The yellow street sign warned: “Stop ahead,” so I tapped my brakes, bringing my car to a complete stop at the intersection. I glanced to my left before releasing the breaks and stepping on the accelerator.
Then it hit me.
No, it wasn’t another vehicle. It was a series of scenes from the past, swirling around my car, streaming by me one by one and all at once, hurling me back in a time warp before swooshing past my car like a comet, leaving me craning my neck to grasp another glimpse as I idled by.
I was passing the house we lived in seven years ago. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been that way since we had moved. But for some reason today was different.
Caught up in a past moment, it’s suddenly a time when it’s just the kids and me living in the house. On the front porch I’m checking the mailbox, anxiously awaiting the mail, anticipating a letter from Lori, who was then living in Edmond, Oklahoma. I had gotten her address when I saw her in a restaurant while I was visiting back home. Stumbling through my “Hello, how are you?” I stalled, trying to think of a way to get her address without her thinking I was trying to get her address. “So, can I put you on our church’s mailing list?” It was the best I could muster. It worked. I don’t remember if I ever got around to the newsletter, but I did write her. And so, there I am on the front porch, one hand holding the front door open, the other hand searching in that mail box for her letter.
That’s what I saw when I drove by.
Then, around the corner in the back yard, it’s suddenly a few years earlier, and Dave is throwing the shot put, training for the thirteen year old regionals of the AAU Track Meet in West Virginia. Before it was over, the shot put had divotted holes over most of the yard so that a stranger might surmise that a herd of wooly mammoths had stomped through eons ago, or maybe some aliens from outer space had misfired their laser guns and splattered the yard.
That’s what I saw when I drove by.
Then I fell further back it time, still in the back yard, only now Dave, Mary, my brother, Mark, his wife, Joy and all their kids--- Tangie, Melanie, and Brian, are throwing the football around. Moments earlier Mark had randomly announced, “Hey, let’s go throw some passes,” just as he had done hundreds of times when we were growing up, in hopes that I would become a decent football player, only now he said it, not randomly as we had thought, but to lift the somberness that had settled around our house like a heavy fog because it’s the afternoon of the day we buried my wife, Katri. We are running after the ball, laughing despite the pain of that day, and I’m hoping no one trips in one of the shot put holes and breaks a leg, sending us to the emergency room on the same day as the funeral.
That’s what I saw when I drove by.
Glancing back, because I’ve almost driven to the next house now, Katri is trying to walk up the ramp that the loving men of our church had built for her, since she could no longer step up the back porch. With the walker in front of her, she clickity clacks it along as she struggles. And I’m watching. And then I can’t.
That’s what I saw when I drove by.
Then, we are in our cars, leaving that house for the last time. I see Lori, Dave, Mary, Harrison, and Madison, and of course the Schnauzers, Skittles and Casey. Harrison and Madi don’t remember much about that house, since they were there only a few months, but Dave and Mary probably do, and as we drive away, Mary peers straight ahead, but Dave asks me to stop the car so he can run back in and take one more look at his old room before we drive away onto a new and very different avenue of life, a life that speeds by quicker than you can read the street signs as you enter the next new town.
Or drive by your old house.
And that’s what I saw when I drove by.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Let's hear it for the underdogs
“The thing I like about the NCAA College Basketball Tournament is that any team can win it all.”
I was explaining to my wife why I was standing in front of the TV, eyes glued to the NCAA Tournament and not sitting in my usual place with her watching the evening news. The truth is, although I have a few favorite teams, my main attraction to March Madness is in anticipating the little guys, the Lehighs, the Virginia Commonwealths, and the Norfolk States taking down the big boys, the Dukes, the Michigans, and the Missouris.
But why? Why do I and so many others pull for the underdog? Is it just because we want to see the mighty fall?
There’s more to it than that.
Certainly, the thrill of the unexpected is part of it; it is exciting to see the number one seed go down. But when you start thinking about the psychology of why we choose to cheer for the underdog, it gets complicated.
The underdog brings out contradictions. A part of us hopes the underdog will win. Maybe we have an inherent desire for social equality, for the haves to know what it’s like to be a have not, for the privileged to trade places with the underprivileged, for the aristocracy to experience the common life.
On the other hand, we like to see talent and effort rewarded. We like to think that if we try hard and take the more difficult courses, we will be compensated accordingly. After all, there is a reason why underdogs are the underdogs: Based on prior performance and level of competition, they are not expected to beat their more successful and sometimes more disciplined opponents.
And to further complicate what’s going on in our minds when we support the underdog, think about this: The less attached we are to a team, the more likely we are to root for the opposing underdog. It’s okay for the underdog to upset a team we are neutral towards or don’t like. But we don’t want our team to be a victim of the upstart. When I heard that Norfolk State had surprised Missouri, I smiled. But when South Dakota State shot ahead of Baylor, my alma mater, early in their first round game, I wanted absolutely no part of an upset.
The narrative of the underdog has deep cross cultural roots in our history. From David and Goliath to Robert the Bruce to Rocky Balboa to the Arab Spring, the underdog is a constant player in our communal psyche. We can relate because we have felt like the underdog, and when we are down, the fantasy of overcoming engenders hope for us to rise from the ashes.
But, while we find inspiration in those stories of the long shot winning against all odds, our sympathy for the underdog is fickle. Scott Allison, professor of psychology at the University of Richmond, cites what he calls the “Wal-Mart effect.” We root for our small town store when the dominating corporation moves in, but when it comes to the best buy on our television, we opt for the cheaper price at the powerful chain store. He concludes that our affinity for the lesser team is “a mile wide and an inch deep.”
We are, at least to a degree, motivated by our own self interest, are we not?
So I’ll cheer for the underdogs until they play my alma mater or step on the court against the favorite team of the folks I would have to console come Sunday morning should their team lose, the fans who because of their team’s loss may not listen to the sermon, or may, in rehearsing the nightmare of their defeat, forget that the offering plate was passed, after all.
So let’s hear it for the underdogs!
As long they aren’t playing the teams we like.
I was explaining to my wife why I was standing in front of the TV, eyes glued to the NCAA Tournament and not sitting in my usual place with her watching the evening news. The truth is, although I have a few favorite teams, my main attraction to March Madness is in anticipating the little guys, the Lehighs, the Virginia Commonwealths, and the Norfolk States taking down the big boys, the Dukes, the Michigans, and the Missouris.
But why? Why do I and so many others pull for the underdog? Is it just because we want to see the mighty fall?
There’s more to it than that.
Certainly, the thrill of the unexpected is part of it; it is exciting to see the number one seed go down. But when you start thinking about the psychology of why we choose to cheer for the underdog, it gets complicated.
The underdog brings out contradictions. A part of us hopes the underdog will win. Maybe we have an inherent desire for social equality, for the haves to know what it’s like to be a have not, for the privileged to trade places with the underprivileged, for the aristocracy to experience the common life.
On the other hand, we like to see talent and effort rewarded. We like to think that if we try hard and take the more difficult courses, we will be compensated accordingly. After all, there is a reason why underdogs are the underdogs: Based on prior performance and level of competition, they are not expected to beat their more successful and sometimes more disciplined opponents.
And to further complicate what’s going on in our minds when we support the underdog, think about this: The less attached we are to a team, the more likely we are to root for the opposing underdog. It’s okay for the underdog to upset a team we are neutral towards or don’t like. But we don’t want our team to be a victim of the upstart. When I heard that Norfolk State had surprised Missouri, I smiled. But when South Dakota State shot ahead of Baylor, my alma mater, early in their first round game, I wanted absolutely no part of an upset.
The narrative of the underdog has deep cross cultural roots in our history. From David and Goliath to Robert the Bruce to Rocky Balboa to the Arab Spring, the underdog is a constant player in our communal psyche. We can relate because we have felt like the underdog, and when we are down, the fantasy of overcoming engenders hope for us to rise from the ashes.
But, while we find inspiration in those stories of the long shot winning against all odds, our sympathy for the underdog is fickle. Scott Allison, professor of psychology at the University of Richmond, cites what he calls the “Wal-Mart effect.” We root for our small town store when the dominating corporation moves in, but when it comes to the best buy on our television, we opt for the cheaper price at the powerful chain store. He concludes that our affinity for the lesser team is “a mile wide and an inch deep.”
We are, at least to a degree, motivated by our own self interest, are we not?
So I’ll cheer for the underdogs until they play my alma mater or step on the court against the favorite team of the folks I would have to console come Sunday morning should their team lose, the fans who because of their team’s loss may not listen to the sermon, or may, in rehearsing the nightmare of their defeat, forget that the offering plate was passed, after all.
So let’s hear it for the underdogs!
As long they aren’t playing the teams we like.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
There's a Cat in our House!
My wife was doubled over, laughing hysterically at me. And I wasn’t the least bit amused.
A recent storm had unhinged the door to the crawl space beneath our house. For a few days, our two Schnauzers, Max and Baylor, had been nervously smelling the floor vents. I finally put my ear to one of them and heard it: a faint but unmistakable meow.
A cat was under our house.
My apologies to cat lovers: I am not one of you. Cats and I have an understanding: I don’t bother them, and they don’t bother me. It’s not that I’m actually scared of cats; they just make me nervous. And the closer I get to one, the more uneasy I become. My natural defenses kick in. If your friendly cat jumps in my lap, I will smile, and say, “Nice kitty,” but I will be suppressing a flinch; your lovable pet will put me on edge.
So, ok, maybe I am a borderline feline phobiac.
I can trace my cat aversion to my childhood friend’s cat. Rex Martin’s cat joined us as we were playing under a cardboard table with a sheet over it, pretending it was a secret hide-a-way. All was well until something made his cat want out. I was in the way. Rex was laughing uncontrollably at the specter of his cat wrapped up with me in that sheet, the cat clawing and scratching, me crying and screaming.
The cat did eventually find its way out, but when it was over, a permanent maker had written the words in my memory with large letters: BEWARE OF CATS. In fact, it took a birthday party with cake and ice cream to coax me back over to Rex’s house. Even then, I stood on the doorstep and required the promise of cat security before I would enter.
So, the other night, when I realized a cat was underneath our house, I first tried leaving the crawl space door open, hoping the cat would find its way cat out. Nothing doing. Finally, that fateful night, Lori leaned over the vent in our kitchen. “I hear it too,” she whispered. “Poor kitty, probably starving.”
Then she did the unthinkable. Pulling the grate off the vent she called, “Here kitty.” I stepped back, shaking my head, “no,” but before I could warn her not to do that again, she did it, “Here kitty, up here kitty.”
Then it happened.
Maybe it was Lori’s sweet voice, or perhaps it was the smell of dog food to a hungry cat, but it happened.
Suddenly that cat crawled up the vent and into our house. Lori ran to open the door, but the Schnauzers intercepted the cat, chasing the feline fugitive around, under, and over the kitchen table.
Where was I? I don’t know how I got there, but I was standing on our couch, horrified, palms of my hands on the side of my head screaming, “There’s a cat in our house!”
The cat circled around the couch where I was standing, Max and Baylor in hot pursuit. Lori took one look at this bewildering scene, and like Rex Martin of years ago, howled with laughter.
I was pointing to the grate, thinking one of us should put it back over the vent, forcing the cat out the door. I froze; Lori kept laughing.
And then, as quickly as that cat had emerged from the underworld of my house, it found its way back down, a cat’s paw in front of the Schnauzers who screeched to a halt, yapping and peering down the vent at the disappearance of the cat’s tail.
Lori was trying to gain her composure; the Schnauzers ran to me, stopped in front of the couch, and looked up as if to say, “That was so much fun, can we do it again?”
And there I was: standing alone on the crouch, feeling like Quasimodo before the crowd, crowned the king of fools.
Some stories have profound moral implications; others are simple reminders that most of us suppress secret, seemingly silly fears deep within our psyche. And sometimes it helps to know that about ourselves. And even admit it. It might make us more understanding of others’ anxieties.
In case you’re wondering, I, yes even I, finally got the cat out alive from beneath the house and in doing so, somewhat redeemed myself.
But that’s another story.
A recent storm had unhinged the door to the crawl space beneath our house. For a few days, our two Schnauzers, Max and Baylor, had been nervously smelling the floor vents. I finally put my ear to one of them and heard it: a faint but unmistakable meow.
A cat was under our house.
My apologies to cat lovers: I am not one of you. Cats and I have an understanding: I don’t bother them, and they don’t bother me. It’s not that I’m actually scared of cats; they just make me nervous. And the closer I get to one, the more uneasy I become. My natural defenses kick in. If your friendly cat jumps in my lap, I will smile, and say, “Nice kitty,” but I will be suppressing a flinch; your lovable pet will put me on edge.
So, ok, maybe I am a borderline feline phobiac.
I can trace my cat aversion to my childhood friend’s cat. Rex Martin’s cat joined us as we were playing under a cardboard table with a sheet over it, pretending it was a secret hide-a-way. All was well until something made his cat want out. I was in the way. Rex was laughing uncontrollably at the specter of his cat wrapped up with me in that sheet, the cat clawing and scratching, me crying and screaming.
The cat did eventually find its way out, but when it was over, a permanent maker had written the words in my memory with large letters: BEWARE OF CATS. In fact, it took a birthday party with cake and ice cream to coax me back over to Rex’s house. Even then, I stood on the doorstep and required the promise of cat security before I would enter.
So, the other night, when I realized a cat was underneath our house, I first tried leaving the crawl space door open, hoping the cat would find its way cat out. Nothing doing. Finally, that fateful night, Lori leaned over the vent in our kitchen. “I hear it too,” she whispered. “Poor kitty, probably starving.”
Then she did the unthinkable. Pulling the grate off the vent she called, “Here kitty.” I stepped back, shaking my head, “no,” but before I could warn her not to do that again, she did it, “Here kitty, up here kitty.”
Then it happened.
Maybe it was Lori’s sweet voice, or perhaps it was the smell of dog food to a hungry cat, but it happened.
Suddenly that cat crawled up the vent and into our house. Lori ran to open the door, but the Schnauzers intercepted the cat, chasing the feline fugitive around, under, and over the kitchen table.
Where was I? I don’t know how I got there, but I was standing on our couch, horrified, palms of my hands on the side of my head screaming, “There’s a cat in our house!”
The cat circled around the couch where I was standing, Max and Baylor in hot pursuit. Lori took one look at this bewildering scene, and like Rex Martin of years ago, howled with laughter.
I was pointing to the grate, thinking one of us should put it back over the vent, forcing the cat out the door. I froze; Lori kept laughing.
And then, as quickly as that cat had emerged from the underworld of my house, it found its way back down, a cat’s paw in front of the Schnauzers who screeched to a halt, yapping and peering down the vent at the disappearance of the cat’s tail.
Lori was trying to gain her composure; the Schnauzers ran to me, stopped in front of the couch, and looked up as if to say, “That was so much fun, can we do it again?”
And there I was: standing alone on the crouch, feeling like Quasimodo before the crowd, crowned the king of fools.
Some stories have profound moral implications; others are simple reminders that most of us suppress secret, seemingly silly fears deep within our psyche. And sometimes it helps to know that about ourselves. And even admit it. It might make us more understanding of others’ anxieties.
In case you’re wondering, I, yes even I, finally got the cat out alive from beneath the house and in doing so, somewhat redeemed myself.
But that’s another story.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Are you all there when you are there?
“One thing about him, when he was there, he was all there.”
I was listening to Dr. Gibson Winter, then Professor for Christianity and Society at Princeton Theological Seminary. Dr.Winter had this wonderful way of sharing an aside--- an “oh by the way” story--- which would invariably have a meaning all to itself, staying in my mind long after the words of the lecture had been snuffed out by the stuffy air of Stuart Hall.
On this particular occasion, he was describing a colleague, whose name I’ve forgotten. The man, the subject of his anecdote, was notorious for getting so immersed in his work that he would on occasion be a tad late for a faculty meeting or even his own lecture. He was the proverbial absent-minded professor: almost at times comical, yet respected and beloved. Upon arriving, he would light up the room, engaging others in lively conversation, making it easy for them to overlook his occasional tardiness.
Then Dr. Winter capsulated his description of his colleague in that one phrase: “When he was there, he was all there.”
I could visualize this man; indeed, I felt as though I already knew him. You know him or her, too. These rare individuals are all there when they are there.
They are the ones you wait on at the theater, or save a seat for at the restaurant, or strain your neck for as you anxiously anticipate their arrival at the ball game. “Where could he be?” you ask. “Do you think she remembered the address?” you wonder. “Did he get so immersed in his research that he forgot our engagement?” you question.
And you want them to be there.
I could see Dr. Winter’s friend arriving with disheveled hair, wearing in his flannel coat, wrinkled shirt, and blue jeans. He opens his arms wide to embrace his friends, apologizes for being late, and smiles as he asks how they are. And he means it.
And suddenly everyone’s little measure of agitation evaporates as they grin in return. He’s there now, all there. Wherever this person is, he lives that moment to the fullest. And like moths attracted to light, people naturally drift in his direction.
I’ve often wanted to be more like that man, whoever he was. Unfortunately, I haven’t always been all there, once I was there. Too often I’ve been distracted by the place I had come from or the people I would see next. I’ve brought the problems of the past into the present or pre-played the worries of the future into the now. And in short, I wasn’t there.
I’ve learned, ever so slowly, little by little, that life is lived in the moment, or it isn’t lived at all; if I’m not here, I’m either in the past---which is no more--- or I’m in the future, which is not yet. If I’m still wandering around in the hallways of the past, lost in a maze of regret, or trying to catapult myself from the present into the next time zone, which can’t be entered until it arrives, it’s not simply that I’m not here: I’m actually nowhere.
Like T.S. Eliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock---lingering on the outside looking in, fearful of the present, doubting, wondering, questioning whether he has “the strength to force the moment to its crises?” anxiously awaiting the future, mistakenly believing that, “There will be time, there will be time/To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet”--- we miss the thrill and excitement, victories and defeats, struggles and accomplishments of the present when we aren’t fully alive in the moment, willing to risk ourselves in it.
Life must be grasped, breathed, and lived for all it is now: “This is the day the Lord has made, we will rejoice and be glad in it” (Psalm 118:24), the Psalmist proclaimed. And Jesus warned, “Don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries” (Matthew 6:34).
So, with you, Dr. Gibson Winter’s friend, whoever you are, O Captain my Captain, we declare: Carpe Diem. We knew you would finally arrive, at last. Have a seat and stay awhile, for after all, now that you are here, you are all here.
And at last, we join you.
Contact David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his new website, www.Davidbwhitlock.com
I was listening to Dr. Gibson Winter, then Professor for Christianity and Society at Princeton Theological Seminary. Dr.Winter had this wonderful way of sharing an aside--- an “oh by the way” story--- which would invariably have a meaning all to itself, staying in my mind long after the words of the lecture had been snuffed out by the stuffy air of Stuart Hall.
On this particular occasion, he was describing a colleague, whose name I’ve forgotten. The man, the subject of his anecdote, was notorious for getting so immersed in his work that he would on occasion be a tad late for a faculty meeting or even his own lecture. He was the proverbial absent-minded professor: almost at times comical, yet respected and beloved. Upon arriving, he would light up the room, engaging others in lively conversation, making it easy for them to overlook his occasional tardiness.
Then Dr. Winter capsulated his description of his colleague in that one phrase: “When he was there, he was all there.”
I could visualize this man; indeed, I felt as though I already knew him. You know him or her, too. These rare individuals are all there when they are there.
They are the ones you wait on at the theater, or save a seat for at the restaurant, or strain your neck for as you anxiously anticipate their arrival at the ball game. “Where could he be?” you ask. “Do you think she remembered the address?” you wonder. “Did he get so immersed in his research that he forgot our engagement?” you question.
And you want them to be there.
I could see Dr. Winter’s friend arriving with disheveled hair, wearing in his flannel coat, wrinkled shirt, and blue jeans. He opens his arms wide to embrace his friends, apologizes for being late, and smiles as he asks how they are. And he means it.
And suddenly everyone’s little measure of agitation evaporates as they grin in return. He’s there now, all there. Wherever this person is, he lives that moment to the fullest. And like moths attracted to light, people naturally drift in his direction.
I’ve often wanted to be more like that man, whoever he was. Unfortunately, I haven’t always been all there, once I was there. Too often I’ve been distracted by the place I had come from or the people I would see next. I’ve brought the problems of the past into the present or pre-played the worries of the future into the now. And in short, I wasn’t there.
I’ve learned, ever so slowly, little by little, that life is lived in the moment, or it isn’t lived at all; if I’m not here, I’m either in the past---which is no more--- or I’m in the future, which is not yet. If I’m still wandering around in the hallways of the past, lost in a maze of regret, or trying to catapult myself from the present into the next time zone, which can’t be entered until it arrives, it’s not simply that I’m not here: I’m actually nowhere.
Like T.S. Eliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock---lingering on the outside looking in, fearful of the present, doubting, wondering, questioning whether he has “the strength to force the moment to its crises?” anxiously awaiting the future, mistakenly believing that, “There will be time, there will be time/To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet”--- we miss the thrill and excitement, victories and defeats, struggles and accomplishments of the present when we aren’t fully alive in the moment, willing to risk ourselves in it.
Life must be grasped, breathed, and lived for all it is now: “This is the day the Lord has made, we will rejoice and be glad in it” (Psalm 118:24), the Psalmist proclaimed. And Jesus warned, “Don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries” (Matthew 6:34).
So, with you, Dr. Gibson Winter’s friend, whoever you are, O Captain my Captain, we declare: Carpe Diem. We knew you would finally arrive, at last. Have a seat and stay awhile, for after all, now that you are here, you are all here.
And at last, we join you.
Contact David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his new website, www.Davidbwhitlock.com
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Victims of Abuse Deserve True Love
“Look for the girl with the broken smile
Ask her if she wants to stay awhile
And she will be loved”
---Maroon 5, “She Will Be Loved”
Lowering her eyes, the young lady, still a teenager, turned away, trying to conceal the evidence: But it was unmistakably there. The marks on her face were painful reminders; she had indeed become another girl with a broken smile.
Like thousands of other victims of domestic violence, her bruises would heal, but the scars on her heart would last a lifetime.
The statistics on women’s abuse are shocking: Nearly one in four women in the United States reports experiencing violence by a current or former spouse or boyfriend at some point in her life; 84% of spouse abuse victims are women; and on average, more than three women a day are murdered by their husbands or boyfriends in the United States.
Apparently, patterns of domestic violence frequently begin early in a woman’s life. Females ages 16-24 are almost three times more vulnerable to intimate partner violence than any other age group. And nearly one-half of adult sex offenders report committing their first sexual offense prior to the age of 18.
And just in case you’re wondering, it’s not just a heterosexual problem. In a study of gay, lesbian, and bisexual adolescents, youths involved in same-sex dating are just as likely to experience dating violence as youths involved in opposite sex dating.
That’s why the news that pop artists Rihanna and Chris Brown are releasing new duets is so disturbing. It’s sending a wrong message to their impressionable followers. “Domestic violence is just another new normal,” their actions seem to indicate. “It’s not perfect, but it’s okay: Learn to live with it,” the unspoken message appears to convey.
No one should learn to live with domestic violence. Until that problem is resolved, the relationship should be placed on hold.
Three years ago we viewed that leaked photograph of Rihanna’s bruised and bloodied face, her smile broken by the savage blows from the hands of her then boyfriend, Chris Brown. It’s difficult to get that image out of the mind, no matter how attractive their new music may be.
Of course, Chris Brown deserves another chance. Maybe he has been transformed. It’s certainly possible. Perhaps he has worked through his anger issues and has come to terms with how he can better control himself.
But we have reason to doubt. Only last March he reportedly lost his temper, yelled at a TV producer and shattered a window in the green room during an interview on Good Morning America.
And there are reports alleging that the assault three years ago was not the first time Brown and Rihanna had a physical fight.
Patterns can be broken, but it’s not easy, and it usually doesn’t happen quickly, if it happens at all.
Why then would Rihanna, or anyone, even think about reconciling with an abusing partner? Rihanna herself sang the provocative lyrics with Eminem in the 2010 song, “Love the Way You Lie,” about a woman who keeps believing a man who promises he’ll never hurt her again. “Just gonna stand there and watch me burn/Well that’s alright cause I like the way it hurts,” Rihanna sang.
“We can never ignore the fact that many abused women actually love the men who hit them because the men who hit them don’t always hit them,” thestar.com quotes Dr. Walter DeKeseredy as saying. DeKeseredy, professor of criminology at the University of Ontario Institute of Technology, has been researching domestic violence for 25 years
It’s a dangerous cycle that can result in death. The same week that Rihanna and Chris were rumored to be reuniting, former University of Virginia lacrosse player George Huguely V was found guilty of second-degree murder in the 2010 death of his ex-girlfriend. Theirs was reportedly an abusive relationship.
Rihanna and Chris Brown aren’t the problem; they are only representative of a violent subculture that is increasingly growing more and more calloused to violence in many forms.
They deserve better, if only they would demand it.
As the young lady, still a teenager, walked away, maybe she hopes she will find love, or that love will find her, a true love that will not only heal a broken smile but unbreak a broken heart in a place where she can stay awhile, a safe place, a place where love can blossom, a place where she will be loved. Truly.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.Davidbwhitlock.com
Ask her if she wants to stay awhile
And she will be loved”
---Maroon 5, “She Will Be Loved”
Lowering her eyes, the young lady, still a teenager, turned away, trying to conceal the evidence: But it was unmistakably there. The marks on her face were painful reminders; she had indeed become another girl with a broken smile.
Like thousands of other victims of domestic violence, her bruises would heal, but the scars on her heart would last a lifetime.
The statistics on women’s abuse are shocking: Nearly one in four women in the United States reports experiencing violence by a current or former spouse or boyfriend at some point in her life; 84% of spouse abuse victims are women; and on average, more than three women a day are murdered by their husbands or boyfriends in the United States.
Apparently, patterns of domestic violence frequently begin early in a woman’s life. Females ages 16-24 are almost three times more vulnerable to intimate partner violence than any other age group. And nearly one-half of adult sex offenders report committing their first sexual offense prior to the age of 18.
And just in case you’re wondering, it’s not just a heterosexual problem. In a study of gay, lesbian, and bisexual adolescents, youths involved in same-sex dating are just as likely to experience dating violence as youths involved in opposite sex dating.
That’s why the news that pop artists Rihanna and Chris Brown are releasing new duets is so disturbing. It’s sending a wrong message to their impressionable followers. “Domestic violence is just another new normal,” their actions seem to indicate. “It’s not perfect, but it’s okay: Learn to live with it,” the unspoken message appears to convey.
No one should learn to live with domestic violence. Until that problem is resolved, the relationship should be placed on hold.
Three years ago we viewed that leaked photograph of Rihanna’s bruised and bloodied face, her smile broken by the savage blows from the hands of her then boyfriend, Chris Brown. It’s difficult to get that image out of the mind, no matter how attractive their new music may be.
Of course, Chris Brown deserves another chance. Maybe he has been transformed. It’s certainly possible. Perhaps he has worked through his anger issues and has come to terms with how he can better control himself.
But we have reason to doubt. Only last March he reportedly lost his temper, yelled at a TV producer and shattered a window in the green room during an interview on Good Morning America.
And there are reports alleging that the assault three years ago was not the first time Brown and Rihanna had a physical fight.
Patterns can be broken, but it’s not easy, and it usually doesn’t happen quickly, if it happens at all.
Why then would Rihanna, or anyone, even think about reconciling with an abusing partner? Rihanna herself sang the provocative lyrics with Eminem in the 2010 song, “Love the Way You Lie,” about a woman who keeps believing a man who promises he’ll never hurt her again. “Just gonna stand there and watch me burn/Well that’s alright cause I like the way it hurts,” Rihanna sang.
“We can never ignore the fact that many abused women actually love the men who hit them because the men who hit them don’t always hit them,” thestar.com quotes Dr. Walter DeKeseredy as saying. DeKeseredy, professor of criminology at the University of Ontario Institute of Technology, has been researching domestic violence for 25 years
It’s a dangerous cycle that can result in death. The same week that Rihanna and Chris were rumored to be reuniting, former University of Virginia lacrosse player George Huguely V was found guilty of second-degree murder in the 2010 death of his ex-girlfriend. Theirs was reportedly an abusive relationship.
Rihanna and Chris Brown aren’t the problem; they are only representative of a violent subculture that is increasingly growing more and more calloused to violence in many forms.
They deserve better, if only they would demand it.
As the young lady, still a teenager, walked away, maybe she hopes she will find love, or that love will find her, a true love that will not only heal a broken smile but unbreak a broken heart in a place where she can stay awhile, a safe place, a place where love can blossom, a place where she will be loved. Truly.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.Davidbwhitlock.com
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