This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2015, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
I still recall the first domestic violence call I handled on my own as a cop. It was at night and it frightened me badly.
Keep in mind that this was in rural Utah in the '70s, a time and place when people thought differently, if at all, about domestic violence.
According to my personally kept record files, I'd been a cop just 13 days when I was dispatched to a 10-75 (domestic problem).
"Domestic problem." Sounds fairly innocuous, doesn't it? Like someone spilled milk, plugged a toilet or, at worst, set the kitchen curtains on fire.
On this particular night it was just a "domestic problem." I showed up at the house and knocked on the door. A furious woman with a freshly bruised face answered.
She invited me inside and pointed to her husband, a large brute clad only in a pair of socks, a set of facial scratches, and a fog of Canadian Host.
While he was still processing the sudden addition of the police to their family drama, the woman turned and flung a used male contraceptive device at me, screaming, "He came home still wearing this!"
It was my turn to be confused. This was definitely not how things happened on "Dragnet" or "Adam-12."
I'll skip to the important part. I arrested Mr. Forgetful for punching his justifiably upset wife. While he blearily allowed me to handcuff him, I asked the wife to get him some pants.
The woman returned just as the last cuff ratcheted on. Instead of pants, she was swinging a Sesame Street cookie jar. She hammered her soon-to-be-ex in the head with it. Sixteen stitches' worth, to be exact.
The ambulance and my police chief came to the house. The man was wrestled into some underpants, transported to the hospital and thence to jail.
According to my chief, the guy got what he had coming. The woman had two small children to care for. Unless I was interested in entering the condom and my defiled shirt into evidence, I should handle it as a simple incident report.
Back then, a man could have a pair of scissors and a set of knitting needles sticking out of his back, but if the woman was crying, he was the one who went to jail.
Domestic violence isn't handled so casually anymore, but the way people think about it is still pretty archaic.
It happens behind more doors than people realize. The ones with wreaths on the door as well those with broken doors. In nice neighborhoods and in "good" families. And the person throwing the punches isn't the person you'd always expect. I figured that out at some point during my next 100 domestic violence calls.
The public hasn't figured it out, though. For us, a punch has to fit the stereotype for it to be domestic violence.
Early resorting to violence remains largely a Y chromosome thing, but women can be still be the aggressors. Female ex-champion mixed martial arts fighter Ronda Rousey describes almost gleefully in her autobiography how she used her fighting prowess to beat her ex-boyfriend half to death over some nude photos he took of her.
When an NFL player is caught smacking around his significant other, lenience is not to be tolerated. Games should be boycotted. Players and managers fired.
But Rousey hasn't drawn the same amount of negative attention.
Maybe people need to see the bruises before they'll care or recognize that there's an imbalance of power.
But what about the abuse never seen because it escapes our notice or, worse, gets applauded because it doesn't fit with what we're used to?
Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.