Three weeks ago, as the students were filing out of the room at the end of one of my classes, a woman stopped in front of my desk and said something along the lines of, “So I want to write poetry, but I don’t know how to start. Can you help me?”
A question like that is not one you want to give an easy answer to, at least not without hearing a little more of what the person who asks has to say about themselves, why they want to write and perhaps even what they want to write about, so I asked her to wait while I packed up my things and we went to find another room. As we sat down, it was clear that my student was nervous about something and I, of course, assumed it was related to her question about writing poetry. It was, but not in the way I anticipated, and so I am going to skip over most of what we talked about to get to the point. After talking a bit about strategies for starting to write, I suggested to my student that she might want to check out a local reading series run by one of my colleagues. It’s a wonderful, warm, welcoming place for beginners to go, both to hear other people’s work and to begin to share their own, but as soon as I suggested it, my students said, “You know, I barely have enough time to work, go to school and go home. I am in a very difficult situation and I know I won’t get the chance to go.”
Something in her tone of voice told me she was not talking about a merely practical difficulty and so I asked her, “By difficult do you mean dangerous?” She said yes. I don’t want to give any more details, since I don’t want anyone to be able to identify her from what I write here, but suffice it to say that she accepted my invitation to tell me more about her situation, and she is in a marriage that she needs desperately to get out of. Her husband has not physically harmed her yet, but she is afraid of him, and while she didn’t say so explicitly when we talked, I think she believes him capable of killing her if things ever get to that point.
I am doing what I can to help, and if it becomes possible, perhaps I will write more about that, but what I have been thinking about today is how domestic violence has always been a current running through my own life, from the boyfriend who held my mother hostage with a butcher’s cleaver to my mother’s best friend when I was a young teenager, who was found stabbed sixteen times in the chest with a serrated knife, most probably by her boyfriend; from the woman in whose bed I spent the night–no sex was involved–because she was afraid that if her boyfriend came back he might get violent to the woman who lived downstairs from me who screamed like she was dying when the cops showed up at her door because I called them on a night when I was home to hear her boyfriend beating the shit out of her. (He heard me telling the story about that night to a friend of mine through the way-too-thin walls of my apartment and called back that, now that he knew who had called the cops, he was going to make me pay for it. He never did, but it scared me. He was a very big man.) And then, of course, there was my own too-close-for-comfort-brush with being the one on whom someone else might have had to call the cops.
I don’t really have much to say about all this tonight in any analytical sense; it’s just all been coming back to me in waves of feeling and it put me in mind to share this poem, “Coitus Interruptus,” which is from my book called The Silence of Men. There are likely to be all kinds of triggers all over the poem, so if you decide to read it, this has been your trigger warning. The only other thing I will say about this poem is that, with the exception of a few details which I had to alter in order to make the poem work, each of the incidents I tell about in the poem actually happened more or less the way they happen in the poem:
Coitus Interruptus
1.
Naked at the window, my wife calls me
as if someone is dying, and someone
almost is, pinned to the concrete face down
beneath the fists and feet and knees of threepolicemen. I’m still hard from before she
jumped out of bed to answer the question
I was willing not to ask when the siren
stopped on our block, but now I’m here, and I seethe man is Black, and how can I not
bear witness? They’ve cuffed him,
but the uniforms continue to crowd our street,
and the blue-and-whites keep coming,as if called to war, as if the lives
in all these darkened homes
were truly at stake, and that’s the thing—
who can tell from up here?—maybewe’re watching our salvation
without knowing it. Above our heads,
a voice calls out Fucking pigs!
but the ones who didn’t drag the maninto a waiting car and drive off
refuse the bait. They talk quietly,
gathered beneath the streetlamp
in the pale circle of lightthe man was beaten in, and then
a word we cannot hear is given
and the cops wave each other back
to their vehicles, the flash and sparkleof their driving off
throwing onto the wall of our room
a shadow of the embrace
my wife and I have been clinging to.When I was sixteen, Tommy
brought to my room before he left
the Simon and Garfunkel tape
I’d put the previous nightback among his things. He placed it
on the bookshelf near the door
he’d slammed shut two days earlier
when he was holding a butcher’s cleaverto my mother’s life. I wanted
to run after him and smash it at his feet;
I wanted to grab him by the scruff of the neck
and crush it in his face, to dangle himover the side of our building with one
ankle in my left hand and the Greatest Hits
in my right and ask him
which I should let drop.But I didn’t, couldn’t really:
he was much too big,
and I was not a fighter,
and one of my best friends right nowlives with her son in the house
where her husband has already hit her
with a cast iron frying pan,
and so there is no reason to believeshe is not at this moment cringing
bruised and bleeding in a corner
of their bedroom, or that she is not,
with her boy and nothing else in her arms,running the way my mother
didn’t have a chance to run,
and there’s nothing I can do
but look at the clock—Sunday,11:11 PM—and remind myself
it’s too late to call, that my calls
have caused trouble for her already.
When they pushed Tommy in handcuffsout the front door, past where my mother sat,
quiet, unmoving, and I did not know
from where inside my own rage and terror
to pull the comfort I should have offered her,the officer making sure Tommy
didn’t trip or run winked at me, smiling
as if what had happened were suddenly
a secret between us, and this our signalthat everything was okay. I wondered
if his had been the voice, calm
and deep with male authority—Son,
are you sure your mother’s in thereagainst her will?—that when I called
forced me to find the more-than-yes
I can’t remember the words to
that convinced the cops they had to come.2.
Sophomore year, walking the road
girdling the campus. Up ahead, a woman’s voice
pleading with a man’s shouting to stop.
A car door slamming, engine revving,and then wheels digging hard into driveway dirt
that when I got there was a dust cloud
obscuring the blue vehicle’s rear plate.
The woman sprawled on the asphalt,her black dress spread around her
like an open portal her upper body
emerged from. She pulled
the cloth away from her feet,which were bleeding, and I drove
to where her spaghetti strap sandals
lay torn and twisted beyond repair.
She left them there. Then to her home,two rooms in a neighborhood house,
and I helped her onto the bed
that was her only furniture, and filled
a warm-water basin to soak her feet,and he had not hit her, so there was nothing
to report, but she said she was afraid
and would I sit with her a while.
We talked about her home in Seoul,the man her parents picked for her
that she ran to America to avoid marrying,
and here she laughed—first trickle
of spring water down a winter mountain—So instead I take from Egypt! I so stupid!
Then: What you think? Can man and woman
sleep same bed without sex? I said yes.
So, please, tonight, you stay here? Maybe he coming back.He fear white American like you. I was not a fighter,
but I stayed, and in the morning when I left,
she said kamsahamnida—thank you—
and she bowed low, and she did notask my name, nor I hers, and though
I sometimes looked for her on campus,
I never saw her again. Just like Tommy,
whom I forgot to say before was white.Just like the Black woman who lived downstairs
before I got married, whose cries—Help!
Please! He’s killing me!—and the dead thud
of him, also Black, throwing heragainst the wall, and his screaming—
Shut up, bitch! Fucking whore!—filled the space
till I was drowning. The desk sergeant
didn’t ask if I knew beyond a doubtthat she was being beaten,
but when she opened her front door
to the two men he sent, she shrieked
the way women shriekin bad horror movies
when they know they’re going to die,
and I almost felt sorry for calling.A few weeks later,a voice on the phone: You know
what’s going on below you, right?
Please, tape a message to the door: “Mr. Peters
has been trying to reach you.” Nothing else.And whatever you do, don’t sign it.
For a month all was quiet. Then,
coming home early from work
I walked upstairs past people moving furnitureout of her apartment. No one ever
wants to get involved, right? a thin white man
in shorts and a t-shirt whispered bitter
behind me. I kept walkingthe way Tommy did when he saw me
trying to catch his eye: head down,
gaze nailed to the floor, and then he was gone,
and the questions I wanted to ask himnever became words. That tape
was all I had, till one day,
cleaning house, my mother
held it up:Do you still want this?
I never play it.
Throw it out then.
So I did.
Cross-posted on The Poetry in the Politics and The Politics in the Poetry.
I haven’t read the poem–because I don’t want to be triggered–but I do want to say that my heart goes out to you. I know about DV and child abuse from personal experience and am grateful that it is ancient history now. I hope that your student’s situation changes, and that the help you are able to give her facilitates that change.
I never know what to say to your posts, but they’re always brilliant. So occasionally I drop in a comment to tell you that they’re brilliant. The ones I don’t comment on are brilliant, too, and much appreciated.
Mandolin,
I am smiling and blushing. Thanks, really. Your words mean a lot.
I have a friend that I refer to as being in “husband jail.” She “has” to bail out on many things at the last minute because husband threw a shit fit if she left the house. He doesn’t hit her, no, but in some ways I almost wish he did because that would make the situation far less ambiguous. I don’t know if she’ll ever leave (she’s been with him 20+ years and still puts up with it, she might forever), but man, it just gets sad to always hear, “I can’t do this, I can’t do that, I can’t decide if I’m going to do that or not yet, and never mind, I have to cancel.” All due to a “loved one.”
Sigh.
I’ve never really realized how much a part of my life DV has been until you said it because it was always someone else. Hearing about my mother’s first husband, my sister’s first marriage, her second abusive relationship in which I contemplated how to kill the bastard so he wouldn’t touch my nephews (I was 15.) The constant fear my mother instilled in me to watch out for men, never be cornered, never be the girl walking down the street alone at night…how I swore that if it ever happened to me I would fight back to the death, dirty and mean. How that meant that I’ve hit those that I love just as I was hit – out of anger; the first response to every threat.
I’m not sure what’s worse – living with violence to those around you, or living violence in your thinking and your outlook so that you won’t ever be a victim. It’s ruined a lot in my life. I’m not proud of it.
Simple Truth,
If you were telling me this in person, I’d offer you a hug, just because that can be a really hard, and sometimes devastating, realization to have. So, if it’s okay, I’d like to offer you a virtual hug; and I’d also tell you, for what it’s worth, that making this kind of list takes courage, and that this is a courage worthy of respect, that I respect it (again, for what that’s worth), because looking at your life and naming the things you’ve been, for whatever reason, taught not to name, or kept from naming–even if you were the one keeping yourself from it as a kind of defense mechanism–is scary. You learn things about yourself, often things, as you said, that you’re not proud of.
I also think that when it comes to questions of violence, and I hope this doesn’t end up sounding like a lecture or a therapy session, because that’s not how I mean it, but when it comes to questions of violence, you–and I mean here the plural, impersonal “you”–do what you have to do to survive, not that this excuses anything you might have done that crosses a line that shouldn’t have been crossed, but if the only way you’ve been able to keep yourself from being a victim of violence is by becoming the person for whom the best defense is a good offense–even if the need for that defense did not come from violence you yourself physically suffered–and that no longer works for you, then the thing to do is recognize it as a defense mechanism you no longer need, put it away, so to speak, take responsibility for the violence you’ve done to others as a result, make amends if necessary and where you can, and move on to a better and healthier way of being. We owe it to ourselves and we owe it to the people we love.
Dear Richard,
What Mandolin said, plus (as someone who struggles to put away the survival mechanisms that have outlived their usefulness) thanks for comment #6 too.
@RJN: Thank you. I most certainly have tried to adjust my responses so that I don’t hurt those near me, but it turns up in the damndest places sometimes – like automatically jumping to the worst motivations for office politics. I’m assuming it will be a life-long battle, but it has gotten better.
I think your piece struck me the most because even the spectre of DV has altered my life and shaped my personality, and it’s turned me into an abuser at times and perpetuated the cycle in a whole new terrible way. I’ve never read a study about it from that perspective. It would be interesting, I think.
And I love hugs, even the virtual kind. :D *hug*