We all know an Amber
Some of us in our own families, and that’s why Depp-Heard defamation case resonated with millions across the globe
By Yvonne C. Claes
I didn’t have a horse in the race when the Johnny Depp-Amber Heard defamation trial began. Of course, I knew of Depp from the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise and had seen a couple of his other movies. I couldn’t have picked Heard out of a police lineup and didn’t realize the two had been married.
I went into the trial open-minded.
But I was instantly gripped, and then appalled, as witness after witness discounted Heard’s claims of abuse, and Heard herself provided no medical records or photos that backed up her horrendous claims. To believe Heard, one would have to believe about a dozen witnesses perjured themselves under oath.
No, the truth is much simpler: Heard perjured herself many times during the trial, and I hope she faces consequences in a criminal court.
The Aquaman actress also did not do herself any favors by testifying. Her tearless performance while wildly gesticulating and looking at the jury had me shaking my head and rolling my eyes. I was disgusted.
Then it hit me. I knew why this trial resonated with millions, including myself, across the globe. We knew someone like Heard: manipulative, incapable of telling the truth, evil, controlling, lacking in empathy, self-involved, and who takes pleasure in hurting others.
My Amber Heard was my mother. Mom thrived on conflict. She enjoyed nothing more that pitting her five children against each other. And as the youngest, I rarely stood a chance. Mom gleefully, and with that Heard smirk, stood by as one of my sister’s broke my nose and another time slammed one of my fingers TWICE in a door.
After the door incident, my mom — who was yanking on my bent finger while running it under cold water — yelled at me to stop crying.
Mom also loved to give us “hair treatments.” A hair treatment was when she would come behind us, without warning, and just pull our hair so hard we would come out of our chair.
Fun times.
But these physical altercations palled in comparison to the mental and emotional games my mom would play. She often would make promises that I could do something or go somewhere if I did a particular chore, and then when said chore was done, say she never made the promise.
These games often had me questioning my sanity. Oftentimes, her mental games crossed the line into outright cruelty.
I was “stupid,” “worthless,” and my personal favorite: a “mother-fucking-cock-sucking-son-of-a-bitch.”
When I reminded Mom as a young adult of her gift for colorful language, she became belligerent, insisting I made it all up and congratulating me on my creative imagination.
But her cruelty extended beyond words. One time I arrived home from school to an eerily quiet house. I quickly realized what was missing. Bandit, the family dog, would excitedly greet me, but she was nowhere to be found. The silence was unnerving.
I walked into the living room to find Mom, as usual, smoking on the couch while clipping coupons.
“Where’s Bandit?” I asked.
“Oh, she’s dead,” she replied with a sinister sneer, which matched the one Amber displayed many times in the courtroom.
Before I could fully comprehend what she was saying, I went racing through the house, frantically calling my dog’s name, while hearing my mother call from the living room in a sing-song voice, “You won’t find her…”
I was furious. I returned to where my mother was seated. She, full of spite, explained she had no choice. She had to put Bandit down because she was sick and we, my sister and I, weren’t properly taking care of her. The only problem with that explanation was it was a lie. Bandit hadn’t been sick, and my sister and I were feeding her, picking up after her, etc.
My mom created this scenario out of thin air, believed it, and repeated it to others. Bandit had to be put down. She was suffering, my mom insisted.
The sick part was that other people believed her. Like Amber, my mom could be convincingly charming. Cashiers, busboys, distant relatives, acquaintances, thought she was kind. I was lucky, they said, to have her as a mom.
Scary shit.
I immediately recognized in Heard the abuser Johnny Depp said she was. And like with Depp, Mom abused my father, who died at 53, when I was 15 years old.
Dad, a quiet and gentle man who never raised a hand to my mother, often retreated when Mom became physically violent or verbally abusive. The garage was a favorite refuge, and I remember at a young age retrieving beer for Dad from the kitchen fridge when he was trying to avoid his unreasonable wife.
I recall one time — I couldn’t have been older than 10 — handing Dad a can of Pabst and in frustration asking him, “Why don’t you just hit her? One good slap and maybe she’ll stop!”
I was sick of Mom holding the family hostage. But I was scared, more than anything, of the damage she was inflicting on my father, whom I loved more than life itself. I could see the toll her abuse was having on him, and I feared he would die prematurely.
I can’t remember my dad’s response. I wish I could. But knowing Dad he would have said it’s wrong to hit a woman, or something to that effect.
My mom also played twisted mental games on my dad. She often threatened him with divorce and vowed to take away custody of his children. I vividly remember one time Dad, tears streaming down his face and squatting on his knees, begging for forgiveness for some phantom transgression. Mom was the Queen of Gaslighting, although back then I didn’t have a term for it.
When I heard Depp’s story, I heard my dad’s. Johnny’s testimony had me recalling memories I hadn’t thought about in decades. I thought I had buried them when I buried my mom 20 years ago, but it’s strange how events of the past can visit the present, like some uninvited specter haunting a renovated house.
But Johnny is lucky. He got out before he lost his life or sustained more serious injuries. He had the money and public support to leave before Amber totally destroyed him.
So many people — so many men — are not as fortunate. Dad certainly wasn’t.
This case was not just some celebrity circus as the corporate media would have those who didn’t watch the trial believe. Sure, the proceedings were rife with voyeuristic elements: drug addiction, alcohol abuse, and marital infidelity involving the likes of Elon Musk and James Franco.
But what resonated with so many people, yours truly included, was it became obvious early in the televised proceedings who the real abuser was and consequently, the real victim. And it put the dangerous and presumptuous slogan, Believe women, to the test, and hopefully, to rest.
Believe the evidence. Believe your eyes and ears. Don’t let the overpaid and sanctimonious pundits, who can’t even get the first name of lawyers involved in the case correct, tell you what to think and call you “fans” and social media “trolls” and explain away as “feelings” your thoughtful and considered conclusions.
Believe men and believe women. It’s really that simple.
©Yvonne C. Claes, 2022. I own this content. You can share my column, but make sure my name is left on it. Thanks!
