Did you watch the Grammy’s last night? We did, and enjoyed almost every bit of it (I’ll be sending Nicki Minaj’s people a bill for psychological damages). My kids were especially excited when Chris Brown took the stage. His arrest and conviction for assault happened long before they discovered his music, and I haven’t gotten around to talking to them about it yet. The same way I haven’t gotten around to telling them that John Lennon abused women, when we listen to Beatles music. Or that Lewis Carroll had a questionable interest in little girls, when we watch Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland. Or that Michael Jackson was tried for child abuse. It’s not that I’m withholding the information on purpose. It’s just that I’m not sure what the failings of the artist have to do with an appreciation of their art.
My friend Liz does not share my ambivalence, and she has a terrific conversation going on over at Mom101 about Chris Brown and the Grammys. As I tweeted a little while ago, Liz is one of my very favorite people to disagree with. It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, it forces me to think really hard about what I think, and why. She sets a tone where people can disagree with affection and respect. In another era, Liz would be presiding over lunches at the Algonquin hotel, or hosting a salon in Paris. And I would be there faithfully.
In responding to one of my comments on her post, Liz wrote,
viscerally, I felt sick to my stomach watching him be lauded last night–at the very same time that we were mourning another talent, whose downward spiral was part because of an abusive relationship and its effects.
I think our gut feelings should generally be given the last word, but it got me thinking about my own history with violence between men and women.
I’ve never been a victim of violence, though as a vain and foolish young woman, I often got a perverse charge out of enraging the men I was involved with. I suppose it felt powerful, or I simply loved the drama. Thankfully, their mothers and fathers had raised them to know it was never acceptable to raise a hand to a woman, no matter what. They clenched their jaws, dug their nails into their palms and walked away. I once threw a plate at Patrick’s back and hit him with it. He kept walking.
That was an act of violence on my part. I’m not proud of it. I don’t laugh about it. Those were crazy, long-ago times, and I never did it again. If he had been the one to hit me with something, conventional wisdom would insist that I should walk out the door and never look back. That he was a chronic abuser.
This is not a defense of Chris Brown’s violent assault. Or even Chris Brown himself, who seems, at best, an extremely troubled person, and does nothing to help his own case. I get that there’s a difference between my throwing a plate at a man’s back, and a man punching a woman in the face. But I’m reticent to pass a sentence for life on him or his musical career. As I wrote on Liz’s post
I haven’t followed his story all that closely, but does he beat up “women” or was it a single assault? Obviously, once is way too often, but I hate to see anyone, especially a young person, refused an opportunity to grow past a mistake. If it’s been established that he’s an habitual abuser, that’s one thing, but being an habitual asshole isn’t sufficient grounds for lifelong censure in my opinion.
Liz thinks “mistake” is a weak term for what Brown did, but I don’t mean it was an accident. I mean it was a grievously bad choice, which is what criminal acts are.
In my early twenties, I trained as a volunteer responder for abused women, and I did get some first-hand insight into the pathological dynamic that is habitual (and often generational) domestic abuse. I remember looking at a little girl one night, as her mother backpeddled once again with the police, and despaired that she was watching her own destiny play out. She would be in her twenties now. I hope I was wrong.
For a long time after that, I did have ironclad assumptions about violent offenders. Then I came to know addicts in recovery, and I came to believe that some abuse is situational. Not in any way justified. But a form of temporary insanity from which it is possible to recover.
The insanity of addiction was certainly present in Whitney Houston’s tragic life. I suppose asking whether it caused violence, or stemmed from it, is one of those useless chicken-and-egg questions to which we’ll never have the answer. Either way, her musical legacy transcends the personal one. Is that redemption? What about the artist who makes life hell for a few in his lifetime, but brings joy to millions for generations? Is that atonement?
I think it’s better than no redemption, no atonement at all.
If you are interested in learning more about domestic violence issues, and contributing to its prevention, Futures Without Violence has some great resources, and is highly rated by Charity Navigator.
