This reply probably belongs in "Beer and Queso" instead of here, but since domestic violence is now a topic for baseball related activity, it's probably okay.
Violence Against Women in MexicoA 2003 survey conducted by the National Institue of Statistics and Geography (INEGI) in Mexico found that 47 percent of women over 15 in a relationship have experienced some form of domestic violence, and that 96 out of every 100 victims of domestic violence in Mexico are women.[6] More recently, in 2016, INEGI found that 43.9 percent of women in a relationship have been attacked by their partner at some point.[5] There are many different types of domestic violence that can occur, including emotional abuse, intimidation, physical abuse, and sexual abuse. A survey conducted by the National Institute for Women in Mexico (INMUJERES) found that 98.4 percent of all cases involving maltreatment of women include emotional abuse, 16 percent include intimidation, 15 percent include physical abuse, and 14 percent include sexual abuse.[6] According to a 2006 survey in Mexico, 38.4 percent of married women suffer from emotional, physical, financial, or sexual abuse from their husbands. As of 2011, this rate had decreased slightly to 28.9 percent.[9
I am an American of Mexican decent. I grew up in second ward, a predominantly Mexican-American community. All the great things of being of Mexican decent were certainly celebrated in my community growing up. The blind-eye in our community was exactly the serious amount of domestic violence women suffered from Men still prone to cultural morays learned in Mexico (Machismo). Women wanting to learn to drive, to have a voice, to opine... they were the most victimized. I know because my aunt was a victim for many years at the hand of an uncle I hated and never wanted to be around, even though I was forced to at a family get together. How could I be around a man who beat his wife severely as he did. How come this was covered up or things said like "well, she asked for it" (by her attitude, her independence, her ability to drive herself to go shopping, you name it, they were pointed out as reasons she was "asking for it"). My uncle was macho... very macho. Ask my cousin, who also learned to fear his Dad from the fist to the face and slamming against a wall so hard, he left dents on the wall. My cousin was only 10 years old when he started to get violently abused. I was sickened, even as a young boy, at knowing about all this because I grew up in a loving home with a Dad who wasn't violent, but at the same time knew how to use a booming voice to let everyone know to walk on egg-shells for a while... Dad's not happy. But my Dad was a kind man, very giving and he never raised a fist to anyone, not children, not my Mom, not anyone. My uncle, however, was a different matter altogether. I remember the day one of my sisters ran out of our house to said uncle's house to tell him I was yelling mean things at her (I was). He rushed to our house because my mom and dad were out and only the kids were in the house. My uncle slammed the door open and found me in the den area. He approached me with his fist clenched. I knew I was in for the same type of beating my cousin suffered. I was going to get punched in the face... punched hard. He yelled at me "So you think you're a tough guy, huh? How about picking on someone like me instead of your younger sister!" But right then my oldest sister stood between him and me, I was not standing up to him, I was covering my face trying to shield myself from the hard punches to come. My sister told my uncle to leave our house... emphatically. I was really scared now because my uncle had no qualms beating on women either. But for some reason, it worked... he laughed, turned around and left our house. She asked me if I was alright and through my tears I told her I was fine... but inside I was a nervous wreck. My youngest sister came and hugged me and told me she was sorry she went to his house... she wasn't thinking straight and she regretted he even responded.
I hated this man.
Cultural-Specific Gender Ideology and Wife Abuse in Mexican-Descent FamiliesAs much as you might not like hearing this, but culture plays a huge role for Men from Mexican decent when it comes to domestic abuse. I have not been surprised when I hear older Mexican men consul younger men about how to "control your wife". Much of that consultation centers around "golpear la mujer". Translated, "hit her so she can learn never to do that again", whatever the "that" may be that insulted the machismo of the Man of the house. It becomes ingrained into most Mexican young men and they then pass it on to other young men they may have an influence on. Have I heard it as recently as this year, for instance? Yes, I have. I played in the volleyball tournament with some really great young men who played outstanding volleyball. Two of them were American males of Mexican decent (first generation). They told me, for whatever reason, of how an uncle or grandfather told them to always remember to "golpear la mujer" when they needed it. I told them if I ever heard of them doing such a thing, I'd be the first to beating the living shit out of them and then also turn them into the police. They understood, but they also said it was hard to tell those men who gave them said advice that they were full of shit. They had to respect their elders (culturally), even if it was wrong and not something they even remotely wanted to do. My cousin, who suffered abusive violence for all his young life into his teens... when he got married and raised his own family, little did I know (at the time) he would be an abuser himself. I witnessed it when one day I was visiting with him and we were both in the couch watching a game. His young son passed in front of us blocking our view of the game (Rockets game). My cousin raised his leg and caught his son with his foot right in the chest and flung him clearly across the room. He yelled at him "Stop running around in here, we're busy watching the game!". His son was hurt, both physically and emotionally from the trauma my cousin just inflicted. I was mad and told my cousin to step outside with me for a minute. He didn't think I was serious so he said ok, just to find out what was bothering me. I grabbed him by the neck and said "If I ever see you touch that boy like that again, I will not hesitate to hurt you... hurt you badly too". He smiled and told me to relax, it was okay. I was not okay, but as the years went on, my cousin... by the grace of God... got help and became a very loving father to his family. The oldest son... it took years to repair the damage my cousin inflicted but they did. The youngest boys were never aware of "that" Dad, they love him and admire him for being so good to them. When I visited that family several years ago in Heyward, CA, they were all very proud of their old man, including the oldest son. I had a chance to sit with my cousin and just talk and while we never touched on the subject of violence and abuse, it was on the periphery of everything we said to each other. He told me he thanked God and family that he was able, with their support and love, to become a changed man. I knew it too, it was evident I was not talking to same man who at his young married life was not a good guy at all.
My uncle? I don't know if we've ever gotten on good terms like I did with his son, my cousin. I knew too much about his abusive and unrepentant self for many years. He now lives in Chicago, living out his retirement years with his other kids near him and my aunt. Yes, she stayed with him for over 50 years. My aunt and I got along really well. I loved her spirit of independence and how she influenced my sisters and other younger Mexican-American females in our small community to take charge of their lives and seek professional jobs and even go to college. My aunt was born and raised in California. She was a very different Mexican-American. She drove her own car, went to college, was a really great speaker at community rallys and such. But she married the wrong guy. A Mexican man who immigrated from Northern Mexico, very much the training ground for machismo. My uncle... what a piece of work he was. He is my mother's older brother. He fancied himself to James Dean or Sal Mineo and that sort of attracted my aunt to him. It did not take long after their marriage that he was more the Dr. Jeckyll - Mr Hyde type. Alot more Mr. Hyde though, a whole lot more. One incident I remember the most was the day my little cousin came running to our house from his (we all lived within blocks of each other) to tell us his Mom and Dad were fighting. My Dad jumped off his favorite chair and as bad timing would have it, so did I from the floor near his feet as he and I were watching a western on television. My Mom followed us out the door. I don't know why my Dad did not notice that I was right in stride with him, probably because he was too focused on what he might have to do since he knew what my uncle was capable of doing to my aunt with his heavy fist. When we arrived, we heard a cry from the laundry room and when we went into that room, we saw my aunt on the floor beneath the old style clothes washer... the kind that had a pair of rollers at the top of a very large spin cycle tub. She was bruised in the face from the violence my uncle inflicted on her. I was shocked and let out a cry. It was then my father realized I had come along to help him but he didn't want me involved. "Go home and don't tell anyone what you saw... do you hear me... no one!" "But Dad...." "No buts, let me handle it.... you should not have followed me... now go home!"
The next few days I never left the house to go do what I normally did... go to the park and play pickle with my baseball loving friends or ride my bike with them. I feared my favorite aunt had died that night. She didn't, but I didn't get to see her until many weeks later. When I did, I hugged her and said "I'm so glad to see you!". She was surprised and a little concerned I was hugging her so tightly. "Are you okay?" she asked me. "Ah... yes" and then I hugged her again. She didn't know I was there in the immediate aftermath of the beating my uncle gave her. I don't know to this day if she knew. She just smiled at me and said she was glad to see me too. But many years later while traveling to Chicago for some business, my aunt picked me up at the airport. My Mom called her and told her I would be in Chicago for a week and perhaps I would like to stay with her and my uncle while there. I didn't know about these plans, but was so happy to see her at the airport waiting as I walked towards the baggage claim. "You're staying with us mijo. I have a guest room for you." I resisted at first but then thought it might be nice to get home cooking for a week. It late that night while drinking coffee with my aunt that my uncle walked into the kitchen. I had not seen him all night as he was visiting with some friends in town as well. When he walked in, he gave a shout "NOAH!" (it's what he always called me). I raised my hand to shake his and he slapped it away and said "Come on!" while hugging me. My arms were down while he hugged me and it was apparent I did not want to return the affection. My aunt noticed.
"He's a different man. He's changed alot." This is what my aunt could not wait to tell me after my uncle said he was going to bed and we were welcome to keep talking and drinking coffee all we wanted. I didn't answer my aunt, I just listened. I found it hard to excuse my uncle for all those years of his behavior. Nothing could change my mind, or so I thought. Now many years later and my uncle nearing his last days here on earth, I still don't know how I feel about him. My aunt is a saint for loving him through all of this abuse. I could not. I could not understand how my Dad tried to make my uncle understand that this behavior was wrong and he needed to change. I sometimes fantasized about the day I would be big enough and strong enough to just find my uncle one day and give him a severe beating that I thought was justified. That feeling went away soon enough but I still have a hard time seeing my uncle in anything other that abusive man that I grew up with. That's on me to work out for myself, even to eventually say in an audible way "I forgive you" to the memory of that man. I'm getting closer to it each day. But it's not easy.
Not even my aunt stroking my hair at my age and loving me like as if I was a little boy all over again worked magic to destroy the memory. But one day.
One day.
