What is Violence?
When Lazlo asked me, "What is violence, just guns and hitting?" I realized he hadn't experienced violence like his father and I had. This memory popped into my mind.
It was 1987, and I was in high school. Mom asked me to go with her after dinner to the laundromat. Our washer was broken, dirty clothes were piling up with our house filled with foster girls, and Mom had a roll of quarters. At this point we weren’t spending much alone time together, so I said yes.
We drove to the small but busy shopping center that also had a Safeway, The Donut Corner, and Mexican food restaurant called La Comida. After we chose our three avocado green machines, we noticed a disheveled thin woman in her twenties in faded jeans and an orange spaghetti strapped top, crying as she checked her clothes. As we looked over at her, she left in a hurry. Mom and I were minding our own business and plugged in our two quarters, pushed in the metal coin chute in each of our three machines and hit start.
“Dang it, I forgot dryer sheets.”
“Should we drive home for them?”
“Let’s just go next door and get more.”
We walked over to Safeway. At the checkout, we chatted with Russ, a friendly black clerk, who had worked there since I was in elementary school.
“Hey there, just dryer sheets and two diet pepsis?”
“Washer’s broke, we’re spending the evening at the Wash ‘n Dry.”
“Well, hope it goes quick. Have a good night.”
As we walked back towards the laundromat, we heard a yell but didn’t see anything until we passed a large pillar where a man with a dirty white shirt and cowboy boots, was kicking the woman we had seen in the laundromat in the head while she was lying on the concrete, screaming. Blood was coming from her face.
“Please, please. I’ll come home,” she cried.
I lunged forward, "Hey, stop that!”
Mom stepped back, “Kim, don’t.”
“Get away from her.” I looked down at the sobbing woman her eyes squeezed shut with blood splattered on her tank top. He crouched over, pausing his assault.
The man, who was clearly drunk, slurred, “This is none of your goddamn business.”
I heard a car door slam shut, and looked over my shoulder. Three guys from my high school saw what was happening and got out of their black Firebird.
“You better get away from her.”
One of them looked at my direction, “Go have someone call the police.”
I handed Mom the bag and ran in.
“What’s wrong?” Russ and his customer saw my concern.
“A man is kicking a woman out there in the head with his cowboy boots, she’s bleeding. Can you call the cops?”
“Of course.”
When I returned, the drunk guy was gone and the high school guys were standing by their Firebird looking inside the Wash ‘N Dry. I could see Mom was back inside too.
I went straight to Mom, “Where’s…? “ and then I saw her— crouching and weeping, moving her wet clothes into a bag.
Mom walked over to her and handed her a few paper towels, “There’s a sink there where you can wash your face. The cops are on their way.”
She accepted the towels with a shaking hand, “I just needed an hour more to get away. My two boys are in the car. I’m worried he’s going to try and take them. Oh god…”
We looked towards the parking lot, and the drunk man was holding a crying toddler in front of the Wash ‘N Dry window, moving the child’s arm. “Wave at Mama. We found your Mama,” grinning and mocking.
Red and blue flashing lights filled the parking lot and shined into the Wash ‘N Dry like it was a disco.
The man disappeared to the right as Russ ran in as did the two of the three high school guys.
“You all okay?”
“Yes, but he’s outside with her kids.”
“The cops are talking to him now.”
By the time our laundry was dry and folded, the cop had interviewed us all, Russ and my Mom and I had all held the baby; I played with the two year old son, who had been sleeping in the car in his footed pajamas, but now was taking in all this attention and harsh lighting.
The woman kept saying, “I don’t want to press charges because he will try and hurt me more when he gets out.”
“Ma’am, it’s not up to you. There’s probable cause and a new law was passed last year, that we make the call, not you. He’s going to jail. But I recommend getting away somewhere safe. You have someplace to go?” the cop asked.
“I have a friend in Cottonwood I was planning on staying with tonight, then I can head back to Oregon in the morning. Some family is there. He’s not getting out tonight, right?”
She couldn’t believe she and her kids were going to be safe. Maybe she knew better, but at least the law gave her some time, a chance.
Lazlo was off to play with his friend before I could really answer his question. As is often the case, the questions are what catapult us into realization. Violence ripples from the domestic to the international, from the fist to the bomb, from the perpetrator to the victim to the witness. And while we may be lucky enough to heal and find safety, we don’t forget.
“But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else.” —Ursula K. Le Guin, The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas