Mary Alice Donovan, age 66, of Palms, California, often expresses her feelings in poetry (1986):
The screams werenât mine,
She said in haste
(A bruise was hidden at her waist).
His first wife didnât understand him,
She said in tears.
(Why was her child consumed by fear?)
I didnât mean to shoot the gun,
She said in court.
(The jury knew âtwas last resort).
Home is just a fantasy,
She said, alone
(and sucking on a meatless bone).
He lives just fine, with all thatâs mine,
She said of her abuser.
(Who couldnât wait to lose her).
And now he has another wife,
She said beside her cart
(Which once belonged to Safewayâs mart).
The screams wonât be mine,
She says in haste.
There wonât be bruises at my waist.
Iâll change his ways, youâll see,
For he insists he doth love me.
Unlucky is the number threeâŚ.
Mary Alice is not a poet who is likely to be widely read, for she spends her days wandering, talking aloud to herself, and gesturing to all. Mary Alice is a bag lady, and most people judge her by sight as a âcrazy personâ and assume that she lacks the ability to perceive or articulate rationally any personal and/or societal problems. Since âweâ assume that ânormalâ people may occasionally talk to themselves in private (but not in public) and their body language is part of that ânormalâ narrating process, it follows that what (mentally-ill drifter) Mary Alice performs in public must necessarily be verbal garbage.
Her personal story as told in poetry is not rambling nonsense; it is her reconstruction of a noteworthy happening which embodies a distinct message with social and political overtones: she was a battered wife with a home, was acquitted of shooting her abuser, and she is now homeless while he lives comfortably with another wife whom Mary Alice knows will also be beaten. One has to wonder why Mary Alice did not have an attorney to represent her interests. If one has the patience to listen to her personal narratives, Mary Alice will explain, and her experiences are quite similar to Janieâs (age 61, Los Angeles, California, 1987):
He used me, you see. I had money, and he bought everything he wanted. And then he married me so that it was all legal; he could have it all if only he could get rid of me. He beat me silly. He threatened our son by breaking his toys if he didnât obey the strictest of commands. I called the police, but when they came, Rodney said I was crazy and he wanted me committed. He said I abused our son, and he wanted custody. After five years of pain and humiliation, I took his gun and shot him in the leg as he came at me intending to punch me in the stomach. I went to jail. He got our son. No one believed me, because he was so popular in our town, and I was just a dumb housewife who didnât even mix in. I couldnât, you see, because he wouldnât let me have any friends; I was a prisoner in our house. So when I got out of jail, I found that he had filed for divorce, and no lawyer was interested in helping me, so I started for California where I had a sister. But she died of cancer just before I finally got here, and I just sort of began living in one neighborhood behind stores where I could find a shed or bin, and dumped food and clothing. They built this mall last year, and now I live much better. I can sit here most of the day. I sure do wish some lawyer would have helped me. I bought the house he still lives in with his newest wife. Something ought to be mine âŚ
While the battered and homeless are in danger of being scrutinized only as âgroups,â the folklorist possesses the skills to elicit personal experience narratives for evidence as to the different ways in which individuals (and women in particular) have become and remain victims of abuse and homelessness. Even though the stories may often be performed in a crude or refined manner, may be clever or pedestrian, prudent or brash, and told in verbal and non-verbal modes, the language of victimization and/or poverty can be a compelling commentary on contemporary society. Dell Hymes speaks to the role of folklore (1975: 350):
The concern of folklore with specific means, on the one hand, and with identity and values, on the other, enables it, if it will, to bridge the gap that has frustrated efforts to understand language and communication so long. ⌠Language has ⌠not been seen as something embedded and meaningful in human life, for lack of a perspective which folklore can help bring.
What is aesthetically performed by people in crisis pertains to personal, social, and political concerns. Most often these categories overlap. The concept, language, and symbolism of warfare is such an exemplification, and is expressed by Sandi (age 27, Los Angeles, California, 1986):
For years I was a prisoner of war. Maybe thatâs not really right, because I could have left. But I married right after high school and had kids. Tom made me give up my friends because he didnât like them. What he didnât like was that I might have a life of my own. Anyway, I was like a prisoner in our little house. I didnât have a car, and he never gave me money for a bus or anything else. Our social life was strictly church on Sunday and he never let me out of his sight. We watched TV every night, and all heâd allow were violent things, like war movies, and cop shows, or the fights. Everything was someone killing or maiming. When he went off to work I got to see what life was like for other people. Not that I think everyone lives like the soaps, but all kinds of ways of living come up. And I got to see the news. He never cared what was happening outside of his job. He never voted, so I didnât get to vote. Heâd take the oldest kids to school, he did the shopping, and he took the kids to the doctor. I canât ever remember getting out and doing anything for myself, or having any fun at all. I was so dependent on him that I hated him and wished he would die. But then, what if he did die? I couldnât get along by myself after so many years. So I was terrified that he might die. Heâd hit me for asking to go âout.â Heâd hit me for doing something he didnât like âin.â So I loved and hated him, letting him torture me and waiting for it just to know that I was still, well, important, I guess. If he ignored me it was worse than being hurt by him. My house was a prison compound, and Tom was my captor, and I needed attention of any kind from the cruel captor. I saw a story on TV with a woman like that. I escaped by calling a hotline. I guess Iâm free. But here I am in a shelter. The doors are locked, bars on the windows, and someone always telling me what to do. How will I ever get the chance to live like I want to? I got no chance.
Children are also affected, as Ricky (age 26, of Long Beach, California, 1985) notes:
When Phil put bars on our windows I thought, gee, now it really looks like a prison, too. Before it was all in my mind. He was the âNam guard and I was the prisoner. I was a POW in America. I know how the men must have felt, being in a prison camp. Canât get away, being tortured, and being completely in your guardâs hands. I know it sounds nutty, but at first it was a kind of kinky sex thing; it didnât frighten me as much as it should have. Then he got more violent, and it wasnât like playing at being a âcaptive woman.â He controlled me. Heâd come home early so he could tie me up and use me until he was tired. I waited for him to do just that. But I wasnât enjoying it like he was. I was the one being hurt and then being ignored. But I needed the attention he was giving me, and I didnât have any from anyone else. I donât have any friends out here, and my whole life was with Phil. He was my lover, if you can call what he does loving, but more than that he was my warden, keeping me from doing anything I wanted. I think we leeched off of each otherâs needs. When Phil said the bars were for our protection, I felt funny. I couldnât get out, either. The kids think bars are fun because they can play their war games better with bars. Thatâs all they do play, because Phil only lets them buy war toys. So now my kids play war games and prisoners and guards. Thatâs real life, though, isnât it? War is everywhere. How do I change our lives? My alternative is going to the streets. We wonât be safe there. Itâs only the survival of the fittest in another war.
The prisoner of war theme and syndrome is a very common one among abused women in domestic settings. Sandi and Ricky recognize the symbiotic relationship that develops between the victim and the victimizer. Studies of prisoners of war and hostages of terrorists delineate the ways in which the abused come to depend on the attention of their abusers, just as the abusers depend on their victims for immediate and continuing satisfaction. A particular relationship develops between the one who hurts and the one who is being hurt, and I believe that the operative word is âdependence.â The mutual âneedâ or dependence is not one of compatibility, but one which is born in physical and/or psychological intimacy and grows with time and is intensified in relative isolation. A definite and vital motif or theme is needed for this type of interaction: a wartime hostage situation, a philosophical terrorist activity, or a domestic hostage scenario creates a situation which fosters mutual dependence. There is no âattachmentâ formed between store clerk and customer which results in the emotional base necessary for binary opposites: love/hate, torture/relief, need/disregard, attention/deprivation, or pleasure/pain. There is a tendency for binary opposites to merge psychologically within lengthy and intimate conditions; dependence based in constant feedback and response blurs reality and causes a perceptual distortion of personae. The need for each other and the anticipation of each person fulfilling an expected role to continue existence under specified circumstances creates a mutual understanding of such roles, thereby encouraging the acceptance of role-playing to the point that the individuals lose their grip on reality and begin to exist in a surrealistic realm. Perhaps there is an empathy for the other which transcends the personal experience; in psychoanalytic terms, symbiosis results when introjection (an unconscious psychic process which transfers representative images) occurs. From the many stories I have heard, I hypothesize that one very important reason why women stay with men who âput them through hellâ is due to this symbiotic and parasitic relationship which is only comprehensible when seen as analogous to a captor and his captive.
It is interesting to note that I proposed this hypothesis in the early 1980s while acting as house support staff at a shelter for battered women, and discussed it often with prosecutors and public defenders while victim advocate for the city attorneyâs office. Virtually no one respected my thoughts on the topic. I pursued this concept/syndrome in conference papers, but because they were never submitted for publication, my first written documentation appeared in my dissertation (completed in 1988) and not one word has been changed in this ârevision.â A major article appeared in the Los Angeles Times in 1991 (August 20, El): âThe baffling problem of why abused women often remain in harmful relationships is undergoing a radical, new appraisal by mental health experts. They now say these women exhibit a behavior that can develop in classic hostage situations.â The long article continues to describe exactly what I have been trying to get practitioners to consider. The study was presented by University of Cincinnati psychologist Edna Rawlings at the annual meeting of the American Psychological Association, (August 1991), and the recognition of this syndrome is to âunderstand how therapists are able to develop more effective techniques to help women free themselves.â Many scholars find themselves in this position; we are not always the first to be acknowledged as noting a particular concept. What I find intriguing is that until a psychologist brought this very common sense syndrome to other psychologistsâ attention, somehow it was not âlegitimate.â As a folklorist (not the best âname/labelâ for a respectable scholarly discipline!) and (volunteer community member) service provider, my understanding and verbal delineation of an extremely important hypothesis was ignored. That would seem to negate my proposal that academics should be activists in community and societal affairs. But that is not so, for 1) I know that my dissertation was read by other scholars and some of the material has been quoted in othersâ academic works, and 2) I am correct: a scholar, whether it be folklorist or psychologist, has become the catalyst for meaningful new thought, mental health therapy, and social change.
This distinctive hostage (captor/captive) relationship has unusual ramifications for the victims, and I suggest that the trained folklorist is best prepared to analyze one particular circumstance for its significance in understanding the human condition. During the long period in which I have been listening to the stories of women physically and emotionally abused by husbands or lovers, I have heard a disproportionate number of tales of supranormal experiences. Specifically, I refer to a phenomenon which has been the subject of study as ânightmareâ and the âOld Hag.â Henry Fuseliâs (1781) painting âThe Nightmareâ (followed by a 1782 version) represents the traditional experience: a terrifying bedroom intruder hovering over a flaccid and recumbent figure. This apparently universal phenomenon has been labeled, for example, âthe Mareâ in 16th century England, Mara in Sweden, augumangia and ukomiarik among the Eskimo/ Inuit, and âthe Old Hagâ in Newfoundland and America. The original term âNightmareâ comes from the Anglo-Saxon neaht or nicht and mar a: night incubus/succubus, and became intermingled with the use of âhagâ (from the Old English term haegtesse [harpy or witch]) in English folklore, where hags and witches were correlated (Simpson 1973: 72, 87). As English culture crossed the Atlantic Ocean, it became ensconced in Newfoundland where the tradition of being attacked in the night by a witch or hag became part of being âhagridâ (possibly from hagged and/or haggard and/or hag-ride), and the term the âOld Hagâ is still in use to describe a person who has been victimized at night by a witch (Hufford 1982). In the United States, the word ânightmareâ is used to describe bad dreams and is still recognized as reference to the tradition of a âhagâ attacking a sleeping individual. The forthcoming Encyclopedia of American Popular Beliefs and Superstitions (from the archive collection founded by Wayland D. Hand at the University of California, Los Angeles) will include references of local beliefs about the âOld Hagâ as well as witch-riding (a correlated experience in which the victim is saddled, bridled, and ridden by a witch).
While none of the informants expressed any knowledge of the traditional phenomenon, the experiential features of the syndrome remain the same: 1) the event is perceived by the victim as occurring while awake, not asleep; 2) there is the impression of a figure near oneâs bed (or place of repose), sometimes accompanied by auditory and olfactory stimuli, and often in conjunction with a light behind or around the figure; 3) in some manner the victim is completely unable to move during the experience; 4) the victim feels oppressedâby pressure on the chest or a choking sensationâwhich inhibits breathing; 5) the setting in which the experience takes place is described accurately in terms of the victimâs actual location, in contrast to an imaginary setting; 6) fear is expressedâof the attacker, the experience itself, impending death, or the unknown.
David Huffordâs extensive study of âhaggingâ and its implications in the area of sleep research has provided many insights, especially in terms of the phenomenon being experience-centered as opposed to culture-bound (1982). His research was conducted in a manner different from mine, and our findings have some significant variances. Huffordâs investigation was based on structured interviews of people who experienced such attacks whom he located by speaking publicly about the syndrome, and follow-up interviews in which he participated as an interviewer. I, on the other hand, listened avidly to victimsâ accountings of âbad nights,â âweird afternoon naps,â âcrazy experiences,â and âreasons for finally leaving abusers.â I did not interrupt the narratives with questions, as did Hufford, and I gave no indication of knowing a traditional phenomenon to which the teller might relate and thereby be influenced. By this means I garnered âhaggingâ experiences within narratives which were in progress as natural expressions of victimsâ distress. This is important because I as researcher encouraged an atmosphere of open-ended narrating in which I provided no suggestive or prejudicial commentary. Whatever victims expressed concerning their plight was of importance, and because of the unusual data base I have formulated hypotheses which vary from Huffordâs.
One hypothesis which I propose pertains to the sexual connotation of the âOld Hagâ assault. Hufford is adamant that there is no connection between a true hagging experience and sexuality (1982:131):
The presence of overt sexual content as a frequent feature of the nightmare proper is highly debatable. I have encountered a few explicit sexual details in Old Hag accounts, but these are rare and are not typically major components of a given experience. Some overtly sexual accounts have appeared in the course of my investigation, but these differed from the Old Hag in that they have lacked the paralysis feature and, in several cases, fear. These probably constitute either a distinct subtype of the experience or a different phenomenon altogether. ⌠It would be a mistake automatically to assume that no more realistic experience lies behind the widespread incubus traditions. To do so would invite a repetition of the errors and confusion that have characterized writings about the Old Hag variety of experience.
Donald Ward, on the other hand...
