Mandating Inclusion: Critical Trans Perspectives on Domestic and Sexual Violence Advocacy

Abstract

In 2013, the Violence Against Women Act became one of the first federal laws to explicitly prohibit discrimination against transgender people, yet little is known about its impact in practice. This qualitative study draws on in-depth interviews with transgender people working in domestic and sexual violence advocacy organizations. Building on critical and intersectional perspectives, the findings suggest that the persistence of inequities for trans survivors are tied to the reliance on criminal legal responses, contingent access to gender-specific services, compliance-focused approaches to inclusion, operating theories of gender-based violence, and the diversion of responsibility to LGBTQ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer) programs. This study highlights the participants’ recommendations for change.

Keywords

VAWA transgender advocacy services qualitative research

Introduction

The Violence Against Women Reauthorization Act of 2013 (VAWA 2013) became one of the first federal laws in the United States to recognize people “who face barriers in accessing and using victim services based on . . . gender identity” (Sect. 3(9)(a)) and to prohibit discrimination against transgender people in grant-funded services.¹ Although VAWA has garnered widespread bipartisan political support since its introduction in 1994, Congress divided in 2012 over proposed changes that would ultimately extend immigration protections, expand tribal court prosecutorial powers, and enumerate sexual orientation, along with gender identity, in classifying underserved groups in need of equal protection (O’Neil, 2013). Advocates championed the new provisions as an “inclusive VAWA” that could address critical gaps in victim services infrastructure for immigrant, indigenous, and lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ) survivors of domestic and sexual violence (O’Neill, 2013). These political debates and policy changes have been examined (e.g., Greenberg, 2012; Modi, Palmer, & Armstrong, 2014; Ortega & Busch-Armendariz, 2013; Whittier, 2016), but the influence of the nondiscrimination protections in practice has not been analyzed. The protections relating to transgender survivors warrant particular attention, given the historical exclusions of transgender people from feminist anti-violence organizing and women’s services (Califia, 1997; Koyama, 2003; Namaste, 2000; Serano, 2013) and recent reports that lethal violence against transgender women of color is escalating (Waters & Yacka-Bible, 2017).

This article examines the ongoing inequities for trans people in community-based domestic violence and sexual assault (DV/SA) advocacy services following the implementation of federal nondiscrimination protections in VAWA 2013. The term trans is used here to refer to social category (e.g., trans people, trans survivors) and social movements advocating for the freedom of all people to self-determine and express gender without violence or discrimination (e.g., trans justice, trans activism; see Enke, 2012).² We briefly describe the immediate need to address violence against trans people and the problems encountered by survivors seeking forms of relief funded under VAWA, including DV/SA advocacy services. We then analyze in-depth interviews with 10 trans workers in community-based DV/SA advocacy services conducted 2.5 years after the passage of VAWA 2013. Building on critical and intersectional perspectives of legal inclusion, we consider, from the perspective of trans anti-violence advocates, the following: Why do inequities persist for trans survivors in community-based DV/SA advocacy organizations despite nondiscrimination protections?³ What are some opportunities for changes within the field?

Domestic and Sexual Violence Against Trans People

Trans activists have engaged in anti-violence organizing for decades, yet there has been fairly limited mainstream response to violence against trans people until recently (Serano, 2013; Stryker, 2008). The National Coalition of Anti-Violence Programs (NCAVP) has reported an annual increase in the number of homicides of trans people in the United States every year since 2013, and the vast majority of victims are young black and Latina trans women (Waters & Yacka-Bible, 2017). Homicides involving trans victims often go unreported and remain unsolved; however, existing sources point to the significant role of domestic and sexual violence in the reported fatalities (Talusan, 2016; Waters & Yacka-Bible, 2017). Homicide is currently a leading cause of death among young black and Latina women in the United States, and more than half are killed by a current or recent intimate partner (Petrosky, 2017). By one recent estimate, the rate of homicide among young black and Latina trans women (ages 18-34) exceeds the national homicide rates of young black and Latina women, respectively (Dinno, 2017).

A comprehensive view of the scope and prevalence of domestic and sexual violence, including lethal violence, in the lives of trans people is curtailed in part by a lack of reliable data. Public records and population-level surveys tend to reproduce dominant social ideologies of sex and gender that treat “males/men” and “females/women” as cohesive and mutually exclusive categories, facilitating an epistemological erasure of trans people and experiences (Namaste, 2000). To address the dearth of data on interpersonal violence, Stotzer (2009) cross-analyzed community-based surveys of trans adults with social service records and police reports and found particularly high rates of sexual violence overall, with a majority of cases involving known individuals (i.e., intimate partners, family members). The 2015 U.S. Trans Survey (USTS) provides the largest national sample of trans and gender nonconforming adults in the United States to date; of the 27,715 respondents, the majority had experienced intimate partner violence (IPV) in their lifetime (54%), including a quarter reporting “severe physical violence” by a partner (24%). Nearly half had experienced sexual violence in their lifetime (47%), including one in 10 (10%) who reported experiencing sexual violence in the past year (James et al., 2016).

To the extent that trans survivors have been included in empirical studies of domestic or sexual violence, this has primarily occurred within broader examinations of LGBTQ experiences of IPV (Brown & Herman, 2015; Wirtz, Poteat, Malik, & Glass, 2020). Scholars, activists, and survivors have described the heightened vulnerabilities to domestic and sexual violence among LGBTQ people as rooted in social, political, and economic conditions that systematically devalue and diminish LGBTQ lives and relationships (Patterson, 2016; Ristock, 2011). Yet research on LGBTQ experiences of IPV is most representative of gay and lesbian people or those described as being in same-gender relationships. Scholars and advocates concerned with the particularities of trans survivors’ experiences observe how pervasive social stigma and structural exclusions may be uniquely leveraged as a tactic of IPV, for example: threatening to disclose a person’s trans identity against their interests, refusing to acknowledge a trans person’s gender identity, monitoring or scrutinizing a trans person’s gender expression (e.g., whether they “pass” as a non-trans person), withholding or controlling access to gender-affirming medical treatment, and using trans identity as grounds to contest parental rights or discredit witness statements in courts and with law enforcement, advocates, family members and friends, and other potential interveners (Bornstein, Fawcett, Sullivan, Senturia, & Shiu-Thornton, 2006; Courvant & Cook-Daniels, 1998; Guadalupe-Diaz & Anthony, 2017; Ristock & Timbang, 2005; Wirtz et al., 2020). More broadly, social and structural inequities increase situational vulnerabilities to violence for trans people, such as high rates of housing insecurity and homelessness, economic discrimination, reliance on survival sex and poor conditions in sex work, disability, and incarceration (James et al., 2016; Jauk, 2013; Kattari & Begun, 2017; Lombardi, Wilchins, Priesing, & Malouf, 2001; Spade, 2015).

Exclusions From Services Funded by VAWA

VAWA underwrites funding allocations for criminal legal interventions (e.g., law enforcement, prosecution strategies, courts), victim assistance and advocacy services programs, and state, territorial, and tribal coalitions designed to respond to domestic and sexual violence, dating violence, and stalking. Legal scholars describe patterns of acute discrimination, harassment, and mistreatment of trans victims both by law enforcement and when seeking criminal and civil legal remedies, such as the failure to respond or take victim statements, attacks on witness credibility, misidentification of survivors as perpetrators, unjust arrest and detention, and victimization while incarcerated (e.g., Goodmark, 2013; Greenberg, 2012; Mogul, Ritchie, & Whitlock, 2011; Spade, 2015). Findings from the 2015 USTS illustrate that discrimination and mistreatment by law enforcement are pervasive and disproportionately affect trans women of color (James et al., 2016). Negative police encounters, including profiling and harassment, deter trans survivors from pursuing law enforcement and other legal interventions (Guadalupe-Diaz & Jasinski, 2017; Jauk, 2013).

Community-based DV/SA advocacy organizations are often better situated to provide support and resources to survivors outside the criminal legal system, such as emergency and confidential shelters, crisis hotlines, support groups, individual counseling, and advocacy services. Yet patterns of discrimination and mistreatment in social service settings and shelters, including DV/SA advocacy programs, are well documented (e.g., James et al., 2016; Kattari & Begun, 2017; Mottet & Ohle, 2006; Seelman, 2015; Stotzer, Silverschanz, & Wilson, 2013). Guadalupe-Diaz and Jasinski (2017) found that trans survivors of IPV often avoid gender-based DV services in anticipation of misunderstandings or mistreatment and may perceive these services as inaccessible or irrelevant to their situation. Researchers in Los Angeles found that DV advocates were often ill-equipped to provide advocacy for LGBTQ survivors and that programs did not tailor their advocacy strategies to address specific needs (Ford, Slavin, Hilton, & Holt, 2013). In remarking on the nondiscrimination protections in VAWA 2013, Calton, Cattaneo, and Gebhard (2016) speculated “it is possible that organizations will need to make such substantial changes to their infrastructure in order to be truly inclusive that they will take little action unless the provision is enforced via federal regulations” (p. 11). Although the previous literature has emphasized the need for nondiscrimination policies, little is known about how the federal mandate in VAWA 2013 has influenced practice, nor has a sustained discussion emerged about what truly inclusive services would entail and how DV/SA advocacy—as a field—can address endemic violence experienced by trans people.

A Critical and Intersectional Approach to Analyzing Inclusion

In the early 1990s, critical race scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw (1991) studied some of the barriers faced by low-income women of color who tried to access DV advocacy services in Los Angeles. She used the term “intersectionality” to describe an analytical lens that could take account of the interactions of race, class, and gender in understanding violence against women. This influential essay built on and expanded existing critiques that dominant feminist agendas were driven by the needs and priorities of white, middle-class, and heterosexual women (e.g., Hull, Scott & Smith, 1982; Moraga & Anzaldúa, 1981; Pharr, 1988). An intersectional analysis is now widely employed in research and practice (Hill-Collins, 2015). Here, we are interested in Crenshaw’s foretelling analysis, written on the cusp of the passage of the original VAWA (1994), where she observed that DV services based on “uniform standards of need” (p. 1250) often failed to meet the needs of poor women of color because of the ways they were differently situated in their economic, social, and political realities.

VAWA has been increasingly analyzed in intersectional feminist critiques as a nexus of contradictions, reflective of what Kim (2012) describes as the “paradoxical nature of social movement success” (p. 1277). Passed as a part of a major crime bill, VAWA consolidated significant state resources for a once grassroots and decentralized feminist response to rape and battering, and in so doing changed anti-violence discourses and advocacy strategies toward greater alignment with the strategies of neoliberal governance (e.g., welfare austerity, individualized services, criminal legal remedies; Bumiller, 2009; Ferraro, 1996; Kim, 2012). Mehrotra, Kimball, and Wahab (2016) describe the combined historical effects of neoliberalism, professionalization, and criminalization as “the braid that binds” contemporary DV/SA advocacy practice, requiring its depoliticization and reproducing inequities for those who historically have been excluded.

Efforts to enumerate “gender identity” as a category in antidiscrimination protections within VAWA 2013 were enabled in part by a broader policy agenda of civil rights and trans advocacy groups working to secure legal recognition and resolve uncertainties for trans people bringing discrimination claims on the basis of “sex” (Currah & Minter, 2000). Yet the advocacy surrounding the new provisions in VAWA 2013 promoted a familiar slippage between the potential for discrete legal relief from discriminatory actions and broader claims of trans inclusion in the federal response to gender-based violence. That is, the provisions were imbued with symbolic assurances of equal access to federal resources by mandating inclusion. Despite the further addition of gender identity into the categories of those “underserved” by VAWA, the specificities of the needs of trans survivors were rarely engaged in Congressional debates or related advocacy efforts (Greenberg, 2012; Whittier, 2016).

Critical race theorists have argued that equal protection policies offer a narrow remedy for the most blatant, individual forms of discrimination while eschewing persistent structural inequalities (Delgado & Stefancic, 2017). Building on critical race theory and women of color feminism, Dean Spade (2015) cautioned trans advocates against foregrounding advocacy for legal recognition in a struggle for trans liberation, contending that the focus on antidiscrimination policies reflects a fundamental misunderstanding of their function. Arguing that such policies alone cannot meaningfully redistribute resources, Spade (2013) proposes a “critical trans politics” that is “suspicious of formal declarations of equality” and “vigilant about co-optation, asking whether such declarations have had the material impact promised” (p. 1042). We build on these critical and intersectional analytical frameworks by comparing the universalizing claim that VAWA is now inclusive of trans survivors against the material impacts in DV/SA advocacy practice. In doing so, we heed concerns of trans activists not to universalize “violence against trans people” (Namaste, 2009) by paying attention to how and where meaningful differences emerge, particularly as they are structured by racism, engagement in sex work, and gender identity or expression.

Method

Research Design

This qualitative study aimed to highlight the underrepresented perspectives of trans people working as anti-violence advocates to examine the ideological and practical challenges of trans inclusion and to elucidate these advocates’ recommendations for change. Interview data were collected as part of a broader project titled Trans Perspectives on the Anti-Violence Movement conducted in collaboration with the National LGBTQ Domestic Violence Capacity Building Learning Center (“Learning Center”) in September 2015. The interviews were conducted by the first and third authors, respectively, a trans white person who worked at a county-wide coalition of DV/SA programs and a mixed-race trans woman who worked in a culturally specific DV/SA organization. In focusing on interviewing other trans practitioners, we aimed to value their theoretical insights, which are too often rendered invisible within the field of practice. We assumed that other trans practitioners would (a) have experience working with a number of trans survivors and could draw on a broad base of experiential knowledge; (b) be engaged in advising their local and regional colleagues about trans inclusion, equipping them with insights beyond their own single-agency setting; and (c) possess a particular attunement to inequities facing trans survivors based on their personal experiences as trans people. We approached practitioner-based research as particularly appropriate to a study of advocacy, honoring the history of community workers at the forefront of theorizing domestic and sexual violence and its interventions.

Recruitment

We recruited trans people working within community-based DV/SA advocacy settings, including LGBTQ-specific anti-violence advocacy programs, through an announcement circulated through email lists and networks of the Learning Center’s partner organizations. The research team identified 18 potential participants. Because several potential participants worked at the same few LGBTQ-specific organizations, we limited interviews to two people from a single organization to help ensure organizational and regional diversity. Ten interviews were completed representing eight organizations. While it is unknown how many trans people work in the DV/SA advocacy field, most participants who were contacted for this study did not know of another trans person who met our criteria and was not already involved in the study. To the best of our knowledge, those we interviewed did not differ significantly from the group that was not interviewed in terms of job role or gender and racial/ethnic identities.

Participants

The 10 interviewees lived and worked in seven cities in six states in primarily large, coastal urban centers. Geographic and work setting information as well as racial/ethnic and gender identities for each participant are presented in Table 1. Nine were currently or recently employed in a DV/SA advocacy program or organization and one was a regular volunteer with a rape crisis program. Five of the participants worked within LGBTQ-specific organizations and one worked in an LGBTQ program within a mainstream DV organization; four participants worked or volunteered in a mainstream DV/SA organization or program. Although not a central focus of this study, we note that several participants spoke about barriers for trans people seeking employment in the field.

Table 1.

Participant Demographics.

Region	Initials	Gender identity, racial/ethnic identity^a
Northeast	R.B.	Transmasculine, black Latinx
	M.A.	Trans woman of color, African American
	H.G.	Trans or FTM, black/African American
	S.W.	Transgender man, multiracial/multiethnic
	D.T.,	Trans/male/genderqueer, white
West	E.K.,	Trans/female, Mexican
	U.T.	Trans and genderqueer, white
	N.N.	Transgender woman, Latino
	L.Z.	Genderqueer, white
South	M.H.	Queer/genderqueer/trans/trans woman/woman, white

Note. FTM = female-to-male.

Identities are listed as defined by each participant.

Interview Procedure

The interviews were conducted using video-based conferencing technology and a semi-structured interview guide. Interviews lasted approximately 90-100 min. The focus of this article draws principally on participants’ responses related to (a) how anti-violence organizations are working to address violence against trans people and the barriers they face in doing so; (b) root causes of sexual and domestic violence in the lives of trans people; and (c) recommended directions and aspirations for the field of DV/SA advocacy to better address the advocacy needs of trans survivors. All interviews were recorded and transcribed for analysis.

Analysis

Both interviewers read the transcripts and independently identified initial themes and blocks of text to create a provisional descriptive memorandum. The memorandum was shared with participants, and three contributed feedback as a form of member checking (Creswell & Poth, 2017). The second author, a South Asian cisgender queer woman with a background in DV in LGBTQ communities, joined the research team for this analysis.⁴ The three authors reread the original transcripts and the descriptive memo. Through immersion in the data, we identified key dimensions, themes, and subthemes based on the research questions and emergent patterns. A secondary selective coding process was used to elucidate multivocal perspectives and to further highlight themes that addressed the intersections of race and gender. To address trustworthiness, we engaged in peer briefing to review primary data against our emerging analyses and to challenge assumptions from our own work in the field (Creswell & Poth, 2017).

Findings

Throughout the interviews, participants drew on their experiences providing direct advocacy for trans survivors and their perspectives working in the DV/SA advocacy field. Many also referred to their own experiences surviving violence, including childhood sexual abuse, parental violence, IPV, violence in the sex trade, and attempted murder. Most participants were involved in trans activism work, such as facilitating youth support groups, organizing cultural and educational events, and volunteering with trans-led organizations. Our analyses identified the following five interconnected themes related to ongoing inequalities for trans survivors: (a) fear of and resistance to utilizing the criminal legal system, (b) exclusions in gender-based programs, (c) the limited impact of compliance and competency approaches to inclusion, (d) advocacy practices focused on a single source of violence, and (e) the diversion to and overburdening of LGBTQ programs. Each theme is described and then followed by participants’ recommendations for change.

“You Know You Can’t Call”: Fear of and Resistance to Utilizing the Criminal Legal System

Participants described the significant risks for trans survivors in interacting with law enforcement as a key deterrent shaping the low utilization of services by trans survivors. Past encounters with hostile and negligent policing and mistreatment within the criminal legal system reproduce conditions in which many trans survivors not only fail to report being victimized but may strategically avoid public services altogether as a matter of personal safety. As M.A. explained,

We’re not accessing the resources to get the help because of the fear of us going in there with our identity and how we’re treated. You were sexually assaulted, why would you want to go to the ER when you know that’s going to be another triggering situation? So, what are you going to do? You’re going to heal at home and leave it alone. You know you can’t call the police in your neighborhood because they’re not going to do anything or make it worse. [. . .] It’s like you become accustomed to leaving things alone. (M.A., trans woman of color, African American, Northeast)

The question of whether engaging with services might “make it worse” for trans survivors was ubiquitously described by participants, and they emphasized the particular vulnerabilities of involving law enforcement when working with trans people of color. In the context of describing her work with survivors who are undocumented immigrants and/or involved with the sex trade, E.K. described the interplay between heightened vulnerabilities to interpersonal violence and the potential perils of engaging law enforcement:

A lot of the clients who have been victims are individuals who have to access the street economy, were out late at night, and who have barriers to accessing employment—either legal immigration status or language barriers. And so, those communities tend to have a lot of fear about connecting with law enforcement, and rightly so. (E.K., trans/female, Mexican, West Coast)

Trans survivors may not only fear being mistreated as a victim but be unwilling to activate or participate in a criminal investigation that could put the person who caused them harm in danger of arrest or incarceration. Advocates explained this reluctance as rooted in survivors’ own negative experiences with law enforcement as well as perceptions of law enforcement as a source of harm and marginalization for trans people and communities of color—and especially for trans people of color. R.B. recalled providing advocacy for survivors as they weighed this dilemma in the context of ongoing threats of violence:

People in my community do reach out to be, like, “Hey, I’ve had this situation. I feel unsafe. And I just need this person not to come to my job. And I can’t call the police. [. . .] I don’t want the system to eat up another brown trans person.” (R.B., transmasculine, black Latinx, Northeast)

The combination of fear of and resistance to utilizing criminal legal responses was perceived to be a barrier to trans inclusion in mainstream DV/SA advocacy services. Some participants described their own efforts to advocate within the criminal legal system, including assisting trans survivors in filing police reports, offering court accompaniment, and providing training to law enforcement personnel on working with trans people. A few felt that their efforts had resulted in measurable improvements with specific officers and local precincts; however, all advocates maintained a general skepticism that nondiscrimination policies would sufficiently address the social and structural forces that maintain bias in policing and the resulting tendency for trans survivors to be interrogated and criminalized rather than viewed and treated as victims. Many participants underscored an unmet need for DV/SA advocacy organizations to cultivate viable and innovative intervention strategies outside the criminal legal system, with a few participants pointing to the national organization INCITE! Women, Gender Non-Conforming, and Trans People of Color Against Violence as formative in their political analysis. Advocates who were currently working in LGBTQ-specific anti-violence organizations reported feeling better trained and equipped than those working in mainstream programs to offer such alternative strategies, and many described such work as an imperative for LGBTQ survivor-centered advocacy.

“They Are Trans-Exclusionary”: Exclusions Persist Within Gender-Based Services

Most advocates could readily identify DV/SA advocacy organizations in their region that explicitly excluded trans survivors despite the new provisions under VAWA (and, in many cases, state or municipal nondiscrimination laws). In fact, denials of services and discrimination in shelters remained so common that advocates often relied on a single organization in their city, if any, that they knew would be willing to serve openly trans survivors. M.A. remarked that the influence of protective policies was too often overstated given the ways in which discrimination remains broadly socially sanctioned:

People think everything has changed and it’s fine. No, I tell people all the time. [. . .] People don’t care about your policies. People will fire you for being trans, they won’t want to serve you in restaurants. . . . It’s just, they don’t care.

Discrimination was described in terms of explicit exclusions and discriminatory impacts, and primarily in the context of gender-based service models. For example, M.H. described how the largest DV shelter and advocacy organization in her city, a large metropolitan area in the South, maintained an explicit “trans-exclusionary” policy that they “will not work with trans women.” Although this organization did not receive federal funding, D.T. observed similar exclusions within the federally funded organizations in his state, even after organizations were provided with compliance training. He explained,

Some are doing horrible things, some aren’t allowing trans people to come in. Or when they do, they wave their flag really high, but then they say, “Well, that person wasn’t wearing the clothes that they’re supposed to be wearing if they want to be blah, blah, blah.” They’re doing the really strict policing and questioning identity [. . .] (D.T., trans/male/genderqueer, white, Northeast)

Other advocates shared stories of providers using subjective assessments to gate-keep services based on perceptions of a trans survivor’s gender presentation, a pattern that has been described in more depth in previous studies (e.g., Goldberg & White, 2011; Mottet & Ohle, 2006; Pyne, 2011). Furthermore, as one advocate explained, for trans people who do gain admittance, their inclusion is often predicated on a tacit agreement to not discuss their experiences as a trans person.

Gender-specific program models may continue to reproduce barriers to services even in organizations that intend to be inclusive. The popular use of gendered language and imagery (e.g., in agency materials, websites, shelter space) can reinforce perceptions that such resources are reserved for cisgender (not transgender) women. In the absence of explicit language or clues that trans people will be welcomed, survivors may anticipate additional scrutiny, judgment, or rejection and opt to bypass them entirely. As L.Z. explained,

[E]ven our name was a barrier. People wouldn’t call us. Even if someone is trans and identifies as a woman, they still wouldn’t call us out of the concern that we named ourselves specifically because we would want to serve cis women only. (L.Z., genderqueer, white, West Coast)

A 2014 Department of Justice advisement for VAWA grantees indicates that “sex-segregated and sex-specific” services remain compatible with the nondiscrimination provisions in VAWA 2013 when access is based on gender identity (rather than sex assigned at birth) and when it is deemed necessary to the “essential operations of the program” (p. 7). It further specifies that comparable services must be provided to those who cannot be served in these models. In the cities where participants lived and worked, most DV organizations were perceived to be maintaining gender-based program models, either explicitly or implicitly. Our interviews suggest that in gender-based services, efforts and tensions related to trans inclusion have focused primarily on trans women who seek out these services. Advocates cautioned how debates about inclusion in women’s services can solidify a perception of trans women as a discrete group of outsiders attempting to gain access, rather than acknowledge trans women as members of the communities that the organization already serves. In addition, as one advocate offered, trans men and other trans people who do not identify as women are often left with few to no options as both the gender-specific service models designed for women and the comparable services offered to (cisgender) men may feel unsafe or irrelevant to their specific needs and experiences.

“They Want a Checklist”: The Limits of Compliance and Competency Approaches to Inclusion

Taken together, participants championed efforts within the DV/SA advocacy field to address the historic exclusions of trans people—changes they described as predating VAWA 2013 and accelerating afterward. D.T. perceived the obligation under VAWA 2013 to be a “strong motivator” for changes in DV/SA programs. Yet, he and others relayed how efforts that are primarily driven by concerns about legal compliance were often lackluster and observed most organizations to be “putting in very little effort” to move policy into meaningful practice.

Some advocates tied the ongoing discrimination in services to a lack of basic awareness and familiarity with trans survivors and their advocacy needs. Yet, this assessment was undermined at times as participants narrated their own efforts to provide training and targeted advocacy to increase access to services that did not result in material change. M.H. described consulting with a local DV organization over a 3-year period:

They did invite me to give presentations [. . .] and they both went over really well. But that didn’t move them any further along. They’re still trans-exclusionary. [. . .] My guess is what happened is they’d gone out and started feeling out their funders to see what the reaction would be, they got negative responses, so they didn’t want to touch the topic.

Most advocates had provided professional development training as part of their paid or volunteer work and illustrated how the focus on changing individual-level attitudes often underestimated the kinds of organizational investments necessary to overcome historical exclusions and provide meaningful resources to trans people. D.T. exemplified this tension in his work providing compliance training related to the new provisions in VAWA 2013:

It’s more “give me the list of things that I can do to make this better,” but not really going at it wanting to do an analysis. They want a checklist of how to be better. But in that, I feel like they start boxing in. They do all the stuff that is—you know, the micro-aggression stuff. I don’t think it’s gotten to a point where they would even understand what trans justice necessarily means.

Others also typified the limitations of a “checklist” approach by describing how even the most basic forms of inclusion (such as using a survivor’s correct name and pronoun) can require a fundamental shift in deeply held ideologies about gender as well as organization-wide changes in service delivery systems and administration. A “checklist” or competency-based approach can further miscalculate the ways in which multiple forms of oppression may intersect and shape service models and organizational cultures at all levels. Behind newly open doors, advocates described myriad challenges with inconsistent treatment, stereotypes, poor quality advocacy, isolation from other residents or program participants, and program design elements with negative impacts for trans survivors. R.B. provided advocacy for a young black trans woman living in a local women’s shelter who was treated poorly by staff and other residents, required to obtain permission to attend an outside trans-specific support group, and was characterized as “crazy” or “violent” for behavior that might otherwise be considered a normative response to experiencing significant traumas. E.K. pointed to the political geographies of emergency shelters in her city as located in places that she described as “dangerous for trans people, and especially for those individuals who either are trying to get away from the street economy or have been traumatized by it.” Conversely, S.W. reflected on how restrictive shelter curfews and staff surveillance can create additional barriers for people who engage in sex work or other late-night economies (e.g., cultural performance) and how these may be the most viable sources of immediate income for trans survivors.

The policy language of nondiscrimination can endorse beliefs that an equal opportunity ethos (e.g., “we treat everyone the same”) is not only compliant but also the best approach for providing inclusive services. S.W. described how strategies of inclusion that do not engage in an evaluation of current infrastructure or service models can result in the status quo:

They say, “Yeah, we’re inclusive people. Yeah, of course.” You know? “We take trans people.” But they don’t address the instances of transphobia that are happening and may themselves perpetuate it. So, I think it just makes it hard for trans people to stay in services. It’s because of how they’re being treated, and it just sort of continues. (S.W., transgender man, multi-racial/multi-ethnic, Northeast)

Several advocates described local programs that were genuinely interested in serving trans survivors but did not receive inquiries. U.T. reflected that despite the positive intentions of many providers in his city in the Northwest, trans inclusion was largely “theoretical” because programs that were technically open to providing services for trans survivors had not served survivors who were openly trans or taken steps to engage with trans communities and understand local needs. Several advocates spoke to their own caution in making the first referral of a trans survivor to shelters or other mainstream services that may have an open-door policy but have done little to assess their services. A few described how one “bad referral” could erode trust and rapport with an individual survivor and reverberate within interconnected social networks.

“All the Abuse That We Suffer”: Advocacy Practices Focus on a Single Source of Violence

In considering what might be specific about domestic and sexual violence in the lives of trans survivors, and therefore particular to advocacy needs, participants described multilayered forms of social and economic exclusions and disenfranchisement. They variously tied the heightened vulnerabilities to domestic and sexual violence to rejection by families and communities of origin, social isolation, discrimination in labor markets, sexual objectification and street harassment, reliance on sex work economies, patterns of incarceration, mental health symptoms, and barriers to receiving adequate health care and social services. Advocates viewed the dominant analysis of gender-based violence as largely insufficient for understanding the complex root causes of violence, and particularly for those who are multiply-marginalized due to racism, poverty, immigration status, and disability. S.W. described how their own understanding of violence shifted after working with LGBTQ survivors:

I myself had the belief that domestic violence is only about men’s violence against women until I went to work at [an LGBTQ-specific organization]. Our organization’s analysis [. . .] is basically that domestic violence is a microcosm of the larger forms of oppression. It’s the interpersonal version of it. So, it’s about racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, sizeism, anti-Semitism. It’s about all of those things.

As participants described it, advocacy approaches that emphasize gender-based analysis may misjudge the nexus of interpersonal violence, stigma, and social, cultural, political, and economic exclusions. H.G., who had worked in an organization providing services to primarily low-income trans people of color, explained how structural conditions significantly shaped advocacy challenges related to IPV:

I know for a lot of community members and clients that having stability or having their basic needs met seemed to only come through one person, who may have been a partner. So, like coming out of prison and going back to that person because they knew they would have housing. Or, they couldn’t get a job, but they knew they could have food that night. That seemed to be a factor for some people or seemed like an only option for some people. Even if it meant that the relationship was not serving them well. (H.G., trans or FTM, black/African American, Northeast)

Advocates variously referred to “interlocking oppressions” or “systems of oppression” as crucial to understanding violence against trans people and approaches to advocacy. Yet, as advocates found the single axis of gender insufficient in accounting for trans people’s vulnerabilities to violence, they simultaneously stressed the need to better operationalize a framework that incorporates violence experienced by trans people as also rooted in gender-based oppression. To this end, several advocates described the ways in which conventional gender stereotypes and social scripts may be adopted by trans people for a variety of reasons, including personal safety, economic opportunities, and simply “being validated for who you are.” Some advocates linked this to mainstream media portrayals that sensationalize narratives of gender transition as a process of aspiring to stereotypical gender roles and for rarely depicting a diversity of trans people in authentic and positive intimate relationships. For N.N., gender frameworks that were adopted among the mostly migrant heterosexual trans women she worked with at times naturalized partner violence as an essential part of womanhood:

People are telling me [. . .] “Having a partner, having a boyfriend, having a husband is part of what means being a woman, and that comes with a price. [. . .] I have a boyfriend, because I’m a woman now, and I have to deal with the abuse. I have to deal with being mistreated because that’s part of being who I am.” (N.N., transgender woman, Latino, West Coast)

As advocates described it, an understanding of how gender oppression is functioning in the lives and relationships of trans survivors may require an additional set of tools. For example, unlike some survivors who report being criticized or abandoned by family or friends for staying with a partner who is threatening or causing them harm, advocates observed that trans survivors (of all genders) tend to receive messages that they are lucky to have a partner at all. Participants further emphasized how survivor responses to domestic or sexual violence occur within a broader context in which exposures to violence accumulate over the life span. Indeed, participants described their own experiences with IPV as a “retriggering” event to earlier forms of childhood abuse, “just another check” on a list of “all the abuse that we suffer in our lives,” and as continuous with daily threats in which “to go from point A to point B [. . .] requires a safety plan.”

Conventional strategies intended to empower survivors in reestablishing safety and self-determination following a violent incident or in the context of an abusive relationship can miscomprehend these lived realities. U.T. drew links to why “typical conversations about power and control” may often be incompatible to trans experiences:

If someone is experiencing a systemic lack of love and care, and one of the only people that loves and cares for them is also abusive—I don’t often see that included in the narrative. I find that a lot of my co-workers have a hard time understanding the level and type of isolation and when your being is questioned and devalued constantly. (U.T., trans and genderqueer, white, West Coast)

While trans survivors may seek out and benefit from existing resources, advocates felt that theories of violence underpinning typical service models often failed to capture the nature and sources of violence in the lives of trans people and were insufficient for preventing future harm. Instead, participants spoke to an unmet need for trauma-informed strategies that explicitly recognize transphobia as constitutive of patriarchal violence, counteract the internalized messages trans people receive about self-worth or “unloveability,” and address trans people’s experiences of domestic and sexual violence within a “larger picture” of the social and structural conditions in which they are situated.

Not “Our Work”: The Diversion to and Overburdening of LGBTQ Programs

Many participants observed that local leaders in the mainstream DV/SA advocacy field were disinclined or unwilling to act publicly to support trans survivors, and specifically to speak out in response to the reports of homicides of trans women of color. Advocates variously speculated that organizational leaders may interpret violence against trans people as unrelated to their mission, happening outside the communities that they serve, or better addressed by trans- or LGBTQ-specific organizations. As U.T. suggested,

I think there’s this thing as seeing it as separate. They’re aware that trans women specifically, and trans people face rates of violence that are higher, but they’re not connecting that with, “that’s our work as DV agencies.”

Some connected the lack of recognition of trans survivors to the limited media representations of trans people’s authentic lives and relationships. M.A. further linked media and advocacy narratives that frame violence against trans people as “hate crimes” to broader misunderstandings about the nature of violence against trans people. In speaking about the mainstream media, M.A. explained,

If you talk about IPV, that humanizes us. It makes it seem like trans people can be loved, and they don’t want that. It’s easier for them to just deem it a homicide and a “hate crime,” than to think that this person had someone that loved them. Or, they were dealing with somebody that they were in an intimate relationship with. Or, that it was more than—“Oh, I found out that you were a man, and I killed them.” [. . .] You have to dig deeper into that and actually investigate. [. . .] They’re too in their transphobia to actually want to do that.

Advocates perceived that local leaders in DV/SA advocacy organizations were aware of the high rates of violence against trans people, but resistant to engage with trans communities. Some reflected on the powerful influence of gender ideologies that negate the existence of trans people and experiences, both in certain strands of feminist theory and in faith-based organizations. Many more linked the inaction of leadership to political risk aversion in service-based nonprofits, an overemphasis on individualizing services, and a near constant state of operating with scarce resources. For these and other reasons, participants observed a broad and consistent pattern in which advocacy for trans survivors is viewed as the primary domain of trans- and LGBTQ-specific organizations or programs. Among those who worked in LGBTQ-specific organizations, all expressed frustration in receiving referrals from more well-resourced agencies to work with trans survivors, particularly those who needed services that their programs did not have the resources to provide, such as shelter and legal support. As S.W. explained,

I think some organizations really believe that this should be specific to only cisgender women, you know? [. . .] And so, it feels sometimes like this is a–I don’t want to say burdensome—but it feels like sometimes a lot falls on our organization. Because the other organizations may think, “Oh, they work with that community, so let’s just send them there,” instead of thinking, “We can also help these folks.”

One participant described being the sole part-time employee in the only dedicated LGBTQ-specific advocacy program in a large county that handled regular referrals from 14 mainstream programs. He and other participants highlighted how the pattern of referral to LGBTQ-specific programs without the survivor’s consent raised concerns about privacy and confidentiality in small and often well-connected communities. Some further noted that for trans people in heterosexual relationships, LGBTQ programs designed primarily to serve those in gay and lesbian relationships or communities may not feel relevant or appropriate. Most commented on how the limited dedicated resources for trans survivors were concentrated in LGBTQ-specific settings and in large urban cities. Advocates working in LGBTQ organizations described how the pattern of referrals to less resourced organizations can reproduce unequal benefits for trans survivors and create silos of social and political responsibility for addressing violence against trans people.

All participants maintained that hiring trans people to work as advocates is indispensable to providing relevant services. E.K. described her organization’s decision to employ multiple bilingual trans women as “really, really vital to our clients feeling comfortable, and then referring others,” as well as ensuring a welcoming workplace culture for her and her colleagues. Yet, several participants registered frustrations of being dismissed by colleagues when they raised issues related to trans survivors and simultaneously feeling “tokenized” as a primary spokesperson or liaison for trans communities. Some further remarked on racialized and gendered stratification of the workforce, specifically describing the inequitable compensation of those in direct service positions, which trans people of color were most likely to be hired to fill.

Recommendations for the Field

Advocates in this study were asked about whether and how the community-based DV/SA advocacy field may better join efforts to address domestic and sexual violence in the lives of trans people. Their recommendations (presented in Table 2) focused on the structural and political dimensions of trans inclusion work. They included (a) increasing the representation and leadership of trans people working in and with DV/SA organizing, (b) integrating trans justice values into survivor-centered advocacy, and (c) investing in prevention and cultural change strategies that aim to shift the social status of trans people. Although many participants had worked as trainers and consultants to DV/SA advocacy programs to increase competency in working with trans people, this was notably absent when participants recommended steps for necessary change. Advocates focused instead on a need for program evaluation, new approaches to advocacy, and political education and cultural work that can expand and deepen the operating analysis of gender-based violence. Some aspired to expand their own approaches to preventing and responding to domestic and sexual violence in the lives of trans people. There was a general agreement to redirect resources from the criminal legal system toward the development of alternative violence prevention and intervention strategies, as well as an emphasis on resources to meet material needs such as housing security, health care access, and a living wage.

Table 2.

Participant Recommendations for the Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault Advocacy Field.

Theme	Example recommendations
Increase the voice, representation, and leadership of trans people working in the fields of DV/SA advocacy	1. Build meaningful relationships with trans-led organizations and groups at the local level. 2. Ethically hire and train trans people as advocates, particularly trans people of color. 3. Build a leadership pipeline within the field that can advance trans advocates to leadership positions and diversify job responsibilities.
Integrate trans justice values into survivor-centered advocacy	4. Move to “survivor-centered” frameworks when describing those affected. 5. Support and invest in peer-to-peer anti-violence and advocacy models developed by and for trans people and communities. 6. Support, invest in, and practice alternative models of accountability outside the criminal legal system.
Invest in prevention and cultural change strategies that improve the social status of trans people	7. Advocate for and disseminate positive and diverse representations of trans people and their relationships. 8. Design and engage in creative prevention and cultural change initiatives that positively represent trans people and reach people where they spend their time (e.g., centers of faith, community centers, schools, online).

Note. DV/SA = domestic violence and sexual assault.

Discussion

More than 2.5 years after the enactment of the 2013 VAWA, trans anti-violence advocates indicated that community-based DV/SA advocacy services were inconsistent, often irrelevant, and sometimes actively hostile and dangerous for trans survivors. Despite formal inclusion under the law, exclusions have persisted because patterns of discrimination are resistant to change, socially tolerated, and state-sanctioned by a lack of federal enforcement and by ambiguities in guidance for grantees (e.g., U.S. Department of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, Office for Civil Rights, 2014). Following Spade’s (2013) call for a “critical trans politics” in evaluating claims of inclusion, our findings yield important evidence about how legal protections may serve to mask ongoing material inequities if not accompanied with broader redistributive changes.

This study not only confirms the limits of nondiscrimination policies to overcome historical exclusions from DV/SA advocacy services but also articulates some of the specific logics and practices of exclusion that may appear neutral or even inclusive. Trans survivors of domestic and sexual violence, and particularly those at the intersections of multiple forms of oppression, often require forms of support and resources that are not currently conceptualized or readily available in existing services and models. Operating theories of violence and advocacy strategies often misalign with the experiences and needs of trans survivors, even when individual providers or organizations are generally respectful of trans individuals. Open-door policies and an equal access ethos without further restructuring services may actually contribute to conditions that are less safe for trans people, including the devaluing of trans experience, hostile shelter and program settings, unwanted interactions with law enforcement, and advocacy practices that fail to identify potential sources of harm. The perceived organizational costs of more meaningful forms of inclusion are buttressed by a scarcity of public resources and a tenuous political climate for advocating for trans people.

Yet, this study also indicates that the nondiscrimination provisions in VAWA 2013 have served a symbolic and regulatory function in encouraging some organizations to train staff and provide more inclusive services. Social movements for trans justice and increased media visibility of trans people have simultaneously brought attention to the exclusionary practices embedded in existing DV/SA service models. Although not fully described in this study, it is clear that some programs have taken action to provide meaningful resources to trans survivors, including those that were committed to these practices before VAWA 2013. Our findings support and extend calls of trans scholars and activists for anti-violence work to move beyond a gender binary (Yerke & DeFeo, 2016) and engage with transfeminist perspectives (Koyama, 2003; see Pyne, 2015; Stryker & Bettcher, 2016) that can help organizations overcome anxieties that trans inclusion requires programs to abandon, rather than deepen, a gender-based analysis of violence. Participants in this study point to the potential for a trans justice philosophy that is coherent with the field’s commitments to survivor-centered advocacy, including strategies that do not rely on the criminal legal system and that emphasize prevention and cultural change efforts aimed at the root causes of domestic and sexual violence. To this end, trans advocates recommended increasing the voice and leadership of trans people in the field, particularly trans people of color, to help identify and respond to the needs of the most vulnerable trans survivors.

Limitations and Future Research

Although this study aimed to provide a national view of inequities facing trans survivors, the interviews were mostly conducted with advocates living and working in large urban and coastal areas. Additional research could provide a more comprehensive understanding of the experiences of trans advocates and survivors who seek advocacy in rural and suburban areas and cities perceived as more socially conservative or culturally homogeneous. A survey of DV/SA advocacy field leaders and programs could add important perspectives regarding the mechanisms of inequity identified in the present study. Further research is needed to more fully understand the advocacy needs of trans survivors, particular across varied intersections of identity and experiences such as race, ethnicity, geography, gender expression and identity, age, incarceration status or history, disability, and involvement in the sex trade. Although we did not fully analyze them here, we optimistically turn to the forms of community care and alternative responses to violence that were practiced by some of the advocates we interviewed in this study and their broader communities. Future research and intervention development should consider these forms of community-generated survivor-centered advocacy as potential directions while drawing on the strengths of existing knowledge of survivor-centered advocacy, empowerment, and self-determination within feminist and LGBTQ anti-violence work.

Conclusion

This study yields a greater understanding of the limited influence of nondiscrimination policies in securing access to material resources for trans people by considering the practice-based implications of changes following the addition of nondiscrimination protections in VAWA 2013. Lessons from VAWA 2013 may be particularly useful in light of the recent retractions from federal protections for transgender rights and anticipated partisanship in the next reauthorization. Our study suggests that federal nondiscrimination policies may serve as a symbolic catalyst for dialogue and change within community-based services settings but have a limited impact on organizational practices when not combined with a commitment to social change. Not only do trans survivors continue to lack access to fair and relevant DV/SA advocacy services funded under VAWA, but the safety of those most vulnerable remains undermined by the investments in criminal legal infrastructure. It is a particularly urgent time to consider the advocacy needs of trans survivors as the social and political climate increases exposure to violence and discrimination alongside funding cuts that most detrimentally affect minoritized groups. Trans advocates in this study challenged those in the DV/SA field to move beyond offering access to existing models and toward meaningful collaborations with intersectional movements for trans justice.

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

We are grateful to the participants who generously gave their time and expertise to this study as well as to the two anonymous reviewers for their helpful feedback.

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

Funding

The author(s) disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: This research was supported in part by the Northwest Network of Bi, Trans, Lesbian, and Gay Survivors of Abuse.

Notes

Author Biographies

Sid P. Jordan has worked for two decades with community-based anti-violence, youth-centered, LGBTQ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer), and trans justice organizations. He is currently a PhD student at the University of California, Los Angeles in the Department of Social Welfare, where his research interests include the intersections of violence, health, and inequity and the utilization of participatory methodologies.

Gita R. Mehrotra is an assistant professor in the School of Social Work at Portland State University. Prior to entering academia, she worked in the field of domestic violence for over a decade in a variety of capacities with a focus on Asian and South Asian women and LGBTQ communities of color. Her current research and teaching interests include LGBTQ people of color identities and wellness, social justice and racial equity within social work education, domestic violence in minoritized communities, and critical and feminist theories and methodologies for social work.

Kiyomi A. Fujikawa has been involved with movements to end gender-based violence since 2001. Her political home is with queer and trans communities of color and organizing around preventing and responding to intimate partner violence, which she most recently did with the Queer Network Program at API Chaya.

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