It was the middle of August, 1994. Her name was Michelle Mitchell, or so she claimed. She demanded that I allow her into my house. Once inside, she cryptically told me "someone in the community" had "concerns" about my children. She sat down on my couch as if the house belonged to her, not me and my family.
This was my first experience with being falsely accused of child abuse. It was terrifying. I asked to call my husband, my grandfather, my mother....the answer was no. Could I call a lawyer? Again, the answer was no.
So, in a weird parody of a social visit, I sat; helpless to resist as I was forced to answer question after question, all intensely personal. The interrogation lasted two and a half hours. Every time I balked at answering a question I thought was not relevant or too intensely personal, Michelle Mitchell would threaten to note me as "uncooperative," and made veiled and not so veiled threats about taking my children from me. During most of this, Rickey, my older boy, was hopping around, making "ribbit" noises...and I was sure it would count against us in some way.
Up to this point in my life I lived, breathed, and positively exuded peace, love, and a hippy-dippy desire to make the whole world join together in a gigantic, sloppy group hug.
All my harmonious dreams were gone within a split second of hearing, "If you don't answer my question, I may decide your children aren't safe with you." (In case you're wondering, that first question was, "How old were you when you first had sex?" And my 4 year old son was right there in the room!) That was all it took to turn me from a friendship bracelet wearing, rainbow loving earth mother into a vicious mother bear - or maybe a mother hyena would be a better description.
I kept a placid expression on my face., and did my best to show submission to this monster who had invaded my family's space. I gave all the "right" answers and willed myself not to seem defensive. At the same time, I would glance down at my hands and then at the monster's neck...trying desperately to remember wht I knew about breaking necks. As I calmly described my "philosophy of parenting" I was deciding which would be more efficient: strangulation or neck-breaking.... Either way, I was ready to end her if she gave so much as a hint that my children weren't "safe" with me. I worried about whether I would scar Rickey for life, or if my new baby, Benjy, would cry if I had to put him down. (He always wanted to be held and I had never put him down and let him cry.)
As all these thoughts swirled around in mt head, along with the occasional "ribbit" from Rickey, I forced myself to keep my breathing steady and kept a smile on my face. Inside, I was coiled, ready to pounce at a millisecond's notice. Finally, it was over. After two and a half hours, Michelle Mitchell was done with me. Or maybe she just got bored, I don't expect to ever know.
After I closed the front door on her retreating back, I started to shake from all the adrenaline, oxytocin, and whatever hormonal soup was swishing around inside me after maintaining a fight or flight response for such an extended perioed of time. I finally, viscerally, understood motherhood. I understood not in my heart, but in my bones, what it means to be willing to not only die for my children, but to kill for them.
I would never see violence and non-violence in the way I had earlier that day.Ever since then, when I hear someone say "Violence isn't the answer," I always reply, "It depends on the question. "
