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Domestic Violence 1103

She was tall curvy and tanned, like a Vegas showgirl.

 

She was beautiful; blond with a perfect smile and long, slender legs. I watched her as she moved quietly through the mass of humanity that had invaded the Made in Oklahoma Building at the Oklahoma State Fair.


Believe me, she stood out in the crowd.

 

She was dressed to show off her body—tiny, short shorts, a tube top, no bra. But the more I watched her, the more it seemed to me the choice of clothes wasn’t her idea. She seemed like more of a trophy — like an animal a hunter would tie to the front of the truck.

 

He was dressed in jeans, boots, a T-shirt and a stained, dirty ball cap. I’m assuming her was her husband -- because they both wore rings. But this was not a mutual relationship. It was obvious that he was the in total control. 

 

Most couples I watched that day talked and held hands seemed to enjoy each other. This couple, though, was different. They didn’t walk together. He pulled her, she was always struggling to catch up. They didn’t talk – he issued orders. 

 

He strutted. He was there to make a statement. He wanted to be seen with this woman and he wanted you to look at her; but he didn’t want you to speak to her. In his mind, he was the Alpha Male and this one belonged to him – you were there simply to observe and to be in awe of him.

 

He made sure he was noticed—he talked just a little too loud, moved aggressively and tugged on her just a little too hard.  As I watched them walk around the building, alarm bells sounded in the back of my head.

 

They were two booths away when she made eye contact with me. Her smile was weary; like she was embarrassed (she kept tugging at her shorts to keep from showing too much skin) and she held her arms awkwardly, across her chest. She would look down at her feet, and then back up like she was searching for a friend.

 

I sat in booth sponsored by the Oklahoma Coalition against Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault. I had volunteered to work for a few hours at the State Fair and talked my wife into coming with me. Karen had gone for drinks, so I sat there by myself, handing out the occasional brochure and refilling the fish bowl with the wooden nickels.

 

As they moved in front of my booth, her companion spoke to her: “Domestic violence…hah,” he said, snarling and dropping her arm. “You don’t need that stuff, I only kick your stupid ass once a week!” He laughed, then moved quickly away, heading toward the cinnamon-covered almond booth. 

 

She watched him leave, turned and looked at me with an expression that, even today, is burned into my brain. Her eyes were wide with fear: raw, intense and pleading. She needed help, she was afraid. She began to speak, only to be interrupted by him shouting from four booths away: “Hey, hurry up! We ain’t gonna make it if you don’t get the lead out!”

 

As she moved toward him, the crowd (which, for a state fair, was remarkably well behaved) seemed to coagulate around her, blocking her way for a moment. I grabbed a small brochure about domestic violence and two of the wooden nickels with the state’s DVSA hot-line number on them and slipped into the masses. 

 

She had reached the next booth, trying to edge her way forward, when I touched her arm. “Hey, I thought you might need these,” I said, quietly. “They’re real small and will fit in your pocket.” I pushed the wooden nickels into the palm of her soft hand. Her fingers gripped the wooden coins, and almost instantly, she slipped them quickly into the front pocket of her shorts.

 

“Will you hurry up! We gotta go!” He called again, waving at her. The edge in his voice was more pronounced, angry.

 

She pushed her way toward him as the crowd flexed. I sat back down at the booth when I saw her look straight at me. She smiled — briefly — then silently mouthed the words, “thank you.”

 

I sat, stunned.

 

In that small moment, she told me her entire story. With two, simple silent words I knew, no doubt, what her life was like. I knew she was a victim of domestic violence. I knew she’d been hurt. I knew she was being hurt. 


I knew she wanted to get out.

 

I watch her as long as I could. When she reached the Cinnamon-coated Almond booth he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door. 


Her blond hair disappeared in the sunlight.


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