The First Punch.

Abuse doesn’t happen by accident.  Grown men don’t trip, fall, and then punch a woman in the face.  Sometimes it builds slowly, other times it happens in the blink of an eye.  But it’s always a choice.  Psychologists will tell you that people who witness abuse do it because that’s what was modelled to them by their parents, and I think that is probably the case, but it’s more about power and control than anything else.  When my Mom’s boyfriend Dale, punched her, it was because he wanted to have power over her, and he wanted her to know that she was powerless against them.  This is what predators do.   

I can’t tell you the first time Dale took a swing and knocked my Mom out; I just know that it happened a lot.  It happened so often that between the ages of 3 and 10, it was normal to bolt up in the middle of the night as I was shaken out of sleep by my Mom’s screams, or wake up in the morning and see fresh bruises on my Mom’s face.  

One of my earliest memories was of my Mom and me hiding in the bushes late at night outside of my Uncle’s house as Dale went staggering across the yard, screaming for her.

“Dew!  Where the fuck are you!?  Get the fuck over here!  If you don’t come out, you’re gonna be fucking sorry!”

He called her dew, like the morning dew on grass. A pet name that he attached to such hate.

“You fucking bitch, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!”

Dale had already punched my Mom in the face - I don’t know how many times - but her eye and her lip were swollen, and she was holding me there on the ground and whispering to me not to say anything or even make a sound.

“Joe, just don’t talk.  Don’t say anything.  We’ll be safe.  I promise.”

At the time, I didn’t know that my Mom had no way of stopping this monster.  I just knew I had to trust her because I didn’t want Dale to do to me what he had done to her.  So, we lay there in the bushes, not too far from the road.  I remember because I could hear cars going by.  I also remember that although it was late Spring, it was cold out, and I didn’t have a coat on.  While I lay there shivering, I could hear my Mom crying.  I always wonder what was going through her mind in that moment.  My Mom always seemed to have this terrible luck, and if there was a bad choice to make, she would make it.  Choosing to leave my Dad and the loveless marriage she was in was probably the right move for her, but her haste to move on led her to Dale, and early on, it was clear that this guy was pure evil.  

 “WHERE ARE YOU, YOU FUCKING SLUT?!”

Dale did not have a deep voice, and to most men it wouldn’t have been an intimidating one, but to a beaten woman and a small child, those drunken, hollering slurs were the sound of terror.  I don’t know what would have happened if Dale had gotten a hold of us that night, but God or the Universe was looking out for us because I remember seeing red and blue lights flashing from the road, and soon enough, Dale was no longer yelling and looking for us.  Maybe my Uncle called the police, or a neighbour got sick of hearing Dale screaming outside as he searched for my Mom, but after a brief conversation, soon enough an officer came calling after us and told us it was safe to come out.  

I can’t remember all of the details of what happened, but I do remember my Mom telling me that I needed to go with the officer, and they were going to take us someplace warm for the night. They must have sent Dale home and knew it wasn’t safe for us to go there, so they took me to some sort of foster home that takes families in during emergencies.  This nice man, who seemed super old at the time, but was probably only 50 years old, welcomed me in and took me up to what I thought was just about the nicest room I had ever seen.  The bed was dark-stained wood, and it had a plaid-patterned flannel duvet and white sheets.  There was a matching dark-stained wood dresser, and a bunch of toys and Hot Wheels cars on this ledge around the room.  I remember thinking, “Wow, who’s the lucky kid who gets this room!?”.  Well, that night it was me.  The man gave me a pair of pyjamas and told me to have a good night, and my Mom would be back in the morning.  

So many things about that night have always bothered me.  Why didn’t the police charge Dale on the spot?  Why didn’t they take him away to jail?  Why did my Mom stay after he beat her and then stalk us like we were prey out in that yard?  But, she didn’t leave after that night.  

Just as the older man promised, my Mom was there in the morning to pick me up.  One of her eyes was swollen shut, and her lip was all purple and puffed out.  But she was my Mom, and I was so happy to see her!  I ran to her and gave my Mom a big hug - one of those huge soul-melting hugs that only a little boy can give - and we got in the car and drove off.  When we got home, Dale was there and he was all smiles.

“Hey Joe!  Sorry, I scared you a little last night!” 

I looked at my Mom, and she smiled at me with tears in her eyes.

“It’s okay, Joe-Joe, Dale didn’t mean it.  He was just a little drunk last night.  It won’t happen again.”

So, as Dale opened his arms for a hug, I walked over and reluctantly hugged him.  

“It’s okay, Joe. You hungry?  Want some cereal?”

 In my mind, I just thought that if my Mom could believe him, I guess I could, too.  

Unfortunately for me, things only got worse from there.