Is the cat on fire?

My first internship during social work school was at a shelter for domestic violence survivors and their children. It was an excellent introduction to social work because DV survivors need all kinds of support, from psychological counseling to assistance with housing and financial entitlements.

I learned about the cycle of violence and the typical dynamics of a DV relationship. I listened to women tell me about the abuse they'd endured. One client was unable to drink soda, Kool-Aid or any dark beverage due to kidney damage, having been beaten and kicked in the back repeatedly. Another woman said that her first night in the shelter felt like “sleeping on a cloud”—for the first time in years, she was able to fully let her guard down and relax.

Life in the shelter was often dramatic; unrelated persons cooped up together don't always get along. Since I was only there three days a week, I missed the fight when one woman tore out another's weave. I wasn't there when the police were called because a client's teenage daughter destroyed the Xerox machine during a mania-fueled tantrum. She was marched out of the shelter in handcuffs and taken to a psychiatric hospital.

I didn't see it, but Ms. Gomez and her three young daughters did, watching from their second-floor window.

Ms. Gomez was one of the clients I was counseling. She was a bright, lavishly tattooed and pierced young woman. Her daughters were 9, 6, and 4 years old. Before the “arrest,” she and I had been talking about her interest in developing a career as a youth counselor. After the arrest, her main concern was her children.

“They're having nightmares,” she told me. “They're afraid the police are going to arrest them and take them away from me. I told them it's not going to happen, but they're pretty freaked out.”

I had never worked with children. But I didn't have a lot of clinical experience with adults, either, yet my interactions in support of the clients seemed to be helpful. I spoke to my supervisor, and she gave me the go-ahead to talk to the family.

We sat down in the family's living area, which was the space between their bunkbeds and the kitchen. The girls were friendly but a bit wary.

“I understand you saw what happened last week, when that girl was taken away in handcuffs,” I said. Immediately the girls looked away, drawing themselves inward in defense

“That must have been really scary to see,” I mused, hoping to draw them out.

“They arrested her because she broke the Xerox machine,” the 9-year-old informed me solemnly.

“Cops come when you're bad and you break things,” chimed in the 6-year-old. The youngest, sitting on her mother's lap, wedged her head between her mother's neck and shoulder and slipped her thumb into her mouth.

“They've seen the cops come to our house before,” their mother sighed, hugging the youngest with one arm and patting the middle child's back with the other.

“Sometimes the cops come when people get angry and get violent,” I said.

“To take them to jail,” said the 6-year-old, now leaning against her mother.

“Let me ask you a question, girls,” I said. “What do you do when a cat gets stuck up a tree?”

All four faces now looked quizzical at the apparent change of subject. “Climb up and get it?” asked the 9-year-old tentatively.

“What if you can't climb up that far?” I asked.

“Get a ladder,” said the 9-year-old with more confidence. Their curiosity piqued, their anxiety began to abate a bit.

“What if you don't have a ladder tall enough?” I asked.

“Call the fire department!” said the 6-year-old triumphantly.

“That's right,” I said. “Is the cat on fire?”

Four startled faces began laughing. “The cat's not on fire!” said the 9-year-old. “That's silly!”

“So you understand that sometimes the fire department can help when nothing's on fire,” I said. They nodded. “That's what happened last week. The young woman who broke the Xerox machine is very sick,” I said sadly. “She was dangerous to herself and her mother. She needed to go to the hospital. But she didn't want to go. That's why her mom called the police.”

“Her mom called the police on her?” asked the 9-year-old, aghast.

“Her mom needed help, because the girl was out of control. Just like firemen can help get a cat safely out of a tree, the police can help get a person to the hospital – without hurting them or anyone else.”

It's amazing to see insight dawn on three small faces. “She wasn't in trouble?” asked the 6-year-old.

“Not in trouble,” I said. “But she needed help, and unfortunately her mom needed the police to help her help her daughter.”

At our next counseling session, Ms. Gomez reported that the girls had stopped waking up with nightmares. When I finished my internship, I gave her my old college psychology 101 textbook.