The Interview
Nan Hocking-McDonough
By John Koch, Boston Globe
You changed your name from Nancy to Nan. Why?
In the late '80s, I had a dream about being in a room with five people. I told them, "I'd really like you to call me Nan now." At the time, I was reading little daily readings for recovery, and the one I was reading the next morning talked about names and how we have been harmed by the use of our name. My father called me names - "Nancy, you're a slut," and much, much unprintably worse when I was an early teen. Reinventing and transforming my life seemed appropriate.
Talk about how your parents died and what led up to it.
I remember my parents arguing from the age of 4. I remember pouring a bottle of my father's Scotch down the drain. At 8 or 9, I can remember waking up to things crashing around and my father saying disgusting things, and my mother yelling for help. He beat her up, pulled her hair. He hit her with chairs. The starkest moment for me? When I was in the second grade, my father had taken me to a movie, and on our way back home, he sexually abused me. I told my mother, who told me never to say things that aren't true. My mother was held hostage to domestic violence. Fast-forward to the spring of '84, when my father - who was the mayor of Jacksonville, Illinois, and also, ironically, the state liquor commissioner - was out of the country with Governor Jim Thompson. My father would get drunk and call my mother and do his thing over the phone, exercising his control over her. The last time I spoke to my mother was at that time. On Friday, May 11th, my parents went to their country club. I have the slips from the club, where my father had six Scotches. She had to drive home. What I believe happened, they got home, and my father got out and went into the house before she pulled into the garage and closed the door electronically. Her window was down, and she stayed there with the car running, and my father proceeded to drink more in the house. She was found dead in the car on Mother's Day. My father was in the house unclothed on the bed, also dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. And the dog was dead, too, in the upstairs hall.
How did you cope?
In my early 20s, I discovered alcohol and thought, "My God, why haven't I been doing this all along? It really helps, I can laugh and talk." That lasted six years. But from early on, I had extended family, grandparents who made a difference, and I was with them a lot. When I stopped drinking at 29, I found help. I had years of therapy and found people I could relate to. I had joy in me that people had tried to kill, which made me mad. I was angry all of my life, and I think that saved me. I was victimized, but anger kept me from having a victim mind-set.
Your life has been dominated by this history.
Absolutely, but mine's almost a life transformed. Part of the early recovery was thinking, why can't I marry the love of my life and have children? And things unfolded that way [Hocking-McDonough is married and has two sons]. I was very lucky. I've found myself.
Did you ever try to turn your father in to the authorities?
No. At times, I told my mother we should call the police. Like her, I bought into the myth that this was a private family matter.
What are the chief myths about battering?
People wonder why can't the women just leave. They can't. It's their home, their children, their life. It's hard to understand the fear battered women feel - it's like brainwashing. I would lie in bed as a child and hear the fighting, and my fear was that if my father killed or disabled my mother, he'd come after me. Another myth is that children need their fathers in spite of them being violent. No way. Also, this notion that it happens more to particular classes or races of people is total BS. It's not a private family matter; it's a crime. And it's a myth that long-term battering relationships can change for the better. They don't.
You say secrecy killed your mother.
She couldn't tell her story at the time; she just lived with it. Secrets kill people. The value of telling your story, as I did, is realizing you're not alone. There's healing in ending your isolation and connecting with others and knowing there are thousands of people with similar stories. The teaching I do and the videos I'm making [Hocking-McDonough is shooting a video about her father and planning one about herself] are a way to manage the past. This kind of dysfunction should never be secret; if it is, people are going to self-medicate, commit suicide, live with serious psychological ailments. We welcome these stories and understand they might also release someone else who hears them.
How does someone begin to tell her secret?
Find a time when nobody is going to interrupt and the batterer is not going to discover them. They need to call a crisis center and say to the person on the other end, "I'm being battered, I'm afraid of my partner. Please help." That's the safest bet.
Are there still many stories like yours today?
Police and judges are better trained, and we have better laws. More money is spent on crisis centers, shelters, hot lines, and public education. Those are important. But yes, you bet.
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