BYRON DE ARAKAL -- Between The Lines

o7 Silent night, Holy night,

All is calm, all is bright . . .

f7

Standing in the kitchen of an Orange County community service center

one recent night, Nelson had fallen silent. At this moment, his heart was

winning.

Which is why Nelson is a man I’ve grown to respect and love as a

brother in the few short months I’ve known him, and even more so after

this night.

Here’s a guy with a burlap demeanor, an alligator hide, but less so

these days. And it’s that gruff exterior -- a fortress cobbled from years

of personal pain -- that’s shielded a genuinely tender heart for most of

his life. But like me and a bunch of other guys he hangs out with some

Saturday mornings, he’s figured out that the stoic male dude he’s been

pretending to be for as long as he can remember just isn’t working

anymore.

So there in the kitchen we stood, gazing through the service window at

a sea of roughly 250 women and their children who were celebrating,

together, one precious silent night this holiday season -- a little peace

on Earth. And as Nelson watched the mothers and their children laugh, his

eyes filled with sympathy and sadness, which gave away the ache in his

heart. Is this the way men are supposed to feel?

To see the look on Nelson’s face, I knew the answer.

“If only their men had had Nelson’s heart,” I thought. “These women

wouldn’t be here.”

For each of these women and their children were, at one time, the

casualties of men so drenched in anger and testosterone and cowardice

that they would bruise and cut the flesh of these wives and girlfriends

with a slap or a backhand or a fist. And very likely, say the statistics,

these men inflicted the same upon their children. So what else were these

ladies to do but gather up their precious children, flee their homes and

seek refuge in the transitional shelter that helps sponsor this annual

holiday feast where all is calm and all is bright?

“There’s so many of them,” Nelson quietly uttered, his face painted

with some despair. “It’s tragic.”

Nelson and I and the rest of the guys had gathered this night to do

for these women and children what those other men never did. Honor and

serve them, though we knew none of them. We carved a half-dozen hams and

turkeys. We served great mounds of stuffing and mashed potatoes. We

spooned out cranberry sauce and ladled hot gravy. We topped wedges of

pumpkin and apple pie with whipped cream to the delight of the

youngsters, who have known more terror than tranquillity from the men

than once ruled their lives.

An army of young girls from a local volunteer group moved about the

tables, pouring beverages and clearing plates. And the music was festive

and the laughter loud and the hugs among fellow victims abundant. The

gaiety reminded me of what Scrooge must have seen -- in the company of

the Ghost of Christmas Past -- as he looked over old Mr. Fezziwig’s

Christmas party.

Tonight these women were important and worthy. Their very existence

was honored by strangers, rather than rued by their partners. Their

spirits -- too often crushed by cowards -- were fed by a group of men

with soft hearts. Their bodies -- too often pummeled by violent hands --

were nourished by food served by caring hands.

And for this small band of guys, on this night, it was understood what

being a man really means.

Let’s not pretend this doesn’t happen in our twin cities, in the land

of easy living. You know who you are. And I know you’re out there

somewhere in Newport Beach. In Costa Mesa.

You’re one of those men who, according to the U.S. Justice

Department’s Bureau of Justice Statistics, inflicted one if not more of

the estimated 876,340 incidents of domestic violence against women in

this country in 1998, the latest year for which there are statistics.

You are controlling. Manipulative. Jealous. Angry. Hurt. And very

likely this holiday season you’ll raise a hand and strike your wife, your

girlfriend or your child, taking from them their peace, their silent

night. With you around, nothing is calm and nothing is bright.

And in your utter sense of powerlessness, you do what only the

powerless can do. Brutalize that which is weaker. Cowardly is too mild an

adjective to describe it. Neanderthal is better. The tragedy is that it

could turn out to be a pretty good holiday for you. That’s because the

same U.S. Justice Department statistics say only 59% of domestic abuse

victims report the assaults against them.

But maybe not this time; I hope not this time. Just maybe the woman in

your life will give herself the gift of a silent night where all is calm.

Just maybe she’ll muster the courage to call the police and have you

cuffed.

Or perhaps she’ll just leave. And how wonderful it would be if,

unbeknownst to me, I had the privilege to serve her a holiday meal next

year.

o7 Sleep in heavenly peace,

Sleep in heavenly peace.

f7

* BYRON DE ARAKAL is a writer and communications consultant. He lives

in Costa Mesa. Readers can reach him with news tips and comments via

e-mail at byronwriter@msn.com.