Evolution Series: Is This Emotional Abuse?

I opened the door and saw Javier, the sixteen-year-old son of one of our tenants, standing on my doorstep. His was not a face I expected to see, but I was fond of his family, and he looked distressed. I asked him if he wanted to come in and talk. He was breathing hard as he perched on the sofa. Javi told me, his face reddening, that his dad had started hitting his little sisters. “I could put up with it when it was just me. But them? No. I can’t stand it.” He knew I was a lawyer (though unbeknownst to this desperate kid, I hadn’t practiced in years, and never in family law). He’d come to me to understand his options for getting his dad out of the house. He even brought evidence in the form of cellphone videos of his dad’s violence he had bravely recorded inside the apartment. What would happen if he called CPS, he wondered. 

A couple of hours later, I reluctantly sent Javi home, breathed a big sigh, and opened my laptop to do some research. This was my first (and hopefully last) time being the trusted adult a kid came to with a big problem, and I was determined not to let him, his mom and his sisters down.

Admittedly, it also served as a welcome distraction. My husband had stopped drinking a year before, meaning he wasn’t drinking every morning and passing out every afternoon and evening. Now he was wound tight like a coil of steel wire, and still unwinding that coil to down an IPA or two every couple months (cue my silent screams). As devastating as Javi’s visit was, it energized me, in part because his predicament put my own stresses in perspective.

Javi had given me permission to talk to his mom, Laura, about the situation. Despite the escalating crisis in her house, I could understand why she hadn’t taken action, or might feel like she didn’t have good options. A stay-at-home mom to five kids, she didn’t speak English, didn’t know how to drive and wouldn’t have an easy way to support her family without her husband’s paycheck. She didn’t have a ton of agency, and I didn’t want the way I responded to this situation to compound that. Ideally, I could give her information that helped her take action of her own to protect her family, or, if necessary, we could act together.

Wary of saying the wrong thing, I decided to do some reading about domestic violence before talking to Laura. I wanted to read in Spanish so I could brush up on the needed vocabulary for this conversation. One of the main resources I could find that was translated into Spanish was one that I now know is a classic: Why Does He Do That? by Lundy Bancroft.

As I read, reminding myself of the factors that could be at play in the Baca’s household, a pit started forming in my stomach.

The author was describing a lot of things that went on in my own house, too.

Dismissive, insulting language? Check. Mocking tone? Check. Threats? Check. What the hell? Could the waves of rageful, controlling anxiety emanating from my husband actually be emotional abuse? In all my years of Googling diagnostic checklists for substance use disorder, anxiety, depression, dementia and more to try to understand what was happening to my husband, that possibility had never occurred to me. 

A couple of days later, I sat on Laura’s couch, talking over what I had learned about her options, and how she wanted to proceed. She faced some tough realities. A call to CPS or law enforcement – which her son was suggesting – could ultimately get her husband, a green card holder, deported. Good luck enforcing a child support order in that situation. And yet, she wanted to do something to protect herself and her children. 

“What about telling him you want him to move out?” I asked. “I’ll give you free rent for a couple months to help you get on your feet.”

She paused, and then, slyly, she countered.

“What about you telling him that YOU want him to move out? He always tells me he’s the head of the house and what he says goes. Do you know what I tell him? This is Sara’s house. She wouldn’t be happy if she knew what is going on in it.”

The old good cop, bad cop routine. This lady may not have had a lot of obvious power, I realized, but she knew how to strategically play the cards she was holding. Come to think of it, so did her son, who had practically compelled his mom into this conversation, knowing she needed to act or he might take matters into his own hands.

I told Laura I would think about it. Strongly wishing I was not in this position, I went home and called all the domestic violence organizations and free legal clinics in town. The following week, with just one, unsatisfying returned phone call to show for it, I realized no one was coming to save me.

I was going to step up and support Laura the way she had asked me to, or I wasn’t.

And that was how I found myself sitting at the kitchen table with Laura and her husband, Artemio, explaining to Artemio the legal definition of abuse in California, the fact that abuse was illegal, the fact that it could do lifetime damage to the children who survived it, that his lease said illegal activity on the premises was prohibited, and that he was in violation of the lease.

He started weeping probably one minute into this conversation and couldn’t stop. 

After this recitation, Laura was supposed to say her line. “Artemio, you need to find a new place to stay. You can’t live here anymore.” But she didn’t. Instead, perhaps predictably, she turned to me and said, “Sara, what if Artemio promised to never hurt anyone in this family again? Would you be willing to give him one more chance?” Crestfallen, but trying not to show it, I realized I could only say yes. “One slip up and you’re out, Artemio,” I said, looking him in the eye. “I can’t have this happening under my roof.”

And then I went home to face the questions this dramatic situation had stirred in me. I know what I’ll do for another family – for another woman and another woman’s child. I’ll use the power at my disposal to stand up for people who have less.

But what will I do for my own family? What will I do for myself?

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