Cage Fight in the Kitchen: Happy Birthday Cage Fight

Cage Fight in the Kitchen is a year old! It's been a hard fought year relative to domestic violence. Mine ended last month with the murder conviction of a woman who brutally killed her two year old stepson, over two-hundred fifty cases, dozens of arrests, and speeches and seminar appearances in Texas, Missouri, Oregon, Missouri, Wyoming, and Arkansas. I marched in the Men's March Against Violence last week, and one of the proudest moments of my life was marching with that group of good men committed to non-violence in the home, shoulder to shoulder with my youngest son and father, led by a bagpipe band, and topping the hill to see my wife waiting with her camera ready.

There have been times when I've wondered if anyone reads this blog, or if it has any positive effect. Who knows? What I'm certain of, however, is that there are still men, women and children living afraid in their own homes, and that this means there is still work to be done. So, the march continues....

God Bless, David Williams

Welcome

This isn’t a blog likely to be read by victims of domestic violence, at least not at first. To have a copy of it in their home would be akin to committing an act of treason punishable by pain or death. Insead, this is written for the siblings, friends, children and parents of domestic violence victims, or the hair stylists, physicians, fellow PTA members and dental hygienists who might just spot tell-tale clues of secret injuries or spirits being crushed. Maybe at some point this blog could be for the victims themselves when they finally get to a place in their lives where reading a self-help publication isn’t a cruel irony anymore. The changing of lives is proposed within, and change is daunting. The only promise I can offer is that you won’t be alone when you are ready. Courage... David L. Williams

History of "CAGE FIGHT"

She sat there beside her shattered coffee table in her tasteful home, bleeding from dozens of nicks to her face and a gash over her eyebrow, glass shards in her hair and pieces imbedded in her teeth like tiny rubies. I remember her eyes, as shattered and irreparable as the table, stealing glances at the man as he glibly told officers about how crazy she’d been, how “you know how women are,” how he’d had to “protect” her so she wouldn’t hurt herself, and how she’d stumbled into the table face first.
Shame on her.
I did my best to dress the wounds as she looked around the room bewildered, betrayed, and emotionally detached from us, two medics and two cops who had been dispatched because a neighbor had heard “a murder going on next door.”
It had been a cage fight right there in their kitchen with no quarter given by the reigning champion and no chance of escape for his wife of seven years, one fighting to inflict pain and the other trying desperately to stay alive, all the while feeling ashamed that the neighbors and children could hear.
It was her fault, she told us. He was a good man, she said, a good man.
No, she didn’t want an ambulance ride to the hospital and, no, she wouldn’t press charges. He thanked the officers for not taking her to jail for “starting it,” and promised to take care of her and keep things calm.
She killed him later that night. She waited until he passed out, and then tied him to their bed with sheets. She told the homicide detective in a voice devoid of emotion that she’d taken the time to wake him so he’d see the baseball bat coming. She wanted the good man to know what he’d done to her one too many times, and after that she no longer gave a damn.
Why would this intelligent, educated, attractive woman stay in an environment in which she was routinely beaten, raped and threatened? In her case it was fear. “I’ll kill you if you ever try to leave me,” he told her often, and she believed him with all her soul. No amount of police protection or support from loved ones could overcome this fear, and like all injured, panicked animals, she finally did something about it.
For others there are financial reasons. He is the sole breadwinner of a home, and the thought of being homeless, especially with children, is more daunting than being “knocked around” from time to time.
Some women stay because loneliness is more desperate than living with abuse; some are undocumented and live with the constant threat that they will be deported and removed a country away from their children if they don’t abide his rules; many simply no longer have the confidence, courage or information to leave after years of being told they are worthless; and still others won’t leave because despite all the pain and fear, they love him and cannot let die the hope that he will ultimately become the man he promised he would be.
Why she won’t leave is critical in that knowing the answer helps us address her concerns and tailor a safety plan so she can ultimately leave and live safely, and acknowledgement of the answers is sometimes the very thing that makes a person who has been living a life enslaved realize just how far she’s fallen from the hopeful, energized woman she once was.
We should also ask why a man who promised to love and honor her in front of God and family would begin a systematic process of torture within his own home, and by simply asking those questions we as a community can recognize this as our shared responsibility and work together to find solutions. Imagine a father-son talk on how to properly, kindly treat your girlfriend or wife; envision consumers refusing to buy recordings that feature violence against women, and employers protecting besieged stalking victims; visualize a whole culture re-embracing chivalry and respect, and good men speaking out against violence toward women and children. This is the challenge, and the challenge defines our mission. Join me.

Happy Birthday Cage Fight

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