Even cops twice my size say they would be scared to go into my classes. They say that domestic calls are the worst, too dangerous. I tell them, “Hey, my groups are as safe as you’ll get. Come see what it’s like. I’ll protect you.” They look skeptical since I’m a petite, 40-year-old, Korean-American woman. My bravado hides the fact that I’ve shopped for a bulletproof Kevlar vest. I’ve fingered the high-tech, impenetrable material, wondering if it would be a good investment. I choose not to buy one, because fear is my worst enemy.
I wish I had been wearing a vest when enrolling some batterers into the classes. They scream curses and pace threateningly. They rarely admit to having beaten their partners or children. When they do, most cling to a justification. “She made me punch her.” I always suggest they take a timeout to cool off until the next class. When they choose to de-escalate, both classmates and family are less likely to get hurt.
Recovery begins when men can express anger without intimidating others. It continues when they can recount how often they saw their mothers slapped, choked or hit with a two by four. I encourage them to share painful childhood experiences, but remind them there is no excuse for abuse.
I remain on guard even after healing days. When a group member shakes my hand or brings flowers in gratitude, I remember that emotional intimacy is dangerous for both victims and victimizers. Batterers usually injure only those they care about. Getting close to one is like building a home on the slopes of a dormant volcano. Occasionally, I hear encouraging reports from partners of former clients. One joyful wife called a year after her husband finished the class. She gushed, “We had a big fight and he didn’t hit me. I should’ve called the police 10 years ago.”
After working with batterers for four years, I no longer have unrealistic expectations of success. I remember a young man I’ll call Joey. He attended 14 classes, entertaining us with clever jokes and reassuring us that he was getting along with his girlfriend. Then he dropped out. Two months later, I saw on TV that Joey had shot her in the chest and killed her. Six months earlier, she had given birth to their second son.
For weeks I cried and lost sleep, wondering if I could have saved her life. I pored over the newspaper, looking for names of former clients charged with homicide. Can the chain of domestic violence ever be broken? Recovery frequently includes relapse. So it wasn’t surprising when a man called me after getting my number from his cellmate, a former client doing hard time for a second spousal-abuse charge. I reflected back to a decade ago when domestic-violence calls were less frequent and counseling haphazard. Today, an arrest often follows a 911 call. A criminal charge plus 52 classes encourages an abuser to give up violence and intimidation as control strategies. Families benefit because batterers can learn to become safer partners and fathers.
Without help abusers can also lose their lives. Last year after Father’s Day weekend, one group talked about who among them got drunk, who picked a fight, who walked away for a timeout. Near the end of that session, a man I’ll call John revealed how he had lost his father that past Sunday. “Just before midnight, my mom called me for help. Dad was drinking and beating her. Like times before, he pointed a shotgun at her, but this time they wrestled with it and she shot him.” John choked up. “I got there too late,” he explained.
John stayed behind to confess, “I know it was an accident. This has been going on since I was a kid, but even at Dad’s funeral I couldn’t forgive her. I couldn’t look at my mom’s face.” He added, “I can’t come back for a while.” I hugged him goodbye, encouraging him to return soon.
I knew he needed our support as much as the group needed him. John’s courage in telling other batterers about his loss could help prevent tragedy in their lives now. Confronting abusers with the consequences of their behavior increases the chance their families will survive and recover. Unfortunately, counseling cannot save or heal people who never try it. As a young adult, I took up with increasingly abusive boyfriends. I remember standing mute when a boyfriend punched a wall. He said my anger provoked him. I felt I was going to be hit next. Being a paralyzed victim or witness supports abusers. I learned this the hard way.
After salvaging my life through counseling, I’ve realized how powerful batterers are. They scare the world, because no one wants to face them. Often they are our family leaders. We still struggle to love and be loyal to them. I teach abusers how to be safe physically and emotionally. But no one is safe until every batterer is held accountable for his behavior.
For me, safety means that I’m prepared to call the police if anyone gets violent. This rule applies even to family and friends. But strengthening this basic security doesn’t shield me from sadness and pain.
When I watched John walk away, I realized I had embraced someone experiencing my ultimate nightmare. No one in his family called 911 for the domestic violence, just the death. Breaking the chain of family abuse is a good job, even if it hurts.
