Brian Crawford Beats His Mother

Brian Crawford

1981

When I was 25 I looked 12 and I know that because lots of people brought that to my attention.  I had just secured a position as a high school counselor in rural Pennsylvania.  And I could hardly wait to get started in my new professional career.  I was on my way to save the children of the world.  So when I arrived the first day, ready to be a professional, there were comments on how young I looked.  But I dismissed these comments. While I did look young, I had confidence and a little cockiness.  I had just earned my Master’s degree in counseling.  I was from the city which I thought gave me a credential of toughness.  And I had been to Europe twice so I was worldly.

I was working at a school where most of the faculty was older and tired but not old enough to retire.  So they were disinterested in the students and the students were disinterested in them.  My youthfulness was well received by the students.

It was a heady time for me.  Kids flocked to me and feed my ego. I loved my job.  I loved my work.  Kids confide in me.  They told me their secrets, their stories, their fears.  I was entrenched in their lives.

I started my job in August and already it was November.  Thanksgiving was right around the corner.  And I was looking forward to visiting with my family to tell them about my good fortune.

So when Mrs. Crawford came in to see me, I was quick to talk to her about the upcoming holiday and family. She was hesitant in responding to me.  And she was teary.  She had not come in to talk to me about the joy of family.  She was nervous, jumpy.  And I realized she hadn’t said a word yet.

She sat down beside me and breathlessly said, “I need your help.  I didn’t know who to come to.  He doesn’t like anyone but he told me that he talked to you last week.”  She is now speaking rapidly, but in a whisper. She is talking about Brian, her son.  He is a senior and I did meet with him last week.  He seemed angry, like a simmer volcano.  He didn’t speak much.  But his anger filled the room, I remember.

Most of the students who came to see me welcomed the opportunity to talk about themselves.  I would allot a whole class period (42 minutes) to each student to talk, uninterrupted, without judgment.  And most students came in through the door, yakking, taking a seat and still taking as I ushered them out after 42 minutes.  But Brian had to be prodded to come see me.  He had missed three previous appointments.  But last week, I was able to track him down and get him in to talk about his graduation plans which were null.  He had absolute no idea what he wanted to do. He talked a little bit about guns and joining the military and killing people.  And then he laughed and watched my reaction.  And then I asked him what he liked to do outside of school.  He liked to hunt, to shoot at squirrels off his back porch.  While I was new to this world of hunting, I hadn’t heard of any student who shot animals just for the sport of it.

When Brian left my office after 15 minutes, I was relieved.  I didn’t like his presence.  I remember opening the window and airing out the room.  His smell of stale cigarettes and stale clothing lingered in the air. His anger hung in the air as well.

So it took me by surprise when his mother mentioned that he had told her about our conversation.
 “I really need your help” she said as she took off her jacket.  She was wearing short sleeves.  She turned and revealed her left arm.  It was swollen and bruised.  It almost looked broken.

She started to cry in shame. “Brian did this to me. He hit me with a spade.  He told me he would do it again. And I am afraid of him.  I’m afraid to be home with him for so long over the Thanksgiving holiday.  He’s going to hurt me again, I know it.  I need your help.  You have to get him to stop hitting me.”

I was weak at the knees.  I had to sit down; never, never could I have imagined that anyone would hit his mother.  I would never, absolutely never hit my mother.  I never knew anyone who touched his mother.  I didn’t know anyone who threatened to touch her mother.  Now, here was a woman, standing before me, humiliated and begging for my help.  And I was really afraid.  And I had no clue as to what to do.

She was now sobbing.  Her dirty little secret was out and she had surrendered herself to me to fix the problem.  So what the hell was I going to do?  I had no life experience to call on right now.  I had no words, no plan to give her. Then it came to me.  Get help.  Call on someone else.  So I got up, told her I would be right back and I went next door to my colleague.

Ken was the other counselor and he was also the football coach.  And Brian was on the team.  So he knew Brian.  And he wasn’t surprised to hear what Brian had done.  “He is one angry dude”, Ken said, shaking his head.  “Can you imagine hitting your own mother"?

Good, I wasn’t alone in my absolute disbelief.  I wasn’t alone in how horrified I was.

“What I should do” I begged. And at this point, I was really begging to turn this whole messy situation over to Ken.  I was lost in my own naiveté, my own lack of experience, my own unworldliness.  I realized I was just a kid trying to be an adult.

“Get him down here.  We’ll shame him.  You don’t hit your mother. We’ll call him on it.”

So we called to his classroom and asked the teacher to send him to my office.  In the meantime, I brought Ken over to my office and introduced him to the mother.  They both knew each other because of football and she seemed relieved to have Ken’s support as well.

There was a knock on the door and my heart raced.  The secretary announced that Brian had arrived.  I stood in front of the mother to block her from Brian’s view.  I didn’t think he would come in if he saw her.  And as soon as he was inside my office, I closed the door and stood in front of the door, leaving no room for Brian to bolt out of there.

I stepped aside and revealed his mother, a large woman who now seemed so small and defenseless, so damaged, almost childlike. Brian immediately welded up in anger, his ears and neck becoming inflamed.  He clenched his teeth and made a fist.  Tension filled the air.

“Sit down” Ken said. Brian didn’t comply.

So Ken raised his voice ever so slightly and gave the command again, “Sit down I said.”

And this time, Brian complied. Ken turned to Mrs. Crawford, his mother and demanded, “Look at her.” He pointed to her bruised arm.

Brian didn’t lift his head but I could see him lift his eyes and throw an angry glance at her.  She was trembling.  And so was I.  At any moment, he could explode and we would all be hurt, one way or another.

Ken continued,  ”this is your mother.  And you hit her.  And this will be the last time you hit her.  Men do not hit their mothers.  It’s wrong. And I don’t let anyone who hurts their mothers play on my football team.  If you hit her again, I am throwing you off the team.  Do you understand me?”

Brian nodded, meekly, broken, humiliated, angrily.

“We are going to check on you”, Ken continued.  “We are going to call your mother every week; if she tells us that you have touched her, you are off the team immediately.  And if you yell at her for coming here today, you are off the team.  Do you understand me? Men do not hit their mothers.  This stops today.”

Brian nodded again.  The coach asked him if he had anything to say to his mother.  Brian shook his head “No”. The coach asked if he wanted to apologize and to my horror, Brian shook his head “no”.  The only glimmer of hope came when Ken asked, “do I have your word that you won’t hit your mother again.”  And he shook his head “yes”.  The mother let out a sigh of relief and Ken dismissed Brian to go back to class.  I wanted to go home, I was worn out.

The mother got up and thanked both of us.  She was filled with relief and I was afraid that this was just temporary relief.  Brian was too much of a time bomb. How could she be so confident that it won’t happen again?

But she left, grateful and lighter than when he had come in half an hour ago. I did check on her after Thanksgiving. He didn’t hit her. And she spoke as if that dark side of him was over.

The next day, I drove home to my family for our Thanksgiving dinner.  As I looked around the room, candles were flickering on the table.  Food was being passed around.  There was a loud clatter of lively conversation.  My father said grace and enumerated our blessings. There was too much food.  I found myself staring at my parents and siblings and my grandmother, all of us enjoying each other’s company.  For a moment, I thought of my grandfather and wished that he was here with us.  Then I stopped myself.  “No”, I told myself, not this year, this day is not a day of regret; it’s a day to be thankful for that I have”. 

I gaze  back at my mother. And I looked at her so intensely that day, so full of joy.  I choked up, fought back tears. I was so grateful that I wasn’t plagued with so much rage. Grateful that we could sit at the table, eat a meal and be filled with the joy of each other’s company. Up to this point, I had taken so much of my good fortune for granted.  But not today.  The peace that permeated my family overwhelmed me with gratitude.

I imaged Brian’s  Thanksgiving dinner. I imagined no one talking to one another.  No one happy to be with the other. The mother with her bruised arm.  Did Brian feel remorse or shame on this day of thanks?

Then I looked around my dining room again.  I had a lot to be thankful for today.