the whole point of writing poems about abuse in the first place.

1 comment:

Barb said...

Hi Mary: Thanks for remembering me. I feel it necessary to put in a good word for Kim Anderson. I don't believe there was any dereliction in the fact that the issue of domestic abuse was not present in any of the panels at the Festival of the Book. I believe the organizers are up for including any subject that is so important. It was I who dropped the ball by failing to notify her that the sequel to "Dancing on His Grave," titled "Walking Wounded," was in print in May. I spent six months between February and August arranging and conducting a book tour in ten communities around eastern Montana. It was exhausting and devoured all my time and attention. Since Kim didn't make it to the White Sulphur Springs Book Festival, I wasn't reminded that I needed to touch base with her about Missoula. So, mea culpa. I have spoken to Kim, and we have assured each other that we will remedy the problem next year.

One other comment: Although I agree that blaming the victim in cases of domestic abuse is ridiculous (something like throwing Patty Hearst into jail instead of treatment) I do feel that the key to breaking the pattern of abuse probably lies with the victims. The perpetrators are almost always narcissistic and sociopathic, and there is no treatment. They have no conscience and will never change (for the better-they only get worse.) They should be permanently separated from society. The victims, who become the enablers, may have been programmed in youth to become victims, but they can be re-programmed if they can get safely and far away from the perps. I've felt that Nicole Brown (Simpson) performed the greatest folly in buying a house only five minutes from her psychopathic ex-husband. It sounds like the same kind of denial that put my family in jeopardy for so many years.

Of course, these are only my opinions, but are based on a lifetime of study and observation.

I love your post. I hope to see this series in print someday.

P.S. The poem is unbelievably powerful.

Barb Richard