And just like that... a broken nose

There is way too much violence against women. And that's not okay.

Jul 01, 2023

Now I’m angry. Still shaking, but no longer in shock. Veronica is definitely in shock. She’s also in an ambulance with a broken nose.

I saw her from a distance. Close enough for us to smile at each other but too far for me to compliment her dog. Pitbulls rarely get compliments so when I see a good-looking calm one, I always praise the human. This time, I just smiled and got in my car.

Five minutes later, I pulled out of the parking lot into the street and boom – there she was. On the grass at the corner, covered in blood, holding onto Luna’s harness. Standing over her were two elderly men. My car stalled as I opened the door to jump out. Good thing cuz it reminded me to pull up my emergency brake. Cars are huge pieces of machinery we take for granted. One should never operate large machinery when upset.

I grabbed a t-shirt I happened to have in the car. Someone had already called for an ambulance. What about water? Does anyone have any water? Just then a woman walked up with a pitcher and two clean white rags.

Veronica looked at me. “Is it bad?” she said. “Well, you’ve got a lot of blood on you, but our faces bleed a lot. How are you feeling?” She shrugged. “Can I do anything for you? Is there anyone you would like me to call?” Yes. Her sister. She needed her sister to come get her dog.

Now I can tell you from talking to her sister on the phone and again when she showed up, this is not a family that can pay for an ambulance and ER. Ambulances are damn expensive. No, we didn’t talk about finances, but you can tell. Veronica seems much more grounded and pulled together than her sister but still… Working for the Census, I ask people every day if they have insurance. I didn’t ask her but I can tell you: this family does not. Maybe Soonercare (government subsidized) but honestly, that can be hard to get. Economic inequality in our country pisses me off but this is a different topic. Right now I’m focused on Veronica.

A police officer arrived. “Where is he?” he asked brusquely.

“He went that way,” she said.

“What’s he wearing?”

“Red tshirt and basketball shorts.”

“What color shorts?”

“I..I’m not sure. Black I think. And he has a small black and red backpack.”

“What is he armed with?”

“A gun. A small shotgun.”

“Small?”

“Short, I guess. Sawed off maybe”

He said some things into his radio which I couldn’t hear. This cop was all business. No bedside manner.

Eventually, the story comes out. This guy who punched her won’t leave her alone. She’s not interested in him, has never been interested in him, and has never been with him. And still, he won’t leave her alone. So he gets violent. This time, he broke her nose. (oh yeah, you can tell, ouch, it’s hard for me to look at.) Old Homer who lives right there on the corner saw it all. He saw the guy full-on punch her in the face and walk away. Homer offers to be a witness for her if she needs it. I grab paper and pen and write down his info.

Turns out the cop was on Veronica’s porch last night for “a domestic” with the same guy. The same guy who won’t leave her alone. The guy now walking through the neighborhood carrying a sawed-off shotgun.

There is WAY TOO MUCH violence against women. The numbers are staggering, even if I don’t have them all readily at hand, I do know that almost 1 in 3 women age 15 and older have experienced physical and/or sexual violence, the majority of which is perpetrated by a man that they know.

58% of the women killed in 2020 were killed by a family member or an intimate partner. * Someone she knows personally is her killer.

In June of 2021, I wrote:

Women’s bodies are not a safe place in which to reside.
To be at home, to feel at home, we must feel safe, we must feel like we belong. How can we feel at home in our bodies if they are not our own and if we do not feel protected?
A woman’s house is always under attack. Always at risk of being broken into, vandalized, and burgled. Every unwanted touch steals something. Every lecherous look is casing the joint.
Our Body, Our Home (This post is now under a paywall. Email me if you do not have the means to become a paying subscriber and I will gift you a free subscription - no questions asked.)

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I moved to Idaho with a guy who had heavily pursued me in L.A. I was on my to New York City for a job that was somewhat political when the 2004 presidential election declared George W. Bush the president. In my despair, this guy (we’ll call him Johnson), swept in and swept me away to the mountains. The drive took two days and when we arrived, he insisted on storing all my belongings in the garage, on top of my car. He was a freelance writer who worked from home and didn’t see any reason for us to be driving two cars, especially not during the winter. Ok, I thought, sounds fine. But when the last of everything was out of the U-Haul and the garage door came down, I walked into the bathroom, sat down in the tub, fully clothed, and cried. “What the F* had I been thinking? This guy is crazy. I’ve made a mistake.”

It took four months for me to realize the magnitude of my mistake and I tried to leave. He lured me back with counseling and a rescued dog. I repeatedly told the therapist that I wanted to move out so we could start the relationship fresh. Instead of living together, it would be so much better to date. The therapist (a male) sided with Johnson – surely we could work through this without any major changes.

By then, I could see the pattern. He would drink too much on one night and become angry with me over something – anything. The next night he would be apologetic. On the third night, he would be sulky. Then the pattern started over. He would drink too much, spend the next day saying sorry, and the day after that being cranky and sullen.

Then he threw me and pinned me on a table. THAT I did not see coming. I had the sudden awareness that I could die. His arm was on my neck and it hurt. No, I thought, No. In a voice that has made men back off and children stand at attention, I told him to stop. It stunned him just long enough for me to push him off and run to the door. Stopping, I realized I needed my purse and my keys. Using this same Kali voice, I kept him at bay, grabbed what I needed, and got out. (yes, by this time, I had my own car again)

I pulled over hyperventilating, crying, and scared to death. Would he come after me? Where would I go? The friends I had previously stayed with had just left on vacation. I was still new to the area. It was 2:00 AM. The only reasonable answer, it seemed, was to go to the police.

Perhaps because it was a small town, this went better than I expected. The officer was nice. Calm. Respectful. He sent someone to the home after learning there was a gun in the house and then he sat down to talk with me. He encouraged me to file a formal complaint. I waivered. It would appear in the local newspaper if I did and, well… I didn’t want to do that to him. The guy who had just tried to strangle me, who was an alcoholic and verbally abusive, who was making it damn difficult for me to physically disentangle myself from, yeah, I was actually worried about how a public record would affect him. So stupid. Years later, he ran for mayor and oh, how I wished I filed that report! (He lost)

I did, however, eventually file a restraining order against him, but only when it got so bad that a coworker said, “That’s it. No more. We’re going to the police right now,” and marched me out of our offices and down the block to the station. God bless her for that. To this day, I am grateful that the officer on that very first night had me speak to someone at The Advocates. That organization was there for me again when I needed to go to court.

How could this happen to me? To ME? If it could happen to me, it can happen to any woman.

It happened to Veronica.

What about you?

Finding Home

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